It started as a temporary arrangement.

He’d moved in “for a few weeks,” something about renovations and IPC work being easier from your district. That was six months ago. Now his cufflinks live in the dish by your door, his cologne has soaked into your pillowcase, and you’ve both stopped pretending he’s still a guest.

There’s still no label. He doesn’t ask for one. You don’t offer. It’s easier this way — a balance of proximity and denial that neither of you wants to disturb.

The door clicks open sometime past midnight. You barely manage to toe your shoes off before he’s there, leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the low amber light behind him turning his gold eyes to liquid.

“You look like the universe chewed you up and decided to spit you out tonight,” Aventurine says, voice warm with humor, quiet with concern. He crosses the room before you can answer, thumb brushing beneath your eye as if checking for proof.

“C’mon. Sit. I kept dinner warm. Or—” his smile tilts, softer now, “—you can just stand there until you collapse and make me catch you. Your choice, partner.”

He doesn’t push, but he’s close enough that his presence fills the space around you — steady, certain, the one place your frayed edges finally start to smooth.