Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The estate rose like a mirage in the late afternoon sun—white stone walls draped in ivy, with gleaming brass lanterns and archways wide enough to ride through on horseback. It was too pristine for the wilderness just beyond it. Too untouched. The kind of place that hadn’t seen mud in centuries, let alone a goblin horde.

You shifted your pack higher on your shoulder, giving Gale a sideways glance as you reached the gates. “So… remind me why we’re entertaining a Waterdhavian noble instead of, say, not doing that?”

Gale smoothed a wrinkle from his sleeve like the question offended him. “Because Lord Averand of Waterdeep commands significant arcane influence, and he is—was—a friend of mine.”

“Past tense?”

He winced. “We… disagreed. Years ago. It’s complicated.”

“That’s always how you know it’s a good story,” you muttered.

Before Gale could retort, the gates creaked open with all the grandeur of a royal court. A butler appeared, elderly and tight-lipped, and waved the group inside as though it were an insult to make them wait even a second longer.

Inside, everything reeked of money and magic—enchanted chandeliers floated lazily overhead, casting soft gold light across velvet drapes and marble floors. You could practically hear the coin jingling behind every enchanted brick.

A tall man in wine-colored robes strode toward you from the grand hall, arms outstretched. “Gale Dekarios! By the gods, it is you.”

“Lord Averand,” Gale said smoothly, clasping the man’s hand in both of his. “It’s been some time.”

“A decade at least! You haven’t aged a day, curse you.” Averand’s eyes swept the group—pausing a beat too long on Karlach, flinching at Astarion, and finally settling on you with an expression that could only be called speculative. “And who is this?”

You blinked. Gale opened his mouth. Paused.

“Oh,” Averand said with a knowing smile, his gaze flickering between the two of you like a match waiting to be struck. “Say no more. I can see it plain as the nose on her lovely face. This is the one.”

You tilted your head. “The one what?”

Gale coughed. “My—ah. My partner.”

There was a beat of silence.

You stared at him. “Your what now?”

Averand beamed. “Charming! Of course Gale would settle for nothing less than a woman with fire in her eyes. You’ll stay in the east wing, of course. Separate rooms, if you insist, but I do hope you’ll join us at dinner tonight. I’ve invited a few other colleagues—mages, diplomats, influential ears. You understand.”

“I’d be delighted,” Gale said, already slipping into noble polish like it was a second skin.

You were still staring. “Partner,” you mouthed at him, incredulous.

Averand swept off with a swirl of his robes, the butler trailing dutifully after him, and the rest of your companions shuffled off with varying degrees of amusement. Shadowheart smirked over her shoulder. Astarion actually laughed.

Once you were alone, you rounded on Gale. “Partner? You couldn’t come up with literally any other lie?”

“It wasn’t a lie, per se,” Gale said, clasping his hands behind his back like a man trying to explain away a fireball mishap. “It was a strategic fabrication.”

You snorted. “You strategically fabricated that we’re together?”

“You’ve seen Lord Averand. If he thinks I’m unattached, he’ll spend the entire visit trying to pair me off with his widowed sister or some blushing conjurer from his court. Or worse—he’ll start asking about Mystra.”

Ah. There it was. That name again. You felt your irritation flicker.

“So, what—you figured the best way to keep him off your back was to drag me into this mess?”

“I didn’t drag you,” he said, looking affronted. “I nudged you. Politely.”

“You ambushed me.”

He had the decency to look sheepish. “I panicked. You were nearest. And besides… You have a certain charisma. It’s not difficult to believe.”

Your cheeks warmed despite yourself. “Flattery won’t save you, Dekarios.”

“Not even if it’s true?”

You gave him a long-suffering sigh, folding your arms. “Alright. Fine. But I want something in return.”

“Of course.”

“You’re doing all the talking at dinner. No names, no dates, no magical soul-explosions. And if I have to kiss you for this act, you’d better buy me a very expensive bottle of wine afterward.”

Gale raised a brow. “Would a magically aged vintage from Thay suffice?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You actually have one, don’t you?”

“I might.”

“Gods help me,” you muttered.

He smiled then, bright and boyish, clearly relieved. “Thank you, truly. This means more than I can say.”

“Don’t make it a habit,” you said, and started toward the guest wing, muttering, “Fake dating a wizard… I should’ve just let the bard hit on me.”

Behind you, Gale chuckled softly.

Chapter Text

Morning light filtered through the tall arched windows of the east wing, gilding everything in soft gold. You sat cross-legged on the edge of a velvet chaise, chewing the last bite of a very dignified breakfast sandwich you’d smuggled from the dining hall and trying not to overthink your life choices.

Across from you, Gale paced.

Paced.

Paused.

Then turned to pace the other way again.

You watched him, unimpressed. “If you keep doing that, you’ll wear a trench into the marble. Pretty sure Lord Averand will have you executed.”

He stopped in his tracks. “We need ground rules.”

“For what? Your impending beheading?”

“For this.” He gestured vaguely between you. “Our… situation. Our fabricated relationship.”

You raised a brow. “The great Gale Dekarios wants to write a rulebook on fake dating. Should I be honored or concerned?”

“Both, ideally.”

He moved to the ornate desk and pulled out a quill like it was an ancient relic. A fresh scroll followed. The scratch of ink echoed in the room.

Rule One: No Kissing.
He underlined it twice.

You nodded. “Fair. I’ve seen how you eat soup. I can only imagine.”

He ignored that.

Rule Two: Sleeping Arrangements Remain Unchanged.

“We continue as we always have,” he said primly, “and do not share a bed, enchanted or otherwise.”

“Glad we’re drawing boundaries in ink,” you said, plucking a grape from the table’s fruit bowl. “What’s next? Parental approval? A magical chaperone?”

He didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he scribbled down:

Rule Three: Moderate Affection Allowed.
(e.g., hand-holding, minor touches, the occasional shared glance.)

You leaned over to read the line, brows furrowing. “’Shared glance?’ That’s a rule now?”

“Well, you’re terribly expressive. I didn’t want to assume.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” you said, smirking. “You’re worried my eyes will give us away? Have you met you?”

Gale paused, and—for once—looked genuinely flustered. He cleared his throat. “Moving on.”

You were about to suggest Rule Four (“No gazing longingly unless under duress”) when there was a knock at the door. It creaked open to reveal Shadowheart, who leaned lazily against the frame with the smirk of someone who had already heard everything.

“Are you two done drawing your love contract, or should I come back with parchment of my own?”

“Very funny,” you said, snatching the scroll before she could peek.

“Oh, no,” Gale said, smiling stiffly. “Do come in. We could use a witness.”

“Mm. I’d love to officiate when this ends in a fake elopement.”

She wandered in like a cat, looking far too entertained. You shot her a look, then moved to stand near Gale—and immediately noticed that his collar was, once again, folded slightly wrong. Crooked. Probably from all that pacing.

“You look like someone tried to strangle you with your own shirt,” you muttered.

Without thinking, you reached up and adjusted it—fingers brushing the side of his neck, the warm line of his jaw. Gale stilled.

Just for a second.

His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

But then his hand rose as if it had a mind of its own and gently, instinctively, he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You blinked.

You both stepped back at the same time.

Silence.

Shadowheart made a small, delighted noise.

You cleared your throat. “Right. Rules.”

Gale turned away, suddenly very invested in rolling up the scroll. “Yes. Rules.”

You exchanged a glance. Not a longing one. Probably.

⸻

Later That Afternoon

Lord Averand’s estate was a maze of echoing hallways and smugly enchanted doors, which had a habit of opening only when they felt like it. You and Gale walked side by side down one of the long garden corridors, trying your best to look like a couple and not two people in the middle of a magical farce.

His hand brushed yours once.

Twice.

You rolled your eyes and just grabbed it. “You’re terrible at this.”

He glanced at your joined hands and smiled softly. “And you’re surprisingly good.”

“Fake dating’s just like theater,” you said. “Except with fewer props. And more emotionally repressed wizards.”

Shadowheart, watching discreetly from a balcony above, nearly choked on her wine.

Chapter Text

The dining hall looked like it had been pulled straight from a bard’s overdone ballad—candlelight dancing off crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes swaying gently in the evening breeze, and enough golden trim to bankrupt a city. Gale stood tall and polished beside you, his robes pristine, his jaw set with elegant resolve.

You? You had no idea what fork to use.

“Relax,” Gale murmured near your ear. “They’re more interested in each other’s egos than your cutlery etiquette.”

“Good,” you whispered back, “because if someone brings out a tenth spoon, I’m walking into the sea.”

You’d just taken your seat beside Gale when he appeared.

The bard.

All cheekbones, charm, and a smug little smirk that could probably turn milk sour—or win a tavern crowd in under five seconds. He wore deep blue with silver embroidery, his lute slung casually across his back like it had never seen actual combat. You immediately disliked him.

Unfortunately, he didn’t share the sentiment.

“And who is this vision seated beside Waterdeep’s favorite wizard?” he purred, pulling out the chair on your other side with an ease that made your stomach twitch. “You weren’t mentioned in any of the songs. Tragic.”

Gale’s posture shifted—just slightly. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. But you could feel it. The stillness. Like the moment before a storm.

You smiled politely, sensing mischief. “Oh, I’m the secret song. The one he keeps locked away with the spellbooks and heartbreak.”

The bard’s eyes lit up. “Now that sounds like a story I need to hear.”

You heard Gale exhale softly through his nose.

Throughout dinner, the bard leaned in closer—just enough to linger in your space. He complimented your laugh, your insight, your posture, for gods’ sake. And every time, Gale’s jaw ticked tighter. He kept his responses curt, his wine untouched, and when the bard offered to show you his “personal collection of lyrical enchantments,” Gale finally snapped.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice silk over steel, “but my partner and I have plans this evening. Perhaps another time.”

He didn’t wait for a reply—just stood and offered you his hand with all the grace of a gentleman and the rigidness of a soldier.

You let him lead you out of the hall, pretending not to notice how tightly his fingers curled around yours.

⸻

In the Quiet of the East Wing

The moment the door shut behind you, you turned, hands on hips.

“Plans this evening?” you repeated. “What plans?”

“I improvised,” Gale said stiffly.

“Uh-huh. Because you were just so devoted to maintaining the illusion.”

He didn’t answer right away, instead moving to the hearth and fussing with a stack of unused books that absolutely did not need rearranging. His back was ramrod straight.

You stepped closer. “Gale.”

“It was getting out of hand,” he said, too quickly. “He was being inappropriate.”

“Oh, so you did notice his devastating good looks and seductive voice.”

Gale turned to you, clearly unimpressed. “He was a bard. They all sound seductive. It’s the enchantments.”

You grinned. “You’re jealous.”

He stiffened. “I am not.”

“You interrupted a conversation to physically remove me from a room.”

“I was protecting our story.”

“You glared at him like you wanted to banish his lute into the Astral Plane.”

He hesitated. “…It was an insufferable instrument.”

You laughed, full and bright. “You’re so jealous.”

“I’m a wizard,” he huffed, walking past you toward the scroll shelf. “We do not suffer from such base emotions.”

“Mm. Tell that to the fireball you were about to cast over dessert.”

He stopped mid-step, then turned around, arms folding over his chest. “And if I was… just a little… irritated?”

You blinked. “I’d say that’s incredibly flattering.”

His eyes caught yours, warm and unreadable in the candlelight. “Well, then.”

Silence stretched.

Longer than either of you meant it to.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Let’s add a new rule.”

“Oh? Another one?”

Rule Four: No flirting with bards.

You raised a brow. “Are bards off-limits, or just ones with sharp jawlines and velvet voices?”

He didn’t blink. “Yes.”

You laughed again, breathless. “Gale Dekarios. Jealous and possessive. Gods, what a catch.”

“I was not—” he started, then caught your teasing grin and sighed. “You’re insufferable.”

You plopped onto the chaise with a smirk. “And yet, you fake-date me anyway.”

His voice softened. “Some illusions are easier to live with than others.”

You looked at him, caught off guard.

For just a moment, you forgot it was all pretend.

Chapter Text

The storm had rolled in fast—sharp winds sweeping through the valley, thunder cracking overhead like the gods were hurling furniture at each other. By the time you and Gale stumbled into the manor’s east wing, soaked to the bone and breathless with laughter, it was well past sundown and the candles in the hall had guttered out.

You peeled off your cloak with effort. It was plastered to your skin.

“Well,” you sniffed, hugging your arms to your chest. “That was… refreshing.”

“You’re soaked,” Gale said, brows furrowed as he flicked his fingers and conjured a steady wave of warm air to dry his robes. “And shivering.”

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m fine.”

You sneezed. Violently.

Gale crossed his arms. “Very convincing.”

⸻

Later That Night

You’d refused to go to bed, insisted you were “not sick” despite the rosy tint in your cheeks and the fact that your nose had taken on the exact shade of a summer radish. Still, Gale insisted—very gently but very persistently—that you lie down. You begrudgingly let him fuss.

Now, you were curled under a conjured quilt, half-asleep and warm from the herbal tea he’d magicked into existence, watching him through the haze of a low-grade fever.

He sat beside the bed with a book open in his lap, one hand turning pages and the other resting lightly on the edge of your mattress. The candlelight flickered against his cheekbones, throwing golden shadows under his eyes.

“You don’t have to stay up,” you croaked.

He looked up, surprised. “And miss the chance to recite obscure arcane theories to a captive audience? Perish the thought.”

You tried to smirk but ended up coughing instead. Gale was already reaching for a cloth and dabbing your forehead with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

“You’re burning up,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t have been out in the rain.”

“You were out there too.”

“Yes, but I’m a wizard. We’re immune to common sense and weather.”

You chuckled—weakly—but the smile lingered.

⸻

A Little Closer

Sometime past midnight, you started shivering again. Even under the blankets.

Gale noticed instantly.

Without a word, he closed his book, slid off his boots, and slipped under the blankets behind you. His warmth pressed against your back, one arm tentatively draping over your waist. You stiffened at first, then melted.

“I’m only doing this so you don’t freeze to death,” he whispered, voice low against your neck.

“Of course,” you mumbled. “Purely practical.”

“Entirely clinical.”

“Mhm.”

But neither of you moved. The silence between you shifted—softer now, thicker. The kind that only existed between people who had almost said something important.

⸻

By Morning

When you stirred, pale light spilled through the curtains and Gale was still there, watching the sunrise with your fingers tangled loosely in his.

He hadn’t moved all night.

And he didn’t quite look like he wanted to now.

Chapter Text

The morning sun crept lazily across the courtyard, catching on dew-soaked hedges and gleaming off the silver trim of Gale’s cloak as he poured tea into your cup. His movements were practiced, gentle, attentive in the way that made your stomach twist.

“Two sugars, just how you like it,” he murmured, offering it with a soft smile.

You took it automatically, blinking. “Thanks.”

You hadn’t told him how you liked your tea.

Across the table, Astarion raised a perfectly arched brow. “Darling, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you two were actually fond of each other.”

You choked on your sip.

Gale coughed, dabbing his mouth with a napkin a little too precisely. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Absurd? Please.” Astarion gestured grandly with his fork. “You’re finishing each other’s thoughts, touching each other’s sleeves, pouring tea like you’re about to write poetry about her ankles.”

“Sounds romantic to me,” Wyll added helpfully, taking a bite of bread. “You two have a lovely rhythm. It’s convincing.”

“It’s too convincing,” Lae’zel snapped. “If this charade continues, I’ll begin doubting my own memory.”

Shadowheart simply sipped her tea, watching the two of you with unspoken amusement.

You could feel the tension building in your shoulders like a storm cloud. Beside you, Gale’s hand twitched against his thigh. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

And then, with matching awkward coughs, you both said:

“We should—”

“—set boundaries—”

“—revisit expectations—”

You blinked at each other.

“Lae’zel, please stab me,” Astarion said flatly. “I can’t survive this level of mutual pining disguised as ‘rules.’”

⸻

Later, at the Edge of Camp

The plan to “reset boundaries” began with a polite, stilted conversation under the shade of an olive tree. You were both seated a full foot apart—exactly a foot, Gale had measured with his spellbook—and absolutely refusing to make eye contact.

“No more hand-holding unless absolutely necessary,” he recited.

“Right,” you echoed. “And no more sitting too close during meals.”

He cleared his throat. “And… perhaps no more casual touching. No tucking hair behind ears, or… or brushing shoulders.”

You nodded. “No looking at each other like we’re sharing a meaningful memory.”

“That too.”

A heavy silence followed. Then you muttered, “Gods, we’re ridiculous.”

Gale laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Terribly.”

Still, you stuck to it. For the next few days, you both pulled back—politely, deliberately, painfully.

You sat across from him at the fire instead of beside him. He no longer handed you tea, just left it near your elbow. You didn’t linger when your hands brushed, didn’t smile as long, didn’t let your gaze rest too long on the line of his jaw when he was reading.

It should have made things easier.

It made them worse.

⸻

Private Spirals

You missed his warmth. His steady presence. The gentle way he used to murmur your name when he thought no one was listening. Now he barely met your eyes unless someone else was around—and when he did, it was like there was a conversation trapped between you both, banging at the walls.

Gale, for his part, was unraveling.

He kept rereading the same spell diagrams, fumbled verbal components, forgot whether he’d eaten. Every time you laughed with someone else—especially Wyll—his eyes darkened just slightly, and his fingers curled into his robes.

He told himself it was the illusion. That things were blurry. That it wasn’t real.

But the ache in his chest said otherwise.

⸻

One Night by the Fire

You stood up to leave early, muttering something about needing air.

Gale almost followed.

Almost.

But he didn’t.

And you didn’t look back.

Behind you, Astarion sighed dramatically. “If they get any more star-crossed, I’m going to hurl.”

Shadowheart hummed. “I think they’re just scared.”

Lae’zel grunted. “Pathetic.”

Wyll just smiled, warm and hopeful. “They’ll figure it out. Sooner or later.”

Chapter Text

The ruin was unassuming at first. Just crumbling stone, cracked mosaics half-swallowed by moss, and stairways that led nowhere. But Gale insisted they needed to pass through it to reach the next waypoint—something about ley lines and a shortcut through the Weave.

You should’ve known then.

You should’ve turned back the moment the wind changed.

But you didn’t.

⸻

The Trap

The air shimmered as you stepped through the archway, and suddenly the world blinked.

One moment you were brushing moss from a fallen pillar.

The next, the floor beneath your feet glowed in a perfect circle of runes, and you were both locked in place—frozen in magical amber.

“Don’t move,” Gale hissed, eyes darting around. “It’s a binding ring. Old, high magic—truth spell overlay.”

“Oh, great,” you muttered. “Because we haven’t said enough stupid things lately.”

A pulse of light surged beneath your boots. Then a voice—ancient, smooth as water over stone—spoke from nowhere and everywhere at once:

“Two hearts, one lie. Speak true, or remain.”

Gale’s expression darkened. “It’s a bonded truthbinding. It won’t release us until we answer its questions. Honestly.”

You folded your arms. “Lovely.”

⸻

The Questions Begin

The voice spoke again, slow and deliberate.

“What do you fear?”

Gale blinked. “Oblivion.”

You frowned. “Losing someone I care about.”

The circle pulsed. Accepted.

“What do you desire?”

You hesitated.

Gale didn’t. “Understanding.”

The voice shifted toward you.

“What do you want most?”

The breath caught in your throat. Gale glanced at you sharply.

You could lie. But you couldn’t. Not here.

Your voice was soft but sure when it came out:
“To stop pretending.”

Silence.

The words hung in the air like lightning waiting to strike.

Gale went still. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you—and didn’t dare.

He opened his mouth.

But the spell began to flicker.

The circle dimmed. The air shifted. The voice faded like mist in sunlight.

And just like that, the trap released you.

⸻

Aftermath

The moment you were free, you stepped back. Gale stayed rooted in place.

You didn’t look at each other. Couldn’t.

He wanted to speak—you saw it in the way his jaw tensed, the way his hand hovered between you like he didn’t know what it was reaching for.

But no words came.

And you were already walking away.

⸻

Later That Night

The fire crackled in the distance. You sat alone at the edge of camp, staring into the dark.

Behind you, Gale watched from the shadows, still hearing your voice echo over and over in his head.

“To stop pretending.”

He didn’t know if you meant the feelings.

Or the act.

But both possibilities terrified him equally.

Chapter Text

It started with a plan.

Just a simple, sensible decision: end the ruse. No more stolen glances. No more holding back words. No more pretending to be something neither of you could name without unraveling.

You agreed it was best.

So why did it feel like your chest was being carved open with a dull spoon?

⸻

You stood in the middle of the road outside a sleepy village—the perfect audience of traders and nobles watching from a respectful distance, just enough to make it seem real.

Gale looked like a statue, his expression carved from granite.

“You don’t have to make it dramatic,” you muttered.

His throat bobbed. “It will be convincing. That’s the point.”

You opened your mouth to say something—maybe joke, maybe ease the tightness clawing at your ribs—but he got there first.

“I think we’ve made a mistake,” he said, loud enough to carry. “This… arrangement. It’s not sustainable.”

You blinked.

Right. The script.

You nodded, trying to focus on your lines. “It was fun while it lasted.”

That one landed like a dagger between your ribs.

He took a breath like he was bracing for battle. “I don’t think we should continue.”

“No,” you agreed, voice thin. “We shouldn’t.”

People around you murmured. Curious glances flicked your way.

Gale looked into your eyes—just for a second—and it was too much. Too much softness. Too much regret. Too much real.

Then he turned and walked away.

No flourish. No magic.

Just silence.

⸻

The party noticed immediately.

Gale took up camp on the farthest edge of the clearing, his spellbook open but unread. He barely spoke. Not even when Wyll offered him a flask or when Karlach tossed a joke his way.

He didn’t meet your eyes at all.

You tried to pretend it didn’t bother you.

You failed.

⸻

You snapped at Lae’zel when she questioned your battle formation.

You ignored Astarion’s teasing entirely, even when he offered you wine and a smirk. “Oh come now, darling. Mourning your mage?”

“Back off,” you muttered.

Shadowheart raised a brow. “You two are brooding so loudly, I’m getting a headache.”

Only Wyll said nothing. He simply offered you a half-smile and handed you a warm roll from the fire. You didn’t eat it.

That night, you sat with your knees pulled to your chest, listening to Gale’s quill scratch across parchment from somewhere in the dark.

The space between you could have been a continent.

⸻

He stared at the same line of arcane formula for the fifth time and still couldn’t make sense of it.

His thoughts were sludge.

He’d ended it. That had been the plan. The right thing to do. The ruse was hurting you both—or so he’d thought.

But now? Now there was a weight in his chest, one that couldn’t be banished with magic or logic. He heard your laugh in phantom echoes. He saw the curl of your smile in the firelight even when you weren’t looking at him anymore.

It had been pretend.

Except it hadn’t.

Not really.

⸻

You stared up at the stars that night and wondered how something fake had ended up hurting so damn much.

How you missed things you’d never really had—his hand in yours, his voice soft at night, the way he used to smile like the world could wait just a moment longer while he looked at you.

It was better this way.

It had to be.

So why did it feel like losing something you hadn’t even let yourself want?

Chapter Text

The night was quiet. The kind of quiet that felt intentional, like even the crickets were holding their breath.

You sat alone in your tent, cross-legged on your bedroll, picking at the edge of a blanket that had seen better days. Sleep wasn’t coming. Not with Gale’s silence still pressed like a bruise against your ribs.

You hadn’t spoken since the “breakup.” No whispered spells. No quiet jokes. Just the aching absence of something that had never been real, except it had been. You knew that now.

The flap rustled softly.

You looked up, heart suddenly, stupidly hopeful—and there he was.

Gale stood in the opening, hands at his sides, eyes dark in the lanternlight. He didn’t speak at first, just looked at you like he wasn’t sure if this was a mistake or salvation.

“Can I come in?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, swallowing hard.

He stepped inside. The air shifted with him, heavy with unspoken things. You couldn’t read his face—not quite—but his eyes kept flicking to your mouth, then away, like he was afraid of what he might say if he looked too long.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, finally. “About us. About everything we pretended to be.”

You stayed still, fingers gripping the blanket.

“It didn’t feel fake,” he said. “Not to me. Even when it was supposed to be.”

You exhaled shakily. “Me neither.”

That was all it took. One shared truth. One open door.

He crossed the space between you in a breath and knelt down, his hands hovering just short of touching your face.

“May I?”

You nodded, and he cupped your cheeks with the gentleness of someone holding something sacred. His thumb brushed just beneath your eye. You hadn’t even realized you were crying.

“I’m in love with you,” he whispered. “And I’m terrified.”

You laughed—quiet, breathless. “Me too.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t eager or rushed. It was soft and searching, a promise and an apology all at once. He kissed you like you were something to be remembered. Like he’d been waiting centuries just for this.

You pulled him closer, arms sliding around his neck, fingers threading into his hair. The kiss deepened, his breath hitching as your lips parted. When he laid you back, it wasn’t with urgency but with reverence, like he needed to feel every inch of this moment.

His hands moved carefully, reverently, as if afraid you’d disappear. He shed his robes piece by piece, every motion slow, deliberate. You did the same, each touch between you carrying more than heat—carrying everything you hadn’t said until now.

When he finally sank into you, it wasn’t rough or frantic. It was slow. Tender. Like he was pouring all of himself into the spaces between your ribs, like he was trying to etch the shape of you into his skin from the inside out.

You moved together in quiet rhythm, breath catching on gasps and soft sighs. His mouth found your shoulder, your neck, the curve of your jaw. He whispered your name like a spell, as if saying it aloud anchored him to the world.

Your hands clutched at his back, nails grazing down as his pace deepened—not out of desire alone, but out of feeling, thick and aching and real. There were no lies in this. No performances. Just you and him, tangled in warmth and need and everything unspoken finally let go.

When you both reached the edge, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t shattering. It was quiet and full and whole—a slow, blooming thing that left you breathless and shaking, his forehead pressed to yours as he whispered, “I’ve got you,” over and over.

Later, wrapped in blankets and the hum of cooling skin, you laid curled against him with your head on his chest, his arm secure around your waist.

There were no more rules. No more lines.

Just this.

Not pretending anymore.

Chapter Text

The morning came slower than usual. The camp stirred beyond the canvas walls of your tent, the muffled sound of boots, breakfast chatter, and clinking gear rising with the sun. But inside, everything was still.

Gale hadn’t moved.

His arm was still wrapped around your waist, his breath steady and warm against the back of your neck. One of his legs had tangled with yours during the night and remained there, possessive and loose and oddly comforting.

You didn’t dare move. Not because you were afraid of waking him, but because part of you was afraid this—this—might disappear if you acknowledged it too quickly.

His fingers twitched against your hip. Then a drowsy hum.

“You’re awake,” you said quietly.

“I didn’t sleep, actually,” he murmured, his voice soft, still half-sunk in dreams. “I was too afraid it wasn’t real.”

You turned slightly, just enough to see his face. Sleep-tousled hair. Faint lines of worry still lingering in his brow. You reached up and smoothed them away with your thumb.

“It is real,” you said.

He caught your hand in his, kissing your knuckles. “I know. It just doesn’t quite feel like it yet.”

You both lay there a while longer in comfortable silence. No pretending. No roles. Just the quiet weight of truth settling around you like a second blanket.

Eventually, he spoke again. “Do you think… what we had—what we pretended to have—do you think it clouds what this really is? Between us?”

You let out a breath, turning fully to face him now. “It doesn’t cloud it. It grew it. We didn’t fake the feelings. Just the label.”

Gale’s mouth quirked at that, like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite trust himself to. “You’re wise, you know.”

“Don’t let the sarcasm fool you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” He tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. “You infuriate me. And challenge me. And make me feel seen in a way I didn’t realize I was aching for.”

Your heart fluttered. You leaned in and pressed your forehead to his.

“I love you, Gale. Not because of the act. Not despite it either. Just… because you’re you.”

He exhaled slowly. “And I, you. Entirely, helplessly.”

The kiss that followed was soft and sweet and filled with a warmth you hadn’t known you were capable of holding. There was no urgency. No scripted moment. Just truth between your mouths and hands.

When you pulled back, he didn’t let go of you.

“I want to build something real with you,” he said, quietly but firmly. “Not a performance. Not a façade. Something lasting. Something ours.”

“Then we start here,” you whispered, nuzzling into the curve of his neck. “We start with the small things. Morning coffee. Shared blankets. You reading too loud beside me while I try to sleep.”

“I do not read loud—”

“You absolutely do.”

He chuckled, and the sound vibrated in your chest where you rested. He held you tighter.

Outside, the day waited. Quests, danger, ancient evils and uncertain futures all pressed at the edges of your world.

But here, inside the small sanctuary of your shared warmth, none of it mattered just yet.

You were together.

And it was real.

Chapter Text

The tower was quiet, save for the occasional flutter of pages stirred by the breeze through the high arched window. Somewhere downstairs, a kettle began to whistle. A soft, familiar sound that had once meant potion prep or late-night study—but now meant tea, comfort, and the steady rhythm of a shared life.

Y/N stood in the doorway of the observatory, a hand resting lightly on the swell of her belly, the other braced on the wooden frame as she watched Gale. He was seated at his desk, lost in thought, brow furrowed as he scribbled notes in the margin of some ancient tome—his fourth draft, probably, judging by the ink stains on his fingers.

He hadn’t noticed her yet.

A smile tugged at her lips. Some things never changed.

She padded across the room in thick socks and a long cardigan, and only when she slipped behind him and rested her chin on his shoulder did he finally stir.

“Love,” he murmured, setting down his quill. “You should be sitting.”

“I’m pregnant, not breakable,” she replied with a grin, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. “Besides, I wanted to see what you were up to.”

Gale chuckled, reaching a hand up to tangle gently in her hair. “You say that now. In another month, I’ll have to carry you everywhere.”

“You’d like that,” she teased. “Any excuse to feel heroic.”

He tilted his head, meeting her eyes. “Only if I get to rescue you from laundry baskets and overcooked toast.”

Y/N laughed and circled to sit beside him on the little velvet bench they’d added to the observatory after the wedding. It had become their space—half stargazing lounge, half messy library. A hundred moments had bloomed here. A thousand more would.

“You know,” she said softly, her hand sliding over her belly again, “she kicked this morning. Hard.”

Gale’s eyes lit up, the same way they had the first time she’d told him. Every time, really. As though this miracle never stopped feeling miraculous.

“She’ll be strong,” he said, moving to kneel in front of her. He placed both hands on her stomach, reverent and gentle. “And smart. And probably sarcastic.”

“She’ll be spoiled,” Y/N added. “You’re going to read her first-year spellbooks as bedtime stories.”

“And you’ll teach her to throw daggers between her toes.”

“Absolutely.”

They stayed like that for a moment—his forehead pressed to her belly, her fingers in his hair, the quiet stretch of late afternoon golden around them. Outside, the leaves whispered against the tower. A warm autumn wind curled through the windows, smelling of apples and parchment and home.

“You remember,” Gale said after a pause, lifting his gaze to hers, “when I asked you to pretend to love me?”

Y/N laughed, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “You never asked. You just panicked and told someone we were lovers.”

“Ah. Right. Details.” He caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. “It was all supposed to be temporary.”

She leaned in and kissed him—slow and soft and certain. “So was everything,” she whispered. “Until it wasn’t.”

He rested his forehead to hers, voice barely audible. “You’re everything.”

They stayed that way for a while, wrapped in quiet and warmth, the candlelight flickering across the stone walls, the steady beat of their joined hearts a rhythm more ancient than any spell.

Later that night, as the fire burned low and the stars blinked into view above the tower, Gale fell asleep with his hand resting protectively over her stomach. Y/N tucked into his side, one leg tangled with his, already dreaming of a little girl with wild hair and a wicked grin, asking why the stars shimmered and how magic worked and if love really could save a person.

And Y/N would smile and say, “Yes. It did.”

It still does.

It always will.

The End.