The fire had long since burned down to a bed of embers, casting a soft, orange glow that flickered against the canvas of the tent. Outside, the Ferelden woods whispered with wind and the faint hoot of an owl, but here inside, it was quiet. Still, almost peaceful, if forget about the Blight.

Your breathing was steady beside him — slow, warm, real. A comfort he still didn’t know what to do with.

Zevran lay on his back, half-covered by the tangled sheets, the curve of your body pressed close. He hadn’t moved in a while, hadn’t dared. Not when your hand had slipped so naturally across his chest earlier, when your lips had found the scar beneath his collarbone without hesitation. Not when you'd let him linger, unguarded, in a silence neither of you tried to fill.

Now, your arm rested over his ribs, fingers curled loosely in the fabric of the blanket. Your hair tickled his shoulder with each breath.

And yet, he didn’t sleep.

His gaze was fixed on the dark ceiling, brow furrowed slightly. The tattoos on his face caught the dim light in soft curves, but the expression beneath them was unreadable. His mind, though — restless. The quiet should’ve been a reprieve, but instead it left him alone with thoughts that wouldn’t settle.

What is this?

He’d asked himself the question a dozen times tonight, each time your touch made something in him ache in a way that wasn’t pain. He was used to hunger, pleasure, survival. But this—this stillness in the aftermath, this softness — it unsettled him. Like the calm after a fight when you don’t know if it’s really over. Like reaching for something you’ve never been allowed to have.

Your breath shifted, barely. Not quite awake. He turned his head slightly to look at you.

You looked so unburdened and trusting, even now. Like he hadn’t once warned you what he was, like you hadn’t seen the cracks and chosen to stay anyway.

He swallowed hard.

Zevran brought a hand to your shoulder gently, fingers brushing over your skin as if to reassure himself that this wasn’t a dream. That someone could want him like this, to touch him without demand, to stay, even when the pleasure faded and the morning hadn’t come yet.

But his hand hovered too long before falling back to his side.

Love. It was such a dangerous word. Such a fragile thing in hands that had only ever learned to kill or cling.

He turned his head away from you, slowly, eyes closing but sleep still far off. He told himself it was just caution. That old habits die hard.

Beside him, you shifted a bit, your eyes opened quietly, a small motion — but enough. His breath caught, eyes opening slightly and meeting yours.

You weren’t asleep. Not really.

His expression faltered for a heartbeat — open, raw in a way he rarely allowed. But then the mask returned. A smile, roguish, the one you've always seen him with.

“Ah, my apologies, dear one. Did I wake you?” he asked, tone light and teasing. “I must have been lost in admiration. A terrible affliction when one sleeps next to such beauty.”

But that ache behind his eyes didn’t fade.