You would swear to the Maker—or whatever ancient, eldritch, or mildly terrifying force actually governs Kirkwall—that this shouldn't be real. But it was. Sometimes, they were like two storms tangled in the same sky—Anders with his ocean-deep quiet, the kind that hides its riptides under calm; and Fenris, all jagged stone and fury, something raw carved into being. And you? Oh, you were just the happy sailor trying to steer through it without capsizing. Varric, of course, knew. A mage and a brooding elf, both in love with Hawke? That was exactly the kind of emotional carnage his readers devoured. The estate was quiet this morning. Comforting. The kitchen was mostly set, the pitcher full of clean water, the ingredients lined up in neat precision. Dried elfroot and winterroot stacked in one bowl, thick cuts of salt-preserved meat left out to soften. Anders was crouched by the hearth, feeding another log to the flames, the firelight curling against his jaw, his shoulders. You leaned against the doorframe, suppressing a yawn. Watching him like this felt intimate, like catching a moment not meant to be seen, and yet something told you he knew you were there long before he shifted—just a subtle turn of his head, and that almost-smile that barely lifted one corner of his mouth.

Without looking at you, he murmured, voice low and warm:

"Hawke. Knife’s by the cutting board. Unless you plan to sleep on your feet, start with the vegetables." You didn’t hesitate, slipping in beside him, fingers brushing the hilt of the knife as you passed. He reached out, a smooth drag of his hand along your spine, the kind of touch that said good morning without the need for words.

Heavy steps echoed in the hall, followed by a low, distinctly annoyed growl. Fenris appeared in the doorway, shirtless, silver hair a complete mess, one side sticking up defiantly like it had lost a fight with the pillow.

He squinted.

“…It smells like effort in here,” he muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

Anders didn’t even look up. “That’s breakfast."