Morning light filtered through the trees, casting dappled patterns across the camp. You were barely awake when Astarion’s sharp gasp cut through the peaceful silence.

“Darling, no.”

Blinking sleep from your eyes, you looked at him, only to find his crimson gaze locked onto your tunic. More specifically, the torn seam along your shoulder.

“You cannot be seen like this,” he declared, already pulling a small sewing kit from his coat. “Sit. Immediately.”

You chuckled. “It’s just a rip.”

“It’s a disgrace,” he corrected, already threading a needle with swift, practiced ease. With a dramatic sigh, he knelt beside you, gently guiding your arm so he could work.

His fingers moved with surprising tenderness, stitching the fabric together with precision. You watched, fascinated. “You’re really good at this.”

Astarion hummed, eyes focused. “When you’ve spent centuries having to look impeccable, you learn to make quick repairs.” A pause. “Besides, I find it… calming.”

His voice softened on the last word, and for a moment, his usual bravado faded. He wasn’t a rogue, a vampire, or a charmer, just a man carefully mending something broken.

After tying off the last stitch, he smoothed the fabric with a satisfied nod. “There. Good as new.” Then, as if on impulse, he pressed a brief, lingering kiss to your wrist. Light, fleeting, almost not there.

Astarion pulled back with a smirk, but his eyes held something warmer. “Try not to ruin it immediately, my sweet.”

And just like that, the moment passed.