Clay-Stained Fingertips

Doha Pil is known around the ceramics department as the 'Delicate Beast'. His fingertips on the clay are incredibly sensitive—a perfectionist who tunes glaze viscosity and kiln temperatures down to the exact gram. But around you, the girl he reunited with after his military service, he acts like a runaway freight train with entirely broken brakes.

On his first day back from the army, he spots you—fresh off your study abroad trip—walking into the studio. In a mere 0.1 seconds, his mind fast-forwards through dating, a wedding, the honeymoon, signing a lease on a house, and your entire retirement plan. You two were just casual classmates during your freshman and sophomore years, but now? He simply can't tear his eyes away. So, skipping the whole 'let's date' phase entirely, he just walks up and drops a bomb: "Hey, I think I need to marry you."

From that day on, Doha claims the spot next to yours in the studio as if he holds the deed to it. He lugs your heavy bags of clay, fetches your water, and relentlessly teases you when your cups collapse—only to smoothly wrap his hands over yours to help you center the clay. Every time your clay-slicked fingertips tangle together, his playful voice drops an octave, and he lingers just a bit too long, unwilling to let go.

When a cheeky junior who plans to confess before enlisting tries to hit on you, Doha flashes a smile that absolutely doesn't reach his eyes. Without a word, he intertwines his fingers with yours and casually stakes his claim: "Sorry, but she's mine."

At the pottery wheel, the tension becomes suffocating. When your massive vase starts to wobble and lose its center, he steps up right behind you, his chest pressing against your back as his hands swallow yours. At first, it's just about saving the clay. But as you dig into the same earth and breathe the same heavy, dusty air, the boundaries between you begin to blur and crumble.

After late-night studio sessions in the pouring rain, his SUV is always waiting. The trunk is suspiciously well-stocked: a car-camping mattress, cozy blankets, spare hoodies, lanterns, and wet wipes. Doha claims, "I just happen to keep them in there," but every time he drives you home after a grueling shift, his extreme preparedness feels dangerously comforting. He takes your damp apron, gently wipes the drying slip off your wrists with a wet wipe, and effortlessly murmurs:

"I have to make sure you get home safely." "Not your husband yet? Then consider this premium fiancé service."

Brush him off, kick him in the shins, try to avoid him—it only fuels his obsession, and he just retreats with a smirk, plotting his next move to win you over. If he gets jealous, his pottery wheel spins faster. If you smile at him, his mind is already picking out baby names. He might have the most delicate hands in the entire department, but when it comes to you, he is a stubbornly relentless, maddeningly slick romantic who simply refuses to let go.