Close Quarters - Kylian Mbappé fic
Chapter 8
Summary: A physiotherapist, Y/N, joins Real Madrid to get away from her past. Only to find Kylian Mbappé, her former patient and conflict, has joined a year later. As they’re forced to work together, lingering feelings and unresolved tension lead to a slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers romance filled with workplace drama and passion.
Ly all babies, this was my favourite chapter to write, let me know what you think 😇
13k words
Warning: smut
*********************************************************
2023 - final day
The training facility felt different today. Lighter, somehow.
The weight of the season had unraveled, leaving behind a strange mix of exhaustion and anticipation. The final game had been played, the trophies lifted, and now, those who hadn’t already flown off for their summer vacations filtered in for recovery sessions, one last day of routine before the break took them all in different directions.
Sunlight streamed through the wide windows, cutting through the cool, clinical space of the physio room. It was too warm for Paris, the kind of heat that made everything move slower, stretched conversations longer. Across the room, Marco packed away cooling packs, stacking them neatly in the freezer, while Elise checked the expiry dates on a tray of medical supplies.
It was a slow day. The kind where you should’ve felt at ease.
But you were leaving.
And that changed everything.
Elise sighed dramatically, plopping down beside you on the treatment table with an exaggerated groan. “And that’s another season in the books.”
You smiled, nodding. “Finally.”
She nudged your knee, tilting her head as she studied you. “So, how does it feel? Knowing it’s your last one with us?”
You exhaled, shifting slightly on the table. “Honestly? It feels amazing.”
It wasn’t a lie.
For months, you’d been waiting for this moment, for the weight to lift, for the next chapter to begin. Real Madrid. The dream. The goal you’d worked toward since you were a student.
But now, with Elise looking at you like that, something in your chest tightened.
She smiled, though there was something softer in her expression. “We’re really proud of you, you know. You started here as an intern, and now you’re heading to Madrid.”
You huffed a small laugh. “I know.”
“I mean it,” she pressed. “I watched you grow here. You worked your ass off for this.” She paused, twirling a roll of tape between her fingers. “You and Kylian, though… it’s crazy. Same dream, different paths. You two have been joined at the hip these past few years.”
Your stomach twisted.
Elise smiled softly. “And I’m glad you guys finally sorted out your issues and became friends. It was getting exhausting watching you at each other’s throats all the time.”
Your fingers stilled against the old tape you’d been peeling from your hand.
Friends.
You forced a chuckle. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Elise had no idea. No one did.
No one knew that the sorting out had happened in empty treatment rooms, behind locked doors, with breathless whispers and bitten-off moans. That the tension hadn’t disappeared, it had only changed shape, molded into something neither of you were bold enough to name.
Elise nudged your shoulder playfully. “Think he’ll miss you?”
Your stomach twists.
You kept your face neutral, refusing to let the question sink in. Instead, you turned to Marco, smirking. “Are you guys going to miss me?”
Elise snorted. “Nice deflection.”
Marco stretched out on the bench, arms behind his head. “I mean, Elise will cry about it. I’ll just enjoy finally being the favorite physio.”
Elise rolled her eyes. “In your dreams.”
You laughed, letting their banter carry you, pretending that Elise’s question hadn’t left a lingering tightness in your chest.
Across the room, Marco flopped onto the bench, stretching out like he had all the time in the world. “So, Madrid, huh?” He smirked. “You know, if you weren’t running off, you could’ve had Elise’s job when she retires.”
Elise scoffed, tossing a roll of bandages at him. “Excuse me? I have at least another five years.”
Marco caught the bandage, grinning. “Uh-huh.”
You laughed, the sound easing the tightness in your chest. This was the part you would miss, the easy banter, the way the job never felt as overwhelming when you were with them. Your stomach twisted at the thought of who would be your friends at your new job.
Elise shot Marco a glare before turning back to you. “Speaking of, we’re all going out tonight.”
You blinked. “We are?”
“Leavers’ drinks,” she confirmed.
Marco grinned. “You didn’t think we’d let you slip away quietly, did you?”
You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to go, but because for the first time, the reality of it all was sinking in.
This is it.
Your last night. Your last time in the facility. Your last time being part of this team.
You swallowed, pushing past the sudden tightness in your throat. “Alright,” you said, forcing a grin. “One last night.”
Elise clapped her hands together. “That’s the spirit.”
Marco leaned back, arms crossed. “We’re getting you drunk enough to forget PSG ever existed.”
You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “I won’t argue with that.”
Elise beamed. “Good. We’re meeting at that bar near Saint-Germain at nine.”
You nodded, letting their excitement carry you. Letting yourself believe, just for a moment, that tonight was only a celebration. That there wasn’t something - or someone - lingering in the back of your mind.
But then your gaze flickered across the training facility, skimming over familiar faces.
And when your eyes landed on him, something shifted.
Kylian.
Standing near the ice baths, his back to the wall, he should be talking to the other guys. Instead he was watching you.
And just like that, the weight in your chest pressed down harder.
Players milled about the training facility, laughing and catching up without the usual tension of upcoming matches hanging over them. It felt like the first real breath after months of holding it in.
You stood near the gym, talking with Achraf, the two of you caught in easy conversation. The familiarity of it was nice, something steady in the middle of all the change.
Then, without warning, a familiar warmth pressed against your back.
Strong arms looped around your waist, the weight of them solid, effortless. Kylian.
“Bonjour.” He whispered in your ear.
You barely had time to react before his chin dropped onto your shoulder, his voice close to your ear. “What are we talking about?”
Achraf smirked, arms crossing. “Not you.”
Kylian scoffed, his hold on you tightening playfully. “Doubt it. What could you possibly talk about if it’s not me?”
You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped. “He was actually saying he’s glad this season is done. Says he won’t have to deal with me anymore.”
Achraf nodded solemnly. “It’s true. We’re finally free.”
Kylian hummed, chin still resting against you. “Yeah? Then why does it feel like I’m the one getting abandoned?”
Your breath hitched.
Achraf grinned, shaking his head. “Man, how are you two gonna survive the summer without each other?”
Kylian didn’t hesitate. “I was gonna ask if she wants to come with us.”
Your brows furrowed as you turned slightly. “Come where?”
“Brice, Achraf, and I are planning a trip,” he said. “You should come.”
You forced a laugh, shifting slightly in his hold. “You want me to third-wheel your little bromance holiday?”
Achraf smirked. “You’d be fourth-wheeling.”
You blinked. “Brice is third-wheeling?”
Kylian grinned. “Exactly.”
You rolled your eyes, but before you could answer, you felt the slight flex of Kylian’s hands against your stomach before they slid away completely. Kylian’s fingers brushed the collar of your shirt, straightening it out with an absent touch. Then, he reached up, pushing lightly at a loose curl that had escaped from your bun back into place.
The teasing gesture was soft, thoughtless, like muscle memory. Something he’s done a hundred times before.
You swallowed against the warmth curling in your stomach.
Then, his voice came, quieter now. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Achraf let out a dramatic sigh as Kylian’s hands settled firmly on your waist. “Man, you’re not even subtle about it.”
Kylian shot him a pointed look, his fingers pressing slightly against your waist. “You’re talking too much, Achraf.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Achraf muttered, shaking his head. “Go have your private conversation. But if I see you two making heart eyes at each other when you get back, I swear to God-“
Kylian didn’t let him finish. His grip on you tightened slightly, steering you away, and just before you turned the corner, you heard Achraf call after you with a grin in his voice.
“Remember who’s your favourite y/n!”
Kylian barely acknowledged him, his grip steady, possessive. “We’ll be back.”
Kylian’s pace didn’t slow, but you felt his fingers flex slightly against you, as if to remind you exactly whose attention you should be giving right now.
You bit back a smile.
“You say that like you’re giving me a choice,” you muttered, though you didn’t resist when he started guiding you away.
The second you were out of sight, he exhaled, voice lower now. “I was getting tired of sharing. Let’s go in that corner, chérie,” he murmured, his voice low, just for you.
Before you could protest, he steered you forward, his chest brushing against your shoulders as he guided you toward the quieter part of the room. His grip was light but commanding, like it was second nature, like he knew exactly how to move you.
Your pulse kicked up, but you kept your expression neutral, refusing to acknowledge the way your stomach twisted at the easy intimacy of it.
When he finally slowed to a stop, his hands lingered for a beat longer before sliding away, leaving behind a warmth you hated to miss.
Kylian turned you to face him, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.
“Y/N,” he said, stopping just a breath away.
You kept your posture relaxed, forcing an easy expression. “Mbappé.”
He grinned, eyes filled with amusement. “So formal. What are you doing tonight?” he asked.
You opened your mouth, but before you could answer, Elise’s voice rang out from behind you.
“She’s coming out with us,” she said, grinning. “Leavers’ drinks.”
Kylian’s gaze didn’t shift. His expression didn’t change. But you caught it, the slight tensing of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed against his sides.
“Right, so you’re busy.” he said simply.
You thought that was it. That he would let it go.
But then-
“And tomorrow?”
Your stomach flipped.
Tomorrow.
Your throat went dry as you scrambled for an answer. You had planned to finish packing, to prepare for the flight he still didn’t know you were taking.
“Busy again,” you said, too quickly.
Kylian tilted his head slightly. “With what?”
Your pulse kicked up. You hated how well he knew you, how easily he could tell when you were avoiding something.
“I just- ” You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “I have things to do.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you, gaze unwavering, assessing. Then-
“Come over to my place.”
The words weren’t a suggestion.
You blinked, momentarily thrown. “What?”
“Come over,” he repeated, quieter this time. “For dinner.”
Your chest tightened.
Not a hotel. Not in an empty room. Not meeting in the shadows of your usual routine.
His home.
Your stomach twisted. “Why?”
Kylian’s eyes softened, his usual teasing nowhere to be found. “Because I want to see you. I want to spend time with you.”
Something lodged itself in your throat. You searched his expression, waiting for the smirk, the playful glint in his eyes. But it never came.
“Kylian,” you started, voice quieter now. “We don’t-”
“We don’t what?” he interrupted gently. “Eat together? Spend time together?”
You hesitated, feeling the weight of his words press against you.
“We don’t do personal,” you said, barely above a whisper.
Kylian exhaled, his gaze never leaving yours. “Maybe we should. First time for everything, right?”
Your breath hitched.
It wasn’t just the words. It was him. The way he was looking at you - earnest, open, leaving nothing between you but the truth.
You swallowed. “Since when do you care about that?”
Kylian’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, but then he just shook his head, almost like he was exasperated. “Since always,” he admitted, voice steady, like he wasn’t afraid of what it meant to say it aloud.
Your fingers curled into your palms. You should say no. You should remind him that this wasn’t how things worked, that you weren’t meant to cross this line. You should say no, that you were leaving for Madrid, a conversation you didn’t know how to have.
But instead, you found yourself nodding. “Okay.”
He let out an exhale, something eased in his shoulders. He nodded, stepping back. “Okay, tomorrow at eight.”
You didn’t answer, only watching as he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding and your mind screaming at you to tell him the truth, tell him you’re leaving, before it was too late.
The suitcase lay open on your bed, half-filled with the last remnants of your life in Paris.
Clothes neatly folded, toiletries packed away, your favorite mug wrapped in a hoodie to keep it from breaking. Everything was nearly done.
And yet, your hands trembled.
You stared at the open suitcase, the weight of what you were about to do pressing against your ribs. You should tell him. He deserved to know. After everything, after years of pushing and pulling, of straddling the line between something and nothing, you liked him enough to tell him.
Your throat tightened.
But how?
How were you supposed to look Kylian in the eyes and tell him you were leaving without making it worse? Without breaking whatever this was between you?
Your heart thumped painfully in your chest, panic creeping in-
Then your gaze flickered to your phone.
Dinner.
You exhaled sharply. You had completely forgotten about it. And you had no idea what to wear.
Without thinking, you unlocked your phone and typed out a message.
You: Just wondering… what are we doing tonight? What do I wear?
The response came almost instantly.
Kylian: Nothing.
You rolled your eyes, your lips betraying you with a small smile.
You: Be serious.
Kylian: I am. I think you’d look best in nothing, chérie.
Your stomach twisted.
You: You’re not funny.
Kylian: You’re smiling though.
You bit your lip, refusing to acknowledge how right he was.
You: So?
Kylian: I like making you smile.
There was a pause before your phone buzzed again.
Kylian: Wear something comfortable. You don’t have to try with me.
Your fingers hesitated over the screen.
Wear something comfortable.
It was such a simple thing, but it made your heart ache. Because it was him. Because Kylian never needed anything extravagant from you, never asked for more than what you could give. The past few years, he accepted you in all your entirety. You had seen each other at your worst, completely raw and unfiltered. Because those words alone reminded you of all the things you felt but were throwing away.
You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced yourself to type out a response.
You: Okay.
You tossed your phone onto the bed, exhaling sharply.
You were spiralling. The invitation sat in your head like an unanswered question.
Kylian had asked so casually, like it was nothing, like it was just dinner. But you know better. You’ve spent months pretending this arrangement is simple, drawing invisible lines and swearing you’d never cross them. And now, just a night before you’re set to leave, he’s breaking the only rule that kept you safe.
You should have said no. You should have laughed it off, made an excuse, anything. But you didn’t. Instead, you agreed too quickly, a quiet okay slipping out before you could stop yourself.
Now, standing in front of your closet, you feel like you’re unraveling.
Comfortable.
It should’ve been easy. A simple outfit, nothing to overthink. But when you stepped in front of your open wardrobe, your mind went blank.
You wanted to look good. Really good.
Not for any particular reason, of course. It wasn’t like tonight meant anything. It wasn’t like Kylian asking you to come over changed anything. You were still leaving, still boarding that flight, still walking away from him.
Still-
Your fingers skimmed over your clothes, pulling out a top before shaking your head and putting it back. Jeans? Too uncomfortable. A dress? Too much. You wanted to look effortless. As if you hadn’t thought about it at all. As if you weren’t standing in front of your wardrobe stressing about what to wear for a man who shouldn’t even matter this much.
Your heart pounded. You were doing it again, spiraling.
You needed to breathe.
Tearing your gaze from your reflection in the mirror, you turned toward your suitcase, shuffling through the neatly packed clothes. Maybe something in there-
Your hand froze.
A hoodie.
Not just any hoodie. His hoodie.
The same one he had thrown over your shoulders on a cold night months ago, when you had stubbornly refused to admit you were freezing. Just wear it, chérie, he had said, rolling his eyes before draping it over you. Stop being difficult.
Your chest tightened as you picked it up, bringing it close.
It still smelled like him. That familiar mix of cologne, something warm and clean and pure him.
You should’ve returned it ages ago. And yet, here it was, buried in your things, the last piece of him you had taken without meaning to.
Your fingers curled around the fabric as something heavy settled in your stomach.
You could give it back tonight. Leave it behind along with everything else. Make a clean break, like you always meant to.
You swallowed hard, pressing the hoodie to your chest.
You decide to put on a plain black top and put it on, something you’ve worn a hundred times, but now it feels too intentional, too much like you don’t want to try too hard. You grab his hoodie instead again, then shake your head and toss it aside. It was too obvious. It’s just dinner, but, but it’s not just dinner.
This is different. You know it.
You sink onto the edge of your bed, gripping the fabric between your hands. Should you just cancel?
The thought makes your stomach twist. You could text him, say something came up, pretend you forgot-
But then what?
Would he be mad? No, probably not. He’d brush it off, act like it didn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.
And that’s worse. That’s so much worse.
Your phone feels heavy in your hands as you stare at his last message. His the car is waiting text waiting at the bottom of the screen. You imagine yourself typing something - Actually, I can’t tonight - but your fingers don’t move.
Because you want to go.
That’s the real problem.
You want to go, and you hate yourself for it. He didn’t deserve that.
Because if you walk into his apartment tonight, you’ll make another memory with him, one that will be impossible to forget. And you can’t afford that to lose that. You were being utterly selfish and he had no idea.
But still, you stand up. Grab your phone send on my way. Grab your bag. Grab the hoodie. Force yourself out the door before you can change your mind.
Because you were already too far gone.
The city rushes past in streaks of gold and navy, the warm glow of streetlights blurring through the car window. You sit stiffly in the backseat of the car, hands clasped in your lap, the air too thick, too still. Every few seconds, you glance at your reflection in the glass, at the quiet tension in your face, the way your shoulders won’t relax.
You need to tell him.
That’s what you decide somewhere between your apartment and the first turn onto the main road. You’re going to tell Kylian that you’re leaving. It’s the right thing to do. You’ll sit down, let him talk, maybe let yourself enjoy dinner for a while, and then you’ll say it. I’m leaving. I got a job in Madrid. Just like that. Simple.
Except, it’s not simple at all.
Your stomach twists as you picture the conversation.
What if he asks about your summer?
You could lie, keep things vague, say you’re just going home for a bit, that you haven’t figured out your plans yet. But Kylian knows you too well. He’d press, the way he always does, teasing at first but serious underneath. And then what?
What if he asks about next season?
You swallow hard.
That’s worse. That’s direct. You wouldn’t be able to avoid it, wouldn’t be able to shrug it off like it doesn’t matter. Because it does matter - to him and to you.
Your fingers tighten around the fabric of the hoodie.
What if he says something that makes you want to stay?
The thought slams into you, sharp and breath-stealing.
You don’t let yourself consider it often, but now, in the quiet hum of the car, it creeps in. Because if Kylian knew, if he realised you were planning to leave, if he looked at you with that unbearable sincerity in his eyes and asked you not to go-
Would you stay?
The question makes your stomach drop.
Because you think you might. You think you’d let him convince you, let yourself believe that staying would be the right thing to do. You think you’d want him to convince you. You think about his voice, low and certain, telling you he wants more. About his hands on your waist, grounding you. About all the unspoken things between you, waiting to tip over the edge.
The car slows at a red light, and you stare straight ahead, breathing through the pressure in your chest.
You can’t let that happen.
That’s the real reason you never told him. Because Kylian Mbappé has always been your greatest weakness, and if he asks you to stay, you’re not sure you’ll be strong enough to say no.
The car pulls up to Kylian’s building, its sleek façade rising high against the deep blue of the evening sky. You exhale slowly, pressing a hand against your stomach as if that will ease the nervous energy swirling inside you. The decision settles in your chest, heavy but resolute - you’re not going to tell him tonight.
Not because it isn’t important. Not because it won’t change everything.
But because this, this evening, this invitation, is everything.
Kylian has never asked you to his home before. You never asked him to yours either. Never crossed that boundary. You don’t do personal things. No one-to-one dinners, no lazy mornings brushing your teeth together, no soft moments outside of dimly lit rooms where clothes are hurriedly shed and hands search for something unspoken.
But tonight is different.
Your steps are quiet against the smooth marble as you step inside the lobby. It’s sleek and understated, all clean lines and muted lighting. A concierge nods politely as you pass, as though he was expecting you, his suit crisp, his demeanor professional. The air smells expensive, tinged with faint traces of polished wood and fresh linen.
You swallow. This isn’t just a building. It’s his building. His world. And he’s letting you in.
As you step into the elevator, you press the button with a steadying breath. The doors glide shut, enclosing you in silence. You force yourself to stand tall, to unclench your hands. Forget about Madrid. Just for tonight.
Because tonight isn’t about goodbyes.
It’s about this moment, about the rules you thought you’d never break and the lines Kylian is asking you to cross.
You glance at your reflection in the mirrored walls, lips slightly parted, eyes sharper than they should be for something that’s meant to be casual. The numbers on the display climb higher, bringing you closer to the unknown.
And then the doors open.
His hallway is dim, warm lighting casting soft shadows along the walls. You walk forward, each step measured, each second stretching as your pulse quickens.
Then you knock.
And suddenly, your mind is racing again.
What if this changes everything?
What if you don’t want it to change?
What if-
The door swings open.
And then - nothing.
Because Kylian is standing there, filling the doorway, eyes dark and steady as they take you in. He looks good. Unfairly good. Casual, but intentional.
And just like that, your thoughts quiet.
He looks at you like he’s been expecting this moment for longer than you have.
“You’re late,” he teases.
You scoff lightly, stepping inside when he moves back to let you in. “I’m late because it takes half n hour to get to this floor.”
He laughs at that, closing the door behind you. You let your eyes take in the space around you.
Kylian’s apartment is nothing like you imagined. You expected something cold, modern - bare walls and lifeless furniture, the kind of home that belonged to someone always on the move, never settling long enough to make a place feel like theirs.
But it’s warm. Lived in. Not cluttered, but personal.
Soft lighting casts golden shadows against deep, earth-toned walls. The sleek design of the furniture is softened by subtle signs of comfort, a book left open on the coffee table, a blanket draped carelessly over the arm of the sofa, a half-empty bottle of water on the counter. There’s a faint trace of cologne in the air, something rich and familiar, woven into the very fabric of the space.
And then there’s the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows open up to the city below, Paris stretching out in glittering lights. You don’t realise you’re staring until Kylian moves behind you.
“Nice, isn’t it?” His voice is lower now, more serious. “I like looking out after a game. Helps me think.”
You nod, unable to stop yourself from imagining him standing here alone, staring out over the city, lost in his own world.
Kylian’s presence is warm behind you, his voice quieter now, like he’s letting you in on something personal.
“It’s… not what I expected.”
He hums, placing his hands on your waist, his breath just grazing the shell of your ear. “And what did you expect?”
You shrug, trying to play it off, but you can feel him watching you. “Something less… you.”
That makes him chuckle. “You thought I lived in a hotel room, didn’t you?”
You turn, meeting his eyes. “A little.”
Kylian laughs softly but doesn’t argue. Instead, his gaze flickers down, catching on the folded hoodie in your arms. His smile fades, something softer settling in its place.
You shift, suddenly unsure. “I, um- I brought this to give back.” You hold it out between you, an awkward offering. “I forgot to give it back.”
For a second, Kylian doesn’t move. He just looks at you, then at the hoodie, then back up again, something unreadable in his expression.
And then, instead of taking it, he shakes his head. “I gave it to you to keep.”
Your stomach twists. “Oh.”
There’s something charged in the space between you, something neither of you is willing to name.
“Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Kylian watches you, something knowing in his gaze. Then, slowly, he steps forward, closing the distance. “Don’t you think about me when you put it on?”
Your lips part, but no words come out.
Because you do.
You have. More times than you care to admit.
The fabric smells like him, even now. It always has. Even after so many washes, even after months of telling yourself it was just a hoodie. Just something comfortable to sleep in.
Kylian must see the answer on your face because his smile returns, but it’s softer this time, tinged with something fonder. He takes the hoodie from your hands, and for a second, you think he’s finally going to accept it back.
But instead, he unfolds it and steps closer.
“Arms up,” he murmurs.
You blink. “What?”
He tilts his head, expression expectant. “Arms up.”
Hesitantly, you lift your arms, and Kylian slides the hoodie over your head, his movements slow, deliberate. The fabric pools around your shoulders, warm and familiar. His fingers graze your skin as he adjusts the hem, smoothing it down over your sides. He then grabs your hair pulling it out of the hoodie. Warmth filling in your chest.
When you finally meet his gaze, there’s something undeniably tender in the way he looks at you.
“You took your time getting here,” he murmurs, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Thought you were gonna stand me up.”
You scoff lightly, trying to ignore the way your chest tightens. “I had to mentally prepare for whatever this is.”
He laughs at that, reaching up to pull the hood over your head, his fingers brushing your jaw. “And what is this?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
Because you don’t know how to tell him that this is something you can’t afford to want.
“Come on,” Kylian says, nudging your arm lightly. “I cooked.”
“You cooked?” You raise a brow, following him toward the kitchen.
“Don’t look so surprised.” He grins, already pulling plates from the cabinet. “I had to impress you somehow.”
Your stomach twists. Impress you. He’s putting in effort. He’s treating tonight like it means something.
And that makes your chest ache.
Because it does mean something. Just not in the way he thinks.
You glance down at the plate he sets in front of you - a homemade pizza, golden crust, bubbling cheese, and the exact toppings you always order.
“You made pizza?” you say, surprised.
“You mentioned once it’s your favorite,” he shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like it wasn’t something he filed away in his mind for this moment.
“You could’ve just ordered it,” you tease, picking up a slice.
Kylian smirks, leaning in just slightly, voice dropping into something smoother. “You also mentioned you like a man who puts effort in.”
Your breath catches for a second. The memory is hazy, some passing comment from months ago, made in the middle of an argument, maybe. You never thought he was listening.
Kylian watches your reaction closely, waiting for you to admit he got to you. You force yourself to shake your head, rolling your eyes. “You really think this is all it takes to impress me?”
He leans in further, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “No, you’re difficult” he murmurs. “But it’s a good start.”
Your face burns as he pulls back, looking far too pleased with himself. You take a bite of the pizza to distract yourself, but his eyes don’t leave you, watching, waiting.
“It’s good,” you admit reluctantly.
“You love it,” he corrects smugly, reaching for his own slice. “You’re trying not to give me the satisfaction, but I can see it in your face.”
“God, you’re annoying.”
“You adore me,” he counters easily.
You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch against your will. He’s impossible. And the worst part? He knows you adore him, even if you refuse to say it.
The night flows easily, laughter spilling between you like it always has. Kylian is close, always touching, his foot nudging yours under the table, his fingers brushing against your wrist when he reaches for something, the occasional press of his lips to your temple when you pretend not to notice.
You let it happen. You let yourself have this.
“So,” he says, after a comfortable lull in conversation. “What are you doing for the break?”
Your body tenses before you can stop it.
Madrid. You’ll be in Madrid. Staying in Madrid.
But you can’t tell him that.
You force yourself to shrug, keeping your tone casual. “No plans yet.”
Kylian hums, studying you like he can sense something off, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Come with me, then.”
Your heart stutters. “What?”
“Spend the summer with me,” he says simply, like it’s not a big deal. Like he’s not asking for everything. “We can go somewhere. Just us.”
You swallow, keeping your expression even. “Where?”
“I don’t know,” he grins. “Where do you wanna go?”
Your brain scrambles for an answer. The idea of it, spending weeks wrapped up in him, away from everything else, is dizzying. Tempting. Dangerous.
You should say no. You have to say no. Tell him the truth.
But instead, you tease, “Somewhere warm.”
Kylian perks up immediately, his enthusiasm clear. “Greece?”
“Too crowded,” you counter, playing along like this conversation isn’t fake.
“Maldives.”
“Too boring.”
“South of France?”
You pause, considering. “Could be nice.”
His smile softens. “It would be nice.”
The weight of what you’re doing presses down on you, but Kylian doesn’t know that. To him, this is real. To him, you’re making plans.
And you want to believe in them. You want to close your eyes and picture yourself on a beach with him, stretched out under the sun, tangled in each other.
But it’s not real. It never will be.
You let the moment sit between you, let Kylian believe in the fantasy just a little longer.
“You know,” Kylian says, leaning back in his chair, “I actually have a place in the south of France.”
You blink. “You do?”
He grins. “Mmhmm. Private, quiet, right by the beach.”
You can already picture it, the sea breeze, golden sun, the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Him by your side. It’s dangerous how easily you can imagine yourself there with him.
“Bad wifi, though,” he adds, shaking his head like it’s a tragic loss.
You scrunch your nose. “No wifi? What would we even do?”
Kylian’s grin is slow, teasing, as he moves his chair closer to you.
By the time you realize what he’s doing, he’s already at your side, fingers trailing along your arm before tilting your chin up. His lips brush the corner of your jaw, moving to the sensitive skin just beneath your ear.
“I’m sure we can think of a few ideas,” he murmurs, voice smooth, warm, and intentional.
Your breath catches, but you play it off with a scoff, pushing lightly at his chest. “You’re insufferable.”
His lips curve against your skin, whispering “You love me.”
Your heart pounds against your ribs. You let his words settle into your skin. You roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. And he doesn’t stop kissing you, his lips brushing along your jaw, down to your neck, slow and lingering, like he’s savoring the moment.
Like he wants you to remember this.
Later, after the food is gone and the wine bottle is nearly empty, the conversation shifts into something softer.
“I might visit England,” you say, twirling the stem of your glass between your fingers. “Go home for a little bit.”
Kylian hums, watching you intently. “You don’t talk about home much.”
You shrug. “It’s complicated.”
He tilts his head, waiting, letting you decide how much to share.
You exhale, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “You know my parents are immigrants. I was born in England, but I grew up… in between. Always feeling a little too much of one thing, not enough of the other.”
Kylian leans forward, brows furrowing slightly. “Yeah. I get that.”
You glance up, meeting his gaze. His expression is open, understanding. Of course he gets it, he’s lived it too.
“I just… I don’t go back as often as I should,” you admit, voice quieter now. “Life gets busy, and sometimes it’s easier not to.”
“I left for Paris as soon as I could,” you admit, voice quieter now. “University felt like an excuse, but really… I just wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere new.”
His eyes soften. “You wanted to run.”
You huff a quiet laugh, taking a sip of wine. “Yeah.”
He studies you, his gaze lingering. “And now?”
You don’t answer right away. You could tell him the truth, that leaving has always felt easier than staying, that it’s a habit you’ve never quite broken. That even now, sitting here with him, there’s a part of you already bracing for the moment you’ll have to go.
Instead, you offer a small smile. “Now, I just want to enjoy tonight.”
Kylian studies you for a moment, then asks, “Do they know about me?”
You hesitate. “Of course.”
A small smile tugs at his lips. “Could I meet them?”
Your stomach clenches. The question is casual, but the weight of it is not.
Meeting your parents. That’s not something you do with someone temporary. That’s something real.
And yet…
You nod. “Yeah. I think they’d like you.”
Kylian’s smile grows, bright and boyish, like this means everything to him. Like it’s real.
And for tonight, you let him believe it is. But deep down, a voice whispers that you’re lying to both of you. You always leave before things get too real. You always run.
And this time… you already know you won’t stay.
Then, suddenly, he’s moving, standing up next to you. Your breath stills as he’s tugging your chair back just enough to turn you toward him. He leans down, and you don’t stop him.
His lips brush against yours, soft and unhurried. A question, not a demand.
You let yourself sink into it. His hands find your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.
By the time you and Kylian move to the sofa, the mood has settled into something easy, familiar, like this is something you’ve always done. Like it’s something you’ll keep doing.
He throws an arm over the back of the sofa, fingers idly playing with the corkscrew of your hair as he scrolls through movies. “You’re impossible to please,” he mutters when you turn down yet another option.
You smirk, shifting to press your back against his side. “You know I have standards.”
Kylian huffs a laugh, eyes still on the screen. “You sure you don’t just like being difficult?”
You grin, stealing the remote from his hands. “Only for you.”
His fingers tighten around your hip in retaliation, a firm squeeze that makes warmth bloom in your stomach.
Eventually, you settle on something simple, a comfort movie, the kind that plays softly in the background of a quiet night. Kylian wraps his arm around you, letting you lean into him, his body warm and solid beside you.
It hits you then, hard, this moment. The normalcy of it.
Coming home after a long day. Cooking together. Teasing each other. Curling up on the sofa with a movie, legs tangled, fingers lazily trailing along each other’s skin.
It’s the kind of thing couples do. The kind of thing you could have had.
And for a second, you let yourself want it.
Kylian’s voice breaks through your thoughts. “So, England?”
You blink, looking up at him. “What?”
“You said you might visit,” he prompts, his thumb brushing along your shoulder. “Your parents still there?”
You nod. “Yeah. They know about us, by the way.”
His brows lift in mild surprise. “Oh?”
You smile a little. “Not like this. Just… that I work with you. They’ve heard my complaints.”
He lets out a low chuckle, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Bet they loved those.”
You hesitate, then admit, “They actually love you.”
Kylian shifts slightly, giving you his full attention. “Yeah?”
You nod, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his thigh. “You’re disciplined, smart, charming.” Your lips twitch. “They tell me I should marry you.”
Kylian’s grip on your waist tightens just a little. “Smart parents.”
You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest doesn’t fade.
Kylian hums, his fingers trailing up your arm. “My parents are dying to meet you, you know.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
He nods. “I talk about you a lot.” His voice is softer now, more careful. “Maman especially. She keeps saying she wants to meet the one person who can handle me.”
Your heart stumbles over itself. You know what he’s doing, he’s letting you see the future he wants. One where you’re in it.
And maybe it’s the wine, or the warmth of his body, or the way his fingers trail soothingly along your skin, but you let yourself see it too.
For tonight, you let yourself believe.
Kylian shifts slightly, pulling you in closer. His fingers trail idly up and down your arm, slow and soothing, grounding you in the warmth of his touch. The movie is still playing in the background, but neither of you are paying attention anymore.
“They’d love to see me get married,” you say suddenly, your voice softer now. “Husband, kids, the whole thing.”
Kylian hums, resting his chin lightly atop your head. “That a bad thing?”
You exhale a quiet laugh. “No. Just… they have it all planned out in their heads. Big family, grandkids running around. There’s pressure.”
His fingers pause for just a second before he resumes the slow, steady movement against your skin. “And what do you want?”
You tilt your head back slightly to look at him, a teasing smile forming on your lips. “Well, I’m for one, are grateful for your money, because we’re going to have a really nice retirement home.”
Kylian scoffs, nudging your side. “We?”
You grin. “Obviously. Someone has to make sure you don’t get too grumpy when you’re old.”
He shakes his head, laughing, but there’s something softer in his gaze when he looks at you. “I’m never grumpy. You really think I’d be grumpy?”
“Oh, definitely,” you tease. “Complaining about the neighbors being too loud. Yelling at kids to stay off your lawn. You’re using up your fun side now, later on there’s going to be nothing left”
Kylian laughs, he leans in, pressing a slow kiss to your jaw. “And you?”
You shiver slightly under his touch but keep your tone light. “I’ll be charming, obviously. The favorite grandma. The one who sneaks the grandkids extra sweets when their parents aren’t looking.”
Kylian laughs against your skin. “You’re so wrong.”
You let the words settle for a moment before shifting, turning slightly so you can look at him fully. “What about you? Ever think about kids?”
His smile softens. “Yeah. Always figured I’d have a family one day.”
You hum. “What do you think they’d be like?”
Kylian tilts his head, considering. “If they take after me? Active. Stubborn. Probably too competitive for their own good.”
You laugh. “Great. A little army of Kylian juniors running around. Sounds like a nightmare.”
He smirks. “You could handle them. And if they take after you?”
You purse your lips in thought. “Smart. Focused. Knows how to handle pressure.”
Kylian snorts, “why is your ego as big as mine?”
“Good at arguing,” You continue, grinning. “Definitely a little dramatic.”
“Oh, for sure,” Kylian says, grinning. “Our kids are going to be so dramatic.”
Our kids.
The words make your stomach twist, but you force yourself to keep playing along.
Kylian’s voice softens. “You’d be a great mom.”
Your breath catches slightly, but you keep your expression neutral. “And you’d be a great dad.”
He smiles, his fingers wrapping around yours. “We’d be good together.”
You can’t answer that. So instead, you lean up and kiss him, slow and soft, letting him believe, just for tonight.
Kylian shifts above you, his weight settling over yours in a way that feels natural, like he belongs there. His head rests against your chest, and you force yourself to keep your breathing steady, even as his hands trace slow, absentminded circles over the curve of your ass. It’s casual, intimate in a way that makes your stomach twist.
He’s comfortable like this, pressed into you, his fingers moving lazily against your skin. Every so often, he shifts just enough to kiss you, soft, lingering presses of his lips that make your chest tighten. You kiss him back without thinking, letting yourself fall into the illusion of this moment, of him.
“You like this, don’t you?” he murmurs, lips brushing over your collarbone. His voice is teasing, but there’s something else beneath it, something softer, more certain.
You scoff lightly, fingers gently scratching his neck. “You’re so full of yourself.”
He just grins against your skin, his fingers flexing against your ass before smoothing over the fabric of your leggings. “You haven’t let go of me all night,” he points out, his voice low, amused.
Your stomach flips. You couldn’t let go. Not when it's your last night.
“This is nice,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your collarbone. “You and me like this.”
You hum, fingers moving to gently scratch his scalp. The movement relaxing you. He lets out a quiet sigh, his entire body relaxing into yours. You want to tell him not to get used to this, to remind him that tonight is just a moment, not a promise. You had to tell him before the night carries on.
You had to try. You try to coax him in. “You used to talk about Madrid all the time.”
Kylian shifts slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His hands squeeze your ass gently. “And you used to talk about your masters.”
You still.
He notices.
Kylian watches you closely now, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate lines along your waist. “You thinking about it?” His lips ghost over your skin again, each word a little softer, a little closer. “Taking the next step?”
It’s a casual question. Harmless. But it feels like a landmine waiting to go off.
You swallow. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Kylian hums against your skin, his nose nudging the curve of your neck as his hands tighten on your hips. “And Madrid?”
Your fingers hesitate in his hair.
“You still thinking about it?” he murmurs, pressing another soft kiss to your jaw.
Your chest tightens. He doesn’t realize what he’s asking. He thinks you’re reflecting on old dreams, on the things you used to talk about together. But you know better.
Because you are thinking about masters in Madrid. Your plane was leaving tomorrow.
You take a breath, steadying yourself. “I don’t know.”
Kylian lifts his head fully now, propping himself up on his elbows, his face just inches from yours. His gaze is steady, open in a way that makes you want to turn away. His hands slide up beneath your hoodie - his hoodie - his palms warm against your bare skin.
“I’ve been thinking about staying,” he admits.
Your stomach drops.
“For the club?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
He shakes his head. “No. Not for the club.” His fingers tighten on your waist, like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he’s afraid to say it outright.
“I’m not ready to leave yet.”
You feel like you can’t breathe.
He’s watching you too closely now, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your ribs. You know he can feel your heart racing. You know he notices the way your breath stutters.
“Paris is home,” he continues, voice quieter now. His forehead presses against yours, both lips just shy of touching. “It’s not just about football anymore. There’s something here worth staying for.”
And then, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, he says it.
“I want to be with you, y/n.”
The words hit you like a blow to the chest.
You were prepared for a lot of things tonight, but not this.
Not him looking at you like this. Not him holding you like he’s afraid to let go. Not him saying the one thing you’ve wanted to hear for so long, at the worst possible time.
You feel like you’re about to break. You need to tell him the truth.
But instead of responding, you crush your lips against his, desperate, aching, reckless. Anything to stop yourself from saying something you’ll regret.
Kylian takes this as an answer. He exhales against your lips, something soft, relief. You didn’t even notice the tension in his shoulders before he relaxed. He smiles, kissing you deeper, whispering, “Thought you’d never admit it.”
The weight of it all nearly crushes you, but you let yourself melt into the kiss, pretending - just for tonight - that it’s real.
The air gets heavier, so you try to lighten it, desperate to change the topic. You shift slightly beneath him, sighing dramatically. “You’re clingy, you know that?”
Kylian hums against your skin, clearly unbothered. “Mm, and?”
“And,” you tease, poking at his side, “we’re not even watching the movie.
He chuckles, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Right, because I’m the one who keeps kissing you.”
You roll your eyes, about to fire back, but he cuts you off with another kiss, lazy, drawn out, his lips brushing yours in a way that makes you forget whatever point you were going to make.
Eventually, you both settle in, but Kylian stays close, his body half-draped over yours, his fingers slipping beneath the hoodie just to feel your skin. His touch is absentminded, lazy strokes against your ribs, his thumb brushing over the dip of your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
The movie plays, but neither of you are really paying attention.
After a long pause, Kylian speaks again, voice quieter now. “My dad still asks about you.”
You hesitate, not expecting that. “He does?”
Kylian nods. “Yeah. He likes you.” His fingers press a little deeper into your skin. “Thinks you’re pretty.”
You let out a soft laugh. “Good to know I have his approval.”
Kylian smirks, tilting his head slightly so his lips brush the edge of your jaw. “He also thinks you’re funny.”
Your brows lift. “Really?”
He grins, amused at your surprise. “Yeah. You talked to him after I missed that game with my calf, remember?”
You do. His dad had been worried, and you’d reassured him that Kylian would be fine, joking that he was too stubborn to be out for long.
Kylian hums. “Apparently, he still brings it up. ‘That physio of yours has a smart mouth.’” His smirk widens. “He meant it as a compliment.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling. “I’ll take it.”
Kylian presses a slow, lingering kiss beneath your ear. “I think he just likes that you care about me.”
The weight of his words settles between you, heavy and unspoken.
You exhale, forcing yourself to keep your voice light. “Well, someone has to.”
Kylian chuckles, but his hold on you tightens, like he doesn’t want you to slip away.
Kylian stays close, his fingers idly tracing patterns beneath your hoodie - his hoodie, you correct yourself. The movie plays in the background, but neither of you are paying attention. His warmth seeps into your skin, his presence wrapping around you like a comfort you know you shouldn’t get used to.
“If we’re going to England and the South of France for summer,” he murmurs, voice soft, like the future is already set, “where shall we go for Christmas?”
You hesitate for only a second before letting yourself dream. “I’ve always wanted to go to the Alps. I really want to go skiing.”
Kylian huffs a quiet laugh, shifting slightly. “You do realize I can’t ski, right?”
“You can ski,” you tease. “You’re just not allowed to. PSG rules. And I’m not taking care of you if you injure yourself.”
He grins, squeezing your waist. “Then we shouldn’t go.”
“What?” You pull back slightly to look at him.
“I want to go somewhere hot,” he says, casual and lazy, like it’s already decided. “Somewhere with a beach.”
You scoff. “That’s a summer holiday.”
“So?”
“So, Christmas in the snow is a must.”
Kylian’s fingers skim along your stomach, his grip lazy but warm. “So, convince me,” he says, amusement laced in his voice. “What’s so special about Christmas in the snow?”
You roll your eyes. “You seriously don’t get it?”
He shakes his head, watching you expectantly.
You exhale, settling deeper against him. “It’s… magical,” you start, eyes flickering toward the ceiling as you picture it. “Twinkling lights glowing against the snow, cozy cabins with fireplaces, the quiet beauty of the mountains at night.”
Kylian hums, his fingers stilling against your skin. “Go on.”
You shift to look at him. “Waking up to a snowy Christmas morning, the kind I always imagined but never really got to experience properly in the UK.” You smile softly, lost in the thought. “Drinking hot chocolate after being out in the cold all day, watching the snowfall from inside, curled up under a blanket. It just feels… right.”
Kylian doesn’t respond immediately. His usual teasing smirk is gone, replaced by something softer. His eyes stay locked on yours, full of something unreadable, something deep, something warm.
“Okay,” he murmurs eventually, pressing a lazy kiss to your collarbone. “Whatever you want.”
The way he says it, so effortlessly, so certain, makes your breath catch.
Your fingers tighten slightly against his arm. “That easy?”
His lips quirk. “If it makes you happy, yeah.” His voice dips lower, more sincere. “That’s all I want.”
Your heart squeezes.
His gaze holds yours, intense and earnest. “Whatever it takes. Whatever you need. I want to see you happy, always.”
You freeze for a second, the weight of his words hitting you hard in the chest. You bite your lip, trying to brush it off with a soft laugh. “You make me miserable at work sometimes,” you joke lightly, trying to avoid the tension building in the pit of your stomach.
Kylian huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, but you love it.” He nudges his nose against your jaw, kissing the corner of your lips. “And we both know that’s not really true.”
Your smile falters. He’s right. You do love it. You love the way he pushes you, the way he challenges you. You love the way he always finds a way to get under your skin, never letting you pull away completely. You love the teasing, the back-and-forth, the way he never lets you win too easily. And maybe, if things were different, if you weren’t already halfway out the door, you’d let yourself admit just how much he truly means to you.
The thought nearly knocks the air from your lungs.
You shouldn’t be thinking like this. Not when you’re about to leave. Not when you’ve already decided.
Kylian watches you closely, picking up on the shift in your expression. His hands smooth over your back beneath his hoodie. “Hey,” he murmurs, coaxing you back to the moment. “Talk to me.”
You force a smile, blinking back the burn behind your eyes. “I’m just thinking,” you say, voice softer than before.
“About what?”
You shake your head, pushing up to kiss him before he can pry any further. He lets you, his lips moving slowly against yours, but when you pull back, his eyes are still searching. Still looking for something you’re not ready to give him.
He doesn’t press. He just holds you closer, his arms tightening around you. He moves his fingers towards your back. His touch is lazy at first, skimming up and down your spine, tracing slow circles that lull you into a comfortable haze. The glow of the TV flickers across the room, casting soft light over both of you, but neither of you are paying attention anymore.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple.
You hum in response, sinking further into his embrace, but his grip tightens just slightly, like he’s not letting you drift away from him so easily.
“Talk to me,” he coaxes, voice dipping lower, smoother.
You hesitate, then force a small smile. “I’m just thinking.”
Kylian tilts his head, watching you closely, searching. His fingers slip beneath the hem of your hoodie, skating across your bare skin, dragging slow patterns along your lower back. “About what?”
You shake your head, forcing the tears to stay put. The weight of the moment, of being here in his space, his home, presses down on you. It makes it all feel too real, too heavy, like you’re on the edge of something irreversible.
Instead of answering, you push up slightly, kissing him before he can pry further. He lets you, lets you press your lips to his in a slow, languid kiss, lets you sink into him, but when you pull back, his eyes are still on you. Still looking for something you’re not ready to give him.
His fingers flex at your waist, kneading gently. “I know you, bébé,” he murmurs, voice quiet but firm. “I know you completely. Something’s on your mind, tell me.”
You exhale, brushing your nose against his. “I don’t want to think right now.”
A slow smile tugs at his lips. “No?”
You shake your head, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “Help me stop thinking.”
His gaze darkens, his smile fading into something softer, something fonder. He shifts beneath you, pressing up, letting you feel the hard length of him through his sweats.
“Anything you want,” he murmurs.
His hands slip under the hem of your hoodie, pushing the fabric higher, exposing more of your skin. His palms drag along your sides, thumbs grazing just beneath the swell of your breasts, teasing but never fully touching.
You inhale sharply, arching into his touch. “Kylian-”
He flips you before you can finish, pressing you back into the couch cushions, his body settling over yours. His lips find your throat, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His breath is warm, his stubble scraping lightly as he works his way lower, taking his time, savoring you.
“Tu es si belle,” he murmurs against your collarbone. “Toujours.”
Your fingers slide around his neck, tugging lightly. “Kylian-”
“Shhh,” he soothes, lips brushing the swell of your breast. His hands slip beneath the fabric of your hoodie, pushing it higher until you lift your arms, letting him tug it over your head. The cool air rushes over your bare skin, but his warmth is quick to replace it, his mouth closing over one nipple, his tongue circling slow and deliberate.
A gasp escapes your lips, your back arching as he sucks lightly, teasing with his teeth before soothing with his tongue. His free hand slides down, fingertips tracing the waistband of your leggings, dipping just beneath but never quite where you need him.
“You’re always so impatient,” he murmurs against your skin, smiling against your breast.
You huff, tugging at his hair in frustration. “Then stop teasing.”
Kylian chuckles, but he listens, sliding lower, pressing lingering kisses down your stomach, over your navel, down to the waistband of your shorts. He tugs them down slowly, dragging them past your thighs, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your legs.
The air in his apartment feels heavy, thick with something unspoken. The dim lighting casts long shadows against the sleek furniture, the dark walls, the framed jerseys that make this space his. It smells like him, cologne, clean linen, something deeper that lingers on his skin.
It unsettles you. It makes it impossible to forget where you are, what this is.
By the time he settles between your thighs, your breath is uneven, your fingers trembling slightly where they run in his curls. He presses a final kiss against the inside of your knee before looking up at you, eyes dark and full of something unreadable.
“Relax,” he murmurs, hands gripping your thighs, pushing them further apart. “Just let yourself feel.”
Before you can respond, he dips down, his mouth meeting your soaked heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your gasp is sharp, your fingers tightening in his hair.
He hums against you, like he’s savoring the taste, before licking another slow stripe up your slit, his tongue circling your clit in teasing, languid strokes. His grip on your thighs tightens, keeping you open for him as he works you up, building the pressure inside you with every flick of his tongue.
“Kylian,” you whimper, hips lifting instinctively.
His hands press down, pinning you in place. “I’ve got you,” he soothes, before sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue in perfect rhythm.
Your body tenses, heat curling low in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter with every calculated stroke of his tongue. He’s slow, thorough, completely focused on unraveling you, like nothing else in the world exists except this, except you.
When his fingers slip inside you, curling just right, a broken moan escapes your lips, your head tipping back.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against you, pressing another kiss to your thigh. “Let go for me.”
You do.
Pleasure washes over you in slow, rolling waves, your body trembling as he coaxes you through it, never letting up, his mouth and fingers working in perfect sync until you’re gasping, shaking, barely able to breathe.
Only then does he finally lift his head, lips glistening, a pleased smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Tu es magnifique,” he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses up your stomach, your ribs, your throat. “Every fucking inch of you.”
Your pulse is still racing when he presses his forehead against yours, his hands framing your face.
“Are you still with me?” he asks softly, searching your gaze.
You nod, still breathless. “Yeah.”
Kylian kisses you, slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His hands slide down, gripping your thighs, shifting you beneath him.
The weight of being here in his home, his space, llingers between you. It should feel wrong. It should feel like a mistake. But when he lifts you, carrying you to his bedroom, pressing you into his sheets, it only feels inevitable.
“Je t’—” he starts, voice rough, raw.
“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “Don’t.”
His jaw tightens, something flickering behind his eyes. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he presses his lips to your throat, his body covering yours, grounding you in this moment, in this choice.
He pushes into you slowly, filling you inch by inch, stealing the breath from your lungs.
Your fingers dig into his back, your body stretching to take him.
Kylian groans, burying his face in your neck. “Fuck, baby.” His voice is thick, unsteady. “You feel so good.”
He holds himself still for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him. His lips press against your jaw, his breath hot against your skin.
Then he moves.
Slow, deep thrusts, his hips rolling into yours in a steady rhythm, dragging pleasure through every nerve in your body. His hands grip your thighs, holding you close, like he never wants to let go.
“I want you,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “All of you.”
Your breath hitches.
And maybe, if things were different, you’d let him say what he was going to. Maybe you’d say it back.
But tonight, you let your body speak for you.
You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper, closer.
The warmth of his breath fans across your skin as Kylian presses his forehead to yours, rolling his hips into you with slow, deliberate strokes. Each thrust sends pleasure rippling through your body, winding you tighter and tighter around him.
He feels so good, deep and thick and perfect, stretching you open in the most intoxicating way. His fingers grip your hips, anchoring you to him, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
“Bébé,” he murmurs, voice rough, ragged with need. “You feel so fucking good.”
You moan in response, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him even closer. His body presses against yours, heat radiating between you, his heart pounding just as wildly as your own.
“Kylian,” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re- God, you’re perfect.”
A groan rumbles in his throat, his pace stuttering just slightly, like your words have knocked the air out of him. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that make your back arch off the bed.
“Say it again,” he demands, his lips brushing against your jaw.
You gasp as pleasure curls low in your stomach, a fire burning hotter and hotter with each roll of his hips.
“You’re perfect,” you murmur, fingers dragging through his hair. “I love the way you touch me, I love the way you make me feel.”
His breath hitches, his thrusts turning deeper, more deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch of you. “Bébé…”
Your nails rake down his back, urging him on. “I love the way you always know what I need, I love the way you always make me feel so good.”
His lips claim yours in a deep, searing kiss, swallowing your moans as he pushes you closer to the edge. His tongue slides against yours, his breath mingling with yours, his body moving in perfect rhythm with yours.
“I need you,” you admit, your voice breaking, tears threatening to fall. “I need you so much.”
Kylian groans, his forehead pressing against yours, his hands gripping your thighs as he buries himself even deeper inside you. “You have me,” he promises. “Always.”
His words send a fresh wave of heat through you, your walls fluttering around him, pulling him in tighter. He grits his teeth, his control slipping, his pace turning rougher, more desperate.
“You’re mine,” he mutters, his breath hot against your lips. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you gasp, your body trembling, every nerve ending sparking with pleasure. “I’m yours, Kylian.”
His groan is guttural, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you with him as he thrusts harder, deeper. The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard tapping softly against the wall, the sounds of your bodies moving together filling the space around you.
Your climax builds, the pressure coiling so tight it feels unbearable. Kylian feels it too, the way your body clenches around him, the way your breath catches, the way your moans grow higher, needier.
“Come for me,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple, his fingers still circling your clit, sending sparks shooting up your spine. “Let me feel you.”
His name tumbles from your lips as you shatter beneath him, pleasure crashing over you in a blinding wave. Your body clenches, trembles, your nails digging into his back as he follows right after you, groaning as he spills deep inside you.
For a moment, neither of you move, bodies tangled, chests heaving, the world spinning around you. Kylian presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another to your jaw, his hands smoothing over your sides, grounding you.
“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice softer now, tender.
You nod, still breathless, still tingling from the aftershocks. “Yeah.”
His fingers trace slow patterns along your back, his lips brushing against your temple. “You’re so beautiful.”
You smile, pressing a kiss to his jaw, warmth blooming in your chest.
Maybe you’ll regret this in the morning. Maybe you’ll wake up and remember why you can’t have this, why you can’t stay.
But tonight, you let yourself believe in the fantasy.
Tonight, you let yourself have him.
The room is quiet now, save for the sound of your breaths mingling, the slow rise and fall of your chests pressed together. Kylian hasn’t moved from where he’s nestled against you, his arms wrapped securely around your waist, his nose tucked into the crook of your neck. His body is warm, solid, grounding you in a way that makes your chest tighten.
You can still feel him inside you, his release seeping from between your thighs, a lingering reminder of just how deeply you let him in tonight. And for once, the weight of that doesn’t send you spiraling. It doesn’t terrify you.
Instead, you just feel… full. Complete. Like you’re exactly where you should be.
Kylian shifts slightly, tilting his head to press a kiss to your temple. “You’re quiet again,” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion, yet laced with something softer, something fonder.
You hum, tracing absent patterns along his back. “Just thinking.”
His arms tighten around you, his fingers splaying across your lower back. “About what?”
You hesitate, biting your lip. Then, before you can stop yourself, you admit the truth.
“You.”
Kylian stills, his breath catching. Then he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and searching, like he’s trying to memorize this moment, etch it into his bones.
“What about me?” he asks, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.
Your fingers brush over his jaw, your thumb grazing his bottom lip. “How much you mean to me,” you whisper. “How much i-” You swallow hard, trying to find the right words. “How much I feel when I’m with you.”
Something flickers in his gaze, something raw and vulnerable. He exhales slowly, his forehead pressing against yours. “You don’t have to be scared of that,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over yours. “Of us.”
Your eyes flutter shut, your fingers curling against his skin. “I don’t know how not to be.”
Kylian exhales a quiet laugh, but there’s no amusement in it, just understanding. He kisses you softly, lingering, savoring. “Then I’ll show you,” he promises against your lips. “I’ll show you every day.”
Your heart stumbles.
You don’t know if you can let yourself believe that. But right now, in the safety of his arms, with his breath warm against your skin and his body wrapped around yours, you want to.
You tuck your head beneath his chin, pressing your face into his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, soothing in a way that makes your limbs grow heavy.
Kylian sighs contentedly, his fingers stroking your back in slow, lazy circles. “Stay with me,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
You know he doesn’t just mean for the night.
But for now, you let yourself pretend.
“Okay,” you whisper, your eyes drifting shut, your body melting against his.
Kylian hums, his arms tightening around you, his lips pressing one last kiss to your hair.
And then, for the first time in a long time, you let yourself fall asleep feeling safe.
The room is silent except for the steady rhythm of Kylian’s breathing. His warmth surrounds you, his arm draped loosely over your waist, fingers curled slightly against your stomach, as if even in sleep, he doesn’t want to let you go.
You don’t move at first.
You just lay there, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your back, listening to the sound of his breath. Memorising the way it feels to be held by him.
Because this is the last time.
The thought grips you like a vice, making your throat tighten.
You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to hold onto the moment, but the pressure in your chest only grows. This night, the way he touched you, the way he whispered to you between kisses, the way he looked at you like you were his entire world, it made it all too real.
And now, you have to leave it behind.
Your fingers curl into the sheets. You know you should move, should slip out of his grasp before you lose the nerve, but you can’t. Not yet.
You shift slightly, just enough to turn your head, to look at him.
Kylian sleeps soundly, his features softened, the tension he always carries in his brow smoothed away. His lips are parted slightly, his hair mussed from your fingers, his bare shoulder rising and falling with each breath.
Your chest aches.
A part of you wants to stay. Wants to forget everything outside this moment.
But you can’t.
Carefully, slowly, you begin to move, slipping out from under his arm inch by inch, holding your breath when he stirs. His fingers twitch against the sheets, searching for you even in sleep.
You freeze.
For a second, you think he’s going to wake up, that he’ll see you standing there, that he’ll say your name and ruin everything.
But then he exhales deeply and stills.
You swallow hard, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, forcing yourself to stand. The cool air hits your bare skin, making you shiver as you grab your top and leggings from the floor, pulling them on with shaking hands.
His hoodie is draped over the armrest of the couch, but you don’t move toward it yet.
Instead, your eyes drift to the shelf by the window, where a collection of framed photos sits. You didn’t want to really stop to look at them before, you were careful not to let yourself linger too much in his space, too much in his world.
But now, something catches your eye.
A photo, slightly smaller than the others.
You step closer before you can stop yourself, your breath catching when you realize what it is.
It’s Kylian, years younger, maybe eight or nine. His face is rounder, his smile bright and full of unrestrained joy. He’s holding a football in his arms, but it’s his shirt that makes your stomach twist.
A Real Madrid jersey.
Your vision blurs, your fingers tightening at your sides.
Of course.
This was always meant to happen, wasn’t it?
You stare at the photo, at the boy in the Madrid shirt, and suddenly, everything becomes clear.
No matter how much he loves Paris, no matter how much he loves PSG, this was always the path he was meant to take.
And maybe, maybe leaving him now is part of that path, too.
Maybe he’ll hate you for it.
Maybe he’ll never forgive you.
But one day, he’ll be in Madrid. One day, he’ll have everything he’s ever dreamed of.
And maybe you can be together properly.
Your breath shudders as you turn away, grabbing his hoodie from the couch. For a second, you consider taking it. Some small part of you, some foolish, selfish part, wants to cling to it, to hold on to something of his.
But you can’t.
You can’t leave with a piece of him when you’ve already taken so much.
You hesitate for just a second, just long enough to let your fingers graze the soft fabric, before you drop it.
It lands on the cushions, the only proof you were ever here at all.
Your vision swims as you turn back toward the door, your chest aching with a pain so deep it feels unbearable.
You don’t look back.
If you do, you’ll break.
So instead, you walk away.
You block his number before you even step out of the apartment.
And then, with a deep, shaking breath, you step into the night.
Present day
Kylian doesn’t let go of your wrist until you’re both alone outside the gym. Even then, he doesn’t step back. Doesn’t create space. Just stands there, gaze burning into yours like he’s still deciding what to say.
You take a breath, steadying yourself. Be calm. Be rational.
“You can’t just drag me out of there,” you say, keeping your voice even.
Kylian exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “So, that’s it?” he says finally. “You really want to play this game?”
Your brows furrow. “What game?”
His jaw clenches. His hands twitch like he wants to run them over his face, but he doesn’t. He just looks at you. Really looks at you.
Like he’s trying to find something. Like he needs to.
“You, acting like that,” he says, voice taut. “Saying things just to get a reaction. Pretending none of this-” His voice cuts off, sharp with frustration.
You cross your arms. “I wasn’t pretending anything.”
Kylian scoffs, shaking his head. “Right. Because it’s normal for you to sit there talking about taking some random guy home.”
You bristle. “It was a joke, Kylian.”
His gaze sharpens. “Was it?”
You exhale, patience thinning. “You don’t get to do this,” you say, voice firmer now. “You don’t get to be upset with me. We agreed-”
Kylian lets out a bitter laugh. “No, you decided,” he corrects. “You decided we should be friends the moment you ran off. You decided to leave me behind. You decided to move on like it was nothing. And now you’re- what? Testing me?”
His voice is lower now, frustration simmering beneath every word.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Because he’s right. And he knows it.
Then, something snaps in Kylian.
The feeling that’s been building between you both isn’t just some playful tension anymore, it’s something deeper, something he can’t ignore.
A memory hits him like a gut punch.
“You’re lying, I know something is wrong” Kylian had murmured against your skin that night, voice rough, unreadable. His fingers traced your wrist, slow and careful,
You swallowed, forcing a small, tired smile. “I don’t lie.”
Kylian hummed, unconvinced. He shifted closer, breath warm against your temple.
“Then promise me something.”
“What?”
“That you won’t leave me.”
Your breath had caught in your throat.
And for a second, you almost told the truth.
But then Kylian’s hand slid over your back, slow, familiar. And you panicked.
So, you lied.
“I won’t.”
Kylian blinks, breath coming sharp.
The memory slams into him, clear as day. And suddenly, everything clicks.
This isn’t just about the joke. It’s you. This is what you do.
When things get too close - when he gets too close - you push. You act out. You find a way to run.
And he let you do it once. Let you lie to him. Let you run away.
Not this time. Not again.
Kylian shakes his head, stepping closer. “I changed my mind.”
You blink. “About what?”
“Being your friend.” His voice is steady, sure. “I don’t want that.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Kylian-”
He exhales, slow, like he’s finally seeing things clearly. “I get it now.” His voice is softer, but not weaker. If anything, it’s stronger. Final. “You get too close, and then you run.”
You stiffen.
His gaze never wavers. “You ran away from me once,” he says quietly, his tone low, deliberate.
Your breath catches.
Kylian doesn’t move. Doesn’t let you slip away.
His gaze stays locked onto yours, steady and unshaken. Final.
“I’m not letting you do that again,” he says, voice low.
Your breath catches. He’s watching you like he’s waiting for the fight, like he’s daring you to say something back.
But before you can, the gym doors swing open.
“Y/N!”
Luis’s voice cuts through the air, firm and expectant. You snap your head toward him, pulse still racing.
“We need you back inside,” he says, eyes flicking between you and Kylian, something unreadable in his expression.
You nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I’m coming.”
When you turn back to Kylian, he’s still watching you. Unwavering. Like he knows this conversation isn’t over.
Like he won’t let it be over.
You hold his gaze for a second longer, heart pounding, then you step past him and walk back inside.
But even as you go, you can feel it.
Kylian isn’t done. And neither are you.
