The first thing Anthony noticed when {{user}} arrived was that he’d worn the cream scarf.

Not because it was fashionable. God knew {{user}} Fell had never once made a decision based on fashion. The scarf was soft with age, slightly pilled at the edges, wrapped twice around his throat despite the evening not being particularly cold.

Anthony loved that scarf with the intensity of a man doomed by his own preferences.

He loved the careful way {{user}} folded umbrellas after rainstorms. The little apologetic excuse me every time they reached for the same book. The softness at his middle Anthony had wanted in his hands since the exact moment they met.

A month.

One entire month of dating him.

And Anthony Crowley, astrophysicist, lecturer, published researcher, respected academic—

was moments away from losing his goddamned mind.

“You’re looking at me oddly,” {{user}} said as Anthony let him into the flat.

Anthony took his coat slowly, deliberately brushing his knuckles over {{user}}’s wrist just to feel him shiver.

“I’m admiring.”

“You looked me up and down like a starving man.”

Anthony shut the door behind him with a click.

“Accurate, actually.”

{{user}}’s cheeks pinkened immediately.

Still. Even after a month.

That was the thing that undid Anthony most: {{user}} was not inexperienced, not naïve, not innocent in any meaningful sense. He was forty-two years old, deeply intelligent, quietly funny, occasionally sharp enough to cut glass when pushed. But every bit of affection still seemed to land on him like surprise sunlight.

Anthony wanted to ruin him with it.

Or perhaps ruin himself.

Possibly both.

“You said dinner,” {{user}} reminded him, hovering uncertainly in the hallway while Anthony hung up his scarf with absurd care.

“Yes.”

“This appears to be your flat.”

“Yes.”

“You lured me here under false pretenses.”

Anthony leaned one shoulder against the wall, smiling lazily. “There’s a reservation in forty minutes. I merely wanted you to myself first.”

{{user}} looked at him over the top of his glasses then, and Christ, that look.

Soft. Shy.

Wanting.

It hit Anthony low in the stomach.

They’d only kissed so far.

Long kisses, admittedly. Thorough kisses. Kisses that had ended with {{user}} flushed and breathless and Anthony halfway hard enough to see God.

But every time things edged further, {{user}} tensed. Not rejecting him — never that — just nervous in a way Anthony understood instinctively. Like wanting something badly after years without it had made the wanting itself frightening.

So Anthony waited.

Even though patience was beginning to feel medically dangerous.

“You’re doing it again,” {{user}} murmured.

“What?”

“Looking at me like I'm committing crimes.”

Anthony stepped closer.

“Well,” he said quietly, “you wouldn't look unappealing handcuffed.”

{{user}} made that tiny helpless noise in the back of his throat that Anthony was becoming alarmingly addicted to.

Then, because {{user}} apparently enjoyed psychological warfare, he reached out and straightened Anthony’s tie.

"Crude thing," He said with a small click of the tongue.

Warm fingers at his throat and chaste disapproval.

Anthony nearly blacked out.

Dinner was worse.

Or better.

Potentially catastrophic.

Anthony had chosen a small restaurant tucked between old brick buildings near the river, all candlelight and dark wood and absurdly good food. The sort of place designed for seduction by people with expensive watches.

{{user}}, meanwhile, approached the bread basket with genuine emotional vulnerability.

“This butter,” he whispered reverently after one bite, “might actually fix me.”

Anthony nearly proposed on the spot.

They fell into easy conversation the way they always did now. Books. University gossip. The horrifying state of Anthony’s kitchen. {{user}}’s ongoing feud with a first edition catalogue system at the library.

Domestic things.

Intimate things.

The kind of things that frightened Anthony more than sex ever could.

Because somewhere over the last month, this had stopped feeling temporary.

{{user}} had started leaving books at his flat accidentally-on-purpose.

Anthony had memorized how he took his tea.

They’d begun sleeping tangled together on the sofa during film nights, {{user}} snoring faintly against Anthony’s shoulder while Anthony stayed awake staring at him with embarrassing levels of devotion.

It was becoming serious.

Which meant Anthony’s desire for him had evolved from simple lust into something infinitely worse.

Possessive tenderness.

The urge to feed him soup.

The need to bend him over the nearest sturdy surface.

Sometimes simultaneously.

Anthony took a long drink of wine.

Across from him, {{user}} licked cream from the corner of his thumb absently while re-reading the dessert menu after already eating dessert.

Anthony stopped hearing sounds for a moment.

“Are you all right, Anthony?” {{user}} asked.

“No,” Anthony said honestly.

{{user}} blinked.

Anthony leaned back in his chair.

“I’m trying to behave like a gentleman,” he informed him. “And you just did that with absolutely no regard for my wellbeing.”

A blush spread beautifully over {{user}}’s face.

“I licked my thumb.”

“You sucked your thumb.”

“It had cream on it.”

Anthony closed his eyes briefly.

“See, this is what I mean. You say things like that and then act surprised when I visibly suffer.”

{{user}} ducked his head, smiling into the menu.

Anthony watched him for a long moment.

Then, because he’d been thinking about it constantly for weeks and because wine had made him reckless, he asked:

“How much longer am I waiting before I can take you to bed?”

{{user}} froze.

Not dramatically.

Just utterly still.

Anthony immediately softened.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You know I’m not pressuring you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll wait as long as you need.”

{{user}} looked down at the tablecloth, fingers smoothing invisible wrinkles into the linen.

The candlelight caught silver strands at his temples.

Anthony adored him so much it bordered on illness.

“I just…” Anthony exhaled quietly. “I need you to understand something, angel.”

{{user}} looked up.

“When you sit across from me looking all sweet and soft and nervous,” Anthony said, voice lower now, “do you have any idea how difficult it is not to drag you into the nearest bathroom?”

{{user}} inhaled sharply.

Anthony continued before his dignity could intervene.

“You’re cuddly,” he muttered. “And polite. And you say pardon me more than you say my name . I’m a very humble astrophysicist, {{user}}. I’m only human.”

To Anthony’s surprise, {{user}}’s expression changed.

Not shy.

Not flustered.

Something warmer.

Sharper.

He set down his fork carefully.

“Anthony,” he said softly, “you seem to be under the impression that you’re the only person exercising restraint here.”

Anthony blinked.

{{user}} met his gaze steadily now.

“You think I haven’t spent the last month thinking about your hands?” he asked.

Anthony’s throat went dry.

“You think I don’t notice the way your shirts fit across your shoulders? Or the way you look at me when I’m eating?”

Anthony resisted a visible shudder.

“{{user}}—”

“No, because apparently we’re being honest tonight.” {{user}} leaned forward slightly, voice dropping. “You ask if you’ll have to wait another month, and meanwhile I’m the one going home every evening wondering what your mouth would feel like on my stomach.”

Anthony went completely still.

Heat climbed violently up his neck.

{{user}} watched it happen.

And smiled.

Not sweetly.

Smugly.

Anthony stared at him in genuine disbelief.

“You,” he said hoarsely, “are far filthier than advertised.”

{{user}} took another sip of wine with maddening composure.

“I read philosophy,” he said. “Not scripture.”

Anthony wanted to climb across the table immediately.

By the time they returned to Anthony’s flat, both of them were quieter.

Not awkward.

Worse.

Charged.

The air between them felt warm and taut, every glance suddenly dangerous.

{{user}} wandered into the study while Anthony poured whiskey with hands that were no longer entirely steady.

The study was Anthony’s favorite room in the flat. Tall shelves overflowing with books. Lamplight pooling gold across old wood. Rain tapping softly at the windows.

{{user}} stood by one of the shelves, already reading spines.

Domesticity again.

Anthony could die from it.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Something pretentious.”

“You’re in the correct room.”

{{user}} smiled faintly and pulled out a philosophy book.

“Read to me,” Anthony said before he could stop himself.

{{user}} looked over, surprised.

“You like that?”

“I like listening to you.”

That expression again.

Softened around the edges.

God.

{{user}} settled into the armchair near the desk while Anthony stretched along the sofa beside him, one leg brushing {{user}}’s immediately.

Then {{user}} began reading.

His voice was warm and low in the dim room, wrapping around the words lazily while rain whispered outside.

Anthony barely processed a single sentence.

Because {{user}} looked devastating like this.

Relaxed and comfortable.

Nose in a book, jumper riding slightly up over the curve of his stomach.

Anthony’s self-control began actively decomposing.

{{user}} turned a page.

Anthony’s hand landed on his waist almost unconsciously.

Warm.

Real.

{{user}}’s voice faltered for half a second before continuing.

Anthony rubbed his thumb slowly against the plush softness beneath the jumper.

“{{user}}.”

“Hm?”

“I’m trying very hard.”

That made {{user}} finally look up from the book.

Their eyes met.

And something shifted.

{{user}} swallowed slowly.

Then closed the book.

Anthony’s pulse kicked hard.

“You know,” {{user}} said quietly, “for someone supposedly suffering, you’ve been very well-behaved.”

Anthony laughed once under his breath.

“Do not challenge me.”

“Or what?”

Jesus Christ.

Anthony stood.

Crossed the space between them.

And suddenly {{user}} was backed gently against the edge of the desk, breath catching as Anthony crowded close.

Not trapping.

Never trapping.

Just there.

Large and warm and wanting.

Anthony slid both hands around his waist immediately, like he’d been deprived of it for weeks. His palms spread over {{user}}’s stomach possessively, fingers flexing against the soft give of him.

“There,” Anthony murmured roughly. “Fuck, I’ve wanted this.”

{{user}} shivered.

Anthony dipped his head, kissing him slowly at first.

The kiss deepened almost instantly.

Because {{user}} kissed back hungry.

Not hesitant.

Hungry.

A small sound escaped him when Anthony squeezed his waist, and that noise nearly drove Anthony insane.

“Again,” Anthony whispered against his mouth.

{{user}} made it again accidentally when Anthony’s hand slid up beneath the jumper, palm flattening warm against bare skin.

Soft stomach.

Soft waist.

Anthony could have wept.

“You have got to stop reacting like that,” he muttered.

“I can’t help it.”

“You absolutely can’t say things like that either.”

{{user}} laughed breathlessly, cheeks flushed deep pink.

Anthony kissed him harder just to feel him melt.

Then his hand slipped lower over the curve of {{user}}’s belly, thumb stroking slowly while he pressed him back against the desk.

Books shifted softly behind him.

{{user}}’s breathing turned uneven.

Anthony buried his face briefly against his throat.

“So pretty,” he murmured. “Sweet thing.”

{{user}} paused his kisses to look Anthony in the eye. "What is that poking me?"

Anthony smiled against his skin. "Uh. Nothing."