#riize anton

The swimming hall was unusually quiet that afternoon. Practice had already started by the time Y/N quietly stepped inside, careful not to get in anyone’s way. The sharp scent of chlorine filled the air as swimmers cut through the water in perfectly timed laps.

She glanced down at her phone.

Jay

i’m at the café already :)

are you still coming?

Y/N sighed.

She typed a reply before she could overthink it.

sorry, something came up

She hit send and slipped her phone into her pocket.

“So…”

A familiar voice made her look up. Anton had just climbed out of the pool, towel draped over his shoulders, his hair still dripping. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Y/N smiled sheepishly. “I needed a hiding place.”

Anton raised an eyebrow. “…A hiding place?”

She held up her phone. “Jay.”

He read the last few messages before handing it back. “He asked you out again?”

“I told him I was busy.”

“So he suggested today instead.” Anton frowned slightly. “…That’s getting a little ridiculous.”

“I know.” Y/N sat down on the lowest row of the empty bleachers. “I figured he wouldn’t think to look for me at the pool.”

Anton laughed quietly. “That’s probably true.”

He grabbed his water bottle. “You know…I never thought the swimming hall would become someone’s emergency shelter.”

“It works surprisingly well.”

“I’m glad.”

For a while, they simply talked while Anton took a short break between sets. Y/N complained about her upcoming readings. Anton complained about morning practice.

It felt…

Normal.

Until the entrance door opened again.

Anton noticed first. The smile disappeared from his face almost instantly. Y/N followed his gaze. A familiar girl stepped inside.

Minju.

She spotted Anton immediately. “There you are.”

Anton let out a quiet breath. “…Hi.”

“I didn’t know you had practice today.”

“I do.”

She smiled. “I brought you something.” She held up a small paper bag.“I remembered you always used to eat after training.” Anton looked at the bag for a moment before shaking his head. “You really didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

“Look Minju I'm busy okay.”

Minju’s smile faltered. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“Someone's waiting for me.”

Only then did she notice Y/N sitting a few rows behind him.

Her eyes briefly met Y/N’s. “Oh...I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.”

Y/N offered a polite smile but stayed out of the conversation.

Minju looked back at Anton. “…Can we still talk?”

Anton remained calm. “We already talked.”

“I know. But nothing’s changed.”

“That’s exactly the point.” A brief silence settled between them.

Minju looked down at the bag in her hands. “…So that’s really your answer?”

Anton nodded. “It hasn’t changed.”

She stood there for another second before quietly lowering the bag. “…Okay.”

Whether she meant it…

Neither of them could tell.

After she left, the silence lingered. Y/N watched the entrance door close before looking at Anton. “You really weren’t exaggerating.”

Anton let out a tired laugh. “I wish I was.” He picked up his water bottle again. “Coach is going to yell at me if I don’t get back in.”

Y/N smiled. “I’ll stay until you’re done.” Anton looked at her for a moment. “…Thanks Ynnie.” Without another word, he adjusted his goggles and dove back into the pool. For the rest of practice, Y/N stayed on the bleachers.

Somehow…

The swimming hall didn’t feel like a hiding place anymore.

It just felt familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snap.

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

Oh.

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

“Your shoes are untied.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Como, Italy—April 30th, 2025.

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

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

For you? Always.

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

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

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

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

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

You never were the type to sugarcoat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s how Anton ends up slipping into tiny olive green Nike shorts that barely extend beyond his stretched-out palm, if that’s any indication of their size, and throwing on a basic white tee with a dinosaur graphic on it before he heads out onto the court for practice today.

It’s a 20-minute drive away, and the drive over is peaceful. He soaks in the scenery of the green hills and rolls his window down to feel the wind flap against his face and breathe in the air, grounding himself before the day begins. In between making small talk with the driver and mentally capturing the pretty birds that greet the morning sky, his mind wanders to thoughts of you. He thinks about how you’re doing, if you’ve been adjusting to the new city. He's curious whether you’ve been trying anywhere new, or just holed up in your hotel room as usual. When he pulls up, you’re sitting on a bench in the middle of the court, legs crossed, eyes squinting as he comes into view, boring a hole straight through his skull, like you’ve been waiting for hours for his arrival.​

He can’t be serious. Your eyes widen when you see his tiny shorts, following the definition of thighs all the way down to his calves. You shake your head before he gets too close and take a sip from your tumbler to cool down, immediately snapping into the proper mode as he enters your peripheral vision.

​“You’re late.” It comes out a little harsher than you meant, but the heat on your cheek is sending any rationality out of your head. It’s beyond hot, and Anton’s choice of clothes today is only meant to get on your nerves.

That can’t be. Anton swears it was just 11 AM when he glanced down at his watch mere seconds ago. He even got ready early because he knows how hard he has to work to get back in your good graces when he’s late.

“Come on, Y/N. It’s 11:01. Give me a break,” Anton pleads, on edge with how stern you’re being with him already.

“First off—It’s Coach Y/N. And, no? My players are never late. And you–,” You stand your ground, pointing an accusatory finger straight at his chest once he invades your space. You need him to back up now, the scent of his cologne almost making you dizzy with a feeling you can’t quite name.

“You’ve been with me since forever. You know how I am, and I haven’t had any reason to change that.”

Maybe it’s the proximity of the upcoming games that's making you act more strictly than usual, but lately you keep finding yourself taking things out on Anton. It’s weird because you never get this way with the other players, but something about him pushes your buttons even more. You know it’s only a minute and that it only eats at your time together when you chastise him, but sometimes, you think you care more about his career than he does. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, trying to physically calm yourself down before you hit him with an exasperated look as silence fills the space between you.

“Hey, I was just caught up in the bathroom. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” Anton’s confidence immediately retreats—not that he ever has any when he’s around you. The way you’re looking at him like he doesn’t respect your time makes him feel unbelievably small, and you can tell he feels sorry for being late.

However harsh your delivery comes across, he has to know you mean well. You expect so much from him because he’s always given you a reason to think he’s worthy of that. You’ve never told Anton that you’re so hard on him because he means the most to you. You always assumed it was a mutual understanding that he doesn’t operate by the same standards you hold others to. You can’t risk it getting to his head, but just as much as he credits you for, you have a lot to thank him for as well. It was Anton who eventually gave you credibility, built your image, and allowed you to expand your reputation to one that no one would dare undermine.

Anton’s hypothesis was right. He knows how deeply you care—how much his success means to you and it’s this epiphany that fuels the unrequited feelings he’s held back for the past 2 and a half years. You’ve seen him grow from the player that no one was watching. You saw him cast aside, and you picked him up and dusted him off like he was a piece of tableware worth being displayed out for the guests.

For others, the way Anton played at 19 was a major deterrent. Typically, the make-or-break threshold for transitioning to the pro tour was around 16-18, an age when he still lacked proper direction and a good enough coach to take him far. Failing to secure a foothold or ranking during those prime years makes a top-tier professional career statistically improbable, especially when he was already a year behind. When you stepped in at 21 to take control of his career, many people were skeptics wondering if you had what it took. Somehow, your partnership grew into something beyond yourselves, and people were still in disbelief at the ground you two broke.

That year was it for him; if he couldn’t get it right then, he should have half a mind to go back to school and pivot careers. He gave himself one last year to try under your guidance, or else he’d call it quits completely.  It was you who turned him into the player he is today, the one that people line up to interview and ask just how he was able to turn around his career on its head—and his answer always remains the same. He owes it all to you, answering on autopilot with your name and a lengthy paragraph on how your principles on tennis shape his outcomes as a player. ​

Like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, you almost feel bad as you watch his pitiful image run back to the other side of the court, opposite the tennis ball launcher you’d set up before he arrived.

“Whatever. Let’s start. Loosen up your arm when you throw the ball up; you’re so tense, and it makes for a bad throw. You’re also releasing it prematurely, so watch out for that.”

Short and straight to the point. As you always are. You’re here because Anton wants to be the best. His parents hired you to turn him into the best, and he depends on you for that—you’re here for nothing else. The past two years flash before him—the indifference with which you talk to him, your nonchalant actions replay in his mind, and he suddenly feels silly having harbored unrequited feelings for you this long, considering you truly leave no room for error.​

You fire up the machine and turn the speed up so Anton can warm up by returning a few balls himself. That way, his arm has a chance to catch up to his brain. He’s been slacking because his arm’s not in the best condition, but you know that it’s his mental state. You need to shake him out of it.

“Hit a few, and then we’ll move on.”

Minutes pass by, and everything flows smoothly. You only jump in now and then to make sure he’s moving across the court the way you want.

“Light on your feet, come on. Keep up!”

Anton feels like all of his nerve endings stand up on alert. He always gets this way when it’s just you and him; it feels like there’s no other spotlight more important than the one on him when he’s on the court. His heart races, his hands become shakier, and his calves tighten–borderline threatening to cramp and embarrass him in front of you.

“You got it. Focus on it. Don’t let it out of your sight,” you add while clapping as if it’ll help him get his head in the game.​

He knows you’re trying hard to come off as encouraging, but it comes out too indifferent to mean anything to him. He feels exhausted from playing these games with you. It’s nothing more than a practice session to you, but he craves being around you so much that sometimes, he feels hurt when you treat him like nothing more than a vessel to earn awards.

“Okay, that’s enough. Get some water and rest. I want to see your serves next,” You yell out to him.

He lets out a grunt of relief, nodding at your words, and collapses on the bench.

“Here, drink some,” Anton extends his water bottle out as an offering before he takes a sip himself, seeing as you ran out of your water in between him returning the balls.

“No, but thank you. You stay hydrated,” You respond.

You’ve always been the epitome of a professional. You’re the perfect Coach, and he has a shelf of trophies now to prove that you’re the one who turned him on his head. But if you’re such a good coach and can read his every movement so well on court, why can’t you tell how he feels?

“By the way—I did some research on your competitor. Wonbin’s not better than you, but he is definitely someone you can’t let your guard down. Make sure you’re sharp the day of. I’ll be over 2 hours before your match to go over strategy with you.”

He can see your mouth move and he thinks he can hear them form sentences, and he’s sure he’s processing them, but his mind is also floating to another place.

“Hello? Are you listening? Seriously... what’s with you today, Lee?”

“Sorry, it’s just really hot. I feel like I’m melting and my arm has been sore lately.”

“Are you serious?” You’re on him before he can answer, gently grabbing his arm to inspect the pressure points around his elbow and shoulder.

“Hey—It’s nothing serious. Don’t worry.”

“Lee, come on. Don’t lie to me. If it hurts, it hurts. Just tell me,” Your eyebrows are furrowed, voice coming out almost whiny because you’re not fully convinced.

It’s so like him to push it off. You don’t know what he’s trying to prove; injuries are normal. And it’s not like he can’t get help. He literally has a physical therapist on speed dial for this very reason.

“Let’s call it for today. I think that’s enough. Your throws are getting cleaner.” Guilt settles in your stomach. You didn’t mean to push him so hard. You hadn’t even noticed that you were, but you really didn’t need him getting any small injury before the actual match in a week.

“Go see your physical therapist and tell me what she says after,” You demand, trying to mask the concern that’s bubbling in your gut. The heat beating down on the two of you right now is not dissimilar to the tension building as you treat him like a porcelain doll, as if he’d crack any second from too much play. Your guard is never down around him; you can’t seem to stop yourself from worrying and fussing over him a concerning amount.

Where Anton’s sitting, he feels anxiety brew in his stomach. He hates this feeling. He hates feeling like he hasn’t given you enough and that you’re unsatisfied with how he’s playing. He’s itchy and hot all over, and it’s not just because of the heat anymore. He wants nothing more than to peel off his skin, unable to stand when you’re angry at him or when you look at him with so much unspoken emotion behind your eyes that he wants to lean in and kiss it all away.

The only thing holding him together is knowing that he has no room for error now. He has to play well now to earn himself a spot back in your good graces. There’s nothing quite like the smile you give him when he steps onto the court and knocks the wind right out of his opponents. You live for the moment his competitors find out what they’re dealing with, whatever inkling of hope they had to beat you dissipating into thin air right in front of their eyes. Anton thinks there’s no prettier sight than your smile when that happens. It’s what brings you happiness, and that’s all Anton lives for.

He’s going to win it for you, and that gives him enough strength to carry on with his day.

“Oh and, Anton?”

“Yeah?”

“Do me a favor and burn those shorts.”

Queens, New York—March 27th, 2025. A Month Out from the Italian Open.

It was a good day. Anton’s serving form was spectacular, and his practice matches flew by without any comments from you, so you ended the session early and offered to take him out to a nearby bar you heard had good specialty cocktails. It turns out becoming as good a coach as you were meant you had little room in your schedule to socialize and make friends outside your tennis world. Your time was special to you, and you didn’t want to spend another night alone, but you had no one else to ask to go with you. That’s what you told yourself, even though you spent a little bit more time and effort getting ready. You put on two coats of mascara and lined your lips before spraying your signature perfume and locking the door behind you.

You arrived at the bar first, and Anton walked in shortly after. The bar was nearby, a short walk from your apartment, since driving in New York is a nightmare, and you always liked the way the air felt on your warm cheeks on the way back. The bar smelled like rich oak and stale comfort, and when you stepped inside, the sounds of muffled jazz were a welcome contrast to the brutal, windy night.

Here you were sitting next to him, legs barely a centimeter apart, his kneecaps brushing up against yours under the countertop. You ordered a Cosmopolitan and, after you finished that, a Moscow mule. Anton leisurely nursed the same pint of beer the whole night. At some point, your words were beginning to slur together, and Anton’s silhouette blurred in your vision. Has he always been this handsome? You started off speaking nonsense at first, reminiscing about how you’ve been wanting to go to this bar ever since you moved to Queens and then transitioned to talking about how your favorite drink to order is actually an Espresso martini. Still, you didn’t want the bartender to think you were basic. All topics of low importance, but he memorized each sentence like he’d be quizzed on it tomorrow.

An hour into the night, the mood shifts and your tone drops to something much graver. Something about the way the alcohol was settling into your system and the bar lights making everything more muted and soft made the filter behind your normal words disappear. You were too far gone at this point to care about what lines this would change before allowing yourself to throw caution to the wind and spill all of the thoughts you’ve been holding back. Anton remained on the edge of his seat, every hair on his arm standing up as he listened attentively, unfolding the words you were about to say until they painted a picture of who you are.

​“I never wanted this, Anton.”

His heart sinks.

“What do you mean?”  

“I mean, I never wanted to become a coach. My entire life, I wanted to be in your shoes.”  

Anton goes completely rigid beside you. This is completely uncharted territory for him; you’ve never shared how you found him, nor did he ever really know why you picked him out of everyone else to coach. He knows just how vulnerable you are right now, and he’s not sure how to proceed. ​

The words continue to tumble out of you before he can conjure up a response, as if you’re speaking in some cruel and twisted monologue about the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.

“You know what sucks too?”

“What sucks is that I almost had it. I was one of the top prospects for my age group. Everyone told me I was going to go so far, and that filled me with this unshakeable confidence. Like it was a guaranteed thing. Everyone around me knew it, and sure, they pushed me—but nobody was harder on me than I was on myself. I would tell myself, this is the sacrifice you make when you want it that bad. And then it all went to shit.”

You laugh to yourself, the bitter memories materializing into this acrid taste on your tongue. Things were simple during that time; you just assumed that your spot at the top was just a matter of time; the titles were just simply waiting for you to catch up. You thought, what’s a little more? Too often, and eventually, your attempts to speedrun your success meant practicing around the clock with no days off and crumbs of a social life.

“I thought I was young enough to withstand the physical toll it took on my body. Those felt like my glory years. I told myself—if not now, then never.”

You pause for a second before continuing, your heart deciding for you that now is a good time to release all inhibitions and lay yourself completely emotionally bare for Anton to witness. Something about opening up after burying these feelings to the deepest parts of your soul felt so freeing, as if you were shedding a molted skin, even if it still stung to reopen the wounds. The way Anton’s eyes were fixated on you and his mouth was hung slightly agape in careful anticipation, as if he was listening to you like your words were his lifeline, made you feel comfortable enough to resume. Something quietly shifts in Anton’s perception of you hearing you talk about yourself in such a desolate manner; you’ve always moved with an unshakeable confidence that he feels like he can’t recognize you right now.

“I ended up tearing my rotator cuff during my last game ever, right before Junior Championships. It happened in slow-motion. I was first to serve. The ball went up, and I raised my arm like I had done thousands of times before, and I felt the tear immediately.”

When he felt like no words would suffice, Anton hooked his hand under your chair and scooted you in. Once you got close enough, he put his arm around your shoulder, tucking you into his side so your words would fall only on his ears, and hummed in response to encourage you to continue.

Being this physically close to another human was the last straw. Tears wet your face before you realize, coming close to a full sob, the memory still so vivid in your mind after all these years. He hears it before he sees it. Soft sobs overtake your frame, causing your shoulders to rattle, and Anton tightens his grip around you. In the bar’s dim atmosphere, he holds you until there’s no room left between you two, absorbing every small shiver, sniffle, and shake of yours. He doesn’t dare look into your eyes—he knows your glassy orbs will destroy him, and right now, he feels that he needs to be strong for you.

“I spent that Christmas in the hospital. No matter how much I pleaded and screamed at the doctors to fix my mistake, it was too late. I could never play in the same capacity, and for me, that was enough never to want to play again.” Everything you did, you did with conviction and a sense of finality. That's how you’ve always been, and that’s partially why you treat Anton this way—you’ve never known what it was like to do things softly.

He takes it all in. Processing all of your words, he imagines you a year ago, alone in the hospital bed, the sterile walls doing nothing to placate your misery. He transfers himself into your shoes and feels how beyond upset and angry you would be with yourself. A shell of the person you are today, the person you had to morph into so she wouldn’t ever crack in the same way. He wasn’t sure you could survive another heartbreak like that.

In his head, he sends a mental thank you to his parents. If it weren’t for their valiant efforts two years ago, he wouldn’t be here to hold you at a time like this.

“I think back to it. Sometimes, I think what if I didn’t take things so seriously? What would I do if I had a redo—if I actually hung out with people my age at 10 instead of spending 12 hours out in the hot sun trying to perfect my serve form?”

“And you know what, Anton?”

“Hmm, baby?” Anton murmurs under his breath.

It slips out before he can stop himself; you’re revealing yourself in such a tender way, he can’t hold back the name he’s always reserved for you in his head. Thankfully, you pay it no mind and continue, and Anton’s eternally grateful.

“The worst thing is that I can’t help but think I wouldn’t have it any other way. No matter how many times I run the scenarios around in my head, I can’t give it up. All of that work had to be worth it even if my career got cut off short, so I told myself there was nothing better than being in that body of mine.” You have to take a breath in between your words, the air getting harder and harder to reach.

“That must sound crazy, I know. Especially because now I’m miserable with no friends, but I don’t know…” Your voice trails off and returns, “It was my whole reason for purpose, and when that gets stolen, you just don’t know who you are anymore. I don’t know if I’ll ever love anything as much as I loved playing.”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I had no idea.”

“How could you? I've never let anyone in before.”

Your voice is reduced to a whimper now to keep the sobs at bay, and with every sob, Anton can only hear the small cracks of his heart.

Manhattan, New York—January, 2022 to December 2024. The Recovery Years.

When it first happened, you barely managed to escape press interviews and dodgy questions from sports recruiters about why you never stepped foot on a court again. They kept poking and prodding without a single care that maybe you were still figuring out how to be okay, selfish in their intentions to get flashy answers for headlines while you ripped yourself to shreds, asking the same question. Those days were rough, and you were almost labeled as a defiant, disobedient girl with how much you wanted to yell at them—if only you had a lick less sanity.

Your parents handled it all for you without question. That felt like the least they could do for you while you were drowning in your own pity, bedridden for weeks on end. Your eyes would flutter awake first thing in the morning just for one look at your tennis racket on the wall, your gaze tracing over the worn-out grip that’s begging to be changed, to make you cry all over again. Nobody knew how awful it was to live in your mind during this time. You would spend hours running through the milliseconds up until you were forced to wave goodbye to your career. It mocks you as if to tell you that it’ll never be held by you again. The next day, you threw it out.

For a while, you coped by believing that no one else was dealt shittier cards than you. You refused to move on, unable to see a way out of the pity hole you dug yourself into. You moped around all day, threw pillows at the door when your parents or friends tried to come over, and wallowed to no end.

“I said leave me alone!”

“Sweetie, please. You have to eat something. This isn’t healthy.”

No shit, this isn’t healthy. Why does everyone feel like they have to point out the obvious? What isn’t healthy is you being broken. Your body being too fucked up to do the one thing you felt was created for you. But as much as you hated the world, you knew it wasn't right to blow up at them—this wasn’t their weight to carry.

They reminded you to slow down, to take things easy, that there was time to build your career, and inevitably, it was your greedy, salacious hunger that dragged the carpet out from under you. Again, you’re hit with the realization that you have no one to blame but yourself, and sitting in that pool of guilt and shame wasn’t going to get easier anytime soon.

“Please just leave it at the door and go,” your voice trailing down into a whisper. You couldn’t bear to shout anymore; your throat felt dry and scratchy, and speaking words was exerting more effort than you could afford to expend.

That year, your 21st birthday passed as if it were another ordinary day. You were still in the active process of repressing and swallowing down the bile of the memories, unable to escape the dissociative fugue you were in, moving like a zombie through your own house. Celebrating your 21st felt sacrilegious; the one-year increase felt like you had to confront that entirely too much time had passed since your life ended as you knew it. It felt gross to know that time went on regardless of whether you wanted to move on. The last thing on your mind was blowing out candles and putting a smile on for your friends and family. Your parents offered to look into getting you a therapist, but you vehemently denied. You told them you just needed time and space—that this was something you wanted to work on alone—the firmness in your voice more than enough to keep them off your back. Deep down, you said no because you weren’t ready to admit it was time to move forward and process tennis and all that it meant to you.

The rest of that year did eventually pass—despite feeling like it never would. There were periods of recovery, of course—days when you felt like you could stomach food and watch a few minutes of a match—your interest perking up when new rookies you had played with were mentioned between conversations. The other days, you still felt like you were mourning everything and did nothing more than stay in bed. You relied on the passage of time to keep you afloat more often than not, thankful for the perpetual space it placed in between your last match and a life without tennis.

At 22, you decided you still wanted it. The court was the only place you felt alive, and you yearned to be close to it again, to see if you could feel something. Now and then, you would drive out to your old court. Most days, you never made it out of the car. But on the rare occasion that you gathered the willpower to step out, you would sit on the bench outside, stare in at the new, young prospects, and grieve the future you once held.

At 23, your parents introduced you to Anton, under the guise of ‘he’s got potential, he just needs some direction.’ Apparently, he had grown up down the street from you, so you have no idea how you managed to dodge him all this time, but you didn’t bother to ask for the details. After watching and analyzing him at a few practice sessions, you agreed. His potential was undeniably there, and that was enough. At the back of your mind, you knew this was a golden opportunity for you to practice tennis at a distance, to feel the heat of the game without ever having to yield the racket again. You didn’t know jack shit about being on the other end, what it meant to coach someone else, but you supposed it wouldn't kill you to try.

It was around the sixth month of training with him that you think maybe it would kill you. You seemed hit an impenetrable wall in Anton’s progress. All week, you badgered him to no end, unable to understand why he couldn’t perform the serve the way you asked, no matter how many tries he took. You felt like you couldn’t break through to him and that was killing you because you took it as a sign that you weren’t meant to do this. Both of you were burnt out beyond repair, pushed to your mental limits. In the middle of the session, you had to remind yourself to take a second to catch your breath, your throat burning from how much you raised your voice, and then it just clicked.

You looked at him and studied his appearance for what felt like the first time since you met him. His eye bags told you he hadn’t had a good night's rest in days. You noticed his nonstop panting, the sweat beading down his neck, and the permanent furrow in his brow, like he was even more upset than you were. Your heart shattered when you noticed how his arm couldn’t even bear to hold up the racket anymore, and you told him to take a week off. All he could do was nod and walk back to the locker room in silence.

You texted him a few hours later, feeling that an apology might do some good, even if it was a tough pill to swallow for a young coach with so much pride.

your name hey, im sorry. i shouldn't have been so aggressive today. let's take a week off and come back to it. i know you can get it, anton. i really do. anton lee it’s alright. i know it’s hard on you too. i promise i'll do better. see you in a week.

What you keep out of the messages is that, in the past few months, you don’t feel nauseous stepping foot on the court anymore. You attribute this to him—seeing him in his flow state and getting excited reminds you of yourself. Coming to this epiphany gives you enough clarity for you to slow down, to know better than to ruin his relationship with the sport too.

That afternoon, you packed enough clothes for a week and drove 3 hours back home to stay with your parents. Even though you attempted to eat dinner with them, which mainly consisted of you making small talk while you picked at your food, your mind was still consumed with ideas on how to get through to Anton. You retreated to your room and rotted for a while, craving the comfort that your childhood room used to bring, but the sight of your old racket did nothing to calm your mind; it only reminded you that Anton was in the same rut you found yourself in after your injury.

At some point in the night, you stopped feeling sorry for yourself. Fresh air sounded like a good idea, so you shoved your feet into whatever pair of slides fit, said goodbye to your parents for a bit, and walked outside.

You must’ve been walking for around 20 minutes by then, and finally you looked up to find that, somehow, your feet had dragged you to the tennis court where you spent your early childhood years. You and your dad would rally back and forth, with your mom jumping up and down, sending out nonsensical cheers when the two of you got past 5 passes. Back then, you played the sport to play.

It was there when your parents saw the talent, the drive in you that blossomed into a fire that couldn’t be extinguished. Sauntering over to the playground set, you took a seat on the swings, letting your feet kick at the woodchips and allowing your center of gravity to oscillate you back and forth, and thought about how you could help him, what you would’ve wanted if you were in his shoes.

You think you wouldn’t be able to survive if he got hurt and couldn’t play because of you. Another career tossed aside because you didn’t know when to stop. You knew better than to make the same mistake twice and destroy someone else’s livelihood. It sends a shiver down your spine. You walked back home with a heavy heart and heavy steps.

Luckily, you started feeling better in the morning and spent the rest of that week resting and researching how some of the greatest coaches treated their players to ensure they remained in the best physical and mental state.

When the week was over, you remember Anton coming back with an unprecedented sense of vigor, like there was electricity surging through him. Things only went up from there for both of you.

Over the years, you and Anton dominated the headlines.

Interviewers and sports channels couldn’t get enough. They labeled him an unstoppable force and something to be reckoned with, recounting how Anton dominated the court match after match and how it was all made possible under your watchful, competent eye. Everyone who ever doubted him came out to say that they always knew he could go far and claimed that under their care, he would’ve turned out even better. It made you scoff at how brazen people were with comments about his career, so sure that he'd be able to trust them after they passed him up every chance they got. Every time, Anton defended your honor, saying that you built your career alongside him—that more than anything, your relationship was a true partnership due to your proximity in age. Eventually, the headlines about how you failed to make it beyond the USTA Junior circuit dissipated into the background, and you were able to rebuild a name for yourself, reshaping how many families across America felt about you. Your clientele grew, but you never took in too many–always dismissing the strays to focus on Anton’s career.

The people who weren’t concerned with the actual technique or the love behind the sport preferred to feed into delusions of you two being more than just a coach-and-player relationship, which was easy to fuel considering how much time you spent with him. But even on and off the court, your relationship was built on the foundation and mutual understanding that tennis was going to be the biggest priority. Anton’s sole focus is on tennis, and yours is making sure it stays that way.

​Queens, New York—March 22nd, 2025. 15-LOVE.

“I’d switch with you in a heartbeat.”

You hum at what he says, taking his words in. You know what he means when he says that. You’re not stupid. You’ve noticed that Anton looks at you like you hung the stars, and it’s not just because you’re the reason why he had to go out and purchase a trophy case.

You’ve guided him through his several Wimbledon titles and 2 US Open titles, 2 consecutive year-end championship titles, and lifted him back to No. 1 in the ATP rankings just last year. But the way he’s looking at you right now—You can tell it has nothing to do with the shiny gold medals. His eyes are glazed with this fondness that you don’t think anyone has ever looked at you with. In this moment, you feel so incredibly shy and naked in front of him. It’s like he sees you for you, not as a prize to be won as the other players treat you, but as a human who has more to offer to the world than tennis.

Your face feels hot to the touch. You have to push back on his shoulder to put some distance between you two so you can breathe, but you weren’t expecting to regret it immediately, already miss his enveloping warmth.

“I know you would. That’s why I’m so harsh on you… I think deep down, I’m trying to live through you,” you hesitantly admit. The relief is instantaneous—as if you have finally let out the breath that you’ve been holding in around him for all these years.

“I hope you know that even when you think you’re nothing without tennis, you’re still you.”

You blink rapidly. His words hit you, and he’s careful to observe your reaction before he continues. When you don’t say anything, he takes it as a green light.

“Y/N… I wish I could’ve been there with you growing up. I know you may not think of me as more than one of your responsibilities, but if I had met you when you were young, maybe we could’ve been friends. We would’ve had a lot of fun, and I would’ve made sure you didn’t play by yourself. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, but please, Y/N. Look at me—”

He takes in a deep breath that almost sounds pained. This time, he’s fully looking into your eyes as if to make sure that you can’t question his devotion.

“Don’t beat yourself down like that now. Not when you’ve proven to me and so many others that you’re so much more than tennis. All I can promise to you is that I won’t make you regret coaching me. Not after you’ve given your life’s purpose to me. I’ll take care of it well, okay?”​

Your eyes glaze over, and you collide into him with full force, full on sobbing into his shoulder now. You’ve been so emotionally repressed these past years, convincing yourself that you were all alone in your struggle, that it comes pouring out all at once. Your mind sits with his words, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself imagine the two of you meeting when you’re young and your mind is malleable enough to rewire all of the toxicity you self-inflicted. You’re 8, evil and beyond prideful as ever, so of course, you would’ve made fun of the way he returned your powerful hits. The two of you would’ve played and laughed, and then gone home to eat snacks that your mom prepared. Scenes emerge of you asking him, but really demanding if he wanted to watch the matches on the TV together, and then of you racing over to his house to sit precisely one foot away from the screen, drinking in every inch of the TV. You can’t help but think that having a friend like Anton when you were young would’ve been really good for you.

​Meanwhile, Anton thinks about how his love for the sport would’ve dwindled into nothing if it weren’t for you. He played because his parents put him into it when he was young; everyone knows how the story goes. When he was younger, all he knew was that it was fun. His parents would retell stories of how tennis courts were nothing more than a playground to him—that baby Anton would joke about being able to jump over the net and trip like a hot mess when his feet got caught up in the net. All he remembers is that he had fun and that the laughs that followed always cured any bruises he picked up along the way. He kept up with it because he wasn’t necessarily bad enough to completely abandon all and any efforts, but he always teetered on the edge of being great.​

Recruiters noted him down, but never followed up—until his parents found out about it through a friend of your parents who was looking for something to do. They had been keeping up with you for a while; you were always the neighborhood’s pride and joy, and they shared the same devastation when they heard what happened. His family had the means to pay you well for your time, but really, your parents were the ones to urge him to let you take him under your wing.

You’re the one who pushes him to become something bigger than himself. It’s you who gets up in the morning and makes him feel like his time is best spent honing his skills on the court.

​He’d be nothing without you. Anton believes this to be an irrefutable truth. He wouldn’t change a single thing in his life if it meant that he got to meet you in this timeline. To him, you are God’s best gift.

“Come on, Y/N. Let’s go home, okay? I’ll take you home.” Anton’s hands grab your shoulders and pull you back to face him. He grabs your things, interlaces your fingers with his, and makes you walk in front of him so he can make sure you don’t disappear into thin air.

He’s holding you like you’re glass; there’s such tenderness in the way his hand comes to hover a centimeter away from the small of your back and the way he rummages through his bag to hand you some water. You take small sips from his bottle and try your best to stand to the side while he calls a taxi before he realizes he doesn’t know your apartment number. He hails it to his place instead, and when it comes, he’s holding a hand out over your head as your limbs fall haphazardly onto the leather seats to make sure you don’t bump it on the car roof. Anton settles down next to you and pulls your hand into his lap, slowly tracing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. You fall asleep on his shoulder shortly after. ​

Anton carries you all the way up the stairs, and for you, it’s all a melting pot of memories. You remember pulling at his hair and refusing to go to bed before reluctantly climbing on his back. When you’re in his apartment, he sets you down on his bed and turns away with red cheeks as you strip off your outerwear, claiming it was suffocating you. He cleans up your makeup as best as he can and brushes your teeth gently. When it comes time to dress you, he shuts his eyes so tightly as he pulls the oversized tee over your head. Once you’re tucked into his bed and he’s made sure all of your limbs are accounted for, he sits next to you to watch as the blanket rises and falls with your small breaths.

“Night, Ton. Can’t believe I told you so much. Never told anyone else that much before…” His heart tightens. The pet name catches him so off guard that he freezes as warmth creeps up behind his ears for what feels like the umpteenth time that night. His eyes are glazed over with fondness as he watches you deliriously giggle after teasing about the blush on his face before exhaustion takes over, and your eyelids close slowly. Anton stays for a moment longer to admire the lingering flush on your skin, drink in the sight of your long lashes, and gently reaches over you to unravel the furrow between your eyebrows.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

​He grabs a hoodie and closes the door lightly behind him before settling on the couch to take a breath.​

He goes to bed that night with you on his mind. He replays the scene in the bar over and over, working himself up until he feels nauseous. He’s seen the way you push him at practice like it means more than a contractual obligation to you that he wins, and his heart shatters at the realization that he’s become a mirror for you. When you see him, all you see is what could’ve been. The moments when you’ve almost broken down into tears when he can’t get the serve right, the nights where you don’t get any sleep because you were researching and analyzing the way his opponents would play. The eye bags that enter the room before you do when he’s in the thick of his season. He shifts the memories around in his head, reframing them from moments when he thought you were just sick of him to moments when you were sick of yourself. He feels beyond useless as he comes to understand how long you’ve been carrying this weight alone. This whole time, you let others see you as some ruthless monster trainer who had to be this way to be taken seriously, but really, you’re treating your players the way you used to treat yourself because it’s the closest thing you’ll ever get to being back in the game.

What destroys him the most is knowing that you most likely take all of this as some moral failing, as if it’s a weakness of your character. As if you’re not a real person who’s allowed to be upset and mad at this fucked up world when her reason for existing falls apart right in front of her.​

Anton thinks he’ll spend the rest of his life, or however long you’ll continue working with him, reminding you that you’re the strongest person he’s ever met.

​Queens, New York—March 23rd, 2025.

What the fuck? You wake up to the sound of the fire alarm going off, but it’s not the usual blaring alarm that you’re used to in your apartment. Plus, you always ventilate before you cook.

You rub the sleep out of your eyes and sit up in bed. When you’re fully seated and take a second to stretch your arms, it dawns on you that you actually feel well-rested for once, as if the back pain you’re used to decided to take a day off.

But god—what the hell is that smell? It’s like something died in this apartment and you’re being punished. Is something burning? Are you going to die?

You can hear footsteps shuffling, and it’s only then that you take in your surroundings.

Whoever’s room you’re in, they like to keep it tidy. Minimalistic, too. Opposite the bed you’re in, there’s a small wooden desk with a large monitor on it. Some books are stacked in the corner, and a light-up keyboard sits in the middle. The walls are pretty barren, but there is one small painting that looks quite like what a kid could conjure up, and you’re thankful for the small ounce of color it provides to the otherwise flat, beige room. A guitar hangs from a hook on what you can assume to be the closet, and you think—It’s boring but accented well, cozy despite its unassuming appearance.

You try to remember what happened, how you ended up here, and collect yourself.

In the kitchen, Anton was trying to be as quiet as he could. He was, until he forgot about the stove he'd turned on, and the alarm ratted him out. He can hear you moving around, followed by the sound of the door creaking.

You’re standing in the hallway facing the kitchen, engulfed in his huge oversized, stretched-out white graphic tee, and he melts. You look so soft.

“Hi. Good morning.”

“Anton? Care to explain what I’m doing here? What the hell happened last night?”

“We went out to celebrate after you said I did well at practice at a bar down the street—your treat—and then you got a little too drunk. I tried to call you a cab, but I didn’t know your apartment number or your roommate’s contact, so I just took you back here. I slept on the couch and closed my eyes when I threw the shirt over your head, don’t worry.”

You weren’t even concerned with the last sentence, but your heart skips a beat at the fact that he wants you to know that nothing happened. It comes out so smoothly that you know he’s not saying it in hopes of getting a reward for doing the bare minimum; he truly just wants you not to doubt how you ended up in his clothes and in his apartment. Not that you ever did; this was Anton after all.

“Ugh, my head is throbbing.”

“Here, take this. I bought it this morning.” Anton hands you some hangover medicine, and you down it without a single word. It hasn’t kicked in yet, but the knowledge that you’ll be okay in a half hour makes your fight-or-flight response settle.

“How do you feel about pancakes?”

“It’s really alright. I should get going now, Anton. Sorry that you had to take care of me last night,” suddenly feeling too shy about having overstepped such an important line yesterday, and your gaze is fixed on the wooden flooring as you do your best to avoid eye contact.

Anton frowns at your response, instinctively pouting. Wait, what?

“No, please stay. Just let yourself be taken care of for once,” He pleads with you, the memories of yesterday night still fresh on his mind.

Your stomach grumbles in front of him, as if to publicly betray you, and you lose all stamina to argue with him. He lets out a hearty laugh at the sound and looks at you like he knows you’ve lost this battle too.

“Now, are pancakes okay? And please say yes, because I don’t have anything else.”

“Yes, that sounds good. Can I help?”

“Nope, go sit on the couch. I’ve got it.”

A couple of minutes pass, and while you’re trying to distract yourself by scrolling on your phone, you can’t lie and say you haven’t been sneaking glances at Anton in between each Instagram post you pretend to scroll through. Something about his messy hair and the white tank top he’s wearing draws your eyes to his broad shoulders, but also because you’re pretty sure he’s one second away from setting his apartment kitchen on fire and you don’t want to die.

“Ow—Fuck!” Anton hisses, drawing his hand back in pain.

Of course he managed to grab the wrong part of the heated handle. You immediately drop everything and run over to the scene. You cradle his hand and slowly walk him over to the kitchen sink, where you instruct him to rinse it under running cold water for 10 minutes to calm down the red mark that’s definitely going to leave a scar.

“Can you please just let me help you now?”

“Ugh—fine.”

He managed to make the batter just fine, so you rummage through his cabinets for an appropriate pan and heat it on the stove. You make sure to turn on the ventilator for extra caution (How did he forget to do that in the first place?), pour out some batter, and watch the misshapen circles bubble before flipping. Once Anton’s hand calms down, you sit him down to apply ointment and a band-aid. Why he has cute little dog-themed band-aids is above you, but you blow on his wound gently and make sure to pick him out the corgi one—your favorite.

Soon enough, there are two plates with three pancakes stacked high on each. Not many words are exchanged as you guys eat in silence, stomachs grateful for the sustenance.

“So… about yesterday. Do you remember everything?”

“Just bits and pieces. Not that much. Why? Are you hiding something from me that I did?”

“You didn’t do anything, per se, but you just ended up telling me about your injury and revealed a lot… I wasn’t sure if you would be okay with me knowing those things, so I just wanted to check in.”

“It’s not like I can take it back now, is it? Plus, I’m still your coach. That doesn’t change things; pretend like you didn’t hear it.”

The way you’re drawing the line with him makes Anton straighten in his seat. He knew that things wouldn’t change overnight given that he’s been playing this game with you for the past 2 years, but he felt like real progress was made yesterday. More than anything, he feels stupid for allowing himself to think that you’d let him lighten your load. Saying those things is one thing when you guys are both on the court, but now that you're sitting in his house, sharing a meal with your clothes on him and still saying it, Anton feels his heart retreat. Maybe, he shouldn’t have his heart set on a future with you if it means he’s going to keep getting disappointed. The ball’s always been in your court after all.

Como, Italy—May 2nd, 2025. 30-LOVE.

It’s one of his lighter days. Anton had an early-morning practice followed by an afternoon interview, and he’s free to do whatever he pleases after 3 pm. He’s been looking forward to being done with all of his responsibilities all morning because he wants to invite you out for some gelato. He has about two days left before his games start on the 4th, so he knows he can sneak in a few more stops with you. You guys have been hopping around to different spots all over the city, experimenting with flavors once you found out Anton likes ice cream almost as much as you do. Of course, his favorite is Pistachio. You’re not opposed to it and enjoy Pistachio even, but never enough to get a full scoop. Your heart is settled on raspberry, which somehow he also loves. In the end, you usually decide to share your scoops once the flavor fatigue has settled in.

He just wrapped up the interview, and he’s racking his brain for how he can get you to go with him later. He walked over to you to make some small talk, wanting to ask if you slept okay because you’ve been complaining about how flat the pillows are in your room, but when you saw him coming over, you skipped away in a rush.

Now, Anton wonders if he’s imagining the way you side-eyed that female interviewer earlier. She was doing all the right things, but she didn’t hesitate to lay it on thick that she found him cute. Comments about his appearance—how he kept his skin so clear in this weather—and invasive questions about why he’s never been spotted with any girl since his career began only made him cringe and want to die on the spot. His smile had faded into a neutral expression towards the end of the interview, only barely managing to grit his teeth in an attempt to remain as polite as possible. He lets himself imagine you being jealous and then dismisses the thought when it comes back a second time. You don’t get that way with anyone, and especially not with him. He’d rather pass the glint of jealous he saw in your eye as some air because allowing himself to think that you felt some way about it was beyond his understanding of you.

But then why did you leave him on seen when he texted you asking if you wanted to grab lunch after his match, a welcome ritual that’s begun to make its way into your daily routines? No matter how much he tries to pretend like it was nothing, it doesn’t make sense when he considers how you’ve been more dismissive and curt with your answers since the morning. You’re always professional with him, but you don’t ride him as hard as before, so he let himself believe that you guys had grown closer lately.

​Anton racks his head for how he’s going to make it up to you later.

You’re so embarrassed. You don’t know why you’re acting this way; you don’t get why your cheeks heated up as the interviewer looked at you directly, the question she had asked Anton about why he hadn’t been seen with any women throughout his career feeling too targeted towards you.

You’ve had a crush before. Or well… that’s what you called all of the players you fell in love with when you were young. You really don’t know anything outside of tennis. You’ve never dated, always devoting yourself to this damn sport, and now you’re so fucking confused. What is this?

Why am I getting the urge to lock Anton up in a castle so no one can ever look at him with those lovey-dovey eyes again?

In truth, you’ve been acting all sorts of weird these days. You’re beginning to think you might be coming down with something. ​

Am I sick? Holy shit, do you like Anton?

The thought almost makes you burst out laughing, but luckily your instincts kick in, and you remind yourself that you’re in public and while the cameras are here for Anton, you’re supposed to act as his right-hand.

What the hell are you saying? Listen to yourself, Y/N.

If you don’t act right and accordingly, it looks bad on Anton, and you don’t want that stress getting to him during his games.

Fine. Maybe you care a bit more for the poor boy after that night. You cried in his arms and in his bed, and he made you pancakes the morning after. It’d be weird to ignore him and act like something extremely vulnerable hadn’t been revealed between the two of you a month ago; you try to reason with yourself. But that’s all it was: a passing moment in time, a slip of your mind that you can’t take back, a glitch in your prefrontal cortex. That’s all it was. Yeah sure… You look out for him a bit more these days, and that’s all. It’s because he’s approaching the peak years of his career. That explains why you’re texting him more often, even if some of your messages have nothing to do with tennis.

It’s just a few offhand questions about whether he’s eating well here and there. If he hasn’t, then you join him for his meals to make sure he’s keeping up with his food intake. Sometimes, he even accompanies you as you go to eat ice cream and offers him a bite or two, knowing he can’t have too many sweets before his match.

It’s not like he doesn’t return the friendly favor. He’ll shoot you a message asking you what you’re up to and if you want to explore the city together in between promotions and matches.

Sometimes, you shock yourself and send him a funny tennis meme out of nowhere. Commentary about the matches and the obnoxious players you’ve both encountered. It’s nothing, really. Who else are you supposed to talk to?

You spend the rest of your day ignoring how you feel. The hours tick by while you’re in an almost catatonic state, giving short responses to everyone when they try to talk to you and staying off your phone until people spam your notifications because they’re worried. The one time you check it, you immediately regret it because the most recent notification was Anton asking if you’re okay and if you wanted to walk with him to the nearby gelato shop. You think you almost walked into a door while reading it.

You think you’re pretty good at denying how you truly feel, having plenty of experience after the accident happened. Still, something about the way that reporter looked at Anton makes you blind with anger no matter how much you try to swallow that foreign feeling. Maybe it’s just because you two had been growing close and you haven’t had a friend like him in a while.

Your life has always been lonely ever since you devoted 100% of your time to tennis, and now that you’re an adult who missed out on all those crucial moments socializing with kids your other age, it’s natural for you to connect with whoever is convenient. You tell yourself, that’s what Anton is. He’s convenient.

Como, Italy—May 7th, 2025. What Comes Next.

It’s too hot. Like, entirely too hot. You feel like your skin is about to melt off, and everything around you is sticking to you like you’re a puddle of glue. You've gone and stood in front of the fridge in your room more times than you can count and opened every window in hopes of getting some kind of air circulation going.

You texted Anton saying the air conditioning in your room stopped working and that you were going to sweat out and die in your room, so he better come say goodbye now. He called you a dramatic queen before inviting you to his room, and you gladly accepted, wanting nothing more than to be out of the hot Italian summer heat. He quickly threw on a pair of slides, not even caring to look decent as he ran to the little market down the road to get some snacks. When he returned, he pulled the secret stash of ice cream out of the fridge and heard a knock at the door seconds after entering.

He opens his door to the sight of you with your hair down, wearing pajamas and cute cloud slippers. No reason to get dressed up when it’s just Anton. He’s immediately hit with flashbacks to the night you were at his apartment in his clothes. Still as soft as ever, he thinks.

“Here, come in.”

“Thanks. I was seriously dying in my room.”

“Yeah, I would be too. Did you talk to the maintenance about it?”

“Mhm, they said they wouldn’t be able to fix it until tomorrow morning.”

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like. I grabbed some snacks I thought you'd like and thought we could watch a movie.”

“Sure, that sounds perfect. Thanks.” You walk over to his living room, hop onto his couch, and try to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat at his thoughtfulness.

The movie is long abandoned at this point. Anton let you pick, and you somehow settled on a random documentary after skipping through a few channels and seeing nothing remotely interesting. Half an hour in, you’re complaining about how sleepy the narrator's voice is making you. Anton gets on your nerves by saying he let you choose it, and you flick him on the forehead in retaliation for speaking a truth that you didn't care to hear.

You decide to ditch the movie altogether, diving into a much more interesting conversation to pass the time. The conversation ranges from anything to everything; you talk about your favorite foods, your pet peeves, and why your comfort movie will always be Ten Things I Hate About You. Anton chimes in too, opening up about how he used to do other sports outside of tennis, like swimming and archery; that he likes dinosaurs and space, and how he’d major in architecture in another life. You joke that he’s always been a nerd.

When you’re mid-rant, deep in your thoughts about how people shouldn't be allowed to count audiobooks as reading, you look up to find Anton staring at you. You must’ve been talking for too long.

Anton doesn't take his eyes off you even though you're now making direct eye contact. His reluctance to look somewhere else causes something to shift between you two.

"What is it? Is there something on my face? Why are you looking at me like that?" The questions come fumbling out of your mouth, becoming quieter the longer he stares at you. He scoots in, and your breath hitches when it becomes apparent how close you two are. You can feel his breath tickling your nose.

“Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Another moment of silence passes between you just as you’re registering his words. His eyes are drawn to your lips, unable to look away at the pout they’ve formed. He must not be thinking straight because he takes your silence as a green light, and Anton’s leaning in before you have a chance to come to your senses and draw up your walls once more.

His hands reach up to cup your jaw with such gentleness that it only makes you want him even more, and then he’s kissing you with a dizzying fervor. All of the years of him yearning to be here, like this, with you catching up to him, and he feels a tear drop from his cheek out of happiness. It falls on your cheek, but you pay it no mind, heart and mind racing with how emotionally overwhelming all of this is for you too. He’s so tender with the way his lips move, and you feel like you belong in this moment forever, to be molded by him however he pleases.

He tastes like the vanilla ice cream you had just been eating. You close your eyes, deepen the kiss, and try to lick more of it off of his lips. Your hands make it to his shirt, and you fist the collar, pulling his body even closer to you. One of his hands drops to your waist and pulls you effortlessly his lap.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long, you have no idea.”

“So don’t stop.” Anton groans at your words and connects your lips again.

You’re not sure how it got to this point. You think you’ve been kissing him for hours at this point, and you still can’t get enough. You take a moment to catch your breath, and selfishly, so you can take in Anton’s disheveled hair, all thanks to your work. This might be your favorite sight on the planet. He’s never looked prettier than he does right now in your hands.

He pecks your lips as you become lost in thought, and you giggle at his antics, your heart feeling so light and full at the same time.

“Should we sleep soon?”

“Yeah, maybe. You do have another match tomorrow.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re coming to bed with me. That way, I can get a good night’s rest.”

You look at him skeptically.

“No bad intentions, I promise. Scout’s honor.”

You pretend to think about it, but your resolve disappears as quickly as it arrived. For tonight, you want to let yourself be wrapped up in his affectionate self and not worry about what comes after. You don’t really know what any of this means, but you think you might as well enjoy it while this lasts.

“Okay, Lee. But don't snore.”

“No promises!”

You let out a yelp and wrap your arms around his neck as he swings his arm under your knees and carries you down the hall as if you weigh close to nothing. He laughs at how much you resemble a koala bear with how tightly you’re wound around him right now. You’re tucking your head into his neck, taking in his scent as he lays you down on the bed and tucks you in before slotting himself in next to you, leaving no space between your bodies. Before knocking out, Anton gives you the gentlest kiss on your forehead and wishes you sweet dreams.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Anton.”

Como, Italy—May 10th, 2025. The Big Toss-Up.

The argument was over absolutely nothing. It was another hot day, and Anton barely managed to scrape by in his match, and it worried you to no end. You kept chastising him, telling him what he could’ve and should’ve done better, reiterating that you expected more from him. Anton hates it all. He’s so sick of it. He doesn’t even care about winning the Open. He never has. He just wants you to look at him and hold him like you had done nights prior. The morning after that night, he woke up to you gone; the only thing left to assure him that he didn’t dream you up was the imprint of your body in his sheets. You slipped away with not so much as a text and left him with a mountain of questions. He was worried sick, head rattling with thoughts of whether or not he crossed boundaries or made you uncomfortable. He didn’t hear from you all day, until you reached out asking him to meet you early the next day before his match. He let himself get his hopes up, but you were acting as if nothing had happened, so much coldness inhabiting your body that it gave Anton whiplash in comparison to how sweet you were acting with him just two days ago.

He didn’t say anything and met you the next day as you asked. Years of letting you toss him around and have things your way finally caught up to him. He laid everything bare for you that night so if you were going to pretend that nothing happened, so was he. Anton wanted so badly for you to come to your senses on your own and tell him that you did feel something for him too.

You two had gone back and forth on the court all day. He told you that he was too tired and didn’t want to be out here anymore, and you kept egging him on, telling him that the match tomorrow matters more than anything.

He thinks it’s ridiculous because after all these years, how can you not see that his heart is only in this because of you?

Maybe your heart is in it too much. Maybe your heart is only with the sport, and not even a sliver of it belonged to Anton.

So now the two of you are on the court, yelling at each other while passersby pretend they aren’t listening in.

“I’m your Coach, Anton! Think about that for a second.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what happened the other night was a mistake.”

“Right.”

Anton sucks in a breath before expressing everything he’s been thinking about the past few days.

“Think about it, Y/N. If you didn’t feel the need to draw such a strong line for no reason, there would’ve been nothing to cross. You kissed me back, don’t you remember?!”

“And I never should’ve done that.” Your words feel like you’ve spit directly at him.

He practiced this discussion with you in his head before, and he always thought that when the time came, he’d be able to hold himself back. He can’t help himself; all the words come out much softer and more broken than angry.

“I’ve loved you for years, Y/N. For the past two fucking years, I’ve done everything you asked and wanted of me.”

“Are you asking me to take responsibility for your feelings? I didn’t want any of that, Anton. I didn’t ask you to like me!”

“How could you say that, Y/N?” His voice cracks, clearly sounding pained beyond repair, and you swear you hear your stomach drop.

He gathers himself before continuing.

“I’d never ask you to fake loving me if you’ve only ever seen me as some obligation or a vessel to live through. What I am asking you is that you don’t to force yourself to pretend like something isn’t there. I’m asking you not to ignore the fact that we could both be good for each other.”

You take his words in. You and Anton are the most dynamic duo tennis has ever seen, but you don’t know what comes next—if there can be a version of you guys that exists beyond that label. Where this could go scares you because the last time you had something this good—you messed it up. You can’t risk that happening again.

Anton takes your silence as an opportunity to continue.

“Can you seriously stand here and tell me that night at the bar meant nothing to you? That two nights ago meant nothing?”

“Of course it meant something, but that doesn’t mean I can do this. I can’t enter a relationship with you, Anton.” You’re nearly pleading with him at this point. This back-and-forth is getting too hard to keep up with; you want nothing more than for him to understand you. You wish he could listen to you like he always does on the court, except this time you’re not on the court, and this issue isn’t as simple as him not taking wide enough steps between returns. The same reasoning does not apply. You’re hit with the resounding epiphany that you can’t approach every problem like it’s some tennis game strategy, and it stumps you.

“What part of I love you do you not understand? Do you not believe in it? How can you stand there and say that to my face?” Anton’s words break you out of your daze.

Your heart stops once you register what he just said to you, his words piercing right through you. How dare he stand there and question you as if you’ve never experienced love in your life? Did he know anything about you? He’s relentless. Your knees buckle, and you have to will yourself to stand up. Feeling so lightheaded and at your wits' end, you resort to the only thing you know how to do when cornered like this. You respond to him with the most malice and vice you can conjure up.

“I did have something I loved, Anton. I loved it so fucking much that it destroyed me from the inside out. My own love came back to bite me in the ass… So really, don’t talk to me like that. Don’t talk to me like you know me.”

“I’ve only ever wanted to make you happy, Y/N. That’s all I ever wanted. Knowing that the extent of our relationship ends once I step off the court, all of those awards mean nothing to me when I come home to them. I know I can’t undo what happened to you; I know these awards that we’ve earned together hold a measly flame to you making a name for yourself as a player. But it’s because I want you to know that you’re a damn good coach and that you’re not this worthless, broken girl you describe yourself as. That it’s your knowledge and your expertise… your personality and the love you have to give to others... all that lives inside your head and your heart that makes you so valuable.”

He takes in another deep breath, as if saying this last sentence is about to be the last one ever. Your heart feels like it’s about to overload.

“You talk about how tennis ripped you apart, but you don’t consider that maybe I wanted to be the one to put you back together.”

“I’m not asking you to choose me, YN. I’m just asking you to think if there’s ever been a time that you’ve felt any inkling of fondness towards me, that you wouldn’t shut me away right now.”

“I’m sorry, Anton. I can’t. I can’t look at you and not envy the life you have and wish it was my own.”

All the color drains from Anton’s face, so clearly frustrated that his words do not break through your walls. He decides he’s done. He decides that he’s lost this battle, the never-ending game with you that he’s played for the past two years. He can't keep doing this with you. It's time for him to walk away.

“Then let’s stop this. I don’t need a coach who won’t listen to how her player feels. It must have never been a true partnership since the beginning if you just wanted me because of some pretty trophies that mean nothing to me without you.”

He walks out, leaving you to yourself. For the first time since he’s met you, Anton has chosen himself. When the door shuts, you collapse to the ground and sob uncontrollably. You don’t know how long you spend on the cold wooden floors, but all you can think about is how you deserve this. You brought this upon yourself—you broke the one good thing you had left. You hate yourself so much at this moment, your self-sabotaging tendencies coming back to bite you even more than when you pushed yourself and lost tennis. It’s the same gut wrenching pain all over again, but this time, it’s even worse.

Como, Italy—May 16th. Match Point.

The score is 45-LOVE, and Anton lands the last point before the crowd breaks out in a loud cheer. With that, the game ends, and you’re going to cry with how proud you are of the way Anton played. You could tell that his arm was going through it in the second half, but the way he handled himself and chased after the ball, no one would know better. Of course, nobody knows him as well as you do anyway. It’s been almost a full week since the fight, and you haven’t held a proper conversation with him outside of the small practices where you both keep things to a minimum. You fire up the machine, let him have at it, and then give him some pointers before you both go back to your hotel rooms on your own. You know he sees your puffy eyes, the same one that cry themselves to sleep at night and you notice how he walks with his shoulders down everywhere, exhaustion lingering in every joint.

You watch as people line up to give Anton his flowers, shake his hand, smile at him so genuinely that it stretches to each corner of their face, and comment about how he’s one of a kind. He tries his best to conjure up a smile in response, every the polite and respectful boy. You’re so proud of him, you think. And then it hits you that you’re not allowed to feel that way towards him anymore. It kills you.

Your feet move before you can stop them. Rationality has been thrown out the window the moment he landed the match point. Your heart is fully his, and you can’t go another minute pretending like you don’t want him too. You need him to know.

He materializes in front of you as if you hadn't marched all the way over to occupy the space right in front of him.

The scent of his cologne, which has begun to mix with his sweat, hits you first and nearly sends you toppling over right where you stand. You swallow the nausea that’s threatening to come up in your throat from being this close to him again and will the words to come out.

“Hi.” He says first with a reserved smile, as if he knows what this is about. He extends the olive branch first, still so sweet to you as if you didn’t break him two days ago. You’re so grateful for what feels like a small offering of peace that you smile back at him.

“Hey… I saw your match. I wanted to reach out and say congratulations, but I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me.”

“I never blocked you. You could’ve tried.”

The crumbs of warmth drip away from his tone, and you’re met with the most neutral tone you’ve ever heard him use to address you. He’s become completely indifferent to you within a matter of days. Your heart drops once again.

“I’m sorry.”

He’s right. You really could’ve and should’ve, but you regretted so many things when it came to him that one more didn’t feel like it was going to make a difference.

“It’s fine. We’re nothing to each other, right?” The spite in his voice makes you take a step back and reconsider if you’re really ready to do this. You decide you can’t keep running from the problem as you did with tennis. You need to face this fully so you have no regrets.

“Right… well that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” You take in another deep breath before continuing.

Listen Anton. I’m sorry, really, for how things went down last night. I should’ve never spoken to you like that.”

Anton doesn’t move an inch, instead choosing to dig further.

“Never spoke to me that way because you do actually care for me or because I’m just your client and it’s unprofessional? Which one? Because it matters.” He asks the million-dollar question as if he’s had it loaded for days.

He’s holding his ground, and you’d be almost proud of how he’s not letting you get off easily if it wasn’t killing you. But you know that you don’t get to walk back into his life so easily and expect that he’ll accept you with open arms. All you can do is be honest and transparent with him, and he can accept it on his own terms when he’s ready.

“The first one. You do matter to me, and I don’t want to keep pretending like you aren’t the best thing that’s happened to me since tennis.”

“Do you really mean that? Because if you don’t, I’d like to know now before I get any more involved.”

“Anton. I’m done running.”

“Where are the cameras?”

“The–What? What are you talking about?”

“The prank cameras. Where’s the camera crew? Tell them to come out. Are they hiding over there?” He points at the tree behind you.

“There’s no prank, Anton—,” You feel offended knowing that you being this frank about your feelings reads more as a gag to him than anything, but you dismiss it because you’re certain he’s just defensive because of how much you’ve hurt him in the past. “Please believe me when I say it's just me asking you to let me love you the way you’ve loved me all these years.” Reaching for his hands, you cover them with yours and look into his eyes, pleading with him to see your vulnerability in this moment and how sincere you’re being. This really feels like life or death for you, you wouldn’t dare joke with him right now.

“I’ve spent so long denying myself good things, because I haven’t known anything else. My mind defaults to thinking it’s just a matter of time before things go bad—before we destroy each other. I’ve never known how to hold things at the right distance and care for them appropriately. I thought you’d consume me if I opened myself up to the possibility of us being more. Sure, I always regarded you as one of my responsibilities, but that’s long changed, and I’m sorry it took me so long to admit it. Please, can you forgive me?”

“Pinch me. This must be a dream.” You can tell he’s trying not to break out into a big smile but he folds anyways and offers you a small one. Relief runs through you immediately, you know you’re on the road to being forgiven, so you don’t feel bad about teasing him back.

“God, you’re so stupid, Anton Lee.”

Before you can fire another smart remark at him, he cradles your head into his arms and pulls you into a warm embrace that could almost pass a chokehold with how tightly he's hugging you. You have to punch his chest a little to get him to let up.

“I feel like I’m dreaming. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to wake up?” Pulling you back into you, much gentler this time, he rests his head on top of yours. You can hear the faint sound of his heartbeat, the beat it's racing at matching the one inside your chest. You let out a laugh at his antics, so relieved to finally be allowed back into his heart.

“I like you so much, Y/N. It’s always been you.”

“I like you too, Anton. I’m not exactly sure what comes next or what this means for us, but I’m more than happy to find out.”

“And Y/N? You’re never going to lose me. I promise.”

Anton’s on top of the world. He’s got the girl of his dreams, and as a nice bonus, he just won the Italian Open. Nothing more romantic than grabbing gelato with you as the cherry on top and recounting all the moments when Anton knew you were in love with him too, but you were just in denial. You ask him how it felt to win, and he says it was a fraction of the joy he felt when you told him how you felt. You just sit there happily taking in his every word, entering the conversation now and then with short quips. You don't say much, mainly because you're paralyzed with the fact that you’ve also struck gold in the form of another human being.

You weren’t expecting to feel this happy. Or really, you should say you didn't think it was possible to be this happy. Ever since you were a kid, the only thing you thought could bring you eternal happiness and peace with yourself was winning countless tennis titles. Still, sitting across from him in this gelataria, sharing two scoops of pistachio and raspberry ice cream in Italy, you’re quite content.

Queens, New York—Summer, 2026. All is fair in love and war.

You can’t remember the last time you’ve been back in your own apartment since you and Anton came back from Italy, which is pretty bad considering what you pay for rent in New York could send some people into a coma. But it’s just too difficult to leave when you get the privilege of waking up next to him everyday, his face slightly puffy but all warm and soft, and you’re held so tightly against his chest as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You try—you really do try to move, but Anton’s arms come to circle your waist even tighter until you stop hitting his chest and give up, just so happy to be in this infatuated with him. He makes a case for how much he really doesn’t want you to leave, and you don’t bother to fight because you don’t want to leave either. You have to make up for lost time after all.

You spent so long denying yourself that he’s been here all along. It was hard to know what love felt like when you spent your whole life chasing a goal—some kind of pipe dream and a misguided belief that being the best in the world at tennis would solve all of your problems. Another part of you didn’t know if you were truly deserving of happiness. Anton is so good, and you weren’t ready to confront how much he liked you, and how much you could hurt him because of that. The last time you were happy, you were also pushing yourself so hard, and it scared you to be put in that position again—to love something to the point of destruction. But now that you’ve allowed yourself some grace, being with Anton doesn’t feel like any of that. You can’t imagine being happier. Some days, it’s still hard to picture yourself being dependent on Anton, but he makes it so easy. He doesn’t make you feel small for asking for things, and never has he ever made you feel like you’re not competent. He does everything out of love, because he wants you to know that he’s here and he’s willing. Your heart tightens every time you remember how good he is. He’s truly one of a kind, and you often think you’re the one who scored got lucky with him.

On the slow mornings you wake up before him, you drink in the beautiful image of him sleeping. You observe the steady rise and fall of the blankets and listen to the faint rhythm of his breathing, the sound calming you immediately. Your mind snaps mental pictures of the way the morning sun seeps into his room, illuminating his features through the blinds. He’s so painfully beautiful. You think you’ll kick yourself forever for how much you overlooked his presence in your life. You admire the softness of his lips, his long eyelashes that cast the smallest shadows on his cheeks, and you slowly trace your index finger over the slope of his nose.

He startles you by grabbing your hand when you make it down to his nose, and brings it to his lips to kiss your knuckles.

“Morning, baby.”

His voice comes out all sleepy and soft; you think you want to hear it every morning for the rest of your life. How you went all this time without his warmth, you must’ve been crazy. You won’t ever let yourself get over these special moments. He’s been calling you that so much lately; it follows up after every sentence, remark, or small comment. And yet, you’re still not used to it.

“Mmmm, stop. It’s too early. You can’t possibly be this cheesy every morning.”

“Ohhhh, but I can. Is my baby shy?”

You hide your face in the crook of his neck, refusing to answer because that'll just egg him on.

“You have no idea how happy I am to get to call you that now.”

What he means by that is that he’s going to run it into the ground until you’re begging him to stop embarrassing you in public.

“My baby. All mine. My girl forever,” he emphasizes while planting kisses all over your face, not even giving you a chance to turn away from his morning breath.

“Anton, stop…. It’s embarrassing.”

“Babe, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to shower you with my love. I have like 3 years of affection to catch up on. Hurry up and get used to it.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but I’m yours.”

You resign, deciding not to tease him any further and let him have this moment. Shifting your focus over to returning the kisses, you want him to be showered in your love too. Anton lets out light giggles, and you drink them all up. He starts tracing random shapes on your back, asking you to guess what he’s spelling out once he eventually transitions to letters. When you can’t guess it, mind half-floating to another dimension from the pure happiness you’re experiencing right now, he shyly admits he wrote “I love you,” and you bury your head into his chest even more to hide the heat that crawls up your cheeks.

Anton hums to get your attention, and you perk up at the sound.

“...Do you have any nicknames in mind for me? Of course, you don't have to use them, but I was just wondering.” You can tell he wants one so badly, and your heart melts. The idea of your 6'0 giant wanting to be referred to as something as saccharine as the love he has to give to the world makes you want to shed your tough exterior, but you know it's not going to happen overnight.

“I don’t know. I’m still really shy with all of those things. It’s hard for me to use them.” You admit.

“Well, what if we do something similar to Anton? Please, baby, try for me.”

“Okay... how’s Toni?” It comes out as uncertain, but it’s cute, and you’re comfortable enough to use it since it sounds similar to his real name anyway.

“Toni’s perfect, princess.”

You’re so grateful for him.

“Should we get up now?” Checking the clock, it’s half past nine. You usually never stay in bed this late, but you’ve been doing a lot of things you’re not used to because of Anton recently.

“No, I’m too comfortable.”

You unwedge yourself from his arm and roll over to quickly check your phone. After a few seconds, Anton whines and pulls you back into him, claiming that you were too far and he’s scared you’re going to escape. So clingy.

“Don’t tell me you have somewhere to be. If you do, cancel it. Let’s both take the day off and spend this morning like how I’ve always dreamed.”

“And what would that be?”

“More kisses and more of me telling you how much I love you.”

“Okay, Toniiii. That sounds nice.” You drag out his name just to tease him, saying it like you spent a second mulling it over, but really, you wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else.

“Should I make breakfast for you later?”

The smile on your face drops, replaced with immediate worry. Anton's love language being acts of service would be so cute if you didn't value your life.

“Please never cook again.”

Anton makes an offended face, but you remind him of what happened last time he tried to make you pancakes, and he shies away, clutching his chest as if you’ve wounded him so deeply. He jokes that he’ll never forgive you for being so mean, but a second later, he’s asking for you to be close to him again.

“We can make them together, baby. I’ll teach you.” That’s enough to bring the smile back on his face, and he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Okay, but in 15 minutes. Wanna cuddle you some more.”

“Addicted much?”

“Oh, very much so when it comes to you. You have no idea.”

You both fall into another brief period of silence, just appreciating each other's presence and the warmth of him on your back. He's such a cuddle bug. The second night you spent in his apartment after coming back from Italy, you joked about how you didn't expect him to be so clingy, and he just hugged you even tighter.

You readjust in his hold so your mouth is close enough to his ear so that you can whisper what you’re about to say.

"Just so you know, Toni... I love you too."

He pulls back for a split second to look you in the eyes, "I've always known, angel."

Anton couldn’t be happier knowing he’s finally won you over after all these years.