N I K K I 💋

The Fontaine sisters were one of a kind, bred from music on both sides like harmony had been stitched into their blood before either of them knew how to hold a note, born to a singer who understood the discipline of breath and a producer who knew how to turn raw feeling into something polished enough for a record needle to worship.

They were sharpened first in the church choir, where every missed note earned a lifted brow from some auntie in the second pew and every solo had to be sung like the Lord Himself had leaned down to listen, then refined further in those after-school sessions their father arranged with the seriousness of a man building a legacy, hours spent on posture, pitch, timing, diction, and presence until even their childhood began to move in counts of eight.

Still, their mother, Melanie, had been firm about one thing, planting her foot so deeply into the ground that not even ambition, money, or industry men with big promises could move it; her daughters were going to have balance, they were going to have homework and dinner at a proper table, cartoons on Saturday mornings, birthdays that did not revolve around bookings, and stretches of time where they were allowed to be little girls instead of little investments.

Delilah did not understand, not then, how rare that protection was, how much privilege lived inside the simple fact that she could put her microphone down and go home, how much love it took for her mother to say no in rooms full of people who only knew how to ask for more, and it was not until she met Michael, not until she saw the way work clung to him like a second skin and childhood seemed to slip through his fingers no matter how tightly he tried to hold it, that she realized Melanie had not been strict for the sake of being strict, but had been standing guard at the gate of her daughters’ softness.

She remembered growing up beside Celeste, remembered the way people compared them as if sisters were meant to be measured instead of loved, as if talent became more interesting only when it could be turned into a contest, with Celeste often receiving the kind of attention Delilah neither wanted nor trusted, because her sister’s body had bloomed earlier, her hips rounding, her figure announcing itself before Delilah was old enough to understand why certain men suddenly looked too long.

It never drove a wedge between them, not truly, because Delilah had never envied that gaze or the burden that came with it, had never wanted to be watched that way, had never mistaken attention for affection, and if anything she was relieved when Celeste stepped into the light with her chin lifted and her smile bright enough to blind a room, because it meant Delilah could drift backward after the applause, could slip into the velvet-dark quiet beyond the stage, could become shadow again without anybody asking why.

That was where Delilah was happiest, not under the hot mouth of the spotlight but alone in her room after the performance, curled beneath her covers with her songbook pressed to her knees, humming half-finished melodies into the dark while the house settled around her, writing lyrics in the margins, circling words that felt almost right, composing little notes only she could hear clearly yet, and teaching herself that there was power in being unseen if what you made in secret was beautiful enough to haunt people later.

The Fontaine sisters met the Jacksons at Motown after being scouted during a performance at their local club, a scene their mother had been deeply hesitant to let them enter, not because she doubted her daughters’ gifts, but because Melanie Fontaine knew too well how quickly grown people could turn talented children into products if there was no mother standing close enough to say no.

Still, somehow, it all worked out, or at least it seemed to in the beginning, because there they were in the halls of Motown, rubbing elbows with other children who sang like old souls and adults who spoke in contracts, rehearsals, and promises, while the air itself seemed to hum with ambition, perfume, cigarette smoke, and the kind of possibility that made everybody stand a little straighter.

Soon enough, the Jacksons and the Fontaines became two peas in a pod, their lives folding together with the ease of people who understood the strange business of raising gifted children beneath hungry lights, and much of that closeness came from their mothers, because Katherine and Melanie found in each other a quiet kind of understanding, a woman-to-woman recognition that did not require much explanation.

Their fathers, however, were another matter entirely, because Elijah Fontaine and Joseph Jackson could sit at the same table, shake hands, speak politely, and still make the air between them feel like two locked horns pressing beneath a tablecloth, both men believing in greatness, both men demanding discipline, yet disagreeing fiercely on what a child should have to lose in order to become extraordinary.

Delilah remembered those family dinners most of all, remembered the noise and warmth of them, the scrape of forks against plates, the smell of buttered grits and fried fish, the grown folks talking over one another while the younger ones traded looks across the table, and beneath all that homely commotion she remembered playing footsie with Michael, their narrow legs hidden under the table like a shared secret, his socked foot nudging hers once, then twice, until she had to press her lips together to keep from laughing too loudly.

Across from them, Celeste would pretend to listen to whatever conversation was happening around her, but Delilah knew her sister well enough to recognize when her attention had gone elsewhere, and more often than not, Celeste’s eyes had drifted toward Jackie, watching him with that dangerous young curiosity that made the whole room seem to thin around the two of them, while Jackie, older and far too aware of the effect he had, would let his gaze settle back on hers with the slow confidence of a lion pretending not to notice the gazelle had already seen him in the grass.

Delilah remembered the way her mother caught everything without seeming to look, the way Melanie could be spooning grits onto somebody’s plate one second and reading every secret under the table the next, her voice suddenly cutting through the chatter sharp enough to make both families freeze.

“Delilah Fontaine! Michael Jackson!” she snapped, pointing her serving spoon like a weapon handed down from the ancestors themselves. “Eat them damn grits before I pop both y’all narrow behinds!”

The footsie would stop immediately, of course, Michael sitting up straighter with those wide guilty eyes while Delilah dropped her gaze to her plate as if the grits had become the most fascinating thing in the world, but it never lasted long, because within seconds they would look at each other again, their mouths twitching, their shoulders trembling, and then the same small grin would pass between them like a match struck under the table, bright and secret and impossible to put out.

Delilah remembered Michael in pieces that had never really loosened from her, remembered the way he became less of a boy from another family and more of a secret stitched into the lining of her own childhood, remembered how the two of them grew closer as their families toured together and the road turned everybody’s lives into one long, rumbling blur of hotel rooms, dressing rooms, reheated dinners, soundchecks, and highways silvering beneath the moon.

She remembered their teenage bodies before either of them had fully learned what to do with them, all lanky limbs, sharp elbows, growing pains, and awkward grace, folded together in one of the cramped backrooms of the tour bus where the walls seemed too close, the air always too warm, and the space never quite big enough for both of them and all the feeling they were too young and shy to name, though somehow they made it work because closeness had already become second nature.

In those little stolen rooms, with the bus humming beneath them like some great sleeping animal, they built a world out of board games and whispered jokes, out of Scrabble tiles spread across their knees, crossword books bent at the spine, Monopoly money crumpled in Michael’s hand whenever he started accusing her of cheating, and that old Twister mat they could never unfold properly without bumping shoulders, knocking knees, and laughing until one of the grown folks told them to hush.

They even kept a list, serious as scripture and messy as a child’s diary, of all the games they needed to buy at the next pit stop so the next few days on the road would not swallow them whole, Delilah writing the titles in her careful hand while Michael leaned over her shoulder with his chin nearly touching her hair, suggesting checkers, cards, another puzzle book, anything that would give him one more excuse to sit beside her when the world outside the bus became too loud.

She remembered the name he gave her too, remembered the first time he called her Tinky, the nickname tumbling shyly out of his mouth after Tinker Bell, after that ragged little copy of Peter Pan he carried around until the corners softened and the pages curled, the book about lost boys and make-believe islands and a child who never wanted to grow up, though even then Delilah had understood that Michael did not love that story merely because it was magical, but because some part of him already knew what it meant to be surrounded by wonder and still feel lonely inside it.

He called her Tinky with such bright affection that she never had the heart to dislike it, even when it made something ache quietly in her chest, because Tinker Bell loved Peter with all the fire her tiny body could hold, loved him so fiercely that it made her sharp, jealous, reckless, and impossible, and Peter, foolish little boy that he was, never truly saw the depth of it.

Delilah never wanted to name Michael Peter, not even in play, because she could not bear the thought of loving him like that, loudly in her heart and silently to his face, fluttering around the edges of his life while he looked past her toward some other adventure, some other girl, some other shining thing waiting beyond her reach.

She wanted him to see that she loved him, wanted him to know it in the way she saved him the good pencil for crossword puzzles, in the way she let him win at Monopoly only when his day had already been bad enough, in the way her knee always found his beneath the table or her shoulder drifted against his in the darkened backroom of the bus when everybody else had gone quiet.

So she settled on Bambi, soft and sweet and a little devastating, because Michael had those great brown eyes that seemed too honest for the world he had been born into, eyes bright enough to hold a thousand truths at once, eyes that could look shy, wounded, amused, curious, and ancient all in the same breath, as if every feeling he could not say aloud gathered there first and waited for Delilah to understand.

“Tinky, right foot red,” Michael announced from somewhere behind her, his voice carrying that soft little seriousness he always got whenever they played games, as if the fate of the whole tour bus depended on whether Delilah Fontaine could twist herself across a plastic mat without knocking them both clean to the floor.

“’M gonna fall if I go that way, Bambi,” Delilah warned, her sixteen-year-old body already folded into some ridiculous shape that had her left hand pressed to yellow, one knee trembling over blue, and her locs slipping over her shoulder like they, too were tired of fighting gravity.

“Girl, that ain’t my fault,” Michael said, and though his words came easy, his mouth had already started curving before he finished them, because he knew exactly what kind of trouble he had invited by sounding that smug while Delilah was balanced on the edge of humiliation and bodily collapse.

Delilah gasped like he had wounded her down to the bone, whipping her head around so fast her hair swung with the motion, her brown eyes narrowing into the kind of glare that might have scared somebody who had not spent half his adolescence learning the difference between her real anger and the kind she put on for theater.

Michael only blinked at her with those big Bambi eyes, all false innocence and barely hidden laughter, his long teenage limbs tangled too close to hers on the mat, his afro brushing the low ceiling of the cramped backroom while the tour bus hummed beneath them and the world outside rolled on in a dark ribbon of highway.

“You got somethin’ to say?” she asked, lifting her chin with as much dignity as a girl could manage while bent nearly sideways over a circle of primary colors.

“Nah,” he said, though the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him entirely. “I’m just sayin’, you the one actin’ like red moved across the mat or somethin’.”

Her mouth fell open, offended beyond measure, but Michael could already see the crack forming in her performance, the way her eyes brightened, the way her lips twitched, the way her glare started losing its teeth because he had always known she would fold in a moment.

And sure enough, no sooner had she tried to huff at him than a laugh slipped loose, small at first and then helpless, spilling into the tiny room until Michael started laughing too, both of them shaking so badly that the Twister mat crinkled beneath them and Delilah finally lost her balance, toppling sideways into him with a shriek while he caught her as best as his own awkward limbs would allow.

For a second they lay there in a heap of elbows, knees, breathless laughter, and bright plastic beneath them, too close in that strange way teenagers could be before they had the courage to call closeness what it was, Delilah’s cheek near his shoulder, Michael’s hand still caught carefully at her waist, both of them suddenly quieter than the joke required.

Then Delilah looked up at him, still smiling, still pretending her heart had not skipped like a scratched record, and Michael looked back with those soft brown eyes of his, warm and startled and full of all the things he was not brave enough to say yet.

However, all good things, even the bright and glittering ones that seemed too blessed to rot, had to come to an end, and for the Fontaine girls that ending arrived cruelly in the summer of 1977, when Delilah was eighteen and still young enough to believe that the people who had grown up beside you might handle your heart with some memory of who you had been before the world made you useful.

It happened in a studio where they were meant to be recording together, a room thick with warm equipment, coiled wires, half-empty paper cups, cigarette smoke clinging to somebody’s jacket, and the electric hum of a track waiting to be born, but what should have been music became warfare the moment Celeste stepped close enough to Jackie to catch the scent of another woman on him.

It was not just the perfume, though that alone was enough, some unfamiliar floral sweetness blooming from his shirt like a betrayal with petals, but the faint red smear at his collar, small enough that a man might think it invisible, careless enough that only a woman already fluent in disappointment would know where to look.

Celeste saw it, and Delilah saw it too, because the Fontaine sisters were many things but never stupid, and they had grown up around too many dressing rooms, too many musicians, too many men who thought charm could rinse guilt clean from their hands to pretend that lipstick landed on collars by the grace of God.

One moment Celeste had been smiling, laughing even, her hand lifted as if she were about to adjust her headphones or tease Jackie for something low and private, and the next the whole room split open as if Mars himself had struck the floor with his spear, turning the studio from a place of rhythm and melody into a battlefield dressed in wood paneling and soundproof foam.

Delilah remembered the sound of it more than anything, the sharp crack in her sister’s voice when realization became rage, the stunned silence that fell over the musicians, the scrape of a chair shoved back too fast, the way Jackie’s face changed from confusion to guilt to that defensive male pride men reached for when they had been caught too plainly to lie well.

It was almost cinematic in its violence, reminiscent of wartime, as if Bellona had come sweeping through the door with blood beneath her fingernails and the Furies had risen from the studio floor to circle Celeste’s shoulders, whispering every wronged woman’s anger into her ear until grief no longer looked like grief but something armed and ancient.

Celeste screamed at him with the kind of hurt that had teeth, every word striking him harder because love was still buried inside it, because betrayal from a stranger was an insult but betrayal from someone who had once held your face in both hands was sacrilege, and Jackie, foolish enough or proud enough to keep trying to explain what had already damned him, only made her angrier with each breath he wasted.

Delilah still believed, even years later, that perhaps some ruined version of their relationship might have been salvageable if it had been only one mistake, one groupie, one nameless woman whose perfume could be cursed and forgotten, but Jackie had not merely strayed; he had gone and tangled himself in sheets with their own distant cousin, a woman close enough to make the betrayal feel incestuous in spirit even if the family tree had to stretch its arms to prove the relation.

That was the part Celeste could not swallow, the part that turned heartbreak into humiliation, because there were betrayals a woman could cry over in private and there were betrayals that made a fool of her in front of everyone who knew her name, and Celeste Fontaine had never been the kind of woman to suffer public foolishness quietly.

And in all wars there were innocents harmed, people who did not sharpen the blades but still bled when the fighting began, and Delilah, who had only wanted to keep her sister from doing something that could not be undone, became one of them.

She remembered moving before she thought, remembered Celeste lunging toward Jackie with a sound that did not belong to any song they had ever sung, remembered Michael’s voice somewhere behind her, panicked and calling her name, remembered the bodies rushing together in the cramped studio as everyone tried to stop the storm after it had already broken through the roof.

Then came the shove, hard and sudden, not meant for her perhaps but landing on her all the same, sending Delilah backward into the wall with enough force to knock the breath from her chest before the back of her head struck the door with a harsh, sickening smack that seemed to silence the whole room at once.

For one suspended second, everything froze: Celeste’s rage, Jackie’s excuses, the musicians’ scrambling hands, even the low red glow of the recording light seemed to hold its breath like a witness afraid to testify.

Then Delilah slid down the door and crumpled to the floor, her songbook skidding from her hand, her body going frighteningly still beneath the studio lights, and whatever battle Celeste and Jackie had been waging vanished beneath the greater terror of seeing the one person who had not deserved any of it lying unconscious in the ruins of their love.

She was fine, or at least that was what everyone kept saying with the strained relief of people trying to convince themselves before they convinced her, because the doctors called it a linear skull fracture, nothing deep, nothing complicated, nothing that had splintered inward or touched the delicate machinery of her brain, and by every clinical measure Delilah Fontaine had been lucky, though luck felt like a strange word to give a girl lying under hospital lights with bandages wrapped across her scalp and pain blooming behind her eyes like thunder trapped beneath bone.

They kept her under observation for eight hours, though the doctor had said four would have been enough, but between Elijah Fontaine’s iron-jawed refusal to let anybody rush his baby girl out of that bed, Melanie’s sharp, trembling questions, and Katherine Jackson’s quiet but immovable insistence that they were going to watch that child properly before sending her anywhere, the hospital staff quickly learned that there would be no arguing with the mothers, no bargaining with the fathers, and no offering half-measures to a room full of people who had already seen enough harm done for one day.

Delilah remembered the room in fragments, remembered the white walls and the thin blanket scratchy against her legs, remembered the cool tightness of the bandages on her scalp and the strange heaviness of her own limbs, remembered how the lights seemed too bright even when they were dimmed, how every fluorescent flicker made her ears ring as if Apollo himself had drawn his bow inside her skull and left the string vibrating long after the arrow flew.

She remembered voices rushing around her in waves, her mother’s voice closest and most familiar, her father’s deeper one trying and failing to stay calm, Katherine’s softer murmur threading through the room like prayer, and somewhere beside the bed, steady as a vow carved into stone, Michael’s hand holding hers as if he had decided that if he let go, the gods might mistake her for someone they were allowed to take.

His fingers never left hers, not when the nurse came in to check her pupils, not when her mother asked if she was nauseous, not when Jackie hovered near the doorway looking wrecked and guilty and unwanted, and not even when Delilah drifted in and out of that strange medicated fog where everything sounded both too loud and too far away, as though she had been lowered beneath the surface of Lethe and the whole world had to speak through water to reach her.

The headaches came in slow, punishing tides, rolling through her skull until she had to close her eyes and breathe like she was trying to keep the pain from noticing her, and she hated how helpless it made her feel, hated the way the medicine blurred the edges of her thoughts, hated how her tongue felt heavy in her mouth and her body refused to obey her with the quick, familiar certainty she had always depended on.

She wanted to sit up, wanted to swing her legs over the side of the bed and prove to everyone that she was still herself, wanted to walk the halls and peek into the rooms of people less fortunate than her because even then, aching and drowsy and wrapped in gauze, Delilah’s heart kept turning outward, reaching toward suffering as if compassion were a reflex she had been born with.

But every time she tried to move too much, the room tipped slightly, her stomach turned, and Michael’s hand tightened around hers while he whispered, “Don’t, Tinky,” in a voice so scared and tender that she hated him a little for making her listen.

She hated medicine, always had and always would, hated the chalky taste of pills and the sleepy drag they left behind, hated anything that entered her body and started making decisions without asking her permission first, because Delilah Fontaine could endure pain, could endure exhaustion, could endure the unfairness of being hurt in a war she had not started, but she despised feeling like Juno had reached down from Olympus and snatched the reins from her hands, leaving her trapped inside her own flesh while someone else drove the chariot.

Most of all, she hated not being in control, hated the betrayal of a body that had always carried her through songs, rehearsals, long nights, and bright stages suddenly becoming soft, slow, and unreliable, hated needing help to sit up, hated being told to rest, hated the way everyone looked at her as if she had become breakable simply because the door had hit harder than fate should have allowed.

And yet, through all of it, through the ringing lights and the cotton-mouthed drowsiness and the ache that pulsed behind her eyes, Michael stayed beside her like a boy keeping watch at a temple after the statue had cracked, his thumb moving carefully over her knuckles, his face pale with guilt he had no right to carry, and every time Delilah woke enough to look at him, he was still there, still holding on, still staring at her like the world had already taken too much from him and he was not about to let it take her too.

Michael sat beside Delilah’s hospital bed like somebody had nailed him there, his long legs folded awkwardly beneath the too-small chair, his shoulders hunched forward, his hand wrapped around hers with a carefulness that made her chest ache even through the medicine haze, because he held her as if she were made of blown glass and starlight and one wrong breath might send her slipping somewhere he could not follow.

The room had finally quieted after hours of rushing voices and too-bright lights, with Melanie and Elijah speaking in low, worried tones somewhere beyond the half-closed door while Katherine stood in the hallway with that soft, steady authority of hers, making sure nurses kept the lights dim and the noise down because Delilah had already flinched once too many at the sharp brightness overhead, and Michael, who had watched every little wince cross her face like a personal punishment, had not stopped frowning since.

“You still starin’ at me?” Delilah mumbled, her voice thick and sleepy from the medicine she hated so much, her lashes lifting with great effort until she found him sitting there with those enormous brown eyes fixed on her face like he was trying to memorize proof that she was alive.

Michael blinked, caught and guilty, though he did not look away.

“Nah,” he said softly, even though the lie was so poor it barely deserved to stand. “I was just makin’ sure you ain’t float off or nothin’.”

Delilah’s mouth twitched, the smallest little smile tugging at the corner before the ache in her head made her stop herself, and Michael saw it, saw that tiny flicker of amusement beneath the bandage wrapped carefully around her scalp, and relief passed through him so visibly it almost looked like pain leaving his body in one long breath.

“Float off where, Bambi?” she whispered, her fingers giving the faintest squeeze around his. “Ain’t got my shoes.”

Michael’s lips parted, then curved, and there it was, that shy smile of his, trembly around the edges and too bright for the dim room, as if she had reached up from the bed and lit a match behind his ribs.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, leaning closer so he would not have to speak above the quiet. “You always talkin’ ’bout visitin’ folks, even when you the one laid up, so I figured you might try to sneak out and go check on somebody else with your barefoot self.”

Delilah rolled her eyes, though the motion was slow and dramatic because the room still shifted when she moved too quickly, and Michael immediately straightened, worry flashing across his face before she could even breathe.

“I’m okay,” she said, though it came out in that stubborn Fontaine way, soft but firm, like she was already tired of everybody treating her as if the gods had misplaced her bones.

“You ain’t gotta keep sayin’ that,” he whispered, his thumb brushing gently over her knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, the same little motion he had been doing for what felt like forever, as if he could smooth the fear out of himself by touching her carefully enough. “You can just be hurt for a minute, Tinky.”

The nickname slipped from him so tenderly that Delilah went quiet, her eyes settling on his face with something drowsy and warm moving behind them, because Michael only called her Tinky like that when he was not teasing, when the word came from the softest part of him, the part that still smelled like tour-bus carpet, crossword paper, corner-store candy, and old Peter Pan pages softened by his fingers.

“You sound scared,” she said.

Michael looked down at their joined hands, and for a moment he was not Michael Jackson with a voice that could stop rooms, not the boy people pushed beneath lights and called miraculous, not the performer who knew how to smile through exhaustion, but just Michael, eighteen and terrified, his throat tight because the girl he loved before he had the courage to name it had gone still on a studio floor and made the whole world turn white around the edges.

“I was,” he admitted, so quietly that she had to look at his mouth to catch the words. “You hit that door and you ain’t move, and I ain’t never—”

He stopped himself, swallowing hard, his lashes dipping as if he could hide the shine gathering in his eyes by looking at the blanket instead of her face.

Delilah watched him through the fog of medicine and pain, watched how tightly he held himself together, watched how one of his knees bounced once before he forced it still, and even half-loopy she knew he was trying not to make his fear her responsibility, trying not to cry because if he cried then she might try to comfort him and he already knew she would, skull fracture and all, because Delilah had a heart that never did know how to sit down when somebody else was hurting.

“Bambi,” she whispered, tugging weakly at his hand.

He looked up immediately.

“You gon’ mess around and make your eyes fall out your head lookin’ at me like that,” she said, and because her voice was still sleepy and slow, the little joke came out softer than she meant it to, but Michael laughed anyway, sudden and wet and quiet, bowing his head over their hands like the sound had escaped him before he could decide whether joy was allowed in a room like that.

“You look pitiful,” he said, trying to tease her back, though his eyes betrayed him completely.

Delilah gasped, offended in the most delicate, medicated way imaginable.

“Pitiful?” she repeated, her brows pinching beneath the edge of her bandage. “I’m injured and you sittin’ here callin’ me pitiful?”

“I ain’t say you was ugly,” he rushed, cheeks warming at once, his voice tripping over itself because the last thing in the world he wanted was for Delilah Fontaine to think he had looked at her and seen anything other than something precious. “I just said you look pitiful, like… like a little hurt fairy or somethin’.”

“A hurt fairy?”

“Yeah,” he said, gaining a tiny bit of courage when her mouth twitched again. “Like Tinker Bell if somebody slammed her into a door.”

Delilah stared at him for one long second, trying very hard to look unimpressed, but the medicine had made her face too open and his nervous little smile had always been too hard to resist, so the laugh slipped out of her before she could catch it, small and airy and cut short by the pain that made her wince.

Michael’s whole expression changed in an instant, the teasing falling away as he leaned closer, his free hand hovering uselessly near her shoulder because he wanted to touch her, wanted to soothe her, wanted to gather her up and hold the ache out of her body by force, but he did not know where he was allowed to place all that wanting.

“Don’t laugh,” he whispered, panicked. “Don’t laugh if it hurt.”

“You the one makin’ jokes,” she breathed, her eyes squeezing shut for a moment.

“I ain’t gon’ make no more.”

“You better,” she murmured, opening one eye to glare at him. “I’m bored.”

Michael stared at her, then gave her that look, that soft disbelieving look that always made her feel like he was somewhere between laughing at her and worshipping her, like even her fussing from a hospital bed was something he wanted to keep in his pocket.

“You bored?” he repeated. “Girl, you just got knocked out cold and you bored already?”

“I hate hospitals.”

“I know.”

“I hate medicine.”

“I know that too.”

“I hate everybody lookin’ at me like I’m made of wet tissue.”

Michael’s thumb paused over her knuckles, and his voice gentled into something so intimate it made the dim room feel smaller around them.

“I ain’t lookin’ at you like that.”

Delilah turned her head slightly, careful not to anger the thunder sleeping behind her eyes, and found him watching her in a way that made her suddenly shy, which was ridiculous considering she was lying there with half her scalp wrapped up and no real dignity left to defend.

“How you lookin’ at me then?” she asked, and she meant for it to sound playful, but the question came out softer, thinner, threaded with something neither of them was old enough to handle gracefully.

Michael’s mouth opened, then closed, and all the words he could have said crowded behind his teeth, every secret he had swallowed on tour buses and at dinner tables and in backstage hallways pressing forward at once, because he wanted to tell her that he looked at her like she was the only quiet place he had ever known, like she was the first girl who had ever seen him without reaching for a piece of him, like watching her fall had scared him so badly that some locked door inside his chest had blown open and now everything he felt for her was standing in the hallway with nowhere to hide.

But he was Michael, shy and careful and trained too well to hold his own heart like contraband, so he only looked down at her hand and smiled a little.

“Like you my Tinky,” he said.

Delilah’s face softened at once, the kind of softening that made his stomach twist because she did not know what she did to him, did not know that every time she looked at him like that he felt both brave and ruined.

“That’s it?” she whispered.

He shook his head, still staring at their hands.

“Nah,” he said, almost under his breath. “But that’s all I can say without you laughin’ at me.”

Delilah was quiet for a moment, quiet enough that Michael worried the medicine had dragged her back toward sleep, but then her thumb moved weakly against his, a tiny stroke of comfort that nearly undid him.

“I wouldn’t laugh,” she murmured.

Michael looked at her then, really looked, and the yearning in him rose so sharply it felt like a hand around his throat, because her eyes were heavy and tired but still Delilah’s, still warm, still stubborn, still somehow worried about him while she lay there bandaged and aching, and he wanted so badly that it frightened him, wanted to bend down and press his mouth to the back of her hand, wanted to kiss her forehead where the bandage did not cover, wanted to crawl into that narrow hospital bed and hold her carefully until the world apologized for touching her wrong.

Instead, he reached into the paper bag at his feet with his free hand, his movements clumsy because he refused to let go of her, and pulled out a bent crossword book, a pencil, and a packet of candy he had clearly begged someone to buy from the vending machine downstairs.

Delilah blinked at the offerings, slow and suspicious.

“You brought entertainment?”

“Course I did,” he said, trying to look casual and failing because his ears were going pink. “You said hospitals boring.”

“I said that just now.”

“I knew you was gon’ say it.”

That made her smile again, and Michael looked so pleased with himself that for a second the fear slipped off his shoulders and left the boy she knew best, the one who took games too seriously, accused her of cheating at Monopoly, and hid his laughter behind his hand whenever Melanie Fontaine threatened both their narrow behinds over breakfast.

“You ain’t supposed to have all that candy in here,” Delilah whispered.

Michael glanced toward the door like a criminal in a church.

“Then don’t tell nobody.”

“What you gon’ give me?”

He frowned, opening the packet and peering inside with grave consideration, as if choosing her candy required the same focus other people gave to contracts.

“You can have the red one.”

“Only one?”

“You injured, not greedy.”

Delilah’s mouth fell open, and Michael’s smile broke loose before he could stop it, bright and boyish and helplessly fond, his laughter tumbling softly into the room as she tried to glare at him through the medicine fog.

“You lucky I can’t get up,” she muttered.

“I know,” he said, still smiling, though his voice went tender again as he placed the candy carefully on the little tray beside her water cup. “You woulda tore me up by now.”

“I still might.”

“I believe you.”

They sat like that for a while, the crossword book open between them even though Delilah could barely focus on the clues and Michael kept giving her answers that were either wrong or suspiciously convenient, his pencil scratching lightly against the page while she drifted in and out, waking every few minutes to find him still there, still holding her hand, still pretending not to stare whenever he thought she was too sleepy to notice.

At some point, when the hallway dimmed and the grown folks’ voices softened into a faraway murmur, Delilah opened her eyes and found Michael leaning over the crossword with his brows furrowed, whispering the clue to himself like it had personally insulted him.

“Bambi,” she whispered.

He looked up instantly.

“Yeah?”

“You still here?”

The question hit him harder than she meant it to, and for a moment all the softness left his face except the part that belonged to her.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said, and his voice carried no teasing then, no shyness, no performance, only the plain, trembling truth of a boy who had already lost too many pieces of normal and refused to lose this one too.

Delilah studied him for as long as her tired eyes would allow, then tugged weakly at his hand until he understood and leaned closer.

“You can sit on the bed,” she murmured. “Chair look like it’s eatin’ you alive.”

Michael hesitated, glancing toward the door as if Melanie Fontaine might storm in with a serving spoon and the authority of God, but Delilah gave his hand another tiny pull, and that was all it took for him to fold.

He moved carefully, easing onto the edge of the mattress with the stiff caution of somebody approaching a sleeping altar, keeping most of his weight off the bed, one hand still wrapped around hers while the other braced near her hip without touching, and Delilah, satisfied, let her eyes drift shut again.

“You better not fall on me,” she whispered.

“I ain’t gon’ fall on you.”

“You lanky.”

“You always got somethin’ to say.”

“Mhm.”

Michael smiled down at her, his heart so full it hurt, watching the bandage at her scalp, the soft curve of her cheek, the stubborn set of her mouth even in sleepiness, and he wished with the desperate foolishness of youth that he could trade places with her, could take the pain and the ringing lights and the helplessness she hated so much, not because he was noble but because seeing her hurt made him feel useless in a way fame had never taught him how to survive.

Delilah’s fingers loosened slightly in his as she began to drift, and panic flickered through him before he realized she was only falling asleep, not leaving him, only sinking into the rest everyone kept begging her to take.

He bent over their joined hands then, slow enough that even the air seemed to hold still, and pressed the lightest kiss to her knuckles, so soft it might have been mistaken for breath if she had not opened one eye at the exact wrong moment.

“Mikey.”

He froze.

Delilah looked at him, drowsy and smug despite the bandages, and Michael’s whole face went hot.

“You kissin’ on my hand while I’m concussed?”

“I ain’t kiss it,” he lied terribly.

“You did.”

“I was checkin’ your temperature.”

“With your lips?”

He looked toward the door again, mortified, while Delilah’s smile crept wider, sweet and sleepy and victorious.

“You sweet on me, Bambi?” she whispered.

Michael looked back at her then, and whatever little joke he had ready died in his throat, because yes, he was sweet on her, sweeter than he knew how to explain, sweeter than was safe, sweeter than he had any business being when their families were tangled together and their careers were pulling them down roads neither of them controlled.

But Delilah was looking at him with those heavy-lidded eyes and that soft, teasing mouth, and for once, maybe because the room was dim and the world felt fragile and the gods had already scared him half to death, he did not run from the truth fast enough to hide it completely.

“Maybe,” he whispered.

Delilah’s smile softened into something quieter, something that made the hospital room feel less like a place of pain and more like the little backroom of the tour bus, cramped and warm and humming with secrets.

“Good,” she murmured, closing her eyes again as if that answer had settled something inside her. “I’m sweet on you too.”

Michael stopped breathing for a second.

Then he sat there on the edge of her bed with her hand in his, the crossword forgotten, the candy untouched, the hallway voices fading into nothing, and stared at her sleeping face like Venus herself had brushed past the hospital curtain and left him with a blessing he was too young to hold properly, his heart beating so loudly he wondered if the nurses could hear it, his whole body aching with the wonder of being chosen, even softly, even sleepily, even in a room that smelled of antiseptic and worry.

And when Melanie finally peeked through the doorway and saw him perched there beside her daughter, holding Delilah’s hand like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to earth, she did not fuss, did not call his name, did not threaten his narrow behind for sitting on the bed, but simply watched for a moment with something tired and knowing in her eyes before she pulled the door halfway closed again and let the two children have their quiet, because some tenderness, even in the aftermath of war, deserved not to be interrupted.

That had been seven years ago, seven long years since the studio floor became a battlefield, since the door struck Delilah’s skull hard enough to send her into darkness, since Celeste’s heartbreak carved a boundary through both families so deep and unforgiving that even love, young and trembling as it was, could not cross without bleeding.

There had to be lines drawn in the sand after that, sharp and final as the borders of a conquered kingdom, and unfortunately for Delilah, Michael stood on the other side of them, not because he had harmed her, not because he had betrayed her, not because he had done anything except belong to the same family as the man who had broken her sister’s heart, but sometimes war did not care who was guilty when it came time to count the bodies left behind.

The house had been too quiet that night, the kind of quiet that did not soothe so much as accuse, every room holding its breath around the Fontaine girls as if the walls themselves knew something had been ruined that could not be swept up before morning.

Delilah remembered moving through the hallway with careful steps, one hand grazing the wall because her balance had not fully returned and the dull ache beneath her bandages still pulsed whenever she turned her head too quickly, remembered the way the low lamplight blurred at the edges and made the framed family photographs seem far away, as though she were walking through someone else’s memory instead of her own home.

Celeste’s bedroom door had been half-open, and from inside came no music, no humming, no little impatient clicks of her tongue while she fussed with lyrics or makeup or whatever outfit she had decided the world deserved to see her in next, only a soft, wrecked silence broken every now and then by the wet drag of breath from someone who had cried so hard that crying itself had become work.

Delilah should have gone to her own room and rested like the doctor had told her, should have let Melanie bring her water and medicine and fuss over the bandage hidden beneath her scarf, should have closed her eyes until the room stopped tilting like a ship caught in Neptune’s bad temper, but Celeste was her sister, and there were some hurts Delilah had never known how to walk past.

So she pushed the door open with two fingers.

Celeste sat on the edge of her bed in the same dress she had worn to the studio, though it looked different now, wrinkled and twisted at the hem, one strap slipping down her shoulder, the pretty fabric made pitiful by grief, and her eyes were swollen nearly shut from crying, her cheeks raw, her lips bitten until the skin had split in one tiny place that made Delilah’s chest tighten with fresh anger all over again.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The lamp beside Celeste’s bed cast a soft gold circle over the room, touching the scattered tissues on the floor, the open vanity drawer, the lipstick Celeste had thrown so hard it had cracked against the mirror, the sheet music lying crumpled near her shoes like some dead white bird that had flown too close to the wrong god’s fire.

“Cece,” Delilah whispered, and even that little bit of sound seemed to hurt Celeste, because her sister flinched as if her own name had weight.

Celeste lifted her head slowly, and the look on her face stole whatever Delilah had meant to say, because Celeste did not look angry then, not the way she had in the studio when she lunged at Jackie like Bellona herself had climbed into her bones; she looked small, stripped down, humiliated, like a girl who had been standing in sunlight one moment and found herself dropped into the underworld the next with no coin for the ferryman.

“You supposed to be layin’ down,” Celeste said, her voice scraped raw and ugly from screaming, nothing like the bright, sharp voice she used to cut through rehearsals.

“So are you.”

Celeste gave a sound that might have been a laugh if laughter had not been too far away from that room to find them.

“I ain’t the one got her head cracked open.”

“It ain’t cracked open,” Delilah murmured, trying for softness, trying for humor, trying for anything that might make the room feel less like a hospital waiting area after bad news. “Just fractured a little.”

Celeste’s face collapsed at that, guilt flashing through her grief so quickly Delilah almost wished she had not said it.

“I’m sorry,” Celeste whispered, and the words came out broken, thin as thread. “I’m so sorry, Lilah.”

Delilah crossed the room and sat beside her carefully, lowering herself onto the mattress with a little wince she tried to hide, but Celeste saw it anyway and turned away as if the sight of Delilah’s pain was one more punishment she could not bear.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Delilah said.

Celeste shook her head hard, her hands twisting together in her lap.

“It was all my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“If I hadn’t gone at him like that—”

“If he hadn’t done what he did,” Delilah interrupted, gentle but firm, “there wouldn’t have been nothing to go at him about.”

That was the first time Celeste truly looked at her.

Her eyes, swollen and red-rimmed, burned with a hurt so deep it seemed older than both of them, as if every woman ever made foolish by love had come and sat behind them.

“He was with her,” Celeste whispered.

Delilah swallowed.

“I know.”

“Our cousin, Lilah.”

“I know.”

“Not some girl from backstage, not some woman he met after a show, not some nobody I could curse out and forget.” Celeste’s voice trembled, then sharpened, not into rage but into something worse, something ruined. “He laid up with somebody who sat at my auntie’s table, somebody who smiled in my face, somebody who knew me.”

Delilah said nothing, because there were betrayals words could not soften, and trying only made the wound feel insulted.

Celeste pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth like she was trying to hold herself together from the outside.

“I feel dirty,” she whispered. “I feel stupid.”

“You ain’t stupid.”

“I am.”

“No, you loved him.”

Celeste’s breath hitched, and the tears came again, not dramatic this time, not loud, just steady and helpless, sliding down her face as she stared at the carpet.

“I did,” she said, so quietly Delilah almost missed it. “God help me, I did.”

Delilah’s own eyes burned then, because she had seen it, had watched Celeste fall into Jackie’s orbit with the doomed grace of Icarus flying toward a sun everybody warned him about too late, had watched her sister soften around him, brighten around him, become girlish and grown all at once beneath the warmth of his attention.

And now that same attention had turned cruel by being shared.

Celeste wiped at her face with the back of her hand, smearing mascara across her cheek.

“I can’t do it anymore,” she said.

Delilah looked at her.

“Do what?”

“Sing.”

The word landed between them with a terrible finality.

Outside, somewhere down the hall, their mother’s voice murmured low to their father, but inside that bedroom the world narrowed to Delilah’s aching head and Celeste’s ruined voice.

“Cece…”

“No,” Celeste said, shaking her head again. “Don’t. Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m just—”

“I can’t stand on no stage and sing like my heart ain’t in pieces. I can’t go back in a studio and put headphones on and hear him laughin’ in the next room. I can’t watch them boys walk in and act like they don’t know what happened, like his name ain’t attached to mine now in the ugliest way.”

Delilah felt something cold move through her stomach before Celeste even said the rest.

“And I can’t sit at no table with them.”

The room went still.

Delilah’s fingers tightened around the edge of the mattress.

Celeste looked down at her hands, ashamed before she even asked, and somehow that made it worse, because if she had demanded it with anger, Delilah might have had something to push against.

But Celeste did not sound like a woman giving orders.

She sounded like a person drowning who had found Delilah’s sleeve in the dark.

“I know Michael ain’t do nothing,” Celeste whispered.

Delilah closed her eyes.

The name hurt more than the headache.

“I know he ain’t Jackie,” Celeste continued, voice cracking. “I know that, Lilah, I do, but he is still his brother, and every time I think about you over there, laughin’ with them, eatin’ with them, sittin’ next to him like everything can still be sweet, I feel like…”

She stopped, pressing her palm against her chest as if the feeling had claws.

Delilah opened her eyes slowly.

“You feel like what?”

Celeste looked at her then, and Delilah saw the terrible childishness grief had returned to her, the way heartbreak had made her younger instead of older.

“Like you picked them,” Celeste said. “Like I’m the one got embarrassed, I’m the one got cheated on, I’m the one everybody gon’ whisper about, and my own sister still gets to go be happy with his family.”

Delilah’s throat tightened.

“I wouldn’t be pickin’ them over you.”

“I know,” Celeste whispered, but her face said she did not know at all, not in the place where it mattered. “I know up here.” She touched her temple, then pressed her hand back to her chest. “But not here.”

The silence after that was cruel.

Delilah looked toward the vanity mirror, at the crack running through Celeste’s reflection, at the lipstick broken open like a small red wound, at the two of them sitting side by side on the bed looking nothing like the Fontaine sisters people clapped for, nothing like the girls who used to glide into rooms with their harmonies clean and their dresses pressed.

She thought of Michael.

She thought of his hand in hers at the hospital, of his thumb brushing her knuckles while she drifted in and out of sleep, of his nervous little smile when he tried to make her laugh, of the way his eyes had looked when she told him she was sweet on him too.

Then she looked back at Celeste, whose light had gone dimmer than Delilah had ever seen it.

“Cece,” she said, and her voice had already begun to break.

Celeste started crying harder before Delilah could finish.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, reaching for her sister’s hand with trembling fingers. “I’m sorry, Lilah, I know it’s not fair, I know it ain’t, but I can’t breathe when I think about it. I can’t breathe.”

Delilah let her sister take her hand.

Celeste clung to it like a lifeline, bowing her head over their joined fingers, and Delilah felt the old, impossible trap close around her: love on one side, loyalty on the other, and no version of herself able to walk away unbloodied.

“You want me to stop seeing all of them,” Delilah said, not as a question because they both knew the answer.

Celeste squeezed her eyes shut.

“I need you to.”

The words were small.

The damage was not.

Delilah turned her face away, staring at the wall while her vision blurred, and for one wild, aching second she wanted to be selfish, wanted to say no, wanted to tell Celeste that Michael had sat beside her bed and held her hand as if the whole world might end if he let go, that Michael had not kissed their cousin, had not lied, had not made Celeste scream herself hoarse in a studio, had not done anything except love Delilah quietly and lose her anyway.

But Celeste was still holding her hand.

Celeste was still crying.

Celeste was still her sister.

And Delilah, who had always been soft in the places other people pressed hardest, felt the answer leave her before she was ready to survive it.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Celeste lifted her head, her face crumpling with relief and guilt all at once.

“Lilah…”

“Okay,” Delilah repeated, though her own tears had started slipping now, quiet and hot against her cheeks. “I won’t go over there. I won’t call. I won’t—”

Her voice caught on the word because she almost said his name.

She almost said Michael.

Celeste heard it anyway.

Of course she did.

Sisters heard the words you swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” Celeste whispered again, and this time she moved carefully, wrapping her arms around Delilah with the fear of someone embracing a person already hurt.

Delilah let herself be held, her bandaged head resting awkwardly near Celeste’s shoulder, her body aching, her heart worse, and while Celeste cried into her hair, Delilah stared past her at the cracked mirror and understood that some promises were not made because they were right, but because someone you loved was too broken to survive your refusal.

Down the hall, the telephone rang once.

Then again.

Delilah’s whole body went still.

Celeste felt it.

They both knew who it might be.

For a moment, the house seemed to hold its breath with them, the bell ringing through the quiet like a summons from another life, from dinner tables and tour buses and hospital hands, from a boy with big brown eyes who had no idea a line was being drawn in the sand without him.

Melanie answered it before the third ring could finish.

Her voice was low.

Careful.

Sorry.

Delilah closed her eyes.

Celeste held her tighter.

And somewhere inside Delilah, something young and tender folded itself away, not dead, not gone, but hidden, like a letter placed in a Bible and left there for years because the person it belonged to could no longer be reached without sinning against somebody else.

It had not been fair, and some quiet part of Delilah had known that even then, but fairness looked different when your sister was sitting before you with the light gone from her eyes, asking for loyalty not as a command but as a lifeline, and Delilah, who had always loved softly but completely, had swallowed her own grief and promised that she would stay away.

So she did.

She stayed away from Michael, from Jackie, from Jermaine, from Tito, from Marlon, from all of them, stayed away from the family that had once folded itself into hers with Sunday dinners, backstage laughter, tour-bus games, and sleepy childhood secrets, stayed away even when her fingers itched for the phone, even when she heard Michael’s name spoken in rooms where nobody knew what it cost her to keep her face still, even when a song came on the radio and she found herself listening for the boy beneath the star.

Celeste, meanwhile, ended her singing days with the quiet devastation of a woman laying flowers on her own grave, because Jackie’s betrayal had not merely broken her heart; it had stolen the light from her voice, snuffed out that bright Fontaine fire until the stage no longer felt like home but like a crime scene with better lighting.

Where she had once sung like Juno entering a room crowned and terrible, she now turned away from microphones, away from harmonies, away from every place where memory might rise up and hum his name back to her, and instead she poured herself into art, into paint and charcoal and textured canvases, into colors that could scream without asking her throat to do the work.

A year later, in that new world of galleries, turpentine, late-night sketches, and quiet rooms where people studied pain without demanding it perform, Celeste met the man who would become her husband, a gentler man, a steadier man, someone who understood that some women did not need to be swept off their feet so much as approached like a temple after the gods had been angered.

Delilah kept her promise.

She kept away from the aforementioned family as if the very name Jackson had become a forbidden road, and while Michael rose higher and higher into the sky like Apollo dragging the sun behind him, all brilliance and heat and impossible distance, Delilah descended into a music world of her own, one built not from childhood proximity or family dinners, but from hunger, discipline, and the kind of quiet ambition people mistook for modesty until it was too late.

She apprenticed herself beneath the greats of their time, watching and learning from James Brown’s holy precision, from Bobby Womack’s gravel-edged soul, from Stevie Wonder’s impossible musical architecture, from Marvin Gaye’s aching sensuality, from Smokey Robinson’s silk-thread songwriting, from Chaka Khan’s fire, from Minnie Riperton’s celestial control, and from every producer, arranger, session player, and background singer generous enough to let her stand close and absorb the language of greatness without needing to be the loudest person in the room.

Delilah learned how to build a song from the bones up, how to let silence breathe between bass lines, how to write lyrics that did not chase a listener but waited in the dark for them to come closer, how to sing without begging and still make a man feel summoned, how to turn restraint into seduction and grief into something smooth enough for the radio but sharp enough to cut when nobody was looking.

By the time her own records began to spin, her voice had become the kind people spoke about carefully, low and elegant, smoky as a room after midnight, warm as velvet held over flame, a voice that seemed less interested in showing off than in confessing only what it wanted the world to know.

And somewhere out there, beyond the promise she had made and the wound that had made it necessary, Michael heard those records.

He heard her.

He heard Delilah Fontaine in every note she refused to oversing, in every lyric that sounded like a closed door with light beneath it, in every phrase that curled through the speakers like Venus stepping barefoot through smoke, and though seven years had passed, though they had become adults in separate worlds, though their childhood had been sealed behind family pain and silence, Michael knew that voice the way a man knew the name of the first goddess he ever prayed to.

It was 1981 when Delilah Fontaine released The Still Hour, the album that changed the shape of her life so quietly at first that people did not realize they were witnessing a coronation until the crown was already on her head.

There was nothing loud or desperate about the record, nothing that begged the world to look at her, nothing that chased spectacle for the sake of being seen, because Delilah had never been that kind of artist, and instead the album arrived like midnight entering a room in silk, low-lit and deliberate, carrying bass lines that moved like smoke beneath a closed door, percussion soft enough to feel intimate, and lyrics that seemed to confess everything while still keeping their secrets locked behind her teeth.

Her voice was the miracle of it, that deep, velvet-soft contralto that did not climb for attention because it had already learned how to command from stillness, a voice warm as brandy, smooth as polished mahogany, and cool as moonlight on marble, the kind of voice that made heartbreak sound expensive and desire sound like something whispered across white tablecloths in rooms where no one dared raise their tone.

Delilah did not sing as if she needed to prove she could, did not decorate every line with unnecessary runs or throw her pain at the listener’s feet like an offering begging to be received; she sang with restraint, with elegance, with the quiet confidence of Venus stepping from the sea already knowing every mortal eye would turn, letting each note unfurl slowly, letting silence sit between phrases like a second instrument, letting the ache come through not because she forced it but because she left just enough space for it to breathe.

The world had not known what to do with her at first, this brown-skinned woman with the soft gaze, the composed mouth, and the voice of a goddess who had survived exile, but then the record began to move from radio station to living room to bedroom to car speaker, slipping into people’s lives with the stealth of Cupid’s arrow, until suddenly everyone knew her name, everyone knew the songs, everyone knew that Delilah Fontaine had not merely released an album but built a world and invited them inside on her own terms.

By Grammy night, she was no longer the quiet Fontaine sister standing half in Celeste’s shadow, no longer the girl who used to drift backstage after performances with a songbook pressed to her chest, no longer the injured eighteen-year-old who had been knocked unconscious in the ruins of somebody else’s betrayal; she was Delilah Fontaine, a household name, an artist spoken about with lowered voices and lifted brows, the woman critics called rare, mysterious, untouchable, as if Minerva herself had placed a hand on her shoulder and taught her how to turn restraint into strategy.

When her name was called again and again that night, six times in total, Delilah rose each time with a kind of stunned grace that made the room soften around her, her eyes bright beneath the lights as she held the awards close to her chest, gold pressed against silk, her smile trembling between disbelief and triumph while the applause rolled over her like the sea welcoming Venus back to shore.

And somewhere inside all that noise, beneath the cameras flashing and the industry hands reaching and the praise blooming around her from every side, Delilah felt the strange ache of knowing she had become exactly what she once wrote about becoming in the margins of her childhood songbooks, a woman whose voice could haunt rooms she had never entered, whose name could travel farther than any promise made in pain, whose music had carried her into immortality before she had even turned to see who might still be listening.

Now here she was at the 1984 Grammys, no longer the shy girl who used to hover in the shadowed edges of dressing rooms with a songbook hugged to her chest, but a woman fully stepped into the architecture of herself, her curves having finally settled in with quiet certainty, her thighs fuller beneath the fall of her gown, her face smooth and luminous where acne had once made her duck away from cameras, her whole presence carrying the calm authority of someone who had learned that beauty did not need to announce itself loudly in order to make a room turn.

She was a woman now, certain, firm, and far more aware of her own power than she had been at eighteen, standing beneath the lights in white shimmer and soft, cloudlike ruffles as if Venus herself had risen from the sea not in naked innocence but in silk, lace, and hard-earned self-possession, every camera flash catching on her skin like the gods were trying to crown her in pieces of borrowed lightning.

Her voice had changed too, not into something unrecognizable but into something ripened, silkier and smoother than it had been in girlhood, with a faint rasp at the edges that made every lyric feel lived in, as though life had brushed its thumb gently over her throat and left a little smoke behind, yet beneath all that elegance and restraint there were still traces of the Delilah Michael had known if a person understood how to look closely enough.

They were there in the way she twiddled her thumbs when the cameras stayed on her too long, in the way she bit at the inside of her cheek whenever nerves threatened to break through her composure, in the way her eyes still shifted toward exits before entering crowded rooms, and, most stubbornly, in the fact that Delilah Fontaine, Grammy winner, household name, woman of velvet vocals and goddess-like poise, still refused raw tomato with the same offended little grimace she had worn as a girl at family dinners, as if all the fame in the world could polish her but never quite take away the small, ridiculous truths that made her human.

He watched her from where he stood with Quincy, his aviators settled over his face like a veil drawn between himself and a world that had spent the entire night trying to stare him down, the flash of cameras catching against the dark lenses, the glittering military cut of his jacket making him look less like a man attending an award show and more like Mars dressed for conquest, all sequins, sharp shoulders, gold detail, and a single jeweled glove resting at his side like some strange modern relic.

Yet for all the weight of the night, for all the trophies waiting in the wings and all the history gathering around his name, Michael found his attention slipping from the room the moment Delilah Fontaine moved through it, her white gown shimmering beneath the lights, her train fluttering behind her like sea foam chasing Venus across marble, her smile polite and practiced as she greeted colleagues who leaned in too eagerly, all of them touching her elbow, kissing her cheek, speaking as if they had known her before the world learned to say her name.

His eyes followed her with a hunger he could not blame on curiosity, darting ahead of her before she arrived, searching the little place cards with a quiet urgency he disguised behind stillness, because he needed to know where they had put her, needed to know how far the room intended to keep her from him after seven years of silence had already done enough damage.

When he found her assigned seat, his jaw tightened behind the safety of his shades, because there it was, her name placed neatly beside Denzel Washington’s, close enough for conversation, close enough for laughter, close enough for that smooth-faced actor to lean toward her during the long pauses between categories and make her smile in a way Michael had no intention of witnessing politely.

A small huff left him before he could stop it, quiet enough that Quincy only glanced over with one brow lifted, but Michael had already moved with that soft-spoken decisiveness people always underestimated in him, murmuring something to an usher, trading charm for rearrangement, shifting the order of the room with a few gentle words and one stubborn look until Delilah Fontaine’s seat was no longer beside another man’s shoulder but directly next to his.

It was childish, maybe, and not altogether fair, but Michael could not bring himself to care, not when seven years had taught him how cruel distance could be, not when Jackie’s recklessness had robbed him of phone calls, dinners, backstage whispers, tour-bus games, and the only girl who had ever looked at him before the world turned him into a monument.

He wanted her close enough to breathe in the perfume gathered at her throat, close enough to hear the soft rustle of her gown when she sat, close enough to confirm with his own body that she was no longer some voice coming through a speaker at midnight, no longer the woman he had been forced to love from the far side of a promise, but flesh and warmth and history, seated beside him beneath the same dangerous lights.

And suddenly, terribly, Thriller — his crown, his conquest, his life’s work, the glittering chariot Apollo himself might have envied — seemed to dim at the edges, because what was a room full of applause compared to Delilah lowering herself into the chair beside him, what was another golden gramophone compared to the faint brush of her train near his shoe, what was immortality itself when the first muse he had ever known had returned to him wearing white and smelling like memory?

Michael turned his head only slightly when she sat, careful, controlled, hidden behind his aviators, but beneath all that practiced restraint his heart moved like a boy’s again, reckless and disobedient, beating against his ribs with the same old rhythm from family dinners and cramped tour-bus rooms and hospital whispers, as if no time had passed at all.

For one suspended moment after Delilah lowered herself into the seat beside him, neither of them said a word, though silence had never felt empty between them, not when it had always been full of old things, full of tour-bus laughter and hospital whispers, full of grits cooling on plates while their feet found one another beneath the table, full of all the years that had passed without either of them being brave or free enough to ask why the absence still hurt like something fresh.

Michael sat very still, his aviators hiding the first open shock of seeing her so close again, though they could not hide the way his body seemed to lean toward her in spite of itself, drawn by the faint, expensive warmth of her perfume, by the soft sound of her gown settling around her, by the nearness of a woman he had only allowed himself to hear through records for seven years, her voice traveling into his room at night like smoke under a locked door while the rest of her remained forbidden.

Delilah felt him looking before she turned, the same way she used to feel his gaze from across rehearsal rooms when they were children, that quiet, searching attention of his that never arrived loudly but always touched something under the skin, and when she finally angled her face toward him, the corner of her mouth lifted just enough to make his heart stumble hard beneath all that glitter and gold.

“Michael,” she said softly, and the grown-up shape of his name in her mouth nearly undid him, because she had said it a thousand times before in childhood, said it while laughing, scolding, whispering, and teasing, but this was different, silkier, lower, carrying the faint rasp that had made half the world fall in love with her records and made him sit alone in dark rooms wondering how a voice could grow older and still know exactly where to wound him.

“Delilah,” he answered, his voice gentle but not weak, shy at the edges yet steadier than it had any right to be, as though the boy in him had stepped back just long enough for the man to greet her properly. “Look at you.”

Her lashes dipped, not because she was coy in the easy way women learned to be for men who needed entertaining, but because praise from him landed differently, because Michael had known her before the gown, before the clear skin, before the Grammys and the headlines and the critics calling her voice mysterious as if mystery was not often just pain made elegant.

“Don’t start,” she murmured, smoothing one careful hand over the white shimmer at her knee, though her thumb began to worry at the side of her finger the way it always did when too much feeling moved beneath her composure.

Michael saw it.

Of course he saw it.

He had known that nervous little habit before either of them had learned how much adults could ruin a good thing, and something painfully fond moved through him at the sight, because there she was, Delilah Fontaine, draped in white like Venus risen from a colder, more glamorous sea, her train spilling around her chair like foam and lace, her name whispered through the room by people who wanted pieces of her time, and still the girl he had loved was there in the tiny motion of her hands.

“I ain’t startin’ nothin’,” he said, though his mouth curved with the softest hint of mischief, his head tilting toward her as applause swelled somewhere around them for somebody neither of them was listening to. “I’m just sayin’ you walked in here lookin’ like the good Lord took His time and then doubled back to make sure He ain’t miss nothin’.”

Delilah’s eyes lifted to his, sharp with amusement despite herself, and Michael felt the reward of it somewhere low in his chest, not lust exactly, though there was want in him and he would have been lying to God to pretend otherwise, but something older and sweeter, something that wanted her smile before it wanted anything else.

“You rehearsed that?” she asked.

“Nah,” he said, leaning back just a little, one gloved hand resting against his thigh while the other toyed absently with the edge of the program in his lap. “If I rehearsed it, it woulda sounded smoother.”

“It was already smooth enough.”

“Then I must still have a little somethin’ left in me.”

She laughed under her breath, low and brief, but it reached him like music, and Michael turned his face toward the stage as if he needed a second to survive the sound without making a fool of himself in front of the whole industry.

Quincy, seated not too far away and pretending with saintly dedication not to watch every second of this reunion unfold, glanced over his shoulder once, caught the way Michael’s attention had abandoned the night’s machinery completely, and shook his head with the private exasperation of a man who knew genius when he saw it and trouble when it sat down wearing white.

“You moved my seat,” Delilah said after a moment, her voice quiet enough that only he could hear it beneath the dull roar of the room.

Michael’s lips parted in offense that was far too immediate to be innocent.

“What make you say that?”

“Because I know where I was seated.”

“Maybe somebody made a mistake.”

“Maybe somebody wearing aviators and a jacket brighter than common sense made a request.”

That pulled a real smile from him, quick and boyish before he could tuck it away, and Delilah had to look down for a second because the sight of it struck too close to memory, too close to the Michael who used to accuse her of cheating at Monopoly and then let her keep the red candy because he knew it was her favorite.

“I ain’t want you sittin’ way over there,” he admitted, his confidence softening into something more honest, something that slipped out before pride could dress it up better. “Been seven years, ’Lilah.”

There it was.

Not accusation, not anger, not even bitterness exactly, but the number itself, placed gently between them like a wound neither of them had cleaned properly.

Delilah’s smile faded, and the lights above them seemed to sharpen, camera flashes bursting from across the room like little acts of lightning while the two of them sat inside a pocket of quiet made entirely from things unsaid.

“I know,” she whispered.

Michael turned the program over in his hands, smoothing the corner with his thumb though it did not need smoothing, his gloved hand bright and strange against the paper, his bare hand restless with the effort of not reaching for hers.

“Seven years is a mighty long time for a phone to stay quiet,” he said, and though he kept his voice light, there was a tremor beneath the words that made Delilah’s throat tighten. “I used to think maybe you’d call by accident one day, you know, like maybe your finger slip or somethin’.”

“Michael.”

“I know,” he said quickly, glancing at her, then away, because the last thing he wanted was to make her feel cornered when life had already put enough walls around them. “I know why you didn’t, and I ain’t tryin’ to make you feel bad, but I missed you, Tinky.”

The nickname touched her so suddenly that she almost closed her eyes.

Not because she had forgotten it, never that, but because hearing it in his grown voice did something cruel to her composure, taking a word from their childhood and placing it in the mouth of the man beside her, softening time and sharpening it all at once.

Michael saw her reaction and lowered his voice further, the flirtation slipping out of him like warmth from behind a door left cracked open, shy but deliberate, gentle but unwilling to retreat.

“I missed you so bad I started gettin’ mad at your records.”

Delilah blinked, then turned toward him, her brows lifting.

“My records?”

“Mhm.”

“What my records do to you?”

“They kept showin’ up in my house soundin’ all pretty and grown and actin’ like they ain’t know me.”

She stared at him for one beat, then another, and then laughter broke from her before she could stop it, not loud enough to disturb anyone but bright enough that Michael’s shoulders loosened as if somebody had cut a string tied too tight around him.

“You are ridiculous,” she whispered.

“I’m serious,” he murmured, though his smile gave him away. “Had me sittin’ there listenin’ like, ‘Now why she singin’ to everybody but me?’”

“I was not singing to everybody.”

“You sure?”

“Michael.”

“I’m just askin’, Delilah, ’cause folks was lookin’ real moved by it.”

Her eyes narrowed, playful now, the old rhythm sliding back between them with terrifying ease, and Michael leaned just a fraction closer, close enough that she could see herself reflected faintly in his aviators, white gown and warm skin distorted in the dark glass, like he was carrying a secret version of her no one else could touch.

“You jealous of a record?” she asked.

“I ain’t say jealous,” he replied softly. “I said I had questions.”

“Questions?”

“A few.”

“Such as?”

His mouth curved, but there was yearning under it, no hard swagger, no cheap confidence, only a man trying to make a joke out of the fact that he had been aching for years and did not quite know where to put it now that she was beside him.

“Such as how you gon’ make a whole album sound like midnight and not tell me where you learned to sing like that.”

Delilah’s face warmed despite the cameras, despite the noise, despite the fact that she was grown now and had been praised by people far more polished than the boy beside her, because Michael did not compliment her like he was admiring a product or appraising a woman in a dress; he said it like he had been listening for the girl he lost and found a goddess instead.

“You heard it?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

His head turned fully then, and even behind the aviators, she felt the weight of his eyes.

“Every song.”

Something in her chest tightened.

“Every song?”

“Every song,” he repeated, quieter, and there was no teasing left in him now. “More than once.”

Delilah looked toward the stage because she needed somewhere else to put her face, needed the glow of the room and the movement of presenters and the rustle of programs to steady her, but Michael did not let the moment run away completely.

“You still write in them margins?” he asked.

Her head turned back before she could pretend indifference.

“What?”

“In your songbooks,” he said, his voice softening further. “You used to write lyrics on one page and then write little notes to yourself in the margins like you was fussin’ at the song.”

Delilah’s mouth parted, and for a moment the Grammys disappeared, the whole room folding itself into the cramped backroom of a tour bus where a sixteen-year-old boy leaned over her shoulder, smelling faintly of stage sweat and soap, asking what word she had crossed out and why she hated it so much.

“You remember that?”

Michael gave her a look, gentle and almost wounded by the question.

“I remember everything about you.”

The sentence landed between them with enough weight to make both of them go still.

Delilah turned her eyes down to her lap, and Michael immediately wished he had said it differently, lighter, easier, wrapped it in humor before placing it at her feet, because he could be bold when he was singing, bold when the lights demanded it, but with Delilah he was still that boy in the hospital room kissing her hand and lying badly about checking her temperature.

“I ain’t mean to—”

“No,” she interrupted softly, looking back up at him with something fragile tucked behind her composure. “No, I remember too.”

His breath caught.

She let the words sit for a second, then added, because she needed air before the moment became too much, “I remember you cheating at Scrabble.”

Michael recoiled slightly, offended down to the bone.

“I ain’t never cheated at Scrabble.”

“You absolutely cheated at Scrabble.”

“How you cheat at Scrabble?”

“Making up words.”

“They was real words.”

“‘Shamone’ was not worth thirty-two points, Michael.”

“It had feeling.”

Delilah laughed again, and this time the laugh softened into something that stayed on her face afterward, a little smile full of memory and ache, and Michael watched it with open hunger now, not the kind that lowered itself to the body first but the kind that wanted to sit beside her for hours and collect every expression she had learned in his absence.

“You still hate raw tomato?” he asked suddenly.

She groaned, covering her face with one hand.

“Don’t start that.”

“You do.”

“I have taste.”

“You used to pick it out your sandwiches like somebody put poison in there.”

“Because they did.”

Michael’s smile widened, and the sight made Delilah’s stomach flutter against her will, because he had grown into himself too, not just the performer the whole world worshipped, but a man with sharper lines in his face, a quieter command in his posture, a carefulness that looked almost regal beneath the shine of his jacket, as if Apollo had stepped off his chariot and tried to pretend he did not miss being a boy.

“You look happy tonight,” she said, though she was not sure it was true.

Michael’s smile shifted, becoming smaller and more complicated.

“I’m tryin’ to be.”

“That ain’t the same.”

“No,” he admitted, his thumb dragging once over the program again. “It ain’t.”

Delilah studied him, the old concern rising before she could stop it, and Michael saw that too, saw the way her eyes changed when she thought he was hurting, saw the same girl who had once tried to get out of a hospital bed because she wanted to visit people worse off than herself, and something in him leaned toward that kindness like a starving thing toward warmth.

“You should be proud,” she said. “This is your night.”

“It was.”

“Was?”

His head tilted, and there was that softness again, that shy little confidence that did not know whether it had permission but stepped forward anyway.

“Then you sat down.”

Delilah stared at him, then shook her head slowly, though her smile betrayed her.

“You been practicing smooth talk since I last saw you?”

“Maybe I had time.”

“Seven years?”

“Plenty time.”

“And this the best you got?”

He laughed under his breath, and the sound brushed across her like velvet.

“Nah, I’m holdin’ back.”

“For what?”

His answer came after a pause, quiet and warm.

“So I don’t scare you off again.”

The humor thinned.

Delilah’s smile softened, and for the first time that night, she let herself look at him without the armor of celebrity, without the careful calm she had learned in rooms full of executives and critics and men who thought mystery meant availability.

“You didn’t scare me off, Michael.”

“I know,” he said. “But you still left.”

“I had to.”

“I know.”

“My sister—”

“I know,” he repeated, gentler, turning slightly so his shoulder angled toward hers, his voice lowering until it felt like something meant only for the two of them. “Celeste was hurt, and Jackie was wrong as hell, and I ain’t never acted like he wasn’t, not even in my own mind.”

Delilah swallowed, surprised by the firmness in him, by the way his mouth tightened around his brother’s name as if the old anger had never fully cooled.

“I hated it,” Michael continued, not loud, not dramatic, but honest enough that every word seemed to cost him. “I hated what he did to her, hated what it did to your family, but I’d be lyin’ if I said I ain’t hate what it took from me too.”

Delilah’s eyes flickered.

“From you?”

He looked at her then, really looked, and the aviators suddenly felt unfair, too much distance for a moment that deserved his bare eyes, so he lifted one hand and slid them down just enough for her to see him over the dark rim.

“You,” he said simply.

The room kept moving around them, applause rising and falling, names being called, cameras flashing, but Delilah heard only that one word, only the way he said it without embellishment, without performance, without trying to make it prettier than the truth.

Her breath changed, soft and nearly hidden, but Michael noticed because he had always noticed her; he noticed the way her fingers stilled, the way her cheek warmed under the lights, the way she bit gently at the inside of her cheek as if trying to keep an emotion from crossing her face where the whole world might see it.

“Don’t do that,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Bite your cheek like you don’t wanna say somethin’.”

Delilah exhaled a small laugh, though her eyes had gone glossy in a way she would deny if asked.

“You remember too much.”

“I told you I remember everything.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Only if you got somethin’ to hide from me.”

She looked at him then, and the air between them warmed, not with anything vulgar or careless but with the slow, aching awareness of two people sitting close after years apart, their knees almost touching, their history breathing between them like a third body, every glance carrying the weight of hands that had once held, feet that had once played under tables, promises never made and somehow still broken.

“I might,” she said softly.

Michael’s mouth curved, but his eyes stayed tender.

“Then I got time.”

“You always this patient now?”

“No.”

The honesty made her laugh.

“I was gon’ say.”

“I’m patient with things I want to keep,” he said, and then, as if the words had embarrassed him by arriving too naked, he looked toward the stage and added lightly, “Sometimes.”

Delilah shook her head, smiling despite the way her chest ached.

“You something else, Bambi.”

The nickname hit him so visibly that he had to lower his gaze, and the softest, most helpless smile crossed his face, one he could not have performed if he tried.

“Say that again.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“Bambi?”

His lashes lowered, and for one reckless second he looked younger, not boyish exactly, but touched by memory in a way that stripped the gold from the night and left only the two of them.

“Ain’t heard that in a long time,” he said.

“I ain’t said it in a long time.”

“You save it for me?”

“Who else I’m gon’ call Bambi?”

“I don’t know,” he said, the faint tease returning because he needed something to keep from drowning in her softness. “Denzel was sittin’ mighty close before somebody fixed that problem.”

Delilah’s eyes widened with delighted disbelief.

“So you admit it?”

“I ain’t admit nothin’.”

“You just said somebody fixed that problem.”

“Coulda been anybody.”

“You are terrible.”

“I’m improving.”

“You moved my seat because you were jealous?”

“I moved your seat because seven years was long enough,” he said, and the answer, though delivered softly, settled over her skin like a touch.

Delilah looked away first, but not before Michael saw the smile she tried to hide, the one that made his confidence bloom just a little brighter, not into arrogance, never that, but into the careful courage of a man realizing the door he had mourned might not be locked forever.

A presenter’s voice rolled across the room, calling attention back to the ceremony, and Michael sat straighter, slipping his aviators fully back into place, though his attention remained angled toward her as if some invisible string had looped around his ribs and tied him to the woman in white beside him.

“You think you gon’ win big tonight?” Delilah asked after a moment, her voice lighter now, though the question carried a little challenge beneath it.

Michael glanced at her.

“I hope so.”

“You hope so?”

“I ain’t gon’ sit here and say I know,” he replied, smiling faintly, his gloved fingers tapping once against his knee. “That’s how folks get humbled in public.”

“Smart man.”

“I try.”

Delilah leaned a little closer, careful not to let the ruffled edge of her gown catch beneath the chair, and Michael caught the movement from the corner of his eye, his whole body becoming quietly aware of her nearness, of the warmth of her shoulder, of the faint shimmer at her collarbone, of the fact that she smelled like something soft and expensive and almost familiar enough to hurt.

“So what happens if you make history tonight?” she asked.

Michael turned his head toward her slowly, sensing the game before she named it.

“What you mean?”

“I mean, if Michael Jackson breaks history tonight, what exactly does he plan to do after?”

He smiled, and this time it was not the shy boy’s smile or the superstar’s smile, but something in between, something warm and careful and daring enough to lean over the line without stepping on it.

“I was thinkin’ ’bout Studio 54,” he said. “Afterparty.”

Delilah arched a brow.

“Studio 54?”

“Mhm.”

“That don’t sound like your scene.”

“Maybe I’m full of surprises.”

“You been full of surprises since you moved my seat.”

“And you still sittin’ here.”

Her lips parted in a laugh she tried to suppress, and Michael knew then that he had her engaged in the rhythm of it, not won, not captured, not certain, but present, finally present with him after seven years of absence.

“You askin’ me to go?” she said.

“I’m askin’ you to make a bet with me.”

“A bet?”

His fingers tightened once around the program, nerves flickering beneath the smoothness of his tone, because this was the closest he had come to asking for something he truly wanted all night, and despite the trophies waiting in the dark, despite the cameras and the industry and the thunder of his own name, nothing felt more dangerous than her answer.

“If I break history tonight,” he said, voice low enough that the words seemed to travel only between their chairs, “you come with me.”

Delilah looked at him for a long moment, reading the softness beneath the challenge, the hope hidden under the flirt, the boy still there under the man in the glittering jacket, and she knew he was not asking about a party, not really.

He was asking for more time.

He was asking for a room beyond this room, a night beyond the ceremony, a chance to stand near her without assigned seating and cameras and their families’ ghosts sitting between them like unpaid debts.

“And if you don’t?” she asked.

Michael tilted his head, and his smile went small and rueful, not quite brave enough to pretend he did not care.

“If I don’t, I’ll still ask you to come,” he admitted. “Just won’t have nothin’ impressive to bargain with.”

That honesty caught her in the chest more than any polished line could have.

Delilah’s gaze softened, and her thumb brushed absently over the edge of her clutch as she pretended to consider him with great seriousness.

“You always did hate losin’ games.”

“I don’t mind losin’ if I still get to sit next to you.”

“Michael.”

“What?” he asked, all innocence, though his smile had tucked itself into one corner of his mouth. “That was smooth.”

“It was a little smooth.”

“Little?”

“Don’t get beside yourself.”

“I’m already beside you.”

Delilah stared at him, then looked down quickly, her shoulders shaking with quiet laughter, and Michael smiled at his lap like a man who had just been handed something fragile and priceless, because making her laugh after seven years felt better than applause, better than critics, better than the whole room waiting to crown him.

“All right,” she said finally.

His head turned so quickly that the light flashed across his aviators.

“All right?”

“If you break history tonight, I’ll go to Studio 54 with you.”

Michael went still, the words entering him slowly, lighting him up from the inside in a way he could not fully hide even behind tinted glass and careful posture.

“You mean that?”

“I said it, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Then don’t make me repeat myself.”

He laughed softly, but there was a tenderness in it now, a reverence, as if the bet had become a promise the moment she gave it breath.

“A’ight then,” he murmured, turning toward the stage as the next category began, though his smile stayed fixed and foolish at the edges. “Guess I gotta go make history.”

Delilah looked at him, at the glittering line of his jacket, the dark fall of curls near his cheek, the jeweled glove catching light like a star trapped on his hand, and felt something old and dangerous stir awake inside her, not the reckless crush of girlhood but a grown woman’s recognition of unfinished love, the kind that did not ask whether it was convenient before returning.

“You better,” she whispered.

Michael heard her, and without looking away from the stage, he leaned just close enough for his shoulder to brush hers, the contact brief, respectful, and devastating in its restraint.

“For you?” he said softly. “I’m gon’ try.”

One award turned into two, two turned into three, and by the time three had become seven, the room had started to feel less like an award show and more like a coronation dressed in camera flashes, applause rising again and again until it seemed the whole building had surrendered to the fact that Michael Jackson was not merely having a good night, but carving his name into history with the glittering, merciless certainty of Apollo dragging the sun across the sky.

Each time his name was called, Delilah watched him rise beside her, watched the shimmer of his jacket catch the light, watched that single jeweled glove flash like a star trapped against his hand, and though the room saw the smile, the bows, the gentle humility of a man accepting praise with his head dipped and his voice soft, Delilah saw the smaller things beneath it, the way his shoulders loosened with disbelief after the fourth win, the way his mouth parted slightly after the fifth, the way he glanced at Quincy after the sixth like even he needed confirmation that the night had not become some elaborate dream.

But after the seventh, he did not look at Quincy first.

He looked at her.

It was brief enough that anyone else might have missed it, only a small turn of his head as he sat back down beside her, his aviators low on his nose now, his dark eyes visible over the rim, bright with triumph and something far less public, something that did not belong to the cameras or the Academy or the roaring room full of people suddenly eager to say they had always believed in him.

Delilah felt the look before she fully met it, felt it settle against the side of her face like warmth from a lamp left burning in a dark window, and when she finally turned toward him, Michael’s mouth curved, not wide, not cocky, not the kind of grin men wore when they thought winning entitled them to something, but soft and almost wondering, as if every trophy placed into his hands had only made the question between them heavier.

“You countin’?” he murmured, his voice low enough that it slipped beneath the applause and found her alone.

Delilah lifted one brow, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her before she could stop it.

“I know how to count, Michael.”

“Just checkin’.”

“You checkin’ or you gloatin’?”

His smile deepened, shy at the edges and dangerous only because it was so sincere.

“I ain’t gloatin’.”

“You sittin’ there with seven Grammys and a bet in your pocket, but you ain’t gloatin’?”

“Nah,” he said, leaning a fraction closer while the next presenters crossed the stage and the room kept moving around them, loud and golden and unaware of the quiet electricity passing between their chairs. “I’m just wonderin’ what you gon’ wear to Studio 54.”

Delilah’s eyes widened, and a laugh slipped out of her before she could school it into something elegant.

“You don’t even know if you won the last one.”

“I don’t,” he agreed, and for a second the confidence softened into nerves, his fingers brushing the edge of the program again as if the paper might keep him anchored. “But I got a good-luck charm sittin’ next to me, so I’m feelin’ all right.”

“A good-luck charm?”

“Mhm.”

“So now I’m responsible for your Grammy count?”

“You responsible for a lot more than you know,” he said, and the words came out too honest, too intimate, so he immediately looked toward the stage as if the lights had suddenly required his attention.

Delilah went quiet, her gaze lingering on the line of his cheek, on the soft fall of curls against his face, on the way he could still retreat into shyness after saying something bold enough to make her heartbeat lose its place, and for a moment she saw both Michaels at once, the grown man in the glittering jacket and the boy in the cramped tour bus room, the superstar being crowned by the world and the eighteen-year-old who had sat beside her hospital bed with candy, crosswords, and panic hidden badly in his hands.

“Michael Jackson,” a stagehand whispered near the aisle, leaning down with professional urgency, “Miss Fontaine, you’re needed backstage for the next presentation.”

The spell shifted.

Delilah blinked, then turned, remembering all at once that she had a job to do, that she was not simply a woman sitting beside an old love while history assembled itself around him, but Delilah Fontaine, Grammy-winning artist in her own right, invited to present the final award of the night, the last envelope, the last name, the last possibility standing between Michael and a kind of immortality no one in the room would ever forget.

Michael looked at the stagehand, then back at Delilah, and something in his expression changed when he understood.

“You announcin’ it?” he asked quietly.

Delilah gathered her train carefully, her fingers brushing through ruffles that looked like sea foam caught in a storm, and stood with the kind of grace that made the people nearest them glance over before they knew they had done it.

“Looks like it.”

Michael’s gaze moved over her face, not her body, not the dress, not the shine of her, but her face, as if he were trying to memorize the impossible symmetry of the moment, the first girl he ever loved walking toward the stage to announce whether he would break history.

“That ain’t fair,” he said softly.

Delilah paused, looking down at him with a small smile.

“What ain’t fair?”

“You standin’ up there with my fate in your hands like that.”

Her smile warmed, but her eyes stayed steady on his.

“Your fate?”

“My evening, then.”

“That’s better.”

“And maybe my afterparty plans.”

Delilah shook her head, but there was laughter in her eyes now, the old kind, the kind that belonged to footsie beneath dinner tables and Scrabble arguments and raw tomato slander.

“You better hope they put your name in that envelope, Bambi.”

The nickname struck him in the chest as surely as any award had struck his palms, and for a moment Michael forgot the room completely, forgot Quincy sitting nearby, forgot the cameras, forgot that the whole music industry had been watching him like he was a miracle with a pulse.

He only saw her.

Delilah in white, Delilah grown, Delilah with the girl he knew still hidden in her thumbs and her cheek-biting and that soft teasing mouth, Delilah holding seven years of absence between them and somehow making it feel, for one dangerous night, like something they might finally survive.

“I’m hopin’,” he said, his voice gentler now. “But even if it ain’t, I’m glad it’s you.”

The words landed quietly, without decoration, and Delilah’s smile faltered into something softer, something too exposed for the cameras nearby, so she turned before either of them could make the moment more fragile than it already was.

As she walked away, her train whispered over the floor behind her, a pale tide following in her wake, and Michael watched her go with an ache so clean and consuming it felt almost holy, as if Venus herself had crossed the room and every man there had mistaken beauty for spectacle while he alone knew it was memory returning in a gown.

Quincy leaned toward him once Delilah disappeared backstage, his voice dry enough to crack stone.

“You been starin’ at that girl like the award’s gon’ walk off if you blink.”

Michael did not look away from the place she had vanished.

“Leave me alone, Q.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Michael finally turned, and Quincy, seeing the look on his face, the quiet devastation beneath the glittering glory of the night, softened just enough not to tease him further.

Onstage, the show rolled toward its final breath, presenters smiling, cameras shifting, applause swelling and settling like the tide, and backstage Delilah stood with the envelope in her hand, feeling its weight as if Mercury himself had delivered it from Olympus with a message meant to alter the course of mortal lives.

Her pulse had become unruly.

She could hear the host’s voice through the curtain, could hear the muffled thunder of the audience, could feel the heat of the lights waiting beyond the stage, but beneath all of that she heard Michael’s voice in her memory, low and soft beside her: If I break history tonight, you come with me.

It should have been nothing.

A bet.

A flirtation dressed in old familiarity.

A little game between two people who had known each other before the world knew how to watch them properly.

But Delilah knew better than that, because nothing between her and Michael had ever been small, not really; not the footsie under the table, not the hospital-room hand kiss he had lied about, not the seven years of silence that had stretched between them like the River Styx, not the way his eyes had found hers after each win as if the trophies mattered less than making sure she was still there to witness him receiving them.

A woman beside her adjusted the microphone cue, someone else whispered timing instructions, and Delilah nodded at all the right places, though her mind was nowhere near practical things.

She was thinking about Celeste.

She was thinking about Jackie.

She was thinking about the old line in the sand, drawn in grief and loyalty and blood-warm sisterhood, and how strange it felt to stand now at the edge of another line, one not drawn by someone else’s heartbreak but by her own desire, her own choice, her own terrifying wish to step toward the man she had never fully stopped loving.

“Miss Fontaine, you’re on.”

Delilah inhaled.

Then she stepped through the curtain.

The room opened before her in light, applause rising as she walked to the microphone, every eye turning toward her white gown, her soft auburn curls, the calm expression she had spent years perfecting, the face of a woman who had learned to make stillness look like power.

Michael watched from the audience, his body gone still again, his hands folded together in his lap, his aviators back in place though they did nothing to hide the fact that his whole attention had risen with her.

Delilah did not look at him at first.

She looked at the teleprompter, smiled at the crowd, let the applause settle, and spoke with that velvet voice that had made radios go quiet in millions of homes.

“Good evening,” she said, and the room seemed to lean toward her. “Tonight has already given us music, memory, and more than a little history.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the audience, warm and knowing, and Delilah allowed herself the smallest smile before continuing.

“The final award of the evening honors not only an album, but a world built from sound, vision, discipline, and imagination, the kind of work that reminds us why music does not simply entertain us, but follows us home, changes the temperature of our rooms, and stays with us long after the last note fades.”

Michael lowered his head slightly, and Delilah saw it from the corner of her eye, saw the way the praise hit him not as ego but as tenderness, as recognition, and some foolish part of her wanted to step off the stage, cross the room, and tell him that she had heard him too, that she had listened to Thriller alone and hated how brilliant it was because brilliance made missing him harder to justify.

Instead, she read the nominees, each name leaving her mouth smooth and measured, though her fingertips tightened around the envelope once she reached the end.

The applause rose again.

The envelope waited.

Delilah slid one finger beneath the flap and opened it carefully, her heart beating so loudly she thought the microphone might catch it, and when she looked down at the card, the name stared back at her like fate had developed a sense of theater.

For one second, just one, she forgot to breathe.

Then she smiled.

Not the Grammy smile.

Not the poised, industry smile.

A real one, helpless and bright, blooming before she could stop it, and Michael saw that smile from his seat before she said a word.

He knew.

His mouth parted slightly.

Delilah lifted her eyes from the card and found him through the crowd, found him as easily as she had found his foot beneath dinner tables and his hand beside hospital beds, and when she spoke, the whole room heard the winner, but Michael heard the promise beneath it.

“And the Grammy goes to…”

She paused, and the room held its breath.

“Michael Jackson.”

The room erupted.

Applause detonated around him, people shot to their feet, Quincy clapped with both hands raised, cameras swung toward Michael like worshippers turning toward a god newly named, but for half a heartbeat he did not move.

He sat there staring at Delilah, and she stood at the microphone staring back, both of them caught in the impossible knowledge that history had just opened its door and she was the one holding it.

Then Quincy touched his arm, and the spell broke enough for Michael to rise.

The room thundered for him as he made his way toward the stage, his body slim and glittering beneath the lights, each step measured, almost dreamlike, while Delilah waited beside the microphone with the award in both hands, her white train pooled around her feet like clouds at the edge of Olympus.

When he reached her, the applause seemed to stretch and distort around them, becoming distant, watery, less important than the small space between his hand and hers.

Delilah held the Grammy out to him.

Michael took it slowly, his fingers brushing hers in a touch so brief no camera could accuse it of anything, but it moved through both of them like lightning striking a temple roof.

“Guess you won your bet,” she whispered, barely moving her lips.

Michael leaned just close enough for the microphone not to catch him, his voice soft, breathless, and full of wonder.

“Guess you comin’ with me.”

Delilah’s eyes flickered, and that little nervous habit returned, the faint bite at the inside of her cheek, though she was smiling now, smiling like she could not quite help herself.

“Go give your speech, Bambi.”

His face changed at the nickname, the same way it had beside her seat, the same way it must have years ago when she first gave it to him, and for a moment the man who had just made history looked almost shy again.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.

Then he turned to the microphone, the Grammy in his hands, the world on its feet, and Delilah stepped slightly aside, close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to smell the faint clean sweetness of his cologne, close enough to understand that the distance of seven years had ended not with an apology, not with a dramatic declaration, but with a bet, a brush of fingers, and Michael Jackson standing beside her under the lights while history bowed its head.

He began his speech softly, thanking the people he was supposed to thank, his voice humble and careful beneath the heavy glow of the stage lights, the Grammy held between his hands like something sacred and impossible, but every few sentences his eyes slid toward Delilah for the briefest fraction of a second, as if he needed to make sure she had not disappeared again, as if seven years of absence had taught him that joy could be snatched away in the time it took to blink.

“I wanna thank God first,” Michael said, and the room quieted beneath the sincerity of it, beneath that soft, trembling reverence that made him sound, for all his glitter and history, like a boy standing barefoot at the foot of an altar. “I wanna thank my mother, my family, Quincy, Rod, everybody who helped build this album from a dream into somethin’ real, everybody who gave their time, their hands, their prayers, their faith.”

The audience applauded, but Michael did not seem to hear it the way he was supposed to, because some part of him had already stepped away from the ceremony and into a dimmer, holier room inside himself, the room where Delilah had lived untouched by cameras, untouched by gossip, untouched even by the silence that had kept them apart.

He looked down at the award, and the gold of it caught the light like a small sun in his palms, yet his expression was not triumphant as much as it was overwhelmed, as if all the noise in the room had parted like the Red Sea and left him staring at the one truth he had carried across the wilderness.

“And I wanna thank…” He stopped, swallowed, then let out a faint breath that shook at the edges, his lashes lowering for a moment before he looked up again. “I wanna thank someone I have been thankin’ in my heart for a very long time, even when I didn’t have the right to say her name out loud.”

Delilah’s smile faltered.

Not enough for the room to call it distress, not enough for the cameras to make a scandal of it yet, but enough for Michael to see the girl beneath the woman, the old Delilah inside the white gown, the one who used to bite the inside of her cheek when emotion threatened to climb too high.

He saw it and nearly lost his place.

Because there she was.

His Tinky.

His first muse.

His unfinished prayer.

The woman he had dreamt of for years and woken from like a man dragged back from paradise too soon, the woman whose voice had slipped through speakers and into his rooms like incense under a temple door, the woman he had written around, written toward, written through, turning the ache of her absence into bridges, bass lines, hidden harmonies, and melodies that would outlive the ache that made them.

“I learned a long time ago,” he continued, voice softening until the microphone seemed to carry not sound but confession, “that a song can come from places you ain’t ready to speak on yet. Sometimes it come from joy, sometimes it come from pain, and sometimes it come from missin’ somebody so long that the missin’ becomes its own language.”

The room went still.

Quincy, seated below, lifted his chin slightly, suddenly understanding that Michael had wandered far beyond the safe borders of an acceptance speech and into the dangerous country of the heart, where every sentence carried a match and every pause smelled faintly of smoke.

Michael turned his head, just slightly, toward Delilah.

“There is a word for that,” he said. “Saudade.”

Delilah’s fingers tightened around the side of her gown.

“It means a kind of longing that don’t know how to end,” he said, and his voice thinned with tenderness, not weakness, but tenderness so deep it seemed to bruise him on its way out. “It means missin’ someone like they are still with you, like your soul done kept a place set for them at the table, like every room you walk into knows who ain’t there.”

The audience had become a held breath.

Michael looked back toward the crowd, but he was not speaking to them anymore.

“I knew no end to it,” he said. “No end to missin’ her, no end to wonderin’ where she was, no end to hearin’ her voice and feelin’ like the Lord had let me hear heaven but not enter it.”

Delilah’s breath caught, and the sound was so small no microphone could have captured it, but Michael heard it because Michael had always heard her, even in crowded rooms, even beneath applause, even across seven years of silence.

He turned then, not fully, but enough that the gesture became unmistakable, enough that every camera knew where the gravity of the room had shifted.

“Delilah Fontaine,” he said, and her name came from him like scripture, like a psalm remembered in childhood and spoken again after years of wandering.

A murmur moved through the room, soft and startled, but Michael did not flinch from it.

If anything, the sound steadied him.

Because there had been too many years of quiet.

Too many unsent calls.

Too many songs written with her ghost sitting at the piano bench beside him.

Too many nights where he woke from dreams of her and spent days recovering from the cruelty of having touched happiness only in sleep.

“You were my muse before I knew what a muse was,” he said, eyes fixed on her now, his voice growing more fragile and more certain at the same time, the way a candle becomes most beautiful when the room darkens around it. “Before I had language for it, before I understood why your laugh stayed in my head longer than applause, before I knew why every song I loved felt unfinished if I couldn’t imagine you hearin’ it.”

Delilah’s eyes shone beneath the stage lights, and Michael had to look at her hands to survive her face, because if he looked too long, he feared he might forget the room altogether and speak with no restraint left.

“I have written about her in ways nobody knows,” he continued, and his fingers curved tighter around the Grammy. “Not always in names. Not always in words. Sometimes in a pause before the chorus. Sometimes in a note held longer than it had to be. Sometimes in the space between one breath and the next. I put her in songs the way old builders put gold behind cathedral walls, knowin’ maybe nobody would ever see it, but God would know it was there.”

Delilah’s lips parted.

The image struck her harder than a simple declaration could have, because she understood then that Michael had not merely missed her, had not merely remembered her as a sweet childhood wound or a girl from Motown hallways; he had carried her into his work the way monks once carried illuminated scripture, hidden in detail, patient in devotion, every brush of gold placed by hand for a beloved who might never come close enough to read it.

“I immortalized her before I had permission,” he said, and the confession trembled with guilt as much as love. “In music, in movement, in dreams, in the kind of silence a man keeps when he know he ain’t supposed to reach for what he still prays over.”

His eyes lifted to hers again.

“And I did pray,” he said, softer. “Not always right, maybe not always clean, but I prayed. I prayed she was safe. I prayed she was loved. I prayed her voice stayed hers. I prayed the world was gentle with her, even when I couldn’t be near enough to ask it myself.”

Delilah lowered her gaze, and one tear slipped free before she could stop it, sliding over the careful elegance of her face with such quiet dignity that the sight of it nearly split him open.

He stepped away from the microphone then.

Only one step.

Only enough to reach her.

The room stirred, cameras adjusting, audience members leaning forward, every person present suddenly aware they were no longer watching an award acceptance but something rarer and far more dangerous: a wound being opened in public and turning, somehow, into a vow.

Michael shifted the Grammy into his left hand and held out his right, bare and trembling slightly, not commanding, not claiming, not pulling her into spectacle, only offering.

Delilah stared at his hand.

For one terrible, breathless moment, the seven years stood between them like a wall of salt.

Celeste’s tears.

Jackie’s betrayal.

The studio floor.

The hospital bed.

The silence.

The records.

The dreams.

The love neither of them had been allowed to bury properly.

Then Delilah placed her hand in his.

The audience exhaled as if the whole room had been waiting for permission to breathe.

Michael’s fingers closed around hers with devastating care, and his face changed, not dramatically, not theatrically, but with the quiet ruin of a man touching home after years in exile.

He looked at their joined hands like Thomas might have looked upon proof of resurrection, like faith had become flesh beneath his palm.

“This album changed my life,” he said, returning his gaze to the microphone though he did not let go of her. “But she changed the room my life happened in.”

Delilah’s hand tightened faintly around his.

Michael felt it and nearly smiled, though the emotion in his throat made the expression tremble before it could fully form.

“She taught me that softness can have a spine,” he said. “That quiet can still command. That a person can leave and still be present in everything you make, not because you want to suffer, but because some people mark you so deeply that forgettin’ them would mean forgettin’ yourself.”

There was no applause now.

Only silence.

The kind of silence that gathers before a storm breaks, before a bride speaks, before a king lays down his crown, before Juliet looks over the balcony and hears her name become a fate.

Michael turned back to Delilah, and the whole stage seemed to narrow around them.

“I have spent years dreamin’ of you,” he said, not loudly, but every word carried. “And it has taken me days, sometimes, to recover from a dream with you in it, because I would wake up and the room would still be there, and my work would still be there, and all the people who needed me would still be there, but you would not.”

Delilah’s face folded around the pain of it, and Michael immediately softened his hold on her hand, as if afraid even his truth might hurt her too much.

“I ain’t sayin’ that to burden you,” he whispered, though the microphone loved him too much and carried it anyway. “I’m sayin’ it because tonight, for the first time in seven years, I ain’t dreamin’.”

A sound moved through the audience, low and emotional, but Michael did not look away from her.

He lifted the Grammy between them, the gold catching fire beneath the lights, then lowered it carefully into Delilah’s free hand.

She shook her head before he even let go.

“Michael,” she whispered, and the word broke in her mouth.

He smiled at her then, small and aching, so full of tenderness it seemed almost indecent for the world to witness.

“This one belongs to you.”

“No,” she breathed.

“Yes,” he said gently. “Because I know what they gon’ write. They gon’ say I broke history tonight. They gon’ say Thriller did somethin’ nobody seen before. They gon’ say a lot of things, and maybe some of it true.”

He guided her fingers around the base of the award, his hand warm over hers, steadying her beneath the weight of it.

“But before tonight was history,” he said, “it was longing. It was labor. It was loneliness. It was me reachin’ for somethin’ I could not name without sayin’ yours.”

Delilah’s tears were falling now, silent and furious in their restraint, and she hated that the world could see them, hated that every camera had been invited to the most tender room inside her, but she could not pull her hand away from his, could not reject the gold he had placed in her palm like a burnt offering laid at the foot of an altar.

“You were in the art,” he said. “Even when you were absent from my life, you were not absent from my work. You were the lamp in the window. The letter I never sent. The hymn under the melody. The garden I kept returnin’ to in my sleep.”

He looked down once, breath shaking.

“And I know I had no right.”

That made her look up sharply.

Michael’s face was open now in a way she had never seen, not even in the hospital, not even as children, because this was not a boy’s shy confession or a star’s polished speech; this was a man placing his heart on a public altar and waiting to see whether heaven would consume it or spare it.

“I know I had no right to keep you in my songs when life said I had to let you go,” he said. “I know your silence had reasons. I know your loyalty had a name. I know pain drew that line in the sand, and I know you ain’t draw it to hurt me.”

Delilah’s mouth trembled.

“But I need you to know,” he continued, voice lowering, “I never stood on my side of that line and stopped lovin’ you.”

The room broke.

Not into applause yet, not fully, but into sound, into soft gasps and murmurs and hands pressed to mouths, because there was no mistaking it now, no hiding the shape of what he had said beneath artistic gratitude or poetic metaphor.

Michael Jackson, crowned by the world, had turned to Delilah Fontaine and confessed like a man at judgment.

“I tried to be good,” he said, almost laughing at himself, though the laugh was wet with feeling. “I tried to be respectful. I tried not to reach where I wasn’t welcome. I tried to let the years teach me sense.”

His thumb moved once over her knuckles.

“They ain’t teach me nothin’ but how much I missed you.”

Delilah let out the smallest, broken breath, and Michael held it in his chest like a relic.

“I am not askin’ you for an answer tonight,” he said, and that gentleness, that restraint after so much exposure, broke her more than pressure ever could have. “I ain’t askin’ you to fix seven years under these lights. I ain’t askin’ you to forget what happened, or who got hurt, or what love cost your sister. I am only thankin’ you, Delilah, because my heart has been callin’ your name for longer than my mouth was allowed to, and tonight I finally get to say it where you can hear me.”

Her fingers tightened around his.

Michael inhaled, unsteady, then looked toward the audience at last, though his body remained angled toward her as if he could not bear to turn fully away.

“So thank you,” he said, voice nearly breaking. “Thank you for the dreams I survived. Thank you for the songs I built from missin’ you. Thank you for bein’ the quiet in the middle of the noise. Thank you for bein’ the part of the music I kept safe, even from myself.”

The applause began then, not sudden but swelling, rising like a tide beneath the stage, the room coming to its feet slowly and then all at once, but Michael did not release her hand, and Delilah did not return the Grammy.

She stood beside him with his history in her hand and his confession in her chest, and for a moment she looked less like a woman accepting a public honor than a saint in a painting receiving a golden flame, trembling not because she was weak but because revelation had weight.

Michael stepped closer, close enough that the cameras could capture the intimacy but not the words he spoke next.

“You don’t gotta forgive me for lovin’ you this loud,” he whispered. “But I had to stop pretendin’ it was quiet.”

Delilah looked at him through her tears.

“You are impossible,” she whispered back.

His smile trembled.

“I know.”

“You gave me your Grammy.”

“I did.”

“In front of everybody.”

“I did that too.”

“You always been dramatic.”

A laugh broke through his emotion, soft and boyish, and the sound loosened something in her chest that had been locked for seven years.

“And you always been actin’ like you don’t like it,” he murmured.

Delilah stared at him, and there, beneath the lights, with the room clapping around them like thunder over Olympus and heaven, she saw both versions of him at once: the boy who had kissed her hand in a hospital room and lied about it, and the man who had just handed her proof of his life’s work because he believed some part of it belonged to her.

Her heart broke for the years.

It came together for the moment.

She looked down at the Grammy, then at their joined hands, then back at him.

“This don’t fix everything,” she said softly.

Michael’s expression gentled at once.

“I know.”

“We have things to talk about.”

They barely made it through the door of Delilah’s penthouse before all the restraint they had worn so beautifully in public came apart in the privacy of marble floors, soft lamplight, and the city glittering far beneath them like a thousand stolen stars scattered across black velvet.

The door swung open too hard, striking the wall with a dull, expensive thud neither of them cared enough to notice, because Michael had one hand at her waist and the other pressed to the doorframe as Delilah pulled him in by the front of that glittering jacket, both of them laughing into each other’s mouths with the kind of breathless disbelief that belonged to people who had spent seven years starving and had finally been seated before the feast.

It was not graceful at first.

It was not careful or cinematic or polished enough for the world that had just watched him stand beneath lights and speak of muses, dreams, prayers, and longing like a man confessing at the altar.

It was messy in the foyer, hungry in the hallway, tender in all the places hunger could have turned selfish but did not, Michael’s back meeting the closed door as Delilah kissed him like she was trying to find the boy she had lost inside the man who had returned to her, while he held her like he had already learned the cost of letting go and did not intend to pay it twice.

“Tinky,” he breathed against her mouth, and the nickname sounded different here, not sweetly nostalgic beneath Grammy lights, not teasing across childhood board games, but low and shaken in the dim warmth of her home, a name dragged through years of silence and finally allowed to touch skin.

“Don’t Tinky me now,” Delilah murmured, though she was already smiling, already reaching for the edge of his aviators with fingers that trembled just enough to betray her. “You gave a whole sermon in front of everybody, Michael Jackson.”

He let her slide the glasses from his face, let her see him fully, soft brown eyes bare and bright with everything he had not been able to fit into that speech, everything too private for microphones and too sacred for applause.

“I meant every word,” he said.

“I know you did,” she whispered, and that was the trouble, because if he had been dramatic for drama’s sake she might have laughed him off, might have told him he was doing too much, might have slipped neatly back into the life she had built without him, but Michael had stood on that stage and told the truth so plainly that it had reached into the locked room of her heart and turned the key like it had always belonged there.

His jeweled glove came off first, not with performance but with desperation disguised as patience, Delilah tugging it from his hand and letting it fall somewhere near the door as if history itself could wait on the floor for once, and Michael looked at the abandoned glove, then at her, his mouth curving with that shy, disbelieving smile that made her want to ruin all his composure on principle.

“You just throwin’ my things around now?”

“You gave me a Grammy,” she said, walking him backward by the lapels until he nearly stumbled over the edge of her ruffled train. “I figured we past manners.”

Michael laughed, soft and startled, and caught her before either of them could trip, his hands landing at her waist with a firmness that made her breath change, his thumbs pressing through the delicate fabric as if he had to remind himself she was real, that this was not another dream he would spend days recovering from, that she was not about to vanish with the morning and leave him alone with the cruelty of memory.

“You always been bossy,” he murmured.

“You always liked it.”

His eyes lifted to hers, and the air between them tightened so quickly that Delilah’s teasing smile softened around the edges.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now. “I did.”

The honesty made something warm and helpless open inside her, and she kissed him again before either of them could speak too much and turn the moment fragile, her hands sliding beneath the sharp shoulders of his jacket, pushing it back until all those sequins and gold details slipped from him like armor being removed after battle.

Michael let it fall.

Let the jacket drop from his shoulders and land in a glittering heap on her polished floor, let the room take him down from myth to man piece by piece, until he stood before her in softer layers, breathing harder than he wanted to admit, looking at her as if she had been the only award he had wanted to bring home all night.

Delilah’s coat went next, the cloudlike ruffles sliding from her shoulders under his careful hands, Michael slowing despite himself when the fabric caught at her arms, his fingers gentle as he freed her, his mouth following the bare line of her shoulder with kisses that were less possession than gratitude, less hunger than recognition.

Seven years had made them ravenous, but it had also made them reverent.

That was the ache of it.

They wanted each other badly, yes, wanted with all the force of old silence, wanted with the helplessness of interrupted youth and unfinished love, but beneath every kiss there was the tenderness of people touching a bruise they had both carried separately, the breathless shock of realizing the other person had been wounded in the same place.

“You really listened to all my records?” Delilah asked, though her voice had gone soft and uneven as he kissed the side of her neck, his curls brushing her cheek, his hand warm at the small of her back.

Michael lifted his head just enough to look at her.

“Every one.”

“You ain’t skip nothin’?”

“Not one song.”

“Even the sad ones?”

His mouth softened.

“Especially them.”

Delilah swallowed, and for a second the passion in the room gave way to something deeper and more dangerous, because there was desire, and then there was being known, and Michael had somehow managed to arrive at her door carrying both.

She tried to look away, but he touched her chin lightly, not forcing, only asking, and when she let him turn her face back to his, the kiss that followed was slower than the others, almost unbearably intimate, as if he was not simply kissing her mouth but apologizing to every year that had stood between them.

“You know,” she murmured against him, mischief returning because the feeling was getting too big and she needed somewhere to put it, “you lucky I ain’t got nobody waitin’ in here.”

Michael went still.

Not stiff, not angry, not cruel, but still enough that Delilah felt the shift in him immediately, felt his hand pause at her waist and his breath catch against her cheek.

She pulled back just enough to see his face.

His eyes had narrowed slightly, not with arrogance, not with ownership, but with that wounded, disbelieving look that made him seem at once grown and terribly young.

“Somebody?” he repeated.

Delilah bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“Mhm.”

“In here?”

“Could be.”

Michael looked past her into the dim, immaculate sweep of the penthouse, at the grand piano near the windows, the low cream sofa, the flowers arranged on the glass table, the stack of records beside the stereo, the city blazing behind it all, then looked back at her with a softness that did not quite hide the jealousy moving under his skin.

“You play too much, girl.”

“Do I?”

“You know you do.”

“What if I had a man?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then rose again, slower this time, and when he spoke his voice was quiet, careful, and edged with feeling he was trying very hard not to let turn sharp.

“Then I’d be standin’ here lookin’ real foolish.”

Delilah’s smile faded a little because he did not take the bait the way most men would have, did not puff up, did not make some claim he had no right to make, did not turn her joke into a demand.

He simply looked at her with seven years of yearning in his face and let the hurt show.

“I ain’t got nobody,” she whispered.

Michael exhaled, almost a laugh, almost a prayer.

“I know.”

Her brows lifted.

“You know?”

“I hoped,” he corrected, his mouth curving faintly, shy now that the danger had passed. “I hoped real hard.”

Delilah shook her head, smiling despite the ache pressing behind her ribs.

“You something else.”

“I been told.”

“By who?”

He leaned closer, brushing his nose against hers with a tenderness that made the marble foyer feel like the smallest room in the world.

“By this girl I used to know.”

Delilah’s breath caught, and Michael kissed her again before she could answer, before she could tell him that girl had never stopped knowing him, not really, not even when loyalty and grief had shut every door between them.

They moved deeper into the penthouse in uneven steps, kissing between breaths, laughing when her train tangled around his ankle, stopping when Michael bent to free the fabric with such solemn concentration that Delilah had to grip the wall to keep from melting right there in the hallway.

“Bambi, if you don’t leave that dress alone—”

“I’m tryna save it,” he said, looking up at her from where he had crouched, one hand carefully lifting the white shimmer away from his shoe. “You come in here lookin’ like a whole angel and expect me to let you tear it?”

“You sayin’ I look like an angel?”

He stood slowly, close enough that his chest brushed hers.

“I’m sayin’ if angels look like you, I understand why men be fallin’ to their knees.”

Delilah stared at him.

Michael’s confidence lasted exactly three seconds before he looked embarrassed by his own mouth, his eyes dropping with a small laugh as if he could not believe he had said it out loud.

“That was too much?”

“It was a lot.”

“I can take it back.”

“Don’t you dare.”

His smile came back then, soft and relieved, and Delilah reached for him again, pulling him down by his loosened collar, because there was only so much yearning a woman could be expected to survive while standing upright.

By the time they reached the living room, the city lights were flickering behind the glass like witnesses sworn to secrecy, his jacket lay forgotten by the door, her ruffled coat had fallen along the hallway like a shed cloud, his aviators were somewhere on the console table, and the Grammy he had given her sat gleaming beneath a lamp as if it had been placed there to watch over whatever fragile, feverish thing had begun again between them.

Michael paused when he saw it, the award catching gold in the corner of his eye.

Delilah followed his gaze, then looked back at him.

“You really gave me your Grammy.”

“I told you why.”

“You gave me history.”

He shook his head, stepping closer until his hands found hers again, bare fingers sliding between hers as if their bodies remembered the shape before their minds could question it.

“Nah,” he said softly. “I gave history back to the woman who helped me survive it.”

Delilah’s face changed, the teasing leaving her all at once, and Michael lifted their joined hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles the way he had done in that hospital room seven years earlier, only this time he did not lie about it, did not call it checking her temperature, did not hide from the sweetness of being caught.

He looked up at her over their hands.

“I missed you,” he whispered. “Not like folks say it when they ain’t seen somebody in a while. I missed you like somethin’ in me stayed hungry.”

Delilah’s eyes shone.

“Michael…”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know we got things to talk about. I know tonight don’t fix it all.”

His thumb stroked over her hand, slow and reverent.

“But can I just hold you for a minute like I found you?”

That broke her.

Not the speech, not the Grammy, not the kisses at the door, but that simple request, that yearning stripped of performance and poetry, that boyish ache inside the man who had just made history and still stood in her living room asking permission to hold what he had lost.

Delilah stepped into him.

Michael wrapped his arms around her immediately, gathering her against him with a sound that was almost relief, his face turning into her hair, her hands sliding up his back, both of them going still in the middle of all that heat because the embrace itself was a kind of hunger too.

For a while, there was no rush.

Only his breathing against her temple.

Only her fingers pressing into the fabric at his back.

Only the city below them, the Grammy beneath the lamp, the forgotten layers scattered like evidence of a storm that had finally found shore.

Then Delilah lifted her face from his chest and looked up at him, her smile small, wet-eyed, and dangerous.

“One minute over?”

Michael’s gaze dropped to her mouth.

“Not even close.”

“Good,” she whispered.

And when she kissed him again, Michael answered like a man who had spent seven years dreaming of her and had finally woken up with heaven in his hands.

Michael kissed her like he had been trying not to for seven years, like every polite smile, every swallowed phone call, every song written around her absence, every dream he had woken from with an ache in his chest had finally gathered itself into his mouth and found nowhere else to go.

It was not frantic in the careless way of strangers who only knew wanting by its hunger, but it was desperate all the same, desperate with memory, desperate with grief, desperate with the strange, holy terror of touching someone familiar and changed at once, because Delilah’s mouth was still Delilah’s and yet not the same as it had been in girlhood, softer now, surer now, carrying the taste of champagne, lipstick, and a woman who had lived a whole life on the other side of his silence.

His hands moved carefully at first, as if some part of him was still afraid of startling her away, one palm spread warm against her waist while the other traced the line of her back through the delicate shimmer of her gown, and Delilah felt him pause at the zipper like a question, like a prayer left unopened on an altar.

She answered by kissing him deeper.

Michael exhaled against her mouth, a soft, broken sound that made her fingers tighten in his shirt, and only then did he draw the zipper down slowly, inch by inch, the faint whisper of it almost swallowed by the city humming beyond the glass and the uneven rhythm of their breathing.

“I don’t wanna be friends,” he murmured, the words spoken against the corner of her mouth as if he could not bear to pull away far enough to say them properly.

Delilah stilled beneath his hands, not because she was afraid, but because the sentence struck too cleanly, too directly, cutting through all the pretty fog of the night and finding the old wound still waiting underneath.

Michael lifted his head just enough to look at her, his eyes bare now, no aviators, no stage lights, no applause to soften the truth in them, only that deep brown ache she had known since childhood, bright and pleading and stubborn all at once.

“I mean it, ’Lilah,” he said, voice low, careful, carrying that Gary softness around the edges, the kind that made every word feel both gentle and firm. “I don’t wanna sit up in your life pretendin’ I ain’t loved you since before I had good sense. I don’t wanna shake your hand, call you an old friend, ask about your records like I ain’t listened to ’em in the dark missin’ you past reason.”

Her dress loosened beneath his fingers, the white fabric easing from her shoulders just enough for cool air to kiss the skin he had uncovered, and Michael’s gaze did not drop in a way that made her feel looked at like spectacle; he watched her face instead, watched the way her lashes trembled, the way her lips parted, the way she tried to hold herself together while he took the old silence apart seam by seam.

“I can be patient,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the bare line at the top of her back with such tenderness that it felt less like seduction than devotion. “I can be careful. I can court you proper, take you out, call when I say I’m gon’ call, show up how a man supposed to show up, but I can’t be your friend like that’s all this ever was.”

Delilah swallowed, her eyes shining as she looked up at him.

“Mikey…”

“No, listen to me, baby,” he said softly, not commanding her so much as begging her not to hide from the thing standing between them. “Please.”

The word softened everything.

She nodded once, and his hand stilled at her back, the zipper halfway down, his palm warm over the opening as though he were holding the gown together by will alone, as though even now he wanted her to know that nothing would come apart unless she let it.

“I don’t wanna be punished for Jackie’s sins no more,” Michael said, and the quiet hurt in his voice made Delilah’s face change. “I know what he did. I know he hurt Celeste. I know your sister had every right to be mad, and I ain’t never gon’ tell you she didn’t. But I didn’t do that to her, ’Lilah.”

His voice cracked faintly on her name, and she reached for him without thinking, her fingers sliding up to cup the side of his face.

“I know,” she whispered.

His eyes searched hers, almost disbelieving, like those two words had been something he had waited years to hear from her mouth.

“I didn’t do that to you either,” he continued, softer now, leaning into her touch despite himself. “But I lost you like I had.”

The ache of it entered the room and changed the air.

For a moment, they were no longer standing in her penthouse with his Grammy glowing beneath the lamp and their formal clothes coming undone around them; they were back in every place they had been denied, the studio after the screaming, the hospital room with his hand around hers, the silent years where her records found him but her voice never did.

Delilah’s thumb brushed his cheek, slow and trembling.

“I thought I was doing right by her,” she said.

“I know you did.”

“She was my sister.”

“I know.”

“She was broken, Michael.”

“I know that too,” he murmured, and his eyes softened because he did know, because he had seen enough pain in his own house to recognize when love became a wound everybody else had to walk around carefully. “But we grown now.”

The words landed between them like a door opening.

Michael lowered his forehead to hers, breathing her in, his hand still at her back, his mouth close enough to touch but not yet taking.

“We grown now, Delilah,” he repeated, quieter, firmer, like he needed both of them to believe it. “We ain’t them kids sneakin’ footsie under the table no more. We ain’t sittin’ on no tour bus scared to say what we mean. We ain’t gotta let everybody else’s hurt decide what we allowed to have.”

Delilah closed her eyes because the truth of it hurt, because freedom sometimes arrived carrying guilt in both hands, because loving him had always felt simple in her body and complicated everywhere else.

Michael kissed her closed eyelid, then the tear that had gathered at the corner, his mouth so careful there it nearly broke her.

“I missed you,” he breathed. “God help me, I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” she whispered, and his whole body seemed to receive the words before his mind did, his shoulders falling, his breath leaving him like a man finally set down after carrying something too heavy for too long.

He kissed her again then, slower this time, deeper in feeling than in force, his hand finishing the path of the zipper with reverent care until the dress loosened around her like a secret slipping free, and Delilah let it, let the gown give way from her shoulders as she stepped closer into him, not because seven years could be erased by one night, but because they could at least stop pretending the wanting had died.

Michael’s hands found her again through the loosened fabric, warm and shaking slightly, and Delilah gave a small laugh against his mouth when she felt it.

“You nervous?”

He huffed softly, embarrassed but honest.

“Girl, I just made history in front of everybody and somehow you still the one who got me scared.”

That made her smile, tender and wicked all at once.

“You scared of me, Bambi?”

His eyes darkened with feeling, not lust alone but the terrible intimacy of being known by someone who remembered him before the world did.

“Terrified,” he said. “But I’m stayin’.”

Delilah’s smile faded into something softer, something that trembled at the edges, and she pulled him back down to her mouth.

“Then stay.”

Michael kissed her like an answer, like a vow, like the first honest thing after seven years of borrowed silence. Behind them the abandoned layers of the night lay scattered across her penthouse floor — sequins, ruffles, gloves, pride, grief, history — while the two of them stood wrapped in the fragile, burning truth that they were no longer children, no longer innocent casualties of someone else’s war, and no longer willing to call longing by any smaller name.

Delilah gently pushed him back until the cold concrete wall pressed firm against his shoulder blades. Michael resisted the instinctive shiver that threatened to move through him as her hands settled against his chest, those same hands he had spent years holding in hospital rooms, under dinner tables, and in the cramped backrooms of tour buses, the same hands he had once laughingly smacked away whenever he suspected her of cheating at their favorite games, those very same hands reached for the button of his slacks and unzipped them, the metal clinking as her knuckles brushed aaginst the vee of his waistband. He exhaled something that was a breath of her name as the rush of cold air made him shiver as his length swelled free from its confines, relieved to no longer be tucked against his waistband as he’d done earlier tonight when he’d watched her hips switch as she walked to the stage to present him with his award. However he wasn't left cold for long, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as she wrapped her hand around him and sank to her knees, her dress bunching up beneath her. 

“Delilah–”

“ I missed you, baby… let me show you how much, don’t think… jus’ focus on me.”

His head tipped against the wall, his hand immediately going to her scalp, faltering for a moment as if shy, then settling into a tight fist at his side. The night continued around them as she began – slow, tortuously slow– her tongue tracing the vein that made him go weak in the knees as he let out a sound he was sure would make him blush later on. 

Delilah responded to the praise, eager to hear him again, she responded with a deeper and deliberate swirl, eager to taste all of him and to be flushed with his pelvis. Curling her hand into a fist she was able to do just that as her throat relaxed as she took as much as she could, recalling the trick she read in that one Playboy magazine she found in his bedroom cupboard when she was sixteen.

Michael’s eyes fluttered shut as he searched for purchase on any surface around him, his hands slipping and sliding against the wall as he fought for purchase, his sanity slipping bit by bit as Delilah deepthroated him, she darted her tongue out to lick his balls, leaving no crevice untouched by her tongue. She leaned back slightly, watching as he slipped out of her mouth, slick with her saliva, and she wrapped her hand around him, jerking him as she looked up at him, noting how stiff he looked above her as his hazy eyes met her own, nothing but lust, love and desire swimming in their gazes.

“Touch me, baby,” she whispered as she looked up at him. A determined fire in her gaze as she reached for his hand and put it in her hair, a quiet intensity as she encouraged him to grip her strands. She didn’t want him shy; she wanted him to throw caution to the wind, wanted him to shed the skin finally he wore for everyone else; she wanted to see who he actually was.

She was getting just that because he couldn’t look away from her. Delilah, who looked so put together at some point, had black tears staining her cheeks. Her lipstick smeared on his shaft and across her cheek. She looked a mess, but she looked so beautiful… so beautiful. So much so that he reached for the Polaroid beside him that rested on a shelf, watching as she didn't take the movement into account, eager to wring him for all he was worth. 

Flicking the camera open, he gently cupped her cheek, willing her to look up at him, his dick snug between her plush lips and down her throat made him throb as he fought not to orgasm right then and there – and it was a fight – he willed himself to remain on task. He snapped the picture, the white flash illuminating the dark room for a moment before the shutter closed. He reached for it, flapping it back and forth as it developed. What followed became a fevered blur of Polaroid flashes and whispered laughter, the little camera catching fragments of Delilah as Michael saw her in that private, worshipful light, desire hanging heavy in the room like incense before an altar while their perfumes, sweat, and history mingled until the night itself seemed to forget where one of them ended and the other began; by the time the city darkened beyond the windows and dawn began to loosen its pale fingers over the skyline, whatever passed between them had become something so tender, consuming, and sacred that even Venus might have turned away with reddened cheeks, leaving Mars to guard the door while Cupid scattered the last arrows of their restraint across the floor, and after that, seven years was no longer merely a wound between them, but the very reason their passion burned with the force of something lost, mourned, and finally returned.

Michael didn’t mean to listen in on his older brothers, but he couldn’t help but listen as the conversation got raunchier. He continued drawing in his notebook as their laughter only got louder.

“Okay but what’s better giving or getting?” Tito asked. “Oh I love to eat.” Jackie shrugged. “I don’t know man, I’m more of a receiver.” Jermaine said.

Michael’s eyebrows raised, eyes darting up quickly to view his brothers lounging around the living room. Eat? He wondered but he was too scared to ask questions but he believes he was getting the gist.

“Man I made this one girl cum from my tongue, she been obsessed ever since.” Jackie shook his head with a laugh. Michael was officially intrigued but still acted as if he wasn’t listening. He gently chewed on his bottom lip, the idea of pleasing someone else sounding a bit too interesting in his head.

It was night time and he was under the covers trying to go to sleep. For some reason he couldn’t get the idea out of his head. He hasn’t even kissed a girl, better yet be in a relationship. Hearing about his brother’s experience sparked an igniting light in his head that wouldn’t go out.

The only girl he had contact with outside of family was his childhood best friend. She was a carbon copy of him, the two quiet—but talented—kids always in their own world.

They were practically attached at the hip, and the family allowed her around often, her quiet and sweet nature triggering a sense of a protective empathetic energy in all of them.

Maybe she knows something about it, and would be willing to teach him. His eyes drifted off, his bestfriend in his mind.

“Hi Mikey.” The girl enthusiastically said practically skipping inside of his room. “Hi pretty!” He excitedly said reaching the middle to wrap his arms around her.

He invited the girl that morning, ready to ask her if she could teach him how to go down on her. He trusted her like no other, and she was always honest and kind to him.

They embraced each other in a hug. No matter how many times they see each other, they have the same reaction everytime. He pulled away and glanced at her outfit, his eyebrows shooting up.

He couldn’t ignore the way his heartbeat picked up seeing her plaid two piece outfit. The soft supple skin of her thighs and tummy were visible and he unconsciously clenched his jaw.

She noticed his eyes on her outfit, “do you like it?” She smiled doing a spin, making his eyes drop to the fat of her ass. He took a sharp inhale, feeling the twitch in his boxers.

Of course there were times he looked at his best friend in a non platonic manner, she was absolutely beautiful in his eyes. He never made it obvious, always calming himself down before he could make any rash decisions.

“Y-yes it’s so nice.” He said as she turned to make eye contact with him. He suddenly felt too nervous to ask, the question seeming more daunting than before.

She took a seat on his bed, her white sock covered feet swinging in the air. “Why do you look so nervous?” She giggled causing a warmth to spread in his heart.

“No, I’m fine.” He gave her an angelic smile hiding the fact he’s itching to touch every single part of her. He took a seat next to her staring at his lap as he fiddled with his fingers.

Her presence next to him felt heavy, a thick heavy feeling. “You know you can talk to me Mikey.” Her angelic voice reassured him, nudging his shoulder. His eyes averted to her thick thighs, skin seeming freshly moisturized.

“I-I wanted to ask if you ev-” his words were cut off as his door fully opened showcasing Randy. “Mike we’re about to head out for lunch. Did you guys want to come?” The younger boy asked.

Michael glanced at you before shaking his head, “we’ll stay here.” He answered seeing this as the perfect opportunity. His hands felt clammy even thinking about it but had a feeling of excitement as well.

“Did you want me to bring you anything?” Randy asked, eyes landing on her. Michael wanted to roll his eyes but resisted, Randy’s crush on the older girl has been more than obvious.

“I’m okay, thank you Randy.” She smiled and he nodded sheepishly closing the door fully. As the door clicks shut, the gravity of his mind settled back.

“What were you gonna ask?” She turned to face him now sitting criss cross on his bed. His eyes darted towards the middle of her shorts, glancing back up at her eyes hoping she didn’t notice.

“H-have you ever been um…licked?” He asked suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed. Her eyebrows pinched together in confusion, “like a puppy?”

He shook his head, “not really, like…licked down there.” He said motioning between her legs. Her eyes widened, breath catching in her chest.

She shook her head quickly, face heating up at the thought. The vivid imagination of Michael’s face slurping at her middle made her stomach flip. She blinked rapidly trying to shoo the thought away as she felt herself get wet.

“Oh! I-I heard my brothers mention it. C-can we try it?—we don’t have to if you don’t want to, I was just curious.” He spout, words flowing so quickly not giving her time to process.

His eyes looked down in shame, feeling as if she was going to slap him and run out at any minute. “O-okay we can.” She answered making him look at her in shock.

“R-really?” He was surprised she agreed, and she nodded shyly. The two sat in a silence for a minute, not too sure of how to start. The room felt smaller even while they were the only two in the house.

She cleared her throat and scooted back a bit lying flat on her back. His eyes trailed her body, licking his lips. She looked at his eyes, a bit darker than normal. “O-okay, I’m going to take your shorts off now.” He told her.

She nodded, and his shaky hands reached up grasping the waistband of the plaid shorts. He tugged them down her legs, boner jumping at the view her white panties.

He almost drooled noticing the wet spot feeling like a dog. Her chest moved up and down, feeling even more turned on at him looking at her panties.

“Y-you can take ‘em off.” She told him and his doe eyes glanced up at her face nodding. He gently grabbed at the waistband of her panties, feeling even more nervous.

He was so close to her bare pussy being right in front of his face. He could practically smell her arousal, shifting his hips at the tight space in his boxers.

He glided them down her legs until they reached his carpet. He choked back a moan seeing her glistening pussy, saliva filled his mouth, the desire to lick her becoming stronger.

“W-where should I lick?” He asked practically shaking. As much as he wants to go in, he wants to make sure he’s doing it right. “Um…” she sat up on her elbows trying to think of where he should start.

She never exactly analyzed her private parts, occasionally rutting against a pillow at night when she couldn’t help herself. Thoughts of Michael’s hand touching her, plaguing her mind through the night.

“try right there.” She said spreading her folds with one hand, and using her pointer finger to motion towards her clit. He nodded, biting his bottom lip at her spreading herself for him.

He leaned in, meeting her eyes, not wanting to miss her reaction just in case. His hands settled on the edge of the bed as his tongue came out to deliver a soft lick against her clit.

The wet warm touch caused her to let out a small moan, immediately feeling the pleasure from the small contact. He swallowed, her taste becoming addictive to him. She tasted so plain with a slight sweetness to it. He couldn’t help but wanted more.

“Should I keep goin’?” He asked curiously and she nodded. “Please.”

His eyes fluttered close at her pleas as his tongue met her cunt once again, flicking her clit around. Her moans became a bit louder as they naturally flowed out of her mouth.

Noticing her moans of pleasure, he took a chance and suctioned his mouth around her clit, giving it a gentle suck to test the waters. It seemed as if she absolutely crumbled, letting out a cry looking down at him.

His doe eyes met hers back, disconnecting his lips in worry. “Are you okay?” He asked with concern. She nodded quickly, desperate to feel his mouth again. “d-do it again please!” She begged. He didn’t hesitate to comply going back to suck on her clit.

Her hips bucked into his mouth, catching him by surprise. Her hand grasped his soft curls making him whimper into her. He finally found the courage—or maybe just his mind clouded by her taste—and brought his hands to hold open her legs.

Hunger surged through him, flattening his tongue on her pussy, dragging it up and down. “Mikey! I-it’s feels so good.” Her whiny voice called out making his dick jump.

He was in absolute heaven having his best friend spread out for him while letting him eat her soaking pussy. One of his hands trailed down his body landing at his denim jeans. His tongue didn’t stop its movement as he unbuttoned his jeans, tugging them down along with his boxers.

His hard flushed eased out, air brushing against it. He wrapped his hand around his thick dick, pulsing in his hand. The whimper he let out was buried in her pussy as he continued to eat, stroking his dick while he was at it.

Her hips continued to buck into his mouth, eyes rolling back as her hand gripped his curls in ecstasy. It felt like she was having an out of body experience as his tongue swirled around, making sloppy noises as he ate.

“Mikey oh my god!” She squealed. His pre-cum eased out of his tip, wetting his dick in the process as he stroked it rapidly, chasing his own release of pleasure. Her legs shook on the verge of closing in on his head.

His free hand kept a tight grip on her thigh not wanting to let up. He lapped at her, coating his jaw and nose with her wetness. “Mikey…it’s gon’ come out.” She whined not knowing the exact word for it.

“Man I made this one girl cum from my tongue, she been obsessed ever since.”

Jackie’s words crossed his mind. Maybe that’s what she’s about to do.

Michael continued only seeming more aggressive with his movements. The quick fapping sound from his hand collided with the sounds of his slurping causing her eyes to roll back realizing he’s pleasuring himself as well.

Feeling his own release grow closer, his moans slipped between his constant nuzzling of his tongue. As she was on the tip of her release, her wet hole slightly opened. Michael’s tongue naturally slipped inside.

Her hands gripped the sheets tightly as his tongue continuously shoved inside her. He realized he was practically fucking her with his mouth, the thought making his own eyes roll back.

Her mouth dropped open in a silent moan as she began to gush on his tongue. Her legs shook, entire body twitching on his bed. It felt like everything just went quiet in her head as she felt the crash of her orgasm.

As he felt her contract against his tongue, he finally fisted his own orgasm out of his himself, covering his fist with ropes of his nut, hips bucking into his hand.

His mouth didn’t come up off of her even as she whined, his mind was too focused on emptying his balls with his tongue buried inside of her. He delivered the last few final sucks on her clit before laying his head on her thigh.

They both panted heavily, the house now quiet. “W-was that okay pretty?” He asked glancing up at her face. She nodded not finding the words to speak, clit throbbing at the most intense orgasm she ever had.

1977new york

"Tell me everything," Stephanie Mills says to you as soon as she flops down on the couch in the apartment you share, her voice already full of energy despite the long day she's had. The cushions dip under her weight as she settles in like she's been waiting all day for this exact moment, and in a way, she has.

The apartment still carries the quiet warmth of dinner plates left behind on the small table, the faint scent of food lingering in the air, the kind of lived-in comfort that comes from the two of you slowly making this space your own over the past few months. You two had been living together for a couple of months now, the space slowly becoming something comfortable, something familiar.

You're originally from California, but first Broadway paid for your living expenses, and then, when Motown bought you out of your contract so you could be hired for the movie, they took over paying for your living expenses since you had to relocate across the country. It still feels surreal sometimes, how quickly everything shifted, how one opportunity folded into another until you ended up here, building something entirely new in a city that never really slows down.

Stephanie had just finished her evening rehearsal, the kind of long, exhausting day that still somehow leaves her buzzing with energy, especially with shows for the week starting again tomorrow. She had called to see if you were already home, and the moment she confirmed that you were, it was only a matter of time before she showed up ready to talk.

She wanted to know everything about your first week working on set, but you knew she really wanted to know how your first week was working with Michael. You had been able to avoid her questioning all week because you're both on opposite schedules, with you being on set and her doing shows, but you knew she'd hound you about it eventually.

"I showed up for work... Michael Thomas showed me around, I did my work for the week, I came home," you say, your tone deliberately flat as you lean back slightly, already knowing exactly what kind of reaction it's going to get from her.

It doesn't disappoint.

Her eyes narrow immediately, her lips pressing into a straight line as she lets out a small, exaggerated huff, and the look she gives you is so pointed that it pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop it.

"Now you know that's not what I'm talkin' about," she says.

"I know," you say, smiling just enough to let her know you're messing with her, and she rolls her eyes, but there's nothing serious in it. It's all familiar, all easy, the kind of back-and-forth the two of you slip into without thinking.

"So?" she asks.

You let the moment stretch just a second longer before giving in, your smile softening as you shift slightly on the couch.

"So, it was a normal first week. Michael's shy and adorable, but I think he's starting to loosen up a bit. The music helps," you say.

Stephanie's expression shifts immediately, a knowing smirk pulling at her lips as she leans back against the couch. "You do have a knack for knowing just what album to put on. Have you put on one of his yet?" she asks.

You laugh, shaking your head as you glance down for a second.

"I thought about it, but he's so shy, I don't want to make him self-conscious," you say, the words coming easier now, more natural, like talking about him doesn't feel as unfamiliar as it did a few days ago. "But we have six months to be on set, so one of his albums or his albums with his brothers will come eventually," you add, and that earns another laugh from both of you.

"I knew you two would get along," Stephanie says, her tone light but her expression a little too satisfied, like she's quietly taking credit for something you're not entirely ready to acknowledge yet.

"It's only been a week, Steph... he's very quiet, but he's very adorable," you say, and the way you say it makes her smile widen just slightly, like she's filing something away for later.

"Hmm... you two will be in love by the end of the movie," she says.

You laugh immediately, shaking your head as you grab the nearest pillow and toss it at her, the soft impact against her side only making her laugh harder.

"What time do you have to be up tomorrow?" Stephanie asks after a moment, her voice settling as the laughter fades into something quieter.

You glance at the clock, the numbers glowing back at you, and the reality of your schedule settles in with a small sigh.

"At 4," you say.

She nods, unsurprised.

"Me too... oh, the lives we live," Stephanie says, pushing herself up from the couch as you do the same, both of you moving through the apartment in that familiar end-of-night rhythm. You gather the dishes from dinner and bring them to the sink, letting them rest there with the quiet promise that you'll deal with them later, while she stretches slightly, already halfway into winding down.

There's a shared understanding between you: early mornings, long days, and the kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones without asking permission.

You walk down the short hallway together, the apartment dimmer now, softer, the day finally catching up to both of you. "See you bright and early," you say.

Stephanie turns toward her room, smiling. "Dream of Michael tonight," she teases.

You laugh, shaking your head as you push your door open.

"Shut up, Steph," you say, and the sound of your laughter overlaps for a moment before you both disappear into your rooms, the apartment settling into quiet behind you.

When you finally lie down, the exhaustion is there, heavy and real, but your mind doesn't immediately follow it into sleep. Instead, it drifts, pulling your thoughts back to the set, to the rhythm of the week, to the quiet moments that had already started to feel familiar.

To him.

You think about the way he sits in your chair, the way he's started to relax without realizing it, the way his voice softens when he talks, the way he hums when he forgets to hold it back. You wonder if that will continue, if he'll keep opening up in those small, unguarded ways, or if something will shift and he'll retreat again, pulling back into himself the way you know he's used to doing.

There's no way to know yet.

Only time would tell.

────୨ৎ────

two weeks later

The last two weeks had gone better.

Not just in the way things ran smoother on set, or how your hands moved more confidently through the process you were still perfecting, but in the quieter, more important ways: the ones that couldn't be measured or timed. The shift had been gradual, almost unnoticeable at first, but now that you were standing in it, you could feel it clearly.

Michael was starting to loosen up.

You saw it in the small things first, the kind of changes that might've gone unnoticed if you hadn't been paying such close attention. The way he leaned into your touch now, when you worked, instead of flinching away from it, like your hands had become something familiar rather than something he needed to brace himself for. 

The way his humming had grown more frequent, less restrained, sometimes drifting into quiet singing when he forgot himself enough to let it happen. The way conversation no longer felt like something you had to carefully coax out of him, but something that came more naturally, filling the space between you without effort.

He had started asking you about California, about what it was like growing up there, about the differences between there and New York, his curiosity genuine in a way that made it easy to answer. And in return, he gave you pieces of himself, stories about Gary, Indiana, about his childhood, about moments with his brothers that seemed to exist somewhere between memory and comfort.

But even as he opened up, you could feel it, the line he didn't cross.

There were still parts of his life that stayed just out of reach, things he brushed past or softened or avoided entirely, and you didn't need him to say it outright to understand that there was more beneath the surface. You heard it in the way he spoke, in the details he chose to share and the ones he didn't, in the way his stories lingered in certain places and rushed through others.

He talked about his brothers easily, those moments coming with a warmth that felt steady, familiar, something he could hold onto without hesitation. Whether it was memories at home or stories from touring, those were the pieces he seemed most comfortable giving.

And then there was his mother.

You noticed how his smile softened whenever he mentioned her, how something in his expression eased in a way that didn't happen anywhere else, like even speaking about her brought him a kind of quiet peace.

But his father, that was different.

You saw it every time, even when he tried to hide it. The tension that crept into his shoulders, the way his voice would shift just slightly, the way the mention never lasted long before he moved on, redirecting the conversation like he needed to put distance between himself and whatever thoughts were trying to surface.

And you never pushed.

You never asked questions that would force him to go somewhere he wasn't ready to go, never lingered on the things he tried to move past. You took what he gave you, accepted it without expectation, because more than anything, you wanted him to feel comfortable.

And he was starting to.

The makeup trailer had become something more than just a place for work. Sitting in your chair, surrounded by the quiet hum of music and the steady rhythm the two of you had built, it had become a space where he didn't have to carry everything he was outside of it. Where he didn't have to be Michael Jackson, the performer, the rising actor, the name people recognized before they knew him.

He could just be Michael.

And maybe that was why he started to stay a little longer. Why he talked a little more. Why the silence between you didn't feel uncertain anymore, but settled, easy, something neither of you felt the need to fill.

Lunch had become part of that, too.

At first, he hadn't let himself believe it meant anything. That first day, he had convinced himself you were just being nice, that it was something temporary, something polite that would fade once the novelty wore off. But then you kept showing up. Every day, the same table, the same easy presence, the same quiet consistency that didn't ask for anything in return.

And eventually, he stopped questioning it. He let himself believe that you were sitting with him because you wanted to. Believing that he mattered to you in a way that didn't feel performative or expected.

Somewhere along the way, without fully realizing when it happened, he had started to look forward to it. Not just lunch, not just the routine, but the time he got to spend with you, the hours in the chair, the quiet conversations, the way everything felt simpler when it was just the two of you.

He wasn't sure when it had shifted, but it had. And now, standing outside the makeup trailer, he felt it clearly.

He had gotten there early.

The hallway was still quiet, the kind of stillness that only existed before the day fully started, and he lingered just outside the door, hands tucked into his pockets, his posture relaxed in a way it hadn't been weeks ago. There was no uncertainty in why he was there, no hesitation in the way he waited.

He just wanted to be there before you were, so he could see you first.

Less than five minutes pass before he sees you approaching, your bag slung over your shoulder, a cup of coffee in your hands, your steps familiar now in a way he's come to recognize without thinking about it. And when you spot him already standing there, something in your stomach tightens unexpectedly, not uncomfortable, not alarming, but something softer, something that catches you off guard in a way that feels... endearing.

Especially when he smiles.

That same soft, shy smile that has become easier for him to give, less guarded than it used to be, even if it still carries that hint of hesitation at the edges.

"Hi, Michael... am I late?" you ask, glancing down at the watch on your wrist, the habit automatic. You take your work seriously, always have, and even though time has a way of slipping from you sometimes, this isn't something you let yourself be careless about.

He shakes his head quickly.

"No, no... you're right on time. I'm early, I'm sorry," he says, the apology slipping out instinctively, like he doesn't even think about it before it's there.

You exhale in relief, the tension easing immediately, but the apology makes you pause, your head tilting slightly as you look at him. "Don't apologize, you didn't do anything wrong," you say.

You unlock the trailer, pushing the door open as you both step inside, the familiar space settling around you as you flip on the lights. The soft hum of electricity fills the quiet, and without hesitation, Michael moves to the chair, taking his usual seat like it's second nature now.

"Just give me like ten minutes to set everything up," you say.

He nods, watching you for a moment before speaking again. "I was wondering... could I pick the album today?" Michael asks.

You turn toward him, a smile already forming before you can stop it, and you gesture toward the shelf in the corner where your vinyls sit.

"Of course," you say.

He stands from the chair, moving toward the collection with a quiet kind of focus, his fingers brushing lightly over the spines as he looks through them. There's something almost careful about the way he does it, like he's not just picking music, but choosing something that matters, something that will fill the space between you in a way he hasn't controlled before.

You watch him for just a second before turning back to your setup, your hands moving through the motions automatically, but your attention lingers.

He had never asked that before.

And something about that, something small, something simple, makes your chest tighten in a way you don't fully understand yet. Because just like him, you've started to look forward to this too.

The time in the trailer. The quiet conversations. The lunches. The moments where you step out onto the set just to watch him, to see the way he transforms into something entirely different, only to come back to you at the end of it all.

It's been... endearing, more than you expected.

Michael's eyes light up when he finds the album he was looking for, the quiet excitement in his expression soft but unmistakable, and he walks over to the record player, carefully setting it in place as the moment settles around the two of you.

You recognize the opening notes of What's Going On by Marvin Gaye the moment the needle settles, the soft, familiar sound filling the trailer in a way that feels warm and grounding, and you can't help the smile that spreads across your face as you glance over at him.

"Nice pick," you say.

Michael looks up at you, and there's a quiet kind of pride in his smile, not showy or bold, just soft and pleased in a way that feels very him.

"You have a great collection," Michael says, and the compliment catches you just enough that you feel the warmth rise to your cheeks, your fingers pausing for half a second before you continue moving through your setup.

"That's not even half of it... That's just what I bring to work with me," you say, and there's a lightness in your voice, but there's truth in it too. Music has always been something personal for you, something you've built over time, something that reflects pieces of who you are.

Michael's smile shifts slightly at that, something more curious settling into his expression.

"I'd love to see what else you have," Michael says.

The words land simply, but they linger longer than they should, and you feel the heat return to your cheeks almost instantly, the implication of it, unintentional as it is, catching you off guard. You see it happen in real time on his face too, the moment it clicks for him, the way his eyes widen just slightly as he realizes how it might've sounded.

"I didn't mean it like—I'm sorry—" he stumbles, the words tripping over each other as he tries to correct himself, his shoulders tensing as if he's already bracing for having said the wrong thing.

You shake your head quickly, cutting off the spiral before it can fully take hold.

"No... no, it's okay. I know what you meant," you say, your voice soft but steady, grounding the moment before it can turn into something awkward.

He's still blushing, though, the color lingering across his cheeks as he looks at you, a little embarrassed, a little unsure.

"I can bring more in... for you to see," you add, your smile small but genuine.

That eases something in him. "Only if you want to," he says.

There's no expectation in it, no assumption, just that same careful consideration he always carries, like he's making sure he doesn't ask for too much, doesn't take up more space than he should.

"Letting a musical genius judge my album collection does sound a little scary... but I think I can handle it," you say, a hint of teasing slipping into your voice.

Michael shakes his head immediately, his teeth catching his bottom lip in that shy, instinctive way he always does when he's not quite sure how to take a compliment, his reaction automatic, like he doesn't fully believe the words even as they settle somewhere inside him.

"You really think so?" he asks. There's something quiet in the question, something genuine, like he's not asking for validation but still hoping for it anyway.

"Do I think I can handle it? Or do I think you're a musical genius? Because the answer to both is yes," you say.

The smile comes a little easier now, less restrained than it used to be, but there's still something quiet in it, something that doesn't fully believe what it's being given. He wished he had the confidence to speak about himself the way you speak about him, to say things like that without second-guessing them, without feeling like they didn't quite belong to him. 

Compliments from you always settle in him differently than compliments from others, not loud or overwhelming, but steady, like something he can sit with a little longer before it slips away.

"I won't judge too harshly," Michael says.

"I'll make sure I only bring in the best for you," you reply, turning fully toward him now that everything is set, your attention shifting back to him completely.

There's a small pause, just a moment where the music fills the space between you, the rhythm of it blending into the quiet familiarity that has started to define these mornings, and then you smile again.

"Ready to become Mr. Scarecrow?" you ask.

Michael nods, that same soft smile still resting on his lips, but there's something more settled in him now, something more certain.

"Yeah, I'm ready."

────୨ৎ────

You and Michael sat at lunch together later that day, settled into your usual spot in a way that no longer felt accidental or new, but expected, like the two of you had quietly claimed it without ever needing to say so. The rest of the room moved around you the way it always did: voices overlapping, laughter rising from the other tables, the steady hum of the set carrying on, but it felt distant in comparison, like it belonged to a different space than the one the two of you occupied.

Michael was telling you about how his day on set had been so far, his voice softer than most around you but noticeably more relaxed than it had been in those first few days, the words coming easier now, less filtered, less carefully measured before he let them out. 

You had been able to come watch a little bit of filming earlier, had stood just off to the side watching him move through the scene, watching the way he transformed so completely when he stepped into the Scarecrow, all hesitation gone in a way that still fascinated you, but you had been pulled away before you could stay long when Michael Thomas needed you for something. Now you were filling in the rest through him, listening as he spoke, your attention steady on him in the quiet way it always seemed to be now.

And then, in the middle of talking, he just stopped.

The shift is subtle, but you feel it immediately, your brows lifting slightly as you look at him, waiting for him to finish what he was saying, but instead of continuing, he lets out a small laugh, something soft and unguarded that pulls your attention even more. His gaze shifts past you, something warm settling into his expression, and when you turn to follow it, your eyes widen the moment you see her.

"Steph, what are you doing here?"

Stephanie stands behind you like she's always belonged in the space, her presence as effortless and familiar as ever, and before the moment can settle, she's already moving, already sliding into the seat at your table like she's been part of this conversation the whole time.

"We have some time between rehearsal and the show, so I wanted to come see my friends," she says with an easy shrug, reaching over without hesitation to steal a piece of fruit from your plate in a way that feels so normal you don't even react beyond the smallest shift of your gaze.

Michael watches the interaction, really watches it: the ease, the familiarity, the way you don't question it, and then he looks at you, something amused and quietly understanding settling into his expression.

"So, I see where you get it from," Michael says in a knowingly teasing tone to you.

You laugh, shaking your head as the sound slips out of you easily, louder than it ever is in the quiet of the makeup trailer. Stephanie's eyes flick between the two of you immediately, picking up on the tone, the comfort, and the way the two of you sit together like this isn't new anymore. Michael catches the look she's giving, and instead of shrinking away from it the way he might have weeks ago, he lets himself smile.

"She likes stealing food from my plate," he explains.

Stephanie turns to you with a slow, knowing smile, the kind that already carries teasing before she even speaks. "Oh, does she now?"

You can hear it in her voice, the way she stretches the question just enough to make it clear she's enjoying this more than she probably should, and you shake your head, even though there's a small smile pulling at your lips. "Only when he's not eating."

Stephanie laughs at that, leaning back slightly, clearly satisfied, while Michael watches the two of you with a quiet kind of ease, not withdrawing, not shrinking, just sitting in it in a way that feels different than before, like he belongs in the middle of it instead of just observing from the outside.

"I also came because I wanted to ask you both if you'd come to the show tonight, and then we'll go to Studio 54 afterwards."

Your reaction is immediate, your eyes widening as the words settle in, because of course you've heard of Studio 54, everyone has, the stories, the reputation, the way it exists as something larger than life in the city, and you've wanted to go, even if you haven't had the time since everything started moving so quickly for you here.

"That sounds fun," you say, nodding, the excitement slipping into your voice without you trying to hide it.

Stephanie smiles at that, clearly pleased, before turning her attention to Michael.

"What about you, Mike? LaToya's living out here with you, too, right? You can bring her too if that'll make you more comfortable."

You see the shift in him, subtle but familiar, the way the shyness edges back in for a moment as he considers it, but then his gaze moves to you, and something about your expression, the openness, the excitement, the sincerity, grounds him again.

It answers something he hasn't dared to ask out loud: spending time with you outside of set. He doesn't have to wonder if you'd say yes, doesn't have to risk the hesitation or the possibility of you brushing it off, because you're already you want to be there, and now all he has to do is step the opportunity sitting right in front of him, exactly how he would've wanted it, without him having to force the moment or stumble through the words to ask you.

"Yeah... I'll go. I'll talk to LaToya too, I'm sure she'd love to come, too."

Stephanie's eyes move between the two of you, and there's a quiet satisfaction there, like she knows exactly what she's just set in motion. "Great! We're gonna have so much fun. Michael, do you think you can handle being the only man in a sea of 3 women?"

Michael laughs softly, his head dipping slightly as his teeth catch his bottom lip, that familiar habit still there but softer now, less tied to nerves and more to something closer to ease. "Well, one of them is just LaToya, so I think I'll be fine."

The three of you laugh together, the sound overlapping easily, and it feels natural in a way that doesn't need effort, like this dynamic has found its place without anyone forcing it. "So, how has set been? You miss Broadway yet?"

You shake your head, smiling as you lean back slightly. "I mean, my side of things kind of runs the same. Getting people ready, doing touch-ups when necessary, so it's been nice."

"Fair enough," Stephanie says, and then Michael gestures to himself, still fully dressed as the Scarecrow, the makeup transforming him completely, even now as he sits across from you.

"As you can see, she does amazing work." The compliment lands quickly, but it settles deeper than most, warmth rising to your cheeks before you can stop it, something about hearing it from him making it linger just a little longer.

"She does, you look really good, Mike," Stephanie adds, and Michael smiles at that.

"Thank you."

You glance at her, your own smile returning. "I guess I should thank you, too."

Stephanie laughs, and the rest of lunch passes like that, conversation flowing without effort, the three of you slipping into an easy rhythm of talking, smiling, and laughing in a way that makes the time feel shorter than it actually is.

Eventually, it ends the way it has to.

Stephanie gets pulled back to Broadway, her schedule calling her away just as quickly as she arrived, and you tell her you'll see her tonight, the excitement still sitting in your chest as something to look forward to. Then it's just you and Michael again, the space shifting slightly, quieter but not empty, and as you both stand to head back, he turns toward you just enough to catch your attention.

"I can walk you back," he offers.

And there's something in the way he says it, something soft but intentional, that makes it feel like more than just convenience.

So you let him.

"Will you come watch some? The filming, I mean," he says, and you smile, the invitation landing softer than his words, like something he's been holding onto for longer than just this moment.

"Yeah, I'll come watch," you say, and Michael smiles, and there's something in the way his shoulders ease at your answer that doesn't go unnoticed, because he always feels it when you're there. The long hours he's spent in your makeup chair the last few weeks have made him keenly aware of your presence, not just physically but in the way it settles him, and he actually feels more relaxed when he knows you're there watching, like there's something steady to hold onto in the middle of everything else that demands so much from him.

"I think you'll like my sister... she always knows how to have a good time," Michael says, and you smile, because you are looking forward to meeting LaToya. When Michael would talk to you about his family, it always seemed his happiest memories came from spending time with his brothers and his three sisters, and you could hear it in his voice every time, the way it softened without him realizing it, the way those moments came easier than anything else he shared. 

You can tell by the way he talks about them that he loves them a lot; it only makes you miss your own brother more, the thought slipping in quietly but pressing just enough to make you aware of it.

"I'm looking forward to meeting her," you say with a small smile.

"Do you have any siblings? I don't know if I have asked you that one yet," Michael says, and you falter just a little bit, the pause brief but real, your mind catching up to the question before your expression can fully react, smoothing it over before it becomes something he could notice.

"Yeah... I had a brother, he um... died in a car accident a few years back," you say, and Michael stops walking immediately, the shift in him so instinctive it pulls you to a stop too. He turns toward you, concern coating his eyes in a way that's unfiltered, like everything else has dropped away except what you just said.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—" You cut him off and shake your head before he can carry that weight any further.

"No... Michael, it's fine... I love hearing about your family, and I love how close you are to your siblings. It helps, in a way," you say, your voice softer now but steady, because it's true, even if it feels strange admitting it out loud, that hearing him talk about them doesn't make the loss heavier, it makes it feel a little less distant.

Michael nods, a small smile forming, not out of misplaced comfort but recognition.

"I kind of get it... Marlon was supposed to be a twin, but our brother Brandon died shortly after they were born... I think that's part of the reason why we're so close, because I was born a little over a year after," Michael says, and you nod, your chest tightening at the thought of it, not just for him, but for Marlon, for their mother, for a loss that existed long before he could understand it.

"You're kind of like his twin," you say, and Michael nods, that same small smile staying with him, and you hold onto the idea for a second, the way something lost found a different shape instead of disappearing completely.

"If you ever want to talk about your brother... You know, if sharing your favorite memories or anything helps, I'm here," Michael says softly, and you smile, because you had thought about it, more than once, about choosing the memories that didn't hurt, about letting them exist without the weight that usually followed.

"He was really into photography, and he had this Polaroid camera that he took everywhere with him... and we'd spend hours taking pictures of anything and make photo albums," you say, and as you say it, the memory comes with it, clearer than you expect, not sharp or painful, just there, like something you could reach for again.

"I love taking pictures too... It's nice to look back and see a memory and remember how you felt that day," Michael says, and you nod, because that's exactly it, not just the image but the feeling attached to it, the way it pulls you back into something you don't want to forget.

"Yeah... I still have the camera, just haven't found the right occasion to bring it back out," you say, and Michael nods, understanding sitting easily with him, like he knows what it means to hold onto something until you're ready.

The two of you walk the rest of the way to the makeup trailer in silence, but it's not uncomfortable; it's settled, the kind of quiet that doesn't need to be filled because everything that matters has already been said. You open the door and pause in the doorway, turning slightly toward him.

"Do you need a touch-up before going back?" you ask, and Michael shakes his head.

"I don't think so, but I can't really tell... do you think I do?" he asks, and you smile a little, shaking your head as you look at him, really look at him for a second longer than necessary.

"Nope... you're perfect," you say, and even through the layers of makeup and prosthetics, the words land, his face flushing beneath it, and he was grateful that the Scarecrow makeup kept it hidden from.

"So... I'll see you out there?" he asks.

"Yes, you will," you say, and he smiles again before turning, heading back down the hall toward the set. You watch him disappear from view, your breath catching slightly before you let it go, the moment settling in a way that feels different from the way it would have weeks ago.

You hadn't talked about your brother with anyone but Stephanie, but opening up to Michael... you felt safe, and something inside of you was already shifting, something quiet but steady, something that didn't want to let whatever you were starting to feel for him go.

This was going to be a good six months.

1992 california

As you sat inside the audition room, you were nervous.

Not because of the audition itself. Auditions had become second nature to you years ago after spending most of your adult life under bright lights and critical eyes, learning how to command a room the moment you stepped into it. You had walked the biggest runways in the world, posed for photographers whose names carried as much weight as movie stars, and built a career strong enough that people now recognized your face before they recognized your name. Normally, none of this would have rattled you.

But this felt strange.

The room was too quiet, too empty, and the silence around you only made the unease sitting in your chest grow heavier with every passing minute. Your eyes drifted toward the door again before moving around the waiting area, noticing for what had to be the tenth time that there were no other women here. No assistants moving in and out with clipboards. No models flipping through magazines while pretending not to stare each other down. No low hum of conversation that usually came with auditions in Los Angeles.

It was just you.

And that was exactly what made you nervous.

You barely even knew what you were auditioning for. Amelia had simply told you that it was for a music video and that the artist personally requested you by name, though even she hadn't been told who the artist actually was. The secrecy surrounding the entire thing had unsettled you from the beginning, enough that you almost declined before curiosity got the better of you, but now that you were sitting here alone with nothing except your thoughts for company, a sinking feeling had started settling deeper and deeper into your stomach.

You were just hoping it wasn't the artist you were thinking of, because the media had not allowed you to escape him since your breakup.

Michael Jackson.

Even after two years apart, his presence still lingered everywhere around you, no matter how hard you tried to move forward with your life. His songs played constantly on every radio station, his short films dominated MTV, and his face stared back at you from magazine covers in grocery store checkout lines, airports, hotel lobbies, and newsstands across every city you traveled through. There were nights you would walk into clubs with friends only to hear his voice booming through the speakers minutes later, forcing old memories to rise before you had time to brace yourself against them.

It felt impossible to outrun him.

But then again, what else was to be expected when Michael had become bigger than celebrity itself? The Bad tour had only cemented him further into a level of fame most people could not even comprehend, and now Dangerous had pushed him right back into the center of the world's attention all over again.

You bought the album the day it came out, because of course you did. Loving Michael hadn't stopped simply because the relationship had.

Some of the songs, though, had nearly destroyed you the first time you listened to them alone in your apartment. There were lyrics woven into the album that you recognized immediately because you remembered hearing fragments of them years earlier when it had only been the two of you tangled together in hotel beds after long flights or sitting awake in the middle of the night while Michael scribbled ideas into notebooks beside you. You remembered melodies hummed softly against your skin while he absentmindedly traced shapes along your arm, remembered hearing pieces of songs before the world ever would.

Dangerous was brilliant, and painful in ways you hadn't been prepared for.

You're pulled from your thoughts when you hear your name called, and the moment you lift your head and see who is walking toward you, your stomach drops so hard it nearly makes you dizzy.

Sandy Gallin.

Recognition crashes into you instantly, because there is only one reason Michael's manager would be standing in front of you right now.

You haven't seen Sandy in two years, not since the day everything between you and Michael finally collapsed beneath the weight of schedules, distance, exhaustion, and a love that neither of you had ever stopped feeling but no longer knew how to sustain.

"I know how this looks," Sandy says carefully the second she sees your expression change. The sympathy in her face confirms what your heart already knew the moment you saw her.

You stand quickly, before she can continue. "I can't do this," you say as you shake your head, and Sandy immediately exhales softly, looking almost disappointed but not surprised.

"I told him it wasn't a good idea, for either of you... But he asked for you personally and said if it's not you, he's not making the short film," Sandy says.

A sharp breath leaves you as the full picture finally settles into place, because now you understand why everything about this process had felt so strange from the start. There had never really been an audition at all. Michael had already decided he wanted you here before anyone ever contacted Amelia, and, knowing him the way you once did, you could picture the exact stubborn calm he must have had as he refused every other suggestion his team tried to offer him.

Michael putting his team in an impossible situation somehow still feels easier to process than realizing he wanted to see you badly enough to orchestrate all of this in the first place.

"I'm sorry that he put you in this situation, but I–I mean, looking at what's required for the female lead... I don't know if I can do that... I know two years is a long time, but..."

Your voice trails off because you can't force yourself to finish the sentence out loud. You can't admit the real reason this feels impossible. No amount of time had changed the fact that you were still in love with him.

Sandy's expression softens immediately because she understands anyway.

"I know when Michael brought me on, I wasn't there for too long before the two of you broke up, but even in the short amount of time that I was around the two of you... Anyone could see what would make doing this so difficult, even though it's been two years... that's why I told him it wasn't a good idea to have you as the lead," she says gently.

You nod slowly because she's right.

Everyone around the two of you had known, even if nobody ever fully understood the depth of what existed between you and Michael behind closed doors. People saw the way he looked at you like the rest of the room disappeared whenever you walked in. They saw the way your schedules bent around each other despite both of your careers operating at impossible speeds. They saw how naturally the two of you fit together despite the chaos constantly surrounding your lives.

And after the breakup, people noticed that too.

Neither of you had ever publicly moved on. There had been rumors over the years, of course, because the media refused to let either of you exist without attaching another famous name beside yours, but nothing real had ever followed. No relationships, no confirmed romances, no public appearances hand-in-hand with someone new.

Because no matter how much time passed, nobody else had ever been each other.

"And looking at the filming schedule, I don't know if I can... I mean, I have 30 runway shows lined up in Paris... contractual obligations," you say, clinging to the practical excuse because it feels far safer than admitting the emotional truth sitting beneath it.

Sandy sighs softly and nods, clearly already aware of the schedule conflict before you even mention it.

"I'll buy out the contracts." The sound of the new voice cuts through the room so suddenly that your breath catches painfully in your throat before you can stop it.

His voice.

You and Sandy both look up at the same time, but the second your eyes land on him, the entire world around you seems to narrow until nothing else exists except Michael standing in the doorway.

And God, it almost devastates you how beautiful he looks.

His dark curls fall damply around his face and down the back of his neck, pulled loosely into a low ponytail that somehow only makes him look softer instead of more put together, a few strands curling against his cheeks from either humidity or sweat after another long day spent moving between meetings and studios. He's dressed casually in an oversized plaid button-up tucked into black pants, the sleeves slightly loose around his wrists in that effortlessly comfortable way Michael always dressed when he wasn't trying to be "Michael Jackson" for cameras or appearances.

This version of him was painfully familiar. It was the Michael you knew behind closed doors. The one who wandered barefoot through Neverland late at night, humming unfinished melodies under his breath. The one who stole your clothes sometimes because he liked how soft they felt. The one who got so consumed by music that he forgot to eat unless someone reminded him.

Two years had passed since the last time you saw him in person, but none of those years had dulled the effect he had on you. If anything, the distance only made the reality of him more overwhelming now that he was standing right in front of you again, instead of existing through television screens, magazine covers, and old memories you revisited too often when you were alone.

Because suddenly painfully and beautifully real again.

And the moment his eyes meet yours, every memory you have spent two years trying to carefully survive comes rushing back all at once. The Bad tour. Hotel rooms across different countries. Late-night phone calls through static-filled international lines. His hands wrapped around yours backstage while crowds screamed for him outside. The exhaustion that slowly settled between the two of you, no matter how desperately you both kept trying to hold on. The quiet heartbreak of loving someone completely and still not knowing how to make a life together work.

Your chest tightens so painfully that it almost feels impossible to breathe.

You hadn't seen him in person since the day the two of you broke each other's hearts, and seeing him now hits you with those memories hard and all at once, because no matter how much time has passed, the truth sitting between you and Michael has never changed.

He is still the love of your life, and judging by the look in his eyes as he stares at you now, you are still the love of his, too.

two years ago 1990

You had cancelled another photoshoot again because he promised. He promised that the two of you would have the night to yourselves to celebrate your anniversary, yet here you were, sitting in your shared hotel suite, which he booked for your anniversary, waiting for him to get back from the studio, and at this point, it was late... your anniversary had officially come and gone. You were meant to be celebrating five years together, yet you sat alone.

The realization sat heavily in your chest now, thick and exhausting in a way that made your entire body feel emotionally worn down. Earlier in the evening, you had still been excited. You'd spent far too long deciding what to wear because, despite everything that had happened over the last several months, despite every missed dinner and every broken promise that came attached to another late-night studio session, you still loved him enough to let yourself hope that tonight would be different. Five years mattered... at least you thought it did.

The suite had been prepared for hours. Candles burned low now after being lit long ago, their wax melted down the sides from how much time had passed while you waited. Dinner sat untouched near the balcony, cold and forgotten after spending the entire night waiting for footsteps that never came. Every passing hour had slowly chipped away at your excitement until eventually all that remained was disappointment curling painfully inside your chest.

And now your anniversary was over, and you spent it alone.

You were getting tired of it.

This photoshoot wasn't the first thing you had canceled or had Amelia reschedule to accommodate Michael's schedule and the promises he made to you... promises that he ended up breaking. Over the last year, especially, your own life had started feeling less and less like it belonged to you.

Every schedule Amelia handed over somehow ended up rearranged around Michael's availability instead of your own, and little by little, you had started sacrificing parts of yourself so naturally that you hadn't even realized how much you were giving away until recently.

Photoshoots were moved, runway shows were declined, interviews were turned down, and campaigns were rescheduled.

All for him, and the terrifying thing was that you'd done it willingly because you loved him.

At first, it had felt romantic in the way intense love often does. Flying across countries just to spend two days together between tour stops. Meeting him backstage after shows while crowds screamed his name outside. Rearranging your schedule so you could stay beside him longer before one of you inevitably had to leave again. You told yourself that sacrifices were normal when two people loved each other this much.

But somewhere along the way, the sacrifices stopped feeling mutual, and lately, it felt like your entire world revolved around fitting yourself into the empty spaces left inside Michael's.

You felt like you were starting to lose yourself.

The tabloids didn't help either. Every time you canceled or rescheduled one of your own projects and then were seen on tour with Michael, or at one of his shoots, the press wasn't nice about it. There was misogyny in everything they wrote about you, your career, and how it seemed like you were revolving your entire life around your relationship.

The articles had become crueler over time, dissecting your life like your accomplishments somehow mattered less because you were in love. Headlines mocked the way you followed him across tour dates. Magazine columns questioned whether your career was declining because you spent "too much time being Michael Jackson's girlfriend." People spoke about you as though years of hard work and success suddenly disappeared just because of who you're dating.

And lately, those headlines had started getting under your skin because deep down, you were beginning to wonder if they were seeing something you had been trying desperately not to admit to yourself.

And Michael didn't seem to notice.

Or maybe he noticed and genuinely didn't understand how deeply it was affecting you because his entire life had always operated at this impossible speed that left little room for anything else. On one level, you understood. Bad was his first solo tour ever since leaving The Jacksons fully, and it was a huge success. It's been three years since his last album, and he's always creating music, so he wants to make something special for his fans, which you understood and could appreciate, but that didn't stop the feeling that you were losing yourself in his life.

That was the worst part; that you understood him so completely, it made it difficult to even stay angry.

You knew how his brain worked. You knew that once Michael got inside a studio, time stopped existing for him. Music consumed him entirely until everything else blurred into the background, and you knew he would never intentionally hurt you. He loved you with everything he had.

But lately, loving him felt like slowly disappearing.

You had already changed out of the outfit you were going to wear for your date, and you had casual clothes on, clothes that you were going to sleep in. A pair of soft cotton shorts and one of Michael's Bad Tour t-shirts, and you were currently on the phone with Janet as you aimlessly flipped through channels on the TV.

The red dress you had spent nearly an hour getting ready in earlier now hung abandoned over the chair near the vanity, mocking you every time your eyes accidentally drifted toward it. Your makeup had long since been washed off after finally giving up sometime around midnight, and now you sat curled against the pillows in his oversized shirt, the familiar scent of his cologne lingering faintly in the fabric in a way that only made your chest ache worse.

"He's still not back yet?" Janet asks, and you sigh.

"Nope... and I haven't heard from him. I should've known, I should've kept my photoshoot scheduled," you say, more frustrated at yourself than Michael, because this wasn't new anymore, and that was the problem.

This exact feeling had become familiar enough that part of you hated yourself for still allowing disappointment to hurt this badly every single time.

"You know I love my brother, but you're my sister, too... There are a lot of things you shouldn't have canceled just to accommodate him. You had a life before you became his girlfriend," Janet says, and you sigh because she's right.

The words hit painfully because Janet wasn't judging you. If anything, she sounded sad. Sad in the way people do when they've been watching someone they love slowly lose pieces of themselves without fully realizing it yet.

And that was what scared you the most, because you couldn't even remember the last time you'd chosen yourself over Michael.

"I know... I just don't know how much more of this I can take. I don't feel like me anymore," you say. The confession leaves your mouth quietly, and Janet frowns. Saying it out loud makes something crack painfully open inside your chest because it's the first time you've admitted it to someone besides yourself. Janet would hate it if you and Michael broke up, but she also understands if you're at that point, given everything that's happened.

You don't feel like yourself anymore. You feel exhausted, lonely, and lost somewhere inside his life instead of living your own.

"Hey... whatever happens, you'll always be my sister, okay?" Janet says.

Emotion tightens instantly in your chest at the reassurance because Janet stopped feeling like simply Michael's sister years ago. She had become family in every way that mattered, one of the few people who truly saw the relationship from the inside instead of through magazine headlines and public appearances.

You hear the keycard against the door, the door opens, and there he is. Your eyes briefly glance at him before he notices, and Michael opens his mouth to say something, but he stops when he sees you.

The entire energy in his body changes instantly.

He sees you're dressed for bed, and sitting in bed, the phone pressed against your ear, and he knows, immediately, that he messed up. He already knew he had messed up, but he was hoping that when he got back, you'd still be dressed to do what he had planned for you.

The guilt hits him all at once.

His eyes flick toward the untouched dinner first before landing on the red dress abandoned across the chair, and then finally back to you sitting quietly in bed wearing his shirt instead of the outfit you were supposed to wear tonight. Exhaustion still clings to him from hours spent in the studio, but it's immediately overtaken by the horrible sinking realization that he missed your anniversary entirely.

And judging by the expression on your face, he knows this time feels different.

"He just walked in, I have to go, Jan," you say, and you hear her exhale on the other line.

"Love you," Janet says, and you smile.

"Love you too," you say and hang up the phone, but you don't turn to Michael. You keep your body and face angled toward the TV. You can't look at him, not yet. The second you do, you already know the hurt sitting inside your chest is going to spill out in ways you aren't ready for.

"Baby..." you hear Michael's voice softly echo through the room as his footsteps approach the bed.

The sound of his voice alone is enough to make your chest tighten painfully, because even now, even after hours spent sitting here alone feeling abandoned and forgotten, your body still reacts to him instinctively. But you don't turn toward him. You keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on the television screen, though you aren't actually paying attention to anything playing across it.

Behind you, you can feel him taking in the room slowly, and then his attention lands on the kitchen counter. The gift box and the card with his name in your familiar handwriting, sitting carefully in front of it.

The sight of them hits him like a physical blow.

His stomach drops instantly because suddenly the reality of what he missed tonight settles over him. You had planned this. Somewhere earlier in the evening, before disappointment and exhaustion took over, you had been excited enough to wrap his gift and write him a card while waiting for him to come home.

And he never showed up.

The guilt twists viciously inside his chest because Michael knows how much anniversaries matter to you. He knows you're sentimental. He loves how you save movie tickets, handwritten notes, and little meaningless things simply because they're attached to memories with people you love. Somewhere inside that box is something you picked out carefully for him, probably weeks ago, and instead of spending the night celebrating five years together, you ended up alone in bed waiting for him until your anniversary quietly slipped away.

"I'm so sorry. I lost track of time... one of the songs wasn't landing the way it was supposed to, and it took longer to fix than I thought, but I—" you cut him off.

"Just stop, Michael..." you say while shaking your head.

The exhaustion in your voice cuts through him immediately. No rage, anger, or yelling... just exhaustion, and somehow that hurts him more.

When you finally turn to look at him, the guilt sitting in his eyes is immediate and overwhelming, but what devastates you most is the fact that even now, even standing there looking heartbroken and exhausted after hurting you again, he still manages to take your breath away.

Michael has always been painfully beautiful.

His curls frame his face perfectly, soft and slightly damp from hours spent working in the studio, a few pieces falling loose around his face in that careless way that only ever happened when he got too focused on music to notice anything else around him. The red Mickey Mouse varsity jacket hanging from his shoulders only makes the sight of him feel more achingly familiar because you've seen him wear it a hundred times before, usually during late-night studio sessions where he'd eventually end up curled against you half-asleep while still talking about melodies and lyrics.

And maybe that's part of why this hurts so badly, too, because you still love him so much that looking at him physically aches.

"You promised tonight would be for us. I canceled a high-profile photoshoot because you promised we'd spend the entire evening together... Now our anniversary is over, I lost the photoshoot, and this is my first time seeing you all day... so what did I get from this?" you say, and Michael frowns, because he feels awful.

Every word lands exactly where it's supposed to because the truth sitting underneath your frustration is undeniable. You gave something up for him again, and once again, he failed to meet you halfway.

Michael opens his mouth to respond immediately, desperate to fix this somehow before it slips any further out of his hands. "Baby, I–"

But he cuts himself off because he doesn't know what to say. What excuse could possibly make this better? That he got distracted working? That he lost track of time? That he didn't mean for it to happen?

None of it changes the fact that your anniversary came and went while you sat here alone waiting for him.

"How much more, Michael? How much more of my career do I have to sacrifice to accommodate promises you're not even keeping?" you ask as your eyes water, and Michael's heart shatters the second he sees the tears finally spill over, because suddenly he sees it.

He finally sees how everything has been affecting you, not just tonight's missed anniversary, but everything. Every time you rescheduled a photoshoot because he promised you that he'd take you to dinner, and he ended up not showing up. Every time you canceled an appearance because he promised you'd spend the day together, just for you to end up alone. Every time you rearranged your schedule to fit around promises he made and ended up not keeping.

And the horrible part is that he never consciously meant to become selfish about it. He loves you more than anything in his world, but somewhere over time, he got used to your flexibility. He got used to you moving things around to stay beside him. He got used to you always making space for him, no matter how chaotic his life became.

But he never stopped to realize how much space it was costing you in return.

"Let me make it up to you," he says, and you shake your head immediately. Because this isn't about flowers or jewelry or expensive apologies. This is about feeling like you're slowly disappearing inside someone else's life.

Michael's already kneeling in front of the bed before he fully realizes he's moved, positioning himself beside you so he can force himself into your line of sight. The movement is instinctive, desperate almost, because some terrified part of him can feel the shift happening beneath this conversation. He reaches for you immediately, his hands wrapping carefully around yours before pulling them gently toward him.

"Baby, please... I love you," Michael says. The words make your heart clench painfully inside your chest because the worst part of all of this is that you know he means it.

You know that Michael loves you completely; there has never been a doubt in your mind about that, and you love him too just as much. That's why all of this hurts as deeply as it does. Because if the love was gone, leaving would probably be easier.

"You can't make it up to me, Michael... our anniversary is over... happy five years, right?" you say as you remove your hands from his, and Michael frowns, shaking his head. The bitterness in your voice is quiet, almost numb, and somehow that unsettles him more than anger ever could.

You turn off the TV and set the remote to the side.

"I'm going to bed now..." You say as you lie down, turning your back toward him, and Michael frowns. The silence that settles over the room afterward feels unbearably heavy.

Michael just stares at your back for several long seconds, his chest tightening harder and harder the longer the distance between you lingers untouched. Usually, after arguments, there's still something fiery between the two of you: raised voices, tears, frustration, and emotions spilling out everywhere because both of you care too much.

But this? This calmness terrifies him.

Your nonchalant demeanor and calm spoken words cut him deeper than if you had been yelling at him. He figured he would get your anger, because he knew you were angry, but the kind of angry where you remain calm throughout it? He's only seen that a few times.

And every single one of those times ended with him realizing far too late just how deeply he'd hurt you.

Michael stays there for a moment, on his knees beside the bed, watching your backside.

The silence stretching between the two of you feels unbearable now, heavy with everything neither of you knows how to fix anymore. Normally, after arguments, eventually one of you reached for the other. Usually, Michael could coax you into his arms with soft apologies and kisses against your temple until the hurt softened enough for the two of you to find your way back to each other again.

But tonight feels different; there's real distance between you, and for the first time since falling in love with you, Michael feels genuinely afraid that his apologies might not be enough this time.

He knew this wouldn't be easy to fix. There were no words that could fix it, and he knew you barely trusted his actions since he kept making empty promises. Every "I'll make it up to you" sounded hollow now because he never seemed to stop hurting you in the exact same ways over and over again.

Eventually, after several long moments spent staring at your back in silence, Michael slowly stands from beside the bed and disappears into the bathroom. The sound of the shower turns on a few seconds later, filling the suite with soft white noise while you lie there staring blankly into the darkness.

Even hearing him moving around behind the bathroom door hurts.

Because, despite everything, your body still reacts to his presence instinctively. Part of you still wants to get up and walk in there and let him pull you into his arms while both of you pretend love is enough to fix this.

But deep down, you know it isn't anymore.

By the time Michael gets out of the shower, you're fast asleep, or at least pretending to be.

Your breathing is slow and even as you lie curled toward the opposite side of the bed, his side still cold and untouched from where he never lay beside you earlier tonight, like he was supposed to. Michael stands there quietly for a moment in sweatpants and a t-shirt, water still dampening the curls around his face, while exhaustion weighs heavily on every part of him.

God, he hates this. He hates the distance between you, he hates the tears he saw in your eyes, and he hates knowing he's the reason they were there.

Before getting into bed beside you, he gently kisses your forehead, the touch lingering there for a second longer than usual because some desperate part of him needs the reassurance that you're still here beside him tonight, and it takes everything in you not to open your eyes and let yourself melt into his embrace.

But he keeps his distance afterward.

He doesn't reach for you or pull you into his arms the way he normally would. He doesn't curl himself around your body or press sleepy kisses against your shoulder until both of you drift off together. Instead, he stays on his side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness for a long time before exhaustion finally drags him under, too.

And even then, sleep doesn't come peacefully.

When Michael wakes up the next morning, and his eyes adjust to the dim sunlight peeking through the windows, the first thing he notices is that you're gone. Confusion immediately pulls him fully awake.

Your side of the bed is empty and cold.

The silence inside the suite feels wrong in a way that makes panic start creeping into his chest before he's even fully sitting up. Normally, you're still there beside him in the mornings, buried under blankets while mumbling sleepily when he moves too much. Sometimes you steal his shirts and wander around barefoot, ordering breakfast while music plays softly in the background.

But now the room is silent, and in your place on the bed is the hotel's notepad. The second Michael sees your handwriting, something inside him drops violently.

No.

No, no, no.

His hands shake as he reaches for the paper, dread crawling through every inch of him before he even starts reading because deep down, he already knows.

And when Michael reads the words you left for him... his heart shatters.

Michael, I love you... But this isn't working anymore. It's very clear you're focused on your career, and that's fine, you should be... but I have to put focus back into mine. I have to restore my reputation with agencies and fashion houses... I have to feel like myself again. Focus on Dangerous... I know the album is going to be amazing. I'm sorry to do this with a note, but I knew if I looked into those eyes of yours, I wouldn't be able to do it. I will always love you... And I'm so sorry.

By the time he reaches the end of the note, he can barely breathe through the pressure crushing his chest. His vision blurs almost immediately.

"No..." he whispers brokenly to the empty room. The word barely leaves his mouth before the tears start.

Michael folds in on himself right there in the bed, the note trembling violently in his hands while the reality crashes over him all at once. You're gone: after five years together, after building entire pieces of your lives around each other, you're gone.

And the worst part is that he understands why. That's what kills him, because he knows you tried. You tried so hard to hold onto this relationship. You bent your life around his over and over again while he kept promising he'd do better, that things would calm down, that after this album or this tour or this recording session, he'd finally have more time for you.

But there was always something else: another rehearsal, another meeting, another song, another promise that went unkept.

Now he realizes he's finally pushed you too far.

He cried all morning after reading it, canceled his morning meetings and studio sessions. He was glued to the bed; he couldn't move. The entire suite feels haunted by you now. Your clothes are gone, your perfume barely lingers in the air, and the side of the bed where you slept is empty.

Every piece of it makes him feel sick.

At some point, his fingers tighten suddenly against the fabric of his jacket from the night before, still discarded beside the bed where he tossed it after coming back too late. Slowly, almost mechanically, Michael reaches for it and digs into the pocket before pulling out the medium-sized velvet box hidden inside.

The engagement ring he had been planning to give to you. The sight of it completely breaks him.

A strangled sound leaves his throat as he stares down at the box resting in his trembling hands because last night was supposed to be the night he asked you to marry him.

Five years together, and he'd known long before the five-year mark that he wanted you to be his wife. He wanted forever with you so badly it scared him sometimes. But everything had happened so fast during the Bad era. The album, the tour, the constant traveling, and the constant pressure. He kept convincing himself the timing wasn't right yet, that he wanted to give you more than rushed moments stolen between airports and studios.

So he waited, and waited, and waited. Last night was supposed to finally be it. A private dinner for your anniversary, just the two of you. He'd even planned exactly how he was going to ask, but instead, he missed the entire night because he got lost in the studio chasing perfection while the woman he loved sat alone, realizing she was disappearing inside his life.

Now he had missed his chance again.

And this time, he knows he may have lost you for good.

present

"I will leave you two to talk... We'll be right outside if you need something," Sandy says before she leaves the room, leaving you and Michael alone. The door clicks shut softly behind her, and suddenly the room feels far too quiet.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. After spending two years apart, standing alone together again feels strangely intimate all on its own, and the awareness of each other settles heavily into the space between you.

You stay on your side of the room, fingers curling slightly against your arms as if grounding yourself there, and Michael doesn't try to move closer either, even though every instinct inside him is pulling him toward you. He isn't sure how you'd react if he did. He doesn't know if touching you again after all this time would comfort you or make you walk right back out the door.

So he stays where he is, but his eyes never leave you.

"What do you mean you'll buy me out of the contracts?" You ask, and Michael softly smiles, small and nervous, more vulnerable from the fact that he's standing in front of you again after spending two years replaying every mistake he made in this relationship over and over in his head.

"That's what I mean... I'll buy out your contracts, and whatever they were going to pay you for the shows, I'll pay you more," Michael says, and you sigh and take a deep breath.

Of course, he would do that. Not because he thinks money fixes this, you know, Michael better than that. If anything, the offer only makes your chest ache because you understand what he's really trying to do. He's trying to remove every practical reason you have for saying no because deep down, he already knows your real hesitation has nothing to do with Paris or runway contracts.

It has everything to do with him, with standing this close to him again after spending two years forcing yourself to learn how to survive without him.

"Why are you doing this, Michael?" you ask, and he bites down on his lip, slightly nervous about telling you the full truth, but he knows he needs to.

You can see it written all over him, the hesitation mixed with emotion in his eyes as he looks at you. Michael was always capable of being emotionally open with you in ways he rarely allowed himself to be with anyone else, but right now, there's something even more fragile underneath it. There's fear that if he says the wrong thing, you'll shut him out again before he has the chance to tell you everything he's spent the last two years carrying around inside him.

"Because I miss you... because I can't stop thinking about how badly I messed everything up, and you didn't deserve it, and because what's required in this video... I wouldn't feel comfortable being sensual and intimate with anybody else in this way... just you," Michael says, and your breath hitches slightly.

The honesty in his voice hits you immediately because there's nothing polished about it. No careful PR answers or charming deflection. Just Michael standing in front of you, looking painfully sincere while admitting something you realize you've secretly wanted to hear from him for years now.

Hearing him say he can't imagine doing this with anyone else does something dangerous to your heart because you know exactly what this short film calls for. The tension, closeness, touching, and intimacy. You read the synopsis before coming here, and once you saw Sally walk out, you spent half the conversation mentally trying to convince yourself that you could handle pretending your feelings for Michael were gone long enough to get through filming if you took the job.

Now he's standing here admitting he doesn't even want to pretend with another woman.

"I didn't mean to leave the way I did... but I felt like I was drowning, Michael..." you say softly. The confession leaves your mouth quieter than you intended, but the second the words are out there between you, you see the hurt flash across his face immediately. Not anger or defensiveness. Just pain, because looking back now, he understands exactly what you mean in ways he couldn't fully grasp back then.

Michael frowns, taking a slow step toward you, and then he looks at you, as if he's asking for permission, to see if you back away from him. You don't move, and you don't tell him to stop.

The realization softens something in his expression instantly, and he takes another step carefully, like he's approaching something fragile he's terrified of breaking again.

"I know... and I realize now I was unintentionally pushing you in further... I'm so sorry," Michael says, and you feel a bit of the ache in your chest loosen, because you do miss him... but you've worked hard for the last two years to restore your reputation in the modeling and fashion industry. You've gained back the trust of major fashion houses and magazines to not constantly cancel or reschedule appearances.

Those two years were brutal in ways most people never saw. Rebuilding your reputation meant rebuilding your identity, too. You had to prove to people that you were still dependable, still serious about your career, and still capable of putting yourself first after years of revolving your life around someone else's schedule.

There were fashion houses that stopped calling for a while. Editors who questioned whether you'd commit to campaigns fully. Rumors that you were becoming "difficult" because of how often your schedule shifted during your relationship with Michael.

So you fought your way back, and you did it without him.

Michael's watched it all. He's watched every fashion show, memorizing the confidence in your walk and the way you carried yourself now compared to before. He's bought every cover feature you've done, flipping through magazines just to stare at your photos longer than he probably should have.

He was so proud of you for getting your career back on track, which also led to more guilt that he was the reason you had derailed it... and he let you because it was convenient for him, and he hated himself for that.

"You really won't do the short film if I'm not the co-lead?" You ask, and Michael shakes his head immediately. There isn't even hesitation in him when it comes to this.

"I really won't... even though it's just acting, I wouldn't be comfortable being sensual like that with a woman who isn't you," Michael says, and your heart does melt a little at that being the reason he only wants you as the lead.

Because you know Michael. You know that physical intimacy has never been casual for him emotionally, no matter what the public assumes. Even pretending requires vulnerability from him, especially in something as intimate as this short film is supposed to be.

So hearing him admit that he doesn't even want to fake that kind of closeness with another woman makes warmth spread slowly through your chest despite everything you've spent the last two years doing to protect your heart from him.

"Before I agree... did Amelia know about this and help set me up?" You ask, and Michael immediately shakes his head.

"No, she would never do that to you... When I had Sally call her, I told her to keep it vague. I was scared that if you knew upfront it was for my short film, you'd immediately say no. Amelia didn't manipulate or trick you... I kind of manipulated the situation to see you again," He says, the shyness creeping in as he rubs the back of his neck, unsure of how you're going to react to that.

The nervousness in him softens something inside your chest immediately because, for all the confidence the world associates with Michael Jackson, you know this version of him too well. The shy one. The emotionally awkward one who gets uncertain whenever his feelings are involved, especially where you're concerned.

Even now, after all this time apart, he's looking at you cautiously, like he's genuinely worried admitting that might upset you instead of understanding the truth sitting underneath it, and honestly, it probably should upset you a little.

Instead, a laugh slips out before you can stop it. It catches both of you off guard, the tension in the room easing just enough for something warm and achingly familiar to settle between you again.

You shake your head softly. "Well... you've always been one for grand gestures," you say, and Michael laughs too, biting down on his lip.

The sight of him smiling like that after everything nearly hurts because you missed this. You missed the quiet little moments with him that nobody else ever really got to see. The way he got shy when he was happy. The way he bit his lip, trying not to grin too hard. The way being around him could still make the room feel lighter despite all the complicated history sitting between the two of you.

For a second, it almost feels dangerously easy to slip back into whatever this used to be.

"So you'll do it? You'll really do the short film?" He asks, and you take a deep breath and nod.

You can see how much the answer matters to him before he even says another word. There's hope written all over his face now, cautious and almost disbelieving, like part of him still expected you to walk out of here no matter how honest he tried to be with you today.

But the truth is, you love him, and you miss him.

And honestly, you don't think you'd be able to handle seeing another woman in this with him, even if it was pretending. The thought alone leaves something ugly and heartsick twisting inside your chest because, despite everything the two of you went through, despite the breakup and the years apart, some part of you still feels like you and Michael belong wrapped around each other and nobody else.

"Yes, Michael... I'll do it," you say, and he lets out a breath of relief, and he immediately moves closer to you, but then suddenly stops himself as the reality that the two of you are no longer together in that way comes crashing back all at once.

The hesitation that settles over him is almost heartbreaking to watch because you can physically see him remembering that things are different now. For five years, touching you was second nature to him. Holding your hand, pulling you against him, kissing your forehead whenever he walked into a room; all of it used to happen without thought because loving you was instinctive to him.

Now he's standing a few feet away, looking uncertain about whether he's even allowed to touch you anymore.

"Can I uh... can I hug you?" He asks, and your breath slightly catches. Something about hearing Michael ask permission nearly breaks your heart.

You haven't hugged him in years, and you know as soon as he touches you, you're going to melt into it because your body still remembers him too well. You already know exactly how his arms feel around you, how safe and familiar he always made you feel whenever he held you close enough that the rest of the world disappeared for a while.

So you nod. "Of course you can," you say.

Michael smiles immediately, the expression so warm and relieved that your chest tightens painfully at the sight of it before he closes the distance between the two of you. The second his arms wrap around you, your body responds instinctively, like muscle memory, melting into him before your brain can even catch up. It feels so natural that it almost steals the breath from your lungs. Like, no matter how much time passed, your body never forgot that this was where it belonged.

You rest your head against his chest automatically, and the second you do, Michael's entire body relaxes around you in a way that feels almost emotional. He lowers his head slowly until it rests against the top of yours, and then he lets out a deep breath that rumbles through his chest beneath your cheek.

The sound nearly destroys you because it feels like relief and grief all at once, like the last two years of missing each other are finally being acknowledged without either of you having to say the words out loud.

For a while, the two of you just stand there silently in each other's arms, holding onto each other like neither of you realized how desperately you needed this until now. The familiar feeling returns almost immediately, the comfort, the closeness, the love between you that never actually disappeared, no matter how much distance or heartbreak tried to bury it.

And as Michael holds you tighter against him, eyes closed while your body fits perfectly against his like it always has, one thought settles heavily into his chest.

1995 neverland ranch

Soft morning light spilled through the ranch, soft pinks danced with orange as the sun announced the start of a new day. Warmth pooled between your thighs before you could fully register it. It felt like a dream, maybe you were still dreaming. The last remnants of sleep were still clinging to you when you felt your hips being shifted. The warm feeling intensified, pulling you more from the sleep that was still clinging to you.

A soft sigh escapes from between your lips when the familiar feeling of warm lips against your skin brushes against you. Your eyes softly flutter as his lips move inward, still pressed against your thighs, moving closer to your center of warmth, and you shift again, but he holds you in place, gently pushing your thighs further apart.

He smirks, seeing your glistening folds, knowing that even half-asleep, your body still reacts to him. Michael dips his head between your thighs, his lips coming into contact with your clit, making the last remnants of sleep completely fall away as your eyes flutter open. You blink to adjust your gaze, being met with the top of dark curls nestled between your thighs.

Michael's tongue pressed flat against your folds, a soft moan coming from his mouth as he licks up your slickness. Your hips instinctively buck, and then his eyes meet yours through his lashes as his lips are still connected to your clit. You see the smirk dancing in his eyes as he drinks you in like a man parched.

"Michael," your moan comes out soft, still laced with sleep as he moves. Michael gently lifts from you, spitting at your entrance before rubbing it around your folds, making your body shudder.

"Morning, mama," Michael mumbles, pressing another kiss to your thigh as his fingers continue to move against you. You feel a finger slip inside of you, curling and pressing against you as his lips reattach to your clit, kissing you with fervour, making your thighs tremble around his head.

A second finger slips inside of you as his tongue grazes across your folds, his fingers pumping quickly, moving with more speed every time he hears you whimper. He sucks on your sensitive clit, pulling your orgasm closer. Your back slightly arches off the bed as your eyes close again, Michael's name falling louder from your lips.

Wet sounds of Michael's lips moving against you fill the room, your cry following shortly as your orgasm crashes through you like a wave. Michael moans as he feels the warmth of your release coating his fingers as he brings you through it. Your chest heaves up and down as you try to steady your breathing. Michael slips his fingers out of you, covered in your release, and he trails his soaked fingers up your bare body, spreading your release over your skin.

His tongue follows his fingers, licking up what he's spreading against you. He reaches back down, his fingers finding your hole, spreading more of your cum against your folds and your clit, making you shudder. He dips his fingers in before bringing them up to your lips.

"Open, mama," Michael softly commands. Your lips part, and he slips his fingers inside. Your tongue swirls around them, tasting yourself on him, and your eyes flutter closed again as you moan against his fingers. Michael bites down on his lip as he watches you. He loves seeing you like this, flushed underneath him, and all his.

Michael groans when he feels your tongue swirling around his fingers, the sound warm and low in the back of his throat as he watches you with darkened eyes. His chest rises a little deeper, curls falling over his forehead while he slowly pulls his fingers from your mouth, clearly reluctant despite the teasing smile tugging at his lips. The loss immediately makes you pout, still hazy from sleep and the way he had just woken you up, your entire body warm beneath the weight of his attention.

"Don't be greedy," he says as he laughs.

The sound is soft, breathy, still rough around the edges from intimacy and sleep, and before you can answer, he leans down and kisses you. You immediately grab his shoulders, pulling him against you until his body is pressed completely flush to yours. Michael lets out a quiet sound into your mouth at the force of it, one of his hands instinctively sliding against your waist as though he can never help himself when it comes to you. Even after all these years, touching you still seems automatic for him. Necessary.

When you pull away, your lips lingering dangerously close to his, you run your fingers back through his curls and bite down softly on your lip while looking at him.

God. He's always so beautiful, and mornings with him were always so dangerous.

Not because of the secrecy anymore, you and Michael had perfected secrecy years ago, but because moments like this always made it far too easy to pretend this was real in a way neither of you was supposed to want. The soft morning light spilling across his bare skin, the lazy smile on his face, the way he looked at you like he still hadn't fully come down from touching you.

Like you were his favorite thing to wake up to, because you are.

"Morning, Michael," you say.

His expression softens instantly at the sound of your voice. There's something almost boyish about the smile that spreads across his face, stripped entirely of the performer the rest of the world knew. He sits up and pulls you with him effortlessly, keeping you tucked close against him as though he has no intention of letting you go anytime soon.

You lean over toward the nightstand, reaching for your pager, and your eyes immediately widen when you see the missed call from your manager, Amelia.

Reality crashes back in too quickly. You sigh quietly before reaching over and grabbing Michael's phone off the receiver, dialing Amelia's number from memory.

She answers after two rings.

"I swear if you're calling me from his house," Amelia says, and you cough out a laugh.

Michael looks at you immediately, brows lifting with quiet curiosity, and you shake your head at him while giving him a wink. His lips twitch as he fights a smile, one of his hands absentmindedly rubbing slow circles against your thigh while he listens.

"What's so wrong with that?" You ask.

"Maybe the fact that it's morning, and if you're caught sneaking out of there, you're in violation of your contract!" Amelia says, and you roll your eyes while taking a deep breath.

Of course, she brings up the contract immediately.

You had been hoping, foolishly, that for at least five minutes longer, you could stay wrapped up in this version of your life instead of the manufactured one waiting for you outside those doors. But Amelia was good at her job, and part of that job was keeping your career from imploding because of your relationship with Michael.

"Amelia... I've been under this contract for almost a year, and have I been caught once?" you ask, and she sighs, knowing the answer is no, because you're always very careful.

Careful had become second nature to you and Michael a long time ago.

Private entrances. Hidden elevators. Drivers paid well enough not to talk. Assistants who knew better than to ask questions. Phone calls at strange hours from hotel rooms across different continents. Entire years of loving each other in fragments and shadows, while the rest of the world remained oblivious.

"He's still married," Amelia says, and you laugh.

"Not happily," you say, and Amelia shakes her head, but you also know her well enough to know she's fighting the urge to smile.

Across from you, Michael drops his head slightly with a quiet laugh of his own, though something is fleeting in his expression afterward. Something heavier. Because no matter how much the two of you joked about it, the truth still sat there between you constantly.

He's married to someone else.

"I hope you two know what you're doing... you two have always been your most reckless with each other," Amelia says, and you pretend to be offended.

"I'll be home soon, Lia, and then I'll call you, okay?" you say, and she lets out another deep breath.

"Okay, because you have interviews lined up today for the movie, so it's time to fall. back into your contractual obligations," she teases, and you laugh. Michael visibly grimaces at the phrase, making you fight another smile.

"Yeah, I know... see you soon," you say as you reach back over and hang up the phone.

The room falls quiet again afterward, though it feels different now. The outside world had forced its way back in. You can feel it settling around both of you, replacing the softness from moments ago with the familiar reality that the two of you always eventually had to return to.

"Is everything alright?" Michael asks, and you nod.

"Yes, but I have to go. The press tour continues on," you say, and Michael frowns.

You hated that look on him.

Not the jealousy, though there was always a quiet undercurrent of that whenever your fake relationship was involved, but the disappointment he tried not to show. The tiny shift in his expression whenever reality reminded him he couldn't keep you here openly, couldn't walk out the front door with you, couldn't ask you to stay without consequences attached to it.

You had a big movie coming out this year that everyone was looking forward to, Before Sunrise, with you and Ethan Hawke as the romantic leads, and to further promote the movie, you and Ethan have been in a contracted PR relationship for the last 10 months.

The terms of the agreement were simple: the two of you would pretend to be a couple in public, your teams would set up your 'dates' to be seen, and during the press tour, which was now, you're to make everyone believe that you're together, using the story of, spending hours on set together, creating this romantic story and sharing so many intimate moments, how could the two of you not fall in love along the way?

Both of your teams first started leaking staged pictures of you two looking cozy when you were still filming to get the tabloids and press speculating and talking about the movie. It all worked, everyone was looking forward to this new movie, especially since you and Ethan are in it, both of you already renowned actors in your own right.

The contract had been carefully crafted down to the smallest detail. The public relationship needed to feel believable enough to sell the romance onscreen, and unfortunately, audiences loved the fantasy of two co-stars falling in love while making a movie together. Every staged dinner, every paparazzi photo, every flirtatious interview answer only fed the obsession more.

And it wasn't hard, you and Ethan were genuinely friends, and you joked all the time about how ridiculous it was to have to pretend to be in love with each other instead of just letting your natural friendship speak for itself onscreen.

The other rule in the contract was that if you two were going to see other people on your own time, you had to be discreet and not get caught publicly. The contract was set to end, and the two of you would 'break up' six months after the movie comes out, which would make the press believe that you two dated for exactly 18 months.

That meant you had to keep your relationship with Michael discreet. Well, that and the fact that he's married to Lisa Marie Presley.

It wasn't a marriage that he wanted to get into, but his team had convinced him that it would be good for his image. The King of Pop marrying the King of Rock n' Roll's daughter was the kind of headline publicists dreamed about. America loved symbolism, loved spectacle, loved turning celebrities into dynasties. On paper, it was perfect.

But Michael had never regarded Elvis as the King of Rock n' Roll the way the media did, and beneath all the carefully crafted headlines and public fascination, there was very little sincerity attached to the marriage itself.

He went along with it because it seemed easier than fighting everyone around him.

Lisa was pretty enough, and they had good conversations sometimes, but he didn't love her. Worse than that, the version of her the public adored felt very different from the woman he experienced privately. There was a sharpness to her that cameras never caught, a meanness hidden beneath charm and beauty that exhausted him more than he cared to admit.

None of it felt natural, none of it felt like you.

You and Michael had always existed in a strange gray area throughout the years, somewhere between lovers and soulmates, between casual and devastatingly serious: discreet, hidden, and undefined. That was why Amelia had said the two of you were reckless when it came to each other, because despite all the caution and secrecy, you always found your way back together, no matter what your lives looked like publicly.

You met him the night of the 1984 Grammys.

You had arrived that night as someone else's date, dressed in diamonds and silk with your career just beginning to explode beneath your feet. Meanwhile, Michael had walked into the ceremony carrying the weight of Thriller on his shoulders, already becoming something larger than human in the eyes of the world.

And somehow, by the end of the night, you ended up leaving with him.

Neither of you ever officially dated after that. There was never a grand conversation defining what this was supposed to become because there never seemed to be time for it. Michael's fame skyrocketed after Thriller, especially after the history he made that night at the Grammys, and your own career became equally consuming as studios fought over you for films. You were everywhere. Constantly filming. Constantly traveling. Constantly becoming more famous.

So the two of you settled into something else instead. Something hidden.

You saw each other whenever your schedules aligned, and most of those reunions ended the same way: tangled together between expensive hotel sheets somewhere in whatever city or country you had managed to secretly meet in. Paris. New York. Tokyo. London. Entire years of your relationship could be mapped through hotel suites and private dinners.

But the physical intimacy was never the thing that kept pulling you back to him. It was the emotional intimacy that became dangerous.

The late-night phone calls that stretched until sunrise. The conversations about music, movies, loneliness, childhoods, and dreams. The way Michael always called you when he couldn't sleep. The way he trusted you with the softer parts of himself, the rest of the world never got to touch. The comfortable rhythm the two of you developed over the years became so natural that sometimes it frightened you. It was effortless in a way nothing else in your life ever was.

Michael had once joked about the two of you being part-time lovers because your schedules only allowed you pieces of each other instead of the whole thing, and in a way, he wasn't wrong.

You belonged to each other in fragments: stolen weekends, late-night phone calls, secret dinners and dates, Michael spoiling you with having gifts sent to whichever set you're on, and quick kisses in the backs of cars before separate exits.

Never fully together, never publicly.

When he told you about Lisa, he had done it almost immediately. You still remembered the silence that settled over you while he explained it over the phone, his voice quieter than usual, almost hesitant.

But what you remembered most was him saying he didn't want to stop seeing you. He didn't want to lose what the two of you had.

At first, you hadn't known what to do with that information. Continuing the emotional side of things was one thing, but continuing the physical intimacy while he was preparing to marry another woman felt different. Dangerous in a way your relationship somehow never had before.

But Michael had been insistent. He didn't love her.

The marriage was for optics. For his image. For his team. For the rumors that followed him constantly, that he was weird, that he was incapable of love, that he was gay, that he wasn't a real man in the way the public expected him to be.

And somehow, despite every reason you should've walked away from him, you didn't. You couldn't. So, the two of you continued exactly as you always had. Even after he spoke vows to another woman, he still came back to you.

You both just became even more careful.

Always arriving separately. Always use back entrances and private elevators. Never lingering publicly. Never giving anyone a reason to question what existed between you. Years of precision and secrecy wrapped around something that felt far too emotionally intimate to still be considered casual.

"Ethan better keep his hands to himself," Michael says, and you laugh as you look at him.

The jealousy in his voice is light, teasing on the surface, but you know him well enough to hear the sincerity underneath it, too. Michael had never liked hearing about your fake relationship, even when he fully understood why it existed.

"And when will your wife be back?" You ask, and Michael rolls his eyes.

"She's on vacation with her ex-husband, I don't care when she'll be back," Michael says as he shrugs, and you laugh while shaking your head. Michael had told you about that situation already, sounding more annoyed than hurt by it. Their marriage often felt less like a relationship and more like two people performing one.

"Well, I will call you when my day is done. I can make us dinner?" you say.

Michael smiles instantly before leaning in to kiss you again, slower this time, deeper. His hand slides against your jaw as he pulls you closer, kissing you like he's trying to memorize the feeling before you leave again. You melt into him immediately, your fingers curling against his chest while his lips move softly against yours.

It always felt too easy to love him; that was the problem.

Even though the two of you never officially defined what existed between you, you knew exactly how you felt about him. Somewhere along the years, somewhere between the hotel rooms and phone calls and secret reunions, you had fallen completely in love with him.

And the worst part was knowing that part-time no longer felt like enough. You wanted mornings with him that you didn't have to rush and sneak away from. You wanted dinners that didn't require secrecy. You wanted to stop arriving and leaving separately.

But your lives had never aligned properly for something real. Every time it almost felt possible, fame, schedules, contracts, or public scrutiny got in the way.

Michael feels the same way.

He misses you constantly whenever you're apart, more than he ever admits aloud. He loves hearing your voice late at night when exhaustion makes you softer with him, loves the way your breathing changes when you're fighting sleep during your phone calls before eventually drifting off anyway while he stays on the line listening.

He's in love with you, completely, utterly, and hopelessly.

And somewhere deep down, he knows he would rather be married to you than the woman he's currently publicly tied to. But timing had never been kind to either of you.

Michael pulls away slowly before tucking some of your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your skin. "You're gonna have a long day today... I'll make us dinner. Just let me know when you're done, and I can send a car," Michael says.

You bite down on your lip as you look at him, your chest tightening painfully at the domestic softness of the offer. Like this is normal. Like this is something the two of you are allowed to have.

You lean in and kiss him again, pulling back far too soon.

"I miss you, already," he says, and you laugh.

"Are you going soft on me?" You ask, and Michael smirks as he looks at you.

"Mama, I'm never soft with you," he says, and the slow smirk that spreads across his face makes warmth immediately crawl up your neck.

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as you catch the double meaning immediately. Michael only grins wider at your reaction, completely pleased with himself for getting you flustered.

His smirk is all smug satisfaction and teasing confidence, like he knows exactly what he's capable of doing to you. His eyes drag over you lazily, unashamed, still darkened from everything that had happened between you this morning, and suddenly you can practically still feel his mouth on you all over again.

You lean back in for one quick kiss before finally forcing yourself to get out of bed and throw your clothes back on. You can feel Michael watching you the entire time from the bed, his expression softer than he usually allows himself to be.

"See you later, Michael," you say, and he smiles, looking at you from where he remains sprawled against the sheets.

"Have a good day, baby."

────୨ৎ────

After a long day of interviews and pretending to be madly in love with your co-star, you're finally back at Neverland Ranch. You see, Michael, waiting for you at the door in soft clothes and bare feet, curls falling around his face, smelling faintly like cologne and the dinner he'd been cooking for you.

Home. 

His warmth immediately wraps around you as you walk inside. The house smells rich and comforting, filled with the aroma of garlic, butter, herbs, and something savory simmering on the stove, and you inhale deeply because you suddenly realize just how hungry you are.

Not just physically, but emotionally too. Days like this always left you drained in a way sleep never really fixed. Too many cameras in your face, too many forced smiles, too many interviewers analyzing every glance and laugh between you and Ethan like they were dissecting a real love story instead of a manufactured one.

He greets you with a kiss before you can even properly say hello, and the moment his hands settle against you, tension immediately begins melting out of your body, and you can't help the quiet sigh that leaves you as you melt into him. Michael kisses you slowly and deliberately, like he's aware you've spent your entire day performing affection for cameras and wants to remind you what real affection feels like.

What his affection feels like.

Michael pulls away first, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead before letting you go. The gesture is so instinctively affectionate that your chest tightens around it. There's something almost painfully intimate about the way he loves you in private, in all these tiny unconscious moments nobody else ever gets to witness.

You slip your heels off by the door with relief before following him into the kitchen, your stockinged feet padding softly against the floor. Michael hands you a glass of wine without another word, already knowing exactly what kind you like after all these years, before turning back toward the stove.

The domesticity of it nearly undoes you.

Not because it's extravagant, but because it isn't. Because this feels normal in a way your relationship never gets to be publicly. Michael cooking dinner while you stand barefoot in his kitchen drinking wine after work should not feel as emotionally significant as it does, and yet it makes your chest ache anyway.

"It smells amazing, Michael," you say, and he smiles over his shoulder.

That smile is softer than the ones he gives the world. Smaller. Realer. You've always loved the version of Michael that exists away from cameras, the one who hums quietly while cooking and worries whether you've eaten enough and kisses your forehead absentmindedly like he can't help himself.

"You have a good day?" he asks, and you shrug as you lean against the counter.

"Yeah... I'm really proud of this movie, and Ethan and I are good friends... You can't film a movie with someone as long as we did and do all these intimate and romantic scenes without becoming friends, but it's very exhausting pretending to be in love with him," you say as you laugh, and Michael lets out a soft chuckle.

But even after all this time, you can still hear the subtle tension underneath it immediately. "Does he feel the same?" he asks.

The question is carefully casual, but you know him too well not to notice the slight stiffness in his shoulders or the way he keeps his focus on the stove instead of directly on you. Michael has never been particularly good at hiding jealousy from you, no matter how much he tries to pretend otherwise.

You smirk as you lift your wine glass. "Are you jealous?" you tease.

Michael turns around immediately and shakes his head. "I don't get jealous," he says, and you smile because the lie is almost endearing at this point.

"Oh, yeah? I do. That kiss at the VMAs last year? Very convincing for someone who claims not to love her," you say. Michael chuckles as he turns fully toward you now, and this time he's the one smirking. The expression spreads slowly across his face, dark eyes warming with amusement as he watches you from across the kitchen.

There's something smug hidden beneath it, too, something deeply satisfied by the fact that you had been jealous of him. Even after eleven years, Michael still seemed secretly pleased anytime you showed possessiveness over him, because of how you always keep yourself and your emotions controlled, especially in public.

"Oh, really? That made you jealous?" he asks.

You nod without embarrassment. "It made me very jealous," you say.

The smirk on Michael's face deepens instantly, and you can practically see the memory replaying behind his eyes. "And that's why you made me watch as you played with yourself, and I wasn't allowed to touch you?" He asks, and your lips curl upward immediately.

The memory flashes hot through your mind without warning. Michael sitting at the edge of the bed, looking absolutely tortured, while you denied him the one thing he wanted most, just to punish him a little for that kiss. The way his jaw clenched every time you whimpered his name while refusing to let him touch you. The frustration in his eyes mixed with pure fascination because even when you were being cruel to him, Michael still looked at you like you were something sacred.

"You'd be correct," you say, and Michael laughs again while shaking his head.

There's so much history packed into moments like this now. Years of inside jokes, jealousy, longing, sex, affection, and emotional intimacy layered together until your relationship stopped resembling anything casual a long time ago. The two of you fit together too naturally for that. Sometimes it frightened you how easy loving him had become.

"I'm not sleeping with her, you know... well, not regularly, enough so she doesn't get suspicious, and I use protection with her. She doesn't want to have any more kids, so that kind of worked itself out," he says. Your stomach twists slightly at the mention of Lisa, though the only part your mind truly fixates on is the protection.

Because you and Michael had never used any.

You had been on birth control for years, and somewhere over the course of your relationship, the two of you had quietly settled into trusting only that, because neither of you wanted anything between you as your bodies came together most intimately.

The intimacy of that realization settles heavily into your chest now, because there's something deeply vulnerable about the fact that Michael has always touched you differently than anyone else.

"She's your wife, Michael, it's not my business," you say, and Michael sighs immediately.

"Baby, don't do that," he says. The softness in his voice catches you off guard because he says it like he can hear the distance you're trying to create between the two of you and hates it instantly.

You give him a look while taking another sip of wine. "I'm not doing anything," you respond, and he sighs again, quieter this time.

"You know I'm committed to you, right?" He asks.

The question hangs heavily between you because commitment had always been such a strange concept within whatever this relationship was. Michael wore another woman's wedding band on his hand, while you're spending an entire press tour pretending to belong to another man. The two of you had spent eleven years loving each other in hidden pieces, fitting yourselves into whatever cracks your schedules and public lives allowed.

You nod slowly anyway.

"Yes, as much as a part-time lover can be, right?" you say, and Michael immediately shakes his head.

Something changes in his expression then.

The teasing disappears completely, replaced by something more serious, more vulnerable than he usually allows himself to be. Michael turns back toward the stove, grabbing plates from the cabinet while taking a deep breath, and you suddenly realize he looks nervous.

The realization alone makes your pulse jump because very little unsettles Michael after everything he has experienced in his life and career, yet now his movements seem slightly too controlled, like he's steadying himself before saying something that could change everything between you.

"That's what I was hoping we could talk about tonight... I don't want to just keep doing this part-time, whenever we have time," Michael says.

Your eyes widen immediately because you hadn't been expecting this conversation tonight. Not after years of both of you carefully dancing around the deeper parts of this relationship instead of fully confronting them.

Michael plates the food while speaking, garlic butter fish and vegetables arranged carefully before he sets the table and grabs the wine he paired with dinner. The entire scene suddenly feels painfully intimate in a way it hadn't moments earlier. Candlelight flickers softly through the kitchen while Michael serves you dinner in his home and talks about wanting more from you, and the normalcy of it makes your chest tighten almost unbearably.

When the two of you finally sit down across from each other, you take a deep breath before looking at him.

"So... what do you want to do, then?" you ask.

Michael swallows before meeting your gaze, and for a moment, he looks stripped completely bare in front of you. Not the King of Pop. Not the global icon the entire world worshipped and dissected constantly. Just Michael. Just the man you've loved for over a decade, looking terrified that he might finally be asking for too much.

"I want to be with you... for real. We've been doing this song and dance for the last 11 years, and when I was busy in the studio and on tour, all the pent-up frustration and adrenaline needed a place to go, and the same for you, while on set all the time, it worked... but this doesn't work for me anymore, I don't want you part-time, baby... I want you all the time," Michael says, and your breath catches painfully in your chest at his confession.

Because you had been feeling the exact same way for longer than you wanted to admit to yourself.

Somewhere along the years, this had stopped being an arrangement built around convenience and stolen intimacy. It had become love so consuming that pretending otherwise now felt impossible. Hearing Michael finally say it out loud rearranges something inside you instantly, because suddenly every late-night phone call, every secret reunion, every painful goodbye, every moment of jealousy and longing over the last eleven years becomes impossible to dismiss as casual anymore.

Michael loves you completely, and somehow that truth feels both terrifying and inevitable all at once.

"What about Lisa?" you ask.

The question comes out quieter than you intended, weighed down by the reality still sitting between the two of you despite everything Michael had just confessed. Because no matter how desperately you wanted this, there was still another woman attached to his name publicly. Another woman standing beside him in photographs and interviews, while you existed hidden behind private entrances and late-night phone calls.

Michael doesn't hesitate. "I'll divorce her. I never wanted to marry her in the first place," Michael says, and you let out a deep breath before you can stop yourself.

The certainty in his voice catches you off guard more than the words themselves. There's no uncertainty there. No wavering. He says it like he's already made peace with the decision long before tonight.

"When is your contract up? I'll start the divorce process," Michael says.

You stare at him for a second because the conversation suddenly feels terrifyingly real now. Not hypothetical anymore. Not fantasy. Plans are being made now. Actual timelines. Actual decisions that could alter both of your lives permanently.

"Six months after the movie comes out... it'll put our 'relationship' at exactly 18 months," you say, and Michael nods slowly.

"Okay... I'll get it done, that way there's time between my divorce and your breakup. We can keep the fallout clean, or we don't have to tell the press anything like we've been doing for years, I don't care... I just want to be with you, fully," Michael says as he reaches across the table for your hand, which you immediately give to him.

His fingers curl around yours carefully, almost reverently, and your chest tightens painfully because suddenly all those years of secrecy feel heartbreakingly visible between you. Eleven years of loving each other quietly while the rest of the world remained completely oblivious.

"How long have you felt this way?" You ask.

Michael's thumb strokes slowly across your knuckles as he looks down at your joined hands for a moment before answering.

"I think I've probably always felt this way, since that night at the Grammys... but when I became aware of the feeling? The Dangerous Tour... I missed you so much it started to physically hurt, and I knew I didn't want to be away from you or only be with you part-time anymore," he says.

Your eyes immediately begin watering, emotion rising inside you faster than you can contain it. Because you remember that tour.

You remember the distance between you during that time. The exhausting time zones and missed phone calls and nights spent staring at hotel ceilings, wishing he were there beside you. You remember sitting in your trailer between takes, waiting for updates from him, counting the hours until he would finally call. You remember hearing exhaustion in his voice over the phone while crowds screamed for him in the background.

You remember missing him so badly that it made ordinary things feel dull.

"I missed you a lot, too, when you were gone. Filming was slow for me that year, and I swear I was sitting by my phone all the time waiting for you to call or call me back," you say, and Michael chuckles softly while shaking his head.

There's so much tenderness in the way he looks at you now that it almost undoes you completely. Like hearing that confession heals something inside him he'd been carrying around quietly for years.

"I love you... It's always been you," Michael says.

The tears finally spill over your lashes as you squeeze his hands tightly between yours, not because the words surprise you. Deep down, maybe you had both known for years.

But hearing him finally say it out loud after over a decade of secrecy and half-measures feels overwhelming in a way you weren't prepared for. It feels like finally breathing after holding your breath for eleven years.

"I love you too, Michael," you say.

The smile that spreads across his face afterward is unlike anything you've ever seen from him before. Not the dazzling public smile meant for audiences and cameras. This one is softer. Emotional. Almost disbelieving in its happiness, like some part of him still can't fully process that after all this time, you love him back just as deeply as he loves you.

Dinner passes contentedly after that; the atmosphere between you is completely transformed now that everything has finally been spoken aloud. The years of restraint and careful avoidance are gone, replaced with something softer and infinitely more dangerous because now there's honesty attached to it.

The two of you keep smiling at each other across the table like neither of you can quite believe this is real.

Michael's foot brushes yours beneath the table repeatedly. His hand finds yours whenever it can. The conversation drifts effortlessly between teasing jokes, laughter, future plans spoken half-seriously, and quiet moments where the two of you simply stare at each other in disbelief.

Every touch lingers longer now, every kiss feels fuller somehow, like the truth has changed the shape of them.

After dinner, Michael washes the dishes while you dry them beside him, the two of you bumping shoulders occasionally in the comfortable rhythm you've always shared. At one point, he splashes water at you playfully, grinning when you gasp in outrage, and the sound of your laughter fills the kitchen so warmly that Michael physically stops for a second just to look at you.

Like he's memorizing this version of happiness.

When the dishes are finally done, Michael suddenly grabs you around the waist before you can protest, lifting you effortlessly off your feet despite your startled laugh.

"Michael!" you squeal, laughing harder as he carries you toward the bedroom.

He only grins wider, clearly pleased with himself as your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders. The entire walk down the hallway feels lighter somehow, both of you still glowing from the confessions shared over dinner.

By the time he reaches the bedroom, Michael practically tosses you onto the mattress, your giggling immediately filling the space as he climbs over you. Then his mouth is on yours again, hungry this time.

You pull him closer instantly until his body is pressed firmly against yours, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep him there. Michael kisses you deeply, like he still can't quite get enough of you even after all these years, and when his tongue brushes against your lips, you part for him immediately.

The kiss deepens slowly, unhurried but intense, the lingering taste of wine and dinner still fresh between you as your tongues slide together. Michael kisses you like he's trying to pour every unspoken feeling from the last eleven years into your mouth now that he finally has permission to.

You reach up and begin slowly unbuttoning his shirt, your fingers careful and deliberate as you work each button free one at a time. There's no rush to any of this tonight. Every movement feels intentional, soaked in intimacy and relief, and years of longing finally spilling over into something tangible.

Michael's mouth never fully leaves yours while you undress him. His kisses remain warm and steady, occasionally breaking only long enough for him to murmur your name softly against your lips before kissing you again.

You can feel everything in the way he touches you now. The depth of his love. The familiarity built over the years together. The overwhelming relief of finally being honest with each other. It's all there in every kiss, every touch, and every breath he exhales against your skin.

His fingers trail lightly along your throat, your jaw, your shoulders, touching you with a tenderness that makes desire coil low in your stomach almost painfully. Not just physical desire anymore, but emotional too. The kind born from feeling completely wanted by someone you've loved for years.

Michael finally pulls back from the kiss just enough to sit you up gently before turning you around so he can unzip your dress.

The moment the zipper begins sliding downward, Michael leans forward and presses slow kisses against the newly exposed skin of your shoulder and back. The sensation makes your eyes flutter shut immediately, warmth spreading through you as his lips continue moving lower while he carefully works the zipper down inch by inch.

You push the top of your dress off your shoulders once he finishes, letting the fabric slide down your body until it pools around your knees. Michael's hands smooth slowly along your thighs as you lift your legs slightly, allowing him to fully remove the dress before tossing it somewhere onto the floor without a second thought, his attention already completely back on you.

Michael turns you back around to face him, his hands gentle against you as he guides you carefully until you're looking at him again. His lips immediately find the bare skin of your shoulder, the contact soft and lingering enough to make warmth spread through your chest all over again. Every touch from him feels different tonight. More open. Less restrained. Finally confessing how deeply he loves you has stripped away the last barrier that used to exist between you.

You feel his hands slide over yours as he helps guide your fingers back to his shirt, both of you working together to slowly finish unbuttoning it. The movement feels intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with familiarity. Eleven years together had made moments like this effortless between you. Your fingers brush against his warm skin each time another button comes undone, and Michael's breathing grows heavier the more exposed he becomes beneath your hands.

Until finally the shirt is pushed from his shoulders completely, discarded somewhere onto the floor, leaving nothing between you except skin and lingering heat.

Michael pauses, then, really pauses.

His hands settle lightly against your waist while his eyes move slowly over you, taking you in properly now that your dress is gone and you're left standing there in the deep red lingerie you had worn beneath it all day. The look on his face immediately shifts into something softer than simple attraction, something almost overwhelmed.

His gaze drags over every inch of you carefully, lingering with open admiration and something far more emotional underneath it. Like, after all these years, he still can't fully believe you're real. Still can't believe someone like you comes back to him at the end of the night.

Michael bites lightly against his lip before looking back up at you. "You were doing your press tour in this?" he asks. His voice is quieter now, roughened by emotion and desire alike, while his eyes continue wandering over you almost helplessly.

You gently reach up, your fingers brushing along his jaw before tilting his head back upward so he's looking directly at you again instead of your body. "Because I knew I was coming home to you when it was over," you say quietly.

The words settle between you heavily. Home. To him. You physically see the moment they hit him.

Michael inhales sharply, his chest rising beneath your hands as emotion flashes openly across his face before he can hide it. Because suddenly he's imagining you spending the entire day smiling through interviews and fake romance while secretly wearing this underneath your clothes for him. Thinking about him while cameras flashed in your face. While another man sat beside you pretending to know you intimately.

All the while, you had been planning to come home to Michael.

"The things you do to me," he says.

His voice is so soft now that it almost sounds reverent, and the look in his eyes makes your stomach tighten painfully because no one has ever looked at you the way Michael does. Like loving you is both the easiest and most overwhelming thing he's ever done.

You move with him instinctively then, shifting until you're sitting directly in his lap, straddling him fully. Your legs settle on either side of his waist while his arms immediately wrap around you, pulling you tightly against him like he can't tolerate distance from you anymore.

Not after tonight, not after finally saying everything out loud.

"Hmm," you hum softly as you lean down and press your lips against his neck.

Your hands glide slowly down his bare chest while Michael closes his eyes beneath you, a faint shiver moving through his body at the feeling of your mouth against his skin. You kiss him slowly there, lingering and teasing, your lips moving against the sensitive skin beneath his jaw before gently sucking and biting just enough to leave marks behind. Your marks.

And the thought of Lisa seeing them later doesn't bother you in the slightest.

Not anymore, not after hearing Michael say he loved you.

"I need you, mama," Michael gasps out between your kisses against him. The sound of his voice saying it sends heat rushing through you instantly. Breathless and needy and completely undone beneath your touch in a way only you ever really get to witness.

You press another slow kiss against his neck right as he swallows, feeling the movement beneath your lips, and your body responds immediately when you feel his arousal growing harder underneath you. The pressure against you pulls a soft moan from your throat before you can stop it, the sound muffled against his skin.

Michael's hands slide upward along your back, warm and slightly trembling with urgency now, until his fingers reach the clasp of your bra. He undoes it quickly, impatiently, and the straps loosen instantly before he tosses the fabric aside somewhere onto the floor without even looking.

The moment your bare chest presses fully against his, Michael lets out a quiet sound that almost borders on overwhelmed before kissing you again.

This kiss feels different from the others. It's needier, hungrier, like all the restraint he'd been holding onto throughout dinner has finally snapped completely.

Michael kisses you deeply while tightening his arms around you, and within seconds, he's carefully guiding you backward onto the mattress beneath him without ever breaking contact. His mouth stays locked to yours the entire time, desperate and emotional all at once, like he's trying to communicate everything he still doesn't quite have words for through the way he touches you instead.

His hands roam down your body, stopping at your breasts as he palms them in his large hands. You moan into his mouth as he gives them a light squeeze.

You undo Michael's pants, and he kicks them off. You quickly discard his boxers as well. His length slaps against his torso as it springs free. At the same time, he reaches down and pulls your panties off your legs, being met with the same sight he saw that morning: your pussy glistening and ready for him.

He dips his fingers into your slickness until they're coated, and he uses it to rub over his tip, closing his eyes as a moan falls from his lips, and you bite down on your lip.

Michael turns you over, putting you on your hands and knees in front of him. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your backside as he looks at how you're already dripping over the sheets. You feel him tease your clit and your entrance with his tip, sliding it across your folds and through your slickness, but not entering you yet.

You move your hips, pressing back against him as you softly whine, needing him, and Michael chuckles as he continues to tease you. Grinding against you as you feel his length rub against your clit and against your folds, but not entering inside of you. Michael coats himself in your slickness, and you hear his moans filling your ear, making you more desperate for him.

"Michael," you say again, turning around to face him. He bites down on his lip when he sees how deep and dark with desire your eyes are. "Please, baby," you say, and Michael smiles, pressing his body against yours as he hovers over you.

"I love when you beg for me, mama," he whispers in your ear, gently sucking on your neck. You feel his tip line up with your entrance, and he buries his length deep into your soaking pussy in one sharp thrust. Your back arches, gripping the sheets as he fucks you hard and shallow, his hips snapping sharply, your body rocking forward on the bed, and you grip the sheets tighter. "You feel so good," Michael says as he pushes himself deeper until you're filled.

His chest presses up against your back, his lips attach to your neck, biting and sucking on your soft skin. He slightly nudges your legs further apart to be able to take you deeper, and your body shudders under him as you moan. Michael reaches forward, palming your breasts in his hands, while his lips trail kisses across your shoulders and back, his movements getting quicker, his thrusts moving into a relentless pace as he takes you.

You meet his thrusts, moving back into him, and the sounds of your skin slapping together fill the room. Michael's hand moves from your breasts down to between your legs, rubbing your clit as he fucks you deeper. Your grip on the sheets beneath you tightens as his name falls from your lips over and over again.

"You're so good," Michael groans in your ear before kissing the skin behind it. "You make me feel so good, mama," He says, gently biting down on your neck. You feel your orgasm building, and your legs start shaking. Michael feels you clenching and knows you're close, pushing his thrusts deeper, filling you completely as his fingers relentlessly rub your clit.

Just as you feel your orgasm coming, the loud shrill of the phone on the nightstand next to you breaks the trance. Michael's thrusts slow as he reaches over to grab it, and you immediately let out a frustrated whine. "Michael, seriously?" you ask, and he chuckles.

"Don't worry, Mama, I'm not stopping... but depending on who this is, you'll have to be quiet," he says as he picks the phone up from the receiver.

The teasing amusement in his voice makes heat rush through you despite your frustration. There's something almost unfair about how composed he sounds while you're completely falling apart beneath him.

Once the phone is balanced between his shoulder and his cheek, he grabs your hand and guides you to rub your clit before grabbing your hips in his hands and picking up the pace of his thrusts: controlled but relentless enough to make your breathing hitch sharply with every move.

"Hello?" he asks into the phone. You immediately bite down into the pillow beneath you as you feel a moan about to slip out, your fingers rubbing against your clit as Michael's rhythm stays measured, quieter now but no less intense, each movement deliberate enough to keep you trembling underneath him.

"Michael... you answered this time," Lisa's voice rings through the phone. You feel Michael pull out of you fully before slamming back into you; the squelching sound of his dick entering you echoes through the room, and you suppress a scream.

"Hi, Lisa," Michael says, and your eyes widen, knowing it's her on the other end of the line.

His voice remains impossibly controlled, smooth, and even, like he's simply having a casual conversation instead of what's actually happening. Years of performing had given him terrifying control over his breathing and composure.

You had watched him sing entire concerts while dancing himself breathless, and now that same discipline is being used here, his expression barely changing despite the intensity burning underneath it all.

"Is this a bad time?" she asks as Michael is still relentlessly pounding into you. A moan slips out before you shove your face into the pillow, and Michael lets out the faintest chuckle at your struggle as he continues to fuck you.

"Is it? You're the one on vacation with your ex. Aren't you doing stuff?" Michael asks, and Lisa sighs audibly through the receiver.

"I'm not on vacation with my ex... My children's father and I have taken our children on vacation," Lisa says for what feels like the millionth time.

Your fingers clutch helplessly against the sheets before you reach back, tapping Michael's arm with your hand, signaling that you're close to your orgasm, and Michael fully pulls out of you, leaving you aching from the loss of contact, juices dripping out of you and onto the bed. Michael uses one hand to cover the receiver.

"You don't cum until I say so," Michael says. The authority in his voice sends a violent shiver through you. You whimper when Michael slams back into you. The sudden intensity makes you whimper helplessly into the pillow as he uncovers the receiver again, as if nothing happened.

"Look... I don't want to argue about it again. I just wanted to let you know that we just landed back in California, and I'm headed back to the ranch. Danny has the kids, I figured we could use a night alone to talk about everything," Lisa says.

Tears begin pricking painfully at your eyes from the overwhelming combination of pleasure and denial. Your entire body feels unbearably sensitive now, every nerve ending burning from being held right at the edge without release. Another broken sound escapes you as Michael's movements grow rougher, and he visibly notices immediately.

You can feel the satisfaction in the way his hands tighten against your hips. The way he knows exactly what he's doing to you. Your vision blurs from the tears, another whimper escaping you as Michael fucks you harder.

"Yeah, I have some things I want to talk to you about, too," he says. Lisa exhales softly on the other end of the line, unaware that Michael is talking about ending their marriage entirely.

Meanwhile, another whimper leaves you; your body is trembling underneath him so badly you can barely hold yourself upright anymore. Michael can feel it too, can feel how desperately close you are and how hard you're trying to obey him despite it.

"Okay... I'll be home in 30 minutes," Lisa says.

"Okay, see you then," Michael says before tossing the phone carelessly back onto the nightstand without even checking whether she's hung up yet.

The second his attention fully returns to you, everything about him changes. The controlled composure disappears instantly. Michael leans down until his lips are right beside your ear, one arm wrapping tightly around your waist to pull you flush against him while his breathing finally turns uneven against your skin.

"You take me so good, mama. Look at you, coming apart around me like this. You're so beautiful," Michael says to you.

The praise in his voice nearly destroys you on its own.

"M–Michael, the phone," you say weakly, glancing toward the receiver sitting crookedly on the nightstand. The realization suddenly crashes over you both at once. Lisa could still be there.

And she is.

On the other end of the line, Lisa's eyes slowly widen as the reality of what she's hearing fully settles into place now that Michael is no longer masking it. The sound of skin slapping together, the unmistakable squelching sound of Michael's dick thrusting in and out of your dripping pussy. She knew he was having sex, she just didn't know who with.

"M–My contract, I can't get caught," you say quieter to him.

The words come out broken and breathless, barely held together through everything Michael is doing to you, but the panic underneath them is real. Even now, even in the middle of this, your career still hangs over both of you like a shadow. One wrong mistake, one rumor connected too directly back to Michael, and everything surrounding the movie and your public relationship could implode.

Michael slows his thrusts enough to lean over and grab the phone from the nightstand before placing it firmly back onto the receiver, finally cutting off Lisa's ability to hear as he fucks you.

Then his attention immediately returns to you.

"They can't know that it's me you're falling apart for every night and not him," Michael says. The possessiveness in his voice sends heat rushing through you instantly. There's something deeply intimate about the way he says it, like, despite all the secrecy and contracts and public lies, he still quietly claims you in every way that matters.

Michael hits you with another sharp thrust, making you whimper. "Come for me, mama. I want to feel you all around me," he says. The praise and softness in his voice completely undo you.

Your walls clench around him, a moan that sounds closer to a sob rips through your throat as your orgasm explodes through you from Michael making you hold it. Michael immediately wraps his arms around you tighter as your body shakes hard beneath him, holding you through every second of it while your name spills loudly from his lips over and over again like a prayer.

The intimacy of it nearly overwhelms you as much as the physical sensation itself.

Because Michael now isn't just touching you with the desire for you he's always felt, he's touching you with the overwhelming sensation of love he feels for you. Every movement between you means something deeper now that everything has finally been confessed aloud.

Your orgasm releases so much that it drips down Michael's balls and thighs, spilling down your thighs and onto the sheets. Michael hits you with another sharp and hard thrust before you feel his warmth filling you. Your name spills from his lips loudly as he fills you with his release. Your hole is spent, not able to hold everything, and as Michael pulls out, your combined release drips out of you and onto the bedsheets.

"I love when you make a mess, mama," Michael says, lightly slapping your pussy, making your body shake as you release another moan. You collapse forward, completely spent, and Michael immediately softens again, seeing it, brushing his hand gently up your back while your breathing slowly steadies.

"You okay, baby?" he asks quietly.

You nod against the sheets, far too boneless from Michael's intense lovemaking to form a proper response yet, and Michael smiles to himself before carefully slipping out of bed. A few moments later, you hear water running softly in the bathroom before he returns with a warm cloth in his hands.

The care he takes with you afterward always affects you more than he probably realizes.

Michael kneels beside you on the bed, gently cleaning your skin with slow, careful movements, his touch impossibly tender compared to the intensity from moments earlier. Every so often, he presses soft kisses against your shoulder, your cheek, your temple, telling you he loves you, soothing you quietly while he takes care of you.

The entire scene feels painfully domestic again, not hidden lovers stealing time together, not part-time. Just the two of you.

"What did Lisa want?" you ask sleepily as you move closer to him.

Your body still feels heavy and loose from everything the two of you had just shared, warmth lingering through your muscles while you instinctively curl yourself closer against Michael's side. The emotional exhaustion somehow feels even heavier than the physical exhaustion tonight. So much had changed in the span of a few hours that your mind still hadn't fully caught up to it.

Michael brushes his fingers gently through your hair as he looks down at you.

"She's on her way back... she'll probably be here in about 15 minutes... I'll draw you a bath, nice and warm to help you relax your muscles, and you stay up here while I deal with her, okay?" Michael says.

The tenderness in his voice makes your chest ache.

Not because he's trying to get rid of you, but because he's taking care of you so instinctively. Even now, with the weight of the conversation waiting downstairs, Michael's first concern is still your comfort. Your safety. Making sure you're relaxed while he handles the mess he's spent years avoiding.

You nod slowly before leaning up to kiss him again, and Michael immediately kisses you back just as deeply.

The kiss feels different now that everything has finally been spoken aloud between you. There's no uncertainty left inside it anymore. No careful restraint, pretending this relationship is temporary or casual. Michael kisses you like someone finally allowed to love openly, even if only privately for now.

"Okay... I love you, Michael," you say. The words are soft from exhaustion, but completely sincere, and the moment they leave your mouth, Michael's entire expression changes.

His smile spreads slowly, emotion visibly flickering across his face like he still can't fully believe he's hearing those words from you after all these years. You can practically see the confidence settling into him afterward, steadying him for what he's about to do downstairs. Because suddenly this isn't just about escaping an unhappy marriage anymore.

It's about you. About finally choosing the woman he's loved all along.

"I love you more, baby," he says.

His thumb brushes softly against your cheek before he leans down to press another lingering kiss against your forehead, holding it there for a moment longer than necessary, like he's grounding himself with you one last time before facing reality downstairs.

Then he disappears into the bathroom to draw you a bath.

You can hear the water running while you remain tangled in the sheets, your body still buzzing faintly from his touch while your mind replays everything that happened tonight. The confessions. The plans. The future the two of you had never truly allowed yourselves to imagine before now, suddenly became real enough to touch.

Michael returns a few minutes later and carefully helps you into the warm bath, his hands gentle against you as he settles you into the water. Steam curls softly around the room while tension slowly begins easing from your body, and Michael crouches beside the tub for a moment just watching you.

Like, he hates the idea of leaving your side even briefly.

He leans in and gives you another soft, lingering kiss before finally standing again and heading back into the bedroom. You hear drawers opening and closing while he changes into casual sweats and a t-shirt, trading intimacy for composure as he prepares himself for the conversation waiting downstairs.

Then, just as he reaches the hallway, the sound of the front door unlocking echoes faintly through the house.

Lisa was home, and now it was finally time for Michael to end the relationship he never truly wanted in order to be with the woman he had always wanted.

1995 new york

You were pissed.

Not the kind of anger that flickers and fades, not the kind that cools with time or distance. This sat heavy in your chest, constant, simmering, alive. It moved through your body like a current, sharp and electric, making it impossible to sit still on the private jet from Los Angeles to New York. Every shift in your seat, every restless adjustment of your hands in your lap, every tight inhale felt like it was barely containing it.

Your husband had been gone.

For six weeks, a little over a month, he was gone, and you had no idea where he was. That was the part that didn't settle, the part that never stopped feeling wrong, no matter how many days passed. It wasn't just that he needed space; it wasn't just that he left after the argument, it was that he disappeared in a way that shut you out completely. There was no location, no real explanation, nothing that grounded his absence in something you could understand.

And the worst part? He hadn't even spoken to you. Not once.

Every message, every update, every piece of information you'd gotten had come filtered through his team, passed along like you were just another person on a list of obligations instead of his wife. It made your jaw tighten just thinking about it, made your fingers curl slightly against the armrest as you stared out the window, the clouds stretching endlessly beneath you.

A little over a month ago, the two of you got into an argument, and when you got back to Neverland later that evening, Michael was gone. The memory of it lingered with a sharp clarity that hadn't dulled over the weeks, the way the house had felt too quiet when you stepped inside, the way something had immediately felt off before you even knew why. A note that barely gave any explanation at all sat in his place, small and insufficient for what it represented.

Needed space. Be back later.

Those words had stayed with you in a way you hadn't expected, not because of what they said, but because of everything they didn't. You had stood there longer than you meant to, staring at it, reading it again and again like it might change if you gave it enough time, like it might reveal something hidden underneath its simplicity.

And you had initially thought later would mean later that night, or even potentially the next day, because that has happened before. Because there had been moments where things got too heated, where he needed distance, where the best thing either of you could do was step away and come back when it wasn't so raw.

But no.

It's been six weeks, and you still haven't seen him or spoken to him.

Six weeks of waking up without him. Six weeks of going to sleep in a bed that felt too big, too empty in a way that made it impossible not to notice. Six weeks of conversations that never happened, of apologies that never came, of tension that never had the chance to be resolved because he never gave it the space to.

What started it all was Quincy Jones reaching out to you and asking for a favor.

Even thinking about that now felt complicated, tangled up in everything that followed, even though at the time it had felt so simple. He is the executive producer of the sitcom The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and he asked you if you wanted to guest-star on the show as yourself because they've had a lot of musical guest stars on the show. It had felt easy to say yes in your head, easy to imagine yourself stepping into something fun, something different, something that wasn't heavy or complicated.

Michael wasn't entirely happy or comfortable with Quincy asking you for a favor because of how things ended between them after the Bad album.

You had expected that. You had known that before the conversation even started, you could feel it the moment Quincy's name came up in the context of anything that involved you. Michael had wanted more creative control and felt like Quincy was stifling that, and you had seen what that frustration looked like up close, had heard it in his voice, had watched it build over time until it became something he couldn't ignore anymore.

Quincy felt like he was owed more because of how successful all three of Michael's albums that he helped produce, Off the Wall, Thriller, and Bad, were.

And that difference in perspective had never really resolved itself. It just... ended.

But to you, it wasn't even about Quincy.

You loved Fresh Prince, and guest-starring on it was something you didn't want to pass up at all. It was yours. That was the part that mattered. It wasn't tied to history, or ego, or unresolved tension. It was something you enjoyed, something you wanted, something that felt like it belonged to you and your own career.

But Michael couldn't see past it.

He couldn't separate Quincy from the opportunity, couldn't look at it without seeing everything that had happened between them layered over it. It felt disrespectful that Quincy would treat him the way that he did, but then have the nerve to ask you, his wife, for a favor, and you understood that.

You and Michael went back and forth about it for days.

It wasn't one conversation. It wasn't something quick and resolved. You argued for days about it. The same points, the same frustrations, the same inability to land anywhere that didn't leave one of you feeling unheard. Every time it came up, it carried more weight, more tension, more of that underlying frustration that neither of you knew how to soften without giving something up.

You understood where Michael was coming from, you really did.

That was the part that made it harder. Because you weren't dismissing him, weren't brushing off his feelings like they didn't matter. You supported Michael's decision to separate creatively from Quincy because you also felt that Quincy was stifling him creatively, and you had seen firsthand what that freedom had done for him. Dangerous and HIStory were proof of that. They were bold, different, entirely his in a way that felt undeniable.

And you didn't like some of the comments Quincy had made about Michael, especially when it came to his vitiligo.

That wasn't lost on you. None of it was.

But you tried to explain to Michael multiple times, it wasn't about Quincy; it was about guest-starring on your favorite show, getting your music out there in a new way. It was about doing something that made you excited, something that felt like growth in a way that was separate from him, even if your lives were so deeply intertwined.

You're a successful artist.

That mattered. Even if it looked different. Even if it didn't carry the same scale, the same level of attention, the same weight that his name did. No one is on Michael's level, and you honestly don't want the level of fame your husband has; you get enough elevated fame from being his wife, along with being a musician in your own right.

Your two hit singles I'm Your Baby Tonight and I Will Always Love You were still in heavy rotation on the radio stations.

You heard them everywhere. In passing. In cars. In rooms you walked into unexpectedly. Little reminders of something that had come from you, from your voice, from your experiences. Both of those songs you had written about Michael, and there was something that twisted slightly in your chest when you thought about that now, about how much of him existed in your work while he had removed himself from your life so completely.

And I Will Always Love You was the song Quincy wanted you to sing on the show. The same song that had spent 14 weeks as number 1 on the Billboard charts, the same song that was used for Whitney Houston's movie, The Bodyguard.

It meant something. It carried weight. It was yours.

After days of arguing about it, you told Michael that you were sorry that he didn't like Quincy asking you for a favor, but you weren't going to pass up the opportunity to guest star on your favorite sitcom because of Quincy Jones.

There had been a finality to that moment, something that settled into the space between you that neither of you moved to fix. You told Michael you were going to the set for a meeting with Quincy Jones and the other executive producer, Benny Medina.

When you got home after the meeting, Michael was gone.

The quiet had hit you first, the kind that didn't feel natural, didn't feel like a home that was lived in, even though everything was still there. Nothing had been disturbed. Nothing had been taken. It was just... him that was missing.

You haven't heard from him since.

He didn't come home, his side of the bed remained empty, and the bed itself remained cold. It wasn't just something you noticed once and adjusted to; it was something you felt every single night, the untouched sheets on his side holding their shape like time had stopped there, like he had simply stepped away and never returned. The cold wasn't just physical; it settled deeper than that, sinking into the routine you had built together, turning something that was once familiar into something that felt incomplete every time you lay down.

He didn't call; only his team did, their voices always careful, always measured, never carrying the weight that his voice would have, never sounding like someone who belonged to you. Every message passed through them felt wrong, like a conversation that should have been yours being filtered and controlled before it ever reached you, and eventually, you stopped answering, because if Michael wanted to tell you something, he needed to do it himself. You weren't going to accept distance disguised as communication, not from him.

But yesterday, something had told you to answer the phone when it rang.

Your hand had paused before picking it up, that split second filled with hesitation you hadn't felt in the beginning, because at first you had expected him, had hoped it would be him, but now you didn't expect anything at all. Still, you answered.

His representatives from Sony called and told you that Michael wanted you to be at the VMAs, to which you told them that if Michael himself had ever bothered to pick up the phone to call you, you would've told him that you had to be there anyway because you were presenting a few awards in different categories.

The words came out steady, but there was something sharp beneath them, something that didn't need to be raised in volume to be felt. It wasn't about the award show, not really; it was about the fact that even now, even after everything, he still wasn't the one reaching for you.

And then you hung up and called your manager, Amelia.

The second she answered, everything you had been holding in found its way out, not uncontrolled, but no longer contained either. She let you vent because she knew you were pissed at Michael's behavior to begin with, so for his team to call you and tell you that he wants you at an award show you were already going to be at, pissed you off even more, because it felt dismissive, like he hadn't even thought about the fact that you had your own career, your own obligations, your own presence in that space without him.

You were already going. You didn't need him to tell you.

And then you packed your stuff, each movement deliberate, controlled, like putting everything into place was the only thing you could manage when everything else felt so unresolved. Someone from your and Michael's security team brought you to the airport for you to board your private jet, and now you were in New York, the transition happening so quickly it almost felt disconnected from everything that led up to it.

You were taken to the hotel that Michael would be staying in, and you were brought up to his room so you could get ready, but he wasn't there, and you knew he wasn't going to be. The space felt temporary, impersonal, despite belonging to him, like it was just another place he had passed through without staying long enough to leave anything behind.

You knew you probably weren't going to see him until you got to the award show, so you might as well take your time.

You take a long bath, trying to scrub away some of the stress you're feeling, letting the heat wrap around you until your muscles finally begin to loosen, until the tightness in your chest eases just enough to breathe through. It doesn't erase anything, but it gives you a moment where the anger isn't sitting quite so close to the surface.

You had intentionally picked your dress before you and Amelia left Neverland.

You wanted—no, needed to make a statement, to let Michael know that what he did wasn't okay. Not something subtle that could be overlooked, not something that could be misread or ignored, but something undeniable, something he would see and feel without you having to say a single word.

You've been married for ten years, together for 13 years in total. That kind of time wasn't surface-level; it wasn't fragile; it was built on years of knowing each other in ways no one else did, years of arguments that had always ended with resolution, even if it took time to get there. You've argued before, but those moments had never turned into this, had never stretched into silence, into absence, into something that left you alone to sit with it for six weeks without a single attempt to fix it.

It wasn't okay, and he needed to know that.

Once you stepped out of the bath, you dried yourself off before putting on your robe, the soft fabric settling around you as you stepped back into a room that was already moving with quiet urgency. Your glam team was already waiting in your room, ready to do your makeup, their presence filling the space with purpose as you sat down in front of your makeup artist.

Amelia is keeping track of time, keeping everyone on track, her attention sharp, her voice steady as she moves through the room. Your styling team is steaming your dress so it's not wrinkled, the gold fabric hanging under the light, shimmering even before you've put it on, every detail catching softly as steam lifts around it. It already looks like a statement before it's even on you.

Your makeup artist, Lauren, is asking you what kind of look you want to go for, and you tell her you want a golden smoky eye since your dress is gold.

"You okay?" Amelia asks as she watches you.

She's been watching your body language, which is relaxed, thanks to your bath, but still very much controlled, like she knows what you're trying to conceal. There's a stillness to you that isn't natural, something held too tightly beneath the surface.

"I'm fine," you say, and Amelia doesn't press because she knows you're not going to say.

You're completely focused on making sure you're ready and on the carpet on time. You weren't walking the carpet with Michael; you already knew that, and that knowledge sits quietly in the back of your mind, something you don't allow yourself to dwell on. But you knew that you would be seated by him, and that's unavoidable, something waiting for you whether you're ready or not.

After your makeup is finished, your stylist helps you into your dress.

The fabric settles against your skin like it belongs there, the gold catching the light immediately, every movement sending a shimmer across the surface. The halter neckline draws the eye upward, clean and strong, while the deep cut adds just enough edge to make it impossible to ignore. The beading is intricate, precise, laid across the fabric in a way that makes the entire dress feel alive under the lights, hugging your body through your waist and hips before falling straight down in a sleek line that elongates you completely.

And then the black feather wrap.

It drapes over your arms, soft but dramatic, the contrast against the gold sharp enough to shift the entire look. It isn't just an accessory; it changes the energy of the dress entirely, adding something darker, something more controlled, something that feels less like softness and more like armor.

Your hair, long and flowing down your back, looks glossy under the lights, shining in a way that's hard to miss, and parted in the middle, the way you like it.

You looked hot, and you knew you looked hot, and you knew Michael would know it too.

Within the hour, you were pulling up to the red carpet, the city alive outside your window in a way that felt almost electric, flashes already visible in the distance before the car had even fully come to a stop. Amelia would be meeting you inside, but for now, it was just you, the quiet interior of the car, and the weight of everything waiting on the other side of that door. She looks at you as the car stops, her eyes scanning over you one last time, not for the dress or the makeup, but for you—for whatever you were holding beneath it all—and you take a slow, steady breath, letting it fill your chest before releasing it carefully.

"You ready?" she asks, and you nod.

There's no hesitation in the motion, even if there's something tighter sitting underneath it, something you don't let surface, something you keep tucked behind the composure you've been holding onto all day.

"I'll see you on the other side," you say as the door opens for you and your driver helps you out.

The second your heel hits the pavement, the world shifts.

Flashes explode around you instantly, rapid and blinding, cameras going off in waves as voices rise over each other, your name being called from every direction. The energy hits all at once, loud and overwhelming, but familiar, something your body knows how to step into without thinking, even when your mind is somewhere else entirely.

You don't rush. You never do. You move with intention, every step measured, your expression perfectly set as you turn just enough for the cameras, giving them angles, giving them exactly what they came for without giving anything else away.

A few questions from the press do catch your ear.

"Why didn't you walk the carpet with your husband, Michael?" "Are you and Michael having issues?! You've both been spotted separately for weeks." "Have you seen Michael yet? Seems like you both wanted to be the hottest in the room."

The words reach you, clear enough to register, sharp enough to land, but you don't react to them. You ignore them and smile as they take their pictures, the expression effortless, practiced, the same one you've worn a hundred times before. To them, to the cameras, to the press, nothing is different. Your smile is bright, your movements fluid, your presence commanding in a way that looks completely natural, completely untouched by anything happening beneath the surface.

They don't see the control it takes. They don't see the way you're holding everything in place.

After you walk the carpet and they get the pictures they need, you're escorted inside and to your seat, the noise of the outside world fading behind you as the atmosphere shifts into something more contained, more focused. The lights are lower, the energy still buzzing but quieter, concentrated.

Now you start to feel it: the nerves, because you know you'll be seated next to Michael.

The thought settles in your chest, heavy and unavoidable, but you don't let it show. Not in your face, not in your posture, not in the way you carry yourself as Amelia meets you in the aisle. You gently grab onto her arm as you two are led to the front row, your touch light but grounding, something to anchor yourself to as you walk forward.

Because when Michael is at award shows, he's always given a seat in the front row. There's no avoiding him tonight.

You thank the usher who brought you to your seat, your voice soft but polite, and you let out a quiet breath when you see that Michael isn't there yet. The space beside you sits empty, untouched, and for a moment, there's a flicker of something you don't quite let yourself name: relief, maybe, or just the absence of immediate tension.

You take a seat, smoothing your dress slightly as you settle, the gold fabric pooling perfectly around you, catching the light even in stillness. Amelia takes a seat in the row behind you, where her reserved seat is, close enough to feel like support, but far enough that you're still on your own in this.

The seats soon start to fill up, people moving around you, voices blending in low conversation, but Michael's remains empty. You hear others talking around you, their voices casual, unaware of how closely you're listening. They say that Michael is opening the show with his performance.

And soon it was starting.

Once all the seats were filled, the lights went down, the room dimming until the stage became the center of everything, and Michael came on stage.

And just like that, your breath catches.

You hated how even when you were angry, he managed to take your breath away, how it wasn't something you could control, something your body did before your mind could catch up and remind you why you were pissed in the first place.

He had cut his hair; it was short, his curls defined and framing his face, softer in a way that made him look almost unreal under the stage lights. He looked angelic, and it pissed you off even more, because it didn't match what he had done, didn't match the frustration you had been sitting with for six weeks.

The opening notes of Don't Stop Til You Get Enough start, and Michael is immediately in it, his energy snapping into place like it always does, effortless and consuming, and so is the crowd, the reaction instant, loud, completely drawn into him.

But his eyes find yours. Out of everything, out of everyone in the room, they land on you like it was inevitable. You don't give anything away. Not in your expression, not in the way you sit, not in the way you hold his gaze for just a second before letting it go.

And neither does he.

However, seeing that you did take his breath away a little, he almost stumbled over the lyrics. It's subtle, something most people wouldn't catch, something that blends into the performance so easily it could be dismissed, but you see it. You recognize it. Because you know him.

Seeing you in that dress, your hair glossy under the lights, you looked breathtaking in the most devastating way because he knew you were pissed.

Your face was controlled, composed in a way that gave nothing away to anyone else, but Michael knows you better than anyone, and he knows your body language. He knows the difference between calm and contained, knows the way your shoulders hold just a fraction tighter, the way your stillness isn't ease but restraint.

He knows you have every right to be pissed, but he also feels validated in his feelings. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, something unspoken passes between you, something that doesn't resolve anything, doesn't soften anything, just exists.

But he knew he shouldn't have ignored you for six weeks; that was too far.

Michael performs Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough, The Way You Make Me Feel, Scream, Beat It, Black or White, Billie Jean, and Dangerous, moving through each song like he always does, completely immersed, completely lost in it, like nothing else exists once the music starts.

And you sit there and watch him the entire time. You hate how it affects you. You hate how flustered it's making you feel, because you're pissed and you want to stay pissed, you want to hold onto that anger, that clarity, that sense of control you've had all day.

But you can never control how your body reacts whenever Michael performs.

The way he loses himself in the music, giving himself over to it completely, it's always been one of your weak points, something that has never changed, no matter how much time passes, no matter what's happening between you. There's something about the way he moves, the way he exists in that space, that pulls at something deeper than logic, deeper than anger.

It's always turned you on. It's always made you want him badly. And you didn't want to feel any of those things right now, not when you were still carrying everything he had done, not when you hadn't even spoken to him yet.

But your body was reacting to what was familiar without your permission, responding to him in a way that had been built over years, something instinctive, something ingrained.

And you couldn't do anything to stop it.

The opening notes of You Are Not Alone start, and your breath hitches, the reaction immediate and completely out of your control as the sound settles into the room. It's familiar in a way that feels too close, too personal, because this isn't just another song to you. It never has been. Michael had always told you, since he started recording this song, that it was for you, and that truth sits heavy beneath every note, threading itself through your chest in a way that makes it harder to separate the performance from what it actually means.

He had asked you to be in the music video with him, and the memory comes back without effort, warm and vivid, the kind that still feels real when you think about it: the laughter between takes, the way he stayed close to you even when the cameras weren't rolling, the ease of it, the way nothing felt complicated back then. And you know he's performing it because it's a big hit right now, you can't turn on any R&B station without hearing it every hour, the song everywhere, constant, unavoidable in the same way he is.

Towards the end of it, a choir comes out to sing the chorus while Michael sings over them, their voices rising together and filling the space in a way that almost feels overwhelming, layered and powerful, pressing into you from all sides. He walks to the edge of the stage as the choir is singing, "I am here with you," they sing, and Michael sings the line as well, his voice slipping through theirs, distinct enough that you feel it more than hear it, like it's meant to land somewhere specific.

"I'm here with you," Michael sings, and then he does it; he points directly at you, and then he winks... well, attempts to wink. Michael has never been able to wink, and the second it happens, something in you shuts down just as quickly as it had opened. The softness that had been building, quiet and dangerous in the way it threatened to undo everything you've been holding onto, disappears completely, like it was never there at all, leaving nothing behind but the sharp, familiar edge of your anger snapping back into place.

How dare he?

The thought hits hard enough to settle into your body, because it isn't just the gesture, it's everything behind it that makes it feel wrong. He disappears and ignores you for six weeks and then shows up to this award show, has his team tell you that he wants you to be there, and something about him pointing to you during this performance made you even more mad, because it isn't private, it isn't real in the way it should be. It's something he's doing in front of everyone, something that looks like closeness without actually being it, and that contrast sits wrong in a way you can't ignore.

When Michael finished his performance, you stood up with everyone else and clapped, your hands moving in rhythm with the rest of the room while your expression stayed exactly where you wanted it: neutral, composed, completely unreadable. You don't give anything away, even though you knew the camera would be on you since you are his wife and he had just done a 15-minute opener, and you can feel that awareness sitting just beneath your skin, keeping everything in place.

When Michael comes back to his seat, right next to you, he's in all black, sunglasses on, in place, and he sits down in his seat. The space beside you shifts the second he's there, his presence immediate, impossible to ignore even without looking at him. You don't turn to him, you keep your focus forward, but you can feel his eyes on you, steady and waiting, like he's trying to catch something you're refusing to give.

The camera pans past you guys, and when it gets to him, he points and smiles, slipping back into that ease effortlessly, giving them exactly what they expect from him, and as soon as it passes, as soon as the attention moves on, he turns back to you.

Just as he opens his mouth to say something, one of the stagehands comes to your seat and tells you that it's time for you to go backstage to get ready to present the award for Best Dance Video. The interruption cuts through the moment cleanly, stopping whatever he was about to say before it can reach you. You nod and rise from your seat without turning to Michael, your movements smooth, controlled, like none of it affected you at all, and follow the stagehand backstage to wait for your cue.

The distance between you resets the second you step away, but the tension doesn't leave with it.

You were presenting the award with Notorious B.I.G., and you were a fan of his. When the two of you were announced, he offered you his arm, and you smiled, taking it and letting him lead you out to the podium. The contact is brief, simple, but grounding in a way that steadies your step as you walk back into the lights, the room opening up in front of you again.

The first thing you did was look at Michael, and you see how his jaw clenches when he sees you with your arm looped through Biggie's, the reaction quick but unmistakable, tension flashing across his face before it settles again. It's subtle, easy to miss if you didn't know him as well as you do, but you catch it instantly.

You let go of his arm when you two reach the podium, the movement easy, deliberate, and he goes to the microphone first.

"Yeah, uh, we up here to present the award for the Best Dance Video," he says, and you smile.

"And those of you at home are probably wondering, how do you find the best dance video? Personally, I think it should just be whichever one I like the most... but then again, given who the nominees are, you all might call me biased," you say, and that sends a laugh throughout the room because everyone knows that Scream is nominated.

"I mean, I'd say the same thing. I should give it to whoever I want to give it to, and I think we might want to give it to the same video," he says, and you turn to him with a smirk.

"This is how we do it?" you tease, and the crowd laughs again, and so does Biggie.

"Damn, you're cold, Ma," Biggie teases you, and you laugh while shaking your head, the sound coming easier than you expect, light and effortless in a way that contrasts sharply with everything sitting underneath your skin. You glance at Michael again, instinctively, and the reaction is immediate, the second your eyes land on him. 

His hand is tight around the arm of his seat, knuckles tense, the grip controlled but unmistakable. He doesn't like this. It's written all over him in the way his posture stiffens, in the way his jaw sets just slightly, in the way his attention doesn't leave you for even a second. 

He doesn't like how close Biggie is to you, doesn't like the ease of it, the casual way you fit into that space beside someone else. He doesn't like how Biggie is making you laugh, how that sound comes from you without hesitation. And he definitely doesn't like how you're playing into it, how you're letting it happen without pulling back, without softening it for him.

"Here are the nominees for Best Dance Video," you say with a smile as the video montage plays of all the music videos that are nominated for the category, your voice steady, smooth, slipping back into that practiced rhythm as the screen lights up behind you. 

The room shifts its attention forward, but you can still feel it, that awareness of him sitting out there, watching, taking everything in, whether he wants to or not. When the montage ends, you turn to Biggie. "Do you want to read the results?" you ask as you hold out the envelope to him.

"By all means, it's all you, Mrs. Jackson," he says, and you give him a look while everyone laughs, the title landing with a weight that feels deliberate tonight, something that sits differently now than it usually does. You turn to the crowd and smile, letting the moment pass without lingering on it.

"And the winner is..." You trail off as you open the envelope, the paper sliding smoothly beneath your fingers, and when you read the name, something soft flickers across your face before you can stop it. "Michael and Janet Jackson, Scream," you announce. Everyone stands to applaud, the room rising in a wave of sound and movement while Michael and Janet get up from their seats. You were actually surprised Janet was seated on the opposite side of the room from you and Michael, the distance between all of you something you hadn't noticed until now, something that feels oddly intentional in hindsight.

Michael comes to the stage first, accepting the award from Biggie, shaking his hand with that same composed ease he carries everywhere, and when he steps toward you, you let him hug you. It's automatic, expected, and necessary. You know the press is going to talk about it if you don't, know that every movement is being watched, interpreted, dissected, and you're not giving them anything they can twist into something bigger than it needs to be. The contact is brief, controlled, nothing like what it used to be, but it's enough to satisfy what's expected.

Then Janet joins you all on stage shortly after, her presence warmer, more familiar in a way that feels grounding. She and Michael hug, and then she hugs you tightly, her arms wrapping around you in a way that feels genuine, not performative, like she's holding onto you for just a second longer than necessary. It settles something in you, just slightly.

You take a step back to allow Janet and Michael to take the podium, shifting your weight subtly, giving them the space that belongs to them in this moment, and once they are done giving their speeches, all of you are escorted backstage, the noise of the crowd fading behind you as the energy changes again. You loop your arm through Janet's, the movement easy, familiar, and the two of you fall into step together, smiling and giggling as you make your way backstage, the lightness between you real in a way that feels almost like relief after everything sitting heavy in your chest.

"I knew you guys were going to win," you say to her, and Janet smiles at you, her expression soft, knowing, before she silently gestures to Michael. It's subtle, just a small movement of her eyes, but you know exactly what she's asking without her needing to say it out loud. Have you talked?

You shake your head and roll your eyes, the motion small but telling, and she laughs, a quiet, understanding sound that carries just enough sympathy without pushing you to say more than you want to. Biggie congratulates them both again before he leaves the three of you alone, his presence fading out of the space as the moment shifts again.

Michael turns to look at you, taking his glasses off, the movement slower than usual, like he's giving himself a second before fully stepping into whatever this is about to be. Janet clears her throat, the sound light but purposeful, and excuses herself, leaving just the two of you standing there.

Now you and Michael are alone.

The space changes immediately, the air between you heavier, quieter, everything that had been held back now sitting right there, waiting. You don't speak. You've already endured six weeks of silence; what's a few more minutes? The quiet doesn't feel unfamiliar to you anymore, but it doesn't feel comfortable either. It just exists, stretching between you.

Michael isn't really sure what to say, and it shows in the way he hesitates, in the way his eyes move over you instead, taking you in like he's trying to understand something without words. Your dress catches his attention again, the gold shimmering under the backstage lights, reflecting softly against your skin, and he can't look away from it. 

He knows every single curve of your body, every line, every detail, and he notices immediately how the dress accentuates all of it, how it sharpens everything, how it makes you look just out of reach even when you're standing right in front of him.

"Hi," Michael says, and you scoff, the sound sharp, immediate, your anger rising so quickly it almost feels like it's been waiting for that exact word.

"That's all you have to say to me?" You ask, and Michael shakes his head, the movement small but certain.

"No... but I can tell you're not in the mood to listen," he says, and you nod as you laugh a little, the sound lacking any real amusement.

"I was ready to listen six weeks ago, Michael... but you never came back home," You slightly snap, the words slipping out with more edge than you try to control, because they've been sitting there for too long. Michael sighs as he rubs behind his neck, the gesture familiar, almost automatic, and takes a deep breath like he's trying to steady himself before speaking.

"I know... I'm sorry, I just—" you cut him off.

"I'm not in the mood for your excuses. If you had something to say, you should've picked up the phone and called, not had your team call our home... or better yet, you should've just come home," you snap while rolling your eyes, the frustration breaking through more clearly now as you move to walk past him.

Michael catches your arm and turns you around, the contact quick, instinctive, but you react just as fast, pulling back from him like the touch itself is something you don't want.

"You don't get to touch me," You say.

"Baby, please," he says, the word slipping out rougher than he intends, his voice dropping as he stops himself from reaching for you again, his hand falling back at his side as he takes a breath that doesn't quite steady him.

"No," You respond, the word firm, leaving no space for negotiation, and Michael takes another breath, deeper this time, slower, like he's trying to keep himself grounded.

He knew this wasn't going to be easy. He knew you were going to be pissed, and he was going to have to work extra hard and give more than verbal apologies to get your forgiveness.

"Just tell me what I need to do, I'll do anything," Michael says, and you nearly roll your eyes, the reaction instinctive, but you stop yourself before it fully shows, holding onto that control even now.

"You should've come home... weeks ago," you say before walking off, your voice quieter this time but heavier, the weight of it landing differently than the anger did.

And this time, Michael doesn't try to stop you, because he can hear it, the other part that's lying underneath the anger, the part that doesn't need to be said out loud for him to understand. He hurt you.

And he knows he hurt you deeply, and there's not going to be an easy fix to it.

♡

After the award show is over, you don't feel like going to the after party, the thought of more cameras, more people, more pretending sitting wrong in your chest in a way you don't have the energy to push through. You want to go back to the hotel, somewhere quieter, somewhere you don't have to perform. 

You're sitting in the car, Bill in the front, as you're both waiting for Michael, the interior dim, insulated from the noise outside. You're looking out of the tinted window at the night sky, the city lights blurring past in reflection, when you hear the door open, and you feel Michael's presence in the backseat before you even register the shift in weight beside you. Bill pulls off a few moments later, smooth and practiced, and you don't turn to him.

During the rest of the show, you and Michael sat next to each other, but didn't speak. The silence hadn't been accidental; it had been held, deliberate on both sides, stretched thin between you with everything that hadn't been said. You didn't even smile for the camera, not once, even when you could feel it lingering on you, waiting for something to soften. You knew the press was going to run stories tomorrow, speculating about what was going on between you and Michael, but you didn't care. Let them. None of it came close to what it actually felt like to sit next to him after six weeks of nothing.

You were angry, and your anger was giving way to the hurt you felt underneath it, something heavier, something that didn't flare as sharply but lingered longer.

You were hurt for every night that you cried yourself to sleep because Michael wouldn't call or come home. The memory sits too close, too easy to reach, your chest tightening slightly at the thought before you push it back. 

Every time you tried to call him, a member of his team made up an excuse as to why he couldn't come to the phone; their voices polite, rehearsed, always just enough to end the conversation without giving you anything real, until eventually you stopped calling, because there were only so many times you could hear the same distance repeated back to you before it stopped being worth it. 

You think about how you spent a short period of time feeling guilty for going on Fresh Prince, even though you knew you didn't do anything wrong, the doubt settling in quietly before you forced yourself out of it, because you refused to let his silence rewrite something you had every right to do.

Because you hated how Michael was using his silence to punish you.

And now Michael wanted to make it up to you, but you wanted to punish him. The thought doesn't come with hesitation; it settles in cleanly, sharp, and certain in a way that feels almost grounding after weeks of feeling like everything has been out of your control.

And you had an idea of how you were going to do it.

The car ride was silent; you didn't speak to Michael, and he didn't try to push you into conversation either. The quiet between you feels different now, heavier, aware, like both of you are sitting in it on purpose. He knew how badly he had messed up. It shows in the way he stays still, in the way he doesn't interrupt, doesn't push, doesn't try to force anything out of you before you're ready. He just wanted the chance to explain and apologize to you, because he knows he shouldn't have stayed away as long as he did.

Bill parks in the back and leads you and Michael through the hotel's private back entrance, the transition from the car to the quiet interior quick and controlled, away from the crowd, away from the noise. He takes you both straight to the elevator and presses the button for the penthouse floor. The elevator ride also passes in silence, the soft hum of movement the only thing filling the space as the numbers climb, the reflection of the three of you faintly visible in the mirrored walls.

When you finally make it to the top and the doors open, the men let you step out first, then Michael, and then Bill. The hallway is quiet and empty, like the rest of the world has been shut out completely.

You turn to Bill with a smile. "Goodnight, Bill," you say, and he smiles back at you, giving you a nod.

You use the keycard you were given upon arrival to unlock the door, the soft click sounding louder than it should in the quiet, and you and Michael walk inside. The room is dimly lit, still, untouched, and you move through it without hesitation, going straight to the bed and sitting down, the edge dipping slightly beneath your weight as you start to take off your heels.

Michael walks over before kneeling in front of you, the movement immediate, instinctive, like he doesn't want the distance between you to stretch any further now that you're finally alone.

"Baby... please, let's talk about this," Michael says, and you scoff, the sound sharp, cutting through whatever softness he's trying to bring into the moment.

"Oh, now you're ready to talk? Are you sure you don't need to get your representatives in here to do the talking for you?" You ask as you toss one of your heels to the side before unfastening the other, the small action giving your hands something to do, something to focus on that isn't him.

"I know I should have called you myself... I'm so sorry that I didn't," he says, and you nod, not because you accept it, but because you already knew that.

You toss your other heel to where the first one was, the soft thud barely registering, and only then do you look down at Michael, kneeling in front of you. The pleading was behind his eyes, clear in a way he isn't trying to hide, something open and vulnerable that you haven't seen from him in weeks. He wanted to do whatever he could to fix this, and you could tell.

"Okay," you say, the word coming out easier than it should, because you don't want to talk about this, not right now. Not when your head is still filled with everything from tonight, everything he stirred up without even trying.

Right now, you couldn't get how crazy he was driving you all night out of your head.

From his shorter curls to his performance, the way the stage lights caught every movement, the suit, his outfit change, the way he looked in his glasses, the way he carried himself with that quiet, effortless confidence, it lingers in your mind in pieces, replaying whether you want it to or not. It pulls at something familiar, something instinctive, something that doesn't care that you're still pissed at him.

You were losing yourself in your desire for him, despite being pissed at him.

Michael wraps his arms around your legs, the movement sudden but not forceful, grounding himself there like it's the only place he knows to go. He lowers himself, resting his head against your lap, the weight of him settling in a way that feels familiar, too familiar for how much distance has been between you.

"Please, mama... just tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this. I'll do whatever you want," he whispers as he presses kisses against you over the fabric of your dress.

The nickname hits first.

It lands deeper than anything else he's said tonight, slipping past your defenses in a way you weren't prepared for, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep your reaction contained. His lips follow, soft and insistent even through the fabric, and it takes more effort than you want to admit not to respond, not to let your body lean into something it recognizes so easily.

"I can't stand you ignoring me, especially when you look this good," he whispers.

There's something raw in the way he says it, something honest and stripped down that doesn't feel practiced, doesn't feel controlled, and it makes it harder to hold your ground, harder to stay exactly where you've decided to be.

"So now you know how it feels to be ignored... try again in 5 more weeks," you say, your voice unsteady despite the words themselves being sharp.

Michael's hand moves along your leg, slow, absent-minded at first, like he's not even thinking about it, just following instinct, and the sensation pulls at you immediately, familiar and dangerous all at once.

"Stop," you say. His hand stills the second the word leaves your mouth, no hesitation or pushback. He lifts his head from your lap, the shift immediate, his attention snapping fully to you as he searches your face. "You think you can ignore me for six weeks and get to touch me?" You ask.

The question lands heavier than your tone, and you see it register in him instantly, his eyes widening slightly as the reality of it settles in. His arms loosen around your legs, and he lets go, pulling back without being told again.

"Baby..." he says, quieter this time. You don't let him finish. You point to the cushioned chair across from the bed.

"Go sit over there," you say.

Michael's eyes are still wide, and when he stands up, you can see the bulge pressing against his pants. Sitting in front of your lap, touching you, and kissing you has already made him hard. When he gets to the chair, your voice calls out again before he sits down. "Take off your pants and boxers," you say.

Michael's hands are already on his belt, unbuckling it, and he tosses it to the side before pulling his pants and then his boxers down. He had already taken his shoes off as soon as you two walked into the room. You resist the urge to bite your lip when you see Michael's length lightly slap against his stomach when he frees it. "Now sit down," you say.

Michael does what you say, sitting down in the chair, and you stand up from the bed. "Touch yourself," you say, and he sputters over his words as he speaks.

"W-What?" he asks, and you tilt your head to the side.

"You heard me... You don't get to touch me yet... so touch yourself," you say. Michael swallows, as he feels himself get harder, his dick pulsing almost uncomfortably at your commands. He grabs himself, slightly hissing under his breath as he does, at how sensitive he is to the touch. "Start slow," you say.

Michael nods as his hand slowly starts to move along his length. You watch his hand, slowly sliding the straps of your dress off your shoulders before reaching behind your back and unzipping your dress. You let it pool at your feet and step out of it. Michael, watching you the whole time, stills his hand, and you turn to him.

"Did I tell you to stop?" You ask. Michael swallows again and resumes his movements, his hand slowly stroking himself as his eyes are glued to you. You reach behind your back and unhook your bra, letting your breasts spill out, and your bra falls to the floor. Michael bites his lip as his grip on himself tightens, and his entire body is pulsing.

You reach for the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down your legs before you step out of them. Your movements are slow and deliberate, drawing it out because you know Michael is watching. "A little faster now," you say. Michael nods, increasing the speed of his hand down against himself, and you hear him whimper.

You stand fully bare in front of him, and then you move to the bed. You adjust the pillows before propping yourself up on them. Michael swallows as your legs slowly spread, your glistening folds exposed to him, and you won't permit him to come to you. You place two of your fingers in your mouth, coating them before reaching down and rubbing your clit, keeping your pace the same as Michael's.

His breath hitches when he sees you touch yourself, his hand almost stilling, but he doesn't. Instead, he whimpers again, desperate to join you on the bed, desperate to touch you. You shiver at the sensitivity of your clit, but you keep rubbing, running your fingers along your folds to slick them in your wetness, a soft moan slipping out of you.

"Faster, Michael," you say as you look at his hand again, moving against his length. Michael swallows, speeding up his hand, and you match his pace, speeding up the pace of your fingers against your clit. You close your eyes and moan louder this time, and Michael feels himself twitching. He's aching to touch you. He keeps stroking himself, his movements getting faster as he watches you pleasure yourself.

"Mama, please," Michael whimpers, and you look at him, your fingers speeding up against your clit when you see his hand moving faster. You're both watching each other, feeding off of each other. When your movements against your clit slow down, Michael's movements speed up. Every time you moan, he squeezes his dick, trying to keep himself under control, and every time he whimpers, you move your fingers faster, letting the sounds of him bring you closer to the edge.

Your hips buck as your back arches, and you move your fingers faster. Michael whimpers as he watches you, moaning and writhing on the bed, knowing that it should be him making you fall apart like that, but he doesn't get that he is making you fall apart like that. Watching him jerk himself off was wildly turning you on.

"A little more, Michael," you say, and Michael goes faster; he feels his release coming, and he wishes that he were spilling himself inside of you, and you also feel your orgasm building. "I'm so close," you moan out, and Michael is aching to have his mouth on you to help you finish. "Faster," you moan, and Michael obeys, stroking himself faster, his whimpers and moans coming quickly.

The orgasm hits you fast, your body convulsing against the bed as a moan pours out of you. Michael can't stand it, seeing an orgasm hit, and he's not connected to you to feel it. He loves the way you feel when you fall apart as your orgasm hits. He loves to feel your legs shaking around him, how tightly you grip him, how his name falls from your lips in a sob because of the pleasure.

You sink back against the pillows, your breath still quick and shallow as you try to regain it. You look at Michael, he's still stroking himself, his whimpering filling the room, and you can feel his desperation. "Come here," you say. Michael is up immediately. He walks over to the bed and stands over you at the side, waiting for you to tell him what to do next.

You slowly sit up, turning over until you're on your hands and knees. "Sit down... watch," you say. You don't have to turn around; you feel the weight of the bed dip as Michael sits down behind you. He swallows as he licks over his lips, seeing your glistening pussy in his face, still dripping with your release.

You reach behind yourself, pressing your fingers into your release and spreading it around your folds. Michael bites his lip as he watches. He whimpers again, trying desperately to control the urge he has to grab your hips and fuck you senseless until you speak to him again. You sink deeper onto your knees, spreading yourself more, and Michael whimpers again as more of you is exposed.

You rub your clit again, rolling your hips in the air. You can almost feel Michael inside of you, and you want him badly... but you also need him to feel the way you've felt for weeks. Your fingers rub your clit faster, and Michael bites down on his lip. Watching you play with yourself is making his dick twitch. He's so hard it's almost uncomfortable.

More of your cum from your first orgasm slips out of your hole, and Michael desperately wants to lap it up. "Mama..." he whimpers.

"Be quiet, Michael," you respond as you rub yourself harder, a louder moan coming from you as your legs shake. Michael watches intently, wanting nothing more than to press his face against you and fuck you with his tongue until you're shaking against him.

You slip one of your fingers inside of yourself, and Michael groans. You slip it back out, feeling it coated in your own cum, and you rub alongside your folds, purposely parting them, and you hear Michael swallow. He grabs his length again. He needs to feel the relief, the release of everything that's pent up inside of him. When you moan again, he squeezes himself, hissing under his breath.

You turn your head to look at him, and his eyes are locked on you. He's waiting for your permission to move. "Get behind me," you say. Michael gets on his knees behind you immediately. "You can touch me to line me up, and then you do nothing," you say. Michael swallows again as he nods, gently grabbing your hips to line your entrance up with him, and when you feel him let you go, you press back, feeling yourself sink against him as he fills you.

You moan on contact, and Michael stiffens as you continue to press back until he's filled you. You start to move, rocking yourself back and forth, feeling Michael moving in and out of you. You feel Michael's hand go to your hip, and you slap it away, shaking your head as you continue to move against him. Michael throws his head back. He hates that you won't let him touch you, but he will let you use him to take your pleasure.

You spread more, pressing your upper body more into the bed as you continue to move against him. Your ass slapping against Michael every time you move back, and he whimpers. Feeling your heat wrapped around him, sliding in and out, he's fighting the urge to hold you down and thrust into you until you can't remember why you're mad in the first place.

Your movements suddenly stop, but you keep Michael inside of you. Without turning to look at him, you speak. "Fuck me," you say.

Michael doesn't hesitate.

He grabs your hips and pushes you more into the bed. He pulls fully out of you before slamming back into you with one powerful stroke, making you cry out, and he groans. He keeps both hands on your hips as he fucks you, fast and relentless. Both of you are taking out your pent-up anger on each other. You reach down and rub your clit as Michael's movements get faster. Tears prick your eyes as you feel him deep inside of you, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

Wet sounds of skin slapping together, squelching sounds of Michael's thrusts inside of your slickness fill the room. "Just like that, mama... You take it so good," Michael says as he squeezes your hips, fucking you harder. You cry out, gripping the pillows tightly as your legs start to shake.

Michael lifts one of your legs, holding it so he can fuck you deeper, his body trembling against yours as he moves. "Come on.... come on," he practically growls as he fully pulls out and slams back into you again, rocking you forward.

His name spills from your lips in a choked sob as your orgasm hits you hard. Your body is shaking hard against his, and Michael doesn't slow down his thrusts to bring you through it. He keeps going at a relentless pace. His balls slapping against your swollen clit when he buries himself fully inside of you. Your vision blurs from the tears of pleasure as a second orgasm rips through you, your body still sensitive from the first one.

Michael's name spills from your lips as a scream. Michael leans down, pressing kisses against your back as he keeps fucking you. He doesn't want to stop; he can't stop. His arms wrap fully around you as he continues to move inside of you.

"M–Michael... I can't take another one... I–I can't," you whimper as he pulls you upright, your back against his chest as he keeps thrusting into you.

"You can take it, mama... keep going," Michael growls into your ear, his thrusts getting more erratic as he gets closer to his release. You're shaking, your full body is shaking against him, as a third orgasm hits you hard. The sheets beneath you are soaked as Michael's thrusts push through your juices, making them spill all over. "Look at the mess you're making," Michael says as he reaches in front of you to rub your swollen clit.

You twitch against him, your eyes falling closed as your head falls against his shoulder, the pleasure and ecstasy feeling like too much, and you genuinely think you're going to pass out. Your body twitches again as Michael keeps fucking you, every thrust pushing deeper, every stroke drawn out so you can feel it. Michael whimpers in your ear as his dick twitches inside of you.

You feel the warmth as it hits you, and your body twitches again, Michael still rubbing your clit as he fucks you through his orgasm. His cum mixes with yours, squelching out of you and dripping more onto the sheets. You cry out as a fourth orgasm hits, your body completely spent as you shake against Michael.

He slows his thrusts and slows his fingers against your clit, bringing you through the orgasm. He pulls out, pressing you back down into the bed, keeping you on your knees. He spreads your folds apart, watching as your combined orgasms spill from your spent hole.

Michael attaches his lips there, licking and sucking the release, and you start shaking again. You know you can't take another orgasm, and you feel on the verge of passing out from the overwhelming pleasure. Michael lightly slaps your pussy, making you shake again, before he attaches his lips back to your folds, licking up your full release before he pulls back. He turns you around and lays you back on the bed, his breathing heavy and erratic as he looks at you.

"Don't you ever do that to me again, Michael," You say as you look at him, and he knows what you mean, not just from the words but from the way you're holding his gaze, from everything still sitting underneath them. Don't ever leave you like that for that long ever again. He nods, the movement immediate, serious, before he leans down and kisses you, slower this time, like he's making sure you feel it. You taste yourself on his lips as you kiss him back, and it pulls something deeper out of you, something softer than the anger you were holding onto before. You missed him, you ached for him, you needed him, and now that he's here, that absence feels almost unbearable in hindsight.

You're the first to pull back, needing the space for just a second, and Michael leans his forehead against yours, keeping close anyway, like he's not ready to let any distance settle back in. "I promise I won't. I'm so sorry... I love you so much," he says, and there's nothing guarded in it, nothing held back, and you nod, taking it in even if you're not fully ready to let it settle.

"You have six weeks' worth of making it up to me to prove it," you say, and Michael laughs, the sound softer than usual, like the tension is finally easing out of him.

"Mama, I just made you cum four times," he says, and you shrug, your expression shifting just enough to let him know you're not letting him off that easy.

"That only covers one day. You still have 41 more to make up for," you say. Michael laughs again, more relaxed this time, and he leans in to kiss you again, the contact lighter, easier, like something has shifted between you. Your chest loosens for the first time tonight, the tightness that's been sitting there finally easing just enough to breathe through it without effort. You knew that this didn't fix everything, but you were willing to work through it with him, willing to meet him somewhere in the middle now that he was actually here.

You pull back and lay your hand on his jaw, your thumb gently rubbing across his skin, the gesture slow, absent-minded, something that comes naturally after all these years.

"I love you, too," you whisper.

1977 new york

You did not expect to be on Broadway. 

The thought alone still didn't feel real when it crossed your mind, like something that belonged to someone else's life rather than your own. You had always loved makeup, always been drawn to it, but prosthetic makeup had been different. It wasn't just about beauty or transformation in the surface-level sense. It was about storytelling. About becoming something else entirely. About helping an actor disappear into a role so completely that the audience forgot who they were before the lights came up.

You had fallen in love with that kind of magic.

And you knew, with a certainty that had rooted itself deep in your chest, that you wanted to be part of it.

It hadn't come easily. Nothing about it had. You worked for it, long hours in cosmetology school, practicing until your hands cramped, until your eyes burned from focusing too hard on details most people wouldn't even notice.

You learned textures, layering, structure... how to make something artificial feel real. Your mentor saw it in you before you fully allowed yourself to believe it. They pushed you harder than anyone else had, refusing to let you settle for "good enough."

The more you practiced, the more your work sharpened. Your prosthetics stopped looking like something placed on a face and started looking like something that belonged there.

That was when things started to shift.

Your mentor helped you build your portfolio, guiding you through each piece like it mattered, because it did. Every photograph, every application, every detail told a story about what you were capable of. And then came the recommendation letter. Carefully written and intentional. Believing in you in a way that still felt bigger than you knew how to hold.

You hadn't expected Broadway agents to review it. You hadn't expected them to call, and you definitely hadn't expected to be offered a position working on The Wiz, handling the makeup for characters like the Scarecrow and the Tin-Man; roles that required the exact kind of transformation you had fallen in love with.

Everything after that had started moving quickly, but instead of being overwhelmed by it, you adapted. Backstage became its own kind of rhythm: loud, fast-paced, alive, and you learned how to move within it without hesitation.

You knew who needed what before they even asked, your hands moving automatically as you handled touch-ups between sequences, adjusted details under pressure, and made sure everything held together under the heat of the stage lights. What once required careful thought became instinct, your confidence building quietly with every show until it felt like you had always belonged there.

Somewhere in the middle of that, you found something else that grounded you.

Stephanie Mills.

She slipped into your life easily, naturally, and being so close in age made everything feel just a little lighter. Working alongside someone who understood the pressure but could still laugh, still breathe, still exist within it without being consumed by it... It helped more than you realized at the time.

So when she came to find you after one of the shows, her energy carrying something bright and barely contained, you already knew she had something to tell you, even before she started speaking.

The first thing was enough to make your heart stutter. She told you The Wiz was being adapted into a movie. The second thing made your breath catch entirely. She told you the producers, Berry Gordy and Rob Cohen, had seen your work, remembered it, and wanted to interview you for a position in the makeup department for the film.

It didn't feel real yet, not completely, but it felt like something shifting, something opening in a way that you couldn't ignore.

"Of course, I gave you a glowing recommendation," she said once she finished explaining, her tone warm and teasing at the same time, and there was a look on her face that told you she wasn't done. Her smirk gave her away immediately.

"Is there a third thing?" you ask, and she laughs.

"Yes, I want you to meet someone!" she says.

The backstage area was still alive with movement, people passing by, voices overlapping, the energy of the night not yet settled, but somehow, as Stephanie turned and searched through the crowd, your focus narrowed without you meaning for it to.

When she called out, "Michael! Michael, come here!" There was a brief pause, just long enough to feel it, and then he stepped into view.

Michael Jackson.

Of course, you knew who he was. Everyone did. His name carried weight, recognition, and familiarity that stretched far beyond the space you were standing in, but none of that prepared you for what it felt like to see him like this, up close, real in a way that stripped away the distance you were used to.

The first thing you noticed, almost instinctively, was that he was more handsome in person.

Michael felt something shift the moment he looked at you, like everything around him softened at the edges until you were the only thing in focus. He had heard about you from Stephanie, enough to be curious, enough that he hoped to meet you, but standing here now, actually looking at you, it felt like something else entirely, something quieter but stronger, something that caught him off guard in a way he wasn't used to.

Neither of you understood it yet, but something had already begun.

You didn't know this was the moment your life was going to change forever.

"Michael, this is my friend I was telling you about," Stephanie says with a smile.

His gaze lingers on you, soft and uncertain, that familiar shyness settling over him as he bites down lightly on his lip, a nervous habit that surfaces without him thinking when he feels overwhelmed, when something affects him more than he expected it to.

"H–Hi, it's nice to meet you," Michael says. There's a slight hesitation at the beginning of his words, but it only makes the moment feel more real, and it draws a smile from you before you can stop it.

"It's nice to meet you, too, Michael... I love your music," you say. His reaction is immediate, his smile widening in a way that feels genuine and unguarded, like your words reached somewhere deeper than you intended.

"You do?" he asks.

You nod, and before you can say anything else, "All I hear from her makeup trailer is your voice, whether it's your solo albums or a Jacksons album," Stephanie says.

The words hit all at once, and you feel the warmth rush to your face, shooting her a look that only makes her laugh more, completely unbothered by your reaction. Michael notices it too, the way you try to hide your blushing, and it makes something soften in him, something warm and slightly amused, because now he's blushing too.

"I have to go do an interview, but you two talk," she says before slipping away, leaving the two of you standing there together.

The noise of backstage still exists around you, but it feels distant now, like it's happening somewhere just out of reach, because the space between you and Michael feels quieter, more focused, like something has settled there without either of you naming it.

"Congratulations... Stephanie told me you'll be the scarecrow in the film adaptation," you say. He looks at you again, his smile softer now, more settled, as if he's finding his footing within the moment.

"Oh yeah... yeah, I'm excited... and Stephanie said you might be joining the makeup department?" Michael says.

You nod, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear in a small, grounding gesture, your hands needing something to do as the moment stretches. "She said production wants an interview, so who knows?" you say.

There's a pause after that, but it doesn't feel empty. It feels like something forming, something neither of you quite understands yet, but can both feel in the space between you.

"Well... I hope we get to work together," he says. It's simple, but there's sincerity in it, something quiet but real.

"Me too," you say.

And as the two of you stand there, neither of you speaking for a moment, the silence doesn't feel uncomfortable: it feels new, unfamiliar in a way that makes you aware of it, but not in a way that makes you want to step away. It lingers, soft and unspoken, holding something neither of you has the words for yet, something that will grow into something much bigger than this moment.

Neither of you knows it yet, but The Wiz isn't just going to change your lives.

It's going to intertwine them.

────୨ৎ────

You got the job.

It still didn't feel entirely real when you let the thought settle in your mind, like if you held onto it too tightly, it might slip through your fingers and disappear. The interview had gone better than you could've hoped for. Your nerves eased the more you spoke, the more you explained your process, the more your hands moved instinctively when you demonstrated your work. 

Michael Thomas, the head of the makeup department, had watched you carefully, not in a way that made you feel judged, but in a way that made you feel seen, like he understood what you were trying to do before you even finished explaining it. And when they offered you the job, when the words finally left their mouths, there had been a moment where everything went quiet in your head, like your mind needed a second to catch up to what was happening.

Stephanie had been just as emotional about it as you were, her excitement spilling over immediately, pulling you into a hug the second you told her, even as there was a softness behind it, a quiet sadness at the idea of not seeing each other every day anymore. She had promised, multiple times, that she would come visit you on set whenever she could, and you believed her. Still, the shift was there. Something new was beginning, and it meant stepping into a space that was entirely your own.

Excitement sat right alongside your nerves, the two of them weaving together in a way that made it impossible to separate one from the other. This was your first film set. Your first real step into the world you had been working toward for so long.

Michael Thomas wasted no time easing you into it. He walked you through everything, showing you where you'd be working, introducing you to the setup, the materials, the pacing of the day, and, most importantly, he told you exactly where your focus would be: Michael. 

The scarecrow prosthetics were intricate, layered, requiring patience and precision, and as he explained the process step by step, you absorbed it quickly, your mind already mapping out the rhythm of it, the way your hands would move, the timing it would take to get everything just right.

And now, it was your first official day on set.

There was a quiet anticipation sitting in your chest as you set up your station, your movements careful but steady, grounding yourself in familiarity. Music always helped with that. It filled the space in a way that kept your thoughts from spiraling too far ahead, kept your nerves from settling too deep. Stevie Wonder's voice drifted softly through the room, the Songs in the Key of Life album playing low enough to sit in the background, but present enough to wrap around you like something steady and reassuring. You had chosen it without thinking too hard about it, just knowing it would help as it always did.

You also didn't know what working with Michael was going to feel like yet, and the thought of silence, of not knowing what to say or how to act, lingered somewhere in the back of your mind. The music would fill that space if it came to it. It would give you something to lean on.

There was a knock at the door, soft enough that it almost blended into the music, gentle to the point of hesitation, like whoever was on the other side wasn't entirely sure they should be knocking at all. You barely caught it, and if the music had been any louder, you might have missed it completely.

You already had a feeling who it was. When you moved toward the door and opened it, there he was.

Michael stood there with his shoulders slightly drawn in, his hands tucked into the front pocket of his jeans in a way that made it seem like he wasn't quite sure what to do with them otherwise. His hat sat low over his curls, shadowing his face just enough that when his eyes lifted to meet yours, it only lasted for a second before they flicked away again, like holding eye contact required more courage than he had ready this early in the morning.

"Hi," he says, voice quieter than you expected. "I'm, um... here for makeup."

Something about it makes you smile before you can stop yourself, the contrast between this version of him and the one you had seen performing strikingly in a way that felt almost endearing. On stage, he was electric, completely in control, commanding attention without effort, but here, standing in front of you, he looked like he was waiting for permission, like he didn't want to take up more space than he needed to.

"Hey, Michael, come on in," you say, stepping aside to give him room.

He nods as he walks in, and you close the door behind him, noticing the subtle shift in his posture almost immediately. His shoulders loosen just slightly when he registers the music playing in the background, something in him relaxing in response to it, even if he doesn't say anything about it. You hadn't planned it for him, but you're glad it's there now.

He removes his jacket carefully, folding it neatly over the back of a chair with practiced precision, smoothing the fabric once as if it matters that it sits just right, before turning toward the makeup station.

When he sits, it's not a full, relaxed movement. He perches more than settles, his back straight but not at ease, his shoulders subtly rounded inward as though he's trying to make himself smaller. His hands rest flat against his thighs, fingers spread in a way that feels intentional, controlled, like he's been taught to hold himself that way.

He thanks you before you've even reached for anything.

"I'm glad it's you who got the job," he says quietly.

The words catch you off guard just enough that you feel the warmth rise to your cheeks before you can hide it, a small smile settling on your lips as you turn slightly, giving yourself a second to collect yourself before starting.

As you begin prepping his skin, your focus shifts naturally into your work, your hands steady as you move, but your awareness of him doesn't fade. You catch his reflection in the mirror without meaning to, and it's the way he looks, or rather, the way he doesn't, that stands out. He isn't really looking at himself. Not directly. His gaze hovers just past his reflection, somewhere above his shoulder, like the mirror is something to be avoided rather than engaged with.

When your fingers brush against his cheek, the cool touch of primer meeting his skin, there's a slight flinch, so subtle that it might have gone unnoticed if you weren't paying attention, but you are. He stills immediately afterward, almost forcing himself into it, and you hear the quiet apology slip under his breath even though there's nothing for him to apologize for.

It tells you more than he probably realizes.

"You can relax," you tell him softly, your voice gentle but steady as your hands continue their work. "I promise I won't mess you up," you add, letting just a hint of teasing slip in, something light enough to ease the tension without calling too much attention to it.

That earns you the faintest smile, one that curves shyly at the edges of his mouth before he reins it back in, like even that small expression feels like too much to let linger. It's there, and then it's gone, tucked away just as quickly as it appeared, but you catch it, and it's enough to tell you that something you said reached him. 

His attention shifts slightly, drawn toward the music playing softly in the background, and after a moment, you notice the quiet hum that slips from him, barely audible, like he isn't fully aware he's doing it.

You don't say anything about it.

You could. You could point it out, tease him lightly, acknowledge it, but you don't, because you can already tell that he's balancing on something delicate, something that could shift too quickly if you draw too much attention to it. So you let it be, let the music carry him, let him settle into it in his own way without interruption.

"Can you look up for me, a bit?" you ask gently, your voice careful, casual enough not to feel like a demand. You see it immediately: the hesitation.

It's subtle, but it's there in the way his body stills, in the way his gaze flickers just slightly before he moves. Looking up means looking into the mirror, and looking into the mirror means seeing himself, and that's something he avoids with a quiet, practiced consistency that tells you this isn't new for him. It isn't just discomfort, it's something deeper and ingrained.

He remembers standing in front of a mirror years ago, his face changing in ways he didn't understand yet, his skin breaking out as his body shifted through adolescence, already feeling uncertain in his own skin before anyone else said a word. 

And then his father's voice, sharp and dismissive, cutting through that uncertainty, had called him ugly, and that turned it into something heavier. The words had cut Michael deeply, and they stayed with him.

The words stayed with him long after the moment passed, settling somewhere deep enough that it shaped the way he saw himself, the way he avoided his own reflection, the way he learned not to look for too long, not to linger, not to engage.

Michael hasn't looked at himself in the mirror since.

"Just for a moment, I promise I'll be quick," you say, your tone softening slightly, not pushing, just offering something steady for him to hold onto.

His eyes flick to you, just for a second, and you give him a reassuring smile, something calm, something unthreatening, something that doesn't make this feel bigger than it needs to be. It loosens something in his chest, just enough, and after a brief pause, he lets himself look up.

You don't make a big deal out of it; you just begin.

Your hands move with quiet confidence as you start applying the base layer of the Scarecrow makeup, blending earthy browns and muted grays across the planes of his face, your strokes steady and deliberate. The brush glides over his skin with practiced ease, your focus settling into the work, into the rhythm of it, into something that feels familiar and grounding.

And as the coverage builds, as the transformation slowly begins to take shape, something in him shifts.

It's gradual, almost unnoticeable at first, but you feel it before you fully see it. His breathing deepens, no longer as shallow or controlled as it had been when he first sat down. The tension that had been coiled tightly along his shoulders begins to ease, loosening just enough to change the way he holds himself. His fingers, which had been pressing into his thighs in that same controlled, disciplined way, begin to relax, the pressure easing as his hands settle more naturally.

He stops trying to avoid the mirror... not completely, but enough.

Instead of focusing on his own reflection, his attention shifts to your hands, tracking the movement of your brush, the way you work, the way each stroke builds on the last. It gives him something else to hold onto, something tangible, something that feels safer than looking directly at himself.

"You've got really nice skin for this kind of detailing," you say casually, angling your brush along his jaw, your tone light, almost conversational. "It takes pigment evenly."

His eyes flick to yours in the mirror, quick but direct, like he wasn't expecting that. "Really?" he asks.

There's no pride in it, no hint of ego or assumption, just quiet surprise, like the idea of something positive being said about his face doesn't quite land the way it should, like it's unfamiliar territory he doesn't quite know how to step into.

"Really," you answer, meeting his gaze for a brief moment before letting it go, returning your focus to your work like it's just another part of the process, nothing heavy, nothing that needs to be emphasized.

But you can tell your words land.

By the time you finish the initial layer of the makeup, there's a noticeable shift in him, something lighter sitting in his posture, something less guarded in the way he exists in the chair. There's relief there too, subtle but present, especially as he allows himself to glance more directly at the mirror now, taking in the beginnings of the Scarecrow look forming over his features.

Your hands move gently as you reach for his hair, your fingers gliding through it as you begin sectioning it, getting a feel for the texture before braiding it down for the bald cap and the rest of the prosthetics. He watches your reflection in the mirror for a moment longer, his gaze softer now, less distant.

"I just need to braid you down and put the rest of the look on, and you'll be all set," you say.

He nods. "Thank you," he says sincerely.

There's something grounded in it, something genuine, and it draws a small smile from you as you begin working on his hair, your fingers moving carefully, methodically, weaving through each section with the same quiet precision you bring to everything else.

After a moment, the humming returns: soft, absentminded, blending in with the music like it belongs there, and you notice it again, the difference.

He's more comfortable now.

Not completely, but enough that it shows in the way he sits, in the way he breathes, in the way he lets himself exist in the space without shrinking quite as much as he did when he first walked in.

You find yourself hoping, quietly, that it stays that way.

Because for the next six months, you're going to be working side by side, so you want him to be comfortable.

Once you get his hair braided down, your hands move seamlessly into the next steps, the transition between each part of the process feeling natural now that you've settled into your rhythm. The bald cap goes on carefully, your fingers smoothing it into place, making sure it sits just right against his scalp, blending the edges so there's no harsh line to break the illusion. From there, you begin layering the rest of the prosthetics, each piece placed with intention, each detail building on the last until the look starts to come together in a way that feels less like makeup and more like transformation.

Time passes without you really noticing it, the steady focus of your work pulling you into it completely. What might feel long to someone else, three full hours, moves differently for you, measured not in minutes but in progress, in the way each step brings you closer to the final result. 

You're aware of him in the chair, of the way he's settled into the process more than he had at the beginning, but your attention stays anchored in your hands, in making sure everything is exactly how it's supposed to be.

And then, there he is. The Scarecrow.

You take a small step back, your eyes moving over your work as you take it in fully, comparing it unconsciously to the concept art of him you had studied, to the vision that had been set before you ever stepped onto this set. You had wanted to do it right, wanted to prove that you deserved to be here, that you could bring that vision to life, and standing here now, looking at him, you feel it settle in your chest that you did.

Michael looks at himself in the mirror, but this time, it's different. This time, he doesn't hesitate.

Because now, he isn't just looking at himself, he's looking at something else entirely, something that feels like armor, something that shields him from the parts of himself he doesn't want to face. The Scarecrow covers him, transforms him, gives him something to step into that isn't weighed down by the same thoughts, the same memories, the same words that have followed him for years.

And then he smiles.

It's soft at first, like it's still finding its way, but it grows, unfolding into something brighter, something genuine, something that catches you off guard in a way you didn't expect. You've seen his smile before, on television, in photos, in performances, but seeing it like this, up close, without distance or a screen between you, it feels different. It feels warmer, more real, and for a moment, it leaves you a little stunned by just how beautiful it is.

"It's good," he says softly, his gaze still fixed on the mirror. "You're really good."

The words land quickly, but they linger, settling somewhere deeper than you anticipated, and you feel the warmth rise to your cheeks before you can stop it. "Thank you."

He stands slowly, the movement careful, deliberate, like he's adjusting not just to being on his feet again but to the way he feels in this version of himself. His hands smooth over his clothes instinctively, checking the way everything sits, and he glances at his reflection once more, taking it in with a quiet kind of acceptance before turning toward you.

Something about him shifts again.

The politeness returns first, settling over him like something familiar, something practiced, but it doesn't feel as rigid as it had before. The shy smile that follows is softer, less restrained, and when he looks at you, there's a warmth there that hadn't quite been present earlier.

"Thank you," he says softly. And this time, it feels like more than just courtesy.

He moves toward the door, his steps unhurried, but just before he reaches it, something slows him. It's subtle, easy to miss if you weren't paying attention, but he lingers for a moment, his hand hovering near the handle as if he's considering something, like there's something else he wants to say, something that hasn't quite made it to his lips.

For a brief second, it feels like the space between you shifts again, like it's waiting for something to fill it, but he doesn't. Instead, he gives you one last small nod, that same quiet acknowledgment, before opening the door.

The sound of the set spills in immediately, breaking the stillness of the room in an instant, voices calling out cues, the rumble of equipment being moved across the floor, laughter echoing somewhere down the corridor. It's louder, busier, filled with expectation, and as he steps into it, you see the change in him happen just as quickly.

His shoulders draw back, his posture adjusting, the guarded version of himself slipping back into place as the world outside waits for him, ready to take what it expects from him.

────୨ৎ────

You're relieved when it's finally time to have lunch, the quiet exhale that leaves you as you finish washing your hands feeling heavier than you expected, like you hadn't realized just how focused you'd been for the last few hours until now. The steady hum of the music, the careful precision of your work, the awareness of him sitting in your chair the entire time... it had all held your attention so completely that stepping away from it feels like coming up for air.

When you step out of the makeup trailer, you take a deep breath, letting the shift in atmosphere settle around you. The set is alive in a different way now, the earlier morning quiet replaced with movement and voices, people settling into their routines, conversations overlapping in a steady rhythm that feels almost overwhelming compared to the contained space you had just left.

Michael Thomas had shown you around earlier, had pointed out where everything was, had made sure you wouldn't feel lost navigating the space, but even with that, there's something surreal about walking through it now as part of it instead of just observing it. It still feels new. It still feels like something you're stepping into rather than something you fully belong to, yet.

You make your way to the food table, taking in the simple spread laid out: sandwiches, chips, fruit: nothing extravagant, but enough to get through the day. You grab a plate, moving through it without overthinking, placing one sandwich down, adding a small handful of chips, a bit of fruit, and then reaching for a water bottle before stepping away.

For a moment, you just stand there, scanning the room.

It doesn't take long to notice the way people have already grouped themselves. Diana Ross is seated with the director and producers, her presence naturally pulling that kind of attention, while the other actors and extras cluster together nearby, laughter and conversation coming easily between them. Off to the side, the crew has formed their own space, something a little more relaxed, a little less performative.

And without meaning to, you start looking for him.

Your eyes move through the room, passing from table to table, searching without fully acknowledging that that's what you're doing, until you don't see him anywhere among the groups, and something about that makes you pause. Then your gaze shifts again, drifting toward the back of the room, and there he is.

Sitting alone.

His table is tucked into the corner, just out of the way enough that he doesn't draw attention, and there's nothing about him that looks upset or withdrawn in an obvious way. It's quieter than that. It's in the way he sits, in the way he holds himself, like he's making sure he doesn't take up too much space, like he's placing himself somewhere he won't be in the way.

You don't think about it for long. Your legs are already moving before your mind catches up, carrying you across the room, your focus narrowing until it's just him.

Michael looks up when he hears you approach, his attention shifting automatically, and for a second, it's clear he expects you to keep walking, expects you to pass by like everyone else has.

But you don't.

"This seat taken?" you ask.

The surprise on his face is immediate, subtle but unmistakable, like he hadn't expected anyone to stop, hadn't expected you to stop. There's something in it that makes your chest tighten just slightly, the realization that everyone else had walked past him without a second glance settling quietly in your mind.

"N—No, go ahead," he says, gesturing to the seat.

You sit down, your gaze taking him in for a moment, the Scarecrow makeup still perfectly in place, the work holding exactly the way it was supposed to, and you can't help the small smile that pulls at your lips.

"Wow... you were right, I really am good. That makeup is holding up very well," you say.

That earns you a soft laugh from him, something light and genuine, and it draws a smile out of you just as easily, the ease of the moment settling between you without effort. As you glance down at his plate, though, your attention shifts.

He hasn't touched it.

The sandwich sits unwrapped but untouched, the rest of the food barely disturbed, and something about that makes you pause for just a second before you gesture lightly toward it.

"You gonna eat that?" you ask, pointing to one of the grapes.

You don't mean it literally, not really. It's more of a nudge, something to pull him out of whatever space he's slipped into, but he looks down at his plate, then back at you, like he has to think about the answer.

"Oh... yeah, I don't have much of an appetite right now," he says. You nod, not pushing, just acknowledging it.

"Nervous? Has the day gone okay so far?" you ask, gesturing loosely to the room around you, the set, the people, everything that comes with it.

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping back to the table. "During rehearsal... Diana pulled me aside and said I was embarrassing her," he says.

The words sit there for a moment, and you feel your brows pull together slightly, confusion settling in before anything else, because it doesn't make sense, not when you think about who he is, what you've seen, what you know he's capable of. But then you look at him, really look at him, and you see it in the way his eyes fall, the quiet weight of it, the way her words have settled into him deeper than they should have.

Embarrassing her, and in his mind, that becomes something else entirely.

"How could you ever be embarrassing?" you ask.

"She says because I'm picking up on the choreography so fast, it's embarrassing her in front of our costars," he says.

You have to resist the immediate urge to roll your eyes, not because you don't believe him, but because of how unfair it sounds, how unnecessary, especially when you can see the effect it's had on him, the way he's trying to downplay it even as it clearly lingers.

"It's not your fault if Diana and your other costars can't keep up. You've been performing for years... of course you'd pick up on choreography faster than everyone else, and that's not embarrassing," you say.

He looks up at you then, his attention shifting fully, and you can see it. The way something in him softens, the way your words settle into a place that needed them more than he probably realized. He needed someone to say it plainly, to make it make sense in a way that didn't turn it back on him, and didn't make it feel like something he had to fix, shrink, or apologize for.

"Thank you," he says.

And when you smile at him, it feels like something small but important has shifted between you again, something quiet and steady, something that's starting to build without either of you fully naming it yet.

"You're welcome," you respond as you reach over and pluck the grape you pointed at earlier and pop it into your mouth.

Michael's eyes widen just slightly, the surprise immediate and unguarded as he watches you actually do it, like he hadn't quite believed you would follow through. When you look back at him, there's a quiet challenge in your gaze, something playful that lingers just long enough for him to register it.

"That was mine," he says.

You shrug, completely unfazed.

"You weren't eating it, and I could hear it telling me that it really wanted to be eaten," you tease.

There's a pause, just a second, where he processes what you said, and then his lips slowly begin to curve, the smile building in a way that feels less restrained than before, like it doesn't need to be hidden as quickly.

"So you can talk to grapes now?" he asks.

"I can talk to many things, Michael," you say.

That earns you more than just a smile this time. It pulls a soft laugh from him, something genuine and easy, and you feel a small sense of victory settle in your chest at the sound of it. You had wanted him to feel comfortable, had been gently nudging him in that direction since he walked into your trailer that morning, but this felt like something more than comfort.

For a moment, he didn't feel like a performer, or a star, or someone people watched and expected things from.

He just felt like himself.

"Oh, yeah? Like what?" he asks.

You lean forward slightly, resting your chin in your hands, letting out a quiet hum as you pretend to think about it, drawing the moment out just enough to keep him engaged.

"Make up brushes. We have a pretty good understanding going on," you say.

He laughs again, and this time it comes easier, less caught behind hesitation, less filtered, and you don't miss the way his shoulders loosen just a little more with it. You reach over without asking and take another grape from his plate, popping it into your mouth as if it's the most natural thing in the world, and when you look back up at him, meeting his eyes, you can't help but laugh too.

"Well, someone has to eat it," you say.

"I was going to," he responds, shaking his head slightly, but there's no real protest in it, just quiet amusement.

"You could've fooled me," you say.

He's still smiling when he reaches for his sandwich, and when he finally takes a bite, you feel a small, quiet sense of satisfaction settle in your chest. It confirms what you had already suspected, that he probably hadn't eaten much, if anything, all day, and without making it a big moment, without calling attention to it, you managed to nudge him into it anyway.

For a moment, everything feels easy. The conversation, the quiet space between you, the way neither of you feels the need to fill every second with words.

Then the sound of laughter breaks through it.

You both turn your heads at the same time, your attention pulled toward one of the other tables where the actors and extras are gathered, their energy louder, more animated, their conversation filled with easy camaraderie. Michael gestures toward them as he looks back at you, his expression shifting just slightly, something more guarded slipping back in at the edges.

"You don't have to sit here. There's more interesting company over there," he says.

There's no bitterness in it, no resentment, just an assumption, like it's something he believes to be true, something he's already accepted.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him for a moment.

"Is there?" you challenge gently. "I'm enjoying the company I have now," you say.

The words land, and you see it immediately in the way his cheeks flush, the warmth rising in his face as he looks down for just a second, like he doesn't quite know what to do with that.

"I'm not very excited," Michael says, shaking his head.

"Give yourself some more credit. I got you to laugh earlier. That counts," you say.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, his expression thoughtful, like he's trying to figure you out, trying to decide if you're teasing him, if you're just being nice, or if you actually mean it. And the more he watches you, the more it settles in that you do, that there's something real behind your words, something that isn't performative or forced.

You didn't sit with him out of obligation; you sat with him because you wanted to.

And that realization loosens something that's been held too tightly for too long, something that makes it easier to breathe, easier to exist without feeling like he has to shrink himself down to fit into the space he's been given. There's a quiet comfort in it, one he doesn't fully understand yet, but one he doesn't want to lose either.

And somewhere, just beneath the surface of that feeling, there's something else beginning to take shape.

Something that makes him, just a little, look forward to the end of the day. Not because he wants to leave, but because it means coming back to you, sitting in your chair again, letting you take apart the Scarecrow piece by piece while the space between you fills with the same quiet ease he's starting to get used to.

"You did," Michael agrees. You smile at that, the confirmation simple but meaningful in its own way.

"So this means we're definitely friends now, right?" you ask.

The word lingers between you. Friend. It's simple, casual, something most people say without thinking too much about it. But for him, it isn't.

Michael has spent most of his life surrounded by people: family, yes, his brothers always there, but outside of that, something as simple as friendship has always felt just out of reach, something complicated by who he is, by what people expect from him, by the way they see him before they ever get to know him.

So when he nods, when he accepts it, it isn't casual at all. It's careful and a little hopeful.

"Yeah... we are," he says softly. And in that moment, something settles into place between you, something small but steady, something that doesn't need to be defined beyond what it is right now.

Neither of you knew it yet.

1993 soul train music awards

You knew you couldn't avoid this forever.

But you didn't expect seeing him again to come like this, although you should have, because if not for a public award show, where else would you see him again? Where else would your worlds be forced into the same space long enough for it to matter?

You haven't spoken in 7 years, not anything substantial besides the formal 'hello', 'how are you', 'you look nice' at industry events, the kind of exchanges that felt more like habit than connection, over before they ever had the chance to become anything real. But now you had to present him with an award? At least you'd be presenting alongside Eddie Murphy; he could be the buffer between you, something solid to focus on so you didn't have to stand there alone with him and everything that never actually got resolved.

Both you and your boyfriend were nominated for awards tonight. The atmosphere around you was filled with excitement and anticipation that you couldn't quite match. His single was nominated for Best R&B Soul Singer—Male, but you knew Michael's single Remember The Time was also nominated for this category, and you had a feeling you knew who would win, the certainty settling quietly in your chest before the envelope was ever opened.

You were nominated for Best R&B Soul Singer—Female, your own name existing in the same lineup as his again in a way that felt too close, like the distance you'd spent years building between your lives had suddenly collapsed without warning.

You stood backstage with Eddie, waiting for your cue to go on stage to present Michael with the Humanitarian of the Year Award, and Eddie could tell something was off, even if you hadn't said a word.

Everyone knew that you and Michael famously dated... and broke up, but nobody knew the details. Neither of you talked about it. Neither of you allowed interviewers to ask about the other, shutting it down before it could ever turn into something public. Michael never spoke ill of you in the media, and you did the same, never speaking one bad word about him. The tabloids did it enough, filling in the silence with whatever version of the story they wanted, and you had no reason to add fuel to the fire.

But of course, that didn't stop them from speculating. You two had gone public with your relationship at the 1981 American Music Awards when you walked the carpet together, posing for pictures, and Michael kissed your cheek for the public, the cameras catching a moment that felt effortless back then, before everything became complicated. And then in 1986, it was over. 5 years, and nobody knows what happened, something that had once been so full, reduced to a question people thought they were entitled to an answer for.

Some tabloids said you broke up with Michael because you couldn't keep up with Michael's fame, even though you made a name for yourself in music, able to stand on your own right, never needing to exist in anyone else's shadow.

Other tabloids said that Michael ended the relationship because he wanted to promote Bad as a single man, reshaping his image into something sharper, more untouchable. Thriller was a cute time to be a man in love, but Bad was grittier, sexier.

All of it was far from the truth.

"I can do most of the talking if you want," Eddie's voice pulls you from your thoughts, grounding you back in the moment before it can slip too far. Although Eddie is friends with Michael, and that's how you know him, he's not close enough to know what happened between the two of you. The only ones who know besides the two of you are Elizabeth Taylor, Bill Bray, and Janet.

"I'll be fine," you say as you shake your head, the words coming out steady even if they don't fully match the tightness sitting just beneath your ribs, and Eddie nods as he looks at you.

"This the first time you've seen him since..." he trails off, and you nod.

"At least, longer than 5 minutes in passing," you say as you shake your head, the truth of it settling heavier now that it's spoken, like it makes the years feel more real than they did a second ago.

Then you hear Luther Vandross, one of the hosts, announcing your name and then Eddie's name, the sound cutting clean through everything else. Eddie holds out his arm, and you smile and loop your arm through his as the two of you walk out onto the stage, your body moving automatically even as your mind lags a step behind, still trying to catch up.

The crowd applauds, Eddie waves with his free arm, and you smile, keeping your composure, the expression practiced enough to hold even when your thoughts are anything but steady. You find your boyfriend's eyes in the crowd, and he smiles at you, but it doesn't do much to calm you, not when the tension building inside you has nothing to do with him.

Once the two of you reach the podium, you release your arm from his as Eddie takes the mic."Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you so much. What a warm round of applause. Isn't she beautiful? I know," Eddie says, and you shake your head, the reaction automatic, but the warmth of his words still manages to break through the tightness sitting in your chest, pulling a genuine smile from you.

"I have the honor of co-presenting to a very good friend of mine. Michael Jackson," Eddie starts, and the crowd starts cheering again, the sound swelling through the room, loud and overwhelming, but instead of drowning you out, it settles somewhere deep inside you, familiar and comforting in a way you hadn't expected. You had always been in awe of how much Michael is adored, how effortlessly he could fill a space like this without even saying a word.

"Now, Michael, everyone knows you've broken every sales record known to man, and you've had the number one and number two best-selling albums of all time, and the number one selling single of all time. It means you're the biggest-selling artist ever," Eddie says through his laughter since the crowd is still cheering, and then he turns to you.

"But we're not here to talk about that, right now we're here to talk about your achievements as a humanitarian, your concern about the well-being of children, brothers and sisters everywhere, and the Earth. I've had the honor of seeing firsthand just how genuine your heart is for others," you say as you take a deep breath, steadying yourself before the words leave your mouth, because they aren't just lines to you. They're memories, moments you lived through with him, things you witnessed up close that no one else in that audience could fully understand.

In the crowd, Michael doesn't move at first, but something in him shifts as your voice reaches him, not because of what you're saying, but because it's you saying it, because the way you speak about him hasn't changed, still grounded in something real, something personal. He lowers his gaze slightly because your words pull him somewhere else entirely, somewhere quieter.

He sees it as you're speaking: those hospital rooms that never made headlines the way his performances did, the way you used to stand by his side, watching him with that same understanding you carry in your voice now; how gentle you were with each of the children you visited. He remembers the way you would look at him after, not praising him, not surprised by him, just... seeing him, like what he did for those kids was the most natural thing in the world.

And then, without trying to, his thoughts shift again, not to those moments alone, but to you within them, your hand brushing his arm as you walked out, the quiet conversations afterward, the way those nights always felt different from everything else in his life. The kind of moments that didn't belong to the world, only to the two of you.

For a second, the room fades for him, the noise, the applause, the awareness of where he is now slipping just enough that it feels like he's sitting inside those memories instead of in the audience, like time folds in on itself in a way he hasn't let it in years.

And then Eddie smiles.

"Just play the... play the film!" Eddie exclaims, and on the screen behind you shows a montage of Michael's concerts, and the multiple hospitals he's visited, letting kids into his home to go to Neverland's amusement park, and news articles of how he donates all of his concert funds to children's hospitals, and Eddie's voice is narrating the video.

As you watched the montage, it made you emotional. You remember a lot of those hospital visits because you were there with him, and the memories don't come back all at once; they come in flashes. The way he would lower himself to their level, as if nothing else in the world mattered except making them smile. The way his voice softened, how careful he was with them, how real it all felt when it wasn't for cameras, when it was just you and him in quiet hospital rooms that didn't feel so heavy because he refused to let them.

Seeing how deeply he cared for the children you were trying to make smile had always been what made your love for him run so deeply, something rooted in moments like those, not in the version of him everyone else thought they knew. Since you know the cameras are watching you, you wipe your eyes before the tears can fall, catching them before they can become something you can't take back.

"Please welcome the recipient of the 1993 Humanitarian of the Year Award, the man who will always be close to our hearts, Michael Jackson," you say with a smile.

"Michael!" Eddie echoes as you both start clapping with the crowd. Everyone stands up, and you see Michael grab his crutches as Bill Bray helps him up the stairs, and you softly smile. You had heard that he twisted his ankle rehearsing for his performance yesterday. But hearing about it and seeing it are different; seeing the way he shifts his weight, the careful placement of each step, the quiet reliance on someone else to steady him, it pulls something softer out of you before you can stop it.

Once Michael is up the stairs, Bill helps him along on his crutches, and as he's approaching you two, you freeze, going still in a way that feels almost instinctive, like something in you recognizes him long before your thoughts can catch up.

He looks stunning, as he always does, but something about him is so ethereal that it takes your breath away. The black outfit molds to him, the straps crossing his chest drawing your eyes without permission, framing him in a way that feels both controlled and undone. The red on his arm catches the light every time he shifts, subtle but impossible to ignore, a contrast that makes him stand out even more against everything else on that stage.

And his hair. The way it falls just enough into his face, soft where everything else about him feels controlled, framing his features in a way that makes him look almost untouchable and completely familiar at the same time. It's the same way you remember it, the same way you used to brush back without thinking, the same way it would fall again, no matter how many times you fixed it, like it had a mind of its own.

Bill stands behind Michael, keeping a hand on his back to balance him, as you hold the award in your hand. You're suddenly aware of the weight of it, the way your fingers tighten around the award without meaning to, as if holding onto something physical is the only thing keeping you from unraveling in a moment that's supposed to be simple.

As Michael approaches you, his eyes soften as he looks at you, and to him, you're still the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

And that's what undoes you.

Not the outfit, not the way the crowd is reacting, not even the fact that he's right in front of you after all this time, it's that look. The same one, unchanged. Like the years between then and now never happened, like he never learned how to see you any differently.

You step in, giving him a side hug as you hand him the award.

The contact is brief, appropriate, exactly what it's supposed to be, but the moment your arm wraps around him, it feels wrong how familiar it is. Like your body remembers the shape of him before you can stop it, before you can remind yourself that this isn't yours anymore.

And then you hear his voice in your ear. "Will you wait for me backstage?" he whispers to you. You step away from the hug, letting a tight smile take over your face, something controlled, something safe, but you nod as you help Michael set the award down on the podium.

Michael smiles when he sees you nod, and there's relief in his smile. He wasn't sure what you'd do until that moment. He shakes Eddie's hand before the two of you step back to let Michael take the podium fully to give his speech. In true Michael fashion, he apologizes for his ankle and the crutches, and Eddie teases him, saying he has to tell everyone what happened. So, he explains how he was doing a spin during rehearsal, and he ended up twisting his ankle.

Then Michael teases you, saying he heard you had a new album out, so you're the dangerous one, which makes you involuntarily blush, the reaction immediate, instinctive, something that doesn't belong to the version of you who learned how to live without him. And Eddie keeps teasing him about his ankle, and then he grabs one of his crutches from Eddie, stating how he's in a lot of pain.

Once his speech is finished, all of you go backstage, Bill and Eddie helping Michael on his crutches, and once you're out of the public eye, Michael calls out for you, making you stop where you are, your name catching you mid-step in a way that feels almost instinctive, like your body responds before you can decide whether or not you should turn back, and by the time you do, it's already too late to pretend you didn't hear him. Eddie claps Michael on the back and gives you a knowing look before he leaves to go back to his seat, and Michael looks at Bill and nods.

"Michael, you should sit," you say, your voice coming out softer than you intend, because now that you're close to him again, the distance gone, you can see what the stage had hidden, the careful way he shifts his weight, the tension in his posture, the quiet effort it takes for him to stand there like nothing's wrong, and you don't want him pushing through it for your sake.

"Only if you'll talk to me," Michael says.

"I haven't been avoiding you," You say, and Michael nods, his gaze staying on you in a way that makes it harder than it should be to look anywhere else, like he's searching for something in your face that you're trying not to give him.

The two of you go somewhere that you can sit down and talk, and once you help Michael settle onto one of the couches, you sit down next to him, the closest you've been to him in years, close enough that the space between you feels unfamiliar in how familiar it is, and before you can stop yourself, your thoughts slip somewhere you've spent years trying not to linger.

The late nights the two of you spent together. You're back in those quiet rooms where the world outside didn't matter, where it was just the two of you surrounded by scattered papers and unfinished lyrics, the soft, steady sound of pens moving across paper filling the space between you in a rhythm that always felt effortless.

You would get lost in it, completely absorbed in whatever line you were chasing, so focused that everything else faded away except for the quiet awareness of him nearby, a constant presence that you never had to look at to know was there, and then, gradually, something would shift, subtle enough that you didn't notice it right away, until the sound of his pen stopped and the silence where it should be began to press in, quiet but intentional, pulling your attention whether you wanted it to or not.

You wouldn't look up immediately, because you already knew what it meant, because you could feel it: the way the air changed when his focus shifted from his work to you, and before you could react, before you could pretend you hadn't noticed, he would be there, close enough that you'd feel him before you fully registered it, his lips brushing against your cheek without warning, soft at first and then again over your jaw, and again down your neck, until your pen slowed, your thoughts slipping away under the distraction of him, a quiet laugh leaving you before you could stop it as he continued, completely unconcerned with whatever you had been trying to finish.

You would tell him to stop, but it never came out like you meant it because neither of you believed it, and he would keep going until your pen slipped from your fingers entirely, until you finally turned toward him, giving in without needing to think about it, your hands finding him just as easily as his had found you, the two of you falling into something that had always been easy, something that had never needed effort.

"I should probably get back to my seat," you say softly, but you don't move, the words coming out more like something you feel obligated to say rather than something you intend to follow through on, because the moment feels too full to leave unfinished.

"Back to your boyfriend?" he asks, and you can hear the slight bitterness in his tone, but you don't react, not because you don't hear it, but because acknowledging it would mean stepping into something you're not ready to face.

"Michael... you asked me to wait for you backstage... here I am," you say, and Michael takes a deep breath, like he's steadying himself, like whatever he's about to say matters more than he expected it to.

He didn't have anything he wanted to talk about, not really... he just wanted to see you.

"I miss you," he lets slip, and the words land heavier than they should because they're honest in a way neither of you has allowed yourselves to be for years, and you look down at your hands, which are tightly pressed together on your lap, your fingers curling into each other like if you let go, everything you've kept contained will spill out before you can stop it.

The truth is, you miss him too, and the ache has been persistent, following you through the years, in moments where something felt off and you couldn't explain why, in comparisons to your current boyfriend that you never said out loud, in the realization that nothing and no one ever quite felt the same after him, and your breakup wasn't anybody's fault, not really, it kind of just... happened.

"Michael..." you say cautiously.

"I know you're with someone else... so if you look at me and tell me that you don't miss me too, I'll leave it alone... I'll leave you alone, we can go back to just saying pleasentries at these events," he says, and you slowly exhale as you look at him, the air leaving your chest heavy, like it's pulling something deeper with it, because his eyes aren't asking for anything complicated, they're just asking for the truth.

And that's what makes it so hard.

"I have to get back to my seat, Michael," you say as you stand up, the decision coming before you can hesitate, because staying feels too dangerous, like it would lead somewhere you're not ready to go. "Do you need help getting somewhere?" you ask, and he shakes his head.

"Bill's around the corner, and I have to change before my performance," he says, and you nod, and even though you changed the subject, even though you didn't answer what he said, you also didn't deny it, and for Michael, that's enough.

"It's good seeing you... You look good," you say sincerely with a smile, the words simple, but the meaning behind them heavier than you let show.

Michael bites down on his lip as he looks at you.

"You look better, like always," he says, and you let a small smile slip through before you turn away, leaving the area and making your way back to your seat, each step carrying you further from him again, even though it doesn't feel like you've really left at all.

Your boyfriend turns to you when you sit back down, noting how long you had been gone after presenting the award, his attention settling on you in a way that feels heavier than it should, like he's trying to read something in your face that you're working too hard to keep steady. "Everything alright?" he asks, and you nod.

"Everything is fine," you say, but you know deep down it's not, because the words don't land the way they're supposed to, don't settle anything inside you, and there's already a quiet certainty forming that you're going to find Michael when this award show is over and finish your conversation, whether you want to admit it or not. Patti LaBelle comes on stage to announce Michael's performance, and then there he is.

Sitting on a chair in the middle of the stage, his presence is still just as powerful as if he were standing up, like the room bends toward him without effort, like nothing about him needs to be louder to be felt. Remember The Time, you recognize it immediately, the first notes are enough to pull something loose in your chest before you can brace yourself for it.

You had always wondered... suspected, if Michael had written the song about the two of you, because you knew your single that you're nominated for, I Will Always Love You, you wrote about him.

Throughout his performance, Michael keeps catching your eye, but it never feels accidental, never feels like a passing glance lost in a crowd of people. You notice he always looks at you when singing lines like, "Do you remember the time, when we fell in love?" "When we first met."

But the line that really gets you, the one that holds you in place in a way nothing else does, that he looks at you through the entire time he sings it is, "And girl, no matter what was said. I will never forget what we had," and there's something in the way he doesn't look away, something steady and certain, like he isn't performing that line so much as remembering it, like he's saying it to you in a way that reaches past the stage, past the audience, straight into something you've spent years trying to keep buried. But it was the whole song that got you.

Mentions of talking on the phone don't feel like lyrics when you hear them; they feel like memory, like being pulled back into those late nights where the world was quiet except for his voice coming through the line, sometimes soft, sometimes tired, sometimes filled with things he didn't say to anyone else.

Because that was what the two of you did a lot when he was gone for the Victory Tour, and you were recording your album, both of you existing in different places but trying to meet somewhere in the middle of it anyway.

Late nights on the phone, him talking about the shows, or about Joe, and telling you how even though he hadn't said anything to anyone yet, he knew this would be his last tour with his brothers, his voice lowering when he said it like he was letting you in on something private, something real. You would tell him about the songs you were working on, give him some previews of them, and holding the phone closer like that somehow made the distance feel smaller than it actually was.

The mention in the song about being together all day long pulls you somewhere else entirely, back to a time that feels softer, easier, before everything became something you had to work around. Which is how it was in the early days, before Thriller elevated him to a level that had never been seen before, before schedules and expectations and distance started shaping everything.

When you two were still dating, before things were official, Michael used to carve out days in his schedule, specifically for the two of you to spend the entire day together, not worried about anything or anyone else, days where time felt like it belonged to you, where nothing interrupted it, where you didn't have to think about when it would end because it just... existed.

And then you see it, the way Michael gets lost in the music, and you can see how badly he wants to stand up and dance. You don't think the background dancers are doing him any favors, and you know how much of a perfectionist he is and how unhappy he would be if he could see them behind him.

You've always loved the way music lived in Michael. It was present in every fiber of his body, not just his voice, but in the way he moved, too. He always says that when he performs, he becomes the music and oftentimes doesn't have control over what he does. As the crescendo builds, you see it in him, and you know he's not going to be able to stay seated for long.

Your suspicions are confirmed when he hits a note and stands at the same time, making a small move, but keeping his leg with his bad ankle off the ground. You see how he practically has to force himself to sit back down, because you know he just wants to keep dancing.

By the time the performance is over, you excuse yourself from your boyfriend to go to the bathroom, your voice steady enough to pass, your body moving before your mind can catch up to how much everything has shifted inside you.

Michael had pulled emotions out of you that you had thought you had long since buried, not gently, not slowly, but all at once, like they had never actually gone anywhere to begin with.

Once you're alone in the bathroom, which was far more elegant than a normal bathroom, with full couches, multiple sinks, and mirrors for makeup fixes, the quiet feels too loud, too open, like there's nothing left to distract you from what you're feeling.

You grip the marble of the sink counter, hoping the cool feeling will help settle you, give you something solid to focus on, but it doesn't; the tension is still sitting tight in your chest, unmoved. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, just as you hear the door open, but you don't turn your head until you hear the lock click.

Michael is standing there.

"What are you doing in here?" you ask.

"You know what," Michael fires back as he hobbles closer, the frustration in his voice sharper than anything he's shown all night, like whatever restraint he had on stage didn't follow him in here. Seeing him on crutches makes your heart ache in a way that feels immediate and familiar, your instinct to take care of him rising before anything else, and you point to the couch.

"Sit down, please, especially since you know you shouldn't have stood up while you were out there," you say. Michael goes to the couch without argument, and he sits down, the movement slower than it should be, controlled in a way that makes it obvious he's pushing through more pain than he's letting on.

You look at him through the mirror, unable to turn around and fully meet his gaze, because seeing him directly feels like it would undo whatever composure you're still holding onto.

"Did you like the performance?" he asks, and you take a deep breath, the question sounding simple, but it doesn't land that way, not after the way he looked at you out there, not after everything it pulled out of you.

"Michael—" he cuts you off.

"I wrote it about you... about us," Michael says, and you hang your head, not out of discomfort, but because the admission lands deeper than you expect, settling into you in a way that feels warm and overwhelming at the same time, like something you didn't realize you needed to hear until he said it.

"I wrote my song that was nominated tonight about you, too," you say, and this time, you do turn around to meet his eyes, because not saying it while looking at him would feel like hiding something you've already decided to give him.

You see the way his expression shifts, the softness that settles into his features, and you catch it, the flicker of something else underneath it, the instinct to get up, to close the space between you, to reach for you the way he used to.

It's there for just a second, but it's enough to make your chest tighten, because the only thing stopping him is the fact that he physically can't, and somehow that's the only thing keeping you from falling right back into him. "Of course, I miss you, Michael," you answer his question from earlier.

"So why did it end?" he asks, and you sigh, the sound leaving you heavier than you intend, because you've asked yourself that same question more times than you can count, and the answer has never gotten easier to sit with.

"Michael, you remember... we were both so busy, after you got back from the Victory Tour, you were doing appearances, you started the Bad sessions. I was making a new album and doing appearances, we'd go for months without seeing each other, weeks without speaking, we were barely in a relationship anymore," you say as you frown, the words coming out steady, but the memory behind them isn't.

You remember the waiting without calling it that, the missed moments that never felt like a breaking point at the time, just small gaps that kept widening until there was more distance than there was connection. You never blamed him, never resented him, and he never blamed you either. The price of fame was heavy, and in this case, the price was your relationship.

"I would've tried harder," Michael said.

"You were already giving so much of yourself to so many other people and other directions. You were preparing for a world tour, you were exhausted," you say, because you remember that too, the way he would sound at the end of long days, the way you could hear it even through the phone, the way he kept going anyway.

"You were always more important. Do you know how empty I felt on tour? How many shows I almost canceled because everything felt so unbearable without you?" Michael says, and you take a deep breath, the words hitting somewhere you've spent years trying not to revisit.

"You can't say stuff like that to me, Michael... not anymore," you say softly, because hearing it now feels different than it would have back then, heavier, more complicated. You know how much Michael loves his fans, and he would never cancel a show and disappoint them. Hearing him say that he almost canceled multiple shows because your breakup affected him that badly hits you deeply.

Because you almost canceled finishing your album for the same reason, but your manager told you to channel that heartbreak into the music and find healing through it, and that's what you made yourself do. You went on to win 4 American Music Awards and 4 Grammys for that album in 1987.

"Do you love him?" he asks, and you close your eyes while taking another deep breath, because that question doesn't leave you any room to stay where you've been: safe, detached, unaffected. Michael doesn't want to hurt you with this conversation, but he needs to know the truth.

"Michael..." you say as you open your eyes and look at him, the hesitation sitting right there between you.

"Come here," Michael says. It's soft, but there's something underneath it that you've always responded to without thinking, something that makes your body move before your mind can catch up.

You walk over to where he's sitting on the couch, and you sit next to him, closer than you were the last time, close enough that the space between you feels intentional now instead of accidental. He looks at you again, his eyes searching yours for the truth.

"Do you love him?" He asks again. You try to look away, the intensity of his gaze pressing in on you in a way that feels too exposing, but he gently grabs your jaw and doesn't let the eye contact break, his touch careful but firm enough to keep you there.

If you were going to tell him that you were in love with another man, he wanted you to look him in the eyes and tell him. You don't even realize you're crying until Michael lifts his other hand to wipe away the tears, his thumb brushing them away with a familiarity that makes your chest tighten.

"No..." You say, but your voice sounds hollow to you, like the word isn't just an answer, but a realization you've been avoiding. "No, I don't love him," you say, and the moment the words leave your mouth, everything shifts.

Michael's lips are on yours instantly, like he couldn't wait a second longer, like he needed that answer to let himself cross the line he's been holding back all night. The kiss isn't hesitant; it's immediate and deep, and the feeling of him after seven years hits you all at once, overwhelming in a way you weren't prepared for, like stepping back into something that never actually left you. You kiss him back harder, the response just as instinctive, just as immediate, like your body never forgot how to meet him there.

Michael's hand moves from your jaw to your waist, and he pulls you onto his lap without breaking the kiss, the motion firm but careful, his grip tightening just enough to keep you there. Your hands come up to cup his cheeks, holding him in place as the kiss deepens, both of you pouring everything you never said, everything you never got to finish, everything you've carried for the last seven years into it.

The world around you fades without effort, the noise, the expectations, the reality of where you are slipping further away the longer you stay there, until the only thing that exists is him, the way he feels, the way he's always felt, like something you were never meant to lose in the first place.

When he pulls away from the kiss to trail kisses down your exposed skin, shoulders, collarbone, and your breasts, slightly peeking out from the top of your dress, you're breathless. You hold him close, feeling his warm lips move against you, and you let out a quiet moan as a shudder overtakes your body.

"Does he make you feel like this?" Michael mumbles low into your skin, and you shake your head.

"No," you say breathlessly. Michael leans up and kisses you again, harder. You can feel his arousal growing beneath you, poking into your thigh as you straddle him. Michael's hands feel up your dress, lifting it until it's resting above your hips, as his tongue fights yours for dominance of the kiss. It had been so long since you felt pleasure like this. Michael's lips and hands on you had always been enough to weaken you, before any actual intimacy took place.

Your hips instinctively grind against him, and when Michael feels your thigh rubbing against his growing arousal, he moans into your mouth, making you kiss him harder. Hands are everywhere, in his hair, squeezing your waist, gripping you tighter to him. You feel his hand press between your thighs, cupping you, and he groans again.

"Already so wet for me, mama?" Michael says with a smirk, and you softly whine as you feel him teasing you.

"I have been since the moment I gave you that Humanitarian Award," you whisper in his ear. The look Michael gives you is deeper, darker, with desire as he kisses you again while slipping his hands into your panties. You feel his thumb rubbing against you, and you kiss him harder, grinding into him. You feel a finger slip inside, and your body shudders as Michael kisses you through it. His finger moves quickly, his lips move harder, and you pull away to catch your breath while a moan slips through.

"Shh, shh... You don't want to get caught, do you, baby?" he teases as he kisses your throat right as you swallow back another moan. You feel a second finger of his slip inside, and you keep rolling your hips, riding out the feeling as his thumb rubs against you and his fingers move inside of you.

"Michael..." you softly whimper.

"He doesn't know how to make you feel good like I do," Michael says. He uses his free hand to slip the straps of your dress off your shoulders until your breasts are exposed. Nipples hard and already perky, he leans forward, taking one into his mouth.

"He doesn't know the way you like to be touched," Michael says against your skin. You lean your head back, suddenly overwhelmed. The movement of Michael's fingers and thumb between your legs, coupled with the feeling of his tongue swirling across your nipple, nearly undoes you.

Michael feels you clench around his fingers, your entire body trembling on top of him. "Let go, mama. Come for me," Michael says before attaching his lips to your other breast. You lean forward, resting your lips against his ear as you moan his name through your release. Michael squeezes your body close as your orgasm soaks his fingers. Your body is shaking in his arms, your moans low and irresistible in his ear, making him need you more than he already does.

You're breathless when you look at him, and Michael lifts his fingers from between your legs, placing them on your lips. You part your lips, and Michael slips his fingers inside, instructing you with his eyes. You taste yourself coated on him as you suck his fingers, and Michael groans in pleasure. When he pulls his fingers out, you're still breathless.

"I need you," Michael says as he swallows. "I need to feel you around me again, baby," Michael says.

"Then take me," you say, already reaching down for his pants. Michael slightly lifts his hips off the couch to allow you to pull down his pants and boxers. His length springs free, slapping against his stomach, and you bite your lip. You haven't felt him for so long, you're almost undone by the anticipation. "Your ankle," you say.

"I'm okay, baby," he says, and you nod.

You reach down, gripping him in your hand, and he groans as his body shudders. You start to stroke him, slowly, spreading the precum from his tip across the rest of him. Spit comes from your mouth, mixing it into the precum as you continue to stroke him. Michael bucks his hips, pushing himself more into your hand, and your name spills from his lips. You lift up, lining yourself up with him, and Michael grabs your hips.

You slowly sink down on him, both you and Michael's breath hitches upon contact, and you slowly sink onto him, pushing inch by inch slowly as your body stretches and adjusts to let him fill you. You shudder as you place your hands on his shoulders, as you sink all the way down until you feel his balls press against you.

Michael groans as he leans his head back on the couch. "You feel like home, mama," Michael groans as you start moving. The feeling is sensational and everything that you missed. Your boyfriend didn't feel like this; being intimate with him didn't feel like it did with Michael. Your body didn't make you feel like every part of your body became ignited at his touch.

"I missed you," you say as you kiss him again. Michael's hands go to your hips, guiding your movements as you bounce on top of him. His length sliding in and out of you at a perfect rhythm that makes you clench once you take him back in. You start moving faster, moving up and sinking fully back down into him until you feel his balls slapping against you every time you come back down.

The sound of skin slapping together against skin, combined with you moaning Michael's name, and Michael whimpering yours, filled the bathroom, but neither of you cared if you were overheard; you could only focus on the fact that after so many years, you were coming together like this again.

The sound of his name coming from your lips only made Michael need you more. He holds your hips in place and begins to thrust his hips upwards, meeting your pace, spilling into you, and you throw your head back, your eyes rolling in the back of your head as you feel dizzy, overwhelmed with pleasure. Michael reaches down with one hand,  his thumb finding your clit, and he rubs it relentlessly, sending another shockwave of pleasure up your body, making you ride him harder.

Michael watches you in awe, your breasts perked up in the air from the way your back is arched, watching his dick disappear deep inside of you with every thrust, hearing your moans and whimpers spilling into his ear, only making him fuck you harder.

"He can't make you feel like this. He doesn't know how to fuck you like I do," Michael says low and possessively, and you shake your head. "You're mine," He nearly growls, something primal taking over him now that he has you again. The sounds of the two of you echo louder off the bathroom walls as he fucks you harder. Tears spring in your eyes from the pleasure as you grip his shoulders tightly.

"Michael..." you whimper as you throw your head back, your eyes shutting tightly. Your clit painfully throbs, and Michael feels you clenching around him, and he rubs your clit harder. Your breathing is heavy and wild, your eyes are clouded with tears, you can barely see, and you feel the pressure building low in your stomach, every move feeling like flames being lit underneath your skin.

"Say it, mama," Michael says lowly, his thrusts unrelenting, making you whimper again.

"I—I'm yours," you're able to say between gasps and whimpers, and Michael squeezes you harder.

"He doesn't know how to make you feel good like I do," Michael says, and he feels you clenching around him, and he keeps going. "He doesn't know how to make you cum like I do," he says as he attaches his lips to your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple as you cry out and then quickly cover your mouth.

"Does he?" Michael demands as he lifts up, and you shake your head.

"N–No," you whimper through a moan. Michael leans back down, attaching his mouth to your other breast, and you reach down between your legs, but Michael uses his free hand to slap your hand away, as he continues to fuck you, his thumb still putting relentless pressure on your swollen clit, the pleasure building harder.

"Michael..." his name falls out breathlessly and almost like a whimper again, the sound of it barely leaving your lips before it dissolves into him, like you don't have the strength to hold it on your own.

"Come, mama," Michael says and you do, the release hitting you all at once, your body tightening and giving in completely as it moves through you, strong enough to pull you forward into him, your head dropping into his shoulder as you try to contain the sound that follows, your breath breaking against his skin as your body reacts in waves you can't slow down.

Your fingers curl into him, holding on without thinking, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of him as the feeling continues, your body still responding even as the peak begins to fade, leaving behind a tremor that you can't quite steady yet.

Michael slows his thrusts, fucking you through the aftershocks, not letting you drift away from him, his arms firm around you as your breathing struggles to settle, uneven and soft against him. You feel him twitch inside of you, and his release comes soon after. Fluids from both of you are mixing and seeping out from you, dripping down his balls and down your thighs.

Your breaths mingle as you kiss, Michael moaning against you as he finishes his release, and he pulls back from your lips, running his thumb across the swollen surface as he looks at you. "I love you... I never stopped," Michael says, and the words land deeper than anything else has tonight, cutting through everything else, leaving no room to hide from what's still there between you.

You lean in to kiss him again, slower this time, the urgency fading into something softer, something that feels more like what you remember, what you missed. He kisses you back the same way, with more care than desperation, more emotion than intensity, and it still makes your head spin.

"Come back to me, baby," he whispers, and you nod.

"I will... I love you too... but how do we know what happened last time won't happen again?" you ask, the question quieter now, but no less real, because the past hasn't disappeared just because you found your way back to each other for a moment.

Michael reaches up, tucking your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just slightly longer than they need to, like he doesn't want to lose the contact.

"Because we won't let it happen again, we'll stay intentional. I never want to lose you again," he says, and you nod, because this time it doesn't feel like something fragile, it feels like something chosen.

"You won't," you whisper.