"...I am not accustomed to men making promises. Less so of them keeping said promises." It seemed a safe enough admission to make. Life was life, work was work, and Crows did not give their word for anything because they could not possibly be able to hold themselves to it. Assassins they may be, but honorable? They tried, after a fashion. At least Zevran always had. One had to make the romance of the job work for them if they wished to remain sane without spiking one's brandy with powders and prostitutes.

Not that he didn't enjoy when the time came but he did not let it waste him into illness and careless death or debt.

Now, though, curled close and held tight like he'd always imagined a true lover's embrace might be, clutched and cherished and protected by one of the few he could trust to allow himself to be truly vulnerable around...it all seemed so very far away. The Crows. The training. The weight of Rinna's death. His own. Everything.

"But...I believe you."