Umar Nurmagomedov x Reader
A/N: hi guysss feel like I havenât opened my tumblr for like 3 weeks Iâve been so busy but I have the next week off so hoping to get through all the requests đ«¶đœ ngl I havenât proof read this one to the fine detail but enjoy đ«¶đœ
The hotel room was quiet except for the dull hum of traffic somewhere below the windows, and not a peaceful quiet, it was the kind that felt heavy.
Umar stood near the small table by the window, shoulders tense beneath a black compression shirt still darkened with sweat from training. One hand rested on his hip while the other scrolled through something on his phone - messages from coaches, probably. Fight schedules, interviews - more obligations.Â
You sat at the edge of the bed, fingers curled around a paper cup of tea youâd made almost twenty minutes ago, which had already gone cold.Â
âYou should sleepâ, you said softly.
âMmm.â he didnât even look up.Â
The response wasnât rude, and that almost made it worse; it just felt distracted, automatic, as if heâd answered without actually hearing you.Â
Finally, he tossed the phone onto the table with a quiet clatter and dragged both hands down his face, exhaustion written into every movement. Training had gone bad today- you didnât need anyone to tell you that, youâd sensed it immediately when he walked back into the hotel suite earlier with two coaches speaking in low Russian behind him.Â
One of them hadnât looked happy, and neither had Umar.Â
He moved towards the bathroom, stopping only long enough to grab a bottle of water.
The question caught you off guard slightly, âyeah.â
He nodded once, then left the air between you both to sit in silence.
It had only been the first day of fight week, and already you felt out of place and even though you knew this week was stressful for everyone here, even more so for Umar himself, you didnât even feel needed.
The fight had been last minute - almost impulsive. Umar usually preferred keeping you far away from fights entirely, away from the chaos, cameras and pressure that seemed to wrap around him every single time.Â
Every room you entered this week felt tense. Every conversation sounded sharp around the edges, coaches whispering, phones constantly ringing, managers knocking on doors, and Umar - God.
Even exhausted, he carried pressure differently than everyone else.Â
He got quiet, colder, every emotion locked itself somewhere deep behind his ribs where nobody could reach it.Â
The bathroom light flickered on, bright against the dim hotel room, and then the door shut with a soft, firm click, and finally, alone, you exhaled slowly and looked down at your untouched tea.
Maybe coming here had been a mistake, not because he didnât love you, but because this version of him didnât seem to have room for anything except the fight.Â
Stream curled from the bathroom behind him, as the door opened, he looked exhausted in a way sleep probably wouldnât fix - eyes shadowed, jaw tense, shoulders heavy with tension he refused to let go.
He barely glanced toward the bed before reaching for his phone again - another message, another sigh muttered under his breath in Russian.
âEverything okay?â You asked carefully.
A beat of silence and an almost unheard âYes.â
The answer sat awkwardly between you.
He finally looked over after you didnât carry on the conversation, like heâd realised how false it sounded, and his expression softened for half a second.
âJust coachesâ he mumbled âToo much talking.â
You gave a small nod even though that clearly wasnât all of it.
He crossed the room slowly stopping just in front of you, up close you could see the bruising already forming along his cheekbone from sparring earlier, faint purple shadows blooming beneath his skin.
Without thinking, you reached for him and his body reacted before his mind did, shoulders tightening instinctively at the movement, the tiniest thing.
But it still made your hand pause mid air for a second.
His expression changed immediately after, guilt flickering across his face.
âSorryâ he said quietly, voice rougher now âHead hurtsâ
But something about it stung anyway.
You let your hand fall back into your lap, and looked down at the blankets instead - the room slipped into a quiet hum again.
Outside, somewhere far below the hotel windows, sirens echoed briefly through the city streets before fading into nothing.
Umar sat down on the edge of the bed with a deep exhale, elbows resting on his knees, his phone stayed clutched loosely in his hand, like he physically couldnât put fight week down even for a second.
âYou didnât have to come.â He said suddenly.
Not cruel, not angry, which somehow made it worse.
Your eyes lifted slowly towards him.
He rubbed his hand over his face again, clearly frustrated with himself before he even tried explaining.
âThatâs notââ he stopped, jaw tightening âI just mean this week is bad timing.â
The words landed heavier than he intended.
You could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened immediately afterwards.
But he didnât take them back - just bad timing, as if you were another complication added to an already failing week.
You swallowed carefully and forced a smile âOkayâ
His head lifted at your tone this time, and for the first time all night he actually looked at you properly and maybe that was the problem.
Because exhaustion stripped him too bare sometimes, made him easier to read than he wanted to be.
The frustration, the pressure, the fear underneath it all - not fear of you but fear of the fight, of camp had been going more wrong than it had right, of expectations, of loosing.
His gaze dropped away first.
âI have training early tomorrow.â He said quietly.
A dismissal- gentle but still one.
You nodded again, and reached over to with the bedside lamp off, darkness settled between you both instantly, a few seconds later you felt the mattress dip beside you as he finally laid down, leaving careful space between you both.
Not far - but not close either, and somehow the distance felt much bigger than a few inches.
The alarm went off at five.
Umar shut it off immediately before it could ring a second time, already sitting up before youâd even opened your eyes.
For a moment you just watched him quietly beneath the blankets as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, head lowered like he was preparing himself for the day before it had even had a second to start.
He rubbed both hands over his face before standing up, moving silently around the hotel room gathering his belongings for training.
Shorts.Hand wrap.Extra shorts. Black hoodie - everything mechanical, practiced, like heâd done this so many times his body no longer fully needed him awake for it.
âYou should sleep more.â He mumbled when he noticed you watching, his voice sounded softer in the mornings - less guarded.
You pushed yourself up slightly against the pillows âWhat time did you even fall asleep?â
He shrugged - which probably meant two hours at the most.
âNervous?â You asked gently.
That finally earned your attention, not offended exactly but surprised youâd said it out loud.
Fighters hated that word - especially fighters like Umar, he looked down at the question and without looking back to you answered âNeed better training today.â
Not a full answer but still a response.
You studied him quietly for another second before pulling the blankets back and sliding out of the bed.
âwhat are you doing?â He asked immediately.
âYou donât have to wake up.â
âIâm already awake.â
He looked like he wanted to argue, but didnât have the energy for it.
The tiny hotel kitchenette filled with soft sounds while you moved around making coffee neither of you really wanted, behind you Umar stayed quiet.
The silence around you wasnât comfortable but also not uncomfortable either just fragile, you handed him a cup carefully, his fingers brushing yours briefly when he took it.
âThank you.â He said, quieter this time.
It was such a normal thing, such a small thing but it felt like the real first moment youâd had since arriving.
Then his phone buzzed again and the softness disappeared almost instantly.
He checked the message, jaw tightening immediately, Russian filled the screen too quickly for you to follow fully, but you caught enough words to be able to understand the tone.
Umar muttered something under his breath before locking the phone again harder than necessary.
The lie came automatically this time.
You watched him drain half the coffee in one swallow before grabbing his bag next to the door and suddenly while watching him you understood something.
He wasnât shutting you out because he didnât want you here⊠he was shutting you out because things were going wrong.
The hotel room was dim when he came back, it was past midnight now.
You looked up immediately from where you were sitting against the headboard, laptop forgotten beside you the second you saw him.
God he looked exhausted, not just tired but worn down, the bruising along his cheekbone had darkened noticeably since earlier, a cut near his lip now barely cleaned properly, his hoodie hung from his shoulder as he stepped inside, movements slower than usual like every part of his body hurt.
For a second neither of you spoke.
Then you couldnât help yourself âHow bad was it.â
Umar shut the door quietly behind him âFine.â The automatic answer sounded weaker this time.
He tossed the bag onto the floor harder than necessary before sitting heavily on the edge of the bed with a tired exhale, elbows braced against his knees.
Up close you could see redness across his knuckles, something in your chest twisted painfully, so without any words you slid off the bed and disappeared briefly into the bathroom.
Umar looked up only when you came back holding the small hotel first aid kit, his expression tightened immediately âYou donât need to do that.â
You ignored him completely, stopping in front of him and gently lifting his chin toward the light.
The cut on his lip was worse than you thought.
âYouâre bleeding again.â
âYou keep saying that.â
That finally made him go quiet and for once he didnât pull away when you sat beside him, the mattress dipped slightly under your combined weight as you soaked a cotton pad with antiseptic, Umar stayed still beside you, forearms resting heavily on his thighs, exhaustion practically radiating off him.
When you touched the cut on his lip he hissed slightly.
But his eyes squeezed shut anyway.
The room stayed quiet except for the soft sounds of you moving carefully around him.
No cameras, no coaches, no reporters asking questions, just this.
âYou should sleep,â you murmured while pressing ice gently against the bruise beneath his eye.
A humorless laugh escaped him quietly.
âCoach would love that.â
Your gaze flicked toward him. âTheyâre being hard on you.â
Umar stared at the carpet for a long moment before speaking.
The admission came quietly. Reluctantly, like he hated saying it out loud.
You stayed silent, letting him continue if he wanted to.
âEverything feels wrong this camp.â
There it was, not anger, not arrogance. Fear.
The kind he probably never let anyone see.
Your chest tightened painfully at how tired he sounded.
âYouâre still allowed to struggle sometimes,â you said softly.
His jaw tightened immediately.
Fighters hated that too, struggle, weakness, doubt.
You softened your voice further. âIt doesnât make you less good.â
Umar finally looked at you then, really looked at you, and suddenly the exhaustion in his expression cracked just enough for something vulnerable to show through underneath.m
âI donât like you seeing me like this.â
The confession barely rose above a whisper.
Because suddenly the entire week made sense.
He wasnât pushing you away because he didnât want you there, he was trying to hide how badly everything felt like it was slipping out of his hands.
Carefully, you moved the ice pack away from his cheek and set it on the nightstand.
âYou donât have to pretend with me,â you said quietly.
Something in his expression shifted at that.
Enough that when you leaned closer this time to check the cut on his lip again, he didnât tense away from your touch, instead, exhausted beyond pride now, he let his forehead rest briefly against your shoulder with a slow exhale and for the first time since arriving at fight week, he let himself stop holding everything up for a second.
The evening after, the fighter hotel buzzed with noise.
Coaches moved through the lobby in clusters, media teams crowded near elevators, and somewhere across the room someone loudly replayed highlights from an earlier press conference on a laptop.
You sat tucked into one corner of the lounge area with a bottle of water in your hands, half listening to the chaos around you, Umar had been pulled into interviews almost forty minutes ago.
At first heâd looked back toward you every few minutes.
You understood it logically.
Still, sitting alone in a room full of people made the ache in your chest settle back in quietly.
The voice startled you slightly.
You looked up to find another fighter stopping beside the couch, friendly grin already in place. Someone from an earlier card â recognizable enough that youâd seen him around the hotel all week.
âA little,â you admitted with a small laugh.
You smiled despite yourself. âYou all make fight week seem very stressful.â
He laughed, dropping into the chair across from you casually. âBecause it is stressful.â
The conversation stayed easy after that, nothing flirtatious, just normal.
He asked where you were from, whether this was your first fight week, joked about how every fighter became unbearable during weight cuts.
And for the first time all day, you relaxed enough to laugh properly.
Across the room, Umar noticed immediately.
One second he was answering another interview question.
The next, his eyes lifted past the cameras.
The fighter sitting across from you leaned closer slightly while talking, saying something that made you laugh again.
Umarâs expression hardened almost instantly.
But enough that one of the coaches beside him glanced over curiously.
His answers afterward became shorter.
Sharper, distracted, you didnât notice at first.
Not until the conversation across from you abruptly stopped.
The fighterâs eyes had lifted somewhere over your shoulder.
âOh,â he said quietly.
Confused, you turned slightly.
Umar stood there beside the couch.
Freshly showered after media obligations, black hoodie pulled over broad shoulders, hands tucked into the front pocket while tension rolled off him in waves.
He didnât look at the other fighter first.
âYou done?â he asked quietly.
But clipped enough that your stomach tightened immediately.
The other fighter stood almost instantly, suddenly very aware of the atmosphere shifting around him.
âIâll see you around,â he said lightly before disappearing back toward the elevators without another second wasted.
Silence settled the second he left.
Umarâs jaw flexed once.
âYou looked busy,â you said carefully.
His eyes flicked toward where the fighter had walked away before returning to you. âWho was that?â
The question came too quickly.
Too casually and suddenly you understood.
A strange mix of disbelief and irritation sparked inside your chest.
His expression flattened immediately. âNo.â
Which basically answered the question.
You stared at him for another second before standing slowly from the couch, grabbing your water bottle.
âYou donât get to act jealous after ignoring me all week.â
The words landed harder than you intended, or maybe you did intend them but Umarâs face changed immediately.
It wasnât anger it was something worse.
âIâm not ignoring you.â
You laughed softly under your breath, exhausted now more than upset. âOkay.â
That one word clearly hit him harder than arguing would have.
His eyes narrowed slightly. âWhat does that mean?â
âIt means you barely look at me unless somethingâs wrong.â
âYou told me I shouldnât have come.â
The second the words left your mouth, silence dropped heavily between you.
The thing youâd been carrying around all week.
Umar stared at you for a long moment, realization slowly settling into his expression.
And for the first time since fight week started, he looked genuinely worried.
The elevator ride upstairs was painfully quiet.
You stood near the mirrored wall with your arms folded loosely across your chest while Umar remained beside the doors, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, tension carved into every line of his body.
Neither of you looked at the other, the silence wasnât angry anymore- that wouldâve been easier but this felt heavier than anger.
When the elevator opened onto your floor, you stepped out first.
Umar followed a second later.
The hotel hallway stretched long and muted around you, soft lighting reflecting against dark carpet while distant voices echoed somewhere farther down.
You reached the room first, swiping the keycard harder than necessary before pushing the door open.
Umar shut it quietly behind you both.
You set the water bottle down on the counter and moved toward the window automatically, wrapping your arms around yourself tighter.
Behind you, Umar exhaled slowly.
âI didnât mean it like that.â
His voice was quieter now.
You stared out at the Vegas lights below. âThen how did you mean it?â
Because there wasnât a good one.
âI knew this week would be bad.â
You turned then, frustration finally slipping through properly. âYou keep saying that.â
âBecause itâs true.â
âAnd what does that have to do with me being here?â
Umar rubbed a hand over his face hard enough to show how exhausted he was getting from this conversation already.
âEverything isâŠâ He searched for the words visibly. âWrong right now.â
All the things he still couldnât fully say aloud.
But you could see every unspoken word sitting behind his eyes anyway.
âYou think I canât handle it?â you asked softly.
His head snapped up instantly. âNo.â
The answer came from instinct.
And somehow that hurt worse too.
Because if it wasnât about you handling itâ then it was about him.
Umar looked away first, jaw tight.
âI donât like you seeing this part.â
Your chest tightened slightly. âSeeing what?â
His laugh this time sounded humorless.
âThis.â He gestured vaguely toward himself âThe bad camp. Me angry all the time. Coaches unhappy. Everything.â
For a moment the room went quiet again.
Then finally âYou know what the worst part is?â
His eyes lifted cautiously toward you.
âYou keep acting like loving you only works when things are good.â
The words hit him like a physical blow.
You saw it immediately in the way his expression shifted.
Because suddenly this wasnât about fight week anymore.
It was about the fact he genuinely believed he had to hide every ugly part of himself to keep from becoming a burden.
Umar swallowed hard once before speaking carefully.
âThatâs not what I think.â
âBut itâs what youâre doing.â
Long enough that you wondered if heâd shut down again completely.
Then finally, quieter than before âI donât know how to do this when everything feels bad.â
That one nearly broke you.
Because there it was again beneath all the frustration - Not coldness but fear.
Failure terrified him in ways he didnât know how to survive gently.
You stared at him for a long moment before crossing the room slowly, Umar stayed perfectly still when you stopped in front of him, close enough now to see exhaustion written beneath his eyes again.
âYou donât have to be perfect for me,â you said softly.
His breathing visibly slowed.
For a second he just looked at you like he didnât quite know what to do with that.
Then finally, carefully this time his hands settled against your waist, not confident in fact almost hesitant like he still wasnât fully sure he deserved the comfort.
âIâm trying,â he admitted quietly.
That was probably the most vulnerable thing youâd ever heard him say.