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.”

-

l. yamal taglist: @massivepainterfan , @oharella , @piecredheart , @brune77e , @soobieewoobiee , @httpjoints , @cnrdfisher , @deadpool15 , @night-fury-kamila , @frvrisa , @ceziaa , @secretkittydreamland , @shakerhalfling8 , @rockurwurld , @oliseamorr , @amelieezx , @ni-k1ttie , @5ilentss <3

k. mbappe taglist: @dearshoyo , @deieia , @ni-k1ttie <3

ju. bellingham taglist: @luvrgrl-222 , @laneyrainy0 , @mmonkeh3000 , @mariaaaalm , @dianazyb , @strwayberrymilktea , @secretstvrn , @sourcandyfish , @rosyyyrube , @auroraeanne , @frankoceanistz , @norripley , @fr0ggieth1nk , @tangylemonade , @torturedshowgirldpt , @djovulating @musernameunicorn , @lanthem <3

he understands, in fact, he agrees wholeheartedly.

you're still in the middle of building the career you've worked so hard for. and kylian? every single moment is dedicated to football, the world cup especially. he holds the weight of finishing what he started in 2022— to finally bring the cup home.

so as much as kylian longs for one, love alone isn't enough to take care of a child. love isn't presence. that doesn't stop him from letting the thought settle in the back of his mind, a dream he knows will come true someday.

gently pinning your wrists above your head as he hovers over you, kylian decides to believe today is someday. the bedroom is filled with want, the adrenaline from scoring not one, but two goals, escapes his body in waves. you can feel it in the way his heart beats rapidly against you, fingers trembling as they rest on your hips.

"please, ky." you whisper, breathlessly. "c'mon, don't tease." he only nods. any other time, he'd have chuckled, dragging out the anticipation just to watch you get impatient. this time though, he can't wait either. the tip of his cock says it for him, twitching against your wet hole, fully hard and ready.

he lowers himself a little further, burying his face in the crook of your neck. a lingering kiss brushes against your jaw before he slowly sinks in. the sharp hitch in your breath doesn't escape him, and your warmth draws a quiet hiss from his teeth as he squeezes his eyes shut for a fleeting moment.

he imagines a world where you aren’t on any birth control. the same situation, but charged with a important objective, keeping you full of his cum. oh, to be under the welcomed risk of a baby girl or boy— a girl, he hopes— where kylian can rock into you with no worries, slamming over and over until you cum around him, whimpering out praises as he fills you up.

it drives him insane.

"putain," he grits out. "i missed this— missed you, i always do." his hips move in and out, slow and tender, cock already stretching you out. it’s been too long. well, it's only been a week. "did you miss me too, bébé?" he murmurs. "dit moi."

"i missed you too, baby." your sweet words light something up in him instantly. you gasp out, wrapping your arms around his neck, kylian's restraint lost as the slow pace turns intense, rougher. every slam grows more urgent than the last, leaving you shaking beneath him as he ruins you.

"i'm close, mon amour," he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. he needs to know you're certain, that this is what you want too. it's never been about his child or your child. it's always been ours. to hear that you're ready, that you want this just as much as he does, is enough to make his heart race all over again.

"where do you want me—"

"don’t be ridiculous," you scoff, then crying out when the tip of his dick brushes against your cervix. "i—i want it inside, kylian. don’t— shit, pull out."

he groans so pathetically, it's embarrassing.

and god, he’d give you everything. he's always been wrapped around your finger after all. losing control right then and there, not wasting a second to let out every single drop for your greedy pussy to swallow. he pulls you in for a kiss as his cum spurts out, your lips moving against his as you clench around him, feeling the shocks from your orgasm.

"je t'aime," he whispers, like it came from the depths of his heart. "je t'aime," one kiss, "je t'aime," another kiss. he repeats himself between kisses, scattering them across your beautiful face before trailing down to your neck, collarbone, and the center of your chest.

your scrunched smile grows with each declaration of love. he can be so cheesy. "you're so silly," you giggle. he pulls back enough for your eyes to meet, a grin spreading effortlessly across his face.

"only for you."

kylian doesn't pull out, opting to stay inside of you, fucking his cum in deeper as his eyes soften. he'd rather let every responsibility outside the luxurious hotel room fade into nothing, happy to be wrapped around your walls and love.

once his head finally comes to rest against your chest, he lets out a quiet thank you to whatever scientist invented birth control... and another to you, for convincing him to stop wearing condoms.

it might not stick, but he can pretend.

just for now.

translated from french mon acour—my love tu m'as tellement manqué—i missed you so much alors… comment s'est passé le congrès—how did the conference go ma chérie, c'est si bon de te voir—my dear, is so good to see you et ta mère, elle va bien—and your mother, is she doing well?

The front door swung open.

You had heard the commotion in the hallway a few moments earlier, low voices, the shuffle of shoes on the tiled floor, the faint metallic clink of something heavy being shifted. Kylian’s schedule was etched in your mind after so many overlapping seasons: he should still be at Valdebebas for at least another hour, maybe longer if they were doing extras. The surprise dinner you’d planned, pasta slowly simmering, parmesan freshly grated, the kitchen warm and lived-in, had been timed with care. You weren’t here to disrupt his rhythm, this was simply a quiet gesture, the kind real couples carved out when lives pulled them in different directions.

“I swear, it’s just a tiny—”

His voice carried through the doorway first, familiar and laced with that trademark mix of exasperation and charm, mid-sentence as if continuing an argument that had started in the car or the elevator. Then the door swung fully open, and everything paused.

Kylian stood frozen just inside the apartment, one hand still on the door handle, training bag slung loosely over his shoulder. Behind him, Marc, the club physiotherapist, carried a hard black medical case, while Isabelle, his long-time player liaison who had been with him since the Saint-Germain days, hovered with her iPad and that perpetually composed expression. She was older, elegant, unfazed by football drama but deeply attuned to Kylian’s rhythms.

Your boyfriend blinked, surprise washing over his face so genuinely that your stomach did a small flip despite the immediate knot of worry forming.

“…Mon cœur?”

The words came out softer than the hallway debate, laced with disbelief and a spark of delight that cut through the fatigue etched beneath his eyes. His mouth curved into that boyish smile you knew so well, the one that reached all the way despite the subtle tension in his posture. You could already see it, the way he favored his right side ever so slightly even while standing still, the minor hitch that most people would miss but that sent a quiet thread of worry through your chest.

He wasn’t supposed to be home this early, not with company, not unless something had pulled him off the pitch.

A slow smile tugged at your lips despite the knot forming in your stomach. “Surprise,” you said lightly, setting the spoon down. “I got back this afternoon.”

Kylian’s whole face transformed. The corner of his mouth lifted into that trademark grin, the one that lit up stadiums and press conferences alike, before he let out a low, delighted laugh.

"Give me a second," Kylian said over his shoulder, he shrugged his windbreaker off as he stepped inside, tossing it onto the console table with the kind of accuracy that came from doing it every day, before giving Marc a small nod toward the apartment. "Close the door, will you?" Only then did he make his way toward the kitchen. His gait was almost normal, enough that most people wouldn't have thought twice about it, but every few steps his right leg hesitated just enough to betray him.

It wasn't dramatic, just a careful shift of weight, a fraction less push-off than usual, but you caught it immediately, long before he reached you.

“You made dinner?” His gaze flicked to the stove, then back to you, softening with something deeper than hunger. Without missing a beat, he glanced over his shoulder at Marc and Isabelle, voice dripping with playful theatrics. “Well… you two can leave now,” he announced, gesturing loosely with his free hand, the charm turned up to full Mbappé levels. “Clearly I’ve recovered. Private recovery session incoming.”

The line landed perfectly. Marc snorted, and Isabelle’s lips curved into a knowing smile, but she shook her head with fond exasperation. Your boyfriend caught your eye again, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small, conspiratorial smile before giving you a quick wink as if the conversation behind him no longer mattered.

That single quip, tired as he was, mildly annoyed at the injury, yet instantly prioritizing you, felt exactly like the boy Isabelle used to taking care of in early Paris games: cheeky, affectionate, and completely unafraid to tease the people tasked with keeping him in one piece.

Isabelle sighed with the weary fondness of someone who had spent years losing the same argument. "One day," she said, "you're going to discover we're usually right." Kylian let out an incredulous laugh, looking to Marc for support only to find the physiotherapist already nodding in agreement. "Unbelievable," he muttered, earning another laugh from the pair. The easy banter gave you just enough time to step around the counter and greet them properly with a warm smile and a small wave. It wasn't until your attention returned to Kylian that the warmth in your expression quietly faltered.

You noticed the limp the moment he took those first careful steps forward. Subtle, but there, his right leg never quite accepting full weight, a minor hesitation that most fans scrolling highlight reels would never catch. Usually he’d push straight through something like this. The fact that he was home early, escorted by staff, sent a quiet ripple of worry through your chest.

“Kyky…”

He reached you in the kitchen, one hand finding your waist with easy familiarity while the other brushed dampness from the shower from his own forehead. The touch grounded everything, the faint scent of his shower gel mixing with garlic and tomatoes, the warm ambient light spilling across the countertops. His shoulders were still tight with the residue of training, but they eased a fraction as he drew you closer.

“I’m okay,” he murmured, forehead dipping toward yours. “Precautionary. Just a little adductor pull during acceleration work. Planted awkwardly, nothing dramatic.” The humor lingered in his voice, that signature lightness cutting through the fatigue. “I feel fantastic now, honestly, bebé.”

Isabelle draped her blazer over a nearby chair with efficient grace, the two staff inside the star's apartment slowly walking towards you and Mbappé, the familiriaty of colleagues being thrown in the Madrid night air as they got closer to where you both stood.

“We’ll give you two a proper hello,” she said, her tone carrying that maternal steadiness. “Treatment table’s still in the car. Ten minutes.” She shot Kylian a pointed look, no stairs, no heroic, but there was affection beneath it. Marc set the case down with a soft click, exchanging a quick glance with her before they slipped back out.

The door clicked shut.

The apartment felt smaller, softer, the professional “game face” melting away as Kylian’s shoulders dropped fully. He let out a slow breath against your hair, both arms wrapping around you now, holding you close in the quiet hum of the kitchen.

« Tu m’as tellement manqué, mon cœur… » The words were a low murmur against your skin, rich with quiet longing. His voice carried that familiar warmth, the one reserved only for these stolen pockets of normalcy.

You smiled, unable to help it, your hands sliding up his chest. “I’ve only been gone four days, Kyky.”

“I know.” A soft chuckle rumbled through him. “Still a tragedy.”

You laughed quietly, the sound mingling with the gentle simmer of the sauce on the stove and the distant hum of Madrid traffic filtering through the tall windows.

He leaned in then, kissing you slowly, unhurried, lingering just a second longer than usual, as though savoring the taste of home after days apart. When he pulled back, he didn’t go far. One hand traced higher along your back while the other rubbed slow, absentminded circles against your waist, his touch warm and grounding amid the savory scent of garlic and tomatoes filling the kitchen.

« Alors… » he murmured, studying your face with that intent gaze, like he needed to memorize every detail to make up for lost time. « How was the congress? »

The question came so naturally it almost made you forget the subtle hitch in his step when he’d crossed the room. You told him about the long days, the endless speeches, the half the room pretending to follow the keynote graphs, and your own presentation that had gone better than expected. He listened with genuine interest, chuckling at the familiar absurdity of it all, his thumb still tracing gentle patterns on your hip.

“And you?” you asked gently, searching his expression.

Kylian's smile settled, the playfulness easing into something more honest. He shrugged one shoulder, still holding you close. “Normal session, acceleration work... The staff stopped me before I could push through.” He paused, reading the concern in your eyes. “I argued, of course, but they won this time.”

Your fingers drifted from his hair to the side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the kitchen felt smaller, warmer, the golden light from the overhead fixtures casting soft shadows across the countertops, the faint steam rising from the pan behind you. “You came home early,” you said softly. “You never do that.”

“I know.” His voice was quieter now. Silence stretched comfortably between you, thick with years of learning each other’s truths beneath the public answers.

You searched his eyes carefully, the kind of attentive look that came from loving someone whose body was both his greatest gift and occasional adversary. He didn’t look away. He simply let you study him, tired, mildly annoyed at the interruption to his flow, frustrated with the minor betrayal of his adductor, but not scared, no hidden tension, no minimization that didn’t hold up.

Eventually, a small, amused smile tugged at his lips. « Bébé… » He brushed his thumb across your hip again, voice dropping softer. "Look at me."

“I am looking.”

“No. Look at me, not the injury.” His smile deepened, gentle and reassuring. “I’m okay. If I’d been stubborn and stayed on the pitch, Marc would’ve reminded me how stupid I was for the next month. I’d rather miss three days than three weeks.”

You held his gaze a moment longer, testing for any flicker. You found none, only the honest exhaustion of a man who had learned the hard way when to listen. Your shoulders relaxed, and he sensed it immediately, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead with quiet triumph. "See?"

“I hate when you’re reasonable,” you murmured, a smile playing on your lips.

“I know.” His eyes sparkled with that boyish mischief. “It’s very inconvenient. I can be unreasonable tomorrow if it helps.”

“You probably will.”

“Oh, definitely.”

The easy rhythm wrapped around you both like a blanket, the kind of domestic exchange that grounded everything beyond the headlines and stadium lights. For a moment, it was simply the two of you, your independent lives intersecting here in his kitchen, pasta sauce bubbling softly, his arms still around you as if he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

The apartment door opened again before the moment could stretch further. Marc stepped inside backwards, carrying the folded treatment table over one shoulder, while Isabelle followed with the portable ultrasound unit tucked neatly beneath her arm.

“There he is,” Marc announced dryly. “Patient of the year.”

“I’m literally standing,” Kylian replied, though he didn’t pull away from you, only loosening one arm while keeping the other securely at your waist.

“Exactly,” Isabelle said without missing a beat, her tone warm but firm. “And we’d like to keep it that way.” She set the ultrasound down with practiced efficiency, already glancing toward the living area as if mentally mapping the best spot for the table.

Kylian sighed dramatically, pressing one last quick kiss to your temple before glancing at you with a conspiratorial glint. “See?” he muttered under his breath. “Five minutes together and they’re already interrupting.”

“They’re keeping you employed,” you whispered back, lips twitching.

“I preferred your first answer,” he teased softly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that signature way that made the whole room feel lighter.

Isabelle’s gaze shifted to you, and her expression softened instantly into something genuinely maternal and affectionate. She crossed the kitchen with a few graceful steps, pulling you into a quick, warm hug that smelled faintly of her signature light perfume. “Ma chérie, it’s so good to see you,” she said in French, her voice rich with that familiar Parisian warmth. “You look lovely. The congress went well, I hope? What about your mother, is she alright?”

You returned the hug easily, smiling. The two of you had always gotten along, Isabelle had known Kylian long enough to treat you like family rather than just “the girlfriend,” offering quiet advice and gentle teasing in equal measure.

“It was productive. Long, but good to be back. Mom's doing great as well. Just complaining that I've been coming to Madrid more than Paris for the last few months.”

Marc offered a polite nod and a quick “Hello” from the edge of the kitchen, keeping a respectful distance. Kylian caught his eye and gave a small, approving nod, silently granting permission for him to move deeper into the apartment. Marc headed off toward the small gym room down the hall, the treatment table balanced easily on his shoulder, his footsteps fading against the hardwood.

Kylian stayed right where he was, one arm still looped around your waist, listening with quiet contentment as you and Isabelle exchanged a few more pleasantries, light updates about travel and how the apartment had felt too quiet without you. His thumb continued its slow, soothing rhythm against your side, a subtle anchor amid the conversation.

After a moment, Isabelle glanced toward the hallway with a knowing smile. “I’ll go help Marc set up. We won’t be long.” She gave your arm a gentle squeeze, her eyes sparkling with understanding. “Enjoy your hello. Properly this time.”

As soon as she disappeared down the hall, Kylian turned his full attention back to you. He studied your face carefully, the playful glint in his eyes giving way to something warmer, almost protective.

He glanced over at the simmering pan, and his eyes lit up with genuine excitement.

“Pasta,” he said, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “You have no idea how good that smells right now, bebé.”

He studied your face for another quiet moment, taking in details he hadn't seen over video calls, the faint traces of makeup you'd never quite managed to wash off after traveling, the way a loose strand of hair had escaped behind your ear, the familiar expression that only ever belonged to home.

"Have you eaten properly today, mon cœur?" The question came softly, almost as an afterthought. Before you could answer, he continued. "With the flight... and the congress..." He shook his head a little. "You always forget when things get busy."

He searched your eyes for a second, his expression gentling even further.

"You're okay?" he asked quietly. "Not too tired?"

You couldn't help smiling. It wasn't unusual for him to check in like this after you'd been away, especially knowing how easily you'd get caught up in work when you were excited about it.

Leaning into him, you rested one hand lightly against the front of his training top, the lingering scent of shower gel mixing with your body wash.

"I'm okay, Kyky," you assured him. "I ate on the flight."

His eyebrows lifted just enough to say really?

"Promise," you added, already smiling because you'd recognized the look.

Only then did his shoulders loosen. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before leaning down to brush another unhurried kiss against your forehead. His nose lingered briefly against your hair afterwards, taking a slow breath that sounded suspiciously like relief.

"Good," he murmured, one arm tightening around your waist for just a moment.

Before you could reply, Marc’s voice drifted in from the living room, patient but insistent. “Kylian.”

Your boyfriend closed his eyes, pressing his face into your hair with a quiet groan. “Ignore him,” he muttered, the words half-muffled and entirely unserious.

You laughed softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Kyky.”

“Five more minutes.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. He sighed with dramatic reluctance, stealing one last quick kiss, easy and familiar, before his forehead rested against yours for a beat longer. “This is harassment,” he declared under his breath, though the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away.

“It’s your medical team.”

“Same thing.” He squeezed your hand once, light and instinctive, before finally pulling away with the exaggerated resignation of a man being sent to his doom. “You’re taking their side, I don't like it.”

“I’m taking the side of your adductor,” you replied lightly.

“Traitor.” The word carried no heat, only that playful spark that always surfaced when he was caught between what he wanted and what his body needed.

With one final glance over his shoulder, he headed toward the living room. Marc had already unfolded the treatment table near the sofa, the portable ultrasound ready on the coffee table. Isabelle stood nearby, tapping notes into her iPad without looking up. Kylian dropped onto the edge of the table with a theatrical sigh.

“Miraculously recovered?” Marc asked dryly.

“Apparently not.”

You turned back to the stove, lifting the lid to let another wave of fragrant steam rise. The sauce was still perfect, the pasta nearly ready. Behind you, the familiar rhythm of low questions, answers, and the rustle of medical tape blended into the quiet sounds of home. It wasn’t the quiet evening either of you had pictured when you’d planned the surprise, but as Kylian glanced back and caught your eye across the room, the small, tired smile he gave you said he didn’t really mind. Not one bit.

author's note — hello ballblr my name is zerocoded. ig i overdid the french sentences for the non-french speakers like me, 'm sorry 😔. pretend i'm not spamming football content in my kpop dominant account pls. you'll see a lot of me here for the next couple of days pls don't hate me.

"We've been together for a year, and this isn't the first time we've gone on vacation together. Have I ever taken you to a hotel before, mon amour?"

You shrugged in response to his logical explanation.

"It can be like this for now, my love. It’s not a problem for me. I don’t want you wearing yourself out over it."

Kylian furrowed his brows slightly, tossed the t-shirt he was holding onto the suitcase, and stepped toward you.

He knelt beside the bed and took hold of your foot, which was dangling from the bed.

You flinched when you felt his cold hand against your warm foot.

Kylian noticed this instantly; he cradled your foot between his large hands and bowed his head.

He tried to warm your foot by running his lips over it and blowing his warm breath onto it.

This gesture of his warmed not only your feet but also your heart.

"Doing something for you wouldn't tire me out."

As your heart raced, you involuntarily raised your hand and placed it on his curly hair, which was starting to grow longer.

Kylian lifted his head and looked into your eyes.

"It would be a pleasure for me."

Your eyes welled up slightly as you looked at the man you were madly in love with.

"You shouldn't be this cute."

You lowered the hand with which you had been stroking his hair to his cheek and gave it a gentle tug.

You looked upward and turned your head to hold back your tears.

Kylian smiled, rose up onto his knees, and leaned toward you.

He planted a deep kiss on your cheek and whispered into your ear.

"That's how my mom raised me, bébé."

Unable to stop himself, he planted a few more kisses on your cheek and temple.

You giggled, placed your hands on his cheeks, and planted a kiss on his lips.

With his eyes closed and lost in the moment, he rested his head on your shoulder and murmured.

"So.. Shall we pack your suitcase together?"

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈·✦

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Putain….” he says, voice low, tense.

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

For a second, the room is suspended in silence.

“Kylian,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence stretches, thick, brittle, painful.

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

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

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

You say nothing.

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

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

Morning arrives without mercy.

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

It’s steady. Untroubled.

You don’t turn when he shifts. 

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

“Hey,” he says quietly.

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

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

He leans down and kisses your cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, the nausea is already there.

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

You swallow.

Focus.

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

Your mouth tastes wrong. Metallic. Sharp.

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

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

Your vision blurs.

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

You inhale through your nose.

It doesn’t help.

The room tilts slightly to the left.

You blink. Once. Twice.

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

Don’t do this. Not here.

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

Your knees buckle.

“—Hey—!”

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

“MRS. MBAPPÉ !” “Y/N!” “OMG CALL 911”

The panic cuts through the fog.

Your vision blacks out.

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

You come back to sensation in fragments.

Cold first.

Then pressure, something tight around your arm.

Then voices, urgent, clipped.

“She’s awake—”

“Easy, stay still—”

Your eyes flutter open.

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

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

Ambulance.

Hospital.

The word lands heavily in your chest.

“My… work?” you whisper hoarsely.

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

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

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

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

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

“How are you feeling now?” he asks.

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

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

He flips a page.

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

Your chest tightens.

“I don’t understand.”

The doctor doesn’t sit down.

That’s the first thing you notice.

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

Your stomach tightens.

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

Your fingers curl into the sheet. “Okay.”

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

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

Were.

You blink. “Were?”

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

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

The pause is barely a second.

“No,” he says quietly.

The room tilts.

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

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

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

The words blur together.

Procedure.

Prevent.

Complications.

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

“So… it’s gone,” you whisper.

The doctor’s expression softens. “Yes.”

Gone.

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

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

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

Your throat tightens painfully.

A laugh escapes you,small, broken, wrong. 

Tears slide sideways into your hair.

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

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

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

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

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

They hesitate.

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

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

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

The apartment feels wrong the moment you step inside.

Too quiet. Too familiar.

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

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

You sit down.

Then you fold in on yourself.

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

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

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

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

The world narrows.

The room blurs.

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

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

The stadium detonates the moment the ball hits the net.

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

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

He looks toward the stands.

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

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

She’s not there.

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

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

Between questions, his fingers itch for his phone.

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

Nothing.

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

He tells himself not to be dramatic.

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

He showers. Dresses. Checks again.

Still nothing.

On the bus, he types.

Kylian:

We won ❤️

Delivered.

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

Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.

His leg starts bouncing uncontrollably.

Kylian:

Did you see the goal?

Delivered.

No reply.

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

He hits FaceTime.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Then stops.

Declined.

His stomach drops so hard he feels briefly nauseous.

He types again, faster now.

Kylian:

Hey. Are you okay?

Please answer me.

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

A notification finally lights up his screen.

Your name.

Relief hits first, hot, dizzying.

Then he reads it.

You:

I’m fine. Just tired.

No heart. No nickname. Nothing extra.

He frowns, thumbs hovering.

Kylian:

Are you at home?

Did something happen?

The typing dots appear.

Disappear.

Reappear.

Disappear again.

His jaw tightens.

Finally:

You:

Home.

One word. Closed.

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

You should have been more careful.

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

He FaceTimes again.

No answer.

Again.

Nothing.

Kylian:

Please talk to me.

I’m sorry about the fight.

This time, the response takes longer.

You:

I can’t right now.

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

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

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

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

The apartment door opens to silence.

Not the comfortable kind.

The wrong kind.

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

Nothing.

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

The bedroom door is half-open.

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

His heart lurches.

“Putain” he breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

“I fainted,” you say.

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

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

“At work.”

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

You nod once.

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

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

“They ran tests.”

He waits.

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

His heart beating so loudly.

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

Finally, you say it.

“I was pregnant.”

The words hit him in pieces.

Pregnant.

You.

With him.

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

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

Something inside him caves in.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

It’s quiet,

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

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

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

You nod.

Just once.

That’s all it takes.

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer right away.

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

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

He looks at your stomach then.

The motion is unconscious. Instinctive.

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t there,” he says suddenly.

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

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

You finally look at him then.

Something in your expression makes his heart seize.

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

His head snaps up. “Why?”

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

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

The words land between you like broken glass.

His face drains of color.

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

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

That’s worse.

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

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

His voice breaks completely.

“To decide?” you finish for him.

He looks up sharply. “No.”

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

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

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

Your voice cracks on the last word.

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

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

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

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

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

But you already are.

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

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

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

You finally break.

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

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

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

Your fingers clutch into his shirt, desperate, trembling.

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

He holds you tighter.

“Neither do I,” he admits hoarsely.

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

Nothing is fixed.

Nothing is resolved.

But neither of you lets go.