#isu

Islam Makhachev was not always a man who appreciated the little things, in fact he never even considered what such little things would be. Every little thing he did served an ultimate goal, which was the thing that mattered. Now that his career was at its peak, and when time with his family was limited, he appreciated every little moment, detail and trifle. Such moments needed time.

So Islam Makhachev's love language turned out to be time, the well-knit time between training sessions and traveling was completely dedicated to you.

Islam would sit you on a horse with him, even though you were an excellent rider yourself and there were as many as twenty horses available, just so he could have your body next to his as long as possible, so he could hide with you on the top of a hill and steal himself from everyone else.

And when you were not there, Islam Makhachev would save the best pieces of meat from the bbq, and brough them out to you late at night, when the children were already asleep, as you giggled silently.

After a long and tiring day, you decided to all misfortune, already exhausted, to wash your hair. Your body was already bowed before the gloomy day, your feet ached, while your eyes imagined sleep, and your fingers seemed like they could snap at any moment under the pressure of thin air.

"I have to wash my hair, but I'm too tired," you said to Makhachev, who had already finished his day, himself exhausted and sore from training, a black bruise under his eye was outlining his handsome face.

With his hand under his head, already half asleep, Islam waited for you to raise your tired limbs and listened as you were takeing off your clothes, piece by piece.

He had an ugly habit of moving silently, the lanky big man moved around your house like a ghost. You felt him only when he started taking off the rest of your clothes with gentle movements, you wanted to let him know that you were too tired for anything and that you just wanted to wash your hair enough for tomorrow morning. But his tired face and lazy movements told you otherwise.

Now already naked in front of him, your shoulders were covered by loose hair, which he moved to fall on your back, not taking his eyes off your face. He ran his long fingers through your hair a few times, moving it away from your face, then motioned for you to sit in the tub.

You sat in hugging your knees, while he sorted through a number of different hair products, as if asking you which one he should put on first. You let out a small laugh, then pointed out that shampoo and conditioner would be enough. He adjusted the water pressure to a very weak lukewarm stream, covering your hair completely. Managing to leave couple of kisses on your wet back.

He ran his fingers over your scalp, even though you couldn't see, you knew he had a serious expression on his face with lines furrowed between his eyes, taking this completely seriously. Makhachev lifted your hair, moving it to one side, then the other, so he could massage every part of your scalp, his movements slow and the pressure of his fingers just right.

It didn't take long for you to relax your body and doze a bit on top of your knees. He slowly turned you back towards him, trying to place your hair in the towel three times already, which made you sober up.

"I'm done and I can't put this on" his voice was a raspy whisper. You gave him a sign that you would do it yourself, and that you could finish the rest.

He didn't wait for you long, you came out after five minutes and saw how his knees were hanging from the bed while the rest of him was laying down as if he was in some kind of cramp. He quickly removed hand from his face, startled from a half-sleep, he watched your movements, his mind deceived by your scent. You slowly put on his old shirt, not paying attention to whose it was, and Islam himself didn't know if it was his shirt or the shirt he left you to wear in his absence.

In two steps he was next to you, taking your wooden brush from your hands, too expensive for your taste, you remember scolding him after he brought it to you from New York. Thinking that something like that must cost a lot, you searched the internet and found out the price of the stupid brush. How could his wife's hair not deserve only the best in the world?

"Islam....go to sleep, you're tired yourself, I have to dry it too."

But he didn't listen to you, so with gentle movements, as if he was doing it for the first time, he started to separate your hair into two parts, so that it would be easier to comb. Now you could see that same focused expression on his face, which followed the movements of the brush in the hope that he wouldn't pull it back harshly. He did it as the finest master of such a craft, if such a thing existed. He believed that every strand has a place on your head and that it must be brushed that way.

Such attention to the simple combing of your hair, which your mother would hurry up and do with some force pulling your scalp back because she did it all the time, reminded you of your father. He would take a little pink brush from your small hands into his big ones, and with smooth movements, he would go over your hair, not rushing anywhere.

You fell asleep once again while Isu, after running a brush over a part of your hair, brushed it over again with his hands, big, heavy hands, which had scars on them, hands that gave all their strength to hurt others, now restrained every possible pressure, so as not to hurt you.

Tired yourself, you didn't know that his knees were buckling from fatigue, and that his eyes had already closed for the third time. You didn't understand that he was taking time out of his sleep just to feel a part of you under his hands, breathe in your scent and remember every detail of your being.