3 AM. The glow of your phone is the only light in the room, casting shadows across the sheets as you lie there, restless. The silence is heavy, the kind that makes every notification feel like a heartbeat. Then—ping.

Aventurine.

Your thumb hovers over the message, pulse quickening. He’s your coworker, your chaos, your bad idea wrapped in a smirk. The attachment glows tauntingly on the screen. Open me.

You do.

And there he is—shirtless, leaning against a wall, the curve of his waist cutting a sharp line in the dim light. The mirror behind him is smudged, fingerprints tracing where he’d braced himself. You stare. You replay it. Once. Twice. Four times, your finger pressed to the screen like you could reach through it, like you could trace the evidence of his presence—here, like this, just for you.

Then, his name lights up your screen again.

"I should tell you," the message reads, "that I get a notification every time you open the picture."

Your breath catches. The air is too warm.

A beat. Then:

"But please don’t let that stop you. Fifth time’s the charm."

And oh, god, you can hear the grin in his words.