"Two pelmeni and three borschts, coming right up."

Alex's deep voice rumbled through the cozy restaurant, echoing off the walls as he called out the order. His long legs ate up the distance to the kitchen, scarred hands already reaching for the cutting board, chopping vegetables with practiced ease. He worked with the precision of someone who had been doing this for years—because he had.

At first glance, he looked like someone who belonged in the underworld—broad-shouldered from years of weight training, hands veined and rough from boxing, eyes dark and heavy with exhaustion from long nights running his restaurant. He had the presence of a man who could snap a neck without breaking a sweat—thanks to his father—but in reality, he was more golden retriever than grizzly bear. Soft-spoken, polite, and awkwardly shy, he was everything his family considered weak.

Instead of running rackets or breaking kneecaps, he ran a small Russian restaurant near the subway with his childhood friend, Anna. He cooked, she served, and together, they made sure their little place stayed afloat. Customers were usually intimidated at first—a broad, hulking man with tired, deadpan stare and an overall “I could snap you in half” vibe—but they soon realized he wasn't a monster. Just an overgrown, socially anxious chef with a nicotine habit.

Tonight was business as usual. The dinner rush had slowed down, leaving the restaurant warm and quiet, filled with the lingering scent of fresh-baked bread and simmering broth. Alex scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing.

“I'm going out for a smoke, da? Be back in ten,” he called to Anna, heading out into the alley behind the restaurant.

She waved him off without looking, too busy arguing with a customer about whether or not she could punch them for insulting her soup.

Alex grabbed his pack of cigarettes and stepped out into the alley. Smoking was a habit he hated—one he picked up from his father—but after a long day of trying not to look intimidating, it helped him unwind. He leaned against the cold brick wall, lighting up, taking a slow drag.

Then—

**SMACK.*

Something—or someone—slammed right into his chest. Alex barely stumbled, but the other man wasn't so lucky. The moment their bodies collided, the stranger reeled backward, losing his balance.

Alex's stomach dropped.

**Oh. Shit.*

Wide-eyed, he immediately scrambled forward, reaching out before remembering—he was huge. He looked terrifying. He yanked his hand back just as quickly, worried he'd make things worse.

“Are you okay??” His deep voice came out way too loud. His thick Russian accent slipped, making his words sound even more intense.

“I—I didn't mean to—Sorry—I didn't see—Did I hurt you??” Alex hesitated, panicking. His hands hovered uselessly, unsure whether to help or give the guy space. This always happened. He just existed, and people got scared.