#anton riize

your boyfriend is the kind of guy who loves to use your boobs as a pillow, nearly making them spill out of your shirt with how much he snuggles his face to them because he needs the skin to skin contact. anton's a goner when you bring one of your hands to the back of his head to play with his hair while the other caresses his bare back, needy whines coming from his mouth as he shifts on top of you. you can feel something pressing against the soft insides of your right thigh and it doesn't take long until anton starts humping his semi hard cock on you, his breath coming out shallow—which leads to his open mouth getting drool all over your shirt and breasts while his grip on your hip tightens to hold you in place.

"oh, fuck– oh, baby... mhm, you feel so fucking good," he barely manages to let the words out with how much he's moaning, the friction on his sensitive dick, the soft skin of your boobs under his cheek and the way your nails scratch his scalp just right, pulling his hair every so often when he grinds too hard onto you... it's all too much. anton feels like he could cum from just this, but he can't. he won't.

though his right arm stays under you to keep you place, his left hand hastily moves to your shirt, his actions nearly aggressive as he pulls it down and guides your nipple to his mouth. you giggle at how eager anton always gets when he wants to have you in his mouth, but it's quickly suppressed by a heavy sigh when you feel anton's tongue licking the underside of your boob before sucking on your nipple as if expecting something to come out, already feeling yourself getting wet from his ministrations. he keeps his hand on your right breast to angle it towards his mouth as he refuses to lift his head from your left one, all while he still humps your thigh, albeit more clumsily now.

you hiss when he pulls back from your boob after a particularly hard suck, and the cold air hitting your spit slicked nipple makes it even harder, much to anton's delight. "need you in my mouth all the time, fuck," he moans, this time lifting his head so he can lick the entirety of your breast before starting to suck on your nipple again. he moves so he's sitting back on his haunches, placing your legs on either side of his waist before pulling the other side of your shirt so both your tits are out.

the first few times anton fucked you, he always went straight to your boobs first, which led you to try and take off your shirt to make things easier for him. depending on the day, he either would either whine or groan, but anton never let you take if off during foreplay—in his sick, perverted mind, he gets off so bad on seeing you all fucked out under him, the wetness oozing out of your pussy staining your panties and your tits pressed together, all bitten and slick with his spit, spilling out of your shirt in a tight fit. anton groans at the sight, "my baby looks so fucking good for me... i love you so much, you're so fucking pretty."

you grab anton by his hair again, a loud moan coming out of his mouth as you pull him towards you. anton barely has time to place his forearm next to your head to brace himself before your lips are on his, kissing him sloppily just the way he likes. in this position, he can hump your pussy instead of your thigh, and that's exactly what he does. anton angles his hips so his hard cock can grind on your neglected clit, all while you're kissing the air out of him and his free hand plays with your boob, lightly squeezing it and pulling on your pebbled nipple. when you pull back, you can feel anton's dick twitch against your pussy and inside his pajama shorts as he watches the string of saliva that still connects your mouths, licking it before pressing another wet, fat kiss on your lips.

anton doesn't waste time getting back to your tits, though, pressing both of them together before alternating between licking and sucking each of them. you let out whiny moans, needing some stimulation on your slick, empty cunt again, so you use your legs that are still wrapped around his waist to pull anton closer to where you need, making his dick perfectly grind against your clit. you keep using your legs to basically get him to fuck you through your clothes, making the two of you whiny messes, letting out loud moans you're sure your neighbors are hearing.

you can feel anton lose his focus on your tits due to how good you're making his dick feel. he stopped sucking on your nipples to just having his open mouth around one of them as he moans uncontrollably, his spit leaking out of his mouth and making its way under your shirt. when anton feels like he's getting too close to cumming, he grips your hips so fucking tight to stop you it makes you whine. he moves to kiss you messily again, your tongues sliding against each other in a way that makes your pussy clench around nothing. he's breathless as he says against your lips "baby, please, let me fuck this pussy. god, fuck. wanna fuck you so bad, i love your fucking pussy." anton can feel his sanity slipping even further when you let out an airy laugh and say "yeah? you wanna put your big cock inside me? you need it, baby?"

anton nods eagerly, his hold on your hips getting impossibly tighter as he tries to stop himself from grinding down on you, knowing he's too close to cumming inside his shorts. "i need it so much, baby, your pussy feels so fucking good on my cock. best pussy i've ever fucked, please!" as much as you love having a man like anton—big, hot, insanely handsome—nearly crying as he begs to fuck you, you feel like you're two seconds away from absolutely losing it if you don't impale yourself on his dick. you push his shoulder slightly to get him off of you, telling him "sit up, baby" when he whines, thinking you're gonna leave him like this. when he sees you pulling your panties down, his eyes glint with a newfound desperation as he quickly discards his pajama shorts, moaning when the cool air hits his cock that's been drooling with precum from the moment you put your hands on his hair.

it takes all your might to focus on just telling anton to rest his back against the headboard and not lean down to put that perfect, twitching fat dick of his inside your mouth. you lick your lips as if you could already feel the taste of his skin and precum on your tongue, but you unfortunately have more pressing matters at the moment. as you lift one leg to straddle anton's lap, his left hand immediately finds your waist, finally tugging on the hem of your shirt to take it off of you. anton then pulls you flush against his chest as his other hand holds the base of his dick to slide his slick head against your folds, making you both sigh needily. before you can cuss him out for taking too long, he pushes your hips down in one swift motion, forcing a loud whine out of your throat as you feel your pussy get completely stuffed from his big cock.

"fuck, toni, that's it" you moan you set a quick pace on his dick, exerting yourself to the max as you need to almost stand completely on your knees so you can ride the entirety of anton's length before sliding back down. even if riding your boyfriend is tiring, you keep letting out high pitched whines every time you bottom out, feeling high off the way he makes you feel so fucking full. anton, on the other hand, feels his dick get even harder from how warm and tight your walls feel sliding against him, the wet sound of your ass hitting his thigh making you both delirious. what really gets him going, though, is hearing you whimper when his hands on your hips slightly shift your position so his fat tip nudges the deepest parts of your pussy. one of anton's moves from your hip to curl around the hair at the back of your head, tugging on it just enough for it to sting a little as he pulls your face closer to his. his tongue wastes no time diving into your mouth as soon as your lips touch, sliding against yours in a rapid but sensual rhythm that had you both moaning into each other's mouths. when anton pulls back, he leans away only enough for him to be able to whisper against your lips "i swear to god this pussy was made to take my dick. i love it so much," making you whine as you felt yourself gushing and clenching even more around him.

anton feels like he could seriously detach himself from how good you're making his dick feel and cum solely from watching you rolling your eyes back due to the almost painful pleasure you're feeling. the way your boobs move up and down, in tandem with your movements on his cock, feel downright hypnotic—he only realizes he had been staring at them with an open mouth like a freak when your hand slides up from his shoulder towards his face, using your index finger on his chin to make him look you in the eyes while your thumb cleaned the saliva that had drooled from his mouth as he was gawking at you. you then slowly move your thumb from the corner of his lips and into his awaiting mouth, feeling yourself smirk as anton closes his eyes and moans around your finger, feeling you slow down your pace until you're grinding down on him instead.

when anton opens his eyes again, he barely looks into your eyes before his gaze drops to your boobs again, squeezing your waist tightly. he mumbles something around your thumb and you pull it out of his mouth to let him speak. anton lets out a raspy and hushed "need them in my mouth so damn bad," before he plants both his feet on the mattress and slides down on it so he's now lying on his back. you position your hand flat beside his face to support yourself as you playfully roll your eyes, letting out a breathy laugh while you caress his soft cheek with your free hand, saying "you're such a perv." anton laughs too, but he quickly masks it with an exaggerated pout. he pushes the side of his face further against your palm like a needy cat as he blinks up at you before he brings his hand to yours, holding it so he can press a kiss to your palm without breaking eye contact. when anton brings his hand back to your waist, he says "i just love you too much, baby. could worship you all day..."

that seals the deal for you. you can't spend another second feeling him twitching impatiently inside you, so you just decide to give the man what he wants—you lean down so you're supporting yourself on your forearm instead of your palm and use your free hand to guide one of your breasts towards anton's parted lips, the corner of his eyes already lift up with happiness. the moment he latches onto your nipple, anton's hands slide down to your hips to hold you firmly as he starts to quickly thrust into you from below. you whine loudly from how hard and fast he's fucking you, just the way you like, and you use the hand from the arm supporting you to tug at his hair, trying not to let your body give up and fall on top of his. "toni," you whimper, pulling his hair harder to alleviate some of the immense pleasure you were feeling. "your dick feels too good– oh my god, it's too fucking good!"

anton moans around your tit when he feels you pulling on his hair, feeling himself getting close from all the stimulation—your filthy words ringing in his head, the pain on his scalp, your wet pussy clenching tightly around him and your nipple getting harder and harder against his tongue—so he moves one hand to find your clit, his fingers almost slipping past it from how wet you are. in the back of your mind, you think it's all too much much for him to be sucking your tit, fucking you that fast and now he's trying to stimulate your clit too, but the thought quickly slips from your mind when his fingers start rubbing it in fast up and down movements.

"fuck, fuck, fuck, toni, i'm cumming, plase don't stop!" you manage to say between loud moans, and anton lets your breast fall out of his mouth to groan "fuck, yeah. cum on my cock, baby, i wanna feel it." hearing those words is all that was left for you to finally reach your breaking point, opening your mouth in a silent moan as you feel yourself spasming on anton's dick.

when it's finally over, you're gasping for air as you let your body slump over anton's, feeling too weak to keep holding yourself up. you let out quiet little cries as anton keeps fucking you fast and steady, laughing deliriously between groans with how good he felt "you're amazing, baby, fuck. i'm gonna cum so fucking much inside you," he says as he uses the hand that was previously on your clit to hold your hair and keep it away from your neck so he could kiss it. you feel tears sliding down your face as anton's thrusts get impossibly faster, and he groans against your neck "oh, pretty girl, i love using your pussy so much– i'm gonna cum! i'm gonna cum so much inside you, okay? take it– fuck, take it all, please!"

you're not even registering his words anymore from how overstimulated you feel, just nodding along to whatever anton is saying and begging him to finish already—both because you're so tired and because you absolutely love when he cums inside, "please, toni! give me your cum, please, baby!" anton groans loudly, latching his mouth onto your neck before wrapping his arms around your waist to hold you flush against him, fucking a few more hard thrusts into you before he stalled, lifting his hips from the mattress with how hard he pushed into you. all you can do is sigh and sniff tiredly against anton's hair as you stop crying, your entire body trembling as you feel your pussy get even more stuffed, both from anton's big cock and his cum—which, as he promised, was a lot.

anton keeps holding you on top of him as you both calm down, waiting for your breaths and hearts to slow down and pressing reassuring kisses to your shoulder. when he feels like he can move again, anton gently pushes you away from him to lay you down on the mattress, chuckling when you groan in complaint as you feel his dick slide out of you and his load start to drip down your thighs. he gets on his haunches between your legs again, being careful to keep some distance between both your crotches are you're still sensitive.

you're still kind of out of it, your eyes closed, when your boyfriend leans down to press a chaste kiss against your lips, barely having the energy to kiss him back. anton proceeds to press kisses all over your cheeks, forehead, jaw and neck, mumbling against your skin "that was so good. you're so good to me, my love," making you smile and sigh happily. when you don't say anything back, anton pulls back to get a better look at you and says teasingly "what? i fucked you too good and now you can't speak, baby, is that it?"

you finally open your eyes to give a deadpan look to your boyfriend, saying begrudgingly "you're so annoying..." anton laughs, lightly pinching your side and making you flinch, "oh, so now you can speak?" you just roll eyes, barely stopping yourself from laughing too. he moves to lay beside you, pulling you close to him so your head is resting on his chest and his fingers are tracing shapes on your back.

anton has half a mind to grab tissues from his bedside table to clean you up when you distract him by asking "are we really gonna stay in bed?" you slightly lift your head from anton's chest to look at the time on anton's clock at said bedside table, letting your head fall back down as you comment "it's, like, way past noon. aren't you hungry?" you don't have to see it when you're able to hear the cheeky smile on anton's face as he says "babe, my mouth was full ten minutes ago. i'm doing great." you playfully push his body away from yours in mock exasperation, which gives anton the opening he needs to quickly lean down and give a quick suck to one of your nipples. you push him away again, laughing, "oh, my god! you're worse than a baby!"

anton just smiles up at you, moving up to kiss your lips before a smirk takes over his face. you feel one of his hand sneaking its way on the side of your body as he says "besides, even if i start feeling hungry, i have a full course meal waiting for me right here." before you can ask him what he means, anton's fingers find your pussy again, making your body twitch from sensitivity as they slide through your folds to gather the remnants of your slick and his cum. anton brings his now wet fingers to his mouth, groaning in delight at your combined taste.

he pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a pop, smiling deviously as he says "delicious." as you stare at him, you swear you feel yourself start getting wet again, so you pull anton towards you to kiss him hard, feeling his spit slicked hand hold your hip tightly as anton moves his body from his side to fit between your legs again. you speak against his lips "you're a freak."

"just for you," anton smiles before leaning down to kiss you again.

“yo, chill.”

after the incident about a week ago; after letting yourself freak out about it first, you became pretty content with the fact that you smashed your best friend. despite your perfectly rational fear that things would become awkward after, your friendship remained relatively normal. emphasis on relatively. however, the fact that things didn’t become awkward between you two meant there was absolutely no deterrent against doing it again…. and again, and again.

your roommate wondered why the hell you had overstayed at anton’s by like a lot of days... your friends wondered why you were either late or absent to all the recent gatherings. it was because anton was insatiable. like he couldn’t get up off you.

nestled between your open legs in his bed, anton moved his hips over yours, “i can’t help it. when you touch me, i’m instantly hard. it’s like muscle memory.”

“ou, don’t do that.” you sighed out, trying to ignore the heat pooling between your thighs, “i-i need to get— i have to meet my friends.”

he whined in response grinding down into you, “i know, i know. i won’t keep you long…”

“toni…” you knew and he that he was full of shit. but the featherlight feel of his lips brushing your neck pushed all the rational thoughts out of your head. “okay, okay, fine.”

with your permission, anton’s mouth was immediately on yours, kissing you all sloppy and holding your neck to keep you in place. slowly, he continued humping into you and you wrapped your legs around his waist, crossing them at the ankles.

“fuck, you’re so— you feel warm. i could cum like this.” anton whimpered.

you held onto his shoulder, “wait, i want you inside me…”

didn’t you have somewhere to be..?

already sitting up to strip his clothes, anton laughed, “don’t you have somewhere to be, though?”

you rolled your eyes as you started pulling down your leggings. “just— let’s just not ask questions right now.”

through hooded eyes, you watched as anton pushed his boxer briefs down, letting his dick spring up against his lower ab. you were expecting him to start teasing you. anything but the way he immediately leant down to press an open-mouthed kiss to your pussy.

“i could never get tired of doing this…”

you slid your fingers into his soft hair, tugging gently and sighing heavily. “anton, please.”

“hm? give me a second.” the sound of anton humming vibrated through his lips around your clit, making your eyes roll back. “i’m tryna get you wet for me.”

“i already am—” you whined desperately but anton continued with no remorse.

he flattened his tongue against your pussy, licking a long stripe upwards and your hips bucked into his mouth. “this pretty pussy tastes so good…” moaning against you, he pushed his tongue inside of you and with each twitch of your hips, your clit bumped against his nose. you were so overwhelmed with pleasure that you felt tears start to well up in your eyes. it took everything in him to pull away, but he was feeling like if he didn’t fuck you soon? he could die.

anton tapped his dick against your now puffy pussy lips a couple times before sliding in with comfortable ease. you immediately had to dig your nails into him. he should not have gotten you that close.

anton pressed a kiss just below your earlobe, “i’m gonna put it in, okay, baby?”

you nodded at him and he rubbed his tip against your sensitive clit before finally bottoming out inside of you with a quiet moan, immediately starting to roll his hips into yours with rhythmic ease.

“fuck, you’re wet… does it feel good?”

wrapping your legs around his waist, you nodded.

“yeah? it feels good? let me rub that clit, baby.” he sat upright on his knees, still fucking into you and started rubbing small circles on your bundle of nerves, making you cry out.

“anton—” you cut yourself off with a low moan.

“you feel so fucking good around me.” anton whined above you, “s-so good to me… hah.”

the sound of his hips smacking into the backs of your thighs grew louder as his thrusts be came more shallow and irregular. he was making it very clear that he was getting close.

“are you gonna cum for me, toni?” you stroked his hair and his face contorted in pure pleasure. he couldn’t answer you.

“please?” you pecked his lips and he couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling back. the tip of his dick pushing against that spongy spot inside you with each thrust had him weak. you wanted nothing more in this moment than for him to cum inside you, because you knew the noises he would make could finish you off.

anton was resilient; determined to keep going for you. he leant forwards again, shifting his weight onto his hands and expertly grinding his hips into yours. this however gave you the perfect angle to start kissing at his shoulders, the crook of his neck, his jaw, his face. he knew it was coming. or was hoping at least. anton opened his mouth slightly and again, your lips met his in a fervent kiss.

he attempted to muffle his moans against your lips but it was no use for him. he was already there. anton pulled his lips away from yours to release a string of high pitched moans and curses as his hips stuttered against you. the friction of his pelvis against your clit triggering your own orgasm.

“anton—”

“mmph.. f-fuck, i’m cumming. i’m cumming for you.” anton’s brows were furrowed in pure pleasure as he fucked his warm load into you. “fuck, baby, take my cum… just like that.”

anton’s body fell limp on top of yours. you gently dragged your nails up and down his back, laughing at the way he twitched as a result.

“toni… you sound so pretty.”

anton breathed out a shy laugh. “stop. i’m embarrassed.” he was breathless.

you let out a content sigh, allowing your eyes to dart around to the clock on your wall. yeah, no way you were making it to whatever plans you had. you were gonna have to start making up some excuse real fast because you knew this wasn’t going to be the last time this happened. nor did you want it to be.

your body lies slack in bed, limbs clammy to the touch. the only thing that can be heard aside from your gentle exhaling is the humidifier perched in the corner of the bedroom. 

anton’s body is firm behind yours, static—until he begins to stir.

one of his long arms is heavy and drawn over your waist, his hand subconsciously drawing you impossibly closer at the hip until you’re pressed to his front. each twitch of his cock that’s now leaking and hard meets your backside. 

you’d had numerous conversations about exploring the world of somnophilia, you’d even gone as far as consenting. 

but the two of you had never tried it. 

in true anton fashion he felt like a monster laying at your side, plotting. compelled to wake you right in his moment because he was needy.

and although he felt awful, you know, about the fact that the first thing you’d hear today would be him asking if you’d satisfy his urges and let him fuck you, the ache of his cock nestled in the curve of your ass felt worse.

against his own discretion anton’s hips rut behind you, his heartbeat is sporadic at the thought of you waking up and seeing—or catching him like this. his eyes are heavy when he forces them open, only to squeeze them shut attempting to bypass the groan resting on the tip of his tongue. his cheeks burn with a crimson tinge as the wet patch on the crotch of his underwear expands. his entire body is scorching behind you as he cranes his neck, creating more surface area for the air con to graze.

your hips momentarily jolt backwards, a particularly breathy sigh that almost mimics a whimper falls from your lips. anton freezes, swearing that he heard you mumbling something.

but you don’t wake up, in fact your lower body falls motionless again.

a thin layer of sweat causes the lousy material of your pajamas to adhere to you like a second skin. 

writhing around in your sleep was unlike you—so was having a wet dream to be fair, although you weren’t entirely sure that you’d been dreaming this whole time.

truthfully your imagination could never replicate the weight of anton’s wandering hands on your upper body and the warmth of his mouth on your thighs.

your mind is hazy, eyes weighing the same as a stack of bricks. they almost burn when you open them for a split second to turn your head and check the time.

it's just shy of 6AM, which was certainly early by your own definition. but never too early to feel the broad presence of anton’s shoulders between your legs.

you feel an untamed mess tickling the insides of your thighs, anton’s figure forcing them wider and wider apart until the hinge of your hips start to ache due to the stretch so shortly after waking up.

“toni?” you call out, the yawn escaping your lips louder than your voice in volume.

no reply.

supple lips ghost the exposed skin of your knees, then the insides your thighs, leaving a wet spot behind each time there was a change in location.

your nipples harden when anton’s thumb brushes the underside of your bust. the anticipation has you covered in goosebumps, shoulders shuddering when he places a kiss to the waistband of your panties and nudges your clit with his nose. 

“fuck—are you serious?” you attempt to plead. the question is rhetorical, but a groan is drawn from the back of anton’s throat, muffled by your flesh. you crack an eye open, immediately lifting yourself onto your elbows to watch the disturbance.

“anton?” you urge again, voice barely any louder and rough with the remnants of sleep. 

still no response. 

just another kiss, this time it’s hot and open mouthed with lips puckered against your covered clit. then a kitten lick through the cotton barrier has you absentmindedly bucking your hips away from the mattress.

anton has no intentions to tease after already fondling you awake, two of his lengthy fingers swipe the crotch of your panties to the side and he has half a mind to smirk at the way you twitch, his knuckles brushing your puffy folds.

you’re panting in anticipation, lips parted and throat dry.

the first drag of anton’s fingers through your wetness has your back ached. your pussy begins leaking on command as if it were crying, pleading for more. hole puckering, practically a “welcome” sign.

“couldn’t even sleep,” anton murmurs, lips still ghosting the inside of your right thigh. “I needed you so bad, baby.” 

“i can tell.” you sigh, threading a hand through the mop of hair on his head and holding him impossibly closer to where you needed him “so badly”.

the same two digits from before are buried knuckle deep instantaneously, the way that anton hisses as he watches your cunt choke on his fingers is sinful.

“ohhh my god—toni, please!” you yelp, unsure what you’re asking for. 

you’d been asleep less than 5 minutes ago, so the combination of his fingers so deep inside and his lips continuing to travel up and down the expanse of your exposed skin has you struggling to form a coherent thought.

“how is it that you’re always this tight?” anton asks, eyes finding yours. the way his gaze reads innocence, as if he has no idea what he’s doing to you sends your mind into a frenzy. 

“d-don’t know—shit! i don’t know, just don’t stop!” you plead, head thrown back between your shoulders at the feeling of anton’s fingers curling upwards until they’re pointed back at him.

it doesn’t shock you all that you’re this close to cumming, not with the speed in which your boyfriend is stretching you out. your hips meet each flick of his wrist halfway, eager. abdomen tense as you fight to hold out. 

but it was useless.

a particularly hard thrust of anton’s fingers has your body jerking upright. your hips are hungrily bucking but his free hand is quicker, abandoning its assault on both your tits to anchor your lower body to the bed.

from this angle you can see the man below you in his entirety.

his hair is a mess, partially from how he’d slept and partially from the way you’d been using his head to for leverage. he’s in just a tank top and pajama pants, biceps flexed due to the hold he had on your hips.

but his hips were what possessed your wandering eyes.

anton’s rutting helplessly against the mattress beneath him, each whimper and sigh of relief to leave his mouth meets your cunt. 

the sight has you mindlessly spreading your legs even wider, eyes dewy and jaw dropped in awe as the grown man that was easily twice your size continued whimpering whilst getting off on playing in your pussy. 

anton’s mouth finds your clit, sucking until the skin is pulled taut between his lips. he releases momentarily with a faint “mwah” sound before pressing his tongue flat against the swollen pearl and bobbing his head up and down. 

the next noise to leave you is pornographic—arguably too loud to pair with the time that the digital clock on your nightstand reads. 

if you were capable of being any more conscious this early in the morning you’d feel a slight bit embarrassed. but right now the only thing you can focus on is the squelch of anton’s fingers as he simultaneously feasts on your clit.

“antonnn! nng—i can’t, i can’t!” you mewl, the hand in his hair contradicts your statement, holding him flush against you while your orgasm has you making a mess in the palm of his hand.

“i know, baby. i know.” anton coos, releasing your clit to utter the praise that barely meets your ringing ears. 

your chest heaves and your eyes are painfully heavy, but you pry them open when anton rises to his knees between your legs. he’s got one hand beside your head for balance and the other cradling your chin.

his lips meet yours for the first time this morning and you feel the pit of your stomach heat. the kiss is slow, a mixture of both your labored breathing. anton’s tongue is hot in your mouth, languid and precise in an attempt to completely merge with yours.

you’re chasing him when pulls away, only to drop your head onto the pillow beneath you in defeat.

you’re whimpering when you feel him press his hips forward, eyes fluttering at the weight of his rigid cock on the front of your panties that cling to your cunt shamelessly.

“you’re fucking huge.” you whisper, clit already paired with the heartbeat in your chest.

the only response you receive from anton is a smirk before he’s dry humping you again. his bottom lip caught between his teeth when he felt another bead of precum leak from the tip of his cock and onto the cotton beneath his pajamas.

then he’s leaning forward, until his head meets your shoulder, placing a tender kiss right beneath your ear.

“need to fuck you.” he pants as hips remain in motion. "it's been the only thing on my mind since i opened my eyes."

you’re nodding, unable to fix your lips to form a proper sentence.

that’s all anton needs to begin lowering the waistband of his pants just enough, tucking his fingers into the hem of your panties and tugging them down. he waits to hear the sound of them hitting the ground once you kick them off, then he’s fisting his cock and pumping it once, twice…three times. hissing at the lack of care in which he was gripping himself.

nudging him out of the way you take over. with one hand you barely cover half of what he was able to, but you can tell when anton’s hips buck forwards that he prefers your grasp over his own.

“y-you gotta stop.” he warns, stuttering when you squeeze. “or i’ll cum in your hand.”

huffing as if saying “fine.” you release your hold, hand moving to grip at his forearm next to your head.

using the hand that’s not supporting his weight he holds his cock at the base, circling your clit with the tip just to watch you squirm and hear your sounds of protest. 

then he’s easing himself forward, trembling with restraint as every vein in his neck and arms becomes visible. it takes everything in him not to force his hips flush against yours at once.

“anton—f-fuck!” you pant, back arched away from the bed. although it felt like he was fully inside, you could tell he wasn’t with the way he'd barely been able take a deep breath, his entire frame frozen above you.

one more fluid roll of his hips and you’re gasping, followed by a sob at the feeling of him bottoming out. 

“this…t-this—fuck! this is what i needed from you, baby.” anton pants, each of his thrusts deep, hips brutally slow in pace. 

“y—ah, so deep, i feel so full.” you moan, hand curled around his bicep. the pads of your fingers basically committing the feeling of his muscles flexing beneath your digits to memory. 

“yeah?” anton taunts, grinding his hips at an angle that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head and your mouth open so wide that you think you may drool when you start nodding in response.

“shit—are you splitting me in half?!” you cry, chest rising and falling rapidly.

the chuckle that leaves anton’s mouth is cut short by a strangled groan when your cunt spasms around his cock.

but his hips don’t falter. 

a large hand finds its way to your front, applying slight pressure to your stomach where the outline of anton’s cock comes and goes.

“can you feel me here?” he whispers, shoulders shuddering at the weight of his own hand pressed down on his cock through your gut.

you’re a mess, an array of “yes” and “oh my god” rushed from between your lips, similar to a chant.

“i’m gonna cum—anton, please!” you beg, doubtful that you’d be able to hold it in anyway due to your last orgasm having been minutes ago.

“i’m not stopping you, baby.” your boyfriend encourages. “c’mon give it to me.”

his hand finds its way between your legs once again, thumbing at your clit. the inflamed nob aches as you’re on the brink of overstimulation, but the burn is addictive and the knot in the stomach grows painfully tight.

you can’t warn anton again before you begin to milk his cock. your body goes rigid for a split second, mouth open. the breath you’d been trying to let out is caught in your throat, depriving you of oxygen momentarily.

your hips mindlessly move in tandem with anton’s, only stopping when your limbs begin to sting. the hand that has a hold on his arm, tightening in grip, enough to bruise.  

you let the man above use you as you attempt to catch your breath, cooing in contentment with each lick of praise you both exchange. his hips finally slow as he paints your insides, thrusts growing sloppier with each thick white rope of cum being stuffed back into your mess of a hole.

anton bottoms out one last time, strength waning. then he’s using both his hands to support his weight while he pulls out. you greedily whine at the loss inside, this only makes the nasty grin on his lips spread wider.

once he’s laying comfortably he waits for you to turn towards him, seeking his hold.

placing your head on his chest you crane your neck, placing another kiss on anton’s lips before your head rests on him again.

you intend to go back to sleep, already sensing the physical consequences of sex before the sun was fully up.

but you have one thing to say to your boyfriend before your eyes shut for the umpteenth time since they’d first opened.

you’re giggling before you fully ask, but your lips don’t curl in mockery. you’re genuinely curious.

“what was it, a wet dream?”

“if that would help my case, then yes. i had a wet dream.” anton says, cheeks rosy and eyes glued shut avoiding your gaze.

“next time—because i’m sure there will be a next time,” you start. your voice is embarrassingly low in volume when you pause in slight hesitation. 

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

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

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

“Is it artist-proof?”

“No such thing,” you say.

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

“Where do you want me?” he asks.

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

He raises a brow. “For the tattoo.”

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

“You say that now.”

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

You’re just friends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lamp hums. The music drips time.

You try not to let your brain wire elsewhere.

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t apologize.

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

“Do what?”

“Pretend you’re fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You change the topic.

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

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

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

“Would never,” he says.

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

You have painted hundreds of lines in your life.

None of them were on him.

Careful.

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

“Cold?” you ask.

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

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

Well, who’s to blame, honestly?

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

The second stroke finishes.

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

You ignore how warm his hand engulfs yours.

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“This is—”

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

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

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

“Doing what?”

“Playing.”

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

“I’m not.”

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

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

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

A pause. Silence.

You clear your throat. “Look down?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The song changes. The piano keeps talking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hand stutters and recovers. “Hm.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

“Anton—”

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

“Look at me,” he says.

You do. You always do, in the end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow your breath, your answer.

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

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

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

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

And then.

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

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

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

Somehow, that encouraged him more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Photo?” you ask.

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

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

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

Only you. Only ever you.

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

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anton has broken your heart three times, and counting.

the first time was at the sandbox, when you were both four. he didn’t say hi when you joined him, and he didn’t offer you any of his shovels. your mom laughed when you cried about it later at home.

the second time was in the third grade, when you saw him for the first time in years at an arts summer camp. the two of you were in different camp groups, but you happened to share the same time slot for music class. he was still cute and quiet. he smiled the same way he used to.

you sat beside him with a shy smile. he scooted away.

“anton,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

he looked at you from the corner of his eye before slowly turning toward you.

“we went to preschool together. i’m yn.”

you watched anton open and close his mouth.

“oh, really. that’s cool,” he said dryly, before turning away.

your heart dropped straight to your stomach. it was a worse reply than anything you could have imagined.

your mom laughed about that incident, too.

because your parents knew each other, you heard about anton every now and then. when your mom told you he’d be attending the same middle school as you, you really didn’t care. after the failed conversation at summer camp, you had sworn him off.

but then you saw him.

anton at twelve years old was handsome. his hair had been freshly cut, leaving the back of his neck clean and exposed. he stood slightly taller than the other boys, all long limbs and awkward movements, like he’d grown too quickly and hadn’t figured out what to do with the extra inches yet.

you shared the same homeroom, and this time he greeted you first. you pretended not to care, and he shrugged in response and gave you a tight-lipped smile.

a few weeks into the school year, you learned that anton was musically gifted compared to the rest of your peers, some sort of cello genius. you also learned that he was awkward in more ways than one. not only in the way he moved, but socially, too.

from across the courtyard, you watched him take a step back when a girl approached him with a smile. anton’s cheeks turned pink when she reached up to poke his shoulder. he nodded slowly at whatever she was saying, and you couldn’t help but wonder what could have possibly made him blush like that.

you felt frustrated and wronged at the sight of another girl standing so close to anton. you decided it couldn’t happen again.

after school, you found him slouching outside, leaning against the brick wall of the building.

“anton!” you waved from the door and walked toward him. he didn’t step back the way he had with the girl in the courtyard, and that made you smile.

“hey, yn,” he smiled back.

you wish he wouldn’t. you had to look away before he noticed the pink blooming across your cheeks.

“i’m sorry i didn’t say hi back to you earlier.”

anton watched you tuck your hair behind your ear, only to pull it free and tuck it back again. you were chewing on your lip. he realized he hadn’t answered you.

“it’s ok, i get it,” he gave you a tight-lipped smile.

you let out a relieved sigh and told him that was great. then you waved goodbye and told him you’d see him tomorrow.

anton had been your best friend ever since.

your eyes follow anton as he walks into the cafeteria, shoulders slouched beneath a backpack that is definitely full of things he could get rid of.

he sits at a lonely table in the corner of the room and pulls out a meal-prepped lunch of ground beef and rice. he doesn’t take a bite until he’s put on his expensive noise-canceling headphones and started his music. His eyes stay fixed downward. his leg bounces frantically beneath the table.

you think anton should be more confident. he’s smart, talented, kind, and everything about the boy is gorgeous. you wish he could see himself through your eyes. but then he would be in love with himself.

“i still don’t understand how you’re such good friends with him,” giselle follows your gaze and points her yogurt spoon in anton’s direction.

“i genuinely don’t think i’ve ever seen him open his mouth to speak.”

your other friends glance up from their phones and giggle, looking between you and anton before returning to their screens.

“it’s just been so long. we’re comfortable. we grew up together,” you shrug, and it’s true.

you and anton have grown into completely different people.

he’s continued with orchestra, eventually becoming section leader and making most of his friends there. outside of orchestra, he’s a record-breaking swimmer who, ironically, can barely speak above forty decibels.

no one pays Anton much attention unless he’s standing beside you.

when high school began, you found yourself in the center of everything. teachers loved you, you had friends in every class, and your grades were good. while anton was always alone, you found yourself constantly surrounded by people.

“but do you think that'll last?” giselle stirs her yogurt without looking at you.

“what? me and anton being friends?”

“yeah.”

you furrow your brows. giselle finally looks back up.

“boys and girls can't just be friends,” she says knowingly.

“it’s worked all this time. i can’t see why it would stop,” you answer.

the look on her face makes you want to eat your words, because she knows you like anton, and you know you like anton, and everyone besides anton knows you like anton.

“you’ll meet someone better in college, anyways.” one of your friend offers, nudging your shoulder.

you ponder the reality of college. for the first time in eight years, you and anton will be going separate ways. what if everything between you really does end?

you stop by the orchestra room at the end of the day, as always. anton is sitting on the ground with his back to you. his head hangs low over his phone.

you think he’s adorable.

maybe it’s because he’s so earnest. maybe it’s because he’s so nerdy and quirky. there’s something endlessly endearing about him, something that makes your chest ache whenever you look too long.

you walk over quietly and wrap your arms around his neck.

anton knows it’s you.

he knows how you smell, and he knows how you feel. it’s crazy, but anton thinks he could even recognize the way you breathe. even so, he still freezes every time you’re near. he doesn’t know why.

“i’ll be over after cheer practice,” you say against his ear.

you know his face is red. he brings one of his large hands up and closes it around both of yours, gently pulling you off him.

“i know,” he says so softly, you almost think you imagined it.

the way anton looks at you makes it seem like he wants something more. the way he keeps holding your hands makes it seem even more possible. he shifts his body until he’s facing you completely, and for a moment—just one—you think he might kiss you right here in front of everyone.

then he breaks into a smile and stands up, offering you a hand.

anton is a sweet boy. he’s always been a good boy. sometimes you worry he might be too sweet for his own good. especially in moments like this, when he offers you his hand to help you up. when he insists on carrying your backpack all the way across campus to the gym, even though his car is parked in the opposite direction. when he does things that feel so much like love and never once calls them that.

it would feel right to kiss him on the cheek before you part ways. it would feel natural.

but you know you can’t. so instead, you punch his arm lightly and tell him to drive safe. and anton smiles that small, gentle smile that has been breaking your heart for years.

it’s the end of your last summer with anton and you’ve finally figured out the breaststroke he’s been trying to teach you every week.

being a fresh alumnus on a swimming scholarship to a big university, anton had been granted personal hours at the pool whenever he wanted. the hours you two didn’t spend bussing tables for pocket money were spent at the indoor pool, where anton and you played coach and student.

you’re wearing your lucky bikini when it finally clicks.

the first time you wore it, last summer, anton had been completely lost for words. he’d turned red and coughed whenever you got too close. by the end of the day, after working up an almost painful amount of courage, he’d quietly told you that you looked pretty. you think about it more often than you should.

when you emerge from the water, anton is grinning from the next lane over, shaking his head. You immediately swim beneath the lane line until you’re only a foot away from him. he hasn’t smiled at you like that in a while. it means more than usual.

“i really didn’t think it’d happen this summer,” he admits.

his voice is so soft you probably wouldn’t have heard it from any farther away. so you move closer.

your chest is still rising and falling from the swim when you make your way toward him. underwater, your footing slips. before you can lose your balance completely, anton’s arm wraps securely around your waist. he catches you without hesitation.

one second you’re falling, and the next you’re pressed flush against him.

you’re suddenly terrified that anton can feel your heartbeat through your chest.

the last time his arm had been around your waist like this was when he kissed you in the basement of his family’s lake house.

you never thought your parents would agree to let you and anton spend a few days there together. anton’s parents, sure. yours, never. it was a testament to how much they trusted anton, they’d said.

you brought giselle, and anton brought a friend, too.

even though you’d spent the entire summer in swimsuits around one another, everything felt different at the lake house.

the lake house was skin against skin and stolen glances. it was lingering looks quickly disguised whenever the other person noticed.

every time you climbed out of the water, anton was there waiting with a warm towel. every morning, after his run, he brought back an iced latte for you before you’d even gotten out of bed.

one morning, anton disappeared on a hike with his friend without telling you. so when he came back, you picked a fight with him out of pure spite. you’re not proud of it. in the middle of your anger, you stormed down to the dock and slipped off the edge.

the moment panic set in and your arms began flailing, anton dove in after you. one second you were alone. the next, his familiar arms were around you. he pulled you back to shore.

“are you okay?” his voice had sounded frantic. his eyes looked even worse.

wet hair dripped onto your shoulders as he waited for an answer.

you already knew you loved anton. you’d known for years. but in that moment, it was staring you in the face.

he hadn’t even stopped to take off his shirt. his clothes were soaked through with lake water. all because he’d been worried about you.

a few tears escaped before you could stop them. thankfully, they blended in with the water on your face.

you searched his eyes for any sign that he didn’t love you back. you couldn’t find one. you couldn’t find the courage to speak, either. so you just nodded.

anton spent the rest of the day convinced it was his fault. if he had told you about the hike, you wouldn’t have gotten upset. if you hadn’t gotten upset, you wouldn’t have wandered off. if you hadn’t wandered off, you wouldn’t have fallen. the logic didn’t make much sense, but neither did anton whenever it came to you.

he spent the rest of the afternoon hovering nearby, catering to you in every way he could think of. anton hated when you were mad at him. he hated feeling like he’d done something wrong. sometimes you thought he would do absolutely anything if it meant seeing you happy.

after dinner, giselle puts on a movie that no one is particularly interested in. it’s the last night and you need to pack, so you retreat to your room first, then followed an hour later by giselle, then anton’s friend. around midnight, you sneak out of bed, careful not to step on the creaky floorboards as you make your way downstairs. 

the basement was dark except for the television.

anton was still there. another movie played quietly across the screen while his head rested against the back of the couch.

he looked up when he heard you. he scoots over when he sees you at the foot of the stairs, but you sit right beside him anyways, resting your head on his shoulder.

“thank you for saving me earlier, anton.” your voice always sounded softer around him.

“of course, yn,” he replies before sitting up.

“i’m glad you’re ok.”

he’s looking into your eyes again. the basement was dim, but somehow that only made him prettier. your faces are only inches apart, and you think he’s getting even closer.

you were suddenly aware of every breath, every blink, every tiny movement.

“i’m sorry for getting mad at you, too,” you whispered.

anton’s eyes kept dropping to your lips, the same way yours kept drifting toward his. he shook his head.

“it’s okay,” he mumbled. his voice was barely audible.

“you’re the only thing that matters anyway.”

for a moment, neither of you moved. then anton kissed you softly.

the world seemed to stop. you felt detached from your own body, as though you were floating somewhere above the room, watching it happen to someone else.

your first love became your first kiss.

when you kissed him back, you felt him smile against your lips.

his hand found yours. he pulled you closer until there was nowhere left to go, gently trapping you between the couch arm and the warmth of his chest.

it was clumsy and messy, but it was anton, so you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

after kissing for what felt like an hour, anton tucked you under the covers in your room and kissed your forehead before retreating to his own room. neither of you ever brought it up again.

“i didn’t think a lot of things would happen this summer,” you admit softly, your fingers tracing absent-minded shapes through the water droplets scattered across anton’s chest. anton coughs and immediately drops his arm from your waist.

anton has been different since the lake house. he’s been more awkward. distant.

you let your hand fall from his chest, but you stay where you are. you’re close enough to see the way his jaw tightens, and to notice that he still won’t look at you. that’s how you know something is wrong. because anton always looks at you.

“our time slot’s almost over,” he says after a moment with a quick glance at his watch. his voice is flat and careful.

when he turns away again, you feel something sink inside your chest.

he doesn't even offer you a hand to get out of the pool.

it’s incredibly hot outside.

the second you step into the sun, you almost groan. the heat presses against your skin like a heavy hand. the pavement shimmers. the air feels thick enough to drink.

but you don’t. you don’t want to do anything that could possibly upset anton. you already think he’s mad at you.

normally, he opens the passenger door before you even reach it. today, he walks straight past you and gets into the driver’s seat.

your stomach sinks.

the heat trapped inside anton’s car is almost as suffocating as the silence between you.

he starts the engine and immediately cranks the air conditioning. then he pulls out of the parking lot without turning on any music. he doesn’t offer you his aux cord, so the two of you drive in silence.

by the time anton parks outside your house, you feel confused and nervous and scared all at once. everything is ending. you move into your dorm next week, so today was the last swimming session of the summer. you and anton don’t have any plans after this. the thought sits heavily in your chest. the way he’s acting makes it worse. the fact that he’s been acting like this ever since the lake house makes you feel sick.

because what happened at the lake only deepened your feelings for him. it solidified them and made you completely confident that he liked you too. because who kisses someone they don’t like? not your anton, you’re sure of it.

you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn toward him.

“thank you again,” you say, leaning closer.

anton leans toward you, too. almost unconscious, almost instinctive. a small smile appears on his face, shy and reluctant, like he doesn’t entirely mean for it to happen.

“for what?” his voice is quiet, always quiet.

“teaching me the breast stroke.”

neither of you say anything.

you could kiss him right now. you could close the distance and relive that night at the lake house, when everything felt simple and life seemed to settle into the shape it was always meant to have.

your eyes drift to his lips, soft and pink. only inches away.

anton notices. he watches your gaze drop before it returns to his eyes.

his chest tightens. he thinks his heart might burst out of his chest if you get any closer. he’s been a nervous wreck since he picked you up this morning. his pulse hasn’t slowed down once.

everything is a mess.

“i should never have kissed you.”

the words come out suddenly. anton pulls away as if he’s been burned and sinks back into his seat.

for a second, you think you misheard him.

“what?” your heart drops. you watch him drag his hands down his face. the motion looks exhausted. desperate.

you think you stop breathing.

“i never should have kissed you, yn.”

“anton—” you reach for his wrist, but he pulls away immediately. the rejection is so quick it stings.

“i kissed you and i messed everything up, and now things are never going to be the same.”

“wait, stop—”

“i didn’t want to go to college without kissing a girl, okay?”

you shake your head. tears immediately fill your eyes. you know anton. you know him better than anyone, and you know that isn’t true. he wouldn’t care about something like that. he wouldn’t use you. he couldn't.

anton keeps talking, but the words blur together. you can see his mouth moving, and you can hear his voice. but you’re somewhere else. you’re back in the lake, and the water is dark and cold. you’re reaching for something solid, but this time, anton isn’t there to pull you out.

“anton, i’m in love with you.”

the words escape before you can stop them. tears spill down your cheeks, and your bottom lip trembles. this isn’t how you wanted to tell him. you imagined a hundred different confessions over the years. none of them looked like this.

none of them happened inside a sweltering car with tears on your face and your heart hanging open between you.

anton freezes. his brows furrow. he looks confused, flustered.

you tell yourself it’s because he didn’t expect you to say it first. you tell yourself he likes you too. that even though he’s shaking his head right now, he’s going to smile in a second. you tell yourself he loves you the same way you love him.

that he’s going to reach for you. that he’s going to kiss you again before you go inside.

“you shouldn’t have said that.”

silence follows. only the hum of the engine remains. the steady rush of air from the vents fills the space between you.

you feel your heart physically shatter. your chest aches so suddenly and so sharply that you struggle to breathe. anton’s voice sounds unfamiliar. it’s still hushed, but now there’s something harsh underneath it, something final. the worst part is that you know he means it.

“what?” is all you can manage to croak.

anton refuses to look at you. “you shouldn’t have said that, and i shouldn’t have kissed you.” he swallows hard. “everything is all… fucked up now.”

you stare at him. you don’t know who you’re sitting beside anymore. the anton you knew seems to have disappeared sometime during this conversation. this person looks like him, sounds like him. but it isn’t him. it can’t be.

“i’m not someone you can like, yn,” anton says it after a long pause. you don’t understand what he means. the sentence sounds absurd. it sounds insane, and so not anton.

“i love you, anton,” your voice cracks on his name, and it feels like a plea. it feels like a final attempt to save something that’s already sinking.

anton turns farther toward the window, away from you, and everything.

the closest thing you get to a response is a slow shake of his head, followed by a heavy silence. the last five minutes is all it took to destroy the future you’d spent years dreaming of.

your mind drifts back to the sandbox, where anton first rejected you. then the summer camp, where anton ignored you.

maybe he’s always been the same. the realization settles quietly inside your chest.

this is the third time anton has broken your heart. when it finally sinks in, you open the car door and this time, you don’t look back.

you leave in tears.

you haven’t seen anton since.

for the next four years, you do everything you can to avoid going back home.

during the summers, you stay in the same city as your university and work as much as you can. when winter break comes around, you spend most of it shut inside your house, only leaving when absolutely necessary.

you become good at avoiding places that might still remember you.

there is only one sighting of anton during your entire college career, when your only serious college boyfriend wanted to meet your parents.

it was your twentieth birthday, the second one you would celebrate without anton. you'd been missing home lately, and taesan thought surprising both you and your parents would make the day feel special. he told you he was taking you somewhere nice for dinner. you believed him. it isn't until he merges onto the interstate that your stomach drops. you know exactly where he's taking you.

when taesan insists on stopping at the grocery store to buy your mom a bouquet of flowers, you convince yourself it'll be fine.

it's the end of september. anton would be at school. there's no reason for him to be home. there's no reason for him to be here.

but there he is, standing in front of the cake display near taesan.

you hear him before you see him and somehow, that's enough.

his younger brother has shot up over the past few years, nearly as tall as anton now. anton himself has grown even taller. broader. stronger. his shoulders stretch wider beneath his sweatshirt than you remember, the kind that could probably block out the sun if he stood in front of it.

he's wearing a baseball cap. from the strands of dark hair curling out beneath it, you can already tell it's the longest you've ever seen him wear it. you can't bring yourself to imagine what he looks like from the front.

then he laughs, and suddenly you're back in the basement of the lake house. your first kiss. his hand in yours. his smile against your lips.

you wonder if he remembers it's your birthday. you wonder if that's why he's standing in front of the cakes. you wonder why he's here. you wonder if you still love him.

it becomes too much.

your chest tightens and the grocery store disappears.

you're back inside anton's car, the air conditioning blasting against your skin while you struggle to catch your breath. two years of running away haven't changed anything. you're still the same girl and somehow, anton is still the same boy.

you hear someone say your name. you aren't sure whether it was anton, or junyoung, or taesan. you see anton begin to turn and you dash. you text taesan that you forgot your purse in the car, that you’ll wait for him there. you broke up with him two months later.

anton can’t wait to see you. or rather, he can’t wait for you to see him. he knows it’s selfish of him. you still have his number blocked and he’s never been able to find your instagram. still, anton believes you'll find your way back to each other. because if you weren’t meant to, you wouldn’t have spent so much energy avoiding him. people don’t run from strangers, they run from the people who still matter.

he hears through your mom that you'll be moving back home after graduation while you search for a place in the city, just like him. he thinks it's fate. he can't wait to see you. he wants to show you that he's different now. better. he isn't the painfully quiet boy you left behind four years ago. he's confident now, almost too confident. his body he built through swimming at the collegiate level is something he’s proud of. he’s read so many self-help books in the past three years he prides himself in his mindset. he likes the person he’s becoming. anton thinks everything he’s done to improve himself was to ultimately benefit you. he thinks he’s finally deserving of you. that now he could be someone you can like.

when he runs into your mom at the grocery store, it feels like confirmation that he's right. she smiles at him with the same warmth she always has, like she's finally found a son who wandered too far from home. his own grin appears before he can stop it. when he tells her he'd love to see you sometime soon, she gives him a hint about where you spend most of your weekdays.

anton smiles for the rest of the afternoon.

it’s been a month since you’ve graduated, and you’ve accepted that seeing anton again is a possibility. you’ve spent that same month hoping it never happens.

a part of you believes you’ll be ok if it does. you don’t think you’ll feel the same anymore. you’ve grown. you’ve lived. you’ve dated, you’ve broken up. you’ve learned to move on. anton is a memory at most.

“you’d never guess who i ran into at the store, yn.” your mom’s voice drifts in from the kitchen along with the rustle of grocery bags. anton comes to mind. you have a feeling he's the only person she'd bother making you guess. still, you decide to play dumb.

“oh. who’d you see?”

your mom sets her purse on the counter before taking a seat at the island, leaving you to put the groceries away.

“you’re supposed to guess.”

you have to fight back an eye roll and instead settle for a heavy sigh and make your voice flat. “i genuinely have no idea.” 

she takes a long drink from her water without taking her eyes off you. she’s being careful, so you know it has to be anton. she wouldn’t dance around anyone else’s  name like this. her gaze grows heavier by the second. you turn away and busy yourself washing grapes beneath the faucet.

"i ran into anton," she says at last, her voice softer now that she can only see your back. "he was picking up groceries for his mom. always been such a sweet boy, that one."

“tiny toni?” your dad enters the kitchen, saving you from having to respond. he nudges your shoulder and grabs a grape. “the one who broke my daughter’s heart?”

you freeze. he catches your expression and laughs.

“that was so long ago,” you say lightly. it really was. you and anton are different people now.

"i'm not sure we can call him tiny toni anymore," your mom says.

teenie tiny toni started as something a sixth-grade boy called anton to make fun of him. you'd stolen it before it could hurt him and turned it into something affectionate, something that belonged only to you and your parents.

he would always be tiny toni. his voice had been tiny. his body had been tiny. he'd always seemed too gentle for the world. hearing your mom say there was no more tiny toni feels strangely unsettling.

"and judging by the way he looks now," she continues with a smile, "i'm sure he's broken more than just yn's heart."

your hands stop beneath the running water. "what?"

you turn around, your brows pulling together. the words don't make sense. how could anton possibly look like someone who breaks hearts?

anton, the quiet orchestra kid. anton, who apologized when someone else bumped into him. anton, who never believed there was anything particularly special about himself. anton, who once looked you in the eye and told you you couldn't possibly like him.

"impossible," you mumble, your thoughts somewhere else entirely. "he's a total nerd."

you know that version of anton. or at least, you used to. the realization settles heavily inside your chest. you don't know who anton is anymore. and somehow, that's harder to accept than never seeing him again.

your mom smiles, almost knowingly.

"you'll have to see for yourself, sweetie."

being back at home is boring.

giselle would normally be your only option for someone to hang out with, but she’s moved to tokyo. with nothing much to fill your days, your mind keeps circling back to anton. you find yourself wondering what he could possibly be like in 2026. what he did in college. whether he ever dated anyone. whether he fell in love with a concert pianist, or maybe a ballerina, and convinced himself that because they were alike, he was finally someone she could like. you wonder if he’s even taller now. your mom seemed to think so. the last time you saw him, he'd already filled out in a way that caught you off guard, but you wonder if swimming had changed him even more. you wonder if he finally thinks well of himself. if he ever thinks about you at all.

by the third night of lying awake imagining anton, you decide you need to put your mind somewhere else.

hardly anyone is at the gym at 10:30 p.m. you're halfway through your cooldown on the treadmill when your attention drifts toward a girl struggling beneath a bench press. her arms are shaking so badly that you're almost certain she'd have trouble lifting the empty bar.

"help," she calls weakly. it sounds almost theatrical. you notice her turn her head deliberately to the right, toward someone whose view is blocked by a row of machines. you assume help is already on the way and turn your attention back to the treadmill.

"thanks, toni." the syrup in her voice makes your stomach tighten.

without even looking over, you know she's batting her eyelashes at him. you hope it isn't your toni. you hope it isn't anton. you don't want to hear his voice. you don't want to find out.

closing your eyes for a brief second, you decide to cut your cooldown short. you'd come here to get your mind off him, and somehow he'd followed you anyway. of course the first time you'd run into anton in years would be when you're sweaty, exhausted, and feeling like the least attractive version of yourself. you need to leave before he sees you.

you hurriedly stop the treadmill and grab your things. by the time you're speed-walking toward the exit, you hear footsteps quickening behind you. you walk faster, but it doesn't help.

"do you always come to the gym at such degenerate hours, yn?" it's anton's voice, or at least you think it is. it's deeper than you remember. louder. steadier. somehow more certain of itself.

maybe you can still get away. maybe he'll think your music is playing too loudly through your headphones. maybe if you just keep walking—

a careful hand closes around your arm. "yn."

you brace yourself before turning around. somehow, the reality is worse.

it would be ridiculous to call him tiny toni now, even as a joke. he's settled into himself in a way you never imagined he would. the awkward, lanky boy you grew up with is gone.

anton's shoulders have broadened enough to stretch the black compression tank across his chest, the fabric hugging muscle that simply hadn't existed the last time you saw him. a faint sheen of sweat catches the light along the curve of his arms before disappearing beneath the edge of the tank. when he lets go of your arm, the muscle shifts naturally beneath his skin.

his face has changed, too. the softness is gone. his cheeks have given way to defined cheekbones and the beginning of a sharp jawline. he's handsome. he’s anton.

he's looking at you with the same bright grin you've known since middle school, the same familiar gleam sitting quietly in his eyes. for one dangerous second, you think maybe he isn't just a memory anymore. maybe anton could still be your friend.

"do you let other girls call you toni now, too?"

you watch his grin stretch into an even bigger smile. you almost smile back, almost. your question was genuine.

instead, you roll your eyes, and for the briefest moment everything feels strangely familiar.

"you're still the only one who gets to put a 'tiny' in front of it," he says. "if that makes you feel any better."

"aw, thanks." you clap your hands together dramatically, smiling only for show.

anton laughs, and the sound lands somewhere deep inside your chest.

"and no," you continue, "i'm only here this late because i couldn't sleep." you hesitate. the last thing you want is to stand here talking to anton while you're flushed and sweaty and he somehow looks like that. "but i think i'm pretty tired now."

his smile fades into the slightest pout. "but we—"

"we can make plans," you interrupt quickly, turning back towards the door. "you know where to find me."

anton blinks, then breaks into a blinding smile. “yeah. i do.”

everybody wants anton now. at least, that’s how it feels to him. and from what you’ve seen, that’s how it feels to you, too. so why didn’t you want him? why couldn’t he have you?

anton asks himself those questions as he knocks on your front door for the third day in a row. he comes around midday, when he knows your parents will be at work and you'll most likely be home. today seems like it'll end the same way the last two did, in silence.

he waits anyway. it's been almost five minutes before he smiles to himself. he knows exactly where to find you. the problem is, you don't want to be found.

he can't blame you. some days, he still isn't sure he's forgiven himself for what he did four years ago. but he wants you. and somewhere beneath all the hurt, he thinks you might still want him, too.

he fishes around the center console until he finds an old receipt, flips it over, and scribbles across the blank side before sliding it beneath the flower pot beside your front door.

let’s grab a bite. pick u up @ 6 on friday - your toni.

giselle doesn’t believe that anton could be hot. when you go as far as using the word sexy, she decides she really doesn't believe you and that she’ll need a picture as proof. you tell yourself that’s the only reason you’re taking so much time to doll yourself up for tonight. it’s only because giselle wants proof. that’s what you tell yourself.

the days after running into anton at the gym had been spent mourning the version of him you'd always known. the quiet, awkward boy seemed to have disappeared somewhere during college, replaced by broad shoulders, easy confidence, and a smile that flirted without even trying. you used to be the only girl anton talked to. now you're fairly certain you're the only girl in town who isn't talking to him.

you're not even sure you want to know this version of him. what if you still like him? worse—what if after all these years, you still want him just as much?

but curiosity has always been your biggest weakness. what did anton do in college? what did his weekends look like? did he ever fall in love? what kind of people became his friends? did they know the shy little boy who used to hide behind you? or only the man he seems to have become?

by five-thirty on friday evening, you feel sixteen again. it's embarrassing.

you're standing in front of the bathroom mirror curling your hair because you're excited to see a boy. except this isn’t any boy, it’s anton. a version of anton you’ve never met before, one that’s sexy and charming and confident. one you're quietly afraid has nothing left in common with the boy you fell in love with.

when the doorbell rings, you immediately decide you hate him. anton’s wearing a fitted black tee with jeans. the shirt sits just short enough that if he lifts his arms even a little, you're certain the abs you already know exist would be visible. his thumbs are hooked casually through his belt loops. he leans against your doorway with a grin that belongs somewhere between charming and evil. it’s unfair.

“you might be the first person i’ve ever seen to enter a room dick first,” your voice light. anton's brows knit together in confusion before you wave a dismissive hand toward him.

"my parents are out of town for the weekend." you start toward the stairs. "wait here. i forgot my purse."

he listens, without arguing, without following. maybe this still is your anton.

"i think you clean up pretty well, too, yn," he calls after you.

you hate how quickly your cheeks warm.

the drive starts quietly. you try very hard not to stare at anton's forearms. you fail.

it's not just the veins. it's the way they trace beneath his skin whenever his hand turns the steering wheel. the way muscle shifts so effortlessly underneath them. the way one hand rests lazily across the wheel while the other taps absentmindedly along with the music. he looks comfortable, like this version of himself fits.

it's distracting enough that you almost forget the last time you sat in one of anton's cars. this one's newer, nicer. it still smells faintly like him and clean laundry. he hums softly beneath his breath as the song plays through the speakers, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. you wonder if he even realizes he's doing it.

at a red light, he glances over. there's that smile again, small and knowing, almost like he can hear every thought running through your head. instead of looking away like you want to, you hold his gaze. before you know it, you're smiling too.

anton reaches across the center console. his fingertips brush lightly against the hem of your denim skirt. it's barely a touch, more of a graze than anything. still, warmth spreads through your entire body. his hand is so much bigger than you remember. you wonder when that happened. you wonder where else he could put his hand.

"it's a little short, yn." his voice is casual and teasing. the light turns green, and he pulls his hand back to the wheel.

"do you always wear stuff like this when you go on dates?"

your heart is still racing from where he'd touched you. it takes a second for his words to register. date? you let out a laugh before you can stop yourself. "who said this is a date?" you glance over at him with a grin. "we're only friends, toni."

"are we?" he tilts his head slightly. the question is quiet and more hopeful than teasing.

you look back out the window.

"we were." you pause. "we still can be."

for a moment, anton doesn't answer. you catch him jutting out his bottom lip, nodding once as though he's carefully turning your words over in his head. you smile to yourself.

"but..." you say after a moment, chewing absentmindedly on your bottom lip, "if you want this to be a date..." you glance at him from the corner of your eye. "...i guess we'll see how it goes."

the longer you spend with anton, the more it feels like nothing has changed. somehow, he’s still your best friend, and you’re both seventeen years old and secretly in love with each other.

two and a half hours later, your cheeks are warm and your face is flushed from laughing. anton sits across from you in the booth, looking at you the way he always used to. everything feels funny and every minute you spend with him makes you feel lighter than the last. you think that if anton keeps looking at you with that adoring gaze of his, you might not make it to the car before throwing yourself at him. anton can’t drink because he’s driving, but he insists on letting you order all the fun drinks your heart desires. every time your glass gets low, he asks if you want another. meanwhile, you’re working very hard to convince him that you aren’t nearly as drunk as you apparently look.

you’ve already learned that college was kinder to anton than high school ever was. most of his closest friends came from the swim team, mostly because he spent nearly every waking hour training with them. he double majored in business and audio production because he wanted to work somewhere in the music industry one day. he stayed involved with the campus orchestra all four years and somehow found time to become swim captain his senior year. he graduated summa cum laude, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, you’re relieved to hear he almost joined a fraternity but decided against it. 

there’s only one thing you haven’t asked him. it’s also the only thing you’ve wanted to know all night.

“how many girls have you dated?” the question slips out before you can stop it.

the second anton laughs, your embarrassment immediately turns into irritation.

“don’t laugh at me,” you pout, lifting your hand like you’re about to smack him across the table.

he only laughs harder. reaching over, he gently catches your wrist before you can follow through, guiding your hand back down onto the table.

“what do you want to hear, yn?” he asks, resting his chin in his palm as he looks at you. his eyes seem softer tonight, warmer.

you try to remember if he’s always looked at you this way. then you realize he’s flirting with you and nothing is funny.

“just tell me the truth,” you mumble, bringing your straw back to your lips. after a moment, you add, “i had three boyfriends.”

anton leans back against the booth and lets out a slow breath, tipping his head toward the ceiling.

“three boyfriends,” he repeats quietly. his lips twitch into a smile. his brows pinch together for just a second before relaxing again.

anton has learned over the course of the evening that your patience has gotten noticeably shorter over the last four years. you’ve already gotten annoyed with him more times than he can count tonight. he thinks it’s adorable. he also isn’t sure how much more teasing you’ll tolerate.

“i didn’t date.”

anton has always been able to read you. he could when you were twelve. he could when you were seventeen. he still can. he watches you roll his answer around in your head, searching for something that isn’t there. you’re chewing on your bottom lip now, avoiding his eyes completely. that wasn’t the answer you expected, he can tell. he can also tell you don’t like it.

“that might be worse than if you said one.” you frown into your drink. you aren’t sure you believe yourself, either.

if anton had spent all four years in love with one girl, maybe that would’ve been worse. maybe she’d still have his heart.

but if he’d never dated anyone...

you glance back up at him. with the way he looks now, with the confidence he somehow grew into, it’s hard to imagine he spent four years alone. maybe he just never stayed long enough. maybe he had his fun without ever making anyone his.

“see...” anton begins, his voice quieter now.

he laces both hands behind his head, stretching the fabric of his shirt across his chest and your eyes betray you immediately.

“there was this one girl in my past.” his smile softens.

“she kind of ruined everyone else for me.”

the words leave his mouth before he has the chance to think better of them. he hadn’t meant to say it so plainly. he certainly hadn’t meant to hand you the truth so easily. all he can do now is hope you’re too tipsy to understand what he really means.

you do. you hear every word. worse—you feel them. heat blooms beneath your skin until you swear your entire body is burning. your thoughts disappear. whatever you’d been trying to figure out only seconds ago is completely gone.

all you can think about is anton.

about the lake house. about your first kiss. about the way he looked at you then. and the way he’s looking at you now. all at once, you realize something you’d spent four years trying not to hope for. he loved you too. he loved you enough that every girl after you became impossible.

“anton.”

he looks up. he’s never heard you say his name like that before, so quietly. he can’t tell whether you’re about to cry, or kiss him, or yell at him. he only knows you’re leaning closer. close enough that your perfume reaches him before you do. close enough that he can feel himself making the same mistake twice.

“come home with me.” the words are barely louder than a whisper.

you blame the alcohol as you cling to anton’s arm on the way out of the restaurant.

your fingers wrap around the solid curve of his bicep, your nails pressing lightly into his skin as you stumble beside him. anton lets out a quiet laugh beneath his breath and settles his hand over yours. he smells good, clean, familiar. like anton.

he opens the passenger door for you before walking around to his side. when he leans across you to fasten your seatbelt, he gets so close that your lips nearly brush his cheek. you breathe him in before he pulls away. when he catches you doing it, he only grins. then he closes your door.

the air between you and anton buzzes in the close confines of the car. you rest your elbow on the center console and your chin atop your fist, ogling anton. you find the strength to keep your hands off of the boy, and he keeps his hands to himself as well. each time he glances over to see your big eyes fixed on him, his grin grows a little wider.

when anton parks in your driveway, you’re out of the car before he can open your door for you. you stumble out of your boots, slip your jacket off of your shoulders, and leave them at the foot of the stairs. you know anton will pick them up.

he reaches your room with a smile plastered on his face and your belongings in his arms. you’re sitting on the edge of your bed with your legs crossed and break into a giggle. you watch him gently set your things down near your closet. he wanders around the room, picking things up and examining them. you grow impatient.

“you’ve been here before, anton.”

“i know.” he pauses, voice soft like how it used to be. “everything’s still the same.”

you dig the heels of your palms into the mattress and lean your weight back. “i barely spent any time here during college.”

“i know,” anton repeats. finally, he turns back to you. when he’s close enough, you hook your fingers into his belt loops and pull him toward you. you rise to your feet and reach your hands up to his shoulders, tracing the broadness of them.

“you’re drunk, yn.” anton’s voice is soft. hearing it in your room again makes you smile. you bring your hands to press against the hard muscles in his chest.

“and you’re…very sexy.” you have to rise onto your toes to try to reach anton’s lips.

“come on, toni. it’s just a kiss.” you whisper against his lips with a grin.

anton knows it won’t just be a kiss. the air between you and him tells him it won’t just be a kiss, too. he remembers the last time he kissed you, and even that wasn’t just a kiss, either. but he knows he can’t leave you hanging there with your lips puckered and your eyes closed. he’s still the same anton who’d do anything to make you happy.

both of you immediately sigh when your lips touch. anton tilts his head down further and brings a hand up to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss so he can reach you better. he’s gotten better at kissing, but you’re still taken back to the basement of the lake house. you’re still the girl hopelessly in love with her best friend, and anton is still the boy who finally found the courage to kiss you.

the way anton kisses you makes you more and more desperate. when it feels like he’s beginning to pull away, you instinctively rise onto your toes to chase his lips, needing just one more second. you’re fisting the fabric covering his chest and breathing into him when you feel him chuckle against your lips. when you both pull back, there’s saliva around both of your mouths. you watch anton’s tongue dart out to taste you on his lips.

you’re scared he’s going to say something cheeky about how badly you need him, so you push him down to sit on the bed before he gets the chance. the smug grin anton was wearing is replaced with a puzzled raise of his eyebrow. when you pull your leg up to straddle him, the grin returns. anton’s hands find your hips and press you against him. you crash your lips against his again and bring your hands to his hair.

anton’s hands move to your ass as he sucks on your face. you start lifting your hips to settle them back onto his lap, your hands in his hair tugging lightly in desperation. you pull away for air and anton goes to your neck, craning his head to suck and nip at the skin. you throw your head back to give him more room and sigh in content.

anton’s plush lips against your skin make you feel even more needy. the breeze from ceiling fan makes anton’s remaining spit on your skin feel cool in comparison to your body burning up. you can feel his bulge beneath you, and the size of him like this already makes your mouth feel dry. he returns to your lips and sticks his tongue into your mouth.

anton’s hands bring your hips down on his and grind you against his dick. he swears he can feel you. a moan escapes your lips that makes him throb in his pants. he has to hide his face in the crook of your neck, and your arms cradle his head to hold him there.

you stop moving suddenly and anton wonders if you came. he pulls away from your neck to find your eyes closed. “yn?” he murmurs.

you don’t answer. anton laughs in disbelief. he’d kissed you to sleep.

he wipes off your makeup and tucks you under the covers before he leaves.

in the morning, you wake up with an upset stomach and swollen lips. you aren’t afraid to check your phone because anton’s number is still blocked. memories of last night flash through your mind as you brush your teeth, making you giggle to yourself. when you change out of your clothes, you notice anton even left a mark near your shoulder. you can’t help but smile.

you don’t remember how it all ended, though.

it isn’t until later that afternoon that you notice the note tucked by your door.