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If someone asked you to describe Kylian Mbappé in one word, touchy would probably come before footballer.
It wasn't even romantic half the time, he simply... liked knowing where you were. One hand at the small of your back while walking through hotel corridors, fingers absentmindedly hooked around your wrist while waiting for elevators, his chin appearing on your shoulder whenever you stood still for longer than thirty seconds.
Somewhere over the past two years you'd stopped questioning it.
Being with Kylian meant existing within arm's reach of him almost constantly.
The relationship had stayed private for most of that time, rumors and blurry sightings, but nothing confirmed, until a few weeks ago when he casually posted a story of you wearing his full Real Madrid kit, then deleted it minutes later. The screenshot had spread like wildfire, turning your quiet life into something more public overnight. Neither of you had made any formal announcement, you simply continued as you always had, and people had started getting used to seeing you together.
This trip to Dubai for his sponsor commitment felt like a stolen pocket of summer freedom before preseason. Three days of obligations, but tonight’s invitation-only event inside the ultra-luxury hotel was relaxed despite the opulent ballroom, the crystal chandeliers, and the skyline views.
No paparazzi, no frenzy. Just athletes, artists, executives, and their partners moving between the elegant ballroom and the connected nightclub spaces with the easy confidence of people who valued discretion.
Kylian stayed close all evening, as always. His hand rested at the small of your back as you wove through the crowd, thumb occasionally tracing a slow circle against the fabric of your dress.
While talking to a sponsor executive, he reached up without breaking eye contact with the man and adjusted the delicate necklace at your collarbone, fingers warm and precise. Later, near the bar, he smoothed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, then let his fingertips linger along your jaw for a second before turning to order drinks. He played idly with the rings on your fingers while you waited, twisting them gently, his touch absent and familiar.
He stole kisses whenever the moment allowed, quick presses to your temple, the corner of your mouth, the side of your neck when he leaned in to whisper something dry and teasing in French.
“Tu es trop belle ce soir, mon cœur." He'd play with you in his native language. "Everyone keeps looking, but you’re stuck with me.” His voice was low, playful, that effortless charm wrapped in boyish mischief.
You rolled your eyes and he laughed softly against your skin, the sound vibrating through you.
At one point, a fellow athlete joked that you were basically Kylian’s emotional support person at this point, given how he kept gravitating back to you every few minutes. Kylian just grinned, unapologetic, hooking a finger through one of your belt loops to tug you closer when someone moved past.
“Guilty,” he said with a shrug, pressing another light kiss to your shoulder before pulling you toward the dance floor for a few songs.
His body moved against yours with the same easy confidence he showed on the pitch, playful, rhythmic, hands never far from your waist or hips.
Eventually the noise and crowd grew heavier. Kylian had a few drinks in him by then, nothing heavy, just enough to loosen the perpetual tension he carried through the season, and it showed in the way he moved.
Tipsy Kylian was the most dangerous version: clingier than usual, his touches lingering longer, his smiles easier and brighter. You loved it, this rare glimpse of him unwinding fully before preseason pulled him back into discipline. He caught your eye across the room, tilting his head toward the quieter terraces with a small, knowing smile that carried a little more heat than usual.
You slipped out together through a side door, the cool night air of Dubai washing over you as the city lights sparkled below. The terrace was nearly empty, a private corner overlooking the glittering skyline, the distant hum of the event fading behind heavy glass doors.
The moment you were alone, Kylian turned to you fully, hands sliding to your waist as he backed you gently against the smooth stone railing. His grip was firmer than usual, a little unsteady in that endearing, tipsy way. “Mon bébé,” he murmured, voice lower and rougher around the edges, breath warm against your skin. His forehead rested against yours for a breath, dark eyes half-lidded and soft with drink and want, before he closed the distance.
The kiss started slow but deep, his mouth warm and insistent against yours, tasting faintly of whiskey and the sweetness of whatever cocktail he’d been nursing earlier. One hand cupped the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a gentle tug, while the other gripped your hip, pulling your body flush against his.
You tasted the faint haze of alcohol on his tongue as it slipped past your lips, exploring with unhurried, hungry strokes.
A soft sound escaped you, and he smiled into the kiss, the curve of his mouth playful even now, though looser and more unrestrained. He tilted his head, deepening it further, tongue stroking yours in slow, deliberate motions that sent heat pooling low in your belly.
Kylian pressed closer, his tall frame enveloping you, the hard lines of his chest and thighs evident through his tailored shirt and trousers.
His hand slid down to grip your ass, squeezing firmly as he rocked his hips against you once, letting you feel exactly how affected he already was—half-hard and insistent. “Mon cœur,” he whispered against your lips, breath hot and a little ragged, the French endearment slurred just enough to make you smile.
He dove back in, the kiss turning messier, more urgent, tongues tangling wetly, teeth grazing your lower lip, soft gasps shared between you. He sucked gently on your tongue, then your bottom lip, drawing it into his mouth with a low groan that vibrated through his chest.
You clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric as he trailed open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just below your ear with more enthusiasm than precision.
His free hand roamed, tracing the curve of your waist, slipping under the hem of your dress to stroke the bare skin of your thigh, gripping possessively. Every touch was electric, familiar yet charged with the privacy of the moment and the pleasant haze of his drinks. He returned to your mouth, kissing you harder, slower this time, savoring, long, languid strokes of his tongue, his hand sliding up to cradle your face while the other kept you anchored against him.
Laughter bubbled up between kisses when he nipped at your lip a little too eagerly and you tugged his hair in retaliation. “Easy, Kyky,” you teased breathlessly, loving the loose, happy looseness in him. He grinned, bright and boyish even in the heat of it, eyes dark with want and the pleasant blur of alcohol.
“Can’t help it,” he murmured, voice husky and warm. “Missed having you like this. Just us.” He captured your mouth again, slower and deeper, tongues sliding wetly as his hips pressed forward again, grinding with more intent.
The kisses lingered, consuming and unhurried, broken only by soft sighs, quiet laughs. His body was warm and solid against yours, heart pounding, hands never still as they mapped every curve within reach, the cool night air doing nothing to temper the heat building between you.
Time stretched on the quiet terrace, the Dubai skyline a distant shimmer. Kylian kept pulling you back in whenever the kiss threatened to slow, stealing one more, then another, unwilling to let the moment end. His touches grew bolder in his tipsy state, fingers slipping higher under your dress, palm pressing firmly against your ass as he held you against him, but always wrapped in that deep, affectionate need. In the end, it wasn’t the glamour of the night that mattered.
It was this—two people completely obsessed with each other, his touch as constant and necessary as breathing, especially when he finally let himself relax.
You loved this version of him.