#anton

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anton loves being in control. he's always the one towering over you, making you feel small, teasing you. but deep down, you know he loves being on the receiving end even more. he can't help taking the lead whenever you're around even if it goes against what he truly wants. you know he'll only fall into his destined position if he's caught off guard.

you find him spread out on the couch watching tv, he doesn't even notice you approaching. you plop down against his side, facing him. he mumbles an absent greeting, eyes boring into the screen.

your hand goes over his clothed stomach, feeling the dents of his muscles with your palm. he glances down at your hand for a moment before looking back up. you continue feeling him up, reaching to feel his muscular chest for a split second. he's visibly distracted now. "wow." you whisper, slipping your hand under his shirt.

"how often do you work out?" you trace his abs with your fingertips. you already know the answer, but you'll do anything to hear his affected voice.

"few times a week." he breathes out.

your head rests on his chest, the bass of his pounding heart flooding your ear. your wandering hand trails to his bicep, squeezing it gently. "so big and strong," you murmur, "what are you training for?" you crane your neck to see his face. his eyes flutter shut every time you give him a squeeze. your palm leaves his arm and he regains consciousness, mouthing a 'huh' when he realizes you'd asked him something.

you reach down to grasp at his thigh through the thick fabric of his sweats, "you train legs too right? a lot of guys only focus on their upper body." you're barely doing anything and he already looks so bothered, your head rising and falling along with his heaving chest. you feel movement when his chin slightly bumps the top of your head, but can't guess if he's nodding in response or not. "you do?" you look up at him, he's staring down at your hand intensely, like he's trying to control it with his mind.

"yes." he says quietly.

your other arm that's been wedged between your body and the couch stretches to rest behind his neck, fingers threading through his hair as he lets out a loud sigh.

your hand creeps back up to his toned stomach, purposely skipping over the growing bulge in his pants. your nails drag against the hard-earned definition of his abs, you can hear his heartbeat quickening when your hand glides down, two fingers slipping just past the waistband of his sweats. they stay there unmoved, "should i start working out too? i feel like i'm missing out on something."

when he opens his mouth to respond, you press down on his lower abdomen, earning what sounds like a low groan mixed with his usual exhales. "are you okay?" you ask lightly, withdrawing your digits and patting the cloth of his waistband as if you're smoothing something.

"no, wait. please." he says hurriedly.

"please what?" if he wasn't so desperate you're sure he would have rolled his eyes. you wait for him to part his lips in response, eager to play your sound-drawing trick on him again.

but instead, his hand envelopes the back of yours. your fingers intertwined, when he guides you directly where he wants.

he retrieves his hand and leaves you in control.

"why can't you react normally when i compliment you?" you tease.

"your way of complimenting," he pauses, letting out a groan when you palm him over his sweats. "isn't normal." he finishes the sentence, his voice rising by the end of it when you grab his length.

"you don't like normal." you tug his sweats and boxers down together slowly, freeing his hard cock. he's already leaking.

he looks at you with wide eyes when you move like you're about to touch him, but then stop midway, raising your palm up to his chin.

your head motions towards your hand when he looks at you dumbfounded. you know he knows what to do, he just wants you to say it.

"spit." you order.

it's obvious he's fighting back a smile while he gathers as much saliva as he can in his mouth, before parting his lips and letting it spill into your palm.

you cup your hand, tilting it so the spit drips down his length.

you give him one long stroke, spreading the wetness so it coats his whole cock. his head instantly tips back against the couch, slack-jawed. you massage his tip with your thumb and he lets out a whimper. "you're so sensitive." you say.

he only nods. you begin stroking his length up and down slowly, earning breathy moans. "you like that?"

he huffs out a quiet 'yeah', biting his lip harshly when you grip the base of his cock. you sit up, your hand that was tangled in his hair reaching under his shirt, feeling for his abs again. "you're so hot, anton." you purr, stroking him faster. "i'd go to the gym with you if it meant you'd fuck me in the locker room."

"fuck." he ruts into your hand.

you egg him on. "it'd feel like this." your grip on him tightens, trying to simulate how you'd clench around him.

he lets out a guttural moan, bucking his hips up to fuck your hand. his eyes are screwed shut, you know he's imagining it.

you can tell he's getting close as his hips stutter, so you purposely slow the pace, stroking him lazily. "already, baby?" you coo at him.

he leaks more precum just from the gentle tone of your voice.

"please continue." he whines.

"you're so cute." you reach up to caress his cheek with your other hand while you continue to stroke him, building up the pace once again. he lets his head fall sideways to rest on your palm, absentmindedly nodding against it when you ask him another meaningless question about the gym.

you gently push his head upright, both hands now going to the base of his cock. with no warning, you duck down and lick the tip. "oh my god." he gasps. you stroke him faster, wrapping your lips around him. he whimpers, "please. faster."

you detach from him and look up to see his eyes closed as he thrusts into your hold, "tell me what you're thinking about." his cock twitches in your hands.

"i'm thinking," he's reckless now, his own hand going over yours to squeeze himself. "i'm thinking about you, fuck," he shuts his mouth to suppress a moan you're still able to hear, muffled. "us at the gym. you counting my reps, then taking me to the back." he whines when you twist around him.

"you wanna fuck me in the gym, baby? have all your friends hear?" you coo at him, or maybe at his dick when you lean down to place a sloppy kiss on the tip. his hips snap upwards, spilling his release all over your hands as he falls apart with a low moan. he's panting when you continue stroking him, milking him of everything.

he nods when you pat his thigh, telling him you're going to go get a towel to clean up his mess. "are you really gonna start going to the gym with me?" he calls out.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the concrete parking garage buzzed overhead, cars were packed bumper to bumper on every level, trunks popped open, music bleeding from portable speakers. The air was thick with the smell of exhaust, alcohol, and the distant, muffled thud of bass vibrating from the stadium a few blocks away.

“Hold still, you’re going to mess up the gems,” Yunjin scolded lightly. She pressed a final iridescent rhinestone near the corner of your eye, using the rearview mirror of Shotaro’s SUV as a makeshift vanity. Stepping back, she admired her handiwork. “Okay. You look devastating. If you don’t ruin at least one man’s life tonight, I’m revoking your rave privileges.”

She pulled out her silver digi cam, the flash blinding you for a second as she snapped a picture of your makeup. Then she squeezed in next to you, pressing her cheek against yours, and held the camera out at arm’s length. The flash went off twice—one normal, one with both of you mid-laugh because Sunoo yelled something stupid from across the trunk.

You laughed, adjusting the straps of your top. You’d gone all out tonight: a black mesh set that hugged every curve, layered under a harness. Your arms were stacked with kandi bracelets, the plastic beads clinking together as you reached for the plastic cup resting on the bumper.

“She’s not ruining anyone’s life, she’s going to be too busy trying not to pass out before the opener finishes,” Sunoo chimed in, appearing at your side. He passed a joint to Yunjin before handing you a plastic cup filled with a mix of peach soju and Yakult. His own face was dusted in silver glitter. “Pace yourself. You just took a shot and hit that twice.”

You rolled your eyes, taking a sip. The alcohol burned pleasantly down your throat, mixing with the warm, heavy buzz of the weed already settling in your limbs.

It wasn’t your first rave, but you were definitely the more casual raver of the group. While Shotaro and Sohee hit festivals almost every other weekend, you usually only tagged along here and there when you had time. Tonight was the final stop of the Illenium and Dabin tour, and it was your first time seeing either of them live. The group chat has been hyped for months.

“Are we moving or what?” Sohee yelled, bouncing on his heels near the concrete stairwell. He and Shotaro were already halfway to the exit, looking back at you three with impatient grins. “We’re going to miss Dabin’s intro!”

“We’re coming!” you shouted back, downing the rest of your drink. You tossed the cup into a nearby trash can, linking arms with Yunjin and Sunoo as you hurried to catch up.

The walk to the festival grounds was a blur of neon outfits, pulsing lasers bleeding into the night sky, and thousands of people vibrating with the same collective anticipation. The alcohol was definitely hitting you now. The edges of your vision were soft, your limbs felt light, and the heavy dubstep echoing from the main stage made your heart race.

You followed Shotaro as he navigated your group through the dense crowd. He was a seasoned raver, weaving through the sea of bodies with practiced ease, his hand firmly gripping Sohee’s backpack so they wouldn’t get separated. You kept one hand on Sunoo’s shoulder as you pushed deeper into the crowd, aiming for a spot just behind the VIP rail.

“We’re meeting a friend of mine here!” Shotaro yelled over his shoulder, his voice barely cutting through the music. “He saved us a spot!”

You finally broke through a particularly dense wall of people, stumbling slightly as the alcohol made your platform boots feel a little heavier than usual. You bumped into a solid wall of a chest, letting out a small gasp.

Large hands immediately caught your shoulders, steadying you before you could fall.

“Careful,” a deep, yet soft voice rumbled above you.

You looked up, and your breath hitched.

Standing there, towering over the rest of the crowd, was a guy who looked like he had been carved out of marble specifically to ruin your life. He was ridiculously tall, with broad shoulders showcased perfectly by a black, sleeveless muscle tank. A silver chain rested against his collarbone, catching the strobe lights. His dark hair was slightly messy, falling into his eyes in a way that looked effortlessly perfect.

Shotaro crashed into him with a massive hug, clapping him on the back. “You actually held the spot! You’re a legend.”

The guy laughed. His voice was a rich, warm rumble that you could feel in your chest even over the heavy bass. He hadn’t let go of your shoulders yet.

Shotaro pulled back and gestured to your group. “Guys, this is Anton. We play soccer together. Anton, this is Sohee, Sunoo, Yunjin, and…” Shotaro’s eyes landed on you, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “…and this is my favorite person, but don’t tell the others.”

Anton’s gaze shifted down to you. The moment his dark eyes locked onto yours, the rest of the festival seemed to fade into background noise. He looked you up and down, a slow, deliberate sweep that took in the platform boots, the mesh, the harness, and the few gems around your eyes. When his eyes finally met yours again, a slow smile spread across his face.

“Hi,” he said, his hands finally dropping from your shoulders. Up close, he smelled like expensive cologne and clean laundry, a sharp contrast to the sweat and smoke of the crowd.

“Hi,” you breathed back, suddenly hyper-aware of how much skin you were showing, and how warm your cheeks felt from the vodka.

“Okay, group photo before we lose each other!” Yunjin interrupted, pulling out her silver digi cam. She shoved it into Anton’s hands since he was the tallest. “Take one of us?”

Anton chuckled, taking the small camera. He took a step back, crouching slightly to frame you and Yunjin as she threw an arm around your waist. Right before he pressed the button, his eyes flicked up from the screen, catching yours over the top of the camera for a beat too long. The flash went off, blinding you for a second, but you could still feel the weight of his stare. He handed the camera back to Yunjin before turning his attention fully back to you.

“First time seeing Illenium?” he asked, leaning down slightly so you could hear him over the music.

“First time seeing him, yeah,” you admitted, having to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. The size difference between you was staggering. He was a wall of solid muscle, his presence completely enveloping you. “Not my first rave, but… I don’t go as often as the other guys.”

“I can tell,” Anton murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before flicking back up. He tilted his head, studying your flushed face. “You pregamed a little hard, didn’t you?”

You blinked, feeling caught. “Is it that obvious?”

“Just a little,” he chuckled, the sound low and incredibly attractive. “Stick close to me. The crowd gets rough when the headliners come on, we don’t want you getting trampled.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. As Dabin took the stage and the crowd surged forward, Anton naturally positioned himself just behind you. He didn’t touch you, but you could feel the heat radiating off his chest, a solid, protective barrier between you and the crushing weight of the thousands of people pushing from behind.

The set was incredible, but about thirty minutes in, the combination of the heavy bass, the flashing strobe lights, and the alcohol you had downed in the parking garage started to catch up with you. The air in the middle of the crowd was stiflingly hot. You swayed slightly, pressing a hand to your forehead as a wave of dizziness washed over you.

Instantly, Anton’s hands were on your waist. “Hey. You okay?”

You leaned back against his chest instinctively, closing your eyes. “Just… a little dizzy. It’s really hot.”

“Alright, come here,” Anton said smoothly. He didn’t ask Shotaro or the others. He just wrapped an arm securely around your waist and gently but firmly guided you out of the thickest part of the crowd, moving toward the slightly more open space near the back rail.

He found a spot where the air was cooler and the bodies weren’t pressed so tightly together. He turned you around to face him, his hands resting on your hips. “Better?”

“Yeah,” you exhaled, opening your eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Anton said softly. He reached into his small crossbody bag and pulled out an unopened bottle of water, twisting the cap off before handing it to you. “Drink this. Slowly.”

You took it, sipping the cool water gratefully. Anton stood in front of you, blocking you from the chaotic flow of people walking by. He reached up, using his large hand to gently fan your face, the cool breeze feeling heavenly against your flushed skin. He was so attentive, his dark eyes watching you carefully to make sure the color was returning to your cheeks.

“Thank you,” you murmured, looking up at him.

“Anytime,” he replied, his thumb brushing lightly against your waist. “You feeling sober enough to go back in, or do you want to stay back here for a bit?”

“I’m okay now,” you smiled, the dizziness fading into a pleasant, manageable buzz.

When you moved back to your group, the dynamic had shifted. Anton kept one hand resting lightly on the small of your back the entire time, instead of just standing behind you. Every time the crowd shoved forward, his grip would tighten, pulling you flush against his chest to protect you from the impact. The touch was respectful, but it sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core every single time.

Halfway through Illenium’s set, the music slowed, the heavy bass fading into a soft, melodic acoustic intro. The crowd roared in recognition as the opening chords of “Hearts on Fire” echoed through the stadium.

“You want to see better?” Anton’s voice rumbled right next to your ear, his breath hot against your neck.

You turned your head, your face inches from his. “What?”

“Get on my shoulders,” he offered, a playful glint in his eyes. “You can’t see the visuals from down here.”

Before you could protest, Anton crouched down slightly, tapping his broad shoulders. “Come on. I got you.”

You hesitated for a second, then grabbed his hands to steady yourself. You swung one leg over his shoulder, then the other, and the first thing you noticed was how wide he was. Your thighs barely fit around the span of his shoulders. Then he stood up, lifting you with effortless strength like you weighed nothing. You could feel the muscles in his shoulders and neck shift and tighten beneath your thighs as he adjusted you, his traps solid and warm under the thin fabric of his tank top.

The view was breathtaking. The entire festival grounds stretched out before you, a massive ocean of people swaying in unison under a canopy of lasers. But as incredible as the view was, all you could focus on was the feeling of Anton beneath you.

Your thighs were pressed flush against his neck, his large hands gripping the backs of your thighs to keep you steady. His fingers dug slightly into your skin, a firm, possessive grip that made your breath catch. You could feel every shift of his broad shoulders between your legs—the way they rolled when he adjusted his stance, the hard muscle flexing under your weight like it was nothing.

The beat dropped, a massive, euphoric explosion of sound and light. Confetti cannons erupted, raining colorful paper down on the crowd. You threw your hands up, completely consumed by the music and the adrenaline. Anton’s hands tightened on your thighs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just below your skirt, and a sharp spike of heat coiled low in your belly.

When the song ended, he slowly lowered you back down to the ground. You slid down his chest, your body pressing flush against his for a long second before your boots hit the grass.

You were breathless as you looked up at him “Thank you.”

Anton didn’t step back. He stayed exactly where he was, so close you could feel the rise and fall of his chest. His eyes dropped to your lips again, and this time, they stayed there.

The tension between you was thick, pulling you toward him like a magnet. You wanted him to kiss you. You wanted it so badly your skin ached with it.

“Hey!” Sohee’s voice shattered the moment, and you both jumped slightly as he threw an arm around Anton’s shoulders. “We’re going to grab water before the finale. You guys want anything?”

Anton cleared his throat, taking a small step back, though his eyes never left yours. “We’re good. We’ll hold the spot.”

The rest of the night was a blur of heavy bass, blinding lights, and the suffocating tension between you and Anton. You traded kandi with him during a quiet moment, teaching him the PLUR handshake. When your fingers interlocked with his, he held on for a second too long, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. He gave you a bracelet that said RAVE HEAD, and you gave him one that said YOURS. You had made it as a joke, but when he read the beads, his eyes darkened, and he slipped it onto his wrist without a word.

By the time the final fireworks went off and the festival lights came up, you were exhausted. Your ears were ringing, your feet ached, and the adrenaline crash was hitting you hard.

The walk out of the venue was a chaotic mass of thousands of people trying to leave at once. The crisp night air felt amazing against your sweat-slicked skin, but you couldn’t stop a shiver from running down your spine.

Without a word, Anton pulled his black zip-up hoodie out of his backpack and draped it over your shoulders. It was massive on you, swallowing you completely, and it smelled exactly like him.

“Okay,” Shotaro announced as your group huddled near the rideshare pickup zone. “There’s an afterparty at this warehouse downtown. Sohee knows the DJ. We’re all going.”

You groaned internally, leaning your head against Yunjin’s shoulder. “Taro, I love you, but if I hear one more bass drop tonight, my brain is going to liquefy. I’m so tired.”

“You can’t tap out now!” Sunoo protested, though he looked sympathetically at your exhausted expression.

Anton looked down at you, his eyes assessing. He could see the fatigue pulling at your features, the way you were practically holding yourself up with Yunjin’s help.

“My hotel is three blocks from here,” Anton said quietly, addressing Shotaro but looking at you. “I’m not really feeling the afterparty either. I can take her back with me. Let her crash there, and you guys can go.”

Shotaro looked between the two of you, that same knowing smirk returning to his face. “You sure, man? We don’t want to impose.”

“It’s fine,” Anton said, his voice steady. He looked down at you, his dark eyes intense. “If she wants to.”

You pulled the oversized hoodie tighter around yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs. You weren’t drunk anymore, but you were definitely not feeling like going to the after party.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want to.”

Yunjin gave you a look that screamed we are talking about this tomorrow in excruciating detail, before hugging you goodbye. You waved to the rest of the group as they piled into a rideshare, leaving you and Anton standing alone on the crowded sidewalk.

“Come on,” Anton said softly, his large hand wrapping around yours. His fingers intertwined with yours perfectly, his grip warm and solid. “Let’s get out of here.”

—

The walk to his hotel was quiet, the ringing in your ears making the city sounds feel muffled. He kept you tucked close to his side, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles over the back of your hand.

His hotel was upscale, the lobby quiet and dimly lit. You rode the elevator up to the fifteenth floor in silence, watching the numbers tick up.

Anton unlocked the door to his room and pushed it open, stepping aside to let you in first. The room was dark, illuminated only by the city lights filtering in through the large window.

The heavy door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet room.

You turned around to face him, but before you could even open your mouth, Anton was there.

He didn’t hesitate. He backed you up against the door, his large hands coming up to cup your face, and crashed his mouth down onto yours.

It was everything that had been building up since the moment you locked eyes in the crowd. You gasped into his mouth, your hands flying up to grip the front of his tank top as his tongue slid past your lips, tasting you like he had been starving for it all night.

“God,” he groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding down from your face to grip your waist, pulling you flush against his massive frame. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the second I saw you.”

You breathed, tilting your head back as his lips trailed down your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. “Don’t stop.”

Anton let out a low, ragged sound. He grabbed the hem of his tank top, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. The sight of him made your breath hitch. He was huge. Broad, thick, and carved with heavy, defined muscle, his skin glowing in the dim light of the city.

He reached for the zipper of your skirt, his large hands making quick work of your rave outfit. The mesh, the harness, the boots—everything was discarded until you were completely bare, standing against the door.

He dropped to his knees right there in the entryway.

Your breath caught in your throat as his large hands gripped the backs of your thighs, pulling your legs slightly apart. He looked up at you, his dark eyes blown wide with lust, the city light catching the sharp angles of his face.

“Anton—” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his dark hair.

“Shh,” he murmured, his breath hot against your center. “Let me taste you.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He pressed his mouth against you, his tongue swiping in a broad stroke that made your knees buckle. You cried out, head falling back against the door. He was relentless, his large hands gripping your thighs tight enough to bruise, holding you in place as he devoured you.

“So fucking sweet,” he hummed against your slick folds, the vibration sending a jolt straight to your clit. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking with a precision that had you sobbing his name.

“Anton—please—” you babbled, fingers gripping his hair as your hips jerked forward.

He pulled away right before you tipped over the edge, leaving you whining. He stood up, massive frame towering over you, lips slick with your wetness.

Anton led you toward the bed, shedding the rest of his clothes in seconds. He didn’t lay you down. He sat back on his heels, grabbed your hips, and pulled you forward until you straddled his lap.

The size difference was staggering. Sitting on him, you felt incredibly small, his broad chest and thick thighs dwarfing you.

“Ride me,” he whispered, eyes dark and hungry.

You guided his thick, heavy length to your entrance and slowly sank down. The stretch was overwhelming. He was so big you had to stop halfway, a broken whimper tearing from your throat.

“Fuck,” Anton groaned, jaw clenched tight. His hands steadied your hips. “Take your time. You’re so tight.”

You took a shaky breath and forced yourself down the rest of the way. When you finally bottomed out, a loud, shameless moan ripped from your lips. You were completely full, the pressure making your vision blur.

Anton’s hands moved from your hips to rest flat against your lower stomach. His eyes widened.

“Look,” he commanded softly.

You opened your eyes. His large hand was pressed right over the faint, visible press of him against your lower bellythe subtle outline of how deep he was inside you.

“Hmm,” he breathed, thumb tracing the slight bulge. “You take me so well.”

You started to move, lifting and sinking at a slow, agonizing pace. The angle was incredibly deep, every downward thrust making you gasp. Anton watched with hunger, his hand staying firmly pressed against your stomach to feel every inch of himself filling you up.

After a few minutes, Anton let out a frustrated growl. He grabbed your hips and flipped you over in one fluid motion, pinning you face-down against the mattress.

Before you could process the change, he settled between your thighs, lifted your ass slightly, and drove into you from behind with a single, brutal thrust.

You screamed into the pillows. The angle was even deeper now, his broad chest pressing your back, his large hands gripping your hips like a vice.

“You feel so good,” he panted, pace turning frantic. He was relentless, hips snapping forward with bruising force, the wet slap of skin echoing loudly in the quiet room.

He reached around, his large hand sliding down your stomach to find your swollen clit. The moment his thumb pressed against it, your brain short-circuited.

“Anton—ah—wait—” Your voice cracked on a high, broken moan as he bottomed out inside you, thumb circling your clit simultaneously. “It’s too much—”

“You can take it,” he breathed against your ear, his voice thin, strained, almost whiny. “Fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight—” He let out a shaky, desperate sound against your neck. “Don’t stop.”

Your protests dissolved into loud, broken moans. He kept his pace hard and deep, each thrust dragging against oversensitive walls, pulling high, desperate sounds out of you.

“Oh my god—Anton—fuck—” You babbled, words slurring, fingers clawing the pillows. “I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he panted, voice breaking. His thumb pressed harder, hips stuttering as his breath came in ragged gasps. “Let me feel it. Come for me.”

You couldn’t hold back. The orgasm crashed into you—sharp, intense, ripping through you. You screamed his name, walls clamping down hard around him as your body convulsed.

The force dragged him over the edge. Anton let out a broken, wrecked cry against your shoulder, his whole body shuddering as he spilled deep inside you, hips jerking in shallow, desperate thrusts. He collapsed against your back, heavy, sweat-slicked body pinning you to the mattress, chest heaving.

Neither of you moved for a long time. Just the sound of ragged, uneven breathing filling the room, your bodies tangled together, both of you trembling.

He slowly pulled out of you, and before you could even process the emptiness, he was flipping you over onto your back. Your body was limp, boneless, and he moved you like you weighed nothing.

The sight of him above you knocked the air out of your lungs. His chest was flushed, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his lips swollen and parted. His broad shoulders blocked out the dim hotel light behind him, caging you in completely.

“Anton,” you whimpered, your thighs trembling around his waist. You were so sensitive it almost hurt. “I can’t—not yet—”

“Please,” he murmured, lowering himself until his forehead pressed against yours. Sliding his tip up and down your wet slit, and you felt him push back inside you—slow, agonizing. The stretch on your oversensitive walls made your eyes roll back, a broken moan dragging out of your throat.

“Oh—fuck—” Anton’s voice cracked the second he bottomed out, his whole body shuddering above you. His arms were trembling where they braced on either side of your head. “You feel so—god—” The words came out thin and strained, like he was barely holding himself together.

You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. Your hips bucked up against him involuntarily, and the friction made both of you moan.

He let out a shaky exhale that sounded more like a whimper. “Ngh—I’m not gonna last—”

He started to move anyway, slow and deep, his hips rolling into yours with a deliberate rhythm that had your back arching off the mattress. Every thrust dragged against your swollen walls, punching out sounds from your chest with every roll of his hips.

Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, pulling him deeper. A high, broken groan vibrated against your collarbone. “Fuck—baby—don’t do that—” His hips stuttered, his composure slipping. His voice pitched up at the end, needy and wrecked.

“Feels so good,” you whined, your head pressing back into the pillows. “So deep—Anton—ah” Your words dissolved into a trembling moan as he hit a spot inside you that made your vision blur.

You clenched around him on purpose. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, a choked whine spilling out of him as his hips jerked forward. “Please—” he gasped. “I’m trying to make this good for you and you’re—”

“It’s good,” you breathed, pulling his face up to yours. His eyes were glassy, his bottom lip bitten raw. “It’s so good.”

Something in him snapped. He hooked one hand under your knee, pressing your thigh up toward your chest, and the new angle made you scream. Your free hand flew to his back, nails raking down his spine. “Anton—I can’t— too much—” A sob cut off whatever you were going to say, your body arching off the bed.

His free hand found yours, lacing your fingers together and pinning your hand beside your head. He buried his face in your neck, broken moans muffled against your skin, your name slipping out of him over and over.

“Look at me,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

You forced your eyes open. His face was inches from yours, his pupils blown wide, his jaw tight, his lashes wet. He looked completely undone.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Stay with me.”

“I’m gonna—” you whimpered, your walls fluttering around him. “Anton—I’m so close—”

Every time he bottomed out, a small, helpless sound punched out of his chest. His breathing was ragged, punctuated by quiet, whiny gasps every time you clenched around him.

“I’m close,” he choked out, his hips losing their rhythm. His hand squeezed yours tight. “Baby—please—”

“I’m coming—” you cried, your voice shattering into a broken moan as your body seized around him.

He came with a sound you’d never forget. A raw, wrecked cry that cracked in the middle, his body shaking as his hips pressed flush against yours and stayed there. The feeling of him pulsing inside you, the desperate way he clung to you, his broken whimpers against your neck—it dragged you over the edge with him, your second orgasm ripping through you in slow, devastating waves.

Neither of you moved for a long time after. Just the sound of ragged, uneven breathing, his body still covering yours completely. His face was pressed into the crook of your neck, and you could feel the wetness of his breath against your skin.

When it finally subsided, you were boneless. Completely spent.

Anton slowly rolled off you, pulling you flush against his side. He wrapped his strong arms around you, tucking your head under his chin. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his hand tracing soothing circles over your bare arm.

“You’re staying the night,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. It wasn’t a question.

You smiled against his chest, closing your eyes as the last of the adrenaline faded away. “Yeah.”

—

The next morning, sunlight was streaming through the sheer hotel curtains when you finally woke up. Anton was still asleep, his heavy arm draped securely over your waist, his face buried in your neck.

You carefully reached for your phone on the nightstand, wincing at the brightness of the screen. Your group chat was blowing up.

Shotaro: [Voice note: 0:25]

Yunjin: ????????????????

Yunjin: HELLO????

Sohee: lol

You smiled, typing out a quick I’m alive, tell you later before tossing the phone back down. You noticed Yunjin’s silver digi cam sitting on the nightstand. She must have slipped it into your bag before you left the venue.

Curious, you turned it on and clicked through the photos from last night. There was the one of you in the parking garage, the group photo Anton took, a blurry one of the stage, and then the one Yunjin had secretly taken of you on Anton’s shoulders.

“What are you looking at?” a rough, sleep-heavy voice mumbled against your skin.

You turned the camera off, sliding back down under the covers and pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Nothing. Just pictures from yesterday.”

anton, the moment he grew fond of you, swore to himself that he would work harder than destiny. than the universe. than the whims of any god.

that man has been helplessly in love with you since day one. no one can change his mind.

anton is the most patient man to ever walk this earth.

he patiently waits for you when classes are finally over. you pace slower than him when walking together.

when you asked him to teach you some bass basics, and you were struggling, you never heard him hiss or groan in annoyance. it was new to you because you were used to hearing people complain when you were asking for nothing more than help.

anton is the gentlest soul. he was your classmate in high school, the quiet boy who was into music and sports. often carrying his cello and training bag, he would sometimes intentionally bump his things against your desk every morning just so you would notice him and greet him "good morning."

eventually, you became friends and bonded through silly conversations, trips to convenience stores, or random weekend study "dates."

by senior year, it was safe to say he was a close friend who obviously liked you. he wasn't even subtle, yet he remained remarkably nonchalant about it. (he didn't confess, but his actions were telling.)

anton never made you feel pressured to return his feelings. still, both of you stuck together like constant companions.

he was simply charming back then. he always accompanied you to the bus stop, a ten-minute walk from school.

being in love with you meant becoming a total loser for you. imagine him riding the bus, pretending to get off at a stop after yours just so he could linger with you a bit longer. in truth, he didn't even need transportation...he lived within walking distance of the school.

he noticed that you sometimes skipped lunch (to save money or sleep). so, he’d bring far too much food to share with you. he reasoned it as "bulking" for training whenever you asked why his meals were so proportionately large.

anton was always ecstatic whenever you asked him about music. whether it was an inquiry about instruments or what songs were trending, he’d geek out, genuinely pleased that you were interested in his world.

thus, he created a playlist of all his recommendations and shared it only with you. even his friends weren't allowed to listen to it; you were the only one with the link.

besides, he had a folder full of draft compositions, all inspired by you.

one time you mentioned liking a certain drink from the store, and the next thing you knew, it was a consistent sight on your desk every other day.

anton never stares directly at you for too long because he’s afraid his eyes will give him away.

instead, he became a master at watching you out of the corner of his eye. anton memorized the way you tie your hair or the specific sound your shoes make in the hallway.

but he's also incredibly attentive when you speak in class or tell him something you've discovered. you would become self-conscious because he would never break eye contact while you spoke.

anton swore he loved the idea of memorizing your features, yet he mastered the skill of grasping every word you yapped about despite being drowned in the beauty right in front of him.

often, he would look away instantly when he felt his nose burning with a pink flush.

you had to admit that your first love was memorable because it was anton.

...and you for anton.

as you grew older, it was a slow realization that you were just like anton—reserved and quiet. you shared so many interests and opinions, but the contrast was that you were too scared of love.

he was full of it, deserving and willing to give it all.

maybe he didn't deserve you. or rather, any part of your life that felt insecure when you let him in. his upbringing felt worlds apart from yours.

so, as romantic as it seemed, when anton confessed to you while the rain was pouring, you respectfully rejected him and bid him a final goodbye.

your world crushed as you saw his eyes, and how his expression showed he was trying so hard not to beg for answers.

"tell me you don't want me to leave, and i won't." it was hard to hear him, his soft voice clashing with the heavy rain. even if you tell him you don't want him to go, he is still fated to leave for his dreams.

of course, you didn't want anton to leave. he's the only person who sees through you, who genuinely cares for you, and totally understands you.

he was the only person you had.

but then again, your worlds were apart.

anton saw how you looked at him as if he were a stranger. you were the first to break eye contact, running away from him that night.

he stayed frozen there, standing in the middle of the park, drenched. all he could think about was you. he spent another thirty minutes alone in the rain, just in case you changed your mind and ran back.

when anton moved overseas to pursue his dream, you accepted the fact that your shared chapter had ended.

even though the only way you knew how to move forward with life was with him.

during college, you decided to distance yourself from everyone and start a new life. part of that meant leaving someone behind who wasn't there anymore.

anton, on the other side of the world, never stopped thinking about you. he tried asking your mutual friends how you were, but no information ever came back to him.

on your birthday, anton flew recklessly back home (without his parents' knowledge) just to gamble on the chance of seeing you after a year apart.

every year, he typed a "happy birthday" to your old number. he would stare at the blinking cursor, never moving past the drafted text.

anton usually celebrated your birthday in total silence, perhaps just by buying your favorite snack and eating it alone.

he wanted to respect your peace. he knew you so well. you had many reasons to be distant and alter your life, and he wished he could help you lessen the burden. so, showing up suddenly didn't feel right.

but a plane has already brought him back home.

instead, he waited at a cafe near your university, hidden in a hoodie and mask.

he had no idea whether you would even walk by or go to that cafe.

finally, after three hours of hoping and inhaling iced americanos, the bell chimed. there you were—the person he loved so much, despite the painful silence between you.

you had changed, and it was physically visible. he couldn't pinpoint if it was for better or worse, but he wouldn't dare bother you.

you ordered an iced latte and the cheapest cake the cafe had. for a student on a budget, it was enough.

anton devised a simple plan: buy a whole cake of your favorite flavor, ask the server to hand it to you with some made-up excuse, and hurry back to the airport.

you were surprised that day by a "lucky birthday promo." you went back to your dorm happily with a box of strawberry shortcake you had been eyeing for weeks.

the universe had finally favored you. from then on, you promised yourself you'd be a frequent customer there until you graduate.

little did you know...

all thanks to the guy who flew back overseas that night, uncaring of the consequences. at least he knew you were well.

you stopped listening to his playlists. you didn't want to be reminded. but the moment you found out he was still consistently adding new songs, you found yourself saving them again.

anton never stopped adding music to that old playlist he exclusively shared with you. he wasn't sure if you were listening, but the chances were never zero. for years, he added songs he wanted you to hear—songs that resonated with his longing.

it was still you. it was always you for anton.

for his junior recital, titled "Saudade," anton performed pieces by his assigned composer. he also finally completed the drafts he started in high school—the ones you saw only in the hidden music room. the ones you gave suggestions for, despite knowing nothing about the musical notes. the ones you teased him about dedicating to you.

on a random day, you decided to check how he was doing. you jumped from site to site, glad to see him thriving.

you stumbled upon his soundcloud. a three-minute song titled "saudade" was there. you tried to stay composed until you heard a familiar giggle fading softly after the bridge.

anton had sampled your giggle from that silly high school video of the two of you doing dinosaur impressions.

oh.

anton remembers you more than he ever truly knew you.

guess who flew back just to stop by your university on graduation day?

anton was also graduating in two days. he thought, time zones be damned.

he didn't ask if outsiders were allowed. he just roamed outside the venue until the ceremony ended. he spotted you from afar, taking photos with friends.

he wanted to give you flowers, but he didn't know how. so, he settled for the contentment of seeing you happy.

he wore a white long-sleeve shirt that fit his figure perfectly. he blended into the crowd, though people whispered about how handsome he was as they passed.

coincidentally, you saw a familiar face in the sea of robes. your gut told you it was him, but by the time you pushed through the crowd, he was gone.

maybe you were daydreaming.

you swore it was anton. but there was no way he’d fly back just for this. he probably forgot about you already.

anton focused on his career during those years, becoming successful immediately after graduating. he thought that if he ever ran into you again, he wanted to be "worthy" of standing beside you.

months later, when a friend invited you to a reunion at a new family restaurant, you never expected anton to be there.

and god. locking eyes with anton again—it was a struggle to convince yourself that this was reality.

you were mesmerized by how well he had aged. he looked intimidating, secure, and grown.

there was no way a man like this was still single.

there was no way anton would ever care about you like he used to.

when you finally crossed paths, anton’s reserved nature acted as a shield for the fact that he was actually shaking inside. his teenage self was screaming internally. it brought him back to the memory of you looking so dangerously pretty during the senior ball.

you had a way of making him feel incredibly uneasy, almost as if a million butterflies were fluttering in his stomach whenever you were around.

he was more nervous than he’d been at any recital.

anton wanted to see if you remembered him. you didn't react when he arrived at the table. it was awkward; you were sitting right across from him. people started to ask why you weren't close anymore.

"anton, here's the menu," you spoke quietly, handing it to him. the unexpected exchange went completely unnoticed by the rest of the table, oblivious to the tension building in the air.

as he looked across the room, he felt as if time had come to a standstill in that fleeting moment. everyone's chatter faded into a distant murmur, replaced by the pounding of his heart in his ears.

it was as if the world outside had dissolved, leaving only him and the source of his sudden, eager focus, enveloping him in a bead of heightened awareness.

when the group laughed at a story, anton still had the habit of not looking at the one telling the story. instead, he looked at you.

he just wanted to see if you were laughing, or if you felt left out. your reaction was the only one that mattered.

to lighten the mood after the heavy meals everyone had shared, a game started at the table. it was simple: there were random icebreaker questions on cards that anyone could answer freely. although it was somewhat boring, it helped spark conversations and allowed everyone to catch up.

yuha shuffled a card and read it aloud: “when was the last time you traveled alone?” everyone groaned, collectively agreeing that the card was boring. you didn’t have an answer, so you silently agreed with them.

as you picked a new card, anton coldly spoke up. “2023. 2026.” you looked up at him, and he was already sipping his drink. 

“aigooo, no need to brag, nyc boy,” one of your classmates next to him cooed. 

the years he mentioned were significant to you, so you watched him intently, wondering where someone as busy as him traveled alone during those times. 

anton took another sip of his drink before glancing at you, as you were already conversing with yuha.

2023. your birthday.

2026. your graduation day.

later, he volunteered to drive friends home, and you were assigned to his car along with two classmates.

you discovered that he was residing in your building, sharing an apartment with your best friend's brother. they were living together temporarily while he searched for a place of his own, creating an unexpected connection just down the hall.

a true coincidence. destiny had favored him this time.

"unlucky" for you, you had to sit in the passenger seat.

anton was quick to notice you shivering and adjusted the temperature without a word.

when he overheard you were sick, he dropped a bag of supplies at your door. he texted, "i had extras, thought you might need them," even though the receipt showed he bought them five minutes prior.

"it's been five years. i'm sure he has moved on," you told your best friend.

moved on?

anton is immovable when it comes to you.

even now, he drinks the tea you liked and reads the niche authors you mentioned once in passing.

in the years apart, anton found ways to keep you in his life without you being there.

it wasn't obsession; it was just that those things were the only physical tethers he had left.

with his gentle nature, his yearning was physically painful to witness—if only you could see it. he was constantly fighting the urge to reach out.

once, he was already in the elevator when the doors reopened to find you aggressively pressing the buttons, panting. you hurried inside, desperate for the doors to close.

you leaned heavily against the cool, glass wall, your heart racing as the weight of your emotions felt almost tangible as you tried to gather yourself.

when you finally lifted your gaze, there stood anton beside you, his presence steady and reassuring in the midst of your turmoil.

you fixed your posture and sniffed, looking at him with the same eyes that had cried in the rain years ago.

the air felt tight. anton was so surprised that he couldn't find the words to ask what happened.

in a millisecond, you found yourself buried in his chest, arms latched around his back as if anchoring yourself to him. a wave of emotion surged through you, and soft sobs escaped your lips, muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

the world around you faded as you lost yourself in the comfort of his embrace, finding solace in the rhythm of his heartbeat echoing against you.

anton wanted to hug you back so badly it hurt, but he was terrified of overstepping. he let you clutch his shirt, his hands clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to hold you.

anton used to be the calmest person to hold you.

the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, jarring you from your thoughts and pulling you back to the present moment.

“i’m so sorry,” you stammered, your breath still quickened by the adrenaline. “a drunk man was... chasing me. i got so scared.”

with a deep, apologetic bow, you rushed out of the elevator, eager to put distance between yourself and the unsettling encounter.

you enjoyed reconnecting during hangouts at anton and sungchan's place with your best friend, yuha, and you occasionally bumped into him around the building, sharing small talk.

yuha, the typical best friend that she is, always insists you come to his brother's place so you can see anton.

after one busy week, you finally decided to go for a grocery run. you normally went with sungchan, but out of courtesy, you had to ask anton as well.

"oh. sungchan decided to just sleep and let me come with you," he awkwardly hissed.

when in fact, he actually pushed sungchan before leaving their unit.

the idea of shopping together felt casual yet friendly, an opportunity to bond over shared experiences as neighbors.

while strolling the aisles, your shoulders brushed as you reached for the same item. he went completely still. he didn't pull away. for a loser like him, he savored that half-second of contact like it was oxygen.

you tried to hide a smile when your hands grazed while grabbing a pastry. "hey. look, it's your favorite," he remarked.

he still had the same effect on you.

and he still had the same foolish heart for you.

just as anton memorized your features, he could recognize the sound of your heart the moment you entered a room.

when he spotted you talking to the same mean relative who had mistreated you since high school, he saw the tension in your jaw and the way your eyes lost their spark.

he approached the apartment security with firmness, requesting their assistance in drawing away the intruders from the premises.

after a tense wait at his car, he felt a wave of relief wash over him when the security personnel finally took matters into their hands.

you were so thankful and pleased to hear the admin's mention of the possibility of blacklisting your relative, ensuring they wouldn’t trouble you on the premises again.

anton doesn't just like you—he studies you well.

he leaves for work at the same time as you, so you often meet in the lobby. through those shared encounters, anton was content with the simple "good mornings" you exchanged.

eventually, he found the courage to ask if you needed a ride.

anton was a liar. he would drive thirty minutes out of his way just to spend more time with you in the quiet of his car, where the world felt small, and it was just the two of you and the hum of the engine.

still a loser in love. you never knew he was lying about his workplace location.

shared rides became a space for catching up, until the atmosphere no longer felt thick or uncomfortable.

anton is usually composed, but after a few drinks at a classmate's engagement dinner, his walls thinned.

he was honest.

anton leaned his head back, eyes half-closed, watching you across the table with a look of such raw longing it made your breath hitch. he whispered, "i miss you," and then immediately looked away, blushing.

that didn't exactly help you sleep that night.

just like several years ago, anton became a constant in your life again.

he had a hectic day on your birthday, but rushed to your unit an hour before the day ended. luckily, you were awake.

you were surprised to see him holding the same cake brand you received "for free" back in college.

you both stood there for a moment, the air thick with unspoken words and lingering tension. a soft smile crept across your face, slowly thawing the uneasiness between you. "i... i wanted to give you this," he said, breathless, his eyes flickering with a mix of excitement and worry.

you felt a rush of warmth as you stepped aside, inviting him into your space.

soon, you found yourself cozily settled on the couch next to him, the lights spread around a warm glow in the room. anton began to sing the softest version of "happy birthday," his voice still a gentle caress that wrapped around you like a comforting blanket.

as you swayed the cake back and forth, the flickering candle casting playful shadows on your face, a sense of bliss surged through you.

with a deep breath, you closed your eyes to make a wish, then you blew out the candle in one breath.

anton, captivated by the scene unfolding before him. the view in front of him felt surreal.

all the waiting, all the years. it was clear that you were truly worth every single moment.

"what did you wish for?" anton asked as he sliced a piece for you.

"hmm. it's a secret."

he handed you the plate and smiled. "how can i make that wish happen if you won't tell me?"

one evening after his jog, he saw you with someone else in the lobby.

you were grinning, holding a box of chicken tenders from that guy (who held the elevator open for two minutes, uncaring of the sensor).

anton became incredibly polite, but his eyes went cold.

it was funny; you realized you knew him too well. the way he gripped his phone and how his voice dropped an octave.

"not the best chicken tenders," he broke the silence. you looked at him, amused. "very, very overcooked."

"too salty. if you got the yangnyeom flavor, it tastes like shi—"

you laughed. "actually, these are for sungchan. he asked me to pick them up for him. you can take them home."

right. wait, what? sungchan? my roommate? anton thought. stupid jealousy.

you handed him the bag. he was embarrassed, but his nonchalant facade held up.

before stepping off at your floor, you chuckled. "jealous over a delivery guy? tsk." the doors closed on his flustered face.

anton will mention tiny details—a specific keychain or a song you hummed once. you realized he was always paying attention, even when he seemed indifferent.

anton resigned himself to the idea that you might not choose him, so he settled for being the person you can always fall back on.

just like the old days. he remembered using family connections to get you scholarships, helping you confront your deadbeat parents, or gathering sign-ups for your part-time job. he even secretly paid classmates to buy the baked goods you sold. he even had revenge on those guys from the other class who made fun of you once.

even now, you don't know the half of his hidden efforts.

anton was the only person who truly treated you well.

once, you mentioned your laptop was dying, and you panicked over work files.

days later, he brought a giant box to your door. "you can use this for now. it's my extra."

before you could refuse: "it's not brand new." (it was.) "i didn't buy it." (he did.) you accepted it out of necessity, promising to pay him back.

"no need. use it however you want."

he can provide for you more than just the problems that need fixing, more than the convenience you wanted. definitely, he will provide for you however he wishes.

you also had a fair share of moments that you 'yearned' for him.

you find out through sungchan that anton also goes to your building's gym. therefore, that motivated you to become a 'gym person'.

suddenly, you're there every morning at 6:00 am or every saturday night at 9:00 pm.

you definitely had no idea how to use the specific machines near you.

"sungchan's the one who invited me," you boasted to anton, who was only wearing a tank top with his snapback backwards. damn it.

"i don't see a sungchan here every time i come, yet you’re here," anton smirked, almost walking past you. he paused and added, "sungchan trains on a different day. you might want to check on that."

one time, in all this pretentiousness, you were "cooling down" on a mat, but really, you’re just watching him do pull-ups in the mirror.

you started to admire the way the view of his broad shoulders and arms move when suddenly, his eyes met yours through the mirror.

instead of looking away, he holds the gaze while doing one more slow, effortless rep.

you were so flustered that you had to break eye contact right away and move somewhere you can't see him. when did he even get so hot?

sungchan had invited you over for a group dinner, excited to host after yuha had unexpectedly dropped by their place earlier that day.

to the siblings’ surprise, anton dedicated three hours to deep-cleaning the apartment.

once he finished tidying up, he rushed to take a shower, but not before he was left with the crucial part of picking the perfect outfit and perfume.

"anton, come out of the bathroom when i say, uhm… just a heads-up, the floor isn’t dry yet. i had to mop it again!" sungchan called out with a lie.

"okay!" anton’s cheerfully replied, unaware of the scheme that sungchan had. he invited you earlier than the actual dinner time, eager for a little fun at both of you and anton’s expense.

"you can come out now!" sungchan announced, barely able to contain his excitement.

when you stepped into the apartment, you were greeted by the sight of a shirtless anton, clad only in his denim shorts, who had just come out of the bathroom.

water droplets glistened on his skin, and he looked momentarily startled at your sudden appearance.

“i’m sorry! i wasn’t looking!” you covered your eyes in an instant. the shirtless guy was already tomato red.

“yes, you were~” sungchan sung while moving across the kitchen. his laughter threatened to erupt as he watched the scene unfold, a devious grin spreading across his face with the scenario he had orchestrated.

one quiet night, you stopped in your tracks while walking back from the convenience store. "why are you so nice to me?"

this stirred something in him. he finally found the courage to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. his fingertips trembled—as if his existence was a ticking bomb.

anton felt defeated by the sudden question. he looked at his shoes, then back into your eyes with an intense, careful gaze. "i've longed for you for all the years i had you, and all the years i could only remember you. i'm clinging to the hope that you'd eventually look at me and see someone you could love."

he sighed. "guess i was so nice to you."

anton doesn't look away anymore. he looks at you with a heavy, grounded stare, full of yearning that he no longer tries to mask.

as you looked back at him, you realized your own feelings had never truly faded. you were certain this time: you were finally ready to let him in.

the following night, a heavy, hesitant knock sounds at your door.

it was anton, he’s leaning against the doorframe, looking exhausted. the memory of his confession from the previous night never stopped replaying in your head. it's worse now that he's actually in front of you.

his crisp black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows didn't help your current state.

"i left my keys on the kitchen when i rushed this morning. sungchan is out. sooooo, can i stay here for a bit?"

your pulse thrumming in your ears. "sure, chanyo- anton. come in."

the atmosphere in your apartment shifts instantly. "i'll get you a blanket." you said, in attempt of escaping his presence.

"let's talk about last night." he walks toward you, stopping just inches away.

you try to back away, but you almost hit the wall next to you.

he places a hand on either side of you, effectively trapping you in his personal space. "please?" he pleaded.

anton was so close to your level. you can feel your chest ripping out any moment, you avoid his gaze as you can feel his eyes memorizing your face.

"i don't have anything to say to you," you murmured. in response, anton’s jaw tenses.

he looks down at your lips, "you sure?" you looked away and nodded.

you gazed at him once more, a wave of longing washing over you. anton leaned in closer, his warm breath grazing your skin as his nose delicately brushed against yours.

he felt a shiver run through him, every nerve ending alive with anticipation and desire. "you're a loser, anton." you murmured while his lips were just inches away from yours.

"i know." he says, a faint smirk appearing before he finally loses his composure. your thoughts surrendered to the following actions you made.

you don't say a word. you just reach up and clutch his sleeves. when you finally kissed him, it started gentle and innocent, a reminder of how your love started.

finally, he was able to relax his clenched fists at your side. he pulls back just an inch, looks at you, and kisses you again with ferocity. you pulled him closer as the kiss started getting desperate.

just moments after, you were both back on the couch. his hands, which usually stay strictly at his sides to avoid 'overstepping', are suddenly everywhere.

anton tilted your head back to deepen the angle of the kiss. he backs toward the couch, and you follow down instantly to straddle his lap. "now i understand why you didn't want to talk." anton mutters against your jaw, his breath hitching. you can feel his smirk form.

you lean down to kiss the sensitive hollow near his temple that smells like his perfume that you like. you pull away as you notice something. "you have a tattoo here?"

he pecks your lips before responding, "mhm." he fixed a strand of your hair and pulled your face down softly again for a longer, passionate kiss.

a low, jagged moan vibrates in his throat when you wrap your arms around his neck. you decided to move your lips again somewhere.

you softly sucked on the same spot again, teasing him.

anton quietly whimpered.

he actually did whimper.

"stop," he hissed. you were barely holding your grin from the response you got. "i swear."

just a mess for each other. years of pining and yearning had led to this moment.

you pulled away to breathe. he instantly helped you adjust your weight on his lap, both hands were on your sides.

"tell me this isn't your first kiss, anton." you bit your smile. you are a hundred percent convinced he kissed other people back in new york.

anton's head found your shoulder, his shyness evident in the way he hid his face to you. "it is." his voice was barely above a whisper.

a skeptical smile spread across your face as you squeezed your eyes shut, unable to fully process the moment. no way.

"so, you're saying that-"

"yes. i waited years for this exact moment. so please, baby, let's continue where we left off." he rubbed the sides of your waist softly, in motions fueled by familiarity and desperation.

you chuckle. it was also your first, but for a guy who's hot and out of anyone's league like him, you still can't believe he waited years for a kiss, as if he was so sure this would happen soon.

every time your hips move against his thighs, anton's breath hitches, and your fingers dig into the muscles of his shoulders.

his hands slide up from your waist, a low growl escapes his throat, coming from a sound of pure, agonizing relief.

anton started to internally suffer the moment he felt you grind your hips down into his in a slow, torturous rhythm. you can feel the hardness of him through his jeans. you smirk during the kiss, as you thought to yourself that he had been holding back far too much. "you're hard."

"kiss my tattoo again and it'll grow bigger." he snickered.

"shut up."

he then started planting desperate kisses on your neck, resulting in him learning your weakest spot. then, he gasps against the sensitive skin of your shoulder, his teeth grazing your collarbone.

this time, you were the one physically trembling now at the contact. you gasp his name, while tossing your head back.

anton's lips were back on yours upon the gasp of his name. the friction beneath both of you became a blur of heat and denim.

he hooks his hands under your thighs, pulling you even tighter and closer on his crotch, ensuring you can feel him. when you grind down on him in the perfectly aligned position, he lets out a jagged breath, "baby, please."

his self-restraint snapped. your shirt bunches up, and his hands slide underneath, his palms hot against your skin as his thumbs start to trace the underside of your chest. you moan at the sudden contact you felt next, and you were sure he smirked in between the ongoing kiss.

the friction was tortorous. your fingers moved to tangle in his hair, pulling his head to keep his mouth on yours.

then, it was time again to breathe. you needed something beyond this. when he finally met your eyes again, you sheepishly buried your face in the crook of his neck, while his breathing came in ragged. "i waited for you," you mumbled.

"i love you. so very much." anton gently tilted your chin up with his finger, his gaze filled with warmth. 

"should i say it back now, or should i wait for a more appropriate moment?" you teased playfully, giving his cute, big nose a gentle boop. 

"appropriate can wait, i suppose," he replied with a mischievous smile, and in a swift motion, he unbuttoned his shirt.

the man who swore to work harder than destiny has finally won.

when anton moved into his new apartment, the extra room caught your attention. it looked more than just a typical guest room. it was a room that had soft lighting from the window, with a view of the city, and a thought that reminded you of the type of bedroom you once mentioned wanting.

“this place looks like a jackpot for you,” you said.

"you like it here?" anton asked in confidence, making you look at him in confusion. "i mean, yes. it is a jackpot. i think i made the right choice."

more than the plans he had for himself that included you, he also has curated a life that had a permanent, person-shaped hole in it, trusting that eventually, you’d find your way back to fill it.

you definitely liked it there, and anton was certain of that. so, he has yet to figure out how to tell you that it was actually your room in his own place.

finally, spring came.

“happy birthday, chanyoung,” you murmured, the soft glow of the candle illuminating his face, and suddenly his new apartment was enveloped in a tranquil stillness because of this moment.

the dim lights created a cozy atmosphere that wrapped around both of you like a comforting embrace. you watched your boyfriend close his eyes and take his time before blowing out the flame.

"what did you wish for?"

he looked at you for a solid minute. "my wish already came true."

both of you beamed. he finally leaned in to hold you. "i'm not going anywhere this time." he kissed the top of your head. anton made a quiet pledge to himself at that moment that he would continue loving you like it was breathing.

it had been ten years. through high school, college, and adulthood, anton had waited. he didn't just believe in luck or coincidence. he believed more in the stubborn force of his own devotion.

and he would gladly do it all again in the next life, if it meant finding you over and over.

a love that once ended in the quiet passing of autumn had finally bloomed again in the spring.

because love endures.

the crowd was relatively quiet, but the moment anton stepped out? it’s like he was offering everyone a million dollars. girls screamed his name, standing up and jumping around in the bleachers as he walked out, giving you a small wave. 

“they really love your boyfriend, huh?” shotaro chuckled, still astonished by the volume of the mob despite experiencing this multiple times before. 

eunseok clicked his tongue at the sight of so many losing it over anton. “don’t they know he’s taken?” his head cocked to the side, eyes squinting. “gosh, they’re insane. look at those posters.” he pointed at a select few, reading them out. “...’lee anton, you’re mine’ oh, yeah no.” 

“i can’t believe even the older students do it.” sohee furrowed his brows, as annoyed as you. “it’s so childish.” 

shotaro saw how your smile slowly turned the other way around, quickly deciding to say something. “it’s okay, y/n. anton only has eyes for you.” he pat your shoulder, nodding his head. 

the swimmers had hardly touched the water and the rally got louder, piercing through your eardrum. and that was just the start. as the tournament went on, the yells for anton just kept on increasing. girls’ squeaking voices rang in your ear, shrills loud enough to break the glass windows. 

once anton had ultimately won most of his events, bringing home three golds and two silver medals, his fangirls snapped pictures of him, some even took pictures with him, posing like he was a celebrity. 

you made your way down the stairs, ready to congratulate your boyfriend, when another student, one in his year, stopped you in your way, blocking you from anton. 

“excuse me, i was here first.” she said in a stern voice, keeping her arm out, defending you as if she was a security guard for anton. “get in line.” 

“i’m his girlfriend,” you said, keeping your voice calm, though on the inside you were burning with anger. you attempted to push through her shield of an arm, but she used all of her strength, shoving you back to where you were. 

she rolled her eyes at your perseverance. “i don’t care if you’re his girlfriend. you don’t deserve to be, anyway. he should be with someone more mature, someone in his year, like me.” 

unbeknownst to her, anton had been listening the whole time behind her. 

“could you not block my girlfriend’s way?” he said, clearly annoyed. “i’m dating her and not you for a reason. i don’t care if you’re the same age as me, y/n’s the one for me.” 

her face turned bright red, full of embarrassment. “s-sorry…” she managed to mutter before scurrying away. 

anton eyed her as she ran away, glaring at her through the corner of his eyes. “hey, baby.” his medals clanked against one another as he walked toward you. “thanks for coming,” this time, he kissed you on the lips, holding your waist with a strong grip. “my lucky charm.” you could feel him smile as he kissed you, smugly showing you off in front of everyone who wishes they were in your position. 

“ugh, tonie…” you whined as you pulled away from his face. “your hair’s literally dripping.” you exhaled, grossed out by how your hands were soaked in pool water now. 

he drew you back into his arms, giggling as he shook his hair, flinging drops of water on you. “whatever.” he laughed at the way you complained about him drenching your uniform yet still hugged him back. 

the nights always felt longer without him. you lay on your back, phone resting on your chest, watching anton’s face glow faintly on the screen. his hair was a little messy, his eyes half-lidded with fatigue, but he was still smiling at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“you’re tired,” you said softly, even though your own voice carried exhaustion.

he shook his head. “i just don’t want to hang up yet.”

there was always this small stretch of silence after he said things like that. it wasn’t heavy or awkward, just full of something unspoken—the wanting that hung between you both. you loved him, he loved you, and yet the miles between you pressed against your chest like a weight you couldn’t push off.

he told you about his day, small things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else: what he ate for lunch, the way the rain hit the practice room windows, the joke one of his friends made that he wished you had been there to laugh at too. you listened to every word like you were collecting them, storing them away for the nights you wouldn’t have him at all.

but even as you smiled, you felt that familiar hollow ache. love wasn’t the problem. the distance was. the way your bed always stayed cold on his side, the way you held your phone instead of his hand, the way you had to imagine his arms around you when you fell asleep.

he didn’t notice the way your smile faltered, too busy fighting sleep, eyes fluttering closed before he snapped them open again to look at you. “don’t go yet,” he mumbled, like a child refusing bedtime.

“i’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

and you meant it. but the thought still pressed at the edges of your mind—how long could you really keep this up? how many more nights of distance, of phone screens instead of skin?

the melancholy lingered, quiet but steady, as you listened to his breathing on the other end. sometimes you closed your eyes and pretended he was beside you, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss. and when he finally was—when distance gave you a brief reprieve—the moments were fleeting, fragile things you tried to hold onto.

anton kissed you until his chest ached. your hands were clutching at his shirt, warm against his skin, and for a second, he thought he might lose himself in you completely.

but then the familiar weight settled in. the reminder that he wasn’t here enough, that he was about to leave again, that you spent more time waiting for him than actually with him.

anton pulled back, breath shaky, and forced a small smile. “sorry,” he whispered, brushing his thumb along your cheek as if he could erase the disappointment before it formed.

you only nodded, resting your head against his shoulder. you didn’t say it, but anton felt the tension in your body—the way you had been ready for more, the way you would never ask for it.

later, lying in bed beside you, he stared at the ceiling instead of sleeping. your breathing was steady, soft against his chest, but his thoughts spun relentlessly.

anton wanted you. he always did. every time he looked at you, his chest ached with it, a need that went beyond anything physical. but it felt selfish to ask for more when he already gave you so little.

anton thought about the nights you spent alone, holding a phone instead of him. he thought about the time he wasted in airports, in practice rooms, in hotel beds miles away from your warmth. what kind of boyfriend was he? what kind of man?

anton’s hand twitched where it rested on your arm, wanting to pull you closer, to give in. but his guilt stopped him. he had already taken so much from you—your patience, time, your constant reassurance that distance didn’t matter. he didn't deserve to take more.

so anton kissed the top of your head instead, as if that would be enough, and shut his eyes.

you would never know how often he lay awake like this, staring into the dark and wishing he were different. wishing he wasn’t the boy who left you behind more often than he held you. wishing he could be brave enough to tell you how much he needed you, in every way.

but instead, anton told himself the same lie he always did: that holding back was better. that not asking too much of you was a kind of love too.

still, the ache in anton’s chest didn’t ease. it only grew heavier, settling deep into him, until sleep finally took him under.

you watch him on the screen, the glow of his lamp casting soft shadows across his face, and for a moment, the ache in your chest dulls. you lean closer, resting your elbow on the bed and your chin in your palm, smiling at him like it’s nothing, though your heart is pounding.

“i got something,” you say, holding up a small, delicate package. his eyes flicker with curiosity. “you’re going to like it.”

he smiles, a little tight, a little hesitant. “oh?”

you pull it out slowly, letting him see the shape, teasing just enough to make him lean forward. “but… i haven’t tried it on yet. i want you to see it first.” your voice is softer now, and a quiet thrill coils through you at the thought of his reaction.

anton freezes. his cheeks flush pink, eyes widening just slightly, and he opens his mouth, then closes it again, fumbling for words. your pulse quickens—exactly what you wanted—but there’s also that tiny shadow at the edges of it, that hesitation that always lingers.

“you… you mean, now?” he stammers finally, his voice low, almost breathless.

you bite your lip, trying to keep your tone playful, but the tremor in your chest betrays you. “well… not really now,” you say, letting your words hover. “soon. just… imagine it, okay? imagine me in it, for you.”

his hands curl into fists at the edge of the desk, knuckles white, and his throat moves as he swallows. “i… i do,” he murmurs, barely audible, and then his gaze drops. the flush in his ears deepens, and he glances away, like he can’t meet you head-on.

you laugh softly, a little breathless, trying to shake off the disappointment crawling through you. it was supposed to be fun, meant to draw him out, make him want you like you wanted him. but instead… it’s a timid reaction, careful, restrained, and it leaves a hollow ache in your chest that mirrors the distance you feel even now.

he’s blushing, he’s flustered, he’s clearly affected by you. but it isn’t enough. it’s never quite enough, and your mind spins with the same persistent doubt: does he miss you the way you miss him? does he want you as much as you want him?

“anton?” you ask softly, tilting your head. he meets your eyes for a moment, and the sight of him—shy, vulnerable, longing—should be enough. but your chest tightens, and the melancholy hums through you like a song you can’t remember the lyrics to.

“yeah?” he whispers, voice tentative, fragile.

“i just… i can’t wait to see you,” you say, trying to hide the edge of longing that sharpens the words. “soon.”

he nods, swallow hard. his lips twitch into the ghost of a smile, but his eyes carry the weight of everything unspoken—the guilt, the restraint, the fear that he’ll never be enough for you.

you end the call soon after, leaving the screen dark, the room quiet. you lie back against the pillow and let your hands fall to your sides, thinking about how much you want him, how much you ache for him, and how sometimes, even love isn’t enough to fill the distance.

and somewhere, miles away, anton stares at the ceiling again, restless, wishing he could close the space between you—if only for a night, if only to prove you that he does, in fact, want you more than anything.

the memory of the facetime call from last night gnaws at you, sweet and frustrating all at once. the blush on his cheeks, the shy stammering, the way he turned away—it should have been intoxicating, proof of his yearning. but instead it leaves a hollow ache that spreads through your chest, heavy and gray. you wonder if he really misses you, if he wants you the way you want him.

your fingers linger on the set you bought for him, tucked in the drawer. you imagined wearing it for him, imagined the way he might react, imagined the way he might need you as much as you need him. but now, the thought only makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. maybe he wouldn’t feel it the way you do.

so you leave it untouched, slipping it back into the drawer. today he’s coming, and the thought of him makes your chest both ache and constrict, but you don’t want to tempt disappointment. you don’t want to give him anything to misunderstand—or worse, for him to not respond the way your heart hopes he will.

the air smells damp, faintly of asphalt and something distant you can’t quite name. it presses against your skin, heavy and still, as though the world has slowed just enough to hold its breath. the hours stretch, gray and slow, like the rain outside has seeped inside and softened the edges of everything. your mind circles, turning over memories and half-formed fears, until you barely notice the knocks at the door.

he’s there, drenched slightly, the edges of his hair sticking to his forehead, eyes bright with something you can’t immediately read. he smells like rain and him, and it makes your chest ache.

“i missed you so much,” he says, closing the distance in one quick step and wrapping you in his arms. you feel the warmth, the pressure, the desperation in the hug—everything you’ve been craving for weeks.

but something in you hesitates. you stay still, letting him hold you, but you don’t curl into him like you always do. you keep your hands at your sides, and when he tightens his hold, it only makes the hollow ache in your chest feel heavier.

“i missed you too,” you say softly, and the words feel small, almost empty, even as your throat tightens. you close the door behind him slowly, the dampness of the apartment curling around both of you like a muted fog. the familiar scent of rain clinging to his coat, mingling with his cologne, should feel comforting—and yet it only reminds you how far apart you’ve been, how much space still exists between the two of you even when he’s finally here.

normally, you would move with him into the bedroom, brushing around his bags, sliding behind him to wrap your arms around him from behind as he set them down. the gesture was automatic, comforting, a rhythm you shared without thought. today, though, you linger in the doorway, your fingers pressed lightly against the frame, anchoring yourself. you feel unsteady, as if stepping fully toward him might collapse something fragile inside you.

anton’s steps slow as he notices your hesitation. his eyes search yours, cautious and gentle, tracing the tension in your shoulders, the subtle stiffness in your posture. the apartment is quiet, save for the distant patter of rain on the windows, and in that quiet, the air between you feels almost tangible—heavy, hesitant, as if it could solidify into something unmovable if either of you made the wrong gesture.

he tilts his head slightly, a question forming in his eyes, but it remains unspoken, hovering in the gray light. he takes a careful step closer, measuring, as if approaching too fast might shatter the fragile calm you both cling to.

you inhale shakily, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to steady your racing heart. the weight of your uncertainty presses down like a quiet storm, and your chest aches in the way it always does when longing collides with doubt.

when you finally open your eyes, anton is fully turned toward you, his expression a mixture of longing and worry, soft and hesitant. the concern in his gaze digs into you, and your chest tightens even more, because you know he can sense that something is off—that the gray tension is yours and his fault all at once.

he doesn’t speak yet, doesn’t step closer, but the quiet intensity of him there, waiting for you to bridge the gap, makes your breath catch. the room feels suspended, holding its breath with you both, waiting for the first word, the first move, to break the silence.

you take a shaky breath, and for a moment the silence stretches between you like a living thing. anton shifts slightly, hands hanging at his sides, eyes never leaving yours. the rain outside drums softly against the windows, a rhythm that seems to echo the tight, anxious beat of your heart.

“i… i think we should take a break,” you whisper, barely audible even to yourself. the words feel foreign on your tongue, heavy and wet, like something you shouldn’t be saying. you keep your eyes closed, hoping that somehow they’ll carry less weight if you can’t see his reaction.

anton freezes, and the shift in him is immediate. his chest tightens, and you can see the moment his mind races, trying to catch the meaning behind your words before it lands fully. the weight of fear settles in his gaze, that same fear he’s always carried—that he’s not enough, that he’s failing you even when he’s trying his hardest.

“why?” his voice cracks, small, fragile, desperate. “is it something i did?”

you hear the tremor, and it twists something deeper in your chest. your eyelids flutter, but you keep them closed, letting the tears come freely now. you can’t stop them. the dam you’ve been holding back for weeks breaks at once, spilling everything you’ve been holding inside.

“do… do you not love me anymore?” he asks, voice shaking as he steps closer, reaching for you but hesitating. every movement is careful, hesitant, as though the wrong gesture might push you farther away instead of closer.

you shake your head, letting the tears fall freely. “no,” you whisper through sobs, voice cracking. “i love you so much. i love you more than anything.”

but saying it doesn’t stop the ache. it doesn’t erase the fear you’ve carried: the gnawing thought that he doesn’t feel it as fiercely as you do, the quiet doubt that maybe his love isn’t enough to keep you whole across the distance.

anton’s hand brushes yours, tentative, almost as if testing whether you’ll pull away. when you don’t, he moves it gently, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking along the curve as he leans in slightly. his own tears streak down his face now, unrestrained, betraying the guilt that’s been his constant companion—the fear that he’s a bad boyfriend, that he’s not giving you enough of himself.

“then… what’s the matter?” he whispers, voice raw and urgent. “what’s wrong? how can i fix this?”

you tilt your head into his touch, pressing your palm against his chest as if to anchor yourself. your tears soak his shirt, but you don’t care. you can’t stop the sobs, can’t stop the tightness in your chest. “it’s… it’s the distance. and… i think about… about you holding back, about how you never… never take more of me when you could. and it makes me feel like… like you don’t want me the way i want you.”

anton’s lips part, and he shakes his head, his own chest trembling. “no,” he says quickly, almost desperate. “i… i do. i want you. more than anything. i just… i think i’m not… good enough. i think i’m taking too much from you already, and i…” he swallows hard, voice catching. “…i don’t want to hurt you.”

the words cut through the gray tension, sharp but honest, and you press your forehead to his chest, letting your body lean into him as your walls crumble completely. he wraps his arms around you tightly, as though he can physically hold the ache away, and you cling to him just as fiercely.

“i don’t want you to think i don’t want you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your hair. “i need you… more than anything.”

you let out a shaky laugh between sobs, burying your face against him. “then… then don’t hold back anymore,” you whisper. “please.”

you feel him tilt his head down, brushing his lips against the top of your hair, over your temple, down your cheek. every touch is deliberate, hesitant, like he’s memorizing you all over again, imprinting you into his memory after months apart. your fingers tighten in his hair, nails grazing the scalp, anchoring yourself to him, to this fragile, trembling reality.

he shifts slightly, hands sliding down to your waist, holding you close but careful, almost afraid to claim more than what you’ve given willingly. and in that carefulness, in that restraint, the ache in your chest twists—a mixture of longing, frustration, and relief. relief that he’s here, frustration that he can’t let go entirely, longing that makes your lips tremble as you press them into his chest.

“i’ve missed this,” he murmurs, voice low, almost broken. “i’ve missed you. all of you.”

you tilt your head up to look at him, tears still clinging to your lashes, and the sight of him—flushed, hair damp from the rain, eyes shimmering with the same grief and need that lives in your own chest—makes your heart squeeze painfully. “i’ve missed you too,” you whisper, but the words feel like they’ll never capture the depth of everything inside you.

he presses his forehead to yours, breath mingling, and finally, you feel the first thread of permission to let go. his hands move just a little lower, fingertips tracing over the curve of your hips, tentative but intentional, as if asking for consent in every movement. you nod slightly, leaning into him, giving yourself entirely to the moment, to the warmth, to the ache dissolving in the closeness.

the gray stillness of the apartment—the damp, the rain, the lingering hesitation—begins to soften around you. your lips brush his again, this time slower, deeper, tasting the months apart, tasting relief and need and love all at once. his hands move with growing confidence now, gathering you closer, and you let out a soft moan, the sound trembling and raw, echoing the release that’s been building inside for weeks.

he lifts you gently, pressing your body against his, and you wrap your arms around his neck, letting him carry you toward the bed. each step is heavy with desire and tenderness, each movement a careful balancing act between restraint and urgency. you feel the tremor in his chest through your palms, and it mirrors your own heartbeat, rapid and uneven.

when he finally lays you down, hovering above you, the grayness that clung to the edges of the room still hums softly in the background, but it no longer presses in. the rain’s patter against the windows becomes a rhythm, a quiet accompaniment to the intimacy unraveling between you.

his lips meet yours again, more urgently this time, and you let yourself answer in kind. hands trace arms, shoulders, and finally the curve of his back, memorizing, claiming, giving in. the months of longing, the ache of distance, the quiet doubts—they all melt into this single, trembling closeness.

and as he holds you, as you press into him, you realize that even through distance, through restraint, through everything that felt gray and heavy, the tether between you hasn’t broken. it’s stronger, rawer, and now tangible, warming the spaces that have felt cold for too long.

you let out a shuddering sigh, forehead pressed to his chest again, and in that quiet, intimate heartbeat, you understand: even across miles, even across months of restraint, even across gray hesitation, the two of you are still here, still aching for one another, still irrevocably tethered.

anton hovers above you, eyes dark, lips slightly parted, hands trembling even as they hover near your shoulders. the weight of longing in him makes your chest tighten; you can feel how badly he wants you, and it makes your own need flare sharper.

slowly, deliberately, you let your fingers trace the line of his jaw, tilt his head toward you. “anton,” you whisper, voice husky, “please…”

he nods, barely, as if your permission is a tether keeping him from collapsing under the weight of desire. his hands move cautiously, but each motion is filled with reverence. he slides the straps of your top down your shoulders, lingering on the warmth of your skin, pausing to press a feather-light kiss where the fabric falls away. every motion is careful, almost worshipful, as if he’s memorizing you in fragments before he can claim you fully.

you shiver under his touch, letting him guide you, letting the slow unraveling of clothing be part of the surrender. when your bra falls away, his hands cup you gently, thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin, and you arch into him, letting out a soft breathless sound. your fingers thread into his hair, tangling slightly, anchoring yourself to him as he leans closer.

anton hesitates for a heartbeat, glancing down at you, lips pressed together in that familiar mixture of shyness and want. then, slowly, he lifts his own shirt over his head, revealing the taut lines of his abdomen, the muscles you’ve memorized from pictures and fleeting glimpses. instinctively, your hand slides down over him, tracing the curve of his stomach, feeling him in a way that has nothing to do with distance or hesitation.

his lips find your bare chest, soft and reverent at first, and you tilt your head back, fingers threading through his hair as your other hand roams across his back, over the ridges of muscle, pressing, tracing, squeezing gently at his biceps. he moans softly into you, shaky, the sound vibrating through your chest. every tremor in him echoes the same tremor you feel in yourself.

“i’ve wanted this,” he murmurs against your skin, voice breaking, “so much… you don’t know…”

you grip his shoulders lightly, drawing him closer, letting him feel the weight of your need as clearly as he feels his own. your lips brush against his jaw, your forehead against his temple, and every sigh, every touch, every whispered word carries the months of distance, the quiet ache, the longing that neither of you could release until now.

his hands roam, slow and deliberate, memorizing the feel of you, mapping every curve, every hollow, every tremble that answers him in kind. the intimacy is slow, deliberate—more than desire, more than lust. it is confession, release, recognition of the ache you’ve carried apart from each other, now surrendered entirely in the quiet gray room.

you tilt your head back again as he kisses up your torso, letting your hands trail down his back, squeezing gently at the breadth of his shoulders, the strength you’ve imagined in your solitude, now tangible beneath your touch. he trembles against you, shivering, and you let your own body mirror him, fingers tracing the muscles, hands clenching, soft gasps breaking past your lips.

your hand drifts down, brushing against his, and you guide him deliberately, pressing his fingers where you need him most. your voice is soft, tremulous, carrying all the ache you’ve been holding back. “it’s all for you,” you whisper, “everything… for you.”

his groan vibrates against your chest, low and raw, and you feel the heat of him pressing against you. your hand traces over the outline of his length through his pants, feeling the undeniable hardness, the proof of how badly he wants you, how badly he’s needed you all along.

“you can go ahead,” you coo, breathless, tilting your head to meet his gaze. your lips curve into a small, shaky smile, and your voice softens, coaxing: “i’ve been ready for you.”

his eyes darken, longing and relief mingling, and he doesn’t hesitate. the slow, deliberate care in which he moves mirrors everything you’ve been waiting for—every restrained touch, every shared moment of absence now unleashed in full.

when he enters you, it’s slow and careful. each movement is deliberate, almost sacred, giving both of you time to adjust, to feel, to acknowledge the months of longing, the ache of absence, and the quiet hunger that has been building between you.

“i… i love you,” he murmurs, breathless, voice breaking slightly as he moves. “so much. i’m sorry i’ve made you wait.”

your chest tightens, and you tilt your head up to press your lips against his shoulder. “i love you too,” you whisper back, voice trembling. “i’m yours… forever.”

he groans softly, and the sound vibrates through both of you. “forever… i’ve wanted this forever,” he says, each word heavy with need and confession.

you wrap your arms around his neck, legs curling instinctively around him, anchoring yourself to him, letting him feel your need just as clearly as you feel his. “anton… i’m yours too,” you murmur into the crook of his neck. “all of me. always.”

his hands move along your body, slow and reverent, memorizing the curves and hollows, every inch, every shiver and sigh. “you’re mine,” he whispers, pressing you closer.

you tremble under his touch, letting out soft moans that mix with the wet sound of him moving inside you. “i forgive you,” you say, voice shaky but certain. his lips press against your shoulder, nuzzling, and he groans again. your hands thread through his hair, down his back, clutching at him as if you could anchor yourself entirely in him, letting go of everything that has kept you restrained.

and when he finally collapses against you, forehead pressed to yours, arms wrapped tightly, both of you shivering and spent, the gray has finally lifted. only warmth remains—tethered warmth, solid and real, the proof that even distance, restraint, and longing could never diminish the bond between you.

the rain has softened outside, the patter against the windows now a gentle rhythm, a background to the warmth that fills the apartment. anton lies beside you, one arm draped over your waist, the other tangled in your hair, holding you close as if he’s afraid you might slip away again.

you nuzzle against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and a soft laugh escapes you. “you’re warm,” you murmur, voice still husky from everything, “and heavy… and perfect.”

anton groans, pretending to scowl, but the corners of his mouth twitch into a grin. “and yours,” he teases, fingers brushing along your back. “always yours, right?”

“always,” you whisper, smiling into him, tilting your head up to press your lips to his collarbone. “my toni,” you murmur softly, a playful lilt in your tone that makes his chest tighten in delight.

“hey,” he chuckles, lifting his head just enough to look down at you, eyes glittering. “did you just call me that? your toni?”

you nod, biting your lip slightly, eyes sparkling. “yeah… i like it. sounds cute, don’t you think?”

anton shakes his head, laughing softly, shaking off the intensity of the earlier moments. “cute,” he murmurs, voice low, almost teasing. “cute and mine.” he presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek. “so… can i see you in that new set later?”

your cheeks flush at the mention, and you nuzzle against him again, tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants playfully. “maybe,” you whisper, voice teasing. “but only if you promise to behave until then.”

he pretends to gasp, mock-offended, before pulling you closer. “behave? me? impossible,” he murmurs, voice low, warm, teasing. “but… i can try… for you.”

you laugh softly, curling against him, letting your fingers trace idle patterns along his chest and shoulders. “i think you’ll try really hard,” you tease, “and then probably fail spectacularly.”

anton presses a soft kiss to your forehead, humming against your hair. he brushes a strand of hair from your face, voice soft, teasing, and full of affection. “you know, toni’s very happy you’re here. and he can’t wait to see more of you later…”

you giggle, rolling your eyes playfully, “you mean toni can’t wait to get into trouble with me?”

“exactly,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your temple, pulling you impossibly close. “but only with you. always only with you.”

riize m.list

You lift the tiny black tube like a trophy. “One—perfectly legal—eyeliner. Waterproof. Hypoallergenic. Not responsible for life decisions.”

Anton snorts. “We’re doing a fake tattoo, not a binding contract.”

“Yeah, but still. Waterproof. Foolproof. Regret-proof.”

“Is it artist-proof?”

“No such thing,” you say.

He laughs—quiet, but real—and gestures for you to come inside the living room. You do, trying not to notice the lazy confidence in his movements, or the fact that your heartbeat’s already pretending to be percussion.

“Where do you want me?” he asks.

You glance up from the coffee table, where you’re unboxing the eyeliner. “For the tattoo or… in general?”

He raises a brow. “For the tattoo.”

“Shame,” you say before you can stop yourself. He blinks—once, slow—and you’re the first to look away.

“You say that now.”

He steps back so you can pass, and you feel it again—the hush that likes to sit in the space right by your ribs when he’s close.

You’re just friends.

You have been for so long that the word has grown complicated edges. But it still fits the mouth, most days.

Friends who trade playlists and send each other pictures of ugly cafés that serve perfect coffee. Friends who know exactly when to push and when to shut up. Friends who, apparently, draw temporary tattoos on each other’s stomachs because some friend made an offhand comment about Anton “maybe trying an ink moment one day,” and your brain took a running jump at the idea.

The living room is half studio. Coiled cables asleep under the desk. A cello leaning in the corner like a tall, patient friend. He has that small lamp on—the one that throws a pool of amber light over the rug, as if you’re supposed to confess something in it. You make yourself busy instead, setting your bag on the couch, rolling up your sleeves, twisting the eyeliner open to check the fineness of the felt tip.

“You’re really trusting me with this?” you tease. “A needle would be more permanent, but probably less wiggly.”

“I trust you,” he says, simple as a chord played clean. No rust, no drama. It lands somewhere low and steady.

You try not to show what the word does to your pulse. “Okay then. Design brief time.”

He wanders to the speaker, puts on something you both love—piano that threads through a lo-fi drum like a heartbeat that won’t call itself that. “Nothing too much,” he says. “Just…lines. Under the ribs. Maybe something that follows the muscle. If we hate it, we wipe and start over.”

“If we hate it, you pretend it’s art,” you correct, and he laughs, soft.

It’s absurd how many years you’ve known the choreography of his laugh. The way it starts quiet and widens, like the moment sound engineers push the fader up and up until the track sits perfectly in the mix.

You watched that happen slowly with him: the shy boy who learned to speak more where the music didn’t, the young man who asks you what you think and actually waits.

He pulls his hoodie over his head and tosses it onto the arm of the couch, unhurried, absolutely sure you will not combust. You won’t. You won’t. You will set the eyeliner down gently on the coffee table instead of clutching it like salvation.

Beneath the white tee there is a line where cloth ends and skin begins, and then his hands hook the hem, and the shirt lifts. When he lifts off his shirt, you think maybe this was a terrible idea. His shirt rides up just enough to show the edges of toned skin, and you swear the air gets heavier.

“I thought you said we’d draw, not stare,” he says lightly.

“I’m visualizing the composition,” you mutter, rolling up your sleeves. “Don’t distract the artist.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

He’s teasing, but there’s warmth under the words, a familiarity that makes your stomach do something traitorous. You kneel on the rug, holding the eyeliner like it’s a scalpel. He leans back a little—enough for the lamplight to fall over his stomach, the faint rise and fall of breath.

“Hey,” he says, as if you’re already halfway to the door. “You okay?”

“Yup,” you say, with the voice of someone who absolutely does not notice the soft map of his abdomen, the lines like brackets around breath. “Just trying to remember where I put—”

“The eyeliner is in your hand,” he says, and you look down to find it there, snug against your fingers like something that knows more than you do.

“Right.” You clear your throat and turn toward him. “Okay. Lay down. I need a flat canvas.”

He settles on the edge of the couch, spine a careful line, knees a little open. He’s taller without the hoodie, somehow. He has always been all long lines and quiet strength, like his instrument. You kneel on the rug, and now the space between your bodies is just air—warm, shared, thin.

The lamp hums. The music drips time.

You try not to let your brain wire elsewhere.

The first stroke is tentative, a thin line tracing the edge of his ribs. The felt tip glides easily, the skin warm under your touch. His abs tense slightly—involuntary—and you can’t tell if it’s from nerves or something else.

“Ticklish?” you ask, half-smile, half-dare.

“A little,” he admits. “You’re… close.”

You try to make it sound like you don’t notice. “That’s kind of the point.”

He huffs a laugh, eyes flicking toward you—then staying there. It’s too quiet after that. Just the sound of your breath and the soft drag of eyeliner. You move to draw another line, your knuckles brushing him by accident. His breath catches.

You don’t apologize.

“Do you know,” he says after a moment, voice lower, “you do this thing every time?”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you’re fine.”

You blink, keep your gaze fixed on the line you’re drawing. “I am fine.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Right. That’s why your hand’s shaking.”

You scoff, though your pulse jumps. “Maybe you’re just a bad canvas.”

“Maybe you’re just nervous,” he murmurs, leaning slightly closer.

You look up, ready with something sharp, but he’s already watching you—eyes dark, expression unreadable. The room feels too small.

You grin, because that’s what you do when you’re cornered. “If I was nervous,” you say, “it’s only because I don’t want to ruin your abs. They deserve better art direction.”

He laughs, quiet and breathy, but doesn’t look away. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you say, “you keep inviting me over.”

The smile lingers on his face, but something shifts in the air—the playful tone stretches thin, and underneath it hums something older.

You change the topic.

“So,” you say, because words are a kind of lid and you need one. “We’re tracing the obliques. Maybe a curve like this…” Your hand hovers at his hip, not touching yet. “…and then a thin line running up here. Think calligraphy. Minimal. Pretend I’m ink and you’re paper.”

“Poetic,” he murmurs, and when you dare to glance up, he’s wearing that look—the one that means he’s watching you think. He does it like you’re a good song. You feel seen and flattered and terrified.

“I’ll start light,” you tell him. “If it tickles, don’t laugh. You’ll ruin my masterpiece.”

“Would never,” he says.

You use the back of your knuckles first, easing your hand against the warmth of him, letting your skin tell your brain this is real. He inhales, slow—heavy, and the muscles shift under your touch like fish under clear water.

You have painted hundreds of lines in your life.

None of them were on him.

Careful.

You put felt to skin and draw the first small stroke, a testing dash along the slope of his hip. The eyeliner leaves a narrow ribbon, dark and obedient. You’re close enough to see goosebumps pebble and fade. His hand, relaxed on his knee, tightens just a fraction. Not a flinch. More like a hello.

“Cold?” you ask.

“Fine,” he says. His voice comes out lower than it was a second ago.

Years, you think. Years of this. Years of cups warming your hands on his couch while he mixes a bass line, years of walking side by side and never bumping shoulders because it would break the spell, years of hungry jokes that you both pretend are just jokes.

Well, who’s to blame, honestly?

You add a second stroke, curving the line to hug the edge of his abdomen. The felt tip glides. You are absurdly, disastrously careful. You want the tattoo to look effortless; you want your hands not to shake; you want not to want this so hard you can taste it. You breathe and the scented lamp breathes with you. It smells like someone’s kitchen at night.

The second stroke finishes.

“Do another one here,” he says, voice lower, bringing your hand in his and guiding it just above his waist.

You ignore how warm his hand engulfs yours.

You move the eyeliner there, trying not to tremble. “Bossy.”

“You like that,” he says, almost absentmindedly.

Your hand hesitates for half a second—enough for him to notice. His eyes lift to yours, and the faint curve of his lips is gone now.

“Anton,” you start, but he only tilts his head.

“What?”

“This is—”

“Nothing?” he finishes for you, soft but edged.

You don’t answer. You draw instead—the thin black line curving just above his waist, the shape of something you can’t name. Your hand lingers too long, your thumb brushing over the line to “smooth” it. His breath hitches again, and that’s when you realize how close you’ve gotten—the space between you measured in heartbeats now.

His voice drops. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Playing.”

You set the eyeliner down carefully, because suddenly your hands don’t feel steady at all. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.”

You force a smile, leaning back. “You’re the one who asked me to draw on you. Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s already weird,” he says, and there’s no teasing left in it—just quiet honesty.

You swallow. “Then maybe we stop before it gets worse.”

A pause. Silence.

You clear your throat. “Look down?”

He looks, and for a second your eyes meet across the distance of his torso, as if your gaze could touch him too. You don’t want to think about what the gaze intended—what it thought of behind that head.

You blink first. You always blink first. It has kept you safe and starved in equal measure.

“Okay,” you say, swallowing. “Now the thin accent line—here.” You hover the tip just under the nearest rib, trace a path you can already see. It’s a dangerous place to write. If you misjudge the curve, the whole design will feel off. The thought makes your hands quieter, steadier.

“Breathe,” he says, breathlessly. You’re not sure who he’s telling. You exhale anyway. The line appears where you want it, a simple arc, intimate in its simplicity. You could stop now and it would already look like something meant.

“You’re really good at this,” he adds, and you almost ruin the next stroke.

“I draw things all the time. You know this.” You hear your own voice, bright with a kind of practiced carelessness you could probably sell for money.

“Not like this,” he says, softer. “Not…on me.”

The song changes. The piano keeps talking.

“You’re going to smudge it if you keep flattering me,” you warn, because banter is a fence and fences keep the deer out. You nudge his knee with the back of your hand, a friendly press.

He takes it as you meant it; you wish he wouldn’t, and also that he would.

He goes quiet then—comfortably quiet, the way he gets when he’s focusing. You draw three more lines: one that echoes the curve you made, one that cuts across at a deliberate angle, one that disappears into the hollow near his side like a secret. The design starts to grow bones. It looks like motion. It looks like restraint. It looks—goodness help you—like longing you can see.

Anton shifts just enough to bring him closer, leaning back on his hands to get a better view. The shift pulls his body long, the clean stretch of stomach a map your fingers want to memorize. The move also brings his face down toward yours, closing the altitude until you could count each of his lashes if you were rude enough to stare.

You are not rude; you are a coward. You look at the tattoo instead, and because you’re a professional at pretending, your voice comes out light. “We’re halfway. You doing okay? Need a break?”

“I’m good.” He’s watching you again. “You’re the one concentrating like you’re defusing a bomb.”

“I am.” You add a tiny dot at the end of one line, a punctuation. “There are very few absolutes in this world, but ruining your abs on a Tuesday would be one of them.”

He laughs, and the sound tips your line a hair; you catch it, correct it, make the tilt look purposeful. It’s a small miracle. He watches you pull off the save like he expected it, like he knows how your brain thinks around mistakes. He has known you so long that of course he does.

“Do you want this to mean something?” you ask, and it’s a question about the tattoo, and also not. “Or just pretty lines?”

His gaze flickers to your mouth and back—not in a way that presumes, just a low, honest circuit that makes your breath stumble. “Everything means something,” he says, and then, gentler: “Even if we don’t say it.”

You’re the one to look away again. You are always the one to step back onto the safe part of the path. “Okay,” you murmur, businesslike. “Then it means ‘good angles and symmetry.’”

You work in silence for a while—not empty silence, but the charged kind that asks for attention without making demands. Every time the felt touches him, his stomach tightens slightly, then eases. Every time your hand braces at his side, heat collects under your palm like a secret that doesn’t want to be secret anymore. You place another line and see him swallow. You pretend not to.

A memory moves through you—the third winter of your friendship, when he let you put your freezing hands under his sleeves while you both waited for the night bus. He didn’t joke. He just held still. That’s what he does: he holds still for you in a world that doesn’t.

If you were braver, you would say something now. If you were reckless, you would press your mouth to the clean skin by the sharp new line you’ve drawn and make your mark in two inks at once. Instead you wear the same old disguise: You paint and you talk about nothing.

“Do you think,” you ask, “you’d ever get a real one? For real?”

“Maybe,” he says. “If I found the thing I wanted to keep.”

Your hand stutters and recovers. “Hm.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” You’re almost done. That makes something in you panic. The scene will end; the spell will break. You will put the cap back on the eyeliner and say something chirpy, and he will pull his shirt down and you will go back to being people who only sometimes stand so close the room feels the size of a breath.

You draw the last small curve, a grace note that pulls the whole design together. It is undeniably beautiful. It is also unbearable.

“Okay,” you say, too fast. “That’s it. Don’t move for, like, thirty seconds. I’ll—uh—grab tissues? In case I need to clean an edge.”

You rock back on your heels, already retreating, reaching for the coffee table, for your bag, for anything that looks like distance. Your heart’s doing that runaway thing—it doesn’t trust you either.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s soft, warning and wonder together. You keep going anyway. You toss the eyeliner in your bag, rummage like the right napkin will make this a different story.

“Looks good,” you say—brisk, bright, safe. “I’ll take a picture, send it to you, you can decide if you want me to redo any—”

“Quit.” The single word is gentle, but it hits like a hand catching the back of your sweater just before you step off a curb you didn’t see. “Stop playing.”

You blink. “What?”

“Quit pretending this doesn’t mean anything,” he says, voice low, steady. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Anton—”

He leans forward, the motion slow, deliberate, until you can feel his breath near your cheek. “You keep pulling away like I’m going to let you,” he murmurs. “Like I don’t notice.”

Your throat feels tight. “If I don’t?”

His smile is small, almost sad. “Then maybe I do.”

You freeze. Your fingers close uselessly around nothing. You tell yourself you don’t know what he means.

You do.

He leans forward, and the couch sighs with him. Your name in his mouth is quieter than the lamp hum, but you hear it fine. One of his hands comes down to the rug, steadying. The other finds yours where it’s busy being frantic inside your bag. He doesn’t pull. He just covers your hand with his own—warm over warm—and you realize how long you’ve been cold.

“Anton,” you start, and the word is a little frayed. You pull back out of habit; his fingers follow, not trapping, just present. You are good at this—the art of slipping sideways, the quick joke, the neat turn into less. It has saved you a hundred times. It has cost you, too.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do. You always do, in the end.

He isn’t smug or triumphant or anything you could fight against. He’s steady. His eyes are the same quiet as the cello in the corner. He looks down at the design you drew on him, then up again. You know what it says. You wrote it.

“I like our lines,” he says. “All of them. The ones on me and the ones between us. But this—” His thumb lifts, barely there, skimming the back of your hand like the promise of a stroke you could still draw. “This thing you do. The way you make it a game.”

“It’s not a game,” you say, too quickly. Your face is hot. The room shrinks to the radius of your joined hands.

“I know,” he says. “That’s the point.”

You could joke. You could tell him to practice his cryptic producer lines somewhere else. You could find a sentence that sends you back up onto the river path where the air is thin and safe. You feel all the old exits like doors in a hallway you could sprint. None of them feel like air.

He tilts his head, a tiny, helpless smile breaking through like the sun under thick clouds. “You’re a major tease,” he says, but it’s not accusation, not cruel; it sounds almost fond, like he’s naming a mischievous cat that keeps knocking pens off the desk. “And I don’t mind—most days. I like when you’re here, in whatever way. But I—” He exhales. “I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t know what this is.”

For a moment, neither of you move. The world narrows to lamplight, the faint scent of tea, the warmth of his hand as it finds your wrist. His thumb grazes your pulse—a barely-there touch, but it unravels you anyway.

You breathe his name—not quite a word, not quite a warning—and the sound seems to undo something in both of you.

He exhales slowly, eyes dropping to your lips, then back up, like he’s asking without asking.

You could close the distance. You could make it easy.

But you just whisper, “Anton…” and let the silence hang there—heavy, suspended, the kind that hums right before something gives.

And when his forehead touches yours—barely, just enough to feel it—you don’t move. You let the moment breathe. You let the question stay unanswered.

The eyeliner is still open on the table, black and waiting, but neither of you look at it again.

You breathe heavily now, feeling his breath on yours as you wait on nothing.

“Tell me you don’t want this.” He whispers, his eyes desperately searching yours for a dare to deny once again.

You swallow your breath, your answer.

“Tell me. Use your words.” He pleads, brows furrowed in frustration though his roaming hand already reaches for your hip.

It presses gently on your hip, and only when he used his thumb to circle patterns on them did you break.

“I want this, Anton,” You confess, like a forbidden secret just unfolded—and his adam’s apple bobs from swallowing earnestly, “I want you.”

For a second, the world paused. Like an almost. Almost, the thread snaps. Almost, your emotions burst out of the jar you forced it into.

And then.

And then you bring your gaze up to his, and the clock ticks once more.

He pushes his lips on yours—hungry and starved and wanting more.

You grip his forearm to stabilize yourself, not expecting the impact and letting out a noise of surprise.

Somehow, that encouraged him more.

His other hand held the other side of your hip, and in an instant—as if you weigh nothing, he lifts you up and reverses your positions, holding your hips steady as he pushes you down on the couch.

He deepens the kiss, and you let him, hands latching onto his hair as years and years of pent up frustration releases.

Years of ignoring the obvious tension. Years of toying around thin ice.

You part after a while, short of breath and dazed.

“Do you like it?” you ask, and you’re not asking about lines.

He gives you that look. Midsummer, all warmth, all patience—except that earnest longing he hid underneath is obvious now. “Yeah,” he says, still catching his breath back. “I like it.”

You laugh—a little wrecked around the edges, but it feels good. You reach for the eyeliner again, not to flee this time but to ground yourself in the thing that brought you here. “One last dot,” you announce, “so the composition feels intentional.”

“Everything’s intentional,” he says, and you shake your head because he stole your line and made it better. He watches you place the dot, a tiny star where two arcs nearly meet. He watches like it’s also his story.

“Don’t move,” you murmur, and he doesn’t. You blow gently across the fresh ink and he shudders. The air returns to your lungs like it’s been waiting.

“Photo?” you ask.

“For me,” he says, possessive—“Not for anyone else.”—but it’s not a rule; it’s a wish.

You nod, and you’re gentle with the angle, with the light, with the possessiveness in both your chests that doesn’t demand an explanation tonight. The photo captures shadow and line and the hint of your fingers near the edge of the frame.

You send it to him. His phone hums on the table; he doesn’t check it. He looks at you.

Only you. Only ever you.

And perhaps, under the moonlight, the both of you were always supposed to happen, no matter how far you try to run.

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