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"Oh, oh my..."
Earning Hayden's attention, his chuckle simmers down my spine. "What is it, baby?" he purrs, like he already knows the answer.
"It's BEAUTIFUL!" I bolt to my feet, rolling both our chairs back a foot, as I behold my most symmetrical, smooth, glossy mug yet. "I-I can't believe it!" I exclaim, lowering my voice suddenly, when I hear it bouncing between the walls. "I mean... this mug is actually worthy of a handle."
Looking behind me, I shoot Hayden a beaming smile, finding one already lighting up his face. "Here you go," he says, handing me the metal cut-off wire, which I quickly make use of, slicing the underside of the mug, unsticking it from the wheel. Carefully, like I would my first child, I pick up the mug, presenting it in my palms.
"Wow..." is all I can muster, struck by sheer amazement, realizing the mug is more than just handle-worthy—especially if Hayden paints it. It's borderline gift-worthy. And I know exactly who I'd give it to.
Mei.
"See? I knew you were improving."
"Pfft." Air vibrates my lips. "Oh, please. There's no way I could've managed this without your help."
Hayden rounds the table, his features dripping with pride. "No, that was all you, baby. I just nudged you, here and there."
As I make for the table to set down my prize, my heart clenches so tightly it almost hurts, because I realize something. This is my perfect day, in each and every way, the one I would stop time for, if I could.
So, Hayden and I, we make the most of it.
Throw jazz music on. Order takeout from a place across the street. And stay in the studio until the sun arches its pink-and-purple rays across the sky, reflecting like a mirror of dreams off the Hudson below, all while Hayden paints and taps his toes to the beat of the next song. Every now and then, he saunters over and helps me sculpt another mug, his arms tickling mine as they do right now.
Gently, he guides my hands, building the mound higher and higher, before sweeping back down to smooth out the base. With a few more passes, the mug begins to take on a shape of its own, its walls forming an elegant curvature—and with it, a sort of itch forms inside me.
As the seconds wane on, it doesn't subside, and proves harder to ignore. But what is it? I shuffle in my chair, watching our hands mingle into one, focusing on the presence flooding heat along my backside. So intoxicating and cherished... so right in the vicinity of my own...
A chuckle rumbles behind me, one that feels like home. "There sure is a lot of huffing and puffing going on, for a girl who seems to know what she's doing now—"
"Are you going to ask me to be your girlfriend yet?!"
The wheel stops, and so does my pulse.
Dammit, Juliana, could you be any more subtle?!
Using his knees, Hayden swings my chair to face his, and sure enough, he's wearing the biggest smile ever. It only grows as embarrassment stains my cheeks and I stutter, "I-I, uhh... I meant to say..." My words fall short, stolen by the delight in his eyes.
"Ohh, my sweetest Jules. It's been five days since you moved into your new apartment. What happened to taking things slow?"
Good question.
He grins, reading my mind. "So impatient."
"We'll still slow things down," I manage to say, but it sounds unconvincing even to my own ears. "I just... maybe I want the label sooner than later, after all."
Stealing a little oxygen from my lungs, he scoots closer. "You don't have to convince me, baby. You know I'll do anything to take you off the market—even more than you already are—but..." He glances at his palms, both coated in clay. "Do you want me to wash up first?"
"What do your hands have to do with asking me to be your girlfriend?"
"God, you're adorable." He snorts quietly as he wheels even closer. "Well, you see, I'm supposed to set the mood."
My eyes dart between his when he leans over, entrancing me with his nearness. Heart clattering, his breath tickles my mouth, as mine speaks ever-so softly. "How so?"
It's a silly question, really, and one that goes wholly unanswered as his lips crash into mine, our tongues dancing as one, before those muddy palms cup my face with achingly tender care, streaking the cool clay down my cheeks, along my jaw, and even through my hair. But I don't care, can hardly register their movements, as I sweep my own along his neck, marking his skin with the sole intention of reaching his soul.
By the time our lips part, my heart pounds with longing, overflowing with the essence of him, as he sweeps his thumb across my cheek, my own clay marking his strong features. And before he asks that question—that beautiful, beautiful question, the one I answer with the desire of forever—he beholds me in a way that surely only comes once in a lifetime.
Because the way Hayden looks at me...
