content warning: smut, 18+ content, syong likes it sloppy lol, reader is a bit inexperienced
word count: 1.6k
your friend sungchan teaches you how to give head.
you were lying on the couch, a lollipop in your mouth, watching a nu-horror film that sungchan picked out from your collection.
as a testament of its time, the movie cut to a sex scene. an oral sex scene, to be specific.
"jinsu. how do you give good head?"
the speed by which sungchan snapped his head in your direction made you think that there's no way in hell he couldn't have gotten a quasi-whiplash from it.
"what the fuck are you talking about?"
"how do you give good head? is that such a complex question to comprehend?"
"have you never asked a guy what they liked before?"
"no. men irritate me to no end. also.. i'm shy. i just do it by feel."
"ah, you're shy, just not with me?"
"fuck off."
the movie filled whatever silence may have settled between the two of you. for a brief moment, you thought sungchan may have simply brushed off what you said.
"i like it sloppy."
"what do you mean by that?"
syong stood up from where he sat on the living room floor and situated himself on the opposite end of the couch, forcing you to sit up as he did so. he nodded towards the lollipop that you had in your mouth.
"you know how sometimes, your saliva pools around the lollipop you're sucking? something like that."
you pulled the lollipop out of your mouth, pretending to inspect it to avoid sungchan's gaze. you suddenly made a split second decision that you regretted the moment you said it.
"can you teach me?"
sungchan thought you were fucking with him. you were always messing with each other. your relationship was brash, borderline boyish, with the way you liked to toy with the other.
another almost-silence settled between the two of you. a loaded one this time. the dialogue from the film can barely cover the static beginning to fill your ears.
"forget i sa-"
"fuck. fine. if we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right."
you found yourself standing in your bedroom with sungchan, unease settling over your bones just a bit. it's still sungchan, after all.
"where do you want me? i can sit on the edge of the bed, but i don't want you to hurt your knees."
is this genuinely fucking happening?
"no, uh, we can do that. you can also just.. lie against the headboard. if you want."
"do you still want to do this? i'm sorry if i was too rash."
"yeah, no, i'm just weirded out, is all. christ. i'm fine. i genuinely wanna learn."
"right. we can stop anytime, alright? let's both be on the bed."
sungchan plopped down your bed, pulling himself upright against the headboard. you slowly sat down beside him, playing with your hands since you don't know where to put them.
"so, uh, i'll take off my shorts. is that fine?"
you squeezed your eyes, frustrated at the awkward situation you put yourselves in.
"jinsu, i've seen dick before. it's fine. i just - i really need you to make this less awkward for me. i appreciate the caution. i'm just losing my mind a bit."
"no, i understand. alright. i need you to relax, okay? it's just me."
that kind of did it for you. he was right - you were the one making this awkward with all the tension you were holding.
sungchan gradually lowered his shorts. your eyes traced the veins that ran across his stomach to his pelvis, his bush immediately peeking out of his boxers.
you were also briefly taken aback by the sheer size of him, his cock outlined against the grey fabric of his underwear.
"i like a bit of teasing. you can touch me if you want to."
you wanted to reach out, your hand suspended in the air, but your inexperience and the shared history between the two of you made you hesitate.
"is it ok if i touch you? i promise i won't rush anything."
sungchan took your hand, slowly guiding you to rub him against his boxers. he immediately closed his eyes and let out a breath. his reaction promptly elicited one from you, albeit hidden.
"you can just keep rubbing me until uh, until you feel comfortable to do more."
you nodded, still rubbing him. you looked at his bulge, wanting to touch every inch of it.
eventually, your fingers reached the edge of his boxers, and you looked at sungchan in a silent plea.
"yeah, you can take it off."
you slowly lowered the material, his dick springing free. if you thought he was big then, well.
you picked up where you left off, slowly gaining confidence in jacking him off with the way he was reacting to you. he wasn't saying anything per se, more like he was looking at you as though it took everything in him not to pounce on you.
"you should spit on it to lubricate, so i wouldn't get burns while you touch me." with bated breath, he watched you slowly lower your head towards his cock to spit on it. "spit some more, to be safe. it feels better, the wetter it is."
you immediately complied. your easy submission made jinsu harder, but that's something he's not going to admit right now. you notice him grit his teeth, his jawline tensing.
"can you kiss me, baby? it helps."
without delay, you kissed him, his tongue entering your mouth making you moan instantly.
"keep pumping me while we kiss, yeah?"
you were good at being obedient. that was one thing you discovered about yourself as you made out with sungchan on your bed.
"you can start with your mouth now, if you want. you can just give the head a few licks. around the shaft too."
you lowered your head towards his cock, giving kitten licks on his head.
"you can use both your hands and tongue, baby. keep pumping while you focus on the head. like that, fuck."
you also realized that sungchan can be mouthy, a fact you thoroughly enjoyed. you noticed his hands were getting restless on his sides, with him choosing to bunch up the fabric of your sheets in his fist.
"look at me. eye contact goes a long way in situations like these." he flashed you a smile, one that would've made your heart ache a bit if his cock wasn't in your mouth.
at a whim, you spat some more on his dick, switching between licking and gathering saliva around his cock all while you continued to stroke him. sungchan groaned, his fists white due to the pressure. the second thing that you realized about yourself tonight is that you're a fast learner.
"you're doing so well."
you nodded, looking back at him as you continued your ministrations.
"you can go all the way now. just take it slow. you don't have to take the whole thing in." and you weren't planning to. with the sheer size of him, it's gonna take a miracle to fit all of him in your mouth.
"you can just start with the head again."
obedient as you were, you put the head of his cock inside your mouth, sucking slowly, getting used to his taste in your tongue. this time, sungchan let out his first moan of the night.
you slowly took his cock in your mouth, bobbing your head the more of him that you took. (and as a quick learner, you didn't neglect the rest of his dick, still pumping whatever you couldn't fit.)
sungchan's head fell back, hitting the headboard just enough to make a sound.
"christ, you're doing so well. so good, baby."
you notice his fists once more, almost shaking from the intensity by which he gripped your sheets.
you lifted yourself from his cock to speak: "you can put your hand on my head, sungchan."
"are you sure? i'm not going to force you down, i promise."
you went back to working his cock, feeling his hand pull your hair together in an effort to guide you. you watched him roll his eyes as you gradually increased in speed.
you feel yourself getting wetter by the second, his continued moans sending heat straight between your legs.
"jinsu, can you fuck my mouth? please. just be gentle."
you swear you almost saw him choke when you said that.
"you're going to be the fucking death of me. christ. okay. i'll go easy, don't worry."
he slowly lifted his hips from the bed, angling both his pelvis and your head so he can pump his cock to your mouth smoothly.
the sound was wet, plain and simple. you were starting to gag as the head of his cock slowly breached your throat. it was your turn to form a fist, wanting to take as much of him as you can.
"are you good?"
you simply nodded (if you could call what you did a nod, that is).
sungchan was starting to pant, getting needier by the way his thrusts were slowly starting to falter.
you tapped on his thigh to relieve yourself from the pressure of his cock. sungchan immediately paused and let you take a breath.
as you grabbed his dick to jack him off again, you looked straight at him.
"i want you to cum in my mouth, jinsu. please."
sungchan almost busted a load at that moment. "fuck. okay, baby. okay," his voice breathy.
you put his cock back in your mouth, feeling his hips rut against you. he gave several haphazard pumps before fully coming in your mouth, his eyes rolling in the process.
he looked down at you afterwards. since you're a bastard and a half, you a made a show of swallowing his load when you met his eyes.
sungchan groaned once again, itching to pull you close to him and show you what he can do to you. next time, maybe.
the last thing you learned about yourself that afternoon was that you also liked it sloppy, now that you knew what it meant.
a/n: this was... unbelievably self-indulgent. and not proofread. it's 2am and i wanted to get this out of my head so i can have some peace. this is also the first time i've written smut. please let me know what you think - in the ask box, in the tags, comments, anywhere. i love Grown Jinsu. (enough for a part two? we'll see! i'm going crazy. good night.)
content warning: smut, 18+ content, pervert!bf sungchan, creampie, lowkey size kink, jinsu is mouthy
word count: 1.2k
your boyfriend is not as patient as he seems.
Sungchan is known for his discipline. His restraint is something that he is lauded for, be it at work or his personal life. After all, it takes so much just to maintain his position—to have the sculpted body, the regularly scheduled no-phone dinners with his friends, the weekly calls with his parents (not to mention the bi-monthly hikes with his father), all whilst maintaining an impeccable performance in his career. His friends are of the opinion that his rather erratic mood swings are the direct (and only) consequence of his excessive self-control. They have no idea, of course, that it was your ass that received most of the tension and impatience that he so desperately subdues.
Take this afternoon, for example. It wasn't a completely shitty day if you tried to be objective about it. True, it was a lot more humid than you wanted. Things could have gone a lot more smoothly at work. You would have worn a better bra if you were expecting the sweltering heat that was going to assault you the moment you left your company's building. Regardless, you were excited to go home and rest in the company of your sweet boyfriend.
You had barely closed the door to your shared apartment when you hear Sungchan’s footsteps softly padding towards you. He immediately reaches for your bag, easing the process of shedding off your coat and shoes.
“Hi, love. Long day?”
“Yeah, but I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”
You gaze at him, and he was already looking at you with nothing short of adoration.
“Missed you today, baby.”
“Missed you too. I made your favorite, you know.”
You couldn’t help but beam at him. Nevermind that sweat had stuck to your skin; nevermind that you felt as though it was starting to fester beneath the layers of your clothes given that the rush of your commute cramped a hundred or so people in a single train car. Sungchan kissed your neck and began to inhale, gripping your waist while sighing contentedly.
His hands went straight to your ass, kneading against the coarse material of your pencil skirt. The friction burned against your skin, red and deliciously irritated by the way his massive hands rubbed on your backside.
“Jinsu,” you breathed.
“Please, baby. Been waiting for you all day.”
“I haven’t even showered.”
“Don’t care. I love the way you smell. You know that.”
You began to feel lightheaded by his desperation. You forgot just how nasty your boyfriend truly was.
His hands grasped your blouse, haphazardly tugging it against your shoulders in an attempt to take it off. His fingers made quick work of the buttons, grunting the more impatient he got.
“Baby, bedroom, please.”
It seemed as though he didn’t hear you; he was fixated on reaching your bare skin (and you were afraid that he was going to take it out on your new blouse).
“Sungchan, baby. Need you on the bed. Don’t wanna do this on the couch.”
He immediately grabbed your hand in his, tossing your bags on the floor as he dragged you across the living room in an effort to get you to bed as fast as humanly possible.
Upon reaching the bedroom, you did him the favor of undressing yourself before he could say anything. Sungchan picked up your discarded underwear and proceeded to lie on the mattress. He sniffed the material and began to palm himself against his sweatpants.
"Fucking hell, baby. I've been thinking about your pussy all day."
You need to climb him. That is the only possible way of shutting him up and surviving whatever frenzy he's in. (It is also possible that you're thinking this because you simply cannot ignore how impossibly wet he's gotten you just by being his perverted self.)
You quickly tugged off his sweatpants, eager to get his massive cock in your mouth.
"Not today, love. Need to fuck your pussy before I die."
You decided to straddle his thigh. He may be desperate, but you will not pass up an opportunity to tease him in the slightest.
"Oh, fuck. You're wet enough for me to just shove my cock in you. Does your pussy hurt from throbbing against nothing? Want me to make it worse, baby?" You couldn't help but whine as he tensed his thigh muscles against your bare core.
Between the two of you, Sungchan had the tendency to run his mouth. You always seem to forget just how putty you become when he talks you through it.
You aligned yourself against his cock, letting out a whimper the moment the thick head entered your hole. You wanted to bide your time, but Sungchan seemed to have a different plan as he grabbed your waist to fully slot himself in you.
"Slow down, baby. God. You're so fucking big."
"I need you to take it, baby. Need to fuck you."
You began to bounce on his cock, the iron grip on your waist unrelenting. The pain inside you was so fucking delicious it was borderline maddening. You could hear how wet you were as you took all of Sungchan in you.
"Cream on it, baby. Feel good on my cock."
"Sungchan," you sobbed. No words can ever fully articulate how he made you feel. The situation almost drove you into a mania when you felt your clit brushing against his pubes, adding further stimulation to the building pressure within you.
Almost instantaneously, Sungchan flipped you over. You were now on your stomach, his large physique ghosting behind you. You felt him drag your ass upwards, followed by a numbing sting as he landed a sharp spank against your skin, sending you lurching forward against the sheets.
"Your ass is so beautiful."
He delivered three more smacks, the sound ringing against the walls despite the heavy warmth throughout the room. Afterwards, his weight gradually rested against you. He knew you loved the pressure of his huge body.
You felt him insert his cock inside you, and from this angle, you could feel all of him - almost as though he was going to reach your cervix. By God, however, it felt like his cock only grew bigger. He was going to destroy you. Without a warning, he started to mercilessly piston behind you.
"Jinsu, 's too much. You're so big." You cried out.
"Don't run, baby, please. Need you to take it for me. Please. Take all of my cock."
Sungchan continued to fuck you, and all you could focus on was the headboard rhythmically striking the bedroom wall. You had to keep your head within this realm, otherwise you'd finish early.
"F-fuck," he continued to press his hips against yours. You grabbed the sheets in an attempt to stifle your building orgasm. His massive chest was rubbing against your back, his skin hot.
"Want me to put a baby inside you? Fill your hole with my cum and fuck it back right into you to make sure none of it gets out?"
That did it for you. A hot, white flash washed over you as you sobbed his name repeatedly.
The feeling of your hole squeezing his cock did nothing to help Sungchan. He almost immediately followed, the ropes of his seed leaking inside of you as his hips stuttered. He pulled his dick out just to watch his cum drip out of your pussy. He groaned, squeezing his cock to prolong the ecstasy of seeing how his seed filled your abused hole.
"You're a dog, you know that?"
"Want me to fuck you for a second time like one?"
a/n: sorry if this is rather belated, your girl is terribly busy. this is not proofread!!! anyway - i 🤍 perverted boyfriends [especially if it's sungchan].
➞ on a more serious note, this was a bit.. uninspired.. for my liking. i really just wanted to post to keep the momentum going. i also feel like i'm going to re-publish this in the future, lol. i like this song too much to be writing something lackluster. i'm also hoping to put out something more developed soon. thank you for all the kindness on my previous post. <3
thinking about wonbin with choking kink ᨳ𐔌՞҂ ˕ ֊՞𐦯ᜊ. while you’re riding him, he shyly takes ur hand and places it over his throat, causing your eyes widen slightly. “please…” he breathes out. “please what, baby?” you say, planting a kiss on his cheek. “squeeze..” “yeah, you want me to choke you, binnie?” he nods with pleading eyes, looking away from slight embarrassment.
you take hold of his jaw with one hand, forcing him to look at you. your fingers slide back down to his neck, finally applying the pressure he’s been desperate for. “fu-fuck” he whines, his tongue slipping out. “you look like such a slut, bbin” you say, giving his cheek a playful slap. he whimpers at your words and touch, clutching your hand and urging you to squeeze tighter.
series ⭑.ᐟ [ kinktober masterlist ]
content warning ⭑.ᐟ smut! minors dni!, bf!wonbin, fem!reader, pet names, quick and messy, unprotected sex, overstimulation, backshots.
word count⭑.ᐟ 1.9k+
you knew wonbin was scared of everything under the sun and the moon, so it came as a surprise to you when wonbin readily agreed to work a shift with you at the haunted house.
the two of you met at the very vast amusement park you were working at, spending every break with him just chatting and laughing until you eventually caught feelings for him. it surprised you when wonbin confessed that he approached you on purpose, adding that he’s liked you ever since he spotted you on your first day as an employee. you’d only started dating a few weeks ago and with the holidays approaching fast, there was no time for you two to slip away and have a little date on your own.
there was one time you managed to force wonbin into going in a haunted house with you and that was when he was still trying to impress you. needless to say, you were impressed by his vocal range.
being the one doing all the scaring must’ve given him some confidence since he looked way too happy with the costume given to him. you wore a matching outfit, dressing up as an undead bride and groom. wonbin looked stunning even with the cheap suit and messy makeup you put on his face, giggling when he got way too touchy while you two were getting ready in the dressing room.
wonbin couldn’t possibly keep his hands to himself, the lights were bright at the dressing room and the wedding dress you had on was very, very thin and lacy. he had guessed it was because you needed mobility, though that doesn’t explain why you had to wear a white, lacy garterbelt, letting his mind wander as his eyes traced over your figure.
when the time came for you to step inside the haunted house, wonbin clung onto you, protectively, he claims. you just laughed it off, walking to the area you two were assigned at. it was the dining room, located at the farthest room down a very long hallway. wonbin knew that meant less visitors, smiling to himself as he wrapped an arm around your waist.
the room was slightly cluttered but it was a decent place to slack off at. there was a long dining table at the middle of the room, with chairs toppled over on the ground. on the dining table was a plastic wedding cake, a mix of fake dirt and genuine dust, with fake worms stuck on certain areas. it was a fitting setting for a newlywed couple that had met their demise, finding it somewhat romantic. you walked to the edge of the table, pondering about your strategy for tonight when you felt wonbin’s hands wandering down to your ass.
you giggle, catching him just in time before he slipped under your dress. wonbin rested his chin on your shoulder, smiling as you peek over. “i missed you too, bbin, but we’re here to work,” you smiled at him, playing with his messy hair. wonbin looked a bit goofy at first glance, but even the messy makeup couldn’t hide the fact that he was absolutely gorgeous.
”i know no one would come over here,” he pouted, “can’t i have you to myself just for a while, y/n?”
admittedly, you were weak when it came to wonbin flashing his huge brown orbs at you, sighing in defeat as you turn around, wrapping your arms over his shoulder. wonbin grinned triumphantly, leaning in to press his lips against yours.
you chuckled softly, returning the sweet kiss just as enthusiastically. it didn’t take long before the kiss became needy, wonbin’s hands gripping on your curves as he pressed your body against his. you moaned in the kiss, feeling his bulge hitting your thigh.
wonbin pushed you backwards, “let’s replace your memory of me in a haunted house, okay?” you let out a gasp, your back hitting the edge of the dining table.
he smiled softly, lips all red and swollen from the kiss, “i want you so bad, baby. do you want me too?” you felt your breath hitching in your throat, body moving before you could even think. you pulled him close, nodding as you both giggled.
wonbin dragged a chair from the side, raising your dress up so you could position your knees on the plush seat. the position oddly felt comfortable, placing your hands on the dusty table as wonbin ran his hands up and down your thigh.
you felt shivers, the cold night air hitting your bare skin, jumping in surprise when wonbin snapped your garterbelt against your skin. you shuddered, letting out a whimper, “don’t do that, bbin.”
”makes me want to do it more, y/n,” he chuckled, repeating the same action with your other garterbelt, licking his teeth when he got the same adorable reaction. wonbin leaned against your back, bulge hitting your plush ass. he began to rub himself on you, sighing softly against your nape.
wonbin was glad you tied your hair and opted to wear a wig, pulling the cheap, synthetic wig off of your head with a playful grin. your head was already spinning, too clouded with desire to think rationally; all you wanted right now was him.
you felt his hand on your waist, grabbing on his thumb as you turned your head to the side, “do it quick, baby.” wonbin nods, smiling cutely as he undid his pants. you wanted to see what his cock looked like, pouting when you couldn’t see it because of how dark it was.
”what is it, babe?”
wonbin cupped your face, concerned by your pouty expression. you batted your eyelashes at him, “i wanted to see what you look like.” he giggled at your little problem, peppering kisses all over your exposed shoulder.
”you can take a peek later,” he hummed, “don’t you want to feel it inside instead, y/n?” you shuddered at the thought, biting on your lip. wonbin dragged his cock against your ass, feeling just how thick it was.
”think you have an idea now, baby?” wonbin teased, chuckling when your glazed eyes stared up at him. “it’ll feel even better when it’s inside, baby. you can look at it all you want some other time, is that okay?” you nodded, feeling too needy to think of a snarky remark.
wonbin slapped his cock against your ass, causing you to jerk up at how heavy it felt. “fuck, i can’t wait, y/n,” he sighed, rubbing his tip against your thighs. wonbin slipped your panties off, pocketing it because he wasn’t about to leave it around for other people to see.
you felt his tip against your entrance, gasping when it filled you right up, gripping on the edge of the table. “shit, too tight, baby. how are you holding up? am i hurting you?” wonbin rambled, hands trembling as he held your waist. you could feel his shaky breath against your neck, letting out a small chuckle.
”i can handle it, bbin,” you placed your hand over his, “show me how much you want me.” wonbin smiled, placing a small kiss on your neck.
”don’t come crying to me when it’s too much, okay?”
you almost bit your tongue when wonbin bottomed out inside you, easily reaching your deepest spot in one thrust. he gave you a few seconds to adjust, slamming his hips against yours right after.
wonbin’s thrusts made you feel breathless, desperately grasping onto the decorative utensils that was on the dining table. your hands kept slipping, failing to hold yourself up from how rough he was.
”fuck! i’m already—” your walls clenched down on his cock, thighs trembling as you came. wonbin didn’t slow down, moaning against your ear at how tight you were squeezing him. your head felt light, clearing the table so you could rest your upper body against it. you were sure you broke a couple plates but you couldn’t care any less, moaning blissfully at how wonbin was hitting your sensitive spot.
”cumming again, baby?” wonbin teased playfully, licking and sucking on your neck. he pressed down on your stomach, playing with your bouncing tits with his other hand. wonbin pulled on your nipple, eliciting a cute cry from you. “keep moaning like that for me, y/n. so fucking pretty,” he whispered, hot breath tickling your skin.
you felt weak, thighs trembling once more as you came. two was the most you could handle in one round, crying out incoherently when wonbin began to pound you even harder.
”wonbin— bbin, please! you said it’d be quick!” you whined, hearing his laughter from behind you.
”i didn’t say that, y/n, you did,” he teased, “besides, i’m already going as quick as i can. is this still not enough, baby?” you shuddered, unable to respond as all you could think about was his cock knocking on the entrance of your womb with every deep and quick thrust.
your head felt fuzzy, desperately wanting wonbin to fill you up before you cum for a third time. “bbinnie, are you close? i want it inside,” you whine, digging your nails against the back of his hand.
wonbin kissed your shoulder, breathing roughly as he nodded. “i’m close, baby, don’t worry.” you clenched your walls teasingly, chuckling when wonbin winced.
he grabbed on your tits, moaning against your ear, “i still have full control, y/n. don’t tease me like that.” wonbin lifted one of your legs up, thrusting deep inside you at the perfect timing. you cried out, moaning his name incoherently as your orgasm approached fast.
”fuck! oh my god!” you sobbed, body spasming and walls clenching down on his cock as you came, squirting messily all over the chair and your dress.
wonbin moaned, pulling out to shoot his load all over your ass, licking his lips at the sight. you laid your body down the table, panting tiredly as you fade in and out of consciousness.
once you regained your energy, you immediately noticed how sticky you felt. pouting, you glared at wonbin as you peeked over your shoulder, “i said i wanted it inside.” wonbin just laughed, massaging your back and thighs, still feeling your muscles trembling against his hand.
”you can have it inside later, this is already too much to clean up, y/n.” your eyes wandered around, finally noticing the huge mess you made, including the broken plates and scattered utensils on the ground.
”whatever,” you mumbled with a pout, legs still shaking as you try to stand up by yourself. wonbin quickly held your waist, supporting you up. you stared up at him, “can you at least give me a kiss, then?”
he chuckled, ”gladly.” wonbin leaned in to place kisses all over your face, “i love you, baby.” he rubbed his cheek against yours, smiling cutely when he heard you giggling.
”wanna skip work?” you laughed weakly. before you could even reply, wonbin lifted you up in a second, putting the chair back to where it was before leaving the room. you rested your head against wonbin’s chest, breathing softly at the sound of his heartbeat. you both knew no one would notice a few haunted house employees missing, and if they did, you could just make up an excuse about the place being haunted— it was perfect.
you let out a hum, hearing a few footsteps walking down the hallway you two were now in. you smiled widely, pulling on wonbin’s suit to try and catch his attention.
“let’s go scare a few people before we leave, bbin.”
anton is behind you on the bed, chest pressed to your back, one hand wrapped loosely around your throat while the other keeps you spread open on his cock. he’s already inside you, deep and steady, fucking you in slow rolls of his hips that make soft wet sounds every time he bottoms out. sohee is in front of you on his knees, mouth on yours, hands roaming everywhere; your breasts, your waist, the place where anton is stretching you open.
“you ready for both of us?” anton murmurs against your ear, voice low and a little rough. “been thinking about this. watching sohee take you while i’m still inside.”
you nod, already shaky. sohee pulls back just enough to look at your face, eyes dark and focused.
“tell us if it’s too much,” he says softly, but his hands are already reaching for the lube. he coats his fingers first, then carefully presses one into you alongside anton’s cock. the stretch makes you gasp. anton groans at the extra tightness and holds still so sohee can work you open.
“that’s it,” anton whispers, kissing the side of your neck. “relax for us. you’re doing so well.”
sohee adds a second finger, then a third, slow and patient, scissoring carefully while anton stays buried. every time you make a sound they both react. anton with a soft “shh, you’re okay,” sohee with a quiet “good girl, just like that.” by the time sohee pulls his fingers out you’re dripping and trembling between them.
he lines up. the head of his cock presses against you right next to where anton is already filling you. for a second the pressure feels impossible.
“breathe,” anton reminds you, one hand stroking your stomach. “push out a little. let him in.”
sohee sinks in slowly. the stretch is intense. full, overwhelming, almost too much. you cry out and both of them freeze, hands stroking whatever skin they can reach.
“you’re okay,” sohee soothes, voice tight from how tight you are around both of them. “we’ve got you. just take a second.”
you do. when the burn eases into something hotter they start moving.
anton goes first. small, careful thrusts that make sohee’s cock drag against his inside you. then sohee begins to move too, finding a rhythm that works with anton’s. it’s messy and deep and so full you can barely think. every thrust from one of them pushes you harder onto the other. the wet sounds are filthy. the feeling of both of them sliding against each other inside you is almost too much.
“fuck,” anton breathes against your neck. “you’re so tight like this. taking both of us so well.”
sohee leans in and kisses you, swallowing the soft broken sounds you’re making. one of his hands finds your clit, rubbing steady circles while they fuck you together. the dual stimulation makes your thighs shake.
“look at you,” sohee murmurs against your mouth. “stuffed full of us. so pretty like this.”
they keep the pace deep and controlled at first, letting you adjust, but once you’re moaning freely and pushing back onto them they start moving harder. anton’s grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your head go floaty. sohee’s fingers on your clit get more insistent. every thrust punches a high, desperate sound out of you.
“gonna come?” anton asks, voice rough. “wanna feel you squeeze both of us when you do.”
you nod frantically. they don’t slow down. sohee’s fingers work faster, anton thrusts deeper, and the pressure builds until you break with a loud, shaky cry, clenching hard around both of them. the way you flutter and tighten makes both of them groan.
anton finishes first, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a low, punched-out sound. the extra wetness makes sohee’s thrusts even slicker. he lasts only a little longer before he comes too, forehead pressed to yours, hips stuttering as he fills you from the other side.
for a long moment none of you move.
you’re shaking between them, completely full, completely wrecked. anton presses soft kisses to your shoulder while sohee carefully strokes your hair, both of them still buried inside you.
“…you did so well,” sohee whispers.
anton just hums in agreement, arms wrapping around your waist to keep you close.
they stay like that until you stop trembling.
only then do they carefully pull out, one after the other, and gather you between them on the bed, cleaning you up with soft hands and quieter praise.
ⓘ : app-controlled / remote vibrator, public play / semi-public teasing, orgasm control / edging, mild public risk, condescending / teasing dirty talk, power imbalance (him fully in control), overstimulation risk, cute / desperate reader reactions
👼🏻 : not a request but i decided to post this :3
he’s got the app open on his phone the second you sit down next to him on the couch.
you’re wearing one of his hoodies and soft shorts, still a little pink in the face from when he made you put the little pink toy in earlier. it sits snug inside you, quiet for now. anton hasn’t turned it on yet. he’s just scrolling through the settings with one hand while his other arm rests along the back of the couch behind you.
“you ready?” he asks, voice soft. he’s already smiling that small, mean little smile he gets when he’s about to be mean in the nicest way.
you nod, small. “don’t make it too strong at first…”
“i know, baby.” he leans in and kisses the side of your head. “i’ll be nice. at first.”
he taps the screen.
the vibrator comes to life on the lowest setting, just a gentle, steady buzz deep inside you. your breath hitches. your thighs press together on instinct. anton watches your face the whole time, eyes half-lidded and fond.
“there she is,” he murmurs. “my cute girl. already reacting so much.”
he lets it stay on low for a while, just watching the way you shift and bite your lip. every time you make a tiny sound he looks even more pleased. after a minute he slowly drags the intensity up one level. the buzz gets stronger. your hand flies to his thigh.
“anton—”
“shh. you’re okay.” he keeps his eyes on the app, thumb hovering over the slider. “just feel it. i wanna see how long you can stay quiet.”
you try. you really do. but when he bumps it up again the sound that leaves you is soft and high and completely involuntary. he laughs under his breath, quiet and warm, and leans over to kiss the corner of your mouth.
“so cute,” he whispers. “look at you. little toy inside you and you’re already melting.”
he starts playing with the patterns. switches from steady to a slow pulse. then a sharper one. every change makes you jolt or whimper or grab at his shirt. he never looks away from your face for long. he seems to love every single reaction.
“too much?” he asks when he turns it up higher and your hips twitch hard against the couch.
you shake your head quickly, even though your eyes are getting glassy. “n-no… just— ah— feels strong—”
“i know.” he strokes your hair with his free hand, still adjusting the app with the other. “you’re taking it so well. my good girl. so pretty when you get all shaky like this.”
he keeps you like that for a long time, teasing the intensity up and down, switching patterns whenever you start to get used to one. sometimes he leaves it on a mean, constant buzz until you’re properly squirming and soft little “please”s start slipping out. sometimes he turns it almost all the way down just to watch you chase the feeling with tiny frustrated movements of your hips.
“begging already?” he coos when you finally look at him with wet eyes. “we’ve barely started. i can keep this up for hours if i want.”
you make a soft, desperate sound and he kisses it off your mouth, still smiling.
eventually he sets the vibrator to a strong, steady rhythm and locks the phone so you can’t see the screen. then he just holds you while it works, one arm around your waist, the other hand stroking your thigh, watching every little tremble and whimper like it’s his favorite show.
“you’re doing so good,” he keeps whispering. “so cute for me. take it a little longer. wanna see you come just from this.”
when you finally do it’s with a soft broken cry against his neck, thighs shaking, hands fisted in his shirt. the vibrator is still going. he doesn’t turn it off right away. he just holds you through the aftershocks, pressing kisses to your hair, murmuring soft praise while the toy keeps buzzing inside your oversensitive body.
“that’s my girl,” he says quietly, finally lowering the intensity to something gentle. “so perfect. so cute when you come on the toy i control.”
he leaves it on low while you catch your breath, still tucked against his side, completely soft and wrecked.
and every time you twitch he just smiles, glances at the app, and decides whether to be nice or mean next.
𓈒. ݂۫ ᰷ ✚ 𝄞 𓈒
you’re sitting across from him at the little café near the company building when your phone buzzes once in your pocket.
it’s not a message.
anton is looking at his own phone under the table, completely calm, iced americano in front of him like nothing is happening. then the vibrator inside you clicks on.
low, steady, just enough to make your thighs press together under the table.
your eyes snap up to his.
he doesn’t even look at you at first. he just takes a slow sip of his drink, then finally glances over with that soft little smile.
“you okay?” he asks, voice normal volume. polite. “you look a little warm.”
you nod quickly, trying to keep your face neutral. the buzz is gentle but constant, sitting right against the spot that makes it hard to think. anton watches you for another second, then taps his screen once.
the pattern changes. slow pulses instead of steady. each one makes your breath hitch.
“anton—” you whisper, barely moving your lips.
“hmm?” he tilts his head, still looking perfectly innocent. “something wrong, baby?”
you shake your head. your hands are clenched in your lap. across the café someone laughs. a staff member walks past with a tray. the vibrator keeps pulsing inside you like it has all the time in the world.
he lets it stay on that setting while he actually carries on a normal conversation, asking about your schedule, complaining softly about practice, completely unbothered. every time your eyes flutter or your fingers tighten around your cup he looks a little more pleased.
then he turns it up.
the sudden jump in intensity makes you jolt. your knee bumps the table. anton’s foot gently presses down on top of yours under the table, warm and steadying.
“careful,” he murmurs, still smiling. “people will notice if you’re too obvious.”
you glare at him as best you can while your face is getting hotter by the second. he just chuckles under his breath and takes another sip, thumb clearly still moving on the app.
he keeps you there for almost twenty minutes.
sometimes low enough that you can almost pretend it’s nothing. sometimes high enough that you have to bite the inside of your cheek and stare very hard at the table. every time someone walks by too close he drops the intensity just enough that you don’t make a sound, then ramps it back up once they’re gone like it’s a game.
“you’re doing so well,” he says quietly at one point, leaning forward like he’s just telling you a secret. “my cute girl. sitting here all pretty with a toy buzzing inside her and still trying to look normal. so good for me.”
your eyes get a little shiny. he notices. of course he does. he softens the pattern for a few seconds as a reward, then makes it meaner again once you’ve recovered.
by the time he finally pays and stands up your legs feel unsteady. he slips an arm around your waist like a normal boyfriend and guides you out of the café, phone still in his other hand.
the second you’re on the quieter side street he bumps the intensity up high for just a few seconds. enough to make you gasp and grab his jacket then drops it back down while he laughs softly against your hair.
“almost home,” he promises, voice warm and a little mean. “be good for a little longer. then i’ll let you come.”
he keeps the toy on the whole walk back.
and the whole time his thumb never really leaves the app.
𓈒. ݂۫ ᰷ ✚ 𝄞 𓈒
the second you’re on the quieter side street he bumps the intensity up high for just a few seconds. enough to make you gasp and grab his jacket then drops it back down while he laughs softly against your hair.
“almost home,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it as comfort.
he keeps the toy on a mean, pulsing setting the entire walk. every time you start to adjust or get used to it he changes the pattern without looking at you. sharp bursts. long low drones. sudden spikes that make your steps stutter.
“anton—” you whisper, voice tight. “please, it’s too much while we’re walking—”
“walk normally.” his arm stays around your waist, casual and steady, like he’s just a boyfriend walking his girlfriend home. his other hand is in his pocket with the phone. “people are still around. if you start looking weird someone’s gonna notice.”
you try. you really do. but when he turns it up again your knees go a little weak and you have to lean harder into him. he just adjusts his grip and keeps walking at the same unbothered pace.
“you’re doing so cute right now,” he murmurs, almost conversational. “all shaky and trying so hard to be good. i can feel you twitching every time i change it.”
“turn it down,” you beg quietly. “just a little. please.”
he glances at you, eyes soft and completely unsympathetic. “no.”
another sharp pulse hits and you bite down on a whimper. he makes a small, pleased sound.
“see? you can take it. my good girl can take a little more.” he waits until a couple passes you on the sidewalk before he ramps it higher again, right when you’re trying to look normal. the sudden intensity makes your breath catch audibly. he pretends not to notice.
“anton, i’m serious—”
“so am i.” his thumb moves on the screen again. the vibrator switches to a relentless, steady high that makes your whole body tense. “we’re only five minutes away. you can handle five minutes. or do you want me to make it edge for the rest of the walk instead?”
you shake your head quickly, eyes already wet. he smiles like that’s the answer he wanted.
he doesn’t ease up once.
every time your breathing gets too uneven he gives you two seconds of mercy, then puts it right back where it was. every time you grab at his sleeve he just pats your hand and keeps walking. when you finally start properly trembling against his side he leans in close to your ear, voice low and warm and mean.
“look at you. can’t even walk straight anymore and we’re still in public. so desperate already. i haven’t even touched you yet.”
you make a soft, frustrated sound that turns into a whimper when he bumps the intensity one last time. he laughs under his breath, completely delighted.
“almost there, baby. hold it in. if you come on the street i’m going to be so disappointed in you.”
you don’t come.
but it’s a near thing.
by the time he finally unlocks the dorm door your legs are shaking and your face is hot and there are tears on your lashes from how long he’s kept you on edge. he ushers you inside, closes the door, and only then only then does he turn the vibrator down to a low, almost gentle buzz.
he cups your face with his free hand, still looking completely calm.
“good girl,” he says softly. “you did so well. now get on the bed. i’m not turning it off yet.”
may i indulge you in some stoner! anton x reader who doesn’t involve herself in that but she loves him too much :( and maybe he loves her even more so he quits >_<
i love this thought so much... stoner!anton who goes to class high like four times a week but loves you so much he eventually quits, slowly changing because eventhough you never told him to stop, he knows you kind of don't like it... so cute. i don't have a specific plot in mind but here's some hcs hihi. next i lowkey wanna write about smoking w him LOL. also tysm to my bff for helping me out w this u know who u are!
cw: drug use.
you met anton after being paired up with him for an assignment. you were nervous to work with him at first — the tall guy who always sat at the back, sometimes red-eyed and quiet. the first meeting turned to multiple, and before you knew it, he became your boyfriend.
you always knew he was a stoner, you had seen his antics and your roommate, sohee, who had mutual friends with anton had told you about it. he would come to class a little high, or roll a joint everytime he watched tv late at night. sometimes he'd send you cheeky texts like, "smoking rn and thinking abt u..."
although you didn't really involve yourself with the activities, you loved him far too much to say anything about it. he was the sweetest boyfriend, always doting — buying your favourite drink before every class, helping you with mundane tasks like laundry when the semester got too hectic.
despite you not telling him about how you felt, he saw your quiet disagreement in little signs like scrunching your nose when you got into his car, reeking of weed from his pre-class session. or the concerned frown on your face when he facetimed you high.
it started off slow — anton used to come to dates smelling a little like weed, until eventually, he stopped smoking everytime he wanted to see you. the dry, herbal smell stuck on his tee turning into the vanilla scent of his cologne.
everytime you called him late at night, you would see him quickly putting out the smoke, stashing his ashtray into his nightstand and putting full attention on you.
you liked to come over to his (he lived alone, and you got tired of sohee lowkey stealing all of anton's attention), and he didn't want his apartment smelling like smoke, noticed the scrunch of your nose everytime you came over. so he opted for only smoking in the balcony. the moment you stepped inside, anton would rush to close the balcony sliding door, quickly spraying febreeze into the air.
overtime, anton stopped altogether. you came over one day, noticing that the usual stash under the coffee table was gone. he saw your confused frown and chuckled, pressing a sweet kiss onto your forehead.
"i quit, baby," he muttered, kissing your cheek once again, grinning at the shock on your face. "could tell you were getting kind of concerned... and i know you've never liked the smell. want you to be able to come over anytime comfortably. plus, i could use the extra money to spoil you instead."
you couldn't help but smile and peppered kisses all over his face because wow this man truly did everything with you in his mind, always wanting to be the best for you <3
ⓘ brother’s best friend!sungchan x fem reader. ft older brother!wonbin. sungchan’s a bit of a player. mini smau, consisting of only a few parts.
⤷ in which wonbin brings home his best friend for the first time. sungchan’s dangerously handsome, sweet, with playboy tendencies.
⤷ summary: it hurts anton so much when he sees you be so tough on yourself. so he does what feels right. he shows up unannounced at your door late into the night with your comfort meal, ready to speak some love into you, and eager to hold you until the stress subsides and you’re back to his sweet, loving girl.
⤷ genre: fluff, lots of comfort and domesticity, angst if you squint
⤷ warnings: reader is a little hard on herself because of academic pressure, existential life talk, pretty tame stuff!
⤷ song rec: i do - justin bieber! i linked the clip of toni singing it from his weverse live. tbh im so obsessed w anton's voice that i continue looping that live while i write/work and the lyrics ended up being too perf :)
a/n: again.. another personally indulgent fic from me. in my head, this couple exists in the same universe as second nature! little snapshot into their life as college students <3 hope u guys enjoy! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated greatly
December 16th. 9:43 pm.
If you look past the edge of your laptop, you’ll find that there’s a small fleck of paint chipping off your apartment walls. It’s been there since you moved in but apparently, you’ve never found it more intriguing considering how long you’ve been drilling a hole into it with your eyes. Despite your repeated attempts to cover it up, it refuses to be hidden behind stickers and photos of you and your favorite people. Instead, it sits there and mocks you. You and your unfinished assignments and your eye bags of doom and despair.
You glance over all of the photobooth strips you’ve hung up on the wall surrounding it, a reminder of the times when you were free from the shackles of physical chemistry. Seriously, pitting the two hardest subjects together and expecting an A out of you has to be some sick humiliation ritual put into action by some perverted scholar. You rack your brain but you can’t remember the last time you weren’t being subjected to academic torture. The only escape you have are the physical overpriced snapshots of some of your favorite moments on your wall. There’s a cute one of you and Anton in black and white from one of your first dates, and another of you and your friends at the mall all making silly faces while waiting to receive a notification that your table is ready. When you shift your gaze back over to the laptop, you let out a deep sigh. The assignment you’ve been working on for the past 2 hours to no avail sits on an idle tab seemingly taunting you.
Your roommates were gone for the weekend, so you decided to stay in the apartment instead of going back home, even though you live only about 1.5 hours from the university. In the back of your mind, you told yourself this was punishment for doing so poorly in your recent midterm. You needed the win because you hadn't done too hot on the first one either, but you guess you're on a losing streak.
For the past few months of the fall semester, these sad beige walls have watched you fall apart at the expense of trying to maintain your GPA. It’s cliche and it’s embarrassing to care so much about a number, but you didn’t want to lose now. You’re currently in your fall semester as a junior and it’s safe to say your plate is filled to the brim. Your Google Calendar was to be feared by anyone and everyone. The phrases, “You’re so busy” and “Do you even have time to breathe?” uttered by your friends and peers filled you with a sickly satisfaction that you were doing all the right things by paving the right path for yourself.
You went to mixers that felt more like mandated appearances than suggestions to get to know others, while juggling the climb up the social ladder in pre-professional clubs. You watched in horror as other competitive students stomped on each other's necks to get to where they wanted to be before almost committing the same atrocities. Advanced molecular biology and physical chemistry have been giving you a run for your money on top of the research lab you’re doing for hours and upper division credit.
You let your mind drift to the responsibilities of the extracurricular that you haven’t finished and are beginning to pile up on your to do list. In truth, it’s because while you initially joined out of passion, you feel like you’re continuing out of pure spite and obligation. You’re not a complete lost cause though—the minuscule semblance of a social life you have is kept alive by the time spent convincing yourself you enjoy the parties on Frat Row your friends force you to attend every other weekend. The smell of stale beer and the bad music makes you want to dip after an hour, but being a junior feels like you’re running out of time to make stupid decisions.
You start to feel sick.
Your phone pings with notifications from your other friends in the class asking how you did on the exam, but you feel your stomach churn at the thought of talking about it with them. You push everyone away—and that means even Anton, though it eats at you because you know he’s going to be so worried about you not responding for the past 12 hours.
You always feel like such a bad girlfriend when you get in this mood, and that thought makes you even more upset with yourself.
You’re knocked out of your trance-like state when you hear the sound of someone knocking on your door. A glance at the clock. It’s 10:07 pm. Who is that? Your mind defaults to asking, but you knew better.
You dragged your feet to the door, peeped through the hole just for safety’s sake, but hurried to open the door immediately after a quick once-over. It’s Anton. Of course, it’s him. He always knows.
He looks at you with such a sad expression that you know is inevitably laced with complete fondness and affection, and it makes you melt. You wish you could go back in time and answer his worried messages so he wouldn't be looking at you like a kicked puppy right now.
Your body reacts first. You collapse forward, body already craving his warmth, and he catches you. His arms wrap around you, and his hand offers gentle pats to your head and back, as tears well up in your eyes. You're already sniffling and making a mess on his shirt.
“Baby… what’s going on?”
He never chastised you for not responding to his texts, knowing it’d only make you feel worse. You must’ve had a reason, even if it doesn’t make him happy that you temporarily shut him out. More than anything, he hates knowing that you’re feeling alone in your hurt.
You don’t say anything. The words die in your throat as you open your mouth. You know it’s not right to think this way, but you feel that it makes it even worse to speak it into real life, like somehow it’ll make it even more real, as if your feelings aren’t already real enough. You also don’t want to risk Anton looking at you like that again.
“Baby... words please? You're worrying me.” Anton pleads.
“I fucked up on my exams again. I can’t get anything right. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” It all comes spilling out at once, like some twisted confession.
He frowns even more at that. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he murmurs, hugging you even tighter and adjusting your stance so you can bury your head into his neck. He shifts more of your weight onto his arm so he can begin to walk you both inside, away from your apartment neighbors.
“Let’s move inside, angel. Come on."
Awkwardly stepping back, he makes sure you’re able to stand and takes a step back to look at you properly. Your eyes are hollow, clearly sleep-deprived from the past few all-nighters you've spent reading fine print from your textbook, and your lip quivers as you try to hold the sobs at bay. He still thinks you’re so beautiful, but his heart breaks at the way a sense of depletion possesses your stature.
Somehow, your brain twists and makes you feel even worse at how gentle he’s being with you. Your mind fills with self-hate before you can stop it. The thought that Anton is walking on eggshells around you because he can tell you’re about to explode any second makes you want to hurl. How is he so good to you? Why is he so good to you? Doesn’t he know you’re not worth it?
Unable to take the sadness in his face anymore, you break eye contact, peeling your eyes away from him and go to sit on the couch, curling up next to the huge cushion you have.
Anton holds his hands up, one of them hidden behind his back, and you didn’t notice he’s been carrying a big brown bag that looks a little too familiar this whole time. The tension in your body melts a bit.
“Brought takeout. Your favorite. Can you eat with me?”
With perfect comedic timing, your stomach lets out a low grumble. It completely slipped your mind that you haven’t eaten dinner, or lunch for that matter. After the morning cram session you had where you shoveled some eggs and toast into your mouth for quick carbs, the post-exam stress and the feeling that you did even worse despite how much you studied occupied your mind so much that food was the last thing you wanted to think about.
“Please.”
You're grateful that he doesn't push further and that you can finally fill your stomach.
Already familiar with the layout of your apartment, he busies himself with grabbing two paper plates, deciding there was no need to break out the fine china when you’re already overwhelmed enough with tasks and piled your food onto them, giving you a little bit of everything from all the various containers.
You start to feel a bit of the exhaustion melt away in his presence, and an appetite creeps up. He brought Thai food, your favorite thing to have when you felt like shit. The smell of the pad thai and the tom yum soup fills your nose, and you’re already feeling significantly more at ease. A lot of that is also because your boyfriend is here, the tender action to bring you your comfort meal even though you’ve kept him in the dark, not going unnoticed by you. After he’s done, he beckons you over, which you follow like a soft, lost puppy.
He pulls out the chair and positions it close to his so he can watch you eat.
“How’d you know?”
“Hmm?”
“How’d you know Thai food is my comfort meal?”
“When I took you out to my favorite Thai place, you told me your family always had Thai food whenever you guys celebrated. Just supposed it’d hold good memories, and when does pad thai ever seem like a bad choice?” He shrugs.
“Thank you, Anton. You’re so good to me.”
His tone suddenly becomes much more serious.
“Baby, I love you, but please stop with whatever you're thinking. It hurts me when you go through things alone. Please share some of that burden with me. I’m not going anywhere.”
He reads you too well, and you have nothing else to say, so you both eat in silence for a while. His heart feels a bit lighter at the way you’re able to eat properly, knowing you most likely haven’t eaten after breakfast. You never do on exam days; too much food and your stomach starts giving you a hard time because you’re already anxious enough.
After you finish eating, you motion for him to sit down on the couch while you take care of the leftovers. Packing them away to put back in the fridge gave you something to do with your hands and a chance to work in silence, but you still felt his eyes burning a hole the side of your face. He tried to argue with you, protesting that he could help too, but when you looked at him, your eyes pleading with him to obey silently, he retreated and found a spot to sit.
“Can we talk about it now?”
“Anton…”
“Baby, please. I’m just worried.”
“It’s nothing. I’ve just been on edge because of my exams. I’m really sorry I didn’t text you all day. I couldn’t look at my phone.”
“As long as you have a reason, I’m not mad, angel. I’m just worried about what this stress means for you. It’s one thing to get test anxiety, and it’s another thing not to be able to eat all day and lock yourself in your room when everyone else is celebrating the end of midterms.”
"It's just that what I want to do with my life is so taxing. I'm constantly thinking about whether I'm getting anywhere, especially when my coursework keep demanding so much. It also doesn't help that I didn't do well on the first midterm, so I need to do well on this one to get a good grade in the class overall."
After four years of undergrad and stretching yourself thin to max out your extracurricular, research, volunteer, and clinical hours—you plan on taking a gap year before applying to medical school. But being from NYU, the acceptance rates are extremely low and you can't help but feel hopeless at the thought that numbers are keeping everything out of reach from you. Everything just feels so far out of your control, and it's terrifying to sit still and feel like any efforts made are all in vain.
"Baby... you're juggling so many things. It's okay to slip up now and then; your GPA doesn't account for all the other facets in your life, and it's certainly not a measure of your worth."
“Anton, I know it’s just a number. But it’s about what that number means…" You suck in a deep breath before gathering the willpower to continue.
“What if I’m not meant for this after all? What if I can’t help my future patients? What if I let my parents down? What—,”
“Breathe, baby, breathe.”
You're throwing up words now, finally spilling out everything you've kept to yourself this semester. The mountains of self-doubt that you couldn't hike over, the anxiety that eats at you every day, the way your face has become hollow and the piles of hair you keep finding on the floor—you lay them all out on the table for Anton.
You take a second to breathe, trying to prepare yourself and shake off the fear that has kept this thought in the back of your mind for the longest time.
“What if I’ve lost my passion for this along the way?”
“Baby. Remember what I always say?”
“Mmmm... One day at a time?" You sigh at how he's handling you like you're a kid, but you know it's all in good intent.
“That’s right. One day at a time and—I’m always with you. I’ll always be here. You can’t ever get rid of me.”
Anton continues, knowing that you need to be told way more than anything that you're competent enough to get through this. He already knows that his girlfriend is hyper-independent. It's part of what made him fall for you. He loves the way you don't hesitate to advocate for what you want and never shy away from speaking your mind. You get it from being the eldest daughter, and the first in your family to navigate the world of higher education. It's one of your biggest strengths, but also a deep cut for you on bad days.
“Babe, you’re the smartest girl I know. You’re president for your professional fraternity, and you’re head coordinator of your volunteer organization. On top of that, you have the biggest heart and spirit out of everyone I know. They’d be missing out big time if they didn’t let you in. It’s just a matter of time, angel; I know it. You’ve checked all of the boxes, and you have the devotion to prove that it’s not just for show either.”
You allow his words to settle in. You’ve always pushed yourself so hard, even though everyone around you told you to have nothing to worry about. Still, nothing ever felt like enough. You were never satiated with the extent of your efforts, placing the most pressure on yourself to succeed. For what though? Your passion is being actively translated onto paper, so why did you feel so empty most days?
Sensing that you’re deep in thought again, Anton pushes your chin up now to look at him, as if to convince you with his eyes that what he's saying is 100% the truth. He presses a soft kiss to the corner of your lips to further close the deal.
“Let the work you’ve put in show up for you–even on the bad days, hmmm?”
You’ve been chasing the high of being a high-achiever too long, and it’s finally caught up with you. You’re here, wallowing in your own self-made pool of exhaustion, beyond burnt out to see how good you have it. You go to a top school with insane opportunities, you have a small but tight group of friends who you all picture at your future wedding, and a boyfriend who quiets all of the worries bouncing around in your head.
“It’s kinda annoying that you always know what to say.”
“Then I guess I’m happy to be annoying.”
You both laugh at that, the air around you already feeling lighter. Your chest feels less heavy, and you're so lucky you have your boyfriend to thank for that.
“You know I always want you to be happy. So if whatever you’re doing right now doesn’t make you happy, it’s okay to step away and pivot. Chase what feels right to you; I’ll be right here supporting you. It’s gonna feel scary and foreign... and I can’t promise that it be easy, but like everything, you’ll get the hang of it because you’re capable, baby.”
“How do you know that, Toni?”
“How do I know what, Y/N?”
“That I’m capable?”
“How do I know that you’re capable?”
He repeats your question, pausing to let you answer him, as if he really can’t believe he has to spell it out for you. When you fall silent, he answers it for you.
“I know because I’m in the same boat. I’ve thought about pursuing music production over and over. Sometimes, I don't sleep because I'm worried. Will I make enough money? Am I ready to pursue this? Should I quit and be more practical? I question my decisions all the time.”
Anton orients himself so he’s looking right as you as he says, “And every time, you’re the one who pulls me out of that hole. You tell me that we’re all going to die and that I’d regret putting my dreams on hold and not giving myself a worthwhile shot. So that’s why, baby. That’s how I know.”
“Damn, I don't remember wording it so darkly.”
You flash him a small smile, already feeling so much better at the reciprocation of your thoughts being thrown back at you. You could tell Anton that isn’t just trying to make you feel better and that he truly believes in you.
All the words you utter to Anton when he comes to you for guidance- how could you forget about them? You know in your heart of hearts that it’s true because you would never lie to him just to ease his worries. You’ve been so stuck in your own world of self-deprecation and feeling like you’re too incompetent to get cross whatever barrier comes next that you forgot what you always tell him.
That’s the nice thing about dating Anton. He’s never alone shy of love thanks to you, and he reciprocates every ounce of the love you pour and speak into him. Even when you were in the wallows of feeling like you can't find a way out of the darkness, you have never let yourself think for a second that he’s not going to support you.
“I guess you’re right. I’ll just take it one day at a time.”
“There’s my girl.”
“Okay, that’s enough preaching from my end. Let’s do something about the fact that you haven’t slept. Come here, baby.”
Anton motions for you to join him on the couch and tucks you in with the weighted throw blanket you always have on there. You bought it off Amazon and kept it out on the couch for the nights you pass out from exhaustion after classes and don’t make it to your room. He steps away for a second, before emerging from side of the apartment with his acoustic guitar and a grey hoodie of his that you keep in your closet.
He puts it over your head and carefully threads your arm through it before pulling at the strings so that your face is all squished for him to laugh at.
“Hey!” You yell out.
He’s nearly folded in half, hand clutching his stomach as he makes a performance out of laughing at your silly face.
“Sorry, baby. I can’t—It’s too funny.”
“Anton.” You say sternly.
“You literally look so cute. Like a pretty Michelin man or Baymax.”
“Excuse me?”
He continues laughing, clearly satisfied with himself, but loosens the strings so the hoodie sits on you normally. Although, normally is a bit of a stretch—the outerwear sits as normally as his extra-large hoodie can fit on your frame. You’re practically drowning in the soft grey fabric, with the hem of it sitting around your mid-thighs and his sleeves reaching far beyond your arms.
It ended up in your closet after he handed it to you during a late-night ice cream run when he noticed goosebumps forming on your arm and the slight shiver you were trying to hide, and you ended up being way too obsessed with it to let it go at the end of the night. You asked Anton if you could hold on to it for a while, and he agreed immediately, saying he loves when you wear his clothes and wouldn’t mind letting you keep it for good. Now and then, you return it to him so his scent can permeate through it again. Most days, you wear it to bed with nothing else and allow his fresh laundry smell to envelope you, feeling like he’s holding you.
The two of you cuddle in silence for a bit, just letting his breathing even out with yours. He tucks the strands of hair that messily frame your face to the side and behind your ear, tracing your helix ever so slightly while admiring your multitude of piercings. Anton pauses for a moment before planting the softest kiss on your forehead, which makes you hum out in contentment.
Infatuated by how gentle he’s being, you feel overcome with the need to express your love to him too physically. You delicately wrap your arms around his small waist like a koala and give his abdomen a gentle squeeze, which makes him laugh so sweetly in your ear. It’s the best sound you’ve ever heard.
You plant a few kisses all over his face. One on the tip of his pretty nose. Another few on his cheek. And you end with one on his lips for good measure. A couple of minutes pass by like this—just the two of you existing in each other’s spaces in peace, before Anton shifts slightly to reach for the guitar he left at the foot of the couch. He pulls it over to his lap, and shifts so it isn’t obstructing your hold on him, which means it’s sitting a bit on your hip now, but you don’t mind.
The reason why it’s at your place is that you asked Anton if he could let you hold on to it for a while since you convinced yourself that you could learn a few songs during your winter break despite having no prior experience.
“Of course, but are you sure you don’t need me to teach you?”
“You’ll be busy, baby. How are you going to teach me over the phone when you're visiting your family?”
“I could make it work. Don’t doubt me.” He says confidently.
“No one’s doubting you, baby. I want to learn on my own. I promise I’ll call you if I need help, though, okay?” You reassured him.
That seemed to settle his apprehension at the time, and you wish you had made more of a big deal about it all. Because learning the guitar by yourself seemed like a good idea on paper. It was all part of your big scheme to utilize every second of your rest time and “hobbymaxx,” as you called it, as if it killed you to sit down and just watch a movie. But you never got around to reaching for it; the mental wall of not having any experience and not knowing where to begin loomed over you. You were still in your prideful phase, not wanting to ask your boyfriend for anything or take away from his time with his family during the holidays.
After readjusting for the last time to tuck your head onto his shoulder before grabbing the guitar, you giggle about how the two of you are a mess of limbs thrown over each other, while he starts fiddling with a few random chords. It’s been a while since he’s played, especially since he grew out of playing strings and spent most of his time perfecting the big music production project he has planned for his senior thesis.
You can hear a few hums come from him, and then he’s softly singing to you, his voice barely above a whisper. It comes out breathy and soft, enveloping you and calming you down immediately. Your body melts a bit more into his side, and you can feel the pressure of his smile press down on your head. Your weight on his chest almost makes his tone drop a bit more, and you begin to sing along too.
I need you in the morning.You know that's right (you know that's right)I need you in the afternoon and every night, you know I do (ooh)Yeah, you know, yeah, you know, yeah, you know, yeahYou know without lovingI can't do without, I can't numb the way that I feel, oh-ohNone of that dress, oh, none of them heels, oh-whoa, whoa, oh-ohNever loved you more than I do right nowAll these feelings just wash away, my babyIt's not complicatedAnd those feelings won't fade away, away (oh-oh)I do, I mean it when I said that I doNobody gets to touch you, I doYou will always be the one that I choose
With your limbs entangled with Anton, you feel infinitely lighter compared to before he arrived. You feel at ease with yourself in a way you haven’t felt all semester. Harboring the truth and reality about what you’ve been dealing with is a mistake you’re never going to make again.
The truth is the deadlines will never let up. There will always be more to do, more to achieve, more ranks to climb—so for today, you can give yourself some grace and relax. You're allowed to breathe.
You allow yourself be lulled to sleep by his voice and you feel the light press of his lips on your forehead before you knocked out. Curled up against your warm boyfriend, you get the best sleep you have all semester.
⤷ pairing: tennis champion!anton x coach!reader | wc: 17.7k
⤷ summary: after years of playing your games, keeping a mental score of all the times he’s won your affection, anton thinks he’s close to scoring the match point. sure—they’re nice to have, but really, he doesn’t care about the trophies you’ve helped him win when all he’s ever wanted was you. all he has to do is perfect his serve, win the italian open, and you’ll love him. easy enough… right?
⤷ genre: fluff, lots of pining (mainly from toni’s end), slow-burn, suggestive, fair amount of angst to comfort tbh (reader goes through a lot and it manifests into her being a butthead at times, but pls be nice.) it also switches between perspectives often so be warned!
⤷ warnings: everyone is slightly aged up for plot reasons (anton is 24 and yn is 25), profanity, lots of self inflicted pressure within the context of sports, sports injury, mentions of making out.
⤷ song rec: the challengers score!
a/n: AHHHH holy shit. it's done and it's here. she is literally my baby.. i carried her for nine months and now here she comes world.. i can't believe how long this ended up being.. by the end, i was getting so tired looking at my 19 page doc and wanted to be done editing it so badly... anyways.. this is my first ever real fic on tumblr so plsssssss leave your thoughts in the comments or leave an ask if you have anything to say! i'd love to know <3 in a few days i will be publishing a little meet the characters to further expand on some details since the timeline might be a bit confusing!
Como, Italy—April 27th, 2025. Pre-Qualifying Rounds for the Italian Open.
He hates to think that this is all just a game to you.
Anton scoffs in disbelief as he watches you talk with Sungchan, cursing his own genetics for his small ears because had they been any bigger, maybe he could properly hear what you two were talking about. All he knows is what he can see, or what he wishes he wasn’t seeing. That behemoth of a man is looming over your frame, his arms dangerously close to your waist, and Anton actually hisses every time he tries to inch closer.
The only silver lining keeping him from waltzing over and ripping his arm off is that he’s confident you’re paying him no real mind. He follows your gaze, and your eyes are fixated on the tactical game board while Sungchan keeps pestering you, presumably with some overtly corny pick-up lines. He can see the gears turning in your brain as you try to knock some sense into Sungchan, because you're nothing if not professional and good at your job. Around Sungchan, your friendly demeanor operates for one and one thing only: fulfilling your quota. You need to keep him floating above a certain number of wins or else your job is in jeopardy, and unfortunately for Anton, that means allowing him to flirt with you openly.
The more the scene goes on, the more Anton can feel the bile forming at the back of his throat. He’s seething with anger at this point; who does that second-place bench-warmer think he is, throwing himself at you? The way he’s curling into you and laughing by your side like he doesn’t know you’re being fully serious with him. Does he not know that he’s a point away from throwing the game? He could at least win before he tries to get in your pants. Maybe Anton should let him know that losers aren't your type. He knows that you hate nothing more than people who can’t put money where their mouth is. Shameless, he thinks. Thinking with his dick while you’re trying to give him a real shot at becoming something. The least Sungchan could do is respect your time and efforts.
And you—what’s up with you? Not a single hair is out of place on your head, and you’re not exploding with anger, shouting at him to lock in. Your eyebrows aren’t even furrowed; you look almost completely calm as you explain what Sungchan needs to do to win over his opponent in caveman terms.
Anton feels like he’s experiencing whiplash. You’re a different person when he sees you like this. Without a smidge of doubt, he knows he’s the best player you have. He knows this because he guards that title with his life. So right now, when you’re talking to Sungchan like he’s the one out there winning titles back-to-back, he thinks twice before calling you unfair in his mind, but he doesn’t know how else to put it. Why aren’t you like that with him? You’re constantly on his ass, firing either short quips about his outfit choices or pushing aside his exhaustion to drill more gameplay into his head. You preeminently shut down any chance and ruin the mood before he can even think to send a casual flirty remark your way. It’s psychological torture for you day in and day out, and he’s accepted your claim that you keep him on his toes to make sure his mental fortitude isn’t rattled when it comes to game days, so... why is it any different with that sorry excuse of a man?
After performing some mental gymnastics, Anton lands on a conclusion, just satisfactory enough for him to compartmentalize this moment and move on. Unlike some sex-motivated idiots, he’s more than happy to play the long game with you. He’s decided that you’re not playing into Sungchan’s sorry attempts at flirting and treating him the same because he’s special to you. Duh. Whether that’s because you believe he’s talented and appreciate that he listens to your orders well in a strict mentor sense or because you see him as more than just another player to win you credibility as a top coach—he isn’t really concerned with the minutiae of it all.
Anton’s watches as the game goes from match point to Sungchan barely managing to win—big fucking whoop. His eyes roll all the way to the back of his head when his opponent flails in the air like a baby bird, collapsing in tears on the ground after he fails to return the ball. Sungchan has left the scene entirely, hopping over to give you a dramatic high-five that nearly sent you flying backward. He doesn’t think he deserves any consolation prize, and most certainly not another ounce of your affection. After giving him a few final remarks, you make your way over to Anton, about to remind him about your practice session later.
He sits up a bit straighter under your gaze, immediately running his hands aimlessly through his hair, and flashes a smile at you. He swears time slows down in front of him when your hair cinematically waves in the wind, and he swears he sees your hand come up to give him a bashful wave. He’s in the process of extending his arm up to wave back when everything comes to a halt. He's too scared to look.
Snap.
He opens one eye, his vision slightly obstructed by what looks like a finger. He blinks twice.
Oh.
It's you. You snap at his face, then your arm falls, and he’s confused. Huh. He follows your fingers until his gaze lands upon his feet.
“Your shoes are untied.”
Sungchan sneaks up behind you, and you’re oblivious to the way he snickers and sticks out his tongue at Anton. Anton gives him the middle finger, the most defiance he can manage in front of your eyes. He wants the ground to swallow him whole, but he decides he doesn't need you commenting on him spacing out, so he quickly breaks out of his trance and follows after you eagerly like a lost puppy.
Now that Sungchan’s game was over, your attention was back on Anton, and he almost let out a sigh of relief when you tear your eyes away from that Sasquatch. You walked in tandem with him as you treaded over to the court you reserved early in the day for practice. You advised him to focus on his sliding, hone in on any last-minute footwork adjustments, and make sure he’d be comfortable with his side-to-side court coverage on the new clay court. You guys did a few hitting sessions, and once Anton started to get comfortable enough, you eventually told him to take a break so he could save his energy for the qualifying rounds. You knew he’d pass with no issues anyway; a lot of the players here were way behind him in terms of technique, so you weren’t nervous, but you always preferred to err on the side of caution. After you dismissed him, Anton spent the rest of his afternoon fulfilling minor promotional appearances and answering some interview questions about his thoughts on being in Italy to play for the first time.
“Would it be correct to say that this is your first time in Italy? What are you hoping to get out of your time here?”
“Yes. Yes, it would. In between matches, I’d love to explore the city, and while I’m mainly here to stay focused on securing that win—a gelato here and there wouldn’t hurt.”
“Of course. You and your coach have been hot news for the past year as you've slowly built a name for yourselves. Can you comment on your relationship? Does it thrive well because you are in a professional partnership or do you guys treat each other more like companions due to the proximity in age?”
“Umm.. well. We are definitely still professional at the end of the day. Coach Y/N has been there for me through a lot. Without a doubt, she was the one who built my career, so I do owe it all to her, and I’d consider us rather close. Still, I won’t speak too much on her behalf while she’s not around,” Anton answers lightheartedly, laughing at the end to distract from his own thoughts on your relationship.
He never knows how to describe the limbo that you two exist in. He knows you’re not quite friends since you don’t hangout one on one, but because you two are so close in age, it’s hard to see you as a mentor rather than a close peer. Plus, he’s with you practically 24/7 and you guys silently care for each other, but he’s not sure if that mutualism is based off of a contractual obligation or something more.
On paper, you’re strictly professional with him, but there are things that you do that he can’t help but get his hopes up over. You bring him supplements and nutrients now and then after researching what’s good for his muscles and joints, and you're always able to read when he’s had a bad day. You’re the first one he tells when he’s sick—you will always feel like more than just some coach to him.
Como, Italy—April 30th, 2025.
After Anton passed the next three days of qualifying rounds as expected, you decided he should get some rest. It wasn’t until you replayed the footage of him on the court that you noticed something wrong. It was late when you texted him last night, but you knew he’d be awake. You sent him a message asking you to meet you in the morning for another impromptu practice session. He had to clean up his serve before the big game, knowing that it’s best not to get too comfortable and lock in muscle memory when there’s a change in scenery.
your name do you have time tomorrow morning to meet?
For you? Always.
anton lee yeah! my schedule’s free. the press interviews aren’t until next week. :)
Anton wonders what’s up. He wasn’t expecting to hear from you—usually it’s radio silence unless you needed something or wanted to meet for more practice. Anton hopes it’s not the latter, but he lets himself get his hopes up since you never text him this late.
your name let's meet tomorrow to work on your serves. i noticed you’re not throwing as high as you should be for a powerful serve.
He shrinks into the hotel’s loveseat, a frown settling on his face.
your name your left arm has been sloppy as of recently. is everything feeling ok?
You never were the type to sugarcoat.
anton lee no yeah i kinda sprained it a bit at the last practice, but nothing sleep and some rest won’t fix. dw
Anton’s been trying his best, but you’re right. His left arm was giving him a bit of trouble. His physical therapist says he should take it easy before the Wimbledon match, but he’d take your word over hers any day. You always know what’s best for him.
your name okay. whatever you say.
your name don’t be late. i have lunch plans after.
There she is. That’s his girl—strictly business as always.
He has an inkling of what you’ll say before he sends it, but he can’t stop himself from wanting to see if this time will be any different.
anton lee speaking of... when are you going to take me out for lunch?
your name when you can get that serve high enough.
Nope. Not an inch. You’re still as cold as ice, and he wishes he had the sanity to resign and understand that you'll never warm up to him at this point.
But it’s like you always say: Work at it until you can’t get it wrong. It’s a stretch, but he’s long made up his mind that you’re worth it; even if your indifference chips away at him, dwindling his resolve every day.
The next morning, Anton woke up to what felt like the hottest day of the summer. He’s drenched in his own sweat, his linen pajamas doing little to nothing to keep him cool at night. He had gotten up several times throughout the night to walk out onto his hotel balcony and let the cool night air hit his face and bring his temperature down. Checking the weather, the bolded 104°F is the final warning for him to dress appropriately before he regrets it.
That’s how Anton ends up slipping into tiny olive green Nike shorts that barely extend beyond his stretched-out palm, if that’s any indication of their size, and throwing on a basic white tee with a dinosaur graphic on it before he heads out onto the court for practice today.
It’s a 20-minute drive away, and the drive over is peaceful. He soaks in the scenery of the green hills and rolls his window down to feel the wind flap against his face and breathe in the air, grounding himself before the day begins. In between making small talk with the driver and mentally capturing the pretty birds that greet the morning sky, his mind wanders to thoughts of you. He thinks about how you’re doing, if you’ve been adjusting to the new city. He's curious whether you’ve been trying anywhere new, or just holed up in your hotel room as usual. When he pulls up, you’re sitting on a bench in the middle of the court, legs crossed, eyes squinting as he comes into view, boring a hole straight through his skull, like you’ve been waiting for hours for his arrival.
He can’t be serious. Your eyes widen when you see his tiny shorts, following the definition of thighs all the way down to his calves. You shake your head before he gets too close and take a sip from your tumbler to cool down, immediately snapping into the proper mode as he enters your peripheral vision.
“You’re late.” It comes out a little harsher than you meant, but the heat on your cheek is sending any rationality out of your head. It’s beyond hot, and Anton’s choice of clothes today is only meant to get on your nerves.
That can’t be. Anton swears it was just 11 AM when he glanced down at his watch mere seconds ago. He even got ready early because he knows how hard he has to work to get back in your good graces when he’s late.
“Come on, Y/N. It’s 11:01. Give me a break,” Anton pleads, on edge with how stern you’re being with him already.
“First off—It’s Coach Y/N. And, no? My players are never late. And you–,” You stand your ground, pointing an accusatory finger straight at his chest once he invades your space. You need him to back up now, the scent of his cologne almost making you dizzy with a feeling you can’t quite name.
“You’ve been with me since forever. You know how I am, and I haven’t had any reason to change that.”
Maybe it’s the proximity of the upcoming games that's making you act more strictly than usual, but lately you keep finding yourself taking things out on Anton. It’s weird because you never get this way with the other players, but something about him pushes your buttons even more. You know it’s only a minute and that it only eats at your time together when you chastise him, but sometimes, you think you care more about his career than he does. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, trying to physically calm yourself down before you hit him with an exasperated look as silence fills the space between you.
“Hey, I was just caught up in the bathroom. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” Anton’s confidence immediately retreats—not that he ever has any when he’s around you. The way you’re looking at him like he doesn’t respect your time makes him feel unbelievably small, and you can tell he feels sorry for being late.
However harsh your delivery comes across, he has to know you mean well. You expect so much from him because he’s always given you a reason to think he’s worthy of that. You’ve never told Anton that you’re so hard on him because he means the most to you. You always assumed it was a mutual understanding that he doesn’t operate by the same standards you hold others to. You can’t risk it getting to his head, but just as much as he credits you for, you have a lot to thank him for as well. It was Anton who eventually gave you credibility, built your image, and allowed you to expand your reputation to one that no one would dare undermine.
Anton’s hypothesis was right. He knows how deeply you care—how much his success means to you and it’s this epiphany that fuels the unrequited feelings he’s held back for the past 2 and a half years. You’ve seen him grow from the player that no one was watching. You saw him cast aside, and you picked him up and dusted him off like he was a piece of tableware worth being displayed out for the guests.
For others, the way Anton played at 19 was a major deterrent. Typically, the make-or-break threshold for transitioning to the pro tour was around 16-18, an age when he still lacked proper direction and a good enough coach to take him far. Failing to secure a foothold or ranking during those prime years makes a top-tier professional career statistically improbable, especially when he was already a year behind. When you stepped in at 21 to take control of his career, many people were skeptics wondering if you had what it took. Somehow, your partnership grew into something beyond yourselves, and people were still in disbelief at the ground you two broke.
That year was it for him; if he couldn’t get it right then, he should have half a mind to go back to school and pivot careers. He gave himself one last year to try under your guidance, or else he’d call it quits completely. It was you who turned him into the player he is today, the one that people line up to interview and ask just how he was able to turn around his career on its head—and his answer always remains the same. He owes it all to you, answering on autopilot with your name and a lengthy paragraph on how your principles on tennis shape his outcomes as a player.
Like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, you almost feel bad as you watch his pitiful image run back to the other side of the court, opposite the tennis ball launcher you’d set up before he arrived.
“Whatever. Let’s start. Loosen up your arm when you throw the ball up; you’re so tense, and it makes for a bad throw. You’re also releasing it prematurely, so watch out for that.”
Short and straight to the point. As you always are. You’re here because Anton wants to be the best. His parents hired you to turn him into the best, and he depends on you for that—you’re here for nothing else. The past two years flash before him—the indifference with which you talk to him, your nonchalant actions replay in his mind, and he suddenly feels silly having harbored unrequited feelings for you this long, considering you truly leave no room for error.
You fire up the machine and turn the speed up so Anton can warm up by returning a few balls himself. That way, his arm has a chance to catch up to his brain. He’s been slacking because his arm’s not in the best condition, but you know that it’s his mental state. You need to shake him out of it.
“Hit a few, and then we’ll move on.”
Minutes pass by, and everything flows smoothly. You only jump in now and then to make sure he’s moving across the court the way you want.
“Light on your feet, come on. Keep up!”
Anton feels like all of his nerve endings stand up on alert. He always gets this way when it’s just you and him; it feels like there’s no other spotlight more important than the one on him when he’s on the court. His heart races, his hands become shakier, and his calves tighten–borderline threatening to cramp and embarrass him in front of you.
“You got it. Focus on it. Don’t let it out of your sight,” you add while clapping as if it’ll help him get his head in the game.
He knows you’re trying hard to come off as encouraging, but it comes out too indifferent to mean anything to him. He feels exhausted from playing these games with you. It’s nothing more than a practice session to you, but he craves being around you so much that sometimes, he feels hurt when you treat him like nothing more than a vessel to earn awards.
“Okay, that’s enough. Get some water and rest. I want to see your serves next,” You yell out to him.
He lets out a grunt of relief, nodding at your words, and collapses on the bench.
“Here, drink some,” Anton extends his water bottle out as an offering before he takes a sip himself, seeing as you ran out of your water in between him returning the balls.
“No, but thank you. You stay hydrated,” You respond.
You’ve always been the epitome of a professional. You’re the perfect Coach, and he has a shelf of trophies now to prove that you’re the one who turned him on his head. But if you’re such a good coach and can read his every movement so well on court, why can’t you tell how he feels?
“By the way—I did some research on your competitor. Wonbin’s not better than you, but he is definitely someone you can’t let your guard down. Make sure you’re sharp the day of. I’ll be over 2 hours before your match to go over strategy with you.”
He can see your mouth move and he thinks he can hear them form sentences, and he’s sure he’s processing them, but his mind is also floating to another place.
“Hello? Are you listening? Seriously... what’s with you today, Lee?”
“Sorry, it’s just really hot. I feel like I’m melting and my arm has been sore lately.”
“Are you serious?” You’re on him before he can answer, gently grabbing his arm to inspect the pressure points around his elbow and shoulder.
“Hey—It’s nothing serious. Don’t worry.”
“Lee, come on. Don’t lie to me. If it hurts, it hurts. Just tell me,” Your eyebrows are furrowed, voice coming out almost whiny because you’re not fully convinced.
It’s so like him to push it off. You don’t know what he’s trying to prove; injuries are normal. And it’s not like he can’t get help. He literally has a physical therapist on speed dial for this very reason.
“Let’s call it for today. I think that’s enough. Your throws are getting cleaner.” Guilt settles in your stomach. You didn’t mean to push him so hard. You hadn’t even noticed that you were, but you really didn’t need him getting any small injury before the actual match in a week.
“Go see your physical therapist and tell me what she says after,” You demand, trying to mask the concern that’s bubbling in your gut. The heat beating down on the two of you right now is not dissimilar to the tension building as you treat him like a porcelain doll, as if he’d crack any second from too much play. Your guard is never down around him; you can’t seem to stop yourself from worrying and fussing over him a concerning amount.
Where Anton’s sitting, he feels anxiety brew in his stomach. He hates this feeling. He hates feeling like he hasn’t given you enough and that you’re unsatisfied with how he’s playing. He’s itchy and hot all over, and it’s not just because of the heat anymore. He wants nothing more than to peel off his skin, unable to stand when you’re angry at him or when you look at him with so much unspoken emotion behind your eyes that he wants to lean in and kiss it all away.
The only thing holding him together is knowing that he has no room for error now. He has to play well now to earn himself a spot back in your good graces. There’s nothing quite like the smile you give him when he steps onto the court and knocks the wind right out of his opponents. You live for the moment his competitors find out what they’re dealing with, whatever inkling of hope they had to beat you dissipating into thin air right in front of their eyes. Anton thinks there’s no prettier sight than your smile when that happens. It’s what brings you happiness, and that’s all Anton lives for.
He’s going to win it for you, and that gives him enough strength to carry on with his day.
“Hey, Anton?”
“Yeah?”
“Do me a favor and burn those shorts.”
Queens, New York—March 27th, 2025. A Month Out from the Italian Open.
It was a good day. Anton’s serving form was spectacular, and his practice matches flew by without any comments from you, so you ended the session early and offered to take him out to a nearby bar you heard had good specialty cocktails. It turns out becoming as good a coach as you were meant you had little room in your schedule to socialize and make friends outside your tennis world. Your time was special to you, and you didn’t want to spend another night alone, but you had no one else to ask to go with you. That’s what you told yourself, even though you spent a little bit more time and effort getting ready than if you had gone by yourself.
You arrived at the bar first, and Anton walked in shortly after. The bar was nearby, a short walk from your apartment, since driving in New York is a nightmare, and you always liked the way the air felt on your warm cheeks on the way back. The bar smelled like rich oak and stale comfort, and when you stepped inside, the sounds of muffled jazz were a welcome contrast to the brutal, windy night.
Here you were sitting next to him, knees barely a centimeter apart, his kneecaps brushing up against yours under the countertop. You ordered a Cosmopolitan and, after you finished that, a Moscow mule to follow. At some point, your words were beginning to slur together, and Anton’s silhouette blurred in your vision. Has he always been this handsome? You started off speaking nonsense at first, reminiscing about how you’ve been wanting to go to this bar ever since you moved to Queens and then drifted to talking about how your favorite drink to order is actually an Espresso martini. Still, you didn’t want the bartender to think you were basic, all things of low importance, but he memorized each sentence like he’d be quizzed on it tomorrow.
An hour into the night, the mood shifts and your tone drops to something much graver. Something about the way the alcohol was settling into your system and the bar lights making everything more muted and soft made the filter behind your normal words disappear. You were too far gone at this point to care about what lines this would change before allowing yourself to throw caution to the wind and spill all of the thoughts you’ve been holding back. Anton remained on the edge of his seat, every hair on his arm standing up as he listened attentively, unfolding the words you were about to say until they painted a picture of who you are.
“I never wanted this, Anton.”
His heart sinks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I never wanted to become a coach. My entire life, I wanted to be in your shoes.”
Anton goes completely rigid beside you. This is completely uncharted territory for him; you’ve never shared how you found him, nor did he ever really know why you picked him out of everyone else to coach. He knows just how vulnerable you are right now, and he’s not sure how to proceed.
The words continue to tumble out of you before he can conjure up a response, as if you’re speaking in some cruel and twisted monologue about the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.
“You know what sucks too?”
“What sucks is that I almost had it. I was one of the top junior prospects. Everyone told me I was going to go so far, and that filled me with this unshakeable confidence. Like it was a guaranteed thing. Everyone around me knew it, and sure, they pushed me—but nobody was harder on me than I was on myself. I would tell myself, this is the sacrifice you make when you want it that bad. And then it all went to shit.”
You laugh to yourself, the bitter memories materializing into this acrid taste on your tongue. Things were simple during that time; you just assumed that your spot at the top was just a matter of time, simply waiting for you to catch up. You thought, what’s a little more? Too often, and eventually your attempts to speedrun your success meant practicing around the clock with no days off and crumbs of a social life.
“I thought I was young enough to withstand the physical toll it took on my body. Those felt like my glory years. I told myself—if not now, then never.”
You pause for a second before continuing, your heart deciding for you that now is a good time to release all inhibitions and lay yourself completely emotionally bare for Anton to witness. Something about opening up after burying these feelings to the deepest parts of your soul felt so freeing, as if you were shedding a molted skin, even if it still stung to reopen the wounds. The way Anton’s eyes were fixated on you and his mouth was hung slightly agape in careful anticipation, as if he was listening to you like your words were his lifeline, made you feel comfortable enough to resume. Something quietly shifts in Anton’s perception of you hearing you talk about yourself in such a desolate manner; you’ve always moved with an unshakeable confidence that he feels like he can’t recognize you right now.
“I ended up tearing my rotator cuff during my last game ever, right before Junior Championships. It happened in slow-motion. I was first to serve. The ball went up, and I raised my arm like I had done thousands of times before, and I felt the tear immediately.”
When he felt like no words would suffice, Anton hooked his hand under your chair and scooted you in. Once you got close enough, he put his arm around your shoulder, tucking you into his side so your words would fall only on his ears, and hummed in response to encourage you to continue.
Being this physically close to another human was the last straw. Tears wet your face before you realize, coming close to a full sob, the memory still so vivid in your mind after all these years. He hears it before he sees it. Soft sobs overtake your frame, causing your shoulders to rattle, and Anton tightens his grip around you. In the bar’s dim atmosphere, he holds you until there’s no room left between you two, absorbing every small shiver, sniffle, and shake of yours. He doesn’t dare look into your eyes—he knows your glassy orbs will destroy him, and right now, he feels that he needs to be strong for you.
“I spent that Christmas in the hospital. No matter how much I pleaded and screamed at the doctors to fix my mistake, it was too late. I could never play in the same capacity, and for me, that was enough never to want to play again.” Everything you did, you did with conviction and a sense of finality. That's how you’ve always been, and that’s partially why you treat Anton this way—you’ve never known what it was like to do things softly.
He takes it all in. Processing all of your words, he imagines you a year ago, alone in the hospital bed, the sterile walls doing nothing to placate your misery. He transfers himself into your shoes and feels how beyond upset and angry you would be with yourself. A shell of the person you are today, the person you had to morph into so she wouldn’t ever crack in the same way. He wasn’t sure you could survive another heartbreak like that.
In his head, he sends a mental thank you to his parents. If it weren’t for their valiant efforts two years ago, he wouldn’t be here to hold you at a time like this.
“I think back to it. Sometimes, I think what if I didn’t take things so seriously? What would I do if I had a redo—if I actually hung out with people my age at 10 instead of spending 12 hours out in the hot sun trying to perfect my serve form?”
“And you know what, Anton?”
“Hmm, baby?” Anton murmurs under his breath.
It slips out before he can stop himself; you’re revealing yourself in such a tender way, he can’t hold back the name he’s always reserved for you in his head. Thankfully, you pay it no mind and continue, and Anton’s eternally grateful.
“The worst thing is that I can’t help but think I wouldn’t have it any other way. No matter how many times I run the scenarios around in my head, I can’t give it up. All of that work had to be worth it even if my career got cut off short, so I told myself there was nothing better than being in that body of mine.” You have to take a breath in between your words, the air getting harder and harder to reach.
“That must sound crazy, I know. Especially because now I’m miserable with no friends, but I don’t know…” Your voice trails off and returns, “It was my whole reason for purpose, and when that gets stolen, you just don’t know who you are anymore. I don’t know if I’ll ever love anything as much as I loved playing.”
“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I had no idea.”
“How could you? Not with the walls I put up. No one does. I made sure of it.”
Your voice is reduced to a whimper now to keep the sobs at bay, and with every sob, Anton can only hear the small cracks of his heart.
Manhattan, New York—January, 2022 to December 2024. The Recovery Years.
When it first happened, you barely managed to escape press interviews and dodgy questions from sports recruiters about why you never stepped foot on a court again. They kept poking and prodding without a single care that maybe you were still figuring out how to be okay, selfish in their intentions to get flashy answers for headlines while you ripped yourself to shreds, asking the same question. Those days were rough, and you were almost labeled as a defiant, disobedient girl with how much you wanted to yell at them—if only you had a lick less sanity.
Your parents handled it all for you without question. That felt like the least they could do for you while you were drowning in your own pity, bedridden for weeks on end. Your eyes would flutter awake first thing in the morning just for one look at your tennis racket on the wall, your gaze tracing over the worn-out grip that’s begging to be changed, to make you cry all over again. Nobody knew how awful it was to live in your mind during this time. You would spend hours running through the milliseconds up until you were forced to wave goodbye to your career. It mocks you as if to tell you that it’ll never be held by you again. The next day, you threw it out.
For a while, you coped by believing that no one else was dealt shittier cards than you. You refused to move on, unable to see a way out of the pity hole you dug yourself into. You moped around all day, threw pillows at the door when your parents or friends tried to come over, and wallowed to no end.
“I said leave me alone!”
“Sweetie, please. You have to eat something. This isn’t healthy.”
No shit, this isn’t healthy. Why does everyone feel like they have to point out the obvious? What isn’t healthy is you being broken. Your body being too fucked up to do the one thing you felt was created for you. But as much as you hated the world, you knew it wasn't right to blow up at them—this wasn’t their weight to carry.
They reminded you to slow down, to take things easy, that there was time to build your career, and inevitably, it was your greedy, salacious hunger that dragged the carpet out from under you. Again, you’re hit with the realization that you have no one to blame but yourself, and sitting in that pool of guilt and shame wasn’t going to get easier anytime soon.
“Please just leave it at the door and go,” your voice trailing down into a whisper. You couldn’t bear to shout anymore; your throat felt dry and scratchy, and speaking words was exerting more effort than you could afford to expend.
That year, your 21st birthday passed as if it were another ordinary day. You were still in the active process of repressing and swallowing down the bile of the memories, unable to escape the dissociative fugue you were in, moving like a zombie through your own house. Celebrating your 21st felt sacrilegious; the one-year increase felt like you had to confront that entirely too much time had passed since your life ended as you knew it. It felt gross to know that time went on regardless of whether you wanted to move on. The last thing on your mind was blowing out candles and putting a smile on for your friends and family. Your parents offered to look into getting you a therapist, but you vehemently denied. You told them you just needed time and space—that this was something you wanted to work on alone—the firmness in your voice more than enough to keep them off your back. Deep down, you said no because you weren’t ready to admit it was time to move forward and process tennis and all that it meant to you.
The rest of that year did eventually pass—despite feeling like it never would. There were periods of recovery, of course—days when you felt like you could stomach food and watch a few minutes of a match—your interest perking up when new rookies you had played with were mentioned between conversations. The other days, you still felt like you were mourning everything and did nothing more than stay in bed. You relied on the passage of time to keep you afloat more often than not, thankful for the perpetual space it placed in between your last match and a life without tennis.
At 22, you decided you still wanted it. The court was the only place you felt alive, and you yearned to be close to it again, to see if you could feel something. Now and then, you would drive out to your old court. Most days, you never made it out of the car. But on the rare occasion that you gathered the willpower to step out, you would sit on the bench outside, stare in at the new, young prospects, and grieve the future you once held.
At 23, your parents introduced you to Anton, under the guise of ‘he’s got potential, he just needs some direction.’ Apparently, he had grown up down the street from you, so you have no idea how you managed to dodge him all this time, but you didn’t bother to ask for the details. After watching and analyzing him at a few practice sessions, you agreed. His potential was undeniably there, and that was enough. At the back of your mind, you knew this was a golden opportunity for you to practice tennis at a distance, to feel the heat of the game without ever having to yield the racket again. You didn’t know jack shit about being on the other end, what it meant to coach someone else, but you supposed it wouldn't kill you to try.
It was around the sixth month of training with him that you think maybe it would kill you. You seemed hit an impenetrable wall in Anton’s progress. All week, you badgered him to no end, unable to understand why he couldn’t perform the serve the way you asked, no matter how many tries he took. You felt like you couldn’t break through to him and that was killing you because you took it as a sign that you weren’t meant to do this. Both of you were burnt out beyond repair, pushed to your mental limits. In the middle of the session, you had to remind yourself to take a second to catch your breath, your throat burning from how much you raised your voice, and then it just clicked.
You looked at him and studied his appearance for what felt like the first time since you met him. His eye bags told you he hadn’t had a good night's rest in days. You noticed his nonstop panting, the sweat beading down his neck, and the permanent furrow in his brow, like he was even more upset than you were. Your heart shattered when you noticed how his arm couldn’t even bear to hold up the racket anymore, and you told him to take a week off. All he could do was nod and walk back to the locker room in silence.
You texted him a few hours later, feeling that an apology might do some good, even if it was a tough pill to swallow for a young coach with so much pride.
your name, hey, im sorry. i shouldn't have been so aggressive today. let's take a week off and come back to it. i know you can get it, anton. i really do.
anton lee it’s alright. i know it’s hard on you too. i promise i'll do better. see you in a week.
What you keep out of the messages is that, in the past few months, you don’t feel nauseous stepping foot on the court anymore. You attribute this to him—seeing him in his flow state and getting excited reminds you of yourself. Coming to this epiphany gives you enough clarity for you to slow down, to know better than to ruin his relationship with the sport too.
That afternoon, you packed enough clothes for a week and drove 3 hours back home to stay with your parents. Even though you attempted to eat dinner with them, which mainly consisted of you making small talk while you picked at your food, your mind was still consumed with ideas on how to get through to Anton. You retreated to your room and rotted for a while, craving the comfort that your childhood room used to bring, but the sight of your old racket did nothing to calm your mind; it only reminded you that Anton was in the same rut you found yourself in after your injury.
At some point in the night, you stopped feeling sorry for yourself. Fresh air sounded like a good idea, so you shoved your feet into whatever pair of slides fit, said goodbye to your parents for a bit, and walked outside.
You must’ve been walking for around 20 minutes by then, and finally you looked up to find that, somehow, your feet had dragged you to the tennis court where you spent your early childhood years. You and your dad would rally back and forth, with your mom jumping up and down, sending out nonsensical cheers when the two of you got past 5 passes. Back then, you played the sport to play.
It was there when your parents saw the talent, the drive in you that blossomed into a fire that couldn’t be extinguished. Sauntering over to the playground set, you took a seat on the swings, letting your feet kick at the woodchips and allowing your center of gravity to oscillate you back and forth, and thought about how you could help him, what you would’ve wanted if you were in his shoes.
You think you wouldn’t be able to survive if he got hurt and couldn’t play because of you. Another career tossed aside because you didn’t know when to stop. You knew better than to make the same mistake twice and destroy someone else’s livelihood. It sends a shiver down your spine. You walked back home with a heavy heart and heavy steps.
Luckily, you started feeling better in the morning and spent the rest of that week resting and researching how some of the greatest coaches treated their players to ensure they remained in the best physical and mental state.
When the week was over, you remember Anton coming back with an unprecedented sense of vigor, like there was electricity surging through him. Things only went up from there for both of you.
Over the years, you and Anton dominated the headlines.
Interviewers and sports channels couldn’t get enough. They labeled him an unstoppable force and something to be reckoned with, recounting how Anton dominated the court match after match and how it was all made possible under your watchful, competent eye. Everyone who ever doubted him came out to say that they always knew he could go far and claimed that under their care, he would’ve turned out even better. It made you scoff at how brazen people were with comments about his career, so sure that he'd be able to trust them after they passed him up every chance they got. Every time, Anton defended your honor, saying that you built your career alongside him—that more than anything, your relationship was a true partnership due to your proximity in age. Eventually, the headlines about how you failed to make it beyond the USTA Junior circuit dissipated into the background, and you were able to rebuild a name for yourself, reshaping how many families across America felt about you. Your clientele grew, but you never took in too many–always dismissing the strays to focus on Anton’s career.
The people who weren’t concerned with the actual technique or the love behind the sport preferred to feed into delusions of you two being more than just a coach-and-player relationship, which was easy to fuel considering how much time you spent with him. But even on and off the court, your relationship was built on the foundation and mutual understanding that tennis was going to be the biggest priority. Anton’s sole focus is on tennis, and yours is making sure it stays that way.
Queens, New York—March 22nd, 2025. 15-LOVE.
“I’d switch with you in a heartbeat.”
You hum at what he says, taking his words in. You know what he means when he says that. You’re not stupid. You’ve noticed that Anton looks at you like you hung the stars, and it’s not just because you’re the reason why he had to go out and purchase a trophy case.
You’ve guided him through his several Wimbledon titles and 2 US Open titles, 2 consecutive year-end championship titles, and lifted him back to No. 1 in the ATP rankings just last year. But the way he’s looking at you right now—You can tell it has nothing to do with the shiny gold medals. His eyes are glazed with this fondness that you don’t think anyone has ever looked at you with. In this moment, you feel so incredibly shy and naked in front of him. It’s like he sees you for you, not as a prize to be won as the other players treat you, but as a human who has more to offer to the world than tennis.
Your face feels hot to the touch. You have to push back on his shoulder to put some distance between you two so you can breathe, but you weren’t expecting to regret it immediately, already miss his enveloping warmth.
“I know you would. That’s why I’m so harsh on you… I think deep down, I’m trying to live through you,” you hesitantly admit. The relief is instantaneous—as if you have finally let out the breath that you’ve been holding in around him for all these years.
“I hope you know that even when you think you’re nothing without tennis, you’re still you.”
You blink rapidly. His words hit you, and he’s careful to observe your reaction before he continues. When you don’t say anything, he takes it as a green light.
“Y/N… I wish I could’ve been there with you growing up. I know you may not think of me as more than one of your responsibilities, but if I had met you when you were young, maybe we could’ve been friends. We would’ve had a lot of fun, and I would’ve made sure you didn’t play by yourself. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, but please, Y/N. Look at me—”
He takes in a deep breath that almost sounds pained. This time, he’s fully looking into your eyes as if to make sure that you can’t question his devotion.
“Don’t beat yourself down like that now. Not when you’ve proven to me and so many others that you’re so much more than tennis. All I can promise to you is that I won’t make you regret coaching me. Not after you’ve given your life’s purpose to me. I’ll take care of it well, okay?”
Your eyes glaze over, and you collide into him with full force, full on sobbing into his shoulder now. You’ve been so emotionally repressed these past years, convincing yourself that you were all alone in your struggle, that it comes pouring out all at once. Your mind sits with his words, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself imagine the two of you meeting when you’re young and your mind is malleable enough to rewire all of the toxicity you self-inflicted. You’re 8, evil and beyond prideful as ever, so of course, you would’ve made fun of the way he returned your powerful hits. The two of you would’ve played and laughed, and then gone home to eat snacks that your mom prepared. Scenes emerge of you asking him, but really demanding if he wanted to watch the matches on the TV together, and then of you racing over to his house to sit precisely one foot away from the screen, drinking in every inch of the TV. You can’t help but think that having a friend like Anton when you were young would’ve been really good for you.
Meanwhile, Anton thinks about how his love for the sport would’ve dwindled into nothing if it weren’t for you. He played because his parents put him into it when he was young; everyone knows how the story goes. When he was younger, all he knew was that it was fun. His parents would retell stories of how tennis courts were nothing more than a playground to him—that baby Anton would joke about being able to jump over the net and trip like a hot mess when his feet got caught up in the net. All he remembers is that he had fun and that the laughs that followed always cured any bruises he picked up along the way. He kept up with it because he wasn’t necessarily bad enough to completely abandon all and any efforts, but he always teetered on the edge of being great.
Recruiters noted him down, but never followed up—until his parents found out about it through a friend of your parents who was looking for something to do. They had been keeping up with you for a while; you were always the neighborhood’s pride and joy, and they shared the same devastation when they heard what happened. His family had the means to pay you well for your time, but really, your parents were the ones to urge him to let you take him under your wing.
You’re the one who pushes him to become something bigger than himself. It’s you who gets up in the morning and makes him feel like his time is best spent honing his skills on the court.
He’d be nothing without you. Anton believes this to be an irrefutable truth. He wouldn’t change a single thing in his life if it meant that he got to meet you in this timeline. To him, you are God’s best gift.
“Come on, Y/N. Let’s go home, okay? I’ll take you home.” Anton’s hands grab your shoulders and pull you back to face him. He grabs your things, interlaces your fingers with his, and makes you walk in front of him so he can make sure you don’t disappear into thin air.
He’s holding you like you’re glass; there’s such tenderness in the way his hand comes to hover a centimeter away from the small of your back and the way he rummages through his bag to hand you some water. You take small sips from his bottle and try your best to stand to the side while he calls a taxi before he realizes he doesn’t know your apartment number. He hails it to his place instead, and when it comes, he’s holding a hand out over your head as your limbs fall haphazardly onto the leather seats to make sure you don’t bump it on the car roof. Anton settles down next to you and pulls your hand into his lap, slowly tracing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. You fall asleep on his shoulder shortly after.
Anton carries you all the way up the stairs, and for you, it’s all a melting pot of memories. You remember pulling at his hair and refusing to go to bed before reluctantly climbing on his back. When you’re in his apartment, he sets you down on his bed and turns away with red cheeks as you strip off your outerwear, claiming it was suffocating you. He cleans up your makeup as best as he can and brushes your teeth gently. When it comes time to dress you, he shuts his eyes so tightly as he pulls the oversized tee over your head. Once you’re tucked into his bed and he’s made sure all of your limbs are accounted for, he sits next to you to watch as the blanket rises and falls with your small breaths.
“Night, Ton. Can’t believe I told you so much. Never told anyone else that much before…” The pet name catches him so off guard that he freezes. The warmth creeps up for what feels like the umpteenth time that night. His eyes are fond as he sees you deliriously giggling after teasing about the blush on his face before exhaustion takes over, and your eyelids close slowly. Anton stays for a moment longer to admire the lingering flush on your skin, drink in the sight of your long lashes, and gently unravel the furrow between your eyebrows.
“Goodnight, Y/N.”
He grabs a hoodie and closes the door lightly behind him before settling on the couch to take a breath.
He goes to bed that night with you on his mind. He replays the scene in the bar over and over, working himself up until he feels nauseous. He’s seen the way you push him at practice like it means more than a contractual obligation to you that he wins, and his heart shatters at the realization that he’s become a mirror for you. When you see him, all you see is what could’ve been. The moments when you’ve almost broken down into tears when he can’t get the serve right, the nights where you don’t get any sleep because you were researching and analyzing the way his opponents would play. The eye bags that enter the room before you do when he’s in the thick of his season. He shifts the memories around in his head, reframing them from moments when he thought you were just sick of him to moments when you were sick of yourself. He feels beyond useless as he comes to understand how long you’ve been carrying this weight alone. This whole time, you let others see you as some ruthless monster trainer who had to be this way to be taken seriously, but really, you’re treating your players the way you used to treat yourself because it’s the closest thing you’ll ever get to being back in the game.
What destroys him the most is knowing that you most likely take all of this as some moral failing, as if it’s a weakness of your character. As if you’re not a real person who’s allowed to be upset and mad at this fucked up world when her reason for existing falls apart right in front of her.
Anton thinks he’ll spend the rest of his life, or however long you’ll continue working with him, reminding you that you’re the strongest person he’s ever met.
Queens, New York—March 23rd, 2025.
What the fuck? You wake up to the sound of the fire alarm going off, but it’s not the usual blaring alarm that you’re used to in your apartment. Plus, you always ventilate before you cook.
You rub the sleep out of your eyes and sit up in bed. When you’re fully seated and take a second to stretch your arms, it dawns on you that you actually feel well-rested for once, as if the back pain you’re used to decided to take a day off.
But god—what the hell is that smell? It’s like something died in this apartment and you’re being punished. Is something burning? Are you going to die?
You can hear footsteps shuffling, and it’s only then that you take in your surroundings.
Whoever’s room you’re in, they like to keep it tidy. Minimalistic, too. Opposite the bed you’re in, there’s a small wooden desk with a large monitor on it. Some books are stacked in the corner, and a light-up keyboard sits in the middle. The walls are pretty barren, but there is one small painting that looks quite like what a kid could conjure up, and you’re thankful for the small ounce of color it provides to the otherwise flat, beige room. A guitar hangs from a hook on what you can assume to be the closet, and you think—It’s boring but accented well, cozy despite its unassuming appearance.
You try to remember what happened, how you ended up here, and collect yourself.
In the kitchen, Anton was trying to be as quiet as he could. He was, until he forgot about the stove he'd turned on, and the alarm ratted him out. He can hear you moving around, followed by the sound of the door creaking.
You’re standing in the hallway facing the kitchen, engulfed in his huge oversized, stretched-out white graphic tee, and he melts. You look so soft.
“Hi. Good morning.”
“Anton? Care to explain what I’m doing here? What the hell happened last night?”
“We went out to celebrate after you said I did well at practice at a bar down the street—your treat—and then you got a little too drunk. I tried to call you a cab, but I didn’t know your apartment number or your roommate’s contact, so I just took you back here. I slept on the couch and closed my eyes when I threw the shirt over your head, don’t worry.”
You weren’t even concerned with the last sentence, but your heart skips a beat at the fact that he wants you to know that nothing happened. It comes out so smoothly that you know he’s not saying it in hopes of getting a reward for doing the bare minimum; he truly just wants you not to doubt how you ended up in his clothes and in his apartment. Not that you ever did; this was Anton after all.
“Ugh, my head is throbbing.”
“Here, take this. I bought it this morning.” Anton hands you some hangover medicine, and you down it without a single word. It hasn’t kicked in yet, but the knowledge that you’ll be okay in a half hour makes your fight-or-flight response settle.
“How do you feel about pancakes?”
“It’s really alright. I should get going now, Anton. Sorry that you had to take care of me last night,” suddenly feeling too shy about having overstepped such an important line yesterday, and your gaze is fixed on the wooden flooring as you do your best to avoid eye contact.
Anton frowns at your response, instinctively pouting. Wait, what?
“No, please stay. Just let yourself be taken care of for once,” He pleads with you, the memories of yesterday night still fresh on his mind.
Your stomach grumbles in front of him, as if to publicly betray you, and you lose all stamina to argue with him. He lets out a hearty laugh at the sound and looks at you like he knows you’ve lost this battle too.
“Now, are pancakes okay? And please say yes, because I don’t have anything else.”
“Yes, that sounds good. Can I help?”
“Nope, go sit on the couch. I’ve got it.”
A couple of minutes pass, and while you’re trying to distract yourself by scrolling on your phone, you can’t lie and say you haven’t been sneaking glances at Anton in between each Instagram post you pretend to scroll through. Something about his messy hair and the white tank top he’s wearing draws your eyes to his broad shoulders, but also because you’re pretty sure he’s one second away from setting his apartment kitchen on fire and you don’t want to die.
“Ow—Fuck!” Anton hisses, drawing his hand back in pain.
Of course he managed to grab the wrong part of the heated handle. You immediately drop everything and run over to the scene. You cradle his hand and slowly walk him over to the kitchen sink, where you instruct him to rinse it under running cold water for 10 minutes to calm down the red mark that’s definitely going to leave a scar.
“Can you please just let me help you now?”
“Ugh—fine.”
He managed to make the batter just fine, so you rummage through his cabinets for an appropriate pan and heat it on the stove. You make sure to turn on the ventilator for extra caution (How did he forget to do that in the first place?), pour out some batter, and watch the misshapen circles bubble before flipping. Once Anton’s hand calms down, you sit him down to apply ointment and a band-aid. Why he has cute little dog-themed band-aids is above you, but you blow on his wound gently and make sure to pick him out the corgi one—your favorite.
Soon enough, there are two plates with three pancakes stacked high on each. Not many words are exchanged as you guys eat in silence, stomachs grateful for the sustenance.
“So… about yesterday. Do you remember everything?”
“Just bits and pieces. Not that much. Why? Are you hiding something from me that I did?”
“You didn’t do anything, per se, but you just ended up telling me about your injury and revealed a lot… I wasn’t sure if you would be okay with me knowing those things, so I just wanted to check in.”
“It’s not like I can take it back now, is it? Plus, I’m still your coach. That doesn’t change things; pretend like you didn’t hear it.”
The way you’re drawing the line with him makes Anton straighten in his seat. He knew that things wouldn’t change overnight given that he’s been playing this game with you for the past 2 years, but he felt like real progress was made yesterday. More than anything, he feels stupid for allowing himself to think that you’d let him lighten your load. Saying those things is one thing when you guys are both on the court, but now that you're sitting in his house, sharing a meal with your clothes on him and still saying it, Anton feels his heart retreat. Maybe, he shouldn’t have his heart set on a future with you if it means he’s going to keep getting disappointed. The ball’s always been in your court after all.
Como, Italy—May 2nd, 2025. 30-LOVE.
It’s one of his lighter days. Anton had an early-morning practice followed by an afternoon interview, and he’s free to do whatever he pleases after 3 pm. He’s been looking forward to being done with all of his responsibilities all morning because he wants to invite you out for some gelato. He has about two days left before his games start on the 4th, so he knows he can sneak in a few more stops with you. You guys have been hopping around to different spots all over the city, experimenting with flavors once you found out Anton likes ice cream almost as much as you do. Of course, his favorite is Pistachio. You’re not opposed to it and enjoy Pistachio even, but never enough to get a full scoop. Your heart is settled on raspberry, which somehow he also loves. In the end, you usually decide to share your scoops once the flavor fatigue has settled in.
He just wrapped up the interview, and he’s racking his brain for how he can get you to go with him later. He walked over to you to make some small talk, wanting to ask if you slept okay because you’ve been complaining about how flat the pillows are in your room, but when you saw him coming over, you skipped away in a rush.
Now, Anton wonders if he’s imagining the way you side-eyed that female interviewer earlier. She was doing all the right things, but she didn’t hesitate to lay it on thick that she found him cute. Comments about his appearance—how he kept his skin so clear in this weather—and invasive questions about why he’s never been spotted with any girl since his career began only made him cringe and want to die on the spot. His smile had faded into a neutral expression towards the end of the interview, only barely managing to grit his teeth in an attempt to remain as polite as possible. He lets himself imagine you being jealous and then dismisses the thought when it comes back a second time. You don’t get that way with anyone, and especially not with him. He’d rather pass the glint of jealous he saw in your eye as some air because allowing himself to think that you felt some way about it was beyond his understanding of you.
But then why did you leave him on seen when he texted you asking if you wanted to grab lunch after his match, a welcome ritual that’s begun to make its way into your daily routines? No matter how much he tries to pretend like it was nothing, it doesn’t make sense when he considers how you’ve been more dismissive and curt with your answers since the morning. You’re always professional with him, but you don’t ride him as hard as before, so he let himself believe that you guys had grown closer lately.
Anton racks his head for how he’s going to make it up to you later.
You’re so embarrassed. You don’t know why you’re acting this way; you don’t get why your cheeks heated up as the interviewer looked at you directly, the question she had asked Anton about why he hadn’t been seen with any women throughout his career feeling too targeted towards you.
You’ve had a crush before. Or well… that’s what you called all of the players you fell in love with when you were young. You really don’t know anything outside of tennis. You’ve never dated, always devoting yourself to this damn sport, and now you’re so fucking confused. What is this?
Why am I getting the urge to lock Anton up in a castle so no one can ever look at him with those lovey-dovey eyes again?
In truth, you’ve been acting all sorts of weird these days. You’re beginning to think you might be coming down with something.
Am I sick? Holy shit, do you like Anton?
The thought almost makes you burst out laughing, but luckily your instincts kick in, and you remind yourself that you’re in public and while the cameras are here for Anton, you’re supposed to act as his right-hand.
What the hell are you saying? Listen to yourself, Y/N.
If you don’t act right and accordingly, it looks bad on Anton, and you don’t want that stress getting to him during his games.
Fine. Maybe you care a bit more for the poor boy after that night. You cried in his arms and in his hotel bed, and he made you pancakes the morning after. It’d be weird to ignore him and act like something extremely vulnerable hadn’t been revealed between the two of you; you try to reason with yourself. But that’s all it was: a passing moment in time, a slip of your mind that you can’t take back, a glitch in your prefrontal cortex. That’s all it was. Yeah sure… You look out for him a bit more these days, and that’s all. It’s because he’s approaching the peak years of his career. That explains why you’re texting him more often, even if some of your messages have nothing to do with tennis.
It’s just a few offhand questions about whether he’s eating well here and there. If he hasn’t, then you join him for his meals to make sure he’s keeping up with his food intake. Sometimes, he even accompanies you as you go to eat ice cream and offers him a bite or two, knowing he can’t have too many sweets before his match.
It’s not like he doesn’t return the friendly favor. He’ll shoot you a message asking you what you’re up to and if you want to explore the city together in between promotions and matches.
Sometimes, you shock yourself and send him a funny tennis meme out of nowhere. Commentary about the matches and the obnoxious players you’ve both encountered. It’s nothing, really. Who else are you supposed to talk to?
You spend the rest of your day ignoring how you feel. The hours tick by while you’re in an almost catatonic state, giving short responses to everyone when they try to talk to you and staying off your phone until people spam your notifications because they’re worried. The one time you check it, you immediately regret it because the most recent notification was Anton asking if you’re okay and if you wanted to walk with him to the nearby gelato shop. You think you almost walked into a door while reading it.
You think you’re pretty good at denying how you truly feel, having plenty of experience after the accident happened. Still, something about the way that reporter looked at Anton makes you blind with anger no matter how much you try to swallow that foreign feeling. Maybe it’s just because you two had been growing close and you haven’t had a friend like him in a while.
Your life has always been lonely ever since you devoted 100% of your time to tennis, and now that you’re an adult who missed out on all those crucial moments socializing with kids your other age, it’s natural for you to connect with whoever is convenient. You tell yourself, that’s what Anton is. He’s convenient.
Como, Italy—May 7th, 2025. What Comes Next.
It’s too hot. Like, entirely too hot. You feel like your skin is about to melt off, and everything around you is sticking to you like you’re a puddle of glue. You've gone and stood in front of the fridge in your room more times than you can count and opened every window in hopes of getting some kind of air circulation going.
You texted Anton saying the air conditioning in your room stopped working and that you were going to sweat out and die in your room, so he better come say goodbye now. He called you a dramatic queen before inviting you to his room, and you gladly accepted, wanting nothing more than to be out of the hot Italian summer heat. He quickly threw on a pair of slides, not even caring to look decent as he ran to the little market down the road to get some snacks. When he returned, he pulled the secret stash of ice cream out of the fridge and heard a knock at the door seconds after entering.
He opens his door to the sight of you with your hair down, wearing pajamas and cute cloud slippers. No reason to get dressed up when it’s just Anton. He’s immediately hit with flashbacks to the night you were at his apartment in his clothes. Still as soft as ever, he thinks.
“Here, come in.”
“Thanks. I was seriously dying in my room.”
“Yeah, I would be too. Did you talk to the maintenance about it?”
“Mhm, they said they wouldn’t be able to fix it until tomorrow morning.”
“Well, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like. I grabbed some snacks I thought you'd like and thought we could watch a movie.”
“Sure, that sounds perfect. Thanks.” You walk over to his living room, hop onto his couch, and try to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat at his thoughtfulness.
The movie is long abandoned at this point. Anton let you pick, and you somehow settled on a random documentary after skipping through a few channels and seeing nothing remotely interesting. Half an hour in, you’re complaining about how sleepy the narrator's voice is making you. Anton gets on your nerves by saying he let you choose it, and you flick him on the forehead in retaliation for speaking a truth that you didn't care to hear.
You decide to ditch the movie altogether, diving into a much more interesting conversation to pass the time. The conversation ranges from anything to everything; you talk about your favorite foods, your pet peeves, and why your comfort movie will always be Ten Things I Hate About You. Anton chimes in too, opening up about how he used to do other sports outside of tennis, like swimming and archery; that he likes dinosaurs and space, and how he’d major in architecture in another life. You joke that he’s always been a nerd.
When you’re mid-rant, deep in your thoughts about how people shouldn't be allowed to count audiobooks as reading, you look up to find Anton staring at you. You must’ve been talking for too long.
Anton doesn't take his eyes off you even though you're now making direct eye contact. His reluctance to look somewhere else causes something to shift between you two.
"What is it? Is there something on my face? Why are you looking at me like that?" The questions come fumbling out of your mouth, becoming quieter the longer he stares at you. He scoots in, and your breath hitches when it becomes apparent how close you two are. You can feel his breath tickling your nose.
“Tell me to stop, and I will.”
Another moment of silence passes between you just as you’re registering his words. His eyes are drawn to your lips, unable to look away at the pout they’ve formed. He must not be thinking straight because he takes your silence as a green light, and Anton’s leaning in before you have a chance to come to your senses and draw up your walls once more.
His hands reach up to cup your jaw with such gentleness that it only makes you want him even more, and then he’s kissing you with a dizzying fervor. All of the years of him yearning to be here, like this, with you catching up to him, and he feels a tear drop from his cheek out of happiness. It falls on your cheek, but you pay it no mind, heart and mind racing with how emotionally overwhelming all of this is for you too. He’s so tender with the way his lips move, and you feel like you belong in this moment forever, to be molded by him however he pleases.
He tastes like the vanilla ice cream you had just been eating. You close your eyes, deepen the kiss, and try to lick more of it off of his lips. Your hands make it to his shirt, and you fist the collar, pulling his body even closer to you. One of his hands drops to your waist and pulls you effortlessly his lap.
“I’ve wanted to do this for so long, you have no idea.”
“So don’t stop.” Anton groans at your words and connects your lips again.
You’re not sure how it got to this point. You think you’ve been kissing him for hours at this point, and you still can’t get enough. You take a moment to catch your breath, and selfishly, so you can take in Anton’s disheveled hair, all thanks to your work. This might be your favorite sight on the planet. He’s never looked prettier than he does right now in your hands.
He pecks your lips as you become lost in thought, and you giggle at his antics, your heart feeling so light and full at the same time.
“Should we sleep soon?”
“Yeah, maybe. You do have another match tomorrow.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re coming to bed with me. That way, I can get a good night’s rest.”
You look at him skeptically.
“No bad intentions, I promise. Scout’s honor.”
You pretend to think about it, but your resolve disappears as quickly as it arrived. For tonight, you want to let yourself be wrapped up in his affectionate self and not worry about what comes after. You don’t really know what any of this means, but you think you might as well enjoy it while this lasts.
“Okay. Let’s go, Lee. Hope you don’t snore.”
“No promises!”
You let out a yelp and wrap your arms around his neck as he swings his arm under your knees and carries you down the hall as if you weigh close to nothing. He laughs at how much you resemble a koala bear with how tightly you’re wound around him right now. You’re tucking your head into his neck, taking in his scent as he lays you down on the bed and tucks you in before slotting himself in next to you, leaving no space between your bodies. Before knocking out, Anton gives you the gentlest kiss on your forehead and wishes you sweet dreams.
“Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goodnight, Anton.”
Como, Italy—May 10th, 2025. The Big Toss-Up.
The argument was over absolutely nothing. It was another hot day, and Anton barely managed to scrape by in his match, and it worried you to no end. You kept chastising him, telling him what he could’ve and should’ve done better, reiterating that you expected more from him. Anton hates it all. He’s so sick of it. He doesn’t even care about winning the Open. He never has. He just wants you to look at him and hold him like you had done nights prior. The morning after that night, he woke up to you gone; the only thing left to assure him that he didn’t dream you up was the imprint of your body in his sheets. You slipped away with not so much as a text and left him with a mountain of questions. He was worried sick, head rattling with thoughts of whether or not he crossed boundaries or made you uncomfortable. He didn’t hear from you all day, until you reached out asking him to meet you early the next day before his match. He let himself get his hopes up, but you were acting as if nothing had happened, so much coldness inhabiting your body that it gave Anton whiplash in comparison to how sweet you were acting with him just two days ago.
He didn’t say anything and met you the next day as you asked. Years of letting you toss him around and have things your way finally caught up to him. He laid everything bare for you that night so if you were going to pretend that nothing happened, so was he. Anton wanted so badly for you to come to your senses on your own and tell him that you did feel something for him too.
You two had gone back and forth on the court all day. He told you that he was too tired and didn’t want to be out here anymore, and you kept egging him on, telling him that the match tomorrow matters more than anything.
He thinks it’s ridiculous because after all these years, how can you not see that his heart is only in this because of you?
Maybe your heart is in it too much. Maybe your heart is only with the sport, and not even a sliver of it belonged to Anton.
So now the two of you are on the court, yelling at each other while passersby pretend they aren’t listening in.
“I’m your Coach, Anton! Think about that for a second.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we never should’ve crossed the line.”
“Right.”
Anton sucks in a breath before expressing everything he’s been thinking about the past few days.
“Think about it, Y/N. If you didn’t feel the need to draw such a strong line for no reason, there would’ve been nothing to cross. You kissed me back, don’t you remember?!”
“And I never should’ve done that.” Your words feel like you’ve spit directly at him.
He practiced this discussion with you in his head before, and he always thought that when the time came, he’d be able to hold himself back. He can’t help himself, all the words come out much softer and more broken than angry.
“I’ve loved you for years, Y/N. For the past two fucking years, I’ve done everything you asked and wanted of me.”
“Are you asking me to take responsibility for your feelings? I didn’t want any of that, Anton. I didn’t ask you to like me!”
“How could you say that, Y/N?” His voice cracks, clearly sounding pained beyond repair, and you swear you hear your stomach drop.
He gathers himself before continuing.
“I’d never ask you to fake loving me if you’ve only ever seen me as some obligation or a vessel to live through. What I am asking you is that you don’t to force yourself to pretend like something isn’t there. I’m asking you not to ignore the fact that we could both be good for each other.”
You take his words in. You and Anton are the most dynamic duo that tennis has ever seen, but you don’t know what comes next after that—if there can be a version of you guys where you exist beyond that label. Where this could go scares you because the last time you had something this good—you messed it up. You can’t risk that happening again.
Anton takes your silence as a green light to continue.
“Can you seriously stand here and tell me that night at the bar meant nothing to you? That two nights ago meant nothing?”
“Of course it meant something, but that doesn’t mean I can do this. I can’t enter a relationship with you, Anton.” You’re nearly pleading with him at this point. This back-and-forth is getting too hard to keep up with; you want nothing more for him to understand you. You wish he could listen to you like he always does on the court, except this time you’re not on the court, and this issue isn’t as simple as him not taking wide enough of a step in between returns. The same reasoning does not apply. You’re hit with the resounding epiphany that you can’t approach every problem like it’s some tennis game strategy, and it stumps you.
“What part of I love you do you not understand? Do you not believe in it? How can you stand there and say that to my face?” Anton’s words break you out of your daze.
Your heart stops once you register what he just said to you, his words piercing right through you. He’s relentless. Your knees buckle, and you have to will yourself to stand up. Feeling so weak, you resort to the only thing you know how to do when cornered like this. You respond to him with the most malice and vice you can conjure up. How dare he stand there and question you as if you’ve never experienced love in your life? Did he know anything about you?
“I did have something I loved, Anton. I loved it so fucking much that it destroyed me from the inside out. My own love came back to bite me in the ass… So really, don’t talk to me like that. Don’t talk to me like you know me.”
“I’ve only ever wanted to make you happy, Y/N. That’s all I ever wanted. Knowing that the extent of our relationship ends once I step off the court, all of those awards mean nothing to me when I come home to them. I know I can’t undo what happened to you; I know these awards that we’ve earned together hold a measly flame to you making a name for yourself as a player. But it’s because I want you to know that you’re a damn good coach and that you’re not this worthless, broken girl you describe yourself as. That it’s your knowledge and your expertise… your personality and the love you have to give to others... all that lives inside your head and your heart that makes you so valuable.”
He takes in another deep breath, as if saying this last sentence is about to be the last one ever. Your heart feels like it’s about to overload.
“You talk about how tennis ripped you apart, but you don’t consider that maybe I wanted to be the one to put you back together.”
“I’m not asking you to choose me, YN. I’m just asking you to think if there’s ever been a time that you’ve felt any inkling of fondness towards me, that you wouldn’t shut me away right now.”
“I’m sorry, Anton. I can’t. I can’t look at you and not envy the life you have and wish it was my own.”
All the color drains from Anton’s face, so clearly frustrated that his words do not break through your walls. He decides he’s done. He decides that he’s lost this battle, the never-ending game with you that he’s played for the past two years. He can't keep doing this with you. It's time for him to walk away.
“Then let’s stop this. I don’t need a coach who won’t listen to how her player feels. It must have never been a true partnership since the beginning if you just wanted me because of some pretty trophies that mean nothing to me without you.”
He walks out, leaving you to yourself. For the first time since he’s met you, Anton has chosen himself. When the door shuts, you collapse to the ground and sob uncontrollably. You don’t know how long you spend on the cold wooden floors, but all you can think about is how you deserve this. You brought this upon yourself—you broke the one good thing you had left. You hate yourself so much at this moment, your self-sabotaging tendencies coming back to bite you even more than when you pushed yourself and lost tennis. It’s the same gut wrenching pain all over again, but this time, it’s even worse.
Como, Italy—May 16th. Match Point.
The score is 45-LOVE, and Anton lands the last point before the crowd breaks out in a loud cheer. With that, the game ends, and you’re going to cry with how proud you are of the way Anton played. You could tell that his arm was going through it in the second half, but the way he handled himself and chased after the ball, no one would know better. Of course, nobody knows him as well as you do anyway. It’s been almost a full week since the fight, and you haven’t held a proper conversation with him outside of the small practices where you both keep things to a minimum. You fire up the machine, let him have at it, and then give him some pointers before you both go back to your hotel rooms on your own. You know he sees your puffy eyes, the same one that cry themselves to sleep at night and you notice how he walks with his shoulders down everywhere, exhaustion lingering in every joint.
You watch as people line up to give Anton his flowers, shake his hand, smile at him so genuinely that it stretches to each corner of their face, and comment about how he’s one of a kind. He tries his best to conjure up a smile in response, every the polite and respectful boy. You’re so proud of him, you think. And then it hits you that you’re not allowed to feel that way towards him anymore. It kills you.
Your feet move before you can stop them. Rationality has been thrown out the window the moment he landed the match point. Your heart is fully his, and you can’t go another minute pretending like you don’t want him too. You need him to know.
He materializes in front of you as if you hadn't marched all the way over to occupy the space right in front of him.
The scent of his cologne, which has begun to mix with his sweat, hits you first and nearly sends you toppling over right where you stand. You swallow the nausea that’s threatening to come up in your throat from being this close to him again and will the words to come out.
“Hi.” He says first with a reserved smile, as if he knows what this is about. He extends the olive branch first, still so sweet to you as if you didn’t break him two days ago. You’re so grateful for what feels like a small offering of peace that you smile back at him.
“Hey… I saw your match. I wanted to reach out and say congratulations, but I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me.”
“I never blocked you. You could’ve tried.”
The crumbs of warmth drip away from his tone, and you’re met with the most neutral tone you’ve ever heard him use to address you. He’s become completely indifferent to you within a matter of days. Your heart drops once again.
“I’m sorry.”
He’s right. You really could’ve and should’ve, but you regretted so many things when it came to him that one more didn’t feel like it was going to make a difference.
“It’s fine. We’re nothing to each other, right?” The spite in his voice makes you take a step back and reconsider if you’re really ready to do this. You decide you can’t keep running from the problem as you did with tennis. You need to face this fully so you have no regrets.
“Right… well that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” You take in another deep breath before continuing.
Listen Anton. I’m sorry, really, for how things went down last night. I should’ve never spoken to you like that.”
Anton doesn’t move an inch, instead choosing to dig further.
“Never spoke to me that way because you do actually care for me or because I’m just your client and it’s unprofessional? Which one? Because it matters.” He asks the million-dollar question as if he’s had it loaded for days.
He’s holding his ground, and you’d be almost proud of how he’s not letting you get off easily if it wasn’t killing you. But you know that you don’t get to walk back into his life so easily and expect that he’ll accept you with open arms. All you can do is be honest and transparent with him, and he can accept it on his own terms when he’s ready.
“The first one. You do matter to me, and I don’t want to keep pretending like you aren’t the best thing that’s happened to me since tennis.”
“Do you really mean that? Because if you don’t, I’d like to know now before I get any more involved.”
“Anton. I’m done running.”
“Where are the cameras?”
“The–What? What are you talking about?”
“The prank cameras. Where’s the camera crew? Tell them to come out. Are they hiding over there?” He points at the tree behind you.
“There’s no prank, Anton—,” You feel offended knowing that you being this frank about your feelings reads more as a gag to him than anything, but you dismiss it because you’re certain he’s just defensive because of how much you’ve hurt him in the past. “Please believe me when I say it's just me asking you to let me love you the way you’ve loved me all these years.” Reaching for his hands, you cover them with yours and look into his eyes, pleading with him to see your vulnerability in this moment and how sincere you’re being. This really feels like life or death for you, you wouldn’t dare joke with him right now.
“I’ve spent so long denying myself good things, because I haven’t known anything else. My mind defaults to thinking it’s just a matter of time before things go bad—before we destroy each other. I’ve never known how to hold things at the right distance and care for them appropriately. I thought you’d consume me if I opened myself up to the possibility of us being more. Sure, I always regarded you as one of my responsibilities, but that’s long changed, and I’m sorry it took me so long to admit it. Please, can you forgive me?”
“Pinch me. This must be a dream.” You can tell he’s trying not to break out into a big smile but he folds anyways and offers you a small one. Relief runs through you immediately, you know you’re on the road to being forgiven, so you don’t feel bad about teasing him back.
“God, you’re so stupid, Anton Lee.”
Before you can fire another smart remark at him, he cradles your head into his arms and pulls you into a warm embrace that could almost pass a chokehold with how tightly he's hugging you. You have to punch his chest a little to get him to let up.
“I feel like I’m dreaming. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to wake up?” Pulling you back into you, much gentler this time, he rests his head on top of yours. You can hear the faint sound of his heartbeat, the beat it's racing at matching the one inside your chest. You let out a laugh at his antics, so relieved to finally be allowed back into his heart.
“I like you so much, Y/N. It’s always been you.”
“I like you too, Anton. I’m not exactly sure what comes next or what this means for us, but I’m more than happy to find out.”
“And Y/N? You’re never going to lose me. I promise.”
Anton’s on top of the world. He’s got the girl of his dreams, and as a nice bonus, he just won the Italian Open. Nothing more romantic than grabbing gelato with you as the cherry on top and recounting all the moments when Anton knew you were in love with him too, but you were just in denial. You ask him how it felt to win, and he says it was a fraction of the joy he felt when you told him how you felt. You just sit there happily taking in his every word, entering the conversation now and then with short quips. You don't say much, mainly because you're paralyzed with the fact that you’ve also struck gold in the form of another human being.
You weren’t expecting to feel this happy. Or really, you should say you didn't think it was possible to be this happy. Ever since you were a kid, the only thing you thought could bring you eternal happiness and peace with yourself was winning countless tennis titles. Still, sitting across from him in this gelataria, sharing two scoops of pistachio and raspberry ice cream in Italy, you’re quite content.
Queens, New York—Summer, 2026. All is fair in love and war.
You can’t remember the last time you’ve been back in your own apartment since you and Anton came back from Italy, which is pretty bad considering what you pay for rent in New York could send some people into a coma. But it’s just too difficult to leave when you get the privilege of waking up next to him everyday, his face slightly puffy but all warm and soft, and you’re held so tightly against his chest as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You try—you really do try to move, but Anton’s arms come to circle your waist even tighter until you stop hitting his chest and give up, just so happy to be in this infatuated with him. He makes a case for how much he really doesn’t want you to leave, and you don’t bother to fight because you don’t want to leave either. You have to make up for lost time after all.
You spent so long denying yourself that he’s been here all along. It was hard to know what love felt like when you spent your whole life chasing a goal—some kind of pipe dream and a misguided belief that being the best in the world at tennis would solve all of your problems. Another part of you didn’t know if you were truly deserving of happiness. Anton is so good, and you weren’t ready to confront how much he liked you, and how much you could hurt him because of that. The last time you were happy, you were also pushing yourself so hard, and it scared you to be put in that position again—to love something to the point of destruction. But now that you’ve allowed yourself some grace, being with Anton doesn’t feel like any of that. You can’t imagine being happier. Some days, it’s still hard to picture yourself being dependent on Anton, but he makes it so easy. He doesn’t make you feel small for asking for things, and never has he ever made you feel like you’re not competent. He does everything out of love, because he wants you to know that he’s here and he’s willing. Your heart tightens every time you remember how good he is. He’s truly one of a kind, and you often think you’re the one who scored got lucky with him.
On the slow mornings you wake up before him, you drink in the beautiful image of him sleeping. You observe the steady rise and fall of the blankets and listen to the faint rhythm of his breathing, the sound calming you immediately. Your mind snaps mental pictures of the way the morning sun seeps into his room, illuminating his features through the blinds. He’s so painfully beautiful. You think you’ll kick yourself forever for how much you overlooked his presence in your life. You admire the softness of his lips, his long eyelashes that cast the smallest shadows on his cheeks, and you slowly trace your index finger over the slope of his nose.
He startles you by grabbing your hand when you make it down to his nose, and brings it to his lips to kiss your knuckles.
“Morning, baby.”
His voice comes out all sleepy and soft; you think you want to hear it every morning for the rest of your life. How you went all this time without his warmth, you must’ve been crazy. You won’t ever let yourself get over these special moments. He’s been calling you that so much lately; it follows up after every sentence, remark, or small comment. And yet, you’re still not used to it.
“Mmmm, stop. It’s too early. You can’t possibly be this cheesy every morning.”
“Ohhhh, but I can. Is my baby shy?”
“You have no idea how happy I am to get to call you that now.”
What he means by that is that he’s going to run it into the ground until you’re begging him to stop embarrassing you in public.
“My baby. All mine. My girl forever,” he emphasizes while planting kisses all over your face, not even giving you a chance to turn away from his morning breath.
“Anton, stop…. It’s embarrassing.”
“Babe, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to shower you with my love. I have like 3 years of affection to catch up on. Hurry up and get used to it.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“Yeah, but I’m yours.”
You resign, deciding not to tease him any further and let him have this moment. Shifting your focus over to returning the kisses, you want him to be showered in your love too. Anton lets out light giggles, and you drink them all up. He starts tracing random shapes on your back, asking you to guess what he’s spelling out once he eventually transitions to letters. When you can’t guess it, mind half-floating to another dimension from the pure happiness you’re experiencing right now, he shyly admits he wrote “I love you,” and you bury your head into his chest even more to hide the heat that crawls up your cheeks.
Anton hums to get your attention, and you perk up at the sound.
“...Do you have any nicknames in mind for me? Of course, you don't have to use them, but I was just wondering.” You can tell he wants one so badly, and your heart melts. The idea of your 6'0 giant wanting to be referred to as something as saccharine as the love he has to give to the world makes you want to shed your tough exterior, but you know it's not going to happen overnight.
“I don’t know. I’m still really shy with all of those things. It’s hard for me to use them.” You admit.
“Well, what if we do something similar to Anton? Please, baby, try for me.”
“Okay... how’s Toni?” It comes out as uncertain, but it’s cute, and you’re comfortable enough to use it since it sounds similar to his real name anyway.
“Toni’s perfect, princess.”
You’re so grateful for him.
“Should we get up now?” Checking the clock, it’s half past nine. You usually never stay in bed this late, but you’ve been doing a lot of things you’re not used to because of Anton recently.
“No, I’m too comfortable.”
You unwedge yourself from his arm and roll over to quickly check your phone. After a few seconds, Anton whines and pulls you back into him, claiming that you were too far and he’s scared you’re going to escape. So clingy.
“Don’t tell me you have somewhere to be. If you do, cancel it. Let’s both take the day off and spend this morning like how I’ve always dreamed.”
“And what would that be?”
“More kisses and more of me telling you how much I love you.”
“Okay, Toniiii. That sounds nice.” You drag out his name just to tease him, saying it like you spent a second mulling it over, but really, you wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else.
“What should I make for breakfast later?”
The smile on your face drops, replaced with immediate worry.
“Please never cook again.”
Anton makes an offended face, but you remind him of what happened last time he tried to make you pancakes, and he shies away, clutching his chest as if you’ve wounded him so deeply. He jokes that he’ll never forgive you for being so mean but a second later, he’s asking for you to be close to him again.
“We can make them together, baby. I’ll teach you.” That’s enough to bring the smile back on his face, and he presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Okay, but in 15 minutes. Wanna cuddle you some more.”
“Addicted much?”
“Oh, very much so when it comes to you. You have no idea.”
You both fall into another brief period of silence, just appreciating each other's presence and the warmth of him on your back. He's such a cuddle bug. The second night you spent in his apartment after coming back from Italy, you joked about how you didn't expect him to be so clingy, and he just hugged you even tighter.
You readjust in his hold so your mouth is close enough to his ear so that you can whisper what you’re about to say.
"Just so you know, Toni... I love you too."
He pulls back for a split second to shine a bright smile at you, "I've always known, angel."
Anton couldn’t be happier knowing he’s finally won you over after all these years.
taglist: @oncyanii @jellymiki @dreamiestay @kingsoowolves @winterbeartaehyungbestboy @rixieisfreaky !!! hope you all enjoy <3
smut. sub anton. boyfriend anton. in this house we love to tease anton. dryhumping. masturbation (m). handjob. anton is such a babygirl. [1.5k words]
anton: done gym
you: SEND BICEPS
after scrolling through your for you page for a bit, a notification popped up.
anton: lmao
you: k nvm
anton: wait wait
you: and your dick pls
anton: what
you: everrr
anton sent a photo.
anton sent a photo.
you: good boy!
and that’s how you ended up on top of anton after a good 20 minutes, grinding against him.
anton whimpered loudly when your lips left his just so you could kiss his neck. his big hands remained on the sides of your waist, pushing you down harder against his crotch.
“fuuuuuuuuck. feels good. baby, please-” he continued groaning afterwards, tickled by your kisses along his neck. you ground against him, watching him get overstimulated by the sensation.
“why is it that when i ask for pictures, you don’t send them? you never do,” anton said between his ragged breaths.
you smirked, caressing his cheekbone while looking directly into his half-closed eyes. “no.”
he let out a long whine, sending an instant wave of heat straight down between your legs. “babeeeeee. i send you my dick pics all the time. i’m just asking for a picture of your tits.”
anton’s tone was so whiny that you had to chuckle, giving him a quick shake of your head.
“you’re so whiny, babyboy.” you continued to grind against his denim. his eyes struggled to blink from the heat, the friction, and the growing strain under his zipper. "keep complaining."
unable to do anything, anton pulled the back of your head to smash his lips against yours again. both of you were breathless as the kiss grew aggressive, his arms wrapping tightly around your back.
your body never stopped moving against his, and you could already feel your wetness soaking through above the struggling bulge in his pants.
your hands reached for his button and zipper, quickly working to free his cock.
it was massive, and twice as hard from all the dryhumping.
you pulled away from the kiss suddenly, making him let out a surprised whine.
“i’m sleepy,” you told him firmly, leaving his lap.
his expression went sour. he was hard and desperate to fuck you, yet you were teasing him to the point where his brain couldn't function properly.
“you won't help me? babe pleaseeeee,” he whined, reaching out to cup your breast. his fingers instantly played with your nipple, earning a hiss from you before you gently slapped his arm away.
“i don’t like it when you’re hard already!” you reasoned out.
anton pouted for a moment before blurting out, “what the heck am i supposed to do!?”
“then, no sex! besides, i told you i am sleepy,” you teased, fixing the pillows next to him.
“i’m hurting so much here.” followed by a sigh.
his chest was heaving, his face showing just how much he was struggling. he started palming himself through his underwear, looking away to calm his breathing.
“fine. go to sleep,” he sounded annoyed. you pulled the duvet closer to you and smiled to yourself.
“you always get what you want,” anton continued to complain. you had to fight the urge to laugh.
with your eyes already closed, you mimicked his soft, whiny voice, “hmmm... well, you always tell me, ‘please, i’ll do whatever you want, babygirl.’”
“i thought you were sleeping.”
“i’m not the one dealing with a problem right now.”
“babe, you caused this.”
“i know. and clearly that’s not my problem to deal with.”
“you’re so mean.”
“i know you love it when i’m mean, babyboy.”
then silence. anton had nothing left to say. he knew he could never win against you, whether in a petty debate or a silly argument like this. if you were looking at his desperate state right now, maybe you’d take pity on him and give him a chance.
you nearly dozed off after pulling the duvet up to your shoulders, but breathless pleas and faint whines woke you back up. you guess, anton was finally pumping himself to sleep.
now fully conscious again, you pretended to stay asleep, unmoved by anton’s suffering.
the sound of his ragged breathing filled the room. he thought you were out cold and didn't care. the agony of wanting your touch on his cock was clearly too much to bear.
silently, you felt the mattress shift under his weight.
a sharp, hitched breath made your heart race as you listened to your boyfriend stroke himself hard next to you. anton was trying so hard to be quiet, having accepted defeat since you wouldn't budge.
then came your favorite sound from him: a desperate, broken whimper.
the slick sound of his hand moving frantically up and down his huge length filled your ears. he breathed out a string of swear words mixed with your name. anton was completely helpless, and watching him like this brought back a rush of affection.
you opened your eyes, deciding you had punished him enough.
slowly, you turned, stretching your hand out toward him. anton’s eyes flew open, filled with sudden gratitude as your fingers brushed against his burning skin.
“want me to help you?” you asked, laying on your side as your hand finally wrapped around his length.
he looked at you with raw desperation, pushing his body up slightly to cup your cheek and kiss you passionately.
“please…” anton mumbled against your lips. you felt a warm tear drip onto your nose, and you gave him a reassuring nod.
you began stroking his length, the kiss growing so intense that you had to push him back onto the pillow and sit up over him. continous whimper escaped his lips right away.
after leaning down for a bit, you felt his free hand slip under your shirt to massage your breasts. you helped him out by pulling your shirt up so he had full access.
with your chest close to his face, anton pulled away from your lips to suck on your nipples intently. his eyes were still wet from the sheer sensation. he groaned as his tongue lapped respectively on both your tits, and your hand behind his head automatically guided him closer. both of you let out a soft moan together.
you felt his hips jerk beneath your hand, knowing he was right on the edge. “close, babyboy?”
“yes,” he choked out, letting out a series of broken moans. his lips slipped away from your breast, his face contorted in pure pleasure and stimulation.
his hips bucked up into your tight grip, his thighs trembling as he finally spilled over your hand, his body relaxing completely into the mattress with a deep, shaky exhale.
you squeezed his tip for a bit, earning an overwhelmed groan from him. or a groan of relief. then, you hastily wiped your hand on his black shirt.
anton was panting loudly, but he still found the energy to lean up and give you a quick peck on the lips. “thank you, baby.”
you leaned closer to caress his face, running your fingers gently through his messy hair.
reaching over to the nightstand, you grabbed a few tissues to wipe your hand again and clean him off.
“my pants... they're stained,” he muttered softly, sounding ridiculously innocent. you let out a soft chuckle at his change of tone.
anton was such a babyboy.
and he loves it when he's treated like that all the time.
he slowly sat up to tug his shirt off, and you helped him slide his messy pants down, leaving him in just his boxers.
anton immediately pulled you into a tight cuddle, your faces inches apart as you snuggled into the duvet. his hands wandered idly over your body until his fingers brushed against the damp fabric of your underwear, feeling just how wet you were for him.
"i’ll make it hard when i’m inside you," anton softly whispered, sending an immediate jolt of electricity straight to your core.
“fine. since you were such a good boy.”
“and i’ll send you more dick pics after the gym or after a shower, i promise.”
you laughed right in his face, and he kissed your forehead fondly in return.
“well, can i stack donuts on it next time?” you joked.
"definitely..." he looked up for a second. "no."
he let out a low hiss when your finger started circling his nipple.
"but i'll let you dom me all the time though." he murmured, his long fingers still moving around your wetness.
anton chuckled softly before pulling away from your grasp to grab a condom from your side table. he placed the foil square right in your hand.
“you’re still in charge,” anton smiled, completely submitting to you once again.
smut. but no actual sex happened. lots of making out. dryhumping. family friend!anton. he gets pathetic at one point. say it with me: anton is a boob guy. [2.1k words]
note: hi its been awhile!! i wrote this at 3am in just one sitting, so ignore any errors. i will try to upload more drafts from months ago :) lmk if you liked it!
after a whole day around kyoto’s famous destinations, your body eventually gave up. you rummaged through your family’s luggage, but they really forgot to bring any antihistamine.
it was already past midnight. you ran out of pills and didn’t want to go downstairs to find a convenience store. instead,
you: heyy, still awake?
infuriating is typing…
infuriating: yo
infuriating: y?
you rolled your eyes at his response, as if he wasn’t so attentive the whole day. also texting you when he was just four or ten meters away while touring around, or winking at you across the crowded train car.
you: do u have antihistamine? my rhinitis is so bad
infuriating: i do
infuriating: meet me outsideee
you were already in your sleepwear, but you didn’t care at all. you just wanted that instant remedy.
when you heard the door across yours click open, you slipped out, wedging your slipper in the doorway so it wouldn't lock you out.
anton’s head poked out, his messy hair giving away that he’d been lounging. he handed you the blister pack and chuckled softly. “you look so red.”
you rolled your eyes. “i told you why.”
he glanced back into his room before stepping completely into the dimly lit hallway, letting the door snap shut behind him.
it was dead silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. anton casually leaned back, watching you intently until you raised an eyebrow. “what?”
the taller guy chuckled, his voice low in the quiet space. “nothing. you’re just real comfortable around me.”
his eyes took in your appearance. you didn’t care that you were wearing a loose pajama set with nothing underneath. you were about to go to sleep anyway.
your forehead creased in annoyance. “well, i’ve known you for years. your mom is my mom’s favorite long-distance friend, and our brothers are basically glued at the hip. duh.”
he rested his shoulder against the wall, looking away with a faint smirk. “right. family friends.”
you ignored the tone in his voice and popped a pill into your palm.
“fuck. i don’t have any water.”
“what? it’s a tiny pill. you can just- dude,” anton started, but stopped when he saw your expression. he knew how much you hated swallowing medicine dry.
“whatever, i’m just gonna-” you groaned miserably, staring down at the small tablet.
you placed the pill carefully on your tongue and tried to swallow, but it just got stuck against your cheek. anton read your expression instantly.
before you could complain, the bastard leaned in, cupping the back of your neck as his lips pressed firmly against yours.
you unconsciously melted into the heat of the kiss for a second.
you needed that, honestly. after days of this exhausting ‘what are we’ or whatever you can call it situation on the trip.
you’d known him for two years. your mom practically wanted him to be her son-in-law. it made sense, but something had always kept the two of you from actually happening.
until this japan trip. he’d been blatantly flirting with you, especially over texts and snapchat.
and the trip still had osaka, tokyo, and nagoya stops. you’re damned, obviously.
his free hand slithered up your spine to pull you flush against him, still sealing your lips with a slow kiss until you had no choice but to swallow the pill whole.
anton pulled back with a lingering smirk, watching as your throat moved to swallow the pill, your face flushing hot. you could feel how cold you were from your nervousness.
“you’re welcome.” said the smug anton in front of you.
he knew you way too well.
normally, you were fine around anton. he was polite, charming, and every mom’s dream guy. his family had helped yours through plenty, and the bond was solid. but because he lived in a different city, you rarely saw him in person.
well, thank god for that…?
except for moments like that one time he drove like crazy to your place when your dog had a seizure. he was severely allergic to dogs, yet he practically flew his car over just to take you to the vet. or how he’d always drop your brother off whenever he needed a lift.
he wasn't just somebody.
but ever since you reunited with him at the airport for this trip, something had clearly shifted.
and fuck that something.
by the following night, right before leaving for osaka, you were packing your bags when your mom asked you to grab her melatonin from anton’s room.
you had avoided anton the entire day, barely responding to his texts. even your brother had asked why there was suddenly so much tension between you two.
you: come outside
infuriating: but i wanted it raw
you: omg shut up
anton was already grinning when he opened the door, pulling it wide open to signal you inside.
he was alone, and the connecting door to his parents’ room was locked. “where’s your brother?” you asked, glancing around.
anton paused his search for the melatonin on the nightstand. “well, have you seen yours?”
damn. why was he always so sassy?
“oh. i didn’t know he went to 7-eleven with him.”
you sat on the edge of his bed, which smelled frustratingly good. just like his cologne.
finally finding the bottle, anton walked over and stood right in front of you. he held it out, resting his free hand on his hip while looking down at you.
“i’m gonna have to start charging for late-night visits.”
“is that so?” you held his gaze as you took the bottle from his hand.
instead of stepping back, he sat down right next to you, his eyes refusing to break contact.
there he was, eyefucking you again.
he pointed lazily at your pajama top. “i can see your… boobs.”
you looked down at where the fabric gaped open. “so? why are you even looking, pervert?”
you weren’t guilty because you genuinely forgot to button them.
you reached up to do the top two buttons, but his fingers suddenly wrapped around your wrist, stopping you mid-motion.
you looked up at him, pure confusion and annoyance written across your face. “what?”
anton leaned in a little closer, his thumb lightly brushing your wrist.
“can i touch them?”
you studied his expression for a second. how could you even resist those stupid, yearning eyes…even when he was asking for something so ridiculous.
anton caught your silence and immediately loosened his grip on your wrists. “nevermind. i’m sorry.”
looking down like a neglected dog trying to avoid your gaze, his guilty eyes still managed a sneaky glance at your slightly unbuttoned top.
you took the chance to lean close to his face. it was finally your turn to give him a taste of his own medicine.
placing a finger under his jaw, you gently tilted his head up so he was forced to meet your eyes. “eyes up here.”
then you pressed your lips against his.
the bastard was the one taken aback now. finally.
you shifted your weight on the bed, crawling closer until there was zero space left between you. the second you deepened the kiss, his hands instinctively moved to your waist, his large palms gripping your hips beneath the loose fabric of your pajama top.
anton’s lips parted against yours, the kiss turning slow, deep, and intoxicating. he pulled you flush against his chest, his breath hot against your neck as his mouth moved to yours with a desperate, pent-up cadence.
without breaking the kiss, you reached down and took one of his hands from your waist. you slowly guided him up your stomach, sliding them beneath your top until his warm palm rested directly against your breasts.
anton let out a low, ragged breath right into your mouth, his fingers tensing against your skin as he froze for a split second. you were still gripping the bottle of melatonin in your other hand.
completely at your mercy, his hand molded over your bare breast, his thumb and finger tightening around your nipple just enough to send a sharp, electric shiver straight down your spine.
his lips pulled away slightly, and he instantly smiled when he saw your confident smirk. his hand was still fondling your breasts.
“can i suck them?” anton shyly whispered.
you flicked his forehead as an instant response, pushing him back while sliding his hand out from inside your top.
you stood up, giggling at him.
“please?” anton pleaded. you could only laugh at how pathetic he was acting, but the heat in his eyes told you he really meant it—which made it even funnier.
“baby… please please please please please.”
you were taken aback by the sudden pet name, let alone the relentless begging, and just giggled again.
“are we forgetting that my mom needs her melatonin?”
he groaned, standing up to walk you to the door.
you couldn't think of any good excuses to see him the following night.
anton sat across from you during the bullet train ride to osaka. he stayed quiet and timid in person, but the two of you casually used your text thread as a live commentary, reacting whenever a family member said something weird or whenever you lost sight of him in the crowds.
whatever, you thought, typing out a message.
you: can i have some of the hair mask u bought
you: and can u check if my yukio keychain is in your donki bag
infuriating: cool excuse to suck my dick but okay
you: you want?
infuriating: im not alone lol
you: boooooo
you: im outside
you heard his footsteps rush toward the door of the room he was sharing with his brother.
“what’s the plan?” he asked in a low voice, his head poking out into the hallway.
you gave him a faint smirk, pretending to think it over. “give me some of the hair mask… and, uh, check if my yukio is in your stuff.”
he let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping. “he’s asleep.”
“so?” you pushed past him, heading straight for the bathroom right by the entrance.
you grabbed the hair mask and began applying a bit to your hair. anton leaned against the doorframe, watching you through the mirror, his eyes scanning you while you busied yourself.
then, he moved. stepping up behind you in the glass, he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. his face buried into the nook of your neck, placing a warm, lingering kiss there before his hands slid boldly up your ribcage to cup your chest.
you burst out a quiet laugh at the immediate look of disappointment on his face in the mirror. “fuck. why are you wearing a bra?”
“why not?” you answered sassily, finger-combing your hair.
unable to resist him any longer, you turned around, resting your lower back against the sink to face his tall frame. anton leaned down, capturing your mouth in a deep kiss as he effortlessly lifted you to sit on the edge of the counter.
feeling you smile into the kiss, he playfully bit your bottom lip before deepening it, his hands sliding up under your shirt, pulling you so close that there wasn't a single breath of air left between you.
your hand reached down, palming the hard length beneath his gray sweatpants, feeling the hot fabric strain against your grip as a low gasp caught in his throat.
anton pulled away briefly. you looked at his pleading face, his lips formed in a slight pout that made your chest ache with pure cuteness aggression.
he hissed, his hips twitching forward helplessly when you squeezed him again through the cotton.
you gave him a soft peck on his cheek.
“you know i could book a separate room,” he murmured, his voice thick as his hands caressed both sides of your waist.
“no.” you kissed the tip of his nose. “this one’s better. i like having excuses to see you every night.”
“what’s your excuse tomorrow?” he asked, stealing a quick kiss from your smiling lips.
“hmm… tylenol tomorrow, then probably melatonin again the night after.”
anton let out a low laugh, his chest rumbling against yours before he captured your mouth in a sweet, lingering kiss that left you both breathless.
he was so cute that you finally gave in.
stepping off the sink, you gripped his waist and pulled him until he was the one leaning against the edge of the counter. you dropped to your knees on the cool tile, your fingers sliding beneath the elastic waistband of his sweatpants to wrap around his bare, throbbing warmth.
his v-line and veins going down there were enough to make you feel confident to take him.
anton’s head fell back against nothing, a breathless chuckle escaping him as his fingers instinctively tangled into your hair. “i guess i’ll really have to book a room, babygirl.”
again, you were still at the second stop of this trip.
this is so self indulgent and i feel like i don’t need warnings on it it’s just super suggestive and exactly what the description says lol
…
Wonbin’s lips were stained the perfect shade of red from the wine you two had been sharing all evening. The plump soft pink had been replaced by a deep red, contrasting itself in the groove of his lower lip that he bites by habit.
“Told you this would be more fun than a work party.” Wonbin smiles and reaches for the bottle on the table.
You two had been invited to an SM party for the end of the third quarter. Despite your boyfriend's hatred towards his company, you wanted to go. It would be fun to meet other idols and see the people Wonbin works with for once.
Wonbin wasn’t having any of that. He begged to stay home for weeks leading up to it, even offered to take you on a nice date instead. You’re not the type to force him into something he really doesn’t want to do so you agreed to stay home. It became clear to Wonbin that you were disappointed, so he took it upon himself to set up a nice date night with you.
Roses, wine, pastries, candles, it was perfect. Quiet and romantic, Wonbin’s specialty.
He’d been talking to you for a few minutes now but all you could do was nod and hum in agreement, even if you didn’t know what you were agreeing to. Your eyes were focused on the stain of wine on his lips. Your mind wondered where else that pretty red could stain. Your gaze drops from his puffy lips to his defined collarbones where his shirt had been unbuttoned enough to reveal them.
You’re not the type to stare or notice these things but you’re also not blind. Wonbin has said many times his collarbones are something he likes about himself. He wears shirts that accentuate them and traces them subconsciously during conversations. Anyone would notice.
He seems to notice you staring at raises an eyebrow. “You okay?” You look up at him, but he looks a bit foggy from the alcohol. The faint lightness in your head makes it difficult to come up with an excuse. “Can I try something...?”
Wonbin stares at you for a moment before nodding. “Uh… sure?” The moment he agrees you lean forward and dip your finger into the wine glass he’s holding. He watches you with dark eyes and pink cheeks, from the alcohol or attraction to you, you’re not sure.
Once your finger is coated in the liquid, you move it to drag along his collarbone, staining the skin lightly. A drop lands on the collar of your boyfriend's white shirt causing him to pout. “This is new…”
You lean forward kissing the pout off his lips and move down to kiss his collarbone and shirt. Your lipstick print left behind over the wine stain, deepening the blood red color.
A soft whimper leaves Wonbin’s stained lips which causes you to pull back with a knowing smile. “You like this?”
He replies breathily “the wine was so cold, but your lips were so warm.” You notice the shiver running through him as he speaks. A startled gasp leaves him when you pour a small amount of wine into the deep crook of his collarbones.
Wonbin looks beyond startled. Eyes wide and mouth parted on a silent gasp. “What are you-” You cut him off by leaning forward to kiss over his collarbones and collect some of the wine with your tongue.
Your flustered boyfriend struggles to get any words out as he gasps and whimpers quietly. His head is tilted back, and you can see him purposely pushing his collarbones forward.
Silently asking for more.
More wine? More kisses? More love bites?
You’ll find that out soon enough.
based on ⸝⸝⸝⸝ your first trimester comes with lots of surprises, some more pleasant than others but thank God you married the world's most attentive and patient man. [ft: pregnancy, emetophobia warning, food aversions, pregnancy symptoms, hospitals/doctors.]
❀ word count ⸝⸝⸝⸝ ~21806 ⋆｡°✩
home with you masterlist 𐚁 main masterlist
week 13
pregnancy sucks.
the baby is innocent, of course. you already love them more than you know what to do with, which is impressive considering they’re currently about the size of a lemon and have yet to contribute anything to the household besides making you violently ill and completely exhausting every reserve of energy you once possessed.
none of that is their fault. they’re simply in there, growing organs and limbs and taking whatever nutrients they need from you but everything that comes along with carrying them has been significantly less magical than the pregnancy books and overly cheerful women in your life led you to believe it would be.
at thirteen weeks, you’re standing at the edge of the second trimester, close enough that your obgyn and every app on your phone has started promising you’ll wake up one morning with more energy, a healthy appetite and the radiant glow people always associate with pregnant women.
so far, the only thing glowing is your forehead after you’ve spent ten minutes kneeling over the toilet and the energy increase has yet to arrive unless one counts the sudden bursts of irritation you experience whenever someone suggests eating something you’ve already explained sounds disgusting.
the exhaustion started first, before you even knew you were pregnant and somehow continued getting worse even after you rearranged your entire schedule to accommodate it. you’ve fallen asleep in anton’s studio with a book open on your chest, during car rides that lasted less than ten minutes and once at the kitchen table while waiting for the toaster to pop.
on the rare nights you manage to stay awake past nine, insomnia decides to take its turn and leaves you staring at the ceiling until the sun begins peeking through the curtains, wide awake and uncomfortable while anton refuses to sleep properly beside you because he insists he doesn’t want you staying up alone.
the bloating that made your rings difficult to remove has shifted into a faint roundness low on your stomach, although it still looks more like you ate a large meal and are overly bloated than the beginnings of a baby bump, and the swelling in your fingers comes and goes depending on how much salt you’ve managed to stomach that day.
the food aversions arrived shortly after the positive test and have been significantly more difficult to navigate because they change without warning. something can sound tolerable long enough for you to request it only for your body to reject the idea entirely if anton can't place it in front of you almost immediately.
he’s learned that once you mention wanting something, an invisible countdown begins and if he isn’t moving with the speed of flash, there’s a strong chance he’ll return home carrying exactly what you asked for only to find you curled up beneath a blanket, nauseated by the thought of taking even one bite.
through all of it, your husband has displayed a level of patience you didn’t know any human being possessed. anton has never once complained about being woken by the bathroom light at three in the morning, even when he has an early meeting or a call with someone in korea scheduled before sunrise.
he sits on the floor beside you when the nausea becomes too strong to lie down, rubs circles across your back without speaking and keeps your hair away from your face until you’re ready to move again. whenever insomnia keeps you awake, he follows you downstairs and sits beside you on the couch, usually with his laptop balanced on one knee as he works quietly until your eyes finally begin to close.
he has driven to convenience stores before dawn because a particular drink or snack sounded possible then accepted your tearful apology when it no longer did without making you feel worse than you already felt. there are moments when you can tell he’s tired, when his eyes are slightly unfocused and his responses come a second slower than normal but even then he refuses to leave you alone with any part of it if he can help.
finding out you were pregnant also forced the two of you to make decisions about the shape of your lives much sooner than either of you expected. the house in new jersey had been purchased while you were engaged, partly because it felt practical to have somewhere permanent near both of your families and partly because anton liked the idea of owning a place that belonged only to the two of you.
for most of your short marriage, it 's functioned as a vacation home, somewhere you stay during longer breaks from seoul or whenever anton had enough free time to spend several uninterrupted weeks in the states.
your penthouse in korea remained the center of everything because his career kept the two of gou there and even when you traveled together, you always returned to it afterward.
once the test turned positive though, the limitations of that life became harder to ignore. the penthouse was beautiful but it didn't offer the same space, privacy or proximity to family that the jersey house did and anton was unwilling to leave you isolated on the other side of the world whenever his schedule required him to travel.
by the time you were eight weeks along, the house you once visited between promotions had become your permanent home, while the penthouse remained available for the periods when he had to return to korea for group promotions, recording sessions or comeback preparations. he still stayed there whenever work demanded it but it was no longer the place either of you considered home. now, when his trips ended, he came home to new jersey.
the move also made it painfully obvious that the two of you needed more help than you had before. the house was much larger than the penthouse, with guest rooms that were regularly occupied by family members, laundry that seemed to multiply overnight and an endless number of small responsibilities that became difficult to manage when you could barely stand the smell of your own kitchen.
anton initially attempted to handle most of it himself, which lasted less than two weeks before you found him folding towels at one in the morning after spending the entire day working downstairs. you were the one who told him that your pregnancy shouldn't require working himself into the ground and he responded by making several phone calls before you could change your mind.
beatrice was hired as the house manager and quickly became responsible for nearly every part of the home you had previously tried to oversee yourself. she coordinated the cleaning staff, handled laundry and household deliveries, made sure toiletries and linens remained stocked in every bedroom and somehow kept track of which relatives preferred what whenever they stayed over.
she also had a way of completing things before either of you realized they needed to be done, which meant the refrigerator was always organized, the guest rooms were always prepared and your favorite blanket somehow returned to the couch each evening no matter where you left it during the day.
kevin came next, after anton decided you surviving primarily on toast and fruit was not a sustainable long-term plan.
he was hired to prepare balanced meals for both of you though most days his real job consisted of patiently guessing which foods your stomach might tolerate and adjusting meals at the last possible second. he kept several types of bread in the house, prepared broths mild enough to avoid upsetting you and learned that orange juice settled your stomach. he also knew not to take it personally when you rejected something you had happily eaten the day before.
anton hired a new personal assistant around the same time too, transferring most of the scheduling calls, calendar management and logistical details that used to interrupt his days to someone else so that he could finish his work without being pulled in ten directions.
the change didn’t reduce the amount of producing he had to do, particularly now that he was working under several deadlines but it meant he could complete most of it from the studio downstairs and spend more time at home without constantly checking his phone. you knew every adjustment was his attempt to create enough room in his life to remain close to you and the knowledge made it difficult not to feel guilty on the days when his patience met the sharpest edges of your frustration.
today is quickly becoming one of those days.
you’re standing at the kitchen island with your head bowed and both hands pressed flat against the cool stone, concentrating so hard on keeping your breathing even that you barely register the conversation happening between anton and kevin a few feet away.
dinner is sitting directly in front of you, a bowl of buttered pasta lightly coated with parmesan and nothing else, simple enough that you’ve eaten it three times this week without issue. kevin had prepared it after you mentioned earlier that it sounded manageable and when he set the bowl down, you genuinely believed you would be able to finish at least half of it. now, the smell rising from the pasta feels too much despite there being almost nothing in it and each breath causes another wave of nausea to gather.
“should i make you something else?” kevin asks carefully.
you swallow before answering, forcing down the sour taste gathering at the back of your throat. lifting your head feels like too much effort so you keep your eyes focused on the pale noodles in front of you and shake your head once. “i don’t know.”
anton sighs beside you. his hand settles over your hip, fingers squeezing gently in what you know is meant to be comforting but the warmth of his palm combined with the smell of dinner and the pressure building in your stomach makes you feel trapped. you shrug him off before you can soften the movement, shifting half a step away while keeping one hand braced against the island.
anton pulls his hand back immediately. he doesn’t look offended, although his lips press together for a second before he turns his attention to his own plate. roasted bell peppers, brown rice and sliced chicken breast sit untouched in front of him. he pushes the plate aside and angles himself toward you instead. “what sounds good?”
the question shouldn’t make you want to cry. he’s asking because he cares and because he’s been asking the same question multiple times a day for weeks, hoping eventually he’ll land on something your body will accept but right now every possible answer feels impossible.
you close your eyes and try to picture food without imagining the smell, texture or what it might taste like coming back up later. “nothing,” you say, your voice sounding rougher than you intend. “nothing sounds good.”
“baby, it’s five-thirty. you had one slice of toast this morning and some orange juice.”
you whip your head toward him and the movement makes your stomach turn again. “don’t you think i would eat if i could?”
the kitchen falls quiet. kevin immediately becomes very interested in wiping down the counter near the stove, giving the two of you the privacy of pretending he isn’t standing six feet away. anton inhales slowly through his nose, shoulders rising and falling before he looks back at you.
“i know,” he says more gently. “i’m sorry.”
you look away, blinking rapidly because the last thing you want is to start crying over pasta. anton lowers his voice further. “i know you’re trying. i’m not blaming you but please eat something. anything. it can be toast again.”
kevin glances over, sensing the opening. “i made sourdough this afternoon, it’s still fresh. i can add a little butter and i can juice more oranges if that’s been helping.” he offers.
you roll your neck slowly, working through the tension at the base of your skull while considering it. bread sounds simple enough that it might stay down and the thought of orange juice doesn’t immediately make you gag, which is as close to enthusiasm as you’ve felt about food all day. after a moment, you nod.
kevin smiles at the win. “i’m on it.”
he turns toward the counter and begins slicing the loaf, moving quickly. you take the stool beside anton and lower yourself onto it, suddenly too tired to remain standing. his plate is still pushed to the side, the rice and chicken beginning to cool while he watches kevin prepare your replacement dinner.
“eat. your food is going to get cold.”
anton shakes his head. “i’ll eat when you do. i can heat it up if it does.”
you frown, guilt settlin in your chest. everything has changed around your inability to function normally. there’s a chef trying to convince you to eat bread for dinner, a house manager doing work you once handled without thinking and a husband who refuses to touch his own meal until he knows you can keep yours down.
anton notices your expression and reaches over carefully, giving you enough time to pull away before his thumb smooths across the space between your brows.
“you’re going to give yourself frown lines,” he murmurs.
you open your mouth to tell him that carrying his child is already destroying enough of your body without his commentary but the scent of his dinner reaches you before the words can leave. your stomach contracts sharply. you turn your head away and bring your hand to your mouth, breathing through the sudden rush of saliva.
anton cringes and grabs his plate at once, sliding it farther down the island until it is nearly out of sight. “sorry. i forgot.”
you wait until the nausea eases before lowering your hand. “it’s okay.”
he looks unconvinced but doesn’t move the plate back. instead, he remains beside you with his body turned in your direction, watching without making it obvious while kevin places two slices of buttered sourdough onto a clean plate. the smell is mild enough that your stomach doesn’t immediately revolt. kevin sets a fresh glass of orange juice beside it then gives you a hopeful look.
you pick up one piece of toast and take a small bite. both men pretend not to watch you chew.
you’re able to leep the bread down.
anton’s shoulders lower slightly, although he doesn’t reach for his own dinner yet. you take another bite then a sip of juice, allowing yourself a minute before continuing.
“when does this end?” you ask quietly.
anton looks at you but kevin answers before he can.
“you’re almost in the second trimester,” he says, carrying the abandoned bowl of pasta toward the refrigerator. “for most people, the morning sickness starts easing up around then.”
you rest your forehead against anton’s shoulder, too tired to point out that nothing about your sickness has limited itself to the morning. his hand comes up slowly and settles against the back of your head, fingers moving gently through your hair now that you’re the one who initiated the contact.
“soon,” anton murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple. “it’ll get better soon.”
you want to believe him. for now, you take another bite of toast and let him keep you close while kevin quietly reheats his dinner.
week 15
at fifteen weeks, the nausea is no longer a constant presence sitting at the base of your throat from the moment you wake until the second you fall asleep. it still arrives without warning and there are plenty of days when food becomes difficult again but you’ve managed to eat more than bread and fruit for the last week without immediately regretting it. you’ve even experienced brief periods where you feel almost normal.
more importantly, you’ve made it safely beyond the first trimester.
your doctor never promised that reaching fifteen weeks erased every possible risk but hearing that the likelihood of a random miscarriage had dropped significantly gave both you and anton permission to breathe a little easier.
until now, very few people knew about the pregnancy. your obgyn knew obviously, as did beatrice, kevin and anton’s assistant because hiding your symptoms from people who spent most of the week inside your home had quickly become impossible. everyone else had been kept at a careful distance.
anton’s members were the first people outside of the household to be told.
getting all five of them on one call had been more difficult than the actual announcement. sohee and eunseok were in korea, shotaro was visiting family in japan and sungchan and wonbin had decided to spend several free days in jakarta, leaving a group facetime as the only realistic way to speak to everyone at once.
the moment you appeared beside anton on the screen, five separate voices began talking over one another, asking why you were awake so early, why anton looked nervous and whether something had happened.
when anton finally managed to tell them, the confusion lasted all of three seconds before the call erupted into shouting congratulations.
they were happy for both of you but their excitement quickly gave way to the satisfaction of realizing that several months of suspicious behavior finally made sense. sohee immediately pointed out that you had stopped flying back to korea with anton, while sungchan reminded everyone how dodgy anton had become whenever they tried calling after a certain hour in new jersey.
wonbin claimed he knew something was happening because anton had abruptly stopped agreeing to late meetings without an explanation and shotaro insisted the biggest clue had been how frequently he checked his phone during the last round of promotions. eunseok mostly smiled through the noise and congratulated you both several times.
by the time the call ended, there were already arguments over which member would be the favorite uncle and several promises to visit new jersey as soon as their schedules allowed.
telling your families required more planning.
neither you nor anton wanted to call everyone separately and repeat the same announcement over and over which was how both sides of your family, several aunts and uncles, cousins and your closest friends ended up gathered inside your home under the impression that they had simply been invited for dinner.
the house had hosted family plenty of times since you moved back to new jersey but never this many people at once. conversations carried from the living room into the dining room and kitchen while younger cousins moved between each space with little concern for whoever they nearly collided with.
beatrice had coordinated the evening perfectly, ensuring the guest bathrooms remained stocked, taking coats as people arrived and quietly directing the additional staff brought in for the night whenever someone needed something.
kevin had prepared enough food to accommodate both families and their different preferences, laying out appetizers before anyone could complain about being hungry and keeping the stronger-smelling dishes covered until dinner was ready in an attempt to protect what remained of your appetite.
you stand near the kitchen island with nyla and jen, nursing a glass of orange juice while they admire your home as though neither of them has visited before.
“i’m never getting over this place,” nyla says, turning away from the windows overlooking the backyard. “every time i come here, i find another room i didn’t know existed.”
“you make it sound like we live in a castle,” you laugh, taking another sip from your glass.
“you have two laundry rooms,” jen reminds you.
“one is upstairs and one is near the mudroom. it makes sense when you think about it.” you defend.
“no, it makes sense when you’re rich,” she corrects, earning a quiet laugh from nyla.
you roll your eyes but your smile remains. “whatever. we bought the house mainly because anton wanted somewhere close to our families for when we were home from korea.”
“i would never leave,” nyla says.
you laugh again. “thanks.”
the house had felt far too large when you first walked through it during your engagement. there were more bedrooms than the two of you could reasonably fill, a finished basement that anton immediately began planning to convert into a studio and a backyard large enough that maintaining it required its own schedule.
you’d asked what two people needed with so much space and anton had shrugged before looking toward the yard through the glass doors, saying it would make sense one day when there were children running through it.
you hadn’t thought much of the comment at the time. children were something you both wanted eventually, but eventually felt distant then. now, with one hand loosely curved around a glass and the faintest swell becoming visible beneath your dress, you feel almost silly for considering turning this home down.
“honestly i thought the house was too big but anton said we’d grow into it.” you tell them.
jen glances toward your stomach before averting her gaze though her expression remains casual when she looks back at you. “that’s disgustingly wholesome.”
“it was less wholesome when i found out how much it costs to maintain a backyard that size.”
nyla laughs, reaching for another piece of fruit from the tray on the island. “with the money your husband makes i doubt it leaves a dent.”
before you can respond, a familiar pair of arms circles your waist from behind.
anton rests his chin near your shoulder, fitting himself against your back without interrupting the conversation. he’s spent most of the evening moving between family members, accepting greetings, answering questions and allowing older relatives to comment on how rarely they see him now despite the two of you living in the same state. every few minutes, though, he finds his way back to wherever you happen to be, checking the level of orange juice in your glass or asking beneath his breath if you’re feeling all right.
“hi,” he murmurs.
you lean back into him just enough to acknowledge his presence. “hi.”
jen looks at the two of you and makes an exaggerated gagging sound. “you’re both too cute. it’s making me sick.”
nyla shakes her head, although she’s smiling. “they don’t know how to behave around other people.”
“we’re not evej doing anything,” anton says softly, his arms tightening by the smallest amount around your middle.
the pressure shouldn’t be enough to affect you but your body hasn't cared about what should or shouldn't make sense for months. a wave of nausea moves through you so suddenly that every muscle in your body tenses beneath his hands. the orange juice turns sour against your tongue and you swallow quickly, focusing on keeping your expression neutral while jen continues teasing him about following you through the house like a puppy.
neither of your friends notices the change but of course anton does.
his hold loosens immediately, hands slipping away from your stomach before he takes half a step back. you lift the glass to your mouth again even though drinking more feels impossible, hoping the cold rim against your lips will give you something else to focus on.
“excuse me for a second,” you manage.
jen moves aside without questioning it and nyla nods toward the hall, already returning to whatever story she had been telling before anton appeared. you leave the kitchen and turn into the quieter hallway separating the main living areas from the downstairs guest rooms.
the noise of dinner fades enough that you can hear yourself breathe.
you place one hand against the wall and close your eyes, waiting for the nausea to settle. anton follows but stops a few feet away, giving you enough room to decide whether you want him closer. you take a small sip of orange juice and immediately regret it, swallowing several times as the feeling rises and then slowly recedes.
“are you okay?” he asks.
you nod without opening your eyes. “yeah. the hug just got to me for a second.”
“i’m sorry.”
you turn your head toward him, finding genuine concern written across his face. “you don’t have to apologize for hugging your wife.”
he frowns. “i do if it makes you feel sick.”
“everything makes me feel sick.” you say back.
“still.”
you breathe out carefully, lowering the glass when you’re sure your stomach has decided to cooperate. “it’s dying down.”
anton watches you for another moment before stepping closer. he doesn’t touch you yet, leaving the decision in your hands. “do you need anything?”
“no.”
“want to sit down?”
you shake your head.
“crackers?”
you squeeze your eyes shut. “anton.”
“right. sorry.”
you reach for his hand to reassure him, slipping your fingers between his. he responds by giving them a gentle squeeze.
“do you want to wait?” he asks after a moment.
you know what he means without needing clarification. laughter breaks out in the living room while someone calls for one of your younger cousins to stop climbing onto the furniture and the sudden reminder of how many people are waiting on the other side of the hallway makes your nerves return.
until tonight, your pregnancy has existed inside a carefully protected circle. you and anton had been able to decide who knew, how much they knew and when they were permitted into this part of your lives. telling everyone gathered inside your home feels different. once the words leave your mouth, the baby will no longer be something only the two of you whisper about in bed or discuss during drives home from appointments. they will belong to every person already waiting to love them.
anton rubs his thumb over the back of your hand. “we don’t have to do it tonight.”
you look toward the living room. through the opening at the end of the hall, you can see your mother laughing with anton’s, his father speaking to one of your uncles and several cousins gathered around the coffee table with plates balanced on their knees.
“no,” you say, drawing in a steadying breath. “i’m ready.”
anton studies your face once more before nodding. “okay.”
he brings your joined hands to his mouth and presses a kiss against your knuckles then leads you back toward the living room.
people have begun spilling into every available seat and standing space by the time the two of you enter. your parents occupy one side of the room beside several relatives, while anton’s family has spread across the opposite sofa and the chairs near the windows.
anton stops near the entrance with your hand still held in his and clears his throat. the sound is almost lost in the room.
he tries again, raising his voice as much as someone as naturally soft-spoken as him can manage. “can we have everyone’s attention for a second?”
the nearest conversations stop first, followed by the rest as people turn toward the two of you. someone lowers the music and one of your younger cousins is quickly hushed when they attempt to keep talking.
anton smiles shyly under the sudden attention, his free hand moving to rest over his chest. you feel the nervous shift in his breathing through the way his fingers tighten around yours.
“first, we wanted to thank everyone for coming,” he begins. “we know some of you had to move things around and drive pretty far to be here so we really appreciate you taking the time.”
murmurs immediately move through the room.
“we love you.”
“it was nothing.”
“anything for you two.”
“and the food,” one of your uncles adds, earning laughter from everyone around him.
anton’s cheeks turn pink as he lowers his head for a second, smiling before he continues. “we really do love having everyone here but we also had ulterior motives for getting you all in one place.”
his brother leans forward in his chair. “i knew there was something.”
“nothing bad,” anton assures him, laughing softly.
he looks at you and whatever words he planned to say next seem to disappear when your eyes meet. his expression softens into the same smile he wore in your bathroom while holding the positive test, a mixture of disbelief and happiness that has returned every time the two of you hear your baby’s heartbeat or allow yourselves to imagine what life will look like when they finally arrive.
“____ and i have some news we wanted to share,” he says.
he turns toward you fully, giving your hand another squeeze.
you smile at your husband before looking out at the room.
“we’re pregnant!”
for one suspended second, no one reacts but then the room erupts.
your mother is on her feet first, her hands flying to her mouth as she lets out a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. anton’s mother rises beside her with tears already gathering in her eyes and the two women reach each other before either makes it to you, wrapping their arms around one another while talking over each other about becoming grandmothers.
questions and congratulations come from every direction.
“oh my gosh!”
“i knew it!”
“how far along are you?”
“you two kept this from us?”
anton releases your hand only because his father reaches him first, pulling him into a tight embrace and patting his back several times. his brother follows, wrapping both arms around him and laughing as he tells anton that he can’t believe he’s going to be an uncle. several of your relatives surround you at once, hugging you more carefully after someone reminds them that you’re pregnant while your mother finally reaches you and holds your face between her hands.
“my baby is having a baby!” she says through tears.
you laugh, your own eyes beginning to burn. “surprise.”
she hugs you, keeping one hand protectively against the back of your head while anton’s mother wraps an arm around both of you. by the time they release you, your younger cousins have gathered near your waist, staring openly at your stomach.
“where is it?” one of them asks.
you glance down at the faint curve beneath your dress. “in there.”
another cousin steps closer and narrows their eyes as if inspecting something difficult to see. “i think i can see it.”
“no you can’t,” an older cousin says from behind them.
“yes i can!”
“that could just be food.”
you laugh before resting a hand over the small swell. “it’s mostly baby now.”
that declaration creates another round of excitement, with several of them asking whether they can touch. you answer what you can while adults continue offering hugs and somewhere in the middle of the noise anton finds his way back to your side, placing a hand against the small of your back.
you barely have time to lean into him before jen appears in front of you with nyla directly beside her.
jen crosses her aems. “you ass!”
you blink at her. “me?”
she nods. “you lied to my face!”
nyla nods, looking equally betrayed despite the tears collecting in her eyes. “both of our faces.”
you try to maintain an innocent expression but fail when jen pulls out her phone and begins scrolling.
“you texted us and said it was negative,” she says. “you said, and i quote! ‘false alarm, my body was being weird lol’.”
you laugh, raising one hand in surrender. “i’m sorry.”
“you should be!” she playfully scolds.
anton glances between the three of you, wisely choosing not to involve himself. jen’s eyes narrow. “i think this is the first time you’ve ever lied to us.”
you shrug. “we agreed not to tell anyone yet.”
“so you chose your husband over us?”
you stare at her. “yes.”
nyla laughs through the tears she has finally given up trying to hide, while jen presses a hand to her chest as though you’ve shot her. “that was very quick.”
“he’s the father?”
she waves you off. “semantics.”
your laughter softens when you look between them. “it was still really early. i found out at five weeks and we didn’t want everyone getting excited before we knew the pregnancy was progressing normally.”
nyla reaches for you first, wrapping her arms carefully around your shoulders. “i understand.”
you hug her back. “i knew you would.”
jen joins the hug from the other side after only a moment, pressing herself against both of you. when they finally release you, nyla wipes beneath her eyes and asks, “how far along are you?”
“fifteen weeks. i started my second trimester last week.”
jen’s mouth drops open. “fifteen?”
you nod. “yep.”
nyla laughs and reaches for your hand again, squeezing it. “do you know what you’re having?”
“not yet. we’re supposed to find out at the anatomy scan next month.”
“i think it’s a girl,” jen says immediately.
“based on what?”
she shrugs. “your face.”
you frown. “what’s wrong with my face?”
“nothing. you look like you’re glowing.”
nyla waves her off before looking at you seriously. “as long as we’re the godmothers, i don’t care what it is.”
you look at her incredulously. “both of you?”
“obviously,” jen answers. “you’re not making us compete after lying to us for ten weeks.”
you laugh. “i’ll talk to anton.”
all three of you look toward him.
he was pulled into another conversation with his father and brother while the three of you spoke, though his attention remains divided enough that he catches you watching. his eyebrows lift in a silent question.
you shake your head, smiling. he smiles back.
the house remains loud for the rest of the evening. your mother passes around one of the ultrasound photographs you showed her and anton quietly retrieves another copy from his wallet where he’s carried one since your first appointment.
relatives begin guessing who the baby will resemble, which features they might inherit and whether your genes have any chance of overpowering anton’s genetics. your younger cousins debate babysitting responsibilities while jen and nyla begin discussing baby shower themes.
eventually, the attention shifts enough that you can stand near the edge of the living room without another person asking how you feel or whether you need to sit down.
you rest one hand over the small curve of your stomach and take in the room.
anton’s mother is still holding the ultrasound photograph while speaking to yours, both women already planning shopping trips and discussing which baby items they’re both in charge of. his father is telling your dad that anton had always been good with children, while anton stands beside them accepting another congratulatory pat on the back with pink cheeks and a shy smile.
every person gathered inside your home has begun making room in their life for someone they haven't met.
anton looks across the room and finds you again. this time he excuses himself from the conversation and walks toward you, stopping close enough that your shoulders touch.
“you okay?” he asks.
you nod, leaning against him. “yeah.”
his hand settles carefully over yours where it rests on your stomach.
you look around the room once more, listening to the overlapping conversations and laughter filling the house you once worried would always be too large for the two of you.
your baby has not taken their first breath, opened their eyes or wrapped their hand around one of your fingers yet but they already have grandparents waiting to spoil them, cousins prepared to protect them, aunts and uncles arguing over who will babysit and two self-appointed godmothers planning celebrations months in advance.
it really does take a village and judging by the people filling every corner of your home tonight, your little one is never going to wonder what it feels like to be loved.
week 17
entering your second trimester has brought a few improvements.
you no longer wake up every morning already planning the quickest route from your bed to the bathroom, you can occasionally finish a full meal without having to lie perfectly still afterward and your energy has returned in brief bursts that allow you to feel somewhat human for a few hours at a time.
unfortunately, your hormones have also decided to create an entirely new problem: you want to fuck your husband.
constantly.
the shift started sometime around week fifteen, subtle enough that you initially blamed it on anton being particularly affectionate after telling your families about the pregnancy. he’d spent the days following the announcement with one hand permanently attached to some part of you, either resting against your stomach, holding your waist or slipping his into yours whenever you went on your weekly neighborhood walk together.
then you began noticing him in ways that made it impossible to blame his behavior.
the sight of him fresh from the shower makes your attention drift longer than it should. watching him work in the basement studio with his sleeves pushed up has become a problem of its own and every act of service somehow makes him more attractive than the last.
seeing him kneeling on the kitchen floor to reorganize the lower cabinets after realizing certain smells made you sick should not have affected you the way it did, yet you spent the rest of that afternoon staring at his hands and wondering how quickly you could convince him to abandon his work.
anton, however, has made absolutely no effort to take advantage of your sudden interest.
your sex life began slowing down a little before you found out you were pregnant and came to a complete stop once the morning sickness became severe enough that most physical activity exhausted you. at first, you understood. sex was the last thing on your mind while you were falling asleep mid-conversation and struggling to keep water down.
now that you’re feeling slightly better, you’ve attempted to remind your husband that you’re still married and very much attracted to him only for anton to pull away the moment kissing begins to turn into anything more.
he always finds a reason: you look tired, he has an early meeting, you should both get some sleep, your back might hurt in that position.
the excuses are delivered gently enough that you can never bring yourself to argue but after fourteen weeks without sex, your patience is beginning to wear thin.
“why do you look like that?”
jen’s question pulls your attention away from the television.
the three of you are stretched across the large sectional in the living room, half watching the twilight saga. kevin prepared a snack board before leaving for the grocery store, covering it with sliced fruit, crackers, several cheeses, small sandwiches and the white chocolate-covered pretzels nyla requested when she arrived.
you’ve spent the last twenty minutes staring at the screen without processing a single scene.
“look like what?” you ask.
“like you’re about to kill someone.”
you blink before becoming aware of the tension between your brows and the way your arms have crossed tightly over your chest. “i don’t.”
nyla pauses with a grape halfway to her mouth. “are you gonna throw up again?”
“no,” you answer more sharply than intended.
both women stare at you. you sigh, forcing your shoulders to relax. “sorry. no, i’m fine.”
jen reaches for another handful of popcorn without taking her eyes off you. “you don’t look fine.”
“i am.”
“try again.”
you glare at her. jen lifts one eyebrow. “or i’ll go downstairs and get your husband.”
the threat is enough to make you sit up straighter. “don’t.”
“then tell us why you’ve been frowning at the tv. you love twilight.”
you sigh. “it’s nothing.”
nyla resumes eating, though her attention remains on you. “you’re doing the thing where you say it’s nothing and then act irritated that we don’t magically know what’s wrong.”
you look between them, considering whether admitting the truth will make you feel better or considerably more embarrassed. neither appears willing to let the subject go and jen has already shifted as though she genuinely intends to walk downstairs and interrupt anton.
you throw the blanket off your legs. “fine! i’m horny! happy?”
nyla chokes on her wine.
the small mouthful sprays back into the glass and across the blanket covering her lap. she begins coughing while jen stares at you, momentarily too surprised to react.
“oh my God,” nyla manages, setting the glass down. “i’m sorry. i’ll clean this.”
you wave her off. “beatrice will get to it when she has a chance.”
“that feels wrong.”
“she’ll know how to get the stain out better than any of us.” you shrug.
jen slowly places her bowl of popcorn onto the coffee table. “okay then.”
you pull the blanket back over your legs, instantly regretting your honesty as heat gathers beneath your cheeks.
she leans forward. “how long has it been?”
you avoid her eyes. “i don’t know.”
“you clearly know.” she snorts.
“jen!” you whine.
“when was the last time you and anton had sex?”
you sigh and mumble the answer toward your lap.
“what?”
“fourteen weeks ago.” you say more clearly this time.
nyla stops blotting the wine stain with a napkin and looks up. “say you swear.”
“i swear.” you say flatly.
“fourteen weeks?” jen repeats.
you tip your head back against the couch and close your eyes. “yes.”
“voluntarily?”
“not on my part.”
nyla lets out a low whistle before reaching for her wine again. “that’s rough.”
“thank you. i’m aware.”
“why?”
you open your eyes and glare toward the hallway leading to the basement stairs. “he’s scared.”
“of sex?” jen asks.
“of hurting me or the baby. every time anything starts happening, he backs off and acts like i need to be tucked into bed.”
jen leans against the couch, looking far too amused by your suffering. “no wonder you’re so tense.”
you turn your glare toward her.
“i’m being serious,” she adds. “you look like you’re one inconvenience away from throwing something.”
“i’ve tried everything.”
nyla tilts her head. “everything?”
“within reason.” you amend.
“have you directly asked him?”
you pause and jen notices. “you haven’t.”
“i shouldn’t have to ask my husband to fuck me.”
“apparently you do.” nyla teases.
before you can respond, movement near the basement stairs draws all three pairs of eyes away from the conversation at hand.
anton appears at the end of the hallway with his phone in one hand, his attention focused on whatever’s displayed across the screen. he’s changed since breakfast, now wearing a fitted black tank top and a pair of grey sweatpants sitting low enough on his hips to make your frustration significantly worse. the tank top leaves most of his arms exposed, outlining the muscle in his shoulders and back as he types a response with both thumbs.
he looks up once he reaches the living room. “hi.”
none of you answers immediately. anton slows, glancing between all three faces. “what?”
“nothing,” jen says too quickly.
nyla takes another sip of wine and mutters, “with a husband like that, i’d stay pregnant every year.”
jen snorts into her hand. you turn toward nyla with an expression that makes her lift both palms in surrender. “sorry.”
anton, having missed the comment, looks at you. “everything okay?”
you stare at him for a moment longer before making your decision.
“movie night is over.”
jen nods immediately. “understood.”
nyla begins gathering the napkins and her wineglass. “i can’t even be mad.”
anton looks increasingly confused as both women stand and collect their belongings. “did something happen?”
“nope,” jen answers, reaching for her purse. “we’ve just overstayed our welcome.”
“you haven’t.”
“trust us,” nyla says, patting his shoulder as she passes him. “we have.”
you walk them to the front door, ignoring the knowing looks they exchange while pulling on their shoes.
jen hugs you first. “good luck.”
“i don’t need luck.”
nyla embraces you next, whispering near your ear, “please call us afterward, i want all the raunchy details.”
you push her away with a laugh. “get out.”
once the door closes behind them, you remain in the foyer long enough to watch their car disappear down the driveway before turning toward the kitchen.
you quickly make a mental note of where everyone is. kevin left to pick up groceries for dinner and beatrice is meeting with interior designers about the nursery, leaving you and anton alone for the first time in days without staff, family or friends moving through the house.
you find him standing at the stove preparing ramen, his phone propped against the backsplash while he reads something on the screen. steam rises from the pot and he stirs the noodles absently before looking over when he hears you enter.
his expression brightens immediately. “hi, baby.”
you walk toward him without answering.
“did the girls leave?”
you nod, stopping directly in front of him until there’s barely any space between your bodies.
anton glances down at the distance you’ve closed and then back at your face. his smile fades into concern. “you okay?”
“yes.”
“you sure?”
you place both hands against his waist. the movement makes him still. “can we have sex?”
anton blinks.
the wooden spoon remains suspended above the pot for several seconds before he lowers it carefully onto the counter and turns off the stove. “what?”
“you heard me.”
“i did. i just…” he looks toward the foyer, as though checking whether jen and nyla might still be standing outside. “where is this coming from?”
“anton, please. you’re killing me.”
he lets out a quiet laugh, though the sound is more surprised than amused. “i assure you, you’re not dying from lack of sex.”
“you don’t know that.”
“i’m pretty sure i do.”
you frown, removing your hands from his waist. “what is it?”
his smile disappears. “what do you mean?”
“why don’t you want to sleep with me?”
“i never said that?”
“you don’t have to say it. every time i try to kiss you, you pull away before anything happens.”
“that’s not—”
“please don’t insult me by lying. it is.”
anton watches your face carefully, his brows drawing together as he realizes you’re genuinely upset.
you look away from him, suddenly regretting being so direct. the faint curve of your stomach is visible beneath the fitted shirt you chose that morning, more obvious now than it was when you told your families two weeks ago.
“are you not attracted to me anymore?” you ask quietly.
anton’s expression changes immediately. “what?”
“is it the belly?”
“no!” his answer comes so quickly that you finally look at him again.
he steps closer, placing both hands against your face. “no. absolutely not.”
“then what is it?” you whine.
“you’re beautiful.”
“anton.”
“i’m serious. you’re beautiful and i am very attracted to you.”
you search his face for any sign that he’s only saying what he thinks you need to hear and find nothing but confusion and concern.
“then why won’t you have sex with me?”
anton exhales, his hands sliding from your cheeks to your shoulders. for a moment, he looks past you toward the living room, gathering his thoughts before answering.
“i’m scared.”
the admission removes some of the frustration from your chest. “of what?”
“hurting you.”
“you’re not going to hurt me.” you argue.
“you don’t know that.”
“my doctor said sex is safe.”
“i know what she said.”
“then—”
“every article says something different,” he interrupts, his voice still soft despite the worry behind it. “some say it’s completely fine, others say to be careful or avoid certain things and i don’t know what’s normal for you. you were already so sick and everything changes every day. i don’t want to do something stupid because i couldn’t keep it in my pants.”
you stare at him. “anton, you’re not going to hurt the baby by having sex with me.”
“i know that logically.”
“do you?”
he rubs both hands over his face. “i’m trying.”
your irritation softens further, though the frustration remains. you step closer and take hold of his wrists, lowering his hands. “not sleeping with me is hurting me.”
his mouth twitches.
“don’t laugh.”
“i’m not.”
“you are.”
“okay maybe a little.”
you pout. anton sighs, looking down at you for several seconds before conceding. “fine.”
your eyebrows lift. “fine?”
“fine,” he repeats. “but if anything hurts or feels wrong, you have to tell me immediately.”
“okay.”
“and we should probably go upstairs because—”
you pull him down and kiss him before he can finish.
anton makes a surprised sound against your mouth but responds almost instantly, one hand settling against your waist while the other cups the back of your neck. the kiss is hurried and clumsy from weeks of anticipation, though it quickly slows once he realizes you have no intention of pulling away.
he attempts to create distance after several seconds.
“bedroom,” he murmurs.
you shake your head and kiss him again.
“couch?”
“no.”
anton pulls back just enough to look at you. his breathing has grown heavier, his lips already pink from kissing. “no?”
“i can’t wait.”
his eyes widen for a second.
“here?”
you nod. anton glances around the empty kitchen, looking toward the hallway as though kevin or beatrice might materialize without warning despite knowing exactly where both of them are. “you’re sure?”
“yes.”
whatever restraint he’s maintained for the last fourteen weeks begins to disappear. he kisses you again, walking you backward until your lower back meets the edge of the island. his hands remain careful as they move along your waist, still treating every touch as though he might break something but the hesitation gradually eases when you pull him closer.
you slide your fingers into his hair while he kisses along your jaw.
“see?” you whisper. “i’m fine.”
anton hums against your skin before his mouth moves lower, pressing a kiss beneath your ear and then another along the side of your neck.
you tilt your head to the side, resting the side of your face into his hair and the scent reaches you before you understand what it is causing you to freeze. anton notices immediately, his lips pausing against your skin. “what?”
you inhale again, hoping the first reaction was nothing. his cologne fills your nose.
it’s the same one anton has worn for years, the scent you once had him spray across stuffed animals and hoodies whenever he left for tour because it made sleeping without him easier. you used to press your face into the fabric and breathe it in until it felt like he was still beside you.
now, it turns your stomach. you pull your face away from his head. “did you change your cologne?”
anton straightens, still breathing heavily. “no?”
you cover your nose as another wave of nausea moves through you. “are you sure?”
“yes. why?”
the answer becomes clear before you can explain.
saliva gathers beneath your tongue and your stomach contracts sharply, giving you barely enough warning to push against his chest.
“move.”
anton steps aside immediately. you make it out of the kitchen and into the guest bathroom before the first heave forces you to your knees. the toilet seat hits the tank when you lift it too quickly and you barely manage to brace one hand against the floor before breakfast comes back up.
anton enters seconds later.
he kneels beside you without hesitation, gathering your hair away from your face and holding it securely with one hand while the other begins rubbing circles across your back.
“it’s okay,” he says quietly. “i’ve got you.”
you try to breathe between heaves but your body refuses to give you enough time. the pancakes you managed to eat that morning return first, followed by milk and then nothing but painful retching that leaves tears streaming down your face.
“i’m sorry,” you gasp.
“stop.”
another heave cuts off whatever you intended to say.
anton moves closer, letting you brace against his thigh while he keeps your hair out of the way. your eyes water from the force and your chest begins to ache, each empty contraction making you feel as though your body is attempting to turn itself inside out.
“breathe,” he murmurs. “take your time.”
you can’t answer. for one terrifying second, the bathroom begins to blur around the edges. you close your eyes and grip the fabric of his sweatpants, convinced you might pass out if the vomiting doesn’t stop soon.
anton shifts his hand from your back to your shoulder. “baby?”
you force in a shallow breath.
“look at me.”
you shake your head, keeping your face over the toilet until the nausea finally begins to recede.
anton waits until he’s certain you’re finished before reaching for the toilet paper and gently wiping beneath your mouth. you sit back against the wall, too exhausted to care that your face is wet with tears or that a small amount of vomit has splashed across the front of his tank top.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper again.
anton flushes the toilet and turns toward you. “you have nothing to apologize for.”
“i ruined everything.”
“you didn’t ruin anything.”
“i made the girls leave and practically begged you to have sex with me then threw up because of your cologne.”
“that’s not your fault.”
you cover your face with both hands. “this is humiliating.”
anton gently catches your wrists and lowers them. “don’t.”
your bottom lip trembles despite your attempt to stop it.
“i’m so tired of being sick.”
the words come out broken, followed by another sob that you can’t control. anton moves closer and pulls you against his chest, uncaring of the mess on his shirt or the fact that both of you are sitting on the bathroom floor.
you bury your face against him.
“i can’t eat. i can’t sleep properly. i can’t even kiss you without something going wrong.”
“i know.”
“i miss feeling like myself.”
anton’s hold tightens carefully around you. one hand cradles the back of your head while the other moves across your back in long, soothing strokes.
“i know,” he repeats. “i’m sorry.”
you cry harder at the apology, though none of this is his fault either. he presses his lips against your hair. “it’s going to get better.”
“everyone keeps saying that.”
“because it will.”
“what if it doesn’t?”
anton leans back enough to look at you, wiping the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs. “then we’ll keep figuring it out. one day at a time.”
you close your eyes, exhaustion settling over you now that the nausea has passed. your body feels heavy and sore, every remaining ounce of energy used up by the last several minutes.
“i’m sorry about your shirt.”
anton looks down at the stain as though he’s only just noticed it. “i have more.”
“and the ramen.”
“i can make more.”
“and the sex.”
a small smile appears at the corner of his mouth. “we’ll try again.”
“when?”
he laughs quietly. “when you don’t look like you’re about to fall asleep on me.”
you intend to argue but your head has already settled against his chest. anton shifts until his back rests more comfortably against the wall, keeping one arm securely around your shoulders while the other hand lowers to the faint curve of your stomach.
“sleep,” he murmurs.
“on the bathroom floor?”
“you’re already doing it.”
you want to tell him to carry you upstairs but the words never make it out. the last thing you register is anton pulling you closer, his fingers moving slowly against your stomach while your breathing finally begins to even out.
week 18
fifteen minutes past three in the morning is too late to still be awake and far too early to begin the day, leaving you trapped somewhere in between as you stare at the ceiling and listen to anton breathe beside you.
he only managed to fall back asleep twenty minutes ago.
at one in the morning, you had woken him by throwing the covers off and bolting toward the bathroom before you could explain what was happening.
anton followed before he was fully awake, nearly walking into the doorframe in his rush to reach you then sat on the floor beside the toilet while you lost the small amount of dinner you managed to eat. he remained there long after the nausea passed, rubbing your back and waiting until your breathing returned to normal before helping you brush your teeth and bringing you back to bed.
you told him several times that you were fine and that he should sleep. he ignored you until you closed your eyes.
tomorrow morning, or later today rather, he has one of the most important meetings he’s had since making the decision to focus more seriously on producing. several tracks he’s spent months working on are being pitched to brent faiyaz’s team and while anton has tried to act calm about the opportunity, you know exactly how much it means to him.
he’s revised the same sections repeatedly, moving between the studio and your bedroom with headphones around his neck while asking whether certain melodies sound too crowded or whether a transition needs another layer. his assistant blocked off the entire morning so he could focus without interruption and anton planned to leave the house early enough to arrive before everyone else.
he needs sleep. instead, he’s already spent part of the night holding your hair away from your face.
you turn your head carefully and look at him. the faint light from the digital clock reaches just far enough to show the exhaustion beneath his eyes. his face is relaxed now, one arm stretched across the space between you and rests on your bump. the guilt gathering in your chest becomes harder to ignore when you remember how long it took for his breathing to even out after you returned to bed.
your stomach tightens again. you remain perfectly still, hoping the feeling will pass if you refuse to acknowledge it. sometimes the nausea arrives in smaller waves and disappears before becoming anything worse but this one continues building beneath your ribs, growing stronger with every second you spend trying to suppress it.
the spicy pork and rice you begged kevin to make for dinner has become a decision you deeply regret.
it sounded perfect earlier. for the first time in days, you wanted something with actual flavor instead of bread, fruit or whatever bland meal could be prepared without upsetting your stomach. kevin questioned whether the spice was a good idea but you insisted you could handle it and finished nearly the entire plate while anton watched with cautious relief.
now the lingering burn in your throat tells you exactly how wrong you were.
you slowly lift anton’s arm and place it against the mattress, pausing when he shifts in his sleep. he settles again after a few seconds, turning his face deeper into the pillow. you slip out of bed.
rather than turning toward the bathroom attached to your room, you move down the hall toward one of the guest bedrooms. the room has remained mostly unused since your families visited, with fresh sheets made beneath a folded throw blanket and toiletries still arranged neatly in the bathroom courtesy of beatrice.
you tell yourself you’re only going there to use the bathroom, you can return to bed afterward. if the nausea continues, you might stay in the guest room for the rest of the night so anton can sleep without being pulled awake every time you move.
it sounds reasonable in your mind, he has a meeting in a few hours and you have no plans tomorrow that can’t be moved or completed from home. one night in separate rooms won’t change anything between you. it’ll simply allow the person who actually has somewhere important to be in the morning to rest.
you barely make it into the guest bathroom before your body betrays you. your knees hit the floor as you lift the toilet seat, one hand catching the edge of the counter to steady yourself. the first heave brings up enough of dinner to leave your throat burning immediately, the spice somehow worse on the way back up than it had been going down.
you cough, eyes watering as you try to draw in a breath. “fuck,” you whisper hoarsely.
another wave follows before you have time to recover.
the spicy pork and rice return in painful bursts that leave your chest aching and your nose running. every contraction sends another line of fire through your throat and by the time your stomach is empty, you can still taste the heat at the back of your mouth.
you mentally curse kevin even though the meal had been your request and he tried to warn you. when nothing remains, the dry heaving begins.
you grip the edge of the toilet and close your eyes, tears slipping down your face while your body continues trying to rid itself of something that is no longer there. eventually, your stomach stops contracting.
you stay still for several minutes, forehead resting against your arm on the toilet seat while you concentrate on breathing. the tile beneath your knees is cold enough to soothe the heat clinging to your skin and the silence of the guest bathroom feels easier than making the walk back down the hallway.
you flush the toilet and reach blindly for the tissue box on the counter, wiping your mouth and nose before lowering yourself against the side of the bathtub.
you should stand and rinse your mouth. you should return to bed before anton wakes and realizes yoore gone. instead, you stretch your legs out across the floor and rest your head against the bath mat.
when you wake, the first thing you register is movement.
your body lifts from the bathroom floor, one arm sliding beneath your knees while another supports your back. you open your eyes slowly, still caught between sleep and find anton looking down at you with a frown.
“what are you doing?” you mumble.
his eyebrows lift. “seriously?”
you blink, trying to understand why he’s there when he should still be asleep. the bathroom light is on now and the clock visible through the guest bedroom doorway reads a few minutes after four.
“what am i doing?” anton repeats quietly. “what are you doing on the guest bathroom floor at four in the morning?”
the irritation in his voice wakes you more effectively than the light. “put me down.”
“no.”
“anton.”
he carries you out of the guest room without slowing, keeping his hold secure as he walks back toward your bedroom. you consider arguing again but don’t have the energy, allowing your head to rest against his shoulder until he lowers you onto your side of the bed.
the moment your body touches the mattress, you push yourself upright. “you need to sleep.”
anton pulls the covers over your legs before looking at you. “no. what i need is my pregnant wife in our bed, not asleep on a bathroom floor where i can’t reach her if something is wrong.”
you stare at him.
his voice remains soft but the anger beneath it is impossible to miss. anton rarely becomes visibly upset with you. even during disagreements, he usually takes several seconds to choose his words and keeps his tone controlled enough that you have to pay attention to smaller changes in his expression.
right now, his jaw is tight and his shoulders have not lowered since he carried you into the room. “why are you mad?” you ask.
anton exhales and sits on the edge of the bed, covering his face with both hands. for several seconds he says nothing and you can tell he’s trying to choose his words carefully.
when he finally drops his hands into his lap, his eyes are tired and frustrated. “____, i woke up at four in the morning and you were gone.”
you open your mouth but he continues.
“you weren’t in our bathroom. you weren’t downstairs. i found you asleep on the floor in a room you had no reason to be in. can you understand how that looks?”
you cross your arms over your chest. “i left so you could sleep.”
his brows furrow. “i didn’t ask you to do that.”
“you have an important meeting in a few hours.”
“i know what i have.”
“then why are you acting like i did something wrong? i was trying not to wake you up again.” you frown.
“please don’t do that again.”
the firmness in his tone makes you fall quiet.
anton shifts so he’s facing you fully. “i want to be able to reach you if something happens. i don’t care if you wake me up five, ten or twenty times in the middle of the night. i care about you being safe.”
your arms loosen. “i was safe.”
“you were asleep on the bathroom floor.” he deadpans.
“because i was tired.”
“that’s supposed to be comforting?”
you look down at the sheets, tracing one of the folds with your fingertips rather than meeting his eyes. your throat still burns from vomiting and the shame settling beneath your skin feels uncomfortably close to the embarrassment you experienced the week before.
“i hate being so dependent on you.”
anton’s expression changes. some of the frustration leaves his face, replaced by confusion. “what are you talking about?”
“i hate feeling like i’m…” you pause, unable to say it immediately. “like i’m a burden.”
his frown deepens. “i’ve never once said you’re a burden.”
“i never said you did, anton. it’s how i feel.”
you continue playing with the sheets, pulling the fabric between your fingers.
“everything revolves around me now. kevin cooks around whatever i can tolerate. beatrice plans everything around whether i’m having a good day or a bad one. you sleep around me. you move your meetings, you stop working whenever i need something and you wake up every time i get sick.” your voice grows quieter. “i can see how tired you are. i know how much you’re sacrificing.”
anton looks at you for a long moment before responding. “are you not doing the same?”
you finally lift your eyes. “what?”
“are you not sacrificing so we can have a baby?”
you frown. “that’s different.”
“why?”
“because i’m the one who’s pregnant.”
“exactly.”
he moves closer, one hand resting against the mattress between you. “you don’t get to step away from this when you’re tired. you don’t get to drink coffee, take a nap and try again tomorrow. your body is doing this every second of every day whether you feel capable of handling it or not.”
you swallow and say nothing so anton continues.
“do you think i enjoy watching you struggle every day? watching you throw up until you’re crying or forcing yourself to eat food you don’t want because you’re scared you’re not giving the baby enough? do you think i sleep well knowing you haven’t?”
you look away again.
“this is all i can do to alleviate some of it,” he continues. “i can’t carry the baby for you. i can’t be sick for you or make your body feel normal again. i can hold your hair back. i can sit with you when you can’t sleep. i can bring you whatever you need when you need it.”
his hand moves over yours, stopping your nervous pulling at the sheet. “please don’t take that away from me.”
your chest tightens.
anton gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “i can’t just sleep while you’re going through this every day. i know what i can handle and i don’t want you deciding that for me.”
the digital clock beside the bed changes to 4:26 while you sit with his words, unable to find a response that doesn’t make you want to burst into tears.
anton sighs and shifts closer again. his frustration has faded enough and he lifts one hand toward your face. he hooks his fingers beneath your chin and tilts your head until you look at him.
“baby.”
you blink rapidly.
“i appreciate you looking out for me,” he says. “i know why you left and i know you thought you were helping.”
his thumb moves across your cheek.
“but please hear me when i say i want this: i want to hold your hair back. i want to be there when you need someone. i want every part of this with you, even the parts that happen at three in the morning.”
your eyes begin to burn.
“okay?”
you nod slowly.
“use your words.”
“okay.”
anton watches you for another second, making sure you mean it.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper.
he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, leaving his lips there for several seconds before pulling away. “it’s fine.”
you know by the lingering crease between his brows that it’s not entirely fine yet but he’s no longer angry enough to keep pushing the argument. his hand lowers to your stomach, resting over the curve that has grown more noticeable over the last week.
“do you need anything?”
you hesitate. anton raises his eyebrows. “seriously? i just gave you an entire speech about letting me help.”
you look down at your hands. “orange juice, please.”
his expression softens completely. “coming right up.”
anton pushes himself off the bed and walks toward the door without looking at the clock or mentioning the meeting waiting for him in a few hours.
you settle back against the pillows, listening to his footsteps disappear down the hallway as he goes to pour a glass from the batch kevin prepared before leaving for the night.
week 19
anton has spent nearly the entire evening with one hand resting over his wife’s stomach.
he hadn’t intended for tonight to become a double date. when he made the reservation nearly two weeks ago, it was supposed to be the first real date night the two of you had managed in months, somewhere outside of the house where he had a reason to see you dressed up again, to sit across from you beneath low lighting and pretend for a few hours that pregnancy had not rearranged nearly every part of your lives.
then nyla heard about the reservation, complained that she and ben had been trying to visit for weeks and suggested the four of you turn it into a double date. you had looked so excited by the idea that anton agreed without much resistance, though he still made a second reservation for the following week so he could take you somewhere alone.
he doesn’t regret letting them join. dinner has been light and fun in a way very few things have felt lately. nyla and ben have kept the conversation moving, you’ve laughed more tonight than you have in days and most importantly, you’ve eaten.
you’re nineteen weeks and five days pregnant, only two days away from the anatomy scan where you’ll finally learn whether the baby you’ve spent the last four months staring up at the ceiling imagining different wardrobes for is a boy or a girl. every appointment so far has pointed toward a healthy pregnancy despite how miserable carrying it has made you. their heartbeat has remained strong, the measurements have fallen within the expected range and nothing on the early ultrasounds has given your ob cause for concern.
the only issue raised during your last appointment had been your weight.
you had lost several pounds since becoming pregnant, something your doctor wasn’t overly concerned about yet because the baby continued developing normally but she wanted to see you begin gaining over the next few weeks. if your appetite remained poor or the nausea continued preventing you from eating enough, the two of you would need to discuss nutritional supplements.
anton and kevin had taken her concern seriously.
since then, kevin has increased the protein in every meal your stomach might tolerate, adding more meat at dinner, sneaking greens into sauces and keeping boiled eggs, yogurt and several kinds of cheese available in case you wanted something small between meals. anton filled an entire shelf in the refrigerator with protein shakes, purchased enough flavors to give you options and began appearing beside you with one every morning, afternoon and evening.
you’ve complained through every drink handed to you but you’ve also finished most of them, even if anton sometimes has to sit beside you and drink one himself in solidarity.
tonight has been a win without any of that negotiation.
you ate several spoonfuls of the spinach dip the table ordered to share and managed most of your steak and potatoes without a single wave of nausea. anton noticed every bite but resisted praising you because he knows drawing attention to your eating makes you self-conscious. instead, he kept his hand beneath the table, his palm curved over the prominent bump stretching the fabric of your meshki dress.
the gesture has become second nature to him. if you stand beside him, his hand finds your waist or stomach. if you sit together, his fingers drift toward the curve without thought. at night, he sleeps with his palm spread over it unwilling to even part with your bump in sleep.
tonight, his thumb moves in slow circles while ben tells him about an artist he recently discovered. anton listens enough to respond at the appropriate moments, though part of his attention remains fixed on you. he feels the small shifts of your body beneath his hand, notices when you take another sip of water and watches from the corner of his eye as you finish one of the last spoonful of mashed potato on your plate.
you’ve eaten enough tonight that no one will be waiting in the kitchen when you get home with a protein shake already poured.
anton takes a satisfied sip of wine.
across the table, nyla finishes telling a story about one of her pregnant coworkers before sitting back in her chair. her second glass of wine is nearly empty and her words have begun making you brace yourself for whatever she might say next.
“honestly, ben keeps talking about wanting kids but seeing everything you’ve been going through is extremely off-putting.” she turns toward you and adds, “no offense.”
you lift your water glass. “none taken.”
all four of you laugh. anton’s fingers continue moving over your bump as he looks between nyla and ben. “it’s not all bad. honestly, i think it’s brought us closer if anything.”
you glance at him and the warmth in your expression makes him smile. ben points across the table with his fork. “that’s what i keep telling her!”
nyla lifts one eyebrow. “at what cost?”
“here we go,” ben mutters.
she ignores him and gestures toward you with her own fork. “little miss over there was throwing up so hard during our shopping trip the other day that she started vomiting blood. i’m sorry but there is nothing beautiful or bonding about that.”
anton continues smiling for half a second longer than everyone else. the sentence doesn’t quite make sense to him, he can’t remember you mentioning that. beneath the table, his thumb stops against your dress.
you become completely still beside him, your water glass hovering near your mouth. anton waits for you to laugh, correct nyla or explain that she misspoke but you lower the glass carefully and turn your attention toward your plate.
his hand remains on your stomach for one final second before he removes it. “what?”
nyla turns toward him, still unaware of the change in his voice. “oh, yeah. she didn’t tell you?”
anton doesn’t answer. he looks at you instead but you refuse to meet his eyes.
something cold settles in the center of his chest. he thinks of waking up last week and finding your side of the bed empty. he remembers searching the house with his heart pounding before finding you asleep on the guest bathroom floor. he remembers sitting on the edge of the bed afterward and explaining that he didn’t want you deciding which parts of the pregnancy he could handle, remembers asking you to let him be there and the promise you made him. he had believed you.
“the three of us were shopping for the baby shower,” nyla continues, oblivious, “and she suddenly said she had to throw up so jen found us a bathroom. we got her there and she just couldn’t stop. i mean, she was like a fountain.”
“nyla,” you warn quietly.
she raises one hand, misunderstanding your objection. “i’m not exaggerating. she threw up lunch, all those protein shakes you keep making her drink, probably breakfast too. everything! then there wasn’t anything left but she kept going until there was blood.”
anton clenches his jaw. he can’t decide which part of the story makes him angrier. the fact that you threw up hard enough to bleed, the fact that you apparently continued shopping afterward or the realization that you came home that evening, let him help carry bags inside and kissed him without saying a word.
“oh?” he says.
the single syllable finally makes nyla pause.
she looks between the two of you, her smile becoming less certain. “we googled it. it said irritation can happen if you throw up too hard and she said she felt fine after so we didn’t push it. we went back to shopping.”
anton’s gaze remains fixed on you. “anything else happen?”
nyla hums and sets down her glass, preparing to answer. ben places a hand over hers.
she looks at him and he gives a subtle shake of his head. only then does nyla properly examine the table. she notices the glare you’re sending her first then looks toward anton and sees the way he’s staring at you.
“oh,” she says softly.
anton nods once and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. he has a million and one questions he wants to ask but he refuses to have this argument in the middle of a restaurant.
he places his card near the edge of the table. “thanks for joining us but we should get going.”
“anton,” you murmur.
he doesn’t look at you.
ben immediately reaches for his own wallet. “you don’t have to cover our part.”
“it’s fine.”
the finality in anton’s voice stops him.
“thanks man,” ben says after a moment. “we’ll see you around.”
nyla looks stricken now. she opens her mouth, closes it and glances toward you with an apology already forming but you refuse to look at her.
anton settles the bill as quickly as the waiter allows then stands and moves behind your chair. his anger does nothing to change the fact that you’re pregnant, wearing heels and have spent most of dinner shifting because your back has started aching more often. he pulls the chair out and holds one hand near your elbow as you rise.
you don’t take it. the heel of your shoe catches against the leg of the chair. anton’s hand closes around your arm before you can lose your balance, steadying you until both feet are firmly beneath you. he releases your elbow afterward but places his palm against your lower back.
the touch isn’t affectionate. it’s more firm, guiding you around the table while keeping you within reach. nyla silently mouths, “i’m sorry,” as you pass. you look away from her.
anton offers ben and nyla a restrained goodbye then walks beside you toward the restaurant entrance. his hand remains against your back, not rubbing or drifting toward your waist the way it normally would. every time another diner or server moves near you, his palm presses slightly more firmly, steering you around them without a word.
he’s furious with you. he also no longer trusts you to admit when something feels wrong. the thought makes him keep you even closer.
once the two of you step outside anton doesn’t take your hand as you cross the parking lot but he doesn’t allow you to walk behind him either. he remains directly beside you, matching the slower pace your heels require while his hand hovers near your back. when the pavement becomes uneven near the car, his fingers close around your elbow and stay there until you reach the passenger side.
he opens the door for you.
“anton, i—”
“no.”
the coldness in his voice stops you. his jaw shifts as he glances around the parking lot before looking back at you. “not here.”
you press your lips together and get into the car. anton waits until you’ve gathered the skirt of your dress and moved both legs inside before closing the door. by the time he reaches the driver’s side, you’ve already turned toward the window.
the drive home passes in silence.
normally, anton drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting over your thigh or intertwined with yours near the center console. tonight, both hands remain on the wheel. his gaze stays fixed on the road and the muscles in his jaw tighten every few minutes.
you spend most of the ride cursing nyla and her inability to keep a secret once she’s been drinking.
you told both her and jen not to mention what happened. they agreed without much argument at the time. jen had been focused on holding your hair and helping you clean yourself up while nyla stood outside the bathroom stall searching whether it was normal to see blood after vomiting too hard.
the amount had been small, barely more than a few pink streaks mixed with saliva after your stomach was already empty. you felt fine once you sat down for several minutes and the nausea didn’t return for the rest of the afternoon.
by the time you arrived home, there was nothing anton could have done. the nausea spell was over. you had been surrounded by your closest friends, less than fifteen minutes away from a hospital and already back to feeling normal before the shopping bags were placed inside the trunk of your cadillac.
telling him would only have worried him.
at least that’s what you told yourself when you came home and let him greet you at the door, his hands immediately going to your waist while he asked if you had fun. you had kissed him, shown him several things you bought for your baby shower and never mentioned spending part of the afternoon bent over a public toilet.
anton turns into the driveway and you unfasten your seatbelt as soon as he parks and instinctively reach for the door handle.
his head turns sharply. “wait.”
you stop and he gets out, walks around the car and opens your door himself. when you shift toward the edge of the seat, anton offers his hand. his expression remains closed off but his grip is secure as you step onto the pavement. he doesn’t release you immediately.
one hand stays around yours while the other briefly steadies your waist, his eyes moving over your face and body as though checking for something you might not volunteer.
“i’m fine,” you mutter.
anton’s mouth tightens. “clearly that doesn’t mean much.”
the comment stings enough that you pull your hand from his. he lets you, though he remains close as the two of you walk toward the front door. when you reach the steps, his palm returns to your back and stays there until you’re safely inside.
the foyer lights turn on automatically. somewhere deeper in the house, the dishwasher hums from the kitchen and the security system announces that the front door has closed.
you set your purse on the entry table and brace one hand against the wall while attempting to slip out of your heels. anton locks the door before turning toward you. he watches you struggle with the first strap for only a second before exhaling through his nose and crouching in front of you.
“i can do it.”
he ignores you. anton unfastens one shoe and then the other, holding your calf carefully enough that you don’t have to balance on one foot. he places both heels neatly near the wall before standing.
for one hopeful second, you expect him to begin the argument you’ve been anticipating since leaving the restaurant. instead, he loosens the collar of his shirt and walks toward the hallway leading to the basement.
“are we not going to talk about this?”
anton stops and a humorless laugh leaves him, though he keeps his back to you for another second. “that’s rich.”
you frown. “can you not do that?”
he turns, disbelief crossing his expression. “can i not do what?”
“this.” you throw your hands outward. “can you not do this? just talk to me.”
anton stares at you. “oh so because you’ve decided you want to talk now, i have to obey?”
“that’s not what i said.”
“you didn’t have anything to say when it actually happened so i think i’ll pass.”
he turns away again.
“fuck, i’m sorry, okay?”
anton stops at the entrance to the hallway. his shoulders lift with a slow breath before he looks back at you. “are you?”
your arms cross over your chest instinctively.
“are you really sorry?” he asks. “because i could’ve sworn we just had this conversation last week and yet here we are.”
“that’s not fair.” the words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
anton’s expression hardens. “fair?”
you look away, already regretting it but he continues before you can take it back.
“what’s not fair is finding out from my wife’s friend, in the middle of what was supposed to be our date night, that you threw up blood.”
“nyla was being dramatic,” you mumble.
“you threw up blood.”
“it was barely anything.” you argue.
“you threw up blood, ____.”
“and what would telling you have done?” you snap.
anton goes completely silent. you know the question is cruel the moment it leaves you but embarrassment and frustration have already taken over your emotions.
“seriously, what would it have done? were you going to become some healing fairy and fix my nausea? turn back time and stop it from happening? you weren’t even there. by the time i came home, it was already over, so be realistic. what would telling you have done?”
hurt crosses anton’s face before anger covers it again. “that’s not the point.”
“then what is the point!?”
“i should have known!” his voice rises loudly enough to echo through the foyer.
you freeze at the volume. anton rarely yells. even during arguments, he normally lowers his voice the angrier he becomes, sometimes giving you the silent treatment over going back and forth. the sound appears to surprise him too. his chest rises sharply and his eyes close for a second as though he’s attempting to regain control.
when he looks at you again, the anger remains but now you can see the fear beneath it.
“i should’ve known,” he repeats. “what if it was something serious? we don’t even know exactly why it happened. did you call your doctor?”
you say nothing. anton’s stare sharpens. “did you call your ob?”
your silence answers for you. he looks away and plants both hands on his hips. “Jesus Christ.”
“i looked it up…” you trail off.
“you looked it up,” he repeats with a disbelieving laugh.
“nyla did. it said vomiting can irritate your throat and cause a little blood. it was only a few specks.”
“that’s not the point!” his voice rises again, though this time you’re prepared for it.
“it could have been one dot of blood and i would still be concerned because it’s blood, ____! you’re pregnant and you were throwing up hard enough to start bleeding. why would you decide that isn’t something your husband or your doctor needs to know?”
“because i was fine.” you weakly argue.
“you didn’t know that.”
“i felt fine.”
“you didn’t know that,” he repeats, each word slower than the last. “you guessed. you and your friends googled it in a bathroom, decided it was probably nothing and went back to shopping.”
you open your mouth but anton steps closer before you can answer.
“do you know what i kept thinking about during the drive home? you walking through that door with shopping bags, letting me kiss you and tell me about everything you bought like nothing happened. you looked me in my face and left that part out.”
“because it was already over!”
he scowls at you. “that doesn’t make the lie better.”
“i didn’t lie?”
“you hid it.”
anton drags one hand over his face, his frustration beginning to roughen the edges of his voice. “every time you’re sick, i’m there. every night you can’t sleep, i’m there. every craving, every appointment, every time you cry because you don’t feel like yourself, i’m there because i want to be not because i think sitting beside you magically fixes the nausea or because i believe i can control what’s happening to your body.”
his voice begins to shake, exposing the sadness beneath his anger.
“i know i couldn’t have stopped it. i know i wasn’t there and that by the time you got home, it had already passed. this isn’t about me thinking i could’ve sat on that bathroom floor and healed you. obviously, i would have been there if i could but that’s not why i’m angry.”
your arms slowly fall from your chest.
“i’m angry because something serious happened to the person i love most in the world and you decided to keep me in the dark. i had to find out days later because nyla got tipsy and forgot it was supposed to be a secret.”
anton’s eyes are shining now, though he blinks before anything can gather fully.
“do you understand what that felt like?” he asks. “sitting there while she described it and realizing everyone at that table knew something happened to my wife except me? i didn’t know how much blood there was. i didn’t know whether you felt dizzy, whether you passed out, whether it happened again or whether you had any pain. i didn’t know anything and every time i looked at you, you wouldn’t even look back.”
“nothing else happened.” you say softly.
“how am i supposed to trust that?”
the question lands harder than everything else he has said. you stare at him and anton looks away immediately, rubbing one hand across his mouth as though admitting he doesn’t trust you hurts him too but he doesn’t take it back.
“last week, i woke up and you were gone,” he continues. “i found you asleep on a bathroom floor because you decided my meeting was more important than being able to reach you. i told you not to decide what i can handle. i told you i wanted every part of this with you, even the ugly parts. you looked me in the face and said you understood.”
“i did understand.”
“then why did i have to hear about this from nyla?”
you swallow, there’s nothing you can say that isn’t an excuse.
anton draws in another breath and attempts to regulate his emotions. “you don’t get to give me the cravings, the ultrasound pictures and the cute moments when your bump grows then cut me out of the serious parts because you think they’ll scare me. this is my baby too.”
his hand lifts toward your stomach on instinct but he catches himself before touching you. his fingers curl against his palm and fall back to his side.
“and you’re my wife,” he says, his voice breaking around the word. “you’re the love of my life. if anything happened to either of you, i don’t know what i would do. i need to know when something is wrong. even if i can’t fix it. even if all i can do is worry and ask questions and make sure you call your doctor, i deserve to know.”
your throat tightens. “i just hate worrying you,” you admit.
anton responds before you’ve completely finished speaking. “you don’t understand.”
most of the anger leaves his expression, revealing how hurt and exhausted he is beneath it.
“there is no deadline, no meeting, no song or project more important than you. nothing. i don’t care where i am or what i’m doing. if something happens to you, i want to know.”
your eyes begin to burn. anton shakes his head, disappointment taking over his face. “i thought i made that clear last week.”
“you did.” you sniff.
“apparently we’re not on the same page.”
he turns away. the sight of him walking toward the basement makes panic rise inside you. “where are you going?”
anton stops near the hallway but doesn’t face you.
“call your doctor,” he says. “tell her exactly what happened and find out whether she wants you to come in before the anatomy scan.”
you wipe beneath one eye before the tear can fall. “are you coming to bed after?”
his shoulders tense. for several seconds, neither of you moves. part of you expects him to turn around, come back and pull you against him despite everything. anton has never gone to sleep angry with you. even after your worst disagreements, he’s the first to give in so you don’t sleep angry.
tonight, he only shrugs.
“i thought you wanted me to work on my music.”
the reminder cuts through you with painful precision. anton continues down the hallway before you can answer. a few seconds later, the basement door closes behind him.
you remain alone in the foyer with your shoes neatly arranged beside the wall, your phone still inside your purse and one hand resting over the curve of your stomach, listening to his footsteps fade beneath the floor.
week 20
anton has barely spoken to you in two days.
he still sleeps beside you every night but he no longer reaches for you when he settles beneath the covers or rests his palm over your stomach while he sleeps. when you wake during the night, he’s usually turned toward the opposite side of the bed, one arm tucked beneath his pillow and his breathing so even that it makes you wonder whether he’s truly asleep.
the first night after your argument, you remained awake for nearly an hour waiting for him to come upstairs. you had called your obgyn as instructed, leaving a message with the after-hours service before sitting in the living room with your phone held tightly between both hands.
the nurse called you back less than twenty minutes later and asked several questions about the incident including how much blood you saw, whether it was a bright red or dark, whether you experienced chest pain, dizziness, abdominal pain or continued vomiting afterward.
after consulting with dr. hadj she explained that small streaks of blood could occur after repeated, forceful vomiting irritated the throat or caused a minor tear. it wasn’t something they wanted happening regularly but because the bleeding stopped immediately and you had no other symptoms, they didn’t believe you needed to go to the emergency room that night.
you were told to continue hydrating, avoid anything that aggravated your stomach and call immediately if it happened again. another episode of blood, increased bleeding or inability to keep fluids down would mean going to the emergency room for further evaluation.
anton listened from the other end of the couch while you repeated every instruction. he had emerged from the basement shortly before the nurse returned your call, his laptop tucked beneath one arm and his expression still closed off. he didn’t sit beside you. instead, he lowered himself onto the opposite end of the sectional and remained quiet while you explained exactly what happened, this time without minimizing the amount or leaving out the painful dry heaving that preceded it.
when the call ended, you looked toward him. “she said it can happen when someone throws up too hard. she doesn’t think i need to go in unless it happens again.” anton nodded once. you waited for him to say something else. he only opened his laptop and returned to the track he had been working on downstairs.
since then, he's continued caring for you in a detached manner. your morning protein shake still appears beside your breakfast before you ask for it. when you complained that drinking one at night made your stomach feel too full, anton spoke to kevin privately and the two of them began experimenting with electrolyte popsicles made with coconut water, fruit and a smaller amount of protein powder.
the first batch tasted too much like artificial strawberry so anton had kevin remake them with watermelon and lime after remembering those were two flavors you could usually tolerate. he still checks the nutritional information on everything placed in front of you. he still reminds you to take your prenatal vitamins and he still brings water upstairs at night, keeps crackers in the drawer beside your bed and wakes whenever you get up to use the bathroom, even if he pretends not to.
there are no kisses against your temple afterward, no hand slipping beneath your shirt to feel the curve of your stomach and no more conversations about baby names while the two of you lie in bed. he hasn’t asked what you and nyla discussed after she called to apologize nor has he told you anything about the music he’s spent the last two days producing downstairs.
outside of the baby and your pregnancy, he’s said nothing else to you. this morning is no different. you and anton get ready beside one another in silence. today is your anatomy scan.
for weeks, you imagined waking up to anton’s excitement, imagined him placing both hands over your stomach while asking the baby whether they were going to cooperate long enough to reveal their gender. you assumed the two of you would debate names during the drive and place final bets before entering the examination room.
instead, anton kissed your forehead and then disappeared into the ensuite bathroom to shower first while you attempt to get dressed. you stand in front of the full-length mirror wearing a bra and a pair of jeans that fit normally less than two weeks ago. you managed to pull them over your butt after several minutes of struggling but the zipper refuses to move more than halfway up.
you suck in as much as your stomach allows and pull again. the denim digs painfully into the underside of your bump. you release ypur breath with a frustrated huff and attempt to fasten the button instead, hoping closing one might make the other easier. the two sides remain unable to close. the bathroom door opens behind you. anton steps into the bedroom with a towel secured around his waist and another draped over his shoulders. droplets of water run along his chest while he crosses toward the walk-in closet, barely glancing in your direction.
you wait for him to notice. normally, he would make a joke about the baby outgrowing another outfit before stepping behind you and trying to help. once it became obvious the jeans were too small, he would kiss your shoulder, tell you that your changing body was beautiful and search the closet for something more comfortable himself. today, anton disappears between the rows of clothing without saying anything. you turn back toward the mirror, blinking quickly when your vision begins to blur.
crying because your jeans don’t fit would be ridiculous. crying because your husband didn’t stop to help you would be even worse, especially when you’re the reason he no longer knows whether he can trust anything you say. you grip the zipper again and tug hard enough to make your fingers ache.
“come on,” you mutter. it moves less than half an inch before stopping. you try the button again, pressing both sides of the waistband together while holding your breath. the pressure against your stomach becomes uncomfortable almost immediately but you continue fighting with it until tears gather despite your effort to suppress them. anton emerges from the closet fully dressed several minutes later. he wears a tight henly and comfortable wide leg jeans, his hair fully dried. folded over one arm is a pair of grey sweatpants you recognize as his.
he stops beside you and extends them. “these should fit.”
you look at the sweatpants and then at him. “i want to wear my jeans.”
anton’s eyes drop toward the waistband cutting into your stomach. “they won’t be comfortable.”
“i can get them closed.”
“you shouldn’t have to force them closed.” he says calmly.
you turn toward the mirror again and make another unsuccessful attempt at the button. “they fit last week.”
anton remains beside you, still holding out the sweatpants. his expression softens slightly when he notices your eyes, though he doesn’t drop his cold shoulder. “you’re twenty weeks pregnant,” he says. “your clothes are going to fit differently.”
“i know that.” you huff.
“then put these on.”
the lack of warmth in the instruction makes your frustration return. “i don’t want to wear sweatpants to my anatomy scan.”
“they’re going to ask you to expose your stomach anyway and those jeans are already hurting you.”
“you don’t know that.”
anton’s jaw tightens at your words. you immediately regret saying them. his gaze lifts from the waistband to your face. “you’ve been pulling at them for ten minutes and there’s a line beneath your stomach.”
you look down and indeed find that the denim has left a shallow indentation across your skin. anton holds the sweatpants closer. “we can go shopping after the appointment and buy whatever you need. for now, wear something comfortable.”
you stare at him for another moment before taking them. “fine.”
anton nods and turns away to give you privacy despite having seen every inch of your body more times than either of you could count. the politeness feels like another form of punishment. you push the jeans down your legs and step into his sweatpants. the waistband stretches easily over your hips and settles beneath your bump without pressure. they’re too long, requiring you to roll the cuffs several times but they’re soft and warm and smell faintly like his laundry detergent.
when you finish, anton turns back toward you. his eyes move down your body, checking the waistband before meeting your gaze again. “better?”
you don’t want to admit that it is. “yeah.”
“okay.” he picks up your jeans from the floor and folds them neatly over the bench inside the closet then he retrieves one of your oversized sweaters and places it on the bed beside you without explanation. you pull it over your head while anton checks the time on his phone.
“we should leave in ten minutes.”
“i’m ready.”
he looks toward your bare feet. “you need shoes.”
you bite back a response and move toward the closet. by the time the two of you reach the kitchen, kevin is standing near the island with your morning protein shake already prepared. beatrice is reviewing a delivery schedule on her tablet beside him, though both look up the moment you enter. their eyes move between you and anton. neither asks how the two of you are doing.
the tension in the house has become obvious enough that beatrice has spent the last two days finding reasons to leave rooms shortly after both of you enter them while kevin tries to spark conversation whenever you two are around, not used to the silence that now surrounds you two. “good morning,” he says. “big appointment today.”
you offer a small smile. “yeah.”
anton reaches for the stanley before kevin can hand it to you, checking that the lid is properly secured before placing it in your hand. “drink it in the car,” he says.
you accept the cup. “i was planning to.”
beatrice glances down at her tablet. kevin clears his throat and opens the refrigerator. “what sounds good for lunch? i can have something ready for when you get back.”
for the first time in several days, the question doesn’t make you want to gag and say nothing “could you make black bean noodles?”
kevin turns fully toward you. “jajangmyeon?”
you nod. “with sweet-and-sour pork?”
his face brightens. “absolutely.”
anton looks at you as well, surprise briefly overtaking his expression. kevin smiles while closing the refrigerator. “sounds like your appetite is coming back.”
“don’t jinx it.” you joke.
“i would never.” he wipes his hands on a dish towel and reaches for his phone. “i’ll go pick up everything while you’re gone. it’ll be ready when you get back.”
“thank you.” you say, twisting the straw of your cup.
“of course.”
beatrice finally looks up again. “good luck today.”
you place one hand over your stomach. “thanks.”
anton collects the car keys from the counter then waits while you take the first few sips of your shake. when you lower the cup, he opens the mudroom door and holds it for you. the morning air is cooler than you expected. anton remains close as the two of you walk toward the car, matching your pace without touching you until you reach the passenger side. he opens the door, offers his hand and steadies your elbow while you lower yourself into the seat.
he takes the protein shake for you to adjust the fabric of his sweatpants. once you’re settled, he places the cup in the holder beside you and waits until your seat belt is secured before closing the door. anton rounds the vehicle and starts the car before backing out of the driveway.
the first half of the drive passes quietly. you drink your shake slowly while watching the streets of jersey through the window. anton keeps both hands on the wheel, though the rigidity he had two nights ago has lessened. he no longer appears furious every time he looks at you. mostly, he looks tired. the silence grows the closer you get to the city. “i have to fly to osaka next week,” he says eventually.
you turn toward him. “for what?”
“a schedule.”
the answer is vague enough to remind you how little the two of you have discussed anything unrelated to the pregnancy. “with the group?”
anton nods. “a performance and some press.”
“how long will you be gone?”
“four days.”
you look down at the cup in your hands. “oh.”
normally, four days apart would lead to an entire discussion. you would ask what hotel he was staying in, whether he expected to have free time and what meals he wanted before leaving. anton would promise to call every night, complain about having to go and ask if your mother or nyla or jen could stay over so you wouldn’t be alone. today, neither of you says anything else.
the city becomes more crowded around you. anton takes a turn toward the private medical complex where dr. hadj’s practice occupies several floors then follows the signs into the underground parking garage. the two of you have avoided public appearances together as much as possible since your bump became difficult to conceal. no announcement has been made and both of you intend to keep the pregnancy private until after the birth or for as long as circumstances allow.
anton’s company knows, as do the members and everyone regularly inside your home but the public has only noticed that you have spent more time in new jersey and attended fewer events alongside him. dr. miriam hadj came recommended specifically because discretion is built into every part of her practice. she has treated actresses, musicians, athletes and the spouses of several public figures, offering private entrances, restricted appointment times and staff members trained not to react when a recognizable person steps off the elevator.
anton parks near the basement entrance and turns off the engine. he gets out first, walks around the car and opens your door. after helping you stand, he closes the door and places one hand near your lower back as the two of you walk toward the elevator. the lift carries you directly to the private reception area. a woman behind the desk greets both of you by name and checks you in. there are no other patients in the waiting room, only several armchairs and a tv mounted to the wall.
anton chooses a seat near the entrance and you lower yourself into the chair and place both hands over your stomach. he takes the now-empty stanlwy from you and holds on to it, another quiet act of service. “thank you,” you murmur.
anton nods. several minutes later, a medical assistant calls your name. she leads you through a secured door and into an examination room, where she confirms your information before asking you to remove your shoes and step onto the scale. you look down at the number when it settles. the assistant compares it to your previous visit and smiles. “you’re up three pounds.”
anton’s head lifts from his phone. “really?” you ask.
“really! you’ve made up some of what you lost.”
relief moves through you. “thank God.”
the assistant records the number before measuring your height. once you’re seated on the examination table, she wraps the blood-pressure cuff around your arm. anton occupies the chair beside you, his elbows resting against his knees while he watches the machine as the cuff tightens. when the result appears, the assistant looks at it for a moment before entering the numbers into your chart.
“a little higher than your normal,” she says. “nothing alarming. we’ll repeat it before you leave.”
you glance toward anton and find he’s already looking at you. the assistant asks whether you’ve had any headaches, unusual swelling or pain beneath your ribs. you answer no to each question. once she finishes updating the chart, she leaves the room and tells you dr. hadj will be in shortly. the silence returns. you rub one thumb over the opposite palm. “it’s probably because i’m nervous.” you say referring to your high blood pressure.
anton looks toward the closed door. “maybe.”
“you don’t have to sound so concerned.” you say sarcastically.
his eyes move back to you. “i’m not ignoring it if that’s what you think.”
you huff. “i didn’t say that.”
the words come out more defensively than you intend. anton’s mouth presses into a thin line. before either of you can say something that restarts the argument, the door opens. dr. hadj enters with a warm smile and a tablet held against her chest. she’s wearing a pale blue blouse beneath her white coat and a patterned hijab secured neatly around her face.
“there are my favorite newlyweds,” she says, closing the door behind her. “although neither of you looks particularly excited to see me.”
you manage a small laugh. “we’re excited.”
her eyes move between you and anton, noticing more than she comments on. “just saving all of your energy for the scan?”
“something like that,” you say.
dr. hadj pulls the rolling stool closer and reviews the information entered by the medical assistant. “first, you gained three pounds. that makes me very happy.”
“kevin and anton have been force-feeding me protein.”
dr. hadj’s mouth curves, “however they’re getting it to you, they’re helping. we still want the number to continue moving upward but this is progress.”
she scrolls farther down the chart. “i also received the note about the blood after vomiting.”
anton’s expression becomes guarded again. dr. hadj looks at you directly. “no more keeping things like that from us, understood?”
you nod. “understood.”
“small streaks after forceful vomiting can come from irritation in the throat or a tiny tear, especially when you’ve continued retching after your stomach is empty. that doesn’t mean we ignore it. if you see blood again, particularly more than a few streaks or you experience dizziness, weakness or difficulty keeping fluids down, you go in for an evaluation.”
you nod. “i will.”
her gaze lingers long enough to make sure you truly grasp what she’s saying then shifts toward anton. “and she gave you the run down from the phone call?”
“yes.”
“good.”
dr. hadj looks at the blood-pressure reading next. “this is mildly elevated compared to your usual numbers. stress, poor sleep and even being nervous about the scan can temporarily raise it so we’ll let you rest and repeat it before you leave.”
you nod.
“you’re also right at twenty weeks now which means we start paying closer attention to blood pressure as the pregnancy progresses. severe headaches that don’t improve, sudden swelling, pain in the upper abdomen or shortness of breath are reasons to call us immediately.”
anton absorbs every word without looking away from her. dr. hadj smiles gently. “for now though, you’re here to see your baby.”
some of the tension leaves the room. she stands and lowers the lights before helping you recline against the examination table. you lift the sweater above your stomach and push the waistband of anton’s sweatpants slightly lower. the gel is colder than expected. you flinch when it touches your skin. anton’s hand moves from his knee before stopping halfway between you. for one awkward second, his fingers hover over the edge of the table as though he isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to touch you.
you turn your palm upward and his eyes meet yours. after a brief hesitation, anton places his hand inside yours. dr. hadj presses the ultrasound wand against your stomach and the monitor fills with shifting shades of black, white and grey. the image is difficult to understand at first, a collection of moving shapes that only begins resembling a baby once she adjusts the angle.
“there we are,” she says.
your fingers tighten around anton’s. dr. hadj points toward the screen. “that’s the head. beautiful shape. here’s the spine.”
anton leans closer, his attention fixed on the monitor. the baby moves while she attempts to capture the first measurements, one leg stretching before folding again. dr. hadj laughs softly and follows the movement.
“very active today.”
she records several measurements, identifying the arms, legs, stomach and bladder as she works. each time she labels another part as normal, you feel yourself relax more and more. “growth looks appropriate, good movement. fluid looks good.” she says.
anton’s thumb moves once over the back of your hand. it’s the first affectionate touch he’s given you in two days. dr. hadj adjusts the wand and studies another angle. her commentary gradually quiets. you watch her face and forms as her smile disappears, replaced by concentration.
several seconds pass without her saying anything. “is everything okay?” you ask.
anton straightens beside you. dr. hadj doesn’t answer immediately. she moves the wand lower then angles it toward one side of your stomach. the image shifts too quickly for you to understand. “i think i’m seeing something,” she murmurs.
your heart begins pounding. “what kind of something?”
anton’s grip tightens around your hand. “is it a bad something?”
“give me one second.”
the room becomes painfully quiet except for the faint hum of the machine. dr. hadj adjusts the settings and moves the wand again. a rounded shape appears near the top of the screen.
“there’s the head,” she says.
“you already showed us the head,” you reply, panic sharpening your voice.
“i know.” she slides the wand several inches to the opposite side. another rounded shape appears. dr. hadj blinks then smiles. “i’m seeing a second head.”
every muscle in your body goes rigid. “a second head?” you repeat. for one horrifying second, your mind creates an image of your baby with a second head and the possibilities of survival. anton moves closer immediately.
“what does that mean? is something wrong with the baby?” he asks.
“no, no.” dr. hadj turns toward both of you, realizing how her words sounded. “not one baby with two heads. i’m seeing two babies.”
you stare at her while anton’s hand becomes completely still around yours. “what?” you ask.
dr. hadj returns her attention to the screen and moves the wand slowly across your stomach. “this little one here is baby a.”
she circles the first shape with the cursor. “and tucked behind them is baby b.”
a second body becomes visible as she changes the angle, partially obscured behind the first. limbs, spine and the clear curve of another skull appear on the monitor. you stop breathing.
“there’s two?” anton asks.
dr. hadj laughs softly, sounding nearly as surprised as both of you. “there are definitely two.”
“twins?” you whisper.
“twins.” she affirms.
you turn your head toward anton to find he’s already looking at you.
his eyes are wide, his lips parted and every trace of the cold distance between you has been replaced by stunned disbelief. neither of you speaks. you only stare at one another taking in the face that there are two babies.
you’re carrying two babies.
anton looks back toward the monitor then toward your stomach. “how did we not know?” he asks.
“baby b is positioned behind baby a from this angle,” dr. hadj explains. “it’s uncommon for a twin to remain hidden this long but positioning can make an early scan misleading, particularly if one fetus is directly behind the other. now that they’re larger and we’re doing a detailed anatomy scan, there’s no missing them.”
you release a breath that turns into a startled laugh. “oh my God.”
anton looks at you again. “two?”
you nod even though the doctor is the one who confirmed it. “two.”
tears fill his eyes before he can blink them away and the sight breaks whatever restraint you’ve maintained. your own vision blurs as you begin laughing and crying simultaneously. anton lifts your joined hands and presses his mouth against your knuckles.
dr. hadj gives both of you a moment before turning on the sound. the room fills with a rapid heartbeat and you cry harder. she adjusts the wand and a second rhythm joins the first, slightly offset but equally fast and strong. the sounds overlap until the entire room is filled by them.
two heartbeats.
anton lowers his head toward your hand and gives your knuckles another kiss. when he looks up again, tears have escaped down both cheeks.
“that explains the bump,” he says weakly.
you laugh through your tears. “i thought i was just getting big fast.”
dr. hadj smiles while capturing another image. “it may also help explain why your nausea has been so intense. people carrying multiples can experience stronger pregnancy symptoms because hormone levels may be higher. it doesn’t mean twins are the sole reason you’ve been so sick but it could certainly be contributing.”
anton wipes beneath one eye with his free hand. “does it change anything?”
“it changes how closely we monitor the pregnancy, we’ll confirm whether they each have their own placenta and amniotic sac though from what i can see right now, i believe they do. you’ll have additional ultrasounds to track growth and maintaining your nutrition becomes even more important because your body is supporting two babies rather than one.”
anton nods immediately. you already know the number of protein shakes waiting inside the refrigerator is about to double.
dr. hadj continues examining both babies, completing as much of the anatomy scan as their positioning allows. baby a cooperates long enough for clear measurements of the heart, brain, kidneys and limbs. baby b proves more difficult, remaining partially turned away until dr. hadj asks you to shift onto your side.
eventually, she appears satisfied.
“both babies are measuring well. both heart rates look excellent. i may bring you back for a few additional images of baby b because they’re determined to hide but i’m not seeing anything concerning.”
the lack of pronoun takes a seconds to register. you lift your head. “are you able to determine the gender?”
dr. hadj’s smile widens. “yes, would you like to know?”
you and anton answer at the same time. “yes please.”
she moves the wand back toward the first baby. “baby a is a girl.”
a squeal bursts out of you. anton’s mouth falls open before a smile spreads across his entire face. “a girl?”
“one daughter,” dr. hadj confirms.
you look at the monitor, already overwhelmed by the idea of a tiny girl with anton’s eyes or his smile.
“and baby b?” you ask.
dr. hadj adjusts the image again. “baby b is…”
she pauses long enough to make anton lean forward. “also a girl.”
you turn toward him so quickly that the gel-covered wand nearly slips.
“two girls!”
anton laughs, a real laugh you haven’t heard since dinner two nights ago. “we’re having two daughters.”
“two daughters!” you repeat ecstatic by the idea.
he leans over the side of the examination table and presses his forehead against yours. for several seconds, both of you remain there, laughing quietly through tears while dr. hadj continues saving images. anton releases your hand only to cup the side of your face, his thumb wiping the moisture beneath your eye.
the affection feels so natural that neither of you seems to remember you were angry until he begins pulling away. you catch his wrist and anton looks at you. you don’t say anything, not with dr. hadj still seated beside you but you keep your hand around him. he seems to understand. instead of retreating to the chair, he lowers his hand to the side of your stomach and leaves it there while the scan continues.
dr. hadj prints several strips of ultrasound images, including one where both heads are visible and another for each baby separately. she wipes most of the gel from your stomach before helping you sit upright.
“someone from my team will come in to schedule your follow-up. because this is now a twin pregnancy, i’d like to see you more frequently. we’ll also discuss whether low-dose aspirin is appropriate since carrying multiples increases the risk of preeclampsia. don’t start anything on your own. we’ll review your history and decide together.”
anton nods while storing the information away. dr. hadj looks between you. “for today, keep eating the way you have been. continue the fluids and protein. take note of any bleeding, severe pain, vision changes or anything that feels wrong.”
“i will,” you promise.
anton’s hand presses gently against your stomach. dr. hadj raises one eyebrow at you. “and you’ll tell your husband and your medical team?”
heat rises into your face. “yes.”
“good.” she squeezes your shoulder before leaving.
a medical assistant enters several minutes later to repeat your blood pressure. the second number is lower, close enough to your normal range so she doccukents it then schedules your next ultrasound and follow-up appointment.
anton listens to every date and enters each one into his calendar on his phone. when you finally leave the office, he keeps one hand against your back the entire way to the elevator.
the gesture is different now. his palm rubs slowly over the fabric of your sweater while the ultrasound photographs remain clutched in your hands. inside the elevator, both of you look down at them again.
two rounded heads are visible in the grainy image, one slightly above the other. the elevator doors open into the parking garage. anton guides you toward the car, unlocks it and opens the passenger door. before you get inside, his eyes lower toward your stomach.
he hesitates so you take his hand and place it over the bump. anton exhales softly. his palm spreads across you the way it has every day since your body began changing, except now he moves it slowly from one side to the other trying to determine which daughter is where.
“two,” he murmurs again.
you place your hand over his. “two.”
he helps you into the car and closes the door. instead of immediately walking around to the driver’s side, anton remains outside for a moment with one hand resting on the roof, gathering himself. once he gets behind the wheel, he doesn’t start the car. the ultrasound photographs lie between you across the center console.
anton looks down at them and then toward you. “i’m sorry.”
you shake your head immediately. “no.”
“i shouldn’t have shut you out for two days.”
“anton—” you try to interject but he continues.
“i was angry but i shouldn’t have made you feel like i wasn’t here.”
you reach across the console and take his hand. “you still did everything. you made sure i ate. you made kevin turn protein powder into popsicles because i said the shakes made me nauseous at night. you still woke up every time i moved and drove me here even though you barely wanted to look at me.”
“i always want to look at you.”
his quiet admission makes your cheeks heat. anton lowers his eyes toward your joined hands. “i just didn’t know what to say without getting angry again.”
“you had every right to be angry.”
“not for two days.” he mumbles
“yes, you did.” you squeeze his fingers when he attempts to disagree. “i was wrong.”
anton looks at you.
“really wrong. i shouldn’t have hidden it from you. it doesn’t matter that you couldn’t have stopped it or that it was already over when i got home. you should have known because you’re my husband and because they’re your babies too.” you continue.
his gaze drops briefly toward your stomach.
“i understand what you were saying now. it wasn’t about you fixing anything. it was about me deciding you didn’t deserve to know and then making everyone else keep it from you. that was unfair.”
anton rubs his thumb over your knuckles.
“and i know saying i didn’t technically lie was stupid. i hid it on purpose. that’s still dishonest.”
“i don’t think you were trying to hurt me.” he says.
you shrug. “i wasn’t but i did.”
he says nothing. you draw in a breath. “i’m sorry, genuinely. i will never do that again. if anything happens, even if it seems small or embarrassing or there’s nothing you can do about it, i’ll tell you and i’ll tell my doctor.”
anton studies your face. “you promise?”
you nod seriously. “i promise.”
“no asking nyla and jen to keep secrets from me?” he asks with a smile.
you grimace. “never again. nyla is terrible at it anyway.”
anton laughs. “that isn’t the lesson you were supposed to learn.”
you lift his hand and press a kiss against his knuckles. “the lesson is that my husband deserves to know when his wife throws up blood.”
his smile grows despite his attempt to suppress it. you look at him hopefully. “are you still mad at me?”
anton exhales and leans back against the seat. “a little.”
you nod. “fair.”
“but i forgive you.”
relief floods your system and you think your uptick in hormones might make you cry because of it. anton notices and reaches across the console. his hand cups the back of your neck before drawing you toward him carefully. you lean over as far as your stomach allows and bury your face against his shoulder.
anton holds you tightly without pressing against your stomach, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other moves along your spine.
“i’m sorry too,” he murmurs into your hair. “i love you.”
“i love you too.”
he presses several kisses against the side of your head before allowing you to sit back. his eyes remain slightly red when he reaches for the ultrasound photographs again. anton studies the image showing both babies and traces the edge carefully with his thumb. “i’m going to have to cancel osaka.”
you blink. “what?”
“or shorten it.” he amends.
you shake your head. “anton, no.”
“you’re carrying twins.”
“i was carrying twins when you agreed to go. we just didn’t know it.” you laugh.
“that doesn’t make me feel better.”
you laugh softly. “dr. hadj said they’re both healthy. you’re going for four days not four months.”
anton looks unconvinced.
“go to osaka,” you insist. “my mother can stay over if it makes you feel better and i’ll call you if anything happens.”
he thinks it over for a second. “immediately?”
you hold out a pinky which he takes. “immediately.”
he nods slowly. “i’ll think about it.”
anton places the ultrasound pictures carefully inside the folder provided by the office then sets them in the backseat where they won’t bend. his hand returns to your stomach. he looks down at the curve hidden beneath your sweater in complete awe.
“my girls,” he murmurs.
you smile. “all three of us?”
anton looks up offended. “obviously.”
“good answer.” you laugh.
he shifts his hand slightly higher on your stomach. “i can’t wait to meet our princesses.”
you place your hand over his and look down at the place where your daughters are tucked together, one apparently content to spend the first half of the pregnancy hidden behind her sister.
“me too.”
anton leans across the console and kisses you. when he pulls away, his forehead remains against yours. “two girls,” he whispers.
you smile against his lips. “you’re outnumbered.”
“i’ve been outnumbered since i married a diva like you.”
you push lightly at his shoulder, laughing at his sassiness. anton catches your hand and kisses your palm before finally reaching for his seat belt. the ultrasound pictures remain safely between you as he starts the car and when he backs out of the parking space, his free hand finds its way back to your stomach.
❦ a/n: and at last part 2 has arrived! life has been kind of hectic but we are here and u guys must enjoy it!!! love you guys sorry for ghosting again 😚 thank you for all the love for be my plus 1 !!
summary : coming back home after 5 years in another country, you find yourself attending a reunion party wherein one of your friend from high-school drunkenly rants about her current situation with her fiancé and his family. You try your best to comfort her without knowing how much chaos it could bring.
content/warnings : written, no warnings
word count : 665 words
— KOA’S WISH
By the time you got to Yizhuo and Chloe’s apartment, an exhausted Koa was already curled up beside you, deep asleep. Taking him in your arms, you brought him to the guest-room that Chloe offered for you guys to stay in.
You leaned down to kiss his forehead after tucking him in. When you try to stand up, his little hand reached for you. “Mommy?”
“Don’t worry, my love. I’ll be in the living room with your aunties” You whispered to him, giving a quick peck on the hand he used to reach for you. “Just rest, baby.”
In the living room, Aeri is laying n the couch with her head on Chloe’s lap while talking about how you randomly asked her to go to Korea. Yizhuo is sitting on the accent chair near the couch. Their conversation stopped when you entered. Different questions running through their minds.
Why now? What happened? Are you okay? Did he find out?
“Well? Tell us everything!” Yizhuo breaks the silence. You sat down on the chair opposite to Yizhuo and faced the three. Taking a deep breath.
“Koa wished to go to Korea for his birthday and yes his birthday is two months away but we went here now because mom and dad wanted me here as soon as possible oh and also he proposed and I said yes because i love him and he loves and takes good care of Koa he is Koa’s dad and now Im asking you to be my bridesmaids” You word vomit everything you’ve been holding back as the three women infront of you let out shocked gasps.
“You did not hold my hand for that…”
“Wait slow down, what?” Aeri suddenly sat up, her eyes wide. You? Engaged? She didn’t notice any ring while you guys were traveling.
“Do I have to say all that ag—“ You didn’t get to finish being interrupted by Chloe standing up and hugging you with Aeri and Yizhuo following soon after.
“Show us the ring!”
You laughed and showed them the ring. They start to squeal and you remind them that Koa is sleeping, making them whisper-yell their excitement.
“ITS SO PRETTY!”
“OMG CONGRATS! YOURE ENGAGED”
“I’LL DEFINITELY BE YOUR BRIDESMAID!”
A few hours later, everything had settled into a calmer mood. Koa had woken up a hour ago and is now playing with his auntie Ning and auntie Gigi in the living room while you and Chloe prepare for dinner.
“Why did Koa suddenly want to come here?” Chloe broke the silence in the kitchen. You shrugged without looking at her and finishing up whatever you’re doing.
“He’s been so obsessed with Korea and he learned that I used to live here, he practically begged to go” You explained, remembering how Koa tried to convince you for months.
“Mommy!” Koa screamed as he ran towards you. “Where’s my spiderman bag?”
“It’s in the guest room, my love.” But before you could ask why he was looking for it, he ran to the room. Chloe laughed at his antics.
A few minutes later, you could hear running down the hall. Koa went straight to his aunts and showed them the paper he was holding. “Auntie Coco! Come see!”
With Koa calling for Chloe, the two of you went to the living room. Koa stood there holding the paper in his hand.
“Daddy helped me make it!” Koa chirped, he had the biggest smile on his face.
You let Koa talk about his birthday and everything he wanted to do in Korea. A few minutes later you and Chloe went back to the kitchen, hearing your son still rambling about his wants and how his daddy promised him that they’ll do everything on the list.
“Okay that’s enough, dinner’s ready!” You called out to them. Aeri carried Koa to the dining area with Yizhuo following behind them, texting someone.
“Mama, since you’re here, come with me to the high school reunion?” Yizhuo requested, finally looking up from her phone. “It’s on friday.”
cly yaps : sorry for grammar mistakes
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