#domasa

His stomach squeezed with what was the beginning of an ulcer, probably.  

Seconds after, the rest of her was visible through the gap. The downward tilt of the corner of her mouth when she saw him indicated she was just as thrilled as to share an elevator ride as he was. Great. 

"3B" was her dry greeting as she stepped inside, casually leaning against the mirrored wall farthest from him. 

No matter where she settled her piercing gaze, her appallingly symmetrical features surrounded him. It was like being trapped in a cavern where the wall all glinted with precious citrine gems. If the gems were pointy, sharp and the walls were closing in. 

Dom scowled even though he tried not to. He nodded as a way of neighborly politeness.  

Not that she cared much about basic civility. When she'd moved the building a few months ago, he'd knocked on her door before leaving for work with the intention to introduce himself and offer help should she ever need it. The usual, since he was just across the hall. 

Her door had cracked open just enough for a murderous face to glare at him. He was a gentleman, so his eyes did absolutely not stray down to her toned, muscled body, bronze skin covered in tattoos. So many of them. All exposed to the world in her sports bra and pajama shorts ensemble.  

"Hi, I just wanted to welcome you to the building. I'm Dom, that's my door—" He pointed to his back with his thumb "—please let me know if you—" and the door slammed shut. 

And he could have forgiven her rude outburst, if it weren't for the fact that she had the gall to keep glaring at him every time they crossed paths on the hallway or the lobby. The only reason he knew her name was because his mail box was next to hers. Sorasa Sarn. Sometimes he would roll her name around his tongue as if considering a particularly nasty fruit. Much to his eternal annoyance, the name turned sweetly like a bite of lemon pie, like something he wanted to eat over and over again. So he had to avoid thinking of her name too. Instead referring to her as "that woman". He wouldn't spend valuable time thinking of how stunning she was. Visually. On every other level she was a waste of air. 

🏢

The last thing any hard worker of the night shifts of the world could ever want were annoying fuckers knocking at their door at the crack of dawn.  

Sorasa stepped into the elevator and didn't hide her displeasure at the company. Why should she? The Viking wannabe had interrupted her sleep when he surely must have heard she arrived from work, and then scowled as if he was sniffing something rotten whenever they crossed paths. As if she had been the inopportune visitor.  

Not only that, but the massive asshole (massive as in, he was abnormally big) had stepped on a dog's paw at the lobby that very same day they'd met, and hadn't even looked back at the suffering animal. What kind of robotic monster didn't feel guilty at making a puppy cry? The kind that interrupted other people's sleep. That's who. 

The few times they ran into each other, Sorasa liked to fantasize about setting his shinny locks of long golden hair on fire. Or pushing him down the stairs and let gravity do its thing. Though, from how robust he looked under his usual green sweater and grey slacks, she wasn't entirely sure it wouldn't be the steps getting cracked open or something. His biceps bulging as he crossed his arms before his wide chest were all the clues she had that he was in fact made of flesh (pure, abundant muscle) and therefore, stab-able... killable? Whatever, he could get it. Stabbed! That's what she meant.