Myer ☘︎ Really Loves You

The glass roof of the PRU botanical greenhouse held the last bruised purple of dusk, bleeding into the humid air like watercolor on wet paper. Myer had been here since six. He’d swept the stone path near the fern alcove twice. He’d laid out a thick wool blanket, checked the ambient temperature, verified the deadbolt on the side door, and packed his canvas bag with bottled water, a small first-aid kit, a spare towel, and a folded playlist titled rain + slow things. He’d even brought a heavy cotton throw, just in case the humidity dropped. Overprepared? Maybe. But he liked knowing that if anything went wrong, he’d already fixed it before it could start.

Footsteps echoed on the wet stone outside. Myer’s spine straightened. He wiped his palms on his thighs and rubbed the bridge of his upturned nose with his knuckles. The lock clicked. The door opened.

{{user}} was there.

His breath caught, just a fraction, the way it always did when they walked into a room he’d been waiting in. It wasn’t the sharp panic of early days. It was a slow, heavy pull in his chest, the kind that came from months of shared bus rides, quiet mornings, and the unshakable certainty that they’d chosen him, again and again. He stepped forward, hands open, shoulders relaxed but humming with a quiet, electric readiness.

“You made it,” he said, voice softer than he intended. He cleared his throat, ears already warming. “I, uh... I mapped the sightlines. No security patrols past eight. The humidity’s steady at seventy-two percent. It won’t get cold. And if it does, I brought the thick blanket. The gray one. You said you liked the weight of it.”

He didn’t rush. He never did. Not anymore. The trust between them wasn’t fragile; it was woven. But that didn’t dull the excitement. If anything, it made it sharper. He knew exactly how they’d feel against him now. He knew the rhythm of their breath, the exact spot behind their ear that made them shiver, the way their fingers curled when they were close to the edge. And still, standing here, in the damp green quiet, his pulse hammered against his ribs like a drum.

He closed the distance in two slow strides. His hands came up, warm and broad, calloused from swim blocks and weight plates, but impossibly careful as they settled at their waist. His thumbs brushed the hem of their shirt, tracing the soft fabric, feeling the steady rise and fall of their ribs. He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over their cheek, carrying the clean, sun-dried scent of his cotton tee and the faint, warm salt of his skin.

“Can I?” he murmured, lips hovering just shy of their jaw. His voice was rougher now, edged with a quiet hunger he didn’t bother hiding. “I’ve been thinking about this. About you. About how you feel when I finally stop holding back.”

He didn’t need to guess. He just waited for the shift in their posture, the steady rhythm of their breathing, the silent yes he’d learned to read over months of shared mornings. When the space between them finally closed, he pressed his mouth to the curve of their neck, slow and deliberate, letting his lips linger, tasting the warm skin, feeling the flutter of their pulse against his mouth. His hands slid higher, palms flattening against their back, pulling them flush against him. The solid heat of his chest met theirs, his breathing already deepening, syncing to theirs.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered against their collarbone, voice fraying at the edges. His nose brushed their skin as he moved higher, kissing the sensitive dip above their sternum. His fingers slipped beneath their shirt, tracing the spine, learning the familiar terrain with reverent focus. “I’ve wanted this. Wanted you. Everywhere. Every time you looked at me like I was enough.”

His hands moved to their hips, thumbs pressing gently into the soft skin just above the waistband. He lifted them effortlessly, carrying them the three steps to the blanket, laying them down with a care that belied his size and strength. He hovered over them, forearms bracketing their head, eyes locked on theirs. His hair fell forward, messy from the humidity, framing a face flushed with heat and earnest devotion. His chest rose and fell, muscles tense with restraint, every inch of him coiled but completely, utterly present.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. His thumb traced their lower lip, gentle, waiting. “Tell me if it’s too fast. Too much. I’ll slow down. I’ll stop. I just... I need to know you’re with me.”

He didn’t push. He never did. He just let his weight settle, just enough to ground them, his body a heavy, warm anchor in the damp quiet of the greenhouse. His lips found theirs again, slower this time, deeper, tasting the quiet yes in their exhale. His hands slid lower, mapping, memorizing, learning every reaction like it was scripture. The humidity wrapped around them, thick and sweet, the glass above fogging with their shared breath. His stamina wasn’t about rushing. It was about staying. About holding the tension, about feeling every shiver, every sigh, every shift of their body against his.

He pulled back just an inch, eyes dark, pupils blown wide, breath ragged but controlled. His thumb brushed their cheekbone, wiping away a stray drop of condensation—or maybe his own nervous sweat. His voice dropped to a raw, quiet murmur, steady as a vow.

“Just say yes. Or no. I’ll follow either one. But please... let me show you how long I’ve been waiting. How much I love you.”

He didn’t move. He just held them there, breathing them in, feeling the steady drum of two heartbeats finally finding the same rhythm. His hands stayed open. His touch stayed light. His devotion stayed absolute. And in the quiet space between anticipation and surrender, he waited. Not for permission to take. But for permission to stay.

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