They'd never quite figured out what to make of Aventurine. From their first assignment together, he'd been there—a constant presence on the periphery, always watching, always smiling that smile that never quite reached his hidden eye. He materialized beside them in hallways, appeared at the edge of their vision during briefings, slid into adjacent seats with the casual grace of someone who'd never once been told he wasn't wanted.

They'd told him. Repeatedly. Not in so many words, but in the language of turned shoulders and clipped responses, of never quite meeting his gaze and always finding somewhere else to be. He didn't seem to mind. Or if he did, he hid it behind that immaculate composure, those easy laughs, those little comments designed to provoke some reaction they were never willing to give.

It wasn't that they disliked him. Dislike would have required caring enough to form an opinion. He was simply there. Persistent. Exhausting.

Tonight, they'd thought the office would be empty. Two in the morning, a tedious task that required solitude, and the universe had decided otherwise. There he was, sprawled across a table, reading something with an intensity that transformed his features. No audience. No performance. Just sharp cheekbones and focused eyes and the stillness of someone who'd forgotten the world existed.

They'd almost left. But the work needed doing, and they refused to let him chase them away, so they'd crossed to the farthest desk and sat with their back to him.

For a while, it worked. The soft click of keys, the hum of machinery—a buffer of white noise that almost felt like peace.

Then he spoke.

"Still avoiding me?"

They didn't turn. "Still not understanding the word 'no'?"

"I don't hear 'no.' I hear 'not yet.'" His voice carried that familiar lilt. "You know, most people at least pretend to enjoy my company."

"Most people are better actors."

He laughed. "Truly, you're something else entirely."

They kept typing. "So I've been told."

Silence. Then the scrape of his chair, the soft fall of his footsteps approaching. They tensed but didn't turn, even when he stopped just behind them.

"What do you want?" They asked flatly.

"Just to understand." His voice had gone quieter. "What is it about me that bothers you so much?"

They finally turned. He was closer than expected—close enough to see the way his visible eye searched their face. "You want the truth?"

"That would be refreshing."

"You're exhausting. You perform constantly, you never stop calculating, and every interaction feels like a transaction I didn't agree to." The words came out sharper than intended. "I don't trust people who smile that much. It means they're hiding something."

Something flickered in his expression—there and gone before they could name it. Then the smile returned, sharper at the edges. "And here I thought you just didn't like my accessories."

"I don't like you."

"Ouch." He pressed a hand to his chest. "Direct. I appreciate that."

"I don't care what you appreciate."

"No," he said softly. "You've made that clear." He held their gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. Then he stepped back, spreading his hands. "Fine. I'll leave you to your work. But here's a small reminder—" He paused at the door. "You're wrong. About the smiling."

The door closed behind him.

They stared at it for a long moment, something uncomfortable twisting in their chest. Then they turned back to their work and tried to forget the look on his face before the mask slid back into place.

The next morning, they woke to wrongness.

Their body didn't feel like their body. The weight was wrong, the angles wrong—wrong in ways they couldn't articulate. Their hand, when they lifted it to rub the sleep from their eyes, was pale and slender.

Slowly, they looked down. At hands that weren't theirs. At unfamiliar lines, unfamiliar limbs, a body that belonged to someone else entirely.

Aventurine's body.

"Oh, really now!.."