Vibino watched him without even pretending. John rolled his shirt sleeves up with practiced ease, folding the cuffs neatly as he walked across the studio to grab something from a wooden shelf.

The place carried that soft, earthy scent of damp clay and quiet work. It hit her unexpectedly, not unpleasant, just… familiar.

For a moment, it pulled her straight back to childhood.

To those sweet train rides to Nadia. To her grandparents’ house that always felt a little slower than the rest of the world. To her Nanu, sitting in the courtyard, hands busy with clay, shaping tiny little vessels just for her.

Crooked bowls. Mini cups. Things that held no real purpose except making her ridiculously happy.

She used to sit beside him, watching with wide eyes, convinced it was magic.

And now, standing here, watching John work the clay with that same quiet focus, she felt that same odd sense of wonder creep back in.

Funny how some things never really leave you.

She leaned back against the table, arms loosely crossed, eyes following him.

This was his space.

It made sense.

Everything here looked like it belonged to him in a way classrooms never did.

“Alright,” he said, returning with a box and setting it down. “I am going to teach you something very basic, so kindly try not to fuck it up within five minutes.”

She raised a brow. “Wow. Such faith. I feel so supported.”

“I believe in realistic expectations,” he replied calmly, opening the box.

Inside sat a generous mound of clay, already prepped. He lifted it out and placed it on the table with quiet care.

Vibino leaned forward without realizing it, watching his hands as they pressed into the clay. There was nothing careless about it. Every movement had intention. Every push, every fold felt deliberate, like he was having a conversation with it.

“What did you do to it?” she asked, genuinely curious now.

“Wedging,” he said, almost absentmindedly. “You knead it to remove air pockets. Align the platelets. Make it consistent.”

She frowned slightly. “And if you do not?”

“It explodes in the kiln.”

She blinked at him. “Excuse me. Explodes?”

He glanced at her through his glasses, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Not cinematic explosion. Just enough to ruin everything you worked on.”

She let out a small breath. “That is tough.”

“It is fair,” he corrected, folding the clay again with that same steady rhythm.

She tilted her head, watching him more closely now.

There was something oddly calming about it.

“Clay remembers everything you do to it,” he continued. “Every bit of pressure. Every hesitation. You rush it, it shows. You mess up, it shows. There is no pretending.”

“That sounds less like clay and more like people,” she said.

“That is because it is not very different,” he replied.

He sliced the clay cleanly with a wire and handed her a portion.

It felt cool in her hands. Heavier than she expected.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the wheel.

She obeyed, still staring at the lump like it might suddenly reveal its secrets.

John stepped behind her. Not too close. Just enough for her to be aware of him.

“First step is centering,” he said. “If you get that wrong, everything else is a disaster waiting politely.”

She placed the clay on the wheel, slightly unsure.

“It is already off,” he added.

She turned her head sharply. “I just put it there.”

“Exactly.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You are very encouraging.”

“I try my best.”

He leaned forward then, adjusting the clay with firm, practiced hands, pressing it properly onto the wheel.

“Now turn it on.” he gestured to the floor pedal.

The wheel began to spin, slow and steady.

“Both hands,” he instructed. “One supports, one presses. Do not fight it. You are not stronger than rotation.”

She hesitated before placing her hands on the spinning clay.

It wobbled immediately.

“There,” he said quietly. “You are arguing with it.”

“I am trying not to ruin it,” she muttered.

“That is exactly how you ruin it.”

She glanced back at him, slightly annoyed. “So your expert advice is to just… be bad at it?”

“My expert advice,” he said, voice calm, “is to be honest with it.”

That made her pause.

She turned back, exhaling slowly, and tried again. This time her hands were less stiff. Less defensive.

The wobble softened. Not exactly perfect, but surely better.

“There,” he murmured. “Feel that?”

A small smile appeared on her face. “It is… less chaotic.”

“Because you stopped fighting.”

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The soft hum of the wheel filled the studio, along with the faint rhythm of clay turning under her palms.

“Why do you like this so much?” she asked after a while, quieter now.

John leaned back slightly, folding his arms as he watched her.

“Because it does not lie,” he said after a moment. “If something goes wrong, it is on me. Not miscommunication. Not assumptions. Just… cause and effect.”

She considered that.

“And you like that?”

“I trust that.”

She huffed softly. “You trust clay more than people.”

“I understand clay more than people.”

She laughed, but there was no sarcasm in it this time. Just acceptance.

The clay began to rise unevenly under her fingers.

“Too much,” he said.

She immediately pulled back. “Sorry---”

“Do not apologize,” he corrected. “Adjust.”

He stepped closer again, pointing instead of touching. “Ease it. Let it come up gradually.”

She followed, slower this time. Paying attention.

“It is weird,” she admitted. “You talk about this like it is alive.”

“It responds,” he said simply. “That is enough.”

She looked down at what she had made so far. It was slightly embarrassing. But hers.

“And if I mess it up?” she asked.

He shrugged lightly. “Then you flatten it and start again.”

“That easy?”

“That necessary.”

She turned her head slightly, looking at him.

“You do not sound like someone who believes that about everything.”

Something flickered across his face. Quick. Almost unnoticeable.

“I do not,” he said.

The wheel kept spinning.

“But here,” he added, nodding toward the clay, “I can afford to.”

She looked back at her hands, at the uneven shape forming between them.

There was something strange about this moment.

Not close.

Not distant.

Just… steady.

“John?” she said.

“Hm?”

“I think I get it.”

“Get what?”

She smiled faintly, eyes still on the clay.

“Why you like this more than people.”

He did not reply immediately.

But when he did, his voice was quieter.

“Careful,” he said. “That sounds like you are picking a side.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she said softly.

A small pause.

“I think I am just beginning to understand yours.”