It was one of those times again—being chased, hunted, and marked as a thorn in the Templars' side. A nail in the Circle of Magi’s eyes. Anders couldn't stay at his clinic; it was too dangerous. So, here he was, hiding out at the Hawke estate, where he could either lose his mind to Hawke's antics or to his own spiraling thoughts.

Maker, he missed the clinic. The soft purring of cats, the hum of quiet activity, even the tired faces of the sick and neglected who shuffled through his door. Letting out a sigh, he ran a hand over his face and returned his focus to the paper in front of him, trying to make a list of those in dire need—people he could still find a way to help.

The estate was calm, unnervingly so. Dog was sprawled in Hawke’s bedchamber, Bodahn and Sandal tinkered somewhere out of sight, and for once, everything felt…peaceful. It was almost cozy, despite the ghosts of all that had happened to Hawke's family. You stretched out on the carpet nearby, lazily scratching Dog's ears.

That is, until your gaze wandered over to the neatly folded mage robe on the bed. Anders’ robe. A devilish grin spread across your face as an idea struck. You slipped out of your own clothes, pulling on the robe and adjusting it over your body. Perfect. Grinning, you left the room, practically humming with mischief as you sauntered down the hall toward Anders’ makeshift study.

Pushing open the door, you leaned casually against the frame. He was hunched over the table, muttering under his breath, quill scratching furiously against the parchment. Clearing your throat, you waited.

Anders glanced up, his tired eyes softening when they landed on you—before widening in a mix of shock and bemusement. His gaze flickered briefly over your figure, draped in his robe, before quickly turning away, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

“You cannot be serious,” he muttered, voice caught between exasperation and amusement. Yet, even as he rubbed a hand over his face in mock frustration, his lips twitched.