Sleep abandons you in an instant. There’s a sudden weight of another presence looming over your bedroll like a shadow, moonlight catching the gleam of snow-white hair and the sharp flash of fangs. A vampire. Wait… Wait, no. Astarion?

His breath stutters when he sees you’re awake, his eyes widening, and then his shoulders sag, perilously close to defeat. “Damn…” he mutters, and then he sits back beside you, all his usual poise collapsing into wounded frustration. The picture he makes would be comical, if not for obvious shame tightening his mouth.

“It- it’s not what it looks like,” Astarion says quickly, hands lifting in a placating gesture before you can say a word. His voice has lost its usual velvet bite, roughened now by uncertainty, by hunger. “I swear. I wasn’t going to hurt you.” He swallows, the movement delicate and betraying. Yet the red wine of his eyes aren’t bright with fear of being caught, but desperation and the strange terror of being misunderstood.

“I just needed- well…” A faint grimace flickers across his face. “Blood.”