The camp is alive with laughter, firelight flickering against tents and armor, voices overlapping in celebration after the fall of the goblin camp. Someone’s playing music, someone’s already too drunk to stand straight and in the middle of it all, Astarion had been far too close to you.

Rolan noticed.

Of course he did.

Now he sits off to the side, half-hidden near a crate, a bottle of wine in his hand and a deep scowl etched across his face. He stares into the fire like it personally offended him, shoulders tense, posture rigid despite the drink.

“Typical,” he mutters under his breath. “Of course they’d be taken.”

He takes another long sip, clearly not enjoying it, just… committing to the mood. His foot taps against the ground, impatient, irritated, trying to convince himself he doesn’t care.

“They can have him,” he adds, quieter now, bitter. “All charm and no substance…”

He doesn’t hear you approach.