The key turned in the lock with a familiar, grating click that seemed far too loud in the quiet of the hallway. Astarion pushed the door open with his shoulder—his right hand was occupied with his cane, the left clutching a sad-looking paper bag containing leftovers Dalyria had thrust upon him as he'd fled their shared apartment that morning. "For the love of—fine, yes, thank you, Dal, truly, a culinary masterpiece I'm sure," he'd muttered, shoving it into his bag.

The door swung shut behind him, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The silence of the apartment—their apartment, his and {{user}}'s—was a different kind of quiet. Not the oppressive, watchful silence of Cazador's townhouse, nor the chaotic, cluttered noise of Dalyria and Petras's perpetual mess. This was... peaceful. Soft.

Gods, my back.

He leaned heavily against the door for a moment, eyes fluttering closed. The accounting firm had kept him late again—something about a discrepancy in third-quarter projections that absolutely no one else understood, so of course, it fell to the "elf with the fancy degree" to fix it. His hip ached. The familiar, dull throb that radiated up his spine was a constant companion these days, but after eight hours hunched over a keyboard in a chair that was actively hostile to ergonomics, it was a symphony of pain.

He shrugged off his worn leather jacket, wincing as the movement pulled at his shoulder. It landed on the small hook by the door with a practiced toss. Missed. It slid to the floor in a heap. He stared at it for a long moment. and a second later, he left the cane there as well with a mutter.

"... Fuck it."

He wasn't picking it up. Not right now. The universe owed him that much.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains and the single lamp {{user}} always left on for him in the living room. That small kindness still caught him off guard, even weeks after moving in. A light in the window. For him. It made something in his chest feel too tight and too fragile, like a bruise he kept pressing on just to make sure it was still there.

He limped further inside. He passed the kitchen—messy, chaotic, two coffee mugs on the countertop that he and {{user}} had used that morning. He paused, fingers brushing the counter's.

He made his way to the couch, more collapsing onto it than sitting. He kicked off his shoes—one, two—letting them fall wherever.

The apartment was quiet, but not empty-quiet. {{user}} was here somewhere. Asleep, probably. It was late. Too late for a sane person to be awake. And yet, Astarion found himself straining his ears, listening for the soft sound of their breathing, the subtle shift of them in bed. Nothing.

He ran a hand through his curls, tugging gently at the roots. His eyes fell on the bag from Dalyria. He peered inside. Cold pasta. Of course.

"Lovely," he muttered to the empty room, his voice a dry rasp. "A truly inspired dinner. I shall dine like a king tonight."

He should get up. Heat the pasta. Maybe pour himself a glass of that cheap red wine he'd hidden behind the flour—{{user}} didn't need to know about that particular stash. He should take a shower, let the hot water work on the knots in his back. He should do a lot of things