hi u guys!!! iâve been getting so many asks about disability services and i could genuinely cry from the support :): lots of u want it to be a continued series going into how theyâll now navigate life together as a couple and im definitely down to write that for you⊠i just donât know when ill have the time D;
iâm currently a full time student trying to get into a really competitive program at my school (they only accept 20 ppl per year). since iâm taking classes during the summer semester, theyâre accelerated, which means my workload is actually effing insane. just for anatomy and physiology i have 10 assignments due by sunday and both a lecture exam and lab exam, and this is only one class out of 3 im taking DDDD;
I think end of July Iâll have more time, but i may put out cute lil one shots here and there of random scenarios between the two.
pleaseeee wish me luck, and i adore u guys and will genuinely do my best to post!!!
I know you said that you dont like writing short fics but I dont want to say good bye to disability services reader and anton. The way you wrote him was so beautiful and i was so happy that you didnt write him like he was a child. (I know so many people in real life that view people who are neurodivergent or autistic like children and as someone who is neurodivergent that isnt what its like at all). The way you wrote genuinely made my heart hurt and yearn for someone to understand me the way the reader does to anton. It was so cute thank you!
iâll write anything for u guys <3333 if u want short, one shot, chapters, idcccc đ„č feel free to send requests!! iâve just been going off of my own brain since i started
synopsis: Assigned as a peer aide for a withdrawn college student no one seems able to understand, you expect awkward conversations, difficult schedules, and long silences. What you donât expect is Anton.
Soft-spoken and selectively mute, Anton moves through campus like someone slightly out of step with the rest of the world. He avoids eye contact, struggles to process emotions in real time, and finds comfort in routines, textures, music, and beautiful things. Most people see him as strange before they ever try to know him. But beneath his careful silence is someone painfully observant, deeply sensitive, and desperate for connection in ways he doesnât fully understand himself.
As the semester unfolds, your role in his life slowly becomes more than academic support. Anton begins seeking you out instinctively â waiting outside your classes, memorizing your routines, touching your sleeve without realizing how intimate it feels. He doesnât understand the meaning people attach to closeness, only that your presence quiets the overwhelming parts of the world around him.
And somewhere between rainy walks across campus, quiet practice rooms, and conversations filled with unfinished feelings, you begin falling for him.
But loving Anton means learning patience. His emotions arrive slowly, often after the moment has already passed. He struggles to recognize jealousy, affection, and longing until theyâve already rooted themselves deeply inside him. While you begin understanding your feelings almost immediately, Anton has to discover his piece by piece â through trust, comfort, and the terrifying realization that for the first time in his life, someone stayed.
A quiet, emotionally intimate slowburn about tenderness, misunderstood affection, and two people learning how to exist gently beside one another.
warnings: unprotected, p in v, creampie, very intimate, reader lowkey talks him through it, inexperienced!anton, crying, fluff, aftercare if u squint, overall pretty vanilla bc i didnât think making anton dirty af would suit this story (unfortunately)
Anton touched you like he was afraid too much pressure might make the moment disappear.
One hand slid carefully upward from yours to your wrist, then your arm, fingertips trembling faintly beneath the sleeve of your shirt before settling against the side of your neck. Not confident. Not uncertain either. Just overwhelmed by the reality of finally being allowed to do something heâd clearly imagined a thousand times without understanding what it would actually feel like.
You could see it all over his face.
The concentration. The want. The nervousness he was trying so hard to manage correctly.
He stayed close enough that your breaths mixed together, warm and uneven in the dim apartment light. Rain whispered softly outside while Anton looked at you with an openness so complete it almost hurt to witness.
Then, very quietly, âYouâll tell me if I do it wrong?â
âThereâs no wrong way,â you whispered back. âJust stay with me, okay?â
Anton nodded once.
You felt the tremor in his hand before he leaned in.
The first brush of his lips against yours was so soft you almost thought you imagined it.
Tentative. Warm. Barely there.
Anton froze immediately afterward, like his entire body had short-circuited from the sensation. His brows pulled together faintly, eyes slipping shut as though he needed to process what had just happened before continuing.
You could actually feel his heartbeat racing through the hand still resting against your neck.
âItâs okay,â you murmured gently, brushing your thumb along his cheek.
His eyes opened slowly.
âThereâs too many feelings at once,â he admitted in a whisper.
âWhat kind?â
Anton swallowed faintly, visibly struggling to organize the experience into language.
âWarm.â His lashes lowered again. âBut alsoâŠâ He frowned softly. âMy chest hurts a little.â
Your expression softened immediately. âThatâs normal.â
âIt is?â
âMhm.â
He looked relieved by that in a way that made you want to hold him forever.
Then his attention drifted back toward your mouth with helpless fascination.
Like now that heâd felt it once, he couldnât stop wanting it again.
You watched his breathing change. Watched his fingers tighten almost unconsciously against your skin before he leaned forward a second time, slower now but far less hesitant.
This kiss lingered.
Antonâs lips moved carefully against yours like he was learning through sensation instead of instinct, trying to memorize the rhythm of it while staying impossibly gentle. You could feel how hard he was concentrating, every small movement thoughtful and searching.
When you tilted your head, to get a deeper angle, a soft noise left his mouth. The noise went straight through you.
Anton pulled back barely an inch immediately afterward, eyes wide with startled embarrassment. âI didnât meanââ
âYou donât have to apologize for that,â you whispered quickly.
His cheeks flushed deep pink.
âBut it just happened.â
âI know.â
âThatâs horrifying.â
You laughed softly, unable to help yourself, and the sound visibly relaxed him again.
âYouâre okay,â you promised.
Anton looked at you for another long second before something inside him softened completely.
Then he kissed you again.
This time the nervousness melted faster.
Not gone â never gone entirely â but overtaken by want strong enough that he stopped overthinking every movement. His hand slid shakily from your neck into your hair, fingers tangling carefully at the base of your skull while he pressed closer with quiet desperation.
You felt the exact moment he realized kissing wasnât just pleasant. It was consuming.
Anton inhaled softly against your mouth, overwhelmed all over again by the closeness, the warmth, the fact that you were kissing him back instead of pulling away. His entire body reacted honestly to affection. You could feel it in the trembling exhale he let out when your hand moved through his hair, in the way he unconsciously leaned further into you every time you deepened the kiss slightly.
Guiding him came naturally.
You tilted your head gently, kissed him slower when he became overwhelmed, softer when his breathing turned uneven. Anton followed every tiny cue with intense focus, learning you in real time the same way he learned everything else â completely, carefully, with his whole heart.
And once he understood something, he held onto it.
By the third kiss, he was the one chasing your mouth when you pulled away slightly for air.
The realization seemed to hit him halfway through the movement.
His forehead rested lightly against yours while he tried to process the sudden rush of emotion overtaking him. You could practically see it happening â desire arriving tangled together with attachment and vulnerability so intense it left him visibly shaken.
âI understand something now,â he whispered.
You brushed your fingers gently along his jaw. âWhat?â
His eyes stayed lowered, lashes trembling faintly.
âWhy people keep doing this.â
Anton swallowed again before continuing, voice barely audible now.
âIt feels likeâŠâ He paused, searching helplessly. âLike my body becomes quiet.â
The words wrapped themselves around your heart.
You kissed him once more before he could overthink the confession, softer this time, lingering enough to make him melt against you completely. Anton made that small overwhelmed sound again into your mouth, fingers tightening in your hair as though grounding himself there.
When you finally pulled back, he looked ruined by it.
Lips pink. Breathing uneven. Eyes unfocused with processing and feeling and too much tenderness all at once.
Beautiful.
Anton stared at you silently for several seconds before the faintest look of disbelief crossed his face.
âYou wanted that too?â
The question was so sincere it made you laugh breathlessly.
âOh my god, Anton.â
âI know you said yes,â he murmured quickly, still visibly overwhelmed, âbut sometimes people agree to things they donât actually want because it seems expected socially andââ
You kissed him again just to stop him talking.
When you pulled away again, his eyes stayed closed for a second longer than necessary.
Then, softly, almost wonderingly.
âI think I could become addicted to you.â
-
Anton kissed like someone discovering hunger for the first time.
Not rushed. Not messy. Just overwhelmingly earnest in a way that made every touch feel intimate beyond reason. The more you responded to him, the more he unraveled beneath it, careful restraint slowly giving way to need he didnât entirely know how to manage yet.
You felt it in the way his hands stopped hesitating.
One stayed tangled gently in your hair while the other slid shakily along your waist beneath the oversized shirt you wore, fingertips brushing warm skin like he couldnât stop checking that you were real. Every reaction you gave him seemed to hit all at once â your breathing changing, the small sounds you made into his mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair â and Anton reacted to each one with visible overwhelm.
When you kissed him deeper, he whimpered softly before he could stop himself.
The sound made your entire body go warm.
Anton froze immediately afterward, breath catching hard against your lips.
âYou did nothing wrong,â you whispered quickly, brushing your nose lightly against his.
His cheeks burned pink instantly, but he looked almost dazed now, pupils blown wide with feeling while he tried to process too many sensations at once.
âI can feel everything,â he admitted shakily.
âI know, baby.â
The pet name nearly destroyed him.
You watched it happen in real time â the way his eyes fluttered shut, the way his grip tightened instinctively at your waist while another helpless sound escaped him, quieter this time. Anton looked overwhelmed by how deeply affection affected him now that he understood it for what it was.
âAgain,â he whispered before he could think better of it.
Your heart twisted painfully.
âYou want me to kiss you again?â
Immediate nod.
Anton leaned into you before you could even move first this time, like his body had finally stopped waiting for permission every second. The kiss turned softer at first, almost needy in its gentleness, but the longer it lasted the more you felt his control slipping beneath the weight of sensation.
He liked being touched. Youâd always known that.
But now that he understood why he liked it, every caress seemed to reach somewhere deeper inside him. Your fingers sliding through his hair made him shiver. Your hand resting against the side of his neck pulled another quiet whine from his throat. When you shifted closer and he felt your legs brush beneath the blanket, his breathing stuttered unevenly into your mouth.
âSo sensitive,â you murmured softly against his lips.
Anton made another broken sound at that.
Not embarrassed anymore. Just affected.
You could practically feel how intensely he was experiencing everything â the warmth of your apartment, the pressure of your lips, your hands on him, the dizzying realization that someone wanted him back just as much.
When you kissed slowly along the corner of his mouth toward his jaw, Antonâs head tipped back instinctively against the couch cushion.
âMmph,â he breathed.
Your fingers slipped carefully beneath the edge of his hoodie, tracing lightly along the warm skin at his waist, and Anton trembled beneath your touch hard enough that you immediately slowed down.
âToo much?â
âNo,â he whispered quickly, almost panicked by the idea of stopping. âNo, please.â
The plea hit you directly in the chest.
You softened immediately, pressing another lingering kiss against his jaw while your hand stayed still against his side, grounding instead of overwhelming. Anton melted beneath the gentleness of it with a shaky exhale, forehead dropping briefly against your shoulder like he needed a second to recover.
âI donât know why this feels so intense,â he admitted quietly against your skin.
âYouâve never done this before.â
âI know, butâŠâ His fingers curled weakly in your shirt. âIt feels more than I expected.â
You brushed your lips softly through his hair. âBecause you feel things deeply.â
Then another small whimper left him when you kissed just below his ear.
The sound was unbearably soft.
Your hand moved carefully up his back beneath the hoodie, fingertips tracing slow reassuring lines there while Anton tried helplessly to process pleasure and tenderness happening simultaneously. He kept making these quiet little noises whenever you touched him somewhere unexpectedly gentle, like his body reacted before he could organize the feelings into thoughts.
âYou really like being taken care of,â you whispered.
Antonâs entire face flushed.
But instead of denying it, he nodded against your shoulder.
The honesty nearly ruined you.
âI think,â he said shakily, words catching between breaths, âI spent a long time pretending I didnât need things.â
You pulled back just enough to look at him properly. His lips were swollen from kissing, hair messy beneath your hands, expression completely open in a way only happened when he felt safe enough to stop monitoring himself.
âYou donât have to pretend with me.â
Then he kissed you again before you could say anything else, sudden and searching and much less careful now. Not rough â Anton would probably never be rough â but desperate in a quiet aching way that made it obvious he was clinging to every bit of closeness you offered him.
And every time you touched him gently, he fell apart a little more.
The soft, shaky sigh he lets out as your lips meet is swallowed by the kissâa quiet surrender that makes your heart ache. His mouth is warm, pliant, still tasting of salt and something sweet from the tea youâd shared hours ago. Heâs tentative, even now, his lips barely moving against yours, waiting for your lead.
You tilt your head, deepening the angle just slightly, and your tongue traces the seam of his lips. He stillsâa sharp inhale through his nose, fingers tightening around yours. He knows what youâre asking. Heâs seen it in movies, read about it, but the reality of it makes his chest clench with a mixture of fear and desperate hunger.
He parts for you.
Your tongue slips inside, slow and deliberate, and the sound he makes is nothing short of brokenâa low, guttural moan that vibrates through his chest and into yours. His free hand flies up to grip your shoulder, nails digging in through the fabric. His eyes flutter shut, lashes wet, and his whole body trembles against you like a plucked string.
Heâs not used to this. The wet heat, the slide of your tongue against his, the way you taste, the way you explore himâslowly, patiently, mapping every sensitive spot inside his mouth. He whimpers, high and needy, and his hips press forward involuntarily, grinding against your thigh.
You pull back just enough to breathe, and he follows, chasing your mouth with a desperate little sound. âNoâdonât stop,â he gasps, voice wrecked. âPlease.â
You smile against his lips. âIâm not stopping, baby. Iâm just giving you a second.â
He shakes his head, forehead pressing to yours. âI donât want a second. I want you. I wantâI needââ His voice cracks.
He canât find the words, so he kisses you again, messy and eager, his tongue sliding against yours without finesse but with so much raw want that it leaves you breathless.
You let him take what he needs for a moment, then gently guide him back, your hand sliding to the nape of his neck. âSlow down,â you murmur, thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind his ear. He shivers, lips parted, pupils blown. âIâve got you. We have all night.â
He nods, a jerky movement, but his hands are still restlessâsliding from your shoulder to your waist, fisting in the fabric of your shirt, then moving up to cup your face. Heâs touching you everywhere he can reach, like heâs trying to memorize the feel of your skin, your hair, the curve of your jaw.
âI canât help it,â he whispers, voice soft. âYou feel so good. Everything feels so good. Itâs like⊠like my whole body is awake for the first time.â
You trail your hand down his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat under your palm. His breath hitches when you reach the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of his stomach. Heâs warm, soft, and he tenses under your touchânot with fear, but with anticipation.
âCan I take this off?â you ask, your voice low, steady.
He swallows. Nods. âYes. Please. I wantâI want you to see me.â
You lift the hem slowly, and he raises his arms, letting you pull the shirt over his head. Heâs pale, lean, and smooth to the touch.
His nipples peak in the cool air, and his skin is flushed a soft pink all the way down to his navel. He looks at you with wide, vulnerable eyes, waiting for your reaction.
You let your gaze travel over him, unhurried, appreciative. âYouâre beautiful, Anton.â
A shudder runs through him. His lips part, and a soft whimper escapes. He looks away, embarrassed, but you cup his jaw and bring his gaze back.
âLook at me,â you say gently. âI want you to see how much I want you.â
He holds your eyes, and you lean in, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. He gasps, his hands flying to your shoulders. You trail kisses down his chest, slow and open-mouthed, tasting salt and the faint lingering scent of your soap heâd used earlier.
When you reach his stomach, heâs trembling. His abs clench under your lips, and he lets out a shaky laugh.
âThat tickles,â
You smile against his skin and move lower, pressing a kiss to the waistband of your bottoms heâd stolen from your closet. Heâs hardâyou can see the outline clearly, the fabric straining. Heâs not shy about it; heâs eager, his hips lifting subtly toward your mouth.
âYou want more?â you ask, looking up at him through your lashes.
He nods frantically. âYes. Please. Iâll do anything. Justâplease touch me. I need you to touch me.â
Your hands fist his pajama pants. âTell me what you want, baby.â
He bites his lip, struggling to form words. âI want⊠I want you to take control. To show me what it feels like to be wanted. To be adored. To beâyours.â His voice breaks on the last word, raw and honest.
You pull his pants down slowly, deliberately, and he lifts his hips to help you slide them down. Heâs wearing boxersâdark gray, already damp at the tip from his precum. You pull them down too, and his cock springs free, already flushed and curved, the head glistening.
He looks at you, helpless, waiting.
You wrap your hand around him, slow, and he gaspsâa sharp, pained sound that melts into a moan as you stroke him gently. His head falls back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut. âOh godâohâthatâsââ
âShh,â you whisper, thumb spreading the moisture over the head. âJust feel it. Let it build.â
Heâs whimpering already, his hips twitching into your hand. Every stroke draws another sound from himâwhines, moans, broken fragments of your name. Heâs so sensitive that when you press a kiss to the tip, he cries out, his hands flying to your hair, gripping tight.
âPlease,â he begs, voice cracking. âplease, I needâmoreâI need youâŠâ
You take him into your mouth.
The sound he makes is almost a sobâa raw, desperate noise that fills the quiet room. His thighs tremble, his hands clench in your hair, and he bucks forward involuntarily, sinking deeper. You take him in slowly, letting him feel every inch of your tongue, the heat of your mouth, the suction.
Heâs babbling now, half-words, half-pleas. âSo goodâtoo muchâplease, donât stopâI canâtâfuckââ Heâs never said that word before, not like this, and it comes out on a gasping breath that makes you hum around him.
He arches off the couch, a full-body shudder, and you feel him pulsing against your tongue. Heâs closeâtoo closeâbut you slow down, pulling back to press open-mouthed kisses along his shaft, giving him a moment to breathe.
Heâs panting, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. âWhy did you stop? Did I do something wrong?â He sounds wrecked, desperate.
âBecause I want you to be inside me when you cum,â you say, crawling up his body. He watches you with glazed eyes, lips parted, utterly undone.
You strip off your own clothes quickly, and his hands find your waist, your hips, pulling you down onto him. The skin-to-skin contact makes him gasp, as he drags you into a messy kiss, tasting himself on your lips.
âI need you,â he whispers between kisses. âI need to be inside you. Now. Please.â
You guide yourself over him, and he looks down, watching the tip of his cock brush against your entrance. He shivers, but he doesnât look away. Heâs fascinated, caught between nervousness and overwhelming desire.
You lower yourself onto him slowly, and his mouth falls open in a silent cry. His eyes roll back, his hands scrambling for purchase on your hips. The feeling of him filling you, of being stretched, is so intense that you canât form wordsâonly sounds, high and broken, as you sink deeper.
You pause when heâs fully inside you, giving him time to adjust. Youâre tight, hot, trembling around him. His breaths come in short, ragged gasps, and he looks up at you with tears on his cheeks.
âYouâre so good,â you murmur, leaning down to kiss his forehead. âSo perfect, Anton. Stretching me so well.â
He sobsâa quiet, overwhelmed soundâand wraps his arms around you, pulling you down to bury his face in your shoulder. âDonât stop,â he begs, voice muffled. âPlease donât stop. I loveâI love how this feels. I love you.â
You begin to move, slow and deep, rocking into him with steady, tender rotations. He clings to you, his hips rising to meet each movement. Every stroke draws a new sound from himâyour name repeated like a prayer.
Heâs lost in it, drowning in sensation. Each touch is magnified tenfoldâthe slide of skin, the warmth of his breath on your neck, the way your hands grip his hair, the way you guide him. Heâs not thinking anymore. Heâs just feeling, a raw, beautiful creature of need and trust.
âHarder,â he whispers, voice broken. âPleaseâharderâI can take itâI want itââ
You increase your pace, and he cries out, nails raking down your back. His body arches, his head thrown back, and you watch his orgasm buildâthe way his face contorts, the way his breaths stutter, the way his muscles flutter.
âCum for me, baby,â you say, your voice low and commanding in his ear. âLet go. Iâve got you.â
He does. With a shattered scream, he cums, his body convulsing in your arms, his release hot and wet deep inside of you. The contractions are so intense that they pull you over the edge too, and you bury your face in his neck, groaning through the waves of pleasure.
You stroke his hair, pressing soft kisses to his temple. âYou did so well,â you whisper. âYouâre so perfect, Anton. So loved.â
He sniffles, then lifts his head, his eyes red but bright with wonder. âThat was⊠everything,â he says, his voice raw but steady. âI didnât know⊠I never knew I could feel this wanted.â
You smile, brushing the hair from his damp forehead. âNow you know. And you always will.â
He pulls you into a soft, lingering kiss, slow and tender, before settling his head against your chest, listening to your heartbeat. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, still trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure and trust given freely.
âI love you too, by the way.â
In the quiet of the apartment, wrapped in warmth and the scent of each other, he feels safe, cherished, and utterly, completely whole.
oh my god.. i was writing chapter three (smut btw) and the entire thing deleted bc tumblr refreshed :D ermmmmmm iâm ctually gonna lose my MIND I WAS COOKING
synopsis: Assigned as a peer aide for a withdrawn college student no one seems able to understand, you expect awkward conversations, difficult schedules, and long silences. What you donât expect is Anton.
Soft-spoken and selectively mute, Anton moves through campus like someone slightly out of step with the rest of the world. He avoids eye contact, struggles to process emotions in real time, and finds comfort in routines, textures, music, and beautiful things. Most people see him as strange before they ever try to know him. But beneath his careful silence is someone painfully observant, deeply sensitive, and desperate for connection in ways he doesnât fully understand himself.
As the semester unfolds, your role in his life slowly becomes more than academic support. Anton begins seeking you out instinctively â waiting outside your classes, memorizing your routines, touching your sleeve without realizing how intimate it feels. He doesnât understand the meaning people attach to closeness, only that your presence quiets the overwhelming parts of the world around him.
And somewhere between rainy walks across campus, quiet practice rooms, and conversations filled with unfinished feelings, you begin falling for him.
But loving Anton means learning patience. His emotions arrive slowly, often after the moment has already passed. He struggles to recognize jealousy, affection, and longing until theyâve already rooted themselves deeply inside him. While you begin understanding your feelings almost immediately, Anton has to discover his piece by piece â through trust, comfort, and the terrifying realization that for the first time in his life, someone stayed.
A quiet, emotionally intimate slowburn about tenderness, misunderstood affection, and two people learning how to exist gently beside one another.
The words settled somewhere deep enough inside you that for a second you forgot how to breathe normally.
Antonâs attention drifted toward the condensation gathering on his cup after a few seconds, giving you time to recover from whatever had just happened to your nervous system.
You cleared your throat softly. âWeâve known each other for like⊠two days.â
âI know.â
His voice came easier now than before. Still soft. Still sparse. But less fragile around the edges, as though speaking had become slightly less exhausting in your presence.
âThatâs not a long time to notice someone.â
Anton tilted his head faintly at that.
âIt is for me.â
You stared at him.
He seemed to realize belatedly that he might need to explain further because his fingers immediately twitched toward his phone again. You watched him hesitate halfway there before deciding to speak instead.
âMost people feelâŠâ He paused. âTemporary.â
The sentence came out unevenly, like he was translating thoughts directly as they formed.
âThey change quickly,â he continued quietly. âOr they stop trying after they realize Iâm difficult.â
Your chest tightened.
Anton looked down at the table while speaking now, voice lowering further with concentration.
âSo when someone stays longer than expectedâŠâ Another pause. âI notice.â
You wanted very badly to say something comforting and equally wanted not to scare him by reacting too emotionally. Anton seemed sensitive to emotional intensity in the same way he was sensitive to noise â too much too quickly made him retreat inward.
âWell,â you said gently, âIâm not planning on disappearing.â
The second the sentence left your mouth, Anton looked up.
Not fully into your eyes.
But close enough that the breath caught in your throat anyway.
His expression shifted in that quiet subtle way you were learning to recognize â something loosening internally, tension unwinding one careful thread at a time.
Then he nodded once.
Small. Certain. Like heâd decided to believe you.
Anton finished the last bite of his sandwich with methodical precision before pushing the plate slightly away from himself.
You noticed immediately. âYou actually ate.â
He blinked.
Then glanced down at the empty plate like heâd forgotten about it midway through the conversation.
âSee? Survived.â
Anton considered that seriously.
âIt helped because you stayed.â
Your heart physically hurt at this point.
You pressed your fingers harder around your cup to ground yourself. âAnton.â
He looked attentive immediately.
âYou canât keep saying things like that so casually.â
Confusion crossed his face almost at once.
âWhat things?â
Exactly.
You laughed weakly under your breath. âNever mind.â
Anton frowned slightly, clearly dissatisfied with not understanding. He shifted forward a little in his seat, cardigan sleeves falling down over his hands again.
âNo,â he said quietly. âExplain.â
The determination in his voice startled you.
You looked at him carefully. âSome things sound more emotionally intense than you realize.â
âOh.â
His cheeks pinked faintly.
You watched the realization begin unfolding behind his eyes in slow increments. Processing. Replaying previous conversations. Reevaluating.
âWhen I said touching you felt calm too?â he asked carefully.
Your stomach flipped violently.
âYes.â
Anton immediately lowered his gaze toward the table.
âAnd when I said I noticed you were gone.â
âYes.â
Another pause stretched between you both.
Then, very softly:
âI wasnât trying to make you uncomfortable.â
âI know you werenât. And you didnât.â
That seemed to relax him slightly.
But his expression remained thoughtful, distant around the edges in that way it became when he was learning something new socially.
After a while, he asked, âDo people usually hide those things?â
âFeelings?â
Tiny nod. âSometimes.â
âWhy?â
You almost laughed at the genuine confusion in his voice.
âBecause it makes people vulnerable.â
âBut feelings already exist even if you donât say them.â
The simplicity of the statement knocked straight through you.
You stared at him while he sat there completely sincere, genuinely unable to understand why people buried emotions under implication and performance instead of simply stating them aloud.
And maybe he had a point. Maybe everyone else was the confusing one.
âYouâre dangerous,â you muttered before thinking.
Anton blinked slowly.
The pink in his cheeks deepened. âThat sounds bad.â
âItâs not.â
âThen what does it mean?â
You groaned softly and covered part of your face with your sleeve. âYou ask too many direct questions.â
âI know,â he said immediately, with the faintest trace of something almost amused hidden beneath the words.
You looked up in surprise.
Antonâs mouth had curved slightly at one corner.
The sight hit you embarrassingly hard.
âYou did that on purpose,â you accused quietly.
His expression flickered with confusion again before understanding caught up several seconds later.
You glanced toward the windows. âShit, it got late.. and I missed my shift.â
Anton followed your gaze outside immediately. Darkness had settled completely over campus now, rain reduced to a misty drizzle coating the sidewalks in reflected light.
You started gathering your things reluctantly.
Across from you, Anton had gone quiet again.
Not withdrawn. Just watching.
When you stood from the table, he stood too before you could even sling your bag over your shoulder. Immediate. Automatic.
You smiled a little. âYou really do follow me everywhere now, huh?â
The second the joke left your mouth, Anton stilled.
His expression changed subtly.
You recognized it instantly now â processing something emotionally complicated in delayed real time.
âOh my god,â you said quickly. âI was kidding, Anton.â
But he still looked unsettled.
âI know,â he murmured.
Yet his fingers had disappeared deeper into his sleeves again.
You softened immediately. âHey.â
His attention lifted toward you.
âI donât mind you being around me.â
âYou would tell me if you did?â
âYes,â you said gently. âI would.â
Anton studied your face for a long moment, like he was checking for inconsistencies between your words and expression.
âOkay.â
-
The walk back across campus felt different after that conversation.
Not heavier exactly, but charged in a quieter way, like something between you had shifted shape without either of you knowing what to call it yet. The sidewalks gleamed from the rain, reflecting blurry gold streetlights beneath your feet while damp wind tugged softly at your clothes. Anton stayed beside you in that instinctive way he had begun to, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours every few steps before drifting away again.
The question lingered unpleasantly under your ribs because it revealed too much all at once. Anton expected people to tolerate him until they didnât anymore. Every reassurance you gave him seemed to land with the careful disbelief of someone handling something fragile enough to break if held incorrectly.
And somehow, despite barely knowing him, you already understood that hurting him would feel unbearable.
âYouâre thinking too loudly again,â Anton murmured beside you.
You turned toward him with startled laughter. âWhat does that even mean?â
âIt changes your face.â
âThatâs terrifying.â
âI like it.â
The response came so naturally that he didnât seem to realize heâd said anything unusual until several seconds later. You watched awareness arrive slowly behind his expression, watched him mentally retrace the sentence and reach the point where another person mightâve softened it or taken it back.
Anton just frowned slightly, like he couldnât figure out whether he was supposed to.
âYou say things before understanding them,â you said quietly.
âThat sounds irresponsible.â
âIt kind of is.â
You expected embarrassment. Instead, his mouth curved faintly against the collar of his cardigan, hidden halfway inside soft fabric. âYou still stay.â
The honesty of it made your chest ache all over again.
You reached the library steps too quickly. Warm light spilled through the glass doors, students moving around inside with backpacks slung over their shoulders, the entire building humming with that exhausted nighttime energy campuses developed after dark. Your shift started thirty-five minutes ago.
Neither of you moved immediately.
Antonâs fingers disappeared deeper into his sleeves while he stared somewhere near the ground beside you. Thinking again. You were beginning to realize his silences werenât empty pauses in conversation but entire internal processes unfolding where you could almost see them happen.
Finally, quietly, âWhat happens when you stop being my aide?â
You looked at him carefully.
âThe semester ends eventually.â
âI know.â
But something tightened in your chest anyway.
The question wasnât really about schedules.
Rainwater dripped steadily from the edge of the library roof nearby. Students brushed past the two of you without paying attention, conversations blurring together into meaningless background noise, but Anton remained fixed in place like he was waiting for an answer capable of settling something much larger than the conversation itself.
You tried for lightness first. âYou planning on getting rid of me that quickly?â
âNo.â
Immediate. Certain.
The word slipped out before he could reconsider it, soft but startlingly firm compared to his usual hesitation. His eyes widened slightly afterward, as though the speed of the response surprised him too.
You smiled despite yourself. âOkay.â
Anton looked away first.
His throat moved subtly before he spoke again, quieter now. âI donât think I know how to stop noticing you.â
The world genuinely seemed to pause for a second.
You stared at him beneath the glow of the library lights, rain dampening the dark strands of hair curling around his face, cardigan sleeves covering his hands almost completely. There was no performance in him. No flirtation sharpened intentionally for effect. Anton said things with the devastating sincerity of someone still learning that feelings often stayed hidden inside other people.
And maybe that was why every word reached directly inside your chest before you had time to defend yourself from it.
âYou canât say things like that to me right before I have work,â you muttered weakly.
Confusion flickered across his face before understanding slowly followed. âBecause it changes your body language.â
You covered your face briefly with your hands. âAnton.â
âWhat?â
âYou are unbelievably stressful.â
That finally earned a real smile.
Youâd noticed already that Anton became beautiful in motion more than stillness. The softening of his mouth when he forgot to guard himself. The way his shoulders relaxed when something genuinely pleased him. Even his voice changed slightly during those moments, growing warmer, easier, less careful around the edges.
Watching that smile appear because of you felt dangerous in ways you werenât prepared for.
âYouâre doing it again,â he said softly.
âWhat?â
âLooking at me for too long.â
Heat crawled instantly into your face. âYou noticed?â
âI notice everything about you.â
Your stomach turned over so hard it almost hurt.
The terrifying thing was that he meant it literally.
Before you could recover, Anton stepped closer without seeming aware of the intimacy in the movement. Not enough to trap you against the library railing, just enough that you could feel warmth radiating through the damp fabric of his cardigan. His attention lingered near your face with unusual steadiness, focused and searching in that way he got when trying to understand something completely.
Then his hand emerged slowly from his sleeve.
You felt the slightest brush of his fingertips against your wrist.
Tentative. Curious.
Not grabbing. Not even really holding. Just touching your pulse like he was confirming you were real.
âYou react here first,â he murmured.
Your heartbeat went absolutely feral beneath his fingers.
Anton seemed fascinated by it.
âWhen youâre overwhelmed,â he continued softly, still studying your wrist with complete concentration, âit gets faster before your expression changes.â
You couldnât breathe correctly anymore.
âAnton,â you whispered.
That finally made him look up.
Really look at you this time, closer to eye contact than heâd ever managed before. His own expression had gone strangely open, all that careful distance he usually kept between himself and the world temporarily unraveled by curiosity and something warmer underneath it.
Then realization arrived. Not all at once. Slowly.
You saw the exact moment he understood what this looked like from your perspective â standing too close outside the library in the rain, fingers pressed lightly against your pulse while speaking in that soft voice of his.
His hand withdrew immediately.
Color spread across his cheeks.
âIââ He stopped, visibly overwhelmed by too many thoughts arriving together. âI was observing.â
You laughed helplessly under your breath, pulse still racing. âThat doesnât help your case.â
Anton looked genuinely distressed by this.
âYou said I should explain things.â
âI know, puppy.â
The pet name slipped out accidentally.
Both of you froze.
Antonâs expression changed so suddenly it stole the air from your lungs. Confusion first, then surprise, then something deeper that unfolded slowly across his face as he replayed the word internally.
Puppy..
You watched him process it like a physical sensation.
âNobodyâs called me that before,â he said quietly.
And just like that, every coherent thought left your body.
You shouldâve corrected yourself immediately.
Laughed it off. Said it slipped out. Pretended it meant nothing.
Instead you stood there outside the library with rain misting softly through the cold night air while Anton looked at you like the word had settled somewhere deep inside him and refused to leave.
Nobodyâs called me that before.
The confession wrapped itself around your ribs painfully. Not because it was dramatic, but because of how sincere it sounded. Anton never exaggerated anything. If anything, he stripped emotions down so honestly that they became impossible to ignore.
You swallowed. âReally?â
He shook his head slowly.
Something about that felt impossible. Someone as soft as him shouldâve been adored carefully. He shouldâve had people smoothing his hair back affectionately, calling him sweet things without embarrassment, pressing warmth into all the places the world had taught him to make smaller.
Instead, Anton carried himself like someone accustomed to being handled incorrectly.
âYou looked upset,â you said quietly, trying to explain the word somehow. âIt just came out.â
âI wasnât upset.â
âNo?â
He thought about it seriously before answering. âDisorganized.â
Your laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Antonâs mouth softened again at the sound. Not quite a smile this time â something gentler, almost shy around the edges.
âI like when you laugh at me correctly,â he admitted.
âWhat does that mean?â
âWhen people usually laugh at me, itâs not for good reasons.â
You understood immediately. People laughed at him because they thought he was strange, or awkward, or unintentionally amusing. But Anton watched reactions carefully enough to tell the difference between ridicule and affection.
And somehow, without meaning to, youâd become someone whose reactions he trusted.
You leaned back slightly against the wet library railing, trying to steady yourself while Anton stood close enough for you to feel his warmth through the damp evening air. Heâd gone quiet again, gaze lowered toward your sleeve where droplets of rain darkened the fabric.
âYouâre cold,â he murmured after a while.
âSo are you.â
âI donât notice temperature immediately.â
âThat sounds fake.â
âItâs true.â
âAnton.â
âWhat?â
âYou say things that sound medically concerning and then act like itâs normal.â
This time the smile came easier. Small but immediate, hidden partially behind the collar of his cardigan as he tucked his mouth into the fabric instinctively.
You stared at him too long again. Anton noticed, of course.
âYouâre doing it another time.â
âI know.â
âYou stopped pretending it was accidental.â
Heat crept into your face. âYouâre impossible.â
âNo,â he said softly. âIâm observant.â
The worst part was that he wasnât flirting intentionally. You could feel that. Anton approached conversations with too much honesty for manipulation, too much directness for games. Everything he said came from genuine curiosity or genuine feeling, and that somehow made every interaction more intimate than if he were trying.
A burst of laughter sounded from inside the library as students pushed through the front doors in a noisy group. The sudden volume cut sharply through the quiet night.
Anton flinched.
Not dramatically. Just enough that his body shifted closer on instinct before he caught himself. His shoulder brushed yours, warm and damp from the rain, and stayed there for half a second too long.
You felt him realize it.
Felt the exact moment awareness caught up.
But instead of moving away immediately, Anton hesitated.
His expression had gone distant again in that way it did when he was sorting through too many thoughts at once. You watched his throat move subtly before he spoke.
âWhen I touch youâŠâ He paused, visibly reorganizing the sentence. âYou never seem uncomfortable after.â
Your chest tightened.
âShould I be?â
âNo.â Immediate again. Then softer, âI just keep waiting for it to change.â
Something painful pulled deep inside you.
Because there it was again â that expectation that eventually people would recoil from him, tire of him, decide he was too strange or too much work or too difficult to keep close.
You reached for his sleeve before thinking.
Anton went still beneath your fingers.
âYou donât have to earn basic gentleness from me,â you said quietly.
His breathing changed first, shallow for just a second before evening out again. Then came that look you were learning to recognize: the fragile disorientation of someone receiving care they hadnât prepared themselves for.
You wondered suddenly how often Anton spent his life bracing for rejection before it arrived.
Probably constantly.
âYou say things like you mean them permanently,â he whispered.
âI do mean them.â
âBut people change.â
The way he said it made your stomach twist. Not bitter. Not angry. Just factual, like heâd learned it through repetition.
You slid your hand slightly further down his sleeve until your fingers brushed the edge of his wrist. âMaybe some people do.â
Anton looked down at the contact immediately.
Not nervous. Focused.
His attention lingered on your hand against him with the same careful concentration he gave beautiful objects or pieces of music. You got the strange feeling he was memorizing the sensation.
Then, slowly, his fingers turned beneath the fabric until they touched yours.
Not fully holding your hand. Just resting there.
âI think,â he said softly, âif someone was kind to me when I was younger, I wouldâve become attached too quickly.â
âYou already get attached quickly.â
âOh.â
Antonâs thumb brushed faintly against the side of your hand through the damp fabric between you both, absentminded and searching. He didnât seem aware he was doing it. Or maybe he was beginning to notice now, slowly connecting physical closeness with the emotions underneath it.
You wondered what it felt like inside his head lately. How confusing all of this must be when he processed feelings in delayed waves instead of immediate understanding.
âAre you flirting now?â
âIâm not,â he said quickly.
âI know.â
âBut IâŠâ He frowned, looking suddenly distressed by the complexity of the conversation. âI want to keep touching you.â
Your entire body went warm.
Anton seemed horrified by your reaction immediately afterward, gaze dropping toward your joined hands like heâd accidentally uncovered something too private.
âI donât know what category that belongs in yet,â he admitted quietly. âIâm still thinking about it.â
And there it was.
The slow terrifying realization happening in pieces instead of all at once.
You looked at him standing there beneath the rain-dim library lights, beautiful and overwhelmed and trying so hard to understand feelings everyone else seemed to experience instinctively.
Then you squeezed his hand gently.
âYou can take your time,â you whispered.
Anton looked at you like the words hurt him in the nicest way possible.
For a moment neither of you moved.
The rain had almost stopped completely now, leaving only the occasional drip from the library roof and the damp shine of campus lights reflecting across the pavement. Students passed in scattered groups behind you, conversations fading in and out of the cold night air, but the world around Anton always seemed strangely blurred once he focused on something.
Right now, he was focused entirely on your hand.
Not romantically, at least not consciously. You could tell he was trying to understand the sensation itself before assigning meaning to it. His thumb brushed slowly against the side of your wrist again, thoughtful and absentminded, like he was memorizing texture.
âYou really think through touch,â you murmured.
Anton nodded faintly.
âItâs easier than talking sometimes.â
âHow?â
He stayed quiet for a while, gaze lowered toward your joined hands. Youâd started noticing that his longest pauses usually came before the most honest answers, like truth took more effort to untangle than rehearsed responses would.
âPeople say one thing while meaning another,â he said eventually. âBut touch is usually honest immediately.â
Your heartbeat stumbled again.
Anton looked up at you then. The library lights caught softly in his dark eyes, and for once he didnât immediately look away. Instead he studied your expression with quiet concentration, processing every piece of you at once.
âYouâre careful with me,â he said softly. âEven when you react strongly.â
He noticed that too. Not just your affection, but the restraint inside it. The constant effort not to overwhelm him, not to push him faster than he could process.
âYou make me want to be careful.â
Antonâs expression shifted again in that subtle, dangerous way it always did around vulnerability. You could almost see emotions arriving one at a time behind his eyes, delayed but no less intense for it.
âI donât think people usually do that,â he admitted.
âBe careful?â
âWith me.â
Before you could answer, a gust of cold wind pushed through the walkway, making Anton shiver visibly beneath his damp cardigan. Instinctively, you stepped closer and reached up to smooth his rain-curled hair back from his forehead.
Anton went still beneath your touch, breath catching softly enough that you almost missed it. But this time he didnât freeze from surprise alone. He leaned into your hand deliberately, slow enough that it felt like a choice.
A dangerous choice.
Your fingers stayed tangled briefly in the soft strands near his temple while Anton closed his eyes for half a second like he was overwhelmed by how nice it felt.
Then he whispered, almost confused by himself, âI kept thinking about earlier.â
âThe practice room?â
A small nod.
âWhen you touched my hair.â
The memory rushed back instantly â his face tilting unconsciously into your palm, the stunned silence afterward.
Anton swallowed subtly before continuing. âI didnât understand why I wanted you to do it again.â
Your pulse throbbed against his fingers.
âAnd now?â
âI still donât fully understand.â His mouth softened faintly, frustrated with himself. âBut I thinkâŠâ He paused, searching. âI think my body recognizes you faster than my brain does.â
Anton seemed unaware of the effect he was having again, too focused on sorting through the realization itself.
âIt happens a lot around you,â he continued quietly. âI move closer before deciding to. Or I touch you before remembering other people think about those things differently.â
You couldnât take it anymore.
âAnton.â
He looked at you immediately.
âYou have to stop saying things that sound romantic before I lose my mind.â
The confusion returned instantly. âBut Iâm being accurate.â
âI know,â you laughed helplessly. âThatâs the problem.â
A tiny crease formed between his brows while he tried to process your reaction. âYou keep reacting like Iâm confessing to something.â
âWhat?â
Anton seemed startled too.
You watched realization ripple slowly across his expression after hearing his own tone, like he hadnât intended to sound playful but discovered too late that he had. The corners of his mouth twitched faintly before he ducked his face partially into the collar of his cardigan again, hiding.
âYouâre getting bolder,â you accused quietly.
âIâm gettingâŠâ He paused, thinking carefully. âLess afraid of being incorrect around you.â
The honesty in that sentence nearly undid you.
Because that was what this really was underneath everything else. Anton wasnât simply learning affection. He was learning safety. Learning that he could speak before perfectly organizing every thought, touch before fully understanding the implications, exist without rehearsing himself into something easier for other people to handle.
And somehow youâd become the place where that happened.
The realization filled you with equal parts warmth and terror.
âYou should go inside before your shift supervisor hates you,â Anton murmured after a while, though he still hadnât let go of your hand.
âYouâre the one holding me hostage.â
âI know.â
You stared at him.
Anton blinked slowly, processing his own wording. Then the faintest flush spread across his cheeks.
âThat sounded manipulative.â
âIt sounded cute.â
His expression softened instantly at the word.
Cute.
You were beginning to notice certain compliments affected him differently. Pretty made him quiet and uncertain. Cute made him shy. Puppy had nearly short-circuited him entirely.
Like every gentle thing said to him became something he carried carefully afterward.
âYou think Iâm cute?â he asked softly.
There was no ego in it. Just genuine curiosity.
You stepped closer before thinking.
Close enough now that you could see every raindrop caught in his lashes, every tiny shift in his expression as anticipation and uncertainty tangled together behind his eyes.
âAnton,â you said quietly, âI think youâre a lot of things.â
The way he looked at you afterward felt dangerously close to wanting.
-
By November, Anton had developed a habit of appearing at your apartment without warning.
Not in an inconsiderate way. He always texted first, usually something minimal and strangely formal despite how often he came over now.
| Are you busy.
| Can I sit near you today.
| My roommate invited six people over without discussing it first.
The last one had arrived at 11:42 p.m. on a Thursday alongside a blurry photo of his dorm lounge crowded with strangers and empty energy drink cans. You had unlocked the building entrance remotely without even replying.
Now he existed in your apartment with the quiet familiarity of someone who had slowly woven himself into your routines without either of you acknowledging when it happened. His shoes stayed lined neatly beside your door. A pale blue toothbrush sat beside yours in the bathroom because he forgot things less when objects remained visible. One drawer in your kitchen held the snacks he consistently tolerated texture-wise. Your couch permanently smelled faintly like his fabric softener.
Anton liked your apartment because it was predictable.
No fluorescent lights.
No shouting through paper-thin dorm walls.
No roommate bringing strangers home unexpectedly.
No people touching his things.
Just you.
Which, increasingly, seemed to matter more than either of you knew what to do with.
Tonight, rain tapped softly against the windows while Anton lay stretched across your couch with his head in your lap, half-watching some nature documentary neither of you cared about. One of your hands drifted absentmindedly through his hair while you read over discussion posts on your laptop balanced beside him.
Months ago, touching him like this wouldâve shattered his ability to function.
Now he melted into it automatically.
Not carelessly, though. Anton never became careless with affection. If anything, he grew more aware of it over time, not less. You noticed it in the tiny pauses before he touched you now, the moments where understanding flickered visibly across his face before he decided yes, he still wanted to anyway.
His fingers curled lightly against your knee beneath the blanket.
âYouâre rereading the same sentence,â he murmured without opening his eyes.
âYouâre distracting.â
âIâm horizontal.â
âYouâre also staring at me every thirty seconds.â
âThatâs unrelated.â
You laughed softly under your breath, fingers combing slowly through the damp silk of his hair. Anton had showered almost immediately after arriving, escaping the storm outside wrapped in one of your oversized hoodies and pajama pants that sat too short on his legs. The sight had nearly killed you on impact.
âYouâre warm,â he said quietly after a while.
âYou say that every time.â
âBecause it surprises me every time.â
You looked down at him. âAre you usually cold?â
Anton considered it seriously. âI think maybe I donât notice being cold until Iâm near you.â
Your hand paused briefly in his hair.
Months later and he still said things that destroyed you casually.
The worst part was that now he understood why they affected you.
Not perfectly. Anton still processed emotions slower than most people, still arrived at certain realizations days or weeks after they began forming. But he had started recognizing tension between you. Recognizing the way your breathing changed when he touched your waist absentmindedly in the kitchen, or how quiet you became when he rested his face against your shoulder too long.
And once Anton noticed something, he studied it relentlessly.
âYou did it again,â he murmured.
Heat crawled immediately into your face. âYou monitor me like a science experiment.â
âYouâre expressive.â
âYou just know me too well now.â
At that, Anton finally opened his eyes.
The documentary light flickered softly across his face, catching on the silver chain around his throat and the strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. He looked devastating like this â relaxed enough that all the guardedness left his body at once. Soft-mouthed and sleepy and sprawled across you like he belonged there.
The realization terrified you a little.
Because he did belong there now.
Anton watched you quietly for a moment before speaking again, voice lower than before. âYou know me too well too.â
Something shifted in the room.
The rain outside deepened, tapping harder against the windows while the documentary narrator droned uselessly in the background about migrating birds. Antonâs thumb traced absent patterns against your knee through the blanket, thoughtful more than nervous.
Then, quietly, âMy roommate asked if I was dating you.â
Your entire body went still.
Anton noticed immediately, of course.
You looked down at him carefully. âWhat did you say?â
He took longer to answer than usual. Not because he didnât know. Because he was choosing words carefully.
âI asked what qualified.â
âOh my god.â
Antonâs mouth curved faintly at your horror. âIt was a reasonable question.â
âNo, it wasnât.â
âYes it was.â He shifted slightly against your lap, face tilting more toward you now. âWe spend most nights together.â
âYou spend most nights hiding from your roommate.â
âI could hide in the library.â
âYou hate the library after ten.â
âI know.â
His gaze lingered near your face, steady and thoughtful.
âThat wasnât the point.â
Your pulse started climbing slowly.
Anton noticed that too.
You watched the realization happen in real time â the subtle focus sharpening in his expression once he recognized your reaction wasnât irritation. Months ago, he mightâve missed it entirely. Now he tracked your emotions with terrifying precision.
âMy body still does that around you,â he said quietly.
âWhat?â
âThe heartbeat thing.â
âIt gets worse when people imply romantic things about us.â His voice remained soft, observational. âIâve been trying to understand whether that means my body already decided something before I did.â
You stared at him. He stared back with complete sincerity.
Rain filled the silence between you.
He made no effort to move.
Instead, Anton lifted one hand slowly toward your face. The movement carried none of the uncertainty it once had months ago. He still thought carefully before touching you, still approached affection with deliberate awareness now that he understood its weight, but he no longer seemed afraid of wanting it.
His fingers brushed lightly along your wrist first.
Then your palm.
Then slowly threaded through yours beneath the blanket.
âI think,â he said quietly, eyes lowered toward your joined hands, âif we arenât already something, weâre very close to becoming it.â
And there it was again. That unbearable honesty.
No performance. No practiced confession.
Just Anton, slowly arriving at love like someone piecing together a language nobody had ever properly taught him.
You couldnât speak for a second.
Anton remained stretched across your lap waiting patiently, fingers loosely intertwined with yours beneath the blanket while the rain softened outside into a low steady hush. His expression stayed calm in that way it always did when he said emotionally catastrophic things â not because he felt them less intensely, but because he approached emotions like discoveries instead of impulses. By the time he spoke something aloud, he had usually spent days quietly turning it over inside himself first.
You looked down at him carefully. âYouâre saying this very casually for someone basically confessing to me.â
âIâm trying not to overwhelm myself halfway through the conversation.â
âThatâs a real risk?â
âYes.â
The sincerity of the answer nearly made you laugh.
Anton shifted slightly, cheek pressing more fully into your thigh as though seeking warmth without consciously deciding to. Heâd become much more physical over the past few months, especially inside your apartment. Outside, he still carried himself carefully, shoulders tense beneath overstimulating lights and crowded spaces. But here he softened. Curled around you during movies. Rested his head against your shoulder while you cooked. Fell asleep with his hand tangled absently in your sleeve like he needed proof you were still nearby.
At first he hadnât understood why he kept gravitating toward you physically. Now he did. At least partially.
And apparently that realization was making him brave.
âYouâre very quiet,â he murmured.
âIâm trying not to scare you.â
Anton frowned faintly. âBy responding?â
âYou process emotions slower than I do.â
âThat doesnât mean I donât want them.â
You watched him for a moment beneath the dim living room light, taking in the softness sleep and comfort brought out in him. Months ago, Anton rarely looked at you directly for more than a few seconds. Now his gaze lingered near your face openly, comfortably, tracing your reactions with quiet fascination whenever you spoke.
âI needed to know if wanting you near me was different from needing safety first.â
Antonâs thumb moved absently against your hand while he spoke, attention drifting toward your joined fingers.
âI think at the beginning,â he continued quietly, âyou felt calming in the same way music does.â
The confession wrapped around your ribs painfully.
âAnd now?â
A long silence stretched between you.
Not empty. Full. You could almost feel him sorting through emotions in real time, carefully separating one from another.
âNow when I leave here,â he said finally, âeverything feels louder afterward.â
You laughed helplessly, and the sound made his expression soften instantly.
There it was again â that look he got whenever he realized heâd affected you. Months ago he used to seem confused by it. Now there was something else mixed into his curiosity. Something warmer. Quieter. Almost shy.
Like he was beginning to enjoy being wanted.
The thought sent heat crawling up your neck.
Antonâs attention dropped toward your mouth briefly before he caught himself. The movement was small, instinctive, but you noticed it immediately because it was new.
And judging by the way his breathing shifted afterward, he noticed it too.
Rain whispered softly against the windows while the television continued playing forgotten narration into the dim apartment. Anton stayed completely still against your lap, but you could feel awareness building between you now, slow and electric.
Then, very quietly, âI think about kissing you sometimes.â
Your entire body stopped functioning.
Anton flushed almost immediately after saying it, color spreading slowly across his cheeks like realization had arrived one second too late to stop the sentence.
But he didnât take it back.
Instead he looked down at your intertwined hands, visibly forcing himself to continue through the embarrassment.
âI didnât understand why at first,â he admitted softly. âI donât usually think about people that way.â A pause. âThen I realized I only wanted to when you were being gentle with me.â
You covered your face with your free hand immediately.
Anton watched the reaction with quiet fascination.
âYouâre flirting with me on purpose now.â
The statement hung in the air.
You felt the exact moment he realized you were right.
You laughed helplessly into your hand while Anton stared up at you with growing understanding, piecing things together in real time. The physical closeness. The teasing. The deliberate observations designed to make you react.
He really had been learning emotions through you.
And now he was learning how to want.
Antonâs gaze dropped toward your mouth again, slower this time. Intentional enough that heat rushed instantly through your entire body. When he spoke next, his voice had gone softer around the edges.
âI think,â he murmured carefully, âI want to kiss you now too.â
Every nerve in your body lit up at once.
Anton stayed motionless against your lap waiting for your reaction, but you could feel tension building beneath his calmness now. Anticipation. Nervousness. The terrifying vulnerability of finally understanding what he was asking for.
You slid your fingers slowly through his hair again.
Antonâs eyes fluttered shut for half a second on instinct.
The sight nearly destroyed you.
When he looked back up at you, there was something unbearably open in his expression. Not confidence. Trust.
Like he was placing the entire moment carefully into your hands.
âYou donât have to process this alone anymore,â you whispered.
For a long moment, neither of you moved beyond breathing.
Anton stayed stretched across your lap with one hand threaded through yours, the other resting lightly against your leg beneath the blanket like he needed constant contact now that he understood what it meant. The room had gone impossibly still around him. Even the television noise faded into something distant and shapeless compared to the awareness building between you both.
You could feel how hard he was thinking.
Not retreating. Not shutting down. Just processing with his entire body this time instead of only his mind. His thumb moved faintly against your hand every few seconds, unconscious and grounding.
Then, quietly, âI donât know what people usually do after this part.â
The vulnerability in his voice nearly cracked your chest open.
âThere isnât really a correct order.â
âBut most people know sooner.â
âAnton.â
His gaze lifted toward you.
âYou spent months teaching yourself how to trust someone enough to want them.â Your fingers moved slowly through his hair again, gentler this time. âThatâs not late.â
Something in his face shifted at the words. You watched him absorb them slowly, the same way he absorbed every kindness directed toward him â carefully, almost cautiously, like he still expected warmth to disappear if he accepted it too quickly.
âI think,â he said after a while, âI kept separating you into categories.â
You smiled faintly. âThat sounds like you.â
âAt first you were safe.â His eyes lowered toward your joined hands again. âThen familiar. ThenâŠâ He paused, visibly frustrated with himself. âI couldnât organize it anymore.â
âBecause feelings overlap?â
âYes.â Immediate. Relieved you understood. âI would miss you and want your attention and want you touching me and get jealous when other people distracted you.â His brows drew together faintly. âBut all those feelings seemed too large to belong under one thing.â
Anton flushed slightly as realization continued catching up to his own confession. âThat sounds more intense when I say it aloud.â
âA little.â
âIâm trying to be accurate.â
âYouâre being devastating.â
Anton liked being understood. Youâd learned that early on. Not praised exactly â understood. Every time someone interpreted him correctly without forcing him to overexplain, something inside him relaxed.
âYou know what the worst part is?â you murmured.
âWhat?â
âYou say romantic things with the emotional tone of someone explaining weather patterns.â
His mouth curved faintly. âThat might be why you trust me.â
There was no manipulation in Anton. No performance. Every feeling arrived honest and unfinished and frighteningly sincere. When he wanted something, he studied it carefully instead of disguising it behind games.
And right now, he wanted you.
You could see it all over him now that you knew where to look.
In the way he melted beneath your touch but still seemed hyperaware every time your fingers moved through his hair.
In how his body naturally settled toward yours no matter where he sat.
In the way his gaze kept drifting toward your mouth before he forced it away again.
Anton noticed you noticing.
The realization spread visibly across his face, slow warmth climbing into his cheeks as understanding settled in.
Anton shifted then, pushing himself slightly more upright against the couch until he was closer to eye level with you. The blanket slipped lower around his waist in the process, one of your oversized hoodies hanging loose from his frame. You could smell your own detergent on him mixed with the faint clean scent of his shampoo.
The intimacy of it all suddenly felt overwhelming.
He stayed close after sitting up. Very close.
Close enough now that your knees pressed together beneath the blanket and his breath brushed softly against your skin whenever he spoke.
âI have another question,â he murmured.
You laughed weakly. âOf course you do.â
âWhen people want to kiss someoneâŠâ His fingers tightened slightly around yours. âDoes it usually feel this frightening?â
âWhat kind of frightening?â
Anton thought about it carefully before answering.
âLike wanting something important enough that you could ruin it accidentally.â
The vulnerability of the confession settled heavily between you.
You reached up without thinking, brushing your fingers softly along his cheek. Anton leaned into your palm immediately now, instinctive as breathing. Months ago the movement wouldâve startled him. Now it felt natural enough that he didnât even seem aware heâd done it until afterward.
His eyes drifted shut briefly.
âYouâre so gentle with me,â he whispered.
The words nearly undid you.
âSomeone should be.â
Anton opened his eyes slowly at that.
You watched the emotion arrive in real time â not sudden but gradual, filling his expression piece by piece until something unbearably tender settled there. He looked at you like the sentence hurt him and healed him simultaneously.
Then his attention dropped once more toward your mouth.
This time he didnât look away.
âI think,â he said softly, almost to himself, âIâm ready to understand this part now.â
Your heartbeat turned uneven.
âYeah?â
A small nod.
But he still didnât move.
Because despite everything, Anton remained Anton. Careful. Deliberate. Wanting without assuming. You realized suddenly that even now, even after months of sleeping beside you and holding your hand and memorizing every expression you made, he was still waiting for permission.
Not because he lacked desire. Because he respected yours.
âYou can kiss me,â you whispered.
Anton inhaled softly.
Then he reached for you with the same carefulness he used for everything precious.
I love disability services, please keep updating it đ is there any fanfic that is almost the same? I like the cute and tender tone for anton ngl
honestly.. idk if iâve ever written a fic abt anton where heâs not a soft boy đđđ i think majority of the fandom sees him the same way, majority of the fics ive read abt him are him being gentle and cutesy!
I love how characterized Anton in Disability Services. Like he isnât a problem that needs fixing. He needs more time and patience. And someone willing to understand him. People often write autistic characters as if they arenât in charge of their emotions and infantilizing them, but Anton is fully aware he just needs time to process. I love how reader is so aware of him even from the beginning sheâs in-tune to when heâs overwhelmed or uncomfortable. That theyâre both slowly getting used to each other. I canât wait to see how their relationship progresses and Anton working through these emotions himself!
I was also wondering do you know how many parts youâre thinking of making this fic?
im so sorry, my asks donât pop up in my notifs for some reason so i have to manually just seek them out and i usually donât get any. BUT when i first started writing this fic, i was gonna make it one really long shot (bc i lowkey donât like having to search for diff parts) but i realized tumblr has a 1000 chat bubble limit (whatever that means) so long story shortâŠIM NOT SURE đđđ i really wanted to kind of emphasize the slow burn in this story, bc life is genuinely a slow burn especially for those on the spectrum or those people in general who donât think time = trust.
Also I so agree on the infantizing and dumbification of those on the spectrum. I think sometimes people have good intentions when writing, or talking abt it, but it doesnât translate well because they unfortunately donât fully understand. I think we as people have so much to learn and so many stereotypes and stigmas to break and i havenât seen a fic written quite like this (and riize has a good sized fan base so i thought i could kind of spread awareness this way.)
people with special needs eat, breathe, think, want, need, the same things people deemed ânormalâ do. though i donât think ppl with special needs arenât ânormalâ id like to speak in a way that people would understand.
weâre all human, letâs be a little more knowledgeable and considerate of those around us!!!
summary: idk how many parts but ily and thank u for enjoying!
i have never send a ask before but i have to say i loveeee ur work seriously!! i found you through your recent anton ff and i had so much fun reading it. It literally felt like entering a new world. Please keep up the great work iâm so excited for the next part đ„čđ«¶ Tysm for sharing your talent with us <3
TYSMMMM i really do try!!! Ive always loved literature growing up so Iâm trying to decide what style is best for me, i see writers on here who i can only dream of writing like in the future but for now im content with being a noob and figuring out what i wanna do!! i love u thank you for loving my work
wait stop đ„č iâm a noob writer and havenât written until a few months ago, im still trying to experiment and find my style but this is so encouraging and means the world to me <3333 tysm
synopsis: Assigned as a peer aide for a withdrawn college student no one seems able to understand, you expect awkward conversations, difficult schedules, and long silences. What you donât expect is Anton.
Soft-spoken and selectively mute, Anton moves through campus like someone slightly out of step with the rest of the world. He avoids eye contact, struggles to process emotions in real time, and finds comfort in routines, textures, music, and beautiful things. Most people see him as strange before they ever try to know him. But beneath his careful silence is someone painfully observant, deeply sensitive, and desperate for connection in ways he doesnât fully understand himself.
As the semester unfolds, your role in his life slowly becomes more than academic support. Anton begins seeking you out instinctively â waiting outside your classes, memorizing your routines, touching your sleeve without realizing how intimate it feels. He doesnât understand the meaning people attach to closeness, only that your presence quiets the overwhelming parts of the world around him.
And somewhere between rainy walks across campus, quiet practice rooms, and conversations filled with unfinished feelings, you begin falling for him.
But loving Anton means learning patience. His emotions arrive slowly, often after the moment has already passed. He struggles to recognize jealousy, affection, and longing until theyâve already rooted themselves deeply inside him. While you begin understanding your feelings almost immediately, Anton has to discover his piece by piece â through trust, comfort, and the terrifying realization that for the first time in his life, someone stayed.
A quiet, emotionally intimate slowburn about tenderness, misunderstood affection, and two people learning how to exist gently beside one another.
The email had sounded simple enough when you first read it half-awake in bed that morning. Student accessibility services is assigning you as a peer aide for the spring semester. Flexible hours. Escorting between classes when needed. Organizational support. Occasional note-taking. The pay wasnât terrible, and you needed another campus job anyway, so you accepted before really thinking about what it meant.
You regretted that decision a little when the counselor slid a thin folder across the desk and said, carefully, âHeâs⊠not always easy with new people.â
The folder had almost nothing inside. Just a student profile and a class schedule.
Lee Chanyoung.
Preferred name: Anton.
Under accommodations, there was a longer list than you expected. Extended testing time. Alternative presentation formats. Excused absences during periods of overstimulation. Selective mutism.
âHe usually communicates through typing,â the counselor explained. âOr writing. Sometimes verbally, but not often. Donât pressure him to speak if he doesnât want to.â
You nodded slowly.
âHeâs very intelligent,â she added quickly, like she felt the need to defend him before youâd even met him. âHe just struggles with certain social situations and transitions. Some aides have had difficulty because they expected him to respond in typical ways.â
Typical ways. You almost laughed.
âSo what exactly am I supposed to do?â
âMostly help him navigate campus life. Keep him on schedule. Make sure he actually eats sometimes.â Her expression softened faintly. âHe responds well to consistency.â
That part stayed with you for the rest of the afternoon.
Consistency.
By the time you found the humanities building, the campus had settled into that gray lull between morning and evening classes. Wet footprints marked the tiled floors from the rain outside, and the air smelled faintly like old books and coffee grounds. You checked the room number twice before knocking lightly against the open classroom door.
Nobody answered.
Inside, students packed their bags noisily while the professor erased the whiteboard. Near the back corner, separated from everyone else by two empty seats, sat a boy with pale headphones hanging around his neck and a cardigan slipping off one shoulder. He was staring at his laptop screen with complete focus, fingers motionless over the keyboard as if heâd forgotten mid-thought what he intended to type.
You recognized him immediately without needing the student ID photo.
He was prettier than you expected.
Not handsome, exactly. Pretty in the way porcelain figures were pretty. Delicate wrists disappearing into oversized sleeves, soft mouth slightly parted in concentration, dark lashes low against his cheeks. His hair looked impossibly soft, falling over his eyes in uneven layers that almost hid his expression completely.
The room gradually emptied around him.
He didnât move.
You approached carefully, suddenly hyperaware of your own footsteps. âAnton?â
His shoulders tightened immediately.
Not dramatically. Just enough for you to notice.
He looked up after a second, though not directly at you. His gaze stopped somewhere near your chin instead, uncertain and fleeting. Up close, he looked younger than a college student shouldâve. There was something guarded about him, but not cold. More like someone constantly bracing for discomfort.
You offered your name gently. âIâm your student aide this semester.â
His expression didnât change.
Then slowly, he reached for his phone.
The silence stretched long enough to become awkward before the screen lit up with typed words.
| Youâre late.
You blinked. âLate?â
He turned the phone toward you properly this time.
| You were supposed to come at 2:40.
You checked the clock instinctively. It was 2:47.
âOh.â Heat crawled up your neck. âSorry. The office took longer than I thought.â
Anton stared at you for another quiet second before looking away again. Not dismissively. More like heâd already filed the interaction away somewhere in his head.
You noticed then that he had arranged everything on the desk with impossible precision. Laptop centered. Pens aligned parallel. Water bottle label facing outward. Even the edges of his papers stacked perfectly flush together.
Without warning, he stood.
You nearly stepped back from how sudden it was.
He slid his bag over one shoulder, then paused beside you awkwardly, fingers curling once against the strap. Waiting.
âFor me?â you asked before thinking.
A tiny nod.
Right. Escorting between classes.
You followed him out into the hallway, trying not to make it obvious you were observing him already. He walked quietly, head lowered slightly, one hand tucked into his sleeve. Students brushed past in loud clusters, backpacks bumping into shoulders, sneakers squeaking against the floors. Every time someone came too close, Anton subtly shifted away before contact could happen.
He didnât speak once. You werenât sure if you were supposed to fill the silence or leave it alone.
âSo⊠whatâs your major?â you tried eventually.
Anton pulled out his phone again without stopping his pace.
| Composition and media studies.
âYou like music?â
Another pause.
Then:
| I like beautiful things.
You glanced at him.
He remained completely serious.
Something about the answer caught you off guard. Not because it was strange, but because of how plainly he said it, like beauty was an objective category instead of a vague preference.
âWhat counts as beautiful?â
This time he took longer to respond. You could almost see the processing happening behind his eyes.
Finally, he typed:
| Certain voices.
| Clean piano sounds.
| Rain before it gets dirty.
| People with kind mouths.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Before you could answer, a group of students burst through the stairwell doors laughing loudly. The sound ricocheted sharply through the narrow hallway. Anton flinched hard enough that you noticed immediately.
His hand caught your sleeve.
Not your wrist. Not your hand. Just the fabric near your elbow.
The contact seemed unconscious.
His fingers twisted lightly into the material while his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, unfocused and distant for a moment. You could feel how tense heâd suddenly become, every muscle drawn tight beneath layers of soft fabric.
âItâs okay,â you said quietly without thinking.
Anton blinked once.
Then slowly looked down.
Like heâd only just realized he was touching you.
He released your sleeve immediately, but not before his fingertips dragged against your arm through the fabric. Light. Careless. Intimate in a way he clearly didnât understand.
A faint pink flush spread across the tops of his ears. Not embarrassment exactly. More like confusion.
Neither of you mentioned it.
By the time you reached the music building, rain had started again outside the tall windows, turning the campus silver-gray. Anton stopped near the entrance to his next class, shifting his bag higher onto his shoulder while students filtered around both of you.
You waited for some kind of goodbye.
Instead, he stared briefly at the charm hanging from your bag. A tiny cat keychain.
His eyes lingered on it with open concentration.
Then he reached out suddenly and touched it with careful fingertips. Softly rubbing the plush fabric between his fingers once. Twice.
The movement was so absentmindedly gentle it startled you.
âIt was from a friend,â you explained quietly.
Anton nodded faintly but didnât let go immediately. His thumb brushed across the worn stitching near the ear before he finally withdrew his hand back into his sleeve.
Then he typed something quickly and turned the screen toward you.
| I donât like most textures.
You looked at the message, then at him.
âBut you like that one?â
A pause. Another small nod.
For the first time since meeting him, something in his posture loosened slightly around you. Not trust yet. Nothing that simple. But maybe curiosity.
The classroom door opened behind him.
Anton glanced toward the sound before looking back at you briefly, eyes flickering near yours but never fully meeting them.
Then his phone buzzed softly in his hand. Another message already typed before he turned away.
| You should arrive at 2:40 next time.
-
You spent the rest of the day thinking about him against your will.
Not in the embarrassing way your roommate immediately assumed when you mentioned meeting âa pretty quiet boyâ during dinner, but in the persistent, nagging way people stayed in your head when you couldnât fully understand them. Anton didnât behave like anyone you knew. Every interaction with him felt slightly mistimed, like his responses existed half a step outside the rhythm everyone else moved to. He wasnât rude. If anything, he seemed painfully aware of other people at all times. He just reacted differently, processing everything somewhere deeper and slower before deciding what to do with it.
You found yourself replaying small details while brushing your teeth that night. The way heâd described beautiful things with complete sincerity. The careful alignment of objects on his desk. The confused look on his face after grabbing your sleeve, like he genuinely hadnât realized touching someone unexpectedly might mean something.
At exactly 2:38 the next afternoon, you walked into the humanities building carrying two coffees and an unreasonable amount of awareness about being on time.
Anton was already there. Of course he was.
He sat in the same corner seat from yesterday, laptop open, headphones on this time. His fingers hovered over the keyboard without moving while students shuffled noisily around him. Even from across the room, he looked disconnected from everything else inside it, tucked into his own atmosphere entirely.
You approached quietly. âHi.â
He looked up immediately.
Not at your eyes. Never your eyes. His gaze caught somewhere near your mouth before flickering away again. His headphones slipped down around his neck as he noticed the drink tray in your hands.
âI didnât know what you liked,â you admitted, setting one coffee carefully beside his laptop, âso I guessed.â
Anton stared at the cup for several long seconds.
You suddenly wondered if maybe youâd broken some invisible routine and made a terrible mistake.
Then he reached out and turned the cup slowly until the logo faced away from him.
Only after adjusting it did he pick it up.
His fingers were slender, almost delicate-looking, silver rings glinting softly beneath the fluorescent lights. You noticed his nails were neatly trimmed and slightly glossy, as if he buffed them absentmindedly.
He took one cautious sip.
Then another.
A pause.
His phone appeared in his hand a second later.
| Vanilla is acceptable.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Anton blinked at the sound, attention catching on your face immediately. Not startled exactly. Focused.
âYou sound like youâre reviewing a product.â
He watched you type something into your own phone for class notifications while processing the joke several beats too late. You saw the exact moment understanding landed.
The corners of his mouth lifted faintly.
Tiny. Brief. But unmistakable.
It transformed his whole face.
Before you could comment on it, students started filing into the room more aggressively, conversations overlapping loudly enough that the atmosphere shifted from quiet to crowded within seconds. Antonâs posture changed almost immediately. His shoulders rose subtly. His hand tightened around the coffee cup. The soft crease forming between his brows looked more uncomfortable than irritated.
A boy dropped heavily into the seat beside him without noticing.
Anton froze.
Not metaphorically. Completely.
The student kept talking to his friend across the aisle, elbow spreading over the shared desk space while Anton sat perfectly rigid beside him, fingers curling tighter inside his sleeves.
You looked between them.
Then gently said, âHey, I think he needs a little more room.â
The student blinked. âOh. Sorry.â
He shifted over carelessly.
Anton still didnât relax.
His breathing had gone shallow enough that you noticed it immediately now that you were paying attention. You leaned down slightly toward him.
âDo you want to wait outside until class starts?â
For a second you thought he might ignore you completely.
Then his hand moved under the desk and lightly caught the edge of your cardigan sleeve.
The same way he had yesterday.
Small. Quiet. Automatic.
You waited while he gathered his things with stiff movements before leading him back into the hallway. The moment the classroom door shut behind you both, some of the tension visibly left his body.
You leaned against the wall beside him. âDoes crowded noise bother you?â
Anton nodded once.
Rain pattered softly against the windows nearby. Students passed through the corridor in uneven waves, but it was quieter here, the sounds more spread out and manageable.
After a minute, Anton typed something.
| He smelled too strong.
You blinked.
âOh.â
| And his coat kept touching mine.
The seriousness of his expression nearly made you smile again. Not because it was funny to him, but because he explained discomfort so literally. No exaggeration. No attempt to make himself sound easier or more reasonable.
Just facts.
âYou donât like being touched?â
Anton stared at the screen for a long moment after reading the question.
Then slowly typed:
| I donât mind when I know itâs happening.
Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly hard at the memory of his hand around your sleeve yesterday.
Before you could respond, the classroom door opened again. Students began settling down for lecture, voices quieter now.
Anton made no move to return inside.
âYou still have class,â you reminded gently.
His gaze dropped toward the floor tiles.
Then his phone lit up.
| You come too.
âYou want me to sit with you?â
A pause. Tiny nod.
Technically, student aides werenât supposed to attend lectures unless necessary, but the way Anton stood there waiting made refusal feel strangely impossible. He shifted slightly closer while students continued walking around you both, the sleeve of his cardigan brushing your arm for half a second before he stepped away again.
You followed him back inside.
This time, Anton chose seats in the very back row.
You noticed he picked the one nearest the wall.
He sat down first, then hesitated oddly before placing his bag on the opposite side instead of between you. Like heâd considered creating distance and changed his mind halfway through.
Throughout the lecture, he barely looked at the professor. Instead, he typed constantly, notes impossibly organized across his laptop screen. Color-coded. Timestamped. Every heading perfectly aligned.
About twenty minutes in, you noticed movement beside you.
Anton had gone still again.
His fingers rested motionless over the keyboard while his attention fixed somewhere ahead, unfocused. The lecture hall lights buzzed faintly overhead. Someone behind you kept clicking their pen repeatedly.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Antonâs jaw tightened almost invisibly every time the sound repeated.
Without really thinking about it, you reached into your bag for your spare earbuds and placed them gently beside his laptop.
He looked down at them.
Then at you.
âTheyâre noise cancelling,â you whispered.
Anton stared for such a long time you thought maybe he wouldnât take them.
Finally, he picked one up carefully between his fingers.
Not putting it in yet. Just feeling the smooth plastic surface.
His thumb brushed over it slowly.
Then, unexpectedly, he placed it back down and typed something instead.
| You notice too much.
You frowned slightly. âIs that bad?â
He read your lips while you spoke, eyes fixed there with quiet concentration.
Then he shook his head once.
A few minutes later, without warning, his shoulder tipped lightly against yours.
Not enough pressure to seem intentional.
Just there.
Warm through layers of fabric.
Anton continued typing with complete focus like he hadnât noticed the contact at all.
You became aware of his shoulder long before you became aware of the lecture again.
Not because the touch itself was dramatic. It wasnât. Anton barely leaned into you at all, just enough for the warmth of him to settle against your arm through the fabric of your sweater. But there was something dangerously intimate about how unconscious it seemed. He wasnât testing boundaries or searching for reassurance. His body had simply decided you were easier to exist beside than everyone else in the room.
And apparently, that was that.
The professorâs voice blurred into background noise while rain streaked slowly down the windows. Anton kept typing steadily, expression soft with concentration. Every few minutes he paused to adjust something tiny: the angle of his pen, the brightness of his screen, the cuff of his cardigan slipping over his wrist. His movements were precise in a way that felt practiced rather than obsessive, like the world only stayed manageable if things remained arranged correctly.
The clicking pen behind you finally stopped.
Anton relaxed almost immediately afterward.
You werenât sure why noticing that made your chest ache a little.
When class ended, students shoved chairs back noisily and crowded toward the exits in impatient waves. Anton didnât move. He stayed seated beside you while the room emptied around him, fingers still resting on the keyboard even after the screen dimmed from inactivity.
âYou okay?â you asked quietly.
His eyes lifted toward you briefly before drifting away again.
Then he typed:
| There are too many transitions in one day.
You read the sentence twice.
It was such a strange way to describe exhaustion, but somehow it made perfect sense. You thought about how often people expected immediate adjustment from one thing to another without hesitation. Loud cafeteria to silent lecture hall. Crowded sidewalks to empty dorm rooms. Conversation to isolation. Most people did it automatically.
Anton probably felt every shift like stepping between different temperatures.
âThat sounds tiring,â you said softly.
His gaze flickered back toward your face then, lingering there a fraction longer than usual. You got the unsettling feeling he wasnât used to people responding like that. Not dismissing him. Not trying to correct or simplify what he meant.
Just accepting it.
Outside, the rain had worsened into a steady silver downpour. Students hurried across campus beneath umbrellas while water gathered along the sidewalks in shallow reflective puddles.
Anton stood beside the building entrance staring outside with visible hesitation.
âYou donât have an umbrella?â you guessed.
He shook his head once.
âYou couldâve checked the weather.â
A pause.
Then his phone appeared.
| I did.
| It said 40%.
You stared at him for a second before laughing again despite yourself. Antonâs attention snapped toward the sound instantly, distracted from the rain.
âWhat?â
His brows pulled together faintly.
| Why do you keep doing that?
âDoing what?â
| Making that noise.
âOh.â You smiled a little. âLaughing?â
He considered the word carefully, like matching it to memory.
Then:
| You laugh more quietly than most people.
Something about the observation felt far too intimate for someone youâd known less than two days.
Before you could answer, Anton stepped out into the rain without warning.
âWaitââ
Cold droplets immediately soaked into the dark fabric of his cardigan, dampening his hair within seconds. He didnât seem to care. Or maybe he cared and didnât know what to do about it. You hurried after him beneath your umbrella, catching up just as he crossed the sidewalk toward the arts building.
âAnton.â
He slowed.
âYouâre getting soaked.â
He looked down at his sleeve like heâd only just noticed the rainwater spreading through it.
Then he typed while still walking.
| I like rain before people touch it.
You almost told him that made no sense before remembering who you were speaking to.
âWhat does that mean?â
Anton paused near the crosswalk, watching water rush along the curb in thin rippling streams.
For a while, he didnât answer. Cars hissed past on wet pavement while students crowded beneath awnings nearby. You thought maybe heâd abandoned the thought entirely.
Then:
| Rain is clean when it first falls.
| Afterward it becomes campus rain.
You looked at him carefully.
His hair clung damply against his forehead now, soft dark strands curling slightly at the ends from the moisture. There was something vulnerable about him standing there in the middle of the gray afternoon looking entirely consumed by a thought no one else would ever have.
âYou think about things strangely,â you murmured before you could stop yourself.
The moment the words left your mouth, regret hit hard.
Antonâs expression changed immediately.
Not dramatically. Just quieting.
His fingers stilled against his phone screen.
You opened your mouth quickly. âI didnât meanââ
But he was already looking away from you.
Shit.
The walk to the arts building suddenly felt much longer.
Anton stayed half a step ahead the entire time, cardigan sleeves pulled over his hands again. You replayed your sentence over and over in your head, trying to figure out exactly where it had gone wrong. You hadnât meant strange in a bad way. If anything, talking to him felt oddly refreshing compared to the exhausting predictability of everyone else.
But maybe heâd heard that before.
Maybe people had spent his entire life calling him strange.
By the time you reached the building entrance, guilt sat heavily in your stomach.
âAnton.â
He stopped but didnât turn around fully.
âIâm sorry,â you said carefully. âI wasnât making fun of you.â
Silence.
Rain hammered softly against the glass doors nearby.
Then Anton finally looked toward you, eyes lowering automatically before they could meet yours completely. Up close, you noticed faint water droplets caught in his lashes.
His phone lit up slowly.
| I know.
But he still looked hurt.
The realization unsettled you more than it should have.
You stood there awkwardly while students brushed past into the building around you. Anton readjusted the strap slipping off his shoulder with damp fingers, movements slower than usual now.
Then, unexpectedly, he stepped closer.
Close enough that your umbrella tilted awkwardly backward from the movement.
His hand appeared near your sleeve again.
Not grabbing this time.
Just touching the wet fabric lightly between two fingers.
âYouâre cold,â you said quietly.
Anton blinked once, looking down at where rainwater darkened the cuff of your sweater too.
After a few seconds, he typed:
| You came into the rain anyway.
You werenât sure why that sentence lingered so heavily in your chest afterward.
Maybe because he said things so plainly that they stopped sounding plain at all.
You came into the rain anyway.
Like it meant something.
Anton followed you silently into the arts building, water dripping softly from the ends of his sleeves onto the polished floors. The lobby buzzed with low conversation and distant piano scales echoing from somewhere upstairs, students moving between practice rooms carrying instrument cases and sheet music folders pressed against their chests. Compared to the rest of campus, the building felt strangely warm, almost sleepy, lit gold by old hanging lamps instead of harsh fluorescents.
Anton visibly relaxed the moment the doors shut behind you.
Not entirely. He never seemed entirely relaxed. But his shoulders lowered slightly, and his breathing evened out again beneath the soft hum of music drifting through the hallways.
âYou have class here?â you asked.
Small nod.
âWhat kind?â
He typed one-handed while wringing rainwater absentmindedly from the cuff of his cardigan with the other.
| Composition lab.
That explained the major, at least partially. You tried imagining him making music and immediately could. Not performance. Nothing loud or attention-seeking. Something intricate and emotional and probably far too beautiful for most people to understand properly.
A girl passing through the lobby slowed suddenly when she noticed Anton.
âChanyoung!â
He stiffened instantly.
She either didnât notice or pretended not to. âProfessor Kim was asking where your revised arrangement went. Did you ever email it?â
Antonâs gaze dropped toward the floor.
Three seconds passed.
Five.
The girlâs smile faltered slightly as the silence stretched.
You watched panic build subtly beneath Antonâs expression, not dramatic enough for most people to catch. His fingers curled tightly into the soaked fabric hanging over his hands. His lips parted once without sound emerging.
He was trying.
Your chest tightened.
âHe probably hasnât had the chance yet,â you answered gently before the silence could become humiliating.
The girl blinked toward you like sheâd forgotten other people existed. âOh.â
Anton remained completely motionless beside you.
âWellâŠâ She laughed awkwardly. âTell him Professor Kimâs been emailing.â
Then she hurried off down the hallway.
The second she disappeared around the corner, Anton exhaled softly through his nose.
Not relief exactly. More like recovery.
You looked at him carefully. âYou donât like when people expect answers right away.â
His eyes shifted toward you. Then downward again.
After a moment, he typed:
| Sometimes words donât arrive before the moment is over.
The sentence hit you so hard you almost forgot to breathe for a second.
You wondered suddenly how many people mistook his silence for indifference when really it was delay. Like his emotions and thoughts existed behind glass slightly thicker than everyone elseâs.
âThat sounds frustrating,â you said quietly.
Anton stared at the phone screen after reading your response. His thumb hovered near the keyboard as if he intended to say more.
But instead, he slipped the phone back into his pocket.
A nearby piano stumbled through the same wrong note three times in a row from one of the practice rooms upstairs.
Anton visibly winced.
âYou can hear that from here?â
Tiny nod.
âThatâs kind of impressive.â
Another wince at the fourth mistake.
Then, unexpectedly, he reached for your wrist.
Not dramatically. Not even fully.
His fingertips just settled there lightly, cool from the rain, before he began guiding you toward the staircase without explanation.
The contact shocked you enough that you followed automatically.
Anton climbed the stairs quietly, still holding your wrist with absentminded gentleness the entire way. Not possessive. Not nervous. Casual in the way someone might carry an object theyâd already decided belonged beside them.
Meanwhile your heartbeat had become humiliating.
On the third floor, the hallway narrowed into rows of small soundproof practice rooms with rectangular windows set into each door. Music spilled unevenly through the walls anyway â violin scales, fragments of jazz piano, someone singing warmups badly enough to make Antonâs nose wrinkle slightly.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
He noticed immediately.
âWhat?â
Anton tilted his head faintly.
âYou make expressions even when you donât talk much.â
A pause.
Then he let go of your wrist abruptly like heâd only just remembered he was touching you at all.
The sudden absence of warmth felt strangely noticeable.
Anton stopped outside one of the practice room doors and pushed it open carefully. Inside sat a keyboard, two chairs, scattered sheet music, and little else. The room was dimmer than the hallway, insulated from most of the outside noise.
You stepped inside after him.
âThis is yours?â
He nodded once, already moving toward the keyboard.
The room changed him somehow.
Not personality-wise. More like the tension he carried around campus loosened in specific places here. His movements became smoother, more instinctive. Comfortable.
Anton sat down on the bench and adjusted the sleeves falling over his hands before resting his fingers lightly against the keys.
Then he froze.
You waited quietly.
After a few seconds, he typed into his phone again without looking up.
| You can sit.
âOh. Right.â
You settled into the chair nearby while rain tapped softly against the narrow window beside the piano. Anton remained still for another long moment, staring at the keys with intense concentration.
âYou donât have to play for me,â you said gently, suddenly worried he felt pressured.
He shook his head immediately.
Then finally, he played.
The first notes were so soft you almost missed them.
Not a melody at first. Just careful fragments unfolding slowly beneath his fingertips, delicate and thoughtful and strangely lonely. The sound filled the small room without overwhelming it, each note lingering long enough to feel intentional. Antonâs expression changed while he played. Not happier exactly, but clearer somehow. Like music translated things his body couldnât organize into speech quickly enough.
You watched his hands move across the keyboard.
Beautiful hands, honestly.
Long fingers. Silver rings glinting faintly under the dim lights. Sleeves slipping down toward his knuckles every few seconds before he impatiently pushed them back again mid-song.
The music deepened gradually, weaving into something fuller and aching enough that your chest hurt unexpectedly listening to it.
Anton never looked at you once while he played.
But somehow it still felt like being let inside something private.
When the final note faded, silence settled gently back over the room.
You realized only then that youâd stopped moving entirely.
âThat was really pretty,â you whispered.
Anton stayed motionless at the keyboard.
Then slowly:
| You keep using that word.
âPretty?â
A tiny nod.
You smiled faintly. âDo you not like it?â
For the first time since meeting him, Anton actually looked close to nervous.
Not externally. You were just beginning to recognize the signs now â the slight tension in his jaw, fingers rubbing together beneath oversized sleeves, gaze fixed stubbornly on the piano keys.
Finally, he typed carefully.
| No one usually means it kindly.
Something inside you softened painfully at that.
The practice room suddenly felt smaller, quieter, the rain outside reduced to a dull silver murmur against the windows. Anton kept his eyes lowered toward the keyboard after showing you the message, shoulders slightly hunched like he regretted saying it at all.
You thought about him walking across campus with his oversized cardigans and careful posture, about the glossy shine on his nails, the silver rings, the softness he didnât bother hiding even though people probably noticed immediately. You could already imagine the kind of comments college boys made when someone didnât fit neatly into whatever version of masculinity they found acceptable.
âYou know I mean it kindly,â you said gently.
Anton didnât respond right away.
His fingers drifted absentmindedly across a few silent piano keys without pressing hard enough to create sound. Thinking. Processing. You were beginning to realize he often needed silence the way other people needed conversation.
| I know now.
Now.
Not before.
Your chest tightened again.
Before you could answer, voices echoed loudly down the hallway outside the practice rooms. Several students passed by laughing, the sound muffled but sharp enough to pull Anton immediately out of whatever calm the piano had given him. His posture straightened. His hands stilled.
One of the voices paused near the door.
âOh, heâs in there.â
Another laugh. âOf course he is.â
The doorknob rattled lightly.
Anton froze so suddenly it almost frightened you.
Not fear exactly. Anticipation. Like his body had learned to brace before his mind even caught up.
The door opened halfway before either of you could react. Two boys from what looked like an ensemble class leaned inside casually, both carrying instrument cases.
âThere you are,â one of them said. âKim keeps emailing about your arrangement.â
Antonâs gaze dropped instantly toward the floor.
Neither of them acknowledged you at first.
âYou gonna answer him this year or what?â the other joked.
Silence.
You watched Antonâs fingers slowly curl into the sleeves covering his hands.
The first guy sighed awkwardly after a few seconds. âRight. Sorry.â
But he still lingered there waiting, clearly expecting some kind of response.
Antonâs throat moved faintly.
Nothing came out.
You could almost feel the pressure building inside the room.
âHe said heâll send it,â you interrupted quietly before the silence could turn cruel.
Both boys finally looked toward you.
The second one blinked. âOh.â
Then, lowering his voice slightly but not enough, âDoes he just not talk ever?â
The question landed heavily.
Anton remained perfectly still at the piano bench beside you, expression unreadable now in that way you were beginning to hate because it meant heâd withdrawn somewhere unreachable.
âHe talks,â you answered before thinking. âJust not whenever people demand it.â
The room fell quiet.
One boy looked embarrassed immediately. The other shifted awkwardly against his instrument case strap.
âRight,â he muttered. âWhatever.â
They left a second later, the door clicking shut behind them.
Silence rushed back in.
Anton still hadnât moved.
You exhaled slowly, anger simmering hotter in your chest than it probably should have after only two days of knowing him. âThey were being rude.â
Nothing.
âAnton?â
His hand moved toward his phone slowly.
Then stopped halfway there.
Instead, he pressed both sleeves against his mouth briefly, eyes fixed somewhere distant across the room. Processing again. You could see it happening now â the delayed impact arriving piece by piece after the interaction already ended.
When he finally typed, the message appeared slower than usual.
| They werenât trying to be mean.
âThat doesnât make it better.â
Anton stared at the screen after reading that.
Then:
| Most people become uncomfortable eventually.
The matter-of-factness of the sentence hurt more than self-pity wouldâve.
Like heâd accepted it as inevitable.
âWell, Iâm not uncomfortable.â
The room went very quiet.
Anton blinked once.
Then again.
You got the distinct feeling youâd said something unexpectedly important.
His attention lifted toward your face slowly, cautiously, eyes stopping just short of yours like always. For a second he looked almost disoriented, as if he didnât know where to place the statement inside his understanding of people.
Then his phone buzzed softly in his hand.
| Not yet.
The words startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.
Anton watched your reaction immediately, shoulders loosening just slightly at the sound.
âYouâre kind of mean, you know that?â
A pause.
Then:
| You laugh when you arenât upset anymore.
You stared at him.
Anton stared back in that indirect way he had, gaze hovering near your mouth while he read your expression carefully. Observing. Cataloging.
âYou notice everything,â you murmured.
He processed that silently.
Then typed:
| Only things I need to remember.
The air in the room suddenly felt too warm.
Before you could recover, Anton stood from the piano bench in one smooth movement and crossed toward the stack of papers scattered near the music stand. He crouched to reorganize them with immediate focus, aligning the corners carefully against the floor before clipping them together.
You watched him for a second before kneeling automatically to help.
Anton went still beside you.
âWhat?â you asked.
His eyes flickered toward your hands gathering the loose sheets.
Then toward your knees pressed against the carpet beside him.
Finally:
| You donât have to do that.
âItâs literally two papers.â
He kept s taring anyway.
Up close like this, you noticed how long his lashes were again. Ridiculously long, honestly. They cast faint shadows against his cheeks whenever he looked downward.
Without thinking, you reached over and brushed a damp strand of hair away from his eyes.
The second your fingers touched him, Anton stopped breathing.
Not metaphorically.
Actually stopped.
Your hand froze too.
His skin was cold from the rain. Soft.
You shouldâve pulled away immediately.
Instead, both of you stayed there for one horribly suspended second, Anton staring at you with open confusion written across his face. Not discomfort. Something more startled than that, like his brain had failed to categorize what just happened.
Then, slowly, very carefully, he leaned forward.
Just slightly.
Into your hand.
Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt.
Anton didnât seem to notice the effect he had on people when he did things like this. Or maybe he noticed reactions without understanding where they came from. Either way, the movement was small enough that another person mightâve missed it entirely â the faint tilt of his head against your palm, the way his eyes lowered halfway shut for a second like he was concentrating on the sensation.
Soft.
That was the first thought that hit you.
Not just physically. His entire presence felt soft in ways the world probably hadnât handled gently.
Then realization flickered across his expression.
Anton pulled back immediately.
His hand came up halfway toward his face before stopping awkwardly in the air. You watched confusion move through him in real time, slow and visible behind his eyes as he tried to process the interaction after it had already happened.
âIâm sorry,â you said quickly, dropping your hand back into your lap. âI shouldnât have justââ
Anton shook his head hard enough to interrupt you.
Not upset. Just overwhelmed.
He stared down at the papers scattered between you both, fingers tightening once around the edge of a music sheet before he typed something with abrupt intensity.
| Donât apologize for touching me if it was kind.
The sentence settled heavily between you.
You looked at him carefully. âHas nobody ever told you thereâs a difference?â
Anton frowned faintly.
âBetween wanted touch and unwanted touch.â
He went still again.
Not frozen this time. Thinking.
You could practically watch him sorting through memories and information behind his eyes, reorganizing old experiences against the new wording. After a long silence, he typed slowly:
| People usually touch me accidentally.
Something about that answer made your chest ache.
You thought suddenly about crowded hallways brushing against him, strangers shoving past without warning, uncomfortable handshakes, impatient taps on the shoulder when he didnât respond quickly enough. Touch that happened to him instead of for him.
And maybe because Anton processed emotions later than everyone else, maybe by the time discomfort fully arrived, the moment had already passed.
âThatâs not the same thing,â you said quietly.
He read the sentence twice.
Then:
| You ask before doing things.
You almost pointed out that you hadnât asked before touching his hair, but Anton continued typing before you could.
| Most people decide things for me first.
The practice room felt unbearably quiet after that.
Outside, someone played scales down the hallway while rain tapped steadily against the narrow windows. Anton gathered the rest of his papers into a neat stack again, movements slower now, attention split somewhere deeper inside himself.
âYou think about people a lot, donât you?â you asked softly.
He glanced toward you.
Then away.
A tiny shrug.
After a moment:
| I have to study people longer than other people study me.
You didnât know what to say to that.
Because it was true, probably.
Most people would look at Anton once and make immediate assumptions. Quiet. Strange. Awkward. Difficult. Sensitive. Meanwhile he seemed to spend enormous amounts of energy trying to understand everyone around him properly while they rarely extended the same patience back.
Your eyes drifted toward the music sheets in his lap. The notes were impossibly neat, handwritten annotations arranged with color-coded precision along the margins.
âYou really like organizing things.â
That earned the faintest reaction from him. Almost defensive.
| Things behave better when theyâre organized.
You smiled slightly. âPeople donât?â
Immediately, before even typing:
âNo.â
The sound startled you both.
Antonâs eyes widened a fraction.
It was the first time youâd heard his voice.
Quiet wasnât even the right word for it. His voice sounded soft in the same way fabric could be soft, low and airy from disuse, almost careful around the edges. Like speaking required more physical effort for him than most people realized.
For a second neither of you moved.
Then color rose slowly into Antonâs cheeks.
He looked away so quickly it almost gave you whiplash.
You tried not to react too strongly, suddenly aware that if you made a big deal out of it he might retreat completely.
But your heartbeat was going insane.
âYouâre right,â you said gently, pretending your pulse wasnât stumbling all over itself. âPeople are kind of impossible.â
Anton kept staring stubbornly at the floor.
The blush spread all the way to the tips of his ears now.
You bit back a smile.
âYou have a nice voice.â
The reaction was immediate.
Antonâs shoulders drew up slightly, like the compliment physically struck him somewhere sensitive. He tucked his hands deeper into his sleeves and focused aggressively on aligning the papers again even though they were already perfectly straight.
Interesting.
âYou donât like compliments?â
A pause.
Then, quietly this time, barely above a whisper:
âI donât know.â
You almost melted directly into the carpet.
Anton seemed startled by his own answer too. His throat moved faintly afterward, like he was still adjusting to the unfamiliar feeling of speaking aloud. But he didnât fully shut down again. If anything, he looked more disoriented than distressed.
âYou donât know if you like compliments?â
Tiny shake of his head.
âWhy not?â
He reached for his phone again, clearly more comfortable typing complicated thoughts than saying them.
| Sometimes people compliment me because they think Iâm strange.
| Like observing an animal that learned something impressive.
Your expression mustâve changed because Anton immediately looked down again.
âI wasnât doing that,â you said quietly.
He nodded before you even finished.
| I know.
That I know sounded different now too. More certain than earlier.
You sat there for another moment listening to the muffled music outside before your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder.
Work shift. Ten minutes.
âShit,â you muttered, checking the screen. âI have to go.â
Antonâs attention lifted immediately.
âI forgot Iâm covering someone at the library tonight.â
The atmosphere shifted so subtly you almost thought you imagined it.
Not disappointment exactly.
But something adjacent to it.
Anton looked toward the rain-streaked window automatically before typing:
| You donât like leaving in the middle of things either.
You stared at him.
âNo,â you admitted softly. âI guess I donât.â
For a second he just watched you gather your bag and jacket. Or rather, watched your hands. Anton seemed to focus on hands often, you realized suddenly. Movements. Gestures. The physical shape of emotion instead of eye contact.
When you stood, he stood too.
Immediately.
Like it was obvious he should.
âYou donât have to walk me out,â you said.
Anton blinked once, confused.
Then:
| I know.
But he still followed you anyway.
The hallway outside the practice room had grown quieter by the time you left, most classes already in session. The muffled sounds of instruments still drifted through the walls in uneven fragments â piano chords from somewhere downstairs, a violin stopping and restarting the same passage over and over again, distant laughter echoing briefly before fading down another corridor.
Anton walked beside you without speaking.
Not awkwardly silent. Just present.
You were beginning to realize there was a difference with him.
Most silence between people felt empty because both parties waited for someone to fill it. Antonâs silence felt occupied already, crowded with observation and delayed thoughts and tiny details he seemed to absorb constantly without comment. Walking beside him made you hyperaware of your own movements in return â the squeak of your shoes against the polished floor, the shift of your bag strap on your shoulder, the warmth lingering in your palm from where heâd leaned into your touch earlier.
You tried very hard not to think about that too much.
At the stairwell landing, Anton stopped suddenly.
You nearly walked past him before turning back. âWhat?â
He looked distracted by something over your shoulder. Following his gaze, you noticed a girl descending the stairs carrying a bouquet wrapped in pale pink paper. Tiny white flowers peeked through the plastic.
Anton stared openly.
Not at the girl. At the flowers.
The intensity of his focus almost made you smile.
âYou like those?â
His attention flicked back toward you, caught.
Then he nodded once.
âTheyâre just babyâs breath.â
Another small shake of his head this time. Incorrect.
Anton typed carefully while still watching the bouquet disappear downstairs.
| They look soft.
Of course that was his reason.
You wondered if he categorized the world entirely through sensory feeling. Soft. Sharp. Loud. Beautiful. Wrong. Safe.
The realization made him seem somehow even more vulnerable.
As you continued downstairs, Anton drifted closer beside you whenever groups of students passed in the opposite direction. Not enough to touch. Just enough that his sleeve brushed your arm occasionally before he corrected the distance again. Like his body naturally sought proximity before his mind remembered it was supposed to maintain space.
By the first floor lobby, the rain outside had softened into a fine mist coating the windows silver.
You adjusted your bag strap. âIâll see you tomorrow before your lecture?â
Anton nodded immediately.
Then hesitated.
You could tell by now when something was stuck inside him trying to become language.
His fingers moved once against the edge of his sleeve before he finally typed:
| You donât have to keep talking when I stop responding.
âOh.â
You frowned slightly. âWas I talking too much?â
He looked alarmed instantly and shook his head hard enough that damp strands of hair fell into his eyes again.
Quickly:
| No.
| Most people become uncomfortable with silence.
You stared at the screen.
Then at him.
âDo you?â
Anton seemed genuinely confused by the question.
| With silence?
âYeah.â
A long pause.
| Silence is easier because nobody expects immediate versions of you.
The words settled somewhere deep in your chest.
Immediate versions of you.
You thought suddenly about every rushed conversation youâd ever had, every moment people interrupted each other or filled pauses before anyone could truly think. Anton moved through interactions like someone translating feelings manually while everyone else operated automatically.
No wonder he got exhausted.
âYou think really beautifully sometimes,â you murmured before you could stop yourself.
Anton went still. Not tense. Just attentive in that startlingly complete way he had.
Then slowly, carefully, he typed:
| You say things to me like they arenât dangerous.
The comment confused you for half a second before understanding arrived.
Compliments. Kindness. Gentleness.
Things heâd apparently learned to handle cautiously.
Your chest ached again.
âWell,â you said softly, âthey arenât dangerous.â
Anton looked at you for a very long time after that.
Not direct eye contact. You still werenât sure heâd ever fully meet your eyes comfortably. But his attention stayed fixed near your face with unusual steadiness, expression unreadable beneath the soft fluorescent lobby lights.
Then someone entered the building loudly behind you both, the door slamming harder than necessary.
Anton startled.
Not dramatically, but enough that his hand caught the fabric of your sleeve again automatically.
The movement happened so naturally now that neither of you reacted immediately.
His fingers stayed there lightly curled against your wrist while he glanced back toward the entrance, orienting himself. You looked down at the contact for a second before lifting your eyes toward him again.
Anton followed your gaze belatedly.
A flush spread across his face almost instantly.
He released you carefully this time instead of jerking away.
âSorry,â he whispered.
The second the word left his mouth, surprise crossed his expression again. Like he still wasnât entirely deciding when speech happened.
You smiled a little despite yourself. âYou donât have to apologize every time you touch me.â
Anton stared.
You watched the sentence process in real time.
Slowly. Dangerously.
His lips parted slightly before closing again. He looked down toward his own hand like it had become unfamiliar to him somehow.
Then his phone appeared.
| I think about it afterward.
âWhat part?â
| Whether I was supposed to know something.
Your heartbeat stumbled.
âAbout touching?â
Tiny nod.
The honesty of it nearly killed you.
You leaned against the wall slightly, trying to steady yourself before answering. âMost people attach meaning to physical affection.â
| Even small things?
âYes.â
His brows pulled together faintly.
| That seems exhausting.
You laughed softly before you could help it. âIt can be.â
Anton watched your face with quiet concentration.
| When you touch me it feels calm.
| So afterward I donât understand why everyone makes those things complicated.
The entire world seemed to tilt sideways for one horrifying second.
Anton, meanwhile, looked completely sincere.
No flirting. No awareness of the effect heâd just had on you. He said things the way people described weather patterns â observationally, honestly, without understanding how intimate they sounded once spoken aloud.
You were absolutely doomed.
Before you could respond, Antonâs phone buzzed sharply in his hand. The sudden sound made him flinch slightly before checking the screen.
His expression shifted immediately.
âWhat is it?â
He turned the phone toward you.
A calendar notification.
Dinner â 6:00 PM
Underneath it, another smaller reminder:
Eat full meal. Not snacks.
You blinked.
Then looked at him slowly. âDid someone actually schedule meals into your phone?â
Anton took the phone back.
After a moment:
| I forget.
âYou forget to eat?â
Tiny shrug.
| Other things are louder.
-
You looked at him for a moment longer than necessary after that.
Other things are louder.
Anton said sentences like they were simple facts, then left you standing there trying to recover from the weight of them afterward. You wondered if he had any idea how revealing he sounded sometimes, how easily little pieces of himself slipped into conversation before he could recognize them as personal.
Probably not.
âHave you eaten today?â you asked carefully.
Antonâs silence answered first.
You stared at him. âAnton.â
Another pause.
Finally:
| A banana.
âSince when?â
His eyes drifted upward slightly, thinking.
| Morning.
Your chest tightened in immediate irritation. âThatâs not enough.â
He looked mildly confused by your tone, like your concern had arrived too intensely for him to categorize right away. You were beginning to notice that too â strong emotion seemed to make him pause longer, processing each word more carefully before deciding how to react.
âI meanâŠâ You exhaled, softening your voice. âNo wonder youâre tired.â
Anton leaned lightly against the wall beside you, cardigan sleeves pulled over his hands again while students passed through the lobby in scattered groups. He looked genuinely thoughtful now, considering your statement with unusual seriousness.
| I didnât notice until you said it.
âThat you were hungry?â
Small nod.
You werenât sure why that made you sad.
Maybe because Anton seemed disconnected from his own body half the time, noticing discomfort only after it became impossible to ignore. Hunger. Overstimulation. Emotions. Everything arrived delayed.
âWell,â you said, adjusting your bag again, âyou should eat before your next class.â
His gaze shifted toward the rain outside immediately.
Avoidance.
âYou donât want to go to the dining hall.â
Another tiny nod.
Too loud. Too crowded. Too unpredictable. You could practically map the reasons out yourself already.
âYou could get takeout somewhere quieter.â
Anton didnât answer.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. âYouâre not going to, are you?â
| Eventually.
âThat means no.â
Anton blinked slowly, caught.
The expression that crossed his face was so unintentionally cute you almost got angry about it.
Before you could stop yourself, you sighed and said, âCome on.â
You watched confusion spread across his expression in stages. Then surprise. Then something more hesitant underneath both.
âYou donât have to,â he said quietly.
The soft sound of his voice caught you off guard again. It was still strange hearing him speak aloud after spending most of the past two days communicating through typed messages and silence. His voice felt intimate somehow. Fragile in a way people instinctively leaned closer to.
âI know,â you said gently. âI want to.â
Anton stared at you for a second too long after that. Then lowered his gaze first.
You were starting to suspect he did that whenever emotions became too large to process immediately.
While you ordered at the counter, Anton lingered several feet away studying the dessert display with complete concentration. Not the food itself, you realized after watching him for a moment.
The colors. The arrangement.
Tiny fruit tarts lined perfectly in rows beneath warm lighting. Frosted cakes decorated with edible flowers. Soft pink macarons stacked like polished stones.
Beautiful things.
You smiled to yourself before ordering.
When you carried the drinks and food back to the table, Anton immediately moved his phone and sleeves out of the way for you with careful precision. You set a sandwich in front of him.
His eyes widened slightly.
âThatâs too much,â he murmured.
âItâs half a sandwich.â
âItâs large.â
âYou had a banana six hours ago.â
Anton stared at the sandwich like youâd handed him a complicated assignment instead of food.
âYou remembered.â
The words landed strangely soft between you.
âOf course I remembered.â
Something changed in his expression again. Small enough that another person probably wouldnât notice. But you were starting to recognize these tiny shifts now â the way his shoulders loosened when he felt safe, the faint unfocusing of his eyes when emotions became difficult, the careful stillness whenever he was trying to hold onto something internally.
Anton picked up the sandwich obediently after a moment.
You expected him to eat delicately.
Instead, he took one bite and immediately closed his eyes.
Not dramatically. Just briefly.
Processing.
âItâs good?â you asked, amused.
After swallowing, he typed one-handed:
| The bread texture is correct.
You laughed so suddenly a nearby student glanced over.
Antonâs attention snapped immediately toward your face.
Again.
Always again.
He watched your reactions with such complete focus it made your stomach feel strange.
âWhat?â
His fingers stilled against his phone.
| You laugh differently now than yesterday.
âOh?â
Tiny nod. Less careful.
You looked down at your drink for a second, suddenly embarrassed by how comfortable youâd already become around him. It had only been two days. Two very strange, emotionally days.
You watched him absentmindedly peel the paper sleeve from his straw into perfectly even strips.
Not fidgeting.
Organizing.
His sandwich sat precisely centered on the napkin between bites.
âYou always do that?â you asked softly.
Anton glanced up.
âWith objects.â
Then his eyes drifted toward the neat pile of paper strips beside his drink.
âOh.â
He looked faintly embarrassed for the first time all evening.
âIâm making a mess,â he murmured.
âNo, youâre not.â
You reached over before thinking and straightened one of the uneven paper pieces heâd missed. Anton went completely still watching your fingers brush the table.
The silence stretched.
âYou donât get irritated by things?â
The question caught you off guard. âWhat kind of things?â
He gestured vaguely toward the strips.
âThe wrongness.â
You looked down at the table.
Then back at him slowly.
âI mean⊠sometimes.â
Anton waited.
âBut not like you do, I think.â
He stared at your mouth while you spoke, expression thoughtful and slightly distant again. Processing. You were getting frighteningly good at recognizing when heâd gone inward like that.
After a moment, he typed:
| Most people say I overreact to discomfort.
The ache in your chest returned immediately.
You wondered how many parts of himself Anton had spent years apologizing for simply because other people experienced the world less intensely than he did.
âWell,â you said carefully, âif something genuinely feels overwhelming to you, then itâs overwhelming. Even if other people donât understand it.â
Anton stopped moving entirely. Listening.
You saw the exact moment your words landed somewhere important.
His fingers tightened once around the edge of his sleeve before loosening again. Then he lowered his gaze toward the table almost abruptly, like he suddenly needed somewhere else to look.
âYou say things softly,â he said after a while.
Your heartbeat stumbled.
âWhat does that mean?â
Anton frowned faintly, searching.
âLikeâŠâ He paused again. âLike you donât want them to hurt anyone.â
The sincerity in his voice nearly killed you on the spot.
You looked away first this time, pretending to focus on your drink so he wouldnât notice how flustered youâd suddenly become.
Across from you, Anton continued studying you openly in that indirect way he had. Not eye contact exactly. Attention contact. Total and unnervingly observant.
Then his phone buzzed against the table.
The reaction was immediate.
His shoulders tensed before he even checked the screen.
You watched his expression shift as he read the notification. Not upset. Just⊠burdened.
âWhat is it?â
Anton turned the phone toward you after a second.
Mom calling
He stared at the screen while it rang. Didnât answer.
The vibration stopped after several seconds before immediately starting again.
âYou should probably pick up,â you said gently.
Anton looked genuinely distressed by the idea.
âShe worries if I donât.â
âThen answer?â
Another ring.
He swallowed faintly before pressing accept and lifting the phone to his ear.
You looked away automatically to give him privacy, but silence stretched so long you eventually glanced back.
Anton hadnât spoken.
He sat perfectly still listening to the voice on the other end while his thumb rubbed repeatedly against the edge of his sleeve beneath the table.
Then, very quietly:
âYes.â
A pause.
âNo.â
Another pause.
âI ate.â
Something in your chest twisted at how carefully he said each word, like speech over the phone required even more concentration than face-to-face conversation.
His motherâs voice carried faintly through the speaker, too muffled to understand.
Antonâs gaze drifted toward you unexpectedly.
Then away again.
âYes,â he whispered after another long silence. âIâm with someone.â
Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.
Whatever his mother said next made faint pink rise into his cheeks almost instantly.
âNo,â he murmured quickly. âNot like that.â
You nearly inhaled your straw.
Anton looked absolutely horrified the second he realized youâd probably heard that.
His fingers tightened around the phone.
âNo,â he repeated, quieter this time. âSheâs my aide.â
The sentence shouldnât have stung. It did anyway.
You hated yourself a little for that.
Another stretch of silence followed while Anton listened again, expression becoming more and more strained by the second. You could almost see the social exhaustion building in real time.
Then finally:
âI know.â
A beat.
âIâll sleep.â
Another.
âYes.â
And softer this time:
âLove you too.â
The call ended.
Anton immediately set the phone facedown against the table and exhaled through his nose like heâd been holding tension in his lungs the entire time.
You stared at him across the table while he remained completely sincere, completely unaware of the effect he had when he spoke like this. He wasnât flirting. He wasnât testing anything. Anton just said honest things before understanding the emotional consequences attached to them.
And somehow that made it worse.
âWhat do you think?â you asked quietly before you could stop yourself.
The second the question left your mouth, Anton went still.
summary: You find yourself sharing a bed with your two closest friends, Anton and Sunghoon. To you, itâs nothing more than comfort and familiarityâthe kind that comes from years of trust and laughter. But as you drift off to sleep, unaware, the atmosphere shifts.
warnings: smut, p in v, creampie, blowjob, somnophilia, dub con, cnc, spit, lots of praise, mlm, obsession, MDNI
not proofread
â
The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows over the king-sized bed where the three of you had crashed after a long night of movies and laughter.
You, Anton, and Sunghoonâyour closest friends since freshman yearâhad squeezed in together, a tangle of limbs and blankets in the cozy guest room of Sunghoonâs family home.
It was comical, the way youâd all piled in, giggling about how cramped it felt but too tired to care. But nothing about it was weird, you guys were all so close, all felt so safe together that the feeling of uncomfort didnât exist.
Now, hours later, the house was silent except for the faint hum of the AC and the light creaking of the homeâs foundation as the wind blew outside.
You were deep asleep, curled on your side facing the wall, oblivious to the charged air around you.
Anton laid behind you, his breath shallow and uneven, body pressed just close enough to feel the heat radiating from your back.
He was the shy one, always blushing at jokes, stuttering through compliments. Tonight though, with you asleep and vulnerable, his usual timidity cracked under a wave of longing.
His dark eyes trace the curve of your shoulder, the way your tank top had ridden up to expose a sliver of your midriff.
âGod, sheâs so beautifulâ he thought, heart pounding.
His hand trembled as he reached out, fingers brushing your hip lightly, testing. You didnât stir, and that emboldened himâa soft sigh escaping his lips.
Sunghoon, on Antonâs other side, watched with hooded eyes, his own shyness mirrored in the way he bit his lip.
He was elegant even in repose, sharp features softened by the low light, but inside, desire churned.
Heâd harbored feelings for you for months, stolen glances during hangouts turning into fantasies.
And Anton.. well, the quiet moments between them had hinted at something mutual, a shared ache.
Sunghoon shifted closer to Anton, his hand sliding under the blanket to rest on the younger boyâs thigh, squeezing gently.
Anton gasped softly, turning his head to meet Sunghoonâs gazeâwide, uncertain, but needy.
His fingers trailed higher, brushing the bulge in Antonâs sweats, making the boy whimper quietly.
âSheâs.. sheâs right there. Can I..?â
Sunghoon nodded, lips brushing the shell of Antonâs ear.
Anton swallowed, his hand now daring to slip under your shirt. His palm lay flat against the warm skin of your stomach. Rising and falling with your breaths, and he felt a thrill at how soft you were, how trusting.
âBe careful.. donât wanna wake her yet.â
His touch ventured up, thumb grazing the underside of your breast through your bra, circling slowly. You murmured in your sleep, shifting slightly, but stayed outâlost in dreams.
Sunghoon leaned in, pressing his lips to Antonâs neck, suckling lightly on the skin there.
Anton bit back a moan, his body arching into the touch. âmmmh, hyung⊠feels so good,â he breathed, hips stuttering as Sunghoonâs hand palmed him fully now, stroking through the fabric.
Their touches intertwinedâSunghoonâs mouth moving to Antonâs jaw, then capturing his lips in a tentative kiss.
It started soft, shy pecks, but deepened quickly, tongues brushing. Sunghoon sucked on Antons lower lip, then delved in, drawing out the boyâs tongue to suck on it, spit slicking their mouths as they panted into eachother.
All the while, Antonâs fingers worked your nipple to a peak, pinching lightly. Sunghoon reached over him to trace your thigh, pushing your shorts aside just enough to feel the edge of your panties.
The air grew thick with their quiet arousal, breaths mingling.
âSheâs so warm,â Sunghoon murmured against Antonâs mouth. âTouch her more..please, Anton. I want to watch you.â
Anton whimpered, nodding, his shyness melting into need.
He tugged your top higher, exposing your chest to the cool air, and Sunghoon followed, his hand cupping your breast while Anton lavished attention on the otherâfingers rolling, mouths hovering but not yet daring to taste.
They admired you like this, bodies close, their own touches escalating.
Sunghoon ground against Antonâs hip, freeing both of their cocks under the blanketâhard, leaking, stroking eachother slowly.
Antonâs hand was shakey, pre-cum slicking his palm as he jerked Sunghoon, who returned the favor with firmer pulls, making Anton whine into his shoulder.
The thought of you sleeping, completely unaware of what was happening only pulled them deeper; you were theirs to explore in this hazy limbo.
Sunghoonâs fingers dipped lower, tracing your folds through the thin cotton, finding you already damp.
He groaned softly, âFuck.. sheâs wet. Anton, feel this.â Anton did, replacing Sunghoonâs hand, rubbing circles over your clit with trembling fingers.
You sighed in your sleep, hips twitching faintly, and that sound undid them.
âI-I canât.. hyung, I want to taste her,â Anton almost pleaded, voice cracking, tears pricking his eyes from the overwhelming pleasure of everything combined.
Sunghoon nodded, guiding him down carefully. Anton settled between your legs, pushing them apart gently, your shorts tugged to your ankles now.
His breath ghosted over your heat, and he leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit tentatively.
The first taste made him moan, vibrations humming against you.
Sunghoon watched, stroking himself now, then reached to caress Antonâs hair, encouraging him.
âGood boy..lick her slow. Make her feel it even when sheâs asleep.â
You stirred then, a soft gasp escaping as pleasure filtered through your dreams. Your eyes fluttered open, confusion mixing with arousal as you registered Antonâs mouth on youâwet, eager laps, his tongue delving into your folds.
Sunghoon was beside you now, his hand on your cheek, turning you to face him. âHey..shh, itâs okay,â he whispered, soothing. âWeâve wanted this for so long. Let us take care of you. Youâre so beautiful like this.. just relax.â
Your breath hitched, body arching into Antonâs mouth as realization dawnedâthem, your best friends, touching you like lovers. But the intimacy, the way they looked at you with raw adoration, melted any shock.
âW-what.. Anton? Sunghoon?â you murmured, voice sleepy, but your hand found Antonâs head, fingers threading through his hair to hold him closer.
Anton looked up, eyes glassy with tears of bliss, his face slick with your arousal. âP-please..donât stop me. You taste so good..â he stuttered as he begged, a tear slipping down his pretty little cheek before diving back in. His tongue thrusted inside you, spit dripped from his chin, whimpering with each lap.
Sunghoon kissed you then, slow and deep, his tongue seeking yoursâsucking on it like he had Antonâs, drawing it into his mouth with wet, slurping sounds.
Spit trailed between your lips when he pulled back, his voice husky. âSee how needy he is for you? Touch him.. guide us through it. Tell us what you want, weâre yours.â
His hand left his cock as he crawled down to join Anton between your legs, a finger sliding into your heat alongside the boyâs tongue, stretching you gently.
You moaned, the dual sensation overwhelming, your body waking fully to the intense feeling.
âOh god.. keep goingâŠT-touch eachother,â you whispered, emboldened by their vulnerability and pure want.
Sunghoonâs eyes darkened with lust, and he pulled Anton up, their mouths crashing together--tongues tangling, sharing your taste in a sloppy, spit-filled kiss.
Anton cried into it, tears from the intensity of pleasure as Sunghoonâs hand wrapped around both of their cocks, frotting them together.
âF-fuck, hyung.. please, more,â Anton begged, voice breaking, before they turned back to you.
Sunghoon positioned you on your back, Anton straddling your chest while Sunghoon settled between your thighs.
âWeâre gonna make you feel everything,â Sunghoon murmured, talking you through it as he thrust two fingers into your heat, curling them against your walls.
âFeel that? Right there.. gonna fuck you slow first, build it up. Antonâs gonna feed you his cockâsuck it like a good girl for us.â
Anton hesitated, a shy blush creeping up, but nonetheless he shifted forward, his leaking cock brushing your lips.
âO-open.. please,â he stuttered, and you did, tongue swirling the head before taking him in.
He cried out softly, hips bucking as you sucked, hollowing your cheeks. Tears streamed down his face now, overwhelmedâpleasure from your mouth, from Sunghoonâs fingers occasionally grazing his balls.
Sunghoon watched, stroking himself with his free hand. âThatâs it.. take him deep. Heâs crying for youâour shy boy, breaking apart.â
Then suddenly, he replaced his fingers with his cock, pushing into your wetness inch by inch, groaning at the tightness. âSo perfect.. clenching around me.â
Your hand reached up, stroking Antonâs thigh, then pulling him deeper into your mouth as Sunghoon started thrustingâslow, intimate rolls that hit deep.
Anton whimpered above you, fucking your mouth gently, spit dribbling down your chin. âI-Iâm gonna..too good..donât stop sucking, please,â he begged, tears falling onto your chest.
Sunghoon leaned over to kiss Anton again while he pounded into you harder, the bed creaking loudly.
Their hands roamed; Sunghoonâs on Antonâs ass, squeezing, a finger teasing his hole; Antonâs fisting your hair, pulling you into him as he thrusts into your mouth.
âHyung.. fuck her harder, make her cum.â Anton gasped, voice desperate as his hips began to stutter.
You felt the build, their words guiding youâmuttered praises of âYouâre doing so well, taking us both,â mixed with shy confessions, âWe love you..mmhâŠso much.. wanted this forever..â
The orgasm crashed over you first, walls pulsing around Sunghoon, milking him as you moaned around Antonâs cock.
Anton came immediately after with groan, spilling down your throat, hot and salty.
Sunghoon followed, thrusting as deep into you as he could get before spilling his sticky liquid inside.
Anton collapsed beside you, nuzzling into your neck. They held you between them, touches turning tenderâkisses, whispersâbodies entwined in the afterglow.