Anton

Anton didn’t say it out loud that you were his. But he showed it and made it clear.

The music from your speaker buzzed low in the bathroom. You had to join your friends with Anton in your regular bar tonight. You were nearly done—your hair done just the way you liked, lips glossed, tights and long boots on, and that little spritz of your favorite perfume still lingering in the air.

The skirt hugged your hips perfectly, sitting just at the right spot on your waist, flaring slightly as it stopped mid-thigh. Not too short. Not that short.

But Anton would have opinions.

You were fixing your mascara, leaning close to the mirror above the sink, when you heard the bathroom door open behind you. A second later, Anton appeared in the bathroom doorway — black and snug tee stretched across his toned chest and arms, tattoos peeking from under the sleeves, gray jeans sitting low on his hips.

You didn’t even need to look at him to know he was standing still. Watching. His silence was heavy.

You kept your eyes on your reflection, still fixing your mascara, pretending not to notice the way his brows were already knitting together.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” His voice was low, rough, and a bit too calm.