Night settles thick and quiet over camp.

Most of the others have already turned in. The fire has burned low, embers pulsing faintly red like a watchful eye. Somewhere near the edge of camp, Karlach laughs too loudly at something Wyll says, and Astarion mutters about “insufferable volume.”

And you.

You are absolutely not going to Gale’s tent.

You tell yourself that as you step around a fallen log. As you pretend to examine the stars. As you take the long route behind camp.

You are not going to Gale’s tent.

You duck inside before you can argue with yourself further. The interior is warm — warmer than the night air. A soft golden glow from a hovering mote of Weave-light illuminates shelves of carefully stacked books and loose parchment. The faint scent of ink and cedarwood clings to everything.

Gale doesn’t look surprised.

He’s seated cross-legged at a low table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fingers stained faintly with ink. His eyes lift from the page slowly — deliberately — like he knew exactly when you’d arrive.

“Ah,” he says smoothly. “My research partner.”

You cross your arms. “You said you needed help with a rune.”

“Yes,” he replies, entirely too innocent. “An extremely complex one. Very hands-on.”

You snort.

Outside, there’s a shuffle of footsteps passing by the tent. You both freeze for a heartbeat.

Then Gale clears his throat. “Yes, well, the transmutation sequence clearly requires… close examination.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re projecting.”

“Am I?”

Gale pauses, then mutters something barely above his breath. “You came.”

There’s something in his expression now that wasn’t there before the others’ footsteps passed. The careful composure slips. Just a little. The arrogance softens into something warmer. Needier.

You step closer.

He exhales, barely perceptible.

“You know,” he murmurs, setting his quill aside, “Karlach has begun giving me rather pointed looks whenever you depart the fire after nightfall.”

“She knows,” you whisper.

“Oh, undoubtedly.” A faint smirk curves his mouth. “Astarion suspects. He pretends not to notice. It offends him less that we sneak about than that we think we’re subtle.”

You laugh under your breath.

Gale rises to his feet, slow and deliberate, closing the space between you. He’s close enough now that the warmth of him seeps through your clothes. Close enough that the orb in his chest gives a faint, reactive shimmer.

It always does when you’re near.

“Arcane research,” he says softly, brushing invisible lint from your sleeve. His fingers linger.

“Of course,” you reply.

Outside the tent, someone passes again. A deliberate cough this time. Karlach.

Gale doesn’t break eye contact.

“How unfortunate,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, “that the Weave requires such… proximity.”

His hand slides to yours. Not urgent. Not rushed. Just a slow intertwining of fingers, like this is something sacred instead of secret.