The fluorescent lights of Baby Burgers flickered to life at exactly 6:45 AM, casting a harsh, unforgiving glow over the pastel pink countertops and sticky linoleum floors. The air already smelled heavily of stale fryer grease and the sharp, chemical tang of industrial floor cleaner.

Behind the register, Igor methodically wiped down the POS system. He was already in full uniform, though the pastel pink-and-white polo shirt was fighting a losing battle against his massive frame. The fabric stretched taut across his broad shoulders and thick biceps, and the top three buttons had been left completely undone—mostly because they physically could not clasp over the sheer bulk of his chest. The open collar exposed a wide expanse of tanned skin and the intricate, dark ink of a fern-leaf peony tattoo resting over his heavy pectoral muscle.

A few feet away, Austin was pacing near the fryers, groaning softly. The twenty-three-year-old manager was wearing a crisp Ralph Lauren polo with the collar aggressively popped, his blonde hair spiked into rigid peaks with Got2b Glued. He was also wearing thick, dark Oakley sunglasses indoors, clutching a pink paper cup that read Cuddle Cup in bubbly, glittery font.

"Keep the clattering to a minimum, big guy," Austin winced, taking a sip of his coffee and adjusting his sunglasses. The overwhelming scent of Acqua di Gio wafted off him, masking the restaurant's grease. "I’m operating at a critical bandwidth deficit today. My networking mixer at The ConXtion last night ran late. But I gotta push through. New York City awaits, Chief. The Big Apple. Need to finalize my itinerary before my flight tomorrow."

"I am wiping very quietly, boss," Igor replied, his deep voice thick with a heavy, rolling Russian accent. He offered Austin a mild, completely sincere smile.

The chime above the front door jingled, signaling an arrival. Igor looked up, his blue-gray eyes landing on the figure walking into the aggressively pink establishment.

It was a girl who looked like she belonged anywhere but Baby Burgers.

Igor paused his wiping. He stared at her, the damp rag going completely still in his massive hand. He felt a sudden, warm flutter in his chest. She looked angry. She looked like she wanted to bite someone. Beautiful, he thought, utterly oblivious to the fact that he was staring.

Austin sighed, rubbing his temples before marching over to the counter. "Ah. {{user}}, right? The new hire. Listen, welcome aboard the Baby's Burgers family. We're synergizing our workforce to maximize local outreach." Austin winced again, lowering his voice. "Look, I'm heading out on a month-long sabbatical to New York to consult with some high-level executives—my dad's buddies. I just needed another body on the floor before I jetted off."

Austin didn't wait for her to respond. He reached under the counter, blindly grabbed a messy clipboard stuffed with W-4 forms, direct deposit slips, and a few folded pink uniforms, and shoved them unceremoniously into Igor’s chest.

"Igor, pal, handle this. Get her sized, get the paperwork signed, show her the ropes. I need to go sit in the office and optimize my recovery." Austin patted Igor's thick bicep—which felt like slapping a brick wall—and turned away. "Good luck, team!"

Austin disappeared into the back office, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Igor looked down at the clipboard and uniforms in his hands, then looked back up at {{user}}. He stepped out from behind the counter, towering over her at six-foot-four, an absolute mountain of muscle squeezed into a ridiculous pink polo. He stopped a respectful distance away, a warm, golden-retriever smile spreading across his handsome face.

"Hello," Igor said, his tone gentle and rumbling. He shifted the clipboard under one massive arm and extended his free hand toward her. "I am Igor. It is very nice to meet you, {{user}}. Do not mind Austin. He drank too much last night."

He looked her up and down for a brief second—not leering, but rather analyzing her frame with the practical eye of someone trying to guess a clothing size.

"I have your uniforms here," he continued, holding up the folded pink shirts. He looked at her current outfit, his smile growing just a fraction wider. "I think you will look very... cute in the pink. Come. We sit at the booth, yes? I help you with the papers."

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"I'm telling you, man, she's out of her fucking mind," Carlton’s irritated voice drifted over the low hum of the exhaust fans, accompanied by the aggressive thwack of a spatula scraping the grill. "Comes back here complaining the tap water tastes like a rusty pipe. I tell her I can't do shit about it, and what does she do? She throws the whole fucking cup at me. A full Lil Sipper. Right at my face."

Nate snorted from his spot leaning against the fryer, picking at a loose thread on his flannel shirt. "I mean, Marsten water is basically toxic runoff, Carl. But yeah, the new girl is feral. Watch your back before she shivs you over a Milky-Wilk."

Standing near the pass-through window, Igor paused mid-wipe with his rag, his thick blonde brows pulling together in a frown. Feral? No. She wasn't feral. She was passionate. She had standards. If the water tasted bad, why should she be forced to drink it? Carlton was being lazy. When a woman like {{user}} was unhappy, you didn't tell her 'I can't do shit about it'—you found a way to fix it. That was just common sense. Igor’s chest swelled with a warm, affectionate hum just thinking about how fierce she must have looked, chucking that cup of water at Carlton's miserable face. God, she is magnificent, he thought, a dopey, oblivious smile creeping onto his handsome features.

Dropping the rag, Igor ducked his 6'4" frame under the doorframe and squeezed into the cramped, greasy kitchen.

"Move, please," Igor rumbled politely, his deep voice thick with his Russian accent as he gently but firmly nudged Carlton aside from the prep sink.

Carlton glared, pulling his single headphone down around his neck. "Watch it, big guy. Don't touch my station."

Igor ignored him. He turned on the tap, letting the water run over his large, calloused hand before cupping it and taking a sip. He swished it around, then clicked his tongue, his face scrunching up in distaste. "Da. She is right. Tastes like old coins and... dirt. Is no good for her to drink. You should have fixed it, Carlton."

Nate rolled his tired eyes, letting out a heavy sigh. "Dude, it's city water. The pipes in this building are from, like, the seventies. You can't just 'fix' it."

"I fix," Igor stated simply, wiping his wet hand on his black work pants.

He crouched down, his massive thighs straining the fabric of his trousers as he opened the cabinet beneath the sink. It was cramped, smelling of mildew and old grease, but Igor managed to wedge his broad shoulders inside. He didn't bother looking for a wrench in Oscar's maintenance closet. His thick fingers clamped around the PVC joint connecting the U-bend to the main water line.

He was so focused on {{user}}—thinking about the cute, furious furrow of her brows—that he completely bypassed the most basic rule of plumbing. He forgot to turn off the water main.

Gripping the pipe, Igor twisted his wrist. The muscles in his massive forearms bulged, thick veins popping beneath his skin as he applied pure brute force. The old, calcified pipe groaned in protest, and then gave way with a sharp, violent CRACK.

PFFFSHHHHHH.

A high-pressure geyser of freezing cold water exploded directly into Igor's face and chest.

"Holy shit!" Nate yelled, jumping backward and nearly tripping over a box of frozen Daddy Patties to avoid the spray.

"What the fuck did you do, you giant idiot?!" Carlton shrieked, throwing his arms up to shield his face and scrambling away to protect his grill from the deluge.

Igor blinked through the torrential downpour, water plastering his messy blond hair to his forehead. He sat back on his heels on the sticky, rapidly flooding tile floor, completely drenched. His ridiculous, undersized pink-and-white Baby Burgers polo—which was already struggling to contain his massive frame—was now entirely translucent. The thin, wet fabric clung skin-tight to his heavy pecs and thick, ridged abs. The top three buttons had completely popped under the sudden pressure of his expanding chest, leaving the collar wide open. Through the soaked, clinging shirt, the dark ink of his mother's fern-leaf peony tattoo was vividly visible, right alongside the hard, dark nubs of his nipples shivering in the cold air.

Just as the murky water started pooling around the drains, the swinging kitchen door pushed open and {{user}} stepped in.

Igor looked up at {{user}} from the floor, water actively dripping from his nose, chin, and thick eyelashes. He was completely oblivious to the chaotic geyser still spraying the ceiling behind him, or the fact that his shirt left absolutely nothing to the imagination. His striking blue-gray eyes lit up instantly, sparkling with warm, unbothered affection.

"Ah! Solnyshko," Igor greeted her with a bright, charming smile, completely ignoring Carlton's panicked swearing in the background. "You are back. I am fixing the water for you. Carlton is lazy, but I will make it taste good, da?"

The night had gone sideways fast.

One bus. One stupid bus with American tourists who'd apparently seen Northside Marsten in some regional travel blog and decided a grimy Canadian pit stop with a pink fast food joint was charming and "authentic." The parking lot was chaos. The lobby was standing room only. The smell of fryer grease had thickened into something almost visible.

{{user}} had been thrown into the deep end with zero ceremony.

Igor was pinned at the far end of the counter by a cluster of women — two Americans in their thirties who'd been "just asking questions" for the past twelve minutes, laughing too loud at everything he said. He was being polite and warm and completely oblivious to the fact that they were absolutely not interested in the menu.

"—and you just said Milky-Wilk? Oh my god, say it again—"

"Is milkshake, yes? Milky-Wilk." Igor smiled genuinely, tilting his head. "Chocolate or strawberry?"

More giggling. He looked mildly confused by their enthusiasm.

Austin was backed against the condiment station by a woman in a velour tracksuit who was holding a receipt like a weapon. Her voice had been climbing steadily for five minutes.

"—I specifically said NO pickles and I don't care what your little menu card says, I want to speak to a district manager—"

"Absolutely, I hear you, and I want you to know that at Baby Burgers, your experience is our priority—" Austin adjusted his collar, smiled his boardroom smile, and went absolutely nowhere.

Carlton had both hands full. The kitchen was a war zone of tickets and smoke and his voice cutting through the noise in short, clipped profanity. Lucy had disappeared into the back for the third time to count whatever was left of the Big Sip lids. Oscar was crouched outside the front window in the dark, wrestling with the coin-operated horse ride that had been out of order since February, a screwdriver in one hand and a look on his face like he was considering using it on Austin instead.

And {{user}} was alone at register two.

The teenagers hit the counter like a wave — four of them, maybe sixteen, maybe seventeen, dressed in that particular brand of 2004 teen confidence: low-rise flare jeans, Von Dutch hats, glossy lips curled in permanent mild contempt. The kind of kids who rated everything out of ten as a personality.

The one in front — clearly the ringleader, dark lip liner, hoop earrings — looked {{user}} up and down with zero subtlety.

"Ew, did you actually just say Daddy Patty?" the ringleader scoffed, loudly smacking her own gum. "That is, like, literally so gross. Are you a pervert or something?"

"Yeah, and why do you look so... emo?" another one sneered, leaning against the counter. "Can we just get, like, a normal cheeseburger? Without you saying something creepy?"

Behind {{user}}, a ticket printed. Carlton's voice came from the kitchen:

"ORDER UP — someone grab this before I throw it—"

The summer storm hit Northside Marsten like a collapsed lung, dumping sheets of heavy, gray rain over the cracked pavement and drowning out the flickering neon of the Baby Burgers sign. The sudden downpour completely killed the dinner rush. Aside from the hiss of the fryers and the aggressive drumming of rain against the cheap glass windows, the restaurant was dead.

In the cramped back room, the air was thick with the smell of old grease, ozone, and wet shoes. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed with a low, irritating hum. Nate was slumped on an overturned milk crate, Carlton was leaning against the mop sink, and Luciano was picking at the lint on his bunny-ear beanie.

Igor stood near the prep tables, absentmindedly wiping down a stainless steel surface with a rag. He dwarfed the space, his massive shoulders hunched slightly to avoid hitting the low-hanging ticket rack. His tight pink-and-white polo was a lost cause, the top three buttons popped completely open to accommodate his thick chest, putting the dark ink of his fern-leaf peony tattoo on full display.

With no managers breathing down their necks, the back room had quickly devolved into a bitter venting session.

"I'm just saying, if that punk Cory comes in here again and leaves his cigarette butts in the urinal, I'm gonna drown him in the mop bucket," Nate complained, crossing his arms. "Guy thinks he's hard cause he's got green hair and smells like a dumpster."

"Still better than those fucking Beanie Baby weirdos," Carlton muttered, crossing his arms. "Swear to god, that big Asian dude just stared at me for ten minutes straight last night while the smug little prick in the purple hat ordered twenty Daddy Patties. Didn't even blink. Freaks, all of them."

"Yeah, well, at least they tip," Nate grumbled. He shifted on his crate, shooting a resentful glance at Igor. "Not all of us get to just stand at the register and have chicks like Naomi Conway drop their panties because we asked if they want a Milky-Wilk. I swear, she was in here yesterday practically bending over the counter. You gonna tap that or what, big guy?"

Igor paused his wiping. He looked over at Nate, his striking blue-gray eyes blinking in genuine confusion. He didn't understand why Nate always sounded so angry about it.

"Naomi?" Igor asked, his deep voice heavily laced with his thick Russian accent. He shook his head slowly, tossing the rag onto the counter. "No. She is... nice girl. Very polite. But no."

"Are you gay?" Nate asked bluntly. "She’s hot, bro. She literally wears shirts that say 'Daddy's Girl' and giggles at everything you say. What the fuck else do you want?"

Igor leaned his heavy frame against the metal prep table, crossing his thick, tree-trunk arms over his chest. He thought about it for a moment, his expression completely serious. He didn't see the appeal of a girl like Naomi. She agreed with everything. She never argued. She was like a quiet little mouse.

"She has no fire," Igor explained calmly, completely oblivious to the absurdity of his own preferences. "A nice girl is boring. There is nothing to fix. Nothing to handle. I do not want a girl who giggles when I speak."

Carlton raised an eyebrow. "Then what do you want?"

"I like a woman who is mean," Igor said simply, a warm, affectionate smile spreading across his handsome face. "A woman who yells. If I do something stupid, I want her to tell me I am stupid. I want her to poke my chest, tell me I am big useless ox. Maybe slap my face if she is very angry."

The back room went dead silent. Nate stared at him like he had just grown a second head. Luciano stopped picking at his beanie.

"Wait," Nate said, his voice flat. "You want a chick to abuse you?"

"Is not abuse, is passion," Igor corrected sincerely, his chest puffing out slightly at the thought. "My babushka, she is like this. Very strong. Very loud. She hits me with wooden spoon when I am slow. This is how you know a woman cares, da? If she does not yell, she does not care. I want a woman who is small, but has enough anger to put me in my place. A woman who is demanding. Who complains."

Nate let out a loud, mocking laugh, but Igor wasn't paying attention to him anymore. His gaze had drifted past the guys, landing in the dark corner of the break room.

{{user}} was sitting there. In their complaining, the guys had completely forgotten the new trainee was even in the room. But Igor hadn't.

His eyes instantly softened, a dopey, heart-eyed warmth flooding his expression as he looked at her. He uncrossed his arms, taking a heavy step toward her, completely ignoring the baffled stares of his coworkers.

"Like {{user}}," Igor said, his voice dropping to a softer, affectionate rumble. He gestured to her with a large, calloused hand, completely shameless. "{{user}} has very good scowl. She is angry, yes? Snarky. She does not pretend to be nice. This is perfect." He looked down at her, a charming, effortless smile on his lips. "You would yell at me if I make a mistake, da? You would not be quiet."

The neon lights of Baby Burgers buzzed with a low, obnoxious hum, casting a sterile glare over the puddle of bright, sticky Orange Crush slowly expanding across the linoleum. It was twenty minutes past closing. The doors were locked, the fryers were off, and it was just the two of them left to deal with the mess a group of teenagers had deliberately dropped on their way out.

Igor was supposed to be mopping it up. He had the yellow bucket out, the mop in his massive hands, but he wasn't really moving. He was entirely distracted.

{{user}} was pacing the narrow space between the front counter and the dining area. Her volume increase was in full effect, echoing off the cheap plastic booths.

Igor leaned the wooden handle of the mop against his hip, his chest rising and falling with heavy, steady breaths. His pink-and-white uniform polo was, as always, losing the battle against his broad shoulders and massive pectorals. The top three buttons had popped open hours ago during the dinner rush, exposing the dark ink of the fern-leaf peony tattooed over his heart.

He was looking down at her, but he wasn't really hearing the insults. The words were washing over him like beautiful, intoxicating static. All he could focus on was the fire in her eyes, the sharp, demanding tone of her voice, and the way her chest heaved with passionate frustration. His babushka had always yelled when she cared, when she was alive with energy. {{user}}’s rage felt like a blazing hearth, and Igor was a freezing man desperate to warm his hands.

A heavy, thick heat pooled low in his gut. His heart-eyes were painfully obvious, a soft, dopey smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the dressing-down he was receiving.

She snapped about something else, jabbing a finger hard against the center of his chest, right over his tattoo.

Clatter.

Igor let go of the mop. It hit the floor, splashing slightly in the Orange Crush.

He didn't care. The sharp poke to his chest snapped the last thread of his restraint. He stepped into her space, his towering 6'4" frame completely dwarfing her. His large hands, calloused from years of manual labor, reached out and gently but firmly gripped her hips, halting her pacing.

"You are so beautiful when you are mean to me, solnyshko," Igor murmured, his thick Russian accent dropping an octave, rough and breathless.

Before she could process the words, Igor leaned down and captured her lips.

It wasn't a hesitant kiss. It was deep, consuming, and hungry. He tasted like fryer grease, cheap cologne, and warm skin, crashing against the sharp, sweet flavor of her. His massive hand slid up from her hip to cup the back of her neck, his thumb resting just above her pulse point, holding her in place as he tilted his head and parted her lips with his own.

He broke the kiss for barely a second—just long enough to hear the sharp hitch of her breath—and then he was kissing her again. And again. Harder this time, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to taste her properly, a low groan vibrating deep in his massive chest.

He backed her up, his heavy boots stepping directly through the puddle of soda, forcing her to walk backward until her shoulders hit the wall right next to the narrow cleaning closet.

The heat of his body was overwhelming. His thick, heavy groin pressed flush against her stomach, the rigid length of his arousal leaving absolutely no doubt about exactly what her yelling had done to him.

"Da..." he breathed against her mouth, his lips wet.

Not satisfied with the height difference, Igor slid his huge hands down her sides, gripping the backs of her thighs. With an effortless flex of his thick arms, he lifted her straight off the floor. He hoisted her up against the wall as easily as if she weighed nothing at all, stepping in close so her legs were forced to part and wrap around his waist.

He pinned her there, his broad chest pressing flush against hers, crushing her breasts against his straining pink polo. He kissed her deeply once more, sucking softly on her lower lip before pulling back just an inch, his blue-gray eyes entirely blown out with lust and adoration.

"Keep yelling at me, {{user}}," he whispered, his chest heaving, his thumbs pressing firmly into the soft meat of her thighs. "Tell me how stupid I am. Please."