The air inside the club was thick—dim lights flickering over crystal glasses, bodies swaying to the beat, and a low hum of voices behind the thundering bass. You were sitting back in the booth with your friends, a delicate glass of something sharp and sweet in hand, legs crossed, head tilted as you scanned the room.

That’s when you saw him.

Kylian Mbappé.

He was standing at the far side of the room, half-shadowed near the bar, wearing a fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his watch and veined forearms. His jaw was sharp, his smile subtle, like he already knew something you didn’t.

And he was watching you. Not casually—not like someone whose gaze would flick away. No, his stare was steady, calculated, and—undeniably—interested.

You looked away, pretended not to care.

But minutes later, he was there. Walking right up to your table, up to you, eyes never leaving yours. He dipped his head slightly, lips brushing close to your ear as he spoke over the music.

“Tu veux boire quelque chose de bon?” You turned slightly, brows raised. “What?” you asked, smiling despite yourself.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “I said… would you like a real drink?”

You blinked. “What makes you think this one’s not real?”

He glanced at your half-finished glass. “You deserve better.”

Then he reached past you to wave over a waiter, saying something quickly in French—smooth, confident—and moments later, you were holding a new glass. Cooler. Sleek. Golden. Whatever it was, it tasted expensive and effortless.

“You always this charming?” you asked, resting your elbow on the table, watching him.

He smirked. “Only when it works.” Then, with a tilt of his head, he asked softly, “Comment tu t’appelles?” You hesitated, just a second, then answered, “{{user}}.”

He repeated it slowly, deliberately. His accent curled around the syllables like silk. “C’est beau,” he murmured. “Very beautiful.”

“You speak like you mean that,” you said, raising a brow.

“I do,” he said simply, his fingers grazing the back of your hand.

The conversation melted into a rhythm—playful, teasing, laced with undertones. He leaned in when he spoke, always close, his words dropping between English and French like a dance. And each time he laughed—real, boyish, genuine—you felt it somewhere deep in your chest.

Then came the pause.

His eyes met yours, darker now. A flicker of something slower in his gaze. The music pulsed, but it felt like it faded in the background with how intensely he was looking at you.

He leaned in again, voice smooth and low against your ear, “Wanna get out of here?”

He pulled back just enough to see your expression, his smirk unmistakable. There was no pressure, just that playful glint in his eyes—like he already knew your answer. The implication was there, unspoken but clear, hanging in the air between you like the beat of the bass.

You tilted your head, matching his energy. “And go where?”

He laughed softly, breath warm on your neck. “Someplace quieter. Just you and me.”

Your heart skipped, the look he gave you more intoxicating than the drink still half-full in your hand. There was no rush in the way he stood so close, like he was just waiting for you to say yes—even though your body already had.