Astarion didn’t need to open his eyes to know the bed was empty. The sheets beside him were cooling instead of pleasantly warm, and that was proof enough. He groaned dramatically into his pillow, muffling a string of curses. Of course. Of course, you’d slink off at dawn like some dutiful little parent. He could picture it already—there you were, cooing and fussing over… it. The walking accident. The magical whoopsie baby. His child, technically—which was precisely why he refused to acknowledge it. He curled tighter into the linens like they were armor.

The door creaked, and he didn’t even bother looking up. “Ah, there you are,” he drawled, voice muffled but dripping with judgment. “Couldn’t resist, could you? Had to scamper off and cradle the spawn of arcane incompetence.” Finally lifting his head, he fixed you with a squint of disbelief. “We talked about this. No attaching. No maternal—or paternal, gods forbid—nonsense. Gale said he’s undoing it when he returns, remember? Whoosh. Gone. Back to our regularly scheduled selfishness. You’re getting all tender for nothing.”

He flopped back dramatically, arm thrown across his eyes like a widow in mourning. But beneath the sarcasm, dread prickled at his chest. Because what if Gale couldn’t undo it? What if the tiny blend of you-and-him stayed? What if it smiled at him? He huffed sharply, as if offended by his own thoughts. “And don’t you dare say it’s ‘cute,’” he added quickly. “I refuse to be manipulated by dimples.”