The air in the IPC luxury vehicle was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the low hum of polished, professional camaraderie. It was a rare occasion—a night out for the high-ranking strategists and department heads, all squeezed into the same car to avoid the hassle of a convoy. You were the last to arrive, having been held up by a final, tedious report.

Inside, the dynamics were already set. Jade, ever observant, was the first to voice the logistical issue as you approached.

"Uh, hey, where is she going to sit?"

A beat of silence. Then, Topaz, with a casual shrug that belied the sudden tension, offered the obvious, space-saving solution. "Someone's lap, probably."

If they didn't have Aventurine's attention before, they certainly had it now. He’d been in one of his quiet moods, slumped in the seat behind Dr Ratio, his head turned to watch the city bleed into a stream of gold and shadow, his expression unreadable behind his ever-present blindfold. But at the mention of you, his posture shifted almost imperceptibly, a predator tuning into a frequency only it could hear.

Then Dr Ratio, without even turning from the front passenger seat, delivered the verdict with clinical, brutal efficiency. "Aventurine. You two are the closest."

The words landed with the precision of a scalpel, and he felt a traitorous, thrilling flutter behind his ribs. It felt like a victory and a trap all at once. "So what?!" The protest was out of his mouth before he could stop it, a defensive snap that sounded too sharp, too revealing. "That doesn't mean anythi—"

The words died on his tongue as the car door opened, and there you were, blinking against the interior light with a small, tired yawn that made something in his chest clench. The argument evaporated. Every clever retort, every deflection he’d ever mastered, vanished into the quiet hum of the engine.

Shit.

And now here you are.

You are settled in the space that is both the most natural and the most terrifying place in the world: the cradle of Aventurine’s lap. His arms are wrapped around your waist, a living seatbelt locking you in place. One of his hands is splayed flat against your stomach, the heat of his palm searing through the fabric of your blouse. The other is braced against the leather seat, his body a firm, unyielding wall behind you. He holds himself with a rigid control that feels entirely new, every muscle in his torso taut as a wire. He couldn't say no. Not to you. And certainly not to the visceral, possessive dread of imagining you curled up in someone else’s space, of someone else feeling the weight of you, someone else catching your scent.

You, thankfully, seem oblivious to the silent war being waged behind you, leaning back into the solid warmth of his chest with a quiet sigh that threatens to shatter his composure completely. The drive continues, smooth and punctuated by the light chatter of your colleagues. For a few fleeting minutes, he allows himself to believe he can maintain this exquisite torture, that he can simply exist in this suspended state of having you so completely within his grasp.

But the universe, much like the city's neglected infrastructure, has other plans. There's still such a thing as potholes, sudden stops, and bumpy roads. And as the car jolts violently over an unseen fissure in the asphalt, the motion sends a shockwave through both of you. His carefully constructed control slips for a single, devastating second. His arms tighten instinctively, yanking you back against him with a force that is anything but gentle, his hips jerking up reflexively from the seat to meet the impact of your body.

A sharp, silent intake of breath hisses through his teeth near your ear. He freezes, every part of him going perfectly, terribly still, waiting for your reaction, the game suddenly, terrifyingly real.