#supportive partners

You had just opened your laptop when you heard the front door open.

“Darling, I’m home! Did the market rally while I was gone or—”

BAM. Aventurine nearly got hit by a flying pen holder the moment he tried opening the study door.

“GET. OUT.”

“…Oh.” His voice, for once, lost its theatrics.

He backed away, murmuring something under his breath about “hostile takeovers.”

He didn’t try the door again. Just slipped a folded card underneath that read:

‘Don’t worry, I’ll hedge my bets elsewhere for now. Call me when the market’s less volatile.’

Later, you found him sprawled across the couch, still in full IPC regalia, tophat still perched on his head.

“I, uh…” you began awkwardly. “Wasn’t personal. Just had a really crap few days and exploded.”

“Exploded? Darling, that was investor panic in physical form.”

You winced. “I’m really sorry.”

Aventurine gave you a long look before patting the couch beside him.

You sat.

“…You did dent my pride a little,” he said, feigning a pout. “I haven’t dodged a projectile that fast since the Penacony roulette incident.”

You snorted.

“But,” he said more softly, brushing his fingers across your hand, “next time, just say ‘I’m pissed off and need space.’ I won’t gamble on your mood then.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Deal?”

“Only if I get a kiss as collateral.”

The air was thick with shadow, the kind that curled at the edges of furniture and clung to silence like a second skin. Auron’s footsteps echoed softly as he entered the dim apartment. Something felt off—no soft greeting, no snarky comment from the kitchen. Just... silence.

He found the bedroom door shut, unusual for you. And locked.

“Darling?” he tried, voice dipped in a velvet tone of concern.

No answer.

He touched the handle again.

Click. The door unlatched from the inside—but only to open slightly. A book came flying out like a guided missile.

He caught it midair, eyebrows lifting at the force.

“Get out!” your voice cracked from the other side. Hoarse. Angry. Raw.

The door slammed.

Auron stood there for a long moment, thumbing the spine of the book. A well-worn journal. He could still smell your scent on the pages.

He didn’t knock again. Just left a soft whisper of shadow curling by the door—an echo of him saying: “Alright... but I’m here.”

Later, you found him reclining on the balcony, legs propped up on the edge of a chair, flame flickering lazily between his fingers.

You cleared your throat.

He looked up, eyes gold and unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “For the book. And the yelling. And the being a complete rage-goblin.”

Auron tilted his head, gaze softening. “Did you throw that book at me, or the world?”

“...What?”

“Because if it was me, I probably deserved it. But if it was the world—” he leaned forward, “—I’ll help you set it on fire.”

You blinked. Then cracked a breathy laugh.

He stood, walked to you, and cupped your jaw.

“Next time you want to scream, scream at me. Or near me. Or just let me listen.”

“…You’re not mad?”

“I’ve done worse with poetry anthologies,” he smirked.

Ratio stepped into your shared home, removing his gloves with precise movements. The moment he reached your study, however, he was greeted by—

Whack!

A hardcover on metaphysics narrowly missed his face.

“Leave me alone!” you shouted.

He paused, inspecting the cover. Volume VII of the Veritas Anthology.

“Hmm. At least you chose a book with weight.”

He didn’t force the conversation. Just left you alone with your storm.

Later, you approached him in the library, where he was rearranging scrolls by date and relevance.

“I, um… owe you an apology. For trying to knock you out with your favorite book.”

Ratio didn’t look up. “Volume VII is not my favorite. But I accept the apology.”

You hesitated.

He finally glanced at you, his expression unreadable.

“I’ve deduced you had a series of unpleasant experiences. Likely stress-related. You’re not a volatile person by nature.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Only to those who know you intimately.” He paused, then added, “But I would prefer verbal warnings next time over bibliographic projectiles.”

You smiled faintly. “Duly noted, Doctor.”

He handed you the very book you’d thrown. “Next time you feel rage—throw this at a target dummy. Or at me, if it helps. I can analyze the angle of impact for emotional depth.”

“…You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you remain.” His voice, quiet and warm, carried more apology than your own.