Isabela knows she's in love with Hawke when they spend the night together but don't have sex.
It really is that simple.
That clear.
She realises it when she wakes up on her side, Marian Hawke curled around, her breathing heavily into the back of her neck. It should've been annoying – and it was a little – but not enough to stir her out of the other woman's hold. And surely Hawke was annoyed by Isabela's long black hair covering her face as she slept. Isabela would certainly find it annoying but Hawke is fast asleep against her, body relaxed and pliant and wonderful.
She doesn't find Hawke annoying though, not at all really, and all that soft skin and lean muscle wrapped around her just made her feel more comfortable in her own body than she'd felt for a long time. And she loved her body.
Everyone loved her body.
Sex was good. With Hawke it was amazing but this was something else, something familiar that she couldn't quite identify.
Love – definitely – but love was usually fleeting. Love was for children. Not pirate whores.
Perhaps.
Not.
She wasn't sure. That's what annoyed her.
Hawke shifts against her, breathing changing and that should've been another big clue to her feelings she supposed; Isabela notices the different sounds of Hawke's breathing. Everything from the snores to the weird murmuring noises she made when she was dreaming.
She turns over to face her and sees Hawke smiling at her, eyes half closed still but awake enough and Isabela smiles back. The other woman hadn't been smiling much lately, with Bethany's letters from the Gallows dwindling and her mother in the grave. It made the uncertainty worth it to have her smile like that again.
"Good morning,"
"How are you feeling?"
Hawke shifts slowly, feeling out her injuries. Isabela is aware they would've had sex if she hadn't been so badly injured the day before – she hadn't even tried to seduce her, tried anything.
Hadn't even considered it.
The sex wasn't the point, she was well aware of that. She'd crawled into bed with the woman when Hawke had been half high on healing magic and health poultices and had gone to sleep holding her like the lovesick fool she had become.
Love.
Usually, a dirty word but Hawke made it bearable.
"Better," Hawke says, "another round with Anders should set me right. If he's up for it."
"Of course he is," Isabela grins, "he's always up for you sweetheart."
The innuendo comes as easy as the endearment and the sly smile but she can't quite meet her eyes. She is afraid Hawke doesn't feel the same for a moment. She may not be thrilled about being in love – Maker knew it was going to take some getting used to – but none of it matters if Hawke doesn't feel the same.
"Thank you for staying," Hawke says, bringing a hand up to tip Isabela's chin up but she darts her eyes to the side, looking at the faint line a sword had cut into her cheek instead and wishing it was gone or on her cheek instead.
"I wanted to," she replies, when the other woman lets go, brushing her fingers over Isabela's dark skin. She forces a smile through the annoying anxiety. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I'm well enough 'Bela," Hawke smiles, "thanks to you."
"Thanks to Anders."
Hawke kisses her softly on the lips, and oh, that feels better, that she understands. Lips and limbs and lust but Hawk doesn't push forward, doesn't press for more.
Neither does Isabela but she isn't sure why at that moment. She would happily have sex with anyone at any time.
Usually.
"It's alright you know," Hawke says instead, smiling, eyes closing as she starts to fall asleep again; it was still early after all. "Take your time."
Hawke knows. Of course, Hawke knows. She understands and it was annoying.
Isabela loves her all the more for it.