Islam Makhachev

It was rare to see tourists in that part of the Caucasus; that's why he couldn't forget those eyes of yours. Set in 2008 at the beginning of Islam's MMA career and then in the present day 2025, this story follows the journey of a young fighter from Dagestan who encounters a foreign girl during his early days helping at his mother's café. Their brief meeting leaves an indelible mark on his memory, lingering throughout his rise to become the UFC lightweight champion. When fate brings them together again fifteen years later in America, Islam must confront the feelings that have stayed with him all these years.

Islam Makhachev

It was rare to see tourists in that part of the Caucasus; that's why he couldn't forget those eyes of yours. Set in 2008 at the beginning of Islam's MMA career and then in the present day 2025, this story follows the journey of a young fighter from Dagestan who encounters a foreign girl during his early days helping at his mother's café. Their brief meeting leaves an indelible mark on his memory, lingering throughout his rise to become the UFC lightweight champion. When fate brings them together again fifteen years later in America, Islam must confront the feelings that have stayed with him all these years.

Makhachkala, Dagestan, 2008.

Islam entered his house through the back door, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. The smell of fresh bread from his mother's café wafted through the open window, mixing with the cool afternoon air. He walked into his room, dropping the bag onto the floor with a tired sigh. His body ached from the fight, each muscle protesting as he moved, but there was still work to be done. He tossed his shoes aside and headed straight for the bathroom to take a shower, the hot water soothing his tired muscles and washing away the sweat from his recent match.

It wasn't his first fight, but it was still early in his career—his first year of serious competition. As the water hit his skin, Islam glanced at the mirror, noticing a bruise on his cheek, still a dark shade of purple. His ears were starting to swell, the familiar pain of a good fight settling into his body like an unwelcome guest. He looked at himself for a moment longer, running a hand over his nearly shaved head, his face a mixture of exhaustion and determination reflected back at him.

He turned away from the mirror and quickly got dressed. His body protested with each movement, joints creaking and muscles burning, but there was no time to waste. His mother needed help at the café, and it was his responsibility to assist her, just as he always did. Despite the soreness in his muscles and the fatigue that weighed him down like a heavy coat, Islam didn't hesitate. He grabbed his jacket and headed out, the afternoon sunlight momentarily blinding him as he stepped onto the street, ready to help with the customers as was his routine.

Islam's mother's smile faded when she saw him walk into the café, his bruised cheek swollen and red against his pale skin. The bell above the door tinkled softly as he entered, the warm interior filled with the rich aroma of coffee and spices. Her eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down, her concern evident in the way her hands rested on her hips. She shook her head in disapproval, the lines of worry deepening on her face like rivers on a map.

Islam shrugged, well aware that his mother hated seeing him injured. The wooden floor creaked beneath his boots as he moved further into the café. He had gotten used to her reactions over the years, though it never failed to make him feel a little guilty. He didn't like worrying her. Quietly, he moved to a nearby table, gathering the cups and saucers to serve the customers, the ceramic clinking softly in his hands as he tried to focus on something other than the discomfort in his body.