[ Astarion reacts to the chill and damp not unlike a cat, his shoulders rising on instinct before he allows himself to fully relax into Gale's embrace, his arms winding — confident, hardly ginger — around the wizard's neck.

The sensation of Gale's fear, so clear in the unsteady pattern his breath takes against the curve of his neck, is enough to shock some clarity into him. He'd been disappointed, before, when Gale had returned from the woods with a stab wound in his gut, unable to believe that someone as clever wouldn't be able to keep himself from such trouble, but the cleverness isn't the point. It had been his instinct toward kindness, at least in the case of Armand, and as for Spike, well. That hadn't really had to do with Gale at all.

So, ] I'll be the judge of that, [ is all he mumbles, soft instead of fiery, into the crown of Gale's head, holding him tight a moment longer before loosening his grasp just so to nose against the other man's cheek. He's already sent a few scolding messages, after all, and he's hardly about to let what he's recognizing as not Gale's fault to go unpunished. ]

But it's more than enough, for now. [ And, with a prompting press of his hand, ] Come. You'll catch cold if you stay like this.