Gentle

Ivan's POV

I glance at the array of colored polymer clay spread out before me, feeling an unexpected excitement bubbling in my chest.

"A clay date, huh?" I murmur to myself, rolling a soft purple piece between my fingers.

This isn't what I expected when Zander told me he had planned something different for today. I'm seated in a charming little pottery studio, surrounded by soft dim lighting and the earthy scent of clay and ceramic glaze.

It's… intimate. Cozy.

And somehow, so un-Zander that I can't help but love it.

The studio itself is designed for couples and friends, a space where people can relax and create something with their hands. Each workstation has a spinning pottery wheel, trays of sculpting tools, and colorful polymer clay neatly arranged in small compartments.

I press my fingers into the clay, trying to shape it into the image I have in my mind—a small, round-bodied octopus with cute little wobbly tentacles. It's not perfect, but it's getting there.

Across from me, Zander is entirely focused on his own creation, his brows furrowed, his lips pressed in concentration as his fingers struggle to shape the clay.

I glance at his hands—large, elegant, and always so precise when handling business deals or signing documents. But here? He's a complete disaster.

His fingers press too hard, squishing the clay into an uneven blob. The tentacles he tries to shape refuse to cooperate, drooping pathetically no matter how many times he tries to fix them.

I bite my lip, trying not to laugh.

I fail.

A soft giggle escapes before I can stop it, and Zander's dark eyes snap up to meet mine.

"Are you laughing at me?" he asks, his expression unreadable, though I catch the slight twitch of his lips.

I shake my head quickly, but my grin betrays me.

"No, no… okay, yes. A little," I admit, tilting my head to examine the mess of clay in his hands.

"What are you even making?"

"An octopus," he replies seriously.

I look at his work again.

"That… does not look like an octopus."

His frown deepens as he attempts to pinch and smooth out the uneven limbs, but the moment he lets go, the clay sags completely, the tentacles drooping like a sad little puddle.

This time, I can't stop the full-blown laugh that spills from my lips.

"It's adorable," I say between chuckles. "In a really tragic, pitiful way."

Zander exhales, setting the clay down as if it has personally offended him. His usual polished, composed demeanor is completely gone, replaced with a frustrated, slightly sulky expression.

He's so cute like this. So unguarded.

I never thought I'd see the day where Zander Vale—CEO, billionaire, intimidating Alpha—would look so utterly defeated by a tiny ball of clay.

---

"Here, let me help."

Before he can refuse, I slide onto his side of the table, reaching for his hands. They're warm beneath mine, his fingers tensing slightly at the sudden contact.

For a second, I expect him to pull away—Zander isn't the type to easily let someone guide him. He's always in control, always the one leading.

But this time, he lets me.

His shoulders relax, his hands resting lightly in mine as I adjust his grip on the clay.

"You have to be gentle," I murmur, pressing his fingers down carefully. "You're handling it too roughly."

Zander exhales, his voice a little strained and low.

"I am being gentle."

The words are simple, but they send an unexpected shiver down my spine.

I ignore the warmth rising in my cheeks and guide his hands, pressing his fingertips into the clay with light, precise movements. His brows furrow in concentration, and I can tell he's really trying, but his fingers still fumble slightly, too forceful in some places, too hesitant in others.

I glance up at him, about to tease him again—

And freeze.

Zander isn't looking at the clay.

He's looking at me.

His expression is soft, but there's something else in his gaze—something intense, something that makes my breath catch in my throat.

We're closer than I realized.

Too close.

I can feel his breath against my skin, warm and slow, and the moment stretches between us, thick with unspoken tension.

His gaze flickers—just for a second—down to my lips.

My heart stutters.

Is he going to—?

But then, as quickly as the moment appeared, it's gone.

Zander blinks, pulling his hands back slightly, clearing his throat as he straightens.

"I think I'm better off watching," he mutters, trying to regain his usual cool composure.

I pretend the disappointment in my chest isn't real.

Instead, I scoot back to my seat and return to my own octopus, pretending the past few seconds didn't just leave me breathless.

---

By the time we finish, my purple octopus has turned out relatively cute—small, round, and wobbly, just the way I wanted.

Zander's… well.

His is still a mess.

His octopus looks like it just received devastating news, its tentacles uneven and misshapen.

"It has character," I say, grinning.

"It looks like it's begging for mercy," Zander mutters, giving it a skeptical look.

I laugh, reaching for it without hesitation.

"I'm keeping this."

He raises a brow, looking amused.

"You want that thing?"

"Yes," I say firmly, tucking it into the small box provided by the shop. "It's proof that you're not perfect at everything."

Zander watches me for a moment, his gaze unreadable.

Then, just when I think he might roll his eyes or tease me, he smiles.

Not his usual smirk.

Not the confident, knowing grin.

A real smile.

And just like that—I know I made the right choice keeping the little octopus.