#chanyoung

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

riize m.list

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

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

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

“Is it artist-proof?”

“No such thing,” you say.

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

“Where do you want me?” he asks.

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

He raises a brow. “For the tattoo.”

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

“You say that now.”

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

You’re just friends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lamp hums. The music drips time.

You try not to let your brain wire elsewhere.

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t apologize.

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

“Do what?”

“Pretend you’re fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You change the topic.

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

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

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

“Would never,” he says.

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

You have painted hundreds of lines in your life.

None of them were on him.

Careful.

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

“Cold?” you ask.

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

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

Well, who’s to blame, honestly?

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

The second stroke finishes.

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

You ignore how warm his hand engulfs yours.

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“This is—”

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

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

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

“Doing what?”

“Playing.”

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

“I’m not.”

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

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

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

A pause. Silence.

You clear your throat. “Look down?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The song changes. The piano keeps talking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hand stutters and recovers. “Hm.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

“Anton—”

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

“Look at me,” he says.

You do. You always do, in the end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow your breath, your answer.

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

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

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

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

And then.

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

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

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

Somehow, that encouraged him more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Photo?” you ask.

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

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

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

Only you. Only ever you.

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

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You and Anton had been trying for weeks, but no matter how many times you did it, you just couldn't manage to fit his big cock inside you.

"It was barely in, Ton. What if we can never…” Your voice cracked.

You rolled onto your side, hiding your face from your boyfriend. 

Anton sighed. You felt the mattress dip behind you as he shuffled closer.

"Maybe we should just break up," you mumbled into the pillow. "You deserve a girlfriend who can actually fuck you right." 

Anton's large hand squeezed your shoulder. "Stop that talk."

He pulled you so that you were lying on your back and gazed into your eyes lovingly.

"Am I going to have to kiss you to shut you up?" He said, with no malice in his voice.

You gave him a small smile.

Anton leaned down and kissed you. His lips were soft, and tasted faintly of chlorine, like always. His hot tongue pressed into your mouth, making you shudder. 

Anton's hand trailed down your jaw and settled on your breast. He squeezed the soft flesh in his hand, moaning into the kiss. His fingers rolled over your nipple, sending licks of pleasure down to your core.

His hand skated further down, over your tummy, over your hips. His fingers stroked your soft curls before sliding across your pussy. You could tell he wanted to finger you.

"Wait!” You sat up, pulling the rumpled bed sheets over your naked body.

"There's something we could try. That would help it to… go in," You bit your lip. "But it's kinda... different."

"Tell me," he murmured. 

You gnawed at the end of your hair. "I've never tried it before, but I've thought about it... a lot."

Anton's arm muscles squeezed as he pushed himself up. He stared at you curiously. 

"I want you to choke me," you whispered, cheeks burning.

"I don't-" Anton spluttered. "You want me to...” He shook his head vigorously, the tips of his ears flushing red. "No way. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

"Are you sure you're not into it?" You pointed at his cock. "You're hard again."

You and Anton both looked down at his cock. It was thick and dark, and swelling in front of your eyes. The tip was already glistening.

Anton chewed his lip.

"Okay," he said, voice tight with excitement. 

You lay back down, and Anton settled between your thighs again. You could feel his cock, hot and heavy, pressing against your stomach.

Anton reached his hand towards your face. Your breath caught in your throat.

He tucked your hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your sensitive lobe. Then he brought his hand lower, tracing over your jaw.

His fingers touched your neck, just tracing over the soft skin. You gasped. 

Then, Anton wrapped his hand around your throat.

You felt his large fingers on your neck. You felt prickles of fear and pleasure jolt down your spine. 

“That’s it,” you squeaked.

Anton squeezed your throat, just a little.

You were beginning to feel a little lightheaded. Suddenly, you felt a gush of wetness flood your core.

Anton rubbed his cock against your slit, pushing his dick over your clit and then down to your hole. 

"You're so wet," he said, looking down to where your bodies met in awe. 

“All for you,” you moaned. Your pussy was throbbing with a need for him.

Anton pushed his cock against your hole, squeezing the tip inside you. His eyes were almost crossed with concentration.

He pushed in more, going a few inches deeper.

You could feel your pussy being stretched around his big cock. It felt like heaven. 

With his hand on your throat and his cock inside you, you began to see stars.

"Nearly there..." Anton rocked his hips forwards, pushing harder. You closed your eyes and tried your best to relax into the sensation. Before you knew it, he had pushed his entire cock inside you, all the way to the base. 

You both groaned at the feeling.  

"I can't believe it!" You laughed breathlessly. 

Anton released your throat and covered his face with his free hand. That's when you noticed he’d gone a deep shade of red. 

"Trying not to come... fuck-" Anton groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

You felt full with the weight of him inside you. Finally, finally, you had Anton where you wanted. You stroked his muscled arm as you waited for him to calm down.

Anton took two deep, shaky breaths. Then, he started to thrust.

He started to fuck you, slow and deep at first, before picking up the pace. Pleasure curled over your skin, sending delightful trickles all over you.

Anton grunted. "Fuck, this is so hot. You're so hot."

Anton grabbed your throat again, holding you in place as he slammed his cock into you. He used the entire strength of his athletic body to fuck you, no longer being gentle. 

You gripped onto his shoulders as his thrusts shook your entire body.

"More," you moaned, arching your back so your tits brushed against his muscled chest, shooting off sparks every time your nipples brushed his skin. 

"Look at you, fucking angel," Anton moaned. Sweat glistened on his brow, matting his dark fringe to his forehead. "Wanna fill you up."

You could feel Anton everywhere, his cock in you, his heavy body on top of you, the scent of his sweat and the love in his eyes. 

Anton pushed up one of your legs so that it was folded against your chest. With this new angle, you could feel him so much deeper. 

“So- good,” he said, voice getting whinier. You’d never heard him so riled up.

Anton fucked you harder, like he wanted to bury himself inside you and stay there forever. 

You were overwhelmed with the stretch and the pressure and the heat of him in you. You were wet. Wetter than you'd ever been before.

"Anton, I'm so close," you moaned. You were almost at your orgasm, your pleasure rising, the heat building. Anton picked up the pace, fucking you faster and faster until-

You felt an intense pressure building inside you like you'd never felt before. 

"Wait, Anton, I think I'm gonna-"

But it was too late. You felt a warm gush between your legs.

You both moaned in surprise, realising that you’d just squirted all over your boyfriend.

Anton’s eyes went wide. "Did you just… squirt?" 

You looked between you to see that Anton's abs were glistening with your slick. 

“I’ve never done that before,” you said, smiling shyly.

Anton thrusts were getting erratic now. He thrust once, twice, hips shuddering. He pushed all the way in and groaned, loud and filthy, as he came inside you. 

"Fuckkkk," he groaned, his head flopping down to your shoulder. 

You felt a hot sticky liquid fill you up and spill out onto your thighs. Your pussy was still throbbing from the aftermath of your orgasm. 

Anton dropped down onto you, his shaky muscles unable to hold himself up any longer. 

"Best. Day. Ever," he whispered, eyes slipping shut.

You stayed like that, Anton’s cock buried in your pussy, one of his hands wrapped loosely around your neck, as you both fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

—

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When you finally spotted him, he was hunched over a drink, his large frame looking almost too big for the mid-century stool. He looked different, but the way he held his glass—fingers long and steady, tracing the rim—was exactly the same.

"You still take a long time to get ready, I see" Anton said before you even reached the bar.

He didn't look up immediately. He let the words hang there, a soft, teasing blow that landed right in the center of your chest. When he finally lifted his head, the dim light caught the sharp line of his jaw and the soft, observant depth of his eyes. His gaze didn't just land on your face; it swept down, taking in the dress, the way the fabric pooled at your hips, the way your collarbone dipped as you took a shaky breath.

He let out a short, dry huff of a laugh, shaking his head as he looked back at his drink. "You're really wearing that one? That's mean, even for you."

"I didn't think you'd remember it" you lied, sliding onto the stool next to him. The proximity was an immediate mistake. You could smell him—that familiar mix of something clean and something woody—and it made your head feel heavy, just like the lyrics of that song you’d both obsessed over.

"I remember the zip was stuck" he muttered, his voice dropping into that low, mumble-soft register that used to vibrate against your skin in the dark. "I remember how much you complained about the price. I remember everything, actually."

He finally turned his body toward you, his knee brushing against your thigh. It was a ghost of a touch, but in the vacuum of your shared history, it felt like an electric shock. Anton looked tired, his eyes carrying a weight that wasn't there a year ago. He looked like a man who had spent too much time thinking and not enough time feeling.

"We're just catching up, right?" he asked, though his eyes were searching yours for a contradiction. "No patching things up. No messy 'who-did-what' talk. Just... a drink. Like people who didn't ruin each other."

"Just a drink" you agreed, your voice sounding thin to your own ears.

Anton leaned in then, his elbow resting on the bar as he moved closer, invading your personal space with a practiced ease. He reached out, his thumb catching a stray strand of hair near your ear and tucking it back. His skin was warm, and he let his hand linger for a second too long, his thumb grazing the shell of your ear.

"Liars" he whispered, a small, sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We're both such good liars."

You pursed your lips, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you shook your head. It was so typical of him—trying to set boundaries that he was already breaking with a single look.

"You're the one who started it" you murmured, watching as he signaled the bartender.

He led the way to a small, circular table tucked away in a booth that felt a little too private, a little too much like a sanctuary. He didn't even have to ask; he ordered a strawberry mojito for you and a simple plate of snacks to pick at. It was that effortless familiarity that hurt the most—the way he didn't need to consult a menu to know exactly what you wanted when your nerves were shot.

For a while, the conversation was safe. You talked about work, the mutual friends you’d drifted away from, and the mundane updates of a life lived apart. Anton listened with that quiet, heavy intensity of his, nodding along, his eyes never really leaving yours. It was easy, almost too easy, to pretend that the months of silence between you were just a long pause in a conversation that hadn't actually ended.

But then, a lull fell over the table. The kind of silence that happens when you run out of small talk and the big talk starts looming in the shadows.

The speakers overhead crackled softly before the first warbling, lo-fi chords of the song began to bleed into the room. It was raw and hazy, the guitar notes sounding like they were being pulled through water.

Anton froze for a split second, his glass halfway to his lips. He knew this song. He knew what it meant to both of you. He set the glass down with a slow, deliberate click and looked at you, his expression softening into something dangerously vulnerable.

"Dance with me" he said. It wasn't really a question.

You felt the heat crawl up your neck, a deep blush staining your cheeks as you instinctively shook your head, looking down at the melting ice in your drink. "Anton, no. There’s hardly any room, and I’m..."

"You're in that dress" he interrupted softly, standing up. He didn't wait for a second rejection. He moved around the table and came to a halt in front of you, towering over you in that way that always made the rest of the room disappear.

He reached down, offering his hands, palms up. His fingers were long and steady, waiting for yours. You let out a long, shaky sigh—the sound of someone who had already lost the fight—and placed your hands in his.

He led you to the small, cleared-out space near the back where a few other couples were swaying in the dim light. The floorboards creaked under his boots as he turned to face you.

Anton didn't hesitate. He slid one large hand around your waist, his palm warm and firm through the thin silk of your dress, pulling you just close enough that your breaths began to sync. His other hand stayed locked with yours, his thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.

You settled your free hand against the center of his chest, feeling the steady, heavy thrum of his heart beneath the fabric of his shirt. The song swirled around you, messy and emotive, and for a moment, the distance between "catching up" and "falling back" completely vanished.

You kept your gaze fixed on the buttons of his shirt, a bittersweet ache blooming in your chest that felt heavier than the silence between you. The scent of him was a cruel reminder of every night you’d spent trying to forget how safe you felt in his arms. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff you’d already fallen off once before.

Anton seemed to sense the shift in your breathing. He shifted his weight, leaning down until his forehead brushed yours before he tucked his face into the crown of your head. He took a long, shaky breath, inhaling the scent of your hair as if he’d been starved of it.

"I'm sorry" he murmured, his voice muffled and thick with a regret he hadn't let himself voice until now. "I’m so sorry I pulled away."

His hand on your waist tightened, drawing you flush against him. "Things just got... too hard. Life was being mean, and I could feel myself starting to get meaner too. I didn't want to be that person for you. I didn't want to take it out on you, so I thought if I just backed off, I’d be saving us." He let out a ghost of a frustrated laugh against your hair. "But I just ended up hurting you more, didn't I? I was trying to be noble and I was just a coward."

Your fingers curled into the dark fabric of his shirt, bunching the material tightly in your fists. The honesty in his voice was a sharp blade, cutting through the protective layers you’d built up over the months. Your eyes stung, the familiar heat of tears blurring your vision as you shook your head against his chest.

"Anton" you whispered, your voice trembling. "Stop. You’re going to ruin my makeup."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb catching a stray tear before it could track down your cheek. His expression was soft, a pained sort of tenderness in his eyes that made your heart skip a beat.

"Sorry" he said again, his voice dropping into that low, gentle register. "Stay here."

He stepped away for a brief second, returning with a clean napkin from the bar. He didn't just hand it to you; he held your chin tilted up, watching with focused intensity as you took it from him and carefully dabbed at the corners of your eyes, mindful of the eyeliner you’d spent thirty minutes perfecting.

A small, genuine chuckle broke from his throat as he watched you work. "True. Sorry. It really would be mean to mess it all up now, especially when you took so long getting ready."

You let out a wet laugh, your hand flying out to hit his shoulder softly. "Shut up, Anton. Seriously."

"I'm being for real" he said, his smile lingering even as his gaze turned serious again. He reached out, his fingers skating over your hip, the touch lingering on the silk of the dress. The tension hadn't fully dissipated, but the air felt clearer, lighter. "Look, it’s late. Let me take you home, at least? Just so I know you got back okay."

You stayed quiet for a long moment, pursing your lips as you weighed the risk. You knew how this story usually went—one of you would say something you didn't mean, or worse, something you did mean, and the night would end in a beautiful, tangled mess. But as you looked at him standing there, wait-listed for a second chance he didn't even think he deserved, the logic didn't matter. You just needed him. You needed the closure, or the beginning, or whatever was left of the "us" you’d been grieving.

You gave a small, resigned nod, and the tension in his shoulders visibly ebbed away.

The walk to his car was brisk, the night air turning sharp and damp. True to form, he beat you to the passenger side, pulling the door open and holding it steady while you tucked the hem of your dress inside. The drive was a heavy, quiet blur. Anton didn't need to ask for directions; his hands moved on the steering wheel with the muscle memory of a thousand previous trips to your apartment.

Outside, a soft drizzle began to smear the streetlights into hazy orbs of gold against the pavement. The radio was nothing more than a low, static-laced hum, filling the gaps where neither of you knew what to say.

When he pulled up to the curb, he didn't just let you out. He reached into the back for an umbrella, stepping out into the rain and circling the car to shield you before you could even reach for the handle.

"Don't want the dress getting ruined" he murmured, tilting the umbrella toward you as he walked you toward the lobby door.

You stood under the small overhang of the entrance, the sound of the rain hitting the canvas above you like a frantic heartbeat. The silence here felt different—final. Anton looked at you, his face unreadable in the shadows, before he gave a slow, stiff nod. It wasn't an angry gesture; it was the look of a man accepting a sentence.

"Okay" he said, his voice barely audible over the rain. "I'll leave. Goodnight."

He started to turn away, his boots scuffing against the concrete, and for a second, you almost let him. But then your hand shot out, your fingers hooking around his pinky finger—a small, desperate anchor.

Anton froze. He looked down at your hand, then back up at your face. You were looking at him with wide, glassy eyes, your bottom lip trembling just enough to be dangerous. You smeared your lipgloss as you bit your lip, your head shaking a slow, silent no.

"Come... in?" you asked quietly, the words almost getting lost in the wind.

The umbrella tilted slightly as his grip on the handle tightened. He didn't answer with words; he just let out a long, shaky exhale and followed you toward the door.

The elevator ride up was a quiet hum of shared breath and unspoken questions. When the door to your apartment clicked open, the transition felt surreal. Anton stepped inside, leaning the dripping umbrella against the wall and stepping out of his shoes with a practiced ease that suggested he’d never really been gone.

You watched him as he moved into the living room. His eyes roamed the space, curious and sharp, landing on the new sage-green sofa and the plush rug that replaced the one you’d spilled wine on a year ago. He looked like a man visiting a museum of a life he’d helped build but was no longer a part of.

"You changed the rug" he noted softly, his voice echoing in the quiet of the room.

"Yeah" you breathed, standing in the middle of the floor, feeling suddenly shy in your own home. "It was... time for a change. Do you want some water? Or—"

You started to turn toward the kitchen, but Anton moved faster. He stepped into your space, his large hands reaching out to find your waist, the heat of his palms soaking through the silk of your dress instantly.

"No" he murmured, shaking his head before you could finish the offer.

He didn't pull you in roughly; instead, he leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours, his eyes fluttering shut. His thumbs traced the curve of your hip bones, steadying both of you. "No water. Just... stay here. Let me touch you for a second. I just need to know you're real."

The honesty in his voice broke the last of your defenses. You reached up, wrapping your arms around his neck and rising onto your tiptoes to close the gap. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, hugging him with a desperate, bone-deep tightness that said everything you hadn't been able to put into words.

Anton let out a jagged sigh, his arms winding around your back, crushing you against his chest as if he were trying to merge back into your life by sheer force of will. He held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded, his nose brushing against your temple.

"I missed you" he whispered against your skin, a confession that felt like a prayer. "God, I missed you so much."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands framing his face, your thumbs smoothing over the sharp line of his cheekbones. His eyes were dark, but the edges were beginning to soften into something much more tender.

Neither of you moved for a long beat, just staring, memorizing the way the low light hit the other’s features. Then, as if the gravity between you finally became too much to resist, Anton leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first—a tentative, bruisingly sweet question. It tasted like the strawberry of your drink and the lingering rain from outside, a slow-motion collision of two people finally finding their way home through the dark.

The kiss shifted instantly, losing its tentative edge and sharpening into something desperate. It was the sound of a year of holding your breath finally being exhaled. Anton’s hands, which had been so steady at the bar, were suddenly restless, his palms sliding up from your waist to cup your face, his thumbs hooking under your jaw to tilt your head back. He tasted like the night—cool rain and the lingering sweetness of fruit—and he made a low, needy sound in the back of his throat when your tongue flicked against his.

"The bedroom" he rasped against your lips, not waiting for an answer.

He didn't let go of you as he backed you toward the hallway, his socks scuffing the floor in a clumsy, urgent rhythm. He pinned you against the doorframe for a second, his mouth dropping to your neck. He wasn't being gentle anymore; he was breathing heavily, his open-mouthed kisses hot and damp against your skin, marking the spot right where your shoulder met your throat. A jagged moan escaped him, vibrating against your collarbone.

"Anton" you breathed, your hands scrambling for the buttons of his shirt. Your fingers were shaking, fumbling with the fabric until you managed to pop the first few. You pushed the shirt off his heavy shoulders, the material pooling on the floor as he finally reached for the back of your dress.

He found the zipper, his fingers catching on the familiar snag. "Still stuck" he muttered, a frustrated, breathless huff of a laugh escaping him. He didn't force it; he worked it with a focused intensity, until the silk finally gave way. The dress slid down your body, a dark puddle of fabric at your feet, leaving you in nothing but your bra and lace.

His eyes were dark, almost black in the shadows of the room, as he took you in. He reached behind you, his large hands dwarfing your frame as he unhooked your bra with a practiced flick of his wrist. When it fell away, he let out a sharp, hitching breath, his hands coming around to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until you whimpered.

He moved you toward the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight as he pushed you back onto the pillows. He stayed between your legs, his hands roaming over your ribcage and down to your tummy, his kisses following the path of his fingers. He was so vocal now, every breath a heavy huff of desire, every touch accompanied by a low, guttural rumble of approval as he pulled your lace down your legs.

He leaned down, his mouth moving from your stomach to the soft skin of your inner thighs. He went agonizingly slow, peppering the sensitive skin with biting kisses that made your hips arch off the bed.

"You taste so good" he groaned, his voice thick and wrecked. "I’ve spent every night thinking about this."

He didn't make you wait. He moved lower, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open for him. When his tongue finally met you, it wasn't tentative. He used his tongue flat and firm, tasting your sweetness with a rhythmic, hungry focus. He was thorough, his face pressed into you as he drank you in, his own moans muffled against your skin. The sensation was overwhelming—the heat of him, the friction, the way he seemed to know exactly how to drive you to the edge of the cliff you’d been hovering over all night.

Your fingers tangled into his hair, pulling softly—not enough to hurt, but just enough to ground him as a needy, broken sound left your throat. "Anton, please... I need you. I really need you."

He paused, looking up at you with a small, breathless smile that was more tender than anything you’d ever seen. He leaned in for one last lingering kiss on your inner thigh before standing up at the edge of the bed. You watched him, your breath hitching as he unbuckled his belt and let his jeans and boxers fall to the floor. Even in the dim light, he looked like a god—broad-shouldered and solid, a sight you’d replayed in your head a thousand times during the year of silence.

He crawled back onto the mattress, looming over you as he braced his weight on his forearms. He took a moment to wipe his face with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving yours, before leaning down to capture your lips in a deep, searing kiss. His hand reached down between you, coating himself in your shared dampness and his own saliva, preparing you both with a focus that made your stomach flip.

"I've got you" he whispered against your mouth. "I'm right here now."

Then, he guided himself in. He moved slowly, his face contorting with a low, guttural moan as he finally slid home, the friction of it making your eyes roll back. He didn't rush into a rhythm; he just stayed there for a beat, buried deep inside you, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a shaky exhale.

His hand found your waist, his fingers splaying wide across your skin, while his other arm braced himself firmly beside your head. He began to move, his thrusts deep and deliberate, pulling almost all the way back before pushing back in with a heavy, grounding force. He was navigating the familiar terrain of your body with a precision that only came from years of loving you.

When he adjusted his angle, finding that one specific spot that made your toes curl and your breath hitch, he let out a soft, triumphant huff. He smiled against the skin of your neck, his lips grazing your pulse point as he felt you pulse around him.

"There it is" he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "I remembered."

You couldn't answer, your hands reaching around to his back, your nails grazing the skin of his lats. You held him tight, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him even deeper, needing to close every millimeter of space between you. The sound of the rain outside was drowned out by the steady rhythm of his body against yours and the way he kept whispering your name like it was the only word he knew.

The pace began to climb, the friction of the silk sheets beneath you and the heat of his skin against yours creating a fever pitch. Anton was increasingly vocal, his usual quiet reserve completely shattered. He was making low, desperate sounds in the back of his throat, his breath coming in sharp, staggered hitches. He went faster, his movements turning into a blur of deep, heavy friction that made your vision swim and your heart hammer against your ribs.

He was focused, his eyes locked onto yours even as his face contorted with the effort of holding back. But then, his grip on your waist tightened until his knuckles went white, his head falling back as he reached the peak.

his body was shuddering with a violent release. He filled you up so completely, the sensation of him coming inside you making your own climax ripple through your nerves until you were breathless and shaking.

He didn't pull away. He collapsed forward, his weight heavy and grounding as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving against yours. The room was silent except for the sound of your shared, frantic breathing and the rain still drumming against the window.

Anton shifted slightly, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at you. His hair was a mess, his eyes were blown wide, and he looked more "home" than he had in years. He reached out, his thumb gently wiping a stray, happy tear from the corner of your eye before he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

"I love you" he whispered, the words steady and sure this time, no longer shadowed by the angst of the bar or the regret of the past.

You let out a long, shaky exhale, your eyes rolling back for a second in pure, exhausted bliss. A small, tired smile stretched across your lips as you reached up, tangling your fingers in his hair one last time to pull him down for a soft, sweet kiss.

somewhere between the last time he saw you backstage at that osaka festival, and now —

he learned through you that you loved old, black-and-white movies, that you were surprisingly really good at the guitar. that you had a collection of shaped erasers. it was mundane, trivial stuff, but to anton, it felt like . . . everything.

calling you randomly when he was tired was everything to him.

you two texting back and forth, bickering and lowkey flirting all day was everything to him.

you facetiming him to show him an outfit was everything to him.

fuck.

he was in love, wasn't he?

the members figured it out surely enough. sohee claims he was the founding member of the currently nonexistent "yn x anton" club — anton didn't really help his case.

they’d catch him smiling at his phone, only to have him flip it over guiltily. sohee started humming the melody to your latest title track pointedly whenever anton walked into a room. shotaro, ever the kind soul, just patted his shoulder and said, “you should ask her to meet up, or atleast say hi at an event, it’s only polite.”

easier said than done. how do you walk up to someone and say, "hi, i think i’m in love with you because i’ve watched you do random shit on youtube for the past few months?"

may 8th, 2026.

fate, or perhaps overworked schedulers, intervened. both riize and you were booked for a university performance. Incheon national university, anton could kiss you.

he saw you by the artist lounge, particularly at the dessert table, looking slightly overwhelmed, seemingly picking out what cookie to try out.

this was it.

he took a deep breath, grabbed a water bottle in order to look "casual", and walked over. his mouth was dry.

"hi,"he said, his voice coming out a bit too high. he cleared his throat. "um, y/n it's… it’s been a while,"

you looked up, and your eyes—the same ones he’d seen crinkle with laughter on a tiny screen—widened in recognition and a touch of surprise. "hi anton— sunbaenim!" y/n quickly corrected herself just in case somebody was tuning into their conversation.

"you having trouble picking cookies?" he said, looking over at the table, and the vast array of cookies. "don't have the matcha one, it's really not good, it's uh— the classic chocolate chip is good, or the nutella —"

you gave him a grateful smile. "thank you, toni, you’re a lifesaver. i take these things veryyyy seriously," your tone and voice was low, afraid someone would hear the little nickname.

"so many people around," anton says, looking at the artist lounge with so many staff present, all doing their own thing, not really paying attention to the nervous flimsy anton and the (in anton's mind) the perfect, nonchalant, coolest, y/n.

your smile turned real, reaching your eyes. "exactly, way too many*"

— "this is our first time meeting after osaka,"

anton blinked, surprised. a faint blush colored on his cheeks. he didn't expect you to say that, for whatever reason. "i was waiting for the next time i saw you,"

that smile you blush, just slightly. how couldn't it? he says the cutest things ever with a straight face.

"i rewatched a few of your vlogs, while eating these days— well, almost all of them," he admitted, the truth tumbling out. "the jeju ones, the studio days… the tteokbokki ranking was very important research." he was babbling. he needed to stop.

but you were laughing, that same nose-scrunching laugh from the video. "no way i'm believing that, you're lying!"

"i’m not! i have strong opinions about the store near hongdae station, too, okay? their sauce is superior.”

you looked at him, your head tilted, as if seeing him for the first time. "wow,"

"it’s not silly—," he said, sincerity cutting through his nerves, explaining though he didn't need to, "seeing the person behind the stage. it’s… refreshing,"

the conversation flowed after that, easier than anton could have dreamed.

you talked about music, riize's upcoming second mini album, he asked you to film the tiktok challenge with him some other day &, he even made you laugh several times.

but the conversation was cut short.

your manager appeared, giving you a gentle look. "y/n, it's time for soundcheck,"

“right,” you said, sounding genuinely regretful. you turned back to anton. “thank you for the cookie recommendations. and the conversation. i'll see you soon?,"

"i really hope so," he said, meaning it with every fiber of his being.

you hesitated, then bit your lip—that nervous tell he knew so well. "maybe…let's grab tteokbokki sometime? i know a really good place by the han river— i mean if our schedules allow—,"

anton’s heart stopped, then restarted at double-time.

he genuinely felt like he died in that second and came back alive.

"yes," he said, perhaps too quickly. "i would love that. i think i know what place you're talking about."

your smile was brighter than any stage lighting could ever be.

"then it’s a date?," you seemed to realize what you said, blushing some more. "i mean—a… a food research collaboration, yes,"

"a date," he repeated, softly, holding your gaze. "i like that better."

you smiled, shy and sweet, gave him a little wave (the two-finger one!), and let your manager lead you away, who nudged you like "oohhh, date? with anton-ssi?"

anton stood there, holding the water bottle, feeling like he was floating. sometime between you left and he lost his mind, sohee materialized next to him, snagging a mini éclair.

"so?" sohee asked, mouth full.

anton just grinned, a wide, unreserved, utterly happy grin. "she said it was a date"

sohee patted his back. "bruh, see we told you you just had to approach her again,"

may 22nd, 2026.

the tteokbokki date led to coffee. coffee led to walks along the han river, hats pulled low, talking until the streetlights flickered on. the "food research collaboration" was a flimsy, charming pretense that you both happily clung to. it was safer that way.

it was a potential headline, a scandal, a risk. so it could never be "just a date".

but you two found quiet places you could relax without people recognizing you, or words, taking pictures of you two together—a corner booth in a quiet café, the rooftop of his dorm building late at night, and a private room at his favorite favorite.

it felt terrifying.

but also, so, so, so wonderful.

and, so fucking real.

june 1st, 2026.

tonight, the risk felt higher.

your schedules had finally aligned for a proper evening. not in public. he called, and nervously asked if you wanted to come over, casually, to riize's dorm, "the others are away," he’d added quickly. you’d said yes.

now you were in his room, which was neater than you’d expected, you're sure he hyper- cleaned it before you came. it smelled like his cologne and laundry detergent. you were sitting on the edge of his bed, having just finished showing him a ridiculous Instagram reel on your phone. the laughter had died down, leaving a thick, charged silence.

the air between you had been sparking for weeks. the casual brush of hands, the held glances that lasted a second too long, the way his voice dropped when he said your name.

it was a live wire, and you’d both been dancing around it.

anton was leaning against his desk, watching you. the usual soft, fond look in his eyes was still there, but underneath it was a heat you’d only glimpsed before. it made your stomach flutter.

"you know," he said, his voice quieter, lower than usual. "i have a confession."

"oh?" you managed.

"i really thought i would've kissed you by now, but i'm being a wuss," he pushed off the desk and took a step toward you. "you feel that too, no?,"

your breath hitched at his directness.

— "anton…"

"say it again," he murmured, stopping in front of you. he didn’t touch you, but his proximity was overwhelming.

"anton," you whispered.

a slow smile touched his lips, but it was different. less boyish, more intent. "i spent so much time imagining what you were really like. and you’re so much better than what i ever could've thought," he finally reached out, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw with a touch so soft it was almost agonizing. "so much better."

the tenderness was there, the soft crush that had started it all. but the way his thumb brushed over your lower lip was not soft. it was somehow both a demand and a question.

the shift was subtle yet so monumental. the sweet, shy, lee anton with the crush was still there, but he was leaning into something else— sure confidence that wanted more than just your smile.

"can i kiss you?" he asked, but the tone wasn’t pleading, really. it was a formality. his eyes were already dark with certainty. "fuck, this is happening," you thought to yourself.

you nodded, unable to speak.

he closed the distance, and the kiss was nothing like the shy, tentative ones you’d exchanged by the river. this was deep, hungry, and full of the pent-up want of weeks of watching and wanting. his hands came up to cradle your face, holding you firmly in place as he explored your mouth. you moaned into him, your hands fisting in the soft fabric of his black tshirt.

when he broke for air, he was breathing heavily. "i’ve wanted to do that since osaka," he confessed, his forehead resting against yours. "since we met backstage,"

"me too," you breathed.

the admission seemed to snap the last thread of his restraint. something emerged within him.

"stand up," he said, his voice a gentle rumble against your skin.

you stood. his hands went to the hem of your shirt. "this okay?" he asked, his eyes searching yours for any hesitation. when you nodded, he lifted it over your head, his gaze turning reverent as it swept over you. "so beautiful," he whispered, more to himself than to you. the fondness was still there, warming the edges of his intensity.

he guided you back to sit on the bed. then he knelt on the floor in front of you, his hands on your knees, gently pushing them apart. the position, him looking up at you from his knees, was intensely intimate and submissive, but the look in his eyes was anything but. it was possessive, fuck, even worshipful.

"i used to imagine this," he said, his hands sliding up your thighs to the waistband of your baggy jeans. "how you’d look. how you’d sound," he undid the button, the zip sounding loud in the quiet room. "let me see, yeah?"

he helped you out of your jeans and underwear, his touch clinical yet burning. when you were bare before him, he just looked for a long moment, his dark eyes drinking in the sight. "shit, perfect," he breathed, the word filled with awe. then he leaned forward and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh.

he didn’t dive in, surprisingly.

he took his time, kissing and nipping his way up your other thigh, driving you mad with anticipation. his breath was hot against your core.

"anton, please…"

"please what, baby?" he asked, looking up at you through his lashes. the term of endearment, delivered in that low, commanding tone, unraveled you.

"please don’t make me wait any longer,"

a hint of a smirk. "since you asked so nicely." he finally lowered his mouth to you, and his tongue was a flat, hot stripe of pure sensation. you cried out, your back arching. he held your hips down with strong hands, his grip firm, anchoring you as he licked and sucked like his life depended on it.

he was relentless, really, learning what made you gasp, what made your legs tremble. he added a finger, then two, curling them inside you with precision. "you taste even better," he groaned against you, the vibration pushing you closer to the edge.

"fuck— toni— wait, i'm gonna—,"

"i know," he interrupted, his voice thick. "come on, baby. let me see you,"

his permission was what did it for you, you came with a broken cry, your body seizing as the orgasm ripped through you. he gentled his touch, lapping softly through the aftershocks until you were whimpering, pushing weakly at his shoulders.

he moved up your body, kissing a wet, possessive trail up your stomach, between your breasts. he settled over you, he was still fully dressed, the rough fabric of his jeans against your bare skin a stark contrast. you could feel his hard length pressed against your thigh.

you reached for his tshirt, but he caught your wrist, pinning it gently to the mattress above your head. his other hand came down to trace your lips.

"my turn," he said, his eyes dark with promise. "you’re going to be good for me, right?"

the question was soft, but it held an edge that made your already sensitive body clench with fresh need. you were so downbad for him. nobody could blame you. you nodded, wordlessly.

"use your words, baby."

"yes," you whispered. "i’ll be good."

he rewarded you with a deep kiss. "i know you will." he released your wrist and finally, slowly, pulled his own clothes off. his body was lean and defined, what you'd expect a former swimmer's physique to be like. you reached for him, wanting to touch, to reciprocate, but he gently guided your hand away.

"not yet," he murmured. “this is for you.” he kissed you again, his hands roaming your body, re-sensitizing every nerve. then he positioned himself between your thighs. he didn’t ask again; he just looked at you, waiting for your signal.

you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "please," you said, more firmly.

he pushed into you in one slow stroke, filling you completely. you both groaned in unison, him louder than you expected.

he stilled, buried deep, his body trembling with the effort of control. he dropped his forehead to yours. "fuck," he breathed, the curse sounding like a prayer. "ah, y/n — angel, you feel so good,"

then he began to move. his rhythm was deep and steady, a perfect, building pace. it was loving, but unexpectedly harsh, all at once. he held your gaze and kissed you, swallowing your moans.

"you’re mine," he chanted against your lips between thrusts. "fuck, mine, mine, mine mine," each declaration was punctuated by a deep rock of his hips.

the pleasure built again, coiling tighter and hotter than before. "anton, fuck, i can't—,"

"come on," he urged, his pace becoming more urgent, his control slipping. "come with me, baby, — need to feel you."

his release triggered yours. you cried out as you clenched around him, the second orgasm even more intense, pulling him over the edge with you. he shouted your name, his body slamming into you one final time as he spilled inside you, his own climax shuddering through him.

he collapsed, careful to keep his weight on his elbows, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

long minutes passed. slowly, he softened and slipped out of you.

he didn’t go far, just rolled to his side and gathered you against him, pulling the comforter over you both. his arms were tight around you.

he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. "you're okay?," he asked, his voice back to that gentle, fond tone, laced with a new layer of intimacy.

you sighed, snuggling into his warmth.

he chuckled, a low, happy sound. "good," he was silent for a moment, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "so," he said, his tone light but his words heavy with meaning. "are we still just food research collaborators?"

you tilted your head up to look at him. in the dim light, his eyes were soft.

"i think— nah," you said, kissing his chest.

he laughed, holding you closer.

the little crush he had on you was more complex now. and shit, it was complex for you too.

"So sick of this." Yeong-hoo groans. The heavy rucksack digs into his shoulders, the weight of supplies and ammo a constant reminder of their urgent mission. They were on their way to the hospital, racing against time to save their injured comrade, and every second counted.

Chan-young nods, his eyes never leaving the horizon. "We're almost there. Stay alert." His voice is low but firm, the authority of a leader echoing in his tone despite the exhaustion etched into his face. The group trudges onward, the rhythmic patter of their boots on the cracked pavement syncing with the erratic beating of their hearts.

A sudden rustling from the abandoned shopping center to their left makes Chan-young's senses sharpen. He raises a hand, signaling the others to halt. They obey, their eyes following his as he points to the source of the noise. It's coming from a convenience store, its door hanging open like a mouth mid-scream. He looks back at the group, his expression a mix of concern and determination. "We need to check it out."

The other soldiers grumble but fall in line behind him as he cautiously approaches the entrance. The shop's interior is cast in a gloomy twilight, the only light filtering through the shards of the broken windows. The shelves are bare, their contents long ago looted by desperate survivors or destroyed in battles with the monsters that now roam free.

As they advance into the store, the rustling grows louder, more insistent. Chan-young's hand tightens around the grip of his gun, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. His heart hammers in his chest, anticipating the worst. But what he finds instead stops him in his tracks.

In the far corner of the store, huddled behind an overturned counter, is you. You look up at them with wide, terrified eyes, your whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm. Your clothes are torn and stained, your hair matted with dirt and fear. You're clutching a makeshift weapon, a broken chair leg as if it could protect you from the nightmares that lurk outside.

"Don't come closer," you whisper, your voice shaking. "Please."

Chan-young motions for the others to stay back, his instincts telling him that you're not a threat. He approaches you slowly, speaking in a soothing tone. "It's okay. We're not here to hurt you. We're just passing through." Your grip on the chair leg tightens, but you don't move. Your eyes, however, never leave him, searching his face for any hint of deceit.

Yeong-hoo's eyes don't leave you, his grip never loosening on the gun in his hands. As he examined you, he noticed a few cuts on your body, and when looking closer, he saw one of your eyes was black. "Shit!" he lifts his gun and aims immediately. "You're one of them!"

Chan-young reacts fast, slapping the barrel of Yeong-hoo's gun to the side. "Hold your fire! She’s human!"

"No, she isn't, look at her eye! And there's blood under her nose!" Yeong-hoo's voice is sharp with alarm.

Chan-young's eyes dart to your face, his heart skipping a beat at the sight of your injuries. "We don't know that," he says, his voice tight. "Let's just get you to come with us."

You flinch at the sound of raised voices, and the trembling in your hand intensifies. You clutch the chair leg closer to your chest, your eyes flickering between the soldiers and the door as if weighing your chances of escape.

"We don't have time for this," another soldier interjects. "We have to get to the hospital."

Chan-young hesitates, his gaze flickering to you and then back to his comrades. He knows they're right, but something about your situation pulls at his heartstrings. "We can't just leave her here," he says firmly. "We'll be quick, just make sure she’s okay."

Your eyes widen further as the soldiers close in, your grip on the chair leg tightening until your knuckles are white. You try to shrink away, but there's nowhere left to go. "P-please," you stammer, "I'm not… I'm not one of them." You had to lie to protect yourself.

Chan-young steps closer, his hand outstretched. "We're here to help," he assures you. "We're on a mission to the hospital. You can come with us."

For a moment, you seem to consider it. Then, with a sudden burst of strength, you swing the chair leg at them. It's a clumsy, desperate move, but it's enough to make the soldiers step back. You scramble to your feet, ready to run, but a wave of dizziness crashes over you. You sway, barely managing to stay upright.

"Damn it," Yeong-hoo mutters, his finger twitching on the trigger.

"Hold your fire," Chan-young snaps, stepping in front of you. "We're not leaving anyone behind." He looks back at the group. "We need to move fast. We'll take her with us."

The soldiers exchange uncertain glances, but they know better than to argue with their leader. They quickly move to help you, who is now leaning heavily against the counter, your breaths coming in shallow gasps. Your one good eye is filled with a mix of fear and defiance as you look up at them.

As they gently guide you out of the store, you glance back at your hiding spot. It had been your sanctuary for days, the only place you felt somewhat safe from the monsters that had taken over the city. Now you were leaving it behind, entrusting your fate to strangers with guns.

They make their way through the shopping center, stumbling with every step. Your body is a patchwork of bruises and cuts, a testament to your desperate fight for survival. The soldiers' eyes are glued to their surroundings, ready to protect their new charge.

The hospital looms in the distance, a beacon of hope amidst the ruin. The journey there is fraught with tension, the constant threat of monsters lurking around every corner. You clutch onto Chan-young's arm, your trembling subsiding only slightly. You can't shake the feeling that you've made a terrible mistake.

As they approach the hospital, the sounds of battle grow louder. The air is thick with the smell of smoke and fear. The group picks up their pace, the weight of their mission pressing down on them like a heavy burden.

"We're almost there," Chan-young murmurs to you, his voice filled with a mix of reassurance and urgency. "Stay close."

You nod, your eyes never leaving his. Despite your fear, you feel a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, you'd make it through this hell alive.

Hours later…

They arrive back at the safe zone, having been unable to save their soldier. Everyone goes back to their stations while Chan-young takes you to the medical ward with Yeong-hoo silently trailing behind them, the gravity of their situation sinking in. He helps you onto a bed, your legs giving way with fatigue.

You were silent, avoiding eye contact and still trembling.

"What's your name?" Chan-young asked, his voice gentle. You didn't reply. "…How old are you, at least?"

You still didn't answer. This was going to take a while. Chan-young sighs and bites the inside of his cheek. "Are you at least 18? Or over 18? I need to know."

Your trembling stops for a moment, and you look up at him with a spark of anger in your one good eye. "Fine! Yes!" you snap. "I'm over 18! Does that make a difference?"

"N-No, I just-" he shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. Are you hurt anywhere? I can fix you up." Your expression softens slightly as you nod.

"Okay, where are they?" he asks. You point to your bruised ribs and the gash on your forehead, wincing at the touch.

With practiced hands, Chan-young starts cleaning the wounds, his movements efficient and gentle. You flinch at first, but his calm demeanor soon soothes you. "You're safe here," he says, his voice low and steady. "We're going to take care of you."

As he works, he tells you about the safe zone, about the other who have banded together to survive. He tries to keep the conversation light, steering clear of the grim realities of their world. You listen, your breathing growing calmer with each passing moment.

"Y/N." You blurt out.

"What?"

"My name is Y/N."

"Nice to meet you, Y/N," he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Chan-young. That's Yeong-hoo over there." He nods towards the other soldier who's keeping a wary eye on you.

You glance at Yeong-hoo, then back at Chan-young. "What's his problem?" you whisper.

Chan-young sighs. "He thinks you're…y'know, a monster. You're not, right?" He says it with a soft tone, hoping to ease your nerves.

Your breath catches, glancing at Yeong-hoo in the corner. "Is he gonna kill me if I say yes…?"

Chan-young shakes his head, applying a bandage to your forehead. "You're human, aren't you?"

You hesitate before shaking your head no. "I'm human, but…monster too…I guess?" you whisper, your voice shaking slightly.

Chan-young's hands pause in their work, his eyes meeting yours with a flicker of confusion. "What do you mean?"

You take a deep, shaky breath and start to explain. You tell them about your transformation, about the hunger that had taken over your body and mind, the power that had turned you into something else. The fear in your voice is palpable, and Yeong-hoo's grip on his gun tightens.

"Like that one monster that escaped?" Yeong-hoo interjects. You stare at him, nodding. "Huh. So, you're a mutant?"

"It's complicated," you whisper, looking down at your hands.

"Well, you're safe here," Chan-young says firmly. "We've got others like you. We're all just trying to survive." He continues to dress your wounds, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his rough exterior.

"But, can I control it?" you ask, your voice barely audible.

"You'll learn," he reassures you. "We've got people who can help you. We've seen some turnback. It's not easy, but it's possible."

Yeong-hoo snorts from his corner, not convinced.

Chan-young glances at him, then back at you. "Don't worry about him. We're all in this together." He finishes bandaging your ribs and moves to your bruised shoulder.

"I'll find you a room." Yeong-hoo says before walking out.

You wince as he touches the tender area, but you don't pull away. You tell them about your life before the apocalypse, your family, your dreams. It's a stark contrast to the monstrous world outside, and for a brief moment, they all forget the horror that awaits them.

As he applies the final bandage, Chan-young notices the way your skin seems to be knitting itself back together. It's subtle, almost imperceptible, but it's there. He looks at you questioningly. "How long have you had these…abilities?"

You look away, your voice small. "Since the outbreak. I got a really bad nosebleed…I thought I was going to die."

Chan-young's heart clenches at the pain in your voice. He'd heard similar stories before, but each one hit him like a punch to the gut. He finishes up and stands, looking down at you with a mix of pity and admiration. "You're strong, Y/N," he says. "Stronger than you think."

You look up at him, your eyes wet with unshed tears. "Thanks," you murmur.

Chan-young nods, examining your features. He couldn't deny that you were super pretty. Your eyes were the same color as the sea under a stormy sky, and your hair was a messy halo around your face. Despite the dirt and the bruises, you had a certain…fragility about you. He sighs, focusing back on your wounds.

"You're going to feel a little sting," he warns, pouring alcohol onto a cloth. You bite your lip, your eyes squeezed shut as he gently cleans the gash on your forehead. You wince but don't make a sound.

"You're doing great," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm to your fear. You open your eyes to find him smiling at you, and you can't help but smile back.

Yeong-hoo returns with a blanket and a pillow, tossing them onto the bed without a word. He still didn't trust you, but for now, he'd follow Chan-young's lead. "You can sleep here," he says, his voice gruff.

Your eyes widen in surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah," Chan-young says. "We've got enough beds. We're not savages."

You nod, the tension in your shoulders easing. You're so tired, you could sleep on the floor if you had to, but the bed seems like a luxury you haven't had in an eternity.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"Don't mention it," he says, patting your hand. "Get some rest. We've got a lot to do tomorrow."

As you lie down, you can't help but feel a sense of relief. Before falling asleep, you sit back up. "Chan-young?"

"Yes?" He's already by the door, about to leave.

"Um," you sniffle. "Can you, um…" you start but trail off.

"What is it?" he asks his hand on the door handle.

You take a deep breath and swallow your pride. "Could you…could you stay here with me? Just for tonight?"

Chan-young's expression softens. He understands your fear, the feeling of being in a new place filled with unfamiliar faces. He nods and pulls up a chair beside the bed. "I'll stay."

The room falls into silence, save for the distant cries of monsters and the occasional footstep outside. You feel the warmth of his presence beside you, a comforting weight in the heavy darkness. You close your eyes, willing yourself to relax.

"Chan-young?" you whisper, your voice shaking.

"Yeah?"

"What if I turn?" The words hang in the air, thick with fear.

He looks at you, his eyes filled with a strange mix of sadness and determination. "We'll deal with it," he says. "Together."

You nod, taking solace in his words. You know he can't guarantee anything, but the promise is enough for now.

The night stretches out before them, filled with uncertainty and the ever-present danger that lurks just beyond the walls of their haven. But for this one moment, with the gentle hum of life-support machines in the background, you feel a semblance of peace.

Your eyes grow heavy, lulled by the rhythmic breathing of the soldier beside you. Despite the chaos outside, you feel a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, you've found a place where you can belong, where you can learn to live with the monster inside you without fear of rejection or death.

The first few weeks back in Los Angeles were a lesson in emotional endurance. The "16-hour gap" was no longer a novelty; it was a ghost that haunted your every move. You were living a double life: a rising global star by day, and a girl huddled under her duvet with a portable charger by night.

Being in a relationship with Anton meant becoming an expert in the "Digital Date." Because of the time difference, your 3:00 AM was his 7:00 PM. You both had downloaded an app that allowed you to sync your screens, so while the rest of the KATSEYE residence slept, you’d watch grainy indie movies together. He’d be in his room in the RIIZE dorm, whispering into his mic so Sungchan nor Sohee disturbs him, while you sat on your balcony, watching the LA smog turn into a sunrise.

The low point came on a Tuesday. Anton hadn’t texted in twelve hours—unusual for a boy who usually sent "🦕" emojis every time he had a five-minute break. When he finally answered your FaceTime, he didn't even have the energy to smirk. His face was pale, his eyes glazed with fever, and he was wrapped in three blankets despite the summer heat in Seoul.

"Music show rehearsals," he rasped, coughing into his hand. "The AC in the studio was too high. I think my body finally realized I haven't slept more than four hours a night since June."

Your heart twisted. You were 6,000 miles away, and you couldn't even give him a glass of water. "Anton, did you eat? Did the managers bring you anything besides caffeine?"

"They brought vitamins," he sighed, leaning his head back against the headboard. "Everyone is busy, Y/N. We have a fan-con finale to prep for. It’s fine."

It wasn't fine. You spent the next hour navigating a Korean delivery app, using every ounce of your "Translation Girl" knowledge (Yoonchae you are heaven sent) to bypass the South Korean phone verification errors. Finally, you successfully ordered a warm bowl of porridge and honey-ginger tea to be delivered to the RIIZE dorm.

An hour later, your phone buzzed with a photo. Anton, looking slightly more human, holding the spoon with a weak smile.

A 🦕: You're still taking care of me from across the world. I’m a lucky thief.

Y/N: Just get better. I don't want to date a ghost.

A 🦕: I’ll be back soon. I have a surprise for late August. Stay awake.

The universe finally paid its debt in late August. RIIZE was granted a rare four-day "family break" before their Japan debut, and Anton headed straight to his childhood home in New Jersey. At the same time, KATSEYE was flown to Manhattan for a high-profile press circuit.

For the first time since the Han River, you were in the same time zone.

"I'm at the George Washington Bridge," Anton’s voice crackled over the phone, sounding clearer than it ever had on FaceTime. "I asked a friend to give a ride. Give me twenty minutes. Wear something... not famous."

You snuck out of the side entrance of the Soho hotel, wearing an oversized trench coat and a New York Yankees cap. When a black Mazda CX-5 pulled to the curb, you hopped in, and the smell of the interiorold leather and the lingering scent of a New York bagel shop hit you instantly.

Anton wasn't wearing stage makeup. He was in a faded hoodie and glasses, looking exactly like the boy he was before the world knew his name. He didn't say a word to you; he asked to pull the car into a quiet area and pulled you across the center console into a hug that lasted for an eternity.

"No lag," he whispered into your neck. "Your voice doesn't have any static."

He drove you to a rocky park overlooking the Hudson River. The Manhattan skyline glittered across the water. "This is where I used to come when I wanted to forget about the pressure," Anton said, sitting on the hood of the car beside you.

He showed you his wrist. He was wearing a new string of black beads that mirrored your blue ones. "A matching set. One for the girl in LA, one for the boy in Seoul. It’s like a tether."

He leaned in, his hand cupping the back of your head as he kissed you—a slow, grounding kiss that tasted like the end of a long journey. "I grew up in these streets," he murmured. "I know how to find my way home. And right now, Y/N, home is wherever you’re standing."

i will be finishing this story don't worry! just taking a while to update, been dealing with things lately. hope you lot like this one- pchaes₍^. .^₎⟆