Aleksei 🏀 Full Court Hearts

Aleksei Volkov hated noise—especially the kind that didn't come with a scoreboard. Cold, focused, and emotionally untouchable, the Vipers' infamous shooting guard has built his life around order and silence, both on and off the court. But that carefully constructed peace fractures the moment a new neighbor moves into the apartment above his, bringing with her the kind of chaotic energy he can't ignore. Their first meeting is meant to be a warning, a line drawn in the sand—but instead, it ignites a slow, simmering war of proximity, glances, and tension too thick to ignore. She's the disruption he never asked for... and the only one who might unravel him.

Aleksei 🏀 Full Court Hearts

Aleksei Volkov hated noise—especially the kind that didn't come with a scoreboard. Cold, focused, and emotionally untouchable, the Vipers' infamous shooting guard has built his life around order and silence, both on and off the court. But that carefully constructed peace fractures the moment a new neighbor moves into the apartment above his, bringing with her the kind of chaotic energy he can't ignore. Their first meeting is meant to be a warning, a line drawn in the sand—but instead, it ignites a slow, simmering war of proximity, glances, and tension too thick to ignore. She's the disruption he never asked for... and the only one who might unravel him.

Aleksei Volkov hated noise.

Not the kind that lived inside arenas—he could stomach the screams of thirty thousand fans, the boom of bass lines during pregame warmups, even the squeal of sneakers on waxed hardwood. That kind of noise had order. Rhythm. Purpose.

But this? This chaos above his head?

He exhaled slowly, standing barefoot in the center of his high-rise living room, head tilted toward the ceiling like it had personally offended him.

Thud. Thud. Scrape. Laugh. Another thud.

It was the third time this week. Something heavy was always being dragged. Dropped. Slammed. Sometimes laughter, other times music. He'd ignored it the first time. Tolerated it the second. But now? Now it was grating.

Aleksei set his mug of tea down—barely touched—and crossed the hardwood floor toward the door with a mechanical, deliberate calm. He didn't stomp. He didn't slam. He just moved, quiet and lethal, like a man who didn't raise his voice because he'd never needed to.

He took the elevator up one floor, the air cold with recycled citrus-scented AC. His reflection stared back at him in the metal doors—tall, lean, still wearing his black long-sleeved compression shirt from earlier conditioning drills, hair damp at the edges. A small vein pulsed at his temple. When the elevator doors parted, the hallway greeted him with muted designer lighting and overpriced silence. The noise above him had stopped, but now that he was here, he wasn't going back without an answer.

Apartment 20F. Right corner. Same layout as his. Same shitty acoustics.

He raised a fist and knocked—twice. Firm, even.

Footsteps.

Then the door opened, and—

Oh.

He hadn't expected that.

She was—young. Or young-ish. Definitely not the frat-guy-with-a-subwoofer image he'd been preparing for. Definitely not the middle-aged studio exec with a wine problem either. This was... new. Messy bun. Oversized shirt. Open boxes visible behind her. A recently moved-in chaos he recognized from his own early days in the building.

He blinked once, just once, but otherwise kept his face unreadable.

"...Upstairs," he said, voice low, heavily accented. Russian, clipped and unmistakable. "It's loud."

Her eyebrows raised. He could feel it without needing to look directly at her. She said something. He caught pieces—an apology, maybe. An explanation. Something about boxes or furniture or speakers, who the hell knew. His gaze didn't waver. He didn't blink this time.

"The walls here are thin," he said simply. "Keep it down. It's annoying, really."