jaafar jackson’s muse

Michael kicked the door open with his foot, impatiently dragging you through the threshold of the room's door, his groans ripping through his throat and out into the quietness of the room. His hands traced the silhouette of the beautiful outfit you wore, which nearly made him want to cut the wedding short just to take you back to the hotel.

“So gorgeous," he cooed in between kisses, the feeling of your body pressed against his like a puzzle piece seemingly heating up the already cool room.

“Michael…” you whispered, tugging at his already crooked tie as he moved backwards towards the bed, the back of his knees hitting the edge of the bed, causing him to tumble onto the bed, a low chuckle escaping his mouth as you climbed on top of him, your legs straddling each side of his body, his oversized hands roaming all over as you leant back, breaking the kiss.

You leant back down, your breath tickling his collarbone, causing him to laugh. “God, Michael, I'm really trying to keep this romantic, and here you are laughing," you sighed, pulling back, a smile forming on your face as you spoke.

"I'm sorry, baby, I really am; it just tickled." He tried to hold in another laugh that built up in his chest, ultimately deciding that it was for the best to just let it out. The sound of his sweet laughter spilling out into the room. He took a deep breath, calming himself before he spoke again.

“C'mon, let's try again." He placed his hands on your waist, that pretty boyish smile that made you first fall in love appearing on his face.

"No, you absolutely killed the mood."

“Did not”

“Did too."

“I didn't kill a thing."

“Keep telling yourself that," you snickered as he pulled you in for another kiss. This time the button of his cuff got caught on your earring, earning a quiet yelp from you.

“Wait, Michael, be still my earring is stuck," you whined, watching the sheer panic that fell across his face as he tried to keep himself from moving, watching as you carefully released your earring, his face relaxing.

“We're terrible at this," you sighed before laughing again.

“Yeah, it was going so well too." He put his fingers on the bridge of his nose, shaking his head, letting out a slick laugh, before the sound of his stomach gave way to the lingering hunger he'd been hoping to hide.

“Mike, are you hungry?” he nodded slowly, another grumble leaving the safety of his stomach.

“All that dancing tonight really made you hungry, huh?” You rolled off of him, heading to the phone, laughing, reminiscing about the exact moment Michael managed to clear out the entire dance floor.

"Let's order a bunch of room service; I'm still sad we didn't get to eat the cake." You dialled the numbers on the small phone, your own stomach growling at the thought of a platter of food.

"Ma, can you order orange juice?" he whispered, making his way from the bed to you, his hands now placed firmly on your hips, his head resting in the crook of your neck.

"Oh, and mac and cheese. Oh, and also that really nice fruit platter," he whispered again.

Not only did the two of you order food that was way more than your stomachs could handle, but it wasn't just one cart of food; it was two.

©angelfacediary

“where were you just at?” autumn—you’d finally learned her name a few days ago—asks you. you pull your legs under you, smoothing your dress to make sure the cameras weren’t getting a peak at something they shouldn’t be.

you debate answering or just plainly ignoring her. she was the other half of the couple jermajesty left when you came in as a bombshell and you haven’t had the chance to talk. in fact, it seemed that she avoided you most of the time. “talking to maj, why?” you finally reply. autumn doesn’t respond. deanna, your ride or die in the villa, side-eyes you with a smirk on her face. you bite your lip to hide a smile as another girl begins to share her feelings about the dumping.

on the other side of the pool area, the boys share their own discussion. jermajesty sits on the end silently as the other six boys speak. he offers half-hearted hums and nods of acknowledgement/agreement as he thinks about you. the only thing that brings him out of his head is the mention of your name. someone’s just asked brandon how he feels being coupled up with you. jermajesty has to fight down the sudden disgust he feels in his body as brandon’s face lights up. 

“good, bro, i feel really good about it. obviously, we’re new but the date was perfect. we never ran out of shit to talk about. her being sexy is a plus.” brandon is met with claps on his back and another boy daps him up, but jermajesty outright laughs. 

loudly. in brandon’s face.

“what up, bruh?” brandon questions. jermajesty can barely hear him over his own laughter, but he finds his breath and replies, “enjoy that shit while you can.”

the boys fall silent, save for muffled snickering. jermajesty smiles easily as he meets brandon’s eye, “nah, i’m playing. no hard feelings.”

but, jermajesty wasn’t playing. not really. 

that night he lays in the bed beside yours (and brandons), alone. he watches you walk in from the makeup room in tiny shorts and a shirt that stops where your shorts do. you bend your knees and jump childishly into your bed and turn your head to face him. your face is bare and your hair is pulled back by a printed satin scarf. your sleepy smile makes jermajesty’s heart flip.

he gets up, quickly looking around the room—only a few people in it, others getting ready for bed— and making sure no one could see as he bends down and presses three sweet kisses to your mouth. he grabs the extra pillows from the top of your bed and proceeds to line four up in the middle. an attempt to block you and brandon from being close. a giddy giggle leaves you when you realize what he’s doing.

“don’t let that nigga touch you, for real.” he murmurs as he bends back down to your face. 

“you might be the most jealous person i’ve ever met, bro.” you laugh even harder at his top lip curls. 

“not your bro.” jermajesty turns his head as the door opens, making sure it’s not brandon before turning back to you. he did feel a little bad for the new bombshell— he’d teased him enough tonight and felt like brandon didn’t need to see the pure adoration on your face as you look at him on top of it all. “you gon’ let him touch you?”

“no, maj,” you whisper sleepily, eyes fluttering shut before opening again to meet his dark eyes. jermajesty looks satisfied as he lays back down in his bed. if the producers weren’t a thing, he’d pick you up and tuck you against him, brandon be damned.

twenty minutes later, the lights go out. brandon doesn’t mention the pillow block which you appreciate. you don’t face him at all that night. in fact, you lay on your stomach with your arm stretched across the shared nightstand. jermajesty’s arm stretches across the other side.

you both fall asleep with your fingers interlocked in the middle.

the next morning, you finish your makeup and your breakfast around the same time. brandon brings you something you dislike— though you can’t blame him because he didn’t know. jermajesty brings you a smoothie, perfectly scrambled eggs, and pancakes in the shape of a heart. 

you share secret smiles when you see each other in the kitchen. your smile slightly drops, though you force it back up, when brandon asks to pull you for a chat. the two of you sit where you had your first conversation with jermajesty, and get to know each other better. as his couple, you owed it to him to try.

but, god he was so boring. you don’t laugh a single time and at certain points your conversation fades into a semi-awkward silence. he goes in for a kiss when you both stand to part, and you turn your head so it meets your kiss with a grimace on your face. you pray he doesn’t bring it up as you hug him and walk back to the main area. 

hours pass with you doing yoga with deanna and sarah, giving advice to isaac and deon about their couples, and soaking up the time those fucking producers finally allow you in the pool. out of the corner of your eye, you see jermajesty stand from where he sits with a few of the boys and cup his hands around his mouth to scream, “i got a text!”

the text ends up being the announcement of another challenge called “kissing booth”, where all of you in the villa share a kiss—blindfolded and headphones on— and rate it on a scale of 1-10. you can tell when jermajesty kisses you from how demanding and passionate it feels, and make sure that kiss lasts the longest. 

you get a 10 from four of the boys. jermajesty gets a 10 from four of the girls and you’re both crowned the winners.

you don’t get anything besides bragging rights and a ‘party’ which doesn’t really count, because it would happen whether you won or not. some of the islanders are beginning to show interest in new people, and you watch as both autumn and asia pull jermajesty for separate chats. you feel confident in him and the things he tells you, though, so you don’t question it.

unfortunately, you barely look at brandon that night. you’d rated his kiss a five without knowing it was him and still felt a little guilty about it. only a little.

you get pulled for a chat by one boy, and watch as two others get discouraged halfway to you by the look on jermajesty’s face a few feet away. 

it’s nearing the end of the party when you feel a hand slide across your lower back, warm and possessive even through the thin fabric of your matching set.

you feel the warmth of his breath fan across your neck as he bends down, mouth grazing your ear. “come take a walk with me real quick,” jermajesty murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear it over the music and chatter. 

he leads you through the villa, past the kitchen where a few islanders are making drinks. you expect him to stop at soul ties or one of the day beds, but he keeps going until you reach an outdoor area you don’t see often— tucked away enough that it’s unlikely someone will wander over. theres a wide cushioned bench against a wall in the corner, partially hidden by the decorative plants scattered around. he sits down before pulling you down, directly onto his lap.

“they’re gonna call bedtime soon, just wanted to be around you before i gotta sleep without you again.” jermajesty wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer and resting his head in the crook of your neck. “i wanna know more about you. the real you, outside of here.”

there’s something disarming about the way he says it— genuine curiosity mixed with that ever-present intensity. you shift to face him better, now with your butt on the bench, legs over his lap, and back against the wall. he immediately wraps a hand around your leg, rubbing up and down. “what do you wanna know?”

“everything.” his hand moves up to your thigh and back down to your ankle. “but we can start small. tell me something nobody else in here knows about you.”

“uh… shit, should i be serious or goofy?” you laugh nervously as he gives you his complete attention. when he replied serious, you continue. “i’m… kind of terrified of being abandoned. like genuinely. the second i feel someone pulling away, i build all these walls around what i actually feel and just wipe them from my memory.”

he’s quiet for a movement, his hand stilling on your leg. you can feel him processing what you said, and for a second you wonder if you’ve said too much. but then he shifts, slipping a hand under the fabric of your top to rest half on your hip and half on your stomach. his thumb rubs soothing circles into your skin.

“that ain’t crazy,” he says softly. “that’s just human. i think most people have that fear, but they just don’t admit it. i get it though. the walls thing— i do that too, just in a different way. in my head i think that if i hold people tight enough, they can’t leave.”

you lift your head to look at him, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression. “so we both got our shit,” you say, in an attempt to lighten the mood slightly.

“yeah, we do.” jermajesty catches your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss the inside of your wrist. “but at least we know what we’re working with, right?”

your stomach flips as you hold eye contact. “can i ask you something?”

“go ‘head.”

“what’s the craziest thing you've ever done before? like before all this?”

he's quiet for a moment, thinking. "probably the time i snuck out to go to a party when i was sixteen. my dad had this whole security thing 'cause of who we are, you know? and i was tired of being watched all the time. so i climbed out my window, jumped off the roof, and went to this party in the valley."

“did you get caught?”

“hell yeah. came home at like three am and he was sitting in the living room waiting for me. my heart fell to my ass,” he chuckles at the memory, “but he just looks at me and goes ‘you could've asked, i would've let you go’. made me feel stupid as hell.”

you laugh at jermajesty’s impression of his dad, “he sounds so sweet.”

“he is. he’s always been real with me, you know? never tried to keep me in a bubble, even though he could’ve. he just wanted me to be smart about shit.” 

“does it feel weird for you to be here?”

“nah, it’s freeing. like, people see me for me, not for who i’m related to. m’just another person in the villa here.” 

you hum and move your legs so your feet hit the floor before motioning for him to scoot down on the bench. when he does, you turn so your back is facing him and proceed to lay until your head is in his lap. 

jermajesty looks down at you with a look of such admiration that you have to look away. his hand comes down to brush the hair from your face. “what do you wanna do career-wise?” you ask him shortly after.

“music, definitely. it’s in my blood, can’t really escape it.” he pauses but keeps his eyes on you, “what about you? what you trying to do?”

“honestly? still figuring it out. i know i wanna do something creative, something that means a lot to me. but i just haven't found it yet.”

“you will. you got time.”

“do i though? i feel like everyone my age has their whooole life figured out already.”

“nah, nobody has shit figured out, they just pretending they do. you don't gotta have it all figured out right now. as long as you keep moving forward.”

you look up at him with one raised eyebrow, “okay! inspirational ass.”

jermajesty grins, rubs his hands together, and, with a deep voice, says, “type shit, type shit.”

rolling your eyes, you laugh and shove his shoulder. “shut the hell up.”

your laughs mingle and echo in the air surrounding you, fading after some time. you're nervous when you look back up and see him looking at you—seemingly through you— deep in thought. you don’t get to question it before he whispers, “you scare me.”

“i scare you? me?”

“yeah,” jermajesty confirms. “i never felt like this about anybody before. and to be real with you, i don’t know what to do with it. i just know i can't let you go.” your chest feels tight as he continues, “i want you more than i’ve wanted anything in a long time.”

“i want you too,” you admit quietly. “do you think it’s crazy to feel this way, this early in?”

“not gonna lie, i can't even bring myself to care.”

you sit up as he speaks, turning to face him. thinking about everything he’s just said. “you really mean all that?”

“yeah. i do.” 

he kisses you then— soft and sweet and nothing like the demanding kiss from the challenge earlier. this one is gentle, like he's sealing a promise. when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

that night you repeat yesterday, sleeping in your bed with brandon while being attached to jermajesty through interlocked fingers.

not knowing that tomorrow his attention would shift with the arrival of two new bombshells.

-

Jack had been dancing with darkness for as long as he could remember.

Not flirting with it, not merely brushing shoulders with it in passing, but locked in a grim, ancient waltz with the thing, one hand at its cold waist, the other caught in its skeletal grip, dragged across the ballroom of his own mind until the music became indistinguishable from his pulse. Darkness had chased him like a debt collector with his name written in blood, patient and merciless, always lingering at the edge of his vision, always waiting for the slightest misstep, the smallest stumble, the briefest loosening of his grip on the world before it opened its mouth and threatened to swallow him whole.

It had followed him through war, through sand and smoke and the metallic hymn of gunfire, through nights where the earth itself seemed to split open like some starving thing from Greek myth, demanding a sacrifice from every man who dared stand upon it. Jack had given enough. He had given pieces of his peace, splinters of his sanity, the softer chambers of his heart that had once known how to rest without suspicion. He had given his body too, flesh and bone surrendered to the brutal altar of survival, until even his leg became part of the price he paid for making it home alive.

And then there was the job.

Being an attending surgeon was not work so much as it was a second battlefield dressed in fluorescent lights and sterile walls. It was war without the uniform, carnage without the battlefield, the sea forever storming at his feet while he stood on the shore with blood on his hands, trying to drag people back from the tide before it claimed them. The hospital took from him the way the ocean took from sailors in old stories — not all at once, but in pieces, with salt on its tongue and patience in its hunger. It took his sleep, his steadiness, his softness. It took until the man beneath the title sometimes felt like nothing more than wreckage washed up after a storm, breathing only because the world had not yet decided what else to do with him.

Darkness was always there, waiting beneath the surface like Poseidon in a temper, stirring black water in the hollow places of him. It lurked in the quiet after a shift, in the phantom ache where his body remembered what was missing, in the mirror when the man staring back looked too tired to be fully alive. It threatened him in silence, promised him that one day the shore would give way, one day the tide would rise too high, one day he would lose his footing and be dragged under before anyone thought to reach for him.

But it never threatened to consume him when Jamila was there.

Jamila, with her warmth like dawn spilling over ruined land. Jamila, who did not arrive like rescue in some grand, theatrical fashion, but like sunlight through a cracked window, quiet and golden and impossible to keep out. She held his hand as if she could feel the tremor in the parts of him he never named, as if she had studied the weather of his soul and learned how to stand beside him through every season. Where darkness came with teeth, Jamila came with light. Where the world carved him into something sharp and exhausted, she touched him like he was still sacred, still whole, still a man and not merely the aftermath of one.

She was not naive to his shadows. She had seen them stretch across the walls of their home. She had watched him come back from shifts hollow-eyed and silent, watched the war crawl back into his shoulders, watched grief sit beside him like an old ghost that knew exactly where it was welcome. And still, she stayed. Not because she thought love could cure what had nearly killed him, but because she understood that love, real love, was not always a cure. Sometimes it was a lighthouse. Sometimes it was a hand extended across black water. Sometimes it was Persephone carrying spring into the underworld, not because she belonged to the dark, but because even Hades himself had to learn that some things bloom where they have no business blooming.

When Jamila was near, the name Mrs. Abbot stopped sounding like another burden he had placed on someone he loved. It stopped feeling like a curse dressed in a wedding band, stopped sounding like a sentence she had inherited by choosing him. With her hand in his, with her voice threading through the wreckage of his mind, with her sunlight pouring over the jagged cliffs of him, Jack could almost believe that being loved by him was not a punishment.

He could almost believe he was not the storm.

He could almost believe he was the shore she had chosen to come home to.

She had been with him for twenty years.

Twenty years of marriage, twenty years of vows that had been tested not in candlelit rooms and pretty photographs, but in hospital corridors, in sleepless dawns, in grief that sat heavy at the end of their bed, in arguments sharp enough to draw blood without ever breaking skin. Twenty years of the highest peaks and the lowest trenches, of joy so bright it made the sun look borrowed, and sorrow so deep it seemed to open beneath them like the mouth of the sea. Through all of it, Jamila and Jack had remained tethered, not because it was easy, not because love had spared them its storms, but because even when the tide pulled hard enough to split them apart, even when pride and pain made distance feel safer than devotion, they reached for each other anyway.

They had loved each other through every season of the earth.

Through droughts, when tenderness felt scarce and every word had to be pulled from the soil like water from a stone. Through floods, when everything they had buried came rushing back with teeth. Through summers where their laughter filled the house like golden wheat bending under a warm wind, and winters where silence gathered between them like frost over an abandoned field. Still, somehow, they grew. Not always beautifully, not always gently, but stubbornly, like olive trees rooted into ancient Greek hillsides, bent by wind, scarred by weather, yet impossible to uproot.

Jamila was not simply his wife. That word, though sacred, had never been large enough to hold what she was to him.

She was his best friend, the keeper of every unpolished truth in him, the woman who knew where his hands shook, where his anger came from, where his grief lived, where the war still hid in his bones. She was his confidante, the vault where he laid down thoughts he would have swallowed for anyone else, the only person who could look at him in all his ruin and not mistake the wreckage for the man. She was his lover, yes, in every sense the word could bear, the woman whose body had become as familiar to him as prayer, whose touch could call him home from whatever dark country his mind had wandered into.

They had become one more times than either of them could ever count, more times than was decent, more times than was holy, more times than the walls themselves should have had to witness. Yet with Jamila, desire had never been only hunger. It had been language. It had been sanctuary. It had been the old gods placing fire back into Prometheus’ hands and daring the heavens to punish him twice. It had been land meeting sea, wave against shore, not as destruction, but as recognition, as if his body knew hers the way the moon knew how to pull the tide.

She was his air.

Not in the fragile, foolish way men said such things when they wanted to sound poetic, but in the truest and most terrifying sense. Jamila had become part of the invisible architecture of his survival, the breath between one impossible day and the next. She was the reason the world did not collapse inward when the darkness came calling. She was the hand at the back of his neck when the memories rose like black water. She was the voice that reminded him he was not merely a soldier, not merely a surgeon, not merely a man stitched together from duty, bone, and regret.

She was his salvation.

His repentance.

The altar where he learned that love did not always arrive clean, that devotion was not some marble statue carved by gentle hands, but something forged in fire, battered by storms, dragged through the underworld and still somehow returned carrying spring. Jamila had seen every version of him: the man before the worst of it, the man during it, the man after, and the man still trying, every day, to become someone worthy of the woman who had stayed.

And perhaps that was the truth of it.

Jack had spent years believing religion lived in churches, in scripture, in hymns raised toward a distant heaven. But somewhere between Jamila’s hand in his and her body warm beside him in the dark, somewhere between her forgiveness and her fury, her laughter and her stubbornness, her ability to love him without turning him into a project or a punishment, he had found something holier than anything he had ever been taught to name.

He found his religion in his wife.

Not because she was perfect, not because she saved him from every shadow, but because with Jamila, love became the closest thing to grace he had ever touched.

For all the mythology he had built around loving her, for all the sacred language his heart had learned in the chapel of her name, for all the ways Jamila had dragged spring into the underworld of him and made even his ugliest shadows kneel before her light, she was still, presently, standing in their bathroom with her silk robe tied tight around her waist, bonnet sitting high on her head like a crown of domestic authority, looking at him as though he had personally declared war on her entire bloodline.

And all that being said… she was really getting on his nerves at the moment.

“Jack, i’m not playing with your ass ‘bout this, how many times have i told you not to move my things on the counter?”

“Well honey, if your things didn’t take up all the counter-”

“Jack,” she said, voice low and warning, one hand planted on her hip while the other pointed toward the marble counter like it was a crime scene. “I’m not playing with your ass ’bout this. How many times have I told you not to move my things on the counter?”

Jack stood near the sink with his toothbrush still in his mouth, one brow lifted, his prosthetic off for the night and his weight settled with the casual, stubborn balance of a man who had survived war, trauma, surgery, and marriage, but was still foolish enough to argue with his wife over skincare placement.

“Well, honey,” he said after pulling the toothbrush from his mouth, far too calm for the danger he was in, “if your things didn’t take up all the counter—”

Jamila’s eyes narrowed.

The room shifted.

Even the little bottle of niacinamide seemed to know better than to breathe.

“If my things didn’t what?”

Jack paused, because he was brave, not stupid. There was a difference, and twenty years of marriage had taught him the difference in vivid, occasionally painful detail. He looked at the counter, then at the carefully arranged army of Jamila’s products: moisturizers, serums, oils, edge control, perfume, a lash curler, three lip glosses, two combs, a bottle of setting spray, and a jar of something he had once mistaken for face cream and nearly put on his elbows before she snatched it out of his hand like he had reached for the Holy Grail.

He should have retreated.

A wiser man would have laid down his sword, kissed her forehead, and said, You’re right, baby.

Unfortunately, Jack Abbot had never been wise when mildly irritated.

“I said,” he continued, slower this time, like the words might survive better if he sent them out gently, “if your things didn’t take up the whole counter, I wouldn’t have to move them to brush my teeth.”

Jamila stared at him.

Not blinked.

Not reacted.

Just stared.

It was the kind of stare that made lesser men confess to crimes they had not committed. It was Medusa without the snakes, Athena before a war council, Hera when Zeus had once again forgotten how to act like he had sense. Jack had seen men bleed out under pressure with less accusation in the air than what Jamila managed to put into one silent look.

“My things,” she repeated, softly.

Jack’s jaw flexed.

There it was. The trap had sprung.

“Yes,” he said carefully.

“My things,” she said again, taking one slow step toward the counter, “meaning the things I use every single morning and every single night because unlike some people in this house, I enjoy having skin that does not look like it was dragged behind a Humvee.”

Jack pointed his toothbrush at her. “My skin is fine.”

“Your skin is held together by bar soap, trauma, and arrogance.”

He blinked. “That’s a little dramatic.”

“No, baby, what’s dramatic is you taking my vitamin C serum and putting it in the medicine cabinet behind your little military-grade deodorant like I was supposed to go on a scavenger hunt at seven in the morning.”

“It was in the way.”

“It was on my side.”

“You don’t have a side. You have an empire.”

“Yes, and you knew that when you married me.”

That, unfortunately, was true.

Jack looked at the counter again, then back at his wife, who was still standing there in all her righteous beauty, soft and furious and entirely too fine for how much attitude she was giving him. Twenty years in, and she still had the power to make him feel like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down at the sea, knowing full well the tide was about to take him under and somehow still thinking, God, what a view.

“Jamila,” he said, voice dropping into that tone he used when he was trying to be reasonable, which usually meant he was about to make things worse. “I moved one bottle.”

“You moved six.”

“I moved one group of bottles.”

“Oh, so now they got community displacement?”

He closed his eyes briefly.

There she went.

This was the thing about Jamila. She could be the love of his life, his home, his altar, his peace, and still argue like she had been born holding a closing statement. The woman did not simply fuss; she litigated. She built cases. She gathered evidence. She dragged the accused before the court of her irritation and made sure the jury understood motive, timeline, and emotional damages.

Jack, tragically, was the accused.

And the jury.

And the man dumb enough to still be talking.

“Honey,” he said, “all I’m saying is, I live here too.”

Jamila’s mouth fell open.

“Oh, you live here too?”

He immediately regretted everything.

She gave a small nod, the kind women gave when they were not agreeing with you, but arranging your funeral in their head. “That’s interesting. That’s real interesting, because when your boots are by the door, when your jacket is over the chair, when your little hospital badge is on the kitchen island, when your old-man compression socks are sitting on my dryer like they pay mortgage, I don’t touch them.”

“My compression socks are not old-man socks.”

“They got medical technology and disappointment woven into the fabric.”

“They help with circulation.”

“Exactly. Old-man socks.”

Jack pointed at her again, though the fight had already begun to leave him, because she was getting animated now, cheeks warm, eyes bright, robe slipping slightly off one shoulder as she waved her hand toward the counter like Poseidon summoning the sea. She was irritated, yes, but she was also beautiful in that impossible, aggravating way she had always been beautiful; even in a bonnet and house slippers, even half-ready for bed, even scolding him over skincare, she made him feel like some fool sailor who had tied himself to the mast only to realize he wanted the siren to win.

“You know,” he muttered, “for a woman who claims to love me, you sure do enjoy bullying me in my own home.”

Jamila smiled without mercy.

“I love you deeply. That does not mean I won’t hurt your feelings.”

“Clearly.”

“And don’t stand there looking all wounded, Jack Abbot. You’re not the victim.”

“I lost counter space.”

“You lost privileges.”

His head snapped up. “Privileges?”

“Yes.”

“What privileges?”

She leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. “Touching my stuff privileges.”

Jack laughed once, low and disbelieving. “I need permission to move a bottle now?”

“You need permission to breathe near my products if you gon’ act like you were raised in the woods.”

“I was in the army, Jamila.”

“And yet the concept of leaving my serum where I put it seems to be defeating you.”

He stared at her.

She stared back.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the bathroom holding them in that ridiculous, familiar silence that only long marriage could create, where irritation and love sat side by side like old neighbors who had learned to share a fence. Outside the window, the city carried on. Somewhere, an ambulance cried into the night. Somewhere, someone needed saving. Somewhere, the world remained as brutal and unrelenting as it had always been.

But here, in their bathroom, beneath the warm light and the faint scent of eucalyptus, Jack was arguing with his wife because he had moved her skincare.

And God help him, it felt like grace.

It felt like ordinary life.

It felt like proof that the darkness had not won.

Jamila bent to pick up one of the bottles he had displaced and set it back exactly where it had been, with the ceremonial precision of a priestess returning an offering to a temple.

“This,” she said, tapping the bottle, “goes here.”

Jack looked at it.

Then at her.

“It’s half an inch from where I put it.”

“Exactly. Wrong.”

He exhaled through his nose, fighting a smile. “You’re insane.”

“And moisturized.”

That one got him.

A laugh broke out of him before he could stop it, rough and tired and fond, scraping up from somewhere deep in his chest. Jamila tried to hold her stern expression, but her mouth betrayed her, curving at the corner despite herself.

“Don’t laugh,” she warned.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m breathing aggressively.”

“You’re about to be sleeping aggressively in the guest room.”

His smile faded just enough to be theatrical. “Now, why would you punish yourself like that?”

Jamila’s brows lifted. “Punish myself?”

Jack took one careful step closer, testing the waters like a man approaching a shoreline after a storm. “You heard me.”

“Boy.”

There it was. Not Jack. Not husband. Not Dr. Abbot. Just boy, that ancient marital warning, that sacred little word that meant he was dancing barefoot on thin ice and had the nerve to call it choreography.

Still, he stepped closer.

Jamila looked up at him, annoyed and amused, her arms still folded as if she had any real intention of keeping him away. He reached past her, picked up the serum she had just corrected, moved it a single inch to the left, then placed it back exactly where she wanted it before she could cuss him clean out.

Her eyes narrowed again.

“You childish.”

“I’m learning.”

“No, you’re testing God.”

He hummed, leaning down just enough that his mouth hovered near her temple. “Found Him in my wife, remember?”

Jamila’s face softened before she could stop it, and Jack saw it. Of course he saw it. He had spent twenty years learning the language of her expressions, the little betrayals of tenderness she tried to hide when she wanted to stay mad. Her lashes dipped. Her mouth pressed together. Her shoulders lost just a fraction of their fight.

Then, because she was Jamila, she rolled her eyes to recover herself.

“Don’t try to be poetic now because you touched my hyaluronic acid.”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“That is painfully obvious.”

He smiled against her hairline, and she let him, though she made a great show of sighing as if his affection were some great inconvenience she had endured out of charity for two decades.

“You gon’ stop moving my things?” she asked.

Jack slipped an arm around her waist, drawing her in until the warmth of her settled against him, familiar as land beneath tired feet, steady as a lighthouse over black water.

“I’ll try.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him.

“Try?”

He corrected himself immediately. “I will.”

“Thank you.”

“But you have to admit,” he said, because again, brave, not wise, “you do have a lot of stuff.”

Jamila’s smile disappeared.

Jack closed his eyes.

The sea rose.

Jack’s mouth curved before his conscience could catch it.

“If I put my mouth on your pussy, will you let me off the hook, my love?”

Jamila went still for one full second, not because she was shocked exactly, but because even after twenty years of marriage, even after knowing that man in every season of his shame and sweetness, Jack Abbot still had the talent of catching her sideways with something so casually wicked that her brain had to briefly step out of the room and come back with a church fan.

Then she looked at him.

Slowly.

“I miss when you were less crass about oral sex,” she said, voice dry as desert heat, though the corner of her mouth had already begun betraying her. “You used to be shy about that.”

Jack huffed a laugh against her temple, his arm tightening around her waist like he had already decided she was not going anywhere. “I was twenty-five, wounded, in love, and terrified of you.”

“You were not terrified of me.”

“I absolutely was.”

Jamila turned in his hold just enough to look up at him properly, her robe brushing against his chest, her face still arranged in that dangerous little expression that said she had every intention of staying mad if he gave her even half a reason. “You were a whole Army medic, Jack.”

“And?”

“And you’re telling me I scared you?”

He looked down at her like she had asked him whether the sea was wet. “Honey, I had seen war before I married you. That did not prepare me for Jamila Vermont with her feelings hurt.”

That should not have softened her.

It did.

Not visibly enough for most people to notice, but Jack was not most people. Jack had spent two decades reading her like scripture, learning the quiet punctuation of her face, every comma of irritation, every soft little semicolon where anger paused and affection tried to sneak in wearing a disguise. He saw the way her lashes dipped. He felt the way she leaned into him for half a breath before remembering she was supposed to be offended.

“Don’t start,” she warned.

“I’m not starting.”

“You are always starting.”

“I’m standing here peacefully being attacked over a serum.”

“You moved six bottles.”

“One displaced community.”

“Jack.”

He grinned then, and it was unfair, deeply unfair, because he still had that tired, wicked, devastating face of his; the face that looked carved from war and late nights and bad decisions, softened only by the fact that he loved her so openly it made him look almost boyish when he let it. Even with silver gathering at his temples, even with the weight of the hospital still clinging to his shoulders, even with the shadows that sometimes sat behind his eyes like old gods waiting in ruined temples, he could look at Jamila like she was the first sunrise after a flood.

And Jamila hated that.

Well.

She hated how much it worked.

“You think you cute,” she muttered.

“I know you think I’m cute.”

“I think you’re irritating.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

She tried to turn away from him, mostly for dignity, but Jack caught her by the waist with the ease of a man who knew exactly how little she meant it. His hand settled there, warm and certain, not gripping hard, not demanding, just present, the same way he had always been present when the tide rose too high inside himself. He had spent years believing Jamila was the only thing keeping him from drowning, but the older they got, the more he understood that she was not merely the shore. She was the moon too, commanding every dark and restless water in him without ever raising her voice.

“You are not seducing your way out of this,” she said.

“I wasn’t seducing.”

“You offered to put your mouth on me as a legal defense.”

“A strong one.”

“A desperate one.”

“Effective, though.”

Jamila’s eyes narrowed, but that smile was coming now, slow and unwilling, blooming across her face like spring breaking through stone. “You’ve gotten entirely too bold in your old age.”

“Twenty years of marriage will do that to a man.”

“No, twenty years of me letting you get away with too much did that to you.”

Jack dipped his head, his lips brushing the side of her jaw, barely there, just enough to make her breath catch and make her even angrier about the fact that it had. “You make it sound like mercy.”

“It was charity.”

“Mm.” He kissed lower, near the soft place beneath her ear, and his voice dropped into something warm enough to fog the mirror. “Then I’m blessed.”

Jamila closed her eyes for half a second, then opened them with renewed determination, because she was a woman of principle and the principle at hand was that Jack Abbot needed to stop moving her damn things. “You’re not slick.”

“I never said I was.”

“You think because you come in here with that tired voice and that little face—”

“My little face?”

“—and start touching on me, I’m supposed to forget you had my vitamin C behind your deodorant like a hostage.”

Jack laughed, low and rough, the sound loosening something in the room. “A hostage?”

“Yes. A captive. Imprisoned. Wrongfully detained.”

“Should I apologize to it?”

“You should apologize to me.”

His expression shifted then, just a fraction. The teasing stayed, but something gentler came through beneath it, something old and intimate, something that had survived arguments worse than this and silences harder than stone. He brought his hand up, thumb brushing lightly over the side of her face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and this time he was not joking. “For moving your things.”

Jamila studied him, suspicious because he was being sincere too suddenly. “And?”

“And for putting your vitamin C behind my deodorant.”

“And?”

His brow furrowed. “There’s more?”

“There is always more when I’m annoyed.”

“That feels unconstitutional.”

“Marriage is not a democracy.”

“No,” he murmured, drawing her closer. “It’s a kingdom, and you are clearly the tyrant.”

Jamila gasped, hand flying to his chest as if he had wounded her, though her laughter was already breaking through. “A tyrant?”

“A beautiful one.”

“Don’t try to clean it up now.”

“I meant benevolent tyrant.”

“Jack.”

“Radiant tyrant?”

“Baby.”

He sobered immediately, hands lifting in surrender, though his mouth was still threatening to smile. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”

Jamila shook her head, but the fight had gone out of her in pieces, dissolving like salt beneath the warmth of him. This was their problem, really. Twenty years in, and they could still circle an argument like wolves, teeth bared, only to end up pressed together in the middle of the ruins because neither of them had ever learned how to stay away for too long. They had loved through blood, grief, surgeries, ghosts, bad nights, old wounds, and the particular cruelty of ordinary life. A misplaced serum was never going to be the thing that split the earth beneath them.

Still.

She had to maintain standards.

“You gon’ stop touching my things?” she asked again.

Jack nodded, solemn as a man before an altar. “Yes.”

“And when you need space?”

“I will ask.”

“And when you think I have too much stuff?”

“I will remember I enjoy being married.”

“That’s better.”

He leaned in, brushing his nose against hers. “Am I forgiven?”

Jamila tilted her head, pretending to consider it, though both of them knew forgiveness had entered the room the second his hand found her waist. “Partially.”

“Partially?”

“Mhm.”

“What’s the remaining charge?”

“Aggravated arrogance.”

“That one’s chronic.”

“And criminal mouth.”

He smiled slowly. “You usually like my mouth.”

Her eyes flashed up to his.

There it was.

That old spark. That dangerous little flare of heat between them, familiar as the sun rising and still somehow capable of burning the whole house down. Jack watched it move across her face, watched his wife try to hold on to her irritation while desire slipped in behind it like Aphrodite stepping out of seafoam, shameless and luminous and impossible to ignore.

Jamila pressed a finger against his chest. “You are on thin ice.”

He glanced down between them, then back at her. “Good thing I’m fond of drowning.”

“Jack.”

“What?”

“You are so—” She stopped herself, laughing under her breath despite every effort not to. “You are so nasty now.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, soft enough to be sweet, slow enough to be deliberate. “Only for you.”

“That is not the defense you think it is.”

“It’s the truth.”

And God, that was the thing about Jack. He could say something filthy one moment and then something earnest the next, and somehow both would come from the same place in him, from that deep, ruinous devotion that had only gotten worse with age. He wanted her in every language he knew: in touch, in laughter, in prayer, in apology, in heat, in the quiet act of standing beside her while she reorganized a bathroom counter like a woman restoring order to Olympus itself.

Jamila looked at him for a long moment, her eyes softening despite herself.

Then she sighed.

“Put my stuff back exactly how it was.”

Jack nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And then…”

He stilled.

Jamila reached around him, picked up the serum, placed it in his hand, and curled his fingers around it with a slow, pointed smile.

“Then maybe I’ll consider letting you present your little defense.”

***Jack looked down at the bottle in his hand like she had just handed him a legal document, a weapon, and a dare all at once.

“Maybe?” he repeated.

Jamila’s smile was slow, smug, and entirely too satisfied with itself. “Maybe.”

He placed the serum back where it belonged with exaggerated care, adjusting it until it sat precisely in the little invisible kingdom she had assigned it on the counter. Then he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, waiting.

Jamila only lifted a brow.

So he moved the moisturizer half an inch to the right.

Her expression sharpened immediately. “Jack.”

He moved it back.

“Learning,” he said.

“You are not learning. You are playing with me.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted again. “I’ve been doing that for twenty years.”

And that, unfortunately, was the problem.

Because he had.

He had been playing with her, loving her, aggravating her, undoing her, rebuilding her, kissing sense into her and stealing it right back out for twenty years. Jack Abbot could come home looking like the hospital had hollowed him out with a spoon, could limp into their bathroom with the war still sitting somewhere behind his eyes, could argue with her over counter space like a man who had lost his mind over a serum bottle—and still, with one look, one lowered voice, one warm hand settling at her waist, he could make the entire room tilt.

Jamila hated that about him.

Loved it worse.

“You think you’re slick,” she murmured, though she had not moved away from him. That was the first betrayal. The second was the way her fingers curled absently into the front of his shirt, not pulling him closer exactly, but not letting him go either. “Coming in here with that voice.”

“What voice?”

“That voice.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “This is just how I talk.”

“No, it is not. You got a regular voice, a doctor voice, a husband voice, and that one.”

“That one?”

“The one you use when you’re trying to make me forget I was about to cuss you out.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. “Is it working?”

Jamila closed her eyes, just for a second, and hated herself for it. “No.”

“Liar.”

“You gon’ call me a liar in my own bathroom?”

“Our bathroom.”

“My counter.”

“Our house.”

“My serum.”

He laughed softly then, and the sound slid over her skin like warm honey, low and patient, like he was in no rush at all. That was always where he became dangerous. Not when he was direct. Not when he was bold. But when he slowed down, when he stopped trying to win and started trying to unravel her, thread by thread, with all the patience of a man who had learned her body and moods like scripture.

He bent his head and kissed the corner of her mouth.

Not enough.

That was the insult of it.

It was barely a kiss, barely a touch, just the ghost of his mouth against hers, and still Jamila felt it travel through her like a match struck in a dark chapel.

“Jack,” she warned.

He kissed the other corner. “Jamila.”

“Do not start something in here.”

“You invited the defense.”

“I said maybe.”

He hummed, and that hum had no business sounding like a promise. “I’ve worked with less.”

His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, steadying her as if she were something precious and breakable, which annoyed her because he knew good and well she was neither, at least not in any way that gave him permission to be this smug. His mouth moved to her cheek, then to the soft place beneath her jaw, where he knew she was weakest because twenty years of marriage had made him an archivist of her undoing. He knew where she sighed before she meant to. He knew where she held tension. He knew where irritation became warmth, where warmth became want, where want became something too private for words.

“You used to be shy,” she said, though her voice had lost some of its edge.

“I used to be young.”

“You used to blush.”

“I still blush.”

“No, you do not.”

“For you? Sometimes.”

Jamila scoffed, but it came out softer than she intended. “Please. You walked in here talking like a menace.”

Jack drew back just enough to look at her, and there was something wicked beneath the tenderness now, something that made her stomach dip as though the floor had become ocean and she was standing too close to the tide. “You prefer when I ask nice?”

“I prefer when you act like you have home training.”

“My love.” His thumb stroked once over her waist, slow enough to make her breath catch. “You married me. You know exactly what training I have.”

“Clearly not enough.”

“Then teach me.”

Jamila stared at him.

That was it.

That was the thing.

Not the words themselves, though God knew the man had always been good with those when he wanted to be. It was the way he said it. Low. Open. Half teasing, half surrender. Like he was still that younger version of himself somewhere beneath the years and scars, still willing to kneel at whatever altar she made of her body, still willing to learn the shape of her wanting as if he had not memorized it a hundred times over.

Her fingers tightened in his shirt.

Jack noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“You’re quiet now,” he murmured.

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“I’m deciding whether I forgive you or not.”

His mouth dipped to her throat again, this time slower, deliberate enough that her next breath turned thin. “Take your time.”

“You are insufferable.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And arrogant.”

“Sometimes.”

“And entirely too pleased with yourself.”

“Only because you’re still holding onto me.”

Jamila looked down.

Her hand was, in fact, still twisted in his shirt.

She released him immediately.

Jack smiled like a man watching a door unlock.

“Oh, don’t smile,” she snapped, even though her own mouth was fighting her. “I can still be mad.”

“I know.”

“I can be mad and let you kiss me. Women are complex.”

“I’ve spent twenty years studying that complexity.”

“And failed several exams.”

“Passed the practicals.”

Jamila’s mouth fell open. “You are nasty.”

He kissed her before she could decide whether to laugh or fuss.

This time, it was not a brush. Not a tease. Not a little corner-of-the-mouth apology meant to coax her out of her attitude. This kiss had weight to it. History. A whole marriage folded inside it like a love letter kept too long in a drawer. It was soft at first, almost reverent, his mouth moving over hers the way the sea kissed the shore after a storm, not asking to be forgiven so much as proving it knew exactly where it had come home.

Jamila tried, valiantly, to maintain her dignity.

Truly, she did.

But then Jack made that low sound in the back of his throat, the one that always felt less like hunger and more like relief, like kissing her was the first breath he had taken all day, and her annoyance folded on itself like a sail losing wind.

She kissed him back.

Jack’s hand flexed at her waist.

There it was.

The shift.

The argument did not disappear; it transformed. Became fuel. Became heat. Became that old familiar spark that had survived two decades, grief, exhaustion, resentment, laughter, bills, surgeries, career changes, late nights, and every ugly little season marriage had dragged them through. It was ridiculous, really, that after all this time he could still press her against a bathroom counter and make her feel like a girl being kissed for the first time and a woman being worshipped by the only man who had ever truly known how.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was still close enough to hers that every word felt like another kiss.

“Forgiven?” he asked.

Jamila swallowed, pretending she had not forgotten the question. “Partially.”

Jack’s eyes darkened with amusement. “Still?”

“You moved six bottles.”

“I apologized for six bottles.”

“You apologized for two.”

“I implied the rest.”

“That’s not how apologies work.”

He nodded slowly, as though taking instruction. Then, without looking away from her, he lowered himself by degrees, first kissing her mouth once more, then her chin, then the line of her jaw, then the hollow beneath it, each kiss placed with such maddening patience that Jamila’s fingers found his shoulders before she could remember she was supposed to be supervising him.

“Jack.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Do not yes ma’am me while you’re doing that.”

His smile brushed against her skin. “Doing what?”

“You know what.”

“I’m apologizing.”

“You are weaponizing your mouth.”

“A sincere apology requires action.”

She laughed despite herself, breathless and irritated and warm all over. “You are impossible.”

“No,” he murmured, kissing lower, his hands careful on her like she was both a woman and a vow. “I’m motivated.”

The bathroom light gilded the silver in his hair, the strong bridge of his nose, the scarred and weathered places the world had left on him. For a moment, Jamila looked down at him and felt something twist tenderly in her chest, because this was her Jack too—not just the man who made filthy jokes in the bathroom and tested her patience like it was a blood sport, but the man who came back to her again and again from every dark country his mind wandered into. The man who could stand in the wreckage of himself and still find a way to make her laugh. The man who had made a religion of her and still had the nerve to move her skincare like a heathen.

She touched his face.

He stilled under her hand.

That was another thing twenty years had taught them: the body could be loud, but tenderness was louder.

“Baby,” she said, softer now.

Jack looked up at her.

The mischief did not leave him entirely, because God forbid the man behave, but something reverent came through beneath it. Something almost boyish. Something that remembered the first time he had ever knelt before her, not in surrender exactly, but in awe.

Jamila brushed her thumb along his cheek. “You really gon’ stop moving my things?”

His mouth curved. “Yes.”

“Because I’m not playing with you.”

“I know.”

“I need my counter how I like it.”

“I know.”

“And you have your little side.”

“My little side?”

“Yes. With your toothbrush, your deodorant, and that one moisturizer I bought you that you pretend not to like.”

“I use it.”

“Because I told you to.”

“Because my wife takes care of me.”

That slipped into the room quietly.

No joke wrapped around it. No grin to soften it. Just truth, plain and warm, resting between them.

Jamila’s expression eased.

Jack turned his face into her palm and kissed it.

And there it was again: the ache of loving someone for so long that even the smallest thing could become sacred. A serum bottle. A bathroom counter. A kiss pressed to a palm. A man on tired knees, looking up at his wife like she was the island, the lighthouse, and the whole blessed shore after a lifetime of black water.

Jamila sighed, pretending it was annoyance when they both knew it was not.

“You always do that.”

“What?”

“Get sweet when I’m trying to stay mad.”

His eyes lifted, warm and wicked. “I can stop being sweet.”

“Don’t you dare.”

His laugh was quiet, almost swallowed against her skin as he pressed another kiss lower, not rushing, not taking, only asking in the oldest language they knew between them. Jamila’s head tipped back against the mirror, her eyes closing as the tension stretched thin and shimmering, like a golden thread pulled tight between Olympus and the sea.

“Jack,” she whispered again, but this time it was not a warning.

He heard the difference.

He always heard the difference.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

Jamila opened her eyes and looked down at him, at this impossible man she had loved through war and medicine and marriage and grief, this man who could aggravate the living hell out of her and still make her feel chosen down to the marrow.

She took a breath.

Then, with all the dignity she had left, she reached for the nearest bottle on the counter, placed it gently into his hand, and said, “Put this one back too.”

Jack stared at the bottle.

Then at her.

Then he laughed, deep and helpless, his forehead dropping briefly against her stomach as his shoulders shook.

Jamila smiled, triumphant.

“You thought you had me.”

“I do have you,” he said, voice muffled against her robe.

She tilted her head. “Do you?”

Jack looked up then, and that smile of his returned, slow as sunrise, dangerous as low tide.

“Oh, honey,” he said, setting the bottle back exactly where it belonged. “You know I do.”

Jamila’s breath caught before she could stop it.

And Jack, shameless now, devoted now, still smiling like a man who had found both his punishment and his paradise in the same woman, leaned in again—not to win the argument, not quite, but to remind her that some marriages did not end with peace.

Some ended with the bathroom door clicking shut.

Some ended with Mrs. Abbot gripping the counter she had fought so hard to protect, whispering his name like both prayer and accusation.

And some, if Jack had anything to say about it, ended with every bottle left exactly where Jamila wanted it.

the episode opens with the pulsing real housewives of atlanta theme music. glamorous quick cut shot of all the housewives on the cover, holding a peach before cutting to atlanta’s skyline, luxury cars, sprawling mansions, and designer everything flash across the screen. The cast introductions roll: nene leaks owning her foyer, kim zolcack flipping platinum hair in a pink convertible, shereeé whitfield posing on a staircase, porsha williams smiling in a sleek kitchen, phaedra parks waving from her garden.

then your face fills the screen, radiant, glowing beauty with flawless makeup, long silky weave cascading in perfect waves, that massive diamond ring sparkling as you blow a flirty kiss straight to the camera. Your name appears in glittering gold: y/n jackson

JACKSON ESTATE - ATL GA

warm golden sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows of your lavish tuscan villa just outside atlanta. chaos fills the grand living room. the camera cuts to 4-year-old star jackson, you and michael’s daughter. she slides across the polished marble kitchen floor in her sock feet, toy microphone in hand, screaming and bouncing around.

“dada! sing.” she babbles as she screams into the toy microphone again. you enter the frame in a silky champagne robe, hair in loose waves, laughing as you scoop star up and cover her cheeks with kisses. michael stands close by in a simple black sweater and slacks, watching with pure adoration. he reaches over to tickle her belly, earning delighted squeals.

michael gazes softly at you, camera catching the sweet moment. “she gets her energy from you.”

you wink at him over star’s head, leaning in to steal a quick kiss on his cheek. “can’t take all the credit, mr king of pop.”

the camera lingers on michael’s shy, adoring smile as star reaches for his fedora and he gently places it on her head.

CONFESSIONAL - Y/N JACKSON

you were seated in a luxurious cream-colored chair at the estate, wearing a sleek black jumpsuit, diamond ring from Tiffany and Co sparkling.

“hey! I’m y/n jackson. yes, the mrs. michael jackson. i’m 35, bold, bougie, and married to the 50-year-old king of pop himself. we met back in the late ‘90s at an awards after-party. I was this up-and-coming singer, nervous as hell, and he came over all shy and sweet , complimenting my voice. we talked for hours about music, dreams, and fame. one conversation turned into late-night calls, secret dates, and before I knew it I was saying ‘I do’ to the greatest and most sexiest man alive.

together we had our little miracle star in 2003. we’ve been through the tabloids, tours, rumors, and raising this beautiful baby while balancing this wild life. people think i’m hidden away, but honey, I crave the spotlight. some people say that i’m performative and I bring the drama with a smile but life’s too short not to serve. these atlanta girls better keep up because I didn’t come to play , I came to slay, wink at the camera, and remind everybody who the real queen is.”

NENE’S MANSION - ATL GA

a sleek black suv pulls up nene leakes’ massive atlanta mansion driveway. you step out first in a crisp white chanel pantsuit tailored to perfection and jacket nipped at the waist, trousers flowing, red-bottom louboutins clicking along with sounds of your white, birkin bouncing. long silk press bouncing, gold jewelry gleaming, glossy lips and mischievous sparkle ready.

michael follows a few paces behind in black button-up, slacks, signature aura, red armband, and sunglasses , quiet and observant.

the camera catches his soft shy smile as he watches you strut ahead.

you glance back and wink. “come on, baby. let’s give them a little show today.”

you didn’t get a chance to knock on the door before nene practically sensing you were there. nene slipped out the door, arms wide. “okay miss jackson, gurl! you look expensive as hell!”

you pull her into a dramatic hug, air-kissing with flair. “nene, baby, had to show up looking like money! had to represent for the jacksons.” you turn toward your husband, hand on hip. “right, babe?”

michael gives a small shy nod and that adorable smile. cameras zoom in. nene turns to michael, eyes bulging out her head. “michael jackson in my house? okay, I see you!”

inside, the table is set beautifully. kim flips her platinum hair, shereé poses, phaedra smiles politely, porsha looks calculating, squinting. “why is michael here?”

you kept walking. “because he wanted to come and what kind of wife would I be if I said no to my man?” you gagged porsha, as she just slumped in her chair, lips tightening into a smile.

you claim the head seat. “so ladies… who’s ready to spill some real tea? I heard chateau shereé is still under construction… again, what’s the hold up boo?” you say, glancing at shereé and giving her a tight lipped smile.

shereé looks at you, sharply. “it’s a process, y/n. not everyone just marries into billions.”

you rolled your eyes, laughing loudly. “boo your husband is a famous footballer, don’t get it twisted.” you began. “n' baby, I didn’t just marry into it. michael and I built this through everything , raising our baby star together. but yes… I do enjoy the perks.” flirty grin to your man. he gives another shy, proud smile, almost blushing.

“speaking of houses, juneteenth is today and i want to invite everyone to our house, almost everyone. sorry kim.” kim grinned and shrugged, not offended. nene takes in your words, face sour.

“is latoya going to be there?” nene asked making you whine. latoya was on nene’s bad side about something, you weren’t sure.

you nodded. “yes, toya will be there but I’m supposed to be meeting with her after this so we can get you two on a clean slate.” nene huffed, in agreement. she didn’t want to miss the event but hoped latoya wouldn’t make her angry all over again and you know how angry nene can get.

you can see porsha smirking in your peripheral, know she was going to have something to say, definitely not pertaining to what you were talking about. “bringing your husband to girls’ lunch? that’s… different.”

you turned michael, giving him a blowing kiss his way before replying. “why not? he’s my rock. he knows I can handle myself.” michael shakes his head fondly, shy smile deepening.

CONFESSIONAL- KIM ZOLCIAK

“who brings their husband to girls lunch, like really y/n?”

kim smiles politely, trying to keep things light. “It’s nice to see a supportive husband. How do you balance the fame with having a little one at home?”

you warmed up, but still serving energy. “it’s a juggle, honey. star keeps us on our toes. she’s got her daddy’s rhythm and my attitude already. but I wouldn’t trade it. michael’s the calm in the storm, and I bring the sparkle. speaking of sparkle…” you raise your glass. “to new friends, big houses, finished ones and bigger drama.”

phadera chimed in sweetly but with a calculating edge. “amen.”

CONFESSIONAL - NENE LEAKES

“the games begin, ouu chile I wanted to ask michael to do the moonwalk in my living so bad gurl.”

“so michael,” porsha asked, leaning forward, “how do you deal with her?”

you frowned, eyes rolling. “excuse me?”

porsha laughed. “i’m serious.”

michael thinks for a second before answering. “patience.”

the table erupts in laughter but you weren’t laughing . inviting michael was a hit.

GO NAILS, ATL GA, 3:30pm

the camera finds you outside the nail salon first, already smiling when LaToya enters your eyesight.

they hug quickly, familiar and warm.

“hey you,” you spoke, sighing. latoya looks you up and down.

“you’re too calm. that’s suspicious.”

you cackled. “I’m always calm.” latoya doesn’t believe that for a second.

they walk inside together, cameras subtly shifting as they move through the salon.

once seated in their pedicure chairs, the noise settles around them, dryers humming, soft chatter, the usual atlanta background noise that never quite feels like background.

latoya tilts her head. “so what’s going on?”

you exhaled slowly. “nene’s coming to the event.”

that alone changes latoya’s expression. “okay.”

“and she is willing to forgive and forget,” you added.

LaToya gives her a look.

“i didn’t do anything.”

you raised you brows. “no shade, toya. you did call her out her name and you know how nene gets.” you shrugged.

LaToya leans back, slightly defeated. “it’s always a thing with her.”

“I just want peace,” you explained. “for michael. for me. for the house. for juneteenth, my ancestors don’t wanna hear all that mess.” you huffed, shaking your head.

you continued, softer now. “I invited her anyway. I just don’t want you walking in there acting like you need to brace yourself.”

latoya laughs lightly. “me? brace myself?”

“yes,” you nodded, pointing slightly. “don’t be intimidated. don’t overthink it. just enjoy the event.”

then latoya nods. “okay. I can do that.”

you relax a little.“good.”

CONFESSIONAL- Y/N JACKSON

“I just want everyone to show up, enjoy themselves, and not turn my house into a battlefield,” you muttered, fiddling with your chanel earrings. “especially for michael. he doesn’t even like drama. poor baby, just somehow ends up in it.”

back in the salon, latoya smirks. “i’m still not promising nene won’t make it interesting.”

you groaned. “oh trust me, i know. just don’t add to it.”

latoya laughs, the high pitched ‘he he he he’ filling your ears. “no promises.”

the camera lingers for a second too long as the nail tech starts the polish.

tonight was going to be a night.

JACKSON ESTATE - ATL GA- 4:30pm

later that day, the cameras descend on your estate for a Juneteenth cookout. Red, black, and green decorations everywhere, soul food grilling scent of ribs, brisket, collards, mac & cheese, cornbread very potent in the air. music bumping, and the whole vibe celebratory. 10-year-old jaafar and 6-year-old jermajesty run around with little star, playing tag near the bounce house, making the environment warm and playful.

then they came one by one. first, nene steps out of a flashy suv in a bold red and gold caftan that screams “expensive auntie energy,” big statement earrings swinging, hair freshly laid, and strappy heels. she’s giving confident, loud, and ready-to-run-it energy. as soon as she stepped into the mansion, you eyes met with hers. “hey bitchh, this house is niiiice.” she exclaimed, bringing you into a hug.

“thank girls, it’s all me. michael left the job to me.” before you could get another word out, someone else came.

porsha williams arrives next in a chic white sundress with gold accents that hugs her curves perfectly, big sunglasses, and a wide-brim hat. she’s serving fresh, smiling brightly while carrying a bottle of wine.

“heyyy queens.” she squealed, coming toward you and nene. sounds of women squealing and hollering joined the ambiance, along with the sounds of then just like that, someone else came.

shereé whitfield struts up in a stylish black and green jumpsuit with designer shades and statement jewelry, carrying herself like she’s on a runway.

phaedra parks pulls up in an elegant floral maxi dress with a structured jacket over it, pearls, and her signature polished look. “well, this is certainly an event. let’s see what kind of mess we’re walking into today.” she says under her breath before walking in the house.

you’re in a stunning red sundress, flirty and performative as ever, making rounds and hyping the celebration for the cameras.

you turn to the group, raising a glass of lemonade. “juneteenth at the jacksons! family, food, and a little drama because what’s a cookout without it?”

the peace shatters when nene spots latoya jackson arriving. nene’s face changes instantly.

nene speaks, loud enough for the camera. “oh, here we go.”

latoya, makes eye contact, but looks away. nene wastes no time she pulls latoya aside, inside the house toward the kitchen for a “private talk.” the cameras follow eagerly, soaking up every second.

nene’s voice raise as soon as they’re in the kitchen. “you had the nerve to sit on a podcast talking about how you don’t rock with me? latoya I don’t appreciate you using my name in a negative way” she began.

“you tryna act as if I said I didn’t like you and I never said that, and this has nothing to do with personal, this is strictly business.” latoya narrows her eyes at her, in her red dress with a glass of champagne in her hand. “if anything you should say im real, and if you don’t like it, go in the bathroom n' hide!.” nene’s voice got louder.

latoya shot back. “I’m right here, you don’t have to yell.” she says, softy placing her hand on her heart.

CONFESSIONAL- LATOYA JACKSON

“that nene, is a big bully. I promise you. she has a big mouth and that’s all she uses is mouth and heighth and she uses that for her advantage.”

nene continued to yell. “I worked my ass off, while you sat there lookin' like casper the ghost!”

the argument escalates fast into full verbal warfare, loud, animated, fingers pointing, voices overlapping. the production crew is scrambling to capture every angle.

michale hears the commotion and rushes inside, frantic, still holding grill tongs. “toya! nene! please, not today, this is a celebration. let’s calm down.

you follow right behind him, white sundress flowing, trying to play peacemaker while slipping in a little shade. the mixture of yelling and ‘early in the morning’ by gap band was overstimulating you to the highest degree.

you stepped between them, hands up but voice firm with a playful edge. “okay, okay, ladies, we are not doing this on juneteenth in my house! latoya, I love you, but you know how nene gets when she feels disrespected. and nene, sis, you came to celebrate freedom, not start world war III in my kitchen. we can all be grown and talk it out without the whole block hearing.”

some of the jackson siblings who followed inside laugh at the absurdity, a few throwing in “y’all wild for this”, while others try to help cool it down with “come on now” and gentle mediation, especially by janet and rebbie. jermaine remains seated outside in his lawn chair the whole time, just watching the scene unfold with marlon, a calm, almost entertained expression over them, shaking their head slightly. marlon was the most tickled.

nene was still heated, pointing in Latoya’s face.

“be gone casper !”

“are you done?”

michael looks visibly stressed, waving his hands between them. “please… for star, for the family. let’s take a breath.”

you place one hand on michael’s arm reassuringly while shooting a look at both women. “exactly . michael is over here trying to keep the peace like the king he is, and y’all are turning my juneteeth cookout into a reunion preview. handle it with some class or at least take it outside where the cameras can get better lighting.”

the cameras eat up every second of the chaos: raised voices, porsha, phadrea. and shereé jaw agape, michael’s frantic mediation, your calm-but-shady intervention, the jackson siblings’ reactions, and the pure mess unfolding in the jackson kitchen.

after the cookout drama cooled down, filming wraps for the day. one the driveway under the night sky, you pull michael into a playful spin while star sleeps inside. laughter as cameras roll. he holds you close, kisses your forehead, one last shy smile to the lens and him confessing his love for you.

CONFESSIONAL - Y/N JACKSON

you shift in the seat. “I don’t know what to say, those bitches aren’t allowed at my house anymore.”