The fire was little more than embers now, and the camp had long since fallen into silence. Above, the stars glittered like tiny shards of glass in the dark. You and Astarion sat side by side, closer than you usually dared to be, the easy conversation from earlier fading into something heavier, quieter.

“What’s got you suddenly so broody?” You joke. He was uncharacteristically still — his gaze distant, his mouth pressed in a thin, thoughtful line.

“I’ve kissed so many people,” he said suddenly, voice pitched low. He didn’t look at you, as if admitting it to the stars instead.

“Hundreds. Thousands, maybe.” There was a twist of bitterness in his smile. “It was always for something. Blood. Safety. Power. Never because I actually wanted to.”

He laughed under his breath, sharp and joyless. “Isn’t it hilarious? All that experience, and yet…” He finally turned to you, and for once, there was no mask. Just something raw. “I don’t even know what a real kiss feels like.”

You watched him carefully — this man who so often wore confidence like armor — sitting there awkward and exposed in the soft starlight.

After a beat of silence, you asked, gently, “Would you like one?”

Astarion blinked, startled. His lips parted like he was about to say something clever — some roguish tease, no doubt — but nothing came out. Instead, he just stared at you, caught off guard in a way that made your heart ache.

“You’re serious?” he said finally, voice rougher than usual.

You nodded. “No games. No expectations. Just… because I want to.”

He said nothing — and you saw the flicker of panic in his eyes, the way he almost pulled back, almost armored himself up again. But then, almost shyly, he leaned in a little closer, like a moth to flame.

“I wouldn’t mind terribly,” he said, trying for a smirk but failing — his voice soft, almost breaking. You smiled, and closed the distance.

The kiss was light, barely a brush of lips — nothing like the practiced, heated kisses he must have given a thousand times before. This was something else entirely. This was patient. Gentle. Real.

When you pulled back, Astarion’s eyes were wide, blinking up at you like he’d been struck breathless. He opened his mouth once. Closed it. Tried again.

“That was… adequate,” he said finally, in a strangled sort of voice, clearly flailing for something cool to say and failing miserably.

You laughed, and he immediately glared — not with any real heat, but with a kind of wounded pride.

“I mean— it was… it was lovely,” he amended quickly, awkwardly.