#subtle touches

You barely had time to yelp before you felt a hand loop around your waist, catching you with the finesse of a man who could probably cheat death mid-dance.

Aventurine’s voice coiled into your ear, velvet and amused.

“Careful now, darling. I’d hate to see gravity beat you before the market does.”

You flushed instantly, blinking up at him from the half-dip you were now awkwardly posed in, like a half-drunk ballroom maneuver. His eyes sparkled with wicked delight. He didn’t let go.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, struggling to right yourself as your foot skidded again. “These floors are basically a lawsuit waiting to happen—”

“Ah, but lawsuits are so tedious. Far more exciting to catch you myself.” He finally steadied you, fingertips grazing the curve of your lower back longer than strictly necessary. “Though, I admit—your timing’s impeccable. You always fall when I’m watching.”

You groaned. “That’s not intentional, you know.”

“Oh, I know. That’s what makes it endearing.” His grin sharpened like a card’s edge. “There’s something delightfully honest about someone who stumbles in a place like this. Everyone else here trips metaphorically. You, though—you make it look charming.”

You didn’t know whether to thank him or melt into the nearest garbage chute.

Still, there was something in his gaze—not mockery, not exactly. More like fascination. Aventurine, for all his pomp and mind games, had always seemed strangely intrigued by your clumsiness, as though your lack of polish somehow gave you an edge in his high-stakes world.

You had once spilled an entire tray of drinks in a shareholder lounge.

He had declared it performance art.

Now, as you stood upright, flustered and very aware of how close he still was, he gently tapped your chin with a manicured finger.

“Keep falling, sweetheart. Just make sure it’s toward me.”

It was supposed to be a calm morning on the Astral Express.

Soft light streamed through the observation deck windows, casting purple-black rays across the quiet lounge. You had just finished making tea—well, trying to—when your elbow knocked the porcelain cup straight off the table.

It shattered.

You froze in horror. The silence that followed felt like the universe holding its breath.

A gentle rustle of fabric, like a wing shifting, and then—

“You needn’t be afraid,” Sunday said softly, appearing beside you like a breath of mist. “Things break. That’s simply the nature of their being.”

You looked up, guilt tightening your expression. “I—I didn’t mean to. I’ll clean it up, I swear—”

His gloved hand touched your arm. Not forceful. Just grounding.

“You’re trembling.”

“I just… keep messing things up. It’s embarrassing.”

Sunday tilted his head slightly. The golden halo behind him shifted in the light, casting soft patterns across the floor. His eyes held the kind of gentleness that felt almost unbearable—like he saw you completely, flaws and all, and found no reason to turn away.

“Embarrassment is a wound made by kindness turned inward,” he murmured. “Perhaps you care too much about perfection in a world that was never meant to be pristine.”

You blinked. “That’s… poetic. But I just dropped a cup.”

A rare smile touched his lips. “And in doing so, you created an opportunity. To slow down. To speak. To be reminded that you’re not alone in your fragility.”

You glanced down at the broken pieces. They glinted like starlight on tile. Sunday knelt, his movements as fluid as wind through silk. Without hesitation, he picked up the first shard—unbothered by the risk of cutting himself.

“You remind me of birds with crooked wings,” he said quietly. “They stumble when they land. But in the sky, they do not fall.”

Something in your chest loosened at that. He offered you the pieces gently, his hands steady even when yours were not.

“Let me help you rebuild it,” Sunday said, eyes golden and warm. “Even if we make something new from what was broken. Especially then.”