There are little parts of Fenris' body that belong to Hawke, and only to Hawke. It's not the kind of belonging that comes with shackles or angry, bleeding welts from a whip, not the kind that means someone reaching over and stealing pieces of your very soul as you struggle. They're parts that she's earned, that he's given to her, and if he so wishes, can take away. That's what being free is, and she knows this.
But he doesn't want to take them away. He likes having those parts that always get to feel her calloused, scarred, oh-so-gentle hands.
There's a spot on his lower back that her fingers brush when she drapes his arm over his side while they sleep. His hands are hers too, of course, whether she plays with them, adjusts his grip on a book, a sword, a knife, or when she just holds them at the end of the day when she's too damn tired to do anything else.
There are his shoulders that she bites and kisses in the night, his toes that she steps on when she's too drunk to notice where her feet are going, his lips, his throat, his ears that know the feel of her hair tickling them as well as he knows his own name. Those are the parts of him that will never feel the same if she stops touching them.
But the part that he loves most, the one that he'll never tell anyone about, the one that he can't even properly admit to himself, is that little space at the bottom of his lungs that only truly fill up when he breathes the air she lets out after they've kissed.