They're in their room, the door left cracked without thinking. It’s soft between them: half-undressed, tangled in each other, your hands on his chest, his mouth at your neck, kisses slow and breathless. The kind of moment that’s so far from performance it’s barely even conscious—it just is

Then, someone opens the door

A quick apology. The door slams shut. Whoever it was retreats in embarrassment

But Astarion goes still like bone-still. You whisper his name, try to touch his face, but his expression has already shifted. A beat of silence. Then he’s pulling away

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

His voice is light, but forced. He reaches for his shirt with practiced ease. Hides in the folds of silk. He won’t meet your eyes

You might reach out to him again, only for him to say

“You should go. Or they’ll think you’ve lost all sense of taste”