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Summary
It's nothing like the first time, nothing like the bed in the estate. Her bed, she supposes, though it still doesn't feel like hers two, three years on. Three. One, two, three years since Fenris walked through her door to thank her, three years since she kissed him and felt him kiss her back and felt every soft part of him with her hands and her lips working away the hard spiked shell that's built up over him.
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Hawke counts, and counts again.