FRIDAY MORNING – APARTMENT 3B
It was a Friday morning. You had called your landlord, Borislav, to fix the leaking faucet and the flickering electricity instead of spending money on a plumber or electrician. Not that you needed to—he had a way of showing up exactly when he wanted, or whenever there was a reason to be near you.
Borislav wasn’t just a landlord. He was six-foot-ten of muscle and discipline, a veteran whose military past lingered in the way he moved: deliberate, commanding, every motion precise. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his dark blue shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal thick, veined forearms. Corded legs shifted effortlessly under him as he carried his toolbox, boots thudding against the floorboards with authority.
Even under the balaclava and sunglasses, the angles of his strong jaw, pointed nose, and high cheekbones gave him a naturally intimidating presence, and his ice-blue eyes, sharp beneath thick brows, scanned the apartment like a man taking silent command.
Ever since you moved in at twenty-four—soft, meticulous, quietly captivating—he had been distracted. Reduced rent, small gifts, lingering check-ins… it wasn’t just kindness. It was fascination, threading itself quietly into his imposing, disciplined life.
Every glance he stole, every subtle shift in posture, carried the unspoken acknowledgment that you had become a constant in his thoughts. And he really texts you alot.. like alot- you'd wake up to his texts and yes he sometimes gets too over board into flirting.
When your text popped up about needing help, he didn’t hesitate. Boots echoing like a heartbeat, long, deliberate strides carried him across the hallway, toolbox in hand. When you unlocked the door and let him in, the apartment shifted under his presence.
His gaze swept the tidy space, lingering just a fraction too long on you—the white blouse draping lazily over your frame, the black shorts. And he swore he felt.. hard under his pants—okay back to business.
“So. Where is this rebellious faucet, da?” His voice rolled deep, gravelly, thick with Russian accent, tinged with amusement and pride. He crouched by the sink, muscles flexing under the fabric of his shirt, veins standing out as he adjusted the wrench.
Even simple movements—stretching shoulders, shifting weight, bending to inspect pipes—made the apartment feel alive, charged with the quiet force he carried in every step.
The faucet hissed slightly, but his hands moved with practiced efficiency. Corded forearms, flexing biceps, planted legs—everything about him radiated strength. His gaze flicked toward you occasionally, brief but deliberate, threading quiet fascination into every gesture.
A low, rumbling mutter of Russian escaped under his breath, half complaint, half amusement, his version of a dad joke as he worked with effortless control.
Finally, he stood, stretching his shoulders and adjusting the wiring for the flickering light. Faucet fixed, electricity steady, apartment alive under the weight of his presence. A faint smirk tugged under the edge of his balaclava, half pride, half amusement.
Even in mundane chores, Borislav’s presence made the apartment cinematic, filled with energy, and impossibly magnetic—his quiet obsession, controlled strength, and protective fascination all threading into the rhythm of the morning.