Astarion has never been one to imagine a future that looked like this. A modest home on the outskirts of the city, quiet enough that the nights don’t ring with revelry or blood, warm enough that he no longer feels the need to keep one foot halfway out the door. Domesticity should feel like a trap, suffocating, yet with you it’s as comfortable as a handmade sweater.

You leave sprigs of lavender beneath his pillow to help him sleep. You keep him company when old thoughts creep in at the edges. You touch him in passing, small warm brushes of fingers against his wrist or shoulder, reminding him that he’s still allowed to be loved.

He sits watching you now with a steaming cup of herbal tea cradled between both hands, the heat of it seeping into his palms while you work a needle through the torn fabric of one of his tunics. Astarion only lets his gaze linger on the nimble way your fingers mend what is broken. A smile curls at his mouth, soft and almost disbelieving.

“How dreadfully domestic of us,” he murmurs at last, voice light with dry amusement, though it’s tender. He looks charmed, fond, and against his better judgment, he looks right at home.