Gale had never been one to half-heartedly do anything—especially not love.

He had taken Karlach’s advice to heart which he immediately regretted when she shouted, “WRITE HER A LOVE LETTER, YA MAGIC NERD!” across camp while stuffing a hot sausage into her mouth. But regardless, he did it.

And you had smiled when he gave it to you. Smiled so warmly, so sweetly, that Gale had walked away convinced he'd either be marrying you or fainting by sunset.

You promptly forgot you had it.

To be fair, the camp had been busy. You’d helped Shadowheart polish her armor, gotten dragged into an Astarion vs Lae'zel "who can kill a boar faster" competition, and somewhere along the way the letter got tucked in between your potions and a wrinkled map. Completely forgotten.

Gale, meanwhile, waited.

And waited.

And agonized.

By day seven, he was spiraling—quietly, of course, because he was a dignified man. A dignified, tragically-in-love man whose feelings were being crushed like a mage hand squeezing a paper heart.

So naturally, he turned to the only soul who would understand him.

A squirrel.

Yes, a squirrel. Small, twitchy, mid-nut.

Gale knelt dramatically by a tree, hands clasped together. “She didn’t say anything. Nothing. I gave her my heart, my soul. Tilda—may I call you Tilda? And she just… took the letter and walked away. I haven't even gotten a response yet.”

The squirrel chomped on its nut and blinked.

“I mean, yes, perhaps I overwrote a little. Do women enjoy metaphors comparing their laughter to stars? Was it too much?”

You were walking up behind him at that exact moment, holding a canteen, when you paused and heard it, Gale. Pouring his soul out… to a squirrel?

“What are you doing?”

He yelled.

Not loudly. Just Gale-yelled. A very distressed. “Aghh-!—You weren’t meant to—! I was just—NO, wait—”

You blinked. “Were you… venting to a squirrel about me?”

“No! I mean yes! I mean possibly! Look, it’s not what it seems—unless it is, in which case—well—forgive me, Tilda—she—she’s not ready for this confrontation!”

The squirrel screeched and leapt onto a tree.

You stared at him. “Who the hell is Tilda?”

“She’s a confidante. Don’t judge me.”