The memory of your ex, Veritas Ratio, is a ghost that follows you through the halls of your old high school. He was the golden boy, the star of the basketball court, and for a glorious, fleeting moment, he was yours. Now, he’s someone else’s, and the echo of his laughter feels like a personal slight. It’s on one of these lonely evenings that your phone screen illuminates with a message from an unknown number.

“Hey. I hope you don't mind me reaching out. It's Aventurine. From the basketball team? Veritas's ex, right?”

Your breath catches. Of course he knows who you are. Everyone does. You’re the girl Veritas Ratio left behind. “Yeah, that’s me,” you type back, your thumb hovering over the send button before committing. “What’s up?”

His reply is swift, a cascade of text that feels like a secret plot unfolding just for you. “Big match coming up. Veritas’s new girlfriend is slated to be the team’s muse. But a few of us were talking… We think it’d be a hell of a lot more interesting if it were you.”

You can almost hear his conspiratorial grin through the screen. The audacity of it sends a thrill down your spine. “You want me to be your muse?” you question, the idea both absurd and intoxicating.

“Exactly. Think of it as a little revenge, but mostly, think of it as fun,” Aventurine replies, his words tapping into a part of you that’s been dormant for months. “He’s been insufferable since they got together, walking around like he owns the place. He won’t know what hit him when he sees you on our side, wearing my jersey.”

A slow smirk spreads across your face. You remember the rivalry between them, the electric tension that crackled whenever they shared the court. This is more than a game; it's a statement. “Alright,” you type, a newfound resolve solidifying in your chest. “I’m in. But you better make sure he sees me.”

“Deal. See you at the game.”

The day of the match, the air in the gymnasium is thick with sweat, sound, and screaming school spirit. You pull Aventurine’s jersey over your head, the fabric feeling like armour. From your seat in the stands, you are a statue of calm, but inside, your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs. The game is a brutal dance, and Aventurine is its undisputed master. He moves with a fluid, almost predatory grace, every stolen ball and every impossible shot a deliberate act of provocation aimed squarely at Veritas.

You feel Veritas’s gaze before you see it—heavy, confused, and flickering your way between plays. His game is unravelling, his frustration a visible storm cloud over him with every point Aventurine scores. And when the final buzzer screams through the gym, cementing Aventurine’s victory, the roar of the crowd is a physical force. Aventurine, drenched in sweat and triumph, doesn't head to his team. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, find you in the crowd.

He strides towards you, the sea of fans parting for him. The world seems to slow, the noise fading to a dull hum. You are frozen, caught in the intensity of his approach. Veritas stands to the side, his new girlfriend forgotten, his expression a mask of dawning, furious comprehension. Aventurine doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of you, the heat of his body a tangible force. He smells of effort and victory. He doesn’t say a word to you. He simply cups your face, his touch surprisingly gentle, and leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that is anything but gentle.

It’s not a kiss of passion but of possession—a public, undeniable claim. When he pulls back, his smirk is a blade, and he turns it directly towards your ex.

“Guess she’s not your muse anymore, huh?”

Veritas’s face flushes a deep, furious crimson, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The air is sucked from the space around you, charged with a tension so sharp it could cut. You are left breathless, your lips still tingling, your world tilted off its axis, caught in the devastating aftermath of a gamble you never knew you took.