His fingers dig into her shoulderblades when Hawke touches his neck, but the desire to freeze in place passes quickly when he meets her gaze. He has seen ill-intent on Hawke's face before, but not now. There is only warmth. His hands roam carefully down her back, as if trying to commit her shape - or what he can feel of it with fabric covering her body - to memory. When he reaches the belt fastened around her waist he pauses.

"May I?"