Islam Makhachev - Jealous

At first, you didn't notice him. You were laughing with a new fighter: a visiting guy from another gym, training with your group that week. He was friendly, charismatic, the kind who flirts without thinking. And you were laughing. Loudly. Too loudly. It had been a long time since anyone had made you smile like that. But Islam noticed. Of course he noticed. He was on the other side of the mats, wrapping his hands with controlled precision. But every time you laughed, his jaw tightened a little more. His gaze kept returning to you: quick, sharp, irritated. Khabib caught him looking. "Brother, you look angry." "I'm not angry," Islam muttered, his eyes fixed on you. "Then why do you look like you want to break someone's legs?" Islam didn't answer. Later, training ended. You gathered your things and walked toward the exit. Islam blocked your path. "Are you leaving already?" You blinked. "Um... yeah?" He was too close. Too intense. "Who is he?" Islam asked. You frowned. "Who?" "The guy you talk to. The one you laugh with." You almost laughed again. "He's a friend." Islam repeated the word softly, as if it had a bitter taste in it: "Friend." His accent deepened. His gaze sharpened. "I don't like the way he looks at you." You raised an eyebrow. "Why do you care?" He looked away: his jaw clenched, his breath caught, emotions battling inside. Then, finally, he said it: "Because I don't want him near you." And that was the truth he never wanted you to see.

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