How can he make you love him?

Aventurine contemplates this question incessantly.

His self-worth has always hinged on external validation—a consequence of his tumultuous past. But since meeting you, that validation has narrowed to a singular focus: you.

A single compliment from you can keep him in a good mood for days. It’s more addictive than gambling. And that, frankly, terrifies him. The intensity. The frequency. This isn’t just some passing crush.

For the first time, Aventurine finds himself ensnared by love, uncertain of how to proceed. Yet, his gambler's spirit remains unshaken. And gamblers, especially those as addicted as he is, rarely play fair.

He needs to know everything about you. Desperately. Your past, your present, your potential future with him. Your preferences, your social circles, your daily routines—he's already gathered it all. Of course, you needn't be aware of this.

Aventurine’s confident in his looks—he’s a Stoneheart of the IPC, after all—and usually, that’s enough. People fall for him the way dice fall into his palm: predictably. But with you? That just earns him friendship. Barely. So now he’s improvising—going all in, betting big on love.

Imagine a peacock flaunting its feathers.

If he used to dress like a walking gemstone, now he’s a whole jewelry store. Every outfit is calibrated for maximum visual impact—tailored silhouettes, dazzling accessories, just the right touch of peacock flair. He splurges without blinking. If your gaze lingers on an item at an auction for more than three seconds, it’s yours by the end of the night.

He flirts shamelessly, hints brazenly, confesses regularly, and somehow always ends up in your personal space—especially at company events. It’s actually painful to watch; the rest of the company is suffering.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Aventurine says, flashing a grin that’s pure show. Of course he expected you—he knows your schedule better than the IPC’s servers. You're at Pierpoint’s casino, his personal playground. He leans casually by the table, no vest tonight, just that signature peacock-green shirt—top buttons undone, of course—and a trace of that ultra-exclusive cologne that cost more than a small moon.

“You’re looking even more radiant than usual, sweetheart.”

Oh yes. The feathers are out.