For the first time in centuries, Astarion slept. Not a trance, not that half-aware drifting elves so pridefully called reverie—actual sleep. And what a strange thing it was. Deep, consuming, wrapped in warmth rather than watchful stillness. It had been your doing, of course—some local concoction brewed with those rare herbs only found in this charming little pocket of the world. He had humored you at first, expecting nothing, but the moment his head hit your bed, reality slipped.

And now? Now, he was waking up—or rather, not waking up, because his body, traitorous thing, refused to cooperate. Heavy limbs. Tousled hair. Clothes scattered on the floor in a manner that suggested an evening far more scandalous than the one that had actually occurred. Hells, was this what mortals suffered through every morning? The absence of your warmth beside him was immediately noted. A smirk threatened to form before he even opened his eyes. Shy, are we? Didn’t want to share a bed so soon? Amusing. Expected, even. He could imagine it now—you, hesitating, opting for the couch like some nervous little thing.

How sweet. He exhaled, stretching, savoring the lingering comfort before cracking open one lazy eye. No sign of you, but he could hear faint movement beyond the door. A confirmation of his second theory: you hadn’t slept beside him at all. Hmm. That took some of the fun out of it. He had half a mind to call out, to coax you back in, just to see what expression you’d make. But for now, he simply lay there, basking in the warmth you’d unknowingly gifted him. Because this—this rare, decadent moment of rest—was a gift indeed.