You never meant to fall for him.

It wasn’t part of the job description—being Kylian Mbappé’s personal assistant meant managing schedules, dodging paparazzi, organizing press runs, and keeping him grounded through the chaos. You were good at it. Efficient. Unflappable.

But somewhere between midnight flights to Madrid and early-morning coffees on the balcony of a five-star hotel, things blurred.

It wasn’t one big moment. It was the little things.

How he always asked if you’d eaten, even when he hadn’t. The way his tone softened when it was just you two—no cameras, no entourage. How he’d pull you close during cold evenings in Paris, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You tried to stay professional. You kept calling him “boss” even though he told you to stop. You avoided his gaze when he walked out of the shower with a towel slung low on his hips, humming something in French under his breath. You ignored the way your stomach flipped when he whispered “merci, ma belle” after you saved him from another press disaster.

But then came the night in Monaco.

A long day, a charity gala, and a miscommunication left you both without rooms. The hotel booked solid. And somehow—of course—he insisted you just stay in his suite. “It’s big enough,” he said with a shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal.

It was a big deal.

You curled up on the couch, trying to read emails, while he changed in the bedroom. Then he emerged barefoot, in grey sweats and a black t-shirt, hair still damp, phone in hand—and leaned against the wall just watching you.