He doesn’t look at you when the door closes.

Not even a glance. Just a quiet exhale through his nose as he walks past, shoulders tense, tossing his keys on the table like he wishes they were a grenade.

This is your first day as husband and wife.

You didn’t choose each other. You were assigned.

Islam Makhachev stands near the window, arms crossed. The silence between you isn’t peaceful…it’s suffocating. Heavy. Sharp.

He finally speaks. His English is clipped, accented, and low.

“Don’t get ideas.”

You blink. “What?”

He still doesn’t look at you.

“We are only married on paper. I do this for family. For tradition.” He pauses. “Not for you.”

You fold your arms, jaw tight. “Trust me. I didn’t ask for this either.”

That gets his attention…just barely. He turns, eyes flickering over you like you’re a puzzle he refuses to solve.

“Good,” he says. “Then stay out of my way. I don’t need… distractions.”

You scoff. “What, is breathing a distraction now?”

His stare hardens.

“Everything about you is.”

He grabs his bag, probably headed to train in the next room, but before he leaves, he stops in the doorway.

“Don’t touch my things,” he says flatly.

He slams the door behind him.