#mbappe

The afternoon light in Madrid was soft and winter-pale, the kind that made the city feel smaller and quieter than its usual frantic pulse. Your first anniversary had landed awkwardly in the middle of the season, squeezed between recovery sessions and upcoming match preparations.

You had suggested staying in, letting him rest properly in the few precious hours he had free, and offering to come over instead so he wouldn’t waste energy traveling. Kylian had simply shaken his head, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“We’re going out,” he’d said, casual as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s our anniversary, we should celebrate.”

So here you were, bundled in oversized coats, caps pulled low and sunglasses shielding your faces, wandering through the less tourist-heavy streets of Madrid without any real plan. The air carried a crisp chill, and Kylian walked on the outside of the sidewalk every time, his shoulder brushing close enough that you felt the steady warmth of him. He never announced it or made a show; he simply shifted you gently inward whenever a cyclist or scooter whipped past, his hand light at your back for the briefest second before it returned to his pocket.

You drifted into a tiny bookstore first, the kind with creaky wooden floors and shelves that smelled of old paper and ink. Kylian browsed beside you, occasionally pulling a title down and showing it to you with a raised eyebrow or a quiet comment. When you lingered over a novel, he added it to the small stack without a word, continuing the conversation about the last match as if nothing had happened. At the counter, you reached for your wallet out of habit. His card was already tapping against the reader before your fingers even closed around the leather.

The same thing happened at the neighborhood bakery, the scent of fresh pastries and warm bread wrapped around you like a hug as you stepped inside. You picked out a couple of things you knew he liked, teasing him about his strict diet, and he grinned—boyish and quick—before quietly adding a few more items while you were still talking. By the time you turned back, the bag was in his hand and the transaction was done.

He passed you a warm croissant without ceremony, tearing off a piece of his own as you continued down the street.

A small café came next, tucked into a quiet corner with steamed-up windows and the low hum of conversation. Kylian held the door for you absentmindedly, then pulled your chair out while still mid-sentence about a funny story from training. He ordered for both of you after noticing the way you scanned the menu, remembering exactly how you liked your coffee. When you excused yourself to the restroom, you returned to find the bill already settled and a fresh glass of water waiting at your spot. He had one too, but only after making sure yours was there first.

The afternoon unfolded like that: slow, aimless, perfect in its ordinariness. You wandered into a flower stand where he bought you a small bunch of simple blooms without fanfare, tucking them carefully into the crook of your arm so they wouldn’t get crushed. Later, in a little record store, he flipped through vinyls beside you, occasionally bumping your shoulder with his when he found something he thought you’d like. Every heavier bag somehow ended up in his hand. Every door opened before you reached it.

He adjusted your scarf when the wind picked up, fingers brushing your neck with the casual competence of someone who simply noticed these things before they became problems.

You never asked for any of it, that was the part that settled warm and deep in your chest.

Kylian wasn’t performing. He was just… being Kylian.

Playful when he teased you about your terrible sense of direction, affectionate in the way he slung an arm around your shoulders during a quiet moment on a bench, confident without ever tipping into showiness. His humor stayed dry and light, a quick grin or a muttered joke about how the paparazzi would never find both of you in the ridiculous scarf he was wearing.

As the light began to soften toward evening and you headed back toward the car he’d called while you were still buttoning your coat, the realization crept up on you.

You paused on the sidewalk, turning to him with a small frown. “You’ve paid for everything today.”

Kylian blinked, genuinely confused for a second, as if the observation had come out of nowhere. “...Obviously, bebé.”

You laughed softly. “You’ve never let me pay.”

“I have,” he said, shrugging as he adjusted the flowers in your arm so they sat more securely.

“Name one time.”

He paused, thinking. A slow, boyish grin spread across his face. “You bought popcorn once.”

“After you’d already paid for dinner.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

Another shrug, easy and unconcerned, his hand finding the small of your back as you started walking again. “It just is.”

You glanced up at him, catching the way the late afternoon light caught in the fade out haircut peeking out from under his black cap. A faint smile played on your lips as you shook your head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Mon cœur, I’m just efficient,” he replied, the French endearment slipping out warm and casual, laced with that dry, boyish humor. His eyes crinkled at the corners behind his sunglasses as he grinned down at you.

The city interrupted before you could fire back. A sudden gust of wind whipped down the narrow street, tugging at the edges of your scarf and sending a few stray petals from the small bouquet scattering across the pavement, one stubborn petal landed right in your hair. Kylian noticed immediately, he stopped mid-step, turning toward you with a low chuckle that built into a full, bright laugh, the kind that made his whole face light up and crinkled the bridge of his nose in that boyish way the paparazzi rarely got to see.

“Hold still,” he said, still grinning as he reached up. His fingers were careful, brushing the petal free from where it had tangled in your hair near your temple. “You look like you’ve been rolling around in a flower shop. Very romantic, very Madrid.”

You swatted at his arm lightly, laughing despite yourself, cheeks warming under the cool air. “Thanks for the save. I was going for mysterious stranger, not walking bouquet, but okay.”

“Too late, mysterious walking bouquet suits you.” He tucked the rescued petal into the pocket of his coat with mock seriousness, then offered you his arm so you could loop yours through it. The simple gesture kept you close as you continued down the street, his stride easy and unhurried, always matching yours without effort.

The afternoon stretched like that, unscripted and comfortable, until the sky began to deepen into early evening tones.

Kylian’s steps slowed near the corner where his driver would pick both of you up, his arm still linked with yours. He glanced down at you, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw more noticeable up close.

“You good?” he asked quietly, the question simple but carrying that underlying care. “Not too cold? We can head back whenever you want, mon cœur. No rush, but I know the schedule doesn’t wait.”

You nodded, squeezing his arm lightly. The day had been exactly what you both needed, nothing extravagant, just time woven through ordinary streets and small moments. And as he pulled you a little closer against the chill, his hand warm and steady, it felt like the most natural celebration in the world.

author's note — hope you have enjoyed this tiny drabble lovies!!! kyky deserves the best and his time will come (again) dw <3 (guys i'm actually so heartbroken over his latest appeareances WHY DOES BRO LOOKS SO DEPRESSED NOOOO BBY)

You woke up at 3am, thirsty, the heat making you wear only a tank top with panties. You walked downstairs, you walked over the sink, bending over slightly, you gasped as you felt hands on your hips.

"thirsty..?"

he said, growling, you knew it was kylian, your brother’s best friend. he bent over slightly aswell, whispering against your ear.

"jpeux t’aider.. mh?" (I can help you.. mh?)

you bent back, your back hitting his, you felt his fingers digging into your flesh.

"I didnt knew you were there.. Micky didnt said anything.."

You said as a shaky breath. you felt him smiling against your ear.

"yeah.. last minute plans.. happy I woke up at 3am too.. what are you wearing seriously.."

he said mockingly, his thumb slide under the waistband of your panties to the side, teasing softly.

"its hot.. I didnt knew you were there"

"you already said that. wont you be nervous hein"

he said chuckling as his lips went to your neck, his hand sliding up to slide your hair to the opposite side of your neck, It made you shiver, your back arched, your hips hitting his. He groaned darkly.

"putain.. fais gaffe Y/N.." (fuck.. be careful Y/N.."

your eyes shut, his mouth kissed the back of your neck, his hand going to your stomach, holding you in place.

"k-kylian.."

"quoi?"

he said almost instantly, he stopped leaning back.

"my brother s upstairs"

you said weakly, he laughed and went back at teasing your neck with his mouth.

"is it really all thats alarming your right now baby..?"

he said, the hand on your hips sliding to between your thighs, feeling the wetness peeking trough you lacy panties.

"fuck.."

you moaned, opening your thighs a bit

"your so wet already.."

he said, his fingers teased you trough your panties, his mouth slid to your shoulder, teasing. you moaned, he pressed his fingers against you more harder, you felt his cock on your lower back, you could feel how hard it was, begging to get freed, it felt warm against your back, you leaned against it. Kylian felt it, he grinded against you, benting you over slightly so he could grind against your cheeks. his hand finally slide under you panties to carress your pussy properly.

"fuck.. you have no idea what you do to me.."

he said against your shoulder, you moaned as an answer, your knees getting weak, he felt it, obviously he did. he picked you up easily, turning you around and placed you on the counter, you finally saw his face, jaw tight and eyes dark. He was only wearing low grey joggers, you could tell he had no boxers. He tilted your chin up, not for you to look at him but to have access to your neck, his lips overed over your pulse point.

"Y/N tell me you want it."

his hands went to your knees, opening them so he could be closer to you. you moaned, your hands going to his neck needingly. holding into him like you were scared he might just leave.

"please kylian.. do it.. sil te plaît"

you said, almost begging, you felt his breath getting heavier as you even asked in french, his control snapping.

"fuck.. good girl."

he said as he knelt before you, before your pussy, he leaned in and gave a lick to your still clothed pussy, as he felt your fingers goinf to his curls he slide it down, letting hang at one of your ankle, his hands went to your thighs, holding tightly, his thumb opening your folds at the same time.

He licked a long stripe, testing you.

"delicieuse.." (delicious..)

he said as he kissed you before licking you doing 8 shapes. he felt his cock getting harder, like it was going to explose but he was too focused on getting you pleased, too focused on the weak moans you let out while he was eating you out.

"fuck kylian I—"

as he heard you he went faster, his hand let go your thigh to slide a finger inside you, his moith now focusing on your clit. your eyes rolled back and you bite your lips to surpress your loud moans. Your walls went tighter around his single fingers. he slide in a second one, pumping in and out. you felt your orgasm build and he felt too. of course he did.

"putain.. vasy.. come on my toungue baby.."

he grunted against your core. you came on his toungue, he continued, licking every drop off, he leaned back and slide his fingers off, he licked them, looking at your eyes. you were panting, cheeks flushed and moith half opened to breath.

"so pretty for me.."

he said as he leaned into your lips, letting you taste yourself on his toungue. you moaned against his lips, he slid his toungue inside your mouth, your eyes were shut but you felt him smirking. he leaned back, you leaned in to let the kiss last longer but he was too far away.

"regarde toi.. comme ca juste a cause de ma bouche et deux doigts.." (look at you.. like that just because of my mouth and two fingers)

he said mocking you lightly, you bite your lips. You understood french thanks to your brother, michael. so you understood every single dirty things he said and he knew it.

"ferme la.." (shut it)

you said, with your thick english accent. he caressed your bottom lip.

"what a naughty girl.. using my language to insult me.."

he said as he leaned and licked your collarbone, following the bone.

"might need a punishment mh..?"

he said as he took a step closer, you felt his cock against your nude core, you let a soight wet stain against his joggers. your hand went to the waistband of his jogger. he leaned back just enough to look up at you.

"need something? cmon, use your words.. I know you can do it."

he said, caressing your jaw softly

"your dick. kylian fuck, I need it."

he grinned and freed his cock, you looked down at it, it was thick, trough the dim light of the moon you could see the veins, you bite your lips and looked up at his eyes. the vision of you looking at him with your swollen lips between your teeth made his dick throb even more.

"where the fuck are condoms in that house.."

you grabbed his shoulder and grabbed his dick, placing at your entrance.

"no need.. the only thing I need is you in me."

you managed to say as a shaky breath. he looked up at you, hoping for that answer. he kissed your collarbone roughly

"you sure?"

he said teasing your clit with the tip of his dick

"please.."

and that was enough, he thrusted into you, deeply, he stilled, letting you adapt to him. Your mouth went to his shoulder, teeth going deep into his skin, surpress your cries.

"so fucking tight.. so fucking perfect. tell me when I can move baby"

he said softly and with care, in contrast to his dick stretching you wide, letting your juice drip down.

"look at me Y/N. let me see your pretty face."

you leaned back, making his dick move inside you, you hissed and looked up at his eyes, pleading and needing.

"there you are."

you rolled your hipds against his dick and he knew it was the moment to move. he started to move, your nails digged deeply into his shoulders, you whined.

"cmon.. you can take it"

he said, starting to thrust, keeping eye contact. your eyes filled with tears and his thumb went to wipe them softly he kissed where he wiped the tears, he thrusted faster, deeper, making your toe curls.

"fuck.. Y/N I think Im gonna.. come."

he said his eyes closing briefly, you let out a shaky breath

"me too.."

he grinned and slammed deeply in you, letting his hot thick orgasm fill you, you rolled your eyes and came on him aswell, he thrusted trough your orgasm slowly, rolling his hips.

"youve been such a good girl for my cock.."

he said against your lips, he pulled back and kissed you, your legs were shaking and you fell into his shoulders, he chuckled and held you softly, pulling his jogger back up, he picked up your pantie and put it in his pocket, he picked you up and walked you upstairs.

"be quiet for me okay..?"

he said pressing a kiss to your temple, he entered your room quietly and let you down on your bed, he pressed a kiss to your forehead and turned around, you tugged at his joggers..

"stay.."

he turned around and his eyes softened. he layed down next to you, you put your head on his chest listening to his heartbeat, your kegs thrown over his, his hand found the back of your head and massaged it softly. he pressed another kiss to your forehead.

"your brother is going to kill me.."

"let him. I dont think Ill walk anyway tomorrow."

he chuckled and ruffled your hair

"sleep now."

He sniffs the air exaggeratedly. “Hmm… I might   not survive am so hungry.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” you tease, rolling your eyes.

“Depends,” he says, stepping closer, lowering his voice. “Do I get dessert first, or is it after dinner?”

You laugh, shaking your head. Dinner is casual. You sit across from each other, plates clinking, talking about the small, mundane details of your day, you mentioned how nauseous you were at work today and you both wondered if it’s maybe something you ate, then discussed training, sketches, errands, nothing serious. He chews thoughtfully, glancing at you with something soft behind his humor.

“You’re really good at this,” he says, pushing the last bite of food around his fork. “I am never going to get used to it.”

“Glad to know you married a good house wife,” you say, teasing.

He stands, walking behind you to the sink as you start washing the dishes. “Thanks for dinner,” he murmurs, leaning over you, lips brushing your neck.

You shiver, blinking up at him. “Are you trying to distract me from cleaning?”

He grins. “Maybe. I’d call it… incentive.” His hands rest lightly on your hips, pressing just enough to make you sway.

“Stop,” you laugh, but your voice is breathless.

He kisses the side of your neck again, more firmly this time, pressing against you. Your fingers curl in his hair instinctively. The tension between you hums in the small kitchen, warm and private.

Soon, the dishes are forgotten. He presses closer, mouth finding yours, soft at first, then urgent. Your apartment shrinks to just the two of you tangled together, the mundane world fading.

He doesn’t wait for another word. With a fluid, practiced motion, he shifts his weight, sliding his arms under your knees and back to lift you. You let out a soft gasp, fingers tangling in his hair, arms looping around his neck as he carries you across the apartment to the bed.

He lays you down gently, chest pressing into yours, still on top, holding you close. Your breath hitches at the feel of him, his honey skin, his cologne , the warmth, the solid weight of him anchoring you.

His lips find yours immediately, slow and teasing at first, testing the moment, before deepening into something urgent. You respond instinctively, fingers threading through his hair, pressing back into him, breath catching in small, sharp moans.

Every movement is deliberate. The clothes being thrown as if its a wall stopping him from his favorite meal.

His hands trace along your ribs, down to your hips, gently guiding you to him.

Your laugh catches in a moan as he kisses the side of your neck, trailing down to your shoulder. You bite your lip, shivering, fingers tangling in his curls.

“God, you feel so good against me,” he murmurs as his cock is against your folds, voice low. “And I’m not inside you yet.”

Your breath hitches, moans spilling softly as he presses against you. The apartment feels smaller, the air hotter, tension coiling tight.

He tilts his head, brushing lips along your jaw. “Wait…” he murmurs. He moves away just enough to rise slightly, reaching for the bedside drawer. You watch, biting your lower lip, pulse jumping as he pulls a condom from the pack.

With a practiced flick of his teeth, he tears the wrapper open. The small, deliberate motion,his lips brushing the paper, eyes flicking up at yours,makes your chest tighten.

“You like watching me, don’t you?” he whispers, a smirk in his voice.

You can only nod with a giggle, breath catching, eyes dark with need, you bagged that man as your husband.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Because you’re going to feel every inch of this.” The condom clicks into place, and the tension skyrockets.

He positions himself, chest pressing into yours, hands bracing either side of your head. Your back arches as he slides in slowly, hands clutching his shoulders, teeth grazing his collarbone as you moan low and hot.

“Shit, you feel amazing,” he groans, voice shaking slightly with urgency.

“Kylian,” you gasp, shivering, moving instinctively against him.

His lips find your neck again, teasing, nipping lightly. Each thrust draws soft moans from your lips, each gasp making him grow more desperate, more rougher.

“You like that, don’t you?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, as your back arches again.

“Yes… yes…” you breathe, fingers clutching at his back, hips lifting slightly with each shift.

The sheets twist beneath your legs, your body pressed tightly to his, breath mingling. The rhythm builds, slow, deliberate, insistent, his lips capturing yours between low, heated words.

“You’re mine,” he growls, teeth grazing your jaw lightly.

“I am,” you murmur, moaning his name, biting your lip, shivering under his weight. “Yours…”

“Merde…” he groans, forehead resting against yours, voice ragged, as his thrust gets clumsier. “I want you to cum with me, no?.”

“I am” you moan, biting your lip, shivering under him. “Am close…”

“Cum for me amour, cum for me” he mumbled against your lips as his thrusts become rough and demanding.

The climax crashes on both of you finally, hard, slow and consuming, leaving you both tangled, spent, chest to chest, hearts hammering. 

He remains on top, bracing lightly on the mattress, holding you close as you ride out the tremors of the climax together.

He lowers his lips to your temple, brushing hair from your face. “Best dinner I’ve had in a long time… and the dessert was even better,” he murmurs, fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm.

You shiver again, biting your lip at the sound of his voice, feeling him still inside of you. For a moment, nothing exists outside this apartment, just warmth, skin, and the press of him on you. 

He shifts slightly, just enough to adjust his weight, chest sliding along yours. The movement is small, just enough for him to start pulling out .

Then he freezes. “Wait,” he mutters, breath hitching.

You lift your head, blinking against the soft moonlight spilling through the balcony doors. His hand brushes down, and there’s a sudden, subtle wrongness. He feels it before he sees it.

“Putain….” he says, voice low, tense.

You lift your head, confused, lips parted, pulse quickening. Your stomach drops as you see it: the condom torn along the side, a thin split running vertically from the base, stretched open and useless.

For a second, the room is suspended in silence.

“Kylian,” you whisper.

He swears under his breath and sits upright abruptly, still hovering over you, chest tight, mind racing. He drags a hand through his hair, pacing the bed for just a moment as he struggles to process.

“At least you took the pill, no?” His voice is rough, panicked, sharp.

Something in you tightens. You bite your lip, swallowing hard. “I… I stopped taking it a few weeks ago,” you admit quietly.

He laughs sharply “Pardon?” he asks, tone sharper now.

“We agreed to start using condoms” you reply, hurt creeping in.

“You can’t rely only on condoms,” he says, voice rising slightly, panicked and frustrated all at once. “That’s not being careful!”

“So I’m supposed to ask permission for my body now?” you shoot back, voice tight.

“YOU SUPPOSED TO DISCUSS WITH ME!” he says, pacing a few steps across the bed, still hovering, not leaving.

“No—” he runs a hand through his hair again, breathing uneven. “No, this isn’t just now.”

His eyes flick back to you, jaw tight. “If you stopped weeks ago… then every time we did it before—”

He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “That means this didn’t start tonight.”

“I am not the one who broke the condom!” you snap, chest tightening. “This was an accident!”

“Accidents happen when people aren’t responsible,” he says sharply, the words leaving him before he can filter.

You stare at him. Silent, numb, the hurt heavy in your chest. The room is thick with tension on how you may possibly be pregnant now, because kylian wasn’t really that careful the past weeks thinking you were still on pills. Your chest tightens; heat fades, leaving only a hollow ache.

He notices it immediately and swallows, trying to keep control, trying to reason. “I’m under so much pressure right now. The world cup coming, the club is falling and I need to get it right with the team, The up coming match against Monaco, trying to win the Ballon D’or this season… this is just…a bad timing.”

The silence stretches, thick, brittle, painful.

He exhales, finally lowering his voice. “You should have been more careful,” he mutters. Controlled. Soft, but the weight behind it crushes.

You don’t answer. You don’t argue. You just stare at him, shocked, eyes steady, wounded, emptied of warmth.

He shifts slightly under your gaze, sighs, uncomfortable. “We will figure it out,” he murmurs.

You say nothing.

Eventually, he lies down beside you again, facing away, the fight unresolved, the tension hanging heavy between your bodies.

You remain upright, sheet clutched to your chest, staring at the space where his back curves away from you, already understanding something fragile has cracked, something neither of you can fix with words alone.

Morning arrives without mercy.

You’ve been awake for a while, staring at the same curtain, listening to his breathing behind you.

It’s steady. Untroubled.

You don’t turn when he shifts. 

He sits up slowly when his alarm rings, like he’s trying not to wake you even though you’re already awake. The mattress dips, then lifts again as he swings his legs over the side. You feel the loss of warmth immediately.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You didn’t reply, going on with your sleep act.

He rubs his face, exhales. The silence between you feels fragile, like if either of you presses too hard it’ll shatter into something worse.

He leans down and kisses your cheek.

It’s soft. Familiar. A habit built over years.

He hesitates, just a second longer than usual, then stands, grabs his towel and went to the toilet. The door clicks shut as the shower starts.

The bathroom door opens softly as Kylian steps out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. Steam curls in the air, clinging to the mirrors, his skin still warm from the hot water. He dries quickly, muscles tense from both training and the argument, hair damp and tousled.

His traveling LV bag sits open on the bed, almost packed for the two days he will be gone in, clothes neatly folded on one side. He slips items in with methodical efficiency, shirts, socks, training gear, every movement precise, but his mind is elsewhere, spinning.

Finally, fully clothed , his cologne surrounding the whole room, he crouches beside you, still acting asleep, your hair falling in soft waves across the pillow. He presses a light kiss to your shoulder, careful not to wake you.

“We’ll talk later, bébé , d’accord?” he whispers, voice rough, low, almost pleading.

You don’t respond. Your arm shifts slightly, but your face remains pressed into the pillow, eyes closed. You’re pretending to sleep, silent, taut with exhaustion and the ache still lingering from yesterday.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, thumb brushing your forearm lightly. Then, with a sigh, he straightens, slinging the bag over his shoulder. Shoes on, jacket zipped. One last glance, heart tightening, before he steps out the door.

You wake with a sharp twist in your stomach, a cold, sinking feeling that pulls you upright before you even open your eyes. Ugh that nausea again , you thought.

The morning light spills across the apartment floor, soft and almost cruel in its normalcy. Your sheets are tangled around your legs, and your chest tightens with a weight you can’t shake.

It’s just panic, you tell yourself. Just nerves from yesterday. The fight. Nothing else.

Your fingers press lightly to your stomach, trembling, trying to soothe the relentless nausea that been hitting you for two weeks now. 

Your mouth tastes faintly metallic, your skin clammy despite the sun spilling warmth across the floor. You close your eyes, taking a shaky breath in, and another out, but the nausea lingers stubbornly, curling through your ribs like it wants to hold you still.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the cool floor, gripping the edge of the dresser for support. Another wave hits, sharp and insistent, and you bite your lip, pressing your palms against your thighs. It’s fine. You’re fine.

Slowly, you rise and shuffle toward the bathroom, gripping the countertop as you steady yourself. You sip a small amount of water, letting it sit at the back of your throat, trying to calm the rolling discomfort in your stomach. The mirror catches your reflection, pale, hair mussed, eyes wide, bright with worry. You swallow hard, forcing your pulse to steady.

You have to go to work. You have to act normal.

Clothing is chosen deliberately: a soft blouse that hides the tension in your shoulders, trousers that won’t bind. You brush your hair quickly but carefully, trying to make it look effortless, like your insides aren’t twisting with anxiety.

Every movement is slow, measured, controlled. You bend to tie your shoes and feel your stomach twist again. Fingers press lightly to your abdomen as you force yourself upright. It’s just nerves. Just yesterday’s stress. Don’t think about it too much.

You check your reflection one last time, smoothing the blouse, tugging gently at the hem. One, two, three deep breaths. You can do this. You have to.

Yet the nausea doesn’t leave. Each step toward the door, each motion of your arms and legs, reminds you that something isn’t right. You pick up your bag, steady yourself, and open the apartment door, forcing your face into a calm mask.

The office hums the way it always does, keyboards tapping, phones ringing, printers whirring in short, irritated bursts. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. You cling to them as you step inside, bag sliding off your shoulder as you greet no one in particular.

Your office chair scrapes softly as you sit. Your co-workers greet you with love, your team giving you the projects , the updated materials.

But, the nausea is already there.

It coils low in your stomach, slow and heavy, like something waking up. You open your laptop anyway. Emails load. A calendar reminder pops up. Meetings. Deadlines. Life moving forward whether you are ready or not.

You swallow.

Focus.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe fifteen. Time stretches strangely, elastic, as heat begins to creep up your spine. Your fingers hover above the keyboard, then press down too hard, keys clacking louder than necessary.

Your mouth tastes wrong. Metallic. Sharp.

You pause, hand drifting to your abdomen without thinking. Pressing. As if you can physically hold yourself together.

Someone laughs across the room. A chair rolls. Coffee sloshes.

Your vision blurs.

Not fully, just at the edges. Like someone smeared grease across the corners of the world.

You inhale through your nose.

It doesn’t help.

The room tilts slightly to the left.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Your heart begins to pound, too fast, too loud, a frantic drumbeat in your ears. Sweat prickles at your temples, your neck, dampening the collar of your blouse.

Don’t do this. Not here.

You push your chair back, intending to stand, to get water, to breathe, but the moment you rise, the floor rushes up to meet you.

Your knees buckle.

“—Hey—!”

A hand reaches for you, but it’s too late. The room spins violently now, sound stretching, voices warping as if underwater.

“MRS. MBAPPÉ !” “Y/N!” “OMG CALL 911”

The panic cuts through the fog.

Your vision blacks out.

You feel yourself falling, but you never hit the ground.

You come back to sensation in fragments.

Cold first.

Then pressure, something tight around your arm.

Then voices, urgent, clipped.

“She’s awake—”

“Easy, stay still—”

Your eyes flutter open.

Fluorescent lights stab down at you, too bright, too sharp. You groan softly, turning your head as a wave of nausea crashes again, stronger this time.

“Don’t move,” a woman says gently. A nurse. Her face swims into focus above you. “You fainted at work. Ambulance brought you in.”

Ambulance.

Hospital.

The word lands heavily in your chest.

“My… work?” you whisper hoarsely.

“They called it in. You scared everyone,” the nurse says, attempting a small smile. “Blood pressure dropped suddenly.”

She adjusts the cuff on your arm. The machine beeps steadily beside you, an intrusive reminder that your body has betrayed you.

You stare at the ceiling tiles. Count the cracks. Anything but the feeling clawing its way up your throat.

Minutes pass. Or hours. Time doesn’t behave.

A doctor finally enters, middle-aged, calm, carrying a chart tucked under his arm. He glances at the monitor, then at you, expression unreadable.

“How are you feeling now?” he asks.

“Like I shouldn’t be here,” you murmur.

He hums softly, noncommittal. “You’re very dehydrated. And under significant physical stress.”

He flips a page.

“And,” he continues, carefully, “your body is working much harder than it should be right now.”

Your chest tightens.

“I don’t understand.”

The doctor doesn’t sit down.

That’s the first thing you notice.

He stands at the foot of the bed, chart tucked against his chest, eyes scanning your monitor before settling on you. The nurse lingers near the IV stand, suddenly very quiet, very still.

Your stomach tightens.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says gently.

Your fingers curl into the sheet. “Okay.”

He inhales once, measured. “You were pregnant.”

The word lands, but not the way it did before.

Were.

You blink. “Were?”

He nods slowly. “Based on your bloodwork and the symptoms you presented with, you were in the very early stages of pregnancy.”

Your pulse roars in your ears. “So… I am?”

The pause is barely a second.

“No,” he says quietly.

The room tilts.

“You experienced an early pregnancy loss,” he continues, voice calm, careful, trained. “It likely happened very recently, possibly within the last twenty-four hours.”

You shake your head, a small, automatic movement. “I don’t… I didn’t even know i—”

“The fainting, the nausea, the drop in blood pressure,” he explains. “Your body was already under strain. When you arrived, there was retained tissue from the fetus. We had to perform a minor procedure to prevent complications.”

The words blur together.

Procedure.

Prevent.

Complications.

Your hand drifts to your lower stomach, pressing lightly, as if something might still be there if you just hold it in place.

“So… it’s gone,” you whisper.

The doctor’s expression softens. “Yes.”

Gone.

The silence that follows is enormous. Heavy. It presses down on your chest until breathing feels optional.

“I didn’t even know,” you say finally. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. “I didn’t even get to know.”

The nurse steps closer, resting a hand on the rail of the bed. “I’m so sorry.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

A laugh escapes you,small, broken, wrong. 

Tears slide sideways into your hair.

“And now it doesn’t even matter,” you whisper.

The doctor clears his throat gently. “Physically, you’ll recover,” he says. “But you need rest. Your body is exhausted. You pushed through a lot.”

You turn your head slowly, looking at him. “Can I go home?”

The nurse stiffens. “We’d really prefer you stay—”

“I want to go home,” you say. Not loud. Not angry. Just empty.

They hesitate.

You don’t argue. You don’t cry harder. You just stare at the wall, hollowed out, already somewhere far away.

Eventually, paperwork appears. Instructions. Warnings you barely hear. Signatures on stupid papers. You were met with your worried co-workers , who stayed to make sure you are fine. Assured them it was just blood pressure and dehydration.

Stopping your tears as you walked to your uber, legs shaking, blurry vision and just the sound of your boots against the floor.

The apartment feels wrong the moment you step inside.

Too quiet. Too familiar.

Your bag slips from your fingers. You don’t notice.

You walk to the bedroom like you’re following instructions, each step mechanical, detached from meaning. The bed looks untouched. Innocent.

You sit down.

Then you fold in on yourself.

Your hands press flat against your stomach, hard, like you’re trying to find proof of something that was there and isn’t anymore. A sound claws its way out of your chest—low, raw, unbearable.

“I didn’t even get to choose,” you sob into the pillow. “I didn’t even get a chance.”

Your shoulders shake violently. The grief isn’t loud for long—it burns fast, sharp, consuming, stealing the air from your lungs until all that’s left is ache.

A sound rips out of you—raw, animal, uncontained. You clutch the pillow like it might anchor you to reality, sobbing until your chest burns, until your throat aches, until your body gives up the fight entirely.

The world narrows.

The room blurs.

Your crying fades into nothing as exhaustion and shock drag you under, the edges of everything dissolving into black.

Two days passed, it was finally the match day. They haven’t talked for the past two days, he tried to reach out, but he keeps thinking of how he will make it up when he gets home after today’s match. Which flowers should he get, where to take her, all his mind was filled with her.

The stadium detonates the moment the ball hits the net.

For half a second, everything is instinct, muscle memory, momentum, the clean violence of it. His body moves before his mind can catch up. He’s running, arms out, teammates crashing into him, the sound so loud it feels like it might lift him off the ground.

He smiles because that’s what his face knows how to do.

He looks toward the stands.

He always does. Always finds the section where you sit, even when you’re not there yet. It’s automatic, a habit etched into him deeper than tactics.

Only this time, it feels wrong halfway through. Empty.

She’s not there.

The realization slips in under the noise, small but sharp. He tells himself it means nothing. Scheduling. Travel. Stress. He forces the thought away and lets the celebration carry him until the final whistle blows.

After, everything blurs the way it always does, questions, cameras, hands clapping his back, sweat cooling unpleasantly on his skin. He answers on autopilot, nods at the right moments, laughs when someone else laughs.

Between questions, his fingers itch for his phone.

When he finally gets it back in the locker room, the screen lights up in his hands.

Nothing.

Usually there’s already something waiting. A heart. A line. Something small and grounding. She never misses a match.

He tells himself not to be dramatic.

She’s tired, he thinks. Busy. Still upset.

He showers. Dresses. Checks again.

Still nothing.

On the bus, he types.

Kylian:

We won ❤️

Delivered.

He stares at the word like it might change if he looks long enough.

Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.

His leg starts bouncing uncontrollably.

Kylian:

Did you see the goal?

Delivered.

No reply.

His chest tightens, an uncomfortable pressure blooming beneath his ribs. He scrolls back through your chat without meaning to, photos, voice notes, inside jokes, the steady presence of you threaded through his days.

He hits FaceTime.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Then stops.

Declined.

His stomach drops so hard he feels briefly nauseous.

He types again, faster now.

Kylian:

Hey. Are you okay?

Please answer me.

Around him, the bus hums with laughter, music, bodies pressed too close. He feels completely separate from it, sealed inside his own head.

A notification finally lights up his screen.

Your name.

Relief hits first, hot, dizzying.

Then he reads it.

You:

I’m fine. Just tired.

No heart. No nickname. Nothing extra.

He frowns, thumbs hovering.

Kylian:

Are you at home?

Did something happen?

The typing dots appear.

Disappear.

Reappear.

Disappear again.

His jaw tightens.

Finally:

You:

Home.

One word. Closed.

His mind starts filling the silence with everything he didn’t say, everything he said wrong. The fight replays, sharper now—your voice going tight, his turning cold and practical, the exact moment he chose fear over you.

You should have been more careful.

The words sound uglier now, stripped of adrenaline. Putting all the blame on you, like it doesn’t take two people .

He FaceTimes again.

No answer.

Again.

Nothing.

Kylian:

Please talk to me.

I’m sorry about the fight.

This time, the response takes longer.

You:

I can’t right now.

That’s when fear settles fully in his chest—not irritation, not frustration. Fear.

The flight back to Madrid feels endless. He can’t follow conversations, can’t laugh at jokes. Every scenario runs through his head in brutal detail—you crying, you sick, you angry, you lying awake staring at the ceiling the way he knows you do when something’s wrong.

At the airport, he buys flowers without thinking. The soft red roses you like. Got you your favorite chocolate, on his way home he stopped to get you a beautiful bracelet.

He tells himself he’s overreacting. That he’ll walk in and you’ll be on the couch, annoyed but okay. Alive. Rolling your eyes at him.

The apartment door opens to silence.

Not the comfortable kind.

The wrong kind.

“Amouuurrrrr,” he calls, setting his bag down.

Nothing.

He moves faster now, unease crawling up his spine. The living room is untouched. The kitchen dark.

The bedroom door is half-open.

You’re in bed, curled in on yourself like you’re trying to disappear. Your skin looks too pale against the sheets. Your hair is damp, clinging to your temples. On the nightstand, pill bottles, folded prescription papers, a glass of water you haven’t touched.

His heart lurches.

“Putain” he breathes.

The flowers slip from his hand, hit the floor forgotten. He crosses the room in seconds and drops to his knees beside the bed, hands hovering uselessly over you checking your temperature

“Hey,” he whispers, voice already breaking. “Hey. Look at me.”

Your eyes open slowly. They’re unfocused, glassy, like it takes effort to understand what you’re seeing.

“What happened?” he asks, words tumbling over each other now. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you call me? Are you hurt? Were you at the hospital?”

You stare at him for a long moment. Your face doesn’t change.

“I fainted,” you say.

The flatness of your voice scares him more than panic would.

“Fainted? Where? Why didn’t you call me????” he repeats.

“At work.”

His throat tightens. “They took you to the hospital?”

You nod once.

“And?” he asks, already dreading the answer, already knowing something is wrong.

You look away from him, eyes drifting to the wall like holding his gaze costs too much.

“They ran tests.”

He waits.

The silence stretches. He can hear his own breathing, too loud in the room.

His heart beating so loudly.

“Y/N? Bébé? What is it ?” His voice cracks absolutely worried, thinking of the worst case scenarios.

Finally, you say it.

“I was pregnant.”

The words hit him in pieces.

Pregnant.

You.

With him.

He sways slightly, like the floor has shifted under his knees. “Was?” he asks hoarsely. “What do you mean was?”

You swallow. Your voice is barely there. “I lost it.”

Something inside him caves in.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

It’s quiet,

like a floor giving way beneath weight it was never built to hold.

He stares at you, eyes searching your face for a contradiction, for a correction, for anything that makes this sentence untrue.

“You… lost it,” he repeats, slower, like saying it carefully might change it.

You nod.

Just once.

That’s all it takes.

His breath leaves him in a sharp, broken exhale. He drops back onto his heels, hands bracing against the mattress like he might fall over otherwise.

“Non,” he says under his breath. “No, no—”

He scrubs a hand over his face hard enough to leave red streaks along his cheek. His jaw tightens, works, like he’s trying to clamp down on something feral clawing its way out of his chest.

“When?” he asks finally, voice rough. “When did this happen?”

You don’t answer right away.

“They said it happened early,” you whisper. “I didn’t even know I was pregnant . My body just—”

Your throat closes. You shake your head. “It was already gone when I got there.”

He looks at your stomach then.

The motion is unconscious. Instinctive.

His hand lifts like he’s going to reach for you—then freezes in midair, fingers curling slowly into a fist instead.

“They… they had to do a procedure,” you continue quietly, words falling out flat, detached. “There was… residue. They said it could’ve been dangerous if they didn’t.”

His chest starts to heave. Residue of his baby..

He presses his lips together, nodding once, twice, like he understands, like any of this makes sense. His eyes shine, wet but unblinking, refusing to spill.

“I wasn’t there,” he says suddenly.

The words come out wrong. Accusatory. Not at you—at himself.

“I wasn’t there,” he repeats, louder now. “You were alone.”

You finally look at him then.

Something in your expression makes his heart seize.

“I didn’t call you,” you say. Not apologetic. Just factual. “I didn’t know how.”

His head snaps up. “Why?”

Your laugh is soft and empty. It barely sounds like a laugh at all.

“Because two days ago,” you say slowly, “you told me I should’ve been more careful.”

The words land between you like broken glass.

His face drains of color.

“I didn’t—” he starts, then stops. His throat works. “I was scared. I was angry. I didn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t matter,” you cut in, quietly.

That’s worse.

He crawls closer to the bed, forearms resting on the mattress now, head bowed. His shoulders tremble once, then again.

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” he whispers. “I didn’t even get the chance to—”

His voice breaks completely.

“To decide?” you finish for him.

He looks up sharply. “No.”

The word is immediate. Fierce. “No. To protect you. To be there.”

Your eyes fill again, but this time the tears don’t fall. They just sit there, heavy, burning.

“I didn’t even get to hate it,” you say. “Or want it. Or imagine anything. It was just… there. And then it wasn’t.”

Your voice cracks on the last word.

He reaches for you then—finally—carefully, like you might shatter. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear that slipped free without permission.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “Mon amour, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your breath stutters. You don’t lean into his touch. You don’t pull away either.

“I keep thinking,” you murmur, staring past him, “maybe if I hadn’t gone to work. Maybe if I’d rested. Maybe if I’d known sooner—”

“No,” he says immediately. Too quickly. “No. Don’t do that.”

But you already are.

“I didn’t protect it,” you whisper. “I didn’t protect anything.”

His hand slides into your hair, forehead pressing gently against yours. His voice is thick now, uneven.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “Your body went through hell. You went through hell.”

You finally break.

The sob tears out of you, violent and sudden, your body folding inward as if collapsing under the weight of everything you’ve been holding in. He gathers you against his chest instinctively, arms wrapping around you tight, anchoring, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I was so scared,” you cry into him. “I was so scared and you weren’t there and I thought—”

“I know,” he murmurs, kissing your hair, your temple, anywhere he can reach. “I know. I’m here now.”

Your fingers clutch into his shirt, desperate, trembling.

“I don’t know how to feel,” you sob. “I don’t know what I lost.”

He holds you tighter.

“Neither do I,” he admits hoarsely.

You stay like that—your crying slowing only when exhaustion steals the edge of it, his breathing still uneven against your hair, the room dim and quiet around you.

Nothing is fixed.

Nothing is resolved.

But neither of you lets go.