Chapter 69 Reminder
I focus on my bowl because that feels safe. I assume this is what everyone defaults to when handed a spinning wheel and a lump of clay....a bowl, something symmetrical, something forgiving.
Across from me, Michael has abandoned safety entirely.
Charlie stands close to him, shoulder angled in, hands hovering over Michael’s as he demonstrates something more ambitious. I can’t hear all of it, just fragments, low instructions, murmured adjustments.... but I can see the way Michael nods, the way he leans in, attentive and open in that effortless way he has. He asks something. Charlie laughs softly. Michael smiles.
And something sharp flickers in me.
It’s ridiculous, so ridiculous I almost laugh out loud.
I feel like a teenager watching his crush share a secret with someone else at the lockers. It’s absurd. I’m a grown man, bristling because my almost-something is being shown how to shape clay by a guy named Charlie. There’s something deeply, embarrassingly human about it.
Charlie steps away, leaving Michael to it. Michael doesn’t even look up when he says, casually, “I’m going to win.”
I blink. “Win what?”
He finally glances at me, brows lifting. “The obvious competition.”
“I didn’t realize we were competing.”
He snorts. “Do you know nothing about me?”
I glance over despite myself, and that’s when I see it. His clay isn’t a bowl. It’s curved differently, the top pinched inward with deliberate care. I tilt my head.
It’s a heart.
He catches me staring, I huff a quiet laugh. “Cute.”
Michael’s mouth curves slowly. “It’s called creativity. You should try to keep up.”
I shake my head, smiling, but my gaze drifts, and then stays, on his hands. They’re wet, fingers steady and sure as the wheel spins. He presses inward, then lifts, thumbs guiding the clay, palms shaping it with careful pressure. The movement is slow, controlled....intimate. He wets the surface again, smooths it, molds it like he’s coaxing it into becoming something rather than forcing it.
My throat tightens. It shouldn’t feel like this. It’s just hands. Just clay. Just water.
But the way his fingers flex, the way his wrists roll with the motion....something shifts under my skin. Heat rises without warning. My body reacts before my brain can reason with it. There’s something almost unbearably sensual about watching him create like that. The focus the quiet intensity.
I’m pinned to the sight of him. I can’t look away.
“Ryan?”
Charlie’s voice cuts through it.
I blink, dragged back into myself. “Yeah?”
“You might want to pay attention to your own wheel.”
I look down. My bowl is collapsing in on itself, one side caving, the rim wobbling dramatically like it’s lost the will to exist.
“Oh.” I clear my throat, flushing. “Right.”
I try to correct it, but my hands are less steady than they were a second ago. My pulse feels loud in my ears. My skin is too warm, like I’ve stepped into direct sunlight.
I risk one quick glance up.
Michael is already watching me. Not amused or confused. Knowing. There’s something in his expression that makes my stomach dip, something that says he saw it. Saw me seeing him.
My face burns hotter.
I drop my gaze fast, forcing my attention back to the ruined curve of my bowl, pressing my fingers into the clay as I try to regain composure But my body still feels like it’s humming, and I’m painfully aware of the space between us....the inches, the air, the possibility of leaning over and closing it.
About an hour later, Charlie wipes his hands on a towel and gestures to our pieces like they’re already something worth admiring.
“We’ll fire and glaze these for you,” he says. “They’ll be ready in about three weeks. You can pick them up or have them delivered. And if you want, you can come back and paint them once they’re done.”
I smile. “I’d like that.”
I turn to Michael. He’s already looking at me, like the decision was made the second I walked in.
“Yeah,” he says easily. “We’ll be back.”
Charlie grins. “So? How was it?”
“Exactly as fun as I suspected it would be,” I say.
Michael exhales through his nose. “I had my reservations,” he admits. “But this was oddly calming.”
Charlie laughs softly, pleased. We thank him, promise we’ll return, and then we step out. Michael reaches for my hand without looking at me, fingers threading through mine as he pushes the door open with his free one. The gesture is so natural it feels rehearsed.
It’s dark.
We must’ve been in there for a long time. The streetlights are on, the pavement washed in gold, the world kept moving without us. At his car, Michael turns. He doesn’t say anything. He just steps closer and kisses me.
Soft. Slow. Unhurried.
His hand slides into my hair at the nape of my neck and holds me there, not forceful, just anchoring. His eyes stay open when he pulls back, watching me like I’m something rare he refuses to look away from.
“What’s next on your list?” he asks quietly.
I smile. “To be determined.”
His mouth tilts. “I don’t love the lack of structure in your planning.”
“You’re welcome to submit suggestions.”
“I might. Aggressively.”
I huff a laugh.
“Thanks,” I say, softer now. “For coming. For doing this.”
He shakes his head immediately. “No. Thank you for letting me.”
He opens the passenger door for me.
“My limbs are still functional,” I mutter as I slide in and the door shuts. On the drive, I rest my head against the window.
I’m tired, but underneath it there’s something else. A quiet satisfaction.
Today was good.
The exhaustion feels like it stepped aside for a few hours and is now collecting its debt. I close my eyes. The road glides beneath us. The night outside looks normal....people walking dogs, headlights passing, someone laughing on a corner. The world unbroken.
I like watching it. It distracts me from the parts of my body that don’t feel like mine anymore. Somewhere between one breath and the next, I drift. Not asleep, just untethered.
Then the car stops.
The shift is abrupt enough that my head tips forward slightly before settling back against the glass.
“Ryan.”
His voice sounds closer than it should.
I turn.
Michael is holding a white handkerchief.
For a hazy second, I just stare at it, confused. It looks out of place. Then I feel that slow, familiar warmth. I lift my fingers to my face. They come away red.
I blink once. Twice. I take the handkerchief from him and press it to my nose. The cotton starts to bloom dark almost immediately.
Michael doesn’t panic. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He just reaches over and rests his hand on my thigh, thumb stroking slowly.
We sit there and wait. The streetlight above us flickers faintly. A car passes. Somewhere, someone shuts a door. Life continues in small, ordinary noises.