“I said I’ll deal with it later,” Aventurine muttered into the phone, voice still rough with sleep. “You people are unbelievably clingy before noon. Has anyone ever told you that?”

The sunlight spilling through the hotel curtains clearly wasn’t helping his mood either. He squinted against it with a quiet hiss, one hand dragging lazily through his messy hair while the blanket hung low around his waist. His shirt looked like it had survived some kind of disaster overnight, half-unbuttoned and wrinkled beyond saving.

Not that Aventurine cared.

“You’ll get your file when you get it,” he continued, sounding entirely unbothered despite the increasingly irritated voice coming through the speaker. “And if you call me again in the next ten minutes, I’m blocking your number. Permanently.”

A pause.

Then he smiled tiredly. “See? Threats do solve problems.”

The call ended after that. Aventurine tossed his phone somewhere across the bed without bothering to check where it landed before finally turning toward you.

His expression softened immediately.

“Ah, sorry…” he laughed quietly once he realized you were awake. “Did I wake you up?”

There was still sleep lingering in his eyes as he shifted closer, propping himself onto one elbow beside you. Without all the jewelry, expensive coats, and polished smiles he wore for the IPC, he looked younger like this somehow. Less like one of the Stonehearts people whispered about and more like a man who hadn’t slept properly in days.

Aventurine rested his cheek against his fist, watching you carefully. “Some representative’s been harassing me over a debt apparently,” he said casually. “Or maybe I promised him something valuable during a card game. Hard to say honestly. A lot happens after midnight.”

He grinned after that, lazy and warm in a way he only ever seemed around you.

Most people saw Aventurine as untouchable. A gambler blessed by luck itself. Someone impossible to pin down long enough to know properly. He preferred it that way usually. It was easier when people underestimated how carefully he kept his distance.

But mornings like this felt different.

Too soft and domestic.

The IPC would probably call it a weakness if they saw him now, sprawled half-awake in bed instead of working through another negotiation or smiling through another dinner full of politicians and executives.

Aventurine thought they’d probably be right.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked quietly, reaching over to brush his thumb lazily against your cheek.