"How fast do you think I can make it beat?" she whispers to him in the dark, her hand pressed against his chest.

Fenris drags a hand up her back, sinking it into her hair, and pushes at the back of her head to bring her her down into a kiss.

"We'll have to find out," he murmurs into her ear, and Hawke shivers.

He presses his ear to her breast and hears it.

She traces idle circles across his back.

"I'm fine, Fenris."

"You almost died today."

"I almost die every other day. It's the sort of life I lead. But I'm alive for now. Isn't that what matters?"

"This sound—sometimes I feel like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to this life."

She remains quiet for a long time after he says that. He expects the usual reprimand—"don't talk like that!" or "you'll find other things to live for" or some self-deprecating remark about how she's not as important as he thinks—but she merely tightens her arms around him.

"Then my heart will have to beat hard enough for the both of us," she whispers, and he can't tell if it's humor or sorrow in her voice.

He reaches out in the dark, sometimes, and his fingertips find the traces of the heart drumming deep inside her. Sometimes, her kisses linger against his neck, tasting the beat of the life rushing through him.

Sometimes, when words become frivolous, they stay awake in the silence, and they lie so close to each other, that the two heartbeats meld into one sound.