You had an obsession.

Specifically, a lingerie obsession. You had so many bras — lacy, sheer, balconette, demi, push up — and panties? There were so many… thongs, boyshorts, lacy, crotchless, barely there g-strings, cotton, lace, satin.

The inspiration to collect unique pieces came after your first sponsor gave you your first luxury gift from La Perla. 

It was an absolutely beautiful set, something to admire.

The silk was lush, and the blush pink fabric contrasted romantically on your deep skin. The balconette cups hugged your bouncy breasts just right, nipples playing the most arousing game of peek-a-boo for whoever would have the pleasure of seeing. Handcrafted lace lined the sides and straps snug to your shoulders. The thong sat low on your waist, complementing the softness of your tummy while adding a little extra flare to how your wide hips curved at the sides of your body to your round, perky ass. Both were intricately embroidered with black roses, the mixture classic and coquette, but interesting, edgy, and breath-taking on you.

It made you feel beautiful. Made you more aware of your power, your femininity.

Michael immediately noticed how much you loved lingerie, as a connoisseur himself. 

He let you spend an ungodly amount of his money on pretty, frilly pieces from anywhere you wanted. The only contingency of this arrangement was that you had to model them for him. Easy enough. 

And when you did your first haul, he focused all his attention on you. Sat on the foot of the bed, amused, as you tried on every single piece. You blushed as Michael repeatedly told you how gorgeous you were, body adorned in some of the most amazing designs he ever saw in his life. You had impeccable taste. He particularly loved how your eyes lit up while you gushed, talking about how you lucked out in a sale or found a particularly elusive archival set, or about how high quality the material was. He really tried to ground himself. Ignore the feeling of his lap tightening. Ignore his desires. He wished you were closer, so much so that his hands twitched at his sides as he resisted the urge to touch you.

Being around you lately brought him back to another version of himself, one he thought was long gone.

“C’mere, princess.”

You were too wrapped up in your own excitement to notice the signs of his growing arousal. Michael paused for a beat as you stood between his open legs, his eyes darting around to take in the visual treat in front of him.

“You really like it, big daddy?”

“Love it. You’re stunnin’. I am curious about sumn’ though... does the material feel good, love? May I?” Michael’s eyes cut up to yours, running his thumbs over the purple embroidery against your nipples. 

He had to know how tingly that made you feel, right?

“Mm, yes… it is very soft,” He mused, one of his hands lowering to feel the softness of your panties… His palm flattened against your mound, rubbing absentmindedly, fingers against the matching floral stitches above your clit, “these are wonderful quality. Such an amazing find, baby.”

He let you squirm for a moment against his touch before chuckling, planting a kiss on your hip and sending you off to try on another pair.

This was a game to him.

So you came out swinging. The red thong set you tried on next made him suck in a breath and groan. He had to get a closer look. You weren’t sure how it happened, but soon you were bent over the now obvious bulge in his lap so he could see the material better, doing quality control. His murmurs of admiration were soft, telling you about the origin of the rare fabric as he teasingly pulled the string between your cheeks, making your pussy pout and eventually spread. 

And when you tried on the last set, it was the piest de resistance. He stood behind you in the mirror, kissing on your neck as his hand wrapped around you, thumb sliding rhythmically across the olive green silk between your legs. 

“You know I love you in green, princess.” You moaned softly, sliding your trembling hand on top of his for more pressure until the silk had a visible wet patch right on the gusset, his thumb covered in your wetness.

Every try on session after that went left. 

His lingerie inspections got more and more thorough, making you so wet that you soaked through every single pair. Sometimes you touched yourself in them, propping your leg up next to him on the bed as he watched intently. Sometimes he stuffed them in your open mouth as he fucked you from behind to enjoy your muffled moans, so good and deep it made you drool. He kept his favorites, admiring the slick seat and scent of you before putting them in his pocket all day for “good luck”. It stung that you never saw them again. 

But he went too far one day and ripped a pair trying to get them off you. You scowled when he did it the first time, and your irritation amused him so much that he adopted it into a routine.

It made you so mad every time you heard that familiar tearing sound. But it was hard to stay mad when his apologies were mixed into the sounds of him slurping your pussy, or through his teeth as he served you deep strokes in missionary, the egregious evidence of his inability to control himself dangling off one of your legs. 

Post-nut clarity would settle and you’d be mad all over again. Sure, he was the one buying them but there was no need to keep shredding such lovely garments into pieces just to touch you when you’d gladly take them off.

One time in particular, you voiced your frustrations directly.

“You need to set up a whole discretionary fund at this point to buy me new panties.”

“And why is that?” Michael asked in casual amusement. “I woulda thought I was successfully influencin’ you to stop wearin’ ‘em around me, instead of encouragin’ you to buy more.”

And there it was, his agenda.

You huffed. “But I like themmm… and these are really expensive, big daddy. Too much money for you to be clawin’ and shredding them to pieces.”

“I bought them, princess. I know how much they cost.” 

“I have to repurchase the sets just to replace them.”

“And I have no problem with that….” You heard his sentence trail off, unfinished.

“- but you’re still going to rip them off me.”

He grinned, nodding. “If I feel like it, princess, yes. Anything else?”

You pouted and he stroked your cheek gingerly, kissing your temple in reply to successfully end his contribution to the conversation. Michael always found you extra cute when you pouted but he’d never tell you that. He had to maintain some mystery.

"Wanna go to my family's cookout?" You asked as you squeezed him a little tighter.

Michael was surprised you asked him because he's never met your family and he's never asked. He thought it was probably a sensitive topic or you didn't get along. He always wondered how different your family might be from his own. He was excited to meet everyone especially the people who raised you. Little did he know he was in for a wild ride.

"Okay, before we walk in—" You stopped him with a hand on his chest. He stared down at your hand before looking back at you. "Do not play spades with Leroy. Do you understand?"

"Okay? I don't really—" He went to say but you stopped him again.

"Don't ask who made the Mac and cheese either." You snapped your fingers and shook your head. "Actually don't ask anything like that at all."

Michael just nodded as he laced your fingers together. When you walked through the door it was straight rowdy. Your cousins were running in and out the house while getting yelled at by your granny. Your uncle was already hootin' and hollering to whatever R&B song was playing outside. You sighed as you got ready for the long day ahead.

"They're cool, I promise." You whispered to him as you kissed his cheek. You took him to the kitchen first to meet your mama who was asking her brother to help carry the coolers outside.

You took a deep breath as your body began to shake. You've never introduced anyone to your family before but Michael was different. You've been dating forever; it was about time right? "Mama, this is my boyfriend M—"

Her jaw hit the floor as she swiftly turned around, ready to tell you about yourself. There was no way in hell you brought Michael Jackson to her home. Michael waved shyly before sticking his hand out for her to shake. She was still gobsmacked as she shook his hand.

"Hi I'm—Michael Jackson are you serious?" She whispered to you with wide eyes as you nodded slowly.

"My child is dating Michael Jackson." She whispered as she smoothed down her hair. She was more stressed than you were.

She waved you off as she huffed. "Go show your cousins. Hell, show ya daddy."

You nodded before taking him out of the kitchen to meet everyone else. As soon as you stepped outside your cousin yelled for you. He was so excited to see his favorite cousin since it had been a minute. As soon as he stopped laughing his jaw hit the floor. His hands brushed over his waves and he nearly fell out.

"NIGGA, IS THAT MICHAEL JACKSON?!" He looked as he paused with a funky face.

Your cousin was the loudest one in the family. His voice caught the attention of your nosy auntie and you could've smacked him for that. Your uncles stopped playing spades to see what your cousin was talking about. Why would Michael Jackson be at the cookout?

"Nice to meet you." Michael laughed as he stuck his hand out. Your cousin shook his hand while your family watched.

"You and you're big mouth." You whispered harshly to him. Michael found all of this hilarious.

"How did you bag him? Matter of fact how did he bag you? How did y'all bag each other?" Your cousin rambles making Michael turn and laugh as you narrowed your eyes at him.

"Leave your cousin alone! Hell she doing better than you." Your uncle Leroy told him as he slammed down a card. "Some damn situationship. Fuck is that?"

Your cousin groaned before explaining it to your uncle for what seemed like the millionth time. You blew air out of your nose as you leaned into Michael. Fortunately for you, Michael was having a good time. Your cousins even ran up to him showing him that they could dance like he could. You giggled as they had a dance off to which he let them win, obviously.

"I'm gonna tell everyone at school that my cousin is MJ." Your younger cousin said as their sibling rolled her eyes.

"Ain't nobody gonna believe you, boy." She sassed before smiling at Michael who snorted.

Leroy collected all the cards as your elders groaned. He had won once again. Leroy was unstoppable when it came to spades. You could see the look in his eyes; he was about to challenge Michael. You already knew what was about to happen and you kind of wanted to see if Michael could hold his own. You also didn't want him to succumb to your uncles shenanigans.

"Come have a seat, son." Leroy's mischievous tone didn't slip past you.

Michael nodded as he sat across from Leroy. Michael already knew what Leroy was gonna ask. "You play spades, son?"

Your uncle stacked the cards on the table as he analyzed Michael. Michael bit his lip before he shrugged. "I've played before."

"Played before huh?" Leroy snickered as he dealt cards to everyone at the table. "Let's play."

Michael put your uncle on his ass. He was slamming down cards left and right. Everyone gathered around the table giving 'ooo's and 'damn's. You sat on Michael's lap at one point watching him go ham on Leroy. You watched as Leroy fumed at how many times he lost. Michael raised an eyebrow at him waiting for him to say something.

Leroy threw his cards down making the family hype Michael up. Michael nods his head triumphantly as you kissed his face. Nobody could beat Leroy in spades—ever. Today was the first time anyone has ever beat him. Your mama was shocked because he never lost even against the one who taught him to play.

"Oh you gotta keep him. Ain't nobody beat Leroy in shit before." Your cousin howled as he ran off with his red solo cup.

"Alright y'all its time to eat." Your mama called as the kids followed behind Michael who grabbed your hand.

The rest of the cookout went on without a hitch. Michael blended with your family so well that you would've thought he'd been there before. He did the wobble and the Cupid shuffle with your granny, who was moving like she was in her twenties again. Michael got face paint with the kids and they took pictures. By the time the cookout ended, your mama packed both of you an ass of to go plates.

"Let me help your mom then we can go." He said as he kissed your temple before walking into the kitchen.

Your cousin popped up behind you making that knowing face. You rolled your eyes already knowing he's about to start messing with you. "If you don't marry him, I will no shade." He whispered as he sipped his drink.

You snorted turning away from him. "Boy get the fuck out my face, for real."

He cackled before he ran off making you shake your head. You watched Michael help your mama make plates for your granny and make conversation. She pinched his cheeks like three times. You knew he had her sold. She couldn't stop smiling, hell he had your daddy's approval!

"Bring him by every gathering. I love me some him!" Your auntie said as your uncle pushed her out the door.

Your mama winked at you as she went outside to gather everyone. You walked up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He smiled as he tried to look at you over his shoulder. He shook his head as he laughed.

"You're such a good sport." You told him as he snickered.

"I played your uncle out of fifty dollars." He told you as your jaw dropped.

"Michael! You didn't." You tried to suppress your laughter. He nodded as he turned to lean on the sink. His arms crossed as he bit his lip.

"Gave it to your little cousin." He shrugged as you barked out laughter.

Michael laughed watching you laugh. "I love your family." He sighed content with his day.

"They love you trust me. Auntie was gonna take you home." You snorted as Michael cackled. He held you close as he rocked you both.

"Uh-uh! Don't be doing that in my kitchen." Your mother snapped her fingers before pointing you both to the door.

"Mama!" You shouted as she gave you that look before snapping towards the door again. Michael hollered before holding your hand and leaving your mothers kitchen.

After helping out, you and Michael went home. He told you he wanted to host the next one. You smiled as you watched him plan it out in animated motions. You laughed as he explained how he would set it up. You were happy he had fun and even happier he got along with everyone.

It was quite late by the time Michael found his way back to your shared penthouse. He was working overtime trying to finish his newest album by the deadline his record company gave him but the late nights at the studio perfecting every tune and dance move didn’t leave Michael enough time to care from himself properly.

He was mostly surviving the day off energy drinks and snacks that his team would leave out. By the time he would get home, he only had enough energy to stand exhaustedly under the shower before crashing on the bed beside his sleeping lover. Tonight was no different, except for the fact that you were still awake.

You tried staying up for Michael so many times, but it had just gotten so late you would accidentally fall asleep with the TV still on or a book laying in your lap. But you were determined this time, you had missed him so much these past few weeks.

The two of you had become like ghosts to each other; waking up in the morning to only the faint memory of the bed dipping the night before as Michael finally joined you in sleep, confirmed by the rumpled sheets on his empty side of the bed. You never held it against him, you knew what you signed up for when you began dating him; the never-ending work, the late nights…but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t miss and worry about him. You were mostly worried about his health, knowing how stressed he was and how he wasn’t great at taking care of himself, especially during these time crunches.

So tonight, determined to finally see your boyfriend awake, you made yourself a big cup of coffee and distracted yourself from sleep until you finally heard the front door unlock and creak open at 1:38 am. Excitement running up your spine re-energized you, happy to have finally succeeded in staying up and excited to see your boyfriend. The giddiness felt just like when you two first started seeing each other, because no matter what, you were still so into him even after 2 years of dating and living together.

You got up from your position on the couch and walked lightly to the front door to surprise your boyfriend. Michael’s back was to you as he closed the front door and locked it before hearing your shuffling and a small “hi baby” from behind him. He turned to you with wide eyes and a half smile, all he could muster in his exhaustion, “awh baby, what are you doing still up? It’s so late applehead” he said with his brows furrowed but still with a soft loving expression on his face as he lifted his hand to cup your cheek, his thumb rubbing your cheekbone softly. “I wanted to wait for you…I missed you and thought we could get ready for bed together,” you said, looking up at him, speaking only a bit louder than a whisper, having not used your voice for most of the night since getting home from work and considering it being so late in the night.

All he could do was sigh softly and pull you into a tight hug, leaning most of his body weight on you unintentionally, he was just so tired from the past few weeks. “What did I ever do to deserve you,” he mumbled, chin resting on your head before tilting his head down to kiss the top of yours.

“Come on angelface, let me take care of you” you said, pulling him to your shared bedroom and sitting him down on the bed, kissing his head gently before turning around to the closet to pull out pyjamas to help him change into.

The two of you practically wore the same pyjamas, they were technically his pyjamas, but girlfriend law dictates that his pyjamas are also yours. You grabbed a white tee, matching the one you were currently wearing, some pyjama pants, and walked back to your boyfriend slouched on the corner of the bed. You set the pyjamas on the bed and pulled him up, a groan escaping his mouth before guiding him into the bathroom.

The whole interaction was silent but so full of love that it felt loud. You guided him to stand near the sink facing you as you tapped his arm gently, gesturing him to lift his arms up so you could pull his shirt off. He then took his bottoms off as you took your pyjama shirt and shorts off. His hands immediately found your waist as you did so – holding onto you was the only thing keeping him upright currently. You just smiled at him and leaned in to gently kiss his lips.

You turned around, feeling his hand slide from your waist to your back as you led him into the walk-in shower and turned on the hot water. You positioned the both of you so that he was the one under the showerhead with your arms wrapped around his neck, your bodies so close together you could feel every time his chest raised as he breathed. His hands rubbed your sides gently as you peppered kisses on his lips as the water fell on the both of you, letting the past few weeks wash away, the only thing mattering anymore was this moment alone.

After a while, you grabbed some soap and began lathering Michael’s body gently. With one of his hands still glued to your side, Michael just watched you with heavy eyelids and a very full heart, “I love you, thank you for staying with me through all this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. You looked up at him, smiling with your eyes before answering “I love you more baby, I’ll always be here for you, no matter what” you whispered back, kissing his shoulder where you were about to massage with soap before continuing your task. You could feel Michael relax under your touch, his shoulders falling slightly, his muscles un-tensing as the steam from the hot water surrounded you both.

Usually, Michael would insist on him doting on you instead – wanting to take care of you since he had left you alone for so long – but he was too tired to fight against this and it felt so good being taken care of and not having someone want something from him.

Once you felt that you had lathered the soap into his body enough, you gently pulled him back under the water to wash him off, your hands continuing to massage his tense muscles. Once satisfied that Michael had sufficiently relaxed, you turned the water off and guided him out of the shower by his hand. You handed him a towel to quickly dry off before wrapping yourself in one and quickly entering your bedroom to fetch the folded pyjamas you had set out earlier for him.

Once dried and dressed, Michael seemed to have mustered up a small burst of energy and pulled you close to him, planting kisses on your lips every few seconds to thank you for taking care of him, cooing small praises in between each smooch, “You’re so good to me, baby.” You giggled at the affection and praise, allowing him to show his thanks before shying away, resting your head against his chest. You two stood in your bedroom swaying side to side like this for a few seconds just appreciating the love you have for each other before you heard his stomach growl under you.

You looked up at him with slightly squinted eyes “Did you eat today, baby?” you said, suspicious of the noise as you knew he wasn’t great at eating properly. But it was important to you that he got enough food during the day to sustain all his hard work, even harping his team to make sure he at least got one proper meal at some point during the day. “I wasn’t very hungry today” was all he said, shifting his eyes away from you for a second, before looking back at you while you slightly frowned. “Michael, you gotta eat something” you whined before an idea popped into your head. “Go sit down lovely. I’ll be right back, okay?” you said, gesturing to the bed before leaving the warmth of his arms and walking out of your bedroom into the dark hallway connecting your room with the main living area and kitchen. You could hear him groan for a second at the loss of contact before plopping onto the bed, his back against the headboard while he waited your return.

You headed straight for the kitchen where you remembered a container you had left in the fridge earlier that night containing rice and fried chicken that you had cooked earlier for dinner and had put a portion aside for Michael to eat when he got home or take for lunch the next day. You were warming the food up before you heard Michael’s voice coming from your bedroom, “what are you doing over there? Come back already” he whined, trying to lean over the bed to see through the door frame. “I’ll be right there!” you promised as you plated the food and got your utensils.

You walked back into the room carefully with the food, smiling at him before setting it on the side table and moving gently onto the bed, lifting your leg around him so you were straddling his lap. His hands quickly found their way to your hips as you both adjusted so that you were comfortable. “I want you to eat baby” you said softly before picking the plate back up from the side table and scooping up a spoonful of rice and a cut up piece of fried chicken, lifting it slightly to show him the spoon with a soft but stern look on your face.

Hayvenhurst was quiet by the time Michael returned. Somewhere down the hall, a television murmured low beneath a closed door. The house carried its usual nighttime sounds; floorboards settling, distant laughter from a room, the soft hum of air moving through vents.

Michael slipped off his jacket and draped it carefully over the back of a chair before sitting at the edge of his bed. And stayed there. The digital clock on his nightstand glowed 12:41 A.M. in red numbers.

He should've been tired. He had spent the entire evening surrounded by people, music, and laughter. Instead, he found himself staring at nothing at all. The night kept replaying in fragments behind his eyes as though his mind had taken a reel of film and worn it thin.

You leaning against the valet stand beneath amber lights. You laughing at something Kareem had said. You reaching up to fix the clasp on his chain like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like your hands had known their way there for years.

And then, "When it's over, it's over."

Michael lowered his head into his hands.

He understood what you'd meant. That was the problem. You had never held onto people simply because they had once belonged to you. You let life move the way rivers moved. If something was meant to stay, it stayed. If it was meant to leave, it left. 

Michael had never been built that way. He loved like a lock. You loved like water. His eyes drifted toward the nightstand. There, tucked neatly beside a stack of sheet music, sat a small bundle of letters tied carefully with ribbon. Your letters. Some were years old now.

The oldest had faded at the folds from being opened too many times. Michael reached for them before stopping himself.

He already knew every word. He knew which one had the coffee stain in the corner because you'd written it while studying for finals. He knew which one carried the faint trace of perfume pressed into the paper by seventeen-year-old hands. He knew which one ended with: Miss you. Call me when you get home. His thumb rested against the ribbon for a long moment. Then he pulled his hand back. As though touching them tonight might make something in him harder to ignore.

After a while, a thought arrived. Unwelcome. Persistent. Impossible to put away.

Did Kareem know? 

About the letters? The late-night drives? The phone calls that stretched until sunrise?

Did he know you still called Michael first when life hurt? Or when life was good?

Michael leaned back against the headboard and shut his eyes. Tonight felt different. Not because of Kareem. Because of you. For the first time in ten years, standing beneath city lights with summer in the air, he'd allowed himself to wonder what would happen if one day you looked at him and saw what everyone else seemed to see. 

Not your friend. Not family. Not safe, dependable Michael. Just a man. A man who had spent half his life loving you quietly enough for you to call it something else.

Somewhere down the hall, he heard Tito's voice followed by Marlon laughing loudly at something.

The worst part was, they were right. He had it bad. 

Worse than bad, if he was honest with himself. Bad enough that Kareem's nearly year-long relationship with you suddenly felt less like a chapter and more like a deadline. Bad enough that he had found himself asking questions he had no business asking. Questions that sounded suspiciously like hope. And hope was dangerous. Hope implied you might choose Michael after all.

Michael didn’t know how, but somehow, 35 minutes later he was outside your apartment door knocking.

He heard footsteps a moment later. Michael's breath hitched. Suddenly he realized he hadn’t planned for this moment. Impulse and desperation had led him to your home.

The chain lock on your door opened, and there you were. Sleepy and annoyed.

Pretty enough to make a grown man lose his religion. One side of your oversized T-shirt had slipped from your shoulder, and faint pillow creases still marked your cheek. The warm glow of your hallway light spilled around you like a halo.

The air left his lungs in a way that had nothing to do with breathing. He looked you over greedily. Michael had seen beautiful women before. Actresses. Models. Women people wrote songs about. But none of them had ever looked like home. You did. Always had.

Your eyes narrowed as you looked at him standing outside your apartment door. Then your mouth curved slowly, in an amused way.

"Do my eyes deceive me, or is Michael Jackson standin' outside my apartment at one in the mornin'?"

Michael ducked his head immediately. A smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. He'd stood outside your door for nearly ten minutes trying to decide if he should knock. Twice he'd turned around. Twice he'd come back.

You leaned against the doorframe completely unalarmed. As though the biggest star in the world showing up at your apartment after midnight was a perfectly ordinary occurrence. For you, it was.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Jackson?"

Your tone was playful, teasing. The one that always made him feel fourteen years old no matter how old he got.

The drive across Los Angeles suddenly felt very far away. For one dangerous moment, he forgot every speech he'd rehearsed at red lights. The sight of you struck him with that homesick feeling again. The one he'd never been able to cure.

He had spent all evening missing you. Then all night. And now that he was here and seeing you had only made it worse.

You folded your arms tighter across your chest.

"Michael."

The problem was that tonight he wasn't doing what he always did. Generally, Michael gave everything to you. Anything you wanted.

Tonight, you could tell he was asking for something in return after your conversation at the lounge. He wasn't changing the subject or smiling and letting you have your way. Something had finally broken loose. Like he'd spent ten years carrying a question in his chest and had finally grown tired of the weight of it.

You sighed softly.

"What is this really about?"

Michael looked down at the floor for a moment, then back up at you.

His eyes had gone soft. But something was different. They weren’t shy tonight, they were hungry. 

The kind of hungry that came from living on scraps so long you'd almost convinced yourself they were enough.

"Can I ask you somethin'?"

Your eyebrows rose.

"You already are."

Michael Jackson could stand in front of thousands without blinking, but you had always been the one person who made him forget his lines.

"Does he know?"

You frowned immediately. You really didn’t want to have this conversation again. 

"Know what?"

Michael's jaw shifted like there were too many answers. Too many places to begin.

A whole life lived in late-night phone calls and studio lights.

"About us."

Your expression changed.

"The late-night drives," he said quietly. "Does he know about those?"

You shook your head, already feeling the conversation slipping somewhere neither of you had planned.

"Michael—"

"I'm askin'."

His tone was soft. But for the first time all night, firm.

You stared at him. This was new. Michael had always been many things. Thoughtful. Patient with you. Devoted in a way that sometimes was detrimental to him. But pushy like this? Never.

"Why does it matter what he knows about us?"

His laugh came out quiet and disbelieving. Like he couldn't believe you were asking.

To him the answer felt obvious.

"Because it matters to me."

There was no performance in his voice. And before either of you seemed to realize it, he'd stepped across the threshold. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough that the distance between you felt different.

His gaze dropped for a moment. Heat climbed up his neck. This was embarrassing for him, but he couldn't help it. Michael needed an answer.

His eyes lifted back to yours.

"Does he know you're the one callin' me when you can't sleep?"

You bit the inside of your cheek at you stared at him, not blinking. He wasn’t wrong. 

Michael swallowed hard. He knew he had gone too far now, and was likely skating on thin ice. No turning back now.

“Does he know how many nights you’ve slept in my bed because you can’t sleep?

The words landed softly. Almost gently. Which somehow made them worse. Because they weren’t accusatory.

His voice had gone quieter now, certain.

“Does he know how I hold you when you get lonely?”

The apartment seemed to narrow around the two of you. Your arms tightened across your chest. Defensive now.

"Michael—"

His eyes never left yours.

"Does he know you steal my pillows?"

A smile tugged weakly at his mouth. Broken around the edges.

“Or…that you always end up turning over in your sleep and holding me too?”

The breath left your lungs. You weren’t surprised he remembered. He remembered everything.

"Why are you asking me this?"

Michael smiled, hopelessly. Like a man watching himself walk into traffic.

"Because I wanna know what he knows."

He surprised you when he didn't break eye contact. He was serious. And somewhere during the conversation, you'd taken a step backward without realizing it.

Michael followed. Not enough to touch. But enough to matter.

"About what?"

His gaze was open and terrifyingly honest. A beat passed as Michael gathered courage. Somewhere outside, the city carried on while the world between the two of you stood still.

He swallowed.

"About what I mean to you."

His voice had gone softer now. It was bare and honest.

"Does he know you fall asleep in the studio with your head in my lap?"

Your mouth parted. No answer. You felt your face growing hot the more he talked. His voice had dropped to nearly a whisper now. Not because he was ashamed, he wasn't.

"Hours go by and you don't even wake up."

He took another step toward you. Small and careful, as if you might reject him at any moment. The kind you took toward frightened things.

"He know about the tapes?"

Your throat tightened. You knew exactly which tapes he was talking about.

"The ones I make you."

His eyes searched yours.

"The ones you keep in your car."

A pause.

"The ones you play till the ribbon wears thin."

You looked away. But still, he waited. You hated that he waited. Michael had always been patient enough to outlast your silence.

"And when he calls..."

His voice caught, just slightly.

Enough that only you would notice.

"...and I'm on the other line,"

Your breath hitched. Because of course he knew.

"Why don’t you tell him I’m on hold?”

The question landed devastatingly softly. He didn’t seem jealous. Wounded.

Like he'd spent years grateful for pieces of you while quietly wondering why they had never been enough to make him yours.

Your fingers tightened against your sleeves.

No answer. There wasn't one.

Then, frustratedly,

"Michael, we're friends. You know our deal."

Michael's smile was small and broken.

"You don't call me like your friend."

You didn’t know when he had gotten so close.

"You don't sleep beside your friends."

His voice was dangerously quiet.

"You don't spend all night in the studio with your friends."

You met his gaze for a minute.

"What do you want me to do, Michael? We've always been like that. It's not that deep."

Michael's eyes dropped for a moment. He was embarrassed, but proud.

"'You make everywhere feel like home.'"

His eyes lifted to yours.

"You remember writin' that?"

"'I miss you already and you just left this afternoon.'" He stepped closer now, "You write your friends like that?"

He looked at you like a man who had finally run out of ways to pretend.

"I've spent ten years takin' whatever piece of you you'd give me. I just wanna know if I imagined the rest."

And suddenly this wasn't about anybody else. It was about the life the two of you had built around each other without ever naming it.

Michael took one final step. Close enough now that you could see hope trembling in his eyes.

His arm came up beside your head, not trapping you. Holding himself together. Because if he didn't put his hand somewhere, he was afraid it would end up reaching for you.

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"When somethin' happens to you, who you call?"

"You" Now you avoided his eye contact.

A pause.

"When you're lonely?"

Quietly and resistantly,

"You."

His eyes searched yours.

"Then tell me why it's me."

The question settled between you and refused to move.

Your mouth opened. Then closed. For the first time in ten years, there was no easy answer waiting for you. The truth sat somewhere in your chest, too large to swallow and too dangerous to speak aloud.

Michael watched you carefully. That was another one of his problems. He noticed everything. The way your breathing had changed. The way your eyes kept leaving his.

The way your fingers tightened against your sleeves whenever the conversation drifted too close to something real. You were avoiding him. Michael had spent his entire life being watched by millions. But he had never wanted anything as badly as he wanted you to look at him now.

"Look at me."

His voice was quiet. Almost pleading. Your eyes lifted to his, and there it was. The thing he had driven across Los Angeles carrying in his chest. The thing that had kept him awake. The thing that had followed him home from the lounge and sat at the edge of his bed while the clock crept toward morning.

Hope. Terrible hope.

Because Michael Jackson had spent ten years loving you in every way he knew how except out loud.

And tonight he had finally run out of silence.

"Mikey—"

His expression changed at the nickname. But tonight, for the first time, he didn't let the moment carry him away from the conversation.

His hand lifted hesitantly. Giving you every opportunity to pull away. When you didn't, his fingers settled gently against your jaw. Warm and careful.

As though touching you was still something he couldn't quite believe he was allowed to do.

His thumb rested near your cheek, and he turned your face back toward him.

Michael had always touched you. A hand at the small of your back. Your hand in his. His shoulder beneath your head during long nights in the studio. But this felt different.

His other hand found your waist, brushing his thumb over your hip. He was close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath.

Close enough that every memory he'd dragged into this apartment stood between you like witnesses. The letters, mixtapes, the studio nights. Phone calls.

His bed. Your side of it. All of it. All of him. 

Michael's forehead nearly brushed yours. His voice had gone soft now. 

"Tell me what we're doin'."

The one question you’d been avoiding. This. Whatever this was.

He searched your face for any trace of an answer. And when he spoke again, his voice was so quiet you almost missed it.

"Tell him."

Your eyebrows drew together.

"Tell him what? He's my boyfriend Michael. I can't just blow up my relationship like that because you want me to."

Michael's gaze didn't leave yours. His thumb moved in a hypnotizing motion against your cheek. Small and unthinking.

And with all the careful bravery of a man setting his heart down in someone else's hands, he whispered:

"Tell him what we're doin'."