Brown Suga Letters 🤎

Michael was supposed to be gone for thirty seconds. A minute at most.

He had been sitting in an office chair, bobbing his head along to the music as he swiveled back and forth in an office chair.

He had finished his vocals, and the finishing touches were being put on one of the songs from his new album, Invincible.

His producer's request had been simple. He was busy layering Michael's vocals so he said,

"Mike, do me a favor." The producer barely glanced up from the mixing board.

"My wife is out in the lounge. Tell her we're wrapping up. Maybe another hour."

Michael nodded.

"Sure."

That was it.

Michael was supposed to deliver the message, and go back to work. Simple.

Unfortunately, Michael Jackson had always been curious.

Even at his mature age, he still found himself accidentally getting off task when something piqued his interest.

His mother used to tell him that one day his curiosity was going to get him into trouble.

Michael had always laughed it off, though his mother's sentiment often proved to be true.

His inquisitiveness was powerful, especially when interesting people were involved.

The lounge sat at the end of the hallway. It was quiet, dimly lit.

Far removed from the noise spilling from the recording studio. Michael pushed open the door.

Immediately, he forgot why he'd come. It was that feeling like when you enter a room for something specific, but forget once something distracts you.

Curled into the corner of the sofa, you sat with one leg tucked beneath you and a massive sketchbook balanced across your lap.

Michael noticed his producer's oversized jacket hung loosely from your shoulders.

For a brief moment, Michael simply looked. You were stunning.

There was something softer about you than the women he usually encountered. Warmer. You had the kind of beauty that was natural, inviting.

Your concentration was evident in your expression as you worked.

Michael noticed the way you absentmindedly bit the side of your bottom lip, like you were thinking.

He noticed all of this before he ever saw the sketchbook. Then he saw the sketchbook. That was what truly captured his attention.

It sat open across your lap. It was massive. The kind serious artists carried.

At first Michael assumed it contained fashion sketches. Then he looked closer.

Stopping, he tilted his head, looking at the art you were busily sketching.

Military jackets. Performance costumes. You had detailed notes scribbled into the margins. Bead placement. Approximate fabric weights.

There were notes about movement during turns, lighting considerations too.

There were entire pages dedicated to how different materials would react beneath stage lights.

Without him realizing it, Michael took another step. Then another.

The message he was supposed to deliver disappeared from his brain entirely.

The page wasn't filled with clothing. It was filled with thought. Whoever designed these understood performance.

They clearly understood storytelling, and spectacle. Michael loved that.

You, meanwhile, had no idea Michael Jackson was staring at you. You were too busy shading the collar of a jacket.

Your husband had flown you out earlier that morning. A common occurrence these days. He practically lived in recording studios.

And because he hated being away from you, you often found yourself sitting around places like this.

Tonight was one of those days when studio time ran late.

You'd wait. Read. Draw, like you were now.

Finding ways to entertain yourself while music history happened behind closed doors.

You hadn't expected Michael Jackson.

Well. That wasn't entirely true. You knew he was in the building, you weren't living under a rock.

You also knew your husband was working with him.

But knowing Michael Jackson existed somewhere in the building and having Michael Jackson suddenly appear in front of you were very different experiences.

One was abstract. The other was currently standing three feet away. Watching you.

"What?" The word escaped before you could stop it. He was looking at the drawing in a thoughtful way, like he had something to say.

Michael pointed toward the sketchbook.

"The sleeves."

You blinked.

"The sleeves?"

"Too heavy."

Your eyes dropped toward the page. Then widened slightly. Because he was right.

"Oh."

Michael sat down before either of you realized he'd decided to stay. The chair across from you creaked slightly beneath his weight.

"That'd pull every time you turned."

You stared.

Not because of what he'd said. Because of who had said it. Michael Jackson.

Michael Jackson was critiquing your costume designs.

The realization nearly short-circuited your brain. For a moment you simply stared at him.

And that's when another realization hit.

The tabloids had lied.

The man sitting in front of you looked absolutely nothing like the bizarre caricature printed in magazines.

Nothing. He was handsome. Obviously so. Everything about him was meticulous.

His clothes. His posture. The careful grooming. The faint scent of expensive cologne.

Even his smile seemed deliberate. Not rehearsed. Just thoughtful.

Like he cared about how you would receive his feedback.

Most shocking of all was how normal he looked. The magazines made him seem larger than life. Strange. Untouchable.

Across from you sat someone who looked like an actual person, not a superhero. A very handsome person. But a person nonetheless.

And unfortunately, he had caught you staring.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Immediately your stomach dropped. Because somehow the smile made him even more attractive.

"This is crazy." The words escaped before you could stop them.

Michael blinked, confused by her statement.

"What?"

You pointed directly at him. The gesture felt appropriate.

"You're Michael Jackson, what do you mean?"

Realization dawned on him and a laugh escaped him. It was soft. Slightly embarrassed. Like it was something he heard all the time.

Which, to be fair, he probably did.

"Yes, last time I checked."

"Oh my God. Sorry." You palmed your forehead, feeling silly for calling out the obvious.

Michael laughed harder. The sound was warm. Boyish. It was entirely too charming.

He appeared genuinely interested in discussing costume construction.

"Why'd you put the beading there?" he asked.

Glancing down at the sketch, you inspected it.

"What?"

"The chest."

He pointed at the page.

"Why there?"

The question surprised you. Not because it was complicated. Because it was specific.

Most people would've looked at the drawing and said it looked nice.

Michael was asking why. Which meant he'd actually been paying attention. Before you realized it, you were answering.

And before Michael realized it, he was asking another question. Then another. And another.

One topic became five, then five became ten. Costumes became stage design. Stage design became movies. Movies became books. Books transitioned to imagination.

The conversation flowed so naturally that neither of you noticed thirty minutes disappear.

For Michael, it felt like finding water in a desert. Most conversations revolved around him. His music or fame. His strange life.

People were constantly trying to impress him, or flatter him. Often they would perform for him.

But you weren't. You seemed entirely content discussing costume construction for an hour.

And Michael found that absurdly refreshing.

"You taught yourself all this?"

You shrugged.

"Library."

Michael blinked.

"What do you mean library?"

"The way everyone learns things."

"No they don't."

"Yes they do."

"No they don't. Not like this."

You laughed.

Michael immediately wanted to hear it again. Unfortunately for him, the studio door opened. Neither of you noticed immediately.

That was until a familiar voice interrupted from the hallway.

"Baby?"

Your entire face changed. Instantly. The transformation caught Michael off guard.

It wasn't because you were unhappy before. But because suddenly you looked happy.

Bright, comfortable. At home even.

You smiled before you'd even turned around.

"Oh, there he is."

Michael's stomach tightened. The realization arrived immediately. Your husband. Of course. Your husband.

The reason you were here.

The reason this conversation should never have lasted longer than thirty seconds.

The producer crossed the room. Headphones still hanging around his neck.

Without thinking, he kissed the top of your head. You leaned into it naturally. It was instinctive, comfortable.

Like people who had been loving each other for years.

Michael looked away. Immediately. Suddenly he felt like he'd wandered into something private.

"Sorry baby."

"What y'all out here talking about?" The producer laughed, knowing Michael's tendency to become distracted when something interested him.

And Michael found himself studying the interaction. The easy affection. The familiarity.

The way your husband's hand settled against your shoulder without thought.

The way you automatically leaned toward him.

It bothered him. Not because he'd done anything wrong.

It was honestly that he suddenly realized he wasn't finished talking to you.

Your husband looked toward Michael. Then toward the sketchbook.

"You rope him into your costume theories?"

You pointed immediately.

"He started it."

The producer laughed.

"That sounds about right."

Michael smiled despite himself. He immediately felt guilty. He really did like your husband. Genuinely. He respected him. Enjoyed working with him.

There was no villain here. The marriage didn't appear to be unhappy. There was no opening. Just bad timing.

You gathered your sketchbook and your purse. Your husband's jacket.

Michael's gaze traveled up your figure, discretely. This was the first time you had stood up, and he was taking in all your glory.

He snapped out of it when you looked back toward him.

"It was nice meeting you."

Your farewell was simple. It polite and final.

Michael nodded, swallowing as he realized the encounter was coming to an end.

"You too."

The words felt inadequate. He had so much more to say.

You smiled, and then you turned and left. Together.

Your husband resting a hand against your back as he guided you toward the door.

The lounge suddenly felt quieter. Michael stood there long after you'd gone. The interaction stuck with him long after you left the room.

Long enough for him to feel ridiculous. Long enough to become annoyed with himself.

Because this was absurd. You were married.

He scoffed to himself. Married. Of course.

And worse— You were interesting. Michael hated that combination.

Later that night, long after the session ended, he found himself staring at the unfinished track playing through the studio speakers.

His producer was saying something. One of the engineers laughed. But Michael wasn't listening.

Instead, he was thinking about a sentence you'd said nearly three hours ago.

"When I was little, I used to wonder what happened to movie characters after the credits rolled." The memory returned uninvited.

Then another, and another. He was reliving the experience of encountering you.

Again. And again.

Michael groaned softly, rubbing a hand across his face.

Because he knew exactly what had happened.

Curiosity. The same thing that had gotten him into trouble his entire life.

One question had become five. Five becoming fifty. He knew the conversation lasted longer than it should have.

Michael met a lot of people, day in and day out. It was rare that a person was this fascinating to him.

And now he couldn't stop wondering what else was inside that sketchbook.

For a long time, Michael thought you were just adjusting.

"Adjusting". That was the word he used.

He knew his life was unusual. Demanding. Chaotic.

Surely it took time to get used to. There were late nights. Then came canceled plans. The sudden trips Michael had to take. The phone calls that interrupted dinner.

There were weeks where he seemed to belong more to airports and recording studios than he did to his own home.

At first, you had fought it. Not angrily. You knew he couldn't help it. It was his career.

You'd call the hotel and complain that he forgot to tell you he'd landed.

You'd ask why he couldn't stay one extra day. You'd wait awake at night when rehearsals ran long.

You'd make him promise to take a weekend off. Michael secretly loved those moments.

Not because you were upset, but because they reminded him that you missed him.

It reminded him that you noticed when he was gone and that you wanted him around.

Then slowly, those moments disappeared. At first, Michael viewed it as growth. Maturity, maybe understanding.

You stopped complaining when he left. Stopped asking how long he'd be gone. Stopped asking if he could come home earlier.

Sometimes Michael would call from another city expecting disappointment. Instead you'd simply ask if he'd eaten.

You would tell him to get some rest. Tell him to be safe. You told him what you had learned you were supposed to say.

The conversations became easier.

And Michael, unfortunately, mistook easier for better.

It wasn't until months later that he realized something.

You hadn't become more understanding. You'd become more independent.

There was a difference. A painful one.

One he didn't fully recognize until the night he found you sitting alone in the dark.

The television wasn't on. The radio wasn't playing. You were simply sitting there.

You sat motionlessly, holding a hot cup of tea as you disassociated. Thinking.

You had always been a deep thinker.

But there was something about the way that you sucked your cheek into your mouth, eyes looking around the room at nothing in particular.

He had no doubt you were mentally organizing something.

Immediately, Michael knew something was wrong. His stomach tightened.

Not because of anything you'd done. But because usually when you were this suspended in your thoughts, you were trying to reach a conclusion.

"Baby?"

His voice softened immediately.

You looked up. Your face softened, you hadn't realized he entered the room.

Then you smiled. A small one. A tired one.

And somehow that frightened him more than if you'd been crying.

Michael crossed the room without hesitation. Like he always did.

Whenever something felt wrong, or whenever he was scared.

If he needed reassurance.

He reached for you instinctively. His hand settled against your knee, thumb brushing softly across the fabric of your sweatpants.

Usually, you leaned into him. Not consciously. Just naturally.

Almost like flowers turning toward sunlight.

But tonight you didn't move. The realization was small.

But Michael noticed. And suddenly he disliked it. A lot.

"You okay?"

You hesitated.

Michael hated that too. Normally you answered him immediately.

Normally you told him exactly what was on your mind.

The hesitation felt unfamiliar.

And right now, it felt dangerous to him.

"No."

Your answer come softly with hesitance.

"Why? Are you unhappy with something?"

The room went quiet.

The white noise from the silence of the room became deafening.

Michael stared at you for a moment, waiting for your answer.

Waiting for you to explain that work had been difficult. Or that somebody had upset you. Or that you were tired.

Something. Anything that would confirm it wasn't your union with him.

Instead, you simply looked back at him.

His stomach tightened, internally this confirmed what Michael was afraid of.

Slowly, Michael's gaze drifted down toward your joined hands.

He noticed that you hadn't moved closer to him when he sat down.

Normally, somewhere during difficult conversations, the two of you found your way toward each other without thinking.

A hand on a knee. Maybe a shoulder pressed against a shoulder.

Something.

Tonight, there was space. Not much, but Michael was a sensitive man. He craved for your touch, always.

So, it was enough for him to notice. Enough for him to dislike it.

Michael swallowed.

"With me?"

Your eyes closed briefly.

Then you nodded. The response knocked the wind out of him.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. It felt more like watching a crack spread across glass.

It was slow and quiet. Impossible to ignore once you'd seen it.

Michael looked away first. Toward the coffee table.

Then toward the framed photograph sitting beside the lamp.

The one from two summers ago. You were laughing in it. Your head thrown back. His arm wrapped around your shoulders.

The memory arrived uninvited.

You'd spent the entire afternoon teasing him because he'd insisted on wearing a disguise that fooled absolutely nobody.

At the time, he'd thought you were being dramatic.

Now he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard that laugh.

The realization unsettled him. It wasn't necessarily because the laugh was gone.

But because he couldn't pinpoint when it had disappeared.

When had you stopped pulling him away from work? When had you stopped asking him to go places?

Michael wondered when you had you stopped getting annoyed when he stayed too late at the studio.

For months he'd viewed those changes as understanding. Maturity. Maybe patience.

Now he wasn't sure. He wondered if they had been resignation.

And somehow that possibility hurt more.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He asked the question softly. Afraid of the answer.

Because suddenly Michael wasn't sure he wanted the truth.

A part of him already knew. He just didn't want to hear it spoken aloud.

You laughed softly. Not because it was funny. Because it wasn't.

"Michael."

His eyes lifted.

"I tried."

The words settled heavily between you. Michael frowned.

It was a confused expression. There were no traces of defensiveness in the pained look. Just confused.

"I don't understand."

And he was being honest.

You looked down at your hands.

"Every time you left."

His stomach tightened immediately.

"You'd tell me it would slow down after the album."

A pause.

"Then after the interviews. Then after rehearsals."

Michael looked away.

Because he remembered saying those things.

Every single one.

You rubbed your palms together nervously.

"I think after a while I stopped believing it."

The admission hit harder than anything else had.

Because the promises had been true to Michael. All of them. The plans and intentions too.

None of it had been a lie.

The problem was that intention and reality were two different things.

A silence settled between you. Michael stared at the floor.

Then finally he asked the question that had been building in his chest since the moment he'd walked through the door.

Not because he wanted to, but because he needed to.

"Do you still want this?"

The question escaped quietly.

Your head lifted immediately.

Michael looked away. He was embarrassed. And apprehensive of what would come next.

But it was too late now. The question was out there.

It hung between you two. Heavy. Raw.

Michael's question came along with several unspoken questions.

Do you still want us?

Do you still see a future here?

Do you still believe in this?

You stared at him, understanding this.

He suddenly looked smaller somehow.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

But in the way of a man trying very hard not to sound scared.

And unfortunately for Michael, failing.

"I don't know."

The answer devastated him because it was honest.

Not a no.

Not a yes.

Just uncertainty. And for someone like Michael uncertainty was somehow worse.

Michael lowered his head. His hand tightened around yours.

Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind himself you were still there.

Still sitting beside him. Still letting him hold your hand.

For now.

His chest tightened.

For the first time all evening, Michael recognized something he hadn't allowed himself to see before.

His life wasn't just exhausting him.

He could now see that it was also exhausting you.

The flights. His disappearing acts. Sometimes he left for weeks at a time without warning you.

Trying to fit into his schedule. The waiting.

You held onto the constant hope that eventually things would settle down.

But maybe they never would.

The realization now frightened him.

Because Michael didn't know how to be anything other than what he was.

A performer. An artist.

He would always be a man constantly being pulled somewhere else.

Yet sitting beside you now, one thing felt painfully clear. None of that meant anything if he lost you.

"Baby."

His voice sounded rough.

You looked at him, then away. The lump in your throat grew bigger. You felt like if you met his gaze you wouldn't be able to hold back the sob that was building.

Michael swallowed hard. Then looked directly into your eyes.

"I know I've missed things."

A pause.

"I know I haven't been here the way I should've." He trailed off, unsure of where he was going with this. So he decided to just be honest.

"But I don't want this."

His grip tightened again, instinctively.

"I don't wanna lose you."

The confession landed softly between you.

He didn't give a grand speech, or a dramatic declaration.

He was just honest. That's all he could be.

Michael looked down briefly before meeting your eyes again.

There was fear there now. Real fear. The kind he usually hid.

The kind that only appeared when something mattered.

Feeling like it was now or never, Michael kneeled in front of you. Begging you to look at him without asking.

"If we can fix it..."

His voice faltered.

Then steadied.

"I'm willing."

A pause.

"I'm willing to do whatever I gotta do."

Tears burned behind your eye lids as you closed them.

Because you believed him. That wasn't the problem. You'd always believed Michael. He'd never intentionally set out to hurt you. He wasn't malicious.

The room fell quiet again. Neither of you spoke.

Outside, a car passed. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

Michael waited.

Watching you.

Searching your face.

Looking for something. Hope. Relief.

An answer.

Instead, all he found was uncertainty.

And for the first time in a very long time, Michael Jackson had no idea what came next.

The lighting in the studio was dim. Michael had worked on this same piece for the last 6 hours, and at this point no one in the studio was having fun.

"How was that Quincy?" Michael asked, taking his headphones off when the music stopped.

"You're hitting every note and run perfectly. It sounds like Michael Jackson singing a song."

Michael frowned. The response confused him. Perfect was supposed to be good.

But something was missing.

Quincy Jones had quite the ear for music. He just knew what would make a certain song "pop". And let's just say the song wasn't there yet.

Michael wasn't feeling the music. He was calculating, analyzing. Quincy could tell.

Quincy stood from his chair. He paused, trying to figure out how to word the hardest piece of his feedback.

"You're trying so hard to sound grown that you forgot to sound honest."

Sometimes Michael's perfectionism got in his own way. The man could spend three hours obsessing over a single riff. Five hours debating a background harmony. An entire evening deciding between two nearly identical takes.

Most artists would've killed for that level of dedication. Today Quincy wanted to strangle him.

"The Lady in My Life isn't about vocal technique." Michael remained silent.

"It's intimacy...vulnerability."

Michael looked away, toward the floor. Anywhere except Quincy. The producer noticed immediately. There it is. The problem.

The song made Michael uncomfortable.

Michael was uncomfortable because the song was honest. Yearning.

To sing a song like this earnestly required a great deal of courage.

Love ballads were nothing new to Michael. He had spent most of his career singing about romance

This track was different though. Michael needed to beg for this woman's presence. He needed to audibly yearn for her touch.

The problem was that Michael wasn't used to singing something so vulnerable.

As a performer, he understood infatuation. He understood longing. He understood excitement.

The thrill of seeing someone from across a room or the rush of a first dance. The fantasy of a perfect love story.

Those emotions lived comfortably in his music. They always had.

Even the love songs from Off the Wall had a youthful energy about them. The kind of romance that existed in daydreams and stolen glances.

The Lady in My Life was different. There was nothing playful about it.

The song wasn't asking Michael to chase someone. It wasn't asking him to flirt.

It wasn't asking him to fantasize. It was asking him to choose. To commit.

"What am I doing wrong, Q?" Michael was genuinely lost at this point. He thought the take sounded great. And that was rare for Michael.

Quincy decided to be blunt.

"I need you to sing this song like you've found the one. Like you're gonna spend the rest of your life with her because you need her."

That terrified Michael. Not because he didn't believe in love. Quite the opposite.

He believed in it so deeply that he treated it almost reverently. Like something sacred. Something private.

The public knew Michael Jackson.

The performer, phenomenon, and superstar.

Very few people knew Michael the person.

People painted Michael out to be overly confident, but the truth was he was still shy. Painfully shy.

He was the kind of shy that would cover his face and mumble "Oh god", when his brothers teased him about a girl. The kind of shy that pushed him to write his feelings into songs, instead of saying them out loud.

Quincy knew the problem wasn't the song. The problem was that Michael was hiding inside it.

And until he stopped hiding, they were going to be there all night.

Quincy checked his watch and decided it was time to bring in some assistance.

"I'll be back."

Nobody questioned him. The producer disappeared from the studio.

Michael stared after him, confused.

Minutes later, you were on your way to the studio.

You had been halfway through getting ready for bed when Quincy called. At first, you assumed something was wrong.

Nobody called this late unless it was important.

"Quincy?"

"Hey, sweetheart. I need a favor."

Immediately you sat up straighter.

"Is everything okay? Where's Michael?"

The producer chuckled.

"Michael's fine."

The answer came so quickly that you knew he'd expected the question.

"But he needs some inspiration."

You frowned.

"Inspiration?"

"Can you be here in thirty minutes?"

You glanced toward the clock on your nightstand. Then toward the novel laying open beside you.

Then back toward the phone.

"I guess." Your confusion must have been obvious.

"Anything to help."

"Good."

Relief colored Quincy's voice.

"I'll explain when you get here."

Before you could ask another question, he thanked you, reminded you to drive safely, and hung up.

You stared at the receiver for a moment, confused.

Michael was in the middle of finishing Thriller. The entire project had consumed his life for months.

Most days he left before sunrise and returned long after dark. You knew better than most how much pressure he was under.

You'd watched him obsess over lyrics, over melodies. Over arrangements. Over things nobody else would ever notice.

Sometimes you wondered if Michael even understood how hard he was on himself. Probably not.

The book you'd been reading disappeared into your purse. You grabbed your keys.

And thirty minutes later, you found yourself walking through the front doors of Westlake Recording Studios.

The receptionist greeted you immediately.

You'd been there often enough that most of the staff recognized you by now.

"Evening."

"Hi."

You approached the desk.

"Quincy asked me to stop by."

The receptionist smiled knowingly.

Of course he did.

After a brief phone call, she nodded.

"Go on back, sweetie. They're expecting you."

You thanked her and headed down the familiar hallway.

The closer you got to Michael's studio, the louder the music became. Then voices.

You slowed. The door wasn't completely shut. Suddenly you felt like you were hearing something you shouldn't be.

And before you could announce yourself, you heard Quincy speaking.

"I need you to beg, Michael."

You froze. Inside the room, Michael looked exhausted. His curls were damp with sweat. His sunglasses rested low on his nose.

One hand rubbed the back of his neck.

The other rested against his hip.

"I'm trying, Q."

His voice carried a level of frustration you rarely heard from him.

"I really am."

Quincy shook his head.

"No."

The producer pointed toward the booth.

"You're singing." Michael sighed heavily.

"But I need you to beg her like you might never see her again."

For a moment, Michael didn't respond.

Instead he looked toward the floor. Almost embarrassed, definitely shy.

Which immediately caught your attention. Then he spoke quietly.

"This is very difficult for me."

Suddenly he looked less like Michael Jackson and more like the young man you knew. The one who overthought everything and cared too much.

The one who always felt things more deeply than he let people see.

Michael's eyes lifted and landed directly on you. Everything stopped.

For a split second, his entire face changed. The frustration and exhaustion disappeared.

And a smile almost appeared.

Seeing you was honestly the best thing that had happened to him all day.

Then realization struck.

His eyes narrowed, slowly and suspiciously.

The smile vanished. Uh oh.

"What?" You questioned. Didn't he know you were coming?

Michael immediately looked toward Quincy, then back toward you.

When he looked back toward Quincy, the betrayal registered in real time.

"Q."

Quincy suddenly found the ceiling fascinating.

"Q."

The producer refused to make eye contact.

Michael pointed directly at him.

"You called her?"

You looked between the two men.

"Wait." Your confusion grew.

"He didn't tell you?"

"No."

Michael dragged both hands down his face.

"Oh God."

You started laughing.

The reaction only made him more embarrassed.

Because the truth was, there were very few people capable of making Michael Jackson genuinely flustered.

You happened to be one of them. Michael groaned.

"Q, why would you do this to me?"

The producer finally looked up.

Because he knew exactly why.

For all the time the two of you spent together, Michael somehow remained oblivious to how obvious he was.

Everyone noticed it.

There was something about the way that his shoulders relaxed when you walked into a room. The way he unconsciously searched for you in crowds.

The way his entire mood improved whenever you stopped by the studio.

Everyone noticed.

Michael didn't know how obvious it was. He was simply too shy to admit it.

Unfortunately for him, Quincy Jones had never been interested in protecting anybody's pride.

Especially when there was a hit record on the line.

Quincy nearly shoved the two of you the inside the recording booth.

The moment Quincy closed the studio door behind him, the room fell silent.

Too silent.

You glanced toward Michael.

Michael glanced toward you.

Then immediately looked away.

Michael never wished he could disappear more than in this moment.

"Oh, this is terrible."

You could't help me giggle at Michael's visible discomfort.

"It's not that bad."

"It is."

"It isn't."

"It really is."

You smiled.

The reaction only made him groan louder.

Truthfully, Michael felt for you exactly what the song needed.

Outside the booth, Quincy flicked a few switches. The overhead lights dimmed.

The bright fluorescent glow disappeared, leaving only the softer amber lighting around the recording equipment.

The space suddenly felt smaller, warmer. More intimate. Almost private.

Through the glass, Quincy gave Michael a thumbs up.

Michael looked horrified. You were beginning to understand why.

He lifted his sunglasses, awkwardly putting them back on.

"Michael" you said softly, holding out your hand expectantly.

"No" He moaned.

You better than anyone knew the shield his sunglasses afforded him. Michael really didn't want anyone looking him in his eyes.

You titled your head, giving him a kind smile. Still, your palm stayed open.

He sighed deeply before taking the glasses off and handing them to you. Still, he avoided your gaze.

Quietly, you picked up your book and sat cross legged on the floor in front of Michael.

The instrumental started.

Soft. Smooth. Warm.

For a moment Michael stood completely still. One hand resting against his headphones.

Eyes closed. He was preparing.

Then he started singing. It was euphoric.

You had been trying to focus on your book. You understood that staring at Michael would only further fluster him.

But when he started singing this song, you couldn't help but look him.

His eyes were shut anyway.

You'd heard Michael sing hundreds of times. At rehearsals, sound checks. In recording sessions.

Sometimes in the car. Sometimes absentmindedly while making breakfast.

But this felt different. There was no performance in it. No choreography. No audience.

No Michael Jackson.

Just Michael.

The man. The person.

The friend you had spent countless afternoons talking to about everything and nothing.

His voice wrapped around every lyric so gently it almost hurt.

"Lay your body close to mine...Let me fill you with my dreams"

Your breath caught. The words sounded familiar. You knew the song.

But somehow they felt different now. It was as if they belonged to the room. Like they belonged to you.

Michael kept his eyes closed through most of the first verse.

You suspected it was because he was too embarrassed to look at you.

Then he reached the chorus and finally opened them. Big mistake.

Because the second his gaze met yours, his stomach flipped.

You realized Michael wasn't looking through you.

He wasn't imagining someone else. He wasn't pretending.

He was singing directly to you.

Michael hoped it wasn't obvious, but you felt it immediately.

Every lyric. Every promise. Every note. It was as though the song had transformed into a conversation.

It was as though Michael had somehow taken everything he struggled to say aloud and hidden it inside the music.

The realization made your chest ache.

Because suddenly you understood what Quincy had been hearing all along.

Every line felt like a confession and every promise felt personal.

For the first time, you realized how much of himself Michael hid from the world.

People saw the confidence. Talent, fame, and perfection.

They didn't get to see this.

The softness and tenderness. The way he looked at someone he cared about.

Halfway through the second verse, Michael stopped looking away. Stopped hiding. He stopped being embarrassed.

And for a few beautiful minutes, he forgot there was anyone else in the building.

He forgot Quincy, and the engineers.

The pressures of Thriller and deadlines drifted away.

There was only you. The woman sitting across the room.

The woman who knew him when the cameras were off.

You were who he looked for first whenever something exciting happened. The one he wanted to call when something went wrong.

Somehow you made him feel more like himself than anyone else ever had.

When the final note faded, silence settled over the booth.

Neither of you moved or spoke.

Then—

"THAT'S IT! We got it."

Quincy's voice exploded through the speakers, booming claps disrupting the mood.

The spell immediately shattered.

Michael and you both jumped. And just like that, the embarrassment came rushing back.

Before you could say anything, Michael reached for his sunglasses and shoved them back onto his face.

He felt heat rushing to his face as he felt his fight or flight kicking in.

You noticed, unfortunately for him.

"I should go."

"What?"

"I should go."

Michael immediately started gathering random things. Headphones.

His orange juice. A notebook. Anything and everything.

The poor man looked like he was trying to flee the country.

"Michael."

"Thank you for coming."

The words came out way too fast as he fumbled with the miscellaneous items he was holding, nearly dropping things.

"I really appreciate it."

"Michael."

"And Quincy got what he needed so—"

"Michael."

Finally he stopped moving, slowly and reluctantly.

You tilted your head.

"Why are you acting weird?"

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm really not."

"You are."

Michael covered his face, groaning. The sound was muffled by his hands. Then silence.

You watched him carefully. And suddenly everything clicked.

The song, the embarrassment. The sunglasses.

The way he'd looked at you. The way Quincy had looked at him.

The way everyone in the room seemed to know something you didn't.

Your eyes widened.

"Oh."

Michael immediately knew.

"Oh no."

A smile slowly spread across your face.

"Michael." You said teasingly, nearing closer to him.

"Please don't."

"Am I..."

You struggled not to laugh.

"Am I the lady in your life?"

Michael covered his face. Completely. Every ounce of dignity abandoned.

"You're embarrassing me." He shook his head, smiling bashfully as he turned away from you.

Michael wished he could vanish into thin air. The answer was obvious.

Your heart nearly melted. You approached him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind.

Michael instantly felt himself relax under your touch. This type of embrace was new. Sure, you'd hugged before. But this felt different.

"Michael."

"No." He mumbled through his fingers, still covering his face.

"Michael."

"No."

"You are so cute."

The compliment only made things worse. A frustrated noise escaped him.

Then finally, after a long pause, he lowered his hands and turned

Just enough for you to see his eyes. You kept your arms around him.

His vulnerability nearly stole your breath.

Because suddenly he wasn't embarrassed anymore. Just honest.

"You really don't know?"

The question came out quietly. Almost disbelieving.

You stopped smiling. Michael looked down. He found the courage to find your eyes again

"I thought everybody knew."

You felt a knot in your stomach. The confession sounded so sincere. So painfully Michael.

"I look for you in every room."

His voice dropped lower.

"I tell you everything." Another pause.

"You're the first person I want to talk to when something good happens."

Michael swallowed hard.

Then finally said the thing he'd been trying not to say all night.

"Of course it's you."

It felt like time was frozen. His expression softened.

Michael leaned against the wall behind him, pulling you to him in a way that had you sure he was going to kiss you.

"You've always been the lady in my life."

Michael had never truly allowed you to ravage him the way you wanted.

He was a tender man. Whenever you were intimate, he always wanted to put you in positions where he could see your gorgeous face and plump breasts.

His favorite was missionary. He’d slowly rock into you as your legs wrapped tighter around his waist. He couldn’t help the soft whimpers that escaped his lips as your walls fluttered around him.

He loved skin to skin contact. Even if he was in the middle of stroking you deeply, if you still had a t shirt on, he would feverishly tug it over your head. He craved to feel your warm, soft skin pressed against his chest as he filled you up.

You had reached an internal decision that today would be the day.

Michael had never allowed you to ride him. He was shy, embarrassingly shy and just the thought of you atop him made him see stars.

Michael entered the bedroom in nothing but boxers.

A smile tugged at his lips as he watched through the mirror as you completed your hair routine for bed. Unable to look away from the way you moved in a mesmerizing manner, Michael stared.

There was just something about the way that you did certain things that turned him on.

Next to the bed, you shrugged your robe off of your shoulders. You massaged your skin with vanilla scented lotion, humming contently. The faint smell of the lotion hung in the air.

You slid one of Michael’s t-shirts over your head, finally catching his gaze in the mirror. You gathered your hair, putting it into a claw clip.

"Like what you see?" You asked teasingly.

Michael smiled bashfully before looking down at his hands. He was sat on the edge of the bed, watching your nightly routine.

"You're just so sensual, without even trying to be."

His responded quietly. Michael was easily embarrassed and he was never the most forward with what he wanted in the bedroom.

You slowly approached him, intentionally walking with a switch as you stepped in between his knees.

"Is that so?" You asked, gently brushing his curly hair out of his eyes.

"Yeah" he whispered softly, his hands found your hips and he pulled you to him. He inhaled your scent deeply, resting his cheek against your belly.

You allowed him to have his moment before gently pushing him back by his shoulders.

Confusion laced through his features as he found himself being coaxed onto his back.

"What are you doing?" He asked breathlessly. He suddenly felt vulnerable under your gaze. He laid motionlessly, nervous for what was to come next.

It was strange. He was deeply comfortable with your presence, and yearned for your touch.

But whenever you approached him this way, with that look in your eye, he felt like a shy child.

"Wanna try something. Just relax."

You gingerly climbed onto the bed, legs resting at either side of his waist. You gently sat down, resting on his pelvis.

Michael sucked in a breath, his hands absentmindedly finding your waist as he trailed his eyes up to your face.

He swallowed and nodded, unsure what you had up your sleeve.

He found himself suddenly craving to taste your lips against his own.

Reaching up, he gently grabbed you by the back of your neck and guided you down to his lips.

You kissed him softly, letting it linger before delicately trailing your tongue along his bottom lip.

Michael couldn't help but moan softly into your mouth.

It was all so much.

The intoxicating smell of you.

The warmth that was beginning to pool in his lower stomach from you resting against his pelvis.

And just when he thought he was overstimulated, you gingerly began rocking your hips against his own.

"Oh" he gasped your name and relished in the sudden pressure against his cock.

Your lips parted naturally from the motion, his clothed bulge now nudging against the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs.

"Tell me what you want, baby." You spoke to him softly as you continued rolling your hips into his.

Pretty moans fell from his mouth as he struggled to find the words.

"Ride me. Use me."

He answered shakily. Michael had never requested this before. But watching you move so sensually on top of him had him craving the experience.

You hadn't bothered to put panties on after bathing. It would be fair to say that you had planned this moment the moment you noticed Michael staring at you through the mirror.

"You're so wet for me already, please baby."

Shushing him, you reached down to where his clothed cock pressed against you.

Michael's breath caught in his throat when you wrapped your hand around him, tenderly rotating your wrist.

All he could do was watch helplessly with his eyebrows furrowed. But what you did next nearly knocked the wind out of him.

He was impossibly hard, and his uncut tip was glistening with pre-cum You slowly massaged its head, smearing it.

Michael drew his bottom lip between his teeth, feeling so lucky to be touched by you.

"Please baby. Need you now." He gasped.

Teasingly, you dragged his tip along your slit. You closed your eyes at the sensation, moaning softly.

Finding your entrance, you gently pushed the head of his cock inside.

Slowly, you lowered your hips. You couldn't help but tilt your head back at the painful, but satisfyingly deep stretch you felt.

You continued to lower your hips until he bottomed out inside of you.

"Oh my" Michael could have came right there. The feeling of your hot walls fluttering around him was almost too much.

And then you started moving. You began rotating your hips in a delicious mix between a figure eight and a back and forth movement.

Craving to feel him all the way inside of you, pressed against your cervix, you kept your hips flush against his.

"Princess please, I can't" He whimpered as he helplessly watched your hips roll into his own. He was so deep, you were creaming on his boxers.

The sight was filthy, and he loved it.

Michael suddenly craved more. His fingers found the bottom edge of your t-shirt.

"Want this off" He harrumphed, tugging at it.

His request was honored. You tugged the material over your head, exposing your full breasts.

Michael grabbed your hips, bracing you as he moved his body so that his back was now resting against the headboard.

He softly trailed his tongue over your left nipple, slowly sucking it into his mouth.

You were taken aback at him locking eyes with you. A filthy sound left your lips. You were suddenly overwhelmed by the warm sensation of his mouth on your nipples paired with the full feeling between your hips.

"Like that, sweet girl?" He teasingly blew a trail of cool air over the bud, watching it harden.

He then shifted to your right breast, giving it the same treatment.

As the room filled with the sounds of your squelching wetness around his cock, you whimpered.

"You're so good to me baby" you whispered, lips pressing against his as you continued to grind into him, keeping him buried to the hilt.

“I’ve never gotten my cock rode like this before” he said breathlessly, lips slightly agape as he watched in awe where you two connected.

The look on his face was pornographic. You had never seen such a sinful look resting over his features.

Michael was now helping you rock your hips, as they started to stutter from the sensation. He stared at you intently, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth as he felt his cock brushing over the ridge of nerves deep inside you.

Michael was innocent in most situations, but making you cum was something he was never too shy for.

"Cum for me baby. Be a good girl and make a mess for me"

He reached between your legs, finding the swollen bundle of nerves that had been brushing against his curly pubic hair.

"Come on princess" he cooed softly. "You know it's gonna feel good... cumming for me while my cock's deep inside you. Pressing against that spot that makes your eyes tear up".

The vulgar words pushed you over the edge. You cried out and your hips lost rhythm as your orgasm washed over you, making your walls pulse around Michael's full length which was still buried deep inside you.

Your legs shook violently as you came all over his cock.

Michael watched in amazement as you continued to take him throughout your orgasm.

He knew how full and sensitive you were, so he pressed his fingers against your clit again, rubbing small circles.

His lips parted as your hips jolted forward, pushing him in further inside you. Your hands flew to his shoulders for support as you continued to whimper.

The feeling of you tightening around him forced him to groan a soft, "Fuck, princess".

Michael struggled to keep his eyes from rolling to the back of his head as you continued to roll your hips into him through your orgasm.

"You're gonna make me cum" he gasped.

All he could do was whimper soft "fuck's" as he felt himself begin spurting hot cum inside you, throbbing with each spurt.

You watched him intently, mesmerized by the look of orgasmic agony written across his face.

"I love you Mikey, cum for me baby" You whispered as you trailed your tongue along the lobe of his ear.

Overstimulated, Michael squeezed your hips and mumbled "Baby please, it's too much" as he felt himself involuntarily spill inside you again.

"I know baby, I know" You cooed as you continued to rotate your hips, enjoying the completely fucked out look on his face.

You collapsed on Michael's chest as his cock continued to throb from his orgasm.

His chest heaved as he delicately trailed his fingertips along your back, giving you chills.

Like he said. He had never been rode before, especially not like this.

Crickets faintly chirped as Michael made his way up the stairs. It was dark, and he had finally made it home.

Thank God.

Michael loved his work. He really did. But after twelve hours of rehearsals, production meetings, phone calls, interviews, wardrobe discussions, choreography adjustments, and approximately three thousand people needing something from him, silence felt like a gift.

Carefully, he unlocked the front door. It’s hinges creaked as he gently pushed open the door.

Michael immediately froze. Listening. When he heard nothing, he sighed with relief.

Good. A smile touched his lips.

You were asleep. The last thing he wanted to do was wake you.

Michael viewed sleep as something that should not be disrupted. Whatever it was could wait, it was important that people got their rest.

Especially you, because he loved you.

Quietly, he slipped inside and locked the door behind him. 

His shoulders ached. His legs ached. His neck ached. Even his feet hurt.

Rehearsals had been extra grueling today, and Michael wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and climb in bed next to you. He loved sleeping with you pulled against his chest. He cherished being able to feel your chest slowly rise and fall as you snored quietly.

Bad was consuming his life in the best and worst ways.

This project was a follow-up to Thriller, which was still one of the best-selling albums of all time. Michael was under immense pressure.

Every detail mattered. Every sound mattered. Every movement mattered.

Perfection demanded everything.

And tonight, he felt it. Literally.

Michael bent down and carefully removed his loafers. Then his jacket.

Then his watch. Each item placed exactly where it belonged. Michael had always been particular about how he organized his things.

He quietly moved about the house, careful to not make noise.

No unnecessary noise. No disruptions to your beauty sleep.

Michael had just enough energy left to make it to the shower.

The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the hallway as he moved through the house.

To you it was warm, musky and familiar.

The scent hit you before your eyes even opened.

Half asleep, you immediately recognized it.

Michael.

On days like this when he had been gone for most of the day, you craved Michael. His smell. His touch. His presence.

A sleepy smile appeared on your face. You didn't even have to see him.

After all this time, you could identify his presence from the smallest things.

The smell of his cologne. The faint sound of his footsteps.

The soft hum he made when he thought nobody was listening. The house felt different when he was home.

It was safer, warmer. You stretched your legs before slowly opening your eyes.

The bedroom doorway stood empty. But the bathroom light glowed softly down the hallway.

Michael was home. Finally. You rolled over and checked the clock. It was nearly midnight. He had left at 6am that morning.

Your stomach did a flip as you felt a school-girl like excitement come over you.

Your heart squeezed. He'd been gone all day, again.

The realization immediately made you miss him, which was ridiculous. He was literally twenty feet away.

It really didn’t matter, though. You still craved him. Wanted to see him. Touch him.

Hear his voice.

The shower turned on. You groaned dramatically into your pillow. You honestly didn’t care if the man was still dripping sweat. You wanted him skin to skin, craving the sensory input of being flush against him.

There was no chance you were going back to sleep now.

Not after waiting all day.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened. The warm, musky smell of Michael’s soap cascaded into the bedroom. 

He stepped into the room, a towel clung loosely to his waist as water dripped down his abdomen. Damp curls framed his face in the dim light of the bedroom.

He hummed quietly to himself as he rummaged through his drawers.

He nearly jumped when he saw you sitting up.

"Oh."

A hand flew to his chest.

"You scared me, baby."

You tilted your head as you watched him pull briefs out of his top drawer.

He looked so good. Smelled so good.

You couldn’t help the sultry tone that exited your mouth as you laughed softly. "Welcome home."

He met your eyes as he looked up from the dresser. Immediately, he recognized the look on your face. 

He smiled to himself as he continued to feign ignorance.

"Hi, baby."

The sound of his voice instantly made your chest warm. It also made you subtly cross your ankles. 

Michael didn’t have to do or say much for you to be aroused by him, and he knew it.

Michael crossed the room without hesitation.

Like he always did. Straight toward you. Straight toward home.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight. 

Michael crawled between your legs as you lay back, propped against pillows. 

He peppered soft kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, and finally, he gently pressed his lips against yours.

Once, twice, then three times before pulling back to look in your eyes.

You hummed contently.

“I love you. I hate being away from you for so long.” He mumbled sleepily into your neck.

This time, you kissed him gently, pulling him into you.

“I’m so proud of the work that you’re doing. But I miss you so, so much.”

You would never guilt Michael about his dedication to his craft. You understood that his art was everything to him.

He hummed gently in acknowledgment against your skin as your chest gently rose and fell against his.

“I know, baby.”

He thought to himself for a moment.

Before he could stop himself he was already saying it.

 “I want you to come on tour with me”.

Silence.

Michael’s breath caught slightly. He anticipated your reply quietly, careful not to over-explain or withdraw his request during the pause.

You had been lazily circling random shapes on the soft skin of his back until he said that. Your fingers paused for a moment.

As you thought about what going on tour would be like, your fingers resumed the aimless circles.

“I would have to think about it” You said quietly.

You loved Michael. You really did. But, you understood that going on tour was a commitment. A commitment that would come with putting your life on pause.

Michael hummed quietly, understanding. He was just grateful to be in your presence now.

“I understand baby. Think about it. You don’t have to answer me now.”

He looked up at you with soft eyes, never judgmental. He held your gaze as he pressed a soft kiss to your free hand.

A second later his arms wrapped around you. You sighed immediately.

The kind of sigh that came from somewhere deep. One born from missing somebody.

Michael buried his face against your shoulder. You felt his entire body relax.

Every muscle. Every ounce of tension.

As though he'd been holding himself together all day and had finally found somewhere safe enough to let go.

A comfortable silence passed the time. The white curtains blew gently in and out of the window as a warm summer breeze coasted through the room.

"Long day?" you asked quietly.

A tired laugh vibrated against your neck.

"You have no idea."

Your fingers slid into his damp curls. You were careful to avoid the tender area toward the center of his head.

You massaged gently. Michael practically melted. You knew his body so well. You were gentle with him. You understood his needs without him ever saying anything.

"Poor thing." You said softly.

He groaned dramatically. "Exactly."

You laughed. The sound filled the room. For several moments neither of you spoke.

Michael simply held you. One hand resting against your back. The other hand gently brushed over your lower belly. His thumb moving slowly. Absentmindedly.

As though he needed physical confirmation that you were really there.

That he was really home.

You understood.

Sometimes the world took so much from him that all he wanted was something steady.

Something real, someone who didn't need anything from him but for him to show up.

Someone who loved him whether he sold a million records or none.

Someone who knew him beyond the headlines.

You gently twirled the curls at the nape of his neck with your fingertips.

Slowly. Patiently. Michael made a contented sound. Half hum. Half sigh.

"You know what I thought about all day?"

You smiled.

"What?"

His eyes remained closed.

"Coming home."

Your heart melted immediately.

Michael tightened his hold around your waist.

"I couldn't wait."

The confession was so simple. So honest. And somehow that made it even more powerful.

You pressed a kiss against his forehead. Michael immediately smiled.

Then another. And another. Each kiss earned a tiny smile.

Like a reward.

"You missed me?"

The question came out teasing. Michael opened one eye. Slowly, clearly offended.

"You know I missed you."

A laugh escaped you. The eye closed again. 

He was satisfied. Safe. At peace.

Outside these walls, Michael Jackson belonged to the world.

Inside them, he belonged only to you.

Michael was not a snoop. At least, that’s what he always told himself, and others for that matter.

To Michael, a snoop would be someone who looked to find something. Searching and invading other people’s privacy.

But Michael, he was simply, curious. So painfully curious that some would say nosey. 

Michael had been this way since a child, innocently curious to the point of mischief. His mother would often chastise him for wandering one door too far, or opening one drawer too many.

But importantly, to Michael there was a difference between a snoop, and a curious simpleton like himself. 

To him that difference was very important.

Unfortunately, nobody else seemed to agree. Especially not you.

Sauntering into your living room, you leaned against the door frame with your hand on your hip.

Michael watched you, admiring your walk and the way your hips swayed effortlessly. He slowly trailed his gaze up your frame.

He wasn’t a lustful man, but something about you made him yearn.

“Michael.”

His gaze finally found your face. Your eyebrows were knitted together with frustration. The expression told him everything he needed to know. 

“Oh god, she knows” he thought to himself as he nervously bit his lip.

And you did. Immediately, somehow, every time.

"Have you been going through my things?"

Michael had been avoiding eye contact. But now, he looked up from the couch. Far too quickly.

"No."

He answered so fast that even he himself didn’t believe it. You narrowed your eyes, tilting your head as you stared at him.

"Michael."

"I haven't." he said quickly. Then he paused. 

"I mean, not really."

Your jaw dropped.

"Not really?"

Sighing dramatically, Michael rubbed a hand over his face. This wasn’t how he planned for this conversation to go. 

Ideally, he was hoping the conversation wouldn’t happen at all. 

In all fairness, he had every intention to behave himself. He really had. The day started innocently enough.

You'd left for work that morning after reminding him—twice—not to touch anything.

The reminder was accompanied by a hard glare. You knew your boyfriend all too well, and to be frank, he was very nosey.

Michael remembered that look.

It was the same look you gave him when he wandered off into rooms he wasn’t supposed to be in. Or when he opened cabinets and drawers that didn’t belong to him. Or when he just asked entirely too many questions.

Michael was deeply affectionate, and if he could literally fuse with you he would. He yearned to know as much as he could about you, to his detriment.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“I just know you weren’t going through my stuff while I was gone.” 

You raised an eyebrow as you tapped your manicured fingers on your arm.

Michael could have melted into the couch, he was so embarrassed. He hadn’t intended to poke around, but one thing led to another and before he knew it, he was in your closet.

Still, attempting to maintain innocence, Michael smiled innocently and tilted his head.

"Why would I do that baby?"

"Because you're nosy."

"No, I'm curious."

"That's not better."

At the time, Michael had laughed.

Now, several hours later, he was beginning to realize you may have had a point.

The first thirty minutes after your departure had gone well, surprisingly.

He watched television. Ate cereal. Walked around the apartment. Admired the plants you'd somehow managed to keep alive.

Michael was a restless man, and he often need to move his body to be content. Whether it was dancing, or poking around his girlfriend’s apartment, it was just too hard to sit still.

Then he noticed the bookshelf. And the bookshelf wasn't the problem.

The photo sticking out from one of the books was. Michael had only intended to straighten it.

That's all. Just straighten it.

Instead, he'd found himself staring at a photograph of you at sixteen years old.

There was little you. Braces, oversized jacket and the most miserable expression he'd ever seen.

He laughed so hard he'd nearly fallen onto the floor. And after that?

Well.

Things escalated.

One photo album became three. Three became an old memory box. The memory box led to a stack of school papers.

The school papers somehow led to an old wallet of yours. Which led to the ID cards.

Michael had spent nearly twenty minutes sitting cross-legged on your living room rug examining every driver's license photograph you'd ever taken.

Each one demonstrating different periods of your life.

Including your experimental style. Each era somehow worse than the last.

He couldn't stop laughing. He was so tickled.

The woman currently standing in front of him was beautiful. Unfairly beautiful.

The woman in those photographs looked personally victimized by the Department of Motor Vehicles.

"Michael."

His attention snapped back to the present.

"What?"

You pointed to the table in front of Michael.

"Why is my 1979 driver's license on the coffee table?"

Silence. Michael could have kicked himself for forgetting to check all flat surfaces before you came home.

"...I can explain."

You closed your eyes slowly.

Like someone praying for patience.

"I knew it!"

"I wasn't snooping!" Michael exclaimed, holding his shoulders high like a child that had been caught doing just that.

"You are literally holding my old driver's license."

"I was appreciating it."

Your eyes flew open.

"Appreciating it?"

"Yes."

"You were making fun of me."

Michael pressed a hand to his chest.

"I would never."

The offended look on his face lasted approximately two seconds. Then he started laughing again.

You groaned. "Oh my God."

"I'm sorry."

He wasn't. Not even a little.

"Look at this picture."

"No."

"Come here."

"No."

"Please."

“Baby, I’m not trying to embarrass you!” he approached you, gently pulling you to him by your hand. He gingerly wrapped his arms around your waist.

You buried your face in your hands. Michael's laughter softened. When he looked up again, the teasing expression had disappeared.

"Can I tell you something?"

You hesitated.

"What?"

He glanced down at the pile of photographs spread across the coffee table. He gently swayed back and forth with you in his arms, lulling you. His smile grew smaller, gentler.

"I like seeing all this."

Your eyebrows knitted together.

"The embarrassing photos?"

"Everything."

His voice was quiet now. The playful energy replaced by something more sincere.

"The pictures. The old IDs. The report cards."

You stared at him. Michael picked up one of the photographs. You couldn't have been older than ten. Missing front teeth, hair sticking out everywhere. You were grinning proudly while holding a science fair ribbon.

His thumb brushed the edge of the photo.

"This was you before me."

Something in your chest tightened. Michael looked up. His large brown eyes were impossibly earnest.

"I don't know."

He laughed softly.

"I think it's amazing."

"Amazing?"

"Yeah."

He looked around your apartment. At the books. The photographs. The little trinkets scattered throughout the shelves.

All the tiny pieces of you.

"You have all these stories." 

He sat down on the couch, gazing at the photos again.

The way he said it made your face grow warm. Not because he was flirting. Because he wasn't.

Not intentionally.

Michael simply had a habit of loving things completely. Most other people would look at something, compliment it, and go on with their day. 

Michael was different. He would gaze at things that interested him as if he had never seen anything like it. It was child-like, and one of the things you loved about him. He looked at everything with fresh eyes.

And unfortunately for you, that now included every strange little detail he'd discovered about your life.

Including the terrible driver's license photos. Especially the terrible driver's license photos.

Sitting down next to him, you remarked,

"You're ridiculous."

Michael grinned. He pulled you into his chest, intertwining his fingers with your own.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your head and then your temple.

"You love me."

You rolled your eyes. But neither of you missed how quickly he'd answered. Or how true it sounded.