It's a narrow exchange, given that it takes Astarion all of five-ish steps to reach the doorway from his bed. Iron doors subsequently cracked open, muted voices muttering for a few beats before Astarion pulls back inside, bolting the door (just as he always does, no chances taken) and pacing his own way back to the edge of his bed, one leg half-nosing in under heavy covers as he turns over a single letter in his hand.

Unfolded and untangled, thin parchment pulled from packaging, and the small little slip of paper is—

Oh.

Oh.

Something in his expression twisting. Blinking once, twice, and the note's so small that there can't be that much written on it to have him poring over it so many times, but it must. Or it seems to. Because Astarion does.