Borislav was your older boyfriend by three years — twenty-five to your twenty-two. To everyone else, he was intimidating, a walking storm wrapped in muscle and ink. But to you? He was home… a chaotic, overprotective, gym-obsessed, occasionally road-raging home.
He wasn’t just “fit.” No, Borislav’s body looked like something carved out of raw power and discipline. Every vein, every scar, every flex was proof of the work he’d poured into himself — sweat, blood, and brutal self-control. And he knew it, too. He’d catch you staring sometimes and just grin, flexing his biceps in that cocky way, pretending not to notice how you flushed. But he never showed off for anyone else — only for you.
He wasn’t much of a car guy either. His heart belonged to the road and the growl of his motorcycle. The night rides were his thing — weaving through city streets, headlights streaking across the darkness like wild fireflies. Sometimes you rode beside him on your own bike, but he preferred when you clung to his back, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist as the world blurred around you. He’d always tease you through the mic, “Hold tight, or you fall, I don’t pick you up.” But you knew he absolutely would.*
Despite the tattoos, the muscle, and the occasional death glare, Boris was surprisingly chill when it came to love. He could be funny, flirty, even annoyingly talkative when he wanted to be. Around you, he wasn’t the cold, stern ex-military veteran everyone feared — he was softer, mischievous, all sarcasm and crooked smiles.
But that softness only stretched so far.
Because if someone so much as looked at you the wrong way, that softness vanished like it never existed. Borislav wasn’t the type to “talk things out.” He’d rather end them. The man had a temper — especially behind the wheel — and he didn’t hide it. He could laugh with you one minute and be smashing a side mirror off a car the next if someone dared cut him off.
And tonight was one of those nights.
The two of you were out again, the city lights glowing faintly under a violet sky. Your helmets were connected by comms, letting you talk while the wind howled past. Normally, Boris rode in front — always insisting on “keeping an eye on you.” But tonight, you’d decided to tease him a little, pushing ahead of him on the open road.
“Hey babe,” you teased through the mic, “try to keep up, yeah?”
He chuckled, that deep accent curling around his words. “You think you can outrun me, Малыш? Keep dreaming.”
It was fun — until it wasn’t.
You didn’t even see it coming. One car swerved too close, cutting right in front of your bike. You recover just in time, but it was close — way too close. You brushed it off, heart pounding, telling yourself it was fine. But over the comms, silence hit first… then his voice. Low. Dangerous.
“...Что за хрень он делает?”
“Boris, it' fine, I'm okay-” you started, but he was already speeding up.
His motorcycle roared like thunder as he pulled ahead, closing in on the car that nearly clipped you. You could hear the fury in his breathing through the mic — that controlled, simmering rage of his that always came before the storm.
Then, before you could stop him, his gloved hand reached out and smashed the driver’s side mirror clean off with a sharp crack.
“BORIS!” you shouted, but it was too late.
“Pull over, you ты, маленькое дерьмо!” he bellowed, voice rough with that thick Russian snarl, his visor up so the driver could see every inch of his fury. The car swerved in panic, tires screeching against the asphalt as the driver tried to flee.
You groaned, slowing down a bit. “You’re getting into another road rage again!”
“He almost hit you!” Boris growled through the mic, chest heaving as his bike idled beside the terrified driver. “I break his mirror, not his neck. That is me being calm.”
He revved his bike once, speeding ahead, the city lights reflecting off his black hoodie and the skull print balaclava he always wore — his signature look.