Author note: I hope you're all doing well and keeping safe during these difficult times! I've been flying through these chapters faster than anticipated, so here's the first part of a double update for this week (Chapter 29 uploaded at the same time, so make sure to check that out after as well)! Happy Wednesday! :)

HAWKE

An overwhelming sense of dread courses through me as I watch Serena and Fenris drink with one another on the opposite side of the Hanged Man.

The two have grown closer over the past few days. Or at least, that's how it appears on the surface.

I can see it in their softened gazes with one another, the stolen glances, the way Serena's now a big ball of awkward energy whenever he's near, paired with Fenris' near constant smirks and private whispers.

And let's not forget their decreased physical proximity to each other, either.

The two remain joined at the hip, even while walking nowadays. More so than usual. And more than what I've come to expect from the distant elves. Especially Fenris, who doesn't usually like to be too close to anyone in fear they might accidentally brush against his markings.

At first, I tried to shrug this all off as mere coincidence. Nothing to be worried about, just a phase. An inevitability that must come with temporarily living together in that mansion.

But then, I noticed it happening more and more, the distance decreasing, as well as the constant blush painting across Serena's cheeks.

And who can deny it all now, seeing them here, like this?

Serena leans in closer to Fenris again, the third time this past hour. He proceeds to whisper something else into her ear. Something that leaves the she-elf fidgeting, smiling—a wad of flustered, untangled nerves.

Varric sets his drink down on the table between us. "Look, Hawke. I—"

"You don't need to say anything. I already know," I whisper, unable to tear my gaze away, despite the pain ripping throughout my chest. "I missed my chance."

Varric pauses. "Perhaps, for now." He sighs. "You never know. You still might get one yet . . . given some time."

"No need to offer forced optimism, Varric." I lean back in my seat. A soul-crushing numbness dulls my entire being. But it's not enough. Not to quench all the pain in my chest. Not completely. "I've only got myself to blame. And now, it's time I try to move on. I wish only for their happiness."

The words come out sounding fake, and taste like bitter ash swirling in my mouth, but I mean it. If this means they can both be happier, so be it. They've both been through enough as it is. And who am I to deny them this chance at happiness, if it means they might find it together?

"Hawke . . . " Varric whispers again.

"I need a breath of fresh air," I mutter and stand up.

I burst out into the frigid cold of Lowtown, not daring to look back. Its typical, horrid stench of old piss and garbage fills my lungs.

Maker, I don't miss this . . .

I grimace and slouch against the nearby wall, letting out a loud, held-in sigh in the process.

My attention drifts upward, onto the darkened night sky. Most of it lies obscured from view, beyond a low overhang of clouds. "What am I doing?" I mumble under my breath.

What was I thinking? Nothing could've ever come of this. And perhaps that's for the best. I'm a human. She's an elf. The two look like they were made for each other. And they understand one another, in ways I could never dream. How could I have ever been so foolish as to get my hopes up? To think I stood a chance at coming between them? Of coming between this?

I recall Serena's bashful smile when listening to Fenris again.

My gut tightens into a painful knot. One I can't loosen, that aches, that squeezes at what's left of my already waning sanity, if it hasn't fizzled out completely

The Hanged Man's door swings wide open. Slow, measured footsteps make their way over toward me. "So, this is where you've run off to," Isabela's unmistakable voice purrs under the Hanged Man's nearby torchlight.

I look down at her. She's standing a mere foot away from me now, crossing her arms.

A mischievous smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. "Care for some company, handsome? It'll cost you five silvers."

SERENA

The Hanged Man's usual racket rings in my ears. Merging, dimming, spinning.

An unexpected, flushed heaviness prickles across my skin.

I'm drunk—either that or I'm getting close.

I've been pushing myself far too hard tonight. Not that I thought it mattered, what with Fenris and the others keeping close watch over me. Something I'm still slowly getting used to; though, it seems to have backfired, a least in this instance.

I waver back and forth in my seat. The world feels like it's swaying, like I'm stuck on a boat far out at sea. The infernal, internal rocking's hard to resist, even though I know it's just in my head. An illusion goaded on by the liquor, buzzing in my veins.

"I'll be right back," I insist and rise to my feet.

Some cold air could do me some good . . .

Fenris looks up at me from his drink. He gives me a quizzical squint; one I can tell is him asking if I need company or assistance, or if I'm even going to be alright.

"I need to stretch." I give him my best 'I'm okay' half-smile.

Fenris' expression remains hesitant, wary, but he nods his head in acquiesce, then goes back to sipping his drink.

With forced concentration, I power walk over to the door, ensuring no matter what that my footing remains steady, straight. One misstep and I know Fenris will be back up on his feet, insisting we call it quits and turn in for the night.

But I won't have that. I can't. It's still too soon yet.

The past few days have been a massive whirlwind. And I need the break. However, not in the way I expected.

Since our kiss, Fenris has kept a distance—granting only the occasional forehead peck before bed. But we've always slept separate. And things haven't gone farther beyond that. His rare, heart-throbbing smirks, though, have increased tenfold, as has his flirtatious teasing.

I can tell he really does want to take this slow, whatever it is. Something a part of me is grateful for. But I think my heart might've preferred the random bursts of passion like the other night, rather than the coiled-up anticipation spread out across several days like this.

I don't know how to take it.

For brief moments, I feel happy, relieved, like I might be finally moving on, nearing inner peace. A tenderness I haven't felt in years.

But then, the grief hits. The flashbacks. The doubt.

I see Tamlen, stumbling his way towards me the night he appeared at camp as a ghoul. His black blood coating my hands. The freshly made grave I dug for him piled up before me.

And then . . . there's his hand on my shoulder. His voice.

'Serena,' he calls out.

I shudder.

No. No. Stop thinking about this. Stop it.

I grasp at the makeshift necklace dangling at my neck.

Agonizing grief washes over me again.

I try to shake it and the memories away—the growing trembles, the sense of emotional drowning, everything. I hurry outside into the cool, night air, one hand clenching tight onto my forehead; the pain within on the verge of overwhelming.

I'm immediately greeted with the sight of Isabela cornering Hawke against the wall.

My heart drops.

Both of them look over at me.

"Oh. Um . . . hello there," I whisper.

The tremors throughout my body cease. But I get the sudden urge to turn and run, to get away from both of them as swift and as graceless as I can.

"Serena? What are you doing out here?" Hawke stands up straight and looks over me with wide, concerned eyes.

No. I can't let him see me like this. I can't-

I glimpse over at Isabela. She's staring at me, waiting, her calculating gaze as intimidating and sultry as the night we first met at The Pearl.

"I . . . um . . . needed to stretch a bit," I lie. "These darn, rusty legs." I pat my right thigh.

My chest squeezes.

I exchange nervous glances between the two.

They haven't moved. Their closeness remains firm, unshakable. Just like that night I saw them flirting at the bar.

"Um . . . well. I hate to intrude. I'll-I'll just be going now." I spin on my heels and move in the direction of Hightown. "See ya!"

"Serena, wait!" Hawke calls out.

I freeze.

No. Don't call out to me like that. Don't make this harder than it needs to be.

"Sorry . . . I just-" The ache in my chest intensifies. I clench my fists to the point where I fear my nails might pierce my skin, drawing blood. "I need some space. Sorry."

I sprint down into the Lowtown market. My mind a blur, desperate for escape, unwilling to ever look back. Lest I face more than one unspoken reality I'm not prepared to accept or acknowledge. Past, future, or otherwise.