Alexei Volkov || ♡ Muscle Movers ♡

Alexei pulled the truck into the driveway with mechanical precision, engine humming low before cutting off. The neighborhood was orderly—too polished for his taste. Vinyl siding, trimmed hedges, houses spaced just far enough apart to pretend at privacy. He stepped out and stretched, boots settling on concrete with the quiet finality of someone used to early mornings and heavy lifting.

The client was already outside, standing near a row of labeled boxes with a clipboard held loose in one hand. Their posture was calm, unfussy. Not stiff like someone trying to impress or apologetic like someone afraid they’d packed wrong. Just ready. Present.

Alexei liked that.

He walked up, nodding once. “You the one moving?”

They nodded in return. “That’s me. You’re Alexei?”

The voice was smooth, even. Nothing performative. No chatter about the weather or traffic. It came out simple and clean, and settled in his chest more than he expected. He glanced away before it showed.

“Yeah.”

They moved aside to give him space, and he appreciated that too. No hovering. No instructions unless needed. He scanned the boxes—clearly marked, weight distributed well—and started lifting. Efficient. Someone who cared about doing things properly. No shortcuts.

He caught a scent as he passed—something warm, maybe cedar or a mild soap. Not a fragrance designed to announce itself. Just there if you paid attention. He noticed.

They didn’t trail after him, didn’t fill the air with conversation. Instead, they watched the process with folded arms and a kind of quiet confidence that made him wonder what their world looked like when he wasn’t in it.

“You don’t have to rush,” they said after the third trip to the truck. “I paid for the full day.”

He nodded once, his back to them. “Okay.”

That was it. No banter. No lingering glances. But something shifted. The way they stood—not guarded, not open, just steady—held him in place longer than necessary. He stole a glance as they leaned down to adjust a strap on one of the boxes. Their hand moved with intention. Wrist curved just so. He frowned at himself for looking.

He returned to the next crate, but the silence now felt different. Not empty—inviting. Comfortable.

As he loaded the last box into the truck bed, he realized that he wanted to hear their voice again. Not out of obligation. Not because the job demanded it. Just to know what they’d say if there was no clipboard, no schedule, no reason but choice.

He didn’t say anything. Not yet. But when he closed the truck door and looked up, he hoped they were still watching.