#hsr ff

Aventurine, on principle, often did things on impulse.

This was not a character flaw, in his opinion. It was a strategy, just pattern recognition moving faster than conscious thought, the hand that reaches for a card before the mind has finished counting. He had built a career on it. He had, at various points, also aquired several other things on it: an ultra rare watch, one of only two in the entire universe, commissioned just because. A penthouse in a city he visited twice a year, when he remembered. A starskiff he had purchased during a negotiation because the seller mentioned offhand that it was for sale and Aventurine had thought why not and signed before the ink on the actual contract was dry. It lived in a dock somewhere. He had been on it once.

He was aware of the pattern. He found it, on balance, more amusing than not.

But the most notable, and the most impulsive, decision he had ever made happened to be the addition of the three catcakes into his daily life.

The three catcakes which, as it turned out, happened to have opinions. And very strong ones, at that.

And Aventurine had funded their opinions, shamelessly. He had sourced their imported silk beds, their hand-carved puzzle feeders, their toys with the little bells that rattled when batted across marble floors at three in the morning. He had done all of this willingly, even cheerfully, and had considered it a reasonable investment in domestic harmony.

What he had not accounted for, despite his innate sense for business, was that the return on that investment would go entirely sideways.

Because the catcakes would, quite decisively, forget all about Aventurine the moment she entered the equation.

They could spend an entire afternoon draped across furniture like decorative afterthought— soft, idle things, barely stirring as he worked in his study, the quiet broken only by the occasional shift of fabric or the faintest puff of a sleepy sigh.

And then...

The soft, precise click of the latch easing open, followed by the familiar cadence of her steps.

Two seconds.

That was all it took.

From the hallway came the sudden chaos of movement: light thuds, the frantic patter of paws, and then the unmistakable jingle of bells as the toy mouse was unceremoniously knocked from its place on the entryway shelf in reckless enthusiasm.

Then a soft, delighted sound from her.

Aventurine waited.

He would not go check. He was a man of considerable dignity who was stronger than a few overexcited creatures who, moments ago, had shown no such urgency in his presence.

He lasted approximately forty-five seconds before leaning back far enough in his chair to see through the study doorway.

Exactly as expected.

All three of them had claimed her.

The largest had secured the prime position, draped comfortably across her shoulder as though it had always belonged there, tail flicking with smug contentment. The smallest had somehow, impossibly, embedded itself halfway into her bag before she’d even had the chance to set it down, peeking out as if it had discovered buried treasure. And the middle one— traitor of traitors— was weaving intricate figure-eights around her ankles with a devotion it had never once shown him.

Aventurine narrowed his eyes.

The traitors.

He had, on multiple occasions, attempted to elicit even a fraction of that enthusiasm, unsuccessfully.

She looked up and caught him staring.

“Hi,” she said, like she hadn’t just been ambushed by a small, disloyal army.

“They were sleeping,” he replied smoothly, tilting his head just slightly. “Thirty seconds ago, they were all asleep.”

"I can tell." She finally managed to unhook her bag from her shoulder, though not without resistance. The smallest catcake tumbled out, landed with an indignant little puff, and immediately began its ascent back toward her as though deeply offended by gravity itself. “Were they bothering you?”

“They were ignoring me,” he corrected, one brow lifting with quiet precision. “Unlike someone else, I suppose.”

They both knew there was no real accusation in it.

........................

The second incident, he had to admit, was personal.

Aventurine had a routine. After late calls— the ones that ran past midnight with Jade or Opal, who had no concept of time zones and even less concept of mercy— he'd come home and pour himself something worth drinking. He would sit, gazing at the city view, one arm draped along the backrest, glass balanced loosely in hand, not quite thinking, not quite not thinking either.

Some might have called it brooding.

He liked to think he was still above that, even in those moments.

It was, perhaps, the closest he ever came to acknowledging that some days demanded more of him than others.

The catcakes had somehow always known this.

The largest, especially, had a preternatural sense for it, and would appear within minutes, weight warm and substantial against his side, doing absolutely nothing useful, which was exactly the point. He had not told anyone this was something he actually looked forward to. It was an arrangement between himself and the catcakes, private and unspoken, and it had never needed to be anything else.

Then she fell asleep on the couch one night, waiting for him.

And, quite abruptly, everything changed.

He came home to find her curled on the couch, light still on, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other resting loosely at her side, breath slow and even in sleep. And all three catcakes had draped themselves across her with impressive efficiency.

The largest had claimed her chest, settled there, rising and falling faintly with each breath she took. The middle one had stretched itself comfortably along her legs, tail flicking once in vague satisfaction before going still again. And the smallest...

The smallest had wedged itself into the crook of her neck, tucked so close it bordered on possessive, with an intimacy that Aventurine, frankly, had earned more than it.

He stood in the entryway for a long moment, looking at the sight, debating whether to wake her (which he wasn't going to do) and whether there was any remaining couch space for him to settle onto (which there wasn't) and whether the armchair across the room counted as a dignified alternative (which it didn't).

Finally, after who knows how long, he grabbed the blanket from the couch, draped it over her and the entire catcake situation without disturbing anyone. He lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

Then he stepped back.

The armchair received him with all the dignity it could muster, which was to say, not enough, but sufficient for the circumstances. He settled into it regardless, and gazed at them, something in him thawing at the scene.

Then the middle catcake opened one eye at him from across the room. It regarded him from its position along her legs, unimpressed, entirely aware.

"Not a word," he said.

It sniffed indignantly, and closed its eyes again.

Peace, apparently, had been restored.

He remained there longer than he intended.

Long enough for the drink in his hand to sit untouched. Long enough for the silence to settle into something steady. Long enough for something inside of him to loosen.

After that, they never came to him when she was there.

Not once.

The arrangement, it seemed, had been renegotiated without his consent.

........................

The third incident he brought on himself which, naturally, he would never admit.

Because, after a period of careful observation, and a frankly insulting amount of empirical evidence, Aventurine had come to a conclusion: This was a matter of attention economy.

The catcakes’ behavior was not random. It was a skewed distribution of interest toward a newly introduced variable— her— whose novelty had yet to pass.

The solution, logically, was to increase his own engagement. More direct interaction, or quality time, if one insisted on phrasing it so inelegantly.

So he set aside an afternoon.

Cleared his schedule.

And, in what he considered a gesture of considerable magnitude, he sat on the floor of the living room, adjusted his sleeves once, then reached into a carefully selected bag and produced his chosen instrument:

A wand toy.

But not just any toy. The feathers were imported, ethically sourced, meticulously crafted and expensive. They caught the light when he lifted it, iridescent in a way that suggested quality. The small bells attached to it chimed softly with the slightest movement.

Aventurine gave it a precise flick of the wrist.

The largest catcake looked at it, almost in deliberation, then walked past him into the bedroom without looking back.

He shook the toy again, slightly harder this time.

The middle catcake approached, sniffed the feathers with a polite sort of curiosity, then after what could only be described as a token effort, bit them once and left.

The smallest catcake, at least, offered something resembling participation. It batted at the feathers once, twice, before losing interest in favor of the now-empty bag at his side.

Aventurine remained seated on the floor, wand toy in hand, surrounded by the unmistakable quiet of failure. He was still on the floor when she arrived twenty minutes later.

“…What are you doing?”

Aventurine lifted his gaze.

She was looking at him with something between surprise and poorly concealed amusement, eyes flicking from his position on the floor, to the wand toy still held loosely in his hand, to the smallest catcake asleep in the bag beside him.

The closest any of them had come to sustained engagement.

"I'm bonding," he said, smoothly.

"With the bag?"

“With it,” he corrected, indicating the smallest catcake with a subtle tilt of the wand. “It's in the bag. I’m near the bag. We’re in proximity.”

She pressed her lips together, visibly restraining something that was very clearly laughter, and crossed the room before lowering herself to the floor beside him, which immediately summoned all three catcakes from wherever they had dispersed to. It was a migration so swift and unanimous that it was almost insulting. The largest climbed directly into her lap. The middle pressed against her side. The smallest abandoned the bag entirely in favor of her ankle.

Aventurine watched this happen in real time with morbid fascination.

"I have had it for months," Aventurine said, pointing at the smallest catcake almost accusingly. "It hid from me for the first three weeks. But you just come in, and they're all over you."

She was visibly trying not to laugh, which required effort. "Maybe it has a type?"

"I have never been disrespected more in my entire life," he said, gravely. "I'm just furniture."

"You're not furniture," she said quickly, though the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her.

"I'm a very well-dressed surface they occasionally walk across on their way to you."

She finally laughed, and the sound of it made the largest catcake knead her knee in approval, which was, somehow, the final insult.

She took the wand toy from his hand gently, shook it once, and all three catcakes launched into motion at once, ricocheting off the couch and each other and both of them, filling the room with bell sounds and patter as they played with her.

It would be impressive, if it wasn't sad.

Aventurine did not move from where he sat, hands resting loosely against his knees now, gaze following the arc of motion, when a sudden weight landed in his lap.

He blinked.

The smallest catcake had, in the chaos, made a miscalculation and landed fully on Aventurine's lap and couldn't be bothered to relocate.

He didn't move. He was very still, in fact, in case it noticed. Even his breathing slowed, measured unconsciously to avoid disturbing the small, warm weight settled against him.

The catcake gave a faint, content huff and snuggled more into him.

After a moment, despite himself, he smiled.

........................

By now her presence had become something of a fixed feature of the relationship— her arrival in the evening, the instant affection of all three catcakes, her staying for dinner, and then, as it happened with increasing regularity, staying the night.

Aventurine had no complaints about this. He had, in fact, engineered it to some degree: the imported tea she liked, restocked last week; the second drawer in the bathroom, quietly cleared for her things. There were small adjustments throughout the apartment, subtle shifts that made space for her without ever announcing themselves as such.

He was not subtle about wanting her around, he simply preferred not to remark on it directly.

The catcakes, apparently, had no such preference for subtlety when she stayed over.

And the ensuing bed situation was, by far, the most egregious offense.

The first time, he allowed for coincidence.

He had come to bed late, later than her, which meant she was already warm and half-asleep when he settled beside her, and there was a specific quality to her like that that he found... the word distracting was not quite right. Compelling was closer.

She shifted when the mattress dipped, a quiet, instinctive movement, and turned toward him. Her hand found his sleeve first, before settling, fingers curling faintly against the fabric.

“…You’re late,” she murmured.

“Occupational hazard,” he replied softly.

His gaze lingered, drawn to her lips.

Her palm grazed his cheek lightly, then she rose a little, and he met her halfway, one hand lifting almost absently to steady against the mattress near her shoulder. The distance between them narrowed to something precarious, lips ghosting over each other, suspended just at the edge of more.

And then—

The largest catcake landed squarely on his chest.

Directly on his sternum, with full confidence. The force of it startled both of them apart instantly, whatever fragile moment had been forming snapping cleanly in two as the catcake adjusted its weight and settled more into him with absolute disregard for context.

It kneaded once, twice, found the position satisfactory, and began to purr at a volume he found inappropriate for the circumstances.

Aventurine lay very still, staring up at the ceiling as though it might offer some form of explanation.

"Move," he said.

The large catcake opened one eye. Then closed it.

She made a sound muffled into his shoulder that was unmistakably laughter. "It missed you."

It only purred louder.

"I missed it, too," he said, with considerable patience, "just not right now."

She laughed again, properly this time, which was the only thing that made the situation even slightly acceptable, and the largest catcake settled in for what appeared to be the long term, which meant the moment was gone, and Aventurine looked at the ceiling and conducted a brief internal audit of his life choices.

He couldn't prove it, but he knew it was on purpose.

........................

Next time, he was prepared to take action.

The action he had decided on was simply waiting them out. The catcakes slept deeply, they had routines. There was a window, he had observed, between approximately eleven and midnight, when all three were reliably unconscious and the apartment was quiet and the bed was just the two of them, which was all he had ever wanted from the bed, truly, in the grand scheme of things.

He had communicated none of this to her, of course, on the grounds that saying I have scheduled a window in the catcakes' sleep cycle out loud would require a level of self-reflection he wasn't prepared to perform.

He had simply suggested, at half past ten, that she should probably head to bed, citing a long day.

She had looked at him with the expression that meant she was aware something was happening and found it entertaining. "It's early," she said.

"It's been a long week."

"For you?"

"For both of us."

"Mmhm." But she had gone to bed, and the catcakes had been distributed across the apartment in the deep and motionless sleep of the innocent, and he had given it twenty minutes to be safe before settling beside her, and the room was quiet, and she was looking at him with something warm and hungry in the low light, and he had his hand at her waist and her fingers had found the collar of his shirt, and everything was going entirely according to plan —

A small, deliberate weight landed on the mattress.

Aventurine froze.

The smallest catcake, who had never once, in all the months he had her, been awake past eleven, climbed the length of the bed, walked directly across him, and wedged itself into the exact warm hollow he usually occupied, perfectly positioned to claim any proximity that might otherwise have been his.

He counted to five.

She bit her lip not to laugh.

"It's never awake at this hour," he said.

"Must've sensed the energy," she said, muffled slightly by catcake.

"What energy?"

"The energy," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

He moved the smallest catcake, firmly, to the foot of the bed. It returned immediately. He moved it again. It sat on his pillow and watched him with round, unblinking eyes that contained no comprehension of what it had interrupted and no remorse.

"I," he said, carefully, "am going to lose my mind."

She petted its head. "It just wants to be included."

"It's not invited."

"It doesn't know that."

He lay back. The smallest catcake took this as an opportunity. It walked onto his chest, turned a circle, and settled.

"This," he said, to the ceiling, "is a coordinated effort."

"They love you," she said.

"They are sabotaging me."

"Same thing, probably."

He looked at the smallest catcake. It purred, which proved nothing and which he was choosing not to find endearing. And then, as if summoned by some unspoken signal, the other catcakes choose exactly that moment to join the fray, as well.

The large one spread across his pillow as though asserting ownership, effectively pushing him further toward the edge of the bed. The middle one wedged itself neatly into the space between them, occupying far more territory than its size justified.

"I'm being evicted from my own bed," Aventurine said, with great clarity. "In my own home. By animals that I feed."

She laughed. "You have space."

"I have twelve inches of mattress and someone's tail in my face."

He glared at the catcake on his pillow, affectionately. It looked back at him with eyes that contained no guilt whatsoever, and made no effort to move from the pillow. He tried to move it, gently, which it tolerated with profound sufferance before immediately resettling back on the pillow.

He laid back next to it in outmost offense, and looked at the ceiling.

She shifted, sliding closer to him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her in his space, in his apartment, in the bed that was technically his even if everyone else was pretending otherwise.

"You're jealous," she said, into the dark, "of the catcakes."

"I'm establishing boundaries."

"You're jealous." He could hear the smile in her voice.

"I provide for them. I source their enrichment. I have read—" he paused for emphasis— "two separate guides on catcake development. And I'm still getting sabotaged."

"Mmhm."

"It's my apartment, and I'm simply noticing," he continued, voice gaining the faintest edge of whining, "that there is a glaring distribution problem occurring, and that as the primary investor in this household, I am not seeing adequate returns on—"

"Aventurine."

"—what is objectively a significant emotional—"

"Aventurine."

"What?"

The largest catcake was lifted, very carefully, off the pillow and moved to the foot of the bed, where it settled with mild outrage. Then she shifted again, closing the distance fully as she tucked herself against his side, which rearranged the whole layout of the bed and displaced the middle catcake and fixed, in a single movement, the distribution problem he had been circling for three paragraphs.

And just like that, the problem was solved.

Aventurine went quiet.

"There," she said. "Are you happy?"

He was, though he would not admit it.

The smallest catcake migrated up again, and settled on his other side, which he suspected was an accident on her part but was choosing to count anyway.

"I'm locking the bedroom door tomorrow," he said.

"You won't."

"I will. Watch me."

She tilted her head slightly, studying him in the dim light. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room settled.

"You know," she said, "they only come to me because you spoil them so much they've gotten picky."

He considered this. "That is most certainly not true."

"It is," she admitted. "And you know it."

He did. He didn't say so.

What he did do, was tuck his arm around her, pulling her closer and disturbing the largest catcake, which it registered as a personal grievance before resettling on top of his feet with tremendous passive aggression.

"Tomorrow," he said. "Door. Locked."

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"Sure."

He didn't lock the door the next day. But he did acquire, from a specialty importer, a fourth silk bed— smaller, placed strategically on the nightstand on his side— and said nothing about it to anyone, which he felt was a reasonable compromise between dignity and honesty.

The catcakes never used it.

He had put a warming pad in it. The catcakes had evaluated it with great seriousness for several days and then resumed sleeping in his spot without comment.

She saw it and said nothing.

You had spent most of your life glowing under the attention of others.

Not intentionally. It simply happened.

People noticed you everywhere you went, as though there was something naturally luminous about you that drew them closer before they could stop themselves.

Teachers adored you because you were polite and hardworking. Parents loved you because you were graceful and well-mannered. Students flocked to you because you always knew how to make people feel seen.

You remembered names. You remembered favorite snacks, birthdays, tiny details from passing conversations.

You laughed easily, listened sincerely, and carried yourself with a kind of effortless elegance that made people want to stand beside you just to bask in it for a moment longer.

By middle school, everyone already knew your name.

You were the girl classmates compared themselves to without meaning to. The girl teachers trusted immediately. The girl younger students stared at with wide-eyed admiration in the hallways.

It was suffocating sometimes.

Because the truth was—

You were never the kind of person who wanted to constantly be perceived. You liked the quiet.

You liked sitting by windows while rain tapped softly against the glass.

You liked libraries that smelled faintly of old paper.

You liked empty music rooms after class where nobody could ask anything of you.

You liked walking home alone with your thoughts drifting aimlessly between clouds and streetlights.

But loneliness and solitude were two very different things, and people never understood that. They assumed that because you smiled so easily, you always wanted company.

So there was always someone beside you.

At lunch tables. Between classes. Outside the school gates.

Your phone never stopped buzzing. Invitations piled endlessly on your desk. Group chats multiplied overnight.

People waved at you from every corner of the hallway like they personally knew you, even if you barely remembered speaking to them once.

You tried. You truly did.

You answered kindly. You stayed patient. You listened to everyone’s problems until your own exhaustion settled quietly into your bones like winter frost.

Because that was what people expected from you.

The star of the school. The perfect girl.

The one who always looked radiant no matter how draining the day became.

By the time high school began, the attention had evolved into something larger than you could control.

People talked about you before you even entered rooms.

Freshmen whispered when you walked past. Upperclassmen knew your schedule despite never speaking to you directly. Teachers held you to impossible standards because you had “so much potential.”

Rumors spread constantly—not malicious ones, most of the time, but endless stories built around your existence like you were less of a person and more of an idea everyone collectively created.

“She’s so pretty.” “She’s good at everything.”

“She’s probably dating someone already.” “She’s so nice.”

“I heard she stayed after school helping—”

“I heard she got the highest score again—”

“She’s literally perfect.”

Perfect.

You began to hate that word. It meant perfection left no room for exhaustion. No room for irritation. No room for ugly feelings.

Whenever you withdrew to recharge, people assumed something was wrong. Whenever you ate lunch alone, classmates asked if someone upset you. Whenever you declined invitations, they looked strangely disappointed, like you had failed to perform the role they assigned to you.

Sometimes you wanted to disappear for just one day.

Just one.

To walk through the hallways without eyes following you. To sit somewhere quiet without someone recognizing you. To exist without constantly being needed by everyone around you.

But the strangest part was that despite all the noise surrounding you—

Very few people actually knew you.

They knew the polished version.

The smiling version.

The version that carried conversations effortlessly and made everyone feel comfortable.

But nobody noticed how tired your eyes became after social events. Nobody noticed how often you lingered in empty classrooms because silence felt sacred to you. Nobody noticed the way your shoulders relaxed the second you were finally alone.

High school was the first place where your popularity stopped feeling warm. Instead, it became heavy.

A spotlight that never shut off.

And sometimes, late at night, lying awake with your phone buzzing endlessly on your bedside table, you wondered quietly to yourself—

If people would still love you as much if they saw how badly you wanted to be left alone sometimes.

Junior year began like every other year before it.

Too loud.

Too many introductions, too many eager teachers, too many classmates excitedly calling your name across hallways before the first week had even properly settled.

You slipped back into your role naturally—the smiling greetings, the effortless conversations, the graceful composure everyone expected from you.

And yet, despite all the familiar noise around you—

Something felt different.

You noticed him on the third day of school.

Not because he demanded attention.

But because he didn’t.

In a campus overflowing with people desperate to be seen, Sunday existed with a kind of quiet self-possession that felt almost untouchable.

He sat near the windows during orientation, posture straight, fingers neatly folded over a thick hardcover book while sunlight spilled across the silver strands of his hair.

The rest of the classroom buzzed with conversation, chairs scraping loudly against the floor, people exchanging social media handles and gossip after summer break.

Sunday never looked up once.

At first, you thought he might simply be shy, but over the following weeks, you realized it was something else entirely.

He was… self-contained.

Refined in every possible way.

His uniform was always pristine, his handwriting impossibly elegant, his speech polite to the point of old-fashioned. Teachers practically adored him. Students admired him from afar even if most were too intimidated to approach directly.

And academically—

He was terrifying.

Every exam score posted on the bulletin board placed his name at the very top.

Every competition. Every essay. Every presentation.

Always first place.

Meanwhile, yours sat directly underneath his.

Second. Second—

Second.

Your classmates joked about it constantly.

“The school’s golden girl versus the genius.”

“You guys are literally academic rivals.”

“I bet you hate each other.”

But you didn’t hate him. You couldn’t.

Not when you caught glimpses of him quietly helping teachers carry stacks of papers after class without being asked. Not when you overheard him patiently tutoring struggling students despite clearly wanting to go home already. Not when you noticed how gently he handled library books, as though stories themselves were sacred things.

There was something deeply melancholic about him.

Beautifully so.

Like moonlight reflecting across still water.

People admired you loudly. People admired Sunday quietly.

You began noticing him everywhere after that.

In the library during lunch. In the music room after school, soft piano melodies drifting faintly through cracked doors. In the courtyard beneath the shade of trees, reading while autumn leaves gathered around polished shoes.

And the more you noticed him—

The worse it became.

Because your feelings arrived subtly at first.

A flicker of curiosity.

Then anticipation whenever you entered classrooms and spotted him already seated by the window.

Then awareness. Painful awareness. The kind where your eyes searched for someone instinctively before your brain could stop you.

You started memorizing small things without meaning to.

The way he adjusted himself before writing. The way he tilted his head slightly whenever deep in thought. The low, calm cadence of his voice during presentations.

Even the way sunlight seemed softer around him somehow.

It was humiliating.

You, the girl everyone called graceful and composed, suddenly forgetting what you were saying mid-conversation because Sunday happened to walk past the hallway outside.

And the worst part? He barely seemed aware of your existence beyond basic politeness.

“Good morning.” Always courteous.

“Excuse me.” Always calm.

“Thank you.” Always distant.

Meanwhile your heart had begun betraying you completely, because for the first time in years, someone captivated you without trying.

No performance. No charm. No effort.

Just quiet brilliance wrapped in elegance and melancholy.

And somewhere between passing glances across classrooms and hearing piano music echo through empty hallways after school—

You fell in love with him.

Sunday never intended to stand out.

People often assumed ambition was what drove him—that he enjoyed praise, titles, admiration, the endless string of accomplishments tied to his name like medals pinned neatly against a uniform.

The truth was far less glamorous.

He simply did what needed to be done.

As the eldest sibling, responsibility settled onto his shoulders early in life and never truly left. Taking care of Robin had always come naturally to him. He made sure she ate properly, studied properly, rested properly.

Even when they were younger, Sunday carried himself with the quiet seriousness of someone far older than he should have been.

Success became less of a desire and more of a necessity.

Good grades meant stability. Extracurriculars meant opportunities. Leadership positions meant stronger credentials for the future.

So he studied. Worked.

Perfected.

Again and again until excellence became routine.

By sophomore year, he had somehow accumulated enough achievements to intimidate half the student body without even trying.

Honor societies. Debate competitions. Music recitals. Volunteer work. Academic awards.

And eventually—

Student Council president.

He remembered staring blankly at the announcement sheet after the faculty selected him.

Another responsibility. Another expectation.

Another thing to maintain.

Sunday accepted it with the same quiet composure he accepted everything else.

Politely.

Without complaint. Without joy either, because despite how accomplished he appeared, there was always a strange emptiness lingering beneath it all.

He moved through life methodically, like someone following a script written long before he was born.

Wake up. Study. Lead. Achieve. Repeat.

People praised him constantly, but praise had long since stopped feeling meaningful.

Until you.

The vice president of the student council. The school’s beloved golden girl.

He noticed you long before he wanted to admit it.

At first, you were simply… unavoidable.

Your laughter echoed through hallways like sunlight pouring through open windows. Students gravitated toward you instinctively, teachers softened around you effortlessly, and somehow every room you entered felt warmer without you even trying.

Sunday didn’t understand it.

He had spent most of his life observing people carefully, dissecting motivations and behaviors with quiet precision.

Most popularity was superficial. Fragile. Built on performance.

But yours wasn’t.

People genuinely loved you.

And more confusingly—

You loved them back just as sincerely.

He noticed the little things first.

How you stayed behind after meetings to organize paperwork because you knew it would lessen everyone else’s workload. How you remembered details about people most others forgot instantly. How you spoke to nervous freshmen with the same kindness you offered teachers.

You were endlessly gentle in ways that didn’t feel performative.

It unsettled him.

Then came the moments that ruined him entirely.

The first time you smiled at him directly during a student council meeting, Sunday lost his train of thought mid-sentence.

A humiliating experience.

Your eyes had crinkled slightly at the corners when you thanked him for helping prepare documents, voice warm and genuine, and suddenly he became painfully aware of his own heartbeat.

After that, things only worsened.

His attention began drifting toward you involuntarily.

He noticed when you seemed tired despite smiling anyway. He noticed how your cheerful voice softened when conversations became sincere. He noticed the way you lingered in quiet places when you thought nobody was paying attention.

And somewhere along the way, without permission from logic or reason—

You became woven into the fabric of his everyday life.

Sunday would catch himself searching for you instinctively upon entering classrooms. Meetings became easier to tolerate because you sat beside him.

Even his piano playing changed.

Late afternoons in the empty music room transformed into something dangerous.

At first, he told himself he simply enjoyed practicing, but eventually, every melody began sounding like you.

Soft classical pieces became gentler beneath his fingertips. Love songs he once dismissed as sentimental suddenly carried unbearable meaning. Even when he closed his eyes, he could picture you so vividly it almost frightened him.

Your smile.

Your laugh.

The brightness you carried so naturally despite how exhausting the world could be.

And God—

His heart.

Sunday hated how human you made him feel.

For someone who spent most of his life composed and restrained, loving you felt catastrophic.

You sat beside him during meetings while discussing schedules and budgets completely unaware that his pulse stumbled every time your shoulder brushed his accidentally. You smiled at him so sweetly it bordered on cruelty.

And meanwhile Sunday remained trapped in silence, pretending he was unaffected while every song he played on the piano belonged to you already.

At some point, the space between you and Sunday stopped feeling formal.

Neither of you could pinpoint exactly when it happened.

Maybe it was after countless student council meetings where the two of you ended up staying later than everyone else, organizing paperwork side by side beneath dim classroom lights.

Maybe it was the afternoons spent walking through hallways together after class because your schedules somehow always aligned.

Or maybe it was because no matter how crowded a room became—

You always found him.

Sunday noticed it long before you realized he had.

Student council gatherings, school festivals, assemblies, crowded hallways filled with noise and movement—it didn’t matter where he stood.

Your eyes always searched for him first.

And every single time they landed on him, your face brightened instinctively. Like finding him was the easiest thing in the world.

It did terrible things to his heart.

“You’re staring again.”

Sunday blinked softly, immediately looking back down at the stack of documents in front of him. “I was thinking.”

You leaned against the desk beside him with a grin. “About me?”

“…No.”

“That pause was suspicious.”

“There was no pause.”

“There absolutely was.”

Your laughter filled the empty classroom warmly, sunlight spilling across the desks while late afternoon painted everything gold around you. Sunday tried very hard to focus on the papers in front of him.

He failed miserably.

Because you looked beautiful like this.

Relaxed. Happy.

Real.

Not the polished version everyone else knew.

Just you.

And somehow, the more time he spent around you, the more he realized how lonely you actually were beneath all that brightness.

You loved people sincerely, but people exhausted you too.

He noticed the subtle sighs you released after social events. The way your smile softened into something quieter whenever crowds disappeared. The relief in your posture whenever the two of you found yourselves alone together.

Around him, you didn’t seem pressured to perform.

That realization terrified Sunday more than it comforted him.

Because he was beginning to understand something dangerous:

You trusted him.

He didn’t know what to do with that kind of tenderness. Love had always seemed frightening to him.

It was fragile. Temporary.

A weakness people eventually weaponized against each other.

Sunday had spent years carefully constructing walls around himself so nobody could reach the softer parts underneath. It was easier that way. Safer.

Then you arrived and dismantled those walls so gently he barely noticed it happening, like sunlight slowly warming frozen ground.

One afternoon during exam season, Sunday skipped lunch entirely to continue reviewing notes in the library. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been sitting there until a small paper bag suddenly appeared beside his elbow.

He looked up immediately, and you stood there smiling sheepishly.

“You forgot to eat again.”

“…How did you know I was here?”

“You disappear to the same three places every time you’re stressed.”

Sunday stared at you silently.

You blinked. “What?”

“You pay attention to me.”

“Of course I do.”

The response came so naturally that it stole the air from his lungs for a moment.

You sat beside him afterward, unpacking the lunch you brought while whispering dramatically about how the cafeteria nearly ran out of bread because students were panicking over exams.

Sunday listened quietly, the corners of his lips threatening to lift despite himself.

“You should take better care of yourself,” you murmured suddenly while handing him utensils.

“…I manage adequately.”

“You survived only on coffee and bread yesterday.”

“That is technically sustenance.”

“That is technically concerning.”

He let out a soft breath that almost resembled laughter. Your eyes widened immediately.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “You laughed.”

“I did not.”

“You did! Wait, do it again.”

“That is not how laughter works.”

“But you looked cute.”

Sunday nearly dropped his fork.

You didn’t seem to notice the damage you caused saying things like that so casually.

Or maybe you did.

Either possibility unsettled him equally.

Eventually, walking home together became routine.

At first, it happened accidentally. Then intentionally. Then inevitably.

The city always felt quieter beside you somehow.

You talked about everything while walking beneath evening skies—music, books, ridiculous school rumors, future dreams, fears neither of you admitted to other people.

And for the first time in years, Sunday found himself speaking more than listening.

Not because you pressured him, but because talking to you felt… easy.

One evening, rain began pouring halfway through your walk home, forcing both of you beneath the awning of a tiny convenience store.

You laughed breathlessly while shaking water from your sleeves.

“We should’ve checked the forecast.”

“You said the clouds looked ‘romantic,’” Sunday replied calmly.

“They did.”

“You are now soaked.”

“And yet I stand by my statement.”

Sunday looked at you quietly then.

Your hair slightly damp, your cheeks pink from the cold, smiling at him like this moment alone was enough to make you happy.

Something inside him ached so deeply it frightened him.

“…You’re staring again,” you teased softly.

“…Perhaps.”

The honesty startled both of you.

Your expression softened immediately afterward. Gentle. Like you understood how difficult that admission was for him.

And somehow that made it worse.

Sunday was beginning to realize loving you no longer felt terrifying.

It felt inevitable.

Then he introduced you to his younger sister, and Robin adored you almost instantly.

The first time Sunday brought you home to help with a student council project, his younger sister took one look at you and immediately decided you belonged there.

“You’re even prettier than he described,” Robin said brightly.

Sunday choked on his tea.

“I did not describe her.”

Robin looked unimpressed. “You composed multiple suspiciously romantic piano compositions the same week you were while telling me about her.”

“…Robin.”

“You smile at your phone now too. It’s creepy.”

You tried desperately not to laugh while Sunday covered part of his face with one wing.

“I apologize for her behavior,” he muttered.

“She’s adorable.”

Robin beamed instantly. “See? She understands me.”

And somehow, despite the looming pressure of exams, responsibilities, endless meetings, and the exhaustion of everyday life—

Things felt lighter around you.

Softer.

Sunday still carried the weight of the world carefully on his shoulders.

But now, whenever he looked beside him—

You were there too.

By autumn, your relationship with Sunday had become something impossible to ignore.

Not officially.

Not verbally.

But everyone around you could see it.

The lingering glances. The instinctive closeness.

The way the two of you moved around each other with quiet familiarity, as though your lives had begun syncing together naturally without permission from either of you.

People stopped referring to you as academic rivals. Instead, they smiled knowingly whenever they saw the two of you together.

And that happened often.

Far too often for Sunday’s already fragile composure.

“You two are disgustingly married for people who aren’t dating,” March complained while watching you organize paperwork side by side.

“We are not married,” Sunday answered immediately.

You looked up from the papers with a thoughtful hum. “True. We’d probably have matching planners if we were.”

Sunday went completely silent. The entire room burst into laughter while the tips of his ears turned pink.

“You’re making him short-circuit again,” Stelle whispered dramatically.

You smiled innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”

But you did know.

God, you knew.

The closer you became, the more obvious it was that something existed between you that neither of you could name aloud yet.

Sometimes it surfaced in tiny moments so gentle they nearly hurt. Like the afternoon the student council was decorating for an upcoming school event.

You stood on a ladder trying to pin decorations higher along the gymnasium wall while everyone else argued over color schemes below.

“This would be easier if someone taller volunteered,” you muttered.

“You are going to fall.” Stelle sighs as she watches you from below.

“I am perfectly stable.”

The ladder wobbled slightly.

A pause.

Then suddenly—

Warm hands settled carefully around your waist.

Your breath caught immediately. Sunday stood behind you now, steadying both you and the ladder with quiet disapproval written across his face.

“I dislike being correct in situations like this. You should have waited for me to come back,” he murmured.

You looked down instinctively.

Big mistake, because from this angle, he was painfully close.

Close enough for you to notice the faint flush dusting across his cheeks despite how composed he tried to appear. Close enough to feel the warmth of his hands lingering through the fabric of your uniform.

Your heart began pounding violently.

“…Sunday.”

“Yes?”

“You’re holding my waist.”

“…I am aware.”

Neither of you moved.

Below, several student council members exchanged looks before immediately pretending not to notice.

One of them mouthed finally. Another nodded solemnly.

You nearly laughed from embarrassment.

Meanwhile Sunday looked moments away from combusting entirely, but even then—

He still didn’t let go until you climbed down safely.

Walking through school together became second nature after that.

Students greeted you constantly in the hallways while Sunday remained quietly beside you, listening patiently as you drifted from topic to topic.

“Do you think the chemistry exam was unfair?”

“No.”

“You finished fifteen minutes early.”

“The questions were straightforward.”

“You are the worst person to ask for reassurance.”

“You scored higher than ninety-seven percent of the class.”

“That is not the point.”

Sunday glanced at you then, subtle amusement flickering across his expression.

“You are seeking emotional validation, not academic feedback.”

“…Maybe.”

“I think you performed well.”

The sincerity in his voice made warmth bloom instantly across your chest, and somewhere nearby, a group of younger students watched the interaction with dreamy expressions.

“They’re literally like a romance novel couple,” one whispered.

Sunday heard them.

Judging by the immediate redness spreading across his ears and the slight fluff of his wings, you knew he heard them.

You smiled to yourself quietly.

But your favorite moments always happened in the music room.

Especially at sunset.

The room became golden in the evenings, sunlight pouring through tall windows while dust drifted lazily through the air like floating stars. Most students had already gone home by then, leaving the school wrapped in rare silence.

Just you.

And him.

Sunday sat at the piano bench while soft melodies flowed effortlessly beneath his fingertips, elegant and melancholic all at once. You usually perched beside the piano quietly watching him, chin resting against your hand while the music wrapped around the room warmly.

He always played differently around you.

Softer.

More emotional.

Like his heart was speaking through the piano because words alone failed him.

That afternoon, the sunset painted him beautifully.

Silver hair glowing amber beneath the fading light. Long fingers dancing gracefully across ivory keys. Expression calm but vulnerable in a way only you ever seemed allowed to witness.

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then smiled softly.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

The piano stopped immediately.

Silence.

Sunday slowly turned toward you like he wasn’t entirely certain he heard correctly.

“…What?”

You blinked innocently. “Hm?”

His face had gone completely red.

Not subtle pink. Red.

“I—You cannot simply say things like that casually.”

“But it’s true.”

Your voice remained gentle. Honest.

Sunday looked genuinely stunned. As though all this time he had convinced himself his feelings existed in solitude despite every lingering glance and every soft moment shared between you.

“You…” He swallowed quietly. “You love me?”

You tilted your head slightly. “Was I not obvious enough?”

“I believed you were merely kind.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

Then you laughed softly.

“Sunday, I bring you lunch, spend every afternoon with you, visit your house constantly, and listen to you play piano for hours.”

“…That does sound rather incriminating.”

“Very incriminating.”

For a moment, he simply stared at you.

Beautiful.

Speechless.

Overwhelmed.

Then suddenly he stood so quickly the piano bench shifted loudly against the floor.

Before you could react properly—

Sunday’s hands grasped your waist.

Then you were lifted effortlessly onto the piano bench with a startled laugh escaping your lips.

“Sunday—”

“You make me lose all coherent thought,” he confessed breathlessly.

Your heart skipped violently, because he looked almost desperate now. Like someone who had spent too long holding himself back.

“You are unbearably gentle with me,” he continued softly, forehead nearly touching yours now. “You make everything feel lighter. Safer. And I—”

His voice faltered briefly.

“I do not know when it happened,” he whispered. “But somewhere along the way, you became the most important person in my life.”

Your expression softened instantly, and that seemed to destroy whatever restraint he had left.

Sunday kissed you suddenly.

Tenderly at first, like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too quickly. Then deeper, when your hands instinctively curled into his sleeves, pulling him closer while the sunset wrapped around both of you in warm gold.

The piano keys beneath you sounded softly when his hand braced beside your waist.

Neither of you cared.

Because after months of longing, restraint, and silent devotion—

You were finally his.

And he was finally yours.

The first person to notice was Robin.

Which, according to her, was deeply insulting because she claimed she should have noticed far earlier.

“You two are unbelievable,” Robin sighed dramatically one afternoon while watching you and Sunday study together at the dining table.

You looked up innocently. “What did we do?”

“You’re acting like newlyweds in an old romance film.”

Sunday nearly inhaled his tea incorrectly.

“We are not acting like anything,” he said calmly, despite the very obvious pink coloring his ears.

Robin pointed accusingly. “See? That! He gets embarrassed now.”

“I have always experienced embarrassment.”

“No,” Robin corrected. “You used to experience irritation. This is different.”

You covered your smile with one hand while Sunday quietly avoided eye contact.

Truthfully, it was different now.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Nothing about your relationship had suddenly transformed overnight into grand declarations or public affection.

It was quieter than that.

Softer. But somehow far more obvious.

Because once you loved someone openly, even in silence, it seeped into everything.

Into the way Sunday immediately looked toward the classroom door whenever your voice echoed faintly from the hallway. Into the unconscious softness that settled over his expression the second you entered rooms. Into the way you gravitated toward each other instinctively at every opportunity, like magnets incapable of resisting pull.

People noticed.

God, people noticed.

“Good morning!”

Your voice rang brightly through the classroom one morning as you hurried through the doorway carrying far too many folders in your arms.

Before anyone else could even greet you—

Sunday was already standing.

“I will take those.”

Several classmates exchanged looks immediately.

You blinked. “I can carry them.”

“You are struggling.”

“I’m surviving.”

“You nearly dropped three on your way into the classroom.”

“But I didn’t.”

Without another word, Sunday gently removed the folders from your arms anyway. Your fingers brushed during the exchange.

Tiny.

Brief.

Yet somehow the entire room fell suspiciously silent afterward.

One student leaned toward another immediately.

“They’re definitely together.”

“Absolutely.”

Sunday pretended not to hear them while placing the folders neatly onto your desk, but you noticed the faint smile threatening at the corners of his mouth.

Your heart melted instantly.

You had also become far less subtle. Not intentionally.

It simply became harder to contain your affection around him.

“Sunday!”

Your voice echoed loudly through the courtyard one afternoon. Across campus, Sunday looked up immediately from the book he’d been reading beneath a tree.

The second his eyes landed on you—

He smiled.

Not polite. Not restrained.

A real smile.

Soft and warm enough that nearby students visibly paused mid-conversation.

“Oh my God,” someone whispered nearby. “He literally lights up around her.”

You jogged toward him happily, entirely unaware of the devastation left behind in your wake. Meanwhile Sunday closed his book calmly despite the fact his heartbeat had already become embarrassingly uneven.

“You’re late,” he murmured as you approached.

“You say that like I’m not only three minutes late.”

“It was seven.”

“You timed me?”

“…Perhaps.”

You laughed brightly before sitting beside him beneath the tree, close enough for your shoulders to touch naturally.

Neither of you moved away anymore. That was another thing people noticed.

The intimacy hidden inside your body language.

The way Sunday’s hand instinctively settled against the small of your back whenever guiding you through crowded hallways. The way your fingers absentmindedly fixed his loosened tie while continuing conversations normally. The way your knees brushed beneath desks during meetings and stayed there.

Like closeness had become second nature. Like loving each other had quietly rewritten your understanding of comfort entirely.

One evening after student council duties finally ended, the two of you remained alone in the classroom while rain tapped softly against the windows outside.

You sat on top of one of the desks while Sunday organized paperwork nearby.

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “people have definitely figured us out.”

Sunday didn’t look surprised.

“They began suspecting months ago.”

“Months?”

“You once fell asleep on my shoulder during a council meeting.”

You gasped softly. “You said nobody noticed!”

“You were drooling slightly.”

“Sunday!”

A rare laugh escaped him quietly. You stared at him almost immediately.

“…There it is again.”

“What?”

“That laugh.”

Sunday shook his head faintly, though affection lingered visibly across his face now in ways he no longer bothered hiding from you.

The rain outside softened into a gentle rhythm, and after a moment, your expression grew quieter too.

“Are you still scared?” you asked softly.

Sunday paused. He understood the question immediately.

Love.

Commitment.

The vulnerability of allowing another person close enough to hurt you.

For a long moment, only rain filled the silence between you. Then Sunday slowly approached until he stood directly in front of where you sat on the desk.

His gloved hand lifted gently to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“No,” he answered honestly.

Your chest tightened.

Because he was being honest.

Sunday had spent most of his life believing love came with conditions. That affection disappeared eventually. That people left once they saw the less beautiful parts of someone.

And you—

You had grown up loved by everyone yet still profoundly lonely sometimes, constantly performing warmth and perfection because you feared disappointing the people who admired you.

Both of you came from worlds where love felt transactional in different ways.

Fragile. Conditional. Frightening.

But somehow, together—

None of it felt frightening anymore.

Not the vulnerability. Not the devotion. Not even the terrifying depth of it all.

Because loving each other had never felt like losing something.

It felt like finally being understood.

Sunday’s thumb brushed softly across your cheek.

“You make life feel gentle,” he admitted quietly. Your eyes softened instantly.

“And you make it feel safe.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You simply looked at each other while warm classroom light spilled softly across the room around you.

Then suddenly—

“Okay, this is actually sickening.”

The classroom door burst open. Several student council members stood frozen in the doorway staring at both of you dramatically.

March pointed immediately. “I knew it.”

“You owe me twenty credits,” Stelle whispered angrily.

You burst into startled laughter while Sunday closed his eyes briefly in silent defeat.

“We were not doing anything inappropriate,” he said calmly.

“You were gazing at each other like the final scene of a romance movie,” Caelus replied.

“That is arguably worse,” Dan Heng added.

You laughed harder while Sunday sighed softly beside you.

But even then—

His hand never left yours.

From the moment she met Aventurine, her life stopped standing still.

It wasn’t that everything changed at once since that fateful night. There was no single dramatic pivot, no clean before-and-after she could point to and say that’s when it happened. Instead, it was the accumulation of motion, a gradual, relentless acceleration that crept up on her until one day she realized she no longer remembered what it felt like to stand firmly in place.

Because Aventurine never stood still.

He moved through the world like momentum itself favored him, as if speed wasn’t something he endured, but something he needed.

At first, she thought it was dizzying.

Then she realized it was intoxicating.

There was something magnetic about the way he lived as if pausing would cost him more than any risk ever could. She learned to read the subtle signs— the way his fingers tapped when he was bored, the way his gaze sharpened when an opportunity presented itself, the way he always angled his body forward, already halfway to wherever he was going next. He walked fast, talked fast, lived fast, and if she hesitated even slightly, she knew she risked losing sight of him entirely.

So she learned to keep up.

She adjusted without noticing she was adjusting, learned to treasure the rare moments when he lingered instead of bolting, and somewhere along the way, his chaos stopped feeling like disorder and started feeling like direction.

And the strangest part was that she didn’t resent it. If anything, she felt more alive than she ever had before.

She followed him across terminals and time zones, through games of power she barely understood, through conversations laced with double meanings he introduced her to easily, confidently, and stakes that made her chest tighten just listening to them. And every time, she felt that quiet, dangerous thrill— the same one she felt the first night she saw him, the sense that she met something vast and volatile, something that might burn her if she held it wrong.

But she held on anyway.

There were moments, of course, when the speed overwhelmed her, when she doubted she could ever get used to the pace of the world when you had private ships and space anchors to all corners of the universe available at your fingertips. Late nights when exhaustion crept in at the edges of her vision, wondering if he ever truly rested, or if sleep was just another pause he tolerated. Moments when she watched him slip effortlessly into another role— charming executive, calculating negotiator, indulgent lover— and felt a flicker of uncertainty at how seamlessly he shifted between them.

She knew everyone curated themselves. Everyone chose what to reveal and what to keep hidden.

He couldn’t be blamed for doing the same.

And she never voiced any of it, of course, because for every single doubt, there were ten more reasons that made her want more.

More of the way he filled space, more of the warmth of his hand at the small of her back as he guided her through crowded rooms, more of the laughter that spilled out of him when something genuinely amused him. More of the way he looked at her like she was a choice he made again and again, even when everything else in his life felt like a gamble.

She wanted him, not in the shallow way people wanted the things Aventurine represented, but in the deeper, more dangerous way. She wanted his attention when it wasn’t performative. His presence when it wasn’t transactional. His stillness, if such a thing even existed.

And yet, even then, she understood something important.

She sensed it in the way his smile never quite faded, even in private. In the way he filled silence before it could settle. In the way he treated quiet moments like temporary ceasefires rather than safe ground. Saw how whenever she reached for something quieter, something slower, something that required him to stay rather than dazzle, he responded with excess.

Aventurine gave generously, lavishly, with a confidence that made refusal feel almost impolite. There was no lack of attention, no lack of indulgence, no lack of proof that he wanted her. He booked entire floors without blinking, sent her gifts that arrived without warning and without reason, draped her in luxury so seamlessly it began to feel like expectation rather than extravagance. He treated abundance like punctuation, something to emphasize what he already assumed was understood.

His gifts were never thoughtless, though. Never generic. He paid attention, remembered her preferences, anticipated her tastes, refined each offering until it felt custom-made. That alone could have been intimacy, if it weren’t always deployed at the same moment: right when she leaned a fraction closer to the truth of him.

And it took her some time to recognize the pattern.

At first, it felt coincidental. A necklace after a difficult conversation, a spontaneous trip after she asked a question he didn’t quite answer, a cascade of attention whenever she brushed up against something tender or unresolved.

That was when the gifts appeared, as if summoned.

Sometimes she accepted them gratefully. Sometimes she laughed and teased him for being excessive. Sometimes she wore them and felt beautiful and chosen and momentarily satisfied. And sometimes, late at night, she traced their edges with her fingers and felt an unfamiliar bitterness curl in her chest.

She noticed how quickly he deflected personal questions, how easily he reframed anything that brushed up against his past. How stories about his life came pre-packaged, delivered with practiced humor and just enough detail to feel complete until you realized they never led anywhere deeper. No lingering emotions, rough edges, or moments of vulnerability that hadn’t already been sanded smooth.

It was as if he had memorized a version of himself that was safe to share, and anything beyond that remained tightly locked away.

She told herself she was imagining it, that she was being unfair, that this was simply how Aventurine loved.

But patterns have weight. They repeat. They press against you until you either name them or let them define you.

She never doubted that he cared, though, that was the cruelest part.

There was no targeted cruelty in his avoidance, no malice in the way he redirected. Only the heaviness in his gaze, and the distance that had nothing to do with disinterest and everything to do with memory. He looked older then, not in years but in experience, like someone who had learned too early that softness came with consequences.

Those moments never lasted. He always caught himself, straightened. Smiled.

And that distance remained, unrelenting and merciless.

She had a sinking suspicion that it could never be bridged, because what she wanted couldn’t be wrapped. Because she didn’t want proof that he could provide. She wanted proof that he could stay. That when nothing distracted him, when there was no audience and no stakes and no momentum to hide behind, he would still choose to be present.

She just wanted him to want her like she wanted him.

But was it really fair to expect more from him, when he had never promised her more than this?

He never claimed to be vulnerable, never pretended to be something he wasn’t. If anything, he was painfully honest about the way he avoided honesty— so consistent in his deflections that it felt intentional, almost ritualistic.

And yet, she couldn’t stop herself from wanting.

Wanting him to sit with her without distraction. Wanting him to tell her something unpolished, something unmarketable. Wanting to see the man who existed when there was nothing to win and no one to impress.

Sometimes, she caught glimpses.

A flicker of hesitation before a joke.

A rare, quiet look when he thought she wasn’t watching.

The way his hand lingered in hers a second longer than necessary, as if he had momentarily forgotten to let go.

Those moments were enough to keep her hoping, enough to convince her that the man she wanted wasn’t a fantasy, that one day he might want her, touch her, take her without restraint.

But hope, she was learning, could be dangerous too.

Because the more she wanted him, the more she realized how carefully he rationed himself. How skillfully he offered everything else in exchange. How easy it could be, one day, to wake up surrounded by proof of his affection and still feel like a stranger to his inner world.

She didn’t want to be indulged.

She wanted to be invited in.

The greatest irony was that the night it finally happened, she hadn’t been expecting it.

Not that she ever could hope to predict him, calling her at this hour with that unmistakable, velvet-smooth mischief bleeding into every syllable of his voice, the particular kind that always meant trouble, or when it came to Aventurine, something far more dangerous and intoxicating than trouble: delight, restless and reckless and aimed directly at her.

“Get dressed and don't ask questions,” he said over the phone, as if demanding her immediate attention was simply how greetings worked. “I’m kidnapping you for the night.”

"What?" She blinked, momentarily frozen, before glancing down at herself— comfortable clothes, hair slightly messy from a blissful, uneventful evening she had fully intended to spend doing absolutely nothing. “You can’t just—”

“I already am,” he interrupted, smooth and effortless and she could practically hear the sly grin in every word. “You have thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes?!” she repeated, aghast, her voice cracking up an octave as she hurriedly stood up. He already landed? Here?

“I’d say more,” Aventurine replied with a sigh, faux-thoughtful, “but you take forever and I’m hungry.”

She laughed, because really, what else could she do? Because Aventurine’s hunger, regardless of its target, was a shifting creature: sudden and unpredictable, striking without warning, overwhelming in its intensity. Whether it was hunger for food, attention, adrenaline, victory, or some reaction from her that he could claim as his daily entertainment, he moved toward it with the same ruthless efficiency.

And when that hunger hit, he moved fast.

Too fast.

“Aventurine, I’m not ready—” she tried, already stumbling toward her bedroom, her pulse beginning to race.

“That sounds like a you problem, sweetheart,” he cut her off brightly, and through the line she could hear the sound of a car door shutting in the background, undoubtedly already prepared for him in advance. “You now have twenty eight minutes.”

“Aventurine, listen—” she began, half outraged, half amused.

He hummed, that same falsely considering and infinitely amused sound, as though he were truly weighing the consequences of generosity. “All right,” he conceded with theatrical reluctance, “twenty eight and a half. But no more, I left my drink on the ship and I want us to be back on it before the ice melts.”

Her retort died on her tongue as the line clicked shut because he, of course, had hung up the moment he secured what he wanted.

She stared at her phone in disbelief, then let out a short, strangled sound that could only be described as affectionate frustration before rushing to her closet, trying desperately to pull herself together.

Something nice.

Something that matched his rhythm, his extravagance, his effortlessly curated chaos.

She rifled through dresses, fabrics whispering like possibilities between her fingers as adrenaline surged in her chest.

Because what, exactly, was he hungry for tonight?

Knowing him it could be a number of things. Just a decadent meal in some impossible location? A thrill disguised as luxury? A challenge?

Her?

Probably all of it, Aventurine was never a man of singular appetites.

As she shimmied into the nicest dress she had only worn once and fastened earrings with trembling hands, her phone vibrated again, the screen lighting up with a single message delivered with his trademark flair:

Outside. Twenty eight minutes exactly. I expect praise.

She inhaled sharply, a disbelieving laugh slipping from her lips as she slipped into the bathroom and grabbed her brush.

Trouble.

He was absolutely, undeniably trouble dipped in gold, dressed in charm, and wrapped in danger.

But he could wait on her this one time.

And yes, she took more than thirty minutes.

When she stepped out to meet him, he ushered her into his car with a hand at the small of her back, already launching into a tangent, his touch light but deliberate. He always acted like it was nothing, like that contact was just an afterthought, but she was learning that nothing Aventurine did was accidental. Then everything blurred together as he whisked her away like he always did, through private terminals and ships and already arranged lounges.

They arrived at a his chosen exhibit of extravagance for the night, where the staff greeted Aventurine by name and tone—deferential, practiced, just a touch too careful.

He didn’t even notice, already moving ahead, already arranging. And she followed, into dinner that stretched on like a dream.

She tried real caviar for the first time. He stole half of her plate with no shame. They argued about which dessert looked better and ended up ordering both “in the name of diplomacy".

And she laughed.

Aeons, she laughed.

There was something so addictive about Aventurine’s quick rhythm that had pulled her in from the moment she first met him.

And she tried to keep him there, just as she did back then when she first saw him, and just as she always wanted to do whenever they were together.

Longer.

Long after dessert was finished and her drink was empty.

Long after the restaurant began to dim toward its late-night mood lighting.

So she asked another question, laughed at another joke, listened to another story—anything just to keep the night from ending. Because this world of marble and gold, of shimmering lights and Aventurine’s eyes reflecting them, felt unreal. Magical. Too perfect to let go.

He indulged her easily, always with that delighted sparkle, as if her attention was the best thing he’d been given all night.

But even perfect nights run their course.

When the waiter cleaned up their table, he glanced at his watch, just for a second, and her heart dropped a little.

Well, time was up.

He stood, offered his hand with a smile. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.”

She tried to hide the disappointment, the quiet ache of wanting more blooming in her chest, and managed a soft smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

If he noticed her disappointment, he didn’t comment on it. He just placed his hand gently at her back again, guiding her slowly toward the exit. Like he didn’t want the night to end either, but didn’t trust himself to say so.

The warm light spilled from the windows onto the pavement below as they stepped outside, warmth bleeding into the night, and for a moment everything felt suspended between one moment and the next. She opened her mouth—maybe to thank him, maybe to ask if they could do this again sooner— but the universe had other plans.

A single drop hit her shoulder.

Then another.

One moment the air was calm, warm, thick with the afterglow of a perfect evening.

And the next, the sky opened up into a sudden, furious downpour, rain plummeting in sheets, drenching the pavement and drowning the streetlights in a silver blur.

They both froze for half a heartbeat. She laughed in surprise, shocked and unguarded, lifting her hands instinctively as if that might shield her from the onslaught, but Aventurine grabbed her hand.

“Run!”

They bolted, laughter ripping from her chest as her heels slipped on the wet stone. He steadied her without breaking pace, his grip firm, his hair plastered to his forehead in seconds as they sprinted toward the car, and for once there was no elegance in it.

Her thin dress clung to her legs, soaked through, becoming another layer of skin. The cold downpour slapped her arms, her back, her shoulders. She could barely see anything, could barely breathe—

But she had never felt more alive.

They stumbled under the awning beside his car, panting, dripping, laughing maniacally. Her hair was a mess, her makeup smudged, her dress glued to her skin. She pushed wet strands out of her face with a chuckle. "I’m sure I look absolutely insane right now."

Aventurine didn’t answer.

Not at first.

His eyes traveled slowly, painfully slowly, from her soaked hair down to her collarbones, her shoulders, the lines of her dress now clinging to every curve beneath it.

It was true, she was a mess.

Her dress clung to her in a way that felt unintentional bordering on indecent, darkened by rain until it looked like it belonged to a different version of her entirely. Her makeup had smudged, lipstick softened into something blurred and imperfect. Her hair was damp, curling where it shouldn’t, covering her face instead of framing it.

She looked undone.

But to him, she had never looked more free.

There was nothing curated about her in this moment. No careful presentation, just breathless laughter fading into something quieter as she pushed wet hair from her face and looked at him like he was everything.

This version of her— raw, rain-soaked, unguarded— didn’t ask anything of him. She wasn’t impressed by him right now. Wasn’t dazzled. Wasn’t watching for the next move. She was simply there, present and breathing and real in a way that felt dangerously close to that first night when he felt that flicker of something wild beneath her skin, and the urge to bring it out of her. That same raw and unguarded spark flickered across his face now, before he wrestled it back behind a cool, practiced smile.

Hunger.

Yearning.

It was subtle, but violent in its own way, like a card flipped too early, a gamble taken without calculating the odds. He stood there, rain still dripping from the tips of his hair, his breath visible in the cool air, staring at her like she had just stepped out of a dream he had no right to witness.

“Must be awful to be in wet clothes,” he said lightly to break the silence as he held the door open for her, though his voice dropped on the last word, lower than necessary, quieter than the moment required, like something in him was deliberately being kept in check.

She laughed it off easily, shrugging as she climbed into the car, rain still clinging to her skin and clothes. “It’s cold, but I’ll be home soon. I’ll change.”

Soon was relative in this case, though. Her place was a couple of systems away, an unspoken but persistent consequence of following Aventurine so unquestioningly. She never knew where in the universe she’d end up by the end of the night.

He closed the door behind her, the sound soft but loaded, then walked around the front of the car and slid into the driver’s seat without saying anything else, the silence settling quickly and decisively between them.

The space suddenly felt too small, too contained. He became acutely aware of everything at once: the steady rhythm of her breathing, the way raindrops traced slow, glistening paths down her neck, the uncertain glance she cast his way now that lingered a fraction too long, sensing the shift even if she couldn’t yet name it.

At the touch of his hand, the engine purred to life, a soft vibration running through the frame of the car as he pulled smoothly out of the parking space, his focus fixed straight ahead on the road as though looking at her might tip something irrevocably out of balance.

He should take her home, he knew that. Felt the certainty of it settle in his mind with the same ease as it always did.

This was usually the point where he redirected things, where he reframed the moment into something lighter and easier to stomach, filling the space with a clever remark, a plan, an invitation that kept everything polished and shining on the surface. When they would return the way they came from, away from this planet, back to the safety of their individual routines, just as he had done up until now.

The thought was already there, sensible and safe, fully formed before he even needed to reach for it.

Instead, when he finally spoke, what left his mouth was something different entirely.

“My place is closer.”

She startled, dramatic enough that she knew he could see it. How obviously her breath caught. How her eyes widened just slightly when realization dawned, because she understood what this was, even if he hadn’t fully articulated it to himself yet.

Four words offered simply, almost casually, perfectly logical on their own. And it was true. His apartment was technically closer, only a short jump away, more practical by any reasonable measure. And still, the implication of his words lingered between them, delicate and exposed, settling into the space like something fragile neither of them dared disturb too roughly.

This was an excuse, plain and simple, offered under the guise of practicality.

They both knew there were easier answers, more reasonable ones: he could have arranged them a change of clothes, booked a hotel, came up with a dozen solutions that made far more sense. He had the means for all of it, the instinct, the habit of excess.

But he didn’t.

This wasn’t convenience, and it wasn’t just practicality, and it wasn’t even temptation alone. It was a threshold, a precipice, an invitation and a dare all folded into one.

This was pure indulgence.

The first time he had reached outward instead of deflecting, the first time he had opened a door rather than gesturing her toward something brighter and safer elsewhere.

She swallowed, pulse pounding in her ears.

She searched his face, suddenly careful, suddenly aware of the weight of what he was offering. And before she could talk herself out of it, before she could hope too much, she nodded. A small, almost imperceptible motion.

Something akin to relief.

Something like victory.

Something like wanting.

He said nothing else, and the silence that settled over the car wasn’t uncomfortable. It was electric, dangerous with possibility. Aventurine— the man who could charm a boardroom, gamble with a smile, tease like it was his native tongue— remained quiet, but he wasn’t calm, not even close. Not during the ride, not when they boarded, not when they landed.

And with every passing moment, as they drew closer, the realization pressed heavier against her chest, deep and undeniable. It settled into her slowly at first, the way the streets began to change, traffic thinning until the city felt less like a living thing and more like a held breath, as though even the world itself knew to quiet down here. She watched it all wide-eyed, breath catching as the passing streets gave way to polished luxury, the shift so seamless it almost felt unreal.

The buildings here were different— taller, polished stone, soft lighting, and the kind of space that didn’t ask to be noticed because it already assumed it belonged to the people worthy of occupying it.

She pressed her hands together in front of her as they glided through the gates, security barely sparing them a second glance before waving them through, everything unfolding with an efficiency that bordered on indifference. It was seamless. Untouchable. Like passing through an invisible barrier, not just into a different part of the universe, but into an entirely different version of Aventurine’s life, one she had only ever glimpsed from the outside.

A guard stood at the private lobby entrance, straightening instantly the moment he recognized who was approaching. “Good evening, Mr. Aventurine.”

Respect mingled with something sharper.

Aventurine didn’t acknowledge it with anything more than a faint, noncommittal hum as he walked past, though she noticed the way his posture stiffened just slightly, like this was a part of himself he hadn’t intended to put on display for her. He moved beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, but there was anticipatory tension coiled there that she hadn’t felt before as he ushered her toward a private elevator, doors sliding shut behind them with a sound that sounded final.

She stared at the glowing panel as they ascended into the sky, heart thudding at the numbers climbing too fast for her to count, acutely aware of herself: her damp dress, her smudged makeup, the way she suddenly felt very small and very out of place. Everything felt too much and too fast, even though nothing was rushed.

When the doors finally opened with a soft chime, there was no grand reveal waiting for her. Just the expanse on the other side, softly illuminated by the city light spilling in through floor-to-ceiling windows, brushing over black marble floors, subtle gold inlays, and a space so meticulously curated it felt like stepping into the quiet pulse of his mind.

He stepped in first, then paused, jaw flexing once. He opened his mouth like he was thinking about what he wanted to say, then closed it. She saw the moment his composure flickered, saw the uncertainty and thrill shadow his eyes like he wasn’t sure if inviting her inside was pure, reckless brilliance… or complete disaster.

Then he gestured for her to enter, almost formal.

The penthouse was… expensive wasn’t even the right word.

It was undeniably luxurious, true, but it was a restrained kind of luxury, quiet and intentional, no ostentatious displays. Soft amber lights traced clean lines through the space, from the entrance to the sofa angled precisely toward floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city like a living, breathing painting. She had expected his place to be pristine in the way luxury homes so often were— immaculate, expensive, untouchable — but instead she was struck by the absence of coldness, by the fact that nothing here felt sterile.

And that surprised her more than the private elevator or the biometric locks.

There were signs of life everywhere, if she looked closely. A half-finished glass on the counter. A stack of documents left beside a sleek tablet, margins filled with handwritten notes. A bowl of unfamiliar trinkets on a side table, a scattered deck of cards, tokens, stones, things that looked collected rather than simply bought. One of his jackets— his favorite one, she realized— hung over the back of the sofa like he’d tossed it there days ago and never bothered to move it.

Pieces of him, scattered like breadcrumbs.

Treasures, she thought, if only one knew how to recognize them. The quiet presence of a man who spent too many nights here thinking instead of sleeping.

Not the carefully curated image of Aventurine the world knew.

This place felt private in a way no hotel suite ever has, not designed to be admired and abandoned, but something deeply his, something that had never been meant to be seen.

She stepped further inside, letting her fingers skim over the back of the couch, brushing the fabric of his discarded jacket as if testing whether it was real. “So,” she whistled teasingly, glancing around as if taking inventory of the moment itself, tone light rather than accusing, “no grand entrance? No dramatic buildup? I must admit, I expected more from you, Aventurine.”

He exhaled slowly, controlled, trying to recalibrate his entire persona before her eyes, but it lacked his usual effortless flourish, and she knew it.

“It was an impulse,” he joked, the word tasting unfamiliar on his tongue. “I don’t usually indulge those.”

She laughed softly. “Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

She wandered deeper into the space, letting the silence stretch, warm and curious rather than tense, allowing him to watch her explore the room without the pressure of immediate commentary. He followed at a slower pace, hands in his pockets, every line of his body composed yet strangely alert, aware that every step carried the risk that she might stumble upon a piece of him he hadn’t intended to show.

She stopped by the windows, the city lights catching her silhouette and painting it in gold. “The view here is incredible,” she murmured. "Figures you'd manage to snatch up only the best for yourself."

“It's good for late nights,” he deflected easily, though his voice had softened despite himself. “Keeps me from falling asleep.”

She turned toward him with a knowing smile, head tilted just slightly. “You say that like you sleep at all.”

Her ability to see through him was becoming dangerous.

And addictive.

For the first time in a long, long while, he had no idea what he was doing, and he liked it.

She stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the rain clinging to his clothes, feel the warmth of his skin pushing back against the chill of soaked fabric, close enough to notice the faint rise and fall of his chest and the single drop still clinging stubbornly to his jaw, trailing slowly downward.

“Aventurine?”

He hummed, sound soft, almost fragile. As if waiting for her reaction, bracing himself for judgment. Like letting her in, even by accident, had shaken something deeply rooted beneath his practiced nonchalance.

“You’re shivering,” she said.

He looked down at his wet shirt, his dripping sleeves, the dark cling of fabric hugging his frame, and laughed under his breath. He hadn’t even realized. “Well, I suppose I am.”

She offered the smallest smile, and reached out, brushing away the raindrop from his face with her thumb.

His breath hitched, just barely.

Then he cleared his throat quickly, grinning and retreating back into motion, into the safety of distraction.

“There’s towels in the bathroom.” He gestured vaguely toward a hallway. “Go ahead. I’ll go change and… find something to warm us up.”

I, not we. The distinction mattered.

He started walking fast towards what she assumed was his room like a man fleeing his own sentence.

She followed deeper into the apartment, curiosity pulling her along like gravity.

The bathroom door shut behind her with a soft click, and she stood there for a second longer than necessary, breathing out slowly, only now allowing herself to register where she was.

Then she looked around.

This wasn’t a bathroom.

It was a spa masquerading as one.

She hesitated as she regarded the massive shower, the surfaces lined with sleek, minimalist bottles— creams, oils, washes— their labels understated but their presence unmistakably expensive, carrying scents she recognized only from glossy magazine spreads and hotels they’d passed through but never lingered in.

A quiet, incredulous thought slipped free before she could stop it. Should I even touch any of this?

She imagined Aventurine raising a brow at the question, leaning against the doorway with that infuriatingly charming half-smile.

He absolutely would not mind.

So she reached for one of the bottles, hesitantly at first, then more confidently when nothing exploded or reprimanded her for daring. A soft, nervous laugh slipped out as she twisted the cap and the scent that bloomed into the air was unmistakably familiar.

His.

By the time the shower wrapped her in steam and heat, the tension she was carrying began to ease, the rain and cold of the evening washing away as the water steadied her breath and slowed her thoughts. She let herself stand there longer than she needed to, letting the warmth soak into her skin, grounding her in the present.

When she finally stepped out, she found a robe hanging neatly on a hook, and she wrapped it haphazardly around herself, fabric settling against her skin like a quiet indulgence.

She met her own gaze in the mirror.

She looked… different.

It wasn’t even the shower or the expensive products, it was the anticipation making her glow.

And everything smelled like him.

That realization sent a dangerous flutter through her chest, thrilling, intimate in a way she wasn’t ready to name. It felt like crossing another invisible line, one she hadn’t noticed until she was already standing on the other side of it.

It made her feel tentative and excited all at once, painfully aware of every inch of skin hidden beneath the robe, of the fact that she wore nothing underneath it, of how much territory she had crossed tonight without ever intending to and how quickly it had happened.

She took a steadying breath and tied the robe a little tighter around herself, as if that small act could keep everything contained, knowing even as she did it that nothing about this night had been safe at all.

The living room was dimmer now, lights lowered until the city beyond the windows became the primary illumination, a scatter of gold and white stretched endlessly across the skyline. Aventurine stood in front of the glass with his hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed as he watched it. He’d changed into something softer, the sharp edges of his usual wardrobe replaced by looser lines, his hair still damp and curling faintly in defiance of its usual immaculate styling, a rushed towel-dry betrayed by the faint trail of water still glimmering at his temple.

He heard her before he saw her.

The soft whisper of fabric, the nearly silent step.

His posture went very still, then he turned and for one heartbeat, one delicate moment, he simply stared.

His gaze dipped slowly, deliberately, controlled enough to betray nothing outright, and yet something unmistakable flickered beneath it anyway, soft heat curling at the corner of his smile, restrained but very much present. He didn’t comment on her appearance, didn’t offer the easy teasing that would’ve made this safer for both of them. Instead, he inclined his head slightly toward the couch in quiet invitation, where two crystal glasses he'd prepared while she showered waited on the low table beside a decanter half-filled with amber liquid.

For a second, some instinctive part of her expected embarrassment, wanted to tug the robe tighter in retreat, to make herself smaller, but she didn’t. Instead, she lifted her chin, steady and unflinching, accepting the unspoken challenge humming between them as she crossed the living room toward him.

He watched her approach, eyes tracking her with an intensity he made no effort to disguise. He picked up one of the glasses and held it out to her. “Here,” he murmured, voice lower than before, softer. “For the cold.”

Their fingers brushed as she took it, and warmth pooled low in her stomach as she swallowed, unsure whether it came from the accidental touch or from the way his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary.

She sat down and he settled beside her on the sofa, ignoring the polite, careful distance. She could hear the subtle hitch in his breath when the scent of his own cologne drifted back to him from her skin, and the realization that, perhaps, she had the same effect on him as he did on her sent a jolt of adrenaline through her.

She lifted her glass to her lips, pretending her pulse wasn’t racing, and the first sip eased something tight in her chest. He watched her as she drank, swirling the amber liquid in his own glass with practiced ease, relaxed in a way she rarely got to see. It made him feel closer to her somehow, more dangerous in his ease than he ever was when he was all sharp edges and polished charm.

The sheer ridiculousness of it all hit her at once, and before she could stop herself, a small laugh slipped free.

One of his brows lifted immediately, amused. “Now, that didn’t sound flattering.”

That only made her chuckle again.

“No, no, I'm very impressed by your strategy,” she said, gesturing vaguely with her glass, a playful smile tugging at her mouth. “Whisk a girl away to your penthouse with some flimsy excuse, give her expensive alcohol, invite her to stay the night. Very smooth.”

His lips curved, slow and devastating. "I’m a professional, after all.”

Her mouth opened, sound caught in her throat halfway between laughter and an outraged groan. “You are so insufferable,” she laughed, nudging his shoulder lightly. "You're lucky you have your IPC perks."

“Perks?” he echoed, mock-offended, leaning back as though perfectly at ease, stretching one arm across the back of the couch in a casual sprawl. “I'll have you know I worked very hard for those.”

His teasing never faltered, not even for a second.

But in reality, he was concentrating very hard on breathing evenly, on not looking at the way the robe fell just a bit more open with her every motion, on not acknowledging the simple fact that she was in his space, that she had just walked out of his shower with his scent clinging to her skin and turned his entire sense of balance inside out.

He could charm, deflect and tease with anyone else, that had always been second nature to him, something reflexive and safe. But now every quip felt precarious, like threading on thin ice that could break any second, because for the first time in a very long while, he actually cared how she answered.

His fingers drummed once against the back of the couch— an unconscious tell, a tiny crack in the veneer he usually wore so effortlessly— then stilled completely as though he realized too late that any movement at all gave him away, betrayed the sharp spike of adrenaline that came from such proximity.

“Well,” she said, smiling into her glass, “good thing you managed to convince me to stay. Honestly, now that I have seen your shower, I never want to leave.”

He shouldn’t have reacted. It went against his better judgement.

But something warm and reckless flickered in him, and his mouth moved before his brain could catch up.

“Then don’t,” he said quietly, smoothly, except his nonchalance felt too fragile, stretched too thin. So he exhaled a chuckle, lifting a brow to ease the weight of his own words. “You know… purely for your comfort, of course. Wouldn’t want you braving the cold in a damp dress.”

“Oh, of course.” She laughed softly, the sound vibrating through him like a spark jumping a live wire, and she turned her face toward his, so close the tips of their noses almost brushed. “All for my comfort.”

He nodded sagely, putting on the most solemn expression he could manage. “Generosity is a cornerstone of my character.”

She raised her hand then, reaching without hesitation to brush back the damp lock of hair that clung stubbornly to his forehead. He tensed unconsciously, because his body always remembered before his mind did, but he forced himself not to retreat. He leaned subtly into her touch with the barest tilt, the world narrowing down to the warmth of her fingertips. It was a quiet surrender she might’ve missed if she wasn’t looking right at him.

“Well,” she whispered, lowering her hand, letting her shoulder brush along his with feather-light insistence, “if this is how you treat your guests, maybe I should stay more often.”

Aventurine’s smirk was a slow, dangerous curve of his mouth. “I might start charging rent.”

Her laughter followed, intimate and warm, as her fingers traced lightly along the inside of his forearm, a whisper of a touch that made him go taut in an instant. “With what you’d charge, I’d never recover.”

The shift in him was immediate and visceral.

Dangerous.

He tried to smirk like he still had the advantage. Like he wasn’t seconds away from doing something he couldn’t take back, and was still debating if he would regret, weighing the cost even as he knew he’d already decided to pay it.

But she was so close, and her skin was still warm from the shower, and his scent still clung to her, and she had just admitted she didn’t want to leave, and he knew—he knew— that this wasn’t like any flirting he’d ever done before.

His eyes flicked down to her mouth, the exposed skin of her collarbone, and then back up as if checking her expression for permission he didn’t dare verbalize. It made something tight and restless coil in his chest, knowing he might not be the one who held the upper hand this time.

“Aventurine,” she whispered, scooting even closer, knee brushing his thigh. She regarded him with that look again, one that felt like a challenge wrapped in concern. Like she thought if she stared long enough, she might catch him in the act of lying to himself. “Stop trying to be a coward. It doesn't suit you.”

The word struck deeper than it had any right to.

Coward?

He’d been called a thousand worse things in his life— snake, conman, liar, lucky bastard—but never that.

Not once.

And she said it teasingly, lightly, but he heard both the challenge and the invitation beneath it. He wasn’t afraid of risk, wasn’t afraid of losing, he never had been.

So why was he trying so hard to keep steady around her?

She tilted her head, each word almost a caress along his nerves. “Come on, aren’t you supposed to be the reckless one?”

At that, something inside of him snapped.

He set his glass down slowly, with a crisp, decisive clink. “Screw it,” he murmured, voice rough, a shade darker. "I am."

He didn’t give himself time to think, because thinking slowed him down, and nothing good ever came from that. One second he was still breathing her in, still hovering on the edge of restraint, and the next his mouth was on hers, moving fast and decisive and utterly done pretending this was anything but pure want.

It was hungry and unpolished, like he'd been holding himself back for far too long and the release overwhelmed him all at once. There was heat in it, urgency, the sharp edge of desperation that’s been coiling beneath every joke and sideways glance, every almost-touch.

Her fingers curled instinctively into the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer without meaning to, and the soft sound that escaped her—barely a whimper, really—made the last of his suave veneer, his sly detachment, frazzle out into nothingness. There was only raw need left pulsing through him in the way he chased her mouth, the way he kissed her like a starving man who had finally found something worth devouring.

He tasted like expensive liquor and adrenaline, like something sinful, making her head spin as she melted into him. Her robe brushed his shirt, their breaths tangled in the charged space between one kiss and the next, and the friction, even with the barrier between them, was enough to make her lose her mind.

She gasped, and he seized her mouth again, deeper this time, like he wanted to memorize the shape, while his mind continued to race frantically.

Aeons, he had been touched before.

Too much.

Too often.

Far too young.

He couldn’t even remember the time when touch stopped feeling like safety and affection, and started feeling like a demand, a violation enforced with a smile as someone tallied his worth. His body, his smallest and last possession, had been used as currency and leverage, another ledger being filled.

And later, when he was free—or at least, freer than before— intimacy became just another tool at his arsenal, a means to an end but never a truth. He became a master in the mechanics of desire, practiced in the economy of seduction, handing out attention to all kinds of fleeting faces as currency that bought influence or silence or favors.

He'd taught himself to move with intent so razor-sharp it might as well have been a weapon, chasing adrenaline like a drug he couldn’t quite metabolize. Every movement was intentional, every inch of space monitored, every gesture sharpened into something that looked like desire, but felt like strategy, meaningful only insofar as it shifted the balance in his favor.

A slow lean-in, a tilted smile, distraction disguised under the touch of his hand, bait thrown with a graze of his fingers— all of it calculated, precise. Because by then, he was always the one in control.

And control made touch tolerable.

So he let people take. Let them assume. Let them press their expectations into him until he fit the shape they needed, sharp edges sanded down, smile polished, odds tilted just enough in their favor to make them think they’d won something.

He was very skilled at that.

In rooms full of strangers he could be both indulgent and empty at once, because nothing there ever asked for more. There was nothing at stake, nothing that could be lost, nothing that could touch him in ways that left marks deeper than skin. He could be generous with money and favors and witty conversation, because none of that ever cost him anything worth keeping.

Yet, beneath all of his easy generosity and amicable smile festered something colder, simpler:

No one got close.

No one got near.

Not unless he permitted it, and he permitted almost no one.

And if someone would touch him without permission, without warning, his world would momentarily flash white-hot and blinding. His throat would close. His body would freeze, then snap back into place, mechanical and perfect, as though nothing had happened at all. And in the next second, he would already be pulling back, already calculating how to spin the momentary weakness to his advantage.

But now—

Now she was in his arms, and the shocking truth was that he didn’t want distance or control or the protective detachment he’d survived on for so long.

He wanted her.

He wanted all of her, every breath, every stuttered inhale, every tremor of her fingers against his skin, every tiny shift of her robe brushing his shirt. He wanted to catalog her reactions, to chase the sounds she made when he kissed her just right, to memorize the heat of her mouth and the softness of her sighs.

One of his hands slid around her waist, anchoring her against him with a confidence so complete it bordered on possessive as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss until she felt it in her spine.

And she kissed him back with equal fire—soft and sure, teasing and intent all at once—meeting him breath for breath until her composure cracked down the center and she was suddenly the one leaning in, seeking, wanting, unable to hold herself still.

Only when breathing became a necessity did he tear himself away, chest rising and falling, their lips still so close she could feel the tremor in his exhale.

“There,” she whispered, eyes heavy-lidded and dazed with heat. “Was that so hard?”

His forehead dropped to her shoulder, and he let out a low, unsteady laugh against her skin, shaking, like he’d just gambled with something he wasn’t prepared to lose.

“I must be more drunk than I realized,” he breathed. “You should probably stop me.”

He was drunk, true, but not on the alcohol, and she knew it. Her hand slid slowly into his damp hair, and she tugged him back up to her lips, taunting, her voice a whisper that trembled with desire. “Not a chance. You're not getting off that easy.”

And then she kissed him again, harder and deeper, but no less intoxicating, with a hunger that collided perfectly with his. The robe slipped a little at her shoulder, heat rising between them as the world narrowed down to the press of their bodies and the ragged rush of their shared breath.

Hunger meeting hunger.

Want colliding with want.

His breath hitched sharply, and he trembled against her imperceptibly. Deep beneath his skin, beneath the practiced stillness of his polished exterior, he could feel the faint, traitorous jitter trailing along his nerves. A restless quiver threaded itself into his pulse that had nothing to do with liquor and everything to do with the way she touched him, the way she breathed against him, the way her fingers curled against his shirt.

When she pulled him closer, robe slipping even more, enough to brush warm skin against fabric, he felt something inside him twist and break loose. His hands tightened at her waist with a desperation so raw, so unlike the easy arrogance he usually wore in crowded rooms, that he nearly flinched at his own sincerity.

He was no stranger to lust. He’d fed it more times than he could count, had used and weaponized it, had hidden behind it when it was convenient. Even had nights like this: reckless, hazy nights fueled by adrenaline and drowning in self-loathing, tangled with strangers he’d forget before sunrise.

But this— this was danger.

Because, while those nights were safe exactly because they were meaninglessness, this actually meant something.

She meant something.

And it struck him with blinding clarity that he didn’t want this night to be forgettable. He didn’t want it to blur into the reckless haze of adrenaline he used to drown himself in. He didn’t want it to be something flippant or swallowed by morning-after distance.

He actually wanted to remember every second.

In fact, he wanted her to remember every second.

And the realization that he wanted her in a way that left no room for escape, no room to hide behind charm or smirking composure or that old instinct urging him to retreat into a joke or a lie, was exhilarating and absolutely terrifying. He could feel the terrifying slip of control, the dizzying free fall awaiting him.

But he always did like the moment right before the impact best, after all.

So, he kissed her again, deeper still, like he needed to anchor himself in her warmth before he could change his mind and push her away, this new unfamiliar territory thrilling him as much as it unsettled him, slow buzz of uncertainty awakening beneath his skin.

Again, when breath became a necessity rather than an indulgence, they tore apart only to immediately seek each other out again, him pulling her onto his lap as if distance itself hurt, as if the air between their bodies crackled with something hot and starving.

“Aventurine,” she gasped, the sound fragile and breathless, snagging on the syllables of his name. Her eyes were wide and shining, cheeks warm, lips parted, welcoming him back with nothing but want.

He wanted her so badly it felt like madness, fevered and relentless, in a way that clawed its way up his spine and lodged itself deep in his throat until it became impossible to breathe around. Every instinct screamed at him to pull her closer, to drown in the heat of her, to lose himself in the simplicity of touch and shared gravity. It made him want to forget the careful calculus he lived by, to stop measuring the cost of every step forward, to forget that he had built himself to be handled.

Because he liked the way she made him feel dangerous instead of disposable, in spite of the old instinct whispering: Let her take. Let her use you. That’s safer, that's familiar.

Wrapped around her finger, he thought, amused and faintly bitter.

But he didn’t pull away.

“You know,” he breathed quietly, as if confiding a secret, “I think I'm about to make a very bad decision.”

Her lips curved, breathless but brave. “Funny,” she said. “I was just thinking how this was the best decision I ever made.”

He didn’t even realize he was moving until her back sank into the cushions, the two of them shifting in a slow, natural tangle of limbs and gasps and heat. He hovered over her, bracing himself, begging silently for more, more, more.

Her arms curled around his neck, pulling him down to her, and he let his mouth wander, tracing a slow trail along her jaw, down to the warm, vulnerable slope of her throat. He felt her pulse jump beneath his lips as he nicked the sensitive spot behind her ear with his teeth, and something inside him tightened sharply.

Because beneath the want lived a colder, sharper truth he could not escape: he didn’t know how to love gently.

He wasn’t built for unconditional devotion, for patience and safety and the slow, careful offering of a self unarmed. What he knew, what had kept him alive up until now, was how to take. How to claim space, claim bodies, claim fate before it could turn into a weapon aimed at his throat.

Take the touch before it could be used against you. Take the desire before it curdled into obligation. Take, and take, and take until every greedy part of him was fed, until the hunger that had ruled his life quieted at last.

He moved with that slow, deliberate grace of his that could either charm a room or ruin it, this time focused entirely on her. The couch creaked, and her hands slipped into his hair, fingers tightening as he continued the slow brush of his lips along her throat, down to the curve of her shoulder, his restraint thinning with every heartbeat.

His breath brushed her collarbone, then lower, down to the parted edges of her robe. Slowly, painfully, he dragged his mouth down the open edge, lingering where the fabric parted, savoring her instead of devouring her. His lips hovered just shy of her skin, and he had to choke down the urge to claim her with teeth, to leave a mark on the unmarred expanse of her chest that would brand her as his, and only his, somewhere only he could see.

He was a selfish man, he knew.

He’d taken things his whole life, he’d never truly savored anything.

But he wanted to, now.

He wanted her to melt beneath him, wanted her breath to hitch because of him, wanted her thoughts to blur and stutter until he was the only thing anchoring her to the moment. He wanted to paint every inch of her with a kind of attention he had never given anyone before, had never even thought to offer, because it required presence instead of performance.

And the most egocentric part of him, the part he knew too well, wanted to ruin her for anyone who might come after him. He wanted her to remember, always, that he had the sharper wit, the hotter touch, the better kiss than anyone else. He wanted to steal every sound from her lips and hoard them like winnings after a perfect gamble, to drink up every sigh, every breath, every shiver of pleasure as if it were something he had earned.

A better man would've thought that she deserved more than this, someone who could want her without needing to cage the feeling or sharpen it into something survivable. Someone who wouldn’t look at closeness like a threat, or intimacy like a gamble rigged against him from the start.

But alas, he was not that kind of a man. He was not kind, nor selfless, nor decent enough to let her go or wish her better. He was someone who took what he wanted when he wanted it and how he wanted it.

And he wanted her, even knowing that if he gave in fully, if he let himself take what he was craving, he might leave marks he couldn’t erase. Knew that he couldn’t give her what she wanted, not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But this one, little night of his undivided attention he could offer her freely, even greedily.

He almost laughed against her skin at the audacity of it.

What an incredibly selfish, greedy, Aventurine thing to think. So in line with his wretched soul.

He didn’t rush, as impatient as he was.

He simply followed the line of her body with deliberate intent, a clear goal in mind, each movement so measured it bordered on dangerous, letting his mouth wander until he eased down to the edge of the couch, settling between her spread legs, cheek coming to rest lightly against the side of her raised knee.

He watched the tremble ripple down her spine, watched her arch reflexively against the sofa, watched hunger and hesitation war in her eyes as she leaned back against the cushions, her head tipping slightly as her breath faltered just enough to betray how deeply anticipation had already woven itself through her body. The moment thickened between them like velvet, heavy enough that he almost felt it on his tongue.

He stayed there, unhurried, letting the pause stretch until it bordered on cruelty, before lifting his gaze to hers. Mischief glinted there, sharp and knowing, but tempered by something darker that made her pulse jump.

His damp hair tickled her skin when she huffed a soft laugh.

“You sure are taking your time," she teased weakly, trying not to sound too eager. The haphazardly tied knot of her robe was barely holding on now, fighting against the pull as much as she did.

His mouth curved as he leaned in, raising her leg slightly, and then, just barely, she felt his teeth graze the inside of her thigh, a fleeting, sinful promise that made her inhale sharply. “I'm trying to be thorough,” he replied, voice muffled against her skin. “You know I have a bad habit of rushing.”

Her hands hovered in the air for a long second before she dared let her fingers slide tentatively through his hair again, as though testing whether the moment would shatter if she touched him too openly. It had been one thing to reach for him in the rush of desire, when his kisses drowned out her thoughts and he was devouring her breath like he meant to steal it, but completely another to do so now while he was looking at her so hungrily. It felt more real, more vulnerable.

He inhaled sharply at her touch, a traitorous hitch of breath he tried to bury before it could slip out.

She felt it anyway.

She had felt it before in fleeting, almost-missed moments: the split second of tension beneath his skin when her fingers brushed him unexpectedly, the way his smile sometimes snapped into place too quickly, too brightly, the effortless joke that always followed as if nothing had slipped, as if he hadn’t almost faltered. Like he was bracing for the moment she’d decide what he was worth and take exactly that much.

He was very good at hiding things.

Too good.

And suddenly, with him kneeling between her thighs, mouth drifting slowly down her skin, hands warm and certain on her hips, her hunger tangled painfully with hesitation.

She trusted him implicitly.

But she wasn’t sure if he trusted himself.

“Wait,” she breathed, leaning up on her elbows.

He stilled instantly.

Not offended, just quietly attentive, head lifting slightly so he could look at her. His hair fell over his forehead in loose gold strands, eyes still clouded with desire heavy enough that it took him a second to really hear her.

Her voice shook as she spoke, not from fear, but from how badly she wanted him.

“I... as much as I might regret what I'm about to say,” she faltered, then pushed on, words spilling out faster than she could steady them. “If this is too much or—”

She swallowed.

“I don’t want you to just… power through something for my sake.”

His expression didn’t change at first. For a heartbeat, he just stared at her, caught somewhere between instinct and intention, the momentum of the moment still pulling him forward even as her words settled in. Then a flicker of something startled and incredulous passed through his eyes.

Obligated?

Him?

Aventurine blinked slowly, stunned, as if recalibrating, before a soft laugh slipped from him. Unpolished, disbelieving.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, lifting his head, voice roughened with amusement and something dangerously tender, “do I look like I'm about to do something I didn’t want to do?”

The worst part was, she wouldn’t know if he was.

She learned that Aventurine did not lie the way most people lied. He was so good at deflecting, at dressing half-truths in charm and laughter, that she had no way of telling where the wall ended and honesty began.

There was no hesitation before it, no telltale pause or flicker of guilt. The falsehoods slipped out of him as smoothly as his smiles, polished and effortless, woven so neatly into truth that separating the two felt almost pointless. He knew exactly which tone to strike, which expression to wear, which fraction of himself to offer in any given moment to smooth edges, and shorten conversations, and keep the focus moving forward instead of inward.

Worse still, she suspected that even if something were truly too much for him, he would never show it. He would endure.

“I—I’m just trying to be careful,” she whispered.

How amusing.

That was a concern that didn’t belong anywhere near him. Careful was for fragile things, precious things. For things people wanted to preserve and cherish. It was not meant for expendable investments and spoiled goods. What he needed were people who handled him with suspicion, with admiration, with greed and calculation— never care.

He shook his head with a quiet, breathless laugh as he leaned back down, his forehead brushing her thigh in a gesture that felt dangerously intimate

“Of course,” he murmured wrily, with a rough, self-deprecating laugh. “Of course, the one time I seriously didn't want to, this is the conversation we end up having.”

He stayed there for a moment longer, forehead resting against her skin, breathing her in as if he were steadying himself, wanting to pull away, yet needing to lean in harder. Then he lifted his head slowly, until his eyes met hers again, and the look in them was unmistakable: warm, intent, dangerously amused.

He spread her wider, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder until she had no choice but to lean back against the couch again, enough to press the faintest brush of his lips indecently higher up her leg. Nowhere near dangerous territory, but leaving no doubt as to what his intentions were. She startled, an unguarded, breathless sound tearing from her as shock and want collided all at once. The robe slipped open further with the movement, helpless against his hands, against the way her body arched instinctively toward him, and she became acutely, painfully aware of how exposed she was, how obviously ready. Heat rushed through her, fierce and embarrassing, and she pressed her lips together, trying and failing to hold back another shaky exhale as his mouth traced even higher along her skin, sending a fresh ripple of sensation through her, each inch he covered making her pulse quicken.

He felt every tremor, every breathless hitch as he moved higher, and it only sharpened the hunger burning through him. Pride flared in his chest, primal and possessive, as he finally closed his mouth over the sensitive inside of her thigh and bit.

Her breath stuttered completely and she jerked against him, half in surprise, half in desperate approval. Desire flared hot and unfiltered across her face, and his satisfaction was palpable, rolling off him in waves as his lips lingered on her skin, painting it an ever deeper shade of red, and she knew with a trembling certainty, that this would leave a mark in more ways than one, that she had crossed a point of no return right along with him.

She felt exposed, claimed in a way that made her heart race, and the realization that he could see exactly how badly she wanted him, how openly her body was responding, only made her burn more.

And he enjoyed it because if she unraveled under him, then at least he wasn’t unraveling alone.

“Trust me,” he said, placing the last lingering brush of his lips against the tender spot, smile wicked, warm and utterly himself, “there is no place I would rather be.”

She tried to protest, but he cut her off with a heated glance, spreading her legs even more. “And I’m not powering through anything,” he murmured. “I’m exercising remarkable restraint.”

His fingers pressed into her thighs a little more firmly, a promise rather than a claim. “Which,” he added, voice dipping as he pulled her closer and the silk slipped even further, “is something you should probably appreciate.”

When he looked up at her again, there was nothing left of restraint, only heat and the quiet understanding passing between them.

“Now,” he said warmly as his thumb traced an idle, possessive line along her skin, the motion pulling the last shred of modesty of her cover away, “where were we before you so rudely interrupted me with your very noble, very inconvenient attempt at reason?”

She almost choked on a laugh. “Aventurine—”

He didn’t give her a chance to finish. Whatever she’d been about to say— some clever remark, some half-formed protest, some attempt to keep pace with him— died in her throat, sputtering out at the first touch of his mouth between her legs.

The sound that left her was barely a sound at all, more of a broken inhale, caught sharp in her chest. Her back arched, hands flying instinctively to his hair now, so unlike the careful attentiveness she attempted earlier, fingers threading deep, anchoring herself by force as he started devouring her in a way that was almost desperate, and all the more devastating for it. Her grip tightened reflexively, just a little too hard, and he welcomed it with a low sound that trembled through him, eyes fluttering shut as he leaned into her grip like it was something he’d been waiting for all this time.

He was relentless, starving, his pace only broken by a rare ragged groan or a gasp as though he’d given up on breathing entirely, perfectly content to consume her instead. His focus narrowed until there was nothing but her softness beneath him, each ravenous and unchecked swipe of his tongue against her making her press even harder into him without thinking, which only seemed to deepen his appetite.

It was obscene, animalistic, and she swore there had to be something wrong with her, because the sounds escaping her mouth couldn't be coming from her. The couch pressed cool and damp against her overheated skin, the contrast disorienting, as he tasted every inch of her, tongue gliding as if he were mapping her by taste alone, memorizing the way her body reacted to him.

There was no hesitation left, no half-riddled questions, no sweet praises, no semblance of her devoted lover. Just frantic hunger.

He was rushing, pushing forward even with nowhere to go, almost in revenge or punishment or greed. She couldn’t say which, because she had been rendered unable to talk. And when she would try to open her mouth, or lean away, or try to pull him closer, his tongue would only slide in deeper. 

He dragged his mouth slowly, deliberately, finding her every sensitive spot with frightening precision and marking each reaction one by one. He chased the tiny tells she didn’t even realize she was giving him: the way her thighs trembled, the way her back arched just a fraction more when he hit something exactly right, the way her fingers spasmed against his scalp when sensation tipped from indulgent to overwhelming.

Each one was a prize.

And he hoarded them all.

As a particularly needy moan tore from her throat, somewhere in the back of her mind, she had enough hazy sense to suddenly be very, very grateful for his ridiculously isolated penthouse and the lack of nosy neighbours, and then she was thinking nothing at all as the rhythm he was setting grew more and more ruthless.

She tried to focus, to stay present, but he was claiming her inch by inch, and every time she arched closer, every time her body begged without words, he followed without hesitation, meeting her with a hunger that felt endless, greedy enough to hurt.

Need clawed its way up her throat, urgent and burning, and every time she thought she could get a grip on herself, he shifted imperceptibly, changed the pressure, altered the rhythm just enough to steal her breath again. Every attempt to plead, to order, to protest, he devoured it, twisting it into a reason to take more, to push further, to blur the line between agony and pleasure until she had no choice but to press even closer, desperate, hips shifting as her thoughts scattered, slipping away from her in pieces.

What came out instead were broken sounds, half-formed pleas that barely resembled language, her hands tightening in his hair as if she could hold herself together by holding onto him.

“Please… oh, don’t stop…” she gasped, desire and desperation tangled so completely she didn’t even know which she wanted more: the release or the torment. There was no space left for embarrassment, no room to worry about propriety or consequences. Not even the expensive sofa beneath her, that she knew would be ruined, mattered anymore. Everything narrowed down to that overwhelming tide building inside her, tightening and tightening until it felt unbearable, until the last fragile thread threatened to snap all at once.

Aventurine sharpened like a predator catching blood in the water. There was something darkly possessive in the way he lingered with a focus so consuming it felt like hunger sharpened into purpose, never slowing down. He wanted her to enjoy it more, wanted hear more of her sounds when she was already so close to losing herself, feel more of her opening so beautifully beneath his mouth. And judging by the way her body trembled, by the way her breath stuttered with every slow, devastating movement—

Not yet, but soon.

And he took it personally.

He stayed exactly where he was, unyielding, refusing to grant her the mercy of pause. It was as if he wanted to hear her come apart, wanted to strip her down to nothing but instinct and need. Her grip tightened in his hair again—to pull him closer, or push him away, she couldn’t say which—and he groaned deeply, the sound torn from him as his control stretched thin, pleasure edging so close to pain it made his breath stutter. He welcomed the sting, the ache, the way it grounded him even as it pushed her closer to the edge.

Too close.

"I—can’t—oh fuck…" Her body betrayed her in small, devastating ways. A shudder she couldn’t stop. A gasp she couldn’t hold back. The way she pressed closer without meaning to, chasing relief even as she begged for it to stop. Pleasure coiled tighter, heavier, pulling her under with slow inevitability until there was nothing left but just raw sensation and him.

Then, just barely, she felt the whisper of pressure, a teasing graze of his teeth against her.

Every nerve in her body ignited, every muscle betraying her as her hips jerked into him reflexively, responding to that sinfully light touch, and the tension she had been building, the relentless, all-consuming pressure, finally snapped. Release tore through her violently, and she came apart with a broken sound that might have been his name, might have been a prayer, might have been a confession, her body arching in a mix of shock and raw need.

Her body convulsed under him, quivering, and he let himself feel it all, let it drive him almost to the edge of his own control, grinning as she surrendered completely, utterly, shamelessly to him.

He never slowed, drawing out every lingering echo of her pleasure until she had nothing left but soft, helpless gasps and the trembling aftershocks he seemed determined to collect. Only when she began to come back to herself, when her body slackened, overstimulated and breathless, did his pace finally ease as though satisfied at last now that he’d taken exactly what he’d wanted and not a fraction less.

He stilled for a brief, shaking second as she dragged air into her lungs, forehead pressing against her thigh with a chuckle, bracing himself against the sheer weight of wanting her. His hands remained firm on her legs, possessive, refusing to let her drift away even as she caught herself.

“Still with me?” he asked lightly, his voice deceptively casual as he raised his gaze to look at her, and the sight of him, lips swollen and still glistening from her arousal, was enough to punch the air out of her lungs again, desire painfully throbbing.

She nodded because it was all she could manage, because forming words felt impossible, because she knew if she opened her mouth, the only word that would come out would be more.

His grin sharpened instantly at her disheveled state, pleased and unmistakably predatory. That smug curve to his mouth made her want to do something reckless, something just to wipe that expression off his face. And if she didn’t want him so badly, she might’ve actually done it.

But as it was, the sight of him like that only made heat coil tighter in her stomach.

“You are so...” she managed, voice still unsteady, "infuriatingly good at that."

Aventurine smiled like he’d just tasted victory again.

“Just lucky,” he murmured, low and amused, like he hadn’t just watched her unravel. Like he wasn’t savoring the way she was still shaking. “As always.”

She wanted to say more, had a dozen retorts lining up on her tongue, but Aventurine had never been a man who waited for permission when indulgence was involved. Insatiable was the word people used, as though it were excess, instead of impatience. He chased every thrill relentlessly, indulgently, until there was nothing left to wring from it. And right now, the only high he was interested in was her— still warm, still unsteady, her taste lingering on his tongue.

She felt the shift in his weight before she saw it, the subtle tightening of his hold as his focus sharpened with want so unmistakable she knew that he was going to dive back in immediately, clearly intending on picking up exactly where he’d left off despite the aftershocks still pulsing through her. Panic and pleasure tangled in her chest all at once, and she gasped, hands coming up on instinct, barely stopping him in time.

“Wait—” she breathed, voice breaking. “Just, give me a second— I—”

Her words collapsed into a breathless, almost hysterical laugh because she genuinely thought she might dissolve if he didn’t stop. “I’m— I’m going to die.”

Something dark and feral flickered behind his eyes, like he’d just been handed permission or a dare instead of a plea.

“Now, now,” he murmured teasingly as his thumb traced a slow, idle line along her inner thigh, nowhere near where she needed him, just close enough to promise it. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Mercifully, he did pause.

Instead of consuming her the way every instinct screamed at him to do, he drew back just enough to let her think he might relent, holding himself right at the edge, tension coiled tight through his frame as though restraint were a choice he was actively wrestling with.

For a split second, she thought he might actually stop. She let herself believe, foolishly, that he might grant her a moment, a breath, a pause for the lingering sensation to dull into something manageable instead of burning beneath her skin.

Aventurine watched that relief bloom.

He watched the way her body softened despite itself, the way she sagged back against the sofa, lungs burning as she finally exhaled.

And then, the instant she settled, he leaned back in with a wicked gleam in his eyes, fingers leaving her thigh and sliding suddenly upward, replacing his tongue against her sensitive bundle of nerves with torturous precision.

Her body reacted all at once— jerking, then immediately leaning back in a breath later, caught between instinct and need. She moaned sharply, shameless and helpless, because there was no warning nor hesitation, just a firm, deliberate graze against her already painfully sensitive core that did everything to remind her just how soaked, how exposed, how achingly responsive she still was. The sensitivity was both unbearable and exquisite, each nerve lit and singing as she was torn between pulling away from the overwhelming sensation and chasing it because the absence felt somehow worse.

“Oh, no,” he murmured immediately when she tried to pull away on instinct. His grip tightened on her waist, anchoring her in place. “Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already. We only just started.”

Her whole body shuddered at the promise buried in his tone.

Gone was the earlier hunger, the insistent edge of desperation. What replaced it was worse: calculated, playful cruelness. His touch wasn’t hurried or searching; it was all- knowing, maddening in its patience. Like he’d already memorized the place of each one of her buttons and was now pushing them back at his own pace.

His fingertips grazed just enough to tease, unravelling her without giving her anything she could cling to, never lingering long enough for relief, never straying far enough to let her collect herself, never enough to settle the ache. But just enough to keep her suspended, breathless, shaking beneath his attention.

He was savoring how easily her body responded, restraint layered over need, and the realization sent a tremor through her. He knew exactly what she needed and was enjoying every second of denying her clean release. Because denying her, stretching this out and keeping her right where she couldn’t escape him, fed something ravenous and gleeful in his chest.

And he intended to take his time.

His touch grew more intentional with her every reaction as though the pause had sharpened his focus rather than softened it. Her breaths came more shallow now, body responding faster than her thoughts could keep up. Each time she tried to steady herself, his fingers adjusted with slight changes in pressure, timing, pace— keeping her unbalanced, keeping her right where he wanted her.

And she needed him.

Fuck, she needed him, and she hated him for teasing her while the growing ache between her thighs threatened to ruin her whole. Her hips shifted without permission, chasing release forcefully, and his hand stilled her again immediately, anchoring her firmly in place while the other continued its slow, devastating exploration. He didn’t scold her.

He just held her still and kept going.

His fingers worked her precisely with painstaking care, never letting the tension break, keeping her balanced on the edge until her whole body trembled from the strain of it. And every time her hips lifted instinctively, chasing him roughly, he stopped her with another firm press of his hands.

A silent reminder: I decide what to give.

A soft, wrecked sound tore from her throat at the denial, and his chest rose sharply with satisfaction. He liked that sound far too much. Liked knowing he could pull it from her at will, that he could make her come apart slowly, beautifully, entirely because he wanted to.

And he wanted to strip her of composure layer by layer, not by force now, but by patience.

She didn’t know how she did it, but she managed to gather enough sense to speak. “This...” she accused weakly, even as her body betrayed her, breaking off in a gasp instead “...counts as cheating.”

Aventurine’s smile widened, slow and unapologetic, watching her falter with every precise swipe of his fingers. "You know I don’t cheat."

She sucked in a breath, trying to continue even as every word got stuck in her throat. “If this is where you start bragging, I swear—”

He lifted her leg just slightly, giving himself more access, pressing a slow, devastating bite to the inside of her thigh that stole the rest of her argument mid-sentence.

"Bragging? With my luck?" His thumb drifted devastatingly, making her whine, and he chuckled. "Sweetheart, if I were a gambling man—"

She inhaled sharply, panting. “You are.”

"— and fortunately for both of us, I am,” he went on, unfazed, hand shifing lower with exquisite precision. “I’d bet that if I did exactly this—”

He trailed off wickedly and before she could ask what he meant by that, his fingers slid inside of her as he finally decided to stop his infuriating teasing, meeting almost no resistance with how worked up and soaked she already was.

Her back arched despite herself, a broken sound slipping from her throat as she got used to the stretch. The new sensation was even more deliciously overwhelming, completely different from his mouth, and she clenched around him feeling so incredibly full. Each careful drag along her walls sent waves of electricity through her as he slowly learned her body.

She didn’t know if it was his luck, some cosmic joke in his favor, or the way he could read people like open books, but whatever it was, he had no trouble knowing exactly what she needed, showing no hesitation as he mapped her responses with the same focus he brought to every high-stakes game, learning her faster than felt fair.

She had always known he was skilled with his hands, had watched him shuffle cards until they blurred with effortless confidence, flipping chips across his knuckles like extensions of his own will. She’d just never imagined she’d come to learn that skill so intimately.

And damn him, it took him no time to press just the right way, find just the right pressure, just the right rhythm, until finally—

Her hips jerked up in a helpless, instinctive reflex, a fractured moan tearing out of her throat as he found that incredibly sensitive spot deep inside. Her nails dug desperately into the couch, into him, into anything she could reach, and he glowed.

Absolutely glowed.

“See?” he coaxed, tone light, fingers unrelenting in their careful torment. “Lucky, just as I said.”

She leaned up on her elbows, glaring down at him despite how badly she was shaking.

“I swear, if you keep talking...” she said slowly, deliberately. “I don't know.. what I'm going to do yet, but—" her words cut off in a downright sinful moan at a particularly precise swipe inside of her" —I'll make you regret it.”

He laughed quietly, manic, shivering with anticipation or hunger. He looked absolutely delighted at the rhythm, the rising intensity, the waves of pleasure that didn’t belong to him but still managed to spark delirious heat up his veins.

“Please,” he said, brushing another infuriating kiss to her thigh, “don't threaten me with a good time.”

She opened her mouth, stunned, some half-formed protest or quip hovering on her tongue, too slow to escape as he cut her off with another precise press on that same sensitive spot that surged straight through her. The sensation hit sharp and blinding, another helpless sound tearing from her chest as her back hit the cushions and she sagged, dizzy and trembling, breath fracturing into shallow, unsteady moans. She pressed her forearm over her eyes like that might somehow anchor her, like it might stop the way everything still felt too bright, too loud, too much.

His mouth skimmed her skin again, his words brushing against her like a second touch.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low, roughened with something feral he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore. “I must say, I'm enjoying the view.”

She should've been embarrassed, but she couldn’t answer, not with his fingers sliding through her wet folds like that, not when his honeyed words made her melt pliantly under his touch. She dragged in a shaky breath, forcing herself to look at him. "One day... that ego is going to get you in trouble.”

“Maybe,” he shot back smoothly, not missing a beat. “But not today.”

He slowed even further, deliberately cruel in his restraint, his fingers easing enough to leave her aching for it. The change in pace wasn’t mercy. It was calculated. He wanted her to feel the absence as keenly as the contact, wanted the space between each electrifying movement to stretch until it hurt.

“Today,” he continued quietly, “it’s getting me exactly what I want.”

If she had any semblance of coherent thought, she would have argued, maybe even laughed at the sheer audacity of the man. Instead, all she could manage was a pathetic whine of his name, because the sinful swirls and harsh patterns he was executing weren’t patterns at all, but language, spelling something desperate along her nerves until her body had no choice but to answer.

She wanted to scream, call him cruel, but if she did, she’d be playing right into his perverted little trap. So, she did what she did best: she goaded him.

“You really—” she let out a breathless scoff, each word slurred “— really enjoy hearing yourself talk, don’t you?”

Usually, her favorite thing about Aventurine was how good he was at talking. Ironically, right now, her least favorite thing about him was also how good he was at talking.

He hummed as he continued dragging cruel patterns inside of her that slowly threatened to draw her insane, forcing himself not to rush, to draw each movement out, the curl of his fingers accompanied by her muffled cries and the slick, obscene sounds echoing alongside her ragged breath.

“Oh, I do,” he agreed. “I just never had a reason to regret it until tonight."

Withdrawing his fingers nearly all the way, he didn’t give her a chance to relax as he plunged right back in again without warning, building the pressure with just a tad bit more friction, and her back arched with violent tremors.

“What?” she managed to gasp out, trying to sound composed, but the pressure building up in the pit of her stomach made it hard. "Did you...ah... tire your mouth already?"

His smirk turned sinful.

“On the contrary,” he whispered, leaning in until his mouth hovered exactly where she was most sensitive, close enough to make her entire body tense, “it's just that my mouth could be doing far more useful things right now.”

And judging by the wild, desperate look in his eyes, he was far from satisfied.

Again, he gave her no chance to protest as he dove in, hungrier than before, dragging pleasure out in long, relentless strokes of both his mouth and fingers that made her gasp and shudder, body arching helplessly as overpowering sensation flooded her nerves. A shudder rippled through her at the slow, devastating drags of his tongue, at the way he didn’t chase her release with his fingers but circled it endlessly, teasing so close to it that it made her hurt. He was everywhere, all at once, and she was losing the ability to tell time, losing track of where his touch ended and her need began. All she knew was heat and want and the unbearable fullness of being undone piece by piece. Her hands clawed at the cushions, desperate for purchase as pleasure overwhelmed her ability to hold on to anything at all.

He could feel the way her body tensed even as it shook, the way resistance melted into surrender. He noticed the way her breath stuttered, the way her hips shifted without permission, the way her thighs trembled as if her body already knew resistance was futile.

Something dark and satisfied settled deep in his chest.

Yes.

This was what he wanted.

Not a quick taking. Not a careless indulgence.

His other hand tightened around her thigh, pressing in to remind her she was held, contained, exactly where he wanted her, like even he was afraid he might lose composure before she did. He moved like a man who had all the time in the world, the way only someone out of his mind with lust could move. Like someone who had decided, very deliberately, that he was going to take everything from her, but only after savoring the slow, exquisite process of undoing her first.

He wanted to strip her down completely, to take every last drop of pleasure she had to give until there was nothing left but him. The taste of her lingered in his mouth. Every swallow, every inhale, every damn breath tasted like her, and it made him want to submit to every horrid urge and simply consume and consume until—

“Aventurine—!” she gasped, nearly sobbing the syllables, but it didn’t even sound like a protest anymore. She didn’t know if she was saying stop. She didn’t know if she was saying please. Maybe she wasn't saying anything at all, because the pressure was building again, and her hips lifted before she could stop them, chasing the high, desperate and soaked and aching from being edged so many times.

He murmured something arrogant and smug against her, a soft, wicked praise, and continued the exact same devastating rhythm, like he wanted to see just how far she could come undone.

“A-Aventurine, stop— I can’t—”

She thought he would ease off.

He didn’t.

If anything, her every reaction only seemed to spur him on more, as if he were chasing his own release instead of hers. He needed to hear every sound she tried to suppress, the way she'd cry out his name. Needed to feel every twitch. Needed to see the way her skin would flush as she lost herself in him, watch every involuntary tremor she didn’t even realize betrayed how close she was. It was the only thing he was able to concentrate on, the only thing he was able to think of.

“I… I—please…” she gasped, voice cracking, half-formed words tumbling into desperate moans. Her hands clawed at him, at his hair, at his shoulders, any anchor she could find as pleasure coiled impossibly tight in her stomach, threatening to tear her apart, but he was in his own world, devouring and muttering under his breath like a man in a trance, hungry in a way someone who knew exactly how far she could go, and who intended to take her there slowly, was.

She couldn’t speak, couldn't think. Her mind couldn’t hold itself together—

And that was when he finally looked up at her, eyes bright, lips swollen, hair mussed from her pulling, expression absolutely feral with delight.

“One more,” he promised lightly.

Smug. He was so, irritatingly smug and greedy, always had been. And right now, she was his favorite thing to hoard. Another quick slide of his fingers along her walls, perfectly timed with a vicious roll of his tongue onto the sensitive bundle of nerves. It was messy, she could feel her own need smeared along her inner thighs.

He was good, too good, and he made it so easy to surrender. And way too easy to make it worth it.

“Please,” she panted, voice a breathless whisper, “Aventurine, I—”

He groaned at that. When she gasped his name like it surprised her every time, something feral flickered behind his eyes. Pride, yes. But also relief.

See? it whispered. You still work. You’re still worth something.

He pushed those thoughts away and only pressed harder. Because if he could keep her breathless, unsteady, chasing him, then she wouldn’t have the space to look too closely.

She was dizzy, thighs quivering, chest heaving as she writhed under his touch. Incoherent pleas, that was all she could manage to utter. All she could bring her foggy mind to piece together as her nails pressed desperately into his shoulder.

She tried to turn her face, muffle the sounds spilling out of her throat with her other hand, but his hand only squeezed her thigh disapprovingly, moving faster and forcing her to moan around it. He was too good at dragging the sounds out of her throat no matter how hard she tried to swallow them, no matter how much dignity she tried to preserve. His pace was too brutal, too expert at making her lose composure to even attempt to keep it together.

Pleasure built higher and higher, tighter and tighter, until finally, with a sharp cry, she broke apart around him, this time even more intense than before.

For a second, everything else disappeared as release ripped through her, violent in its intensity. Pain, pleasure, everything blended together as she shattered, and then the world came back to her in pieces— sound first, then sensation, then the slow, dizzy realization that she was still trembling, still riding the echo of something that had torn straight through her. Every nerve felt too raw as she sagged against the couch, her body heavy and boneless, pleasure clinging to her like a second skin she couldn’t quite shake. She felt drunk on it, saturated, breath stuttering as she tried to gather herself, to remember how to exist without chasing the next wave.

And Aventurine hovered over her, utterly unrepentant, watching her come back from it all with naked satisfaction, a man admiring the aftermath of his own handiwork. He looked pleased in a way that was almost dangerous, like stopping now would never occur to him, like he’d happily keep pushing until there was nothing left of her but breathless compliance.

The thought cut through the thick haze of afterglow with sudden clarity: if she didn’t stop him now, he wouldn’t stop at all. He never did, not when he got like this. Not when he moved like a force of nature, relentless and insatiable, and keeping pace with him felt less like indulgence and more like a beautiful, terrifying way to die.

He opened his mouth, a momentary pause to gloat undoubtedly, but it gave her a chance to gather her bearings, and she scrambled to stop him. 

“No more,” she breathed, pulling him down to her with shaking hands. “Come here—now.”

He let her drag him to her by the shirt, body sliding over hers until his face hovered just inches away from her flushed, wrecked expression.

And Aeons, he looked thrilled.

“Yes?” he replied innocently, voice dripping smugness, brushing a thumb over her lip with amusement that contradicted everything he’d just done. “I’m a little busy at the moment, is it urgent?”

He sounded a little too satisfied with the fact that he managed to make her fall apart around his fingers and scream his name and weaken in his arms.

She smacked his shoulder weakly, more reflex than a reprimand, her hand trembling as much as the rest of her. He barely felt it. “You’re insatiable.”

A radiant grin split his face, the expression of a someone who knew he was winning and intended to savor it.

“Of course I am,” he said easily, like it was the simplest thing that she should've known he would ruin her like this. “You already knew that.”

“Aventurine—” she tried, warning threaded through her tone, though it dissolved halfway into something softer, less convincing.

“What?” he cut in at once, leaning closer, deliberately invading her space until his mouth hovered just above hers. “You make it sound like a flaw.”

She should have stopped him while she had the chance.

Instead, she raised her head and kissed him properly.

It was instinctive, her mouth finding his with a need that surprised even her, considering that she was still riding the lingering echo of her release, lips parting as she tasted the heady mix of both him and herself. It sent a sharp shiver straight through her, lighting something back up inside of her that she had just managed to quiet. Her breath hitched against his mouth, desire flaring anew, like her body hadn’t learned its lesson at all.

Aventurine froze for half a second, then smiled dangerously into the kiss, pleased beyond reason, kissing her harder as if she’d just proven his point for him.

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, because he never stopped while he was ahead, he broke apart from her slowly, far too casually, watching her desire for him ignite in real time.

“Well,” he murmured against her mouth, voice low and pleased, “good thing my bed is big enough for two.”

Her breath caught, sharp and audible, betraying her far more than words ever could.

His smirk widened, smug and incandescent, pride gleaming in his eyes like he’d planned that reaction down to the second.

She used to think luxury sparkled.

Now she knows it hums.

It hums through Aventurine’s world like a quiet, endless current— in the way his penthouse lights bloom at a word, in the way doors glide open before he reaches them, in the way waiters lean in with subtle deference, anticipating him before he speaks. It hums in the scent of crystal glass and expensive cologne, in the soft thud of credit cards placed without hesitation, in the whisper of tailored fabric brushing against her arm as he helps her into her seat.

He had a way of making luxury look effortless, of folding her into it until even the air around them smelled faintly of money and something warmer, rarer. Something that was him.

It used to make her dizzy, that rhythm. The first few times he whisked her away she could barely keep up. One evening she would be in their apartment eating takeout, the next she was halfway across the galaxy at a lounge perched above a sea of starlight. Aventurine always moved as if the universe had already arranged itself around him. She had laughed and followed and let herself be carried by his gravity.

And though she teased him about his extravagance, she never really thought too deeply about it—because he was Aventurine. He lived in a world gilded by excess, and she had simply learned to breathe its air.

But somewhere along the way, something began to ache.

It wasn’t guilt exactly, but an uncomfortable awareness that crept in at odd hours—like when she’d open one of the small jewelry boxes he left on her dresser, knowing the price tag was something she couldn’t comprehend. Or when she’d check her account and notice the generous “allowance” he’d transferred without mentioning it. Or when she’d catch his expression— soft, almost bashful— whenever she lit up at one of his surprises, as though her joy was his own reward.

She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it started. Maybe it was the night he brought her to the marble restaurant, three galaxies away, the one with glass walls that reflected the city’s neon constellations. The air had shimmered with gold dust, the kind designed to make the chandeliers sparkle. He had looked devastatingly at ease there, suit gleaming faintly under the light, his laughter smooth and rich as the drinks he poured for her. Everything was beautiful, perfect, and impossibly distant.

She remembered looking down at the menu and feeling her stomach twist. There were no prices listed. There never were.

Aventurine never noticed her pause, or maybe he did and pretended not to. He'd asked her what she wanted and ordered for both of them, describing the dishes like a man who’d seen every flavor the universe could offer and still enjoyed the game of pretending to be surprised. She watched him, chin resting in her hand, and thought how effortless it all was for him. How easy it was for him to exist in these places where everything glittered and nothing was real.

And then he’d turned to her with that lopsided grin— one that looked rehearsed until she realized it wasn’t for her— and said, “You always look like you’re seeing something new, sweetheart. Very endearing.”

She had smiled back. But the ache in her chest had deepened.

He always paid.

Always arranged.

Always anticipated.

When she mentioned once, absently, that her datapad was acting up, a new one appeared on her desk before the day ended.

When she told him she was cold, he draped his coat around her shoulders— a ridiculous, fur-trimmed thing that smelled like him, heavier than she was used to, expensive in a way that made her fingers shy away from the fabric.

When she admired a bracelet in a shop window, he didn’t buy it then. He waited a week, pretended to have forgotten, and then placed it in her palm while they were walking through a quiet market on another world. “Just a trinket I found on the way,” he’d murmured, voice warm with teasing satisfaction.

He made it all seem effortless. Natural.

And that was what made it worse.

Because she loved him. Aeons, she loved him — the way he could charm a room and still listen when she spoke, the way he looked at her like she was his luck incarnate. But she started to notice how lopsided their world was. How every memory they shared glittered because he had made it glitter. How her life had quietly shifted to orbit around his.

That night it really sank in, they were returning from another one of his impromptu adventures, a last-minute trip to a floating lounge above the clouds of another distant planet. The windows had been open to the wind, the stars soft through the haze, his laughter brushing her ear.

By the time they returned to their apartment, the city was asleep. He was still glowing from the gamble he’d won that night, eyes bright, words easy. He shrugged off his coat, tossed it carelessly over the back of a chair, loosened his collar. Everything he did had that sharp, lazy grace of a man who never needed to doubt himself.

She watched him from the bed, hair falling over her shoulder, feeling like she was standing at the edge of a universe that belonged entirely to him.

When he came to her, she smiled and let herself be pulled into his arms. He smelled faintly of champagne and ozone. He murmured something against her temple about how she made the night lucky. His voice was softer than silk.

Later, when he finally fell asleep, she lay awake and looked around.

The room was quiet except for his breathing. The city lights outside reflected off every surface— the crystal decanter, the gold watch on his nightstand, the gold stitching on the comforter. Her own reflection flickered faintly in the mirror opposite the bed, haloed by wealth he had earned.

Her chest tightened. Not from resentment, but from something gentler and heavier.

He gave so much without hesitation. He would give her the galaxy if she pointed to it. And she… she had never given him anything that cost her more than a smile.

Because, what can you give a man who has everything?

The thought stayed with her for days.

It followed her when she went to work, when she scrolled through her messages, when she saw his name flash across her screen with another invitation. Dinner tonight? Something shiny caught my eye — you’ll like it. Don’t make plans this weekend.

Each message made her heart flutter. Each one deepened the quiet yearning blooming under her ribs.

She began to notice smaller things— how rarely Aventurine ate properly when he wasn’t entertaining someone, how his eyes shadowed when he thought no one was looking, how he sometimes came home still wound tight with thoughts he never voiced.

He lived in a world where everything was bought and traded, where affection was another form of investment. She wanted to remind him there was still something that couldn’t be priced.

The decision came quietly.

One morning, while brushing her hair, she caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, caught mid-smile, head tilted, sunlight glancing off his earring. Something in her chest twisted. Every gesture of his, every grand indulgence, came from genuine intent— his version of care, his language of affection. And she loved him for it. But still, a quiet part of her wanted to give him something back, something that would make that smile real. Something that wasn’t measured in carats or credits or headlines. Something that came from her.

And she knew it would have to come from her own hands.

If he could move heaven and earth to spoil her, then she could do something, anything, to make him feel seen. Even if she couldn’t match his world in worth, she could still give him a night that was his.

The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.

At first, it felt silly, like sneaking around in his domain. She’d never really thought about how his life operated beyond what she saw. But the moment she started looking into the kinds of places he took her to— lounges, private restaurants, casinos— the reality of his world hit her squarely in the chest.

She didn’t think it would be this difficult.

Half the venues didn’t even have public booking systems.

The ones that did required weeks of waitlists and sums that made her blink twice.

She’d known Aventurine had expensive taste, of course. Anyone who’d ever seen the way he dressed, the way he ordered, the way he breathed in silk and smoke, would know it. But knowing and experiencing it firsthand were two very different things.

By the third venue rejection, she was starting to feel mildly insane.

Her first attempt was one of his usual haunts. The opulent top-floor lounge in the nearest planetary system, with glass walls that made the city look like molten gold. She’d been there with him couple of times before, and had remembered how his eyes softened a little under the dim lighting, how his voice dropped low as he poured her a drink and told her stories of “friendly rivalries” that were anything but.

But when she called, the receptionist’s tone shifted the second she mentioned wanting a reservation for two at their earliest convenience.

“I’m sorry, miss,” the voice said politely. “That particular lounge is invitation-only. Members of the IPC executive board typically… reserve entire wings.”

She hung up quickly, cheeks burning.

Of course.

So she tried another. A restaurant he’d mentioned once or twice, offhand, in that lazy tone of his: “They do a steak there that could make a grown man weep. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

The waiting list was three months long.

By the time she reached her fourth and fifth attempts, she realized that Aventurine didn’t merely frequent hangout spots. He occupied places that hovered somewhere between art galleries and temples— private, gleaming, expensive enough that their menus didn’t even list prices.

Her datapad screen filled with polite rejections, waitlist notifications, and reservation fees with numbers she had never even seen. She found herself staring at one particularly steep price tag, mouth dry, whispering under her breath,

“How the hell does he do this every week?”

The answer was obvious, but the absurdity of it hit her anyway. It wasn’t just wealth, it was access. Influence. A lifetime of knowing exactly which doors to knock on, and which people owed him favors.

Her stomach twisted with something between admiration and exasperation.

For the first time, she saw the other side of his easy generosity. She saw how much work must have gone into cultivating that effortless charm, those endless connections, that casual way he made luxury look like breathing.

She’d always teased him for showing off, but now, confronted with the sheer reality of what “Aventurine-level” indulgence looked like, she almost wanted to apologize. She could almost hear Aventurine’s teasing voice in her head—“Expensive taste, sweetheart?”—and she wanted to laugh, except her chest hurt a little.

Because this— this— was what he did for her constantly. Casually. Effortlessly.

No wonder he always seemed to know the right places, the right times, the right names to drop. His entire life was a carefully curated web of access, and he wielded it like instinct. But for her, even getting a seat in one of his favorite lounges was like trying to infiltrate a different world.

Still, she tried.

She started setting aside bits of her pay. Ignored the occasional temptation to splurge. Even tucked away a portion of the “allowance” he’d so generously gifted her, feeling a strange mix of guilt and amusement at using his generosity to fund something for him.

Then each night, she’d go over her notes:

Favorite drinks: He likes that amber liquor from the Kalis system.

Favorite food: Rare steak, seared just past indecent.

Ambience: dim, private, no noise—he hates interruptions.

She made lists, crossed them out, rewrote them. Agonized over what he’d actually enjoy versus what he’d merely approve of.

And all the while, she imagined the look on his face when he walked in—not the calculated grin of the gambler, not the IPC’s glinting mask—but that soft, private smile he only showed when the world wasn’t watching.

The thought made her pulse skip every time.

And maybe, just maybe, she wanted to see what Aventurine looked like when he was the one being spoiled for once.

The idea rooted itself deep, growing into quiet determination.

By the end of the week, the apartment looked like a command center— datapads open, lists of places and costs, and possible alternatives. She’d been at it for days. Cross-checking menus, availability, ambience. She even tried scaling down: smaller lounges and casinos, local restaurants, private terraces with decent views.

She could make something work. It didn’t have to be that extravagant, just thoughtful.

But that’s when he started catching on.

It began subtly. Little messages dropped throughout the day, both casual and calculated, like loose cards on the table.

A passing comment: “You’ve been quiet lately, sweetheart. I was beginning to think I’d lost my charm.”

Or a raised eyebrow, dangerously curious as he studied her, voice dipping low: “You’re so busy lately. Should I be jealous?”

She could hear the smirk behind the words, the velvet slide of amusement in his tone.

He let her off easy each time, smiling like he didn’t really care— though, of course, he always did. Aventurine never didn’t care. He just hid it beautifully.

Still, something about her evasiveness had him pausing between meetings, glancing at his phone a little too often. He’d been in this game long enough to know the scent of secrets—and hers, whatever it was, carried the faint sweetness of something meant for him.

Then, one evening, just as she thought she could get away with it, he called her, sounding suspiciously entertained over the phone. “You know,” he drawled, “I had to check in with security today.”

“Why?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

He could picture her perfectly: the feigned calm, the little pause in her breathing. It all made his grin widen. “Because someone’s been making a lot of inquiries under my clearance level.”

Her heart nearly stopped. “What?”

“Nothing serious, apparently,” he said, chuckling. “Just the system flagging your name attached to a few high-end reservation networks. Care to explain, darling?”

He could almost hear her expression—the quick panic, the mortified inhale of air. His laugh came out low and delighted as she stuttered: “You— you have alerts for that?”

“Of course I do.” She could hear him lean closer into the phone, could almost see him prop his chin lazily on his hand. “Every system in this building lights up when you so much as think about touching an executive reservation line. And you, my dear, are about as subtle as a quasar.”

She groaned, half hiding her face in her hand.

His voice softened, amused and fond. “So... What are you planning, exactly?”

She tried to deflect, mumbling something about it not being his business. He let the silence stretch, just long enough for her to squirm, just short of mercy. He didn’t push, not really, but she could tell he was enjoying every second of her discomfort.

“Alright, I’ll play along,” he said finally, indulgent. “Whatever this is, I’ll pretend I don’t know." Then his voice lowered again, something wickedly amused slipping beneath the teasing. "But do me a favor— if you want something, just ask me. Don't sneak around.”

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “I don't want anything. And I'm not planning anything.”

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, grin widening, “you couldn’t hide it if you tried.”

He started teasing her more openly after that. Not cruelly, never cruelly, but with the kind of warmth that made her feel exposed. He sent her little gifts during the week—bottles of her favorite drink, a silk scarf, trinkets accompanied by a card with nothing written on it except for: “For motivation. Don’t overthink it.”

He was onto her. Completely.

And yet, he didn’t ruin it. He let her have her secret, let her fumble and plan and pretend he wasn’t watching.

After that, things only got worse.

Every time she found a place within reach, she’d think, Would he actually enjoy this?

And every time, she’d imagine his raised brow, his critical yet affectionate smirk, and she’d spiral again.

One night, scrolling through photos of high-end dining lounges, she realized how absurdly hard he worked to make their outings seamless. The drivers, the reservations, the timing, the privacy— it all required moving invisible strings, things she’d never even thought to notice. He’d made it all look effortless, like the universe rearranged itself for her comfort.

The realization made her chest tighten in a different way now, not guilt, but awe.

It only fueled her determination more.

The search was harrowing, endless, but when she finally confirmed her reservation late one evening— heart pounding, wallet significantly lighter— she exhaled a shaky laugh.

She’d managed to book the private rooftop of a small, hidden lounge overlooking the ocean of a prospering city two systems away. It was not one of his IPC-level exclusive sanctuaries, but it was still absurdly expensive, the sort of place whispered about rather than advertised. It was located conveniently away from prying eyes of work rivals and corporate sharks, intimate, bathed in the glow of paper lanterns and the soft hush of the evening wind. The menu included his favorite drink, and the closest approximation she could find to that rare imported dish he loved. And the owner, an old acquaintance of someone who owed the IPC a favor, had personally assured her that every last detail would be flawless.

It wasn’t the kind of grand gesture that Aventurine would orchestrate— no orchestras, no penthouse terraces, no champagne flown in from another planet. But it was hers. Every decision, every call, every small touch, chosen for him.

That, she thought, was the point.

Suddenly overcome with the urge to hear his voice, her fingers hovered over her phone, a mix of anticipation and nervous jitters coursing through her veins.

It was late. Too late, probably. He was still at the office, she knew that, but the ache of waiting, the thought of him, was unbearable tonight.

So she called him.

The line barely rang twice before he answered, his voice rich with affection and curiosity. "Missing me already, sweetheart?"

Her lips curved despite herself. She could hear the smile, that lazy lilt on his lips that was both an invitation and a challenge. In her mind, she could see him clearly: sitting behind his desk, hair slightly mussed from running a hand through it one too many times, the faintest trace of exhaustion undercut by that dangerous glint of charm.

Her heart pounded, but she squared her shoulders and pushed on. “Do you have plans tomorrow night?” she asked softly, hopefully.

There was a pause— brief, but enough to feel his interest sharpen on the other end. Then that slow, knowing chuckle she could hear even through the static. “Not anymore.”

“Good,” she said after a moment, trying to steady her voice. “Then I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything,” he said instantly, and this time, the teasing cadence had melted, replaced by something quieter, indulgent, almost elated.

Her heart thudded at the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Just... come home after work. Don’t ask questions.”

That earned her a quiet laugh, deep and amused. “You’re giving me orders now?”

“Yes.”

He chuckled again, the sound languid, indulgent— a slow pour of velvet through the line. It wasn’t often that someone told Aventurine what to do, and he actually wanted to listen. “Well, well. The lady of the house finally shows her fangs.”

“Do you promise?” she pressed, her tone barely above a whisper.

“I promise,” he said, without hesitation.

She should have stopped there, but his voice was doing things to her pulse, dragging her in like gravity. “Trust me, okay? And don’t be late.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” Then, after a beat of charged silence, his tone dropped, teasingly conspiratorial. "Should I dress for the occasion, or should I let you outshine me as always?

Her laugh slipped out before she could help it. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“Then you’ll have to define happy for me,” he teased, and she could feel the velvet lilt of his voice smoothing into something more wicked. "Because I have ideas—"

“Aventurine.”

That earned her another soft laugh, lower now, more intimate. “All right, all right,” he relented, tone dropping to that silky drawl that made her embarrassingly weak. He could have teased her more, drawn it out, yet he didn’t. There was something thrilling about hearing her voice like this: sure, commanding, hiding something beneath it. “You’re in charge. I’ll behave.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he murmured, and she could hear the grin in his voice again. “You have no idea how curious I am about what you've been scheming. And you do know what curiosity does to a man like me.”

Even as the line went quiet, his voice lingered in her mind— that low, honeyed tone, threaded through with curiosity and something else she couldn’t quite name. It left her breathless, half-exhilarated, half-terrified.

Because now, there was no going back.

She spent the next day in a daze of motion, all quiet determination and trembling purpose, walking the line between nerves and exhilaration. Every spare moment in between her own work was consumed by frantic checks and tiny revisions— confirming the rooftop reservation, arranging the table setup, checking the forecast, even fussing over the temperature of the wine she’d requested.

She wanted everything to feel effortless for him. That for once, there wouldn't be a single thing for him to worry about.

And yet, the closer the hour crept, the less effortless she felt.

By the time evening descended, her nerves were a live wire. She’d changed her outfit three times before finally settling on something understated but elegant, touched up her make up just to have something to do with her hands, did her hair extravagantly just to avoid worrying too much.

When her phone chimed, she nearly dropped it in her haste to answer.

On my way, the message read.

No flourish, no teasing. Just that. Which meant he was taking it seriously.

Her breath caught. She stared at the words for a long time before finally replying, heart thudding and fingers trembling slightly. You better not be late.

Her phone dinged immediately. Wouldn’t dream of it.

The corner of her mouth lifted despite herself. Nervous. Excited. Entirely gone for him.

He arrived to the apartment just after dusk, his silhouette framed in the doorway, jacket sharp against the fading skyline. It had been another day of endless calls and smiling through negotiations that felt like razor wire. The kind of day that left his pulse wired, his patience worn thin, and his smile a weapon he couldn’t quite put down, getting lost in the recklessness and adrenaline of casino lights.

But tonight… he had a promise to keep.

The doors slid open to soft light. Warm. Dim. The scent of something faintly floral lingered in the air— her perfume, threaded through the faint hint of candle wax and breeze that drifted through the half-open balcony doors.

And there she was, standing by the window, her reflection haloed by city lights.

For a moment, Aventurine just stood there, silent, drinking her in as his anticipation grew.

The first thing she noticed when she turned towards him was his expectant grin; the second was the unmistakable gleam of excitement and curiosity in his gaze. “You made it,” she said softly. “I wasn’t sure if I’d have to march into Pier Point to drag you out myself."

“Well, I couldn’t risk missing this,” he drawled, undoing the buttons of his jacket with that slow, deliberate precision that always felt downright sinful. “Not when you’ve got that look in your eyes.”

“What look?” she asked, feigning innocence even as her pulse skipped.

“That look that says you’re up to something.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping low as if confiding a secret. “And that I’m going to enjoy finding out what.”

“Good,” she replied, feigning composure even as her pulse skipped. “Then stop standing there and go change.”

One brow arched, slow and amused. “So, the secret plan is not workplace-attire appropriate?”

“Do it,” she said, though her tone softened at the edges. “We’re going out.”

“Out,” he repeated slowly, tilting his head, amusement curling through his voice. “Just out?”

She folded her arms, a small victorious smile threatening to show. “Yes, out. Now, go change.”

He laughed— low and delighted, a sound that draped itself across the room like silk. “And here I thought I was the one who handled surprises in this relationship.” He passed close enough that his cologne brushed against her skin, his voice dipping near her ear. “Should I be worried?”

“Only if we’re late,” she murmured. "I worked really hard for this."

That stopped him mid-step. He flashed her another grin— sharp, intrigued, a little dangerous. “Do you enjoy keeping me in the dark?”

Maybe she did.

But she said nothing, just waved him off toward the bedroom to go change.

By the time he reappeared a few minutes later, he looked effortlessly disarming— collar loose, shirt crisp, hair effortless but just unruly enough to betray haste. The sight of him stole her words clean away.

“Ready,” he said easily, already reaching for his phone. “Where to? I’ll call the driver.”

She shook her head. “You don’t need to.”

That made him pause. “No?”

“I already did.”

A flicker of surprise passed over his face. Then a low, pleased chuckle. “You did?”

She nodded, smug now at catching him off guard.

He hummed, the sound somewhere between approval and temptation. “Interesting.”

They stepped out into the hall together, and before they reached the elevator, he tried again. “At least tell me the name of the place so I can—”

“I already made the reservation.”

“You did?” He blinked, the faintest trace of genuine disbelief painting his tone before it dissolved into laughter. “You’re telling me I don’t even have to make a call?”

“No calls. No favors. No contacts,” she said. “You just show up.”

“My, my,” he murmured, sliding a hand into his pocket, his gaze brushing over her like liquid heat. “You really planned this.”

It was her turn to flash him a mischievous grin. “Obviously.”

He studied her for a long, unreadable moment before his voice returned, velvet-smooth but edged with sincerity. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”

“That’s the idea. Just sit back and let someone else take care of things for once,” she countered.

His smile faltered, not in displeasure, but in quiet surprise. It was so rare for anyone to do anything for him. He turned to her fully then, startled, a little breathless, a little undone, that charming veneer thinning just enough to reveal something deeper— hunger, fascination, something he usually hid behind his teasing. “If you keep this up, I might start thinking you’re trying to steal my job here.”

She gave him an unamused look, though it came off more like a playful glare with her lips fighting back a smile. "Spoiling is not a job. You'll survive."

“I beg to differ,” he hummed, amused, grin returning as he leaned closer. “It’s a full-time occupation. And I happen to be the most dedicated employee.”

She just shook her head, not even deigning that with a reply.

By the time they reached the car, Aventurine was visibly struggling not to smirk. His restraint was cracking at the seams. Every attempt he made to wrest control — to call ahead, to handle the payment, to “help” — met the same calm resistance. Each time she’d already handled it. And each time, that wicked glint in his eyes deepened, his voice lowering with intrigue.

“Tell me at least this,” he said at last, the city lights streaking past the window as he leaned toward her, voice honey-silk. “Did you pay for it yourself?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, his eyes flicked to hers — quiet surprise, followed by something far more dangerous. Then he let out a low whistle. “You’re going to put me to shame, sweetheart.”

She scoffed. “Not possible.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” His gaze settled on her, lazy and deliberate, that rare mix of fondness and hunger simmering beneath the surface. “I'm afraid I'm already feeling severely humbled.”

She laughed under her breath, turning toward the window so he wouldn’t see her blush. “Stop whining. We're almost there.”

His chuckle filled the space between them — quiet, indulgent, and full of promise. “Can’t wait,” he murmured, and from the sound of it, he meant every word.

When they finally arrived, the staff greeted her first. That alone was a novelty. He watched her with quiet fascination— the confidence in her posture, the way her smile softened when she mentioned the reservation, the quiet assurance of someone who had planned this carefully.

He didn’t quite know what to expect as they were led up a narrow staircase to a private rooftop bathed in soft lantern light, overlooking the ocean, and the suspense was exhilarating by itself. The night wind carried the scent of salt and jasmine; the city shimmered below them in gold and violet hues.

At a first glance, the rooftop didn't look like the world Aventurine was used to commanding.

No marble corridors, no crystal chandeliers, no symphony of polished voices and subtle power plays, no clatter of chips on the table or shimmer of wealth vying for attention.

Just candlelight and quiet opulence.

Just her, standing there waiting for him, the lanterns catching in her hair, eyes luminous with something that made his chest feel too tight.

For once, there was no grand entrance for him to make. No audience to perform for. No need to shine, to dazzle, to win.

He simply stood there and let himself look at her.

“Do you like it?” she asked softly, almost shyly, as though afraid to break the moment.

He didn’t answer right away.

He stepped forward slowly, gaze roaming over the details he couldn’t help but notice: the table set for two with fine porcelain, a bottle of his favorite vintage chilling nearby, plates already prepared with precision. The flicker of gold across glass. The rhythmic, distant hush of waves below.

Everything was already done.

Handled. Arranged. Perfect.

And none of it was his doing.

That realization hit him harder than he expected— a strange, quiet ache beneath his ribs.

Aventurine was used to being the architect of his own comfort, of everyone else’s comfort. To be the one who moved the pieces, who planned, paid, executed. It was his way of controlling the world, of controlling himself. To never owe, never depend.

Yet here, now, he was simply being given to, and it was disarming in the most dangerous way.

He let out a low laugh, a sound as unsteady as it was amused— not mocking, but almost in disbelief. “You did all this?”

She nodded, lips curving, nervous but proud. “I told you to trust me.”

He leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, fingers lingering just a little too long. “You must’ve gone through hell booking a place like this.”

She laughed breathlessly. “You have no idea.”

When the host approached and lead them to the table, Aventurine instinctively reached for his card, the movement reflexive, an act of habit. "At least let me handle the bill for the food—"

But the host’s polite smile stopped him mid-motion. “It’s already been taken care of, sir. The lady arranged everything in advance.”

Aventurine froze for a heartbeat, his practiced charm faltering just slightly. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied, bowing lightly before retreating.

He turned to her, amusement flickering— not his usual sharp, effortless self, but something slower, softer, more fragile. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“I tried to,” she said, almost whispering.

He sank into his chair with an exhale, leaning back as though testing the feeling of being still. His fingers drummed against the crystal glass before him, eyes tracing the skyline as if to buy himself a moment. “You know, this is dangerous,” he said finally, voice low and thoughtful. “You’re setting a dangerous precedent, sweetheart.”

Her head tilted, a question in her gaze. “How so?”

He turned to her, smile lazy, but gaze sharp, unreadable. “If I get used to being spoiled like this, I might never want to lift a finger again.”

Her laugh came soft and quick, easing the tension for a moment. But Aventurine didn’t join her. He was too busy watching her, studying her with the same intensity he reserved for a game of chance.

When the waiter returned again, he reached out automatically for the menu. “What would you like—”

“Already ordered,” she interrupted gently, almost apologetically. "For both of us."

Aventurine blinked, thrown again. The waiter set the plates before them with quiet ceremony. He glanced down at the dish— one of his favorites, prepared exactly the way he liked it. He looked back up again, studying her in a way that made her pulse jump. “You’re telling me you knew exactly what I wanted before I did?”

The waiter smiled politely. “The lady was very specific.”

When they were alone again, Aventurine exhaled a laugh, soft and incredulous, his usual grin tempered by something quieter. “Now, I'm really starting to feel pampered.”

“Maybe a little,” she admitted, looking down at her plate to hide her smile.

“Mhm,” he hummed, leaning forward, elbow resting on the table. “I can’t decide if I should be flattered or terrified.”

“I’ll take flattered.” She smiled back, but he could see the nerves in her fingers as they brushed the rim of her glass.

The candles flickered in the glass between them, painting gold across her face. Every detail she’d arranged, from the perfectly chilled drink to the discreet distance of the staff, spoke of effort, of thought. Of how well she knew him.

The precision of it all was unsettling. Not because it was wrong, but because it was perfect in a way he hadn’t planned.

And he’d built his whole life on control.

Even his affection came carefully rationed— gifts, surprises, gestures. He gave so that he wouldn’t have to need. He adorned others in luxury so they’d never glimpse the hollow places inside him.

But this— this quiet, intimate evening, crafted just for him— left no room for the glittering armor he usually wore.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. He swirled his drink, gaze fixed on the slow, dark whirlpool in the glass, a small storm contained in crystal. The rooftop had fallen quiet, the lounge lights blinking like constellations reflected in the water. The lanterns above them swayed gently in the breeze, their soft glow gilding his profile.

Candlelight caught in his eyes when he looked at her again, sharp and assessing. And then softly, almost to himself, Aventurine said, “Why?”

Her brows knit, uncertain what he was referring to. “What do you mean?”

“Why all this?” He gestured vaguely at the table, the fine porcelain, the bottle chilling in its cradle, the city glittering below. “If you want something from me, sweetheart, all you ever have to do is ask. There’s no need for all this flattery.”

Her eyes widened just a bit, caught off guard. But then she sighed in understanding. “That wasn’t the goal.”

“No?” His grin curved, still edged with that familiar mischief, but gentler now. “Then what was?”

She hesitated, fingers toying with the stem of her glass. When she spoke, her voice was small but steady. “I wanted to repay you.”

There was a long pause.

“Repay me?” he repeated, carefully, the notion itself tasting foreign on his tongue. The words didn’t even compute at first, as though she’d spoken a language he’d forgotten.

“You do so much,” she said, the words spilling out now— quick, fragile, honest. “You plan everything, pay for everything, make everything perfect. And I— I just… wanted you to have a night where you didn’t have to do anything. Even if it’s small. Even if it doesn’t compare.”

The words made him go utterly still. The world seemed to narrow for a moment, night air stirring between them, cool and sweet.

“You think I do those things because I expect something in return?” His tone was soft, but the weight in it was palpable, the kind that came from the depths he rarely let anyone touch.

“I know you don't,” she said, barely above a whisper. “That’s exactly why I wanted to.”

Aventurine’s smile wavered, almost disbelieving. Because the way she said it— not as gratitude, not as debt, but as care— carved through every quiet defense he’d ever built.

He reached out, tracing the rim of his glass again, as if grounding himself. Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but fragile, tender. Below, the city murmured like the world itself was holding its breath. “You really shouldn’t have gone through all this trouble,” he murmured at last.

“But I wanted to.”

He exhaled then, slow and resigned. The charming polish returned full force, his dazzling grin back on his face, but his eyes shone in a rare gesture of wordless affection. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to let you.”

And for the rest of the evening, he didn’t try to take over. He didn’t try to dominate the moment. He didn’t reach for his phone, didn’t ask to see the bill, didn’t turn it into one of his usual games where control was both the currency and the prize, the way he always did when comfort became too intimate to bear.

He just let the evening unfold around him.

He ate. Drank. Laughed.

Simply content to let himself be led.

It felt almost unnatural at first— sitting still while someone else carried the weight of intention. But little by little, the edges of his composure softened. He leaned back in his chair, one hand draped loosely over the backrest as the other traced idle patterns against the tablecloth, his gaze fixed on her with that dangerous, lazy attention that meant she had all of him, every ounce of focus, every quiet thought.

He let her pour his drink, the movement unhurried. He accepted it without a word, their fingers brushing, but he didn’t pull away. A small thing, but it landed like a spark.

When she cut a small piece of steak and held it out across the table, Aventurine almost laughed— a startled sound, half disbelief, half delight. “You’re serious?”

She nodded, eyes glinting. "You said you'd let me."

With an incredulous shake of his head, he leaned forward, eyes never leaving hers as he caught her wrist gently, steadying it before bringing it to his lips. The air between them seemed to still. Her pulse jumped beneath his fingers as he bit down, slow and deliberate, his teeth just grazing the edge of the fork before he pulled away.

She looked down, flustered. But when she met his eyes again, the amusement in them had softened into something deeper, rarer— the quiet awe and reverence, the look of a man unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of care.

He’d spent years building walls out of polished stone and gold. He used charm as defense, generosity as distance. He knew how to make others feel wanted, adored, indebted. But to be cared for without expectation, that stripped something bare inside him. Something he didn’t realize had grown so starved.

So he let her feed him another bite. Let her refill his glass. Let her laughter spill between courses like soft music.

Let himself receive.

And by the time the candles had burned low, and the waiter had finally cleared their plates and left them with the last of the drinks, Aventurine had grown quiet in a way she’d rarely seen— not out of boredom or thought, but out of a fullness he didn’t quite know how to hold. He leaned back in his chair and studied her through the faint shimmer of the lantern light, his posture loose now, utterly relaxed, the edges of his exhaustion softened by something that looked startlingly like peace.

“You know,” he said after a while, voice quieter than she’d ever heard it, “I don’t think anyone’s ever tried to spoil me before.”

"There’s a first time for everything,” she said softly.

He smiled at that— not his gambler’s practiced grin, but something small, tired, and grateful. “If I’d known this was what you were planning, I would’ve let you surprise me sooner.”

"No, you wouldn’t have." She rolled her eyes affectionately. “You would’ve found some way to take control halfway through and pay for everything. Actually, I'm surprised you haven't already.”

A laugh escaped him— a real laugh, low and bright. For a long moment, he just looked at her, his eyes full of light and something almost calculating. “You’re right,” he said, contemplative. “Wouldn’t want to ruin it.”

“You almost did,” she teased. "How was I supposed to know that you would know if I went snooping around?"

Aventurine studied her in silence for a beat, the wind stirring faintly between them, brushing against the last flickering candle. When he finally spoke again, his voice dropped into that low, honeyed tone that always seemed to hold a private meaning. “You win, sweetheart,” he admitted, smirking faintly. “You’ve outplayed me.”

But despite the words, Aventurine didn’t sound like a man who’d lost. There was no defeat in his voice, only something slow and deep and dangerous, the quiet pull of admiration bleeding into want.

And she had a feeling she had just started a game she didn't know if she could win.

When they were finally ready to leave, the rooftop had mostly emptied, the soft hum of the night wind replacing the muted clink of glasses and laughter. The air had cooled, brushing against bare skin and lingering perfume. She smiled at him— satisfied, a little smug— before murmuring, “I’ll go grab our coats.”

He nodded as she walked away toward the hostess stand, and he let his gaze linger just long enough to be intimate— admiring, unhurried, undeniably fond. Her heels clicked softly against the marble, the faintest echo fading as she turned the corner. Then, as soon as her silhouette slipped out of view, the atmosphere shifted almost imperceptibly.

The shift was momentary, not sudden but all-encompassing. The kind of invisible ripple that followed power when it walked through a door, or in Aventurine’s case, when it decided to take the leash off. The staff’s movements sharpened quietly, their tone adjusted— a collective, unspoken awareness of the man still sitting there.

A few whispers between servers.

A hostess smoothed her skirt.

The owner straightened instantly, adjusting his jacket.

Almost as if everyone in unison braced themselves, just then, for the main event of the night.

Still sitting there, Aventurine’s smile curved, slow and knowing. The kind of smile that burned bridges and built fortunes with the same disarming grace that had earned him everything he owned: influence, respect, status.

Finally.

He’d been incredibly well-behaved tonight if he said so himself. Almost painfully patient and nothing but perfectly pliant. All evening, he’d been playing along, leaning back, letting her lead, indulging every little victory with that lazy, devastating smile.

He'd admired the way she'd squared her shoulders when she insisted on spoiling him—head high, eyes alight with quiet determination, as if she were daring him to argue. And oh, how tempting it had been. The instinct to tease, to remind her how absurd it was to challenge him to a game of indulgence, had thrummed beneath his skin.

But then, she looked at him with that achingly sincere gaze.

Not with calculation or strategy, but as though giving came naturally, as though the act of doing something for him was its own reward. There was no angle to it. No expectation. No transaction hiding behind the gesture. Just that infuriating, radiant kind of generosity that asked for nothing back.

It was selfish, in its own way— beautifully, naively selfish. And adorable, really, her stubborn insistence on balance, as if generosity between them could ever be measured in credits or favors.

Not when she had given him more than he'd ever thought possible.

And truth be told, for a single fleeting, reckless moment, he’d wanted to let her win this one. To accept the dinner, the effort, the thought, and let her believe he’d surrendered.

But then, the insistent urge hit him with the force of a tidal wave: the unbearable craving to give back. To match her selflessness with something bigger, louder, more consuming. It was not a want, it was a need.

Yet, he did not want to overstep. And when she turned her head to smile at him—content, triumphant—he’d already decided he would indulge her.

But only for a little while, that is.

He let her enjoy her moment, letting her forget that he was a man built on odds and margins, on the thrill of taking back control just when everyone thought he’d yielded. He let himself bask in her attention, all the while biding his time.

Not letting her notice that he’d caught the owner’s eye between courses.

That he offered a brief, meaningful nod to a passing waiter.

That he had even slipped a murmured request to the host when she’d excused herself for a moment earlier— nothing overt, nothing she’d notice, but just enough to make sure the evening ended his way. Well-intentioned manipulation, elegantly hidden beneath courtesy.

It was, after all, a game, and Aventurine never placed a bet he hadn’t already stacked in his favor.

It was her mistake to bet on his restraint.

And, honestly, did she really think he’d let this slide? That he was that type of man?

He chuckled under his breath, fingers drumming idly against the table. He wanted to give her everything. Every credit, every gamble, every ounce of luck he’d ever hoarded and locked behind charm and greed. That was the problem with gamblers, after all. They never knew when to stop.

The desire rose, sharp and unrelenting, threading through his chest like heat. With her gone for a moment, the table cleaned and his patience paid off, he raised his hand and called for the expectant staff with practiced ease, his charm and subtle mischief sliding into place as easily as breathing. Cloaking him in that effortless, polished confidence he usually reserved for boardrooms and negotiation tables.

Their attention snapped to him, and the owner hurried towards his side, both eager and apprehensive.

“Lovely evening,” Aventurine said, voice warm enough to melt through glass, as he leaned an elbow against the table, chin resting in his palm. “Though I think we’ve had a bit of a mix-up.”

The owner blinked, instantly attentive. “A mix-up, sir? I am terribly sorry, I wasn’t aware—”

“Yes, a mix-up. An awful one,” Aventurine said with a sigh so theatric but persuasive, it nearly passed for sincerity. “You see, my date insisted on paying tonight. Very admirable of her, I know, but just between you and me—” he lowered his voice into a conspiratorial purr “— I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I let that happen, now would I?"

The owner’s lips twitched despite himself, polite composure breaking just enough to show deference. “Ah, a misunderstanding, then."

“Exactly.” Aventurine’s grin sharpened, a glint of wicked amusement in his eyes as he slid his card across the polished surface, movement unhurried but deliberate. "So, let's make sure the lady's generosity doesn’t cost her a single credit, shall we?”

The owner nodded immediately. "No need to worry, Mr. Aventurine, everything will be handled. After all, we are honoured to recieve the IPC's patronage.”

Aventurine’s lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile. “Perfect. I knew we’d understand each other.”

A discreet exchange followed— swift reversal of her payment, his own card swiped, signatures done with an elegant flourish, everything arranged in a flash.

"Oh, and while we’re at it..." Without even looking, Aventurine’s pen swept across the bill in a few graceful strokes, scrawling a tip that would make the staff remember his name for months. “A small token of gratitude for being an accomplice.”

The owner glanced down and blinked at the obscene amount. “You’re... very generous, sir.”

“Dangerous habit, I know. Terrible for business.” But even as he spoke, the word generous lingered in his mind like an echo. It wasn’t generosity. It was selfishness in its most primal form. He was just paying tribute to her with the only currency he trusted: money, wit, charm.

The only way he knew how.

With the deal sealed and the balance quietly overturned, Aventurine straightened his shirt as he rose, rolling his shoulders, voice warm with velvet mischief. “The service was flawless, by the way," he said, flashing a final, easy grin to the staff. "I’ll make sure she leaves a glowing review, after she stops being furious at me for what I’m trying to get away with.”

And just as the owner scurried away, he caught sight of her returning figure reflected in the polished glass, expression bright, utterly unaware. And for one private heartbeat, Aventurine let himself linger in the luxury of that moment: her, radiant and pleased with herself; him, quietly maneuvering his countermove beneath her victory.

By the time she reached him, his face had smoothed back into that perfectly innocent serenity— just a lazy, unreadable smile playing at his lips as she handed him his jacket.

“Perfect timing,” he murmured, taking it from her. “Shall we?”

“You didn’t even try to fight me for the bill this time,” she said, glancing up at him through her lashes, suspicion laced through her tone. "Are you sure you're fine?"

“I was too busy being charmed by the company,” he replied smoothly, voice low and amused, slipping into his jacket with effortless grace.

She arched a brow. “You sound far too pleased with yourself for someone who didn't get his way. And you’re still smiling.”

He laughed softly. “You think this is the smile of a man who’s plotting something?”

"Aren't you? Or are you admitting defeat, then?” she teased as they walked toward the elevator, her smile turning sly.

“Defeat is such an ugly word,” he said smoothly, reaching out to rest his hand on her lower back. “Let’s call it… strategic surrender.”

Her eyes narrowed playfully. “Strategic surrender?”

“Mmh.” His smile deepened. “The kind of surrender that wins you more in the long game. Like throwing a hand in poker to raise the stakes.”

She shook her head, but couldn’t help laughing, leaning into him slightly as they walked. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“Rich is sort of my specialty,” he murmured back, offering his arm with exaggerated gallantry.

Inside their apartment, the door had barely clicked shut before the silence settled again— heavier this time, loaded with something that made her heart pound against her ribs. The night had gone incredibly well. Too well. If she were more cynical, she could almost say it was suspicious.

She slipped off her coat, still smiling, still glowing with the satisfaction of having surprised him, trying to break the loaded tension with something normal and safe. “Did you—” Her voice faltered, soft, almost shy, as she turned towards him. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Aventurine could only chuckle at that. His gaze lifted to her— slow, deliberate, like he was seeing her for the first time all over again, eyes flicking over her face as if trying to read what she was really asking. “Enjoy myself?” he echoed, amused. “Sweetheart, are you seriously asking me that?”

Her lips curved, but she didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I just… I don’t know. You were quiet on the way home. I thought maybe it wasn’t really your thing.”

That earned her a low, startled laugh—warm, rich, and entirely disbelieving. “Not my thing?” he repeated, as if the idea itself were ridiculous.

Her throat tightened, caught between relief and sudden self-consciousness. “I just didn’t want to get it wrong,” she murmured, half laughing, half shrinking under the intensity of his gaze.

The light from the city spilled faintly through the window, casting gold along the edges of his jaw, the line of his cheekbone, the faint curl of his smile that wasn’t really a smile at all, but pure need.

And then he moved.

It wasn’t sudden or rough— it was inevitable.

He crossed the space between them in a few measured steps, every line of his body thrumming with restraint and intent.

“Aventurine?” she breathed, but the word came out as something else, not quite a question but not quite surrender.

He looked down at her, and the mask he always wore, that smooth, polished confidence, had cracked. What shone through wasn’t amusement, or control, or charm. It was hunger. A quiet, desperate, reverent kind of hunger.

All the patient restraint he’d worn through dinner had shattered the moment they were alone. His hands came around her waist, firm but trembling with something volatile as he pulled her against him. “Darling,” he said, his voice a velvet drawl that trembled at the edges, “you could’ve taken me to the cheapest food stall on the lower decks, and I’d still think it was the best night of my week.”

She tried to laugh—nervous, breathless—but the sound barely formed. “You're exaggerating.”

“You think so?” His smile was slow, dangerous. He leaned close, brushing his lips along her jawline, teasing. His eyes glinted darkly, the flicker of his real self shining through. “You’ll have to let me return the favor now.”

Her hands wound around his neck, fingers tangling in the golden strands. “You’re not supposed to repay kindness,” she countered, trying to keep it light.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping to a velvet purr. “Everything’s negotiable. And I’m very good at settling debts.”

She swallowed, caught between amusement and a flare of heat that settled low in her stomach. “Is that the thanks I get after everything?”

“Oh, you’re so incredibly smug,” he murmured, though his tone betrayed him—half adoration, half disbelief that she could still surprise him like this.

She tried to laugh, soft and breathless. “I think I earned it.”

He didn't reply, only leaned down, breath ghosting against her lips, and she could feel the way his self-control strained, thread by thread. Every inch of him screamed hunger—need, reverence, disbelief—that she’d done something so thoughtful, so simple, and undone him completely.

He was about to close the distance, to finally give in to that wild impulse burning through him since they first sat at the table that evening, when her phone chimed.

A soft, polite notification tone.

She blinked, dazed, lowering her arms to reach for it. The spell broke, but not completely; the air still hummed between them, charged and waiting. Aventurine didn’t move his hands from her waist. He only leaned back a fraction, eyes fixed on her as she unlocked the screen.

Then—

Her expression changed.

Her brows knit together, mouth falling open in outrage. Her tone sharpened, equal parts disbelief and indignation. “You didn’t!”

“Didn't what?” he asked, barely holding back a self-satisfied smirk, though the corner of his mouth twitched. Ah, so that's all the time he had been given.

She turned the screen toward him.

A message from the restaurant read: We’d like to thank Mr. Aventurine for his continued patronage. Your meal has been fully reimbursed as part of his ongoing VIP account.

“You reimbursed me.” She accused, waving her phone at him like a weapon. “You cheated.”

He tilted his head, feigning innocence far too well, and had the audacity to look almost sincere. “Cheated? I just corrected a clerical error.”

Her jaw dropped. “A clerical—!" she sputtered, incredulous. "Aventurine! When did you even manage to do this?”

He laughed unabashedly, absolutely delighted. “You didn’t really expect me to sit there and let you pay for my dinner, did you?”

“That was the entire point!”

“Mhm,” he hummed, pulling her even closer against him until her protests softened. “And now the point has been elegantly undone.”

She groaned, exasperated. “Unbelievable.”

“Consider it interest,” he murmured, his lips ghosting near her ear, the edge of laughter fading into something more intimate. “For catching me off guard.”

“You couldn’t let me have this one thing?” she demanded, crossing her arms, though her cheeks flushed with more than irritation.

He smiled, slow and utterly shameless, a smile that made it impossible to stay angry at him for long. “On the contrary. I’m letting you have plenty of things.” His gaze flicked down, deliberate, suggestive. “Just not the bill.”

“You’re insufferable,” she shot back, though her voice softened, betraying something warmer beneath her frustration as she wound her arms around his neck again. "It was supposed to be a nice evening. For you."

His laughter was quiet, genuine— and for a moment, she saw the fondness under the mischief, but the hunger beneath it only deepened. “Oh, it was,” he admitted quietly. “And I enjoyed it.”

“Then why—”

“Because I'll admit,” he cut in gently, his tone shifting, no longer just teasing, but low and intense, “I couldn’t stand the idea of you spending a single credit on me. Wouldn't be really gentlemanly of me, now, would it?”

She tilted her chin up, stubborn even as the edges of her defiance blurred. She’d wanted to give him something. And he, fool that he was, couldn’t bear to let her.

He leaned down, lips barely grazing her jaw as he whispered, “And if anyone’s going to spoil anyone here…” His breath was warm against her skin, a ghost of contact that made her knees weaken. “…it’s going to be me.”

It began the way most of their fights did: quietly.

No shouting, no sharp edges. Just a shift in the air between them, a soft dissonance that started out as a barely noticeable fracture, then spread like a spiderweb of cracks through glass.

They’d been fine, just minutes ago.

Breakfast half-finished, conversation easy, laughter drifting between one word and the next. He’d been telling her about his latest meeting— another IPC negotiation, another impossible win— and she’d been listening, smiling, content to lose herself in the sound of his voice.

It wasn’t until he mentioned how “it could’ve all gone south, but that’s the thrill, isn’t it?” that she felt the familiar tightening in her chest.

She had heard this same, exact story too many times.

The gamble, the risk, the narrow escape. Each embellishment always told with that same infuriating mix of charm and arrogance, the sparkle in his eye daring the universe to strike him down just so he could laugh in its face.

She had long since accepted that Aventurine came alive in chaos, that he fed off thrill. He was at his best when the odds were against him, when everything teetered on the edge of ruin. Danger sharpened him, gave his charm its edge, his laughter its heat. He thrived on tension and possibility the way others needed air, desperately and recklessly.

When he gambled, she believed in his luck; when he bluffed, she trusted his mind. She let herself be pulled into his orbit because next to him, the world always felt like it was spinning just a little bit faster, alive, dazzling, dangerous.

And she loved that about him.

Loved how he could turn catastrophe into performance, how even disaster bent beneath his will. She’d seen him bluff entire fortunes into existence, stroll into meetings that could have destroyed him, and emerge untouched, glittering and victorious, his grin bright enough to make her forget the risk entirely. She’d let herself be pulled into that rhythm, again and again.

Into the late-night phone calls where he’d say, “It’s all under control, trust me.”

Into the adrenaline that lived in his voice when he told her, “You’ll see, sweetheart— it’s worth it.”

Into the wild pulse of his world, where everything sparkled, everything was at stake, and somehow he always won.

But sometimes, like right now, the thrill turned sour in her chest.

She tried to keep it in— Aeons, she tried — but the familiar ache crept in anyway. That quiet, helpless fear she hated admitting even to herself, watching the man who could charm fate itself never once look back over his shoulder to see if she was scared.

Because she loved his recklessness. She loved his daring, his swagger, his refusal to bow to anything. But she also loved him, the man behind the grin and the glitter, and it terrified her how easily he treated his life like a game he couldn’t lose.

She wondered if he courted danger not for the victory nor the thrill, but for the chance to prove, again and again, that he couldn’t be broken.

Sometimes she wanted to shake him. To make him see that not every risk was worth the win. She knew she couldn’t, it wouldn't be fair.

Yet despite her best efforts, she couldn’t keep quiet this time.

It was supposed to be just an off-handed comment, wasn't even meant to be acknowledged, but it snowballed with dizzying speed into something heavier. Words sharp enough to draw blood, tension thick enough to taste.

“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” he said, when she finally asked softly, almost pleadingly, whether he ever got tired of playing with fire. His tone was amused, practiced, the faintest edge of sharp warning beneath it. “Sweetheart, this is what I do. Risk is part of the job description.”

“You make it sound like dying on the job is a bonus clause.” Her voice came out sharper than she intended, trembling with worry disguised as irritation. “You walk into fire and call it strategy.”

He chuckled in that low, indulgent sound that he used to make people lean in, and she realized with a jolt that it rang hollow to her ears now. Rehearsed, as if she were merely some stranger. “Don’t exaggerate. The IPC has entire departments dedicated to keeping me alive. Besides—” He brushed an invisible speck from his sleeve, impeccable even now. “I always win.”

The words were smooth, effortless. Armor disguised as charm, careless arrogance that both infuriated and fascinated her.

It should have been reassuring.

Instead, each word landed like a brick after brick in the proverbial wall he was building between them, a door closing in her face. And she could see it, the way he used them to hold her at arm’s length, like he was dealing cards, every grin calculated, every gesture and every quip another inch of distance.

It had taken her months to realize that was what his laughter really was: a defense mechanism. He wore evasion the same way he wore his suits: tailored, impeccable, never letting anyone see the seams.

And it worked, most of the time. He was downright magnetic when cornered, too bright, too quick. Way too clever for his own good. He could turn concern into a joke before it reached him, could make tenderness feel foolish just by smiling at it.

She’d fallen in love with that grin once. Now, turned on her, impersonal and distant, it just made her infuriated.

“Do you even hear yourself?” she asked, her voice softer now, quieter. “You talk about your life like it’s a wager.”

That earned her a flicker of irritation, small but unmistakable. The slightest shift in his eyes. The twitch of his jaw as he bit back a retort on the tip of his tongue. He was unaccustomed to this: to being questioned, to being cared for in a way that wasn’t transactional.

“You worry too much,” he said lightly, dismissive, but the impatient edge in his voice betrayed him. “You really think I’d let anything happen to me?”

“You think you’re untouchable,” she said softly. “One day, Aventurine, you won’t be.”

For a moment, the air went still. His smile faltered— not much, just enough for her to see the flash of something unguarded. A heartbeat of truth. Because her voice wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t even angry. Just… tired. Concerned in a way that slipped beneath his defenses like smoke through locked doors.

And just when he was about to retort, and with the worst possible timing imaginable, his phone on the desk buzzed, cutting the tension in the room cleanly in half.

He didn’t even glance at her as he picked it up.

“Right,” he said after a pause, already slipping back into his charming rhythm. “I’ll be there.”

Of course. The IPC was calling, and he always answered.

By the time he turned back to her, his expression had settled into the perfect mask again: relaxed brow, half-lidded eyes, the curve of a smile that had convinced gamblers to fold and planetary boards to bend. He adjusted his watch, voice smoothing into its usual silk and steel. “Duty calls, darling. Don’t wait up.”

“Aventurine—” she tried, but he was already turning toward the door.

He threw her a parting smile over his shoulder, one that looked warm if you didn’t know him well enough to see the hollowness underneath. “Try not to worry so much, hm?” His tone was almost teasing. “You’ll give yourself wrinkles.”

And then he was gone.

The echo of his footsteps faded, leaving only the faint scent of cologne and the low hum of tense silence that followed after him like its own kind of presence. She stood there, staring at the closed door, trying to breathe past the anger and worry tangled in her throat.

Because this was their rhythm.

He risked, she worried.

He smiled, she reached for the truth beneath it.

And every time she got close enough to touch it, he slipped away, back to the world of deals and danger where he was untouchable, and she was left clutching the space he vacated.

She told herself it wasn’t personal. That this was just who he was, a man who lived in calculated chaos, who thrived on games of chance and power plays.

But sometimes, in moments like this, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the only thing he truly feared was being seen. He was all gleam and charm and gold edges, but there were moments, just moments, when the mask slipped, and she caught a glimpse of something jagged and untamed underneath.

And every time she tried to reach for it, he slipped through her fingers like sand.

Anger was easier than fear. Anger let her move, speak, breathe. But fear— the real, quiet, festering one— stayed. It lived in her chest like a bruise that never healed.

Because she knew what he was made of.

Because she knew that every time he said risk is part of the job description, what he meant was I don’t know how to stop.

Because she’d seen the way his eyes lit up at the edge of danger. Not out of arrogance, but necessity. As if stillness frightened him more than death ever could.

Because when he looked at her across a poker table or a boardroom or a dark hotel bar, it felt like being chosen by a storm.

He was always fine. Always.

Even when he wasn’t.

And it broke her in ways she didn’t have words for, watching him gamble with his life the same way he gambled with credits and contracts: with a grin and no hesitation.

He’d built an empire on chance, and now he couldn’t live without it.

She made her way across the apartment, and pressed her palms against the cool glass of the window, watching the city lights scatter below, a constellation of greed and brilliance. Somewhere out there, he was probably already working, already charming someone out of a fortune, laughing that hollow, glittering laugh.

And she was here. Alone.

She’d tried everything. She tried gentle words, sharp words, silence. None of it reached him. Every plea bounced right off that diamond-carved exterior he wore so perfectly, slid down his polished surface like silk. He had perfected the art of deflection with a laugh, a joke, a kiss pressed to her temple followed by some teasing remark that left her half-dizzy, half-defeated.

He only ever listened when there were stakes on the table. When there was something to lose. A gamble he couldn’t ignore.

So maybe… she’d give him one.

The thought landed in her chest with terrifying clarity. It wasn’t rage, not really. It was love that had nowhere else left to go.

Love, sharpened into something reckless.

And by the time the first light of morning began to leak through the blinds, she was already sitting on the sofa, phone in hand.

His private account glowed on the screen, her access still active, the quiet, implicit trust he’d given her some time ago. Her fingers hovered over the login field, the familiar digits swimming before her eyes. Use it whenever you need to, he’d told her once, offhand but sincere. A touching gesture, or at least it had been back then, when she hadn't planned to abuse it. It had felt so intimate, like a proof of something unspoken, sitting untouched in the back of her mind.

Until now.

For a moment, her throat tightened. The longer she hesitated, the more wrong it began to feel. Too invasive, like stepping into a locked room without knocking, crossing a threshold she had no right to cross. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he’d see it as petty and childish, a tantrum disguised in numbers. Maybe it would only drive him further away, instead of bringing them closer.

But then she thought of the way he’d smiled at her earlier, charming and distant all at once. The way he’d brushed off her worry with a joke.

And suddenly, the guilt felt small compared to the ache of being unseen.

She could already picture him somewhere in his gilded office, planning his grand apology. It would be something expensive and breathtaking, as always. Another extravagant gesture meant to erase the fight without ever addressing it, a gift instead of an answer. A diamond where an apology should be.

Not this time.

This time, she would show him that gifts weren’t enough. That affection couldn’t be bought or bartered, no matter how much he spent. And if he could only understand her through the language of risk and the weight of gold, then she would make her point fluently in the one language he spoke best.

The glow of the interface lit her face in cold, blue light that made her look like someone else entirely. Detached. Determined. This was only meant to make a statement. It’s not like she would keep any of it; she didn’t need it. And it’s not like he couldn’t refund everything anyway. Better yet, she’d refund it herself the moment he noticed.

She just needed him to notice.

And maybe, just maybe, this would make him pause when he saw it. Maybe he’d finally look.

The first purchase was careful, almost tender in its defiance. A rare piece of jewelry, extravagant and unnecessary. Something she’d once admired but refused to let him buy.

Then another. A penthouse suite reservation under his name in one of the most exclusive hotels, a place she could picture him seeing in his transactions, baffled, intrigued.

Then another. And another. Underground auctions, luxuries, indulgences.

Every transaction pulsed like a heartbeat.

Each confirmation was a confession.

He’d notice this, all right. If he wouldn’t listen to her voice, then he could listen to the sound of money burning. A scream in his language. A dent in his perfect control.

A way of saying I care without having to admit it out loud.

When she finally paused, the day was already fully awake. Light pooled across the floor, sharp and white, catching the shimmer of the glass. Her reflection stared back at her, eyes red, hair a mess, but posture composed. The look of a woman who had reached her limit and chosen beauty in her rebellion.

She laughed softly, the sound thin and bitter. “You always told me to take risks,” she murmured to the empty room. “So here’s mine.”

And for the first time, she refused to stay silent.

Not out of spite.

But out of aching, furious love.

...........................................................................

Aventurine, for all his fearlessness, his bluffing, his wagers, his reckless bravado— was, at heart, a coward. Not in the boardroom. Not at the poker tables. Not even in the face of danger, where most men broke and he thrived.

But in the quiet, human way of things.

In the face of her unflinching care. In the face of her concerned gaze. In the face of every loving word, every trembling admission, every gentle touch that asked for nothing in return.

He didn’t know how to meet that. Didn’t know what to do when her eyes softened. When her voice faltered. When she said his name not like a dare, but like a plea. It wasn’t the kind of attention he’d spent a lifetime cultivating, manipulating, commanding. This was something different. Something he couldn’t predict.

The jaded, broken part of him wanted to scream, claw, bite, tear at her words like a caged animal backed into a corner until he ripped out the care from them with his own bare hands, as he had learned to do by himself all his life. His fate and life was his to win and shape as he saw fit, and he wasn't so powerless and meek as to require someone else to do it for him.

But the other part of him pushed back with all its might against his jaded thoughts, clinging to those words she uttered like a prayer, ravenous and so very desperate. And as much as he wanted to believe her, it was safer to smirk. To charm. To deflect.

To throw the dice and make a spectacle of his confidence rather than admit how it terrified him to be known like that.

So he did what he always did best— he ran.

Not literally, not dramatically, but into the familiar and comfortable hostility of the IPC offices. Into the glittering, suffocating routine of numbers, meetings, wagers, and voices that never asked how he felt. Where everything had a price and nothing ever felt too real.

He buried himself there, let the hum of data and the rhythm of power drown out the echo of her voice. It was easier to sit through hours of veiled insults and false pleasantries than to look into her eyes and see worry, devotion, love, all the things he had no idea how to handle.

He told himself he’d fix it later.

He always did.

He’d show up at their door that night with a gift, something glittering, extravagant, expensive. Something that shined bright enough to buy forgiveness, truce wrapped in gold. They’d laugh, maybe kiss, fall back into that familiar rhythm where the mirage shimmered just enough to hide the cracks.

That was the plan.

It was a good plan.

It had always worked before.

He was perfectly content to carry on in that blissful mindlessness, one more apology cloaked in opulence, until his phone began to ding. He ignored it at first— market fluctuations, automated alerts, noise. The sort of static he could tune out without effort could wait. But the sound persisted, each chime needling its way into his skull, the tempo quickening until it became unbearable

By the fifth notification, his jaw was tight.

By the tenth, he was ready to throw the damn device across the room.

Then the phone rang, stubborn as the headache he could feel building behind his temple, and finally his irritation won.

He sighed, snatching it up, forcing his voice smooth as ever. “Aventurine speaking.”

The panicked voice of his accountant greeted him, all nerves and apology. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, sir, but there appear to be... multiple suspicious transactions made on your account.”

"Suspicious transactions?" Aventurine frowned, voice sharpening with interest. He was already opening up the account before the man could elaborate further, gaze flicking down the ledger, and then he froze.

Account alert: Transaction completed.

Account alert: Transaction completed.

Account alert—

For a moment, he simply stared in utter disbelief, as if the figures might rearrange themselves into something reasonable, the sight barely registering in his mind. The numbers were absurd. The purchases, extravagant to the point of satire. Jewelry, hotel bookings, untraceable bids under his authorization. A spree so outrageous it just had to be fraud.

Only, he knew it wasn’t.

He leaned back in his chair, still staring at the obscene totals glowing on the display. Then his lips curved, slow and incredulous.

And he laughed.

A real laugh, sharp, almost breathless and way too alive to be safe. Not the practiced kind he used in negotiations, not rehearsed. This one slipped out before he could stop it, rough around the edges, genuine and infinitely amused in a way that almost startled him.

“Ah…” he murmured under his breath. “So that’s how it is.”

She was angry with him. Actually angry, and glaringly so. This was not the quiet, simmering irritation she usually buried under a smile or a sigh. Nor the restrained kind that simmered behind her eyes when he pushed too far.

This was different.

She had never abused the account before. Never touched what was his without asking. And now, to do this, to strike where it would actually reach him, she must have been furious. Hurt enough to not let him get away with it, enough to show him that this time an apology and a shiny trinket wouldn't be enough to fix it.

His accountant was still rambling "—potential fraud, possibly coordinated—”

“Yes,” Aventurine interrupted lightly, grin widening even as his eyes skimmed line after line of indulgence. “Apparently, I’m being robbed blind.”

“Should we freeze the assets? Run a trace?”

But Aventurine wasn’t listening anymore. He scrolled through the purchases, one by one, disbelief giving way to amusement, amusement giving way to something dangerously close to affection.

Because somewhere between the third and fourth absurd receipt— the diamond watch, the suite, the champagne order for twelve that he knew she’d never drink— something clicked.

Each item was a love letter written in chaos. Every indulgence was a taunt, a cry, a mirror of himself turned back on him. He could see her even now, back in their apartment, eyes bright with hurt and defiance, daring him to finally feel what she felt. She wanted him to feel the weight, the consequence, the pulse of her worry translated into currency.

It was so completely, infuriatingly her.

Her way of saying look at me.

Her way of screaming with audacity and rebellion in the only language she knew he’d hear— excess, spectacle, risk— to make him listen.

It was maddeningly perfect, exactly the kind of absurd gesture that would garner his attention. And he had to admit, it worked.

He reclined back in his chair, the sterile gleam of the IPC office reflecting in the glass behind him, laughter spilling over, startling the nearby staff who peeked in to see their executive doubled over with mirth.

“No,” Aventurine said, still grinning, still half in disbelief. “Let it go through.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me.” His voice softened, almost fond, but still infinitely amused. He rose, crossing to the window, looking out over the city’s glittering skyline. His reflection smirked back at him, tired and delighted and something else entirely. “I'm authorising the purchases.”

He hung up before the man could protest. For a long moment, he just stood there, the glow of the city spilling over him, laughter still ghosting his lips. It was a dent in his fortune, for sure. But for the first time in he didn’t even know how long, he didn't want to run away or evade.

He found her name in his contacts, hesitating only for a breath before pressing call. The grin that tugged at his mouth was softer now, almost reverent.

And whether she picked up or not, he already knew what he’d say.

Alright, sweetheart.

I’m listening.

...........................................................................

She was still in the middle of her splurge spree when her phone rang, his name flashing on the screen like a warning flare.

Her breath caught. A rush of adrenaline, half-panic and half-mortification, flooded through her veins. For a long while, she just stared at the screen, thumb hovering, mind blank except for the echo of her pulse. Every ounce of her earlier anger dissolved into cold panic. The high of defiance vanished, replaced by the sick, sinking awareness of what she’d actually done.

What had she been thinking?

Spending his money like that— his money— was the one line she’d never crossed, not once, not even as a joke. She'd never touched his account beyond necessity, never let herself fall into the gravity of his wealth, not really. But this time, anger had been a living thing, curling tight and acidic in her chest. It had felt like the only thing she could do. It had felt justified then, almost righteous: a harmless act of rebellion for someone like him, just loud enough for him to feel it.

Now, with his name lighting up her phone like the herald of her own undoing, the impending repercussions of her actions staring her down straight in the face, guilt crashed through the afterglow of adrenaline. He was calling because he was angry, and of course, he would be. He had every right to be.

She exhaled shakily and pressed accept. There was a breath of silence, a charged and uncertain pause on both ends that stretched and shimmered with tension, and then Aventurine finally spoke.

“So,” he drawled, amusement curling through the line, utterly at odds with the sharp reprimand she’d braced for. “Tell me, am I forgiven yet, or do you need a little more time alone with my card?”

The breath she hadn’t realized she was holding rushed out of her all at once. The steady edge of his voice, the calm, wasn’t what she expected. He didn’t sound angry, not even close. His voice carried that familiar blend of amusement, fondness, and a little hint of danger that made it hard to stay angry at him, even when she desperately wanted to.

“Aventurine,” she said carefully, regret now washing over her with full force. The remnants of their earlier fight still hung between them, taut and unresolved. “Listen—”

But he was already chuckling, low and delighted, like he could see her expression through the line and it pleased him immensely. “Oh, no need to stop now on my account. I think you missed a few stores.”

That startled a small, reluctant laugh out of her, soft and breathless. The sound he’d been missing all day since he walked out— or more accurately, ran away— that morning. The intoxicating rush of rebellion was fading now, replaced by embarrassment that prickled beneath her skin. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, the words tripping over themselves, rushed and bashful. “I really am. I just— I was angry, and you weren't being reasonable, and this seemed like the only thing that would make you actually—”

“Listen?” he finished softly.

"Yes." She hesitated, truth catching on her tongue. “I just wanted—”

“Oh, I know what you wanted.” He leaned against the window in his office with a laugh, eyes tracing the city lights reflected in the glass, his teasing tone softening into something quieter, gentler. “You wanted to get my attention. Congratulations, you have it now, sweetheart. Loud and clear.”

She didn’t know what to reply to that. He could picture her clearly, tense and earnest, probably pacing restlessly, trying to find the right words to explain what he’d already understood the moment he saw the charges.

It had taken him by surprise, that she had actually done it. She. The one who usually followed the current of his chaos so willingly, laughing when he chased danger, who tolerated his recklessness with that patient exasperation he’d secretly come to depend on. The one who steadied him when he went too far had finally thrown something back.

“I don’t want you to change,” she breathed out finally, her voice soft and unsteady, every word trembling with the force of being spoken aloud. She paused to gather her thoughts, and the silence that followed wasn’t cold this time, but warm and soft, heavy with understanding. It hummed between them like static, filled with things neither of them quite knew how to say. She could feel him waiting on the other end for her to continue, patient, uncharacteristically still. And though he hadn’t said it yet, she had the sinking feeling he already knew what she was about to say.

That dulled the last traces of anger in her chest and propelled her forward. “I know who you are, and I love that you are who you are. I just— when you walk into danger like it’s nothing, it scares me, Aventurine." She pressed a hand to her temple, eyes closing, swallowing around the sudden lump in her throat. “I just wish you’d remember sometimes that there's someone’s waiting for you to come back, before you throw yourself into things like you have nothing left to lose.”

Complete silence.

The line was quiet for a long time. He didn’t even try to deflect, didn’t laugh, and in that rare, fragile stillness, she realized how foreign her words must sound to him. The idea that there was someone who worried, someone who waited.

When he finally spoke, it was almost a broken murmur. “Come on, have a little faith in me, hm? And my luck.”

"I do. Maybe a bit too much." Her lips twitched out of infuriating endearment into a small, hopeless smile. “Both your luck and arrogance.”

“An unbeatable combination,” he said lightly, not dismissive this time, but gentle. Unsettled in a way he rarely let show. “Though, if it helps any, consider this my official acknowledgment that your little stunt worked. I promise I’ll wager a little less." He paused, and she could almost hear his grin stretch wickedly, returning full force to that mischievous tilt she loved so much. "Sometimes.”

She laughed despite herself, shaking her head, tension seeping out of her with his every word. "Good enough for me." And it truly was. She knew she could sooner divert a comet's trail than change his nature. Besides, it was never her goal to change him, only shake him up a little, make him look her way. "I’ll go refund everything now, alright? Before the IPC decides to lynch me for financial embezzlement. Even though... you did deserve to sweat a little, for once.”

He laughed, full-bodied and genuine again, the sound washing over her and making her chest ache in the best way. “Ah, too late for that, darling. I already told them to let the transactions through.”

“You what?” Her tone shot up, horrified. “Aventurine, you can’t be serious. That’s— that’s an absurd amount of—”

“Consider it emotional compensation for the argument,” he said nonchalantly as she gasped. “Pain and suffering fees, if you will.”

"You always have an argument for everything,” she said, outraged laughter dissolving into a sigh that trembled somewhere between exasperation and fondness.

“I have to stay consistent,” he replied smoothly. “I'm a man of principle, after all.”

“Your only principle is extravagance.” She wanted to sound stern, though her scoff was more amused than disapproving.

“You say that like it’s a flaw.” His grin was audible. “Besides, we both know I was planning to spoil you anyway. You just… expedited the process.” His voice dropped then, that subtle, velvety shift that always made her heart betray her composure. “Tell me, though, did it help? The spending spree?”

She hesitated, eyes tracing the faint reflections of her own face in the window, city lights blurring behind her. “For a moment,” she admitted. “Then it only felt awful.”

He hummed softly, and something in that sound—almost akin to regret—made her chest tighten. “Then we’ll fix that,” he said after a beat, voice low and deliberate. “We'll do whatever you want. Tonight. My treat.”

“Is this a new form of guilt tripping?” she teased weakly. "Listen, I already said I'm sorry—"

“I’m nothing if not generous in defeat,” he countered, tone edged with amusement. “We’ll call it a peace negotiation. Neutral territory, excellent wine, no card restrictions.”

She laughed quietly. “You’re just using the opportunity to bribe me into forgiveness again.”

“That’s one way to describe romance, yes.”

A soft silence followed, comfortable this time. The kind of silence that filled itself with breath and heartbeat instead of distance. She leaned back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, and for the first time all day, her pulse began to settle. “You’re impossible to stay mad at, you know that?”

“Good.” His smile was audible even through the static. “Now, go find yourself something to wear. Something that says ‘I forgive you, but only barely’. I’ll send the car.”

She rolled her eyes, though he couldn’t see it, and he ended the call before she could argue, leaving her in the quiet hum of her apartment, staring at the screen as his name faded from view.