#anton angst

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

They came bearing gifts: bagels and watery hot chocolate stolen from the dining hall. “We saw you moving in,” Anton had explained quickly, voice tumbling over itself. “Thought maybe you could use some help.”

Then Sohee, grinning, lifted the plate in his hands and added, “Plus, we saw you at the frat party last night. Figured you’d need food.”

Manon gasped like they were saviors then shoved you aside to grab the first bagel and announced right then and there that the four of you were friends now. You could only laugh, stepping back to let them in, not realizing you’d just opened the door to the rest of your life.

From that morning on, the four of you were impossible to untangle. What was meant to be a favor quickly became a habit; Anton and Sohee were always at your door and Manon always let them in.

Friday nights meant football games where you painted your faces in sloppy stripes and screamed yourselves raw from the bleachers, even though you didn’t understand half the rules, just that your school was winning and that was enough.

Saturdays were for swim meets with posters in hand watching Anton slice through the water and touch the wall first every single time. His cheeks always burned when you swore he’d be captain next year, shrugging off the praise even as pride bloomed in his chest.

Sohee had his concerts. The three of you filed into the auditorium with flowers clutched tight, screaming every time he had a solo until the choir director threatened to throw you out. You would struggle to keep in your laughs for the rest of the night.

And then there was ballet (Manon’s bright idea), an elective she convinced you to take, neglecting to mention you’d be performing on stage three times that semester but Anton and Sohee showed up anyway, front row with phones raised high, clapping politely like you were professionals. Without fail, they always took you and Manon out to dinner afterward because they knew how hungry you’d be.

When November came around and the semester started to come to a close, you pushed tables together in the dorm lounge for Friendsgiving, each of you bringing something from home. Anton and Sohee taught you about their Korean traditions, Manon brought a mix of her Ghanaian and Swiss dishes and you explained yours between laughter while food was passed around. It felt like home.

They felt like home.

By December there was a tiny Christmas tree you and Anton decorated while Manon and Sohee strung lights around your room. You exchanged cheap gifts wrapped in too much tape and cards scribbled with words that mattered more than the presents themselves. When you all went away for the holidays, you kept in touch, making plans for what the spring semester would hold.

When spring finally rolled around, it didn’t feel quite as terrifying as fall had. New York was no longer something you were surviving but somewhere you were beginning to belong to.

You built your schedules together over late-night takeout the first week, promising to meet for lunch between classes and somehow you all ended up in the same section of English 102.

You were the only one who treated it like it mattered, you figured it was the English major in you. Manon used it as an extra hour of watching shows, Sohee half the time scribbled choreography notes in the margins or finished homework for music theory and to give Anton credit, he at least paid attention…even if you sometimes caught him doodling staff lines in the corners of his notebook.

It was a small class, tucked into one of the older buildings and the professor had a habit of asking open-ended questions that usually went unanswered but you liked her. She had a soft spot for fiction and a drawer full of chocolate she passed around during presentations.

The second semester moved faster than the first. There were fewer homesick nights and more impromptu trips to Chinatown; more movie nights in the dorm lounge with popcorn that always burned; more inside jokes scribbled onto whiteboards in the dorm halls; more of Anton sitting cross-legged on your bed with his guitar asking you to read his lyrics out loud just to hear how they sounded coming from someone else.

It’s the last week of classes and Sohee and Manon both opted to skip, completely over the school year while you decided to go, Anton tagged along so you wouldn’t be alone. The classroom is only half full and students are lounging around studying for their last finals.

You’re in the front row with Anton beside you, passing the time with a game of tic-tac-toe in the margin of his notebook until your professor claps her hands together. “Alright,” she calls, smiling at the groans she knows are coming. “Time to go over your last assignment of the semester and don’t worry, it’s not an essay.”

She reaches for a stack on her desk and lifts a small box of envelopes. “I want you all to write a letter. It can be to yourself, to a classmate, to anyone who’s made an impression on you during your freshman year. Seal it up, give it to me and I’ll send them back to you…two years after you graduate.”

You pout at the catch, two years? You glance at Anton expecting a joke but he’s sitting unusually still. His pencil, the one he always chews on, is balanced between his fingers frozen mid-tap against his notebook. You nudge him. “Earth to Anton?”

He blinks out of whatever world he drifted into and awkwardly laughs. “Yeah? Sorry…just thinking about who to write to.”

“Yourself,” you say easily, already reaching for the envelope your professor is passing down the row.

He hums noncommittingly and reaches for an envelope, turning it over in his hands slowly.

You don’t waste time and start writing immediately. You sign and date the corner of your lined paper and start spilling little pieces of who you think you’ll become. You ask future-you about the bestseller you hope you’ll write, ask if you officially move to New York, you add a line about Manon wondering if the two of you really commit to living together postgrad. Then you steal a peak at Anton who still seems to be lost in thought before hesitantly writing: I hope we stay close.

You don’t think much of it, it’s a throwaway sentiment. When you finish, you look up and see Anton still hasn’t written a single word. His notebook is blank, still untouched almost like he’s afraid to write.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He startles again. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m—I’m fine.”

He clears his throat, flips open his notebook and finally starts writing but not in his usual messy handwriting, rather slower and neater. You can’t see a single line of what he writes and you don’t try to. It feels…private.

When the lecture is over, your professor calls out. “Alright, pass them forward!”

You lick your envelope, seal it closed and hand it off. Anton hesitates for a moment before sealing his and slides it into the pile with everyone else’s. As you pack your bag, you say, “Kinda weird to think we’ll get these back in what…five years?”

He hums softly. “Feels so far.”

You don’t notice the way he looks at the envelopes as your professor tucks the box under her arm. You don’t notice the way his fingers flex like he’s itching to pull his back out. Once you make it outside Anton bumps your shoulder playfully as you walk. “Lunch?” he asks.

You smile and loop arms with him. “Obviously.”

You don’t think about the letters again.

Present Day

“Happy birthday to you~”

You stir awake to the faint sound of someone humming low and off-key in your ear. For a split second, you think it’s Manon, already back from whatever glamorous event she’s working in Paris this week but when you blink your eyes open, it’s your boyfriend Jake sitting at the edge of your bed, hair messy, still shirtless and holding a cupcake with a crooked candle stuck in the middle.

“Happy birthday to you…” he sings softly, dragging out the tune like he’s trying not to laugh at himself. When you groan and drag the blanket over your head, he nudges your leg gently with his knee. “Nope. Come on, you have to listen.”

You groan and roll onto your back covering your eyes with both hands. “Jake, it’s too early for this.”

“It’s nine,” he says through a laugh before going back to singing.

You peek at him between your fingers and see his proud smile and you don’t have the heart to argue. When he finishes, he leans over to kiss your forehead then whispers, “Happy birthday, pretty girl,” before offering you the cupcake.

You sit up, eyes still heavy with sleep, hair a mess and voice rough. “Where’d you even get a cupcake?”

He tilts his head towards your door “Bodega downstairs. I told them it was your birthday and he insisted on giving me the biggest one.”

You smile despite yourself and bite into the cupcake. A few crumbs fall causing Jake to brush crumbs from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. There’s something so intimate about it you glance away for a second, suddenly aware of the quiet apartment around you. Manon’s job as a social media coordinator for a global beauty brand has her in Europe more often than in the apartment you’ve shared since graduation. You barely see her these days except for late-night FaceTimes and the rare occasions when she’s home.

And Jake…well, Jake has slowly filled the leftover space.

You met him last spring at a mutual friend’s housewarming party; soft-spoken, polite, a little awkward but in a cute way. He works in Manhattan as a business analyst, wears button-downs even on weekends and chips in towards your rent on months you’re behind. He’s the kind of guy your parents hoped you end up with.

“So,” he says, settling beside you, his knee bumping yours. “What does the birthday girl want to do today?”

You shrug. “I work today, remember? Manuscript review.”

He frowns. “Are they seriously making you work on your birthday?”

“That’s the life of an editorial assistant,” you joke, nudging him. “Also, I really don’t mind. It’s kind of relaxing.”

He doesn’t look convinced but he wraps an arm around your shoulders anyway, pulling you into his side. You let yourself fall against him, warm and comfortable, your cheek resting on his chest. Your life isn’t perfect, you’re two years out of graduation, living with a best friend who’s never home, working a job that’s adjacent to the dreams you once wished on stars for but it’s safe and Jake has become part of that.

He kisses the top of your head. “Well, my parents want to take us out tonight. They reserved that Italian place you love downtown. They’re excited to celebrate with you.”

Your stomach flips. Jake’s parents adore you, they treat you like you’re already part of the family. His mother meal preps for you and his father forwards you articles about “the best books to read in your twenties,” because he thought you’d appreciate it as an aspiring author.

It should make you happy but somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny voice reminds you of a ghost from your past, someone you thought would be your forever. You shove the thought away. Jake is watching you, fingers still drawing circles on your knee, waiting for your reaction. You force a smile. “That sounds…nice.”

He beams at you. “Great! The reservation is for six pm.”

Jake takes your plate from you and sets it aside on your nightstand before crawling back toward you on the bed, his knee sinking into the mattress beside your hip.

“You know,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek gingerly, “you look really, really beautiful right now.”

You huff a sleepy laugh. “I look like a raccoon.”

He dips down to kiss the tip of your nose. “A beautiful raccoon.”

You swat his chest but he only laughs, leaning in to kiss you properly this time. His lips move against yours with a fervour that leaves you breathless. His hand slides to the back of your head, his thumb grazing the curve of your jaw as his ring presses coolly against your skin. You gasp and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

“____,” he groans against your lips, his voice filled with need.

You nod, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He pulls back just barely, lips brushing yours as he whispers, “Let me spoil you today.”

“Jake…” you start but he kisses the rest of your sentence away, smiling against your mouth.

His hands trail down your sides, fingertips tracing lazy lines over your hips. You shiver and he notices. “Come here,” he breathes, shifting suddenly. Before you can question it, his arms scoop under your thighs and back, lifting you effortlessly off the bed. You gasp, arms flying around his shoulders. “Jake!”

“What?” he teases, carrying you toward the bathroom with ridiculous ease.

“Put me down!”

He laughs and shakes his head. “No.”

You try to glare at him but it’s impossible when he’s looking at you like this: totally in love. He nudges the bathroom door open with his foot, sets you gently against the counter and presses another kiss to your forehead. “Shower with me?”

His fingers toy with the hem of your sleep shirt, waiting for your answer. You breathe out a tiny laugh. “Are you trying to make us both late?”

He smirks. “Maybe.”

“Well…” you slide your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, “I guess we can be a little late.”

His grin turns boyish and triumphant. “Have I ever told you I love you?”

You laugh in response as he turns on the water, steam already curling through the room. You kiss him again, slow, sweet and a little dizzying. He smiles into it, hands tightening at your hips. For a few minutes, nothing exists except the heat of the room, his lips on yours and the familiar comfort of being held exactly how you want to be held. Eventually, he pulls back, brushing a thumb along your jaw one last time. “Okay,” he breathes, trying and failing to look composed, “we should actually get ready now.”

You nod but neither of you move until he leans in for one more soft kiss, barely a brush of lips, gentle enough to make your chest tighten. The two of you take turns washing the other off before exiting the shower to finish getting ready.

You brush your teeth beside him while he wipes steam from the mirror. It’s a familiar routine: him toweling off his hair while you lean over the counter to apply moisturizer. His overnight bag sits in the corner, small and a little pathetic-looking, holding only a few shirts and a toothbrush. He’s mentioned wanting a drawer here more than once, half-joking, half-hopeful. You always deflect with something logical like, “You don’t sleep over enough,” and he laughs it off but the truth sits heavy in your chest even now.

The last person who ever had space in your dresser…the last person whose hoodies lived on your chair, whose shirts were folded next to yours, whose medals hung on your desk when his dorm ran out of space…

You shut the thought down before it forms completely.

Jake buttons his shirt next to you, humming softly as he tucks it into his slacks and you force your heartbeat back into the present. “You look beautiful,” he says, straightening your collar with both hands and kissing your cheek. “Ready?”

You nod, stepping into your shoes while he slings his bag over his shoulder. A moment later, he takes your hand gently, squeezing once and the two of you head out the door together.

By the time you make it to the office, the day slips into its usual rhythm. You spend most of the afternoon hunched over your desk, flipping pages and scribbling notes in the quiet hum of the office. It’s not glamorous, not what you used to imagine when you thought about becoming a writer but it’s close enough to feel like you’re still reaching for it. Close enough to keep you here.

At some point, your coworker swings by with a quick, “Happy birthday,” dropping a mini chocolate bar onto your desk before disappearing again. You thank her, a little surprised, turning it over in your fingers before setting it aside.

You check your phone more than you mean to.

A text from Manon, some blurry photo from a rooftop in Paris, miss you, birthday girl!!! followed by a string of hearts.

Another from Jake: Can’t wait for tonight. What kind of cake do you like?

You purse your lips at the question before typing something back but your fingers hover for a second longer than they should before you lock your phone and flip back to the manuscript in front of you.

By the time five o’clock rolls around, you’re gathering your things, slipping your notebook into your bag, the weight of the day settling into your bones. The city greets you with its usual hum: taxis blaring, people rushing, the air thick with late afternoon heat as you make your way down into the subway.

The train ride home is familiar. You stand wedged between strangers, one hand wrapped around the pole as the car lurches forward. You watch your reflection flicker in the window between stops, your mind drifting in and out of nothingness.

By the time you step back into your apartment, the silence greets you again. You move through it easily, showering quickly, changing into something nicer, smoothing out the details until you look like someone who has her life exactly where it’s supposed to be.

At exactly six, your phone buzzes.

jake <3: I’m outside.

You grab your bag, take one last look at yourself in the mirror then head downstairs. Jake is leaning against his car when you step out, a bouquet of flowers in one hand. He straightens the second he sees you, his entire face lighting up. “Wow,” he breathes. “You look…wow.”

You laugh, walking toward him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoes, stepping forward to kiss you softly before handing you the flowers. “Happy birthday.”

“They’re beautiful,” you say, genuinely touched as you bring them closer.

“Wait,” he says quickly, reaching into his pocket. “I have one more thing.”

You blink as he pulls out a small, familiar red box. Your stomach dips slightly. “Jake…”

“Just open it,” he insists, smiling.

You hesitate for half a second before flipping it open. Inside sits a delicate gold Cartier bracelet, the light catching against it in a way that makes it sparkle. It’s beautiful no doubt about it but also unmistakably expensive.

For a moment, you don’t say anything. “Do you like it?” he asks, watching your face carefully.

You blink, forcing yourself back into the moment. “Yeah! Yeah, it’s…it’s really beautiful.”

“I saw it and thought of you, something you could wear every day.” He says, stepping closer. “Here, let me.” He adds gently, taking it from the box. “

You hold out your wrist and he fastens it carefully, his fingers brushing your skin as he adjusts it into place. He beams, clearly satisfied, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before opening the passenger door for you. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

Dinner goes by smoothly.

His parents greet you like they always do, his mother pulling you into a hug, his father smiling warmly as he asks about work, about writing, about everything you’ve been up to. The restaurant glows softly around you, low lights and quiet chatter filling the space as wine is poured and plates are passed. Conversation flows naturally. You laugh when you’re supposed to, answer questions easily, slip into the rhythm of it all like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

And then—

“Well, I was just telling Jake the other day…it won’t be long before we’re celebrating something even bigger, will it?”  His mother says, setting her glass down with a small smile, her eyes flicking between the two of you.

Your hand stills in his and Jake lets out a small, awkward laugh. “Mom…”

“What? You two are so good together. Anyone can see that.”  She says lightly.

His father chuckles. “Don’t mind her, she’s still upset that your brother eloped.” He turns to face you, “you’re already part of the family, hun.”

You nod automatically, the word family settling somewhere in your chest in a way that feels heavier than it should. “That’s sweet,” you say.

Jake squeezes your hand under the table in reassurance, like this is something good…something to be happy about and it is, it should be.

This is what people want, isn’t it? Warm dinners, parents who already look at you like you belong. A boyfriend who plans ahead, who shows up early with flowers and expensive gifts.

You used to think you wanted this. You still think you do. So why does it feel like you’re sitting just slightly outside of your own life, watching it happen instead of fully living it? You smile when Jake’s mom asks you another question, nodding along, answering without really hearing yourself. The conversation flows around you but your thoughts have already drifted somewhere quieter, somewhere harder to look at.

This isn’t how you imagined twenty-three.

You thought it would be louder, messier. Late nights that bled into early mornings, candles stuck into a store-bought cake at midnight because someone forgot to plan ahead. You thought there would be party-city decorations taped unevenly to the walls, balloons already starting to deflate.

You thought there would be handwritten cards, messy, rushed and filled with inside jokes. Cards that meant more than the gifts themselves.

You’ve spent so long telling yourself this is what you wanted: a life that makes sense, a relationship that feels safe, a future that doesn’t come with question marks attached and now that you’re sitting in the middle of it, surrounded by everything you once thought would make you feel whole, all you can focus on is the quiet, unsettling feeling that something is off.

That maybe wanting something for so long doesn’t mean it’s right when it finally finds you.

Jake squeezes your hand gently, grounding you just enough to pull you back into the moment. “Everything okay?” he asks, his voice low.

You nod too quickly, offering him a smile that feels convincing enough. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

And you almost believe it.

Nothing here is wrong. There’s nothing to point to, nothing to explain why your chest feels this tight, why your thoughts keep drifting just out of reach, why you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something you can’t quite name. So you let the conversation pull you back in, let yourself laugh when you’re supposed to, respond when spoken to, slip back into place like you’ve done all night but the feeling doesn’t go away.

It lingers, a persistent question you’re not ready to answer: why does something you’ve wanted for so long feel so unfamiliar now that you have it?

NYU sophomore year

You don’t realize what time it is until it’s already too late.

Your laptop screen is the only light in the common room, the rest of the floor is quiet. Your fingers move quickly over your keyboard, words spilling out faster than you can second guess them, the story in your head finally taking shape.

Manon had been there at some point, curled up on the couch scrolling through her phone but you barely noticed when she got up. Sohee had said something about grabbing water, or maybe snacks before disappearing. Anton had been sitting across from you, half-watching whatever you were writing, half-doodling in the margins of his notebook. You don’t remember when he left either.

You’re too deep in your fictive world to notice how all your friends have slowly abandoned you until a voice cuts through. “Yo.”

You glance up to see Anton leaning against the doorway, hair slightly messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up his arms. “I think I left my captain’s hoodie in your room,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Can you come check? I don’t wanna just go in there if you’re not—”

“Oh, yeah,” you say immediately, already pushing your chair back. “It’s probably on my desk.”

You follow him down the hall, still half in your story and unaware of the date and time. When you reach your door he lets you walk in first. The second the door opens you’re met with confetti to the face.

“Surprise!”

You jump so hard you almost drop your phone. Streamers fly into your line of vision, balloons bobbing against the ceiling as Manon and Sohee burst out from either side of your room, laughing as they shout over each other. “Happy birthday!”

You blink, completely stunned, your brain scrambling to catch up as you take in the decorations strung haphazardly across your walls, the pile of half-inflated balloons in the corner, the cheap plastic banner taped slightly crooked above your bed.

“Oh my gosh! What!? when did you??” You laugh breathless, pressing a hand to your chest.

“We’ve been planning this all week,” Manon says proudly, already reaching for you, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you lightly.

“You were too busy ignoring us, writing your little stories to notice,” Sohee adds, grinning.

“I was not ignoring you!” you protest, laughing as you turn in a slow circle, taking everything in.

Up close, the details start to settle. You notice the fairy lights, finally. They’re strung the same way you always keep them but now they’re lined with polaroids of tiny moments clipped between the wires. You step closer without thinking and reach up to examine one between your fingers.

There’s one from your latest group trip to China town, Sohee had taken it after you had all gotten matcha at a new cafe. There’s another of  you asleep on Anton’s lap, you think it’s from midterms week. One of Anton, taken from further away standing by the pool, hair still wet, turning toward the camera like he didn’t realize he was being watched and then one of all four of you, squeezed together in your dorm room, slightly blurry but unmistakably yours.

“You guys…” you start but your voice trails off.

Behind you, a match strikes. You turn just as Anton leans over a small cake, carefully lighting each candle one by one, tongue pressing lightly against his cheek. The flicker of the flames catches in his eyes as he straightens then he starts to sing. “Happy birthday to you…”

Sohee joins in almost immediately, louder and off-key on purpose and Manon follows right after. Anton steps closer as he sings, holding the cake out toward you, the candles casting a soft light across his face. He’s smiling as he reaches the end. “…happy birthday to you.”

The song ends with laughter and clapping, Sohee whooping loudly while Manon squeezes your arm. Anton just nods toward the candles. “Make a wish.”

For a second, everything fades and all you can think about is this moment, the three people standing around you, the way it feels to be surrounded by something this loving. You wish, simply, that it never changes. That the four of you stay like this, that this…whatever this is, lasts.

You blow out the candles.

“Okay! Cut the cake I’m hungry.” Sohee cheers immediately.

Anton disappears for a second, setting the cake down to grab plates and a plastic knife. When he comes back, he hands you the first slice. You glance down at it, then back up at him. “Wait…this is my favorite!”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “You mentioned it once.”

“When?” You ask.

“During Sohee’s birthday. You were complaining about the flavor.” He says, already cutting another slice.

You let out a scoff, shaking your head. “I was not complaining.”

“You were,” Sohee calls from across the room.

You playfully roll your eyes, “yeah well who wants an ice cream cake for their birthday? You can eat ice cream whenever!”

Anton huffs a quiet laugh, handing out the rest of the plates. Manon grabs your arm again before you can think too hard about it, pulling you toward the center of the room. “No more talking. We’re dancing.”

Before you can respond, Sohee is pushing something into your hands, a flimsy plastic sash that reads BIRTHDAY GIRL in glittery letters and Manon is already placing a slightly crooked tiara on your head.

You go along with it, laughing as she spins you around, the tiara slipping slightly and the sash twisting awkwardly across your chest. At some point, you catch Anton watching you from across the room. He’s leaning back against your desk, arms crossed loosely, a half-smile playing at his lips like he’s trying not to laugh at you.

You don’t linger on it. You let yourself get lost in the music and the company of your friends. Grateful to have a found family.

After your birthday, things don’t change. At least not much…not really.

The four of you still move through campus like a unit, still fall into the same routines, the same late-night hangouts and shared meals and crowded study sessions. You still end up in each other’s rooms, still spend weekends bouncing between games and practices and whatever last-minute plans Manon decides are non-negotiable.

Somewhere in the middle of it all though, something shifts…between you and a certain chestnut haired swim captain.

Anton ends up in your room more often, stretched across your bed with his head propped against your pillow while you sit cross-legged beside him, laptop balanced on your thighs. At first there’s always space between you, enough to pretend nothing’s different.

Until there isn’t.

Until one night you realize you're laying down now, shoulder pressed against his, your arm brushing his every time you move, neither of you shifting away. Until another night turns into you curled slightly into his side, his hoodie bunched under your cheek, his breathing slow and steady beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

No one says anything about it.

Lunches start happening without the others. At first it’s accidental, running into each other after his swim practice, both of you starving, deciding to grab something quick before your next class but then it becomes a habit. “Just us,” he’ll say, like it doesn’t mean anything. As if it’s not becoming something.

You wander through the city together, ducking into small places you find on a whim, sharing fries, trading bites, talking about everything and nothing all at once. He listens when you ramble about your stories, asks questions like he actually cares about the plot and fictional worlds you build. You start saving things to tell him.

You don’t realize you’re doing it until it’s impossible to ignore. Late nights turn into later ones. Text messages that stretch past midnight, then one, then two, until your phone is the last thing you see before you fall asleep and the first thing you reach for when you wake up. Your 8AM classes become harder to sit through, your focus slipping in and out because you’re thinking about something he said hours ago, replaying it without meaning to.

“Why are you smiling at your phone like that?” Manon asks once, eyeing you from across the room.

“I’m not,” you say too quickly, locking your screen.

She hums unconvinced but lets it go. You start doing that more than you’d like to admit, shrugging things off, brushing past questions, lying to your friends…to yourself.

You tell yourself it’s nothing, that when you choose to sit next to him instead of across from him, when your knees brush under the table and neither of you move that it’s platonic. You tell yourself that when people start to notice.

“You two are always together,” Sohee says one night, not accusing, just observant.

“We’re literally all always together,” you shoot back, a little too fast. Manon glances between the two of you, something knowing flickering across her face before she looks away.

You laugh it off. You tell yourself it’s easier that way because nothing happens. There are no confessions, no grand moments you can point to and say that’s where it changed. No one crosses a line that can’t be uncrossed. If anything, the two of you become experts at hovering just beneath it, circling something unspoken and pretending it isn’t there.

You let it, whatever it is, exist in that in-between space. Until it’s everywhere. Until it’s the first person you look for in a room and the last person you say goodnight to. Until it’s his hoodie thrown over your chair, his water bottle sitting next to yours, his name lighting up your phone more than anyone else’s.

It's not until you're packing up to go home for summer break do you realize the cold hard truth: you've fallen for Anton Lee and you have no idea what to do about it.

Present Day

It’s been a week since your birthday and dinner with Jake’s parents. Manon is back, the apartment finally feeling like itself. She has music low in the background as she sits cross-legged on the living room floor with her laptop open, clips from Paris flashing across the screen as she edits.

You’re in your room, standing in front of your mirror, finishing your makeup while Jake lingers behind you. Today is date night. He’s already ready, button-down crisp, sleeves rolled slightly and watch fastened neatly at his wrist. He’s been watching you for the past few minutes, leaning against your dresser patiently waiting on you. “You almost done?” he asks.

“Almost…two seconds.” You say, leaning in to swipe mascara across your lashes. 

“Mm,” he hums, pushing himself off the dresser. You don’t notice when he starts moving around your room, his attention drifting to the little things you’ve left out, your books stacked unevenly on your desk, the loose papers of your novel you edit at night, the memory box that sits in between your bed and night stand.

It’s tucked just slightly out of place, the lid not fully closed from the last time you went through it. Jake pauses, glancing toward you for a second before crouching down, curiosity getting the better of him. You’re still focused on your reflection when he lifts the lid.

Jake smiles faintly when he finds the box filled with letters and polaroid. He starts flipping through the pictures one by one; Manon mid-laugh, Sohee mewing at the camera, a blurry shot of what looks like a dorm hallway. He keeps shuffling through them until he comes across a picture of you and a man he’s never seen before.

“Babe. Who’s this?”  He calls, turning the photo slightly in his hand. 

You turn just enough to see what he’s holding and your stomach drops. It’s you after Anton’s swim comp wrapped in his captain's hoodie while he stands beside you, medal hanging from his neck and arm slung loosely around your shoulders.

You move before you can think about it. “Jake!” you cross the room quickly, faster than you mean to, snatching the photo and the box from his hands in one motion. “Why are you going through my stuff!?”

Jake blinks, thrown off, hands lifting slightly in defense. “Woah! I wasn’t…I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Well, it is,” you say, a little sharper than you intended, already setting the box aside like putting distance between it and him will fix something.

Jake exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Okay…I’m sorry. I just…I saw it and I got curious.”

You don’t respond right away, turning back to your mirror. Jake watches you for a second then asks. “Who is he?”

Your grip tightens around your makeup brush. “No one,” you say coldly.

Jake lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “He doesn’t look like no one.”

You don’t answer. “Is he an ex?” he presses.

You cringe before you can stop yourself. “Can you just…drop it please? I said it’s nothing, Jake.”

He frowns, something frustrated flickering across his face now. “I’ve told you about all my exes. Why are you hiding this?” He says, a little more pointed.

You open your mouth and then close it because what are you supposed to say? Anton wasn’t an ex but he also wasn’t someone who meant nothing. Whatever it was that the two of you shared existed in the realm of what if’s and dreams.

“I’m not hiding anything,” you say finally but it comes out weaker than you intend.

Jake studies you, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Then explain it.”

You let out a quiet breath and set your makeup brush down. “There’s nothing to explain. He was just…someone from school.”

“Just someone?” Jake echoes, glancing toward the box you shoved aside. “You’re clearly wearing his hoodie and he’s got his arm around you like…like that’s normal!”

“It was normal. We were friends.” You snap, more defensive now.

The word hangs there, thin and unconvincing, even to your own ears. Jake doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you, his expression shifting from confusion to frustration like he’s trying to understand what you’re not saying just as much as what you are.

“Okay. I’m just gonna be blunt.” he says after a moment. Your stomach drops. “Do you have feelings for him?”

You freeze for half a second, your reflection staring back at you in the mirror, eyes just a little too wide, lips parted like you might actually answer him honestly and for the briefest moment, you consider it. You consider turning around, saying I don’t know or it’s complicated or something real but the truth is messy. The truth doesn’t make sense. The truth would ruin the life you’ve built these two years away from Anton so instead you laugh.

It comes out light and dismissive. “That’s…not even possible,” you say, shaking your head as you turn back to the mirror, picking up your makeup brush. “You can’t have feelings for someone you never even dated. That’s just…” you shrug slightly, meeting his eyes through the reflection, “...dumb.”

Even as it leaves your mouth, something inside you recoils. Still, you don’t take it back. You let the lie sit there between you. You add it to the long list of lies you’ve told. Jake watches you for a few seconds longer, trying to decide if he believes you or not. His gaze lingers, searching your face for any signs of hesitation. You don’t give him anything.

Eventually, he exhales. “…okay,” he says quietly.

He glances at his watch then back at you. “We should go. We’re gonna miss our reservation.”

You nod quickly, grateful for the out. “Yeah.”

You set your brush down and reach for your bag before following him out. You catch Manon’s eyes on your way out and there’s no doubt she heard your conversation. The frown she gives you on your exit speaks volumes.

NYU junior year

You don’t remember who pulled who into the room first. All you know is the music is louder out there but here it’s quieter. Anton’s mouth is already on yours, wasting no time the second the door shuts behind you.

The kiss is messy and rushed. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s backing you up, hands firm at your waist as you stumble together, bumping into the edge of the bed. You laugh softly against his lips, breathless. “The door’s not even locked,” you murmur, glancing over his shoulder for half a second. “Someone could walk in.”

Anton doesn’t pull away, if anything he leans in closer, mouth dragging from your lips to your jaw then lower. “Let them,” he murmurs against your skin like the idea doesn’t bother him at all.

You huff out a quiet laugh, fingers sliding into his hair, tugging lightly just to hear the soft exhale it pulls from him. “You’re insane.”

“Insane about you.” He rebuttals.

His hands skim up your sides as your back hits the mattress as he follows you down and lays his body weight atop you. The room tilts slightly as you turn your head. The window is cracked open just enough to let the cool night air slip in, you can see the city lights flickering somewhere in the distance and all you can think about is how different this is. How far this feels from where you were just a few months ago.

Over the summer, you’d convinced yourself distance would fix it. Back home, surrounded by everything that came before NYU, it was easier to pretend. Easier to ignore the way your phone lit up with his name, easier to let texts sit unanswered a little longer than they should then a little longer after that. You told yourself it was space, that it was necessary. That whatever had started to grow between you at the end of sophomore year would fade if you just…stopped feeding it.

For a while, it almost worked. By the time you came back in the fall, you thought maybe the awkwardness would carry over, that things would feel different but Anton didn’t act like anything had changed. He showed up the same way he always did. Bright smiles, casual touches, sitting a little too close like he always had so you followed his lead.

You laughed like nothing had happened and slipped back into your routines. You ignored the way your chest tightened every time your hands brushed or when he said your name with reverence. You were able to keep it up until December.

The four of you had stumbled into a crowded frat house on a Thursday night. You’d gotten separated from Manon and Sohee somewhere between the kitchen and the stairs, weaving your way through strangers until you ended up by the makeshift bar.

You got to work on making yourself a drink when one of the football players approached you. It started the way those things always do: small talk, a drink pressed into your hand, someone leaning a little closer to hear you over the music.

There was no pressure behind it, no second layer to peel back and analyze. You took a sip of your drink and batted your lashes up at him. You opened your mouth to ask if he wanted to go somewhere more private only to be stopped by a hand wrapping around your waist.

Your entire body reacted before your mind had a chance to catch up, breath catching sharply. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. You knew the weight of his hand, the way his thumb slips under your shirt and rubs slow circles along your v-line.

“Hey baby,” he said over your shoulder.

You malfunctioned at the pet name while the footballer glanced between the two of you, something in his expression shifting. “Oh…are you…?”

“Yes,” Anton said, cutting in before he could finish.

You turned then, finally looking at him, your brows pulled together in confusion. You opened your mouth to question it, to push back but he was already moving. His grip wasn’t tight but it was possessive enough that you followed without thinking, letting him guide you through the crowd towards an empty hallway.

“Anton what was that!?”

He shrugged before letting you go. “I didn’t like it.”

You stared at him, trying to understand what that meant. “Didn’t like what?”

He clenched his jaw before responding. “All of it. The way he was flirting with you, looking at you. I didn’t like it.”

Your breath caught yet again but you tried to compose yourself. “Okay…but that doesn’t mean you can just…what, pretend I’m your girlfriend?” You said slowly, trying to keep your voice steady.

He huffed a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head like you were missing the point. “Why are we still doing this?” he asked suddenly.

Your stomach dropped. “Doing what?”

“This,” he said gesturing vaguely between you, frustration bleeding through. “Pretending like nothing’s here.”

You blinked, your thoughts scrambling to catch up.

“I gave you space. All summer I let you pull away and I didn’t push, I didn’t ask questions and when we got back, I played along. I acted like it was fine.”

The words hit harder than they should. Maybe it was because he was right. You did feel it, you had always felt it. You had just been better at pretending you didn’t.

“Anton…” you started but it came out quieter than you intended.

He stepped closer closing the distance just enough to make your breath catch again but he didn't touch you. “When are we going to stop acting like this is nothing?” he had asked.

That night ended the way it probably shouldn’t have. With your back pressed against the cold tile of a frat house bathroom, your hands tangled in his hair as you kissed him like you were trying to make up for every moment you didn’t.

You’re pulled back to the present when Anton’s mouth dips lower and he leaves open mouthed kisses across your stomach. You sigh at the feeling of his tongue dragging across your skin before letting your right hand drop to his head to tug at his hair, relishing in the whimpers he releases.

You smirk at the hold you have on him, literally and metaphorically. You tug a bit harder when he leaves a kiss below your navel right above the button of your mini skirt. Before he can go any further, you tilt his head up to look you in your eyes.

You take delight in the way he obeys but your satisfaction is snubbed out by the reminder of what led the two of you to this room. “Who was that girl?”

Anton’s brows lift slightly like he genuinely has no idea what you’re talking about. “What girl?” he asks, voice calm.

You narrow your eyes at him, unimpressed. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” he presses, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile.

You let out a quiet scoff, your hand slipping from his hair as he shifts, sliding off you and settling beside you on the bed. The sudden space between you feels wrong immediately. You turn toward him without thinking and climb right back into his space, swinging a leg over his lap to straddle him. His hands automatically go to grip your waist and pull you in closer, bucking his hips a bit.

“I’m talking about the girl downstairs. The one who was following you like a lost puppy.” You say more direct now.

Anton exhales softly through his nose and grips your hips a bit tighter. “She wasn’t following me like a puppy,” he says, still playing it off.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Really?”

He shrugs but he doesn’t look away from you. “She’s no one.”

“That’s not what it looked like.” Your fingers press a little more firmly into his shoulder from frustration and jealousy.

“Why do you care?” he asks quietly, rolling his hips below you to create friction. You falter for half a second from the weight behind the question and your growing arousal.

“I don’t,” you say quickly, your gaze flicking away for just a moment before returning to him. “I’m just asking.”

He hums unconvinced, his right hand sliding a little higher on your hips, holding you there a bit more firmly now. “She’s just some girl Sohee was trying to set me up with,” he says, watching your face carefully.

Your expression tightens before you can stop it, something like a scowl flickering across your face as your fingers curl slightly against his shoulders. “Oh,” you say but there’s nothing neutral about it. You lean in before you can think too hard about it, kissing him again, harder this time. Anton moans against your mouth and kisses back with equal fervor, almost whining when you pull back.

“I don’t like that.” You murmur against his lips, shaking your head slightly.

Anton lets out a quiet breath, his grip on you tightening as he leans up to chase your lips. “She doesn’t matter. I promise.”  He says, the words brushing against your mouth.

His forehead bumps yours for a second, his gaze lingering like he’s waiting to see if you’ll push again, if you’ll question it, if you’ll admit why you even asked in the first place.

Instead you push him back to tug his shirt off and set off on laying kisses along the column of his neck and chest. Making sure to leave behind angry red bruises that show he’s off limits.

That’s how it goes with the two of you. Tonight it’s a girl downstairs, someone neither of you care about until suddenly you do. Yesterday it was the way Anton’s jaw tightened when your hand lingered a second too long on your partner during workshop, his quiet mood lasting the rest of the night until you finally snapped and asked what his problem was. Next week, it’ll be something else entirely.

It always is. You push, he pulls. He pulls, you push harder. Neither of you willing to step back far enough to end it, neither of you brave enough to step forward and call it what it is.

With spring break coming up, you only pray a change of scenery is enough to give the two of you some reprieve.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Seven days later

The ocean stretches out in front of you, endless and blue. Manon is beside you, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, already halfway through her third drink like she’s trying to make the most of the “unlimited” part of the resort package. You’re stretched out on your stomach, book open in front of you while Sohee and Anton ride jetskis in the clear blue water.

Spring break had been Manon’s idea. It started over winter break with a facetime call. She had been pushing for a cabin trip at first but Sohee and Anton were doing a cruise and your parents had planned a last minute family trip and suddenly the whole thing unraveled before it ever really came together. Manon had sulked for all of ten minutes before pivoting completely.

She proposed spring break in Cancun. Next thing you knew, you were booking an all-inclusive resort in Cancun, splitting costs and promising it would be fun.

It’s day three of five now and so far it’s been exactly what you expected. You’ve drank more than your liver can probably handle, eaten so much food to the point of expanding your stomachs and backs and the four of you have spent hours in the water with salt drying into your skin.

Somewhere in between all of it, you and Anton had smoothed over whatever that moment at the party had been but things haven’t exactly gone back to normal either. You think it’s all the sexual tension floating around the two of you. All four of you share a room, Anton and Sohee on one bed, you and Manon on the other. It’s hard to sneak away and get alone time. You’ve resorted to living vicariously through the characters in your books you packed.

Manon lets out a satisfied sigh beside you, tipping the last of her piña colada back before setting the empty glass in the sand. “Okay…I’m gonna go get us more drinks before they try to cut me off.” She announces, pushing herself up with a little wobble.

You snort, lowering your book just enough to glance at her. “You’re already pushing it.”

She waves you off like it’s nothing, already brushing sand from her legs and adjusting her bikini straps. “They love me,” she insists, flashing you a grin before turning toward the bar.

You watch her go, eyes narrowing slightly as she weaves her way across the sand, pausing once to steady herself before continuing on like nothing happened. Shaking your head, you let out a quiet sigh and settle back down, turning your attention to your book again. The pages of The Nightingale blur slightly in the bright sun but you try to focus anyway, letting the words pull you somewhere else.

You only make it a few lines in before something bumps lightly against your foot. You blink, glancing down to find a volleyball resting against your ankle, grains of sand clinging to its surface. “Sorry!” a voice calls from a few feet away.

You look up to see a guy jogging toward you, slowing as he gets closer. He lifts a hand in a small, almost shy wave, offering you an apologetic smile as he comes to a stop. “Didn’t mean to interrupt…uh that kind of rolled away from us.” He gestures back toward the makeshift volleyball court set up a little further down the beach, a few people still standing there watching.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, brushing sand from your forearm before reaching down to pick up the ball. “You’re good,” you say, offering it back to him.

He steps closer to take it, fingers brushing yours for a brief second. “Thanks…what’re you reading?” He asks, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

You glance down at the cover, holding it up slightly. “The Nightingale.”

He nods like he recognizes it, you’re not entirely convinced he does. “Is it good?”

You shrug lightly. “So far.”

He smiles at that. “I was gonna say, you look pretty into it.”

You huff a quiet laugh, closing it partway. “I was, until your game attacked me.”

He laughs, scratching the back of his neck. “Can…can I buy you a drink? As an apology.”

You hesitate for half a second, your instinct to say no rising automatically but it stalls before it reaches your mouth because what would you even say? “No, I can't, because there’s a boy on a jetski somewhere who gets jealous even though we’re not together?”

Before you can figure out how to turn him down politely, movement catches in your peripheral. Manon is making her way back across the sand, two drinks balanced in her hands, her sunglasses now crooked on her face. In front of you, Sohee and Anton are just stepping off their jetskis, laughing about something as they walk toward you.

Your stomach tightens. The timing is almost cruel. “Actually, I—” you start, already half-turning toward Manon, ready to use her as an out.

“Oh perfect,” Manon cuts in easily as she reaches you, not missing a beat as her eyes flick between you and the guy in front of you. “This one’s for Sohee,” she says, pressing one of the drinks into his hands the second he gets close. Sohee takes it without question, too busy thanking her to notice anything else.

You fight the urge to jump her. You have to remind yourself she has good intentions. You turn back to the stranger, forcing your expression into something kinder. “Yeah…um one drink is fine.”

Your eyes flick over to Anton but he lets nothing slip. He pushes his hair away from his forehead and laughs at a joke Sohee makes before settling down in the sand next to Manon.

“Cool, c’mon.” The stranger says, smiling a little wider now that you’ve agreed. He offers you his hand and you take it, dusting off sand from your stomach and thighs. You adjust your bikini straps before following after him.

Anton doesn’t look your way again.

The walk to the bar is short but it feels longer. The music gets louder the closer you get, you spot people crowded around the counter sipping on colorful drinks. The stranger introduces himself somewhere along the way, says his name is James. You tell him your name before settling against a free spot at the bar.

He leans forward slightly, catching the bartender’s attention. “Two tequila shots please.”

The glasses slide across the counter a second later, salt clinging to the rims. He picks one up and hands it to you, fingers brushing yours again. “To spring break,” he says with a grin.

You force a small smile, lifting your glass to meet his. “To spring break.”

He starts talking again, something about where he’s from, how long he’s been here but your attention drifts before you can stop it. Back toward the beach where Anton is perched in the sand soaking up the sun.

It makes your skin itch how unaffected he seems. Makes you feel dramatic for the reaction you had at the party. You wonder if he even cares, if whatever this is only feels like something more when you’re alone with him.

You swallow, the taste of tequila still lingering, suddenly too aware of everything.  “I’m sorry. I think I’m actually gonna go lie down. I’m not feeling great.”

James pauses, clearly thrown off but he recovers quickly. “Oh…yeah, of course. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.” You nod, already stepping back.

He hesitates for a second like he wants to say more but then smiles. “Okay. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

You nod once. “Yeah…maybe.”

You don’t wait for anything else. You don’t grab your things or call out to Manon or wait for anyone to notice you’re gone. You just turn and walk, the sound of the ocean fading behind you with every step, replaced by the quiet of the hotel lobby as you push through the glass doors. The air conditioning hits your skin but it does nothing to cool the burning embarrassment building under it.

You make your way to the elevators without thinking, pressing the button and crossing your arms over yourself as you wait, your reflection staring back at you in the mirrored walls. The doors slide open and you step inside, pressing your floor and exhaling slowly. Just as the doors begin to shut, a hand catches them. They part again with a soft chime and Anton steps in.

The space shrinks immediately. You don’t say anything at first and neither does he. The doors close behind him and the elevator starts to move, the elevator music filling the silence between you.

For a second, you think about staying quiet and letting it pass. Letting this be just another thing that goes unspoken but the question comes out anyway. “Do you even care about me?”

Anton turns his head slightly, brows pulling together. “What?”

You shake your head immediately, already regretting it. “Never mind.”

The elevator climbs another floor. He waits a beat before speaking again, his voice deeper this time. “You looked pretty cozy at the bar.”

You turn to face him fully but he’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, jaw set. You let out a small, disbelieving scoff. “So you can flirt with whoever Sohee throws at you but God forbid I let a guy buy me a drink?”

Anton exhales sharply, rolling his eyes. “Why are you bringing her up again? I told you she means nothing!”

“It’s the principle! You don’t get to act like that when you do the same thing. That's called hypocrisy Anton.” You shoot back, frustration rising now, pushing past whatever hesitation you had before.

“It’s not the same thing!” he snaps, finally turning toward you. “You’re the one who said we can’t tell anyone. What am I supposed to say to Sohee when he tries to set me up with someone? Huh? What was I supposed to say after the party about the hickies you left on my neck? You can’t get pissed at me for a boundary you insist on keeping!”

You falter at him throwing your rules back at you. You hate how he’s right, how you can’t come up with a logical and fair defense in response to instead you reach for the one thing that always gives you distance. “This is dumb. We’re not even together.”

The elevator dings softly as it reaches your floor. The doors slide open and you step out automatically, expecting him to follow, already bracing for the argument to continue the way it always does, looping back in on itself until one of you gives in.

However, when you turn around he hasn’t moved. He’s still standing inside, one hand braced against the railing, looking at you like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time. There’s something in his expression that makes your chest tighten.

He looks hurt. Genuinely hurt. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet.

“Then let’s end whatever this is.”

Present Day

As the waves of pleasure finally begin to subside, you find yourself tangled between Jake’s arms and your sheets. Both your breaths mingle in the warm air and Jake wraps his arms securely around you, holding you close as his heartbeat gradually slows. You can feel the aftershocks of your climax coursing through you as your eyes slowly shut.

One of his hands is lazily tracing over yours, turning your palm up and brushing along your fingers. “I’m never gonna get tired of this,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything.

You huff out a quiet laugh, the corner of your mouth lifting into a smirk. “Mhmm, good I’ve got some more tricks up my sleeve.”

Jake lets out a groan, “Such a fucking tease.”

You laugh and open your mouth to retort but get cut off by the door swinging open. “Hey, do you have a—oh.”

Manon freezes mid-step, one hand still on the door, her eyes flicking from Jake to you tangled together in your bed. “Shit! Sorry! My fault!”

The door shuts just as quickly as it opened. You groan instantly, dragging your blanket up over your head like it might erase the last ten seconds. “Oh my gosh.”

Jake lets out a quiet laugh above you, chest rumbling against your cheek. “She definitely saw everything.”

“Stop. I can never leave this room again.” You mumble from under the covers, mortified, pulling them tighter around yourself.

He hums in agreement but his fingers hook into the edge of the blanket, tugging it down slowly until your face reappears. “Yeahhhh,” he says, amused, brushing your cheek. “That was…a little embarrassing.”

You narrow your eyes at him but there’s no real bite behind it. “How reassuring.”

He smirks in response before shrugging a shoulder. You try to hold onto the annoyance but it dissolves into a laugh as you let the blanket fall back to your chest. For a moment, neither of you say anything. His thumb finds your hand again, tracing the same absent pattern across your fingers. After a beat he speaks up again.

“You know…this could be avoided.”

You peek up at him, brows pulling together. “How?” you ask, still half-curled into him. “Our lease isn't ending anytime soon and Manon’s had a lifelong aversion to knocking.”

He smiles faintly at that but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. His thumb pauses against your hand for a second before continuing. “Well…what if you moved?”

You blink, your mind struggling to catch his drift “Moved where?”

He shifts a little beneath you, propping himself up just enough to look at you properly. “To my place.”

You stare at him for a second longer than you mean to, your mind catching up in pieces. “Your…place?” you repeat, slower this time.

“Yeah. I mean…it just makes sense, right? We’re already spending most nights together anyway.” He gestures vaguely around your room, a small smile tugging at his lips. “And no surprise interruptions.”

You let out a soft breath that almost sounds like a laugh but it doesn’t quite land. Your mind starts racing as you struggle to piece together where this is coming from. Realistically, this isn’t a crazy thing to bring up, this is the kind of thing people do. The kind of next step that fits neatly into the version of a relationship the two of you have.

You just hadn’t…thought about it…with him.

“Jake…” you start but your words die on the tip of your tongue. You push yourself up slightly so you’re not completely folded into him anymore and try again. “I feel like that’s…kind of a big step.”

He nods, like he expected that. “It is but we’ve been together for a year. It’s not like this is coming out of nowhere.”

Your gaze drifts for a second. His penthouse flashes through your mind; clean, quiet, perfectly put together. You’ve been there enough to know it’s nice…really nice. It doesn’t feel like a place you belong or could call home. “I just think…maybe we don’t have to rush it?” You say slowly, choosing your words carefully.

The second the words leave your mouth, you feel the shift. Jake’s hand stills against yours for half a beat before he lets it relax again. “Rush it?” he repeats.

You shake your head quickly, pushing yourself up a little more, tucking your blanket around you some more. “Okay maybe not rush, I just…” you exhale softly, searching for something that sounds right. “I like where we are right now. I don’t think we have to…change it yet.”

He watches you for a second, weighing what you’re saying. His thumb brushes over your knuckles again but the movement feels more less sure now. “I’m not trying to rush you. Just thought…we were on the same page.”

You nod, trying to offer him a reassuring smile. “We are,” you say, even though something in your chest tightens as you do.

He nods back, like he’s choosing to believe you. “Okay,” he murmurs.

NYU senior year

The summer after junior year, Anton Lee disappeared from your life.

Not all at once but rather slowly, as if he intended to hurt you the way you had hurt him. His texts came later and later until they eventually stopped altogether, conversations never got picked back up and there was a loud silence that filled in the blanks for you. This wasn’t temporary.

You tried to hide behind your ego, told yourself that it made sense. Said that after everything that had happened between the two of you, maybe this is how it was always meant to end.

When the line had been drawn as clear as could be, you filled your time with other things. You still talked to Sohee and Manon, spent hours writing in your room about a perfect world where things worked out for your main characters.

You convinced yourself you were fine. Better off even without Anton. It was easy to think that way when he wasn’t standing right in front of you. Then September came and with it, the last semester the two of you would ever share again.

Just like that, he was back. It dawned on you that it was just as easy for Anton to delude himself when you weren’t standing directly in front of him, when the two of you weren’t sitting side by side pretending nothing ever happened between the two of you in front of your friends.

Like clockwork, you fell back into your familiar pattern. Only this time, the Anton you had grown to love wasn’t the one who came back to you. You think you lost that version somewhere in Cancun.

This time around, you thought it couldn’t be as bad as junior year…how wrong you were.

This time, neither of you cared to pretend. Gone was the sneaking around, no more stolen moments hidden behind closed doors. Whatever this was between you existed out in the open now. Unlabeled and undefined but impossible to miss.

Parties turned into something else entirely. What used to be fun, loud nights with your friends became a game the two of you never agreed to but always ended up playing anyway. How far can you push before the other snaps? How much can you get away with before it finally crosses a line?

Anton started it more often than not. He’d lean a little too close to someone else, let his hand linger just long enough for you to notice, sometimes even going as far as taking them upstairs. They’d disappear for a few minutes, never long enough to confirm anything but never short enough to ignore. It was never enough to call him out without sounding crazy but it was always enough to make burning hot jealousy rip through your chest.

When you would finally corner him and ask him what the hell he was doing, he’d only smirk before asking. “Why do you care?” It would be followed by a condescending hum and, “We’re not even together.”

He would throw it right back at you. The same words you used first, the same ones you threw at him in Cancun. You would sneer at him before stomping off, your pride fully kicked in. You would find someone of your own, someone easy. You would let him talk to you, let him get you drinks, let yourself be seen with him just long enough to prove a point you didn’t even fully believe in.

It would work for all of an hour before your attention would start to drift back to Anton. All he would ever do is give you one look and suddenly nothing else mattered. You’d make some excuse, slip away and leave whoever you were with standing there confused while you found your way back to him like you always did.

Manon tried, truly, to get you to have some self-respect. She would set you up with people she thought were easier and healthier. You’d go along with it at first to humor her. You’d exchange numbers, let conversations start only to lose interest almost immediately. Your replies got shorter then slower, until eventually they stopped altogether. It never made it past that.

From what you heard from Manon, Sohee tried too. He pulled Anton aside more than once, told him he wasn’t being fair, that maybe he should date outside of the friend group, give someone else a real chance only to be told, “We both know what we’re doing.”

Eventually, they both stopped pushing. Not because they approved but because they realized nothing they said was going to change it because as much as the two of you didn’t work like this, you still worked everywhere else.

Anton still walked you back to your dorm after late lectures, hands tucked into his pockets while the two of you talked about nothing and everything all at once. He still bought you lunch when you forgot your student ID, didn’t even let you argue about it. You still showed up to his swim meets with posters you’d spent too long making, shouting his name like you were born to cheer him on.

You still sat together at family dinner with Manon and Sohee, still laughed at the same jokes, still fell into each other on the couch during movie nights like it was muscle memory.

You’re good at that part…too good and that’s what made it worse.

Manon and Sohee didn’t understand it. They couldn’t figure out how the two of you fit so easily everywhere else, how you could be this…effortless together, only for everything to fall apart the second it turned into something more.

But you know why and so does Anton.

Neither of you said it out loud but it lingered in every argument, every glance and every moment where one of you almost gave in and the other refused to meet you there.

He hasn’t forgiven you for Cancun. Maybe even how you treated him leading up to your fight. He’s still holding on to how easily you turned off your emotions when others were around, how quick you were to deny him the chance of ever being more than a dirty little secret.

As for you, you’re too proud to fix it first. It’s humiliating enough knowing how thoroughly he’s ruined everyone else for you.

So you don’t cave, even when it’s the only thing you want to.

To your relief, somewhere along the way the two of you stop fighting as much. Not because anything gets resolved or because either of you finally says the thing you’ve been circling for two years now but because there’s nothing left to argue about that hasn’t already been said in a hundred and one different ways. You think it’s because he didn’t want to be on bad terms during graduation.

The last few weeks fly by, it’s easy to not notice time slipping away from you when things are as easy as they once were freshman year.

Today is commencement.

Just like that, the last four years of your life collapse into a single moment. You’ve imagined this day a hundred different ways but none of them feel quite like this. None of them capture how quickly it slips through your fingers.

One minute you’re walking across the stage, heart pounding, the announcer calling your name, next it’s over. Your tassel is turned, people are clapping, caps are already being tossed into the air before you’ve even had the chance to process it.

It all blurs together.

The months of deadlines, the nights spent hunched over your laptop swearing you’d start earlier next time, the early mornings you dragged yourself out of bed for classes you almost skipped, the crowded study rooms, the shared meals, the laughter—it all collapses into this one fleeting stretch of time that feels both too fast and impossibly long.

No more classes to rush to. No more last-minute submissions or group chats blowing up at two in the morning. No more of this.

You barely have time to sit with that realization before you’re being pulled in every direction. Pictures with your friends, your family, your professors. Someone is fixing your cap, someone else is calling your name, your phone is buzzing endlessly in your hand. It’s overwhelming in the best way.

By the time your parents decide you’ve taken enough pictures and accepted more gifts than your arms are capable of holding, you find yourself sitting at a long table surrounded by the people who made these last four years what they were.

Come six o’clock, you’re tucked into your seat beside Manon and her sister, your cap and gown long forgotten in your dads car. Across from you, Sohee is mid story with your dad, hands moving animatedly as he recounts something from freshman year.

Beside him sits Anton. He sits a little more relaxed than usual, one arm draped over the back of Sohee’s chair, a small smile tugging at his lips as he listens. Every now and then he chimes in, correcting Sohee or adding details that make the story even funnier and it’s so normal.

Eventually, plates empty and conversations start to taper off. You push your chair back softly, leaning toward Manon. “I’m gonna step outside for a second,” you murmur.

She nods without question, too caught up in whatever story Sohee’s telling now to look too closely. You slip out quietly, the noise of the restaurant fading behind you as the evening air hits your skin, cooler now.

You exhale slowly, stepping just far enough from the entrance to give yourself space, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses muffled behind you. For a moment, it’s just you and the quiet hum of the city.

The door opens again and you don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.

Anton steps out beside you, he doesn’t say anything right away, just shrugs his suit jacket off his shoulders and holds it out toward you. “Here,” he says softly.

You hesitate for half a second before taking it, the fabric still warm from him as you slide your arms through the sleeves. It’s too big, swallowing you just slightly, the faint scent of his cologne settling around you.

“Thanks,” you murmur, pulling it closer around yourself.

He nods once, hands slipping into his pockets as he leans back against the wall beside you.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. Anton shifts slightly beside you before breaking it. “You wanna go for a walk?” he asks.

You glance over at him, really looking at him for the first time since you stepped outside. His hair is slightly out of place from the day, his tie loosened just enough to make him look less put together.

“Yeah,” you say, softer than you mean to.

He pushes off the wall and falls into step beside you, his arm brushes up against you but neither of you say anything or move away. You walk without a destination at first, letting your feet carry you down familiar streets, past places that have become second nature over the last four years. Neither of you rushes to fill the silence and for once, it doesn’t feel like something that needs fixing.

Eventually, without either of you meaning to, you find yourselves standing before your dorm. The place where everything started. You let out a small breath, something soft and almost disbelieving as you take it in. The windows are dark now, the halls inside probably already half empty with everyone moving out.

“Wow,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything.

Anton huffs a quiet laugh beside you. “How fitting.”

There’s another pause. You glance at the entrance, then back at him. “Do you wanna go in?” you ask.

The words hang between you. Anton’s gaze flicks from you to the building and back again. For a second, you think he might say no. Instead, he surprises you and nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly.

You barely have time to register his words before he’s putting in the building code and pulling the door open for you.

Inside, everything feels different. The lobby that once buzzed with voices and movement now sits in a strange, hollow quiet. A few stray boxes are stacked near the walls, abandoned or waiting to be taken, and the fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead.

It’s like stepping into a memory that’s already started to fade. You walk further in first, your eyes drifting over everything like you’re trying to hold onto it. The couches where you and Manon used to sit for hours, the corner where Sohee would pace while practicing, the hallway that always smelled faintly like burnt popcorn no matter the time of day.

“Feels weird,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” Anton agrees quietly, falling into step beside you.

Your feet carry you on their own. Down the hall. Past doors left ajar, rooms half-empty, beds stripped down to their frames. The place that once felt too small for all the life inside it now feels too big without it.

By the time you stop, you’re standing in front of a door you’ve walked through more times than you can count. Anton’s old domr. He hesitates for just a second before pushing it open.

The room is almost empty. His side of the room is stripped down completely, mattress bare, desk cleared, shelves wiped clean like he was never there at all. Sohee’s side looks the same. The only thing left is what couldn’t be taken yet, suitcases by the wall, a few stray items waiting to be packed last.

It shouldn’t feel like a punch to the chest but it does. You step inside slowly, your gaze dragging over the space where you’ve spent so many nights cuddled in Anton’s arms.

“Damn,” you breathe, arms crossing loosely over yourself, still wrapped in his jacket.

Anton shuts the door behind you, quieter this time. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches again, heavier now. There’s nowhere to sit except the bed so that’s where you perch yourselves. You lower yourself onto the bare mattress, the springs creaking softly under your weight. He follows a second later, sitting beside you but not too close.

You take in the room again, noting the way things have changed over four years.

“I hated this year,” you admit after a beat.

Anton stills beside you but you continue. You swallow, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket. “Not…the school year itself…just—” you shake your head faintly, searching for the right words. “Us.”

You let out a small, humorless breath. “I hated knowing I lost you before we even got back in the fall. The silence over the summer, the way everything after that just felt like we were…punishing each other.”

Anton exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to his hands. “You think I didn’t hate it too?” 

You glance at him. “I hated all of it. You think I wanted that? I wanted to be with you.” He shakes his head slightly. “Every time I got close, every time I chose you…you pulled away.”

Your chest tightens. “I didn’t—” you start but the words fall apart before you finish your sentence. He’s right, you always chose to avoid him, from sophomore year when you realized you were falling all the way up to junior year after he confessed. He picked you yet you made it nearly impossible for him to stay with all the rules you set, the way you kept him hidden but would burn with fury when anyone else tried to fill your place beside him.

The truth sits there between you, ugly and unavoidable.

“It’s not too late,” Anton says quietly as you sit in your discomfort.

There’s no teasing in his expression now, no deflection, no pride. “We don’t have to keep doing it like that. We could…actually try.” He adds, softer now.

For a second, you let yourself imagine it. What that would look like. What it would feel like to finally stop fighting it, to call it what it is, to choose each other without all the conditions and rules and distance you’ve spent the last two years hiding behind.

Just as quickly though, reality comes crashing down. Every fight, every misstep, every moment where one of you reached and the other pulled away. Two years worth of proof, the two of you star crossed lovers destined to fail from the moment he showed up in front of your dorm and offered to help you build your bookshelf. You know how this ends.

Your gaze drops, your fingers smoothing over the edge of the mattress like it might ground you. “Sohee told me you’re leaving,” you say instead.

It’s a clear deflection and Anton picks up on it the second the words leave your mouth. He exhales, leaning back slightly on his hands. “Yeah. We’re going back to Korea for a bit. See where things go from there. Maybe LA after.” He admits.

You nod slowly, like you’re processing it, even though you already have.

“But that doesn’t mean—” he starts.

You don’t let him finish. “Long distance?” you ask, glancing at him.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second before nodding. “We could try. I mean it. Something real this time.”

Something real. The words settle in your chest, heavy. You want to believe him…you almost do but wanting something has never been enough for the two of you.

You nod like you agree, like you believe him, even though you don’t and before he can read too much into it, you lean forward, closing the space between you, pressing your lips to his. The kiss is softer than anything you’ve shared before.

It doesn’t feel like a fight or a distraction or something meant to prove a point. Anton stills for half a second surprised before his hand comes up to cup the side of your face, pulling you closer as he kisses you back.

His movements are slow and deliberate, almost like he’s trying to memorize you rather than consume you. His thumb brushes along your jaw, your cheek, as his lips move against yours with a kind of care you haven’t felt from him before.

His hands slide down from your face, pausing briefly at your shoulders before drifting lower, fingertips grazing along the edges of his jacket still wrapped around you. He tugs it gently from your arms, letting it fall somewhere beside the bed before his attention returns to you, eyes flickering over your face like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time in a long while.

You don’t look away.

Your breath catches softly as his hands find the zipper of your dress, hesitating for just a moment, giving you time to stop him, to say something, to pull away. You don’t.

He takes the hint and slowly unzips your dress. His gaze never leaving yours until the fabric is gone and discarded somewhere behind him.

He leans in again, pressing another kiss to your lips before letting it drift to your cheek, your jaw, the curve of your neck. Each touch softer than the last, like he’s making up for every moment he wasn’t like this before.

You let your hands move too, undoing his tie, then his dress shirt, guiding him just enough until he pulls back to shed the layers himself. The fabric drops to the floor without care, forgotten the second it leaves his hands.

When he comes back to you, it’s closer. His forehead rests briefly against yours, both of you breathing the same air, your breaths mingling together and become one. You take your time to remember his face, all the beauty marks and smile lines then his lips find yours once more.

There’s no urgency in the way he touches you, no rush to get anywhere else. His hands move as if he’s learning you all over again, like this version of you is something fragile. Something he doesn’t want to break.

You fall back onto the bare mattress together, the springs creaking faintly beneath you, the room around you stripped of everything except this.

Your orgasm crashes into you, shattering you completely. You barely register the sounds you’re making, Anton swallowing them with a desperate kiss. Your breaths tangle, uneven and shaky, his hands still holding you like he doesn’t quite know how to let go. “I love you.” He chokes out as he spills in you.

It feels like a freight train has hit you. Your chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts, your breath catching as everything inside you stumbles over itself. Your hand lifts on instinct, brushing his hair back from his face so you can see him clearly, really see him.

“I love you too,” you breathe. You finally allow yourself to say the words you’ve been aching to say for the past four years.

Anton exhales against your lips, something in his expression breaking open just slightly before he leans down again, kissing you reverently. You kiss him back just as gently, your fingers still tangled in his hair, holding him there for a second longer before pulling back just enough to look at him again.

“I love you,” you say once more. Making sure he knows, he understands you have and will always love him.

Anton gently pulls out and a soft whimper escapes your lips at the loss but he’s quick to drop down beside you, pulling you into his embrace, cradling you against his chest like it’s second nature. His arms wrap around you securely, one hand splayed across your back while the other traces slow, absentminded circles into your skin. It feels like everything you’ve ever wanted.

You tilt your head slightly, looking up at him. His eyes are already on you. “Did you mean it?” he murmurs.

You nod against him, your fingers coming up to rest lightly against his chest. “I always did.”

Anton exhales softly, his hand sliding up your back to rest at the base of your neck. “Then we can make it work. It doesn’t have to end like this.”

You don’t humor him with a response. Instead, you trace slow patterns into his skin, listening as he continues. “I’m being serious, ____. We could try. Long distance for a bit…until things settle.” His thumb brushes lightly along your shoulder. “And then I’ll come back to New York.”

Your heart stutters at that.

“I don’t wanna be anywhere else long term. We could…get a place. A brownstone, maybe. Fix it up how we want.” He says with a small laugh.

You smile faintly despite yourself, picturing it without meaning to. You had mentioned freshman year wanting to be a NewYork Times best selling author living in your very own brownstone, that’s how you would know you made it.

“You’d have your own space to write,” he continues, glancing down at you. “I could finally hear all those stories you never let anyone read. Help if you want or just…be there.” 

Tears slowly start to fill your eyes. “And you could tell me when my lyrics suck.” He adds teasingly.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “They don’t suck.”

“Some of them do,” he insists, nudging you slightly.

You hum, pretending to consider it. “Maybe.”

He smiles at that, something soft and boyish slipping through as he turns his head to look up at the ceiling. For a moment, you let yourself stay there. In the version of your life he’s painting so easily, as if it’s something already within reach. You nod along when you’re supposed to. Add small comments, let him talk, let him believe you’re right there with him.

His voice eventually slows, his words tapering off as the exhaustion of the day finally catches up to him. His grip on you loosens just slightly, his breathing evening out as sleep begins to pull him under.

You stay still beneath him, listening as his breaths deepen, as the tension finally leaves his body completely. When you’re sure he’s asleep, you tilt your head just enough to look at him again.

You take in the way his lashes rest against his cheeks, the faint crease between his brows that’s finally smoothed out, the pink of his lips. Your fingers lift slowly, brushing his hair back from his forehead one last time, lingering there for just a second longer than necessary.

“I love you,” you whisper, so quietly it drifts into the night.

You fight the tears as you pull away. Slowly untangling yourself from his arms like you’re afraid even the smallest movement might wake him, might stop you from doing what you already know you’re going to do. You gather your clothes from the floor, dressing in silence, your hands moving on autopilot.

When you make it to the door, you pause. You sniff once before looking over your shoulder. He’s still there, still unmoving. Still looking like something you could’ve kept if things had been different.

Your throat tightens but you don’t let it stop you. You open the door and slip out into the quiet hallway, letting the door close softly behind you. Only then do you allow yourself to cry, to mourn what you never let yourself have.

Present Day

By the time you step off the train, your head is still buzzing with red ink and rejected edits.

The day had dragged at the publishing house, hours blurring into each other under fluorescent lights while you sat hunched over your laptop, eyes burning, flipping between manuscripts and stories that weren’t yours. Words you were supposed to fix, shape and make better even as your own sat untouched in the notes app on your phone.

Your boss hadn’t made it any easier. Hurling insults from her glass office at the all editors as she sat with her legs up on her desk eating a deli sub.

All you want is your bed.

You dig through your bag as you walk, fingers brushing past your notebook, your wallet and the lip gloss you swore you lost two days ago. Your keys are always at the bottom no matter how many times you tell yourself to keep them somewhere easier to reach. You let out a quiet sigh, already half-annoyed at the effort it’s going to take to find them.

The sound of someone calling your name cuts through your annoyance. You look up and blink in confusion. Jake stands a few feet away leaning casually against his car, one hand resting on the hood of his stupidly nice sports car, the other tucked into the pocket of his slacks.

He smiles when your eyes meet his. “Hey baby.”

For a second, you just stare at him. You hadn’t been expecting him. Your fingers that are still in your bag tighten slightly around nothing, your thoughts lagging a step behind as you try to catch up. “Jake? What are you doing here?” You ask as you finally pull your hand free, letting your bag fall back against your hip. 

He pushes himself off the car, stepping a little closer as if he doesn’t see anything wrong with showing up unannounced. “I texted you. Figured I’d come pick you up.”

You blink, pulling your phone from your pocket. The screen lights up immediately, a string of notifications you hadn’t bothered checking once you left the office. His name sits there near the top.

“Sorry. I must’ve missed it.” You murmur, locking your phone again without really reading anything.

“It’s okay. I thought we could grab dinner or something. You look like you had a long day.” He says quickly. 

You let out a small breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “That obvious?”

“A little,” he admits, reaching out to brush his thumb lightly under your eye like he’s checking for something.

The touch is gentle and familiar. You should lean into it but instead you step back just slightly. “Yeah. It was…a lot.” You say, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder.

Jake watches you for a moment, something flickering across his face too quick to fully catch. “Well,” he says, straightening a bit, deciding not to push it. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

He gestures toward the passenger side, already moving to open the door for you. “Um…actually,” you start, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Raincheck? I kinda just feel like staying in tonight.”

Jake’s hand stills on the car door for half a second before he nods. “Cool, then I’ll take you to my place.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “No. I think I’d rather just stay home.” You say softer now, shaking your head slightly. 

His brows pull together just a fraction. “Home?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, filling the space before he can. “Manon’s leaving soon, remember? That F1 thing in Miami? I haven’t really gotten to hang out with her before she goes so I just…I wanna spend some time with her.”

The lie comes out smoother than it should. You don’t mention that she’s probably already half-packed, that she’ll be out the door early tomorrow, that “spending time” really just means existing in the living room watching The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives together before retreating into your room to shower. Maybe use TikTok for a bit before crawling to your laptop to open the same document of your novel that hasn’t seen real progress in weeks.

Jake doesn’t need to know any of that though.

You watch as his tongue presses into the inside of his cheek, something tightening in his jaw as he exhales quietly through his nose. “____,” he says, and there’s a shift in it now. “Seriosuly?”

You blink at him, feigning confusion. “What?”

He lets out a short breath, pushing the car door closed. The soft thud echoes a little louder than it should between you. “Why don’t you like coming to my place?”

You straighten slightly, defensive before you can stop yourself. “I do like your place.”

“Okay, then why does it feel like you avoid it?”

“I don’t avoid it,” you shoot back, adjusting your bag again just to have something to do with your hands. “Jake, I just said I’m tired. I wanna go home.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “So come home with me.”

You exhale, slower this time, trying to keep the moment from tipping over into something else. “Jake…”

“Why won’t you move in?” he asks, more direct now, finally naming what this is realy about.

“Can we not do this today? I just got off work, Jake. I’m tired.” You sigh.

He shakes his head immediately. “No ____, because every time I try, you shut me down.”

“I don’t shut you down,” you say quickly.

His eyes widen just slightly, like he can’t believe you’re actually going to pretend that. “You don’t?” he repeats, incredulous now. “You brushed it off last week. You brushed it off the week before that. Every time I bring up anything about us moving forward, you throw up these impenetrable walls!” he gestures vaguely toward you, frustration bleeding through.

You roll your eyes. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what is it? Because I don’t understand what this is supposed to be anymore.” He presses.

You cross your arms over yourself, more to shield than anything else. “You’re making it into something it’s not.”

His jaw tightens. “Am I?”

You shrug, ready to dismiss him and this conversation but he speaks up again. “Is this about that guy in your memory box? In the polaroid?”

Your head snaps up, irritation flaring instantly. “Why are you bringing him up again? I told you he’s nothing!” The irony of your words are not lost on you.

“Because you clearly still feel something for him!” he fires back, matching your energy now, all the patience he’s been holding onto slipping. “You don’t react like that over someone who’s ‘nothing,’ ____!”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head like he’s the one being unreasonable. “You’re reaching.”

“Am I?” he pushes, voice rising just slightly. “Because from where I’m standing you’re looking really fucking guilty!”

You roll your eyes, already turning away from him like that’s the end of it. “This conversation is over,” you mutter over your shoulder, digging back into your bag as you head for your building.

“____.” He calls. You ignore it.

Your fingers close around your keys, finally finding them at the bottom and you pull them free. “Don’t walk away from me!” Jake booms from behind you.

You continue up the steps, not giving into the way he baits you. You clench your jaw as you reach for the lock on your door when he yells out again. “Why won’t you just choose me!?”

Unable to keep a hold on your cool, you whirl around, anger rising faster than you can contain it, words already spilling before you can catch them. “Because you’re not him!”

You gasp the second you finish your sentence. There’s no way you just said that. “Fuck—” you breathe, your voice breaking as your eyes widen. “Jake, wait—I didn’t mean that, I didn’t—”

Only problem with that is that you did mean it and Jake knows. “Yeah. You did.”

The calmness of his response is worse than anything else he could’ve done or said. You take a step toward him, panic rising now, hands half-lifted like you can fix it if you just say the right thing. “No, Jake, listen to me—”

He wastes no time in turning away from you and heading to his car without another word. You hurry after him, heart racing reaching for the passenger side. “Jake! Please! just let me explain—”

You try tugging the door open but the handle doesn’t budge, he’s locked the car. You look up just in time to see him start the engine, his gaze fixed straight ahead, not even sparing you a glance. “Jake!”

He doesn’t stop. The car pulls away from the curb in one smooth motion, tires scraping slightly against the pavement as he accelerates, merging into traffic and away from you. You swallow hard, your vision blurring just slightly as everything starts to catch up all at once.

For a second, you’re still facing the street like he might come back if you just stand there long enough but the space he left behind stays empty, cars passing through like nothing happened. You step back from the curb slowly, your footing uneven as you make your way toward your building.

The world around you keeps moving, people pass, a couple across the street glances over before quickly looking away, your neighbor lingers by the front steps a little too long before pretending to check her phone.

Heat creeps up your neck at the fact that she definitely heard but you don’t have it in you to care. Not really. You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder and try to feign normalcy. Your phone buzzes in your hand, dragging your attention down to the screen.

It’s an email. The subject line almost knocks the remaining air from your lungs.

Subject line: English 102 – Letter to the Future, ____.

For a second, you just stare at it. You almost ignore it. You almost shove your phone back into your bag and deal with…everything else first but your curiosity wins out and your thumb moves before you can think too hard about it.

There’s a short message from your old professor explaining that the letters were scanned and sent out now that everyone has graduated, a small note about reflection and growth and how she hopes you’ve become everything you once wrote about.

Your chest tightens slightly as you scroll. Before you is a scanned copy of your own handwriting. You sink down onto your front steps without really deciding to, your bag slipping from your shoulder as you bring the screen closer to read.

Hi…me? This feels weird. I don’t even know how to start this without sounding dumb but I guess that’s kind of the point? You’re probably not the same person writing this anymore so…hi. I hope you’re okay….I hope you’re happy. Right now I feel like everything is just starting. Like I finally made it somewhere I’ve been dreaming about for years. New York still doesn’t feel real, like I’m going to wake up and be back home again lol. Did we stay? Please tell me we stayed. Also…did we write it? Our book? I keep telling everyone I’m going to be a New York Times bestselling author one day and they all nod like I’m insane or don’t have what it takes. I think I do though. I think I have it in me. I just hope you didn’t give up on that. Oh! And Manon, are we still friends? She’s literally my favorite person right now. We keep joking about living together after graduation like it’s a given. Did we actually do it? Because I feel like we would be so good at it. Does Sohee come to visit like he says he will? Does he freeload and steal our food before offering to pay us by singing old Justin Bieber?

There’s a pause in the letter. You can see it in the way your handwriting dips slightly, like you hesitated even back then.

Anton…I don’t know why I’m even writing about him but…he’s really nice. Like, really nice. Being around him makes me…happy. There’s something about him, I don’t know. Anyway, I feel like he’s going to do something big one day. I don’t know what yet but I know he has it in him. I hope he accomplishes all of it. I hope we stay close.

Your vision blurs before you even realize you’re crying. The girl who wrote this…she sounds so sure…so hopeful. So painfully unaware of everything that would come after. You let out a shaky breath, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as the tears finally spill over, sliding down your cheeks before you can stop them.

You don’t even notice the second email come in right away. It’s only when the ding sounds and your phone buzzes again, sharp against your palm, that your eyes flick to the top of the screen.

Subject line: English 102 – Letter to the Future, Anton Lee.

Your breath stutters. For a second, you think it has to be some kind of mistake, a glitch. Maybe your professor sent things out in bulk and accidentally attached the wrong file to the wrong name.

You tap it anyway.

The screen shifts and there his handwriting sits. Neater than yours and slightly slanted. You can almost see him again, hunched over his notebook in that classroom, chewing on his pencil, tapping it against the page while he thought too hard about the assignment. You start reading.

It’s kind of funny how we’re supposed to capture something meaningful in a letter like this. As if we can freeze a version of ourselves in time and trust that it’ll still make sense years from now. I don’t think it works like that. I think people change too fast for that. Or maybe not fast enough. Maybe we just carry different versions of ourselves at the same time and pretend they don’t contradict each other. Right now, I feel like I’m somewhere in between a lot of things. Not really who I was when I first got here but not fully who I’m supposed to be yet either. People talk about “finding yourself” like it’s a destination, like one day you just wake up and everything clicks into place. I don’t think that’s real. I think it’s more like…you keep going and hope you recognize yourself along the way. Freshman year is almost over and it already feels like something I won’t ever get back. Not in a sad way. Just in a…you don’t realize how important something is until you’re already moving past it kind of way. Like how certain days feel bigger than others for no reason. Or how certain people do.

Your breath catches before you even get to the next line.

I think you’re one of those people for me. I didn’t expect that. If I’m being honest, I didn’t expect to get this attached to anyone here. I’ve never really been good at that. Not in a cold way, I don’t think. Just…sometimes it feels like people experience things in a way I can’t fully reach. Like there’s always a small gap between what they feel and what I understand but with you, it’s different. Or at least it feels different.

You swallow hard.

I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like I’m overthinking something simple but I think about you more than I probably should. Not in a weird way. (Okay, maybe a little in a weird way.)

A broken laugh escapes you through your tears.

I think about the way you talk about things you love, the way you only ever read hard copy versions of books. The way you get frustrated when people don’t take writing seriously. The way you appreciate the more sentimental things life has to offer. It makes me want to listen. Even when I don’t understand half of it. I don’t know what happens after this year. I don’t know what happens after any of this, actually. Everyone keeps asking those big questions like where we’re going, what we’re becoming, what the point of all of this is supposed to be and I don’t have an answer. I don’t think anyone really does. But I do know this: I’m really glad I met you.

Tears slip faster down your cheeks, dripping onto your screen.

I almost didn’t, which is the craziest part. (crazy am i right?) If Sohee hadn’t dragged me to your door that day, I probably would’ve just…kept walking and you would’ve just been another person in the hallway. Someone I passed by without thinking twice. And now I can’t imagine this year without you in it. I don’t know if I’ll ever say any of this out loud. I feel like I won’t. Not because I don’t want to but because I don’t know if I’m supposed to. There’s a version of this where I tell you and everything changes. Maybe for the better, maybe not. And there’s another version where I don’t say anything and I get to keep what we already have. I think I’m a little selfish when it comes to that. So if you’re reading this and I never told you…I think I liked you. No

The word is scratched out slightly, like he went back over it.

I know I did. I just didn’t know what to do with it. Maybe by the time you’re reading this, I figured it out. Maybe I told you and we laughed about how obvious it was. Maybe we tried. Maybe we didn’t. Maybe we’re still in each other’s lives in some way that makes sense. And if we’re not…then I hope you’re still writing. I hope you didn’t let anything or anyone convince you to stop. I hope you became everything you said you would, even if it looks different than you imagined. And I hope, in some small way, I was part of that version of your life. You were my favorite part of this year. I think you might be my favorite part of college. And if I never got the chance to say it properly…then just know I would’ve chosen you.

The sob hits you before you can brace for it.

It tears out of your chest, sharp and broken, your whole body folding forward as if the weight of it all finally catches up to you at once. Your phone slips slightly in your grasp but you don’t let go, your fingers tightening around it like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

“Fuck—” you choke, dragging in a breath that doesn’t quite fill your lungs. Your shoulders shake, your head dropping as tears fall freely now.

You walked away. You walked away from him.

From every version of him that tried quietly, stubbornly and consistently to meet you where you were too scared to stand. The freshman who hoped you’d stay close, the sophomore who fell for you in all the ways possible, the junior who asked you to stop pretending and the senior who laid everything out and still chose you.

“____?”

A soft calling of your name cuts through your self deprecating thoughts. You don’t look up right away, too far gone. It’s only when you feel a shift beside you that you finally blink through your tears to find Manon perched beside you on your stoop.

She sets her bag down beside her and just looks at you for a second, taking you in, your tear-streaked face and your trembling hands. “You got the letter?” she asks gently.

You hiccup, the sound catching in your throat as your brows knit together. “W-what? H-how did you—”

Manon exhales softly, leaning her elbows onto her knees. “I got mine at dinner.” She folds her hands before continuing. “Anton told me he wrote to you.”

Your head snaps toward her. “What?”

She shrugs one shoulder, nudging her bag further aside with her foot. “Beginning of sophomore year.” she adds.

“He—” you start then stop because what is there to even say to that?

Manon watches you carefully for a second longer before letting out a quiet breath. She leans back slightly, bracing her hands against the step behind her. “Are you finally done running?” she asks.

The question lands like a slap to the face. For a moment, you don’t answer. You just stare at the ground between your feet, your tears slowing but not stopping, your mind replaying everything at once.

Manon doesn’t fill the silence, lets you sit in it however uncomfortable it may be. For the first time in two years, you don’t deflect. “I didn’t know…I didn’t know he—” your throat tightens again, cutting you off.

Manon hums quietly. “Yeah, you did.” She says.

You flinch slightly at that. She softens almost immediately, nudging your knee with hers. “Maybe not like this but…you knew.” She amends, nodding toward your phone.

You don’t argue. Manon exhales, dragging a hand down her face before resting her chin in her palm. “I knew about the two of you before…Sohee knew too, by the way. Maybe not everything but…we knew enough. His feelings weren’t exactly subtle.”

A weak, humorless laugh escapes you. “I thought we were so slick.”

“Please,” she snorts lightly. “Everyone could see it except you.”

You shake your head, more tears slipping free. “That’s not…”

“It is. I’ve been watching you self-sabotage for two years.” She cuts in frimly.

The words sting. Not because they’re harsh but because they’re true. “I got frustrated,” she admits after a beat, her tone quieter now.

“Watching you push him away then get mad when he didn’t stay exactly where you left him. Watching you settle for…less.” She gestures vaguely, she doesn’t even need to say Jake’s name.

Your gaze drops as you think about every time she defended Anton during senior year. Every time she looked at you like she was trying to understand why you kept choosing the harder option.

“I should’ve stopped you…with Jake I mean. I knew you didn’t love him the way you loved..the way you love Anton.”

You don’t deny it. You sniff, wiping at your face with the back of your hand as you look away, the street lights blurring together in front of you. The two of you sit in silence for a beat before Manon speaks up again.

“...I still talk to him.”

Your head turns so fast it almost hurts. “What?”

Manon shrugs, like she expected that reaction. “Not all the time but...yeah. We keep in touch. Sohee too.”

“He’s…okay?” you ask.

She nods. “He’s good. Booked and busy. Music stuff is actually going really well.”

You smile, at least he accomplished his dreams. Manon studies your face for a second before reaching into her bag, pulling out her phone. “Actually…” she hesitates then unlocks it, scrolling for a moment. “There’s something you should hear.”

She taps her screen then turns it slightly so you can see. “It’s his latest release, he sent it to me two nights ago.”

You look at the title and your heart constricts all over again. Before You Leave Me.

Manon presses play and you listen with baited breath. You don’t make it past the first verse before your vision blurs again.

Darling, handle me with care Cover me in bubble wrap I’m scared you really mean it That you’re never comin’ back

Your chest caves in slowly, your hand tightening around your phone as the next lines play.

Know I can’t change your mind But how could you just leave like that?

Manon doesn’t say anything beside you. She just lets it play, lets it sink in. The chorus hits and it feels like it knocks the air out of your lungs completely.

Just give me one more night Hold me like you’re still mine Oh, love me for right now Before you leave me

You squeeze your eyes shut but it only makes it worse. The memory overlaps with the sound, his arms around you, his voice against your skin, the way he held you like he already knew you were going to go. Like he was asking for something you were never going to give him.

I know it’s gonna hurt Watching your footsteps turn So, love me for right now Before you leave me

Your shoulders shake as the realization settles in. He knew. Some part of him knew. Even that night when he was laying there with you, when he was telling you about brownstones and writing and staying, he knew you might still walk away but he loved you anyway.

You drag in a shaky breath, pressing your palm harder against your mouth. “Stop.” You beg Manon, turning away from her. “Turn it off!”

She complies right away. The music cuts off mid-line, the silence that follows almost louder than the song itself. “I can’t—” you choke, dragging a hand down your face. “I can’t listen to that. I can’t!”

“Okay. Then what can you do?” She asks.

You blink at her, thrown off by the shift. “What?” you rasp.

“What can you do, ____?” she repeats, leaning forward now, elbows braced against her knees. “Because I’ve watched you do this for two years. Self destruct and wait for the damage to pass by.”

Your brows knit together, a weak shake of your head already forming. “That’s not—”

“You don’t get to sit here and act like this blindsided you. None of this is new. The only thing that’s new is that you can’t pretend you didn’t know anymore.”

“That’s not fair,” you mutter.

“No. It’s not. That’s the point.” She rebuttals.

She softens slightly. “You knew he loved you and instead of meeting him there, you made him work for it then punished him by walking away. You don’t get to fall apart like this and act like you’re helpless in all of it. You made choices too.”

“I was scared,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Manon says.

Nothing is said beyond that. After minutes of sitting in silence, Manon pats your leg softly. “His number hasn’t changed.”

She doesn’t linger after that. Manon pushes herself up, brushing her hands against her dress before reaching down to grab her bag. She pauses for half a second, like she might say something else but whatever it is, she decides against it. Instead, she gives your knee one last squeeze then she turns and heads inside, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving you alone on the step.

You sit there a moment longer, your phone still in your hand, his letter open on the screen waiting for you to do something with it. Your chest still aches and your eyes still sting but you sniff once and remind yourself you caused this pain.

You look down at your phone again and swipe out of the email, not wanting to face it anymore. Tonight, you need to forget it all. You inhale slowly and push yourself up from the steps. Your legs feel a little unsteady at first but you adjust, sliding your bag back onto your shoulder and wiping at your face with the sleeve of your jacket.

You walk aimlessly down the street back towards the subway entrance. You swipe your metro car and step onto the platform, the train arrives in five minutes. You get on, not thinking of the destination, just letting your feet carry you.

Your mind drifts, your thoughts looping through everything that’s just happened; Jake’s face, Manon’s words, the letter, the song…Anton. You stare out the window as the train carries you further and further into the city.

Eventually, the train slows and the doors slide open. You step out onto the platform you haven’t stood on in a while, the familiarity hitting you in a way that feels almost disorienting. Your feet move before you can second guess it, carrying you up the stairs and out onto the street.

You walk and walk and walk. You don’t stop until you’re standing in front of phebes. The neon sign flickers faintly above the door, the same way it always did. You can hear the music from outside, muffled but familiar.

For a second you just stand there taking it all in. You haven’t visited NYU since graduation, haven’t made it to this side of town since you left Anton. You push down the thought the second you push open the door. Inside, it’s exactly how you remember. Dim lighting, sticky floors and music just loud enough to drown out your thoughts if you let it. The layout hasn’t changed. 

You slide onto a stool at the bar without hesitation. The bartender who approaches you isn’t one you recognize. “What can I get you?”

You don’t hesitate. “Two shots of don julio, keep the tab running.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for the bottle. He pours quickly and slides the small glasses toward you with a dish of lime wedges. You grab the first shot and lick the salt rim before tossing the tequila back in one smooth motion. You suck in a breath through your teeth, chasing it with the lime, blinking hard as your eyes water.

“Rough night?” the bartender asks, seemingly unfazed.

You let out a humorless snort, setting the empty glass down a little harder than you mean to. “Try two years.”

He pauses for half a second, caught off guard by the honestly then offers a small awkward smile. “Yeah…that’ll do it,” he mutters, already stepping away to tend to someone further down the bar.

You don’t watch him go, you just reach for the second shot. This one goes down easier. Or maybe you just don’t care as much. Either way, you welcome the burn. You exhale slowly, fingers wrapping around the empty glass as you start to twirl it against the bartop. Your mind won’t stop.

Jake. Manon. The letter. The song. Anton.

You’re already lifting your hand to signal for another when the stool beside you scrapes softly against the floor. Your jaw tightens at the new presence, irritation flaring up faster than it should. It’s barely five pm on a Thursday, the place is practically empty. There are a dozen other open seats and this asshat chooses the one right next to you? Seriously?

You roll your eyes, turning fully now, already halfway into telling them to move. “Excuse me,”

The words die the second they leave your mouth and your eyes catch sight of who the stranger is. Sat before you is none other than Anton Lee.

For a split second, he looks just as caught off guard as you feel. His brows lift slightly, his posture stilling like he wasn’t expecting this either. It’s gone as quick as it came.

Your eyes tear away from his gaze to take him in greedily, trying to make up for two years worth of absence. His hair is longer now, falling around his face and dyed a deep auburn. It’s styled back enough to show his forehead.

Your gaze drops. His gold chain is still there, resting against his collarbone. The same Lange & Söhne Odysseus sits at his wrist. He’s dressed simply, jeans and a henley, sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms.

Your eyes lift back to his face. You find him staring at you too, like he was inventorying all the new details about you. Anton’s lips curve into a gentle smile despite everything that sits between you.

“Howdy, stranger.”

Shotaro laughs immediately. “We definitely wouldn’t all know each other.”

The question hangs in the air, though, and everyone starts tossing out guesses.

“I would’ve stayed in Japan,” Shotaro says.

“Sungchan would’ve still been tall and annoying somewhere,” Sohee adds.

“Hey!”

Wonbin says he probably would’ve still done music. Eunseok claims he would’ve ended up in school somewhat normal.

Then Sohee glances up from his phone like something just occurred to him.

“Wait,” he says slowly. “Anton would’ve still been in New Jersey.”

Anton shrugs lightly. “Probably.”

You glance down at him for a second before looking back at the others.

Sohee’s eyes shift between the two of you.

“Actually,” he adds, sitting up a little straighter, “you and Y/N both wanted to go to NYU, right?”

Anton lifts his head slightly.

You blink, surprised the conversation somehow landed on you.

“Yeah,” you say after a second, letting out a small laugh. “I guess.”

“See?” Sohee points between the two of you. “You would’ve met anyway.”

You shake your head immediately.

“Honestly… probably not.”

A few of them look at you.

“Why not?” Sungchan asks.

You lean back against the couch cushion, thinking about it for a moment.

“I mean… think about it,” you say. “Anton would’ve still been swimming.”

Anton glances up again, quietly listening.

“You would’ve been on the swim team,” you continue, looking down at him briefly before gesturing vaguely with your hand. “Which means practices, competitions, teammates… all the athlete stuff.”

You give a small shrug.

“You probably would’ve been around the sports crowd. Frats, parties, that whole thing.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Anton.” Eunseok Laughs sarcastically.

Anton doesn’t react, just keeps listening.

“And me?” you continue. “I would’ve been somewhere in the arts building.”

You laugh softly at yourself.

“Probably doing something like design or art or something random like that. Sitting in studios all day.”

Your fingers play with the edge of the fry container as you talk.

“I’m not a sports person at all,” you admit. “Like… at all.”

A few of them laugh.

“So we probably would’ve just been in completely different worlds on the same campus,” you finish.

“Big school,” you add.

You shrug lightly.

“We probably would’ve just… walked past each other or something.”

There’s a brief pause before Sungchan laughs.

“Wow. That’s kind of sad.”

The conversation shifts almost immediately after that.

Sungchan starts arguing that fate would’ve made it happen anyway. Sohee insists that Anton would’ve made friends with everyone regardless. Shotaro somehow turns it into another ridiculous debate.

The room fills with noise again.

But Anton stays quiet.

He’s still sitting on the floor in front of the couch, arms loosely resting on his knees.

His expression doesn’t change much, but his gaze drops slightly. For a moment he just stares at the carpet, thinking. The idea sits heavier with him than you meant it to.

You said it so casually.

But all he hears is that in another life --one where the group didn’t exist-- you probably wouldn't even like him.

He presses his lips together briefly before smoothing his expression out.

You laugh at something Sungchan says, but your attention drifts back down for a second.

Anton hasn't added a single comment.

Normally he would've argued with Sungchan just to make things worse, or quietly corrected one of the guys. Even if he wasn't the loudest person in the room, he was always listening, always smiling at something.

Now he's just... quiet.

You nudge the side of his shoulder lightly with your sock-covered foot.

"You alive down there?"

He looks over his shoulder, blinking as if you pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Hm?"

"You've been weirdly quiet."

A small smile appears on his face, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"I'm just listening."

You frown at his response.

Anton just shrugs.

"I'm tired."

No one questions it.

Schedules had been busy lately. Everyone looked exhausted.

The conversation moves on again almost immediately.

Still...

Something about his answer doesn't sit right with you.

.✦ ݁˖.✦ ݁˖.✦ ݁˖

About half an hour later, Sohee suggests ordering dessert.

"I'm craving ice cream."

"You are always craving ice cream," Wonbin says.

"And?"

"I'm in," Shotaro says, already grabbing his phone.

Everyone starts throwing out suggestions, arguing over flavors louder than they had over the hypothetical 'what if' conversation.

You glance toward Anton.

"What about you?"

He doesn't even look at the menu.

"I'm okay."

"So you don't want anything?"

He shakes his head.

"Nah."

You stare at him for another second.

Usually he'd split something with you.

Without really thinking about it, you tell Shotaro, "Just get one extra scoop."

Anton looks up.

"For what?"

"You'll end up eating mine anyway."

For just a second, his expression softens into something more familiar.

"...Maybe."

It's quiet. Almost automatic.

Then, as if he realizes what he just admitted, he looks away again.

The smile disappears.

You frown slightly.

That was... strange.

You can't put your finger on why.

You don't know why Anton feel this far away when he's sitting less than a foot from you.

Before anyone can settle on flavors, Anton pushes himself off the floor.

"I'm gonna grab something from my room."

No one really reacts.

"Bring me back my charger!" Sohee calls after him.

Anton gives a small wave over his shoulder without looking back.

"Yeah."

A few seconds later his bedroom door clicks shut.

The conversation in the living room picks right back up. Mint chocolate chip versus cookies and cream.

You try to pay attention.

You really do.

But your eyes keep drifting toward the hallway.

Finally, you set your fry container down.

"I'm gonna go see if he actually grabbed the charger."

Sohee doesn't even look up from his phone.

"He probably forgot already."

You laugh softly.

"That's what I'm worried about."

No one questions it.

You make your way down the hallway and stop outside Anton's room.

The door is almost closed.

You knock lightly against the frame.

"...Anton?"

"Yeah?"

You push the door open just enough to peek inside.

He's sitting in his desk chair, slowly spinning from one side to the other with his phone in his hands.

He isn't doing anything on it.

Just staring at the screen.

"You forgot the charger already, didn't you?" you ask.

He looks over.

"...Yeah."

You smile a little.

"I knew it."

Walking farther into the room, you pick the charger up from where it's sitting on his desk and hold it out toward him.

Instead of taking it, he just sighs.

"You can give it to him."

Your smile fades.

"...Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You've said, 'I'm fine,' and 'I'm tired' about six times tonight."

"I'm just tired."

"You don't sound tired."

He looks away.

"You sound... upset."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

You cross your arms.

"Anton."

Silence.

"Did I do something?"

His head lifts immediately.

"What?"

"Did I say something? Are you mad at me?"

He shakes his head a little too quickly.

"No."

"Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

You stare at him.

He refuses to meet your eyes.

The room falls quiet.

The muffled voices from the living room drift down the hallway, but neither of you says anything.

Finally, you let out a small sigh.

"If you don't tell me, I'm just going to keep bugging you."

A tiny laugh escapes him.

"...I know."

"So tell me."

He rubs a hand over his face before leaning back in his chair.

"It's stupid."

"I'll decide that after you tell me."

Another long pause.

Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he says,

"...When you said we probably never would've talked."

You blink.

"...What?"

"If we went to NYU."

Your stomach drops a little.

"I just..."

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.

"I kept thinking about it."

"You said we'd probably walk past each other."

"I didn't mean anything by—"

"I know."

He cuts you off gently.

"I know you didn't."

His fingers tighten slightly around his phone.

"But I kept wondering..."

He finally looks up at you.

His expression is smaller than you've ever seen it.

"...Why?"

You frown.

"What do you mean?"

"If we'd met there..."

He swallows.

"...why wouldn't you like me?"

The question hangs in the air.

Not defensive.

Not angry.

Just genuinely confused.

As though he's been turning it over in his head ever since you said it.

You stare at him, completely caught off guard.

"...Anton..."

"I know it sounds dumb," he says quickly, looking away again. "I know that's not what you meant."

"But it's all I could think about."

You stare at him for a moment.

"...Anton."

He doesn't look back at you.

"I know," he mumbles. "It's a dumb question."

"It isn't."

"It is."

"It isn't."

His shoulders lift in a small shrug.

"I just..." He lets out a quiet laugh, embarrassed with himself. "I kept replaying it."

"When you said we'd probably just walk past each other. I know that's not what you meant. I know you weren't trying to be mean."

"But..." His fingers tighten around the edge of his phone. "...I couldn't stop wondering why."

You step a little closer.

"Anton."

He finally looks up.

His eyes meet yours for only a second before drifting away again.

"I mean..." he says quietly. "Is there something different about idol me?"

"What?"

He laughs softly through his nose.

"You know me now."

"You like hanging out with me now."

"So I just kept thinking..." He swallows. "...if we met before all of this..."

His voice gets quieter.

"...why wouldn't you like me?"

Your heart squeezes.

You hadn't realized he'd taken your words so personally.

Without really thinking about it, you reach over and gently take the phone out of his hands before setting it on the desk beside him.

His eyes follow your movement before looking back up at you.

"Look at me."

He does.

"You completely misunderstood me."

"I did?"

You nod.

"I wasn't saying I wouldn't like you."

"I was saying..." You smile sheepishly. "...I probably would've been too scared to talk to you."

His eyebrows knit together.

"...Me?"

"Yes, you."

He lets out the tiniest laugh.

"I don't believe that."

You smile.

"It's true."

"You would've been this really tall swimmer at NYU. Probably walking around with your gold medal teammates. I would've looked at you and immediately thought, 'Yeah... there's no way he'd ever talk to me.'"

Anton blinks.

"You would've thought that?"

"I would've been terrified."

"I'm not scary."

"You aren't now."

You poke him lightly in the arm.

He smiles despite himself.

"I would've walked right past you."

"Exactly."

"And then I would've gone and asked my friends about you."

Anton actually laughs this time.

A real laugh.

The kind that makes his shoulders relax.

"You would've talked about me?"

You pause.

"...Probably."

His smile grows.

"What would've you said?"

You pretend to think.

"'He's really cute.'"

His entire expression freezes.

Heat rushes to your face.

"I mean—"

"I was speaking hypothetically."

Anton is staring at you.

"...You would've thought I was cute?"

You hide your face in your hands.

"Oh my gosh."

"I didn't say that."

"You literally just did."

"I said hypothetically!"

He can't stop smiling now.

"So... hypothetical me was cute?"

You groan.

"Anton."

"Hm?"

"You are never letting me live this down, are you?"

"No."

He grins, softer now.

"I don't think I am."

Anton looks at you for a long second before speaking.

"...Can I tell you something?"

You lower your hands.

"What?"

He smiles to himself before looking down at the floor.

"I don't think we would've walked past each other."

"You don't?"

He shakes his head.

"No."

"If I saw you..."

He hesitates, suddenly looking almost shy.

"...I would've come up with literally any excuse to talk to you."

You blink.

"Really?"

"Probably something stupid like, 'Hey, do you know where this building is?'"

"'Or can I borrow a pencil?'"

He laughs quietly.

"It would've been obvious."

You feel your heart skip.

"So..."

"You would've talked to me?"

He looks back at you with the smallest smile.

"I think I would've spent the rest of college trying to make you like me."

Neither of you says anything after that.

You just stare at each other.

Neither of you notices the knock on the door until Sohee pushes it open.

"...Why are you two looking at each other like that?"

The two of you jump apart so quickly it almost looks rehearsed.

"We're not," you both say at the exact same time.

Sohee narrows his eyes.

"...Right."

"The ice cream's melting."

He leaves, still looking suspicious.

The second the door closes, you and Anton glance at each other again.

This time, neither of you can help but laugh.

a clip from one of your videos had appeared on his twitter timeline while he was scrolling through fan updates. someone had reposted a funny moment where you were arguing with your manager about coffee.

— "three americanos isn't that bad."

— "yes, it is."

— "for who?"

— "for everyone around you."

the clip ended with you laughing so hard you nearly dropped your camera.

anton had smiled.

then clicked on the original video. that had been nearly an hour ago. now he was three vlogs deep.

most idol vlogs felt polished. carefully edited, including riize's own, he'll admit. everything cuts down to show only the best moments. but yours? yours weren't like that. or maybe they were, but they didn't feel like it. half the footage seemed completely random.

you forgetting your charger.

you accidentally ordering the wrong drink.

you getting lost inside a building you'd apparently visited dozens of times before.

there wasn't anything particularly special happening, and yet anton found himself watching until the very end.

when the video finally finished, youtube immediately recommended another one. he stared at the thumbnail, then clicked it.

just one more.

april 12th, 2026

it became a habit before he realized it was one. whenever a new vlog appeared, he watched it. whenever your company uploaded behind-the-scenes footage, he watched that too.

sometimes it happened after schedules, sometimes during dinner, sometimes at four in the morning when he should have been sleeping & had schedules at 8 AM.

at first he told himself it was because your content was entertaining. like, you were funny — you had the ability to make someone laugh till their stomach hurt, naturally, and to his defense, you're gorgeous too!

but then he decided it was because your videos were relaxing.

eventually he stopped trying to explain it altogether.

he simply looked forward to them.

one afternoon, anton was sitting in the practice room waiting for the others to finish changing when a notification appeared on his phone.

a new vlog uploaded.

YouTube • 2m ago

Y/N'S DIGITAL DIARY

"come get iced coffee w me & talk about nothing & everything! 𖤐"

& his thumb moved before his brain could stop it.

"what are you smiling at?"

anton nearly dropped his phone. sohee sat down beside him, immediately suspicious.

"nothing."

"that's definitely not nothing."

"it's just youtube—."

"whose video?"

anton locked his screen, which, unfortunately, was the worst possible response.

sohee's eyes widened.

"oh."

"what?"

"oh my god."

"what?"

"there's someone."

"there is not."

"there is."

"there isn't."

sohee looked delighted, which was a problem, because the second sohee knew something, everybody knew something.

sure enough, less than five minutes later, anton walked into a room filled with grinning faces.

"hmm i heard our anton has a crush." sungchan teased.

"i don't, hyung! i was just watching youtube before sohee ran w his loud mouth!"

"you do."

"i don't."

"who is she?"

"there's no she, why did you guys assume i was watching a girl's video?!"

wonbin looked up from his phone, with the teasing grin on his face (that briize love)

"there's definitely a she."

anton considered leaving the practice room entirely.

the truth was, he wasn't even sure if it counted as a crush yet. you were still mostly a person on a screen. someone he'd never properly met, someone he only knew through edited videos and short clips, but somehow he'd started noticing little things.

the way you switched between english and korean without thinking.

the way you always thanked staff members, even in subtle moments.

the way your smile changed when something genuinely surprised you.

small things.

ridiculous things.

the kind of details people only noticed when they were paying far too much attention...

and anton was definitely paying too much attention.

april 21st, 2026

the first time he saw you in person felt strangely disappointing. backstage at some mnet thing.

not because you weren't pretty— if anything, you were prettier. fuck, you took his breath away. not because you weren't nice. he hadn't spoken to you long enough to know.

it was disappointing because he suddenly realized how little he actually knew you.

anton was walking through the backstage hallways at music bank when he spotted you.

for a moment he almost didn't recognize you. there was no vlog camera, or your phone in sight.

definitely no cheerful editing, subtitles & background music.

you just looked . . . tired.

your manager was talking about schedule changes while you listened quietly, nodding every few seconds. you weren't laughing. you were just... working. just another idol trying to survive a busy, brutally scheduled day.

something about that realization made his stomach twist. because in all honesty, for weeks, he'd felt like he knew you.

not completely, but enough.

and now, standing twenty feet away, he understood how ridiculous that was.

he didn't know you at all.

he knew videos, he knew edited moments, he knew what you or your company had chosen to show. nothing more.

as if sensing his stare, you glanced up. your eyes met briefly, anton immediately looked away, then mentally kicked himself. when he looked back, you were already approaching.

you stopped a few feet away and offered a polite bow.

"hello, sunbaenim! i'm a big fan of riize!,"your voice sounded exactly the same as it did in your videos. you gave him a smile, the same one you gave to your staff, your fans.

for some reason, that only made him more nervous.

"hello, Y/N-nim,"

smooth. very smooth. awkward, yes, but hopefully smooth? he sounded like he'd forgotten every language he'd ever learned.

thankfully, you smiled again. a small one, but a smile nonetheless. it was friendly. then continued down the hallway, after another polite bow, and anton bowed back.

the interaction lasted maybe three seconds, okay, maybe five.

but anton thought about it for the rest of the week.

may 9th, 2026

your first actual conversation with lee anton happened because of coffee, which felt fitting. anton was waiting in line between rehearsals when he heard a familiar voice nearby.

"i'm serious."

english.

your voice.

— "if i drink another americano this week, i'm pretty sure i'll achieve enlightenment."

anton laughed before he could stop himself.

you turned, recognition immediately crossing your face.

— "you heard that?"

"kind of hard not to."

you glanced down at the iced americano in your hand, then back at him.

"...okay, that's fair."

he laughed again. and suddenly, somehow, talking wasn't difficult anymore.

conversation flowed naturally. honestly, both of you speaking english made it easier, somehow. it was comfortable, familiar, even.

you asked about schedules & lollapalooza. he asked about promotions. one conversation became another, then another, and before anton realized it, the version of you he'd built from months of watching videos had slowly started being replaced by the real thing.

the real you laughed less often than vlog-you, if that makes sense. but when you did laugh, it felt more genuine. the real you got annoyed when you were hungry, which is very valid, the real you complained about schedules, the real you wasn't always cheerful, wasn't always polished.

and shit, he liked that too. truly, anton liked that version far more.

he liked every version of you. the one you were on stage, the one you were in your vlogs and definitely the one you were in real life.

well, fuck.

june 2nd, 2026

the kpop festival in osaka had finally ended. the crowd was gone, it was past 12 AM, the noise had faded. for the first time all day, everything felt quiet. weeks ago, when the lineup was announced and anton saw your name — he knew he had to get closer to you. in whatever way he could.

the universe seemed to be in favor of him.

anton sat beside you backstage while staff rushed around preparing for departure, neither of you had spoken much during the last few minutes.

you looked exhausted, so did he, but neither of you seemed particularly eager to move. your shoulder brushed his, very lightly, accidentally. you should've pulled away when you felt that little friction but neither of you pulled away. anton stared ahead for a moment before glancing sideways, you were already looking at him.

something shifted

it was subtle but impossible to ignore.

the air suddenly felt different, he couldn't explain it, he felt like a crazy person— maybe it was because the two of you had been spending more time together lately. texting & calling counts as spending time, no? you two sent each other memes & tiktoks back and forth, that must count. or maybe it was because your conversations lasted longer now.

or maybe it was because somewhere between random texts and shared coffees and late-night phone calls, anton had stopped pretending this was just a harmless crush.

whatever the reason, looking away suddenly felt impossible.

you smiled first. you were tired but your smile was soft, and oh so fucking beautiful. anton's heart immediately betrayed him. he smiled back at you, his eyes basically pouring with love— love?! whatever!

neither of you said anything, you didn't need to. the silence felt louder than any conversation you'd ever had, and when your gaze dropped briefly to his lips before returning to his eyes, anton forgot what he'd been about to say entirely.

your shoulder remained pressed against his. somewhere in the distance, staff members were calling out instructions, you heard your own manager's voice faintly too. but ofcourse, neither of you paid attention. all anton could think about was how close you were & how easy it would be to close the distance completely.

and judging by the way your breath caught, you were thinking the exact same thing.

"anton." your voice was barely above a whisper, you couldn't help it.

"yeah?"

you opened your mouth.

paused.

then laughed softly.

"nothing."

he didn't believe you, not for a second, but he smiled anyway. for once, he didn't think he needed the answer

not yet, there would be time for that later. hopefully.

and as you continued looking at him like that, neither of you making any effort to look away, anton found himself wondering if maybe this could be something more, something real, anytime soon.

the house was silent, enveloped by that unique calm that early morning brings. you stirred in bed, reaching out to his side… empty. you frowned, half asleep, before rising quietly. the dim light escaping from under the study door guided you. you walked barefoot, shuffling a bit until you carefully opened it.

and there he was, in a gray sweatshirt slung over one shoulder, disheveled and with his eyes fixed on the screen of the program where he was composing. his leg was moving rhythmically, his brow slightly furrowed, but his expression was changing with each note he was trying out. he looked so focused that you almost felt like interrupting him.

until he turned around.

his gaze softened as soon as he saw you, and he smiled thinly.

“i couldn't sleep,” he mumbled, taking off one of his headphones.

you didn't say anything. you just walked over to him and, without asking permission-because you didn't need to anymore-you sat sideways on his lap, hugging him by the neck.

he let out a little hoarse laugh, tired but happy.

“my night girl,” he whispered against your hair, as his arms wrapped around your waist. his nose brushed your cheek and left a slow, soft kiss.

“you've been here for hours,” you murmured softly, playing with the hem of his sleeve. “i missed you in bed…”

“i missed you too,” he replied. “i just wanted to finish this part…but with you here already, i think i have everything i need.”

another kiss. this time closer to the corner of your lips. then another on your forehead. His hand moved up and down your back, caressing you so calmly that sleep almost returned.

“will you fall asleep with me here for a little while?” you asked, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“no,” he said softly, and just as you were about to answer, he added with a little smile, ”i'll sleep with you…but in bed. come on.”

and he carried you. just like that, as if you weighed nothing, as if it wasn't already dawn, as if the world could wait.

he carried you silently into the bedroom. but instead of leaving you on the bed, he sat you on top of him again, now on his legs, on the edge of the mattress. his hands stayed on your waist, firm, and his eyes roamed over you as if he was seeing you for the first time that night.

“do you know how hard it's to concentrate when i know you're just a few steps away from me… in your pajamas… in our bed?” he whispered, in that low, almost husky voice that escaped him as desire began to mix with affection.

you let out a nervous giggle, and he caught it with a kiss.

slow. deep. the kind that steals your breath, that starts soft and gets more desperate as the bodies get closer.

his hand moved, slowly, up your back, slipping under the fabric of your pajamas while the other lingered on your cheek, guiding the kiss as if he didn't want it to escape.

your breathing was already different. faster. more irregular. and he noticed. he always noticed.

“i love you,” he murmured against your lips. “and there isn't a night that goes by that i don't want to hold you like this… close. mine.”

he slid your panties to one side and went down to kiss your neck, with the patience of one who wants to savor every part. you clung to his shoulders, feeling the atmosphere becoming charged with something electric and warm. his sighs, his fingers that marked every centimeter they touched… and the world became just that: him, you, and the desire beating like a secret between your skins.

his lips kept moving down, leaving a trail of lazy kisses on your collarbone while his hands kept caressing your waist with a restrained need.

your heart was beating so loudly you was sure he could hear it.

“i need you close,” he whispered in a tone so low i shivered. ”you don't know how much…”

with an ease that only he had, he lay back taking you with him, trapping you in his arms as if he didn't plan to let you go. your body fit against his so naturally it hurt from how perfect it felt.

his hands, bolder now, crept over your breasts, caressing the bare, sensitive skin of them, pinching your sensitive nipples slowly, savoring every reaction he wrung from you. You moaned low, almost unwillingly, and you felt him smile against your skin.

“like this… stay like this,” he murmured, his voice a rough sigh, as his hand moved down your stomach, making you shiver until he lost himself in your wet heat, with his other hand, pulling you gently to deepen the kiss that was now anything but innocent.

his body, warm, strong, enveloped you completely, and between kiss and caress, he was guiding you, taking you to the edge of vertigo. your fingers clung to his shirt, tugging at it, wanting more. needing more.

his long fingers traced a back and forth over your wet panties, torturously delicious and slowly, you lifted your hips, awash in pleasure, he was making you lose your patience a little, as if he understood your pleas, which you were unable to formulate because of the condition you were in, he pushed aside your panties, focusing on circling over your sensitive clit and occasionally moving down and playing with his fingertips at your very wet entrance.

anton looked down at you, his eyes dark and dilated, and stroked your cheek as if it were something sacred.

“you don't know what you make me feel…” he said, panting slightly as he brushed his forehead against mine. ”you're mine…all mine.”

Como, Italy—April 27th, 2025. Pre-Qualifying Rounds for the Italian Open.

He hates to think that this is all just a game to you.

Anton scoffs in disbelief as he watches you talk with Sungchan, cursing his own genetics for his small ears because had they been any bigger, maybe he could properly hear what you two were talking about. All he knows is what he can see, or what he wishes he wasn’t seeing. That behemoth of a man is looming over your frame, his arms dangerously close to your waist, and Anton actually hisses every time he tries to inch closer.

The only silver lining keeping him from waltzing over and ripping his arm off is that he’s confident you’re paying him no real mind. He follows your gaze, and your eyes are fixated on the tactical game board while Sungchan keeps pestering you, presumably with some overtly corny pick-up lines. He can see the gears turning in your brain as you try to knock some sense into Sungchan, because you're nothing if not professional and good at your job. Around Sungchan, your friendly demeanor operates for one and one thing only: fulfilling your quota. You need to keep him floating above a certain number of wins or else your job is in jeopardy, and unfortunately for Anton, that means allowing him to flirt with you openly.  

The more the scene goes on, the more Anton can feel the bile forming at the back of his throat. He’s seething with anger at this point; who does that second-place bench-warmer think he is, throwing himself at you? The way he’s curling into you and laughing by your side like he doesn’t know you’re being fully serious with him. Does he not know that he’s a point away from throwing the game? He could at least win before he tries to get in your pants. Maybe Anton should let him know that losers aren't your type. He knows that you hate nothing more than people who can’t put money where their mouth is. Shameless, he thinks. Thinking with his dick while you’re trying to give him a real shot at becoming something. The least Sungchan could do is respect your time and efforts.

And you—what’s up with you? Not a single hair is out of place on your head, and you’re not exploding with anger, shouting at him to lock in. Your eyebrows aren’t even furrowed; you look almost completely calm as you explain what Sungchan needs to do to win over his opponent in caveman terms.

Anton feels like he’s experiencing whiplash. You’re a different person when he sees you like this. Without a smidge of doubt, he knows he’s the best player you have. He knows this because he guards that title with his life. So right now, when you’re talking to Sungchan like he’s the one out there winning titles back-to-back, he thinks twice before calling you unfair in his mind, but he doesn’t know how else to put it. Why aren’t you like that with him? You’re constantly on his ass, firing either short quips about his outfit choices or pushing aside his exhaustion to drill more gameplay into his head. You preeminently shut down any chance and ruin the mood before he can even think to send a casual flirty remark your way. It’s psychological torture for you day in and day out, and he’s accepted your claim that you keep him on his toes to make sure his mental fortitude isn’t rattled when it comes to game days, so... why is it any different with that sorry excuse of a man?

After performing some mental gymnastics, Anton lands on a conclusion, just satisfactory enough for him to compartmentalize this moment and move on. Unlike some sex-motivated idiots, he’s more than happy to play the long game with you. He’s decided that you’re not playing into Sungchan’s sorry attempts at flirting and treating him the same because he’s special to you. Duh. Whether that’s because you believe he’s talented and appreciate that he listens to your orders well in a strict mentor sense or because you see him as more than just another player to win you credibility as a top coach—he isn’t really concerned with the minutiae of it all.

Anton’s watches as the game goes from match point to Sungchan barely managing to win—big fucking whoop. His eyes roll all the way to the back of his head when his opponent flails in the air like a baby bird, collapsing in tears on the ground after he fails to return the ball. Sungchan has left the scene entirely, hopping over to give you a dramatic high-five that nearly sent you flying backward. He doesn’t think he deserves any consolation prize, and most certainly not another ounce of your affection. After giving him a few final remarks, you make your way over to Anton, about to remind him about your practice session later.

He sits up a bit straighter under your gaze, immediately running his hands aimlessly through his hair, and flashes a smile at you. He swears time slows down in front of him when your hair cinematically waves in the wind, and he swears he sees your hand come up to give him a bashful wave. He’s in the process of extending his arm up to wave back when everything comes to a halt.  He's too scared to look.

Snap.

He opens one eye, his vision slightly obstructed by what looks like a finger. He blinks twice.

Oh.

It's you. You snap at his face, then your arm falls, and he’s confused. Huh. He follows your fingers until his gaze lands upon his feet.

“Your shoes are untied.”

Sungchan sneaks up behind you, and you’re oblivious to the way he snickers and sticks out his tongue at Anton. Anton gives him the middle finger, the most defiance he can manage in front of your eyes. He wants the ground to swallow him whole, but he decides he doesn't need you commenting on him spacing out, so he quickly breaks out of his trance and follows after you eagerly like a lost puppy.

Now that Sungchan’s game was over, your attention was back on Anton, and he almost let out a sigh of relief when you tear your eyes away from that Sasquatch. You walked in tandem with him as you treaded over to the court you reserved early in the day for practice. You advised him to focus on his sliding, hone in on any last-minute footwork adjustments, and make sure he’d be comfortable with his side-to-side court coverage on the new clay court. You guys did a few hitting sessions, and once Anton started to get comfortable enough, you eventually told him to take a break so he could save his energy for the qualifying rounds. You knew he’d pass with no issues anyway; a lot of the players here were way behind him in terms of technique, so you weren’t nervous, but you always preferred to err on the side of caution. After you dismissed him, Anton spent the rest of his afternoon fulfilling minor promotional appearances and answering some interview questions about his thoughts on being in Italy to play for the first time.

“Would it be correct to say that this is your first time in Italy? What are you hoping to get out of your time here?”

“Yes. Yes, it would. In between matches, I’d love to explore the city, and while I’m mainly here to stay focused on securing that win—a gelato here and there wouldn’t hurt.”

“Of course. Now, I do want to ask—You and your coach have been hot news for the past year as you've slowly built a name for yourselves. Can you comment on your relationship? Does it thrive well because you are in a professional partnership, or do you guys treat each other more like companions due to the proximity in age?”

“Umm.. well. We are definitely still professional at the end of the day. Coach Y/N has been there for me through a lot. Without a doubt, she was the one who built my career, so I do owe it all to her, and I’d consider us rather close. Still, I won’t speak too much on her behalf while she’s not around,” Anton answers lightheartedly, laughing at the end to distract from his own thoughts on your relationship.

He never knows how to describe the limbo that you two exist in. It's rare for you guys to ever hang out one-on-one, but because you're only a year older, it’s difficult to frame you as a mentor rather than a close peer. Plus, he’s with you practically 24/7, and there's an unspoken way you guys silently care for each other, but he’s not sure whether that mutualism is based on a contractual obligation or if there's something more there.

Sure. On paper, you’re strictly professional with him, but there are things that you do that he can’t help but get his hopes up over. You bring him supplements and nutrients now and then after researching what’s good for his muscles and joints, and you're always able to read when he’s had a bad day. You’re the first one he tells when he’s sick—because you always come racing over. You'll always feel like more than just some coach to him.

Como, Italy—April 30th, 2025.

After Anton passed the next three days of qualifying rounds as expected, you decided he should get some rest. It wasn’t until you replayed the footage of him on the court that you noticed something wrong. It was late when you texted him last night, but you knew he’d be awake. You sent him a message asking you to meet you in the morning for another impromptu practice session. From the clips you took, you noticed that he had to clean up his serve before the big game, aware that it’s better not to get too comfortable and would rather him lock in the muscle memory when there’s a change in scenery.

​your name do you have time tomorrow morning to meet?

For you? Always.

anton lee yeah! my schedule’s free. the press interviews aren’t until next week. :)​

Anton wonders what’s up. He wasn’t expecting to hear from you—usually it’s radio silence unless you needed something or wanted to meet for more practice. Anton hopes it’s not the latter, but he lets himself imagine since you never text him at this hour.

your name let's meet tomorrow to work on your serves. i noticed you’re not throwing as high as you should be for a powerful serve.

He shrinks into the hotel’s loveseat, a frown settling on his face.​

your name your left arm has been kinda off as of recently. is everything feeling ok?

You never were the type to sugarcoat.

anton lee no yeah i kinda sprained it a bit at the last practice, but nothing sleep and some rest won’t fix. dw

Anton’s been trying his best, but you’re right. His left arm was giving him a bit of trouble. His physical therapist says he should take it easy before the match, but he’d take your word over hers any day. You always know what’s best for him.​

your name okay. whatever you say. your name don’t be late. i have lunch plans after.

​There she is. That’s his girl—strictly business as always.

​He has an inkling of what you’ll say before he sends it, but he can’t stop himself from wanting to see if this time will be any different.

​anton lee speaking of... when are you going to take me out for lunch? your name when you can get that serve high enough.

​Nope. Not an inch. You’re still as cold as ice, and he wishes he had the sanity to resign and understand that you'll never warm up to him at this point.

But it’s like you always say: Work at it until you can’t get it wrong. It’s a stretch, but he’s long made up his mind that you’re worth it; even if your indifference chips away at him, dwindling his resolve every day.

​The next morning, Anton woke up to what felt like the hottest day of the summer. He’s drenched in his own sweat, his linen pajamas doing little to nothing to keep him cool at night. He had gotten up several times throughout the night to walk out onto his hotel balcony and let the cool night air hit his face and bring his temperature down. Checking the weather, the bolded 104°F is the final warning for him to dress appropriately before he regrets it.

That’s how Anton ends up slipping into tiny olive green Nike shorts that barely extend beyond his stretched-out palm, if that’s any indication of their size, and throwing on a basic white tee with a dinosaur graphic on it before he heads out onto the court for practice today.

It’s a 20-minute drive away, and the drive over is peaceful. He soaks in the scenery of the green hills and rolls his window down to feel the wind flap against his face and breathe in the air, grounding himself before the day begins. In between making small talk with the driver and mentally capturing the pretty birds that greet the morning sky, his mind wanders to thoughts of you. He thinks about how you’re doing, if you’ve been adjusting to the new city. He's curious whether you’ve been trying anywhere new, or just holed up in your hotel room as usual. When he pulls up, you’re sitting on a bench in the middle of the court, legs crossed, eyes squinting as he comes into view, boring a hole straight through his skull, like you’ve been waiting for hours for his arrival.​

He can’t be serious. Your eyes widen when you see his tiny shorts, following the definition of thighs all the way down to his calves. You shake your head before he gets too close and take a sip from your tumbler to cool down, immediately snapping into the proper mode as he enters your peripheral vision.

​“You’re late.” It comes out a little harsher than you meant, but the heat on your cheek is sending any rationality out of your head. It’s beyond hot, and Anton’s choice of clothes today is only meant to get on your nerves.

That can’t be. Anton swears it was just 11 AM when he glanced down at his watch mere seconds ago. He even got ready early because he knows how hard he has to work to get back in your good graces when he’s late.

“Come on, Y/N. It’s 11:01. Give me a break,” Anton pleads, on edge with how stern you’re being with him already.

“First off—It’s Coach Y/N. And, no? My players are never late. And you–,” You stand your ground, pointing an accusatory finger straight at his chest once he invades your space. You need him to back up now, the scent of his cologne almost making you dizzy with a feeling you can’t quite name.

“You’ve been with me since forever. You know how I am, and I haven’t had any reason to change that.”

Maybe it’s the proximity of the upcoming games that's making you act more strictly than usual, but lately you keep finding yourself taking things out on Anton. It’s weird because you never get this way with the other players, but something about him pushes your buttons even more. You know it’s only a minute and that it only eats at your time together when you chastise him, but sometimes, you think you care more about his career than he does. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, trying to physically calm yourself down before you hit him with an exasperated look as silence fills the space between you.

“Hey, I was just caught up in the bathroom. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” Anton’s confidence immediately retreats—not that he ever has any when he’s around you. The way you’re looking at him like he doesn’t respect your time makes him feel unbelievably small, and you can tell he feels sorry for being late.

However harsh your delivery comes across, he has to know you mean well. You expect so much from him because he’s always given you a reason to think he’s worthy of that. You’ve never told Anton that you’re so hard on him because he means the most to you. You always assumed it was a mutual understanding that he doesn’t operate by the same standards you hold others to. You can’t risk it getting to his head, but just as much as he credits you for, you have a lot to thank him for as well. It was Anton who eventually gave you credibility, built your image, and allowed you to expand your reputation to one that no one would dare undermine.

Anton’s hypothesis was right. He knows how deeply you care—how much his success means to you and it’s this epiphany that fuels the unrequited feelings he’s held back for the past 2 and a half years. You’ve seen him grow from the player that no one was watching. You saw him cast aside, and you picked him up and dusted him off like he was a piece of tableware worth being displayed out for the guests.

For others, the way Anton played at 19 was a major deterrent. Typically, the make-or-break threshold for transitioning to the pro tour was around 16-18, an age when he still lacked proper direction and a good enough coach to take him far. Failing to secure a foothold or ranking during those prime years makes a top-tier professional career statistically improbable, especially when he was already a year behind. When you stepped in at 21 to take control of his career, many people were skeptics wondering if you had what it took. Somehow, your partnership grew into something beyond yourselves, and people were still in disbelief at the ground you two broke.

That year was it for him; if he couldn’t get it right then, he should have half a mind to go back to school and pivot careers. He gave himself one last year to try under your guidance, or else he’d call it quits completely.  It was you who turned him into the player he is today, the one that people line up to interview and ask just how he was able to turn around his career on its head—and his answer always remains the same. He owes it all to you, answering on autopilot with your name and a lengthy paragraph on how your principles on tennis shape his outcomes as a player. ​

Like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, you almost feel bad as you watch his pitiful image run back to the other side of the court, opposite the tennis ball launcher you’d set up before he arrived.

“Whatever. Let’s start. Loosen up your arm when you throw the ball up; you’re so tense, and it makes for a bad throw. You’re also releasing it prematurely, so watch out for that.”

Short and straight to the point. As you always are. You’re here because Anton wants to be the best. His parents hired you to turn him into the best, and he depends on you for that—you’re here for nothing else. The past two years flash before him—the indifference with which you talk to him, your nonchalant actions replay in his mind, and he suddenly feels silly having harbored unrequited feelings for you this long, considering you truly leave no room for error.​

You fire up the machine and turn the speed up so Anton can warm up by returning a few balls himself. That way, his arm has a chance to catch up to his brain. He’s been slacking because his arm’s not in the best condition, but you know that it’s his mental state. You need to shake him out of it.

“Hit a few, and then we’ll move on.”

Minutes pass by, and everything flows smoothly. You only jump in now and then to make sure he’s moving across the court the way you want.

“Light on your feet, come on. Keep up!”

Anton feels like all of his nerve endings stand up on alert. He always gets this way when it’s just you and him; it feels like there’s no other spotlight more important than the one on him when he’s on the court. His heart races, his hands become shakier, and his calves tighten–borderline threatening to cramp and embarrass him in front of you.

“You got it. Focus on it. Don’t let it out of your sight,” you add while clapping as if it’ll help him get his head in the game.​

He knows you’re trying hard to come off as encouraging, but it comes out too indifferent to mean anything to him. He feels exhausted from playing these games with you. It’s nothing more than a practice session to you, but he craves being around you so much that sometimes, he feels hurt when you treat him like nothing more than a vessel to earn awards.

“Okay, that’s enough. Get some water and rest. I want to see your serves next,” You yell out to him.

He lets out a grunt of relief, nodding at your words, and collapses on the bench.

“Here, drink some,” Anton extends his water bottle out as an offering before he takes a sip himself, seeing as you ran out of your water in between him returning the balls.

“No, but thank you. You stay hydrated,” You respond.

You’ve always been the epitome of a professional. You’re the perfect Coach, and he has a shelf of trophies now to prove that you’re the one who turned him on his head. But if you’re such a good coach and can read his every movement so well on court, why can’t you tell how he feels?

“By the way—I did some research on your competitor. Wonbin’s not better than you, but he is definitely someone you can’t let your guard down. Make sure you’re sharp the day of. I’ll be over 2 hours before your match to go over strategy with you.”

He can see your mouth move and he thinks he can hear them form sentences, and he’s sure he’s processing them, but his mind is also floating to another place.

“Hello? Are you listening? Seriously... what’s with you today, Lee?”

“Sorry, it’s just really hot. I feel like I’m melting and my arm has been sore lately.”

“Are you serious?” You’re on him before he can answer, gently grabbing his arm to inspect the pressure points around his elbow and shoulder.

“Hey—It’s nothing serious. Don’t worry.”

“Lee, come on. Don’t lie to me. If it hurts, it hurts. Just tell me,” Your eyebrows are furrowed, voice coming out almost whiny because you’re not fully convinced.

It’s so like him to push it off. You don’t know what he’s trying to prove; injuries are normal. And it’s not like he can’t get help. He literally has a physical therapist on speed dial for this very reason.

“Let’s call it for today. I think that’s enough. Your throws are getting cleaner.” Guilt settles in your stomach. You didn’t mean to push him so hard. You hadn’t even noticed that you were, but you really didn’t need him getting any small injury before the actual match in a week.

“Go see your physical therapist and tell me what she says after,” You demand, trying to mask the concern that’s bubbling in your gut. The heat beating down on the two of you right now is not dissimilar to the tension building as you treat him like a porcelain doll, as if he’d crack any second from too much play. Your guard is never down around him; you can’t seem to stop yourself from worrying and fussing over him a concerning amount.

Where Anton’s sitting, he feels anxiety brew in his stomach. He hates this feeling. He hates feeling like he hasn’t given you enough and that you’re unsatisfied with how he’s playing. He’s itchy and hot all over, and it’s not just because of the heat anymore. He wants nothing more than to peel off his skin, unable to stand when you’re angry at him or when you look at him with so much unspoken emotion behind your eyes that he wants to lean in and kiss it all away.

The only thing holding him together is knowing that he has no room for error now. He has to play well now to earn himself a spot back in your good graces. There’s nothing quite like the smile you give him when he steps onto the court and knocks the wind right out of his opponents. You live for the moment his competitors find out what they’re dealing with, whatever inkling of hope they had to beat you dissipating into thin air right in front of their eyes. Anton thinks there’s no prettier sight than your smile when that happens. It’s what brings you happiness, and that’s all Anton lives for.

He’s going to win it for you, and that gives him enough strength to carry on with his day.

“Oh and, Anton?”

“Yeah?”

“Do me a favor and burn those shorts.”

Queens, New York—March 27th, 2025. A Month Out from the Italian Open.

It was a good day. Anton’s serving form was spectacular, and his practice matches flew by without any comments from you, so you ended the session early and offered to take him out to a nearby bar you heard had good specialty cocktails. It turns out becoming as good a coach as you were meant you had little room in your schedule to socialize and make friends outside your tennis world. Your time was special to you, and you didn’t want to spend another night alone, but you had no one else to ask to go with you. That’s what you told yourself, even though you spent a little bit more time and effort getting ready. You put on two coats of mascara and lined your lips before spraying your signature perfume and locking the door behind you.

You arrived at the bar first, and Anton walked in shortly after. The bar was nearby, a short walk from your apartment, since driving in New York is a nightmare, and you always liked the way the air felt on your warm cheeks on the way back. The bar smelled like rich oak and stale comfort, and when you stepped inside, the sounds of muffled jazz were a welcome contrast to the brutal, windy night.

Here you were sitting next to him, legs barely a centimeter apart, his kneecaps brushing up against yours under the countertop. You ordered a Cosmopolitan and, after you finished that, a Moscow mule. Anton leisurely nursed the same pint of beer the whole night. At some point, your words were beginning to slur together, and Anton’s silhouette blurred in your vision. Has he always been this handsome? You started off speaking nonsense at first, reminiscing about how you’ve been wanting to go to this bar ever since you moved to Queens and then transitioned to talking about how your favorite drink to order is actually an Espresso martini. Still, you didn’t want the bartender to think you were basic. All topics of low importance, but he memorized each sentence like he’d be quizzed on it tomorrow.

An hour into the night, the mood shifts and your tone drops to something much graver. Something about the way the alcohol was settling into your system and the bar lights making everything more muted and soft made the filter behind your normal words disappear. You were too far gone at this point to care about what lines this would change before allowing yourself to throw caution to the wind and spill all of the thoughts you’ve been holding back. Anton remained on the edge of his seat, every hair on his arm standing up as he listened attentively, unfolding the words you were about to say until they painted a picture of who you are.

​“I never wanted this, Anton.”

His heart sinks.

“What do you mean?”  

“I mean, I never wanted to become a coach. My entire life, I wanted to be in your shoes.”  

Anton goes completely rigid beside you. This is completely uncharted territory for him; you’ve never shared how you found him, nor did he ever really know why you picked him out of everyone else to coach. He knows just how vulnerable you are right now, and he’s not sure how to proceed. ​

The words continue to tumble out of you before he can conjure up a response, as if you’re speaking in some cruel and twisted monologue about the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.

“You know what sucks too?”

“What sucks is that I almost had it. I was one of the top prospects for my age group. Everyone told me I was going to go so far, and that filled me with this unshakeable confidence. Like it was a guaranteed thing. Everyone around me knew it, and sure, they pushed me—but nobody was harder on me than I was on myself. I would tell myself, this is the sacrifice you make when you want it that bad. And then it all went to shit.”

You laugh to yourself, the bitter memories materializing into this acrid taste on your tongue. Things were simple during that time; you just assumed that your spot at the top was just a matter of time; the titles were just simply waiting for you to catch up. You thought, what’s a little more? Too often, and eventually, your attempts to speedrun your success meant practicing around the clock with no days off and crumbs of a social life.

“I thought I was young enough to withstand the physical toll it took on my body. Those felt like my glory years. I told myself—if not now, then never.”

You pause for a second before continuing, your heart deciding for you that now is a good time to release all inhibitions and lay yourself completely emotionally bare for Anton to witness. Something about opening up after burying these feelings to the deepest parts of your soul felt so freeing, as if you were shedding a molted skin, even if it still stung to reopen the wounds. The way Anton’s eyes were fixated on you and his mouth was hung slightly agape in careful anticipation, as if he was listening to you like your words were his lifeline, made you feel comfortable enough to resume. Something quietly shifts in Anton’s perception of you hearing you talk about yourself in such a desolate manner; you’ve always moved with an unshakeable confidence that he feels like he can’t recognize you right now.

“I ended up tearing my rotator cuff during my last game ever, right before Junior Championships. It happened in slow-motion. I was first to serve. The ball went up, and I raised my arm like I had done thousands of times before, and I felt the tear immediately.”

When he felt like no words would suffice, Anton hooked his hand under your chair and scooted you in. Once you got close enough, he put his arm around your shoulder, tucking you into his side so your words would fall only on his ears, and hummed in response to encourage you to continue.

Being this physically close to another human was the last straw. Tears wet your face before you realize, coming close to a full sob, the memory still so vivid in your mind after all these years. He hears it before he sees it. Soft sobs overtake your frame, causing your shoulders to rattle, and Anton tightens his grip around you. In the bar’s dim atmosphere, he holds you until there’s no room left between you two, absorbing every small shiver, sniffle, and shake of yours. He doesn’t dare look into your eyes—he knows your glassy orbs will destroy him, and right now, he feels that he needs to be strong for you.

“I spent that Christmas in the hospital. No matter how much I pleaded and screamed at the doctors to fix my mistake, it was too late. I could never play in the same capacity, and for me, that was enough never to want to play again.” Everything you did, you did with conviction and a sense of finality. That's how you’ve always been, and that’s partially why you treat Anton this way—you’ve never known what it was like to do things softly.

He takes it all in. Processing all of your words, he imagines you a year ago, alone in the hospital bed, the sterile walls doing nothing to placate your misery. He transfers himself into your shoes and feels how beyond upset and angry you would be with yourself. A shell of the person you are today, the person you had to morph into so she wouldn’t ever crack in the same way. He wasn’t sure you could survive another heartbreak like that.

In his head, he sends a mental thank you to his parents. If it weren’t for their valiant efforts two years ago, he wouldn’t be here to hold you at a time like this.

“I think back to it. Sometimes, I think what if I didn’t take things so seriously? What would I do if I had a redo—if I actually hung out with people my age at 10 instead of spending 12 hours out in the hot sun trying to perfect my serve form?”

“And you know what, Anton?”

“Hmm, baby?” Anton murmurs under his breath.

It slips out before he can stop himself; you’re revealing yourself in such a tender way, he can’t hold back the name he’s always reserved for you in his head. Thankfully, you pay it no mind and continue, and Anton’s eternally grateful.

“The worst thing is that I can’t help but think I wouldn’t have it any other way. No matter how many times I run the scenarios around in my head, I can’t give it up. All of that work had to be worth it even if my career got cut off short, so I told myself there was nothing better than being in that body of mine.” You have to take a breath in between your words, the air getting harder and harder to reach.

“That must sound crazy, I know. Especially because now I’m miserable with no friends, but I don’t know…” Your voice trails off and returns, “It was my whole reason for purpose, and when that gets stolen, you just don’t know who you are anymore. I don’t know if I’ll ever love anything as much as I loved playing.”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I had no idea.”

“How could you? I've never let anyone in before.”

Your voice is reduced to a whimper now to keep the sobs at bay, and with every sob, Anton can only hear the small cracks of his heart.

Manhattan, New York—January, 2022 to December 2024. The Recovery Years.

When it first happened, you barely managed to escape press interviews and dodgy questions from sports recruiters about why you never stepped foot on a court again. They kept poking and prodding without a single care that maybe you were still figuring out how to be okay, selfish in their intentions to get flashy answers for headlines while you ripped yourself to shreds, asking the same question. Those days were rough, and you were almost labeled as a defiant, disobedient girl with how much you wanted to yell at them—if only you had a lick less sanity.

Your parents handled it all for you without question. That felt like the least they could do for you while you were drowning in your own pity, bedridden for weeks on end. Your eyes would flutter awake first thing in the morning just for one look at your tennis racket on the wall, your gaze tracing over the worn-out grip that’s begging to be changed, to make you cry all over again. Nobody knew how awful it was to live in your mind during this time. You would spend hours running through the milliseconds up until you were forced to wave goodbye to your career. It mocks you as if to tell you that it’ll never be held by you again. The next day, you threw it out.

For a while, you coped by believing that no one else was dealt shittier cards than you. You refused to move on, unable to see a way out of the pity hole you dug yourself into. You moped around all day, threw pillows at the door when your parents or friends tried to come over, and wallowed to no end.

“I said leave me alone!”

“Sweetie, please. You have to eat something. This isn’t healthy.”

No shit, this isn’t healthy. Why does everyone feel like they have to point out the obvious? What isn’t healthy is you being broken. Your body being too fucked up to do the one thing you felt was created for you. But as much as you hated the world, you knew it wasn't right to blow up at them—this wasn’t their weight to carry.

They reminded you to slow down, to take things easy, that there was time to build your career, and inevitably, it was your greedy, salacious hunger that dragged the carpet out from under you. Again, you’re hit with the realization that you have no one to blame but yourself, and sitting in that pool of guilt and shame wasn’t going to get easier anytime soon.

“Please just leave it at the door and go,” your voice trailing down into a whisper. You couldn’t bear to shout anymore; your throat felt dry and scratchy, and speaking words was exerting more effort than you could afford to expend.

That year, your 21st birthday passed as if it were another ordinary day. You were still in the active process of repressing and swallowing down the bile of the memories, unable to escape the dissociative fugue you were in, moving like a zombie through your own house. Celebrating your 21st felt sacrilegious; the one-year increase felt like you had to confront that entirely too much time had passed since your life ended as you knew it. It felt gross to know that time went on regardless of whether you wanted to move on. The last thing on your mind was blowing out candles and putting a smile on for your friends and family. Your parents offered to look into getting you a therapist, but you vehemently denied. You told them you just needed time and space—that this was something you wanted to work on alone—the firmness in your voice more than enough to keep them off your back. Deep down, you said no because you weren’t ready to admit it was time to move forward and process tennis and all that it meant to you.

The rest of that year did eventually pass—despite feeling like it never would. There were periods of recovery, of course—days when you felt like you could stomach food and watch a few minutes of a match—your interest perking up when new rookies you had played with were mentioned between conversations. The other days, you still felt like you were mourning everything and did nothing more than stay in bed. You relied on the passage of time to keep you afloat more often than not, thankful for the perpetual space it placed in between your last match and a life without tennis.

At 22, you decided you still wanted it. The court was the only place you felt alive, and you yearned to be close to it again, to see if you could feel something. Now and then, you would drive out to your old court. Most days, you never made it out of the car. But on the rare occasion that you gathered the willpower to step out, you would sit on the bench outside, stare in at the new, young prospects, and grieve the future you once held.

At 23, your parents introduced you to Anton, under the guise of ‘he’s got potential, he just needs some direction.’ Apparently, he had grown up down the street from you, so you have no idea how you managed to dodge him all this time, but you didn’t bother to ask for the details. After watching and analyzing him at a few practice sessions, you agreed. His potential was undeniably there, and that was enough. At the back of your mind, you knew this was a golden opportunity for you to practice tennis at a distance, to feel the heat of the game without ever having to yield the racket again. You didn’t know anything about being on the other end, what it meant to coach someone else, but you supposed it wouldn't kill you to try.

It was around the sixth month of training with him that you think maybe it would kill you. You seemed to hit an impenetrable wall in Anton’s progress. All week, you badgered him to no end, unable to understand why he couldn’t perform the serve the way you asked, no matter how many tries he took. You felt like you couldn’t break through to him and that was killing you because you took it as a sign that you weren’t meant to do this. Both of you were burnt out beyond repair, pushed to your mental limits. In the middle of the session, you had to remind yourself to take a second to catch your breath, your throat burning from how much you raised your voice, and then it just clicked.

You looked at him and studied his appearance for what felt like the first time since you met him. His eye bags told you he hadn’t had a good night's rest in days. You noticed his nonstop panting, the sweat beading down his neck, and the permanent furrow in his brow, like he was even more upset than you were. Your heart shattered when you noticed how his arm couldn’t even bear to hold up the racket anymore, and you told him to take a week off. All he could do was nod and walk back to the locker room in silence.

You texted him a few hours later, feeling that an apology might do some good, even if it was a tough pill to swallow for your ever prideful self.

your name hey, im sorry. i shouldn't have been so aggressive today. let's take a week off and come back to it. i know you can get it, anton. i really do. anton lee it’s alright. i know it’s hard on you too. i promise i'll do better. see you in a week.

What you keep out of the messages is that, in the past few months, you don’t feel nauseous stepping foot on the court anymore. You attribute this to him—seeing him in his flow state and getting excited reminds you of yourself. Coming to this epiphany gives you enough clarity for you to slow down, to know better than to ruin his relationship with the sport too.

That afternoon, you packed enough clothes for a week and drove 3 hours back home to stay with your parents. Even though you attempted to eat dinner with them, which mainly consisted of you making small talk while you picked at your food, your mind was still consumed with ideas on how to get through to Anton. You retreated to your room and rotted for a while, craving the comfort that your childhood room used to bring, but the sight of your old racket did nothing to calm your mind; it only reminded you that Anton was in the same rut you found yourself in after your injury.

At some point in the night, you stopped feeling sorry for yourself. Fresh air sounded like a good idea, so you shoved your feet into whatever pair of slides fit, said goodbye to your parents for a bit, and walked outside.

You must’ve been walking for around 20 minutes by then, and finally you looked up to find that, somehow, your feet had dragged you to the tennis court where you spent your early childhood years. You and your dad would rally back and forth, with your mom jumping up and down, sending out nonsensical cheers when the two of you got past 5 passes. Back then, you played the sport to play.

It was there when your parents saw the talent, the drive in you that blossomed into a fire that couldn’t be extinguished. Sauntering over to the playground set, you took a seat on the swings, letting your feet kick at the woodchips and allowing your center of gravity to oscillate you back and forth, and thought about how you could help him, what you would’ve wanted if you were in his shoes.

You think you wouldn’t be able to survive if he got hurt and couldn’t play because of you. Another career tossed aside because you didn’t know when to stop. You knew better than to make the same mistake twice and destroy someone else’s livelihood. It sends a shiver down your spine. You walked back home with a heavy heart and heavy steps.

Luckily, you started feeling better in the morning and spent the rest of that week resting and researching how some of the greatest coaches treated their players to ensure they remained in the best physical and mental state.

When the week was over, you remember Anton coming back with an unprecedented sense of vigor, like there was electricity surging through him. Things only went up from there for both of you.

Over the years, you and Anton dominated the headlines.

Interviewers and sports channels couldn’t get enough. They labeled him an unstoppable force and something to be reckoned with, recounting how Anton dominated the court match after match and how it was all made possible under your watchful, competent eye. Everyone who ever doubted him came out to say that they always knew he could go far and claimed that under their care, he would’ve turned out even better. It made you scoff at how brazen people were with comments about his career, so sure that he'd be able to trust them after they passed him up every chance they got. Every time, Anton defended your honor, saying that you built your career alongside him—that more than anything, your relationship was a true partnership due to your proximity in age. Eventually, the headlines about how you failed to make it beyond the USTA Junior circuit dissipated into the background, and you were able to rebuild a name for yourself, reshaping how many families across America felt about you. Your clientele grew, but you never took in too many–always dismissing the strays to focus on Anton’s career.

The people who weren’t concerned with the actual technique or the love behind the sport preferred to feed into delusions of you two being more than just a coach-and-player relationship, which was easy to fuel considering how much time you spent with him. But even on and off the court, your relationship was built on the foundation and mutual understanding that tennis was going to be the biggest priority. Anton’s sole focus is on tennis, and yours is making sure it stays that way.

​Queens, New York—March 22nd, 2025. 15-LOVE.

“I’d switch with you in a heartbeat.”

You hum at what he says, taking his words in. You know what he means when he says that. You’re not stupid. You’ve noticed that Anton looks at you like you hung the stars, and it’s not just because you’re the reason why he had to go out and purchase a trophy case.

You’ve guided him through his several Wimbledon titles and 2 US Open titles, 2 consecutive year-end championship titles, and lifted him back to No. 1 in the ATP rankings just last year. But the way he’s looking at you right now—You can tell it has nothing to do with the shiny gold medals. His eyes are glazed with this fondness that you don’t think anyone has ever looked at you with. In this moment, you feel so incredibly shy and naked in front of him. It’s like he sees you for you, not as a prize to be won as the other players treat you, but as a human who has more to offer to the world than tennis.

Your face feels hot to the touch. You have to push back on his shoulder to put some distance between you two so you can breathe, but you weren’t expecting to regret it immediately, already miss his enveloping warmth.

“I know you would. That’s why I’m so harsh on you… I think deep down, I’m trying to live through you,” you hesitantly admit. The relief is instantaneous—as if you have finally let out the breath that you’ve been holding in around him for all these years.

“I hope you know that even when you think you’re nothing without tennis, you’re still you.”

You blink rapidly. His words hit you, and he’s careful to observe your reaction before he continues. When you don’t say anything, he takes it as a green light.

“Y/N… I wish I could’ve been there with you growing up. I know you may not think of me as more than one of your responsibilities, but if I had met you when you were young, maybe we could’ve been friends. We would’ve had a lot of fun, and I would’ve made sure you didn’t play by yourself. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, but please, Y/N. Look at me—”

He takes in a deep breath that almost sounds pained. This time, he’s fully looking into your eyes as if to make sure that you can’t question his devotion.

“Don’t beat yourself down like that now. Not when you’ve proven to me and so many others that you’re so much more than tennis. All I can promise to you is that I won’t make you regret coaching me. Not after you’ve given your life’s purpose to me. I’ll take care of it well, okay?”​

Your eyes glaze over, and you collide into him with full force, full on sobbing into his shoulder now. You’ve been so emotionally repressed these past years, convincing yourself that you were all alone in your struggle, that it comes pouring out all at once. Your mind sits with his words, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself imagine the two of you meeting when you’re young and your mind is malleable enough to rewire all of the toxicity you self-inflicted. You’re 8, evil and beyond prideful as ever, so of course, you would’ve made fun of the way he returned your powerful hits. The two of you would’ve played and laughed, and then gone home to eat snacks that your mom prepared. Scenes emerge of you asking him, but really demanding if he wanted to watch the matches on the TV together, and then of you racing over to his house to sit precisely one foot away from the screen, drinking in every inch of the TV. You can’t help but think that having a friend like Anton when you were young would’ve been really good for you.

​Meanwhile, Anton thinks about how his love for the sport would’ve dwindled into nothing if it weren’t for you. He played because his parents put him into it when he was young; everyone knows how the story goes. When he was younger, all he knew was that it was fun. His parents would retell stories of how tennis courts were nothing more than a playground to him—that baby Anton would joke about being able to jump over the net and trip like a hot mess when his feet got caught up in the net. All he remembers is that he had fun and that the laughs that followed always cured any bruises he picked up along the way. He kept up with it because he wasn’t necessarily bad enough to completely abandon all and any efforts, but he always teetered on the edge of being great.​

Recruiters noted him down, but never followed up—until his parents found out about it through a friend of your parents who was looking for something to do. They had been keeping up with you for a while; you were always the neighborhood’s pride and joy, and they shared the same devastation when they heard what happened. His family had the means to pay you well for your time, but really, your parents were the ones to urge him to let you take him under your wing.

You’re the one who pushes him to become something bigger than himself. It’s you who gets up in the morning and makes him feel like his time is best spent honing his skills on the court.

​He’d be nothing without you. Anton believes this to be an irrefutable truth. He wouldn’t change a single thing in his life if it meant that he got to meet you in this timeline. To him, you are God’s best gift.

“Come on, Y/N. Let’s go home, okay? I’ll take you home.” Anton’s hands grab your shoulders and pull you back to face him. He grabs your things, interlaces your fingers with his, and makes you walk in front of him so he can make sure you don’t disappear into thin air.

He’s holding you like you’re glass; there’s such tenderness in the way his hand comes to hover a centimeter away from the small of your back and the way he rummages through his bag to hand you some water. You take small sips from his bottle and try your best to stand to the side while he calls a taxi before he realizes he doesn’t know your apartment number. He hails it to his place instead, and when it comes, he’s holding a hand out over your head as your limbs fall haphazardly onto the leather seats to make sure you don’t bump it on the car roof. Anton settles down next to you and pulls your hand into his lap, slowly tracing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. You fall asleep on his shoulder shortly after. ​

Anton carries you all the way up the stairs, and for you, it’s all a melting pot of memories. You remember pulling at his hair and refusing to go to bed before reluctantly climbing on his back. When you’re in his apartment, he sets you down on his bed and turns away with red cheeks as you strip off your outerwear, claiming it was suffocating you. He cleans up your makeup as best as he can and brushes your teeth gently. When it comes time to dress you, he shuts his eyes so tightly as he pulls the oversized tee over your head. Once you’re tucked into his bed and he’s made sure all of your limbs are accounted for, he sits next to you to watch as the blanket rises and falls with your small breaths.

“Night, Ton. Can’t believe I told you so much. Never told anyone else that much before…” His heart clenches. The pet name catches him so off guard that he freezes as warmth creeps up behind his ears for what feels like the umpteenth time that night. His eyes are glazed over with fondness as he watches you deliriously giggle after teasing about the blush on his face before exhaustion takes over, and your eyelids close slowly. Anton stays for a moment longer to admire the lingering flush on your skin, drink in the sight of your long lashes, and gently reaches over you to unravel the furrow between your eyebrows.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

​He grabs a hoodie and closes the door lightly behind him before settling on the couch to take a breath.​

He goes to bed that night with you on his mind. He replays the scene in the bar over and over, working himself up until he feels nauseous. He’s seen the way you push him at practice like it means more than a contractual obligation to you that he wins, and his heart shatters at the realization that he’s become a mirror for you. When you see him, all you see is what could’ve been. The moments when you’ve almost broken down into tears when he can’t get the serve right, the nights where you don’t get any sleep because you were researching and analyzing the way his opponents would play. The eye bags that enter the room before you do when he’s in the thick of his season. He shifts the memories around in his head, reframing them from moments when he thought you were just sick of him to moments when you were sick of yourself. He feels beyond useless as he comes to understand how long you’ve been carrying this weight alone. This whole time, you let others see you as some ruthless monster trainer who had to be this way to be taken seriously, but really, you’re treating your players the way you used to treat yourself because it’s the closest thing you’ll ever get to being back in the game.

What destroys him the most is knowing that you most likely take all of this as some moral failing, as if it’s a weakness of your character. As if you’re not a real person who’s allowed to be upset and mad at this fucked up world when her reason for existing falls apart right in front of her.​

Anton thinks he’ll spend the rest of his life, or however long you’ll continue working with him, reminding you that you’re the strongest person he’s ever met.

​Queens, New York—March 23rd, 2025.

What the fuck? You wake up to the sound of the fire alarm going off, but it’s not the usual blaring alarm that you’re used to in your apartment. Plus, you always ventilate before you cook.

You rub the sleep out of your eyes and sit up in bed. When you’re fully seated and take a second to stretch your arms, it dawns on you that you actually feel well-rested for once, as if the back pain you’re used to decided to take a day off.

But god—what the hell is that smell? It’s like something died in this apartment and you’re being punished. Is something burning? Are you going to die?

You can hear footsteps shuffling, and it’s only then that you take in your surroundings.

Whoever’s room you’re in, they like to keep it tidy. Minimalistic, too. Opposite the bed you’re in, there’s a small wooden desk with a large monitor on it. Some books are stacked in the corner, and a light-up keyboard sits in the middle. The walls are pretty barren, but there is one small painting that looks quite like what a kid could conjure up, and you’re thankful for the small ounce of color it provides to the otherwise flat, beige room. A guitar hangs from a hook on what you can assume to be the closet, and you think—It’s boring but accented well, cozy despite its unassuming appearance.

You try to remember what happened, how you ended up here, and collect yourself.

In the kitchen, Anton was trying to be as quiet as he could. He was, until he forgot about the stove he'd turned on, and the alarm ratted him out. He can hear you moving around, followed by the sound of the door creaking.

You’re standing in the hallway facing the kitchen, engulfed in his huge oversized, stretched-out white graphic tee, and he melts. You look so soft.

“Hi. Good morning.”

“Anton? Care to explain what I’m doing here? What the hell happened last night?”

“We went out to celebrate after you said I did well at practice at a bar down the street—your treat—and then you got a little too drunk. I tried to call you a cab, but I didn’t know your apartment number or your roommate’s contact, so I just took you back here. I slept on the couch and closed my eyes when I threw the shirt over your head, don’t worry.”

You weren’t even concerned with the last sentence, but your heart skips a beat at the fact that he wants you to know that nothing happened. It comes out so smoothly that you know he’s not saying it in hopes of getting a reward for doing the bare minimum; he truly just wants you not to doubt how you ended up in his clothes and in his apartment. Not that you ever did; this was Anton after all.

“Ugh, my head is throbbing.”

“Here, take this. I bought it this morning.” Anton hands you some hangover medicine, and you down it without a single word. It hasn’t kicked in yet, but the knowledge that you’ll be okay in a half hour makes your fight-or-flight response settle.

“How do you feel about pancakes?”

“It’s really alright. I should get going now, Anton. Sorry that you had to take care of me last night,” suddenly feeling too shy about having overstepped such an important line yesterday, and your gaze is fixed on the wooden flooring as you do your best to avoid eye contact.

Anton frowns at your response, instinctively pouting. Wait, what?

“No, please stay. Just let yourself be taken care of for once,” He pleads with you, the memories of yesterday night still fresh on his mind.

Your stomach grumbles in front of him, as if to publicly betray you, and you lose all stamina to argue with him. He lets out a hearty laugh at the sound and looks at you like he knows you’ve lost this battle too.

“Now, are pancakes okay? And please say yes, because I don’t have anything else.”

“Yes, that sounds good. Can I help?”

“Nope, go sit on the couch. I’ve got it.”

A couple of minutes pass, and while you’re trying to distract yourself by scrolling on your phone, you can’t lie and say you haven’t been sneaking glances at Anton in between each Instagram post you pretend to scroll through. Something about his messy hair and the white tank top he’s wearing draws your eyes to his broad shoulders, but also because you’re pretty sure he’s one second away from setting his apartment kitchen on fire and you don’t want to die.

“Ow—Fuck!” Anton hisses, drawing his hand back in pain.

Of course he managed to grab the wrong part of the heated handle. You immediately drop everything and run over to the scene. You cradle his hand and slowly walk him over to the kitchen sink, where you instruct him to rinse it under running cold water for 10 minutes to calm down the red mark that’s definitely going to leave a scar.

“Can you please just let me help you now?”

“Ugh—fine.”

He managed to make the batter just fine, so you rummage through his cabinets for an appropriate pan and heat it on the stove. You make sure to turn on the ventilator for extra caution (How did he forget to do that in the first place?), pour out some batter, and watch the misshapen circles bubble before flipping. Once Anton’s hand calms down, you sit him down to apply ointment and a band-aid. Why he has cute little dog-themed band-aids is above you, but you blow on his wound gently and make sure to pick him out the corgi one—your favorite.

Soon enough, there are two plates with three pancakes stacked high on each. Not many words are exchanged as you guys eat in silence, stomachs grateful for the sustenance.

“So… about yesterday. Do you remember everything?”

“Just bits and pieces. Not that much. Why? Are you hiding something from me that I did?”

“You didn’t do anything, per se, but you just ended up telling me about your injury and revealed a lot… I wasn’t sure if you would be okay with me knowing those things, so I just wanted to check in.”

“It’s not like I can take it back now, is it? Plus, I’m still your coach. That doesn’t change things; pretend like you didn’t hear it.” You're quick to shut the conversation down, the shyness of the morning rubbing off and making you think clearly now.

The way you’re drawing the line with him makes Anton straighten in his seat. He knew that things wouldn’t change overnight given that he’s been playing this game with you for the past 2 years, but he felt like real progress was made yesterday. More than anything, he feels stupid for allowing himself to think that you’d let him lighten your load. Saying those things is one thing when you guys are both on the court, but now that you're sitting in his house, sharing a meal with your clothes on him and still saying it, Anton feels his heart retreat. Maybe, he shouldn’t have his heart set on a future with you if it means he’s going to keep getting disappointed. The ball’s always been in your court after all.

Como, Italy—May 2nd, 2025. 30-LOVE.

It’s one of his lighter days. Anton had an early-morning practice followed by an afternoon interview, and he’s free to do whatever he pleases after 3 pm. He’s been looking forward to being done with all of his responsibilities all morning because he wants to invite you out for some gelato. He has about two days left before his games start on the 4th, so he knows he can sneak in a few more stops with you. You guys have been hopping around to different spots all over the city, experimenting with flavors once you found out Anton likes ice cream almost as much as you do. Of course, his favorite is Pistachio. You’re not opposed to it and enjoy Pistachio even, but never enough to get a full scoop. Your heart is settled on raspberry, which somehow he also loves. In the end, you usually decide to share your scoops once the flavor fatigue has settled in.

He just wrapped up the interview, and he’s racking his brain for how he can get you to go with him later. He walked over to you to make some small talk, wanting to ask if you slept okay because you’ve been complaining about how flat the pillows are in your room, but when you saw him coming over, you skipped away in a rush.

Now, Anton wonders if he’s imagining the way you side-eyed that female interviewer earlier. She was doing all the right things, but she didn’t hesitate to lay it on thick that she found him cute. Comments about his appearance—how he kept his skin so clear in this weather—and invasive questions about why he’s never been spotted with any girl since his career began only made him cringe and want to die on the spot. His smile had faded into a neutral expression towards the end of the interview, only barely managing to grit his teeth in an attempt to remain as polite as possible. He lets himself imagine you being jealous and then dismisses the thought when it comes back a second time. You don’t get that way with anyone, and especially not with him. He’d rather pass the glint of jealous he saw in your eye as some air because allowing himself to think that you felt some way about it was beyond his understanding of you.

But then why did you leave him on seen when he texted you asking if you wanted to grab lunch after his match, a welcome ritual that’s begun to make its way into your daily routines? No matter how much he tries to pretend like it was nothing, it doesn’t make sense when he considers how you’ve been more dismissive and curt with your answers since the morning. You’re always professional with him, but you don’t ride him as hard as before, so he let himself believe that you guys had grown closer lately.

​Anton racks his head for how he’s going to make it up to you later.

You’re so embarrassed. You don’t know why you’re acting this way; you don’t get why your cheeks heated up as the interviewer looked at you directly, the question she had asked Anton about why he hadn’t been seen with any women throughout his career feeling too targeted towards you.

You’ve had a crush before. Or well… that’s what you called all of the players you fell in love with when you were young. You really don’t know anything outside of tennis. You’ve never dated, always devoting yourself to this damn sport, and now you’re so fucking confused. What is this?

Why am I getting the urge to lock Anton up in a castle so no one can ever look at him with those lovey-dovey eyes again?

In truth, you’ve been acting all sorts of weird these days. You’re beginning to think you might be coming down with something. ​

Am I sick? Holy shit, do you like Anton?

The thought almost makes you burst out laughing, but luckily your instincts kick in, and you remind yourself that you’re in public and while the cameras are here for Anton, you’re supposed to act as his right-hand.

What the hell are you saying? Listen to yourself, Y/N.

If you don’t act right and accordingly, it looks bad on Anton, and you don’t want that stress getting to him during his games.

Fine. Maybe you care a bit more for the poor boy after that night. You cried in his arms and in his bed, and he made you pancakes the morning after. It’d be weird to ignore him and act like something extremely vulnerable hadn’t been revealed between the two of you a month ago; you try to reason with yourself. But that’s all it was: a passing moment in time, a slip of your mind that you can’t take back, a glitch in your prefrontal cortex. That’s all it was. Yeah sure… You look out for him a bit more these days, and that’s all. It’s because he’s approaching the peak years of his career. That explains why you’re texting him more often, even if some of your messages have nothing to do with tennis.

It’s just a few offhand questions about whether he’s eating well here and there. If he hasn’t, then you join him for his meals to make sure he’s keeping up with his food intake. Sometimes, he even accompanies you as you go to eat ice cream and offers him a bite or two, knowing he can’t have too many sweets before his match.

It’s not like he doesn’t return the friendly favor. He’ll shoot you a message asking you what you’re up to and if you want to explore the city together in between promotions and matches.

Sometimes, you shock yourself and send him a funny tennis meme out of nowhere. Commentary about the matches and the obnoxious players you’ve both encountered. It’s nothing, really. Who else are you supposed to talk to?

You spend the rest of your day ignoring how you feel. The hours tick by while you’re in an almost catatonic state, giving short responses to everyone when they try to talk to you and staying off your phone until people spam your notifications because they’re worried. The one time you check it, you immediately regret it because the most recent notification was Anton asking if you’re okay and if you wanted to walk with him to the nearby gelato shop. You think you almost walked into a door while reading it.

You think you’re pretty good at denying how you truly feel, having plenty of experience after the accident happened. Still, something about the way that reporter looked at Anton makes you blind with anger no matter how much you try to swallow that foreign feeling. Maybe it’s just because you two had been growing close and you haven’t had a friend like him in a while.

Your life has always been lonely ever since you devoted 100% of your time to tennis, and now that you’re an adult who missed out on all those crucial moments socializing with kids your other age, it’s natural for you to connect with whoever is convenient. You tell yourself, that’s what Anton is. He’s convenient.

Como, Italy—May 7th, 2025. What Comes Next.

It’s too hot. Like, entirely too hot. Summer in Italy sounds glamorous enough until you feel like your skin is about to melt off, and everything around you is sticking to you like you’re a puddle of glue. You've gone and stood in front of the fridge in your room more times than you can count and opened every window in hopes of getting some kind of air circulation going.

You texted Anton saying the air conditioning in your room stopped working and that you were going to sweat out and die in your room, so he better come say goodbye now. He called you a dramatic queen before inviting you to his room, and you gladly accepted, wanting nothing more than to be out of the hot Italian summer heat. He quickly threw on a pair of slides, not even caring to look decent as he ran to the little market down the road to get some snacks. When he returned, he pulled the secret stash of ice cream out of the fridge and heard a knock at the door seconds after entering.

He opens his door to the sight of you with your hair down, wearing pajamas and cute cloud slippers. No reason to get dressed up when it’s just Anton. He’s immediately hit with flashbacks to the night you were at his apartment in his clothes. Still as soft as ever, he thinks.

“Here, come in.”

“Thanks. I was seriously dying in my room.”

“Yeah, I would be too. Did you talk to the maintenance about it?”

“Mhm, they said they wouldn’t be able to fix it until tomorrow morning.”

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like. I grabbed some snacks I thought you'd like and thought we could watch a movie.”

“Sure, that sounds perfect. Thanks.” You walk over to his living room, hop onto his couch, and try to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat at his thoughtfulness.

The movie is long abandoned at this point. Anton let you pick, and you somehow settled on a random documentary after skipping through a few channels and seeing nothing remotely interesting. Half an hour in, you’re complaining about how sleepy the narrator's voice is making you. Anton gets on your nerves by saying he let you choose it, and you flick him on the forehead in retaliation for speaking a truth that you didn't care to hear.

You decide to ditch the movie altogether, diving into a much more interesting conversation to pass the time. The conversation ranges from anything to everything; you talk about your favorite foods, your pet peeves, and why your comfort movie will always be Ten Things I Hate About You. Anton chimes in too, opening up about how he used to do other sports outside of tennis, like swimming and archery; that he likes dinosaurs and space, and how he’d major in architecture in another life. You joke that he’s always been a nerd.

When you’re mid-rant, deep in your thoughts about how people shouldn't be allowed to count audiobooks as reading, you look up to find Anton staring at you. You must’ve been talking for too long.

Anton doesn't take his eyes off you even though you're now making direct eye contact. His reluctance to look somewhere else causes something to shift between you two.

"What is it? Is there something on my face? Why are you looking at me like that?" The questions come fumbling out of your mouth, becoming quieter the longer he stares at you. He scoots in, and your breath hitches when it becomes apparent how close you two are. You can feel his breath tickling your nose.

“Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Another moment of silence passes between you just as you’re registering his words. His eyes are drawn to your lips, unable to look away at the pout they’ve formed. He must not be thinking straight because he takes your silence as a green light, and Anton’s leaning in before you have a chance to come to your senses and draw up your walls once more.

His hands reach up to cup your jaw with such gentleness that it only makes you want him even more, and then he’s kissing you with a dizzying fervor. All of the years of him yearning to be here, like this, with you catching up to him, and he feels a tear drop from his cheek out of happiness. It falls on your cheek, but you pay it no mind, heart and mind racing with how emotionally overwhelming all of this is for you too. He’s so tender with the way his lips move, and you feel like you belong in this moment forever, to be molded by him however he pleases.

He tastes like the vanilla ice cream you had just been eating. You close your eyes, deepen the kiss, and try to lick more of it off of his lips. Your hands make it to his shirt, and you fist the collar, pulling his body even closer to you. One of his hands drops to your waist and pulls you effortlessly his lap.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long, you have no idea.”

“So don’t stop.” Anton groans at your words and connects your lips again.

You’re not sure how it got to this point. You think you’ve been kissing him for hours at this point, and you still can’t get enough. You take a moment to catch your breath, and selfishly, so you can take in Anton’s disheveled hair, all thanks to your work. This might be your favorite sight on the planet. He’s never looked prettier than he does right now in your hands.

He pecks your lips as you become lost in thought, and you giggle at his antics, your heart feeling so light and full at the same time.

“Hmmm... should we sleep soon?”

“Yeah, probably. You do have another match tomorrow.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re coming to bed with me. That way, I can get a good night’s rest.”

You look at him skeptically.

“No bad intentions, I promise. Scout’s honor.”

You pretend to think about it, but your resolve disappears as quickly as it arrived. For tonight, you want to let yourself be wrapped up in his affectionate self and not worry about what comes after. You don’t really know what any of this means, but you think you might as well enjoy it while this lasts.

“Okay, Lee. But don't snore.”

“No promises!”

You let out a yelp and wrap your arms around his neck as he swings his arm under your knees and carries you down the hall as if you weigh close to nothing. He laughs at how much you resemble a koala bear with how tightly you’re wound around him right now. You’re tucking your head into his neck, taking in his scent as he lays you down on the bed and tucks you in before slotting himself in next to you, leaving no space between your bodies. Before knocking out, Anton gives you the gentlest kiss on your forehead and wishes you sweet dreams.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Anton.”

Como, Italy—May 10th, 2025. The Big Toss-Up.

The argument was over absolutely nothing. It was another hot day, and Anton barely managed to scrape by in his match, and it worried you to no end. You kept chastising him, telling him what he could’ve and should’ve done better, reiterating that you expected more from him. Anton hates it all. He’s so sick of it. He doesn’t even care about winning the Open. He never has. He just wants you to look at him and hold him like you had done nights prior. The morning after that night, he woke up to you gone; the only thing left to assure him that he didn’t dream you up was the imprint of your body in his sheets. You slipped away with not so much as a text and left him with a mountain of questions. He was worried sick, head rattling with thoughts of whether or not he crossed boundaries or made you uncomfortable. He didn’t hear from you all day, until you reached out asking him to meet you early the next day before his match. He let himself get his hopes up, but you were acting as if nothing had happened, so much coldness inhabiting your body that it gave Anton whiplash in comparison to how sweet you were acting with him just two days ago.

He didn’t say anything and met you the next day as you asked. Years of letting you toss him around and have things your way finally caught up to him. He laid everything bare for you that night so if you were going to pretend that nothing happened, so was he. Anton wanted so badly for you to come to your senses on your own and tell him that you did feel something for him too.

You two had gone back and forth on the court all day. He told you that he was too tired and didn’t want to be out here anymore, and you kept egging him on, telling him that the match tomorrow matters more than anything.

He thinks it’s ridiculous because after all these years, how can you not see that his heart is only in this because of you?

Maybe your heart is in it too much. Maybe your heart has only ever belonged to the sport—not even a sliver of it reserved for Anton.

So now the two of you are on the court, yelling at each other while raising the eyebrows of people walking by who pretend they aren’t listening in.

“I’m your Coach, Anton! Think about that for a second.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what happened the other night was a mistake.”

“Right.”

Anton sucks in a breath before expressing the weight of everything his mind has been juggling with the past few days.

“Think about it, Y/N. If you didn’t feel the need to draw such a strong line for no reason, there would’ve been nothing to cross. You kissed me back, don’t you remember?!”

“And I never should’ve done that.” Anton feels like you've slapped him in the face.

He practiced this discussion with you in his head before, and he always thought that when the time came, he’d be able to hold himself back. He can’t help himself; all the words come out much softer and more broken than angry.

“I’ve loved you for years, Y/N. For the past two fucking years, I’ve done everything you asked and wanted of me.”

“Are you asking me to take responsibility for your feelings? I didn’t want any of that, Anton. I didn’t ask you to like me!”

“How could you say that, Y/N?” His voice cracks, clearly sounding pained beyond repair, and you swear you hear your stomach drop.

He gathers himself before continuing.

“I’d never ask you to fake loving me if you’ve only ever seen me as some obligation or a vessel to live through. What I am asking you is that you don’t to force yourself to pretend like something isn’t there. I’m asking you not to ignore the fact that we could both be good for each other.”

You take his words in. You and Anton are the most dynamic duo tennis has ever seen, but you don’t know what comes next—if there can be a version of you guys that exists beyond that label. Where this could go scares you because the last time you had something this good—you messed it up. You can’t risk that happening again.

Anton takes your silence as an opportunity to continue.

“Can you seriously stand here and tell me that night at the bar meant nothing to you? That two nights ago meant nothing?”

“Of course it meant something, but that doesn’t mean I can do this. I can’t enter a relationship with you, Anton.” You’re nearly pleading with him at this point. This back-and-forth is getting too hard to keep up with; you want nothing more than for him to understand you. You wish he could listen to you like he always does on the court, except this time you’re not on the court, and this issue isn’t as simple as him not taking wide enough steps between returns. The same reasoning does not apply. You’re hit with the resounding epiphany that you can’t approach every problem like it’s some tennis game strategy, and it stumps you.

“What part of I love you do you not understand? Do you not believe in it? How can you stand there and say that to my face?” Anton’s words break you out of your daze.

Your heart stops once you register what he just said to you, his words piercing right through you. How dare he stand there and question you as if you’ve never experienced love in your life? Did he know anything about you? He’s relentless. Your knees buckle, and you have to will yourself to stand up. Feeling so lightheaded and at your wits' end, you resort to the only thing you know how to do when cornered like this. You respond to him with the most malice and vice you can conjure up.

“I did have something I loved, Anton. I loved it so fucking much that it destroyed me from the inside out. My own love came back to bite me in the ass… So really, don’t talk to me like that. Don’t talk to me like you know me.”

“I’ve only ever wanted to make you happy, Y/N. That’s all I ever wanted. Knowing that the extent of our relationship ends once I step off the court, all of those awards mean nothing to me when I come home to them. I know I can’t undo what happened to you; I know these awards that we’ve earned together hold a measly flame to you making a name for yourself as a player. But it’s because I want you to know that you’re a damn good coach and that you’re not this worthless, broken girl you describe yourself as. That it’s your knowledge and your expertise… your personality and the love you have to give to others... all that lives inside your head and your heart that makes you so valuable.”

He takes in another deep breath, as if saying this last sentence is about to be the last one ever. Your heart feels like it’s about to overload.

“You talk about how tennis ripped you apart, but have you ever considered that maybe I wanted to be the one to put you back together?"

“I’m not asking you to choose me, YN. I’m just asking you to think if there’s ever been a time that you’ve felt any inkling of fondness towards me, that you wouldn’t shut me away right now.”

“I’m sorry, Anton. I can’t. I can’t look at you and not envy the life you have and wish it was my own.”

All the color drains from Anton’s face, so clearly frustrated that his words do not break through your walls. Your last remark feels like you've spit directly at him with your words. In that moment, Anton decides he’s done. This pathetic never-ending game with you that he’s played for the past two years has to end here. He can't keep doing this with you and putting himself in fire's way just to lose you every single time. Then again, he doesn't know if he's ever once successfully had you. It's time for him to stop this.

“Then let’s stop this. I don’t need a coach who won’t listen to how her player feels. It must have never been a true partnership since the beginning if you just wanted me because of some pretty trophies that mean nothing to me without you.”

He walks out, leaving you to yourself. For the first time since he’s met you, Anton has chosen himself. The realization shakes you to your core. You're truly alone again. When the door shuts, you collapse to the ground and sob uncontrollably. You don’t know how long you spend on the cold wooden floors, but all you can think about is how you deserve this. You brought this upon yourself—you broke the one good thing you had left. You hate yourself so much at this moment, your self-sabotaging tendencies coming back to bite you even more than when you pushed yourself and lost tennis. It’s the same gut wrenching pain all over again, only this time, it’s even worse.

Como, Italy—May 16th. Match Point.

The score is 45-LOVE, and Anton lands the last point before the crowd breaks out in a loud cheer. With that, the game ends, and you have to hold back tears. You've been sitting on the sidelines, trying to stay out of his way since the day began. You couldn't miss this even if the world was ending, but you also knew you weren't ready to be face to face with him again. Even though you were the one to put all of this distance between the two of you, you can't help how proud you are of the way Anton played. His left arm was giving him trouble towards the second half, but the way he handled himself, no one would've known that this wasn't even his peak. Of course, nobody knows him as well as you do anyway.

It’s been almost a full week since the fight, and you haven’t held a proper conversation with him outside of the small practices where you both keep things to a minimum. You fire up the machine, let him have at it, and then give him some pointers before you both go back to your hotel rooms on your own. You know he sees your puffy eyes, the same one that cry themselves to sleep at night and you notice how he walks with his shoulders down everywhere, exhaustion lingering in every joint.

You quietly watch on the sidelines as people line up to give Anton his flowers, shake his hand, and pat him on the back, laying it on thick about with some compliments about how he’s one of a kind. They all flash smiles at him that are so genuine it stretches to opposing corners of their face and you wish all of this never happened so you could join the line. Anton tries his best to flash them an equally wide smile in response, even though you know it's not fully how he feels but he's nothing if not the most polite and respectful boy in the room. You’re so proud of him. You've always been so proud of him. And then it hits you that you’re not allowed to feel that way towards him anymore. It kills you.

Your feet move before you can process it. Rationality has been thrown out the window the moment he landed the match point. Your heart is fully his, and you can’t go another minute pretending like you don’t want him too.

You need him to know.

He materializes in front of you as if you hadn't marched all the way over to occupy the space right in front of him.

The scent of his cologne, which has begun to mix with his sweat, hits you first and nearly sends you toppling over right where you stand. You swallow the nausea that’s threatening to come up in your throat from being this close to him again and will the words to come out.

“Hi.” He says first with a reserved smile, as if he knows what this is about. He extends the olive branch first, still so sweet to you as if you didn’t break him two days ago. You’re so grateful for what feels like a small offering of peace that you smile back at him.

“Hey… I saw your match. And the ones before today. wanted to reach out and say congratulations, but I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me.”

“I never blocked you. You could’ve tried.”

The crumbs of warmth drip away from his tone, and you’re met with the most neutral tone you’ve ever heard him use to address you. He’s become completely indifferent to you within a matter of days. Your heart drops once again.

“I’m sorry.”

He’s right. You really could’ve and should’ve, but you regretted so many things when it came to him that one more didn’t feel like it was going to make a difference.

“It’s fine. We’re nothing to each other, right?” The spite in his voice makes you take a step back and reconsider if you’re really ready to have this conversation. You decide this isn't something you can run away from. You need to face this fully so you have no regrets.

“Right… well that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” You take in another deep breath before continuing.

Listen Anton. I’m sorry, really, for how things went down last night. I should’ve never spoken to you like that.”

Anton doesn’t move an inch, instead choosing to instigate further.

“Never spoke to me that way because you do actually care for me or because I’m just your client and it’s unprofessional? Which one? Because it matters.” He asks the million-dollar question as if he’s had it loaded for days.

He’s holding his ground, and you’d be almost proud of how he’s not letting you get off easily if it wasn’t killing you. But you know that you don’t get to walk back into his life so easily and expect that he’ll accept you with open arms. All you can do is be honest and transparent with him, and he can accept it on his own terms when he’s ready.

“The first one. You do matter to me, and I don’t want to keep pretending like you aren’t the best thing that’s happened to me since tennis.”

“Do you really mean that? Because if you don’t, I’d like to know now before I get any more involved.”

“Anton. I’m done running.”

“Where are the cameras?”

“The–What? What are you talking about?”

“The prank cameras. Where’s the camera crew? Tell them to come out. Are they hiding over there?” He points at the tree behind you.

“There’s no prank, Anton—,” You feel offended knowing that you being this frank about your feelings reads more as a gag to him than anything, but you dismiss it because you’re certain he’s just defensive because of how much you’ve hurt him in the past.

“Please believe me when I say it's just me asking you to let me love you the way you’ve loved me all these years.” Reaching for his hands, you cover them with yours and look into his eyes, pleading with him to see your vulnerability in this moment and how sincere you’re being. This really feels like life or death for you, you wouldn’t dare joke with him right now.

“I’ve spent so long denying myself good things, because I haven’t known anything else. My mind defaults to thinking it’s just a matter of time before things go bad—before we destroy each other. I’ve never known how to hold things at the right distance and care for them appropriately. I thought you’d consume me if I opened myself up to the possibility of us being more. Sure, I always regarded you as one of my responsibilities, but that’s long changed, and I’m sorry it took me so long to admit it. Please, can you forgive me?”

“Pinch me. This must be a dream.” You can tell he’s trying not to break out into a big smile but he folds anyways and offers you a small one. Relief runs through you immediately, you know you’re on the road to being forgiven, so you don’t feel bad about teasing him back.

“You’re so stupid, Anton Lee.”

Before you can fire another smart remark at him, he pulls your body into his, making you almost trip on his feet before you stabilize yourself properly. Anton cradles your head into his arms and pulls you into a warm embrace that could almost pass a chokehold with how tightly he's hugging you. You weakly punch his chest a little to get him to let up.

“I feel like I’m dreaming. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to wake up?” Pulling you back into himself, much gentler this time, he rests his head on top of yours. You can hear the faint sound of his heartbeat, the beat it's racing at matching the one inside your chest. You let out a laugh at his antics, so relieved to finally be allowed back into his heart.

“I like you so much, Y/N. It’s always been you.”

“I like you too, Anton. I’m not exactly sure what comes next or what this means for us, but I’m more than happy to find out.”

“And Y/N? You’re never going to lose me. I promise.”

Anton’s on top of the world. He’s got the girl of his dreams, and as a nice bonus, he just won the Italian Open. Nothing more romantic than grabbing gelato with you as the cherry on top and recounting all the moments when Anton knew you were in love with him too, despite your own denial. You ask him how it felt to win, and he says it was a fraction of the joy he felt when you told him how you felt. You just sit there happily taking in his every word, entering the conversation now and then with short quips. You don't say much, mainly because you're paralyzed with the fact that you’ve also struck gold in the form of another human being.

You weren’t expecting to feel this happy. Or really, you should say you didn't think it was possible to be this happy. Ever since you were a kid, the only thing you believed could grant you eternal happiness and peace with yourself was winning countless tennis titles. Still, sitting across from him in this gelataria, sharing two scoops of pistachio and raspberry ice cream in Italy, you’re quite content.

Queens, New York—Summer, 2026. All is fair in love and war.

You can’t remember the last time you’ve been back in your own apartment since you and Anton came back from Italy, which is pretty bad considering what you pay for rent in New York could send some people into a coma. But it’s just too difficult to leave when you get the privilege of waking up next to him everyday, his face slightly puffy but all warm and soft, and you’re held so tightly against his chest as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You try—you really do try to move, but Anton’s arms come to circle your waist even tighter until you stop hitting his chest and give up, just so happy to be in this infatuated with him. He makes a case for how much he really doesn’t want you to leave, and you don’t bother to fight because you don’t want to leave either. You have to make up for lost time after all.

You spent so long denying yourself that he’s been here all along. It was hard to know what love felt like when you spent your whole life chasing a goal—some kind of pipe dream and a misguided belief that being the best in the world at tennis would solve all of your problems. Another part of you didn’t know if you were truly deserving of happiness. Anton is so good, and you weren’t ready to confront how much he liked you, and how much you could hurt him because of that. The last time you were happy, you were also pushing yourself so hard, and it scared you to be put in that position again—to love something to the point of destruction. But now that you’ve allowed yourself some grace, being with Anton doesn’t feel like any of that. You can’t imagine being happier. Some days, it’s still hard to picture yourself being dependent on Anton, but he makes it so easy. He doesn’t make you feel small for asking for things, and never has he ever made you feel like you’re not competent. He does everything out of love, because he wants you to know that he’s here and he’s willing. Your heart tightens every time you remember how good he is. He’s truly one of a kind, and you often think you’re the one who scored got lucky with him.

On the slow mornings you wake up before him, you drink in the beautiful image of him sleeping. You observe the steady rise and fall of the blankets and listen to the faint rhythm of his breathing, the sound calming you immediately. Your mind snaps mental pictures of the way the morning sun seeps into his room, illuminating his features through the blinds. He’s so painfully beautiful. You think you’ll kick yourself forever for how much you overlooked his presence in your life. You admire the softness of his lips, his long eyelashes that cast the smallest shadows on his cheeks, and you slowly trace your index finger over the slope of his nose.

He startles you by grabbing your hand when you make it down to his nose, and brings it to his lips to kiss your knuckles.

“Morning, baby.”

His voice comes out all sleepy and soft; you think you want to hear it every morning for the rest of your life. How you went all this time without his warmth, you must’ve been crazy. You won’t ever let yourself get over these special moments. He’s been calling you that so much lately; it follows up after every sentence, remark, or small comment. And yet, you’re still not used to it.

“Mmmm, stop. It’s too early. You can’t possibly be this cheesy every morning.”

“Ohhhh, but I can. Is my baby shy?”

You hide your face in the crook of his neck, refusing to answer because that'll just egg him on.

“You have no idea how happy I am to get to call you that now.”

What he means by that is that he’s going to run it into the ground until you’re begging him to stop embarrassing you in public.

“My baby. All mine. My girl forever,” he emphasizes while planting kisses all over your face, not even giving you a chance to turn away from his morning breath.

“Anton, stop…. It’s embarrassing.”

“Babe, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to shower you with my love. I have like 3 years of affection to catch up on. Hurry up and get used to it.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but I’m yours.”

You resign, deciding not to tease him any further and let him have this moment. Shifting your focus over to returning the kisses, you want him to be showered in your love too. Anton lets out light giggles, and you drink them all up. He starts tracing random shapes on your back, asking you to guess what he’s spelling out once he eventually transitions to letters. When you can’t guess it, mind half-floating to another dimension from the pure happiness you’re experiencing right now, he shyly admits he wrote “I love you,” and you bury your head into his chest even more to hide the heat that crawls up your cheeks.

Anton hums to get your attention, and you perk up at the sound.

“...Do you have any nicknames in mind for me? Of course, you don't have to use them, but I was just wondering.” You can tell he wants one so badly, and your heart melts. The idea of your 6'0 giant wanting to be referred to as something as saccharine as the love he has to give to the world makes you want to shed your tough exterior, but you know it's not going to happen overnight.

“I don’t know. I’m still really shy with all of those things. It’s hard for me to use them.” You admit.

“Well, what if we do something similar to Anton? Please, baby, try for me.”

“Okay... how’s Toni?” It comes out as uncertain, but it’s cute, and you’re comfortable enough to use it since it sounds similar to his real name anyway.

“Toni’s perfect, princess.”

You’re so grateful for him.

“Should we get up now?” Checking the clock, it’s half past nine. You usually never stay in bed this late, but you’ve been doing a lot of things you’re not used to because of Anton recently.

“No, I’m too comfortable.”

You unwedge yourself from his arm and roll over to quickly check your phone. After a few seconds, Anton whines and pulls you back into him, claiming that you were too far and he’s scared you’re going to escape. So clingy.

“Don’t tell me you have somewhere to be. If you do, cancel it. Let’s both take the day off and spend this morning like how I’ve always dreamed.”

“And what would that be?”

“More kisses and more of me telling you how much I love you.”

“Okay, Toniiii. That sounds nice.” You drag out his name just to tease him, saying it like you spent a second mulling it over, but really, you wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else.

“Should I make breakfast for you later?”

The smile on your face drops, replaced with immediate worry. Anton's love language being acts of service would be so cute if you didn't value your life.

“Please never cook again.”

Anton makes an offended face, but you remind him of what happened last time he tried to make you pancakes, and he shies away, clutching his chest as if you’ve wounded him so deeply. He jokes that he’ll never forgive you for being so mean, but a second later, he’s asking for you to be close to him again.

“We can make them together, baby. I’ll teach you.” That’s enough to bring the smile back on his face, and he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Okay, but in 15 minutes. Wanna cuddle you some more.”

“Addicted much?”

“Oh, very much so when it comes to you. You have no idea.”

You both fall into another brief period of silence, just appreciating each other's presence and the warmth of him on your back. He's such a cuddle bug. The second night you spent in his apartment after coming back from Italy, you joked about how you didn't expect him to be so clingy, and he just hugged you even tighter.

You readjust in his hold so your mouth is close enough to his ear so that you can whisper what you’re about to say.

"Just so you know, Toni... I love you too."

"I've always known, angel."

Anton couldn’t be happier knowing he’s finally won you over after all these years.