Pottery

When we pulled up to Zaya's villa, the sun was climbing higher in the sky, casting a soft, golden glow over everything. The place always looked impressive, but today it felt different warmer, more welcoming.

I hopped out of the car, balancing a bag of produce in one hand and a bouquet of wildflowers in the other. Zaya gave me a look, clearly amused.

"You're doing great," she teased, grabbing most of the bags with ease.

"I'm contributing," I shot back, sticking my tongue out.

We made our way inside, the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee hitting me the moment we walked through the door.

Zaya's grandma must've been up earlier than us, setting the table and preparing breakfast. Everything looked perfect: freshly squeezed orange juice, croissants, fruit, and even a little dish of butter.

"I think she loves me more than you," I whispered to Zaya as we started unpacking the bags.