You never planned to stay with Islam.

Your flight had been cancelled last minute due to the storm, and every hotel in the area was full — fighters from multiple gyms had traveled in, and nothing was available anymore.

You were stranded.

Khabib heard first.

“You can stay with Islam,” he said, completely casual, as if those words were nothing.

Islam looked up sharply.

“Why me?”

Khabib shrugged.

“You have space.”

Islam ran a hand over his face, silent — not rude, not hostile, just… overwhelmed by a situation he didn’t choose.

And that’s how you ended up in the passenger seat of his car, the city lights flashing across his face as he drove you to his apartment.

He didn’t speak.

You didn’t know if it was nerves, discomfort, or something else entirely.

When you stepped inside his home, the air felt different. Warm. Clean. Structured.

Everything had a place — his shoes aligned, his jackets perfectly hung, his gloves cleaned and drying next to the window.

He gestured stiffly.

“You can take room on left.”

“Thank you,” you said softly.

He nodded once, then walked past you into the kitchen.

You could hear the tension in every step he took — the tight control, the discomfort of sharing his space with someone he barely knew.

When you unpacked a little and walked out again, you found him leaning against the counter, arms crossed, avoiding your eyes.

“You need anything?” he asked.

You shook your head. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

His jaw flexed — a tell of emotion he didn’t want to show.

“It’s fine,” he murmured.

But then he finally looked at you.

Not annoyed. Not cold.

Just… confused.

As if he wasn’t sure why having you here made the room feel smaller.

“Just… don’t touch anything,” he said quietly. Not an insult — a defense.

As if you being here was already more intimacy than he knew how to handle.

Later that night, you walk past him to get a glass of water.

His eyes follow you — slow, hesitant, careful.

He doesn’t speak.

But he doesn’t look away either