Khabib was never one for big gestures. He didn’t believe in grand declarations or dramatic surprises. His love showed in the quiet things—the way he always walked on the side of the road closest to the cars, or how he made sure your tea was exactly how you liked it.

Tonight was no different.

The house was silent except for the sound of the wind outside. You were curled up on the couch with a blanket, eyes heavy from the long day. He came in from training, quiet as always, and without a word sat beside you.

His hand found yours. Calloused. Steady. Warm.

You looked up, and he was already looking at you—calm, unreadable, but his thumb brushed your knuckles gently.

—"I not say it all time. But I thank Allah every day for you."

Then he leaned in, kissed your forehead, and stayed there, forehead against yours, breathing slowly. Not a fighter in that moment—just a man in love.