#found trust

That was the first thing you always noticed when you entered Aventurine’s office — not the grandeur, not the marble desk, not even the roulette wheel embedded in the carpet — but the quiet decadence that clung to the air like a confession.

He sat behind his desk now, one leg crossed over the other, a peacock feather swaying gently from his earring as he examined a glowing data slate. The glint of his magenta-cyan eyes caught the neon reflection from the skyline beyond the window. He looked composed, as always — amused, untouchable, dangerous.

You knew better.

“Another meeting with the board,” you said, stepping closer, voice even. “Want me to clear the hallway first?”

Aventurine hummed lowly. “Always so dutiful. I can’t decide if I should feel honored or insulted.”

You didn’t respond to the tease — you never did. It was a game between you two. He threw his words like dice, and you refused to play along unless you had to.

“I’ll take ‘honored,’” you said simply, scanning the corners of the room. No hidden devices, no unwanted visitors. Good.

Aventurine set the slate aside and leaned back in his chair. “You know, you make it difficult for me to indulge in paranoia. You’re far too efficient. Even the rats know better than to come near me when you’re around.”

You allowed yourself a faint smile. “That’s the idea.”

He grinned — the kind of grin that could buy loyalty or start a war, depending on who it was aimed at. “And what if one of those rats offered you a fortune? A promotion, perhaps? A chance to run your own security detail without having to babysit a degenerate gambler?”

“Then I’d break their arm,” you replied without missing a beat, “and escort them out myself.”

Aventurine chuckled, a low, musical sound. “Ah, devotion. You’re either the most loyal man I’ve ever met, or the most foolish.”

“Maybe both.”

For a moment, silence settled between you — not awkward, but weighty. You could see the faint tension behind his smirk, the subtle stiffness in his fingers as he toyed with his ring. You knew the signs. He was uneasy, though he’d never admit it.

You took a slow breath, stepping closer until you were standing beside his desk. “You’ve been on edge since the last deal with Penacony’s financiers. You haven’t slept properly in days.”

He tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Have you been keeping watch while I dream, too? You’ll make me blush.”

“You pay me to keep you alive,” you said, tone soft but firm. “And that includes making sure you don’t destroy yourself in the process.”

Aventurine’s smile faltered — just slightly. “Destroy myself, hmm? I wouldn’t call it that. I prefer ‘taking calculated risks.’ It sounds much more poetic.”

You rested your hand on the edge of his desk. “Calculated risks are fine. But what you’re doing isn’t gambling anymore — it’s… punishment.”

His eyes flicked to you sharply. For a heartbeat, the mask cracked.

There it was — that wounded glint buried deep behind the self-assured smirk.

“Punishment,” he repeated quietly, leaning back, gaze distant. “Now that’s a word I haven’t heard since Sigonia.”

You didn’t flinch. You’d heard him mention the desert world only once before, in passing, during a night when he’d had too much to drink and the city lights had made him nostalgic.

“I know what you’re doing,” you said gently. “You keep throwing yourself into danger because it feels like the only way to make up for what you survived.”

He laughed — not out of humor, but defense. “And here I thought you were just a man of muscle and loyalty. Didn’t realize I’d hired a psychologist.”

“I’m not analyzing you,” you said. “I’m reminding you that you’re human.”

That stopped him.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The hum of the city outside filled the silence, distant and indifferent.

Finally, Aventurine stood, his movements slow and deliberate. He approached until he was standing just a foot away from you, tilting his head slightly to meet your gaze.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he murmured. “Makes a man think you actually care.”

“I do,” you said simply. “You’re not just my employer, Aventurine. You’re…” You hesitated, words catching in your throat. “…someone I’d risk everything for.”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly. You saw the emotion flicker across his face before he buried it again beneath that perfect, charming smile.

“You really are terrible at the whole ‘professional boundaries’ thing,” he teased, voice quieter now. “If you keep this up, people will think you’ve fallen for me.”

You met his eyes evenly. “Let them think what they want. My job is to protect you. That includes your reputation — and your heart, if I have to.”

He blinked, and for a fleeting second, his façade crumbled. His smile softened, no longer a mask but a fragile, genuine curve of lips that looked too human for someone so accustomed to pretending.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re making me believe in sincerity again. That’s dangerous.”

You exhaled through your nose, the ghost of a grin tugging at your mouth. “Then I guess we’re both gamblers.”

He chuckled quietly and turned away, walking toward the panoramic window. The city below glittered like scattered coins, and his reflection shimmered faintly in the glass — a man gilded in light but trapped by shadows.

“You ever wonder,” he said softly, “why I keep you around? It’s not just your skill or loyalty. I could buy both from a thousand mercenaries.”

You crossed your arms. “Then why?”

Aventurine’s reflection smiled at you — but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “Because you don’t flinch. Everyone else looks at me and sees a liar, a manipulator, a man who’ll sell his soul for a winning hand. But you… you look at me and see someone worth protecting.”

“I see someone worth saving,” you corrected.

That made him turn. The light from the window painted his features in gold, highlighting the faint exhaustion beneath his eyes. “And you think you can save me?”

“I think you’ve already saved yourself,” you said quietly. “You just don’t realize it yet.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you was charged — not with the usual tension of power and duty, but something more fragile. Something that felt dangerously close to longing.

Then the silence broke with the sharp buzz of his communicator. Aventurine sighed, pulling it from his pocket.

“Duty calls,” he murmured. “A shame. We were having such a heartfelt moment.”

You smirked faintly. “Try not to make any suicidal bets before dinner.”

“No promises.”

He brushed past you, but as he did, his hand brushed your arm — a fleeting touch, almost casual, but deliberate. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air after he passed.

You followed him out of the office, shadowing his every step as always. His stride was confident, his coat sweeping behind him like a cloak of luck and arrogance. But you noticed — as you always did — the way his left hand stayed hidden behind his back, a subconscious gesture born of old fear.

You didn’t mention it. Instead, you stayed close, ready to intercept whatever threat dared to draw near.

That night, when the meeting was over and Aventurine finally allowed himself a rare moment of rest, you found him standing on the balcony of his suite. The city lights glimmered below, reflected in the rose tint of his glasses.

He didn’t turn when you approached, though he spoke as if he knew you’d come. “You ever get tired of guarding a man who keeps courting death?”

“No,” you said. “Because every time you take a risk, I’ll be there to make sure you live to place another bet.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Always so confident.”

“Always.”

When he turned to face you, the wind ruffled his hair, and for once, he wasn’t smiling. His expression was open — raw, even. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” you admitted. “But you’re worth the effort.”

He looked at you for a long time, searching for deceit and finding none. Then, with a soft exhale, Aventurine reached up and removed his glasses, setting them aside on the railing.

Without their tint, his eyes were startling — vibrant, haunted, alive. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t.”

A faint, bittersweet smile curved his lips. “Then perhaps… for tonight, I’ll believe it too.”

He leaned back against the railing, gaze turned upward to the stars. You stood beside him, close enough that your shoulders brushed, neither of you saying anything more.

The silence stretched — comfortable, unspoken. And for the first time in a long while, Aventurine didn’t hide his left hand. It rested openly at his side, the faint mark of the past visible in the moonlight.

You didn’t reach for it. You didn’t need to. Just being there was enough.

And maybe — just maybe — that was the first gamble Aventurine didn’t regret taking.