The night in Barcelona had started with soft touches — teasing kisses on the balcony, your arms around his neck as he pulled you closer. The city hummed beneath you, but all you could hear was the sound of Kylian’s voice against your ear, low and playful in French, his hands trailing under the oversized t-shirt you stole from him.

One kiss deepened into another, and before you knew it, you were tangled in the hotel sheets, your legs around his waist, bodies pressed so close it felt like you couldn’t possibly get any closer. The room was dim but heavy with tension, lit by the gold city lights sneaking through the curtains. Kylian’s hands were everywhere — rough and possessive one second, soft and worshiping the next. The sheets slipped low, heat built fast, and you barely noticed how loud it had gotten.

Moans echoed off the walls, your name falling from his lips in a mix of French and English. He muttered praise into your skin, his voice breaking when you tugged at his curls. You gasped, breathless as he pushed deeper, and he shushed you with a kiss — only to make you cry out again seconds later.

The walls weren’t forgiving. And you definitely didn’t hold back.

The next morning, the light filtered in slowly. Kylian was sprawled across the bed, still warm from sleep, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. You were tucked against him, wrapped in his arms, your leg tangled with his.

His phone buzzed somewhere on the bedside table. Again. And again. And then again.

He groaned, reaching over with one arm, eyes still closed as he blindly grabbed it. The second he unlocked it, the Real Madrid Team Group Chat lit up like wildfire.

Rodrygo: yo @Kylian we good? need to book you two a room down the hall next time?

Camavinga: bro I thought someone was being murdered at 2am 💀

Tchouaméni: she said “right there” and screamed louder than the crowd at Camp Nou

Valverde: my WIFE asked me who was getting exorcised in the walls next door 😭

Bellingham: no way u actually moan in FRENCH bro 😭😭😭

Lunin: man we’re trying to SLEEP not attend a live show

Nacho: silence before a match is important. not the sound of bedframes clapping 💀

Kylian blinked. Then blinked again. His jaw dropped in disbelief before he burst into quiet laughter, shoulders shaking as he tried not to wake you.

But it was too late — you were already peeking up at him sleepily, sensing his amusement.

“What?” you mumbled, hair messy and voice hoarse from sleep.

He turned the screen so you could see the messages.

You stared, eyes going wide in horror. “No. No, no, no—”

“Oh yes,” he grinned, voice still raspy from sleep and last night. “Apparently… we weren’t quiet.”

You buried your face in the pillow, absolutely mortified.

“Putain, this is incredible,” he muttered under his breath. Then, in a louder, teasing voice, “They said I moaned in French. I don’t even remember that.”

“You did,” you groaned, hiding your burning face. “You said, ‘t’es à moi’ like three times.”

He smirked, leaning down to kiss your bare shoulder. “Well… it’s true, non? You are mine.”

You looked up at him with a helpless laugh, cheeks flushed. “They’re never going to let us live this down.”