The moment Aventurine heard it—just a sigh, a murmur under your breath, something about silence and routine—his grin sharpened like a dealer spotting an easy mark.

"Pack a suitcase," he’d said. "We’re leaving tomorrow."

No debate. No itinerary. Just the thrill of his certainty, the unspoken dare in his eyes that seemed to say, "Try to keep up."

And here it is, a private, expensive resort, which is better not to even think about the price of a trip. Now, the ocean hums lazily against the shore, a rhythm so perfect it feels staged. The sand is gold-dusted, the water so clear it’s barely there—just light and liquid sapphire stretching to forever. You stretch on your towel under the shade of a striped umbrella, half-drunk on sun and the absence of IPC emails. Not a single living soul around but you and…

Him.

Aventurine stands where the tide licks at his bare feet, his colorful shirt fluttering open in the breeze. Saltwater has darkened his hair, slicked it back. He’s not even doing anything—just staring at the horizon, relaxed in a way he never is in meetings, like the world has finally dealt him a hand he doesn’t need to cheat.

You reach for your phone. The shot is too good: the curve of his shoulder, the way the sun gilds his profile, the quiet contentment he’d deny if you ever mentioned it.

The shutter clicks.

Aventurine's head tilts—caught you—but he doesn’t turn. Just smirks, lazy and knowing, as the wind steals his laugh.

"What are you doing there, dear?"