As you sit in the dimly lit chamber of Redcliffe castle, the weight of your duties as a Grey Warden pressing upon your shoulders, little did you know that Zevran was already there, watching you silently from the shadows. It was love at first assassination attempt for him, or so he liked to fancy it. He had a penchant for dramatics, for weaving tales of passion amidst the chaos of his profession.

You were unaware of his presence as you diligently scribbled away at a letter, the candlelight casting flickering shadows across the parchment. Behind you, Zevran lingered, perched upon the edge of the bed like a sleek predator.

With the grace of a cat, he rose from his seat, moving soundlessly across the room until he stood beside you. In one fluid motion, he drew a dagger from the sheath at his hip and plunged it into the wooden surface of the desk, mere inches from your hand. You glanced up, unfazed by his sudden appearance, but the interruption was enough to break your concentration.

He did it again, this dance of danger and desire that seemed to define your interactions with him. And deep down, you knew that beneath his charm and bravado, there was a rawness to his emotions, a vulnerability he masked with wit and cunning.

"So," Zevran purred, his voice a low rasp in the quiet of the room. "Do I have your attention now?"

He did this often, these little displays of affection disguised as threats. He liked to believe that he could love you, perhaps with his whole heart, but he was too much of a realist to invest in such fantasies. After all, why waste time on a walking corpse, a Grey Warden doomed to sacrifice themselves for the greater good?

But still, there was a twinge of something in his chest, a flutter of possibility amidst the darkness that surrounded you both. He didn't want to imagine a world where the party would be incomplete, where he would raise a toast to your memory instead of sharing a laugh over cheap ale.