"How many does she need?" Jeremy blinked at the messenger, looking up from the piece of paper to him.

The kid was about seventeen and for some reason looked nervous. He reached out and tapped the paper where the order information was, "Twenty."

Jeremy had been working at the furnace all day. His skin was shiny from the sweat that made his black hair look wet against his skin at the back of the neck and his temples. His skin looked darker, redder than it actually was because of how the furnace had made him flush. The smell of the metal and heat was practically imbued in him these days. There were black smears up his arms and on the hand that held the order note. His hand holding it left behind the sort of fingerprint impressions he saw the police use.

His gaze lifted from the note and back to the messenger, "She wants twenty candlestick holders?"

"Yeah. They're for decoration and then also as gifts for when the esteemed guests leave. She also wants them glazed and done by Friday. She's willing to pay extra for the hurry."

Jeremy folded the note, shoving it in his back pocket. He looked over his shoulder at the hot coals and his tools, all of which looked as though they were waiting for something to happen. For him to come back and do something about it. His attention swung back to the kid, "She has to pay more for specialty orders, never mind if they are rush orders. Tell her I've got it."

The kid bobbed his head at him several times in a nod before he turned on his heels and ran. Jeremy arched his back to stretch it and returned to the fires.

Twenty metalwork candle holders in less than a week and then he might start that part time bit with Miz Kitten. The week was going to be exhausting. At least it would pay well. He sucked in a breath, eyeing everything he had in anticipation of starting the job. He was going to need to find a way to glaze the metal, too. He hadn't taken an order like that before. With all the shops in town, someone was bound to have something like that. Maybe a painter or just a supply store. It was just another catch to make a difficult project that much more challenging.

Jeremy had been working on commissions, per usual, all that week. When an order came for items which would line the driveway, the patron offered him more just to get it all handled himself. They wanted metal spirals around ceramic pots which they would no doubt fill with something flowery.

The problem was he didn't do ceramics. He'd have to find the pots, or order them to meet the specifications he was given. That meant leaving the shop and going about town to find them.

It was thirty minutes after closing time that he did just that. The first three places he visited either had things which were inferior or shipped it. It was on the fourth try that he reached her shop, not sure he would be there or what he would find. Perhaps his blue gaze already looked dull with the expectation of imports or another 'no, we don't do that' response.

The door opened on a showroom that doubled as a mini museum, ceramics and pottery of all kinds displayed behind glass or on pedestals. There were sculptures and busts, but also elegantly formed vases. In one corner there was a whole display of whimsically formed monster mugs — coffee cups with eyes and teeth and garish faces. The shop held just a little bit of everything, but two things were certain: they were each handmade, and the artist who made them took pride in her skill.

Layla usually spent her Fridays getting everything ready for the weekend festivals. In work clothes that were covered in ceramic dust, her dark hair pulled up in a bandanna, smudges of damp and drying clay on her cheeks, it was overwhelmingly clear that she was not expecting customers today when the little electronic doorbell chime summoned her to the front of the shop. She was delayed getting into the showroom to find out who it was because her arms had been full of things she was collecting for the kiln, and she wiped her hands on her dirty work jeans as she approached, her dark golden eyes seeking out the visitor inquisitively. "Hi," spoke the artist with just a touch of an accent that wasn't entirely traceable. "Can I help you?"

Jeremy wore hoodies most of the time. This one was a dark blue zip up with open mouthed pockets. He didn't have the marks of dirt like her, but the whisper of old scars on his hands from where he hadn't been careful enough at the fire pit. Despite the casual attire, it was clean, which was a mark that he'd changed it prior to showing up. His dark hair was longest and shuffled. When he spoke it was uncertain, like he'd forgotten his index cards to remind him of what to say, "Hello, I'm looking for eight pots that are round, blue, and thirty centimeters in diameter." He knew that the chances of that being on hand were slim— what he was hoping for was her ability to make them per request.

As though she'd only just become aware of her disheveled appearance, Layla's smile bloomed self-consciously. She plucked the bandanna from her head, sweeping her hands over mahogany curls in a vain attempt at making them more presentable; she wiped at the smudge on her cheek with the back of her hand. Dark eyes luminous with embarrassment, Layla shook her head. "I'm sorry I don't have anything like that ready, but....you could special order them' Depending on when you need it by, I could definitely make you some...?"

"Five days." He knew it was a task to ask that of her. But if he had them in five that left him only three to do the metal work. The time line for that situation was tight, but not impossible. After speaking he thought that he should have said four days and given himself more wiggle room, but he didn't want to correct himself and seem even more uncertain than he already was. "They want them blue and with sort of....dripping patterns. The height needs to be sixty centimeters." Thirty by sixty. He had repeated it to himself over and over until he was certain that the details of the order were a fact.

Weighing the feasibility of the timeline, Layla tipped her head at him. "Here....let me show you some of my work that's in that vein. See if it's even what you want before I go rearranging my schedule?" With the kind of laugh one gave when they were feeling nervous, the artist directed him towards the display case towards the back where the cash register sat. Slipping behind it, she pulled several binders from the shelving there, laying them out side by side on top of the glass. "Here. Have a look" I am Layla, also. Are you are...?"

Jeremy didn't want to admit that he was slightly desperate for the ceramic pots. With the window of time getting smaller and smaller, he didn't have many options. It was another situation where someone was paying for it to be done, done right, and right *now*. Those jobs themselves weren't fun but the paycheck always sweetened how he thought back on the work involved.

Still, he followed where she led him to her work. It was better than he expected. They looked professional and smooth while also not having a face, mass produced feel to them. They carried a sincerity.

"Oh, sorry. I'm Jeremy." He shook her hand shortly and then started to look over the pieces she set out in greater detail.

Layla took pride in her work, from the very complex to the very simple, each piece was toiled over with painstaking care and utmost patience. Sure, some of them came out more successfully than the others, but she was the kind of girl who would work and rework the same piece until it had molded into the best version of itself, or shattered altogether.

While he examined the pieces in the portfolios, she tore a piece of scratch paper from a notepad she kept near the register. Reaching under the counter, the girl pulled out a sleeve of colored pencils next, shaking a handful of blue ones from the box. Quickly she set to work sketching what he'd described, scribbling the dimensions he'd quoted in the margin.

"So you're looking for something like this?"

"Yes," Jeremy nodded when he saw it, then made a motion with his hand, "Sort of oval shaped so the sides curve in at the top and bottom and is widest at the center."

The man had been specific in some respects about these items. It seemed to him that the project was something that needed to be done, like a decoration for an important guest, as opposed to a meaningful piece that the owner would keep hold of for years to come. Money was money, though, and so long as it spent Jeremy didn't mind it so much.

"Do you think you can get those done in the time frame?" Nothing needed to be scored and then slip used to attach another piece of clay like one did with a mug so there was an advantage to the pieces being one unit without too much flare. Her biggest issue might be with the glazing and these pieces being intended at outdoor pots. He pointed at the base of the sketch, "There. It will need holes for the water to drain out the bottom."

Making amendments to her drawing at his words, she jotted down some notes, reshaping the lines. With a nod, she lifted eyes like burnt amber to his face. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I can do it. You need" how many did you say again?"

Straightening her back, Layla slipped her phone out of one of her pockets, scrolling through to the calendar app to see what else she had scheduled to complete this week. "Is there a specific shade of blue you need, too?"

"It's....um," he reached in his back pocket, hesitating at the greeting screen on his cellphone before he started to flip through the screens. He found the email and then asserted, more confidently, "It's eight." This wasn't the sort of number that could be messed up. She asked about the shade of blue and Jeremy's face tightened with the sort of tension which said he didn't like the answer he was giving her but it was the only one he had, "Dark blue with some lighter blue streaks. But overall, dark blue." He was aware that there were blues which looked greener, or purple. But that was what his patron has said.

He remembered then, that he pointed to something blue and the man had nodded, quickly, that it was the sort of shade he was looking for, "A cobalt."

Making a note that she needed eight of them, her gaze followed where he was pointing, zeroing in on the item in question. "Got it," she said, making a note of the color, both by name and with a complicated string of numbers. Then she wrote the word "outside" and circled it a few times. Taking a deep breath, Layla gave the blacksmith a little smile. "Okay. I'm pretty sure I can have this done in time, but it's....definitely going to be a rush job. Is that alright?"

The day at work in the shop had been a long one for him. He had replayed his interaction with Layla over his head, wishing he hadn't said that stupid part about her work. Why couldn't talking be easier for him' Whenever he kept it short and simple things were fine, but that only worked for so long. He was left having to learn every lesson in communication the painful way.

At six he had shut up, got in touch with customers and cleaned up his areas. He was careful about his work area, making sure that it stayed clean and properly kept up. He didn't shower, he just changed out of his sweaty shirt and into a clean one, throwing on a black cotton hoody that was so thin the white t-shirt underneath could be seen. It didn't have a zipper but a pouch in the front for him to jam his hands into. Keys and wallet were in his pants. His black sneakers were lightweight and laced tight.

He felt fine until he reached the outside of her shop. At that moment, a quick replay of their conversation before haunted him. He was overthinking it. It wasn't that bad. It'd be fine. He pushed through the door and smiled, calling, "Layla" It's Jeremy."

The chiming of the little electronic doorbell alerted Layla that the front door had been opened. She was slightly more presentable today, but only just; in a pair of army green pants that sat low on her hips and a black tank top, there was a strip of bronzed skin that showed between the hems of each. Clay dust and strips of blue glaze decorated her bare arms and her shirt both, and there were smudges here and there along her pants, too. She'd been dressed more presentably during the main work hours, of course, but now she had set to work in earnest on finishing some of all these projects she had lined up, and it showed that she cared more about the work than she did her outfit.

Rising from her work bench, Layla took a moment to wipe her hands off, at least, before she crossed back over into the show room. "Oh, Jeremy, hi. I should have known that was you." She said with a polite smile. "Here, I have your test back here in the shop." Gesturing the door she'd just come through to invite him back.

Her eyes didn't look cold and at least she was smiling. He nodded and pointed at the place where they had spoken during his last visit, "I said the other day that I would come to check on progress to make sure we were on the same page before you fired or glazed anything." He said it as if she needed the reminder on their conversation. After speaking he thought that it was, perhaps, a bit odd that he had done that. She already told him that there was a test, she already knew.

Hoping that the slip could just go by unaddressed, he followed the motion of her hand into the back of her shop. He could smell the wet-dry of the pottery clay in the air. His shop felt like being in the bellows, while her's felt like they had crawled into a cavern where the stalactites and stalagmites were stacked on shelves and grew into figures that shone with a glass fired finish.

It did feel a little bit like a cave back there; the scent of damp earth and mineral glaze. It felt almost like it should be dark and shadowy, and in some places it was, but there were also brilliant lights here and there at the work stations. Although it was cool over all, there was a burgeoning heat source in the back that smelled of fire and heat — the kiln, too hot to be continually heated up and cooled off again, it ran twenty four-seven, chewing energy as it went like a dragon in a burrow.

She led him past racks and racks of pottery in various stages of completion to where she had his test subject set up. The little pot was made to the specifications of the drawing she'd completed with him the night before, with samples of the finished glazes she'd chosen laid out beside it. The holes he wanted in the bottom were there, even the vague-ish 'drippy swirl pattern' he'd mentioned had been replicated to the best of her abilities in a sort of water color wash to give him an idea of the finished piece. She gestured him forward to have a closer look.

"Is it acceptable?" asking in a soft voice after he'd had some time to investigate, the girl felt nervous, trying not to fidget.

The shop was hard not to be distracted by. He knew a few things about pottery, but had never developed the skill or really worked from it. He knew the principle of clay being heated and then the glazing. He knew things were hot and that they had to be done a certain way or the pieces would explode in the ov— the kiln. They would explode in the kiln. Layla didn't seem worried, though, that there could be an explosion. He supposed someone whose pottery was advanced didn't often make those mistakes. That, or the kiln trapped the problem and it wasn't nearly as dramatic an event as he imagined it would be.

Finally the piece she had done was brought up to his eyes and turned between his hands. Jeremy felt the weight of it and liked how smooth. It even still felt warm like a cookie just taken from the oven. The drainage holes looked adequate enough from what he could tell. His eyes, a flat cobalt that was less interesting than the changes and nuances of the glaze pattern she had made in the piece, settled on her, "And this will be okay outside?"

Layla watched him, her burnished gold eyes traveling his frame as he studied her work. It was with the discerning eye of a fine artist — there were busts and figure studies among the racks of semi-finished works in the shop. She studied the line of his shoulders, the curve of his neck, the set of his jaw. Almost like she was memorizing his lines.

Blinking a couple of times to bring herself out of her study when he looked up, Layla gave a crescent of a smile that was almost sheepish, hoping she hadn't been caught in her study. "Yes," she nodded, "I had to play with a couple of different ones to get the color right, but all of these are for outdoor use."

Jeremy's build had changed. His muscles were like wires when he first came to Rhy'Din. It took a lot of strength and gripping power to climb trees and collect a coffee bean harvest manually. As a teenager he would take the risk of leaping from one tree to another like a squirrel. When he grew up, and maybe a few scars later, he had to heave the ladder and carry the hauls back. The meal waiting him at home was a simple one. That had been his life until he came to this city.

The last year he'd packed on weight. He forged metal, which took the effort of hauling it. He went through a boot camp for soldiers. His diet was richer, too. His muscles devoured the more plentiful calories and constructed a fuller frame. Maybe Layla could not see the history of it when she studied him, but she would have known that Jeremy was a physical and active person. He probably went hiking or rock climbing when he had days off.

He was also strangely not observant of some things. It seemed he earnestly didn't realize that she was gauging him. He manipulated conversations with the aptitude of a teenager instead of an adult. Eventually he set the pot down and pulled out his phone, snapping a picture of it before he smiled at her, "Looks good to me. It's exactly what I was told they wanted the pot on the inside to be. Do you....think I could take this one, or do you need it to compare?"

Layla could still feel the warmth of his hand on her back for several seconds after it fell away, a lingering chill that tingled a little as the skin rushed to normalize its temperature. It made her sad in a way she couldn't quite articulate, to have it gone — like she'd become accustomed to that gentle pressure and missed it in its absence.

When the door was held open, she stepped through it, her skirt a soft swirl of royal blue layers that whispered along the door frame as she moved past it. Once she was inside, the artist moved deftly to the left, clearing the way for Jeremy to follow along after. With a quiet smile, she shook her head. "I don't think I can eat that much ice cream at once" I'll just...have to decide on a flavor and take my chances."

"It's not that filling but....it can make you sick. The yogurt is better for that though. They don't make it as sweet so..." there was a small smile and a shrug of his shoulders that seemed to excuse it. Looks like there was a line though, ten people deep and of all manner of age and creature. One looked to be part goat and it made him think of Andu, though far less formidable in appearance. He didn't know what to do with his hands anymore so he jammed them into the front pockets of his hoodie so that he would at least have the sense to keep them to himself.

"What sort of foods are you used to, anyway?" Though he wasn't familiar with ice cream either, he wasn't sure how strange nachos and tacos had been.

As they stood in line, Layla read the menu, pondering her choices. She was still missing the gentle press of his hand, that slight but reassuring pressure. Jeremy's hands were in his pockets, though, so there wasn't a good way to encourage it. Well, maybe he was tired of touching. Her own hands twisted into the hem of her thin cardigan, curling into the material to give herself something to do with them.

"Food is very diverse at home, but very different from here. Well. More or less diverse, depending on how much money you have." A dim smile. "Things like pita bread, hummus and baba ghanoush, which is eggplant and tahini with spices. Rice, fava beans, lentils. Some fish, lots of vegetables. For sweets we mainly had basbousa, which is....um....a kind of cake made with rose water and lemon syrup."

"I'm not sure what most of that is but..." he smiled a little, happy that he could admit to two of the things she had mentioned, "I have had hummus and pita bread as an appetizer at one of the restaurants here. I have no idea if it was authentic or not," Jeremy didn't know how fancy or intricate hummus could be, and certainly had no idea that there were places that manufactured and distributed it in a large-scale manner. There was also the other, rice, but his experience with that had been at the chinese restaurant so he was silently ignorant of the differences which would exist there.

"Do you cook any of it' I don't know of anywhere that serves that cake but....I'd like to try it. You're trying this, right?" The line moved forward a few paces. Six customers were ahead of them but it seemed like they knew what they wanted. They weren't staring at the menu as steadfast as he had his first time.

There weren't any specifically Egyptian restaurants - not that Layla had found yet, anyway - but there were a handful that served food from the overall region, and there was one little market she'd found tucked away in a forgotten, dusty corner of the Dockside district that was run by a nice family from back home. The artist did most of her shopping there, both to support the family and because she knew how to make good quality meals for herself inexpensively using familiar ingredients. "Ramen" was a mystery the girl just hadn't tackled yet.

The blacksmith's words made her smile, and Layla nodded. "I cook for myself most every day, yes." There was a pause as she looked up at him, giving it a second of thought before she posed the question. Even though this was established as a date, they'd shared their meal from the same plate and it was even technically their second outing together, Layla still experienced a nervous thrill at her own daring. "I could....make you dinner sometime, if you're curious?"

The line moved forward, and that left her pulling her eyes away, trying to see if she could glimpse the round cylinders of frozen dessert inside the counter displays yet. She would need to make a decision soon, but she had no idea what to choose. "What is your favorite flavor?"

"I'd like that. I don't know how to cook much," he felt the need to correct himself after saying that, "I'm just not used to the cuisine here. I....it isn't that it's weird, I just can't get comfortable cooking it' So I mostly eat out or order something in when I eat. Get the food I know and order the ones I don't." Apples, for instance, were something that he knew well. There happened to not be much of a difference between those fruits at home and those here. The flour here was different, sweeter and more like bread. He wasn't sure why, if it was just a difference in the plant or if there was a difference in how it was refined.

At the counter he looked up at it and then motioned, "Strawberry. This one does them well, too. Usually they taste really....weird, sweet and fake but this place has a great flavor for them. And chocolate so....I do a bit of each." There was, perhaps, a guilt half grin that followed the admission. As if he admitted to some over indulgent behavior.

"What is food like where you are from?" Layla's eyes were inquisitive as she lifted them back to his face. She couldn't see around the people ahead of them yet, anyway. She couldn't imagine ordering in every time she needed to eat — she'd be lost navigating all the food choices, for one. The concept was an enticing one for her, though, to imagine trying all those new and different things.

"Oh! Strawberry. That's a good idea. I love strawberries, and the season at home is so short." Warm cinnamon eyes drifted towards the counter again, but there was a good chance she'd be choosing strawberry.

"It's kinda like a farm, the region?" he tilted his head to the side and then smiled at her, "Ummm....you know how certain areas grow something desirable" Like maybe in one place you get ore and in another you get fish' In my planet we have a very....desirable coffee bean." It sounded silly to say that, to think of something as having so much revenue, but it was bought in tremendous quantities. Unlike Rhy'Din, they had stable portals and not a nexus with which to do their trade. Turned out their coffee was a 'hit' and people wanted it. "There are cities and everything else but I was helping farm so....lots of coffee and fruits, vegetables, meats. We didn't do a lot of cooking and if we did it was mostly just boiling stuff so....sort of bland I guess" Like I didn't have anything spicy until I came here." There was a motion of one hand to his stomach as he recalled the "trauma."

"You still want to share one" Half and half. Strawberry and chocolate or strawberry all the way?" He grinned at her after he said it and took another step forward. Only one customer ahead of them now.

Layla knew about farms, though she hadn't lived or worked on one. She tried to picture Jeremy working on a farm and found that she couldn't, though her gaze lingered on the slope of his shoulders the way it had the first time they spoke. Shaking her head when she caught herself staring, the artist's cheeks colored faintly and she looked away. "I like coffee. Our food is....well, it has strong flavors, I think, but it's not....spicy. I don't think so, anyway." She gave a little smile. "Maybe you will tell me differently."

Only one person in front of them, and at last she could see the various tubs of ice cream in all the different colors and flavors. There were several that looked interesting, a few that looked positively horrifying, and then there was the strawberry. At his question, Layla shook her head. "No, that's okay. I'll just take a small strawberry, I think." He got so excited about the flavors, she wouldn't take that from him or make him share.

Jeremy smiled and opened his mouth to say something, but it was there turn to order just then. So he turned from her, ordering a small strawberry and then the combination of two scoops for him in the small cup. Money exchanged and then it was time for the wait. Since there was no hot chocolate, sprinkles, or anything fancy to add their order came up a bit more quickly than those who had been in line ahead of them. Jeremy smiled, picking up each of their orders in his hand and stepping away from the counter to the separate area where the napkins and spoons were.

"Maybe. We didn't use much to season but....I'm getting used to it." There was a small shrug of his shoulders. Jeremy had a climbers build, which had made him lean because of the hours of having to grip branches and walk his way along. It wasn't until he was a blacksmith with the richer diet of food that he had gained weight. It wasn't something he had noticed until his shirts got uncomfortable and even then, he didn't really understand why the change was happening. Being a blacksmith was just as hard, more or less, than what he had been doing. Instead of prolonged tension, though, it was bursts of energy and breaks not unlike doing reps.

"Do you want to sit outside" or we could get a table in here?"

Layla was quiet, watching the shop workers go about the business of filling orders while Jeremy placed their order and paid. "Thank you," her voice was soft, but her smile was warm, her gratitude sincere.

"Our food is not what I would call rich' My home is...mostly desert, and it's difficult to eat heavy things when it's so hot." But there were sections of the country that were practically jungle, the lush dense farmland to either side of the Nile, so she was fortunate to have access to a great many kinds of food, at least. Just....not so much tacos. Or Thai. "But it is very flavorful, I think. You will see."

She tried to make her smile as reassuring as possible. He gathered their ice creams and Layla turned dark eyes over the brightly lit shop and its cheerful patrons. "Let's sit outside, if that's alright with you. It's quieter, and the air is nice." It would be a nice change from the boisterousness of the fight night, at any rate.

Once they were seated at a table outside, her gaze lifted to him thoughtfully. She was mulling over what foods she might make for him when it occurred to her that there was a problem with her invitation. "Jeremy, the place where you live. Does it have a full kitchen?"

Using his lower back, he pushed against the doorway to open it as he spoke, "What day were you thinking of for dinner?" He knew where she lived, so that part wasn't hard. Just how soon she wanted to have him over was a whole other animal. His evenings were free, he didn't have any friends to pal around with and usually ended up occupying himself. Maybe reading a book about soldiers or something.

"Not....exactly full" It's a kinda small apartment outside the marketplace," he set down both of their ice creams and then took his seat. He could feet the semi-circular impression of the chair into his back and it caused him to sit up. The napkins and spoons were divided up and he handed over the small pairing of her long handled red spoon with three napkins, "I don't have a lot of counter space but I do have that oven-stove comb, a microwave and a fridge." there was about five feet of counter space to cook with that was cut in half by the oven-stove but luckily the microwave was poised over the over instead of dominating valuable counter space.

It was a little worse in the process. She couldn't say yes, but she didn't know enough to say yes. Women could be difficult in that some wanted a man to simply step up and make the move, roll the dice that they might be rejected or accepted after the fact. Others wanted permission to be established and that was done more easily by waiting for the woman to give signs she was willing.

With Layla it just felt impossible to know if she was giving him signs because she was still figuring out what the signs were. As she spoke he ate his ice cream, feeling his mouth get numb with the strawberry chocolate chill. At least he knew she was interested. No pressure. It'd just be the kiss she compared to all other kisses. A date that would be measured up to other dates. He swallowed and removed the worry from his mind.

Jeremy didn't respond, and because he didn't respond, Layla felt compelled to keep talking. Trying not to get flustered in the process — easier said than done when he was looking at her like that — the artist tried to answer the other part of his question.

"Something like you," she blurted out suddenly, her cheeks flaming with sudden color. Her eyes were downcast then, studying her hands, the grain of the table they laid on. "...That is. You asked me what I imagined physically. It..even before I came here, my ideal was....." She blushed more deeply. "Something like you."

Something. Not someone. But something. He noticed the nuance of it and then her verbal stumble over what she was saying to him and it caused him to smile just a little after she said it, knowing what she had meant even if it didn't come out right. It was nice to know that he wasn't the only person in the city that had trouble getting the right words out.

"Someone like me." His spoon shoved into the bottom of his ice cream before he leaned over, kissing her on the cheek. To do that, he was leaned over the table, right forearm and elbow atop the table, supporting his weight as he stayed there. The contact of his ice cream kiss still having his lips hover not far behind the connection. His pause is like a held breath, looking at her face. His head is tilted to the side with the question of what was next.

Confusion, at first. What was he saying" Oh. Layla nodded, scared to look up. "...Right. Someone. I still make mistakes sometim—-" Her words were cut off by the unexpected chill of his cool lips against her burning cheek, and the artist was looking up at him then.

At first she didn't turn her head, only her eyes craning all the way to the left to catch sight of him. At first, she scarcely dared to breathe. But then he lingered near, his presence warm despite his frozen mouth, and Layla really couldn't help the way she craned her neck, her upper body following, twisting to face him. The shift brought her mouth almost flush against his, her heart like a humming bird in her chest. The smile was there, though. The smile said yes.

He was waiting and there would only be a few seconds before he withdrew and sat back in his seat. The kiss to her cheek seemed like a place to be, to lean in and offer something more to her. Now it was up to her and she paused. Her head turned and he hesitated. Only a few seconds and then he would....

Her mouth was near his with the promise of more strawberry. Her smile was waiting, permission silently granted. His weight shifted further for their mouths to connect. He could taste the sweet, tart strawberry just on the petals of her mouth as they planted against his. He was like a state for her lips. Perfectly still as her mouth felt what it was like against his. Then he kissed her in returned, his lips moving like he was taking a breath from her mouth. Slowly, carefully, like a sudden movement might scare her from his lips.

A surge of adrenaline washed over the girl, leaving her feeling lightheaded and giddy. Her pulse pounded in her temples. Her mouth tasted of strawberry and so did his, strawberry with a deeper, richer note of smooth chocolate. The combination was positively divine, a heady cocktail of flavors and sensations, every one of which was new.

His mouth moved and she inhaled, a shiver snaking down her spine. Layla wanted to kiss him back, of course, wanted to take his breath away. The girl wanted a lot of things, but she didn't know how to deliver on any of them. She was looking to him for guidance, her innate shyness warring with an eagerness to learn.

The kiss ended up being broken, the metal shuffle of his chair scratching at the air as he pulled it back under himself when he sat down. There was a smile, though. It was the smallest show that her kiss had been a 'good' one. It had either been because they were in public or because she had been so still that he had broken it. There was even the smallest chance that he wasn't wanting to push her too quickly for too much.

But that smile, though. Jeremy was smiling like she'd given him something he'd always wanted. A little boy, excited, enthralled by a gift. It was such he case that one of his knees bounced up and down in that giddy, energetic way. He stabbed at his ice cream with the spoon, "I'd like to walk you home." As if there had been a question that he might not. The spoonful of strawberry taken into his mouth.

The kiss ended sooner than she'd expected it to, and there was a moment when Layla suspected she'd been disappointing. Her dark eyes fluttered open—she hadn't really even realized that she'd closed them — and her smile was a self conscious one. She cast her gaze down at her half eaten ice cream, what was left of it was basically strawberry soup at this point.

But then she noticed the jittering of his knee, and as her eyes traveled up again, Layla found that elated smile on his face, the bright light in his eyes, and a blush stole across her finely chiseled features, stretching her own smile into a wider, happier thing not unlike his as it went.

Layla nodded, that fool's grin still planted firmly in the corners of her mouth. "I would like that, thank you."

"It's late," he looked down at her bowl and stood up, his already caught in his hand. He was offering to toss her's out at the same time as his if she was done. He was pretty sure that she was but he wasn't going to take it from her until she nodded. There was a momentary bit of his upper lip, thoughtfully, before the corners of his lips turned upward again, "I could walk you now if you're ready."

He wasn't wanting to sound eager or disinterested. He was interested and he was, honestly, eager. It had been a tenuous moment where they kiss, one he wanted to flay open and enjoy longer in a place where people wouldn't clear their throat or tell them to get a room. He could still taste the strawberry-only of her mouth.

It had gotten late, and the both of them likely had work to do the following day whether their respective shops were open or not - such was the life of the artist. Layla nodded, gesturing the bowl with one hand to indicate that yes, she was done, and he could take it. The ice cream had been very good, but it was much sweeter than she was accustomed to, and very cold.

And probably she was a little distracted, what with the way her lips still tingled, the way she could still feel the phantom brush of his mouth against hers.

Layla pushed back from the table, her hands smoothing down the many layers of her skirt as she rose, as though to brush non-existence wrinkles or dirt from the fabric. Stepping away from the table, the girl gave him a little smile. "...Now is fine. I am ready."

The paper bowls made a swishing sound when he tossed them into the nearby bin. His hands pushed down the side of his jeans to get rid of the sticky feeling at the tips of his fingers. Her smile was met by one of his own, still touched by the moment they had shared seconds ago. Stepping beside her his left hand opened palm up to her, "I don't know if it's common where you are from to hold hands when you walk but I'd like to."

When he first came to Rhy'Din hand holding was relatively new to him. For a culture that was as affectionate and open as it was, hand holding wasn't so much of a thing for them. There were hugs and embraces and hands were gripped but not so much while walking or doing another activity. It was something he had learned about and had come to decide that he liked. Holding hands felt like a way o be closer, to make up for the distance established by limited communication. Layla was easy to be around, though. She broadcasted how she felt and he wasn't left having to pursue her with questions about it over and over. Her blush said quite a bit.

Holding hands was not at all common in her culture, but Layla had seen it done many times since she'd been in Rhydin, and she'd already admitted to liking the feel of his hands when he touched her. Besides, she reasoned, they'd already kissed, surely holding his hand couldn't be more thrilling or potentially scandalous than that' (If only she knew). The artist nodded, lifting her right hand to lay it lightly on top of his.

When she simply placed her hand on his he smiled, twisting a little to work his fingers between her's and then closed their palms together. Joined hands were allowed to hang between them as they walked towards her shop, "I never asked you why you came to Rhy'Din." Though mention of her strict background painted the sort of picture that made him feel that he had an idea. If things were that strict, that difficult to get around with arranged marriages and the like, she must have gotten the idea at some point to separate herself from that.

The pace towards her shop was leisurely, but they hadn't started off more than a few blocks away from it. It was practically in their line of sight at the next corner they took.

It took a little bit of maneuvering; even after their fingers were laced and palms flush, as soon as those joined digits were slack between them it became clear that their wrists were crossed the wrong way for the height differential. Layla's smile was equal parts sheepish and amused as she pulled her fingers free, moved her wrist behind his and then twined those talented digits into their likes once more.

The walk wasn't far, and the question had an answer he could easily guess for himself. Layla lifted her free arm up over and then behind her head, catching the curtain of glossy black silk tresses at the right shoulder and drawing it carefully across her neck and over the left shoulder, where it spilled over her chest.

"My family is very traditional, and very large. It was decided who I was to marry when I was four years old." The girl shook her head. "He's....not unkind, but his family is also large and very traditional. I would not have been allowed to work, or continue my art. It....I am not saying it would have been a terrible life — I am not one of the many tragedies you hear about here — but..."

Her shoulders lifted in a little shrug. "It would have been very boring. I heard some merchants in the local bazaar talking about their new trade arrangements with a strange and curious place where all things were possible, and I...." and here, her little smile, for the first time ever, showed hints of mischief, of quick witted cunning and guile. "I spent several months making friends with the daughter of one of them, and convinced them to let me come with them on their next shopping trip. When I got here, I....may or may not have disappeared in a particularly chaotic crowd."

"When you were four" Is there a lot that can be known about you when you are four?" Jeremy was obviously lost on the criteria for arranging the marriage of a four year-old child. If it was based on the wealth of their parents that was a possibility. Perhaps certain people could only marry other certain people and the other family was one that her parents preferred. Apparently traditional meant no work, no art.

"You mean that there are people out there, worried about you? Your parents and friends could think something terrible has happened to you." When he said it there was a heavy concern in his face, the sort of distress that told her he sympathized with the stress and worry other people could have been feeling.

"Do your parents think that they have lost their child?" It seemed likely that if he'd known her home phone number he would have called them that instant or give her a sad look until she did.

Layla shook her head quickly, stricken by his reaction. "No, no! My mother knew my plans. She understood, and I think maybe even wanted to come with me." The girl paused, her expression wistful. "Now I can't go home even if I wanted to, which....is good, I suppose, because I didn't want to."

Jeremy was right, of course. When you are promised to someone at four years old, it has nothing to do with your sparkling personality. Thankfully it also wasn't about anything especially unsavory — her fiance was only about nine at the time himself. No, this was all about old families and power plays and political maneuvering. Layla wanted none of it, and there were enough other daughters and sons willing to play the game that they didn't need her.

"Because of your father?" He had come from a patriarchal society as well, so that was something which could be understood, though it was women who held the family name. That was simply because the birth of a child was more certain than the paternity so a bloodline could be followed more earnestly that way. Owens was, then, his mother's last name.

"I was worried that you were being looked for. I don't know what I would do if my sister just disappeared one day." There was a mild lift and fall of his shoulders. His body rolled to a stop, looking at the face of her store that had grown more and more familiar in evening lighting. It'd come to them sooner than he liked and was an undeniable thing that he now saw.

"Yes but no one else I ever knew did," there was a small shrug of his shoulders. It was something he was embarrassed to admit to because here it seemed so ordinary and at home it had been akin to mental illness. How was that possible" Jeremy felt sane, acted sane. No one had ever said his behavior was 'alarming' at any point. He could maintain a job and....well, maybe he didn't maintain a relationship so well. He jammed his hands into the front pockets of his hoodie again and smiled at her, "I came here to see if there was a reason or if something was wrong with me. Originally, I thought I'd just go back but I dunno. I don't think I can do coffee like my dad did."

His hands in his pockets, Layla lifted her hand away, her fingers smoothing down those jet black waves instead. She turned away, busying herself with pouring the coffee once it was finished. She was making Turkish coffee, a sweet, syrupy version of the caffeinated drink that was rich in flavor.

The artist poured one cup, having guessed that Jeremy didn't actually want any when he asked for water instead. That settled, she was out of things to do to keep herself turned away, and Jeremy still hadn't sat back down yet, so Layla wondered if perhaps he was leaving. "Well, I am glad you came here. I don't think there's anything wrong with you, but I am also very aware of what it's like to feel so....different." She gave a meek smile, then. "Do you still dream here?"

"I do. It's about the same so location doesn't seem to matter." Jeremy paused and then looked from her to the door, his hands burrowing even deeper into his jacket pockets, "Sorry, it's just....I'm not really sure what I should be doing. I told you about why some people get invited in and I keep feeling a little out of place." That they were talking like friends and not that clothes were disappearing. She had invited him in for conversation as it if was three in the afternoon instead of being closer to three am. He hadn't wanted it to nag at his thoughts, but it did.

She took a step back, taking a lean against the counter. The hour hadn't really occurred to her, and his apology had her wondering about the time. She glanced sidelong at a small analog clock sitting on top of the microwave and winced. "I'm sorry for disturbing you, Jeremy. I didn't realize how late it had become. You can ...." A wry smile. "You poor thing. You probably wanted to leave ages ago. Here, I can walk you out..."

"I didn't want to leave." He stepped up to her when she made the glance at the time on the microwave. His head was cocked to the side, a brush of his shaggy dark hair coming down to his brow, "But I was thinking that maybe I should. I keep reading into the situation a little bit different and..." he shifted his weight left, then right again before answering, "I'm having to keep reminding myself of how and why I'm here. You get used to things, you know, even if they aren't wrong or right but just are."

Confusion marred dark features. She didn't have a lot of experience reading the moods of men, and maybe that was part of it. He seemed restless, anxious to leave despite having declared otherwise. Layla's head tilted to the side, looking up at him helplessly. "I don't....I'm sorry Jeremy but I don't understand." Dismayed, the girl shook her head, her shoulders lifting in a shrug. She turned away from him again, taking up her small coffee cup and sipping from its rim. It gave her something to do, calmed her nerves.

Layla really didn't get it, either. She replayed the evening in her mind, trying to figure out what it was that had put him in this state of mind. He'd seemed eager to leave the ice cream shop with her, but reluctant to arrive at the shop. He'd wanted to come in despite warning her what other people sometimes meant when they said that, but suddenly he was restless and pulling away. But then she offered to walk him out, to let him leave, and he said he didn't want to.

None of it made any sense.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to...do...now..."

"You could kiss me or just wish me goodnight. I don't know which one I'm supposed to do right now, to be honest," his smile cracked for her just then, admitting the weakness of indecision in the light of everything else which was happening. Jeremy honestly didn't know how to approach her and that was showing. He didn't know if he should kiss her or back off, if she wanted him there in a friendly or romantic way. He wanted to tell her that the last time he was invited over so late that it wasn't with the intention that he would leave so early.

He kept in mind that she was different, though. It confused him as much as it gave him a feeling of exhilaration. At the very least, her actions were genuine.

Kiss me or just wish me goodnight. Layla's heart was loud in her chest, beating hummingbird-fast against the cage of her ribs. She wondered, briefly, if she had the courage to initiate a kiss like that, if she could be that bold. It was an intimidating, daunting thought, but only a short while ago he'd talked about not wanting to have to be the one who made things clear every time.

Taking a deep breath, Layla set the coffee cup aside. Being here was all about not being at home, right' Escaping the life that had been planned out for her almost from the moment of her birth' Pursuing her own dreams, doing what she wanted to do' Well, no time like the present to make that happen.

She took one step towards him, and then a second. The girl was nervous but determined as she reached for him again, her hands soft and warm on his shoulders just to either side of his neck.

His hands drew to rest just at the outside of her waist. It was a featherlight touch followed by a small, encouraging squeeze. Whether she had meant to or not, it coerced him into leaning down into her, lips pausing just before connecting with her. One day he'd have less hesitation when it came to her. He remember the cool strawberry of her mouth and wondered, now, what she might be like without that influence. What the kiss would be like when there was only her and him in it and not the outside influences of all those other things.

Still, he wasn't planning on the kiss meaning more than what it was, but that didn't mean he wasn't enjoying it. It felt like unwrapping something so new that all he could do was be careful with it.

Drawing the pad of her thumb lightly over the line of his shoulder, Layla's gaze was centered there for a time. She'd studied that particular line so many times since she'd met the blacksmith, but this was the first time she'd actually felt it with her hands. A dim smile touched her lips as she traced it, memorized it.

His hands gave her waist a gentle squeeze and there was something so reassuring about that, something so comfortable and at the same time thrilling. At length she lifted her gaze to his face, her mouth lining up with his as she tilted her head back subtly. In that frozen position, a heart beat apart and no further, Layla hesitated only a second or two more before gently pressing her mouth to his.

There were long pauses with her and at times he wondered if there was regret or the want to pull away lingering there. All he could do, really, was try not to press her too much when she kissed him like that. He had almost withdraw as the moment drew long and then, at the last moment, her mouth moved against his. He lessened in gentle apprehension and started to draw his tongue along the perimeter of her lips to coax her mouth to open. Something about the moment seemed forbidden, as if her overbearing father and brother could have walked down and 'caught' them at any moment.

His right foot moved to the inside of her's, the blade nestling in the bare arch of her foot as their lips connected.

It wasn't lack of desire that gave her pause, just the opposite, in fact. It was courage building, gathering the strength and resolve to override her training and pursue what she wanted. And right now what she wanted was to kiss Jeremy.

Mouths met and her hands slid around the back of his neck as if by instinct, weight lifting off the heel of her left foot onto its ball as the knee rotated out, to rest lightly along the outside of his leg. Her lips parted at his coaxing.

The girl was Turkish coffee and something of cinnamon and honey. The gentle scent of rosewater and jasmine in her hair and along her throat. She was desert heat with a lurking promise of summer floods, all quiet hum and secret glimpses of rarely checked potential energy.

One of his hands strayed from her side to take ahold of her backside, encourage her body to rock and curl further into his thn she was already. Sooner or later he would have to get past the apprehension her inexperience gave him. It affected things, like that current moment where his grip suddenly lost spine and went back up to her waist. His lips broke from her's to whisper a, "Sorry, I was just..." but no further explanation followed. What he was doing wasn't exactly a mystery.

"Do you still want to do dinner this weekend?" Had he asked for too much, taken what she offered him too far" He kissed her again, but briefly, hoping that it reminded her of what it was like being connected with him. He's still lingering strawberry and chocolate over the taste and smell that was just him.

Layla moved where she was lead, her pulse skyrocketing as his hand slid over her, pressing her closer. Her arms slid that much more completely around his neck, drawing her body flush against his, and just as suddenly as the shift had happened it was backing off again, melting into apologies.

She shook her head, though not because of the question of dinner. She didn't think he had anything to apologize for. "Don't be sorry," she whispered back, and it came out more of a plea than she'd anticipated. "I do want to make you dinner, still." He kissed her again and she kissed him back, growing more confident in the gesture.

"I should probably get going," it was said like something he needed to do, not that he wanted to do it. That staying would have perils of its own he wasn't ready to....deal with. Not yet. Not like this. His arms closed around her, coiled around her lower back as he looked at her, "It's getting a little late for you to keep entertaining me, I think. Not without me staying over and...." there was a small shrug of his shoulders. He would have liked to have promised her that he'd be a gentleman, but Jeremy didn't think so. Not with her dark eyes looking up at him with that kinda want which they carried.

"I will have everything ready for you and....I'll be counting the hours until you're over." Another kiss, but this time to the warm spread of her cheek. It was like being a kid again when he did it, gazing at her intently with a slow, gentle smile appearing. "We could call and text a bit until then...?"

Her nod was a reluctant one, as though conceding his point though not exactly happy about it. He was right to withdraw, though; what she thought she wanted and what she was actually probably ready for were likely not evenly aligned. "Alright," said Layla slowly, holding him close for several seconds more before she withdrew.

A little smile melted and spread more thickly over her finely carved features. Her gaze momentarily downcast as the smile grew, she nodded again. His cheek kiss was warm, and her fingers gently brushed his cheek, the edge of his jaw, down the side of his neck. "Alright. I would like that."

"You'll have to show me the way out," he pointed upward, to the shop overhead and the exit door he knew of, "I don't think I can navigate it in the dark without you and if I break something I'm not sure that I could forgive myself." His smile cracked a bit further then, wetting his lips and then tilting his head to the side to see if a more easy smile would break across her lips for him. Jeremy stepped backward towards the steps, but was clearly waiting for her to lead the way upward and through the dark.

That smile he was looking for blossomed on her face, completely unconscious and unbidden. She had dimples when the smile was genuine enough; they didn't show up all the time but they were on display now. Taking a settling breath, the girl loops shiny black waves behind one ear pierced in gold, and she followed him to the steps, slipping her feet back into her sandals. Gathering folds of her skirt in a double handful to keep herself from stepping on it, Layla began to climb.

Back through the work room into the dark showroom, and her hand reached for his to guide him through the dark.

At the top of the stairs she took the lead. Through the work room where their hands grasped one another's. It was a clear walk through and perhaps it was all about having one more moment where their fingers laced together to the front door of her shop. Once there, he gave her arm a jerk that was strong enough to turn her body back towards his.

It apparently wasn't too dark for him to find her mouth in the moonlight that shone through the windows of her shop. His lips caught her's and held them there, his body side stepping until his back was against the door of her shop. There was the smallest, gentlest moan in his throat, the only indicator of an impatient want for more. Of a regret for having to step out of the door like he was having to just then.

Pulled around and then into him, Layla giggled softly in the dark, and it sounded much louder in the echoing silence of the closed store. Their mouths met again and she was more ready for it this time, her lips parting easily as they kissed. His moan caused a curious reaction, a tightening in her belly that was unexpected but surprisingly pleasant.

He leaned back against the door and she followed him, seemingly unwilling to break away from him. Perhaps that want was more than one sided. When the kiss ended at last, Layla rested her forehead against his shoulder a moment, just savoring his presence. Eventually she stepped back, looking up at him with a faint smile. "...It's not....so many hours until Saturday, is it?"

"No, it isn't. I promise." His left hand cradling her face, partly, as she leaned it into his shoulder. There was a groan from him, his head bowing to press a series of kissed at the gentle curve of her neck that was offered up. Between kisses he added, "I will count," another kiss, "the hours." Jeremy smiled at her and then broke away awkwardly. Why was it awkward" He was unzipping his dark red hoodie, which meant a shuffling of hands and a forward lean. The hoodie came to rest upon her shoulders, leaving him in an blue-grey t-shirt with some company logo printed over his chest.

"That way you won't forget about me until then." He smiled, though, knowing it was far from the truth. Knowing he had come up with an excuse to impart his jacket to her, "Just bring it back to me on Saturday, okay?"

Those kisses brought a shiver up the back of her neck, pushing her closer to him. The words felt like a promise, and she responded wordlessly, spilling kisses of her own onto the ridge at his collar. All those lines that had transfixed her so, now under her fingers, under her lips.

She didn't understand why he was removing his jacket until she found it draped around her like a cape, filled with the warmth of his body and the subtle scent of him. Layla smiled, then, fitting her arms through the sleeves, and then she nodded. "I'll take very good care of it until then."

"I'll see you Saturday. Promise." His body bent down just enough to kiss her again. Left and splayed behind him to catch and shove the door behind him. Finally their lips broke and he broke away from her, stepping out the door but still looking over his shoulder at her with a smile. She was adorable in the hoodie that was oversized, wrapping her up and holding her in a dark, subtle red that complimented her skin tone.

His lips pressed in a line and then he walked onward, to what would be the outskirts of the marketplace and towards his bachelor apartment. There was cleaning and some haphazard decorating to be done.