The Line He Never Meant To Cross
Fluff & Angst | 7.4k words x | MasterList
Being Khabib's sister is hard, but falling for his best friend is even harder...
Your family home had always been a place Islam knew well, even before he ever stepped inside it. He had grown up hearing stories about it from Khabib, stories about the chaos of siblings, the noise of cousins, the warmth of your mother’s cooking, the way you used to run through the hallways with your hair in messy braids while Khabib chased after you. He had known you since you were small, since you were the girl who used to hide behind your brother’s legs and peek at him with wide eyes, since you were the teenager who rolled her eyes at everything but still brought snacks for the whole team. He had watched you grow up without ever meaning to, and now he found himself standing in your doorway again, older, quieter, and far more aware of you than he ever should’ve been.
Your mother opened the door with flour on her hands and a smile that reached her eyes. She didn’t look surprised to see him. She never did. Islam had been coming to this house since he was a boy, and she treated him like one of her own.
“Islam, dear, come inside. You’re letting the cold in,” she said, stepping aside.
He obeyed without hesitation, slipping off his shoes the way he always had. The hallway smelled like cardamom and fresh bread, and the familiar warmth of the house wrapped around him in a way that made something in his chest loosen. He placed the small bag he’d brought on the console table and glanced around, taking in the details he always noticed but never commented on.
Your trainers by the door, still dusted with mud from yesterday’s walk.
Your cardigan was draped over the back of the sofa, the one you always forgot to put away.
A half‑finished mug of tea on the coffee table, the one you’d probably abandoned when your mother sent you out for groceries.
A framed photo of you and Khabib as children, both of you grinning with missing teeth.
He felt the familiarity settle into him like a memory.
“Khabib’s not here,” your mother said as she walked back toward the kitchen. “He just left. You just missed him.”
“That’s alright,” Islam replied, following her. “I only came to drop something off.”
“You can leave it here,” she said, waving a hand. “Or you can stay for tea. You always look like you haven’t eaten enough.”
Islam smiled, the kind of small, reluctant smile he only ever gave her. “I’m fine, really.”
She ignored him completely, already pulling out another cup. “Come. You know where everything is.”
He did.
He knew exactly where everything was.
He moved around the kitchen with the ease of someone who had grown up here, passing her the sugar, moving the kettle, clearing a space on the counter without being asked. She watched him with a soft, amused expression, the kind that held years of affection.
“You’ve always been helpful,” she said. “Even when you were little. You used to carry the heavy bags for me when Khabib refused.”
Islam let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh. “He still refuses.”
“He does,” she said, shaking her head. “But you don’t. You never have.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he focused on the kettle instead. The house felt too warm suddenly, too full of memories he wasn’t supposed to hold onto.
Your mother glanced at the clock. “She should be back soon. I told her not to carry everything alone, but she never listens.”
Islam’s eyes softened. “She doesn’t.”
Your mother caught the tone immediately. She didn’t comment, but her smile deepened in a way that made him look away.
A few minutes later, the front door opened. He heard the rustle of bags, the familiar sound of your voice drifting through the hallway, complaining under your breath about the weight of the groceries. He didn’t move, but he felt himself straighten slightly, as if preparing for something he couldn’t name.
You walked into the kitchen with two heavy bags in your arms, your hair slightly messy from the wind, your cheeks flushed from the cold. You stopped when you saw him.
“Oh,” you said, surprised. “You’re here.”
Islam nodded, his expression softening in a way he couldn’t hide. “I came to drop something off for Khabib.”
Your mother clucked her tongue. “And now he’s helping me. Unlike you, who insists on carrying everything alone.”
You set the bags down with a sigh. “I’m fine.”
Islam reached for one of the bags automatically. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
You pulled it back. “I can carry a bag, Islam.”
“I know you can,” he said, his voice calm and steady, “but you don’t have to.”
Your mother watched the two of you with a smile that was far too entertained. “You two argue like an old married couple,” she said, shaking her head. “Always bickering, always helping each other. It’s sweet.”
You froze.
Islam froze harder.
Your mother continued stirring her pot as if she hadn’t just said something that made the air shift completely. Before either of you could recover, the front door opened again.
This time, the footsteps were heavier. Familiar. Controlled.
Khabib’s voice carried through the hallway. “I forgot my phone.”
Islam went still.
You went still.
Your mother kept stirring her pot like nothing was wrong.
The house settled into a different kind of quiet after Khabib walked in. He greeted his mother, nodded at Islam, and moved through the kitchen with calm confidence. He picked up his phone from the counter, checked a few messages, and barely glanced at the two of you. It should have eased the tension, but it only made it worse. Islam stood a little straighter, his shoulders more rigid, his eyes fixed on the floor as if he was trying to make himself smaller. You felt your pulse quicken, not because you were doing anything wrong, but because the air between you and Islam had shifted in a way that made everything feel fragile.
“I’ll be back for dinner,” Khabib said, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Islam, are you coming with me?”
Islam opened his mouth to answer, but your mother cut in before he could get a single word out.
“He’s staying for dinner,” she called out from the stove. “It’s been too long since he’s eaten with us.”
Khabib paused, his eyes flicking between the two of you. Something unreadable passed through his expression, but he didn’t argue. He simply nodded once, the movement slow and thoughtful.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
He left again, the door closing behind him with a soft thud that seemed to echo through the house. The moment he was gone, the tension eased just slightly, but not enough to disappear. Islam stood there for a moment, unsure whether he should sit or leave or pretend he hadn’t just been claimed by your mother like a stray she refused to let go of.
Your mother turned to him with a warm smile. “You’re staying for dinner. No arguments.”
Islam let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh. “I wasn’t going to argue.”
“You were thinking about it,” she said, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Stay. You’re family.”
He obeyed, but his eyes drifted to you for a moment, and something unspoken passed between you. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t obvious. It was just a small shift, a quiet acknowledgement that something between you had changed, even if neither of you had said it out loud.
Islam stayed where he was, hands resting lightly on the counter, eyes following the steam rising from the kettle as if it were the safest thing to look at.
You moved past him to put the groceries away, and he stepped aside automatically, giving you space even though the kitchen was large enough for both of you. He had always been like that. Careful. Respectful. Aware of you in a way that felt both comforting and dangerous. You reached for a jar on the top shelf, stretching slightly, and he moved without thinking, his hand brushing yours as he took it down for you.
“You don’t have to do that,” you said quietly.
“I know,” he replied, placing the jar in your hand. “But you always pretend you can reach everything.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed you. “I can reach most things.”
“Not that shelf,” he said, and there was a softness in his voice that made your chest tighten.
Your mother glanced over her shoulder, watching the two of you with a look that was far too knowing. She didn’t say anything this time, but the amusement in her eyes was unmistakable. Islam noticed it too, and he cleared his throat, stepping back as if distance would make the moment less obvious.
You finished putting the groceries away, and he helped without being asked, moving around the kitchen with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before. He knew where the spices went. He knew which cupboard held the tea. He knew which drawer your mother kept the spare towels in. It was the kind of familiarity that came from years of being around your family, years of being Khabib’s closest friend, years of being in your orbit without ever stepping too close.
When everything was put away, your mother poured tea for all three of you and sat at the table. Islam hesitated before sitting down, as if unsure whether he should stay now that Khabib was gone, but your mother waved him over with a firmness that left no room for argument.
“Sit, Islam. You’re family.”
He obeyed, but his eyes flicked to you for a moment, and something unspoken passed between you. You sat across from him, your fingers brushing the warm ceramic of your cup, and for a moment the world felt strangely small. The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clink of spoons against porcelain and the distant hum of the refrigerator. It was the kind of quiet that made every small movement feel louder, every glance feel heavier.
Your mother asked him about training, about how the team was doing, about whether he was eating enough. He answered politely, his voice steady, but his eyes kept drifting to you without meaning to. You felt it every time. A small pull. A small shift. A small reminder that something between you had changed, even if neither of you had said it out loud.
When your mother stepped out of the room to check on something in the oven, the silence between you deepened. Islam looked at you properly then, his expression softer than it had been all afternoon.
“You shouldn’t carry everything alone,” he said quietly.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. “You say that like you haven’t known me since I was five.”
“I have,” he said, and there was a warmth in his voice that made your stomach flutter. “That’s why I know you don’t listen.”
You smiled despite yourself. “You didn’t listen either when you were younger.”
He shook his head, a small laugh escaping him. “I listened more than Khabib.”
“That’s not hard,” you said, and he laughed again, the sound low and warm.
The moment stretched between you, soft and fragile, and for a second you wondered if he felt it too. The pull. The familiarity. The danger of it. He looked like he wanted to say something else, something heavier, something that would change the air between you completely, but your mother returned before he could speak.
She placed a plate of pastries on the table and smiled at the two of you as if she hadn’t just interrupted something important.
“You are staying for dinner,” she repeated to Islam. “It’s been a long time since you’ve eaten with us.”
Islam hesitated, his eyes flicking to you again. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“You never intrude,” she said firmly. “You’ve known this family since you were a boy. You’re always welcome.”
He looked at you again, and you felt your heart skip.
Dinner in your house had always been a kind of organised chaos. Your mother moved around the kitchen with the confidence of someone who had cooked the same dishes for decades, humming softly as she placed steaming plates on the table. The smell of roasted spices filled the air, warm and comforting, and the familiar clatter of cutlery echoed through the room. It should have been a normal evening, the kind you had lived through a thousand times, but the moment Islam sat down beside you, the atmosphere shifted into something quieter and heavier.
He sat close enough that your knees brushed under the table, a small accidental touch that neither of you acknowledged but both of you felt. His posture was straight, his hands resting lightly on his lap, and he kept his eyes on his plate as if looking anywhere else would give something away. You could feel the warmth of him beside you, steady and grounding, and it made your heart beat a little faster than it should have.
Khabib sat across from the two of you, his expression calm but unreadable. He watched Islam with a kind of quiet intensity that made the air feel tight. He had always been protective, always been the older brother who saw everything, but tonight his gaze lingered a little too long, his silence stretched a little too far.
Your mother, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering beneath the surface, kept the conversation flowing. She asked about what he's doing now, about his mother, about whether Islam was eating enough again. She placed extra food on his plate even when he insisted he was full, fussing over him the way she always had since he was a boy who used to come over after school with Khabib.
“I remember when you three used to run around the garden,” she said, smiling fondly at you both. “You would chase each other for hours. Islam always let you win.”
Islam let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “She cried when she lost.”
“I did not!” you exclaimed, nudging him lightly with your knee.
“You did!” he replied, his voice soft and warm. “Every time.”
Your mother laughed. “She was dramatic even then.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed you. Islam’s knee brushed yours again, this time more deliberate, and you felt a small spark run through you. He didn’t move away. Neither did you.
He didn’t say anything, but his jaw tightened slightly, and he shifted in his seat as if trying to understand something he didn’t like.
Your mother continued talking, unaware of the storm building across the table. “You know, the two of them were arguing earlier. Like an old married couple. It was very sweet.”
The words dropped into the room like a stone.
Islam froze.
You felt your breath catch.
Khabib’s eyes lifted slowly from his plate.
Your mother kept going, completely oblivious. “They have been like that since they were children. Always bickering, always helping each other. It's nice to see some things do not change.”
Khabib didn’t smile. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink.
He looked at Islam first, then at you, and the silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. You felt heat rise in your cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from the weight of his stare. Islam shifted slightly, his posture straightening, his expression carefully neutral.
Your mother noticed the tension and frowned. “What? I am only saying they get along well.”
Khabib finally spoke, his voice calm but edged with something sharp. “Getting along is one thing.”
Your mother raised an eyebrow. “And what is that supposed to mean.”
Khabib didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on Islam. “It means he is not good enough for her.”
The words landed like a blow.
Your mother clicked her tongue in irritation. “Khabib, do not start. Islam is a good boy. Better than most.”
“That isn't the point,” he said, still watching Islam.
Islam lowered his gaze, not out of guilt, but out of respect. He didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. He simply sat there, absorbing the weight of Khabib’s words like he had expected them all along.
You felt something twist in your chest. “Khabib, stop.”
He finally looked at you, and the intensity in his eyes made your stomach tighten. “I am not joking.”
Your mother sighed loudly, muttering under her breath about stubborn men and their pride, but she didn’t push further. She knew her son well enough to recognise when he had dug his heels in.
Dinner continued, but the warmth was gone. The conversation faded into awkward silence. Islam barely touched his food. You couldn’t taste yours. Khabib ate quietly, his expression unreadable, but the tension radiated from him like heat.
When the meal ended, Islam stood to help clear the table, but your mother shooed him away. “You are a guest. Go. Sit. Or go home before it gets dark.”
He nodded politely, thanked her for the meal, and stepped into the hallway to put on his shoes. You followed him, unable to let him leave without saying something.
He tied his laces slowly, his movements careful. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I did not mean to cause trouble.”
“You didn't,” you whispered. “He is just being protective.”
Islam looked up at you then, and the softness in his eyes made your breath catch. “He has every right to be.”
Before you could respond, Khabib appeared in the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable. “I'll walk you out,” he said to Islam.
Islam nodded, offering you a small, reassuring look before stepping outside with your brother.
The door closed behind them, and you stood there, heart pounding, listening to the muffled sound of their voices. You couldn’t hear the words, but you could hear the tone. Low. Controlled. Tense.
A few minutes later, the door opened again. Islam was gone.
Khabib stepped inside, closing the door with a quiet finality. He didn’t look at you at first. He removed his shoes, hung his jacket, and only then turned toward you.
“There better not be anything happening,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I am serious.”
You felt your throat tighten. “There isn't.”
“There better not be,” he repeated. “Because he is my brother. And you are my sister. And I will not let either of you ruin that.”
He didn’t shout. He didn’t raise his voice.
But the warning was clear.
You stood in the hallway with your hand resting on the console table, your pulse still racing from the tension at the dinner table. Khabib didn’t move at first. He stood near the door, shoulders squared, jaw tight, as if he was trying to hold himself together.
Your mother stepped out of the kitchen with a dish towel in her hand, her expression already annoyed. “What’s going on now?” she asked, her voice sharp. “You two look like you’re about to start a fight in my hallway.”
Khabib didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed locked on you. “There better not be anything between her and Islam,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I’m serious.”
You felt your throat tighten. “There isn’t.”
“It didn't look like that,” he said, and this time there was something colder in his tone. “The way he looked at you. The way you looked at him!”
Your mother frowned, stepping closer. “Khabib, what are you talking about?”
He finally turned to her, his jaw clenched. “He’s not good enough for her.”
Your mother let out a loud sigh, the kind she only used when she was truly fed up. “You’ve been saying that since they were children. You said the same thing when he taught her how to ride a bike. You said the same thing when he helped her with her school project. You said the same thing when he carried her home after she sprained her ankle.”
“That was different,” Khabib said, his voice sharper now. “We were children back then.”
“And she’s not a child now,” your mother replied, crossing her arms. “She can decide who’s good enough for her.”
Khabib shook his head, frustration simmering beneath the surface. “You don’t understand. He’s my brother. I know him better than anyone. I know how he thinks. I know what he wants. And I know he shouldn’t be looking at her like that.”
Your mother’s eyes narrowed. “And what makes you think he’s looking at her in any way.”
Khabib hesitated, and that hesitation told you everything. He’d seen it. The glances. The softness. The way Islam’s knee had brushed yours under the table. The way you’d leaned slightly toward him without meaning to. The way Islam had looked at you when he thought no one was watching.
Your mother saw the hesitation too. “You’re imagining things,” she said firmly. “Islam’s always been respectful. He’s never crossed a line.”
“That’s the problem,” Khabib said quietly. “He’s too respectful. He hides things. He keeps things inside. He won’t say anything until it’s too late.”
You felt something twist in your chest. “Khabib, you’re overreacting.”
He turned to you again, his eyes sharp. “I’m not. I know him. And I know you. And I know how these things start.”
Your mother stepped between you, placing a hand on Khabib’s arm. “Enough! You’re making something out of nothing.”
Khabib pulled his arm away gently but firmly. “I’m protecting her.”
“From what?” your mother asked, her voice rising. “From a good man who’s known her since she was a child. From someone who’s never disrespected this family. From someone who’s always been loyal to you.”
Khabib’s jaw tightened. “From making a mistake.”
You felt something inside you snap. “Islam’s not a mistake.”
Khabib’s eyes flashed. “He could be.”
Your mother let out a frustrated breath. “You’re being ridiculous.”
Khabib ignored her. He stepped closer to you, his voice low and controlled. “I’m telling you this once. There can’t be anything between you and Islam. Not now. Not ever.”
You stared at him, your heart pounding. “You can’t decide that for me.”
“I can,” he said quietly. “And I will.”
Your mother shook her head, muttering under her breath. “You’re acting like your father.”
Khabib stiffened at that, but he didn’t respond. He simply looked at you, his expression a mixture of anger, fear, and something else you couldn’t name.
“You’re my sister,” he said softly. “I’m responsible for you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not even him.”
You swallowed hard. “Islam would never hurt me.”
Khabib didn’t blink. “Everyone hurts someone eventually.”
Your mother sighed again, rubbing her forehead. “Enough. Both of you. This isn’t the time.”
But Khabib wasn’t finished. He stepped back, his voice steady but cold. “I’m warning you. Stay away from him. Don’t give him ideas. Don’t let him think he has a chance.”
You felt your throat tighten. “He doesn’t.”
“He better not,” Khabib said. “Because if he does, I’ll end it before it begins.” He turned away then, walking toward the stairs with slow, heavy steps. Your mother watched him go, shaking her head in frustration.
She turned to you, her voice softer. “He’s scared. That’s all. He’s not thinking clearly.”
You nodded, but your chest felt tight. “He thinks I’m still a child.”
“He thinks he’s still responsible for you,” she said gently. “He’s always been like this.”
You looked toward the door where Islam had left, your heart aching with something you couldn’t name.
Your mother placed a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t let him scare you. You know your own heart.”
You nodded again, but the truth was heavier than that.
Your room felt too still after the argument. The air was heavy, the silence thick, and every time you closed your eyes, you could still hear Khabib’s voice echoing in your head. You sat on your bed with your knees pulled up, staring at the faint glow of your phone screen even though there were no new notifications. The house had gone quiet. Your mother’s door was closed. Khabib’s footsteps had faded upstairs. The whole place felt like it was holding its breath.
Your heart jumped before you even looked.
Islam: Are you awake
Islam: I’m at the old park
Islam: If you want to talk
You stared at the messages, your breath catching. The old park. The place where the three of you had spent half your childhood. The place where you’d scraped your knees climbing the rusted slide. The place where Islam used to push you on the swings because you were too scared to jump off. The place where Khabib used to race both of you across the grass until you collapsed laughing.
It wasn’t just a park.
It was a memory.
You typed back before you could think.
You grabbed your hoodie, slipped it on, and moved quietly through the house. You knew exactly where the floorboards creaked and where they stayed silent. You’d learned that as a child when you used to sneak downstairs for snacks. You eased the back door open and stepped into the cool night air, pulling the hood up as you walked down the familiar path toward the park.
The night was calm. The sky was a deep blue, the kind that looked almost purple around the edges. The streetlamps cast soft pools of light across the pavement, and the air smelled faintly of rain. You walked slowly, your heart beating faster with every step, the weight of the evening pressing against your ribs.
When you reached the park, it looked smaller than you remembered. The swings creaked softly in the wind. The old slide was still there, rusted at the edges. The grass was damp with evening dew. The bench near the swings was the same one the three of you used to sit on when you were too tired to keep playing.
And Islam was standing beside it.
He had his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched, his head tilted as he watched you approach. The streetlamp above him cast a soft glow over his face, turning the edges of his hoodie gold. He looked tired. He looked worried. He looked like he’d been standing there longer than he wanted to admit.
He smiled when he saw you. A small, tired smile that made your chest ache. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“I wasn’t sure either,” you said quietly. “But I’m here.”
He nodded, his eyes softening. “I’m glad.”
You walked toward him, your steps slow, the night air cool against your skin. The park felt like a memory. The kind that sits in your chest and refuses to fade. Islam looked around with a small, nostalgic smile.
“We spent half our childhood here,” he said. “You used to make us play hide and seek even when it was dark.”
“You always found me,” you said.
“You hid in the same place every time,” he replied, laughing softly. “Behind the slide.”
You felt your cheeks warm. “I thought it was a good hiding spot.”
“It wasn’t,” he said gently. “But I pretended it was.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, and the emotion in his eyes made your breath catch. He stepped closer, his voice quieter now.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he said. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Your heart tightened. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you either.”
He let out a slow breath, the kind that sounded like he’d been holding it for years. “Khabib’s right to worry. I shouldn’t feel like this.”
“But you do,” you whispered.
The silence between you stretched, soft and fragile. The swings creaked in the wind. A dog barked in the distance. The world felt small. Just the two of you. Just the truth hanging between you.
Islam looked down at the ground for a moment, then back at you. “I’ve tried not to feel anything. I’ve tried for years. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself it would go away. I told myself you were just Khabib’s little sister and I had no right to think about you the way I do.”
Your breath caught. “Islam…”
He shook his head gently. “Let me say it. Just once.”
He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him in the cool night air. “I care about you. More than I should. More than I ever meant to. More than I can explain.”
Your heart felt full and aching all at once. “I care about you too.”
He looked at you with something like disbelief, something like hope, something like fear. “I don’t know what happens now.”
You took a small step toward him. “We don’t have to know.”
He let out a quiet breath, his voice trembling just slightly. “If I’m wrong, tell me. If I’m imagining this, tell me. I’ll walk away.”
“You’re not imagining it,” you whispered.
He swallowed, his eyes searching yours. “Then I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”
You didn’t move.
You didn’t breathe.
You just waited.
He lifted a hand slowly, giving you time to pull away, but you didn’t. His fingers brushed your cheek, gentle and careful, as if he was afraid you might disappear. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to step back.
His forehead rested lightly against yours for a moment, his breath warm against your lips, and then he kissed you.
It was soft.
It was careful.
It was the kind of kiss that felt like a secret.
The kind that felt like years of unspoken feelings finally finding a place to land.
He pulled back just slightly, his voice barely steady. “We’re in trouble.”
You smiled, your heart full. “I know.”
He let out a quiet laugh, the sound warm and helpless. “I don’t regret it.”
“Good,” you whispered. “Neither do I.”
You stood there together in the quiet park, the night wrapped around you, the world suddenly meaning different.
The gym was already alive when Islam walked in. The familiar sounds echoed through the space: the thud of gloves hitting pads, the scrape of shoes on the mats, the low hum of voices warming up. The air smelled like sweat and disinfectant, sharp and clean in a way that usually grounded him. Normally he’d feel at home here, slipping into routine without thinking. But today everything felt slightly off, like the world had shifted a few inches to the left while he wasn’t looking.
He dropped his bag by the wall and wrapped his hands slowly, his movements careful, almost too careful. His mind wasn’t here. It was still in the park. It was still with you. He kept seeing the way you’d looked at him under the streetlamp, the way your breath had caught when he stepped closer, the way your lips had felt against his. He’d barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you again.
He tightened the wrap around his wrist, then realised he’d done it wrong. He sighed quietly and started over.
Across the room, Umar was watching him with a raised eyebrow. “You alright?” he asked, walking over.
“I’m fine,” Islam said, even though he wasn’t.
“You don’t look fine,” Umar replied. “You look like you forgot how to wrap your hands.”
Islam didn’t answer. He just kept working, slower than usual, his fingers fumbling slightly. Umar watched him for a moment longer, then shrugged and walked away, but not without glancing back once. Everyone knew Islam was steady. Focused. Controlled. Seeing him like this was strange.
Warm-ups started, and Islam moved through them mechanically. His body knew what to do, but his mind kept drifting. Every time he blinked, he saw the park again. The swings. The old slide. The way you’d stepped closer. The way you’d whispered that you cared about him too. His chest tightened every time he thought about it.
He missed a cue during drills.
He never missed cues.
Coach raised an eyebrow. “Islam. Focus.”
He tried to shake it off, tried to force himself into the rhythm, but his thoughts kept slipping. His punches were a fraction slower. His footwork wasn’t as sharp. He kept glancing at the door, half expecting Khabib to walk in and somehow know everything.
And then Khabib walked in.
He entered the gym with the same steady stride he always had, but his eyes were sharper today. He scanned the room quickly, then spotted Islam immediately. Islam felt his stomach drop. He straightened his posture, tried to look normal, tried to look like he hadn’t spent the entire night thinking about something he shouldn’t have done.
Khabib walked over slowly, his expression unreadable. “You’re early,” he said.
Islam nodded. “Wanted to get some extra work in.”
Khabib studied him for a moment. “You look tired.”
Islam hesitated. “Just thinking.”
Khabib’s eyes narrowed slightly. “About what?”
Islam looked away, pretending to adjust his gloves. “Training. The fight schedule. Everything.”
Khabib didn’t believe him. Islam could feel it. He could feel the weight of Khabib’s stare pressing into him, searching for cracks. Khabib had always been able to read him too well. He’d grown up with him. He knew every tell, every shift, every hesitation.
“You’re not focused,” Khabib said quietly.
Islam swallowed hard. “I’ll be fine.”
Khabib stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Did something happen last night.”
He kept his face still, kept his breathing steady, kept his voice calm. “No.”
Khabib watched him for a long moment, his eyes sharp, his jaw tight. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll know.”
Islam nodded once. “I’m not lying.”
Khabib didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push further. He stepped back, crossing his arms as he watched Islam move into sparring drills.
Islam tried to focus. He really did. But his mind kept slipping back to you. The way you’d looked at him. The way you’d said you cared. The way he’d kissed you. His chest tightened again, and he missed another cue.
Coach called out sharply. “Islam. What’s going on with you today?”
“Nothing,” Islam said, but his voice was too soft.
Khabib’s eyes narrowed again.
Islam threw a combination, but his timing was off. His partner countered faster than he expected, and Islam took a clean shot to the ribs. He winced, stepping back.
Umar called out from across the room. “You’re not here today, brother.”
Islam didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Because he wasn’t here.
Not really.
He was still in the park.
He was still with you.
He was still replaying the moment he’d wanted for years but never allowed himself to imagine.
And he knew, with a sinking feeling, that he couldn’t hide this forever.
Not from himself.
Not from you.
And definitely not from Khabib.
The gym had mostly emptied out by the time Islam and Usman sat down on the edge of the mats. The lights hummed softly above them, casting long shadows across the floor. The air still smelled like sweat and disinfectant, sharp and familiar, but Islam felt like he was breathing through cotton. His wraps were half‑undone, hanging loosely from his wrists, and he stared at the floor as if it could give him answers.
Usman watched him quietly for a moment before speaking. “You were off today,” he said. “Really off.”
Usman nudged him lightly. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
Islam rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s a lie,” Usman said. “I’ve known you too long. Something’s wrong.”
Islam hesitated. His chest felt tight. His thoughts were tangled. He hadn’t planned to say anything. He hadn’t planned to tell anyone. But the words were sitting in his throat, heavy and impossible to swallow.
“It’s her,” he said quietly.
Usman frowned. “Khabib’s sister.”
Usman let out a low breath. “What happened.”
Islam looked down at his hands. “I told her. Last night. I told her everything.”
Usman stared at him. “Everything.”
Usman exhaled slowly. “Islam… that’s dangerous.”
“You shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You kissed her, didn’t you.”
Islam closed his eyes. “Yes.”
Usman ran a hand through his hair. “Brother… Khabib will kill you.”
“You shouldn’t have done it.”
“But you don’t regret it.”
Islam shook his head. “Not for a second.”
Usman sighed, leaning back on his hands. “So what now?”
“I don’t know,” Islam said. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
A voice cut through the gym like a blade.
“You don’t need to know anything anymore.”
Khabib was standing behind them. His expression wasn’t angry. It was worse. It was cold. Controlled. The kind of calm that came right before a storm.
Islam stood slowly. “Khabib—”
Khabib didn’t let him finish.
He stepped forward and punched Islam across the face.
The sound echoed through the gym.
A sharp crack.
A gasp from someone still packing up their gear.
Usman jumped to his feet instantly.
Islam stumbled back, catching himself on the wall. He didn’t raise his hands. He didn’t defend himself. He just stood there, breathing hard, his cheek already reddening.
Khabib’s voice exploded through the room. “You kissed her!”
“You kissed my sister!” Khabib shouted again, louder this time, his voice shaking with fury.
Usman grabbed Khabib’s arm as he lunged again. “Khabib, stop! Not here!”
Khabib fought against him, his voice raw. “You think you can do this behind my back! You think you can sneak around with her! You think I won’t find out!”
Islam’s voice was quiet. “I wasn’t sneaking.”
“You lied to me!” Khabib shouted. “You lied to my face!”
Usman stepped between them, pushing Khabib back slightly. “Enough! Both of you!”
However, his words were deaf to Khabib's ears. His voice was shaking with anger. “You were like family! Do you hear me! Family! I brought you into my home! I trusted you! I let you sit at my table! I let you around my mother! Around my sister!”
Islam’s chest tightened painfully. “I know.”
“You don’t know anything!” Khabib shouted. “You betrayed me!”
Islam swallowed hard. “I didn’t betray you.”
“You did!” Khabib yelled. “You betrayed my trust! You betrayed our family! You betrayed everything we built!”
Islam’s voice cracked. “I care about her.”
Khabib’s face twisted with fury. “You don’t get to care about her!”
“I already do,” Islam said quietly.
Khabib lunged again, and this time he almost broke free of Usman’s grip. “I’ll kill you!”
“Khabib!” Usman shouted, holding him back with both arms. “Stop! You’ll regret this!”
Khabib’s voice was raw. “You’re done! Do you hear me! You’re done with her! You’re done with this family! You’re done with me!”
Islam didn’t move. “I’m not walking away from her.”
“You don’t have a choice!” Khabib shouted. “You won’t see her again! You won’t speak to her again! You won’t even look at her again!”
Islam’s voice was barely steady. “You can’t control everything.”
“I can control this!” Khabib said. “And I will!”
Usman tried to calm him. “Khabib, think—”
“I’ve thought enough!” Khabib snapped. “He’s going to America!”
Islam’s breath caught. “What?”
“You heard me!” Khabib shouted. “I’ll send you there myself! You’re gone! You’re out! You’re finished!”
Islam felt something inside him break. “You can’t do that.”
“I can!” Khabib said. “And I will!”
He turned and stormed out of the gym, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.
Usman let out a long breath, running a hand over his face. “Brother… what have you done?”
Islam didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because everything had just fallen apart.
The day felt painfully slow from the moment you woke up. You kept checking your phone even though you knew nothing would be there. Every hour that passed without a message from Islam made your stomach twist tighter. You tried to distract yourself, but your mind kept drifting back to the park, to the way he’d looked at you, to the softness in his voice when he said he cared. Now the silence felt like a punishment, like maybe he’d woken up and realised it was all a mistake.
You kept replaying the kiss in your head, wondering if he regretted it. Wondering if he’d decided it wasn’t worth the risk. Wondering if you’d misread everything. The longer the silence stretched, the more your thoughts spiralled into something sharp and painful. You tried to tell yourself he was busy, but deep down you knew something was wrong.
By late afternoon, you were sitting at the kitchen table with your mother, trying to help her chop vegetables. Your hands kept shaking, and she noticed immediately. She asked if you were alright, but you just nodded and forced a smile. She didn’t believe you, but she didn’t push. She just kept cooking, humming softly, trying to fill the quiet with something warm.
Then the front door slammed so hard the walls shook. Your mother jumped, and you felt your whole body freeze. Khabib walked in with a fury that filled the entire room. His jaw was clenched, his eyes were dark, and he didn’t even look at your mother. His gaze went straight to you, sharp and unblinking.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. You felt your heart drop, but you stood anyway. When you asked what was wrong, he shouted the words so loudly the sound echoed through the house. Your mother stepped in immediately, telling him not to speak to you like that, but he ignored her completely. He took another step toward you, his voice rising with every word.
“You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know what you did?” he shouted. You tried to deny it, but he cut you off, shouting again that you’d snuck out. Your mother gasped and turned to you, her face pale with shock. You couldn’t speak. You just nodded, and she closed her eyes like she’d been hit.
Khabib’s anger only grew. He shouted that he’d trusted Islam, that he’d treated him like family, that he’d brought him into the house and let him sit at the table and be around everyone he cared about. His voice cracked when he said it, and for a moment you saw the hurt beneath the fury. You tried to speak, but he shouted over you, saying Islam had betrayed him, betrayed all of you.
Your mother grabbed his arm, begging him to stop, but he shook her off. His eyes stayed locked on you, burning with something fierce and protective and terrifying. “You’ll never see him again,” he shouted. “Do you hear me? Never!”
“You can't do that!” You shouted back at him, but he only shouted back.
Then he said the words that made your breath stop. “He’s leaving. He’s going to America.” You stared at him, unable to process it, but he kept going. He said Islam was gone, that he was out of the family, out of your life, that you wouldn’t speak to him or see him ever again. Your mother covered her mouth, tears filling her eyes, but you couldn’t move. You felt frozen, like your heart had cracked open inside your chest.
Khabib stepped back, breathing hard, his voice still shaking with anger. “This ends now,” he said. “Do you understand me? It ends.” Then he turned and stormed down the hallway, slamming his bedroom door so hard the whole house trembled.
Your mother rushed to you immediately, pulling you into her arms. She kept apologising, saying she was sorry, saying she didn’t know what to do. But you couldn’t cry. You couldn’t speak. You just stood there, numb, your heart pounding in your ears.
Islam hadn’t messaged you because he couldn’t. Because Khabib had found out. Because everything had exploded. Because he was leaving. Because you weren’t allowed to see him again.
And you had no idea if you’d ever see him again.
Should I write a part two...????
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