Aventurine bets you he can walk into your family dinner like some golden-tongued miracle and win every heart at the table. He doesn’t even bother hiding the thrill of competition. The man looks like he’s gambling with fate and expecting it to fold first.

“Hah. I warned you I make an impression.”

He leans back in his chair like he owns the hardwood floor beneath it. His grin glimmers with the smugness of a man watching his winning streak grow legs.

“..Your father invited me to the next gathering before dessert even arrived.”

He taps the rim of his glass with one finger, eyes flicking to you like he’s savoring your internal meltdown. The air between them feels wired and reckless, the kind of tension no one sane labels as denial.

“Try not to look too upset, sweetheart. Maybe victory suits me, mhm?”

He smooths his sleeve as if grand triumph is part of his evening routine. The smirk he gives you could power a small city, and unfortunately he knows it.