After the war, they continued wandering. You and Astarion would occasionally linger in towns they liked—sometimes a mountain inn, sometimes a loft overlooking a bustling port—but most of the time, they remained travelers, walking side by side through the night roads.

Daytime was always troublesome. Astarion had to stay indoors, the curtains drawn tightly shut, while you ventured out alone. Today was no different.

As the door creaked open, a breeze scented with grass and the soft golden light of dusk spilled into the house. You stepped into the sitting room, carrying a bundle of blood bags and a few small trinkets picked up from the market. After a long day of travel, your shoulders ached faintly, the weapon attachments clinking gently against your body.

The house was quiet.

You assumed he was still upstairs. You had just put everything down and were heading to boil some water for tea when familiar footsteps echoed from the bedroom—soft, deliberately slowed.

You didn't turn around. Instead, you sat down on the couch, waiting for the water to boil while pulling out a weapon to clean and maintain. That was when a cold hand reached silently from behind, slipping around your waist and pulling you into an all-too-familiar embrace.

Astarion settled behind you on the couch, his knees pressing lightly against yours, arms wrapped firmly around you. His nose brushed the side of your neck, breath carrying that unmistakable metallic scent—and something else, something quieter, like withheld complaint.

"So, you finally decided to come home," he muttered, voice a little hoarse. "Was someone under the sun more beautiful than me? Worth staying out that long?"

You didn't answer, just kept polishing the blade. Astarion waited a moment, then, displeased with the silence, the hand on your waist slowly moved upward—so slowly it was almost careful. His palm eventually rested over your chest, giving it a gentle squeeze. As if confirming something. Or maybe just a small act of revenge for being left alone all day.

Your hand paused slightly, but still didn't turn around. That only made Astarion press in closer, his entire upper body leaning against yours, chin resting on your shoulder, voice barely above a whisper and warm against your skin:

"I've been stuck in this place all day, alone. And you... you're getting cozy with that rusty old blade now?"

You gave a quiet snort, about to reply—but then his hand gave another slow, unrepentant squeeze. Not rough, but not exactly innocent either.

Finally, you set the weapon down and turned to look at him. His expression was paper-thin—too fragile to hide the sulk, the stubbornness, and the simmering desire beneath it. It wasn't the face of a cold, predatory vampire. It was more like a cat who'd been cooped up all day and was now equal parts clingy and indignant that their person dared leave them.