The afternoon sun bled gold through the blinds, slicing your notes into neat little lines of light and shadow. Madrid was quiet today — too quiet for your restless head. The hum of traffic outside, the faint sound of kids shouting down the block, and somewhere deeper in the house… the low, rhythmic clicks of a controller.

Kylian was home.

You still weren’t used to saying that — Kylian Mbappé, your best friend, your roommate. The world’s most famous forward and, somehow, the guy who’d offered you his spare room when you came to study here. He’d made it sound simple: “You’ll be fine. My house has too many rooms anyway.”

It wasn’t simple. Not when the headlines loved him, when cameras waited outside, and when he’d disappear for training, interviews, flights, goals. But then he’d come back, hoodie over his head, eyes tired, asking if you wanted takeout or to play FIFA. And the world would shrink again — just you, him, and Madrid at night.

You stretched, closing your laptop. You could already picture him: legs sprawled, headset crooked, muttering in French as he destroyed someone online.

The hallway smelled faintly of his cologne and new sneakers. The closer you got, the louder the game sounds grew — shouts, crowd noise, a curse under his breath when he missed a shot.

You leaned against the doorway, watching the neon lights from the gaming setup spill across the floor. He hadn’t noticed you yet. Typical.