#mbappe

Content : heat x smut x confession

Kylian is definitely being Kylian here. wink wink

You’d been part of Real Madrid for almost three years now, not a player, not part of coaching staff, but somehow the team treated you like you were both.

You were the main counselor and appointment coordinator for the club, the one who managed schedules, handled their personal requests, sorted conflicts, soothed egos, encouraged them before big matches, and occasionally made them breathe through panic or disappointment.

Day 7 of Kinktober

Sorry for making everyone wait x

Part 1 🤭

warning: it's a lot

He looks even more unreal in person than he did on the stream.

Black suit, precise and sharp, sleeves falling just right at his wrists. The lights and cameras catch on the fine line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth when he smiles. And then there’s the trophy — that ridiculous, gleaming golden boot in his hands — as if he needed more reason to walk like the world belongs beneath his feet.

You stand near the back of the ceremony, half-hidden behind a pillar, badge around your neck, champagne flute sweating in your fingers. Staff, not star. Close enough to see everything, far enough to stay out of the photos.

That’s the rule, after all.

Friends with benefits. Not girlfriend. Never public.

You pretend you’re watching the stage like everyone else, but your focus keeps narrowing to him alone. The way his hand settles on the base of the trophy. The way he laughs at something the president says. The way he tucks his tongue into his cheek when the host lists off his numbers for the season, like he’s trying not to grin too hard.

Too late. His ego is practically its own guest of honour.

“Golden Boot winner of the 24–25 season…”

The crowd cheers, you clap along, and he lifts the trophy again, that bright, blinding smile spreading across his face. He looks out over the crowd and, for a second, you’re delusional enough to think his gaze finds you.

Then his eyes flicker, the barest beat, and his smile softens in a way the cameras probably won’t catch.

You feel it low in your stomach anyway.

You take a sip of your champagne to cover it up.

He gives the usual speech: thanks the club, his teammates, his family, the fans. Talks about how this is just the beginning, about wanting more. His voice is smooth, steady, his Spanish rolling easy off his tongue. You know that voice when it’s wrecked, low, broken beside your ear, but today it’s polished, public, golden like the trophy in his hands.

“…and to everyone who believed in me this season,” he finishes, eyes skimming the room again, pausing for a heartbeat at the back, “Thank you. We’re not done yet.”

You shouldn’t feel like that means you. You shouldn’t feel a warm flush creeping up your neck.

You put your empty glass down and remind yourself: this is just fun. Just for now.

When the ceremony ends, the room dissolves into pockets of people: officials, executives, cameras, microphones; suit jackets and handshakes. Camera flashes and Spanish, French and English all overlapping. You hang back, watching him navigate it like it’s a game he’s mastered: picture with the president, picture with the club reps, picture with the trophy alone.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

K: Where are you hiding?

You glance up to the stage. He’s mid-photo, trophy tucked against his chest, the same wide smile on his face, but his gaze is pointed somewhere over the photographer’s shoulder, toward the back of the hall.

You text back:

You: I’m busy. Go be famous.

The phone barely has time to dim before it lights again.

K: Already famous. Come congratulate me.

You roll your eyes even as your lips curve.

You: You just got a whole ceremony for that. That wasn’t enough?

K: No. Need you.

Your heart trips over itself at the last word. You stare at it for a second too long, then slip the phone into your bag and move, weaving through clusters of guests, staying low, small, forgettable.

By the time you reach the side corridor, security is guiding people out toward the exit and the back rooms. Kylian disappears behind a door with two officials and the trophy in his hands. You pause, unsure if you should even be here, when a security guard spots you.

“Player area,” he says, though his tone is more apologetic than stern.

“I’m just…” you start, then the door swings open again.

Kylian steps back out, suit immaculate, trophy tucked against his forearm, phone in the other hand. He looks up, spots you, and his whole face lights in a way that has nothing to do with the cameras anymore.

“She’s with me,” he says simply, nodding to the guard.

The guard steps aside without question.

You raise a brow as you come closer. “Abusing your power already?”

He leans down just enough that only you can hear him. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Heat flickers to life under your skin. You swallow it down. “Congratulations,” you say instead, tilting your head toward the trophy. “Golden Boot. Couldn’t have done it without your most loyal supporter in the back row.”

“Hmm.” He squints, faux-thoughtful. “Funny, I don’t remember seeing you in the front celebrating me properly.”

“I was working.”

“You could’ve worked closer.”

“I didn’t want to distract you,” you reply, matching his teasing. “God forbid you trip on the stairs because you were too busy staring.”

You mean it as a joke, but his eyes darken just a shade, something sparking there. “You really think you’re that distracting?”

You open your mouth, shut it again, and look at the trophy instead. “Maybe I was more interested in the award than the winner.”

He presses the golden boot into your hands so suddenly you almost fumble it.

“Here,” he says. “You can hold it in the car. Get it out of your system.”

Your fingers curl carefully around the base of it. It’s heavier than you expected, cool and dense, all sharp details and gleam. The weight of a season condensed into a single object.

“Careful,” he adds softly, a flash of something sincere behind the cockiness. “That’s our baby.”

You snort. “You’re not calling a trophy our baby.”

“Why not?” He starts walking down the corridor with you, casual, like he didn’t just say something that made your stomach clench. “Took nine months of work. Constant attention. Kept me up at night.”

“You are impossible.”

“And you like me like that.”

You don’t answer, but he hears your response in the way your shoulder brushes his as you walk.

The night outside is that particular Madrid kind of soft — the city humming, sky washed in orange light, air still warm even though the hour is late. The driver pulls up the black car by a side entrance, away from the journalists and fans gathered near the front.

The moment the door closes behind you, the noise of the world is replaced with the low murmur of the engine and the quiet click of your seatbelts. The city’s glow bleeds in through tinted windows, painting the leather interior in streaks of gold and blue.

You balance the trophy in your lap carefully, fingers tracing the detailed laces, the ridges of the boot. It’s absurdly beautiful, in that over-the-top, football way. It also feels strangely intimate — like you’re holding a piece of him.

He watches you for a moment instead of telling the driver to go. The car smells faintly like his cologne, clean, dark and expensive. “You like it?” he asks.

“The boot or the man attached to it?” you say lightly, still studying the way the metal catches the light.

His chuckle is low. “Both, I hope.”

You glance over. His suit jacket hangs open, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the curve of his forearms, the black T-shirt beneath clinging to his chest. The faint glow from the car light catches on his watch, making it gleam sharper than it should. The look is dangerous: not polished trophy-winner now, but something between tired and wired. His knee nudges yours.

“You looked good up there,” you admit, the words slipping out more honest than you intend.

He smiles, slower this time. “I always look good.”

You aim a playful kick at his ankle, gently enough not to upset the trophy. “See, this is why I stayed in the back. Your head is already too big.”

“Lies,” he murmurs. “You stayed in the back because you like watching me from a distance. You like pretending you’re not going home with me.”

Your throat tightens. You look out the window to hide the way your cheeks heat, the way the line lands too close to the truth.

“Drive,” Kylian tells the driver finally, voice easy, and the car glides into the night.

For a few minutes, Madrid is just a blur of lights. You rest your head against the back of the seat and let the motion lull you, thumb smoothing along the engraved plaque at the base of the trophy. You can feel his gaze on you, heavy and curious.

“Say it again,” he says suddenly.

You tilt your head. “Say what?”

“That you’re proud of me.”

You blink. “I never said—”

“You were going to,” he cuts in. “Back there, before I gave you the trophy. You had that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The one that makes me play better,” he says simply.

Something tender curls in your chest, unexpected and fragile.

“I am proud of you,” you say, because lying feels pointless in the dark. “You worked hard for this.”

His exhale is quiet, almost like a sigh of satisfaction. “There it is.”

You shake your head, but you can’t keep the smile off your lips.

“You know,” he muses, turning his attention to the window, “a lot of people want me tonight.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “And here I thought this ride was exclusive.”

He grins. “The club wants me for more photos. Sponsors are already calling. Fans outside the building, waiting. Cameras, interviews, parties.”

You hum. “And yet you’re in a car with me.”

He shifts closer, knee pressing more firmly against your leg. “Exactly.”

You swallow.

“What do you want?” you ask, the words out before you can stop them.

He looks at you then, full on, like he’s considering how honest he wants to be. Outside, the city lights streak across his face, making his eyes look even brighter.

He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath on your cheek. “I want,” he says slowly, “to get home, take off this suit, and remind you why you shouldn’t hide in the back next time.”

Your fingers tighten around the base of the trophy.

“You already did that,” you say. “I was there. I saw the goals.”

“That’s for them,” he say”. “What I do to you after, that’s for us.”

Heat flares dangerously low in your stomach.

The driver takes a turn, and the car’s movement pushes you a fraction closer to him. His hand drops to your knee, palm warm through the fabric of your dress. He doesn’t move it, just lets it rest there, weight and promise.

Your pulse picks up. You stare straight ahead, pretending to be fascinated by the traffic.

“Kylian,” you murmur, a warning that doesn’t sound like one.

“What?” he asks, all faux-innocence. His thumb strokes once along the inside of your knee, slow. “I’ve just had a very successful season. Let me celebrate.”

“You’re going to blame everything you do tonight on that trophy, aren’t you?”

He nods toward it, still balanced carefully on your lap. “You’re the one holding it like it’s sacred.”

“It is,” you say, a little too earnestly.

His hand squeezes your knee, and you feel the shift in him, from light to intent. “You know what else is sacred?”

You don’t answer. Your mouth is dry.

“The way you look at me when I score,” he says softly.

The words land heavy between you. You squeeze your legs together without meaning to, the movement subtle but not subtle enough under his hand.

He notices. Of course he does. He leans in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Every single goal,” he murmurs, voice low, “and all I think about coming home and putting that same look on your face. Over and over.”

You inhale a shaky breath, the city outside vanishing into blur. “You’re really drunk on yourself tonight,” you whisper, but it lacks bite.

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe I’m drunk on the idea of you in my bed with nothing between us.”

Your heart slams once, hard.

Nothing between you.

Your gaze drops instinctively to his hand on your leg, then to the trophy in your lap. Golden boot. Golden boy. Golden season.

You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t push. The rest of the ride stretches out thick and quiet, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin, your mind running ahead of your body, imagining, wanting.

By the time the car slows to a stop in front of his house, your nerves are a live wire. The driver moves to get out, but Kylian leans forward, murmuring, “We’re good, thanks. See you.”

He’s already stepping out, coming around to your side to open the door himself. His hand extends toward you, steady, familiar. You try not to think about how many cameras were trained on that same hand tonight.

“Careful,” he says, nodding toward the trophy in your lap. “If you drop my boot, I’m dropping you.”

“You’re not funny.”

His grin flashes in the soft wash of the porch light. “You’re still here, so I must be.”

You follow him up the short path to the door, the night air still buzzing with the echo of applause from the ceremony. Inside, the quiet feels heavy. As you step through the entryway, your reflection catches in the window, him, tall and composed behind you in black; you, slightly undone, clutching the symbol of his triumph like something breakable.

Kylian pauses behind you, gaze flicking to the glass before meeting yours in the reflection. His hands find your hips, fingers spreading lightly.

 “You see that?” he murmurs.

“What?”

“How good we look together.”

You scoff, but your heart stutters. “You and your boot, sure.”

“You, me, and the boot,” he corrects. “The perfect family”

“Liar.”

His hands tighten once on your hips before he lets go, guiding you down the hallway with a hand at the small of your back. His touch burns through the thin fabric of your dress.

Inside his home, the air is cool and faintly scented with whatever expensive candle he’s been using lately. The space is tidy but lived-in: a jacket on the back of a chair, a couple of controllers on the coffee table, a pair of trainers by the door.

“Here,” he says, nodding toward the shelves by the TV already lined with trophies and framed photos. “Give him a place to sleep.”

You move over, careful, still cradling the boot like it might shatter if you breathe too hard. There’s an empty space between a silver cup and a framed shot of him mid-celebration, mouth open, eyes wild with joy. The golden boot slots in like it always belonged there.

You take a step back.

He comes to stand just behind you. In the reflection on the black TV screen you see him, dark suit, dark eyes, your smaller frame in front of his, the gleam of gold between you.

“Looks right,” he says quietly.

“The shrine is getting out of hand,” you mumble, but your voice comes out softer than you intend.

He huffs a laugh and dips his head, his lips brushing the side of your neck in a quick, warm kiss. “You love it.”

You pretend you don’t shiver. “I love that it means you’re finally going to sleep in on your days off instead of pacing around the training ground at 8 am.”

“Can’t promise anything,” he says, mouth lingering by your skin. “I’m already thinking about World Cup.”

Of course he is.

You turn to face him, meaning to say something half sarcastic, half sincere — of course you are, you’re ridiculous — but the words tangle when you see him up close like this, without the cameras and the speeches. The suit, the small crease at the corner of his mouth from smiling too much tonight, the tired brightness in his eyes.

He smiles, slower now. “What?” he asks. “You’re staring again.”

“Just taking it in before you get insufferable,” you say. “Golden Boot, World Cup, what next? ‘I can’t hang out, I’m too busy being a star’?”

He makes an offended sound. “I already make time for you. Very valuable time, by the way.”

You snort. “Yes, thank you for blessing me with your schedule.”

He rolls his eyes but the corner of his mouth curves. His hands find your hips again, thumbs pressing into the fabric of your dress. “Speaking of my schedule,” he says lightly, “what are you doing tomorrow?”

You blink. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” He tries to keep it casual, gaze sliding past you to the trophy for a second before coming back. “After the match.  Thought we could… do something.”

“Do something,” you repeat, wary. “Like what? Netflix and you pretending to let me pick the movie before stealing the remote?”

He laughs softly. “We can do that any night. I meant…” He hesitates, searching your face. “Go out. Dinner. Somewhere you don’t have to hide in the back and drink cheap champagne.”

The word dinner lands heavier than it should. Different to ‘come over,’ different to the unsaid you know where the spare key is.

You pull a small face to cover the sudden flip in your stomach. “Out-out?”

He shrugs, trying for nonchalant. “Could be quiet. Not a big scene. Just…you and me. Food. Maybe a drink that doesn’t come from the players’ lounge fridge.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. You do have plans tomorrow.

They’re just not with him.

“I can’t,” you say, and immediately cringe at how stiff it sounds.

His brows draw together. “You can’t?”

You blow out a breath, glancing past him to the boot, anywhere but his eyes. “I’ve got plans.”

“What plans?” he asks, too quick.

“Just plans,” you say, which is obviously the worst answer you could have given because his expression sharpens instantly.

“With who?”

You pause for half a beat too long.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m stupid.”

You swallow. He’s still holding your hips, grip gentle but firm, like he’s worried you might bolt if he lets go.

“It’s just a date,” you say finally, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s not a big deal.”

His jaw ticks once. “A date.”

“Yeah.”

“With who?” he repeats, slower this time.

“Someone my friend introduced me to.” You shrug like it’s nothing. “He works in marketing. It’s not serious, it’s just… drinks.”

Kylian stares at you for a long second, like he’s waiting for you to laugh and say got you. When you don’t, something in his posture changes.

“He works in marketing,” he echoes flatly.

You resist the urge to fidget. “You don’t have a monopoly on my Saturday nights, you know.”

The second the words are out, you see them hit. His eyes flash, then go cool, his mouth flattening.

“Right,” he says, carefully. “Of course I don’t.”

You hate how defensive you suddenly feel. “We said this wasn’t…” you gesture vaguely between you. “whatever. We both know what this is.”

“Do we?” he asks.

You blink. “Kylian, come on.”

He lets out a short laugh, no humour in it. “I just thought, since you’re in my bed more than your own lately, maybe I get to know when you’re… when you’re seeing someone else.”

“It’s not someone else,” you say, then wince, because that sounds worse. “It’s just… someone. Once. Maybe twice.”

His grip tightens on your hips. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make heat spark low in your stomach in a way that annoys you.

“Why?” he asks simply.

You stare at him. “Why what?”

“Why do you need him?” His voice is calm, but there’s something loaded under it now. “You’ve got me.”

You laugh, startled. “You can’t be serious.”

He doesn’t laugh back.

“Kylian,” you say slowly, “you’re the one who didn’t want a relationship. You literally said the words ‘no complications’ to my face.”

“I know what I said.” He runs a hand over his jaw, frustration flickering. “I just didn’t realise ‘no complications’ meant you going out with some guy who sells shampoo.”

“He does more than shampoo,” you mutter, then groan at yourself. “That’s not the point. I’m allowed to date. You’re allowed to date. That was kind of the agreement.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped, low and rough. “And you think he’s going to be better than me?”

Your heart jumps. “It’s not a competition.”

“Everything is a competition,” he says, and it’s so very him that you almost smile.

You don’t, though, because his eyes are serious now, burning into yours.

His thumb presses a slow, deliberate circle into the dip of your hipbone, the pressure just shy of bruising. The air between you crackles, thick with the scent of his cologne and the faint metallic tang of the trophy still warm from your hands.

“Kylian,” you start, voice thinner than you want, “Come on, we’re not doing this.”

“Doing what?” He leans in, forehead almost brushing yours, the heat of him radiating through the thin fabric of your dress. “Talking? Or pretending you don’t want me to remind you exactly why you keep coming back?”

Your laugh comes out shaky. “You’re jealous.”

“So what?” The admission is rough, unfiltered, nothing like the polished speeches from earlier. His hand slides lower, fingers curling possessively over the curve of your ass. “Some shampoo guy gets to take you out, buys you cheap wine, and I don’t even get a heads up?”

You swallow, pulse thudding in your throat. “You don’t own me.”

“No,” he murmurs, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “but I know every inch of you better than he ever will.”

The words hit low and filthy, a spark straight to your core. You feel yourself clench, thighs pressing together instinctively. He notices, and his grin turns sharp and smug.

“See?” His voice drops to that register that always unravels you, the one he uses when he’s buried deep and whispering French against your skin. “You’re already wet just thinking about me.”

Heat floods your cheeks, but you don’t deny it. Can’t. Instead, you reach for the only weapon you have left: distraction. Your hands find his belt, fingers working the buckle with practised ease. The clink of metal is loud in the quiet room. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t stop you.

“Hey…”

“Shut up.” You sink to your knees before he can finish, the plush rug soft under your shins. You look up at him through your lashes, watching the way his jaw flexes, the way his hands hover like he’s not sure whether to pull you up or push you down.

You palm him through his trousers, feeling the thick line of him already hard and straining. “Let me congratulate you properly,” you say, voice husky. “Since you’re so desperate for attention.”

His laugh is ragged. “Fuck. Yeah I am.”

You unzip him slow, the rasp of the zipper loud in the hush. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, the head already glossy with pre cum. You wrap your fingers around the base, stroking once, twice, feeling him throb hot against your palm. He’s thicker tonight, veins pulsing with the same adrenaline that had him owning the stage.

“Careful,” he warns, voice already shredded. “You start this, I’m not stopping.”

“Who said I want you to?” You lean in, tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting salt and him. He groans, fingers threading into your hair, gripping tight.

You sink lower, lips stretching around the crown, taking him inch by inch until your nose brushes the trimmed hair at his base. He’s thick, filling your mouth, your throat, the stretch making your eyes water. You hollow your cheeks and suck hard, pulling back with a wet pop before diving down again, sloppy and deliberate.

“God, yes,” he hisses, head falling back. “Just like that.”

You work him with your mouth and hand in tandem, slow at first, then faster, messy, the way you know drives him insane. Saliva slicks your chin, drips down your wrist. His grip tightens in your hair, hips starting to thrust shallowly, fucking your mouth with restrained power.

But even as you take him deeper, choking slightly on the length of him, you feel his gaze burning into you. He’s not lost in it, not completely. His free hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your stretched lips.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice rough.

You look up, eyes watering, and the jealousy is still there, banked but blazing. He’s not forgotten. Not even close.

“You think he’ll ever get this?” he growls, thrusting deeper, making you gag softly. “This mouth? This throat? You on your knees for me like you were made for it?”

You moan around him, the vibration making his cock twitch. Your own arousal is soaking through your panties now, thighs slick. You’re distracting him, yes, but you’re losing yourself too.

Saliva drips down your chin, slicking your hand as you pump what your mouth can’t take. Gagging softly when he hits the back of your throat, then swallowing around him until his thighs tremble.

Kylian’s head falls back for a second, a low curse in French, but then his gaze snaps down, dark and hungry. “Dress,” he demands. “Need your tits. Now.”

You don’t stop sucking, just reach up with your free hand and yank the neckline of your dress down. The fabric catches on your bra for a second before you shove that down too. Your tits spill out, nipples already hard, bouncing slightly with the rhythm of your head.

He hisses at the sight, hips jerking forward. “Fuck, look at you.”

You pull off just long enough to swipe your thumb over the tip of his cock, gathering the fresh bead of pre cum, then smear his tip over one nipple, then the other, painting yourself shiny and obscene. The cool air hits the wet peaks and you moan, the sound vibrating around him as you take him back in.

Kylian’s grip tightens in your hair, guiding you now, fucking your mouth in shallow, filthy thrusts. “That’s it,” he pants. “Mark yourself with me. Let him smell me on you tomorrow.”

You’re dripping down your thighs, the rug rough against your knees as you shift higher, sitting up straighter so your tits bounce with every bob of your head. Spit and pre cum mix, dripping onto your chest, sliding between your breasts in slick trails.

He’s close. You feel it in the way his cock swells, the way his abs clench under the open shirt. “Gonna come,” he warns, voice wrecked. “Open wide, baby. Drink my cum.”

You do, pulling back until just the head is in your mouth, tongue swirling, hand pumping fast. He comes with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as the first hot spurt hits the back of your throat. You swallow what you can, but there’s too much, thick ropes overflowing, spilling from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin and onto your tits in messy, pearly streaks.

He keeps thrusting through it, milking himself dry, painting your chest until you’re glazed and filthy. When he finally pulls out, a final drop lands on your lower lip. You lick it away, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on his.

Kylian stares down at you, chest heaving, cock still half-hard and glistening. His thumb swipes through the mess on your breast, smearing it over your nipple, then brings it to your mouth. You suck it clean without hesitation.

“Still think he’s gonna be better?” he asks, voice low and dangerous, jealousy still simmering under the euphoria.

You don’t answer. You can’t. The taste of him is thick on your tongue, his cum cooling on your skin.

He hauls you up by the arms, spinning you until your back hits the wall beside the trophy shelf. Your baby glints in your peripheral, a mocking third party.

Kylian cages you in, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding under your dress to cup you through damp lace. His fingers press against your clit, circling once, and you whimper.

“Tell me,” he says, voice lethal soft, “when he kisses you goodnight, are you going to be thinking about how I taste? How I stretch this pretty pussy until you can’t walk straight?”

You arch into his touch, helpless. “I need your fingers”

“Say it.”

“Please,” you breathe, the confession torn out of you. “Please, I need you.”

Kylian’s eyes flash at your gasped plea, pupils blown wide, the brown shimmering under the low lights. In one motion he bands an arm around your waist, lifts you clean off the wall like you weigh nothing, and hurls you onto the wide sofa. You land on your back with a soft, breath stealing bounce, tits still out, streaked with his cum, glistening wet and obscene. The trophy watches from its shelf, golden and smug, catching the light like it’s laughing.

He’s on you before the air returns to your lungs, knees shoving your thighs apart with bruising force. Your dress is already bunched at your hips; with a rough yank he drags the rest of the fabric up and over your head, the cotton catching on your arms for a heartbeat before he tosses it aside like it insulted him. The bra follows, straps snapping against your skin as he rips it free with a single impatient jerk, the elastic stinging your shoulders. You’re naked now except for the ruined lace panties clinging to one ankle, soaked through and useless.

“Stay,” he orders, voice gravel and smoke. He plants one hand beside your head, forearm caging you in, veins standing out against the muscle. His watch glistens in your peripheral. The left hand slides down your sweat-slick stomach, fingers splayed wide, possessive, before two of them spear back inside you, with no warning. The stretch is immediate, brutal, perfect. You arch off the cushions with a broken cry, the leather cool and sticky against your spine.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he groans, pumping hard, knuckles curling to stroke that spot that makes your vision blur white at the edges. Every thrust drags over swollen, sensitive walls, the wet sounds loud in the quiet room, slick mingling with your ragged gasps. “Still dripping my cum from your tits and you’re already begging for more.”

You claw at his shoulders, nails raking the cotton of his shirt until the seams strain. “Please…”

“Say it again.” He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, the burn exquisite, your pussy fluttering around the intrusion. His thumb finds your clit, circling fast, relentless, “Tell me who this pussy answers to.”

“You,” you sob, hips bucking involuntarily, chasing the pressure. “Only you.”

“That’s fucking right.” He leans down, teeth grazing your earlobe, breath hot and humid against your skin. “Nobody else gets this. No one.”

His fingers piston faster, curling, scissoring, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit with every brutal thrust. The pressure builds low and vicious, different from the usual climb, sharper, deeper, almost frightening. It coils behind your pubic bone, a hot, liquid weight that makes your thighs tremble and your toes curl against the leather.

“Kylian, I— wait.” Your voice cracks, high and desperate. “I can’t…”

“You can.” He cages you fully now, forearm braced beside your head, the other hand relentless between your legs. His bicep flexes with every pump, the heat of him radiating through his shirt. “You’re gonna give me everything tonight. Gonna squirt all over my fingers so you remember who you’re coming home to.”

The words snap something inside you. Your back bows off the sofa, spine cracking, thighs shaking violently. Then it hits, an explosive rush, hot and uncontrollable. You scream his name as you gush around his fingers, clear liquid pulsing out in messy, forceful spurts, soaking his wrist, the leather beneath you, dripping down your ass, over the floor,  in warm rivulets that pool beneath your tailbone. The sensation is overwhelming, like your entire lower body is unravelling, pleasure so intense it borders on pain.

He doesn’t stop. Just keeps fucking you through it, drawing out every shudder, every spurt, hand coated, fingers curling mercilessly until you’re limp and gasping, tears streaking your temples, chest heaving. Your pussy clenches in aftershocks, milking his fingers like it’s trying to keep him inside.

“Good girl,” he praises, voice wrecked with awe. He pulls his fingers free slowly, the drag making you whimper, and brings them to your lips. They’re slick and shining, dripping with you. You suck them clean without thinking, tongue swirling around the digits, tasting yourself, sharp, musky, mixed with the faint salt of his skin. The proof of what he does to you.

You gasp his name over and over, a desperate plea.

“Bedroom,” you gasp, remembering the rule, the condom, the one thing you both swore you’d never break. “Condom…”

“Fuck the condom,” he groans.  “One time won’t hurt. I need to feel you raw. Want to fill you up until you’re dripping with me.”

The words hit like a drug. Your pussy clenching involuntarily , the thought of him bare, hot and thick and coming inside you, making something primal unfurl in your gut, a dark, hungry ache that makes your hips roll upward on instinct.

His cock is rock-hard again, jutting against your thigh, still slick from your mouth, the head flushed dark and leaking. He drags it through your soaked folds, coating himself in the mess you made, teasing your entrance with slow, deliberate nudges. Every pass over your clit makes you jerk, oversensitive and trembling, the swollen bundle of nerves sparking white-hot.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes locked on where you’re joined. “Pussy still fluttering, begging for more. You’re gonna take me raw, aren’t you? Gonna let me fuck you until you’re dripping with me for days.”

You nod frantically, beyond words, legs spreading wider on instinct. The leather is cold and slick beneath you now, your own release cooling against your skin, pooling beneath your ass in a sticky puddle. He lines up, the blunt head pressing against your entrance, stretching you open just enough to make you gasp.

“Beg,” he demands, voice rough, hips rolling just enough to tease. “Tell me what you need.”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea spilling out before you can stop it.

“Please what?”

“Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Please—”

The plea snaps something in him. He thrusts in to the hilt in one brutal stroke, no barrier, just heat, skin and the drag of him bare inside you. You moan loud, back arching off the sofa, the stretch exquisite and overwhelming. He’s thicker than his fingers, hotter, the veins along his shaft dragging against your walls with every inch. You feel every ridge, every pulse, the way he bottoms out, and his balls press flush against your ass.

“Fuck,” he groans, stilling for a moment, buried to the root, forehead dropping to yours. “So tight. So good. Can feel you squeezing me already.”

Then he moves, hard and fast, hips snapping with the same precision he uses on the pitch. Each thrust punches the air from your lungs, the sofa creaking beneath you, leather sticking to your sweat-slick back. His hand finds your throat, slightly squeezing, just holding, thumb pressing over your pulse so he can feel it race.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, voice shredded, hips grinding deep on every downstroke, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each punishing roll. “Gonna pump you so full you’ll feel me for days. I need my cum inside you.”

You’re beyond words, nodding frantically, nails raking down his back through his shirt, leaving red trails that burn under the cotton. He shifts his angle, the blunt crown dragging hard over that swollen spot inside you — once, twice — and the pressure snaps like a live wire. Your orgasm barrels through you, violent and unrelenting. Your back bows off the leather, hips jerking so hard the force of your clenching pussy pushes him clean out with a wet, filthy pop. A fresh gush of slick sprays across his lower abs, dripping down his shaft in messy rivulets.

Kylian hisses, eyes blown black, cock bobbing heavy and slick in the air between you. “Fuck, look at that,” he moans, voice raw with awe. “Pushed me out like you can’t take it. But I know you will.”

He grips the base of his cock, lines up, and slams back in, one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs. Your walls fluttering wildly around the sudden invasion, still spasming from the aftershocks. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. Just sets a relentless rhythm, hips snapping, balls slapping against your soaked ass with every drive. The sofa creaks beneath you, leather sticking to your sweat-slick back, the room echoing with the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin.

Your thighs tremble around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. He drops his weight onto one forearm beside your head, the other hand sliding between you to find your clit, swollen, sensitive. His thumb circles slow at first, deliberate, spreading your slick over the bundle of nerves until you’re whimpering, hips rolling to chase the pressure.

“Ky-” It’s a broken sob, your voice cracking on the second syllable.

“Not yet,” he murmurs against your temple, breath hot. “Hold it. Let it build.”

He slows his thrusts, grinding deep on every stroke, the head of his cock dragging over that spot again and again, deliberate and maddening. Ten strokes - slow, filthy, each one dragging a whimper from your throat. Twenty. Your pussy flutters around him, greedy, trying to pull him deeper. Thirty strokes, and sweat beads on his temples, dripping onto your chest, mixing with the mess already streaking your skin. His shirt clings to his back, damp and rumpled, the fabric rough against your nipples as he leans down to suck a bruise into the swell of your breast.

Fifty strokes, and you’re shaking, the pressure coiling low and vicious, heavier with every drag of his cock. He feels it, the way your walls start to ripple, the subtle tightening that tells him you’re close again. His hips stutter, then steady, grinding deeper.

“Fuck, I feel you,” he groans, voice cracking. “Squeezing me so tight. I’m gonna cum, baby. Gonna fill this pussy.”

Your legs snap around his waist, heels locking at the small of his back, pulling him impossibly deep. “Inside,” you gasp, the word torn from you. “Cum inside me.”

Your words snap something inside him. He buries himself to the root with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as the first hot spurt floods you. You feel it, thick, pulsing, the warmth spreading low and heavy in your belly. The sensation tips you over. Your second orgasm crashes through you, slower but deeper, your walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses, milking every drop from him. Another flood of slick gushes around his cock, soaking the leather beneath you.

You come together, bodies locked, his cock twitching with every rope of cum, your pussy fluttering in perfect sync. He keeps thrusting through it, shallow, filthy, pushing his cum deeper, drawing out every shudder, every clench. Only when you’re both limp and trembling does he still, cock still half-hard and plugged inside you, cum leaking out around his base, slick and white, dripping down your ass to join the mess on the sofa.

He collapses half on top of you, both of you panting, sweat slick and trembling. The air is thick with sex. The scent of leather, his cologne, your perfume, your combined release. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling.

For a long moment, there’s just the sound of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.

Then he presses a kiss to your temple, soft, almost tender. “Stay with me,” he murmurs against your skin.

You don’t answer. You can’t. The weight of what just happened settles between you like the trophy on the shelf — undeniable, gleaming, impossible to ignore.

You both know what this means.

Pairing: Kylian Mbappe x Reader

Genre: fluff. fluff and more fluff.

Summary: France win the 2026 World Cup. But this isn’t really about the match. It’s about the moment after — when Kylian decides he’s done being careful with the thing that matters most.

Author’s Note: The 2026 World Cup is here, girls. Call up the Etsy witches. It’s hexxing season.

I was rewatching season 2 of Bridgerton, specifically that moment when Anthony and Kate finally say fuck it and dance together, knowing everyone is watching and choosing each other anyway. I love that so much.

So, I really wanted to explore the idea of Kylian reaching a point where he’s no longer scared to be in love, publicly.

In this fic, it’s implied that they’d already discussed it. That there was an agreement sitting between them for weeks: if France win, we go public. Which is why the win feels heavier, sweeter, more intimate. He did it for them.

Enjoyyyyyyy. 💕💕💕💕💕💕

————————————————————————

Breath caught, hearts stalled — and then France detonates into sound.

Blue. White. Red. Streamers fall like confetti snowfall, curling through the air as if the sky itself has chosen a side. The stadium erupts, a living thing screaming “Allez les Bleus” into the night. Somewhere, Peter Drury’s voice rises above it all, lyrical and reverent, speaking of redemption, of time bending back on itself, of a boy who refuses to accept endings. Of two goals in ten minutes. Of history dragged back from the brink by refusal alone.

Kylian barely hears it.

He is already gone. sprinting, shouting, swallowed by teammates who crash into him from every angle. He laughs, then screams, then laughs again, overcome, unguarded. He drops to his knees once, fists pressed into the grass, forehead tipped back to the sky as if he might actually touch it.

“We did it,” he gasps, half-laughing, half-disbelieving. “We actually did it.”

On the other side of the pitch, Argentina collapses inward in quiet devastation. Hands on heads. Shirts pulled over faces. Grief moves quieter, but it moves just as deep all the same.

And you watch.

You stand where you always do — just beyond the edge of the moment, close enough to feel its heat, distant enough to let it belong to him. Because it belongs to him. All of it. The world. The cup. You have learned this discipline by loving someone whose life is conducted in public: to exist just outside the frame, to be present without imprint, to remain steady when the world tilts toward him and threatens to collapse under its own attention.

You watch him move through the chaos with an ease that still astonishes you. Oh, how deeply he loves this sport. With all its trophies, but more so the labour. The repetition. The hours. The self-correction. The fatigue. The sacrifice. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. The obedience to routine until nights like this look effortless. You think how few people understand this about him. How fervently he loves this silly sport and this team. He belongs to this team utterly, even as it takes from him without ever quite naming the cost. He gives anyway. Again. Always.

And then… there is the madness.

The cameras. The noise. The weight of being looked at from every direction at once. You cannot quite understand how he enjoys it, how he turns toward the chaos. How he smiles into the lens. How he can be playful and luminous, offering himself willingly to the spectacle. It should consume him. It should hollow him out. But it doesn’t. Instead, it seems to animate him.

He looks perfectly himself in the middle of it all, radiant and unguarded, loving the impossible theatre of it, and somehow still remaining whole. My sweet, joyful boy. As though the disorder has been waiting for his calm. As though this moment, loud and unruly and impossibly bright, has always belonged to him. Your eyes well up.

He has won. He is happy. My golden boy.

The chaos softens into celebration. Family members begin to appear, laughter mixing with tears. Cameras flash. The trophy gleams under the stadium lights, passed from hand to hand, kissed, lifted. You’re watching him joke with someone when he turns his head.

You are smiling when you feel it. That unmistakable shift. His eyes find yours across the barrier, bright, disbelieving, still vibrating with adrenaline. And then his expression changes. He smiles, small at first, then wider.

“There you are,” he murmurs to himself.

And then he begins to walk.

You feel the eyes before you hear the reaction — a ripple through the crowd as they clock his direction. Your heartbeat picks up, traitorous. You keep your shoulders relaxed, your face neutral, even as he closes the distance and stops in front of the barrier, looking up at you.

“Hi,” he says, breathless.

“Hi,” you reply, softer than intended.

He studies you for a second, then holds out his hand.

“Come,” he says quietly.

You hesitate. He notices. Of course he does.

“It’s okay,” he adds immediately, voice gentle. “With me.”

You take his hand. His grip is firm, reassuring, his thumb pressing lightly into your skin as he guides you around the barrier and onto the pitch. The crowd reacts with cheers, applause, approval washing over you both. It startles you, how kind it sounds.

And once you’re beside him, the enormity of it hits. The lights. The noise. 73 cameras possibly. The history beneath your feet. You’re on the pitch. France has won the World Cup. Your relationship is now public. Your breath goes a little shallow. He notices instantly.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “I think so.”

He studies your face with his usual intensity. “You’re shaking.”

“So are you,” you say.

“Butterflies,” he replies lightly. “I’m here with a girl I have a crush on. She’s somewhere around here. I’ll introduce you.”

You laugh and give him a gentle push. “You’re an idiot,” you say coyly. He hums, amused.

Up close, he looks unreal — grass stains on his knees, sweat cooling on his skin, eyes still bright, as if the moment hasn’t finished moving through him yet. The noise presses in again and you feel suddenly, acutely aware of where you are.

He senses it again.

“Hey,” he says, stepping just a fraction closer. His thumb brushes against your knuckles, subtle, instinctive. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Forget them for a second,” he murmurs. “Talk to me like we always do.”

You swallow. “About the match?”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah. About the match.”

You exhale, the tension easing. “You scared me,” you admit. “For most of it.”

He laughs quietly. “Only most?”

“Eighty minutes,” you say. “To be exact.”

He tilts his head, mock-offended. “I had a plan.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m usually right.”

You smile, small. “You were extraordinary. Simply extraordinary.”

Something soft flickers across his expression.

The noise seeps back in. A chant rolls through the stands, swelling, rhythmic, alive. Somewhere a camera whirs closer. A voice calls his name. Another laughs. Reality, impatient, taps him on the shoulder. He exhales and eases back half a step, though his hand still lingers at yours, reluctant.

That’s when the streamers fall again.

They drift slowly this time, unhurried, ribbons of white, blue and red catching in the air before settling around you. One brushes your cheek. Another tangles briefly in your hair before slipping free. Under the unforgiving stadium cold, sharp stadium light, your skin glows anyway, warm as burnished gold.

He forgets to move. For a heartbeat too long, he just looks.

“How did I get this too?” he murmurs, barely.

“Ky,” you whisper, half-laughing, noticing.

“Mmm,” a hum more than anything.

“You’re staring.”

His eyes flick to the falling colours and then back to you. “I know,” he says, unapologetically.

“This is… a lot,” you say, shaking your head, amused, self-aware.

He steps closer, lowering his voice again. “Breathe,” he says gently. “You’re doing great.”

Before you can retort, a photographer calls out, gesturing animatedly.

“Over here! Just one together!”

Kylian groans softly. “Ah.”

He squeezes your hand once — a silent question.

“Okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Okay.”

They guide you into position. The cameras flash immediately, a soft staccato of light. Someone off-frame laughs and calls, “Relax! It’s a celebration!”

Kylian tilts his head toward you. “See? They like you.”

“I think they like you,” you whisper back.

He grins, crooked and boyish. “That’s not what they’re shouting.”

Another camera clicks.

“Closer!” a voice insists.

Kylian complies easily, his arm settling at your back respectful, careful, but unmistakably there. You feel the warmth of him even through the layers of fabric, grounding you again.

“You good?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you say.

A producer waves frantically, pointing upward. Kylian follows the gesture, then looks back at you with sudden delight.

“Look,” he says, lifting his free hand. “The screen.”

You glance up just as the Jumbotron fills with the two of you — streamers drifting, lights flaring, the moment impossibly cinematic.

“Oh,” you laugh, embarrassed. “Omg, no—”

“Yes,” he insists, already waving. “You have to wave.”

“Could I rather not—”

He nudges you gently. “Come on. They’re watching.”

You relent, lifting your hand in a small, shy wave. The crowd responds with louder cheers, warmer somehow. Kylian laughs again, triumphant.

He nods once, satisfied, then straightens as someone calls his name again, louder, insistent. Teammates. Officials. The trophy waiting.

He looks at you, regretful.

You squeeze his fingers and give him a sheepish smile. “Go.”

He hesitates just a second too long for a man who lives in motion. Then he leans in, his forehead nearly touching yours.

“Stay,” he murmurs.

Plot: You watche a horror movie at Kylian’s house, only for him. Spooked by his teasing about the place being haunted, you abandon the guest room and sneak into his. What starts as banter turns into unspoken closeness neither of you dares to name.

Genre: Smut, friends to lovers

Warnings: astraphobia

Taglist: @hood-jabi @jkkyks @jkkymb-10 @hynjamkook

The screen flashes cold light across the room, shadows climbing the walls. You tuck the blanket higher, heart thudding with every eerie sound.

All Is Fair: A Trent Alexander-Arnold x Kylian Mbappè x Original Character Erotic Series.

18+ Minors DNI

Chapter 21

The air was thick with heat as Rosa crossed the tarmac from the private jet to the blacked-out sprinter van parked just off the runway, waiting patiently to take Kylian from the airport to his villa. Despite the sun setting over Saint Barth and the sluggishness that lingered in the bones from back-to-back flights over the past days, the night was still incredibly young, the soft Caribbean breeze swirling with possibility.

Hoodies and sweaters worn onboard the flight had been removed to make way for T-shirts and tanks, as the airport staff hurried around them, moving their bags from the plane to the truck with practised efficiency.

Rosa let out a deep sigh as she placed her hands on her hips, her eyes closing as she rolled her shoulders releasing the tension her muscles held. A smile crossed her features as her eyes fluttered open to find Kylian’s as he leaned against the open truck, taking the moment.

Although he'd been gifted a moment of anonymity in New York, he could already feel the difference in the island air. Kylian pushed off the van, his grin widening as he caught Rosa's gaze lingering, that familiar spark igniting between them amid the shuffle of bags being loaded.

He stepped closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face with the back of his knuckles, the touch light but intentional.

“You seem relaxed,” Rosa smirked knowingly as Kylian’s hand fell back to his side, his eyes holding hers as soft laughter bubbled from his throat.

“I am,” he murmured, his hands finding her hips as he pulled her body flush against his. Rosa was acutely aware of how intentionally bold his actions were, what they signified as his hands slipped to her ass.

For Kylian, there were few places in the world where he knew he could just be, free from the burden of his name and the attention his face attracted as one of the brightest stars in football. While he still had to operate within certain bounds no matter where he was in the world, Saint Barth was one of the few places he came to escape that wasn't behind a locked door. It was a destination most people visited for the same reason.

It was a place that offered both serenity and excitement depending on what you were looking for, and after such an intense year and trying football season he was currently in the midst of a mid-season break from, he didn't care much for the latter.

“Yaelle is already at the villa as is Brice, she messaged to let me know dinner would be ready upon arrival,” Kylian announced, his voice low and warm against her ear, fingers tracing lazy circles on the small of her back.

“So this is the look of a man who has everything figured out?” Rosa asked teasingly, picking a small piece of lint from one of his perfectly tapered coils.

“Not everything, just most things,” Kylian joked, humouring her as he let go of her body, taking a step back so she could climb into the back of the van before he followed suit, sliding the door shut behind them.

Despite the darkness of the Caribbean evening it couldn't do much to mask how beautiful the island was, the sea glistening in the dark peeking from behind buildings and stores that lined the streets as they drove towards the villa. Kylian watched Rosa as she paid close attention to her surroundings, taking in all the eyes could make out in the darkness, studying her features far more entertaining than anything beyond the window.

The journey from the villa wasn't a long one, and by the time they arrived, the place was already lively and bustling with excitement. Kylian’s best friends, Brice, Matthew, and his assistant Yaelle had all already reached their beachfront home for the week.

After a quick greeting with everyone, Kylian and Rosa went in search of their rooms, which were conveniently situated across the hall from one another.

Rosa’s bedroom was spacious and bright without being overbearing, the furnishings carved from oak and glossed in dark polish. On the far side of the room, were a set of French doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking the perfectly manicured backyard and the villas' very own private beach just beyond.

The faint crash of waves against the shore filled the air as Rosa stood on the balcony, the salty breeze lifting the loose strands of her hair. She leaned against the railing, gazing out at the moonlit water, the villa's lights casting a soft glow over the gardens below.

Kylian's bare footsteps were silent on the coralstone floors until he stepped onto the balcony, his presence announced by the warmth of his body pressing close behind her. His hands slid around her waist, fingers splaying possessively over her hips, pulling her back against his chest.

She could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through his shirt, his breath warm on her neck as he nuzzled into the curve there, lips brushing her skin in a slow, deliberate trail. The scent of his cologne mixed with the ocean air, grounding her in the moment.

“Perfect,” Kylian drawled into Rosa's ear, his fingertips tracing the curve of her tiny waist showcased perfectly by the crop of her t-shirt, and the flare of her hips before repeating the action as they stood on the balcony overlooking the sprawling backyard, illuminated by the lights on the lower level of the house.

“I can't wait to see the view of the beach once the sun comes up,” she murmured, her body melting against Kylian's as he raised his hands to the railing that lined the private terrace, locking her in.

“The view I have now is pretty good,” he responded, his lips curving into a smirk against the warm skin where her shoulder and the nape of her neck met.

“I need to shower and get out of these clothes, I feel icky,” Rosa said as she regrettably slipped out of Kylian’s hold so she could step back into her bedroom for the week, both of her suitcases open at the foot of her bed, the once perfectly folded clothes now askew. A pile consisting of a change of clothes and her toiletries sat in the centre of the plush bed.

“Shower with me, then we go down to dinner?” Kylian suggested, catching her hand in his, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the shiny red gel that covered her almond-shaped nails.

“I’d rather shower separately before we sit down for dinner with your people,” Rosa, her voice firm but soft, pulling her hand free to rummage through the pile on the bed, grabbing a fresh towel and her robe.

Kylian's eyes lingered on the sway of her hips, as she headed toward the en-suite bathroom, the door left slightly ajar behind her. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the steam begin to fog the mirror as water hissed from the showerhead.

She peeled off her travel-worn clothes, the fabric whispering to the tile floor, and stepped under the spray, letting the water cascade over her shoulders, washing away the stickiness of the flight. Kylian pushed off the frame, eyes tracing her naked body before turning on his heel, leaving her alone in the bedroom and heading to his own.

When Rosa was done in the shower, she dried off, applied lotion, and slipped into a thigh-skimming slip dress, pulling her hair into a slick bun to avoid the Caribbean humidity. Sitting down on the edge of her bed, she plugged the phone into the bed's side charging port, watching as the screen illuminated with the Apple logo.

The door clicked open softly, and Kylian stepped back into the room, the faint scent of his body wash trailing him. Freshly showered, he wore a crisp white t-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders, paired with loose Nike shorts that ended mid-thigh, and his feet slipped into simple house slippers. He paused in the doorway, eyes finding Rosa on the edge of the bed, her slip dress clinging lightly to her damp skin, the slick bun exposing the line of her neck.

He crossed the room in a few unhurried strides, the slippers whispering against the carpet, and dropped onto the bed beside her. The mattress dipped under his weight, close enough that their thighs brushed.

“Hi,” Rosa smiled softly, placing her phone down on the bedside before turning to give him her full attention. “You look refreshed,” she added taking him in, ease radiating from him.

Kylian reached out, his fingers lightly grazing her knee, the touch sending a subtle warmth through her. He leaned in closer, his breath mingling with hers, the room filled with the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the distant murmur of waves against the shore.

“Ready to eat?” he murmured.

Rosa nodded, her fingers absently tracing the edge of the bedspread, the soft cotton rough under her touch from countless washes. The warmth from Kylian's hand on her knee spread upward, a quiet insistence that made her pulse quicken, though she kept her gaze steady on his, searching the dark depths for whatever lay beneath his casual question.

Hunger gnawed at her stomach, but it paled against the deeper pull, the unspoken tension that had simmered since the airport, now thickening the air between them like humidity before a storm.

Kylian slid his hand higher, palm flat against her thigh, thumb circling slowly over the thin fabric of her dress, each pass deliberate, testing. She didn't pull away, but her breath hitched, lips parting as memories of their night together in New York rushed back—the gentleness of his hands, the timber of his voice, the way his hand splayed in the middle of her back, keeping her back perfectly arched as he took her from behind. The way he pinned her thighs open, as he gave and took in equal parts.

His free hand cupped her jaw, tilting her face up, and he closed the distance, mouth so close to hers she could feel the heat of his lips.

“They’re waiting on us,” Kylian drawled a knowing smirk spreading across his face, as he stood to his feet holding out his hands to Rosa, curbing his own desires simultaneously.

Rosa took Kylian's outstretched hands, letting him pull her to her feet, the firmness of his grip steadying the faint wobble in her legs. They moved together through the dimly lit hallway, his arm brushing hers with every step, the faint scent of his cologne—notes of spiced fruit and warmth—mixing with the distant aroma of roasted garlic and the unmistakable scent of grilled meat. Coralstone stairs spiralled down under soft recessed lights, each footfall echoing softly, amplifying the quiet intimacy that clung between them.

The dining room opened wide, a long oak table gleaming under a chandelier's golden glow, laden with platters from their private chef: seared seafood resting in butter, salads dotted with pomegranate seeds, and lamb chops glistening under the room's lighting. Kylian guided her toward the head of the table where his place was set, but Rosa slipped from his touch, her chair scraping lightly as she chose the far end instead, the distance spanning the length of the room. She smoothed her napkin over her lap, eyes flicking up to meet his, a small, defiant curve to her mouth.

Kylian lowered himself slowly, the leather of his chair creaking under his weight, and reached for the bottle of deep red Bordeaux, pouring with a deliberate slowness. The chef had slipped away back into the kitchen to clean up after himself, leaving them alone amid the feast, steam rising lazily from the food.

Plates were filled and emptied over the course of a few hours, Kylian watched Rosa closely; the way she relaxed into her seat beside Brice, the soft smile that remained on her lips throughout dinner as they spoke amongst themselves.

Although he understood she wasn't obliged to sit beside him, he'd noticed that whenever they were around his people she maintained a distance, or as she'd playfully labelled it, ‘professional boundaries’.

He wasn't sure exactly what had sparked the change, but it was evident that she now moved with a caution she never carried around him, and with each moment they spent with his friends and acquaintances, it became more obvious to him.

Once dinner came to an end Rosa smoothly excused herself from the table as conversations lingered and one by one everyone moved from around the table, plates and cups aligned neatly to make the chef's clean up easier.

She made her way out to the backyard, her bare feet warm on the coralstone patio, which led to a short set of stairs descending to the lush lawn, the evening air thick with the scent of tropical flowers from the garden beds.

She sank onto a cushioned lounge chair near the infinity pool, its water shimmering under string lights strung between palm trees, toes curling into the cool grass. A soft breeze lifted strands of her hair that escaped her bun at the nape of her neck, carrying the muffled laughter from inside, and she let her head tip back, eyes tracing the stars emerging above the treeline.

Kylian lingered at the threshold, watching her silhouette against the pool's glow, the way her shoulders eased without the weight of eyes on her. He slowly began his approach across the patio, the coralstone solid underfoot, each step measured to close the gap without startling her.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his Parisian accented drawl low and warming.

Rosa turned her head slightly, her eyes catching the faint reflection of pool lights in his gaze, and she shifted on the lounge chair to make space beside her. "Not at all," she murmured, patting the cushion with a casual flick of her hand, the fabric soft under her palm.

The breeze picked up again, rustling the branch of a blossom tree on the far side of the pool. She drew her knees up loosely, arms wrapping around them, feeling the night's humidity settle on her skin like a second layer.

Kylian eased down next to her, the chair dipping under his frame, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. He stretched his legs out, crossing ankles at the grass's edge, and let out a slow breath, the sound blending with the distant sound of crickets.

"It's quieter out here," he said, voice pitched low to match the evening's calm. Inside, the chatter from his friends faded to a hum, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter that made the isolation feel earned, and a little more intimate.

“It’s peaceful,” Rosa agreed, turning her head so she could look at Kylian as he sat beside her. His posture relaxed as he rolled his shoulders back, his adams apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed.

“Have I done something to offend you?” Kylian inquired, calm and measured as he turned his head to look at her. “Did I say something in front of anyone else?”

“No,” Rosa frowned, spine straightening as she sat up, rather confused by his question. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because you're different when people are there,” Kylian accused, though his voice lacked any accusatory bite.

“You're kind and super welcoming, but as far as being around the people close to you; id rather keep my distance and stay out of the way,” Rosa explained.

“Not just me, everyone around me welcomes you,” Kylian said, his voice steady but edged with a quiet insistence, leaning forward slightly on the wooden bench.

“Tolerate me… they tolerate me for the sake of you and that's perfectly fine,” Rosa corrected. “No one makes me feel awkward or insults me, but I'd rather not give them the chance too, not after Marcel in New York,” she continued, stilling in as her brain caught up with her mouth's ramblings and she realised what she'd said and who she'd said it to.

“Marcel… Trent’s brother?” Kylian’s brow furrowed, the name hanging in the air, thick and lingering between them as the Caribbean chorus of the night acted as its underscore. “What did he do?”

“It’s nothing,” Rosa responded a little too quickly.

“It’s something, someone insulting you or making you feel uncomfortable is something,” Kylian affirmed.

“Kylian it's fine, I wasn't physically harmed,” Rosa explained as a soft island breeze wrapped around her, and her cheeks warmed in embarrassment. “It just didn't feel good hearing what he had to say about me.”

“So that makes whatever happened, okay?” Kylian frowned, trying to understand why she still found it within herself to try to shift blame from Trent’s younger brother Marcel. “Because it didn't hurt physically?”

“No, because what if most of the things he said about me are true?!” Rosa asked, her voice cracking as her eyes grew hot and blurry with tears.

“Kylian, I'm here now because I fucked my own life up. I walked away from my family, my career in law, the chance to have a family and do what I'm supposed to, because I couldn't just settle,” she continued.

“Fuck settling,” Kylian murmured, his warm palm finding her knee as he soothed her. “And fuck anyone who does not respect you.”

“I feel like that's so much easier to say when you're Kylian Mbappé,” Rosa laughed dryly. “I don't… women like me don't get respect, or even the benefit of doubt.”

“You might not care for my opinions, but I think you deserve respect…,” Kylian started. “You don't have to tell me what happened with Trent or his brother, but in my opinion, you are a good person.”

“You think so?” she asked, her voice small as her cheeks warmed and she finally built the courage to meet his eyes.

“And you're smart and beautiful,” he affirmed, reaching for Rosa so he could pull her into his lap, the moon illuminating their figures as he moved from her seat and onto him.

“All my people see is your face in whatever book has your attention,” Kylian teased, easing the tension just a little.

“Reading and cleaning, two things I know bring you peace. Like a grand-mère,” he continued, his playful jab pulling a hearty laugh from Rosa.

“A grandmother,” she echoed in amusement.

“Mmm, a grandmother,” Kylian drawled, positioning Rosa so her thighs bracketed his hips as she straddled his lap.

Rosa's laughter faded as she settled against him, the water lapping gently against the breeze as the outdoor bench bore their weight. Kylian's hands rested lightly on her hips, steadying her, his touch warm through the thin fabric of her dress.

She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, syncing with her own breath, the moment stretching like the feverish night air around them. Marcel's words still echoed faintly in her mind—his judgments about her worth, her choices—but here, under Kylian's gaze, they dulled a little.

His fingers tightened suddenly on the curve of her ass, pulling her flush against him with a firm, insistent grip that sent a shiver racing up her spine. Rosa gasped into the space between them, her body responding instinctively, arching into the heat of his palms as they kneaded the soft flesh beneath her dress.

“Can you do something for me?” Kylian asked softly, his eyes tracing over the outline of her nipple through the silk of her dress.

“What?” Rosa queried.

“When you're with me, relax,” he started, his voice a low, soothing murmur that wrapped around her like the warm Caribbean night. “You don’t have to be cautious around me or my friends.”

The low murmur of voices grew louder as Brice made his way outside to the backyard, followed by Matthew and his girlfriend Amina.

“Room for a few more?” he asked holding up a bottle of high-end tequila in one hand and a short stack of red disposable cups in the other.

Raising her knee, Rosa attempted to lift herself from Kylian's lap, only for him to tighten his hold on her forcing her to stay seated in his lap.

“Stay with me,” he murmured lowly into the space between them, as his friends approached.

Brice was first to join them on the bench, biting a cup between his teeth as he took the remaining empty spot on the wide wooden bench. He placed the tequila bottle down between them with a solid thunk, the glass catching the overhead lighting. Amina slid in next to him, her sundress clinging to her, while Matthew hovered at the edge of the pool, sitting down and dipping his feet into the water.

Brice splashed generous helpings of tequila into the cups, the sharp, unmistakable scent of agave cutting through the humid air promising recklessness depending on how heavily they indulged.

Rosa accepted a cup, twisting herself in Kylian's lap so she wasn't straddling Kylian as intimately as she was previously, shooting Amina a soft smile as their eyes met briefly.

The conversation that flowed between the group of twenty-something-year-olds was light and playful, gradually shifting to Rosa and her pursuits.

“So you're a New Yorker?” Amina smiled, her thick curls falling into her face as she looked to Rosa.

“Kinda. I studied law at NYU, I moved to the city for school and fell in love,” Rosa smiled, earning a look of pleasant surprise from Brice.

“So if I ever need a lawyer I can call you?” he laughed, the sound carrying in the warm air around him as a chorus of laughter followed.

“I never actually got around to practising, but it's something I've been thinking about a little more,” Rosa revealed to the group, the revelation piquing Kylian’s interest as his hand splayed on the small of her back.

The conversation ebbed again, Rosa's body subconsciously beginning to relax into Kylian’s, their breaths in sync as she sat listening to the conversation.

As the evening grew later, and the bottle of tequila emptied an unmistakable buzz lingered amongst the group, body language a little looser as inhibitions dissolved into the night and the music that once played lowly through the speaker increased in volume.

Brice lifted the empty tequila bottle, shaking it with a theatrical frown before setting it down beside the crushed cups scattered on the patio stones. The group's laughter tapered off into murmurs as Matthew stretched his arms overhead, yawning into the humid night air. Kylian shifted beneath Rosa, his hand pressing firmer against her back, a silent signal amid the shared buzz of the group.

He stood smoothly, pulling her up with him by the wrist, his fingers warm and insistent against her skin. They slipped away from the bench, weaving past Amina's knowing glance and Brice's half-hearted protest about them grabbing something else to drink, into the cool shadow of the house.

The kitchen floors chilled Kylian's bare feet as he rummaged through a lower cabinet, pulling out a fresh bottle of liquor and a carton of pineapple juice, its pulp swirling when he shook it. The refrigerator light spilt a streak of gold across the counter when he nudged the door open for ice, the clinking of cubes into a pitcher echoing softly.

Rosa turned toward the sliding glass door, the patio lights flickering through the windows. Kylian's arm hooked around her waist in one fluid motion, pulling her back into him, his body crowding hers against the edge of the countertop. He hoisted her up effortlessly, her thighs parting as he stepped between them, the material of his shorts brushing against the insides of her thighs.

His mouth claimed hers, tongue delving deep in a slow, unhurried exploration, his hands framing her face to tilt her just so, the faint taste of tequila lingering on his tongue amid the deepening connection of bodies.

Conscious that someone would come into the kitchen looking for them, Rosa pulled away first. Her hands found purchase on Kylian's chest as she looked up into his eyes through her lashes.

“The ice is going to melt,” she murmured, as Kylian pushed his face into the fragrant crease of her neck.

Kylian's lips curved against her skin, his breath hot and ragged as he nipped lightly at the pulse point just below her ear. The pitcher's ice cracked faintly, water pooling around the base, but he ignored it, one hand sliding up her thigh to pull her closer.

Outside, the group's voices rose in a sudden burst of laughter, footsteps scraping the patio as someone—Brice, probably—called out for more drinks, the sound muffled by the glass door.

He lifted his head, eyes dark and hooded, locking onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach twist. Without a word, he captured her mouth again, harder this time, his hips pressing forward to pin her fully against the counter's edge, the cool stone biting into her back through her thin dress.

His freehand wrapped around the back of her neck, tugging just enough to arch her, exposing more skin for his teeth to graze, the faint scrape sending sparks down her spine amid the growing ache between her legs.

The door slid open with a metallic whine, cool night air rushing in carrying the scent of chlorine from the pool. Kylian didn't pull away immediately, his body shielding hers as he turned his head slightly, lips still brushing her jaw. Amina stood there, empty bottle in hand, her eyebrows shooting up before a sly grin spread across her face, the overhead light catching the mischief in her eyes as she lingered in the doorway.

“Sorry to interrupt, Brice sent me on this mission,” she giggled, placing the empty tequila bottle on the counter.

Rosa felt her cheeks flush under Amina's knowing gaze, the air thick with the scent of spilt lime and unspoken tension. She slid off the counter, smoothing her dress with trembling fingers, while Kylian stepped back just enough to grab the pitcher and bottle of rum, his arm brushing hers deliberately.

Amina's grin widened, her eyes darting between them like she was cataloguing every flushed detail, the clink of ice against glass punctuating the charged silence.

Kylian handed Amina the fresh bottle of liquor and pitcher, his voice low and teasing as he leaned in close. “Mission accomplished, then?”

His free hand finding purchase on Rosa's lower back, thumb tracing lazy circles through the silk of her dress, a secret promise amid the interruption that only heightened the pull between them.

“You guys are hot,” Amina teased, her laughter bubbling up sharp and delighted, backing toward the door with exaggerated slowness, clearly unwilling to miss the show.

“I’m going to grab my phone, please do not follow me,” Rosa said, her voice barely above a whisper, already turning toward the shadowed hallway off the kitchen.

She slipped away from Kylian's touch, her bare feet padding softly against the cool tile as she darted into the dimly lit hallway, the hum of laughter from the backyard fading behind her. The stairs were cold under her feet, each step pulling her further from the kitchen's warmth into the quiet upper floor where shadows pooled in corners.

Her bedroom door stood ajar, a sliver of moonlight spilling across the bedspread, and she pushed inside, heart still racing, fingers fumbling for the nightstand where her phone lay.

She picked it up, the screen coming to life with a string of notifications, Kayla's name flashing at the top in bold. Tapping open the message, Rosa sank onto the edge of the mattress, the springs sighing faintly.

The message was an Instagram link to an article, and as it loaded up on her phone screen, Rosa’s heart dropped in a way she immediately wished she'd braced for.

Another sad and long one. Still I hope you enjoy as much as I enjoyed writing it 💕

Now, there’s only 1 more to go… I’m emotional :(

Also, itt’s past midnight from where I’m posting, so happy Christmas Eve eve!! 🫶🏼

Chapter Eighteen: Endings

BEFORE

Paris, May 2024

They fall back into Paris quietly.

No moment marks it. No sense of arrival. Only the same familiar hum of the Paris traffic and the people.

The days in the south fold themselves into something finished but not closed.

Life resumes, their same routine sliding back into place. Felling like two people returning from a dream they’re not ready to wake from.

She goes back to her apartment, back to Julie, back to late nights on the couch with mismatched blankets and half-watched films. Her days are freer now, unfilled by internships or university deadlines.

Her first day at the job doesn’t start until mid-July so she tries to occupied her free time with things; anything to keep other thoughts from slipping in. She runs errands, buys groceries she doesn’t strictly need, cleans the apartment, and goes out to the library.

An email comes through from her university tutor on Thursday afternoon while she’s sitting cross-legged on her bed.

Your final thesis grade was just posted in the university platform. Très bien! :). Wish you all the best of luck at your new job! You’ll be brilliant.

She reads it twice, screen bright on her face. Lets it land slowly in her body. Her grade is really good. More than she expected. She lets herself smile, not celebrating to loudly. Then texts Julie from the other room.

Julie bursts in her room,screaming for both of them.

They open a bottle they’ve been saving for no reason. Drink it from mugs and talk about nothing and everything.

It warms her heart when he asks about it the next evening, when they meet for dinner at his place. Because he still remembered, even with so much happening.

She’s still seeing Kylian, fitting him in between her own empty hours and his last chaotic days in Paris. Some times at his place, Some nights he comes by hers after training, tired and loose-limbed, collapsing onto her couch like it's always been his, falling asleep with the TV on low volume. His last days as a PSG player runs under everything like a low current. He doesn’t say it out loud, but Anna feels it in the way he moves through rooms a little slower or the way he lingers.

He leaves for the national team in a week.

Somewhere in the quiet of those last days, in the gaps between dinners and mornings, between packing lists and half-finished conversations, they arrive at an understanding without naming it. When he goes to Clairefontaine, that will be it.

He will be absorbed by training, by schedules and hotels and the singular focus that always overtakes him before a tournament. She will be starting her new job the same week he’ll fly to Germany. new desk, new routines, a future that requires her full attention. Two beginnings happening side by side, close enough to touch, but not meant to overlap.

The symmetry of it makes it feel intentional, even kind. Like the universe offering them a clean edge instead of something frayed.

The knowledge sits between them without ever being spoken, like a clock neither of them looks at but both of them hear.

They don’t deny that it’s ending. They just refuse to dramatize it. There are no speeches, no ultimatums, no late-night bargaining. They continue as they are, sleeping tangled, laughing at small stupid things, stretching the ordinary moments because those are the ones that hurt the most to lose.

They let the ending exist without rushing toward it.

His apartment has started to change.

At first it’s subtle, a shelf emptier than usual, framed photos taking down. The negative space registers before the loss itself. Then small cardboard boxes appear, stacked neatly by the wall, like reminders they’re both trying not to look at.

The night before his last game for PSG, the place is unusually alive for a night before a match.

She’d mentioned the idea to Yaëlle offhandedly, almost joking, something small, something sweet, just family. A way to mark the end of the season for him and Ethan without turning it into another goodbye. Yaëlle had loved it immediately. Of course, she’d said, already pulling up a list in her head, already planning.

Now they’re here together, sleeves rolled up, occupying the space like conspirators.

Kylian and Ethan were already gone - team hotel, final prep. The absence gives the place a strange freedom.

Fayza shows up before dinner, bags in hand, already smiling like she knows something good is about to happen.

They work late. Furniture shifts; fairy lights are tested and retested. Fayza insists on helping with everything: tying ribbons, putting up a balloons, taste-testing sauces. Yaëlle moves with her usual quiet efficiency, directing without ever seeming to.

Anna tapes a small banner slightly crooked above the kitchen doorway. She steps back, tilts her head, adjusts it a centimeter to the left. It still isn’t perfect. She leaves it anyway.

Isaiah and Lana’s. are sprawled on the floor drawing and cutting paper stars far too large, arguing about whether yellow is «too sunny» or just right. The seriousness of the task making Anna smile.

“I can’t draw stars.” Lana groans, tipping her head back dramatically, marker clenched in her fist like it’s personally betrayed her.

Anna kneels beside her, scissors in hand, folding herself down into the small constellation of paper scraps and glitter scattered across the floor.

“I’ll tell you a secret.” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I don’t know how to draw them either.”

Lana narrows her eyes, suspicious, weighing the truth of this confession.

“Promise you won’t tell tonton Kylian.” Anna adds, leaning in closer. “He’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

“I won’t!” Lana says solemnly, pressing a hand to her chest, though the corners of her mouth twitch, already imagining the betrayal.

When it’s done, they step back and take it in. It’s imperfect, handmade and unmistakably theirs.

“This looks amazing.” Yaëlle says, hands on her hips. “Better than the farewell party I’ve been planning for a month.” She clicks her tongue. “Honestly, I’m a little insulted.”

Anna laughs, shaking her head. “Impossible. This level of chaos could never compete with your organisational skills.”

“They’re going to love this.” Fayza says quietly, stepping closer. She squeezes Anna’s hand, firm and warm. “Thank you… for doing all of this, for thinking of them.”

Anna smiles, but something tightens behind her ribs. Gratitude always lands heavier when it comes from Fayza.

They finish just after midnight.

When the lights are finally off and the apartment settles into silence, Anna lingers alone for a moment. The decorations glow faintly in the dark, cheerful and defiant against the bare walls and packed boxes. The space feels full and hollow at the same time, joy taped onto an ending.

The next morning, they all ride to Lyon.

She sits in the stands with his family, folded neatly into them like she belongs there. The kids buzz with energy as fireworks erupt at the opening ceremony; Mattias sits beside her, calm as ever. Yaëlle keeps her phone close, answering texts, still managing last-minute details for the farewell party happening tomorrow night.

His father sits a few rows down beside another man, leaning over to murmur something to Fayza that makes her smile, that familiar glint lighting her eyes. Anna loves that they still get along. That, even apart, they remain parents first, tethered by pride, by shared history, by their children.

The stadium is loud and electric.

She watches Kylian warm up. Ethan too, sharper, more rigid with nerves, but bright with anticipation. She cheers for both of them, heart stretched wide.

During the anthem, Kylian doesn’t look toward the stands, but she sees the telltale signs anyway: the way his throat tightens when the crowd sings his name, the brief closing of his eyes, like he’s trying to seal the moment inside himself.

He plays beautifully that night, Fast and fluid , laughing when he slides for the ball in his green boots. He keeps smiling the way he always does,like a kid who can’t quite believe he’s allowed to do this for a living.

When the trophy is lifted, Anna claps until her hands ache, eyes watery. He’s looks so happy, glowing in that way only victory gives him. The medal clinks softly when he moves between photos, noise and laughter. She presses her hands together, breath caught somewhere between pride and grief, knowing with a clarity that feels almost cruel, that this is the last time

They return to Paris late.

When Kylian unlocks the door and flicks on the light he frezzes.

A banner reads, «Félicitations Ethan et Kylian!», letters uneven, held up with far too much tape. The aper stars taped crookedly to the walls. Balloons floating too low. Food is scattered on the counters, half-covered plates and bowls waiting to be finished.

“What the-” Kylian starts, grinning, taking a step inside. “What is this?”

“Surprise!” the kids shout in unison, voices bright and chaotic. Ethan lets out a laugh

The night unfolds - Food is passed around, a playlist hums low in the background, conversations overlapping. The group sprawls across the living room,, stumbling occasionally on stray balloons. Fayza fusses over plates, Yaëlle refills glasses with quiet efficiency. Hakimi has joined them, drifting between the group and the counter, complimenting the food every few minutes.

Tchaga arrives too, sporting a new hairstyle, and Anna and Kylian exchange a small, knowing smile across the room. Kylian cracks jokes about it later, she overhears as she slips into the kitchen for a cup; laughter carrying through the slightly messy, luminous apartment.

Kylian appears in the kitchen moments later, away from the cozy, chaotic noise of the living room. He leans against the fridge, watching her.

“You were in on this, weren’t you?” he asks, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.

“Only partially.” Anna says, shrugging, a little too casually. “No comment.”

“I totally caught you with the paper stars. They do looked like spiders.”

She grins, the memory of their first meeting flickering back. “Don’t start.”

“They did end up in the hall after all.” he laughs, and she notices the flash in his eyes , he's recalling that moment too “ I mean its not an art gallery, but it's my apartment, so I guess it counts as it.”

“I think I like it better here.” she says softly, letting the words hang.

She sips her drink, and her hand slips, glass clinks against the counter as it settles down. She catches his eye and shrugs, a little embarrassed, a little amused.

“Can’t believe I didn’t suspect any of this.” he says, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

“And here I thought you were clever.” she says, tilting her head, letting the corner of her mouth twitch just enough to make him grin.

He pushes off the fridge, closing the space until she feels boxed in, and warm. “Clearly, I overestimated myself.” he murmurs, eyes locking with hers.

She laughs softly “Or underestimated me.”

“Maybe a bit of both.” he says, voice low, leaning closer until the hum of the party fades into a background echo.

“You didn’t have to do this.” he murmurs again, voice tender, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

I wanted to.” she replies, shrugging slightly, gaze lingering on the medal resting on his chest. Her fingers ghost over the ribbon, fiddling with it.

“Thank you for doing this, for me.” he says. “And for Ethan too.”

“You deserve it.” she says, soft, almost reverently. “It’s been a long season. You’ve earned this.”

He looks at her, like he wants to say twenty different things and none of them will come out. Finally, he finds the simplest: “Je t’aime.”

Their lips meet, a gentle collision over the counter. His warmth floods her, grounding and urgent all at once.

“Stay here tonight.” he murmurs against her mouth, and she doesn’t hesitate. She nods, letting the night stretch around them.

In the bedroom, he pulls her close immediately, hands steady and warm on her back. She burrows her face near his, breathing him in.

“You ok?” he murmurs, voice quiet against her hair.

“Yeah… just thinking.” Her words are muffled, fragile.

“About what?” he asks, brushing a soft kiss along her shoulder.

“Everything.” she whispers.

He hums against her, steady, grounding. “You always think too much.”

“And you think too little.” she shoots back, faint smile tugging at her lips. “So… balance.”

He laughs softly. “Balance. ” he agrees, voice smug, but tender.

Something warm twists painfully in her chest.

Three days. Just three days left.

“I’ve been thinking about it…” he ask almost hesitant “Do you want to try long-distance?”

The question lands between them like something fragile. Not heavy. Not dramatic. Just… there. Hovering, waiting to be handled carefully.

Long-distance.

The phrase sounds reasonable. Adult. Practical. It sounds like something people suggest when they love each other and don’t want to feel like they failed. Something you say to prove that what you had mattered enough to try preserving it.

She knew what it would do to them.

His schedule already swallows half his days, even when they’re living in the same city. Madrid would take the rest. She would be working more, taking on more, building the life she’s been moving toward slowly and carefully. They’d miss each other by hours, by exhaustion. One missed call turning into two. A cancelled weekend becoming a pattern. Little disappointments collecting like dust.

Then the resentment, small at first. The kind that makes love feel like obligation.

She sees them arguing over little things that aren’t little: a plan she breaks because she’s overwhelmed, a weekend he can’t fly because of a match; the feeling of never being in the same place at the same time. She sees them becoming sharp-edged with each other. The distance would wear them down. Make something tender turn brittle.

And she doesn’t want that. Not with him, especially not with him. She’d rather keep this softness, this safety between them.

She turns her face slightly, her nose brushing his chest.

“Kylian.” she says softly.

He hums in response, encouraging. She swallows.

“I don’t know if I’m built for halfway.” she admits. The words come out gentler than she feels. “I don’t think I’m good at pretending I’m okay when I’m not.”

He’s quiet. She feels the shift immediately. The way he listens with his whole body.

“We wouldn’t be pretending.” he says after a moment, careful. “We’d just… adjust.”

She almost smiles. He always believes adjustment is enough. That effort, applied generously, can solve most things.

“I know. ” she says. “And I love that about you.”She traces a slow, absent circle on his chest. The motion steadies her, even as it undoes her “But I think we wouldn’t survive it. ” she says careful, with a kind of gentle devastation “We would start living in the waiting. Waiting for messages. Waiting for visits. Waiting for us to feel like us again. And it’d break us.”

He looks at her then and she can tell he knows she’s right. That he has imagined the same scenarios in the quiet moments he hasn’t told her about.

His throat bobbed. “Yeah.”

“You’re about to step into this whole… new life.” she continues, softer now. “New city, new team, new people, new everything.” She touches his cheek lightly. “And I want you to live all of it with your whole chest. Not half here thinking about whether I’m lonely or if we’re ok or if I’m waiting for you.” She swallows. “I don’t want to be the person that makes you live half of a life… to hold you back.”

He shakes his head immediately, a gentle, instinctive protest.

“You would be holding me back.” he murmurs, and she knows he means it. But she also knows he would twist himself into whatever shape she needed if she let him.

And she can’t do that.

“You would make yourself smaller to make this work. I know you. I don’t want to become the reason you stop growing. Or the reason you look back one day and think you missed things.”

He tilts his head down, forehead resting against her hair. She feels the weight of him then, not physical, but emotional. The effort it takes not to argue. Not to persuade.

“You think it would hurt less if we don’t try.” he says. It’s not an accusation. It’s a genuine question.

She closes her eyes.

“I think..” she says slowly, “it would hurt cleaner.”

The word hangs there. Clean. Like a cut that heals instead of festering.

She reached for him now, her hand brushing the side of his face. He leaned into her palm instinctively, eyes closed.

“I don’t want us to fade into frustration. Or forget how soft we are with each other.” she says “I want to remember us like this.”

She kisses his face and his hand moves up her back, thumb pressing into a familiar spot, grounding and unconscious.Silence settles, heavy but not hostile but kind that sits with you when you’ve there nothing much to say.

They lie there, her face in his throat, his fingers tracing slow circles on her hip. Every so often he presses a kiss to the top of her head, like he’s trying to apologize for something neither of them can fix.

At some point, he whispers, pressing his lips on her head.

“You ruined everyone else for me.”

*

The following day they show up together at his farewell party. The ache from the night before hadn’t gone but the tension had softened. They would face the celebration as themselves: together, present, knowing the choice they’d made and try to enjoy it as much time they had.

The party is at one of the city famous restaurants, meticulously picked by Yaëlle and the enthusiasm of someone planning a royal coronation

Half of Paris is here. Friends from different eras of his life overlapping in ways that shouldn’t make sense but somehow do. Teammates in relaxed shirts instead of kits. Staff from PSG, people who watched him grow up inside corridors and locker rooms and press rooms. People he shared pieces of himself with, briefly or deeply, over seven years.

They had arrive an hour or so ago, hand on her lower back, guiding her through the door, but once inside he was swept away by people who love him, people who are part of the story he’s closing. She lets him be taken.

She’s used to this rhythm now.

She watches him drift through the room like someone being gently passed from hand to hand, smiles, claps on the shoulder, quick embraces. He thanks people with the same soft sincerity every time, head dipping, hand over his chest, like he’s trying to absorb all of it without letting it overwhelm him.

Julie and Guillaume waved her over from their table. Julie mouths oh my god in reference to everything - the décor, the energy, the fact that they are at this party ans Anna bites back a laugh. Guillaume tries to play it cool but keeps adjusting his shirt collar.

She said hello to other few people she became acquaintance through Kylian. Then plates started to circulate. Burrata cut open, olive oil pooling. Bread torn by hands that keep getting distracted.

People drift and regroup, stories beginning in one corner and ending somewhere else entirely.

He hugs people easily, laughs loudly, lets himself be held, slapped on the back, praised. Every few minutes, someone raises a glass. Someone says his name. Someone tells him Madrid is lucky. Someone tells a story, someone else repeats it differently, and Kylian leans back, laughing so hard he has to press his hand to his chest. Hours pass like minutes. Laughter ebbs and flows, stories repeat, people hug, take pictures, toast again. Anna notices every detail: the way Kylian’s leans foward when someone is talking to him; the little smirk on his face when someone tells a joke that only he finds funny; how every so often way he keeps scanning the room, his eyes find hers.

She feels oddly calm.

She’s mid conversation with a couple she remembers having dinner once with Kylian, when Yaëlle catches her eye from near the bar.

“Come.” she says. “I need a second opinion.” Yaelle beckons, conspiratorial

Anna follows her towards the back, slipping between bodies, brushing past familiar shoulders, offering soft pardons and half-smiles as she goes.

Yaëlle stops at a side table and lifts the lid of a small, elegant box.

The cake. With his face, printed neatly on top.

Anna lets out a laugh before she can stop it, bright and a little helpless.

“You’re evil.”

“I’m thorough.” Yaëlle replies, pleased with herself. “And it’s small.” she adds, tipping her head innocently “Tasteful. Mostly.”

Anna laughs, shaking her head. “Has he seen it yet?”

“No.” Yaëlle grins. “I’m placing it out now.” she states. “He’s going to pretend to hate it.”

“He will.” Anna agrees easily. “And then he’s going to take ten photos of it.”

“At least.” Yaëlle chuckes..

They clink glasses, sharing the kind of grin that comes from knowing someone too well.

When Anna drifts back into the room, she finds him instantly, as if some part of her is calibrated to him without conscious effort. He’s mid-conversation with a man she vaguely recognises as one of the PSG physios, smiling, relaxed, fully at ease

She leans back against the wall instead of moving towards him.

A second later, he looks up. Their eyes meet across the room, a smile to travel between them. He mouths, you good? She nods. He raises his eyebrows slightly, like he knows, and then turns back to the conversation

She watches him without urgency, without the sharp pull of needing him beside her.

She likes this version of the night, watching him be held by other people’s affection, watching how easily love gathers around him. It reassures her in a quiet way. He is not alone in the world. He never will be.

When he’s free, he comes to her.

His hand settles at the small of her, automatic, a grounding reflex like muscle memory. She leans into him without thinking, her body forgetting what her mind has already accepted.

“You’re hiding?” he asks, mouth close to her ear.

“No, I’m socializing at my own pace.” she counters

He kisses her cheek, lingering just enough to make it feel like a reward.

“I heard some very funny stories about you.” she adds. “And I may or may not have had a private preview of a special cake."

He groans softly, forehead tipping forward until it almost touches her temple. “Yaëlle brought the cake, didn’t she.”

Anna nods, pleased. “It’s… respectful. Mostly.”

He sighs. “I knew it.”

“If it helps.” she says, “it looks delicious.”

His face lifts. A smirk she knows to well splashes over his face.

“If you want a piece of me, you know you can just ask. ” he murmurs, half-teasing, voice warm against her ear “no need for a cake.”

She nudges him with her shoulder, laughing, and he laughs too, breath warm against her skin.

He pulls her for a quick kiss then, the kind that doesn’t need witnesses. When he pulls back, she stays close.

“Are you ok?” She asks finally, voice low.

“Yeah.” he says, then tries again, more honest. “I don’t know.” She nods like he understands. Because she does. “It’s weird.” he says quietly. “Being celebrated for leaving.”

She exhales something that hovers between a laugh and a sigh, a little ragged, and shakes her head. “Don’t get all shabby now.” Her tone is teasing, but soft. She steps a fraction closer, meeting his eyes fully. “You’re doing really well tonight. “

He studies her face for a second, like he’s filing the moment away. Then he squeezes her waist gently, grateful, steadying.

“So are you.” he says.

It’s intimate and unspoken. The acknowledgment that even amid celebration, even amid the inevitable ending, they are still here, still together, still holding onto this fleeting, precious present.

Someone calls his name from across the room, loud and affectionate, and before she can blink he’s being gently tugged away, hands on his shoulders, laughter breaking out around him like a ripple.

Anna laughs softly and gives him a small push between the shoulder blades. “Go.” she mouths.

A glass clinks somewhere. Then again. Someone else joins in, louder this time.

“Speech!” a voice yells, half-drunk, half-sincere. Others echo it, messy and enthusiastic.

Kylian laughs, already shaking his head as he’s nudged toward the center of the room.

“No, no-”

She drifts back to the wall as the room reshapes itself around him. Julie slips in beside her, warm and familiar. Anna smiles at her.

He stands there now, one hand in his pocked, while the other hold a microphone, weight shifting subtly from one foot to the other. The way he moves when he’s nervous, even after all these years of cameras and crowds.

He looks beautiful tonight, she thinks, not in the polished way people usually mean, but in this exposed, human way. Tall, opened, and slightly overwhelmed.

“I consider all the people who are here very dear,”he begins, voice sincere “so it will be easy to talk and open my heart to everyone.”

Anna feels something warm and steady settle in her chest. first, then sadness, braided through it. And beneath all of it, the quiet recognition of everything under the surface: the end of Paris, the beginning of Madrid, the weight of change that neither celebration nor champagne can soften.

Julie bumps her shoulder lightly “You’re very quiet.”

“I’m listening.” Anna murmurs

Julie tilts her head. “No, you’ve got that look. That something is brewing”

Anna snorts. “Please don’t psychoanalyze me right now.”

“There is no message to convey. You really are people I want to thank from the bottom of my heart. If you're here, it's because at one point you influenced my life.” Kylian continues.

His speech is simple and honest. He talks about Paris making him, about feeling eight years old and twenty-five at the same time; about being scared and excited; About endings, and beginnings, and how both can exist at once.

Inexplicably, he looks toward her. Just a glance, a small, grounding flicker. She holds it. Smiles. Lets him know she’s here.

The room listens, suspended. And Anna becomes aware, suddenly, of time, not as something moving forward, but as something narrowing.. A countdown no one wants to name.

The goodbye conversation won’t happen tonight. They both know that. Tonight is for celebration, not endings. Tonight she is just his girlfriend, and he is just the boy who dreamed big and made it all real.

In two days, he’ll leave for Clairefontaine.

Then Germany, and ultimately Madrid.

She tries not to follow the thought all the way through. But it brushes her mind anyway, persistent, impossible to shake, the knowledge that this is already almost over, even as it’s still happening.

*

She wakes already feeling wrong.

Her throat scratches faintly when she swallows; her head feels tight, wrapped in something invisible. She stands in the shower longer than usual, letting the water run too hot, convincing herself it’s nothing.

She didn’t bring a jacket to the farewell party two nights ago; She stood outside too long; She drank too much wine. All reasonable explanations that he repeats while towelling off and dressing.

There must be a cold brewing in, she tells herself that.

But she knows it isn’t that.

Her body has always been like this, a traitor, or maybe a better listener. It’s like it knows what's coming and it's already grieving in its way.

She goes to his apartment late in the morning.

Paris looks deceptively ordinary on the way over: people with grocery bags, someone walking a dog, a café terrace already filling up even though it’s barely noon. Anna feels slightly unreal moving through it, like she’s doing something wrong by participating in a day that doesn’t know what it is.

Yaëlle opens the door, her face softens immediately

“Come in, ma belle.”

It smells like cardboard and cleaning spray and something warm underneath, his cologne,stubbornly still present despite the evidence to the contrary. The place looks unfamiliar in a way that makes her stomach dip.

The apartment is all boxes now. Cardboard stacked neatly against the walls, labelled in black markerlabeled in thick marker: Madrid. Shoes. Kitchen. Books. Some half-open like they were interrupted mid-thought. The couch is gone. The walls are pale where frames used to hang.

The absence is louder than the clutter ever was.

“He’s in the bedroom.” Yaëlle says gently. “Packing for Clairefontaine.” Then, she adds: “Come. Let me make you a tea first. You look pale.”

Anna laughs, a little hoarse. “Thank you.”

Yaëlle guides her to the kitchen. There a box in the counter, tape beside it. Yaëlle must have been do some last packing. Yaëlle is leaving as well.

Anna leans against the counter because it feels like something she can do without thinking. The stone is colder than she expects. The kettle begins to boil, its sound filling the silence in a way that feels almost intimate.

“How are you?” Yaëlle asks

She’s not sure if the question is about her state of being sick or about everything that is happening

“I’m fine.” she says automatically, then corrects herself. “I think.” Both answers feel equally true and equally useless. “Just a bit under the weather.”

Yaëlle hums, unconvinced but not pressing. She pours the tea, slides the mug toward Anna.

“Your job starts in July, right?” Yaëlle says, conversational.

Anna nods. “Yes.”

Yaëlle smiles. “That’s great, love. You are going to do well I’m sure. ”

The praise lands softly. Anna wraps both hands around the mug, grounding herself in the heat.

“Thank you.” Anna says.

“I’ll still be in Paris around then.” she says, thinking aloud, as if flipping through her schedule in her head. “Maybe we could meet for coffee. And you can tell me what it’s really like working in an office”

Anna laughs softly. “Not quite as exciting as being a football star’s assistant, I'm sure.” She nods, takes a sip of her tea. “But yeah, I’d really ilike that.”

Yaëlle smiles then says, softer, “I’m going to miss you.”

Anna looks at her, pressing her lips together, determined not to cry. She promised herself she wouldn’t cry today. Crying feels like admitting something she isn’t ready to admit.

“I’ll miss you too, Yaelle.” she says, voice wobble “Your advice, your cooking..you getting frustrated at Kylian for not following his schedule.” She exhales, a small, embarrassed laugh. “You’ve been very kind to me. I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for that.”

“You don’t need to.” Yaëlle says. “You’re a very special girl. I’m glad you came into our lives.” she adds then , almost practical: “Oh, I’ll still scold him in Madrid in sure.” Yaëlle replies. “It's only the country that changes.”

Then, lighter: “I will always be here, whenever you need me.” She says “Anna squeezes her arm, affectionately “If I have to.” Yaëlle adds, “I’ll leave him starving in Madrid and fly back just to cook for you.”

Anna laughs, properly this time."Deal."

"Just call." Yaëlle adds. "Anytime you need."

Anna nods. "Thank you.”

They hug, and Anna feels it then, a dull ache settling in her chest: how much space Yaëlle has taken up in her life these past months. Not only as his assistant, but as a friend. As a family.

Yaëlle squeezes her hand once before letting go.

“Go check on your boy, now” she says. “I’ll finish up here and head out too. Got some last minute errands to do.

The bedroom door is open.

Anna lingers in the doorway for a second without speaking. The air feels thinner here. Maybe it’s because his bedroom his emptier, half the furniture is gone, only the bed and nightstand remain.

Or maybe that's just her.

The wardrobe stands open and hollow, hangers clinking softly when he moves past them. A small duffel bag open on the bed half-full - socks folded too carefully, boxers stacked with unnecessary precision, his tablet wrapped in a hoodie,chargers coiled carefully. His movements are precise but strained, like every sock requires a decision.

He’s wearing an old t-shirt, soft and washed thin, one she associates with late mornings and bare feet and coffee gone cold.

He looks up when he feels her there.

“There you are.” he says, immediately soft. “Hey baby.” he says

she smiles “Hi.”

He crosses the room in a few strides, as if distance is a minor inconvenience. He cups her face, kisses her mouth, then her cheek. He smells like himself. Like home, inconveniently.

“You’re warm.” he murmurs “And not in a good way.” he presses the back of his hand to her cheek, then her forehead. “ You’re ok?”.

She almost smiles at how fast he clocks it. She wants to say it’s fine, because that’s what she’s been saying all week, about everything. Instead she says:

“I think I’m getting sick.” she says.

“Concern flickers instantly. “Have you taken anything? I can ask Yaëlle-”

she interrupts gently, shaking her head. “I already took something before I came. And Yaëlle, she offered me tea.”

He watches her a second longer, unconvinced, then pushes her into him. The contact is grounding and devastating at the same time. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath her cheek, like the world is still functioning correctly even though hers feels suspended. She kisses her head before she pulls back.

“You packed already?” she asks, nodding toward the bag, because logistics are safer than feelings.

“Most of it. Just the boring stuff left.” he says sighs, affectionate and tired. “Socks, chargers. My entire personality.”

She lets out a small laugh. Relief flickers across his face, like he needs her to stay normal so he can too.

She sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. The room feels too large now, emptied of things that mattered. She presses her palms down, grounding herself in the texture of the fabric. If she thinks too hard, she knows she’ll spiral. .He turns back to his duffel bag. She watches his hands, the way he folds, unfolds, refolds, like he’s buying time.

Her eyes wander.

The nightstand is empty now. There’s no phone charging, no water bootle, no absurdly expensive watch. The photo booth strip from his birthday, the one where they’d crammed into the frame laughing, is already gone too.

That lands harder than she expects.

Her gaze drifts to the bathroom, door half-open. Halloween flashes through her - the first night, the shock of waking up here, of realizing that meant something . Then everything that followed: toothpaste kisses, bare feet on cold tile, whispering and laughing about nothing at all. The showers they shared, and somehow, after it, feeling closer.

A whole life, dissolving quietly.

He must feel her looking, because he says softly,

"It's weird, right? Seeing it all packed."

"Yeah." she replies “It makes it all real I guess”.

Silence settles between them, heavy and inevitable. She thinks about how hard she’s been trying to make this gentle. How she’s swallowed words all week, smoothed her tone, laughed at the right moments. How being «ok» feels like a role she’s performing out of love. If she collapses, he will too. She doesn’t want that.

So she keeps it light.

“You could just buy all new furniture, you know?” she says “ Fresh start, minimalist era.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “I know. Yaëlle’s already reminded me about three times this week, right in the middle of her packing breakdowns.” He pauses, softer now, voice low. “But I like my things. I guess… I’m emotionally attached to them. To here.”

She smiles faintly. Then lies back slowly, staring at the ceiling. She heard him zip the bag shut, and joins her, stretching out beside her, their shoulders touching. The contact sends an immediate, involuntary relief through her body , followed by the sharper awareness that this is finite.

She shifts closer anyway, the mattress sighing softly under their weight. His hand finds hers, fingers intertwining with a familiar ease, grounding them both.

“You know.” he says suddenly, “when we first met… at that galley?”

She hums, a quiet prompt, heart skipping at the memory.

“It wasn’t an accident.” he continues, thumb brushing hers. “I bumped into you… on purpose.”

She turns toward him, brow raised. “What?”

“I thought you were… pretty. ” he says simply, almost shyly. “And I wanted to talk to you. Make a move.”

She laughs at the absurdity of his statement.So it wasn’t clumsy fate. It wasn’t randomness. It was intention.

“Why are you telling me this now?” she asks, her voice low, cheeks warming, realizing that every step he took toward her had been deliberate.

“I don’t know” he murmurs, a shadow of a smile playing at his lips. “I thought you should know.”

She shifts closer, curling into his side. Her head rests against his chest. His heart beats steady under her ear.

“Well, now that we are airing some truths.” she whispers, pressing a soft kiss to his chest, “I’m glad you made your move. Really glad.”

Silence settles around them again, full of memory.

“Are you sure you want to stay?” His tone is teasing, light, almost hopeful. “Spain has really good food. And less rain.”

She laughed, a real one. “Are you trying bribing me with carbohydrates and sunshine?

“Yes.” he says, voice low, almost smug. “And I can be very persuasive.”

She tilts her head, pretending to consider it. For a half-second, she lets the fantasy breathe.

She could still go. She could pack.

She could step into another life with him and let the world dissolve around them

The thought is intoxicating and humiliating. she hates herself a little for how easy it feels. She tells herself she’s only doubting now because this is the moment where fantasy collapses into logistics. Because now it’s real. Because now there’s a door closing, and her brain is doing what brains do, bargaining with reality.

She doesn’t think she’s made the wrong choice. She thinks she’s grieving the loss of possibility.

“And what would I complain about if not Paris rain?” she says, attempting a casual shrug, but her voice carries a tremor she can’t quite mask.

“You’d find new things to complain about. ”he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe how much the sun burns… you might even forget Paris ever existed.”

Her smile softens, a flicker of warmth in the bittersweet “I would never forget about Paris.”

He nods slowly, eyes dropping to her mouth for a heartbeat before returning to meet her gaze. “I know. Me neither.”

His gaze lingers like he’s memorising the way she looks right now, her hair slightly unbrushed, the curve of her jaw, the tilt of her head, the way her oversized jumper swallows her frame yet doesn’t hide the life in her bright, tired eyes.

She wonders when she started being someone worth memorising.

She reaches out, tracing the line of his jaw with her finger, a gesture so familiar it almost hurts.

“The other day at the farewell party, I felt… I don’t know.” he begins, voice low, careful. “Like everyone was celebrating something, and all I could think was that you won’t be in that life.”

Her eyes sting immediately. She blinks, looking away, chewing on the rise and fall of his words.

“I kept thinking… how much I’m going to miss you.” he adds in a way that missing her feels too small a word. Like saying drowning is inconvenient..

She wants to cry. She can feel it, the catch in her throat, the heat behind her eyes. She keeps her mouth pressed together.

He doesn’t need to ask. He knows. She isn’t silent because she doesn’t feel it, she’s silent because if she speaks, it will spill everywhere.

She squeezes his hand instead. Once. Twice. Then again, letting the rhythm of her pulse speak what her words cannot.

“I’m going to miss you too.” she says after a moment, her voice low, trembling just enough to betray her control. “A lot.” She lifts her eyes to him, burning with something raw, something she can’t name.

“But then it will pass.” she adds, nodding as if she’s certain, even even though she isn’t. “Things will get better. We’re both be so busy doing our things that we’ll forget. You’re going to be so incredible there.”

Her words are careful, measured, almost rehearsed, like she’s repeated them a hundred times in the privacy of her mind. Like repetition might anchor them, make them safe to speak aloud.

“You deserve everything you’re going to get.”

He exhales slowly, the sound of it mingling with the quiet of the room. “This feels unfair.” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Like we did everything right and still… ended up here. We both got what we wanted; our dreams, our own paths… and yet they don’t fit together. It’s not fair.”

She presses her forehead against the back of his hand, letting herself lean into the truth of it, letting herself feel the ache too keenly. “I know. “ she whispers, and it’s all she can give.

She thinks how cruel it is. How can it make any sense? That the best version of this story, the one where love is alive and real and full, is still so achingly sad?

The problem isn’t love. It never was. It’s geography. It’s timing. It’s two dreams growing in different directions, colliding softly at first, then inevitably pulling apart.

She leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder. He pulls her into his arms strong and steady, the way he always holds her like he’s certain of her presence in that moment. She curls into him instinctively, fitting against his chest as if this were a law of physics.

They stay like that for a long time - no words, no promises, just the ache of two people who love each other and know love isn't always enough to keep two lives aligned.

“Maybe in a year, or two…” she says, testing the words. “Well meet again and maybe there we’ll different people. More settled. And maybe then the timing isn’t… this violent. And there's going to be place for us again.”

“There’s always going to be space for you in my life, Anna.” he says .“Distance won’t change how I feel about you. ” he says firmly.

The sentence hits her harder than I love you ever could.

She leans in and kisses him. Not to stop the conversation, to survive it. Gratitude and grief braided together.

“I'll love you, Kylian” she whispers “Always.”

———