Alistair has to take another breath, because he knows where Zevran's hands have been—around necks, hilts, bottles of poison. On more corpses and lovers than Alistair could begin to calculate. And the hand Alistair moved to hold Zevran's wrist is enormous and clumsy and has more calluses than clear skin. But it's gentle, too. They can still be gentle.

After that moment, he answers a little unsteadily: "That was the plan." It doesn't sound like such a good plan when it's said out loud. When he knows for sure it would have meant missing out on the idle kisses Zevran keeps bestowing. He steadies and smiles. "But I wasn't very good at it. Everyone knows. I think Cullen even knows, and he doesn't know anything."

He's only teasing, meaner than he would be if Cullen could actually hear him. He slides forward off the desk and nudges Zevran with his knee to encourage him to move—aiming for the fancy sofa, not the fancy bed.

"I do love you more than I want you," he confirms, in case there was any doubt, "and if you change you mind I won't stop."