Embarrassingly Caught: Kylian Mbappé
Kylian Mbappé X Reader
Content Warnings: Brief embarrassment and being filmed/uploaded to social media without prior permission.
word count ~ 800
You moved through the penthouse like it was your own private stage, bare feet sliding over polished wooden floors, a damp cloth in one hand and your phone in the other. Sunlight spilt through the windows, making dust motes dance as you scrubbed and swayed to your favourite song. The world outside Paris buzzed below, but up here you were untouchable—just a girl in leggings and an old tank top, singing at the top of her lungs, pretending nobody was watching.
Every Saturday, you deep-cleaned the penthouse. It was your ritual. You’d start with the kitchen, humming as you wiped down the marble, then move to the living room, chasing crumbs from the couch. Kylian always joked he could eat off the floor by the time you were done, but you liked the feeling of order—that, in this corner of your shared life, everything was in its place.
You spun in a circle, hair flying. The chorus soared from your lips into the handle of your mop. For a moment, you imagined the crowd—the roar of invisible fans, the heat of the spotlight. Eyes closed, you lost yourself in the music, scrubbing away both the grime of the week and whatever little worries clung to your chest.
You were so lost in tune and rhythm that you didn’t hear the front door open or see the shadow slip into the hall. You didn’t notice the phone pointed at you, blinking red as it captured your private concert.
It wasn’t until the song ended and your headphones slipped from your ears that you felt the prickle of being watched. You glanced up, breathless, and froze. There stood Kylian—your fiancé, your favourite person in the world—leaning against the doorframe, grinning ear to ear, phone held aloft in victory.
You stared at him, cheeks flaming with embarrassment, a fizz of panic buzzing in your chest. Your stomach flipped as you clung to your mop, feeling suddenly exposed. “How long have you been standing there?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, uncertain and vulnerable.
Kylian’s grin widened. “Long enough, mon amour. You’ve got moves,” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows for emphasis.
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Babe, can you delete that...? Please?” You peeked at him between your fingers, half-laughing, half-pleading.
He shook his head, still recording. “I would never, mon amour.” He crossed the kitchen in three easy strides. He wrapped his arms around you, pulled you in, and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. “You’re too cute to delete.”
You melted into his embrace, forgetting the sponge and spray bottle in your hands. Embarrassment faded, replaced by wonder—how did you end up with someone like him? Someone who made you feel seen even on your silliest days?
Unbeknownst to you, as you snuggled into his chest, Kylian’s thumb moved deftly over his phone. He tapped open Instagram and scrolled through your story highlights. Then he uploaded the video—the one of you singing and dancing, hair wild, voice cracking on high notes. He added a simple, sweet French caption: "Je l’aime," with a red heart.
You pulled away, still a little shy, and kissed his cheek. “You’re impossible,” you teased. You set your cleaning supplies down and glanced at the clock. “Go relax, okay? I’ll finish up.”
He flopped onto the couch with a mock pout. You saw the smile tugging at his lips as he settled in, feet up, head tilted back, eyes fluttering closed. You finished cleaning. This time, you moved quietly. The music still played, but wild dancing had faded into soft humming.
Later, as you finished the last room and wiped your hands on your leggings, your phone buzzed with notifications. You picked it up, curiosity and anxiety rising. Expecting a group chat or a message from your mom, your breath caught—Kylian’s Instagram story was already racking up thousands of views.
You watched yourself on the screen, heart thumping painfully and cheeks burning, dancing around the kitchen, voice off-key and laughter echoing in the background. The caption made your heart stutter again: Je l’aime—I love her—and the little red heart that felt bigger than the sky.
You glanced over at the couch, at the man you loved. He was asleep with a faint smile on his lips. For a moment, you just stood there and let the warmth fill you up. You wondered how you got so lucky. How did someone like you end up with someone like him—a man who loved you enough to share your goofiest moments with the world?
You tiptoed over, curled up beside him, and rested your head on his chest. His arms found you even in sleep, pulling you close, holding you like you were the best thing he'd ever found. Out the window, Paris was painted in gold and lavender, the city settling into another night. But up here, in your little world, everything was exactly where it belonged.
