jaafar jackson’s muse

His socks slid across the dark carpet. Static pinched his ankles—zap—he ignored it. Kept pacing. Kept typing. Kept deleting.

Hey, how have you been?

Too casual.

What’s up with you?

Too forward.

I miss y—

No. God, no.

His thumb throbbed against his tooth as he picked at the skin there. He nearly drew blood; he didn’t care. He tapped her contact, finger hovering over the photo. It was old, probably three months ago—the moment that he documented with pride.

She was asleep then. Lying on her stomach with her arms on the pillow, her back bare, with soft script running down her spine like scripture as she rested like an angel beneath white covers.

It’d been a week.

Seven days. 168 hours. 10080 minutes. 604800 seconds— since he’d seen her.

Since the floorboards squeaked under her familiar weight, since the candles bent in reverence when she stepped over the threshold like Athena walking onto ancient ruins, since her scent—flowers and temptation—lingered in the pillowcases he refused to wash. He couldn’t get rid of her. Refused to, really.

He felt it.

His resolve slipped through his fingers, pooling around him like water. The restraint that broke through chains and morphed into an obsession that remained well hidden behind meticulously crafted messages and delayed phone calls. The desire that skipped over curiosity and jumped in bed with need.

She clouded his mind like fog. Pinched his nerve endings and rearranged them until he short-circuited. All she needed was to blow a whistle, and he’d come running, obedience dripping from his mouth like an offering.

It didn’t take much.

It never did.

It’d been a week.

She stayed. And they kissed like friends. Made love like lovers, slid into a porcelain basin filled with warm, bubbling water. Clinked glasses full of champagne—they kissed there, too.

He missed her. Needed to convince her. He called her—

“You up?”

“Why, you miss me or somethin’?”

He closed his eyes for a moment. His armor groaned.

He exhaled—quietly—and stared at the television ahead. It was off. Only a blurred outline of himself stared back at him. He turned over his shoulder. “Somethin’ like that.”

A pause.

“You comin’ through or not?”

She hummed. “That ain’t what I asked.”

A pause.

“You miss me or not?”

His head fell backward, exposing the column of his neck to the ceiling. He dropped his chin and pinched the corners of his lips between his thumb and forefinger.

“Yeah,” he said lowly. “I do.”

She sounded pleased. He could see it: her tilted chin, smug smile, and low eyes. That look. The one that said, I got you where I want you, was a fixture. Nearly permanent.

“Thought so.”

There was movement. Bed sheets crinkled. Bare feet kissed the floor—had her polish color changed since the last time, he’d seen her? Zippers rattled—like symbols.

But she was moving. He heard it. The clothes shifting in her duffle bag. Zipper sliding. Yeah. She had him, but she was coming anyway. Movement. Decision. She wasn’t talking—she didn’t do that unless it was necessary—she was coming.

His tongue circled the inside of his cheek as he glanced at the door. Then the clock. Back to the door. Eleven. Eleven. Eleven. How quickly could she get here? The opening of her front door snagged his attention.

“Twenty,” was all she said.

Jermajesty bit his lip. “Bet.”

Nineteen minutes passed. The knock came once. He was already moving. Didn’t check the door— didn’t need to.

She stood in the threshold like she always did—glistening with gold and glory. She was dressed down, but the effort didn’t go unnoticed. She reapplied mascara. Slid another layer of lip gloss across her lips. Added a layer of perfume—jasmine over what was originally vanilla.

Jermajesty raised an eyebrow, his eyes following her as she slid past him with the ease of a woman who was convinced, she owned the space.

She did.

She slid her bag—the black weekender—off her forearm and onto the floor beside the couch. She leaned against the arm and crossed her arms, chin lifted.

He stood in front of her. Hands stuffed into the low-hanging gray sweatpants. She blinked slowly. “You came.”

Yasmin raised her shoulder. “I was summoned.”

His dark curls glistened beneath ambient light and winked at her. He tilted his head slightly. “… that's what we call it now?”

Yasmin pursed her lips and shifted her gaze to the television. To the vinyl record player—no music played, though. To his reflection in the stainless-steel refrigerator. To the collage on the wall—was that her? Whatever.

She clasped her hands together. “You still got that bathtub?”

He nearly laughed.

Of course. That’s where she took it.

Always did.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Wasn’t in the mood to detach it today.”

Her eyes—green in hue and dangerous in aura—sharpened. “You’re bein’ fresh.”

“If that’s what you’d call it, sure.”

He held her gaze. Didn’t look away. Didn’t need to.

Yasmin inhaled, the pendant from her necklace slipping between her breasts as she did so. She turned to the left, then the right, and slid her socks off, stuffing them into her weekender. She hauled it over her forearm and brushed past him. Straight back toward the door on the far right.

His room. Of course. That’s where she went.

“The bubbles,” she murmured to herself. “Where they at…”

He rubbed his jaw. Didn’t follow. Didn’t need to. She’d find it. Right where she left it.

He let time linger before he walked down the hallway. He stopped in the doorway. Watched her for a second. Just one. Water already ran. Steam circled the atmosphere. And she was halfway into the tub, back bear with script running down her spine like scripture, like this was always the next step. Her preferred destination.

“You couldn’t wait?”

Yasmine dipped her hand beneath a glob of suds and brought it to her mouth, blowing until a cloud of bubbles hit the mat.

“You was too busy watchin’ me walk away.”

His jaw shifted.

She caught that too.

“Anyway,” she hummed, dipping her shoulders into the hot water. “Get in. Or fan me, or something.”

“Fan you?” he muttered, sliding his shirt off his arms. It fell to the floor with a whisper. “Am I Marc Antony to you or some shit?”

“You wanna be?”

“He’d dead.”

“He was devoted.”

Her words lingered for a moment. But he didn’t stop moving. Plucked his socks off. Stepped out of his sweats. Stepped in behind her. Like clockwork. Like routine.

“Devotion,” Jermajesty mumbled, dropping his head against the wall. “Is only revered like a martyr when it’s mutual. Otherwise…”

He shifted behind her. “It’s devastating.”

Yasmin picked at her nails beneath the water. Dropped her eyes toward the pendant on her wet chest—J—and blinked twice. She hinged backward, the gold against his neck kissing her shoulder.

He moved again.

Slung one arm over the edge of the tub, water dripping from his fingertips like rain. His right arm stayed put—heavy on her abdomen, fingers twisting the naval piercing there.

“Baby…”

He hummed.

Yasmin turned, her knees pressing against the floor of the tub as she settled on his lap. His thumb traced her hip slowly. “What’s up?”

“What are we doing?”

Jermajesty’s head jerked like he was offended (he was). He licked his lips and tapped the edge of the tub. “I’m waitin’ for you to stop playin’ with me.”

Her eyebrows pinched together. Confusion. Though he didn’t understand what was confusing. What failed to register. Or what she didn’t want to say.

But she didn’t like that—his accusation—or what she thought it was. Her eyes narrowed. “Playing?” It rolled off her tongue slowly, like she tasted something she wasn’t quite sure she enjoyed. “Playing…”

Jermajesty’s expression didn’t change. “Yes. Playing. You know I want you, Yasmin; don’t do this.”

“Do you?”

“I do.”

Yasmin’s eyes dropped toward the gold rope around his neck. Traced the curve of his collarbone, damp from her hands. She fiddled with the small clasp and whispered, “What about the others?”

It came too quick. Too fast to have been thought through. Like she’d sat in it for years and finally had the opportunity to release it. Like doubt and fear had a voice. He hated it.

His stomach clenched as he swallowed a frustrated groan. “What others, Yasmin?”

She didn’t answer that. Instead, the words on her tongue turned into something sharper. Her hands dropped to his chest, resting, still. “You asked me to come over at eleven at night.”

His hand paused at her waist. “You ignored my text at 10 in the morning. Try again.”

“Still.”

“Then you ignored it at three in the afternoon. Keep goin’.”

She did: “Still came through though.”

He laughed. “Yeah. And you accused me of treatin’ you like a booty call.”

“I’m in your bathtub.”

He got quiet then. "That ain't the only thing I want from you."

Silence.

The water stilled. Bubbles crackled and popped like the party’d been shut down. And they sat— in silence.

Yasmin glanced toward the mirror. She could only see a portion of their reflection. Her frizzy hair from the humidity of the water. His lax posture against the back of the tub, though his heart thundered beneath her hands like Zeus’ chariot galloped through the sky. They looked like…a couple.

Intimate. Close. Together.

She blinked. Dropped her eyes toward her black sweatsuit on the floor. She began to shift again, to face the wall ahead rather than the brown eyes that begged for her honesty.

He held her in place.

“Yasmin.”

She looked at him. Really looked at him.

He was different when he was quiet. When he didn’t have a shield in one hand and sword in the other. When he wasn’t on guard, defensive.

Had his eyes always been this brown? Dark. Heavy. There was something there. The right one—a hint of gold around the iris. She hadn’t quite noticed that before. Even when they’d followed her every expression when he loved her into oblivion on white covers, she didn’t notice the gold in his eyes.

Her mouth twisted.

“I’m scared.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“I do…want you.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I don’t know what to do with it.”

Restraint filled the space. Cooled the atmosphere more than the water that’d chilled. Jermajesty stayed quiet. He was good at that. And she hated it. How he was fine with sitting in discomfort while it ate her from the inside out.

She wasn’t like him. Or she didn’t want to be— she didn’t know the difference yet.

Yasmin trembled once. Then: “I can try. With you.”

“That only works if you can let me love when the sun’s out.”

Love. Love. Love. Love. Love— you.

“…okay.”

She turned, settling back against his chest again. Like before. Like nothing had changed. Except everything had. He didn’t move. Didn’t tighten his hold. Didn’t say anything.

And neither did she. -

The jealousy had started gradually. A stray comment here, an eye roll there. Nothing serious. Then Michael kept coming back. Again and again and again. He never requested another girl or ever changed his routine. Never even pretended to browse. He’d appear through the back entrance, ask for (Name), and wait however long it took. Then came the gifts.

Not flashy at first—a bouquet after she’d mentioned having a bad week. Money slipped into her hand after overhearing her complain about a mechanic. A designer coat because she’d once mentioned being cold waiting outside after work. And a matching designer handbag she still hadn’t opened because she was almost afraid to find out what it cost.

Each gesture seemed entirely genuine, entirely thoughtless. As though spending thousands of dollars on someone was no different than offering them a stick of gum.

The other dancers couldn’t even comfort themselves with the idea that she’d “worked” for it.

..She hadn’t.

Michael simply seemed to have looked at her one day and decided he was completely enamored with her for whatever reason he had in his head.

The unfairness of it all had become impossible to ignore.

The club owners had initially been thrilled. Michael Jackson visiting regularly was good for business. Excellent for business! Until they realized Michael Jackson wasn’t actually spending his money inside the business.

He wasn’t buying packages. He wasn’t booking rooms. He wasn’t paying for services. The money went directly to her. Every time. The dancers were considerably even less charitable. Every woman in the building knew exactly what Michael Jackson looked like. Every woman in the building understood what it meant to have a man with that level of fame, money, and influence completely captivated. And every woman in the building had watched him bypass them all without a second glance.

The worst part was that (Name) didn’t even seem.. particularly grateful for it. If anything, she seemed annoyed.

Which only made everyone resent her more.

Because while other women would have killed for that kind of attention, (Name) treated it like an inconvenience. Michael would show up carrying roses worth more than someone’s electric bill, and she’d sigh. He’d hand her enough cash to solve a month’s worth of problems, and she’d look vaguely irritated. The behavior bordered on offensive to people who were working twelve hour shifts in heels to scrape together rent.

Jasmine straightened slightly, her expression growing darker the longer (Name) remained silent.

“I swear to God,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I don't know what he sees.” A few girls glanced away but nobody said anything to disagree with her.

Because that was the ugly truth sitting beneath months of gossip and bitterness. Michael wasn’t choosing between dancers. He wasn’t choosing between women in general. He was choosing her. Repeatedly. Publicly. Unapologetically. And nobody could understand why.

(Name) stared at her reflection in the mirror for a long moment before finally setting the lip gloss down.

Three months ago, Michael Jackson had walked into the club looking so hopelessly out of place she had almost laughed. Most men arrived wanting something. Sex. Attention. Validation. Fantasy. Michael had wanted conversation. Somehow, against all logic, that remained true. He never asked for dances. Never asked for private rooms. Never pushed. Never demanded. Instead, he sat with the earnest patience of a man entirely unaware of how absurd the situation looked from the outside, talking about books he’d read, songs he was writing, movies he’d watched, childhood memories he’d suddenly remembered. Sometimes he brought flowers. Sometimes gifts. Sometimes money. Always because she’d mentioned something in passing weeks earlier that he’d somehow remembered or just for the hell of it.

It should have made her feel special but it made her uneasy.

Michael was too kind.

Too sincere.

Too sweet.

The world had spent years teaching (Name) that generosity came with strings attached. Michael seemed to have missed that lesson entirely. Which was precisely why she wanted nothing to do with him. Looking at him sometimes felt like looking at a puppy that hadn’t yet realized cars existed. And she wanted absolutely no part in whatever fantasy he seemed determined to build around her.

Michael Jackson was, without question, one of the strangest men any of them had ever encountered.

Not creepy or sleazy.

Just.. strange.

Strange that showed up to a strip club carrying roses and wanted to discuss Peter Pan.nStrange that tipped like a millionaire but flirted like the homeschooled church boy he is.

Jasmine slapped the vanity again. “Hello? He’s been sitting out there for twenty minutes.”

(Name) closed her eyes briefly.

Of course he had.

Because Michael never seemed bothered by waiting for her. And somehow, after all these months, that fact still irritated her more than it should have.

(Name) stared at her reflection for another moment before pushing herself to her feet. She didn’t bother reaching for her cover-up hanging beside the mirror ot bother adjusting her costume. If Michael wanted to spend his evening lurking outside the back entrance like a smitten fool, then he could deal with the reality of interrupting her in the middle of a shift. The stool scraped loudly against the floor as she stood. Jasmine shifted just enough to remain in her path but (Name) didn’t alter her course. Their shoulders knocked together on her way past hard enough to make her point, casting a glance at her over the shoulder. She heard Jasmine mutter something beneath her breath as the dressing room door swung shut behind her.

The back end of the club seemed to part around her as she crossed through the dark hallways. Music pounded through the walls and floorboards, vibrating through her Pleasers with every step. Conversations faltered. Eyes followed. They always did now. Everyone knew where she was going. By the time she reached the employee exit, even the security guard stationed by the door looked amused. He offered her a sympathetic look that somehow felt more insulting than outright laughter before pulling the door open for her.

Chilly night air rushed over her skin the moment she stepped outside and the noise of the club dulled behind the heavy metal door, leaving only the faint hum of traffic and the light of neon spilling across the pavement. A sleek black car sat parked along the curb.

Bill stood beside it. Michael stood beside Bill.

The second she appeared, Michael straightened. A subtle shift that would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone who didn’t know to look for it.

Dark aviators concealed his eyes despite the late hour, the lenses catching reflections of streetlights and neon signage between the two clubs. Between the sunglasses, the tailored jacket, and the mysterious air that seemed to follow him everywhere these days, he looked every bit the superstar splashed across magazine covers.

Then he saw her, and a smile appeared slowly and softly.

The corner of his mouth lifting first before the rest followed.

Bill noticed her at roughly the same time. More specifically, Bill noticed the fact that she was wearing approximately the amount of clothing expected from a woman halfway through her shift. And, being a far more intelligent man than his employer, his gaze shot somewhere toward the skyline, then the pavement, then the car.

Anywhere but directly at her.

“Miss (Stage Name),” he greeted politely. “I’ll give you two a moment.” And with that, he disappeared toward the front of the car.

(Name) looked back at Michael. He was holding flowers.

A bouquet of pale pink peonies and white roses rested comfortably in the crook of his arm, wrapped in expensive paper that probably cost more than some people’s dinner. The arrangement was beautiful. Thoughtfully chosen. Excessive in exactly the way everything Michael did seemed to become excessive without him realizing it.

“Michael.”

His smile remained.

“What do you want?” The question should have sounded harsher than it did and perhaps it would’ve worked on someone else.

Michael only stepped forward and offered her the bouquet. “I got these.” The words were accompanied by a small shrug, boyish despite everything else about him. “For you.”

(Name) stared at the flowers before reluctantly taking them. The moment her fingers closed around the bouquet, something in Michael's expression softened further. Relief.

As though some small hope had been rewarded because he had spent the evening wondering whether she would accept them.

“Why?”

Michael glanced down at the peonies and his smile turned almost shy.

“They reminded me of you.” The answer arrived without hesitation. “I saw them earlier," He said quietly. “And I thought they were pretty.”

A brief pause followed, then: “And then I thought about you.”

The simplicity of it made it difficult to respond because Michael never seemed embarrassed by his affection for her. He never tried to disguise it or attempted to make himself seem less invested than he was. He simply handed her flowers because they reminded him of her.

Remembered things she liked because he cared enough to remember them.

Showed up because he wanted to see her.

The sincerity should have felt childish but it was very disarming.

”You like pink,” He continued after a moment. “And peonies.” He smiled, adjusting his aviators. “I remembered.”

Yeah. Michael remembered everything.

Every passing comment. Every preference. Every insignificant detail most people would've forgotten before the conversation even ended. And it wasn’t calculated. That was the problem. If it had been calculated, she could have dismissed it. Instead it came from a place so genuine that it left her with nowhere to direct her irritation.

Standing dressed for work and already late for her set, (Name) found herself confronted once again with the same impossible reality she’s been avoiding for three months.

Michael Jackson looked at her like she was something worth protecting. Something worth remembering.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she said finally. It came out steadier than she expected, more final than she felt.

Michael didn’t react immediately, he rarely did. There was no offense in his expression, no shift into defensiveness. Just a small pause, as if he was turning the sentence over carefully in his mind, trying to understand where it led.

“Doing what?” he asked.

And there it was again: a calm confusion because the rules everyone else lived by had simply never been explained to him.

“Showing up,” She said. “Here. At my job.”

“Mhn.”

“You know I’m working,” she continued.

“I know.” A second passed and Michael adjusted the sleeve of his jacket slightly. “I just wanted to see you.”

The simplicity of it made her jaw tighten. “Michael.”

His head tilted slightly, his attention. He was trying to follow her logic carefully, step by step, without missing anything.

“You won’t let me see you any other time.” The words landed softly but his tone wasn’t accusatory. Just observed, observing a conclusion he had reached after a long period of trying and failing to understand the rules she was setting.

“I ask,” he continued, voice still soft and even, “And you say no.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment.

Traffic passed somewhere on the street over. The club door opened and closed in the distance, spilling a flicker of bass into the night before swallowing it again.

Michael didn’t move. Didn’t push. Didn’t soften the point or dress it up. He just stood there in it.

Then, more quietly: “So I come here.” The honesty of it should have been frustrating.

And it was..But not in the way she expected. Because there was no calculation behind it.

No strategy. No manipulation.

Just a man who wanted to see her, repeatedly, and had run out of ways to do it that she wouldn’t refuse. (Name) shifted slightly, the flowers in her grip suddenly too present.

“That’s not how this works,” She said.

Michael looked at her still hidden behind the sunglasses, impossible to read fully..But his voice softened when he spoke again.

“So, how does it work then?” He wasn’t challenging her. He was asking her to explain something he genuinely didn’t understand.

As if there was a version of the world where wanting to see someone required permission from every angle except the one he was standing in.

As if rejection was a rule he hadn’t learned yet, not a boundary he was choosing to ignore.

And worse than that he looked like he would follow whatever answer she gave him.

She opened her mouth to speak but whatever she had been about to say didn’t make it out. Michael’s attention shifted first, just slightly, his gaze dropping past her face to her shoulders observantly, making it hard to pretend he wasn’t noticing everything.

“Are you cold?” He asked.

“Huh?”

He looked at her a little more directly, as if the question was already settled in his mind. “You’re cold.”

“I’m not—”

But he was already moving.

Michael shrugged out of his jacket, the fabric sliding from his shoulders and revealing the line of his shirt beneath. For a moment his hands disappeared into the sleeves as he adjusted his grip, and when they reemerged.

He stepped in close, too close for the conversation she had been trying to maintain.

The jacket lifted between them and settled over her shoulders before she could argue further. It was warm. Noticeably so, still holding the heat of him. The weight of it sank into place, just as oversized as it was on him than it was her.

He adjusted it carefully, tugging it into alignment with small motions. One hand brushed near her shoulder as he smoothed the fabric down, the other guiding the front edges together before pausing at the zipper.

Up close, there was no ignoring the details.

His hands were steady. Long fingers moving with an ease that made everything look so elegantly pretty. There was something disarming about how gentle they were for someone who lived so publicly, contact with him was something he still treated with care.

She noticed faint irregular patches along his forearms. Subtle, uneven shapes of pigment that broke up the skin tone. Michael didn’t notice her noticing, he only finished the motion of zipping the jacket up until it sat properly against her.

And then there was the smell.

Clean, soft, him. Something warm underneath it—fabric, skin, a trace of cologne. It lingered where the jacket closed faintly, settling into the space between them and making her more aware of how close he had just been.

Michael stepped back half a pace, looking at her as though he’d completed a task.

“There,” he said quietly. The night, the argument, and her refusal had all been briefly irrelevant in the face of making sure she wasn’t cold.

(Name) held the bouquet loosely in the crook of her elbow, the earlier irritation fading into something she didn’t fully consent to. She looked at him for a long moment—aviators still on, posture relaxed, that faint satisfaction sitting at the edge of his mouth.

Then he lifted a hand and removed his sunglasses.

It changed him immediately, harder to ignore because he’s—well, he was so pretty. His eyes were steady when they met hers, focused on her and only her. It made everything else feel secondary, like she was the only thing he was actually tracking in the space between them.

There was a small shift at the corners of his mouth. It was shy and didn’t match the ease of everything else about him. It seemed like he was briefly aware of himself in a different register and didn’t entirely know what to do with it. The sunglasses protected him in that way.

But he looked pleased to see her regardless, quieter about it now.

“Thank you, Michael,” She said, though.. her tone was spent.

He nodded once, still holding that softened expression, the words had landed exactly where he expected them to.

“You’re welcome.” He shifted his weight slightly, sunglasses dangling loosely from one hand now, the other lifting halfway before stopping like he was checking himself before speaking.

He asked anyway. “Can I have a little more of your time?” The same steadiness that hadn’t changed no matter how many times she’d pushed back against it.

The club door opened and shut behind her, spilling faint bass into the alley before swallowing it again.

Michael waited, still and composed.

And (Name), wrapped in his jacket, holding his flowers, found that she didn’t answer immediately.. for the first time.

baran thought, what did this woman have that she didn't? she couldn't have been a better lover, that was for sure. did she have more money? because if so baran would buy you any and everything you wanted just to keep your eyes on her the way they were on the woman in front of you. was she funnier? because if you wanted to laugh, baran would make it her mission to make you laugh.

she cursed herself for telling you to see other people because she didn't mean it. she didn't think you would actually see anyone else. you were just so interested in her and now you wanted to go on dates with other people? if you wanted to go on dates, baran would've planned as many dates as you wanted. she was jealous, and she never got jealous. it was your fault, you made her this way.

baran was pulled from her thoughts when the hostess approached her with her food in hand. she thanked the hostess and walked towards the door to leave, but on her way out, she looked back, seeing the woman now closer to you, her lips moving against yours, and her hands groping you. baran was pissed, how could you let someone else touch you? she said you could see other people not let them touch you.

the next time she sees you, she has you on all fours with your back arched and her hands digging into your waist as she fucks her strap into you. she's giving you deep, long strokes then she remembered you kissing that woman and her pace quickened, fucking you faster and harder, her grip on your waist becoming stronger, definitely leaving a mark. you're making those beautiful sounds she loves so much and telling her it's too much, but baran knows you can take it.

baran's thinking about how you allowed someone else to touch what's her's. her thoughts making her grow more and more possessive over you, she reaches down and grabs a handful of your hair to pull you into her body.

"you're mine." she growled into your ear. "don't let anyone else touch you ever again. you hear me? never again."

"y-yes." you stuttered.

"yes what?" she tightened her grip on your hair as she continued ruining your hole.

you knew what to call her.

"yes, mommy." you whined, feeling every bit of her inside of you. "i won't let anyone else touch me ever again."

Everyone had accepted one simple truth: Michael Jackson and Y/N were going to get married.

Nobody questioned ‘if’ anymore. They only questioned the ‘when’.

Which, unfortunately for Michael, had become the most frequently asked question in entertainment journalism.

They had been together for nearly four years now.

She was the industry’s newest darling—a powerhouse vocalist whose soul, jazz and pop influences had made her one of the fastest-rising artists at the time. Every awards season belonged to her just as much as it belonged to him.

Together, they were impossible to ignore.

Magazine covers.

Award shows.

Movie premieres.

Charity galas.

Somehow they always ended up photographed laughing in corners, stealing little glances when they thought cameras weren’t paying attention.

And every interview somehow eventually became the same conversation.

“So…” The interviewer smiled knowingly. “When’s the wedding?”

Y/N always laughed. “Don’t look at me!” She shook her head and held out her hands. “It’s not me you should be asking that!”

The audience laughed.

Michael laughed.

The interviewer laughed.

Then the camera inevitably cut to Michael.

He’d smile innocently. “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” she’d tease. “They’re asking you!”

He’d simply shrug. “I don’t know what everyone’s talking about.”

“Oh, you know exactly what they’re talking about.”

“I really don’t.”

“You’re such a bad liar!”

Another interview. Another city. Another red carpet.

“So,” another reporter grinned, “have you started planning the wedding?”

Y/N sighed dramatically. “Well, I’ve started.”

Michael blinked beside her. “You have?”

“Yes, I have.” She nodded throughly. “I’ve picked flowers.”

Michael tilted his head at her. “You have?”

She nodded once again. “I’ve picked music.”

“…You have?”

“Oh, honey, I’ve even picked the cake.” She stated in a very serious tone.

Michael laughed. “Of course you have.” He said, pulling her closer with the arm he had around her shoulder and placing a kiss on her temple.

The clip aired everywhere.

Fans adored them.

The jokes became a running thing.

Whenever Michael left for another leg of his tour, Y/N would wave him goodbye dramatically.

“Come back with a ring!”

He’d point at her. “No promises.” She threw hands every time.

Months passed. Another tour. Another album. Another awards season.

And still…

No proposal in sight.

But what nobody knew—not the press, not the fans, not even Y/N—was that tucked safely inside the back drawer of Michael’s dresser sat a navy velvet ring box.

Inside rested the most beautiful marquise-cut diamond he’d ever seen.

He’d spent nearly six months searching for it.

Six long months of sneaking around in jewelry stores.

Six long, exhausting months of yearning to drop on one knee and call the woman he loved his fiancée and eventually wife already.

But Michael simply refused to rush something he’d dreamed about his entire life.

He wanted the moment perfect. She deserved nothing but perfection.

Y/N, meanwhile, was getting very impatient.

Not genuinely, thought. Comically impatient.

On one specific afternoon she stormed into the studio chewing on some gun and carrying righteous indignation.

Her producer looked up from the piano. He grimaced. “Should I be worried?”

“Yes.” She answered, dropping onto a chair near the piano.

He sighed, turning on the bench to face her. “What happened?”

“My boyfriend is testing me.” She pressed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes harshly.

“…Michael?”

“Michael.” She affirmed in a low voice while nodding.

“He do something?”

“Absolutely not.”

“…Okay?” The producer frowned. That man was getting confused.

Y/N groaned and dropped her head dramatically. “He won’t propose.”

Silence.

He pondered for a few seconds before nodding. “Yeah, that’s actually fair.”

“Thank you!” She threw herself dramatically onto the chair one more time. “I’ve been so, so patient.”

He snorted at her, getting up from the bench and placing his hands on his waist. “Darling, you’ve been making jokes about it on national television.”

“Exactly.” She pointed a sharp finger at him.

“So what’s your plan?”

Y/N sat up slowly, a mischievous smile slowly spreading across her face.

“I am about to write the most direct song of my entire tiny career.”

Her producer immediately started laughing. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

Three hours later she walked into the vocal booth.

The band watched through the glass.

The backing vocalists waited beside their microphones.

She adjusted her headphones. Smiled and cleared her throat.

Then announced: “Okay, this one goes out to my wonderful boyfriend,” A beat. “who apparently needs some instruction.”

Her producer snorted, shaking his head at her. This girl was impossible.

When the recording was finished, the producer slowly removed his headphone. “You’re going to send Michael Jackson into cardiac arrest.” He noted.

“Oh, I know.”

“You’ve publicly declared war.”

“Well, you know what they say,” She said through the microphone while shrugging slightly.

The producer shrugged and frowned. “Uh, I actually have no idea what ‘they say’” He paused. “Please, enlighten me.”

Y/N smirked. “All’s fair in love and poetry.”

⋆⭒˚.⋆

She kept the song secret for a few weeks.

Even from Michael. Well, especially from Michael.

Which made the invitation to perform at a major Award show ceremony all the more dangerous.

Nobody knew what she planned.

Not the audience.

Not the press.

Certainly not the man sitting front row in a black tuxedo who believed he was simply there to support his girlfriend.

The auditorium lights dimmed. A spotlight illuminated center stage. The curtain lifted and the audience erupted.

Y/N stood beneath a vintage microphone wearing a floor-length crimson gown that glittered beneath every light in the room.

The silhouette hugged her perfectly before flowing elegantly to the floor.

Her hair curled softly beneath her jaw.

She looked like she’d stepped straight out of a 1950s Hollywood film.

Behind her waited an entire live band.

Piano.

Double bass.

Drums.

A brass section.

And three women in matching satin gowns standing behind vintage microphones.

Michael smiled immediately at the sight. But something about this entire setup made him a bit nervous, what he couldn’t place a finger on it.

“You know, she didn’t let me hear this one yet,” Michael commented casually to the man sitting beside him. It was Y/N’s producer, who didn’t take his eyes off the stage.

“Oh, trust me, I know.” He answered with a scoff.

Michael frowned a little at that response. “She just keeps saying it’s ‘special.’”

The man scratched the back of his neck and clicked his tongue. “It is.”

“You’ve heard it?” Michael asked, turning towards him.

“Unfortunately.”

Michael laughed. “Unfortunately?”

“Yeah, yeah,” The producer finally looked at him. “You’ll see.”

Then the lights dimmed.

The pianist played the opening chord.

Y/N wrapped one elegant hand around the microphone.

Smiled sweetly.

“Oh, baby…” She sang, her voice floating through the room like velvet. Warm. Playful. Dangerously theatrical. Then she tilted her head, a mischievous grin appeared on her red lips. “Where the hell is my husband?”

The audience exploded.

People gasped and screamed before she’d even finished the sentence.

Michael covered half his face with one hand.

“Oh my God…” He murmured under his breath.

The cameras immediately found him. Worst possible thing ever for Michael.

Because Michael Jackson looked like he was trying to decide if he should laugh, cry or faint.

Y/N caught him looking. Smirked. Then continued.

God, how he loved her.

Michael slowly turned to her producer with widened eyes.

The producer was doing his absolute best to not look back at him.

Michael shook his head in disbelief, a smile starting to appear on his face. “You knew about this?”

“Mhm.”

“And you let her do this?”

The man shook his head with a tiny smile, but after a few seconds the nods turned into a negative head shaking, the smile vanishing from his face as he stared at a very amused Michael Jackson. He gulped.

“Michael, I value my life.” He kept glancing between Y/N and Michael. “Do you know how stubborn your girlfriend is?”

Michael grinned and nodded knowingly.

“Your wife can be very persuasive—No, not wife—I mean, I—girlfrie—wife to be—I mean—“ Michel roared with laughter at the poor man. “I’ll just…” He sealed his lips shut and turned towards the stage once again with cheeks as red as Y/N’s gown.

Michael stared at him for a few more seconds before sighing with content and turning his eyes to his girlfriend on stage.

The backing vocalists answered every phrase behind her like a mischievous Greek chorus.

“Woo-hoo…” She wandered slowly across the stage. Shielding her eyes dramatically as though searching the audience. “What is taking him so long…” She scanned the balcony, the orchestra and the celebrity tables. “…to find me?” She pointed at herself.

By the second verse the audience had completely surrendered to her.

“I’m doing lonely acrobatics…”

She dramatically reached behind herself pretending to unzip the back of the gown.

Then threw one hand dramatically into the air. “This where your wife is!”

Without missing a beat she pointed directly toward the front row. Toward Michael.

Every head in the theater turned.

Michael slowly leaned back in his chair.

He couldn’t stop smiling.

When the bridge of the song came through entire room somehow got louder.

“I would like a ring…” She lifted her left hand beneath the spotlight. Completely bare, no ring in sight.

She admired the nonexistent engagement ring as though it were worth millions. Turning her wrist elegantly, smiling proudly at absolutely nothing. “I would like a diamond ring…”

She extended the imaginary diamond toward the audience.

“I would like a biiiiig…” Her hands spread dramatically apart. “…and shiny diamond…” She suddenly gasped and shielded her eyes.

“Oh!”She stumbled backward theatrically. “It’s blinding.” She said, a little comment in between the verses.

Then the choreography began.

All four women lifted their left hands simultaneously.

Waving their empty ring fingers around the theater, turning their wrists and admiring invisible diamonds from every angle.

One backing vocalist pretended to faint over Y/N’s imaginary engagement ring.

Another applauded.

The third dramatically shielded her own eyes from the ‘sparkle.’

The theater roared.

Michael had both hands over his mouth now, shoulders shaking with laughter. He wasn’t even trying to be discreet about it.

Y/N looked directly at him and grinned wider.

She was loving every second of this.

The music softened, brass disappearing and drums fading away, until only the piano remained.

Y/N glanced toward the ceiling.

Then slowly lifted one finger upward. “…Grandma?” She nodded to herself, pointing upwards once again. “Oh, there she is.” She smiled with satisfaction.

Then, through the speakers, a female elderly voice echoed through the speakers.

“Your husband is coming.”

The audience yelled at the iconic line.

Michael looked at the producer in disbelief, his cheeks starting to hurt from smiling and blushing. “She even got grams involved?” He couldn’t believe it!

The producer nodded once like it was obvious.

“Oh, yeah, the whole family’s is out to get you.” He said bluntly. Michael laughed loudly once again.

Then, Y/N clutched her chest dramatically.

She laughed into the microphone at herself before stepping away from it completely.

And instead of returning to center stage she wondered towards the very edge of it.

Toward the front row.

Toward Michael.

Every camera followed.

Every screen in the theater showed only them now.

She stopped directly in front of him.

Only a few feet separated them.

Michael looked up at her with the expression of a man realizing he was absolutely not surviving this performance.

Then—to everyone’s surprise—Y/N gracefully lowered herself onto the edge of the stage, onto her stomach and resting on her elbows. Her chin settled into her hands. High heeled feet kicked lazily behind her in the air. Completely girlish. Completely shameless. Like she was lying on her bedroom floor gossiping with her best friend instead of performing in front of Hollywood.

The crowd completely lost whatever composure they still had left.

Michael threw his head back laughing before looking back at her with the most loving and tender eyes known to mankind.

“Oh, my love…” He mumbled through smiles.

She smiled innocently at him and batted her eyelashes. Then pointed directly at him.

“Where…” She tilted her head, singing in a paused voice. “…is my husband?” She smiled so sweetly it was almost criminal.

The cameras immediately cut to Michael.

He bit his lip, a big, big smile on his face.

The audience screamed louder.

He shook his head lightly before looking around the theater innocently. Then—that teasing, teasing man—pointed towards himself. “Me?”

The audacity of this man! Y/N only raised a sharp brow in response.

The building practically shook.

People were already standing.

Cheering.

Screaming.

Whistling.

Y/N laughed so hard she had to pull the microphone away from her mouth.

She leaned forward just enough to tap the tip of Michael’s chin with one finger before gracefully pushing herself back to her feet.

She smoothed down the shimmering red gown as though she hadn’t just publicly confronted the biggest pop star on Earth just because she could.

Then she turned and walked back toward center stage with the effortless elegance of an Old Hollywood leading lady.

The band exploded back to life.

The brass returned.

The backing vocalists joined her one last time.

She held the final note effortlessly.

The lights cut.

Blackout.

Then, half a second later, the standing ovation hit.

It was deafening.

Michael stood immediately. Still laughing. Applauding louder and harder than anyone in the room.

She caught his eye from across the stage.

Blew him a kiss.

He caught it.

Pressed it dramatically against his heart.

Then mouthed “You’re unbelievable.”

She simply winked. Not sorry. Not even a little bit.

The ovation continued.

And then, something nobody noticed. Not the cameras. Not the audience. Not even Y/N.

As the applause kept going Michael quietly slipped one hand inside his tuxedo jacket.

His fingertips brushed against the small navy velvet box resting inside of his inner pocket.

He smiled and looked down at the object. Then his eyes traveled back to woman taking her final bow beneath a shower of applause.

She thought she’d just cornered him.

She thought she’d declared war.

She thought she’d just spent four minutes publicly bullying her boyfriend into proposing.

Little did she know the ring she’d spent the entire performance pretending to wear already existed.

And was less than two feet away from her.

Michael closed his hand around the little velvet box for a second longer than necessary before slipping it carefully back into his pocket.

Beside him, Y/N’s producer happened to glance down at that exact moment, his eyes catching the corner of the small box. He blinked once. Twice. Mouth opened and closed. Then looked slowly back at Michael. Actual relief crossed his face.

“Oh, thank goodness, man!” He ran a hand through his hair.

Michael didn’t say anything, just smiled and bit his bottom lip. He simply looked back toward the stage, where Y/N was taking another bow beneath the thunderous applause, still wearing that triumphant smile she wore whenever she thought she had won a battle.

The producer followed his gaze.

A slow grin spread across his face.

“Well,” he murmured. “Guess she wasn’t singing to the void after all.”

Michael laughed quietly to himself.

“No,” he admitted, unable to take his eyes off her. “She wasn’t.”

The applause kept echoing through the theater.

Y/N waved one last time before disappearing behind the curtain, completely unaware of Michael’s plans.

Michael smiled to himself. ‘Okay,’ he thought. ‘I think I’ve made my future wife wait long enough.’

“She is never going to let you live this performance down, you know that, right?” the producer asked rhetorically.

Michael’s smile only grew. “Oh, I know.” He patted the pocket of his jacket almost absentmindedly.

“I can’t wait.”

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭ .

Taglist:

1978hayvenhurst

You woke up the next morning surrounded by warmth.

Soft sunlight streamed through the windows in pale golden streaks, casting a quiet glow across the room, but it wasn't the sunlight that held you there in that sleepy haze between dreaming and waking. It was Michael.

His body was still wrapped around you completely, his arms secure around your waist, like even in sleep, he couldn't let you drift too far from him. His head was buried in the nape of your neck, soft curls brushing your skin every time he breathed, his chest pressed firmly against your back, warm and steady and comforting in a way that immediately makes you melt further into him.

You snuggle more into him instinctively, even as you feel yourself beginning to wake up more fully. Michael, though, is still fast asleep, and you can feel the difference in him immediately.

He's resting, really resting. It's the most rested he's felt in months.

There's no tension in his body, none of that tightness he carries in his shoulders even when he's trying to relax. No faint crease between his brows from overthinking, no restlessness beneath the surface. He's completely still against you in the best possible way, like for once, his mind finally let him stop running.

Carefully, you turn in his arms until you're facing him, his hold loosening just enough to let you move before tightening around you again automatically, even in sleep. Your eyes slowly flutter open fully as you look at him, and the sight of him like this makes something warm spread through your chest so quickly it almost aches.

Your husband.

The thought hits you all over again.

You still couldn't believe it was real. You couldn't believe you and Michael really got married last night. Even now, lying here in his bed at Hayvenhurst with the morning light spilling over him, it still feels surreal in the softest way.

You love how peaceful he looks when he's sleeping.

Without the pressure of cameras or rehearsals or expectations pulling at him from every direction, he looks younger somehow, softer. His lashes rest against his cheeks, his lips slightly parted in sleep, his breathing deep and even as he stays curled around you.

And he does look like he's getting real rest.

You know how hard it is for Michael at times to sleep. You've heard the exhaustion in his voice on late-night calls, felt the way his body crashes the second he finally lets himself stop moving, and watched him struggle to quiet his mind enough to actually rest. But now he looks still... in a good way.

Like for one night, everything else stayed outside the room.

As you lie here and look at him, you still can't believe he's your husband. He's fully yours in the way that matters most, and the thought settles deep into your chest with a warmth that feels overwhelming and grounding all at once.

You know the two of you can't stay in this bubble forever; reality is going to come back in eventually. His family, yours, the questions and reactions.

But for right now, this moment still belongs to the two of you, and you want to hold onto it for as long as you can.

You gently run your thumb across his jaw, your touch light and slow as you memorize the way he looks when he's completely at peace. His long lashes flutter slightly against his cheeks at the feeling of your touch, his body instinctively responding to you even before he fully wakes, but he keeps his eyes closed.

You lean forward and gently press your lips to his, and it doesn't take Michael too long.

The second he feels your lips against his, you feel his body begin waking up beneath your hands, slowly registering what's happening before he kisses you back almost immediately, soft, warm, and still heavy with sleep. His arms tighten around you as he pulls you even closer to him, even though there's no more space between you two, like somehow he still wants you closer than this.

Michael is the first one to pull back, and when he does, his eyes slowly flutter open, remnants of sleep still clinging to him. His curls are messy from sleep, his voice still rough around the edges when he speaks, but he looks content. And for the first time in months, he looks rested.

"Good morning, Mrs. Jackson," he whispers to you.

The words hit you instantly, Mrs. Jackson.

Your cheeks flush so fast it almost embarrasses you, warmth spreading across your face as you bury your head into his shoulder with a soft laugh, suddenly overwhelmed all over again by the reality of it.

"Good morning, husband," you say as you gently kiss the soft skin of his neck. A quiet sound leaves him at that, somewhere between a hum and a sigh.

"Hmm, say that again," he says softly.

You lift your head to look at him, smiling as your thumb traces slowly along his jaw, your touch lingering there. "Husband," you say with a smile.

Michael smiles widely immediately, the expression bright and completely unguarded as he grabs your hand in his. His gaze drops to the ring he had gotten for you, the one he presented at the ceremony in Vegas, and his thumb brushes over it gently before he lifts your hand and presses a soft kiss against it.

The gesture makes you blush all over again.

"I love the sound of that," he says.

You nod because you love the sound of it too. More than you thought you would. There's something about hearing him call you his wife that makes everything feel more real every single time.

"Me too," you say softly.

Michael leans in and kisses you again, slow and affectionate, and you smile against his lips as you kiss him back. You know you'll have to leave the bubble and face his family eventually. You know this quiet little world the two of you created can't stay untouched forever.

But right now, none of that feels close enough to matter. Right now, you're content, and you want to stay in this moment with him forever.

"The first day of waking up like this for the rest of our lives," Michael says as he tucks your hair behind your ear. Your smile widens immediately. He's so corny at times, hopelessly so, but that's one of the things you love most about him. The sincerity in everything he says, the way he means even the cheesy things with his entire heart.

"And as my first day as Mrs. Jackson... I would love to make my husband breakfast," you say.

The words make Michael's entire expression soften. Husband. Every time you say it, it affects him all over again, like he still can't fully believe this is real either. His eyes stay on you for a second longer, warm and soft.

He leans in to kiss you again, slow and lingering, like he can't stop touching you now that you're his wife. The kiss makes warmth spread through your chest all over again, your stomach twisting pleasantly as his hand slides against your cheek with familiar tenderness.

Every kiss with Michael feels like kissing him for the first time.

Not because they're unfamiliar, but because he kisses you like he still can't believe he gets to.

When you pull back, the two of you get out of bed and get dressed, the softness of the morning still lingering between you both like something fragile you don't want to disturb too quickly. You slip on a pair of shorts and one of Michael's t-shirts, the fabric still carrying his scent, warm and comforting against your skin, and he pulls on a t-shirt along with sweatpants, his curls still slightly messy from sleep.

The two of you walk downstairs together, your fingers brushing against each other every few seconds without either of you realizing it, and when you step into the kitchen, you find it surprisingly empty.

You and Michael exchange a look immediately because Hayvenhurst is rarely this quiet in the morning, but after a second, you just shrug lightly and move toward the fridge. You've practically lived at Hayvenhurst anyway, so you know where everything is without thinking about it, and soon you're moving around the kitchen with an easy familiarity, pulling ingredients out while the stove heats.

Michael watches you the entire time.

He props himself up on the counter beside you, one foot hooked against the cabinet beneath him, his expression soft and openly affectionate in a way that still makes warmth spread through your chest every time you catch him looking at you like that.

"Look at that, we might actually be able to have our first breakfast as husband and wife alone," Michael says with a soft smile. A laugh immediately slips out of you at the way he says it so casually, so happily, like he's still trying the words out every chance he gets simply because he loves the sound of them.

"Your first breakfast as what!?" The voice cuts sharply through the kitchen before either of you can react, and the warmth of the moment disappears so quickly it almost feels physical.

You and Michael both freeze at the same time.

When you turn around, LaToya and Janet are standing just inside the kitchen doorway, staring at the two of you with identical wide-eyed expressions, shock written all over their faces after clearly catching what Michael said.

For a second, nobody moves.

Then LaToya suddenly rushes toward you, immediately grabbing your wrist and pulling you gently away from the stove where you were scrambling eggs. Your heart starts pounding as she takes your left hand into hers, and the second her eyes land on the wedding ring sitting on your finger, her entire expression changes.

"Oh my God," she breathes.

The disbelief on her face only deepens as she immediately turns toward Michael, grabs his hand next, and stares at the gold wedding band on his finger, too, before looking rapidly between the two of you.

"You two got married!?" LaToya asks in complete disbelief.

"Who did what!?" The sound of Joseph's voice snapped through the kitchen like a crack of thunder.

You feel Michael tense beside you before you even fully turn around, the reaction immediate and instinctive, and when you look at him, all the color has drained from his face so quickly it makes your chest tighten painfully. The softness from moments ago is completely gone now, replaced by something tight and guarded as Janet instinctively moves closer toward Michael near the counter.

You and LaToya slowly turn around, and the second you see Joseph standing in the doorway, the atmosphere in the room shifts so heavily it feels suffocating.

"LaToya, Janet, get out of here," Joseph says. His voice isn't loud, but somehow that makes it worse. There's a sharpness underneath it that immediately puts everyone on edge.

LaToya looks at you sympathetically right away, concern flashing across her face as she gently squeezes your hand before wrapping an arm around Janet and quickly leading her out of the kitchen. Janet keeps glancing back nervously the entire way out before the two of them disappear completely, leaving the room painfully quiet.

You turn the stove off because you already know breakfast is over now, the smell of eggs and butter suddenly feeling strangely out of place against the tension filling the room, and you move immediately to stand beside Michael. The second you do, he pulls you closer until you're standing between his legs, where he's still perched against the counter, your back pressed firmly against his chest.

The gesture is protective and grounding all at once.

Even terrified, Michael's first instinct is still to pull you closer to him instead of away. You can feel the tension radiating through his body, the way every muscle is tight beneath your hands, but he still keeps you tucked securely against him like he's silently making it clear that no matter how uncomfortable this gets, he isn't letting you stand alone in it.

He's never let Joseph disrespect you, and he wasn't going to start now.

"What was that LaToya said?" Joseph asks as he looks between the two of you.

"We got married last night," Michael says immediately.

There's no hesitation in the words, and although his voice is firm, you still hear the slight tremor underneath it because you know him too well not to. You can feel how hard his heart is beating against your back, even while he forces himself to stay steady under Joseph's stare.

"And what in your right mind made you do that?" Joseph asks.

"Why do people get married, Joseph?" you say before you can stop yourself. The words come out sharper than you intended, but once they're out, you don't regret them.

Joseph's eyes immediately snap toward you, his stare hard enough that most people in this house would've folded underneath it, but you don't look away. Your pulse jumps, but you hold his gaze anyway because you refuse to let him make this feel shameful.

"Oh, so you're pregnant? He don't got time to be a father right now," Joseph says. You scoff instantly, the accusation irritating enough to briefly overpower your nerves.

"She's not pregnant, Joseph. Rebbie, Tito, Jermaine, Jackie, and Marlon are all married. Rebbie, Jermaine, and Marlon were younger than we are when they got married," Michael says.

"And they were fools for that, too," Joseph snaps back. You roll your eyes immediately, frustration flashing hot through you as Michael's grip around you tightens slightly.

"And even if she were pregnant, I would make time to be a father and be there to care for my wife and our child," Michael says pointedly.

The words land heavily in the room, deliberate and unwavering, and despite the fear you can still feel running through him, there's something steadier underneath it now, too. Every time Joseph pushes, Michael seems to hold onto you harder, like defending this marriage is strengthening his resolve instead of weakening it.

Joseph takes another step further into the kitchen, and you feel Michael's body tense sharply against yours again. "You got something you want to say, boy?" Joseph asks.

The threat underneath the question is unmistakable, and you feel Michael instinctively straighten slightly behind you even while his body remains tense. Years of fear are still there; you can feel them, but so is something else now.

Defiance.

"This is a distraction, one you don't need. You need to be focused on this album," Joseph says. You shake your head immediately before Michael can even respond.

"Did you have this same conversation with Tito, Jackie, and Marlon, who are all also married and have children? Do you question their dedication to the album? Or is that only reserved for Michael?" you challenge.

Joseph looks directly at you, but this time he doesn't answer right away, because all three of you already know the truth. This was never really about marriage being a distraction.

It's about Michael: the money maker, the center of the Jackson family machine.

Softer footsteps sound in the hallway, a completely different rhythm from Joseph's heavy presence, and a second later, Katherine Jackson walks into the kitchen. The second she steps inside, she immediately feels the tension hanging in the room.

Her eyes move across all three of you quickly, taking everything in at once: Joseph standing rigid near the doorway, you pressed protectively against Michael, and the way Michael is trying so hard to look steady despite the fear still lingering tightly underneath his composure.

"Well, good morning, is everything alright?" Katherine asks.

Her voice is gentle, but there's caution beneath it now as she studies the room more carefully. She sees how intense Joseph looks, sees the way you and Michael are standing your ground while still visibly on edge beneath the pressure of the confrontation.

Joseph turns toward his wife sharply. "Your son ran off and got married over the weekend," Joseph snaps.

Katherine's eyes widen slightly at the words, genuine surprise flickering across her face before she settles herself almost immediately. Unlike Joseph, she doesn't react with anger first. Instead, her attention shifts directly to you and Michael, and when she starts walking toward you both slowly, your stomach tightens all over again.

Because her opinion matters more.

Joseph's anger is intimidating, but Katherine's disappointment would hurt.

You've always had a good relationship with Katherine. She's always treated you warmly, lovingly, like you already belonged here long before this. But you also know that being LaToya's best friend and Michael's girlfriend is very different from secretly eloping with her son without telling her.

Katherine reaches you both and gently takes your hand first before taking Michael's too, her touch calm and grounding as she examines the rings resting on both of your fingers. The kitchen stays painfully quiet while she looks at them, and you can feel your heartbeat pounding harder the longer she says nothing.

Then Katherine lets out a slow breath before lifting her eyes back to both of you.

"Are you two happy?" Katherine asks as she squeezes your hands.

The question catches you slightly off guard because it's so simple, not accusatory or angry, just honest. You nod immediately, and beside you, Michael nods too.

"We are. I'm sorry we didn't tell you so you could've come with us, Mother," Michael says.

There's guilt in his voice now, softer than before, because unlike with Joseph, this is someone whose feelings genuinely matter to him in a completely different way. Katherine nods slowly as she squeezes your hands again, and the tension in your chest tightens while you wait for her response.

"Thank you, baby... If you both are happy, then I am too," Katherine says.

The relief that rushes through you is so immediate it almost makes you dizzy, and you let out a breath you didn't even realize you'd been holding this entire time. Beside you, you feel Michael's body loosen slightly too, some of the tension finally easing from him for the first time since Joseph walked into the kitchen.

Katherine gently pulls you into a hug, then, sensing your nerves immediately and wanting to calm you down, the kindness of it almost overwhelms you after how tense the room has been.

"You've always been family sweetheart, from the first day LaToya introduced you to us... now it's just legally official," she says. Your eyes sting slightly at the softness in her voice, and you smile as you hug her back.

"Thank you, Momma Katie," you whisper to her.

"Katie, are you serious!?" Joseph snaps.

The sharpness of his voice cuts through the warmth of the moment immediately, but Katherine doesn't flinch. She slowly pulls away from the hug before turning to face her husband, and there's a calm steadiness in her expression that makes the contrast between them even more obvious.

"Five of our other children are married, Joseph... I don't see the issue," Katherine says.

The same point you made earlier. Why is Michael the one being singled out? But everyone in the room already knows the answer to that question, even if nobody says it out loud.

"So you're telling me you're okay with this?" Joseph asks.

"We'd be hypocrites not to be," Katherine says simply before she leaves the room.

The kitchen falls quiet again after she's gone, but the energy has shifted now. Joseph no longer has Katherine backing his anger, and all three of you know it.

Joseph looks directly at the two of you, his jaw tight with frustration, before he points a finger at Michael.

"You'd better stay sharp, boy," Joseph says before he storms out of the kitchen.

The second he's gone, you feel Michael loosen behind you almost immediately, like his body had been braced for impact the entire conversation and is only now allowing itself to breathe again.

You turn around right away and wrap your arms around his torso, laying your head against his chest as he hugs you close without hesitation, his arms tightening around you like he needs the comfort just as much as you do.

"Are you okay?" he asks. Your eyes soften. Even after all of that, he asks about you first.

You nod against him before lifting your head slightly. "Are you?" you ask.

Michael sighs softly before kissing the top of your head, lingering there for a second. "Always... I have you," he says. The words make your chest ache warmly because you know he means them completely. For all the fear Joseph still puts in him, Michael still chose this. He chose you.

But then his expression shifts slightly, some of the softness dimming as reality creeps back in again.

"But we all know why he wouldn't say why it's such a big deal for me to be married compared to everyone else... the money maker can't be distracted," Michael says.

You frown immediately at the bitterness underneath the words. "Stop that, Michael... you're more than that," you remind him.

He shrugs, but the movement feels heavier than casual indifference. "Not to him," he says.

Your heart twists painfully at how easily the words leave his mouth, like this belief has been carved so deeply into him that he doesn't even question it anymore. You shake your head immediately before lifting your head fully from his chest, so he has no choice but to look at you.

"But to me and everyone else, you're more... and you need to be more to yourself, too. What Joseph says isn't who you are. You determine who you are," you say.

Michael's eyes stay on yours the entire time, softer now, quieter, and after a second, he cups your cheeks gently in both hands before leaning down to kiss you.

The kiss is slow and grounding, nothing desperate about it, just warm and full of feeling as your hands settle against his torso while you kiss him back. When Michael finally pulls away, his thumb lightly trails across your jaw as he looks at you with that same softness that somehow never disappears, no matter how hard the world is on him.

"Right now, I'm more than happy being your husband," Michael says.

A smile immediately pulls across your face, and you lean in to give him another quick peck. "Goof," you say. Michael smiles.

You go back to cooking like you had been before you were interrupted, although the atmosphere in the kitchen feels different now. Softer again. Not completely untouched by what just happened, because you can still feel remnants of the tension lingering beneath the surface, especially in Michael, but lighter than before.

The normalcy of cooking helps. The sound of the pan, the smell of breakfast filling the kitchen again, the quiet domestic rhythm returning little by little, it settles both of you more than either of you says out loud.

Michael stays close the entire time.

Sometimes leaning against the counter beside you, sometimes brushing against your shoulder when he reaches for something, like after everything with Joseph, he doesn't quite want space between you right now. And honestly, neither do you.

Once everything is made and the two of you are finally settled at the table together, plates full in front of you, softer footsteps sound in the hallway again before LaToya and Janet come back into the kitchen.

"Are you guys okay? We heard Joseph yelling," LaToya says. There's genuine concern in her voice immediately, her eyes flicking between you and Michael as if checking for damage after the confrontation.

Michael nods. "Yeah, we're okay. Get some breakfast and join us," Michael says.

You smile and nod in agreement immediately, and the tension in the girls' shoulders visibly eases at the invitation. The normalness of it helps all of you, pretending for a little while that this is just another morning at Hayvenhurst instead of the morning after you secretly married Michael Jackson in Vegas.

LaToya and Janet move around the kitchen making their own plates from the breakfast you made: pancakes, bacon, eggs, toast, and of course, orange juice from the fridge because Michael loves orange juice and there is somehow always enough stocked in this house specifically for him.

The familiarity of all of it settles warmly around you. When the girls finally sit down, Janet looks at you and smiles, still clearly trying to process everything.

"So you two are really married?" she asks.

You nod immediately, unable to stop your own smile from spreading again at hearing someone say it out loud. "Yeah, is that okay with you?" you ask in a teasing tone.

Janet rolls her eyes slightly in that younger sibling way that immediately makes Michael laugh under his breath beside you. Janet is the baby of the family, adored by everyone in this house, but you know she's especially attached to Michael, LaToya, and Randy.

"Yeah, there are a lot of boys in this family, it's nice to have another girl," Janet says as she shrugs before starting to eat her food.

The answer makes you laugh immediately, and beside you, Michael laughs too, the sound softer and freer than it had been all morning. Even LaToya laughs, shaking her head affectionately at Janet while the heaviness from earlier continues easing little by little.

Then your attention shifts toward LaToya.

Your chest warms slightly just looking at her because you know none of this would exist without her. Without the sleepovers after school. Without years of friendship. Without her pulling you into this family long before you ever became Michael's wife.

Her opinion matters to you, too. "What about you, Toya?" you ask.

LaToya looks at you for exactly one second before laughing. "You've been my sister for over 10 years... I was just waiting on the two of you to catch up and make it official," LaToya says.

The words immediately make you and Michael look at each other at the same time before both of you quickly look away again, and the reaction only makes everyone laugh harder because it's obvious both of you are blushing now.

You can physically feel the heat in your cheeks, and beside you, Michael bites down on his lip shyly while reaching for his orange juice, clearly trying and failing to hide how flustered he is.

The four of you slowly settle into breakfast after that, eating and talking and laughing together while the girls tease both of you endlessly about secretly getting married without telling anyone. Every few minutes, Janet gasps dramatically about how offended she is that she didn't get to come to Vegas, while LaToya keeps pointing out how obvious it's been for years that the two of you were going to end up married anyway.

And little by little, the earlier tension with Joseph fades further into the background as you and Michael focus on the people at the table who are happy for you instead.

You did not doubt that the second LaToya and Janet went upstairs earlier, LaToya probably called every single one of their siblings and told them the news already, so you fully expected you'd be hearing from the rest of the Jackson family later.

But for now, sitting beside your husband while laughter fills the kitchen again, that future feels far enough away that you can let yourself enjoy this moment first.

────୨ৎ────

The moment comes sooner than expected.

One minute, you and Michael were upstairs in his room after cleaning up the kitchen from breakfast and getting ready for the day, enjoying the quiet little bubble you kept managing to find your way back into whenever you were alone together. The next minute, you're both seated in the living room with all of his siblings standing in front of the two of you, staring at your ringed fingers in varying levels of shock, disbelief, amusement, and excitement.

Apparently, LaToya's phone calls had worked fast.

The room is loud in that distinctly Jackson-family way, everyone talking over each other while simultaneously trying to process the fact that Michael, the shy, soft-spoken youngest brother they all still instinctively baby despite his fame, had secretly gone to Vegas and gotten married.

"Wait, so you're really married?" Marlon asks as his eyes bounce between your ring and Michael's again, like he's still trying to make it make sense.

"Yes," you say.

"Marriage license and everything?" Rebbie asks, and Michael laughs immediately beside you.

"Yes!" Michael says, smiling as he shakes his head, the disbelief in everyone else's reactions clearly entertaining him now that the initial stress of Joseph finding out has passed.

There's something lighter about him again, sitting here with his siblings. The tension that had wrapped itself tightly around him earlier is gone now, replaced by excitement and nervous happiness that keeps slipping out every time somebody calls you his wife.

"My god... who would've thought little Michael would sneak off to Vegas and elope," Jackie says.

The comment immediately makes everyone laugh because it's true. Out of all the Jackson siblings, Michael honestly might've been the last person anybody expected to secretly run away and get married. And of course, once all the siblings gathered downstairs, they made you and Michael tell the full story of how the marriage happened in the first place.

"Did Joseph have a heart attack?" Tito asks.

"Unfortunately not," you say.

That gets another round of laughter out of everyone, even Michael, who drops his head slightly as he laughs beside you while absently rubbing circles against the back of your hand with his thumb.

"Ya'll should've seen the way she stumped Joseph, too. She challenged him about why he was being so hard on me for getting married and not getting distracted from the group, but not the rest of you," Michael says as he gestures toward his brothers.

The second the words leave his mouth, all of their expressions shift slightly.

Their eyes widen as they look toward you because they all understand exactly what Joseph hadn't said out loud. None of them is confused about why Michael marrying young suddenly became such a catastrophe when several of them had done the exact same thing.

Because Michael isn't treated like the others.

"No way," Tito says.

Michael nods immediately, and there's something almost proud in the smile on his face as he looks over at you, like seeing you stand up for him against Joseph affected him more deeply than he's fully saying out loud.

"What did he say?" Marlon asks.

You laugh softly. "Nothing... granted, that was also when your mother walked into the room, but I don't think Joseph would've had a response either way," you say.

That gets another round of laughter from the siblings, though there's understanding underneath it too. They all know Joseph well enough to know you backed him into a corner with that question.

"Oh, god... Mother! How did she take it?" Rebbie asks. Michael's expression softens immediately at the mention of Katherine, and you feel his fingers tighten gently around yours before he answers.

"I think what upset her the most about it is that she wasn't there... and I did feel guilty about that, because it would've been wonderful to have Mother there... to have all of you there, really... but I also wanted this to be just us," Michael says as he squeezes your hand.

You look over at him immediately when he says it, warmth spreading through your chest all over again because you know exactly what he means. Vegas had been intimate and perfect and entirely yours in a way neither of you regretted, but that didn't mean you didn't love these people too.

"Michael, we understand, and we're happy for you... really. We all knew this was coming anyway," Jackie says with a smile. The sincerity in his voice visibly eases something in Michael again, and you can see it in the way his shoulders loosen slightly beside you.

"I was thinking about maybe doing another ceremony here... so all of you can attend," Michael says.

Immediately, his siblings' faces light up. The energy in the room shifts all over again, excitement replacing shock now as everyone starts reacting at once, already talking over each other about the idea before Michael turns toward you.

"And so your family can come too," he continues.

Your expression softens instantly at the thoughtfulness behind it. He already gave the two of you the intimate ceremony that belonged only to you both, but now he's thinking about everyone else too, about your mother getting to see you walk down an aisle, about Katherine getting to witness her son marry you properly, about your families getting to share in this happiness instead of only hearing about it afterward.

And honestly, the idea sounds perfect.

You smile while nodding your head. "That's a really good idea, Michael," you say with a smile.

Michael smiles too immediately, looking relieved and happy that you love the idea as much as he does, and he leans over to give you a quick kiss before standing up from the couch.

Almost instantly, his brothers surround him.

The room fills with teasing and congratulations as they start talking all over him, Tito clapping him on the shoulder while Marlon dramatically complains about not getting invited to Vegas. Michael laughs through all of it, smiling shyly but brighter than he has in days, and watching him like this: happy, relaxed, surrounded by people who genuinely love him, makes something warm settle deeply in your chest.

Meanwhile, the girls move over to join you on the couch.

Janet immediately curls up beside you and looks up at you expectantly. "Can I be a flower girl?" Janet asks. You laugh immediately, the request so earnest and hopeful that it's impossible not to smile wider.

"Janet, you're almost a teenager, wouldn't you rather be a bridesmaid instead?" you ask.

Janet's eyes widen instantly before a huge smile spreads across her face. "Really?" she asks.

You laugh again while nodding.

"Of course," you say before turning toward Rebbie. "I was wondering if maybe Stacee would be the flower girl, and you would be another bridesmaid?" you ask.

Rebbie's expression softens immediately at the suggestion. Rebbie has two daughters, and Marlon has one too, but Rebbie's younger daughter and Marlon's daughter are still toddlers, whereas Stacee is seven now, old enough to actually understand what being the flower girl means.

And judging by the emotional look on Rebbie's face, she already knows Stacee is going to lose her mind with excitement. Rebbie smiles immediately, warmth spreading across her face in a way that softens the last of the lingering tension from the morning.

"Of course, we'd both be honored," she says.

The sincerity in her voice makes your chest warm because there isn't even a second of hesitation in her response. Just love.

Then LaToya clears her throat dramatically from beside you, and when you turn toward her, she's already giving you a teasing look that immediately makes you laugh because you know exactly what she's about to say.

"You forget about me?" LaToya asks.

You laugh immediately, reaching for her hand. "How could I forget about the person who brought me into this family? I need you as my Maid of Honor," you say.

The reaction is immediate.

LaToya's eyes instantly water before she throws her arms around you, hugging you tightly enough that you laugh softly against her shoulder. The emotion catches up to her quickly, and honestly, it catches up to you, too. Because she really did bring you here. None of this would exist without her inviting you over all those years ago, without childhood sleepovers turning into family dinners and movie nights, and eventually falling in love with her little brother without even realizing when it happened.

Then suddenly, all the girls are hugging you.

Janet practically launches herself into the embrace while Rebbie wraps her arms around both of you, too, and for a moment, you're surrounded by warmth and perfume and overlapping laughter as they hold onto you tightly as if you've officially become something that, truthfully, you've already been to them for years.

"I know we have four other sisters-in-law... but you're our favorite," Janet says.

The comment immediately makes all four of you burst into laughter, loud enough that it echoes through the living room, and you barely even notice Michael turning around. The second he sees the three of his sisters wrapped around you while you hold onto them just as tightly, his entire expression softens.

Something emotional flashes across his face so quickly and openly, because to him, this means everything.

It makes his heart clench with love and adoration watching all of you together like this, watching the people he loves most seamlessly wrapping themselves around each other, and in that moment, he feels overwhelmingly grateful that you and LaToya became friends all those years ago and that she brought you home for a sleepover.

His life wouldn't have been the same without that moment. Without you.

For a second, he just stands there watching you quietly while his brothers continue talking around him, his gaze fixed entirely on you with that same softness that always appears whenever he looks at you for too long. Then Tito nudges him hard enough to pull him back into the conversation, making Michael laugh under his breath before his brothers immediately drag him back into whatever teasing they'd been doing before.

Meanwhile, the girls slowly pull away from the hug, though everyone still stays crowded close together on the couch.

"We've also never seen Michael this happy since before all the fame," LaToya says.

The words hit you quietly but deeply.

Your eyes soften immediately because you remember that conversation with Michael perfectly. The night he admitted how lonely he felt, how isolating all of this had become despite constantly being surrounded by people. You remember the exhaustion in his voice when he told you how fame made him feel loved by everyone and truly known by almost nobody.

And you remember the way he looked at you after telling you that, like you were the first place he'd felt understood in a very long time. You had made that loneliness better for him.

Not the fame, not the success, and not music. You.

The realization settles heavily and warmly inside your chest as you sit there surrounded by his family's love and acceptance, and for the first time since Joseph walked into that kitchen earlier, you let yourself fully settle into the fact that this is real.

You're his wife.

And despite the fear and tension and uncertainty, you were grateful to be here now, sitting in this living room surrounded by people who genuinely loved both of you.

You weren't going to let Joseph bring you down.

He didn't intimidate you before, and he wasn't going to start now, and more than that, you weren't going to sit back and let him continue controlling Michael through fear either.

Before, you had just been LaToya's best friend and Michael's girlfriend. Back then, there had always been a line you didn't feel entitled to cross, moments where you bit your tongue because this wasn't technically your family, and you didn't feel like you had the right to step fully into those confrontations.

But things were different now. Now you were Michael's wife, and you weren't going to tolerate Joseph's treatment of him anymore. Not quietly. Not while watching the man you love slowly convince himself he's only valuable when he's performing for somebody else.

Your thoughts break apart when you look up and catch Michael turning around across the room. The second your eyes meet, his expression softens all over again, and he lets out a slow, contented breath before smiling at you.

"I love you," he mouths silently. The words make warmth bloom through your chest instantly.

You smile back at him immediately. "I love you more," you mouth back.

Michael's smile widens in that shy, boyish way that still somehow makes your heart race after all these years, and he ducks his head slightly while his brothers immediately start teasing him for smiling at you like that.

The rest of the afternoon passes wrapped in warmth and noise and laughter.

You spend hours with Michael's siblings talking, playing games, and teasing each other while plans for the second ceremony slowly begin forming around all of you, naturally. Janet becomes deeply invested in bridesmaid dresses within ten minutes, LaToya immediately starts talking about decorations, and Rebbie starts mentally organizing family logistics before anyone even asks her to.

And sitting there beside your husband while the people you both love surround you, you realize the second ceremony will be different from Vegas. The first wedding had belonged only to the two of you, and this one would be filled with just as much love as the first.