Love

The Parc des Princes was a cauldron of sound, a vibrating symphony of chants, drums, and the rhythmic stomping of thousands of feet. But for Mimi, tucked into a VIP seat just behind the dugout, the world felt strangely focused. She had lived in Paris for five years, moving from her sunny home country to pursue a career in fashion, yet she had never truly understood the spiritual weight of French football until she met Kylian.

Tonight was her first time watching him play live since they had officially become a couple. They had kept things quiet, shielding their bubble from the relentless glare of the paparazzi, but Kylian had insisted she come. He wanted her to see him in his element.

Mimi shifted in her seat, smoothing down the hem of her white pleated miniskirt. She had paired it with a vintage, cropped version of his jersey that she’d tailored herself to fit her petite frame. It hugged her curves and left a sliver of her midriff exposed, showing off her olive skin. Her long, wavy brown hair fell in glossy cascades down her back, and she’d kept her makeup minimal—just enough to highlight her doll-like features.

She didn't notice the long lenses of the photographers swiveling away from the pitch to focus on her. She didn't notice the way the light caught the gold pendant around her neck or the way she looked like a porcelain figurine amidst the rugged intensity of the stadium. She only had eyes for the number seven sprinting across the grass.

By the time the final whistle blew and PSG had secured a 3-0 victory, the internet was already on fire.

The car ride home was quiet, filled only with the low hum of the heater and the city lights blurring past the windows. Kylian was in high spirits, his hand resting firmly on Mimi’s thigh, his thumb tracing circles over the fabric of her skirt.

"You liked it?" he asked, his voice low and raspy from shouting on the pitch. "The atmosphere wasn't too much for you?"

Mimi smiled, leaning her head on his shoulder. "It was incredible, Ky. I didn't realize you were so fast in person. It’s a bit scary, actually."

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I have to be fast to get back home to you."

When they reached his apartment, a sprawling, minimalist sanctuary overlooking the Seine, Mimi kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief. "I'm going to make some tea. Do you want anything?"

"No, I’m okay," Kylian replied, dropping onto the oversized leather sofa and pulling out his phone. "I just want to check the match stats."

Mimi wandered into the kitchen, humming a soft tune. She was blissfully unaware of the digital storm brewing.

On the sofa, Kylian’s expression shifted within seconds. He didn't go to the sports apps. Instead, his Instagram notifications were exploding at a rate he hadn't seen since the World Cup final. He clicked on the 'Explore' page and froze.

The first three rows of the grid were all her.

The photos were high-definition, professional shots taken by the best paparazzi in the business. There was one of her cheering, her eyes bright and wide; another of her biting her lip nervously during a penalty kick; and a candid profile shot that made her look ethereal, her lashes casting long shadows on her cheeks.

The captions were what caught his eye first.

*“Who is this doll at the Parc des Princes?”* one major fashion account had posted.

*“Mbappe’s secret weapon? She looks too delicate for the chaos of football,”* another read.

The comments were a flood of admiration. *“She’s literally a Barbie,”* one user wrote. *“She’s too soft for him, he’s going to break her,”* another joked.

Kylian’s jaw tightened. He scrolled down, his thumb moving faster now. It wasn't just the fans. He saw the little blue checkmarks appearing in the 'Likes' list. His heart did a strange, uncomfortable somersault when he saw a notification that Jude Bellingham had liked the main post of her. Then, he saw Lamine Yamal’s handle. Then a few players from the French national team.

"Mimi," he called out, his voice sharper than intended.

She poked her head around the kitchen door, holding two mugs. "Yeah? Is everything okay?"

"Come here." He patted the spot next to him.

She sat down, setting the tea on the coffee table. "What is it? You look like you just saw a red card."

He turned the phone screen toward her. "You’re viral. All over the world."

Mimi squinted at the screen, her eyes widening as she saw her own face staring back at her. "Oh... oh my god. I didn't even see them taking those." She scrolled through a few, a small flush creeping up her neck. "The comments are... nice? They’re calling me a doll."

"They're calling you too delicate," Kylian grumbled, tossing the phone onto the cushion between them. "And half the Madrid squad is liking your pictures. Jude? Really?"

Mimi blinked, looking at him with a mixture of confusion and dawning amusement. "Are you... are you jealous of a 'Like', Kylian?"

"It’s not just a like," he said, standing up and pacing the small distance to the window. He ran a hand over his cropped hair. "They’re looking at you. Everyone is looking at you. I liked it better when you were my secret."

Mimi stood up and walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. She was so much smaller than him that she had to stand on her tiptoes to rest her chin against his shoulder blade.

"I’m not a secret, I’m a person," she whispered. "And I was wearing your jersey. Your name was across my back the whole night."

Kylian turned around in her arms, his dark eyes searching hers. He looked frustrated, a protective instinct warring with his pride. "I know. But they’re saying you’re too fragile for this world. That you’re too 'delicate' for me. Like I’m some kind of monster who’s going to ruin you."

Mimi laughed softly, her hands sliding up to cup his face. "Let them talk. They don't see us when the cameras are off. They don't know that I’m the one who makes you eat your vegetables and that you’re the one who cries during Disney movies."

"I don't cry," he protested, though his pout softened.

"You sobbed during *The Lion King* last week," she reminded him with a wink. "Listen, Ky. Other players liking a photo doesn't mean anything. They’re just seeing a girl in a pretty skirt. They aren't seeing what you see."

Kylian pulled her closer, his hands resting on the small of her back, right where the jersey ended and her skin began. The warmth of her body usually calmed him, but tonight, the possessive streak was running deep.

"I don't like Yamal liking it," he muttered into her hair. "He’s a kid."

"Then he has good taste," Mimi teased, pulling back to look at him. "But he’s not the one I’m coming home to. He’s not the one whose game I went to see."

Kylian sighed, his shoulders finally dropping. He picked her up effortlessly, tucking her against his chest as if she really were as fragile as the comments suggested. He walked back to the sofa and sat down with her in his lap.

"I’m going to have to post something," he decided, his thumb hovering over his phone again.

"What? No, don't make it a thing," Mimi said, trying to grab the device.

"Too late."

He opened his own Instagram. He didn't pick one of the glamorous paparazzi shots. Instead, he scrolled through his own camera roll and found a photo he’d taken a few weeks ago. It was Mimi in one of his oversized hoodies, her hair messy, sitting on the floor of his kitchen eating pizza straight from the box. She looked beautiful, but in a way that was private and real.

He typed a simple caption: *My doll. My world.*

He hit 'Post' and locked the phone.

"There," he said, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Now they know."

Mimi groaned, burying her face in his neck. "You are so dramatic. My phone is going to explode."

"Let it," Kylian said, his voice dropping an octave as he tilted her head back to kiss her. "I’m the only one who gets the real version of you. They can have the pictures. I have the girl."

Mimi smiled against his lips, feeling the steady beat of his heart against hers. He might be one of the most famous men on the planet, a titan of the sport, but in this room, he was just a boy who was hopelessly protective of the woman he loved.

"You're very lucky I love you," she whispered between kisses.

"I know," he murmured, his grip tightening just a little. "And I'm never letting them forget it."

Outside, the lights of Paris twinkled, and the internet continued to buzz with the image of the girl in the white skirt. But inside the apartment, the world was small, quiet, and perfectly balanced. The "doll" was exactly where she wanted to be, and the king of French football finally had his peace.