The rain was relentless against the tall windows of the tower, a cold, grey sheet lashing at the glass that made the warmth of the study feel even more like a sanctuary. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows over the endless bookshelves.

Gale, however, looked anything but comfortable.

He was buried in a mountain of quilts on the large sofa—the one usually reserved for reading—his nose a rather unflattering shade of red and his hair sticking up in new, chaotic directions. The great Archmage of Waterdeep, reduced to a huddled mass of blankets and misery. Tara was curled into a tight, judgmental ball at his feet, emitting a low 'mrrp' of concern every time he coughed.

He had insisted, just that morning, that it was "merely a tickle in the throat." Now, he was fully submerged in the indignity of a common, terribly mundane cold.

You pushed the door open gently with your hip, a steaming mug of herbed tea balanced in one hand and a bowl of hot soup in the other. A small, fond smile played on your lips.

"Delivery for the 'Ailing Archmage'," you announced softly. "Or would you prefer 'Professor Sniffles'?"

Gale shifted, peering out from his blanket cocoon. His eyes, usually bright with arcane energy and quick wit, were dull and watery. He managed a weak smile, which was immediately ruined by a sudden, violent sneeze that shook his entire frame and earned a disgruntled look from Tara.

"Ah... thank you, my love." His voice was a low, congested rasp, a shadow of its usual eloquent baritone. He struggled to sit up, quilts cascading around him as he scrubbed a hand over his face. "This is... mortifying."

You chuckled, setting the the mug and the bowl down on the low table beside him. You reached out, your hand cool against his forehead. He was undeniably warm.

"It's just a cold, Gale," you murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes. "It's human. You're allowed to be human."

He let out a sound that was half-groan, half-laugh, carefully extracting an arm from the blankets to take the warm mug. His fingers brushed yours, his skin radiating heat.

"Humanity involves an excessive amount of... dampness," he mumbled, his voice thick. He took a careful, grateful sip of the tea, the steam fogging his face as he visibly relaxed into its warmth. His gaze softened as he looked at you, the grumpiness fading into a pure, unfiltered affection that made your heart ache.