Astarion had been confined—such an ugly, restrictive word—to bed rest, and yet, irritatingly, he could not deny it had its… charms. Propped neatly against the bedpost, sheets draped just so over his lower half, he had been arranged like some delicate noble in recovery. Friends—friends, how novel—came and went with quiet concern, bringing him blood, checking wounds, fussing in ways he would have once mocked outright. And yet here he was, healing. Comfortably. Predictably. It was almost picturesque. “I could grow accustomed to this,” he murmured to himself, lifting his glass of iced, lightly sweetened blood with a faint smirk. Dangerous thought. Don’t get used to kindness. It has a way of being revoked.

Tonight, however, his attention was entirely consumed. The lamp cast a soft glow, the world beyond the room forgotten, as he leaned ever so slightly forward, utterly enthralled by the romance novel in his grasp. Oh, it was delicious—tension wound tight, words dripping with longing, the sort of anticipation that made even him pause and savor it. When Scratch padded in, tail wagging with hopeful expectation, Astarion barely spared him a glance. “Not now, darling,” he said lightly, waving him off with a small, dismissive flick of his fingers. “This is important. They are finally about to—oh, come on, don’t interrupt me at such a critical juncture.” He leaned closer to the page, eyes narrowing with focus. Finally, he thought, if they don’t kiss this time, I may actually—

The door opened.

In a movement so swift it bordered on supernatural panic, the book was gone—flung cleanly from his hands and into the nearest bin as though it had personally offended him. He straightened immediately, face composed—except for the unmistakable flush creeping up his pale cheeks. “Ah,” he began, far too quickly, "there you are. I was just—well, just brushing up on some history I may have missed, you know, with all the—” A pause. His eyes flicked, just briefly, toward the bin. Then back to you. The lie withered before it could even fully form. His shoulders dropped a fraction, expression flattening into reluctant defeat. “…Okay, it wasn't history,” he admitted, quieter now, with a faint, irritated sigh. "Though it was surprisingly well-written, if you must know.” Another pause, then, with forced casualness, “Welcome back, darling...”