#rendezvous

“Doctor ? Your four o’clock is here.”

You glance at the name on the file again, mostly out of habit.

Kylian Mbappé. 27. Real Madrid Striker.

You pause for half a second longer than necessary, then exhale through your nose and stand. Famous patients aren’t unusual, but they always come with a strange pressure, everyone expecting you to react.

You don’t plan to.

When the nurse called him in. He entered.

Not rushed. Not impatient. Hands in the pockets of his black jacket.

He looks up at you when he enters, and the smile that reaches you is small, polite, almost careful.

“Bonsoir” he says. “I’m—”

“Kylian,” you finish, automatically professional. “I’m Y/N. Come in.”

You gesture to the chair. As he enters filling the clinic with his expensive cologne. He sits, glancing around as if genuinely curious, not bored.

“So,” you say, snapping on gloves. “First time here?”

“Yeah. Team recommendation.” A pause. “They said you’re… precise.”

You glance up at him. “Is that good or bad?”

He smiles wider this time. “Depends on who you ask.”

The appointment was easy. Too easy. He was clean just needed some scaling and polishing, checked on his implant and was wondering about whitening too.

He listens when you explain things, asks questions that show he’s actually paying attention, not just nodding along.

When you lean closer to check his bite, his eyes lift to yours for a heartbeat too long, unguarded, searching…for something, flickering there before he seems to realize how close you are.

Then he looks away, fixing his gaze on a blank spot on the wall, choosing distance the way one chooses discipline.

When it’s over, you pulled back with your chair, peeling off your gloves.

“All good. I’ll have the reception schedule your whitening appointment with the day you find suitable .”

He stands, slower than necessary. “Thanks. You made it… less awful than expected.”

“That’s what I do.” You smiled nodding.

He hesitates near the door, hand on the handle, then turns back.

“Do you um—” He stops himself, shakes his head lightly. “Never mind. I’ll see you next time.”

You nod, professional smile intact, even as something faint and curious tugs in your chest.

“Take care, Kylian.”

He leaves.

You think that’s it.

It isn’t?

It isn’t.

The first text comes two days later.

You’re in your kitchen, hair still damp from the shower, when your phone lights up with an unknown number.

Unknown:

Hey, it’s Kylian. Hope this isn’t weird..? reception gave me your number when I asked.

You stare at it longer than you should.

Y/N:

A little weird. But I’ll allow it.😂

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Kylian:

Worth the risk?

From there, it slides into something easy. Not intense. Not rushed. Just… constant.

Messages during his training breaks.

Kylian:

They made us run until I forgot my own name.

Y/N:

Your name is Kylian..

Kylian:

….OH MY GOD THANK YOU?

Late-night voice notes when you’re closing the clinic, his voice lower, relaxed, faintly amused as he talks about nothing important at all.

He remembers details, your long hours, the way you would rather have coffee before your work, the fact that you prefer rainy days and love driving at night.

He started calling you, not just texting, then it turned to an essentiality to complete the day for both of you.

After that, it becomes routine.

Not scheduled, never that obvious,but expected.

Snapchat streaks slip into it without either of you acknowledging when or how it started. One day he’s just there,sending you streaks of everything, small fragments of his life stitched together.

A blurry shot of the TV with French subtitles on something he’s half-watching. The gym floor beneath his shoes, selfies with his teammates, him eating lunch in his hotel room, his coffee cooling on a table he hasn’t touched yet.

Nothing performative. Just including you in his life.

You start including him too. The drive home. Hanging out with your friends. The clinic lights dimmed for the night. The quiet moments you never thought anyone would notice, let alone care about.

Then he follows you from his private Instagram account. No announcement. No explanation. Just suddenly there. He watches your stories within minutes, every time.

Likes the ones that feel the least important, the blurry city lights caught through a windshield, the photo of your cluttered desk taken without thinking, the quotes you sometime share because it hits you. Those are the ones he never misses.

One night, after an event, he sends a selfie from the back of a car, tie loosened, eyes tired.

Kylian:

You still awake?

You hesitate, then call instead of typing.

He answers on the second ring.

“Hey,” he says softly, like he’s been waiting. Needing.

You talk until your phone is warm in your hand.

You didn’t call it anything. But it started to feel like something.

The call ends sometime after midnight, not because either of you wants to hang up, but because silence finally stretches too long between sleepy breaths.

Your phone lights up while you’re having your coffee break between patients and chitchatting with your senior doctor.

You smile to yourself, typing back with your elbow against the counter.

He always makes you giggle, soft, unguarded sounds you don’t even realize you’re making. Before long, people start to notice.

You laugh out loud in the break room.

The way your lips curve when your phone lights up. The way your shoulders relax, your eyes soften, your attention drift just a little too far from the room you’re in.

You send him voice notes while driving home, the sound of traffic soft under your words. He tells you he likes those best. Says it feels like you’re there.

You roll your eyes, smiling.

One night, he facetimes while you’re brushing your teeth. You answer anyway, toothpaste and all.

“You’re disgusting,” he says, laughing but smiling absolutely inlove with whatever he is looking at.

“You called,” you say, brushing your teeth with a smile.

“Beautiful.”

It sneaks up on you, the way his name settles into your day. The way you angle your phone when he laughs in his vns , so you can hear it better. The way you check if he’s seen your message, then pretend you didn’t.

During a long clinic day, he would always make sure you are doing well.

You laugh out loud , slamming your hand fast on your mouth to stop your laugh. Your nurse giggled at your laugh while disinfecting the tools.

A long day , you were relieved as soon as your back hits your bed, scrolling down through stupid posts and updates.

Your friend sends you a screenshot with no context.

“👀”

It’s a post for Daniela. Actress. Verified. Impossibly effortless.

And there it is, his name, blue and unmistakable, under her photo. Liked by k.mbappe.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That she is being ridiculous with stupid fans speculations. That you don’t get to feel anything about it because you don’t have anything official.

But then in the next days, your explore page fills in the gaps for you.

Speculation. Threads. “He is definitely obsessed.” “They’re definitely dating.” “He likes every post!!.”

You scroll longer than you should.

Your chest tightens in a way that feels stupid and embarrassing and very real.

That night, your phone lights up.

Kylian is calling…

You stare at it.

Let it ring.

He texts right after.

Kylian:

Everything okay? Did you go home?

You type. Delete. Type again.

Y/N:

Yeah I’am home. Just tired. Long day.

The lie sits there, neat and polite.

After that, you change, not dramatically. Quietly.

You still reply.

Just slower.

Your messages get shorter.

When he sends voice notes, you text back instead.

When he calls, you miss it.

On purpose.

He notices immediately.

Kylian:

Did I do something?

You don’t answer.

The next day, another call. Then another.

Kylian:

Hey. Just wanted to hear your voice.

You watch the screen light up, then go dark.

At work, you’re careful not to check Instagram. At home, you give in and do it anyway.

A new post and of course…Another like.??

Your stomach drops every time, sharp and unwelcome.

That night, he sends..

Kylian:

I feel like I lost you and I don’t know when it happened.

You read it once.

Then again.

Your fingers hover over the screen, heart racing, throat tight, every instinct telling you to say something, anything, that might stop this quiet unraveling.

Instead, you lock your phone and set it face down on the table.

It buzzes once more.

Then stops.

The silence that follows is heavier than anything he could have said.

Kylian P.O.V.

Kylian stares at his phone like it might change its mind.

It doesn’t.

No typing bubble. No read receipt. Just the message sitting there, exposed in a way he hadn’t intended it to be. He rubs his thumb over the screen once, then locks it, tosses the phone onto the hotel bed like he’s done with it.

He isn’t.

Five minutes pass. Then ten.

He unlocks it again.

Nothing. 

He kept replaying his texts, calls, words he said, how come he fucked up even in the only situation-ship that felt right and felt like the he finally found the missing piece.

The room feels too quiet, the kind that presses in on his ears. Outside the window, Paris glows,alive, indifferent. He should be tired. Training ran long. The match replay is still looping on the muted TV.

“Putain Kylian Putain.”

There’s that tight feeling in his chest he can’t shake.

It’s been days now. Not a sudden drop, but a slope he keeps sliding down no matter how careful he is. 

He replays your voice notes and chats without meaning to, your laugh on the phone, the way you’d hum when you were thinking, the way you always answered eventually, even on your longest days.

Until you didn’t.

He scrolls up through the chat, stopping on things he didn’t think mattered at the time.

A stupid smile tugs at his mouth, then fades just as quickly.

He opens Instagram without thinking. Bad idea.

Your story sits there. You posted a story and didn’t reply to his messages….that stings more than he wants to admit.

Then he opens it.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Not for the lights, really, not for the soft blur of Christmas decorations glowing in the distance, but for your voice. Barely there in the background, laughing as you say something to your friend, warm and unfiltered, like it always sounds when you forget someone might be listening.

He replays it just to hear that laugh again, just to prove to himself that you’re still out there, still real, still close enough to miss.

His phone buzzes.

Achraf :

A link.

Then another.

Achraf:

Bro… is there something you didn’t tell me? Wasn’t it the doctor?

X loads. Screenshots. Circles. His likes timestamped under Daniela’s posts. Speculation everywhere.

His stomach drops.

Careless.

He never thought it mattered. Habit. Single. A good looking woman, nice dress , why not?

But you weren’t habit. You were something he was trying to win.

He types, deletes, finally answers.

Kylian:

No. Nothing is going on man.

Achraf:

Then settle and act right. Choose, it’s about time Ky.

He exhales.

“I’m trying,” he mutters.

Then he stops guessing.

Because somehow, without needing it spelled out, he gets the answer. He sees it clearly now, how it must have looked from your side, how careless it was to leave loose ends dangling while trying to build a new home. 

To never fully cut ties with a hookup from his past, someone he turned to whenever he got hard, because he told himself he didn’t have anything real yet.

What felt insignificant to him had spoken loudly anyway. And in that realization, the confusion gives way to something heavier: understanding.

The clinic smells the same when he walks in.

“No appointment,” he says. “I need to talk to her.”

The receptionist buzzed you to come to the front desk. You step out moments later and freeze when you see him.

“Kylian,” you say. “You can’t just—”

“Please. Five minutes.”

Inside the consultation room, the door clicks shut.

“I was careless,” he says.

“I don’t think it matters.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then explain why everyone online knows where you stand better than I do.”

“I didn’t balance it right,” he admits. “J’ai passé mes journées et mes nuits à regarder le ciel, à me demander où j’ai merdé.”

< i spent my days and nights looking at the sky, wondering where I screwed up.>

“What do you want Kylian?”

“Toi. I want you,” he says immediately. “I should’ve been clearer.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t want to wonder , I do-.”

“I choose you.”

The space changes.

The air between you changes, subtle but unmistakable, like a breath held too long.

“I don’t do short-term relationships Kylian.”

He doesn’t hesitate. A slow smile, certain.

“Good. Very good.”

He steps closer, close enough that you feel the warmth of him, the quiet intention in the way he moves.

“I don’t want anything else,” he murmurs, voice low, sincere.

His hand finds your waist,not claiming, not demanding. Just there. Careful. Asking.

“Yes,” you whisper, the word barely steady, but true.

The kiss is gentle, unhurried. Full of meaning. Not a promise spoken aloud, but one felt.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with yours, as if neither of you is quite ready to let the moment end.

“You look drop dead gorgeous in black scrubs” he admits.

You’re still smiling, still caught in the warmth of him, when the knock lands,sharp, unavoidable,and instinct snaps you back to reality.

You push him away too quickly, heart stuttering. “Y-yes?” The receptionist’s voice follows through the door, calm and procedural, a reminder of the world you’re supposed to belong to. “The patient is here, doctor.”

“Okay am coming” looking back to him with a soft smile.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, as if he’s already woven himself into your day.

“I still have two patients-“ you begin, clinging to responsibility, to reason, but he’s already closing the distance.

He kisses you again, slow and intentional, catching your lower lip between his, stealing the rest of the sentence before it can exist. Your thoughts scatter.

You barely registered his hand slipping into your pocket until your car keys are gone.

“I ll dismiss my driver and wait for you in your car” he murmurs, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them. “Finish up your patients fast d’accord?”

Heat blooms in your cheeks, spreads somewhere dangerous. You look at him, caught between laughter and disbelief, between yes and yes. “No promises.”

He smiles like he knows exactly what that means. Pecks your nose, gently, affectionate, devastating.

Then he pulls on his hoodie, the sunglasses, the mask, erasing himself piece by piece until he’s suddenly unrecognizable.

You can’t help it, you laugh, soft and breathless, the sound slipping out before you remember where you are.

He pauses at the door, just long enough to look back at you, and then he’s gone. The room feels different without him, too quiet, too empty.

You inhale once, steady yourself, and reach for the handle, carrying the echo of him with you as you step back into your role, already counting the minutes until you don’t have to anymore.

By the time the last patient leaves, the clinic feels wrung out of you.

You change quickly, black scrubs folded away, real clothes replacing the role you’ve been wearing all day. You wash your hands longer than necessary, letting the cool water ground you, trying and failing to stop smiling like something reckless just happened and got away with it.

Your phone buzzes the second you pick it up.

Then again.

And again.

📣

📣📣

📣📣📣

You frown, unlocking it as you step into the elevator.

Notifications flood the screen, likes, follows, messages stacking so fast your phone almost lags. Your breath catches when you see it.

Kylian Mbappé followed you.

From his official account.

“No way,” you whisper, already laughing, already doomed.

You tap your last post, nothing special, just you, low light, soft smile, and there it is. His like. Sitting there. Loud. Impossible. Public.

Your giggle escapes before you can stop it, high and disbelieving, echoing off the elevator walls. You clap a hand over your mouth like that might contain it.

Still smiling, still buzzing, curiosity gets the better of you. You tap his profile. Scroll. Check his following list.

And then you see it.

Daniela.

Not there.

Your brain takes a full second to process it.

“Oh my—”

The scream rips out of you, sharp and unfiltered, pure teenage chaos trapped in an adult woman’s body. You spin in place, phone clutched to your chest, bouncing once, twice, like the elevator floor is suddenly lava.

“No. No no no—ARE YOU SERIOUS?” you hiss-laugh, eyes wide, cheeks burning, heart doing something between sprinting and cartwheeling.

The elevator dings.

You freeze, slap your face lightly with both hands, forcing yourself to breathe, to look normal, to remember you are a doctor and not a girl who just discovered her crush made a very public choice.

You step out anyway, still glowing, still shaking your head in disbelief, already knowing—

He’s waiting.

And nothing is going to feel the same again.

You smile the moment you see him, already in your car.

He’s in the driver’s seat, one arm draped casually over the wheel, hoodie sleeves pushed up, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who absolutely did not ask permission.

You open the passenger door and slide in, shutting it a little harder than necessary.

“You’re gonna drive my car now?” you say, eyebrow lifting, amusement tugging at your mouth.

He glances at you sideways, lips curving slowly. “I thought you looked tired.”

“I am,” you reply. “But I don’t remember hiring you as my chauffeur.”

He leans closer, elbow on the center console, voice dropping. “Let me take care of you. Starting off tonight.”

Your heart skips. You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you like it,” he says, certain.

Before you can answer, his hand slips to your thigh, warm, grounding, not rushing anything. Just there. You inhale sharply.

“Kylian,” you warn, but there’s no real heat behind it.

He closes the distance instead, kissing you like he’s been thinking about it for hours. It’s not gentle this time, still controlled, but deeper, flirtation crackling between you. His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your face just enough to make you melt into him.

For a second, the world narrows to warmth and breath and the way his kiss makes everything else irrelevant.

He pulls back first, forehead resting against yours, smiling like he just won something.

“So,” he murmurs, hands still on you, steady. “I drive?”

You laugh softly, breathless, shaking your head. “Just this once.”

His grin widens as he starts the engine. "to your home it is "

A/N : It's my babe's birthday and I had to do something real and special.