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“Commander? You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana's report.”
Cullen’s face froze inches from hers. Her heart, already doing cartwheels in her chest, stopped altogether.
Oh Andraste’s gleaming arsecheeks, you have got to be kidding me. The one time she finally worked up the bloody spine to talk to Cullen, to actually start to say plainly what they’d been dancing around for months, the one time all she needed was just a bare few minutes of privacy…
“What? ” Cullen growled, moving away from her to intercept the owner of the voice before he got any closer..
“Sister Leliana's report,” the fool repeated, impressively oblivious. "You wanted it delivered without delay."
Aadhlei sunk against the battlements, fighting a strong urge to pull off one of her boots and clout the man with it until he buggered off properly. A flock of birds regarded her blandly from the roof of the tower beyond before launching up with a rustle of papery wings. Lucky bastards. At least they could escape.
What followed was possibly the longest stretch of silence she had ever weathered in her life, punctuated only by the thin whistling of wind. There would be talk now, of course there would. Wide eyes and smiles hidden behind hands. Maker, she thought , let there still be something for them to gossip about after this nonsense. And then, the messenger, stammering and scuffling as if afraid he might be launched off the battlements, “Or - to your office! Right!”
The door slammed loud enough to set her teeth on edge. Cullen’s shadow drifted over her and she sighed, too frustrated and embarrassed to look up. It took them so long to even get near this, would they have to start all over again now?
Sighing, digging her heel into the rough stone, she opened her mouth to speak, but his name was as far as she got. His hands cupped her face, raising it up, the thick leather of his gloves cold against her skin, and kissed her.
She had been kissed before, in a childhood that felt so remote as to have been another lifetime. A red-haired boy with kind grey eyes and perpetually skinned knees that had found her in the shadow of a blackberry bramble, handing her a scrappy bundle of daisies and mumbling that he thought her ears were pretty before kissing the corner of her mouth. He had been taken away to the circle some weeks later, leaving her with pressed daisies and the memory of a scant handful of clumsy kisses that tasted of blackberries.
But to compare the two was like comparing milk to wine. It was not something she could call chaste, it was too urgent for that, the press of his lips far too insistent to be demure. There was a lingering taste of morning tea on his lips - warm, Maker, how was he so warm? - and a faint scent of oakmoss and elderflower on his skin. Cullen leaned into her, pressing her back into the stone battlements. She was glad for it, truthfully, so dizzy was she that the wall might well have been all that was holding her up.
Too soon he was pulling away, hands withdrawing tentatively. A small, dazed smiled crept across his face. “Sorry,” he said breathlessly. “That was, um, that was really nice.”
Aadhlei caught one of his hands and squeezed. Her face felt like it was on fire. “Regrets?”
Cullen swayed towards her. “No.”
“Good,” she said, pulling her gloves off. She reached up, sliding her bare hand across his cheek, feeling the rasp of his stubble under her fingers, and drew him back down. “Because I really wasn’t ready for you to stop.”