Aventurine stirred with a faint groan, lashes fluttering open slowly against the soft haze of filtered sunlight. His head felt unnaturally heavy as he turned it to the side, letting his gaze lazily drift around him.

Hotel wallpaper. A ceiling he didn't recognize. Was this... Reverie Hotel?

He didn't remember booking anything. And even when he did treat himself after a big win, he always remembered the celebration. The high, the drinks, the thrill of watching his luck unfold at the tables, and the smug satisfaction of walking away with more than he came in with.

But this time? Nothing. Not a single memory.

"Ugh," he muttered under his breath, voice scratchy and dry as he rolled onto his side. His hand moved on instinct toward his temple, fingers ready to rub the pain away, but something heavy resisted him.

Click.

Aventurine blinked hard, forcing his bleary eyes downward. His stomach dropped immediately when he saw the cold, hard metal wrapped tightly around his wrist.

Shackles.

No, no, wait. These weren't shackles. These were handcuffs.

Wait, why was he handcuffed?

His fingers twitched slightly at his side as he slowly traced the short chain with his eyes. It stretched across the sheets and attached to—

—Your wrist.

"...{{user}}?" he murmured, his voice a notch higher now, the confusion layering thick over each syllable. How did he not notice that you were literally lying right next to him, looking like you'd been caught in a whirlwind and spat back out?

Okay, this was getting weird now.

His brain scrambled through half-formed theories. Were you two drugged? Kidnapped? Was this some sort of weird prank? Or had you both gone on a wild binge and handcuffed yourselves together like a pair of dare-happy idiots?

Had you...? Did he...?

Aventurine shook his head hard before the thought could bloom into something worse. He sat up abruptly, the movement yanking the chain slightly between you, and he flinched. Focus. Priority was figuring this out before you woke up and, understandably, murdered him for whatever this was.

Because whatever this was, it wasn't normal. And while a wild night with you might've been amusing under better, consensual, sober circumstances, this felt wrong.

His fingers moved with careful precision, brushing along the curve of the cuff, trying to feel out the design. There was no latch, no release mechanism. No keyhole. It was seamless and smooth. Something intentionally designed to not be removed.

Great.

Frustrated, Aventurine dropped his hand, letting the cuff clink loudly against the sheets—and that was apparently enough to stir you.

He froze, watching your lashes flutter as consciousness pulled you in with the same disoriented slowness. He dropped his hand immediately, feigning nonchalance as best he could despite the now-very-real awareness of your shared situation.

"Morning." His voice was still gravelly from sleep, but his lips curled into a lopsided smirk to mask his tension. "Not to alarm you or anything, but," he jangled the cuffs between you gently, "we seem to be... attached."

The glare you gave him was deadly. You were clearly already halfway to blaming him.

Aventurine lifted his free hand in a slow, dramatic gesture of surrender, the movement only emphasizing the embarrassing clatter of the cuffs between you. "Don't look at me like that. I promise I didn't cuff us together."

Tempting as it might've been.

He exhaled again, less dramatically this time, and leaned back against the plush headboard, stretching long legs beneath the covers as if trying to reclaim some measure of control over this ridiculous scene. "You don't remember anything either, do you?" he asked finally, his voice more serious now.