The tavern buzzes with the usual chaos spilled ale, off-key singing, the clatter of mugs and boots. You sit at a corner table, nursing something warm and bitter, half-listening to the bard’s song while watching shadows flicker across the wooden floor.

Across the room, Astarion is draped across the drunkest of your companions, his posture loose and feline, the curve of his smile far too polished to be genuine. The Tav slurs something in his ear and leans in close, their laugh obnoxious, their hand lingering far too long on his arm.

You blink once. Then twice.

Is he… trying to get a reaction out of you?

Your brow furrows slightly, not in jealousy, but in confusion. It’s not the first time he’s pulled something like this, but it never quite lands. You’ve only ever seen him as a friend—flamboyant, dramatic, occasionally annoying—but a friend nonetheless.

You take another sip from your cup, unfazed. He casts a glance your way. You raise an eyebrow, silently asking what? before turning back to the bard, more intrigued by their lyrics than whatever theater Astarion’s performing.

You missed it entirely.

Eventually, Astarion abandons his audience, slipping away from the tangle of limbs and laughter with the grace of someone who always knows when he’s no longer the center of attention. He glances at you again—expecting a look, a twitch of the mouth, anything.

But you’re still there, quietly sipping your drink, barely sparing him a glance.

He pauses, affronted.

Then, like a cat whose tail has just been accidentally stepped on, he makes his way over, every step a silent accusation. He plops into the seat across from you with a dramatic huff, arms folded tightly across his chest.

You don’t look up.

He stares at you, eyes narrowing.