#michael olise

[blueharlems]

Pretty blue hair tie 💙 FRA vs IRQ 220626

[witchhkitty222]

The quietest boy in France - Michael Olise

summary: Everyone in the France dressing room knows Michael Olise as the quiet one. Until one post-match phone call reveals there's exactly one person who can get him talking, and smiling, without even trying. warnings: established relationship, pure fluff, post-match celebrations. wc: 1.2k

main masterlist | football masterlist

The final whistle had barely finished echoing around the stadium before the atmosphere inside France's dressing room dissolved into organised chaos.

Somewhere near the showers, Ousmane was already arguing, far louder than necessary, that the referee had ignored at least three fouls on him. Theo had disappeared with a towel thrown over his shoulders, still shaking his head at whatever story Jules was dramatically reenacting to anyone willing to listen. Empty water bottles rolled lazily across the tiled floor every time someone accidentally kicked one, boots were abandoned wherever players had decided to take them off, and the sharp smell of fresh grass mixed with deep heat, muscle spray and shampoo drifted through the room.

Music blasted from a speaker someone had connected to without asking, loud enough that nobody could quite agree on what song was actually playing.

France had qualified top of the group.

Nobody was in any rush to leave.

Laughter bounced off every wall, cameras from the team's media crew occasionally slipping inside to capture little moments for social media before being politely ushered back out again.

Michael sat quietly at his locker.

Exactly where he always did.

His jersey clung to his skin, still damp from ninety minutes of football as he slowly unlaced one boot after the other. The noise around him barely registered anymore. After years in football, dressing rooms had become white noise, loud enough that they somehow felt peaceful.

He reached for his phone almost automatically.

His thumb hovered over your name for barely a second before pressing call.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

By the third ring, his shoulders had begun to sink ever so slightly, the smallest hint of disappointment creeping in.

Then—

Your face appeared.

The picture shook slightly as you adjusted your phone, clearly walking somewhere before finally settling down.

"There he is."

You smiled the second you saw him.

Not the polite smile you gave players during interviews.

Not the one cameras usually caught.

This one was different.

Your eyes softened almost immediately, the corners crinkling just enough to make that tiny dimple appear in your left cheek, the one he always insisted was his favourite thing about your smile, even though you rolled your eyes every single time he mentioned it.

"There he is," you repeated, tilting your head. "Look at you."

Michael couldn't help it.

The corner of his mouth lifted.

Then the other.

"Hi."

"Hi?" You laughed. "That's all I get after you disappear for two hours?"

"We were playing."

"I know."

"I was busy."

"Oh really? I had no idea."

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

"I watched the match, by the way."

"I assumed."

"You looked good."

"I looked tired."

"You looked good and tired."

He shook his head.

"You always have something to say."

"I literally get paid to."

That earned another laugh.

A real one.

One that made him lean back against the locker with a hand covering his mouth for a second.

Across the room, Kylian happened to glance over.

His conversation stopped mid-sentence.

"...Did he just laugh?"

Bradley frowned.

"What?"

"Kylian," Ousmane sighed dramatically, "people laugh."

"No." Kylian pointed across the room without taking his eyes off Michael. "Not him."

Almost on cue, another laugh escaped Michael as you said something else.

Then another.

His shoulders relaxed completely, his posture losing the stiffness it carried during every interview. One elbow rested lazily against his knee as he listened to you ramble about a questionable refereeing decision, nodding every few seconds despite the fact you couldn't even see half of it through the screen.

"So..." you continued, narrowing your eyes playfully. "Explain something to me."

He smiled.

"What?"

"What exactly was that shot in the sixty-third minute?"

"My shot?"

"Was that your attempt at football?"

"It was blocked."

"It was going wide."

"It wasn't."

"It absolutely was."

"It wasn't."

"It absolutely—"

"You're impossible."

"I prefer observant."

"You prefer annoying."

"I can be both."

His laugh came quicker this time.

Louder.

Enough that almost the entire dressing room turned.

Silence spread in waves.

One by one.

Theo looked over.

Then Jules.

Then Warren.

Then Désiré.

Even Didier Deschamps, halfway through congratulating one of the staff members, paused for the briefest moment, his eyes drifting toward the corner of the room.

Michael Olise...

...was talking.

Not answering questions.

Talking.

Properly.

Sentence after sentence.

His hands even moved while he spoke.

Kylian slowly folded his arms.

"I genuinely didn't know he could form paragraphs."

Ousmane blinked.

"Forget paragraphs..."

He pointed dramatically across the room.

"...He's smiling."

Every head turned again.

Sure enough...

Michael hadn't noticed a single pair of eyes on him.

His entire attention remained fixed on the tiny rectangle in his hand.

"So..." he said, a grin still tugging at his lips. "You weren't even there and somehow you've still got opinions about everything."

"I always have opinions."

"I noticed."

"You should've squared the ball to Kylian."

"He told me the same thing."

"See?"

"I think you're conspiring."

"Obviously."

He shook his head, smiling to himself.

"I miss you."

The words slipped out so naturally he didn't even realise he'd said them.

Your expression softened instantly.

The teasing disappeared.

"I know."

Your voice was quieter now.

"I missed being there today too."

"I kept looking for you."

"You did?"

He nodded without thinking.

"Every time we scored."

The smile on your face grew impossibly softer.

"I'll be there next match."

"I know."

"You'll probably tell me everything I did wrong again."

"Every single thing."

"I thought so."

Another laugh.

Kylian looked genuinely offended.

He glanced around the room before dramatically throwing both hands into the air.

"Who is this man?"

The entire dressing room burst into laughter.

Michael finally looked up.

Only then did he realise every single one of his teammates had completely abandoned whatever they were doing to stare at him.

"What?"

Ousmane stepped forward first.

"No, no, no."

He pointed at the phone.

"Put her on speaker."

Michael frowned.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because."

Kylian was already laughing.

"We've just witnessed you speak more in the last five minutes than you've spoken all training camp."

"That's not true."

"It absolutely is."

Michael sighed.

"You lot are unbelievable."

Before anyone could reply, your voice drifted clearly through the phone.

"Leave my boyfriend alone."

The room froze for exactly one second.

Then Désiré clutched his chest dramatically.

"Oh, she's defending him!"

Theo started laughing so hard he nearly dropped the bottle in his hand.

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling the warmth creeping up his neck.

"They're never going to let this go."

"No," you laughed, the sound filling his ear through the speaker. "They're absolutely going to bully you for the rest of the tournament."

He looked around at twenty-something grown men grinning at him like children who'd just discovered the world's biggest secret.

Then he looked back at your face on the screen.

For maybe the first time all evening, the noise of the dressing room faded into the background again.

He smiled.

"I can live with that."

[starisnepo]

talking to you

masterlist

fluff

michael olise x female reader

plot summary: in which michael olise refuses to do a post match interview unless it’s with you.

note: pls lmk if you would like this to have a part two because i think it could work, also reminder that my requests are open and very dry currently so feel free to send any requests u like.

nobody noticed it the first time, after all michael olise was infamous for his post-match interviews, or therefore lack of. he kept things short, answering politely, praising teammates, thanking fans and disappearing before anyone could dare ask him another question.

so when he declined one broadcaster after a 2-1 win at the allianz arena and instead walked directly towards you, nobody thought much of it, everyone assumed it had been arranged beforehand. you too had assumed the same and it wasn’t until it happened again and again and again that people started to talk.

 

after almost every match, the routine was identical.

“michael! over here!”

“michael, just one question please?”

“michael, i’m with sky sports can we please have a minute?!”

the voices and desperate yells of journalists from all over the world overlapped each other, with microphones being shoved into faces, everyone wanting to talk to michael.

bayern’s media officer barely looked up from his clipboard anymore.

“…waiting for her?” he asked.

michael simply nodded, watching you from across the media zone as you finished up an interview with one of his teammates. he never complained, instead he’d lean against the wall, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, quietly waiting until you were free. sometimes it was five minutes, sometimes ten, once, nearly twenty.

“you know you don’t have to wait.” you laughed one evening as you hurried over after a particularly long interview, “i’m so sorry.”

“it’s alright.” michael replied, standing up straighter.

“you’ve been standing here this whole time?”

“you were busy.”

“you could’ve gone home.”

“i could have.”

“…but you didn’t.”

michael gave a small shrug.

“i wanted to talk to you.”

 

as the months passed, interviewing michael became easy. whilst at first every answer had been short, snippy and careful, now he actually smiled, giving detail in his answers, and occasionally he even laughed.

“you looked frustrated after that missed chance.”

“i was.”

“i was wondering if you’d admit that.”

“well, i knew you’d ask.”

another evening, after a late winner, you teased him about his celebration.

“you smiled.”

“did i?” michael replied, feigning confusion.

“you did.”

“hmm.”

“you know there are photos.” you told him coyishly causing him to break out into a reserved grin.

“that’s unfortunate.”

 

then came the first match you missed. you’d come down with a bad flu, and despite insisting you were well enough to travel, your producer refused to let you work.

“rest,” he had told you. “we’ll send someone else.”

after the match, as usual michael made his way into the media area, looking around the room, his eyes darting from camera crew to camera crew before stopping as the media officer droned on in his ear.

“…where is she?” he asked, completely ignoring any previous conversation.

the media officer looked up in recognition.

“oh… she’s off today.”

michael frowned.

“…off?”

“she’s ill.” the media officer clarified.

michael glanced back towards the tunnel, almost expecting you to appear anyway. you didn’t.

“they’ve sent someone else,” the media officer added, directing him towards a disturbingly striking blonde with a wide smile.

“i’ll be interviewing you tonight.” she spoke, her voice grating in his ears.

michael shook his head.

“no.”

the reporter blinked.

“…no?”

“no you won’t. i’m not doing interviews.”

“michael…”

“i’ll wait.”

bayern’s media officer couldn’t help but smile.

“she’s not running late.”

“…oh.”

and for the first time all evening, he looked genuinely disappointed.

 

when you missed the following midweek fixture as well, everyone already knew how it would go down as they watched the replacement reporter approach him.

“ready?” she asked.

“…is she back?”

“not yet.”

michael sighed quietly.

“i’ll pass.”

the reporter laughed sourly.

“you know, you’re making the rest of us look bad.”

“sorry.” he replied dryly, walking off, not sorry at all.

 

by the weekend, you were finally back and the moment you stepped into the tunnel, several reporters grinned.

“look who’s here.” one jeered.

“he’s been unbearable.” another nudged you.

but before you could ask what they meant, michael walked out, his eyes immediately finding yours, the tiny crease between his brows disappearing, as his body visibly relaxed.

“you came back.”

“i did.”

“you look better.”

“i feel better.”

you both smiled shyly.

“i heard you refused to speak to my replacement.” you joked.

“i did.” michael confirmed.

“…michael.”

“what?” he asked, dead serious.

“you could’ve just done the interview.”

he looked at you as though the answer was obvious.

“they weren’t you.”

heat crept up your cheeks.

“come on, that’s not exactly fair on them.”

“i know.”

“…then why?”

michael thought for a moment before answering.

“i like talking to you.”

the words were so quiet you almost missed them but before you could respond one of the camera operators called from behind you.

“mate, i don’t think you’re exactly fooling anyone anymore.”

laughter echoed through the tunnel as michael looked around in confusion.

“what?”

you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing.

“nothing.”

“i’m fairly certain it wasn’t ‘nothing’.”

your producer shook his head, trying to hide a smile, and failing, as you looked back at michael.

“so…”

you clipped the microphone onto your jacket and passed him the handheld microphone, his fingers brushing yours in the intimacy of the moment.

“interview?” you asked.

a small, genuine smile appeared on his face, the kind that only seemed to surface around you.

“yeah, i’ve been waiting.”

[parisedge]

PERFECT SILENCE !

michael olise x f!reader

masterlist

:: michael has never been good with words, especially after a loss. thankfully, you know that sometimes love is found in the silence.

author note :: GUYS france lost, this is heartbreaking, ughhh. but anyway enjoy this fic bc all i thought abt was michael. maybe a des one will come tmrw 👀👀..

The final whistle echoed around the stadium. For a moment, nobody in blue moved. Unfortunately the scoreboard didn't change.

Spain 2.

France 0.

That was it.

Months of preparation, weeks away from home, and the ninety minutes that couldn't be replayed.

Michael stood still near the edge of the pitch, his hands resting on his hips as he stared ahead. The cheers from the Spanish supporters grew louder with every passing second. Their players ran across the pitch, hugging each other and celebrating the secured spot in the World Cup Final.

Around him, French players slowly began walking away. Some stood with their heads down. Others applauded the travelling supporters who had believed in them until the very end.

Michael swallowed hard. He hated this part. Losing was one thing. Having to stand there and watch someone else celebrate on the same pitch was another.

A teammate walked past, patting his shoulder. Michael nodded once. He didn't trust himself to say anything. Instead, he made his way toward the French fans.

The applause they gave the team somehow made everything hurt even more. They were still chanting, still waving flags, and still thanking them.

Michael clapped back quietly before disappearing down the tunnel.

The hallway beneath the stadium felt strangely empty. Boots clicked against the concrete floor, staff members walked quickly from room to room, while some players spoke under their breath.

Michael barely noticed any of it. His mind kept replaying everything. The missed chances, the misplaced passes, the moments where he wondered if he'd made the wrong decision.

He knew football wasn't won or lost by one player. He knew that. But it didn't stop him from wondering what he could've done differently.

By the time he changed into a hoodie and sweatpants, the dressing room had grown quieter. Most of the conversations had stopped. Everyone was exhausted. Physically and mentally.

Twenty minutes later, he finally stepped outside. The night air was cooler than he expected. The crowd outside the players' exit had thinned, but cameras were still waiting.

A few reporters called his name.

"Michael!"

"What happened out there tonight?"

"Can we get a quick word?"

He kept walking. Not because he was being rude. He just didn't have anything to say. I mean what could he possibly tell them? That he was disappointed? Everyone could already see that.

He continued walking till he spotted you.

You were leaning against the passenger side of his car, one of your hands tucked into the pocket of your jean skirt.

The second your eyes met his, you gave him a small smile. Just enough to let him know you were there.

You didn't rush over. You knew better.

Instead, you waited until he reached you. "Hi."

Your voice was quiet but gentle.

Michael looked at you for a second before letting out a tired breath. "Hi."

You stepped closer. Without saying a word, you wrapped your arms around him. The hug only lasted a few seconds. But it was enough.

His arms settled around you automatically, holding you just a little tighter than usual before letting go.

You looked up at him. "Ready?"

He nodded. "Let's go home."

The drive began exactly the way you expected, quiet.

Michael adjusted the mirrors, started the engine, and pulled out of the stadium parking lot. The radio stayed off and neither of you reached for it.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable, it was just awkward.

Streetlights flashed across the windshield as the city slowly passed by. Michael kept both hands on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

You watched the passing lights through the window before glancing over at him. His jaw was tight. His expression unreadable to anyone who didn't know him. But you knew him.

You noticed the tiny things.

The way he pressed his lips together whenever he was thinking too much. The way his shoulders stayed tense. The way he blinked a little slower when he was exhausted.

You wanted to say something. Anything. You wanted to tell him how proud you were. That one match didn't define him. That he'd given everything.

But those words weren't what he needed right now. Michael had never been someone who processed disappointment out loud.

About ten minutes into the drive, his right hand slowly left the steering wheel. Without looking away from the road, he rested it gently on your thigh.

The familiar gesture made your heart ache. You looked down at his hand. Then quietly placed yours over it. His thumb moved once, just a small stroke against your leg.

He wasn't pushing you away. He was simply telling you, in the only way he could right now.

The rest of the drive passed in silence but not as awkward as before.

When you pulled into the driveway, Michael didn't move right away.

The engine had already been turned off. The house sat dark and quiet in front of you. He stared through the windshield for another few seconds.

Eventually, he let out a slow breath. "Come on."

Inside, the rented house felt strangely still. Michael slipped off his trainers near the front door before dropping his keys into the bowl on the hallway table.

The soft clink echoed through the house.

You watched him run a tired hand over his face before saying, "I'm gonna shower."

His voice was barely above a mumble.

You nodded. "Okay."

He looked at you for a second. Like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he simply turned and headed upstairs. A few moments later, you heard the shower start.

You stood alone in the kitchen. Opening the fridge almost felt automatic. He hadn't eaten since hours before the match. Win or lose, he always came home starving.

Except tonight.

Still, you took out the leftovers from the night before and reheated them anyway.

The smell filled the kitchen, but the house stayed quiet. The shower kept running. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then nearly thirty.

Your eyes drifted toward the ceiling. You frowned slightly.

When the shower finally stopped, you quietly set the plate on the counter. A few minutes later, Michael walked into the kitchen.

Fresh hoodie, grey sweat pants. He looked cleaner but he didn't look any less exhausted.

His eyes landed on the plate. "You made food."

You gave him a small smile. "I figured you might be hungry."

He stared at it for a moment. Long enough that you thought he might actually sit down.

Instead "I can't." The words came out quietly. Almost apologetically.

You looked at him. "You should eat something."

"I know."

His voice cracked ever so slightly with exhaustion. "I just.."

He shook his head. "I can't."

You didn't push him. You simply nodded. "Okay."

He looked relieved that you hadn't argued.

"If you get hungry later," you said softly, "I'll warm it up again."

He gave you the smallest nod. "Thanks."

He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, took a few absent-minded sips, then quietly screwed the cap back on. "I'm gonna lie down."

"Okay."

He disappeared upstairs once again.

A few seconds later, the bedroom door clicked shut. You stayed where you were, leaning against the kitchen counter. The untouched plate of food sat between your hands.

You looked up toward the ceiling. You knew Michael. He wasn't shutting you out. When he was ready he'd come back to you.

For a while, you stayed downstairs. Not because you didn't want to be with him. Because you did. More than anything. But you also knew Michael. If he wanted company, he would've asked you to come upstairs with him.

So instead, you quietly cleaned the kitchen. You wrapped the untouched plate of pasta in cling film before sliding it into the fridge. Maybe he'd eat it tomorrow. Maybe not.

You wiped down the countertops, rinsed the glasses in the sink, folded the blanket that had been left over the sofa.

Little things.

Anything to give him some time.

Every now and then, your eyes drifted toward the staircase.

You glanced at the clock. Nearly forty-five minutes had passed.

You let out a small breath before turning off the kitchen light. "Okay," you whispered to yourself.

You slowly made your way upstairs. The bedroom door was slightly open. You knocked softly anyway. There was no answer so you gently pushed it open.

The room was lit only by the glow of the bedside lamp. Michael was lying against the headboard, one knee bent, his phone resting in his hand.

You couldn't tell if he'd actually been looking at his phone or just staring at it.

He looked up when you walked in your eyes met. Neither of you spoke.

You offered him a tiny smile while he gave you the smallest nod.

You disappeared into the bathroom to change, returning a few minutes later wearing one of his oversized T-shirts and a pair of shorts.

Without saying anything, you climbed into bed beside him.

Close enough that your shoulders almost touched. You reached for your own phone, more for something to do than because you actually wanted to scroll.

The room stayed quiet.

Your thumb moved across the screen, but you couldn't even remember what you were looking at. Every few minutes, you'd glance over. Michael hadn't moved much. His eyebrows would pull together every now and then.

His thumb stopped scrolling altogether. After another ten minutes, he let out a quiet yawn.

You smiled to yourself.

He looked over, catching you. "What?"

"Are you tired?"

"No."

You couldn't help the tiny laugh that escaped. "You literally just yawned."

He looked away, unsuccessfully hiding the tiny grin on his face. "I didn't."

He locked his phone. You kept absentmindedly scrolling. A few minutes later, you felt gentle fingers wrap around your wrist.

You looked up seeing Michael carefully slide your phone from your hand.

He locked it before placing it on your bedside table beside his own.

You blinked. "My phone."

"You don't need it."

You smiled.

He looked at you for a second. Then quietly lifted the blanket. "C'mere."

The word you'd been waiting to hear all night. Without hesitation, you scooted across the mattress until you were tucked against his side.

The second you settled there, his arm wrapped around your waist.

He rested his chin gently on top of your head as the room fell quiet again.

After a long moment, his voice broke through it. "I'm sorry."

You frowned immediately. You tilted your head back just enough to look at him. "For what?"

His eyes stayed fixed somewhere behind you. "For today."

"Michael.."

"For not talking."

His voice was barely above a whisper. "I know I wasn't.."

He searched for the word. "Much company."

Your hand slowly came up to rest against his cheek. His skin was still warm from the shower. "You don't have to apologize."

"I do."

"No."

You smiled sadly. "I know you."

He finally looked down at you.

"You were upset."

He swallowed. "I didn't know what to say."

"You didn't have to say anything."

You gently brushed your thumb across his cheek. "I wasn't waiting for you to talk."

He looked at you.

"I was just waiting for you."

His expression softened completely. "I don't like when you get this version of me."

"What version."

He let out a quiet breath. "The one that loses."

"The one that comes home like this."

He let's out a unamused laugh, "The one that can't even eat dinner."

You shook your head before he could keep going. "I get every version of you."

He stayed quiet.

You smiled softly. "The one who wins."

You leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss against the corner of his jaw. "The one who loses."

Another kiss. "The one who's quiet."

A third. "The one who's exhausted."

Another. "And every version in between."

His eyes closed for a second. Like he was letting every word sink in. When they opened again, they looked a little less heavy. "You really mean that?"

You looked at him like it was the easiest question in the world. "Michael."

You cupped his face with both hands. "I didn't fall in love with you because you win football matches."

A tiny smile appeared. "I fell in love with you because you're you."

He stared at you. For a long time. Then, without saying another word, he buried his face against your neck.

You immediately wrapped your arms around him. Holding him just as tightly as he was holding you.

You felt him let out the deepest breath he'd taken all night. "I love you so much."

His voice was muffled against your skin.

You smiled, your fingers gently running through his locs.

You kissed the top of his head. "I love you so much too."

He stayed there for another minute before he leaned forward and pressed the softest kiss to your lips. The kind of kiss that said everything he couldn't put into words.

"Thank you."

You smiled. "You don't have to thank me."

A sleepy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "No, thank you for knowing when to leave me alone."

"I'll always know."

He nodded. "I know."

He pulled the blankets a little higher around the two of you before instinctively pulling you closer until there wasn't even the smallest space left between you.

You laughed quietly. "Comfortable?"

"Mhm."

He pressed one final peck against your lips.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

And as you lay there, listening to his breathing, you realized something. You couldn't take away the loss, you couldn't change the scoreboard, you couldn't replay ninety minutes.

But you could be the place he came home to.

[h3nderyss]

pool - michael olise

pairing: michael olise x f!reader . . . masterlist genre: fluff synopsis: michael shares an intimate moment at the pool with you a/n: first football fic! i'm back!! hope u enjoy :) feel free to request for football!!

it started when one of the bayern boys said, "come over, everyone's bringing someone!" before long, nearly the entire squad had shown up alongside their partners.

now all you could see and hear was the water beneath you, the music blaring, and the multiple conversations going on. some guys were playing fifa outside on the tv, some playing some sort of water volleyball.

you'd spent most of the afternoon talking with some of the other girlfriends, but it was never for long. the observing was more fun; sitting back, minding your own business, enjoying the sight of people having fun.

michael also drifted between conversations, occasionally stealing glances your way. he wasn't the loudest in the group. not even close, but somehow you always knew where he was.

now the sun was low, casting everything with a golden hue.

you sat on the edge of the pool, feet kicked lazily beneath the surface, the cool water regulating your body temperature from the earlier heat.

"i still don't understand why you haven't gotten in."

you looked up. michael walked toward you in the pool, his shoulders shimmering from the sun and water. he rested his forearms on the edge of the pool before pushing himself up just enough that he was eye level with you.

"i'm comfortable here," you replied.

he fought back, "you've been saying that since you sat here."

"i have."

he rolled his eyes with a smile that barely reached his lips. the closest thing to teasing he ever did.

"come in the pool, babe." his hands inched towards your thighs, just tracing them gently.

a quiet hum escaped your lips. "hm, no."

without another word, he stood taller in the pool, the water reaching just above his waist.

he stepped closer and closer, just until he was directly between your knees.

your legs instinctively parted just enough to make room for him, your feet still floating in the water behind him.

he looked at you, up and down, checking out his girl before him.

"you could just..."

his hands rested on either side of your thighs, not holding you, just balancing himself against the pool's edge. his thumbs just lightly grazed the skin.

"...slide in."

you raised your eyebrows in slight disbelief on how sensual he made that sound. "is that your only argument?"

"i haven't finished."

"really?"

he leaned forward slightly. "the water's nice." he added.

"mhm." your reply was nothing but inviting.

"you'll cool off."

"i seem fine where i am." you leaned in an inch this time.

"you'll make me less lonely."

you couldn't help smiling. "there are like 12 other people in the pool."

"i don't want them."

the words were so simple but they caught you off guard. michael seemed to realize what he admitted a second later, looking away with a small, embarrassed smile. "i meant-"

"i know what you meant, mikes."

his eyes found yours again. the noise around you seemed to disappear. someone cannonballed into the deep end, drawing cheers from the others, but neither of you looked away.

you lifted your hand to cup his jaw. "you know," you said, "you're not usually this persuasive."

"i'm trying something different." a smirk played on his lips.

"i noticed." a small giggle escaped you.

he gently nudged your knee. "come in."

you sighed dramatically, hand dropping from his face. "i don't know..."

"you're already a bit in."

"but i don't want to get fully in." you slightly whined.

"but why not?" his head tilted slightly as his eyes wandered again. and so did his hands.

a tingle ran through you like an electric shock, the effect he had on you by just a touch was unfathomable. "my hair. i don't want it to get wet."

"i can change that."

you gasped.

"michael, don't."

a grin spread across his face. it wasn't a big one, just enough to wrinkle the corners of his eyes.

"there it is. the smile." you commented.

"what smile?"

"the one you pretend you don't have."

"i smile." he feigned offence.

"you smirk."

"i do smile!" his offence was starting to become no longer sarcastic.

"you definitely smirk."

he chuckled under his breath before reaching up. his fingers brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. the gesture was slow, almost hesitant, as though he was checking if you'd pull away.

you didn't.

"you've got sunscreen on your cheek," he murmured.

"you just made that up," you said with disbelief.

"i did."

you laughed, shaking your head. "god, this boy.."

after a moment he spoke again, "so..."

he tilted his head. "are you coming in?"

you pretended to think about it, looking away. "hmmm.."

he placed his finger beneath your chin, making you face back to him. "are you okay?" soft concern laced in his voice.

"mhm," a hum from you before he placed his lips on yours, a soft kiss.

another one followed after a pause of a moment.

a third kiss followed as he sneakily wrapped his arms around your waist.

"nuh uh." you immediately knew what was up, trying to fight against his arms. "michael, hey, no."

"what?" he asked, pretending to be clueless.

"stop! michael!" after giving up on attempting to pry his hands off, you tightly wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on for dear life.

with one smooth movement, he lifted you enough to steal your balance. you squealed, holding on him tightly as he quickly slipped you into the water.

the splash wasn't nearly as dramatic as you expected. he didn't fully submerge you underwater. thank god.

the water reached above your shoulders, managing to get in your mouth. you sputtered it out. nonetheless, the pool was freezing for a second.

it was so cold, you began shivering. opening your eyes, you were met with the sight of michael laughing and apologizing already.

"i'm sorry."

"no you're not! you planned that." your grip on him loosened, yet his hold around you didn't falter. he could tell you were cold from not adapting to the water yet, so he attempted to warm you up with his hands and body.

"...maybe."

you splashed him in the face. "there! revenge."

he wiped the water from his eyes with one hand, refusing to let go of you. "worth it."

you rolled your eyes and rested your hands on his shoulders.

the pool got more comfortable after a few moments, yet he steadied you without pulling you any closer than you already were. around you, the party carried on as if nothing had happened.

the laughter was in the distance, and it felt like the two of you had somehow found your own little corner of the world.

[amournocturne]

⋆ 𐙚 ❛ 𝗛𝗢𝗪 𝗧𝗢 𝗕𝗘 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗖.ᐟ ❜ ꕀ 𝑀𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗹 𝗢𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗲 x 𝒻!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲r ✴︎

⊹ 𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀. there’s no guide to being romantic. michael olise learns that the hard way when every attempt to impress her somehow turns into another disaster. but maybe he’s been looking at love the wrong way all along.

⊹ 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀. boyfriend!michael olise, established relationship, fluff, comedy, michael olise being hopelessly in love, failed romantic gestures, he just wants to make her happy, lots of laughter, domestic moments, soft kisses, affectionate touches, physical intimacy, reassurance, acts of love, realizing love doesn’t have to be perfect, comfort, sweet ending.

michael olise had always considered himself a pretty reasonable person.

he knew how to handle pressure. he knew how to keep his head when the noise around him became overwhelming, when thousands of voices turned into one endless wave and every decision had to be made in the space of a few seconds. he knew how to read a game, how to stay patient, how to trust himself even when things didn’t go exactly as planned.

football made sense. there were rules. there were tactics. there were things you could practice until they became instinct.

romance, apparently, did not work the same way.

because somewhere between a late-night scroll through his phone and a dangerously convincing collection of relationship videos, michael had come to the conclusion that he was failing.

not at football.

not at being a boyfriend.

at being a romantic boyfriend.

and somehow, that felt like a much bigger problem. it started with one video. that was all. a couple laughing together while making dinner. a boyfriend surprising his girlfriend with flowers after a long day. a handwritten note left somewhere unexpected that had an entire comment section declaring that real love still existed.

michael had watched it, nodded once, and continued scrolling. then another appeared.

then another.

and somewhere along the way, what was supposed to be five minutes of mindless scrolling turned into michael sitting on his bed at almost midnight, staring at his phone with the same intense focus he usually had while watching match footage.

except this time, he wasn’t analyzing an opponent. he was analyzing romance. and the conclusion he reached was simple.

he needed to do better.

because according to the internet, apparently there were a hundred little things a boyfriend was supposed to do.

flowers.

surprises.

thoughtful gestures.

spontaneous dates.

saying the right things at the right time.

michael looked at the list he had somehow created in his notes app and frowned slightly. it was not a long list. objectively, it was actually quite manageable. which was exactly why he was convinced he could do it. after all, how difficult could it really be?

he had played in front of thousands of people. he had handled pressure most people would never understand. he had scored goals with everyone watching.

surely, making his girlfriend feel loved couldn’t be harder than that.

that was where michael made his second mistake.

his first was watching the videos.

lesson one: flowers.

according to everything michael had seen online, flowers were supposed to be easy. one of the simplest ways to show someone you loved them. a small gesture that didn’t require a special occasion or a complicated explanation. just something beautiful, something thoughtful, something that quietly said i was thinking about you.

which was exactly why michael had decided it would be the perfect place to start.

how hard could flowers be?

that was the thought that followed him into the flower shop, even though the confidence behind it slowly disappeared the second he stepped inside. because michael olise could walk into a stadium filled with thousands of people and somehow look completely unfazed. he could stand under pressure, make decisions in seconds, and trust himself when everyone else was waiting to see what he would do.

but put him in front of a wall of flowers with no idea what half of them were called?

suddenly, he was struggling.

he stood there for a moment, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, eyes moving from one bouquet to another as if one of them was going to reveal the answer he was looking for.

they were all pretty. that was the problem. they were all pretty.

“can i help you?”

the voice behind the counter pulled him from his thoughts. michael turned, offering a small polite smile.

“yeah,” he said. “i need flowers.”

the woman smiled knowingly. “for someone special?”

he nodded without hesitation. “my girlfriend.”

there was something about the way he said it that made it obvious this wasn’t just a quick purchase. he wasn’t someone who had walked in five minutes before closing because he remembered at the last second. he was someone who had clearly thought about this. probably too much.

“do you know what kind she likes?”

and there it was. the one question he had not prepared for.

michael blinked.

because he knew her. he knew the little things most people missed. he knew when she was tired even when she insisted she wasn’t. he knew the exact look she gave him before saying something sarcastic. he knew which side of the bed she always ended up stealing and how she would deny it every single time.

but flowers? apparently, flowers were where his research had failed.

“i should know that,” he murmured.

“you don’t?” the woman tilted her head.

“i know everything else.” he said it so seriously that she couldn’t even tease him for it.

because he wasn’t trying to make an excuse. he was genuinely disappointed that there was something about her he hadn’t learned yet. so he took the decision very seriously.

maybe too seriously.

“okay,” he said, looking back at the flowers. “what says thoughtful?”

“thoughtful?”

“yeah.”

“not romantic?”

he paused. “both.”

the woman laughed softly.

and for the next thirteen minutes, michael olise, professional footballer, stood in a flower shop asking questions like he was preparing for the most important match of his career.

“do these last long?”

“yes.”

“are these too much?”

“no.”

“do these look like i’m trying too hard?”

“you’re buying flowers for your girlfriend. i think trying is the point.”

he considered that. “right.”

eventually, after far more thought than necessary, he chose a bouquet. and the moment it was placed in his hands, his entire expression changed. not dramatically. just a small shift. like he was relieved. like he had finally completed the first step of a plan only he knew existed.

he carried them carefully to his car, placing them on the passenger seat and adjusting them twice before leaving. he even looked back at them before closing the door. which was why it was almost impressive that he managed to forget them completely.

by the time michael got home, he had already replayed the evening in his head at least ten times. he had imagined the way he would walk through the door, the way he would casually hand her the flowers, the way she would smile and maybe tease him for being unexpectedly thoughtful.

it was supposed to be effortless. natural. except nothing about michael felt effortless the second he actually saw her.

because there she was, she was curled up on the sofa, tucked beneath the blanket she always claimed she wasn’t stealing from him, wearing one of his hoodies that hung loosely over her frame. the sleeves covered part of her hands, something she always did without realizing, and the sight alone softened something in his expression.

for a moment, he forgot everything.

the flowers. the plan. the carefully thought-out entrance he had imagined on the drive home.

because somehow, after spending an entire afternoon trying to figure out how to create the perfect romantic moment, the easiest way to make him lose track of every word was still just her looking at him.

michael simply stood there near the doorway, one hand still resting on the handle he had just let go of, watching her without saying anything. and that was probably his first mistake.

because she noticed. she always noticed.

her eyes lifted slowly from her phone, finding him standing there with his jacket still on, keys still in his hand, and an expression that was trying very hard to look normal.

it wasn’t working.

a small smile appeared on her lips. not because she knew what he had done. but because she knew him. she knew the difference between his usual quiet and the kind of quiet that meant his mind was somewhere else.

she placed her phone beside her, turning slightly towards him.

“you’re late.” her voice was soft, almost teasing, carrying none of the accusation the words could have held. there was a warmth behind them, the kind that only existed between two people comfortable enough to miss each other even after only a few hours apart.

michael finally moved from the doorway, setting his keys down on the small table beside him before looking back at her. “i’m not.”

the answer came automatically. too automatically. and the second he said it, he knew he had made himself sound guilty.

“you are.” her eyebrows lifted. not dramatically. just enough. enough to tell him she had caught it.

“by how much?” he let out a quiet breath, walking further into the room as he slipped his jacket off.

“enough.” she watched him carefully, noticing the way he avoided looking directly at her for a second too long.

“that’s not an actual answer.” he looked over.

“it is.” a smile tugged at her mouth.

“how?”

“because you know exactly what i mean.”

and unfortunately, he did. that was the thing about her. she never needed to explain herself too much. she could say something simple, something that barely seemed like anything, and somehow michael always understood the meaning underneath it.

he eventually made his way over to the sofa, dropping down beside her with a quiet exhale, the weight of the day finally leaving his shoulders the moment he was close enough to her. he didn’t even think about it anymore. the way his body naturally leaned toward hers. the way her hand found his arm almost immediately, her fingers brushing over the fabric of his sleeve before settling there, a small gesture that said you’re home without either of them needing to say it.

michael let himself sink into the comfort of it for a moment. this was supposed to be the easy part. this was supposed to be where everything went according to plan.

and for a while, he genuinely believed he had managed it. the warmth of the moment had completely distracted him from the carefully planned evening he had spent so much time creating. because somewhere between taking off his jacket, sitting down beside her, and getting lost in the familiar comfort of having her close, his brain finally caught up with the one very important detail it had somehow forgotten.

the flowers.

the flowers he had bought. the flowers he had carefully chosen. the flowers he had left sitting in his car.

michael’s expression changed so slightly that most people would have missed it. most people. not her. because she felt it before she even saw it. the way his fingers paused against hers. the way his attention suddenly drifted somewhere far away. the way he looked like he had just remembered something incredibly important and incredibly inconvenient at the exact same time.

“what?” she lifted her head from his shoulder, studying his face with quiet amusement.

“what?” michael blinked, looking back at her.

“you just did something.”

he frowned slightly. “i didn’t do anything.”

“you did.”

“no, i didn’t.”

“michael.”

the way she said his name made him immediately know he wasn’t winning this.

he looked down for a second, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as he tried to decide whether he should say anything. because maybe he could still save it. maybe he could casually get up, walk to the car, grab them, and pretend nothing happened. except she was looking at him now. and there was no chance he was getting away with suddenly leaving without an explanation.

“the flowers.” the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“the flowers?” she blinked. not because she was surprised. because she genuinely had no idea what he meant.

and the second she repeated it, michael realized how bad that sounded. because from her perspective, he had just randomly announced the flowers like she was supposed to know exactly what he was talking about.

“yeah.” he slowly nodded.

“what flowers?” a small crease appeared between her eyebrows as she tried to understand.

and there it was. the moment. the exact moment michael realized he had somehow managed to create a problem that required explaining.

“the ones i bought.” his lips parted slightly before he looked away, already embarrassed.

“you bought flowers?”

“yes.”

“for me?”

“yes.”

another pause. not a dramatic one. just the kind where she was trying to put the pieces together. “where are they?”

and michael, despite everything, still tried to make it sound less ridiculous than it was.

“in the car.”

“michael.” her face stayed completely blank for a second. then her eyes widened slightly.

“i know.”

“you left them in the car?”

“yes.” he sighed, because hearing it said out loud somehow made it worse.

she looked at him. then toward the front door. then back at him. “you walked all the way inside…”

“yes.”

“sat down…”

“yes.”

“started talking to me…”

“yes.”

“while the flowers were just sitting outside?”

he looked away. “when you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

“because it is bad.” and that was it. she laughed. not a small laugh. the kind that escaped before she could stop it because the image was too perfect.

michael olise, who had apparently spent an entire afternoon trying to become the perfect romantic boyfriend, had completed every single step except the one where he actually delivered the flowers.

“you’re laughing.” he watched her with a look of complete betrayal.

“i’m sorry.”

“you’re not.”

“no, not really.”

“i spent so long choosing them.” he shook his head, but he was fighting a smile now too.

that made her laugh even harder. “how long?”

he hesitated. which was already an answer.

“michael.”

“thirty minutes.”

“thirty?” her laughter immediately stopped.

“maybe forty.”

“you spent forty minutes choosing flowers and then forgot them?” she stared at him.

he looked almost offended. “when you say it like that, it sounds worse.”

“because it is worse.”

and somehow, that made him laugh too. because maybe she was right. maybe only he could turn buying flowers into a carefully planned romantic mission and still somehow fail the final step.

“i can’t believe you.” she covered her smile with her hand, looking away for a second as if she genuinely needed a moment to process the fact that he had somehow managed to create the most michael olise situation possible. her shoulders shook slightly as she tried to hold back her laughter, but the amusement in her eyes gave her away completely.

michael watched her with a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief, his eyebrows lifting as he leaned back against the sofa.

“what?” he asked, his voice carrying a quiet offense, as if he couldn’t understand why she was reacting this way when, in his mind, he had still technically succeeded in buying the flowers.

she turned back towards him, lowering her hand as she looked at him with that familiar expression—the one that told him she was trying very hard not to tease him too much and failing.

“you’re unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head as her thumb brushed over his knuckles. “you actually bought them, you picked them out, you put thought into it… and somehow the one thing you forgot was bringing them inside.”

michael opened his mouth, ready to defend himself, but the second he replayed her words in his head, he realized there was absolutely no way to make himself sound less ridiculous. he looked away with a small sigh, running a hand over his face before letting it fall back into his lap.

“i was trying to be romantic.” he admitted quietly, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.

“i know,” she said, her voice softening just slightly as she squeezed his hand. “that’s why it’s funny.”

“that’s not how that’s supposed to work.” michael looked at her, completely betrayed.

“i’m sorry. i just can’t believe you managed to fail the easiest part.”

and that was it.

lesson one was officially a disaster.

⸻

lesson one: finished.

result: bought the flowers, chose the flowers, planned the moment… forgot the flowers.

lesson two: dinner.

after the flower incident, michael had decided that his next attempt needed to be foolproof.

because flowers, apparently, came with too many risks. there was the choosing. the timing. the possibility of forgetting the entire reason he had bought them. so this time, he needed something different. something that couldn’t be left behind in a car. something that required his full attention. something that would prove he was, in fact, capable of being romantic.

which was how michael ended up standing in his kitchen at seven in the evening, staring at a recipe on his phone like it was a problem he needed to solve rather than a meal he needed to cook. the kitchen around him looked suspiciously like a place where someone had attempted a science experiment rather than dinner. ingredients covered almost every available surface, a wooden spoon rested beside a bowl he was no longer using, and there were three different tabs open on his phone because apparently one recipe was not enough.

he had done his research. that was the thing. he hadn’t just decided to cook and hoped for the best. no. michael had prepared. he had watched tutorials. he had read comments. he had saved a recipe that had thousands of good reviews because, in his mind, that meant it was impossible to fail. the problem was that the recipe had not accounted for one very important factor.

michael.

he looked down at the instructions again, his eyebrows pulling together slightly as he reread the same line for what had to be the fifth time.

“that doesn’t even make sense.” he said it quietly to himself, as if the recipe had personally offended him.

the recipe, unfortunately, did not respond. he glanced at the ingredients lined up in front of him, then back at his phone. everything was where it was supposed to be. mostly. he was almost certain. and that was good enough.

“i can do this.” the words came out with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what was about to happen.

because michael had a very specific problem. when he decided he was going to do something, he committed completely. there was no halfway. he didn’t simply cook dinner. he created a mission. a goal. a challenge he needed to complete.

and maybe that was why he didn’t hear the front door open. didn’t hear her footsteps approaching. didn’t notice her standing in the doorway, watching him carefully measure something while wearing an expression so serious it almost made the entire situation funnier.

because there was michael. standing in the kitchen like he was about to make the most important decision of his life. not because he was cooking. because he genuinely believed cooking was going to fix his previous mistake.

“should i ask?” she leaned against the doorway, folding her arms as she watched him.

michael immediately turned around. and the look on his face was enough. not panic. not exactly. more like someone who had just been caught doing something he was very proud of and wasn’t prepared to explain yet.

“you’re home early.”

“that’s your response?” she smiled slightly.

“yes.”

“not ‘hi’?”

“hi.” he paused, then nodded.

she tried not to laugh. she really did. but the sight in front of her was making it difficult. because he was wearing an apron. michael. an apron. and somehow, he was still looking at her like she was the unusual thing in the room.

“what happened here?” her eyes moved around the kitchen before returning to him.

“nothing.” he looked around. then back at her.

the answer was immediate. too immediate.

“michael.” she raised an eyebrow.

“what?”

“the kitchen looks like it lost a fight.”

“it does not.” he looked offended.

“there’s flour on the floor.” she stepped further inside, glancing at the counter covered with ingredients.

he looked down. there was. “that’s normal.”

“is it?”

“yes.”

“for who?”

he opened his mouth. then closed it. because unfortunately, he didn’t have an answer.

she walked closer, the smile on her face growing as she took in every detail—mostly the focused expression and the determination in his eyes.

“you’re cooking.”

“yes.” he straightened slightly.

“for me?”

“yes.”

there was something so proud about the way he said it that she almost didn’t want to tease him.

“go change, i’ve got this.” michael said proudly, completely convinced he was finally getting the hang of it.

she stared at him for a moment, her eyes drifting past him toward the questionable state of the kitchen. she was far from convinced, but she knew better than to challenge the determination on his face. with a quiet sigh, she went to change.

⸻

she had left him alone for exactly twenty minutes. that was all. twenty minutes. when she had walked away, michael had been standing in the kitchen with complete confidence, insisting that he had everything under control. he had told her to go change, promising that by the time she came back, dinner would be ready. and, admittedly, she had believed him. maybe that had been her first mistake.

because michael was many things. determined, focused, annoyingly stubborn when he wanted something done a certain way. but after the flower incident, she probably should have known better than to trust a romantic plan without supervision.

she walked back into the kitchen expecting to find him proudly waiting with the meal he had spent the entire evening preparing. instead, she found chaos.

the counter was covered with dishes, ingredients were scattered everywhere, a towel had somehow ended up on the floor, and michael stood in the middle of it all looking like he had just lost an argument with the kitchen itself.

she stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene in complete silence. because she genuinely didn’t know what part to look at first. the overflowing sink. the suspicious amount of smoke still lingering in the air. or michael, who was holding a fork in one hand and staring at the pan in front of him like he was trying to understand where his life choices had gone wrong.

slowly, his eyes lifted to meet hers. and the second he saw her expression, he knew there was no hiding it.

“before you say anything,” he started, already sounding defensive. “it was going well.”

“michael.” she looked around the kitchen. then back at him.

“i’m serious.”

“you burned it?” she pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.

“that’s a strong word.” he glanced back at the pan, then away.

“the food is black.” she stared at him.

“okay,” he paused. “maybe not that strong.”

and that was when she finally laughed.

because somehow, after everything, he was still standing there trying to defend himself like this was a minor inconvenience and not the complete collapse of his second romantic mission. unfortunately for michael, the evidence was everywhere. the smoke. the dishes. the completely ruined dinner sitting in front of him.

there was no saving this one.

⸻

lesson two: finished.

result: created more dishes than food, a kitchen full of smoke, and somehow still burned dinner.

lesson three: picnic.

after two failed attempts, michael had decided there was one very obvious solution.

stop overcomplicating things.

because apparently, flowers could be forgotten and dinner could somehow become a fire hazard, so maybe the issue was that he had been choosing things with too many opportunities for failure. this time, he was keeping it simple.

a picnic.

that was it. no complicated preparation. no risky cooking. no small object that could accidentally be abandoned in his car. just a blanket, some food, a nice view, and a romantic afternoon with her. finally, something he could not possibly ruin. which was exactly the kind of confidence that usually came right before something went wrong.

but michael was convinced. he had planned everything carefully. he checked the weather. then checked it again. then checked it one more time because apparently trusting a weather app after the flower situation felt like another unnecessary risk.

the forecast was perfect. sunny. clear skies. no rain. no wind. nothing that could possibly interfere.

he had prepared everything with the seriousness of someone preparing for the most important event of the year. and when she saw him waiting with everything ready, she couldn’t help but smile. because there he was.

michael olise.

standing beside a perfectly arranged picnic blanket with the proudest expression she had ever seen on his face.

“you look very pleased with yourself.” she said it with a small smile tugging at her lips, her eyes moving over the little setup he had spent so much time putting together, before returning to him. she didn’t even have to ask how much effort he had put into it because the answer was written all over his face—the quiet pride, the way he stood there waiting for her reaction, pretending he wasn’t waiting for her reaction.

“i’m not.” michael immediately looked away, trying and failing to hide the satisfaction creeping into his expression.

“you are.” she raised an eyebrow, stepping closer as she glanced around once more at the blanket, the food, and all the little details he had clearly thought about.

“okay. maybe a little.” he looked back at her, his lips pressing into a thin line as if he was seriously considering arguing, even though they both knew she was right.

“a little?” she repeated his words with a quiet laugh, tilting her head as she looked at him like she couldn’t believe he was even attempting to downplay it.

“fine,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth lifting as he looked down at everything he had prepared. “maybe a lot.”

she couldn’t help but smile at that. because that was michael. he would never openly admit how much something mattered to him, but he didn’t have to. it was always there in the little things—in the way he remembered details, in the way he tried even when he had no idea what he was doing.

she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him for a moment, and he immediately relaxed into the touch, his hands settling comfortably around her as if this was the part he had been waiting for all along. and for once, everything was perfect. he was beginning to think he had finally defeated the universe. which, unfortunately, was where michael made his mistake. because he started believing it.

the universe heard him. and took it personally.

the first sign was the wind. a small breeze. nothing alarming. until the corner of the blanket lifted.

“it’s fine.” he said it almost immediately, reaching down to hold the corner of the blanket before it could lift any further. his voice was calm, far too calm for someone whose carefully planned picnic was already beginning to fall apart.

“what’s fine?” she asked, watching him with amused disbelief as he tried to stop the blanket from moving while also pretending there was no problem at all.

“this.” he gestured vaguely towards the picnic, as if that explained everything.

she followed his gaze. the blanket moving. the napkins shifting. the plates slowly sliding away. then she looked back at him. “the blanket trying to leave?”

michael immediately looked offended by the accusation.

“it’s not trying to leave.” he said it with so much certainty that she almost believed he actually thought he could negotiate with the weather. almost.

she glanced down again as another napkin escaped, floating across the grass.

“michael.” she said his name slowly, the way she always did when she was trying very hard not to laugh at him.

“it’s just moving.” he looked at her. then at the runaway napkin. then back at her.

“because of the wind.”

“yes.”

“which means it’s trying to leave.”

for a second, he looked like he was genuinely considering arguing. but then another gust came through, and the universe made the decision for him. the stack of paper plates started sliding away. and michael moved instantly. not dramatically. not frantically. just with the serious determination of someone who had decided this was a problem he could solve.

“michael.” she called after him, watching as he walked quickly across the grass to rescue something that, a few seconds ago, had been perfectly fine.

“i’ve got it.” he replied, not even looking back.

“what exactly do you think you’re doing?” she blinked, trying to understand how he could sound so confident while chasing after napkins. “michael?”

“saving the picnic.” he answered immediately. and somehow, that was the funniest part. because he was completely serious.

she looked around at the blanket folding over itself, the food being rearranged by the wind, and michael standing there like he had personally been assigned the mission of defeating nature.

“from what?” she asked, covering her smile as she watched him.

he paused. looked around. then looked back at her. “everything.”

and that was it. that was the moment she lost. she laughed, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth as she watched him stand there holding a napkin like it was a trophy from a battle he had somehow both won and lost.

“you’re laughing.” he turned towards her, immediately noticing.

“i’m sorry.” she tried to compose herself, but the smile on her face gave her away.

“you’re not.”

“no.”

he sighed, looking back at the picnic behind him. the blanket was crooked. the food was scattered. his perfect plan was slowly falling apart. and somehow, he still looked more confused than defeated.

“i checked the weather.” he finally said, like this was the most important piece of evidence in his defense.

“what?” she looked at him, completely caught off guard.

“i checked it.”

“michael, are you blaming the weather because your picnic failed?” she stared for a second before the laughter returned.

“i’m saying i prepared.” he looked genuinely offended.

“you prepared for everything except the weather being the weather.” she stepped closer, shaking her head as she looked at him.

he opened his mouth. then closed it. because unfortunately, she was right. again.

she laughed until her sides hurt, the sound carried away by the same breeze that had spent the last ten minutes ruining michael’s third attempt at being romantic.

“you’re impossible,” she whispered, the smile refusing to leave her face.

“i’ve been told.” he looked at her for a long moment, one hand still holding the corner of the blanket as though he refused to let the weather win completely.

“by me.”

“mostly by you.”

another laugh escaped her as she closed the distance between them, slipping her fingers through his before gently pulling him back down onto the blanket beside her. his shoulders finally relaxed, the determination he’d been carrying all afternoon melting away the second she rested against him.

“i’m sorry,” he murmured, looking around at the half-folded blanket, the scattered food, and the napkins he’d eventually given up chasing. “this wasn’t exactly how i imagined it.”

“i know.” she murmured, her smile softening as she turned towards him.

a few of his locs had fallen across his forehead thanks to the wind, moving every time another breeze swept between them. she reached up without thinking, carefully brushing them away from his eyes, only for them to slip right back into place a second later.

“they’re not listening to me either.” she let out a quiet laugh.

“they never do.” michael’s lips twitched into the smallest smile.

“i noticed.” she tried one more time, slower this time, her fingers gently combing them back before eventually giving up with an exaggerated sigh. instead, her hand drifted down to his face, her palm settling against his cheek as her thumb lazily traced back and forth over his skin.

“there,” she whispered. “much easier.”

he leaned into her touch almost instinctively, his eyes never leaving hers.

“i really thought this one would work.” the quiet disappointment in his voice was so small, so unguarded, that it made her chest ache. he wasn’t laughing anymore, wasn’t trying to make excuses or brush it off with another joke. he simply looked down at his hands, like he couldn’t quite understand how every attempt had managed to fall apart.

“i know.” she shuffled closer until her knees brushed his, closing what little space remained between them before leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss against the corner of his mouth.

his eyes fluttered closed for a brief second, and she felt him exhale softly against her skin.

“i really did.” he murmured again, his voice barely above a whisper.

she smiled, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand as she turned her head to leave another gentle kiss against his cheek, letting it linger there for just a moment longer. “i know.”

his shoulders eased as the last of the stubborn determination left him. maybe it hadn’t gone the way he’d imagined, but sitting here with her beside him somehow made it feel a little less like a failure.

she let her fingertips drift to the nape of his neck, drawing him a fraction closer before her lips found the curve beneath his jaw in a tender kiss.

his hand settled at her waist as naturally as breathing, gently guiding her into his lap until she was curled comfortably against him—while his other hand idly rubbed slow circles against her back. she slipped one arm around his shoulders while the fingers of her other hand absentmindedly toyed with one of the locs at the nape of his neck.

“you know what’s funny?” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the steady patter of rain beyond the shelter.

his brows drew together immediately.

“i’m almost scared to ask.” he admitted, narrowing his eyes at her with exaggerated suspicion, though the corner of his mouth had already begun to twitch.

“every single one of your plans has been a complete disaster.” she couldn’t help smiling.

“wow,” for a second he simply stared at her, looking genuinely betrayed.

she bit the inside of her cheek, already fighting a laugh.

“thank you,” he said, dragging a hand dramatically down his face before letting it fall back around her waist. “that’s very encouraging.”

he shook his head to himself, a quiet sigh escaping him as though she’d just confirmed every fear he’d had since the flowers were forgotten, the dinner had gone up in smoke, and now the rain had claimed the picnic too.

“i’m not finished.” she reached up, brushing a few damp locks away from his forehead before letting her hand settle against the side of his face. her thumb swept lazily across his cheek as she leaned forward until there wasn’t even an inch between them.

instead of answering, she nudged the tip of her nose against his. his nose scrunched instinctively, earning the soft laugh she’d been trying so hard to hold back.

before he could come up with another reply, she leaned in and kissed him again.

this time, she didn’t pull away immediately. her hand stayed against his cheek, her thumb resting softly along his skin as she let the moment linger between them. the kiss was warm and unhurried, carrying every bit of reassurance she hadn’t put into words—the reminder that she wasn’t disappointed by the failed plans or the things that hadn’t gone right.

and when she felt the smallest smile tug against his lips, she smiled too, unable to stop herself. he always tried so hard to get everything perfect, and somehow, he never realized that moments like this were already enough. his hand tightened gently around her waist, keeping her close as she stayed there for another heartbeat before finally pulling back.

“the flowers never made it inside.”

a kiss.

“you nearly declared war on the kitchen.”

another.

“and today…” she stopped herself, letting her eyes wander around their little corner of the world. the blanket beneath them was still slightly twisted from where they had rushed to move everything when the rain started. the carefully arranged food had been pushed around, the drinks were sitting wherever they had managed to save them, and the whole thing looked nothing like the picture he had probably imagined when he first planned it. and yet, somehow, it felt even more like them.

“today you lost a fight against the weather.” she looked back at him, the amusement in her eyes impossible to miss.

he stared at her for a moment, his lips parting like he wanted to defend himself, but the argument never came. instead, he simply looked away with a quiet exhale.

“when you list them all together…” she trailed off, watching the realization slowly cross his face as he replayed every failed attempt in his head.

“mm?” he hummed, looking at her cautiously, already knowing he probably wasn’t going to like where this was going.

“it sounds worse.” a laugh slipped out before she could stop it, and within seconds she was hiding her face against him, her shoulders shaking as she tried to compose herself.

“you’re enjoying this way too much,” he muttered, but there was no real complaint in his voice.

because he was laughing too.

his arms wrapped around her more securely, one hand settling at her back while the other rested at the back of her neck, his fingers brushing gently against her hair as the wind carried loose strands between them. keeping her close as she tried to recover. he could feel her smile against him, and despite everything that had gone wrong, despite every moment where he had wondered if the whole idea had been a mistake, he couldn’t bring himself to regret any of it.

after a while, she pulled back just enough to see his face again. there was still that familiar look there—the one she had seen every time he tried something new for her. the quiet expectation. the hope that this time he had finally managed to get everything right.

her expression softened.

“but do you know what all three of them have in common?” her palms settled against his cheeks as she gently guided his attention back to her. her thumbs brushed over his skin, waiting until his eyes met hers.

“they failed?” he studied her for a second, suspicious but curious.

“wrong,” she leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead before staying close, her forehead resting against his. “you were in every single one of them.”

“…i don’t think that’s the point you’re trying to make.” he frowned ever so slightly.

a quiet laugh escaped her.

“it is,” her thumbs continued their slow movements over his skin, her gaze never leaving his. “i didn’t fall in love with perfect plans, michael.”

“you keep looking at everything that went wrong,” she whispered. “the things that didn’t happen the way you pictured them, the moments where you think you should’ve done better.”

she paused, letting him actually hear her.

“but i remember you running back outside because you forgot the flowers. i remember you standing in that kitchen looking completely lost but still trying to make something for me. i remember you looking at the sky today like you could somehow convince the clouds to give you one more chance.”

a small smile touched her lips.

“those are the parts i’m going to remember.” she leaned in again, brushing her lips against his in a slow, gentle kiss. not because she was trying to fix anything, but because she wanted him to understand.

when she pulled back, she stayed close enough that their noses still touched.

“you spend so much time trying to create the perfect moment,” she whispered, “that you never realize you’re the reason the moments matter.”

her hand slipped from his cheek to the back of his neck, her fingers gently threading through the locs gathered there.

“you could’ve planned everything perfectly and i still would’ve wanted this,” her smile grew. “sitting on a half-folded blanket, hiding from the rain, laughing at you because you somehow lost every single battle you started.”

she pressed a kiss beneath his jaw, then another near his ear, just because she knew the small smile it would bring.

“because it was never about what you did perfectly, michael,” her eyes met his again. “it was always about you.”

for a moment, michael just stayed there. completely still. because somehow, after spending the entire day trying to find the right words, the right gesture, the right way to show her how much she meant to him, she had managed to say the one thing he had never thought to consider.

that maybe he had already done enough.

his eyes dropped for a second, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips as he shook his head.

“you really mean that?” the question came out quieter than he intended, like some part of him still couldn’t believe she could look at a day full of failed plans and see something worth keeping.

she only smiled, her fingers still resting against him, completely certain.

and that was what got him. not the teasing. not the laughter. just the way she looked at him like there had never been anything to fix in the first place.

he let out a soft laugh, lowering his gaze to where she was settled against him. his fingers tightened gently around her waist, a small, unconscious gesture that gave away the smile he was trying to hide.

“i spent all day trying to get everything right,” he looked back at her, his expression softer now. “and you’re telling me i didn’t have to.”

“you really didn’t.” a smile played on her lips.

“you know that’s a little unfair, right?” he shook his head, still smiling like he couldn’t quite believe how easily she had undone him.

“what is?” her eyebrows lifted slightly.

“because i spent hours planning all of this…” he gestured around them, the windblown blanket, the scattered remains of his carefully thought-out picnic, “and somehow you’re still the one who made it perfect.”

she laughed softly, and that sound alone made every failed attempt worth it.

he didn’t have anythung else to say—not one that wouldn’t give away just how much her words had gotten to him. instead, he lifted a hand to her face, his thumb brushing gently along her cheek as he looked at her for a moment longer, like he was trying to memorize the way she saw him.

then he leaned in.

the kiss started softly, almost like a quiet thank you, but he didn’t rush to pull away. his hand slipped from her cheek to the back of her neck, holding her close as he smiled against her lips, unable to hide how much lighter he felt.

when he finally pulled back, he stayed close, his forehead resting against hers.

“you really have no idea what you do to me, do you?” he whispered.

maybe he had been looking at everything wrong. maybe romance was never about the perfect flowers, the perfect dinner, or the perfect plan. maybe it was about the person sitting beside him after everything went wrong, still smiling like nothing had ever gone wrong at all.

and with her tucked safely against him, michael finally stopped trying to create the perfect moment.

because somehow, he was already living in one.

⸻

lesson three: finished.

result: lost the picnic. kept the girl.

[locsandletters]

a blurb about what olise would be like in bed?? 🤲🏽🫠🫠

— all the ways boyfriend!olise devours you.

warnings — 18+ mdni. explicit sexual content.

listen. olise is nasty nasty.

and the thing is? he doesn’t even act like it. you wouldn’t look at him and immediately think it. he carries himself too well for that. all put together, kinda quiet, kinda cocky but not in an annoying way. he looks like the type of guy who’s good in bed, sure. but he doesn’t look like the type of guy who spits in your mouth just to see your lips part for more.

but he is. and you learned that fast.

the first time you fucked, it shocked you a little. not because you thought he’d be bad—please, you knew he wouldn’t be—but because of how good he was. how nasty he was about it. how his mouth was naturally filthy in ways you didn’t expect.

you remember the way he held your jaw, dark eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes before he licked into your mouth like he had something to prove. the way he sucked on your tongue, let out this deep groan when your fingers threaded through his hair. how he was already pressing you down into the bed like he couldn’t get close enough.

and then he went down on you, and it was over after that.

because olise eats pussy like it’s his actual job. like there’s a contract involved and he’ll get punished if he doesn’t do it properly. it’s insane. you didn’t even know guys liked it that much until him. his mouth is hot, greedy, relentless. he’ll go down on you just to go down on you. not because he wants you to return the favour, not even because you asked—he just wants to. you could be laid out next to him watching a show, and if he gets in the mood, he’s tugging your shorts down, slotting himself between your thighs, and licking at your clit slow like he has all the time in the world.

he moans while he does it too. shamelessly. like he’s the one getting something out of it. like he enjoys it just as much as you. probably more.

and don’t even get me started on how he looks up at you while he does it. deep, brown eyes, big hands gripping your thighs to keep you from moving. and when you get loud, when your back arches and your hand tightens in his hair? he’ll just groan into you, slap a palm down on your stomach and hold you in place while he sucks on your clit like he wants to ruin you.

sometimes he talks. sometimes he doesn’t. but you can always feel him. feel the way his mouth works you open, feel how much he loves it, feel his breath fan against your skin when he pulls away just to drag his lips along your inner thighs, teeth grazing you before he’s diving back in.

and he doesn’t stop. even when your thighs shake. even when you try to push him away. even when you cum so hard you’re gasping his name. he eats pussy like it’s his favourite thing in the world. and it probably is.

olise likes control. not in a way that feels overwhelming, but in a way that makes you feel owned. he likes to be the one setting the pace, the one making you lose your mind, the one telling you what to do. he likes when you listen. loves it even more when you don’t. either way, you’re gonna get fucked how he wants.

he’s a body-worshipper too. he likes all of you. every inch. he loves your ass—grips it, smacks it, spreads it apart while he fucks into you deep and slow. loves your tits, too. likes to have a hand around your throat and the other tugging at your nipples, watching your face contort as he buries himself in you.

olise likes to be messy with it, too. he spits in your mouth like it’s second nature. if you let him, he’ll slap his dick against your tongue before easing it past your lips, watching as you take him down slow, groaning when you choke around him. and when you pull off, gasping, saliva glistening on your lips? he kisses you deep, sucks on your tongue because he absolutely does not mind that you just went down on him, the mess just makes it better.

but when he’s soft? that’s when it’s different.

because yeah, he’s nasty. but he’s also sweet. and when he wants to, he takes his time. whispers soft things in your ear. slows it down and makes love to you so good you feel like you could cry. and it’s not like he doesn’t talk dirty then too—he does, always—but there’s a softness to it. an affection that makes your chest ache.

“love the way you take it, baby,” he’ll murmur against your lips, eyes dark but fond.

or, “feels like you were made just for me.”

and he means it. you know he does. because olise isn’t just nasty in bed—he’s intense. he wants to make you feel good. he wants you to know it’s him making you feel like this.

and when it’s all over? he still can’t get enough of you. he still kisses you, presses his lips to your forehead, your jaw, your chest. his hands still hold you tight, fingers smoothing over your skin like he needs to keep touching you.

he’s just like that.

and you absolutely love it.

[teamroscoes]

Michael Olise ✨ of France against Irak [score : 🇫🇷 3-0] | world cup '26