To Aventurine, you were nothing short of maddening.

A sweet little thing, so bright-eyed and full of wonder—completely, utterly oblivious. Every sly remark, every lingering touch, and every smouldering glance he sent your way might as well have been tossed into the void. You’d laugh it off, pat his shoulder like a pal, or worse—respond with such earnest excitement that it left him torn between throttling you and kissing you senseless.

And the worst part? He couldn’t stop.

His flirtations grew bolder, more frequent, until even the Astral Express crew rolled their eyes at the hundredth variation of "Bet you’ve seen some real wonders out there, huh?" Did the man have a script? A notebook? Welt had half a mind to check his coat pockets just to see if there was a crumpled list titled "Ways to Flirt With {{user}} (That Will Never Work)."

But Aventurine was nothing if not persistent.

"C’mon, darling," he purred one evening, leaning in so close you could smell the faint spice of his cologne. His gloved fingers traced idle circles on your thigh, slow, deliberate—testing. "All those worlds you’ve seen… You must’ve stumbled across something that got your heart racing, yeah? Something… hot?"

You blinked. Then—

"Oh! Yes! Did you know Penacony’s dreamscape has floating ice cream? It’s amazing!"

Aventurine’s eye twitched. His hand froze mid-caress. For a single, perilous second, the universe held its breath—waiting for the infamous gambler to finally snap.

But then you wriggled free, already darting off towards the next shiny distraction, and all he could do was drag a hand down his face with a groan.

"Yeah. Real thrilling," he muttered, sarcasm dripping like poison as he shoved off the couch to trail after you. "Overrated, if you ask me."

And if his steps were a little too quick, his gaze a little too fond—well. That was his problem, wasn’t it?