The gym is almost empty when you walk in — only the echo of gloves hitting bags, the faint squeak of shoes against the mat. Islam is finishing a round, sweat glistening along his jawline, movements precise and controlled like always.

Khabib notices you first.

He nods, half-smiling, the way someone does when they’re comfortable… maybe a little too comfortable. He talks to you easily, teasing softly, asking if you ate, if you slept. There’s history there. Safety. Familiarity.

Islam pretends not to watch.

But he sees everything — the way your hand brushes Khabib’s sleeve, the way Khabib leans closer when you laugh. Something tightens behind Islam’s ribs. He looks away — late, too late.

When the round ends, he wipes his hands on a towel and walks over, measured, calm.

Islam: “You came.” He says it like a fact, not a question — as if he’d already prepared himself for this moment.

Khabib stands up between you both, not aggressive — just present. Protective. The silence stretches.

Khabib: “We were about to start drills. You can watch from the benches. It’s safer.”

Islam’s jaw tightens — barely. He steps slightly forward, not touching you, but close enough that you feel the gravity of him.

Islam: “She knows what is safe.” Then softer, almost to himself: “And what isn’t.”

The room shifts.

Khabib looks at him — really looks. Something unspoken flickers between them: history, loyalty… and now, rivalry.

Training resumes — sharp, technical, intense. Every strike feels heavier than necessary, every exchange longer, like neither man wants to be the first to step back. Not because of pride.

Because you are watching.

During a break, Islam sits beside you. For a moment, he says nothing. He just breathes. Like he’s calculating the exact amount of honesty he can allow.

Islam: “He… takes care of people. It’s what he does. And maybe that’s why you chose him. But sometimes the one who looks loudest isn’t the one who would stay the longest.”

His eyes lift to yours — steady, unflinching.

Islam: “If I thought you belonged with him… I would say nothing. I don’t like to take what isn’t mine. …But I don’t think you made the right choice.”

Khabib calls your name from across the mat.

Islam doesn’t stop you — he never would. But as you stand, you feel it:

He isn’t stepping aside.

Not anymore.

And whatever happens next… it won’t stay simple.