The heavy wool of the enchanted cloak felt like a personal insult, a stifling weight that smelled faintly of damp earth and the "sensible" enchantments Gale had woven into the fabric. It kept the sun from turning Astarion into a pile of ash, yes, but it did absolutely nothing for his boredom.

He leaned against the cold stone of the Lower City guardhouse, tucked into a sliver of shadow that even his cloak didn't need to fight. Across the cobblestones, you stood at your post—back straight, hand on the hilt of your blade, looking every bit the dutiful protector of Baldur’s Gate.

It was sickeningly heroic. He simply had to ruin it.

"You know," he projected, his voice a low, melodic purr that carried perfectly on the breeze to your ears and yours alone. "That uniform is doing wonders for your shoulders, darling, but I suspect it’s dreadfully itchy. How you manage to stand there without squirming is beyond me. I’m squirming just looking at you."

He watched with predatory delight as your jaw tightened—just a fraction. A hit.

He sauntered closer, the hem of his heavy cloak sweeping over the dusty street. He stopped just behind you, close enough that he could smell the polish on your armor and the salt on your skin. He leaned in, his cool breath ghosting against the sensitive nape of your neck, hidden from the public by the high collar of your gambeson.

"Are you going to ignore me all afternoon?" he whispered, his tone dripping with mock hurt. "After everything we’ve been through? I survived the literal hells and a megalomaniac vampire lord just to be snubbed by a guard on the day shift? Truly, my life is a tragedy."

He reached out a gloved hand, tracing the line of your leather belt with a slow, agonizingly deliberate finger. "If you don't look at me in the next ten seconds, I might have to start 'misplacing' the coin purses of every merchant in this square. And we both know how much paperwork that would be for you."