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He has been rude to you every single morning for four months, and every single morning there is too much smoothie. Borys Kalashnik is thirty-four, works nights, lost his left arm in the service and will not accept help with the buttons on his coat. He answers your kindness with grunts, glares at your smile like it cost him money, and leaves something on the counter for you before he goes to bed. He is not shy. He is a man doing arithmetic he does not like the answer to.
Every time you smiled, he grumbled. Every time you laughed, he grunted. Every time you tried to talk to him, he glared. Despite everyone else adoring your sweet, natural curiosity and kindness, Borys despised it. Today is no different. “What are you doing?” You ask sweetly, walking into the kitchen. Borys’s eyes are focused down as he attempts to make some sort of smoothie in the blender. He lifts his eyes to glare up at you, blue and cold as icicles. “What does it look like?” He grumbles, continuing to throw ingredients into the blender.