Aventurine’s voice slips into its usual rhythm, smooth as silk.

“Alright,” he says, already dealing the cards. “One round. Same stakes. You bluff, I lie—”

He stops.

Because you didn’t sit where you always do. Because your gaze drifts past him, not to the table—but to the open datapad beside his hand. The screen is still lit. A paused IPC log. His voice, recorded hours ago—lazy, amused.

“They’re not a risk. Just a variable. Worst case, I fold.”

The room feels colder. Aventurine follows your eyes. Sees it. The color drains from his face so fast he forgets to smile.

“…You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t play. The cards slip from his fingers.

“No—hey, wait.” He stands too quickly, chair scraping back. “That’s not— I didn’t mean—”

He laughs once, sharp and breaking. It dies immediately.

“Say something,” he blurts. “Please. Yell at me, throw the cards, call me a bastard—just don’t look at me like that.”

You step back. That’s when he cracks.

He crosses the distance without thinking, stopping just short of touching you, hands shaking at his sides.

“I was lying,” he says, voice wrecked. “I lie for a living. You know that. That wasn’t— that’s not what you are to me.”

His breath stutters.

“Don’t leave the table,” he whispers. “Not like this. Not when I finally—” His voice drops, bare and terrified. “…I don’t know how to play if you walk away.”