doll

♡ 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.

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

NOVEMBER 18, 1989.

you knew he’d be here the second you stepped inside, because michael always shows up anywhere you might be, not because he wants to see you but because he wants to ruin your night before you can ruin his. it’s pathetic, really, the way the two of you orbit each other like you’re both waiting for the other to slip first, but you pretend you don’t notice him leaning against the bar with some singer practically glued to his side, smiling like he didn’t have you in his bed two nights ago. you pretend like you don’t see the way he’s watching you from the corner of his eye, pretending he’s not. you pretend you don’t feel that familiar irritation crawl up your spine the moment you catch him smirking like he’s already won something you didn’t even know you were competing for. you hate him, you swear you do, but your stomach still twists when he tilts his head like he’s daring you to react. so you do what you always do. you ignore him. you walk deeper into the party like he’s irrelevant, even though you can feel his stare burning into your back like a hand he has no right to place on you.

you don’t even last five minutes before you retaliate, because you refuse to let him think he has the upper hand. you let some actor you barely know slide his arm around your waist, let him talk too close to your ear, let him laugh like he’s already got you. you don’t care about him, you don’t even remember his name, but you care about the way michael’s posture shifts the second he notices. it’s subtle, but you know him too well. his jaw tightens, his fingers curl around the girls waist tighter, his eyes narrow just a little, and that’s all you need to know you’ve hit the mark. you lean into the actor’s touch just to twist the knife, just to watch michael’s expression flicker with something sharp and ugly. you shouldn’t enjoy it, but you do. you always do. it’s the only language the two of you speak anymore, this constant back and forth of who can piss off the other more, who can pretend they care less, who can pretend they’re not watching every move the other makes.

michael moves before you expect him to, pushing off the singer with that slow, controlled walk that always makes your pulse jump even though you’d rather die than admit it. he doesn’t look at her, doesn’t say a word to her, just leaves her standing there confused as he crosses the room like he owns it. like he owns you. he stops in front of you, close enough that the actor’s hand drops from your waist immediately, and michael doesn’t even acknowledge him. he just looks at you with that infuriating calm that always means he’s about to start something. “you having fun?” he asks, voice low, eyes dragging over you like he’s checking for damage. you roll your eyes because you refuse to let him see how much he gets under your skin. “go back to your little fan,” you say, and you hate how your voice comes out steady when your heart is pounding. “she looked real desperate.”

he laughs, but it’s not a real laugh, it’s the kind that means he’s annoyed and pretending he’s not. “you jealous?” he asks, leaning in just enough to make your breath hitch even though you try to hide it. you scoff, crossing your arms, refusing to give him anything. “of her? please.” but he sees right through you, he always does, and that’s what makes you want to slap him. or kiss him. or both. his fingers brush your wrist lightly, and you hate that your body reacts before your brain does. “you look jealous,” he murmurs, and you want to scream because he sounds so sure of himself, so smug, so michael.

you step back because you need space, because being this close to him feels like losing, but he follows you like he’s tethered to you. “don’t you have someone else to bother?” you snap, but he just tilts his head like he’s studying you. “don’t you?” he shoots back, eyes flicking to the actor who’s now pretending he wasn’t terrified by michael’s presence. you hate how easily michael scares people away from you, hate how he acts like he has any claim over you when he’s the one who keeps showing up with someone new every week. you don’t answer because you refuse to give him the satisfaction, so you turn away, but he grabs your wrist before you can take a step. not hard, not soft, just enough to make you stop. “you really lettin’ him touch you like that?” he asks, and there’s something sharp in his voice now, something territorial and ugly and familiar. you yank your hand back, glaring at him. “why do you care?” you ask, even though you already know he won’t answer honestly. he never does. he shrugs, eyes cold. “i don’t,” he says, and it’s such an obvious lie that it almost makes you laugh. “just looks stupid.” you roll your eyes again because you refuse to let him see how much that stung. “then don’t look,” you say, and he steps closer like he’s daring you to push him away. “can’t help it,” he mutters, and you hate the way your stomach flips at the sound of it.

you don’t know how the two of you always end up like this, too close, too tense, too angry, too drawn to each other to walk away. you hate him, you swear you do, but you also hate the way the room feels empty when he’s not in it. you hate the way he ruins your night and then somehow becomes the only part of it you remember. you hate the way he looks at you like he’s trying to figure out how to break you before you break him. you hate the way you keep letting him. you hate the way he keeps letting you. you hate the way neither of you ever leaves first.

════════════════

the moment you decide you’re done giving michael attention, the entire night shifts. it’s like flipping a switch inside yourself, shutting off the part of you that reacts to him, the part that watches him, the part that lets him get under your skin. you straighten your shoulders, smooth your expression, and walk deeper into the party like he’s nothing more than background noise. you don’t look back. you don’t check if he’s watching. you don’t give him even a flicker of acknowledgment. and it feels good. it feels powerful. it feels like reclaiming something he’s been stealing from you for months without you noticing. you let yourself breathe for the first time tonight, let yourself relax into the music, the lights, the crowd, the conversations. you laugh at something someone says, genuinely laugh, and it feels strange because you’re so used to spending nights like this tense and irritated because of him. but not tonight. tonight you’re done.

and michael feels it instantly. he feels the shift in your energy like a slap, feels the absence of your attention like a bruise forming under his skin. he watches you walk away without looking at him, and something in him twists, sharp and ugly. he’s used to you reacting. he’s used to you glaring, rolling your eyes, snapping back, giving him something to work with. he’s used to being the center of your irritation, your focus, your fire. but now you’re giving him nothing. not a glance. not a twitch. not a single sign that he exists. and it drives him insane. he stands there stiffly, pretending he’s unbothered, pretending he’s above it, pretending he doesn’t care, but his eyes keep tracking you across the room like he’s tethered to you by something he refuses to name.

you don’t notice. or at least you pretend you don’t. you let yourself get pulled into a group of people you actually like, people who make you laugh without trying too hard, people who don’t drain you the way michael does. you talk, you joke, you sip your drink, you let the music settle into your bones. you feel light for the first time in weeks, like you’re not carrying the weight of whatever toxic thing you and michael have been doing to each other. you tilt your head back and laugh at something stupid someone says, and it feels real. it feels easy. it feels like you’re finally remembering what it’s like to have fun without him hovering over your shoulder like a storm cloud.

and michael sees all of it. he sees the way your shoulders loosen, the way your smile softens, the way your eyes light up when you’re not looking at him. he sees the way you lean into conversations, the way you let people touch your arm, the way you laugh without restraint. he sees you having a good time without him, and it hits him harder than anything you’ve ever said to him. he hates it. he hates how happy you look. he hates how free you look. he hates how easily you seem to forget he’s even in the room. he hates that he’s standing there with a drink in his hand and a girl talking in his ear while his eyes are glued to you like he’s starving and you’re the only thing he can’t have.

he tries to distract himself. he really does. he turns to the girl beside him, forces a smile, pretends to listen to whatever she’s rambling about. she touches his arm, leans into him, laughs like she thinks she’s charming, and he nods along like he’s interested. but he’s not. he’s not hearing a word she’s saying. he’s too busy watching you. too busy noticing the way you tilt your head when you’re listening to someone. too busy noticing the way your fingers tap against your glass in rhythm with the music. too busy noticing the way you look so alive without him. he hates it. he hates every second of it.

you still don’t look at him. not once. you don’t even glance in his direction. you’re too busy enjoying yourself, too busy letting the night unfold without the usual tension he brings. you dance a little, sway to the music, let someone spin you playfully, and you laugh again, louder this time. you feel good. you feel untouchable. you feel like you’ve finally figured out the one thing that actually gets to him indifference. real or fake, it doesn’t matter. it works.

and michael is unraveling.

he watches you dance with someone else, watches you smile up at them, watches their hand settle on your waist, and something inside him snaps so quietly no one else notices. he doesn’t storm over. he doesn’t make a scene. he doesn’t say a word. he just stands there, jaw clenched, eyes dark, the girl beside him keeps talking, keeps touching him, keeps trying to pull him back into the moment, but he doesn’t move. he doesn’t blink. he doesn’t look away from you. he’s furious. not because you’re dancing with someone else, but because you’re doing it without looking at him once. because you’re having fun without him. because you’re proving you don’t need him to enjoy yourself.

you feel his stare eventually, heavy and burning, but you don’t turn. you don’t acknowledge it. you keep dancing, keep laughing, keep pretending he’s not there. and it’s the most powerful you’ve felt in a long time. you don’t need to win. you already have. because michael jackson, the man who can have anyone he wants, is standing across the room with a beautiful girl on his arm, and he’s still furious that you’re not looking at him. and you’re having the time of your life.

the party starts thinning out around you, people drifting toward the exits in messy clusters, drunk laughter echoing through the hallways as the music fades into something softer. you’re still pretending you don’t notice michael, still pretending you don’t feel his stare burning into your back every time you move, still pretending you’re too busy having fun to care. and honestly, you are having fun. you’re loose, relaxed, warm from the alcohol and the attention, surrounded by people who actually make you laugh without trying to manipulate you. you feel good. you feel powerful. you feel like you’ve finally figured out how to win against him.

and that’s exactly why he’s losing his mind.

he hasn’t looked away from you in over an hour. not once. not even when people tried talking to him, not even when the girl he brought kept tugging on his sleeve like she was begging for scraps of attention. he ignored her completely, eyes glued to you like he was trying to memorize every second of your happiness just so he could destroy it later. he watched you dance, watched you laugh, watched you lean into conversations, watched you enjoy yourself without him. and every second of it made him angrier. you can feel it from across the room, this thick, simmering rage that he’s barely keeping contained.

you don’t acknowledge it. you don’t acknowledge him. you keep talking to your friends, keep smiling, keep pretending he’s irrelevant. you don’t even look in his direction when you grab your coat, when you say goodbye to people, when you start heading toward the exit. you don’t give him a single glance. and that’s what finally breaks him.

you’re halfway down the steps outside the venue when you hear footsteps behind you, fast and sharp, and before you can turn, a hand closes around your wrist. not gentle. not soft. not sweet. just firm enough to stop you in your tracks. you don’t need to look to know who it is. you can feel the irritation radiating off him like heat.

“you leavin’ without sayin’ anything?” michael’s voice is low, tight, like he’s been holding back all night and finally snapped.

you yank your wrist out of his grip, turning to face him with a cold expression you know will piss him off even more. “i didn’t realize i owed you anything,” you say, and the way his jaw clenches tells you you’ve hit the mark.

he steps closer, too close, close enough that you can see the anger in his eyes, the frustration, the jealousy he’s been choking on all night. “you really think you’re funny,” he mutters, and you shrug like you don’t care. “i think i’m done with you ruining my night,” you say, and his eyes flash. “ruinin’ your night?” he repeats, voice rising just a little. “you been ignorin’ me like a damn child.” you laugh, sharp and humorless. “oh, so now you want attention?” you ask. “go back to that singer of yours. she seemed desperate enough.” his nostrils flare, and he takes another step toward you, crowding you against the railing. “don’t play with me,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “you know damn well i wasn’t with her.”

“looked like you were,” you fire back, crossing your arms. “looked like you were having a great time.” he scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you. “you really think i give a fuck about her?” he asks, and you roll your eyes. “i don’t care who you give a fuck about,” you say. “i was busy having fun.” that hits him harder than anything else you’ve said tonight. his expression twists, something sharp and ugly flickering across his face. “yeah, i saw,” he says, voice dripping with bitterness. “you were real friendly with everybody.”

you smirk because you know exactly what he’s implying. “jealous?”

he laughs, but it’s not real. it’s bitter. it’s toxic. “c'mon now” he spits.

you tilt your head, studying him. “then why are you out here?”

he doesn’t answer. he just stares at you, breathing hard, eyes dark, jaw tight. you can practically see the war happening behind his eyes, the part of him that wants to drag you home and the part of him that wants to pretend he doesn’t care. he’s losing both battles.

you turn away, stepping down the last stair, and that’s when he grabs your arm again, harder this time, pulling you back toward him. “get in the car,” he says, and it’s not a request. you rip your arm out of his grip, glaring at him. “don’t tell me what to do.”

“then stop actin’ stupid,” he snaps, stepping closer again. “you know damn well you’re comin’ with me.” you hate that he’s right. you hate that your body reacts before your brain does. you hate that the tension between you is so thick it feels like gravity. you hate that you want to keep fighting him. you hate that he wants the same thing. you shove past him, walking toward the car without looking back, and he follows immediately, muttering curses under his breath. the second the doors close, the silence is suffocating. he grips the steering wheel like he’s trying not to explode, and you stare out the window like you’re trying not to scream.

it doesn’t last long. “you really think you’re slick,” he says suddenly, voice sharp. “walkin’ around like you don’t see me.” you don’t look at him. “i didn’t.”

“bullshit,” he snaps.

“you were doin’ it on purpose.” you shrug. “maybe i was.” he wipes his hand over his face. “why?” you finally turn to him, eyes cold. “because you piss me off.” he laughs, bitter and breathless. “you piss me off too.” “good,” you say. “we’re even.” he turns his head slowly, eyes dragging over your face like he’s trying to decide whether to kiss you or scream at you. “you drive me insane,” he mutters. “likewise,” you say. the car fills with tension so thick it feels like the air is vibrating. you’re both breathing hard, both furious, both refusing to look away. it’s toxic. it’s messy. it’s addictive. it’s the only language the two of you know how to speak.

the drive to his place is silent in that way that feels loud, like every unsaid word is pressing against the windows, like the air itself is vibrating with everything the two of you refuse to admit. you stare out the window, jaw tight, refusing to look at him, refusing to give him even a flicker of attention after the way he acted tonight. he grips the door handle like he’s trying not to snap it in half, knuckles white, jaw clenched so hard you can see the tension pulsing in his cheek. every red light feels like a standoff, every turn feels like a dare, every breath feels like a challenge neither of you wants to lose. you can feel him glancing at you, quick and sharp, like he’s checking if you’re still ignoring him, like he’s waiting for you to crack first. you don’t. you sit there like stone, like ice, like he’s nothing but background noise. and it kills him.

when the car pulls into his driveway, he doesn’t even wait for the engine to fully shut off before he gets out, slamming the door harder than necessary. you take your time, stepping out slowly, refusing to match his energy, refusing to let him see how much he’s getting under your skin. he stalks toward the door, shoulders tense, movements sharp, and you follow at your own pace, deliberately slow, deliberately calm, deliberately unaffected. he unlocks the door with too much force, pushing it open like the house offended him, and you step inside without looking at him, brushing past him like he’s invisible. that’s what finally sets him off.

the door slams behind you, echoing through the hallway, and before you can take another step, his voice cuts through the silence, low and sharp and furious. “you really think you’re cute, don’t you.” you don’t turn around. you don’t give him the satisfaction. “i think i’m tired,” you say, voice flat, and that only pisses him off more. “nah,” he snaps, footsteps heavy as he moves closer, “ you’re avoidin’ me.” you shrug, still not looking at him. “maybe i am.” he scoffs, the sound bitter and disbelieving. “for what?” he demands, and you finally turn, meeting his eyes with a cold stare that makes his breath hitch. “because you’re exhausting,” you say simply, and the way his expression twists is almost satisfying.

he steps closer, too close, close enough that you can feel the heat of his anger radiating off him. “you been ignorin’ me all night,” he says, voice low and tight, “walkin’ around like i ain’t even there.” you raise a brow, unimpressed. “you weren’t.” he laughs, but it’s not a real laugh, it’s sharp and humourless. “don’t play dumb,” he mutters, “you knew i was watchin’ you.” you tilt your head, pretending to think. “oh,” you say lightly, “i didn’t notice.” that’s a lie and you both know it, but the way his jaw clenches tells you it landed exactly where you wanted it to.

he takes another step, crowding you against the wall, eyes dark and furious. “you’re full of shit,” he says, and you smile sweetly. “and you’re predictable.” he bristles instantly, shoulders tensing, eyes narrowing like you just slapped him. “predictable?” he repeats, voice rising. “you think i’m predictable?” you nod, slow and deliberate. “you do the same thing every time,” you say, voice calm, “you get jealous, you grab the first girl you see, you pretend you don’t care, and then you stare at me all night like a creep.” he opens his mouth to argue, but you keep going. “it’s boring, michael.”

that hits him harder than anything else you’ve said tonight. he steps back like he needs space to process the insult, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “you really think you’re better than me,” he mutters, pacing once before turning back to you. “walkin’ around like you weren't doing the same shit.” you roll your eyes. “i wasn’t doing anything.” he scoffs loudly. “you were all over that guy.” you shrug. “he was nice.” michael’s eyes flash with something sharp and ugly. “he was boring,” he spits. “you only talked to him ’cause you knew i was watchin’.” you smile again, slow and poisonous. “and it worked.”

he freezes. completely. like the words hit him in the chest. like he wasn’t expecting you to admit it. like he doesn’t know what to do with the truth when you hand it to him so casually. the silence that follows is thick, heavy, electric, the kind that feels like something is about to snap. he’s breathing hard, eyes locked on yours, jaw tight, posture tense like he’s holding himself back from saying something he’ll regret. you’re standing there with your chin lifted, refusing to back down, refusing to let him win, refusing to let him see how much this whole night has gotten under your skin.

he takes a slow breath, then another, and something in his expression shifts, softens, melts in a way that makes your stomach twist. he steps toward you, not fast, not aggressive, just slow and deliberate, the way he always moved when he was trying not to scare anyone. his voice, when it finally comes, is low and soft in that michael way that always made your chest tighten because he didn’t need to raise his voice to make you feel it. “i shouldn’t’ve done that,” he says quietly, eyes never leaving yours. “i shouldn’t’ve acted like that tonight.” the apology is so gentle, so unexpected, so sincere that it hits you harder than any argument could have. he steps closer again, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that you can smell the faint sweetness of his cologne, close enough that you know he’s doing it on purpose. “i’m sorry,” he murmurs, and the way he says it makes your breath catch.

before you can respond, his hand lifts slowly, hesitantly, like he’s giving you time to pull away, and then his fingers brush your arm, light and warm and careful. he traces up your arm slowly, almost nervously, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you too quickly. “i shouldn't've tried to make you jealous,” he says softly, thumb brushing the inside of your elbow. “i shouldn’t’ve let her touch me like that. i shouldn’t’ve…” he trails off, swallowing hard, eyes dropping to your mouth for a split second before he forces them back up to your eyes. “i was wrong.”

you don’t say anything, and he takes that silence as permission to step even closer, sliding his hand from your arm to your waist with a gentleness that makes your breath catch. he pulls you toward him slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he moves too fast. his other hand lifts to your jaw, fingers brushing your cheek in a soft, trembling line that makes your stomach twist. “i hate when you look at anybody else,” he whispers, voice barely above a breath. “i hate when you smile at somebody else. i hate when you act like you don’t see me.” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, slow and warm. “and i hate that i made you feel like you had to do that tonight.”

you try to look away, but he gently turns your face back toward him, not forceful, just steady, grounding, soft in a way that feels more dangerous than any anger he showed earlier. “i’m sorry,” he repeats, voice even quieter now. “i’m real sorry.” his forehead lowers toward yours, brushing lightly, barely touching, just enough to make your breath hitch. “i don’t wanna fight with you no more tonight.”

his hands slide down your waist again, slow and warm, fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes like he’s grounding himself. he pulls you closer, chest brushing yours, breath mixing with yours in the small space between your mouths. he’s not angry anymore. he’s not jealous. he’s not trying to win. he’s just holding you like he’s been wanting to all night, like he’s been waiting for this moment, like he’s terrified you’ll slip away if he lets go.

“come here,” he whispers, and his voice is so soft, so warm, so michael that your knees almost give out. he pulls you fully against him, arms wrapping around your waist, hands sliding up your back in slow, careful strokes that make your breath catch. he presses his forehead to yours again, eyes fluttering shut as he exhales shakily. “i missed you tonight,” he murmurs, voice trembling just slightly. “even when you were right there.”

his hands move again, slower this time, warmer, more deliberate, tracing the shape of your back, your waist, your hips, like he’s memorising you all over again. he leans in closer, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, not kissing you, just hovering there, warm and soft and unbearably close. “tell me you’re stayin’,” he whispers, breath warm against your skin. “please baby.”

you don’t answer.

and that’s when his hands slide lower, his breath catches, his lips hover even closer, and the entire room tilts toward something neither of you can stop. you close your eyes. you feel the heat of him, the strength, the terrifying tenderness. you feel the last of your resistance crumble, not into dust, but into something softer, something that belongs to him. and then, into the charged silence, into the space between his mouth and yours, you whisper it. the name you’ve held back, the name that is a key and a lock all at once.

“michael…”

he pulls you into his bed, his hands never leaving your body, tracing every curve like old times. you can feel his breath hitch as he guides you down onto the soft mattress, his body following, covering yours. he's a wall of heat, his hardness pressing against your thigh, a silent promise of what's to come. you gasp as he's suddenly everywhere, his hands in your hair, his lips on your neck, his hips grinding against yours. he's needy, desperate, and it's intoxicating. you can feel him growing, pressing against you, and you know he wants you, all of you. you wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer, a soft moan escaping your lips as he's finally, fully against you. he's kissing you now, deep, slow, his tongue exploring your mouth, tasting you. you can feel the hunger in him, the desire, and it's making you dizzy. his hands on your hips, pulling you closer, and you can feel the friction, the heat, the promise of pleasure. you're lost in him, in the feel of him all over again, he's whispering your name, a plea, a prayer, a command, and you're melting, giving in, giving over like all those times.

݁₊ ⊹🍎⁺ 𓈒݁₊ ⊹🍎⁺ 𓈒݁₊ ⊹🍎⁺ 𓈒݁₊ ⊹🍎⁺ 𓈒݁₊ ⊹🍎⁺ 𓈒݁₊ ⊹🍎⁺ 𓈒݁₊ ⊹🍎⁺ 𓈒݁₊ ⊹🍎⁺ 𓈒݁₊ ⊹🍎⁺

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.

JULY 19, 1980

the summer michael moved to encino feels like the kind of summer that only happens once in a lifetime, the kind that feels golden around the edges, the kind that makes you think maybe the world is softer than you thought. the sun was already high when you’re sitting on the curb outside your house, legs stretched out, a half‑melted popsicle ruining your mood as you watch the moving truck rumble to a stop next door. you don’t expect anything special. you don’t expect anyone special. but then you see him. michael. he steps out of the car with a quiet sort of presence, like he’s trying not to disturb the air around him. he keeps adjusting his sunglasses even though the sun isn’t that bright yet. he looks around the neighbourhood like he’s searching for something familiar in a place that isn’t familiar at all. when his eyes land on you, he pauses. you freeze too, popsicle stick still in your hand, and for a moment it feels like the whole street goes silent. then he smiles. it’s small and soft and a little shy, but it’s real. you lift your hand in a wave, and he lifts his back, mirroring you like he’s been waiting for someone to acknowledge him. you don’t know it yet, but that moment is the beginning of everything.

later that afternoon, when the sun is lower and the shadows stretch long across the grass, you hear a knock on your door. your mom calls your name, and when you come to the hallway, michael is standing there with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. he looks at you with those warm brown eyes and says “hi. i’m michael. i just moved in next door.” his voice is gentle, almost careful, like he’s afraid of taking up too much space. you tell him your name, and he repeats it softly, like he’s trying it out, like he wants to keep it safe somewhere. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and says “i saw you earlier. i thought maybe we could hang out.” you don’t even hesitate. you grab your shoes, tell your mom you’ll be outside, and follow him into the warm evening air. you don’t know where you’re going, but it doesn’t matter. you’re walking beside michael jackson, and somehow it already feels like you’ve known him longer than a few minutes.

the first few days are simple in the best way. you show him around the neighborhood, pointing out the best climbing trees, the corner store with the good candy, the park where the grass is soft enough to lie on without getting itchy. he listens to everything you say with this quiet attentiveness, like he’s storing every detail in his mind. he tells you about his brothers, about touring, about how strange it feels to suddenly have a house that isn’t full of noise and people. he tells you he likes the quiet here. he tells you he likes that you don’t look at him the way other people do. you don’t ask what he means, but you understand anyway.

as the days turn into weeks, you and michael fall into a rhythm that feels natural, like it was always meant to happen. you spend long afternoons in his backyard, lying on the grass and watching the clouds drift by. he hums melodies under his breath, little pieces of songs that don’t exist yet, and sometimes he lets you hear the full thing, his voice soft and unpolished in the summer air. he tells you he doesn’t usually sing for people like this, not when it’s unfinished, not when it’s raw. you tell him you feel honored, and he blushes, looking away with a shy smile. he tells you he likes having someone who doesn’t expect anything from him. someone who doesn’t want anything from him. someone who just wants to be there. you tell him you feel the same.

you start spending time in his studio too, the one tucked away in the back of the house. it smells like warm wood and soft electronics, and the lights are always dim, giving the room a gentle glow. he lets you sit on the coach while he works, one leg placed over the other as you watch him build songs piece by piece. he moves with this quiet intensity, fingers tapping, head bobbing, eyes narrowing when he’s trying to figure out the right sound. sometimes he asks your opinion, turning to you with a hopeful look, waiting for your reaction like it actually matters. sometimes he just wants you there, silent company in a world that demands too much from him. you learn the little things about him. how he taps his foot when he’s excited. how he bites his lip when he’s nervous. how he gets lost in his own world when he’s creating. he learns things about you too. how you laugh with your whole body. how you get quiet when you’re thinking. how you dream of traveling the world and being seen for who you really are.

one afternoon, you’re both sitting on the floor of his living room, surrounded by stacks of vinyls and half‑finished snacks. he’s showing you old records he loves, telling you stories about the artists, about the first time he heard certain songs. he gets animated when he talks about music, hands moving, eyes bright, voice warm. you love seeing him like this. you love seeing him relaxed, unguarded, happy. he puts on a record and pulls you up by the hand, saying “come on, dance with me.” you laugh, telling him you can’t dance, but he shakes his head, smiling. “everyone can dance. you just have to feel it.” he spins you around the room, both of you laughing so hard you can barely breathe, and for a moment it feels like the whole world is just the two of you, spinning in circles, free and weightless.

you start spending evenings together too. sometimes you sit on the curb outside your houses, talking about everything and nothing while the streetlights flicker on. sometimes you walk to the park and lie on the swings, letting them sway gently as you talk about your dreams. he tells you he wants to make music that makes people feel less alone. he tells you he wants to create something timeless. you tell him you want to see the world, to be part of something bigger than this neighborhood, to be someone people remember. he listens to you like every word matters. he tells you he believes in you. he tells you you’re going to do incredible things. you tell him he already is.

one night, near the end of summer, you’re sitting on the roof of his house, legs dangling over the edge, the city lights stretching out below you like a sea of stars. the air is warm and still, and the sky is a deep blue that feels endless. michael is beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush every time you breathe. he’s quiet, unusually quiet, and when you glance at him, he’s staring at the horizon with a look you can’t quite read. you ask him what he’s thinking about, and he takes a long breath before answering. “i like it up here,” he says softly. “it feels like the world is far away. like it can’t touch me.” you nod, understanding more than you can say. he turns to you, eyes soft, and adds “i’m glad you’re here. i don’t think this summer would’ve felt the same without you.” the words settle between you, warm and heavy, and you feel something shift in your chest. you tell him you’re glad too. he smiles, small and sincere, and leans his shoulder against yours. you sit like that for a long time, the two of you wrapped in the quiet night, the world below you moving on without you.

as the months pass, your friendship only grows deeper. you become his safe place, the person he goes to when he needs to breathe, when he needs to laugh, when he needs to feel like a normal young man instead of a superstar. he becomes your anchor, the person who listens to your dreams without laughing, who tells you you’re capable of anything, who believes in you even when you don’t believe in yourself. you spend birthdays together, holidays, late nights talking about everything and nothing. he sneaks you into rehearsals sometimes, letting you watch from the side as he dances with a focus that takes your breath away. afterward, he always runs to you first, asking “was it good? did you like it?” like your opinion is the only one that matters. you tease him sometimes, telling him he already knows he’s incredible, and he laughs, nudging your shoulder with his. but you can see the truth in his eyes. he needs your reassurance. he needs your presence. he needs you.

you’re sitting with michael on the hood of his car in the driveway, the metal cold, the night air soft and quiet around you. he’s swinging his legs lightly, humming something under his breath, and you’re picking at the peeling paint on the edge of the hood, trying to find the right moment to say what’s been sitting in your chest for weeks. he notices you’re quieter than usual and nudges your shoulder with his. “what’s goin on in that head of yours,” he asks, voice gentle. you sigh, leaning back on your hands, staring up at the sky. “i think… i wanna try modeling. like for real. not just little shoots here. i wanna go big. london. paris. all of it.” he goes still beside you, not in a bad way, just listening the way he always does when it’s you. you keep talking, words spilling out faster now. “i know it sounds crazy.” michael turns toward you fully, one knee bent on the hood, eyes soft and focused like you’re the only thing in the world worth paying attention to. “why would that be crazy,” he says quietly. “you’re amazing.” you snort, trying to hide how much that hits you. “i’m serious, michael. i don’t wanna embarrass myself.” he shakes his head, and he leans closer, voice firmer this time. “you won’t. you’re special. you walk into a room and people look. you talk and people listen. you have something… i don’t know what to call it, but you have it.” you feel your throat tighten, because he’s never looked at you like this before, like he’s seeing the version of you you’re scared to admit you want to be. “you really think i could do it,” you whisper. he doesn’t hesitate. “i know you can.”

you laugh a little, trying to lighten the moment before you get emotional. “you’re just saying that because you like me.” he rolls his eyes and flicks your forehead gently. “i like you because you’re you. and i believe in you because you’re good. really good.” you shove his shoulder, smiling. “you’re such a dork.” he grins back. “your dork.” you freeze for half a second, but he doesn’t seem to notice what he said, or maybe he does and he’s pretending he didn’t. either way, he bumps his shoulder against yours again, softer this time. “go chase it,” he murmurs. “i’ll be right here cheering for you.”

and you believe him. you believe him more than you believe yourself.

MAY 14, 1982

that day you got the offer, you were sitting on the floor of his room, flipping through a fashion magazine you’d brought over. he was lying on his stomach beside you, chin propped on his hands, watching you more than the pages. you close the magazine slowly, letting it fall shut in your lap, and he notices instantly. his brows pull together, his expression shifting into that soft concern he gets whenever something’s wrong. he pushes himself up a little, still lying on his stomach but propped on his elbows now, his face tilted toward you. "what’s goin’ on?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid of the answer. you take a breath, then another, but it doesn’t steady you. nothing could. "i… got an offer," you say, and the words feel heavy, like they’re dragging something out of you. "from an agency. a big one." he blinks, processing, and you can see the exact second his heart stutters. "an agency…?" he repeats, his voice soft but strained, like he’s trying to keep it even. you nod, forcing yourself to meet his eyes even though it hurts. "in london." the silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. he doesn’t move at first, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink. he just stares at you with this stunned, fragile stillness, like the world tilted under him and he’s trying to find his balance again. "london," he says finally, and the word sounds foreign in his mouth, like it doesn’t belong between the two of you. you nod again, your fingers twisting in the fabric of your jeans. "they want me to go out there. train. work. they think i could… really make it."

he drops his gaze to the carpet, his head falling forward to hide his face, and something inside you cracks at the sight. he’s quiet for so long you almost think he won’t answer, but then he speaks, his voice barely holding together. "how long… would you be gone?" you hesitate, because saying it out loud makes it real. "a few years. maybe more." he exhales, slow and shaky, and you can see the way his shoulders tense, the way his fingers curl into the carpet like he’s trying to anchor himself. he lifts his head just enough to look at you again, and his eyes are shining in a way that makes your chest ache. "i’m happy for you," he says, and it’s so soft, so careful, like he’s placing each word down gently so it doesn’t break. "i really am. you deserve everything good." you feel your throat tighten, because you can hear the truth beneath his voice, the quiet tremble he’s trying to hide. you reach out and touch his arm, your fingers brushing his skin, and he closes his eyes for a moment like the contact hurts and soothes him at the same time. "i’ll miss you," you whisper, and his eyes open again, full of something raw and unspoken. he shifts closer without even realizing it, his arm brushing yours, his voice barely there. "i’ll miss you more."

and in that moment, sitting on the floor of his room with the sun fading and the air thick with everything neither of you can say, you feel the weight of what you’re about to lose. you feel the distance already forming, stretching, pulling, even though you’re still right beside him. and he feels it too. he just doesn’t know how to tell you that losing you is the one thing he never prepared for.

NOVEMBER 12, 1990

your rise didn’t happen overnight, even if the world likes to pretend it did. it started in london, in a cramped little flat with peeling paint and a window that barely opened, where you spent your first nights crying into your pillow because you missed home, you missed warmth, you missed the boy who used to lie on the floor beside you and make the world feel small and safe. but you didn’t let yourself fall apart. you woke up every morning before the sun, walked to castings in the rain, stood in lines that wrapped around buildings, learned how to hold your posture even when your feet ached and your stomach growled. you learned how to be looked at without shrinking. you learned how to turn your face into something the camera wanted. paris came next. paris changed everything. paris sharpened you. paris taught you how to walk like you owned the runway, how to hold your chin high even when designers whispered about you in languages you barely understood. you learned how to survive on espresso and adrenaline, how to slip into gowns worth more than your entire childhood home, how to smile politely at photographers who didn’t know your name yet but would soon. you learned how to be alone without being lonely.

and then the campaigns came. the editorials. the covers. the world started saying your name like it tasted expensive. you became the girl everyone wanted in their show, the face everyone wanted on their billboard. you were flying from paris to milan to new york to tokyo, barely sleeping, barely breathing, but somehow thriving. you were everywhere. you were unstoppable. and somewhere along the way, you met al. it was at a dinner in new york, one of those industry events where everyone pretends they’re not looking at each other while very much looking at each other. you were seated next to him by chance, or maybe by fate, and he introduced himself with that soft, gravelly voice that made you smile before you even realized you were doing it. he was older, yes, but there was something grounding about him, something steady and warm that cut through the noise of your life. he didn’t treat you like a model. he didn’t treat you like a trophy. he treated you like a person.

you started seeing him quietly at first. dinners in dimly lit restaurants, long conversations that stretched into the early morning, walks through the city where he’d keep his hand lightly on your back like he was afraid you might drift away if he didn’t. he made you laugh. he made you feel seen. he made you feel like you could breathe. and you liked him. you really did. maybe even more than you expected to. months passed. your career kept climbing. his did too. you were both busy, both constantly traveling, but somehow you always found your way back to each other. he’d send flowers to your hotel rooms. you’d call him from airports. he’d fly out to see you when he could, slipping into your life with a kind of ease that surprised you. and eventually, it became official. public. the world loved it. the press called you a power couple. magazines wrote about your style, your chemistry, your age gap, your everything. you learned how to navigate the attention together, how to smile through the noise, how to hold hands on red carpets without flinching at the flashes.

and tonight, feels like the peak of it all. the car glides through the city like it’s carrying royalty, the lights outside blurring into streaks of gold and red. al sits beside you, his hand warm on your knee, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. he looks good tonight, impossibly good, his suit tailored perfectly, his hair slicked back, his expression calm but focused. he’s nominated for a major award, one that could shift the entire trajectory of his career, and you can feel the quiet tension in him even though he hides it well. you adjust the strap of your gown, smoothing the fabric over your legs. it’s custom, of course, a shimmering piece that hugs your body like it was made for you, because it was. the designer begged you to wear it. the world will talk about it tomorrow. al glances at you, his eyes softening. "you look incredible," he murmurs, and there’s something so sincere in his voice that it warms you from the inside out. you smile, leaning into his touch when he cups your cheek. "thank you," you whisper, your voice soft. he studies you for a moment, his thumb brushing your skin. "i’m glad you’re here with me tonight."

the car slows. the noise outside grows louder. cameras. voices. chaos. al straightens his jacket, then turns to you fully, offering his hand. "ready?" you take it, your fingers slipping into his with practiced ease. "always." the door opens. the world explodes. flashes. shouting. your name. his name. the roar of fame swallowing everything.

you step out gracefully, your gown catching the light, your posture perfect, your expression serene. al keeps his hand on your waist, guiding you through the storm with quiet confidence. he leans in occasionally to whisper something that makes you laugh softly, and the photographers go wild each time. inside, the venue is warm and golden, chandeliers glittering overhead, tables draped in white linen. al keeps you close as he greets people, introducing you to directors, actors, producers. you smile, shake hands, exchange pleasantries. you’re used to this life now. you’re good at it. you belong here.

the award show is a living organism, pulsing with heat and noise and the kind of glittering chaos only hollywood can produce. the chandeliers drip gold from the ceiling, the carpet is a deep velvet red that swallows footsteps, and the air smells like perfume, champagne, and ambition. you walk through it all with the kind of grace that only comes from years of being watched, years of being sculpted by cameras and runways and the relentless pressure to be perfect. your gown moves like liquid around your legs, shimmering with every step, catching the light in a way that makes people turn their heads without even realizing they’re doing it. al’s hand rests on your waist, warm and steady, grounding you in a way that feels familiar now. al looks good tonight, impossibly good, his suit tailored to perfection, his hair slicked back, his expression calm but proud. he’s been in this world longer than you’ve been alive, but he still carries himself with the same quiet fire that made him a legend.

you’re proud of him. you’re proud to be here with him. you’re proud of the life you built, the one you clawed your way into with grit and discipline and a kind of hunger that never really left your bones. you don’t see michael yet. you don’t feel him.

you don’t sense the way the air shifts the moment he walks into the room. but he sees you instantly. he wasn’t looking for you. he wasn’t expecting you. he wasn’t prepared. he was adjusting the cuff of his jacket, nodding politely at someone speaking to him, when his gaze drifted lazily across the room, and then stopped so abruptly it felt like his heart slammed into a wall. you.

standing there in a gown that looks like it was spun from starlight, your posture elegant, your smile soft, your hand resting lightly on al pacino’s arm as he leans in to whisper something that makes you laugh. michael’s breath catches. his fingers tighten around the glass in his hand. his pulse stutters, then races, then stutters again. you look older now. sharper. more polished. more untouchable. you look like someone the world worships. someone who belongs to the lights and the cameras and the applause. someone who built a life far away from him and never looked back. and then he sees al’s hand slide around your waist. something inside him twists so violently he has to look away for a moment just to breathe. jealousy hits him like a punch to the ribs, hot and sharp and humiliating. he hates the way it burns. he hates the way it makes his chest tighten. he hates the way it makes him feel sixteen again, lying on the floor beside you, listening to you talk about dreams he thought he’d always be part of. he forces himself to look again. he can’t not look. you’re laughing at something al says, your eyes bright, your hand brushing his arm. you look happy. settled. loved. michael swallows hard, his jaw tightening. he tries to focus on the conversation happening beside him, but the words blur into meaningless noise. all he can see is you. all he can feel is the ache he thought he buried years ago rising up like a ghost he never learned how to kill.

the night stretches on, the awards handed out one by one, applause rising and falling like waves. al wins his category, and you stand to your feet, clapping, your smile wide and proud as he kisses your cheek before heading to the stage. you watch him speak, your heart warm, your hands clasped together. he deserves this. he worked for this. you’re happy for him.

later, after the applause dies down and the crowd begins to thin, al is pulled away by a group of old friends, all of them eager to congratulate him. he kisses your temple before he goes, his hand lingering on your waist. "i’ll be right back, sweetheart," he murmurs, and you nod, watching him disappear into the crowd. you need air. you slip away quietly, weaving through the last clusters of guests until you find a side door leading to a balcony. the night air hits you instantly, cool and crisp, brushing against your skin like a sigh. the city stretches out below you, glittering and alive, and you rest your hands on the railing, breathing deeply.

you don’t hear the door open behind you. you feel him.

that familiar presence, soft and hesitant, like a memory stepping back into the world. you turn slowly. michael stands in the doorway, framed by the warm light behind him, his eyes locked onto yours with a mixture of disbelief and something deeper, something raw and aching. he steps forward, closing the door gently, and for a moment neither of you speak. you breathe his name. "michael…" he exhales shakily, his voice soft. "hey." you smile, small and stunned. "i didn’t know you were here tonight." he shrugs lightly, his eyes never leaving yours. "i wasn’t sure i was gonna come." you laugh under your breath, the sound surprising even you. "some things never change." he smiles, really smiles, and it hits you like a punch to the chest. you talk. you talk like no time has passed at all. you tease him about his old habits, he teases you about your runway walk, you laugh about the stupid things you used to do in encino. he leans against the railing beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice warm and familiar. and then, slowly, the mood shifts. his eyes drop to your hand resting on the railing. "so… you and al," he says quietly, trying to sound casual but failing. you nod. "yeah. we’ve been together for a while now." he swallows, his jaw tightening. "you happy?" you hesitate. just for a second. "yeah. i am." he looks away, breathing out slowly. "i’m glad." but his voice cracks. you turn toward him, your brows pulling together. "michael…?" he doesn’t look at you at first. he keeps his gaze on the city, his lashes low, his lips pressed together like he’s trying to hold something back. when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost trembling. "i thought i was over it." your breath catches. "over what?" he closes his eyes for a moment, gathering himself, and when he opens them again, they’re shining with something raw and unguarded. "you." your heart stumbles. he shakes his head, his voice breaking open. "i tried. i really tried. i told myself it was just a childhood thing, just a phase, just… something i’d grow out of." he laughs softly, but there’s no humour in it. "but i didn’t. i couldn’t."

you don’t move. you don’t breathe. he turns toward you fully now, his body angled toward yours, his eyes searching your face like he’s memorizing every detail all over again. "when you left, i told myself it was okay. that you were chasing your dream. that i should be happy for you. and i was. i was so proud of you." his voice cracks again, softer this time. "but it hurt. it hurt in ways i didn’t know how to explain."

you feel something twist inside you, something old and familiar and aching. he steps closer, not touching you, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that the scent of his cologne wraps around you like a memory. "i waited for you," he whispers, and the words hit you like a blow. "i kept thinking you’d come back. or call. or something. i kept thinking maybe… maybe you felt the same way i did." your throat tightens. "mike…" he shakes his head, his voice trembling now, the emotion spilling out faster than he can catch it. "seeing you tonight… with him… it just…" he swallows hard, his eyes shining. "it reminded me that i never stopped loving you."

the world goes quiet. the city. the wind. your heartbeat. everything stops.

he takes a shaky breath, his voice barely there. "i know it’s too late. i know you have a life now. i know he makes you happy. i’m not trying to ruin anything. i just… i needed you to know. i needed to say it at least once in my life." your eyes sting, your chest tight, your breath unsteady. he looks at you like he’s bracing for impact, like he’s preparing himself for the moment you break his heart all over again. and then— flash. flash. flash.

the sound is sharp, violent, unmistakable. you both whip your heads toward the corner of the balcony where a photographer is half‑hidden behind a plant, camera raised, eyes wide with triumph. another flash. another. michael’s eyes widen in horror. but it’s too late. the door bursts open. more cameras. more shouting. your name. his name. al pacino’s name. and just like that, the world has you again. and this time, it has him too.

𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃

AUGUST 18, 1979

the moment you step out of the car, the late afternoon sun settles over you like a soft blanket, warm enough to make your skin glow but gentle enough that it doesn’t feel overwhelming, and you take a slow breath as you look up at the jackson family home, the big white house standing quietly against the bright california sky. the driveway feels familiar beneath your feet, the scent of the neighborhood drifting around you in a mix of jasmine, sun‑warmed pavement, and the faintest hint of chlorine from the backyard. you shift your overnight bag higher on your shoulder, feeling the strap press into your skin as you take a moment to steady yourself, not from nerves but from the strange flutter that always comes with stepping into michael’s world, a world that is loud and loving and full of movement in a way that contrasts with the calm you feel whenever you’re alone with him. you smooth your hand over your clothes even though you already checked yourself in the mirror before getting out of the car, and then you start walking up the driveway, each step slow and steady as the house grows larger in front of you.

you knock lightly even though you know you don’t need to, and before your knuckles even leave the door it swings open to reveal marlon standing there with a towel thrown over his shoulder, his hair damp and his grin wide enough to make you laugh under your breath. he steps aside immediately, waving you in with a dramatic sweep of his arm as he says "you’re here, finally, everyone’s out back" in a voice that’s already buzzing with energy. the cool air of the house washes over you as you step inside, the familiar scent of the jackson home wrapping around you in a way that makes your shoulders relax. you hear voices drifting from deeper in the house, laughter echoing faintly against the walls, and somewhere in the mix you catch the soft sound of michael’s voice, not loud enough to make out the words but enough to make your chest warm. you adjust your grip on your bag and follow marlon down the hallway, your footsteps soft on the polished floor as he leads you toward the backyard.

the moment you step outside, the brightness hits you again, sunlight bouncing off the pool in shimmering ripples that dance across the patio and the walls of the house. the backyard is alive with noise, the kind of playful chaos that only happens when all the brothers are together, and you take a moment to take it all in. towels are scattered across lounge chairs, floaties drift lazily across the water, and someone’s music is playing from a speaker near the sliding door, the beat soft and steady beneath the sound of splashing and laughter. tito is sitting at the edge of the pool with his feet in the water, talking to randy, who’s floating on his back with his eyes closed like he’s pretending to be asleep. jackie is near the grill, flipping something that smells good enough to make your stomach tighten with hunger, and he glances up when he hears you, giving you a warm smile before turning back to what he’s doing.

you set your bag down on one of the lounge chairs, the fabric warm from the sun, and you take a moment to settle yourself, brushing your hair back from your face as you look around the yard. everything feels familiar but still a little overwhelming, the noise and movement swirling around you in a way that makes you feel both welcomed and slightly out of place, the way you always feel when you first arrive before you’ve had a chance to settle into the rhythm of the house. you slip off your shoes and place them neatly beside your bag, letting your toes sink into the warm concrete as you stretch your shoulders, the sun settling comfortably across your back. you can feel the tension of the drive slowly melting away, replaced by the easy comfort of being somewhere you’ve been countless times before, somewhere that feels safe even when it’s loud.

you’re still taking everything in when you hear footsteps behind you, softer than the others, familiar in a way that makes your heart lift without you even turning around. you don’t need to look to know it’s michael, the quiet presence that always seems to move differently from everyone else, and when you finally turn your head he’s already there, standing a few feet away with his dark curls slightly damp and his eyes warm in the sunlight. he’s wearing a simple white tank top and loose shorts, nothing flashy, just him in the most natural way, and the sight of him makes something inside you settle completely. he gives you a soft smile, the kind that feels like a greeting only meant for you, and he says "hi baby, you got here okay?" in a voice that’s gentle and warm, the kind of tone he only uses when he’s talking to you. he doesn’t rush toward you or pull you into anything, he just stands there for a moment, letting you arrive, letting you breathe, letting you settle into the space before anything else happens.

you walk toward him slowly, your steps steady and unhurried, and he tilts his head slightly as he looks at you, his eyes soft and full of quiet affection. "i put some towels out for you already" he says, nodding toward the lounge chairs, "and there’s food if you’re hungry, jackie’s been cooking all afternoon". his voice is calm, steady, familiar, and the way he speaks to you makes your chest feel warm, not from excitement but from the comfort of being with someone who knows you well enough to make everything feel easy. you nod, giving him a small smile, and he reaches out to brush a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his touch light and gentle before he steps back to give you space again.

you take another slow breath, letting the atmosphere settle around you, the noise of the brothers fading slightly as you focus on the feeling of being here, being with michael, being in a place that feels like a second home. you sit down on the lounge chair, the fabric warm beneath you, and michael sitting down on the chair next to yours, close enough that you can feel his presence but not so close that it feels overwhelming. he leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him, and he glances at you with a soft smile that makes your shoulders relax completely. "take your time" he says quietly, his voice barely above the sound of the water, "we’re not doing anything yet, just hanging out". and with that, the last bit of tension leaves your body, replaced by the calm certainty that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

you sit there for a moment, letting the warmth of the sun soak into your skin as the noise of the backyard swirls around you in a way that feels distant and gentle, like background music instead of something demanding your attention. michael stays beside you, quiet and steady, his presence grounding you more than anything else could. he doesn’t rush you or pull you into the chaos of the pool party, he just sits there with his hands resting loosely on his knees, his curls catching the sunlight in soft glints of gold. every so often he glances at you, not to check on you in a worried way but in that calm, familiar way he always does, like he’s making sure you’re settling in at your own pace. you breathe in slowly, feeling the tension from the drive fade completely as the atmosphere of the house wraps around you, warm and lived in and full of the kind of comfort that only comes from being somewhere you’ve been welcomed into again and again.

after a few minutes, michael leans slightly toward you, his voice soft as he says "your stuff can go in my room whenever you want, i cleared space for you", and the simple thoughtfulness of it makes your chest warm. he says it casually, like it’s nothing, but you know he must have done it earlier in the day, probably before the party even started, making sure there was room for your bag, your clothes, the little things you always bring when you stay over. you nod, giving him a small smile, and he returns it with one of his own, gentle and warm, before standing up and offering you his hand. you take it, your fingers slipping easily into his, and he helps you up from the lounge chair with a soft steadiness that makes you feel even more at ease. he picks up your bag with his free hand, holding it effortlessly as he leads you toward the sliding door that opens back into the house.

the moment you step inside, the cool air brushes over your skin again, a welcome contrast to the heat outside, and the familiar scent of the house settles around you like a quiet reminder that this place has become something close to a second home. michael walks ahead of you down the hallway, his steps light and unhurried, and you follow him past framed photos on the walls, old awards, and little pieces of the family’s history that you’ve seen so many times they feel almost comforting. he pushes open his bedroom door with his shoulder, the hinges creaking softly, and the room looks exactly like you remember it, warm and tidy with soft sunlight spilling through the window and landing across the bed in a golden stripe. he sets your bag gently on the edge of the mattress, turning to you with that same soft expression he always gets when you’re in his space, like having you here makes the room feel more complete.

you take a moment to look around, letting your eyes move over the familiar details, the neatly stacked records, the books on his nightstand, the jacket draped over the back of his chair, and the small things that make the room feel like him. you place your shoes beside your bag and smooth your hands over the bedspread, feeling the soft fabric beneath your palms as you settle into the space. michael stands near the dresser, watching you with a quiet fondness that isn’t overwhelming, just steady and warm, and he says "you can change in here if you want, i’ll wait outside" in a tone that’s gentle and respectful, giving you space without making a big deal out of it. you nod, and he gives you a small smile before stepping out of the room, pulling the door almost closed behind him but leaving it open just enough that you can still hear the faint sounds of the backyard drifting through the house.

you open your bag and pull out your swim clothes, laying them neatly on the bed before changing at your own pace, the quiet of the room giving you a moment to breathe and settle fully into the day. the fabric is cool against your skin as you slip into it, and when you’re done you fold your regular clothes and place them carefully on the chair beside the dresser. you take a moment to look at yourself in the mirror, adjusting your hair and smoothing your hands over your bikini top and shorts before stepping back into the noise of the backyard. the sunlight catches on your skin, making everything look soft and warm, and for a moment you just stand there, letting the calm of the room settle into your bones.

when you finally open the door, michael is leaning against the wall across from his room, his arms loosely crossed and his head tilted slightly as he looks up at you. his eyes soften immediately, not in a dramatic way but in that quiet, familiar way he always looks at you, like he’s happy you’re here and nothing else matters. he pushes off the wall and walks toward you, his voice warm as he says "you look pretty", and the simplicity of the compliment makes you smile. he reaches out to take your hand again, his fingers curling gently around yours, and together you walk back down the hallway toward the backyard, the sound of laughter growing louder with each step.

when you step outside again, the brightness hits you just like before, but this time it feels easier, like you’ve already settled into the rhythm of the house. the brothers are still scattered around the pool, talking and splashing and teasing each other in the way they always do, and the moment they see you and michael walking out together, the noise shifts slightly, not in a dramatic way but in a warm, welcoming one. marlon waves at you from the water, tito gives you a nod from the edge of the pool, and jackie lifts the lid of the grill to check on the food, glancing over his shoulder to say "you two hungry yet" with a smile that’s easy and familiar. you squeeze michael’s hand gently, and he squeezes back, guiding you toward the lounge chairs again as the afternoon settles into something calm and comfortable, the kind of atmosphere that makes you feel like you can breathe deeply and stay as long as you want.

the brothers are still scattered around the pool, their voices rising and falling in bursts of laughter and playful teasing, but none of it feels directed at you or demanding your attention. it’s just the background noise of a family that’s used to being loud together, and you let it wash over you as you settle deeper into the lounge chair. jackie flips something on the grill, the smell drifting across the yard in a warm wave that makes your stomach tighten with hunger, and he calls out "food’s almost ready" without even looking up, his voice carrying easily over the water. tito dips his feet back into the pool, humming along to the music playing from the speaker, and randy floats lazily on his back, drifting in slow circles like he’s perfectly content to stay there forever. everything feels unhurried, like the whole afternoon has stretched itself out just for you to settle into it.

michael turns his head toward you, his curls brushing lightly against his forehead as he studies your face with that quiet attentiveness he always has. "you okay, baby?" he asks softly, his voice low enough that it doesn’t carry beyond the two of you, and the way he says it isn’t worried or pressing, just gentle and warm, like he wants to make sure you’re easing into the day in your own time. you nod, giving him a small smile, and he returns it with one of his own, the corners of his mouth lifting in that soft, familiar way that always makes your chest feel lighter. he reaches out and brushes his fingers lightly against your knee, a simple touch that feels grounding rather than demanding, and then he leans back again, letting you breathe and take everything in without rushing you into anything.

you take a slow breath, letting the warmth of the sun settle across your shoulders as you watch the water ripple in the pool, the light catching on the surface in shimmering patterns that dance across the patio. the breeze lifts your hair gently, brushing it across your cheek, and you tuck it behind your ear as you let your eyes wander across the yard. everything feels peaceful in a way that’s rare when the whole family is together.

after a while, he shifts slightly, turning his body toward you a little more as he says "if you want, we can sit by the pool instead", his voice soft and thoughtful, like he’s offering you an option rather than a suggestion. you nod again, appreciating how he always seems to know exactly how to move at your pace, and he stands up slowly, offering you his hand once more. you take it, your fingers slipping into his easily, and he helps you up from the lounge chair with that same gentle steadiness as before. together, you walk toward the edge of the pool, the concrete warm beneath your feet, and you sit down beside him, letting your legs dangle over the edge as the cool water laps softly against your skin.

the brothers barely glance over, too caught up in their own conversations and games to pay much attention, and the lack of focus on you feels strangely comforting. you dip your toes deeper into the water, the coolness spreading slowly up your legs, and michael sits beside you with his hands resting on the edge of the pool, his posture relaxed and open. he looks out at the water for a moment before turning his head toward you again, his eyes soft and warm in the sunlight. "i’m glad you’re here" he says quietly as he kisses the back of your hand, the words simple but full of meaning, and the way he says it makes your chest feel full in a slow, gentle way that settles deep inside you.

michael leans slightly toward you, brushing his shoulder against yours as he murmurs "i’m gonna run inside for a second, i’ll be right back", his voice warm and casual, and you nod, giving him a small smile as he stands up. he squeezes your hand gently before stepping away, disappearing into the cool quiet of the house. you stay where you are, letting your feet sway gently in the water as you watch the sunlight dance across the pool, the warmth of the afternoon settling comfortably around you. the breeze lifts your hair again as you glance around the yard. everything feels peaceful, unhurried, familiar. you lean back on your hands, stretching your legs a little deeper into the water, and for a moment it feels like the whole world has slowed down just enough for you to breathe. but then you hear footsteps approaching, light and quick across the concrete, and when you look up you see jermaine walking toward you with a grin that’s a little too bright, his hair still dripping from the pool as he pushes it back from his forehead. he stops beside you, planting his hands on his hips as he tilts his head and says "you’re awfully quiet over here", his tone playful but edged with something else you can’t quite place. you smile politely, not thinking much of it, and he drops down onto the concrete beside you, letting his feet slip into the water with a splash that sends cool droplets across your legs. he leans back on his hands, turning his head toward you with a grin that feels a little too focused. "you know, you always look so calm when you’re here" he says, his voice softer now, and you nod, keeping your expression neutral as you look back at the water.

before you can respond, marlon appears on your other side, sliding into the space beside you with a smoothness that feels almost rehearsed. he nudges your shoulder lightly with his own, his grin wide and teasing as he says "michael’s lucky, you know that", his tone light but his eyes lingering on you in a way that makes your stomach tighten. you shift slightly, not wanting to be rude but feeling the sudden closeness of both brothers pressing in on you. marlon dips his hand into the water, flicking a few droplets toward you with a playful smirk as he adds "if he ever messes up, you know where to find me", and even though he says it like a joke, something about the way he looks at you makes your breath catch. jackie calls out from the grill, his voice carrying easily across the yard as he says "you two leave her alone, she just got here", but he’s smiling as he says it, not realizing how close they’ve gotten, how their attention has shifted in a way that feels different from the usual family teasing. randy leans a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours as he says "we’re just talking, nothing wrong with that", and marlon laughs under his breath, his eyes still fixed on you in a way that makes your pulse quicken. you try to shift away subtly, but the edge of the pool keeps you in place, and the sudden intensity of their attention makes your chest tighten with discomfort. you glance toward the house, hoping to see michael coming back, but the sliding door remains closed, the sunlight reflecting off the glass in a way that hides whatever’s happening inside. jermaine nudges your knee lightly with his own, his grin widening as he says "you should come in the pool with us, we’ll keep you company", and marlon adds "yeah, we’ll take care of you", his voice low and teasing in a way that makes your stomach twist. you force a small smile, trying to keep things polite without encouraging anything, but the closeness of their bodies and the way their eyes linger on you makes it hard to breathe evenly.

and then the sliding door opens.

you don’t hear it at first, but you feel the shift in the air, the sudden quiet that falls over the brothers as their eyes flick upward. you turn your head slowly, your heart thudding in your chest, and there he is. michael stands in the doorway, his hand still on the handle, his hands damp from washing them, his expression frozen in a way you’ve never seen before. his eyes move from jermaine to marlon to the space between them where you’re sitting, and something sharp flickers across his face, something protective and wounded and unmistakably jealous.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he just stands there, his jaw tightening slightly, his eyes darkening as he takes in the scene in front of him. the brothers shift uncomfortably, their earlier confidence fading under the weight of michael’s stare, and the air between all of you thickens in a way that makes your breath catch. michael steps forward slowly, his movements controlled but tense, and the closer he gets, the more you can feel the heat of his jealousy simmering beneath the surface, quiet but powerful, the kind that comes from love rather than anger. he stops right behind you, his eyes softening only when they land on your face, and he says your name quietly, his voice low and steady, but there’s something in it that makes your heart twist. "come here, baby" he murmurs, and even though the words are gentle, the emotion behind them is anything but calm.

he leads you a few steps away from the pool, not far enough to make a scene but far enough that the brothers’ voices fade into the background, replaced by the soft hum of the afternoon and the faint splash of water behind you. he stops near the lounge chairs, turning to face you fully, and for a moment he just looks at you, his eyes searching your face with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. his hand stays wrapped around yours, warm and steady, and he takes a slow breath before speaking, his voice low and controlled but edged with something sharp. "were they bothering you" he asks quietly, and even though the words are soft, the tension beneath them is unmistakable, a quiet storm gathering behind his calm expression.

you shake your head gently, not wanting him to think you were uncomfortable even though the brothers’ closeness had made your stomach twist. michael watches your face carefully, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he reads the truth in your expression, and he steps a little closer, his free hand lifting to brush a damp strand of hair away from your cheek. his touch is gentle, but the emotion behind it is anything but calm, and when he speaks again his voice is even softer, almost a whisper. "i didn’t like how they were looking at you", he murmurs, his eyes flicking briefly toward the pool before returning to yours, "not when i wasn’t out here with you". the honesty in his voice makes your heart twist, not because he’s angry but because he’s hurt, protective in a way that comes from loving you deeply and wanting you to feel safe.

you squeeze his hand gently, grounding him, and he exhales slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a little as he looks at you. the sunlight catches on the curve of his cheek, the soft line of his jaw, and for a moment he looks younger, more vulnerable, like the jealousy surprised him as much as it surprised you. he glances toward the pool again, his eyes darkening when he sees marlon and randy pretending not to look over, and he turns his body slightly, positioning himself between you and them without even thinking about it. "they shouldn’t be crowding you like that" he says quietly, his voice steady but firm, "not when you’re my girl". the words aren’t loud or dramatic, just simple and honest, and the way he says them makes your chest warm in a slow, steady way.

he turns back to you fully, his hand still holding yours, and he steps closer until your bodies are only inches apart, the warmth of him settling around you like a shield. his voice softens again, the tension in it easing as he looks into your eyes. "i’m sorry" he murmurs, "i didn’t mean to leave you out here alone like that". you shake your head gently, and he lets out a breath that sounds like relief, his shoulders loosening as he leans his forehead lightly against yours for a moment, the contact soft and grounding. the noise of the backyard fades around you, replaced by the quiet steadiness of his breathing, and for a moment it feels like the two of you are standing in your own small world, separate from everything else.

when he finally pulls back, his expression is calmer, but the protective edge in his eyes hasn’t faded completely. he glances toward the pool again, his jaw tightening just slightly when he sees the brothers still watching from the corner of their eyes, and he slips his arm around your waist gently, guiding you back toward the lounge chairs with a quiet certainty. "stay with me" he says softly, his voice warm but firm, "i want you close". and as he leads you away from the edge of the pool, the brothers shift awkwardly, their earlier boldness gone, replaced by the unmistakable awareness that michael saw everything.

the air between all of you changes, slow and heavy, and you can feel the tension settling into the afternoon like a quiet storm waiting to break.

the sun has dipped low by the time everyone starts packing up, the warm glow fading into a softer evening light and the moment michael closes the bedroom door behind you, the quiet settles around both of you like a heavy blanket, soft but full of everything he’s been holding in. he doesn’t let go of your hand, not even for a second, his grip warm and firm as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens it. he turns toward you slowly, his expression tight with jealousy and frustration, but underneath it all there’s something vulnerable, something that makes your chest ache. he steps closer, his voice low and warm as he murmurs "i didn’t like what happened out there", and the way he says it tells you he’s been replaying it in his head ever since he walked back outside.

you reach up and touch his cheek gently, your thumb brushing across his skin in a slow, soothing motion. "michael… i’m okay", you say softly, your voice steady and calm, "i wasn’t interested in anything they were doing". he closes his eyes for a moment, leaning into your touch like he needs it, his breath leaving him in a slow exhale that sounds like he’s been holding it in for too long. when he opens his eyes again, they’re softer but still full of emotion, and he shakes his head slightly as he whispers "they shouldn’t have been that close to you… not when you’re with me".

you step closer, your hands sliding up his arms until they rest gently on his shoulders, grounding him. "look at me", you say quietly, "i'm here with you... and you're the only one i want". the words hit him instantly. his whole body softens, the tension in his shoulders melting as he pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. he smiles shyly.

he holds you like that for a long moment, his arms wrapped around you with a quiet intensity that makes your heart flutter. when he finally pulls back, he cups your face gently in both hands, his thumbs brushing your cheeks in slow, tender strokes. "i love you", he murmurs, his voice soft but full of emotion, "and i don’t ever want you feeling uncomfortable because of them". you place your hands over his, your fingers curling around his wrists as you whisper "i love you too, michael… and i wasn’t uncomfortable because of them".

he lets out a breath that sounds like relief, his shoulders loosening as he pulls you into him again, this time guiding you toward the bed. he sits down first and gently pulls you onto his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist with a quiet desperation that makes your chest warm. he rests his forehead against your shoulder, his voice low and frustrated as he says "i’m still mad at them… they know better", and you can feel the tension in his body as he speaks. you run your fingers slowly along his back, soothing him, and you whisper "michael... i’m right here, and nothing happened to me."

he lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours with a softness that makes your stomach flutter. he cups your cheek again, his touch gentle and warm as he murmurs "you mean everything to me", the words quiet but full of truth. he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there before pulling you closer, his arms tightening around you as he whispers "i’m not letting you go tonight… not after all that".

you giggle softly, his arms wrapping around you with a warmth that feels like home. he shifts you gently, guiding you down onto the bed with him, but he never loosens his hold, keeping you pressed against him as he pulls the blankets over both of you. the room is dim now, the only light coming from the soft glow of the lamp, and the quiet hum of the house fades into the background as michael settles beside you, his body curled around yours protectively.

he tucks his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as you turn slightly, his arms tightening around you in a slow, steady squeeze. he presses one last gentle kiss to your temple, his voice barely above a whisper as he murmurs "i love you, baby… so much", and you whisper it back, your words melting into the quiet of the room. and for the rest of the night, he holds you close, his jealousy fading into warmth, his anger fading into softness, his arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let you go.

and he doesn’t.

FEBRUARY 28, 1984 - 26TH ANNUAL GRAMMY AWARDS.

the shrine auditorium feels like it’s breathing around you, warm and golden and alive, but nothing in the room shines the way he does. michael walks beside you with that quiet, almost shy confidence, his sequined jacket catching every light like it was made to be seen, but his hand stays wrapped around yours like he needs the reminder that you’re here. he keeps leaning down, his big sunglasses brushing your cheek, whispering little things that make your stomach flip, “you okay, baby?” and “you look so beautiful.”, and even though the world is watching him, he keeps watching you, like you’re the only thing grounding him in all this noise.

album of the year — thriller

the second they announce thriller as album of the year, you grab michael's arm so fast he actually jumps a little in his seat. his eyes go huge and round and he just stares at the stage like maybe he heard wrong. then he slowly turns toward you with the most stunned expression you've ever seen. "oh no..." he whispers under his breath, already getting shy. not because he won, but because suddenly all those people are looking at him. you immediately start smiling at him, reaching for both of his hands. "michael, go!" you whisper excitedly. he ducks his head with a small laugh and squeezes your hands once before standing. while the audience applauds, he gives you one last nervous glance over his shoulder before making his way up there. at the microphone he smiles shyly and looks down for a second. "wow... thank you..." he laughs softly and rubs the back of his neck. "i... um..." the audience gives a few affectionate laughs while he smiles and looks down again. "thank you to quincy and everyone who worked on this album." then his eyes lift and immediately search the audience until they land on you. his entire face softens. "and..." he gets shy all over again, smiling into the microphone. "my lady's out there tonight..." he glances down with a little grin. "thank you for smiling at me. it helps."

best male rock vocal performance — beat it

michael barely sits down before his name is called again and he physically freezes. absolutely freezes. slowly, very slowly, he turns his head toward you with complete disbelief all over his face. "baby..." he whispers, eyes wide. "again?" you immediately clap and grab his shoulders excitedly while laughing. meanwhile michael just hides part of his face behind his gloved hand for a second because now people are cheering for him again and he suddenly looks so adorably overwhelmed. before standing he leans close. "you're making me nervous." he whispers with a shy smile. when he gets to the microphone, he laughs quietly and looks down immediately. "thank you so much..." he smiles into the floor for a second before looking up. "wow..." he shifts his weight shyly. "and..." there's already laughter because everyone notices now. michael laughs too and covers his smile briefly. "my lady..." he glances toward you quickly then away. "she looks more excited than me tonight."

record of the year — beat it

you’re practically laughing and tearing up at the same time now, and michael notices immediately when he sits back down. he leans closer, his voice soft and amused. "you’re going to run out of emotions before this night is over." he says gently, and you nudge him while still smiling through tears. when his name is called again, he exhales like he’s bracing himself, then stands, smoothing his jacket nervously. at the microphone, he takes a longer pause this time, visibly thinking before he speaks. "i never imagined this song would reach this many people in this way. it started as something very simple... a message about not letting fear control you." he looks down for a second, then continues. "i think we all face moments where we have to decide whether we shrink back or step forward, and this song was my way of stepping forward." he looks up, shy but sincere. "and i want to thank everyone who listened, who understood it, and who made it something bigger than me." then his expression softens even more. "and to my lady here tonight who has been reminding me, without saying anything, that confidence doesn’t always mean being loud. sometimes it just means having someone beside you who believes in you quietly." he smiles faintly, eyes flicking to you before he quickly looks away again, almost embarrassed by how honest he’s being.

best male pop vocal performance — thriller

he sits beside you again, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s still shy about all of it, then leans in just a little. "this is getting a little overwhelming..." he admits softly. you laugh and brush his arm and he smiles before heading back up. at the microphone, he looks more composed but still gentle. "thank you... this album has meant a lot to me personally." he pauses. "it’s about imagination, joy, and finding your voice." his eyes flicker down, then up again. "and i want to thank my woman again who has been making this whole experience feel less like a stage and more like home in a strange way." he gives a shy smile. "my brightest face in the crowd."

producer of the year (non-classical)

by now the audience is smiling before he even reaches the mic. michael notices and gets shy again, laughing under his breath as he adjusts the microphone. "i think you all are starting to expect what i’m going to say..." he says softly, making the room laugh. "thank you to quincy jones, who has taught me so much about trust and creativity." he pauses. "and to everyone who worked on this project, thank you for your patience and your brilliance." his gaze lifts toward you for a second and laughs. "my lady who’s been sitting out there like she’s trying to convince me i deserve this... you’ve done more for me tonight than you probably realize."

best recording for children — e.t. the extra-terrestrial

he comes back to you briefly and lets out a soft breath, leaning just slightly like he needs a moment to reset. "i think my brain is slowly turning into glitter." he whispers, making you laugh. at the stage, he smiles gently now, a little calmer. "thank you so much. this project reminded me that imagination is something we should never really grow out of." he pauses. "because it makes life a lot more interesting." he smiles faintly. "and you already know who, i love you i hope you’re not tired of hearing your name yet because i’m not tired of saying it”, and the whole audience laughs with him while you melt into your seat.

best engineered recording (non-classical) — thriller

he looks down for a second, collecting himself before speaking. "i want to sincerely thank the engineers and technical team for their incredible work on this album." he nods. "they brought precision and life to something that began as imagination." then he pauses, smiling to himself again then pointing towards you. "my girl, thank you for everything."

best rhythm & blues song — billie jean

by the time they announce it, the whole room feels like it already knows what’s about to happen. michael sits beside you for a moment completely still, then lets out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, shaking his head like he’s been gently cornered by fate all night and has finally stopped resisting it. he looks at you for a long second, eyes soft and shy in that way he gets when he’s overwhelmed but trying to stay composed. "i think if they call my name again, i’m going to start apologizing before i even stand up." he whispers, making you laugh as you squeeze his hand. he doesn’t let go this time. when his name is announced, he exhales slowly, like he’s accepting the inevitable, then stands with that same gentle shyness, smoothing his jacket out of habit even though his hands are slightly unsteady. the applause feels endless, but he moves through it quietly, almost humbly, like he’s still surprised anyone is cheering at all.

at the microphone, he doesn’t speak immediately. he just stands there for a moment, looking out at the audience with a kind of quiet disbelief that slowly turns into gratitude. then he bows his head slightly, smiles, and finally speaks, voice soft and thoughtful. "thank you so much... truly. i want to start by saying how deeply grateful i am for music itself, for the way it allows us to tell stories that don’t always fit into words on their own." he pauses, choosing his thoughts carefully, still shy but more present now. "this song, billie jean, was a story about perception, responsibility, and how quickly something can grow beyond the person who created it. and i think what i’ve learned most from it is how important it is to stay grounded in truth, even when the world around it becomes loud."

he glances down for a second, smiling faintly to himself like he can’t quite believe he’s still standing there, then looks back up with a softer expression. "i want to thank everyone who worked on this record, everyone who listened to it, and everyone who understood it in their own way. that kind of connection is something i’ll never take for granted." his voice gets quieter, more personal. "and i also want to say something i think i’ve been circling around all night without meaning to." a few people in the audience laugh softly, already anticipating it, and he lets out a small shy breath of laughter too, like he’s caught himself.

he shakes his head gently, smiling. "i’ve been mentioning someone in the audience after almost every speech tonight..." he pauses again, this time more openly embarrassed but in a warm, affectionate way. "and i think it’s because i’ve realized something important." his gaze slowly finds you in the crowd, and everything in him softens, like the noise of the room fades just a little. "she’s not just someone i’m grateful to see here tonight... she’s the reason i’ve been able to stand up here at all without feeling like i’m going to disappear under the lights."

his smile turns shy again, but it’s brighter now, more certain. "she’s been my calm when everything else felt too big. my reminder that i don’t have to perform confidence to actually feel safe in a moment like this. just knowing she’s there... looking at me like i’m already enough... it changes everything."

he laughs softly, almost under his breath, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he’s saying it out loud in front of everyone. "i think i’ve tried all night to avoid calling attention to it, but it keeps coming back to the same thing..." he pauses, voice gentler now, full of warmth. "she’s my reason for not overthinking every step I’ve taken up here tonight. my reason for not running off stage the moment the applause starts."

his eyes linger on you for a moment longer, and the shyness in him returns in the sweetest way, like he suddenly remembers how many people are listening, but he doesn’t pull away from the feeling. instead, he just smiles a little wider, softer. "and if i’m being completely honest... she’s the reason tonight has felt less like something i had to survive... and more like something i get to remember."

the room is warm with applause, but he seems quieter now, like he’s finished saying the most important part and everything else can just exist around it. when he finally walks back to you after the eighth win, he doesn’t even try to hide how shy he is anymore. he just sits down beside you, still smiling, still a little overwhelmed, and gently takes your hand like it’s the only steady thing left in the world.

"i meant it..." he says softly, almost like he’s still surprised he said it at all. then he gives a small, bashful smile, eyes warm. "you really are my reason for getting through all of that without falling apart."

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

you walk out toward the car with the biggest, brightest grin on your face, still buzzing from everything, your hand wrapped around michael’s arm like you’re not planning on letting go anytime soon, while he walks slightly close beside you, giggling under his breath in that shy, overwhelmed way, still holding all eight grammys carefully in both arms like he’s trying not to drop a single piece of the night, and every step makes him glance down at the awards, then back at you, like he still can’t believe any of it is real, especially you, and the second you hit the lights outside the paparazzi explode into flashes and shouting, cameras going wild as they catch him mid laugh, mid blush, full of eight red lipstick marks and still trying to stay composed while failing completely, and he gets even shyer, ducking his head a little but not letting go of you either, letting you guide him through it as he whispers, half laughing, "they’re going to zoom in on my face, i know they are..." while you just laugh and squeeze his arm tighter, proud and glowing, and he keeps walking anyway, smiling like he can’t stop himself, shy but happy, surrounded by chaos and cameras and eight awards and somehow still looking like the softest version of himself just because you’re right there beside him.

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

OCTOBER 21, 1987.

you don’t remember the exact moment you first saw him, only the way the room seemed to shift around you, like everything else softened at the edges while he stayed sharp and bright in the centre. it was late 1987, somewhere in a rehearsal building that smelled like warm lights and dust and the faint sweetness of hairspray, and you were there because your cousin begged you to tag along while she dropped off paperwork for someone on the crew. you weren’t supposed to be anywhere near the stage, but you wandered anyway, curious, young, a little reckless, and when you turned the corner you saw him standing alone with a water bottle in his hand, head tilted back as he caught his breath. he noticed you before you could even think of running, his eyes widening just slightly, like he wasn’t used to strangers slipping into his orbit. "hey… you lost?" he asked, voice soft but warm, and you felt something inside you stutter because he wasn’t supposed to talk to you like that, like you were someone worth noticing. you told him you were just waiting for your cousin, that you didn’t mean to interrupt, and he smiled in that shy, crooked way that made your stomach twist. "you’re not interrupting," he said, and you believed him more than you should have.

after that, it was like the universe kept finding excuses to push you back into his path. your cousin ended up working more often with the crew, which meant you were around more too, lingering at the edges of rehearsals, pretending you weren’t watching him even though he always seemed to know when your eyes were on him. he’d wave sometimes, small and quick, like a secret only the two of you shared. one afternoon, he walked over during a break, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and he asked your name like he’d been waiting to know it. "i see you around a lot," he said, almost teasing, and you felt heat rise to your face because you didn’t want to seem like some starstruck kid even though that’s exactly what you were. you told him you were just helping out, that you didn’t want to be in the way, and he shook his head immediately. "you’re not in the way. i like when you’re here." the words were simple, but they hit you deep, settling somewhere you didn’t know how to name yet.

the friendship grew in the quiet spaces between rehearsals, in the hallways where he’d lean against the wall and talk to you like he didn’t have a world waiting for him onstage. he’d ask about your life, your school, your favorite music, and he listened like every detail mattered. sometimes he’d laugh at something you said, covering his mouth with his hand in that shy way that made your chest feel too tight. he started saving you a seat during breaks, patting the spot beside him with a soft "c’mere", and you’d sit close enough that your shoulders brushed, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him even when neither of you said anything. it wasn’t romantic, not exactly, but it wasn’t just friendship either. it was something in-between, something that made your heart race when he looked at you too long, something that made him linger when he should’ve walked away.

as the year goes by, the closeness between you had stopped feeling accidental. it wasn’t something either of you talked about, but it was there in every look that lasted a second too long and every touch that should’ve meant nothing but somehow meant everything. you’d already memorized parts of each other friends were never supposed to know, gotten far too used to late nights and lingering touches, and sometimes you still heard the sound of his name leaving your lips all soft and breathless in moments you really should’ve forgotten by now. he’d reach for your hand without thinking, fingers brushing against yours like it was instinct, like somewhere along the way your presence had become a habit he couldn’t break. sometimes he’d hold on for a little longer than necessary, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for your chest to tighten. he’d pull you into hugs that lingered past the point of normal, his chin resting against the top of your head, his arms staying around your waist like he was finding excuses not to let go. his breath would brush against your neck and suddenly you’d forget what you were saying, forget what room you were standing in, forget how to act normal around him at all.

and then there were the moments that ruined you completely. the quiet ones. the moments where he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. this soft, unreadable expression settling over his face like he was trying to solve something impossible. like he was trying to figure you out. sometimes it looked almost dangerous, the way his eyes would search your face, like he wanted to step closer and pull away at the exact same time. and maybe that was the problem. because you understood it. you felt it too. the confusion. the pull. the constant ache of wanting to ask what this was and being terrified of hearing the answer. you weren’t dating, not officially, not publicly. but you weren’t friends either. not really. friends didn’t stare at each other like that. friends didn’t look jealous when someone stood too close. friends didn’t make your heart race the second they walked into a room. whatever this was sat somewhere in between, messy and warm and impossible to ignore.

by then, the tension had started bleeding into everything. into rehearsals. into conversations. into every stupid argument that somehow turned personal for reasons neither of you wanted to admit. because suddenly he’d go quiet if you laughed too hard with someone else. suddenly his mood shifted when you were paying attention to anybody that wasn’t him. and he acted like he was subtle about it too. like you wouldn’t notice the way his jaw tightened or how he’d start pulling away just enough for you to feel it. and maybe he hated that you noticed because you started doing it back. matching his distance. acting colder. waiting to see who would crack first. it was exhausting, pretending not to care while caring way too much.

the night he finally admitted it, the air felt wrong. heavy. suffocating. like the moment had been waiting for weeks and finally got tired of being ignored. he found you backstage after rehearsal, curls damp with sweat and exhaustion written all over his face. he looked tired, but the second his eyes landed on you, something changed. his expression shifted into something tighter, something unreadable. he stared for a second too long before walking over slowly, almost like he was arguing with himself the entire way there. and when he finally stopped in front of you, he stood too close. close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. close enough to make it hard to breathe. "i don’t know what this is," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, "but i don’t wanna lose it." you felt your breath catch because you’d been thinking the same thing for weeks, afraid to say it out loud. you told him you didn’t want to lose it either, whatever it was, and he smiled in that soft, relieved way that made your chest tighten. he reached for your hand, holding it gently, like he was afraid you might disappear.

MARCH 3, 1988.

you wish him good luck the way you always do, standing close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough to see the way his eyes soften when they land on you. the hallway backstage is buzzing with noise and movement, people rushing around with headsets and clipboards, but none of it touches the little bubble the two of you always seem to fall into before he goes onstage. he’s already half in performer mode, shoulders squared, jaw set, but when you reach up to fix the collar of his shirt, his whole body seems to melt for a second, like your touch pulls him back down to earth. you whisper it softly, almost like it’s a secret meant only for him, “good luck, michael.” he smiles at you and he leans in just a little, voice low and warm, “how 'bout a good luck kiss today?”. you scoff and roll your eyes playfully as he's then pulled away by the stage manager but not before shooting you a quick wink, he's then swallowed by the lights and the roar of the crowd, leaving you standing there with your heart beating too fast.

you watch from the wings like you always do, tucked behind a curtain where the shadows hide you but still give you the perfect view of him. he’s electric tonight, every move sharp and fluid, every note hitting the crowd like a shockwave. you’ve seen him perform so many times, but it never stops feeling unreal, never stops making something warm unfurl in your stomach. you’re smiling without realising it, leaning forward a little, caught up in him, caught up in the way he owns the stage like it was built for him alone. but then she steps out. tatiana. confident and glowing under the lights, moving toward him with that practiced ease that makes the audience scream. you know the choreography. you know the moment where she gets close. but you don’t expect the kiss. quick but bold, her lips pressing to his lips, her hand lingering on his back like she has the right. the crowd explodes. he keeps dancing. and you feel something inside you drop, heavy and cold, like someone pulled the floor out from under you. your breath catches, your stomach twists, and suddenly the backstage feels too loud, too bright, too crowded. you step back without meaning to, shoulder hitting the wall, eyes stinging with a jealousy you don’t want to admit even to yourself. you turn away before anyone can see your face, before you can see any more, and you slip out the side door into the quieter hallway, heart pounding with something sharp and messy and impossible to swallow.

you find a small storage room down the hall, the kind no one uses during shows, and you slip inside, closing the door behind you. the silence hits you all at once, thick and heavy, and you lean back against the wall, pressing your palms to your eyes. you’re not angry, not really, but you’re hurt, and embarrassed for being hurt, and confused about why it feels like someone reached into your chest and twisted something tight. you know it’s part of the show. you know it wasn’t planned. you know he didn’t ask for it. but knowing doesn’t stop the jealousy from curling hot and sharp in your stomach. you sink down onto a crate, pulling your knees up, trying to breathe through the mess of feelings you don’t want to name. you tell yourself you’ll stay here just for a minute, just until you can look at him without your voice shaking. but minutes pass, and you don’t move, and the show keeps going without you. you don’t even hear the final note. you’re too busy trying to convince yourself that you don’t care as much as you clearly do.

the moment he steps offstage, sweat still clinging to his skin, adrenaline buzzing through him, he looks for you. he always does. it’s instinct at this point, like breathing. but you’re not where you always stand. you’re not leaning against the wall with that soft smile you save just for him. you’re not waiting with a towel and a quiet, teasing comment about how he almost slipped during that spin. you’re nowhere. he scans the crowd of crew members, dancers, managers, but none of them are you, and something in his expression shifts, sharpens. someone tries to talk to him, congratulate him, hand him water, but he brushes past them without a word, eyes narrowed with worry and something else he doesn’t want to name. he moves fast, ignoring everyone calling his name, pushing through hallways with single-minded focus. he knows you. he knows your patterns. he knows the way you disappear when you’re overwhelmed. and he knows exactly where you’d go if something was wrong. his heartbeat is loud in his ears as he heads down the quieter corridor, the one no one else uses. he doesn’t knock when he reaches the storage room door. he just opens it, breathless, eyes searching for you like he’s afraid you won’t be there.

you look up when the door swings open, startled, and there he is, still in costume, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, curls damp with sweat, eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. he steps inside and closes the door behind him, shutting out the noise of the arena, shutting out everyone but you. for a moment he just stands there, taking you in, his expression unreadable but intense enough to make your stomach flip. then he speaks, voice low and rough from performing, “why’d you leave?” it’s not accusing. it’s not angry. it’s worried. it’s soft in a way that makes your chest ache. you look away, trying to steady your breathing, but he crosses the room in a few long strides and crouches in front of you, gently taking your hands in his. his touch is warm, grounding, familiar. “hey,” he murmurs, tilting his head to catch your eyes, “look at me.” and when you do, he sees everything, the jealousy, the hurt, the confusion, and something in his expression shifts again, softer, deeper, almost relieved. he squeezes your hands, thumb brushing your knuckles, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, the kind that says he’s figured something out. “you’re jealous.” the words land softly, not mocking, not smug, just certain. your breath catches because he’s right, and he knows he’s right. you look away quietly and say, "i'm not jealous." he steps closer, his voice low but firm. "yeah? you nod slowly. "say it louder then and look at me when you say it." your cheeks flush, but you met his gaze and repeat, "i'm not jealous." a slow smirk spread across his face. "that's my girl."

he leans in more closer, eyes warm and bright with something that makes your pulse jump, and his voice drops even lower, “you don’t have to hide that from me.” you swallow hard, trying to pull your hands back, but he holds them gently, not trapping you, just keeping you close enough to feel the sincerity in his touch. “she wasn’t supposed to do that,” he says quietly, the apology already woven into his tone, “i didn’t know she would.” you nod, but your chest still feels tight, and he sees it, he feels it, and he shifts even closer, knees brushing yours. “i’m sorry,” he murmurs, and the way he says it makes your throat tighten, because he means it, because he hates the idea of hurting you even a little. you shake your head, trying to brush it off, but he doesn’t let you. he lifts your chin gently with his fingers, guiding your eyes back to his. “don’t do that,” he whispers, “don’t pretend it didn’t bother you. i want to know when something hurts you.”

you breathe out slowly, the tension in your chest loosening just a little, and he watches you with that soft, focused intensity that always makes you feel like you’re standing too close to a flame. “you’re important to me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “more than i ever say out loud.” your heart stutters, and he smiles, small and warm, like he’s finally letting himself admit something he’s been holding back for too long. “and i like it,” he adds, eyes flicking down to your lips for a split second, “that you care.” your breath catches again, but this time it’s not from jealousy. it’s from the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s leaning in, the way his thumb is brushing slow circles against your hand like he’s memorising the shape of you.

he then moves his hand to your cheek, fingers gentle, touch featherlight, and he leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull back, every chance to say no. but you don’t. you tilt your head just slightly, meeting him halfway, and his breath brushes your lips before his mouth finally finds yours. the kiss is deep but unhurried, soft but full of everything he hasn’t said, everything you’ve both been dancing around for months. his hand slides to the back of your hair, holding you close, and you melt into him, letting the warmth of him wash away the jealousy, the hurt, the doubt. when he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in like he’s been waiting all night for this moment. “don’t disappear on me again,” he whispers, voice soft and earnest, “i need you too much.” and you know he means it, every word, every breath, every touch, and for the first time that night, the ache in your chest finally fades.

SEPTEMBER 7, 1988

the argument starts the second he raises his voice, sharp and sudden, slicing through the room like something that’s been waiting to explode. "why are you bringing this up right now?" he snaps, pacing across the bedroom with that restless, electric energy that always coils around him before a performance, but tonight it feels different, harsher, like every step he takes is pulling him further away from you. you stand near the dresser with your arms crossed tight against your chest, trying to keep your breathing steady even though your heart is pounding so hard it hurts. you’ve been holding everything in for days, swallowing the loneliness, the late nights, the way he’s been slipping through your fingers like he doesn’t even notice, but tonight it all bursts out of you before you can stop it. "because you keep pretending nothing’s wrong, michael. you keep acting like i’m not even here."

he stops pacing but doesn’t turn around, his shoulders rising and falling with a slow, frustrated breath that only makes your chest tighten more. he shakes his head like he’s trying to shake off your words, but you know he heard you. you know he feels it. still, he stays facing away, and that hurts more than anything he could say. "i told you i’ve been busy. i told you this week was going to be insane." his voice is clipped, cold, nothing like the soft warmth he usually gives you, and it makes something inside you crack. you take a step toward him, your voice trembling despite how hard you try to keep it steady. "busy doesn’t mean you get to shut me out. you come home at two in the morning, you barely look at me, you barely talk to me, and now you’re leaving again like i’m not even worth a conversation."

michael finally turns around, and the look in his eyes hits you like a punch. he’s tired. stressed. overwhelmed. but instead of letting you in, he builds a wall higher than the last. "i can’t do this right now. i have a performance in a few hours." the words slice through you, sharp and careless, and you feel your throat tighten as you stare at him, stunned. "you can’t do this right now? michael, i’m not asking you to solve world peace. i’m asking you to talk to me. to look at me. to act like you actually care about what’s happening between us." he runs a hand through his curls, pacing again, the sound of his boots hitting the floor echoing through the room like a countdown. "i do care. but i can’t deal with all this emotion before i go onstage."

your breath catches, your chest tightening painfully. "all this emotion? you mean me. you mean my feelings. you mean the fact that i’m upset you’ve been treating me like i’m invisible." he flinches, just barely, but he still doesn’t soften. "you’re twisting my words." you shake your head, tears burning behind your eyes. "i wouldn’t have to twist anything if you actually talked to me instead of shutting me out."

he steps closer, but not close enough to touch you, not close enough to bridge the gap he created. "i’m under pressure. you know that. this performance is important." you stare at him, your voice cracking as you answer. "and i’m not?" he freezes, but he doesn’t answer. he doesn’t say no. he doesn’t say you’re important. he just stands there, silent, and that silence is louder than any scream. you feel something inside you crumble, slow and painful, like a fault line finally giving way. "you know what hurts the most? you don’t even notice how much you’re pushing me away."

michael’s expression tightens, frustration flickering across his face. "i’m not pushing you away. you’re making this bigger than it needs to be." the words hit you like ice water, and you take a shaky breath, trying to hold yourself together even as tears slip down your cheeks. "i’m making it bigger? michael, i haven’t had a real conversation with you in days. i don’t even know how you’re feeling about tonight because you won’t let me in. you come home exhausted, you barely look at me, and when i try to talk to you, you shut down. what am i supposed to do? pretend it doesn’t hurt?"

he exhales sharply, rubbing his forehead like your feelings are something he has to endure. "i don’t have the energy for this. not tonight." your heart drops, your voice breaking completely now. "you don’t have the energy for me." he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. he doesn’t deny it. he doesn’t reassure you. he just stands there, breathing hard, torn between the pressure of the night and the weight of your hurt. "i’m trying to focus. i need to be in the right headspace." you laugh, but it’s hollow, painful. "and i’m ruining that, right? i’m messing up your perfect night because i dared to feel something."

michael’s jaw clenches, and he looks away, unable to meet your eyes. "that’s not what i said." you wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand, your voice barely above a whisper now, fragile and breaking. "it’s what you meant." the room feels too small, too heavy with everything neither of you has said. you swallow hard, your voice trembling. "i’m not asking you to choose between me and your career. i’m asking you to stop acting like i’m in the way."

he hesitates, guilt flickering in his eyes for the first time, but it’s too late. the damage is already done. you take a step back, your heart aching so deeply it feels physical. "just go. you clearly don’t want to be here." michael’s eyes widen slightly, and for a moment you think he’s going to reach for you, apologize, pull you into his arms the way he always does when things get too heavy. but he doesn’t. he grabs his jacket instead, the movement sharp and final. "we’ll talk when i get back." you shake your head, tears streaming down your face. "there won’t be anything left to talk about if you keep treating me like this."

he freezes in the doorway, his back to you, and you swear you see his shoulders tremble for a second, like your words finally hit him where it hurts. but he still walks out. he still leaves. the door closes behind him with a soft click that feels like the loudest sound in the world, and you stand there in the empty bedroom, tears falling silently as the weight of everything crashes down on you.

the moment michael steps out of the house, the argument slams into the back of his mind like a door he forces shut. he doesn’t want to think about it. he can’t think about it. not now. not when the entire world is waiting for him to walk onto that stage and deliver a performance people will replay for years. he climbs into the car with a tight jaw and a stiff posture, staring out the window as the city lights blur past, refusing to let his thoughts drift back to the way your voice cracked or the way your eyes filled with tears. he pushes it down, buries it deep, locking it behind the same mental walls he uses before every show. he tells himself he’ll deal with it later. he tells himself he has to focus. he tells himself he doesn’t have a choice.

the second michael steps into the wings, everything else disappears. the argument, the tension, the sting of your voice cracking, all of it gets shoved into the farthest corner of his mind. he doesn’t let himself think about anything except the stage in front of him. the arena is vibrating with anticipation, the crowd a living, breathing thing, thousands of people pressed together, screaming his name before he even appears. the lights sweep across the audience in wide arcs, catching glitter, posters, hands reaching up like they’re trying to touch the air he’ll breathe. the smoke machines hiss softly, filling the stage with a low fog that curls around his boots. the bass from the opening track thumps through the floor, through his bones, syncing with his heartbeat until he feels like he’s part of the sound system.

he rolls his shoulders back, stretching his neck side to side, loosening the tension in his muscles. his breathing evens out, slow and controlled, the way he trained himself to do before every major performance. he taps his fingers against his thigh in time with the beat, grounding himself in the rhythm. he can feel the heat of the stage lights even from backstage, the warmth brushing against his skin like a warning of what’s coming. he closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, letting the adrenaline settle into his bloodstream like fire. he’s tired, he’s stressed, he’s carrying the weight of a fight he refuses to think about, but none of that matters now. now he’s michael jackson, and the world is watching.

the stage manager gives him the cue. the lights drop. the crowd explodes. and michael steps into the spotlight.

the arena erupts instantly, a wall of sound so loud it rattles the rafters. the screams hit him like a physical force, vibrating through his chest, through his spine, through every nerve in his body. he snaps into the opening pose, legs planted, shoulders squared, chin tilted just enough to catch the light. the fog swirls around him, the lights flash in sharp bursts, and the music slams into the first beat with a power that shakes the floor. he moves immediately, his body snapping into the choreography with precision so sharp it looks unreal. every muscle fires on command, every step lands exactly where it should, every isolation hits with the kind of crispness that only comes from years of discipline.

he feels the rhythm take over, guiding him, pulling him deeper into the performance. he glides across the stage, boots sliding effortlessly over the polished floor, his movements fluid and sharp all at once. he hits a spin, fast and controlled, stopping on a dime with his head snapping up toward the crowd, and the arena screams even louder. he feeds off it, letting their energy push him further, letting their excitement fuel him. he points into the audience, smirking slightly, and the front rows practically collapse with joy. he steps forward, hips hitting the beat with perfect timing, shoulders rolling, chest popping, every movement clean and powerful.

when he starts singing, his voice cuts through the arena like a blade. strong, steady, controlled. he hits every note with precision, projecting his voice across the stadium, letting it blend with the music in a way that feels effortless even though it takes everything he has. he moves with the mic like it’s an extension of his body, switching between singing and dancing without missing a beat. he feels the rhythm in his chest, in his spine, in the soles of his feet. he feels the music take over, guiding him, lifting him, carrying him through the performance like a wave.

the cameras zoom in on him, capturing every bead of sweat, every flick of his eyes, every sharp movement. he knows exactly where they are without looking. he angles his face toward them at the perfect moments, giving the tv audience the intensity they came for. he hits the signature moves with force, the kind that sends shockwaves through the crowd. he slides across the stage, drops low, snaps back up, spins again, all of it seamless, all of it electric. the dancers behind him match his energy, but he’s the center of gravity, the one everyone is watching, the one the lights follow like he’s the only person in the world.

the dance break hits, and he pushes himself even harder. he throws his body into the moves with a ferocity that sends the audience into a frenzy. he hits the isolations with a sharpness that looks almost inhuman, every muscle firing in perfect sync. he spins so fast the lights blur around him, stopping with a precision that makes the crowd scream his name. he kicks high, lands low, slides across the stage with a smoothness that looks like he’s floating. sweat drips down his temples, down his neck, soaking into the collar of his jacket, but he doesn’t slow down. he can’t. he refuses to. he knows people will study this performance, replay it, analyze it, compare it to every other show he’s done. he knows he has to be perfect.

he moves across the stage, interacting with the crowd, pointing, smiling, letting their energy push him further. he hears them chanting his name, screaming lyrics, crying, reaching for him like he’s something holy. he gives them everything. he gives them the intensity, the charisma, the fire. he gives them the michael jackson they came to see. he doesn’t think about home. he doesn’t think about the argument. he doesn’t think about the tears he left behind. he thinks about the music. he thinks about the fans. he thinks about the show.

by the time the final chorus hits, his chest is heaving, his muscles burning, sweat dripping down his spine, but he doesn’t slow down. he gives the ending everything he has left, pouring every ounce of energy into the last sequence, hitting the final pose with a force that sends the crowd into a deafening scream. the lights flash, the music cuts, and the arena erupts. thousands of people on their feet, cheering, clapping, screaming his name like he just changed their lives.

he bows, breathing hard, sweat-soaked and exhausted, but he keeps his expression calm, composed, professional.

and then, only then, when the lights dim and the applause fades and he steps offstage, the wall in his mind cracks.

the noise of the arena fades behind him in a slow, heavy way, like the world is dimming around the edges. his body is still buzzing from the performance, his chest rising and falling with the leftover adrenaline, sweat cooling on his skin, but the moment he steps into the quiet hallway, the weight he pushed aside before the show settles back into him with a quiet, undeniable heaviness. he doesn’t speak. he doesn’t sigh. he doesn’t let anything show on his face. he just walks, slow and steady, his head slightly lowered, his hands brushing against the sides of his jacket as if grounding himself. he doesn’t think about the argument in words. it’s more like a feeling, a pressure in his chest, a tightness in his throat, a heaviness behind his ribs that reminds him he left something unfinished, something fragile.

he doesn’t go straight to the car. his feet carry him out a side exit, where the cool night air hits his overheated skin and makes him breathe a little deeper. he pulls his hood up, not to hide, but because he feels strangely exposed without it. the street is quiet, the lights soft, the city humming in the background. he walks slowly, his steps steady, his mind focused on something simple and gentle. he passes a small flower shop still open, its warm glow spilling onto the pavement, and he stops in front of the window. inside, the shelves are lined with soft colors and delicate shapes, petals that look like they’d fall apart if touched too roughly. he steps inside without hesitation, the bell above the door chiming softly.

the florist greets him, but he only gives a small nod, his voice low and warm when he says hello. he doesn’t ask for anything. he doesn’t explain. he walks slowly along the display, his fingers brushing lightly over the petals of different flowers, his expression thoughtful and quiet. then he sees them. pink peonies. full, soft, layered like they’re holding something gentle inside. he stops in front of them, his hand hovering for a moment before he touches one carefully, the softness of it making something inside him loosen. he picks out each stem himself, choosing them with a quiet care, turning them slightly to make sure they’re perfect. he brings them to the counter, and the florist wraps them while he stands there with his hands in his pockets, his eyes lowered, his posture small in a way only someone who knows him well would notice.

when she hands him the bouquet, he holds it with both hands, careful and steady, his thumb brushing over the petals with a tenderness that feels instinctive. he thanks her softly before stepping back into the night, the flowers held close to his chest as he walks toward the car. the ride home is silent, the city lights flickering across his face, highlighting the softness in his expression, the way his eyes keep drifting down to the bouquet like he’s afraid it might bruise if he looks away too long. he doesn’t rush the driver. he doesn’t fidget. he just sits there with a stillness that feels heavy and gentle at the same time, his thoughts circling quietly around the same truth. he hurt you. he left you alone. and he needs to make it right.

when he gets home, he unlocks the door quietly, slipping inside without turning on the lights. the house feels still, the kind of stillness that settles deep in the walls. he walks down the hallway with slow, careful steps, the bouquet held securely against his side. when he reaches the bedroom door, he pauses for a moment, his hand resting on the knob before he pushes it open.

the room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp on your nightstand. you’re curled up on your side with your back to the door, the blankets pulled up to your shoulders. at first he thinks you’re asleep, but then he hears it. the soft, uneven sound of you trying to breathe through tears, the quiet sniff you try to hide, the way your shoulders tremble beneath the blanket.

michael doesn’t freeze dramatically. he doesn’t gasp. he just stands there for a moment, the flowers held loosely in his hand, his expression softening in a way that looks almost painful. he walks toward the bed slowly, each step quiet and steady. he doesn’t kneel. he doesn’t hover. he sits down on the edge of the mattress beside you, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. he places the bouquet gently on the blanket near your pillow, the petals brushing the fabric softly. he sits there for a moment, his hands resting loosely in his lap, his gaze lowered, his breathing slow and quiet.

then he speaks, his voice soft and warm, the kind of softness he only uses when he’s afraid of breaking something delicate.

"i picked these for you."

he pauses, his eyes on the peonies, his voice even quieter when he continues.

"i’m sorry, baby."

the words hang in the air, heavy and thick with a sincerity that vibrates through the small space between them. you shift slowly, the fabric of the blankets rustling as you sit to face him, your eyes red rimmed and glistening in the amber light of the lamp. for a long moment, neither of you speaks, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall and the heavy, uneven cadence of your breathing. michael doesn’t move, he stays perched on the edge of the bed, his presence a grounding force in the wake of the storm that had been raging inside you all evening. he watches you with a gaze that is raw and stripped of all pretence, his heart practically visible in the way his chest rises and falls. when you finally reach out, your fingers trembling as they brush against the sleeve of his shirt, he lets out a breath he seems to have been holding for hours. he leans in, his forehead coming to rest against yours, the heat of his skin a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in your bones. "i didn't mean to leave you feeling like this," he whispers, his voice cracking just slightly, a rare fracture in his usual composure. "i hate that i'm the reason you're crying."

you let out a shaky sob, the sound muffled against his shoulder as you suddenly lung forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down into the mattress with you. the impact is soft, the pillows swallowing them both as he wraps his arms around you, holding you with a desperation that speaks louder than any apology. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin, his grip tightening as if he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go for even a second. you cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his back, letting the weight of him anchor you back to reality. the sadness doesn't disappear instantly, but it transforms, shifting from a cold, isolating ache into something warmer, something shared. he begins to murmur things against your skin, quiet promises and soft admissions of how much he missed you, how the house felt empty without your light, and how he would do anything to make it right. the tension begins to bleed out of your muscles, replaced by a slow, humming heat that starts in your chest and radiates outward.

he reaches up, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. his gaze drops to your lips, and the air between you suddenly feels electric, charged with a hunger that has been simmering beneath the surface of their argument. when he finally kisses you, it isn't the tentative, cautious kiss of a man asking for forgiveness. it is deep and demanding, a claim and a surrender all at once. you moan into his mouth, your tongue meeting his in a desperate dance, the taste of him filling your senses and drowning out everything else. his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing the line of your throat to his searching lips.

you lean into him, your hands sliding over his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he shivers slightly when your fingers trace the back of his neck. the kiss grows deeper, warmer, more consuming, and he follows your lead with a soft, breathless sound that vibrates against your mouth. he pulls you closer still, his hand drifting lower along your hip, his touch bold but still gentle, still michael. he kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every second he spent away from you, his breath warm and uneven as he presses his forehead to yours for a moment, his lips brushing yours again and again.

his restraint slips in the smallest ways, the way his fingers press into your waist, the way he pulls you closer, the way he breathes your name like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he doesn’t say it. he kisses you harder, his hand sliding up your inner thigh with a slow, hopeful pressure, testing the boundary without crossing it. he breathes against your lips, soft and needy, his voice low and warm as he tries to pull you even closer.

you catch his wrist gently, your fingers wrapping around it with a soft squeeze. he freezes instantly, his breath catching, his eyes opening to look at you with a mixture of surprise and longing. he doesn’t pull away. he doesn’t push. he just waits, his lips still close to yours, his breathing uneven. you smile, your voice warm and teasing as you whisper, "michael." he swallows, his eyes flicking to your lips before returning to your face. "what…? i wasn’t doin’ nothin’." you laugh softly, brushing your nose against his. "you were doing something." he sighs, dramatic and defeated, dropping his head to your shoulder for a moment before lifting it again, his curls falling into his eyes. "i can’t help it. you’re right here." you giggle, and he looks at you like that sound alone could undo him. he leans in again, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, each kiss soft and warm and a little needy. "you sure you don’t wanna let me keep goin’?"

you push his face away gently, still smiling. "not tonight." he groans quietly, flopping back on the bed for a moment before sitting up again, his expression a mix of frustration and affection. "you’re really gonna do me like that." "yes." he stares at you for a long moment, then sighs like a man who has accepted his fate. he presses one last lingering kiss to your lips, slow and warm, before standing up and stretching his tired shoulders. he walks to the dresser, pulling out a soft cotton shirt and loose sweatpants, changing quietly. when he turns back to you, he looks softer, calmer, the tension in his body replaced with something warm and peaceful.

he climbs into bed beside you, slipping under the blankets and pulling you gently into his chest. the room feels smaller now, warmer, the kind of warmth that settles deep in your bones. he tucks you against him, his arm sliding around your waist, his hand resting on your stomach with a soft, protective touch. he presses a kiss to your temple, his voice low and warm as he murmurs, "you drive me crazy." you smile into his chest. "you love it."

he hums softly, tightening his arm around you as he settles into the pillow. the blankets shift slightly as he adjusts, and then, with the most casual, playful confidence, he taps your butt under the covers with his big hand. you gasp slightly, then burst into a quiet laugh, turning your head to look at him. he’s already grinning, eyes half‑closed, looking far too pleased with himself. "michael."

"what?" he says, pretending innocence, though the smile tugging at his mouth gives him away. you shake your head, still laughing softly. "you’re ridiculous." he pulls you closer, burying his face in your hair, his voice warm and muffled as he whispers, "yeah… but i’m your ridiculous." you feel him smile against your skin as his breathing slows, his body relaxing fully for the first time all night. he holds you tighter, his thumb brushing slow circles against your side, the playful energy fading into something soft and peaceful.

"night, baby…" and he falls asleep holding you, warm and close, still playful, still soft, still yours.

OCTOBER 15, 1997

the house is quiet in that way it only ever is when he’s gone, a kind of stillness that settles into the walls and into your chest, the kind that makes you keep glancing at the clock even though you already know he’s late, even though you already know he’s dragging himself through the last waves of fans and security and goodbyes. you’ve spent the whole day preparing for him, moving slowly through the rooms, lighting soft lamps instead of the bright overheads he hates, letting the warm smell of dinner fill the air until it feels like the house itself is exhaling. you keep smoothing the blanket on the couch, adjusting the pillows, checking the pot on the stove even though it’s perfect, because you know how he gets after tour, how the adrenaline crashes out of him all at once, how the silence hits him harder than the noise ever did, how he comes home looking like he’s been carrying the whole world on his shoulders and suddenly remembers he doesn’t have to. you’ve been waiting for that moment, for the sound of his key in the door, for the soft shuffle of his feet, for the way he always calls your name first, voice tired but warm, like he’s finally somewhere safe.

when the lock finally clicks, your heart jumps before you can stop it, and you wipe your hands on your sides even though they’re not wet, standing there in the soft glow of the kitchen as the door opens. he steps inside slowly, almost cautiously, like he’s afraid the house might disappear if he breathes too hard. his hair is damp from sweat and the cold night air, curls sticking to his forehead, and his shoulders are slumped in a way that makes your chest ache. he drops his bag by the door without looking at it, eyes scanning the room until they land on you, and the second he sees you, something in him melts. he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months. "baby…" he whispers, voice hoarse, and it’s not dramatic or performative or stage‑ready, it’s small, real, the kind of voice he only ever uses with you. he stands there for a moment, just taking you in, and you can see the exhaustion in every line of his body, the way his hands tremble slightly from overwork and adrenaline withdrawal, the way his eyes look both overwhelmed and relieved at the same time.

you walk toward him slowly, not rushing, because you know he’s fragile in these moments, not physically but emotionally, stretched thin from giving too much of himself to the world. when you reach him, he leans into you before you even touch him, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his arms wrap around your waist with a kind of desperate softness. he smells like sweat and stage lights and cold air and something uniquely him, something warm and familiar that makes your eyes sting. you slide your hands up his back, feeling the tension there, the knots formed from months of dancing and traveling and pretending he’s not tired. he lets out a shaky breath against your neck, his voice muffled as he murmurs, "i missed you so much… you don’t even know…" and you hold him tighter, because you do know, because you felt it too, every night he wasn’t here, every morning you woke up alone in the bed you share.

he stays like that for a long moment, just breathing you in, grounding himself, letting the noise of the tour fade out of his body. when he finally pulls back, his eyes are glassy with exhaustion, but there’s a softness there that makes your heart flip. he lifts a hand to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin gently, almost reverently, as if he’s reminding himself you’re real. "you look so beautiful," he murmurs, voice low and warm, and even though he’s the one who looks like he’s about to collapse, he still says it like it’s the most important thing in the world. you smile at him, brushing a curl off his forehead, and he leans into your touch like he’s starving for it. you can see how tired he is, how heavy his eyelids are, how his shoulders sag with every breath, and your heart squeezes with the urge to take care of him, to make everything soft and warm and easy for him tonight.

you take his hand gently, guiding him toward the kitchen, and he follows without hesitation, fingers curling around yours like he’s afraid to let go. when he sees the table set neatly, candles lit, steam rising from the food you kept warm for him, his lips part in a small, surprised smile, the kind that lights up his whole face even when he’s exhausted. "you cooked for me?" he asks softly, almost shyly, and you nod, squeezing his hand. "honey… you didn’t have to…" he whispers, but the way he looks at the meal, at the soft glow of the candles, at the care you put into every detail, tells you how much it means to him. he sits down slowly, like his body is finally realizing it can rest, and you move around him gently, placing a plate in front of him, brushing your fingers through his curls as you pass. he closes his eyes at the touch, leaning into your hand with a quiet sigh, and you feel something warm bloom in your chest.

he takes the first bite, and his eyes flutter open in surprise, a soft sound escaping him. "this is so good…" he murmurs, voice thick with gratitude, and you sit beside him, watching the way his shoulders relax with each bite, the way the warmth of the food seems to bring him back to himself. he keeps glancing at you between bites, like he still can’t believe you’re here, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he looks away too long. "i missed home," he says quietly, almost to himself, "i missed you… i missed this…" and you reach for his hand under the table, intertwining your fingers with his. he squeezes your hand gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and for the first time in months, he looks peaceful.

when he finishes eating, you can see the heaviness settling deeper into his body, the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t just sit in his muscles but in his bones, in the quiet spaces behind his eyes. you brush your fingers over the back of his hand and speak softly, your voice warm and steady, "you need a bath. you’re worn out. let me run one for you." he shakes his head immediately, almost instinctively, his curls brushing his forehead as he murmurs, "no, no, you don’t have to do all that for me. i can just lie down. i don’t want you doing more work." you lean closer, your thumb tracing slow circles on his skin, and you whisper, "michael, i want to. you’ve been pushing yourself for months. let me take care of you tonight. please." he looks at you with that soft, overwhelmed expression, the one he gets when he doesn’t know how to accept kindness without feeling guilty, and you squeeze his hand gently, adding, "you deserve comfort. you deserve rest. let me help you feel human again." he exhales shakily, his shoulders dropping as he finally nods, whispering, "okay… if you really want to." you smile at him, brushing a curl from his face as you say, "i really do. come on."

you guide him to the bathroom, your hand warm around his, and he follows you with slow, tired steps. the soft lights glow against the tiles as you turn on the tap, letting the warm water fill the tub, adding a little of the gentle soap he likes, the one that smells clean and soft and nothing like the harsh scents of hotels and backstage rooms. he stands there watching you, wrapped in the blanket you gave him, his eyes half‑lidded with exhaustion but full of something tender. "you always think of everything," he murmurs, and you glance back at him with a small smile, answering, "i think of you. that’s all." he looks down, almost shy, and you step closer, your hands moving to the edge of the blanket. "let me help you," you whisper, and he nods, letting you slip the blanket from his shoulders as he slips out of the rest of his clothes.

when he sinks into the warm water, his head falls back with a quiet sound that makes your heart ache, a soft sigh of relief that seems to melt months of tension from his body. you kneel beside the tub, dipping your hand into the water and pouring it gently over his shoulders, watching the way his eyes flutter closed. "feels good?" you ask softly, and he nods, his voice barely above a whisper as he says, "it feels like heaven… i didn’t realize how much i needed this." you smile, brushing your fingers through the damp curls at his temple, and you tell him, "i knew. i could see it the second you walked in." he opens his eyes slowly, looking at you with a mixture of love and disbelief, like he still can’t understand how someone can care for him this deeply without wanting anything in return.

"when you’re done, i want to give you a massage. your shoulders are so tight." he shakes his head immediately, eyes widening slightly as he murmurs, "no, sweetheart, you’ve done enough. i don’t want you tiring yourself out for me. i can manage." you lean in closer, your hand resting gently on his cheek, guiding his gaze back to yours. "michael," you whisper, "you’ve been carrying the weight of the world for months. let me carry a little of it tonight. i want to help you. i want you to feel good. please let me." he swallows hard, his eyes softening as he whispers, "i just… i don’t want to take advantage of your kindness." you shake your head gently, your thumb brushing his cheek as you say, "you’re my husband. let me take care of you."

he closes his eyes, breathing in slowly, and when he opens them again, there’s a quiet surrender there, a trust so deep it makes your chest warm. "okay," he whispers, "i’ll let you." you smile softly, leaning in to kiss his forehead, your voice warm as you murmur, "good. finish your bath, baby. i’ll get everything ready for you." he watches you as you stand, his eyes following you with a softness that makes your heart flutter, and he whispers, "thank you… for being here… for loving me like this." you turn back to him, your voice gentle and sure as you say, "always. you’re home now. let me take care of you."

when he finally steps out of the bath, the steam curling around him like a soft veil, he looks calmer than he has in months, his shoulders no longer pulled up to his ears, his breathing slower, his eyes heavy but peaceful. he walks over your shared bedroom, the lights dim and warm, the bed already turned down, the soft scent of the candle you lit earlier drifting through the air. he sits on the edge of the bed, now dressed in more comfortable clothes, his curls damp and falling into his eyes. you kneel behind him on the mattress, your hands resting gently on his shoulders as you whisper, "lie down on your stomach for me, baby. i’m going to massage your back." he exhales slowly and stretches out on his stomach, his arms resting beside his head, his body finally surrendering to the comfort he’s been denying himself. you sit beside him, warming a little oil between your hands before placing them gently on his back. he lets out a quiet sound the moment your palms press into his muscles, a soft, involuntary breath that tells you just how much tension he’s been carrying. "see?" you murmur softly, your thumbs moving in slow circles along his shoulder blades, "you needed this." he nods against the pillow, his voice muffled as he whispers, "it feels so good… i didn’t realize i needed it this much." you chuckle softly.

your hands move slowly down his back, pressing gently into the knots along his spine, feeling the way his muscles loosen under your touch. he breathes deeply, each exhale softer than the last, his body sinking deeper into the mattress as he lets himself relax fully for the first time in months. "you’re magic," he murmurs, his voice thick with exhaustion and relief, and you smile, your fingers tracing the curve of his shoulder as you whisper, "no, baby. i just love you." he turns his head slightly, just enough to see you from the corner of his eye, and whispers, "i love you more than anything… you know that, right?" you lean down and kiss his temple, your voice soft and warm as you answer, "i know. and i love you just as much. that’s why i want you to rest."

you work your way down to his lower back, your hands slow and steady, and he lets out another soft sound, his body relaxing even further. "you’re going to fall asleep on me," you tease gently, and he gives a tired little laugh, whispering, "i might… you’re too good at this." you smile, brushing your fingers lightly along his side as you say, "then sleep. i’ll be right here."

your hands keep moving slowly along his back, warm and steady, pressing into the places you know hurt him the most, the places he never complains about even when he should. his breathing grows deeper, softer, each exhale sinking him further into the mattress, and you can feel the way his body finally begins to trust the rest you’re giving him. you lean down a little, your voice gentle as you whisper, "tell me if anything hurts too much, mike. i don’t want to press too hard." he shakes his head against the pillow, his voice low and warm as he murmurs, "no… it’s perfect. you’re perfect." you smile softly, brushing your fingers along his shoulder before pressing your thumbs into the tight muscle there, and you whisper, "i know, that’s why i wanted to do it. you’ve been holding everything in for so long." he lets out a quiet breath, almost a sigh, and whispers, "i didn’t want to worry you."

you pause for a moment, your hands resting gently on his back as you lean closer, your voice soft but full of emotion. "michael, you can always tell me when you’re tired. you don’t have to hide anything from me. i’m here to help you carry it." he turns his head slightly, just enough to see you from the corner of his eye, and his voice comes out small and honest as he whispers, "i know… i just never want to be a burden to you." your heart squeezes at the vulnerability in his tone, and you slide your hand up to his cheek, guiding his face toward you gently. "you could never be a burden," you whisper, your thumb brushing his skin, "you’re my husband. i love you. taking care of you is not a burden. it’s something i want to do." he closes his eyes, breathing in slowly, and whispers, "you always know what to say to make me feel safe."

you continue the massage, working your way down his back with slow, careful movements, feeling the tension melt under your touch. he relaxes so deeply that his fingers uncurl from the sheets, his shoulders softening, his breathing steady and warm. "you’re falling asleep," you murmur softly, a small smile in your voice, and he lets out a tired little laugh, whispering, "i can’t help it… you’re too gentle with me." you lean down and kiss the back of his shoulder, your lips soft against his skin as you whisper, "then sleep, baby. i’m right here. i’m not going anywhere." he hums quietly, a sound full of trust and comfort, and you feel his body sink even deeper into the mattress, like he’s finally letting go of everything he’s been holding onto.

after a few more minutes, you ease your hands away, smoothing your palms over his back one last time. he moves slowly, sleepily, rolling onto his back with a soft sigh, his curls falling across the pillow, his eyes half‑open and warm. you sit beside him, brushing the damp strands from his forehead, and he reaches for your hand immediately, holding it against his chest like he needs the contact to stay grounded. "come here," he whispers, his voice soft and tired, "please." you lie down beside him, your body close to his, your hand resting over his heart as he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you gently into his warmth.

he looks at you with that soft, grateful expression that always makes your breath catch, and he whispers, "thank you for tonight… for everything. i don’t know what i’d do without you." you shake your head gently, your fingers brushing his cheek as you whisper, "you don’t have to thank me. i love you. i’m always going to take care of you." he leans his forehead against yours, his voice barely audible as he murmurs, "i love you so much… more than i can ever say." you smile softly, your hand sliding up to cup his face as you whisper, "i know, baby. i love you too. now rest. you’re home. you’re safe."

his eyes flutter closed, his breathing evening out as he finally lets himself drift, his arm still wrapped around you, holding you close like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored. you stay there with him, your heart full as you watch him fall asleep in the quiet warmth of your home, knowing he’s finally where he belongs.

⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆

this is a fan-made work of fiction written with respect. please don’t repost or steal. re-blogs are appreciated ❤️❤️

︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡ ︶︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡ ︶

JULY 16, 1988.

the hum of the wembley backstage area was a familiar lullaby, a chaotic symphony of hurried footsteps, muffled laughter, and the distant thrum of a bassline that vibrated through the concrete floor. you clutched the worn strap of your bag tighter, a nervous flutter in your stomach that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with anticipation. it had been too long. the tour schedule was relentless, a blur of cities and stages, and you’d been stuck on the other side of the world, living vicariously through grainy phone calls and blurry photos. but now, here you were, a ghost in the machine, a surprise waiting to happen.

you navigated the maze of corridors, a phantom in the periphery, catching glimpses of roadies wrestling with equipment, dancers stretching their limbs, and crew members with headset radios crackling like tiny storms. the air was thick with the scent of sweat, hairspray, and something vaguely metallic. you kept to the shadows, a playful grin stretching across your face. this was going to be epic. you knew his routine, the post-show decompression, the brief window of quiet before the next city swallowed him whole. this was your chance.

you found the door to his dressing room, a plain, nondescript thing amidst the vibrant chaos. a security guard stood sentinel, his expression bored. you offered a small, knowing smile, a secret handshake in the language of shared affection. he recognized you, of course. you were a fixture, even when you weren't physically present. he gave a slight nod, a silent invitation. you pushed the door open, a breath held tight in your chest.

the room was a sanctuary of sorts, a stark contrast to the frenzy outside. it was messy, of course, a testament to a life lived on the move. clothes were strewn about, a half-eaten plate of fruit sat on a table, and a faint scent of cologne, his cologne, hung in the air. and then you saw him. he was slumped in a plush armchair, his head tilted back, eyes closed. his iconic red leather jacket was draped over the back of the chair, and his black curls, still damp from a shower, framed his face. he looked utterly exhausted, a king dethroned for a moment of respite.

you tiptoed further into the room, your heart doing a little jig. you could hear his soft, even breathing, a gentle rhythm against the muffled sounds of the outside world. you wanted to announce yourself, to shatter the silence with a joyous cry, but a different impulse took hold. a mischievous one. you remembered the playful energy of 'bad,' the infectious, bubbling joy that could erupt from him at any moment. you decided to lean into that.

you crept around the side of the armchair, your footsteps deliberately silent on the carpet. you hovered behind him, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. you could feel the warmth radiating from him, a comforting beacon. you reached out, your fingers hovering just above his shoulder. you took a deep, theatrical breath, then, with a burst of playful energy, you tapped him firmly on the shoulder.

he jolted, his eyes snapping open. for a split second, there was a flicker of surprise, of disorientation. then, his gaze landed on you, and the exhaustion melted away like snow in the sun. his eyes widened, a slow, incredulous smile spreading across his face. it was the kind of smile that could light up a stadium, a pure, unadulterated joy that radiated from his very core.

"you?" he whispered, his voice hoarse with disbelief and something akin to wonder. he pushed himself up from the chair, his movements suddenly infused with an electric energy. he practically launched himself at you, his arms wrapping around you in a fierce, bone-crushing hug. you buried your face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of him, the scent of home, of comfort, of pure, unadulterated love.

"surprise!" you managed to choke out, your voice muffled against his shirt. you pulled back just enough to see his face, his eyes shining with unshed tears. he looked like a little boy who'd just been given the best present in the world.

"you came," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. he pulled you closer again, his grip tightening. "you really came. i thought… i thought i wouldn't see you for ages." he nuzzled his face into your hair, his touch tender.

"i missed you too much," you murmured, stroking his hair. "it's been too long, my love."

he pulled back again, his eyes sparkling with that familiar, infectious mischief. he was already shifting, his energy buzzing, the 'bad' era personified in his playful demeanor. "too long? you have no idea," he declared, his voice laced with a theatrical groan. he grabbed your hand, his fingers lacing with yours, and began to lead you around the room, his movements suddenly full of a childlike exuberance.

"look, look!" he exclaimed, pointing to a rack of glittering costumes. "this one, this one, remember this one? i wore it in paris. you would have loved it." he spun you around, his laughter echoing in the room. he was like a child showing off his favorite toys, his excitement palpable.

"i remember," you smiled, your heart swelling with affection. "you looked incredible."

"but not as incredible as you," he countered, his gaze sweeping over you, a smoldering intensity in his eyes. he stopped, pulling you close again, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones. "i've been dreaming about this. about you. about us, away from all this." he gestured vaguely at the world outside the room.

"and now you have me," you whispered, leaning into his touch.

he grinned, a flash of those iconic dimples. "oh, i have you," he confirmed, his voice dropping to a low, seductive murmur. he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours. "and i'm not letting you go. not for a very, very long time."

he pulled you onto his lap, settling you comfortably against him. his arms wrapped around you, his body a warm, comforting weight. he buried his face in your neck, taking deep, contented breaths. "i missed your smell," he confessed, his voice muffled. "it's the best smell in the world. better than any perfume."

you giggled, stroking his hair. "you're such a goof," you teased.

"i'm just happy," he said, his voice earnest. "so, so happy. you have no idea." he pulled back again, his eyes alight with a playful challenge. "so, what are we going to do now, my beautiful wife? we have a whole backstage to explore. or maybe we just stay here and… play?" his eyes twinkled, a clear invitation to mischief.

he stood up, pulling you with him, his energy still infectious. he grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the door. "come on," he urged, his voice a playful command. "let's go cause some trouble. but only a little trouble. and only with each other." he winked, a devilish glint in his eyes.

you followed him out of the room, hand in hand, a beacon of quiet joy amidst the roaring storm of his world. he was so alive, so full of himself, and it was utterly intoxicating. he pulled you behind a stack of amplifiers, his movements still quick and light.

"you know," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear, "i was thinking about you during the show. i kept imagining you out there, in the crowd, singing along. it made me smile so much." he pressed a quick kiss to your temple.

he then led you to a quiet corner, away from the main thoroughfare of activity. he pulled you into a gentle embrace, his body pressing against yours. he hummed a soft, familiar melody, a private tune that only the two of you knew. his fingers traced patterns on your back, a silent conversation of affection.

"i've been so busy," he admitted, his voice a low rumble against your chest. "so, so busy. sometimes i feel like i'm just a machine, you know? just going through the motions. but then i think of you, and it all makes sense. you're my anchor."

you tilted your head back to look at him, your heart overflowing. "and you're my everything," you whispered, your gaze meeting his.

he smiled, a soft, tender smile that melted your insides. he leaned down and kissed you, a slow, lingering kiss that spoke volumes of longing and love. it was a kiss that promised a thousand unspoken words, a reunion of souls that had been yearning for each other.

he pulled back, his eyes still locked on yours. "we need to make sure this doesn't happen again," he said, his voice serious for a moment. "this long apart. it's… it's too much."

"i agree," you said, your voice equally earnest.

he grinned, that mischievous spark returning. "but for now," he whispered, his lips brushing yours again, "we have this. and this is pretty amazing." he pulled you closer, his body a warm, comforting presence. he began to sway gently, a private dance for just the two of you in the heart of the chaos.

he pulled a shiny, red apple from a nearby table and offered it to you. "want some?" he asked, his voice playful. "it's a special backstage apple. only the best for my beautiful wife."

you laughed and took a bite, sharing the fruit with him. he watched you, his eyes full of adoration, that childish joy radiating from him. he was so present, so completely focused on you, and it was everything you had been missing.

he then started to hum again, a little louder this time, and began to move to the rhythm, his feet tapping out a playful beat. he pulled you into a more energetic dance, twirling you around, his laughter echoing around you. he was a whirlwind of pure, unadulterated happiness, a star burning bright, but for this moment, he was just your husband, lost in the joy of your reunion.

"you're so silly," you giggled, trying to catch your breath.

"i'm just happy to see you," he declared, his eyes shining. "you make me feel like a kid again. like everything is possible." he grabbed your hand and pulled you towards a mirror. "look at us," he said, his voice full of wonder. "we're like a movie. a beautiful, crazy movie."

he struck a dramatic pose, his hand on his hip, his chin tilted up. you mirrored his pose, a playful smile on your face. he then leaned in and kissed you again, a whirlwind of a kiss, full of passion and pent-up emotion.

"i love you," he whispered against your lips, his voice thick with feeling.

"i love you too," you replied, your voice equally choked with emotion.

he pulled back, a satisfied sigh escaping him. he then reached into a nearby bag and pulled out a small, velvet box. "i got you something," he said, his voice suddenly a little nervous. "it's not much, but… i wanted you to have it."

he opened the box, revealing a delicate silver locket. you gasped, your hand flying to your mouth. it was beautiful.

"it has our initials on it," he explained, his eyes searching yours. "and inside… well, you'll have to open it later." he gently clasped it around your neck, his fingers brushing against your skin.

you leaned in and kissed him again, a kiss of pure gratitude and overwhelming love. "thank you," you whispered. "it's perfect."

he beamed, his smile wide and genuine. "anything for you," he said. "anything at all." he then pulled you close again, his arms encircling you. "now," he whispered, his voice a low, playful growl, "where were we?" he winked, and you knew the night was just beginning. the backstage chaos faded into a distant hum, and in the quiet sanctuary of his embrace, all that mattered was the two of you, finally reunited. the 'bad' era energy was still there, but it was softened, tempered by the deep, abiding love that flowed between you. he was a whirlwind, a force of nature, but he was also your safe harbor, your home. and in that moment, surrounded by the echoes of his performance, you were exactly where you were meant to be. he held you tighter, a silent promise of more stolen moments, more whispered affections, more of the beautiful, crazy movie that was your life together. the tour would continue, the miles would stretch, but this moment, this perfect, unexpected reunion, would be a treasured memory, a testament to a love that transcended distance and time. he hummed his tune again, a little louder this time, and you hummed along, a perfect harmony in the heart of the storm. you were his, and he was yours, and for now, that was all that mattered. the world outside could wait.

︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡ ︶︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡ ︶︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡ ︶︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱˒ ۫ ͡ ︶︶ ͡ ۫ ˓꒰ ʚᄋɞ ꒱