WALLS ARE WAY TOO THIN
You hear your neighbor swearing in some foreign language loud enough to rattle your walls, so you knock to tell him to shut the fuck up—and then a ridiculously pretty guy opens the door. ✴︎ MASTERLIST
pairing. Juraj Slafkovský x fem! neighbor! reader contains. accurate slovak, use of y/n, tension, little awkward but cute meet <3 word count. 2,5k
part two is now available!
It was a little past eleven, and you were drifting in that warm, heavy place between awake and asleep. The couch had practically swallowed you whole, the cushions soft under your cheek, the blanket pulled up to your chin. The only light in the room came from the TV, where The Vampire Diaries played in a quiet loop you weren’t really following anymore. The blue glow washed over the walls, over your half‑closed eyes, over the stillness of the living room. Every sound from the show blended together—voices, music, footsteps—turning into one soft, comforting hum that made it even harder to stay awake.
Your breathing had slowed. Your body felt weightless. You were seconds from slipping under completely.
And then—
“Do piče, čo sú to za kokotských rozhodcov?! No to som ešte nevidel!”
The shout tore through the quiet like someone had slammed a door right next to your head. Loud, sharp, and absolutely not English. It hit you so fast your whole body jolted, your heart thudding against your ribs as your eyes flew open. For a moment you didn’t even know where you were—just that someone, somewhere, was furious enough to wake the dead.
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, the kind of slow, exhausted eye‑roll that came from someone who had already reached the end of their patience hours ago. You tried to sink deeper into the couch, willing the cushions to swallow you whole and block out the noise.
But then—
“Kurva!”
The shout cracked through the quiet like a whip, sharp and frustrated and very, very male. You didn’t need to understand the word to know exactly what it meant. Whoever lived on the other side of your wall was clearly losing at something, and losing badly. Or someone was getting murdered.
“Já to jebem! To je taká pičovina!”
This time the outburst rattled the picture frames on your shelf. The walls practically trembled with the force of it, as if your neighbor had decided to wage war on his—probably—gaming console at full volume. It was eleven at night, for God’s sake. Normal people were asleep. Or at least pretending to be.
Whoever he was, he really needed to call it a night… for his own good, if not for yours.
You were one more foreign swear word away from marching over there and knocking on the door next to yours. Your patience had been hanging by a thread for the last ten minutes, and that thread was starting to fray.
“Do piče!”
There it was again—louder this time, sharp enough to cut straight through the wall. You didn’t even have to count anymore; it had to be the third time in under five minutes. At this point, you were convinced it was his favorite word in the entire language.
You stared at the wall like it had personally offended you, your jaw tightening as another burst of muffled chaos echoed through the apartment. That was it. You’d officially reached your limit. You had endured enough enthusiastic, late‑night, whatever‑language‑that‑was rage for one evening, and your half‑asleep brain was done being polite about it.
With a frustrated huff, you kicked the blanket off your legs and pushed yourself upright, the sudden movement sending a wave of cold air across your skin. If he insisted on giving a full‑volume performance at eleven p.m., then you were absolutely going to insist on a little peace and quiet.
You slipped your feet into your slippers and headed for the door before your brain had the chance to talk you out of it. You were running on irritation and half‑sleep, and honestly, that was probably the only reason you had the courage to do this at all.
Maybe he’d stop on his own.
Maybe the game would finally end.
Maybe he’d run out of creative profanity and just… breathe for a second.
“Kurva!”
Yeah. No. Absolutely not.
You yanked your door open and stepped into the hallway, the cool air waking you up just enough to fuel your determination. Three quick strides carried you across the narrow space, and you knocked on his door—sharp, firm, and very much done with this nonsense. Once. Twice. And then a third time, just to make sure he understood you meant business.
The shouting cut off instantly.
Silence settled over the hallway, thick and sudden, like someone had pressed pause on the entire building.
And that was when it hit you—hard and inconvenient—that you were standing there in pajama shorts and an oversized T‑shirt, hair a mess, socks mismatched, looking like someone who had been dragged out of sleep by a small earthquake. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. If he opened the door right now, this would be the grand introduction.
You swallowed, suddenly very aware of every inch of bare skin and every questionable life choice that had led you to this moment.
The handle turned.
The door swung open.
And whatever annoyed, righteous little speech you’d been rehearsing evaporated the second you saw him.
He was tall. Unfairly tall. The kind of tall that made you instinctively straighten your spine, like your body was trying to compensate. His dark hair was slightly messy, pushed back in a way that looked accidental but stupidly good. His jaw was sharp, his shoulders broad beneath a gray Canadiens training shirt that clung to him like it had been personally tailored to show off every line of muscle. His chest rose and fell quickly, like he’d just sprinted across the apartment—or fought someone through the television screen.
Then his eyes met yours. Warm brown, focused, a little wild from whatever he’d been yelling about. Confusion flickered first. Then curiosity softened the edges.
“Yes?” he said, his accent thick, his voice still buzzing with leftover adrenaline.
You blinked, your brain scrambling to remember why you were standing here in pajama shorts and slippers, staring up at a man who looked like he’d stepped straight out of a sports documentary and into your hallway.
Right. The speech. The noise complaint. The moral high ground you were desperately trying to hold onto.
“Are you…” You cleared your throat, trying to gather the pieces of your dignity. “Are you aware that it’s eleven at night?”
He stared at you for a moment, like his brain was still catching up to the fact that someone had actually knocked on his door. His gaze dipped—quick, instinctive—to your pajama shorts and oversized T‑shirt before snapping back up. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, subtle but impossible to miss.
“I am aware,” he said slowly, like he was choosing his words with care.
“Because it sounds like you’re personally fighting the bears in there.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then—unexpectedly—he let out a laugh. Low. Warm. A little dangerous in the way it curled through your stomach. He dragged a hand through his hair, pushing the messy strands back.
“Ah. Sorry,” he said, still slightly breathless. “I’m watching hockey.”
That tracked. God, it did track.
Up close, he looked like the blueprint for a hockey player—broad shoulders stretching the seams of his gray Canadiens training shirt, thick forearms, the kind of build that suggested he could bench‑press you without breaking a sweat or accidentally knock down a wall just by leaning on it too hard.
“Explains a lot,” you said, letting the sarcasm soften into something almost amused. “Who’s playing?”
“Slovakia and USA.”
Oh.
You glanced past him, catching a quick flash of the TV—ice, speed, blue and white jerseys streaking across the screen. The commentary buzzed faintly in the background, all intensity and adrenaline.
You looked back at him, trying to sound casual even as your brain scrambled. “And you’re cheering for…?”
The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them. Obviously. Obviously he wasn’t yelling in English. Obviously he wasn’t cheering for the U.S. Idiot. Absolute idiot.
Heat crept up your neck as you mentally kicked yourself, waiting for him to react.
“Slovakia. Obviously.” He shrugged, like the answer should’ve been carved into stone somewhere.
“And I’m guessing Slovakia isn’t exactly thrilled with the referees?”
His jaw tightened just a little, that competitive edge flickering back to life in his eyes. It was subtle, but you could practically feel the indignation radiating off him.
“They are blind,” he muttered. “Completely blind.”
You folded your arms, trying to look unimpressed even though the whole thing was starting to feel more entertaining than annoying. “So the screaming is… patriotic?”
“Very,” he said, absolutely serious. Not a hint of irony.
Jesus. Patriotism had no business looking that good on someone.
Despite yourself, you felt the beginnings of a smile tug at your mouth, the irritation you’d carried over here slowly dissolving into something warmer, lighter.
“Still,” you said, tilting your head, “maybe support your country at a slightly lower volume?”
He held your gaze for a long moment, the adrenaline in him settling, the edges of his expression softening. Then he let out a slow sigh, shoulders dropping as if he finally realized how loud he’d been.
“You’re right. I got carried away.” His eyes lingered on you, studying your face with a kind of quiet curiosity. “I’m Juraj, by the way.”
Before you even processed the movement, his hand was already reaching out, warm and big and steady as it wrapped around yours. The shake was firm but gentle, his palm completely engulfing yours.
“I’m Y/n,” you said, your voice a little softer than you intended.
His thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles before he let go, and suddenly the hallway felt much smaller, much warmer, and far too intimate for two strangers meeting over a noise complaint.
His hand lingered for half a second longer than it needed to before he finally let go.
And you felt it.
That tiny pause—intentional or not—sent a quiet ripple through you, something warm and unsettling that settled low in your stomach. The hallway suddenly felt too narrow, like the walls had inched closer while you weren’t looking. The air between you thickened, charged with something you definitely hadn’t expected when you stomped over here in slippers.
He didn’t step back. If anything, he seemed rooted in place, close enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, woodsy, threaded with the sharp edge of leftover adrenaline. It wrapped around you before you could stop it.
“So,” he said, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful as he said your name, “Y/n.”
The way he shaped it—slow, careful, softened by that accent—sent a quiet shiver down your spine. It was ridiculous how good he made it sound.
“You always threaten your neighbors on first meeting?” he added, one eyebrow lifting in a way that was entirely too confident for someone who’d been screaming at referees five minutes ago.
You blinked, pulling yourself back together. “Only the ones who scream in Slovak at eleven p.m.”
A corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile but close enough to make your pulse jump.
“That is fair,” he said, warm amusement slipping into his voice.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The hallway felt suspended in time, while from inside his apartment the muffled sounds of the game kept going—commentators talking too fast, the scrape of skates, the rising swell of a crowd you couldn’t see. It all bled together into a frantic, distant pulse.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the TV, his jaw tightening again at whatever was happening on the screen.
You followed his gaze. “Bad?”
He let out a sharp breath through his nose, the kind that carried more emotion than words ever could. “Very.”
But there was something else in his expression too—frustration, yes, but also a fierce kind of pride. A weight. An investment that went deeper than just watching a game for fun. This wasn’t casual. This mattered to him in a way you could feel even from the doorway.
“You’re really into this,” you said quietly.
He looked back at you, and for a second something unreadable flickered in his eyes—something guarded, something honest.
“I play,” he said simply.
You froze.
“Oh.”
And suddenly everything clicked into place. The build. The intensity. The way he yelled like the referees had personally insulted his ancestors. The adrenaline still humming under his skin.
“For who?” you asked before your brain could stop your mouth.
There was a beat—just long enough to make your stomach flip.
Then he said, almost shyly, but with a confidence that didn’t need to be loud to be felt, “Canadiens.”
Your brain short‑circuited.
“Canadiens? Like Montreal—”
He nodded once, steady and unbothered, like this was a normal thing to admit in a hallway at eleven p.m.
“Oh my God,” you muttered, because your brain had officially left the chat.
“Well,” you said, trying to gather whatever composure you had left, “professional athlete or not, the walls are thin.”
His eyes dipped to your mouth—quick, almost instinctive—before lifting again. The glance was so brief you could’ve convinced yourself you imagined it… if it hadn’t sent a warm jolt straight through you.
“I will be quieter,” he said, his voice softer now, lower, almost gentle.
And there was something in the way he said it that didn’t feel like it was just about the game. Something that made your pulse skip.
You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself. “Good.”
Another silence settled between you, stretching out slowly. Not awkward—never awkward—but charged in a way that made the air feel heavier, warmer. You could feel your self‑control slipping, thread by thread, and he was standing far too close for your brain to function properly.
God, he was unfairly attractive. Unreasonably attractive. The kind of attractive that made you forget why you’d stormed over here in the first place.
“Good night, Juraj,” you said, forcing the words out before you did something stupid, like stay.
You turned slightly, already taking a half step back toward your door, trying to put even the smallest bit of space between you.
“Good night… Y/n.”
The way he said your name again—slow, careful, like he was tasting the shape of it—sent a flip through your stomach so sharp you almost stumbled.
You forced yourself not to look back.
You made it exactly two steps before—
“Y/n?”
You stopped mid‑stride.
Damn him.
You turned your head just enough to see him over your shoulder. “Yes?”
He was still leaning against the doorframe, but something in his expression had shifted. The teasing spark was still there, but now it was layered with something steadier, something that felt a little too much like intent. Like he wasn’t quite ready to let you walk away.
“If Slovakia scores,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slow, knowing curve, “I might yell.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t.”
A beat passed—quiet, warm, charged.
His smile deepened, lazy and confident. “Will you knock again?”
God. Fuck him.
“You wish,” you shot back, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips as you slipped into your apartment and shut the door behind you.
The moment the latch clicked, you pressed your back to the wood, heat blooming across your cheeks. They were red. Like embarrassingly, unmistakably red.
Because of course your neighbor had to be the sexiest man you’d ever laid eyes on.
© 𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗘𝗭𝗭
🎙️ela speaks wishing slovakia the best when fighting for bronze rn, i’m so nervous !! It’s currently 0:1 for finland 🫠🫠
