You didn’t notice him at first.

You were laughing with a new fighter — a visiting guy from another gym who trained with your group for the week. He was friendly, charismatic, the type who flirted without thinking.

And you laughed.

Loudly.

Too loudly.

It was the first time in a while that someone made you smile like that.

But Islam noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He was across the mats, wrapping his hands with controlled precision. But every time you laughed, his jaw tightened a little more. His gaze kept shifting back to you—quick, sharp, irritated.

Khabib caught him staring.

“Brother, you look angry.”

“I’m not angry,” Islam muttered, eyes fixed on you.

“Then why do you look like you want to break somebody’s legs?”

Islam didn’t answer.

Later, training ended. You grabbed your stuff and walked toward the exit.

Islam stepped into your path.

“You leaving already?”

You blinked. “Uh… yes?”

He stood too close. Too intense.

“Who is he?” Islam asked.

You frowned. “Who?”

“The guy you talk to. The one you laugh with.”

You almost laughed again. “He’s a friend.”

Islam repeated it quietly, like the word tasted bitter:

“Friend.”

His accent deepened. His eyes sharpened.

“I don’t like how he looks at you.”

You raised a brow.

“Why do you care?”

He looked away — jaw clenched, breath tight, emotions fighting inside him.

Then he finally said it:

“Because I don’t want him near you.”

And that was the truth he never wanted you to see.