angel in disguise

The absentminded way he reached for your hand in crowded places despite insisting this was casual. The late-night phone calls when insomnia clawed at him. The way he remembered insignificant details about you months after you’d mentioned them in passing.

It was a simple affair when you had agreed to warm his bed.

To find yourself tangled within his sheets, with his big hands snug around your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he would press long kisses across your collarbone, murmuring your name as if it was something sacred when he pushed himself deeper into you.

The idea of playing friends with benefits was supposed to be simple. No labels. No expectations. No jealousy.

But it seemed like your heart missed the memo.

You hear him laugh from across the stage, it makes you turn around to see him.

He was standing beside some model they'd hired for promotional shots and a short visual segment during the concert. Tall, gorgeous, perfectly styled despite rehearsal barely starting.

The model laughs at something, leaning closer, resting her hand on his arms.

The sight makes your stomach churn, it leaves a sour taste in your mouth as your knuckles turn white with how tight you were clenching your fists.

You shouldn’t feel jealous, you couldn’t because jealousy implied entitlement, and you had none. Not on him.

And suddenly the drink in your hand started to taste bitter. 

Your eyes narrowed as you clicked your tongue. Seriously?

“You’re crushing the cup.”

You blinked.

One of his backup dancers sat beside her, glancing at the plastic cup that was slowly deforming in her grip.

“Oh.” 

You loosened your grip.

Across the stage, he turns to look at her. Michael’s gaze meets yours and he immediately notices. The cruelly and unfairly perceptive Michael would always notice, when it came to you.

And he smiled. No, it was not the normal one, it was you’re being ridiculous and I am enjoying this smile.

Twenty minutes later he jogged over during break, sweat clinging onto his forehead.

“Everything okay?”

You stared at the empty cup in your hand.

“Mhm.”

“You sure?” He said amused.

“Mhm.” You hum absentmindedly.

“ . . . You look mad.” 

“I’m not,” You bite.

Michael sits beside you, too close. You shifted. His smile widened as amusement flickered within his eyes.

“Oh my god,” He grinned wider.

“What?” Your eyes narrowed..

“Were you jealous?”

Silence. Absolute silence. You stare at him like you’d never met him before.

“No,” you said after a moment, eyes never leaving him.

“No?” He repeats innocently.

“No.”

Michael’s head tilts slightly, dark eyes studying you with infuriating calmness as the corner of his mouth curved. “No?” he mused lightly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “You’re unbelievably full of yourself.”

Michael chuckles under his breath. “Am I?”

Your irritation sharpened instantly and that doesn’t go unnoticed by him. The way your posture tightens, the clipped responses and the way your attention keeps drifting back towards the model despite your obvious attempts to not look.

From the moment he had crossed over to you, he had noticed it.

You were jealous.

That revelation only served as fuel to the fire, it made something dangerously warm unfurl within his chest upon seeing you so worked up over him.

He watched you with a slow, growing smile, silently deciphering every guarded gesture as he relished the sight of your composure coming undone. The sight amused him and he couldn’t help but tease you about it.

“So if I walked back over there and asked for her number—”

“Go do it,” You said without missing a beat.

He blinked.

“Really?” He questions with his eyebrows raised at your words, unconvinced and unable to judge the tone in your voice.

You only give him a smile that wasn’t a smile. “Absolutely.”

Michael was still amused. Still smiling. 

Still thinking it was funny. 

“You know,” he continues casually, “usually when someone glares at a woman for touching me, it’s because they’re jealous.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” your glare sharpened instantly as you hissed the words at him.

Michael couldn’t truly deny how much he was enjoying this, because for the first time he could really see through your guarded actions.

“It’s alright to accept that you were jealous, sweetheart,” he said, entertained.

The comment struck something sensitive immediately. You felt your guts twist. You felt it as a sudden burn behind your ribs.

The teasing wasn't the worst part; it was the realization that Michael was right, which only served to sharpen your anger. It was infuriating to see him joke so effortlessly while your own composure was visibly unraveling, leaving a deep sense of humiliation burning within your chest.

Your expression suddenly changed and his smile faded a little.

Enough for you to notice, because he was finally realizing that this was no longer playful anymore.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you chuckled dryly.

You stand up, beginning to walk away.

“Hey, come on,” he calls, his voice softening as he seeks your gaze. “I was just joking, sweetheart.”

And it was enough of a statement to confirm that you must truly be a joke after all. The realization only made the ache within your chest grow.

You halted, turning to look at him for a moment.

[e/c] eyes meeting his own and Michael feels his heart drop at the look plastered on your face.

“You know what?” you said quietly. “Forget it.”

As you watched his features shift in response to yours, you felt a wave of dread, preferring to remain ignorant of the exact look you were giving him. 

Words bubbled in his throat but even before he could answer, someone called his name from across the stage. He glances back briefly, nodding mindlessly to whatever was being said, before he turned to face you.

“Hey—” but you don’t let him finish.

You walked away, unstopping, long lost in the array of backup dancers.

The rest of the tour became weird, painfully so. It felt like torture to Michael.

And, no, not the sort of torture depicted in the movies; it was worse. 

Small torture.

It started out with you sitting farther away on buses, stopped walking backstage with him after rehearsals, stopped texting him dumb things at two in the morning, stopped stealing his jacket and most importantly you began smiling at everyone, except for him.

You were not mean, nor did you seem angry. Just . . . distant. 

Michael could handle anger, sharp words, sarcasm and cold stares. But this? the quiet distance where you moved around him like he wasn’t there at all — it crawled under his skin.

It was like he was punched awake from a dream that he had conjured up in his sleep.

Throughout the tour, Michael kept trying. If he sat beside her, you would always have an excuse to leave. If he called your name, you’d pretend not to hear.

And Michael hated every bit of it.

Because at first it amused him, but by day four he was confused, by day six he was irritated and by day eight he was miserable, searching for you, asking around about you, but you always won, never being found, hidden from his eyes.

It was the last show.

Last set.

Last night in the city.

The concert had ended an hour ago, still sweaty from the past events he stood backstage crowded by the crew as they fanned him but Michael’s eyes wavered around, looking for you. Even the tiniest glimpse of you would make his heart swell.

And then he sees you, slipping into one of the empty dressing rooms, away from the buzzing crowd.

The door clicks shut behind you, but you freeze when it clicks again.

You looked up, eyebrows suddenly furrowing at the sight of him. “Seriously?”

Michael stood at the door, sweat glistens on his forehead. He looked miserable, eyebags hidden by makeup, tiredness seemed to ooze from his being as he stood still.

“No.”

You looked at him. “No, what?”

“No, we’re not doing this anymore,” He swallows, his adam’s apple bobs gently.

There is a prolonged silence between the two of you. It lingers amidst the two of you, suffocating as it constricts you, putting you to face the truth.

Michael enters the room fully, the door closes shut behind him.

“Don’t avoid me, please.” 

It catches you off guard. “What?”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he pleads softly. “I was teasing you, I didn’t mean for it to come off wrong.”

“You were making fun of me,” You said quietly, a lump forming in your threat.

Michael’s face softened.

“No,” He said softly. “I wasn’t.” 

You swallowed the tight lump in your throat, looking away. Because suddenly it hurts again, and the ache within your chest returns.

“You know what sucked?” you said softly. “Realizing I cared enough to get jealous when I wasn't supposed to.”

You bit your lip, staring down at your feet as you sniffled. 

“. . . And realizing you thought it was funny.”

The words hit harder than Michael had expected. It was as if someone had poured ice-cold water on him.

The room felt small as Michael stood still, staring at you.

“I wasn’t laughing because I didn’t care,” His voice was much gentler than you had heard in days. “I was laughing because I liked it.”

Your eyes finally lifted up.

Michael slowly steps closer, running a hand through his hair. He cleared his throat, as a sigh escapes him.

“You never get jealous,” he bit his lip.

“. . . I know,” Your jaw clenches.

“You even act like you don’t care,” He chuckles dryly, hand coming up to brush yours.

You swallowed, unanswering.

“But then for one second . . .” Michael said, a wobbly smile on his face. “ . . . you looked at me as if I actually mattered.”

Your chest tightens, bottom lip trembling. “You do matter.”

His expression changed instantly. The blurred lines of your ‘no string attached’ arrangement had burned right at his feet.

Michael’s eyes gleamed with something softer, more dangerous. 

He stepped close enough for you to feel the warmth rolling off him. “You should’ve said that earlier.”

“Maybe you should’ve stopped being annoying then,” You looked up at him properly.

He laughed quietly, eyes glistening with the same magic they always do.

And this time his hand slipped around his waist and under your shirt, but you did not move away this time.

The silence stretches, heavy and charged.

Michael brings his forehead to rest against yours.

“Are you still mad at me?” He asked softly.

“A little,” You answered.

“Hm,” His thumb brushed gently against your side.

“A little is manageable,” 

You rolled your eyes at him, the side of your mouth curving up.

Michael slowly leans in, you could feel his hot breath against your lips. His hands ride further up under your t-shirt, as you bit your lip.

You kiss him first, pulling at his jacket’s collar.

He sighs gently against your lips, fingers digging into your skin as he presses you close. He deepens the kiss slightly — warm and lingering, carrying all the words you two hadn’t shared in the past week.

Michael kisses you with want, there is affection and yearning laced within every move and touch. He takes you whole, nibbling and licking at your bottom lip.

There is hunger evident in the way he is so rushed when he stumbles backwards with you in tow.

The back on your knee hits the sofa in the room as you take the fall.

And that finally separates you, it leaves you gasping for air when he pulls away, still on top of you. You stared at him for a moment before breaking into soft laughter and he joins in to, laughing like he had earned an award.

Michael stayed there, forehead resting against yours, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“You don’t know what you do me, pretty girl,” He accused softly.

“You could show me,” You chuckle softly.

“Mhm,” 

He brushed a thumb across your cheek.

“I could even give you the whole world if you ask me too, mama.”