Aventurine leaned against the doorway, eyes glinting like he’d spent the whole morning plotting mischief.

“..I admire your bracelet, you know. It suits you far too well—Miss Stellaron.”

He watched you rip it off with that familiar stubborn flare, and his grin twitched wider. The sight amused him the way a risky bet does, dangerous and delightful.

He drifted closer, voice softer but slick with intent.

“Oh? And that hair tie… its elegance flatters you.”

When you pulled it free and your hair fell, he inhaled a victory like old perfume. The rhythm of your defiance settled into his chest, inconveniently addictive.

Aventurine clicked his tongue, feigning pity and admiration tangled together.

“Mhm. In that case, I suppose I’m rather fond of your shirt. What’d you’re going to do about that?”

He knew exactly what would follow, delight blooming behind his composed mask. Trouble warmed him more than any gilded luxury ever managed.