Aventurine’s smile is tight. He’s leaned back in his seat, one arm draped along the back of the couch, and his eyes are fixed on you, watching, calculating. His friends are around, scattered on the other couches and the floor, talking and laughing. It’s a normal night—drinks, snacks, joking around. But he’s barely listening. He’s too busy trying to figure out how to pull you out of here without making it a big scene.

He can feel the tension building in his jaw as you laugh at something someone else said. His fingers tap a slow rhythm against the cushion, his eyes narrowing slightly. You’re smiling at them, leaning a little closer, and Aventurine hates it. He knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s irrational, but he can’t stop the twist in his gut, that sharp stab of jealousy that’s getting harder and harder to ignore.

He wants to pull you away, get you alone, make sure you’re his, but he knows he can’t just do that. Not here, not in front of everyone. He doesn’t want to be that guy. He doesn’t want to be controlling, doesn’t want you to think he doesn’t trust you—because he does. He trusts you. It’s everyone else that’s the problem.

He swallows, his throat feeling tight, and shifts in his seat, his eyes finding you again. He needs to do something. He needs to get you out of here, but he needs to do it in a way that doesn’t make him look like an insecure idiot in front of his friends. He’s supposed to be confident, laid-back, not the kind of guy who’d drag his partner away just because someone else is making them laugh.

But damn, it’s hard.

He clears his throat, straightening up, and forces a smile. “Hey, you ready to head out soon?” he calls over to you, his voice light, casual. He doesn’t want to make it obvious, doesn’t want anyone to see the real reason behind his words. He just wants you close, wants to be the one making you smile like that. “We’ve got an early morning tomorrow, and besides, I think we’ve had enough fun for one night.”