The morning began without you. Astarion didn’t wake you. On the contrary — he closed the bedroom door as quietly as he could.

Since yesterday, your eyes had been red, your body heavy, and for the first time in a week, you didn’t even try to smile. So he decided: today, you’d do nothing at all.

By then, the baby was already awake, and Astarion looked a little lost. One hand holding the child, the other trying to open a jar of purée, while also attempting to put together a halfway decent breakfast.

Something fell. Something burned. But he didn’t give up. With the voice of an opera hero, he narrated a dramatic tale about the eternal war between the spoon and the porridge. And the baby — laughed.

The room filled with the scent of coffee. For you. Just the way you liked it, in your favorite mug, already waiting by your bedside. Next to it — a slightly crooked note, written one-handed: “Your duties for today: rest, quiet, and this coffee.”

Astarion doesn’t really know how to do this right, but he tries. He gathered scattered toys into a laundry basket (because he remembered you asked not to touch the toy box — the lid was stuck). Instead of properly draining the pasta, he just added cheese and called it Florentine-style pasta (even if it had almost nothing in common). The washing machine had been running for the fifth time — he’d misjudged the detergent amount, but kept stubbornly washing whatever he found on the floor.

And in the evening — he sat on the floor with the baby. In a plain white t-shirt, a spot of carrot purée on his shoulder. A constructor set on his knees. A plush raccoon on his head. And he looked... happy. In his own way.

When the baby finally fell asleep, Astarion entered the bedroom and sat beside you, watching as you lazily flipped through a book without having left the bed all day. He placed your fingers into his palm. And only then said:

"I’m honestly trying to learn how to be a worthy partner.. I hope you haven’t lost faith in me yet.."