As they're trailing after the Inquisitor, as the Bull talks about it all like it's so remarkably easy, for all that it's absolutely not, Dorian turns to stare at him. His eyes might be a touch too wide, his mouth just a little open beneath his mask.

Romance. What a trite, childish thing. Completely alien in Tevinter, of course; the most romantic stories one could hope for was trashy smut imported from the south for the express purpose of ridiculing it. Or if it were something endemic, it always ended in tragedy.

Dorian learned a long time ago that romance was a thing that happened to other people. Of course, that never seemed to stop him from secretly spiraling, from falling hard and fast for any man that offered him even the smallest kindness.

And the Iron Bull has been—

Dorian shakes himself refocuses on the path ahead of them. The dwarven ruins are winding, narrow things. He should be more interested in the architecture, he thinks, in the beautiful lyrium-infused lamps set into the columns – still working after all these years.

"I apologize for the lapse," he says briskly, and he applauds himself for sounding so nonchalant. "I was briefly waylaid by the thought of you in Orlesian frippery.