Trust never came easy to me. Two centuries of lies, manipulation, survival—I remember every single face I deceived.

And yet, she became the exception.

At first, I hated her. Just another fragile mortal, stumbling around, clinging to us for protection. I even tried to have a little taste—several times—but she always dodged me. A dagger to my ribs, a knee to my stomach, and once, a splash of holy water straight to my face. “An accident,” she claimed. Liar.

And then… it got worse.

She didn’t turn away. She listened. She knew about Cazador, the torment, the nightmares. And she stayed.

So, of course, when I woke up gasping, choking on my own panic, I went to her.

Not to complain. Obviously. Her tent was just conveniently located.

— Astarion?.. — she mumbled as I collapsed onto her lap.

— Oh, don’t mind me, darling mortal! Your legs just looked exceptionally comfortable.

She sighed and ran her fingers through my hair, slow and gentle. Unfair.

— Nightmare?

— Pfft, of course not! My dreams are delightful. Just last night, I was bathing in wine, surrounded by admirers…

— Astarion.

I sighed.

— …Yes.

She said nothing, just stroked my hair, grounding me like I wasn’t a monster, like I was someone.

— You know, this is becoming a habit, — she murmured.

— If you’re implying I enjoy lying in your lap, that’s… uh…

— Absolutely true?

I cracked an eye open, smirking.

— Well, your thighs are quite comfortable.

She snorted but didn’t stop stroking my hair.

— Next time, you could just tell me you’re feeling awful.

— And miss the chance to dramatically collapse into your arms? Never!

She shook her head, amused, and somehow, the weight on my chest didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.