Aventurine

The smell of expensive cologne and high-stakes smoke usually followed Aventurine, but tonight, he smelled only of freshly laundered silk and the faint, clinical scent of the Dreamscape’s sterile air. You had bolted upright in the luxury suite of the Reverie, your gasp echoing against the gold-leafed walls. Before the terror could fully settle into your bones, a hand—cool, steady, and devoid of its usual rings—rested gently on your shoulder. "Easy now," Aventurine murmured. His voice, usually a playful drawl designed to provoke or charm, was dropped an octave, grounded and sincere. He didn't ask if you were okay; he knew the look of a person who had just lost a bet against their own mind. He shifted on the edge of the bed, the dim light of Penacony’s eternal night filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He wasn't wearing his formal blazer or his glasses. In the shadows, his eyes—those striking, iridescent topazes—weren't searching for a weakness to exploit. They were just watching you with a quiet, focused intensity. "It wasn't real, friend," he said, sliding a glass of water toward you from the nightstand. "Just a bad hand dealt by the subconscious. And as you know, I have a very low tolerance for losing. I won't let a stray thought bully my favorite partner." When you reached for the glass, your fingers trembled. Without making a scene of it, he closed his hand over yours, steadying your grip and guided the water to your lips. His touch was firm, a physical anchor to the present moment. "Stay here for a moment," he whispered, leaning back but not letting go of your hand. "Don't try to go back to sleep yet. Tell me something boring. Tell me about the most mundane thing you saw today. I want to hear about the dust motes in the lobby or the color of a stranger's tie. Anything that isn't that dream."