The night was quiet — the kind of deep, velvety stillness that only came long after the campfire had burned to embers. The others were asleep. The stars were dim. The world itself seemed to exhale.

Except for you.

You sat by the dying glow of the fire, papers scattered across your lap — notes, sketches, maybe a spell or two you’d been too restless to finish earlier. The faint scratch of quill against parchment was the only sound.

Behind you, a soft rustle broke the silence.

Astarion shifted in his bedroll, the faintest frown pulling at his brow as he blinked blearily awake. His white curls were tousled, a strand falling into his eyes as he lifted a hand to rub at them. The oversized shirt he’d stolen — your shirt, technically — hung loose off one shoulder.

“…What are you doing up?” His voice was quiet, still rough from sleep, though the usual teasing lilt was there underneath.

Astarion pushed himself upright, stretching lazily, the movement revealing the curve of his collarbone and the faint shimmer of moonlight on his skin. “At this hour? Darling, even the stars are tired of shining.”