𝄞 ⋆.˚𝄢

You wince in some kind of second wave embarrassment for your past self. There’s no choice but to admit defeat, nod, and sigh. “A girl can’t be a hater after a bad Hinge date?” You don’t have to turn your head to see Yunjin laughing, you hear it before you can feel yourself take your next breath. You can only guess she’s throwing her head back and cackling. 

You smile and let the conversation dissipate into the rhythm of your hands: smooth, fold, stack. It isn’t long before the pile no longer exists and you shove it back into a random shelf in your closet. Your body might be here, but your mind drifts back to Shotaro’s dimly lit living room, voluntarily backed into a corner on the couch with Anton hovering over you. You recall how he leaned down and turned his head abruptly, making you pause from how close you both were; how he’d tease you and ask what the matter was like he hadn’t just been an eyelash away from pressing your faces together. Hyperpop washed the tension down until you could no longer hear the heavy thumping in your chest.

Anton Lee has managed to override the migraine in your head that usually follows such a demanding evening. It’s not hard to understand why—boyish smile imprinted all over your mind every time it starts to brew up a headache, soft voice enough to forget how dry your mouth feels after a night of downing one too many drinks. You woke up with heated cheeks and a smile you’ve been trying to fight off your face. Somehow, this feels more dangerous than a hangover.

I know that the bar closes at 11 But I hope you never finish that beer You know all the words to ‘Just Like Heaven’ And I know why he wrote them now that you're standin' right here

First Date - The Red Lion, 10:00 P.M. 

You don’t know how you find yourself seated in a cozy booth at an off-campus bar with Anton. Four hours deep, sinking into the seat with three cocktails downed for your nerves and a soda for remorse towards your liver. Anton’s faring a lot better, only on his second pint of beer and holding your gaze intently. You return the gesture wholly, but not without tucking a hair behind your ear or smiling so wide you feel your cheeks tighten and tug. 

Your bare knees brush against rough denim, deliberate in the way you inch just a tad closer and playfully knock his legs with yours. It earns you an amused laugh with his eyes crinkling. His larger foot nudges your own even closer, locking in your thigh between his. You try to ignore the fluttering in your stomach and the sweat on your palms.

There’s no timidity, only an eagerness between you both to listen to what the other has to say over the bar’s playlist. You recognize the melody as the song comes closer to the first verse, and when the words finally ring through the speakers, you perk up. 

Across from you, Anton mirrors your excitement with a smile. “You know this song?”

“Do you know this song?” One of your eyebrows raise in challenge. The cocktails are catching up now, grinning from ear to ear, fueled by the buzz of the alcohol and how badly you want to keep hearing Anton talk.

“What kind of performative, yearner final boss would I be if I didn’t know all the words and the chords to Just Like Heaven?” His words makes you snort through a short sip of soda. “You’ve got good taste.” He takes a sip of his beer but you can see him fighting a smile behind the rim. You take note that it’ll probably only be another three swigs before the bar closes up and the night would fade into the next morning. Half-lidded with a ghost of a smile, you wish this moment could last forever. 

So, you try.

“Yeah? Prove it.” 

“What?” Anton blinks at you. The war against another fond smile is a losing battle when he just stares at you, bewildered. He almost looks like a lost puppy.

“You made a serious claim, Mr. Lee.” Nonchalance sits heavy on your shoulders as you shrug. You’re anything but that. Thrill runs through your veins, the kind that resurfaces from your skin when you’re around someone who makes you breathless and an overthinker all at the same time. 

“Are you asking me to sing in the middle of a bar my thermodynamics professor probably comes to after grading our papers?” 

A nod, lips caught between your teeth to muffle your giggles. You straighten up, “Unless you’re a coward.”

He drags a hand down his face and laughs. You try to ignore how his palms cover nearly all of his face. 

“Not a coward.” He protests weakly and shakes his head. 

“Then sing!” You prompt him even further, your voice coming out like a whiny kid does for a once in a lifetime treat. “Just for me?” 

The song is nearing its chorus and Anton, much like you, is combatting a wide smile. Familiar words start to roll around, your shoulders moving to the song like second nature. Eventually, he quietly mouths the words along with you. You hear his voice, understated and velvety and the easiest to get lost in. The sound quickly overshadows the actual song.

When the music fizzles out with the chatter of the crowd, you’re left staring at him. “You actually know all the words.” 

Warmth blankets your body where it counts; face heated and your chest feeling that same ache it did when you walked in here just a little over four hours ago. It’s a feeling you could get used to, and yet it keeps you on the edge of your seat.

You feel his thighs closing in on your shin once more, knees knocking. “Told you.”

You hear the last fragments of The Cure before it dissolves into another track neither of you recognize. Someone groans from the booth over and you catch Anton’s eyes before you’re both laughing.

“Damn, tough crowd.” Anton has a hand to his forehead like it’ll do anything to help the obvious pink on his cheeks. It’s hard not to feel smug when you see the color spreading to his ears, but you give him the kindness that stems from ignorance.

“It’s a terrible follow-up. Just Like Heaven deserves better.” Your claim is bold, backed up by the confidence from two long island iced teas and the constant fits of laughter Anton graces you with. The crinkles by his eyes have burned themselves in the back of your mind. 

“Hey, give the guy’s playlist a break.” His fingers tap against his glass and you’re tempted to reach across just to brush your knuckles against his. You catch his eyes flickering down to your own hands, loosely gripping the stem of an empty cocktail glass. The moment passes as quickly as it comes, forced to look back at him when he asks, “What would you have played next?”

You open your mouth, close it, then open again. Puckered lips are what you’re left with and much to ponder on for such a seemingly simple question. Anton stares intently, folding his arms and setting them on the table to cushion his chin. He moves closer, anticipating your answer. Suddenly, it feels like a spotlight has shone down on you.

When his thighs close in again, you gently tap at his forearms. “That’s an impossible question to answer.”

Anton nods with a satisfied smile, like he’d won something from just a few words. The corner of his lips quirk up, leaning back against his seat with his hands raised up. “Exactly why playlists are my prized possessions.”

“Oh, you’re a playlist person then.” You sip your soda and squint at the fizziness bubbling up your nose. You don’t realize how much you’ve been talking, the sensation more foreign than it felt just an hour ago. 

He clicks his tongue against his cheek in jest, clearly amused by this debacle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I’m an album looper, unfortunately,” Your confession reaps an approving shrug and a doting smile. Anton’s never been the judgy type; you gathered from the handful of conversations you’ve had at random house parties and eavesdropping on him and Yunjin where her voice tended to overlap with his. “How many playlists do you have?”

His hands fumble with any loose threads from his shirt. The sheepish look on his face makes him look all the more youthful, but most importantly, it answers before he can even say anything.

“Anton, oh my god.”

“Hey, numbers don’t matter.”

“Which is why you can tell me how many, right?” You’re pushing his buttons, but you have an inkling he’s not too against the way you’re leaning into him as close as one can with a table between them. 

Anton doesn’t hesitate this time. His answer comes quick, though it sounds more like a theory than something definitive. “Maybe forty?” 

No words follow and he’s visibly shifting in his seat. He might have broken into a sweat if you didn’t laugh to fill the space. “In my defense, some are seasonal. Sometimes I make them for each month of the year.”

“Well, I think that makes it sweet, then.” You give him a nod of approval and it draws an easygoing laugh out of him. It sits heavy, full in his chest, then reaches his eyes. You realize that for most of the evening, you’ve been chasing after that sound, that face—looking for any excuse to make it happen again.

He takes another swig. Your eyes fall on the ever-depleting glass in his hand, then to his adam’s apple as he swallows. Immediately, you try to pick your gaze up.

Too late. 

“Why do you keep looking at my beer?” His brows raise up and that smirk from Shotaro’s party emerges. It’s not often that Anton breaks out of his sweet demeanor. Even in his humor, he’s always treaded gently and considered his words towards you carefully. Your lips part in protest but no sound escapes, just a shaky breath as you scan over the sight of him. The overhead light changes colors every few minutes, casting a red shadow over his otherwise boyish features. Something about how your legs are intertwined underneath the table and how his half-lidded gaze is anchored on you makes you shrink in your seat. 

“I’m not.” You manage to choke out, burying your face into your soda the moment you get a word in. “You are.”

“I’m really not, Anton.”

“There’s still twenty minutes until close,” He grins at you, taking another long sip on purpose. “You don’t need to count.”

“I’m not counting.” You say it firmly, arms crossed on top of your chest. 

“You’re counting. For sure.” 

He shrugs, lips curling down, not really believing you. He goes in for another gulp and by then, you’re sure it’s just enough to last until the next five minutes. His gaze doesn’t leave yours even as he’s swallowing the alcohol. For a while, neither of you say anything—just basking in the next queued song and grasping at the time you both have left in the booth. Everything feels closer than it once was, but there was never really much space there to begin with. You feel his legs relax against yours as he leans back, hand over his phone on the table.

The song dwindles down along with the buzz of the bar. The bell on the door rings more often than not, and you almost mistake the ‘ding’ on your phone for another person stepping out. You’re about to break your little staring contest to check the notification but Anton’s voice cuts through. “I sent you a playlist link. Add anything you want and I’ll listen too.” “Really?” 

“Mhm,” His lips press into a flat line, nodding. “Hope you take playlists on the first date.”

“And you’re sure this isn’t an excuse to keep texting me?” You laugh in mock disbelief but you’re already swiping up to unlock your phone. You scroll through the five tracks he’s added in the span of a few minutes and smile.

“I don’t need an excuse to keep texting you.” The words land without hesitation. He doesn’t even look up from where he’s scrolling on the screen. He props his elbow up on the table and leans against his palm. The watch on his wrist catches the light and glints every now and then, making your eyes trail down the exposed bit of his forearm. You don’t expect him to disagree off the bat and you realize your deflection is rendered useless when you’re with someone as genuine as Anton. He smiles sheepishly, but his answer comes firm without a stutter.

“Oh,” is all you can manage to get out. He’s serious.

Across from you, Anton’s ears are turning pinker by the second. He almosts groans into his hands but bites his lip instead. He breaks the silence, more timidly than you’ve ever heard him. “Okay, well, that sounded smoother in my head.”

“No, no, please,” You’re holding in another laugh. Moments like this are getting too hard to count with ten fingers and it’s only the first night you’ve spent more sober than the last. “Keep talking, I’m all ears.”

Anton shakes his head with fragmented laughter. The corners of his lip are shaking, unable to keep himself from smiling even as the laughter dies between you two. Someone behind the bar clears their throat and that’s what it takes for Anton to look at the clock and nudge your shoes. “I think we have to take you home before you get delirious.” 

“I thought we already were.” Your pursed lips make his breath hitch. You don’t seem to notice with how groggily you tuck your things into your purse. 

“Just you, I think.” He responds, eyes fixated on your pouted lips. 

“You’re delirious for putting Baby in the same playlist as Just Like Heaven.” You mutter. Even as your energy hits the floor, you keep up with Anton’s banter. After nearly five hours stuck together, you slide out of the booth and feel the cool air hit your bare legs; no Anton shielding you with his indigo jeans and leather boots. You feel him behind you, large hand ghosting over the small of your back and the side of your waist. He nods at the bartender, mouths his thanks, and walks beside you towards the door.

“Let’s not forget where we came from.” He chuckles as he closes the door behind him, leading you outside.

“You’re right,” You nod, lips still in a pout. You turn your heels towards him. “Another Justin song. Later.” He nods along like he understands what little you say. All you know is that you’re going home with a different kind of fervor.

“I’ll call an Uber for you, okay? Text me the whole way and when you get home.” 

The next few minutes are a bit of a blur. You’re in Anton’s arms and time slows, taking in his scent. Then you’re in the car, trying not to throw up while sending him random stickers as a sign of life. 

Oh, one night I was bored in bed And stalked you on the internet It's feminine intuition

Post-First Date - Room 402, 11:15 P.M.

The Uber barely makes it to the corner of your apartment building before you’re pulling your phone out. A random Chiikawa sticker greets you in bright light, the surrounding darkness leaves you unphased as you step into the lobby and straight to the elevator. 

Anton’s notifications seamlessly fit with the rest of your routine. You’re on autopilot: kicking your shoes off by the front door and stumbling into the narrow space of your studio apartment, shrugging your coat off and hooking it behind the door. All the while, your phone seems stuck to your palms. Fingers curled around your phone protectively, even if the heat from the back of your phone increasingly warms up your hand; even if you’re brushing your teeth and your eyes are glued to your text chain instead of the mirror.

By the time your head hits the pillow, both your hands are locked in. The coolness beneath your duvet eases you into something close to slumber, but it doesn’t last long. Another notification sits at the top of your screen and you’re wide awake. 

12:00 A.M.  

antonio 🦕 glad u made it home safe tho antonio 🦕 :chiikawa-dance: antonio 🦕 goodnight, sleep good :) <3

You stare at the messages for a few seconds before locking your phone and setting it down on your nightstand. For the nth time tonight, a smile stretches across your lips unknowingly. You drape your forearm over your closed eyes and let yourself sink into the mattress with triumph. Eventually, you take your arm off and stare at the ceiling. Your thoughts bounce wildly: Should I text back now? Maybe the morning is better?

Seconds pass and it’s quiet. The ceiling taunts you with the idea of picking your phone up again and losing the early hours of the morning to Anton one way or another. With a deep sigh, you reach for the phone again. 

There are new notifications: one from your group chat with Yunjin and Yizhuo, and the rest are the unopened messages from Anton. Once unlocked, the playlist Anton shared sits open. You’re met with the five songs from when you last checked. The small icon sitting under the playlist title catches your eye—a mirror selfie and his full name staring back at you, just tempting enough that your thumb hovers. 

Tapping at his icon leads into a rabbit hole you’re twenty minutes and a few notes on his playlists deep. The titles reel you in more than anything; overly specific and oddly endearing. Mundaneity with a soundtrack, ordinary things that sound more exciting when you envision him right beside you. Your front teeth sink into your bottom lip, gnawing at the skin distractedly.

You think you could see yourself tangled up in wired earphones at the subway, listening to songs for the ride home with your intertwined hands tucked in his coat pocket. It’s a far-fetched vision after one date, but it has you lingering in the thought of seeing Anton again. His veiny hands on top of the glossy wooden table, the natural pout of his lips. How he looked at you from across the booth. Your eyes keep drifting back to his profile picture. You miss him, and it’s only been an hour.

Somewhere between A Brockhampton Summer and rainy day fund, the thought strikes you embarrassingly late. Anton’s Instagram account has been at the palm of your hands this entire time. Two taps later, his highlights illuminate your face in the pitch black of your room. 

You glance up at the time stamp on your phone. It reads half past twelve and you swear under your breath but you don’t really stop. The research ensues; skimming through his outfit pictures, album covers mixing with the colors of the photo, tucked between the background of his room in most. The songs are what you’d expect from what you know about him—some you’re pleasantly surprised by and others you know well enough to take a mental note of. 

Another twenty minutes passes by and it’s a flurry of things that make you descend deeper into the mattress. At some point, you’re even under your blanket like you’ve got anyone to hide from. A bunch of badly angled food pictures and a silly sticker, a photo of a golden retriever, sunset photos from the backseat of his friends’ cars and a slow song sucking you into the screen. You think: I might be fucked.

You swipe out of Instagram, determined to get a head start on being remotely sleepy. Counting sheep or imagining a European summer don’t seem like techniques that could lull you tonight. You lower your brightness and decide that it might be worth replying to your friends.

12:15 A.M.  -  3 baddies 0 porsche

jen 🌈🧚🏻 are u ALIVE!!!! @/yn 🩷  ning 🫀 what if she didnt even come home 🧐 jen 🌈🧚🏻 girl if u dont pick up the damn phone and text us back

12:55 A.M. 

yn 🩷 hi… yn 🩷 i will treat Everyone tomorrow in honor of my lord and savior jennifer yunjin huh christ jen 🌈🧚🏻 NKKDAJBHJBHAS HELLOOOO? ning 🫀 that means it went well ning 🫀 rip hot girl summer but ty for the free matcha tmrw yn 🩷 hehe

Without much thought, you switch back to the music app. You’re idly scrolling back and forth at the playlist, staring at the same five songs before you skim through your own library and add in one song, then a second, and a third. You’re primarily proud of your song choices, laughing at how Bed Chem glares at you from the screen. 

Your next door neighbors must think you’re insane from how quickly you press your face into the pillow and scream. The feeling of sixteen wraps around your twenty two year old body—the embarrassment, the excitement, the anticipation. You let yourself cringe, staying buried in the plushness of the fabric for a few seconds then mutter, “It’s fine, he’s probably not gonna see until he wakes up in the morning.”

Many times have you been proven wrong, but this time might be the worst.

01:05 A.M.  

antonio 🦕 :o antonio 🦕 very niceeee song choice 🌝

Your face goes hot. Your fingers go back and forth between the letter keys and the backspace bar, three dots appearing and disappearing on your chat with Anton. 

yn  whaaattt yn  i like the song 🙂‍↕️ antonio 🦕 i can tell

You abandon the comfort of your duvet and the cool silk of your pillow, sitting upright with disheveled hair and heat creeping up on the tips of your ears. 

antonio 🦕 didn’t expect that one so soon yn  why? :o yn  i’m mysterious like that  antonio 🦕 i don’t think bed chem is in character for a mysterious person tbh 😭 yn  there is mystery in that JDSJBHJABH

It’s almost half past one and your cheeks hurt from laughing. You wonder if on the other side of town, Anton’s smiling too with a flushed face. You pull the blanket over your head once more and type one-handed when you settle beneath it, preparing to close your phone.

yn  goodnight anton antonio 🦕 goodnight yn (again) antonio 🦕 thanks for adding the song antonio 🦕 i liked it too

When you set your phone down this time, sleep comes a little easier.

'Cause I always had a vision of us standing like this All pressed up in the bathroom line You're lookin' like an angel on the walls of Versailles The most alive I've ever been But kiss me and I might drop dеad

House Party - Shotaro’s Apartment, 2:30 A.M. 

This is your third time at Shotaro’s this month. If your past self were to ask why you frequented a place that you deemed dreadful just a few weeks ago, the answer wouldn’t be anything typical. You’ve been to frat parties and your communications lecture buddy, Jake’s, parties before for the sake of never spending a buck on a drink. This time, you’re here for a person. 

You should have been on your way home two hours ago. You’ve even outlasted Yizhuo, who decided that you and Yunjin could fend for yourselves and took a cab back home. It’s deeper into the night and more people crowd into the room to replace anyone who’s left. Another bottle cracks open, another song added to the queue, and a whole lot of other reasons to linger on Shotaro’s beer-stained couch keeps the night alive. It’s gotten to the point that the floors feel as sticky as they would be at a club, shoulder-to-shoulder with someone you can hardly recognize.

Somewhere by the kitchen, Shotaro is chatting with a group of people who’d only just arrived while Sungchan and Yunjin play beer pong on the counter. Much like the first time, you and Anton corner yourselves somewhere in the living room, close to the balcony. 

You shift your weight from one foot to another while pressing your thighs together, discarding your drink and leaving the cup to fend for itself with the other red cups on the coffee table. The drinks kick in in a way different to the bar; a little tipsy, just enough to have a flirty smile plastered on your glossy lips, but most importantly—you really need the bathroom. 

“Where’s the bathroom?” Anton already has a hand on your back, leading you through the scattered groups of people and turning towards the direction of the hallway. You’re alert enough to notice that the narrow corridor is housing a line long enough to spill into the wall connected to the kitchen, strangers waiting impatiently for the one bathroom Shotaro has.

You groan when you hear the lock click instead of seeing the door opening. And there were two more people in line before you could grace yourself with the toilet seat. “You’re actually joking,” you mutter under your breath, but it’s not quiet enough to sneak past Anton.

He’s against the wall behind you, huffing out a laugh that lands somewhere between your neck and your shoulders. You look back at him and furrow your brows defensively. Though the smile on your lips betrays you entirely and Anton can definitely tell.

“Looks like we’ll be here for a while,” he hums and shuffles forward as the line moves in small increments. He’s looking above your head to catch if the door’s showing any signs of opening. “Should have kept your drink.”

By now, as a seasoned senior, you should be used to the battle between shoulders colliding and having to shrink yourself in places like these. Still, someone who squeezes past bumps into your arm while carrying two cups of something that smells rancid. Anton’s hands find a way around your waist so naturally that you let yourself step back into his chest without a thought, nodding your head at the stranger apologizing. It takes a second to realize how his palm is over your stomach, pinky grazing against the exposed skin of your midriff. A breath catches in your throat, hoping that he doesn’t feel you tense against him. His hand stays there without a second thought. He doesn’t hover around in hesitation, planted and firm.

There’s nowhere else for it to go, you convince yourself. Not like I mind it.

“Comfortable?” Anton asks unsuspectingly.

You glance over your shoulder and see that he’s peering at you with an innocent look on his face. The hallway light is dim and warm, and as if the music wasn’t overstimulating enough, it starts to flicker. You suppose it’s not too bad when you keep your eyes locked onto Anton; light catching against the curve of his cheekbones, and as he turns his head close to your ear, his dark hair almost looks golden for a split second. It doesn’t feel fair—how prettily he stands behind you, how his lips curve upward when you know he’s listening intently, how he’s already busied himself with tugging your camisole down with his fingers. His knuckles brush against your stomach, cold against the heat of your skin. 

 “Very.” Your mouth twitches. You don’t trust yourself to say much more than that after he’s pulled you into this unplanned moment of weakness, on top of your unforgiving bladder. You’re thankful he takes your answer happily, humming into your hair. 

The last person leaves the bathroom and the line moves one person less. You and Anton move with it, hands still on you with each step. When Sungchan ducks to pass by the overhead decorations and into the hallway, he greets you and Anton with a whistle. He has a shit-eating grin on his face, like his little brother just won the lottery. 

Anton coughs into his fist and tells him to shut his mouth before Sungchan even has a chance to let a sound leave his lips. He just laughs with his hands up in defense before wandering off upstairs. 

Silence settles between you two but neither you or Anton make an effort to pry yourselves off of each other. You feel how his knee bumps into the back of your thigh once the next person slips into the bathroom and you’re in front of the line. You refuse to look back again and instead stare at the bathroom door with determination. Anything but him. You have an inkling that if you look up, he’s already looking back at you.

DEAN plays loud enough to permeate through the corridor and up the stairs, so you let the music carry the weight instead of conversation. With music, the words didn’t have to come from your own mouth and Anton would understand with how you perk up at the first note of instagram and your hips are moving in his hold. You don’t say anything about how you feel his grip tightening on your waist. From your peripheral view, you see his jaw clenched and his eyes anywhere but the bathroom door.

The lock finally clicks and the door swings open. Relief floods through you so quickly, you break out of the spell the song has you on and leap at the handle. You take your first step into the bathroom and turn around to shut the door, but you find that Anton is standing so close that his shoe is blocking it from shutting at all. You look up at him, mouth ready to call his name impatiently, but your eyes drop to where the light catches. His lips. They look more tempting under this light, peachy and with a satin sheen that makes you lick your own. He makes it significantly more difficult to remember why you’ve been in this line for so long. 

You would have stared longer if not for coughing behind you both. Sheepishly, you look back up at Anton. 

“You look like you were going to follow me inside.” You’re quick-minded in spite of the growing impatience settling in your abdomen. It’s not a pleasant feeling to stomach with all the flutter of thinking about kissing Anton—in front of the toilet, for that matter.

His eyes widen and he takes a step back to dislodge his shoe from between the door and the wall. “I wasn’t, I swear.”

“Really?” You raise your brow in suspicion. 

“I promise I wasn’t.” The look on his face is priceless, but his pink ears take the cake. A laugh escapes you and it makes Anton throw his head back and groan. Bashfully, he says, “I was just making sure nobody cut in line.”

His explanation makes sense, but it’s not well-received. You try to shake your feelings off and bask in how flustered he looks in front of you. The people in line seem to be eavesdropping, and you can hear others muttering in frustration but all of that is beyond you when Anton’s so visibly wrapped around your fingers.

“Well, thanks, Toni.” You place a hand against his chest before he can spew on his defences. You push back with barely any pressure, and you know Anton’s stronger than you are. Still, he immediately rocks back half a step. He looks like you’ve knocked the wind out of him with that measly shove. It’s a sight that deserves a spot at the very forefront of your mind, letting a satisfied smirk sit on your lips.

“Wait here, okay?”

He stares down at where your hand rests against his shirt. You feel him take a small breath and you’re suddenly thankful for Shotaro and his sparsely endowed apartment. He looks back at you with the same hopeless expression you’re familiar with—the one you wear when he’s close, or even when all you have of him is a text message saying Hi. The realization makes you grin.

“Good boy.” It slips out before you can backtrack, lifting your hand off his chest and closing the door before you can watch him recover. 

“What the hell,” The same hand on Anton’s chest crawls up your torso. It bunches up your cami, undoing all of Anton’s hard work in keeping your stomach covered, until it sits on your chest. A strong pulse beats underneath your palm. “What the fuck.”

You'rе so, so pretty, boy I'm paranoid I made you up Yeah, I'd love it if you walked me home If you promise, we can go real slow 'Cause I got chewing gum And a bunch of stuff I'd like to know [...]

Third Date - Cinema, 16:30 P.M.

The next time you see Anton, your eyes are blurry with tears and his arm is draped over your shoulder. His hand rubs your arm in comfort, but you’re too deep in your emotional mess that you miss the adoring (albeit worried) glint in his eyes.

Just as the credits roll and the lights come up, you sniffle against his shoulder and try to clean up the teardrops that you know will stain the fabric. “Sorry,” you mumble through his Henley. “I didn’t think it would make me cry like that.” “It’s okay, don’t worry.” Anton’s voice is warm. You get the same feeling on your skin as when he’s hugging you goodbye, hesitant to let you go even if you both know you’d call him not long after. He plants his hand on your shoulder, caressing your skin and tracing lazy circles with his thumb underneath your sleeve. The tension in your shoulders dissipates. Relaxed, you let yourself lean into Anton’s embrace. 

“The ending was sweet,” he says, nodding with his lips in that concentrated pout. “I liked that it worked out for them after everything.”

“Exactly!” Zealousness breaks through your weeping. Your immediate agreement makes Anton snort and pinch at your skin out of frustrated affection. “I spent the whole movie hoping they’d get back together.”

“I could tell, babe.” His hand has migrated lower, playing with the longer strands of your hair and rubbing his palm on your back to soothe you.

“I would have cried harder if they didn’t.” You lift your head and give him a glare. It’s not a sight Anton often sees, or at least, never on the receiving end, but it makes him chuckle rather than shiver. “That would have been your problem to solve.” 

“I think I could handle that pretty well.” You can tell he sounds sure of himself, but the gentle timbre of his voice and how his intonation lilts heavenward—you find yourself inching off your seat just so your knees can slot in their rightful spot between his. His smile is soft, doting; all the signs that make you believe that you’re not alone in love. 

Harsh light dawns on the theatre and more seats start to empty. You’re still wiping around the perimeter of your eyes, convinced that you’ve smudged off all your mascara onto Anton’s shirt and you’d face the world with an unpleasant case of panda eyes. Snot threatens to drip down, forcing you to scrunch your nose as you reach for your bag to find tissues. Nimble hands make their way in front of you, and before you know it, Anton’s dabbing the mess away for you with his navy blue handkerchief. 

Through your clumped up lashes, you watch Anton wipe away meticulously. He looks at you like this is the most important, most normal thing to do. His lips are even caught between his front teeth in concentration and oh God, there’s not a sight in the world better than this. Your back straightens up, eyes widening slightly, but your chest flutters with a kind of tenderness reserved for Anton: tranquil with a fluttery feeling underneath. You feel his hands shaking from a particular motion, like he’s afraid of pressing any harder. The handkerchief brushes your skin, his other hand ghosting over your cheek. You almost wish he’d go on ahead and cradle it in full force. 

The natural flow of things enthralls you. It’s tantalizing how Anton’s palms know right where to sit on your body, and it’s magnetic how he’s treating you like a book he’s read time after time, tabbed and annotated to oblivion. You’re tempted to get used to this. 

You want to get used to this and never have to bid goodbye to it at all. 

“See,” He cleans up with one last, gentle swipe and folds the handkerchief, letting it fall onto your lap. He even pats your knees, satisfied with his handiwork. “I’m handling it good already.”

“You just wiped my nose,” Your eyes trail after his every move; from rising up from his seat and standing in front of you. You blink once, twice, a few more times before your question escapes into the theatre.  “What base is it for someone to wipe your nose?”

You pretend to ponder on it, finger tapping your chin. “Sound like a boyfriend thing to do,” You straighten the front of your trousers and rise up to your full height, bending your leg at the knee to stretch your calves. “And for free too.” 

Anton shakes his head with a chuckle, reaching over your shoulder to grab your bag and slinging the strap over himself. “And another!” You gasp dramatically, hands over your mouth. 

“Chill, I’m practicing.” He says it insouciantly, which makes you throw your head back in fits of laughter. He even makes it a point to flaunt your bag on his shoulder, a hand wrapped low on the strap as he turns to the right to pose like you would, lips jutted and hip popped.

“You know what they say about couples who look like each other…” 

“Oh, so we’re a couple now?” 

“Our third date by the way–” Anton hums noncommittally. “...if you don’t count all the times I’ve stayed at your place and ransacked your eggs. I’m not letting you make the ‘A couple of friends!” joke. I’m taking this win.” He deadpans in a way that surprisingly doesn’t irritate you. Maybe it’s because of how his voice cushions the sass, or maybe—it’s just Anton. Either way, you let him take his little victories and hum back, content, “I would never.” 

“I know you’re lying.” His hip bumps into yours and you gasp out his name. His hands take this chance to grab your wrist before letting his palms slide down and clasp them with yours. “I could see you itching to say it. You were practically going to yell it at me.” You trail behind him and shove your shoulders onto whatever hard plane muscle you could reach. You sneak a poke at the plump flesh before letting your hand fall to your side.

His fond stare is directed at you the whole way out. His hand gently takes yours like a knight does with his princess; four fingers folded over his palm, guiding your steps down the stairs, maneuvering through spilled popcorn. 

The expanse of Anton’s back fills your vision, wide shoulders slightly slumped as you both walk out of the theatre. Neither of you point out the sweat transpiring in your hands when you reciprocate his grip, and him doubling down to tighten his hold on you, but your gaze locks onto the sight with a pleased smile. 

Outside, the city continues to bustle. Purple hues in the sky as the sun melts into the skyline, skyscrapers reflecting the warm light over the streets. There’s a chill breeze wafting through while you walk down the pavement, shuffling closer to Anton. Naturally, you fall in line beside him once there’s enough space. Your arm loops around his, pressing yourself into his body heat. His hands scuttle to find yours once more.

“Had fun?” You tilt your head towards him as you pass by the movie posters plastered on the cinema’s exterior. Fifteen minutes closer to your apartment with each step you take past a freshly pasted Supergirl poster, and then another minute once you cross paths with a foreign film you’re sure Anton would tag along to. 

“Yeah,” He glances over at you, brown eyes catching the last of the evening light. An amused sound sits at the back of his throat, “I always trust your taste, you know that. Queen of Letterboxd one liners.”

“Then should I be calling you King of Apple Music?” Words barely slip past your cackling. Your clasped hands sway uncontrollably, pressed to your stomach in an effort to control your laughter. The empty stretch of the pavement houses you and Anton’s mismatched steps, his long limbs slowing down as you try to calm yourself. Even so, Anton’s grinning from ear to ear, hiccuping quieter laughs right by you. 

There’s a cafe to your left, customers showing no sign of thinning out even as night falls upon the city. Anton nudges your shoulder gently, slowing down to read bits and pieces of their menu before uttering with confidence, “A matcha for the performer?” The gears in his head are so visibly turning that it makes your laugh spill over; struggling to project it as loud, but still so vibrant. Your stomach hurts from all the laughing you’ve done and you’ve still got a while to go until you’re home. 

When you laugh, it’s a contagion that Anton has found himself irrevocably vulnerable to. So much so that you find him silent for a moment. You almost think he’s seeing past you when you rebuttal with: “I see two performers here.” 

He clears his throat and narrows his eyes playfully, brows furrowed. He bumps your shoulder again, a bit harder than the last time, and you stagger into him with a grumble. You stabilize your footing, plant your heels to the ground, but you make no effort to move away. If anything, you’re closer than you were before; tucked into the shelter of his arm, readily available for you to loop into. 

From here, you can feel the warmth radiating off his body and onto yours. The firmness of his arms, the dip of his shoulders that curve behind yours just to keep you this close. You let your eyes trace along the lines of his baseball cap, the piercings crowding his ears, down to his sneakers, gaze falling to see how narrow the space between you had become. 

Silence blankets the remainder of your walk until you recognize the crossroads past the Asian supermarket. Anton takes a sharp right and you’re quiet as you stride alongside him. The shortest way to your apartment wouldn’t have been through here, and yet you say nothing. Your feet drag against the rocky path and pass by unsuspecting storefronts closing up for the day. 

Anton’s pace slows just enough to mirror your steps. “We should go to Japan next spring. I think it would be a lot of fun with you.” He doesn’t let you get a word in, the soft press of his thumb against your knuckle lulling you into listening. You suppose it helps that the streetlights make him look heavenly. 

“I know I’ve went with Taro and Sungchan, but I dunno,” his shoulders shrug naturally, the strap of your bag slipping halfway. He doesn’t dare unclasp your hands, opting to shrug the strap back up his shoulder and reinforcing it with his other hand. “You’re way more fun than them.”

Worlds shift beneath your feet, because in the couple of months you’ve stuck by Anton’s side—pestering him, testing his God-like patience, taking pride in making him blush and fumble over his words while standing at a whopping six foot—today is the first time you run out of words before him. Sentences have always come easy to him, you know this. The recurring philosophical questions and rhetorics, references to some piece of media you always seem to catch. But to fill the quiet was never something he felt the need to do. You’ve sat in comfortable silence, scrolling through your phones with his hand on your thigh. This feels different. He doesn’t seem to be chasing an end. Rather, he seems to be running from it with how thoughts waterfall from his mind and through his lips.

“Way prettier too.” 

You’re sure your mascara has smudged to your undereyes and that your lips are devoid of any of the color you’ve dabbed on before the movie, but the way you see Anton looking at you makes you feel anything but unsightly. The sweet smile on his face, how his cheeks are permanently rounded when he’s so clearly elated. All because of you. 

He halts by a streetlight, letting your back hit the metal. To your right, you can vaguely see the entryway to your apartment building. It makes you chuckle, lashes fluttering up at him. 

“Japan, huh?” You say finally, testing the waters with every syllable. You picture yourself, hand-in-hand with Anton and boarding a flight. You can imagine falling asleep on his shoulder and picking out outfits that match in ways unknown to others. You can see it all so vividly. 

“Next spring.” Anton confirms, already decided and seems to just be waiting for your approval. The lamp post is cool against your back. You’ve gotten used to the heat of Anton’s skin on yours warming you up, or the feel of his clothes protecting you from chilly air and cold metal. He looks entirely pleased when you give him the go ahead, nodding and timidly saying, “Okay.” It’s nearly lost between the hum of cars that drive past and the aunties that are bidding goodbye to their friends. Anton doesn’t miss it, though. He squeezes your hand in thanks.

The evening has settled into darkness, the lamp flashing over your figure. You peel yourself off the streetlight and take the first steps toward the warm light spilling from your building’s lobby. His hands stay in yours with every remaining stretch of pavement. When your shoes click against the tile of the entrance, he holds the lobby door for you without ceremony.

Inside, the lobby is swallowed up by still air and silence. You cross to the elevator and Anton reaches past you to press the button before you can. You let it happen, not even bothering to look back at him anymore. A satisfied smirk sits on his face, tilting his head up to join you in watching the display flash the descending floor numbers.

A soft chime echoes through the room. You’re lifting your soles off the tile, stepping into the elevator. Your hand feels bare without Anton’s, and your shoulders seem too light. You turn around to face Anton, mouth opening to ask about your purse. Instead, you’re met with a sense of deja vu. 

The door begins to slide shut, but Anton manages to put his shoe on the sensor. It jolts the door back open. You stare up at him in awe, the memory landing heavy on your chest before your mind can even react. He’s been looking at you since you set foot into your apartment building, but his eyes stare back with recognition. Maybe it’s the light, but you swear he looks a little shier than he did by the lamp post; back hunched, discounting a few centimetres from his stature. 

“You know, I feel like I’ve seen this one before.” Your eyes flicker between his face and his shoe, backed up to the edge of the elevator frame and jamming its sensor. The laugh you’re suppressing nearly escapes.

Anton looks the way he did standing in front of the bathroom door at Shotaro’s; mouth slightly parting in defense of himself, a flush creeping up his neck. His laugh comes off sheepish, hand lifting to rub at his nape. 

“I’m just making sure nobody cuts in line.” The corner of his lip quirks up, looking more smug than the usual softness you’re well acquainted with. You pointedly skim over the emptiness of the lobby and roll your eyes, pressing your lips into a fine line in hopes you don’t break into a smile so easily. That’s becoming a lot harder with Anton around.

He takes a step forward—enough to put his other foot down and leave the elevator door wide open. You don’t retract. If anything, you feel as though a string is tugging you towards him. You scan him up and down: button-up sleeves wrapped up, veins on his arms looking even more prominent in the bright light. You catch him doing the same to you, lips caught between his teeth and for a second, his tongue swipes his bottom lip looking over you.

You indulge in this little staring contest for a little bit, locking your gaze on him, expecting him to break. A stoic Anton was a stranger to you—all hooded eyes with a broody expression masking over the wide-eyed and usually straight-faced boy you know—and that made it all the more exciting. 

That’s when you decided it, then and there. You reach out to the button and hold the lift yourself, stepping back to make room. You’re still at the center of the elevator, right in Anton’s view, and you take advantage.

“Come on then,” You nod your head, signaling him to move forward. “I’ll let you through the door this time.” 

You see how something in Anton shifts. A quiet rearranging that happens while he steps inside the elevator and assumes his position behind you, hands itching to wrap around your waist and go from there. You press the button to your floor, and when you move back to your spot, you find your back flush against Anton’s chest. You can hear his sharp exhale and how it stirs the hair on your crown. 

Pretending not to notice him is proving to be difficult. It’s especially harder when the elevator dings and comes to an unplanned detour. Someone on the first floor steps inside, and Anton lets his hand rest on your waist after pulling you aside. He even nods at the man, innocently smiling while his fingers drum against your ribs, underneath your breasts. 

You attempt subtleties. You look back at him when you feel him pushing your backside even closer than it already is, greeted by his handsome, menacing face. His other hand has made it to your hips, sacrificing your bag in the process as it slips down to his forearm and scratches against the wall. 

Your savior comes in the form of the fifth floor—it dings, you hold the door open for the man and very quickly do you press the close button. Your fingers jam against it until the elevator door slides across, and Anton wastes no time. Your bag is long forgotten on the tiled flooring, both his hands cupping your face gently while his lips crash into yours with harbored greed. Soft pads of his fingers scared to even press against your cheek, mouth hungrily devouring you. You let him swipe his tongue over your lip and prod into your mouth, both your moans meshing together. The sound bounces off the walls and echoes with the wet, slick noises between your mouths. You can taste the faintest residue of your vanilla lip balm on him and it makes you smile into the kiss as it slows down. The fervor remains in the messy way Anton presses open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, coming back up with his tongue licking the side of your cheek. He misses your lips by a few centimeters, a wet kiss on the outline that leaves you with little patience.  

Neither of you have caught your breaths or said a word apart from a desperate exhale of your names, or a profanity that could barely contain what it really felt to be in Anton’s arms and kissing the living daylights out of each other. No word in the dictionary, not even in any of the Scrabble games you’ve both competed in relentlessly. You’re back on his lips without a thought for how swollen yours had become, hands wrapped around his neck and pressing your chest to his. You can feel the tent in his pants poking at your abdomen, and all it does is make you groan even harder into his mouth.

Anton’s hands make it a mission to roam every crevice of your clothed body, crumpling fabrics and letting his hands dip from your waist to your ass. He groans into your mouth when he gropes you through your jeans, dizzying from how perfectly you fit in his hands. 

“Fuck,” is all Anton says when he pulls off you. The moment lasts a few seconds; just enough time for his eyes to scan over your disheveled hair, mascara ruined tenfold from the movie, lipstick completely rubbed off. You see his gaze trail from your lips to your eyes, pupils blown out and shaking. He brings a hand to your cheek, letting his thumb rest on the middle of your bottom lip. He’s admiring how plush your lips look when he pushes down and you take this chance to take his thumb in, sucking the skin and letting your cheeks slightly hollow out. You keep your eyes on him—how he throws his head back with a guttural noise ripped straight from his throat, and how his thumb presses down your tongue. He nods at you, wordlessly prompting you to open your mouth and show him. 

You do as he says. Saliva pools beneath your tongue, dripping down Anton’s thumb until he retracts the pressure. He wipes his thumb on your bottom lip then puts his mouth on yours, lapping up your spit. The elevator dings once, and you’re both still on each other without a single breath in-between. Anton’s teeth graze your tongue, desperate whimpers slipping past that only make him smile smugly. The elevator sounds one more time, signaling your final stop and still, even as you try to pry yourself out of Anton’s grasp, his lips chase after yours and his eyes gleam in the golden light. Your chest is heaving when you’re finally apart, catching your breath before you can speak a word. Disoriented, you try to catch yourself from stumbling, or worse—giving into Anton before you even make it into your apartment. 

You offer your outstretched hands to him, nodding at the opening elevator door and dim corridors. “Are you going to continue what you started, or what?” 

If you let me stay the night Well, I think I might just have to stay forever

Morning After - Room 402, 10:30 A.M.

Light sifts through your blinds, pale and unhurried, stretching into your sheets and over your eyes. The sheets are the same as you’ve changed them the week before: butter yellow with a pale blue. The space next to you is wrinkled, but it’s empty like most mornings that you wake. 

What isn’t familiar to wake up to in a single’s studio apartment is the waft of coffee already brewing from the kitchen.

You shift to your side and Anton’s silhouette is the first thing you see. He hasn’t heard you yet; standing by the stove with a hand scratching at his head. You recognize the shirt he’s wearing as one of your ridiculously oversized shirts. On him, the shoulders cling a little tighter and the hem sits higher. He’s pushed the sleeves up and you can tell even from how he’s hunched over that what’s upon him requires his full concentration. Anton had never been friends with pans and stoves, but he’d slice you fruit the afternoons he’d laze in your room after swim practice. His head is dipped towards the pan, a spatula in another hand, and there’s a small furrow between his brows only outwon in fondness by the pout of his lips. 

The bed creaks as you move closer to the edge in an attempt to get a better view of Anton. Only, he turns and immediately catches your stare. His face relaxes upon realizing that you’ve woken up, eyebrows straightening out and an automatic smile gracing his features. He looks at you like he can’t quite believe you’ve risen, or that he’d be in your apartment with the birds chirping outside and daytime traffic filling what his jazz playlist doesn’t. Flecks of sunlight reflect on him, messy fringe dusting over his eyes. For some reason, a freshly-woken up Anton seems softer than ones you’ve seen before. Your mornings are looking promising enough to change your mind about being nocturnal, especially with a view like this.

“Morning,” He motions to the pan with the spatula he’s holding. “I’m making pancakes. I saw you had strawberries, so I cut them up to pair with.”

It takes a pause and a badly timed honk from downstairs until you say it back, croaking out, “Morning,” then clearing your throat. You throw the blanket off yourself and reach for your slippers. Hesitantly, you move towards him. Your steps feel weighted, looking entirely suspicious and only slightly bashful. “You didn’t have to–” “I wanted to.” Anton leaves no room for your protests as he turns back to the stove to flip a pancake. Your eyes drift to the stack growing right next to it, and two of your mugs sitting with steam overhead.

Morning rhythm ensues—a hand gripping your favorite of the two mugs, sipping your coffee—but you’re overcome by a shyness of having Anton around, wordlessly preparing food for you. You take another sip, but you hide your face with the mug. Anton looks up at you and chuckles, “Sit down, babe,” when you don’t move an inch, he bumps his hip into yours gently, careful to keep the coffee from spilling. “I got it. It’s almost done, so trust me.”

“My bad, you’ve never been in my kitchen for longer than ten minutes,” You sit, even if your snarky comments make him fake a scowl that quickly dissolves into a smile. “Don’t set my house on fire.”

By the time he’s set up everything in front of you and sat down, you’re the only one slicing through the pancakes and scouring for more syrup. Anton sits across with his arms folded, legs spread wide, watching over you with that same expression: contented, like he could fill his stomach up from just watching you eat. His stare makes the back of your neck heat up. 

You drop your fork away from your mouth and mutter, “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Anton feigns confusion. He shrugs and his lips curve into an impish grin. “Just admiring my work.”

You scrunch your eyebrows up, he’s clearly not looking at the pancakes. When you follow his line of sight, your head is bowed down to see the dark marks flowering on your neck and down your chest. Your head snaps up, but nothing comes out even if you wanted to squeak out a tiny reprimand. Anton’s already trying to hide his laugh behind the raised mug.

You narrow your eyes at him and put the formerly abandoned piece of pancake into your mouth, chewing with conviction.

Friday I’m In Love hums softly in the background, chirping birds and frustrated drivers forgotten behind. You remember this one’s in his take a chance playlist that you hovered over many, many moons ago. You can’t resist the groove in your shoulders, bopping your head as you happily pop another piece in your mouth. 

“Hey,” Anton says eventually, finally biting into a strawberry.

“Hm?” You don’t look up, afraid of what might greet you and what could come out of it.

“Are you free next weekend?”

“Yeah, I probably am. Why?” 

He takes a long sip before uttering a, “No reason,” 

You look up and wait for something more. Maybe something from all the videos you send each other on places you want to go, food you want try. Nothing follows, just The Cure and an air of suspicion. You keep your eyes trained on him just enough for Anton to fidget around; folding his napkin twice and stirring his empty coffee cup.

“Well,” he begins, clearing his throat. Expectant eyes peer at you from across the table, knees brushing in the same way they did when you had first talked at the local bar. You recognize the tension in his shoulders and how his hands tap against the glossy wood—Anton’s nervous. His hand reaches for yours, but only enough so your fingers touch and overlap. “Now you’re not. Cause I’m taking my girlfriend out.”

The kitchen falls silent save for the whisper of the next queued song, you and Anton staring back at each other.

“Your girlfriend,” 

“Yup,” he nods, lips tucked together. “My girlfriend.”

You shake your head, elbow resting on the table and a hand against your forehead. For the first time, you’re not fighting off the smile that cracks on your face. Your laughter fills the room and in turn, Anton’s composure shatters into nothing. He’s laughing right with you, dropping his head and letting his whole hand engulf yours, trapping it underneath his palms.  

“She sounds like a really nice girl.” “Beautiful woman,” he agrees. “Very kind to me, really.”

You look down at your plate with a hopeless smile, completely giving up on keeping any kind of humorous indifference. What’s left between is a devastating fondness.