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Summary
The Inquisitor touches everyone. Her hand on Sera's knee, her hip against Dorian's side, her fingers digging into Cassandra's shoulder until the Seeker almost smiles. She has a different laugh for each of them, and Bull has catalogued every single one from thirty feet back.
He doesn't have one. She's never laughed for him, never crossed his doorway, and never once looked at his mouth, which, if you know what to look for, tells you everything.
Eight feet. That's the distance she keeps. Nine months of it. Bull has a lot of theories about why. He's running out of the ones that don't keep him up at night.