Cassandra closed the door to the forge behind her slowly. She placed both palms on the door and let her head fall forward, pressing her forehead against the heavy wood. Her heart was thundering, her breath ragged, and the heat from the fires made her vision swim.

And, Maker help her, she was smiling.

It was practically a foreign gesture, and even though she knew her mouth looked crooked and it pulled uncomfortably at the scar on her face, she couldn't stop. After several long breaths, she pushed herself away from the door and finally made her way up the stairs to her quarters.

It had been four days since the night in the garden. Four days of heated looks and fleeting touches. Of passionate moments stolen in a small alcove or deserted corridor. Of feeling lightening run through her every time she was alone with Everly. Cassandra couldn't remember the last time she had experienced such exhilaration.

Still smiling, she undid her heavy belt and leaned her sword against the small bench near her bedroll, then began stripping off her armor. The taste of Everly's mouth lingered on her lips and she could still feel Everly's hands, the way her fingers dug into her hips. It was ridiculous that something as simple as a goodnight kiss could send her reeling, but then again, most things about the Inquisitor were unexpected. Especially this.

Cassandra was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn't see the rose until she almost sat on it. The flower had been carefully placed at the head of her bedroll, next to a folded piece of parchment. Cassandra gasped in surprise. She gently picked up the rose with two fingers, as if it might snap in two in her hand, then held it to her nose.

When Everly would have found the time to sneak into the forge she had no idea; most of the Inquisitor's spare moments had been spent planning their next expedition. The War of the Lions had reached the Exalted Plains, and although Everly was loathe to involve the Inquisition in Orlesian matters, reports of new tears in the Veil were flooding in. They were set to depart tomorrow. Cassandra shared Everly's lack of enthusiasm, but the idea of sharing a tent now with the Inquisitor gave her an undeniable thrill.

Next she went to the note, almost forgetting to breath as she unfolded it slowly. There was a single line, written in a large, looping hand, signed only with the letter "E." She read it over and over again, enthralled by the sharp angles and expressive curves of Everly's handwriting.

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk through my garden forever.

It wasn't an uncommon phrase. Cassandra had come across different versions of the sentiment in various novels, and in fact, was fairly certain that Varric had stolen it from a more poetic author. But that didn't matter. Because this time it had been written for her, meant for her. She had inspired those feelings in someone else, something that she thought was no longer in her destiny.

Had she somehow found her ideal, that it yet existed, in the form of a young, impish rogue with messy hair and an irrepressible grin? She had doubted for so long that it was even possible. All Cassandra knew for certain was that no one had ever looked at her they way Everly did-like she was the only thing in the entire world that mattered, like she was finally being seen, all the way through the hard exterior and plates of armor to the person underneath. It was far too early for grand proclamations or promises, yet she couldn't help but feel the potential of something extraordinary. The first chapter in a story Cassandra had always hoped would be written about her.

A strange sensation bubbled up through her chest, and she suddenly let out an odd noise that could only be described as a giggle. She immediately made a face. Grumbling to herself, Cassandra stood and went to her desk, rummaging around for a blank piece of parchment and a quill. She found a piece small enough that, when folded, would fit easily into Everly's hand or pocket. She dipped the quill then hesitated, thinking for a moment before deciding on her reply.

It was a single word.

Flatterer.