[ Friendly could mean a few things, but most of them would be terrible, says the face Felassan pulls in response. And if that weren't enough to put him off the idea of charming Beleth's mother, that loud, bright, unguarded laughter would do it. Felassan grins at the sky, listening to it, until she touches his hair and his gaze shifts to her face, freckled cheeks, eyes as big and as bright as any seen in Arlathan, and for a moment he goes soft-eyed in a way that someone less emotionally obtuse than Solas and less generous than Beleth might tell him is in fact very obvious.

But he's not ashamed of that, either. She may as well have an idea. He thinks Solas has to, too, on some level — so it's only fair. He's still grinning. ]

Oh, no, I've always known, [ cocky, and now hyperbolic: ] but it's only every couple of millennia that someone's worth the trouble. Just my luck.

[ Like it's funny. It is funny. They can joke. He unfurls his arm into the space beside him and behind her, offering her his shoulder as pillow, the kind of contact he’s had a great deal of experience cherishing and letting be enough. ]

There. That one looks like you.

[ The cloud he is pointing to is unmistakably shaped like a cat. ]