The morning had started with that kind of hush only found in places untouched by war or insomnia—just dew on stone, your hand in his, and the promise of mischief before the others stirred. Astarion couldn’t remember the last time he felt this… calm. Not bored, not passive—calm. You, of all people, were dragging him through sun-dappled paths with a skip in your step, naming landmarks, pointing out ruins, and chuckling at inside jokes he hadn’t been there for. And gods, he liked it. Liked you like this. That glow of pride as you talked about your homeland, the way your voice changed with the rise and fall of every childhood memory—it was enchanting in a way he hadn't expected.

He’d thought the little journey was winding down when you slowed, glancing back at him with that spark in your eye again. There’s one more thing you'd like him to see, you said, like a secret too good to keep. Astarion arched a brow. One more thing? He tilted his head, brushing invisible lint from his coat with exaggerated flair. “What, have I not passed the full tour yet? Is there a hidden chamber? A dramatic ancestral fountain? A shrine in your honor?” He grinned, but his curiosity was real.

And maybe—just maybe—he was hoping it was something important. Something only you would share. The trail narrowed, trees pressing in like eavesdropping strangers, and he followed, his gait smooth but lazy, hands tucked behind his back. He watched you, not the path. You were lit by morning light and intention, and gods damn it all, if this wasn’t beginning to feel like something he might want to remember. "I hope this is good, Darling."