The perfect match
Pairing: William Saliba x reader (y/n)
Summary: It was supposed to be simple: a fake relationship between a football star who got a ‘problem’ and an actress nobody paid attention to. But somewhere between the cameras, rumors, and carefully planned dates, you forgot one important thing. It wasn't supposed to feel real. ❤️
Genre: one (kinda) long shot, fake dating, fluffy, fluff fic, romance
Warnings: just a small kissy kiss 😘
Paris was loud in the way you hated, blinding lights from luxury boutiques, endless chatter about parties, and the suffocating idea that glamour equaled success. Six years in the industry, and yet you were still invisible to the public eye. Your agent’s latest idea: “a fake relationship” was something you never imagined yourself doing. But here you were, standing outside a quiet café, waiting to meet William Saliba.
You knew his name, of course. Everyone in France did. Defender of Arsenal, Bondy-born, the footballer who had recently refused Real Madrid’s offer and sparked an online firestorm.
“Il est en retard (he is late),” you whispered, glancing at your watch.
Five minutes later, a tall shadow appeared down the street. He walked with the easy confidence of someone used to being observed, but there was something unpolished about him too. He said sorry for making you wait. He didn’t dress like the tabloid images you’d seen, no chains, no flashy jacket. Just a black hoodie, jeans, and sneakers. His face was calm but his eyes looked tired, as if he had been fighting battles no one could see.
“(Y/N)?” His voice was deeper than you expected, gentle, almost careful with your name. But to be honest, he sounds like Darth Vader (but softer and kinder way 😭).
You nodded. “William.”
He smiled faintly before slipping into the seat across from you. The café was nearly empty, which you suspected was intentional. Privacy was gold for both of you now.
“I suppose our agents told us everything,” you began, fingers curling around your coffee cup. “We… play the part of a couple when necessary, when everytime you’re in Paris”
He leaned back, studying you. “Oui. To help me look… less like what they say. And for you, more visibility.”
You winced at the bluntness but couldn’t deny it. “At least we won’t have to pretend too often. You’re in London most of the time.”
“True,” he said, then chuckled softly. “But when I’m in Paris, you are my… fake girlfriend.” He made air quotes, and for a moment you caught a glimpse of humor under his serious exterior.
Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You both understood the absurdity of this arrangement. Two strangers, bound by rumors and reputations.
“Do you mind it?” he asked suddenly, eyes fixed on you. “Being seen with me? They say terrible things about me online.”
You hesitated. “They say terrible things about me too. Only mine are… quieter.” You smiled a little. “I think we’ll survive.”
Something flickered in his gaze, like he respected your answer. Then he extended his hand across the table.
“Alors… we have a deal?”
You placed your hand in his. His grip was warm, steady.
“Yes,” you whispered. “We have a deal.”
Outside, the street hummed with the usual Parisian noise, but inside the café, it felt like the start of something. Something neither of you could have predicted.
The fake relationship hadn't started yet. No paparazzi, no rumors, no public appearances. Just meetings. Lots of meetings.
Your agents insisted it was necessary.
“If you're going to pretend to be dating, at least learn how to act naturally around each other.”
You nearly laughed. You had spent years studying acting. Yet somehow pretending to be someone's girlfriend felt more difficult than performing Shakespeare in front of five hundred people.
The first few meetings were awkward. Painfully awkward. You sat across from William in a quiet café in Paris while both of your agents discussed strategy. You hated every second of it.
“Don't hold hands immediately.”
“Appear together gradually.”
“Build public interest.”
"Smile more.”
You wanted to disappear. Meanwhile William sat across you looking equally miserable. When the agents finally left to answer a phone call, silence filled the table.
You sighed. “This is embarrassing.”
William immediately laughed. The first genuine laugh you had heard from him. ”Thank God.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I thought I was the only one thinking that,” William said.
For the first time, the tension disappeared.
A few days later, you met again. Without agents. The plan was simple. Get familiar with each other and learn basic information. Avoid accidentally exposing yourselves as strangers.
“So.”
William took a sip of coffee.
“Favorite movie villain?”
You smiled, men usually asked what’s your fave colour or flowers or foods yet William asked her about villain as a starter. But you felt so good about it.
Three hours later you were still talking. Somehow a simple question about movies became a discussion about theater. Then literature, childhood memories, food, travel.
At one point William looked genuinely surprised.
“You actually enjoy theater?”
You stared at him.
“William.”
“What?”
“I literally graduated from acting university and started at the theatre.”
"I know, but I thought actors nowadays just said they liked theater because it sounds cool and edgy. Well I went to theater once, I was so sleepy (no offense) and then I thought most actors nowadays were influencers without acting background, there’s no way they could enjoy this thing"
You threw a napkin at him. His laugh echoed through the café. After that, things became easier.
You learned that William was far quieter than people imagined. The internet described him as a football star, celebrity, famous athlete. In reality, he seemed happiest talking about family, football, and food. Very normal things.
One afternoon, your agents organized a practice date.
“Just walk around Paris together.” It sounded simple. Until you realized people were staring. Not because they knew about the relationship. Not yet. Because William Saliba was impossible to miss. The tall defender walked beside you while wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. Unfortunately, he was still 193 cm.
Several people recognized him immediately. You tried not to laugh.
“Your disguise isn't working.”
“It is.”
“No.”
“It absolutely is.”
A teenager literally approached him at that exact moment.
“William Saliba?” He said.
You burst out laughing. The teenager got a selfie. William looked betrayed. You laughed even harder. By the end of the day, your cheeks hurt from smiling. Which was strange.
You rarely felt that comfortable around people. Especially famous people. Many actors you met spent entire conversations discussing themselves. Their achievements, appearances, popularity. William never did. Instead, he asked questions. Lots of questions.
“What was your first role?”
“How many auditions did you fail?”
“Do theater actors get nervous?”
“What happens if you forget your lines?”
No one had ever seemed that interested before. Most people only cared about successful projects. Not the years of struggling before them.
One evening, the conversation became more personal. You were sitting by the Seine watching boats pass. The sun slowly disappeared behind Parisian rooftops.
“I almost quit acting.”
The words escaped before you could stop them. William looked over.
“What?”
You stared at the river.
“A year ago.”
The confession felt embarrassing.
“No major roles.” You shrugged.
“No recognition.” You added.
Your voice softened.
“People kept calling me boring.”
William was quiet. You expected encouragement. A motivational speech. Something. Instead, he frowned.
“Boring?”
You nodded. “They say I don't fit celebrity culture.”
William looked genuinely confused.
“You don’t like parties.”
“Yes.”
“You graduated from acting school.”
“Yes.”
“You spend your free time reading.”
"Yes."
He paused. “Sounds normal to me.”
You laughed.
“Normal doesn't sell magazines.”
William leaned back against the bench.
“Maybe magazines are the problem.”
You looked at him. He wasn't joking. For some reason, that made your chest feel lighter. Nobody had ever said that before. Most people suggested changing yourself. Dress differently. Act differently. Become more interesting. William was the first person who seemed perfectly fine with who you already were.
As the launch date approached, your agents became excited. Photos were scheduled. Restaurants selected. Timelines prepared. Everything was ready.
The night before your first public appearance, William texted you.
For the first time since agreeing to the fake relationship, you weren't scared anymore. Because somewhere between the meetings, the coffee dates, the long conversations, and the endless questions. William Saliba had stopped feeling like a stranger.
The first public date was supposed to be simple. At least, that was what both agents had promised.
“Just walk together,” your agent had said over the phone. “Have lunch somewhere visible. Smile. Let people take photos.”
As if it were that easy.
You stared at your reflection in the mirror of your Paris apartment. A cream-colored cardigan, dark jeans, simple ballet flats.
Nothing glamorous. Nothing provocative. Just you.
“You know this is probably the most boring outfit possible for a fake celebrity date,” you muttered.
But you wore it anyway because it was comfortable. Because it was you. And surprisingly, William didn't seem to mind.
The moment you arrived at the restaurant near the Seine, you spotted him immediately. He was already waiting outside. Not looking at his phone. Not talking to anyone. Just waiting.
The second he saw you, his face brightened.
“There you are.” (with his cheeky laugh)
Before you could answer, he walked over and opened the car door for you.
You blinked. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
As if it were obvious. As if every man did that.
You climbed out of the car while photographers immediately started snapping pictures.
The first photos of William Saliba and his rumored actress girlfriend. The beginning.
The internet exploded before dinner was even over. Photos spread across twitter, instagram, tiktok, and football forums. Some reactions were expected. Some weren't.
Who is she?
William Saliba has a girlfriend?
Real Madrid fans said he's partying every night. Doesn't look like it.
She looks classy.
Wait, she's actually pretty
French actress?
Never heard of her.
That last one hurt a little.
Six years. Years of acting classes. Years of theater performances. Years of auditions. And people still didn't know who you were.
But surprisingly, there were positive comments too. A lot of them. More than you expected.
The second public date happened two weeks later. This time in a small Parisian café. And this time people were waiting. Not reporters but fans. You noticed them whispering and pointing. Looking at you, not just William but you. For the first time.
The next morning, you opened instagram aAnd nearly dropped your phone.
“WHAT?”
Your follower count had jumped overnight. Thousands then tens of thousands then more. Notifications flooded your screen, there are comments, messages, tags, edits, fan accounts.
You opened one post.
You're so beautiful.
Another.
You and Wilo look perfect together.
Another.
No offense but he looks happier since dating her.
Another.
Saliba has been playing insanely well lately.
Relationship buff unlocked.
You laughed. The kind of laugh that escaped before you could stop it. People were genuinely being nice. To you. It felt strange, wonderful and dangerous at the same time
A few days later, William sent a screenshot.
A football meme. It showed his face next to yours.
SALIBA AFTER GETTING A GIRLFRIEND: +100 DEFENDING, +100 PASSING, +100000 AURA
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your coffee.
You stared at the message. Then burst out laughing again. He really was funny. Not in the loud, attention-seeking way some celebrities were. Just naturally funny. Comfortable and easy. And that was the problem.
Nothing about this arrangement felt fake anymore. Not the conversations, the laughter and the hours spent texting.
When you met for your third public appearance, you noticed something. William never forgot small things.
At lunch, a waiter brought sparkling water. You struggled with the bottle cap. Before you could try again, William quietly took the bottle. Opened it. Handed it back. Then continued talking as if nothing happened.
Another time, you were trying to cut a steak. The knife was dull. Without a word, he switched plates with you. Cut everything neatly. Then returned it.
“You know I can do things myself.”
He smiled.
“I know.”
“Then why do you keep helping?”
“I don’t know.. Because it feels right.”
You couldn't argue with that. Mostly because your heart did something strange every time he said things like that.
The flowers were another issue. The first bouquet appeared when he arrived in Paris. White roses. Simple, beautiful and exactly your taste. The second time it was peonies. The third time tulips.
You eventually asked him.
“Do you buy flowers for every fake girlfriend?”
He nearly choked on his drink.
“I've never had a fake girlfriend before.”
“Oh.”
“Also,” he added, looking genuinely offended, “I'd buy flowers for a real girlfriend too.”
Your cheeks warmed. Which was ridiculous. This was a business arrangement. A publicity strategy. Nothing more. Right?
The strangest part wasn't the flowers, the gentleman behavior or even the growing attention online. It was how interested he seemed in your life.
Most people only asked about acting because they wanted celebrity stories. William asked because he genuinely wanted to know.
“How does an audition work?”
“How many people are in the room?”
“Do you memorize everything?”
“Do directors tell you immediately?”
“What happens if you get rejected?”
One evening after dinner, he listened while you talked about a difficult audition. A role you wanted desperately. A role you didn't get.
“I practiced for three weeks,” you admitted.
“And then they chose someone else.”
William was quiet for a moment. Not trying to fix it orinterrupting. Just listening.
“That must've hurt.”
Simple words but somehow exactly the right ones.
Most people immediately said things like:
“You'll get the next one.”
“Don't worry.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
William didn't. He simply acknowledged it and listened.
Later that night, lying in bed, you found yourself scrolling through Instagram comments again. Thousands of messages. Thousands of strangers discussing your life, your looks, your relationship, your future. Normally, that would've terrified you. But instead... You smiled. Just a little.
Because for the first time in six years, people weren't calling you boring. They weren't saying you lacked charisma. They weren't ignoring your existence.
People were curious about you. Interested in you and roting for you. And maybe the most dangerous part of all... You were starting to look forward to William's messages every day. Not because he was your fake boyfriend, publicity, or followers. But because somewhere along the way, talking to him had become your favorite part of the day. And you weren't sure when that happened.
•••
You hated reunions. Not because you disliked seeing old classmates or awkward conversations. But because a girl named Sabine.
Just hearing her name was enough. Back in high school in Lyon, Sabine had made your life miserable. The worst kind of bullying. Whispers, rumors and mocking comments disguised as jokes. All because she believed you had stolen her boyfriend.
Which was ridiculous. The boy had confessed his feelings to you. You rejected him. Repeatedly.
But somehow, in Sabine's version of reality, you became the villain.
Years passed. You graduated, moved to Paris and built a career. Yet when the reunion invitation arrived, your stomach immediately twisted.
You threw the envelope onto your kitchen table. “Absolutely not.”
Your agent disagreed. “You're going.”
“Your new movie just released, it’s good for promotion. I believe many people there will watch it for you!”
You are going unfortunately...
Three days later, you found yourself standing outside a hotel ballroom in Lyon. Questioning every life decision that brought you here.
The fake relationship with William was still active. The public loved it and the media loved it.
You desperately wished he were beside you. Unfortunately he was in London. Arsenal campaign obligations.
You entered the ballroom. Some eople immediately recognized you. Former classmates. teachers and some old friends.
Then you saw her. Sabine. And immediately wished you had stayed home. She approached with a smile. A beautiful smile. The same smile she used before destroying someone's confidence.
“Look at you.” She hugged you.
You almost dropped your drink.
“You became a star.”
“Not really.”
“Don't be modest.” She smiled warmly. Too warmly.
“I've seen your films.”
You blinked. “Thank you.”
“You're very talented.”
You didn't trust it. Not for a second. Then came the real reason she approached. Because Sabine never changed. She tilted her head.
“And William Saliba.”
There it was. You forced a smile.
“What about him?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Dangerous words. Absolutely dangerous words. She took a sip of champagne.
“I was reading some forums recently.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Forums?”
“Football forums.”
Sabine smiled. “A lot of people think your relationship is fake.”
Your heartbeat immediately sped up. Not because she was right but because she wasn't supposed to know.
“That's ridiculous.”
She shrugged. “Is it?”
Your hands tightened around your glass. Sabine leaned closer.
“I mean...” The smile appeared. The same smile from high school. The same smile before every cruel comment.
“Let's be honest.”
You hated this.
“Why would William Saliba date a girl like you. I mean he could pick the famous one not the ordinary actress who’s still struggling”
The words hit harder than expected. Not because they were new. Because they weren't. You had heard versions of them your entire life.
Too boring.
Too plain.
Too ordinary.
Not enough.
Never enough.
Sabine continued. “It makes perfect sense.”
You stared at her.
“You need publicity.”
Another smile.
“He needs publicity.”
Another sip.
“It's actually a very smart PR relationship.”
For a moment you couldn't speak. The ballroom blurred. Suddenly you weren't twenty-something anymore. You were seventeen again. Standing in a school hallway. Listening to Sabine spread rumors and classmates laugh. Listening to people decide who you were without asking. Your chest tightened.
Sabine noticed. Which only encouraged her.
“Come on.” She laughed softly.
"You can tell me. You can tell us since we’re your old friends from High School. And it’s only Lyon not your kind of big party in Paris"
The room felt smaller. The voices felt louder. Your thoughts tangled. You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out.
Then… A familiar voice.
“Tell you what?”
Everything stopped. Your heart stopped first. Because you knew that voice. Impossible. Absolutely impossible.
You turned around. And there he was. William Saliba. Standing behind you. Tall, calm, handsome and REAL.
Your brain completely shut down.
“What are you doing here?”
His eyes found yours. A small smile appeared.
“You sounded nervous on the phone.”
Your heart nearly exploded. Sabine looked equally shocked.
“William Saliba?”
He barely acknowledged her. His attention stayed on you. “Are you okay?”
The concern in his voice made something warm spread through your chest. You nodded. Not trusting yourself to speak.
Then William finally looked toward Sabine.
“What were we talking about?”
Sabine immediately recovered. To her credit, she was fearless. “I was just saying that your relationship seems very convenient.”
William raised an eyebrow.
“Convenient?” “For publicity.”
The room suddenly became very quiet. People were listening, watching, and waiting.
Sabine smiled confidently.
“It's what people online say.”
William stared at her. For several seconds. Then he laughed. Not nervous or awkward laughter. The kind that meant someone had said something completely stupid.
“You believe football forums?”
A few people nearby laughed. Sabine's smile faltered.
William stepped closer. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his.
“If this relationship was fake...” His voice remained calm.
“...I'd be the worst actor in France.”
The room erupted in laughter. Even you laughed. Sabine definitely didn't. Then William looked at you. Really looked at you.
And suddenly the atmosphere changed. The joke disappeared. The smile softened. The room vanished. For a second there was only him. And you. His eyes dropped briefly to your lips. Your heartbeat became dangerous. Because this wasn't part of the plan.
This wasn't part of any agreement. Then before you could think, William gently placed a hand against your cheek and then rubbed your lips gently. The room gasped. And he kissed your lips. It was soft and tender. You closed your eyes then kissed him back. Not long and dramatic. Just enough to make your world stop spinning.
The ballroom disappeared. The noise disappeared. The people disappeared. Only William remained.
When he pulled away, your heart was still trying to remember how to function.
The room exploded with cheers, laughter, whistles, appplause. Somewhere nearby, Sabine looked like she wanted the floor to open beneath her.
You barely noticed. Because William was still standing there. Still close. Still looking at you. And the strangest part? The kiss should have felt wrong. The relationship was fake. The cameras were real. The contract still existed. Everything about it should have felt artificial.
Instead... It felt terrifyingly natural.
“Sorry about the kiss,” he said.
You nodded without saying anything but deep down, you want him not to say sorry about it.
•••
Three months.
That was how long it had been since your last public appearance with William. Three months after the kiss. Three months without staged photos. Three months without "accidentally" being seen together in Paris. Three months without doing your job as his fake girlfriend. And yet... You talked almost every day except bringing the kiss. We acted like nothing happened in Lyon.
At first, it had been practical. A quick message, an update, a funny photo, a complaint about work. Normal things. Then it became routine.
or
Nothing romantic and flirtatious. Just two people who had somehow become important parts of each other's daily lives. So when your commercial agency called and told you that filming would take place in London, William was the first person you thought about.
Not because of the fake dating arrangement or publicity. Just because... He lived there. And you always told each other about your lives. Still, you hesitated. Your finger hovered over your phone. Then you typed.
For some reason, that chat made your chest feel warm. You arrived in London with your mother a week later. The commercial shoot lasted three days. After that, you planned a small vacation together. The kind of trip you rarely had time for. Your mother was thrilled. You were exhausted.
On the second evening, an idea suddenly appeared.
“Mom.”
“Hm?”
“Would you mind if William joined us for dinner one night?”
Your mother looked up immediately. A smile already forming. “The football player?”
You groaned. “Mom.”
“What?”
“You know his name.”
She laughed. “Of course I know his name.”
And just like that, she started planning dinner. You texted William.
The evening arrived. You were weirdly nervous. Ridiculously nervous. Because this wasn't a fake date. There were no photographers, no agents, no publicity. Just dinner.
William arrived carrying flowers. Again. As always.
“These are for your mother.”
Your mother immediately adored him. Within ten minutes they were already talking. Within twenty, she was insisting he eat more. Within thirty, he was laughing. Actually laughing. The loud kind. The comfortable kind.
Watching them together felt strangely natural. Dinner was wonderful. The apartment filled with the smell of spices and grilled meat. The kind of food that made people feel at home. The kind of food that made people stay at the table long after eating.
Your mother kept putting more food onto his plate.
“Mom.”
“He needs more.”
“He has enough.” you said.
“He plays football.” your mother answered.
“Mom.”
William laughed. “I don't mind.”
By the end of dinner, everyone was full. The conversation slowed. The room became quiet. Comfortably quiet. Then you noticed something. William wasn't speaking anymore.
Not for five minutes. Not for ten. He stared at his plate. Lost somewhere far away. Your mother noticed too. Her smile slowly faded.
“Did you not like the food?” she asked carefully.
William immediately looked up. “What?”
“The food.”
“Oh.” His eyes widened. “No, no, no.”
You felt your stomach tighten. “Did we do something wrong?”
William suddenly looked away. Rubbing the back of his neck. And then, to your surprise…
His eyes looked slightly red. For a moment nobody spoke. Finally, he let out a small laugh. Embarrassed. “I'm sorry.”
Your mother immediately shook her head. “No, dear.”
He stared down at the table. “It's just...”
His voice became softer. “This reminded me of my mother.”
The room fell silent. You knew William's mother had passed away. He had mentioned it before. Briefly. Never in detail. Tonight was different.
For the first time, he continued. “She cooked like this.” A small smile appeared. “Not exactly the same.”
Your mother laughed softly. “But close.”
He nodded. “Very close.”
The smile remained. But his eyes glistened.
"She was always cooking."
You listened quietly.
“Even when she was tired.” His voice carried a kind of affection you had never heard before. The affection of a son who never stopped loving his mother. “She was kind.” “And everyone loved her food.”
Your mother reached across the table and gently touched his hand. “She sounds wonderful.”
William looked down. Then nodded. “She was.”
For the next hour, he told stories. Stories about childhood, Bondy, and family dinners. The more he talked, the younger he seemed. Not Arsenal's star defender. Not one of France's biggest footballers. Just a son missing his mother.
At one point, your mother stood up and disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned, she placed another serving in front of him.
“You should take some home.”
William looked surprised. “For me?”
“Of course.”
When he finally left later that night, he hugged your mother before leaving. A long hug. A genuine one. Then he turned to you. “Thank you for tonight.”
The hallway light reflected softly in his eyes. And for the first time since meeting him, you understood more about him. And somehow, sitting around your small dining table in London, sharing homemade food and old memories, felt more real than every fake date you had ever done together.
•••
Arsenal had done it. After twenty-two years. Finally champions. The celebrations exploded across London, across England, across social media. And William Saliba stood in the middle of them all. Smiling, shouting, celebrating with his teammates and staffs. It should have been one of the happiest nights of his life.
Instead, there was a strange emptiness sitting in his chest. Because the championship meant something else, too. The contract was over.
The fake relationship had officially succeeded. Better than anyone expected. The rumors about William disappeared. Nobody talked about Real Madrid, parties, his private life anymore.
People talked about you. And him. Together. The internet loved the story. The talented young actress with a famous talented footballer. The unlikely couple. People adored it. Your career exploded, movie offers, luxury campaigns, interviews, magazine covers. Directors who ignored you before suddenly wanted meetings.
And William? His image had never been stronger. Both agencies were thrilled. Which was why they scheduled the meeting.
The relationship has served its purpose.
Your agent smiled. “We should announce an amicable separation.”
Across London, William's agent said almost the exact same thing. “People will understand.”
Neither of you argued. What was there to argue about? It had always been fake. So why did it hurt? The official statement came a week later. Mutual decision. Busy schedules. Still friends. Supportive of one another. The usual celebrity language.
The comments were devastated.
“NOOOOOO.”
“LOVE IS DEAD.”
“I ACTUALLY BELIEVED THEM.”
“At least they ended on good terms.”
You stared at the announcement for a long time. Then locked your phone. That night, William didn't text.
For the first time in nearly a year. You didn't text either. And somehow that felt worse. Days turned into weeks. No messages, random memes, updates, conversations about football, stories about auditions. Nothing. The silence grew.
Until one evening your phone vibrated. Your heart immediately recognized the name. You stared at it for several seconds before opening the message.
Nothing else came after that. On the other side of the Channel, William stared at his phone. He understood. Of course he did. You were so busy now.
And there was Julian. The actor. The one who appeared in every behind-the-scenes photo lately. The one laughing beside you during interviews. The one constantly mentioned in fan discussions. William had seen all of it. He tried not to care. Failed miserably. Because every article seemed to mention how good you looked together. William hated himself for reading them. But he read every single one.
So when you declined both invitations. His heart quietly reached a conclusion. She doesn't feel the same.
The thought settled heavily in his chest. And because he was William Saliba, because he was proud, because he didn't want to embarrass himself... He said nothing.
The celebration day arrived. You spent the entire afternoon filming. Then another meeting, another interview, another delay.
Exhaustion settled into your bones. But the entire time one thought remained. William.
By evening, something inside you finally snapped. Enough. You looked at your assistant.
“What time is the last flight to London?”
She blinked. “What?”
“The last flight.”
Three hours later, you were sprinting through an airport. The situation was ridiculous. Insane and completely irresponsible. But you couldn't explain it. You just wanted to see him. Even if only for a few minutes.
The plane landed. A car took you directly to the venue. Music echoed through the building. Lights flashed. Laughter filled the air.
You arrived breathless. Hair slightly messy. Still wearing clothes from work. But you were smiling. Until you saw him.
William stood near the center of the room. Tall, handsome, happy. Surrounded by women. Beautiful women. One touched his arm. Another leaned close to whisper something. Another laughed while placing a hand on his shoulder. William smiled politely.
You didn't stay long enough to notice the details. You didn't notice him subtly stepping back whenever they moved closer. You didn't notice his eyes constantly scanning the room.
You didn't notice he wasn't paying attention to any of them. Because your heart had already shattered.
Of course. The contract was over. Why wouldn't he move on? Why wouldn't he enjoy himself?
Your chest hurt. You turned around. Before he could see you. Before anyone could see you. And walked away.
Hours later, William finally noticed. Madueke casually mentioned it. “I think (y/n) was here earlier.”
William froze. “What?”
“Yeah.”
The room suddenly disappeared. The music disappeared. Everything disappeared.
“She came?”
“Only for a minute, I think.”
His stomach dropped. Because suddenly he understood.
And across the sky, somewhere between London and Paris, you sat alone beside an airplane window. Trying not to cry.
While both of you believed exactly the same thing. That the other person didn't want you anymore.
The summer arrived faster than either of you expected. For the public, the relationship was over. For your agents, the project was completed. For the media, it was old news.
But for William? Nothing felt finished. Especially after that night. The after-party. The missed chance. The realization that you had actually come all the way to London. Only to leave again.
And now he had no idea why. Did you come because you missed him? Did you come because you were being polite for the invitation?
He didn't know. Because neither of you had spoken about it. Not once.
Instead, William threw himself into interviews. Training. National team duties. Anything to avoid thinking. Unfortunately, thinking had a habit of finding him anyway. Particularly whenever someone mentioned your name. Which happened far more often than he wanted.
One afternoon, he sat down for a football interview. A long one. Relaxed and quiet friendly. The kind where players became comfortable and forgot cameras existed. At first, the questions were normal. Arsenal. the title, the season, the future.
Then the interviewer smiled. “I have a question from fans.”
William immediately became suspicious. “That's never good.”
The interviewer laughed. “They want to know whether you're still friends with her.”
He didn't need to ask who. William already knew.
Your name appeared on the screen. William's heart skipped. He forced himself to stay calm. “Of course.”
The interviewer nodded. “You two seemed very close.”
William smiled. “Because we were.”
The interviewer continued. “Do you still talk?”
A dangerous question. William should have answered carefully. Instead, he remembered your nightly conversations. Your updates from movie sets. The pictures of food your mother sent him. The way his day always felt better after hearing from you.
His answer came naturally. Too naturally.
“Not as much anymore.”
The interviewer raised an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
William laughed softly. “She's busy.”
His smile faded slightly. “And I miss her.”
Silence. A second. Two seconds. Three.
William froze. The interviewer froze. The production team froze. Everyone heard it. Everyone.
William immediately realized what had happened. “Oh no.”
The interviewer looked delighted.
“YOU MISS HER?”
William rubbed his face. The camera crew started laughing.
“No.”
“That's not what you said.”
“That's exactly what I said.”
“So you miss her.”
William groaned. “This interview is over.”
The interviewer was practically glowing. The clip ended there. Unfortunately... The internet existed. Within an hour, the video was everywhere. Millions of views. Comments flooded every platform.
“HE MISS HER????”
“THAT WAS NOT A FRIEND ANSWER.”
“BRO GOT CAUGHT IN 4K.”
“William Saliba, the man you are.”
“HE LOOKED HEARTBROKEN.”
Even worse... People started finding old clips. The flowers. The way he looked at you. The interviews. The smiles. Suddenly everyone became a detective.
“WAIT A MINUTE.”
“THIS MAN NEVER BEHAVED NORMALLY.”
“THEY SAID FAKE DATING.”
“I THINK ONLY ONE PERSON GOT THE MEMO.”
Meanwhile, you were in Paris. Filming. Completely unaware.
Until your makeup artist suddenly screamed.
“Oh my God.”
You nearly dropped your script. “What happened?”
“William.”
Your stomach immediately flipped. “What about him?”
She shoved her phone toward you. You watched the clip.
Your heartbeat became louder. Surely he meant friendship. Right? Friends missed each other. Friends could say things like that. Couldn't they?
Then you saw his face. The hesitation, regret, panic. And suddenly you weren't sure anymore.
Across the Channel, William was having the worst day of his life. His teammates would not stop calling him. Especially Ben White.
“MISS HER, HUH?”
“Busy, huh?”
“AND I MISS HER 😭”
“BROTHER IS IN LOVE,” now Declan Rice teased him.
William seriously considered throwing his phone into the ocean. But the worst message came that evening. A single notification.
Your name. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Then he opened it.
“Saw the interview.”
His soul left his body. Several minutes passed.
He typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted again.
Eventually…
“I can explain.” William said.
Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Finally, your reply arrived. “Can you?”
And for the first time since this whole ridiculous fake relationship started. William realized he might actually have to tell the truth.
Paris felt different in the summer. Warmer, brighter, crueler.
The French national team had gathered for the World Cup preparations. Training camps, media obligations, tactical meetings. Which meant William was back in Paris. Back in the same city as you. For the first time since everything had fallen apart.
Neither of you planned the meeting. At least that's what both of you told yourselves. In reality, after weeks of avoiding each other, there were simply too many things left unsaid.
The meeting happened in a quiet café. The same kind of place where everything had started. No agents, photographers or fake dating contract. Just the two of you.
You arrived first. Your heart was beating far too fast. A few minutes later, the café door opened. William entered. And suddenly all the confidence you had prepared disappeared.
He looked exactly the same. And completely different. The same smile, the same calm eyes, the same broad shoulders. But now there was tension between you. An invisible wall.
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then…
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Brilliant. Two professional adults. Reduced to one-word conversations.
William sat down. Silence followed. Finally, both of you spoke at the same time.
“I need to explain…”
“No, I should explain.”
You stopped. William laughed. The first genuine laugh you had heard from him in months.
“You go first.”
“No.”
You shook your head.
“You invited me first.”
His smile faded slightly. Right. The invitation. The trophy celebration. The after-party. The night everything went wrong.
William rubbed his hands together nervously. Something he only did when he was genuinely uncomfortable.
“The interview.”
You nodded.
“The one where you said you missed me.”
His ears immediately turned red. You almost smiled. “Everyone saw that.”
“I know.”
“It went viral.”
“I know.”
“You embarrassed yourself.”
“I know.”
Now you were definitely smiling. William groaned. “This is not helping.”
The smile disappeared as quickly as it came. Because suddenly the question mattered.
“What did you mean?”
The café became quiet. Painfully quiet. William looked down. Then back at you. And for the first time since meeting him... He looked scared. Not nervous. Not uncomfortable. Scared.
“I meant exactly what I said.”
Your heart stumbled.
He continued before you could speak.
“I missed talking to you.”
A pause.
“I missed hearing about your auditions.”
Another pause.
“I missed your random messages at midnight.”
A small smile appeared.
“I even missed the pictures your mother sends me.”
Despite everything, you laughed. “My mother still asks about you.”
That made him smile too. Then the smile slowly disappeared. “I missed you.”
This time there was nowhere to hide. No joke. No escape. Just the truth.
You stared at him. Unable to look away. William looked exhausted. Like he had been carrying those words for months.
Then he laughed bitterly.
“But I figured it didn't matter.”
“What?”
“You declined both invitations.”
“And I know about you and Julian.” The hurt in his voice surprised you.
Your chest tightened.
“William...”
“I thought you didn't want to see me.”
For a moment you simply stared. Then you burst out…
“What?”
Now it was William's turn to be confused.
"You thought I didn't want to see you?"
“Well...”
“I literally flew to London.”
His brain stopped working. Madueke was right telling him you’re there
You blinked.
"I came to the after-party."
Your smile disappeared.
“I left pretty quickly.”
William noticed immediately.
“Why?”
You looked away. Because saying it out loud sounded ridiculous. “You seemed busy.”
William frowned.
“What does that mean?”
You hesitated. Then finally…
“You were surrounded by girls.”
The confusion on his face lasted approximately two seconds. Then realization hit. And suddenly William started laughing. Actually laughing. The loudest laugh you had ever heard from him.
You were not amused.
“Why are you laughing?
He covered his face.
“Oh my God.”
Finally he looked up. Still laughing.
“They were influencers. They wouldn't leave me alone."
You blinked.
"I was looking for you." The laughter disappeared. And now he sounded completely serious.
“I kept checking the entrance.”
Your heart stopped.
“I thought maybe you'd change your mind.”
The café suddenly felt too small. Too warm.
Because for the first time, the puzzle pieces finally fit together. You thought he had moved on. He thought you had moved on. You thought he liked other women. He thought you’re with this Julian guy.
The mention of Julian made you immediately groan.
“Julian is my co-star for my new series.”
William looked ready to disappear. For several seconds neither of you spoke. Then slowly... Very slowly...
The two of you started laughing. Months. Months of misery. Months of assumptions. Months of heartbreak. All because neither of you had simply asked.
When the laughter finally settled, a comfortable silence appeared. The kind you hadn't shared in a long time. William looked at you.
Not as a fake girlfriend. Not as a publicity arrangement. Not as a former contract. Just you.
And for the first time, neither of you had any agents left to hide behind.
“No more fake dating.”
His voice was quiet.
You nodded.
“No more fake dating.”
William smiled. Then leaned slightly forward. “Good.”
Your heart immediately became suspicious. “Why?”
His smile widened. Because after months of pretending, after misunderstandings, missed flights, broken hearts, and one disastrous interview...
William Saliba finally had the chance to ask the question he had wanted to ask for a very long time. And this time, he wanted the answer to be real.
After the café meeting, nothing officially changed. And yet everything had.
Neither of you confessed. Neither of you defined whatever this was. Neither of you wanted to rush. Maybe because the fake relationship had already stolen enough from both of you.
The first meeting. The first dates. The first public appearances. The first butterflies. Everything had been mixed with contracts and publicity.
This time, you wanted something real. So you returned to the simplest thing. Texting. Just like before.
or
It was easy. Natural. Comfortable. Maybe too comfortable. Because the internet never forgot. Especially not your relationship. Months after the breakup announcement, people were still obsessed. Every interaction became evidences. Every appearance became a conspiracy. Everyy coincidence became a theory.
If William liked your Instagram post? Articles appeared.
If you attended an Arsenal match? Articles appeared.
If you wore red? Articles appeared.
At one point, people were analyzing your Spotify playlists. You nearly threw your phone across the room. The rumors became exhausting.
For you, it started affecting work. Directors asked questions. Journalists asked questions. Interviewers asked questions. Every promotion suddenly became:
“What about William?”
“What about your relationship?”
“Would you get back together?”
Meanwhile, on the other side of France's training camp, William wasn't having a much better time. Every press conference became torture. Questions about football lasted five minutes. Questions about you lasted twenty.
The World Cup was approaching. The biggest tournament of his life. And somehow reporters wanted relationship updates.
The frustration grew. One night, William called.
You immediately answered.
“Hello?”
A sigh greeted you. A very tired sigh.
“I think we should disappear for a while.”
You understood immediately. The rumors. The headlines. The attention. Everything.
“Yeah.”
Silence followed. The painful kind. Because neither of you wanted distance. But maybe you needed it. For now.
“For your career.”
William spoke first.
“And for the World Cup.”
You nodded despite knowing he couldn't see it.
“For the World Cup.”
So that's what happened. The texts became less frequent. Then less. Then less.
Not because feelings disappeared. Because life demanded it. You buried yourself in acting. William buried himself in football.
Eventually, the World Cup ended. Months passed. One winter evening, you received an invitation. A charity gala in Paris. You noticed another name on the guest list. William Saliba. Your heart immediately became annoying. Very annoying. Because despite everything... You smiled.
The party was elegant. Warm lights. Soft music. People dressed beautifully.
Then you arrived. And somehow, despite hundreds of guests... You spotted him immediately. Standing near the bar. Talking to someone. Laughing.
You hadn't seen him in months. And suddenly all those months felt very long. William noticed you at almost the exact same moment.
His conversation stopped mid-sentence. Your breath caught. Then both of you smiled. The real one. The one reserved for people you genuinely miss.
Slowly, he walked toward you. Neither of you spoke at first. The music played softly in the background. The party continued around you. But neither of you paid attention.
Finally, William stopped in front of you. For a moment, he looked nervous. Then something mischievous appeared in his eyes. The same look he had whenever he was about to say something ridiculous.
You immediately became suspicious.
“What?”
His smile widened. Instead of answering, he extended his hand. Exactly the same way he had in that café months ago. The very first day. The day everything started. Only this time there were no agents. No contracts. No cameras. No publicity strategy. Just him.
“Hi.”
You stared. Already knowing where this was going. And somehow your heart was beating faster than ever.
"My name is William Saliba."
You laughed immediately.
He continued anyway.
“I'm from Bondy. I play football.”
Now both of you were laughing. But he kept his hand extended. Waiting. Patiently. The same way he always had. So you placed your hand in his. The warmth felt familiar. Comforting. Real.
You smiled.
“Hi.”
His eyes softened.
“My name is (y/n) and I do acting.”
He smiled and hold his laugh until his ears turned red.
“Nice to meet you, (y/n).”
“Perhaps… do you wanna go on a date with me?”
You nodded and smiled at him.
“Sure. Where should we go?”
“Do you wanna see a perfect match?”
He asked you again.
“I thought the word cup already ended. So which match?” You answered him.
“This match. We are the perfect match.” He pointed himself and yourself as the perfect match. Bit cheesy but good enough to make you smile wildly.
“Let’s go to theater! I bet this one particular show won’t make you feel bored.”
“Alright sounds fun!” He then grabbed your hand.
For a moment, you looked at him. Really looked at him. He smiled a lot. His smile became impossibly bright. And somewhere between the music, the laughter, and the lights of a Parisian summer...
The story that began with a fake relationship finally ended. With a first date. ❤️
The End.
