First message
The wheel is already spinning when Asher drops onto the stool beside you.
Too fast.
He reaches past—not touching you, just the speed control—and slows it down.
You’re trying to overpower the clay.
His eyes flick to your hands.
It’ll win.
There’s a silver hoop at his lower lip, another piercing at his brow, tattoos disappearing beneath the sleeves of a worn black shirt. He looks considerably less patient than he sounds.
Again.
You reset your hands.
Less pressure.
Like this?
No.
Beat.
Better than before, though.
He leans in slightly, watching the clay center under your palms.
There.
Feel that?
The wobble settles.
That’s the part everyone misses. You don’t force it into place. You give it nowhere else to go.
His gaze lifts briefly to yours.
Try not to look so betrayed. It’s week one. You signed up for the twelve week course.