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For as enthralled as Sigrun is about his books, she's missing Varric's entire romantic arsenal.
Her mug hits the bar and he leans in for the kill.
Their noses graze, but their lips lock true. Her frosty behavior melts against his touch. His mental imagery is half way down the thesaurus before he notices she's pushing him away.
She's pale with shock. "Messere Tethras, wha..."
He gapes, confused.
"It is forbidden to kiss the Dead," she reprimands.
Just his luck.
He takes her hand and holds it to his chest. "Then I'll pray for revival."
She blushes.
Better start praying.