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MOST WANTED MAN

I can’t believe this is the last chapter 🥺 what a journey this has been!

Firstly, I would like to apologise for the minor setback with this chapter. Idk whether I deleted the draft when I fell asleep with the computer on yesterday, or whether the file took on a life of its own and deleted itself. but either way, it has been resolved now. Thank you for being so understanding! 💗

I now, want to thank every single one of you! Whether who read, commented, sent asks, or simply followed along quietly. You really made this story what it became, and I’m very grateful for that 💕🥲 Writing it has been such a great experience, not just because of the writing itself, but because of everything that came with it. Getting to interact with some of you, reading your thoughts, messages and sharing this space has honestly been the best part!

You’ve made Most Wanted Man such a special experience for me, and I’m endlessly grateful for that 🤍 you are all amazing!!

I’d genuinely love to hear your thoughts now that it’s complete!! what you think of the story as a whole, and of this final chapter. If you have any questions, interpretations, or curiosities about the fic, I’m more than happy to discuss about it!!!

Thank you so much again, from the bottom of my heart!! 🫶🏻✨

Oh and a little warning : mature stuff ahead. Or in other words they have sex!

Chapter Nineteen: Beginnings

AFTER

Paris/Madrid, July 2025

They don’t speak much as they climb up the stairs to her apartment.

Kylian walks half a step behind her, instinctively. She can feel him close, looking at her as she moves up half a step ahead of him. He adjusts instinctively, when she stops at her door, the old choreography returning before either of them comments on it.

She fishes her keys out of her bag, suddenly aware of her hands and how long it has been since he stood here, waiting for her to unlock a door.

When she pushes it open,the apartment is exactly as she left it that morning: shoes by the door and Julie’s tote on the chair.

Anna flicks the light on, shrugs out of her coat and hags it with meticulous care, as though ritual could stabilize the quiet tremor in her chest.

When she turns back, he's standing just past the threshold , hands lodged in his pockets, posture calibrated. A man who has been everywhere, who commands rooms without effort, suddenly unsure whether he's allowed further.

“You can-“ she starts, then stops, unsure what she was about to say. Come in feels redundant. He’s already here.

He finally steps forward carefully, like he’s afraid of making noise. He looks taller in her apartment than she remembers. Or maybe she’s just more aware of him now.

His eyes scan across the room over the familiar shapes, eyes moving respectfully slowly trying to remember where he used to exist.

Nothing has changed much since the last time he was here. A new plant on the windowsill, more books stacked along the radiator, a new moka pot since the old one broke. But the bones of the place are still the same.

She watches him watch, feels something loosen and ache at the same time.

“You didn’t move the lamp.” he says quietly, a trace of amusement tugging at his lips.

He and Julie used to tease her relentlessly about a lamp she once bought in a flea market. It's quirky , a bit broken on one side and it flicks sometimes but she likes it. She had bought it herself, the first item purchased entirely by her when she first moved here. Her pride mingled with affection in its persistence for that lamp.

She exhales a quiet laugh. “I like the light.” she says “It makes everything look kinder.”

He hums, nodding, like that makes sense. Like this is still something he's allowed to have opinions about.

They stand there, for a moment too long, facing each other in the narrow hallway, the air between them thick with everything they haven't said and everything they already have.

The conversation at the gallery has stripped away the doubts and the misunderstanding but it has left everything else exposed.

Then something shifts; a glance, a fraction of a sigh, maybe. She sees the exact moment his restraint thins enough that she recognises it, the look that used to precede everything else.

Neither of them plans it. Just a step, hers or his, she's not sure, and suddenly they're close enough to feel the heat between them. The old magnetism, and the sudden collapse of space between them.

His hand comes to her face and their mouths meet. The familiarity of their lips together, arriving in waves.

They kiss slowly. It's different from Madrid - less urgency, more permission. Like they're relearning each other instead of trying to outrun the past.

His mouth is warm and familiar in a way that hits her suddenly and deeply.

She leans in without thinking, arms winding around his neck.

His hands slide down her back, thumbs grazing the small of her spine, exploring, claiming, familiar without assumption. There’s a patience to it, a knowledge that this is tentative.

She presses against him, letting a sound slip past her teeth, and he answers instinctively, a low groan vibrating through the hollow of her chest, reminding her what she’s been missing.

The kiss deepens. Lips part, his tongue brushing hers with the same tentative curiosity as memory itself, as if reacquainting, testing boundaries.

Her back hits the wall, cool and unyielding, grounding her. His forehead rests lightly against hers, warmth pressing through. She lets him stay there, letting herself fold into it, smiling faintly into the weight of his mouth, the same way she always used to when he caught her off guard.

"Anna.” He murmurs, and the way he says her name feels like an apology and a promise tangled together.

She pulls him closer.

They don't rush the bedroom. They make it there in pieces between kissing and touching. Clothes come off unevenly and clumsily: his jacket shrugged away, shoes kicked aside, her dress unzipped with clumsy urgency. Hands explore, teeth graze, and every so often they pause, forehead to forehead, just breathing each other in before diving back in.

All movements by two people who already know what they’re going to find.

When they reach her the door is already open. The light from the street spills in through the curtain, catching on the edges of things she forgot he knows so well. He takes his time. She does too.

Her dress snags over her head; she laughs softly. He helps her free it, fingers lingering on her skin once it's gone; a quiet sorry whispered into her neck.

When she’s bare before him, standing, he pauses. He looks at her like he always did, like she’s both fragile and astonishing, like he’s seeing her again for the first time.

“You alright?” he asks quietly, as if checking that she's still choosing this.

She nods. “Yeah.

He steps back just enough to guide her down. The bed meets her with a soft, sudden give.. Her breath comes faster now, chest rising as anticipation settles low and sharp in her body.

He leans over her immediately, lips trailing down her jaw, along her neck, pausing at the collarbone to nip lightly. Her hands clutch his shoulders, dragging him closer, needing the full weight of him.

She presses her face into his shoulder, inhales the familiar warmth of his skin, the faint trace of the cologne he wore tonight. A detail that feels absurdly emotional, like muscle memory asserting itself.

His mouth trails lower, lips down her torso, over the swell of her breasts, teasing nipples between teeth and tongue. He kisses her everywhere he can reach. Her nails scrape his neck and the response is immediate and instinctive. The recognition of how easily they still undo each other.

His hand follows the path of his mouth, mapping her with care rather than urgency, leaving no part of her untouched. Every touch a question she answers with an arch and a small sigh yes sound

Heat coils tight and impossible inside of her. She presses closer, letting him explore, letting herself melt into him, moans low and uneven, his name spilling from her lips between breaths.

Kylian rises only long enough to remove the last barrier between them, and then he’s there again, body pressing fully, and painfully deliciously against hers.

“I’ve miss you.” he mutters against her skin, his voice thick, almost lost in the rasp of desire. “So much.”

She answers by wrapping her legs around him, drawing him closer, erasing whatever space remains, skin against skin, desperate to erase the moments of absence. He positions himself, teasing, tip pressing against her slick entrance. Her breath hitches, uneven, making him pause just long enough to notice, to savor.

“Okay?” he murmurs, voice hoarse with tenderness and want.

She blinks rapidly, nodding. “Yeah. God, yes.”

He slides in slowly, letting her adjust, letting her feel him fully before the rhythm begins. When she’s ready, she lifts her hips to meet him, and the motion turns urgent and need-driven. He knows how she likes to be held when she’s overwhelmed. She knows exactly how to pull him closer when he starts to drift inward.

He leans over her, one hand bracing against the mattress, the other curving around her hip, lips chasing hers with a fierce, ragged need, teeth grazing, tongue threading in a way that’s intimate and claiming all at once. The bed groans beneath them, each creak marking a rhythm they’ve known before but now feel sharper, more urgent. Every thrust carries the weight of familiarity, desire, and weeks of lost time.

He edges her, fingers teasing her clit as he rides her, circling and pressing just right, making her tremble on the brink. She thinks how her body only seems to react like this when it’s him touching her.

She bites his shoulder, lets out a low, unrestrained sound, nails raking down his back, tracing the familiar planes, leaving tiny lines that sting and burn. Every inch of him feels like memory, like home, like something she’s been starved for. Every sigh, every press, every shift of weight against her sends fire up her spine, down into her belly.

The heat builds and their movements quicken, sloppy, tender, urgent, as if trying to erase the past and claim the present in a single storm of touch and fire.

Kylian murmurs, regarde-moi, and she does, caught by the intensity in his eyes, and desire and care that have intertwined over time.

He buries himself fully, moving with precision and heat, each motion bringing her closer, tighter, until her body shudders violently under his relentless rhythm. When he finally comes, shuddering, groaning, she feels every bit of it - unrelenting pleasure, teeth biting lips, heavy breathing tangled in gasps.

They don’t move for a while, though it isn’t from tiredness or sleepiness. It’s more like a mutual reluctance to disturb the shape and whatever fragile equilibrium they’ve landed in.

She lies on her back, one knee bent, staring at the ceiling. There’s a hairline crack running from the corner above the wardrobe toward the light fixture, something she’s somehow never noticed before. She traces it with her eyes, over and over.

He's beside her, close but not crowding her. His hand is in her hair, fingers threaded through it, absent-mindedly, as if he’s not entirely aware he’s doing it.

He’s always done that, touched it like closeness is a reflex.

Eventually she speaks, quietly, eyes still on the ceiling.

“Do you ever…” she stops, and exhales trying to find the best words “Do you ever imagine it differently?

“What?”

“Us, how it ended.” She hesitates “What it might’ve been like if we hadn’t separated.” she rumbles. “Like… if I’d gone with you?”

His fingers stop, then start again. She feels him thinking.

“Yes.” He hums slightly, like he’s deciding whether to answer honestly. “ I do.”

She waits, but he doesn’t add anything. She presses her lips together. There’s a pressure behind her ribs she doesn’t quite know what to do with.

“I still think about it sometimes too.” She admits.

He turns his head slightly toward her, but she keeps her gaze fixed upward. She can feel his attention like warmth

They’re quiet again. His thumb traces a slow line along her scalp, down to the nape of her neck, then back up. She leans into it without thinking.

“I don’t think there was a day I didn’t imagine a version of my life that had you in it, to be honest.” he says quietly.

She shifts her head to look at him. He's staring at the ceiling now, expression open in a way he rarely allows himself.

“I used to think…” he continues, choosing each word “that once I got there, once everything settled… I’d stop thinking about what it would’ve been like if you were there too. But I didn’t.” He pauses. “Nothing did, actually. Nothing changed that. Not the city, not the games, not the pressure, not much how busy I let myself be. I thought about you more there than anywhere else.”

He turns then, finally, looks at her like that idea physically hurts.

“In really stupid, ordinary ways.” he adds, almost apologetic “In the shower, I’d catch myself thinking you’d hate the water pressure Or that you’d be annoyed because I’d leave my kit everywhere.” A faint smile flickers, then disappears. “At restaurants, I’d catch myself wondering if you’d like a certain dish. Which places would’ve become ours.” He huffs. “I imagined you bored at team dinners, texting Julie under the table.”

She lets out a short breath that might be a laugh, might not. It sounds like a life she could've loved.

“You wouldn’t have let me be bored.”

“No.” He exhales through his nose, a short laugh “I wouldn’t.”

She’s suddenly sad. Not for the loss of the past but the loss of the future she almost had. The one that existed briefly, hypothetically and that she didn't herself live. She doesn’t regret her choice. But she mourns the version of herself that would never be.

“I don’t think I regretted not coming.” she confesses after a while. “To Madrid.”

She shifts, propping herself up slightly so she can look at him properly. His face looks softer like this, hair rumpled, eyes dark and unguarded, the little stubble growing along his jaw she immediately decides she likes.

“But-.” she continues, carefully, “I regret how final I made it. Like there was only one way to love each other correctly.” She says “ Like if it wasn’t neat, it wasn’t worth trying.” She swallows “I think I convinced myself that loving someone meant choosing the option that hurt less in the long run.” She's being truly honest right now with him, and she hopes he understands. “And I didn’t question that. I just… closed the door.”

He turns onto his side, facing her fully now.

“part of me wondered….” she admits, “if you resented me for that. For not trying.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. He studies her long enough for doubt to creep in, and she wonders if she’s misstepped or named something better left untouched.

“ I resented the situation.” he says. “Not you.” His hand slides from her hair to her cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath her eye. she closes her eyes at the touch "Ending things was never what I wanted. But I understood your decision. I still do.” He admits.

They lie there for a moment, eyes searching each other’s faces or certainty, for honesty. He reaches up then, brushing his lips on her shoulder with aching tenderness..

“I know there’s a lot still going on. That Distance is still… distance and that our lives are still complicated.” He says “But I don’t really want a version in my life where you are not in it again."

His confession makes her heart bloom.

Her hand slips into his, fingers threading together like muscle memory. She could tell him about the offer about the move that’s about to happen. But somehow she doesn’t want to tell him that already. Doesn’t want to make promises she’s not sure yet. Doesn’t want to high her expectations on something that is still very new and fragile.

“‘I don't want to be without you in my life either.”

He smiles, something in him easing. He draws her closer, his arm settling around her with a familiarity that startles them both. She shifts instinctively, fitting herself into the space she still knows by heart.

The ceiling fades from her attention, replaced by the steady rise and fall of chest and his face over her.

She presses her forehead to his, breathing hard, and for a moment it feels dangerously like before. Like Paris, last year. Like a life that didn’t fracture.

She wakes first.

Sunlight spills across the floor in thin, pale stripes, catching on the edges of furniture, dust and the curve of his shoulder.

He's still asleep, mouth slightly open, one arm slung over her waist like it's always belonged there. for a moment, she watches him breath, committing him to memory. The soft crease between his brows, the way his lashes rest against his cheeks.

He stirs a moment later, blinking, disoriented. When he sees her, something like relief crosses his face before he can hide it.

"Hi." he murmurs, like it's the first time.

"Hi." she answers

She leans an inch closer .

“You hungry?” she asks.

“A bit.”

“I have bad coffee.”

“I remember.” he smiles, face buried in her pillow

They don’t get up immediately. They touch lazily, as if they’re checking whether the night before still counts in daylight. It does.

In the kitchen there’s a quiet, awkward choreography, familiar without being rehearsed. She sets the moka pot on the stove while he reaches for two mugs.

She’s barefoot on the cold tile, still wearing his t-shirt, the hem brushing her thighs. The ordinariness of it steadies her.

When he disappears into the bathroom, she takes the small pocket of solitude to text Julie.

Anna: Sorry for leaving earlier last night !! Loved the exhibition.

Anna: Also, Kylian spent the night, hope that's ok!

Anna: I’ll explain everything when we see each other!

Anna: Love you!!

The reply comes almost instantly:

Julie: !!!!!

Julie ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!

Julie: omg

Julie: of course that’s ok, Please!

Julie: I’m staying at Gui’s this weekend. DO NOT WASTE THIS!

Julie: Fix your shit you two!!

Julie: We’ll definitely debrief later! lyyy <3

She’s smiling when he comes back into the kitchen, his eyes still soft with morning.

He sits at the small table, sipping her bad coffee, glancing up at her every so often as if checking she hasn’t vanished.

“Are you busy today?” she asks, sitting across from him.

He shakes his head. “No schedule until Tuesday.”

"You could... stay. If you want.” She hesitates, not sure if it's what he wants “Julie is spending the weekend at Guillaume’s"

His smile is slow, unguarded "I’d really like that."

That weekend they move like people with nowhere to be. Because they don’t. The only time either of them leaves the apartment is when he goes to pick up clothes and even then he barely makes it downstairs to the lobby before Étienne brings the bag up to him. The closest they come to leaving again is stepping out to collect food deliveries.

They watch bad television; they talk about nothing and everything , about Madrid, Paris, the strangeness of being thirty minutes from where everything once broke.They nap in the afternoon light; kiss in doorways; touch constantly as reassurance,of each other’s presence

They have sex. In her bed, in the shower, on the sofa. And once, laughing and breathless, on ther bedroom floor.

Afterwards, she lay half on top of him, their bodies still warm, limbs loosely entangled on the carpet. She traced slow, absent shapes on his chest with her finger. Circles, lines, nothing intentional just proof of contact.

“Can I ask you something?” She aks.

He hums, eyes closed, the sound vibrating gently beneath her cheek.

“When we weren’t talking…” she says, keeping her voice light on purpose, “who did you think I was seeing?”

She doesn’t know why the question surfaces now. Maybe because everything else has already been said. Or because it finally feels safe to ask the things openly again.

She feels the small shift in his chest, the inhale.

“That gallery guy.” he says. “Louis, I think.”

She lifts her head, surprised despite herself. “Why him?”

“Tchaga said he saw you with him. And I remember you said you had dinner that night and…. I don’t know - my mind just started to spiral, imagining scenarios and filling in the blanks.”

Shes the one who hums now. She recalls that night he saw Brice.

“It was dinner to celebrate Julie work.” she says gently. “She was there. Guillaume too. It wasn't-" She stops, then adds "It wasn't like that."

“I know.”

She watches him for a moment. This version of him open and slightly ashamed, feels unbearably familiar. Then she lowers herself again, tucking into his side again.

“When we stopped talking I really missed you.” she says, staring at the far wall “And then I saw you were in Monaco. And it really hurt.” She admits “I thought you didn’t care about me anymore. Not the same way I still did.”

“I never wanted to hurt you." he says immediately. "I was being... stupid. Immature."

She huffs a small laugh. “Yes. You’re kind were .”

He lets out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah. World-class one.” He presses a kiss to her shoulder like an apology “I’m really sorry.”

She shifts closer, her knee fitting between his legs, instinctive.

They get quiet for a period of time.

"I was going to come." he admits eventually. "That week." He hesitates. "I had a few days off and I wanted to surprise you. My ankle flared up and the medical team told me to rest." He glances down at her. "I was hoping to rest in you."

It catches her off guard, the honesty of it and the simplicity.

His hand tightens at her waist. “I cared about you.” He says “ I still do. Nothing has changed.” he says.

She studies him, the familiar face made new again by sincerity, by exhaustion, by love that never really went anywhere. Before she can overthink it, she pulls him closer and shifts, settling over him again. His hands find her waist automatically.

"We were never very good at doing things the right way.” she murmurs.

He chuckles, one hand sliding over her thigh. "No." He says “I think we agreed early on. Universal standards were never our thing ”

She smiles at that. Because he remembers.

She positions herself, feels his breath hitch when she settles. She leans down, brushing her mouth against his, not quite a kiss. Just close enough that he feels it.

“Thank god. I'd hate for us to start now."

She tells him about Madrid later that night. They’re tangled on the couch, legs twisted together, the TV murmuring in the background but entirely ignored.

“I forgot to mention.” she says, voice casual, “my job, they offered me a promotion.” She shrugs, like it’s just a fact dropped in passing, and almost convinces herself it’s nothing.

“They did?” he says, eyebrows lifting, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Anna, that’s… really good.”

“It’s going to be more boring. Corporate, meetings, PowerPoints. But I’m… actually excited.”

She watches him out of the corner of her eye, curious for the part he’ll react to when he tells him that Madrid might be her new future soon.

He smiles. “You love boring.”

“I love stable.” she corrects.

He watches her, expression light, but with something else behind it. “There’s… just one thing.” she adds, before he can guess. She leans back, pretending to fiddle with the throw pillow. “It’s not in Paris.”

He lifts his head instantly “No?” she shakes her head “Where is it then?”

“Madrid.”

His smile spreads slowly, disbelief and something warmer caught in the curve of his lips. He sits up, pulling her a little closer in one smooth motion. “You’re serious?”

“Yes.” she says, laughing softly, like the sound could carry away all the doubt she’s carried since the offer came.

He doesn’t even try to hide it. The grin is instant, boyish, unguarded, like he’s remembered what it is to be fully, unapologetically alive. He kisses her hard, once, twice, and she lets herself melt into it

"There are still conversations to be had... some more details to discuss with corporate but I think I might go." she says.

"You should.” he says immediately. Then pauses, looking at her. "I mean, only if you want to, of course . I’ll support whatever you decide.” he says.

She lets out a small laugh, but it catches in her throat. Distance has always been the thing that could undo them. This changes the rules entirely.

“I know.”

He pulls her closer, chest to chest, and the warmth of him anchors the room.

"This... this is good." he murmurs, low, like he's trying to convince the air itself, or maybe himself "Really good."

She can’t see it in him, but she knows: he’s already plotting, already running through possibilities, routes, moves, plans she doesn’t need to know to feel.

*

Anna squints at her computer screen, lifting one hand to shield her eyes. The light here is relentlessly too bright , flooding the office without apology. It makes it hard to focus sometimes, makes her blink more than she’d like.

She doesn’t hate it.

It’s different from Paris, from the muted, controlled lighting of the office in the 8th arrondissement where everything always felt a little too artificial and a little too cold.

She’s been here for five days now. Enough time to know which desk chair squeaks, which meeting room traps heat in the afternoons or, which coworker always forgets to mute himself on calls. The hum of Spanish voices around her that no longer feels foreign only slightly out of reach.

Camille moves through it all like she’s been there for years, sleeves rolled, already arguing with IT. She is a little sharper, a little cynical, than the team is used to, but the Spaniards adjust. They like her confidence.

She likes her position here. Likes how she fits into it.

How her voice doesn’t waver when she disagrees, how people pause to listen when she does. Her Spanish colleagues trust her judgment. They ask her opinion, defer to her on details she didn’t even realize she’d mastered. There’s a steady, grounding satisfaction in being competent somewhere new.

Her Spanish is still imperfect and clumsy. She knows that. Duolingo lives permanently open on her phone now.

She studies late at night, practices phrases under her breath while she has breakfast, scrabble expression in a notebook, tests sentences in her head before saying them aloud.

It feels like learning a new rhythm, a new version of herself-one that doesn't panic at mistakes.

“You’re going to beat the owl by exhaustion.” Camille had said yesterday, shaking her head over how seriously she's taking that Duolingo streak. It's soft teasing but it's affectionate.

“That's the goal.” She smiles

Javier passes her desk while Camille disappears into a meeting with her closest clients. He’s one of her new coworkers here in madird. Javier has that easy, cool-uncle energy: laughs too easily, leans a little too close when he explains things, like proximity is part of the lesson.

“Ven.” he says in Spanish, gesturing toward the kitchenette. “You look like you need coffee and a break.”

She laughs lifting her mug, swiveling her chair “Already got a drink, thank you.”

“You’ll need it better than tea.” he says, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Spanish mornings are basically a slow-motion trap.”

She agrees and follows him anyway.

The kitchenette here is small but functional. A real coffee machine. One that works. Martina, the receptionist, joins them, all warmth and easy conversation.

“How’s the move going?” Martina asks.

“It's going alright.” Anna says. “Still at the hotel for now. Hopefully fully settled by next week.”

“That’s wonderful, cariño.” Martina says. “If you need anything, anything at all, we’re here.”

Anna smiles, genuine. “Gracias.”

When she returns to her desk, Camille is already back, coat draped neatly over her chair.

“Javier is planning lunch outside.” Anna says. “Some new restaurant he’s very proud of.”

Camille exhales pleased. “I love Spanish people.”

At lunch they all walk down the street to the restaurant Javier promises. They sit outside, squeezed around a small table. The sun is out today, unapologetic.

Someone complains about the air conditioning, someone brings pastries they claim are better than Paris ones, which Camille loudly disputes. Anna laughs more than she expects to. It surprises her how normal it all feels now.

“You’re getting better at your Spanish.” someone comments.

“I'm trying.” Anna snorts “ Been doing some intensive training.”

“My mother always said the fastest way to learn a language is to date a native.” Javier says, wagging his finger. “Or someone who speaks very well.”

“I can introduce you to friends.” Martina offers in a sweet kinda way.

Anna laughs, a little shy, when Camille answers for her.

“I think she’s… already covered.”

Anna drops her gaze to her plate, heat rising to her cheeks. She doesn’t explain. She doesn’t need to.

Lunch stretches on, plates piling up slowly, the conversation meandering between office gossip and tips about neighborhoods, cafés, and hidden terraces.She's learned something simple but important: Spanish lunches are meant to linger, and the work that follows moves with the same unhurried patience; nobody seems in a hurry to return to their desks.

There's no pretense, no rushing, just a deliberate unfolding of time she hadn't realized she'd enjoy.

By the time they wander back to the office, the sun has dropped a little, and the day feels halfway gone.

Back at her desk, Anna sinks into her chair and opens her emails. She schedules meetings, reviews documents, and responds to questions. Someone stops by, glances at her screen, asks her opinion. She gives it. Its listened to; taken seriously. A small, almost ridiculous sense of satisfaction wells in her chest being both useful and seen is shockingly rare

Her phone buzzes. She ignores it at first, fingers tapping on the keyboard, drafting notes for an important debate next week. When she finally looks, it's Julie. A reply to the photo Anna sent earlier: sunlight spilling over her lunch plate, a glass of sangria sweating gently in the heat.

Julie: You're settling in too fast 😏 Don't forget me!!

Anna smiles, thumbs flying over the keyboard.

Anna: Impossible.

Anna: How's married life treating you?

Julie and Guillaume are official married now. Two weekends ago. She still sees Julie in that dress, hair flawless, tears streaked across her cheeks anyway, radiating some impossible version of happiness. Anna had cried like a fool, practically drained the tissues in the front row.

Her best friend finally married. Beautiful, happy in that perfectly terrifying way.

Julie: Awful. Guillaume shrunk all my clothes in the dryer.

Julie: I already miss your delicate folding!! 🥹

Anna laughs quietly to herself, picturing Julie wrestling with teeny shirts and socks, muttering French insults under her breath.

Anna: Come visit next week! My place should be ready by then

Anna: I'll dry your clothes if you want

She sets her phone down, a small smile lingering.

Even across cities and time zones, some things-messy laundry, sarcastic texts, shared spaces-still feel like home.

The office begins to empty just after five thirty. Chairs scrape softly against the floor, voices fading into the hallways. Anna gathers her laptop and notes, tucking them into her bag with deliberate care.

She waves goodbye to Camille, whose mid-phone call, one finger lifted in apology, mouthing ‘à plus!’ with a smile.

“Hasta mañana, Martina.” She gestures at the front desk on her way out.

The Uber she called waits outside, engine idling. She slides into the backseat, watches the city drift past the window as the sun hangs low but bright, spilling gold across the pavement. Madrid looks generous at this hour. They arrive quickly at the hotel, her improvised new home for now. she thanks the driver.

She smiles at the staff in the lobby, exchanges a brief hola, then heads toward the elevators. Inside, she presses the button for her floor and leans back against the steel wall as the doors slide shut. The elevator tilts slightly as it begins its ascent.

She leans against the steel wall, eyes half-close, letting her shoulders drop. Her heels brushing together and her bag slides a little against her side.

The soft whir of the cables fills the space, punctuated by faint voices drifting down from higher floors.

This week has been exhausting and exhilarating in equal measure. Meetings. Small negotiations. Long lunches she never thought she’d enjoy this much. Excitement layered over fatigue, both pulling at her at once.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket sharp enough to startle her. Not the soft vibration of a text but something more insistent.

She digs through her pocket, fingers brushing coins, folded receipts, a gum wrapper she meant to throw away and didn’t. The elevator keeps climbing. The phone buzzes against her hand.

She finally pulls it free.

She stares at the screen longer than necessary. His name sits there, simple and impossible. Her pulse picks up anyway, stupidly, like she’s seventeen again

The phone buzzes a third time. She answers.

“Salut.”

His voice comes through warm and low, slightly amused, like he’s smiling already. Like he knows exactly where she is.

“Hi.” she says, softer than she intended.

“How’s my permanent Madrid girl doing?” he asks.

She exhales, the corner of her mouth lifting despite herself. “She’s… doing bueno. Freshly arrived at the hotel.”

The elevator dings softly, announcing her floor. The doors slide open.

“You done for the day?”

“Yep, Just finished.” She steps out into the hallway, the carpet swallowing the sound of her heels. “Long one.”

“Yeah?” he says, like he’s smiling wider now. “Good long or bad long?”

“Good.” she answers after a second. “Tiring. But in the good way.”

She walks toward her room, the corridor quiet, air-conditioned, anonymous in that hotel way. She digs the key card from her bag with one hand, phone pressed to her ear with the other.

“And you?” she asks. “Did you get back already?”

“Yeah. About an hour ago.”

She nods, even though he can’t see it.

He’s been away with France, cities passing beneath him in quick succession, caught in the rhythm of national team games. Training with Real starts the day after tomorrow, the Club World Cup already looming.

When she arrived, it struck her how odd it felt to be in a city that has become his and not see him in it. The reversal - her here now, him not - left a faint, unsettling imbalance on her.

Madrid felt borrowed this week. Provisional. Like she wasn't supposed to get too comfortable yet.

“How was the flight?” She asks, mostly to give herself something neutral to hold onto.

“It was fine, not much turbulence."

She unlocks the door, pushes it open with her shoulder. The room smells faintly of clean linen and citrus cleaner. She drops her bag by the door but doesn't turn on the lights yet

“Tired, though.” he adds. “I just got out of the shower and collapsed on the bed.” He adds, like it’s logistical information.

She bites her lip, heart picking up, imagining him leaning in, water droplets still in his chest, towel low on his waits, probably grinning teasing, pretending not to care that he knows exactly how her mind will spiral with that information. She hates how quickly her body reacts,which is unfair.

“Is that why you’re calling?” she says “To tell me you’re naked?”

Anna walks further into the room, kicks off her shoes one by one.

He laughs, short. “Maybe.” She can hear movement now-fabric shifting, the creak of a mattress. Her fingers tighten around the phone “and to tell you I’m thinking about you.”

She sits down on the edge of the bed because suddenly she needs something solid under her.

"'Dangerous habit." she says.

"Apparently."

She's smiling now. She can feel it and hates that she can't stop, how he still has the same affect in her.

"Truthfully, the real reason I called…" he continues, voice slower now, deliberate, "is to tell you that I drove past that sculpture place on the way home from the airport."

"The... suggestive one?"

"That very same.” he confirms.

She exhales through her nose. “You’re obsessed.”

"With taking you there." he replies,no hesitation. "Yes."

She stares at the floor. Let the feeling move through her instead of stopping it.

“Anyway, the place looked very open and operational.” He says “I checked online and it’s open tonight."

“Is that a dinner invitation?”

The anticipation creeps in quietly, settles low and warm beneath her ribs.

“Yes.” he says. “I mean, I thought… we kept missing it. And now we’re both here.” He lets his words drag "Feels irresponsible not to take that as a sign."

She laughs under her breath, shaking her head. Of course he'd frame it like that. Of course it works on her.

“Plus.” he continues, a hint of mischief threading through the words “I kinda miss you.”

Anna can't help a small laugh, teeth in her lips if deciding how much sass she's allowed.

"Kinda huh?” she murmurs, laughing into the phone “How can I say no to all that argumenting?"

"You can't." His voice is flat, confident, but she hears the grin behind it.

She laughs again, head tipped back slightly.

"What time then?"

"In an hour maybe. Can you manage that?"

“I think so.”

Her thoughts tumble ahead. Seeing him again. The way she’ll have to pretend she’s casual while her pulse spikes.

“Oh and Kylian.”

He hums

“I kinda miss you too.” she smiles excited “and that toothless smile.”

*

She’s ridiculously, hopelessly excited, and nervously so, when they meet an hour later.

He's aready there when she steps inside. A waiter guides her through the room,toward a tucked-away corner, a spot half-hidden, almost secret. The restaurant is exactly like he said it would be: half-lit, the warm glow of wood catching the edges of everything, the faint scent of grilled meat and wine curling through the air.

She hasn't seen the infamous obscene thing he's been promising her for months, but she barely registers the absence when she sees him.

Her stomach flutters. She wants to tell herself not to be ridiculous, but it’s too late; her chest is tight, her pulse skipping in ways that has nothing to do with the walk here.

Kylian is leaning forward in his chair, elbow loose on the table, the curve of his shoulder catching the amber light. He his grin stretches slowly when he spots her, careless tossing way the menu aside like he’s been timing her arrival all along. He stands as she gets closer.

He looks good, in a way that makes her want to laugh and groan at the same time. Boyish, like he hasn’t quite grown up; mischievous, like he’s holding back some joke he’s not telling her yet; magnetic, like she can’t look anywhere else.

She can feel herself smiling before she even reaches him. Her chest lifts, and she knows her voice will wobble, betraying her excitement if she speaks.

“Finally.” he murmurs, voice low and amused.

"Finally.” she echoes

She wants to step closer to him but then she becomes aware of the waitress hovering nearby, menus in hand. And it doesn’t feel right. the moment is not quite private yet.

By the time the waitress finally retreats, menus placed neatly on the table now, Anna has already drifted toward the chair meant for her. Too far now to circle back without making it obvious. Too late to pretend she wasn't about to lean into him.

She slips her bag from her shoulder, fidgets with the strap as she drapes it over the back of her chair.

“Before you sit.”

He catches her hand gently, not urgent, just certain, and guides her a half-step sideways so she’s facing the corner of the room. The gesture feels deliberate, almost ceremonial, and she lets herself be moved, curious now, heart ticking at the contact.

Her gaze follows.

And oh God.

The sculpture.

Worse than she imagined; Absurdly explicit, impossibly unsubtle and entirely unapologetic.

She lets out a surprised laugh.He completely undersold it. She curves her head to examine it better.

He watches her, grin spreading like a brat caught at the perfect crime

“So what is the veridic?” he ask teasing, “Was worth the wait?”

He steps closer, close enough that she feels the heat of him. It makes her chest tighten in a way that feels both old and newly dangerous.

She looks at him. Then at the sculpture, obscene, and almost ridiculous in its confidence. Then back at him.

She can’t tell what he’s really asking. Or maybe she can, and that’s the problem. Whether it’s the sculpture, this place, him standing here now, or the two of them, stubbornly circling back to each other, the answer collapses into the same thing.

Her lips twitch with a smile that feels both helpless and certain.

"Yes.” she says at last, eyes locking on his. "Though somehow..." she adds, quieter now, turning fully toward him, leaning in just enough that it's deliberate, "I think we both always knew it would be.”

He grins at her, eyes glinting, and she catches the flash of something private there, something that belongs only to the two of them. She leans slightly, enough to brush him, and it feels like reclaiming a piece of home.

Somewhere behind them, the absurd sculpture looms, forgotten, as if it’s learned to wait. They’re too caught up in each other to notice it anymore.

She thinks, briefly, of Paris. Of that sushi place they went to too often, the one they claimed as theirs; as part of their story.

And it occurs to her that this place, the one with that ridiculous explicit stone, might have just become their new sushi place

The one corner of the city that belongs only to them now, ready to witness another chapter of their story.

———