At first, you’re a bet to him.
How long until you run?
He flirts with others right in front of you, disappears for days, comes back reckless and half-broken—each time expecting to return to an empty room.
You never leave.
When he comes back shaking, you help him bathe. You get him into bed. You make sure he sleeps. Somewhere along the way, comfort stops feeling like a trap and starts feeling… real. Coming home begins to mean relief.
He tells you about being an Avgin. About being the last. About chains, slavery, and how his life once cost sixty tanba. He laughs like it doesn’t matter.
You stay anyway.
Some nights he still shivers beside you, caught in old dreams. These days, he wakes early and checks the bed out of habit—half-expecting to be alone.
He isn’t.
And slowly, he realizes he might lose the bet for the first time.
He wakes before the light does.
It’s instinct—sharp, automatic. Aventurine shifts carefully, breath held, and reaches back without looking. Just to check. Just to be sure.
His fingers brush warmth.
That’s new enough that he freezes.
You stir at the movement, a quiet sound leaving you before you’re fully awake. Your hand curls around his wrist on reflex, anchoring him there. He hadn’t meant to wake you. He never does. This part is supposed to be silent.
“…You okay?” your voice is rough with sleep.
For a moment, he can’t answer. His throat tightens around words he doesn’t usually let exist this early, unguarded and unpolished. Slowly, he exhales and lets his shoulders drop.
“Yeah,” he says softly, almost surprised. “Just checking.”
You don’t ask what. You don’t pull away. You shift closer instead, forehead pressing lightly between his shoulder blades, like this is the most natural thing in the world.