Page 38 of Daddy Next Door

Too late. The bowl collapsed, folding in on itself like a deflated balloon. Ethan sat back, laughing at his own failure, clay up to his elbows.

"Third time's the charm?" I suggested.

"I'm not giving up yet," he said with a determination I was coming to recognize as fundamental to his character.

On his third attempt, miraculously, a small bowl emerged. It was wobbly and uneven, with walls of inconsistent thickness and a slightly lopsided rim. But it was recognizably a bowl.

"Not bad for a first-timer," Marissa said approvingly. "Think you’re going to want to fire this one?"

"Absolutely," Ethan said, a note of pride in his voice. "Though I doubt it will hold liquid for long."

"But you made it," I said, meeting his eyes. "From nothing but a lump of clay. That's something."

He smiled, and in that moment I understood something about him—the satisfaction he took in creating order from chaos, in shaping something with his hands and will.

He came to watch as I finished painting my galaxy mug, the spiral handle now resembling a celestial arm against the deep blue background. I'd added tiny white dots for stars and swirls of purple and lighter blue for nebulae.

"That's gorgeous," he said, genuinely appreciative. "You're talented."

"It's just paint by numbers, essentially," I deflected. "Not like making something from scratch."

"You had the vision for it. You saw what it could be." He sat beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. "That's creativity."

I realized he was right. My tendency to plan, to envision the completed project before beginning, was just as legitimate as his willingness to dive in and learn by doing. Different paths to creation.

We worked side by side for the next hour. I added final touches to my mug while he painted his lopsided bowl with horizontal stripes in earthy greens and browns. The conversation flowed easily between us—about favorite colors, about the creative process, about the satisfaction of making something with our hands in a digital world.

"In my work," I explained, "everything is pixels and vectors. I can undo mistakes with a keystroke. This is different. Permanent."

"That's what I like about it," he said. "Commitment to the process. Embracing imperfection." He glanced at his distinctly imperfect bowl with a wry smile.

"Is that a metaphor?" I teased.

"Maybe." His eyes met mine. "The best things often have quirks and unexpected edges. Perfect is boring."

Marissa came by to collect our finished pieces. "These will be ready for pickup next Friday. We'll fire them this week."

"Thank you," Ethan said. "This was exactly what I hoped it would be."

"First date?" she asked with a knowing smile.

I felt my cheeks warm but didn't contradict her.

"Yes," Ethan answered simply. "But hopefully not the last."

He said it with such straightforward confidence—not presumptuous, just honest—that I felt a flutter in my chest. This man didn't play games. He didn't hedge his feelings or maintain plausible deniability. He stated his intentions clearly and let me decide how to respond.

"There's a little café area in the front if you want to get a drink before you go," Marissa suggested. "The mint tea is homemade."

"That sounds perfect," I said. "I'd love to wash the clay off my hands first, though."

"Bathroom's in the back," she pointed. "Through that door on the left."

As we cleaned up, I caught Ethan watching me in the mirror. Not in a creepy way—more like he was memorizing something he found fascinating. When our eyes met, he didn't look away.

"What?" I asked.

"You look happy," he said simply. "It suits you."

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