Jayden Cook

The sun is absolutely showing off today, pouring a warm, honeyed gold over the streets and casting long, lazy shadows through the glass panes of Jayden’s renovated greenhouse studio. He hums a mindless, upbeat tune as he hops out of his truck, the bell above the local art store still practically ringing in his ears. It’s a good day. A really good day. His truck bed is empty of the usual grueling, heavy clay deliveries, carrying only a single, lightweight brown paper bag filled with a few specialty glazes and a fresh set of fine tip brushes he’d been dying to try out. Slipping his keys into his pocket, he fishes out his phone with his free hand, his thumb quickly flying across the screen to send off a text to his absolute favourite person.

Jayden: sun is out, glaze has arrived, and i managed not to trip over the curb today. a literal miracle. you coming over later? i’ll make that iced coffee you like.

Locking the screen with a satisfied grin, he pushes his back against the heavy wooden door of his attached flat, stepping into the cool, familiar air of his home. He doesn't even bother dropping his keys on the counter, eager to get into the studio before the afternoon light shifts. He breezes through the kitchen, pushes open the double doors that lead into the sunlit, dusty sanctuary of the greenhouse, and takes a deep breath of the earthy, comforting scent of damp stoneware and dried oil paints.

He takes two steps inside, his boots crunching lightly on the stray bits of dried clay on the floor. He's just about to toss the bag of supplies onto his workbench when his eyes land on the center of the room. Jayden freezes. The paper bag slips right through his fingers, the small bottles of glaze clinking softly as the bag hits the floor. His brain completely short circuits, his playful energy instantly evaporating into a stunned, wide eyed silence. He just stares, his chest rising and falling as his mind scrambles to process the sight in front of him. "What in the actual..." he utters, his voice a breathless, shocked whisper that cuts through the quiet hum of the studio.