Between Floors ; A KM10 Story
CHAPTER 1 โ PART TWO OF TWO
Authorโs note: this is my first idea for a fanfiction like this, and iโm writing it as i go. iโd really love feedback or thoughts as the story unfolds. I will try my best to update ASAP. ๐ค
The elevator keeps moving.
Thatโs the strangest partโ that the world doesnโt stop for moments like this. The soft hum continues, steady and indifferent, as if it hasnโt just cracked something open.
Youโre suddenly very aware of how small the space is.
Kylian smells like something clean and expensive now. Not sweat and grass and cheap deodorant. His shoulders nearly brush the mirrored wall. Thereโs a Real Madrid crest on his jacketโ subtle, but unmistakable. You donโt comment on it. You donโt need to.
โSo,โ Kylian says, carefully. โMadrid.โ
โYeah,โ you reply. โMadrid.โ
You used to fill silences easily. Now you let this one sit.
The numbers climb. Six. Seven.
โYouโreโโ Kylian starts, then stops. Adjusts. โWhat brought you here?โ
The way he asks matters. Not why. Not for how long. Just what. Present tense. Respectful of the fact that your life kept going without him.
โIโm writing,โ you say. โFull time. Mostly.โ
His eyebrows lift, just slightly. Recognition flashes across his face, followed by something quieter.
โThat tracks,โ Kylian says.
You smile despite yourself. โDoes it?โ
โYeah,โ he nods. โYou always were.โ
Thereโs no I knew youโd make it. No praise that feels like a headline. Just a fact, remembered.
โAnd you,โ you say, because it feels polite, because it feels strange not to acknowledge the obvious. โYouโre hereโฆ permanently?โ
Kylian exhales through his nose. A half-laugh.
โAs permanent as football gets,โ he says. โMadridโs home. For now.โ
You donโt tell him that you stopped watching his matches and football. that seeing him everywhere made it harder to remember who he used to be.
You study him in piecesโ the way his hands stay still now, disciplined. The way he stands like heโs used to being watched even when no one is looking. Fame didnโt make him louder. It made him quieter.
The elevator slows. You feel it in your chest before your feet.
โWe lost touch,โ Kylian says suddenly. Not accusing. Not apologetic. Just naming the thing thatโs been hovering.
Neither of you say I tried. Neither of you say you disappeared. Thereโs no room for blame in a space this small.
You hesitate, hand hovering near your bag strap. Thirteen flashes through your mindโ bleachers, untied laces, a boy who always looked up to make sure you were watching.
Now Kylian is looking at you the same way. Quieter. Older. Still waiting.
โWell,โ you say softly. โIt wasโฆ good seeing you. Ky.โ
The name slips out before you can stop it. Muscle memory.
His lips part in surprise. Then he smilesโ small, real.
โYeah,โ he says. โGood seeing you too, Simran.โ
The hallway swallows you in warm light and stillness.
Behind you, the elevator doors close with a muted finality.
And the quiet follows you.
The hallway swallows you in warm light and stillness, footsteps sounding louder than they should. Inside your apartment, the quiet greets you like it always doesโfamiliar, controlled, safe.
You drop your bag. You lean against the door.
The world doesnโt stop for moments like this.
โโโLATER THAT DAYโโโ
Kylian doesnโt mean to walk past the twelfth floor.
The elevator stops there out of habit more than intention. He already knows you live hereโ learned it earlier that day, still thinking about the way you said twelve without looking up, like it was just another number, like it didnโt matter. His thumb presses against the metal rail. He hesitates.
The doors slide open anyway.
The hallway smells faintly like detergent and cardboard. Someone nearby is playing musicโ not loud, just background noise, the sound of people settling into their evenings.
He tells himself heโs just taking the long way.
Then he sees your door. Your name on the side.
Not cautiously. Not halfway. Fully open, like you forgot it mattered.
Inside, the apartment is mid-move. Boxes stacked unevenly against the wall. Packing paper spilling out like it escaped on its own. A tote bag sits by the door, half-zipped, like you were about to leave and got distracted.
Youโre crouched on the floor, dressed for a night out but paused in the middle of itโ jacket on, shoes off, hair still loose around your shoulders. Papers and journals are spread everywhere, and your kitten is right in the center of the chaos.
Ginger and white. Small. Unapologetic. A diva.
โMaple,โ you say, not even trying to sound stern as she paws at a page and sends it sliding across the floor. โPlease.โ
Maple ignores you completely.
You reach for the papers, trying to gather them into something resembling order. One slips free and drifts toward the doorway.
It stops at Kylianโs feet.
You look up, startled. โOh.โ
Then recognition flickers across your face. Kylian.
โHi,โ he replies. โYour door was open.โ
You glance over your shoulder, then down at Maple, who is now chewing on the corner of a folder. โYeah. I keep forgetting.โ
Thereโs a pause. Not awkward. Just unclaimed.
Kylian doesnโt step inside.
He stays just beyond the threshold, careful with the space between you.
โAre you heading out?โ he asks.
โYeah,โ you say, standing and brushing cat hair from your jacket. โMy coworkers are taking me out. Welcoming me to the city.โ
โThat sounds unavoidable.โ Kylian says.
You smile. โThatโs what I said.โ
Maple darts past your ankles and flops dramatically onto her back, paws in the air.
He watches, amused. โSheโs bold.โ
โShe thinks she owns the place,โ you say. โHonestly, she might.โ
Maple blinks up at both of you like she agrees.
โI wonโt keep you,โ Kylian says. โI justโsaw the door.โ
โNo, itโs okay,โ you say. โI forget to close it when Iโm rushing.โ
โDo you want me to?โ he asks, nodding toward it.
You consider this, then shake your head. โNo. Itโs fine.โ
Something settles in the space between you.
โAre you settling in okay?โ Kylian asks.
โI think so,โ you say. โStill figuring out where everything goes.โ
โThis building likes to move things,โ he says.
You laugh softly, like you might believe him.
โDo you have a number here?โ Kylian asks, a little tentative.
You look surprised for a beat, then nod. โYeah.โ
You step closer to take his phone. Your fingers brushโquick, accidental, warm. You type your name in.
He does the same with your phone.
Kylian. Not Ky. Not the thirteen year old boy who raced you home after the bus ride from school
Kylian. The 28 year-old man, your neighbor.
โIโm a good neighbor,โ Kylian says lightly. โJust so you know.โ
โSugar. Flour. Emergency cat-wrangling.โ
That gets a real laugh out of you.
โIโll remember that,โ you say.
You start seeing Kylian everywhere.
Not in a dramatic way. Not like the universe is trying to make a pointโฆ right? Justโฆ casually. In the way buildings do when they decide two lives will overlap whether anyone wants them to or not.
The first time is the elevator again.
Morning this time. Early. Youโre half-awake, hair still damp, coffee in a travel mug you donโt love yet. The doors slide open and there he is, dressed downโcap low, hoodie zipped, headphones hanging around his neck instead of on.
โMorning,โ Kylian says.
โHey,โ you reply, like this is normal. Like your heart doesnโt stutter for half a second before catching up.
He presses the button for the lobby. You notice he doesnโt ask what floor. You donโt comment on it.
The elevator descends. Quiet, but not uncomfortable. The kind of silence that doesnโt demand anything.
โMaple behaving today?โ he asks.
You snort. โShe knocked over a box and stared at me like it was my fault.โ
He smiles. Itโs quick, almost private. โSounds about right.โ
You sip your coffee. Itโs too hot. You let it be.
When the doors open, you both step out at the same time, then hesitate, then laugh quietly at yourselves. He holds the door. You nod thanks and walk past him.
Outside, Madrid is already awake. Loud, warm, impatient. He heads left. You head right.
After that, itโs small things.
A package left at his door that you recognize as yours. A text from him. The first in years.
followed by a photo of your name printed cleanly on the label.
You: yeah, sorry. building chaos.
Kylian: all good. iโll bring it by.
He doesnโt knock. He texts when heโs outside, like heโs giving you space to decide.
You open the door anyway.
He hands you the box. Your fingers brush again. You both pretend not to notice.
You could close the door. You donโt.
โHowโs work?โ he asks, casual.
You shrug. โStill learning names. Pretending i know where iโm going.โ
โThat never really stops,โ he says.
You glance at him. โDoesnโt it?โ
He smiles, but it doesnโt quite reach his eyes. โNo.โ
You nod, like that answers something.
Maple chooses that moment to dart between your legs and bolt into the hallway.
โOh my godโMaple!โ you groan.
She skids to a stop near his shoes, looks up at him, and flops onto her side like sheโs been waiting for this moment her entire life.
He crouches instinctively. โWow.โ
โShe does that,โ you say. โShe thinks itโs a personality trait.โ
He scratches her chin. She purrs immediately, traitorously. โSheโs friendly.โ
โAnd opportunistic," you say.
He laughs under his breath. It feels easy. Too easy.
You scoop Maple up before she can embarrass you further. โSorry.โ
โSheโs welcome anytime,โ he says, then adds quickly, โI meanโhere. In the hall. Notโโ
โItโs okay,โ you say, smiling despite yourself.
You start timing your routines differently. Not to avoid him. Justโฆ to be aware.
โข he leaves early on training days
โข he always takes the stairs down but the elevator up
โข he comes home late sometimes, quiet as a ghost
โข you work late even when you donโt have to
โข you forget your keys at least once a week
โข Maple waits by the door every evening at the same time
Neither of you says anything about knowing these things.
Not dramatically. Just enough to slick the pavement and soften the cityโs edges.
Youโre standing under the awning outside the building, waiting for a car thatโs taking longer than it should, when the door opens behind you.
He stops when he sees you.
โYou heading somewhere?โ he asks.
โDinner,โ you say. โWith coworkers. Eventually. It's at the small pub, just three blocks awayโ
He glances at the street, then back at you and your heels. โYou want a ride?โ
You blink. โYou drive?โ
Kylian smiles. โMy driver does.โ
You hesitate. You shouldnโt. You know that.
But the rain keeps falling, and something about the way he askedโeasy, no pressureโmakes it feel less like a line and more like an offering.
His car is clean in the way someone who doesnโt live in it keeps things. Neutral. Unassuming. The kind of car youโd never associate with headlines.
His driver puts the address in.
The city passes by in streaks of light and wet asphalt.
โYou settling in?โ Kylian asks again, like heโs still checking the answer.
โI think so,โ you say. โSome days feel like I belong. Some days feel like Iโm justโฆ visiting my own life.โ
He nods, slow. โYeah. I know that feeling.โ
You look at him then. Really look.
Kylianโs eyes stay on the window, but his jaw tightens just slightly, like he said more than he meant to.
The silence that follows isnโt uncomfortable.
When the car pulls up to the restaurant, he doesnโt rush to tell the driver to unlock the doors.
โWell,โ you say, fingers resting on your seatbelt. โThanks. For the save.โ
โAnytime,โ Kylian replies. Then, softer, โSeriously.โ
Something unspoken passes between youโrecognition, maybe. Or permission.
โGood luck,โ he adds, nodding toward the restaurant.
โWith dinner?โ you ask.
โWith everything,โ Kylian says.
You smile. This time, you donโt hide it.
But the sentences come easier than they have in weeks.
You write about timing. About spaces between things. About how some moments donโt ask for attentionโthey just sit beside you and wait to be noticed. Nothing worth sharing, just your thoughts running on fire.
You donโt realize how late itโs gotten until your phone buzzes.
Kylian: made it home safe?
Simran: yeah. the rain calmed. thanks again.
Kylian: anytime. good night.
You set your phone down face-first.
Your heart doesnโt slow down for a while.
Kylian decides he needs more.
Subtle moments arenโt enough anymore. Passing glances. Elevator small talk. Accidental touches.
They only leave him wanting.
Heโs intrigued โ in the way that doesnโt fade, in the way that grows teeth.
That night, he searches your name on Instagram from his burner account.
Your bio is simple. Neat. Very you..
France, Madrid, wherever the pen takes me โ writer.
Something about it pulls at his chest. He scrolls. All the way down.
High school graduation photos. Faces he doesnโt recognize.
Girlsโ trips with people who clearly werenโt part of your life back then.
New friends. New memories. A version of you he wasnโt there for. The version of you that became a woman, fuck.
Jealous? Maybe. Too curious? Absolutely.
College graduation. Your mother teary eyed, resting onto your shoulder.
The caption reads: Did it for my father. Forever missing you. ๐ค
Kylianโs stomach drops. Your father passed away. And he hadnโt known. Of course he hadnโt known.
He wasnโt there to know. The weight of that sits heavy in his chest.
You in dresses. You laughing in cities heโs played in but never really seen. Hotel balconies. Sunsets. Coffee beside notebooks.
Work trips. Writing trips. A life built quietly, intentionally.
You arenโt the girl on the bleachers anymore. Youโre a woman. Confident. Soft and steady in a way that feels earned.
Then he notices the link in your bio. A writing page. Curiosity wins. He clicks.
The screen fills with words. Your words. Essays. Short pieces. A series pinned at the top:
Where the Earth Softens Us
The title alone makes something shift in his chest.
Where the Earth Softens Us is the belief that the world, when we let it, loosens what life hardens.
That grief settles into the body before it reaches the mouth.
That certain places hold us when people cannot.
Kylian swallows. He keeps reading. You write about lungs heavy with unshed tears.
About shoulders carrying years of pressure. About moving cities to breathe again.
About nature meeting pain without questions. About losing a father.
About becoming someone new in the quiet aftermath of survival.
Each paragraph feels like stepping closer to parts of you he never earned the right to know.
But now does. Your softness. Your loneliness. Your strength.He exhales slowly.
So this is where you went. Not away from him.
Into yourself. The thought humbles him.
There are comments beneath your pieces โ strangers thanking you, telling you your words made them feel seen, telling you they cried reading them.
You helped people. You healed people. With words.
With the same quiet intensity he once put into goals. His chest tightens again.
Different this time. Not jealousy. Respect. Longing. Understanding.
He scrolls back to your photos and suddenly they make sense โ the calm in your smile, the grounded way you move, the peace that seemed hard-won.
You didnโt just grow up. You grew through things. And he missed it.
The realization hits hard and clean: Subtle moments arenโt enough. Elevator glances arenโt enough.
Small talk isnโt enough. He doesnโt want to just run into you.
All of you. The writer. The woman. The grief and the healing.
The soft strength you carry like armor.
Kylian locks his phone and leans back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
His heart is racing โ not like before matches.
Slower. Deeper. More dangerous.
Because now, it isnโt just curiosity.
And for the first time since seeing you again, he knows it with certainty:
Heโs intrigued. Quietly and completely.
And if he does try anything โ it canโt be quick.
It canโt be rushed between matches and headlines and chance encounters in elevators.
It has to be built. Slow. Carefully. Word by word. Day by day. Effort stacked on effort.
The way trust is built. The way love always is. Kylian knows he canโt.
Not when Real Madrid is struggling and every game feels like something to prove.
Not when the World Cup looms closer, heavier.
Not when the world expects more from him than he sometimes knows how to give.
Thereโs too much pressure. Too many eyes.
Too many expectations. And then he looks back at your profile picture.
The soft smile. The calm in your eyes.
The type of girl men fall in love with without meaning to. Not because she demands attention. But because sheโs gentle.
Because she makes space feel lighter instead of louder.
Because she holds things together quietly.
The kind of woman who doesnโt chase love โ love finds her.
Would she already have someone? Would she ever want someone like him?
They arenโt thirteen anymore. Life isnโt bleachers and shared lunches and harmless crushes.
This is real now. Complicated. Heavy. And the worst part?
He doesnโt even really know her anymore. People change. Butโฆ did you change that much?
Somehow, he doubts it. The softness still lingers in your smile. The steadiness in your words.
The warmth in the way you move through the world.
And suddenly the question isnโt whether he should try.
End of Chapter 1. I hope you enjoyed reading it this far and will join me again in the next chapter. ๐ฅฒ๐ค
Chapter 2 coming out soon. ๐ฌ๐
