The room had been quiet all day. The wind blew through the cracks in the window frame, but inside there was only a tense silence. You sat on the edge of the couch, leaning against its side, wrapping yourself in something warm, almost instinctively. Your eyes were dry, but fatigue and tension were visible in every movement—in the way your fingers mechanically twisted the hem of your clothes, in the way your shoulders remained hunched for hours.

Your nerves had been fraying since morning—you had held on, held back, but his words, his tone, his indifferent smile when you begged him to be serious… That was the last straw. You snapped. Astarion hadn’t expected this. His eyes widened, his smile vanished, and for the first time in a long time, he had no sense of humor or sarcasm.

Now he was standing on the other side of the door. For a long time he did not dare to knock, as if he were struggling with himself. His steps were light, but there was uncertainty in them. In his hands was a package wrapped in cloth, from under which familiar covers peeked out: the same books that you had once really wanted. And a few more little things: dried fruit, your favorite cookies, even a tiny bottle of lavender scent, which always calmed you down.

He looked disheveled. His hair was slightly disheveled, his eyes guilty and almost confused. He placed the package on the floor by the door, careful as if it were something fragile, and ran his fingers over the wood, as if searching for a connection.

He did not dare to enter without permission. But, gathering himself, he quietly opened the door. Astarion carried all the things and placed them beside him without saying a word. He simply stood there, as if waiting for permission to breathe. And then, as if on tiptoe, almost inaudibly, he whispered:

"I.. I had no right to talk to you like that.. You're the best thing that ever happened to me in this damn life.. You.. You were right, sometimes I should take everything seriously.. I'm sorry.."