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Disability Services (2) | Anton Lee
pairings: autistic!anton lee x (fem)reader
synopsis: Assigned as a peer aide for a withdrawn college student no one seems able to understand, you expect awkward conversations, difficult schedules, and long silences. What you don’t expect is Anton.
Soft-spoken and selectively mute, Anton moves through campus like someone slightly out of step with the rest of the world. He avoids eye contact, struggles to process emotions in real time, and finds comfort in routines, textures, music, and beautiful things. Most people see him as strange before they ever try to know him. But beneath his careful silence is someone painfully observant, deeply sensitive, and desperate for connection in ways he doesn’t fully understand himself.
As the semester unfolds, your role in his life slowly becomes more than academic support. Anton begins seeking you out instinctively — waiting outside your classes, memorizing your routines, touching your sleeve without realizing how intimate it feels. He doesn’t understand the meaning people attach to closeness, only that your presence quiets the overwhelming parts of the world around him.
And somewhere between rainy walks across campus, quiet practice rooms, and conversations filled with unfinished feelings, you begin falling for him.
But loving Anton means learning patience. His emotions arrive slowly, often after the moment has already passed. He struggles to recognize jealousy, affection, and longing until they’ve already rooted themselves deeply inside him. While you begin understanding your feelings almost immediately, Anton has to discover his piece by piece — through trust, comfort, and the terrifying realization that for the first time in his life, someone stayed.
A quiet, emotionally intimate slowburn about tenderness, misunderstood affection, and two people learning how to exist gently beside one another.
The words settled somewhere deep enough inside you that for a second you forgot how to breathe normally.
He sat across from you beneath the warm café lights, fingers resting loosely around his drink while rain traced slow patterns down the windows behind him. His expression remained thoughtful rather than embarrassed, like he’d simply arrived at a conclusion after careful observation and decided to share it.
He noticed when you were gone.
Not I missed you.
Not I wanted you there.
Anton’s attention drifted toward the condensation gathering on his cup after a few seconds, giving you time to recover from whatever had just happened to your nervous system.
You cleared your throat softly. “We’ve known each other for like… two days.”
“I know.”
His voice came easier now than before. Still soft. Still sparse. But less fragile around the edges, as though speaking had become slightly less exhausting in your presence.
“That’s not a long time to notice someone.”
Anton tilted his head faintly at that.
“It is for me.”
You stared at him.
He seemed to realize belatedly that he might need to explain further because his fingers immediately twitched toward his phone again. You watched him hesitate halfway there before deciding to speak instead.
“Most people feel…” He paused. “Temporary.”
The sentence came out unevenly, like he was translating thoughts directly as they formed.
“They change quickly,” he continued quietly. “Or they stop trying after they realize I’m difficult.”
Your chest tightened.
Anton looked down at the table while speaking now, voice lowering further with concentration.
“So when someone stays longer than expected…” Another pause. “I notice.”
The café felt unbearably intimate suddenly.
You wanted very badly to say something comforting and equally wanted not to scare him by reacting too emotionally. Anton seemed sensitive to emotional intensity in the same way he was sensitive to noise — too much too quickly made him retreat inward.
“Well,” you said gently, “I’m not planning on disappearing.”
The second the sentence left your mouth, Anton looked up.
Not fully into your eyes.
But close enough that the breath caught in your throat anyway.
His expression shifted in that quiet subtle way you were learning to recognize — something loosening internally, tension unwinding one careful thread at a time.
Then he nodded once.
Small. Certain. Like he’d decided to believe you.
You had to look away first.
Outside, evening settled fully over campus, the windows darkening into reflective black glass broken only by rain and scattered lights. The café had emptied considerably while you talked, leaving only a few students hunched over laptops near the back.
Anton finished the last bite of his sandwich with methodical precision before pushing the plate slightly away from himself.
You noticed immediately. “You actually ate.”
He blinked.
Then glanced down at the empty plate like he’d forgotten about it midway through the conversation.
“See? Survived.”
Anton considered that seriously.
“It helped because you stayed.”
Your heart physically hurt at this point.
You pressed your fingers harder around your cup to ground yourself. “Anton.”
He looked attentive immediately.
“You can’t keep saying things like that so casually.”
Confusion crossed his face almost at once.
“What things?”
Exactly.
You laughed weakly under your breath. “Never mind.”
Anton frowned slightly, clearly dissatisfied with not understanding. He shifted forward a little in his seat, cardigan sleeves falling down over his hands again.
“No,” he said quietly. “Explain.”
The determination in his voice startled you.
You looked at him carefully. “Some things sound more emotionally intense than you realize.”
“Oh.”
His cheeks pinked faintly.
You watched the realization begin unfolding behind his eyes in slow increments. Processing. Replaying previous conversations. Reevaluating.
“When I said touching you felt calm too?” he asked carefully.
Your stomach flipped violently.
“Yes.”
Anton immediately lowered his gaze toward the table.
“And when I said I noticed you were gone.”
“Yes.”
Another pause stretched between you both.
Then, very softly:
“I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.”
“I know you weren’t. And you didn’t.”
That seemed to relax him slightly.
But his expression remained thoughtful, distant around the edges in that way it became when he was learning something new socially.
After a while, he asked, “Do people usually hide those things?”
“Feelings?”
Tiny nod. “Sometimes.”
“Why?”
You almost laughed at the genuine confusion in his voice.
“Because it makes people vulnerable.”
“But feelings already exist even if you don’t say them.”
The simplicity of the statement knocked straight through you.
You stared at him while he sat there completely sincere, genuinely unable to understand why people buried emotions under implication and performance instead of simply stating them aloud.
And maybe he had a point. Maybe everyone else was the confusing one.
“You’re dangerous,” you muttered before thinking.
Anton blinked slowly.
The pink in his cheeks deepened. “That sounds bad.”
“It’s not.”
“Then what does it mean?”
You groaned softly and covered part of your face with your sleeve. “You ask too many direct questions.”
“I know,” he said immediately, with the faintest trace of something almost amused hidden beneath the words.
You looked up in surprise.
Anton’s mouth had curved slightly at one corner.
The sight hit you embarrassingly hard.
“You did that on purpose,” you accused quietly.
His expression flickered with confusion again before understanding caught up several seconds later.
Then the almost-smile appeared once more.
Tiny. Beautiful.
Your entire body felt doomed.
Before either of you could say anything else, the café lights flickered briefly overhead. One of the workers behind the counter called out an apologetic, “Closing in ten!”
You glanced toward the windows. “Shit, it got late.. and I missed my shift.”
Anton followed your gaze outside immediately. Darkness had settled completely over campus now, rain reduced to a misty drizzle coating the sidewalks in reflected light.
You started gathering your things reluctantly.
Across from you, Anton had gone quiet again.
Not withdrawn. Just watching.
When you stood from the table, he stood too before you could even sling your bag over your shoulder. Immediate. Automatic.
You smiled a little. “You really do follow me everywhere now, huh?”
The second the joke left your mouth, Anton stilled.
His expression changed subtly.
You recognized it instantly now — processing something emotionally complicated in delayed real time.
“Oh my god,” you said quickly. “I was kidding, Anton.”
But he still looked unsettled.
“I know,” he murmured.
Yet his fingers had disappeared deeper into his sleeves again.
You softened immediately. “Hey.”
His attention lifted toward you.
“I don’t mind you being around me.”
“You would tell me if you did?”
“Yes,” you said gently. “I would.”
Anton studied your face for a long moment, like he was checking for inconsistencies between your words and expression.
“Okay.”
-
The walk back across campus felt different after that conversation.
Not heavier exactly, but charged in a quieter way, like something between you had shifted shape without either of you knowing what to call it yet. The sidewalks gleamed from the rain, reflecting blurry gold streetlights beneath your feet while damp wind tugged softly at your clothes. Anton stayed beside you in that instinctive way he had begun to, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours every few steps before drifting away again.
You couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said in the café.
You would tell me if you did?
The question lingered unpleasantly under your ribs because it revealed too much all at once. Anton expected people to tolerate him until they didn’t anymore. Every reassurance you gave him seemed to land with the careful disbelief of someone handling something fragile enough to break if held incorrectly.
And somehow, despite barely knowing him, you already understood that hurting him would feel unbearable.
“You’re thinking too loudly again,” Anton murmured beside you.
You turned toward him with startled laughter. “What does that even mean?”
“It changes your face.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“I like it.”
The response came so naturally that he didn’t seem to realize he’d said anything unusual until several seconds later. You watched awareness arrive slowly behind his expression, watched him mentally retrace the sentence and reach the point where another person might’ve softened it or taken it back.
Anton just frowned slightly, like he couldn’t figure out whether he was supposed to.
“You say things before understanding them,” you said quietly.
“That sounds irresponsible.”
“It kind of is.”
You expected embarrassment. Instead, his mouth curved faintly against the collar of his cardigan, hidden halfway inside soft fabric. “You still stay.”
The honesty of it made your chest ache all over again.
You reached the library steps too quickly. Warm light spilled through the glass doors, students moving around inside with backpacks slung over their shoulders, the entire building humming with that exhausted nighttime energy campuses developed after dark. Your shift started thirty-five minutes ago.
Neither of you moved immediately.
Anton’s fingers disappeared deeper into his sleeves while he stared somewhere near the ground beside you. Thinking again. You were beginning to realize his silences weren’t empty pauses in conversation but entire internal processes unfolding where you could almost see them happen.
Finally, quietly, “What happens when you stop being my aide?”
You looked at him carefully.
“The semester ends eventually.”
“I know.”
But something tightened in your chest anyway.
The question wasn’t really about schedules.
Rainwater dripped steadily from the edge of the library roof nearby. Students brushed past the two of you without paying attention, conversations blurring together into meaningless background noise, but Anton remained fixed in place like he was waiting for an answer capable of settling something much larger than the conversation itself.
You tried for lightness first. “You planning on getting rid of me that quickly?”
“No.”
Immediate. Certain.
The word slipped out before he could reconsider it, soft but startlingly firm compared to his usual hesitation. His eyes widened slightly afterward, as though the speed of the response surprised him too.
You smiled despite yourself. “Okay.”
Anton looked away first.
His throat moved subtly before he spoke again, quieter now. “I don’t think I know how to stop noticing you.”
The world genuinely seemed to pause for a second.
You stared at him beneath the glow of the library lights, rain dampening the dark strands of hair curling around his face, cardigan sleeves covering his hands almost completely. There was no performance in him. No flirtation sharpened intentionally for effect. Anton said things with the devastating sincerity of someone still learning that feelings often stayed hidden inside other people.
And maybe that was why every word reached directly inside your chest before you had time to defend yourself from it.
“You can’t say things like that to me right before I have work,” you muttered weakly.
Confusion flickered across his face before understanding slowly followed. “Because it changes your body language.”
You covered your face briefly with your hands. “Anton.”
“What?”
“You are unbelievably stressful.”
That finally earned a real smile.
You’d noticed already that Anton became beautiful in motion more than stillness. The softening of his mouth when he forgot to guard himself. The way his shoulders relaxed when something genuinely pleased him. Even his voice changed slightly during those moments, growing warmer, easier, less careful around the edges.
Watching that smile appear because of you felt dangerous in ways you weren’t prepared for.
“You’re doing it again,” he said softly.
“What?”
“Looking at me for too long.”
Heat crawled instantly into your face. “You noticed?”
“I notice everything about you.”
Your stomach turned over so hard it almost hurt.
The terrifying thing was that he meant it literally.
Before you could recover, Anton stepped closer without seeming aware of the intimacy in the movement. Not enough to trap you against the library railing, just enough that you could feel warmth radiating through the damp fabric of his cardigan. His attention lingered near your face with unusual steadiness, focused and searching in that way he got when trying to understand something completely.
Then his hand emerged slowly from his sleeve.
You felt the slightest brush of his fingertips against your wrist.
Tentative. Curious.
Not grabbing. Not even really holding. Just touching your pulse like he was confirming you were real.
“You react here first,” he murmured.
Your heartbeat went absolutely feral beneath his fingers.
Anton seemed fascinated by it.
“When you’re overwhelmed,” he continued softly, still studying your wrist with complete concentration, “it gets faster before your expression changes.”
You couldn’t breathe correctly anymore.
“Anton,” you whispered.
That finally made him look up.
Really look at you this time, closer to eye contact than he’d ever managed before. His own expression had gone strangely open, all that careful distance he usually kept between himself and the world temporarily unraveled by curiosity and something warmer underneath it.
Then realization arrived. Not all at once. Slowly.
You saw the exact moment he understood what this looked like from your perspective — standing too close outside the library in the rain, fingers pressed lightly against your pulse while speaking in that soft voice of his.
His hand withdrew immediately.
Color spread across his cheeks.
“I—” He stopped, visibly overwhelmed by too many thoughts arriving together. “I was observing.”
You laughed helplessly under your breath, pulse still racing. “That doesn’t help your case.”
Anton looked genuinely distressed by this.
“You said I should explain things.”
“I know, puppy.”
The pet name slipped out accidentally.
Both of you froze.
Anton’s expression changed so suddenly it stole the air from your lungs. Confusion first, then surprise, then something deeper that unfolded slowly across his face as he replayed the word internally.
Puppy..
You watched him process it like a physical sensation.
“Nobody’s called me that before,” he said quietly.
And just like that, every coherent thought left your body.
You should’ve corrected yourself immediately.
Laughed it off. Said it slipped out. Pretended it meant nothing.
Instead you stood there outside the library with rain misting softly through the cold night air while Anton looked at you like the word had settled somewhere deep inside him and refused to leave.
Nobody’s called me that before.
The confession wrapped itself around your ribs painfully. Not because it was dramatic, but because of how sincere it sounded. Anton never exaggerated anything. If anything, he stripped emotions down so honestly that they became impossible to ignore.
You swallowed. “Really?”
He shook his head slowly.
Something about that felt impossible. Someone as soft as him should’ve been adored carefully. He should’ve had people smoothing his hair back affectionately, calling him sweet things without embarrassment, pressing warmth into all the places the world had taught him to make smaller.
Instead, Anton carried himself like someone accustomed to being handled incorrectly.
“You looked upset,” you said quietly, trying to explain the word somehow. “It just came out.”
“I wasn’t upset.”
“No?”
He thought about it seriously before answering. “Disorganized.”
Your laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Anton’s mouth softened again at the sound. Not quite a smile this time — something gentler, almost shy around the edges.
“I like when you laugh at me correctly,” he admitted.
“What does that mean?”
“When people usually laugh at me, it’s not for good reasons.”
You understood immediately. People laughed at him because they thought he was strange, or awkward, or unintentionally amusing. But Anton watched reactions carefully enough to tell the difference between ridicule and affection.
And somehow, without meaning to, you’d become someone whose reactions he trusted.
You leaned back slightly against the wet library railing, trying to steady yourself while Anton stood close enough for you to feel his warmth through the damp evening air. He’d gone quiet again, gaze lowered toward your sleeve where droplets of rain darkened the fabric.
“You’re cold,” he murmured after a while.
“So are you.”
“I don’t notice temperature immediately.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s true.”
“Anton.”
“What?”
“You say things that sound medically concerning and then act like it’s normal.”
This time the smile came easier. Small but immediate, hidden partially behind the collar of his cardigan as he tucked his mouth into the fabric instinctively.
You stared at him too long again. Anton noticed, of course.
“You’re doing it another time.”
“I know.”
“You stopped pretending it was accidental.”
Heat crept into your face. “You’re impossible.”
“No,” he said softly. “I’m observant.”
The worst part was that he wasn’t flirting intentionally. You could feel that. Anton approached conversations with too much honesty for manipulation, too much directness for games. Everything he said came from genuine curiosity or genuine feeling, and that somehow made every interaction more intimate than if he were trying.
A burst of laughter sounded from inside the library as students pushed through the front doors in a noisy group. The sudden volume cut sharply through the quiet night.
Anton flinched.
Not dramatically. Just enough that his body shifted closer on instinct before he caught himself. His shoulder brushed yours, warm and damp from the rain, and stayed there for half a second too long.
You felt him realize it.
Felt the exact moment awareness caught up.
But instead of moving away immediately, Anton hesitated.
His expression had gone distant again in that way it did when he was sorting through too many thoughts at once. You watched his throat move subtly before he spoke.
“When I touch you…” He paused, visibly reorganizing the sentence. “You never seem uncomfortable after.”
Your chest tightened.
“Should I be?”
“No.” Immediate again. Then softer, “I just keep waiting for it to change.”
Something painful pulled deep inside you.
Because there it was again — that expectation that eventually people would recoil from him, tire of him, decide he was too strange or too much work or too difficult to keep close.
You reached for his sleeve before thinking.
Anton went still beneath your fingers.
“You don’t have to earn basic gentleness from me,” you said quietly.
His breathing changed first, shallow for just a second before evening out again. Then came that look you were learning to recognize: the fragile disorientation of someone receiving care they hadn’t prepared themselves for.
You wondered suddenly how often Anton spent his life bracing for rejection before it arrived.
Probably constantly.
“You say things like you mean them permanently,” he whispered.
“I do mean them.”
“But people change.”
The way he said it made your stomach twist. Not bitter. Not angry. Just factual, like he’d learned it through repetition.
You slid your hand slightly further down his sleeve until your fingers brushed the edge of his wrist. “Maybe some people do.”
Anton looked down at the contact immediately.
Not nervous. Focused.
His attention lingered on your hand against him with the same careful concentration he gave beautiful objects or pieces of music. You got the strange feeling he was memorizing the sensation.
Then, slowly, his fingers turned beneath the fabric until they touched yours.
Not fully holding your hand. Just resting there.
“I think,” he said softly, “if someone was kind to me when I was younger, I would’ve become attached too quickly.”
“You already get attached quickly.”
“Oh.”
Anton’s thumb brushed faintly against the side of your hand through the damp fabric between you both, absentminded and searching. He didn’t seem aware he was doing it. Or maybe he was beginning to notice now, slowly connecting physical closeness with the emotions underneath it.
You wondered what it felt like inside his head lately. How confusing all of this must be when he processed feelings in delayed waves instead of immediate understanding.
“Are you flirting now?”
“I’m not,” he said quickly.
“I know.”
“But I…” He frowned, looking suddenly distressed by the complexity of the conversation. “I want to keep touching you.”
Your entire body went warm.
Anton seemed horrified by your reaction immediately afterward, gaze dropping toward your joined hands like he’d accidentally uncovered something too private.
“I don’t know what category that belongs in yet,” he admitted quietly. “I’m still thinking about it.”
And there it was.
The slow terrifying realization happening in pieces instead of all at once.
You looked at him standing there beneath the rain-dim library lights, beautiful and overwhelmed and trying so hard to understand feelings everyone else seemed to experience instinctively.
Then you squeezed his hand gently.
“You can take your time,” you whispered.
Anton looked at you like the words hurt him in the nicest way possible.
For a moment neither of you moved.
The rain had almost stopped completely now, leaving only the occasional drip from the library roof and the damp shine of campus lights reflecting across the pavement. Students passed in scattered groups behind you, conversations fading in and out of the cold night air, but the world around Anton always seemed strangely blurred once he focused on something.
Right now, he was focused entirely on your hand.
Not romantically, at least not consciously. You could tell he was trying to understand the sensation itself before assigning meaning to it. His thumb brushed slowly against the side of your wrist again, thoughtful and absentminded, like he was memorizing texture.
“You really think through touch,” you murmured.
Anton nodded faintly.
“It’s easier than talking sometimes.”
“How?”
He stayed quiet for a while, gaze lowered toward your joined hands. You’d started noticing that his longest pauses usually came before the most honest answers, like truth took more effort to untangle than rehearsed responses would.
“People say one thing while meaning another,” he said eventually. “But touch is usually honest immediately.”
Your heartbeat stumbled again.
Anton looked up at you then. The library lights caught softly in his dark eyes, and for once he didn’t immediately look away. Instead he studied your expression with quiet concentration, processing every piece of you at once.
“You’re careful with me,” he said softly. “Even when you react strongly.”
He noticed that too. Not just your affection, but the restraint inside it. The constant effort not to overwhelm him, not to push him faster than he could process.
“You make me want to be careful.”
Anton’s expression shifted again in that subtle, dangerous way it always did around vulnerability. You could almost see emotions arriving one at a time behind his eyes, delayed but no less intense for it.
“I don’t think people usually do that,” he admitted.
“Be careful?”
“With me.”
Before you could answer, a gust of cold wind pushed through the walkway, making Anton shiver visibly beneath his damp cardigan. Instinctively, you stepped closer and reached up to smooth his rain-curled hair back from his forehead.
Anton went still beneath your touch, breath catching softly enough that you almost missed it. But this time he didn’t freeze from surprise alone. He leaned into your hand deliberately, slow enough that it felt like a choice.
A dangerous choice.
Your fingers stayed tangled briefly in the soft strands near his temple while Anton closed his eyes for half a second like he was overwhelmed by how nice it felt.
Then he whispered, almost confused by himself, “I kept thinking about earlier.”
“The practice room?”
A small nod.
“When you touched my hair.”
The memory rushed back instantly — his face tilting unconsciously into your palm, the stunned silence afterward.
Anton swallowed subtly before continuing. “I didn’t understand why I wanted you to do it again.”
Your pulse throbbed against his fingers.
“And now?”
“I still don’t fully understand.” His mouth softened faintly, frustrated with himself. “But I think…” He paused, searching. “I think my body recognizes you faster than my brain does.”
Anton seemed unaware of the effect he was having again, too focused on sorting through the realization itself.
“It happens a lot around you,” he continued quietly. “I move closer before deciding to. Or I touch you before remembering other people think about those things differently.”
You couldn’t take it anymore.
“Anton.”
He looked at you immediately.
“You have to stop saying things that sound romantic before I lose my mind.”
The confusion returned instantly. “But I’m being accurate.”
“I know,” you laughed helplessly. “That’s the problem.”
A tiny crease formed between his brows while he tried to process your reaction. “You keep reacting like I’m confessing to something.”
“What?”
Anton seemed startled too.
You watched realization ripple slowly across his expression after hearing his own tone, like he hadn’t intended to sound playful but discovered too late that he had. The corners of his mouth twitched faintly before he ducked his face partially into the collar of his cardigan again, hiding.
“You’re getting bolder,” you accused quietly.
“I’m getting…” He paused, thinking carefully. “Less afraid of being incorrect around you.”
The honesty in that sentence nearly undid you.
Because that was what this really was underneath everything else. Anton wasn’t simply learning affection. He was learning safety. Learning that he could speak before perfectly organizing every thought, touch before fully understanding the implications, exist without rehearsing himself into something easier for other people to handle.
And somehow you’d become the place where that happened.
The realization filled you with equal parts warmth and terror.
“You should go inside before your shift supervisor hates you,” Anton murmured after a while, though he still hadn’t let go of your hand.
“You’re the one holding me hostage.”
“I know.”
You stared at him.
Anton blinked slowly, processing his own wording. Then the faintest flush spread across his cheeks.
“That sounded manipulative.”
“It sounded cute.”
His expression softened instantly at the word.
Cute.
You were beginning to notice certain compliments affected him differently. Pretty made him quiet and uncertain. Cute made him shy. Puppy had nearly short-circuited him entirely.
Like every gentle thing said to him became something he carried carefully afterward.
“You think I’m cute?” he asked softly.
There was no ego in it. Just genuine curiosity.
You stepped closer before thinking.
Close enough now that you could see every raindrop caught in his lashes, every tiny shift in his expression as anticipation and uncertainty tangled together behind his eyes.
“Anton,” you said quietly, “I think you’re a lot of things.”
The way he looked at you afterward felt dangerously close to wanting.
-
By November, Anton had developed a habit of appearing at your apartment without warning.
Not in an inconsiderate way. He always texted first, usually something minimal and strangely formal despite how often he came over now.
| Are you busy.
| Can I sit near you today.
| My roommate invited six people over without discussing it first.
The last one had arrived at 11:42 p.m. on a Thursday alongside a blurry photo of his dorm lounge crowded with strangers and empty energy drink cans. You had unlocked the building entrance remotely without even replying.
Now he existed in your apartment with the quiet familiarity of someone who had slowly woven himself into your routines without either of you acknowledging when it happened. His shoes stayed lined neatly beside your door. A pale blue toothbrush sat beside yours in the bathroom because he forgot things less when objects remained visible. One drawer in your kitchen held the snacks he consistently tolerated texture-wise. Your couch permanently smelled faintly like his fabric softener.
Anton liked your apartment because it was predictable.
No fluorescent lights.
No shouting through paper-thin dorm walls.
No roommate bringing strangers home unexpectedly.
No people touching his things.
Just you.
Which, increasingly, seemed to matter more than either of you knew what to do with.
Tonight, rain tapped softly against the windows while Anton lay stretched across your couch with his head in your lap, half-watching some nature documentary neither of you cared about. One of your hands drifted absentmindedly through his hair while you read over discussion posts on your laptop balanced beside him.
Months ago, touching him like this would’ve shattered his ability to function.
Now he melted into it automatically.
Not carelessly, though. Anton never became careless with affection. If anything, he grew more aware of it over time, not less. You noticed it in the tiny pauses before he touched you now, the moments where understanding flickered visibly across his face before he decided yes, he still wanted to anyway.
His fingers curled lightly against your knee beneath the blanket.
“You’re rereading the same sentence,” he murmured without opening his eyes.
“You’re distracting.”
“I’m horizontal.”
“You’re also staring at me every thirty seconds.”
“That’s unrelated.”
You laughed softly under your breath, fingers combing slowly through the damp silk of his hair. Anton had showered almost immediately after arriving, escaping the storm outside wrapped in one of your oversized hoodies and pajama pants that sat too short on his legs. The sight had nearly killed you on impact.
“You’re warm,” he said quietly after a while.
“You say that every time.”
“Because it surprises me every time.”
You looked down at him. “Are you usually cold?”
Anton considered it seriously. “I think maybe I don’t notice being cold until I’m near you.”
Your hand paused briefly in his hair.
Months later and he still said things that destroyed you casually.
The worst part was that now he understood why they affected you.
Not perfectly. Anton still processed emotions slower than most people, still arrived at certain realizations days or weeks after they began forming. But he had started recognizing tension between you. Recognizing the way your breathing changed when he touched your waist absentmindedly in the kitchen, or how quiet you became when he rested his face against your shoulder too long.
And once Anton noticed something, he studied it relentlessly.
“You did it again,” he murmured.
Heat crawled immediately into your face. “You monitor me like a science experiment.”
“You’re expressive.”
“You just know me too well now.”
At that, Anton finally opened his eyes.
The documentary light flickered softly across his face, catching on the silver chain around his throat and the strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. He looked devastating like this — relaxed enough that all the guardedness left his body at once. Soft-mouthed and sleepy and sprawled across you like he belonged there.
The realization terrified you a little.
Because he did belong there now.
Anton watched you quietly for a moment before speaking again, voice lower than before. “You know me too well too.”
Something shifted in the room.
The rain outside deepened, tapping harder against the windows while the documentary narrator droned uselessly in the background about migrating birds. Anton’s thumb traced absent patterns against your knee through the blanket, thoughtful more than nervous.
Then, quietly, “My roommate asked if I was dating you.”
Your entire body went still.
Anton noticed immediately, of course.
You looked down at him carefully. “What did you say?”
He took longer to answer than usual. Not because he didn’t know. Because he was choosing words carefully.
“I asked what qualified.”
“Oh my god.”
Anton’s mouth curved faintly at your horror. “It was a reasonable question.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes it was.” He shifted slightly against your lap, face tilting more toward you now. “We spend most nights together.”
“You spend most nights hiding from your roommate.”
“I could hide in the library.”
“You hate the library after ten.”
“I know.”
His gaze lingered near your face, steady and thoughtful.
“That wasn’t the point.”
Your pulse started climbing slowly.
Anton noticed that too.
You watched the realization happen in real time — the subtle focus sharpening in his expression once he recognized your reaction wasn’t irritation. Months ago, he might’ve missed it entirely. Now he tracked your emotions with terrifying precision.
“My body still does that around you,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“The heartbeat thing.”
“It gets worse when people imply romantic things about us.” His voice remained soft, observational. “I’ve been trying to understand whether that means my body already decided something before I did.”
You stared at him. He stared back with complete sincerity.
Rain filled the silence between you.
He made no effort to move.
Instead, Anton lifted one hand slowly toward your face. The movement carried none of the uncertainty it once had months ago. He still thought carefully before touching you, still approached affection with deliberate awareness now that he understood its weight, but he no longer seemed afraid of wanting it.
His fingers brushed lightly along your wrist first.
Then your palm.
Then slowly threaded through yours beneath the blanket.
“I think,” he said quietly, eyes lowered toward your joined hands, “if we aren’t already something, we’re very close to becoming it.”
And there it was again. That unbearable honesty.
No performance. No practiced confession.
Just Anton, slowly arriving at love like someone piecing together a language nobody had ever properly taught him.
You couldn’t speak for a second.
Anton remained stretched across your lap waiting patiently, fingers loosely intertwined with yours beneath the blanket while the rain softened outside into a low steady hush. His expression stayed calm in that way it always did when he said emotionally catastrophic things — not because he felt them less intensely, but because he approached emotions like discoveries instead of impulses. By the time he spoke something aloud, he had usually spent days quietly turning it over inside himself first.
You looked down at him carefully. “You’re saying this very casually for someone basically confessing to me.”
“I’m trying not to overwhelm myself halfway through the conversation.”
“That’s a real risk?”
“Yes.”
The sincerity of the answer nearly made you laugh.
Anton shifted slightly, cheek pressing more fully into your thigh as though seeking warmth without consciously deciding to. He’d become much more physical over the past few months, especially inside your apartment. Outside, he still carried himself carefully, shoulders tense beneath overstimulating lights and crowded spaces. But here he softened. Curled around you during movies. Rested his head against your shoulder while you cooked. Fell asleep with his hand tangled absently in your sleeve like he needed proof you were still nearby.
At first he hadn’t understood why he kept gravitating toward you physically. Now he did. At least partially.
And apparently that realization was making him brave.
“You’re very quiet,” he murmured.
“I’m trying not to scare you.”
Anton frowned faintly. “By responding?”
“You process emotions slower than I do.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want them.”
You watched him for a moment beneath the dim living room light, taking in the softness sleep and comfort brought out in him. Months ago, Anton rarely looked at you directly for more than a few seconds. Now his gaze lingered near your face openly, comfortably, tracing your reactions with quiet fascination whenever you spoke.
“I needed to know if wanting you near me was different from needing safety first.”
Anton’s thumb moved absently against your hand while he spoke, attention drifting toward your joined fingers.
“I think at the beginning,” he continued quietly, “you felt calming in the same way music does.”
The confession wrapped around your ribs painfully.
“And now?”
A long silence stretched between you.
Not empty. Full. You could almost feel him sorting through emotions in real time, carefully separating one from another.
“Now when I leave here,” he said finally, “everything feels louder afterward.”
You laughed helplessly, and the sound made his expression soften instantly.
There it was again — that look he got whenever he realized he’d affected you. Months ago he used to seem confused by it. Now there was something else mixed into his curiosity. Something warmer. Quieter. Almost shy.
Like he was beginning to enjoy being wanted.
The thought sent heat crawling up your neck.
Anton’s attention dropped toward your mouth briefly before he caught himself. The movement was small, instinctive, but you noticed it immediately because it was new.
And judging by the way his breathing shifted afterward, he noticed it too.
Rain whispered softly against the windows while the television continued playing forgotten narration into the dim apartment. Anton stayed completely still against your lap, but you could feel awareness building between you now, slow and electric.
Then, very quietly, “I think about kissing you sometimes.”
Your entire body stopped functioning.
Anton flushed almost immediately after saying it, color spreading slowly across his cheeks like realization had arrived one second too late to stop the sentence.
But he didn’t take it back.
Instead he looked down at your intertwined hands, visibly forcing himself to continue through the embarrassment.
“I didn’t understand why at first,” he admitted softly. “I don’t usually think about people that way.” A pause. “Then I realized I only wanted to when you were being gentle with me.”
You covered your face with your free hand immediately.
Anton watched the reaction with quiet fascination.
“You’re flirting with me on purpose now.”
The statement hung in the air.
You felt the exact moment he realized you were right.
You laughed helplessly into your hand while Anton stared up at you with growing understanding, piecing things together in real time. The physical closeness. The teasing. The deliberate observations designed to make you react.
He really had been learning emotions through you.
And now he was learning how to want.
Anton’s gaze dropped toward your mouth again, slower this time. Intentional enough that heat rushed instantly through your entire body. When he spoke next, his voice had gone softer around the edges.
“I think,” he murmured carefully, “I want to kiss you now too.”
Every nerve in your body lit up at once.
Anton stayed motionless against your lap waiting for your reaction, but you could feel tension building beneath his calmness now. Anticipation. Nervousness. The terrifying vulnerability of finally understanding what he was asking for.
You slid your fingers slowly through his hair again.
Anton’s eyes fluttered shut for half a second on instinct.
The sight nearly destroyed you.
When he looked back up at you, there was something unbearably open in his expression. Not confidence. Trust.
Like he was placing the entire moment carefully into your hands.
“You don’t have to process this alone anymore,” you whispered.
For a long moment, neither of you moved beyond breathing.
Anton stayed stretched across your lap with one hand threaded through yours, the other resting lightly against your leg beneath the blanket like he needed constant contact now that he understood what it meant. The room had gone impossibly still around him. Even the television noise faded into something distant and shapeless compared to the awareness building between you both.
You could feel how hard he was thinking.
Not retreating. Not shutting down. Just processing with his entire body this time instead of only his mind. His thumb moved faintly against your hand every few seconds, unconscious and grounding.
Then, quietly, “I don’t know what people usually do after this part.”
The vulnerability in his voice nearly cracked your chest open.
“There isn’t really a correct order.”
“But most people know sooner.”
“Anton.”
His gaze lifted toward you.
“You spent months teaching yourself how to trust someone enough to want them.” Your fingers moved slowly through his hair again, gentler this time. “That’s not late.”
Something in his face shifted at the words. You watched him absorb them slowly, the same way he absorbed every kindness directed toward him — carefully, almost cautiously, like he still expected warmth to disappear if he accepted it too quickly.
“I think,” he said after a while, “I kept separating you into categories.”
You smiled faintly. “That sounds like you.”
“At first you were safe.” His eyes lowered toward your joined hands again. “Then familiar. Then…” He paused, visibly frustrated with himself. “I couldn’t organize it anymore.”
“Because feelings overlap?”
“Yes.” Immediate. Relieved you understood. “I would miss you and want your attention and want you touching me and get jealous when other people distracted you.” His brows drew together faintly. “But all those feelings seemed too large to belong under one thing.”
Anton flushed slightly as realization continued catching up to his own confession. “That sounds more intense when I say it aloud.”
“A little.”
“I’m trying to be accurate.”
“You’re being devastating.”
Anton liked being understood. You’d learned that early on. Not praised exactly — understood. Every time someone interpreted him correctly without forcing him to overexplain, something inside him relaxed.
“You know what the worst part is?” you murmured.
“What?”
“You say romantic things with the emotional tone of someone explaining weather patterns.”
His mouth curved faintly. “That might be why you trust me.”
There was no manipulation in Anton. No performance. Every feeling arrived honest and unfinished and frighteningly sincere. When he wanted something, he studied it carefully instead of disguising it behind games.
And right now, he wanted you.
You could see it all over him now that you knew where to look.
In the way he melted beneath your touch but still seemed hyperaware every time your fingers moved through his hair.
In how his body naturally settled toward yours no matter where he sat.
In the way his gaze kept drifting toward your mouth before he forced it away again.
Anton noticed you noticing.
The realization spread visibly across his face, slow warmth climbing into his cheeks as understanding settled in.
Anton shifted then, pushing himself slightly more upright against the couch until he was closer to eye level with you. The blanket slipped lower around his waist in the process, one of your oversized hoodies hanging loose from his frame. You could smell your own detergent on him mixed with the faint clean scent of his shampoo.
The intimacy of it all suddenly felt overwhelming.
He stayed close after sitting up. Very close.
Close enough now that your knees pressed together beneath the blanket and his breath brushed softly against your skin whenever he spoke.
“I have another question,” he murmured.
You laughed weakly. “Of course you do.”
“When people want to kiss someone…” His fingers tightened slightly around yours. “Does it usually feel this frightening?”
“What kind of frightening?”
Anton thought about it carefully before answering.
“Like wanting something important enough that you could ruin it accidentally.”
The vulnerability of the confession settled heavily between you.
You reached up without thinking, brushing your fingers softly along his cheek. Anton leaned into your palm immediately now, instinctive as breathing. Months ago the movement would’ve startled him. Now it felt natural enough that he didn’t even seem aware he’d done it until afterward.
His eyes drifted shut briefly.
“You’re so gentle with me,” he whispered.
The words nearly undid you.
“Someone should be.”
Anton opened his eyes slowly at that.
You watched the emotion arrive in real time — not sudden but gradual, filling his expression piece by piece until something unbearably tender settled there. He looked at you like the sentence hurt him and healed him simultaneously.
Then his attention dropped once more toward your mouth.
This time he didn’t look away.
“I think,” he said softly, almost to himself, “I’m ready to understand this part now.”
Your heartbeat turned uneven.
“Yeah?”
A small nod.
But he still didn’t move.
Because despite everything, Anton remained Anton. Careful. Deliberate. Wanting without assuming. You realized suddenly that even now, even after months of sleeping beside you and holding your hand and memorizing every expression you made, he was still waiting for permission.
Not because he lacked desire. Because he respected yours.
“You can kiss me,” you whispered.
Anton inhaled softly.
Then he reached for you with the same carefulness he used for everything precious.
Disability Services (1) | Anton Lee
pairings: autistic!anton x (fem)reader
wc: a lot
synopsis: Assigned as a peer aide for a withdrawn college student no one seems able to understand, you expect awkward conversations, difficult schedules, and long silences. What you don’t expect is Anton.
Soft-spoken and selectively mute, Anton moves through campus like someone slightly out of step with the rest of the world. He avoids eye contact, struggles to process emotions in real time, and finds comfort in routines, textures, music, and beautiful things. Most people see him as strange before they ever try to know him. But beneath his careful silence is someone painfully observant, deeply sensitive, and desperate for connection in ways he doesn’t fully understand himself.
As the semester unfolds, your role in his life slowly becomes more than academic support. Anton begins seeking you out instinctively — waiting outside your classes, memorizing your routines, touching your sleeve without realizing how intimate it feels. He doesn’t understand the meaning people attach to closeness, only that your presence quiets the overwhelming parts of the world around him.
And somewhere between rainy walks across campus, quiet practice rooms, and conversations filled with unfinished feelings, you begin falling for him.
But loving Anton means learning patience. His emotions arrive slowly, often after the moment has already passed. He struggles to recognize jealousy, affection, and longing until they’ve already rooted themselves deeply inside him. While you begin understanding your feelings almost immediately, Anton has to discover his piece by piece — through trust, comfort, and the terrifying realization that for the first time in his life, someone stayed.
A quiet, emotionally intimate slowburn about tenderness, misunderstood affection, and two people learning how to exist gently beside one another.
The email had sounded simple enough when you first read it half-awake in bed that morning. Student accessibility services is assigning you as a peer aide for the spring semester. Flexible hours. Escorting between classes when needed. Organizational support. Occasional note-taking. The pay wasn’t terrible, and you needed another campus job anyway, so you accepted before really thinking about what it meant.
You regretted that decision a little when the counselor slid a thin folder across the desk and said, carefully, “He’s… not always easy with new people.”
The folder had almost nothing inside. Just a student profile and a class schedule.
Lee Chanyoung.
Preferred name: Anton.
Under accommodations, there was a longer list than you expected. Extended testing time. Alternative presentation formats. Excused absences during periods of overstimulation. Selective mutism.
“He usually communicates through typing,” the counselor explained. “Or writing. Sometimes verbally, but not often. Don’t pressure him to speak if he doesn’t want to.”
You nodded slowly.
“He’s very intelligent,” she added quickly, like she felt the need to defend him before you’d even met him. “He just struggles with certain social situations and transitions. Some aides have had difficulty because they expected him to respond in typical ways.”
Typical ways. You almost laughed.
“So what exactly am I supposed to do?”
“Mostly help him navigate campus life. Keep him on schedule. Make sure he actually eats sometimes.” Her expression softened faintly. “He responds well to consistency.”
That part stayed with you for the rest of the afternoon.
Consistency.
By the time you found the humanities building, the campus had settled into that gray lull between morning and evening classes. Wet footprints marked the tiled floors from the rain outside, and the air smelled faintly like old books and coffee grounds. You checked the room number twice before knocking lightly against the open classroom door.
Nobody answered.
Inside, students packed their bags noisily while the professor erased the whiteboard. Near the back corner, separated from everyone else by two empty seats, sat a boy with pale headphones hanging around his neck and a cardigan slipping off one shoulder. He was staring at his laptop screen with complete focus, fingers motionless over the keyboard as if he’d forgotten mid-thought what he intended to type.
You recognized him immediately without needing the student ID photo.
He was prettier than you expected.
Not handsome, exactly. Pretty in the way porcelain figures were pretty. Delicate wrists disappearing into oversized sleeves, soft mouth slightly parted in concentration, dark lashes low against his cheeks. His hair looked impossibly soft, falling over his eyes in uneven layers that almost hid his expression completely.
The room gradually emptied around him.
He didn’t move.
You approached carefully, suddenly hyperaware of your own footsteps. “Anton?”
His shoulders tightened immediately.
Not dramatically. Just enough for you to notice.
He looked up after a second, though not directly at you. His gaze stopped somewhere near your chin instead, uncertain and fleeting. Up close, he looked younger than a college student should’ve. There was something guarded about him, but not cold. More like someone constantly bracing for discomfort.
You offered your name gently. “I’m your student aide this semester.”
His expression didn’t change.
Then slowly, he reached for his phone.
The silence stretched long enough to become awkward before the screen lit up with typed words.
| You’re late.
You blinked. “Late?”
He turned the phone toward you properly this time.
| You were supposed to come at 2:40.
You checked the clock instinctively. It was 2:47.
“Oh.” Heat crawled up your neck. “Sorry. The office took longer than I thought.”
Anton stared at you for another quiet second before looking away again. Not dismissively. More like he’d already filed the interaction away somewhere in his head.
You noticed then that he had arranged everything on the desk with impossible precision. Laptop centered. Pens aligned parallel. Water bottle label facing outward. Even the edges of his papers stacked perfectly flush together.
Without warning, he stood.
You nearly stepped back from how sudden it was.
He slid his bag over one shoulder, then paused beside you awkwardly, fingers curling once against the strap. Waiting.
“For me?” you asked before thinking.
A tiny nod.
Right. Escorting between classes.
You followed him out into the hallway, trying not to make it obvious you were observing him already. He walked quietly, head lowered slightly, one hand tucked into his sleeve. Students brushed past in loud clusters, backpacks bumping into shoulders, sneakers squeaking against the floors. Every time someone came too close, Anton subtly shifted away before contact could happen.
He didn’t speak once. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to fill the silence or leave it alone.
“So… what’s your major?” you tried eventually.
Anton pulled out his phone again without stopping his pace.
| Composition and media studies.
“You like music?”
Another pause.
Then:
| I like beautiful things.
You glanced at him.
He remained completely serious.
Something about the answer caught you off guard. Not because it was strange, but because of how plainly he said it, like beauty was an objective category instead of a vague preference.
“What counts as beautiful?”
This time he took longer to respond. You could almost see the processing happening behind his eyes.
Finally, he typed:
| Certain voices.
| Clean piano sounds.
| Rain before it gets dirty.
| People with kind mouths.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Before you could answer, a group of students burst through the stairwell doors laughing loudly. The sound ricocheted sharply through the narrow hallway. Anton flinched hard enough that you noticed immediately.
His hand caught your sleeve.
Not your wrist. Not your hand. Just the fabric near your elbow.
The contact seemed unconscious.
His fingers twisted lightly into the material while his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, unfocused and distant for a moment. You could feel how tense he’d suddenly become, every muscle drawn tight beneath layers of soft fabric.
“It’s okay,” you said quietly without thinking.
Anton blinked once.
Then slowly looked down.
Like he’d only just realized he was touching you.
He released your sleeve immediately, but not before his fingertips dragged against your arm through the fabric. Light. Careless. Intimate in a way he clearly didn’t understand.
A faint pink flush spread across the tops of his ears. Not embarrassment exactly. More like confusion.
Neither of you mentioned it.
By the time you reached the music building, rain had started again outside the tall windows, turning the campus silver-gray. Anton stopped near the entrance to his next class, shifting his bag higher onto his shoulder while students filtered around both of you.
You waited for some kind of goodbye.
Instead, he stared briefly at the charm hanging from your bag. A tiny cat keychain.
His eyes lingered on it with open concentration.
Then he reached out suddenly and touched it with careful fingertips. Softly rubbing the plush fabric between his fingers once. Twice.
The movement was so absentmindedly gentle it startled you.
“It was from a friend,” you explained quietly.
Anton nodded faintly but didn’t let go immediately. His thumb brushed across the worn stitching near the ear before he finally withdrew his hand back into his sleeve.
Then he typed something quickly and turned the screen toward you.
| I don’t like most textures.
You looked at the message, then at him.
“But you like that one?”
A pause. Another small nod.
For the first time since meeting him, something in his posture loosened slightly around you. Not trust yet. Nothing that simple. But maybe curiosity.
The classroom door opened behind him.
Anton glanced toward the sound before looking back at you briefly, eyes flickering near yours but never fully meeting them.
Then his phone buzzed softly in his hand. Another message already typed before he turned away.
| You should arrive at 2:40 next time.
-
You spent the rest of the day thinking about him against your will.
Not in the embarrassing way your roommate immediately assumed when you mentioned meeting “a pretty quiet boy” during dinner, but in the persistent, nagging way people stayed in your head when you couldn’t fully understand them. Anton didn’t behave like anyone you knew. Every interaction with him felt slightly mistimed, like his responses existed half a step outside the rhythm everyone else moved to. He wasn’t rude. If anything, he seemed painfully aware of other people at all times. He just reacted differently, processing everything somewhere deeper and slower before deciding what to do with it.
You found yourself replaying small details while brushing your teeth that night. The way he’d described beautiful things with complete sincerity. The careful alignment of objects on his desk. The confused look on his face after grabbing your sleeve, like he genuinely hadn’t realized touching someone unexpectedly might mean something.
At exactly 2:38 the next afternoon, you walked into the humanities building carrying two coffees and an unreasonable amount of awareness about being on time.
Anton was already there. Of course he was.
He sat in the same corner seat from yesterday, laptop open, headphones on this time. His fingers hovered over the keyboard without moving while students shuffled noisily around him. Even from across the room, he looked disconnected from everything else inside it, tucked into his own atmosphere entirely.
You approached quietly. “Hi.”
He looked up immediately.
Not at your eyes. Never your eyes. His gaze caught somewhere near your mouth before flickering away again. His headphones slipped down around his neck as he noticed the drink tray in your hands.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” you admitted, setting one coffee carefully beside his laptop, “so I guessed.”
Anton stared at the cup for several long seconds.
You suddenly wondered if maybe you’d broken some invisible routine and made a terrible mistake.
Then he reached out and turned the cup slowly until the logo faced away from him.
Only after adjusting it did he pick it up.
His fingers were slender, almost delicate-looking, silver rings glinting softly beneath the fluorescent lights. You noticed his nails were neatly trimmed and slightly glossy, as if he buffed them absentmindedly.
He took one cautious sip.
Then another.
A pause.
His phone appeared in his hand a second later.
| Vanilla is acceptable.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Anton blinked at the sound, attention catching on your face immediately. Not startled exactly. Focused.
“You sound like you’re reviewing a product.”
He watched you type something into your own phone for class notifications while processing the joke several beats too late. You saw the exact moment understanding landed.
The corners of his mouth lifted faintly.
Tiny. Brief. But unmistakable.
It transformed his whole face.
Before you could comment on it, students started filing into the room more aggressively, conversations overlapping loudly enough that the atmosphere shifted from quiet to crowded within seconds. Anton’s posture changed almost immediately. His shoulders rose subtly. His hand tightened around the coffee cup. The soft crease forming between his brows looked more uncomfortable than irritated.
A boy dropped heavily into the seat beside him without noticing.
Anton froze.
Not metaphorically. Completely.
The student kept talking to his friend across the aisle, elbow spreading over the shared desk space while Anton sat perfectly rigid beside him, fingers curling tighter inside his sleeves.
You looked between them.
Then gently said, “Hey, I think he needs a little more room.”
The student blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”
He shifted over carelessly.
Anton still didn’t relax.
His breathing had gone shallow enough that you noticed it immediately now that you were paying attention. You leaned down slightly toward him.
“Do you want to wait outside until class starts?”
For a second you thought he might ignore you completely.
Then his hand moved under the desk and lightly caught the edge of your cardigan sleeve.
The same way he had yesterday.
Small. Quiet. Automatic.
You waited while he gathered his things with stiff movements before leading him back into the hallway. The moment the classroom door shut behind you both, some of the tension visibly left his body.
You leaned against the wall beside him. “Does crowded noise bother you?”
Anton nodded once.
Rain pattered softly against the windows nearby. Students passed through the corridor in uneven waves, but it was quieter here, the sounds more spread out and manageable.
After a minute, Anton typed something.
| He smelled too strong.
You blinked.
“Oh.”
| And his coat kept touching mine.
The seriousness of his expression nearly made you smile again. Not because it was funny to him, but because he explained discomfort so literally. No exaggeration. No attempt to make himself sound easier or more reasonable.
Just facts.
“You don’t like being touched?”
Anton stared at the screen for a long moment after reading the question.
Then slowly typed:
| I don’t mind when I know it’s happening.
Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly hard at the memory of his hand around your sleeve yesterday.
Before you could respond, the classroom door opened again. Students began settling down for lecture, voices quieter now.
Anton made no move to return inside.
“You still have class,” you reminded gently.
His gaze dropped toward the floor tiles.
Then his phone lit up.
| You come too.
“You want me to sit with you?”
A pause. Tiny nod.
Technically, student aides weren’t supposed to attend lectures unless necessary, but the way Anton stood there waiting made refusal feel strangely impossible. He shifted slightly closer while students continued walking around you both, the sleeve of his cardigan brushing your arm for half a second before he stepped away again.
You followed him back inside.
This time, Anton chose seats in the very back row.
You noticed he picked the one nearest the wall.
He sat down first, then hesitated oddly before placing his bag on the opposite side instead of between you. Like he’d considered creating distance and changed his mind halfway through.
Throughout the lecture, he barely looked at the professor. Instead, he typed constantly, notes impossibly organized across his laptop screen. Color-coded. Timestamped. Every heading perfectly aligned.
About twenty minutes in, you noticed movement beside you.
Anton had gone still again.
His fingers rested motionless over the keyboard while his attention fixed somewhere ahead, unfocused. The lecture hall lights buzzed faintly overhead. Someone behind you kept clicking their pen repeatedly.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Anton’s jaw tightened almost invisibly every time the sound repeated.
Without really thinking about it, you reached into your bag for your spare earbuds and placed them gently beside his laptop.
He looked down at them.
Then at you.
“They’re noise cancelling,” you whispered.
Anton stared for such a long time you thought maybe he wouldn’t take them.
Finally, he picked one up carefully between his fingers.
Not putting it in yet. Just feeling the smooth plastic surface.
His thumb brushed over it slowly.
Then, unexpectedly, he placed it back down and typed something instead.
| You notice too much.
You frowned slightly. “Is that bad?”
He read your lips while you spoke, eyes fixed there with quiet concentration.
Then he shook his head once.
A few minutes later, without warning, his shoulder tipped lightly against yours.
Not enough pressure to seem intentional.
Just there.
Warm through layers of fabric.
Anton continued typing with complete focus like he hadn’t noticed the contact at all.
You became aware of his shoulder long before you became aware of the lecture again.
Not because the touch itself was dramatic. It wasn’t. Anton barely leaned into you at all, just enough for the warmth of him to settle against your arm through the fabric of your sweater. But there was something dangerously intimate about how unconscious it seemed. He wasn’t testing boundaries or searching for reassurance. His body had simply decided you were easier to exist beside than everyone else in the room.
And apparently, that was that.
The professor’s voice blurred into background noise while rain streaked slowly down the windows. Anton kept typing steadily, expression soft with concentration. Every few minutes he paused to adjust something tiny: the angle of his pen, the brightness of his screen, the cuff of his cardigan slipping over his wrist. His movements were precise in a way that felt practiced rather than obsessive, like the world only stayed manageable if things remained arranged correctly.
The clicking pen behind you finally stopped.
Anton relaxed almost immediately afterward.
You weren’t sure why noticing that made your chest ache a little.
When class ended, students shoved chairs back noisily and crowded toward the exits in impatient waves. Anton didn’t move. He stayed seated beside you while the room emptied around him, fingers still resting on the keyboard even after the screen dimmed from inactivity.
“You okay?” you asked quietly.
His eyes lifted toward you briefly before drifting away again.
Then he typed:
| There are too many transitions in one day.
You read the sentence twice.
It was such a strange way to describe exhaustion, but somehow it made perfect sense. You thought about how often people expected immediate adjustment from one thing to another without hesitation. Loud cafeteria to silent lecture hall. Crowded sidewalks to empty dorm rooms. Conversation to isolation. Most people did it automatically.
Anton probably felt every shift like stepping between different temperatures.
“That sounds tiring,” you said softly.
His gaze flickered back toward your face then, lingering there a fraction longer than usual. You got the unsettling feeling he wasn’t used to people responding like that. Not dismissing him. Not trying to correct or simplify what he meant.
Just accepting it.
Outside, the rain had worsened into a steady silver downpour. Students hurried across campus beneath umbrellas while water gathered along the sidewalks in shallow reflective puddles.
Anton stood beside the building entrance staring outside with visible hesitation.
“You don’t have an umbrella?” you guessed.
He shook his head once.
“You could’ve checked the weather.”
A pause.
Then his phone appeared.
| I did.
| It said 40%.
You stared at him for a second before laughing again despite yourself. Anton’s attention snapped toward the sound instantly, distracted from the rain.
“What?”
His brows pulled together faintly.
| Why do you keep doing that?
“Doing what?”
| Making that noise.
“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Laughing?”
He considered the word carefully, like matching it to memory.
Then:
| You laugh more quietly than most people.
Something about the observation felt far too intimate for someone you’d known less than two days.
Before you could answer, Anton stepped out into the rain without warning.
“Wait—”
Cold droplets immediately soaked into the dark fabric of his cardigan, dampening his hair within seconds. He didn’t seem to care. Or maybe he cared and didn’t know what to do about it. You hurried after him beneath your umbrella, catching up just as he crossed the sidewalk toward the arts building.
“Anton.”
He slowed.
“You’re getting soaked.”
He looked down at his sleeve like he’d only just noticed the rainwater spreading through it.
Then he typed while still walking.
| I like rain before people touch it.
You almost told him that made no sense before remembering who you were speaking to.
“What does that mean?”
Anton paused near the crosswalk, watching water rush along the curb in thin rippling streams.
For a while, he didn’t answer. Cars hissed past on wet pavement while students crowded beneath awnings nearby. You thought maybe he’d abandoned the thought entirely.
Then:
| Rain is clean when it first falls.
| Afterward it becomes campus rain.
You looked at him carefully.
His hair clung damply against his forehead now, soft dark strands curling slightly at the ends from the moisture. There was something vulnerable about him standing there in the middle of the gray afternoon looking entirely consumed by a thought no one else would ever have.
“You think about things strangely,” you murmured before you could stop yourself.
The moment the words left your mouth, regret hit hard.
Anton’s expression changed immediately.
Not dramatically. Just quieting.
His fingers stilled against his phone screen.
You opened your mouth quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
But he was already looking away from you.
Shit.
The walk to the arts building suddenly felt much longer.
Anton stayed half a step ahead the entire time, cardigan sleeves pulled over his hands again. You replayed your sentence over and over in your head, trying to figure out exactly where it had gone wrong. You hadn’t meant strange in a bad way. If anything, talking to him felt oddly refreshing compared to the exhausting predictability of everyone else.
But maybe he’d heard that before.
Maybe people had spent his entire life calling him strange.
By the time you reached the building entrance, guilt sat heavily in your stomach.
“Anton.”
He stopped but didn’t turn around fully.
“I’m sorry,” you said carefully. “I wasn’t making fun of you.”
Silence.
Rain hammered softly against the glass doors nearby.
Then Anton finally looked toward you, eyes lowering automatically before they could meet yours completely. Up close, you noticed faint water droplets caught in his lashes.
His phone lit up slowly.
| I know.
But he still looked hurt.
The realization unsettled you more than it should have.
You stood there awkwardly while students brushed past into the building around you. Anton readjusted the strap slipping off his shoulder with damp fingers, movements slower than usual now.
Then, unexpectedly, he stepped closer.
Close enough that your umbrella tilted awkwardly backward from the movement.
His hand appeared near your sleeve again.
Not grabbing this time.
Just touching the wet fabric lightly between two fingers.
“You’re cold,” you said quietly.
Anton blinked once, looking down at where rainwater darkened the cuff of your sweater too.
After a few seconds, he typed:
| You came into the rain anyway.
You weren’t sure why that sentence lingered so heavily in your chest afterward.
Maybe because he said things so plainly that they stopped sounding plain at all.
You came into the rain anyway.
Like it meant something.
Anton followed you silently into the arts building, water dripping softly from the ends of his sleeves onto the polished floors. The lobby buzzed with low conversation and distant piano scales echoing from somewhere upstairs, students moving between practice rooms carrying instrument cases and sheet music folders pressed against their chests. Compared to the rest of campus, the building felt strangely warm, almost sleepy, lit gold by old hanging lamps instead of harsh fluorescents.
Anton visibly relaxed the moment the doors shut behind you.
Not entirely. He never seemed entirely relaxed. But his shoulders lowered slightly, and his breathing evened out again beneath the soft hum of music drifting through the hallways.
“You have class here?” you asked.
Small nod.
“What kind?”
He typed one-handed while wringing rainwater absentmindedly from the cuff of his cardigan with the other.
| Composition lab.
That explained the major, at least partially. You tried imagining him making music and immediately could. Not performance. Nothing loud or attention-seeking. Something intricate and emotional and probably far too beautiful for most people to understand properly.
A girl passing through the lobby slowed suddenly when she noticed Anton.
“Chanyoung!”
He stiffened instantly.
She either didn’t notice or pretended not to. “Professor Kim was asking where your revised arrangement went. Did you ever email it?”
Anton’s gaze dropped toward the floor.
Three seconds passed.
Five.
The girl’s smile faltered slightly as the silence stretched.
You watched panic build subtly beneath Anton’s expression, not dramatic enough for most people to catch. His fingers curled tightly into the soaked fabric hanging over his hands. His lips parted once without sound emerging.
He was trying.
Your chest tightened.
“He probably hasn’t had the chance yet,” you answered gently before the silence could become humiliating.
The girl blinked toward you like she’d forgotten other people existed. “Oh.”
Anton remained completely motionless beside you.
“Well…” She laughed awkwardly. “Tell him Professor Kim’s been emailing.”
Then she hurried off down the hallway.
The second she disappeared around the corner, Anton exhaled softly through his nose.
Not relief exactly. More like recovery.
You looked at him carefully. “You don’t like when people expect answers right away.”
His eyes shifted toward you. Then downward again.
After a moment, he typed:
| Sometimes words don’t arrive before the moment is over.
The sentence hit you so hard you almost forgot to breathe for a second.
You wondered suddenly how many people mistook his silence for indifference when really it was delay. Like his emotions and thoughts existed behind glass slightly thicker than everyone else’s.
“That sounds frustrating,” you said quietly.
Anton stared at the phone screen after reading your response. His thumb hovered near the keyboard as if he intended to say more.
But instead, he slipped the phone back into his pocket.
A nearby piano stumbled through the same wrong note three times in a row from one of the practice rooms upstairs.
Anton visibly winced.
“You can hear that from here?”
Tiny nod.
“That’s kind of impressive.”
Another wince at the fourth mistake.
Then, unexpectedly, he reached for your wrist.
Not dramatically. Not even fully.
His fingertips just settled there lightly, cool from the rain, before he began guiding you toward the staircase without explanation.
The contact shocked you enough that you followed automatically.
Anton climbed the stairs quietly, still holding your wrist with absentminded gentleness the entire way. Not possessive. Not nervous. Casual in the way someone might carry an object they’d already decided belonged beside them.
Meanwhile your heartbeat had become humiliating.
On the third floor, the hallway narrowed into rows of small soundproof practice rooms with rectangular windows set into each door. Music spilled unevenly through the walls anyway — violin scales, fragments of jazz piano, someone singing warmups badly enough to make Anton’s nose wrinkle slightly.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
He noticed immediately.
“What?”
Anton tilted his head faintly.
“You make expressions even when you don’t talk much.”
A pause.
Then he let go of your wrist abruptly like he’d only just remembered he was touching you at all.
The sudden absence of warmth felt strangely noticeable.
Anton stopped outside one of the practice room doors and pushed it open carefully. Inside sat a keyboard, two chairs, scattered sheet music, and little else. The room was dimmer than the hallway, insulated from most of the outside noise.
You stepped inside after him.
“This is yours?”
He nodded once, already moving toward the keyboard.
The room changed him somehow.
Not personality-wise. More like the tension he carried around campus loosened in specific places here. His movements became smoother, more instinctive. Comfortable.
Anton sat down on the bench and adjusted the sleeves falling over his hands before resting his fingers lightly against the keys.
Then he froze.
You waited quietly.
After a few seconds, he typed into his phone again without looking up.
| You can sit.
“Oh. Right.”
You settled into the chair nearby while rain tapped softly against the narrow window beside the piano. Anton remained still for another long moment, staring at the keys with intense concentration.
“You don’t have to play for me,” you said gently, suddenly worried he felt pressured.
He shook his head immediately.
Then finally, he played.
The first notes were so soft you almost missed them.
Not a melody at first. Just careful fragments unfolding slowly beneath his fingertips, delicate and thoughtful and strangely lonely. The sound filled the small room without overwhelming it, each note lingering long enough to feel intentional. Anton’s expression changed while he played. Not happier exactly, but clearer somehow. Like music translated things his body couldn’t organize into speech quickly enough.
You watched his hands move across the keyboard.
Beautiful hands, honestly.
Long fingers. Silver rings glinting faintly under the dim lights. Sleeves slipping down toward his knuckles every few seconds before he impatiently pushed them back again mid-song.
The music deepened gradually, weaving into something fuller and aching enough that your chest hurt unexpectedly listening to it.
Anton never looked at you once while he played.
But somehow it still felt like being let inside something private.
When the final note faded, silence settled gently back over the room.
You realized only then that you’d stopped moving entirely.
“That was really pretty,” you whispered.
Anton stayed motionless at the keyboard.
Then slowly:
| You keep using that word.
“Pretty?”
A tiny nod.
You smiled faintly. “Do you not like it?”
For the first time since meeting him, Anton actually looked close to nervous.
Not externally. You were just beginning to recognize the signs now — the slight tension in his jaw, fingers rubbing together beneath oversized sleeves, gaze fixed stubbornly on the piano keys.
Finally, he typed carefully.
| No one usually means it kindly.
Something inside you softened painfully at that.
The practice room suddenly felt smaller, quieter, the rain outside reduced to a dull silver murmur against the windows. Anton kept his eyes lowered toward the keyboard after showing you the message, shoulders slightly hunched like he regretted saying it at all.
You thought about him walking across campus with his oversized cardigans and careful posture, about the glossy shine on his nails, the silver rings, the softness he didn’t bother hiding even though people probably noticed immediately. You could already imagine the kind of comments college boys made when someone didn’t fit neatly into whatever version of masculinity they found acceptable.
“You know I mean it kindly,” you said gently.
Anton didn’t respond right away.
His fingers drifted absentmindedly across a few silent piano keys without pressing hard enough to create sound. Thinking. Processing. You were beginning to realize he often needed silence the way other people needed conversation.
| I know now.
Now.
Not before.
Your chest tightened again.
Before you could answer, voices echoed loudly down the hallway outside the practice rooms. Several students passed by laughing, the sound muffled but sharp enough to pull Anton immediately out of whatever calm the piano had given him. His posture straightened. His hands stilled.
One of the voices paused near the door.
“Oh, he’s in there.”
Another laugh. “Of course he is.”
The doorknob rattled lightly.
Anton froze so suddenly it almost frightened you.
Not fear exactly. Anticipation. Like his body had learned to brace before his mind even caught up.
The door opened halfway before either of you could react. Two boys from what looked like an ensemble class leaned inside casually, both carrying instrument cases.
“There you are,” one of them said. “Kim keeps emailing about your arrangement.”
Anton’s gaze dropped instantly toward the floor.
Neither of them acknowledged you at first.
“You gonna answer him this year or what?” the other joked.
Silence.
You watched Anton’s fingers slowly curl into the sleeves covering his hands.
The first guy sighed awkwardly after a few seconds. “Right. Sorry.”
But he still lingered there waiting, clearly expecting some kind of response.
Anton’s throat moved faintly.
Nothing came out.
You could almost feel the pressure building inside the room.
“He said he’ll send it,” you interrupted quietly before the silence could turn cruel.
Both boys finally looked toward you.
The second one blinked. “Oh.”
Then, lowering his voice slightly but not enough, “Does he just not talk ever?”
The question landed heavily.
Anton remained perfectly still at the piano bench beside you, expression unreadable now in that way you were beginning to hate because it meant he’d withdrawn somewhere unreachable.
“He talks,” you answered before thinking. “Just not whenever people demand it.”
The room fell quiet.
One boy looked embarrassed immediately. The other shifted awkwardly against his instrument case strap.
“Right,” he muttered. “Whatever.”
They left a second later, the door clicking shut behind them.
Silence rushed back in.
Anton still hadn’t moved.
You exhaled slowly, anger simmering hotter in your chest than it probably should have after only two days of knowing him. “They were being rude.”
Nothing.
“Anton?”
His hand moved toward his phone slowly.
Then stopped halfway there.
Instead, he pressed both sleeves against his mouth briefly, eyes fixed somewhere distant across the room. Processing again. You could see it happening now — the delayed impact arriving piece by piece after the interaction already ended.
When he finally typed, the message appeared slower than usual.
| They weren’t trying to be mean.
“That doesn’t make it better.”
Anton stared at the screen after reading that.
Then:
| Most people become uncomfortable eventually.
The matter-of-factness of the sentence hurt more than self-pity would’ve.
Like he’d accepted it as inevitable.
“Well, I’m not uncomfortable.”
The room went very quiet.
Anton blinked once.
Then again.
You got the distinct feeling you’d said something unexpectedly important.
His attention lifted toward your face slowly, cautiously, eyes stopping just short of yours like always. For a second he looked almost disoriented, as if he didn’t know where to place the statement inside his understanding of people.
Then his phone buzzed softly in his hand.
| Not yet.
The words startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.
Anton watched your reaction immediately, shoulders loosening just slightly at the sound.
“You’re kind of mean, you know that?”
A pause.
Then:
| You laugh when you aren’t upset anymore.
You stared at him.
Anton stared back in that indirect way he had, gaze hovering near your mouth while he read your expression carefully. Observing. Cataloging.
“You notice everything,” you murmured.
He processed that silently.
Then typed:
| Only things I need to remember.
The air in the room suddenly felt too warm.
Before you could recover, Anton stood from the piano bench in one smooth movement and crossed toward the stack of papers scattered near the music stand. He crouched to reorganize them with immediate focus, aligning the corners carefully against the floor before clipping them together.
You watched him for a second before kneeling automatically to help.
Anton went still beside you.
“What?” you asked.
His eyes flickered toward your hands gathering the loose sheets.
Then toward your knees pressed against the carpet beside him.
Finally:
| You don’t have to do that.
“It’s literally two papers.”
He kept s taring anyway.
Up close like this, you noticed how long his lashes were again. Ridiculously long, honestly. They cast faint shadows against his cheeks whenever he looked downward.
Without thinking, you reached over and brushed a damp strand of hair away from his eyes.
The second your fingers touched him, Anton stopped breathing.
Not metaphorically.
Actually stopped.
Your hand froze too.
His skin was cold from the rain. Soft.
You should’ve pulled away immediately.
Instead, both of you stayed there for one horribly suspended second, Anton staring at you with open confusion written across his face. Not discomfort. Something more startled than that, like his brain had failed to categorize what just happened.
Then, slowly, very carefully, he leaned forward.
Just slightly.
Into your hand.
Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt.
Anton didn’t seem to notice the effect he had on people when he did things like this. Or maybe he noticed reactions without understanding where they came from. Either way, the movement was small enough that another person might’ve missed it entirely — the faint tilt of his head against your palm, the way his eyes lowered halfway shut for a second like he was concentrating on the sensation.
Soft.
That was the first thought that hit you.
Not just physically. His entire presence felt soft in ways the world probably hadn’t handled gently.
Then realization flickered across his expression.
Anton pulled back immediately.
His hand came up halfway toward his face before stopping awkwardly in the air. You watched confusion move through him in real time, slow and visible behind his eyes as he tried to process the interaction after it had already happened.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, dropping your hand back into your lap. “I shouldn’t have just—”
Anton shook his head hard enough to interrupt you.
Not upset. Just overwhelmed.
He stared down at the papers scattered between you both, fingers tightening once around the edge of a music sheet before he typed something with abrupt intensity.
| Don’t apologize for touching me if it was kind.
The sentence settled heavily between you.
You looked at him carefully. “Has nobody ever told you there’s a difference?”
Anton frowned faintly.
“Between wanted touch and unwanted touch.”
He went still again.
Not frozen this time. Thinking.
You could practically watch him sorting through memories and information behind his eyes, reorganizing old experiences against the new wording. After a long silence, he typed slowly:
| People usually touch me accidentally.
Something about that answer made your chest ache.
You thought suddenly about crowded hallways brushing against him, strangers shoving past without warning, uncomfortable handshakes, impatient taps on the shoulder when he didn’t respond quickly enough. Touch that happened to him instead of for him.
And maybe because Anton processed emotions later than everyone else, maybe by the time discomfort fully arrived, the moment had already passed.
“That’s not the same thing,” you said quietly.
He read the sentence twice.
Then:
| You ask before doing things.
You almost pointed out that you hadn’t asked before touching his hair, but Anton continued typing before you could.
| Most people decide things for me first.
The practice room felt unbearably quiet after that.
Outside, someone played scales down the hallway while rain tapped steadily against the narrow windows. Anton gathered the rest of his papers into a neat stack again, movements slower now, attention split somewhere deeper inside himself.
“You think about people a lot, don’t you?” you asked softly.
He glanced toward you.
Then away.
A tiny shrug.
After a moment:
| I have to study people longer than other people study me.
You didn’t know what to say to that.
Because it was true, probably.
Most people would look at Anton once and make immediate assumptions. Quiet. Strange. Awkward. Difficult. Sensitive. Meanwhile he seemed to spend enormous amounts of energy trying to understand everyone around him properly while they rarely extended the same patience back.
Your eyes drifted toward the music sheets in his lap. The notes were impossibly neat, handwritten annotations arranged with color-coded precision along the margins.
“You really like organizing things.”
That earned the faintest reaction from him. Almost defensive.
| Things behave better when they’re organized.
You smiled slightly. “People don’t?”
Immediately, before even typing:
“No.”
The sound startled you both.
Anton’s eyes widened a fraction.
It was the first time you’d heard his voice.
Quiet wasn’t even the right word for it. His voice sounded soft in the same way fabric could be soft, low and airy from disuse, almost careful around the edges. Like speaking required more physical effort for him than most people realized.
For a second neither of you moved.
Then color rose slowly into Anton’s cheeks.
He looked away so quickly it almost gave you whiplash.
You tried not to react too strongly, suddenly aware that if you made a big deal out of it he might retreat completely.
But your heartbeat was going insane.
“You’re right,” you said gently, pretending your pulse wasn’t stumbling all over itself. “People are kind of impossible.”
Anton kept staring stubbornly at the floor.
The blush spread all the way to the tips of his ears now.
You bit back a smile.
“You have a nice voice.”
The reaction was immediate.
Anton’s shoulders drew up slightly, like the compliment physically struck him somewhere sensitive. He tucked his hands deeper into his sleeves and focused aggressively on aligning the papers again even though they were already perfectly straight.
Interesting.
“You don’t like compliments?”
A pause.
Then, quietly this time, barely above a whisper:
“I don’t know.”
You almost melted directly into the carpet.
Anton seemed startled by his own answer too. His throat moved faintly afterward, like he was still adjusting to the unfamiliar feeling of speaking aloud. But he didn’t fully shut down again. If anything, he looked more disoriented than distressed.
“You don’t know if you like compliments?”
Tiny shake of his head.
“Why not?”
He reached for his phone again, clearly more comfortable typing complicated thoughts than saying them.
| Sometimes people compliment me because they think I’m strange.
| Like observing an animal that learned something impressive.
Your expression must’ve changed because Anton immediately looked down again.
“I wasn’t doing that,” you said quietly.
He nodded before you even finished.
| I know.
That I know sounded different now too. More certain than earlier.
You sat there for another moment listening to the muffled music outside before your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder.
Work shift. Ten minutes.
“Shit,” you muttered, checking the screen. “I have to go.”
Anton’s attention lifted immediately.
“I forgot I’m covering someone at the library tonight.”
The atmosphere shifted so subtly you almost thought you imagined it.
Not disappointment exactly.
But something adjacent to it.
Anton looked toward the rain-streaked window automatically before typing:
| You don’t like leaving in the middle of things either.
You stared at him.
“No,” you admitted softly. “I guess I don’t.”
For a second he just watched you gather your bag and jacket. Or rather, watched your hands. Anton seemed to focus on hands often, you realized suddenly. Movements. Gestures. The physical shape of emotion instead of eye contact.
When you stood, he stood too.
Immediately.
Like it was obvious he should.
“You don’t have to walk me out,” you said.
Anton blinked once, confused.
Then:
| I know.
But he still followed you anyway.
The hallway outside the practice room had grown quieter by the time you left, most classes already in session. The muffled sounds of instruments still drifted through the walls in uneven fragments — piano chords from somewhere downstairs, a violin stopping and restarting the same passage over and over again, distant laughter echoing briefly before fading down another corridor.
Anton walked beside you without speaking.
Not awkwardly silent. Just present.
You were beginning to realize there was a difference with him.
Most silence between people felt empty because both parties waited for someone to fill it. Anton’s silence felt occupied already, crowded with observation and delayed thoughts and tiny details he seemed to absorb constantly without comment. Walking beside him made you hyperaware of your own movements in return — the squeak of your shoes against the polished floor, the shift of your bag strap on your shoulder, the warmth lingering in your palm from where he’d leaned into your touch earlier.
You tried very hard not to think about that too much.
At the stairwell landing, Anton stopped suddenly.
You nearly walked past him before turning back. “What?”
He looked distracted by something over your shoulder. Following his gaze, you noticed a girl descending the stairs carrying a bouquet wrapped in pale pink paper. Tiny white flowers peeked through the plastic.
Anton stared openly.
Not at the girl. At the flowers.
The intensity of his focus almost made you smile.
“You like those?”
His attention flicked back toward you, caught.
Then he nodded once.
“They’re just baby’s breath.”
Another small shake of his head this time. Incorrect.
Anton typed carefully while still watching the bouquet disappear downstairs.
| They look soft.
Of course that was his reason.
You wondered if he categorized the world entirely through sensory feeling. Soft. Sharp. Loud. Beautiful. Wrong. Safe.
The realization made him seem somehow even more vulnerable.
As you continued downstairs, Anton drifted closer beside you whenever groups of students passed in the opposite direction. Not enough to touch. Just enough that his sleeve brushed your arm occasionally before he corrected the distance again. Like his body naturally sought proximity before his mind remembered it was supposed to maintain space.
By the first floor lobby, the rain outside had softened into a fine mist coating the windows silver.
You adjusted your bag strap. “I’ll see you tomorrow before your lecture?”
Anton nodded immediately.
Then hesitated.
You could tell by now when something was stuck inside him trying to become language.
His fingers moved once against the edge of his sleeve before he finally typed:
| You don’t have to keep talking when I stop responding.
“Oh.”
You frowned slightly. “Was I talking too much?”
He looked alarmed instantly and shook his head hard enough that damp strands of hair fell into his eyes again.
Quickly:
| No.
| Most people become uncomfortable with silence.
You stared at the screen.
Then at him.
“Do you?”
Anton seemed genuinely confused by the question.
| With silence?
“Yeah.”
A long pause.
| Silence is easier because nobody expects immediate versions of you.
The words settled somewhere deep in your chest.
Immediate versions of you.
You thought suddenly about every rushed conversation you’d ever had, every moment people interrupted each other or filled pauses before anyone could truly think. Anton moved through interactions like someone translating feelings manually while everyone else operated automatically.
No wonder he got exhausted.
“You think really beautifully sometimes,” you murmured before you could stop yourself.
Anton went still. Not tense. Just attentive in that startlingly complete way he had.
Then slowly, carefully, he typed:
| You say things to me like they aren’t dangerous.
The comment confused you for half a second before understanding arrived.
Compliments. Kindness. Gentleness.
Things he’d apparently learned to handle cautiously.
Your chest ached again.
“Well,” you said softly, “they aren’t dangerous.”
Anton looked at you for a very long time after that.
Not direct eye contact. You still weren’t sure he’d ever fully meet your eyes comfortably. But his attention stayed fixed near your face with unusual steadiness, expression unreadable beneath the soft fluorescent lobby lights.
Then someone entered the building loudly behind you both, the door slamming harder than necessary.
Anton startled.
Not dramatically, but enough that his hand caught the fabric of your sleeve again automatically.
The movement happened so naturally now that neither of you reacted immediately.
His fingers stayed there lightly curled against your wrist while he glanced back toward the entrance, orienting himself. You looked down at the contact for a second before lifting your eyes toward him again.
Anton followed your gaze belatedly.
A flush spread across his face almost instantly.
He released you carefully this time instead of jerking away.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
The second the word left his mouth, surprise crossed his expression again. Like he still wasn’t entirely deciding when speech happened.
You smiled a little despite yourself. “You don’t have to apologize every time you touch me.”
Anton stared.
You watched the sentence process in real time.
Slowly. Dangerously.
His lips parted slightly before closing again. He looked down toward his own hand like it had become unfamiliar to him somehow.
Then his phone appeared.
| I think about it afterward.
“What part?”
| Whether I was supposed to know something.
Your heartbeat stumbled.
“About touching?”
Tiny nod.
The honesty of it nearly killed you.
You leaned against the wall slightly, trying to steady yourself before answering. “Most people attach meaning to physical affection.”
| Even small things?
“Yes.”
His brows pulled together faintly.
| That seems exhausting.
You laughed softly before you could help it. “It can be.”
Anton watched your face with quiet concentration.
| When you touch me it feels calm.
| So afterward I don’t understand why everyone makes those things complicated.
The entire world seemed to tilt sideways for one horrifying second.
Anton, meanwhile, looked completely sincere.
No flirting. No awareness of the effect he’d just had on you. He said things the way people described weather patterns — observationally, honestly, without understanding how intimate they sounded once spoken aloud.
You were absolutely doomed.
Before you could respond, Anton’s phone buzzed sharply in his hand. The sudden sound made him flinch slightly before checking the screen.
His expression shifted immediately.
“What is it?”
He turned the phone toward you.
A calendar notification.
Dinner — 6:00 PM
Underneath it, another smaller reminder:
Eat full meal. Not snacks.
You blinked.
Then looked at him slowly. “Did someone actually schedule meals into your phone?”
Anton took the phone back.
After a moment:
| I forget.
“You forget to eat?”
Tiny shrug.
| Other things are louder.
-
You looked at him for a moment longer than necessary after that.
Other things are louder.
Anton said sentences like they were simple facts, then left you standing there trying to recover from the weight of them afterward. You wondered if he had any idea how revealing he sounded sometimes, how easily little pieces of himself slipped into conversation before he could recognize them as personal.
Probably not.
“Have you eaten today?” you asked carefully.
Anton’s silence answered first.
You stared at him. “Anton.”
Another pause.
Finally:
| A banana.
“Since when?”
His eyes drifted upward slightly, thinking.
| Morning.
Your chest tightened in immediate irritation. “That’s not enough.”
He looked mildly confused by your tone, like your concern had arrived too intensely for him to categorize right away. You were beginning to notice that too — strong emotion seemed to make him pause longer, processing each word more carefully before deciding how to react.
“I mean…” You exhaled, softening your voice. “No wonder you’re tired.”
Anton leaned lightly against the wall beside you, cardigan sleeves pulled over his hands again while students passed through the lobby in scattered groups. He looked genuinely thoughtful now, considering your statement with unusual seriousness.
| I didn’t notice until you said it.
“That you were hungry?”
Small nod.
You weren’t sure why that made you sad.
Maybe because Anton seemed disconnected from his own body half the time, noticing discomfort only after it became impossible to ignore. Hunger. Overstimulation. Emotions. Everything arrived delayed.
“Well,” you said, adjusting your bag again, “you should eat before your next class.”
His gaze shifted toward the rain outside immediately.
Avoidance.
“You don’t want to go to the dining hall.”
Another tiny nod.
Too loud. Too crowded. Too unpredictable. You could practically map the reasons out yourself already.
“You could get takeout somewhere quieter.”
Anton didn’t answer.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You’re not going to, are you?”
| Eventually.
“That means no.”
Anton blinked slowly, caught.
The expression that crossed his face was so unintentionally cute you almost got angry about it.
Before you could stop yourself, you sighed and said, “Come on.”
He frowned faintly
“Where?”
“There’s a café behind the library that stays pretty empty around this time.”
You watched confusion spread across his expression in stages. Then surprise. Then something more hesitant underneath both.
“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.
The soft sound of his voice caught you off guard again. It was still strange hearing him speak aloud after spending most of the past two days communicating through typed messages and silence. His voice felt intimate somehow. Fragile in a way people instinctively leaned closer to.
“I know,” you said gently. “I want to.”
Anton stared at you for a second too long after that. Then lowered his gaze first.
You were starting to suspect he did that whenever emotions became too large to process immediately.
The walk to the café was quieter than usual because the rain had driven most students indoors. Damp leaves clung to the sidewalks, the entire campus washed gray and silver beneath the evening sky. Anton stayed close beside you without seeming aware of it, occasionally brushing against your shoulder before drifting away again.
At one point, your umbrella tilted slightly from the wind.
Anton adjusted it for you automatically.
Not taking it from your hands. Just reaching up carefully to straighten the angle so the rain stopped hitting your sleeve.
The gesture was so natural it took you a second to even process it.
“Thanks,” you murmured.
He nodded once like the action required no acknowledgment.
The café sat tucked behind the library exactly as promised, warm yellow light glowing through fogged windows. Inside smelled like espresso and cinnamon with soft instrumental music low enough not to overwhelm the room. Only a few students occupied the scattered tables.
Anton stopped just inside the doorway.
You turned toward him. “Too much?”
He looked around carefully.
Then shook his head.
Relief loosened something in your chest.
While you ordered at the counter, Anton lingered several feet away studying the dessert display with complete concentration. Not the food itself, you realized after watching him for a moment.
The colors. The arrangement.
Tiny fruit tarts lined perfectly in rows beneath warm lighting. Frosted cakes decorated with edible flowers. Soft pink macarons stacked like polished stones.
Beautiful things.
You smiled to yourself before ordering.
When you carried the drinks and food back to the table, Anton immediately moved his phone and sleeves out of the way for you with careful precision. You set a sandwich in front of him.
His eyes widened slightly.
“That’s too much,” he murmured.
“It’s half a sandwich.”
“It’s large.”
“You had a banana six hours ago.”
Anton stared at the sandwich like you’d handed him a complicated assignment instead of food.
“You remembered.”
The words landed strangely soft between you.
“Of course I remembered.”
Something changed in his expression again. Small enough that another person probably wouldn’t notice. But you were starting to recognize these tiny shifts now — the way his shoulders loosened when he felt safe, the faint unfocusing of his eyes when emotions became difficult, the careful stillness whenever he was trying to hold onto something internally.
Anton picked up the sandwich obediently after a moment.
You expected him to eat delicately.
Instead, he took one bite and immediately closed his eyes.
Not dramatically. Just briefly.
Processing.
“It’s good?” you asked, amused.
After swallowing, he typed one-handed:
| The bread texture is correct.
You laughed so suddenly a nearby student glanced over.
Anton’s attention snapped immediately toward your face.
Again.
Always again.
He watched your reactions with such complete focus it made your stomach feel strange.
“What?”
His fingers stilled against his phone.
| You laugh differently now than yesterday.
“Oh?”
Tiny nod. Less careful.
You looked down at your drink for a second, suddenly embarrassed by how comfortable you’d already become around him. It had only been two days. Two very strange, emotionally days.
Across from you, Anton continued eating in small precise bites while occasionally glancing toward the rain streaking the café windows. His damp hair had finally begun drying, soft dark strands curling slightly near the ends.
Without warning, he spoke again.
“You touch people a lot?”
You nearly choked on your coffee.
“What?”
Anton looked immediately concerned, like he’d skipped too many conversational steps again without realizing it.
“You…” He paused, visibly searching for the words. “Move close easily.”
“Oh.”
Heat crept into your face embarrassingly fast.
“I mean, not everyone.”
Anton processed that carefully while peeling the wrapper from his straw with meticulous attention.
“Only people you like?”
You stared at him across the tiny café table while he waited with complete sincerity for an answer, entirely unaware of how loaded the conversation had become.
“I guess so,” you admitted quietly.
Anton nodded once.
Then returned to eating like he hadn’t just destabilized your entire nervous system.
For a while, neither of you spoke again.
The café settled into a comfortable hush around you both, low music blending with the soft hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter. Rainwater crawled slowly down the windows in thin uneven trails, turning the lights outside blurry and gold. Anton seemed calmer here than anywhere else you’d seen him on campus so far. Not fully relaxed — you were beginning to think that state barely existed for him — but settled enough that the constant tension in his shoulders had eased.
You watched him absentmindedly peel the paper sleeve from his straw into perfectly even strips.
Not fidgeting.
Organizing.
His sandwich sat precisely centered on the napkin between bites.
“You always do that?” you asked softly.
Anton glanced up.
“With objects.”
Then his eyes drifted toward the neat pile of paper strips beside his drink.
“Oh.”
He looked faintly embarrassed for the first time all evening.
“I’m making a mess,” he murmured.
“No, you’re not.”
You reached over before thinking and straightened one of the uneven paper pieces he’d missed. Anton went completely still watching your fingers brush the table.
The silence stretched.
“You don’t get irritated by things?”
The question caught you off guard. “What kind of things?”
He gestured vaguely toward the strips.
“The wrongness.”
You looked down at the table.
Then back at him slowly.
“I mean… sometimes.”
Anton waited.
“But not like you do, I think.”
He stared at your mouth while you spoke, expression thoughtful and slightly distant again. Processing. You were getting frighteningly good at recognizing when he’d gone inward like that.
After a moment, he typed:
| Most people say I overreact to discomfort.
The ache in your chest returned immediately.
You wondered how many parts of himself Anton had spent years apologizing for simply because other people experienced the world less intensely than he did.
“Well,” you said carefully, “if something genuinely feels overwhelming to you, then it’s overwhelming. Even if other people don’t understand it.”
Anton stopped moving entirely. Listening.
You saw the exact moment your words landed somewhere important.
His fingers tightened once around the edge of his sleeve before loosening again. Then he lowered his gaze toward the table almost abruptly, like he suddenly needed somewhere else to look.
“You say things softly,” he said after a while.
Your heartbeat stumbled.
“What does that mean?”
Anton frowned faintly, searching.
“Like…” He paused again. “Like you don’t want them to hurt anyone.”
The sincerity in his voice nearly killed you on the spot.
You looked away first this time, pretending to focus on your drink so he wouldn’t notice how flustered you’d suddenly become.
Across from you, Anton continued studying you openly in that indirect way he had. Not eye contact exactly. Attention contact. Total and unnervingly observant.
Then his phone buzzed against the table.
The reaction was immediate.
His shoulders tensed before he even checked the screen.
You watched his expression shift as he read the notification. Not upset. Just… burdened.
“What is it?”
Anton turned the phone toward you after a second.
Mom calling
He stared at the screen while it rang. Didn’t answer.
The vibration stopped after several seconds before immediately starting again.
“You should probably pick up,” you said gently.
Anton looked genuinely distressed by the idea.
“She worries if I don’t.”
“Then answer?”
Another ring.
He swallowed faintly before pressing accept and lifting the phone to his ear.
You looked away automatically to give him privacy, but silence stretched so long you eventually glanced back.
Anton hadn’t spoken.
He sat perfectly still listening to the voice on the other end while his thumb rubbed repeatedly against the edge of his sleeve beneath the table.
Then, very quietly:
“Yes.”
A pause.
“No.”
Another pause.
“I ate.”
Something in your chest twisted at how carefully he said each word, like speech over the phone required even more concentration than face-to-face conversation.
His mother’s voice carried faintly through the speaker, too muffled to understand.
Anton’s gaze drifted toward you unexpectedly.
Then away again.
“Yes,” he whispered after another long silence. “I’m with someone.”
Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.
Whatever his mother said next made faint pink rise into his cheeks almost instantly.
“No,” he murmured quickly. “Not like that.”
You nearly inhaled your straw.
Anton looked absolutely horrified the second he realized you’d probably heard that.
His fingers tightened around the phone.
“No,” he repeated, quieter this time. “She’s my aide.”
The sentence shouldn’t have stung. It did anyway.
You hated yourself a little for that.
Another stretch of silence followed while Anton listened again, expression becoming more and more strained by the second. You could almost see the social exhaustion building in real time.
Then finally:
“I know.”
A beat.
“I’ll sleep.”
Another.
“Yes.”
And softer this time:
“Love you too.”
The call ended.
Anton immediately set the phone facedown against the table and exhaled through his nose like he’d been holding tension in his lungs the entire time.
You looked at him carefully. “You okay?”
He nodded automatically. Too quickly.
You didn’t call him out on it.
Instead, you stirred your drink quietly while Anton reorganized the paper sleeve strips again despite already arranging them perfectly. The café lights reflected softly against the silver rings on his fingers.
After a minute, he spoke without looking up.
“She asks if I’ve eaten every day.”
You smiled faintly. “Sounds like she knows you well.”
Anton’s expression shifted strangely.
“She remembers things even when I don’t tell her.”
The words lingered between you both.
Then, after another pause:
“You do that too.”
Your chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.
Before you could answer, Anton finally looked up fully enough that his eyes nearly met yours for half a second. It was the closest he’d gotten yet.
“She’ll think…” He stopped, visibly reorganizing the sentence mid-thought. “She’ll think you’re important.”
The café suddenly felt too warm again.
You stared at him across the table while he remained completely sincere, completely unaware of the effect he had when he spoke like this. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t testing anything. Anton just said honest things before understanding the emotional consequences attached to them.
And somehow that made it worse.
“What do you think?” you asked quietly before you could stop yourself.
The second the question left your mouth, Anton went still.
Slowly, carefully, his attention fixed near your face again while the entire café blurred strangely around you.
Then, after what felt like forever, he answered in a voice barely above a whisper.
“I think…” He paused. “I noticed when you were gone.”
┆ ✰ :: “ you’re insane ( affectionate ) ”
includes :: [ fifteen screenshots ] stranger!sion x reader ( typically gender neutral ). getting to know the cute guy you bumped into ? i like to think sion is a cutie patootie ( he is ). flirty sion oh noooo . . . . . . . . y/n is kind of sarcastic ???? idk how to describe u oops. when in doubt avoidance is the way to go ( sion’s motto ). sion is so very dramatic ( expressive ). ooc sion. absolute, absolute crack fic it moves fast keep up. pictures from pinterest ! all mistakes are unintentional.
authors note, welcome to my first wish work . . . maybe my only wish work . . . lol. anyway i was hit with a wave of sion fever and NEEDED to get it out. so. here is massive flirt and painfully forward sion <3
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ᓚᘏᗢ ♡ 𖾕𖾝꙼ᩚ𛲕𖾟 ♡ ᗢᘏᓗ ࣪ ˖ ⊹
happiest birthday to the love of my life, the best leader and hyung the wishies could’ve ever asked for a.k.a oh sion! may you always be happy and healthy, i love you!
yk nct x reader fanfics are truly dying kind because how come there was not a flood full of jaehyun x reader military discharge ffs... not even 5 mind you 💔
people don’t appreciate the art of smaus anymore lol
Thank you to everyone who got me to 100 likes! 🥹🥹 it means so much to me!!
midnight ramen
paring: roommate riku x Fem!reader
warnings: none except it's a lot of fluff around the end
song!: 별빛이피면Star Blossom by Doyoung • Kimsejeong & Rain by BTS
a/n : this is my first post (in writing terms!) & enjoy!! ♡
Y/N is returning to her dorm after a long day working, the sun has set. “Gosh these stairs are going to be the DEATH of me” The sound of charms clinking as she takes out her keys and unlocks the dorm room, Y/N leaves her shoes at the front and sighs, “home at last”. she looks around for any sight of her roommate “hmm he must be sleeping” she thought, leaving her work bag and purse on the countertop. And without wasting another second she hopped into the shower, after a nice and hot shower she puts on a baggy shirt and pyjama pants. Then she hops onto the couch “hmm what should I watch” she scrolls through netflix contemplating whether she should watch “weak hero” or “ see you in my 19th life” she chooses the second more relaxing option. two in a half hours deep into the show her stomach grumbles “rightt I forgot to eat, dude i'm so hungryyy” she mutters to herself she gets up to the fridge. Only to be faced with NOTHING. Absolutely NOTHING. “No way there's nothing in this fridge,” she sighs in defeat. Walking back to sit on the couch, dramatically, “Whatever, I'm just gonna think what I could order as I continue watching.” A few minutes after she heard a door creak open, it was her half-asleep roommate, shuffling down with his blanket wrapped around him “Helloo Riku!” she chirped “ oops sorry Was my show too loud?” she apologized, “noo it's fine don't worry, I'm just really hungry.” he plopped down beside her “That's funny cause i'm also hungry— but there's nothing in the fridge.”
She looks at him they sat there in pure silence “we could go to this ramen bar, they are always open… its very quiet” he recommends while he's rubbing his eye “ohmygosh that's perfect lets go” the girl got sudden energy grabbed her wallet and keys “hey! i'm paying” the sleepy boy started to get up leaving the soft fluffy blanket on the couch. Going into his room and grabbing his wallet. The duo slid their slippers on and left their dorm. Walking down the stairs, soon walking to the ramen bar, even though it was almost midnight, the parks and restaurants and area were still lively, with warm lighting in the parks, friends hanging out in a relaxing atmosphere. Once the two got to their destination, they opened the door and the quiet chime of a bell, only two seats taken, and relaxing jazz music. “I think I might just fall asleep here by accident,” Y/N sat down next to Riku. “Right?” he chuckled. “Okay, let us choose what we would like to eat– before we fall asleep.” The two ordered what they would like to eat, and once they knew it, the food was served. “Oh my goodness, there's nothing better than this at midnight,” Y/N spoke, almost drooling. The fresh ramen came out. Then they started to feast. “That was delicious. I feel way more sleepy now,” Riku yawned as he rubbed his eyes. He got up and paid, Y/N got up and waited at the door till he was finished paying. “Thank you so much– really the food was amazing,” she brightly said as they opened the door, and the quiet chime of the bell rang again Walking back to the dorm, the same relaxing atmosphere, the lights in the parks seemed as if there were stars in the trees, the two where quite, not a awkward silence, but a rather a soft, comforting silence. Until someone broke it, “Hey we should stop by the convenience store over there and get some bread, instant ramen, and some other stuff,” the boy pointed “YES that would be perfect” the girl chirped, getting to the very bright store. Y/N wandered through the aisles picking out bread, cheese, rice balls and different types of juices and sodas, while on the other hand Riku got instant ramen, and choosed out a few sweets, The two met at the cashier, unknowingly that they are both smiling at eachother, they payed and continued their way onto their dorm, finally climbing up the stairs one last time. Y/N took out her keys and unlocked the door. “Oh my goodness, I am TIREDD she plopped onto the couch, as well as Riku after he put the bags of groceries on the counter, to put away tomorrow. “This couch is eating me alive!!” the girl dramatically speaks “noo don't die yet—” the boy stretches “you still owe me a rematch in mario kart” Y/N looks at him “in your dreams Maeda” she teased the boy smiled, letting out a boyish grin, he grabs the blanket from the armrest shaking it before putting it over the both of them “you will freeze to death if you sleep like that— the ac today is seriously strongly” the girl too exhausted to say anything stays there looking at up at him with sleepy eyes. The boy secured the large blanket over her shoulders, their legs brushing against each other, the girl scooting closer to him, Riku shifted a bit, getting more comfortable, unknowingly slipping an arm around her. The girl's heart does a series of flips, looking up again and making eye contact with him again, the boy with a giggling expression. The girl whispers, “You're comfy.” Heat radiating to her face, Riku whispers, “You are too.” The boy yawned, putting his head on her head. “Sleep well,l y/n,” voice warm and soft, making y/n melt. “You too, Riku.” Between everything that happened that night, she didn't mind being tangled up, cuddling him, and judging by the way Riku’s hand brushed her shoulder it seemed like Riku didn't mind either. Before Y/N was drifting off to sleep, Riku hummed “you're like a heater– my own personal heater,” he teasingly said to Y/N, elbowing him lightly. “Lucky you then,” she sleepily responded. “Best heater everrr” he nuzzling a little closer without a not even the tiniest hint of shame.
Tags!: @peterm4rker
How you met your piecer bf!riku
head cannons (idk if this counts as head cannons LOL)
Riku x introvert!Reader a/n: I saw a TikTok post about what nctwish would do if they weren't K-pop idols!! So yep! This was so rushed, but enjoy! & reader might seem insecure for a few moments.
-You were on your way to your first piercing appointment, and you decided to finally get a belly piercing after mustering enough confidence
-You're overthinking the closer you get to the piercing studio, you just pray you get someone nice and gentle
-As you open the door, you check in and sign your stuff, then the receptionist asks you to choose the jewelry for your navel. After saying that, the receptionist said the piercer will be there soon
-The moment you saw him, you knew you were done for. He is so gorgeous that he could be a literal model, and he's wearing a black tank top, which really puts a sharp contrast with his tan skin.
-He smiled, "Hey im Riku im gonna be taking care of you today, follow me to the procedure room," he says as he steadily puts on his sterile gloves
-Honetly this man right in front of you was gorgeous and charming, and he had this scent of something like a mix of sweet, cedar, and nutty, you felt yourself get embarrassingly nervous, and a slight blush rose to your cheeks... and you're starting to think he noticed
-"First time?" he breaks the silence, holding back a smile at how cute you are. You nod "yes," your hands shaking a little. "Don't worry, I have very steady hands. Could you sit down so I could see your navel shelf? giving a soft, airy smile
-After he checks and makes sure you have the correct anatomy, he disinfects the area and carefully explains every step before he touches anything
-He's used to people getting nervous about the needles, but he notices you don't seem exactly nervous about the needles; you're nervous about him
-He was leaning over you, ready to do the piercing. You held in your breath in a nervous trance. He paused, and you could feel the warmth of his breathe "You have to breathe for me, okay?" his voice was silky and soft; it felt like a quick pinch well, a very long pinch...
-After the piercing, he cleaned up the area and gave after-care instructions, and walked you to the receptionist so you could pay. Before you could leave, he gentley taps your shoulder and handed you a tiny piece of paper.
____________________________________________
a year later
-"Do you remember when we first met? You were so cute and nervous and super shy," he giggles, as he tightens his hug around you, "Riku! Stop, you gave off a super strong impression, okay?? I hope you aren't giving your phone number to any other girl though," you teased "neverrr i absolutely adore my girlfriend here she is the cutest" he says as he squishes your cheeks"
-Since dating Piercer!Riku, you've maybe come back and gotten a few other piercings
-On your first date with Piercer!Riku was such a gentleman, and you eventually got over your shyness with him (kinda). You guys hit it off amazingly; it felt like you guys had known each other since forever, talking about interests and childhood memories and beyond.
-Piercer!Riku is such an attentive boyfriend, he's so caring and gentle, and seriously the cutest, despite sometimes maybe seeming a little intimidating, he IS the cutest. Whenever you visit him at his apartment, and if he sees that you might feel the slightest bit down, he would say, "What's up, doll, you seem sad?" depending on the answer. It doesn't really matter because he would be showering you with love and spoiling you, asking what you would want to eat for that night or do for the rest of the night.
-your thinking, damn getting that piercing was so worth it.
------------------------------------------------------
I hope you guys liked it!! And I hope it wasn't cringe LOL I did not spell check, I finished this at 1 am LOL
taglist: @gyubvlin
I’m actually gonna start writing now #finally I’m so sorry anon for having you wait so much 🥹🥹 school has been busting my ass 🫡
my angels!!!
this is not my usual post, but we genuinely need all wishzens to help!!!
currently there’s a voting on mnet plus for m countdown, and the wishies are head to head with cortis. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE vote on mnet plus if you can, this win would mean so much to the boys, no one deserves this more than them.
all you gotta do is download mnet plus, create an account and under the vote tab look for the pre-vote for m countdown. you gotta watch some short ads, but i PROMISE it won’t take more than 3 minutes!!!!
let’s get this win for our hardworking boys 🥹🥹
IF NOT FOR ME THEN DO IT FOR FETUS SION
YES PLEASE VOTE FOR NCT WISH!!
Someone plz reccomend me a very fluffy fic or Smau 🥹
𝜗𝜚ྀི hirono ─── ohyul ꭖ reader
sყnopsis ⋮ on your birthday night, you wished for your recently acquired hirono doll to become human.
୨𝑒 gꫀnrꫀ ⋮ fluff ১ slice of life ১ fantasy ১ reverse isekai
୨𝑒 𑜴ᥲrnings ⋮ this is part two ! not proofread. ohyul is a bit jealous, reader is kinda oblivious. physical touch (all innocent), kissing. two months skip.
O1 ಎ O2 ಎ O3 ◝◜ w/c: 2222 ᘏᘏ
you lazily got out of bed, sliding your bare feet into your slippers to head towards the living room.
it's not that you're interested in playing the guitar. actually, you couldn't care less. you had a phase when you were younger, but everyone has it and eventually grows out of it, right?
you just wanted to bond. you wanted to be a good roomie. a good friend. a good person, because it's the bare minimum you could do for someone who exists because of you, even if he’d rather use the expression “at your mercy” instead.
"okay, let's see what you've got," you teased as you opened the door of your room.
silence.
one step. two steps. three steps.
and you found that scene.
there he was, sprawled out on the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling, arms crossed, uncharacteristically unbothered and nonchalant to your presence.
oh, how you wish you could dive in his thoughts and understand what goes on in that pretty head.
oh, nevermind. that one word is dangerous. however, the fact he was unreadable sent shivers down your spine.
then you noticed a small detail on the coffee table next to him. a tall decorative candle was burning, and right beside it was a vanilla-scented candle you’d received for your birthday.
"hey, you weren't supposed to light those candles," you said as you took in his messy silhouette against the leather by standing up in front of him.
"whatever," he muttered, his voice flat, his gaze still in love with whatever he was projecting on the ceiling.
he'd normally be ashamed at your subtle scold and start frantically apologizing to you. the usual shy aura covering his body intensifying, bowing with his whole body ninety degrees.
but he wasn't. and that was scary.
maybe he had finally reached his final character arc and become an evil doll. and try to take over the world, starting with your apartment.
or maybe you did something upsetting to him. or maybe he was just tired. or maybe you were overthinking.
"whatever?" you pointed out. "it's not whatever. it was a gift."
"wasn't i a gift too?" he shot, a smirk forming on his rbf.
"so should i light you on fire?", a witty snap from you, that should've resulted in the previously predicted outcome.
but again, it didn't.
"you enlighten me in other ways," was his comeback. as those words left his mouth, he finally shifted his gaze to you, silently staring.
not looking.
staring.
in one swift, fluid motion, he had you right where he wanted.
he hooked his arm around your waist and pulled, dragging you down onto the cushions, falling beside him.
well, technically, on him, since your head landed right on his bicep.
"let's just sleep," he murmured, closing his eyes. "i'm telling you, this couch is so comfy."
"there’s no space to build a pillow wall in here," you said while sitting up, embarrassed by how bold he was being, nervous at the sudden physical contact, and afraid of dealing with a doll that might have just been possessed by some sassy being.
"…whatever."
he slowly sat up, settling next to you and picking up the guitar, which was resting quietly on the floor, leaning against the wall. “i’m teaching you two chords. you are not nailing them tonight, but within two weeks, you might be able to pull them off without the strings buzzing here and there.”
“and what am i supposed to do with two chords?”
“well, bragging about knowing two chords.” a pause. “and playing 505 by arctic monkeys.”
“such a basic song.”
“still a bop by the way, and the easiest one for beginners. unless you wanna start with wayo by bang yedam.”
“no thanks.”
ohyul handed you the guitar, ensuring your non-dominant hand held the neck, and from there, he began to maneuver your body as if you were a puppet.
his fingers barely touched you, and before every movement, he sought your eyes for permission. with subtlety, he spread your legs just enough for the curve of the guitar to rest on the one of your dominant side.
“put that foot on your tiptoes so your leg is higher,” he indicated, aiming to lift the neck of the guitar for your comfort. “yeah, exactly that way,” as you followed the instruction.
“you’ll wanna position your fingers the closest you can to the fret itself. the sound will come out cleaner. it’ll hurt like hell, but hey, you can bear it.” his fingers pressing firmly against yours to help you find the right tension across the steel strings, adjusting your wrist.
hours went by like that, you messing up, the strings buzzing or sounding completely muffled. he never laughed. he didn't mock you, didn't crack jokes, didn't humiliate you for not knowing. he’d hit you with a “let’s try this way,” and continue to help you find what worked best for you, his warm touch soothing up the growing pain in your fingertips.
when you finally managed to play the first chord, an Em, his smile was as wide as a melon slice. you felt it travel to the deepest corners of your heart, which raced from the thrill of being looked at with those summer eyes, rather than from the thrill of the achievement itself.
“well, now, the Dm…” ohyul slowly leaned in, his focus on the fretboard, guiding your index finger to the first fret of the high E string, then taking your middle finger to the second fret of the G string and your ring finger to the third fret of the B string. “now,” he whispered, “just strum the bottom four strings. should come neat.”
you tried. oh, you really tried. but by the twelfth time, you finally gave up.
“i can’t do this,” you muttered, hanging your head low as you handed him the guitar and stood up from the couch, your energy completely drained.
“you can… you’re just tired, your fingers feel dizzier than your mind.”
ohyul was right. it felt as if your fingerprints had been scorched off with a blowtorch, and that’s not something any mortal can easily endure. luckily for you, the power came back on at that moment, so you could sleep comfortably with the heating on and under your sherpa blankets. “this is good timing, let’s go sleep,” you told him, getting up from the couch and walking toward your bedroom.
“i’m staying here. i claim this as my new bed,” he replied, one arm already covering his eyes, his voice raspier and deeper. you didn't react; you just kept walking.
but as you tossed and turned in bed, unable to fall asleep, you realized that protesting his completely arbitrary decision might have been a better option.
the doorknob began to turn slowly, as if there were a baby who could wake up at the slightest noise. he entered and closed the door with the same delicacy, not bothering to turn on the light. he carefully lay down on his side of the bed, dismantling the pillow wall that divided you, one by one.
by the time he finished, with that heavy breathing so characteristic of him, he moved a bit closer to you. when he was close enough for your breaths to become one with every exhale, he took your hand and brought it to his chest. you could feel his heart beating strongly, a sign of life. “i get sleepy and hungry too. since the day i got here, y/n, i’ve been more of a human than a doll. i’ll always be a hirono, but now i’m alive and i want to find a reason to be.”
“what if you make that wish?” you suggested, your hand sliding up to his neck to find his pulse, wanting to feel his heart from every possible place.
“nah, i have a better one in mind,” he answered, pulling away from you and rearranging the pillow wall. “goodnight, y/n.”
𓏼𝜗℘
from that day on, your relationship with ohyul was so much closer you. two hung out together everywhere, you even introduced him to your friends as your "childhood best friend" who just moved into the city to not raise any doubts, although your best friend obviously didn't flinch to comment he looked a lot like the hirono she gifted you two months and a half ago.
you even learnt how to play the guitar. well, just a few chords that he had to explain over and over, but your fingers felt definitely smoother. he also learnt how to play chess, and you regretted it as soon as he started winning.
about ryul? he was long forgotten once you noticed you weren't remotely the only woman who had a reciprocated eye on him.
on sunday, after dinner, you walked out of your bedroom with the chessboard in your hand towards the living room, aiming to play with your roomie.
you found him, once again, sprawled out on the couch for the second time since you two coexisted in the same temporal and physical space. the sight got you reminiscing of that night almost three months ago, when he got you wrapped around his finger by simply placing his hands on yours. "hey, chess?"
"whatever," he answered uninterested, sitting up. "i'm whites."
you raised your eyebrows. "someone's in a mood…" high-pitched, as in making fun of him.
"ferrari didn't make it to the podium. how couldn't i?", completely oblivious to your gesture.
"you've adapted so good to the human experience that you're now getting mad over sports?"
"i get mad over a lot of things," he sighed.
"such as?"
he glanced at you and immediately went back to arranging the chessboard, his cheeks blushing. "you being so blind."
"what the heck are you trying to say?"
ohyul sat more comfortably and stared into your eyes. he didn't look away for a single split of second, his annoyed expression transmuting into pure shyness.
he took two deep breaths, as if it was burdening for him whatever he wanted to communicate. "you wanna know what i wished for that night?"
your silence filled the room, heavy but approving, as in indicating him to continue.
"you."
your chest dropped, a whole twist. "well, i wished for you too."
"but i did it intentionally," he scratched the back of his neck, his gaze slowly turning to the ground. "i wished for you not to see me as a birthday-gift-gone-wrong that you are forced to bring everywhere because you have no other choice."
"that's a waste of a wish. i don't bring you everywhere because of the respawn rule," your voice almost a whisper. "i bring you everywhere because i like being with you. it's been two months and i don't think i'll ever be able to drink another smoothie that's not made by you."
"but i'm still your hirono…", he fidgeted with the sleeve of your sweater, anxiety eating him alive.
"essentially, you'll always be my hirono. but you're my ohyul. my only ohyul. not a birthday-gift-gone-wrong. a life gift."
a glimpse of a smile appeared and disappeared from his face. "i'd like to wish for one more thing upon the stars, anyway."
"what's it?", you gently asked, curious.
"for the pillow wall to not be there anymore."
and that's when you understood. that's when the past two months and a half started making sense. that's when you admitted that sometimes, you also craved the same.
"why?", you questioned, trying to hide the smirk on your face, playing the fool.
"because i wanna hug you and kiss you every time i feel like it."
"and you feel like it when we're sleeping?"
he turned to you and caressed your cheek for a few seconds before tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, and carefully leaned in to give you a little peck.
neither of you moved away, so he went for another. and another. and it slowly became a kiss, a gentle one, that almost felt like true love.
when you two got out of breath, he kissed your forehead and wrapped you in his arms. "i feel like that all the time."
after some minutes of just breathing next to each other, he spoke again. "so… referring to the many tiktoks i've seen, i… can we be more than hirono and owner?"
"have we not always been more than hirono and owner?"
"but i wanna take you on proper dates and make you fall in love with me, and make you my girlfriend some day…" his eyes lit up as if he committed a crime, and started bowing his head all over as he recited his usual apologies. "only if that's okay! you can always dump me! i'm so sorry!"
"i hope you plan the first date soon," you said, placing your index finger on his mouth to zip it and quickly withdrawing it.
"oh… i will! i promise i'll be good!"
you straddled his lap to get a better grip on him and hugged him tight, the vulnerability of both of you floating around, creating a beautifully fragile environment.
"may i ask for one silly favor?" you muttered on his shoulder.
"mhm."
"no more guitar before 9 am,"
"you might have to wish for it on your next birthday," he giggled.
© next2yul ◝ ⩊ ◜
likes & reblogs r appreciated !
THIS IS THE CUTEST THING IVE READ OH MY GOODNESS
hirono — kwon ohyul x reader 𓏼˚̣̣̣𐂯
꒰ "be careful of what you wish for, you might just get it." ੭
synopsis: on your birthday night, you wished for your recently acquired hirono doll to become human.
୨𝑒 genre: fluff, slice of life, fantasy, reverse isekai.
୨𝑒 warnings and tags: reader trusts a complete stranger just for the plot, ohyul is a literal doll figure that came alive, forced proximity as a love trope implied, time skips, relationship dynamic shifts rapidly.
୨𝑒 a/n: first post, kinda nervous (｡ŏ﹏ŏ) this is absolutely not proofread so i apologize for any typo mistake! also english isn't my first language so bear w/me (人 •͈ᴗ•͈) this is gonna be a short series because i'm obsessed with this prompt. feel free to send suggestions and pls give some love to this ♡
01 02 | wc: 1,7k | navigation
𓏼𝜗℘
the last notes of the birthday song faded into the clapping and warm cheers of your friends, all of them standing by your side to celebrate that you are now a year older.
as you leaned in to blow out the candles, your best friend’s voice reached you—the one who’d given you the best gift of the night. she was right there, smiling and glowing, phone in hand. 'make a wish!' she beamed, recording the moment to post it on her feed later.
you were never one to wish upon stars or birthday candles; you knew all too well to be careful what you wished for, lest it actually come true. you asked for something unserious to waste the wish, just to protect yourself and play along.
“i wish my hirono was a real person,” you spat out, and the candlelight went out.
big slanted eyes, dark brown messy hair, a short-sleeved black button-up, low-rise flared jeans, and an acoustic guitar in his hand. the doll was cute, peacefully resting in its box. your best friend knew you’d been craving one, so she got it for you tonight, and you didn't miss the chance to thank her.
hours later, with no one left but you, you carefully shut the door to your apartment and turned the lock, just like you did every night. you grabbed every gift bag and box from those who had come to celebrate with you and started finding a place for everything. the scented candles on the living room sideboard, the skincare kit in the bathroom's mini-closet, the rings in your jewelry box, and your hirono on the nightstand right beside your bed, out of his box.
you weren't quite sure when your eyelids finally gave in to gravity, nor when you fell so deep into sleep that the sound of the rain outside ceased to exist in your room. however, it was a restless night, full of nightmares and an overall uncomfortable feeling.
the next thing you know, you wake up to your alarm at six am, ready to face another day. you squeezed your eyes shut as the sunlight filtered slightly through the cream-colored curtains, and then you heard it.
“don’t try to kill me and don’t call the police, please”, and you grabbed your phone as if it could protect you from the unknown intruder by itself. how could it be possible? a forced door? a broken window?
still dizzy, you jumped out of the bed and tried to run in desperation to call out for help, but he caught you with a firm, yet gentle grip on your wrist. he swallowed hard, his gaze searching out for yours, looking almost as confused and scared as you were. you tried to shake off his grip, struggling against him, but it only made him hold on tighter as his free hand reached for your shoulder, shaking you slightly, trying to ground you.
“i don’t have any weapons with me! and i’m not evil! you literally wished for me!” his voice trembled with nerves, even stuttering a little. he let you go and sank to his knees on the floor, begging. “i need you to trust me! you’re also a stranger to me! please don’t hurt me!” his head was bowed, eyes shut, hands in a prayer, and completely at your feet.
then you studied him. big slanted eyes, dark brown messy hair, a short-sleeved black button-up, low-rise flared jeans, and an acoustic guitar leaning against your —now empty— nightstand.
it all immediately clicked, and everything went blank.
𓏼𝜗℘
“hey, you’re dozing out”, he said as he handed you a glass of water that you were obviously not going to drink. “my name is ohyul, and i’m indeed your hirono”.
“leave”, was all you managed to say. how on earth does a figure come alive? what kind of novel were you in? the shock had you zoning out in panic for god knows how long, and he had patiently waiting for you to return to your senses, sitting right next to you in the edge of your bed.
“i can’t,” you received as an answer. “you technically own me, so i can’t leave you.”
“then i’m gonna sell you,” you fought back, pointing toward the door.
"even though i'd love to leave, i physically can't", he began to explain, taking the water glass away from your hands to drink it himself. "i'm... your property. even if you sold me, i don't belong to this reality. you brought me here, so you're... responsible for me."
"so what happens if i kick you out of my apartment?" you asked, genuinely curious and afraid.
"i respawn back here, and the loop repeats itself", he answered, eyes facing the floor, cheeks blushed out of pure guilt.
"and if i let you live here and move out by myself?" you tested the options, because there had to be a way out of this.
"i respawn back at wherever you are. i belong to your reality, i told you, i'll simply stick to you. we can't be physically apart for more than 24 hours". a long pause, silence from both ends. "i'm sorry", he whispered as a tear slid down his face.
"don't be", the quick thought formed and you verbalized it instantly. "this is my fault."
"i know how to cook, and do the house chores, and play videogames, and give advice, and how to sing and play the guitar... and i can pretty much do everything you want me to", he said, trying to convince you of not getting rid of him. "just treat me right."
"alright", you sighed. "you can stay. i hope you don't eat that much."
the more you thought about it, the more interesting it'd get. your hirono indeed came to life. maybe you'd ask for a million dollars on your next birthday. for now, you only had a real-life version of the cutest doll ever, and that was just about enough.
"i don't disappoint", he smirked, gaze still fixed on his feet, playing with the hem of your sweater. "we're definitely gonna have fun."
"you sound like a creep", you muttered.
"sorry, first time being a human, kinda nervous", on the other end.
𓏼𝜗℘
two weeks had passed and your hirono and you really hadn't talked much. he'd get up —from the shared bed, only divided by a wall of pillows— earlier than you and clean up a little bit, fix breakfast and then wake you up unintentionally by playing his guitar in the living room leather couch, humming ed sheeran songs, that you assumed were his favorite ones.
the interactions were awkward and distant, as if there was too much respect on both sides to be more affective towards each other.
"what's your schedule for today?" ohyul glanced at you while you were eating, still in your pajamas, and then went back to tuning his guitar.
"i'm having dinner with ryul, not much besides". you let the spoon rest on the intern edge of the oatmeal bowl, staring at the rain through the window.
"who is ryul?" as he adjusted the capo on the third fret.
"just a guy." you stood up to do the dishes and to avoid looking at him, already expectant of the answer.
you hadn't left the house yet since ohyul spawned. you hadn't left the house yet, since ohyul spawned.
"y/n?" his voice dropping an octave, placing the guitar carefully on your couch and heading towards the kitchen, facing your back. "may i have the moment to ask for something?"
his sudden formality shook your spine. "what's it?", you simply nodded.
"don't go."
a goosebump. then another. you dropped the ceramic bowl and the sponge at once inside the sink, slipping through your hands at the scene. with no guts to face him, you replied:
"oh, i'm totally going",
"no, don't go".
his cold hand landed on your shoulder all of a sudden, soft despite having cleaned the whole house a few minutes ago.
"i don't wanna be alone here", he explained. "won't you watch out for me?"
"you're certainly not a child", you snapped. "it's gonna be a few hours, i need social interactions and fresh air"
"then why do you even need a date when you can just have dinner with me?", an unexpected retort coming from him.
"because i wanna get him", as a quip.
"he's probably ugly and doesn't know how to light a stove." ohyul's hand traveled all the way to your jaw, turning it softly for you to face him. "i'll wait for you awake, y/n. so you can tell me if you bagged him or not", flashing back and heading off in a blink.
𓏼𝜗℘
you reminisced about those words for the rest of the day. the weather was perfect for it: rain, gray sky, cold breeze.
you wished for your hirono to be human, and the only thing that you've done with him is thanking him for handling your house chores better than you've done throughout the years, and listening to his singing when you feel stressed.
the night came after scolding yourself for your attitude towards someone whose eternity is now condemned to be with you just because you wanted to be funny, and whose only aim was to care for you, doing more than his fair share. after, you deemed it the right hour to dress up for your date.
it seems like the universe had other plans, anyway.
the music blasting in your room's tv stopped. the lights were suddenly turned off and your wifi connection was lost.
a power outage. the storm was so bad that it had to be a power outage tonight, on the night of your date with the guy you'd been crushing on for the past few months. of course.
"i swear these things only happen to me", you muttered through your teeth, clenching them.
"maybe it's a sign", ohyul yelled from the hallway.
"i don't believe in signs", you countered.
"your doll became a human and you don't believe in signs?"
"fair enough".
𓏼𝜗℘
you spent the first few hours scrolling through your phone, spending the very few mobile data you had left.
but as six hours went by and there was no sight of electricity coming back anytime soon, with your phone almost dead, you found the perfect opportunity to bound with your roomie.
01 | 02
★ pairing: 권오율 idol! kwon ohyul x manager!reader
★ summary: managing the new hottest group in kpop might not be as easy as one might think.
★ warnings: cursing i think? nothing serious once again.
★ n/a: second part of gods knows how many. The eas series will be updated on Wednesdays i decided so you will get random posts on Saturday still 🤓
★ permanent taglist: @blubb0 @gyubvlin
★ fic taglist: @bammbi-jeon127 @taelvvrzz @started-with-f-ends-with-uck
