He's already past the point where he could have told himself the embrace would have been platonic in any way. This is full-on damn the consequences; this is the inevitable, and if Myr hadn't reached up to close that distance between them, he would have bent down and done it himself in the space of the next breath.

But even so, the kiss is broken just for a moment by the stuttering little inhalation it provokes--perhaps it is ironic after all that a thing so soft and sweet can shatter six months of denial in a heartbeat, but they've held firm together against it for so long that to give in makes his heart race and adrenaline surge with fear and relief and joy and hope and trepidation at once.

It isn't hard, though, for all that. It's the easiest thing in the world, his body running joyfully ahead of any doubts his mind might cling to, his arms tightening around Myr's waist (mine, mine to protect, mine to adore) and lips parting to cling to Myr's as if no part of Simon could drink in enough of him right now.

The closeness is still what he craves beyond measure. He presses Myr's body flush against his, chest to chest, skin to skin, hands mapping the contours of his back with nothing short of reverence.