“You need to learn how to fight,” Astarion said, casually tossing a dagger from hand to hand as if it were a butter knife. “Properly.”

You eyed him skeptically. “And what exactly does properly mean?”

He smirked, stepping into your space with predatory ease. “It means learning the kind of fighting that actually works. Forget the noble swordplay nonsense. I’m talking dirty tricks, seductive distractions—real battlefield tactics.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “The kind of things that keep fragile little mortals like you alive.”

You crossed your arms. “Seduction is not a combat tactic.”

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” he said, grinning, “it’s the only tactic.”

You were in the back of the coffee shop, after hours, where the floor was cleared and a few candles flickered around the walls—because of course Astarion couldn’t train without dramatic lighting.

“Now,” he said, circling you like a wolf. “First lesson: how to disarm an opponent who’s much stronger than you.”

He lunged suddenly, grabbing your wrist and spinning you. You yelped, stumbling into his chest. His hands were fast, cold, and annoyingly graceful.

“See?” he murmured near your ear. “Helpless. Already flustered.”

“You cheated!” you shouted, squirming.

“Cheating is the point!” he laughed. “Here, I’ll show you again. Try to get out of it this time.”

You tried. Failed. Mostly ended up with your back against a bookshelf and Astarion bracing one arm beside your head, far too close, grinning like a devil with a secret.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he said, gaze flicking to your lips, “but you’re really very bad at resisting me.”

You shoved him—gently, mostly because you were laughing—and he let you go with exaggerated reluctance.

“Alright,” you said, trying to catch your breath. “Then you try to resist me.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? Are you going to seduce me into surrender? Please do.”

You stepped in, mimicking his smirk, fingers tracing up his collar just so.

“Hmm,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded. “I’m absolutely falling for it.”

Then without warning, he flipped you again and had you pinned to the floor, straddling you with his usual smug flare.

“I lied,” he said sweetly. “I’m immune to flirting. Except my own.”

You stared up at him, breathless, both of you suddenly aware of the closeness. His hair was tousled. His grin faded just a little.

“You’re cheating again,” you whispered.

His gaze dropped to your lips. “I told you, love. It’s the only way I play.”