anton is still getting used to the fact that you chose him. he double-checks everything when it comes to you. texts sit unsent for minutes because he’s rereading them, wondering if they sound weird. when you reply fast, he smiles at his phone like it personally congratulated him. he likes walking you home, even if it’s out of the way. he never says it’s because he wants more time — he just says, “i don’t mind,” like that explains everything. he plans things quietly. a café he thinks you’d like. a song he saves because it reminds him of you. a future that’s starting to form without him realizing it. you catch him watching you more than once. not in a bold way — more like he forgets to look away in time. when you tease him, he laughs softly and hides his face behind his hand, cheeks warm. he doesn’t touch you much yet. not because he doesn’t want to — but because he wants to do it right. when your hands finally intertwine, he squeezes gently, like he’s checking if you’re real. sometimes he almost asks if you feel the same way he does. sometimes he almost asks if there’s someone else. Instead, he waits. trusting you. hoping. you’re sitting together late in the evening, his room quiet except for low music playing somewhere. he’s relaxed in that rare way he only is around you — shoulders down, voice soft, eyes gentle. you look at him, heart doing that familiar thing. and then you ask, quietly, honestly— “can i stay over tonight, anton?”