On days like this, they live entire lifetimes—ones that belong to the people they’ve never been, ones where she has always been beautiful, and he has always been free, ones where morning is a slow, comfortable affair, full of long limbs and corners that were a little sharp, but not overly so.
On days like this, they have a home—one that isn’t threatened by the unrest and turmoil in Kirkwall, one that isn’t broken by the loss of siblings and mothers and memories, one where their arms only need to be strong enough to hold one another, not to draw a bowstring or heft a sword.
On days like this, they have a future, which turns out to be better than having a past.
She leans on him, letting him be taller for once, one hand on his shoulder, one lacing fingers with his, while she looks past the skin and lyrium and short-clipped fingernails to feel the pulse in their veins as it throbs oddly in tune, as if they were designed by the same sculptor.
He lets her lean, enjoying her slight weight, her warmth, the silent affection, not looking at her because he had memorized every inch of her body, not out of lust but necessity, because no matter what happened to him, he was never going to let himself forget her.
Neither of them need words.
I love you is insufficient, so she strokes his thumb with hers, and they have their day—their lifetime.