"I'm the King"

You weren’t even supposed to be here. Not on this trip. Definitely not in this country. You were only supposed to be in Russia for a semester studying abroad for language immersion program. Your Russian wasn’t the best—you didn’t think you’d actually use it for much more than in awkward conversations in grocery store lines and ordering coffee wrong—so why not get better? You took up volunteering at some gym in Dagestan to fill your hours. Something different. Something to do.

That’s where you met Khabib—at the gym. You knew of him, of course. Everyone did. He and his father were legends in the area. The little boys you helped coach at the gym always talked about him, Khabib this and Coach Abdulmanap that. You figured you’d never actually see him, like he was some myth. He was always somewhere else—training in America, cornering fights, doing interviews in cities you couldn’t even name. When he finally came in for a visit, all the kids flocked him. They ran across the mats barefoot, yelling his name, tugging at his sleeves, begging for attention. He gave it to them too—laughing, crouching down to talk to each one. You stood back near the wall, arms folded, smiling quietly.

But when the kids finally scattered and he straightened up, you didn’t expect him to even glance your way. But his eyes landed on you almost immediately—and then he started walking. Toward you. You almost looked behind you to check if there was someone else he could possibly be aiming for. But no—he was headed directly at… you.

“You are from AKA?” was the first thing he said to you.

It took you a second too long to realize he was actually speaking to you. “American Kickboxing Academy?”

He smirked. “Yes. I know you. You help.”

Huh. Now that you remembered it, you didn’t actually meet Khabib for the first time at the gym. It was months ago, back in San Jose. Khabib had flew in to train at AKA—his first time there, you think—to train with a couple American wrestlers. At some point, someone had waved you over. Khabib had needed help explaining something in English. And that was it. A two-minute moment on a regular day. You forgot it by the next morning.

Apparently, Khabib didn’t.

From there, it just… happened. Slowly at first—Khabib asking you to translate a phrase or two, nothing special. Then a little more. Then he started bringing you along, to a local fight night, to another gym. Each time you told yourself it was just temporary, that you just happened to be at the right place at the right time. You were sure you weren’t that important. But then three months passed and you were still there.

And now, you were here. In America. Again. Khabib had to fly in for a fight. Islam came with him to help him train.

You didn’t know Islam well—only in the way you knew someone who was always by another person’s side. He was quieter, less direct than Khabib, more shy, and you’d only exchanged a handful of words with him.

And for some reason, when it came time to figure out paperwork and English and travel planning, Khabib went straight to you. As if you’d been his person all along.

“She come,” he told his manager. “She fix all.”

You hadn’t even been sure what “all” meant, but before you knew it, you were seated between them on the plane. Twelve long hours from Russia all the way to America. You used the time to find a place for the three of you to stay in. UFC said they would reimburse you, but you weren’t working with much to begin with. You booked a cheap motel a few blocks from the actual hotel the two of them were supposed to be staying at. Claimed there was air conditioning. A microwave. Free Wi-Fi.

“Again,” Khabib says from behind you, snapping you out of your thoughts just for you to find out you’re actually here—standing right in front of the room door with the keycard in your hand.

You swipe the card. It blinks red for the second time.

Islam looks over your shoulder. “Дверь не открывается?”

Something about the door not opening. You shake your head. “It’s probably just the angle. They’re–” You swipe it again. “…like this sometimes.”

Khabib steps forward. “I do,” he says, then takes the card from your hand.

He tries once. Red.

Again. Click.

He opens the door and steps in first.

You step in behind him. “Okay, let’s just-”

You freeze in the doorway.

Islam walks in last, swinging the door shut with his foot—and then all three of you are standing there, in silence, staring at the room.

In the center of it, taking up almost the entire space, is one bed.

One bed.

It’s small. Full-sized, maybe—not even a queen. There’s two pillows and a thin blanket.

And that was it. No extra mattress, no couch, not even a chair to curl into.

Just that one bed.

You walk around the bed, looking behind the bathroom door as if there’s a second room hiding there. There isn’t.

“Где находится другая комната?” Islam asks. Where is the other room?

“There, uh…” you say, too quietly. Then louder: “This is the only room.”

Khabib turns to you slowly, “Одна кровать?” He points. One bed? “This mistake?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He stares at it for a second. Then: “I call UFC,” he says. “They fix?”

“No, no–” Because you know exactly what he means—you’ll be on the phone, trying to explain the situation to them, and the last thing you want is to be put on hold with a UFC coordinator with Khabib and Islam listening to every awkward word exchanged.

You drag your suitcase into the corner and unzip it. The bed creaks under your arm as you lean against it to plug in your charger. “They must’ve messed up the listing. Or I clicked the wrong thing. I don’t know. It’s whatever. We can find another place tomorrow.”

You dig for your phone in your pocket, swiping it open with a sigh and clicking into the app like it might magically clear everything up. Maybe they got it wrong. Maybe the front desk made a mistake. Maybe someone switched the rooms after check-in. Maybe—

Oh.

There it is. Right there on the screen. 1 Double Bed. Non-Smoking.

You scroll down. Then back up. Then you just stare.

But it just stares back at you. One double bed. Booked by… you.

You don’t say a word. Not to Khabib. Not to Islam. You just quietly shut the screen off. Like maybe, if no one sees you looking at it, it didn’t happen. Then you slide it into your pocket.

And that’s it. You’re going to hell. You swear, you’re going straight to hell. Or worse—having to share a bed with two men who think you’re just their translator and not a complete fucking idiot.

Islam bends to unzip his bag. “Я могу спать на полу.” I can sleep on the floor.

“What? No–” You open your mouth to answer, but then–

“Вы с ума сошли?” Are you crazy? You hear Khabib say.

Islam blinks up at the two of you.

You press your palm to your forehead. “Okay, no. No one’s sleeping on the floor.”

It’s 98 degrees outside. Hot. You’re frustrated. And this is not the argument you want to be having right now. “Just–” You start, trying to talk in a way that’s easily digestible for them to understand, “Why don’t you guys go check out the gym? Walk around. Explore the city a little. I’ll get some food, maybe call the front desk. Try to fix all this.”

Neither of them looks convinced.

“Now?” Khabib asks.

“Yeah,” You nod, a little too quickly. “You shouldn’t have to worry about this. I’ll figure something out.”

Islam doesn’t move. He’s still standing by his bag, hand curled loosely around the strap like he’s not sure whether he’s staying or going. Then he looks at Khabib, and Khabib sighs.

Finally, he nods. Not really like he agrees—more like he’s choosing to let it go, for now.

You don’t move for a while after they leave. Just stare at the door. Then down at your phone. Then at the bed.

What the fuck were you going to do?

It’s almost 5 p.m. when they come back.

You’re in bed with a bottle of water in one hand and your phone in the other, watching YouTube videos on low volume. You gave up trying to fix the room situation around 2 p.m. You talked to the front desk. They offered an apology and a shrug. No other rooms available. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. You even tried the hotel the two we’re initially supposed to go to. When you asked if they had a room “for tonight, three people, please anything,” they laughed in your face.

You walked two blocks down and bought food from a little takeout spot that smells like grilled meat and burnt garlic. You stood there waiting for the bag, shirt sticking to your back, scrolling through your phone and wondering if it’d be crazy to call Dana White personally and demand a room at the fucking Four Seasons. You didn’t. Instead, you bought shawarma, fries, a can of Coke, two bottles of water, and a sad little pack of cookies from the gas station on the way back.

When you got to the room, it was still empty. You unlocked the door slowly as if something inside might’ve changed while you were gone. It hadn’t. Same room. Same bed.

You set the bag of food on the small table by the window, pulled open the mini fridge, and slid the water bottles inside. The takeout stayed on the counter—you figured they’d be back soon enough.

The shower you took felt like a reset after everything that happened today. When you stepped out and changed into your clothes, though, you instantly regretted what you’d chosen: tiny shorts and an old tank top that should’ve been left at home. You didn’t dress for this. You didn’t expect to be sharing a room—let alone one bed with two fighters who both make a point of not looking at you too long.

The door opens quietly when they come back. You see Khabib first, then Islam behind him. They moved in silence, gym bags slung over their shoulders, shirts damp with sweat and clinging to them in places you tried not to notice.

None of them speak at first.

You watch from your place on the far side of the bed, legs tucked underneath you. You didn’t mean to look so small, so curled up, but the room suddenly feels too full now with the two of them inside again.

Khabib’s eyes slowly move across the room. Still only one bed. His jaw clenched for a second but he doesn’t look at you. Islam shifts awkwardly near the wall, like he forgot where to stand.

You clear your throat and sit up straighter, trying to anchor yourself even though your pulse kicked up. “I talked to the front desk.”

Islam raises his brows. The smallest flicker of acknowledgment. Waiting.

“They said maybe tomorrow,” you say quietly. “No other rooms tonight.”

Silence. Again.

“I got food,” you add after a few seconds, gesturing toward the table. “Fries and shawarma. Water’s in the fridge.”

Islam drops his bag with a thud and walks over to the table. He crouches down and opens one of the takeout containers, steam curling up into his face. He looks back at Khabib, who watches him for a second before finally setting his bag down as well. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t eat. Just grabs his bottle of water and disappears into the bathroom without a word. The door shuts behind him with a click.

You stare at Islam. Islam stares at you. Neither of you say anything. Finally, you roll onto your side, pressing your cheek into the pillow, trying to ignore the way his eyes still feel like they’re on you.

This has to be a punishment. Some karmic retribution you don’t even remember signing up for because of course this is how your night ends: trapped in a motel room with Khabib, Islam, and exactly one bed.

When Islam finally steps out of the bathroom, he stands there for a second—blinking, like he forgot how small the room actually is. Khabib’s already sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched forward, face blank. He changed into a fresh shirt and another pair of shorts, the black waistband twisted slightly like he didn’t bother to fix it. One big hand slowly drags down his face. You’re still on your side of the bed.

Islam’s standing at the foot of the bed now, holding his folded hoodie in one hand like he’s debating whether to throw it on the floor and sleep there.

Khabib doesn’t even look at him. He just shifts slightly to the side and mutters, “Идём.”

It’s flat. Final. Letting him know there’s no point avoiding it anymore. Islam doesn’t argue. He circles around the other side and climbs in carefully. He keeps to his edge, arms still folded over his chest, eyes on the ceiling.

Khabib exhales, long and heavy, before lying back beside you.

Fuck.

Now it’s real.

You’re in the middle and everything’s impossible to ignore. Islam’s knee shifting slightly under the sheets, brushing the mattress near your calf. Khabib’s shoulder close behind you, broad and warm through the thin layer of air between your skin and his shirt. Your own body feels like it’s too loud—the heat of your body, the rise and fall of your breathing, your own blinking.

Your tank top rides up slightly when you shift. You tug it back down instinctively, even though no one’s looking.

No one speaks.

Khabib moves just slightly—not toward you, but not away—just enough for the bed to dip beneath his weight. You try not to let your body react. Islam moves a second later, like he was waiting for Khabib to do it first. His forearm brushes the sheet between you for just a second before he turns slightly onto his side, facing away.

You’re caught between them now. Sandwiched. You stare at the ceiling and wish you’d packed something else to sleep in. Something looser. Longer. Less… whatever you’re wearing. But it’s too late now. You close your eyes and breathe, slow and careful, like that will trick your body into relaxing. It doesn’t. Your body knows it’s lying.

You don’t know if either of them is asleep. You don’t know if they’re thinking the same thing you are—that this is ridiculous, that this is weird, that the heat in this room isn’t just from the barely-working air conditioning and weak fan.

You bite the inside of your cheek and wished your brain would be capable of shutting the fuck up for two seconds.

The space between the three of you isn’t big enough. The air isn’t cool enough. The bed isn’t wide enough.

You close your eyes anyway.

It’s fine.

You’ll sleep.

Eventually.

Khabib couldn’t sleep after the fan died.

It was 2:43 a.m.. He could tell by the red glow of the microwave clock across the room. It stutters, clicks twice, then goes quiet.

It’s been hours since the three of you got in bed. No one has said a word. Not since Islam turned and kicked the sheets off the corner of the bed in his sleep, letting out a small “Жарко” under his breath.

He’s right. It’s hot. The heat was worse than those afternoons back home when the gym’s air conditioning would sputter out mid-session. Worse than the time his father made him run hill sprints on the hottest day of the month. He didn’t even know it could get this hot. He’s already turned his pillow over twice. Nothing helps.

And worst of all, the bed was small. Too small for three.

You’re between them—him and Islam. You’re lying on your side, facing him, back arched the slightest bit, your knees curled toward your stomach. You’d fallen asleep hours ago in nothing but that tank top and those thin cotton shorts. No bra. He noticed that the second you walked out of the bathroom. He didn’t mean to look. Didn’t mean to watch the small top cling to the curve of your breasts. Your nipples. Didn’t mean to think about the way you stretched, the little sigh you made as you moved slightly, your knee bumping his leg. The way it made his dick twitch.

Didn’t mean to remember it now, either. His head has been pounding for hours. His stomach growls. He didn’t eat after training. He never does this close to a fight. Water, a little salt—that’s all. But even his mouth feels dry now. His body’s sore from training and the dehydration made it worse. He hasn’t had real carbs in three days.

But somehow, none of that compared to this—having to lie so close to you.

He wasn’t supposed to see you like this. Wasn’t supposed to think of you like this.

He closes his eyes.

This was a test. The heat, the headache, the starvation—all of it. It had to be. The kind of test his father always warned him about—“Jahannam is hotter,” He could practically hear him saying that right now.

Astaghfirullah, he thinks to himself. Just try to make it to the morning.

Then, Khabib feels the bed move and hears a creak.

He opens his eyes again.

It’s Islam.

He didn’t say anything, but Khabib could tell. He’s awake.

Then, finally, a whisper, “…Хабиб.”

He didn’t answer at first.

Islam tries again, a little clearer. “Вентилятор умер?” The fan died?

Khabib huffs. “Да.”

Islam shifts. “Можно ли открыть окно?” Can we open the window?

“Он застрял.” It’s stuck. Khabib whispers. “Я уже пробовал.” I tried earlier.

Islam sighs.

Khabib turns his head slightly, still staring at the ceiling. “Спи. Делать нечего.” Sleep. There’s nothing to do.

A few seconds of silence pass.

“Она… спит?” She’s… asleep? Islam asks.

Khabib looks at Islam. His eyes are barely visible in the dark, but he can tell he’s looking—not at him. At you.

His stomach starts to twist. He knows that look. That foolish, hungry kind of look men get when they think no one notices. A boy’s gaze. It makes Khabib’s jaw clench. He should know better. Why doesn’t he know better?

“Хватит.” Khabib’s voice cuts sharply. Stop it.

Islam blinks, startled. “Я не…” I wasn’t–

But Khabib cuts him off before he could even defend himself. He doesn’t want excuses. Doesn’t want to hear Islam try to make it sound innocent. It never is. You give your eyes permission first, then your thoughts, and soon enough, the body follows. Then you lose yourself completely.

“Смотри на потолок. Не на неё.” Look at the ceiling. Not at her.

Islam mumbles something under his breath.

“Что?” Khabib asks. What?

Islam doesn’t respond. The bed creaks again. He hears Islam roll onto his back. Khabib turns his head, ready to tell him off again when-

Khabib sees it.

The small tent straining beneath the thin fabric of Islam’s shorts.

Khabib exhales hard through his nose.

“Ислам…”

No response.

It didn’t matter. Khabib saw everything. He always did. And what he saw burned hot in his chest, his face, his body—not just anger at Islam, but something uglier. Recognition. Because he knew exactly what ran through Islam’s head in the silence of a dark room. Knew it because the same shameful thoughts pressed at the back of his own mind, clawing for space.

“Контролируйте себя.” He said finally. Control yourself.

Khabib says it because he needs to hear it, too.