Rose's POV
The soft crash of the clay flower filled the room like a tiny explosion.
For a moment, I just stood there, frozen, staring at the pieces scattered across the floor. My heart jumped to my throat. I couldn't believe I had done that. I wanted to disappear.
"Oh no," I whispered, bending quickly to pick up the broken pieces. My hands were shaking, and my cheeks were burning with embarrassment. The room was so quiet that I could almost hear my own heartbeat.
Then, behind me, a voice broke the silence.
"Well," the voice said lightly, almost amused, "that's one way to make an entrance."
I turned around, startled, my face still hot. I was ready to meet the angry face of whoever owned the studio. But instead, my eyes met someone completely unexpected.
He was tall, taller than I expected and with a calm, confident way of standing. His skin was smooth and warm-toned, and his hair was dark, a little messy, like he had run his hands through it too many times. But it was his eyes that caught me completely. They were blue, deep and clear, the kind of blue that reminded me of the ocean. There was kindness in them, and a small spark of mischief that made my stomach twist in a strange way.
"I... I'm so sorry," I stammered, looking back at the broken clay flower. "It just slipped. I swear I didn't mean to. I'll pay for it, really."
He tilted his head, watching me for a moment. Then he laughed,a soft, genuine laugh that filled the small studio. It wasn't the laugh of someone annoyed or angry. It was easy, warm, boyish.
"It's fine," he said, waving his hand as he crouched to help me pick the pieces. "Happens all the time. No need to panic."
"I still feel terrible," I said, forcing a small smile. "I just walked in here and already broke something."
"Well," he said, glancing up at me, "then you'll have to fix it."
I blinked. "Fix it?"
"Yes," he said, standing and brushing his hands on his apron. "You break it, you replace it. Which means…" He paused, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "You have to learn pottery now."
I couldn't help it, I laughed. "That's not fair."
He grinned. "Life isn't fair."
He wiped his hands again and gave me a curious look. "So, who are you exactly, mysterious destroyer of art?"
"Oh," I said quickly, realizing I hadn't even introduced myself. "I'm Rose. Clarissa told me about your class and I thought I'd give it a try."
"Ah," he said, his face lighting up. "Clarissa's friend! That explains it. She mentioned someone might drop by. Well, Rose, you've officially made a memorable first impression."
I laughed softly. "I hope that's a good thing."
He chuckled. "I guess we'll find out. I'm Mickey, by the way, the potter you just made unemployed by destroying his art."
"Nice to meet you, Mickey," I said, still smiling. "And I promise I didn't mean to ruin your job."
He smiled, brushing the last bit of clay from his hands. "Come on, let me show you around before you destroy anything else."
The tone in his voice made me laugh again. I followed him as he led me around the studio. It was small but filled with warmth. The air smelled of clay, damp earth, and faint traces of soap. On the shelves were rows of pottery: bowls, mugs, vases, and little figurines. Some were colorful, painted in shades of blue and green. Others were plain, waiting to be finished.
Mickey talked as he walked. "This here is where I knead the clay. You have to make sure it's soft and ready. And over there's the wheel the heart of pottery. That big box in the corner is the kiln, where all the real magic happens."
I followed him quietly, my hands clasped in front of me. He moved around the space like it was part of him, his fingers brushing the clay with care. There was something peaceful about him, something I hadn't felt around anyone in a long time.
"You really love what you do," I said softly.
He turned to look at me, his eyes warm. "I do. Pottery keeps me sane. Clay doesn't lie. It reacts to you. If you're rough, it breaks. If you're gentle, it listens. It's like… life, I guess."
I nodded slowly, watching his hands as he spoke. His fingers were long and strong, but when they touched the clay, they moved carefully, like he respected it.
He smiled suddenly. "So, Mrs. Rose, ready to pay for your crime?"
"Crime?" I asked, raising a brow.
"Yes," he said. "Breaking art in a pottery studio is a serious offence. The punishment is learning how to make one yourself."
I laughed softly. "Fine. But I should warn you, I'm terrible with crafts."
"Perfect," he said, his grin boyish and charming. "You'll be my favorite student already."
I watched as he prepared a small table for me. He rolled out a lump of clay and handed it to me. The moment I touched it, I felt a strange calm spread through my chest. It was cool and soft, and I couldn't help smiling a little.
"Feels weird, right?" Mickey said, watching me.
"It does," I admitted. "Like something alive."
He nodded. "Exactly. You have to listen to it. Don't fight it."
He stood behind the wheel, showing me how to shape the clay. His movements were graceful and patient. Then he motioned for me to sit and try. I hesitated at first, afraid to embarrass myself again, but he gave me an encouraging nod.
"Go on, Rose. It's not that scary."
I sat, placing my hands on the clay, feeling it spin under my palms. My fingers trembled a little, but he guided me, placing his hands gently over mine for a brief moment to steady them. The contact was light but warm, and for a second, my breath caught.
"Like this," he said softly. "Steady hands. Let the clay feel your calm."
I nodded quickly, hoping he didn't notice how my heart was suddenly beating faster.
The wheel spun, and slowly, a small shape began to form. It was uneven and slightly crooked, but I couldn't stop smiling.
"See?" he said. "You're doing great."
I laughed nervously. "You're just being nice."
"Maybe," he said, his voice teasing again. "But you're still doing better than my last student who managed to fling the clay across the room."
That made me laugh out loud, and the sound felt good, free, light, alive. I couldn't remember the last time I had laughed like that.
After a while, he showed me how to smooth the edges, how to center the clay, how to breathe and let my hands follow the rhythm. It wasn't just an art; it was like meditation.
Hours passed without me realizing it. When I finally looked up, the sun outside had started to set, filling the room with a soft orange glow.
Mickey wiped his hands on his apron and smiled at me. "Not bad for a first day."
I looked down at my misshapen little pot and laughed. "It looks like it's melting."
He chuckled. "Every masterpiece starts as a mess."
There was something about the way he said it, calm, encouraging, that made me smile wider.
After we cleaned up, I hesitated for a moment, glancing around the quiet studio. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Why was the class empty? I thought pottery classes usually have more people."
He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I don't have many students. Most people come on weekends, when they're free. Some come once, get bored, and never return. I guess pottery isn't everyone's cup of tea."
I nodded, feeling a little sad for him. "Well, they're missing out. It's peaceful here."
He smiled. "Thanks. I like it this way. Fewer people means more space to think."
There was silence for a moment — a comfortable one. I could hear the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the chirping of crickets starting outside.
He broke it with a gentle tone. "You did great today, Rose."
"Thank you," I said softly. "And thank you for not getting angry when I broke your flower."
He smiled. "You're forgiven. But you still owe me one perfect clay flower someday."
I laughed. "Deal."
We said our goodbyes, and I left the studio feeling lighter than I had in weeks.
That night, when I lay in bed, I couldn't stop thinking about the studio, the smell of clay, the warmth of the room, and especially Mickey's laugh. I kept seeing his blue eyes every time I closed mine. They were the kind of eyes that made you feel seen, even when you didn't want to be.
I turned on my side and sighed, scolding myself silently. Get a grip, Rose.
I told myself I was just in awe of him,of how passionate and kind he was. That was all. I missed having someone around who looked at me like I mattered. Mickey was friendly, nothing more.
And besides, I was married, married to a man who was devilishly handsome, brilliant, and successful.
Even if Maxwell was far away, even if I sometimes felt like I was living in the shadow of his work, he was still my husband.
So I brushed the thoughts away, pulled the blanket over myself, and closed my eyes.
But even as I drifted to sleep, I could still see that smile , the boyish grin of the tall, dark potter with ocean-blue eyes.