Queer For The Masses

his eyes snap up the second he sees you. he points at you with a dramatic gasp, mouthing something that looks like finally. you open the window an inch.

“are you serious right now?” you ask.

“you weren’t texting me back,” he says, as if that explains everything. “i thought you hated me. or died. or were kidnapped by, like, a cult.”

“a cult?”

“you never know.”

he drops the gravel and wipes his hands on his jeans before looking up at you with that stupid, earnest, too-intense expression he only gets when he’s been spiraling about you for hours.

“rapunzel, come down,” he says softly. “please.”

and the thing is—you can’t even stay annoyed. because he’s not angry. he’s not yelling. he’s not blaming you. he just looks… relieved you finally showed your face. relieved you exist. relieved the silence is over.

“you could’ve just waited,” you say, pretending your heart isn’t doing embarrassing gymnastics.

“I did wait,” he argues. “i waited like a whole hour. and then another hour. and then i used all three methods of communication known to man. i was about to send a carrier pigeon.”

you snort. “you’re ridiculous.”

he smiles—sheepish, crooked, kind of beautiful in that earnest way. “yeah. but you love me anyway.”

you roll your eyes, but your chest softens. because he’s right, and he knows it.

“come down,” he repeats, quieter now. “i just… wanted to see you.”

and something about the way he says it so gentle, so raw, almost old-fashioned in its sincerity, makes you grab your jacket without thinking.

because men like that, men who go a little insane when you pull away, men who can’t stand silence from the person they adore—they don’t make scenes to control you. they make them because they care too much. because you mean too much. because the thought of you slipping away feels like losing gravity.

you meet him outside and he immediately relaxes, shoulders lowering, breath coming easier like he’s been holding it for hours.

“hi,” he whispers, touching your cheek like he’s making sure you’re real.

“hi,” you whisper back.

he leans in. “please don’t ignore me again.”

“i wasn’t—”

“i know,” he says, forehead resting against yours. “but my heart doesn’t.”

you laugh, quiet. “drama queen.”

“for you?” he murmurs. “always.”

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