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(1k) what was supposed to be a quiet beach day, turned into jamal constantly disturbing your peace.
no warnings just jamal being needy asf
a/n: i love me some munchen muncher
The beach was supposed to be relaxing.
That had been the entire point.
A quiet stretch of coastline somewhere in Greece, hidden enough that the tourists hadn’t reached yet. The sea sparkled under the sun, waves rolling onto the shore while music could be quietly heard from a nearby beach bar.
It was peaceful.
A kind of peace you had been waiting for all year.
Work had been draining you. Between reports, meetings and endless shifts. You yearned for a quiet evening.
Until Jamal arrived.
”You know,” He dropped into the towel next to you, eyes drifting towards your body, wrapped in a tiny yellow bikini.
”I dont think that bikini is very considerate.”
You lowered your sunglasses. Eyes squinting as the sun hit your eyes.
”Excuse me?”
He shrugged innocently, pulling his shirt over his head and revealing his toned athlete body.
”It’s distracting.”
You laughed. “You’ve been here for like thirty seconds.”
”And that’s enough to make me lose the ability to think.”
”Oh poor you.”
”It’s truly tragic.”
He stared at you with a smile. That infuriating smile that always ment he was about to make your life difficult.
The sun was hitting even harder than before. You could feel your skin almost bubbling under the harsh rays.
You reached inside your bag, pulling out a white sunscreen container and rubbing it on your skin.
He watched carefully as your hands grazed over your arms, stomach and legs. Eyes never leaving your shiny body, even when you struggled to apply some on your back.
“You’ve missed a spot.”
You looked at him over your shoulder. “What?”
”Sunscreen.”
”I definitely didn’t.
”You definitely did.”
You sighed dramatically before holding the bottle out behind you.
”Fine then fix it.”
He smirked.
Big mistake.
You could hear him shuffling behind you, rubbing the sunscreen on your hands.
He reached for your skin, the sunscreen spreading across your back smoothly, warm against your sun kissed skin.
Slowly, almost too slowly.
You could feel his stare burning through you, imagining that annoying grin on his face.
”Jamal.”
He hummed.
”Normal people don’t take this long to apply sunscreen.”
”I just want to make sure you’re protected.”
“From the sun?”
”Mhm.”
His tongue stuck out a little, just like he always did when he was focused. His fingertips skimmed across your shoulder blade and reached under the thin strings of your top as he finished.
”There.”
You held your hand behind your back, reaching for the bottle as he handed it to you.
“Done?”
He tilted his head.
“Maybe i should just double check to make sure.”
You turned your head just enough to narrow your eyes at him.
”You’re enjoying this way too much.”
”I’m just taking in the view.”
”You’re unbelievable.”
”I’ve been told, yeah.”
You shook your head, but there was still a noticeable smile on your face.
The sun had started settling over the horizon. An orange glow reflected on the water.
You were ankle deep in the sea when you felt two hands settle on your waist. "Most people announce themselves you know."
"I thought you would recognize me."
"I did."
"So what's the problem."
"There isn't one."
His chin rested on your shoulder. The waves rolled around your legs and his hands drifted dangerously low.
"You've been clingy today." Your remark wasn't intended to be mean or sound like a criticism. It was just an observation.
"I've been affectionate."
"Isn't that just the same thing."
"No it's completely different."
You smiled despite yourself.
Back on the sand, you were stretched out on your towel with a book in your hand.
Three pages. That was all you'd managed.
A shadow fell across you, blocking the last sun rays and making it impossible for you to see the words on the page.
"What now."
You looked behind you to see Jamal, standing there with two drinks in his hands. Lowering his body into a crouched positon next to you.
"I brought you something."
You reached to grab it and smiled. "Thank you."
He didn't leave. He stayed there, watching you as you picked up your book. Analyzing all your movement, memorizing them.
"Why are you still standing there."
"I'm waiting."
"For?"
"My kiss."
You blinked. Cheeks warming up instantly.
"You're incredibly needy."
"Only for you."
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't stop smiling.
You grabbed onto his swim shorts, pulling him down towards you and crashing your lips onto his.
He hummed into the kiss, visibly satisfied.
Poor Jamal was left with a frown on his face when you pulled away from the kiss. His hands never leaving your body.
"There."
"What?"
"Happy?"
"I can never get enough of you."
You looked away, smiling.
Even if you and Jamal had been dating for more than a year now. You were always so flustered when he praised you like this. He would never hide it, always telling you how beautiful and perfect you were. He made you feel loved, and you loved him for that too.
"Jamal you've lost your mind."
"I lost it this morning probably."
You paused, "When?"
"When you walked out the bathroom wearing that." He gestured his hands vaguely towards you, circling around your bikini.
You playfully threw your book at him and he caught it effortlessly, laughing.
By sunset, the beach was almost empty.
The noise from earlier had faded into little more than distant conversations and waves were now crashing harder.
You sat side by side, watching the horizon turn into shades of orange and pink.
His hand had found your thigh beneath the edge of the towel, absentmindedly tracing slow circles with his thumb.
"You've been impossible today," you murmured.
"I know."
"You kept distracting me."
"I know."
"I couldn't even finish my book."
"I noticed."
You laughed softly.
"So this was your plan?"
"My plan?"
"Keeping my attention all day."
He looked over at you, the fading sunlight reflecting on the edges of his smile.
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summary: a quiet afternoon on a beach turns into stolen moments beneath the sun.
warnings: established relationship, fluff, kissing, sexual content, public intimacy, suggestive dialogue, explicit smut.
wc: 1.8k
author’s note: listen to nights by frank ocean while reading this… especially the second part.
The beach had been Michael's idea.
Not because he particularly liked the sea. Not because he wanted hours in the sun. Simply because beaches asked nothing of him, no interviews, no cameras, no training schedule. Just the rhythmic crash of waves folding into the shore, gulls circling lazily overhead, and the occasional breeze carrying the scent of salt across the sand.
By the time you'd found a quiet stretch of coastline, far enough from the families and volleyball courts that only the sound of the tide reached you, the afternoon had already settled into something wonderfully slow.
Somehow, your towel had migrated until it was almost touching his. Neither of you had noticed exactly when it happened. Or maybe you had, and neither of you had cared enough to move.
Michael lay on his back with one arm tucked behind his head, sunglasses shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. A book rested on his chest, forgotten somewhere around the same page he'd been on for the last twenty minutes.
You smiled to yourself.
"You've stopped reading."
"I haven't."
"You've been on that page since I asked you to put on sunscreen."
He lowered the book just enough to look at you over the top of it.
"I'm taking my time."
"You're watching me."
"I'm reading."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.
You rolled onto your side, resting your head against your hand before letting your fingers wander to his forearm. They traced the familiar black lines absent-mindedly, following the ink as though you'd never seen it before.
He didn't stop you.
He never did.
Your fingertips slowed over the pawn.
"I've always liked this one."
He glanced down briefly before looking back towards the sea.
"Really?"
"Mhm."
"Why?"
You shrugged.
"It looks like you."
He laughed quietly through his nose.
"A chess piece looks like me?"
"The least flashy one on the board."
"That's harsh."
"But important."
He didn't answer straight away.
His eyes drifted towards the waves instead, sunlight reflecting across the water in uneven ribbons of gold.
"I like that they're underestimated," he admitted eventually.
"They quietly end up changing everything."
You smiled, as though that answer hadn't surprised you in the slightest.
Your fingers continued their slow journey across his arm before stopping over the pair of eyes inked a little higher.
"And these?"
He looked down for barely a second.
"My mum's."
That was all he said.
It was all he needed to.
You leaned over without thinking and pressed a soft kiss just beneath his wrist before settling back against your towel.
Silence settled between you again.
The comfortable kind.
Waves rolled lazily onto the shore. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull cried overhead before disappearing further along the coastline. The warm breeze carried the scent of sunscreen and salt, lifting a few strands of your hair across your face.
Michael reached over almost absent-mindedly and tucked them behind your ear before letting his hand linger for a second against your cheek.
You looked at him.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You smiled."
"Did I?"
"Twice."
"You're counting?"
"Always."
He rolled his eyes, though the tiny smile never really disappeared.
You shuffled closer until your shoulder rested against his.
He didn't acknowledge it.
He simply shifted the book onto the towel beside him and rested his arm loosely around your waist, almost as if it had found its place there without either of you thinking about it.
For a while, neither of you spoke. You watched the waves and he watched you.
By midafternoon the stretch of sand you'd claimed had almost emptied out. Just the two of you, beachgoers, the tide, and the heat.
"You're doing that thing," he murmured, eyes closed behind his sunglasses.
"What thing?"
"Getting bored."
"I'm not bored."
"You're vibrating."
You laughed, and he cracked one eye open, and whatever he saw on your face made his hand tighten at your hip.
"Come here."
"I am here."
"Closer."
You went, and what started as a lazy kiss to your shoulder turned into your mouth finding his, slow at first, then not. His hand slid up your back, fingers pressing into skin still warm from the sun, and you felt the exact moment his attention narrowed to only you.
"There are people not far," you murmured against his mouth.
"I noticed."
"You've been noticing for a while, haven't you."
"Since you sat down." His mouth dragged along your jaw, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. "I've been very patient."
"You have not."
"I have. Ask anyone." His hand slid down over your hip, gripping hard enough to pull a small sound out of you. "I've been a saint."
"A saint who's currently got his hand up my bikini top."
"Extenuating circumstances."
You laughed, and he used the moment to pull you fully over him, knees braced either side of his hips, nothing between you and him but two thin layers of fabric already doing very little to hide anything. He looked up at you, sunglasses shoved up into his hair, pupils blown wide.
"You're doing this on purpose," you said, feeling exactly how hard he already was.
"You sat down like you wanted something."
"I sat down normally."
"You sat down like trouble." His hands found your hips, guiding you into a slow grind that wiped out whatever argument you'd been building.
You rolled your hips, and the groan that dragged out of him went straight through you. "Fuck," he muttered, head tipping back. "Again."
You did, slower this time, deliberate, feeling him twitch beneath you with every pass. His grip went bruising-tight on your hips as he started matching your pace, his own hips grinding up in slow, filthy circles that had his breath shredding fast.
"You're soaked," he rasped against your ear. "I can feel it right through your bikini."
"Shut up."
"It's a compliment."
"Michael..."
"I could just pull this to the side," he murmured, fingers already toying with the fabric at your hip, tugging it a fraction. "No one would even see."
"You're insane."
"You're not stopping me."
You weren't. He worked the fabric aside just enough, and the drag of skin against skin where there'd only been fabric before punched a broken sound out of both of you at once. He didn't push inside, not yet, just let himself slide slow and slick against you, coating himself in how wet you already were, the head of him catching against you with every roll of your hips that had you biting down on a moan.
"Michael, we can't..."
"We're not." His voice had gone wrecked, barely holding together. "Not here. Just... fuck... just this."
"That's not making it better."
"Didn't say it would."
You ground down harder, chasing the drag of him against you, and he cursed low and guttural, hips snapping up to meet you with a rhythm that had gone completely unsteady. His hand found the back of your neck, pulling your mouth down to his to swallow the noise before it could get too loud, tongue sliding against yours in time with the filthy rhythm your hips had found.
"I'm not going to last," he groaned into your mouth. "You're going to make me finish just from this."
"That's embarrassing for you."
"Say that again when you're not shaking."
You were shaking. His fingers had found their way between you, pressing hard exactly where you needed, and between that and the slick drag of him against you, you were already gone, hips stuttering out of rhythm.
"There," he breathed, watching your face with a kind of wrecked focus. "Right there. Come on."
You broke first, a gasp punched out of you that he swallowed with his mouth, hips jerking against his through it. The sight and feel of you falling apart on top of him dragged him over half a second later, a broken curse muffled into your shoulder as he spilled hot and messy between you both, hips stuttering through the last of it.
For a long moment neither of you moved, chests heaving, foreheads pressed together.
"We just did that on a beach," you said finally.
"We did."
"That's... we need to actually get in the water now."
"Give me a minute."
"You have approximately none. I'm not laying back on my towel like this," you said, pointing to his cum dripping on your inner thighs.
You were already on your feet before he'd even started to answer, brushing the sand from your shaking legs with an unnecessarily triumphant smile. The laugh that escaped him was quiet, almost lost beneath the sound of the waves, as he watched you take a few backwards steps towards the shoreline.
"Come on," you called, holding a hand out towards him. "You didn't drag me all the way out here just to watch the sea."
"I'm fairly certain that's exactly what I intended to do."
"You're unbelievable."
"I've been told."
You rolled your eyes dramatically before jogging the last few metres into the water, squealing the moment it reached your ankles.
"It's freezing!"
Michael, who had only just reached the shoreline, folded his arms across his chest.
"Five seconds ago you couldn't wait to get in."
"I've changed my mind."
"Yeah?"
"No." You looked back over your shoulder, a grin spreading across your face. "I just wanted you to come and save me from how cold it is."
He shook his head, smiling to himself as he finally followed you into the sea.
By the time you'd wandered back to your towels, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, painting the water in streaks of gold and amber. Your hair was damp, your skin still warm despite the swim, and neither of you seemed in any hurry to leave.
Michael dropped back onto the towel with a quiet sigh, stretching out beneath the late afternoon sun. You settled beside him without thinking, close enough that your shoulders brushed, then your legs, until there was barely any space left between you.
He glanced at you. "Comfortable?"
"Very."
"You're stealing my towel."
"Our towel."
A soft huff of laughter escaped him as he reached over to brush a stray strand of damp hair behind your ear again.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The only sounds were the waves rolling lazily onto the shore. The beach had emptied even further while you'd been in the water. It felt like the world had quietly drifted away, leaving only the two of you and the endless stretch of sea before you.
You turned your head to look at him.
He was already looking at you.
Neither of you smiled at first.
You simply held each other's gaze, the silence saying everything neither of you ever seemed very good at putting into words.
Slowly, almost absent-mindedly, you shifted closer.
His hand found your waist as naturally as breathing.
Your forehead brushed his for the briefest moment before your lips met in an unhurried kiss, warm from the afternoon sun and tasting faintly of salt.
When you finally pulled away, neither of you moved very far. You simply put your head on his shoulder.
The beach remained quiet.
The waves continued their steady rhythm.
And for a little while longer, the rest of the world could wait.
michael is dragged into a movie premiere while he's in paris only to slowly fall in love for the woman behind it
⤷ a/n : aww I can't believe the world cup is over and all my boys are going home now >_< first sorry if anyone here seems ooc, also i always try my best to make reader as inclusive as i can, so if there's something you think could be better pls let me know <3
⤷ contains : +18 slow burn edging p in v sex safe sex (yay use condoms!) ⋮ ⌗ ┆ wc [ 5.6k ] — tags :
⤷ now playing : blinding lights by the weekend
The flashing lights of Paris were a harsh contrast to the wide predictable green of a pitch, and right now Michael Olise was pretty much aware of every single lens pointed in his direction, adjusting the collar of his tailored jacket and shifting the weight on his feet. As much as didn’t consider himself to be anti-social, he preferred clear boundaries in his world. Ninety minutes, a ball, and a tactical plan, not this glamourous chaos wrapped in a velvet cage.
Beside him, his friend Jamal Musiala was vibrating with excitement, waving at the photographers who probably had no idea what he was doing there, but appreciated the enthusiasm. He glanced sideways, catching the slight scowl on Michael's face.
“Mike, can you at least pretend you’re enjoying being here?” Jamal muttered through a tight smile.
He didn't look at him, his eyes flickering towards the exit doors. “It’s a little bit hard when I have no idea why I’m even here.”
“You’re supporting a friend,” Jamal whispered back, tone dropping into a teasing nudge. “Esther worked her magic on the hair and makeup for this. Look around, man, this is huge.”
Michael glanced up at the sprawling plaza, where the banners hung far too high, displaying its title The Edge of Summer in elegant cursive. It did look huge. Far bigger than the indie project Esther had mentioned during a haircut months ago.
“Yeah, just not my vibe,” Michael murmured, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Jamal scoffed, shaking his head as they moved a few paces forward on the red carpet. “Your vibe is being alone, you could use some networking and flirting, you know. Ditch that loner persona and find a girl to cheer you on. Honestly, Esther might be a good shot.”
“I’m cool,” he replied instantly, his voice flat but firm. “She’s a mate, and I don’t need a cheerleader to do my job.”
“You twisted my words, but whatever,” he sighed, checking his phone as the crowd began to get closer to the entrance doors. “I’m gonna find her before we head inside. Stay put.”
Jamal slipped away into a sea of dresses and tuxedos, leaving Michael stranded near a massive floral arrangement. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, suddenly feeling too exposed without a ball at his feet, glancing down at his shoes he wondered how soon it would be socially acceptable to slip out the back and call a cab.
“Well, this is new. Didn't expect to see you on the red carpet today.”
The voice was quiet and velvety, cutting through the buzz of the crowd with calm. Michael’s eyes looked up to meet your puzzling ones. A few feet away, leaning against a column, you wore a flowy minimalistic silk dress, quite unlike the eccentric gowns some of the cast were wearing, but still very hypnotizing on its own. Your hair was pulled back loosely, enhancing your eyes that held a beautiful quiet amusement.
Michael blinked, suddenly caught a bit off guard. “Yeah. Esther did the hair. She invited us.”
You tilted your head, gaze drifting over his neat braids and the sharp line of his jaw. “Esther, right. She’s brilliant. I can already tell she did yours.”
“Yeah.” A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of Michael's mouth. “You in the movie?”
You paused for a second, feeling a slow warmth spreading across your face. “Something like that,” you murmured.
He nodded entirely oblivious to the subtle shift in the air around you. For all he knew you were incredibly easy to look at, and even easier to talk to compared to the publicists who had been trying to corner him all evening. “Cool,” he said softly, his voice dropping an octave. “Good luck with it.”
“Thanks, Michael. Enjoy the show.” You gave him a lingering look before turning smoothly and disappearing into the VIP lane.
Michael watched you go while a strange warmth lingered in his chest, and for the first time that evening, he didn't feel like leaving immediately. The theater was already dark inside, and for two straight hours he couldn’t take his eyes from the screen and the scenes that floated in front of him like a summer day at the beach.
As the credits rolled and the lights lifted all he could hear was the applause from the audience. Beside him, Esther was beaming while Jamal clapped excitedly, but Michael's eyes were fixed on the front of the auditorium. The actors gathered on the stage and, right at the center, you smiled brightly as they handed a flower bouquet for the film you directed with the same calm and enigmatic grace you moved, on the carpet.
Something like that. He felt an unfamiliar flutter in his chest upon the realization that you had completely played him and he hadn't even noticed.
The after-party was held in a dimly lit, exclusive lounge overlooking the Seine, filled with slow jazz, expensive champagne and the constant chatter of film executives congratulating themselves. Michael stood near the edge of the terrace, a glass in hand, actively avoiding the crowded center of the room.
“So what did you think?”
He didn't need to turn around to know it was you, stepping beside him and leaning on the terrace railing with your own glass of champagne. He looked at you again with a mix of bashfulness and amusement.
“You said you were in it, not that you made the whole thing.”
You took a slow sip, eyes softly crinkling at the corners. “I said something like that, you believed what you wanted to hear. Were you expecting to see me on the big screen?”
“Nah,” Michael admitted, his voice dropping a pitch as he looked out over the river then back at you. “I liked seeing it through your eyes.”
Silence fell between you, the ambient noise of the party fading into the background. “I feel like my eyes tell better stories than my mouth,” you said softly, looking out at the city lights with him. “It’s hard being the center of attention either way, but you know that already. The cameras are always turned to you.”
Michael sighed, the weight of his own reality pressing in, it was rare to find someone who understood the suffocating nature of public scrutiny without having to explain it. “Sometimes I wish they weren't. I wish I could just get on the field and not deal with all the drama.”
Your eyes studied his steady profile in the low terrace light. “I think you do like the thrill of it,” you countered gently, a velvety tone to your voice. “Just not all the time, and not from everyone.”
His calm gaze turned to yours again as he tried to keep a straight face at how easily you had just shattered his entire public persona. “Maybe,” he murmured, a genuine smile breaking across his face. “You’re good at reading people.”
“It’s my job,” you replied smoothly, leaning closer to his warm body. “I know who's meant to be in front of the camera and behind it.” Noticing the slight tension in his shoulders when he suddenly seemed too aware of how close you two were standing, you giggled softly. “Are you uncomfortable talking to me?”
Michael’s usual cool exterior fractured just enough for a hint of warmth to creep up his neck. “No, I’m just not…”
“Comfortable,” you gave a playful smirk, eyes dancing with mischief.
“Used to things like this,” he countered quickly, pointing at the movie banner inside while trying to quickly regain his footing, entirely flustered by the way you were looking at him now.
“Psychological dramas or movies in general?” The sound of your chuckle unlike any of the women that swooned for him.
“Both,” he said quietly, holding your gaze this time. “It was cool tho. Very cool.”
Your cherry lips widened into a brilliant smile that made his heart flutter. “That’s a great compliment, coming from Mr. Cool himself. Looks like you do have an eye for drama.”
He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’ll leave that to you.”
Over your shoulder, a publicist began scanning the terrace, clearly looking for the director to drag you back to a circle of producers. You turned back to Michael, a hint of genuine reluctance in your eyes.
“Duty calls. And you look like you’re dying to escape anyway,” your voice dropped to a quiet murmur. “Hope I’ll see you around, Michael.”
You gave a small nod, your fingers brushing lightly against his forearm as you stepped past him. Even through the heavy fabric of his jacket, the touch left a lingering heat.
Michael stood on the terrace, watching you disappear back into the crowded lounge, gracefully swallowed up by the world of red carpets and hollow praise. He looked down at his arm, then out at the river and the golden tower sparkling above the city as a smile spread across his face. And for the first time in his life, he didn't mind the drama.
—
A week later, Michael was back in the chilly wind of Munich. The familiar scent of peppermint oil, leave-in conditioner and pomade filled the air of the high-end studio that Monday. It was a quiet afternoon following a grueling weekend match, where the quiet hum of a hairdryer and the smooth lo-fi beats playing through the speakers were the only sounds filling the room.
He quietly sat in the leather styling chair, shoulders relaxed but his eyes slightly heavy from ninety minutes on the pitch the night before. His hair was completely undone, the thick texture free from its usual tight braids.
The door to the back room swung open and Esther walked out, carrying a fresh tray of clips and combs. Her face lit up the moment she saw her two regular clients.
Jamal, already seated in the chair beside him, with a black cape draped over his chest, waved towards her. “Look at our Hollywood girl.”
Esther laughed, setting her tray down with a proud smirk. “Getting there. One day.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Jamal joked, gesturing dramatically toward Michael. “The Oscars can wait, but this man's hair cannot.”
Esther walked over to Michael’s chair, gently tilting his head back to inspect his hair. She ran her fingers through the roots, letting out a long sigh. “If you keep getting beer on it every weekend, there is no magic I can do to keep them good,” she scolded, grabbing a spray bottle.
A tiny smirk curled on his lips as he looked at her through the mirror. “It’s part of the job.”
“Getting drenched in beer during a post-match celebration is not in your contract, Mike,” Jamal chimed in, cracking up. “But hey, a win’s a win!”
Esther began sectioning Michael’s hair, the rhythmic and familiar sensation of the comb putting him instantly at ease. The salon fell into a comfortable quiet for a moment, the mist from the water bottle settling over his dark hair, before Esther spoke up, her voice a mix of excitement and curiosity.
“So, what did you guys think of the movie? I’m surprised you both stayed for the whole thing and the after-party,” Esther said, looking between the two of them in the mirror. “That director is kinda great, isn’t she? Looks like she’s gonna be huge.”
Michael’s eyes shifted downward, staring intently at his own sneakers. The memory of the dimly lit terrace, the cool breeze off the Seine, and the lingering warmth of your fingers on his jacket flashed through his mind with annoying clarity.
Jamal leaned forward in his chair, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he locked eyes with Esther in the reflection.
“Michael's the one to ask,” he teased, his tone dripping with fake innocence. “He was all over her when it ended. I saw you two chatting for like half an hour.”
Michael shot his friend a warning glare through the glass. “It wasn't even that long. And we were just talking.”
“Oh, please. Just admit you found her gorgeous. You even mistook her for one of the actresses. And she asked you specifically what you thought about the movie.” His expression shifted into pure exasperation. “Why the hell didn’t you get her number? I can’t always be there to play wingman, man.”
Michael felt a stubborn tightness in his chest. He crossed his arms under the cape, looking everywhere but at Esther, who had stopped combing completely, a teasing smile spreading across her face.
“I don’t want her number,” he muttered, his voice dropping into the low defensive tone he used whenever he was feeling cornered by his friends.
Esther gently tapped the back of his neck with her comb, her smile widening into a grin. “I have her number, champ.”
Jamal let out a loud laugh, instantly reaching over to slap Michael’s arm. “He wants her number!”
“I don't,” Michael insisted. A distinct warmth rose up his neck, the cool and unbothered persona he worked so hard to maintain completely cracking in the styling chair. He sighed, refusing to look at either of them. “What do you want me to do? Ask her on a date? We have nothing in common and she lives in another country.”
Jamal threw his hands up in the air. “Well, yeah, flirting usually requires some effort, man. You don't just look at them from across the room hoping they read your mind.”
“I've got other things to worry about,” Michael grumbled, shifting uncomfortably. “The season's busy. Training, recovery, matches. Don't have time to be chasing girls around Paris."
Esther chuckled, parting another section of his hair with precision. “The boy has never heard of time management.”
He groaned and leaned his head back against the headrest, completely defeated by the tag-team effort. “What is wrong with you two today?”
Jamal laughed, finally leaning back into his own chair to let his stylist finish up. “Just messing with you, bro. Chill. Do whatever you want with your lack of a love life.”
The salon fell into a relatively peaceful silence for the next forty-five minutes. The steady pull of Esther’s fingers creating perfect, symmetrical braids across Michael’s scalp was therapeutic enough to let him zone out. Away from the pressure of the upcoming match, the media drama, and Jamal’s relentless teasing. But he couldn't zone out from that night on the terrace.
Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the way you had looked at him, like someone who saw right through the expensive clothes and the quiet mask he wore for the cameras. You hadn't asked him about his stats, his contract or transfer rumors. You had just talked to him like a regular person who happened to understand exactly what it felt like to have a thousand eyes on you.
“All done,” Esther finally announced, patting his shoulder gently. She handed him a small hand mirror so he could check the back.
The braids and his buzzed sides were flawless and sharp again, a genuine smile replacing his earlier frown. “Perfect. Thanks, E.”
As Michael finished paying for his haircut, Esther held out a small piece of paper towards him. It was a torn edge from a notepad with a neat sequence of numbers and your name at the top. He froze for a second, looking from the paper up to his friend.
“She actually asked about you before the premiere started, you know,” Esther said quietly, keeping her voice low so Jamal wouldn't overhear. “She saw you walking in and asked me if that was the Michael Olise I always talked about in the makeup trailer. She thinks you’re interesting, Michael. And she doesn't just give her time to anyone.”
He looked back down at the slip of paper. His fingers brushed against the torn edge, his usual shyness returning, but underneath it also an undeniable spark of excitement.
He slid the paper into his pocket. “Thanks,” he murmured softly, giving Esther’s shoulder a quick squeeze.
“Don't overthink it,” she called out while already greeting another client.
Michael sat on the plush sofa, waiting for Jamal to finish up. He pulled his phone out, his thumb hesitated over the screen. And for a guy who could make split-second decisions on the pitch with over a thousand people screaming at him, staring at a blank text thread felt like the most terrifying and exciting thing he'd done all year.
—
The texts kept going for weeks after the best shot he’d ever taken. Almost every day, the two of you would exchange messages, him talking about another grueling match, you venting about the endless hours spent fixing plot holes in your next screenplay. The nights were now filled with a brand new feeling of home, even when he was hundreds of miles away from it.
On Michael’s first week off, he took the earliest flight he could to France.
The parisian night welcomed him with a light drizzle and a chilly wind that made him wrap his coat tighter around himself, until he caught sight of you walking down the street toward him, and the view alone sent a soft wave of heat through his entire body.
Now, you were sitting in the dimly lit corner of an underground japanese listening bar, tucked behind a hidden door next to a vintage record shop. There were no flashing lights there, no influencers, no whispers of his name from nearby tables. It was just the low hum of a vinyl record playing through vintage speakers and you sitting right across from him.
You looked effortlessly beautiful in a simple knit sweater and dark trousers, your hair pinned up loosely with a few stray strands framing your face. Your fingers handled the chopsticks with intense concentration as you picked up a piece of sushi. Watching you, Michael felt his chest flutter in a way he’d never experienced on a football pitch.
“If you stare too hard, I’m gonna drop it. And I’m gonna blame you for it,” you warned without looking up, a tiny smirk curling the edge of your lips.
Michael let out a soft laugh, leaning back against the leather booth. “Thought you were used to pressure and people looking at you.”
“Says the man who plays every weekend with thousands of people watching his every move,” you countered, finally bringing the piece safely to your mouth. You looked up, your gaze locking onto his with that same piercing calm that had completely disarmed him the night you met. “How was training? Esther told me you’ve been working through a tight schedule.
“It’s alright. Same as always,” he said, his tone naturally relaxed around you now. “Just video analysis and tactical drills. Whole lot of sitting around listening to the boss talk about defensive plays.”
“Sounds thrilling,” you teased, taking a sip of your sake. “Do you ever just want to kick the ball into the net during those, just to shake things up?”
A wide smile broke across his face. “Always. But then I’d get benched for the next match and have to watch us lose.”
Your laugh blended perfectly with the low tunes coming from the speakers. For the next hour, the conversation flowed with an ease Michael rarely experienced outside his family. You found a strange, comforting kinship in your industries, both of you too young, too talented, and essentially treated as public property the second you stepped outside.
“Must be exhausting, having to manage how you act on the field and your persona out of it. Sometimes even I can’t handle—”
A sudden, persistent vibration rattled against the table. Your phone lit up over the dark wood, the screen shining bright with an incoming call from a name Michael didn't recognize.
He watched your gaze flick down. In a fraction of a second, the warmth between you completely vanished and your posture went rigid. A regular person might have missed it, but Michael, who spent his entire life reading the micro-movements of defenders on a pitch, noticed instantly.
Your finger slid across the screen in a practiced movement, quickly silencing the call and flipping the phone face down. You looked back up at him, forcing a quick smile. “Sorry about that. Production stuff. It never stops.”
He kept his eyes on yours, his brows furrowing slightly as the vibe in the booth shifted to something colder and further away. “You alright?” He asked softly, his voice dropping into a low protective tone.
“Yeah, completely fine,” you said, a little too quickly, waving a hand dismissively. “Just some trashy producer from the LA office who doesn’t understand time zones or boundaries. Anyway, what were we talking about?”
Michael let it go, nodding and picking up the thread, but his instincts were screaming that something was off. Ten minutes passed, and just as you seemed to be relaxing back into the rhythm, the phone buzzed again, then again, and again.
Your fingers clenched tightly around your glass. Your eyes stayed fixed on him, but he could tell you weren't hearing a word he said anymore, entirely trapped in your own head now. Reaching across the table, Michael brushed his calloused fingers against your wrist. The soft contact suddenly snaps you out of the anxious haze.
“Hey,” he murmured, his dark eyes steady on yours. “We can go if you need to.”
You looked at him, your lips parting to deny it, but you just swallowed the excuse and gently pulled your wrist back. “Yeah… maybe that’s a good idea. I’m really sorry, Michael. I just…”
“Don't worry about it,” he said smoothly. He was already signaling the waiter for the bill, not even bothering to look at the receipt.
The ride in the back of the black cab was a harsh contrast to the easy banter of the restaurant. You sat pressed against the passenger door, staring out the window at the blurred rainy lights of the Eiffel Tower, miles away from whatever private hell was playing out on your phone. It still buzzed every now and then, but you didn’t seem to notice anymore, your expression growing more distant with every passing street.
Michael sat quietly on the other side of the seat, giving you space but never taking his eyes off you. He wanted to tell you that whatever it was, you didn't have to carry it on your own. But before he could find the words, the cab pulled up outside a classic apartment building in Montmartre.
The driver kept the engine running as Michael stepped out into the cool, drizzling night air, holding the door open for you. You stepped out onto the pavement, the damp wind catching your hair. As you turned to face him, the perfect mask you wore finally cracked.
You looked up at him, eyes wide and slightly glassy, carrying a weight of sheer exhaustion that made his chest ache. It took everything in him not to just reach out and pull you into his arms right then and there.
“Michael,” your voice was a quiet murmur against the hum of the cab. “Thanks for tonight. For everything. It was amazing, really.”
“Always have a good time with you.” He took a step closer but stopped, for a second looking down into your eyes, searching for the girl who had been laughing at his jokes an hour ago. “You sure you're good? If you want me to stay, or…”
“No,” you interrupted gently, a trembling smile on your lips. “No, I’m okay. Just a lot of drama. And like you said, I should leave that to me.”
Your fingers brushed against the side of his face, tucking away a stray lock of hair that had fallen out of his hair tie. But this time, the touch felt like you were gently pushing him away rather than pulling him in.
“Get some rest for the match, champion,” you whispered, stepping backward toward the heavy doors of the building. “I’ll see you around.”
Before he could answer, you slipped inside, giving him one last lingering look before disappearing. Michael stood on the pavement as the faint drizzle began to pick up, dampening his jacket.
As an elite athlete, he understood clear strategies and concrete outcomes—wins, losses, fouls, goals—but as he climbed back into the cab, his mind was spinning in a chaotic loop. He had no idea who was on the other end of that phone, or why you had suddenly looked at him like he was a luxury you couldn't afford.
On his way back, he leaned his head back against the seat, gazing out at the blurred neon lights of Paris and for the first time in a very long time, he knew he was entirely hooked.
—
Against all odds, over the next few months, the two of you managed to quietly coordinate your grueling schedules, going back and forth between the romantic haze of Paris and the strict lines of Munich. Even in the hectic early stages of your new film, you managed to carve out a few days to sneak away to Germany to see him.
Outside, the Munich sky was darkening into a deep midnight blue. It had been a long day of training for Michael after a frustrating match-loss, and a tiring afternoon of sightseeing for you, scouting the city for future inspiration. Michael’s apartment was quiet, save for the slow beat of an indie hip-hop track playing while you stood at the stove preparing carbonara.
A few weeks into this relationship blooming in secret, and Michael was already adapting to the domestic shift in his lifestyle. For someone so used to the blinding cameras, post-match adrenaline, and loud after-parties, coming home to someone who was genuinely excited about a museum visit was a breath of fresh air.
“Have you ever been to Alte Pinakothek? It’s so beautiful. The reviews online do not do it justice,” you said, a relaxed smile opening on your face while you mixed the eggs into the hot pasta.
“What's that?” he muttered, helping to set the plates on the table as you sat across each other.
“Are you serious?” The fork nearly slipped from your fingers. Michael let out a low chuckle, a smug smirk spreading across his face. “You do know I'm forcing you to come with me next weekend, right?”
Just as he was about to hit back with a teasing comeback, your phone lit up on the table, its sharp buzz cutting through the music. Your eyes flicked to the screen, expression instantly tightening into a tired frown.
Michael let out an annoyed huff. “Can't you just turn it off?”
“It’s the LA office. I have to take it,” you murmured, already sliding out of your seat. “Sorry I have a job.”
“Making movies is your job. Not answering those pricks twenty-four-seven.”
You rolled your eyes with a soft giggle and pressed the phone to your ear. Your voice immediately pitched a little higher, professional and polite as you answered a few quick questions about budgeting and the shooting schedule. Five minutes later, you set the phone back on the table, stepping up behind Michael to give his shoulder a playful pinch, making him give a dramatic wince.
“I didn’t know you were this possessive, Mr. Nonchalant.”
Michael rested his chin in his hand, idly spinning his fork with a bored expression. “Don't like people trying to take what's mine.”
“Oh, I know,” you teased, taking your seat across from him and taking a bite of pasta. “I saw how mad you got when they tried to take the ball from you on Saturday.”
Michael stopped spinning his fork. “You made the match?”
He hadn't expected that, your flight had been delayed, and he assumed you’d gone straight to the apartment to sleep. “Didn't see you in the stands.”
“That was the point. No media, no drama. No distractions for you.”
“I like being distracted by you.”
“Of course you do. But you need focus, champion.” Your leg found his under the table.
“Well, my back definitely needs a massage,” Michael muttered, leaning back with a dry teasing look. “They tackled me to the ground like a thousand times.”
You laughed, leaning forward. “So much for being subtle and unbothered.”
“Who said I was trying to be subtle?”
“Fine. Get on the bed.” You shook your head, trying to muffle a soft chuckle.
You quickly cleaned up the kitchen and met him in the bedroom. He was already waiting, shirtless, with a bottle of massage oil sitting on the nightstand. As you walked in, his eyes lifted to meet yours, a brief flicker of endearing bashfulness hitting him before he laid down on his stomach, feeling your weight settling onto his toned back.
Your fingers worked into the tight muscles of his shoulders, sliding all the way down the curve of his back. The heels of your hands pressed harder with every movement, working through the knots until a sharp groan left his throat.
It wasn't that Michael wasn't enjoying it, he needed this more than anything, and to his surprise, you were actually pretty good at it. But as your hands moved over his skin, a sudden realization hit him. Between chaotic schedules and rushed flights, you two had never had the time to actually be intimate together. Now, with the pent-up frustration from a lost match, the aching soreness in his bones, and the constant friction of your body against his, something else was waking up inside him.
He shifted under your soft thighs, the pressure in his lower body growing tighter by the second, when you felt his muscles tensing up under your palms.
“Did I hurt you?” You stopped immediately, noticing him bury his face deeper into the pillow. “I didn’t mean to. We can stop.”
“No,” he said sharply. The word was muffled by the pillowcase, but there was a different rough edge to it. “Just... keep going.”
“I think you should hire a professional, Mickey. I don’t want to—”
Michael’s fingers gripped the sheets underneath him, trying to fight the feverish need building in his lower body. With one swift movement, he flipped his body over beneath yours, large hands wrapping around your thighs, effortlessly pulling you closer onto his lap as he rested his back against the headboard.
“Mickey!”
A surprised gasp escaped you, hands instantly grabbing his shoulders for balance as his lips met the curve of your neck. A warm shiver trailed all the way down to your core where he lifted his hips against yours.
In a matter of seconds, his mouth met yours and muffled another needy moan, tongues tangled in a breathless rush, both of you completely starving for each other. His hands traveled up to your waist, pulling you flush against him as your fingers tangled in his locks.
“Need you, baby,” he mumbled against your swollen lips. The heat of his hand slid under your top, burning against your sensitive skin.
In a blur of motion, the rest of your clothes were stripped away, discarded on the floor as your bodies pulled together like magnets. You dragged your palm down his chest, your fingers wrapping around his hard length, throbbing over the softness of your hand that pumped him up and down until his lungs failed him.
“Stop teasing,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re not gonna keep that smirk for long.”
With a playful grin, you teased his plump tip until his hips quivered under your touch. Before you could pull away, his fingers wrapped around your wrists, pinning your hands back. He blindly reached towards the drawer of the nightstand for a condom, ripping the foil open with his teeth and quickly rolling it down his bursting member.
In one smooth motion, he released your wrists to lift your hips directly over him and pushed himself deep inside you with a low, crooked groan. A breathy moan left your lips as you sank down onto the entirety of him. His fingers were quick to find your sensitive clit, his thumb skillfully rolling over it and driving you to the edge. You let your head fall in defeat against his shoulder, resting your forehead against the cool dampness of his skin.
His pace was worthy of an athlete, a rhythmic, relentless flow that took over your senses. Nothing but unintelligible moans and broken whimpers came out of your mouth.
“I can't,” you tried to form a coherent thought, but all the words that came so easily when writing your screenplays completely vanished with every deep thrust. “Mickey... I can't take it.”
A slow grin curled on his mouth as he wrapped his toned arms around your middle, pulling your heaving chest flush against his. With a few more angled and mean thrusts, the tension finally snapped, and both of your limbs tingled with pleasure as a wave of complete, numbing climax took over your exhausted bodies.
Outside the window, Munich’s light rain was the only sound left, saving the heavy breathing that filled the room. Michael laid on his back, the messy sheets wrapped around your tangled legs as you rested your head on his chest. You softly brushed your fingertips over his tattoos, tracing the dark outlines while he wrapped his arm around your back, pulling you even closer.
“My flight is in three days,” you mumbled against his warm skin, groaning softly as you shifted your weight over his. “I don’t want to go.”
“Suddenly you don’t have a job anymore.” An amused chuckle erupted from his chest. “And now I think my back is all good for the second half.”
“Noo, Mickey. You can’t do this.” You cuddled into his side with a long exhale, though your fingers were already clinging to the muscles of his back. “It’s not fair. You train at this pace every day. I don’t.”
“It’s one-nil to me, baby” Michael murmured, rolling his body over yours and leaning down to plant a bruising kiss on your lips. “The game’s only over when it’s over.”
a series in which reader works at the emergency room, but she can’t stand footballers. What will happen when a sweet michael walks in after an injury.
no warnings for this part
a/n: this is different but i hope you enjoy!!
last part - next part
The soft hum of your phone cut through the stillness of your room. It lit up in the darkness, the glow of the screen spilling across the sheets.
You instinctively reached for it, without much thought.
But the moment you saw the unfamiliar number, your brows furrowed, almost ignoring it, instead you clicked on it. Wondering who could be texting you this late.
unknown
i booked it
Your breath caught.
It was him.
You felt a strange, almost embarrassing kind of happiness. Like some part of you had been waiting for him to reach out before you even realized it.
He had thought of you, opened your contact, typed it out and sent it. He chose to cross that invisible distance between you. That made you feel something but you didn't know why a simple message from him felt different from anyone else's.
you
finally
You kept it short, casual. Trying to hide the fact that you were smiling like a highschooler who's crush just liked her story.
The reply came almost immediately, like he had been staring at his phone, waiting for your reply.
michael
says the girl who ignored me for weeks
You rolled your eyes, but there was still a faint smile visible on your face.
you
okay let's not go there
Now you actually started texting each other. Not constantly, just normal things. Small check ups, casual conversations about the books you were reading, or the new show you started watching.
You also started seeing each other outside the hospital. Nothing too fancy you could label as a date.
He would sometimes come by after your shift and you would talk for a while before he walked you back to your car.
Or sometimes you met him after training, claiming that you were 'nearby'.
You never were, you both knew it, but no one ever said anything or complained.
So it became a routine.
At some point people even started wondering.
Sophie would often ask, "Are you guys together yet?". To which you would instantly reply, "No.".
No need for any explanation, no need to put words on something you weren't even sure about yourself. You liked the simpleness of it all. How easy it was to just not mention what was going on.
His teammates also started asking questions, "How is it going with your doctor?".
"She's not my doctor."
"Okay how's your girlfriend then?"
He didn't give him an answer, there wasn't need for one.
He knew that the situation was weird, but just like you, he liked just not thinking about it.
The hospital parking lot was almost empty by the time you both reached your car.
The night had settled, turning the familiar empty lot, into something comforting, softer.
You usually hated leaving this late. You hated the exhaustion that sat behind your eyes, the ache under your feet and the feeling you'd just spent twelve hours giving pieces of yourself away.
But lately you didn't mind it as much.
He quietly walked by your side with his hand in his pockets, matching your slow pace.
You could've reached the car in half the time you did.
You both knew it, but neither mentioned it.
Neither mentioned that he had been waiting for 20 minutes, and neither mentioned that you had changed out of your scrubs faster than usual because you knew he was there.
You were getting good at pretending. Almost too good.
Pretending that none of this ment anything to you, or that you now looked out for this short talk at the end of your day.
When you reached the car, part of you felt disappointed and you turned to him.
"Well."
You played nervously with the keys in your hand. The soft jingle echoing in the silence of the night. "I guess this is me."
A pause.
Neither of you moved.
Usually, this was the part where he would make a dumb joke and you would laugh and tell him he was impossible.
But not today.
Today, neither of you wanted to break the quiet. it was comfortable, and it felt dangerously close to something real.
"You know you don't have to walk me to my car everyday."
He tilted his head slightly.
"I know."
"Then why do you"
For once he didn't have an answer. His eyes dropping to the ground before returning to yours.
"Because i want to."
The simplicity caught you off guard.
No excuses or teasing or pretending he just happened to pass by.
Just the truth.
You had spent months hiding behind sarcasm, arguments, professionalism. You had convinced yourselves that if you never said anything, nothing could change.
Except everything had changed anyway.
You opened your car door, settling in the driver seat.
"yn"
He paused. There were so many things he could say.
i missed this
i missed us
i can't get enough of you
i like you
Instead he smiled.
"Text me when you get home."
You smiled back, "You know you don't have to find excuses to talk to me."
There she was. The familiar yn he spent so much time with. The same girl he cared so much for but would rather die than admit it.
"I'll text you don't worry."
"Good."
He helped you close the door gently, hand lingering on the handle for a second longer than needed.
You watched him in the mirror as you pulled away. He was standing there, watching until you left.
a series in which reader works at the emergency room, but she can’t stand footballers. what will happen when a sweet michael walks in after an injury.
no warnings for this chapter
a/n: this is pretty short again sorry im just trying to figure this plot out and i would love if you guys had any recommendations for the next chapters. loveeee u all
last part - next part
Rain was pouring outside.
The whole world felt completely quiet.
Gentle droplets crashed on the windows around you. Loud enough to drown out any thoughts and annoying hospital sounds. Every now and then, the wind would send another tree branch crash against glass, making the whole frame shudder.
There wasn’t anybody around.
The storm had settled in hours ago, relentless and heavy, as if the sky had no intentions of letting go. It made the world feel quiet, a strange kind of quiet. Everything outside had seemed to slow down, leaving only the warmth of the hospital and the sound of two people breathing in the same room.
“Did i do something wrong.”
You flinched lightly at the question, not expecting for the conversation to drift there.
“No.”
His tone was serious but still held that gentleness he always carried around. “You’ve barely looked at me.”
He was right. You couldn't even hold eye contact. Anyone else wouldn’t even have noticed, but he did, he always did. “I’m pretty busy.”
“yn”
You held your breath.
Your name left his lips with such carefulness, like someone cradling something fragile or accidentally revealing a secret. But it was still warm and effortless. That’s what made it so strange.
He’d never called you by your name before.
You’d heard people say your name a thousand times before, but never him, and never like this. It landed somewhere beneath your ribs, unraveling something inside of you.
The conversation now felt way more personal, way more real. You finally looked at him.
Really looked at him.
His eyes looked somehow even darker than usual. Pupils were blown, his gaze burned into your soul but it also felt so comforting.
Your mind was racing.
The silence was long, painful but needed.
It gave you enough time to think about your next words. “How’s your girlfriend?”
You cringed at your own words, immediately regretting saying them out loud. maybe you should’ve thought about it even more.
He looked at you, genuinely confused. “My… what?”
You sighed, internally punching yourself for even starting this conversation in the first place. “The woman.”
He raised his eyebrows, still looking confused. “What woman?”
“The one in the photos.”
He blinked.
Then laughed, an actually laugh.
Nothing was funny, he was just relieved.
You on your side, were fuming. Why the fuck was he laughing at you?
“That was my cousin.”
You stared.
Blinked. Hard.
Everything came crashing all at once. You wanted to burry yourself immediately. “Cousin?”
“I went to London for a few days to visit some family.”
You wanted to disappear. He said it so calmly, almost like it was obvious to him and everyone else. Actually almost causing a scene over something so insignificant
He noticed you looked upset. So he asked very quietly “So why did you stop talking to me.”
And you finally told him everything, you owned him that.
The meeting, the supervisor, the complaints, being told another doctor had to treat him, walking past him because you literally weren’t allowed to stop.
You explained everything. “Every time i saw you, i wanted to come over.”
“I just couldn’t.”
He just listened. Eyes scanning your face and letting out a relieved breath. “I thought you didn’t want me around anymore.”
“I never wanted that.”
“So why didn’t you tell me?”
You sighed, rubbing your palm against your eyes. You were exhausted and this conversation was draining every last drop of energy left in your body.
“I couldn’t, it’s just too complicated.”
The silence after was long again. Both of you taking everything in.
Then he smiled, a sad smile almost.
“You know…” He paused, wondering if he should actually tell you what he was about to.
“I almost came here three times in the last few weeks.”
You looked carefully, an eyebrow raising slightly. “What?”
“I wasn’t injured.”
“I just sat in the parking lot for what felt like hours.”
“I spent nights wondering what i’d done wrong, why did you suddenly start hating me.”
You were actually speechless.
And relieved in some way.
All this time you thought he had moved on, was with someone else and didn’t care about you.
When in reality he was sulking just as hard.
So it was your turn to laugh now, through blurry eyes.
“We’re such idiots.”
He slowly pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket.
It was wrinkled because he’d been carrying it around for weeks.
It was a reservation confirmation for a small restaurant in town.
But the date had already passed.
“I booked this months ago. Just never got the courage to ask.”
You looked at the expired reservation, then back at him.
You simply reached over, took the paper from his hand and folded it back up, gently slipping it into his jacket.
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a series in which reader works at the emergency room, but she can’t stand footballers. what will happen when a sweet michael walk in after an injury.
no warnings for this chapter
a/n : im quickly posting this during the final’s break omd. next chapter is gonna be juicy
last part - next part
There was something incredibly cruel about routines.
They never stopped, they just, altered.
The ambulance doors still opened every few minutes. Monitors still beeped in uneven rhythms. Nurses still called out bed numbers across the department, and the smell of antiseptics still clung to every corridor.
The department itself hadn’t changed.
You had.
You no longer caught yourself looking towards the ambulance entrance every time the door opened.
Michael was almost like a distant memory, the kind of memory you would tell your kids about in a few years. Laughing about how stupid it all was.
That was what you kept telling yourself.
”Bed seven needs another set of observations.”
”I’ll be there in a minute.” You replied without even looking up from the charts in front of you.
Your shift that day had been quiet. Only two fractures, a suspected appendicitis, and a very dramatic man who was convinced that a paper cut needed stitches.
Sophie walked over. “Heads up.”
You hummed absentmindedly.
”There’s a kid from the academy coming in.”
”Football?”
”Looks like it.”
You don’t even really react anymore.
Not because you didn’t care, because you promised yourself you wouldn’t.
Then, after a few paragraphs, you heard it before you even got to see him.
A quiet laugh drifted across the department.
It wasn’t loud, most people wouldn’t have noticed it.
You did.
It wasn’t the laugh itself that made you look up, it was the voice. Your heart sank before your eyes could even found him.
Slowly, almost against your own better judgment, you looked up.
Michael was walking beside the nervous academy player. The kid had twisted his knee during training and was petrified.
Michael accompanied him. He was healthy, smiling, laughing with the kid and trying to distract him.
You froze.
You hadn’t seen him in months. You’d spent the last weeks trying to convince yourself he didn’t mean anything to you.
All those hours spent looking at the same pictures of him and the gorgeous brunette, all the hours spent trying to get him out of your mind.
Everything seemed to fall apart the second your eyes locked.
His smile gently grew.
”Hi, Doctor.” He hesitated. You felt it.
“..Hi.”
Your response was almost cold, and he noticed it.
You almost had to force yourself to look away. The academy player settled in a nice room and another junior doctor volunteered to assess him. Normally, you would’ve insisted on helping, you always liked teaching the juniors. Today was different, you were grateful for the excuse of being busy.
You buried yourself in paperwork, discharge summaries, prescriptions, a set of blood tests you’ve already read twice, front to back.
Anything to stop yourself from looking up.
Except you kept doing it anyway, even after all the distractions.
Every few minutes, your eyes betrayed you, drifting towards room four.
Michael hadn’t noticed you yet. Or maybe he had and was deliberately trying to give you space.
Either way you wouldn’t know which possibility hurt more.
While the player was being examined, Michael waited in the hallway.
His hands were shoved into the pockets of his black hoodie, watching your every move.
You were exactly as he remembered. Hair tied up in a ponytail, sleeves rolled to your elbows, a yellow pen tucked behind your ear.
You moved quickly between patients, speaking gently to an elderly patient before trying to joke with a little boy.
He fought with his own legs, almost walking over to you.
He even took a step forward, but he remembered what had happened the last time you guys ran into each other and he stopped himself.
The way you’d walked straight past him that day, without so much as a glance. It was engraved in his brain.
One of the nurses walked over to him. “Can i get you anything? Tea, coffee?”
He smiled politely, “I’m alright thank you.”
”You can sit down. It might take a while.”
He nodded, but instead of sitting, he simply leaned against the wall. Eyes wandering back to you.
The nurse followed your gaze, landing directly on you. A tiny smile spread across her face. “You know…”
He looked at her.
”I don’t think she’s looked at her paperwork once in the last five minutes.”
He frowned, “What do you mean?”
”She’s been pretending to read the same page.”
But before he even got a chance to respond, the nurse got called away.
Sophie appeared behind you, almost out of nowhere.
”You’re doing it again.”
Without even looking up from the chart, you reply.
”I’m doing what?”
”Looking at him.”
”I am not.”
Sophie raised an eyebrow and glanced over your shoulder. “You’ve just written today’s date where the patient’s blood pressure should be.”
You looked down. Sure enough, she was right.
You let out a frustrated sigh. “This is so ridiculous.”
You dropped your pen on the desk. Sophie softened, feeling your frustration. “So go talk to him.”
”I can’t.”
”You can.”
”Does he even want to talk to me?”
Sophie glanced across the hall, where michael was watching you while pretending to read a hospital pamphlet. “Oh trust me, he does.”
The junior doctor walked back towards you after long exhausting hours of acting like you were busy with something important.
”The academy player is all set, they’re just waiting for the paperwork.”
You nodded, “I’ll sign them.”
You walked towards the nurses’ station, trying to keep your eyes on the clipboard in your hands and not the hot footballer who could be standing anywhere.
At exactly the same moment, Michael thanked the doctor and started walking towards the exit.
Neither of them planned on going to speak to the other.
Until they found themselves standing only a few feet apart.
He looked up first, heart racing.
Then you did too and your eyes met.
For the first time in months.
Neither of you found the courage to look away. “Hi doctor.”
germansingergirl
baratheonpilled
