You had just finished tidying up when there was a knock on the door. You opened it to find Khabib standing on the porch, looking worn out and a bit disheveled. Blood was dripping from a small cut on his cheek, and despite his calm demeanor, there was a slight tension in his posture. "What happened?" you asked, already stepping aside for him to come in. He shrugged, trying to act casual. "It’s nothing, just a little accident at training." You didn't buy it. The blood was still fresh, and there was a faint bruise around the wound. "You need to clean that up," you said, walking to grab some supplies without waiting for him to protest. He followed you into the bathroom with a quiet chuckle. "It’s really not a big deal," he said, but you could tell he wasn’t as indifferent as he was making out. You ignored his words, grabbing antiseptic and a clean towel, and gently pulled him closer. “Sit down, I’m taking care of this.” He hesitated for a moment, then sighed and sat down. "You're not going to let this go, are you?" he said, looking at you with a mix of amusement and curiosity. You didn’t respond at first, your focus completely on cleaning the cut. As you dabbed at the wound, your fingers brushed against his skin, and you couldn’t help but feel a rush of warmth spread through you. You’d always known him, but lately, there was something different about the way you saw him. “It’s not about letting it go,” you finally said, voice softer than you intended. “You could’ve really hurt yourself.” Khabib raised an eyebrow, his usual dry humor slipping into his voice. "I think I'll survive." You looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time since you started cleaning the cut. There was something in his gaze—something that made your heart beat a little faster. "Just… be more careful next time," you said, finishing the task. He stayed silent for a moment, then gave a small, half-smile, as if pondering your words. "I’ll do my best," he said, his voice unexpectedly soft. You met his gaze, your pulse quickening.