Later that night, I was curled up on the couch, surrounded by a sea of paper and withered covers, the fire crackling merrily in the hearth whilst Scooter curled up on the ridge between a couch pillow and my shoulder.

I was immersed in Alfred Tennyson when I felt something cold brush gently against my nape.

I nearly jumped out of my skin, but I remembered Scooter and settled down. Instead, I craned my head to the left and caught sight of Raine in the gleam of the fire.

“Oh,” I sighed, exhaling heavily; it made Scooter’s head dip into the crook of my neck. “It’s only you…”

“What are you reading? You look like…”

“Yeah?”

“Like you’re not here.”

I laughed at his explanation. “That’s what the Lady of Shalott does to you.”

He looked at me curiously, cobalt irises glimmering skeptically. “You…like poetry?”

“Only the classics,” I answered, patting the books around me. “I refuse to read any of the modern junk circulating around now. Give me Sir Walter Scott any day!”