Chapter Text
“What do you mean I can’t move my tower there?! Jowan said…Andraste’s knicker weasels I knew it. He’s been cheating this whole time!”
Arya sat back from the board and glared at the offending piece in her hand, scrunching up her nose. Cullen stifled a laugh; he had a sneaking suspicion she was resisting the urge to hurl the tower at the bookshelf opposite.
“Here,” he chuckled. He leaned over and took her clutched hand and proceeded to move it over the board. “Look, you can move here, here and….”
Maker’s breath I’m holding her hand he realised suddenly, his mind stuttering into a panic at his impulsiveness.
“…h-here,” he stuttered, as he moved their hands into what he hoped was the final position before immediately pulling his hand away and rubbing the back of his neck. He stared determinedly away from her and into the fireplace, trying to get his thoughts in order.
When it was just the two of them, it was so easy to forget that she was supposed to be his charge. It had only been a week since they had started their nightly meetings, and yet something about Arya made him feel more at ease than he had done in years – quite possibly since the last time he had seen his family.
And Maker’s breath her hand had felt so good in his, small and soft against his own. He knew her magic favoured ice, and he wondered if her hands always felt that cold. He wished he had kept hold of her, maybe he could have taken her other hand and warmed them both up in his own. And then maybe she would have leaned into him and he could have held her against him and then-
Rutherford, what are you doing.
“Sorry…I…ah…” he stammered.
“Tell me about your siblings?” She blurted suddenly.
He looked up at her. Her cheeks were tinged pink, but she was smiling at him.
Andraste preserve me.