#fwc26

fem!reader x michael olise

where you can see how bad france’s loss affected michael.

a/n: this one’s kinda long lmao enjoy [v2]

world cup 2026 series: semifinal 1 v1 ~

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

the door didn’t slam like you’d expected it to. you were expecting michael to be all angry about the loss. but he wasn’t. his entry was so quiet you could barely hear it over the hum of the air conditioning.

he just stood there for a moment before sliding his shoes off and walking into the room.

“hey,” you greet, looking up at him from where you sat on the bed.

“hey,” michael muttered back, not even sparing you a glance before he slips into the ensuite bathroom.

a painfully long period of silence — save for the faucet running, he must’ve been washing his face or something — passed. that’s fine, you told yourself, maybe he just didn’t feel like talking. that’s okay.

he re-entered the main room and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at the floor. not at you, the carpeted hotel room floor. his feet shuffle a little before he speaks up.

“you eat?” he asks, gaze still stuck on the floor.

“michael.”

“they have room service here. i remember seeing a menu—“

“michael.”

you scooted closer to him. not so close that you’d touch, but close enough that you didn’t have to yell to talk to him.

“i texted you lots. and you replied back with an ‘ok’. an ‘ok’, michael.” you almost laughed.

“was busy.”

“doing nothing?”

“yeah,” he admits. now he was contradicting himself. nice one.

“that’s not an answer,” you replied, your legs going up onto the bed, your arms curling around them.

“what you want me to say? we lost. end of story.”

you wanted to sigh. sigh sooo loudly the room next door would hear. “i know we lost. i was there.”

michael glances at you for a moment before immediately fixing his gaze onto something else in the room. “yeah. nothing to say then. you saw it.”

“no, there’s lots to talk about, you just don’t want to.”

“tired.”

you knew he wasn’t a man of many words, at least for interviews or media or whatnot, but it was killing you. never ever did he give you such short and emotionless responses.

“no. you’re avoiding me.”

“i’m not— i’m not avoiding you. i just don’t feel like talking about it right now, is all.”

your feet fall back onto the ground as your posture relaxes slightly. “we don’t have to, then. i’ll just sit here.”

silence passes.

more silence.

and more silence.

before michael finally let out a shaky breath and closes his eyes. “they keep… chatting.”

they? they who? what? what you mean chatting?

“about yamal. and me. same shit every time. but they can do whatever they want, actually. they can compare.”

apparently not because you could tell this was really bothering him. he was so tense that if he tipped over he’d be stuck in the same position.

“that’s not what your body is saying,” you point out.

“can you stop—“ michael catches himself before he could say anything he’d regret. his palm went up to his face and he gave it a hard scrub before sighing again. “sorry. i don’t know what— what you want me to even say.”

“you don’t have to say anything. just stop putting up this facade of not being hurt when i know you are. you’re upset, stop hiding it.”

“it’s my fault,” he groans, his head buried in both his hands now.

on one hand you wanted to hug him. on the other, you wanted to slap some sense into him. no, it wasn’t his fault. what?

“no it’s not. the whole team was off—“

“it doesn’t matter. ousmane— or lucas— whoever the hell being shit tonight doesn’t change the fact that i’m getting compared to yamal. doesn’t change the headlines.”

you let his words marinate a bit. they needed time.

“you have five assists throughout the campaign.”

“so?”

you shrug. “that’s pretty impressive for your first world cup. five.” you take michael’s hand — he flinches slightly, but lets you — before counting it on his fingers. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

“i know it doesn’t change anything. this loss, or whatever. i know it won’t magically make you forget about the pain of losing this game.”

“then why bother?”

“because it’s still the truth. you didn’t let the team down. even if you don’t want to accept it right now.”

he lets out another shaky sigh, his fingers lacing with yours before giving it a firm squeeze.

“i thought we’d win it. the whole thing.”

“so did i. so did everyone else.”

“feels stupid now. dunno why i’d actually believe that.”

“it’s not,” you whisper, your thumb grazing his knuckles as he held you tight.

“mm… whatever. let’s stop talking about it for tonight.”

was michael fully okay now? obviously not. but you weren’t expecting him to be. if he recovered from that loss in just one night you’d be a little concerned. but he was definitely more… relaxed now. like you lifted most of the weight off his shoulders.

“just… stay awake with me a little longer. lie beside me,” he admits softly.

“i’ll be here as long as you need me.”

Have a great day and thank you ❤️

ahhh cute ideaaa 💛💛💛💛

Noticed

michael olise x reader || angst + fluff || wc: 3k~ || chef/maid x footballer

summary: your basically the equivalent of his maid, he would never like you back, right?

You had always been good at knowing where you belonged.

It was something you had learned without anyone having to tell you. Some people walked into rooms and immediately became the person everyone looked toward. Some people had their names shouted by thousands of strangers, their faces recognized everywhere they went, their lives followed by people who wanted to know every little detail about them.

Michael Olise was one of those people.

And you were not.

You were the person who arrived early, quietly prepared his meals, organized his kitchen, and made sure everything was exactly where it needed to be before he even noticed it was missing. You were the person who remembered how he liked his coffee, the foods he avoided before matches, and the little habits he probably didn’t even realize he had.

You knew a lot about him. The worst part was that you weren’t sure he knew much about you at all. Because at the end of the day, you were still just the person who worked for him.

You were basically the equivalent to his maid.

The thought came back every time your feelings got a little too obvious. He would never like you back. Not the way you liked him. It wasn’t even something you questioned anymore.

Michael Olise was someone people admired from a distance. He was talented, confident, and effortlessly charming. People wanted to be around him.

You were the person who cleaned up after him when he left a glass on the counter. You were the person who made sure he had dinner waiting after a long day.

There was a difference. And you knew better than to forget it.

“Morning,” Michael murmured as he walked into the kitchen, his voice rough from just waking up. You looked up from the counter and immediately felt your heart betray you.

“Good morning,” you replied softly, turning your attention back to the breakfast you had prepared.

You hated that you noticed everything about him.

The way his hair was slightly messy. The way he rubbed his eyes when he was tired. The way he always looked calmer when he was home compared to when he was surrounded by cameras and crowds.

“You’re already finished?” Michael questioned, glancing at the plate in front of him.

You nodded. “You have training soon, so I wanted to make sure everything was ready,” you explained.

Michael leaned against the counter, watching you carefully.

“You always do that,” he said quietly.

Your hands slowed. “Do what?” you asked, looking over at him.

“Make sure everyone else is taken care of before yourself,” Michael answered.

You immediately looked away, letting out a small laugh. “That’s kind of my job,” you joked, hoping the lightness in your voice would end the conversation.

But Michael didn’t laugh. Instead, he sighed. “Is that really all you think this is?” he questioned.

You blinked. “What do you mean?” you asked.

Michael hesitated for a moment, his eyes staying on you. “You make it sound like everything you do doesn’t matter because you’re ‘just doing your job,’” he explained.

Your chest tightened. Because the way he said it sounded like he actually cared. And that was dangerous.

“You’re my employer,” you reminded him quietly.

The second you said it, you wished you hadn’t.

Michael went silent. Not angry. Just… quiet. And somehow, that hurt more.

“You really see me like that?” he asked softly.

“I mean… technically,” you admitted.

For a second, you thought he might argue. Instead, Michael looked down.

“I don’t think of you as just that,” he murmured.

Your heart skipped. Just for a second, you allowed yourself to wonder. But then reality came back. He’s just being kind. That was all.

Michael was a good person. He cared about people. That didn’t mean he cared about you in the way you secretly wished he did.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

His eyebrows pulled together slightly. “For what?” Michael questioned.

“For saying that,” you answered.

He stared at you.

“You’re thanking me for telling you that you’re important?” he asked.

Your fingers tightened around the towel in your hands. You didn’t know how to explain it. You didn’t know how to tell him that sometimes kindness felt strange when you weren’t used to receiving it.

“I guess I’m not used to hearing it,” you admitted.

Michael’s expression softened. “You should be,” he murmured.

You looked away. Because that was the problem. Michael had no idea what he did to you. He could say one simple sentence, and you would spend the next week wondering if it meant something.

And it couldn’t. It couldn’t mean something. Because people like Michael Olise didn’t fall for people like you.

“You should eat before your food gets cold,” you said, quickly changing the subject.

Michael stared at you for a moment before laughing quietly.

“You also always do that,” he teased.

You looked up. “Do what?” you questioned.

“Change the subject whenever things get too deep,” he answered.

You felt your cheeks warm. “I do not,” you argued.

Michael raised an eyebrow. “You’re talking about my breakfast instead of what we were just discussing.”

You tried not to smile. “You noticed that?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Michael smiled slightly. “I notice a lot about you,” he admitted.

Your heart stopped. Immediately, you looked back down.

Don’t. Don’t let yourself believe that means anything.

“I’m sure you notice a lot about everyone,” you replied.

The smile on Michael’s face faded slightly. “No,” he murmured. “Not everyone.”

The words stayed with you long after he left for training. You hated that they did.

You hated how a simple sentence could make your heart race and your mind create a hundred different meanings that probably weren’t even there.

Because what did he mean? Did he mean he noticed you because you were around often?

Did he mean he noticed you because it was his responsibility as your employer?

Or did he mean something else?

No. You immediately pushed that thought away.

Don’t be ridiculous. Michael Olise was kind.

He was the type of person who remembered people’s names, who thanked staff members, who checked on people when they looked tired.

You weren’t special. You were just someone who happened to be there.

Someone who made his coffee. Someone who cooked his meals. Someone who worked for him.

I’m just his employee.

You repeated the thought until it felt true again. Except Michael kept making it harder to believe.

When Michael returned home later that afternoon, you were already in the kitchen preparing dinner.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him.

And somehow, you knew it was him. That was another thing you hated. How easily you recognized him.

“Hey,” Michael greeted softly.

You looked over your shoulder. “Hi,” you replied.

Usually, you would have smiled. Usually, you would have asked how training went. Usually, you would have made some small comment about how tired he looked.

But today, you turned back to the counter. And Michael noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You’re quiet,” he pointed out.

You shrugged. “I’m always quiet.”

Michael leaned against the doorway.

“Yeah, you’re usually quiet,” he corrected. “Today you’re ignoring me.”

Your hands paused. “I’m not avoiding you,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t looked at me for more than three seconds since I walked in.”

Your cheeks warmed. “You counted?”

Michael laughed softly. “No,” he admitted. “I just noticed.”

There it was again. That word. Noticed.

“You notice everything,” you replied.

Michael tilted his head. “Is that a bad thing?”

You looked down at the vegetables you were cutting. “No.” But your voice was too quiet.

Michael sighed. “It sounds like you think it is.”

You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t know how to explain it. How were you supposed to tell him that being noticed by him felt dangerous?

How were you supposed to explain that every little thing he did made you wonder if maybe you mattered more than you thought?

And how were you supposed to admit that you were terrified of finding out you were wrong?

“You didn’t eat lunch,” Michael said suddenly.

You looked up. “What?”

“You didn’t eat lunch,” he repeated.

You blinked. “How do you know that?”

Michael looked almost confused by the question. “Because your food is still there.”

You stared at him. “You noticed that?”

A small smile appeared on his face.“Yes.”

Your heart sank. Because he said it so easily. Like noticing you was normal. Like paying attention to you wasn’t something strange.

“You don’t have to keep track of me,” you whispered.

Michael’s smile disappeared. “I’m not keeping track of you.”

You looked away. “Then what are you doing?”

The question came out softer than you intended.

Michael was quiet for a moment. Then he answered. “Caring.”

Your breath caught. Just one word. One simple word. And suddenly you didn’t know what to do with it.

Because you wanted to believe him. You really did. But wanting something didn’t make it real.

“Michael…”

He sighed when he heard the hesitation in your voice. “There it is again,” he murmured.

You frowned. “What?”

“That look.” You looked confused. “What look?”

“The one where you’re trying to convince yourself I don’t mean what I’m saying.”

You went still. Because he was right. And you hated that he was right.

“I’m not,” you whispered.

Michael gave you a small, sad smile. “You are.”

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. That almost made it worse.

Because if he had been angry, maybe you could have handled it.

If he had been cold, maybe you could have reminded yourself that you needed to keep your distance.

But Michael was patient. Michael was gentle. Michael looked at you like you were worth understanding. And you didn’t know what to do with that.

“You know you don’t have to be perfect around me, right?” Michael asked quietly.

You looked at him. “I’m not trying to be perfect.”

He gave a small laugh. “Yes, you are.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m not.”

“You apologize when I thank you,” he said. “You say you’re fine when you’re clearly exhausted. You act like accepting kindness is something you have to earn.”

You looked down. Because every word felt too accurate. “You don’t know that,” you whispered.

Michael stepped closer. “I do.” Your heart hurt. Because he sounded so certain.

“I don’t understand why you think you have to make yourself smaller around me,” he admitted.

You froze. Make yourself smaller. That was exactly what it felt like. Like there was some invisible line between you. A line that reminded you every day who he was. And who you were.

“Because there is a difference between us,” you said quietly.

Michael frowned. “What difference?”

You laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.

“Michael, you’re you.”

He stared at you.

“And I’m me.”

“That doesn’t explain anything,” he replied.

You looked away. “It does.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he argued gently.

You swallowed. “You’re someone everyone wants to know.”

Michael stayed quiet.

“And I’m someone you hired to help around your house.”

The moment the words left your mouth, the room changed. Michael looked at you differently. Not with anger.

With something closer to heartbreak.

“You really think that’s all you are?” he questioned.

You didn’t answer. Because the truth was yes. Yes, you did.

“I think you’re an incredible person,” Michael admitted.

You looked up.

“But I don’t understand why you refuse to believe that.”

Your chest tightened. Because you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe every word. But there was still that voice in your head.

He’s just being kind.

He doesn’t mean it like that.

You’re just someone who works for him.

“I don’t want to misunderstand you,” you whispered.

Michael’s expression softened. “What do you mean?”

You looked down. “I don’t want to think something means more than it does.”

For once, Michael didn’t immediately answer. Because he understood. You weren’t pushing him away because you didn’t care.

You were pushing him away because you cared too much.

“I wish you knew,” he murmured.

Your heart skipped. “Knew what?”

Michael looked at you. Everything about him softened. But then he hesitated. And that hesitation hurt.

Because it felt like he was standing right at the edge of saying something.

Something important. Something you had been waiting to hear. But instead, he just sighed.

“Nothing,” he whispered.

And somehow, that was worse. Because now you knew there was something. You just didn’t know what.

You spent the entire night convincing yourself you had imagined it.

That was the easiest explanation. Because the other option was impossible.

The other option meant that Michael Oliver, the person everyone admired, the person who had thousands of people cheering his name, the person who could have anyone he wanted, actually cared about you in a way that went beyond kindness.

And that couldn’t be true.

It was easier to believe you had misunderstood.

It was easier to believe you had read too much into every smile, every conversation, every small moment where he looked at you like you were more than just someone who worked for him.

Because if you were wrong, you could move on. If you were wrong, you could go back to being normal.

But if you were right? You didn’t know what you would do.

The next morning, you arrived earlier than usual.

Not because you needed to.

Because you wanted something to do. Something that didn’t involve thinking.

The kitchen was quiet as you prepared breakfast, and for a moment, you let yourself relax.

Then you heard footsteps.

“You’re here early,” Michael said softly. “Like earlier than early.”

You looked up.

He was standing in the doorway, watching you. And suddenly, the calm you had built disappeared.

“Good morning,” you replied.

Michael studied you for a moment. “Morning,” he answered.

The silence that followed felt different. Not awkward. Just heavy.

“You’re avoiding looking at me again,” Michael pointed out.

You immediately looked back down. “I’m not.”

He sighed. “You always say that.”

You tried to smile. “And you always say I’m avoiding you.”

“Because you are.”

You didn’t answer. Because you were. And you both knew it.

Michael walked closer. “Can I ask you something?” he questioned.

You nodded. “Of course.”

“Why do you think so little of yourself?”

The question caught you completely off guard.

You looked up at him. “What?”

Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking about it since yesterday.”

Your heart tightened. “Michael—”

“No, just listen for a second,” he asked gently.

You went quiet.

“I keep trying to show you that you matter to me,” he admitted. “And every single time, you find a reason why it doesn’t count.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the counter. Because he was saying the thing you were most afraid of.

“You’re kind,” you whispered.

Michael looked confused. “What?”

“You’re kind,” you repeated. “That’s all.”

His expression changed. Not angry.

Just hurt.

“Do you really believe that?” he asked.

You looked away. “I think you’re a good person.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your chest tightened. Because he wasn’t letting you hide.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you admitted, once again.

Michael’s voice softened. “I want you to tell me what you actually think.”

You swallowed. And for once, you stopped trying to make the answer sound less painful.

“I think you’re Michael Olise,” you whispered. “And I’m someone who works for you.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I think you’re nice to me because that’s who you are,” you continued. “But I don’t think it means anything more.”

The silence after that hurt. Because you saw it. You saw the moment your words reached him.

“You really don’t see it,” Michael murmured.

You frowned.“See what?”

He took a breath. Then another.

Like he was trying to figure out how to say something he had been holding in for too long.

“I don’t remember when it happened,” he admitted.

Your heart started beating faster. “When what happened?”

“When I started looking forward to coming home because you’d be here.”

You froze.

Michael looked down briefly before continuing. “I don’t remember when your coffee order became something I remembered without thinking. Or when I started noticing when you were tired before you said anything. Or when I started wanting to know how your day was, not because I was being polite, but because I actually cared.”

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t speak. “Michael…”

“I know what you think,” he whispered. “I know you think you’re just someone who works for me.”

His eyes met yours. “But you’re not.”

Your heart ached. “Then what am I?” you asked quietly.

Michael smiled sadly. “You’re the person who makes my house feel like home.”

Your breath caught.

“You’re the person who remembers everything about me, even when I forget to take care of myself.”

He stepped closer. “And somehow, you still think you’re the person who matters the least.”

Your eyes burned slightly. Because you didn’t know how to handle being seen. Really seen.

“I thought I was imagining it,” you admitted.

Michael’s expression softened. “Imagining what?”

You laughed quietly, nervous and embarrassed. “The way you look at me.”

His face changed. Like he couldn’t believe you had been carrying that alone.

“You thought you imagined that?” he questioned.

You nodded. “I thought you were just being nice.”

Michael let out a quiet laugh. Not because it was funny. Because he was almost in disbelief.

“I have been trying so hard to make it obvious.”

You smiled a little. “You’re not very obvious.”

He laughed softly. “Apparently not.”

For the first time in days, the tension between you disappeared.

Not completely. Not all at once. But enough.

“I was scared,” you admitted.

Michael’s expression softened. “Of what?”

“That I was wrong.”

He shook his head. “You weren’t.”

You looked at him. “You’re sure?”

Michael smiled. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

Your heart felt too full.

Because for so long, you had convinced yourself that someone like Michael Oliver would never choose someone like you.

And maybe that was the thing you got wrong.

Maybe love wasn’t about being equal in the ways you expected.

Maybe it was about someone seeing every part of you that you tried to hide.

“You know,” Michael teased softly, “you’re still going to have to stop calling yourself just my employee.”

You laughed. “I’ll try.”

“No,” he joked. “You’ll actually try.”

You rolled your eyes.

“There’s the confidence.”

Michael smiled.

“There’s the person I was looking for.”

And that was the moment you finally understood.

He had never been looking at the person who made his meals.

He had never been looking at the person who cleaned his house.

He had been looking at you.

The whole time.

taglist: @loveyluvss