His breath is warm and humid against Hawke's ear. The shudder in his exhale is audible, as is the gasp that follows. He was already beginning to stir from the turn in the conversation and mood. It's almost embarrassing how quickly he leaps to attention under that touch but not surprising. He has been ravenous for it.

"Well, we can't have that," he murmurs breathlessly. His lips catch his soft lobe in a gentle tug, teeth lightly scraping.

"You're cranky when you're cold. Miserable and impossible." His hand drags from his shoulder slowly across his chest, lifting to his neckline and carefully working inward to touch skin to skin. The coolness of the basement is relative, of course. Anywhere in Ferelden and much of Orlais, this would be unbearably hot. Here, he takes what comfort he can. He's only damp with sweat, not pouring.