The assassin's touch is warm, and gentle, and there's something about the careful way he handles Lasulahn's hand that's... comforting, almost. Pleasant, at the very least. When Zevran releases his wrist he tucks his hands back inside his cloak and away from the cold.

His eyes alight at the options the other presents him with- at least until the last, and no cast of firelight, however red it may be, can explain the color of the Inquisitor's cheeks (or how wide his eyes get before he remembers himself).

"I- ah-" His tongue seems to forget speech entirely for a moment. "I've-" Oh, Evanuris have mercy. He clears his throat a little to try and regain his composure. It works - somewhat. "Varric tells me I'm hopeless at Wicked Grace, so I might be poor sport. Getting out of this wind sounds lovely to start, though and we'll... go from there?" There's a higher pitched uptick in his soft voice, equal parts nervous and hopeful. He hardly wants to offend the Inquisition's guest, especially a friend of Leliana and a man who has thus far been quite nice to him. Everything Zevran had mentioned sounded fun. Even massage oils sound like they might be... nice, admittedly, but a little more intimate than Lasulahn would expect.

Maybe it's an Antivan thing?

Lasulahn can't say he's heard of it, learning what little he had of the language and custom, but that didn't mean much.