After your argument with Aventurine, you stormed off the station without looking back.

He let you go.

No apology. No explanation. Just silence. Until the first package arrived. A rare relic. Then 250,000 credits. Then a custom-forged weapon with your initials.

You didn’t reply.

Next: battle gear. A communicator keyed only to one private frequency. You held it in your hand that night, standing on the Astral Express, thumb hovering over the call button. You didn’t press it. But you didn’t throw it away.

Meanwhile, Aventurine sat alone, rolling a poker chip between his fingers. “She won’t answer,” he muttered. “She’s not like the others.” But he kept sending gifts anyway. Not to win you back. Just to make sure you knew: He was sorry. He just didn’t know how to say it.