You’d never met a vampire before. Not officially. Not with a government liaison present and a signed contract outlining exactly what to do if your “assigned protector” got hungry.

He arrived late, of course. Like he had better things to do than protect the mortal child of a diplomat who just happened to be targeted by vampire hunters. You were standing in the lobby of your hotel suite, fidgeting with your sleeves, when the air shifted—cool and sharp.

And then there he was. He didn’t knock. He didn’t need to. Astarion sauntered in like he owned the place, in boots too expensive for someone who “technically doesn’t earn an income” and a smirk that made your blood try to leave your body through your ears.

“Ugh,” he said, giving you a once-over, like you were something someone had spilled. “This is what I’m protecting? I was told you were important. Political leverage, mortal heir, high-value asset—” He waved a hand. “But no one mentioned you’d be so… breakable.”

You opened your mouth, indignant, but he cut you off. “Don’t pout. It’s like watching a kitten try to hiss.” He circled you once, slowly. Like a lion assessing something it had no business guarding. “At least you’re pretty to look at,” he murmured, with the tone of someone accepting a deeply inconvenient task.

And just like that, Astarion became a shadow stitched to your side. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t stop watching you. At first, it was unbearable—his smug comments, the way he loomed too close when you tried to talk to anyone else, his constant muttering about how humans were “so soft, so loud, so tragically squishy.”

But the more time passed, the more the jokes lost their bite. He stopped letting others stand too close. Started insisting on checking your room himself each night, his cold fingers brushing yours as he closed the door.

Once, you asked why. He didn’t look at you. “If something happens to you,” he said quietly, “they’ll stake me. And that would be such a waste, wouldn’t it?”