okay I have an idea for jobe, Jude, or kylian Mbappe or all three where you do the prank where you ask them if they are allowed to get dessert or like a pasta instead of a salad or something like that I think that would be really fun! And maybe it be in front of their team or parents or something! Thanks
ALLOWED w/ l. yamal, k. mbappe, & ju. bellingham
inwhich! you pull the “am i allowed to have __” prank on your boyfriend his front of his closest people.
frannytalks! HAPPY BIRTHDAY LA NIÑA MALA!! i was supposed to upload two things for him today, but i got so caught up, i apologize. :’) (also i replaced jobe with lamine since its his bday, but more jobe content coming soon!) don’t forget to join my taglist(s) here!
lamine yamal (birthday boy!)
you had taken lamine and his immediate family out to dinner for his birthday. lamine was always the sweetest and most loving boyfriend to you, you had zero complaints other than the amount of time he’d spend on football.
you surprised him with a fancy restaurant that he’d been wanting to try for at least a year now, but never did because he said it was too much money. kenye was ecstatic and his parents were surprised, but not too surprised since they know how much you love him.
the waiter came by to ask for drinks, you made sure to give lamine a certain look when you told the waiter you wanted water. you noticed his mother looked over and squinted her eyes slightly, but didn’t say anything just yet.
“so, how have you two been, with the whole moving in situation?” lamine’s mother asked as the waiter made his way out.
you look over to lamine, pretending you need his permission to speak, he gives you a confused nod and you take that as a green light, “it’s been good, still needs decorating though.”
she nods suspiciously and his dad steps in, “and with his football schedule?” he asks.
lamine talks this time, “she’s been enjoying it, more time to herself with me annoying her,” he jokes, winking at you, you give a short laugh and nod.
the waiter finally made his way back and asked for our orders, you waited until everyone took theirs to do your prank. you bit your lip and looked over to lamine nervously.
“am i allowed to get the pasta this time?” you ask with pleading eyes.
lamine’s face immediately dropped and turned white, the waiter paused, and his mother immediately spoke, “lamine yamal nasraoui ebana.” she said in a stern voice.
“get whatever you want honey,” she smiled at you, “get her the pasta, thank you.” she told the waiter as he nodded and left again.
“lamine what is wrong with you?” she said, furrowing her eyebrows.
his dad spoke up, “that is not the way you treat your woman, son.” he shook his head no, disappointed.
“what!? i don’t know what she’s talking about!” he defended himself, looking at you in shock.
“you told me to lay off a few pounds the other week.” you mumbled.
he almost laughed, “what? you’re out of your mind.”
lamine’s father stood up and started to walk towards the other side where you two were sitting, you immediately waved your hands close to your chest.
“no, no, it’s just a prank!” you said nervously, “i’m sorry.”
his mom let out a grateful sigh, “you scared me!” she said, putting her hand on her chest.
lamine put his hand on your thigh, “i’m eating half of your pasta.” he whispered.
-
kylian mbappe
kylian had invited you to have lunch with his team before he went off to training in madrid for a while, you obviously accepted, but you weren’t letting him go without pulling a prank on him.
your salad had arrived first, before everyone else’s meal and you poked at it for a few seconds. then, you quietly looked over at kylian.
“can i ask you something?” you spoke just loud enough for him to hear.
he looked up from his pasta that had just arrived, “yeah?”
you lowered your voice, “i don’t really want the salad anymore.”
he shrugged, “that’s okay.”
you looked toward the waiter walking past, “i kind of want the truffle pasta instead.”
he smiled, rubbing your lower back, “then order it.” he nodded towards the waiter.
you hesitated, “are you sure you’re okay with that?”
he instantly frowned, giving you a confused look, “why wouldn’t i be?”
you shifted in your seat, “because it’s a lot heavier than this.”
“and?” he said, this time patting your thigh, looking at his teammates, scared.
you looked down at your salad, “i know you’ve been trying to get me to eat a little cleaner.” you said, making sure it was loud enough for everyone to hear.
then, conversation around the table stopped, and vinícius slowly lowered his fork.
rodrygo looked directly at kylian. “bro?”
kylian looked around the table, and back at you, betrayed, “i have been trying to what!?”
you held in your laugh, “i just didn’t want you thinking i wasn’t listening.”
vinícius leaned back in his chair, “kylian.” he said, while giving him a dirty look, “she eats ‘clean’ enough, look at her.”
jude smiles at you, “why are you controlling what your girl eats, mate?”
“no, i’m not controlling what she eats!” kylian raised his voice slightly, pleading.
camavinga stared at him, “oh, so you’re just one of those ‘just have a salad’ guys?” he asked.
“absolutely not!” he said, laughing out of disbelief, “she’s lying to you all!”
rodrygo shook his head, “that’s awful, kylian.”
jude couldn’t stop smiling, sensing it wasn’t true, “mate, if this is true, you’re finished.”
“i promise on everything, i have never once told her what to eat.” he laughs, throwing up his hands.
you looked up at him, “so i can order the pasta?” you ask, finally laughing into his shoulder, lifting up your phone to show you were recording.
“now, i don’t know if you can.” he rolls his eyes and pats your head.
-
jude bellingham
the waiter smiled politely as he finished taking everyone’s food order. he looked around the table one last time before writing down the last few drinks.
“anything else?” he asked, tapping his pen on the notepad.
you looked at the menu again. your finger grazed absentmindedly against the list of drinks before you turned toward jude.
“i was thinking about getting one of those strawberry refreshers.” you spoke quietly.
he nodded without even looking up, “okay love.”
you hesitated, trying to make it believable, “are you sure?” you asked softly, “that it’s okay i mean.”
jude looked over at you, “yeah?” he answered, confused.
you glanced back at the waiter, “it’s got like sixty grams of sugar.” you pause for a second, and now his whole family is looking at you, “i know you’ve been telling me i should probably cut back a little.”
jude’s eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline, “i’ve been telling you what?” he asked.
you nod, closing your lips together, “i just wanted to check first.”
the waiter awkwardly lowered his pen, looking between you two.
denise slowly turned toward her son, “jude victor william.”
then this father closed the menu in his hands shut, “is there something you’d like to tell us?” he asked calmly.
“what!?” jude said, his eyes widening.
joke smirked, definitely aware of the prank you were pulling on him, “hold on, he leaned forward, “are you rationing her drinks?” he asked.
“no!” jude answered immediately, nodding his head left and right.
you bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling as you watched denise cross her arms.
“because i raised you to mind your own plate.” she said, raising her eyebrows and giving him a look.
mark nodded in agreement, “your mother doesn’t even tell me what i can order, let alone me telling her!”
jude looked between all three of them, “i have literally never told her she can’t drink anything!”
you looked down at the menu again, “so, the refresher’s okay then?” you asked quietly.
he stared at you, “baby, you can order whatever you want, whenever.” he laughs, “hell, you could order four of them.”
jobe couldn’t help but laugh, but he tried to play it off by looking away and wiping his face.
jude pointed at his younger brother, “he’s cracking,” he said, squinting his eyes at you.
“you’re supposed to be helping me!” you said in between your teeth while giving him a light kick under the table.
“i couldn’t help it! you should’ve seen his face.” jobe grinned, “best laugh i’ve had in a while.”
you finally picked up your phone from against your glass, “thank you.” you laughed.
jude saw the recording and closed his eyes shut, “i cannot believe my entire family thought i was policing your sugar intake.”
mark reached over and patted him on the shoulder, “i’ll be honest,” he said clearing his throat, “i was about thirty seconds away from having a private father-son conversation.”
jude’s face dropped and the whole table laughed, you clung onto his arm, giving him a couple pecks to make him feel better before whispering in his ear, “i’m sorry.”
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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.
A/N: Midnight thoughts are the best plot givers.. also, this is unnecessarily long
You feel him before you see him: a prickle at the back of your neck, the sense of being observed with intent. The restaurant glows warm—amber light on glass stems, a tide of birthday laughter rolling back to your table—but one current cuts against the rest.
When you look up, he’s already watching.
Not a casual glance, not the polite drift of a stranger’s eyes—no, he’s studying you like a promise. His gaze catches and holds, slow as a hand sliding down a page, lingering where your mouth curves, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He doesn’t look away when you do. If anything, the corner of his mouth threatens a smile, as if he’s pleased to be caught.
You excuse yourself for a drink you don’t really want. The bar is a pocket of shadow and steel, the ice bin chiming as the bartender scoops and pours. You set your palms on the cool edge to steady yourself, pretending to read the cocktail list you’ve already memorized.
When you glance back, he’s standing.
He moves with a kind of unhurried certainty, threading through waiters and chairs as if the space is made for him.
No theatrics.
Just the inevitability of it—like a decision you thought about all night and finally said out loud. A couple laugh as he passes; a server pivots; the room ripples around him, and still his eyes never leave yours.
By the time he reaches you, the noise has thinned into a soft rush, the way the ocean sounds from a few streets away. He stops close enough that you can make out the flecks of darker color in his irises, the faint shadow of a smile that never quite becomes one. He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t need to.
“Happy birthday,” he says, voice pitched low for you alone. It slides between your ribs like heat.
You arch a brow, aiming for lightness and landing somewhere breathless. “Thank you.”
The bartender sets your drink down, but before you can reach for it, he nods to the glass. “That’s on me.”
You hiss shortly. “No thanks.”
His smile curves, lazy, deliberate. “Not optional. It’s your birthday present.”
Your brows lift. “My present is one drink?”
“Unlimited,” he counters smoothly, leaning just a fraction closer, his eyes holding yours with a promise you can’t quite name. “All night. As many as you want. From me.”
You let out a breathy laugh, trying to break the tension, but it only seems to tighten. “That’s… generous,” you say, fingers brushing the cool glass but not lifting it.
“Not generous,” he corrects, watching your hesitation with an intensity that makes your pulse thrum. “Intentional.”
You narrow your eyes, more to shield yourself from the pull of his gaze than out of suspicion. “And what exactly are you intending?”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. He leans in just enough that his words graze the air between you, warm and low.
“To marry you.”
The laugh bursts out before you can stop it—half nerves, half disbelief. “Yeah, right.” Your smile tips toward incredulous.
“I’m not sure why this is funny.” His voice is calm, steady, too serious for the playful hum of the restaurant around you. “I am being serious.”
“Well, that’s a charming proposal.” you murmur, though the words hold no real bite.
He lets the silence stretch between you, his gaze heavy on your face, on your mouth, before he asks, smooth:
“What are you looking for in a man?”
The question slams into you like a challenge. You arch a brow, taking a sip of your drink just to buy yourself a second. “That’s bold.”
He smirks. “So is ignoring the fact that you’ve been staring back at me all night.”
You scoff, heat prickling your skin. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Your eyes lingered.” His voice lowers, velvet over steel. “And I don’t believe in accidents.”
You laugh, dry and nervous. “You really think you’ve got me figured out, huh?”
He leans in—not touching, but close enough that you feel the heat of him brush your shoulder. His words are deliberate, edged with quiet hunger.
“Tell me. What is it you want? Stability? Danger? Someone who sees you? Someone who doesn’t bore you?”
You shake your head, fighting the heat rising in your chest, trying to laugh it off, but your body betrays you—the quickened breath, the way you’re rooted to the spot instead of walking back to your table.
Because something... Something about him is so intimidating it’s luring you in.
You blink, caught off guard. He studies you like he’s dissecting every flicker of doubt across your face, and then he delivers it—smooth, devastating:
“Am I not what you’re looking for?”
That earns you a smirk, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring your bite. He leans an inch closer, and the faintest trace of cologne edges into your senses—clean, sharp, expensive. “Charming. Rich. Passionate. Straightforward. Clean. Honest.” His pause is intentional, the final word dropping like a stone in your chest. “Sexy.”
You snort, forcing your gaze away, pretending the stem of your glass is far more interesting. “Wow. Don’t forget humble.”
“Darling,” he murmurs, his voice grazing your skin, “humble men don’t get what they want.”
Your throat tightens, though you mask it with a smile. He’s too confident, too sharp, and yet… the sheer audacity makes your stomach knot in ways you don’t want to acknowledge.
The bartender clears his throat somewhere behind you, dragging reality back into place. But the air between you stays sharp, electric, like a match waiting for flame.
“So tell me,” you say, lips curving as though it’s a joke even though your pulse betrays you, “what’s a handsome, rich celebrity doing wasting his time on a normal girl like me—when there are women in this room with bigger boobs and thicker thighs?”
You mean it to come out flippant, teasing. Instead it lands like a dare.
His gaze darkens, lashes lowering just slightly as his eyes sweep over you—slow, unhurried, devastating. When they rise again, they pin you in place.
He smirks, straightening his back. His voice smooth but threaded with heat, “I don’t want women.” He leans a fraction closer, enough that his words brush against your skin. “I want you.”
Your throat goes dry, but you force a laugh anyway, the sound thin. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he concedes, his smile sharp, hungry. “But I’ve already decided.” He relaxes in his stool. His eyes studying you hungrily: “ And I know what I want when I want it,” he says, tone almost casual, though the weight of his eyes makes it anything but.
You let out a short laugh, your lips curving even as your pulse skips. “Sounds like mommy issues to me.”
His mouth curves, slow and dangerous, like he’s already decided how to punish your tease. “You may call it whatever you want, but I admire my brutal honesty.”
The room hums around you, oblivious, but you feel scorched under the weight of his certainty—like you’re the only person here who knows a storm has just begun.
The bartender leaves your second drink on the counter, but you don’t touch it. Not when he’s this close, standing like he has every right to your space, his gaze dragging across you with unhurried precision.
“I’m not looking for a woman,” he continues, each word deliberate, deliberate enough you feel them more than hear them. “I’m looking for the woman.”
Your eyes flick back to him despite yourself, narrowing. “And what—you just decided that’s me?”
“Not decided.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Knew.”
A shaky laugh slips past your lips, too quick, too thin. “You’re insane.”
“I’ll marry you,” he says simply, like it’s already written. “In one year, you’ll be my wife.”
You can’t even laugh anymore. You shake your head, hoping the motion will break his spell. “You want me to lose a year of my life to your… fantasies?”
His smirk fades, sharpening into something far more dangerous. “Haven’t you already lost years on your exes? Men with mixed signals. Men who wanted your body but not your soul.”
The glass in your hand suddenly feels too heavy. You grip it tighter, fighting the sudden, unsteady twist in your chest. He shouldn’t know that. He can’t know that.
“That’s a low blow,” you manage, voice thinner than you’d like.
“Truth usually is.” His tone is quiet, unshakable.
You shake your head, scoffing, trying to piece your armor back together. “And what—what makes you any different?”
“I’m twenty-six.” His voice is steady, certain, dragging your gaze back to his. “I want to settle down. Start a family. Have a decent woman by my side. To find comfort and peace with.”
The noise of the restaurant swells somewhere behind you, but all you can hear is the pounding in your ears, the dangerous certainty in his eyes.
The glass sweats against your palm, untouched. He’s too close, close enough that the air feels thinner around you, his gaze locked like he’s already peeled you open and found something he intends to keep.
You shake your head, desperate to break the spell, but he just smiles—dark, sure, like he’s already inside your skin.
You swallow, force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Do you want to know what I think?” you ask as you place your drink down.
He leans in just enough that his cologne invades your lungs, his lips curving like he already knows your answer. “Desperately.”
You tilt your head, lashes lowering as you deliver the blow. “I think you’re very bored. And you picked me to entertain yourself with. Like a shiny distraction until the next thing comes along.”
The corner of his mouth curves, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the taste of your words. He doesn’t argue right away. He lets the silence stretch, lets you feel the weight of him standing there—close enough for his presence to press against you without a single touch.
Finally, his voice cuts through, low and precise.
“If I were bored, I’d already be gone.” His eyes flick down the length of your body and back again, unhurried, like he’s memorizing every line. “I don’t waste time on things that don’t matter.”
Your breath hitches. You want to roll your eyes, toss back another witty jab, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re already his, like the rest of the room doesn’t exist—roots you in place.
He leans just close enough that you catch the heat of him, his scent—dark, clean, expensive—curling around you like smoke. His next words graze your ear, softer, dangerous.
“And you…” His smirk deepens, gaze locking with yours. “…you don’t feel like a distraction. You feel like purpose.”
The air leaves your lungs in a rush you didn’t mean to give him. Heat coils low in your stomach, treacherous, and you curse yourself for the way your thighs shift beneath your dress.
“You’re sexy,” he says first, like it’s a fact, not a compliment. “Funny. You love your family—that much is obvious. You keep a small circle, which means you’ve got trust issues. But the people you do let in? You’d bleed for them.”
Your stomach twists. He doesn’t stop. “You’re hardworking. Stable. You’ve got a good job—otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to afford that Dior dress.”
His gaze lingers over you, low and slow.
Your lips part. “Wait—how do you—”
“I know a Dior dress when I see one.”
His smirk cuts sharp, wicked. “And I know very few women who wear it this good.”
Heat flares up your throat, burning your ears. You don’t know whether it’s anger or something far more dangerous. But before you can answer, he goes for the jugular. “Your ex was horrible,” he says smoothly, like it’s already written on your skin.
“Showered you with love at first, then got bored. Somewhere along the way, you started wondering if it was ever love at all. Tell me—did he ever look for something real? Or was he just using you for sex?”
The air rushes out of you, your nails biting into the stem of your glass. He’s watching every flicker of your expression, drinking in the shock you can’t quite mask.
He leans in, voice dropping, velvet and steel. “See? I already know you better than he ever did.”
You swallow hard, trying to collect yourself, to stitch your armor back together. Your laugh comes out shaky, forced. “Impressive… but for all I know, you could be a stalker.”
Before he can reply, you hear your name being called across the room. Your family—bright, laughing, waving for you to come back. The safe place, the noise, the people who know you.
You seize the excuse like air after drowning. “That’s my cue,” you murmur, fingers tightening around your glass before setting it down untouched.
You turn, but he moves quicker than you expect. His fingers wrap around your hand—warm, firm, unyielding. Not painful, just… decisive.
The sudden contact jolts through you like static. You freeze, your breath caught in your throat.
He lifts your hand, slow and deliberate, his thumb brushing the delicate skin of your wrist as if he’s memorizing your pulse. Then his mouth lowers, pressing against your knuckles in a kiss that is nothing like courtesy. It’s a claim, subtle but absolute, his lips warm, lingering a beat too long.
Your eyes snap to his face, searching for mockery, but what you find makes your stomach twist.
His eyes aren’t just looking at you—they’re devouring you. Dark, intent, lit with something that borders on dangerous. There’s no playfulness there, no casual flirtation. It’s hunger; a hunger that has already chosen you and nothing else in the room. No one has ever looked at you like that, as if your skin, your breath, your very existence are inevitable and his.
He doesn’t let go. His mouth still close to your skin, he murmurs, low and rich with that accent that makes your knees weaken:
“Enchanté.”
The word slips into you like a brand, elegant and dangerous all at once—an introduction, a promise, and a warning.
And then—he doesn’t let go. His fingers tighten, just slightly, enough to remind you that you’re still in his hold. The pause stretches, unbearable, making your breath falter. Only when your own fingers twitch, when you dare to try pulling away, does he finally release you.
He doesn’t move to stop you. Just watches, his eyes heavy on you as you step away. You can feel the weight of him trailing your back, like invisible hands pressed to your skin.
At the edge of the bar, you glance over your shoulder—just once, just for a second.
He’s still there. Standing in that pool of dim light, a smile curves slow and knowing across his mouth, his gaze locks to yours with the promise he hasn’t spoken yet: you can run, but you’re already his.
You tear yourself away, slipping back into the cocoon of laughter and family, but the warmth doesn’t reach your bones. Not when your body is still humming, still clenching, still burning from the gravity of him.
And though you’re smiling at the table, pretending, you can feel his eyes on you—every sip, every laugh, every stolen glance.
Like he’s already started writing your story.
His eyes drag over you, thoughtful, dissecting, like he’s cataloging details you didn’t even know you were giving away.
The chatter at the table swells around you—your aunt telling some story too loudly, your best friend reaching for more fingerfood. You smile, you nod, you laugh in rhythm, but your nerves are still tuned to him, searching for that heavy stare across the room.
And then—he’s gone.
Your chest tightens, relief and frustration tangling into a restless ache. You almost convince yourself you imagined it all. Until a man in a dark suit approaches your chair, silent and precise.
“Miss,” he says smoothly, placing a folded card beside your plate. “From my employer.”
He doesn’t wait for thanks, doesn’t explain—just vanishes back into the restaurant’s shadows. Your friends whistle, your cousins giggle, but you wave them off with a forced laugh. Tucking the card into your lap, your fingers tremble as you open it.
Heavy paper. Bold, deliberate handwriting. Only one line, entirely unashamed:
“Tonight I’ll admire from afar. Soon, I’ll be closer than you think… and you’ll remember every second.”
Heat coils low in your belly. Breath catches. Your fingers tighten around the card, thighs pressing together without thought.
Every laugh at the table feels hollow now—because all you can think about is him, somewhere across the room, watching, wanting, knowing exactly what he does to you. You slide the note into your clutch, but you don’t stop thinking about it… or him.
You slip away from the laughter and clatter of your family’s table, fingers tightening around the note, heart hammering. The bar is quieter, shadows pooling around the edges, music humming low. You clutch the card like it’s a lifeline, heat crawling through your veins.
Then, from somewhere across the dim light, you feel him before you see him. A presence, calm and deliberate, impossible to ignore.
Your pulse jumps. You glance up—and there he is. Leaning casually against the counter, arms relaxed, but his gaze is sharp, dark, and entirely fixed on you. He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t call out. He simply watches, letting the weight of his attention land on you fully.
You can’t look away. The room narrows until it’s just the two of you—his eyes dark fire, smoldering, measuring, knowing. Gentlemanly, yes—he hasn’t crossed the line—but every inch of him speaks of intent, of hunger restrained by control.
You swallow, fingers clutching the note. He tilts his head slightly, just enough to draw your gaze, and the faintest smirk curls his lips.
The note burns in your palm, his stare on your skin, and for the first time tonight, you realize the night has only just begun.
Before you know it you walk toward him, each step deliberate, your heels soft against the floor, the note still pressed into your palm. His eyes never leave you—dark, unreadable, but glittering with something sharp and hungry beneath the surface.
When you finally reach him, he straightens slightly, as though you’ve confirmed something he already knew. That faint, dangerous smirk curves his lips.
“I was worried you might leave me heartbroken,” he says, voice low, smooth as silk but edged with something that makes your stomach tighten. He studies you for a long moment, his eyes dark pools you can’t quite escape. Then his lips curve, sharp and deliberate.
“So…” he murmurs, voice silk over steel, “You are interested.”
You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even though it feels like standing in fire. “I’m not,” you reply evenly. “I’m… curious.”
The smirk deepens, and his eyes darken as though you’ve just given him exactly what he wanted. He leans in a fraction—close enough that his words brush over your skin like a secret.
“Curiosity,” he murmurs, “is where it always begins.”
Your throat goes dry, but you force yourself to hold steady, even as your pulse betrays you. “Maybe. But curiosity isn’t the same as interest.”
His gaze drops deliberately, tracing the line of your mouth, then back to your eyes with a slow certainty that makes your thighs press together under the table of your restraint.
“No,” he agrees softly. “But it’s the first step toward wanting.”
The way he says it makes your skin prickle. You shift in your seat, trying to mask the reaction with a smirk.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Curious little cat,” he drawls, the words both teasing and edged. “The question is… what does she want to play with?” He leans in the barest fraction, his tone dropping lower, darker. “The knife? The fire? Or…” His eyes lock onto yours, hungry, unblinking. “Me?”
Instead of faltering, you let a slow smile touch your lips, leaning in just a fraction to match him. “I think the better question is… which one of those do you think you are?”
For the first time, his smirk falters—just slightly—before it returns, darker, sharper, as though your defiance only stokes the hunger in his eyes.
“Careful,” he says softly, but the warning sounds too much like a promise. “You’ll make me prove it.”
Your lips curve, matching his smirk with one of your own. “Prove it?” you echo, voice smooth, deliberate. “That sounds like something a man says when he’s not sure what he is.”
A shadow flickers in his eyes—something amused, something dangerous. He leans back slightly, as though giving you space, but you can feel the tether between you tighten instead of loosen.
“Oh, I’m sure,” he says. His gaze drags slowly over you, unhurried, intimate without a single touch. “The knife cuts, the fire burns. Me?” He pauses, his voice dipping lower. “I consume.”
Your pulse stumbles, but you refuse to let it show. You tilt your head, letting your smile sharpen. “Or maybe,” you counter, “you just think too highly of yourself. A man who has to tell me what he is… probably isn’t.”
That earns you something new—not just a smirk, but a low laugh, dark and genuine, the kind that makes your stomach clench. He leans forward again, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.
“You’re bold,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “Playing with fire and pretending you won’t get burned.” His lips curl, slow and lethal. “But I’ll tell you a secret.”
You arch a brow, steady. “Go on, then.”
He leans closer, his words brushing hot against your ear. “You’re not afraid of me. You’re afraid of how much you already want me.”
His words hang between you, heavy, intoxicating, dangerous. You open your mouth to retort, but the sound dies in your throat when his hand moves.
Slow. Deliberate.
Two fingers brush over yours where they rest on the table, just barely grazing, like he’s testing how much contact you’ll allow. The touch is feather-light, but it sends a bolt of heat shooting up your arm and down into your stomach.
Your breath catches—just for a second—but you recover with a tilt of your chin, keeping your gaze locked on him. “You assume too much,” you whisper, though your voice isn’t as steady as you want it to be.
His lips curve into a knowing smirk, eyes glinting like dark glass under firelight. “No,” he murmurs, his fingertips still grazing, trailing lightly along the side of your hand before retreating, leaving your skin tingling, hungry for more. “I don’t assume. I read.”
You force a laugh, low and throaty, trying to reclaim the upper hand. “Read?”
His gaze never wavers, burning straight through you. “Your pulse. Your breath. The way your thighs pressed tighter the moment I touched you.” His voice dips lower, almost a growl. “You’re dripping curiosity. And if I touch you again… it won’t just be curiosity.”
Your body betrays you, heat curling low and fierce. You hate the way he knows it—no, you love the way he knows it.
And he doesn’t even need to touch you again.
“Say yes.” He pleas “Give me a chance and let me prove to you I'm worth the time.”
You hold his gaze, steady, daring, letting the heat between you thrum like a living thing. “What if I say no?” you murmur, voice low, confident, teasing.
His eyes flare—dark, molten, consuming—and then he leans back just enough to let the shadow of a smirk curl at his lips. His voice drops, low and smooth, each word measured like a slow-burning spell.
“Then,” he murmurs, “I shall vanish like smoke through your fingers… and you will never feel this fire again.”
The words settle on your skin, heavy, intoxicating, almost unbearable. His thumb brushes along the curve of your jaw, a touch as fleeting as a whispered secret, but it leaves heat in its wake.
You lean in fractionally, daring him, letting your eyes burn with challenge. “And if I say yes?” you whisper, silk threaded with fire.
His gaze drops to your lips, then lifts, molten and unblinking. “Then,” he murmurs, letting his fingers trace your wrist and forearm like a slow, dark caress, “I will weave every heartbeat, every breath, every pulse… into proof that choosing me was inevitable… and exquisite.”
You feel him—every deliberate movement, every claim in his stare, every brush of his skin like a vow. Your body betrays you: thighs tightening, stomach coiling, pulse racing—but your chin stays lifted, eyes locked, challenging him, daring him.
He leans just close enough that his presence presses into you, heat rolling off him, but he doesn’t cross the final line. “Say yes,” he whispers, voice low and velvet-dark, “and I will make you see… I am worth surrendering to.”
The ache, the fire, the electricity between you… it’s unbearable. Every brush of skin, every word, every look has you hanging on the edge—half desire, half defiance—and you know he’s the only one who could ever leave you trembling like this.
His fingers rest lightly at the curve of your jaw, deliberate, measured. Every brush against your skin ignites a heat that coils low in your stomach.
He leans in, slow, controlled, and his lips find your cheek. Not a kiss, not playful—not fleeting. A single, precise peck, soft but deliberate, like fire and silk pressed together. You feel the warmth of his mouth lingering, the faint pressure sending shivers through you, tracing a line from your cheekbone down to your collarbone, igniting nerves you didn’t know were waiting.
His lips retreat, but the memory of them remains, burning against your skin, impossible to ignore. Your pulse races. Your thighs tighten. Every nerve hums with need and ache.
“I’ll wait until midnight,” he murmurs, voice low, deliberate, every word weighted, vibrating through you. “By the fountain in the rose garden. That will be your choice… and if you don’t come, I vanish. But if you do…” His eyes flare, dark and molten, unblinking. “…I’ll prove every second that trusting me wasn’t a mistake.”
The ghost of his lips lingers, and so does the fire in your veins. You’re trembling, but you don’t step back. You can’t. The ache, the tension, the dark pull between you—he’s carved it into you with the brush of his mouth alone.
Your pulse thrums violently, echoing in your ears, betraying every thought you try to hold steady. The ghost of his lips on your cheek still burns, tracing a path from your jaw to your collarbone, and every nerve in your body hums with fire. Your thighs clench, stomach coils, and your breath catches in ways you can’t control.
You should step back. You should. But the memory of him—the weight of his gaze, the deliberate heat of his touch—makes your chest ache, makes your hands curl as if reaching for him even when he’s not there.
Your mind spins, arguing with itself:
He’s dangerous.
Insane.
I should walk away…
I should… But it’s no use.
Desire and fear coil together, sharp and intoxicating. His lips weren’t just a kiss—they were a claim. A promise. Something that’s left a fire in your veins that you can’t ignore.
Midnight looms, the fountain waiting in its silver glow. Your pulse races, every sense alive, and the ache in your body answers only one thing. You step forward, slow, deliberate, every nerve screaming, every heartbeat betraying you, knowing fully that once you do… there is no turning back.
The night air is cool, but your skin burns as you stand at the edge of the fountain. He turns when he feels you, as if he had known every step you would take. His gaze locks on yours, and it is like being dragged under water—dangerous, inescapable, consuming.
“Still curious?” His voice low velvet, but his eyes—those merciless eyes—were ablaze, holding you captive.
Your chest rises sharply, your breath catching. You close the distance, slowly, deliberately, until his scent—dark spice, smoke, and something distinctly him—is wrapping around you like a noose.
You let your hand brush his chest, fingers trembling against the fine line of its zipper, feeling the steady, unshakable thrum of his heartbeat beneath. His lips part, not in surprise but in hunger, and the look in his eyes makes your knees weak.
Your lips curve into something sharp, dangerous, reckless.
“No…” your voice is almost a whisper, your pulse echoing in your throat. You drag your gaze down to his mouth, lingering there, heat flaring inside you until you couldn’t breathe. “…interested.”
The last word bleed out like a confession and a dare all at once.
Something in his expression darkens, cracks—like he had been waiting for those two syllables. His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, fingertips grazing your jaw before trailing down the column of your throat, igniting fire in their wake. You shiver, every muscle taut, your body betraying you by leaning into his touch.
He leans closer, his lips ghosting yours, his breath mingling with yours—hot, intoxicating, devastating. You could see the restraint in his eyes, the hunger he refused to unleash, not yet. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, and your thighs press together helplessly.
You don’t even realize you were the one closing the final space until your lips collide with his. It isn’t a kiss—it is a storm. His mouth devoures yours with controlled fire, like a man starved and unwilling to waste a second. Your fingers curle into his shirt, dragging him closer, desperate, needing more. His hand slides down your waist, anchoring you, holding you exactly where he wants you.
The world vanishes. All you know is the fire of his mouth, the brutal honesty of his desire, and the way his eyes burn into you when he finally pulls back—lips swollen, breath uneven.
“Now,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough silk, “you understand.”
Heat licks up your throat, threatening to spill. You want to deny it, wanted to pull back—but his voice wraps around you like a fist in your hair.
When his lips left yours, you were trembling—though whether from the cold night air or the fire he had set in your blood, you couldn’t tell. His forehead rests against yours, his breath rags but steady, as if he’d prepared for this moment a thousand times before.
His thumb still lingers at your mouth, dragging slowly across your lower lip, memorizing it. His eyes, unrelenting, and burning—search yours like he could peel apart every layer of you and claim what lays underneath.
“Midnight was never about a choice,” he confesses, his voice dark silk. “It was about giving you time to admit what you already knew.” His lips brush the corner of your mouth, feather-light, tormenting. “You’re mine. You felt it the moment you looked at me.”
You swallow, your heart pounding against your ribs like it wants to break free. Every warning bell in your mind clashes with the truth in your body—that he was right. That you were already falling.
His lips don’t linger, but the ghost of them burns against your skin, as if he’d branded you. He stays close, too close, his breath grazing your cheek. Those eyes—dark, hungry, unwavering—pin you in place.
His thumb traces your jaw before sliding down, pressing once to your pulse. A dangerous smile curves his lips when he feels it thunder beneath his touch.
“You were made for me.”
The words steal your breath, as sharp and final as a blade. And yet… your body leans closer, betraying you. Wanting more.
He kisses your wrist then, a lingering press that makes heat shoot down your spine. His mouth is warm, reverent, devastating. When his gaze lifts back to yours, it carries the weight of a vow.
“One year,” he promises. “One year, and you’ll wear my ring. My name. My life.”
He doesn’t just hold your hand—he possesses it, thumb pressing into your pulse like he is daring your heart to stop. His eyes drag over your face, unhurried, devouring.
“And soon,” he breathes, eyes burning into yours, “you’ll beg to say my name. With your lips. With your body. With every part of you that already knows you’re mine.”
He leans in, his lips grazing the space just beside your mouth, not kissing—not yet—just close enough to make you tremble. His breath sears against your skin as he whispers:
“Y/N,” he calls at last, and your knees nearly buckle. It isn’t just a sound. It is a promise, a brand, a sin dressed as silk.
Your breath stutters. God—he knew your name.
Your chest rises too fast, air shaking in your lungs. His fingers traile from your pulse to your wrist, his touch a slow caress that leaves you weak.
He lingers just long enough for the fire in his gaze to burn into you, thumb still resting lightly on your pulse.
“You’ll hear from me soon,” he murmurs, low and deliberate, each word sliding under your skin.
Then, without another touch, he steps back, his presence still heavy in the air, his eyes never leaving yours. One moment he was there; the next, he melts into the shadows, leaving only the echo of his words—and the ache of what had already begun.
He leaves you trembling by the fountain. lips parted, chest heaving, as if the night itself had swallowed him whole.
But his words remain, etched into you deeper than the kiss. A vow. A claim. A fate you couldn’t outrun
And it was there and then you realize; you were made for him.
warnings: none, maybe flirt (?) and google translate french🙏🏻
genre: interviewer!fem!reader x Kylian Mbappè
summary: The interview that you feared the most, seems to he as unpredictable as possible…
author's note: new husband unlocked😝 btw i think Kyky would totally be like this, like the type of man who, when he wants you he makes it unmistakably clear, even to the point of being a little embarrassing sometimes…
When they told you that you would have to interview Kylian Mbappé, your heart skipped a beat.
"Nothing too difficult," you told yourself, trying to ward off the rising anxiety. "You've done this a hundred times before." But no matter how much you tried to calm yourself, the nerves wouldn't go away.
Sure, you’re fluent in French, but what if you mispronounced something? What if he couldn’t understand you, and you had to repeat yourself?
Even worse, what if he was in a bad mood, or worse, simply disinterested? The last thing you wanted was to fumble through a tense or awkward interview. You would have killed for one of the regulars—Vinicius or Rodrygo, maybe—someone you could comfortably chat with. But after tonight’s game, Kylian was the star, and like it or not, the spotlight was yours.
You took a deep breath, gathering your notes as you made your way to the interview area.
As you reached the designated spot, you caught sight of him walking down the corridor. And when your eyes landed on him, your breath hitched. Damn, he was hotter in person.
You took some time to observe his face intently. Droplets of sweat still clinging to his skin, sliding down his sharp jawline, his face slightly tired,and your heartbeat was slightly faster than before.
He must have felt your gaze, because his eyes met yours. For a split second, his expression shifted, surprise flickering in his eyes as if he hadn’t expected to see you watching him so intently. But then, just as quickly, his lips curled into a smile, warm and genuine, that made your pulse race even faster.
You tried to compose yourself, looking as professional as possible, offering him a smile in return as he approached.
“Bonsoir, Kylian. Félicitations pour le match de ce soir,” you began, hoping your voice didn’t betray the nerves you felt. “Vous avez vraiment dominé sur le terrain. Comment vous sentez-vous après une telle performance?”
("Good evening, Kylian. Congratulations on the match tonight. You really dominated on the field. How do you feel after such a performance?")
Kylian’s smile broadened slightly as he responded, his voice smooth and steady. “Merci beaucoup. Je me sens bien, mais je dois avouer que je suis surpris, et agréablement, je dois dire.”
("Thank you very much. I feel good, but I have to admit I'm surprised, and pleasantly so, I must say.")
You blinked, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words, but he gave you no time to dwell on it. Instead, he continued, his tone laced with a teasing edge. “C’est rare de rencontrer quelqu'un qui m'observe avec autant d'attention. Je me demande ce que tu pensais.”
("It's rare to meet someone who watches me with such attention. I wonder what you were thinking.")
Caught off guard by his candidness, you felt a blush creeping up your cheeks. You quickly composed yourself, trying to steer the conversation back to the interview. “Je pensais à quel point vous avez montré une grande détermination ce soir. Qu'est-ce qui vous a motivé à pousser si fort?”
("I was thinking about how much determination you showed tonight. What motivated you to push so hard?")
Kylian chuckled softly, the sound warm and disarming. His gaze remained locked on yours, and you could feel the intensity of his attention. “La motivation vient de plusieurs choses, mais ce soir… il y avait une énergie particulière dans l'air, quelque chose qui m'a poussé à donner encore plus. Peut-être que c'était la sensation que quelqu'un d'intéressant me regardait.”
("Motivation comes from many things, but tonight… there was a special energy in the air, something that pushed me to give even more. Maybe it was the feeling that someone interesting was watching me.")
You felt your breath catch at his words, the playful glint in his eyes making it clear he wasn’t just talking about the match. Professionalism, you reminded yourself. You had a job to do.
“ Une dernière question, Kylian. Après une telle performance, comment vous préparez-vous pour le prochain match? Y a-t-il quelque chose de spécial que vous faites pour garder cette concentration?”
(" One last question, Kylian. After such a performance, how do you prepare for the next match? Is there anything special you do to maintain that focus?")
Kylian paused for a moment, as if considering your question carefully. Then, with that same playful smile that had started the interview, he leaned in just slightly. “Pour rester concentré… je pense qu'il est important d'avoir quelque chose ou quelqu'un qui vous inspire. Quelque chose à quoi penser quand les choses deviennent difficiles. Peut-être que j'ai trouvé ça ce soir.”
("To stay focused… I think it's important to have something or someone that inspires you. Something to think about when things get tough. Maybe I found that tonight.")
Now your heart was definitely skipping beats, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh or melt. He was definitely flirting, and he was good at it. But you had to keep your composure, right? Even if you were enjoying this more than you’d like to admit.
But before you could respond, he straightened up, the smile still lingering on his lips as he gave you a nod. “Merci pour l'interview. C'était un plaisir.”
("Thank you for the interview. It was a pleasure.")
You managed to smile back, still a bit flustered. “Le plaisir était pour moi, Kylian. Merci pour votre temps.”
("The pleasure was mine, Kylian. Thank you for your time.")
As the interview wrapped up and the cameras stopped rolling, you began to gather your notes, relieved that everything had gone smoothly. But just as you were about to step away, Kylian leaned in slightly, his voice low and teasing.
"On devrait refaire ça un jour, peut-être sans les caméras," he said, his eyes locking with yours.
("We should do that again sometime, maybe without the cameras.")
You felt your heart skip a beat, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned in a bit closer as well, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Seulement si tu promets d'être aussi charmant la prochaine fois," you replied, meeting his gaze with a spark in your eyes.
("Only if you promise to be just as charming next time.")
Kylian’s smile widened, clearly pleased by your response. "Je peux te le garantir," he said softly, his voice carrying a hint of something more.
("I can guarantee that.")
As he straightened up, he added with a grin,
“Au fait, ton français est parfait. Très impressionnant.”
("By the way, your French is perfect. Very impressive.")
Synopsis: when Kylian misunderstands your worries and you end up having an argument, he tries to make it up to you.
⭐️⭐️⭐️
You look around you. You try taking in the glamour and let it consume you whole like the first hundred times.
You shook your head, feeling so ungrateful for feeling tired. For feeling sick of doing this every weekend because of your boyfriend's career.
There's always a party, an award ceremony, a get together to celebrate one of his many trophies, a game. Just thinking about being in another dress less than a week from where you were sitting sent your head spinning.
"My girlfriend" your boyfriend's warm fingertips caused you to turn quickly and stand up from your table's seat, pulling you out of your thoughts. You plaster on a smile that you recently learned to fake as you shook the guy's hand.
"Happy to meet you" you assured him as you pulled your hand away. Kylian spoke with him some more and you laughed along at a joke he said before he left you both at your table to go meet up with his friends.
Kylian sat next to you, took your hand and couldn't shake off the feeling you were upset. He panicked as he ran through his had, trying to justify your distance. He couldn't find a single thing.
In the car, you stay silent the whole way, unintentionally sending Kylian into an even bigger panic. You were giving him the silent treatment without evening meaning to. You were just too exhausted.
He just chose to admire your face as you both sat in the back seat of the Mercedes the event had booked for you. You notice his fascinated eyes on you, but you couldn't turn to look at him. You didn't want to. You couldn't justify why you were so angry with him. It's not his fault he's amazing at what he does. But you also wished he made some more time for just the two of you.
He opens the door of your shared home for you and you walk in. Just when the door clicks shut behind him and you were almost on your way upstairs, he grabs your hand and turns you around to face him.
You look down at his hand holding yours, feeling his mesmerized eyes on your face. You fear the impending confrontation, but pray that it pays off.
"What's wrong?" He asks quietly. You stroke his hand with your thumb, getting nervous by the second. You muster up the courage.
"I'm tired, Kylian" you admit. He chuckles and looks to his left before carrying you in his arms.
"Well, we're already home" he touches your forehead with his and you touch his face with your fingertips.
"No, like" you sigh and turn your head away from him. He puts you down and frowns, sensing an argument brewing.
"I'm just...Kylian it's like we never have time together anymore" you try clarifying but his frown deepens.
"I don't get it. We literally live together and we just-"
"I know! But we're always together, yet surrounded by too many people and never alone!" You start getting more frustrated and he starts getting defensive.
"Maybe because you're dating a football player?" He raises a brow and you roll your eyes.
"I know. And that's not what I'm complaining about. It's just that I wish you'd make more time for just the two of us" you try quieting down, but Kylian doesn't. He runs a hand over his face, clearly frustrated. You frown, studying his every move as he turned around and away from you.
"What-"
"We didn't fight in ages and now you're trying to stir something up out of-"
"I try to stir?!”
"Nothing! Like, we literally hang out every night. I take you to the best parties, best restaurants, hold your hand like I'm holding the world in front of everyone, y/n!" He starts raising his voice and now you were the one getting frustrated. He kept missing your point and you just didn't want to keep re-explaining yourself to him. You weren't sure if you wanted to talk about it with him to begin with and his reaction made you regret not listening to your doubts.
You felt tears brim your eyes, so you just walked past him and to the stairs. Once you got upstairs and inside your shared bedroom, you slammed the door and threw yourself on the bed, allowing yourself to cry. You couldn't believe you were crying over something like that. But you still were mad that Kylian reacted to your worries by accusing you of just starting drama.
You buried your face in the pillow that smelled just like him and cried harder when you heard the front door slam downstairs and realized he didn't care to follow you to check on you. You couldn't believe how confident he was for acting that way.
Outside, Kylian got into his car and started it. He didn't drive out of your house's driveway immediately, though. He rested his head on the headrest and sighed deeply. He hated fighting with you more than anything. He hated it more than losing a game. He hated it more than he hated his worst enemies. Because he loved you way more than any trophy or anyone.
Finally, Kylian drove off. He didn't where to, but he knew he needed to have some time away from the house to look at your disagreements from a different perspective.
Back home, you got up from the bed and wandered around. You could never get used to the hollowness caused by an argument. You walk around the house as if it were haunted. Something just shifts after a fight and it feels awful every time without fail.
You sigh and sit on the living room couch, staring at whatever was on the TV. You're so lost in thought that you almost miss the phone rings filling the space. You frown at it, realizing it's your best friend calling.
You sigh, rolling your eyes as you pick up. You knew she'd know something is up once she heard your voice and you were not in the mood to talk about that yet.
"Hey!" She cheerfully greets you. You stay silent for a little too long, already wanting to start crying again.
"Y/n?" She calls, sounding somewhat worried at your lack of response. You sigh shakily. She waits.
"Kylian and I had a fight" you finally choke out. She stays silent for a little while longer.
"Oh" is all she lets out finally. You pierce your lips, looking around the living room in an attempt to push back your tears.
"Okay" she follows up, trying to sound cheerful again.
"How about you come over? We can talk and get food. Clear your head, you know" she suggests. You almost immediately reject her offer, but stop yourself to actually think it through.
It did sound nice to spend whatever was left of the night at your best friend's house, talking over some food. You did need a change of atmosphere since the house was becoming more suffocating by the second.
"I'll be there in a bit" you give in.
"Great! See you then!" Your best friend squeals, earning a smile from behind the phone. The first today and you really feel thankful for her.
You get up and wash off all the smeared mascara off your face. You change into a comfortable lounge outfit before grabbing your keys and leaving. You pass by your and your best friend's favorite restaurant to pick up some of your favorite appetizers.
After picking that up, you park outside her apartment building. She welcomes you when you get to her door, pulling you into a tight hug that immediately makes you want to cry again. You hold it in, though, following her into her living room and throwing yourself on its couch.
You sigh and she chuckles softly next to you, studying your features. She understands everything by just looking at your puffy eyes and pink nose.
"It must be pretty bad, huh?" Your best friend asks. You sigh again, rolling your eyes.
"It's just" you start.
"I tried to tell him how we never spend time together alone. He kept missing my point, accusing me of 'starting shit' or whatever" you felt the tears coming back. Your best friend just listened, nodding every few words.
"And it just spiraled and suddenly I'm running upstairs and he's slamming the front door" you sigh. Your best friend pouts at how stressed you were as you recalled the events from a few hours ago.
"Well, I think once you guys calm down and talk it out, he would understand and make it up to you" she sighed, taking a sip of her Coke. You just crossed your arms and rolled your eyes.
You eat your food and talk about all the juicy gossip and before you even knew it, you were laughing so hard that you almost forgot the aching heartbreak from your and your boyfriend's argument. Your friend suddenly jumps up, holding her phone.
"Shit! I forgot about my meeting!" You frown at her, looking at your own phone to check the time.
11:09 pm. You frown up at her as she frantically got up and ran to grab her laptop. You raise a brow, checking the time again as she set up her laptop at the dining table on your left.
"What kind of meeting takes place at 11 pm?" You ask as you walk up to where she was panting, logging into her Microsoft account.
"Long story. But, hey, we need to catch up some other time. No interruptions" she answers quickly and your eyes widen.
"Are you kicking me out!" You gasp in fake horror and she nods. You laugh and walk to the couch to grab your things.
"I'll be back sooner than you ever wish" you narrowed your eyes at her and she gestured for you to keep going sarcastically. You laugh again, shaking your head this time.
"Text me when you get home!" She yells from across the apartment and you hum back before shutting her door behind you.
The quiet night streets force you back to all the negativity you finally were able to momentarily run away from. You try to not think too much about it, but you couldn't. No matter how much you sighed and breathed deeply. The argument kept replaying in your head, Kylian getting more defensive, you feeling so misunderstood and disregarded.
You hated how your eyes filled with tears for what seems to be the millionth time today. You tried keeping it in, but for a second you thought of letting it out. You finally decided not to, though. You didn't want to waste more tears over this.
But seeing Kylian's car parked in the driveway made you almost burst. You didn't want to face him yet. You weren't ready for another argument.
You take the deepest breath yet after parking your car next to his and getting out of it. Your hands shake as you open the front door which was unlocked, further confirming your fears of having to face Kylian.
You walk in and the house is completely dark. You're terrified for a second, but remembering Kylian's car in the driveway gives you some sense of safety. You resist calling his name, choosing dignity over comfort as you walk slowly into your house.
As you reach the living room, you notice candlelight outside the glass doors that lead to the backyard pool. You frown, your heart picking up its pace.
You reluctantly walk to the doors, sliding one open and immediately feel the cool breeze on your shaky limbs. You glance around and notice more and more candles lining the perimeter of the pool. You walk closer until you stand by the edge, mesmerized by all their reflections on the water.
Suddenly, you hear footsteps on the grass behind you. You expected yourself to turn in panic, but you didn't. You knew exactly who those steps belonged to. You loved their owner so much that you've gotten them memorized by heart.
You feel his arms wrap slowly around you from behind. His scent, his warmth. All of it. You wanted all of it. You needed all of it. So much that the thought of possibly living a life without it made you want to sink in the pool ahead of you. Burn in the candles surrounding it.
"The love of my life" he whispers and your heart skips a couple of beats. You hold his wrists that were over your stomach, leaning back into him and closing your eyes.
"I fucked up, my love" he goes on, raising his voice just a little. You fight the smile that wanted to stretch itself on your lips.
You open your eyes as Kylian turns you around to face him. He rests his hands on your waist and you rest yours on his shoulder.
"And?" You give him half a smile and he bites his bottom lip, failing to hold back his smile. You lose composure and giggle at his reaction. He clears his throat and you nod, giving him his que to keep going.
"I should've listened. I should've tried to understand you instead of just blaming you" he says sincerely and you smile slightly at him. He finally looks back in your eyes and you touch his forehead with yours, moving your hands from his shoulders to the sides of his face.
"Thank you" you whisper.
"Don't thank me for how you should be treated" he whispers back, giving you raging butterflies.
You smile and he kisses you softly before carrying you up in his arms. Your laughter fills the candlelit backyard. He walks to the table across the pool and sits you down on one of the two chairs set on either sides of it.
You rest your head on your hand as you watch him jog around the pool to the inside of the house. You smile to yourself, feeling so grateful Kylian made this so easy. But he wasn't planning on just apologizing. You should've known him better.
He comes back, holding a huge bouquet, that you pretended to not see, behind his back. You place a hand over your mouth and stand up.
"This is what I get for making you cry" he sighs, pulling an insanely huge red roses bouquet from behind him. You look at him in awe as you take it in your arms.
You look down at it, realizing something you didn't before. There was an envelope peeking out the middle of the bouquet. You frown and carefully pull it out, glancing at Kylian to see him smiling at you.
You carefully set the bouquet on the table beside you and open the envelope. You pull out two slips of glossy paper, squinting to read what was written on it.
"Kylian!" You scream, realizing that you were holding two plane tickets to your dream destination. You jump excitedly in his arms, wrapping yours around him.
"You didn't!" You look at him and he smiles, admiring your raw happiness.
"Oh, I did. I should've done it way sooner had I known it would make you this happy" he says, still smiling dreamily at your excitement.
After that, when you get in bed, you text your best friend about the night when she asked how everything was going with Kylian.
“Well. I’m still wondering how you believed I had a meeting at 11 pm” she texts and realization hits you hard.
She was in on it too.
“You knew?!” You text back.
“How did you think he had the house to himself to light all those candles and get the flowers and everything?!” She texted back. You laughed to yourself.
You watch as Kylian came out of the bathroom and laid next to you. You don’t say anything. You just take him in, your heart clenching at the sight of him next to you.
You wonder how did you get so lucky? How could you end up with someone like him?
“In love much?” He says casually and you scoff.
“Very” you say, half sarcastically.
“Well, try beating me then. That’s a game I will never lose” he says before kissing your cheek, healing everything that was broken just hours earlier.
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The tension between you and Kylian had been growing for days, each argument, each misunderstanding piling up like bricks in a wall between you two. You’d always understood his relentless drive to be the best. It was part of what made you love him—his passion, his focus, his determination to push himself beyond limits. But lately, something had shifted. The pressure was getting to him, and now it felt like you were the problem.
He came home that night, barely acknowledging you as he dropped his bag on the floor with a loud thud. His face was hard, his jaw clenched, and his eyes looked distant, like he was bracing for a fight.
You were seated at the kitchen table, scrolling through your phone, waiting for him like you always did. But something in the air felt heavier than usual. He didn’t kiss your cheek, didn’t ask how your day was, just stalked into the kitchen, his whole body radiating frustration.
“Kylian, what’s wrong?” you asked, trying to keep your voice calm, though the tension was already knotting in your stomach.
He let out a sharp breath, gripping the counter as if he was trying to hold something back. “I can’t do this anymore,” he muttered, his voice low but edged with anger.
You froze. “Do what?”
“This,” he snapped, turning to face you with blazing eyes. “You. Us. I can’t focus on anything else because of you, and I need to focus right now.”
The words were a slap to the face. “Because of me? You’re blaming me for… what? For being here for you?”
Kylian scoffed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you didn’t understand. “You’re always here. You always need something, and I don’t have the time or energy for it right now. I have the biggest match of the season coming up, and I can’t even think straight.”
The accusation stung, cutting deeper than you could have imagined. “I’m a distraction? That’s what I am to you now?”
His eyes flickered with frustration, his voice rising. “Yes! You’re a distraction. I can’t focus when you’re constantly around, needing attention, when all I should be thinking about is the game.”
Your heart sank. You’d always supported him, always tried to be his safe place when the world’s pressure became too much, but now it felt like you were the very thing pulling him down. The hurt made your throat tighten, and you clenched your fists to stop yourself from breaking in front of him.
“Then what do you want from me, Kylian? Should I just disappear for a while? Would that help you focus?” You were almost shaking with anger now, unable to understand how he could throw this on you.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I think… I think you should sleep in the guest room until after the match. I need space.
The guest room. The coldness of his request made your chest tighten, the hurt turning into something sharper, more bitter. You blinked, staring at him in disbelief, waiting for him to take it back, but he didn’t. He stood there, arms crossed, waiting for you to agree.
But you weren’t going to. Not this time.
“Fine,” you said, grabbing your coat and bag from the chair, your voice trembling with anger. “You want space? I’ll give you space. I’ll leave.”
Kylian’s eyes widened, and for a moment, you saw a flash of regret in them, but he didn’t say a word to stop you. He just watched as you stormed out, slamming the door behind you.
The moment you arrived at the hotel, your chest was still tight with a mix of anger and sadness, the argument replaying in your mind. You booked the most expensive suite available, using his card without hesitation. It was a petty act of revenge, but it gave you some small sense of control.
The lobby was grand, with marble floors and sparkling chandeliers, but none of it registered. You checked in with robotic motions, hardly noticing the staff’s polite smiles and welcoming gestures. When you reached your room, you finally looked around, taking in the sprawling space. The suite was enormous, with panoramic views of Paris, a king-sized bed that looked like a cloud, and a bathroom that felt more like a spa.
But none of it could distract you from the ache in your chest.
You tossed your bag onto the bed and sank into one of the oversized armchairs by the window. The city lights glittered below, but all you could think about was Kylian—his words, his anger, the coldness in his voice.
Your phone buzzed, and for a moment, you debated ignoring it. But when you saw Kylian’s name on the screen, you couldn’t help but open the message.
Kylian: Where are you?
You stared at the screen for a long time, your emotions swirling in a chaotic mix of anger, hurt, and something you didn’t want to name—hope, maybe.
Instead of pouring your heart out, you simply typed the address of the hotel and hit send. No explanation. No extra words. Just the cold, hard facts.
His reply never came.
The next morning, you woke up with a determination to not let the day be ruined by him. If Kylian wanted space, you’d give it to him—and you’d enjoy it. You booked a full spa day, using his money, and decided to focus on yourself for once. You deserved it.
At the spa, the tension in your shoulders finally started to melt away. The warm water, the soft music, and the scent of lavender all worked their magic, pulling you into a state of relaxation you hadn’t felt in weeks. You let the masseuse work on the knots in your back, the stress slowly seeping out of you with every stroke of her hands.
For the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t thinking about Kylian. You weren’t wondering what he was doing, if he’d messaged you again, or how his game would go. You were simply existing, focusing on yourself.
When the match time came, you didn’t even bother turning on the TV. You weren’t going to watch it—not after everything that had happened. You spent the evening with a glass of wine in hand, lounging in the spa’s rooftop lounge, looking out over the city as the sun dipped below the skyline.
The match didn’t matter to you anymore. If Kylian wanted to blame you for his struggles, fine. You were done carrying that burden.
Later that night, back in your room, you were getting ready for bed when your phone buzzed again. You looked at it, half-expecting some sort of apology from Kylian, but what you saw made your chest tighten.
Kylian: I lost.
You stared at the message, unsure how to respond. Part of you wanted to ask if he was okay, to comfort him the way you always had. But the other part of you—the part that was still hurt—wasn’t ready to forgive him so easily.
A second message came in almost immediately after.
Kylian: I lost you too. And that’s worse.
You felt your heart clench. His words hit you hard, the vulnerability in them making your anger waver. For the first time since you’d left, you could sense the regret in him.
He followed up with another text, his words softer now.
Kylian: Where are you? I’m sorry.
You hesitated, your fingers hovering over the screen as you weighed your options. It would be so easy to shut him out, to let him stew in his regret. But deep down, you knew that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted to fix this—to fix you two.
With a sigh, you typed your room number and hit send.
Kylian knocked on the door about an hour later. You opened it to find him standing there, still in his tracksuit from the match, looking utterly defeated. His eyes met yours, and for the first time in days, they weren’t filled with anger. Instead, they were filled with regret, with an apology he couldn’t quite put into words.
“I lost,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I know,” you replied softly, not moving from the door.
He took a step closer, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for you, but hesitated, unsure if you’d let him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I shouldn’t have pushed you away. I thought… I thought if I could just focus on the game, everything would be okay. But I lost everything when I pushed you away.”
You bit your lip, tears threatening to spill over as you looked up at him. “You hurt me, Kylian.”
“I know,” he breathed, stepping closer and cupping your face gently with his hands. “I’ll never do it again. I promise.”
His words hung in the air between you, and before you could stop yourself, you closed the distance, pressing your lips against his. The kiss was slow, tender, filled with all the things you couldn’t say. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer, as if he needed to feel you, to make sure you were really there.
When you pulled away, you were both breathless, foreheads pressed together as the silence between you softened.
“Stay with me tonight,” he whispered.
You nodded, taking his hand and pulling him inside the luxurious suite. For the first time since you’d left, you felt a sense of calm wash over you as you led him through
