abubakar nurmagomedov x reader
slow burn/fluff- abukakar meets the reader because she works at AKA, they start talking each day, abubakar and the reader go on their first date
authors note: i love this fic omg its the longest one ive ever wriiten please read the whole thing im so proud of it! i love abubakar but never see any coverage on him :( but please enjoy :)
The morning sun filtered through the glass doors of American Kickboxing Academy, casting long shadows across the polished floor. You adjusted the stack of papers on the front desk, organizing the day's schedule with practiced efficiency. Six months into this job, and you'd fallen into a comfortable rhythm, greeting fighters, handling fan mail, answering phones. It was predictable. Safe.
The door swung open, and you glanced up with your standard welcoming smile already in place. "Good morning, welcome to—"
The words died in your throat.
He stood in the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, dark eyes scanning the lobby before landing on you. Abubakar Nurmagomedov. You'd seen his name on the roster, knew he trained here with the rest of the Dagestani crew, but you'd never actually met him face-to-face.
And God, the photos on the gym walls didn't do him justice.
"Hello," you managed, finding your voice again. "Can I help you?"
He approached the desk with an easy confidence, but something flickered in his expression when your eyes met, a brief hesitation, like he'd forgotten what he came to say. His lips curved into a smile that made your stomach flip.
"Yes, hello," he said, his accent thick and warm. "I am Abubakar. I come for training today. Need sign in, yes?"
"Of course." You pulled up the digital log, hyper-aware of how close he was standing, the faint scent of cologne mixing with winter air that clung to his jacket. "Abubakar Nurmagomedov?"
"Yes, this is me." He leaned against the counter, watching you with an intensity that made your fingers fumble on the keyboard. "You are new here? I not see you before."
"I've been here about six months, actually. But I mostly work mornings. You must train later usually?"
"Ah, yes. But today I come early." His grin widened, playful. "Maybe this is good luck for me, no? Pretty girl at desk make morning better."
Heat rushed to your cheeks. "That's... thank you."
"Is true." He shrugged, completely unashamed. "I am fighter. I say what I see. No time for how you say playing game?"
You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head as you finished logging him in. "Well, you're all set. Training room is—"
"I know where is training room," he interrupted gently, that smile never leaving his face. "I train here long time. But maybe you tell me anyway? I like hearing you talk."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was ridiculous. You'd met dozens of fighters, some of them famous, some of them flirtatious. But something about Abubakar felt different, genuine beneath the playfulness, warm beneath the charm.
"Down the hall, second door on your left," you said softly.
"Thank you." He pushed off from the counter but didn't move, just stood there looking at you like he was trying to memorize your face. "What is your name?"
You told him, and he repeated it slowly, carefully, like he was tasting each syllable.
"Beautiful name," he said. "I see you again, yes? When I finish training?"
"I'll be here," you replied, trying to sound casual even though your pulse was racing. "I work until five."
"Good. Is very good." He hefted his bag higher on his shoulder, finally taking a step backward. "I should go. Coach will be angry if I am late. But..."
His eyes sparkled with mischief. "But now I have reason to finish training fast."
He turned and headed down the hallway, but not before glancing back one more time, catching you still watching him. His laughter echoed off the walls, rich and genuine, and you couldn't help but smile.
You sat back down, staring at the computer screen without really seeing it.
What the hell just happened?
True to his word, Abubakar reappeared three hours later.
You were processing membership renewals when you felt that familiar prickle of awareness, the sense of being watched. Looking up, you found him leaning against the doorframe, gym bag in hand, hair damp from a shower. He'd changed into fresh clothes, a simple black hoodie and jeans, but somehow he made it look effortless.
"You still here," he said, grinning. "Good."
"Told you I work until five." You glanced at the clock. "Still got two hours."
"Ah." He approached the desk, moving slower this time, less rushed. "Then I have time."
"To talk with you." He set his bag down and rested his forearms on the counter, bringing himself closer to eye level. "Training was good today. Very good. I think maybe you bring me luck."
You laughed, shaking your head. "I don't think sitting at a desk brings anyone luck in the cage."
"No, no, you don't understand." His expression turned serious, though his eyes still held that playful glint. "Before, I come to gym, I train, I go home. Is routine. Boring. But today..." He gestured between you both. "Today I have something to think about. Someone. Make me train harder, you know? Want to impress."
Heat crept up your neck. "You don't need to impress me."
"Maybe I want to anyway."
The phone rang, breaking the moment. You answered it, handling a quick question about class schedules, and when you hung up, Abubakar was still there, patient, waiting.
"Don't you need to get home?" you asked. "Rest? Isn't that part of training?"
"Yes, yes, is important. But..." He tilted his head, studying you. "Five more minute won't hurt. Tell me, you like working here? With all the crazy fighters?"
"Most of them aren't crazy," you said. "Just dedicated."
"Dedicated. Yes, good word." He nodded approvingly. "What you do when not working? You have hobby?"
And just like that, the conversation flowed.
The next morning, Abubakar arrived thirty minutes earlier than the day before.
"Good morning," he said cheerfully, approaching the desk like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You have coffee today?"
You held up your travel mug. "Never start a day without it."
"Smart girl. I bring you one tomorrow, yes? You tell me how you like."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know. I want to." He signed in quickly, then paused. "You like sweet? Or no sugar?"
"A little sweet," you admitted. "But really, you don't—"
"Little sweet. I remember." He tapped his temple. "See you after training."
He did bring you coffee the next day. And the day after that. Each morning, he'd arrive a little earlier, stay a little longer, find new reasons to linger at the desk. He'd ask about your weekend plans, tell you stories about growing up in Dagestan, joke about his teammates' quirks.
"Islam, he is like old man," Abubakar said one morning, grinning at the memory. "Always serious. Always thinking. I tell him, 'Brother, you need to smile more,' and he say, 'I smile when I win.' Very boring, yes?"
"Too focused. Is not healthy." Abubakar leaned in conspiratorially. "I am focused too, but I know how to have fun. Life is not just training and fighting. Must enjoy, you know?"
"Is that your philosophy?"
"Yes. Work hard, play hard. And..." His gaze softened. "Spend time with people who make you happy."
Your coworker, Jennifer, started noticing by the end of the first week.
"So," she said during your lunch break, waggling her eyebrows. "Abubakar Nurmagomedov, huh?"
"Oh, come on. The guy practically lives at your desk now. And the way he looks at you?" She fanned herself dramatically. "Girl, that man is smitten."
"Friendly." Jennifer snorted. "Honey, I've worked here three years. Fighters come, fighters go. They're polite, they sign in, they leave. They don't bring personalized coffee every single morning and find excuses to chat for twenty minutes before training."
You bit your lip, trying to suppress a smile. "It's not like that."
By the second week, you'd learned that Abubakar had two younger sisters he adored, that his mother made the best khinkali in Dagestan, that he'd started training when he was six years old. He learned that you'd moved to San Jose for this job, that you loved movies and rainy days, that you'd never been in a real fight but appreciated the discipline it took.
"You should learn," he said one afternoon, catching you as you were organizing the fan mail that had arrived. "Self-defense. Is important."
"I teach you." The offer came quickly, earnestly. "Not for fighting. Just so you know how to protect yourself. World is crazy sometimes."
"Of course. I teach my sisters too. Is important to me that..." He paused, searching for words. "That people I care about are safe."
People I care about. The phrase hung in the air between you, weighted with meaning.
"I'd like that," you said softly.
His smile could have lit up the entire gym.
The third week, something shifted. The playfulness was still there, but underneath it ran a current of something deeper. He'd remember tiny details you'd mentioned in passing, like your favorite type of tea or the book you were reading. When you had a rough day dealing with a difficult client, he noticed immediately.
"What is wrong?" he asked, concern creasing his forehead. "Someone make you upset?"
"Tell me. Maybe I can help."
You explained the situation, expecting him to brush it off or offer generic comfort. Instead, he listened intently, nodding at the right moments, and when you finished, he said, "You handle very well. Better than I would. I would probably say something not nice and make worse." He grinned. "Is good you are here and not me. You have patience. Is beautiful quality."
"Thank you," you whispered, touched by his sincerity.
"Is true." He reached across the desk, his fingers barely brushing yours. "You are beautiful in many ways. Not just..." He gestured vaguely at your face. "Not just outside. Inside too. I see this."
Your breath caught. The gym bustled around you, people coming and going, but in that moment, it felt like you were the only two people in the world.
"I'm really glad you started coming in early."
His smile was radiant. "Me too. Best decision I make in long time."
He squeezed your hand gently before pulling away, grabbing his bag. "I see you after training?"
As he walked toward the training room, you noticed Jennifer watching from the office doorway, a knowing smirk on her face. You didn't even care. Let her tease. Let everyone notice.
Something was growing between you and Abubakar, something real and warm and impossible to ignore. And for the first time in a long time, you felt genuinely excited about what might come next.
You just didn't know that everything was about to get complicated.
It started like any other Tuesday morning.
You arrived at the gym at six, unlocked the front doors, turned on the lights, and settled behind the desk with your coffee. The familiar routine calmed you, the quiet before the storm of fighters and coaches and the rhythmic sounds of training that would fill the space within the hour.
You'd spent half the night replaying your conversations with Abubakar, the way he looked at you, the things he'd said about seeing you inside and outside the gym. You'd caught yourself smiling at nothing more than once, your mind drifting back to him even as you tried to focus on other things. Now, as you settled into your shift, you found yourself anticipating his arrival, wondering if he'd come in early again like he had been doing.
You were sorting through the morning's paperwork when the front door opened.
You looked up, expecting Abubakar. Instead, Khabib Nurmagomedov stood in the doorway, gym bag slung over his shoulder, that calm, steady presence he always carried with him.
"Oh, good morning, Khabib," you said, smiling warmly. "You're here early today."
"Yes, yes. Extra session before main training." He approached the desk, his expression friendly. "How you are doing? Is good day?"
"It's good so far. How about you?"
"Alhamdulillah, all is good." He set his bag down, leaning slightly against the counter. "You have mail for me? Gifts maybe?"
"Let me check." You turned to the shelves behind you where the fan mail was organized by name. "I think there were a couple things that came in yesterday."
"You are very organized," Khabib said, his tone genuinely appreciative. "Always know where everything is. This is good quality."
You laughed softly, pulling out two packages addressed to him. "Just doing my job."
"No, is more than job. You care about details. I see this." He took the packages from your hands, his fingers brushing yours briefly. "Thank you. You make everything easier for us."
"You're welcome, Khabib. Anytime."
He smiled, that rare, genuine smile that softened his usually serious demeanor. "You have good energy. Is nice to see you in morning."
From across the gym, near the entrance to the training area, Abubakar had just walked in.
He'd been looking forward to seeing you, that familiar anticipation building as he drove to AKA. But when he stepped through the doors and saw Khabib leaning against your desk, smiling at you, laughing with you, something sharp and unexpected twisted in his chest.
It hit him like a punch he hadn't seen coming.
Khabib was his brother. They'd grown up together, trained together, bled together on the mats since they were children. There was no one Abubakar trusted more. And yet, watching Khabib's easy charm, the way you smiled back at him so openly, so warmly, made Abubakar's jaw tighten.
He stood frozen, gym bag heavy on his shoulder, watching as Khabib said something that made you laugh. That laugh. The one Abubakar had started to think of as his.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Khabib wasn't flirting. He was just being Khabib, polite and kind, the same way he was with everyone. But it didn't matter. The rational part of Abubakar's brain knew this. The irrational part, the part currently flooding his veins with adrenaline, didn't care.
You handed Khabib his packages, and he thanked you again before turning toward the training room. He spotted Abubakar and raised a hand in greeting.
"Brother! You are early too today. Is good, we train hard together, yes?"
Abubakar forced a smile, nodded. "Yes. We train."
Khabib clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside his friend.
Abubakar's eyes drifted back to you. You were watching him now, your expression brightening the moment your gazes met. You lifted your hand in a small wave, and despite everything, his heart lurched.
He waved back, but he didn't approach the desk. Not yet. Not while his thoughts were this tangled.
Instead, he headed straight for the training room, dropped his bag, and started wrapping his hands with more force than necessary.
This was ridiculous. He had a fight coming up. He should be focused, disciplined, locked in. Not standing here feeling possessive over a woman he hadn't even taken on a proper date yet. A woman who wasn't his.
But God, he wanted her to be.
That was the problem, wasn't it? He'd been telling himself this was just attraction, just enjoying her company, just something light and easy. But the way his chest had tightened watching Khabib make her smile, the way his hands were shaking now as he tightened the wraps, told him the truth he'd been avoiding.
He had real feelings for you. Deep, complicated, terrifying feelings.
And he had no idea what to do about it.
Abubakar looked up. Islam had entered the room, already changed and ready to train.
Islam raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but he didn't push. "Okay. We start soon."
Abubakar nodded, finishing his wraps and moving to the mats. He needed to hit something. He needed to grapple, to sweat, to exhaust himself until this feeling went away.
But even as he trained harder than he had in weeks, pushing his body to the limit, throwing himself into drills with a ferocity that made his coaches take notice, he couldn't shake the image of you smiling at Khabib.
And he couldn't shake the realization that he was in far deeper than he'd ever intended to be.
Friday afternoon brought chaos to the front desk.
You'd been warned about the shipment, a massive delivery of fan mail and gifts that had accumulated at the AKA mailing address over the past two weeks. Boxes upon boxes were stacked behind your desk, each one labeled with a fighter's name. Some were small padded envelopes, others were large packages wrapped in brown paper and covered in international postage stamps.
You'd spent the last hour sorting through everything, organizing the items by fighter, creating neat piles that you'd distribute as each person arrived for their training sessions. Khabib's pile was predictably the largest, a mountain of letters, gifts, and packages from fans around the world. Islam's was substantial too. Tagir had a modest collection. And Abubakar's pile, while smaller than Khabib's, was still impressive, filled with letters in Russian and carefully wrapped packages.
You found yourself smiling as you sorted through Abubakar's mail, wondering what he'd think of all this attention. Would he be embarrassed? Pleased? Would he open them right away or save them for later?
The front door opened, and you looked up to see Khabib entering, his gym bag slung over his shoulder.
"Good afternoon," he said, his accent thick but his smile warm. "Big day for mail, yes?"
"Very big day," you replied, gesturing to the organized chaos behind you. "I have a lot for you."
His eyes widened slightly as you pulled his stack forward. "This is all for me?"
"All for you." You started handing him packages one by one, and he accepted them with genuine appreciation, examining each one briefly before setting it in his bag.
"Thank you. You are very kind to organize this." He smiled at you again, that easy, friendly smile that had no ulterior motive behind it. "You have good weekend planned?"
"Training," he said simply, then laughed. "Always training."
You laughed with him, handing him the last few envelopes. "Well, enjoy your fan mail at least."
"I will. Thank you again." He nodded respectfully and headed toward the locker rooms.
You turned back to your organized piles, not noticing the figure that had entered the gym moments after Khabib.
Abubakar stood near the entrance, his gym bag frozen in his grip, his eyes locked on you.
He'd watched the entire interaction. Watched you smile at Khabib. Watched you hand him package after package, your fingers brushing his as you passed them over. Watched Khabib make you laugh with some comment about training.
Something hot and uncomfortable twisted in his chest.
He forced himself to move, to walk past the front desk toward the locker rooms, but his eyes kept drifting back to you. You were focused on the remaining packages now, humming softly to yourself as you worked.
He wanted to go over there. Wanted to talk to you, to make you smile the way you'd smiled at Khabib. But his feet carried him past, into the locker room where he dropped his bag with more force than necessary.
"Easy, brother," Tagir said from across the room, already changed. "What did the bag do to you?"
"Nothing." Abubakar yanked open his locker.
Tagir watched him for a moment, then shrugged and left.
Abubakar changed quickly, his movements sharp and agitated. He needed to get on the mats, needed to focus on something other than the irrational jealousy eating at him. This was ridiculous. Khabib was his brother, his teammate, his friend since childhood. There was nothing between him and you. It was just a friendly conversation about fan mail.
But knowing that didn't make the feeling go away.
He emerged from the locker room just in time to see Islam arrive at the front desk.
"Ah, you have something for me?" Islam asked, his English slightly better than Khabib's but still accented.
"I do!" You pulled forward another substantial pile. "Looks like you have a lot of fans."
Islam grinned, clearly pleased. "This is nice. Very nice." He started looking through the packages, and you helped him, pointing out which ones looked particularly interesting.
"This one's from Brazil," you said, holding up a colorful envelope. "And this one has a lot of stamps, looks like it came from Japan."
"Japan? Really?" Islam took the package carefully, examining it with genuine curiosity. "Thank you for doing this. Is a lot of work, yes?"
"It's actually kind of fun," you admitted. "I like seeing where everything comes from."
"You are good at your job." Islam's compliment was simple but sincere. "We are lucky to have you here."
You felt your cheeks warm slightly. "That's sweet of you to say."
Abubakar's hands clenched into fists.
He was standing near the edge of the training area, pretending to stretch, but his entire focus was on you and Islam. On the way you smiled at his teammate. On the way Islam complimented you. On the easy, comfortable way you interacted with each other.
The rational part of his brain knew this was nothing. Islam was being polite, friendly. You were doing your job. There was no flirtation, no hidden meaning.
But the irrational part, the part that had been growing stronger every day since he'd first seen you, didn't care about logic.
Islam gathered his packages and headed toward the locker room, passing Abubakar with a nod. "Good afternoon, brother."
"Afternoon," Abubakar managed, his voice tight.
Islam paused, studying him. "You okay?"
Islam raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I go change." He disappeared into the locker room, leaving Abubakar alone with his thoughts.
And his thoughts were a mess.
He looked back at the front desk. You were organizing the remaining packages, completely unaware of the turmoil you were causing him. Your hair fell forward as you bent over a box, and you tucked it behind your ear absently, focused on your task.
He wanted to walk over there. Wanted to see his name on one of those packages in your hands. Wanted you to smile at him the way you'd smiled at Khabib and Islam.
But more than that, he wanted you to smile at him differently. Not as the friendly front desk person doing her job, but as someone who saw him as more than just another fighter passing through.
The realization hit him hard.
This wasn't going away. These feelings weren't temporary, weren't something he could train away or ignore until they faded. Every day they got stronger. Every interaction with you made it worse. And watching other men, even his closest friends, receive your attention and kindness was becoming unbearable.
He was jealous. Genuinely, deeply jealous of the most innocent interactions.
And that meant he was in serious trouble.
Because he couldn't keep doing this. Couldn't keep watching from a distance, couldn't keep pretending these feelings didn't exist, couldn't keep torturing himself every time you spoke to someone else.
He needed to do something. Make a decision. Either walk away completely and focus solely on his training, or take a risk and tell you how he felt.
The thought of walking away made his chest ache.
The thought of telling you terrified him.
But doing nothing, staying in this painful limbo, was no longer an option.
Abubakar took a deep breath and headed toward the mats, his mind racing. He had a fight coming up. He should be focused, disciplined, completely dedicated to his training.
Instead, all he could think about was you.
And he knew, with absolute certainty, that something had to change.
The training session was brutal, but Abubakar barely felt it.
He moved through the drills mechanically, his body executing techniques his mind had memorized years ago. Sprawls, takedown defense, ground transitions. His muscles knew what to do even when his brain was elsewhere.
And his brain was definitely elsewhere.
Every time there was a break, his eyes drifted to the front desk. You were still there, working on something on the computer, occasionally greeting members as they came and went. Completely unaware of the chaos you'd created in his head.
"Again!" Coach Javier's voice cut through his thoughts. "Abubakar, you're dropping your hands. Again!"
He reset, tried to focus. His training partner came at him, and Abubakar defended, but his timing was off. His movements lacked their usual crispness.
"What is wrong with you today?" his partner muttered in Russian as they reset.
The session continued, but his performance didn't improve. He was sloppy, distracted, making mistakes he hadn't made in years. By the time Coach Javier called for a water break, Abubakar's frustration with himself had reached a boiling point.
He grabbed his water bottle and moved to the edge of the mat, trying to clear his head. This was unacceptable. He had a fight in six weeks. Six weeks to be sharp, focused, at his absolute best. And here he was, unable to complete basic drills without his mind wandering.
Abubakar looked up to find Tagir standing in front of him, arms crossed, expression serious.
"I am fine," Abubakar said automatically.
"No. You are not fine." Tagir jerked his head toward the corner of the gym, away from the other fighters. "Come."
Abubakar wanted to refuse, but something in Tagir's tone made it clear this wasn't optional. He followed his friend to a quieter area near the equipment storage, where they could talk without being overheard.
Tagir turned to face him, his expression a mixture of concern and exasperation. "What is happening with you? You train like shit today. Your head is not here."
"Tired?" Tagir's eyebrows shot up. "You? You never tired. You train when you are sick, when you are hurt, when you have no sleep. But today, you are tired?" He shook his head. "No. This is something else."
Abubakar looked away, jaw tight. "It is nothing. I will focus better."
The words hung in the air between them. Abubakar's head snapped back to Tagir, his expression carefully neutral, but it was too late. Tagir had seen the flash of recognition in his eyes.
"I know you, brother," Tagir continued, his broken English somehow making his words more impactful. "We grow up together. I see when something is wrong. And I see how you look at her. The girl at desk."
"Do not lie to me." Tagir's voice was firm but not unkind. "I watch you. For weeks now, I watch. You come early to gym. You stay late. You find reason to go to front desk. And today?" He gestured back toward the training area. "Today you watch Khabib talk to her, Islam talk to her, and you look like you want to punch wall."
Abubakar's hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wanted to deny it, to brush it off, but what was the point? Tagir knew. Of course he knew. They'd been friends since they were children, had trained together, fought together, grown up together. Tagir could read him better than almost anyone.
"It does not matter," Abubakar finally said, his voice low.
"Does not matter?" Tagir looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Brother, you cannot focus on training. You are distracted every day. Your fight is coming. This matters very much."
"How? By doing nothing?" Tagir stepped closer, his expression intense. "I tell you what happen if you do nothing. You keep feeling like this. You keep watching her talk to other people. You keep getting angry, jealous. And your training suffer more and more. This thing, it eat you from inside."
Abubakar turned away, running a hand through his hair. Everything Tagir was saying was true, and that made it worse. He was letting this affect his training, his focus, everything he'd worked for. But the alternative, actually doing something about it, seemed impossible.
"What you want me to do?" he asked, frustration bleeding into his voice. "She work here. I train here. If I tell her how I feel and she say no, then what? It become awkward. Uncomfortable. For her, for me, for everyone."
The question stopped Abubakar cold. He hadn't let himself think about that possibility, hadn't dared to hope.
"You do not know," Tagir pressed. "Maybe she feel same way. Maybe she wait for you to do something. But you never know if you do not try."
"It could ruin everything. The team, the training environment—"
"The team?" Tagir laughed, but it wasn't mocking. "Brother, Khabib and Islam, they do not care. They talk to her because she is nice person, because she work here. They have no interest like you do. And if you ask her out, if something happen between you, they will be happy for you. We are family. Family support each other."
"If it go wrong, then it go wrong." Tagir's voice softened slightly. "But right now, you already suffering. You already distracted. You already letting this affect your training. So what is difference? At least if you try, you know. You have answer. You can move forward, one way or other."
Abubakar was quiet for a long moment, Tagir's words sinking in. His friend was right. This limbo he was in, this constant state of wanting and not acting, was already destroying his focus. Already affecting everything he cared about.
"I do not know what to say to her," he admitted quietly.
"You ask her on date. Is simple."
"Simple," Abubakar repeated, almost laughing at the absurdity. Nothing about this felt simple.
"Yes, simple." Tagir clapped him on the shoulder. "You go to her. You say, 'I want to take you out. Dinner, coffee, walk, whatever.' You be honest. You be yourself. She say yes or she say no. But at least you try."
"Then you know. And you can focus on training again, because you have answer." Tagir squeezed his shoulder. "But I think she not say no. I see how she look at you too, brother. When you not watching, she watch you."
Abubakar's heart jumped at that. "She does?"
"Yes. So stop being coward and do something." Tagir's tone was blunt but affectionate. "You are fighter. You step into cage with dangerous men. You can ask one girl on date."
The comparison was ridiculous, but somehow it helped. Abubakar had faced down opponents who wanted to hurt him, had pushed through pain and exhaustion and fear. Surely he could find the courage to ask you out.
"What if I mess it up?" The question came out quieter than he intended.
"Then you mess it up. But you try." Tagir's expression grew serious again. "Listen to me, brother. I know you. You are thinking too much. You worry about team, about training, about what happen if things go wrong. But you not thinking about what happen if things go right. What if she say yes? What if you happy? What if this is good thing?"
Abubakar closed his eyes, letting himself imagine it for just a moment. Taking you out. Making you laugh. Holding your hand. Being able to talk to you without the constant ache of wanting more.
"You deserve to be happy," Tagir said quietly. "Not just in cage. In life too. And this girl, she make you happy. I see it. So stop fighting it. Stop being afraid. Just... try."
The words settled over Abubakar like a weight and a relief all at once. Tagir was right. About all of it. He couldn't keep doing this, couldn't keep torturing himself with inaction. The fear of rejection, of making things awkward, of disrupting the team, all of it paled in comparison to the reality of continuing to feel this way.
"Okay," he said finally, opening his eyes to meet Tagir's gaze. "Okay. I will ask her."
A grin spread across Tagir's face. "Good. When?"
"I..." Abubakar glanced back toward the training area, then toward the front desk. "After training. Today. I will ask her today."
"Good man." Tagir clapped him on the back, harder this time. "Now come. We finish training. And you focus this time, yes? No more thinking about her until after."
Abubakar nodded, but even as they walked back to the mats, his mind was already racing ahead. What would he say? How would he ask? What if you were busy, or tired, or not interested?
But beneath the anxiety, there was something else. Determination. A sense of purpose that had been missing from his training all day.
He was going to do this. He was going to ask you out.
And whatever happened next, at least he would know.
The rest of the training session passed in a blur. Abubakar forced himself to focus, to be present, to execute his techniques with the precision and intensity his coaches expected. It wasn't perfect, but it was better. His mind was clearer now that he'd made a decision.
When Coach Javier finally called the end of training, Abubakar's heart started racing for an entirely different reason.
He showered quickly, changed into clean clothes, tried to calm the nervous energy coursing through him. In the mirror, he looked the same as always, but he felt completely different. Like he was standing on the edge of something important.
Tagir caught his eye as he left the locker room, giving him an encouraging nod.
Abubakar took a deep breath and headed toward the front desk.
Toward whatever came next.
The walk from the locker room to the front desk felt impossibly long.
Abubakar had crossed this same stretch of floor hundreds of times. Thousands, probably. It was maybe thirty feet. But tonight, with his heart hammering against his ribs and his palms slightly damp, it felt like crossing an ocean.
He could see you at the desk, your head bent over some paperwork, a pen tucked behind your ear. The overhead lights caught the highlights in your hair. You were organizing something, probably getting ready to close up for the evening. Friday nights were usually quiet after the main training sessions ended.
His feet kept moving forward even as his brain screamed at him to turn around, to wait, to think this through more carefully.
No. He'd done enough thinking. Tagir was right. It was time to act.
You looked up as he approached, and the smile that spread across your face made his chest tighten. That smile. The one that had been haunting him for weeks.
"Hey," you said, setting down your pen. "Good training session?"
"Is okay." The words came out rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Better at end than beginning."
"Something like that." He leaned against the desk, trying to appear casual even though every muscle in his body was tense. In the cage, he could read his opponents, anticipate their moves, stay calm under pressure. But this? This was entirely different territory.
You were watching him with those eyes that always seemed to see more than he wanted to reveal. "Are you okay? You seem..."
"Nervous," he admitted before he could stop himself. Then, because he couldn't help it, because his playful nature slipped through even now, he added, "Is strange feeling. I fight people for living, but talking to pretty girl make me nervous."
The words hung in the air between you. Your eyes widened slightly, a flush creeping into your cheeks.
"I..." You started, then stopped, seeming unsure how to respond.
Abubakar's heart was racing so fast he was certain you could hear it. He'd said it. He'd called you pretty. There was no taking it back now, no pretending this was just friendly conversation.
"I want to ask you something," he continued, forcing himself to maintain eye contact even though every instinct told him to look away. "And you can say no. Is okay if you say no. I will not be weird about it, I promise."
"Okay," you said softly, and he couldn't quite read your expression. Curious? Hopeful? He couldn't tell.
"Downtown, they have Christmas decorations now. Lights, trees, all the holiday things." He was talking too fast, he realized, but he couldn't seem to slow down. "I see them when I drive past, but I never stop to look. Always training, always busy. But tonight, I think maybe..." He paused, took a breath. "I want to ask if you would like to go with me. To see decorations. To walk, to talk. Just... together."
The silence that followed felt eternal.
You were staring at him, lips slightly parted, and he couldn't tell if that was good or bad. Had he been too forward? Too casual? Should he have asked you to dinner instead? Was a walk too informal for a first date?
"You want to take me to see the Christmas lights?" you asked finally, your voice carrying a note of wonder that he couldn't quite interpret.
"Yes. Tonight, if you are free. I know is last minute, and maybe you have plans already, so if you cannot—"
The words stopped him mid-sentence. "You... what?"
A smile was spreading across your face now, genuine and bright and absolutely beautiful. "I said I'd love to. I'd really love to go with you."
Relief flooded through him so intensely that he actually felt lightheaded. "Yes? You say yes?"
"Yes, Abubakar. I'm saying yes." You were laughing now, soft and warm. "I've been hoping you'd ask me out for weeks."
"Weeks?" He blinked, processing this information. "You... you want me to ask you?"
"Of course I did." You leaned forward slightly, your smile turning almost teasing. "Did you really not notice? I thought I was being pretty obvious."
"I notice you watch me sometimes," he admitted, feeling his own smile starting to form. "But I think maybe I am seeing what I want to see, not what is real."
"It was real." Your voice was softer now, more intimate. "It is real."
The words settled over him like warmth, like coming in from the cold. She'd been waiting for him. All this time he'd been agonizing, worrying, holding back, and you'd been hoping he would make a move.
"So," you continued, your practical nature reasserting itself even as your eyes sparkled with excitement. "What time were you thinking?"
Abubakar glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just past seven. "I need to go home, change into something not gym clothes. Maybe... eight thirty? Nine? I can pick you up, or we can meet somewhere, whatever you prefer."
"Let's meet downtown," you suggested. "There's that coffee shop on First Street, the one that stays open late. We could meet there?"
"Eight thirty at coffee shop," he confirmed, committing it to memory. "I will be there."
"Me too." You were still smiling, and he didn't think he'd ever seen anything more beautiful.
He should leave. He should go home, shower, change, prepare. But his feet didn't seem to want to move. He just wanted to stand here, looking at you, basking in the reality that you'd said yes.
"I should go," he said finally, reluctantly. "Need to get ready."
"Me too." But you didn't move either.
"Okay." He pushed off from the desk, took a step back. "I see you soon."
"See you soon, Abubakar."
He made it three steps before turning back. "Hey."
You looked up, eyebrows raised in question.
"Thank you. For saying yes."
Your smile softened. "Thank you for asking."
This time when he turned to leave, he actually made it to the door. His hand was on the handle when he heard your voice again.
"I'm really glad you asked."
The grin that spread across his face was unstoppable. "Me too."
He pushed through the door and out into the parking lot, the cool evening air hitting his face. For a moment, he just stood there, letting it all sink in.
He pulled out his phone as he walked to his car, his fingers moving automatically to the group chat with his teammates. But he stopped before typing anything. This felt too new, too precious to share just yet. He wanted to hold onto it for a little while, just for himself.
Besides, Tagir would know the moment he saw Abubakar's face. There was no hiding this kind of happiness.
As he slid into his car, Abubakar caught sight of his reflection in the rearview mirror. He was grinning like an idiot, and he didn't care. In a few hours, he'd be walking through downtown San Jose with you, surrounded by Christmas lights and holiday magic.
His phone buzzed. A text from Tagir: "Well???"
Abubakar typed back quickly: "She say yes."
The response was immediate: "I KNEW IT! Good job brother. Now go make good impression."
Abubakar set his phone down and started the car, his mind already racing ahead to the evening. What would they talk about? Would he make you laugh? Would there be a moment to hold your hand?
The nervousness was still there, fluttering in his chest, but it was different now. Lighter. Mixed with excitement and anticipation and pure, uncomplicated joy.
He had a date. With you. Tonight.
As he pulled out of the parking lot, Abubakar couldn't stop smiling. His life had been training, fighting, discipline, and focus for so long. But tonight, for a few hours, it would be something else entirely.
Tonight, it would be about you.
The coffee shop on First Street glowed warm and inviting against the December evening. Through the windows, Abubakar could see the usual crowd of students hunched over laptops and couples sharing desserts. But his eyes were searching for only one person.
You were standing just outside the entrance, your breath visible in the cold air. When you spotted him approaching, your face lit up with a smile that made his heart skip.
"Hi," you said as he reached you, and there was something different in your voice. Softer. More intimate than it had ever been at the gym.
"Hi." He couldn't stop looking at you. You'd done something different with your hair, and you were wearing lipstick, a subtle shade that made him want to stare at your mouth. "You look beautiful."
The compliment made you duck your head slightly, pleased. "Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself."
He glanced down at his dark jeans and fitted sweater with a puffy coat on top, suddenly self-conscious. "Is better than gym clothes, yes?"
"Definitely better than gym clothes." Your eyes sparkled with amusement. "Though I have to say, I've gotten pretty used to seeing you in those."
"Maybe I wear them on second date then," he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "Keep things familiar."
You laughed, and the sound wrapped around him like warmth. "Already planning a second date? We haven't even started the first one."
"I am confident person." He grinned, feeling some of his nervousness ease. This was you. The same person he'd been talking to for weeks. Just in a different setting. "Also, I am very good at dates. You will see."
"Oh really?" You raised an eyebrow, playful. "And how many dates have you been on recently?"
"None." The honesty came easily. "Been too busy with training. But for you, I make exception."
The way you looked at him then, soft and wondering, made him glad he'd been honest. There was no point in pretending to be something he wasn't.
"So," he said, gesturing toward the decorated street ahead. "You ready to see Christmas lights? I promise to be very good tour guide, even though I never actually stop to look at them before."
"Always driving past. Always thinking about next training, next fight." He shrugged. "But tonight is different. Tonight I want to see them. With you."
You smiled and fell into step beside him as you both started walking. The downtown streets of San Jose had transformed into a winter wonderland. Strings of white lights crisscrossed overhead, creating a canopy of stars. Storefronts competed with elaborate window displays, wreaths hung on lamp posts, and a massive Christmas tree dominated the plaza ahead, its lights twinkling in shades of gold and silver.
"It's beautiful," you breathed, taking it all in.
"Yes," Abubakar agreed, but he was looking at you.
You caught him staring and bumped your shoulder against his. "You're supposed to be looking at the decorations."
"I am looking at best part of scenery."
"That was smooth," you said, laughing. "Do you practice these lines?"
"No practice. Just truth." He paused, then added with a grin, "But if it sound smooth, I will take credit anyway."
You shook your head, still smiling. "You're trouble, you know that?"
"Me? I am perfect gentleman." He gestured to a storefront where mechanical reindeer moved in jerky circles. "Look, they have your relatives."
You stopped walking, staring at him. "Did you just compare me to a reindeer?"
"No, no!" He was laughing now, realizing his joke hadn't quite landed. "I mean, they are graceful, beautiful animals. Is compliment!"
"Abubakar Nurmagomedov, you did not just call me a reindeer on our first date."
"I take it back! You are not reindeer. You are..." He looked around desperately for something better, his eyes landing on an angel decoration. "Angel. You are angel."
"Nice save." But you were grinning, and he could tell you weren't actually offended. "Though I have to say, the reindeer thing was pretty bold."
"I tell you, I am confident person." He was relieved you found it funny rather than insulting. "Sometimes too confident, maybe."
"I like it," you admitted. "You make me laugh."
They continued walking, weaving through the evening crowds. Families with children pointed at decorations, couples held hands, and street performers played holiday music on corners. The air smelled like cinnamon and pine, and every shop seemed to be pumping out Christmas carols.
"You want hot chocolate?" Abubakar asked as they passed a vendor with a small cart. "Is cold tonight."
He ordered two, paying before you could even reach for your wallet. When the vendor handed over the steaming cups, Abubakar passed one to you, your fingers brushing as you took it.
"Thank you," you said softly.
"Is my pleasure." He took a sip of his own drink, the warmth spreading through his chest. Or maybe that wasn't the hot chocolate at all.
You walked in comfortable silence for a while, sipping your drinks and taking in the sights. Abubakar found himself hyper-aware of every detail: the way you'd occasionally glance at him when you thought he wasn't looking, the small smile that played at your lips, the way you'd pause to admire particularly beautiful displays.
"Can I ask you something?" you said eventually.
"Why did it take you so long to ask me out?" The question was gentle, curious rather than accusatory. "I kept hoping you would, but weeks went by and..."
Abubakar was quiet for a moment, considering his answer. "I was scared," he admitted finally. "Scared that if you say no, it make things weird at gym. Scared that my teammates would think I am distracted, not focused on training." He paused. "Scared that maybe I am not good enough for you."
You stopped walking, turning to face him fully. "Not good enough? Abubakar, you're an incredible fighter, you're kind, you're funny—"
"I am also gone a lot," he interrupted. "Training camps, fights in different cities, sometimes different countries. My life is not normal. Is not easy for person who date me."
"I know that." Your voice was steady, certain. "I work at a gym full of fighters. I know what the lifestyle is like. And I'm still here, aren't I?"
The simple truth of it hit him square in the chest. You knew. You'd always known. And you'd said yes anyway.
"Yes," he said softly. "You are still here."
"Besides," you added, a smile creeping back onto your face, "I think you're worth the complicated schedule."
They resumed walking, and Abubakar felt something shift between them. The nervousness was still there, but it was overshadowed now by something warmer, more solid. Understanding. Connection.
"Tell me something," he said. "Something I don't know about you."
You thought for a moment, your breath creating small clouds in the cold air. "I've always loved writing. I keep journals, write short stories in my spare time. It's always been my escape, my way of processing the world."
"Life happened. College, bills, reality." You shrugged. "But I still love it. Sometimes I'll sit down with a blank page late at night and just write. Stories, thoughts, dreams. It makes me feel free."
Abubakar filed this information away, something precious and personal you'd chosen to share with him. "Maybe someday you show me."
They turned down a quieter street, away from the main crowds. The decorations here were more subtle but no less beautiful: simple white lights wrapped around trees, elegant wreaths on doors, candles flickering in windows.
"Is more peaceful here," Abubakar observed.
"I like it." You pulled your coat tighter around yourself. "It feels more intimate."
He noticed the gesture, the way you were trying to ward off the cold. Without thinking, without hesitation, he stopped walking and shrugged out of his jacket.
"What are you doing?" you asked as he draped it over your shoulders.
"But now you'll be cold."
"I am Dagestan Gangster. This is nothing." He adjusted the jacket so it sat properly on your shoulders, his hands lingering perhaps a moment longer than necessary. "Besides, I train in cold gym all the time. I am used to it."
You pulled his jacket closer, and he could see the emotion in your eyes. "Thank you."
"It's not nothing." Your voice was soft, almost a whisper. "It's really not nothing."
The jacket was too big on you, the sleeves hanging past your hands, and Abubakar thought he'd never seen anything more endearing. You looked up at him, and in the glow of the Christmas lights, he could see every detail of your face: the way your eyes reflected the twinkling bulbs, the slight flush in your cheeks from the cold, the curve of your lips.
"You are staring again," you said, but there was no complaint in your voice.
"Because I want to remember this." He gestured around them, at the lights, the quiet street, the moment. "All of this. I want to remember how you look right now, wearing my jacket, with Christmas lights in your eyes."
You didn't say anything, but the way you looked at him said everything.
They continued walking, slower now, neither of you in any hurry to reach the end of the evening. The street grew even quieter, the sounds of the main downtown area fading to a distant hum. It was just the two of you, the lights, and the cold December air.
And then Abubakar saw it: a small intersection where four streets met, creating a kind of plaza. It was empty, beautifully decorated with lights strung between the buildings, and utterly perfect.
Instead of answering, he turned to face you and held out his hand. "Dance with me."
You blinked, surprised. "What?"
"Dance with me." He kept his hand extended, waiting. "No music, no people watching. Just us."
"Please." His voice was soft, almost vulnerable. "I want to dance with you under Christmas lights. I want to hold you. I want..." He trailed off, not quite sure how to put the feeling into words.
You looked at his outstretched hand, then back at his face. And then, slowly, you placed your hand in his.
The moment your palm touched his, something electric passed between you. Abubakar gently pulled you closer, his other hand finding the small of your back. You rested your free hand on his shoulder, and suddenly you were dancing, swaying slowly in the empty street.
There was no music except the distant sound of traffic and the occasional laugh from the main street. But it didn't matter. Abubakar led you in a simple box step, nothing fancy, just movement and closeness and the feeling of you in his arms.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted quietly. "I never dance before."
"You're doing perfectly." Your voice was barely above a whisper.
He pulled you a little closer, and you came willingly, resting your head against his chest. He could smell your shampoo, feel the warmth of you even through the layers of clothing. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you could hear it.
"This is crazy," you murmured against his chest.
"Good crazy or bad crazy?"
"The best kind of crazy."
They swayed together, lost in their own world. The Christmas lights twinkled above them like stars, and Abubakar thought that no victory in the cage had ever felt as significant as this moment. This quiet, perfect moment with you in his arms.
"I am glad I ask you out," he said softly.
You lifted your head to look at him, and the expression on your face made his breath catch. "I'm glad you did too."
They stayed like that, dancing without music, until the cold became too much to ignore and you finally, reluctantly, stepped back.
"I should probably get you home," Abubakar said, though everything in him wanted to stay in this moment forever.
"Yeah," you agreed, but you didn't sound any happier about it than he felt.
The walk to your place was quiet, both of you lost in thought. Abubakar kept stealing glances at you, at the way you still wore his jacket, at the small smile that hadn't left your face.
Too soon, you were standing in front of your building. The porch light cast a warm glow, and Abubakar found himself desperately trying to think of a reason to make the night last longer.
"So," you said, turning to face him.
You took a breath, and he could see you gathering courage. "I want to see you again. Soon. Not just at the gym, but like this. Another date."
Relief and joy flooded through him in equal measure. "Yes. Absolutely yes."
"I already tell you I am planning second date, remember?" That playful smile was back on his face, the one that made your heart skip. "Maybe next time I take you to dinner. Real dinner, not just hot chocolate."
"I'd like that." You started to shrug out of his jacket, but he stopped you.
"Keep it for tonight. I get it next time I see you."
"Is good excuse to see you again soon, yes?" He was grinning now, and you were too.
"You're something else, Abubakar Nurmagomedov."
"I hope that is good thing."
"It's a very good thing."
You stood there for another moment, neither of you quite ready to say goodbye. Finally, you stepped forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
"Goodnight." His voice came out rougher than he intended, affected by the simple gesture.
He waited until you were safely inside before turning to leave, his hand unconsciously touching the spot where your lips had been. As he walked back toward his car, Abubakar couldn't stop smiling.
The night had been perfect. You had been perfect. And this, he realized, was just the beginning.
His phone buzzed with a text from Tagir: "How did it go???"
Abubakar typed back: "Better than I could imagine."
The response was immediate: "Details tomorrow. Now go home and sleep with big stupid smile on your face."
Abubakar laughed because that was exactly what he was going to do. As he drove home through the Christmas-lit streets of San Jose, he replayed every moment: your laugh, the dance, the way you'd looked at him, the kiss on his cheek.
Tomorrow he'd go back to training, back to discipline and focus and preparation for his next fight. But tonight had been about something else entirely. Tonight had been about you.
And he couldn't wait to do it all over again.
