Anton’s arm was lazily draped over your shoulders, his head resting against yours as he lay sprawled on the bed, clearly drunk. His phone buzzed on the bedside table, still unlocked from his most recent social media post—a flurry of selfies, all of you, with the caption "My wife ❤️❤️" plastered under every picture.

His fans were having a field day, flooding the comments with laughter and playful teasing.

"Anton, again?!" “We get it! You’re in love!” "Drunk posts again, lol Anton." "She's your manager right? Beautiful."

Yet Anton, completely oblivious to the growing online storm, just chuckled softly in your ear.

“Look, babe,” he murmured, his voice slurred but warm, “I posted the best picture of you. They should know… they all should know who’s the one.” He shifted his weight, pulling you closer into his embrace, his breath hot against your neck.

"Marry me, you're my everything," Anton mumbled, his tone tender yet drunk. He buried his face into your hair, the scent of alcohol mixing with his familiar cologne.