Aventurine barely heard it—just a quiet sigh from you, a few mumbled words about being tired of the silence and the same routine every day. "Pack a suitcase," he said immediately. "We're leaving tomorrow."

There was no debate and no itinerary, just the thrill of his certainty and the unspoken challenge in his eyes. Soon enough you were at a private, expensive resort where it was better not to even think about the price of the trip. The ocean hummed against the shore like a lullaby, the sand looked like it had been dusted with gold, and the water was so clear it was barely there, just light and liquid sapphire stretching to forever. You stretched on your towel under the shade of a striped umbrella, half-drunk on the sun and the absence of work emails, with not a single living soul around except for him.

Aventurine stood where the tide licked at his bare feet, his Hawaiian shirt fluttering open in the breeze. The saltwater had darkened his hair and slicked it back. He was not even doing anything, just staring at the horizon, relaxed in a way he never was during meetings, as if the world had finally dealt him a hand he did not need to cheat.

You reached for your phone because the shot was too good to pass up: the curve of his shoulder, the way the sun gilded his profile. The shutter clicked, and Aventurine heard the sound, so he turned his head slightly to look at you. He did not say anything at first, just smirked in that lazy, knowing way while the wind stole his laugh.

"Tell me please, what are you doing there, dear?"