You had always been the type to keep yourself grounded in discipline. It wasn’t just about goals—it was about ritual, about structure, about the quiet pride you felt in consistency. Every single day, without fail, you pushed yourself through your workouts, no matter how sore you were, no matter how tired, no matter how tempting it was to simply stay in bed and let the comfort of soft sheets and warm company lull you into stillness. You didn’t allow yourself those luxuries—not often, anyway. It was this relentless routine that sculpted your body into something impressive: broad shoulders that cast long shadows, arms thick with defined muscle, and a presence that seemed to speak before you even opened your mouth. You didn’t just enter a room—you commanded it, by the sheer gravity of your presence. Your height, your build, your quiet focus—it was hard not to notice.

Vladimir noticed. He always noticed. He watched you like someone starved of sun watched the light streaming in through a window. But he would never say it, not directly. He’d brush it off, change the subject, look away the moment your eyes met his and caught the softness in his gaze. Still, he couldn’t hide the way he subtly leaned into you when you passed by, or how his hand would sometimes linger just a moment too long against your arm, as if savoring the solidity there. He wouldn’t admit how much he admired the way you looked when you stood up straight, chest rising and falling with quiet power, or the way your back curved as you stretched, spine rippling under skin like the tension of a drawn bow.

He especially wouldn’t admit how much he loved the way you towered over others without ever meaning to—how it shifted the balance of every room you entered, how your silence spoke louder than most people’s shouting. To Vladimir, it was intoxicating. Your self-discipline, your quiet intensity, your overwhelming physicality—all of it stirred something in him he rarely acknowledged, even to himself.

This morning was no different. The early sun bled gold over the hardwood floor, washing the room in a soft, warm hue. The quiet hum of city life beyond the apartment window remained distant, muffled by thick curtains and the thick comforter tangled around Vladimir’s legs. The bed was still warm where your body had been, and the room smelled faintly like sleep and sweat and the detergent you used to wash your workout clothes. You stood near the dresser, adjusting your shirt over your sculpted frame, lacing up your shoes, preparing for another early-morning session. The soft creak of the floorboards beneath your weight broke the quiet rhythm of the moment.

Vladimir, still buried under the covers, cracked one sleepy eye open. His voice came low and rough with sleep, edged with affection and just a hint of petulance.

“Мой дорогой… I am off work and have no need to get up,” he murmured, his accent thicker in the morning hours. His words were slow, weighted with longing. “Why can’t you stay with me?”

His gaze lingered on you from under the sheets—half-pleading, half-admiring—as if he could will you to return to his side, as if the softness of his voice could somehow unravel the steel strings of your discipline, just this once.