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1992california

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 ago1990

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.

1978 hayvenhurst / vegas

You're sitting on Michael's bed with your legs tucked beneath you, your sketchbook balanced in your lap, pencil moving in soft, absent strokes as the quiet of his room wraps around you. It's one of the few places that ever feels still for him, and by extension, for you too.

The door opens, and the shift in the air is immediate.

You look up before he even says anything, your chest tightening the second you see him.

Michael looks exhausted. Not just tired, not just worn down, but drained in a way that settles deep into his bones. His shoulders are tight, pulled upward like he's been bracing himself all day, but they still slump under the weight of it. His eyes don't carry that usual softness, that light that always seems to find you, no matter how chaotic everything else is. Instead, they're heavy, crestfallen, like something in him is just... worn thin.

Your pencil stills in your hand. He doesn't say anything as he walks further into the room, and you don't ask. You can read it all over him.

When he reaches the bed, he doesn't ease himself down: he just drops, the mattress dipping under the sudden weight of him as he flops onto his back beside you. The movement is careless, unguarded, like he doesn't have the energy to be anything else.

You don't hesitate. You set your sketchbook aside without a second thought, forgotten on the bed as your attention shifts completely to him. And almost immediately, like it's instinct, like it's the only place he knows how to go when he's like this, Michael turns into you.

He lowers his head into your lap, letting it rest there as he lets out a deep breath that feels like it's been sitting in his chest all day.

Your fingers slip gently into his curls, slow and careful, moving in that familiar rhythm you've learned over time, the one that always seems to quiet something inside him. You don't speak. You just let your touch say what words don't need to.

For a moment, the room settles into silence.

You can feel how tense he still is at first, the tightness in his shoulders beneath your hands, the way his body holds onto everything he's been carrying. But you stay steady, your fingers moving through his hair, your touch grounding, patient.

And slowly, piece by piece, he starts to let it go.

The tension in his shoulders begins to ease, the stiffness softening under your presence. His breathing, once uneven and shallow, starts to deepen, to slow, to find a steady rhythm again. His eyes slip closed, his lashes resting against his cheeks, and his arms wrap loosely around your legs like he needs to anchor himself there, like this is the one place he knows he can finally stop holding everything together.

You don't move, you just stay there with him, letting him take what he needs.

It's only been a week since he and his brothers got back from the Goin' Places tour, and already, they've been thrown straight back into the studio, working on their new album, Destiny. And on top of that, he's been writing for his own solo album too, something you know means everything to him, something he's been quietly pouring himself into whenever he can find a second to breathe.

But there hasn't been much time to breathe at all.

You've seen it in the way his days blur together, in the way he comes back to Hayvenhurst looking like he's been pulled apart and stitched back together just enough to keep going.

There are nights when he walks through this same door and barely even looks up before heading straight to the shower, and by the time he comes back out, he's already half-asleep. He'll collapse into bed before you can even ask him how his day was, before you can even get more than a quiet "hi" out of him.

Other nights, when you stay over, you don't even see him come in. You're already asleep by the time he finally gets back from the studio, and the only sign he was there at all is the warmth beside you when you wake up.

And when you're not here, when you're at your home, he still tries. He always calls before you go to bed. Even on the nights when you can hear it in his voice, how heavy it is, how he's forcing himself to stay awake just a little longer, just enough to talk to you because he doesn't want to let you down. You can hear the exhaustion in every word, the way his sentences start to slow, to trail off.

Those calls usually end the same way.

His voice faded mid-sentence, his breathing evened out on the other end of the line as he fell asleep without even realizing it, and you never hang up.

You stay there, listening to him breathe, letting that quiet, steady sound settle something in you, too. Knowing he's finally resting, that he's finally getting even a little bit of sleep, helps ease the worry that's been sitting in your chest all day. Eventually, it lulls you to sleep too, the phone still pressed close, like it's the closest thing to being beside him.

There are nights he's so exhausted he forgets to call at all, but even then, he never lets it go.

The next morning, without fail, your phone rings first thing, his voice soft and apologetic as soon as you answer. He always says he's sorry, even when you've told him over and over again that he doesn't need to be, that you understand, that it isn't his fault.

You know exactly where the pressure is coming from. You know how Joseph pulls him and his brothers in every direction he wants, without stopping to consider how much it's costing them, how much it's costing him.

And sitting here now, with his head resting in your lap, his body finally starting to relax under your touch, you feel that ache settle deeper in your chest. You hate what it's doing to him. You hate how much of himself he's having to give away, piece by piece, just to keep everything running.

So you don't say anything, you just keep your fingers in his hair, gentle, steady, letting him have this moment, letting him have you, because right now, it's the only place he gets just to be Michael.

"You okay, baby?" you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper as your fingers continue their slow, steady movement through his curls.

Michael opens his eyes, already facing you from where his head rests in your lap, and a soft smile comes onto his face when he looks at you, the kind that isn't forced or performed, just quiet and real, like seeing you is enough to ease something in him, even if it doesn't fix everything.

"You always make things better," he says, and you smile at him, your hand never leaving his hair, but when he sighs, the sound is heavier than before, lingering in the space between you. You slightly frown because you can tell something is on his mind.

"What's going on?" you ask.

"It's just Joseph," he says with a heavy sigh, and you frown immediately, the name settling in your chest with a familiar weight. You're no stranger to Joseph Jackson and his treatment of his kids. You've been friends with LaToya since primary school; you've grown up with and around them, so you're no stranger to Joseph's cruelty, to the way his presence alone can shift the atmosphere of a room, to the way Michael carries it even when he's not there.

"What's he doing now, besides working you and your brothers to the ground?" you ask, your tone still gentle but edged now with something protective, and Michael sighs again, your fingers still moving through his hair as he holds onto your legs a little tighter, like he needs something to steady himself.

"He gave 'permission' for me to work on my solo album, but I still have to do things with the Jacksons, and I love my brothers, you know I do. But I have so many ideas in my head for songs that I want to be my own songs, not songs of the Jacksons," he says, and you frown, not because you think he's wrong but because you hate the pressure he's under.

The way that one word, permission, sits so wrong, because something that belongs to him so deeply shouldn't have to be approved by anyone else, and you hate that he feels like he can't express himself creatively and separately from the group without it.

Music lived in Michael; you've seen that since the day you met him, seen it in the way he disappears into it completely, like it's the only place he's fully himself. And you love the way he gets when he's writing songs. The way he's completely focused, humming melodies under his breath without realizing it, writing like a man running out of time, like the ideas won't wait for him, and you've always been in awe of his process, of how natural it is for him, how alive he looks in those moments.

"That makes sense. You've been performing with your brothers for the last... 15 years, so of course you want to do your own thing," you say, your voice soft but certain, and Michael sighs again, the sound quieter this time but still heavy.

"I'm not a little kid in a band anymore. I've grown up, and I want to be able to express myself creatively," he says, and you nod without hesitation, because he's right, and you lean down to press a kiss against his temple, letting your lips linger there for a second, your hand still in his hair, grounding him in something steady, something that isn't asking anything from him.

"The first step to that is firing Joseph as your manager, baby... which I know is easier said than done, but that's the only way you're going to be able to manage your own career and not be dictated to do things a certain way," you say, your voice gentle but honest, because you won't lie to him just to make it easier.

Michael sighs, snuggling more against you, and you feel it in the way he shifts closer, pressing into your lap like he's trying to stay right here, in this moment, where things are simple, where he doesn't have to make decisions that feel impossible.

He knows you're right, but as you said, it's much easier said than done, and although Michael tries not to show it around you, he's terrified of Joseph. You've seen glimpses of it before: in the way his voice lowers, in the way he chooses his words more carefully, in the way his shoulders tense in a completely different way than they do now.

"I can't do that," he whispers, his voice softer than before, almost fragile, and you nod, not wanting to push because you understand why Michael wouldn't be able to do that on his own. Firing Joseph isn't just firing a manager; he's still Michael's father, and that adds a complicated layer to things that doesn't just go away because it should.

"Whatever you decide to do, Michael... I love you, and I support you no matter what," you say, your voice steady, unwavering, because that part is simple, even if everything else isn't.

Michael lifts his head at your words, sitting up to look fully at you, and he grabs your hands, his fingers wrapping around yours like he needs to hold onto you for what comes next. You can see it in his eyes; he has something to say. His eyes are still soft, they always are when he looks at you, but there's something else there now too, something more serious sitting just beneath it.

"Marry me," he says, and your eyes widen when his words register in your head, the moment stretching in a way that feels almost unreal, like your mind is trying to catch up to something your heart hasn't even had time to process yet.

"W—What?" you ask in shock, and Michael nods, his hands still holding yours, steady, grounding, like he's completely certain even as you're trying to find your footing.

"You're the one thing that's constant in my life. The one person I'm sure about. I love you," Michael says as he gently rubs your knuckles with his thumbs, the motion slow, absent, but intentional, like he needs to keep that contact with you while he says it.

You can see it in his eyes; he does mean it, there's no hesitation there, no doubt, and that's what shocks you even more, the certainty of it, the way he's looking at you like this isn't a question for him, it's already decided.

"I love you too, Michael, but—" he softly cuts you off.

"We've talked about marriage before," he says, and you laugh a little, in disbelief, the sound coming out lighter than how it actually feels in your chest, because you had talked about marriage before, but it was before you two were officially together, when Michael had still just seen you as 'LaToya's best friend,' before feelings got involved, before any of this became real.

"Yes, before we got together and you asked me what type of man I saw myself married to... which in hindsight, I pretty much described you without realizing it," you say with a laugh, and Michael squeezes your hand as he smiles, his fingers tightening around yours just slightly, like he's holding onto that moment, onto you.

"I want to make a decision that is completely my own, my choice... and it's you I'm choosing," he says, and the words settle heavy in your chest, not overwhelming, but significant, like you can feel how much this means to him beyond just the question itself. You take a deep breath as you gently squeeze his hands back, trying to steady yourself, trying to slow everything down just enough to think.

"Michael... marriage is a big deal, we can't just rush into something like this," you say, and Michael shakes his head immediately, the movement small but firm.

"I'm not rushing. I've been thinking about this for years, and even more so when you said you'd be my girl two years ago," he says, and you feel your face getting hot as your cheeks flush, the memory hitting you all at once, how long this has been building for him without you fully realizing it.

"What about your family?" you ask, because that thought comes just as quickly, just as heavy, and he shrugs like it doesn't carry the same weight for him in this moment.

"What about them?" he asks.

"We can't just run off and get married and then what? Keep it a secret?" you ask, your voice soft but grounded, trying to make sense of something that suddenly feels like it's moving too fast and not fast enough all at once, and Michael shakes his head again.

"Not a secret, just ours. We don't have to tell anybody anything," he says, and you look at him, really look at him this time, searching his face for any sign that this is impulsive, that he hasn't thought this through, but you don't find it. His eyes are determined, steady in a way that doesn't waver, but still with that same softness behind them, the same warmth that's always there when he looks at you. He gently squeezes your hand again, and you take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you.

"Where are we going to live, Michael? Married couples normally live together," you say, your thoughts trying to catch up, trying to make this practical, real, something you can hold onto, and Michael chuckles softly.

"Baby, we can live here," he says, and you give him a look, because it's not that simple, not really.

"And what would you tell your parents? You're a Jehovah's Witness, I'm sure Momma Katie wouldn't appreciate me randomly moving in here... and what would I tell my parents?" you ask, and Michael sighs as he moves one of his hands from yours and cups your jaw, his touch gentle but steady, guiding your attention back to him, back to this moment instead of everything that comes after it.

"Baby... we can figure all that stuff out later... what I know for certain right now is that I love you, and I want you to be my wife," Michael says. The way he says it, so simple, so sure, makes your chest tighten, because there's no confusion in him, no hesitation, just clarity.

You let out another breath, your thoughts still spinning, your heart caught somewhere between the weight of what this means and the certainty of how you feel about him. It's not that you don't want to marry Michael; you do, you've felt that in quiet moments, in the way you already choose him every day, but you don't want him to decide this impulsively, don't want this to be something he regrets when everything else comes crashing back in.

"I love you, Michael..." you say, and he nods, like that alone is enough to keep him steady. He squeezes your hand, grounding you, and his other hand is still resting on your cheek, warm and familiar, anchoring you in place.

"Marry me, baby... just you and me. I love you so much, and I never want to be without you... marry me," Michael says again, gently kissing your knuckles, and something in you gives at that, the sincerity of it, the way he's asking you not out of pressure but out of love, out of certainty. You feel your eyes watering, the emotion rising faster than you can contain it, and you nod.

"Yes, Michael," you whisper, and the second the words leave your lips, his face lights up, his smile wide and immediate, relief and happiness mixing together as he leans in and kisses you, cupping your jaw as he pulls you close. His arms wrap around your waist, firm and certain, and he pulls you onto his lap without breaking the kiss, holding you there like he never wants to let you go.

Your arms go around his neck as a warmth spreads throughout you, his hands still firm at your waist, holding you close like he's afraid to put any space between you now that you've said yes. The kiss lingers, soft but certain, and you can feel the way everything is shifting all at once, settling and unraveling at the same time.

Were you really going to do this? Getting married spontaneously?

The thought moves through you quickly, not sharp enough to stop you, but present enough to make your chest tighten just a little. It's not that you didn't want to marry Michael; you do. He's the love of your life, and you know that for a fact. There's no hesitation in that, no doubt when it comes to him. But you're both still young; he's 20, you're 22, and his career is still growing, still becoming something bigger every day, something that already pulls at him from every direction.

But even with all of that sitting there, pressing at the edges of your thoughts, one thing stays steady: you know you want this. You want him, now and forever.

When you pull away, it's slow, like neither of you really wants to be the one to break the moment, and Michael follows you just slightly before letting his forehead rest against yours. The contact is grounding, intimate, your breaths still a little uneven as they begin to settle into something calmer, something shared.

"I'll have Bill quietly arrange everything. We can leave tomorrow night," Michael says.

The words are so simple, said like it's already decided, like there's no space for doubt in him at all. Your throat tightens as you swallow, the reality of it landing fully now, how fast this is moving, how real it already is, but you nod anyway, because even with the nerves, even with everything you're thinking, you're not pulling away.

"I love you so much," he says. The softness in his voice wraps around you, and you can feel it, the sincerity of it, the way he means every word without hesitation, and it steadies you more than anything else.

"I love you more, Michael," you whisper. He presses another quick kiss to your lips, light but affectionate, like he can't help himself, before his attention shifts, his eyes flicking toward your sketchbook where it still rests on the bed beside you.

"What were you working on?" he asks.

You smile, a little shy now as you bite your lip, your gaze dropping briefly before you look back at him.

"Just sketching you from memory," you say.

Michael bites down on his lip, that familiar shyness surfacing immediately, the way it always does when the attention turns to him, when you say something like that so easily, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Baby," he says. There's a softness to it, a quiet disbelief that makes your smile widen just a little as you reach for your sketchbook and place it in his hands. You watch him as he looks down at the page, and the reaction is immediate.

His eyes widen slightly, taking in the lines, the details. The way you've defined his face, his brown eyes, soft and warm, his curly afro: it's all there, captured in a way that feels too real, too honest. You can see it hit him, the way his cheeks start to warm, color rising under his skin as a wide smile spreads across his face, unguarded and bright.

He looks up at you, and his eyes soften even more. "This is amazing," he says.

"Well, my muse is always very beautiful," you say.

The words come out light, teasing, but there's truth in them, and it lands on him immediately. Michael flushes again, his gaze dropping as he bites his lip, that same bashful reaction you've seen so many times, and it pulls a quiet giggle out of you. You reach up, gently lifting his head so he has to look at you again, your fingers light against his chin.

"We're really gonna do this?" you ask. There's a softness to the question, but it's real. A final moment of checking, of making sure you're both standing in the same place before everything changes.

Michael nods without hesitation.

"I can't wait to be your husband," Michael says as he kisses you again. The words settle into you differently this time, deeper, more permanent, and you smile as you kiss him back, your hands still resting at his neck, holding onto him as the reality of it sinks in fully.

By this time tomorrow, you're going to be Michael's wife.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

By the next night, you and Michael were in Vegas.

Everything about it feels unreal in a way that hasn't quite settled yet. One day, you were sitting in his room at Hayvenhurst, and now you're here, a hotel room miles away from everything familiar, with a few hours standing between you and becoming his wife.

Joseph never really questioned much when Michael left with Bill. Michael never said where the two of you were going, just that you would be gone for the weekend. That part almost makes it feel easier and harder at the same time. Easier because there were no questions, no obstacles at the moment. Harder because you know what's waiting when you go back.

You were nervous, really nervous.

The kind of nervous that doesn't sit in one place. It settles in your chest, then your stomach, then back again. You didn't know how you were going to tell people... his family and yours. You were worried that his family would think you manipulated him into it since you're older than he is. The thought alone makes your chest tighten, because you know how much he's fought for his own voice, how much this decision means to him. You were worried your mom might have a heart attack, since you got married and she wasn't there to see it, the image of her reaction flashing through your mind in quick, uneasy waves.

"What are you thinking about, pretty girl?"

Michael's soft voice breaks through everything, close enough that you feel it more than just hear it, and you look up from where you're sitting on the bed in your hotel. You and Michael had already obtained your marriage license, and the ceremony was in a few hours, and the reality of that sits between you as you meet his eyes.

"You changing your mind?" he asks.

There's something in his voice he tries to hide, but you hear it anyway. Fear. Worry. The quiet possibility that maybe this is too much, too fast, that maybe you don't want this anymore.

"No, baby, of course not," you say, reaching your hand out for him without hesitation.

Michael moves toward you immediately, like he doesn't want to waste even a second of that reassurance, taking your hand as soon as he's close enough. You pull him down next to you, needing him close, needing that contact just as much as he does.

"I love you," you say. Michael leans over and kisses your temple, the gesture soft and familiar, grounding in a way that makes everything else fade just a little.

"I love you more," he says, and then he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just slightly as his eyes stay on your face. "But I can tell you're thinking about something," he continues.

You turn to him and smile, your gaze softening as you really look at him, letting yourself take him in fully for a moment.

His afro is perfectly curly and fluffed, shaped in that effortless way that somehow still feels intentional, like every detail about him carries its own kind of care. He's wearing a white suit, clean and sharp, with a light pink button-up shirt underneath, the color soft against his skin, warm and gentle in a way that suits him completely. There's something about seeing him like this, knowing what this moment means, that makes your chest tighten all over again, but this time it's not nerves, it's something deeper.

Your hand comes up to rest against his jaw, your thumb brushing lightly against his skin as you hold his gaze.

"I'm just worried about how your family is going to react... and I'm not worried about me, I'm worried about you... I just don't want Joseph to..." You trail off, shaking your head because you don't want to think of it, don't want to put words to something that already feels heavy enough.

"Rebbie and Marlon got married when they were 18, Jermaine got married at 19, and my parents were fine. I'm 20," Michael says.

You nod, because you knew that. You've always known the stories, the patterns, the way things have unfolded in his family before. But you also know something else.

Michael isn't treated the same as his siblings. He never has been, and he's sometimes had rebellious streaks against Joe, ever since he was little.

You remember Katherine telling you the story of how Michael threw one of his bottles with perfect precision at Joseph when he was a baby, a story told with a softness that didn't quite hide the tension beneath it. His brothers told you how he used to run from Joseph, how quick he was, how sometimes Joseph didn't catch him. You remember the way they laughed when they said it, but you also remember the look in Michael's eyes when he listened.

"I know, baby... but you know Joseph sees you differently than your brothers... he sees you as—"

"The money maker," Michael says, cutting you off. The words land harder coming from him than they ever could from you, flat and certain, like something he's accepted even if it hurts.

You frown immediately, your hand still resting against his jaw, your thumb stilling for just a second before moving again. Michael has expressed to you multiple times that he knows Joseph only sees him as a paycheck, and he said before, when he was younger, back when he and his brothers first became The Jackson 5, he would perform so hard and try to make sure everything was perfect, because he felt that if he were perfect, maybe Joseph would show him even the tiniest slither of love and fatherly affection, but he never did.

"You're so much more than that, Michael... you know that, right?" you ask. Michael shrugs, his gaze dropping slightly, going quiet like he normally does when the conversation gets hard, like he's retreating into himself just a little.

You don't let him stay there. You gently turn his face, guiding him back to you, making sure he looks at you, really looks.

"Michael... you're more than what Joseph says you are. You're kind, genuine, funny, beautiful... and I love you so much," you say. Michael bites down on his lip as he shyly smiles, the reaction immediate, almost automatic, like he doesn't quite know what to do with being seen like that, with being told something so certain and so different from what he's been given before.

"You really think so?" Michael asks.

The question is soft, almost careful, like part of him still expects the answer to change. You smile at him, your expression steady, unwavering.

"If I told you everything now, I wouldn't have anything left to say in my vows," you say.

Michael laughs at that, the sound lighter, freer, and he pulls you closer to his side, his arm wrapping around you as he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering just slightly like he needs that closeness.

"You ready?" Michael asks.

You nod, even though your heart is still racing, even though everything about this moment feels big and overwhelming and right all at once.

He looks you over again, and this time you feel it, the weight of his gaze as he takes you in fully.

Since you're getting married in Vegas and not having a big wedding ceremony, you chose an ivory colored dress, knee-length. The fabric is soft and light, the skirt falling gently, the sleeves sheer and delicate, catching the light every time you move. It's simple compared to what a wedding is "supposed" to be, but standing here now, it feels exactly right.

Michael smiles again, his heart feeling full; he couldn't believe this was happening. You can see it in the way his expression softens, in the way his eyes linger on you like he's trying to memorize every detail.

"You look so beautiful," he says.

And the way he says it: quiet, certain, and completely in awe, makes everything else fall away for just a moment, until it's just you and him, standing on the edge of something that's about to change everything.

"So do you," you say, and Michael bites down on his lip, that familiar, shy reaction surfacing again as the compliment settles into him, his smile soft but full as you both stand up from the bed. His hand finds yours immediately, your fingers locking together as if grounding each other before everything shifts.

You walk toward the door together, side by side, and when it opens, Bill is already waiting just on the outside, calm and steady as always, ready to take you to the chapel. You take a deep breath as you both step out, the air outside the room feeling different, heavier somehow now that this is really happening, and Michael nods at Bill, quiet but certain.

Bill escorts you both to the elevator, his presence reassuring without being overwhelming, giving you space while still being right there. The ride down feels quicker than it should, like time is moving faster now, and before you can fully sit with it, he's guiding you both out through the back private entrance where the car is waiting.

Once you two are in and settled, Bill starts the drive.

The movement of the car is smooth and steady, but your thoughts aren't. They drift, pulling you back to the first time you met him. When LaToya had invited you over after school once to hang out, and Bill had been there, watching quietly, observing in that way he does. He had assessed you without making it obvious, making sure you weren't a crazy fan girl using her to get to her brothers. You hadn't even realized it at the time, not fully, but looking back now, it makes sense.

He's always been like this: quiet, steady, observant, and safe.

You love how much he supports and cares for Michael, how he's always been there in a way that's calm and consistent, never demanding, never overwhelming. He's the real father that Michael deserves, and you're glad that Bill is here, especially tonight, to keep Michael balanced by being the opposite of how Joseph is.

"You two ready for this?" Bill asks.

His voice is even, grounded, and there's no judgment in it, not even a hint. He's not questioning your decision; he's checking in. Making sure this is what you both want, because he understands what this means. Marriage isn't small; it isn't something to take lightly, and he cares about both of you too much not to ask.

"I am... this is what I want," Michael says as he looks at you.

His words are steady, but it's the way he looks at you that makes your chest tighten, like everything else fades just for a second, and it's only the two of you in this moment. You smile back at him, the nerves still there but softened by the certainty in his gaze.

"Me too," you say.

Michael leans over and kisses the top of your head, the gesture gentle and grounding, like he's sealing something between you without needing anything more than that. Bill nods from the front, saying nothing else, but you feel his support.

It settles quietly around you both, something unspoken but clear, and you're grateful for it, especially knowing what's coming. Because this isn't something that can stay hidden forever. Eventually, Michael's family will find out, and when they do... You don't know how it will go. But knowing Bill is on your side, on both of your sides, makes it feel just a little less overwhelming.

The car pulls up to the chapel, and everything sharpens again.

Bill escorts you both in through the back, moving carefully, intentionally. The last thing you need is for paparazzi and cameras to spot Michael Jackson walking into a wedding chapel. This moment is yours, and he's making sure it stays that way.

Inside, it's quieter than you expected.

Bill was going to be serving as your witness, and the weight of that sits gently but firmly in the back of your mind as you and Michael sit down to wait for your turn. Your hands are still intertwined, fingers laced together like neither of you wants to let go, and Michael's thumb moves slowly against your palm, a soft, repetitive motion that tells you everything he's not saying out loud.

He can feel your nerves, and he's trying to soothe them the only way he knows how.

He leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple before squeezing your hand, the contact warm and reassuring. When you turn to look at him, something in you settles, the nervous energy easing just a little as you take him in again.

You're about to marry the love of your life.

The thought lands differently this time, less overwhelming, more grounding, and you smile at him, the emotion soft but steady in your chest. Michael smiles back, his eyes warm, certain, as your names are called.

The sound pulls you both to your feet, and together, you, Michael, and Bill make your way into the chapel, where the minister is already waiting at the altar. The space feels small, intimate, like it was made for moments like this, quiet and personal.

Michael gently squeezes your hand again as you walk down the aisle, each step bringing the reality closer, making it more real with every second. You can feel it in the way his grip tightens just slightly, not out of doubt, but out of presence, like he's fully here with you in this moment.

He squeezes your hand again as you get in front of the minister, and you present your marriage license, the paper suddenly feeling more significant than it did before, like it holds everything you're about to become.

The minister asks about a witness, and Bill stands without hesitation, his presence steadying both you and Michael in a quiet, reassuring way. He's here; you're not alone in this.

The minister does his introduction, his voice calm and practiced, before turning it over to you and Michael for your vows. Michael smiles, soft and encouraging, gesturing for you to go first.

You take a deep breath, your fingers tightening around his just slightly as you feel everything settle into this one moment.

"Michael... I remember the first time I met you, when LaToya had gotten permission for me to spend the night after a weekend at school, and you were this adorable, shy little boy. We've grown up together, and you're still adorable and shy, but I've also seen you come into your own person, and I'm so proud of you, I'm so proud to be with you. You're such a light in this world and in my life, and there's so much magic in you. I can't wait to see where you go next, and I'm honored that you've chosen me to be by your side during it. I'll always be by your side. I love you, Michael," you say.

Your voice holds steady longer than you expect it to, but the emotion is there, threaded through every word, sitting just beneath the surface. As you speak, the memories move through you just as vividly as the moment itself, him younger, quieter, watching from a distance, and now standing in front of you, holding your hands like he never wants to let go. By the time you finish, your chest feels tight with it, your grip on his hands just a little firmer.

Michael has tears running down his face.

They slip down slowly, quietly, like he's not even fully aware of them at first. His eyes don't leave yours, wide and soft and completely open, and it pulls something deeper out of you, your own vision blurring as tears gather and fall down your cheeks too.

And you know you're going to cry harder when Michael gets to his vows.

"I also remember that first time we met, and I remember thinking, ' Wow, she has to be an angel in disguise, but she probably only sees me as LaToya's little brother,' and for a while, you did," he says, and there's a small, breathy laugh between you, the sound breaking through the emotion just enough to let you breathe as you both laugh while you squeeze his hands.

"But somewhere along the way, in all the time we've spent together, getting to know you outside of being my older sister's friend, I gave my heart over to you. I couldn't help but fall in love with you, and every day I fall more in love with you. I know we're young, but I also know this is meant to be, and together we can do anything. I love you," he says.

His voice isn't perfectly steady, but it doesn't waver in meaning, in certainty. It's all there in the way he looks at you, like there's no version of his life where you aren't standing right here with him.

He reaches up, his hand gentle as he wipes the tears from your cheeks, his thumb brushing under your eyes with so much care, even as tears are still falling from his own. He doesn't try to hide them. He doesn't pull away from them. He just stays right there with you, open and vulnerable in a way that feels rare and real.

The minister takes you through the rest of the ceremony, his voice guiding you both forward, grounding the moment in something official, something binding. The exchanging of rings feels heavier than the metal itself, the promises spoken carrying more weight now that they're being sealed, made real in front of someone else, in front of the life you're stepping into.

And then it happens: he pronounces you both husband and wife. The words settle into the air, into your chest, into everything, and for a second it feels like time pauses just long enough for you to feel it fully.

He tells Michael he can kiss his bride.

Michael smiles immediately, wide and bright despite the tears still clinging to his lashes, and he pulls you to him without hesitation, one hand coming up to cup your jaw as he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is warm and sure, filled with everything that's just been said and everything that hasn't needed to be.

You smile into it as you kiss him back, your hands finding him just as quickly, holding onto him as the feeling settles deep inside of you, wrapping around your chest, your ribs, your entire being with a warmth that feels steady and real.

You're officially his wife.

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When you and Michael get back to Hayvenhurst, you feel giddy and a little nervous all at once, the emotions sitting side by side in your chest in a way that makes it hard to separate one from the other. The drive back feels like it passed too quickly and too slowly at the same time, and now that you're here, standing just outside the front door, the reality of it settles in again.

You get back early in the morning and hope that nobody is awake.

When you walk into the house, you're met by quiet, the kind that feels almost protective, like the walls themselves are giving you this moment, and you let out a breath of relief you didn't even realize you were holding. Michael's hand is still in yours, his grip firm but warm, like he's feeling the same mix of anticipation and nerves.

You and Michael go up to his bedroom, your steps instinctively quieter now, careful against the stillness of the house. He reaches for the door and quietly opens it, and when he steps inside, he pauses for just a second before turning back to you, a soft smile spreading across his face.

"What?" you ask, tilting your head slightly, curiosity flickering through you at the look on his face.

"Isn't it a tradition that I have to carry my wife over the threshold?" he says.

The word hits you again, wife, and your cheeks warm instantly as you start blushing, a quiet laugh slipping out of you, light and a little breathless.

"You goof," you say.

Michael just smiles wider at that, his eyes bright with something playful and affectionate as he steps closer, reaching down without hesitation and lifting you into his arms. The movement is gentle but sure, like he's been waiting to do it, like he's been holding onto that thought the whole way back.

Your arms wrap around his neck automatically, holding onto him as you let out another soft laugh, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. He carries you into the bedroom, steady and careful, his presence grounding even in something as simple as this.

He softly closes the door with his foot behind him, the quiet click sealing you both inside, away from everything else, and carries you over to the bed. He lowers you down gently, like he's placing something precious, taking his time before straightening up and walking over to the record player.

You watch him as he flips through the records with familiar ease before settling on your favorite album, Songs in the Key of Life by Stevie Wonder. Something is comforting about that, about how naturally he reaches for something that belongs to you, too. The music starts low and quiet, filling the room just enough without disturbing the stillness of the house.

Michael walks back over to you, and you steady your breath as you sit on the bed and wait for him, your fingers smoothing absentmindedly over the fabric of your dress, your heartbeat just a little faster now.

Instead of sitting beside you, he hovers over you, his movements slow and unhurried, like time has stretched just for the two of you, like there's nowhere else he needs to be, nowhere else he wants to be. The look in his eyes softens into something warm and deeply affectionate, something that makes your chest tighten in the best way as he leans down and kisses you.

At that exact moment, the record in the room shifts.

The gentle opening notes of Knocks Me Off My Feet begin to drift through the room, soft and soulful and almost eerily perfectly timed, like the music itself understands the way the air between you has changed.

The kiss isn't rushed or urgent; it's warm and searching and full of quiet feeling, like he's trying to memorize you, like he's holding onto this moment as something that belongs entirely to the two of you.

You wrap your arms loosely around his neck, kissing him back just as slowly, just as deeply, drawing him closer until the steady warmth of his body settles fully against yours. His presence is familiar, comforting, but there's something new layered into it now, too, something deeper that comes with the weight of what you've just become to each other.

Stevie's voice begins to float through the space, and the entire room seems to narrow down to this bed, this moment, this man... your husband in your arms.

Michael's hands slide gently to the hem of your dress, his touch careful, unhurried, his fingers slipping underneath the fabric and brushing softly against your bare skin in slow, reverent passes. There's no rush in him, no urgency, just a quiet, steady closeness, like even this moment is something he wants to take his time with, something he wants to feel fully.

And the way he touches you, the way he holds you, says everything he hasn't needed to put into words.

Michael gently cups your breasts in his hands, gently squeezing them and teasing your nipples with his fingers, which makes you moan in his mouth as your back arches slightly, pushing your breasts further into his hands. You've always loved how big his hands are, for moments like this, how they can cup you fully.

Michael momentarily breaks the kiss, his voice gently telling you to turn around. You feel his hand on your shoulder as he slowly unzips your dress, sliding the fabric from your shoulders and letting it pool at your waist before sliding it down and carefully discarding it to the ground.

Then he turns you around and leans back down to kiss you again. Your hands run down his chest. You slide his jacket off his shoulders and slowly undo the rest of his buttons on his shirt. Your hands roam again, slowing at his torso as you mess with the waistband of his pants. You can already feel the growing length beneath your palm, and he's pulsing, just like you're throbbing.

Michael slides his shirt from his body as your unbuckling his belt to help him out of his pants. The kiss never breaks as you two slowly undress each other. Michael unclasps your bra and lets it fall, his hands roaming down your body as your hands stop at the waistband of his boxers once his pants are off.

He kisses you deeper when he feels you pulling his boxers down, his length coming free from their constraints, and you immediately grab him. You feel his breath hitch against you, but his kisses don't slow; instead, they get heavier, a bit quicker as you stroke him with your hand. You feel his breathing get heavier through your kiss as your hand moves slowly against him, drawing out the feeling.

One of Michael's hands trails down your body until he's cupping you outside of your panties. Your breath slightly hitches, but neither of you stops kissing the other. Michael moves the bottom of your panties aside, giving himself enough room to rub his thumb over your clit. At his movements, your hand starts moving faster against him, making him groan.

"Baby," he mumbles roughly against your lips, but neither of you stops. Michael pushes a finger inside of you while your hand still pumps him, alternating between moving quicker and slower. You moan into his mouth, and he slightly speeds up his thumb against your clit and his finger moving inside of you.

"Michael," your moan comes out as a slight whimper, and his breathing is rough against your neck. He peppers kisses across your neck as your thumb slides over his tip, and you feel him slightly shudder. You spread the precum you feel, using it to slide your hand back down his length again to the base, and you feel his fingers moving quicker. Your hips buck and grind, matching the pace of his thrusts, and you lean your head back into the pillow as you moan louder.

"I love seeing you like this," Michael murmurs as he presses a kiss to your throat, right where he can feel your pulse quickening, but he does love seeing you come apart under him. He loves seeing you pleased and making sure you reach pleasure before he does. You feel yourself getting closer, and Michael groans again when your grip tightens against him as his fingers speed up in you.

Your thighs start shaking as your orgasm comes, you cry out Michael's name, and he kisses you, deeply, his tongue immediately slipping its way inside as you ride out the wave of your orgasm. When Michael pulls his fingers out of you, they're slick with your release, and you feel your face flushing.

Michael brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean before kissing you again. You can taste yourself on him, but still taste him in his kiss. You're the one to pull away, still gripping him in your hand. You let go and use your hands to push Michael to sit, and then you get on your knees in front of him, between his legs.

You grip him at the base again before leaning in. Your lips slide down the outside of his length, your tongue slowly licking at him, and Michael's breath hitches. He had already been close, just when you were using your hand, now he felt he was going to explode. When your tongue slowly trails back up, you stop at the head, seeing the pre cum sitting at the tip, and you rub it with your thumb to spread it before taking him into your mouth.

Michael's body shudders on contact, and he moans when he feels your tongue glide over the tip, lapping up the precum. His fingers immediately go to your hair; he doesn't pull it, he just grips it, tighter as you move. You take more of him slowly into your mouth, inch by inch, leaving your hand at the base, stroking what won't fit inside.

"You always feel so good," Michael chokes out between his moans as your pace quickens. His hands grip your hair tighter, but not enough to hurt, as you take him deeper, until you feel him closer to the back of your throat. You pause for a minute to breathe before slowly sliding back up his length, slower this time to draw it out, and Michael shudders. You feel him twitching inside of your mouth as you move again, knowing he's close.

"I need to be inside of you, baby, please," Michael says as he pulls you up from him. You're slightly gasping for breath, your chest heavy as it rises and falls. Michael lays you down, sliding your panties down your legs until they're off, and then he spreads your legs apart as he comes between you. His body flushes against yours as he lines himself up to you.

He pushes inside of your slickness with one long thrust, making you both moan at the contact. Your legs wrap around his waist, squeezing him closer. He leans down and kisses you as he moves, pushing himself into you inch by inch until your bodies press together. Your body stretches for him, like it knows that he's exactly where he belongs. Then his hips begin to roll, his strokes pushing slowly and deep.

He didn't want to just fuck you; he wanted to make love to you.

He wanted to show you how much he loved you, show you how much you mean to him, how happy he is that you're his wife. He wanted you to feel his love in ways he was still discovering how deeply it ran, and ever since the two of you said 'I do,' he'd been wanting to be buried deep inside of you for hours.

Michael's lips attach to your neck and collarbone as he presses warm, open-mouthed kisses against your flushed skin. Knocks Me off My Feet by Stevie is still playing in the background, and Michael leans towards your ear. "Oh, but I love you, I love you, I love you," he sings that specific part just for you, as you let out another moan.

"I–I love you... more," you choke out between your moans. You feel it coming, the pressure building until it explodes. The orgasm rips through you, making you shake and slightly convulse under him. Michael gently grips your hips to keep you still, as his thrusts get slower, but remain as deep.

Michael's voice stays soft against your ear as he guides you through the fading waves, his hands steady on your hips while your body trembles beneath him.

"Stay with me... Baby, stay with me," he whispers as he brings you through it.

Your legs are still shaking, muscles fluttering helplessly, your body giving those small, involuntary jolts that come after something overwhelming and all-consuming. Michael's name keeps spilling from your lips in breathless repetition, like you can't quite hold it in, like the sound of him is the only thing anchoring you back down.

You feel the subtle twitch inside you before the warmth follows, and soon he releases too, your name coming out quietly like both a cry and a prayer from his lips as he fills you.

You lift your head just enough to catch his mouth, kissing him while he slowly rolls his hips, the movement gentle now, grounding rather than urgent, easing both of you down from the edge together. Your breaths are heavy and tangled, mingling in the small space between you as your foreheads come to rest together, skin damp and warm and completely spent.

Michael leans down to kiss you again, slower this time, more tender than before, as his arms pull your body fully against his. When he finally pulls back, his fingers move with familiar care, smoothing your hair back behind your ear before he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

He gently lets you go, settling you back against the pillows before slipping off the bed and heading into the bathroom. The quiet domestic rhythm that has always been second nature between you unfolds easily, the sound of running water, the soft rustle of fabric, and when he returns, the warm cloth in his hand is just the right temperature as he carefully cleans you up the way he always does, unhurried and attentive, and so gentle it makes your chest ache a little.

He takes care of himself next, efficiently but quietly, before discarding the used towels and reaching for a fresh pair of boxers. When he pulls them on, he leaves his chest bare, familiar and comforting, and then he grabs one of his t-shirts and brings it back to you.

You slip it over your head, the soft cotton falling around you, and you inhale instinctively, eyes closing as his scent surrounds you, warm and comforting and so unmistakably him.

Michael walks back to the bed and gathers you into his arms without hesitation, pulling you into the steady heat of his body. You melt into him easily, your arms circling his torso as you settle your head against his chest, right over his heart. You can feel and hear the steadiness of his heartbeat.

"I'm glad we did this," you whisper to him.

"Made love?" he asks, a small tease in his voice, and it pulls a quiet laugh out of you, soft and warm against his skin.

"Well, yes... but, I mean, I'm glad we got married, Michael... whatever your family thinks or reacts... We'll face it together," you say. The words come out softer than you expect, but steadier too, because even with everything waiting on the other side of this moment, you know one thing for certain: you won't be facing it alone.

Michael's expression softens in that quiet way you've come to recognize, the kind that doesn't need to be big to mean everything, and he leans down to press a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for just a second.

"I'm so glad you're my wife," he whispers.

The word settles differently now... wife.

You press a soft kiss to his bare chest, your eyes still closed, completely at ease as you stay wrapped around each other, your body fitting against his like it always has, like it always will. The steady rhythm of the rain outside blends with the sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear, both of them quiet and constant, wrapping around you in a way that feels safe and full and quietly perfect.

"I love you," you whisper.

"I love you more," Michael responds, his arms tightening around you just slightly, pulling you closer, like even in sleep he won't let you drift too far.