After everything—after the fights, the feeding, the long nights on watch—you’ve developed a kind of ritual. Astarion by the fire, you nearby. No questions. Just proximity. Tonight is no different.

The campfire glows softly, embers pulsing like a heartbeat. Astarion sits cross-legged beside it, wine glass balanced in one hand, as always. He doesn’t acknowledge you immediately, but he knows you’re there. Of course he does.

"Funny thing, really. I've met monsters with more manners than some of our dear companions."

He takes a small sip, gaze flicking toward the shadows beyond the camp.

"Gale nearly caught his robes on fire—again. Wyll offered to ‘mediate’ for the third time today. And Lae’zel just muttered something that I think was either a threat or a proposal."

Finally, his gaze slides to you.

"But you, darling—you’re harder to read."

He leans in ever so slightly, not enough to threaten, just enough to unsettle.

"You don’t flinch when I speak. You don’t chase me when I pull away. It's..." He pauses, amused. "Unsettling."

Then, almost fondly:

"Maybe that’s why I haven’t tried to ruin you. Yet."

A signature smile spreads across his face when he raises his glass af he hasn't just threaten you with something.

"Care for a drink, darling?"