"Not as though we've been riding since daybreak or anything," he observes, shrugging out of his coat. "Or that it's midday -- " And breastplate, and pauldrons. " -- and time for lunch."

Cullen flops on his back, then, tucking his arms behind his head, turning his face to the sun.

He closes his eyes. He couldn't stop smiling if he wanted to. (He doesn't.)