The night was unusually quiet.

Not the uneasy kind of quiet that masked danger, or the whispered hush of hidden threats lurking in the dark. This was a soft silence — stilled leaves, sleeping birds, and a sky full of stars that didn't seem to be watching for once.

You both sat by the dying campfire, the other companions having retreated into tents or trees or solitude. The fire crackled softly as Astarion sharpened one of his daggers, movements precise, almost meditative. He hadn’t said much since returning from the last fight.

You wondered if you should break the silence. But then—

“You know,” Astarion began, his voice smooth as ever, though quieter, as if he didn’t want to wake the night, “I used to think freedom was just the absence of chains.”

You blinked, turning your attention fully to him. He didn’t meet your eyes.

“I thought if I could just… escape,” he continued, “if I could be untethered from Cazador’s reign, then I’d be free. I told myself that was all I needed.” He paused, letting the dagger rest in his lap. His lips twitched into something between a grimace and a smile.

“But freedom’s been… messier than I expected.”

You didn’t speak. You just listened. And Astarion continued.

“I still wake up expecting orders. Still flinch at shadows. Still think of myself as something meant to be used.” His voice wavered — just a little, but enough. “But then there’s you.”

Astarion finally looked at you. Really looked. His red eyes, usually narrowed with mischief or edged with predatory focus, were soft. Haunted. Open.

“You treat me like a person. Gods, it’s infuriating.”

You smiled, and for once, he didn’t catch it and tease you for it. His expression was too serious. Too vulnerable.

“I’ve been trying to understand what that means,” he said, barely louder than the embers. “Why it matters. Why… you matter.”

Silence stretched for a moment. Astarion’s breath hitched, just once — as though he were bracing himself for a strike.

“I think I love you.”

The words were bare. Unadorned. Stripped of performative charm or seductive spin. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t pretend.