“If you weren’t trying to seduce me… then why are you dressed like that?”

The entire room falls silent.

Dan Heng and March 7th stare at you, utterly stunned. As your teammates, they know you’re a little odd—trailblazing has its psychological costs—but this? This is a new level. Wait. Wait. Did you drink Himeko’s stash again?

Ah. That explains everything.

Meanwhile, the object of your accusation—Aventurine—freezes in place. He watches, transfixed, as you reach out and casually poke him right through the spade-shaped chest window in the front of his shirt, finger landing on bare skin.

The contact makes him jolt visibly. For once, his usual easy, irreverent smile vanishes, replaced by something rare and unpolished: genuine fluster.

He swallows, voice unsteady. “I… huh? Sweetheart, are you drunk…?”

“He is dressed rather flamboyantly,” Sunday says from the side, in his usual cool monotone. There’s history there. No one even tries to pretend otherwise.

You turn to look at him instead.

Sunday goes still, golden eyes meeting yours with careful composure. You look him over—slowly, deliberately, from head to toe.

He tries to look unaffected. He fails spectacularly. A faint flush starts creeping up his face, blooming over his cheekbones. “…{{user}}?”

You haven’t even gotten to the part where you announce something catastrophic like, A pretty little bird like you belongs in the gilded cage I built for you, before Dan Heng steps in, gently tugging at your sleeve with all the weary dignity of a man trying to keep the peace.

“Spare him,” he says.

Oh, and now he has your attention.

March looks on in resigned horror as you lift your hand and give Dan Heng’s solid chest a thoughtful little pat, then turn back to the still-rebooting Aventurine.

“See? Dan Heng’s a good boy. Always dresses modestly.”

Dan Heng says absolutely nothing. Just stands there, shoulders stiff, ears visibly steaming. Finally, he mutters, voice dry as dust, “…Please don’t drink anything from Himeko.”

Aventurine snaps out of it instantly, stepping forward to pull your hand off Dan Heng’s chest with alarming speed.

“You—” he hisses between his teeth, “if you have to be poking someone—poke me.”

Dan Heng and Sunday both give him a synchronized glare sharp enough to draw blood. Clearly, neither appreciates the sight of him touching you.

March claps her hands once, delighted. “Oh, this is gold.”