Lately, Minsc had been oddly… frisky.

Not in the crude way some mercenaries might be, but in the overly enthusiastic, excessively touchy, completely clueless way that only Minsc could manage. He’d started placing his massive hand on your shoulder just a little longer than usual. His hugs? Tighter. Longer. One time, he scooped you up entirely “on accident” because you looked tired and “a good lift always helps with morale!”

You raised an eyebrow when he tucked a wildflower behind your ear mid-battle prep, declaring, “Even the mightiest warriors need to look dazzling!”

Astarion, nearby, rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in his skull. “He’s either trying to mate with you or mark you like territory. It’s very confusing to watch.”