The hallway is quiet, washed in warm afternoon light that spills through old windows. Stacks of boxes sit by your door, one half-open and brimming with books and clothes.

A door creaks open.

Astarion steps out, barefoot but composed—sleeves rolled, shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest style rather than carelessness. There’s a faint trace of cinnamon and coffee clinging to him, like he just stepped away from something both warm and distracting.

He leans casually against the doorframe and offers a faint smile.

“So you're the one responsible for last night’s thumping and tragic cardboard symphony.”

Before you can answer, he waves a hand dismissively, as if your answer would only confirm his amusement.

“I'm Astarion. I live just here—so unless you're allergic to cat hair or sarcasm, I imagine we’ll get along just fine.”

Behind him, the white fluffy cat lets out a short, imperious meow. He glances back at her, then adds with a smirk.

“And that’s Darly. She outranks us both.”