doll

AUGUST 14, 1979

you had been convinced that painting each other would be easy. that was the first mistake. you had said it so confidently too, sitting beside michael on the floor of your living room with two blank canvases leaned against the coffee table, a pile of paint tubes between you, and the kind of excitement that made you feel like you were about to create something unforgettable. it sounded romantic in your head. it sounded like one of those quiet little moments couples talked about years later, the kind where you both laughed about how messy the paint got and how you ended up with tiny streaks of colour everywhere. the problem was that you had actually didn't think about the fact that painting was, well, painting. you needed skill. you needed patience. you needed some idea of what you were doing. and apparently you had remembered that part. "this is going to be beautiful," you had said, smiling proudly as you picked up a paintbrush. michael had looked at you with that amused little smile of his, the one where he already knew something you did not. "you sound very sure about that," he said, tilting his head slightly. "because i am sure," you replied. "how hard can it be?" he laughed softly, and somehow that should have been your warning.

he was already engrossed, his brow furrowed in concentration, a faint smile playing on his lips as he meticulously mixed a shade of brown. the way his fingers moved, sure and deliberate, was mesmerizing. you tried to emulate his focus, to push away the self-doubt that threatened to creep in. you’d decided on a simple portrait, hoping to capture the essence of him, the light in his eyes, the curve of his smile. but every brushstroke felt clumsy, tentative. you’d accidentally smudged a section, your heart sinking. 

“oh, no, i’ve ruined it already,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. you stare at the smudged section like it’s a personal betrayal, your brush frozen mid‑air, your confidence evaporating faster than the water in the paint cup. michael glances up at you immediately, because he always hears the shift in your voice, always notices the tiny tremors of frustration you try to hide. his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with that warm, familiar amusement that never feels mocking, just tender. “what happened over there?” he asks, leaning slightly to the side as if he might peek, and you block the canvas with your entire arm like you’re protecting state secrets. “don’t look,” you warn, your voice dramatic and miserable, “i messed it up.” he laughs under his breath, that soft little sound that always makes your chest loosen, and he shakes his head as he dips his brush into the blue again. “you didn’t mess anything up,” he says, “you just started.”

but you groan anyway, because the smudge is awful, a weird little blob that looks nothing like the softness in his eyes you were trying to capture. you slump forward, elbows on your knees, staring at the canvas like it personally offended you. “i swear it looked fine in my head,” you mutter, “why is painting so hard?” michael hums thoughtfully, tapping his brush lightly against the rim of the palette. “maybe,” he says, “because you said ‘how hard can it be’ like you were tempting fate.” you glare at him, but he only grins wider, his eyes sparkling with that teasing sweetness that makes you want to throw a paintbrush at him and kiss him at the same time.

you force yourself to focus again, lifting your brush with renewed determination, even though your hand still feels clumsy and unsure. you glance at him from the corner of your eye, watching the way he tilts his head slightly as he studies you, the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks, the way his lips curve into a tiny smile whenever he catches you looking back. he’s supposed to be painting you, but he keeps pausing, keeps watching you instead, and it makes your stomach flutter in that warm, dizzy way you can never quite control. “stop staring at me,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed even though you’re smiling. “i’m painting you,” he replies, “i have to stare.” you roll your eyes, dipping your brush into a lighter shade, trying to fix the smudge with careful strokes. it doesn’t fix. it gets worse. you freeze, horrified. “michael,” you whisper, “i think i made it uglier again.” he bites his lip to keep from laughing, but you see the way his shoulders shake, the way his eyes sparkle with barely contained amusement. “let me see,” he says softly, reaching out like he might gently pull the canvas toward him, and you yank it back instantly, clutching it to your chest. “no,” you say, “you can’t see it until it’s done. i refuse to let you witness this disaster in its early stages.” he laughs fully now, the sound warm and bright, filling the room like sunlight spilling through the windows. “you’re such a goof,” he says.

you shake your head, dipping your brush into a calmer shade, something warm and safe, and you try another stroke, your hand steadier now. he doesn’t tease you for it. he doesn’t say anything at all. he just watches, his expression softening in that way he does when he’s proud of you for reasons he never explains. you glance at him again, catching the way he’s studying your face with that quiet concentration, his brush hovering above his palette like he forgot he was supposed to be painting. “you’re supposed to be working,” you murmur, and he smiles without looking away. “i am,” he says, “you’re my reference.” you try to act unimpressed, but your cheeks warm anyway, and you turn back to your canvas, pretending to focus even though you can feel his gaze like sunlight on your skin. the silence stretches again, soft and easy, broken only by the faint sound of bristles touching canvas and the quiet rhythm of your breaths syncing without meaning to. you make another stroke, then pause, tilting your head as you try to decide if it looks right. it doesn’t. but it’s not awful either. you let out a tiny breath, almost a laugh, and michael’s eyes flicker with curiosity. “better?” he asks, his voice low and warm. “maybe,” you say, and he smiles like that’s enough.

you take another breath, steadying your hand even though your nerves feel like they’re doing somersaults, and you try to add a tiny detail to the corner of his hair, something subtle, something that might save the disaster you’ve created. it does not save anything. it somehow makes the smudge look like it has grown a mind of it's own, like it’s mocking you for ever thinking you could paint a human being. you stare at it, horrified, and your voice comes out small and dramatic at the same time. “michael,” you whisper, “i hope you don’t hate me after you see this.” he freezes mid stroke, his brush hovering above his palette, and then he bursts into laughter so loud and warm that it fills the entire room, bouncing off the walls and wrapping around you like a blanket. he laughs with his whole body, shoulders shaking, head tilting back slightly, eyes crinkling in that way that always makes your chest ache with something soft and steady. “hate you?” he repeats, still laughing, “that’s the funniest thing you’ve said all day.” you try to glare at him, but you’re already smiling, already melting under the sound of his laughter. “i’m serious,” you insist, clutching your canvas like it’s a fragile secret, “you’re going to see this and think i don’t love you at all.” he wiped the smear of paint from his thumb onto his jeans, still smiling, still shaking his head at you like you’re the most ridiculous and adorable thing he’s ever seen. “nothing you paint could ever make me hate you,” he says softly, and the sincerity in his voice makes your stomach flip in that warm, dizzy way that always catches you off guard. you try to hide your face behind your canvas, but he leans slightly to the side, trying to peek, and you pull it back instantly, clutching it tighter. “stop trying to look,” you say, your voice muffled behind the canvas, “you’re not allowed to see it until it’s finished. i’m still trying to make it look like you and not… whatever this is.” he laughs again, softer this time, the sound warm and fond, and he dips his brush into a new shade, something gentle and golden. “you’re adorable,” he murmurs, and you pretend not to hear it even though your cheeks heat instantly.

you don’t know how long you’ve been hunched over your canvas, adding tiny strokes that probably don’t matter, adjusting colours that probably don’t help, trying to fix details that probably can’t be saved. you’re so deep in it that you forget michael exists for a moment, your whole world narrowed down to the stubborn curve of his jawline that refuses to look like anything but a confused blob. you mutter something under your breath, something dramatic and miserable, and you hear him laugh softly beside you, that warm little sound that always makes your chest loosen. he’s already done. you can feel it. he hasn’t said it, but you can sense the stillness in him, the way he’s no longer moving his brush, the way he’s just sitting there quietly. you glance at him from the corner of your eye and your heart stutters. he’s watching you. not impatiently. not bored. just watching you with that soft, in love, admiring expression that makes your stomach flip and your breath catch. his canvas is leaned against his knee, finished, waiting, but he doesn’t rush you. he doesn’t tease you. he just waits, his eyes warm and steady, like he could sit there forever if it meant watching you try. you feel your cheeks warm, your chest tightening with something sweet and overwhelming, and you try to focus again, adding one last stroke, then another, then a tiny highlight that probably doesn’t do anything but makes you feel like you’re doing something important. you tilt your head, studying it, and michael smiles softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “take your time,” he says, and you melt instantly, your heart turning into something warm and ridiculous. you add one final touch, a tiny line that feels like a signature even though it’s not, and you sit back, exhaling dramatically. “okay,” you say, “i think i’m done. i think it’s as good as it’s ever going to get.” he smiles, gentle and proud, and he shifts his canvas slightly, holding it upright. “ready?” he asks softly. you nod, clutching yours like it’s a fragile secret, and you both turn them around at the same time.

you gasp. loudly. embarrassingly loudly. michael’s painting is beautiful. it’s soft and warm and somehow captures you in a way you didn’t even know you looked, like he painted the way he sees you, not the way you see yourself. the colours blend perfectly, the lines are gentle, the expression is tender, and you stare at it like it’s magic. “michael,” you breathe, “what is this. how did you do this. how did you paint me like i’m… like i’m…” he laughs softly, his cheeks warming, his eyes sparkling with that shy pride he gets when he does something well without meaning to. “like i love you,” he says quietly, and your heart flips so hard you almost drop your canvas.

then he looks at yours.

he tries. he really tries. he tries so hard not to laugh, but the moment his eyes land on your painting, his lips twitch, his shoulders shake, and he lets out the warmest, loudest laugh you’ve ever heard. you groan, covering your face with your hands. “don’t laugh,” you whine, “i tried so hard.” he laughs harder, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, his voice warm and breathless. “i’m sorry,” he says, “i’m sorry, i’m not laughing at you, i’m laughing because it’s adorable. it looks like me if i lived in a cartoon.” you gasp dramatically, snatching your canvas back. “it does not,” you insist, he laughs again, softer this time, and he reaches out, gently pulling your canvas closer so he can look at it properly. “i love it,” he says, sincere now, his voice warm and steady. “i really do. it’s perfect because you made it.” you stare at him, your chest tightening, your heart melting, and you feel something warm and ridiculous bloom inside you.

you both sign your paintings, your names messy and crooked on the corners, and you exchange them like they’re gifts, like they’re something precious. he holds yours carefully, like it’s fragile, like it’s priceless, and you hold his like you’re afraid to breathe too hard near it. he leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice soft and warm. “we should hang them,” he says, “side by side.” you laugh, shaking your head. “people will think you’re the artist and i’m the child who tried to help.” he smiles, leaning in just a little more, his eyes soft and glowing. “i don’t care what anyone thinks,” he says quietly, “i just want yours next to mine.” you smile, soft and warm.

you lean your head against his shoulder, your canvas resting in your lap, his resting in his, and the room feels quiet and golden, filled with the soft smell of paint and the warmth of his laughter still lingering in the air. he turns his head slightly, brushing his cheek against your hair, and his voice comes out in a whisper that feels like sunlight. “this was perfect,” he says. you smile, closing your eyes for a moment, letting the warmth settle in your chest. “it was,” you whisper back, “even if mine looks like you survived a tornado.” he laughs softly, nudging you gently. “i love my tornado portrait,” he says, “and i love you.” you smile, your heart glowing, and you whisper back, soft and certain. “i love you too.”

and the two paintings sit on your laps, messy and beautiful in their own ways, just like the two of you.

‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁˖ . ݁‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁˖ . ݁‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁˖ . ݁‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁˖ . ݁‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁˖ . ݁‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁˖ . ݁‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁˖ . ݁‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁˖ . ݁‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁

FEBRUARY 25, 1986

you stand backstage at the 28th annual grammy awards with the soft hum of the audience drifting through the curtains like a warm tide, the air buzzing with the kind of electricity that only nights like this can hold, and you breathe in slowly as you go over your lines for the third time, whispering them under your breath while your fingers trace the cue cards even though you already know every word by heart, your pulse steady but alert because you want everything to be perfect, not just for the show but because you know he is somewhere out there in the crowd watching you with those dark eyes that always make your stomach flutter, and the thought alone sends a quiet warmth through your chest as you straighten your posture and prepare to step into the lights.

the stage manager gives you a gentle nod and you walk out into the golden glow of the auditorium, the applause rising like a wave that washes over you as you smile at the sea of faces, the cameras, the glittering gowns and tuxedos, the shimmering set pieces that catch the light like jewels, and you let your voice carry with practiced grace as you welcome everyone, your tone warm and confident even though your heart is beating a little faster than usual because you know he is somewhere in the audience listening to every word. "good evening everyone and welcome to the twenty eighth annual grammy awards, we are so excited to celebrate the incredible music and artistry that defined this past year, thank you all for being here tonight."

you hold the microphone with both hands as the applause settles, the lights softening just enough to let you see the first few rows of the audience, and your gaze flickers instinctively toward the spot where you know he is seated, catching only the faint outline of his silhouette, the familiar tilt of his head, the quiet stillness of his posture that always gives him away, and even from this distance you feel the invisible thread between you tighten, a secret connection woven through months of stolen moments and whispered conversations and careful glances that no one else has ever noticed.

you continue with your lines, introducing the first categories of the night, your voice steady and smooth as you guide the audience through the ceremony, and each time you step offstage you feel the adrenaline settle into your bones like a soft hum, the backstage crew moving around you with practiced precision, the sound of applause rising and falling like a heartbeat behind the curtains, and you take a moment to breathe, to center yourself, to remind yourself that you are here to work even though your heart keeps drifting toward him like a compass that cannot help but point north.

when it is time for you to present the next award, you step back into the lights with a smile that feels natural and warm, the audience greeting you with another wave of applause, and you read the nominees with clear, confident rhythm before opening the envelope with a practiced flourish, your voice lifting as you announce the winner, the crowd erupting as the popular male artist makes his way toward the stage with a bright grin and an energy that fills the room, his excitement contagious as he climbs the steps and approaches you with open arms.

you expect a handshake or a quick hug, something simple and professional, but instead he leans in with a warm smile and presses a friendly kiss to your cheek, his hand resting lightly on your arm as he murmurs his thanks for your support on the charity project you worked on together, and you feel your breath catch in surprise as the audience reacts with soft laughter and applause, your cheeks warming as you laugh awkwardly and try to keep your composure, reminding yourself that it is harmless, that it is friendly, that it is nothing more than a gesture of appreciation in front of a room full of people.

you step aside to give him space for his acceptance speech, your smile polite and steady even though your mind is still catching up with the unexpected moment, and as the lights shift to focus on him you let your gaze drift toward the audience again, searching instinctively for the one face that matters most, and when you find him your breath catches because michael isn’t just tense, he’s wound so tightly he looks like he might snap if anyone so much as brushes against him. his jaw isn’t only clenched, it’s locked, the muscle ticking beneath his skin as if he’s fighting every instinct in his body not to get up and drag you off that stage, his eyes don’t just stay on you, they burn into you, dark and sharp and unblinking that sends a shiver down your spine as his fingers curl harder against his knee, knuckles whitening, breath tightening in his chest.

he tries to hide it, he really does, but you know him too well, you know the way his emotions flicker beneath the surface like sparks waiting to catch fire, and you can see the jealousy simmering in the tightness of his shoulders, the way he shifts in his seat as if trying to shake off the image of another man’s lips on your cheek, the way his gaze keeps darting between you and the artist onstage as if replaying the moment over and over in his mind, each repetition tightening something inside him until he looks like he might burst from the pressure alone.

the artist continues his speech, completely unaware of the storm brewing in michael’s chest, thanking his team and the fans and the people who supported the charity project, his voice warm and enthusiastic as the audience applauds again, and you keep your expression calm even though you can practically feel the jealousy radiating off him, thick and hot, filling the space between you even from across the room. it’s in the way he won’t blink, the way his lips press into a thin line, the way his foot taps once, twice, three times before he forces it still. he’s trying to stay composed for the cameras, for the crowd, for the moment, but his eyes give him away completely. they’re dark with something possessive, something wounded, something that says he didn’t expect to see another man’s mouth anywhere near you tonight.

when the segment ends and you walk offstage, your heart is still fluttering from the intensity of his stare, your mind replaying the moment in the same way you know he is, and as you step into the dim backstage hallway you press a hand to your cheek where the kiss landed, not because it meant anything but because you know it meant something to him, and the thought alone makes your chest tighten with a mix of affection and worry as you wait for the next cue, the distant sound of applause echoing through the walls like a reminder that the night is far from over.

you lean against the backstage wall for a moment, letting the cool surface steady you as you go over your next lines, your voice soft as you rehearse under your breath, and even though you are alone for now you can still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your skin, a silent promise that the night will only grow more intense from here, and you close your eyes for a moment, breathing in the charged air of the grammy awards, knowing that the real storm has only just begun.

you stay backstage for a few minutes after your last presentation, letting the noise of the audience settle into a distant hum as you breathe in the dim hallway, the soft glow of the backstage bulbs warming your skin while you rehearse your next lines under your breath, your voice low and steady as you try to shake off the lingering awkwardness from earlier, your fingers brushing your cheek again even though you keep telling yourself it was nothing, just a friendly gesture, just a moment that should not matter, yet you can still feel the ghost of michael’s stare like a hand closing around your ribs, tightening with every breath you take.

the stage manager calls your name again and you straighten your shoulders, smoothing your gown as you step toward the curtain, your heart beating a little faster because this category is bigger, heavier, more important, and you want to deliver it perfectly, especially knowing he is out there somewhere watching you with that quiet intensity that always makes your pulse skip, and as you step into the lights again the applause rises like a warm tide, the golden glow washing over you as you smile at the audience with practiced grace.

you hold the microphone with both hands, grounding yourself in the familiar weight of it as you begin to speak, your voice steady and warm as you welcome the audience back from the short break, the cameras gliding across the room like silent birds while the crowd settles into their seats, and you let your gaze sweep gently across the front rows, your eyes catching the faint outline of his silhouette again, the soft shimmer of his jacket, the stillness of his posture that tells you he has not relaxed since the moment he saw that kiss.

you inhale slowly, letting the moment settle before you continue, your voice carrying clearly through the auditorium. "it is my honor to present one of the most meaningful categories of the night, a category that celebrates the power of music to move us, to unite us, and to change the world. these are the nominees for song of the year." the screens behind you light up with clips and audio, the audience reacting with soft murmurs and applause as each nominee appears, and you stand poised and elegant, your heart thudding quietly beneath your ribs as you hold the envelope in your hand.

when the final nominee fades and the applause settles, you open the envelope with careful precision, your breath catching for a moment as you read the name printed inside, and you lift your gaze to the audience with a soft smile that feels both warm and electric. "and the grammy for song of the year goes to… we are the world, michael jackson and lionel richie."

the room erupts into applause, cheers rising like a wave that shakes the floor beneath your feet, and you look toward the aisle where he stands, his expression unreadable for a moment as he rises from his seat, but then his eyes lock onto yours and everything inside you stills because he is not looking at the audience, he is not looking at the cameras, he is not even looking at the stage itself, he is looking only at you, his gaze sharp and unwavering as he begins to walk toward you with a new calmness that feels too controlled, too deliberate, like a storm holding itself together by sheer force of will, and beside him lionel richie rises as well, moving with him up the aisle like it’s the most natural thing in the world, smiling at the crowd but clearly aware of where this is going, and as they reach the steps lionel goes first, pulling you into a warm, effortless side hug that makes you laugh softly through the shock of it all, his hand patting your shoulder in genuine pride as he murmurs something you barely catch before he steps back with an approving grin.

you swallow hard as he moves toward you, each step drawing the world in tighter until everything else fades into a soft blur. your fingers clamp around the envelope, the paper bending under the tension, but his eyes stay fixed on yours with a steady focus that makes the crowd feel distant and unimportant. the air seems to shift as he gets closer, warm and dense, settling over your skin like something quietly electric.

when he reaches you, he slips an arm around your waist with a certainty that steals your breath. his touch isn’t forceful, just sure, like he’s anchoring you in place without needing to say a word. he looks down at you with his head tilted slightly to the side, studying you with a softness that makes your chest tighten. his teeth catch lightly on his lower lip, a small, unguarded gesture that gives away how much this moment matters to him. and even through all that tenderness, you can still sense the jealousy flickering in his eyes, a faint shadow beneath the warmth. it is not harsh or angry, just a quiet ache he cannot hide, something that tightens his hold on your waist for a heartbeat. his hand squeezes gently, not enough to hurt, just enough to let you feel the emotion he is trying so hard to keep contained.

then he leans in and kisses you.

not a quick peck, not a shy brush of lips, but a soft, sure, deliberate kiss that melts the entire room into silence for a heartbeat before the audience explodes into gasps and cheers and applause, the sound crashing over you like a tidal wave as your eyes flutter shut for a moment, your heart racing wildly as his lips linger just long enough to make it clear that this is not a mistake, not a slip, not a friendly gesture, but a declaration, a reveal, a claim spoken without words in front of the entire music industry.

when he pulls back, he gives you a small, playful wink that makes your stomach flip, his hand brushing your waist one last time before he turns to accept the award from you, his fingers brushing yours with a warmth as he takes the grammy into his hands, the crowd still roaring with excitement as he steps toward the microphone with that soft, shy smile that always makes people melt.

he waits for the applause to settle, his posture relaxed but his eyes flicking toward you every few seconds with a quiet possessiveness that only you can read, and when he finally speaks his voice is gentle, warm, and full of gratitude. "thank you, thank you so much." he pauses as the applause rises again, his smile widening before he continues. "i want to thank lionel, first of all, for being such an incredible partner in creating this song. he is a true friend and a true artist, and i am so grateful for everything we were able to do together."

he shifts the award in his hands, his voice softening with sincerity. "i want to thank every artist who came together for this project, everyone who gave their time and their hearts to something bigger than all of us. this song was made with love, with hope, and with the belief that we can make the world a better place when we stand together."

the audience applauds again, "and of course, i want to thank the fans, because none of this would be possible without your love and your support. you inspire me every single day, and i am so grateful for you."

he pauses, his smile turning a little mischievous, his eyes sliding toward you again with a glimmer that makes your breath catch. "and, um… i guess i should also say…" he lifts the grammy slightly, his tone light but unmistakably pointed. "some people should be a little more careful about kissing another man's lady."

the audience bursts into laughter, cheers rising as people clap and whistle, the cameras catching your face as your cheeks burn with embarrassment and surprise, your hand lifting instinctively to cover your mouth as you try not to laugh, and michael just smiles, that soft, cheeky smile that tells you he knows exactly what he is doing, exactly how flustered he is making you, and he is enjoying every second of it.

he finishes with a warm, humble thank you before stepping away from the microphone, and as he walks back toward you he gives you another small wink, his fingers brushing your waist again as he passes, the touch subtle but full of meaning, and you feel your heart flutter helplessly as he heads back down the steps, the audience still buzzing with excitement from the unexpected reveal.

you stand there for a moment, trying to steady your breathing as the cameras cut away and the stage manager ushers you offstage, your mind spinning, your cheeks still warm, your heart pounding with a mix of shock and affection and something deeper, something that feels like it has been waiting to surface for a long time, and as you step into the dim backstage hallway again you know he will find you soon, and you know the conversation waiting between you will be one you will never forget.

the hallway feels calmer than the stage, dimmer and softer, the noise of the grammy crowd fading into a distant echo as you step into the quiet. you’re still warm from the lights, still breathless from everything that happened, your mind replaying the moment he kissed you in front of everyone like a scene you can’t quite believe is real. you press your hand lightly to your lips, trying to steady yourself, when you hear him behind you, his footsteps slow and sure, carrying that familiar mix of confidence and emotion that always gives him away.

when you turn, he’s already watching you, his grammy tucked under one arm, his shoulders relaxed but his eyes still burning with that jealousy he hasn’t shaken off yet. he walks toward you with a softness that contradicts the storm you know is still swirling inside him, and when he reaches you he stops close enough that you can feel the warmth of him settle around you like a blanket. his voice is gentle when he speaks, even though his eyes are still sharp with emotion. "you okay baby?" he asks quietly, his hand brushing your arm in a way that makes your breath catch. "i didn’t mean to overwhelm you out there."

you nod, though your heart is still racing, and he studies your face for a moment, searching for any sign of discomfort. when he finds none, his expression shifts, softening into something warm but edged with that quiet, simmering jealousy he’s trying so hard to keep under control. "i just… i couldn’t sit there and watch that," he murmurs, "him kissin' you like that. i know it was friendly, i know it didn’t mean anything, but it still…" he trails off, shaking his head slightly, his jaw tightening for a moment before he exhales slowly. "it still bothered me."

you whisper his name softly, and he gives a small smile, one that’s both apologetic and a little proud, like he knows he’s being ridiculous but he also knows he’d do it all again. "i’m not gonna pretend i wasn’t jealous," he says, his voice low and honest. "i was. i still am." he leans in a little, his voice dropping to a softer tone. "but i’m glad everyone knows now. i’m glad they know who my woman is... the woman i get to love."

your cheeks warm instantly, and he notices, his smile turning a little smug but still gentle, still full of affection. "guess i made the night a little more interesting." he adds, his tone playful but certain. lifting the grammy slightly, his eyes glimmering with pride.

you roll your eyes at him, but you’re smiling, and he sees it, his expression softening again as he cups your jaw with one hand, his thumb brushing your skin with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. "you did amazing tonight," he whispers. "i’m so proud of you."

you tell him you’re proud of him too, and his smile grows, warm and bright, the kind of smile that lights up his whole face. he glances down at the grammy in his hand, then back at you, and the warmth in his eyes deepens. "i got my award," he says softly. "and i got you. that’s all i wanted tonight."

he leans in closer, his voice dropping into something playful, something that makes your stomach twist. "c’mon," he murmurs, kissing your temple. "let’s go home so i can show you how jealous i was."

your eyes widen and you slap his chest lightly, your voice a shocked whisper. "michael!" he laughs softly, the sound warm and sweet, his shoulders shaking just a little as he catches your hand gently, his fingers curling around yours with an ease that makes your heart flutter.

"i’m teasing," he says, though the sparkle in his eyes tells you he’s enjoying every second of your reaction. "but i do wanna get you out of here."

you’re still flustered, still warm, but you’re smiling, and he sees it, his own smile stretching wider as he gives your hand a gentle tug. he leads you down the hallway toward the exit, his grammy tucked under his arm, his fingers laced with yours like he’s never letting go. when he pushes open the door to the cool night air, the limo waiting just outside, he glances back at you with a look so full of pride and happiness it makes your chest swell.

he’s got his grammy. he’s got his girl. and he looks like he’s floating.

you squeeze his hand, your smile soft and full, and he squeezes back, his voice low and warm as he whispers, "let’s go home."

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★

OCTOBER 29, 1983

you don’t even remember how you made it from the bus stop to the studio door, only that your legs carried you here on instinct, like they always do when the world feels too heavy to hold. the whole day has been sitting on your shoulders like wet cement, dragging you down with every step, every thought, every memory of your boss’s voice echoing in your skull. you can still hear him yelling about the phone lines, the scheduling mix‑ups, the files you misplaced because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. you work a receptionist job that’s supposed to be simple, supposed to be manageable, supposed to be something you can do without feeling like you’re drowning. but today everything slipped through your fingers, and the more you tried to fix it, the worse it got, until you were standing there with your cheeks burning and your eyes stinging while he shouted in front of everyone. you told yourself you wouldn’t cry, not at work, not in front of him, not over something so stupid, but the tears pressed against your throat all day, threatening to spill. you kept swallowing them back, telling yourself you’d deal with it later, telling yourself you wouldn’t bring any of this to michael because he already has so much on his plate, because he’s working nonstop, because he doesn’t need your tiny problems added to his mountain of responsibilities. but somehow your feet still brought you here, to the one place that feels like breathing, to the one person who makes the world soften even when you don’t deserve it.

you push open the studio door quietly, hoping he won’t notice you yet, hoping you can just sit in the corner and listen to him work until your brain stops spinning. the room is dim except for the warm glow of the control board, and he’s sitting there with his headphones around his neck, tapping a pencil against his knee while he listens to a playback. he looks so focused, so gentle in the low light, lips parted slightly like he’s humming along in his head. you try to slip in unnoticed, but he turns the second you step inside, like he can feel you before he sees you. his whole face brightens, soft and shy, the way it always does when you show up without warning. he sits up straighter, eyes warm, voice quiet as he says, “hey… you’re here.” and you force a smile, the kind that stretches too tight, the kind that feels like it might crack if he looks at you too closely. you close the door behind you and shrug like everything is fine, like your chest isn’t caving in, like your hands aren’t trembling. “yeah,” you say, trying to sound normal, “i just… wanted to stop by. didn’t wanna bother you.” he tilts his head, studying you with that soft, careful attention that always makes you feel seen in ways you’re not ready for. he pats the seat beside him, gentle and inviting, and you walk over because you always do, because being near him feels like the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

you sit down, trying to keep your breathing steady, trying to pretend you didn’t come here to escape your own mind. he watches you for a moment, eyes tracing your face like he’s reading something written there. he leans a little closer, voice barely above a whisper as he says, “you okay angel?” and you let out a brittle laugh, too quickly, too forced, shaking your head like you can brush the question away. “yeah, i’m fine. just tired. long day.” but he doesn’t buy it, not even for a second. he turns in his chair to face you fully, his knee brushing yours, his expression softening even more. “you don’t look fine,” he murmurs, and the way he says it makes something inside you crack. you look down at your hands, twisting them in your lap, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “i don’t wanna dump anything on you,” you say quietly, “you’ve got so much going on already. it’s stupid anyway.” he shakes his head immediately, curls shifting with the movement, eyes wide and earnest. “nothing you feel is stupid,” he says, voice gentle but firm, “and you’re not dumping anything on me. i want to know.” he takes both of your hands in his, his thumbs brushing gently over the tops of them, a quiet reassurance in the touch. there’s no urgency in the way he does it, just warmth, patience, and the silent invitation to stay close. you try to hold it together, you really do. you try to breathe past the tightness in your chest, past the memory of your boss’s voice, past the humiliation that’s been clinging to you all day. but the second you open your mouth, everything inside you starts shaking loose. “i messed up at work,” you whisper, staring at your fingers because you can’t look at him, “like… everything. every little thing. i kept dropping stuff and forgetting things and mixing up appointments and i don’t even know why. i just… couldn’t think straight. and my boss yelled at me in front of everyone. he said i was careless and distracted and that he’s tired of fixing my mistakes.” your voice cracks, and you bite your lip hard, trying to stop the tears that are already burning behind your eyes. “i know it’s not a big deal,” you say, even though it feels like your whole world is collapsing, “i know people deal with worse. i just… i felt so stupid. and i didn’t wanna come here and bother you with it because you’re working so hard and you don’t need to hear me complain about my dumb job.”

you finally look up, and the moment your eyes meet his, everything inside you breaks. he looks at you like you’re the most important thing in the room, like your pain is something he wants to hold with both hands. he moves closer, cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “baby,” he whispers, “you had a horrible day. that’s not small. that’s not nothing. and you don’t ever have to hide that from me.” your breath stutters, tears spilling before you can stop them. he pulls you into his chest immediately, arms wrapping around you with a softness that makes you fall apart completely. you bury your face in his shoulder, shaking, and he holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles on your back. “i got you,” he murmurs into your hair, “let it out. i’m right here. i’m not going anywhere.” you cling to him, fingers gripping his shirt, and he rocks you gently, humming under his breath like he’s trying to soothe every part of you at once. you can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, steady and warm, and it makes you cry harder because he’s always like this with you, always gentle, always patient, always loving you in ways you don’t know how to handle. you try to speak through the tears, voice shaking. “i just feel like i can’t do anything right. i keep messing up and i don’t know why. i’m trying so hard and it’s never enough.” he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still holding your face, his eyes soft and full of something that makes your chest ache. “you are enough,” he says quietly, “you’re more than enough. one bad day doesn’t change that. one angry boss doesn’t change that. you’re smart and you’re capable and you’re trying your best. that’s all anyone can ask of you.” you shake your head, tears still falling. “i didn’t want you to worry about me.” he smiles, small and tender, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “i’m your boyfriend,” he whispers, “i’m supposed to worry about you. i love you. that means i care when you hurt.” your breath catches, and he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there like he’s trying to seal the moment into your skin. “you’re not a burden,” he murmurs, “you’re never a burden. you’re the best part of my day.”

he pulls you back into his chest, holding you even closer, like he wants to shield you from the whole world. you breathe him in, the warmth of him, the softness, the quiet strength that always makes you feel safe. he rocks you gently, fingertips tracing slow patterns on your arm, and after a moment he whispers, “i’m so glad you came to me. i always want you to. especially when you’re hurting.” you sniff, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “i didn’t wanna ruin your night.” he shakes his head, kissing your temple. “you didn’t ruin anything,” he says softly, “you being here makes everything better.” you’re still pressed against his chest, breathing slowly now, your tears finally easing into little shaky exhales. his hand keeps moving up and down your back in that slow, steady rhythm that always calms you, like he’s smoothing the whole day out of your body. he pulls back just enough to see your face, his thumbs brushing the last traces of tears from your cheeks. his eyes are so soft it almost hurts to look at him. he tilts his head a little, studying you like he’s making sure you’re really okay, then he gives you this tiny smile, the kind that curls at the corners and makes his eyes warm. “you know,” he murmurs, “if i ever see that boss of yours again, i’m gonna have to have a talk with him.”

you sniff, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. “a talk?” you repeat, voice still small. he nods, trying to look serious but failing miserably because his lips keep twitching. “a very serious talk,” he says, “maybe even… a strongly worded letter.” you let out a tiny laugh, barely there, but he hears it. his whole face lights up like you just handed him the sun. he leans closer, lowering his voice dramatically. “or,” he whispers, “we could sue him.” you blink, then laugh again, louder this time, your shoulders shaking. “michael,” you say, “you can’t sue my boss.” he gasps softly, hand over his heart like you’ve offended him. “why not?” he asks, eyes wide with fake innocence. “he yelled at my girl. that sounds like emotional damages to me.” you laugh again, covering your face with your hands, and he gently pulls them away, wanting to see you smile. “stop,” you say, still laughing, “you’re ridiculous.” he grins, proud of himself, leaning in until his forehead almost touches yours. “i made you laugh,” he whispers, “that’s all i wanted.” your chest warms, the heaviness lifting just a little more. he brushes a curl behind your ear, his fingers lingering there, soft and careful. “you deserve to laugh,” he says quietly, “especially after a day like that.” you look at him, really look at him, and the love in his eyes is so open, so gentle, so unguarded that it makes your breath catch. he leans in slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there like he’s trying to seal comfort into your skin. his lips are warm, gentle, steady. you close your eyes, letting the moment wash over you. then he pulls back just a little, his breath brushing your cheek as he whispers, “you shouldn’t have to hear anyone yell at you like that.”

before you can respond, he leans in again, this time pressing the softest kiss to the shell of your ear, right where the sound of your boss’s voice still echoes in your memory. the touch is so tender it sends a shiver down your spine. he stays there for a moment, lips barely touching your skin, his voice a warm whisper. “i’m sorry you had to hear that today.” your eyes flutter shut, your breath catching in your throat. no one has ever comforted you like this. no one has ever cared like this. no one has ever made you feel so safe. he pulls back just enough to see your face again, his thumb brushing your cheek, his voice soft and certain. “you are not alone,” he says, “not today, not ever. you come to me whenever you need to. i’ll always take care of you.” your heart swells, your chest loosening completely for the first time all day. you lean into him, resting your forehead against his, breathing him in. he smiles, small and warm, his fingers lacing with yours. “and if that boss of yours yells at you again,” he adds, eyes sparkling with mischief, “i’m filing the lawsuit myself.” you laugh, soft and real this time, and he beams like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard. he squeezes your hand gently, pulling you closer, holding you like he never wants to let go. and for the first time today, you feel okay again. safe and loved.

⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼⪼

JULY 12, 2007

you feel the warmth before you even see the island, that soft humid air that slips through the cracks of the plane door the second it opens and wraps around you like something alive. it smells like salt and flowers and sunlight, and for the first time in weeks you feel your shoulders loosen, like your body finally understands it can stop bracing for impact. michael stands beside you, sunglasses on even though the sun is dipping low, and he takes a slow breath that sounds like relief. he doesn’t say anything at first, just looks out at the sky that’s turning gold and pink, and then he glances at you with that small smile he only ever gives you. “this is exactly what we needed,” he murmurs, voice soft and warm, and you nod because you feel it too, that quiet promise in the air that things are about to get gentler. the drive to the villa winds along the coastline, the ocean stretching out endlessly beside you, glittering like someone scattered diamonds across the surface. michael keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, and every time the water comes into view he makes this soft sound under his breath, like he’s surprised by beauty even though he’s seen more of the world than most people ever will. you watch him more than the scenery because there’s something about seeing him like this, relaxed and unguarded, that makes your chest ache in a way that feels both tender and grounding. he squeezes your leg gently and says “you’re quiet.” and you tell him you’re just taking it all in, and he hums like he understands exactly what you mean.

the villa is hidden behind a wall of palm trees, tucked away so well it feels like a secret carved out just for the two of you. when you step inside, the first thing you notice is the sound of the ocean, loud and steady through the open sliding doors that lead straight to a private stretch of beach. the whole place is airy and bright, with white curtains that sway gently in the breeze and soft wooden floors that feel warm under your feet. michael sets the suitcases down and just stands there for a moment, staring out at the water like he’s trying to memorize it. you watch his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, and then he turns to you with that soft tired expression that always makes you want to wrap him in your arms. “no one’s gonna bother us here,” he says quietly, and you can hear the weight behind it, the years of being watched and followed and misunderstood. you step closer and rest your hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath your palm, and he covers your hand with his own, leaning into your touch like he’s been waiting for it. unpacking is slow because michael keeps wandering out onto the deck to stare at the ocean, his hair moving gently in the breeze. you follow him eventually, leaning against the railing while he stands beside you with the sunset painting his skin in warm amber. he glances at you, eyes soft, and says “you look happy.” and you tell him you are, because being here with him feels like stepping into a version of life where everything is simple and gentle and yours. he smiles again, that slow warm smile that makes your stomach flip, and he whispers “good… i wanted this for you.”

michael had headed outside to the beach nearly ten minutes ago after helping you unpack, leaving you alone in the bedroom while he waited near the shoreline. he hadn't complained once. he rarely did. before leaving, he had simply leaned against the doorway, arms folded across his chest, watching you rummage through your suitcase with quiet amusement. "i'll be outside." his deep voice had carried that familiar calm confidence that always made your stomach flutter. "take your time." the look he'd given you before walking away had been enough to make you smile long after he'd disappeared from sight. now, standing in front of the mirror, you slip into the tiny red bikini, the fabric clinging to your curves like a second skin. you tie the strings at your hips and neck, feeling the anticipation coil tight in your belly. you step out of the villa, the wooden deck warm under your bare feet. the path to the private beach is a short stroll through whispering palms, and you see him there, michael, already waiting. he’s reclined on one of the low beach chairs, his swim trunks dark against the pale wood. the sunset has deepened, staining the sky in bruised purples and oranges, and the ocean is a slow, rhythmic murmur against the sand. he isn’t looking at the water now. he’s looking at you, his gaze tracking your approach from the moment you emerge. you walk slowly, letting him watch. the breeze catches the loose strands of your hair and you feel it slide over your newly exposed skin. his eyes are dark, intent, and they don’t leave you. you stop beside his chair, the sand cool between your toes. he doesn’t speak at first. he just reaches out, his hand finding the back of your thigh, his fingers warm and possessive against your skin. his touch is a claim, simple and direct. “red,” he says, his voice low. “i knew you’d pick red.”

you smile, dipping your head slightly. “you like it?” “i love it on you,” he answers, and his hand slides up, a slow caress over the curve of your hip, his thumb hooking under the thin string of the bikini bottom. “i love it very much.” you step closer, he shifts, turning more toward you, and his other hand comes up to cradle your other hip. both his hands are on you now, holding you there, his touch firm and undeniable. you let your own hand fall to his shoulder, tracing the line of his collarbone. “you didn’t wait long,” you whisper. “i was waiting for this,” he says, and his eyes drop to the swell of your breasts above the red triangles of fabric. “for you to come out here like this. for me.” you feel a flush spread under your skin, a heat that isn’t from the fading sun. “mm.” his hands slide fully around your hips now, pulling you a fraction closer. he leans forward, his forehead resting against your stomach. his lips press a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below your navel. a shiver runs through you that has nothing to do with the breeze. his hands slide up your back, tracing the line of your spine to the knot of your bikini top. his fingers don’t tug, they just rest there, a promise and a question. “you look… incredible,” he whispers against your skin. “makes it hard to be a gentleman.” you thread your fingers through his hair, the strands soft and wind-tousled. “who said i wanted one?” you tease, your voice a low whisper meant only for him. he looks up then, his eyes holding a storm of want and restraint. he gives a low, rough laugh. “you really don't make this easy.” his hands slide back down to your hips, gripping a little firmer, anchoring you. he turns his head, pressing another kiss to your hip bone, his tongue flicking lightly. you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. “michael…” his hands slide around to the backs of your thighs, his touch warm and possessive. he pulls you gently, until you’re perched on the edge of the lounger, one leg on either side of his hips. the position is intimate, your bodies aligned. you can feel the heat of him through your suits. he lets out a slow breath, his hands settling on your waist. 

you lean forward, bracing your hands on the chair back behind his head. your faces are inches apart. “you’re so beautiful baby.” he closes the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that starts soft but deepens instantly. it’s all slow, searching heat, the taste of him and the ocean air. you shift against him, a subtle roll of your hips, and feel him harden beneath you. a low groan escapes him, and his hands tighten on you. you arch into him, your hands sliding down to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath your palms. his hand finds the swell of your breast above your bikini top, his hand hot through the fabric. your head falls back, a quiet moan slipping out as his thumb brushes over your nipple, making it peak instantly. the heat of his body a brand against your own, the hard line of him pressing into your thigh making your breath catch. for a moment, everything lingers like that, heavy and close, the world narrowing to just the two of you and the sound of the waves somewhere far away. then, softly, he suddenly giggles, the sound shy, before it fades into a quiet smile. a warm flush creeps across your cheeks, and you duck your head, resting it against his chest as if hiding from the way he's making you feel.

for a moment, neither of you say anything. the sound of the waves fills the silence, gentle and endless around you, while his arms remain wrapped around you. when you finally lift your head again, you're met with the sight of michael already staring at you, his expression so fond and completely captivated that it makes your heart stumble. "what?" you whisper, smiling despite yourself. he lets out a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "nothin'. just lookin' at you." heat rushes to your cheeks, and he grins the second he notices. "there it is." you groan and hide your face against his shoulder, earning another laugh from him. "don't do that." "do what?" he asks innocently. you lift your head just enough to glare at him. "look at me like that." his eyes soften even more. "can't i look at my woman?" before you can think of a reply, he scoops you into his arms, holding you effortlessly against his chest. a surprised laugh escapes you as your arms wrap around his neck. "michael!" "what?" he's smiling again, that mischievous smile that always means trouble. he carries you toward the water while you pretend to protest, though you're laughing too hard to sound convincing. the waves curl around his feet as he wades deeper into the sea, moonlight dancing across the surface. "you wouldn't." "wouldn't i?" he challenges. your eyes widen. "michael jackson." that only makes him laugh harder. "hold your breath." before you can argue, he plunges both of you beneath the water. the world instantly transforms into shimmering blue silence. sunlight and moonlight blur together above you, broken by silver ribbons of movement. you open your eyes to find him right there, still holding you close, his hair floating around his face. he looks completely ridiculous and completely beautiful at the same time. a laugh bubbles out of you, escaping in tiny pearls that drift toward the surface. michael grins and reaches for your hand beneath the water, intertwining your fingers. in that suspended, weightless moment, surrounded by nothing but the sea and each other, you realise he looks happier than you’ve ever seen him, and somehow, you feel the same way about yourself too.

FEBRUARY 2, 1992

the room is buzzing with low voices and the soft clatter of equipment as you and michael step onto the set, his hand warm against the small of your back while crew members rush around adjusting lights and checking cables. he glances at you with that slow, teasing smile that always makes your stomach twist, his short curls falling slightly over his forehead as he leans down closer and murmurs "you ready for this, baby?" in a voice so soft it feels like it’s meant only for you. you nod, even though your nerves are fluttering, and he brushes his thumb along your waist like he’s smoothing them away, his touch warm and grounding in a way that makes everything else fade into the background. the sound crew approaches with the mic packs and michael immediately starts playing around, tapping his mic and pretending he can’t hear anything, making the sound guy groan while you try not to laugh. he keeps giving you these little looks, eyebrows raised like he’s daring you to join in on the mischief, and you finally nudge him with your hip, whispering "behave" which only makes him grin wider. he stands behind you while they clip your mic on, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing your skin in slow circles that make your breath catch. when they finish, he steps around to face you, tugging gently at the wire to make sure it’s secure, his fingers brushing your collarbone as he murmurs "perfect" before leaning in to kiss your cheek. you feel the warmth of it linger long after he pulls away, and he gives you that look again, the one that says he’s proud to be here with you, the one that makes your chest tighten in the best way.

they guide you both to the couch where you’ll be sitting, and michael immediately sprawls comfortably, one arm draped behind you, his fingers brushing your shoulder as he watches the crew adjust the lights. he keeps whispering little comments to you which makes you laugh under your breath even though you’re trying to stay composed. he taps your knee lightly, his ring cool against your skin, and you swat his hand away, but he just catches your fingers and brings them to his lips, kissing them slowly like he has all the time in the world. the interviewer finally steps onto the set, smiling wide as she greets the crew before turning her attention to you and michael. she shakes both your hands, her grip firm, her energy bright and polished in that way only seasoned interviewers have. she takes her seat across from you, crossing her legs neatly, flipping through her cards as the cameras begin to roll. she gives the introduction with a practiced smile, her voice smooth as she says "today we have the incredible michael jackson with us, and joining him is his lovely wife" before turning her full attention to michael like the second half of that sentence was just a formality.

she starts with a question that makes michael sit up a little straighter, "michael, the dangerous album introduced a completely new sound for you. what made you want to explore that new jack swing style and blend it with your signature pop and r&b?" michael nods thoughtfully, his voice warm as he answers, "i love experimenting. i love pushing myself. working with teddy riley was exciting because he brought this fresh energy. i wanted the album to feel bold and rhythmic, something people could feel in their chest." he speaks with that soft confidence he always carries in interviews, his eyes flicking toward you every few seconds like he wants to make sure you are still comfortable. the interviewer smiles brightly and moves on, "the dangerous tour is one of the most ambitious productions ever created. what inspired you to design a show on that scale?" michael laughs softly, shaking his head a little as he answers, "i always want to give the fans magic. i love storytelling. i love creating moments that stay with people forever. the illusions, the staging, the choreography, all of it is about making people feel something real." his voice is calm but passionate, his hands moving slightly as he talks, and you can see the spark in his eyes that always appears when he talks about performing.

she flips through her cards and asks, "the opening of the show has become iconic. that moment where you rise onto the stage and just stand there while the crowd loses their minds. how did that idea come to you?" michael smiles, leaning back slightly as he explains, "i wanted something powerful but simple. sometimes the quiet moments speak the loudest. just standing there, letting the energy build, letting the audience feel that connection. it is beautiful." she continues, "the choreography on this tour is some of your most intricate work. what was the process like creating routines that match the intensity of the music?" and michael answers with that soft, thoughtful tone, "i love working with dancers who bring their own spirit. we spend hours in the studio just moving, trying things, letting the music guide us. i want everything to feel natural. i want the music to move through us, not the other way around." he smiles gently, his eyes warm, and you can feel how much he loves what he does in every word he speaks. she asks him another question about the themes of the album, then another about the creative direction of the tour, and michael answers each one with that same calm, grounded charm, his voice steady, his presence magnetic. he keeps you close without even trying, his hand resting on your thigh now, his thumb brushing slow circles that make your breath catch even though you are trying to stay composed. the interviewer laughs at his jokes, nods at his explanations, scribbles notes on her cards, completely absorbed in him, and you sit there quietly, listening, watching, feeling the slow shift in the air as she continues directing every question at him and only him.

the interviewer finally shifts her attention, her eyes flicking toward you for the first time since the cameras started rolling, she gives you a polite smile, the kind that feels more like a formality than genuine interest, and she tilts her head slightly as she asks, "and for you, what has it been like watching this era unfold up close?" her voice is smooth, practiced, and you can tell she expects a short answer, something quick and neat that she can move past without losing momentum. you inhale slowly, sitting up a little straighter, feeling michael’s presence warm and steady beside you as you prepare to speak for the first time since the interview began.

you start to answer, your voice calm as you say, "it has been incredible to watch him work. he puts so much heart into everything he does, and being able to see that up close every day is something i never take for granted. the dangerous era has been such a powerful chapter for him, and i feel lucky to witness how much passion he pours into every detail. the rehearsals, the late nights, the way he pushes himself to make sure everything feels right. it is inspiring to see how much he cares about giving people something meaningful." the interviewer nods, this time actually listening, her expression thoughtful as she moves to her next question. "and how do you balance the pace of his schedule with your own life? the travel, the rehearsals, the constant movement. it must take a lot of strength to stay grounded through all of that." her voice is gentle, curious, and you feel michael shift slightly beside you, not touching you, but angling his body just enough to show he is listening even more closely now. you begin, "it can be challenging sometimes, but we make it work. we communicate a lot, and we try to stay grounded together. even when things get busy, we always make time to check in with each other. it helps that he is so supportive. he makes everything feel manageable, even when the schedule gets overwhelming." your voice stays steady, warm, and michael’s expression softens, his eyes lingering on you with a quiet tenderness that needs no physical contact to be felt.

the interviewer gives a thoughtful hum, her expression softening as she asks one more question, "and what do you admire most about him during this era? not as the artist the world sees, but as the man you come home to." the question makes your chest warm, and you take a slow breath before answering, "i admire his heart. his kindness. his dedication. he gives so much of himself to the world, and yet he still comes home and finds space to give even more. he is gentle, he is thoughtful, and he cares so deeply. that is what i admire most." the interviewer glances down at her cards again, flipping to a new section with a bright smile that feels a little too sharp, a little too eager, and she looks back at you with a tilt of her head as she says, "and i have one more question for you. as someone who sees him behind the scenes, what do you think people misunderstand most about michael during this era?" the question is thoughtful, layered, and you take a moment to breathe before answering. you begin softly, your voice calm and sure as you say, "i think people forget how much heart he puts into everything. they see the performances, the visuals, the scale of it all, but they do not always see the gentleness behind it. he cares so deeply. he thinks about how every moment will make people feel. he wants to give joy, comfort, hope. he is not just creating a show. he is creating connection." you pause, letting the words settle, and michael’s eyes soften even more, his expression full of something warm and unspoken.

and before you can continue your thought, she leans forward abruptly and cuts in with a quick, bright, "right, right, of course, but what about the pressure? do you ever feel like you have to manage his image or protect him from the public?" her voice is too quick, too sharp, slicing clean through your sentence like she did not even hear you speaking. you try to answer anyway, keeping your voice steady as you say, "i think the most important thing is supporting each other. we do not manage each other. we just communicate and—"

she interrupts you again. clean. careless. dismissive.

you blink, thrown off for a moment, your mouth still slightly open from the thought she interrupted. you can sense the shift in michael before you even look at him. he hates when people interrupt him, and even more so, his lady. he turns his head toward the interviewer with a slow, deliberate calm, his expression unreadable but edged with something unmistakably sharp. his eyes narrow just a fraction, not enough to be rude. then he turns his head back to you. his voice is quiet when he speaks, gentle but firm, the kind of tone that settles deep in your chest, and he says, "don't you wanna finish baby?" you let out a small, awkward chuckle because the tension is thick enough to touch, and you finish your sentence gently, your voice steady even though your heart is pounding. "as i was saying, we support each other. that is what matters most."

the interviewer swallows, nodding stiffly, suddenly very aware of the line she crossed. and she does not interrupt you again. not once. not for the rest of the interview.

♡ he keeps your letters folded in the inside pocket of his jacket and rereads them on the plane, tracing your handwriting with his thumb, especially your name or the way you sign off, like it anchors him when everything else is moving too fast. on long flights, while everyone else sleeps or talks quietly, he stays still with the letter in his hands, staring out the window like he’s trying to imagine you somewhere in the clouds just out of reach.

♡ he calls you after shows even when he’s exhausted, voice low and warm, like he’s trying not to disturb the calm that comes after all the noise. there’s still adrenaline in him, but it softens when he hears you. he’ll sit on the edge of the bed, loosening his clothes, eyes half closed as if your voice is the only thing that’s slowing his thoughts down. “i wish you were here… it’d feel better with you,” he says like it’s the simplest truth in the world, not something heavy or dramatic, just obvious to him. sometimes he’ll go quiet after that, not because he has nothing to say, but because he’s already where he wants to be. on the line with you.

♡ he gets this big smile when he sees your name on the caller id, like it interrupts everything else in the best way. even if he’s in the middle of something, hair still damp from rehearsal, people still around him, he’ll pause like it doesn’t matter anymore. it’s immediate, that shift in him. his voice changes too, softer, lighter, like he’s been given permission to relax. he doesn’t try to hide how happy it makes him, either. it shows in the way he answers, like he’s been waiting longer than he admits.

♡ he asks what you’re wearing, because he likes to picture you clearly while he talks.

♡ he keeps trying to take cute photos to send you, but they never come out the way he wants because he’s always moving, always caught between places, never still long enough. he’ll look at them afterward and sigh a little, almost embarrassed, but he still mails them anyway with a little scribble on the back like “i tried baby.”

♡ he teases you on the phone when he’s feeling playful, saying things like “you’re probably forgetting all about me, huh?” and then immediately gets shy and adds “i’m just kidding… i miss you.” he adds quieter, like the truth slipped out before he could catch it and now he’s just letting it stay there.

♡ he keeps a photo of you tucked behind the mirror in his dressing room. before every show, he kisses the corner of it for luck. sometimes he touches it lightly, not dramatic, just a small pause before everything begins, like he’s reminding himself what he’s coming back to.

♡ during late night calls, he’s usually sprawled across a plush hotel bed, the covers a tangled mess around his legs, the room dimly lit by a bedside lamp. he’d tell you about the roar of the crowd, the sweat, the electric current, but then his voice would drop, becoming intimate, private.

♡ he's got a habit of tracing the lines of his own body as he speaks to you, particularly when the conversation turns suggestive. his fingers might glide over his chest, down his abdomen, lingering just above his hips. a low, involuntary hum would sometimes punctuate his sentences, a quiet, almost unconscious expression of his longing.

♡ he leaves his hotel curtains open at night because he likes imagining you looking at the same moon. he’ll whisper “goodnight, baby” to the window like you can somehow hear him.

♡ in a quiet moment, he details exactly what he’s going to do to you the second he gets through the front door. where his kisses will land first. how he won’t let you speak for a very, very long time.

♡ he always asks about your day first, even when he’s tired, even when he has things to do. he listens like it matters more than anything he did that night. he hums softly when you talk, little affirmations that he’s still there with you, still following every word. if you mention something small, he remembers it later, bringing it up days after like it stayed with him the whole time. he doesn’t just hear you, he holds onto you through the details.

♡ he gets nervous when he thinks he’s calling too much. “am i bothering you?” he asks softly, even though he’s the one who’s lonely in a hotel room. there’s a pause after he says it where he almost wishes he didn’t, but he always listens carefully for your answer, like it decides everything. and of course he never is.

♡ he would ask you if you’re eating well and resting, not in a controlling way, but in a deeply caring one. it’s always the first kind of concern that comes out when he misses you most. “promise me you’re taking care of yourself,” he says gently, like it’s something important he can’t fix from a distance but still needs to say anyway. his voice softens when you reassure him, like that alone is enough to ease something in him he didn’t fully realize was tense.

♡ he would talk to you while doing vocal warm‑downs. he always cooled down his voice after shows, humming gently. you’d hear those soft little notes while he talked to you about his night.

♡ on stage, he becomes even more precise. if he misses you badly that day, it turns into control. sharper spins, tighter timing, a little more intensity in his gaze when he hits the spotlight. the audience thinks it’s just the magic of the bad tour, but backstage he leans against a wall afterward, catching his breath like he’s been running from something he can’t name. someone offers him water and he takes it with a quiet thank you, but his mind is somewhere else.

♡ there are nights in hotel rooms where he just sits by the window, lights off, watching cities pass below like they belong to someone else. he presses his forehead to the glass sometimes, quiet, almost childlike in his loneliness. he doesn’t call it loneliness though. he calls it missing work, missing sleep, missing focus. but when your name shows up in his mind, everything else gets quieter around it.

♡ he gets strangely specific about missing you. not just “i miss you,” but little details. he misses the way you would interrupt his thoughts when he got too inside his own head. he misses the exact timing of your voice when you said his name. he misses how normal things felt around you, like he didn’t have to be a stage version of himself to exist correctly. little things remind him of you.

✧˖°🧡☼⋆｡˚🍊⊹₊✧˖°🧡☼⋆｡˚🍊⊹₊✧˖°🧡☼⋆｡˚🍊⊹₊✧˖°🧡☼⋆｡˚🍊⊹₊✧

JULY 8, 1979

you wake up on a random sunday with the kind of excitement that makes your stomach feel warm and fluttery, the kind that makes you move slower because you want everything to be perfect and faster because you can’t wait to see him, and the sun outside your window is soft and golden in that early summer way that makes the whole world feel like it’s smiling at you. you keep thinking about how michael called last night, his voice all gentle and sweet, telling you he had an idea for a date but refusing to tell you what it was, only laughing under his breath and saying “you’ll see, i promise you’ll like it” in that soft teasing tone that always makes your chest feel too full. you dress in something light and cute for the heat, checking the mirror more than once even though you already know he’s going to look at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters, and you try to calm yourself down but it’s impossible when you know you’re about to spend the whole day with him.

when he arrives, he’s standing on your porch with his hands behind his back like he’s hiding something, and he’s wearing these soft blue jeans and a white tee that fits him just right, and a glossy, satin-like royal blue bomber jacket that catches the light with a soft sheen. he smiles the second he sees you, that shy but bright smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, and he leans in to kiss your cheek, lingering just a little longer than usual. “you look real pretty today” he murmurs, and you feel your face heat up instantly because he says it like he means it with his whole heart. you ask him what the surprise is, and he finally reveals what he was hiding behind his back: two pairs of rollerblades, one blue and one pink, both looking brand new. he grins like a kid showing off a secret treasure. "we’re goin to the roller rink. the one with the disco lights and the music real loud. i thought it’d be fun” he says, and you can’t help laughing because he looks so proud of himself, like he’s been waiting all morning to show you.

the walk to the rink is warm and slow, and he keeps brushing his hand against yours until he finally just takes it, his fingers slipping between yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. he keeps glancing at you, biting his lip every time you catch him staring, and you pretend not to notice even though it makes your heart beat faster. when you reach the building, the neon sign is buzzing softly, the windows glowing with coloured lights from inside, and you can already hear the faint thump of music through the walls. michael pushes the door open for you, and the moment you step inside, the warm air hits your skin, the disco lights swirl across the floor, and the smell of popcorn and floor polish fills the room. he looks around with this excited sparkle in his eyes, like he’s been waiting to bring you here for weeks. “i used to come here with my brothers sometimes. figured i’d bring you too” he says, squeezing your hand gently.

he leads you to the benches near the rental counter, setting the skates down and kneeling in front of you to help you put yours on. his hands are gentle and careful, tying the laces tight and checking them twice like he’s afraid they’ll come undone. he looks up at you with that soft admiration that always makes your chest feel warm. “there. perfect” he says quietly, brushing his thumb over your ankle before putting on his own pair. “you sure you’ve done this before,” he asks, and you shoot him a look, “i didn’t say i was good at it,” you admit, and he laughs again, shaking his head as he stands up and offers you his hand. “i’ll take care of you,” he says, and the words hit you harder than they should, warm and gentle. you take his hand and let him help you up, wobbling immediately as the wheels slide under you, and he steps closer, steadying you with both hands on your arms. “easy,” he murmurs, his voice soft and close, “i got you.” you swallow, nodding, trying to focus on anything other than how good his hands feel on you. the rink floor is smooth and glowing under the coloured lights, and the music playing is something upbeat and bright, the kind of song that makes you want to move even if you’re terrified of falling. michael skates backward in front of you, holding both your hands as you inch forward, your legs shaking like they’ve forgotten how to function. he smiles at you, his curls bouncing slightly as he moves effortlessly, and you can’t help but stare at how natural he looks, like he was born to glide across this floor. “you’re doing good,” he says, and you shake your head immediately. “i’m doing terrible,” you reply, and he laughs, squeezing your hands gently. “you’re doing better than you think,” he says, and you try to believe him even as your wheels slip and you stumble forward, letting out a small yelp as you lose your balance. he catches you instantly, his arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you against him, steadying you before you hit the ground. “whoa there,” he murmurs, his voice warm against your ear, “told you i’d take care of you.”

you’re blushing so hard you’re surprised the lights aren’t reflecting it, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still on your waist. “you okay,” he asks, and you nod quickly, trying to ignore how close his face is to yours. “yeah,” you say, “just… gravity hates me.” he laughs, the sound soft and sweet, and he shakes his head. “gravity doesn’t hate you,” he says, “you just gotta trust your feet.” you raise an eyebrow. “i don’t trust my feet at all,” you say, and he grins, taking your hand again. “then trust me,” he says simply, and you giggle.

you let him guide you around the rink, your fingers laced with his as he skates backward, his movements smooth and easy. every time you wobble he steadies you, his hands gentle but sure, and every time he smiles at you it feels like the whole room gets brighter. you try to talk to distract yourself from the constant fear of falling, and he listens with that soft attentiveness that makes you feel like every word you say matters. “you’re really good at this,” you tell him, and he shrugs modestly. “when my brothers and i used to come here,” he says, “we’d race each other. i always lost.” you laugh, shaking your head. “i don’t believe that,” you say, and he grins. “i swear,” he replies, “jackie used to tease me so bad.” you smile, imagining a younger michael skating around this same rink, laughing with his brothers, and the thought makes your chest warm.

you’re starting to feel a little more confident when your wheels suddenly slide in opposite directions, and before you can even process what’s happening you’re falling again, letting out a startled noise as you go down. michael tries to catch you but you slip right through his hands, landing on the floor with a soft thud. he gasps and drops down beside you immediately, his hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch you too hard. “oh no,” he says, “are you hurt.” you groan, covering your face with your hands. “i'm embarrassed,” you mumble, and he laughs softly, gently pulling your hands away from your face. “let me see,” he says, and you shake your head. “i’m fine,” you insist, but he’s already checking your elbows and knees like he’s afraid you’ve shattered into pieces. “you sure,” he asks, his voice soft and worried, and you nod, trying not to melt at how gentle he’s being. “i promise,” you say, and he sighs in relief, offering you both hands to help you up. you take them, and he pulls you to your feet with surprising strength, steadying you as you wobble again. “you know,” he says, his voice teasing now that he knows you’re okay, “you fall real cute.” you stare at him, your eyebrow raising. “i fall cute,” you repeat, and he nods, smiling. “real cute,” he says, and you glare at him, “are you making fun of me,” you question, and he laughs, gently pulling your hands away. “i would never,” he says. you shake your head, trying not to smile. “watch it,” you say, and he grins. “you know i would never do that baby,” he replies, and you could see him holding back his laugh.

you skate for a while longer, falling only twice more, and each time he catches you or helps you up with that same gentle care, his hands warm and steady on your skin. eventually you both decide to take a break, sitting on the bench with your skates still on, your legs stretched out in front of you. he leans back, his hands resting behind him, and he looks over at you with that soft smile that makes your heart smile. “you hungry,” he asks, and you nod. “starving,” you admit, and he laughs, standing up and offering you his hand again. “come on,” he says, “i’ll get you something.” the snack bar is small and slightly outdated, but the hotdogs smell good and the slushies look bright and cold. michael orders for both of you, insisting on paying even when you try to argue, and he hands you a cup with a soft smile. “try it,” he says, and you take a sip, your eyes widening. “this is so good,” you say, and he laughs, taking a sip of his own. “told you,” he says, and you roll your eyes playfully. “you didn’t tell me anything,” you say, and he grins. “i was gonna,” he replies, “you just beat me to it.” you sit together at one of the small tables, talking and laughing as you eat, and you feel yourself relaxing more and more. he tells you stories about his brothers, about rehearsals, about little moments that make you laugh so hard your stomach hurts, and you tell him about your week, about the things you’ve been working on, about the little things that have made you happy. he listens to every word, his eyes soft and attentive, and you feel so seen, so understood, that it almost overwhelms you. after a while he leans forward, resting his chin in his hand as he looks at you. “you know,” he says softly, “i’m really glad we did this today.” you smile, your heart warm. “me too,” you say, and he reaches across the table, brushing his fingers over yours. “thank you for coming” he says, his voice low and sincere, you smile, your voice soft when you reply. "of course silly...i’d always say yes to you.” you admit, and his expression softens even more, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles as he smiles.

you sit like that for a moment, your hands touching, the air warm and soft between you, and then he stands up, holding out his hand again. “come on,” he says, “one more round.” you groan playfully. “michael,” you say, “i’m gonna fall again.” he laughs, shaking his head. “you'll be fine,” he says simply, and you can’t argue with that. you let him pull you back onto the rink, your fingers laced with his as he guides you onto the floor. the music has picked up again, something bright and fun, and he starts skating backward, pulling you gently along with him. you laugh as you wobble, and he laughs with you. “you’re getting better,” he says, and you shake your head. “you’re lying,” you reply, and he grins. “maybe a little,” he admits as you chuckle in disbelief.

you skate together for what feels like hours, the world blurring into soft colours and easy laughter as you find a comfortable rhythm side by side, sometimes drifting close enough that your shoulders nearly brush before he speeds up playfully and circles back around you again. he keeps stealing quick glances at you with that bright, soft smile, and every now and then he leans in as he passes just to press a quick kiss to your cheek before skating away like it was the most natural thing in the world, leaving you laughing and trying to catch up. the music hums around you while you both glide in and out of sync, teasing each other with little bursts of speed and playful turns, until it all just settles into this warm, light feeling of being together on the rink with nowhere else to be. when the rink finally starts to close, you both take off your skates and step outside into the late afternoon warmth, the air thick and soft around you. he walks beside you, with both of your roller skates in his hands, while you hold his bicep, the streetlights casting a soft glow over both of you, and he turns to face you, his expression gentle. “you did so good in there baby.” you groan immediately, burying your face in his shoulder as you walk. “michael i fell like fifteen times,” you say, and he laughs, the sound low and warm in his chest. “and i caught you fifteen times,” he replies, “that’s teamwork.” you stop walking, turning to face him, your hands resting on his chest as he looks down at you with that soft, warm expression that always makes your heart feel too full. he drops the roller skates on the floor and brushes a curl behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek as he whispers, “you know i love you, right.” your breath catches, your voice soft as you reply, “i love you too.” he smiles, leaning in to kiss you, slow and sweet and warm, the kind of kiss that feels like home.

when you reach your house, the porch light is glowing faintly, casting a soft halo over the steps, and michael stops at the bottom, turning to face you with both pairs of skates still hanging from his arm. he shifts them carefully, pulling your pink pair free and holding them in both hands like they’re something delicate, something important, and he looks at you with that soft, warm expression that always makes your breath catch. “here,” he says quietly, lifting the skates a little, “these are yours.” you laugh softly, looking at the worn pink leather. “i know they’re mine,” you say, and he shakes his head, stepping closer, his voice even softer now. “no baby,” he murmurs, “i mean… i want you to keep them. like… for tonight. for us.” you blink, your heart tightening in your chest as he holds the skates out to you, his eyes warm and a little shy in the porch light. “every time you look at them,” he says, “i want you to remember how much fun we had. how much you laughed. how many times you fell.” you smile and take the skates from his hands, the leather warm from where he’d been holding them, and he watches you like the moment means something bigger than either of you are saying out loud. you run your thumb over the scuffed toe, remembering every fall, every time he pulled you back up with that soft smile, and you feel your chest swell with something tender and full. “thank you,” you whisper, and he smiles, brushing a curl behind your ear as he murmurs, “you don’t gotta thank me baby. i know how the littlest things make you happy.”

you set the skates down on the porch step and turn back to him, your hands sliding up around his neck as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close in that slow, gentle way he always does when he doesn’t want the night to end. he leans down, his lips brushing yours softly before he kisses you, warm and lingering, his hands stay on your waist, holding you like you’re something precious, and when he finally pulls back, his breath warm on your lips as he whispers, “i had the best time with you.” you smile, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and he kisses you again, slow and sweet, before pulling back just enough to look at you. “i’ll call you when i get home,” he says softly, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “i want you to sleep good tonight.”

you nod, your voice warm. “i always sleep good after i see you.” he smiles, that soft, glowing smile that makes your heart feel too full, and he leans in to kiss your forehead one last time before stepping back, and picking up his own skates whilst hanging them from his arm. he walks backward for a few steps, still looking at you, still smiling like he doesn’t want to turn away, and he calls softly, “goodnight baby.” you pick up your pink skates, holding them close as you call back, “goodnight mikey.” and as he finally turns and walks down the street, the warm july air settling around you, he turns back one last time and waves you goodbye.