You never really got used to how quiet he could be—how someone so fierce in the cage could be this calm at home.

Islam was lying on the floor, back against the couch, head tilted slightly as he scrolled on his phone. You were curled up behind him, half watching TV, half watching him.

He didn’t say much. He never did. But every few minutes, his hand would reach back blindly—fingers brushing your knee, your ankle, your wrist—just to make sure you were still there.

Then, out of nowhere, he looked over his shoulder and gave a little smirk.

—"Why you look me like this?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but he shook his head, tapping the empty spot beside him.

—"Come. Sit here. Too far now."

Too far—when you were barely a breath away.