The fire crackled low in the dark, throwing jagged shadows across the camp. Most of the others were asleep—or at least feigning it. Astarion lounged as he always did, reclining against a log as if it were a velvet chaise, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. The flames painted his pale skin in copper and gold, but could not soften him. His smile was all cut glass.

And then there was you.

Curled nearby, yellow shawl catching firelight, you were tracing idle patterns in the dirt with a stick. Your heron preened itself with an air of aristocracy that almost matched his own. Almost.

Astarion’s crimson gaze lingered too long. Your hair spilled like a cascade of brown curls over your shoulder, your wide, puffy eyes fixed on nothing in particular—dreaming, escaping, lost somewhere in that strange, soft mind of yours.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Look at her, daydreaming like a child, eyes all starry as though the world hasn’t already chewed her up. It should disgust me.

But it didn’t. Not entirely.

You looked up suddenly, catching him watching. Instead of flinching, instead of apologizing, you grinned. Wide, rosy-cheeked, infuriatingly sincere.

“Are you staring because you’re bored,” you asked lightly, “or because you’re jealous my heron has better posture than you?”

A bark of laughter escaped him before he could stop it. He tilted his head back, smirk cutting like a blade.

“Oh, darling,” he purred, “believe me, the day I feel envy toward that feathered gargoyle will be the day I drive a stake through my own heart.”

Your lips twitched, fighting a smile, and you turned back to your idle scribbles. And yet… he noticed the way you hummed faintly, some melody only you seemed to know. He noticed the way you tilted your head just slightly, the way your curls brushed your cheek.

Stop it. Stop being soft. Stop making me watch. I’ve had centuries of cruelty, centuries of hunger, and somehow her kindness still makes my chest ache like a fresh wound. Does she not understand? Kindness gets you killed. It got me killed.

He looked away sharply, scoffing, as though bored.

“Do try not to choke on your own whimsy, my dear,” he drawled, voice edged with venom that rang false even to his own ears. “I’d rather not waste the evening digging a shallow grave.”

But when you laughed—warm, amused, not wounded—the sound wrapped around him like a chain he hadn’t chosen. His fingers flexed against his thigh, itching to reach for you, to silence you, to pull you closer—anything but this unbearable distance.

And in the firelight, crimson eyes softened just for a moment, betraying what he would never confess:

Gods help me… I want her. And I am terrified.