I Hate Men (Except You) | Anton.L ── .✦
☁︎ Genre: Romantic Comedy, Fluff, Slow-Burn Romance, Humor, Slice-of-Life, Sassy Banter
☁︎ Warnings: Contains strong language, sexual innuendo, flirty teasing, embarrassing situations, stalking-esque persistence (fictional/harmless), intense makeout scene, and moments of emotional vulnerability.
☁︎ Summary : You’re a “I hate men” final boss who can set up everyone else’s love life but has zero luck yourself. Enter Anton Lee: sassy, persistent, and annoyingly perfect. From Tinder disasters to embarrassing run-ins, he’s determined to prove he’s nothing like the other idiots. Can the ultimate man-hater survive… falling for him?
I have a serious problem. Actually, scratch that—I have a final-boss-level problem. I hate men. Every single one. Loud, stupid, clueless, “let me fix your life” men. They all suck. Every. Fucking. One.
I’m a matchmaker. Not some fairy-godmother bullshit—my friends come to me, I pick out the perfect guys, I arrange the dates, and I make it work. I’m brilliant at it. Except… for me. Me, the genius behind everyone else’s love life? I can’t land a single decent guy. Every time a man tries to enter my life, I slam the fucking door. Not metaphorically. I mean literal emotional fortress, drawbridge, moat, the whole medieval vibe.
So yeah, men? Hate them. Until Anton Lee.
It started on Tinder, obviously. I wasn’t looking—my life was already chaotic enough with all the dating disasters I orchestrated. I swiped left on 97% of the men on the app. The other 3%? Swipe left harder. Then… Anton. His profile picture: leaning against a wall, smirk so confident it screamed, “I know I’m hot and you’re going to melt,” and somehow it worked. I swiped left. Twice. Then, by accident, I swiped right. Match. And of course, he messaged first.
“Finally, someone who didn’t ghost me in 0.2 seconds,” he said.
I blinked. Typed. Deleted. Typed. Deleted again. Then finally: “Wrong person. Definitely lost.”
Instant reply: “Pretty sure I’m not. Hi.”
“Challenge accepted,” he replied, thumbs-up emoji included.
Our first date was a disaster waiting to happen. I arrived expecting the usual awkward guy who’d overcompensate and ruin everything. Instead, Anton appeared with a bouquet of the tiniest, slightly dead-looking flowers you could imagine and that fucking grin.
“I know you probably hate me already,” he said, smirking, “but I swear I’m not like the other idiots.”
“Oh, really?” I folded my arms. “Every man says that. Every. Fucking. One.”
He tilted his head. “Then I guess I’ll have to prove it. Lucky for you, I’m persistent.”
I glared. “Persistent? That’s a polite way of saying stalking. Are you… stalking me?”
“Technically, no. Strategically observing,” he replied, smug as hell.
“…You’re insane,” I muttered.
“And you’re adorable when you glare,” he said, completely ignoring me.
Things escalated quickly. He texted me memes at 2 a.m. that made me snort-laugh, which I hated because laughing meant he won. He remembered my coffee order, my favorite snacks, even that I hated green socks. He was everywhere I went—like some sassy, persistent shadow.
One afternoon, he showed up at my favorite bookstore, leaning against the shelf with that smug smirk. “You know,” he said, sliding over a book I’d been eyeing for weeks, “I think this belongs to the woman I’m trying to annoy into liking me.”
“You are literally the worst,” I groaned, throwing my bag on the floor. Cheeks burning, of course.
“Am I?” He tilted his head. “Or am I the only one who can make the final boss of man-hating smile?”
I groaned again. “You little shit.”
Then came embarrassing moment #1. He “accidentally” bumped into me while I was walking to class. My bag exploded. Papers, pens, my notebook—chaos.
“Oops,” he said, smirk practically screaming, “my bad.”
“I HATE YOU,” I yelled, crawling on the floor trying to salvage my dignity, only to realize my skirt had flipped up and someone walking by got a bonus show.
“Don’t worry,” he crouched next to me, “I only have eyes for you.”
I wanted to die on the spot. From embarrassment. And… maybe a little flutter of something I was not ready to admit.
Then embarrassing moment #2: Chess. He “claimed he knew the rules,” and within ten minutes, he trapped me in the dumbest, most humiliating checkmate imaginable.
“You literally walked into your own doom,” he laughed, leaning back like it was the funniest thing on earth.
“I am the final boss!” I shouted, ready to flip the board.
“And final bosses fall sometimes,” he teased, grabbing my hand in mock victory. I wanted to punch him. And maybe… squeeze his hand back. Fuck.
Weeks passed. He became… everywhere. Coffee shop. Library. My favorite park bench. I caught myself laughing at his dumb jokes, smiling at his texts, and somehow… I didn’t want to hate him. Not completely.
One rainy afternoon, I was sulking under a tree with my notebook soaked and my hair plastered to my forehead.
“You know, you’re impossible,” I groaned.
“I know,” he crouched next to me, hoodie draped over my shoulders. “But somehow… you’re my favorite impossible.”
I blinked. “Are you some kind of pick me?”
“Nope,” he smirked. “Just me. And I think you’re worth it.”
My chest betrayed me, pounding like an idiot. “You’re insane,” I whispered.
“Probably,” he said softly, brushing raindrops off my notebook. “And so are you. But that’s why I like you.”
Finally, the rooftop. I was scrolling through Tinder out of habit, trying to ignore the feelings I absolutely did not want.
“Cheating on me with apps now?”
I nearly choked. “What the fuck—how did you—”
“Persistence, remember?” he leaned casually against the railing. “I exist. Everywhere you don’t expect. And apparently… everywhere you need.”
“Shut the hell up,” I groaned, hiding my face.
“Not happening,” he stepped closer. “You think you can keep shutting men out… and I’m just supposed to leave? Not a chance.”
“You little shit,” I muttered.
“Yeah,” he smirked, “and now… you’re mine.”
Then he kissed me. Holy fuck. That wasn’t a peck. Not gentle. Not testing. That was ugh yes this is it, this is the kiss I want, the one that melts your entire brain—full-on, sloppy, teeth-bumping, hands-everywhere, screaming-I-love-this-moment makeout session. My hands tangled in his hair, his hands pressed to my waist, and suddenly all the walls I’d built against men came crashing down like a hurricane.
When we finally broke apart, panting and flushed, I whispered, “You’re insane.”
“Probably,” he smirked, forehead pressed to mine. “But also… perfect.”
I groaned, collapsing against him. “You little fucker. I hate men.”
He kissed my temple, smirked, and muttered, “Yeah… but not me. Not even a little.”
And somehow… I didn’t argue.
