It's late enough that no messenger will come. Cullen works in his shirtsleeves. He didn't shave, today, and idly scratches his stubble as he reads.

-- but that's not a messenger. Cullen looks up -- and scrambles to his feet.

(There's a relatively untouched tray to the side of his desk.)

"Alistair," he breathes, and just like that he's closed the distance between them to wind his arms tightly around Alistair. "I didn't expect you so soon -- "