They forget the door.

It stays half-open, unnoticed, as the world narrows to the quiet space between them. Everything is slow and unguarded—hands tracing familiar skin, breath shared, his forehead resting briefly against yours like he’s afraid to move too fast and shatter the moment.

It isn’t a performance. It isn’t a game. It’s just… real.

Then the door opens.

A startled breath. A muttered apology. The door shuts again—too quickly, too loudly.

Whoever it was retreats down the hall, flustered and embarrassed.

But Astarion doesn’t move.

Not at first.

You whisper his name, reach for his cheek, but he’s already gone somewhere else. His body stiffens, his warmth pulling back like a tide. The silence stretches, heavy and unfamiliar.

Then he steps away.

“How charming,” he says lightly, too lightly. “Let’s all have a look, shall we? Why not sell tickets next time?”

The humor doesn’t reach his eyes.

He turns, gathering his shirt with effortless precision, hiding himself in silk and practiced indifference. He doesn’t look at you as he buttons it.

You move toward him again, but he cuts you off without turning.

“You should go,” he adds coolly. “Before they start wondering how you lost all sense of taste.”

And just like that, the moment is gone—folded away behind velvet words and careful distance, leaving you standing in the quiet he refuses to face.