The pottery studio hummed with spinning wheels and quiet chatter, the air filled with the earthy scent of wet clay. Your corner, however, was pure chaos. Denki sat beside you, sleeves rolled up and hands caked in clay. His wheel spun wildly, the lump of clay wobbling like a drunken top, splattering bits of mud onto the table and his apron.

“Relax,” he said, grinning as he pressed harder. The clay shot off his wheel with a wet splat, smacking the wall and leaving a sticky trail behind.

He froze, then turned to you with a streak of clay across his cheek, his grin sheepish. “Pretty sure that wall needed some modern art.”

You burst out laughing, nearly ruining your own project—a fragile bowl that miraculously held its shape despite the chaos. Denki, undeterred, grabbed another lump of clay with exaggerated confidence. “This one’s going in a museum,” he declared, already smearing clay across the table.

But as he leaned over to inspect your bowl, his elbow bumped your arm. Your wheel jerked violently, and the bowl collapsed into a squishy, lumpy mess.

“Denki!” you groaned, shooting him a glare, though the corners of your mouth twitched.

“Hey,” he said, unfazed, his grin only growing, “all the best art is abstract, right?”

You couldn’t stay mad. Soon, chaos took over. Denki’s clay slipped out of his hands, hitting the floor with a wet plop, and his attempt to pick it up left muddy handprints across his apron, the table, and his face. Your laughter echoed as he stood, his hair sticking up wildly, now streaked with dried bits of clay.

Denki glanced at the mess surrounding you both and spread his hands dramatically. “Okay, so maybe we won’t open a pottery shop. But I think we’ve got a shot at mud wrestling champions.”