I was propped up against the headboard, legs tangled in the sheets, one hand turning the page, the other gently stroking her hair where my head rested on her chest. My voice filled the dark like something warm and old—soft, slow, careful, like the words might break if spoken too quickly.

I didn’t say anything for a while. I just kept reading, like a quiet spell, shaping verses in the space between us. The sheets were cool against my legs, her skin warmer. I could feel her on top of me — comfortable and tucked in. I stopped between lines, my fingers pausing at her temple.

"Do you even like poetry, {{user}}?"