The alarm chimed, a soft, melodic tone that did little more than stir the morning air. For a moment, everything was in order—the gilded light filtering through the blinds, the quiet hum of the city, the warm weight of the sheets. Aventurine moved to rise, and that was when he felt your hand. It was a slow, deliberate stroke against the shouder, your fingers slipping beneath the fine silk of his pajamas. Your touch was warm, a brand of quiet possession that stilled him completely.

“In a hurry?” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep and something else—a teasing, naive lilt you wielded like a master. It was a voice that promised lazy mornings and shared secrets, a stark contrast to the ruthless ticking of the clock he knew he should be hearing.

Aventurine turned his head, meeting your gaze, and found himself utterly disarmed. He couldn’t resist the unspoken invitation, the hint of a morning encounter that felt more tangible and pressing than any board meeting. A slow, answering smile touched his lips as he surrendered, letting himself be drawn back into the warmth of your embrace.

Like everything else in the hazy morning, what followed was languid and slow-paced. It was a world away from the sharp clicks of chips and the spinning of roulette wheels; this was a different kind of gamble, a wager on stolen time and the currency of touch.

When the fire of morning passion has died down, Aventurine came to his senses with a jolt. He was naked, gloriously disheveled, with the scent of you on his skin and the time glaring at him from the bedside table. There wasn’t much left.

“Ah—!” He all but leaped from the bed, then shot you a look, a mix of genuine panic and breathless admiration. “You are a temptress,” he accused, his voice a husky rasp as he reached for his clothes. “Temptress of the highest order, let me tell you!”

Aventurine snatched his shirt from the hanger, his movements uncharacteristically clumsy. He shoved his arms through the sleeves and began fastening the pearl buttons with a speed that defied precision. It was only as he was tucking the hem into his tailored trousers that he glanced in the mirror and saw the result: a cascading misalignment, where one side of the shirt panel hung a full inch lower than the other.

With a frustrated laugh that was mostly directed at himself, he began the whole process again.