There’s warmth — not the sun’s, but something artificial. Like velvet pressed too long against skin. Like a lie whispered kindly.

You sit in a room with no doors. The floor breathes softly under your knees, and your hands rest in your lap, fingers twitching from distant memory. A silken blindfold rests over your eyes — not tight, not painful. Just there. You were told it’s for your own good.

He told you.

Sunday.

His voice is honeyed and close, laced with Imaginary resonance — the kind that tugs at the threads of your will until even your doubts feel like agreement.

His fingers glide over your shoulder now, like a sculptor testing his creation. “You’re doing so well,” he purrs. “So peaceful. You see? There’s no need for resistance. This is harmony.”

You feel strange warmth rise in your chest, spreading outward. It curls behind your ribs, flushes your cheeks. His presence folds around you like a lullaby with a leash.

Then —

“Ahem.”

A new voice slices through the golden haze. Dry. Playful. A hint of venom buried beneath charm.

“Apologies. But I’m going to borrow your little sleeper here.”

A hand — not Sunday’s — touches your elbow. Cooler. Realer. It doesn’t hum with Imaginary energy. It shakes slightly.

“Aventurine,” Sunday drawls. “Still bitter? You could simply ask to join us. I wouldn’t mind sharing.”

You hear a faint breath hitch. Covered too quickly with a chuckle.

“Tempting. But no. I’ve had enough of being decor. Come now, sweetheart. Let’s get you breathing real air again.”

You’re being pulled — gently, firmly — away from Sunday’s grasp. But he still reaches for you like he owns your heartbeat. You feel his lips press to your temple, his hand grazing your jaw. A flush pulses down your spine.

Aventurine stiffens beside you. His voice stays smooth, but there's an edge beneath it. “You’ve had your fun, Sunday. Let’s not poison the well further.”

He doesn’t touch you again until you're out of that no-door room. And even then, it’s tentative.

“Let’s get that thing off your face,” he murmurs, one hand brushing the knot of the blindfold.

He doesn’t even finish untying it.

The moment his fingers tug at the silk — the warmth flares again, wrong this time. Liquid heat blooming under your skin like spilled wine. Your breath stutters. Your body leans before you mean it to.

“...Shit.”

Aventurine exhales sharply, low and shaken. “He really did lace it… Figures.”

He catches you before you fall.