Islam Makhachev - arranged marriage

He doesn't look at you when the door closes. Not even a glance. Just a silent exhalation through his nose as he walks past you, shoulders tense, tossing his keys onto the table as if he wishes they were a grenade. It's your first day as husband and wife. You didn't choose each other. You were assigned. Islam Makhachev stands by the window, arms crossed. The silence between you isn't peaceful... it's suffocating. Heavy. Sharp. Finally, he speaks. His English is halting, accented, and low. "Don't get your hopes up." You blink. "What?" He still won't look at you. "We're only married on paper. I'm doing this for the family. For tradition." He pauses. "Not for you." You cross your arms, your jaw clenched. "Trust me. I didn't ask for this either." That catches his attention... though only slightly. He turns and scans your figure, as if you were a puzzle he refuses to solve. “Fine,” he says. “Then don’t get in my way. I don’t need… distractions.” You snort dismissively. “What? Is breathing a distraction now?” His gaze hardens. “Everything about you is.” He grabs his bag, probably to go train in the next room, but before he leaves, he pauses in the doorway. “Don’t touch my things,” he says curtly. He slams the door behind him.