#spice fluff

The pottery studio smelled like damp earth and something faintly citrusy—maybe the soap they used to clean the tools. It was cozy inside, warm light reflecting off the shelves of half-finished bowls, mugs, and... vaguely unidentifiable blobs.

You tugged on your apron nervously, fingers already speckled with clay. “I’ve never done this before.”

Hyunjin smiled at you across the wheel. His hair was pulled back in a loose bun, a few strands falling into his eyes—ridiculously pretty, even with smudges of gray clay on his cheekbone.

“That’s the fun part,” he said, voice soft, “neither of us knows what we’re doing.”

You both laughed, but the tension underneath it was there—undeniable. A crush that had been brewing for months. This was technically “just friends hanging out,” but the way he looked at you?

Friends don’t look like that.

“Okay,” you said, sitting down at the wheel. “Teach me, Professor Hyunjin.”

He moved around behind you, his hands lightly brushing your waist as he guided your fingers to the spinning clay.

“Gentle pressure,” he said near your ear. His breath sent a shiver up your spine. “Not too much or it’ll collapse.”

“Like me when you talk like that,” you mumbled, eyes wide as soon as it slipped out.

Silence.

Then a deep chuckle rumbled behind you. “Didn’t realize I had that effect on you,” he teased, his hands still guiding yours.

You turned slightly—his chest was right there. Close. Too close. Your hands stopped moving, and the clay wheel spun lazily on without purpose.

Hyunjin’s hands didn’t leave yours.

“Wait—don’t move,” he whispered suddenly.

“What? Why?”

He dipped his thumb into the gray clay and smeared it across your nose, grinning. “You looked too clean. Had to fix it.”

You gasped. “Oh, you’re dead—”

In a flash, you dipped your own fingers in the slip and dragged it across his jaw, giggling.

It escalated fast—laughter, clay smudges, his hand catching your wrist mid-swipe, fingers curling around yours.

And then—you were breathless. Standing chest-to-chest, both of you a mess, and somehow… still not kissing.

His smile faded into something softer. “You’re really beautiful when you’re messy,” he murmured, thumb brushing a speck of clay from your cheek.

You swallowed. “I could say the same about you.”

The wheel slowed to a stop. Neither of you moved.

“Can I kiss you?” The words were barely a whisper. Just warm air between the two of you.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Your first instinct was to say yes. To just melt into it, like you'd imagined a hundred times. But something about the way he asked—so softly, like he was giving you the chance to back out—made you hesitate.

Not because you didn’t want it. Because you wanted it too much.

You looked up at him, clay smudged across his jaw, fingertips stained gray, hair loose and curling slightly at the nape of his neck. His eyes were searching yours—nervous, vulnerable, waiting.

“I…” you breathed, lips parting just slightly. “You really want to?”

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. “Have you not noticed the way I look at you?”

You froze. “I thought maybe you were just—like that.”

He smiled, slow and knowing. “Not with everyone. Only with you.”

Your heart stuttered.

He didn’t move in right away. He let the moment stretch, hands still curled lightly around your hips, body close but not touching—like he was giving you space to choose him.

You could feel the tension buzzing between you, electric. His lips were inches away. The wheel had long since stopped spinning. The studio felt too quiet now, too small. Every sound felt loud—the rustle of your apron, the shift of his breath, the faint thud of your own heartbeat in your ears.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

But you didn’t answer him right away, either. You raised one clay-slicked hand and gently touched his neck, right beneath his jaw.

“You make it hard to breathe when you look at me like that,” you whispered.

His exhale was sharp, chest rising just a little faster.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first time we sat on that rooftop and talked about constellations,” he said quietly, eyes still locked on yours. “But I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted to wait until you were ready.”

“I’m ready,” you whispered.

But still, he didn’t move.

Instead, he leaned his forehead against yours, lips ghosting over your mouth, almost touching. You could taste his breath. He was right there. So close it was cruel.

You whimpered. “Hyunjin…”

His lips brushed the corner of your mouth.

Not a kiss. Just a tease.

Your knees buckled a little, and his grip on your waist tightened—subtle, steady, reassuring.

“Tell me again,” he murmured. “I want to hear it.”

You met his gaze, heart racing.

“I want you to kiss me,” you said. “So bad it hurts.”

He smiled.

And this time, he finally did.

But even the kiss wasn’t rushed. It was slow and deep, his lips moving over yours like a secret he’d been dying to tell. One hand slid into your hair. The other stayed firm on your hip, grounding you. The kind of kiss that pulled the breath from your lungs, but gave you something better in return.

And when he finally pulled back, he was breathless.

“God,” he whispered. “You taste like every poem I’ve ever wanted to write.”

_

His breath was ragged now.

Your mouths had parted, but neither of you moved away. The air between you felt thick—wet clay, lingering heat, tension like a wire pulled tight and humming.

“Tell me to stop,” he said again, voice hoarse.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Instead, you reached for the hem of his shirt with trembling fingers and tugged it upward. He let you. Silent. Watching. Like he was trying to memorize every breath you took.

His shirt came off with a soft rustle, and your hands slid over his bare chest, skin warm and golden in the low light. You could feel his heart, thudding like yours—fast, unsteady, real.

The clay-slick mess on your fingers left streaks on him, but he didn’t seem to care. If anything, he liked it. His hands found your waist, pushing your apron aside, untying it with aching slowness. The tie slipped loose. The fabric hit the floor.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, almost to himself.

You leaned in and kissed him again—this time not soft.

This time, it was need.

He groaned into your mouth, hands pulling you closer until there wasn’t a sliver of space between you. You could feel everything—his body, his heat, his want. Your hips met his. He guided you back against the pottery table, lips trailing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

Then lower.

Wet, open-mouthed kisses painted across your skin, slow and reverent, like he was worshiping. His hands slid under your shirt and pulled it up. You let him. You were trembling—but not from nerves.

From anticipation.

He looked up at you, eyes dark now. Lustful. But still soft. Still him.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” you whispered.

It came out desperate.

The studio was dim except for the warm glow of the overhead light. The wheel was still in the corner, abandoned—clay drying where you'd left it. But neither of you cared now. The room smelled like earth and glaze and want.

Your pants were the next to go. Then his.

And then you were bare.

Against the cool surface of the table, his body between your legs, his mouth on your throat again. Hands everywhere. Exploring. Worshiping. Claiming.

When he entered you, it was slow. Like a promise. Like he wanted you to feel every inch of him.

You gasped—head falling back, lips parted. He stilled, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

You did.

He began to move.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate. Deep. Like he wanted to be inside you in more ways than one. Like he was trying to carve his name into your bones.

Your hands tangled in his hair. His mouth found yours again, swallowing your moans, whispering your name like a prayer.

The table creaked.

Somewhere, clay fell from the shelf.

You didn’t care.

You wrapped your legs around him and let go.

It was slow-burning, breathless, mind-numbing pleasure. He brought you to the edge and held you there, again and again, until you couldn’t remember your name—only his.

And when you finally shattered, you did it in his arms, with his lips pressed to your shoulder and his voice in your ear, saying—

“That’s it, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He followed seconds later, buried deep, gasping your name like it meant something.