[For a moment, Gale thinks his interest might be ill-received, even as Godfrey sets his glass aside and spills its contents— prestidigitation will manage that easily enough later on— and he prepares to steel himself for rejection, to apologize for assuming too much, for misreading.

To anyone who wasn't well-acquainted with either of them, Gale's remark might have been innocuous enough, but the wizard knows better. Neither he nor Godfrey are the sort to do anything by halves, nor are they the sort to engage in such things without considering the long-term implications. They had both loved and lost, in their own ways. Godfrey was a widower with a young child, Gale was a man who knew what he wanted from his future, should he live long enough to have one.

It isn't until Godfrey closes both hands around his own that he feels himself let out a breath of relief, the thundering of his heartbeat in his own ears receding as he gives a more earnest smile.]

If I'm to forgive you for any lack of grace, then I should hope you could forgive me for the same. I'm— a touch out of practice, as it turns out.

[He hasn't expressed his feelings to another mortal in more years than he can remember. For so long, it was only Mystra. The charming, mischievous scholar he'd been in his youth was a distant memory, at times.]

Truth be told, I thought the same. That— there was not enough left of me to offer, in fact.

[They could still die before they reach the end, and he remains on borrowed time, but he has all sorts of reasons to fight for a future now. Godfrey, he's come to realize in recent weeks, is one of them.]