It’s late in the evening, the kind of quiet where the world feels like it’s only the two of you. The match was yesterday, so today has been lazy — no alarms, no obligations. Just you, him, and the soft hum of the Madrid apartment as golden light fades through the windows.

You’re on the couch, tangled in one big blanket. Kylian is behind you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, chest pressed to your back. One leg is hooked over yours possessively, like he’s afraid you’ll get up — like he needs the contact. His fingers are tracing slow, absent-minded circles on your hip under your oversized shirt — his shirt, actually.

His other hand is laced with yours, holding it over your stomach, thumb brushing yours in quiet rhythm.

Neither of you says much. There’s music playing softly somewhere in the background, but you’re not really listening. You’re too aware of him. Of the way his fingertips keep slipping lower with every passing minute. Of the way his breath is warm against the back of your neck.

And then he murmurs something.

Low. French. Right against your skin.

You freeze a little, spine shivering at the sound.

“…Qu’est-ce que je vais faire de toi, hein…” he mutters, words slow and half-lazy, almost like he’s talking to himself.

You twist your head just enough to glance at him. “What was that?”

He smirks, doesn’t answer. Just presses a kiss behind your ear and tightens his arm around you.

“Kylian…”

He chuckles, that deep, smug little laugh that always means trouble. “I didn’t say anything bad,” he mumbles, kissing your shoulder this time, then dragging his lips up the side of your neck. “You always ask what it means, but I think you like it more when you don’t understand.”

You squirm a little, your cheeks warm. “I mean… maybe.”

“Mm.” He nuzzles deeper into you, nose brushing your jaw. Then, softer now, softer, he murmurs, “Ma douce fille… je suis foutu pour toi.”

You don’t know the words — but God, you feel them. The way his voice drops, the way his lips brush the words into your skin, the way his fingers are gripping your waist now instead of just resting there.

You shiver again. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?” he says, clearly lying, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“You know what.”

And then — he’s laughing, genuinely laughing this time, arms squeezing you tighter until you’re tucked under him, nose to nose, heart to heart.

“Maybe,” he says finally, brushing your hair back from your face. “But if it gets you this flustered… je vais continuer.”