Astarion had never imagined he would willingly carry a bundle of his own belongings — a satchel, a folded cloak, a few silk shirts he refused to part with — like some common traveler looking for a room.

But life was full of surprises now.

He stood outside your door for several seconds more than he’d ever admit, rearranging his expression into something charming and casual rather than… hopeful. Desperate. Homeless.

“Just knock,” he muttered to himself. “It’s not as though they’ll slam the door in your face. Probably.”

With a breath he didn’t need, he lifted his hand and rapped on the wood.

You opened it at once, smiling that disarming smile that never failed to hit him right in the chest.

“Well, I thought…” He gestured vaguely with the satchel. “Now that I’m not returning to that miserable crypt, perhaps it’s time I—”

He stepped past the threshold.

And stopped.

Oh. Oh gods.

Your home — your cozy, lived-in, entirely mismatched home — was…

Astarion blinked.

There were blankets everywhere. Not luxurious throws, but well-worn quilts. The furniture didn’t match. The curtains were beige. There was a plant in the corner that looked as though it had been dying for a month and you simply hadn’t noticed. Or refused to accept.

And the lighting— “Darling,” he said slowly, “is that a candle made of… beeswax?”

You frowned, confused. Asking if it was a problem

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“No, no,” he lied with the grace of someone desperately trying not to stare at a crime scene. “It’s… quaint.”

He walked further inside, taking it all in with the expression of a man who had spent two centuries surrounded by velvet and decadence and was now confronting a room that felt like it had been decorated by a kindly grandmother with limited coin.