You

The lights at the Parc des Princes were blinding, but they were nothing compared to the spotlight currently fixed on Mimi. She stood at the center of the stage, her silhouette framed by a haze of crimson smoke. The bass was a physical force, thumping against her ribs, mimicking the frantic rhythm of her own heart.

She wasn't just Mimi tonight; she was the enigma the world couldn't stop talking about. Clad in a vintage-inspired black silk corset that cinched her waist to an impossible curve, sheer thigh-high stockings, and opera gloves that reached her shoulders, she looked like a noir fantasy. But it was the mask that had the internet in a chokehold—a sleek, leather bunny mask with tall, pointed ears that obscured the upper half of her face, leaving only her smirk and her darkened lips visible.

As the first sultry notes of her new single, "Overtime," began to slither through the stadium speakers, the crowd’s roar reached a deafening pitch.

"You guys ready for something a little... private?" Mimi purred into the gold microphone.

She didn't wait for the answer. She moved with a feline grace, her high heels clicking rhythmically against the stage. The choreography was a masterpiece of tension. She wasn't just dancing; she was telling a story. Her hands traced the lines of her own body, mirroring the way *he* touched her when the cameras were off and the world was locked outside their bedroom door.

The lyrics were subtle enough for the radio but explicit enough for anyone with an imagination. She sang about the way his pulse felt against her skin, the weight of him in the quiet hours of the morning, and the specific, intoxicating way he made her lose her breath when he was buried deep inside her.

"Ninety minutes isn't enough," she sang, her voice a low, honeyed rasp. "I need the extra time, the way you slide under my skin, the way you win before the game even begins."

By the time she reached the bridge, she was draped over a velvet chaise lounge, her movements slow and suggestive, her eyes—hidden behind the mask—fixed on the VIP box where she knew he was sitting.

The internet exploded before she even finished the set. By the time Mimi was backstage, peeling off the damp leather gloves, her phone was a brick of notifications.

*@KylianSZN: Y’all... Mimi is OBSESSED. Did you hear those lyrics? She’s literally singing about Mbappe’s... well. You know.*

*@PopCultureTea: The bunny mask? The corset? The way she arched her back during the second verse? Kylian is the luckiest man on Earth. 77 million views in three hours.*

*@DonatelloFans: He’s got her whipped. She went from pop princess to his personal siren. Look at the way she looked at his box!*

A pair of strong, familiar arms wrapped around her waist from behind, startling her out of her scrolling. She didn't need to look to know the scent of his cologne—expensive, crisp, and entirely masculine.

"You're going to be the death of me, Mimi," Kylian whispered against the shell of her ear.

His voice was low, vibrating through her spine. She turned in his arms, still wearing the bunny mask, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. Despite her petite stature, she always felt like she held all the power when she looked at him like this.

"Did you like the show, turtle?" she teased, reaching up to adjust the collar of his jacket.

Kylian groaned, a sound of pure frustration and pride. He leaned his forehead against hers, his hands gripping her hips with a possessive firmness that made her toes curl in her heels. "The show? The whole world is talking about what we do behind closed doors now. My teammates are already texting me. Hakimi sent me a link to the performance with ten fire emojis."

Mimi laughed, a bright, melodic sound that filled the dressing room. "Let them talk. Everything I sang was true. Are you mad that I told them you have good stamina?"

Kylian’s dark eyes searched hers, his expression softening into that lopsided, boyish grin that usually preceded something incredibly wicked. "I'm not mad. I'm just wondering how I'm supposed to let you leave this room tonight without making sure every single one of those lyrics comes true again."

"Is that a challenge?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave.

"It's a promise."

He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he unclipped the silk ribbon holding her mask in place. As the leather fell away, revealing her flushed cheeks and messy hair, he looked at her like she was the only trophy he ever cared about winning.

"The viral clips don't do you justice," he muttered, his gaze dropping to her lips. "They see the performer. I'm the only one who gets the girl."

"And the girl is very, very hungry," Mimi said, stepping closer until there was no air left between them. "The concert took a lot out of me, Kylian. I think I need some of that 'extra time' I was singing about."

Kylian didn't need to be told twice. He swept her up, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her heels clicking together behind his back. He carried her toward the oversized sofa in the corner of the dressing room, his kisses frantic and hungry, tasting of adrenaline and obsession.

"They think I've got you obsessed," he murmured against her neck, his teeth grazing her skin.

Mimi gasped, her head falling back as his hands found the laces of her corset. "Don't you?"

Kylian pulled back for just a second, his breathing heavy, his eyes dark with a heat that could have melted the stadium. "Maybe. But they don't know the half of it. They don't know that I’m the one who can’t sleep because I’m thinking about the way you look when you’re screaming my name."

He leaned back in, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her jaw. Mimi’s fingers tangled in his short hair, pulling him closer, needing the friction, needing the reality of him to drown out the noise of the millions of people watching them from the outside.

Outside, the world was dissecting every lyric, every hip swivel, and every hidden meaning. They were debating the "spiciness" of her life and the depth of her infatuation. But inside the dressing room, under the dim, warm lights, there was no fame, no football, and no viral videos.

There was only the weight of him, the heat of her, and the undeniable truth that the song hadn't even scratched the surface of how good they were together.

"Kylian," she breathed, her voice breaking as he finally worked the corset loose.

"I've got you," he whispered, his voice a vow. "I've always got you."

The next morning, the headlines would call her the "Bunny of Paris" and him the "King of the Pitch," but as the sun began to peek through the curtains of their shared apartment hours later, Mimi just felt like a woman who had found exactly where she belonged—right in the middle of the obsession she’d sung about.

She rolled over in the tangled silk sheets, watching Kylian sleep. He looked peaceful, his sharp features softened by rest, a stark contrast to the intensity he showed on the field or in their private moments. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, scrolling past a thousand more memes of her in the mask.

She paused on a video of her performing the bridge of the song. The comments were a sea of: *HE REALLY DID THAT TO HER.*

Mimi smiled to herself, her thumb hovering over the screen. She didn't need to confirm or deny anything. The glow in her skin and the soreness in her muscles were all the confirmation she needed.

Kylian stirred, his arm reaching out instinctively to pull her back into his side. "Stop reading the comments," he grumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"They're saying you've got me whipped," she whispered, leaning down to kiss his shoulder.

Kylian opened one eye, a smirk playing on his lips. "And do I?"

Mimi bit her lip, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Maybe a little. But I think the bunny mask is staying in the wardrobe for a while. I don't want to give them too much more material."

Kylian pulled the duvet over both of their heads, plunging them into a warm, private darkness. "Good. I don't like sharing you anyway."

"Even with the fans?"

"Especially with them," he said, his voice dropping into that possessive tone she loved. "Now, come here. I think we have some overtime to finish."

Mimi laughed, her heart full and her body humming with content. The world could have the song, but she had the man, and that was a hit she’d be happy to play on repeat for the rest of her life.