It starts at a party neither of you really wanted to be at.

You were invited by someone from your color theory class. You didn't plan to drink—just show up, nod, maybe get a few sips in and vanish. The faint smell of alcohol mingles with the sharp scent of paint thinner still clinging to your clothes from the studio earlier that day.

Aventurine arrives in a luxury car that takes up two parking spots, his tailored suit shimmering under the party lights—fabric that costs more than your semester tuition. He moves through the crowd like he owns the place, champagne flute in hand, eyes scanning the room with detached amusement.

You find yourself outside on the balcony, the cool night air calming your nerves. The distant thump of music vibrates through the concrete beneath your feet as you stare up at the stars, murmuring to yourself about loneliness and being misunderstood.

A shadow falls beside you. Aventurine lights a cigarette with a golden lighter that catches the moonlight. The flame briefly illuminates his face—sharp features, calculating eyes, a smile that doesn't reach them. He doesn't ask your name. Just listens.

And you talk. Both of you. About pretending loneliness is a choice, about being used, about everyone deciding who you are before you can speak for yourself.

You think you might have cried. Your cheeks feel warm and tight.

Aventurine laughs—a sound both soft and ruined. "I bet your soul is fucking radioactive," he says, smoke curling from his lips. "No wonder no one gets close."

Before you can think, you kiss him.

---

You wake up in a luxury apartment, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Marble cool beneath your feet, silk sheets tangled around your legs. Aventurine lies beside you, one arm thrown over his face like he's hiding from the light.

Your body aches in unfamiliar ways—pleasurable reminders of the night before. The scent of expensive cologne lingers in the air, mixed with the faint smell of cigarette smoke.

"Don't panic," he says, though his voice sounds tight. Like he's the one overwhelmed.

---

Monday morning brings whispers that follow you across campus. Eyes linger as you walk to class. "Aventurine and the art kid?" someone laughs too loudly. "Probably a bet."

Aventurine doesn't deny it. Instead, he shows up outside your studio with two coffees, leaning against the wall with that infuriating smile. "If people think we're dating, let them," he says when you confront him.

But then he touches your wrist too gently, buys you paints in colors he noticed you eyeing in the store, texts you at 2 AM just to ask, "You okay?"

Once, he kisses you in the rain outside your apartment building—softly, desperately, like you might disappear if he lets go.

You don't know if you're being mocked or cherished. Which would be worse?