Helloooo 👋🏼 New chapter just dropped! Be gentle with me. This isn’t my favorite 😅 I went through like three versions of this one, and this is just the one I hated the least lol.
Hope you’re still enjoying the story so far 🤍
Chapter Three: Isn’t Just About Football
Kylian wakes up early. The room is hushed, wrapped in the muted gray of a Madrid morning. Downstairs, the soft clatter of pans and dishes signals Yaëlle, his assistant and now more of a friendly shadow than an employee, moving through the kitchen. He sits at the edge of the bed, slipping on his watch. Outside the tall window, the garden hums in stillness. The sky hangs low, clouds heavy, the pavement still slick from last night's rain. This is routine now, waking to soft noise or the buzz of his alarm at 8:30, a rhythm his body follows without needing to think.
Madrid is everything he imagined: blinding lights, roaring stadiums, the sun sharp and golden. His name is chanted in perfect rhythm. His number floods the streets. His face looms from billboards along Gran Vía. The club is massive. The expectations louder still. His white kit photographs beautifully but some nights it feels too tight across his chest.
The media turns faster than wind. One week he's their savior. The next, their headline:
Mbappé: Still Not Delivering. Galáctico or Ghost? Price Tag Pressure Mounting.
He tells himself it doesn't matter. He trains harder. Stays longer. Smiles through it all. He knows how to perform under weight, he's done it before. The pressure doesn't scare him. That's not the problem. It's the quiet. The kind of silence that hums in the corners and makes a space feel cold. He hadn't expected to feel this lonely.
The team is kind, polite, playful even. But there's a distance, a warmth that never quite melts. He's like orbiting something he hasn't entered. He tries not to notice, in the first weeks here. Fills the space with noise: media appearances, strategy meetings, team trips. He smiles, laughs, says all the right things. But at night, when the world turns down and the lights outside his window blur, he feels it.
He tries other distractions. Late-night outings; weekends abroad with his cousin; a brief, stupid flirtation with someone at an event he barely remembers. But somehow it feels like nothing sticks. Nothing softens the city's hard edges. There's a gap he can't cross. And he knows exactly what it is.
Her absence isn't just noticed. It's everywhere. The house feels too quiet, too hollow. He chose every piece of furniture with care, trying to build something that felt like home. But it doesn't. There are no sneakers by the door. No lipstick on a mug. No blanket tossed over the couch. No half-read books. No Anna, cross-legged on his bed, phone in hand. No arms wrapping around him when he lies down. No fingers in his nape, grounding him the way only she could.
He misses that space. That softness. Now he comes home to silence, to a life that looks perfect on paper but feels emptied out.
He thinks about calling her. Often. The impulse strikes at odd times – on the team bus, brushing his teeth, between drills. Her name sits at the top of his contacts. His thumb hovers more than once. But he never presses call.
No one brings her up anymore. Even Ethan, who used to tease him about her constantly, has gone quiet. It's become an unspoken rule: she's off-limits. Except once. He was FaceTiming his mum after a match, still in his compression tights, when she mentioned Isayah's school play. Mid-conversation, she said casually:
"I told Anna about it. She laughed. Said Isayah's going to out-act us all someday."
Silence fell between them.
"I didn't know you two still talked." he said finally, cautious.
Fayza replied "I check in sometimes. Not often."
He remembered how Anna once said his mother reminded her of an older teacher she loved – strict, but soft if you knew where to look. It was nice hearing that form her. Their bond had meant something. It made him proud. It made him happy that she'd found in his mother a kind of refuge, a maternal softness she never had growing up.
It's nobody's fault. But it feels like everyone kept a piece of her. Except him.
But last night, when she saw her, everything felt real again, like touching something he thought he'd lost. The memory plays on a loop now, clear and vivid, like it had just been waiting for him to press play: her silhouette across the street, hair blown back from her face, arms folded, the way she stilled when she saw him, not cold, not surprised, just ... still. Like she hadn't expected it either, but wasn't running
Kylian hadn't planned it. He was just leaving dinner with someone from the club, and there she was. A glitch in the universe. In that city, on that street, like someone had placed her there for a second, just to see what he'd do. He'd almost laughed when he stepped onto the street. Not from amusement, but from disbelief.
She hadn't changed much. Maybe her hair was shorter. Or maybe it just looked different because he hasn't been this close in so long. She looked tired. But still soft. Her mouth did that thing it always did when she was nervous, pressed into a thin line. They didn't say much. Just surface-level things. But it felt like standing too close to a fire, something dormant sparking to life again.
Before they parted, before Étienne gave him that we're-late look and before the moment slipped into memory, Kylian turned back to her:
"I've got a game tomorrow night. Home game." he said, trying to sound casual, even though every word felt like a held breath "I don't know if you're still in town, but... I could save you a seat." he risked a glance at her "We could get food after. If you want, of course. I'd just... I'd love to catch up."
He didn't say I miss you but it lived inside the pause between words. Instead, he offered her space, if you want. Leaving the door open without pressure. Anna didn't say yes or no really. She just nodded, a small, unreadable simple nod. It wasn't actual a promise nor a refusal, it was just a nod.
"You still have the same number?" he asked, like he didn't know that information already. She gave a quiet Yes.
"Ok, I'll text you the info."
And then he was gone. And so was the moment.
When he got home, he wondered about it. Maybe he hadn't been clear enough. Maybe he should've said I miss you. Maybe he could've hugged her. He felt stupid about it. But still, he asked Yaëlle to save a seat in his box. For a friend, he told her. He didn't explain more, but she sensed something was off. She always did. Later, Étienne filled her in. Yaëlle made sure to get Anna the best seat and the best service, texting Kylian the ticket early that morning.
Kylian forwarded it to Anna, then spent too long writing a message that didn’t' sound too blank or too much. Eventually, he gave up, sent it and tossed his phone on the bed before heading to the shower.
Hi, it's Kylian. The ticket's in the attachment. I really hope you can come. It was nice seeing you last night, by the way.
He wanted to say I miss you. He wanted to say you still look beautiful in low light. But he didn't.
Now the sun appears through the clouds. He showers. Gets dress. Laces up his trainers and packs his bag for the match.. Her face flickers behind his eyes. He doesn't want to hope. But he does.
He hopes she'll come. He hopes today isn't just about football, not entirely.
The locker room buzzes with usual chaos: laughter, music, chatter, tension hiding under easy routines. His mates are swapping stories, teasing one another. The air is thick with pre-game rhythm. He moves on instinct doing what he always does. Boots, tape, shirt, wristbands. The rhythm calms him before the adreline of the match. Yet today, his mind kept drifting away. Every few minutes, his fingers slid to his phone, eyes flicking over the screen. No new messages.
His mind runs through every scenario. Maybe she got the message and ignored it. Maybe she didn't. Maybe she's coming. Or maybe she isn’t coming. He didn't ask for confirmation, didn't press, didn't try to fold her into something she wasn't ready to enter again. He just sent the ticket, plain and simple, and told himself he wouldn't expect anything. But expectation has a way of building anyway and now it hangs in the air. Still, as they file out for warm-ups, his gaze lifts toward the stands. It's too early. Too many empty seats. But his eyes scan the lower boxes anyway, just in case.
Back in the dressing room before kickoff, the coach talks about tactics, reminders, the same things they've heard a hundred times before. Kylian listens, or tries to. But his mind drifts. Not far. Just to that seat. That maybe-seat.
"You look nervous, superstar." Lucas, his team mate grins, lacing up his own boots.
Kylian pulls his warm-up jacket off, flashing a tight smirk "Nervous? Nah..." he shakes his head "I’m about to play with you." he jokes, and for a little his mind eases a little.
The whistle cuts through the noise, sharp and final. The game begins.
Kylian starts like he always does with that clean, almost eerie focus. Every motion honed over years: the subtle shift of weight, the lean into space, the first burst of acceleration that leaves defenders guessing. He knows how to fall into rhythm, how to lose himself in the structure of a match. But tonight, it doesn't settle the way it usually does. His legs move, his body obeys, but his mind is trailing behind. Somewhere else, somewhere quieter, stuck in last night's city street and the ghost of a nod that might have meant everything or nothing at all.
He told himself he wouldn't look. That he wouldn't let it touch the game. That once he was on the pitch, all that mattered would be the ball, the movement, the angles. But it's not that simple.
He doesn't let himself look right away. But the urge builds. It begins in the first lull at a corner kick, far end. As the ball is reset, his gaze slides upward, casual, almost careless. He tells himself it's just muscle memory, just surveying the crowd. But it isn't. He's looking for the box. For the seat he asked Yaëlle to save. For her.
He can't figure it out, the lights blind him and there is too much distance between where he stands and the box to get a clear vision. He turns his eyes back to the game, swallowing the disappointment like it's water from a dry glass.
Still, he plays. Well enough to keep the crowd on their feet, even if his heart lags a step behind. The crowd rises around him like a tide, chanting, roaring, reacting with every shift of momentum. The air is thick with energy that only comes with a home game. He moves through defenders, passes cleanly, presses when he needs to but there's a softness to it all. Like he's playing underwater. At one point, around the twenty-third minute, he breaks free up the wing and receives a cross with perfect timing. He takes the shot without hesitation, but it skims just over the bar, too much lift, the angle off by a breath. The stadium groans as one. He swears softly into the collar of his jersey, wiping sweat from his brow as he jogs back into position.
The match drags on. Time warps, as it always does in these games, speeding up and slowing down with no logic. The ball moves. The crowd roars. Someone misses a chance. Someone argues with the ref. Kylian keeps his head down, keeps moving, keeps trying not to care.
Halftime crawls in with no goals. The locker room hums with frustration, half-laughed complaints and the thud of boots against benches. The coach speaks, but Kylian only half-hears it, words bouncing off him like rain on glass. He sips water, towels off his neck. His heartbeat's steady, but underneath it there's a quiet stutter, the same one he had when he left her standing there, when he climbed into Étienne's car and watched the city blur past the window.
He wants to believe she's here. That somewhere in the stadium she's watching. He wants to believe her nod meant something. That the door she left open in her silence was real. But he doesn't know. And the not-knowing turns in his chest like a slow blade.
The second half begins. And this time, something shifts.
It's not sudden. Just a gradual burn, like heat moving through metal. The team finds more urgency. Kylian finds more space. The defenders tire. He begins to float between lines, finding cracks in their shape. In the 61st minute, theres a perfect ball from midfield, low and quick, slicing past the last man. He reads the play a second before it happens: drops deep, drifts out, turns into space. He gathers it on the run, muscles burning. Defender at his back, keeper inching forward. No time to think, he fires.
It's clean. The net ripples and the crowd erupts. He hears the wave before he sees it, the collective exhale turning into thunder, arms lifted in the stands, teammates rushing him. He lets himself feel it for a moment, the noise fill him, lets the adrenaline wrap itself around his ribs. Someone grabs his shoulders, someone else slaps the back of his head. He smiles, breathless, laughing even.
But as soon as they part and the brief chaos of celebration begins to thin, he does it again. He looks up.
This time more obviously, scanning the upper tier, eyes squinting against the lights. The box is still obscured, glare streaking across the glass from the box, fans blocking part of the view, someone in a white coat walking past just as he focuses. He can't see. He still can't see.
He walks back to his position, still catching his breath. His heart is racing, but it's not from the run. It's from the echo of a moment he isn't sure. The not-knowing bites deeper now, made sharper by the goal. But what did he expect? A wave? A sign? Her face pressed to the glass?
He turns away again, rubbing sweat from his forehead. As he walks back to the halfway line, heart still racing, the thought sneaks in again. Maybe she saw it. Maybe she's up there, in the dark behind the lights, watching.
The final whistle sounds, cutting clean through the noise. A victory, the first one in the last two games. The players and staff are relief. The crowd erupts, and the stadium becomes a living thing. Kylian walks off the pitch with his teammates, high-fiving, shoulder-bumping, his mouth stretched into a smile. It's a good win.
His eyes flick up one last time toward the box, and it's still too hard to tell. His chest is tight, but he keeps the expression neutral. Focused. Camera-safe. In the tunnel, the noise dulls. Cool, recycled air. Echoes of cleats on concrete; a trainer hands him a towel; someone slaps his back. He nods. Mumbles a thanks.
By the time he's in the dressing room, the adrenaline is tapering off and the noise of the world is slowly filtering back in. He peels off his jersey, the fabric sticking to him, skin hot and flushed. He pulls his phone from his bag. The screen lights up in his hand. His mum sent a text – a thumbs up and a heart.
As he drops into the bench, thumbing through notifications, a message lights the screen, new.
His stomach does something sharp and stupid.
Anna: That was a nice goal. Congratulations!
His lips curve before he can stop them. He doesn't hesitate. His thumbs move before he can overthink it:
He watches the message send, sees the three dots appear almost immediately. His pulse kicks up.
Anna: I did, a bit late though. Got lost inside, the stadium looks like a maze.
He laughs - not loudly, not visibly - but like letting go of something he hadn't realized he'd been holding all game. She's here.
Kylian: Do you still want to grab that food?
Kylian: We can go somewhere calm.
He adds the last part without thinking. A callback. Something private. Her three dots appear again, slower this time.
Kylian: Great! I'll meet you in the lounge. I'll be quick, I promise."
He locks the phone, stares at the black screen for a moment, his reflection faint over the glass.
Suddenly, the dressing room is too loud, too fluorescent. Someone's turned the speaker up, music blasting. Teammates are joking, shouting, still lit from the win. Kylian smiles when someone bumps his shoulder, says something about the goal. The smile doesn't leave his face and to be honest, he doesn't want to.
Tonight isn't just about football, after all.
The lounge isn’t busy, but it isn’t empty either. The kind of post-match space designed for winding down – soft light, the quiet clink of cutlery from the back, laid back conversations. Some club staff, players’ families, a few sponsors lingering by the bar with drinks in hand. Voices low, shoulders slack. Everyone tired, everyone used to this rhythm. It smells like citrus and leather and something faintly metallic. Kylian steps inside, skin still warm from the shower, hair under a black beanie, dressed in a soft sweater and black trousers. Something casual, but intentional. He scans the room for her. His heart is doing something it hasn’t done in a while, like a rhythm it hasn’t quite relearned yet.
Anna is standing near a quiet corner, half-shadowed by one of the tall planters, looking down at her phone. Her hair’s tucked behind one ear. Not posing, not trying to be seen. But he sees her anyway. Of course he does. She doesn’t look nervous but she doesn’t look fully settled either, rather looking like someone still deciding whether to stay or to slip away before the door closes behind her.
He crosses the room, slowly. Not because he’s hesitant, but because part of him doesn’t want the space between them to vanish too quickly. Once it’s gone, this becomes real. He doesn’t stop too near. Leaves just enough distance between them to pretend like he isn’t watching her mouth when she breathes.
Anna looks up. It lands like a weight in his chest, something soft, but solid. Like something forgotten returning at full volume. Her face shifts, not startled, not overly warm, just that same unreadable calm.
Her smile lifts, the edges gentle “Hi.”
The rest of the lounge blurs. Not gone, just dimmed. He hears someone laugh near the bar, a cork popping, a chair scrape, but it all feels distant. The shift in his body is subtle, almost too subtle for anyone else to catch. But it’s there. That split-second moment where he stops being the version of himself built for public consumption and becomes the one he used to be with her.
Softer. Younger. Less sure of the rules.
They stand there for a moment. Just looking. The kind that happens when two people know each other too well to pretend they’re strangers, but not enough, anymore, to fall into ease right away. The noise of the lounge presses around them.
“You hungry?” he asks finally, shifting his weight.
She nods “Yeah. Are you?”
He smiles, relief tucked into the corners “Starving.” he says "I know a place. Étienne is waiting downstairs.”
They walk out side by side. Their strides fall into rhythm automatically, like their bodies remember something their minds are trying not to. In the elevator, the silence is strange. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just there. Her reflection blurs in the metal door beside his. She’s holding the matchday program, folded in half. Slightly crumpled. A detail that shouldn’t matter but lodges in his throat.
“What did you think?” he asks quietly “About the match? The stadium?”
She turns to him, the corner of her mouth tugging upward “It was a good game. The stadium’s massive, though. I got lost, like, three times. A security guard finally helped me out when I passed him for the fourth time.”
A small laugh escapes him, more breath than sound “Worse than Parc.”
She doesn’t laugh exactly. But her mouth curves, and that’s enough.
Outside, the car waits. Étienne opens the door, gives Anna a polite smile and slides into the front without asking questions. They slide in, and the warmth closes around them. The windows fog a little. He leans into the seat, quiet, aware of how close she is. Not touching but near. The city slides past them in soft blurs, streetlights streaking against the windows. The night has cooled down, the air crisp and damp, the ground still wet from earlier rain.
When they arrive, it’s not a showy place. Not one of the high-profile restaurants he gets dragged to for photo ops. It’s tucked into a side street near the Salamanca district, narrow, warm and dimly lit, with brick walls and hanging lights and a handful of tables. He remembers a teammate telling him about it last November, during a slow lunch break, said it was good for when you wanted something real, something simple. That’s why he chose it tonight. Because sometimes, simple feels right.
The waiter greets him quietly, he recognizes him but says nothing beyond a polite nod. The benefit of choosing a place that doesn’t care who you are.
They’re seated in a booth near the back. Cloth napkins are folding over the table. Low music playing from a speaker that’s probably hidden behind one of the wine racks. He watches as she takes off her coat folding it carefully. She’s wearing something simple – a white blouse, black skirt over some thights and a gold chain at her neck he hasn’t seen before, catching the candlelight. Her hair is slightly mussed from the wind. Her face open, but tired. She comments something about the restaurant seeming like a nice place.
He wants to say a hundred things. About how she looks, about how it feels to see her again. Words crowd his mind, but none of them seem quite right. So instead, he simply says, quiet but sincere “Thanks for coming.”
Anna looks up, her eyes warm “Thanks for inviting me.” she says and then adds, a bit reluctantly “ I wasn't sure about coming, to be honest.”
The waiter appears sliding silently beside their table like he belongs there. They order quickly, shared plates, easy things, nothing complicated. Kylian can’t even remember what he points to on the menu. His eyes are glued to her hands as she speaks with the waiter, fingers tapping lightly against the menu, a gentle, natural rhythm. She smiles softly, a genuine smile, the kind that makes you feel seen. And every time the waiter returns – whether with bread, drinks, or an extra plate – she thanks him politely, without fail. Even if he’s come over twenty times already, she never forgets the manners. It’s small, but it’s everything. That kindness, that quiet grace.
Kylian’s heart tightens a little. She always did this. It’s the first thing he noticed the night they shared their first dinner in Paris. A kindness that felt rare and unforced. She treats people like they matter, even the ones who usually get overlooked.
He watches her now, the soft light casting shadows over her face, catching the slight tiredness around her eyes. The little things like the folded napkin beside her plate, the careful way grabs an olive from the small plate. It’s those small moments, those glimpses of who she is beneath everything, that he’s been missing. He pours water into her glass without asking. She murmurs a thank you.
“How long are you staying in Madrid?” Kylian asks.
“I go back tomorrow.” she says “Got an early flight.” He nods like he already knew.
The food comes. They eat slowly, distracted by conversation more than the plates in front of them. They slide into the rhythm they used to have, half-sarcastic jokes, quiet nods, her dry comments that make him laugh harder than anyone else could.
“How’s your… ?” she points to his nose "I've heard you broke it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, amused “ It’s crooked now.” she looks at him, as if inspecting his nose “Joking.” he says “Mostly healed. Still clicks when I sneeze.”
That gets a real laugh from her. And just like that, something unclenches inside him. The sound punches something open in his chest.
“At least it gives you character.” she says.
He raises an eyebrow “I didn’t have that already?”
She gives him a look, amused, familiar “It's debatable."
He laughs, loud and his dimples are flashing. It spills out before he can soften it. He leans back. Lets the warmth sit between them. There’s something warm in his chest. A quiet heat. Not dangerous. Not even entirely romantic. Just… familiar. Like a favorite coat pulled from the back of the closet, still smelling like the last time he wore it. Still his, even if he forgot.
Kylian clears his throat softly “How’s Paris treating you?”
She exhales, a slow smile curving her lips “Good. Work keeps me busy.”
“I am. It’s… nice. The people are kind.”
“I’m glad.” he says and hopes she knows he means it.
“Julie still dragging you to fancy parties?” His smile is shy but eager, like he’s relieved to find something familiar.
Anna chuckles and nods “Some things never change. She tells me to live more. And sleep more. Usually in the same sentence.” Her voice is quiet, but there’s warmth in it. He wonders if she notices how much he missed this, the sound of her voice, the way it fills a room with something soft and steady.
He grins “I’m glad. She always kept you grounded.” She laughs softly, eyes flickering down to the plate in front of her.
For a while, they just eat. Sip wine. Talk in that light, practiced rhythm of two people who used to know each other too well, now trying to find a version that still fits. They talk about the game briefly, about how loud the crowd was. Stories of his new team, the construction site near her flat that wakes her too early, the Spanish words he keeps mispronouncing. About Julie's engagement that he already knew through his cousin; about Ethan’s latest moved to a new club.
Anna smiles “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard!” She says excitedly “How’s he doing?”
“He’s great.” Kylian says, brightening “Loving it there!” Anna tilts her head, watching his smile grow.
“Have you gone to see him play?”
“Not yet. Haven’t had the chance.” his attention drops to his plate as he cuts another bite.
“You’ve always been proud of him.” she smiles.
“I am.” His voice drops a little, quieter, like he’s sharing something only she should hear “Family’s everything. You know that.” She nods.
They share a smile that lingers, soft and familiar.
A few minutes pass in a quiet lull, the kind that comes naturally after a good meal. The table’s been cleared except for two small dessert plates: hers rich and dark, his something pale and creamy with citrus curled on top. She digs into hers slowly. Focused and intent. The way she always eats dessert, like it deserves her full attention.
He watches her for a second, then says, almost offhandedly “You always save dessert like it’s the best part.”
She lifts a shoulder, eyes still on her plate “Isn’t it?”
He smiles, just a tug at the corner of his mouth “Fair.”
They sit like that, quietly eating, before Anna looks up again. Her voice is soft, but clear. “You look… well.” she says “Madrid suits you.”
He tilts her head. “You think so?”
There’s a small pause, long enough for something unspoken to settle between them. He gives a half-smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes “I'm getting there.”
Anna watches him. Not trying to fix, just seeing.
“I thought it would feel different.” he says after a second. His voice is quieter now, pulled from someplace further down “Being here. Playing here. I wanted this for so long. Worked for it. Dreamed about it. But sometimes it feels like I left something behind I didn’t mean to.”
Anna’s eyes soften, but she doesn’t look away or rush to answer. Then, gently, like she’s stepping over something delicate, she says:
“Sometimes things happen different than we pictured. Doesn’t mean it’s wrong.” Her voice is calm, but there’s a weight behind it “It’s still only been a few months.” she adds “You’ll see. It’ll eventually find the right way to you.”
The candle between them flickers low, catching in the gold at her throat. She’s not trying to convince him, and somehow that makes the words land deeper. He hadn’t even realized how much he needed to hear something like that, something that wasn’t a headline or a stat line or a team briefing.
He nods once, slow “Yeah.” he says finally “Maybe that’s it.”
A silence follows, not the kind that asks to be filled, just one that lets the moment settle. Then, gently, she speaks again. Her eyes stay on her plate, pushing a bit of cake around with the side of her fork
“I think you’re doing ok, by the way.” she says “Everyone’s is really proud of you. I’m proud of you.”
The words catch him off guard. Not in a jarring way, but like a soft pull at something he hadn’t realized was wound too tightly. He doesn’t know how to respond at first. There’s no script for this moment. No press-trained answer to pull from. Just a quiet thrum of something warm rising in his chest.
He smiles, genuinely “Thanks.” he says. His voice is steady, but there’s a brightness in it now “That means a lot. Really.”
And it does. Because it’s her. Because she didn’t have to say it. And because part of him really needed to hear it from someone who sees him this clearly.
The waiter brings the check. Kylian reaches for it without hesitation, instinct guiding his hand more than thought. Anna moves at the same time, protesting softly.
“I know.” he says “I want to.”
The table between them is a soft mess of endings: lipstick on a glass rim, a half-finished Coke bottle, the torn corner of a napkin she’s been folding and unfolding. One of the candles has burned low, wax cooled at the base like dried honey. Neither of them speaks. The silence isn’t heavy, just holds everything. The unsaid things, the things they almost said. And all the little ones they don’t know how to name yet.
Kylian watches her fingertips brush crumbs from the tablecloth, slow and absentminded. He doesn’t want to go. Not yet. Not back to the car, not back to his big empty house, not back into the version of his life where this moment never happened.
Outside, the night wraps around them in a velvet hush. The city feels slower now, less sharp. The restaurant disappears behind them with the soft hush of a closing door. Neither of them saying much. The sounds of the city drift in and out. He stays a little behind her at first, their shoulders close but not touching. The night air is crisp against his face, but his chest still holds the warmth from before. He keeps glancing sideways, at the way her hair moves in the breeze, the curve of her cheek when she tilts her head toward the streetlights.
He cuts in gently “Étienne’s here. He’ll drive us.”
Étienne is parked just down the street, half in shadow. The car waits, engine low and steady. As they walk toward it, Kylian feels the quiet stretch again, not awkward but deliberate. Like neither of them wants to disturb something delicate. A peace, maybe. Or a question still hanging. When they reach it, he opens the door for her. She steps in without a word, nodding thanks.
The drive is quiet, just the sound of the radio, soft and low, and the occasional turn from the GPS, which Anna gently corrects once or twice. Kylian notices she does it without thinking, the way she always used to when they’d be out late after matches. It stirs something in him, the ghost of routines he didn’t know he missed until now.
“Thank you for dinner.” she says as they pull up to her hotel “The restaurant was really nice.”
He smiles, eyes on hers “I’m glad you like it.”
She opens the door, but doesn’t step out right away. Her fingers rest lightly on the handle. There’s a pause, then she moves fluidly and climbs out. He follows. She gives him a curious look, maybe surprised but she doesn’t stop him.
They walk the short distance to the entrance of her hotel together in a comfortable silence, only the tap of her shoes on the stone and the low buzz of city life still hanging at the edges. The air is cooler now. The hush of the hour settling. Their steps slow again, like neither of them wants to speak first and break whatever this is. The hotel lobby casting gold light out onto the pavement. Somewhere above them, a plane crosses, its lights blinking through a cloud.
“You didn’t have to walk me.”
He studies her. There’s something about this moment he wants to memorize. It’s uncomplicated, real. He doesn’t want the moment to end just yet, but he doesn’t know what he’s reaching for either.
“Text me when you land tomorrow, so I know you arrived ok.” he says, his voice a little lower now, like it matters more than he wants to admit.
He hesitates. Watches the way her breath curls in the night air, how her coat shifts slightly as she moves.
“And if you want– next time you’re in Madrid. Or Paris… whenever.”
“Yeah.” she says “I’ll let you know.” A smile plays at her lips, but it doesn’t settle. It doesn’t feel like enough, but anything more might crack something open.
There’s a pause, a stutter in time. That moment when you don’t know how to leave someone properly. He shifts his weight and she does too. For a second, he thinks maybe he should just wave, maybe he should kiss her cheek but it feels too much. But before he thinks through it, he is already leaning in.
But they both move at the same time, and it turns awkward, a shoulder bump, the brush of her coat sleeve. And then they find it. Her arms loop around him gently. He settles his across her back. Not tight, but not distant either, like their bodies remember something their minds are too careful to say aloud. It isn’t romantic, not quite. But it’s grounding and familiar in a sense. Like oxygen after holding your breath too long.
He closes his eyes for a second longer than he means to. Just breathes her in, something clean, something familiar beneath the cold. Her perfume is still the same and so it’s the mango shampoo she used in her hair. He missed this smell.
She pulls back, and he lets her go, but the warmth of her lingers on his sweater, in his chest, in the quiet echo of everything unsaid. And he knows that not everything is fixed. But something has opened. And maybe that’s enough for now.
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