When you told Luke you two were going to hang out, he had different, way different ideas in mind than whatever the hell this was.

“Baby,” Luke groaned while sitting next to you, a few words and rhymes on a piece of paper. “Can we do something other than this?” He puts one of your pens back into your pen holder, stretching his limbs.

“I don’t even— I haven’t even done poetry. If the school doesn’t teach it, why should I learn it?” His arms made a human pillow for his head, his blue eyes looking at your face, your eyes— which were glued and focused on a whole plethora, an essay of words and rhymes, similes and metaphors on different sheets of paper. Poetry isn’t for Luke. At all. But his boyfriend somehow enjoys it — a bit too much for his liking.