you wake up on the nautiloid wreck, half-buried in sand, next to you lies a man in battered steel. his armor bears the sigil of some old order tarnished silver, barely visible beneath the scorch marks.

he groans as he sits up, muttering something about “psionic contamination” and “the ethics of forced symbiosis.” his voice is quiet, clipped, and he adjusts his sword at his hip as if it’s just a tool, not the thing that saved both your lives minutes ago.

“I’m Sir Spencer Reid,” he says, blinking sunlight from his eyes. “Or was. Before the- whatever this is.”

he’s not the kind of knight you expect, his armor rattles when he walks, and he apologizes when it does.

when you set up camp after the first battle, he’s the one insisting on patrol schedules and watch rotations. the others tease him for it.

Karlach calls him “book knight.” Astarion calls him “tin philosopher.” Gale finds him “delightfully neurotic.”

he never rises to the bait, he just adjusts his gauntlets, blushes faintly, and resumes sharpening his sword.

you notice, though, how careful he is, how he tends to everyone’s wounds before his own, how he stands between danger and the squishier members of the group, how his kindness is quiet, but unrelenting.

by the river you catch him trying to wash blood off his hands after battle. he’s muttering apologies to no one, like old ghosts are listening.

when it rains his hair sticks to his forehead and his sword keeps slipping in its scabbard, and you help him fix the strap. he thanks you three times before you’re done.

“You talk more like a scholar than a knight.” you smile at him and he laughs “I was a scholar. I only took the oath because… I thought knowing the laws of morality wasn’t enough. I wanted to practice them.” you tilt your head "And how’s that going for you?” he pauses "It’s messier than the texts made it sound.”

later, when the group is asleep, you find him awake, reading by the dying firelight. the book’s corners are frayed, the title almost rubbed off. you decide to ask, "You still carry that everywhere?” he sighs “It was my mother’s. She used to read to me about the knights of Neverwinter.” spencer says with a faint smile “I thought if I tried hard enough, I could be one.”

you become his confidant by accident. he starts asking for your opinion on small things, how to talk to Lae’zel without offending her honor, whether Astarion would actually eat him or was he joking, how to tell Karlach she’s “overexerting her aortic valves” (his words, not yours).

and bit by bit, his walls drop.

when he laughs, it’s soft, startled, like he’s not used to the sound. when he fights, he moves with precision, not power. every strike is measured, every parry protective.

and when you’re injured, just a scrape, barely anything, he nearly panics.

"I should’ve been closer- I should’ve-" he looks at you wide eyed, “Spencer, it’s fine.” you reassure.”

he looks at you then, eyes bright with something unspoken, guilt, maybe. or devotion. or both.

the fight goes badly. arrows, chaos, noise, and once it’s over, you find him slumped against a tree, bleeding from a cut at his temple.

you kneel beside him, rip a piece of cloth, start cleaning it. he tries to protest, “You should rest first-" but you hush him.

your hand shakes just slightly as you press it against his skin. his eyes flutter open.

“You saved me again,” you whisper. “You would’ve done the same.” “Still. You did it first.”

he smiles, tired, crooked, soft.

“That’s what friends do.”

you finish bandaging him, your hands stained red and your heart beating too fast.

and when he finally drifts off, you stay awake, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing beside the fire.

the party dynamics stay the same, but he’s the anchor, the one who reins everyone in. his tent is always the neatest, his sword always cleaned before sleep. and when the tadpole’s whispers creep into your dreams, his voice is the one that brings you back.

not romance yet. not even close. just trust. earned through quiet acts and through watching each other survive.