It’s quiet tonight and yet, he can’t stop his mind from racing.

Hawke is here, looking over a grimoire while he rests from their earlier expedition to the Wounded Coast. Hawke had insisted on accompanying him back to the clinic (definitely under the guise of looking over the old book).

Anders wraps his palm once, twice to help with the blistering of an injury he had sustained.

It’s a moment before he finds the nerve to speak, glancing in Hawke’s direction.

“You don’t have to fuss over me, you know,” he offers, turning his cheek as to not get distracted by how lovely Hawke looks in this light, “earlier today, I mean. You healed me and it was not necessary. You use up your mana recklessly.”

He knows that his words are falling on (likely) deaf ears, but he’ll try regardless.