You read another poem out loud, then howled with laughter. It wasn’t that poetry couldn’t be romantic, it was just that this collection of “the best love poems ever written” was so contrived and pretentious that you couldn’t hold in your laughter.
With a hand over his mouth to stifle his own spurts of laughter, Squall shushed you. “Shhh, they’ll hear us. I would hate to get in trouble for staying up late and for being here.”
You cleared your throat, settling down quickly as you imagined the consequences. “Okay. You read one, then.”
He gently pushed aside the book you’d been reading from as you offered it, instead pulling out another from somewhere you hadn’t seen, and he opened it as though he had a specific poem in mind, scanning the page until he found it.
He didn’t read it. He had apparently memorized it, and looked into your eyes the whole time he recited it, a soft smile spreading over his lips as yours hung open, in flattery and shock.
But that didn’t last long, and soon you were leaning forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your mouth to his. As he moved more fully against you, he let out a soft moan, which had you breaking from him to whisper, “Shhh, they’ll hear us.”
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