Alistair breathes out. He takes Cullen's hand; squeezes his fingers, gently.

"I don't know," he admits, just as quiet.

(The selfish part of him: yes, of course, I've spent two years sharing you with the Inquisition, I don't want to spend the rest of my short life that way. Alistair will never give voice to those thoughts.)

"Is that something you'd want to do?"