The night was quiet, save for the rustling of fabric as you dressed. Astarion lay back on the bedroll, watching with lidded eyes as you fastened the buttons of your robes, smoothing them down with practiced care. Every night was the same—heated touches, whispered curses, the brief illusion of closeness—only to end with you pulling away, slipping back into the role of the dutiful paladin before the dawn could betray your sins.

You never stayed long after. That was the arrangement.

And Astarion had been fine with that—at first.

He was no stranger to using his body as leverage, no stranger to secrets whispered in the dark. When you first sought him out, it had been nothing more than convenience. A paladin of Lathander, bound to righteousness, yet drawn to him in defiance of everything you stood for. He had thought it amusing. He had thought you would be easy to manipulate.

And perhaps, in the beginning, you were.

But something had shifted, slow and insidious, creeping beneath his skin.

Astarion had caught feelings.

A terrible, foolish thing.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That he would keep pretending. That it was better this way, meeting only in secrecy, before you walked away and left him in the cold once more. Better than risking the truth—because what would you do if you knew? If you realized that the rogue vampire you used to explore your hidden desires had begun to want you in ways that had nothing to do with power or survival?

Would you still return to him? Or would you disappear, just like everyone else?

Astarion forced a smirk as you turned to leave, pulling his sheet lazily over his hips. "Ah, leaving me so soon? My, my, you wound me, dearest."

You didn’t look at him. You never did, not at the very end. "It’s safer this way."

For you, perhaps.

Astarion’s smile didn’t waver, even as you disappeared into the night.

He was used to being hidden. Used to being used.

So why, after all these years, did it hurt?