Between Floors ; A KM10 Story
CHAPTER 1 — PART TWO OF TWO
Author’s note: this is my first idea for a fanfiction like this, and i’m writing it as i go. i’d really love feedback or thoughts as the story unfolds. I will try my best to update ASAP. 🤍
The elevator keeps moving.
That’s the strangest part— that the world doesn’t stop for moments like this. The soft hum continues, steady and indifferent, as if it hasn’t just cracked something open.
You’re suddenly very aware of how small the space is.
Kylian smells like something clean and expensive now. Not sweat and grass and cheap deodorant. His shoulders nearly brush the mirrored wall. There’s a Real Madrid crest on his jacket— subtle, but unmistakable. You don’t comment on it. You don’t need to.
“So,” Kylian says, carefully. “Madrid.”
“Yeah,” you reply. “Madrid.”
You used to fill silences easily. Now you let this one sit.
The numbers climb. Six. Seven.
“You’re—” Kylian starts, then stops. Adjusts. “What brought you here?”
The way he asks matters. Not why. Not for how long. Just what. Present tense. Respectful of the fact that your life kept going without him.
“I’m writing,” you say. “Full time. Mostly.”
His eyebrows lift, just slightly. Recognition flashes across his face, followed by something quieter.
“That tracks,” Kylian says.
You smile despite yourself. “Does it?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “You always were.”
There’s no I knew you’d make it. No praise that feels like a headline. Just a fact, remembered.
“And you,” you say, because it feels polite, because it feels strange not to acknowledge the obvious. “You’re here… permanently?”
Kylian exhales through his nose. A half-laugh.
“As permanent as football gets,” he says. “Madrid’s home. For now.”
You don’t tell him that you stopped watching his matches and football. that seeing him everywhere made it harder to remember who he used to be.
You study him in pieces— the way his hands stay still now, disciplined. The way he stands like he’s used to being watched even when no one is looking. Fame didn’t make him louder. It made him quieter.
The elevator slows. You feel it in your chest before your feet.
“We lost touch,” Kylian says suddenly. Not accusing. Not apologetic. Just naming the thing that’s been hovering.
Neither of you say I tried. Neither of you say you disappeared. There’s no room for blame in a space this small.
You hesitate, hand hovering near your bag strap. Thirteen flashes through your mind— bleachers, untied laces, a boy who always looked up to make sure you were watching.
Now Kylian is looking at you the same way. Quieter. Older. Still waiting.
“Well,” you say softly. “It was… good seeing you. Ky.”
The name slips out before you can stop it. Muscle memory.
His lips part in surprise. Then he smiles— small, real.
“Yeah,” he says. “Good seeing you too, Simran.”
The hallway swallows you in warm light and stillness.
Behind you, the elevator doors close with a muted finality.
And the quiet follows you.
The hallway swallows you in warm light and stillness, footsteps sounding louder than they should. Inside your apartment, the quiet greets you like it always does—familiar, controlled, safe.
You drop your bag. You lean against the door.
The world doesn’t stop for moments like this.
Kylian doesn’t mean to walk past the twelfth floor.
The elevator stops there out of habit more than intention. He already knows you live here— learned it earlier that day, still thinking about the way you said twelve without looking up, like it was just another number, like it didn’t matter. His thumb presses against the metal rail. He hesitates.
The doors slide open anyway.
The hallway smells faintly like detergent and cardboard. Someone nearby is playing music— not loud, just background noise, the sound of people settling into their evenings.
He tells himself he’s just taking the long way.
Then he sees your door. Your name on the side.
Not cautiously. Not halfway. Fully open, like you forgot it mattered.
Inside, the apartment is mid-move. Boxes stacked unevenly against the wall. Packing paper spilling out like it escaped on its own. A tote bag sits by the door, half-zipped, like you were about to leave and got distracted.
You’re crouched on the floor, dressed for a night out but paused in the middle of it— jacket on, shoes off, hair still loose around your shoulders. Papers and journals are spread everywhere, and your kitten is right in the center of the chaos.
Ginger and white. Small. Unapologetic. A diva.
“Maple,” you say, not even trying to sound stern as she paws at a page and sends it sliding across the floor. “Please.”
Maple ignores you completely.
You reach for the papers, trying to gather them into something resembling order. One slips free and drifts toward the doorway.
It stops at Kylian’s feet.
You look up, startled. “Oh.”
Then recognition flickers across your face. Kylian.
“Hi,” he replies. “Your door was open.”
You glance over your shoulder, then down at Maple, who is now chewing on the corner of a folder. “Yeah. I keep forgetting.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just unclaimed.
Kylian doesn’t step inside.
He stays just beyond the threshold, careful with the space between you.
“Are you heading out?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say, standing and brushing cat hair from your jacket. “My coworkers are taking me out. Welcoming me to the city.”
“That sounds unavoidable.” Kylian says.
You smile. “That’s what I said.”
Maple darts past your ankles and flops dramatically onto her back, paws in the air.
He watches, amused. “She’s bold.”
“She thinks she owns the place,” you say. “Honestly, she might.”
Maple blinks up at both of you like she agrees.
“I won’t keep you,” Kylian says. “I just—saw the door.”
“No, it’s okay,” you say. “I forget to close it when I’m rushing.”
“Do you want me to?” he asks, nodding toward it.
You consider this, then shake your head. “No. It’s fine.”
Something settles in the space between you.
“Are you settling in okay?” Kylian asks.
“I think so,” you say. “Still figuring out where everything goes.”
“This building likes to move things,” he says.
You laugh softly, like you might believe him.
“Do you have a number here?” Kylian asks, a little tentative.
You look surprised for a beat, then nod. “Yeah.”
You step closer to take his phone. Your fingers brush—quick, accidental, warm. You type your name in.
He does the same with your phone.
Kylian. Not Ky. Not the thirteen year old boy who raced you home after the bus ride from school
Kylian. The 28 year-old man, your neighbor.
“I’m a good neighbor,” Kylian says lightly. “Just so you know.”
“Sugar. Flour. Emergency cat-wrangling.”
That gets a real laugh out of you.
“I’ll remember that,” you say.
You start seeing Kylian everywhere.
Not in a dramatic way. Not like the universe is trying to make a point… right? Just… casually. In the way buildings do when they decide two lives will overlap whether anyone wants them to or not.
The first time is the elevator again.
Morning this time. Early. You’re half-awake, hair still damp, coffee in a travel mug you don’t love yet. The doors slide open and there he is, dressed down—cap low, hoodie zipped, headphones hanging around his neck instead of on.
“Hey,” you reply, like this is normal. Like your heart doesn’t stutter for half a second before catching up.
He presses the button for the lobby. You notice he doesn’t ask what floor. You don’t comment on it.
The elevator descends. Quiet, but not uncomfortable. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand anything.
“Maple behaving today?” he asks.
You snort. “She knocked over a box and stared at me like it was my fault.”
He smiles. It’s quick, almost private. “Sounds about right.”
You sip your coffee. It’s too hot. You let it be.
When the doors open, you both step out at the same time, then hesitate, then laugh quietly at yourselves. He holds the door. You nod thanks and walk past him.
Outside, Madrid is already awake. Loud, warm, impatient. He heads left. You head right.
After that, it’s small things.
A package left at his door that you recognize as yours. A text from him. The first in years.
followed by a photo of your name printed cleanly on the label.
You: yeah, sorry. building chaos.
Kylian: all good. i’ll bring it by.
He doesn’t knock. He texts when he’s outside, like he’s giving you space to decide.
You open the door anyway.
He hands you the box. Your fingers brush again. You both pretend not to notice.
You could close the door. You don’t.
“How’s work?” he asks, casual.
You shrug. “Still learning names. Pretending i know where i’m going.”
“That never really stops,” he says.
You glance at him. “Doesn’t it?”
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “No.”
You nod, like that answers something.
Maple chooses that moment to dart between your legs and bolt into the hallway.
“Oh my god—Maple!” you groan.
She skids to a stop near his shoes, looks up at him, and flops onto her side like she’s been waiting for this moment her entire life.
He crouches instinctively. “Wow.”
“She does that,” you say. “She thinks it’s a personality trait.”
He scratches her chin. She purrs immediately, traitorously. “She’s friendly.”
“And opportunistic," you say.
He laughs under his breath. It feels easy. Too easy.
You scoop Maple up before she can embarrass you further. “Sorry.”
“She’s welcome anytime,” he says, then adds quickly, “I mean—here. In the hall. Not—”
“It’s okay,” you say, smiling despite yourself.
You start timing your routines differently. Not to avoid him. Just… to be aware.
• he leaves early on training days
• he always takes the stairs down but the elevator up
• he comes home late sometimes, quiet as a ghost
• you work late even when you don’t have to
• you forget your keys at least once a week
• Maple waits by the door every evening at the same time
Neither of you says anything about knowing these things.
Not dramatically. Just enough to slick the pavement and soften the city’s edges.
You’re standing under the awning outside the building, waiting for a car that’s taking longer than it should, when the door opens behind you.
He stops when he sees you.
“You heading somewhere?” he asks.
“Dinner,” you say. “With coworkers. Eventually. It's at the small pub, just three blocks away”
He glances at the street, then back at you and your heels. “You want a ride?”
Kylian smiles. “My driver does.”
You hesitate. You shouldn’t. You know that.
But the rain keeps falling, and something about the way he asked—easy, no pressure—makes it feel less like a line and more like an offering.
His car is clean in the way someone who doesn’t live in it keeps things. Neutral. Unassuming. The kind of car you’d never associate with headlines.
His driver puts the address in.
The city passes by in streaks of light and wet asphalt.
“You settling in?” Kylian asks again, like he’s still checking the answer.
“I think so,” you say. “Some days feel like I belong. Some days feel like I’m just… visiting my own life.”
He nods, slow. “Yeah. I know that feeling.”
You look at him then. Really look.
Kylian’s eyes stay on the window, but his jaw tightens just slightly, like he said more than he meant to.
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable.
When the car pulls up to the restaurant, he doesn’t rush to tell the driver to unlock the doors.
“Well,” you say, fingers resting on your seatbelt. “Thanks. For the save.”
“Anytime,” Kylian replies. Then, softer, “Seriously.”
Something unspoken passes between you—recognition, maybe. Or permission.
“Good luck,” he adds, nodding toward the restaurant.
“With everything,” Kylian says.
You smile. This time, you don’t hide it.
But the sentences come easier than they have in weeks.
You write about timing. About spaces between things. About how some moments don’t ask for attention—they just sit beside you and wait to be noticed. Nothing worth sharing, just your thoughts running on fire.
You don’t realize how late it’s gotten until your phone buzzes.
Kylian: made it home safe?
Simran: yeah. the rain calmed. thanks again.
Kylian: anytime. good night.
You set your phone down face-first.
Your heart doesn’t slow down for a while.
Kylian decides he needs more.
Subtle moments aren’t enough anymore. Passing glances. Elevator small talk. Accidental touches.
They only leave him wanting.
He’s intrigued — in the way that doesn’t fade, in the way that grows teeth.
That night, he searches your name on Instagram from his burner account.
Your bio is simple. Neat. Very you..
France, Madrid, wherever the pen takes me — writer.
Something about it pulls at his chest. He scrolls. All the way down.
High school graduation photos. Faces he doesn’t recognize.
Girls’ trips with people who clearly weren’t part of your life back then.
New friends. New memories. A version of you he wasn’t there for. The version of you that became a woman, fuck.
Jealous? Maybe. Too curious? Absolutely.
College graduation. Your mother teary eyed, resting onto your shoulder.
The caption reads: Did it for my father. Forever missing you. 🤍
Kylian’s stomach drops. Your father passed away. And he hadn’t known. Of course he hadn’t known.
He wasn’t there to know. The weight of that sits heavy in his chest.
You in dresses. You laughing in cities he’s played in but never really seen. Hotel balconies. Sunsets. Coffee beside notebooks.
Work trips. Writing trips. A life built quietly, intentionally.
You aren’t the girl on the bleachers anymore. You’re a woman. Confident. Soft and steady in a way that feels earned.
Then he notices the link in your bio. A writing page. Curiosity wins. He clicks.
The screen fills with words. Your words. Essays. Short pieces. A series pinned at the top:
Where the Earth Softens Us
The title alone makes something shift in his chest.
Where the Earth Softens Us is the belief that the world, when we let it, loosens what life hardens.
That grief settles into the body before it reaches the mouth.
That certain places hold us when people cannot.
Kylian swallows. He keeps reading. You write about lungs heavy with unshed tears.
About shoulders carrying years of pressure. About moving cities to breathe again.
About nature meeting pain without questions. About losing a father.
About becoming someone new in the quiet aftermath of survival.
Each paragraph feels like stepping closer to parts of you he never earned the right to know.
But now does. Your softness. Your loneliness. Your strength.He exhales slowly.
So this is where you went. Not away from him.
Into yourself. The thought humbles him.
There are comments beneath your pieces — strangers thanking you, telling you your words made them feel seen, telling you they cried reading them.
You helped people. You healed people. With words.
With the same quiet intensity he once put into goals. His chest tightens again.
Different this time. Not jealousy. Respect. Longing. Understanding.
He scrolls back to your photos and suddenly they make sense — the calm in your smile, the grounded way you move, the peace that seemed hard-won.
You didn’t just grow up. You grew through things. And he missed it.
The realization hits hard and clean: Subtle moments aren’t enough. Elevator glances aren’t enough.
Small talk isn’t enough. He doesn’t want to just run into you.
All of you. The writer. The woman. The grief and the healing.
The soft strength you carry like armor.
Kylian locks his phone and leans back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
His heart is racing — not like before matches.
Slower. Deeper. More dangerous.
Because now, it isn’t just curiosity.
And for the first time since seeing you again, he knows it with certainty:
He’s intrigued. Quietly and completely.
And if he does try anything — it can’t be quick.
It can’t be rushed between matches and headlines and chance encounters in elevators.
It has to be built. Slow. Carefully. Word by word. Day by day. Effort stacked on effort.
The way trust is built. The way love always is. Kylian knows he can’t.
Not when Real Madrid is struggling and every game feels like something to prove.
Not when the World Cup looms closer, heavier.
Not when the world expects more from him than he sometimes knows how to give.
There’s too much pressure. Too many eyes.
Too many expectations. And then he looks back at your profile picture.
The soft smile. The calm in your eyes.
The type of girl men fall in love with without meaning to. Not because she demands attention. But because she’s gentle.
Because she makes space feel lighter instead of louder.
Because she holds things together quietly.
The kind of woman who doesn’t chase love — love finds her.
Would she already have someone? Would she ever want someone like him?
They aren’t thirteen anymore. Life isn’t bleachers and shared lunches and harmless crushes.
This is real now. Complicated. Heavy. And the worst part?
He doesn’t even really know her anymore. People change. But… did you change that much?
Somehow, he doubts it. The softness still lingers in your smile. The steadiness in your words.
The warmth in the way you move through the world.
And suddenly the question isn’t whether he should try.
End of Chapter 1. I hope you enjoyed reading it this far and will join me again in the next chapter. 🥲🤍
Chapter 2 coming out soon. 📬💌
