The witty and the weird

Zevran let out a pleased hum at the sensation of her nails trailing down his chest, his body instinctively leaning into her touch. Her words, her warmth, her very presence—it was intoxicating, more than any wine they could pick up on the way.

Ah, my dear Maika, you do know how to keep a man on edge, he murmured, his lips curving into a smirk as her teeth grazed his skin. His fingers curled lightly at her waist, resting just above the curve of her hips, reveling in the way her body fit against his, even after all these years.

Her confession, though, gave him pause. He had expected anger, resentment—perhaps even indifference—but not this quiet acceptance, this willingness to let him go if that had been his choice. It sent a pang through him, unexpected and sharp.

A life of my own? Zevran repeated, his voice softer now, contemplative. He let his fingers drift to her chin, tilting her face up just enough for their eyes to meet. Perhaps there were fleeting pleasures, a few souls who tried to claim a piece of me—but none ever held me the way you did. None ever felt like home.

He brushed his thumb against her lower lip, his smile gentler now, laced with something deeper than charm. You were never a passing fancy, Maika. And as much as I tried to tell myself I could move on, that I *should* move on... I never truly did.

He let the moment hang between them for a breath before his smirk returned, this time with a more teasing lilt. But, of course, if you wish to reward me for my patience, who am I to argue? A fine bottle of wine, a warm bed, and the promise of your company? Truly, you spoil me.

He took her hand in his, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles before giving her fingers a playful squeeze. Lead the way, my love. Just don’t expect me to be *too* patient.