Molded in her Image

Abigail sat still, barely breathing, watching the way Violet’s fingers moved—how they pinched, smoothed, and carved the damp clay with practiced precision. Her wife’s hands were beautiful, slender, and sure, coated in a fine layer of dust that had settled into the grooves of her skin, softening the glow of the late afternoon light that streamed through the studio windows. The golden haze caught on every delicate motion, turning Violet’s fingertips into something almost ethereal, like an artist born of the sun and earth. Abigail had always loved Vi’s hands, the way they moved with such certainty, as if they were meant to shape the world itself, to take something raw and formless and breathe life into it with just a touch.

Violet's brow furrowed slightly, the tip of her tongue resting at the corner of her mouth as she worked, her breath steady and even. The silence between them was not empty. It thrummed with the quiet hum of connection, punctuated only by the occasional soft squelch of clay being molded and the faint creak of the stool beneath Violet as she shifted. Abigail could hear the rhythmic tap of Vi’s nails against the wooden sculpting tools, a beat that seemed to echo her heartbeat, slow and steady, grounding her in the moment.

She traced the curve of Violet’s face with her gaze, noting the way stray wisps of dark hair had slipped free from her bun to frame her tanned cheekbones, glistening faintly with sweat. There was something so achingly tender about the concentration written into every line of her expression, the fierce devotion that lived in the smallest of gestures. Abigail knew that quiet, focused intensity well. It was the same look that had made her fall in love in the first place. The way Violet gazed at her, hazel eyes soft and adoring like she was something worth understanding, worth memorizing. Every glance was a discovery, and every smile was a treasure unearthed. It was a kind of love that existed in the act of seeing, of truly seeing, and Abigail had been helpless against it from the very beginning.

Her gaze drifted back to Violet’s hands, transfixed by the movements that seemed to exist in their own language: a soft press to create a curve, a delicate scrape to form the shadow beneath. The pads of her fingers coaxed details from the clay, guiding it with patience and care that made Abigail’s chest tighten. She wanted to reach out, to take those hands in hers, to kiss the specks of clay from her knuckles, but she stayed still, unwilling to break the spell.

Outside, the world continued as usual—cars passing, leaves rustling in the breeze, and the occasional bird chirping—but inside this small, sun-drenched studio, time had folded in on itself, leaving only the two of them suspended in this shared, sacred moment. Abigail closed her eyes for a brief second, letting the warmth of Violet’s presence wash over her like the sun’s gentle kiss against her exposed skin, a comfort as familiar as it was profound.

And yet, no matter how many times she had watched Violet work, it always felt like the first time. That same fluttering awe, that same dizzying affection. As if love, in its purest form, could be sculpted not just from clay but from the spaces between glances, from the quiet breaths shared in golden light, from the tenderness of hands that knew how to both create and hold.

The clay took shape beneath Violet’s fingers, but Abigail still didn’t know what she was sculpting. She didn’t ask. She only sat, enraptured, watching the movement of those hands as they pressed and molded, tracing unseen patterns only Violet understood.

“You seem busy,” Violet murmured after a while, a teasing lilt in her deep voice. She didn’t look up from her work, but Abigail could hear the smirk forming. “Too busy staring at my hands to even ask what I’m making.”

Heat bloomed in Abigail’s cheeks. She opened her mouth to deny it, to insist she was simply curious about the sculpture itself, but the words never came. Because it was true. She was staring. She had been for as long as she could remember. Instead of answering, she let out a soft huff and looked away. Violet chuckled, and after a few more careful movements, she finally leaned back, wiping her hands on her apron before turning the sculpture toward Abigail.

It was her face.

Perfectly imperfect—the soft curves of her cheekbones captured with astonishing tenderness, the gentle slope of her nose rendered with such delicate care it seemed almost fragile. The slightly uneven way her lips curved when she smiled was there, subtle and familiar, as if the clay itself remembered her laughter. Violet had even sculpted the faint indentation along Abigail’s right eyebrow, a tiny detail most people overlooked. The eyelids, half-lowered in a serene expression, held the same quiet thoughtfulness Abigail saw in the mirror on reflective mornings. 

There was texture in the clay, the faint tool marks and fingerprints left purposefully, giving life to what could have been static. It wasn’t just a face. It was her essence. Her hesitations, her warmth, her joy, and her quiet strength, were all preserved in the cool surface of the sculpture. Every detail was there, captured with a precision that made Abigail’s breath hitch, her eyes stinging with an emotion she couldn’t name. Love. Reverence. Astonishment. It was all there. 

Shaped, molded, and born from the hands she adored.

Violet’s voice was softer now, almost shy. “I guess I can’t tease you for staring when I’ve been doing the same thing this whole time.” She traced a clay replica of Abigail’s cheek with a gentle fingertip. “I love you, Abby. Always have.”

Abigail’s heart stuttered. She bit her lip, fighting the grin that wanted to spill over. She had spent so much time watching Violet’s hands, mesmerized by their skill and care. But now she saw them for what they truly were.