“You are looking at a man who prefers shieldmaidens over angels.” Shieldmaidens. Surely not. “The poems,” she murmured. “Were they . . . ?” He looked resigned. “I suppose, in some shape or form, it has always been you.” “I must say,” she said after a breathless pause, “you are a terrible rake—a pretend rake. Next, you tell me you have been saving yourself for me all along.” He laughed, and she leaned in. His face blurred and their lips met in a kiss, finally, at last. Yes.
His poems had all been about her ❤️
