AA 3?

He thought you fearless. It only takes him a couple more days to understand you're not. Your terror is discreet. It is the slowed blinking, the watery eyes, the palpitation of a vein on your neck. He watches you steady your breathing, restrain your hand from shivering, knowing your own stance will inspire your companions' bravery. If you aren't afraid, they won't be either. Better than fearless, you're courageous. Astarion sees you biting your tongue and swallowing your terror, hushing it away like an undisciplined stray cat. After the fight, it catches back to you. You step away from camp, seeking the gentle purr of a stream, hoping to drown your anguished thoughts in the murmurs of the wilderness. Body collapsing, legs shaking, trying to recompose yourself, away from familiar eyes. The pride of victory barely overshadows the fear gnawing at your stomach, fear of making the wrong choices, of losing an ally to a cunning blade or a vicious spell. You don't hear him approach—perhaps he notices that, purposely stepping on a dry twig, causing it to snap for you to turn around.