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“Who’s angel face over there?” A man said next to you, his beer sloshing over the rim of his plastic cup and spattering on the floor.

You raised an unimpressed brow at him, but pulled your eyes back to the ring. Back to the person he was referring to.

You watched as he ducked, coming back up again and arcing a fist through the air. Landing a clean hit on his opponent's head. The man stumbled back, dizzy and trying to find his footing. But angel face lunged, his steps light, hitting the man in the ribs and the next second his other fist connected with a temple. 

His chest was heaving as he watched the man crumble to the floor, his fists still up and ready, but the referee whistled and reached for his arm, yanking it up to claim victory.

“Michael Jackson wins again!”

Cheers erupted.

Some groaned who had placed unlucky bets against him. 

Michael was practically glowing. Not just from adrenaline, not just from the sweat glistening off his body or his damp hair. It was the energy around him. Pulsing as he spit out his mouth guard and grinned, waving to the crowd. His face flashing on the large monitors hovering in the arena. 

He downed his water before tossing it to the side, not wasting time as he jogged to the edge of the ring and leaned over the side. Smiling wide and ignoring all the cameras.

Looking at you.

You moved on auto pilot, being drawn to him like always. Your feet carried you to the edge and up to your tiptoes.

The world faded away as Michael tipped over the rope, grinning into the kiss as he pressed his lips to yours, his hand cradling the back of your neck with bruised knuckles. 

Despite the salt from the sweat, there was always that hint of cinnamon lingering on his tongue. A little bit of copper too, given his lip was slightly split from a punch. 

Michael pulled back, cradling your face in his hands. “I told you, you’re my good luck charm.”

You rolled your eyes, “you just like being stared at.” 

He shook his head lightly, ignoring the thousands of people sitting up in the stands, of the cameras that were broadcasting to thousands more.

“I just see you.”

His trainer, Bill, came up behind him then, slapping him on the arm. “Alright lovebirds come on, time for your interview.” His tone was exasperated, but he sent you a wink as he pulled Michael away. 

Your eyes flicked from him to the big screens above, watching as he spoke, his words well crafted and breathless.

Wondering how you had gotten so lucky.

THREE YEARS AGO

You winced as the sound of bones cracking echoed across the gym, followed by pained grunts. But before you could even push off the wall you were leaning against, the two men were back at it, circling each other with heads ducked low beneath raised fists. 

When you saw the advert posted in the papers, you hadn’t thought much of it. Medic as needed for a boxing gym. For some reason, you pictured kids running around learning how to fight. Or maybe beginners classes, which they did have every wednesday and friday evening.

What you hadn’t considered, was fully grown men who knew how to knock someone out with one hit. Men who punched like they had a mountain to move. Men who didn’t know how to quit. 

You were fine with blood. You were trained to take care of injuries after all.

Seeing violence on the other hand, you didn’t have the best stomach for it.

This was a little different. Violent yes, but there was something methodical about it. 

Regardless, you weren’t in the headspace to sit and watch. So you pushed off from the wall and made your way back to your office. A little space that probably used to be a closet shoved into the back corner of the gym. 

You’d only been at there for a month, so it still felt clinical. Cold. Only a poster from your favorite movie hung on the wall followed by some flowers you routinely switched out on your desk. 

For the next hour, you flicked through order logs. Any medical supplies they needed more of, maybe some more office decor. You were browsing through lamp options in a furniture magazine when the door suddenly threw itself open and you jumped half way out of your seat. 

Bill, the gym owner, had a man at his side, half way supporting his weight.

You didn’t get a clear look at his face because he was holding a cloth to it, the fabric quickly soaking through with blood. 

Your mind slipped into that comfortable place of being put to work. You had a patient and they needed your help, simple as that. 

“What happened?” You asked, quickly washing your hands at the sink that was in the back corner of the room.

Bill lowered the mystery man onto the examination table, an annoyed look on his face. At least he didn’t seem worried.

“He got carried away, again.” With an annoyed huff, the man left. Already yelling at someone else as he walked out the door.

You raised a brow at the again part, but slipped on your gloves and walked up to the fighter, his breathing a little shallow, probably from the pain.

“Here, let’s see what I’ve got to work with.” You muttered, gently grabbing hold of the bloody cloth and pulling it away. The man's hand dropped into his lap, squinting through an already swelling eye at the light.

You pursed your lips together when you realized who it was. “Are you incapable of a clean fight?” 

Michael grinned at you, teeth slightly stained with blood. “Good to see you, too.” 

Rolling your eyes, you stepped away and threw the rag into the hazards bin before getting everything you needed together.

Looking over your shoulder at him, taking in the cuts and bruises. “You’re going to need stitches.” 

Michael leaned against the wall, his feet scuffing the floor lightly as he kicked his legs. Despite how beaten up he was, he seemed to be in a good mood.

Your eyes trailed over his form, telling yourself it was for medical reasons. His skin was lightly covered in sweat, his knuckles were still wrapped with light flecks of blood seeping through the bandaging, and you watched the rise and fall of his toned chest for a moment. Only a second, really.

He tilted his head, his grin slipping into something more closed mouthed and knowing. “You’re staring.”

“I’m diagnosing.” You clenched your jaw, walking up to him and wiping away the blood around his cuts. The muscles in his stomach clenched at the sting of alcohol. 

Now he was the one staring.

Watching your face carefully as you got the suture ready, his features falling into something more relaxed but too… intense.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered as you came to stand in front of him again, gently tilting his head up. 

He barely flinched as you pierced his skin, beginning to thread the main cut closed.

His eyes, dark brown and glowing in the fluorescents.

“Like what?” His voice was light, his breath lightly fanning over your face. 

You dared a glance down, catching his gaze for only a moment.

He was a very overwhelming person. “Like I’m the reason you keep walking in here like this.” 

He leaned into your touch as you tied off the suture and wiped away more blood.

“Maybe you are.”

You sighed, men like him were always trouble. Never serious. Always chasing the next girl who turned their head. Messy. The last thing you needed. “That’s not funny.” 

He tilted his head, watching you intently as you dug through a drawer.

“Wasn’t a joke.” Michael huffed as he watched you roll your eyes, “is it really so hard to believe I’m utterly head over heels for you?”

You ignored him and grabbed his chin again, using a small flashlight and observing his pupils for a moment.

You clicked the light off and crossed your arms. “You’re a mess.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got the best hands in the business patching me up.” 

“I’m going to stitch your mouth shut next.” Stepping away, you pulled off your gloves and started to scribble instructions for treating his light concussion on the page. Though you knew he’d probably ignore them. 

“That oddly sounds like something I’m willing to try if you’re the one doing it to me.” 

You ripped the page from your notepad and handed it to him, not amused. “You’re lightly concussed and delusional–”

“Not delusional, that’s just you.” He took the paper from your hands, standing up and smiling down at you. “Always messing with my head.” You pursed your lips, but he soaked up the sight of you blushing. He could get drunk off the sight till the end of his days. 

“You’re impossible.” 

“How about dinner?”

You walked to the door, holding it open and gesturing him out. “Goodbye, Jackson.” 

He sighed, walking out but pausing next to you, his voice slipping into a whisper. “You’ll say yes one of these days.” 

Michael left you with a wink and you slumped against the door after you shut it.

Part of you wanted to throw caution in the wind and say yes. A million times yes. But you knew men like him. That would get you nowhere but heartbreak. 

Weeks passed. More stitches. More scolding grown men for being reckless. More declining advances from Michael, the man was committed, you could give him that. 

You had just gotten back from your lunch break when someone rapped their knuckles on the door. Looking up, you raised a brow at Marlon. He didn't come around as often as his younger brother. 

“Can I help you?” He looked okay as you gazed at him. He wasn’t even dressed to fight. Jeans and a sweatshirt hanging on his body.

“Yes, actually.” He walked into your office, leaning against the observation table and giving you an odd look.

“And?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but as if he was trying to figure something out. Figure you out. You straightened a bit at his rapt attention. 

“Why are you dragging my brother through hell?”

You blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

Marlon gave you a Really? expression. “When are you going to give him a chance? I can’t keep listening to him ramble on about you every day, it’s getting really annoying.”

“I’m not going to date your brother just so you can get some peace of mind.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with him?”

Your balked at Marlon. “Nothing’s wrong with him, it’s just–”

“Just what? Are you seeing someone?”

“I…” you stuttered over your words. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“So, no? Then just say yes.”

You were speechless for a moment, looking at him like he’d grown two heads. “Marlon, I’m not going to go on a date with your brother just because you–”

“Don’t do it on my account. Do you like him?”

You felt like throwing something at him. A scalpel maybe. “Why are you so keen on this?”

He shrugged, looking like a copy of his brother, just less roughed up. “Why aren’t you?” 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you leaned back in your chair, tapping your pen on the desk. “No offense to either of you, but I don’t trust him. I don’t trust most men. All of his talk, but I’m sure after every fight he a has a line of women to choose from and I–“

“You do realize he’s practically in love with you, right?”

You shut your eyes. “Marlon, he doesn’t even know me.”

“He’s trying to.” 

Sighing, you considered him. Debating with yourself. Wondering if Michael flirted with everyone like the way he did with you. You didn’t want to look like an idiot if you said yes. Didn’t want to fall into the deep end and not have him there to help pull you out. You had been through that before and it was a pitiful, embarrassing mess.

You should’ve known better. 

Not to mention you were greedy with your affection. Greedy to have the sole focus of whoever you ended up with.

You didn’t have time for wandering eyes.


Marlon gave a short sigh, pushing himself off the table with a shrug.

“You don’t have to say yes. Just stop pretending you don’t see how hard he’s trying.” And with that, he turned and left your office, leaving the door ajar.

You sat in silence for a long while, pen still tapping against the desk, thoughts louder than the gym noise bleeding in through the corridor.

The following evening, you found yourself leaning against the ropes at the side of the ring, watching Michael spar.

He hadn’t noticed you yet, focused on his movements, his strikes sharp and precise. Sweat clung to his skin, making every muscle shift and ripple beneath the light.

You should’ve turned and gone, truly. But your feet stayed planted.

Michael glanced over his shoulder and froze mid motion when he spotted you. The grin was immediate, cheeky and familiar. 

He jogged over, wiping at his brow with a towel. “What’s this? A surprise visit?”

“I’m your medic, Jackson. Hardly a surprise.”

“Actually, it's 11pm, you’re not on shift,” he said, a little too proud that he noticed. “So, unless you’ve suddenly started caring for Bill’s medical paperwork, I’m calling it. This is a visit.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, looking up to the ceiling for a second, not believing you were about to do this.

Your eyes flicked back to Michael, he stood there with hands resting on his hips, sweating, his muscles on show as well as his easy smile. His hair was a mess, sticking up in different directions and his skin was flushed with heat.

“One drink,” you held up your index finger to drive the point home. That’s it. Just to get him to lose interest. Get you out of his system. Get him out of yours.

His tongue wet his bottom lip before he smiled, closed mouthed and cocky. He leaned against the ropes on his elbows, bending his head down to be closer to your eye level.

“Just the one?”

“Mhm, that’s all you get to convince me.”

He raised a brow, looking amused. “Convince you?”

“If you’re worth my time.”

He laughed lightly, running a hand through his hair. “Does now work?”

You blinked at him. “Now?”

Michael nodded once, backing away to pick up his stuff and he shrugged a hoodie over his head. 

“It's nearly midnight.”

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he walked right up to you, eyes taking in your face and the light blush you always seemed to wear.

“And I’m not wasting any time.”

“No.”

He leaned back, brows furrowed. “No?”

You shook your head. “If you want to do this that badly, we’re doing it right. Pick me up from my apartment tomorrow like the gentlemen I’m sure you’re going to pretend to be.”

Michael's hands flew to his heart like he’d been shot, but his lips were tugged up slightly. “I am a gentleman.” He winked as he walked around you. “When I want to be, at least. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“But you don’t–”

“Bill gave me your address.”

You huffed, crossing your arms as you saw him walk towards the exit.

“That seems highly unprofessional.”

“So is agreeing to date one of your patients.”

“It's a date and you’re not–”

“It’s okay, mama, I know you fantasize about me.” He bowed his head, soaking in your flustered face. “Goodnight.”

You stood there for a moment, speechless and trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.

The next evening arrived far too quickly for your liking.

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the soft fabric of the dress you’d impulsively bought that morning. It wasn’t particularly showy, but it fit well, flattering even.

Your hair was down for once, and there was a touch of gloss on your lips that you tried to convince yourself was not for him.

A knock at the door pulled you out of your thoughts.

You opened it, and immediately wanted to shut it again.

Michael stood there, stunned silent for a moment, eyes roaming respectfully, but definitely not subtly, from your face to your legs and back again.

“Fuck me,” he breathed. “You own a dress?”

You raised an unimpressed brow. “You own a shirt with buttons?”

He laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “Touché. You look, well. Stunning doesn’t quite cover it.”


“You’re stalling,” you replied, grabbing your coat.

“Where’s the car?”


He grinned, stepping aside and gesturing down the steps of your apartment.

You followed, eyebrows pinched, only to come to a full stop.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

There, parked neatly beneath the streetlamp, was a black motorcycle.

Sleek. Loud. Predictably him. 

He turned to you, eyes glinting with mischief, and held out a helmet from behind his back. 

“Come on,” he said, “I promise I’ll go slow.”

“You’re not even wearing leather, you're in a button up shirt!”

“And you’re wearing heels,” he said, taking a step closer. “Stop pointing out the obvious. We’re both a little out of our element tonight, come on.”

You stared at the helmet like it had insulted you. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

He leaned in, his voice a notch lower now. “I’ll drive like a saint, I swear on my mother’s life. Besides…” His eyes flicked to your lips, then back up. “We’re not that far. And I’d never let anything happen to you.”

It was the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like he’d burn down cities before letting a scratch land on you.

You snatched the helmet from his hands with a sigh. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

He helped you onto the bike, his hands lingering just a second too long at your waist. When he climbed on in front of you, you hesitated, then wrapped your arms around his middle. His torso was solid, warm, and smelled unfairly good.

As the bike roared to life beneath you, you tightened your grip. You could feel his laugh more than you could hear it, and your cheeks flushed under the helmet.

Maybe you were already in trouble.

By the time you pulled up outside the restaurant, your legs were a bit wobbly, your dress slightly creased from the ride, and your heart still thudding in your chest, not from the speed, but from the way he’d felt beneath your arms.

He gently took the helmet off your head, laughing at the state of your hair before smoothing it down with his hand.

God, you felt like a teenager all over again, it was ridiculous. 

You looked past his shoulder, not wanting to read too much into the intensity of his gaze.

“Mexican?”

The restaurant had a blue neon light flickering with the name, the flag of Mexico swaying softly next to the American one.

“Best one in town, come on.” Without another word he grabbed your hand and led you in.

His skin was warm, his hand much larger than yours and you felt an electric shock shoot up your arm.

Your heart was stuttering. Which was absurd. You’d touched him numerous times while stitching him back together. But all of those moments had been clinical. Years of practice and steady hands. Touches simply meant to mend. 

It was just hand holding, you knew that. It was nothing to get excited about. 

You followed Michael to a table, a white and green checkered table cloth covering it. The lights were low and twinkling, the walls covered in pictures from the family who owned the restaurant. He pulled the chair out for you, really laying the chivalry on thick but you sat without complaint. 

“So,” he said as he sat himself across from you, not wasting any time. “What changed your mind?”

You traced a nail on the table cloth, not wanting to admit his brother talked you into it. So you shrugged, “curiosity.” It was a half truth. You couldn’t wrap your mind around why he’d be actually interested.

Sure, attraction is one thing. Surface level. But you were over and done with flings. Of awkward good mornings after one night stands and crying on the floor of your bathroom. Tired of being scared when you stayed up too late, staring at your door like he was about to break it down. 

You’d been too trusting in the past and not careful with your heart. Not caring about your safety if it meant someone loved you— Wanted you. Was there a difference?

And Michael… he was a puzzle you were trying to figure out. 

The small talk was easy, it usually was with him. That didn’t mean you weren’t blushing or avoiding meeting his eye as you focused on your food or margarita. He didn’t push, and wasn’t necessarily groveling. He seemed equally curious about you. 

“What got you into healthcare?” He asked, leaning back in his chair, his own cheeks flushed from the tequila and his spicy enchiladas. His eyes glowing in the soft light as he looked at you. 

There was a softness about him that night that you weren’t used to seeing on him. You’d only seen him with his chest heaving, sweaty, knuckles bruised and fists swinging. Everything about him and his movements in the ring were sharp. A shark who just caught a whiff of blood in the water. The violence in his eyes palpable. Dangerous. 

But as he sat across from you… he felt like a daydream your mind made up. Brown eyes doting, looking like he was gazing at heaven's gates. Curly hair clean from a fresh shower, looking soft to the touch. A red shirt hanging on his shoulders with the top two buttons undone. On the ride to the restaurant, as the wind blew past them, the smell of his cologne was still fresh in your mind. Sandalwood and salt, maybe a hint of vanilla. 

Everything about him was addicting. Temptation in every sense of the word. Thus, your conscience was screaming at you to be careful. 

You shrugged, twirling your drink, looking at your reflection in the liquor.

“I don’t know. Being able to help people, for one thing. Knowing how to help. The security in it too, maybe? Doctors and nurses are always needed.” 

Michael hummed, “I understand the feeling of wanting to be needed.” 

Your eyes flicked up for a second, a little breathless at the look on his face. He’d leaned forward, elbows on the table and looking at you. Really looking. 

“It sounds selfish when I put it like that,” you mumbled, looking away again. 

Michael tilted his head. ‘We’re only human.”

“I suppose… What about you? What got you into beating people up for a living?’

He clicked his tongue, “you know, voicing this all out loud is making me realize our professions are on the opposite sides of a spectrum.” 

You laughed lightly. That was true enough. He lived day to day breaking people apart while your job was to stitch those people back together. Put him back together. 

“I don’t know,” he continued. “It started out as an outlet, still is, I suppose. It helps clear my head, you know? The world gets too loud and my body needs to be doing something or else I feel like I’m going to explode. And my father…” he trailed off, looking down at his plate but he shook his head, smiling at you but it held a hint of spite in it.

“How about ice cream?”

You considered Michael for a moment, wondering what else lay beneath his exterior. He always seemed so untouchable, but now you were starting to see the fissures. The hairline fractures running beneath the surface of his features. Held tightly together by sheer force of will.

Smiling lightly, you nodded. “Sure.”

You walked side by side down strip of sidewalk in Santa Monica, Michael picked vanilla flavored gelato while you went with your favorite. The dessert was cold on your tongue but did nothing to cool the furnace going off inside you. 

It was a comfortable silence as you passed by bands playing from open-window restaurants, the moon and stars glittered on the water of the Santa Monica Bay.

You found a ledge to lean against that overlooked the water.

He finished off his ice cream, looking at you, a little mischief underlining his expression.

Michael’s shoulder bumped yours, “you don’t like eye contact very much, do you?”

Your face was apparently permanently blushed at this point.

You licked your ice cream, briefly looking at him, only proving his point. 

“Come on,” he turned towards you slightly. “If you can hold eye contact with me and not break it first, I’ll stop bothering you at work.”

You scoffed, “that’s a lose-lose on my part, you know that.”

“So little faith in yourself,” he tsk-d. He then leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Or maybe you like me bothering you.”

You finished your treat, wiping your hands together. “Fine, only so I can finally have peace at work and your brother will stop complaining to me.”

His brows furrowed. “Marlon spoke to you?” 

You waved him off, not meaning to let that out but maybe the Don Julio was making your tongue loose. And reckless. You should not be doing this. 

The moment your eyes met, you immediately regretted it.

He looked too smug. Too soft around the edges. Dimples in his cheeks as he stared down at you. His focus going from each of your eyes to your mouth, before trailing back up again. As if trying to memorize you. Commit you to memory.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe. Being able to look at him properly, up close.

Of course you’d look at him when he was at the gym, watching from a distance as he fought. Standing off to the side on medical stand-by during tournaments. But this close, he was something else entirely.

The different shades of brown in his eyes. His pupils blown wide. The sharpness of his nose and jaw, the soft curve of his lips still stained from his drink.

When Michael muttered your name, breath low and fanning over your own lips you caved, everything feeling too much. Life suddenly in technicolor. 

You went to turn away, but his hands gently took hold of your face and brought it back up, making you look at him.

He was smiling. One you hadn’t seen before. A million different reasons behind it but before you could try and decipher the first one, he was kissing you.

It wasn’t gentle, but it was soft. Michael held you against him like he didn’t know how to handle you, cautious, but sure. No hesitancy in the way his mouth moved against yours, one hand sliding down to your throat while the other buried itself into your hair. 

When his teeth grazed your bottom lip, he breathed in your gasp, your open lips making room for his tongue to explore yours.

You could feel him smiling into the kiss and you felt more drunk off of him more than any cocktail ever could.

Michael went slow with you as the weeks bled into months. Hands held you softly, a complete antithesis to the strength behind his punches. 

Bruised and cracked knuckles brushing softly against your cheekbone. Rough hands loving to touch you whenever he was able to. Drifting along the back of your neck or on the small of your back. His hands falling to your waist anytime you were stitching him up or wiping away blood as he sat on the examination table with you standing between his legs.

No one said anything, but it was obvious as time went on.

You’d stay later than you were supposed to, watched more training sessions and volunteering to be the medic at tournaments or competitions. 

Michael didn’t bother with subtlety. Eyes always going to you, grinning like he’d already won. Winking at you as he downed water after a round.

What really sealed it was the first time he hopped over the ropes after winning, striding right up to you and kissing you. 

The attention from the crowds was a bit overwhelming but he made it easy to tune them all out. He made everything feel easy. 

He’d bring you coffee in the mornings paired with flowers once a week. He didn’t push. Wanting to make sure you were comfortable. You went out for dinner when you could, dancing under string lights and drunk off wine and each other.

All those cautionary sirens eventually dulled in your mind.

On nights where you were both too tired, he was at your apartment or you were at his. It was simple. Secure. 

You felt like you were in a day dream every time you woke up at his side or his head resting against your chest, tangled in sheets and smelling of his shampoo. No longer anxiously looking at the door like it might cave in.

One lazy morning, dawn just barely kissing the California skyline, you ran your fingers through his hair as he slept partly on top of you. Arms wrapped securely around your middle with his head rested against your sternum. It was his favorite position.

He said your heart beat helped him sleep. 

“Michael?” You muttered, voice low and it swirled around the room.

He hummed, his grip tightening. 

You ran your nails lightly up and down his back. “I want to learn how to fight.”

You felt his eyelashes flutter as he blinked, waking slowly and he lifted his head to rest his chin on your chest, looking at you with tired eyes and furrowed brows. 

Michael’s voice was rough with sleep as he spoke. “Okay, but why?”

Shrugging, you messed with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I want to know how to protect myself.”

He turned his head to the side, kissing the inside of your wrist. “I won’t let anything happen to you, you know that right?”

You couldn’t help it as your eyes drifted to your bedroom door. Picturing the wood splintering as it was being kicked in. Of shouting.

His hands threaded in your hair as he leaned up, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he muttered, “come back to me.”

Shutting your eyes, you leaned into him. “I know that, but when you’re not around, I need to know I can protect myself.”

Michael looked at you, his lips tugging down slightly. “I’ll teach you, but is there something I should know? Why–”

Shaking your head, you sat up, slipping out of the bed. “It’s nothing to worry about, I just want to learn. Really.” You weren’t sure if he believed you, given you didn’t look at him as you shut the bathroom door behind you.

Your gloved fists collided with the boxing pads Michael was wearing. 

You were drenched in sweat. Feeling your pulse in every muscle and your breathing too tight. But with each sharp sound of a hit, it drove you forward. 

Michael walked you through the motions. Easy things first. Steps. Dodges. Good practice rhythms. How to angle your arms when you swung so you didn’t hurt yourself. 

Simple. 

And you were furious at yourself for not knowing any of this before. Wondering if it would’ve helped you.

When you messed up the rhythm again, fist missing the pad and grazing his shoulder, you groaned. The sound on the cusp of a scream as it echoed around the empty gym. 

“Hey, what is it?” Michael lowered his hands to his sides, looking every part the trainer instead of the fighter. Wearing a snug t-shirt with the gym's name plastered across it, sweats, and worn sneakers he’s had for years. 

“It’s nothing,” your tone was sharp. A bit bitter and you didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but it was already in the air. 

He looked down at you pointedly. Not believing you. Not pushing either, he needed you to trust him enough to tell him something when you were ready. 

Pulling one of the boxing pads off his hands, he reached up and brushed away some hair that was stuck to your sweat covered skin. Leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ve got you, okay?”

Shutting your eyes and still trying to calm down your breathing, you suddenly felt cold and leaned against him. Burying your head beneath his jaw. Trying to summon the courage to just spit it out. 

He deserved to know you. Completely. Every ugly part of your past, regardless if it was your fault. 

Over the months he had let you in. Let you help or just offer comfort. Telling you of his bad days. Why he really got into fighting. How it started underground before Bill scouted him out. Of drunken nights spent on cliffs. Pain was a creature comfort to him.

But you’d never forget that night… a few months in and you were regretting taking things so slow, worried he was getting bored but a cord snapped almost as violently as his punches. 

It happened under sheets heated up with your breaths. Skin sliding against each other. Exploring and remapping.

Michael tracing over the bruises he’d left on you days before. Muttering things you could hardly hear against your hip. Hands shaking as he held you, guided you, worked you up to a tipping point. 

Thumbs wiping away your tears as you cried out and his voice was nearly inaudible as he spoke into your neck, teeth grazing your throat, “I’m in love with you.” 

You held onto him tighter. Your life line. Crying for a whole other list of reasons.

Using the memory to fuel your courage, you sighed and leaned your head back. Searching his eyes, always so soft with you, before looking down. You were still dreadful at eye contact. 

“I had an ex,” you began, fiddling with the boxing gloves just to occupy your hands and try and ignore how still Michael had gone. 

“I was young and naïve… I thought, or maybe just tried to convince myself, that he acted the way he did because he cared so much.” You could practically hear the memories of him shouting at you. Of objects flying, shattering against the wall by your head. Wincing from sore wrists of where he’d grab you. The splintering of wood as he kicked in your door when you’d finally left him. 

Shaking your head, you continued. “I’m fine now, really. I know I’m safe. I have a restraining order against him. Not to mention you’ve helped.” Chancing a glance up at him, you stilled yourself. 

His experience was unreadable.

Jaw clenched, eyes dark and unblinking. You’d seen him angry and worked up on adrenaline in the ring before, but this… this was silent as it stirred beneath him. Those fissures you noticed that first night you spent together beginning to shift and crack. 

“Michael—“

“What’s his name?” His voice was quiet. Not icy. Not venomous. Not even a bite to it. Just smooth, oil-like in its softness. 

You pressed your lips together. “No.”

Now, his eyes narrowed. Not in any sort of accusation. More so determination. “No?”

Pulling off your gloves and letting them drop to the floor, you gently held his face with your hands, thumbs running softly along his cheekbones. Making yourself meet those eyes of his that saw too much. “I’m okay.” 

You felt his jaw shift beneath your hands. A moment later he let out a slow breath before wrapping his arms around you, resting his chin atop your head. 

Neither of you said anything. Didn’t need to. 

A few days later, when you had been utterly bored after work and waiting for Michael to be done training, you decided to bake something while a movie played in the background.

You’d been in a good mood. Lighter. A weight off your chest. 

You felt a little silly as you decorated the Christmas cookies. Childish. But you were learning to allow yourself moments like these. Healing your inner child or whatever it is that therapists ramble about. 

You drew hearts in icing. Did some other poorly attempted art that you then tried to mask with too many sprinkles.

On a few, you wrote your initials next to his. 

Eventually, you heard the door open and shut. The thud of Michael dropping his gym bag by the door and his feet padding into the kitchen. 

“Hey,” you mumbled, still aptly focused on decorating.

His steps halted, silence greeting you, and when you looked up you paused. 

Michael was staring. Really staring at the cookies laid out in front of you on the table. He looked furious. 

You frowned. “I made cookies.” You looked down at them all. They really did look awful. And the longer you looked you realized how much of a mess you’d made.

Flour was coating everything like dust, colored frosting was smeared, dishes were piled in the sink… “I know they’re not bakery level or anything. But I promise they’re good. My mom and I used to always make them from scratch when we needed something to smile about.” You reached over to a cookie with both your initials written inside a lopsided heart and held it up for him to see.

Michael exhaled, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You froze. Stomach sinking a little. Watching as his hand rubbed at his jaw as he looked away from the cookies. Looking away from you. 

“What?” Although you were trying to shove down the hurt bubbling up your throat, a little bit of frustration seeped into your tone. 

He let out another long sigh. Nearly sounding distraught. Furious. 

You dropped the cookie on the table. The world suddenly tilted beneath your feet. “What the hell did I do?”

Michael looked back at the cookies, not meeting your eyes and he shook his head, running a hand through his hair and tugging at the root. “I can’t fucking do this tonight.” 

Your brows furrowed. “Do what?”

“You’re-“ Michael shut his eyes for a moment. “I need a minute, I can’t breathe in this fucking place.” With that he turned around and left, door shutting behind him and you stood there, the edges of your vision starting to blur. 

Time had passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. 

You packed up all the cookies, shoving them into a corner of the counter before forcing yourself to do the dishes. Needing to keep yourself busy. 

Showered just to do something. Shrugged on one of his oversized gym shirts and crawled under the sheets that smelt like him. 

Your eyes adjusted to the dark and ears pricked when you heard the front door softly open and close. Of slow footsteps. Pausing before the bedroom door. A breath or two before he opened it gently. 

Holding your breath, wondering what he would do. 

When he walked to the bed and gently lowered himself onto the edge, fingers softly brushing back your still damp hair, you couldn’t help it as you leaned into him. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice swirling in the dark. 

“Do you have a hatred of cookies I wasn’t aware of?” You needed to make this light. Manageable. Your heart calmed a fraction when his laugh softly met your ears. 

“No, I love them. It was just…” he trailed off, as if to calm himself down all over again. 

Michael then reached out for you, maneuvering you easily so you were laying against him, your head against his thigh as he played with your hair.

“I don’t know. Seeing you like that. Seeing what you made and you’re just… I want to beat his head in for laying a hand on you.”

You considered his words for a moment before lifting yourself up, fingers meeting his neck in the dark, pure muscle memory at this point. “I’m okay, Michael. Just stay.”

As the weeks went on, he was fighting harder than before. Not pulling any punches. A new rage bubbling beneath his skin. 

The thought of anyone thinking it was okay to hurt you was driving him into a bloodlust every time he stepped in the ring. 

It caused him a few penalties. Shouts from Bill. Fines from tournaments.

But his eyes would meet yours through the ropes. The rest of the crowd fading into blurs. Your gaze was knowing. Brows furrowed at the violence. 

It made his heart swell to know you trusted him so much despite what you’d been through. Trusted him enough not to hurt you. Not to raise his voice. Not to add pressure unless you asked. 

Christmas lights twinkled above the bed. 

It happened slowly yet all at once. Your lives bleeding into one another so seamlessly as another year went by. 

He had moved into your apartment months ago but he still felt his breath catch every time he called you from the gym, saying he was heading home. 

The holidays were his favorite, though they didn’t used to be. 

After dinner with his mother and siblings, you two had come back home to unwind. A bottle of moscato opened and music played softly.

He leaned against the headboard of the bed, sheets falling low on his waist as he watched you move around, arranging lights anywhere you pleased.

For the ambience, you kept saying. 

You were on your toes hanging up a string of lights, one of his shirts falling off your shoulder. 

How perfectly you fit into his life. 

Michael’s voice was soft as he spoke, “Will you marry me?”

Slowly, your hands lowered, the lights gently falling to the ground as you turned to look at him. That crease between your brows making you look adorable.

Your voice was quiet. “What?”

“Come here,” he held out his arm and gestured for you to come closer. Eyes intent as he watched you approach, lifting one knee up before the other as you climbed onto the mattress, sitting before him, hesitant, not quite meeting his eye. 

He wet his bottom lip, smiling a bit as he took hold of your chin, making you look at him.

He said it again. Slow. Purposely. A promise in every syllable. 

“Will you marry—“

Your lips collided with his, arms wrapped around his neck and he rolled you over, grinning into your mouth. Meeting each move of yours with equal intensity. 

His bruised and freshly cut knuckles ached with each movement but he didn’t mind. It made it sweeter. 

Him and Marlon decided to pay your ex a visit two days ago. 

If you ever asked him, he’d just say it was an early engagement present. 

Michael’s teeth tugged at your bottom lip as he pulled back, taking in your flushed features and eyes that glowed in the Christmas lights. 

“I’d still like a yes, if it’s all the same to you.”

You laughed, the sound filling him up with bliss. “I don’t see a ring.”

He didn’t waste any time as he leaned over you and slid open the drawer of the night stand.

In all honesty, he’d been wanting to ask for over a year now. But he wanted it to be perfect for you. For it to be comfortable, genuine. 

And at the dinner with his mother earlier that night, he was finally able to get the ring he’d asked her about all those months ago. 

Michael took hold of the box and then slid off the bed and down to his knees, elbows resting on the edge of the mattress, looking up at you with heaven in his eyes as he popped it open. 

And he said it for the third time, but different.

“Marry me.”

You said yes about a hundred times against his lips, falling back into the sheets and a new ring on your finger that glinted in the lights. 

michael jackson masterlist

Everyone was drawn to him.

That became apparent with each passing lecture. The way he was able to hold the attention of the room as he spoke and moved, your eyes catching on the way his hand flexed as he wrote on the chalkboard. Not being able to help it.

The cadence he spoke in, a lull on the ears that kept the attention easily. He didn’t even have to try.

His smile infectious and when he’d lean against his desk with his hands in his pockets, cracking a joke only one with knowledge in fifteenth century literature would understand — the entire lecture hall laughed. Even if they didn’t get it, there was just something about him.

Despite how distracting Professor Jackson was, you were one of, if not the, top student of his.

Your gaze would catch his as he handed back assignments, forcing back a shiver as your fingers brushed when you took the paper from him. Practically melting when he winked at you and muttered a Good work.

Your face feeling warm as you looked down to see the familiar scrawl of his hand writing. You didn’t even bother to look at your grade, knowing it was an A.

Instead your attention was pulled to the annotations he had left.

He was probably one of the best professors to give feedback on work. He was honest, but he wasn’t cruel and he didn’t have the ego to withhold a compliment when it was due.

You smiled to yourself as you read what he’d written in the margins. His handwriting slanted and borderline messy and telling yourself his praise didn’t mean all that much. He was just doing his job.

Then your eyes caught on the smiley face he’d drawn next to one paragraph. Nothing else.

It made your stomach flip.

The infatuation was normal and you were sure half of the other students shared your sentiments. Professor Jackson was handsome and young. Soft spoken and intelligent. Kind and charming. A silly side to him that made him all the more endearing. He ticked every box.

Though you’d never admit it out loud, the small crush you had on him drove you to work harder. Desperate to win his approval in a way only academics knew. The hunger for it practically insatiable because you knew those brief interactions were all you were going to get.

At least, that’s what you had initially thought.

He’d mentioned two weeks ago that there was an essay competition and left a list pinned to the bulletin board outside of the lecture hall for people to sign up.

You’d been curious, of course. But the thought of people reading your work outside of a classroom setting made your bones slightly itch. The act of putting yourself out there like that too vulnerable. Saying you’d do it eventually, just not now.

Yet as the hour wrapped up and you were half way through packing your bag to leave, you heard your name.

Glancing up, convinced you were hearing things, you found him looking at you expectantly as he leaned against the desk, his arms on show given he’d rolled the sleeves up and you tried to ignore how dry your mouth suddenly got.

“Yes, sir?”

You had never actually talked to him before besides asking questions now and then during seminars.

“Do you have a minute?”

You nodded, blushing as he gestured for you to come over with his hand.

Sliding your bag onto your shoulder, you held the strap of it like a life line as you approached him.

His smile was lazy at the corners, his eyes just slightly narrowed as he looked at you. Debating something in his head and you felt like the world had stopped moving.

“Why didn’t you sign up for the competition?” He finally said.

You blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“The essay comp. You didn’t sign up.”

“Oh…” you continued to stare at him like an idiot. Not knowing what to say in a way that wouldn’t make it sound childish. “I just… I’m busy.”

“You get two weeks until the deadline.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “I’m really busy.”

Professor Jackson raised a brow at you.

His direct and prolonged attention was overwhelming and you suddenly started to panic if you were breathing normally.

“I really think you should give it a shot, there’s no need to be nervous about submitting something. You’re a wonderful writer.”

You physically felt your chest bloom in warmth at the compliment. “Thank you, but I don’t know. I’ve never,” you shifted on your feet. His gaze was so intense. “I’m not sure if it’s right for me, is all.”

“That’s exactly why you should do it. If it would help ease some nerves, I’d be happy to look over your work before you submit it.”

Your brows rose a little bit. “You would?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“Is that allowed?”

He winked at you as he turned around to grab something, a moment later the sign up sheet and a pen were being handed to you.

You looked at him and held your breath as he leaned down a little closer. The smell of his cologne swirling around you in a comforting haze.

His voice was low as he spoke. “Our little secret.”

And because it was him and he was looking at you like that, you signed your name. Trying to ignore the way heat pooled in your stomach at how pleased he looked that you were doing it.

“Just let me know when you’d like me to review it, my door’s always open. Do you know where my office is?”

You nodded, your mind spinning at the thought of being alone with him in such a small space.

The next week and a half was spent practically tearing your hair out over the essay. Being abhorrently self critical as always and you were terrified to go to Professor Jackson’s office.

Not for any valid reason. You were simply nervous. The school girl crush you had on him practically rendering you useless.

It was pathetic.

You paced outside of the liberal arts building that his office was in. Your paper in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Half tempted to shove the blazing stick of tobacco into the header and watch it shrivel up into ash.

With a shaking hand, you brought the cigarette to your lips. Willing the nicotine to calm you down enough so you didn’t look like a blundering idiot in front of him.

Apparently the cigarette calmed you down too much.

You had sat there watching him flick through the paper just fine, but when he started lecturing you on your need to get over your childish stage fright of sharing your work or else you’d never make it as a writer, something apparently shifted in your common sense.

“Don’t be such a pretentious asshole, I’m perfectly capable of deciding when and what I want to do with my writing.”

He froze.

So did you. Watching as the sharp words swirled in the air, practically taunting you with regret.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

At the stretch of silence in the small office you began to worry you’d royally fucked up.

Professor Jackson’s voice was quiet, his voice nearly as warm as the heat blowing out of the vent in the ceiling. "That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one day."

You stilled for a moment before your fingers tightened on the hem of your skirt. Your stomach swirled a bit, a combination of worry and something else that was wholly inappropriate. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

A light laugh left him, though it seemed more of an exhale.

He wouldn't look at you. His gaze was focused pointedly at something over your shoulder.

"It's fine, your bluntness is appreciated. That being said, I prefer you didn't call me anything such as a pretentious ass in front of my students."

You were being let in. Only a little bit.

You couldn't help it as you started to smile. "So only in private, then?"

You watched in fascination as a string pulled slightly at his mouth, his dark eyes sliding over to you for only a moment and it made your head spin.

"Only in private," Professor Jackson hummed.

He then stood up, gesturing for you to follow him and he opened the door for you. The warm light from the hall sweeping into the room and your legs shook a bit as you walked.

“Michael.”

“What?” You paused just in front of him, your eyes flicking up to meet his. He was looking at you intently now.

“Call me Michael.”

You wet your bottom lip, “only in private?”

He observed you for another moment, a quiet storm behind his eyes before he nodded once.

“Only in private.”

You felt like a line was being crossed. A boundary being carefully tread. Invaded. Redrawn. You knew better. Then again, maybe you were just delusional.

It probably didn’t mean anything.

When the weekend rolled around, you and your roommate headed to a popular bar that was only a few blocks away from the apartment.

You were in desperate need for a drink, your mind constantly spinning over the interaction between you and Prof— Michael, from the other day.

Nothing had technically happened. Yet it felt like the world had slipped off its axis since then.

“Why is it so busy?” You groaned as you rounded the corner, seeing the line to get in.

“It’s Friday. And it’s lecture night.”

You raised a brow. “Lecture night?“

“Yeah, a bunch of professors come here on Friday’s, give a lecture on whatever they want, and everyone gets progressively more wasted as the night goes on.”

You hummed, the idea growing more entertaining.

You were three dirty martinis in when Michael stepped up on stage. Your eyes widening at the sight of him.

He looked so… casual.

He wore a sweater with the sleeves rolled up, a white collar peeking out at his neck and navy jeans. His curls looking a little messier than usual and his gaze was a little glossy as he brought a glass of wine to his lips.

Michael stepped closer to the microphone, clearing his throat. “I had one too many before this, so if I start randomly slipping into old English, just throw something at me.”

Laughs bubbled up around the bar followed by applause as he started his lecture of choice.

It was something about Medieval depictions of hell and how it was really just a dogmatic idea of the working class, but your mind trailed off as you watched him move.

Mesmerized by his drunken and lazy smile, the way his eyes were set a little heavier as he squinted against the stage light. He was so easily able to take control of any room he walked into and he didn’t even have to do anything but be himself.

You turned to your friend, taking another sip of your martini.

“He’s so hot.”

They nodded in agreement, looking starstruck themselves as they watched him.

He concluded his lecture with a slight bow and a muttered Thank you through the mic. Stumbling a bit as he walked off the stage and his laugh was loud as someone helped steady him.

You weren’t thinking.

Clearly.

The room spinning slightly as you stood up and made your way over to him.

You could blame the bad decision making on the vodka when you were sober enough to care.

★

Michael spun you around the second the bathroom door shut, his mouth on yours, the sudden contact almost violent as he backed you against the wood of the door.

Your head would've slammed into it, but his hand had snaked into your hair and absorbed the impact.

His fingers twining, tight, and yanked. Making your mouth fall open in a moan and he all but lunged on the opportunity. Tongue slipping into your mouth and exploring, his own groan leaving him as his rationality left him with its tail between its legs.

His mouth slid down to your jaw, his teeth sinking in, biting and soothing. Caught up in a wave of want that felt borderline primal.

There was a small voice in the back of his mind telling him how wrong this was. You were his student. You were both drunk. This was inappropriate.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about before.

His imagination outrunning his better judgement as he’d think about you when the hour ran late. Grading papers but getting too distracted at the mere thought of you. Wondering what you would sound like. What you would look like… either being spread out in his bed or bent over his desk.

Waking up one too many nights in a thin layer of sweat, hips grinding into his mattress and wishing it was you.

It was wrong and he was horrible for thinking such things.

But he couldn’t stop.

It’s like you had infested his fucking soul, if he were to be so dramatic.

Not even realizing what he was doing half the time as his hand slipped beneath his boxers to take hold of his hardened cock. Picturing your pretty face and eyes as he started to jack off. Head rolling back and hitting the headboard of his bed as his fantasies ran wild, your name tumbling from his lips as his hips thrusted up into his own hand, hot cum making a mess on his stomach.

When Michael’s thigh wedged between your legs, a moan broke past your lips and it made him feel dizzy.

He didn’t think about how he was your professor. Didn't think about how he was too old for you. Didn't think about how you two were in the bathroom of a bar as you started to ride his thigh and his hands were pulling up your skirt.

A groan leaving him as his eyes flicked down to see your pretty underwear already soaked as you dragged your clothed cunt against his jeans.

One of his hands took hold of your hip, helping you grind against him while his other wrapped around your throat. Pulling your mouth back to his in a bruising kiss.

It was a mess. Wet with teeth hitting against each other and he couldn’t get enough.

The whimpers leaving your mouth as you started to go faster and harder going straight to his dick and he wished he could just bend you over the sink and fuck you. The idea was lewd and woefully unromantic, but his drunken mind had lost any semblance of self control.

He pulled back from your mouth, his teeth tugging your bottom lip as he did so and your skin was flushed with liquor and arousal.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty.” He said it quietly, mostly to himself as he admired you.

“Michael, I—“ You choked out in a whine, your pupils blown. Reflecting his own desire.

“That’s it. You’re doing so good.”

His praise, though small, seemed to topple you over the edge and you buried your face in the crook of his neck as you came.

The sound was akin to the trumpets of heaven, he was sure of it.

His hands settled heavily on your hips, gently working you through your orgasm.

Before another thought could even cross his hand, your own hands were buried in his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours.

The following Monday as he got ready for work, Michael’s eyes kept catching on the hickey that was placed just between the curve of his neck and above his clavicle.

His jaw rolling at the memory of you putting it there Friday night.

He’d hardly slept since then.

A mixture of guilt and reruns of the night that only led to more sinful thoughts.

Although you were both adults completely capable of making decisions… he was your professor for God’s sake.

He couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol, knowing damn well he had thought about you in a plethora of more erotic ways— Michael just didn’t think he’d actually ever act on it.

But like a dog with a bone thrown in front of it, he’d leapt at the first opportunity.

He felt even worse because he knew he didn’t regret it.

Didn’t regret it at all as he asked you stay after class, muttering an apology for his behavior in case you regretted it.

Tying to ignore the flood of relief he felt when you shyly admitted it wasn’t just a drunken mistake on your behalf.

Shoving his rationality to the side when you’d come visit him during office hours, asking questions about a course you both knew you didn’t need help with.

His common sense shutting off with the click of the lock on the door as he undid his belt, eyes dark as he watched you.

“Get on your knees.”

Your gaze slipped to the window covered by half drawn blinds. “What if—“

“Do as your told.”

Your pupils were so blown as you slowly lowered yourself. “Yes, sir.”

He hated how much he loved hearing that.

Wrong wrong wrong, the voice would chant.

But the sound of it got drowned out as his hand wound in your hair and his cock slid into your mouth. His eyes never leaving yours and a broken sound tore right up from his diaphragm as your throat constricted around him.

Michael bent over slightly, his chest heaving as one hand caught on the edge of his desk so his knees didn’t buckle.

Your mouth was so fucking warm.

You pulled back a bit, tongue swirling around him and curious but it wasn’t nearly enough.

“Please, you can go a bit more.” His words were rough at the edges, his heart pounding as your brows furrowed in concern. Your mouth too full to try and talk, but you shook your head slightly.

“I know you can, you wanna make me proud, don’t you?”

He was definitely going to hell.

Michael’s thumb gently brushed against your cheek, feeling the head of his cock and he shuddered.

“I know you can do it.”

He rolled his hips forward slightly, the tip of his cock nudging the back of your throat and your nails dug into the exposed skin of his hips.

“Nice and slow,” he muttered.

He let you set the pace as you did as told, your throat eventually relaxing a bit and he was able to thrust a little further in but his patience was teetering on the edge of ruin.

His teeth sunk into his bottom lip, his grip on the desk tight as his dark eyes met yours.

The trust in your gaze made his chest ache.

You nodded at him once, the movement small.

Not a moment later his hand was back in your hair as his hips rolled forward, the surprised gagging sound you made as his cock slid all the way down your throat made his ears ring. His vision going blurry at the edges as he watched himself slide in and out your swollen lips, his cock covered in your salvia.

Hot tears slipped out of your eyes, leaving a ruddy trail of mascara down your cheeks and he groaned at the sight.

You were devastating in all the right ways to ruin him.

A whine tore up your throat and around his cock, making him throw his head back as the muscles in his stomach tightened when he came down your throat.

“Fuck, mama.” His hips mindlessly continued to roll as he rode out his orgasm.

Michael was mesmerized as he pulled out of your mouth, long strings of your saliva and his cum stretching from his tip and your tongue as he did so.

A pathetic sound left him when you swallowed his cum and he pulled you up gently by throat, lips crashing into yours and muttering a Good girl.

★

There was a thrill to stolen glances as he gave a lecture, his eyes catching knowingly on the way you’d bite your pencil and your thighs would clench beneath the table as you crossed them. Your skirt just a bit too short.

The day you had risked not wearing any underwear, he had casually asked you to stay after. His gaze dark and looking a little angry with you.

Not muttering a word as you followed him to his office.

You spent the next hour bent over his desk as he lectured you about it.

How inappropriate it was that you showed up to class like that, but you couldn’t summon single thought as his hands took hold of your hips, slamming your pussy back down onto his cock.

Mumbling a broken string of apologies you didn’t mean as you moaned his name.

Your chest would tighten when there was a quiet knock on the front door of the apartment well around two in the morning.

Your smile small as you opened it, seeing Michael in a Berkeley crewneck and jeans as you snuck him into your room.

It was ridiculous. It’s not like what you two were doing was illegal, you just didn’t want the drama of it.

Spending the night wrapped up in your sheets, falling asleep to the sound of his heart beat as your head rested against his chest. His fingers running gently up and down your spine as he read whatever book you had on the nightstand that evening.

Getting into the passenger seat of Michael’s car on weekends as he drove you two somewhere just outside of town. Sliding into linoleum booths of an old diner as you caught up with each other’s day, smiling absentmindedly as he went on a rant about something new he had read about.

You showing up at his house, walking in to see your favorite flowers on the kitchen table and a bottle of wine when you found out you had won the competition he had encouraged you to enter.

The rest of the night spent with your back arching off his sheets and Michael’s head between your thighs.

He’d bring you books often, leaving little notes on parts he thought you would like. Taking you to art exhibitions that opened and not muttering a single complaint as he walked slowly with you to each painting. Bending down and sliding his reading glasses on as he read each description with interest.

Curled up in one of his sweaters, sprawled out on the couch with your back against his chest as he showed you his favorite old Hollywood movies. You found it adorable when he would giggle, trying to hide it behind a hand but you’d tug his wrist away. Muttering how much you loved his smile and watching as he would blush slightly, his doe eyes softening before pulling you in for a kiss.

You adored him. The finality and truth of it hitting you sharply as the semester came to a close and he wished everyone a safe holiday break. Staying long after everyone else had left and not bothering to get up from your chair.

Michael’s shoes clicked sharply against the tile as he neared you, his smile small and knowing. Hands in his pockets as he came to a stop just shy of the table.

Your fingers thrummed on the wood.

“What now?”

You didn’t know why you were nervous. Though neither of you had said it out loud, you cared for each other. It wasn’t something to be easily discarded.

Michael’s finger hooked just beneath your chin, tilting your head up and he leant down to kiss you. The pressure of it even and firm.

He then pulled back and straightened, holding his hand out and looking at you expectantly.

“What—“

“C’mon.”

You slid your bag on your shoulder, fingers twining with his and you walked hand in hand out of the building and into your new life together, no longer having to be confided to hidden touches and stolen glances.

michael jackson masterlist