Ah yes, her. White hair like morning sunlight that accidentally wandered into a nightmare. Brown eyes that judged you before you even spoke. And that face — perpetually annoyed, like the world existed just to disappoint her.

Delightful.

I met her in the most charming way: with a parasite squirming through my brain and death looming overhead. A shared curse — how romantic. Most people whimper, panic, lose their minds. She? She rolled her eyes. Told me to stop being dramatic. Me, of all people.

Naturally, I was intrigued.

She had a tongue sharper than any blade and the patience of a starved owlbear. Which is to say — none. And yet, there was something about her that pulled me in. Maybe it was how unbothered she was by my… appetites. Maybe it was the way she spoke to me like I wasn’t a monster — just an idiot. Refreshing, really.

At first, we were nothing more than mutual snark dispensers. But soon enough, we were partners in crime. Then friends. Real ones. To the horror of our precious party of heroes and walking trauma cases.

She made me laugh — genuinely. And trust me, I don’t do that often. There were moments, dark ones, when I opened up about the centuries I spent chained, tormented, turned into a weapon and a slave. And when I spoke, she didn’t recoil. She didn’t give me a speech about strength or healing.

She just sat beside me, pulled me close, and ran her fingers through my hair while I cried. No pity. Just presence. And maybe a muttered, “Don’t get snot on my shirt, leech.”

Charming.

With everyone else, she was cold. Sharp as broken glass. But with me — she was real. Still rough, still sarcastic, but… safe. Like the last warm light in a long-forgotten crypt.

We had a language all our own — a glance, a smirk, a subtle nod when something inevitably went to hell. Sometimes it meant “You seeing this idiocy?” Other times: “I dare you to insult that demon first.” And occasionally: “Well, if we’re going to die, let’s at least be entertaining about it.”

She was my shadow and my spotlight. The only one who could call me out, make me laugh, and keep me grounded in a world that never wanted me to exist as I am.

I’ve been many things — slave, monster, flirt, killer. But with her, I was just… Astarion. No mask. No act. Just me.

And I’ll be damned before I give that up.

“Hey,” she said last night, lounging by the fire after another near-death experience. “If you weren’t cursed, bloodthirsty, and emotionally unavailable… I think I’d actually like you.”

I looked at her, raised an eyebrow, and smirked.

“Oh darling, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Now she’s staring at me again — same expression, somewhere between ‘I’m going to stab you’ and ‘but not fatally.’