BLOW

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fluff : 💭 angst : 🥀 smut : 🍒 (MDNI)

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Please, do not steal or copy my work

Kylian Mbappé-

-> À DEUX PAS (work in progress)

part I, part II, part III, part IV, part V, part VI, part VII

-In Bondy, Y/N and Kylian’s childhood friendship blooms into something deeper. As he chases PSG stardom and she heads to Strasbourg for law school, can their bond survive the distance? A heartfelt tale of love and growing up.

-> SOUS COUVERTURE (work in progress)

part I

-Sent in secret by a sponsor to evaluate Kylian Mbappé’s behavior, you were only supposed to be his communication coach.But the more you lived in his world, watched his silences, and met his gaze, your role began to blur… dangerously so.

ONE SHOT:

-> A DAY WITH YOU 💭

here

-When Kylian has a day off, all he wants is to be with you. From lazy mornings to stolen kisses, this is a day filled with love, and laughter.

-> PLAYFUL 🍒

here

-smut lol

More coming!

Jude Bellingham-

-> Lens & Lights (work in progress)

chapter 1

Sent to capture Madrid’s soul for Real Madrid, meet an unexpected person in a hidden alley. As your lens frames his world, stolen moments blur into something more. But fame and ambition threaten to overexpose your heart.

ONE SHOT:

-> ASSISTANTE

here

-smut too lol

More coming!

≈

THE LEMONADE SERIE

Six months ago, you left Lyon, trading a soul-sucking graphic design job for a freelance photographer’s life in Madrid. The city’s chaos—its vibrant streets, its mix of old and new, its people who live like every day’s a celebration—called to you. At 24, you’re chasing a dream to make it big with your photos, and somehow, you’ve landed a gig with Real Madrid. Not shooting sweaty players on the pitch (leave that to the sports photos with their giant lenses), but capturing the soul of Madrid for a promotional campaign. “Show us the city no one sees,” the brief said. You live for this kind of challenge.

You stand, brushing dust off your ripped jeans. Your notebook, stuffed with scribbled ideas and sketches of potential locations, peeks out of your canvas bag. You’ve already scouted a dozen spots: the chaotic El Rastro flea market, a forgotten rooftop in Malasaña, a hidden fountain you stumbled on by accident. Today, you’re in Lavapiés, hunting for the raw, unfiltered Madrid—streets where old men play dominoes in smoky bars and walls burst with art like they’re shouting stories.

“Ugh, come on,” you mutter under your breath, your French accent slipping out. A gaggle of tourists has parked themselves right in front of your mural, snapping selfies and ruining your shot. You roll your eyes, tug your backward cap lower, and head down a quieter alley. Your sneakers scuff the uneven cobblestones, and the air smells of fresh coffee and fried churros. Madrid, you’re too much, you think, a grin tugging at your lips.

The alley is narrow, lined with ochre walls where ivy clings like it’s holding on for dear life. You stop at a weathered wooden door, its lion-shaped knocker rusted but regal. The sunlight dances on the wood, casting shadows that look like a painting come to life. You lift your camera, tweaking the focus to catch every crack, every glint of rust, every whisper of history. Click. The sound is your victory song.

“Hey, you’re stealing my secret spot!” a voice calls out, deep but laced with amusement.

You nearly drop your camera, spinning around to face the intruder. He’s tall, wearing a grey hoodie and a cap pulled low, with a smirk that says he’s used to getting away with things. His eyes sparkle with mischief, but there’s a warmth there that catches you off guard. Some local trying to play cool? you think.

“Your spot?” you shoot back, raising an eyebrow. “Sorry, buddy, but this door’s public property. And you just wrecked my shot.”

He laughs, a warm sound that echoes in the alley. “Wrecked your shot? You’re the one squatting my hideout. I came here to chill, and now I’ve got a rogue photographer on my turf.”

You cross your arms, sizing him up. “Rogue photographer? That’s cute. I’m just doing my job, not chasing tabloid gossip. And you are… what, the king of random alleys?”

“Maybe,” he says, leaning against the wall with a grin. “You got a name, photographer?”

You open your mouth to answer. “Y/N—” But before you can finish, a scooter roars past the alley, its engine drowning out your voice. You wince, and when the noise fades, he’s looking at you, head tilted.

“What was that?” he asks, still smiling. “Sounded like… Yawn? Nah, you don’t seem boring enough for that.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Nice try. I said—”

Another scooter zips by, louder than the first, cutting you off again. You throw your hands up in frustration, and he bursts out laughing. “Okay, okay, I give up,” he says, holding up a hand. “I’m just gonna call you… Snap. Yeah, Snap, ‘cause you’re always clicking that thing.”

“Snap?” you repeat, pretending to be offended. “That’s the best you’ve got? And what’s your name, Mr. Alley King?”

“Jude,” he says simply, his eyes glinting like he’s holding back a secret. “Just Jude.”

You study him. He’s too comfortable, too confident, like someone who’s used to being noticed. But there’s a genuineness in his smile that makes you curious. Whatever, you’ve got work to do. “Alright, Jude,” you say, turning back to the door. “If you’re done claiming public property, I’ve got photos to take.”

“Hang on,” he says, stepping closer. “What’s the deal with your project? You’re out here hunting for… what, exactly?”

You hesitate. You don’t usually spill the details to strangers, but there’s something about his curiosity, the way he leans in like he actually cares, that makes you talk. “I’m working on a campaign,” you say. “Gotta capture Madrid, but not the touristy stuff. The real deal—hidden corners, secret vibes, the kind of places you don’t find on postcards.”

Jude’s eyebrows shoot up, impressed. “That’s cool. And this door’s part of the ‘real Madrid’?”

“Exactly,” you say, a spark of pride in your voice. “It’s got stories in its cracks. What about you? Why are you hiding in alleys like some fugitive?”

He chuckles, but there’s a flicker of something—maybe exhaustion—in his eyes. “Let’s just say I needed a break. Too many people, too much noise. This alley’s my spot to breathe.”

You tilt your head, intrigued. “Too much noise? What are you, some rockstar dodging paparazzi?”

“Something like that,” he says with a cryptic grin. “How about I help you out? I know some spots in Madrid even your fancy camera hasn’t seen.”

You laugh, adjusting your cap. “You? Help me? You look like you’d get lost in your own backyard.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Snap,” he says, pretending to be offended. “Come on, let me show you something better than this door.”

You hesitate. You’re not one to let random guys tag along on your shoots. But there’s something about Jude—his easy charm, his playful vibe—that makes you curious. Plus, he might actually know some killer spots. “Fine,” you say, pointing at him. “But if you waste my time, I’m making you pose for the most embarrassing photos ever.”

“Deal,” he says, his smile so bright it could light up the alley. “But I’m warning you, I’m not camera-friendly.”

Yeah, right, you think, noticing how the sunlight catches the sharp lines of his jaw. Focus, Y/N.

/

You and Jude wander through Lavapiés, him leading the way with a confidence that makes you wonder if he really does own these streets. You trail behind, camera around your neck, stealing shots of the neighborhood: a kid kicking a ball against a wall, a woman hanging laundry from a balcony, a neon sign flickering above a tapas bar. Jude’s surprisingly good company, pointing out details you might’ve missed—a faded mural, a cracked tile with a flower pattern. He’s chatty, tossing out stories about Madrid: the best churros he’s ever had, a park where he jogs at dawn. You half-listen, too busy framing shots in your mind.

“So, you’re French, right?” he asks, dodging a stray cat that darts across the path.

“Yep. Lyon, born and raised,” you say, crouching to capture a sunlit cobblestone. Click. “You’ve got an accent… English?”

“Birmingham,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But I’m in Madrid a lot these days.”

“Birmingham to Madrid? That’s a glow-up,” you tease, standing up. “You don’t get lost in these alleys?”

“Never,” he says with a cocky grin. “Except maybe today.”

He leads you to a hidden courtyard, tucked behind a crumbling wall. Ivy drapes over the edges, and a small fountain gurgles in the center, its stone worn smooth by time. Sunlight filters through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the ground. Your photographer’s heart skips a beat. “Okay, you win,” you murmur, raising your camera. Click. Click. Click.You circle the fountain, chasing the light, capturing the way it dances on the water.

Jude leans against a wall, watching you work. “You’re in your own world when you shoot,” he says, half-laughing. “It’s like nothing else exists.”

“That’s the point,” you say, not looking up from the viewfinder. “When I’m behind the lens, it’s just me, the light, and the moment.”

He nods, like he gets it. “Kinda like when I’m… doing my thing. The world fades, and it’s just you and what you’re chasing.”

You pause, lowering your camera. “Your thing? What, you’re a poet now?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah, just… something I’m good at. But you, Snap, you’re something else with that camera.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” you say, but you’re smiling. “Alright, sit by the fountain. I wanna try something.”

“What? No way, I told you I’m not photogenic,” he protests, but he complies, perching on the fountain’s edge. You adjust your lens, framing him against the ivy, catching the way he looks at the water with a quiet intensity. Click. The shot’s perfect—raw, unguarded, like you’ve stolen a piece of him.

“Not bad,” you say, checking the screen. “You sure you’re not a model?”

“Stop it, Snap, you’re gonna make me blush,” he says, but his grin says he’s eating it up.

/

The morning flies by. Jude takes you to two more spots: a spiral staircase covered in neon graffiti and a tiny café with walls plastered in old bullfighting posters. You shoot nonstop, your notebook filling with ideas for the campaign. Jude’s having fun, suggesting ridiculous poses (“What if I pretend to climb the staircase like Spider-Man?”) and asking about your camera’s settings. You’re surprised by how easy it is to talk to him, like you’ve known him longer than a few hours.

“Why photography?” he asks as you both sip coffees from a street vendor, leaning against a wall.

You shrug, cradling your cup. “It’s about catching moments that don’t come back. A split second where everything—light, feeling, story—lines up. What about you? What’s your ‘thing’ you’re so mysterious about?”

He smirks, dodging the question. “Let’s just say I’m good at running around. You’ll figure it out.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, Mr. Vague. Keep your secrets.”

You keep exploring, the sun climbing higher, the streets buzzing with life. Jude’s a natural at spotting details—a shadow, a texture—that make your shots better. But you notice how he tenses when people stare too long, like he’s worried they’ll recognize him. What’s his deal? you wonder.

“Gotta bounce,” he says suddenly, checking his phone. “But this was fun, Snap. Show me your photos sometime?”

“Maybe,” you say, playing it cool. “If you stop crashing my shoots.”

He laughs, scribbling his number on a napkin and handing it to you. “In case you need a tour guide. Or someone to carry your camera.”

You take the napkin, raising an eyebrow. “You’re really selling yourself, huh?”

“Nothing better than getting lost in Madrid with a photographer like you,” he says, his smile so bright it could outshine the sun.

/

Back in your tiny Malasaña apartment, you upload your photos to your laptop. The day’s shots are stunning: the door, the fountain, the graffiti. But it’s the photo of Jude by the fountain that stops you. There’s something in his eyes—strength, but also a flicker of vulnerability—that hits you hard. Just a good shot, you tell yourself, shaking it off.

You flip open your notebook, jotting down ideas for the campaign. But your eyes keep drifting to the napkin with Jude’s number. Who is this guy? On a whim, you google “Jude” and “Madrid.” Your jaw drops.

Jude Bellingham. Real Madrid’s star midfielder. Twenty-two, face plastered on billboards, millions of followers. Articles rave about his skills, his charm, his life under the spotlight. You lean back, stunned. I spent the day shooting with a freaking superstar?

You look at the fountain photo again. Crap, Y/N, what did you get yourself into? This Real Madrid gig was already a big deal. But hanging out with Jude Bellingham? That’s a whole new level of complicated. The campaign brief was clear: “Keep it authentic, no media circus.” And now you’ve got a viral-worthy photo of a global icon and his number burning a hole in your pocket.

You groan, dropping your head onto the table. Okay, Y/N. You’re a photographer, not a fangirl. You’ve got this. But deep down, you know this chance encounter just changed everything. And you’re not sure you’re ready for what comes next.

//////

But the truth is sharper, hidden in the fine print you memorized under the dim glow of your apartment last night. Patek Philippe, the luxury watchmaker, doesn’t just want a flawless ambassador. They want certainty. Is he as untouchable in private as he seems on the pitch? Your job is to slip into his world, to watch every gesture, to peel back the layers and report what you find. You’re not supposed to be anything else—not a friend, not a confidante. Just a shadow with a notebook.

The taxi jolts over a cobblestone street, and the radio hums a melancholic French ballad—something about lost love that you try to tune out. The driver glances at you in the rearview mirror, his eyes kind but curious. You don’t meet them. Your reflection catches you instead: sharp blazer, hair pulled back, face calm as a mask. You look like someone who belongs in this world of wealth and whispers. But your pulse betrays you, hammering too fast, too loud. You smooth the folder’s creased edge and force a slow breath.

You’re not here to get involved, you tell yourself. Just observe. Just report. But the folder feels heavier now, like it knows something you don’t. You flip it open, just to anchor yourself. The first page is clinical: your cover story, your credentials, a photo of Kylian mid-match, all focus and grace. The next page is different. “Confidential,” it reads, and below it, instructions that make your stomach twist. Assess his behavior. Note any discrepancies. Trust is secondary. You snap it shut, your fingers trembling just enough to irritate you.

The driver mutters something about the weather, but you’re barely listening. Your eyes drift to the city outside—cafés glowing under awnings, couples sharing umbrellas, a world that feels a million miles from where you’re headed. You curse yourself for forgetting a parapluie-the rain has already soaked through your coat during the short dash from your apartment to the taxi. Your fingers are cold, your hair starting to cling to your neck. You’ve shaped stories before, coached executives, polished brands. But this is different. This is personal. Invasive. You wonder why you said yes. The money? The challenge? Or something you can’t name yet?

The taxi slows, turning onto a private road lined with trees that look too perfect to be real. A gate looms ahead, black and sleek, like a line you’re about to cross. Your throat tightens. You adjust your scarf, your bag, anything to keep your hands busy. The folder burns in your lap.

“Ready?” the driver asks, turning with a smile.

You nod, your voice steady despite the chaos inside. “Yes.”

The gate swings open, and the taxi rolls forward. The villa comes into view—glass and stone, modern and unyielding, like it’s guarding its own secrets. You brace yourself as the driver stops, the rain heavier now, drumming against the car. No umbrella, of course. You grit your teeth, sling your bag over your shoulder, and step out. The cold bites at your skin, water seeping into your shoes as you hurry toward the entrance, your coat no match for the downpour.

You reach the door, shivering, and raise your hand to knock. It opens before you can, and there he is. Kylian Mbappé. Not the icon from billboards or highlight reels, but a man in a black hoodie, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his hair slightly mussed. He’s taller than you expected, his presence filling the space like a current you can’t ignore. His eyes land on you, and for a moment, you forget the chill. They’re not just curious—they’re searching, peeling back your edges like he’s trying to read a story he hasn’t been told.

“You’re the coach,” he says, his voice low, steady, with a trace of something sharp. Not quite annoyance, but close. He leans against the doorframe, his gaze sliding over you—your dripping coat, your damp hair, the way you clutch your bag like it’s a lifeline.

“Enchanté,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, his tone dry but polite. “Je m’appelle Kylian Mbappé. Mais tu le sais déjà, sûrement.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile, like he’s testing you.

You open your mouth to reply, to give your name, but before the words are out, he’s already turning away, his attention drifting like you hadn’t spoken. “Come in,” he says over his shoulder, stepping aside. The dismissal stings, sharp and quiet, settling somewhere you don’t want to examine. You swallow your name, letting it dissolve unspoken, and follow him inside, your teeth chattering faintly.

The warmth of the villa wraps around you like a reprieve, though your clothes cling to your skin, heavy with rain. Your shoes squeak on the marble floor, leaving faint wet marks, and you wince, hoping he doesn’t notice. He pauses a few steps in, glancing back at you, his brow twitching at the state you’re in. “Wait,” he says, disappearing for a moment. He returns with a soft white towel, tossing it to you with a casual flick. “You’re dripping all over my floor.”

You catch it, startled, the fabric warm against your chilled fingers. “Thanks,” you mutter, dabbing at your face and hair, feeling oddly exposed under his stare. You hand the towel back, and he takes it without a word, his expression unreadable.

“Didn’t know Paris rain was this rude,” you say, brushing water from your sleeves, trying to reclaim some control.

He huffs, a sound that’s almost a laugh but not quite. His gaze sweeps over you again—less sharp now, but still guarded. “I don’t need someone hovering,” he says, and there’s a bite to it, though his voice stays calm. “No offense.”

“None taken,” you say, meeting his eyes. You keep your tone light, ignoring the way your damp clothes cling to your skin. “I’m not here to hover. I’m here to make sure the world sees you the way you want. Your call, not mine.”

He tilts his head, just enough to show he’s listening. For a second, you think you see a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe, or amusement. But it’s gone as fast as it came. He steps forward, moving toward the hallway, his posture loose but deliberate. “Let’s go,” he says, nodding for you to follow.

You trail behind, your heart a quiet drum in your chest. The villa opens up around you—high ceilings, glass walls, a space that feels more like a gallery than a home. He doesn’t look back, but you feel his awareness, like he’s tracking every step you take. You notice things as you walk: scuffed sneakers by the door, a framed photo of a younger Kylian with grinning kids, the faint smell of coffee lingering in the air. You file them away, telling yourself it’s for the report. But it’s not. Not entirely.

He leads you to a living room, all sleek furniture and soft light, and gestures at a couch. “You can set up here. Or wherever. I don’t care.” His tone is neutral, but his eyes linger, waiting.

“Thanks,” you say, setting your bag down. Your coat’s still wet, and you shrug it off, draping it over a chair to dry. You pull out your notebook, more for show than necessity, and catch him watching the motion. His brow twitches, like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he crosses his arms, leaning against a table nearby. “So, what’s the plan? You gonna follow me around, tell me how to smile?”

There’s a challenge in his voice, subtle but unmistakable. You meet it, keeping your smile faint but steady. “Only if you’re smiling wrong.”

A beat passes. Then, the corner of his mouth quirks, not quite a smile but close enough to make your chest tighten. “Fair enough,” he says, and for the first time, his voice softens, just a fraction.

The rest of the day unfolds in fragments, like a film you’re watching but not starring in. He shows you a corner of the house where you can work—a small office with a glass desk and a view of the rain-soaked garden. You unpack your things, your movements deliberate, while he lingers nearby, pretending to check his phone. You feel his eyes on you, not constant but enough to keep you on edge. You wonder what he’s looking for. A crack in your story? A reason to trust you? Or maybe he’s just bored.

He leaves for a call, and you spend an hour reviewing his recent interviews, your pen scratching notes you’re not sure you’ll send. Confident but guarded. Dodges personal questions. You add a line about his posture—relaxed but controlled, like he’s always ready to move. When he returns, he’s quieter, his energy dialed down. He asks if you need anything, his tone polite but distant. You say no, and he nods, disappearing again.

Lunch is a non-event. A delivery arrives—sushi, neatly arranged in black boxes—and he eats in the kitchen, scrolling his phone while you sit at the counter with your laptop. You make small talk, testing the waters. “Busy week ahead?” you ask, casual.

He shrugs, not looking up. “Always is.”

You don’t push. Instead, you watch him out of the corner of your eye. The way he pauses mid-bite, staring at nothing for a second too long. The faint shadows under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept properly in days. You shouldn’t notice these things. You’re not here to care. But your notebook stays closed, and you don’t write them down.

The afternoon drags. You shadow him to a quick meeting with his stylist, a whirlwind of fabric samples and schedules. He’s professional, charming even, but you catch the moment he switches it off, his smile fading as soon as the door closes. Back at the house, he’s restless, pacing the living room while you pretend to organize tomorrow’s agenda. You feel the weight of the day—the silence, the glances, the unspoken questions piling up between you.

Then, as the light outside fades to a bruised purple, he stops pacing. He’s on the couch, his phone buzzing ignored on the table. “You should probably head out,” he says, his voice abrupt but not harsh. He turns his head, his eyes meeting yours, unreadable. “Some friends are coming over. You know, to hang out. Play some games.”

You blink, caught off guard. The shift feels sudden, like a door closing. “Oh,” you say, recovering quickly. You close your laptop, your movements smooth despite the sting you don’t want to acknowledge. “No problem. I’ll get my things.”

He nods, already turning away, but you catch the flicker in his expression—something like guilt, or maybe just relief. You pack your bag, your notebook tucked inside, its pages heavier with things you haven’t written. As you head for the door, you glance back. He’s watching you, just for a second, before he looks away.

“See you tomorrow,” you say, your voice steady.

“Yeah,” he replies, softer now. “Tomorrow.”

You step into the rain again, no umbrella, the cold biting harder this time. Your coat’s barely dry from earlier, and you wince as water seeps into your collar. The taxi’s waiting, its headlights cutting through the dusk. You slide into the back, your fingers chilled, your heart louder than it should be. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s just the first day. But as the villa fades in the rearview mirror, you can’t shake a weird feeling.

Back at the hotel, the room feels sterile, too clean for the mess in your head. Patek Philippe arranged it—a sleek, temporary place in the heart of Paris, all sharp lines and muted grays, until they finalize an apartment closer to Kylian’s villa. The sponsor’s reach is everywhere, their instructions clear: stay near him, blend in, report often. You drop your bag on the bed, your damp coat discarded in a heap. The city hums outside, its lights smearing through the window like a painting you don’t understand.

You sit at the desk, your notebook open, but the pen stays still. You should write something—anything—for the report. First impressions: reserved, skeptical, possibly exhausted. But the words feel wrong, like they can’t capture the way his voice softened at the end, or the way his eyes lingered just a second too long. You shut the notebook, harder than you mean to, and lean back, staring at the ceiling. Sleep doesn’t come easily. The rain keeps tapping at the window, a reminder of the day, of the secrets you’re carrying.

—

The next morning, you’re up before the alarm, the city still cloaked in a soft dawn haze. You dress carefully—neutral tones, professional but not stiff—and check your phone. A message from the sponsor: Apartment details soon. Stay focused. You delete it, your jaw tight, and call another taxi. The drive to the villa is quieter today, the rain lighter but still there, misting the windows. You clutch your bag, words looping in your head: Just observe. Just report. But it feels flimsier now, like a promise you might not keep.

The gate opens as you arrive, the villa looming just as it did yesterday—sleek, impenetrable, a world apart. You pay the driver, step out, and make your way to the door, your heels clicking on the wet stone path. No umbrella again, but you’re past caring, the mist settling on your hair like a second skin. You raise your hand to knock, steadying your breath, expecting Kylian’s guarded stare or maybe his dry humor about your lack of weather sense.

But the door swings open before you touch it, and it’s not him. A woman stands there, her face half-hidden by a hood, her movements quick and sharp. She looks young, in her twenties, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that dart over you like she’s weighing a threat. Her coat is buttoned tight, her posture tense, like she’s ready to bolt. “Who are you?” she asks, her voice low, almost a hiss, before you can speak.

You freeze, your hand still raised, your pulse spiking. “I’m—his new communication coach,” you say, the words automatic, your cover story snapping into place. You force a calm smile, though your mind races. Who is she? Why is she here? You search her face for clues, but she’s already stepping back, pulling the hood lower.

“Right,” she mutters, barely audible. She brushes past you, her shoulder grazing yours, and hurries down the path, her steps quick and uneven. You turn, watching her disappear into the mist, her figure swallowed by the trees lining the road. Your stomach twists. She didn’t belong here—not in the way you do, or don’t. You tell yourself it’s nothing, but the encounter clings to you, sharp and unsettling.

You shake it off, or try to, and step inside. The villa’s warmth hits you, but it’s not as comforting today. Kylian’s in the living room, sprawled on a couch, his phone in hand. He looks up as you enter, his expression unreadable, like he didn’t hear the door or doesn’t care. “You’re early,” he says, his voice flat, but his eyes flick over you, lingering on your damp hair.

“Traffic was light,” you reply, setting your bag down. You hesitate, the woman’s face flashing in your mind. You want to ask—Who was that? Why was she here?—but the words stick. He’s already back to his phone, his thumb scrolling, his jaw tight. You wonder if he knows, if he’s hiding something, or if you’re just seeing shadows where there aren’t any.

You move to the office he showed you yesterday, your notebook heavier in your bag. You don’t open it yet. Instead, you stand by the glass desk, your notebook in hand, staring at the garden outside, the mist curling over the grass like a secret. Your fingers tighten around the pages, the word discrepancy echoing in your head, sharp and insistent. Was she a discrepancy? You lift your pen, hovering over a blank page, but your hand freezes. You think back to last night, to Kylian’s abrupt dismissal, his talk of friends and games. The memory shifts, heavy with new weight. What if it wasn’t about friends at all? What if he sent you away for her—this woman who slipped out like a ghost? Your throat tightens, the thought settling like damp air, impossible to shake. You don’t write it down. Not yet.

Kylian calls from the living room, his voice casual but edged. “You gonna stand there all day, or we doing something?”

You turn, catching his gaze through the open door. He’s watching you now, his phone forgotten, his eyes sharper than before, “Doing something,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. You set the notebook down and head toward him, your steps deliberate,

I think about her more than I probably should. The way her laugh sneaks up on you, like it’s a secret she’s letting you in on. That bracelet I gave her, the one she still wears—I keep wondering if she looks at it and thinks of me too. It’s not like I’m lovesick or anything, but she’s important. More than important. She’s home, even when I’m miles away.

The talk about PSG is getting louder. My dad says it’s a chance to build something real, not just chase trophies. My mom’s quieter about it, but I can tell she’s proud. Ethan, my little brother, is the loudest—he’s been obsessed with PSG since he was old enough to kick a ball. Me? I’m still figuring out how I feel. It’s not just a club; it’s a whole new life. Paris, the spotlight, everything. Sometimes I wonder if I’m ready for it all.

I was still buzzing from my call with Y/N last night. Hearing her voice, that mix of excitement and nerves when she told me about Strasbourg—it hit me hard. I could tell she was happy, proud even, but there was this tiny waver in her tone when she said the apartment plan was off. Like she thought I’d be upset. Truth is, I wasn’t. Not really. I meant what I said—I’m proud of her. She’s chasing her dream, same as me. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a little, knowing she’ll be hours away, building a life I can’t just walk into.

I sat on my bed after we hung up, staring at the ceiling of my Monaco apartment. It’s nice enough—clean, modern, all that—but it’s not home. I kept replaying her words, the way she laughed when I promised her a VIP seat. I thought about the summer days in Bondy, her sitting on the steps while I messed around with a ball, her sketching in that little notebook she thought I didn’t notice. Those moments feel so far away now, but they’re what keep me tethered when everything else gets too loud.

My phone buzzed with texts from my agent, my dad, even some teammates asking about the PSG rumors. I ignored them for a bit, letting my mind wander back to Y/N. I wondered what she was doing right now—probably stressing over packing for Strasbourg or arguing with her brother about something dumb. The thought made me smile. She’s got this way of making the big stuff feel small, like it’s all gonna work out.

A few days later, I made up my mind. PSG wasn’t just a club—it was a statement. A chance to play for the city I grew up near, to make Ethan lose his mind every time I stepped on the pitch. I sat down with my parents in our Bondy living room, the same one where we’d had a million family talks. My dad leaned back, arms crossed, waiting for me to speak. My mom’s eyes were steady, like she already knew what I was going to say.

“I’m doing it,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt. “PSG. I want to sign.”

My dad nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You sure? It’s a big move, Kylian. Bigger than Monaco.”

“I know,” I said. “But it’s the right one. For me, for us.”

My mom reached over, squeezing my hand. “We’re with you. Always.”

Ethan burst into the room then, like he’d been eavesdropping the whole time. “You’re joining PSG? For real?” His grin was so wide I thought his face might split. “I’m wearing your jersey every day!”

I laughed, ruffling his hair. “You better. Gotta make you proud, right?”

Later, I got a call about the house in Paris. It’s nice—modern, close to the training ground, with a view that’ll probably feel unreal until I’m used to it. I tried to picture myself there, but my mind kept drifting to Y/N. Would she like it? Would she ever visit? Stupid thoughts, maybe, but I couldn’t help it.

The day the PSG deal was announced, the world went crazy. My phone was a mess of notifications—congrats from teammates, messages from friends, even random people I hadn’t talked to in years. I scrolled through it all, but there was only one person I wanted to hear from. I called Y/N that afternoon, pacing my room like a kid waiting for a test result.

She picked up on the second ring, her voice warm but teasing. “So, Mr. Superstar, it’s official?”

I grinned, leaning against the wall. “Yeah, it’s real. PSG’s stuck with me now.”

“Wow,” she said, and I could hear her smile. “That’s… huge, Kylian. You nervous?”

“A little,” I admitted, surprising myself. “It’s a lot, you know? But it’s what I’ve been working for.”

“You’re gonna be amazing,” she said, so sure it made my chest tight. “Just don’t forget us little people in Bondy.”

“Never,” I said, meaning it. “What about you? Ready for Strasbourg?”

She laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it. “Getting there. Packing’s a nightmare, though.”

I wanted to say more, to tell her how much I wished she was closer, but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “You better save me a spot when I visit. I’m holding you to that croissant deal.”

“Only if they’re chocolate,” she shot back, and I could picture her rolling her eyes.

We hung up with a promise to meet soon, and I felt lighter, like her voice was enough to cut through all the noise.

That evening, I headed to Bondy in a private car—a sleek black sedan with tinted windows, the kind my agent insisted on now that my face was starting to show up on billboards. I pulled my cap low and slipped on sunglasses, even though the sun was barely setting. It felt ridiculous, like I was playing a part in some spy movie, but the last time I’d gone out without them, a group of kids had spotted me, and it turned into a mini mob. I wasn’t complaining, not really—it’s what I signed up for—but tonight, I just wanted to be me. Not the PSG guy, not the headlines. Just Kylian, with Y/N.

I’d called ahead to privatize the restaurant, that little place with the red awning we used to walk by as kids. No cameras, no fans, just us. When the car pulled up, I slipped out quick, keeping my head down until I was inside. The owner gave me a knowing nod, and I thanked him for clearing the place out. It felt extravagant, maybe too much, but I wanted this night to be right.

Y/N was already there, sitting at a table near the window, and lord, I forgot how to breathe for a second. She was wearing this black dress, simple but somehow stunning, her braids falling just so, and that bracelet catching the light. She looked up, and her lips curved into a grin, but then she laughed, covering her mouth.

“What?” I said, sliding into the seat across from her, pulling off my sunglasses.

“You,” she said, still giggling. “What’s with the secret agent look? Cap, shades, sneaking in like you’re on the run. I half-expected you to slide under the table.”

I sighed, but I was smiling too. “It’s not funny. I can’t just walk around anymore, you know. People notice.”

“Poor you,” she teased, leaning forward. “Next thing you know, you’ll have bodyguards and a code name. Should I call you 007 now?”

“Keep it up, and you’re paying for dinner,” I shot back, but my chest felt warm. Only she could make me laugh like this, make the crazy parts of my life feel small.

We ordered—pasta for her, steak for me—and it was like old times, talking about nothing and everything. She told me about her mom burning a cake last week, and I told her how Ethan’s already planning to bunk school for my first PSG match. It was easy, like slipping into a favorite song. But then she got quiet, stirring her drink with her straw.

“I’m leaving for Strasbourg next week,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “It’s… happening.”

I nodded, trying to ignore the twist in my gut. “You’re gonna love it,” I said, meaning it. “You’re too smart for them, you know.”

She laughed, but her eyes held something heavier. “I hope so. It’s just… far, you know? From everything.”

“Not from me,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “I mean, not really. Trains exist, right? Or fancy cars, apparently.”

She looked at me, her gaze softening, and I felt my face heat up. “Right,” she said, almost a whisper.

We finished dinner, but we weren’t ready to leave. We stepped outside, the summer air warm and thick, and wandered to a bench near the park. She sat close, our shoulders brushing, and I caught the scent of her perfume—light, like flowers and citrus. I don’t know why I did it—maybe the way her eyes caught the streetlights, maybe just needing to hold onto her—but I leaned in and kissed her.

It was soft, slow, like we didn’t need to rush. Her lips were warm, and when she kissed me back, it felt like the world quieted down, just for a second. We pulled away, her eyes locking with mine, and she smiled—half-shy, half-bold.

“I’m gonna miss you,” I said, my voice low.

“Me too,” she whispered, resting her head on my shoulder.

We stayed there, not talking much, just letting the night hold us. Things were changing—Strasbourg, PSG, everything—but right then, it was just us. And that was enough.

A few weeks later, I stepped onto the Parc des Princes pitch for my first match. The roar of the crowd was deafening, like nothing I’d ever felt before. I scored that day, and when I did, I looked to the stands, half-hoping I’d see her even though I knew she was in Strasbourg by now.

Life at PSG was a whirlwind. My teammates were cool—Neymar with his jokes, Dani Alves always hyping everyone up. We’d go out sometimes, grabbing food or hitting some club for a low-key night. It was fun, but I started noticing things. Like the way people treated me differently now, the way opportunities seemed to pop up everywhere. And then there was Claire, one of the staff at the club. She was nice, maybe too nice—always lingering after meetings, dropping compliments that felt a little too pointed. It threw me off. I didn’t know how to handle it, didn’t want to. My head was still with Y/N, with that night in Bondy, her smile under the streetlights.

I’m happy—happier than I’ve ever been, maybe. The game, the team, the city—it’s everything I wanted. But sometimes, late at night when it’s just me and my thoughts, I feel it. Something’s shifting, pulling me in directions I’m not sure I’m ready for. And I can’t help but wonder if Y/N feels it too, all the way in Strasbourg.

Life had settled into a rhythm since then. School was busier than ever, with exams looming and teachers piling on assignments like they thought we had no other responsibilities. I didn’t mind, though. Focusing on my studies gave me a sense of control, something steady to hold onto. Football, which used to fill so much of my world through Kylian and the neighborhood games, had faded into the background. I still caught snippets of matches on TV when my brother was glued to the screen, but I wasn’t chasing every goal or highlight anymore. My world was bigger now—books, essays, late-night study sessions with Sarah, and debates with my mom about what I’d do after high school.

Mornings started early. I’d wake up to the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen, where my mom was already bustling around, humming to herself. My brother would be sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone or yelling about some game he’d lost online. I’d grab a quick breakfast—usually toast and juice, nothing fancy—and head out, my backpack heavy with textbooks. Sarah and I would meet at the bus stop, complaining about our history teacher’s obsession with dates or laughing about something stupid one of our classmates had done. Those moments felt grounding, like I was building something for myself, piece by piece.

Kylian and I still talked, though not as often as we used to. He was busy with training in Monaco, and I was swamped with school. Our texts were short but warm—little updates about his matches or my latest study struggles, sometimes a random meme that made me laugh out loud in the middle of class. He’d call every couple of weeks, and we’d talk for hours, picking up right where we’d left off. It wasn’t forced or heavy; it just felt… right. Like we were growing up but still holding onto each other, even with the distance.

I wasn’t hung up on him, though. My life wasn’t on pause, waiting for his next message. I had my friends, my family, my own plans. Sarah was always dragging me to some new café or study group, and my mom kept me busy with errands or long talks about my future. I liked that balance—knowing Kylian was still part of my world, but not my whole world.

One afternoon, I was sprawled on my bed, surrounded by notes for a literature essay. My phone buzzed, and I glanced at it, expecting Sarah with another rant about our group project. It was Kylian.

Kylian: You surviving school? 😌
Me: Barely. This essay is killing me. You surviving training?
Kylian: Haha, just about. Coach is brutal this week.
Me: Poor you. At least you get to run around outside. I’m stuck with books.
Kylian: Wanna trade? I’ll write your essay if you do my sprints.
Me: Hard pass. 🙃

I smiled, setting the phone down to finish my paragraph. It was easy like that with him—no pressure, just us being us.

Bondy, Summer 2017

The air was warm, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and barbecues from the neighborhood. I’d just turned 18, and the weight of my bac results still felt surreal. I’d passed—better than I’d expected, honestly—and now the future was staring me in the face, full of possibilities and questions. Law school was my plan, something I’d been leaning toward for a while. I liked the idea of untangling problems, finding clarity in complicated things. But the practical side—moving out, finding a place, paying for it all—was daunting.

Sarah and I spent a lot of time talking about it over iced coffees at our favorite café. She was set on studying art history, already dreaming of museum internships. “You’ll be some fancy lawyer, and I’ll be giving tours about old paintings,” she’d teased, making me laugh. My other friends were scattering too—some staying in Bondy, others heading to Paris or beyond. It was strange, watching everyone carve out their paths, but it felt exciting too.

Inès had popped up on my radar recently, mostly through social media. She’d started posting more, sharing photos of herself at events or modeling for small brands. I didn’t follow her closely, but I’d see her stories sometimes, all glitter and confidence. We weren’t friends, but after her apology at my birthday, there was no bad blood either. She was just… there, living her life, and I was fine with that.

Kylian and I were still in touch, closer than ever in some ways. The kiss last year hadn’t defined us, but it had shifted something. We weren’t just friends anymore, not exactly, but we hadn’t put a label on it either. It was like we were both letting it evolve naturally, no rush. He’d been playing brilliantly for Monaco, and whispers about a big move—to Paris, maybe PSG—were starting to circulate. I didn’t ask him about it much; I figured he’d tell me when he was ready.

One evening, I was sitting on my bed, scrolling through apartment listings on my laptop. The idea of a small place of my own for law school was tempting, but the prices made my stomach twist. My phone rang, and Kylian’s name lit up the screen. I answered, propping the phone against my pillow.

“Coucou Kylian,” I said, smiling.

“Hey, you,” he replied, his voice warm but a little tired. “What’s up?”

“Just stressing about apartments. Law school’s coming up, and I’m trying to figure out how to not live with my mom forever.”

He laughed softly. “You’d survive. Your mom’s cooking is too good.”

“True, but I’d like my own space, you know? Somewhere I can mess up without her hovering.”

“Fair. Found anything good?”

“Not really. Everything’s either too expensive or looks like it’s falling apart.” I sighed, closing my laptop. “What about you? How’s Monaco?”

“It’s good. Busy. Training’s intense, but…” He paused, and I could hear the shift in his tone, like he was weighing his words. “There’s talk about a move. Maybe PSG.”

My eyebrows shot up. “PSG? Like, Paris PSG?”

“Yeah.” He sounded almost shy about it. “Nothing’s set yet, but… it’s looking likely.”

“That’s huge, Kylian,” I said, genuinely impressed. “You’d be back closer to home.”

“I know. That’s part of why I want it.” He hesitated again, then added, “I was thinking… if I move to Paris, and you’re studying there… maybe we could, like, get a place together.”

I froze, my heart doing a little flip. “Together? Like, you and me?”

“Yeah,” he said, a nervous edge to his voice. “I mean, only if you want. It’d be practical, right? Split rent, keep each other sane. And… I’d like having you around.”

I bit my lip, a mix of excitement and uncertainty bubbling up. Living with Kylian? It sounded amazing—waking up to his dumb jokes, arguing over who left dishes in the sink. But it was also a big step, one that made my head spin with questions. What were we, exactly? Would it complicate things?

“That’s… a lot to think about,” I said carefully, not wanting to shut him down. “I mean, it sounds nice, but I’d need to figure out school and money and… yeah.”

“No pressure,” he said quickly. “Just an idea. I’d want you to be cool with it.”

I smiled, warmth spreading through me at how careful he was being. “I’ll think about it, okay? It’s not a no.”

“Good,” he said, and I could hear the grin in his voice. “I’d hate to lose my favorite neighbor.”

“Neighbor, huh?” I teased. “I thought I was more than that by now.”

He laughed, low and soft. “You know you are.”

We talked for a while longer, about everything and nothing—his latest match, my stress over picking a law program, the time Sarah accidentally dyed her hair pink. It was easy, like always, but there was a new layer to it now, a quiet promise that we were heading somewhere together, even if we didn’t know exactly where.

When we hung up, I lay on my bed and took a nap.

///

The summer heat lingered, making the air feel thick even in the early evening. Two weeks had passed since Kylian’s voice had painted pictures of us sharing an apartment in Paris. I’d held onto that idea like a daydream, but today, it felt further away than ever.

The letter from Strasbourg had arrived that morning, tucked between bills and junk mail. I’d stared at it for a good ten minutes before opening it, my heart hammering. Accepted. The words jumped off the page, bold and real. Strasbourg’s law school—third best in France, according to every ranking I’d obsessed over—was mine. My mom had nearly tackled me with a hug, her eyes shining with pride. “My girl’s going places!” she’d said, already planning a celebration.

That night, we kept it simple—just pizza and lemonade around the kitchen table, my dad cracking bad jokes and my brother stealing half my slices. The windows were open, letting in the hum of cicadas and the occasional laugh from neighbors outside. I smiled through it all, laughing when my mom tried to take a “serious” photo of me with the acceptance letter. But underneath the joy, there was a tug of something else. Strasbourg wasn’t Paris. It was a whole other world, far from the plans Kylian and I had tossed around so easily.

I waited until after dinner to call him. My room was warm, the fan doing a lazy job of stirring the air. I sat cross-legged on my bed, the bracelet he’d given me glinting as I dialed. He answered on the first ring, his voice bright despite the crackle of a bad connection.

“Y/N! What’s up?” he said, sounding like he was walking somewhere, maybe heading back from training.

“Hey,” I said, my fingers tracing the edge of my phone. “I’ve got news. Big news.”

“Spill,” he said, and I could hear the grin in his voice.

“I got into law school,” I said, letting the words sink in. “Strasbourg. It’s… one of the best, like, third in the country.”

“No way!” His excitement was instant, warm like summer itself. “Y/N, that’s amazing! You’re gonna be unstoppable.”

I laughed, but it came out softer than I meant. “Thanks. I’m really excited. We celebrated tonight—pizza, my mom going overboard, you know how it is.”

“Sounds perfect,” he said. “You deserve it.”

There was a beat of silence, and I knew I had to say it. “But… it’s not Paris,” I started, my voice quieter now. “I didn’t get into any of the schools there. So, that idea about us getting a place together… I don’t think it’s gonna happen. Not now, anyway.”

He didn’t answer right away, and I held my breath, picturing him standing still wherever he was, maybe kicking at the ground like he did when he was thinking hard. “Strasbourg’s pretty far, huh?” he said finally, his tone gentle, like he was trying to keep things light.

“Yeah,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It’s a great opportunity, though. I can’t pass it up.”

“You shouldn’t,” he said firmly, no hesitation. “Y/N, this is your thing. I’d be pissed if you gave that up for some half-baked apartment plan.”

I smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” He laughed, short and warm. “I’m proud as hell. Paris isn’t going anywhere. We’ll figure out how to make it work.”

My chest felt lighter, like I’d been carrying a weight I didn’t even notice. “You sure? I mean, you’re about to be Mr. Big Shot, moving to Paris, new team…”

“Not yet,” he said, a teasing edge to his voice. “Still stuck in Monaco for now, sweating it out at training. But when I do get to Paris, I’m dragging you to a match, Strasbourg or not.”

“Only if I get a good seat,” I shot back, grinning.

“VIP, always,” he promised, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

We talked a bit longer—about my mom’s awful pizza-topping choices, about how his coach was pushing him harder than ever with the PSG rumors swirling. When we hung up, I leaned back against my pillows, the summer air warm against my skin. Strasbourg was a new chapter, one I hadn’t expected, but it didn’t feel like the end of us. Not even close.

It's been months since I started working as Jude Bellingham's assistant. Months of stolen glances, lingering touches, and words that felt heavier than they should. He's always been... different with me. Not in a way that's obvious to others, but in a way that makes my heart race and my mind spiral.

It's the way he looks at me sometimes, his dark eyes holding mine a second too long. The way his hand brushes against mine when I hand him his water bottle. The way he leans in just a little too close when he's explaining something, his breath warm against my ear.

But then, just when I think he's about to cross that invisible line between us, he pulls back. He'll laugh, make a joke, or turn away like nothing happened. And I'm left standing there, thinking there could be something more.

Tonight is no different. We're in the stadium's private lounge, hours after the match has ended. The room is dimly lit, the only sound the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional clink of ice in Jude's glass. He's sitting on the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his shirt slightly unbuttoned. I'm standing by the table, organizing his schedule for the next day, trying to ignore the way his eyes keep drifting toward me.

"You're always so focused," he says suddenly, his voice low and smooth.

I glance up, meeting his gaze. "It's my job."

He smirks, tilting his head slightly. "Is it?"

There's something in his tone that makes my stomach flip. I look away, pretending to focus on the papers in front of me. "Yes, Jude. It is."

He stands then, walking over to me with that confident stride of his. He stops just inches away, his presence overwhelming. I can smell his cologne, something warm and spicy, and it makes my head spin.

"You know," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper, "you're not very good at hiding how you feel."

I freeze, my heart pounding in my chest. "What are you talking about?"

He reaches out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. "The way you look at me. The way you react when l'm close to you. Don't think I haven't noticed."

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Jude..."

He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. "Tell me to stop, and I will."

But I don't. I can't. Because as much as I've tried to convince myself that this is wrong, that it's just a fantasy, I want this. I want him.

His lips crash into mine, hungry and demanding. I gasp into his mouth, my hands instinctively gripping his shirt as he pulls me closer. His kiss is intoxicating, a mix of dominance and tenderness that leaves me breathless.

"Jude," I whisper, my voice trembling.

"Shh," he murmurs against my lips, his hands sliding down to my waist. "I've wanted this for so long."

He lifts me onto the table, the papers scattering to the floor as he steps between my legs. His hands are everywhere, pulling at my clothes, his touch leaving a trail of fire on my skin.

He unbuttons my blouse slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, and I feel exposed in the most exhilarating way.

"You're so beautiful," he says, his voice rough with desire.

He kisses me again, his tongue sliding against mine as his hands move to my bra. He unhooks it with practiced ease, tossing it aside before his mouth finds my breast. I moan, my fingers tangling in his hair as he teases me, his tongue circling my nipple before sucking gently.

"Jude," | gasp, my back arching.

He smirks against my skin, his hands moving to my skirt. He pushes it up, his fingers brushing against the lace of my panties. "You're so wet for me already," he says, his voice dark and teasing.

He slides my panties down, his fingers brushing against my core, and I whimper at the contact. He doesn't tease me for long, though. He steps back, pulling his shirt off and tossing it aside before unbuckling his belt. His eyes never leave mine as he pushes his pants down, revealing his hard length.

I bite my lip, my eyes widening slightly.

He's... big. The sight of him makes my stomach clench with anticipation.

"Don't be shy," he says, his voice soft but commanding. "Touch me."

I reach out, my fingers wrapping around him, and he groans, his head falling back. I stroke him slowly, feeling him grow even harder in my hand.

"That's it," he murmurs, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "Just like that."

But he doesn't let me continue for long.

He pulls my hand away, lifting me off the table and turning me around. He bends me over the table, his hands gripping my hips as he positions himself behind me.

"You're mine," he says, his voice low and possessive.

I feel the tip of him press against me, and I gasp, my hands gripping the edge of the table. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until he's fully sheathed inside me.

"Fuck," he groans, his hands tightening on my hips. "You feel so good."

He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first, but quickly growing harder, faster. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mixed with my moans and his groans.

"Jude," I cry out, my nails digging into the table.

"Say my name again," he demands, his voice rough.

"Jude, please." | whimper, my body trembling with pleasure.

He leans over me, his chest pressing against my back as he whispers in my ear. "You're mine, y/n. Only mine."

His words send a shiver down my spine, and I feel myself clench around him. He groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own release.

"Come for me," he growls, his hand sliding between my legs to rub my clit.

The combination of his thrusts and his fingers sends me over the edge, my body shaking as I cry out his name. He follows soon after, his hips stuttering as he spills inside me, his groan muffled against my shoulder.

////

Afterward, he carries me to his car, his arms strong and secure around me. We don't speak much, the tension between us still thick but softer now.

When we get to his place, he leads me to the bathroom, running a warm bath for us. He washes me gently, his hands soothing and tender as he cleans every inch of me.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my temple.

I lean into him, feeling safe and cherished in his arms. But as we lie in bed later, his arms wrapped around me, I can't help but wonder what happens next.

"Jude," | whisper, my voice barely audible.

"Hmm?" he hums, his fingers tracing patterns on my arm.

"What does this mean?"

He's quiet for a moment, his breath warm against my skin. "It means whatever you want it to mean," he says finally. "But I'm not letting you go."

////

The next morning, things are... different. He's still sweet, still attentive, but there's a new edge to his behavior.

He's more possessive, more protective, and it's both thrilling and overwhelming.

"You're mine," he says again, his voice firm as he kisses me before leaving for training.

And as much as I want to believe him, I can't shake the feeling that this is just the beginning. That the line we crossed last night has opened a door to something much bigger, much more complicated.

But for now, I'll take it.

"Kylian," you say, your voice soft but laced with mischief.

"Hmm?" He doesn't look up, his focus still on his phone.

You shift closer, your hand brushing against his thigh. "You've been ignoring me all evening."

That gets his attention. He lowers his phone, raising an eyebrow as he turns to look at you. "Ignoring you? I'm right here."

"Physically, maybe," you say, your fingers trailing higher on his thigh. "But your mind's somewhere else."

His eyes darken, a flicker of interest sparking in them. "And what do you plan to do about that?"

You lean in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, "Maybe I'll just have to remind you where your attention should be."

Before he can respond, you pull away, standing up and walking toward the bedroom. You don't look back, but you can feel his gaze burning into you, his curiosity-and desire-piqued.

//

The bedroom is dimly lit, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows across the room. You stand by the bed, waiting, as Kylian follows you in. He closes the door behind him, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

"You're playing a dangerous game," he says, his voice low and rough.

You tilt your head, feigning innocence.

"Am I?"

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming as he towers over you.

"You know exactly what you're doing."

You smile, your hands resting on his chest as you look up at him. "Maybe I do. But are you going to do something about it?"

His hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. "Oh, I'm going to do something about it."

His lips crash onto yours, the kiss hungry and demanding. You melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something uniquely him, and you can't get enough.

But you're not done teasing him.

You pull away, your breath coming in short gasps as you look up at him. "Is that all you've got?"

His eyes narrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You're really asking for it, aren't you?"

You shrug, stepping back and letting your dress slip off your shoulders, pooling at your feet. You're left in nothing but your lingerie, and the way his gaze rakes over you makes you feel powerful.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire.

"I know," you reply, your tone teasing.

"But are you just going to stand there and stare?"

That does it.

In one swift motion, he closes the distance between you, his hands gripping your hips as he kisses you again. This time, there's no holding back. His hands roam your body, exploring every curve as if he's memorizing you.

He spins you around, pressing your back against his chest as his lips find your neck. His teeth graze your skin, sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

"You've been teasing me all night," he growls, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts. "Now it's my turn."

You gasp as he unhooks your bra, letting it fall to the floor. His hands are everywhere, his touch electric as he teases your nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. You arch into him, your head falling back against his shoulder as a moan escapes your lips.

"Kylian..."

"Shh," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. "I'm not done with you yet."

He turns you around again, his hands sliding down to your hips as he kneels in front of you. His eyes lock with yours as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down. You step out of them, your heart racing as he looks up at you, his gaze full of hunger.

"So perfect," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

He leans in, his lips brushing against your inner thigh, and you tremble in anticipation. But instead of giving you what you want, he stands up, his hands gripping your waist as he lifts you onto the bed.

"Kylian," you protest, but he silences you with a kiss.

"Patience," he says, his voice firm. "You teased me. Now it's my turn to take my time."

He strips off his shirt, revealing the toned muscles of his chest and abs.

You reach out to touch him, but he catches your wrist, pinning it above your head.

"Uh-uh," he says, his smirk returning.

"You don't get to control this."

His free hand trails down your body, his touch feather-light as he teases you.

He kisses your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. By the time his fingers finally brush against your core, you're trembling with need.

"Kylian, please..."

He chuckles, the sound dark and delicious. "Since you asked so nicely."

His fingers slide inside you, and you gasp, your back arching off the bed. He sets a slow, torturous pace, his thumb circling your clit as he watches you fall apart.

"You're so responsive," he murmurs, his voice filled with awe. "I love seeing you like this."

You're close, so close, but he pulls his hand away, leaving you whimpering in frustration.

"Kylian!"

He smirks, leaning down to kiss you. "I told you. I'm in control."

He strips off the rest of his clothes, his erection straining against his boxers.

You reach for him, but he catches your hands, pinning them above your head again.

"Stay still," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You nod, your breath coming in short gasps as he positions himself between your legs. He teases you, the tip of his length brushing against your entrance, and you whimper, desperate for him.

"Please..."

He finally gives in, sliding into you in one smooth motion. You cry out, the sensation overwhelming as he fills you completely. He sets a slow, deep pace, his eyes locked on yours as he moves inside you.

"You feel so good," he groans, his voice strained. "So tight, so perfect."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as he picks up the pace. His thrusts are relentless, each one driving you closer to the edge. You can feel the tension building, coiling tighter and tighter until it finally snaps.

You come with a cry, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crash over you. He follows soon after, his release spilling inside you as he buries his face in your neck, his breathing ragged.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms as you both catch your breath. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, his lips brushing against your forehead.

"You're impossible," he murmurs, his voice filled with affection.

You smile, snuggling closer to him. "But you love me."

He chuckles, the sound warm and content. "Yeah. I do."

The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a soft golden glow across the room. I stir awake, feeling the warmth of Kylian’s arms wrapped securely around me. His breathing is steady, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that’s become so familiar, so comforting. I tilt my head slightly to look at him, his face relaxed in sleep, his dark lashes brushing against his cheeks. Even like this, he looks effortlessly perfect.

I don’t want to move, not when he’s holding me like this, but as if sensing I’m awake, his arms tighten around me. His voice, still rough with sleep, breaks the silence.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my forehead.

“Morning,” I whisper back, a smile tugging at my lips.

He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me. His hair is messy, his eyes still half-closed, but the way he’s looking at me makes my heart skip a beat. There’s something so tender in his gaze, something that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world that matters to him right now.

“Sleep well?” he asks, his voice low and warm.

“Always, when I’m with you,” I reply, my cheeks heating up at the honesty in my words.

He grins, that boyish, heart-stopping grin that always makes me weak in the knees. “Good,” he says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to my lips. “Because I’m not letting you go anytime soon.”

///

We stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the world outside feeling miles away. Eventually, Kylian sits up, stretching lazily before turning to me with a playful glint in his eyes.

“What do you feel like doing today?” he asks, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm.

“Honestly?” I say, smiling up at him. “I just want to stay here with you. No plans, no distractions. Just us.”

His smile softens, and he leans down to kiss me again, this time longer, sweeter. “I like that plan,” he murmurs against my lips.

///

We spend the morning in bed, talking and laughing about nothing and everything. Kylian tells me stories about his teammates, his voice animated as he mimics their expressions and gestures. I can’t help but laugh, the sound filling the room and making his eyes light up with pride.

At one point, he grabs his phone and starts playing some of his favorite music, the soft melodies blending perfectly with the warmth of the room. He pulls me to my feet, his hands resting on my waist as we sway gently to the rhythm.

“You know,” he says, his voice low and teasing, “you’re not a bad dancer.”

I laugh, resting my head against his chest. “And you’re not so bad yourself.”

He hums in response, his fingers tracing circles on my back. “Only for you,” he says, his tone softer now. “I’d do anything for you.”

///

Later, we move to the couch, a blanket draped over us as we watch a movie. Or at least, we try to. Kylian spends more time watching me than the screen, his fingers tracing patterns on my arm.

“You’re not even paying attention,” I say, glancing at him.

“I am,” he insists, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m just… distracted.”

“By what?”

“You,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I feel my cheeks flush, but before I can respond, he’s pulling me closer, his lips finding mine in a kiss that’s slow and sweet and full of everything he doesn’t say out loud.

///

That night, as we lie in bed, his arms around me, I feel a sense of peace I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. His breathing is steady, his heartbeat a soothing rhythm against my back.

“y/n?” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” he says, his words soft but sure.

I turn in his arms, meeting his gaze in the dim light. “I love you too,” I reply, my voice just as quiet but just as certain.

It had been a little over two months since he left. Two months of waking up every day with that hollow feeling in my chest. It was strange, almost absurd. Shouldn’t I be used to it by now? After all, I knew he would leave someday—that he’d leave Bondy to chase his dreams. But knowing something doesn’t make it easier to live with.

I’d stopped counting the days, but I couldn’t forget the absence.

That morning, soft summer light filtered through my curtains. I’d been awake for a while, lying still, staring at the ceiling. Each day felt the same as the last.

Finally, I sat up slowly, my feet touching the cold floor. I could feel the fatigue etched into my face, but I didn’t bother looking in the mirror as I passed the bathroom. What was the point?

Downstairs, the smell of coffee filled the air. My mom was already up, as usual, scrolling through her phone. She barely glanced up when I walked in.

“Sleep well?” she asked distractedly.

“Yeah,” I replied flatly, pouring myself a glass of water.

She didn’t press further. She’d grown used to my short answers lately. I think she could tell something was off, but she didn’t push.

I sat at the table, idly playing with my glass. The house was quiet, save for the sound of her flipping through a magazine.

My phone buzzed on the table. I glanced at it quickly—just an Instagram notification. I sighed. Since he’d left, every buzz made my heart skip, even though I knew better.

I headed upstairs, trying to focus on my homework. Math. Just looking at the equations gave me a headache, but I had to get through it. I picked up my pen, attempting the first problem.

Nothing. My mind wandered again.

I grabbed my phone, just for a break. No new messages, of course, but my fingers instinctively went to his name. I stared at the empty conversation. No new messages in weeks.

My chest tightened. I put the phone face down, determined not to touch it for the rest of the day.

\\

The afternoon came and went without me noticing. The house felt suffocating, so I threw on a light jacket and stepped outside.

The streets of Bondy were alive with their usual rhythm—kids playing, neighbors chatting, and the distant hum of traffic. I walked aimlessly, letting my feet guide me. The sun warmed my skin, and for a moment, I felt a little lighter.

Eventually, I found myself near a small park. I sat on a bench, watching people pass by. A couple walked hand in hand, a group of friends laughed loudly, and a dog chased after a ball. Life went on, as it always did.

\\

A little while later, I decided to grab something to drink. There was a small café just a few blocks from the park, and I figured it would be a good way to clear my head.

Inside, the familiar smell of freshly ground coffee greeted me. The clinking of cups, the hum of conversations, and the hiss of the espresso machine felt comforting. Here, at least, I could escape for a while.

I ordered an iced tea and sat by the window. The sunlight cast a warm glow over the tables, and I tried to focus on the present.

But even here, my mind wandered. I pulled out my phone, hesitating for a second before opening Instagram. As always, his profile was the first thing I searched for.

He’d posted something the day before—a photo of him on the pitch in Monaco, smiling, surrounded by his teammates. I scrolled through the comments, most from fans praising his talent and predicting a bright future.

I should be proud of him, right? After all, this was what he’d always wanted.

Before I could overthink it, my fingers typed out a message.

Me: Hey, congrats on the goal. It was impressive.

I hit send before I could second-guess myself, then immediately put my phone down, resting my head in my hands.

I’d barely finished my tea when my phone buzzed on the table. My heart leapt.

It was him.

Kylian: Thanks, Y/N. It means a lot that you watched.

I read and reread his message, searching for something between the lines. Was it just a polite thank-you, or did it mean more?

I took a deep breath before replying.

Me: I couldn’t not watch. It was… impressive.

Another message came almost immediately.

Kylian: I miss seeing you, talking to you. I hope you’re doing okay.

My chest tightened. His words were simple, but they carried so much weight. I didn’t know how to respond. Part of me wanted to tell him everything—how his absence had left a void in me. But another part was scared.

Finally, I typed:

Me: I miss you too, Kylian.

It was honest, maybe too direct. I wasn’t sure what to expect. The silence from my phone felt unbearable. Maybe I should’ve stayed quiet…

Then, it buzzed again. My heart raced.

Kylian: You have no idea how happy it makes me to read that.

I bit my lip, unsure how to respond. A familiar warmth spread through me.

Me: Why did you wait so long to text me?

A few seconds passed, and I saw the “seen” notification appear. The typing bubbles popped up, then disappeared.

I frowned. He was typing… then nothing.

A minute passed, then two. Just as I started to think he wouldn’t reply, my phone buzzed again.

Kylian: I was scared you were still mad.

Me: And you thought silence would fix that?

Kylian: No. I messed up, I know. But I didn’t know how to come back to you after everything.

I looked down, the words sticking in my throat.

Me: You should’ve tried.

A moment of silence, then he replied:

Kylian: Yeah, but sometimes it’s hard. I have everything I’ve ever wanted, but I realize some things are really missing.

I furrowed my brow slightly as I read his message. My heart beat a little faster. But before I could reply, another message came through:

Kylian: You.

I froze, my phone clutched tightly in my hand. No matter how many times I reread those three words, I couldn’t quite believe them.

Me: Me?

Kylian: Yeah. Since I left, everything’s different. It’s like… sometimes, what really matters stayed in Bondy.

A small smile tugged at my lips despite myself. His sincerity always disarmed me, even through a screen.

Me: Then why are you telling me this now?

Kylian: Because I want to see you again. I wanted to ask… your birthday’s coming up, right?

He caught me off guard again.

Me: And?

Kylian: I’d like to be there. To see you. To say everything I should’ve said before.

I pressed my hand to my cheek, trying to calm the warmth rising there.

Me: It depends. What are you planning if we see each other?

A moment of silence, then:

Kylian: Just to talk. And to see you smile. It’s been a while since I’ve seen that.

I held my breath.

Me: We’ll see. If you can make it, then… maybe.

His reply came instantly:

Kylian: I’ll do whatever it takes to be there. Promise.

I sighed softly, an invisible weight lifting from my chest. But before I put my phone away, another message appeared:

Kylian: By the way… I know Inès annoys you. But it’s nothing. I didn’t want you to think otherwise.

My fingers stilled. I thought for a moment before replying:

Me: Why are you telling me this?

A long moment passed, and finally, he wrote:

Kylian: Because it’s you. You’re the one who matters, not her.

I froze, my eyes glued to the screen. He didn’t add anything, and neither did I.

I simply liked his message before locking my phone and setting it on the table.

I finished my iced tea in one go, then stood up and left the café. The cool evening air felt refreshing after being inside for a while. I still had some time before heading home, so I decided to make the most of it.

Without thinking too much, I headed downtown.I needed a distraction, and a little shopping seemed like a good idea. Maybe I’d find something interesting, or at least something to take my mind off things.

The streets downtown were bustling, as usual at this time of day. People hurried past, some rushing, others lingering in front of store windows. The lively atmosphere lifted my spirits a little, pulling me out of the strange melancholy that had settled over me earlier.

I stopped in front of a clothing store. Through the window, a dress caught my eye. Simple but elegant, in a soft shade I liked. I hadn’t planned on buying anything, but… why not?

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, immediately appreciating the cool air conditioning. The smell of new fabrics soothed me as I ran my fingers over a few items while browsing the racks.

Then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. My heart skipped a beat.

I pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

Kylian: Do you already know what you want for your birthday?

I bit my lip, hesitating. He’d never forgotten my birthday, and knowing he still remembered made me feel something.

Me: Hm… Not really. Why?

I put my phone down and continued browsing, stopping again in front of the dress that had caught my eye earlier. I grabbed it and headed to the fitting room.

As I passed a mirror, my phone buzzed again.

Kylian: Because I want to make sure I get you something you’ll like.

I looked up at my reflection, unable to suppress a small smile. He’d always been like this—sincere, even in the simplest things.

Me: I’m sure whatever you choose, I’ll like it.

I set my phone aside and stepped into the fitting room, carefully unfolding the dress before slipping it on. It fit well—light, comfortable… Maybe I could wear it on my birthday.

My phone buzzed again, and this time, I took a moment to breathe before checking the screen.

Kylian: Then I really hope I’ll be there to see it.

My gaze lingered on the message for a few seconds.

Me: Yes 🙂

The message was sent before I could overthink it. Just one word, simple and unambiguous.

Maybe, deep down, I didn’t want to say more.

A few seconds later, I saw the notification under my message: *Kylian liked your message.*

I sighed, turned off my phone, and slipped it into my pocket.

I paid for the dress at the counter and left the store, the bag swinging lightly in my hand. The air outside was cooler now as the sun began to set.

I walked home slowly, the bag with my new dress brushing against my leg. The evening air was pleasant, a refreshing change after the strange day I’d had.

— Y/N?

I turned, slightly surprised to hear my name. Inès was walking toward me, a small smile on her lips.

— Oh, hi, I said, slowing down.

— How are you?

I nodded, unsure where she was going with this.

— Listen, I just wanted to say… I’m sorry, really. For before.

Her tone was simple, sincere. No awkwardness, no exaggeration. Just her, looking at me with a hint of regret.

I stayed silent for a moment, caught off guard by her sudden apology.

— It’s fine, I finally replied.

She smiled slightly, relieved.

— I got carried away sometimes… but, you know, we were kids. Well, we still are, but you know what I mean.

I couldn’t help but smile a little.

— Yeah, I get it.

A brief silence followed, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… normal.

— Anyway, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. I just wanted you to know, she added, shrugging slightly.

— Thanks, that’s nice of you, I replied simply.

She nodded, then her phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced at it before looking back at me.

— Well, I’ll let you go. See you around,Y/N.

— See you, Inès.

She walked off, and I continued on my way.

It was strange… but not unpleasant. Like a page turning without drama, without shouting. Just an apology, and maybe a new dynamic between us.

At least, that’s what I thought.

///////////

The days passed, and the excitement around my birthday started to grow—at least for everyone else. Sarah and my friends were already talking about what they’d wear, the music we’d play, and even the photos we’d take. I, on the other hand, tried not to think about it too much.

Until today.

I was leaving school with Sarah when she asked:

— Did you book an appointment for your braids yet?

I raised my eyebrows, caught off guard.

— Uh… not yet.

— Y/N! Your birthday’s in two days, she scolded. What are you planning to do, wait until the last minute to find someone available?

I sighed, shaking my head.

— I thought about it, but I was too lazy.

— You’re impossible. Come on, let’s see if Malya has any openings.

Malya was *the* hairstylist in the neighborhood. Everyone went to her for braids, stylish updos, and even hair treatments. If she didn’t have any spots left, I’d be scrambling to find someone else at the last minute.

— Alright, let’s go, I finally said.

We took the bus to her salon, which was a few stops from the school. When we arrived, the place was as lively as ever. Three girls were already getting their hair done, while Malya moved between them, giving instructions to her assistant.

As soon as she saw us, she flashed a big smile.

— Y/N! Long time no see, girl. What are you here for?

— Braids for my birthday, I replied, sitting down on a chair to wait my turn.

— Oh, is it soon? she asked, still working on another client.

— In two days.

— And you waited until now to book an appointment? she said, rolling her eyes. You’re lucky—I have a spot tomorrow afternoon. Otherwise, you’d be out of luck.

I exhaled, relieved.

— I’ll take it.

— Any idea what style you want?

— Long, neat braids. Simple but clean.

She nodded.

— That’ll look great on you. Come by tomorrow at 2 PM, and we’ll get you sorted.

After chatting a bit with Sarah and Malya, we left the salon. I felt a little more excited now. My birthday was really coming up.

On my way home, I got a text from my mom asking me to pick up a few groceries. I stopped by a grocery shop, while browsing the aisles, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Kylian.

Kylian: How are you?

I blinked. It was the first time he’d messaged me since our last conversation.

Me: I’m good. You?

He didn’t reply right away, so I grabbed what I needed and headed to the checkout. Just before leaving the store, my phone buzzed again.

Kylian: Tired, but I’m okay. Can’t wait for Saturday.

I stared at the screen for a moment. He’d just confirmed he was coming.

Me: You’re really coming?

This time, he replied faster.

Kylian: You think I’d say that just to talk?

Me: I don’t know. It’s been months since we really talked, so…

He took a little longer to respond this time. I saw the typing bubbles appear, disappear, then reappear.

Kylian: I shouldn’t have let so much distance grow between us. But yeah, I’m coming. Promise.

I looked down at my screen, gripping my phone a little tighter.

Me: Alright. We’ll see then.

Kylian: Want me to bring something?

I rolled my eyes with a small smile.

Me: Like what?

Kylian: I don’t know, maybe a gift?

Me: Oh, so you were planning to come empty-handed?

Kylian: I’m just asking to make sure you’re expecting one.

Me: Do whatever you want.

He liked my message.

I sighed softly, slipped my phone into my pocket, and continued on my way home.

//

The days that followed passed without much happening. Between school and my responsibilities at home, I didn’t have much time to think about anything else. Still, every time my phone buzzed, a tiny part of me hoped it was him.

But Kylian didn’t send any more messages.

I didn’t know if it was because he was busy or if he felt everything had already been said, but I decided not to dwell on it. After all, I had other things to focus on… like preparing for my birthday.

Today, I had an appointment with my hairstylist to get my braids done. I loved the feeling of renewal after spending hours getting my hair styled, as if the braids marked the start of a new chapter.

I walked into the salon, greeting the few clients already there. The smell of hair products and the sound of lively chatter immediately put me at ease.

— Y/N! Come on, I’ll take you right away, called Cindy, my hairstylist.

I sat down in the chair as she prepared the braiding hair.

— So, what are we doing today? she asked, gently running her fingers through my hair to detangle it.

— Long, simple braids. My birthday’s coming up, so I want to look good.

— Oh, really? When is it?

— Saturday.

She smiled as she started sectioning my hair.

— That’s tomorrow. Got any plans?

— Just a small thing with friends and family.

— A “small thing”? You know birthdays always turn into big parties, even when you say they’ll be simple, she joked.

I laughed softly.

//

The hours passed, and the salon remained filled with chatter, laughter, and the sound of combs gliding through hair. I talked with Cindy about everything and nothing, and for a while, I completely forgot about my worries.

It wasn’t until my phone buzzed on my lap that I was brought back to reality.

A message from Kylian.

Kylian: Can’t wait to see you Saturday.

I smiled slightly but didn’t reply right away.

— Is that your boyfriend? Cindy asked, noticing me glance at my screen.

— What? No, no, just a friend.

— A friend who makes you smile like that?

I sighed, rolling my eyes.

— It’s not what you think.

She raised an eyebrow, amused, but didn’t say anything else.

I set my phone back on my lap and left it at that.

//////////////////

Saturday arrived faster than I’d expected.

I woke up that morning with a slight sense of excitement. It wasn’t a big party, just a small gathering with my closest people, but I wanted everything to be perfect. After breakfast, I helped my mom with the final preparations, adjusting decorations and making sure everything was in place.

In the early afternoon, I went upstairs to get ready. My new braids fell neatly over my shoulders as I looked at myself in the mirror. I’d chosen a simple but elegant outfit, something that made me feel confident without being over the top.

As I applied a touch of gloss to my lips, my phone buzzed on the dresser.

A message.

Kylian: On my way. Be there soon.

My heart skipped a beat.

He was really coming.

I stared at the screen for a moment, unsure how to respond. Finally, I typed:

Me: Ok, see you soon

I hesitated for a second before adding a smiley face. Nothing more.

Taking a deep breath, I set my phone down and gave myself one last look in the mirror.

Downstairs, a few guests had already arrived. My family, my closest friends—they were all laughing and chatting around the buffet my mom had prepared. The atmosphere was light and warm.

But my eyes kept drifting toward the front door.

I tried not to look too eager, but every sound of a car outside made me perk up.

Then, finally, the doorbell rang.

My heart raced as I walked to the door.

I opened it… and there he was.

Kylian stood on the doorstep, a small smile on his lips. He looked taller—not by much, but enough for me to notice. His expression was soft, almost hesitant, as if he were trying to gauge whether he was truly welcome.

He held a small gift bag in one hand.

— Happy birthday, Y/N.

I smiled.

— Thanks, Kylian. Come in.

Kylian stepped inside, glancing around the room at the familiar faces. My friends, my family, a few acquaintances—they were all there, chatting and laughing.

I closed the door behind him, and the sound of conversations filled the space again.

I took a deep breath before breaking the silence between us.

— You can hang your coat over there, I said, pointing to the coat rack near the entrance.

He nodded and did as I said before turning back to me, the gift still in his hand.

I shrugged with a small smile.

— Now’s fine.

He handed me the small bag, and I opened it with curiosity. Inside was a neatly wrapped box. I carefully tore off the wrapping paper to reveal a delicate silver bracelet.

I held it up to the light, noticing a small inscription engraved on the inside.

“Always with you.”

My chest tightened slightly. I looked up at him, searching for an explanation.

— Do you like it?

I swallowed before answering:

— Of course I do.

He smiled slightly, looking relieved.

— I wanted you to have it. Just… so you know I’m still here.

I looked down at the bracelet, running my fingers over the engraving. A warm feeling spread through me.

— Thank you, Kylian. It’s beautiful.

I didn’t know what else to say, so I did what felt most natural: I put it on right away.

— It looks good on you, he said.

I met his gaze, and there was something in his eyes—something soft, almost regretful.

Before either of us could say anything else, a voice interrupted us.

— Y/N, you there?

I turned to see Inès approaching, a smile on her lips.

My stomach tightened slightly.

She glanced at Kylian before focusing on me.

— Can I talk to you for a second?

I felt Kylian’s eyes on me, but I nodded.

— Sure.

I gave Kylian one last look before following Inès to a quieter corner of the room, away from the noise of the party.

Inès seemed a little nervous, fidgeting with the small gift bag she held in her hands.

— Here, this is for you, she said, handing me the bag with a timid smile.

I took the gift, hesitating for a moment before carefully unwrapping it. Inside was a pair of delicate star-shaped earrings. Simple but elegant, exactly my style.

— They’re beautiful, I said, genuinely touched.

— I saw them in a store and immediately thought of you, she replied, shrugging slightly. I thought they’d suit you.

A smile spread across my face as I closed the box gently.

— Thank you, Inès.

She hesitated for a moment before opening her arms.

— Happy birthday, Y/N.

Without overthinking it, I hugged her back. It felt strange after everything that had happened between us, but in that moment, it felt right.

When we pulled away, she seemed to search for the right words before adding:

— I hope you’re happy today.

I looked down for a moment before nodding.

— I am.

She smiled one last time before glancing behind me.

— Well, I’ll let you enjoy your party. We’ll catch up later, okay?

— Okay.

She walked away, and I watched her go, a strange feeling settling in my chest.

It was odd… but not unpleasant. Like a page turning without drama, without shouting. Just an apology, and maybe a new beginning.

At least, that’s what I thought.

The evening continued, the atmosphere light and cheerful. My friends and family laughed, danced, and enjoyed the food my mom had prepared. I tried to soak it all in, to be present in the moment, but my eyes kept drifting toward Kylian.

///

A little while later, I felt a light touch on my arm.

— Come with me, Kylian murmured.

Curious, I followed him to a quieter corner of the room, away from the noise.

— I just wanted to tell you something ,he continued.

His tone was more serious now. My heart started to beat a little faster.

— What? I asked softly.

He hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. Then, he looked at me.

— You’re important to me, Y/N. I don’t want you to ever doubt that.

I stayed silent, letting his words sink in.

— Even with the distance, even with everything that’s changed… you’ve always mattered.

A shiver ran through me.

Our eyes met one last time, and for a moment, the noise of the party faded into the background. It was just him and me, standing there, the air between us charged with something unspoken.

I stepped closer, my heart pounding in my chest. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his gaze softened, and I saw a flicker of something—nervousness, maybe, or hope.

Then, before I could overthink it, I closed the distance between us.

Our lips met in a kiss that was soft and tentative. It wasn’t rushed or dramatic, just a quiet moment that felt like it had been a long time coming. His hand brushed against mine, and I felt a warmth spread through me, steady and comforting.

When we pulled away, his cheeks were slightly flushed, and he gave me a small, shy smile.

— I’ve wanted to do that for a while, he admitted, his voice low.

I smiled back, my own cheeks heating up.

— Me too.

For a moment, we just stood there, the weight of everything we hadn’t said hanging between us. But before either of us could speak, a voice interrupted.

— Y/N! Time to cut the cake!

I turned to see Sarah waving at me from across the room. I glanced back at Kylian.

— Go ahead, he said.

I hesitated, not wanting the moment to end, but he gave me a reassuring smile.

— I’m not going anywhere yet.

I nodded, feeling a little lighter as I walked back to the party.

I turned to see her waving me over to the table where my birthday cake stood, decorated with candles. I walked over, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves as everyone gathered around.

— Make a wish! someone called out.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the moment sink in. When I opened them, Kylian was standing nearby, watching me with a small smile.

— Make it a good one, he said softly.

I smiled back, then leaned in and blew out the candles. The room erupted in cheers and applause, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

— Happy birthday! everyone shouted.

As the cake was cut and passed around, I felt a sense of contentment wash over me. This was exactly what I loved—a night surrounded by the people I cared about.

///

As the evening went on, I found myself stealing glances at Kylian. He was talking to my mom now, laughing at something she said. It was strange, seeing him here, in my world, after so much time apart. But it felt right, like a piece of the puzzle clicking into place.

Later, as the party started to wind down, he found me again.

— I should probably head out, he said, his tone apologetic. My dad’s here. He came to pick me up a few minutes ago.

I nodded, trying to hide my disappointment.

— Thanks for coming, I said softly.

— I wouldn’t have missed it, he replied.

He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and squeezed my hand.

— I’ll text you, okay?

— Okay.

One last smile, and then he was gone, disappearing into the night.

I stood there for a moment, the warmth of his hand still lingering in mine. The party continued around me, but my mind was elsewhere, replaying the moments we’d shared.

As I turned back to my friends, I couldn’t help but smile. The night hadn’t gone exactly as I’d expected, but it had been perfect in its own way.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like everything was going to be okay.