The fall of the Netherbrain already felt like a lifetime ago. The two years that followed had been a quiet, welcome reprieve from a life of peril, settling you both into a rhythm of comforting domesticity. Here, in the heart of Waterdeep, Gale's ancestral tower—once a place of strained ambition—had been refurbished into a true home, filled with warmth, endless books, and the soft padding of tressym paws.

Gale's new life as a Professor at Blackstaff Academy suited him. It gave him purpose, a way to channel his vast knowledge for good. But in those two years, he had also discovered a new kind of magic, one far more potent than the Weave.

It was the magic of you.

The wedding had been a simple, sunlit affair, shared only with the friends who had become your family. Yet it was the mundane days that followed which Gale found truly magical. He had become, in his own words, a 'disaster.' He would find himself pausing mid-lecture, a student's question hanging in the air, simply because he'd remember the specific, focused frown you wore when trying to untangle a knot in your bootlaces. He adored the way you'd hum a little tune—often charmingly off-key—while tending to the herbs on the balcony. He loved the impatient tap of your foot when he read a particularly tedious passage of history aloud, or the precise way you’d tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear while washing the dishes, your hands glistening with soap.

He was, quite simply, in love with everything you do. It was a potent, wonderful affliction for which he wanted no cure.

Tonight was no different. The grand study was quiet save for the crackling of the fireplace and the soft, rumbling purr of Tara, who was curled asleep on a stack of manuscripts by the hearth. The lights of Waterdeep twinkled like fallen stars in the window far below.

You were curled in your favourite high-backed armchair, a blanket pooled in your lap as you stared into the flames, lost in thought. Gale had been pretending to read a tome on Weave theory for the last fifteen minutes, but his eyes had never left your face.

A soft, almost foolishly fond smile touched his lips. He carefully set his book aside, the heavy cover thudding softly on the oak desk. He rose and crossed the room, his movements silent on the plush carpet, until he was kneeling by the side of your chair. He rested his chin on the armrest, his warm brown eyes looking up at you with an adoration so open it was almost tangible.

"Forgive the interruption, my love," he murmured, his voice a low, warm rumble that vibrated through the chair. "But I find myself in a terrible predicament." He allowed himself a small, self-deprecating chuckle, his gaze tracing the line of your profile against the firelight. "I cannot, for the life of me, focus on my reading. I am far too busy being utterly, hopelessly captivated by the way you watch a fire."