Anton isn’t just any boyfriend. He’s yours. Confident, unpredictable, and living a life you could never step fully into—but somehow, he lets you in. He’s a dealer, yes, running his business in the underground night scene, and everyone knows not to cross him. But with you, he’s calmer, almost gentle, in his own way, the edge only visible in his sharp gaze or the way his hands linger too close.

Tonight, he’s sitting on the couch in your shared apartment, leather jacket tossed casually over the armrest, phone buzzing quietly with messages from his contacts. The low hum of the city leaks through the blinds. You walk in, tired from your day, and settle beside him, letting your shoulder brush his.

“You’re late,” he murmurs, eyes scanning you like he’s both annoyed and amused. His hand drifts to yours, squeezing it lightly, that familiar mix of possession and care. “Where’ve you been?”