[While Gale doesn't think anything of Godfrey's shift in posture, that new softness in his voice causes him to still, his breath catching in his throat as he's midway through another sip of his wine, holding it for a moment too long before he exhales.

Maybe it wasn't so foolish for him to read into Godfrey's actions. Perhaps he wasn't entirely out of line, after all?

There was really only one way to say for sure. He lowers his glass, setting it down atop a nearby stack of books that also has some unfurled parchment spread atop it, the closest thing he has to a table inside the tent itself. He turns his gaze to the larger man directly, his eyes soft with both fondness and a faint questioning.]

I, ah— well. If I hadn't already made that apparent, I would be very glad, as well.

[He clears his own throat, one side of his mouth quirking upwards again for a moment before he proceeds, cautious.]

I would like to keep in touch with everyone, but— I would like to see you, especially. When I say you're always welcome, I do mean... there's truly no one who's company I'd like more.

[Carefully, so carefully, he brings his hand to lightly rest against Godfrey's wrist.]