Chapter 36 #2
"Rude." I flicked water at him, grinning despite myself. Droplets caught in his hair, on his henley, across one cheekbone. "I'd like to see you do better."
"Watch and learn, sweetheart." The endearment sent a flutter through my chest that I firmly ignored.
Or tried to ignore. Failed to ignore entirely.
I watched as he threw a bowl in about three minutes flat.
His hands moved with confident grace, cupping and pressing and coaxing, the clay responding to his touch like it had been waiting its whole existence for exactly this moment.
The form that emerged was elegant in its simplicity, clean lines, even walls, a gentle curve at the lip that caught the light.
My jaw dropped. "That's not fair. You've been doing this for years."
"Months, actually. Marcus taught me last winter when I was going stir-crazy.
" He set the bowl aside on a drying rack, where it sat looking smug and perfect.
"The pack thought I was losing it, taking up pottery in January, but it helped.
Gave me something to focus on besides—" He cut himself off, something flickering across his face too fast to read.
"Anyway. You're right, I have an advantage. Want me to help you with the next one?"
"Please. My ego can only take so much destruction." I told him with a light laugh.
He moved his stool behind mine, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body through my sweater. "Put your hands on the clay. I'm going to guide you, okay?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. His arms came around me, his chest pressing against my back, solid and warm.
His hands covered mine, larger, rougher, slick with water and clay residue.
The scent of him surrounded me, cinnamon and woodsmoke and something underneath that was just him, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
"Start the wheel," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "Slow at first." I pressed the pedal, and the clay began to spin. My hands trembled slightly beneath his, but he held them steady.
"Feel how it's wobbling?" His voice was low, intimate, meant only for me despite the empty studio.
"That means it's off-center. We need to push here—" He applied pressure through my hands, firm but controlled.
"—to bring it back into alignment." The clay smoothed beneath our combined touch, the wobble evening out until it spun true and steady.
"Good," Levi said, and something about the praise made warmth bloom low in my stomach.
"Now we cup our hands around it, like this.
Pull up gently. Let the wheel do the work.
" I let him guide me, my body moving with his, my hands following where his led.
The clay rose between our palms, taking shape almost despite my clumsy efforts.
A cylinder first, then widening at the top, then curving inward at the lip.
A bowl. I was making a bowl. It was lopsided. The walls were uneven, thicker on one side than the other. There was a definite wobble to it, a slight lean to the left that gave it a drunken, listing quality.
It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever made.
"I did that," I whispered, staring at it. The wheel had stopped, and the bowl sat there in the fading golden light, imperfect and wonderful and mine.
"You did." He laughed softly, making my smile grow.
"It's hideous." I laughed looking at what I made with the tilt of my head.
"It's beautiful."I turned to look at him, and the laughter died in my throat.
His face was inches from mine. Close enough to count the flecks of green in his blue eyes, like summer grass beneath a summer sky.
Close enough to see the slight chap on his lower lip, the faint scar near his left eyebrow, the individual lashes that framed his gaze.
Close enough to feel his breath warm against my lips, coming slightly faster than normal.
His hands were still covering mine, clay-slick and gentle. The studio had gone quiet around us, even the music seeming to fade into irrelevance. There was only this, his body warm against my back, his eyes searching my face, the question hanging between us like morning fog.
"Levi," I said quietly. My voice came out rough, barely more than a whisper.
"Yeah?" He whispered back to me .
"Thank you. For tonight. For—" I gestured with my chin at the mess around us, not wanting to move my hands from under his.
Clay spatters on the walls. Water dripping from the wheel.
My absolute disasters drying on the side table like monuments to failure.
"For giving me permission to fail. I don't... I don't usually let myself do that. "
"Everyone should fail sometimes. It's how you learn." He told me shortly.
"Is that why you brought me here? To teach me to fail?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at this.
"I brought you here because I wanted to see you laugh." He released one of my hands to reach up, tucking a strand of clay-streaked hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered against my cheek, featherlight, tracing a path that left fire in its wake. "And maybe because I was hoping..."
"Hoping what?" The question hung between us, charged with possibility.
My heart was hammering so hard I was certain he could hear it, could feel it through the places where our bodies touched.
Every instinct I'd developed over thirty years of self-protection was screaming at me to pull back, to make a joke, to break the tension before it broke me.
I didn't move.
"Hoping I could do this," he murmured, and kissed me. It was soft at first. Questioning. His lips brushed mine like a whisper, like a request, giving me every opportunity to pull away, to change my mind, to protect myself the way I always did.
I didn't want to protect myself anymore.
I leaned into him, my clay-covered hands coming up to cup his face, heedless of the mess I was making.
My mouth opened beneath his with a sigh that came from somewhere deep and desperate, somewhere I'd kept locked away for so long I'd forgotten it existed.
He made a sound—half groan, half relief—and deepened the kiss, his hands sliding into my hair, pulling me closer.
He tasted like wine and warmth. Like safety and wanting and something I'd spent so long convincing myself I didn't deserve.
His lips were soft but sure, knowing exactly how much pressure, exactly what angle, exactly when to pull back and when to press forward.
I kissed him back like I was drowning and he was air, like I could pour five years of loneliness into this one moment and finally, finally feel whole.
My hands fisted in his hair, clay and all.
His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me off my stool and into his lap with a gracelessness that made us both laugh against each other's mouths.
The laughter faded into something deeper, hungrier, and I lost track of time entirely.
When we finally broke apart, I was trembling.
"Wow," I whispered. My voice sounded strange to my own ears—breathless, dazed, younger somehow.
"Yeah." He pressed his forehead to mine, his breath coming as ragged as my own. His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide, the blue barely visible at the edges. "Wow."
"Is this—" I swallowed hard, the old fears creeping back in despite the warmth still flooding my veins. "Is this okay? I mean, with the pack, and everything—"
"This is exactly okay." He kissed me again, softer this time, a promise more than a passion.
His thumbs traced gentle circles on my hips, grounding and reassuring.
"This is how it's supposed to work. You get to know us individually, figure out what you feel for each of us.
There's no jealousy, Daphne. Only gratitude. That you're letting us in at all."
The word settled into my chest like a seed taking root, warm and terrifying and full of impossible potential.
The smile that spread across my face felt unfamiliar—too wide, too hopeful, too vulnerable.
Like a flower blooming in fast-forward, petals unfurling toward a sun it had always been reaching for.
We stayed at the studio until nearly midnight.
The cleaning took almost as long as the pottery itself.
Clay had gotten everywhere, on the floors, on the walls, somehow on the ceiling in one inexplicable spot that neither of us could explain.
We laughed ourselves breathless mopping and scrubbing, flicking water at each other, stealing kisses that tasted like wine and possibility.
Levi fired my lopsided bowl in the kiln, walking me through the process with the patience of a natural teacher.
"It'll need to cool overnight, but I'll pick it up tomorrow and bring it to you.
Assuming," he added with exaggerated gravity, "that it survives the firing. Some don't, you know. They explode."
"If my bowl explodes, I'm going to take it as a sign from the universe." I told him with a grin.
"A sign of what?" He asked, raising an eyebrow at me.
"That I should stick to plants." I laughed and he just shook his head.
We finished the wine sitting on the floor with our backs against the wheel pedestals, the brick wall cool against my shoulders, our legs stretched out and tangled together.
The chocolates from Marguerite's were even better than I'd imagined, salted caramel that dissolved on my tongue, rich and sweet and perfectly balanced.
"These are incredible," I said around a mouthful. "How did you know these were my favorites?"
"I didn't, technically. I just asked Viola if it would be something you would like." He shrugged, but there was something vulnerable beneath the casual gesture. "Figured it was worth a shot."
It shouldn't have mattered so much. It was just chocolate, just a small gesture, just attention that anyone might pay. But no one ever had. Not like this. Not with this much care. I leaned over and kissed him again, tasting chocolate and wine and something sweeter underneath
An hour later, I was home and Levi walked me to my door, his hand warm at the small of my back. The porch light cast a golden glow around us, moths batting softly against the bulb, the night sounds of the forest a gentle chorus beyond the clearing.
I turned to face him, suddenly reluctant to let the night end. His face was half in shadow, half in light, and I found myself memorizing the details, the curve of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the softness in his eyes when he looked at me.
"Levi?" I breathed, voice soft.
"Yeah?" He hummed giving me a small smile.
"This was perfect. All of it." I rose on my toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, lingering longer than necessary, breathing him in one last time. Cinnamon and woodsmoke and clay and him. "Thank you."
"Anytime, Daphne." His voice was rough, catching on my name like it was something precious.
"I mean that. Anytime." I watched him drive away, his taillights disappearing down the gravel road, swallowed by the darkness and the trees.
The engine sound faded slowly, replaced by cricket song and owl call and the whisper of wind through the pines.
I touched my lips, still tingling from his kisses.
This is dangerous, I thought again, the familiar warning rising up through the warmth. This is so, so dangerous.
But danger had started to feel different lately.
Less like a threat to avoid and more like a threshold to cross.
Less like falling and more like flying. I changed into pajamas, washed the remaining clay from my face and hands, and climbed into bed.
The sheets were cool against my skin, the mattress familiar, the darkness soft around me.
Though sleep felt far away, my mind still spinning like a pottery wheel, replaying every moment of the evening in vivid detail.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then again. Then twice more.
I smiled before I even reached for it, already knowing what I'd find.
Levi: Made it home. Can confirm: still thinking about that kiss. Kisses. Plural. Many kisses. All excellent.
Oliver: Levi's floating around the house like a lovesick puppy. I assume the date went well?
Garrett: He won't stop smiling. It's honestly kind of creepy. Good creepy though. Happy creepy.
Micah: I hope you had a wonderful evening. Your bowl sounds like a triumph of enthusiasm over technique, which I personally find more admirable than mere competence.
I laughed, the sound echoing in the empty cabin, startling in the silence. But it didn't feel lonely anymore. The silence wasn't empty, it was full of them, full of their voices and their care and their steady, patient presence even from miles away.