The SUV was silent.

You sat beside him, the energy still heavy after the match. Real Madrid had lost 2–0 to Barcelona. No goals from Kylian. No moments of brilliance. No crowd erupting for him. You’d watched him from the box, wearing his jersey for the first time — nerves fluttering in your stomach, even excitement. But now… none of that felt like it mattered.

His face was stone, jaw clenched, fingers tapping angrily against the window.

You tried to keep your voice soft, unthreatening. “You okay?”

“Do I look okay?” His tone was sharp. Dismissive. And he didn’t even look at you.

Your stomach dropped.

You blinked a few times and sat back, heart thudding for a different reason now. You weren’t good with that kind of energy — the shortness, the anger. It always made you shrink into yourself. Made you feel small. You stared out the window, saying nothing, even though your throat felt tight.

When the car pulled up to the apartment, he was already out the door, not even checking if you were behind him.

Inside, you moved slowly, your fingers shaking just a little as you took off your shoes. He paced the kitchen in frustration, mumbling in French under his breath, his shirt still damp from the game. You stayed back, hovering by the edge of the couch, not sure if you should speak or just disappear.

He slammed the fridge shut, and something in you flinched—barely, but enough.

“I missed two damn chances,” he muttered. “At home. Against Barça.”

You didn’t say anything. You just stared at the floor, hands clasped in front of you. It wasn’t your fault. You knew that. But somehow, your chest ached like it was.

The apartment was still quiet after he’d snapped.

You’d barely spoken since — only offering small, polite replies when needed. While he showered, you stayed on the bed, knees tucked up, staring at your phone without reading anything on it. The tension hadn’t left your chest. You hated when people raised their voice — not even in full anger, just that edge. The bite. It didn’t sit right with you. It never had.

You’d heard the water stop ten minutes ago. Still, you didn’t move. You lay on your side under the duvet, facing away from his side of the bed. Usually, you’d wait for him. Brush your teeth together. Joke. Fall into bed tangled up in each other. But tonight, you just couldn’t.

The bedroom door clicked open.

Kylian stepped out, towel rubbing at his damp curls, wearing a pair of black shorts and a plain shirt. He looked better — physically reset — but still heavy behind the eyes.

He padded across the room, climbed into bed beside you.

“Tu dors déjà?” he murmured, voice lower now, more careful.

You didn’t answer at first.

Normally, this was the part where you’d instinctively lean into him, let him wrap an arm around your waist, tuck your legs between his. But tonight, your body stayed stiff. Still turned away.

He waited a second. Two. Then gently laid a hand on your hip.

“Bébé…?” His voice faltered. “You’re not gonna… come close?”

You shook your head, just barely.

That’s when it hit him.

His hand stayed there, hesitant. “You’re mad,” he said softly. “Or hurt. Shit.”

You didn’t respond.

He exhaled, sitting up a little against the headboard. “I didn’t even realize—” He cut himself off. “I messed up.”

Still quiet.

He ran a hand down his face, clearly frustrated with himself now. “I was pissed at the game. I didn’t score. I was playing like shit and the crowd was on my back. But that’s not your fault. It’s never your fault.”

He shifted closer, his hand now sliding under the duvet to find yours. He kissed your shoulder, soft and lingering. “Please come closer, bébé. I’ll be better. I promise.”

You hesitated… then shifted slightly back into his chest.

The exhale he let out was deep,relieved. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and held you like he didn’t want to let go.

“Merci,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry. For real.”