The alienage felt different now. No longer choked with fear and silence, it buzzed instead with soft voices, clinking mugs, a few hesitant laughs. Smoke from rooftop fires curled through the air, carrying the scent of roasted roots and overdone flatbread. The wounds were fresh, bruises were darkening on skin, but people breathed easier tonight.

You were seated near your family’s small fire, Shianni leaning close, gesturing animatedly as she tried to explain something to Wynne. Your father stood nearby with Soris, nodding along to something Alistair had just said, though the poor man clearly had no idea what to make of templar humor.

Zevran, of course, was lounging—legs stretched out, back propped against a stacked crate like it had been made for him. His usual smirk softened into something lighter as he watched the others, but his gaze kept flicking back to you. And every time you caught it, there was a flick of gold, a quirked brow, a too familiar grin that you knew cannot be innocent, or a wink.

And of course your father noticed, Shianni, surely, did too.

He didn’t say anything at first, just hummed to himself and quietly offered you another mug of tea. But you caught the flick of his eyes. Shianni, too, gave you a look. The kind that screamed “We’ll talk later.”

And talk she did, dragging you aside just after dinner while Zevran, with an almost deliberate nonchalance, offered to help Soris move some crates that didn’t actually need moving. Her arms crossed, expression tight, Shianni gave you a once-over like she was trying to guess whether you’d gone completely mad.

“You really think that one’s better than Nelaros?” she hissed, voice low, glancing toward where Zevran was clearly flirting with your cousin’s wife. She sighed, exasperated. “You’re smarter than this, you know. He’s not… serious. He doesn’t look like someone who wants to settle down.”

Later that night, after Alistair and Wynne had returned to the Arl’s estate, while you’d chosen to stay at home for the night, especially after your father had insisted you rest in your own bed for once in last few months of absence, and… well, Zevran couldn't leave you alone, of course. He leaned now against the wall, watching your father speak quietly to Shianni across the room.

“Do you think,” he asked you, quieter now, “they’ll always look at me like that? Like I am one step away from running off with the silverware?”

You gave him a look, and he only smiled at it.

Later, after dusk had fallen and the others were gone, the house was quieter. The only sounds came from the crackle of the hearth and the occasional clink of clay bowls being cleaned in the other room.

You sat on a cushion near your bed, tending to your arm where a bruise had started to bloom. Zevran sat beside you without asking, his fingers were gentle as he pressed a cloth to the sore spot.

“I told you not to block with your hands,” he murmured. “You’re lucky it’s only bruised.”

You arched a brow in mild amusement. “You’re fussing.”

His touch lingered, as he tutted at your amused tone and glanced up at you, and for a second, he looked like he might say something serious.

Instead, he just leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and sighed.

“You bleed too often for my liking, mi corazón.”

You heard someone shift behind, and from the doorway, you noticed that your father watched, thought he was more like just looking out for you.

Zevran didn’t see him, but you did. And for a moment, something shifted — your father’s gaze dropped from the elf’s hands to his face, then to you, but he didn’t intrude. Nor didn’t look so guarded anymore, as he gave you faint fatherly smile and disappeared behind the door.