#edf

So reader and olise broke up over some misunderstandings and a couple months passed and he still couldn't get over her, her memory haunts him everywhere he goes, his house, the field, his car etc...But then at a wc game [the Paraguay one cause they won lol]They'll meet again

Haunted

masterlist

summary: after france won the world cup, you fell on your boyfriend that you thought hated you. turns out he missed you more than you could ever think.

warnings: emotional, missing someone?

a/n: In this fic France won the world cup okay…. genuinely almost cried making this because I know how it is to miss someone SO bad so yeah. kinda proud of this🥹🥹. hope that was what you wanted, enjoy loves! as usual, send reqs, theyre open!

—

The breakup wasn’t loud. There were no screaming matches. No shattered glasses. No dramatic “I hate you.”

just silence.

Silence was somehow worse.

Michael still remembered the last thing you’d said to him.

“If you really believed me, you wouldn’t even be asking that.”

He had stood frozen in the hallway of your apartment while rain hammered against the windows.

He’d wanted to answer.

To tell you he did believe you.

But his pride had gotten there first.

“So that’s it?” You had laughed. Not because it was funny. Because your heart had already cracked.

“I guess it is.”

Then you’d walked back inside.

The door had clicked shut.

And somehow…

That tiny sound had become the loudest noise he’d ever heard.

⸻

Everyone said breakups got easier.. They lied.

Because months later…

Everything reminded him of you.

His house felt wrong.

The little plant you’d forced him to buy because, “Your living room need fresh air.”

It was still alive.

Barely.

Unlike him.

Your mug still sat in the cupboard.

White ceramic. Tiny sunflowers painted around the rim. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. Sometimes he’d accidentally pour coffee into it before realizing.

Then he’d stare at it for five minutes. Drink it anyway.

Your hoodie was still tangled between his hoodies.

He never washed it. It barely smelled like you anymore. That somehow hurt more, because it meant you were just a souvenir.

Even driving wasn’t safe.

Every traffic light…

Every café…

Every street.

“That’s where we got ice cream.”

“That’s where she laughed because I couldn’t parallel park.”

“That’s where she kissed me after training.”

It was torture.

Training wasn’t better.

He’d score. Everyone would celebrate. He’d instinctively look into the stands.

Looking for you.

Always.

Every single time.

Then he’d remember.

You weren’t there anymore.

—

His teammates noticed.

“You alright?”

Michael blinked.

“Hm?”

William Saliba nudged him during training.

“You’ve been staring at the same cone for like…three minutes.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“…Yeah.”

Lie.

⸻

Even Didier Deschamps noticed.

Michael had become even quieter. Less smiles. Less jokes.

He played brilliantly.

But there was something, someone missing.

Like half of him had stayed behind somewhere.

⸻

One evening Jules Koundé sat beside him on the team bus.

“You still love her.”

Michael didn’t answer.

“You know silence is basically a yes.”

Still nothing.

Jules sighed. “I’ve seen the way you check your phone after every match.”

“…”

“As if you’re waiting for one person.”

Michael looked out the window. “…She used to text first.”

“What?”

" « proud of you » she’d say." His voice barely existed.

“No matter how badly I played.”

Jules smiled sadly. “You miss home.”

Michael whispered, “I miss her.” because somehow, you felt more like hime than his own appartement did.

—

The worst part wasn’t losing you.

It was realizing…

You’d never actually done anything wrong. The misunderstanding replayed every night.

Photos.

Rumours.

One stupid article.

One teammate caught hugging you after a charity event.

The media twisted everything. Michael believed it. Not completely. Just enough.

Enough to ask questions that sounded like accusations. Enough to make you feel betrayed.

—

He remembered your face.

Not angry.

Just…

Heartbroken.

“You think I’d do that to you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

—

Months later…

He wished he could erase every word, every doubt, every sigh.

—

The World Cup arrived.

France kept winning.

Game after game.

Michael played some of the best football of his career.

Commentators called him unstoppable, clinical, focused. But god, they had no idea.

—

Every assists was dedicated to someone who wasn’t watching.

At least…

That’s what he thought.

—

Quarterfinal.

Semifinal.

Final.

France won.

The stadium erupted.

Blue confetti exploded into the night sky.

Fireworks, music, fan screaming

His teammates tackled each other onto the grass. Michael laughed for the cameras. Held the trophy.

Smiled.

Posed.

Everything looked perfect.

—

Inside…

It felt empty.

—

Hours later…

The celebration had moved into the tunnel.

Families, friends, staff.

Everyone hugging. Everyone crying.

—

Michael slipped away.

Just for a minute.

He needed air.

—

The hallway leading toward the players’ entrance was almost quiet.

Only distant cheers echoed through the concrete walls.

He rubbed a hand over his face.

Exhausted.

Happy.

Miserable.

All at once.

Then…

He heard laughter.

A laugh.

One he’d recognize anywhere.

His heart stopped.

No.

It couldn’t—

He slowly turned.

And there you were.

Standing twenty feet away.

Talking with one of the media coordinators.

A lanyard around your neck.

Professional clothes.

Hair a little longer than before.

Somehow even prettier.

His breathing completely forgot how to work.

You looked up.

Your eyes met his.

Everything froze.

The hallway.

The noise.

The world.

Months disappeared in a heartbeat.

Your smile vanished.

Not because you were upset.

Because you were just…

Shocked.

“…Michael.”

His name sounded exactly the same coming from you.

Soft.

Careful.

Like touching something fragile.

He swallowed.

“…Hi.”

God. What kind of idiot says hi?

You looked different.

Healthier.

But your eyes…

They still carried the sadness, the deception he’d put there.

“I didn’t know you were working here.”

“I’ve been with FIFA’s media team for a few months.”

“Oh.”

“…Congratulations.”

You nodded toward the medal around his neck.

“You did it.”

He looked down, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “…Thanks.”

Silence.

Again.

Always silence.

“I should probably go.”

You took one step.

Then another.

Michael panicked. He couldn’t lose you again.

“Wait.”

You stopped.

Didn’t turn around.

“I…”

Nothing came out.

How did someone apologize for destroying the best thing they’d ever had?

“I’ve rehearsed this conversation in my head every day for six months.”

You slowly faced him.

His eyes were already shining. “I just…” His voice cracked. “I was wrong.”

You stared.

“I believed strangers over the person who loved me.”

Another step toward you.

“I questioned your loyalty.”

Another.

“I hurt you.”

Closer.

“I’ve hated myself every day since.”

Your throat tightened. “You don’t have to—”

“No.” His voice was firm. “I do.”

A beat.

“I walk into my kitchen and expect you to be making coffee. I hear songs and think about you. I assist and look for you. I wake up reaching for someone who isn’t there anymore.” He laughed bitterly. “I haven’t had one day where I didn’t think about you.”

Your eyes filled with tears.

Because…

Neither had you.

“I kept waiting.” Your whisper almost disappeared. “For you to come.”

Michael blinked. “What?”

“I waited.” A tear rolled down your cheek. “For weeks.” You wiped it quickly. “I thought…” Your voice broke. “…I thought you’d realize. I thought you’d knock on my door. I thought you’d fight for us.”

His face completely fell. “I wanted to.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Because he was scared.

Scared you’d slam the door.

Scared you’d already moved on.

Scared he’d hear the words he deserved.

“I was a coward.”

Silence.

Finally…

You laughed through your tears. “You really are an idiot.”

He actually smiled. “…Yeah.”

“The biggest one.”

“…Definitely.”

Another silence.

But this one…

Didn’t hurt. If not, it was almost comforting.

You looked at the medal around his neck. “I watched every match.”

His heart skipped. “You did?”

“I never missed one.”

“…Really?”

“I still screamed every time you scored.”

Michael laughed.

A real laugh.

For the first time in months.

“You know…” You wiped your cheeks. “I hated you.”

“I know.”

“I blocked your number.”

“…I noticed.”

“I told my friends I’d never speak to you again.”

He nodded. “Fair.”

“But…” You looked at him. Really looked at him. “I never stopped loving you.”

His eyes immediately watered. “…Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

“I mean it.”

He covered his face for a second.

Actually trying not to cry.

It didn’t work.

You stepped closer. “So…”

He looked up.

“…What now?”

⸻

Michael closed the remaining distance between you.

Slowly.

Giving you every chance to step away. You didn’t.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight.” His voice was barely audible. “I’m asking…” He took your hand for the first time in months, it felt like it always did, natural, like or belonged there. “…for one chance.” he sniffed. “I’ll spend however long it takes earning your trust back. I’ll answer every question. I’ll have every uncomfortable conversation. I’ll never let my pride speak for me again. I just…” His thumb brushed yours. “…I don’t want a life where you’re just a memory.”

Your heart completely surrendered.

Because this…

This wasn’t the stubborn man who had walked away months ago.

This was someone who had finally understood what love required.

Humility.

Honesty.

Effort.

You squeezed his hand, gently, reassuringly like you always did.

But it felt bigger than the World Cup trophy resting in the locker room.

“We start slow.”

He nodded immediately. “As slow as you want.”

“No promises.”

“I understand.”

“You have to earn it.”

“I will.”

A tiny smile finally appeared on your face. “…Congratulations, champion.”

Michael smiled back.

Then, almost shyly…

"can I hug you?"

You rolled your eyes. “You’ve always asked permission after making me cry.”

He laughed through tears. “I know.”

a beat

“Come here.”

The second his arms wrapped around you, months of pretending dissolved.

He buried his face in your hair like he was trying to memorize the feeling all over again.

You held him just as tightly.

The cheers from the stadium echoed through the corridor.

His teammates were probably looking for him.

The world was celebrating France’s victory.

But Michael wasn’t thinking about football.

Not the trophy.

Not the cameras.

Not the medals.

⤷ ゛masterlist ˎˊ˗

michael olise x f!reader.

dating.

note: see u at the end of the wc to see how many nights he will cuddle you 👀

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after making a deal that every goal michael scored would earn him a night of cuddles when he returned from the world cup, you were horrified when he scored a hat-trick against ireland.