MOST WANTED MAN
This is a long one!! A sad one too 🥺
Thank you for being so patient with me during the time I was way to focus on uni!! 💕 You are the best! Hope this chapter makes up for it ✨
Also, 3 more chapter to go :(
warning: smut, explicit content and strong language.
Chapter Sixteen: ‘Desoleil’
BEFORE
South of France, May 2024
The air in the South felt different.
Softer, almost syrup-thick. Warm in a way Paris never manages, even in the summer. Morning light spills across the stone patio, curling around the stone walls of Kylian’s family house.
It almost looks like time is softer here, that it runs slower. And that's exactly what they need. To slow down time.
Anna stands barefoot with her coffee mug, toes curling against the warm tile, staring at the hills rolling lazily toward the coastline. Her computer sits open on the kitchen counter. She has just clicked send on her thesis sixteen minutes ago. One weight lifts; another, heavier one, sinks deeper.
“You’re up early.” Kylian’s voice rasps behind her, heavy with sleep.
She turns to him. He’s shirtless, stretching, the elastic of his shorts hanging low on his hips, still marked by her teeth. His skin is bronzed from just a few days here; there’s a small sunburn across his shoulder, and she knows he will complain dramatically about it by mid-afternoon.
She almost smiles at the inevitability of it.
“Your neighbor has roosters.” she mutters, smirking. “Loud ones.”
“Don’t disrespect them.” he says, rubbing his eyes. His face still somehow glowing even with pillow marks on his cheek “They’ve got a job to do.” he adds and she grins, because he is so unserious in the very specific way she loves most.
He goes to her and he kisses her cheek, murmuring a quiet bonjour against her skin. She smells sleep on him, and some faint trace of chlrine from yesterday’s swim.
“I thought we had an agreement.” he murmurs into her temple, nudging to the computer in the kitchen counter “No work on the days we’re here.”
He reaches automatically for her mug and steals a sip.
“I just needed to checked some emails. Something quick. It took longer because your WiFi really is from Stone Age .”
He chuckes a little “Told you.” He steals another sip. “I promised us peace, remember?”
“Yes, peace. Not isolation.” She rolls her eyes, leaning into him.
He presses a kiss between her shoulder blades “This isn’t isolation.” he murmurs, with mischievous tone. “This is quality time.”
“You just want me trapped here so I can’t leave.” she teases, turning her head to him.
His smile falters, barely, but she sees it. “Yeah.” he says quietly. “Maybe I do.” He pulls her against him, arms looped around her hips, as if he suddenly needs the reassurance of her shape.
Something in her chest tightens, not painfully, just in recognition. Because she knows he’s not joking, not really.
*
Back in the beginning of the month, he told her he was accepting. That he was going to Real Madrid.
They’d just had sex in her bed, still warm with the sweet exhaustion of it, when they stepped into the shower. He had already reached for the shampoo, lathering it through her hair with the same gentle, absent-minded care he always did.
Water streamed over both of them, sliding down the curve of her back, across the broad lines of his shoulders.
She was teasing him about his scent, calling it «obnoxious» because he was everywhere around her place now. He just laughed , head tipped back under the water, droplets running down the column of his throat.
And then, quietly, like he didn’t want to disturb the air between them, he told her.
“I think I’m accepting Madrid.”
She wasn’t surprised or shocked. She’d known this was coming from the moment the offer came in months ago.
“I know.” she said softly. “I knew you would.” She turned a little, enough to look at him. “Im happy you decided that. I think it’s the right thing.”
He blinked, like he hadn’t expected her to be that sure.
“Yeah?” he asked, not challenging her, just needing something steady to hold onto.
She nodded, fingertips brushing the water from his eyebrow.
“Yes. It’s Madrid, Ky. Your dream. The one you’ve had since you were what, twelve? You were supposed to.”
He let out a steady breath, his forehead coming to rest against the side of her head.
“Feels different hearing you say it.” he murmured. “Like it makes it real, good.”
She smiled, small and tired and proud all at once.
“It is good.” she said “I’m proud of you. And you’re going to be incredible there.” Anna pressed a kiss to his jaw.
He nodded, his eyes exhaling like the decision finally landed in his body.
After a moment, he lifted a hand to her cheek. His eyes kept searching hers, not asking for anything, not trying to win anything back.
“I haven’t figured out what happens with… us. I know you haven’t either. But you know I want you there. With me.”
Her heart kicked sharp and stupid. The truth came out of him easily, maybe because they were warm and naked and there was nowhere to hide inside that kind of honesty.
She leaned in and kissed his shoulder because it was easier than answering
“I know.” she whispered.
She didn’t say anything else. Just leaned in and kissed his shoulder.
It was easier than answering a question she didn’t even know how to answer.
In the days after he told her about Madrid, something in Anna’s mind began turning on its own, like a machine she couldn’t switch off.
It wasn’t big breakdowns or frantic worrying. Just a persistent sense unsettling under her ribs. The kind you only notice when you stop moving.
She’d be on the metro and suddenly catch herself staring at the map above the doors and wondering what it would feel like to replace all the stations she knew with ones she didn’t.
At her desk, at the internship, she’d catch herself wondering what Madrid’s heat feels like in September while answering emails. Or what the noise of a stadium she only ever seen on a tv would sound like. Imagining her life transplanted somewhere else; another language, another city that made no promises to her. The unfamiliarity of everything.
Sometimes it felt exciting, the idea of newness; to step into a version of herself she hadn’t met yet. Other times it terrified her so deeply she had to minimize her tabs and take a break before she could keep going.
OnMonday, her supervisor stopped her before she left for lunch. She looked tired, glasses perched at the tip of her nose, holding a folder like it was glued to her hand.
She thought it was about paperwork, or exit forms or final evaluation for the internship ending.
But instead she said, almost casually:
“If you’d like to stay after your internship, we’d be happy to have you. You’re good here. Really good.”
Good here.
The words hit harder than she expected. Like a stone being thrown deep into her stomach..
Here. In this city she’d learned to belong to.
For a second she couldn’t speak. She managed a kind Thank you.
Her supervisor smiled. “Think about it. No pressure.”
But the pressure was already there, settling itself beside all the other questions she hadn’t answered yet.
She talked to Julie all of this that same afternoon. They sat on the steps outside the grocery store with iced coffees, because the weather was warm and neither wanted to go home yet.
“So. ” Julie said, nudging her knee. “He’s going to Madrid.”
“Yes” she said, taking a sip “he is.”
“And what’s going on in that beautiful, overworked brain?” Julie asked "how do you feel about it? Do you want to go with him? Like do you imagine yourself there?”
Anna watched the people passing on the street, a couple holding hands, a man rushing to catch the green pedestrian light, a teenager balancing a bubble tea and a scooter. All people who lived here. Who had chosen this city.
She likes her life here. It was finally coming together. It gave her stability , something to look forward. She had spent years trying to unlearn the instability of her childhood: the emotional absence, the feeling of being an inconvenience, the house that never felt like home. Paris was the first place where she had built something out of nothing and called it hers.
“I don’t know.” she said finally. “Sometimes I imagine it, and it feels exciting. Starting over with him. Seeing new things. Building something together. But then…” She paused, chest tightening. “Then I think about leaving here, and I almost feel dizzy. “
Julie hummed in recognition “The unknown is scary. It’s normal you feel that way.”
“Yeah, I guess” Anna admitted “Thought I feel it’s deeper than that. ”
“What do you mean?”
“Is not that I don’t love him, it's not that. I do love him. ” she said “it just- I’ve worked so hard for this” she gestured vaguely around them “for stability. For a life that feels mine, to belong somewhere.”
She stared at her cup. The ice was melting fast, turning everything pale
“I’m afraid I’ll loose that there.” she stated “I keep imagining waking up in a house that isn’t mine, that I didn't work for; in a city that is foreign, with no friends around the corner, with no job I care about. I know he’d make me feel at home. I wouldn’t doubt that. But… I don’t know who I’d be there.” She rubbed her thumb along the rim of the cup. “ If I'll find this again. If I’ll be me there.”
“Does he know you feel like this?”
“No.” she whispered. “He’s so excited. And I’m happy for him. I really, really am. It’s everything he’s ever wanted. I don’t want to hurt him.”
“so what do will you do?” Julie asked gently.
Anna let out a helpless laugh. “That’s the problem. I don’t know. I want to have both things. I want him. And I want… this. My life here. The one I built and I like to live.”
She was the most honest she could be. She really didn't know what she wanted. But that was always a problem for her. To decide what she wanted.
“I hate that I don’t know what’s the right thing to do.” Anna said, voice low “ I hate that it all feels like a gamble.”
She don’t want to loose him but also didn’t want to loose herself. Madrid meant love. Paris meant herself.
And she understood she couldn’t have both at the same time.
“It’s a hard decision. And one that is going to hurt either way.” Julie said honestly “But you’ll find your answer and whatever that is. I know Kylian will understand.”
She didn’t tell him any of this. Not because she wanted to hide it but because she knew the shape of his hope.
She didn’t want to bruise with the weight of her uncertainty.
He was busy anyway with away matches, sponsors events, meetings he pretended weren’t about Madrid though obviously were.
But the second they were alone again she notices him shift to something softer. Like he was almost overly gentle with her. He didn’t push nor ask questions she wasn’t ready to touch. But he checked on her more often in small and unobtrusive gestures that she noticed. Like a gentle hand at the small of her back when he passed behind her in the kitchen; pulling her closer in his sleep, like he checked for her unconsciously; kissing the top of her shoulder without thinking.
Not clingy, just present in a way that felt careful and aware. As if he knew she was thinking herself into knots, and he wanted to untwist them.
That week, they planned to go out on a date at their usual place at the sushi restaurant. They hadn’t really seen each other properly during that time, not in any way that counted.
Inside the restaurant, the owner greeted them the same way he always did with that knowing smile, like he’d watched every stage of their relationship unfold between chopsticks and soy sauce.
They slid into their booth. He took the spot facing the wine rack; she took the inside seat like always. The waiter didn’t even hand them menus anymore.
When their food arrived he slid her favorite pieces toward her without thinking; she nudged his plate so he’d take the salmon he loved. The small rituals felt suddenly enormous.
“How was your week?” he asked, picking up his chopsticks “how’s the internship going? I feel like I barely asked anything this week. I was all over the place.”
She smiled. It felt good being asked, being seen.
“It was good. Surprisingly calm. Maybe because it’s ending. A few more days left. ”
He blinked. “Already?”
“I know. It went so fast.”
A soft pride touched his expression.
“You liked it.” he said, not as a question.
“I did. Way more than I thought I would.”
“I’m not surprised.” He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly. “You’re good. People notice that.”
She looked down at the table, embarrassed by how deeply that landed.
“You get a few days off after that, right?”
“Yeah. A small break. Well…” She grimaced. “ I still have the thesis to end.”
He winced sympathetically.
Their conversation drifted along, messy and easy, like it always did. Training stories; Ethan’s date that week with the girl from the academy that Kylian eventually found out; last Friday when Julie and Guillaume dragged Anna out for drinks and they end up riding Lime bikes by the river
It was like a regular night for them. The kind of night where words tumbled over each other, half-forgotten stories resurfaced, and jokes landed in the quiet spaces between them. Familiar and comfortable.
At one point he told a story about Hakimi trying to prank him and failing spectacularly; she teased him about being dramatic; he nudged her ankle with his foot under the table.
He looked happy.
Not loud-happy, not giddy-happy.
A softer kind like the certainty of his decision was beginning to settle in him, a future he could finally picture. The decision about Madrid had stopped being a shadow and started being a real and solid form.
And she felt proud. Truly proud.
Because he’d wanted this for so long, and now it was happening.
But her chest tightened sometimes, with a small, sinking worry that she wasn’t built for the same path he was stepping onto. That maybe she belonged somewhere else entirely, and that the distance between their futures had already begun to stretch.
At some point, somewhere between the miso soup and the last shared piece of tuna, he leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out, brushing her ankle with his foot. It was accidental, or maybe it wasn’t, but Anna felt a flicker of warmth rise through her.
“You know.” he said, chopsticks tapping lightly on the rim of his plate, “We, the team, are getting a week off.”
She looked up. “A week?”
“A week.” He repeated it like a small miracle. “Before the Coupe final.”
She smiled softly. “That’s rare.”
He nodded, like he’d been waiting for the opening.
“Exactly.” He drummed his fingers once before asking, almost casually “that’s why I was thinking… since you also have a break after your internship, maybe we could go south to my family’s place.” He continued, hopeful “Maman told me it’s empty. She said we could use it if we wanted.”
“The two of us?”
He hummed. “Mm-hmm. Just us. We could spend a few days away in the sun. A tiny detour before things get…” he waved a hand, helpless “you know, chaotic.”
She knew the order of that chaos too well: last PSG match, then the Euros, then Madrid. His whole life accelerating.
“The house is nice.” he went on like he needed to sell it. “Big. Quiet. Kind of in the middle of nowhere.” His eyes teased. “Only problem is the WiFi. It’s prehistoric.”
“Prehistoric WiFi?” she laughed.
“Oh, truly tragic. My mother swears it’s deliberate. Says it forces us to actually talk to each other instead of playing PlayStation for sixteen hours straight.”
“That sounds like something she’d say.”
“It does. ” he admitted. “So?” he said, barely disguising hope under a thin layer of cool. “What do you think?”
Under the table, he nudged her ankle with his foot. A tiny nudge. A huge question.
“How many days?” she asked quietly.
“Three? Four? Whatever you want.”
She pretended to think about it, even though she already felt her face warming.
“Will you survive not playing FIFA for that long?”
“Dubious. But we would have other distractions.”
She leaned in, chin propped on her hand. “Such as?”
He tilted his head, performing the world’s least convincing attempt at innocence.
“Well… there’s a pool. So we could swim. We could sleep until noon if that’s what you prefer. Or… you know, do other activities.”
His smirk was so obvious she snorted, which only made him grin like he’d won something.
She pretended to think about it, even though she already felt her face warming.
“Well,” she said, trying for nonchalant “I think I could use a few days away from google docs.” She met his eyes. “Yes.” she said. “Let's go there for a few days.”
*
They have been in his family’s house for three days now.
The house was big but not showy. Sun-bleached stone walls and pale shutters that opened onto a terrace overlooking the rolling hills and the pool. Inside, the floors were cool tile, the kind that made bare feet happy, and the rooms smelled faintly of olive wood and the lingering heat of the sun. It was peaceful, as Kylian had promised, except, of course, for the neighbour's rooster, which made her get out of bed earlier than she planned.
They move like people who have nowhere to be. Breakfast is fruit cut messily, eaten outside by the pool or standing in the kitchen, leaned against opposite counters.
Kylian always steals her cherries. She pretends to be offended. He pretends to be stealthier than he is.
He kissed her differently here, sleep-heavy, tasting faintly of whatever they’d eaten that morning, mumbling half-formed jokes against her skin.
Sometimes they stayed in bed long after waking up to the crowing. His hand on the back of her thigh, sliding up absentmindedly while he scrolled through something on his phone, not realizing he was touching her in a way that made her stomach flip. And then he'd catch the expression on her face, smirk, toss his phone aside, and shift over her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
They had sex deliberately, recklessly, as if every touch mattered and every sigh carried weight. Forehead against forehead, sometimes her back pressed to him, her face buried in his pillow. His fingers traced the familiar dips and curves of her spine, memorizing them again and again. Afterwards, they stayed tangled together, him pressing his face into her neck like he could somehow inhale her whole, as if scent alone could make her permanent.
When they finally moved, it was nearly noon.
They cooked lunch together. He chopped vegetables with the enthusiasm of someone who had no business being near a knife, yet somehow managed perfect slices anyway, because of course he did. He was irritatingly capable at everything.
She threatened him with the wooden spoon every time he dipped a finger into the sauce too early. He always did it again.
They swam in the afternoons, taking turns inventing ridiculous games on the spot. He always won and she accused him of cheating every single time. The water felt almost sweet on their skin, warmed by the early May sun.
Later, they stretched out on the loungers, limbs heavy and sun-drunk, the world slowing to a comfortable blur around them almost enough to help her forget the turmoil on her mind.
Some days were too hot to function, like yesterday. They collapsed onto the sofa with the shutters half-closed, the fan humming overhead. He laid sprawled over her, head on her chest, an arm resting loosely around her waist as if gravity had chosen that position for him.
She scratched her fingers over his short hair, slow and absentminded, and he hummed content, like a cat. He always slept deeply after swimming, after sun, after sex, as if his body finally allowed itself to rest.
“Why are you awake?” he mumbles, eyes still closed.
“Because someone’s drooling on me.” she whispered, even though he wasn’t. It made him huff a sleepy laugh that twisted her stomach in a good way.
“Shhh…Come here.” he said, voice thick with sleep.
She shifted, and he pulled her down next to him, hands warm against the back of her thighs. He kissed the top of her head.
“You smell like strawberries.” he murmured. “And me.”
“That’s a good combo.” she replied.
He laughs, eyes finally cracking open, looking at her like this moment is the whole point of everything
“The best.” he said.
There were times she caught him watching her while she dried her hair, or set out plates, or searched the cupboards for something. He had this bewildered expression he never managed to hide, like he was trying to understand her from the inside out. And every time, she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to kiss him or cry.
“You’re staring.” she would say, not even looking up from whatever she was doing.
“I’m admiring,” he’d answer simply. “You’re too pretty to ignore.”
She would kiss him then, because she never had the words for the ache of being loved so gently while already imagining the moment she might have to leave him.
“So What should we have for lunch today?” she asks lightly, pretending she hasn’t been standing there thinking about nothing and everything.
“Ive got a few ideas” he replies, mouth brushing her shoulder. “but you’ll just scold me.”
“Because I know exactly how your ‘ideas’ end.” She snorts “I meant real food, baby. As in chewing.”
He turns her around easily, fingers skimming her waist, her mug still caught between them. His eyes soften in that unbearable way they do, as if seeing her in morning light makes him fall in love.
He does a devious, tricky smirk then “well, if you think-“
She rolls her eyes, nudging him gently with her hip.
“I think we need groceries.” she says, chuckling, brushing a thumb over the hem of his T‑shirt. “Mini market?”
The local market is a ten-minute walk along a dusty road lined with cypress trees. They’re both in sunglasses and ridiculous bucket hats he insisted on «for anonymity» he claimed, even though anonymity is impossible for him. She teases him all the way there.
“You look like a retired tourist.”
“Joke all you want, you just know my fit is better than yours. ”
“You have no shame.”
“You love that about me.”
She does, annoyingly.
Inside, the market smells like citrus, humming faintly with an old AC that sounds tired of doing its job.The aisles are narrow, the shelves crooked. He pushes a small cart like he’s never seen one before, inspecting everything with childlike seriousness.
He holds up a jar of olives.
“These?” he asks.
She nods, and he puts them gently in the cart, almost ceremoniously. Then he picks up crisps, squints at the label as if it contains deep philosophical implications.
“What about these? Should we bring these too?”
“hm.” She hummed, considering, then shook her head, making a small face. “They seem too bland.”
He pauses as if taking her opinion seriously. “You’re right. Want to pick the ones you like?”
“No, you can pick.” she says sweetly “I like watching you decide.”
He looks at her for a moment, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth. Then he turns back to the crisps, careful but not rushed, like he wants to get it right.
They move through the aisles, him steering the cart behind her, the wheel squeaking every few seconds. He reaches for strawberries, yoghurt, an absurd amount of chocolate bars. She picks out fresh bread and two tubes of ice cream already sweating in her hand.
Somewhere between the fruit display and the canned goods, she realizes this is the first time they’re doing something so stupidly normal. Grocery shopping. Deciding snacks. Existing in public like a couple that lives an ordinary life.
From the corner of her eye, she watches him debating between two types of juice. And something pulls at her chest. Affection, unmistakably, but also a quiet grief for the version of them that will probably will never get to be again.
She tries not to think about how this might be the first and last time they do something like this.
Then an older woman approaches, tiny and sunburned, leaning on her cane. She squints up at him.
“Pardon… you’re the football boy, non?”
He startles slightly and then nods
“Oui.” he says softly,
“Ah!” She grins, revealing missing teeth. “My grandson loves you. You’re very fast.”
He actually blushes. Full, honest-to-God blush.
“Thank you! ” he smiles, suddenly shy in that way that makes his shoulders fold in on themselves.
The old woman pats his cheek like he’s still twelve. “Good luck with your football, son. You seem like a good boy .” she says, as if blessing him.
“Thank you, madame.” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck like a teenager caught doing something wholesome.
Then she shuffles off, muttering to herself.
Anna nearly dissolves on the spot. He looks at her in quiet panic, as if begging her not to make a joke about it.
She sets the fruit in the cart and raises an eyebrow.
“You were right.” she says. “About the retired-tourist outfit. Works wonders on charming old ladies.”
He mutters something in French she absolutely understands but pretends not to, then hooks an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest as he kisses the top of her head, still half-laughing at himself.
They walk back to the house with two bags each. The handles dig into her palms, leaving thin red marks she knows will disappear before she even puts the groceries away. He walks beside her, shoulders loose, carrying his bags like they weigh nothing at all, laughing every time the baguette tries to escape.
He keeps sneaking glances at her hands, offering, again and again, to take more. She refuses every time. He sighs like she’s personally wounding him.
By the time they reach the house, the sun has climbed high enough that the gravel path looks almost white. The cicadas buzz loudly, so loudly it feels rude, and both of them squint against the brightness.
She sets the grocery bags on the counter and he helps her unpack, moving with that soft, easy clumsiness he gets when he’s trying his best but pretending he’s not. The kitchen feels cooler than outside, shaded, the tiles still warm under their feet.
He props his phone against the fruit bowl and taps shuffle on their shared playlist - the one they’ve been adding songs to for the past months. A song they both know drifts through the kitchen, soft and warm, filling the space between them.
Anna lifts her own phone, the corner still cracked from when she dropped it on the Metro last month. Yaëlle had sent her a list of recipes they could try while they were here. Photos scribbled with notes in the margins, arrows, underlines, tiny hand-drawn stars for emphasis. Yaelle’s handwriting is round and hopeful, as if she wants them to eat well, live well, be well.
He hovers beside her, looking at the ingredients with mild suspicion, as if some of them might attack him.
They follow the instructions. She chops the onions with the practiced calm of someone who cooks because life has required her to. Kylian, meanwhile, behaves like a bored child on the edge of mischief, drifting in and out of her space.
She bumps him away with her elbow, and he retreats a step, grinning to himself, pleased by the attention. He wanders over to the speaker and changes the song to something familiar, something he knows she loves. He doesn’t look at her while he does it, but she sees the way his shoulders loosen, the quiet offering folded into the gesture.
That ridiculous sincerity of his. The way it tugs at something deep in her every single time.
At some point he comes up behind her, slipping his hands under her shirt to rest at her waist.
“You know I’m holding a knife?” she warns, as evenly as she can.
“Mm-hm I’m aware.” he says, innocence layered over intention. “Adds danger.”
She nudges him away laughing at his elfish behavior. He retreats half a step, grinning like he’s just discovered a new hobby. Then he drifts back in, kissing the top of her hair, his thumb brushing lightly along her waist. A careless, domestic kind of touch.
“We’re good at this.” he murmurs.
She keeps her eyes on the cutting board. “At cooking?”
“At… living together.”
She doesn’t respond. Not out loud. But she leans back into him, just for a second, just long enough for him to feel it. He kisses her shoulder and she turns the flame down.
When everything is finally ready - plates warm, bread torn, strawberries rinsed - he picks up the bowls while she reaches for the water jug, and trundle out onto the patio. The sun is bright, the kind that makes you squint like you’re actively protesting it.
He sets the bowls down with a satisfying sigh. She slips into her chair.
“This looks incredible. I feel spoiled.” he says, already reaching for his fork.
“You are spoiled.” she replies slyly, pouring water into their glasses “Last week you won a medal and when i complimented it you said they all looked the same now”
He gasps, as if wounded. “Wow. Attacked over lunch.”
She laughs and he watches her a second too long, like he’s storing the sound somewhere. She passes him the bread then, and they fall into that comfortable silence that always happens when they’re doing something ordinary together.
“I submitted my thesis this morning.” she says suddenly.
He freezes mid-bite. “Wait. You did?”
She shrugs, embarrassed at how shy she suddenly feels. “Yeah.”
His face cracks into a soft, slow smile that hits her somewhere inconvenient. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? That’s a big thing.”
“I… don't know. Doesn’t feel like it. ” She searches for the right tone, lands somewhere between honesty and deflection. “I guess it hasn't settled yet.”
He shakes his head and reaches across the table, catching her hand. “Don’t do that. It's a spectacular thing. Don’t shrink it.” His thumb brushes the side of her fingers, tender “Let me be proud of you.” She tries to wave it away, but he shakes his head.”
“You can be.” she whispers, cheeks warming, because his pride always does something strange to her chest.
“Good.” he says, squeezing her fingers once. “Because I am. I watched you work your ass off. You deserve to feel proud. ” His eyes are warm and proud, and it hits her somewhere she can’t protect "Congratulations, mon bébé.”
She looks down at her plate, cheeks maroon.
He sits back. “Ok, Miss Graduate. So when’s the official thing?”
“Depends on the feedback. But I should have an answer next Thursday”
He nods. “Ok, Thursday.” He repeats it like a timestamp he’s pinning to the calendar in his head.
They go back to eating, the conversation loosening again.
“So what about you?” she asks. “Excited for the final game?”
He nods, chewing. “Yeah.”
She knows the calendar of his following days ahead : the Coupe de France final in Lyon, that small award ceremony he keeps pretending isn’t a big deal, and, of course, the goodbye party Yaëlle has been plotting with suspicious enthusiasm and then Clairefontaine. It’s all lined up, one thing after another, the kind of schedule that makes time feel like it’s slipping through her fingers faster than she can hold on to it.
“Nervous?”
“A bit.” He tears a piece of bread, slower now. “Honestly I think I’m more nervous about the goodbye party.” he adds, picking at the bread. “Yaëlle’s inflated it into some… I don’t know… national holiday.”
She laughs. “She showed me the guest list. It’s terrifying, half of Paris is there..”
He groans. “its like I’m being shipped to war or something .”
“You kind of are.” she jokes lightly. “Football war.”
He huffs out a real laugh.
“She asked about cake. I said anything that doesn’t have my face on it. So obviously she’s going to make one with my face on it just for the jokes.”
“Obviously.” She snorts. “God, I love her.” she says.
He looks at her then, with a casual voice but not-casual eyes.
“You’ll come, right?”
“Of course.” She says before taking sip of water “Wouldn’t miss seeing your face on a cake.” she adds.
He tosses a strawberry at her. She dodges, grinning.
They finish lunch easily, drifting into small things: a friend’s birthday, a film they kept meaning to watch, whether the figs in the fridge are still ok. Normal things. Safe things. The kind of conversation that almost makes it easy to forget how close the end is.
After lunch, they carry everything inside, the plates clinking softly, glasses smudged with fingerprints. Inside, the dishes clink into the sink. He grabs ice creams from the freezer - strawberry for her, chocolate for him - and hands hers over like it’s a ritual.
“Want to sit outside again?”
She nods. “Mm-hm. Weather is nice.”
He pulls off his shirt without thinking and tosses it over the back of a chair. She notices the faint sunlines on his shoulders, the scattering of his birthmark on his back, the tiny uneven freckle just under his left shoulder blade. All the small things she’s memorised accidentally.
They sink into the puff chairs, her legs draped over his, his hand warm on her shin, thumb drawing absent-minded half-circles like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. The mountains look painted on, the kind of view that feels fake until the wind moves through it. Light drips across the pool tiles, puddles in her hair. She closes her eyes, lets the sun sink into her bones, tastes the cold sweetness of her ice cream.
“You have a bit on your lip.” he says, pointing with his spoon.
“If I didn’t know you, I’d think you were just being nice.” she smirks, wiping it lazily anyway “But I know, you’re only saying it so you could come kiss me.”
He laughs under his breath, leans in and presses an unhurried kiss to her mouth.
“You do know me so well.” he murmurs, pulling back but staying close, like leaving that space between them requires effort.
She lets out a little giggle but enough to dissolve into the sound of the nature humming in the shrubbery. The air smells like pine and sunscreen. He licks a smudge of chocolate from his thumb, eyes half-closed, relaxed in a way she doesn’t see often.
And then he says it.
“I could get a place like this in Madrid.”
Casual, thoughtless, eyes half-lidded and warm.
“A terrace where the sun hits in the morning.” he continues “A pool too, maybe.”
The words float between them, but they hit her like a wave she didn’t see coming. Her spoon pauses halfway to her mouth. Madrid.
And just like that, the sweetness of the moment turns fragile, the quiet air between them heavy with unspoken truths.
He shifts closer, voice soft, the same gentle tone he uses when asking her to come closer in bed. “I know we haven’t really talked about it since…” He swallows. “…but have you thought about it? About coming to live with me in Madrid?”
She feels the air shift, feels him watching, a quiet insistence in the warmth of his eyes. And suddenly she knows there is no way to avoid it anymore. No more postponing. No more pretending time isn’t running out.
“I’ve been thinking about it…” she says slowly. “A lot, actually.”
Her heart pounds so loud she’s afraid he can hear it. She’s still holding the tube of ice cream like an object she suddenly doesn’t know how to use. Eventually she sets it down .
He waits, patient and hopeful, completely unaware that she’s about to take that hope and split it down the middle.
“And…” Her throat feels narrow, uncooperative. “I don’t think I can go with you to Madrid.”
The words fall so gently she almost wonders if he heard them, but his face tells her he did. His eyes close, only for a second, but it’s enough. When he opens them again, something has settled differently in his face. Like the words land exactly where he feared they might.
“I’m sorry. ” she whispers quickly, because the sadness on his face makes her chest ache. “It’s not because I don’t love you. I do, I love you so much. I just…” She takes a breath that shudders. “I don't think I'm ready to leave Paris yet.”
He nods like he’s letting the truth in molecule by molecule.
She pushes on, because stopping would only make it more unbearable. “I finally feel… like I’m where I’m supposed to be. I found a life I actually like.” Her voice cracks. “I like Paris. It’s my home now. One I dreamed about for so long.” her eyes blur and she has to blink a couple of times to see “And I want to continue experience it.”
“Right.” he murmurs, putting his ice cream tube down down too, next to hers. Hers is now sagging sideways on the warm tiles, half-collapsed, and for some reason, that makes her cry.
She wipes at her cheeks when she feels it wet, frustrated with herself. Crying feels unfair, like she’s stealing the sadness that should belong to him.
“I’m so sorry Kylian..” she says again, quieter this time, because she means it in a hundred different ways.
He looks at her then, properly, his eyes warm and unbearably sad.
“No,” he says “Don’t apologize.” the softness in his voice is devastating. “I understand. You’re choosing your life. You should. It would be…” He swallows, his voice breaks “It would be selfish. I'd never ask you to give it up. Not for me."
He reaches for her hand. His thumb presses lightly against her palm, like he’s mapping the shape of her.
“Kylian-”
He shakes his head gently, eyes shining “It’s ok. It’s…”
He lets out a strange almost embarrassed laugh, one people make when they’re hurting and trying to keep the pain from showing
“It’s just strange, I guess.” he says quietly. “Thinking about being there without you. Not having you around. Telling me your stupid jokes.”
She huffs a laugh, wet and involuntary.
“Telling me to sleep more. Warming your feet under mine because you refuse to buy proper socks. Kissing me in the morning.”
His fingers tighten over hers, more like he’s bracing himself than trying to keep her.Her eyes burn. She leans forward and presses a kiss to his temple. Both apology and love woven into one small touch.
“I know.” she whispers. “And it’s going to feel weird. And lonely. And awful, maybe, at first. But you’ll be spectacular there, I know it. You really will. You’ll grow into it.”
He nods, slowly as if each inch requires effort. His gaze drops to where their knees touch, like he’s studying the shape of them together. Memorizing the geometry before it changes.
He seems to understand her reason, maybe more than she expected. Even if it hurts him and even if it hurts her.
“Everything will be alright. We’ll be alright.” She says trying to convinced himself. And herself too
They didn’t talk about August, or September, or the first cold day of October when he’d be in Spain and she’d be in Paris. They didn’t talk about what she’d do when she missed him so hard it ached in her teeth.
They didn’t talk about the other people, the ones they might meet someday.
They just stayed in the quiet, holding eachother.
On their last morning, they wake to the rooster screaming again, sharp and absurd against the stillness of the house.
Kylian shifts behind her, his face pressed into the back of her shoulder. For a moment he doesn’t speak. He just breathes there, slow and heavy, like waking hurts.
Eventually he murmurs, voice rough, “you were right. He’s… unreasonably loud.”
She smiles faintly, making a small sound. She tries to move then, but his arm tightens around her waist, holding her the way people hold the last warm thing they have.
“You’re leaving the bed.” he says quietly.
“I’m just going to the bathroom.”
He nods once against her shoulder, but he doesn’t let go immediately. His hand stays at her hip, thumb stroking a slow, unconscious line.
They don’t talk about yesterday. Or what they should do now. If thighs will be different when they returned to Paris. Or will they wait for a more concrete ending till he’s off to Madrid. But they both feel it, an heaviness in the space between them, soft and bruising.
“You know we have to get up eventually.” she says after a moment, her voice barely there.
He hums, eyes still closed. “Not yet.” It sounds almost like a plea.
She turns slightly to look at him. His hair flattened at the top, his lashes clumped from sleep, his face open in that slow, vulnerable way he always is in the mornings. He looks at her without moving, like he’s memorizing something he can’t keep.
She touches his cheek, touching his dimple. He closes his eyes, just for the feeling of it.
They lie there a few more minutes, neither of them really breathing normally, until it becomes too painful to pretend they have nowhere to be.
Eventually they untangle, carefully, like every movement might crack something. She goes to wash her face and brush her teeth. When she comes back, he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor in that way he does when he’s trying not to ask her to stay a little longer.
“Coffee? Tea?” she asks.
“Coffee.” He nods, and she doesn’t offer small talk. They both know there’s nothing to fill the spaces anymore, nothing safe enough to distract them.
The silence follows them downstairs. Breakfast is simple and uneven; he burns the edges of the toast, which she eats anyway, pretending she doesn’t notice. They talk lightly like people who know each other well by now.
The sky is duller than the previous days, clouds spreading slow and low across the hills, They skip the swim they’ve done every morning, decide to walk instead, down the path winding around the house.
She laces her fingers loosely with his, letting her thumb trace the back of his hand. She watches him: the way the few sunlight rays hit his face, the small movements that make him him, like the way he tilts his head to listen to a bird or how he pauses before say something ridiculous that makes both grin.
How is it possible to ever forget all that?
“You ok?” he asks.
She nods too quickly. “Yeah. Just looking at you“
“Look all you want.” he says, smiling. “It’s my last day being this tan.”
She lets herself laugh “Sun kissed and full on yourself. Look at you “
He laughed, nudging her lightly with his shoulder.
In the afternoon, a quick storm sweeps through. They stay inside as the clouds bruise purple above the hills, thunder rattling the windows once, twice, and then rain hammering the roof.
It’s fitting. It is as if the weather knows too.
They stay inside. She picks a book from the huge shelf on the living room. He picks one too, but abandons it minutes later, switching to the tv.
Time slips. The storm fades, leaving the air warm and a little heavy. They shower together before dinner. He complains that his skin turns red too easily; she laughs at him, hands gentle as she rubs lotion into his shoulders. He watches her the whole time, quiet, as if he could memorize her by watching long enough. When she finishes, he kisses her lips.
Later, she packs, leaving out only the clothes she’ll need for tomorrow. Her toiletries are lined up neatly on the bed, each item in its familiar place. It feels mechanical, practiced, like she’s done this before
He’s on the phone with his family in the other room, speaking in a low mix of French and laughter. She hears his mother’s voice crackling through the speaker.
She folds a shirt. Then another, each movement deliberate, careful, as if the act itself could anchor her to the moment. Finally, she zips the bag, leaving out only what she’ll need for tomorrow.
The house feels heavier, quieter than it should, as if it already knows they’re leaving. She moves to the bathroom and slips into one of his old shirts, soft and worn, the fabric brushing just past her thighs.It smells faintly of him, a stubborn reminder, and she lets the scent linger, inhaling it like a small defiance.
She’s mid her skincare, when kylian walks into the bathroom.
He pauses at the doorway like he needs a second before stepping into the room. He looks calm, but his eyes aren’t. She feels it immediately, the shift, the tenderness edged with loss.
“Come here.” she says softly.
He does, slipping his phone into his pocket, leaning into her space like it’s instinct. He leans down to kiss her cheek, then settles in front of her. She spreads moisturizer between her palms and lifts her hands to his face. He closes his eyes as soon as her thumbs touch his cheekbones. like he’s giving her something,trust, maybe, or the last bit of the day he has left.
His skin is warm and a little pink from the sun hit him harder. She smooths the cream down his jaw, over the bridge of his nose, the small patch between his brows, where he frowns without noticing.
He relaxes under her hands, breath slowing, body softening piece by piece. The intimacy is almost unbearable in its simplicity.
“I like when you do this.” he murmurs. “You're so gentle.” he murmurs low, like he’s speaking into the hollow of a dream.
She huffs a small laugh.
“If I’m not , you’ll complain for an hour your skin stings.”
“That too.” he says, short chuckling, eyes still close. .
Then he leans just slightly into her palms, like he’s offering his face to her.
She works the cream in slow circles along his jawline, the familiar movement almost meditative.
He watches her now, eyelids lowered, expression unreadable but tender. He’s quiet, but not in a sad way, more like he’s storing every second of her.
“Who’s going to moisture my face when it gets crusty?” he asks with enough humor to soften the edges
She wants to say sorry again. That he loves him. That they will be ok.
Instead, she drags her fingertip carefully across the bridge of his nose, as if she can avoid the question if she keeps working.
“You already know the routine by now” she replies eventually, gentle but steady “You can take my creams if you want.” It’s almost a whisper. Almost an apology.
He doesn’t say anything. He never does when she looks like she might break if he touches the truth too directly. Then he leans forward and presses a faint kiss to her wrist, right where her pulse beats.
When she finishes, she taps his chin softly.
“There. All done.”
He doesn’t move at first. He just keeps looking at her, memorizing, storing, keeping. His hands tighten on her waist, like he’s anchoring himself.
“Thank you.” he says “for taking care of me.” His expression is so careful, so open, so unbearably gentle.
She smiles, letting her hand linger on his cheek. Her lips searched for his “I love you.”
“I love you too.” he murmurs back, lips brushing on hers still.
She steps back just a fraction, but her chest feels like it’s going to burst, the weight of everything she feels for him pressing her forward and holding her still all at once. Her fingers cling to his hand, needing him, needing this closeness, needing to memorize it.
“Come to bed.” she whispers, grabbing his hand “Just… come. Let me love you a little longer.”
She turns off the bathroom light.
He follows her out, quietly, like he always does.
She sits on the bed first, watching him through half-lowered lashes, the way the light catches the curve of his jaw, the soft swell of his shoulder. Her hand drifts toward him, tentative at first, then more certain. He comes immediately, closing the small distance without hesitation.
Her hands slide under his shirt, tentative and gentle, memorizing the lines and contours of his body. He shivers slightly under her touch, not moving away; if anything, he leans into her. giving her full access as if he knows she needs to feel every edge of him.
She leans closer, lips brushing against his skin, the air between them taut and heavy. She kisses his stomach and then moves down to his hips.
“Anna…” His voice cracks on the next breath.
“Let me…” she starts, but doesn’t finish. He understands anyway. She senses the quickening of his heartbeat against her hands, the hitch in his breath, the way he shifts just slightly, as if to invite her closer.
She takes him in her mouth, worshiping him with deliberate care, hands gliding along the full length of him, lips and tongue tracing every curve. He moans her name, soft and broken, the sound vibrating through the space between them. His hips lift slightly when she presses closer, a tremor running through him. She lingers, lips and hands precise, almost ceremonious, savoring the way he feels and how he responds. She sucks with care, letting him tremble under her.
His breathing becomes ragged, uneven, a quiet rhythm she learns to follow, and the softest groan escapes him when she finds just the right spot.
“Ahh, baby..” he moans
She keeps her lips on him, tasting his cum already slipping from him along with her saliva. She knows he’s near the edge so she kisses and sucks the tip, lingering there for a second longer. He comes undone almost immediately, every shiver, every soft sound imprinting itself in her memory. She savors it all, his characteristic favour, the way he lets go, the way his hands grip on her shoulders, the way his chest rises and falls beneath her.
He takes a few moments to settle, to let himself come back together, then he smiles at her, small and tender, a little awed. He bends down to kiss her, and she pulls him closer, rolling beneath him.
Their bodies fit together easily, the way they always do: her legs curling around his hips, anchoring him, his fingers splaying across her back, pressing her closer. Her hands find his shoulders, thumbs tracing the warmth and tension of muscle. His breath catches, stuttering at the touch.
He goes deep inside of her, and a shared groan escapes them both, filling the quiet room. Kylian's hand slides up the back of her thigh, guiding her closer. Their chests press and slide together, slick with sweat, breaths tangled, hearts hammering in sync. The bed creaks beneath the weight of them, a subtle accompaniment to the rhythm they’ve perfected over months.
He lifts his head, eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown, mouth slightly parted; his face unguarded in a way she might never see again. She cups his cheeks, thumbs brushing where the skin is warmest, and pulls him into a kiss that’s more ache than desire.
“Slower.” she murmurs once, breathless. He obeys instantly, forehead pressed to her shoulder “I want to feel all of you.”
He obeys, lifting his hips gently to meet her, their breaths tangling.
She feels him everywhere, his breath against her cheek, his hands mapping the line of her waist; how he fits her so well. His lips drift along her shoulder, grazing the hollow there, murmuring her name into her skin like he’s anchoring himself.
Then he shifts, lifting her with a careful strength, rolling them until she’s seated on his lap. Foreheads press together and breaths mingling. His hands slide slowly up her ribs to her breasts, fingers trembling just enough to betray how much he needs this closeness.
“Kylian…” she breathes, but not to stop him.
“I need you closer.” he whispers, voice breaking at the edges, raw and unguarded.
She nods, guiding him down, finding their movements again, syncing naturally the way they always do.
She rolls slowly, shifting above him with reverence, savoring the rhythm rather than rushing it. He shudders, a full-body exhale. A low gasp escapes him, surprised.
“Stay here.” he huffs, unsteady, entirely undone .She tilts, rolling her hips against him, feeling the subtle tremor of his body under hers. “Yes… right there.”
Her hands settle lightly on either side of his face. He closes his eyes as if the sight of her might undo him entirely. His breath hitches again, instinctively matching her movements. She tightens herself around him
Everything is warm and unbearably tender.
“You’re the love of my life.” she murmurs, breathless
“I know.” he whispers, holding tighter “You’re mine.”
She leans down to kiss him while she continues to move up her down. His hands tighten agaist her thighs, pulling her closer as if it’s possible.
“Anna…” he says into her mouth, like a confession, like her name is the last truth he has.
He flips them suddenly again, settling over her. Every thrust is deliberate and sharper now, as if tenderness alone isn’t enough to hold all the ache inside them. She wraps her legs around him, pulling him close, their bodies pressing together so tight it feels impossible to breathe apart. His lips find the small curve beneath her ear, brushing it softly, and she gasps, shivering against him.
“Fuck… I love you so much.” he groans, forehead resting against hers, eyes shining in the low light. She knows he’s close; She is too.
“I love you too.” she whispers, breath mingling with his.He closes his eyes, like he’s storing the sound of it.
His movements become sloppy and a little desperate, the sheets rustling beneath them. Her thumb brushes absently along his lower lip, a gentle trace that makes his breath hitch.
The she comes, shuddering beneath him, letting a loud moan out.
His breath falters afterwards, shaking even as if he’s trying not to fall apart entirely. He thrust a few more times and spills inside her with a groan. She shivers again feeling his warmth fill her.
He stays inside her for a long moment, still, breathing deep and uneven, like he wants to imprint himself somewhere permanent.
His hold her, forehead buried to her shoulder, as if loosening his hold would make the morning come too soon. Her fingers stroke the nape of his neck, tugging gently, memorizing the weight of him there.
They stay like that, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist, pretending the ground under them isn’t already shifting. Pretending that if they hold each other tightly enough, time might pause, or at least be kind.
So they stay like that, memorizing. The weight of an arm, the familiar breath warm against a collarbone. The tiny, private world they built between errands and arguments and shared skincare bottles. Between laughter in the kitchen and whispered jokes in the dark.
Finally, he breaks the silence, voice rough and intimate:
“This is going to hurt.”
She nods, swallowing against the tightness in her throat, brushing her lips along his temple, lingering at the side of his face.
“I know. But it’ll pass. And we’ll be ok.”
She holds him tighter, knowing it won’t save them, but needing the moment to believe it might.
———
Next chapter