The library is quiet, save for the occasional crackle of a turning page or the soft thud of a book being reshelved. The atmosphere is calming, a sanctuary from the chaos outside, and it’s a place you’ve both gravitated to more than once. You’re not surprised to find him here—Solas—seated at one of the large wooden tables near the far end, a stack of books at his elbow, and a quill resting against his fingers as he writes with deliberate precision.

You hesitate for a moment, leaning against the doorway as you watch him. There’s an ease in the way he moves here, a quiet focus that almost makes him seem less guarded, though you know better than to believe it.

“I can feel you staring, you know,” he says, not looking up, his voice light with dry amusement. The quill pauses, just barely, before he dips it into ink again. “Are you planning to join me, or is observation your only intent tonight?”

He finally glances your way, and the corner of his mouth lifts—just slightly, just enough. That knowing look he always gives you, the one that makes it hard to tell if he’s amused or simply intrigued by your every action.

“I thought you had little patience for research,” he continues, his tone edging into something almost teasing. “So, what brings you here? Me?”

The directness of his words catches you off-guard, even if they’re softened by his usual composure. His gaze lingers a moment longer, curious but steady, waiting for you to speak. It’s like he knows, as he always does, that there’s more to your arrival than the library itself.