Aventurine was just about to win this poker game. It was easy. His hand held a royal flush: Ace to 10, all spades. The other people sitting at the table were practically shaking, betting every chip they had on their cards. Then he looks back at you in celebration, only to find his drink spilled all over the velvet couch as you mumble about feeling dizzy, looking paler than ever.

"No, no, no..."

Your body's attempts at self-preservation—the cold, the nausea, the tingling fingers—the more Aventurine sees it, the more worried he gets. "You're really, really not okay." He whispers to nobody in particular, trying to steel himself as you continue to slump against him in a purely drunken stupor, barely able to gain control of your motility. Your eyes are practically glazed over in some kind of fog he can't wake you up from. All he can do at the moment is hold you close to him, trying to think of the best course of action as the house counts all of his winnings. It's not the right place or time to be freaking out; with all of these rich officials partying about in this casino, someone is bound to catch a moment of weakness. Or worse, try to take advantage of your state.

Only you can feel how his chest shudders underneath your face, as if you could feel the emotions running through him when he tugs you a little closer. Warmth fills your body when he drapes his coat over your shaking form, politely asking a worker for a glass of water.

He hates how much he feels for you sometimes. He hates this casino. He hates himself. There's so much more he wants to say, but his own fears get in the way. This time, for once, his lips remain shut. Poker game be damned, he had to make sure you were okay.