fluff- islam is home from training, dinner and home movie, extra love
authors note this is my first fic im posting 🥹 (still learning all the cool tumblr post stuff so it’s not aesthetic yet sorry) lmk if i need to change or improve on anything 🫶🏻
The house had never felt this quiet before.
For weeks, the only sounds had been the ticking of the kitchen clock, the occasional wind brushing against the windows, and the soft sighs that slipped from your lips every time you looked at your phone even though you already knew there would be nothing there.
You understood why. Training camp meant complete focus. No distractions. No calls. No messages.
You had told yourself you could handle that. But missing Islam Makhachev had settled into everything.
Sleeping on your side of the bed. Making coffee for one. Reaching for him in the middle of the night and finding nothing but cold sheets.
The hardest part was knowing he still had another week before he was supposed to come home. At least that was what you thought.
That evening, you stood in the kitchen in one of his hoodies, absentmindedly pouring yourself tea when you heard the front door unlock. You froze.
For a second your brain told you that you were imagining it again — another moment where you wanted him home badly enough that you could almost hear him.
Then the door slowly opened.
And there he was. A duffel bag slipped from his shoulder onto the floor, and before you could even process it, your teacup was forgotten on the counter.
He barely had time to smile before you were running to him. He caught you instantly, arms wrapping around you so tightly your feet nearly left the floor as he held you against him like he never wanted to let go again. For a long moment neither of you said anything. He just buried his face against your neck and inhaled slowly, like even your perfume was something he had missed.
“You weren’t supposed to be home until next week,” you whispered. His arms tightened around you.
“I wanted to surprise you.” You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands resting against his face, and his tired eyes softened in a way that made your chest ache.
“I missed you,” he said quietly.
Not casually. Not lightly. Like he had been carrying those words for weeks. And the way he looked at you made it clear he meant every single one.
He would not let you leave his arms for long.
Even after setting his bag down, one hand stayed on you — your waist, your back, your hand tucked into his. Like after being away for so long, he needed constant proof you were really there.
When you offered to make dinner, he shook his head immediately.
“No. Tonight I do everything.” You leaned against the counter and watched him move around your kitchen like he had never left.
Then he carefully sliced fresh strawberries, bananas, and peaches onto a plate, adding blueberries around the edges like he was trying to make it look nicer than it needed to.
You smiled. “You’re trying to impress me.” He glanced at you over his shoulder with the smallest grin.
You laughed softly. “A little.” He walked over then, holding a strawberry to your lips.
You took the bite and smiled. “Maybe a lot.” That earned you the smile you had missed most — the quiet one that only ever seemed to belong to you.
After dinner, he led you to the living room and pulled a blanket over both of you before settling back into the couch. You barely had time to get comfortable before he gently pulled you against him.
Your head rested against his chest while one arm wrapped around your shoulders and the other settled around your waist, his hand spread warmly against your side. His body felt solid and familiar, all warmth and strength, and after weeks of sleeping alone, being tucked against him like that felt almost overwhelming.
One of his legs slipped over yours, keeping you close, while his chin rested lightly on top of your head.Every now and then he pressed a soft kiss into your hair.
Absentminded. Tender. Like he couldn’t help it.
And every time he held you a little tighter, as if some part of him still couldn’t believe he was finally home. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your cheek.
Slow. Steady. Comforting.
The kind of sound you hadn’t realized you missed until it was there again. He turned on one of his old favorite childhood movies from Russia — Brother — something he had once told you he used to watch growing up.
You didn’t understand every word, but you loved hearing him quietly explain parts of it to you.
“That part was my favorite when I was little,” he murmured, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your arm.
“You’ve seen this a hundred times, haven’t you?”
You smiled against his chest. He looked down at you.
“I missed this,” he said softly.
You tilted your head. “The movie?” His thumb brushed your cheek.
“No. You here.” Your heart melted all over again.
As the movie played quietly in the background, he told you about training camp. The early mornings. The endless drills. The bruises. The exhaustion.
But every few minutes he’d stop talking just to look at you, like even telling the story mattered less than simply having you in his arms again.
“The hardest part,” he admitted quietly, “was not hearing your voice.” You looked up at him.
“You really missed me that much?” He stared at you for a second like the answer should have been obvious. Then he kissed your forehead.
By the time the credits rolled, neither of you had noticed. You were too wrapped up in each other.
The blanket had slipped lower around you both, and his hand kept rubbing slow comforting patterns along your back while your breathing gradually matched his.
The warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the familiar safety of his arms around you — it all made sleep come easily. And somewhere in the quiet of the living room, with your cheek against his chest and his arms still around you, both of you drifted off together.
Much later, Islam woke first. The television had gone dark. The house was silent. And you were still curled against him, fast asleep.
For a moment he just looked at you. At the peaceful expression on your face. At the way your hand still rested against his chest. At the way you unconsciously moved closer even in your sleep.
His expression softened completely. Carefully, so he wouldn’t wake you, he slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you effortlessly into his arms.
You stirred just enough to mumble his name, half asleep.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered. Your head fell against his shoulder, trusting him without even opening your eyes.
And with you curled safely against him, he carried you upstairs to bed, holding you close like he had no intention of letting you go again.
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