gmasttin

[gmasttin]

Chapter 2 🌙💖

[gmasttin]

Win a Date With Mbappé! | Kylian Mbappé fic

|Summary: You never expected to win a dinner with Kylian Mbappé — especially since your best friend Nora actually won it and had to give you the chance instead. Suddenly, you’re thrown into a world of flashing cameras, elite football stars, and endless self-doubt. Between your chaotic office life, a complicated present with Javi, and the magnetic pull of one of the world’s most famous athletes, you have to figure out if this unexpected date is just a fleeting fantasy. Or the start of something real.

|3.6k words

|A/n: I lost all I had written for my bbys from my previous fic. I got a little sad and mad, to be honest didn’t feel with the energy to rewrite everything again. So I decided to start a new one, this one is already finished and secured. And omg I’ve grown to love these kids. Based on Win a Date with Tad Hamilton!, saw it a Sunday with my friend and thought “why not?”

CHAPTER 1

You have one foot halfway into your pants and the other dangerously close to slipping on a shirt that's been abandoned on the floor for two days. The fabric catches your heel; you make a movement that, in another life, would be an acrobatic feat, and the word “fuck” slips out of your mouth in a tight whisper, like someone is secretly recording you, and you’re desperately trying to keep your dignity.

“Are you alive?” Nora asks from the speakerphone, her voice echoing from the dresser in your room, with that morning enthusiasm fueled only by chaos or way too much caffeine.

You manage to pull your pants up while regaining your balance, swallowing hard as if the universe could hear you stumble through your own life. You walk over to the phone, set it down more securely, then step back, now searching for the least wrinkled shirt hanging in your wardrobe. Nothing like a Monday.

“Do you know what time it is?” you ask, struggling with a sleeve that’s on backwards.

“Do you know the news I have?” she replies, like she just discovered life on Mars.

There’s a three-second silence. Three seconds in which you decide that the striped shirt is decent enough to survive another workday without HR intervening.

“What happened? Did you win the lottery?”

“Almost,” she says, and you can hear her smile. “I won a giveaway.”

That explains the excitement in her tone. Nora is the kind of person who responds to every “tag three friends” on Instagram, genuinely hoping that this time it’s for real. She once won a trip to Lisbon, though it was canceled due to “logistical problems.” In her defense, Lisbon still exists.

“Another giveaway? What was it this time? A year of free bread? An air fryer?”

“A dinner.”

You stare at her—or rather, at the phone as if it could look back at you—while you search for the socks that were definitely there five minutes ago.

“A dinner? Where? Here in Madrid?”

“With Kylian Mbappé.”

You freeze. Not because you’re cold, though you don’t rule out that the floor of your room might be contributing to your temporary paralysis. You blink.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard right. Dinner. Mbappé. The football player. The real deal, not a wax figure at Madame Tussauds.”

“I know who Mbappé is, Nora,” you say, your tone louder than necessary. Your fingers fumble with your shoelaces, and you’re sure that if you have a meltdown now, your body will curl up fetal-style in front of the closet.

“Well, I won a dinner with him! Some Nike campaign or something! You had to tag people in the comments, and I tagged my entire family tree! I even tagged my grandma. Literally.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, still half barefoot, trying to process the information.

“And…?”

“And I can’t go,” she says, her voice dropping in volume. “I have a double shift the night of the dinner, and if I ask for the day off again, Raquel will kill me and then fire me.”

You stare at her like she can see you through the phone. What she says next is like throwing a Molotov cocktail into a birthday party.

“So you’re going.”

A second passes. Then another. In your head, you hear the classic Windows error beep. And then:

“I’m… what?”

“You’re going. To the dinner. I gave you all my info when I filled out the form for that weird job, so technically you could be me for an hour without the world collapsing. Besides, who’s going to notice the difference? We’re just as pretty!” she says with that irrational enthusiasm only people have when they truly believe a plan will work out just because.

“Nora, you’re crazy!”

“And you’re single, no plans on Thursday, and you still use that foundation you stole from me two months ago. I don’t see the problem.”

You get up, cross the room again, grab your bag, and leave the phone on the bed while you stuff things in without looking. Your brain trails behind. Kylian Mbappé. The Kylian Mbappé. The one from Real Madrid. The one who moves millions with one leg.

“This is crazy.”

“So what?” she answers. “Isn’t that exactly what you need? A good kind of crazy. Or do you prefer to keep drinking instant coffee in front of your laptop, wondering if Javi will text you after work or not?” 

The name makes you purse your lips unwillingly. Javi. The last thing you need is for him to come up before eight in the morning.

“It’s not that simple,” you answer, lowering your voice.

“You spend your whole life waiting for things to happen. Well, something happened. Don’t mess it up.”

Silence. You look in the mirror, seeing someone still with a messy bun and dark circles from a week of Excel sheets and pointless calls. It was just a dinner. One night with someone who will probably never see you again. 

You sigh.

“What should I wear?”

Nora’s victory scream almost deafens you.

You chuckle softly as you hang up. Nora has that ability to shove you out of your comfort zone with the enthusiasm of a toddler overdosed on sugar. You leave your phone on the bed, finish adjusting your pants, and gather your bun with an elastic that miraculously survived the night.

On your way to the bathroom, a thousand questions flood your mind. What’s a dinner with Kylian Mbappé really like? Do you eat from normal plates? Does he talk like he does in interviews, or like a regular person? What if there are other winners and it’s a group dinner? What if you have to pretend to know football and end up saying VAR is a type of drink?

While you brush your teeth, you look at yourself in the mirror, half asleep, with yesterday’s mascara smudging beneath your eyelids. You don’t look particularly dazzling. You don’t look like the kind of person who dines with superstars. You look exactly like what you are: a girl with an office job, a friend who’s a little too convincing, and a romantic history best summarized as “bad timing”.

An hour later, you’re leaving the house with a half-eaten energy bar, headphones on, and that typical unnecessary rush of someone who always arrives three minutes late even though their place is ten minutes away by foot.

The sky is gray but not threatening rain. For some reason, that cheers you up.

Your office is on a street where every business seems ready to shut down. A sad stationery store, a café that opens whenever it feels like it, and a dog grooming shop that smells like cheap shampoo from the doorway. You work on the third floor of a nondescript building for a company that does things as unexciting as data management and report analysis. A job you don’t hate, but wouldn’t brag about on a dinner date with, say, a Real Madrid striker.

When you enter, you greet the receptionist with a nod and take the stairs because the elevator has been making noises that probably aren’t legal for weeks.

Your desk is in the corner. Computer, a dying plant, and a pen that won’t write. Home sweet home.

Javi is already at his spot, two desks down. He’s wearing his headphones and looks very focused on his screen, though you know he’s probably watching recipe videos or old matches. He has that kind of face that seems genuinely interested in what you do, even when he’s not. You like him. Sometimes too much.

“You’re late,” he says without looking up but smiling.

“I’m on time. The universe is slow, not me.”

You sit down, turn on your computer, and hear him take off his headphones. He does it slowly. He always takes his time with everything. That makes you nervous.

“What’s with the mood?”

“My best friend won a dinner with Kylian Mbappé.”

Javi frowns, then lets out a little nasal laugh.

“Sure. And you’re Beyoncé.”

“No, seriously. It’s a Nike giveaway. She won, but she can’t go. So... she wants me to go.”

Now he looks at you. Eyes wide, one eyebrow starting to climb up his forehead.

“You? Dinner with Mbappé?”

“That’s the plan.”

“And you know who he is?”

“I know who he is! I’m not a hermit! He plays football. Runs really fast. Good abs… Nora sent me a picture once.”

“Very helpful, Wikipedia.”

“I don’t need to know more. I’m not arguing offside with someone who makes millions scoring goals.”

“And you’re going?”

The question hangs in the air. You realize you don’t have a definite answer. Part of you still hopes this is an elaborate joke from Nora.

“I think so. I mean… why not?”

“Because it’s Mbappé.”

“Exactly because it’s Mbappé.”

Javi looks at you with an expression you can’t quite tell if it’s jealousy, concern, or that weird mix of both. He crosses his arms and nods but says nothing else. Neither do you. You turn back to your monitor as if this morning’s Excel could give you answers.

Throughout the day, you get three messages from Nora. One with a screenshot confirming the giveaway, undeniable proof that this is no joke. Another with the restaurant’s address—a place whose name alone makes you feel out of place just reading it. And a third, a passive-aggressive threat: “If you don’t go, I’m deleting you from everywhere and my will. By order of Nike.”

You don’t reply right away. You shove your phone into a drawer like you’re locking away a wild cat and force yourself to focus. But it’s useless. Every blink of the cursor on your screen becomes a reminder of how surreal all this is.

Meanwhile, Javi behaves with a suspicious kind of cordiality. He doesn’t make any of his usual jokes, doesn’t peek at your screen with an “Are you working or just pretending?”, nor does he leave you a post-it with a sad face when you go to the bathroom. He’s acting weird. Too nice. Like he’s waiting for something that never comes, or holding back from saying what he really thinks. At first, you tell yourself maybe he’s just having a bad day — maybe he didn’t sleep well, maybe he argued with his sister, or maybe he fought with the oven again. But as the hours pass, while you keep glancing at him from the corner of your eye as he pretends to focus completely on an empty Excel sheet, you start to suspect that’s not it. He doesn’t look distracted, nor bored, nor annoyed with the world. He looks… tense. Like he’s got something stuck in his teeth he doesn’t dare spit out.

And that, coming from Javi, is unusual. Really weird. Because Javi is the kind of guy who always has something to say, even when it’s not the right time. He’s the one who lightens the mood when everyone wants to jump out the window, who fills silences with nonsense and mediocre jokes that somehow still make you laugh. But not today. Today, he’s… restrained. Controlled. Like he doesn’t want to let even one extra word out, afraid that all the others will follow. If joking with you hurts him a little. Like something has changed.

And worst of all, you notice it, too. You notice it in how you type slower, how you triple-check every email before sending it, as if your inbox could somehow reflect you. How, for the first time in a long time, you don’t know what to say to him. And that pisses you off. It pisses you off because he’s supposed to be your usual refuge, your constant. The guy who helps you ignore the absurdity of your days. But now he seems part of the chaos. Or at least, a piece of the puzzle that doesn’t fit like before.

When you get up to refill your water bottle, you do it almost with relief. You want to move, do something physical, distract your body to shut up your head. 

Crossing the narrow hallway between your desk and the tiny communal kitchen feels like an expedition, and just as you reach the door, you feel his presence behind you. No need to turn around. You know. Javi has that way of approaching silently, without imposing, but making himself known. Like a warm breeze slipping in through a crack in the window. You pause for a second, hoping it’s just coincidence. That he wants to make coffee or grab a snack from the machine. But no. He leans on the door frame, hands in pockets, head tilted. And that half-smile you’re not sure is his or just a badly worn mask.

“So, a dinner with Mbappé?” he says quietly, like he’s talking about something more intimate than it is, like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

You keep your back to him, filling your bottle from the faucet that drips lightly and shudders when you close it. 

You can’t help but notice how shabby everything is: the tape-stuck sign saying “Wash your cup” with a hand-drawn smiley face, the microwave that’s survived three office moves, the coffee maker that never works right. The contrast between all that and the phrase “dinner with Mbappé” is so big it almost makes you laugh.

“It’s not like he asked me himself,” you reply without turning, trying to keep your tone neutral, though you know something in your voice vibrates a little higher than usual. “It was a giveaway. On Instagram. The ones you never win. But Nora did. It’s not a date.”

“Sure. But still… it’s pretty intense, isn’t it?”

Then you do turn, lean your back against the counter, and look at him. Javi’s a step away, that body that isn’t huge but takes up space, that look that fakes indifference, but has never fully fooled you.

“What do you mean?” you ask, though you already have an idea.

He shrugs, like he always does when he says something he’s not sure if he wants to say out loud. That gesture of his, making him look more boy than man, though you know inside he holds a tangled mess he rarely shares.

“Nothing. It’s Mbappé. And you.”

“And me what?”

“Nothing,” he says again, and that word, repeated, annoys you more than if he’d said something horrible. “Just… it’s weird. Suddenly. Do you want to go?”

He asks in a soft, sincere tone, so unguarded it throws you off. Because he’s not being sarcastic. He’s not joking. He’s… genuinely asking. Like he wants to understand. Like the answer matters to him.

And that, coming from him, is unusual.

“I don’t know,” you answer after a pause that feels longer than it should. “What would you do?”

“I wouldn’t go have dinner with someone I don’t know.”

“And if it was Beyoncé?”

“If it was Beyoncé, I’d faint before dessert.”

This time you smile, barely. He does too. But the smile doesn’t last. It fades quickly, like it doesn’t have permission to stay. Because underneath still beats something. A discomfort neither of you knows how to say out loud. And there, standing in that tiny kitchen with fluorescent light and the smell of burnt coffee, you feel something like sadness. Or maybe guilt. Or both.

You don’t say anything else. And neither does he. You just cross your arms, shift the bottle from one hand to the other, and then slip back down the hallway to your desk without looking back. Not because you’re angry. But because you don’t know what else to do with everything that just happened without being said.

The rest of the day becomes a silent set where you pretend to work, while your mind keeps replaying that scene on loop. Each time with new interpretations, new possible meanings. Was he annoyed? Did he not care? Is he jealous? Did you hurt him? And you? Why does what he says or doesn’t say affect you so much? Since when do you actually care about Javi this much?

At six, you grab your bag without saying goodbye. Javi stays in his spot, headphones on, eyes lost in something you can’t see from your angle. For a second, you hesitate, hand on the door, hoping he’ll say something. Stop you. Throw a dumb joke or a passive-aggressive comment your way. Something to bring back normalcy. But he doesn’t. He just turns the music volume up a notch, and you leave without looking back.

Your feet carry you to Gran Vía without you even trying. You walk on autopilot, surrounded by people rushing by, couples whispering heatedly, tourists taking pictures of everything. The sky is still dyed a gray that won’t rain but threatens to. A Madrid gray — one of those that doesn’t apologize for existing.

You step into a clothing store. An expensive one. One you normally just walk past because you don’t need more reminders of how tight your budget is. But today, you don’t care. Today, you want to do something that breaks the logic of your usual decisions.

You sift through racks smelling of new clothes. Looking for something that resonates with the fancy name of that Madrid restaurant where the dinner will be. Nothing too expensive (your wallet wouldn’t handle it). Nothing too bold. But nothing that screams “Monday to Friday filing spreadsheets” either.

And then you see it: a black dress, no unnecessary frills, with a soft drape and a neckline elegant enough not to look forced. You grab it like you found it by accident, not quite sure if it’s your size or your style.

You try it on. The fitting room has a huge mirror and unforgiving light. You look at yourself. You don’t look like someone else. But you don’t look like your everyday self, either. It’s a version of you with a little more faith. One that’s not that afraid of everything.

You buy it. Without looking much at the price. Without justifying it.

You put it in the bag like it’s a secret you’re willing to keep until Thursday. And head home.

At home, you hang it up with a delicacy you didn’t know you had, slowly, almost respectfully, on the wardrobe door handle. The dress falls with silent elegance, letting the fabric form a perfect curve against the chipped white wood. 

You step back a little and watch it from your bed, lying on your side, as if facing a wild, shining creature you don’t know if it’ll let itself be tamed or if, at the slightest attempt, it’ll devour you whole. It’s there, hanging like an irreversible decision. Like a promise or a trap. And you, unmoving, barely blinking, look at it feeling small, almost like an impostor, like any moment someone will burst into your room yelling you’ve made a mistake, that it’s not for you, that you should give it back.

You try to distract yourself with the usual. You open a book you can’t read because the words slip past your eyes without leaving a trace. Start a series you’ve wanted to watch for months but get bored of in five minutes. Then you get up, not really knowing why, and start sorting the sock drawer. Folding, pairing, tossing the ones without matches. It’s a mechanical, absurd task that doesn’t need brain or heart — just what you seem to have too much of right now.

But your mind, even in the middle of this senseless choreography, doesn’t stop. Ideas fall on you one after the other, like someone left a window open during a storm.

You think about the dinner. How it’ll be. If he’ll speak Spanish or if the whole encounter will take place in awkward English, your English even worse, full of uncomfortable silences, of sentences that don’t sound the way you want. You wonder if he’ll be kind, if he’ll know how to break the ice, if he’ll expect you to talk about football or if he’d rather you not mention it. If you’ll get nervous and drop your glass of water or if, for once, you’ll manage to act naturally. You wonder if all of this is overwhelming you, and you just haven’t realized it yet.

You think about Javi. Not about what he said, but about what he didn’t say. That lack of words that weighed more than any of his careless jokes. You think about his face, how he looked at you in the kitchen, with that mix of surprise and distance, as if suddenly you were someone he didn’t recognize. You wonder if he cared. If he felt pushed aside. If he wanted to tell you something and swallowed it. And, above all, you wonder why it hurts you so much. Why his silence affected you more than this whole absurd situation.

Then you think about Nora. How she burst into your morning like an earthquake with mascara. How, barely letting you choose, she pushed you into something you would never have sought out on your own. And, weirdly enough, you’re glad. Because if you had had to decide alone, you would have said no. That it was madness. That it didn’t suit you. That it was for another kind of person — people who don’t trip putting on pants or buy dresses with the tags still hanging in case they change their minds later. Nora knows you well enough to know you don’t trust yourself as much as you should. And she makes up for it by trusting twice as much. Always.

[gmasttin]

I’m babysitting tonight and the kids have a lot of Kylian stuff. Missing him and his big thighs bad

[gmasttin]

[gmasttin]

Leave me alone

what does Monaco’s air have?

[gmasttin]

He looks so gooooood I can’t

Jaw on the floor

[gmasttin]

Really Good, Actually | Kylian Mbappé fic

| Summary: A Madrid-based creative unexpectedly finds herself leading the rebranding of Kylian Mbappé. Between cold coffees, impossible deadlines, and tense creative sessions, something more than just a campaign begins to take shape. An ironic, intimate, and emotionally sharp story about the chaos of feeling alive just when you thought you were only surviving.

| 1.1k words

| You can read Chapters 1, 2, 3 and 4

| A/n: Small small chapter, but I think is a beautiful one. Let me know what you think 🤍

CHAPTER 5

The set is quiet. A silence of respect. The kind that isn’t planned, but falls over everyone when something, without warning, starts to matter more than expected.

Kylian is seated in front of the camera. 

Neutral background, warm lighting, mic clipped to the collar of his white t-shirt. There’s nothing heroic about the image. No training jersey, no decorative ball, no legendary poses. Just him. In a chair. Hands folded in his lap.

You’re behind the monitor, headphones on, pen in hand, as if you need to take notes on something you’re not sure if you’ll even want to remember. The director of photography gives a silent nod. The framing is perfect. Sound is clean. No one breathes louder than they should.

“Ready?” the interviewer asks, voice soft.

“Yes,” he answers. Low voice. Direct.

First come the usual questions. Childhood, memories. First matches. The same story he’s told a thousand times, but this time with a different rhythm. As if each word passes through a more personal filter. It doesn’t sound like he’s repeating. It sounds like, for the first time, he’s dusting it off.

And then comes the question you knew had to come.

“What was the move from PSG to Madrid like? Not just professionally… but personally.”

Silence. One second. Two.

He swallows. Looks at a fixed point, off-camera. And says:

“Hard.”

Another pause.

“Not because of the football. The football was there. As always. With its rules, its schedules, its numbers. The hard part was… everything else. The people. The noise. The version of me that others had in their heads. And I…” he stops. Looks down. Then back up.

“There was a moment,” he continues, “when I realized I didn’t know who I was outside the field. Literally. I didn’t know what I liked to do if I wasn’t training. Who to call if there wasn’t an event. What to say when no one was interviewing me.”

Your throat tightens.

You see him there, exposed. Not because of the script. Not out of obligation. But because, at some point, something opened.

“I felt like an account managed by someone else. Everything I was supposed to be… was already defined. And the worst part is, I accepted it. Because it was easier. More comfortable. Because, deep down, I believed that just being ‘the footballer’ would protect me. Gave me identity. Gave me an excuse.”

Silence in the room. No one dares to cut. The interviewer says nothing. Just nods, very slowly. You keep your eyes on the monitor, fingers clenched around the pen. You feel like you shouldn’t be listening to this. But you can’t look away.

That’s where it ends. The camera op exhales through his nose. The sound guy cleans his glasses even though they’re not dirty. The director gives the “cut” sign, but with a softness that feels like a prayer.

You take off your headphones. Turn off the monitor. Click your pen shut without noticing. Your whole body shifts into “processing” mode.

Kylian stays seated for a few more seconds. Then he stands. Looks toward where you are. He’s looking for you.

And you don’t know what face to make. Because what he just said… you weren’t expecting it. Not like that. So direct. Not so honest. So him.

He walks toward you calmly. Stops a meter away.

“Was it okay?” he asks, like he didn’t just break through a wall on camera.

“Yes,” you say, with more voice than you thought you had. “It was… very real.”

He nods.

“I’m not sure if that’s good or dangerous.”

“Sometimes it’s the same thing,” you say, without thinking too much.

And then he stays still. Says nothing more. Just looks at you.

Not like someone expecting a compliment. But like someone, for the first time, wants to be seen without the set dressing.

The start of the last light of the day filters through the big set windows when they cut the recording. You power down the monitor and take a step back; he removes his mic, takes off the jacket and leaves everything on a chair. There’s a murmur of “thank yous” and “good work” as the crew disperses.

Without saying a word, the two of you walk down the service hallway to the elevator and ride up to the hotel rooftop. There you find a few folding lounge chairs near the railing, marked with the initials of other stories and faded by the sun.

The Roman air in the early night is warm and almost humid. The city is calm. In the distance, you hear the hum of light traffic, a siren, the low buzz of life that never sleeps.

Rome in shades of pink and orange, with domes lit by the setting sun. No one else is there. Just the two of you, a couple of lounge chairs, and the soft breeze.

You sit sideways on one of the chairs, legs bent, always alert. He sits in the one next to you, close enough for your knees to brush. Rome’s evening air wraps you both in silence.

“You admitted you forgot who you were outside of football,” you say, voice low. “Not many would dare to say that on camera.”

He nods, without looking at you directly.

“I didn’t know I was going to say it. It just came out. I guess… it had been stuck inside for a long time.”

“How did it feel afterward?”

“Like I opened a door without knowing what’s behind it. But also… a little freer.”

You turn your head to look at him. He finally looks back at you.

“Has this project given you a new perspective too?” he asks, reflecting your unspoken question.

You sigh, tilt your head.

“Yes. Though sometimes it scares me.”

“Same,” he says. “But today, I felt like something started to become clearer.”

The sun sinks behind the skyline, and the orange strip of light brushes across your faces.

“So now what?” you ask, without moving.

He doesn’t answer with words. He just extends a hand toward yours. You touch it with your fingers.

“Now,” he says, leaning in a little closer, “we stop pretending this isn’t happening.”

You don’t need any more cues.

He leans in, golden light tracing his features, and his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s brief, pure, and unforced, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A kiss held back, but inevitable.

You pull apart slightly, foreheads touching, breathing in sync.

“This wasn’t in the script,” you whisper.

He smiles gently.

“It’s real. And that’s enough.”

You gaze at his mouth, his calm eyes, the reflection of Rome in them. Nothing else needs to be said. You just hold on to this second that wasn’t written, but has already changed everything.

He leans back into the lounge chair and closes his eyes for a moment.

“Then it’s worth it,” he adds.

And you, with your heart pounding wildly, can only nod. Because here, right here, everything has found its place.

[gmasttin]

Really Good, Actually | Kylian Mbappé fic

| Summary: A Madrid-based creative unexpectedly finds herself leading the rebranding of Kylian Mbappé. Between cold coffees, impossible deadlines, and tense creative sessions, something more than just a campaign begins to take shape. An ironic, intimate, and emotionally sharp story about the chaos of feeling alive just when you thought you were only surviving.

| 1.1k words

| You can read Chapters 1, 2, 3 and 4

| A/n: Small small chapter, but I think is a beautiful one. Let me know what you think 🤍

CHAPTER 5

The set is quiet. A silence of respect. The kind that isn’t planned, but falls over everyone when something, without warning, starts to matter more than expected.

Kylian is seated in front of the camera. 

Neutral background, warm lighting, mic clipped to the collar of his white t-shirt. There’s nothing heroic about the image. No training jersey, no decorative ball, no legendary poses. Just him. In a chair. Hands folded in his lap.

You’re behind the monitor, headphones on, pen in hand, as if you need to take notes on something you’re not sure if you’ll even want to remember. The director of photography gives a silent nod. The framing is perfect. Sound is clean. No one breathes louder than they should.

“Ready?” the interviewer asks, voice soft.

“Yes,” he answers. Low voice. Direct.

First come the usual questions. Childhood, memories. First matches. The same story he’s told a thousand times, but this time with a different rhythm. As if each word passes through a more personal filter. It doesn’t sound like he’s repeating. It sounds like, for the first time, he’s dusting it off.

And then comes the question you knew had to come.

“What was the move from PSG to Madrid like? Not just professionally… but personally.”

Silence. One second. Two.

He swallows. Looks at a fixed point, off-camera. And says:

“Hard.”

Another pause.

“Not because of the football. The football was there. As always. With its rules, its schedules, its numbers. The hard part was… everything else. The people. The noise. The version of me that others had in their heads. And I…” he stops. Looks down. Then back up.

“There was a moment,” he continues, “when I realized I didn’t know who I was outside the field. Literally. I didn’t know what I liked to do if I wasn’t training. Who to call if there wasn’t an event. What to say when no one was interviewing me.”

Your throat tightens.

You see him there, exposed. Not because of the script. Not out of obligation. But because, at some point, something opened.

“I felt like an account managed by someone else. Everything I was supposed to be… was already defined. And the worst part is, I accepted it. Because it was easier. More comfortable. Because, deep down, I believed that just being ‘the footballer’ would protect me. Gave me identity. Gave me an excuse.”

Silence in the room. No one dares to cut. The interviewer says nothing. Just nods, very slowly. You keep your eyes on the monitor, fingers clenched around the pen. You feel like you shouldn’t be listening to this. But you can’t look away.

That’s where it ends. The camera op exhales through his nose. The sound guy cleans his glasses even though they’re not dirty. The director gives the “cut” sign, but with a softness that feels like a prayer.

You take off your headphones. Turn off the monitor. Click your pen shut without noticing. Your whole body shifts into “processing” mode.

Kylian stays seated for a few more seconds. Then he stands. Looks toward where you are. He’s looking for you.

And you don’t know what face to make. Because what he just said… you weren’t expecting it. Not like that. So direct. Not so honest. So him.

He walks toward you calmly. Stops a meter away.

“Was it okay?” he asks, like he didn’t just break through a wall on camera.

“Yes,” you say, with more voice than you thought you had. “It was… very real.”

He nods.

“I’m not sure if that’s good or dangerous.”

“Sometimes it’s the same thing,” you say, without thinking too much.

And then he stays still. Says nothing more. Just looks at you.

Not like someone expecting a compliment. But like someone, for the first time, wants to be seen without the set dressing.

The start of the last light of the day filters through the big set windows when they cut the recording. You power down the monitor and take a step back; he removes his mic, takes off the jacket and leaves everything on a chair. There’s a murmur of “thank yous” and “good work” as the crew disperses.

Without saying a word, the two of you walk down the service hallway to the elevator and ride up to the hotel rooftop. There you find a few folding lounge chairs near the railing, marked with the initials of other stories and faded by the sun.

The Roman air in the early night is warm and almost humid. The city is calm. In the distance, you hear the hum of light traffic, a siren, the low buzz of life that never sleeps.

Rome in shades of pink and orange, with domes lit by the setting sun. No one else is there. Just the two of you, a couple of lounge chairs, and the soft breeze.

You sit sideways on one of the chairs, legs bent, always alert. He sits in the one next to you, close enough for your knees to brush. Rome’s evening air wraps you both in silence.

“You admitted you forgot who you were outside of football,” you say, voice low. “Not many would dare to say that on camera.”

He nods, without looking at you directly.

“I didn’t know I was going to say it. It just came out. I guess… it had been stuck inside for a long time.”

“How did it feel afterward?”

“Like I opened a door without knowing what’s behind it. But also… a little freer.”

You turn your head to look at him. He finally looks back at you.

“Has this project given you a new perspective too?” he asks, reflecting your unspoken question.

You sigh, tilt your head.

“Yes. Though sometimes it scares me.”

“Same,” he says. “But today, I felt like something started to become clearer.”

The sun sinks behind the skyline, and the orange strip of light brushes across your faces.

“So now what?” you ask, without moving.

He doesn’t answer with words. He just extends a hand toward yours. You touch it with your fingers.

“Now,” he says, leaning in a little closer, “we stop pretending this isn’t happening.”

You don’t need any more cues.

He leans in, golden light tracing his features, and his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s brief, pure, and unforced, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A kiss held back, but inevitable.

You pull apart slightly, foreheads touching, breathing in sync.

“This wasn’t in the script,” you whisper.

He smiles gently.

“It’s real. And that’s enough.”

You gaze at his mouth, his calm eyes, the reflection of Rome in them. Nothing else needs to be said. You just hold on to this second that wasn’t written, but has already changed everything.

He leans back into the lounge chair and closes his eyes for a moment.

“Then it’s worth it,” he adds.

And you, with your heart pounding wildly, can only nod. Because here, right here, everything has found its place.

[gmasttin]

Really Good, Actually | Kylian Mbappé fic

| Summary: A Madrid-based creative unexpectedly finds herself leading the rebranding of Kylian Mbappé. Between cold coffees, impossible deadlines, and tense creative sessions, something more than just a campaign begins to take shape. An ironic, intimate, and emotionally sharp story about the chaos of feeling alive just when you thought you were only surviving.

| 3.5k words

| You can already read Chapter 1, Chapter 2 and Chapter 3.

| A/n: So sorry for posting so late, but I got caught up with some projects I had to submit. Sorryyy. As always let me know what you think of the new chapter. Love youuu 🤍🤍

CHAPTER 4:

The Roman sun beats down mercilessly on the cobblestones, and you’re trying to make a three-second shot look natural, emotional, and, according to the director of photography, “as if he’s pondering the weight of his legacy.” Which, of course, is exactly the expression any human being wears while walking through a Trastevere street, dodging tourists, scooters, and the occasional baby stroller.

Kylian has repeated the same walk seven times.

“Do I have to keep staring at the horizon, or can I blink once in a while?” he asks, stopping mid-shot with one eyebrow raised.

“You can’t look like you know there’s a camera,” you reply from behind the monitor. “But you also can’t look like you’ve lost the ability to blink. Think of something… everyday, I don’t know.”

“Like what I’m going to eat afterward?”

“Perfect. But do it like that plate of pasta is going to retire you from football.”

He laughs. The camera operator laughs too. The shot is ruined because everyone’s broken character. And you, sitting in your folding chair with the word Directión—misspelled—on the back, can only sigh and look up at the sky, as if seeking divine help among the antennas and rooftops.

After the eighth take, you call a break. He sits on the edge of a fountain that, judging by its appearance and color, probably hasn’t been cleaned in years. He pulls out a bottle of water and gestures for you to come over. You do, iPad in hand, but with little desire to talk shots.

“Can you remind me again why we’re filming this in Rome if I’m from Bondy?” he asks, without sarcasm, in that curious tone he’s started using with you lately, the one that’s neither strictly professional nor quite intimate, but somewhere in between.

“The justification your PR boss gave me was super cheesy, and honestly, I forgot it two minutes later. Something about history, ruins, and reinvention. Like Rome has a copyright on deep metaphors.”

“Wow,” he says, feigning gravity. “I’m sure there are ruins in Bondy too. Emotional ones, at least.”

You laugh, and you see him smile too, that half-hidden grin he can’t suppress when he’s not performing for anyone.

“Maybe I’ll settle for this shot, having nice light and you not looking like an influencer on a self-help tour.”

“That’s my brand, right?” he replies, shrugging as he takes off his sunglasses and lets them hang from his T-shirt. “Strolling around with a reflective face, so people think I’m about to write a book.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Don’t rule it out. Working title: How to Fake an Existential Crisis While Still Paying the Bills.”

You can’t help bursting into a laugh, you know, the kind that sneaks out without warning, silent but deeply felt.

“Sounds like a bestseller,” you say as you review a photo the camera operator just AirDropped you. You look down at the iPad. The shot is good. The light is good. He looks… too good.

“My book wouldn’t have a prologue. It’d have a playlist.”

“Don’t start sounding like Guillermo, please.”

He looks at you with that gaze you know so well: tilted head, half-lidded eyes, as if weighing how much more to say.

“Songs that sound like someone’s about to decide something important,” he says. “But don’t actually say it.”

You understand perfectly what he means, because you realize you’ve been sounding like that too lately. It’s what happens daily in marketing: deep-sounding dialogues that promise to change minds but actually say nothing.

He stands and stretches his arms, as if the shoot is just an excuse and true exhaustion lies elsewhere. He passes by and brushes your shoulder with his fingertips, accidentally or perhaps not.

“Come on. Before this light stops forgiving our faces,” he says, walking back into the frame.

You stay seated half a second longer than necessary, watching him walk away, until you hear the throat-clear of the lighting manager, a woman in her fifties who doesn’t seem thrilled that you’ve lingered, mesmerized by Kylian’s return to the set. You offer her a sheepish smile, as if you’re a teenager caught in the act, and quickly return to your seat.

You sigh as you sit back down and settle in, lowering your sunglasses again to get a clear view of the monitor.

Half an hour has passed, and you’re still shooting. You look up at the sky, the cobbled façades, and the vines creeping up them—some neatly pruned, others left to their own devices. You can’t take it anymore. And neither can Kylian.

Precisely because of the latter, the shoot isn’t turning out as perfectly as his PR director wants. She seems not to understand that, as simple as reality is, Kylian doesn’t know how to act.

These three interminable hours of filming little scenes that will only serve as visual filler have made you realize that the emotional tone of “man who almost lost his life in the attempt” isn’t what Kylian wants. It’s what his PR team wants, because they know it sells, because they know people like it.

A quick, low whisper pulls you from the trance of thoughts that were helping you understand why nothing about the project felt natural.

“A coffee?” he says, looking at you like a teenager begging outside a supermarket for you to buy him alcohol. But you don’t have time to answer before he’s grabbed your forearm and is pulling you toward the makeshift mini-tent they’ve set up beside the set.

“I’m getting a taste for machine coffee,” he says as he prepares two cups. “With two sugar packets, it’s not so disgusting.”

“It’s three sugar packets, but I’ll let you have that one as a rookie mistake,” you reply, taking the small cardboard cup of coffee. You lean slightly against the table holding the coffee and pastries, turning your back to the set.

He lets out a small laugh and glances at you from the side as he adds the packets to his coffee.

“Man, you’re terrible,” you say with a small chuckle before taking a sip of your coffee.

“Terrible? Cut me some slack. I’m a footballer, not an actor. That wasn’t in the contract.”

“You were crazy about Cristiano, you knew exactly what you were getting into when you decided to be a footballer.”

“I’m not telling you anything else,” he says, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance, though the little smirk gives him away as he sips his coffee.

You continue your coffee in a companionable silence. Your back to the set, him with one hand on his hip, watching the shoot like an old man spending his morning watching roadworks. You can’t help but smile softly at the sight. He turns his gaze back to you and, with a smile and a subtle raise of one eyebrow, asks “What?” without words.

You shake your head.

“By the way, what were you watching last night?” he asks, in a light tone as he leans toward you, as if he wants a conversation totally detached from everything else.

“Watching?”

“Yes, you know, on TV. I could hear it from my room,” he says, raising his eyebrows in a suggestive gesture.

You look at him with a disgusted expression and roll your eyes before taking another sip of coffee.

“I wasn’t watching porn or anything weird. It was a movie.”

“I’m not judging. A late flight, late at night, you needed to unwind. It’s normal and natural,” he says, still with that look and grin.

You laugh softly and shake your head.

“What do I  have to do with the protagonists having sex in the movie? Nothing, it wasn’t porn, really.”

“So what was it?” he asks, tilting his head.

“I don’t know, I didn’t even understand it; it was in Italian. But it was like a rom-com. It was sweet.”

He looks at you as if you’ve just told him the biggest lie he’s ever heard.

“You, watching a rom-com?”

“Shut up.”

He looks at you with a stupid smirk that makes you roll your eyes. 

“Shut up,” you repeat, but you’re already smiling. He sees it. You see that he sees it. There’s a tiny pause, no more than a beat, and then he says it, very casually:

“Come on, let's get out of here for a bit. We’ve earned it.”

You blink. The team is still fussing with cables and filters. The director is arguing with the sound guy over background noise. No one notices you slipping away.

Five minutes later, you’re walking beside him through a quiet alley in Trastevere, gelato in hand (chocolate for him, lemon for you), passing under laundry strung between balconies and tiny windows with shutters painted in sun-faded greens.

“So this is your secret life, huh?” you ask. “Escaping shoots like a rebel and blending in with the civilians.”

“You’re one to talk. You look like you’re undercover as someone who enjoying life right now.”

You nudge him with your elbow. He almost spills his gelato. That only makes you laugh harder.

You end up in a little piazza, empty except for some kids chasing pigeons and a very serious nun texting furiously on a bench. There’s a stone fountain in the middle, and the water’s running in a soft trickle that sounds like summer.

You sit on the edge of the fountain. He stays standing at first, stretching his legs, twisting his back until it cracks.

“You’re not thirty yet” you scold. “That noise is illegal.”

“Tell that to my spine after two hours of "walk slowly but with purpose." That’s not a natural human pace, you know.”

You grin. He finally sits down next to you. Not too close, but not far either. Just enough so you can both feel the pull.

“So… what would you be doing right now if we weren’t here, pretending Rome means something to you?”

He thinks for a second.

“Probably… sleeping. I’m lying. Who knows what more brand deals I would have. Less rest, I would probably be doing anything”

You nod, slowly.

“That sounds nice.” you say ironically. 

“What about you?”

You lean back a little on your elbows, gazing up at the orange sky.

“I'd probably be at my desk pretending I’m fine with my job and that I don’t Google “how to disappear without quitting your life” twice a week.”

He chuckles.

“What comes up when you search that?”

“Weird forums. A lot of ex-vegans in Bali.”

“Promising.”

The silence that follows is warm, not awkward. The sun is setting in slow motion, the kind that gives everything a filter you don’t need to adjust.

“Hey” he says suddenly. “Do you want to see something you might not have seen before?”

Before you can answer, he’s up. You follow him through the piazza, you find yourselves in front of a small bookstore that looks closed. He presses his face to the glass.

“There. Look.”

Inside, there’s a copy of a children’s book with a cartoon version of him on the cover.

You gasp.

“Is that you?”

“That’s supposed to be me. It’s called Je m’apelle Kylian. My life for kids who dream of being fast and famous.”

“That is really cool. But, gotta be honest, they did you dirty in that cartoon.”

“The worst part is, it’s translated into Japanese. Someone in Osaka owns this.”

You both burst out laughing.

“You’re basically a fictional character” you tease.

“Maybe that’s why this trip feels weird. Like I’m accidentally hanging out with someone who’s not supposed to know the cartoon me.”

You glance at him, your smile fading just a little.

“Well, I’m hanging out with the real one. So don’t ruin it.”

That makes him look at you. Really look. His smile softens.

“Noted.”

You spend the next hour walking aimlessly. At some point, you end up sitting on the steps of an old building, eating warm focaccia from a bakery that smelled like heaven. You talk about stupid things: favorite cereals, irrational fears, whether he should bleach his hair blonde again or not.

And somewhere between laughing at his impression of a dramatic sports commentator and telling him about that time you accidentally emailed some screenshots to a client and your ex instead of Lucia (long story), it hits you.

You like this.

Not the project. Not the job.

Him. This. This version of him.

And the worst part is: he’s looking at you like maybe he likes this too.

But you don’t say it.

You just sit there, chewing slowly, smiling at the pigeons like they’re in on something you’re still figuring out.

After the focaccia, and laughing until you nearly cried because Kylian choked while trying to imitate an Italian coach from his teenage years, impressions are definitely not his thing. You wipe your hands with a bar napkin that smells vaguely like cheap hotel detergent and say:

“I need something sweet.”

“You?” he replies, feigning surprise. “Aren’t you sweet enough already with all your emotional copy lines?”

You elbow him. He pretends it hurts. Looks at you like you’re about to challenge him to a spoon duel.

“Tiramisu?” he suggests, and you nod enthusiastically. Rome and Italian dessert, what could possibly go wrong?

A few minutes later, you’re in a small trattoria with checkered tablecloths and waiters who look at you like they’ve seen it all. Kylian puts on a black cap, pulls it down so low it looks like he’s hiding from the actual FBI, and you both sit with your backs to the street, not for strategy, but because you’ve accepted that if you get recognized, the only option is to eat your dessert fast and run.

The waiter brings two coffees and two tiramisus on white plates, dusted with cocoa and Pinterest-perfect. Everything looks promising. Until you take your first bite.

Silence. He watches you.

“What? Too sweet?”

“It’s… salty.”

“Salty?”

He takes a bite of his. Chews. Looks at you.

“What did you order, Y/N?” he asks, looking at you like you’re playing for the opposite team. “This tastes like betrayal.”

You cover your mouth not to spit out your laugh. The waiter passes by and, with the half-made-up Italian you learned on Duolingo, you mumble:

“Scusi… questo è un po’… salato?”

The waiter nods solemnly and says something neither of you fully understand, but probably means, “it is what it is.”

You leave the restaurant with cocoa still clinging to the roof of your mouth and a minor trauma that will likely become an inside joke for the rest of the shoot.

You’re walking down a narrow street when his phone rings. He looks at the screen and frowns.

“Miss PR lady. Again,” he says, using that tone he saves for talking about Julia, his PR manager.

“Do you have to answer?”

“Probably. But I don’t want to.”

“Tell her you’re in a session of creative introspection, deeply inspired by her quote about Rome.”

“What if I tell her I’ve just discovered the taste of failure?”

You laugh. He answers.

“All good, yeah. I’m around, checking out locations. Everything’s in order.” He hangs up as fast as he can. Looks at you and say:

“Keep walking? Or do you want to escape in style?”

“What kind of style are we talking about?”

“A Vespa.”

“You have one?”

“No. But Rome always has one if you know where to look.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re standing in front of a tiny garage with a sign that reads Rent & Go and a white Vespa parked outside like it’s been waiting for you.

“You know how to drive that?” you ask, doubtful.

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“Perfect. Because you’re driving.”

“What?”

But before you can protest properly, he’s already paid, signed a paper, probably without reading it, and is handing you a helmet that looks like it came from a '90s music video.

“Kylian, I don’t know how to start this thing.”

“So? No one does until they try.”

“That’s what people say right before going viral for crashing into a wall.”

He hops on behind you, wraps his arms around you to help with the controls, and says, voice close to your helmet: “Just go easy on the throttle and don’t kill anyone. Starting with me.”

You take a deep breath, turn the key. The engine growls. Well, coughs. You touch the gas, very gently… and the Vespa lurches forward so hard you nearly slam into a flower cart.

“Stop, stop, stop!” he shouts, laughing.

“I am stoping!”

“You’re screaming!”

The scooter halts. You turn slowly, heart racing. He’s crying from laughter.

“This is not funny.”

You breathe. Take control again. And this time, the Vespa moves forward with a slowness that almost makes you proud. You’re not going fast. But you’re going.

You ride through a couple of streets, past a few fountains, and the city starts wrapping itself in that pre-night blue that makes everything look more beautiful.

At a corner, a street musician plays something soft on his guitar. He squeezes your waist slightly and leans into your back without saying a word.

You reach the hotel a little later. Park clumsily. You both get off, laughing. Remove your helmets. His hair is a mess and his face lit up. Your cheeks are warm.

“Not bad,” he says. “For your first time.”

“Not bad,” you reply. “For a ridiculous idea.”

He nods. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world: “I owe you a good dessert.”

“Yeah, but you’re not picking the place.”

“Fair. Tomorrow. Coffee, walk, and no salt in the dessert.”

You ride up to the hotel in silence, your laughter still trailing down the hallway. Each to your own room. But as you close your door, with keys in hand and the motor still buzzing in your body, you know something inside you, something small, unexpected, has shifted gears too.

Your room is dim when you walk in. Only the desk lamp spills warm light onto the curtains. You slip off your shoes, leave them by the bed, and collapse onto the mattress with zero dignity. You don’t even change. You just breathe. 

You replay the Vespa ride in your head. His laugh in your ear. The salty tiramisu. His hand on your waist like trusting you was the most natural thing in the world.

And you, feeling… different. Lighter. As if, just for an afternoon, the weight of everything had redistributed itself without warning.

You don’t want to overthink it, but your brain refuses to cooperate.

What if this isn’t just a project?What if it isn’t just attraction either?What if you’re starting to— 

No. Stop. Don’t say it. Don’t think it.

You grab your phone to distract yourself and see two missed calls from Lucía and five messages in all caps:

| LUCÍA: ARE YOU ALIVE? ARE YOU WITH HIM? I NEED DETAILS I’M CALLING YOU IN 10 SECONDS

And just as promised, a video call comes in. You answer lying on your back, phone held above your face, expression prepped for interrogation.

“I hate you,” Lucía says as soon as her face appears on-screen. “You have the face of someone who just lived a romantic fantasy with a getaway included.”

“I ate a tiramisu that tasted like the Dead Sea, nearly ran over a florist on a Vespa, and got arrested by a waiter’s stare. Does that count?”

“Counts as narrative foreplay. But tell me the truth: do you like him?”

“The tiramisu?”

“Don’t play dumb. I know you like tiramisu.”

You cover your eyes with one hand.

“Lucía…”

“No. Don’t make me use the test. I have it ready.”

“What test?”

She disappears briefly off-screen. You hear papers rustling before she comes back with a handwritten page.

“Pay attention. First question: have you caught yourself smiling alone in the last 24 hours?”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Second: have you imagined what a Sunday with him would be like, no cameras involved?”

You go quiet.

“Aha. Third: have you felt afraid?”

“Afraid?”

“Yes. Not of him. Of you. Afraid that you might really start to like him. Because you do that, you know? When someone gets to you, you run. You turn it into a joke. You give it a nickname. You shrink it. It’s your defense mechanism, babe.”

You stare at her through the screen.

“Do you have a secret psychology degree?”

“No, but I’ve been watching your patterns repeat like Instagram reels for years.”

You don’t know what to say, because she’s right. Because Lucía is always right when you’re not ready to hear it.

“So what do I do?” you finally ask.

She shrugs.

“Nothing. Just... don’t kill it before it starts. There’ll be plenty of time to ruin it later, if you really want. But for now, just enjoy the part that isn’t a disaster yet.”

You sigh. And realize you’re smiling. Again.

“You going to keep going with the test?”

“No. You already passed. But if tomorrow you text me that he kissed you on a cobblestone street lit by vintage lampposts, you owe me a bottle of wine.”

 “Deal.”

Lucía blows you a kiss from the screen, sends a ridiculous otter emoji (your shared code for “stop thinking and sleep”), and ends the call.

You stay there, on the bed, in silence. With the soft light. And a heart doing things that weren’t in the original script.

You look at the ceiling. And yes, you smile. Again.

[gmasttin]

🤍📖 Really Good, Actually | Kylian Mbappé fic 🔗

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

🌙💕Win a Date With Mbappé! | Kylian Mbappé fic

Chapter 1

[gmasttin]

Really Good, Actually | Kylian Mbappé fic

| Summary: A Madrid-based creative unexpectedly finds herself leading the rebranding of Kylian Mbappé. Between cold coffees, impossible deadlines, and tense creative sessions, something more than just a campaign begins to take shape. An ironic, intimate, and emotionally sharp story about the chaos of feeling alive just when you thought you were only surviving.

| 3.5k words

| You can already read Chapter 1, Chapter 2 and Chapter 3.

| A/n: So sorry for posting so late, but I got caught up with some projects I had to submit. Sorryyy. As always let me know what you think of the new chapter. Love youuu 🤍🤍

CHAPTER 4:

The Roman sun beats down mercilessly on the cobblestones, and you’re trying to make a three-second shot look natural, emotional, and, according to the director of photography, “as if he’s pondering the weight of his legacy.” Which, of course, is exactly the expression any human being wears while walking through a Trastevere street, dodging tourists, scooters, and the occasional baby stroller.

Kylian has repeated the same walk seven times.

“Do I have to keep staring at the horizon, or can I blink once in a while?” he asks, stopping mid-shot with one eyebrow raised.

“You can’t look like you know there’s a camera,” you reply from behind the monitor. “But you also can’t look like you’ve lost the ability to blink. Think of something… everyday, I don’t know.”

“Like what I’m going to eat afterward?”

“Perfect. But do it like that plate of pasta is going to retire you from football.”

He laughs. The camera operator laughs too. The shot is ruined because everyone’s broken character. And you, sitting in your folding chair with the word Directión—misspelled—on the back, can only sigh and look up at the sky, as if seeking divine help among the antennas and rooftops.

After the eighth take, you call a break. He sits on the edge of a fountain that, judging by its appearance and color, probably hasn’t been cleaned in years. He pulls out a bottle of water and gestures for you to come over. You do, iPad in hand, but with little desire to talk shots.

“Can you remind me again why we’re filming this in Rome if I’m from Bondy?” he asks, without sarcasm, in that curious tone he’s started using with you lately, the one that’s neither strictly professional nor quite intimate, but somewhere in between.

“The justification your PR boss gave me was super cheesy, and honestly, I forgot it two minutes later. Something about history, ruins, and reinvention. Like Rome has a copyright on deep metaphors.”

“Wow,” he says, feigning gravity. “I’m sure there are ruins in Bondy too. Emotional ones, at least.”

You laugh, and you see him smile too, that half-hidden grin he can’t suppress when he’s not performing for anyone.

“Maybe I’ll settle for this shot, having nice light and you not looking like an influencer on a self-help tour.”

“That’s my brand, right?” he replies, shrugging as he takes off his sunglasses and lets them hang from his T-shirt. “Strolling around with a reflective face, so people think I’m about to write a book.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Don’t rule it out. Working title: How to Fake an Existential Crisis While Still Paying the Bills.”

You can’t help bursting into a laugh, you know, the kind that sneaks out without warning, silent but deeply felt.

“Sounds like a bestseller,” you say as you review a photo the camera operator just AirDropped you. You look down at the iPad. The shot is good. The light is good. He looks… too good.

“My book wouldn’t have a prologue. It’d have a playlist.”

“Don’t start sounding like Guillermo, please.”

He looks at you with that gaze you know so well: tilted head, half-lidded eyes, as if weighing how much more to say.

“Songs that sound like someone’s about to decide something important,” he says. “But don’t actually say it.”

You understand perfectly what he means, because you realize you’ve been sounding like that too lately. It’s what happens daily in marketing: deep-sounding dialogues that promise to change minds but actually say nothing.

He stands and stretches his arms, as if the shoot is just an excuse and true exhaustion lies elsewhere. He passes by and brushes your shoulder with his fingertips, accidentally or perhaps not.

“Come on. Before this light stops forgiving our faces,” he says, walking back into the frame.

You stay seated half a second longer than necessary, watching him walk away, until you hear the throat-clear of the lighting manager, a woman in her fifties who doesn’t seem thrilled that you’ve lingered, mesmerized by Kylian’s return to the set. You offer her a sheepish smile, as if you’re a teenager caught in the act, and quickly return to your seat.

You sigh as you sit back down and settle in, lowering your sunglasses again to get a clear view of the monitor.

Half an hour has passed, and you’re still shooting. You look up at the sky, the cobbled façades, and the vines creeping up them—some neatly pruned, others left to their own devices. You can’t take it anymore. And neither can Kylian.

Precisely because of the latter, the shoot isn’t turning out as perfectly as his PR director wants. She seems not to understand that, as simple as reality is, Kylian doesn’t know how to act.

These three interminable hours of filming little scenes that will only serve as visual filler have made you realize that the emotional tone of “man who almost lost his life in the attempt” isn’t what Kylian wants. It’s what his PR team wants, because they know it sells, because they know people like it.

A quick, low whisper pulls you from the trance of thoughts that were helping you understand why nothing about the project felt natural.

“A coffee?” he says, looking at you like a teenager begging outside a supermarket for you to buy him alcohol. But you don’t have time to answer before he’s grabbed your forearm and is pulling you toward the makeshift mini-tent they’ve set up beside the set.

“I’m getting a taste for machine coffee,” he says as he prepares two cups. “With two sugar packets, it’s not so disgusting.”

“It’s three sugar packets, but I’ll let you have that one as a rookie mistake,” you reply, taking the small cardboard cup of coffee. You lean slightly against the table holding the coffee and pastries, turning your back to the set.

He lets out a small laugh and glances at you from the side as he adds the packets to his coffee.

“Man, you’re terrible,” you say with a small chuckle before taking a sip of your coffee.

“Terrible? Cut me some slack. I’m a footballer, not an actor. That wasn’t in the contract.”

“You were crazy about Cristiano, you knew exactly what you were getting into when you decided to be a footballer.”

“I’m not telling you anything else,” he says, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance, though the little smirk gives him away as he sips his coffee.

You continue your coffee in a companionable silence. Your back to the set, him with one hand on his hip, watching the shoot like an old man spending his morning watching roadworks. You can’t help but smile softly at the sight. He turns his gaze back to you and, with a smile and a subtle raise of one eyebrow, asks “What?” without words.

You shake your head.

“By the way, what were you watching last night?” he asks, in a light tone as he leans toward you, as if he wants a conversation totally detached from everything else.

“Watching?”

“Yes, you know, on TV. I could hear it from my room,” he says, raising his eyebrows in a suggestive gesture.

You look at him with a disgusted expression and roll your eyes before taking another sip of coffee.

“I wasn’t watching porn or anything weird. It was a movie.”

“I’m not judging. A late flight, late at night, you needed to unwind. It’s normal and natural,” he says, still with that look and grin.

You laugh softly and shake your head.

“What do I  have to do with the protagonists having sex in the movie? Nothing, it wasn’t porn, really.”

“So what was it?” he asks, tilting his head.

“I don’t know, I didn’t even understand it; it was in Italian. But it was like a rom-com. It was sweet.”

He looks at you as if you’ve just told him the biggest lie he’s ever heard.

“You, watching a rom-com?”

“Shut up.”

He looks at you with a stupid smirk that makes you roll your eyes. 

“Shut up,” you repeat, but you’re already smiling. He sees it. You see that he sees it. There’s a tiny pause, no more than a beat, and then he says it, very casually:

“Come on, let's get out of here for a bit. We’ve earned it.”

You blink. The team is still fussing with cables and filters. The director is arguing with the sound guy over background noise. No one notices you slipping away.

Five minutes later, you’re walking beside him through a quiet alley in Trastevere, gelato in hand (chocolate for him, lemon for you), passing under laundry strung between balconies and tiny windows with shutters painted in sun-faded greens.

“So this is your secret life, huh?” you ask. “Escaping shoots like a rebel and blending in with the civilians.”

“You’re one to talk. You look like you’re undercover as someone who enjoying life right now.”

You nudge him with your elbow. He almost spills his gelato. That only makes you laugh harder.

You end up in a little piazza, empty except for some kids chasing pigeons and a very serious nun texting furiously on a bench. There’s a stone fountain in the middle, and the water’s running in a soft trickle that sounds like summer.

You sit on the edge of the fountain. He stays standing at first, stretching his legs, twisting his back until it cracks.

“You’re not thirty yet” you scold. “That noise is illegal.”

“Tell that to my spine after two hours of "walk slowly but with purpose." That’s not a natural human pace, you know.”

You grin. He finally sits down next to you. Not too close, but not far either. Just enough so you can both feel the pull.

“So… what would you be doing right now if we weren’t here, pretending Rome means something to you?”

He thinks for a second.

“Probably… sleeping. I’m lying. Who knows what more brand deals I would have. Less rest, I would probably be doing anything”

You nod, slowly.

“That sounds nice.” you say ironically. 

“What about you?”

You lean back a little on your elbows, gazing up at the orange sky.

“I'd probably be at my desk pretending I’m fine with my job and that I don’t Google “how to disappear without quitting your life” twice a week.”

He chuckles.

“What comes up when you search that?”

“Weird forums. A lot of ex-vegans in Bali.”

“Promising.”

The silence that follows is warm, not awkward. The sun is setting in slow motion, the kind that gives everything a filter you don’t need to adjust.

“Hey” he says suddenly. “Do you want to see something you might not have seen before?”

Before you can answer, he’s up. You follow him through the piazza, you find yourselves in front of a small bookstore that looks closed. He presses his face to the glass.

“There. Look.”

Inside, there’s a copy of a children’s book with a cartoon version of him on the cover.

You gasp.

“Is that you?”

“That’s supposed to be me. It’s called Je m’apelle Kylian. My life for kids who dream of being fast and famous.”

“That is really cool. But, gotta be honest, they did you dirty in that cartoon.”

“The worst part is, it’s translated into Japanese. Someone in Osaka owns this.”

You both burst out laughing.

“You’re basically a fictional character” you tease.

“Maybe that’s why this trip feels weird. Like I’m accidentally hanging out with someone who’s not supposed to know the cartoon me.”

You glance at him, your smile fading just a little.

“Well, I’m hanging out with the real one. So don’t ruin it.”

That makes him look at you. Really look. His smile softens.

“Noted.”

You spend the next hour walking aimlessly. At some point, you end up sitting on the steps of an old building, eating warm focaccia from a bakery that smelled like heaven. You talk about stupid things: favorite cereals, irrational fears, whether he should bleach his hair blonde again or not.

And somewhere between laughing at his impression of a dramatic sports commentator and telling him about that time you accidentally emailed some screenshots to a client and your ex instead of Lucia (long story), it hits you.

You like this.

Not the project. Not the job.

Him. This. This version of him.

And the worst part is: he’s looking at you like maybe he likes this too.

But you don’t say it.

You just sit there, chewing slowly, smiling at the pigeons like they’re in on something you’re still figuring out.

After the focaccia, and laughing until you nearly cried because Kylian choked while trying to imitate an Italian coach from his teenage years, impressions are definitely not his thing. You wipe your hands with a bar napkin that smells vaguely like cheap hotel detergent and say:

“I need something sweet.”

“You?” he replies, feigning surprise. “Aren’t you sweet enough already with all your emotional copy lines?”

You elbow him. He pretends it hurts. Looks at you like you’re about to challenge him to a spoon duel.

“Tiramisu?” he suggests, and you nod enthusiastically. Rome and Italian dessert, what could possibly go wrong?

A few minutes later, you’re in a small trattoria with checkered tablecloths and waiters who look at you like they’ve seen it all. Kylian puts on a black cap, pulls it down so low it looks like he’s hiding from the actual FBI, and you both sit with your backs to the street, not for strategy, but because you’ve accepted that if you get recognized, the only option is to eat your dessert fast and run.

The waiter brings two coffees and two tiramisus on white plates, dusted with cocoa and Pinterest-perfect. Everything looks promising. Until you take your first bite.

Silence. He watches you.

“What? Too sweet?”

“It’s… salty.”

“Salty?”

He takes a bite of his. Chews. Looks at you.

“What did you order, Y/N?” he asks, looking at you like you’re playing for the opposite team. “This tastes like betrayal.”

You cover your mouth not to spit out your laugh. The waiter passes by and, with the half-made-up Italian you learned on Duolingo, you mumble:

“Scusi… questo è un po’… salato?”

The waiter nods solemnly and says something neither of you fully understand, but probably means, “it is what it is.”

You leave the restaurant with cocoa still clinging to the roof of your mouth and a minor trauma that will likely become an inside joke for the rest of the shoot.

You’re walking down a narrow street when his phone rings. He looks at the screen and frowns.

“Miss PR lady. Again,” he says, using that tone he saves for talking about Julia, his PR manager.

“Do you have to answer?”

“Probably. But I don’t want to.”

“Tell her you’re in a session of creative introspection, deeply inspired by her quote about Rome.”

“What if I tell her I’ve just discovered the taste of failure?”

You laugh. He answers.

“All good, yeah. I’m around, checking out locations. Everything’s in order.” He hangs up as fast as he can. Looks at you and say:

“Keep walking? Or do you want to escape in style?”

“What kind of style are we talking about?”

“A Vespa.”

“You have one?”

“No. But Rome always has one if you know where to look.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re standing in front of a tiny garage with a sign that reads Rent & Go and a white Vespa parked outside like it’s been waiting for you.

“You know how to drive that?” you ask, doubtful.

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“Perfect. Because you’re driving.”

“What?”

But before you can protest properly, he’s already paid, signed a paper, probably without reading it, and is handing you a helmet that looks like it came from a '90s music video.

“Kylian, I don’t know how to start this thing.”

“So? No one does until they try.”

“That’s what people say right before going viral for crashing into a wall.”

He hops on behind you, wraps his arms around you to help with the controls, and says, voice close to your helmet: “Just go easy on the throttle and don’t kill anyone. Starting with me.”

You take a deep breath, turn the key. The engine growls. Well, coughs. You touch the gas, very gently… and the Vespa lurches forward so hard you nearly slam into a flower cart.

“Stop, stop, stop!” he shouts, laughing.

“I am stoping!”

“You’re screaming!”

The scooter halts. You turn slowly, heart racing. He’s crying from laughter.

“This is not funny.”

You breathe. Take control again. And this time, the Vespa moves forward with a slowness that almost makes you proud. You’re not going fast. But you’re going.

You ride through a couple of streets, past a few fountains, and the city starts wrapping itself in that pre-night blue that makes everything look more beautiful.

At a corner, a street musician plays something soft on his guitar. He squeezes your waist slightly and leans into your back without saying a word.

You reach the hotel a little later. Park clumsily. You both get off, laughing. Remove your helmets. His hair is a mess and his face lit up. Your cheeks are warm.

“Not bad,” he says. “For your first time.”

“Not bad,” you reply. “For a ridiculous idea.”

He nods. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world: “I owe you a good dessert.”

“Yeah, but you’re not picking the place.”

“Fair. Tomorrow. Coffee, walk, and no salt in the dessert.”

You ride up to the hotel in silence, your laughter still trailing down the hallway. Each to your own room. But as you close your door, with keys in hand and the motor still buzzing in your body, you know something inside you, something small, unexpected, has shifted gears too.

Your room is dim when you walk in. Only the desk lamp spills warm light onto the curtains. You slip off your shoes, leave them by the bed, and collapse onto the mattress with zero dignity. You don’t even change. You just breathe. 

You replay the Vespa ride in your head. His laugh in your ear. The salty tiramisu. His hand on your waist like trusting you was the most natural thing in the world.

And you, feeling… different. Lighter. As if, just for an afternoon, the weight of everything had redistributed itself without warning.

You don’t want to overthink it, but your brain refuses to cooperate.

What if this isn’t just a project?

What if it isn’t just attraction either?

What if you’re starting to— 

No. Stop. Don’t say it. Don’t think it.

You grab your phone to distract yourself and see two missed calls from Lucía and five messages in all caps:

| LUCÍA: ARE YOU ALIVE? ARE YOU WITH HIM? I NEED DETAILS I’M CALLING YOU IN 10 SECONDS

And just as promised, a video call comes in. You answer lying on your back, phone held above your face, expression prepped for interrogation.

“I hate you,” Lucía says as soon as her face appears on-screen. “You have the face of someone who just lived a romantic fantasy with a getaway included.”

“I ate a tiramisu that tasted like the Dead Sea, nearly ran over a florist on a Vespa, and got arrested by a waiter’s stare. Does that count?”

“Counts as narrative foreplay. But tell me the truth: do you like him?”

“The tiramisu?”

“Don’t play dumb. I know you like tiramisu.”

You cover your eyes with one hand.

“Lucía…”

“No. Don’t make me use the test. I have it ready.”

“What test?”

She disappears briefly off-screen. You hear papers rustling before she comes back with a handwritten page.

“Pay attention. First question: have you caught yourself smiling alone in the last 24 hours?”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Second: have you imagined what a Sunday with him would be like, no cameras involved?”

You go quiet.

“Aha. Third: have you felt afraid?”

“Afraid?”

“Yes. Not of him. Of you. Afraid that you might really start to like him. Because you do that, you know? When someone gets to you, you run. You turn it into a joke. You give it a nickname. You shrink it. It’s your defense mechanism, babe.”

You stare at her through the screen.

“Do you have a secret psychology degree?”

“No, but I’ve been watching your patterns repeat like Instagram reels for years.”

You don’t know what to say, because she’s right. Because Lucía is always right when you’re not ready to hear it.

“So what do I do?” you finally ask.

She shrugs.

“Nothing. Just... don’t kill it before it starts. There’ll be plenty of time to ruin it later, if you really want. But for now, just enjoy the part that isn’t a disaster yet.”

You sigh. And realize you’re smiling. Again.

“You going to keep going with the test?”

“No. You already passed. But if tomorrow you text me that he kissed you on a cobblestone street lit by vintage lampposts, you owe me a bottle of wine.”

 “Deal.”

Lucía blows you a kiss from the screen, sends a ridiculous otter emoji (your shared code for “stop thinking and sleep”), and ends the call.

You stay there, on the bed, in silence. With the soft light. And a heart doing things that weren’t in the original script.

You look at the ceiling. And yes, you smile. Again.

[gmasttin]

how many chapters is really good, actually going to be? I love the story so far 🥰

hiiii, I’m glad you love it so far

my plan is to make it at least 8 or 10 chapters long 🤍

[gmasttin]

Really Good, Actually | Kylian Mbappé fic

| A/n: This isn’t chapter 4, but a little sneak peek of the beginning of it. I still have some parts to refine, and then I need to translate them. It’s a chapter that I think is really cool, and honestly I want to prepare it carefully so it doesn’t lose its essence in translation. I think you’re going to love it, it has the strongest rom-com vibes so far. Here’s the little preview! Let me know what you think; the full chapter will be ready tomorrow 🤍🤍

CHAPTER 4 SNEAK PEEK

The Roman sun beats down mercilessly on the cobblestones, and you’re trying to make a three-second shot look natural, emotional, and, according to the director of photography, “as if he’s pondering the weight of his legacy.” Which, of course, is exactly the expression any human being wears while walking through a Trastevere street, dodging tourists, scooters, and the occasional baby stroller.

Kylian has repeated the same walk seven times.

“Do I have to keep staring at the horizon, or can I blink once in a while?” he asks, stopping mid-shot with one eyebrow raised.

“You can’t look like you know there’s a camera,” you reply from behind the monitor. “But you also can’t look like you’ve lost the ability to blink. Think of something… everyday, I don’t know.”

“Like what I’m going to eat afterward?”

“Perfect. But do it like that plate of pasta is going to retire you from football.”

He laughs. The camera operator laughs too. The shot is ruined because everyone’s broken character. And you, sitting in your folding chair with the word Directión—misspelled—on the back, can only sigh and look up at the sky, as if seeking divine help among the antennas and rooftops.

After the eighth take, you call a break. He sits on the edge of a fountain that, judging by its appearance and color, probably hasn’t been cleaned in years. He pulls out a bottle of water and gestures for you to come over. You do, iPad in hand, but with little desire to talk shots.

“Can you remind me again why we’re filming this in Rome if I’m from Bondy?” he asks, without sarcasm, in that curious tone he’s started using with you lately, the one that’s neither strictly professional nor quite intimate, but somewhere in between.

“The justification your PR boss gave me was super cheesy, and honestly, I forgot it two minutes later. Something about history, ruins, and reinvention. Like Rome has a copyright on deep metaphors.”

“Wow,” he says, feigning gravity. “I’m sure there are ruins in Bondy too. Emotional ones, at least.”

You laugh, and you see him smile too, that half-hidden grin he can’t suppress when he’s not performing for anyone.

“Maybe I’ll settle for this shot, having nice light and you not looking like an influencer on a self-help tour.”

“That’s my brand, right?” he replies, shrugging as he takes off his sunglasses and lets them hang from his T-shirt. “Strolling around with a reflective face, so people think I’m about to write a book.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Don’t rule it out. Working title: How to Fake an Existential Crisis While Still Paying the Bills.”

You can’t help bursting into a laugh, you know, the kind that sneaks out without warning, silent but deeply felt.

“Sounds like a bestseller,” you say as you review a photo the camera operator just AirDropped you. You look down at the iPad. The shot is good. The light is good. He looks… too good.

“My book wouldn’t have a prologue. It’d have a playlist.”

“Don’t start sounding like Guillermo, please.”

He looks at you with that gaze you know so well: tilted head, half-lidded eyes, as if weighing how much more to say.

“Songs that sound like someone’s about to decide something important,” he says. “But don’t actually say it.”

You understand perfectly what he means, because you realize you’ve been sounding like that too lately. It’s what happens daily in marketing: deep-sounding dialogues that promise to change minds but actually say nothing.

He stands and stretches his arms, as if the shoot is just an excuse and true exhaustion lies elsewhere. He passes by and brushes your shoulder with his fingertips, accidentally or perhaps not.

“Come on. Before this light stops forgiving our faces,” he says, walking back into the frame.

You stay seated half a second longer than necessary, watching him walk away, until you hear the throat-clear of the lighting manager, a woman in her fifties who doesn’t seem thrilled that you’ve lingered, mesmerized by Kylian’s return to the set. You offer her a sheepish smile, as if you’re a teenager caught in the act, and quickly return to your seat.

You sigh as you sit back down and settle in, lowering your sunglasses again to get a clear view of the monitor.

Half an hour has passed, and you’re still shooting. You look up at the sky, the cobbled façades, and the vines creeping up them—some neatly pruned, others left to their own devices. You can’t take it anymore. And neither can Kylian.

Precisely because of the latter, the shoot isn’t turning out as perfectly as his PR director wants. She seems not to understand that, as simple as reality is, Kylian doesn’t know how to act.

These three interminable hours of filming little scenes that will only serve as visual filler have made you realize that the emotional tone of “man who almost lost his life in the attempt” isn’t what Kylian wants. It’s what his PR team wants, because they know it sells, because they know people like it.

A quick, low whisper pulls you from the trance of thoughts that were helping you understand why nothing about the project felt natural.

“A coffee?” he says, looking at you like a teenager begging outside a supermarket for you to buy him alcohol. But you don’t have time to answer before he’s grabbed your forearm and is pulling you toward the makeshift mini-tent they’ve set up beside the set.

“I’m getting a taste for machine coffee,” he says as he prepares two cups. “With two sugar packets, it’s not so disgusting.”

“It’s three sugar packets, but I’ll let you have that one as a rookie mistake,” you reply, taking the small cardboard cup of coffee. You lean slightly against the table holding the coffee and pastries, turning your back to the set.

He lets out a small laugh and glances at you from the side as he adds the packets to his coffee.

“Man, you’re terrible,” you say with a small chuckle before taking a sip of your coffee.

“Terrible? Cut me some slack. I’m a footballer, not an actor. That wasn’t in the contract.”

“You were crazy about Cristiano, you knew exactly what you were getting into when you decided to be a footballer.”

“I’m not telling you anything else,” he says, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance, though the little smirk gives him away as he sips his coffee.

You continue your coffee in a companionable silence. Your back to the set, him with one hand on his hip, watching the shoot like an old man spending his morning watching roadworks. You can’t help but smile softly at the sight. He turns his gaze back to you and, with a smile and a subtle raise of one eyebrow, asks “What?” without words.

You shake your head.

“By the way, what were you watching last night?” he asks, in a light tone as he leans toward you, as if he wants a conversation totally detached from everything else.

“Watching?”

“Yes, you know, on TV. I could hear it from my room,” he says, raising his eyebrows in a suggestive gesture.

You look at him with a disgusted expression and roll your eyes before taking another sip of coffee.

“I wasn’t watching porn or anything weird. It was a movie.”

“I’m not judging. A late flight, late at night, you needed to unwind. It’s normal and natural,” he says, still with that look and grin.

You laugh softly and shake your head.

“What do I have to do with the protagonists having sex in the movie? Nothing, it wasn’t porn, really.”

“So what was it?” he asks, tilting his head.

“I don’t know, I didn’t even understand it; it was in Italian. But it was like a rom-com. It was sweet.”

He looks at you as if you’ve just told him the biggest lie he’s ever heard.

“You, watching a rom-com?”

“Shut up.”

[gmasttin]

Hey are you still wriitng for Really Good, Actually

yeees, I have Chapter 4 and 5 written but I have to translate them to English.

I’m doing my internship as an student teacher right now, so I’ve been having little to non time 🙃

But I think chapter 4 and 5 will be out by this week 🤍

[gmasttin]

Blonde Kylian was a thing I will never get over

Lord 😮‍💨

[gmasttin]

Really Good, Actually | Kylian Mbappé fic

| Summary: A Madrid-based creative unexpectedly finds herself leading the rebranding of Kylian Mbappé. Between cold coffees, impossible deadlines, and tense creative sessions, something more than just a campaign begins to take shape. An ironic, intimate, and emotionally sharp story about the chaos of feeling alive just when you thought you were only surviving.

| 3.9k words

| You can read Chapter 1 and Chapter 2

CHAPTER 3:

Monday starts with a word no one around you seems willing to say out loud: feedback.

But it’s everywhere, in your inbox, the comments on the shared PDF, the voice notes your boss records like he’s telling bedtime stories to an insomniac toddler.

And you, who had the wildly naive hope of making some quiet progress today, are now trapped in an endless chain of revisions, versions, nuances, and phrases like “this is good, but maybe we could find something more authentic.”

More authentic than what, you have no idea. Maybe your current existence.

You honestly can’t remember the last time someone sent you a message that said: “it’s perfect, don’t change a thing.” In your world, feedback is always long, contradictory, and laced with passive-aggressive gems like: “this works, but could we push it a little further?”

Lately, all you get are scattered comments from his PR head, each one soaked in that kind of ambiguity that should honestly be illegal:

“We think the tone is good, but is there a way to make it warmer without losing depth?” “We love the sincerity, but we don’t want it to feel vulnerable.” “Kylian’s read it and says it’s going well.” (Which part? When? What did he understand?)

It’s all like that—vague opinions, nonspecific compliments, contradictory questions sent your way like cryptic horoscopes. One message literally says:

“Do you think the angle is too intimate?” And four lines down: “We love the emotional closeness. Let’s amplify it.”

What doesn’t show up anywhere, at all, is Kylian.

Kylian isn’t in the office. Not in your inbox. Not on Zoom. No signs of life, except for the occasional “seen” check on the group chat you share with his team.

The first time you see the little blue tick, your emotional stomach twists a little. The second time, you just sip your coffee and ignore it. The third, you don’t even bother reacting.

It’s been a week since you saw him.

No one mentions it directly, but the silence around his name has the exact shape of the space he used to take up when he’d just show up. Unannounced, unapologetic, settling into the chair next to yours like he belonged there.

And you keep telling yourself this is better. Now you can work with more focus. More method. More efficiency. That you don’t need to see him to know what he’s trying to say. That this is work, professional, strategic, logical.

But that’s not entirely true.

Because every line you write, every block you structure, every mental image you craft… has him at the center.

And not in a “campaign protagonist” way. In a “this only works if it’s real” kind of way.

Sometimes, you feel like messaging him. Saying:

“If you don’t get involved, this is going to turn into exactly what you didn’t want.”

But you don’t. Because that wasn’t the deal. You don’t want to seem more invested than you’re supposed to be. And because if he’s not showing up, you are not going to beg.

Your day starts every morning with a watery office coffee and the promise, made to yourself, not to overthink things. To just do the job, stick to the assignment, move forward with the production plan.

And yet, every time you open the script, every time you reread a line, you get stuck in the way the words sound when you imagine them in his voice.

You don’t do it on purpose. It’s not cheap romanticism or some overblown obsession. It’s something else. It’s professionalism contaminated by intuition. It’s knowing, deep down, that this project is only going to work if you manage to tell something that feels true. Something that doesn’t sound like it was designed by committee or wrapped in off-the-shelf storytelling.

And that, unfortunately, doesn’t get written on autopilot.

Lucía, who glides past your desk with the smoothness of someone already two coffees in, drops a chocolate bar without saying a word. You just look up at her like she’s thrown you a life raft in the middle of a shipwreck.

“Did you shower today?” she asks.

“Yes. But my self-esteem didn’t.”

“Perfect. You’re ready for another ‘aligning expectations’ meeting.”

The meeting is with Marta, someone from PR, and Guillermo, who showed up in a printed shirt and the energy of someone who still hasn’t realized it’s too late to change careers.

Between jokes and phrases like “let’s land the concept,” you spend half the morning arguing whether a scene in the video needs more organic music, or if “organic” is already too burned-out as a concept.

Guillermo suggests layering sounds from the Paris metro with flamenco clapping. You blink.

“Why not?” he says. “It’s culturally transversal.”

“It’s culturally schizophrenic, Guillermo.”

Lucía writes the line down. She says it’s going straight into her list of “things Y/N says that Guillermo should never forget.”

Kylian’s PR rep, joining in from a Pinterest-Corporate blurred background, nods politely to everything. Every time you pitch something, she says “I like it” or “could work,” but you never know if that means keep going or shut it down.

After the third video call of the day, Guillermo flops onto the Scandinavian-room couch and says: “I’m thinking of becoming a creative coach.”

“Based on what experience?”

“Based on having lots of ideas and zero desire to execute them.”

Lucía looks at you. And you laugh. Because you don’t have the strength to cry.

By midweek, one thing is clear: the project is taking shape. Or at least, it has a skeleton. You’ve rewritten the script three times, reorganized the thematic blocks, renamed the files seven times, cut out beautiful lines that no longer fit, left gaps where you have no idea what to put, and created a folder titled “final versions (for real this time).”

After hanging up one of those long, daily PR calls, Lucía walks into the room with two glasses of wine stolen from a client launch you’ve both already forgotten about.

“I have five theories,” she says.

“About what?”

“About why he’s not showing up.”

She lists them aloud, while pouring more wine:

He’s testing whether you can handle the pressure without him.

He’s secretly working on a parallel campaign reinventing himself as a visual artist.

He’s afraid of falling in love with you.

He’s completely out of the loop because his PR filters everything with ‘everything’s going fine.’

He’s just super busy with the season and the seventeen million matches he has to play.

“Option five feels very real.”

“Option three too.” she says. 

You look at her, not knowing whether to laugh or run away. You decide that, for today, you’ll just leave it on pause.

He’ll show up. Or he won’t.

But you’ve got a script that, for the first time, is starting to feel like a real story.

The tension of the project starts to shift into something else when, on a Thursday afternoon, you find yourself closing your laptop at the exact moment Lucía and Guillermo shoot up from their desks like someone had just pulled a fire alarm.

“Y/N, you’re coming to the afterwork, right?” Lucía throws at you as she passes by, with that mix of invitation and subtle scolding in her voice.

You lift your eyes from the script and give her your best poker face. You feel like you’ve been staring at screens for two days straight until your pupils started begging for help, but there’s something in the way Lucía looks at you that makes you think that if you don’t go, the afternoon is going to feel even longer than it already has.

“After... what?” you ask, faking ignorance, while slowly getting up from your desk.

“Afterwork. Beers. Ending up drunk at karaoke. One of those stupid things that cures post-feedback syndrome.” Lucía shrugs. “Guillermo organized it. You bring the vibes.”

Right then, Guillermo appears dragging the box of the good donuts, the ones he’s been hiding from José Luis for days, like a hidden treasure.

“Idea!” he announces, with a mischievous smile. “These donuts, well, what’s left of them, my place, beers, I introduce you to my new cat Pipo, and we invite my neighbor.”

Lucía and you exchange a look. For a second, your mind drifts back to the script, to the words that have been echoing in your head for days, and you catch yourself realizing how absurd it would be to turn all of it into a drunken game.

“What if instead we stick to the plan and order a gin-tonic every time someone says authenticity?” Lucía proposes, raising an eyebrow. “I need an excuse to get drunk the way I want to.”

You agree, because you know you need it: some time away from screens and notes, a moment where you can feel there’s still life outside of a script about solitude and “fractures.”

You change in a makeshift bathroom closet next to the printer (which, by the way, is still broken). Lucía steps out in a wine-colored dress, and you in jeans that finally let you breathe for the first time in days, and a black strappy corset-style top.

You walk two blocks to a bar with discreet neon lights and worn wooden high tables. The waiter greets you with that calculated indifference of someone who’s seen everything, except maybe someone ordering “a gin-tonic of authenticity, please.”

You order rounds of beer and a gin for the bet. You sit between Lucía and Guillermo, with the echo of your department coworkers' laughter floating through the glass door.

“How’s that ‘fracture’ section going?” Guillermo asks, teasing you from the first sip.

“Fracture,” because Lucía and Guillermo have decided that between you and Kylian, there’s been a breakup. You close your eyes for a second, bring the beer to your lips and say:

“Fracture’s going fine. Now it just needs to leave the document and find a space in my stomach, where it actually hurts.”

Lucía claps silently, palm pressed to her chest, and you’re surprised at how seen you feel without anyone asking for more. Because sometimes, just saying “it hurts” is enough for someone to offer you a solidarity seat.

The night moves along with agency stories, inside jokes about impossible briefs, and yes, the classic “authenticity” drop from some guy at the next table, which prompts you to hush Lucía before the bar decides to collectively cancel you.

And just then, you see the glass door shift: it’s him. He’s wearing jeans, a plain tee, and that brown leather jacket that suits him so damn well. He doesn’t walk in right away; he stops at the threshold, rocking his weight from one foot to the other, as if scanning the place while waiting for his three companions.

Your breath stumbles. Lucía and Guillermo both look at you, knowing exactly what this means.

“Y/N, I think your challenge just leveled up,” Lucía whispers, smirking with complicity.

He’s already seen the table, already seen Lucía and Guillermo, and finally makes his way over with that calm of his that slows down everyone else’s pulse.

“Mind if we join you?” he asks softly, almost like he needs permission just to breathe.

Lucía improvises chairs out of three stools and slides them in with a theatrical gesture.

“You had to ask?”

He sits next to you. The background noise fades. Your hand trembles around your beer.

“Mind if I order a round of gin for everyone?” Lucía asks, half-smiling.

“The bet still stands,” Guillermo replies.

He raises the gin like a soldier toasting in silence, and you’re forced to choose between drinking and smiling. You do both. The gin burns your throat a little, and when you lower the glass, he’s glancing sideways at you.

“You got the ‘intimacy’ section under control?” Kylian asks without preamble.

Your heart makes a metallic sound.

“I mean... I’m refining it,” you answer.

“Perfect,” he says. “Because I’d like to hear it.”

And just like that, with no further setup, the night becomes an open canvas of possibilities: Laughter masking insecurities, looks dancing dangerously close to the edge of what hasn’t been said, and that quiet pull to lean in a little closer without anyone making too much noise when shifting their chair.

And so, between beers, gin-tonics, and word-trigger bets, you discover that the most valuable feedback wasn’t buried in PDFs or shared folders, but in an unexpected toast that spins the whole spirit of the project around… and maybe something else, too.

The music drops a few degrees, but the pulse of the night still thumps in your temples when he leans in and whispers, voice just barely louder than a brush of lips:

“Need some air?”

You nod before thinking, and he gently takes your forearm, as if afraid that one wrong move might scare you off. You step out into the bar’s small back patio, where soft yellow string lights warm the chill and only the faint clinking of glasses and laughter filters through the glass door.

The air outside greets you without questions. You take off your jacket and hang it over the back of a chair, fully aware of his fingers brushing your shoulder as he steps aside to help. You lean against the metal railing, and from the corner of your eye, you see him approach, slow, measured. There’s something about the way he moves, deliberate and aware, that disorients you more than any script you’ve ever written.

“I needed this,” he says, not looking away from your profile. “The bar was… you know.”

You nod, and you’re surprised at how natural the shared excuse sounds now, like something you’d rehearsed.

His eyes lock with yours when you turn.

The city’s murmur becomes the perfect soundtrack, and suddenly everything else disappears: the beers, Lucía singing off-key somewhere inside, Guillermo with his over-the-top accent.

Your heart beats with a rhythm you don’t recognize. You want to say something clever, something that diffuses the tension, but what comes out is:

“I guess… we just needed a breather.”

He tilts his head, weighing your words, then reaches out and gently brushes the side of your wrist. The contact is brief, no more than a blink, but it burns your skin. 

In that tiny moment, you feel the heat of his palm, the texture of his jacket, and the fracture in the invisible wall you’ve both built, from the first meeting to this night.

“You’re different,” he murmurs. “When you work, I mean.”

He bites his lower lip, as if looking for something more concrete to follow that up. You respond with a soft smile, feeling something open wide and glowing in your chest:

“And you’re different. When you’re not working.”

There’s a perfect silence, where the words evaporate midair. He takes one step closer, and that step turns the railing into both a boundary and a bridge. You want to lean in, to brush your lips against his, but something in his gaze holds you back, desire, yes, but also hesitation, care.

He sighs, and the tension breaks with a quiet nod:

“Let’s go back in, yeah?”

You nod again, and as you turn toward the door, you feel his hand graze your back, guiding you without rush. In that touch, there’s a silent agreement: tonight, for the first time, something more than a project has started writing itself between the two of you.

The hangover from the night before hits right at nine a.m., when you walk into the agency with the under-eyes of a nocturnal mapmaker. The first light of the day slips between the briefing pages and reminds you that today is the big day: filming begins tomorrow in Italy, and you need to have everything tied up before you fly.

You step into the Scandinavian room—empty, silent, almost reverent—and turn on your computer.

In front of you, a document titled “FINAL Version – Rome Script” blinks like a lighthouse on the screen. You open the outline: 1. Intimate intro / 2. Journey / 3. Conquest and contradiction / 4. Breaking point / 5. Rebirth...

Your task this morning is to fill in section 3 with the latest footage: the studio photoshoot, the voiceover you’d left pending, and the bridging music that will link the narrative to the airplane shot sequence.

You start rewriting the voiceover. Writing long, weighty lines, trying to find the precise tone:

“To pass through the silence’s shadow, to rise above the noise of fame, to find in the air the possibility of becoming something new.”

You feel the weight of every word: this isn’t a slogan, it’s the promise of an emotional journey.

Meanwhile, you reorganize the image folder: You select close-ups of his hands tying his sneakers, his breath held just before the final whistle, the reflection of the moon on his cycling helmet in that clip from the French national team. You rename the files with codes only you understand: “hand_01,” “breathe_03,” “moon_02.”

Mid-morning, your phone vibrates with a short message:

Prod Team: PLANE READY. BOARDING 16:00H PRIVATE RUNWAY.

You close the document and laugh, unsure whether it’s from nerves or relief. You check the time: just enough for a coffee you won’t drink, a sandwich you won’t eat, and a taxi ride to the airfield.

You hop into a cab that smells like old leather and gasoline. On the way, you mentally run through your storyboard sequence. You know the best shots will be the ones where he doesn’t realize he’s being filmed, when he talks about his childhood in that low, unguarded voice.

When you arrive, the guard greets you with indifference and opens the walkway hatch. In front of you stands the Gulfstream: white, polished, its doors half-open like it’s giving you a confident wink. You fixate for a second on the embroidered logo on the wings, a stylized KM that almost looks like a heartbeat, before climbing the stairs.

Inside, the jet is another dimension: cream upholstery, warm light integrated into the panels, leather seats that recline and swivel. The production team is already there, waiting with two cases full of hard drives, wireless mics, and catering that smells like fresh bread and strong coffee. No one looks at you strangely, everyone’s focused on final technical details.

You settle into the seat on the right, right across from the folding table. You spot the back of Kylian’s head, tilted down, as he scrolls through his phone. 

He looks up suddenly, sees you, and gives you a half-smile, saying nothing. You quickly glance away, like his seat is some kind of forbidden territory. But the gesture carries something like complicity: you both know that in a few hours, you’ll be filming the first sequences together in the city.

The engine hums softly and soon you’re rising above Madrid’s rooftops. After a couple of hours, the landscape shifts to dark patches dotted with lights: highways glowing like rivers of fire, small towns scattered across the plains, until the first signs of Italy flicker on the cockpit’s radar screens.

As you descend into Rome, you spot the Coliseum glowing in the distance and a mosaic of winding streets barely visible in the night. The plane touches down in silence. The airfield guard welcomes you with a curt nod and, in minutes, you’re inside a black van waiting at the terminal.

The drive to the hotel takes you past avenues lined with cypress trees and façades bathed in the soft glow of streetlamps. In the rearview mirror, you see Kylian, leaned back in his seat, focused on his phone. You’re reviewing your notebook with the shoot plans: tomorrow starts in a villa on the outskirts, with views of the Tiber and a sunset you could slice with a knife.

At the hotel, a restored Baroque-style mansion turned boutique stay, you’re welcomed with a warm “Benvenuti” echoing through the marble lobby and a faint scent of limoncello.

The concierge hands you the keycards: 213 for you, 214 for him. In the carpeted hallway, you pass each other for a brief second: he turns left, you turn right.

Inside your room, warm light surrounds you: heavy curtains, a walnut desk, a bed perfectly dressed in crisp white linens. You drop your suitcase onto a chair, turn on the vanity lamp, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, the travel fatigue drawing shadows beneath your eyes, but also a trace of anticipation glowing behind them.

You turn off the main light. Only the low lamp beside your bed remains. You lie down, open your notebook, and write at the top of the page:

“Rome, night. This is where it all begins.”

You close the notebook, sigh, and allow yourself, for the first time since the first round of feedback, to simply be.

Tomorrow, with the Italian morning light, the project will come to life in a different way. For now, all that’s left is to sleep.

Your phone screen lights up softly on the far side of the bed.

00:17. Not a second of rest since you arrived. 

Maybe it’s the built-up exhaustion, or some rogue impulse from your brain, but you decide to message him.

You: Are you awake?

A few seconds of silence. Each one as heavy as a raindrop against glass.

Him: Too much.

His honesty in just that two words, too much, catches you off guard. Your pulse quickens, imagining him lying back in the dark, just like you.

You stare at the ceiling, counting the lines in the molding.

You: Me too. Thought I’d crash after the trip, but it’s hard to switch off.

The “seen” appears like a dull dagger. You bite your lip. Two minutes pass.

Him: Want company?

Your cheeks heat up. You want to answer with a resounding “yes,” but instead, you type:

You: Depends on…

You freeze. Depends on what? Me? You? What this means at midnight in Rome?

A ping.

Him: On you 😉

You close your eyes, and breathe in, deep.

You decide the best thing is to meet him, even if you’re not exactly sure why. You get up, adjust the oversized shirt you’re wearing as pajamas, and knock on your room door. A soft click tells you the lock has turned.

You step out into the carpeted hallway, barely lit by dim lights. The silence is almost as thick as the dark. With quiet steps, you walk toward room 214.

He’s already there, waiting at his door frame, door half-open, a sliver of golden light behind him. The rhythm of his breathing echoes in the stillness of the night.

“Hi,” he whispers, as if afraid of waking half the hotel.

“Hi,” you reply, aware that your voice sounds strangely different from just moments ago.

The space between you is minimal. Just enough to brush shoulders, for the energy of all the unsaid words to fill the gap.

“I’m used to sleeping in hotel rooms,” he admits, “but I can’t seem to manage it tonight.”

“I’m not used to it,” you murmur. “Especially not alone.”

He smiles slowly. That slight curve of his lips makes you feel like someone just cracked open a narrow beam of light inside your chest.

“So… should we stay up for a bit?”

You bite your lower lip. The hallway smells like a story just beginning.

“Yes.”He closes the door to his room, and in doing so, the darkness seems to turn more intimate. Right there, in the middle of that Italian hallway.

[gmasttin]

Okay but your writing is so amazing,the Kylian story is so fun to read

Thank youu so much 💖🫶🏼

Although I feel a bit bad, because I think it loses some of the sparkle when I translate it to English, but I’m really glad y’all like it 🤍

Should I start posting the vibes of the chapters before posting them??? Like mood boards