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“Evening, Commander!” Evelyn greeted, peeking into his office. “Do you have a moment?”
From his desk, Cullen straightened. “Of course, Inquisitor. Come in.”
She nodded, nudging the door shut behind her. Carrying a roll of parchment under her arm, she strode towards his desk with a furrowed brow. “I’m concerned about our route to the Emerald Graves,” she began as she unfurled the map across of a cleared portion of his desk, placing a few of the heavier stacked reports to weigh down the edges. Heads bent over the parchment, she moved in close, shoulders brushing. “We’re headed south-west. There’s been news of harsh weather through the mountains.” She dragged her finger to another portion of the map. “And there have been Venatori sightings to the east. If we cut through here, we…”
Her voice trailed off in his mind as he took in her profile. Her ash-white hair spilled over her umber shoulders, strands slipping out from behind her ears. She was not dressed in her customary leathers yet, favoring a peasant’s dress with bared shoulders, but she still strung her daggers across her back. A precaution he understood too well. Her nose wrinkled at a particular patch on their route, and the corner of his mouth curled at her annoyed pout. There was something about her that drew him in — a moth to a Chantry flame — and he couldn’t help but take stock of the little things. The gentle cadence as she spoke, the way her eyes crinkled into a glare, or her lips pursed together with impatience.
“You’re not listening to me, are you?”
He stammered. “I, uh…”
Evelyn sighed, smirking. “Nevermind, then. I guess we’ll figure it out.”
“Inquisitor, wait,” Cullen started, tapping the map before she could roll it up. “Take the route south. The harts can handle the cold. You’ve already secured Sarhnia, so once you clear the snow, you should have smooth travels.” Knuckles bearing his weight on the desk, he glanced her way with a slight twitch of his lips. “Any bandit that messes with you on the road would be a fool.”
She grinned. “That’s never stopped them from trying.” Pressing in close, Evelyn idly tapped her nails against his breastplate. “You’re aware we’re headed to Crestwood after the Graves?”
Cullen huffed. “I am. I planned your trip, remember?”
She hummed and nodded, dusting his red surcoat. Evelyn would tease him about it on occasion — said it made him look like one of those red lions that roamed the Frostbacks. “It’ll be quite a long trip. And lonely.”
“You’ll have Cassandra and Dorian. And Bull! How is that lonely?” he muttered, heat creeping beneath his collar. The fur of his cloak suddenly felt too warm. Leaning back slightly, he brushed his knuckles against her hip. “Besides, I’m sure you’ll come across a dragon — Maker forbid it — and you’ll have your hands full with that.”
Evelyn pouted. “You’re being stubborn. That’s my job.”
He grinned. “Someone has to keep you on your toes.”
“Not even one for the road?”
He could never resist the mischievous sparkle that brightened her eyes. Or the way she would lean in, hands squeezing his biceps and dusting slight kisses along his jaw. And in return, he placed one - two - three soft kisses against her lips. Foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the small spaces, he basked in the subtle nuances that made up Evelyn. The scent of oiled leathers, rose-apple tea, and the mint bath soap that she favored.
“I’ll await your return, my lady,” he murmured. Noses bumped. “Ride safe.”
“Always.”