Dante leans in. The way he always does, in fact— the way that Astarion’s so unused to still, given that he’s normally the party given to press the limits of personal space.

Others have tried, of course. But in general they lack the innate confidence necessary to undermine Astarion’s own. Dante, on the other hand, manages it with consistent ease, prompting a rise of pale brows. A slower blink as confusion sets in.

“Fond of— who?”

What in the Realms does he mean?