Cullen knocked on the door to Finley's chambers before entering, a habit she'd asked him to forgo, though common courtesy still kept his knuckles rapping despite her request. After all, just because she claimed she didn't mind him barging in whenever didn't mean he would. Maker, what if he walked in on her dressing one day?
As much as a part of him might want to see that, he would never go out of his way to make that a reality. He might not be the best man in the world—he wasn't even anywhere near the running—but he would never be so crass or vulgar.
When she bid him entry, his hand was already waiting on the door knob, however, and part of him wondered if he wouldn't simply get flustered by the idea of seeing her should she ever tell him she needed a moment.
Even now, he was embarrassed. Maker help him, but she was his superior. He should not have been having such thoughts about her, yet more and more his dreams wandered to her, so sitting with her in the gardens, to whispering with one another at dinner, to pulling her down with him into his bed.
He always felt especially embarrassed after those dreams, particularly when he woke up reaching for her.
It was a foolish crush, and one he had no right or reason to pursue. After all, he'd failed to keep her safe on more than one occasion, and anyway, a personal relationship would put a strain on their professional relationship.
He liked that they could laugh and talk now. He liked that she didn't always shy away from him, that sometimes she came up and took his hand.
Her touch made his heart stutter.
And that was completely unprofessional.
Trying to clear his mind, he was already forcing himself to focus on the issues he'd come to speak with her about as he entered the room. However, as his gaze quickly surveyed the room for the Inquisitor, all his attempts at professionalism evaporated.
Finley was standing in front of a mirror in a long dress. The fabric was dark and hung on her so perfectly…with the overcoat she always wore and her clothes generally a bit patched and awkward, he'd never really had a chance to see her figure before now, and his mind couldn't quite move past the way the fabric fit her so…well.
She didn't have wide hips or a large bust, but her curves were still there, subtle and sweet and calling.
Maker, but if he could run his hands along those curves, he'd die a happy man…
Her hair was down too, falling down her back, free and wild. The orange of it was such a beautiful clash with the color of the dress, somehow making her look all the more alluring. A recent dream of tangling his fingers in her hair came to mind and for a moment he was lost to the temptation.
Just as his feet started to move him toward her without a conscious thought on his part, she turned toward him and whatever momentum had begun to build died away.
Finley was positively irate.
His ears burned as he realized she must have caught him staring.
His mind scrambled for something he could say, and excuse he could make that might excuse his lingering gaze—which even now didn't want to pay attention to her anger, instead constantly drawn down with the way her skirt swished around her legs and the languid way she moved altogether.
Even as he struggled internally, she stormed up to him, each step drawing her closer and making his heart skip a beat, despite how clear it was that this was not going to go along the lines of any of his fantasies.
"Feel this."
Before he quite knew what was happening, Finley had caught his free hand and set it against her waist. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
Finley stared up at him a moment before turning abruptly to look back the way she'd come, still holding Cullen's hand to her waist. "Do you see him? He is mortified. I am not wearing this."
For the first time, Cullen became acutely aware that the two of them were not alone in the room. Slowly, his gaze left Finley to see Dorian lounging back in a chair, with two seamstresses standing near the mirror.
Instantly he jerked his hand away from her.
She barely noticed, already turning back to argue with something Dorian had said. The mage looked positively smug, and Cullen was glad he'd missed whatever it was.
"No. I'm going to be stabbed. Look at this." She plucked at the dress near her stomach, scrunching up the fabric, and pulling it tighter in other places. Cullen tried not to notice. "There is nothing here to protect me. Nothing." Abruptly, she turned back to Cullen. "When you had your hand on me, did it feel like there was anything there?"
"I have to go."
Cullen wasn't sure if he actually said the words, or if he just mouthed them. He was vaguely aware that he'd passed both Lady Vivienne and Josephine on his way back down to the main hall, though the whole rush down the stairs had been little more than a blur.
Maker, help him but…
No.
No buts.
Just help him.
…-…
Finley stared at the half closed door, where Cullen had all but sprinted out not seconds earlier. Crossing her arms, she sunk into a chair next to Dorian, who was currently too busy cackling at the whole scene to notice. When he finally did manage to glance her way, he attempted a frown, though it didn't hold.
"You're not supposed to sit in that until they get all the hems done."
"Why are you even here?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You think I'm too distraught to notice, but you never actually help during these fittings or the etiquette training," Finley muttered, feeling oddly betrayed by the commander's abrupt exit. She could have used someone in her corner to help her fend off these ridiculous outfits in favor of something more practical.
"My dear Inquisitor, this is exactly why I come to these." When she simply gave him a puzzled look, a rather wide grin split his lips. "Listening to you rant about the impracticalities of having more than one spoon for a single meal or watching you throw a fit because you think the fabric is too thin for your attire is quite the show." He paused, grin growing a little wider. "I couldn't get better if I paid for it."
"I do not throw fits."
"Perhaps fit is not the right word, but you did just invite the commander of your armies to have a feel."
"He's in charge of security," Finley objected. "It's his job to make sure I'm safe. I'm not safe in this." She made a sweeping motion toward the dress.
Dorian simply rolled his eyes as Josephine and Lady Vivienne entered into the room, both of them looking a little puzzled. He leaned toward her to whisper, "Methinks you just want that man's hands on you."
Finley stared at Dorian for a long moment before slouching against the side of her chair that was nearest him, ignoring as both Josephine and Lady Vivienne let out clucking protests on behalf of the poor, abused fabric. "If you can pick up on that, why can't he?"
Rather than offer any insight, more laughter was all that met her question.