"I swear, this isn't what it looks like."
Fenris looks at Hawke, where she kneels in front of his door, lockpicks in hand.
"So you aren’t trying to break into my home," he says evenly, shifting the sack of potatoes he holds. He does not cook, generally, but one of the Fog Warriors showed him how to make a soup with nothing more than potatoes, water, and carrots. There are worse things in this world.
"Okay, yes, so it is that," Hawke says, and she twists one of the picks again and the door clicks. He will need a better lock, if it is so easily picked. "But it’s not why you think."
"I think you’re invading my privacy."
She wrinkles her nose, and now he notices the small sacks at her feet. “Believe me, I meant to be in and out, but Mother found out about how you’ve been living…”
He frowns again. He’s met Hawke’s mother, once, briefly, when Hawke was bringing home an exhausted and bloody Bethany. The lecture had been terrifying. Fenris had never been scolded for recklessnss while being served bread and stew.
"So your mother put you up to sneaking into my home." He finds that he’s more annoyed than he’d think. He knows no one much cares for his "borrowed" home, but it’s his.
"Of course not." Hawke slides a hand through her dark hair and suddenly the lockpicks are gone. He will never understand how Isabela and Hawke can do that. Varric keeps his picks in his pockets like a sensible man. "She thinks I have a key, and that you’ve noticed."
He frowns again. “Noticed what.”
Hawke lifts one satchel, and he sees the loaves of bread inside. “Did you really think that your food was staying fresh?”