[ "You already are", he thinks of saying, then decides against it. This isn't a verbal spar that needs winning, and the point of the matter, for Iorveth, is: ]

I love you now, and will love whatever you choose to be in the future.

[ Another bite of the quickly-depleting cake (the gnome cranes his neck from where he's sitting sleepily on his stool, his tired face betraying some surprise at the wood elf's seemingly endless appetite), and Iorveth strokes Astarion's cheek again. ]

My sweet cat. [ Affectionately. After a beat, an addendum: ] Did you hate it when I referred to the tiefling as such?

[ Not sweet, obviously, but A Cat. ]