#overprotective

[valentinesxoxo]

── ❨ ⸝⸝ 𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑. ❩ they’re your boyfriend— and this is how they love you!

ೀ 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 - mentions of yearning, pet names, mentions of manipulation and gaslighting, reassurances, overprotective, affectionate, showing off to others, admiration?, little rushed and short, fluff, unedited.

ೀ 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 - rudo┆ enjin ┆tamsy┆zanka┆corvus ┆august┆ gris┆ follo┆fu ┆zodyl┆jabber

𝐑𝐔𝐃𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐂 -

at the beginning of the relationship, rudo isn’t cold — just careful.

he doesn’t say much about how he feels. he keeps his hands in his pockets, keeps his tone steady, keeps his distance just enough so it doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard.

he walks you to your room, but claims it’s “on the way.” he stands slightly in front of you in crowded halls, but pretends he just likes being ahead.

if someone looks at you too long, his eyes narrow for half a second before he looks away like it doesn’t matter.

it’s not that he doesn’t care, it’s that he’s scared to.

when he was in the sphere, he trusted people who ended up breaking him in ways he doesn’t talk about. erm.. CHIWA..

trusting someone meant giving them something they could crush, and he learned that the hard way. so with you, he moves slowly.

so he watches, he waits, he studies the way you talk, the way you laugh, the way you get quiet when you’re overthinking. he tells himself not to get attached.

but he already is.

one night, when it’s colder than either of you expected, you’re shivering slightly and pretending you’re fine.

he notices immediately. he doesn’t comment on it — just shrugs off his hoodie and drops it over your shoulders like it’s nothing.

“don’t make it weird,” he mutters when you stare at him. “you’re distracting.”

but he keeps walking a little closer to you after that.

over time, the small things change. he starts reaching for your hand without thinking, like it’s natural. he doesn’t let go quickly anymore.

when you get hurt during missions, or practice, or in general — even if it’s something small — his calm expression tightens in a way that gives him away. his voice lowers, more serious, more focused.

“who did it?”

it isn’t aggressive or anything that bad.

he still struggles with words. sometimes you’ll tell him you care about him, and he’ll go quiet for a second too long, eyes flicking away like he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of softness.

but then he’ll squeeze your hand once — firm, grounding — like that’s his way of answering.

the first time he says he loves you, it isn’t during some big moment.

it’s after a long day. you’re tired, half asleep, leaning against him. he thinks you’re not fully listening when he says it under his breath.

“…don’t leave.”

when you look up at him, surprised, he looks tense — like he regrets letting that slip — but you don’t laugh. you don’t tease. you just stay.

and that’s when something in him shifts.

after that, he stops pretending he doesn’t care. he still isn’t overly affectionate, still calm and steady, but now when someone steps too close to you, he doesn’t hesitate to place a hand at your waist and guide you away.

now when you’re upset, he doesn’t sit in silence — he pulls you into his chest and lets you hide there, his chin resting lightly on your head.

𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍 -

enjin isn’t quiet about you.

from the very beginning, he acts like the world should already know you’re his.

it doesn’t matter if you’re “his hot chick type” or not — he doesn’t even entertain that kind of thought.

the moment he decided he liked you, that was it. you became the person he wanted, and that’s all that mattered.

he’ll sling an arm over your shoulders in front of others, pull you closer to his side like it’s natural, like it’s obvious. if someone compliments you, he doesn’t get insecure — he smirks.

“yeah. i know,” he says easily. “she’s mine.”

he shows you off without shame. not in a way that feels objectifying, but in a proud way — like he genuinely can’t believe he gets to be with you.

if you do something impressive, he’s the loudest one reacting. if you’re dressed up, his eyes don’t leave you. if someone underestimates you, he’s the first to shut it down.

on missions, though, that’s when his protectiveness show.

he stays close. too close, sometimes.

even if you’re more than capable, he positions himself slightly ahead of you, scanning constantly. if danger gets even a little too near, his voice drops into something firm and commanding.

“stay behind me.”

and if you argue? he glares, jaw tight. not because he doubts you — but because the idea of you getting hurt makes his chest feel tight in a way he doesn’t know how to handle.

after missions, when adrenaline fades and he finally sees you’re okay, that’s when he exhales.

he’ll pull you into him without asking, hands firm at your back like he needs to physically confirm you’re real.

“don’t scare me like that,” he mutters, even if you didn’t do anything wrong.

but the other side of him — the softer one— shows when he has to leave.

when he’s gone on longer missions, he feels it immediately. he pretends he’s fine around others, but the nights are quieter without you. he stares at his phone longer than he should.

rereads old messages. misses the weight of you leaning on him. he doesn’t like how much he yearns, but he does. deeply.

he’ll text you things like;

“eat.”

“did you sleep?”

“call me.”

short, but loaded with meaning. and the second he’s back? he doesn’t hold back.

he picks you up off the ground when he sees you, even if people are watching. buries his face in your shoulder like he’s been holding his breath the entire time he was gone.

he kisses your forehead, your cheek, your temple — anywhere he can reach without thinking.

“missed you princess,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing tone. it’s honest. almost needy.

in private, he’s even more affectionate. he loves physical closeness — your head on his chest, your fingers tangled in his shirt, his hand resting at your waist absentmindedly.

he’ll press random kisses to your hair while you’re talking. he’ll tug you into his lap just because he can.

and if anyone ever speaks badly about you?

he doesn’t laugh it off, he doesn’t ignore it. he defends you immediately, voice sharp and unwavering. “watch your mouth.”

he also gets your name tattooed on his side of his abdomen.. <3

𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐒𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 -

tamsy isn’t a good person.

people stay careful around him. he’s good with words — too good. he can twist a story so smoothly that others don’t even notice it happening.

he knows how to stay calm while someone else gets frustrated. he knows how to win arguments without raising his voice. sometimes he says things in a way that makes people question their own memory.

because he really does love you.

he just doesn’t always know how to love in a healthy way.

he still likes control. he still likes things going his way. and sometimes, when you question him, he’ll sigh softly and say, “you’re overthinking again,” in that calm tone of his.

sometimes he’ll make it seem like he’s right even when you’re unsure. he doesn’t even realize how it sounds — it’s just how he learned to survive.

but right after that, he’ll touch your face gently. or pull you a little closer. and his eyes won’t look cold anymore.

“i wouldn’t lie to you,” he says quietly. “you’re not like everyone else.”

and the scary part is — he really means it that.

he loves you in a strong, almost possessive way.

if you want something, he makes sure you get it. you don’t even have to ask twice. if you stare at something in a store for a few seconds too long, he notices. if you mention wanting to try something new, he arranges it.

he likes seeing you happy. it makes him feel powerful, but also needed.

if someone talks badly about you, he handles it. you won’t see him argue. you won’t hear him threaten. but somehow, the problem disappears.

people stop bothering you. and when you ask what he did, he just shrugs.

“nothing important,” he says.

but he did it for you.

the biggest change shows when you’re alone together.

he’ll sit between your knees on the floor or lean back against the bed while you sit behind him. at first he acts like he’s only allowing it.

“don’t ruin it,” he says lightly when you reach for his hair.

but he stays still.

your fingers move slowly through his hair, brushing it, parting it, trying different styles. and little by little, his body relaxes. his shoulders drop. his breathing gets softer.

sometimes his eyes close without him meaning to. he trusts you enough to turn his back to you like that. trusts you enough to let you see him quiet.

if you laugh and tell him the hairstyle looks silly, he’ll glance at you through the mirror and say, “if you like it, i’ll keep it.”

and he would. even if it’s messy. even if it doesn’t suit him.

because it was you who did it.

and that softer side? no one else gets to see it. if someone walked in and saw him sitting there while you played with his hair, he’d give them a sharp look until they left. that version of him is private.

he still has habits that aren’t healthy. he still likes being in control more than he should.

but when he looks at you, there’s something real there. something steady. something that isn’t a game.

the world might see him as cruel. but with you, he tries.

and sometimes, when your hands move gently through his hair and he leans back just a little more into your touch, you can feel it — that quiet effort to be better than he used to be.

𝐙𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐀 𝐍𝐈𝐉𝐈𝐊𝐔 -

zanka has a bad attitude.

he’s sarcastic sometimes, teasing you in a way that makes you roll your eyes but secretly smile. “really? you’re going to wear that?” he might say with a smirk, and you know he’s joking, but there’s a hint of playfulness in the way he looks at you.

he enjoys seeing you flustered, the tiniest bit, but never in a mean way. it’s just fun for him.

but beneath that sarcasm is a side only you get to see. he’s protective. not loud about it, not dramatic, but careful.

if someone gets too close to you, even by accident, his hand finds yours, guiding you slightly back, or his gaze sharpens just enough to warn them off.

he doesn’t need to say anything — you feel the protection in the way he stands beside you, in the way his presence always makes the space around you safer.

he’s a gentleman with you, always. opening doors, helping you with your coat, letting you go first, walking you home, even if he says it’s just “out of habit.”

he notices the little things — if your bag is heavy, he carries it without you asking.

if your shoes are uncomfortable, he nudges you to sit while he adjusts something nearby. it’s quiet, understated, but every action tells you he cares.

he can still be teasing, though.

when you get embarrassed, he smirks and says something like, “don’t tell me you actually think you can hide that from me?” but after, he softens instantly, resting a hand lightly on your shoulder or brushing a strand of hair from your face.

he makes sure you feel safe — not just physically, but emotionally too.

and when you’re together in private, he lets his gentler side show even more. he’ll sit close enough for you to lean on him, wrap his arm around you without being overbearing, and occasionally whisper something soft, almost shy.

he likes the balance — sarcasm outside, tenderness when it’s just the two of you.

𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐕𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐇𝐀 -

corvus is the kind of man who doesn’t rush anything.

he notices the little things about you — the way your shoulders slump when you’re tired, the way your voice gets quieter when something’s bothering you, the way you fidget when you’re uncomfortable.

he’s patient. he doesn’t push you to talk, but he’s always there if you want to. if you need time to yourself, he respects that. if you need attention, he gives it fully.

he’s a gentleman with you, always. he makes sure you have what you need without making a fuss.

if it’s your period, he brings you whatever will make you feel better, whether it’s something to eat, drink, or a little comfort.

if you’ve had a bad day, he doesn’t bother you with questions — he just sits close and lets you lean on him. his presence alone is calm, steady, reassuring.

and when he’s in his office and you’re with him, he likes the closeness.

he’ll let you sit on his lap, resting your head on his chest, your hands gently on his shoulders.

he doesn’t fidget or make you feel awkward — it’s natural for him. he’ll wrap his arms around you, fingers lacing gently, and maybe hum softly while you talk or just sit quietly. he enjoys the quiet intimacy of it.

he’ll sometimes hold your hand while you sip tea or read a paper together.

if you need a little more comfort, he’ll brush your hair from your face, tuck it behind your ear, and adjust your blanket or sweater.

he doesn’t need to say much — his care is shown in every small, thoughtful action.

and he’s endlessly patient with your moods.

if you’re grumpy or upset, he doesn’t try to fix it right away. he lets you vent, he lets you cry, he lets you lean on him, all the while remaining calm and supportive.

his voice is soft, never aggressive, guiding but never pushing.

𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐙𝐀 -

august loves making things for you — clothes, mostly. skirts, dresses, jeans, shirts and he doesn’t stop at just making them; he wants them to fit you perfectly.

so he measures you a lot.

sometimes he says it’s for accuracy, but you know the truth — he just likes touching your skin, feeling the warmth of you beneath the tape measure.

and he’s never shy about it. a brush of his fingers across your shoulder while he marks your waist, a gentle hand at the back of your neck when he leans close to check the fit.

he always makes it feel natural, playful, affectionate.

he’s proud of you, and he shows it in everything.

if you’re near him when he’s working on his art, he doesn’t just let you watch quietly — he points out little details, laughs at your reactions, and sometimes guides your hand to show you exactly what he’s thinking.

and if he sketches you in order to see the creation of his clothes, he’s glowing with pride, showing off every piece to friends or anyone willing to see.

“look at this,” he says, “isn’t she amazing?” and even if you protest, he just laughs and wraps an arm around you.

he’s physically affectionate, too.

hands on your waist, fingers brushing your hair, a constant closeness that never feels forced.

he’ll pull you onto his lap while he’s sketching or sewing, resting your head against his chest, humming softly.

if you fidget or try to move away, he’ll chuckle and say, “you’re staying right here. i like it.”

𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐔𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐍 -

since gris is strong — not just in body, but in presence.

he notices when you’re tired.

after a long night, or a day that wears you out, he doesn’t even ask if you’re okay — he just lifts you up.

not in a rushed, careless way, but steady, firm, careful. your weight in his arms doesn’t surprise him— he likes it.

he likes the feel of you against him, the way your body fits into his, how your size compares to his.

it’s grounding, comforting, and he never hides the small smile that comes when he looks down at you.

he’s patient and understanding. if you move slowly, he moves slower to match you. if your energy fades mid-conversation or while walking somewhere, he doesn’t rush you.

he just adjusts, makes it easier, sometimes carrying your bag, sometimes lifting you entirely if you’re too tired to walk.

he watches you carefully — noticing every tense muscle, every small shiver, every yawn — and he responds naturally.

but he’s also playful sometimes. when he’s carrying you, he might tease lightly, “trying to tire me out?” while resting you against his chest.

or he’ll grin and press a soft kiss to your temple if you lean against him.

you can’t help but smile back, even if you’re too tired to argue.

he enjoys quiet moments, too. holding you close while you’re watching tv, or letting you curl into his chest while he hums a low tune.

he likes comparing your size to his, not in a boastful way, but with genuine way — how your hands fit in his, how your head rests against his shoulder, how your legs reach his knees when you’re perched on his lap.

it’s intimate, subtle, and it makes him feel connected to you.

𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎 𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐎 -

follo isn’t always confident around you — and he knows it.

he loves you, deeply, but sometimes that love makes him nervous.

even if you’re just sitting next to him or laughing at something small, he’ll catch himself fidgeting, rubbing the back of his neck, or looking anywhere but directly at you for a second.

he doesn’t like to admit it, and he tries to hide it, but you notice anyway. it’s subtle, small signs — a shaky laugh, a slight pause in his words — but it’s there because he cares too much.

he’s gentle with you. he always wants to make sure you’re comfortable, happy, safe.

he’ll offer his hoodie if you’re cold, walk you home, or make sure you’ve eaten.

every little thing he does is quiet, thoughtful, and sincere. even if he struggles with words sometimes, his actions speak louder than anything he could say.

one of the things he loves most — maybe a little embarrassingly so — is kissing your face.

the curve of your cheek, the tip of your nose, your forehead. it’s not about passion or urgency, just closeness.

when he does it, it’s slow, careful, like he’s memorizing every part of you.

sometimes he does it absentmindedly when he’s nervous — brushing a kiss to your cheek while trying to steady his hands, or pressing his lips softly to your forehead when you sit near him.

every kiss is quiet and sweet, and it always makes you smile.

even when he gets nervous, he can’t stop himself from showing you how much he loves you. his heart is full, but he tucks the nervousness beneath his calm exterior.

over time, though, with your presence, he starts to relax.

the moments where he fidgets or blushes become smaller, and the moments where he leans in close, softly kissing your cheek or nose, become longer and more frequent.

every small kiss, every careful gesture, every quiet look he gives you says the same thing.

𝐅𝐔 𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑 -

fu is timid — painfully, almost painfully timid.

but with you, he tries. like every single day.

even though his heart races when you’re near, even though his hands shake slightly when he thinks about holding yours, he makes the effort.

he asks about your day, checks if you’ve eaten, notices when you’re tired, and makes small gestures just to make sure you’re okay.

it’s never overbearing — he’s careful, patient, and quiet about it but it’s consistent. he really, truly cares.

he still gets shy around you, though. if you lean closer, or touch his arm lightly, his ears might redden, and he’ll step back just a fraction, unsure of what to do.

kisses are even harder.

sometimes he’ll try, brushing a quick, soft peck to your cheek or forehead, then flinching away, muttering something like, “sorry… i didn’t mean to startle you.”

but each time, he tries a little more, a little longer, because he wants to show you affection even if it scares him.

he likes to check up on you constantly, even in small ways.

a text to make sure you got home safe, asking if you’re warm enough, or quietly placing a cup of coffee in front of you.

he notices when something’s off in your expression, even if you pretend it’s nothing, and he’ll linger nearby, offering a gentle, smile.

he doesn’t push for answers — he waits, letting you open up when you’re ready.

𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐘𝐋 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐍 -

it’s clear to say zodyl doesn’t show much.

his face rarely moves, his voice rarely changes, and people around him often think he’s cold or unfeeling.

but with you, it’s different — even if you don’t always see it. deep down, he’s scared. scared of losing you.

scared that one wrong move could take you away from him.

that fear makes him hyperaware of you, especially during missions. he positions himself so he can see you, so he can intercept danger before it reaches you.

he doesn’t let you wander alone. if you stumble, he’s immediately there, steadying you without a word.

if someone comes too close, he steps forward, silent and sharp, his presence enough to warn them off.

he’s overprotective in ways he barely admits to himself.

he doesn’t hover unnecessarily, but every time he watches you, he’s calculating, thinking of every possible threat and how to prevent it.

sometimes he silently corrects your path, gently guiding your shoulder or waist, making sure you’re out of harm’s way.

and if danger comes too close, he’s unrelenting — precise, efficient, completely focused on keeping you safe.

even outside missions, he’s careful.

if you’re upset or overwhelmed, he doesn’t push you to speak, but he stays near, offering quiet comfort.

his face hides it, but your presence keeps him grounded.

in a way, you’re the reason he stays sane — the reason he can keep moving forward, even when the world is chaotic or dangerous.

with you, the cracks in his emotion are visible sometimes.

the smallest gesture — a hand on your back, a slight glance to make sure you’re okay, the way he lets you sit closer to him — shows his care.

he doesn’t need to say, “i love you” or “i’m worried” — because his actions say it all.

zodyl’s fear of losing you is constant, but so is his quiet devotion.

you are his anchor, his reason to stay steady, and even if he never admits it out loud, he would go through anything to protect you.

𝐉𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 -

jabber is way too much for you in the best way.

he’s not calm about love.

he’s loud with it, crazy with it, and almost a little obsessed.

when he likes you, it shows all over him. he gets excited to see you, always moving, always smiling, always acting like he has to do something with his hands because he can’t sit still when you’re around.

he wants to be close to you all the time, and he does not try very hard to hide it.

instead of soft kisses, jabber shows affection in his own strange, intense way.

he likes holding you close, pulling you into big hugs, resting his head near your shoulder, and keeping one hand on you like he needs to make sure you stay near.

sometimes he leaves little marks on you in playful ways, like a quick bite to the shoulder or a firm hold at your waist, never rough, just his way of showing he cares a lot.

it is not gentle in the usual way, but it is still full of feeling. with jabber, affection is never quiet.

he also does little things that show how deep his feelings go.

and the way he looks at you makes that clear too, like you are the most exciting thing in the room.

like he cannot believe you are his. if someone gets too close to you, his whole mood changes fast.

he gets sharp, protective, and a little scary if he has to be.

he will stand in front of you without thinking, his energy turning serious in a second. no one has to guess how much you mean to him, because he makes it obvious.

at the same time, he is still affectionate in his own rough, happy way.

he wants to touch your hair, hold your hands, lean on you, carry you if he feels like it, and keep you near him just because he likes the feeling of having you there.

he is the type to grin right in your face and act like he’s being normal, when really he is completely crazy about you.

© 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐱𝐨𝐱𝐨 | 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[haileyb444]

Overprotective Torch

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Reader

Summary: Pregnancy makes Johnny even more protective than usual, and while it should drive her crazy, she finds herself falling even harder for him.

It began with the groceries.

She had carried them inside plenty of times before, balancing bags on each arm with practiced ease. But the second the word pregnant entered their lives, Johnny snatched the handles from her with the speed of a man twice his size.

“Uh-uh. Nope. Absolutely not,” he said, striding past her to the door. “You don’t touch grocery bags anymore.”

She frowned. “They’re just groceries, Johnny.”

He shot her a look over his shoulder. “Groceries can be dangerous. Bananas are slippery. Milk’s heavy. Don’t get me started on glass jars.”

She laughed, shaking her head, but that was only the beginning.

Next came the laundry. Then the recycling bin. Then the parcel from the mailroom that weighed less than her purse. At first, she teased him about being dramatic, but Johnny Storm only doubled down.

“I’m serious,” he said one afternoon, pulling the laundry basket right out of her hands. “You’re carrying life. I can carry socks.”

Her purse was the tipping point.

They were headed out to dinner when he casually plucked it from her arm and swung the strap over his shoulder. She froze, staring. “Johnny… you’re carrying my purse.”

“Yeah,” he said, completely unfazed. “Problem?”

“Do you know what that looks like?”

He smirked. “Like I’m the best husband ever?”

She snorted. “Like you’ve lost a bet.”

Johnny grinned wider, leaning close. “Well, if anyone asks, I did lose. To you. And I’m good with that.”

She rolled her eyes, but when they reached the restaurant and he pulled out her chair with his free hand, she caught herself smiling.

It wasn’t just the carrying. It was everything.

How his hand always found the small of her back in crowded rooms. How he checked the couch cushion before she sat, like it might collapse beneath her if he didn’t. How he stood in doorways with his arms folded whenever delivery guys lingered too long.

She could have been annoyed—should have been, maybe. But every time she opened her mouth to argue, she caught the flicker of fear in his eyes, the way his bravado cracked at the edges.

Johnny Storm was reckless with himself, but not with her. Never with her.

So when he carried her purse through the restaurant with absolute confidence, ignoring the amused looks, she reached out, threading her fingers through his.

“Fine,” she murmured, lips twitching. “You can carry my purse.”

He leaned in, smug. “Knew you’d come around.”

She shook her head, but the truth was simple: it wasn’t about the purse, or the groceries, or the laundry.

It was about the man who would carry everything if it meant keeping her and their baby safe.

And she loved him for it—more than she could ever put into words.

[loomingspector]

I got a new idea hehehehehe (I haven’t seen it much, but that might be my own 'not searching' before I got the idea.)

But!

I really like the idea of the kids turning completely obsessive with Bruce. Not in a weird way. In the sense that, since legit every other parental figure in their life is dead/incapacitated/murdered. They only have Bruce.

So as they finally find solace in Bruce (in this hc it’s WetCatBattinson, cause he’s pathetic and l love him so much). They go completely insane with the idea that he could be killed, or even so much as hurt.

The first time they each see him stumble into the cave, and collapse onto the floor calling for Alfred, they all lose their minds. This is their new family and they can’t even protect it. They have to protect him. Protect him. Protect. Protect. Protect him.

Dick starts it of course, his family died in front of him, and he goes on a revenge spree. When he finally calms down and accepts Bruce’s genuine care for him, they go after him together. But when the worse villains then come on the radar. And Bruce gets severely hurt, Dick completely shuts down, he’s even more feral than before, screaming and yelling that he’ll kill everything, and he’s even freaking out at Alfred because Bruce seems uncomfortable in the treatment he’s doing. (he was resetting his dislocated shoulder).

Jason as well, he’s a street kid, and never really had true comfort, ever. And suddenly his life is a fairy tail, he has a strained relationship with his brother, but his new guardian seems to love him. It’s less sudden as it was with Dick, but no less than. It’s a gradual obsession, with everything he does, everyone he interacts with, goes to galas with, what is he doing when he’s not with Jason.

It certainly can’t be more important than him, certainly Bruce loves him more than anything, they’ve been fighting with their lives on the line together for so long now. Bruce loves him, more than anything right? Right?

He has to.

Jason loves him more than anything.

So Bruce has to love him just as much.

When Dick sees this child standing still, but absolutely seething when Commissioner Gordon put his arm around Batman when he was happy a case was finally over. And a small smile, was ever so slightly visible, on the otherwise emotionless Batman.

Dick recognizes that look, a look of deep possessiveness, one he saw in himself, before breaking off on his own in Blüd, but was sitting just beneath the surface. Bubbling up whenever he sees Bruce get hurt.

He pulls Jason aside, maybe making sure he doesn't go too far like he did, and lash out at the people near Bruce. He has to play this carefully if he wants to keep being right by his side. And to make sure Bruce is still happy. It would make him sad if his children went too far for him, even if they think it would be better for that scumbag who was flirting with Bruce, to die. They can't do that, not in public at least. They can uncover the scandals and make sure they're no longer on the guest list, but they can't go too far.

Bruce can't be sad.

Not because of them.

When Tim enters Bruce's life, his deep obsession has already been festering for so long. This is his idol, and he needs help. He needs Tim's help.

He needs him.

Like how much Tim needs him.

When he takes up the mantle, and Bruce is in his fragile mindset, worrying about Tim all the time, since he can't fuck up another time.

This is completely different from what Tim is used to. His idol worries about him, about what he eats, how much he sleeps, if he gets hurt and how he feels at all times.

This only fuels Tim's obsession even more, he's not just a hero, he's Tim's and Tim's hero alone. And Tim won't let anyone break him when he's spent so much time trying to build him up again. Nothing will get in the way of Bruce being happy, not the villains and certainly not some second rate annoyance at a gala, who's company Tim can make disappear overnight if he looks at Bruce that way again.

When Jason then comes back and the Titan's tower incident occurs, it goes a little differently.

Tim lets it slip that Bruce is his now, he doesn't need anyone other than him. He won't let anyone or anything make Bruce break down like that again.

Jason, like Dick, sees it. Sees this child become what he too was, and he ends up talking to him about what he means. Jason realizing that everything Talia told him, maybe wasn't as true as he thought, maybe Bruce really did care.

Tim might recognize this as a chance to make Bruce even more happy, so he doesn't have to read pride and prejudice while crying to the grave anymore. Won't have that shimmer of sadness in his eye anymore when he looks at the display case in the cave anymore. That Alfred decided was a good idea. It had been an interesting week when Tim uncovered that little titbit, but had shelved it when it had made Bruce sad that they were fighting.

So Tim will entertain the idea of Jason also getting space in Bruce's life, if it resulted it him being more happy. Like it did when Dick was there.

And Jason will take the time to uncover what truly happened while he was gone, maybe his parental love for Bruce wasn't as shallow as he had thought, while he was presumed dead.

So while Jason still finds fault in Bruce's methods, now it also has the undertones that if these scumbags continue to walk. They'll continue to hurt Bruce. And if Tim sends a list of people who needs a good scare for making Bruce uncomfortable, then nobody has to know.

When Damian makes his appearance, it seems to rock everything once again.

Damian has had to listen to both his mother and grandfather talk about this almost perfect specimen. How he was going to be the truly perfect one.

How could he not be obsessed with this man, he's supposed to be him perfectly, and then be even more.

When he finally meets him, he might start out wondering what was even special about him, but slowly he also starts learning why not giving in to killing is almost harder.

He starts seeing who he truly is as a hero, why people look to him as a beacon of hope.

While his obsession started extremely high, falling a little flat, but then taking on a new light, that almost makes it hard for it to not become even stronger than before.

Tim is now the one to see it, how Damian eats the same, trains the same, talks, and walk the same way as Bruce. Almost trying to entirely engulf Bruce's existence into his own. It's also tittering on too much, it's worrying Bruce. Tim can't have Bruce become sad because the new child, and if his disappearance would make him even more sad, he'll just have to show him the right way to go about this.

Tim talks to Damian about how it might not be a need to become Bruce, but because Bruce has now become what Damian has always needed in his own life, a strong force that would be the good for the many, taking not the easy way out, but the right way. An existence that sees Damian for what he is, and not what he needs to become.

Cassandras obsession is almost overflowing after a few weeks after being welcomed into the family. Never feeling safe, but now having a place that she can return to and call home. And people who accept her and her past. Working with her to make it better.

She strives to be better in the way her new parent wants her to. But also sees how this life is breaking him down, how he bleeds and hurts for the city, for the city to then still treat him like a criminal.

She saw how it was breaking him down when he couldn't be there for his family, and when the newspapers were speaking badly of his choice as CEO. And the sadness in his eyes when he's too late to a disaster, putting the blame on no one but himself.

Tim and Damian both see how she lingers in the shadows, how she'll put herself at risk to make sure more people get out safely, and how she doesn't seem to care about her injuries until Bruce would pull her to his side to protect her, which only seemed to distress her even more that he's focusing his time to protect her when she could protect herself.

They both sit her down, trying their best to explain how their health is absolutely essential to keeping Bruce happy, if they get hurt he'll be sad, so they cannot get hurt unless absolutely no other option is available.

They explain how to keep Bruce happy, what to avoid with him, how to get him out of situations he doesn't like in public. And how best, to make sure no one harms him.

No one will harm Bruce Wayne

not if his kids have any say in it.

(even if that someone is himself)

~~~~~~

This is a very rambling idea, but I really like obsessive characters. And it fits in my head that the kids absolutely have the potential of turning entirely obsessed with their new parent, since at this point, they don't have anything else.

I did the characters I'm familiar with most, since I'm not entirely clear on Steph/Barbara/Duke. And Duke/Barbara still have parents. Steph also had the potential for obsession when she wants to become Robin, but I'm not sure enough to write it out.

This might also be my more calm version of this take, so tell me if you want a little more feral one too hahahahah

my idea for this was also inspired by this post, by @siriusly-dc

as well as the wonderful fic ‘Your Beauty Is That of Gentle Winter, My Dearest’ By @ocyus-stuff

~~~~

I made a more feral pt. 2

[ariichive]

MALFUNCTIONᯓ ⋆°•

moving in with caleb was bound to have its ups and downs... but did he have to modify everything in his home to keep track of you? cw: fem. reader, caleb being overprotective and borderline insane, lowkey stalking, cameras, established relationship, reader can be mc or not, #ilovecaleb, mullet caleb yummy, wrote this listening to my 2020 playlist...

everything in caleb's space was so very... you. the foods in the fridge, the furniture, the tidiness of it all. there was so much of you, and it was quickly becoming a safe haven.

it seemed everything caleb owned was carefully picked out with your interests and not his.

you remember asking him about it, if he was truly okay with you taking over his space like this; especially since you never spent a dime while with him.

his answer still fresh in your mind.

"trust me honey, this is all i've ever wanted." he said with a sincere smile and a pat to your head, "besides, there's still a lot of me around, you just gotta find it."

back then, you weren't sure what he meant exactly and seen it as a way of him comforting you.

now, however, as the microwave locked your frozen dinner in there you realized what he meant.

caleb always cooked for you, he knew your desired calorie intake, allergies, and all the foods you didn't like.

you never had to lift a finger in the kitchen when he was around, because he had already taken care of everything before you even had the chance to think about it.

but now, standing in the quiet hum of the microwave, the absence of his presence was deafening. he was on a rather long mission with the fleet. he did prepackage all your meals, labeled and all, but admittedly... being bored with nothing to do except eat made the meals go quicker than expected. surprisingly, there was a frozen pasta dinner shoved in the back of the freezer. it wasn't the most ideal, but it was the best you could do without your personal chef and boyfriend.

it was a little embarrassing how dependent you became on him. you knew if he were here, he'd kiss your head and tell you he'll make those nasty thoughts go away.

there were still traces of him all around you, in the way the spice rack was arranged just so, the way the couch cushions bore the slightest indent from where he always sat, and even the basket of apples on the counter.

you sighed, leaning against the counter as the microwave beeped, signaling your sad little dinner was ready.

there was a small problem though.

the microwave wasn't opening.

no matter how much strength you used, the door just wasn't opening. you felt your eyebrow twitch; did you somehow manage to break his microwave? there was no way; sure, you relied on him a bit, but you definitely remembered the basics in the kitchen.

before you could get more frustrated, your phone dinged.

caleb <3: where did u even find that lol? thought i threw those all out :,)

you stared at your phone in deadpan before glancing back at the microwave, quickly texting back.

[name]: how did you even...?

caleb <3: baby, i got eyes everywhere

you huffed, shaking your head. of course he somehow knew you were about to eat the one frozen dinner he swore he got rid of.

[name]: okay, stalker. but actually, i think ur microwave is broken??? it won’t open.

the typing bubble appeared instantly.

caleb <3: yeah, ik... had some free time, messed around with a few things :p

another message came through right after.

caleb <3: say, what happened to the meals i prepared for you?

then another...

caleb <3: did you not like them? let me know so i know for the future if your tastes changed, sorry pretty girl

you were quick to type out a response, seeing as his typing bubble didn't disappear.

[name]: no!! i loved them all, just... they're gone :(

the message was marked as read immediately as he your phone began to ring.

you sighed, but your lips curled into a small smile as you answered.

“hi, caleb.”

“hi,” he echoed, his voice warm despite the slight scolding tone. “now, tell me, honey—how are they already gone? i made sure they’d last until i got back.”

you pouted, sinking further into the couch. “i got bored… and they were really good.”

caleb chuckled, and you could just picture the way he’d be shaking his head if he were here. “i swear, you’re gonna make me start rationing your meals.”

“you wouldn’t.”

“would i?”

you frowned. “…would you?”

his laugh came through the speaker, low and sweet. “nah, i could never say no to you. but seriously, baby, if you need more food, i'll order something. don’t go eating those frozen meals, they’re so bad for you.”

“it’s just one,” you mumbled.

“still. i don’t like the thought of you eating that while i’m gone.”

you sighed, tugging at the microwave one more time. “well, maybe if you weren’t so far away…”

“aw, do you miss me, pretty girl?”

you refused to answer that; he already knew the answer.

caleb hummed. “yeah… i miss you too.”

his voice was softer now, and your chest ached at how much you just wanted him here.

“i’ll be back soon,” he promised. “then i’ll make you something actually edible, alright?”

you smiled. “alright.”

“good girl.”

you felt your cheeks heat up, and caleb laughed again, as if he knew. (which he did).

“love you, honey.”

“love you too,” you murmured, holding the phone a little tighter. "why exactly is the microwave locked?" you decided to question one more time.

caleb chuckled, "i know you, [name]. even if i wasn't watching you, you'd open it and still eat the pasta. better to take... precautionary measures for my pipsqueak. did you even check the expiration date?"

ignoring his question, you did a quick lookover of the room, looking for the camera he had somewhere as he only laughed. "maybe instead of looking for the cameras, find what else i modified in the house, it'll keep you occupied. i'll order you food in the meantime."

you groaned, flopping back against the couch. “caleb, i swear, if you messed with anything else—”

“if? honey, i definitely did.”

your eyes narrowed. “like what?”

“mmm, can’t say. that’d ruin the fun, wouldn’t it?”

you let out a dramatic sigh. “you are a menace.”

“and you love me for it.”

unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong.

you stood up, glancing around the apartment, suddenly suspicious of everything. you had no idea when he found the time to do all this, but knowing caleb, he planned ahead weeks in advance, just for moments like these.

the phone call was cut short as commotion started on his mission, leading you to sadly have to hang up.

you sighed, setting your phone down and eyeing the apartment with renewed suspicion.

as if on cue, you heard a soft click.

you turned your head slowly.

the front door.

more specifically, the new deadbolt that you definitely hadn’t installed.

your stomach dropped. oh, no.

another quick text from caleb.

caleb <3: your food is outside, i unlocked the door for you to grab it <3 be quick.

you did as he said, quickly grabbing the food delivery from outside, the door locking as soon as you got back in.

[name]: caleb. why is the door locked from the outside?

it took him a moment to reply, likely caught up with work, but when his name finally popped up on your screen, you already knew you wouldn’t like his answer.

caleb <3: oh, that? safety measures, honey. u can unlock it, but only through the app i installed on ur phone :)

you blinked. what app?

as soon as you asked, a new icon appeared on your screen—a sleek little security app with a familiar-looking otto icon.

caleb <3: just in case u ever get any funny ideas about leaving late at night alone.

your jaw dropped.

[name]: caleb. you remote locked me inside our home.

caleb <3: our very safe home! where nothing bad can happen to u!! :D i'll text u when i get to safety, enjoy ur food pipsqueak!

i love caleb btw

[audrey-favprincess]

Bored, send asks (or biceps) pls and thank you :3

[im-so-normal-iswear]

Hey! Saw your requests are open. If you havent been overwhelmed eith asks I have one for Yandere Shadow if you're interested, if not you're fine!!

What about a Yandere Shadow and Sonic with an S/O who's extremely affectionate and overprotective? BUT, as a twist, They're this way with everyone they care about. They just have a lot of love to give❤️

(Bonus headcanon that Eggman targets them first in fights because his robots literally cant get anywhere near anyone else due to how protective they can be of others. They focus on others so much they forget they might also be targetted)

A/n: idk how long this was in my inbox for

Yandere Shadow/Sonic x Overprotective, Affectionate Reader

Shadow:

Shadow isn't used to the kind of affection you give, not from anyone. He wasnt quite used to affection to mych at all. Not after Maria at least.

You're the type to wrap your arms around people in your life without a second thought, ruffle their hair, or reassure them with kind words whenever they’re feeling down.

At first, he thought this affection was only for him. The way you’d stand beside him in fights, ready to shield him from harm despite your lack of superhuman abilities, left him both confused and, strangely, touched.

But then, Shadow began to notice a pattern.

You weren't just protective of him. You were protective of everyone you cared about. Whether it was Sonic, Tails, Knuckles, or even strangers in trouble, you'd throw yourself into the way to ensure no one got hurt.

Your willingness to put others first was respectable, but it also infuriated Shadow.

Didn’t you realize how reckless it was? Did you think anyone else deserved your warmth and care the way he did?

Shadow tried to reason with himself. He knew your affection was genuine and that your overprotective tendencies came from a place of love.

Still, that jealousy in his chest clawed at him every time he watched you worry and fuss over someone else.

His thoughts turned darker as he began to wonder if maybe he needed to teach you to focus that energy solely on him...

It wasn’t unusual for Eggman to target the people Shadow cared about, but this time, Eggman targeted you first.

Shadow’s blood boiled when he realized why. Your protective nature made you an obstacle to Eggman’s plans, your sheer determination to shield others from harm meant that his robots couldn’t get anywhere near his intended targets. And worse, your focus on others left you vulnerable.

Shadow was livid. Not at you, but at the world. How dare anyone put you in danger?

You were so busy worrying about others that you forgot to worry about yourself. He decided right then and there that he'd do whatever it took to keep you safe, even if that meant keeping you away from everyone else.

In the days that followed, Shadow became even more possessive. He started hovering closer during battles, stepping in before you had the chance to protect someone else. If you tried to shield Sonic or Tails, Shadow would pull you back with a firm grip, glaring at whoever dared to draw your attention.

"You can't keep doing this," he’d say in a stern voice. "You're going to get yourself hurt. Let me handle it."

At home, Shadow became even clingier. He didn't like how much energy you gave to others, so he made it his mission to monopolize your time.

Every moment spent with him was another moment you couldn’t be out there, being with someone else.

Still, he couldn't completely suppress his jealousy. The way you’d light up when hugging someone else made his fists clench.

Your constant reassurances that you had enough love to go around only made him more determined to make you see that he deserved all of it.

"Why do you waste your time on people who can’t protect themselves? They donct deserve what you give them. I'm the one who'll keep you safe, not them"

Sonic:

Sonic's usually not the biggest fan on being the receiving end of affection, but when it comes to you, he loves it. In fact, he thrives on it.

You're always ready with a hug, a playful nudge, or words of encouragement that make his heart race faster than his feet.

At first, he thought you were just that way with him, and he basked in the attention.

But Sonic quickly realized that you didn’t just have love for him. You had love for everyone.

You'd throw yourself in front of Tails to block an incoming attack, fuss over Amy if she got a scratch, or rush to Knuckles aid whenever he bit off more than he could chew.

Your boundless compassion for others left Sonic respecting you even more, but it also left him feeling insecure.

As confident as Sonic was in his abilities, he couldn’t shake the fear that someone else might steal your affection.

He wanted to be the one you turned to, the one you prioritized above all else. But your overprotective tendencies meant that you focused on everyone equally, leaving Sonic craving more of your attention.

Then came the day Eggman decided to target you.

It wasn’t hard to see why. You were a force of nature in your own way, your determination to protect others made you a threat to Eggman’s plans. Sonic’s heart dropped when he realized that Eggman saw you as a liability.

The first time one of Eggman’s robots aimed directly for you, Sonic barely managed to stop the attack in time.

"Hey, what were you thinking?!" he scolded, his voice tinged with panic. "You can't keep throwing yourself in the line of fire like that!"

You brushed off his concerns, he did that stuff all the time, why was it any different?

Sonic wanted to argue, but he couldn't bring himself to. Still, he made a silent vow to protect you, even if it meant protecting you from yourself.

Sonic's jealousy is more subtle than Shadow’s, have to keep up the 'perfect hero' act. He'd crack jokes whenever you doted on someone else, masking his unease with humor. But if someone started to take over your time, Sonic wouldn’t hesitate to intervene, dragging you away with some flimsy excuse.

Despite his possessiveness, Sonic would never stop loving your affectionate nature. It's part of what makes you, you. But he’d do everything in his power to ensure that your love didn’t come at the cost of your safety, even if it meant keeping you closer than you’d like.

[angelwfangss]

i loveee when boys are overprotective over their bfs like yes please shield me from everyone else and not let other people touch me and hold me like im some sacred treasure!!! make everyone know ur mine and im urs (* ´ ▽ ` *)

[un1ver53]

The Line He Never Meant To Cross

Islam Makhachev x Reader

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.

Khabib noticed.

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.

Then your phone buzzed.

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: I’m coming

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.

He nodded. “I do.”

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.”

You nodded.

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.”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

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.”

“I didn’t sleep much.”

“Why?”

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.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Islam swallowed hard. “I’ll be fine.”

Khabib stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Did something happen last night.”

Islam’s heart stopped.

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.”

Islam didn’t respond.

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.”

Islam nodded.

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.”

“Yes.”

“And she…”

“She feels the same.”

Usman exhaled slowly. “Islam… that’s dangerous.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I know.”

“You kissed her, didn’t you.”

Islam closed his eyes. “Yes.”

Usman ran a hand through his hair. “Brother… Khabib will kill you.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t have done it.”

“I know.”

“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.”

Islam froze.

Usman froze.

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.

“Khabib! Stop!”

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!”

Islam didn’t deny it.

“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.

The room went silent.

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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