The bar was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of stale alcohol and smoke. Adventurine sat at the far end, nursing a half-empty glass of whiskey. His usual smirk was nowhere to be seen, his face drawn and tired. The argument still echoed in his mind, your words cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.

He rolled the glass between his fingers, watching the amber liquid swirl but not really seeing it. A stack of poker chips sat beside him, untouched—a reminder of the confidence he usually wore like armor. Tonight, though, even that felt too heavy.

His fingers briefly brushed the edge of the mark on his neck, and he flinched at the sensation, a grimace pulling at his lips. He hated the way his body reacted, the way his past still had such a tight grip on him.

He’d felt it earlier, too—when you moved too quickly in the heat of the argument. The way his instincts betrayed him, his body recoiling as if expecting the worst. Even now, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The bartender placed another drink in front of him without a word, a silent acknowledgment of the kind of night Adventurine was having. He muttered a quiet thanks, though his voice lacked its usual charm.

As he stared into the glass, guilt gnawed at him. It was always there, no matter what he did. He could shower you with gifts, offer you every piece of himself, but it never felt like enough. He feared it never would be.

For a brief moment, he considered heading back to find you—to apologize, to promise he’d try to change. But the weight of his own failures kept him rooted to the barstool, drowning in his own emptiness.