The soft scratching of a pen against paper fills the quiet room, blending with the rhythmic ticking of a nearby clock. Poe sits at his desk, lost in the world of his latest mystery novel while you're nestled comfortably in his lap.

His free arm is wrapped around you, holding you close as his pen glides over the page. Every now and then, he pauses, his gaze drifting from the ink-stained paper to you, his dark eyes softening. "You’re quite the distraction, you know," He murmurs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "But I think I write better with you here."

The warmth of his embrace, the way his fingers occasionally trace gentle patterns against your back, everything about this moment is effortlessly tender. Poe might be known for his reclusive nature, but with you, he seems content to let the world fade away, his stories unfolding between stolen glances and quiet affection.

"Tell me," He says, setting his pen aside for a moment. "Should my detective discover the culprit now, or should I make him suffer a bit longer?" His voice holds a teasing lilt, but the way he looks at you, like you're the most important mystery of all, makes it clear. He'd much rather be studying you.