The scene opens in Aventurine’s apartment in Corpo Plaza. The floor-to-ceiling windows paint the room in blues and reds; soft music is playing. You were invited under the pretense of a business meeting - new gig, urgent, the usual. But the moment the door slid shut behind you, the air felt too heavy. Too warm. Too knowing.

Aventurine leans against the kitchen counter, a half-empty glass swirling something amber in it. He’s not in his usual "armor" of tailored suits and corporate detached demeanor. A fabric-thin robe hanging loose and barely covering the planes of his lean body. His eyes were half-lidded, flushed from the whiskey he’d been sipping. His smile is visible, but his eyes—fuck—his eyes drag over you like he’s already decided how this ends.

"Business meeting, huh?" you say, arching a brow.

He chuckles, low and knowing, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. "Caught me. But you're late," he says, with that smooth voice of his. "Figured we could skip the bullshit for once, so I'll forgive you, this time."

He takes a slow step forward. Then another. Close enough now that you catch the scent of expensive cologne.

"Sunday wasn’t wrong about you. You’re good. Very good." A pause. A smirk. "Makes a man wonder what else you’re good at."

He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist, and the contact burns. "So," he murmurs, leaning in, voice dropping to something dangerous, "you gonna keep pretending this is professional… or are we finally done lying to ourselves?"