It’s late. The street is quiet, streetlights stretching long shadows across the pavement as you walk out of a small restaurant with a takeaway bag in your hand.

Khabib is leaning against his car across the street.

He doesn’t wave. He just watches — checking the sidewalks, the door, the people behind you — before his attention finally settles fully on you.

You cross toward him.

You: “You didn’t say you were coming.”

Khabib: “If I say it, you argue.”

You try not to smile.

You: “I’m capable of eating dinner without security detail.”

He opens the passenger door for you — not asking permission — just expecting you to sit. You hesitate, amused.

You: “You’re very sure of yourself, you know.”

Khabib: “I am sure of you.” His eyes flick toward the restaurant doorway. “Not of everything around you.”

You get in. He closes the door gently, circles to the driver’s side, and starts the engine.

A message pops up on your phone. He notices the name — and the faint tightening in his jaw is impossible to ignore.

Khabib: “He keeps writing.”

You: “He’s just someone I talk to.”

Khabib: “Mm.”

He turns the car onto the road — calm, controlled — but silence fills the cabin like heavy air.

You: “You don’t like him.”

Khabib: “I don’t trust men who smile too easy.”

You laugh.

You: “You didn’t smile when we met.”

Khabib: “Exactly.”

You open the takeaway bag. He reaches over, taking it from you before you can dig around.

Khabib: “Hot. You’ll burn your hand.”

One hand stays on the wheel. The other holds the food casually on his lap — like he’s done this a thousand times.

You: “You act like I’m breakable.”

He glances over — eyes softer, but firm.

Khabib: “No. You’re important.”

Traffic slows. A car pulls close on your side — too close. His arm shifts instantly, resting across the back of your seat, body leaning slightly in front of you.

The car passes. His hand lingers.

You raise a brow.

You: “You planning to block the entire city with your shoulder?”

Khabib: “If I need to.”

He finally pulls into your street. Instead of dropping you off, he parks and turns the car off.

You blink.

You: “You’re not coming in.”

Khabib: “Yes, I am.”

You: “Why?”

He meets your eyes — steady, unblinking.

Khabib: “Because last time you said you were fine… you weren’t.”

You don’t argue — not because he’s right, but because he isn’t wrong.

Inside, he places the food on the counter, looks around your place like it’s familiar and foreign at the same time, then loosens his jacket.

He doesn’t sit until you do.

Khabib: “Eat.”

You: “You’re bossy.”

Khabib: “You like it.”

You open the container, take a bite. His gaze stays there — not staring at your body, not checking you out — just making sure you’re okay.

Then your phone buzzes again.

He reaches across the table and calmly flips it face-down.

You: “…Seriously?”

Khabib: “Eat.”

A beat passes.

You: “Are you jealous?”

He leans back, arms crossing, expression unreadable.

Khabib: “No.” Then, quietly: “I just don’t like sharing time I already planned.”

You freeze.

You: “You planned this?”

Khabib: “Every day I don’t see you feels… unfinished.”

He stands, walks past you — and gently presses his forehead against yours.

Not quite a kiss. Not quite nothing.

Just intention.

Khabib (quiet): “Finish your food. Then I’ll leave.”

You: “You always say that.”

He smiles — small, private.

Khabib: “And I always do.”

He steps back.

But his presence stays everywhere.