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Summary: Hell hath no fury then a scared, protective and pregnant Y/N when a fan attacks Michael on stage.
Authors note: this is a fun one and something that’s been requested a bit. Enjoy protective Y/N! Michael certainly does.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Tokyo, Japan - December 1996.
The second Y/N heard the screaming change, she knew something was wrong.
Not excited screaming.
Panicked screaming.
Sharp.
Chaotic.
Different.
Backstage at the sold out History show in Tokyo, Y/N straightened immediately from the couch where she’d been sitting with one hand absently curved beneath the swell of her stomach.
Eight months pregnant and already exhausted from the travel, the noise, the endless movement backstage and suddenly every instinct in her body went ice cold.
Onstage, Michael had just stepped down toward the barricade during She’s Out of My Life, reaching for fans hands the way he always did.
And then someone vaulted the barrier.
The backstage monitor jolted violently as security scrambled.
The audience screamed louder.
Michael disappeared from frame for half a second.
Y/N was already moving before anyone could stop her.
“Mrs Jackson!—”
“Move.”
Nobody argued.
Nobody.
Because everyone backstage knew two things very clearly, Michael Jackson was a force of nature but gentle and pregnant Y/N Jackson was terrifying.
Especially when she thought someone had hurt her husband.
Her heels struck hard against the concrete hallway as security teams exploded into motion around her. Production assistants flattened themselves against walls. Stage hands scattered instantly.
By the time Y/N reached the wings, the girl was already being pulled away from Michael by security.
Crying hysterically.
Clutching at him.
Michael looked startled more than anything else, trying to calm everyone down even while guards swarmed around him.
“It’s okay—she’s okay—don’t hurt her—”
Of course that was what he was worried about.
Y/N however looked ready to commit a crime.
The entire security team visibly stiffened when she stepped into view.
Because the expression on her face was lethal.
Michael saw her immediately.
“Oh no.”
One of the dancers muttered under their breath “Everybody pray.”
The audience hadn’t fully realized she was backstage yet, but the cameras caught a glimpse of her standing just beyond the curtain in black jeans and one of Michael’s oversized jackets stretched over her pregnant stomach.
She walked directly toward Michael the second he stepped offstage between songs, her eyes scanning him rapidly.
“Are you hurt?”
Michael blinked.
“No, baby, I’m okay—”
“She grabbed your neck.”
“I’m alright—”
“She could’ve knocked you over.”
“Y/N—”
“What if she had a weapon?”
That shut everybody up.
Even Michael.
Because suddenly the reality of it landed harder.
The backstage hallway had gone completely silent except for the muffled roar of the crowd outside.
Michael softened instantly when he looked at her properly.
Pregnant.
Shaking slightly with adrenaline.
Eyes glassy with panic she was trying very hard to turn into anger.
“Oh, baby…” he murmured gently.
She looked furious that he sounded comforting instead of equally outraged.
“You cannot let people do that to you.”
“She was excited.”
“She tackled you!”
“She was emotional.”
“She could’ve hurt you!”
Michael’s security team suddenly found the floor incredibly interesting.
Nobody dared to break up this conversation.
Especially because Y/N Jackson, usually polished, elegant, composed was now visibly hormonal and furious in a way that made grown men nervous.
Michael reached carefully for her hands.
“She didn’t mean any harm.”
“That does not matter.”
Her voice cracked slightly on the last word.
And that changed everything.
Michael’s expression shifted immediately.
Because beneath the anger was fear.
Real fear.
The kind that had been living inside her ever since becoming pregnant.
He stepped closer instinctively, one hand settling carefully against the curve beneath her blouse.
“Our baby got mama in protection mode, huh?”
Y/N looked up at him with tears threatening to spill and somehow still managed to look terrifying.
“You laugh now” she muttered, “but I am dead serious.”
“I know.”
“And your security is inadequate.”
Several guards heads snapped to look at her in disbelief.
Michael nearly smiled despite himself.
“Inadequate?” one of them repeated faintly.
Y/N rounded on the entire security team like an avenging angel.
“Yes. Inadequate. Absolutely unacceptable. She got through three barriers.”
“Well—”
“She reached his throat.”
“Mrs Jackson with all due respect”
“No.”
The poor man stopped talking immediately.
Michael pressed his lips together hard, visibly trying not to laugh.
Wrong choice.
Y/N whipped around instantly.
“And you—stop smiling.”
That finally broke him.
Michael ducked his head laughing softly while the entire crew looked horrified that he found any of this amusing.
“You think this funny?” she demanded.
“No ma’am.”
“Michael Joseph.”
“I’m sorry.”
He absolutely was not sorry.
That only irritated her more.
By the time the show ended, Y/N had apparently declared war on the entire security structure of the tour.
Extra guards.
Increased barriers.
New backstage clearances.
Different fan interaction procedures.
One poor coordinator looked moments away from tears after she politely but firmly explained every flaw in their current system.
“She’s scarier than Bill” one bodyguard whispered backstage.
Bill nodded solemnly.
“She scares me too.”
~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile Michael sat in makeup removal quietly watching his pregnant wife reorganize an international security operation with the intensity of a military commander.
And honestly?
He was a little more in love with her for it.
Because underneath the fury was love.
Terrifying, overwhelming love.
The kind that made her panic at the thought of losing him.
The kind that made her body move before her brain had even caught up.
~~~~~~~~~
Later that night, paparazzi swarmed the backstage exit as Michael and Y/N emerged surrounded by newly doubled security.
Flashbulbs exploded instantly.
Questions shouted from every direction.
“Michael! Were you scared?”
“Y/N! What happened backstage?”
“Are fans going too far?”
Michael looked exhausted but calm beneath his sunglasses, one hand resting protectively against Y/N’s back as they moved toward the SUV.
But Y/N?
Still furious.
One reporter shouted “Do you blame the fan?”
And Y/N stopped walking.
The entire security team froze.
Michael closed his eyes briefly like he already knew exactly what was coming.
Y/N turned slowly toward the cameras, one protective hand instinctively resting against her stomach.
The flashes lit up her face while her expression stayed perfectly composed.
But her voice?
Ice cold.
“I understand people love my husband” she said clearly. “I understand excitement. I understand emotion. But rushing a stage is dangerous.”
The crowd of reporters went silent instantly.
“He is a human being. He is someone’s husband.” Her hand pressed lightly against her stomach. “Someone’s father.”
Michael looked at her then.
Really looked at her.
“And if you love him” Y/N continued firmly, “then protect him. Don’t put your hands on him. Don’t force security to react in panic. Don’t create situations where somebody could get hurt.”
Camera shutters exploded.
She stepped closer before anyone could interrupt.
“You can adore him without frightening him. You can love him without grabbing him.”
Somewhere behind them, one security guard quietly whispered “…damn.”
Michael’s expression had gone soft in the way it always did when he fell in love with her all over again.
Because she wasn’t speaking like a celebrity wife.
She sounded like someone protecting her family.
One reporter tried cautiously “So security will be changing?”
Y/N looked directly at him.
“Drastically.”
Several members of Michael’s team physically straightened like soldiers hearing incoming artillery.
Michael finally laughed softly under his breath.
“Oh, y’all in trouble now.”
Even Y/N’s glare couldn’t fully stop his smile.
And as they climbed into the SUV, Michael reached for her hand immediately, pressing a kiss against her knuckle and wedding ring while the cameras still flashed outside.
“You scared me” she admitted quietly once the doors shut.
Michael’s expression softened instantly.
“I know.”
“You disappeared for a second.”
“I’m okay.”
She nodded, but her eyes still looked glassy.
Michael reached down gently, resting his hand over hers against her stomach.
“You know what I saw?”
“What?”
“My wife lookin’ ready to fight an entire arena for me.”
Despite herself, she snorted softly.
“I would’ve.”
“I know.”
And judging by the absolute fear she had inspired backstage that evening every single person on that tour knew it too.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: she lovessss her manssss. I also believe she could take on a stadium, 8 months pregnant and in heels. I love them madly.
The way you make me feel, This Is It. - love of a lifetime series.
Summary: Michael’s new take on the way you make me feel, when preparing for this is it.
Authors note: short and sweeeet.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Rehearsals for The Way You Make Me Feel had been tense all afternoon.
Not because Michael wasn’t performing well, he was brilliant, magnetic, impossibly sharp even exhausted, but because he kept stopping the choreography halfway through.
Again
And again.
And again.
The dancers were confused, the choreographers were frustrated and Kenny Ortega was rapidly losing patience.
“Michael” one of the choreographers said carefully after the fourth stop, “the chemistry in this number matters. You’ve gotta commit to the interaction.”
Michael adjusted the headset at his mouth, distracted.
“Mhm.”
“We need the grab here..” Kenny added, stepping onto the stage. “And the pull-in during the second verse.”
Michael glanced toward the female lead dancer, polite but visibly uncomfortable now.
Then his eyes drifted automatically toward the side of the arena.
Toward Y/N.
She sat cross-legged near the production monitors reviewing notes, completely unaware everyone was now looking at her.
Michael looked back at Kenny.
“No.”
The room paused.
Kenny blinked“…No?”
Michael shook his head simply.
“We’re not doin’ that.”
A heavy silence followed.
One of the choreographers laughed awkwardly, assuming he was joking.
“Michael, that’s literally the choreography.”
“Mhm.” He nodded once. “Still not doin’ it.”
The dancers started exchanging glances now.
Kenny walked closer, lowering his voice slightly.
“What’s going on?”
Michael hesitated for a second before answering plainly, “It’s disrespectful.”
“To who?”
Michael looked genuinely confused by the question.
“My wife.”
The entire stage went quiet.
Not because people didn’t know about Y/N, but because Michael sounded so matter-of-fact.
Like this should have been obvious.
Kenny rubbed his forehead.
“Michael, it’s a performance.”
“I know.”
“It’s acting.”
“I know.”
“Then what’s the issue?”
Michael sighed softly, patient but firm.
“The issue is I don’t want women rubbin’ all over me every night.”
The female dancer immediately stepped back looking horrified.
“Oh my gosh, Michael, I would never—”
“No, no, no.” He pointed gently toward her reassuringly. “You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart.”
Then he looked back toward production.
“I approved the choreography before,” he admitted. “But Y/N came to rehearsals and I saw it differently.”
Across the arena Y/N finally looked up, realizing her name had entered the conversation.
Michael continued before anyone could interrupt.
“I spent years askin’ my wife to accept things because they were ‘part of the show.’”
His fingers made air quotes.
“And maybe she did because she loves me.” His expression tightened slightly. “But I don’t wanna ask her to do that anymore.”
The room stayed silent.
Because suddenly this wasn’t about choreography.
This was about age. Regret. Perspective.
About a man who no longer wanted fame deciding things for his marriage.
Kenny tried once more carefully.
“Michael, the song is supposed to be sexy.”
Michael nodded immediately.
“It still can be.”
“Without contact?”
Michael smirked slightly then.
“Y’all do know I can flirt without dry humpin’ somebody, right?”
Several dancers burst out laughing.
Even Kenny fought a smile.
Michael turned toward the female lead dancer and softened instantly.
“You’re beautiful, sweetheart, and you’re incredible.” He gestured kindly toward her. “But, I’m married and I respect my wife.”
The simplicity of it somehow made it worse emotionally.
Or better.
Depending on who you asked.
One choreographer muttered under his breath: “Jesus Christ.”
Michael ignored him.
“No grabbing, no thigh stuff, no pulling me onto anybody.” He adjusted his jacket calmly. “And nobody attempts to kiss me.”
Kenny stared at him.
“…was that in the choreography?”
Michael looked scandalized.
“It was discussed.”
The dancers started laughing harder now while Kenny finally gave up, shaking his head.
“You are unbelievable.”
Michael grinned.
“I’m respectful.”
From across the arena Y/N was trying and failing not to smile.
Michael immediately noticed.
Of course he did.
His whole face lit up.
Then, in front of everyone, he pointed at her and declared proudly, “See? she likes this plan.”
Y/N laughed outright now, covering her face.
And Michael, entirely pleased with himself, adjusted his earpiece and said “Okay. Again from the top.”
Then proceeded to perform The Way You Make Me Feel with enough charisma, swagger, eye contact, and attitude that absolutely nobody mentioned the missing touching afterward.
Summary: the fallout after the Martin Bashir interview.
Authors note: guys, this one was a hard one. I will forever hate Martin Bashir and I hope he rots in hell one day.
This is just something I hoped for Michael. Someone to protect him and build him back up after such a betrayal of trust. I will love you forever applehead and I’m sorry the world failed you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Santa Barbara, 2003.
The interview had barely finished airing before the atmosphere inside the house changed.
Not loudly.
Worse.
Quietly.
Phones rang endlessly in distant rooms. Televisions murmured from staff quarters. News anchors dissected Michael’s life like entertainment while strangers suddenly debated the morality of a man they did not know.
And Michael, Michael had gone silent.
That was what frightened Y/N the most.
Not anger. Not panic.
Silence.
He sat curled into the corner of the sofa still, one hand pressed against his mouth while the television replayed clips from the documentary again and again.
Y/N stood in the doorway watching him absorb it all in real time.
The betrayal.
Because Michael trusted easily when people spoke softly enough.
And Martin Bashir had known exactly what he was doing.
“Mike, honey” she said gently.
Michael didn’t answer immediately.
His eyes stayed fixed on the screen where Bashir’s voice floated through the room smooth and clinical.
A journalist narrating someone else’s humanity like a spectacle.
Finally Michael whispered, “He said he was my friend.”
The pain in his voice nearly shattered her.
Y/N crossed the room instantly and turned the television off.
Silence filled the room.
Michael looked exhausted suddenly. Smaller somehow.
“I let him around the children.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“He used us.”
Us.
Not me.
Because Michael understood immediately this wasn’t just about him anymore.
It was about Y/N. The children. Their home. Their trust.
A knock sounded at the office door before an assistant entered carefully.
“Martin Bashir is here.”
~~~~~~~~~~~
Michael looked confused first.
Then hurt.
Y/N stood slowly.
“Why?”
“He says he wants to clarify a few things before the press statement tomorrow.”
Clarify.
Y/N almost laughed.
Instead she looked at Michael, who suddenly looked deeply anxious.
“I don’t wanna see him.”
“Then you won’t.”
Her voice was calm and sharp enough to make the assistant immediately step backward.
Y/N smoothed down her sleeve and skirt once before walking toward the hallway.
Michael rose halfway from the couch.
“Baby…”
She turned back.
And whatever Martin Bashir had done, whatever fury sat beneath her skin, Michael’s face softened it instantly.
“Stay here” she said gently. “Okay?”
He nodded slowly.
~~~~~~~
Martin Bashir stood near the foyer holding papers in one hand and manufactured concern across his face.
The second Y/N appeared, he straightened.
“Mrs Jackson…”
“You need to leave.”
Direct. Cold.
Bashir blinked, seemingly startled by the lack of politeness.
“I was hoping Michael and I could discuss some misunderstandings regarding the final edit..”
“Misunderstandings?”
Her voice stayed dangerously even.
“You manipulated him.”
“That’s not…”
“You gained access to our home. Our children.” She stepped closer. “You sat at our table.”
Bashir visibly shifted.
“I’m a journalist, Mrs Jackson. Difficult subjects are part of..”
“No.” Y/N cut him off sharply for the first time. “You are a man who recognized kindness and mistook it for weakness.”
The foyer fell completely silent.
Even security stood motionless nearby.
Bashir attempted a professional smile.
“I understand emotions are high..”
“You humiliated him.”
His expression tightened slightly now.
“The documentary reflects public concerns”
“The documentary reflects your disgusting ambition.”
That landed.
Y/N rarely raised her voice. Rarely lost composure.
But somehow her restraint made this more brutal.
“You watched a deeply lonely man trust you” she continued quietly. “And instead of protecting that trust, you packaged it.”
Bashir opened his mouth again.
Wrong choice.
“You do not get to stand in this house pretending concern now.”
Every word precise. Controlled. Devastated.
“For months my husband defended you at this table.” Her eyes sharpened. “Do you understand that? He defended you to me.”
Something flickered across Bashir’s face then.
Guilt maybe.
Or embarrassment at finally being seen clearly.
But Y/N wasn’t finished.
“You filmed my children” she said softly now. “Children who smiled at you because their father believed you were safe.”
The softness somehow hurt worse than shouting ever could.
Behind her, movement.
Michael had appeared quietly at the hallway entrance.
He looked sick. Heartbroken.
And Martin noticed immediately.
Their eyes met.
For one brief second Bashir looked uncomfortable.
Because the real Michael Jackson standing there looked nothing like the caricature now airing on television.
Just wounded.
Y/N saw Michael behind her and her entire posture changed instantly.
Softer.
Protective.
She moved in front of him without even thinking.
A shield.
“Leave” she said finally.
Not angrily anymore.
Just done.
Bashir hesitated before nodding stiffly.
“Goodnight, Mrs Jackson.”
No response.
He glanced once more toward Michael, perhaps expecting something.
Forgiveness. Understanding. Another chance.
But Michael only looked at him quietly and said, “You promised me you wouldn’t hurt my family.”
Bashir had no answer for that.
None at all.
And for the first time since the documentary aired, Y/N watched someone else carry the discomfort instead of Michael.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That night, after Bashir finally left, the house felt hollow.
Too quiet for Neverland.
Usually there was music somewhere. Children laughing down hallways. Michael humming absentmindedly from another room.
Now the estate sat heavy with humiliation.
Y/N found him hours later in the screening room alone.
The documentary played silently across the television while headlines crawled endlessly beneath frozen images of his face.
Michael sat curled deep into the corner of the couch, arms wrapped around himself tightly.
Watching.
Punishing himself with it.
Y/N quietly took the remote and shut the screen off.
Darkness swallowed the room.
For a long moment neither spoke.
Then softly, “I was stupid.”
Her heart cracked instantly.
Michael kept his eyes lowered.
“I knew better.” His voice sounded exhausted. “You warned me.”
“I warned you to be careful” she corrected gently. “Not to stop being kind.”
He laughed once bitterly.
“Same thing.”
“No.”
That made him finally look at her.
And Y/N moved closer immediately, kneeling in front of him so he couldn’t disappear into himself.
“Michael” she said softly, “loving people is not stupidity.”
His eyes glistened.
“He used the children.”
“I know.”
“I let him near them.”
“And they’re still safe.”
“But what if—”
“They are safe.”
Firm this time.
Michael’s breathing shook slightly.
Because underneath all the public humiliation sat the real terror; his children.
Always his children.
“What if people think they’re strange too?” he whispered. “What if this follows them?”
Y/N’s expression broke completely then.
Oh.
That was the wound.
Not his reputation. Not the press.
His babies growing up carrying the weight of public cruelty aimed at their father.
She reached up immediately and held his face between her hands.
“Listen to me carefully” she whispered. “Those children know exactly who their father is.”
Michael shut his eyes hard.
“You read bedtime stories in ridiculous voices.” “You stop rehearsals to check if they’ve eaten.” “You cry at cartoons.” “You carry Paris when she’s tired even though she’s too big now.” “You kiss every scraped knee.”
A tear slipped down his cheek.
“You are not what that man filmed.”
The room stayed quiet except for Michael trying unsuccessfully to steady his breathing.
Then very softly, “Do you believe me?”
His eyes opened slowly.
And Y/N realized with sudden heartbreak that he genuinely needed to ask.
Needed reassurance after all these years of the world dissecting him.
She kissed his forehead immediately.
“Always.”
And for the first time all evening, Michael finally leaned into someone instead of folding into himself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the years after Bashir, Y/N rebuilt him carefully.
Not all at once.
In tiny pieces.
Because public betrayal changed Michael.
He smiled less easily afterward. Trusted less instinctively. Second-guessed his softness.
But Y/N refused to let the world turn him hard.
And strangely enough, the children helped most.
Especially during the years leading into This Is It.
Because no matter what the world said about Michael Jackson, at home he was simply, Daddy.
And children do not care about public narratives.
They care that; Daddy makes pancakes shaped like dinosaurs, Daddy sings too loudly in the kitchen, Daddy lets them stay up too late watching movies and Daddy dances badly on purpose to make them laugh.
Slowly, without realizing it, they pulled him back toward himself.
There were mornings Y/N would wake to hear giggling downstairs only to find Michael asleep on the couch buried beneath all the two kids and a toddler after an accidental movie night.
And Y/N noticed something important during those years,
Michael was happiest when nobody expected him to be Michael Jackson.
Just a husband. Just daddy.
So she protected those moments fiercely.
When he spiraled after tabloids, she redirected him toward home.
“Come help Paris with reading.”
“Prince wants to show you something.”
“Blanket won’t sleep without saying goodnight.”
And every time, Michael softened instantly.
The children became anchors.
Proof that he was loved beyond fame.
~~~~~~~~
There was one night years later that Y/N would never forget.
Michael sat at the piano long after midnight barely touching the keys.
Quiet. Withdrawn again.
One of those nights where old wounds reopened silently.
Y/N watched from the doorway for a while before speaking.
“You’re thinking too much.”
Michael smiled faintly without looking up.
“Mhm.”
Before she could walk over, small footsteps padded into the room.
Prince.
Sleepy-eyed and clutching a blanket behind him.
“Daddy?”
Michael looked up immediately.
And just like that — the sadness in his face shifted.
“Hey applehead.” His voice softened instantly. “What’re you doin’ awake?”
“Bad dream.”
Without hesitation Michael opened one arm.
Prince climbed directly into his lap despite being far too old for it by then.
Michael held him automatically.
“You okay?” he whispered.
Prince nodded against his chest.
Then sleepily,
“Can you play my lullaby?”
Y/N saw Michael’s face crumble quietly at that.
Because to his children he was not scandal. Not rumor. Not accusation.
He was safety.
Michael kissed the top of Prince’s head and began softly playing piano while his son drifted back toward sleep against him.
And Y/N stood in the doorway realizing, this was how he survived.
Not through fame.
Through them.
—
By the time This Is It rehearsals began years later, the healing showed in subtle ways.
Michael still carried scars. Still had moments where old hurt flickered behind his eyes.
But now when he looked toward the side of the stage and saw his family, his home he remembered who he actually was beneath the headlines.
Not the version the world invented.
The real one.
And maybe that was why he became so openly affectionate during rehearsals.
Why he stopped hiding his love for Y/N. Why he constantly reached for his children.
Because after almost losing himself to public cruelty, Michael finally understood something, The people who truly loved him had been trying to save him all along.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A/N: Thoughts? Please don’t leave alone with my feelings. Sad girl now. I’ll do a fun fic next 🥹
⋮ ⌗ ┆ summary: it’s genuinely on sight if you catch diana by herself.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ no crazy warnings. female reader, public verbal argument (reader and diana), brief emotional stress and anxiety, romantic jealousy, relationship strain, smoking / cigarette use—pls its the 80’s, mikey in the doghouse.
So.. Michael doesn't think he's ever been this fucking scared in his life.
Which feels deeply unfair considering he’s Michael Jackson. He’s performed in front of thousands of people, he’s danced on national television. And yet somehow none of those experiences prepared him for the sight currently waiting across Studio 54.
His girlfriend is sitting alone in a velvet booth with a drink in front of her, looking so spectacularly deadpan that Michael briefly considers leaving the country. The problem is that she isn’t crying, isn't yelling. She isn’t even causing a scene. She’s ignoring him. Which is infinitely worse. When she gets loud, at least he knows where he stands. When she gets quiet? Oh, baby that’s when God himself starts abandoning his people.
The club pulses around him in flashes of gold and red light, cigarette smoke hanging thick in the air while celebrities and socialites laugh their way through another night they’ll be talking about for years. Meanwhile, Michael is standing near the bar wondering if it’s possible to die from being in trouble with a pretty girl. The worst part is that she has a point, enough of a point that every defense he’d come up with has fallen apart the second he’s tried saying it to himself.
The evening had started perfectly fine. Then Diana arrived. And somehow Michael had spent the next two hours getting continuously pulled into her orbit. One conversation became three. One dance became several. Every time he managed to drift back toward his girlfriend, Diana found a way to pull him somewhere else. A joke. A story. A hand on his arm. A request for “one more” dance. Michael hadn’t noticed how bad it looked at first, but his girlfriend had. The first warning came in the form of a look. The second came as a pointed comment. The third involved her physically appearing beside him while Diana stood entirely too close and entirely too comfortable. And Michael, complete idiot that he was, had smiled. Smiled! Like there wasn’t a bomb actively ticking beside him.
The argument afterward had not gone.. well. Mostly because it stopped being about jealousy almost immediately—that would’ve been easier. Instead it became about disrespect. About spending an entire evening standing in a room full of people while another woman monopolized her boyfriend’s attention. About feeling invisible and like a second choice. About Diana acting like she possessed a claim on Michael that nobody else was supposed to fucking question. Then, Diana made the catastrophic mistake of questioning her right back. Michael doesn’t remember every detail because the second the tension started rising, his survival instincts kicked in and his brain effectively left the building. But he remembers (Name) asking if she could maybe have five uninterrupted minutes with her own boyfriend. He remembers Diana not appreciating the tone. He remembers trying to smooth things over then—the drink in (Name)’s hand found itself splashing in Diana’s face before Michael had to physically pick up and pull her away while another nearby did the same with Diana.
Now Diana is on one side of the club pretending none of it happened. His girlfriend is on the other side pretending he doesn’t exist.
And somehow Michael is the common denominator in both disasters.
After spending nearly fifteen minutes pacing around the bar (like a condemned man awaiting execution), Michael finally orders her favorite drink. Then orders another because his hands are shaking badly enough that he drops the first one. By the time he starts walking toward her booth, he’s rehearsed approximately seventeen? different apologies and forgotten every single one of them. His girlfriend notices him immediately but she simply chooses not to acknowledge it. Michael stops beside the table and waits. Nothing.
“Hi.” Silence. “Hi,” he tries again, somehow sounding even more nervous the second time. Still nothing then carefully, he sets the drink down in front of her.
“..I got this for you, baby..” That finally earns him a reaction: she looks at the glass. Then at him and back at the glass. A smile appears and Michael’s stomach immediately drops to the floor. Because it’s not her happy smile. It’s the smile. The one that means she’s about to make him suffer.
“Oh.” One word as she picks up the drink and studies it thoughtfully before slowly lifting her eyes back to his. The smile widens.
“Oh,” She says again. “Finally remembered who your girlfriend is?” And just like that, every apology Michael spent the last fifteen minutes rehearsing evaporates completely.
Michael just stares at her. Which, unfortunately, is probably the worst possible thing he could be doing right now. He just.. stares. Partially because he's terrified and genuinely, sincerely terrified in a way that feels ridiculous considering he’s a rising star, one would think very little scares him. But he’s staring mostly because she’s angry, and he's never actually seen her like this before. Not really—not directed at him. Usually when she’s upset, there’s still something soft underneath it. Its huffy, pouty, there’s some visible crack where he can see his way back in. Tonight there isn’t. Tonight she’s sitting across from him looking completely unimpressed, completely unaffected by his presence, and somehow so damn beautiful. She’s beautiful everyday, yeah. But right now? Whew. Her eyes seem darker, her posture straighter and there’s a confidence that feels like she owns the entire nightclub and everyone inside it. Michael knows he should be apologizing. Knows he should be speaking. Knows he should be doing literally anything other than staring at her. Instead, his brain completely betrays him by noticing how pretty she looks when she’s mad.
The silence stretches longer than it should and her eyebrow slowly lifts. Michael continues staring.
“Hello?” Nothing. “Michael?”
His brain finally restarts with all the grace of a car refusing to turn over. “Pardon?” The second the word leaves his mouth, she lets out a short laugh and leans back against the booth cushions.
“Oh my God,” she mutters. “You're not even listening to me.”
Michael immediately opens his mouth to argue before deciding against it. Bad idea. Very bad idea. Then she gestures casually across the club toward Diana and smiles in a way that makes every survival instinct in his body activate at once.
“Please go back over there before I drag that old bitch.” Michael’s eyes widen and his gaze instinctively flickers toward Diana before snapping right back to his girlfriend. Huge mistake. She catches it immediately.
“Oh, don't worry,” she says sweetly. “I’m sure she’d love to see you.” And suddenly Michael understands that this isn’t really about Diana at all—or at least entirely. It’s about spending an entire evening making his girlfriend feel unwanted while he floated around Studio 54 like he didn’t even have one. The realization settles heavily in his stomach, and for the first time all night, he's no longer scared of her being angry. He’s scared because she has every right to be.
(Name) stares at him for another few seconds before letting out a long sigh and sliding out of the booth. Michael immediately straightens because the fact she's standing up usually means a decision has been made, and Michael has a horrible feeling he isn’t going to like it. She smooths down her outfit, picks up her purse, and points directly at him.
“I’m leaving.” She says and Michael blinks.
“Okay..” He nods.
“You can stay if you want.” His face falls instantly. “But,” She continues holding up a finger, “I’m changing the locks if you do.” The statement confirms he is, in fact, still very much in trouble and (Name) watches the realization happen in real time. His shoulders sink. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Then without a single argument, he simply stands up and follows after her immediately with no hesitation. He’s trailing along a few steps behind like a giant, miserable puppy that knows exactly why it’s being punished.
(Name) makes it approximately ten feet before glancing over her shoulder and finding him still there looking guilty and pathetic. Looking like if she left him alone in Studio 54 for more than twenty minutes he’d probably just stand in the corner thinking about life. The sight nearly breaks her resolve. Nearly.
“That's what I thought,” She says, reaching back and hooking a finger into the collar of his shirt and Michael doesn’t even protest. If anything, he seems relieved to be collected. (Name) rolls her eyes and starts steering him toward the exit while he obediently follows along behind her. They’re halfway across the club when a familiar voice cuts through the crowd.
“Well, look at this.” Quincy appears out of nowhere, drink in hand and a grin already spreading across his face as he takes in the scene before him. (Name) with one hand on Michael’s collar. Michael following behind her with all the dignity of a man being escorted out of kindergarten. Quincy immediately starts laughing.
She brightens instantly. “Hi, Q!” she calls cheerfully, as if she isn’t actively dragging her boyfriend through the middle of Studio 54. “We're leaving!”
Quincy glances at Michael and at the hand attached to his collar. “I can see that, sweetheart.”
She nods enthusiastically. ”Early too!” And behind her, Michael closes his eyes for a brief moment as Quincy nearly doubles over laughing.
“What’d you do, Mike?” Quincy asks.
“I don't wanna talk about it,” Michael mutters.
“He knows what he did,” She answers at the exact same time, giving his collar another tug toward the door and Quincy laughs even harder. Michael wishes the floor would open and swallow him whole.
The walk to the car is painfully embarrassing for Michael but she saves him from the embarrassment of the paparazzi because releases his collar the second they step outside, but somehow that’s worse. At least when she was dragging him around, she was touching him. Now she’s just walking beside him with her purse tucked under her arm and her expression fixed firmly ahead. The night air is cooler than inside the club, carrying away some of the heat and noise of Studio 54, but none of it helps the growing sense of dread sitting in Michael’s stomach. When the car finally pulls up, he nearly lunges for the door handle, rushing ahead to open it for her before she can do it herself. She doesn’t acknowledge the gesture beyond sliding into the seat without a word and Michael follows a moment later, settling beside her as the door shuts and the city begins moving past the windows.
The silence inside the car feels louder than the music had.
(Name) sits with her arms crossed tightly over her chest and one leg thrown over the other, looking out the window because she’s suddenly become fascinated by New York traffic. Michael glances at her once.. then again. Then a third time. Every few seconds his eyes drift back toward her before darting away when she doesn’t react. He lasts maybe five minutes before finally giving up. Slowly and cautiously, he reaches across the seat and rests his hand lightly on her knee.
She just refuses to look at him.
“Lovey..” Michael says quietly. No response.
“I’m sorry.” His thumb moves against her knee. “Will you look at me?” Nothing.
“Please? What can I do?” The worst part is how sincere he sounds. He’s not making excuses or defending himself. He’s just being her Michael. Soft and sweet and looking so genuinely miserable that she can physically feel her resolve beginning to crack down the middle. She hates it. Hates how easy it is when he uses that voice. Hates how his eyes get all sad. Hates that she still wants to forgive him..
So instead she turns her head slowly and narrows her eyes at him. Michael immediately brightens.
Big mistake.
“Don't,” she warns and his smile falters. “You are going to massage my feet until your hands hurt.”
For a moment he stares at her then relief washes across his face so quickly it’s almost embarrassing. “That's it?”
Her eyes narrow further and Michael wisely corrects himself. “I mean.. yes. Absolutely. As long as you want.”
“Good.”
“Okay."
“And I'm still mad at you.”
“I know.”
“Very mad.”
“I know, lovey.”
She turns back toward the window, fighting the smile threatening to appear on her face and a few seconds later, Michael’s hand quietly slips from her knee into her hand.
This time she lets it stay there.
The second she lets his hand stay in hers, Michael immediately gets hopeful in that cutie way he gets when he thinks he might still be forgiven. She doesn’t even have to look at him to feel it. Its the little glances he keeps sneaking at her and the way his thumb moves against her knuckles. She keeps her gaze fixed out the window acting like she hasn’t noticed any of it even though she absolutely has.
The quiet doesn't last long.
“..Can I have a kiss?” Michael asks, voice softer than it already is because he’s testing whether the ground is stable again. (Name) closes her eyes for a second like she’s physically bracing herself, then finally turns her head toward him. The look she gives him is unreadable, but it doesn’t stop her from leaning across the space and pressing a quick kiss to his lips anyway. It’s brief, barely even a second, and the moment it’s over she’s already pulling away and turning back toward the window like nothing happened. Michael goes completely still beside her for a second then lets out a small, disbelieving laugh under his breath.
“I got a kiss,” he says softly, and she immediately groans and hides her face in her hand.
“Don’t start,” she warns, but her voice isn’t nearly as firm as she wants it to be. And Michael, still holding her just leans back in his seat with a smile that makes it very clear he knows exactly what he’s doing to her.
By the time they get back to her apartment (he pays for), the argument has started to lose its intensity. She kicks off her shoes the second she walks in and Michael follows her in without a word, already looking for ways to make things right without overcomplicating it.
A few minutes later she’s settled on the couch with one leg tucked under her, a cigarette resting between her fingers as she leans back into the cushions, watching him move around the room. Michael eventually ends up sitting on the floor in front of her, carefully taking her feet into his hands and he starts massaging slowly, thumbs pressing into her arch. She doesn’t look at him at first, just exhales smoke toward the ceiling, acting like she’s still mad, but her foot relaxes in his grip anyway, betraying her before she can stop it.
Michael glances up at her once, then keeps going when she doesn’t tell him to stop. “Still mad at me?” he asks quietly, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it from her anyway.
(Name) doesn’t look down at him right away. She just takes another slow drag from her cigarette, considering it for a second longer than necessary, then finally tilts her head slightly in his direction with the faintest trace of a smile pulling at her mouth. And Michael, still on the floor with her feet in his hands, keeps massaging like he’s already accepted whatever verdict she decides to give him.
Michael keeps working his thumbs into her feet and she lounges back into the couch like she’s testing how long she can stay annoyed before it dissolves on its own. She finally speaks without looking at him, voice light but still edged with something he knows better than to fully relax around.
“I dunno,” she says, exhaling another thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Do you think I should still be mad?”
Michael pauses for half a second, hands still resting around her ankle. Then he looks up at her properly, curls a little messy, expression soft and painfully earnest.. that look always makes her anger feel less solid than it should. “Yes,” he says immediately, then corrects himself just as fast, “I mean—no. I mean.. I think you were right to be mad.”
That earns him a look.
So he keeps going, “I was stupid,” he admits, thumbs resuming their slow pressure like he needs the movement to stay grounded. “I should’ve been with you more. I didn’t mean to.. make you feel like that.” His eyes flick up again, searching her face carefully, like he’s trying to read whether he’s losing her in real time. “But I.. also really don’t want you to stay mad at me.”
(Name) watches him for a moment, cigarette still between her fingers, expression unreadable in a way that makes his stomach tighten slightly. Then she tilts her head, studying him like she’s deciding something she hasn’t fully committed to yet. Michael doesn’t move, he just waits there on the floor with her foot in his hands.
Finally, she lets out a small breath through her nose, something almost like a laugh buried in it, and leans her head back against the couch.
“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” she says, not quite forgiving him but not holding on to the anger either. Michael lets out a relieved breath he clearly didn’t realize he was holding and immediately goes back to massaging.
“But you’re definitely putting that mouth to work tonight.”
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┊ ♡ ﹒ summary : after a fight with her commitment-phobic situationship at a pool party, (name) hides in a laundry room to contemplate her life choices. unfortunately for her, michael has been looking for her like a lost puppy for the better part of twenty minutes and accidentally confesses he’s memorized her entire personality. things escalate from there.
┊ ♡ ﹒ byi : love triangle, sibling rivalry emotional infidelity / cheating themes, arguments and relationship conflict, age gap (reader is four years older than michael), complicated relationship dynamics, emotionally messy people making messy ass decisions, slight smut, reader uses michael’s hand, shy / submissive michael, lowkey pussy drunk off kissing alone.
(Name) and Jackie exist in a relationship that’s somehow both serious and.. not serious at the same time. It’s ridiculous, yeah. To everyone around them, they’re practically together. They arrive places together, leave parties together and know each other with a level of emotional and physical intimacy that usually only belongs to committed couples. Jackie calls her when he’s lonely, when he’s bored, when something exciting happens and she’s the first person he wants to tell. He knows how she takes her coffee, which songs and movies make her cry, and exactly what expression means she’s seconds away from telling him to get out of her face because she’s annoyed with him and overstimulated. Their lives have become intertwined in a hundred ways, making it very difficult to explain why they aren’t.. officially anything at all.
The problem isn’t that Jackie doesn’t love her. No. In fact, that’s what makes the situation so fucked up. Let’s keep it a buck, Jackie is a dog. But if someone asked him whether he loved (Name), the answer would come without hesitation: yes. The issue is that love and commitment have never felt like the same thing to him. Jackie has spent most of his adult life moving freely through the world, unburdened by permanence. Women come and go, opportunities come and go, cities come and go. And somewhere along the way, freedom stopped feeling like a luxury and started feeling like a necessity. Marriage doesn’t scare him because he doubts her or anything like that. It scares him because it feels so final, like a door closing on every other possibility and a version of himself disappearing forever.
And what makes Jackie selfish is that he already knows exactly what he has. He knows (Name) isn’t temporary. He knows she’s the kind of woman a man marries once and spends the rest of his life trying not to lose. He can picture a future with her effortlessly: a home, a family, growing old together. Those visions sound like heaven on Earth, but that’s on hold for right now. So instead, he keeps one foot in the future and one foot out the door. He continues seeing other women, fucking these women because giving them up would mean admitting his life has already made its choice. He wants the comfort of knowing she’ll be there when he’s finally ready, while refusing to offer the security that would justify her waiting.
And because (Name) loves him, she stays longer than she should. She keeps giving him chances he hasn’t earned because she sees the man he could be and mistakes that potential for a promise. That’s the mess at the center of their relationship—the “I can fix him” mentality of a woman who deserves better and the “I want options” guy who thinks the best option is going to wait forever. The gag is neither of them are confused about how they feel about each other, the feelings are actually the easiest part. Jackie already knows he wants to marry (Name) someday. The problem is that someday keeps moving further away. Every time he asks for more time, he assumes she’ll still be standing exactly where he left her. Deep down though, he knows there’s a very real possibility that one day she’ll wake up, realize she’s spent years waiting for a man who already knows she’s the one, chooses to not choose her still, and decide she’s tired of waiting for him to catch up. And he’ll be damned if he lets another man take you away from him.
What makes Jackie so difficult to leave is that every complaint (Name) has about him is real, but so is every reason she loves him. The problem has never been that Jackie doesn’t care; he cares just enough to keep her holding on. Every time she reaches her breaking point, every time she decides she’s tired of waiting, tired of sharing him, tired of feeling like she’s standing in line for a future that never seems to arrive, Jackie somehow senses it. He becomes softer. More attentive. More present. And suddenly he’s calling just to hear her voice. Suddenly he’s showing up at her door with flowers, gifts, sweet treats. Suddenly he’s holding her a little longer when he hugs her goodbye, looking at her with that look that makes her feel like she’s the only woman in the world.
And Jackie knows exactly what to say and exactly what to do.
He knows how to hold her when she’s upset and slowly talk her down from the ledge of every reason she has to leave. He’ll tell her he’s trying. Tell her he’s been thinking about things. Tell her he’s getting older now and starting to see life differently. He’ll talk about the future in vague, beautiful pieces. A house somewhere quiet. Waking up next to her every morning. Growing old together. Knocking her up. All these things when he’s digging in her guts with nine thick inches of dick, mind you. So, poor girl doesn’t even know left from right or up from down because he fucks her so good—pressing down on her tummy so he can feel himself rutting into her.
These are the kind of conversations he’s avoided with her for years, and they suddenly spill from him so naturally that she starts to wonder if maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment she’s been waiting for.
Maybe he’s finally ready.
The insane part is that Jackie usually believes himself when he’s saying it. In those moments, looking at her, holding her, fucking her, imagining a future that feels so comforting rather than.. restrictive, and he genuinely means every word. That’s what makes him so convincing because isn’t delivering these bullshit lines. He’s speaking from whatever emotion he’s feeling at that exact second and when Jackie loves, he loves completely. The problem is that his certainty only seems to exist in the moment. Once the emotion fades, once life resumes, once the pressure disappears, so does the urgency to change.
That’s why (Name) keeps getting pulled back in. Because every version of the future she’s ever wanted exists somewhere inside Jackie. She can see it. Sometimes he lets her see it too. She catches glimpses of the husband he could be, the father he could be, the man who would spend the rest of his life loving her. Those glimpses are powerful enough to make her stay another month. Another year. Powerful enough to convince her that maybe all he needs is a little more time.
But.
If Jackie is the source of (Name)’s uncertainty, Michael is the complete opposite. There is nothing uncertain about the way Michael feels about her because his crush is so painfully obvious.
Everyone notices it eventually. The way he watches her when he thinks she isn’t looking. The way conversations he’s half listening to seem to brighten the second she joins them. The way he suddenly becomes hyper aware of himself whenever she’s nearby, straightening his posture, fixing his clothes, stumbling over words he’d normally say without thinking. Michael is utterly, hopelessly gone, and the worst part is that he doesn’t have the slightest idea how to hide it.
Unfortunately for him, (Name) knows.
She figures it out much earlier than he realizes and finds it almost impossible not to tease him about it. He’s just so cute—and granted, there is a little age gap but it’s nothing crazy. Michael is four years younger than her so naturally, she’s endeared by him because he makes it so easy to dote on him. He blushes when she compliments him. Gets flustered when she touches his arm. Completely short circuits whenever she cups his jaw and tells him how pretty he is. She’ll smile at him across a room and spend the next ten minutes watching him try to recover. There’s something almost irresistible about how sweet he is, how transparent he is. Michael wears every emotion openly, and when he looks at her, it’s like watching someone hand over all their secrets without realizing it.
What Michael loves most about her isn’t one singular thing. It’s the totality of her. Her confidence. The softness. The way she carries herself like a woman who knows exactly who she is and what she wants. He notices everything, from the sound of her laugh to the way she fills a room simply by walking into it. Even her presence seems capable of rearranging his priorities. There have been moments where he’s caught himself standing beside her and become so acutely aware of his own lankiness that he’s genuinely considered spending more time in the gym. And she’s never suggested he should, but being around her makes him want to be the best version of himself. He just.. has these thoughts worrying about if he could be able “handle” all of her from her hips, to her thighs, her breasts—he doesn’t think he has a chance in hell but still. He understands why she’s with his big brother.
But anyway, around (Name), Michael becomes strangely domestic without meaning to. He remembers little things. He carries things for her before she asks. He saves her a seat. If she’s tired, he’s immediately concerned. If her feet hurt after a long night, he’ll end up sitting on the floor in front of her, gently rubbing the ache from them while she talks about whatever happens to be on her mind. And there’s no expectation of getting something in return. Taking care of her simply comes naturally to him. Sometimes he doesn’t even realize he's doing it until somebody points it out and embarrasses him.
Unlike Jackie, Michael isn’t holding anything back. His affection is constant, uncomplicated, and sincere. He looks at (Name) like she’s already something precious. Like she doesn’t need to become anything more to earn his devotion. And while she finds his crush endlessly adorable, there’s a small part of her that tries not to think too hard about it. Because every time Jackie leaves her waiting, every time he asks for more time, every time he chooses freedom over certainty, Michael is there in the background offering the exact thing she’s been asking for all along without ever demanding she choose him back.
And that’s.. not good.
The party had settled into that golden hour that made everything look softer than it really was. The pool shimmered beneath the setting sun, throwing ribbons of orange light across the patio. Music drifted from the speakers, low enough to blend into the conversations and laughter around them. People leaned against the bar with drinks in their hands, clustered together in little groups, their skin still warm from a day spent in the sun.
(Name) couldn’t enjoy any of it.
The farther she got from the pool, the quieter everything became. The music was still there, buried beneath the sound of splashing water and laughter, but it felt distant now and muted. She stopped near the side of the house where the shadows had started to creep across the stucco walls, holding her glass that had been bleeding condensation
Of course he followed her.
Jackie rounded the corner a minute later, irritation already written across his face. His sunglasses were pushed onto the top of his head, one hand resting on his hip as he looked at her.
“Now what you stompin’ off for?” He asked, stopping a few feet away. There wasn’t much concern in his voice anymore. Mostly annoyance. “I been lookin’ for you. What’s your problem?”
(Name) stared at him. “My problem?”
“Yeah, your problem.” Jackie gestured vaguely toward the party behind them before letting his hand fall. “You've been givin’ me attitude all afternoon.”
She laughed in disbelief. “I’ve been giving you attitude?”
Jackie immediately sighed and tipped his head back.
“Nah, see, here we go.” He dragged a hand across the back of his neck and looked away toward the pool for a second. “I knew it was gonna be somethin’.”
“No,” she shot back, shaking her head. “Here you go, Jackie.”
“Baby, I was standin’ there talkin’.” Jackie pointed vaguely toward the party behind him before looking back at her. “That’s all I was doin’.”
“You were flirting with those girls in front of my face. Do you understand how embarrassing that is? How pathetic you make me look in front of your family and friends?” (Name) asks, a bewildered look on her face.
“I was not.” He laughed once through his nose and adjusted the sunglasses sitting on top of his head. “See, that's what I'm talkin’ bout."
“Jackie, literally nothing is funny right now.”
"I wasn—” He stared at her for a moment before throwing one hand into the air. “You know what. Sometimes I think you make your mind up before I even open my damn mouth.” He took a few steps closer, frustration beginning to creep into his voice. “You decide what happened and then that’s it.”
“Oh my God.” (Name) looked away, rubbing her forehead.
“I'm serious.” He responds.
“No, baby. You’re not, you’re actually being very unserious right now and it’s about to piss me off.”
“Baby.” Jackie pointed toward the backyard again. “Half them folks over there was standin’ around talkin’. Was I supposed to sit by myself in a corner all day?”
(Name) laughed, but there wasn't an ounce of humor in it. “You always got a smartass answer.”
“‘Cause you always got an accusation.” He folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight onto one leg. “It gets old.”
Her expression hardened. “You know what gets old? Watching you do this to me every single time.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I’m crazy.”
Jackie's face tightened immediately. “Ain’t nobody callin’ you crazy.”
“You imply it enough.”
He rubbed both hands down his face and let out a long breath. “Lord have mercy.”
“No, seriously.” She stepped closer now, her drink sloshing dangerously in the glass. “You flirt with women right in front of me and then somehow I’m the problem for having eyes—Jackie, we’ve had conversations about you sleeping with women outside of me. So, I don’t know why you’re playing dumb. Yes, I’m going to feel upset when I see you whispering in another girl’s ear and touching on her!”
Jackie looked away for a second, jaw working and clearly irritated. “See?” He pointed at her. “That right there. That’s what I'm talkin' about.”
“No, Jackie, what’s crazy is that you genuinely think this is normal.” For a moment neither spoke and music drifted through the evening air. A burst of laughter erupted somewhere near the pool. Jackie’s gaze dropped to the ground before returning to her face.
Jackie's patience finally snapped.
“Nah,” He spread his arms wide and took a step back. “The fact that I gotta stand here defendin’ myself over a conversation.”
“It wasn’t just a conversation, Jackie!”
“For God’s sake.” He looked up at the sky before looking back at her. “I didn’t sleep wit’them girls yet.”
Silence.
The second the words left his mouth, the fight drained from her face and the disappointment landed slowly. He saw it happen, saw her shoulders sag, saw her look away.
“..Yet?” (Name)’s voice was so small.
Jackie’s expression immediately shifted. Knowing. He told on himself. “Aw, c'mon.” He stepped forward, one hand reaching out. “That ain’t what I meant, babygirl..”
“But that's what you said.” She’s tearing up.
“You know what I mean.” He watches how she can’t even look at him anymore—but she never could when she was about to cry.
“(Name)..” Jackie opened his mouth, closed it and opened it again. She set her drink down on a nearby table with a sharp clink and grabbed her heels. “Baby, hold on.”
“’M going inside, I’m all partied out..” She said quietly, brushing past him.
“You really gonna walk away over this?” Jackie asked, following her a few steps.
(Name) turned before Jackie could stop her, her shoes dangling from two fingers as she headed back toward the house. The concrete was still warm beneath her bare feet, damp in places where pool water had been tracked across the patio. Each step left a faint wet print behind her. Her pace was quick, bordering on a storm, shoulders stiff with frustration as the sounds of the party swelled and faded around her. The loose ties of her bikini skirt fluttered against her thighs while her hair clung slightly to the back of her neck from the lingering heat of the day.
She didn’t look back. The only indication that Jackie had spoken at all was the brief swallowing of her throat. The movement of her body carried the urgency of someone trying very hard not to cry, not to turn around, not to give somebody one more chance. Even the rhythm of her walk felt determined, her heels knocking softly against one another where they hung from her hand while the sunset stretched her shadow long across the wet concrete ahead of her.
By the time (Name) made it inside the house, the party felt like it belonged to another world.
The music was still there, but just muffled through walls and glass. Every so often she could hear a burst of laughter or the distant splash of someone jumping into the pool, but it all sounded far away now. Detached like she was listening to it from underwater.
She wandered through the kitchen first, passing half empty bottles and abandoned cups, countertops were crowded with evidence of a good time. People drifted in and out of rooms without really noticing her and she wasn’t sure where she was going. She just knew she needed to be somewhere Jackie wasn’t.
Eventually she found herself standing in front of the laundry room, the door was partially open and the room was small, warm, and quiet. Smelled nice too.
Perfect.
(Name) slipped inside and nudged the door shut behind her. The hum of the machines immediately wrapped around her, steady and comforting in a strange sort of way. There was something nice about the simplicity of it. No music. No conversations, just white noise.
She climbed onto the dryer and sat down, setting her heels on a towel hook beside her. For a moment she simply stared at the opposite wall. Her drink remained in her hand, condensation continuing to gather against the glass before dripping onto her fingers.
The adrenaline from the argument was beginning to wear off. But that was always the worst part, because the anger never stayed. It always dissolved into something that felt uncomfortable to sit in.
Her shoulders slumped slightly as she leaned forward, massaging her own neck with the opposite hand. The dryer vibrated faintly beneath her. Somewhere down the hall, somebody laughed. A door opened and closed.
She barely registered any of it. Instead, her thoughts drifted back toward Jackie despite her best efforts. The argument replayed itself automatically, each line hurt more now than it had been in the moment. The dismissiveness. The frustration. The way he’d looked at her when he thought she was overreacting. The way she’d almost let him pull her back in again.
Almost.
The glass felt cold against her palm and she watched a droplet of water slide slowly down its side before falling onto her thigh.
For a long time she simply sat there, disassociating.
Michael didn't realize he was looking for her until he couldn't find her.
The party had settled into that dreamy part of the evening where everything felt warm and golden. Music drifted across the backyard, people gathered around the bar with drinks in their hands, and laughter seemed to rise from every corner of the patio. Normally, Michael would’ve been right in the middle of it. Instead, he kept catching himself scanning the crowd. Looking toward the pool. The patio doors. The groups of people clustered beneath strings of lights. Every few minutes his eyes searched for the same person before he could stop them.
At first he didn’t think much of it. Maybe she’d gone inside. Maybe she’d gotten caught talking to somebody. But as the minutes passed, an uneasiness began settling into his chest. He’d seen the look on her face earlier. Seen her watching Jackie. Seen her walk away. Michael had always been the sort of person who noticed things, especially when it came to her. The longer she remained missing, the harder it became to focus on anything else.
Eventually he gave up pretending he wasn’t distracted and slipped inside the house. The cool air immediately swallowed up the noise of the party. He wandered through the kitchen, then the living room, barely registering the people he passed along the way. His attention remained fixed on one thing. Finding her, and the house suddenly felt much bigger than it had an hour ago.
When he finally noticed the faint light spilling from the closed laundry room door, something in him relaxed before he even opened it. Sure enough, there she was. Sitting on top of the dryer in her bikini with a drink still dangling loosely from her fingers, staring at absolutely nothing. For a moment Michael simply stood in the doorway. Relief washed through him so quickly it almost felt silly. She wasn’t hurt, at least from what he could see. She was just somewhere far away inside her own head. And somehow, after spending the last fifteen minutes searching for her, the sight of her sitting alone in a laundry room felt like finding exactly what he’d been looking for.
For a moment, Michael simply stood in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame as he looked at her. The dryer hummed softly beneath her while she stared down at the drink dangling from her fingers. Outside, the party carried on without them. Music drifted through the walls, accompanied by distant laughter and the occasional splash from the pool.
“Hi.” The quiet greeting was enough to pull her from her thoughts. (Name) looked up, and some of the tension in her shoulders eased when she saw him standing there.
“Hey, lovebug.” The nickname immediately softened his expression. Michael stepped into the room, letting the door close shut behind him. His eyes moved over her face for a moment before he asked the question she’d known was coming.
“You okay?”
(Name) glanced down at her drink and shrugged lightly. “I’m okay.”
Michael didn’t respond right away, he just looked at her. The silence stretched long enough to make it obvious he didn’t believe her. But she smiled anyway, small and unconvincing. “Really. I'm fine.”
His hands disappeared into his pockets. “Did Jackie make you cry?”
The question caught her off guard enough to make her laugh. It wasn’t a happy laugh. More surprise than anything else. “What?”
“Did he?” Michael's expression remained completely serious. He wasn’t teasing, genuinely wanting to know. (Name) looked away toward the tiny window above the washer.
“No. But almost..” A truthful answer. “Tired of crying over the same thing..” She says under her breath.
His jaw tightened slightly as he looked down at the floor. “He makes you sad a lot.”
The words seemed to surprise him as much as they surprised her. Almost immediately he looked away, like he’d accidentally said something he'd been keeping to himself for a very long time. The laundry room fell quiet again, filled only by the hum of the machines.
“Michael.” He looked up. “I don't wanna talk about Jackie.”
Something softened in his face immediately. “Okay.”
And just like that, he dropped it. No pushing. No questions. No attempt to convince her otherwise. He simply moved farther into the room and leaned against the washer across from her, content to sit in the quiet with her if that’s what she needed.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Michael remained leaning against the washer across from her, his hands tucked into his pockets while the dryer beneath her hummed steadily. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt strangely safe.
Then, without looking at her, he said it. “I wouldn’t treat you like that.”
The words were so quiet she almost thought she’d imagined them. Michael was staring at the floor when he said it, the toe of his sandal nudging absentmently at a crack between the tiles. He looked embarrassed before he’d even finished the sentence.
(Name) blinked.
The comment tugged at something inside her despite herself. She was still upset. Still angry. Still carrying the emotions of the argument with Jackie. But there was also something undeniably cute about Michael standing in a laundry room trying very hard not to confess the world’s most obvious crush.
A small smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, yeah?”
Michael immediately looked like he regretted opening his mouth. “Forget it.”
“No.” She shifted slightly atop the dryer, tilting her head. “Go ahead.”
His face flushed. “There ain’t nothin’ to go ahead with..”
“Michael.” He groaned quietly and looked away and smile on her face grew. “And what do you know about making me happy?”
She meant it teasingly, lightly. You know, playfully. The sort of question she expected him to stumble over. But, Michael surprised her.
“A lot, actually.”
(Name)'s smile faded a little and Michael swallowed.
“I know you like extra ice in your drinks even when everybody tells you it waters ‘em down. I know you pretend not to care what people think until somebody you love says somethin’ mean and then you think about it for three days.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I know when you’re genuinely happy because you start talkin’ with your hands more.”
(Name) stared at him and Michael wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was staring at the floor.
Still talking.
“I know you get quiet when somethin’s wrong, even when you’re tellin’ everybody you’re fine. I know you hate being embarrassed in front of people. I know you act tougher than you are.” His voice had become quieter now, thoughtful.
“I know you like when somebody remembers little things.” Michael finally looked up and he second he saw her expression, realization hit him. His eyes widened like he’d suddenly become aware of everything he’d just admitted. Inadvertently admittedly his feelings for her.
“Oh.” He immediately pushed himself away from the washer. “Oh, man.” A nervous laugh escaped him. “’M sorry..”
“Michael—” (Name) can barely get a word out before he’s stumbling over his words.
“No, that was weird.”
“It wasn’t.”
"It was." He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, already retreating toward the door. ”I shouldn’t’ve said all that.” The poor thing looked mortified but really, he’d accidentally handed her pages from a diary.
“‘M sorry,” he repeated. “Forget I said any of that.” He reached for the doorknob. That’s when she hopped off the dryer.
“Michael.” This time her voice stopped him and his hand froze.
Slowly, he turned around and (Name) was looking at him with an expression he’d never seen directed at him before. For lack of better words.. it was suddenly feeling a little too grown. He’s only ever been envious of this look because it’s what Jackie gets. Never in his life would he have thought he’d even been remotely close to unlocking.. this..
(Name) stared at him for a few seconds before tilting her head.
“Can you keep a secret, papa?” Michael blinked, caught off guard by the question. Then he nodded immediately. Once. Twice. So quickly it was almost funny.
“Yeah. ‘Course I can.”
A smile tugged at her mouth. “C’mere.”
He hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room. The closer he got, the more nervous he seemed to become. By the time he reached her, his hands were practically glued to his sides. (Name) reached up and slipped her fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck, and the movement stopped him completely. His breath caught as he looked down at her, doe eyed and uncharacteristically speechless.
Gently, she pulled him closer. Michael followed without resistance, one hand finding the edge of the dryer to steady himself as she closed the distance between them and led him into a kiss. It was soft and tender, the kind of kiss that felt like an answer to a question neither of them had been brave enough to ask out loud.
When she pulled away, Michael remained exactly where he was. Frozen. His eyes searched her face for a long moment, disbelief and hope flickering across his expression so openly that it nearly hurt to look at. As if he genuinely couldn’t decide whether what had just happened was real. And somehow, that look affected (Name) far more than the kiss itself ever could.
Their lips find each other again hungrily, moving in sync with one another. The air is thick with nervous energy as their figures collide lips meeting in a clumsy, urgent rush. No soft buildup this time around, no gentle lean in; just teeth accidentally clashing before they find the right angle. (Name) tries her best guiding him through it but he seems to be really eager to even be touching her.
One hand grips the back of his neck tightly—fingers tangled in curls that’s slightly damp from the pool while her other presses flat against his chest, his heart pounding like it might burst. Mouths open messily, not quite synced and when tongues finally meet, it’s sweet from candy and salty sweat. A quiet mmph escapes him as their noses squish together again and again.
The second kiss left Michael strangely still.
When they pulled apart for air, he didn't go very far. His forehead settled against hers almost immediately, his eyes closing as though he were trying to gather himself. One hand remained braced against the dryer beside her while the other hung loosely at his side. The laundry room hummed around them, the sound of the machines blending with the distant music and laughter filtering in from the party outside. Neither of them seemed to notice. Michael, especially, looked completely disconnected from everything beyond the small space they’d carved out for themselves.
“We should stop.” The words came out so quietly she almost thought she'd imagined them.
“Huh?”
Michael swallowed hard. His eyes stayed closed for another second before he finally opened them. “We should stop..” It didn’t sound like something he wanted. It sounded like something he was forcing himself to say.
For a moment he simply looked at her. Really looked at her. Then his gaze dropped, as though holding eye contact made it harder to think. His forehead remained resting against hers, neither close enough nor far enough to make the situation any easier.
“I’m havin' a hard time thinkin’..” A shaky breath left him. “I know how I feel about you..” The confession was quiet and matter-of-fact, because at this point it had become impossible to deny at this point.
“And I know you just had a fight with Jackie.” He shuts his eyes tighter. “I don’t wanna be somebody who takes advantage of that..”
The honesty of it landed harder than she expected. For all the longing written plainly across his face, there was still that stubborn gentleness in him. The part that cared more about doing the right thing than getting what he wanted.
Yet he still hadn’t moved away.
If anything, he seemed incapable of it.
His eyes drifted shut again and he let out another slow breath.
“But if we keep kissin’..” His voice faltered for the first time all evening. A faint flush climbed into his cheeks. “I don't think I’m gonna want to stop..”
The admission hung between them in the soft hum of the laundry room. Michael looked almost embarrassed by his own honesty, but he didn't take it back. He simply remained there with his forehead resting against hers, looking completely overwhelmed by her, a man who’d been in love for far too long and was finally running out of ways to hide it.
She reaches up and caresses his face, eyeing him with those pretty eyes he’s only ever dreamed of even though he can’t bring himself to open his own eyes just yet. She peppers kisses all over his face before leaning over to whisper in his ear.
“Do you wanna touch me, Michael?”
Michael nods against her. “I-I do,” He swallows. “But I’ll need your help..” He says shyly, he’s not very experienced quite yet—not like his brothers.
The moment stretches, humid and thick with anticipation as (Name) smiles, fingers hovering just above Michael’s wrist where his hand rests at his side. Her grip is firm but warm as she drags Michael’s palm down the curve of her hipbone, over fabric damp with choline and pool water. She presses hard until his fingers slip beneath the elastic waistband; the hot skin of her pussy meeting his fingertips that jerk reflexively at first contact.
She gently guides his wrist up and down, “Like this..” She says resting her forehead against his shoulder.
“Soft..” Michael whispers as he plays with her, but its short lived before there’s a knock at the door and they both scramble.
“(Name), baby. You in there? I wanna talk. ’Ya got me feelin’ bad..”
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Summary: Y/N is releasing her new song Partition and her husband Michael is wanting to be in the music video.
Authors note: Guys. I’ve reworked one of my fics I’ve had sitting there.. based on a couple of requests I got recently (thank you!). Im screaming and kicking my feet.
This is probs one of my steamier fics (no explicit content)
Based on Partition by Beyoncé (yes I know it’s not of the time. Let me live in fantasy) and features short hair Michael from the MTV music awards in 1995. He makes me deeply unwell with that hair. Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~
LA, 1995
The studio speakers pulsed with bass as Y/N replayed the rough cut of her newest single for the fifth time that afternoon.
The entire album felt different from anything she had done before—slick, sensual, playful. Turning thirty had shifted something in her. She wanted confidence. Ownership. Music that felt feminine and dangerous and entirely hers.
And Michael loved every second of it.
He lounged across the couch in the studio with his black fedora tipped low, long legs crossed, smiling to himself while she moved around the room explaining concepts with animated hands.
“You look happy doing this,” he said softly.
“I am happy doing this.”
“And the music’s good” he added quickly, pointing at her. “Real good.”
She grinned. “You just like watching me dance.”
“That too.”
Everything stayed perfect until the label brought up the music video for the lead single.
Partition.
The treatment was spread across the table between them. Vintage car. Parisian club aesthetic. Corsets. Silk gloves. A mysterious male love interest in the backseat with her.
Michael’s smile vanished line by line.
“So…” he said carefully. “This man touches you?”
Y/N blinked. “Michael—”
“In lingerie?”
“It’s acting.”
His jaw tightened behind those signature dark glasses. Dangerous rehearsals had already swallowed most of his life, and the idea of another man all over Y/N while the entire world watched clearly ignited something territorial in him.
Her manager sighed immediately. “Oh no.”
Michael ignored everyone.
“I’ll do it.”
The room froze.
“Michael…” his publicist nearly choked. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re about to start the another tour” another warned. “This image does not fit—”
“I said I’ll do it.”
The quiet authority in his voice ended the discussion.
He turned toward Y/N then, softer instantly.
“If somebody’s gonna look at you like that” he murmured, “it’s gonna be me.”
And Y/N.
She nearly melted into the floor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nobody on the Partition set expected the footage to feel so dangerous.
Not because of the lingerie. Not because of the choreography. Not even because Michael Jackson had agreed to appear in a video far more sensual than anything audiences associated with him publicly.
It was the energy between him and Y/N that changed everything.
The entire concept had originally been built around flirtation and fantasy.
But the second cameras started rolling, something far more intense settled over the production.
Possession. Devotion. The unmistakable feeling that Michael did not enjoy sharing Y/N with the room—even performatively.
The opening breakfast sequence only hinted at it.
Morning light spilled across the elegant set while Y/N moved alone through the kitchen in one of his white button-down shirts, silk slipping against bare skin while untouched coffee cooled on the table beside her.
Michael wasn’t fully visible yet.
Only fragments appeared onscreen.
A black-clad figure passing behind her. A man reading a newspaper.
The audience was meant to recognize him slowly.
And they absolutely would.
Because no matter how carefully the framing hid his face, Michael’s presence dominated every shot anyway.
Especially in the details.
The black silk sleeves. The familiar hands. The unmistakable posture.
One camera assistant quietly muttered: “This is surreal.” The atmosphere shifted completely once the limousine scenes began filming.
Michael sat alone beneath low amber lighting in the partitioned backseat wearing all black—tailored trousers, fitted silk shirt, dark aviators concealing his eyes while gold jewelry flashed subtly against his skin.
He looked controlled.
Until Y/N entered the car.
Then every ounce of restraint became visibly deliberate.
Crew members noticed immediately how physical he became around her without instruction. His hand constantly found her waist. Her hip. The bare skin just above her stockings.
Not aggressively.
Instinctively.
Like touching her grounded him.
The cameras captured it beautifully and almost uncomfortably well.
One particular setup became infamous among the crew almost immediately.
Y/N sat beside him in the limousine while the music pulsed softly through hidden speakers, her legs crossing slowly beneath the slit of black fabric. Michael’s hand rested against her thigh almost casually at first.
Then his fingers moved.
Slowly tracing along the lace edge of her thigh-high stockings.
The monitor room went silent.
Because the movement felt absentmindedly intimate—as though he’d forgotten the cameras existed entirely.
And if viewers paused at exactly the right frame later, they’d notice something else too.
A faint glimpse of the small ‘y/n’ tattoo hidden near Michael’s ring finger as his hand slid against her stocking.
Tiny. Almost impossible to catch.
But there.
The detail would later send fans into complete hysteria.
During filming, though, nobody behind the monitors was thinking about tattoos.
They were too distracted by the way Michael looked at her.
There was no performance in it.
No exaggerated music-video seduction.
It looked territorial.
The kind of attention that made the entire limousine suddenly feel too small for anyone else to be inside it.
At one point Y/N shifted naturally closer during a scene transition, laughing quietly between takes while adjusting his collar.
Michael’s hand immediately slid higher along her thigh in response, thumb pressing against the lace edge of her stocking while he tilted his head toward her like the rest of the room had disappeared.
Nobody called cut.
Nobody wanted to interrupt whatever was happening onscreen.
The footage felt magnetic.
Not polished. Not calculated.
Private.
That was what unsettled the crew most.
Michael had always been carefully managed publicly; soft-spoken, elusive, controlled beneath layers of celebrity mystique.
But in this environment, around Y/N, another side surfaced entirely.
One that watched her too closely. Touched her too possessively. Looked at her like he physically disliked distance.
The dance sequence inside the partitioned limousine pushed that tension even further.
Y/N moved between his knees beneath dark red lighting while Michael remained seated watching her, bare hands sliding slowly along her thigh in time with the music.
The choreography itself wasn’t especially explicit.
His reactions were.
The slight tilt of his head whenever she touched him. His fingers tightening subtly at her waist. The way he leaned toward her every single time she pulled away.
The camera operators started intentionally lingering on him because his restraint looked more provocative than the choreography itself.
One producer finally whispered what everyone had been thinking for hours:
“He looks obsessed with her.”
And honestly— there wasn’t another word for it.
By the end of filming, the atmosphere on set had changed completely.
Nobody was watching a pop star cameo in his wife’s music video anymore.
They were watching two people with years of history, attraction, devotion and possessiveness trying and failing to tone it down enough for public release.
Which was exactly why the finished video shocked the world so badly.
Because audiences weren’t reacting to simulated chemistry.
They were reacting to something that looked undeniably real.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The MTV Music Awards had already been loud that night.
But the second Y/N’s name appeared across the massive screen behind the stage, the entire arena shifted.
Because everyone knew.
Everyone had seen the Partition video. Everyone had dissected the chemistry. Everyone wanted to know if Michael Jackson would react.
And the camera found him immediately.
Front row.
Black leather jacket. Silver details catching the lights. Short curls soft around his face. Those familiar dark glasses hiding his eyes, though not nearly enough.
He crossed one leg over the other casually as applause erupted around him, trying to look unaffected.
He failed before the performance even started.
The stage went dark.
Then— a low bassline rolled through the arena.
A single spotlight illuminated Y/N at the top of a long staircase draped in barely anything, crystal lingerie and gold lighting. Diamonds that Michael bought her glittering against her throat. The crowd exploded instantly.
Michael leaned forward.
“Oh no” one of his security muttered quietly beside him.
Because they knew that posture.
That was not Michael Jackson the King of Pop anymore.
That was Michael watching his wife.
And those were two very different people.
Y/N descended the staircase slowly, every movement smooth and controlled, dancers surrounding her like shadows while the audience screamed louder with every beat.
The cameras cut back to Michael again.
Big mistake.
Because he looked completely captivated already.
One hand covering his mouth. Head tilted slightly. Trying and failing not to smile.
“Oh, he’s gone” a celebrity seated behind him laughed.
The performance only got worse for him from there.
By the second verse, Y/N was fully enjoying herself.
She danced across the stage with deliberate confidence, teasing the audience, teasing the cameras— teasing him.
And every single time she glanced toward the front row, Michael reacted instinctively.
A grin. A quiet laugh. Looking down at the floor for a second like he needed to collect himself.
The audience noticed immediately.
So did the broadcast director.
Which meant the camera kept returning to him over and over again.
At one point Y/N slid onto a chair during the choreography and crossed her legs slowly to the music.
Michael physically leaned back in his seat and dragged a hand down his face.
The crowd lost their minds.
“He cannot HANDLE this” someone screamed near the stage.
And honestly?
They were right.
Because despite decades of performing in front of millions of people, despite the screaming crowds and sold out stadiums and global fame— Michael still looked devastatingly human when it came to Y/N.
Especially when she looked at him like that.
Then came the final verse.
And suddenly Y/N started walking toward the front of the stage.
Toward him.
Michael straightened immediately.
“Oh no…” he whispered under his breath, already smiling nervously.
She stopped directly at the edge of the stage, eyes locked on him beneath the gold lights while the music softened.
The audience went dead quiet in anticipation.
“He likes to call me…” she sang slowly.
Michael shook his head once, already suspicious.
Then she smiled.
“Ms. Jackson when we get this nasty.” As she flips her hair and struts back in full confidence.
The arena erupted so violently it nearly drowned out the music.
People stood up screaming. Celebrities clutched each other. One camera operator audibly yelled “OH MY GOD.”
And Michael— Michael completely broke.
He dropped his head into both hands laughing in disbelief while the crowd roared around him. When he finally looked back up at Y/N, he was blushing so hard beneath the stage lights it was visible even through the distance.
She just winked.
Winked.
“Y’all see what I gotta deal with?” he laughed breathlessly toward nobody in particular.
By the final chorus the entire audience was on their feet.
But Michael barely noticed any of them.
He watched Y/N like she was the only person in the room.
Proud. Completely enamored. A little overwhelmed.
And very, very turned on.
When the performance finally ended, Y/N held her pose center stage while confetti rained from the ceiling and the crowd screamed loud enough to shake the theater.
The cameras cut to Michael one final time.
Still standing. Still applauding. Still smiling like an absolute fool behind those dark glasses.
And for the first time all night, he didn’t even try to hide it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hours later, the afterparty still buzzed behind them somewhere deep in the city.
Music. Champagne. Industry people talking too loudly. Questions neither of them wanted to answer.
But inside the waiting car, everything finally went quiet.
The privacy partition slid closed with a soft mechanical hum as Michael leaned back against the leather seat, exhaling deeply for what felt like the first time all night.
The tension of the performance still clung to him.
Y/N could see it in the loosened jacket hanging open around his throat, in the flush still lingering beneath his skin from the stage lights and endless attention. His curls were slightly messy from people constantly touching him backstage, shorter hair soft around his face in a way she found unfairly attractive.
He looked exhausted.
And completely wired at the same time.
Michael rubbed a hand over his mouth before looking at her beside him.
“You almost killed me tonight” he muttered finally.
Y/N laughed softly, slipping off one heel and tucking her legs beneath her. “You survived.”
“Barely.”
His voice still carried that dazed disbelief he’d worn ever since the “Mrs. Jackson” lyric.
She smiled innocently.
“You liked it.”
Michael looked at her for a long moment over the edge of his sunglasses.
Then gave a quiet scoff.
“Woman…” he murmured, shaking his head. “You knew exactly what you were doin’ to me out there.”
“Maybe a little.”
“A little?” He laughed breathlessly. “They kept puttin’ cameras on me every five seconds. I couldn’t even hide.”
“That’s because your reactions were better than the show.”
Michael groaned dramatically and leaned his head back against the seat.
“I hate you.”
“No. you don’t.” She said prettily.
“No” he admitted immediately. “I really don’t.”
The city blurred outside the windows in streaks of gold and white as silence settled comfortably between them for a moment.
Then Michael suddenly leaned forward toward the stereo.
And Y/N already knew that look.
“Oh no.”
His fingers turned the volume knob.
The opening bassline of Partition slid through the speakers.
Y/N burst into laughter instantly.
“Michael!”
“What?” he asked innocently, settling back beside her. “Thought maybe we should study the material.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I’m supportive” he corrected smoothly.
“Supportive?”
“Very.”
The grin tugging at his mouth was impossible to miss now.
He shifted closer until his arm slid naturally behind her shoulders, pulling her into his side while the music played softly around them.
And just like that, the mood changed again.
Not suddenly.
Slowly.
The adrenaline of the evening melted into something warmer and more private.
Michael’s fingers traced absent patterns along her waist while he watched her quietly, expression softening beneath the tinted aviators.
“You looked so beautiful tonight,” he said after a while, voice lower now. “Couldn’t stop lookin’ at you.”
The sincerity in it made her smile fade into something gentler.
“You looked pretty good yourself, Mr. Jackson.”
His eyebrow lifted immediately. “The short hair?”
“The short hair.”
“I knew you liked it.”
“You’ve been unbearable ever since you cut it.”
Michael laughed softly under his breath, clearly pleased with himself.
The car dipped through another turn, city lights flashing across his face in quick fragments gold jewelry, dark lenses, the sharp line of his jaw.
God, he looked good tonight.
Dangerously good.
And he knew it now too.
“You were lookin’ at me during the performance,” he accused lightly.
“I was performing.”
“Mhm.”
“I was.”
“Baby” he said, smiling knowingly, “you almost climbed into my lap in front of America.”
She laughed so hard she nearly tipped into his shoulder.
“Well maybe if you didn’t look so good sitting there”
Michael made a quiet victorious sound beneath his breath and pulled her closer immediately.
“There it is.”
“Oh shut up.”
But she was smiling when she said it.
His hand slid slowly along her side beneath the fabric of her dress, fingertips warm against her waist while her own drifted upward into the curls at the nape of his neck.
The music continued low around them.
Bass humming softly beneath the quiet intimacy of the car.
Their laughter faded naturally after that.
Into lingering glances. Into softer touches. Into kisses that started playful and slowly lost all sense of restraint.
Michael kissed like he performed—completely.
One hand cupping her jaw while the other settled possessively against her waist, pulling her fully against him as though he’d been waiting all night to finally have her to himself again.
“You drove me crazy tonight” he murmured against her mouth.
“You survived” she whispered again teasingly.
“Barely” he repeated, smiling against her lips before kissing her deeper.
Outside, camera flashes suddenly exploded against the windows.
Rapid. Blinding.
Both of them paused slightly.
Paparazzi.
Of course.
Michael pulled back just enough to glance toward the lights outside the car. Reporters were already crowding near the curb, cameras flashing wildly after clearly catching more than enough through the glass.
Years ago, he might’ve panicked.
Tonight?
He barely reacted.
Instead he just looked back at Y/N still half-curled against him, lipstick slightly smudged, smiling breathlessly beneath the dim lighting.
And he shrugged.
The world had speculated for years anyway.
So rather than move away, Michael simply leaned in again and kissed her slower this time completely unbothered by the cameras exploding outside.
Y/N laughed softly against his mouth.
“You know…” she whispered, fingertips brushing along the collar of his jacket, “if you keep looking at me like that, we really are gonna end up trying for a baby.”
Michael stilled for exactly one second.
Then his expression changed completely.
Not shocked.
Interested.
Deeply interested.
A slow smile spread across his face the dangerous kind that always made Y/N immediately question her own ability to behave rationally around him.
“Well” he murmured, reaching up to slide Y/N’s dress back into place as they get ready to exit the limo “that sounds like a wonderful idea to me.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author note:
*sigh* I love them.
Let me know what you think? I also have Michael’s dangerous performance drafted as well if there is interest?
The rings: prologue to just like a tattoo - a love of a lifetime series.
Summary: Michael is a man obsessed with his wedding ring.
Authors note: the people have asked and I shall deliver. this can be read before just like a tattoo… shows how much Michael loves his wedding ring.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For someone who spent most of his life carefully controlling his image, Michael Jackson was surprisingly bad at hiding one particular thing:
His wedding ring.
Not because he forgot it existed.
Quite the opposite.
He loved it too much.
—
At home, the ring never left his hand.
Michael played with it constantly; turning it absentmindedly during phone calls, tapping it against glasses at dinner, rubbing his thumb over it whenever Y/N was nearby.
Sometimes she’d catch him staring at it quietly like he still couldn’t believe it belonged there.
That he belonged to somebody.
The first time she noticed him smiling at the ring to himself, she laughed.
“What are you doing?”
Michael immediately hid his hand. “Nothing.”
“You were looking at your ring.”
“No I wasn’t.”
“You literally were.”
A shy smile betrayed him anyway.
“I just like it, he admitted softly.
And honestly?
That alone nearly killed her.
—
The problem was that public appearances complicated things.
Managers.
Publicists.
Executives.
Everybody always had opinions.
“Maybe take the ring off tonight.”
“Just for the photos.”
“People respond better to mystery.”
Michael hated every second of it.
Especially because removing the ring felt wrong in a way he couldn’t explain properly.
Like temporarily pretending a part of his life didn’t exist.
Still, sometimes he did it.
Reluctantly.
Usually with visible irritation.
And half the time he forgot anyway.
—
The first major incident happened during an awards show in the late 80s.
Michael stepped onto the red carpet smiling politely for cameras before suddenly hearing frantic whispering behind him.
“The ring.”
He blinked.
Looked down.
Sure enough, the gold band gleamed brightly beneath flashing cameras.
His publicist looked horrified.
Meanwhile Michael just shrugged slightly.
“What?”
“You were supposed to take it off!”
“Oh.”
No urgency whatsoever.
The publicist stared at him in disbelief. “Michael!”
He sighed dramatically and slipped the ring into his pocket with the expression of a man being asked to surrender a vital organ.
Later that night Y/N found him backstage sulking.
“You survived,” she teased.
“Barely.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“I don’t like taking it off.”
Her expression softened instantly.
“Baby…”
“It feels weird.”
The quiet sincerity in his voice undid her immediately.
Because Michael never spoke about their marriage like a celebrity arrangement.
Never casually.
To him it was sacred.
Intimate.
Real.
And every time the industry treated it like an inconvenience, it hurt him more than he admitted.
—
Eventually his forgetfulness became known within his team.
Especially because sometimes he’d realize too late.
Like during interviews.
Or performances.
Or once during an entire televised appearance where the ring caught studio lighting so obviously that tabloids spent weeks zooming into photos afterward.
His manager nearly had a breakdown.
Michael, meanwhile, looked privately delighted.
“He did that on purpose” Y/N accused afterward.
Michael gasped. “I did not.”
“You positioned your hand directly toward the camera.”
“That was accidental.”
“You rested your face on it.”
“…Maybe a little accidental.”
—
But if Michael hated removing his ring, he absolutely despised watching Y/N remove hers.
Especially for photoshoots.
The first time it happened openly in front of him, his entire mood changed.
A stylist approached Y/N while she sat in makeup.
“Can we take the ring off for continuity?”
Michael looked up immediately from across the room.
“No.”
Everybody froze.
The stylist blinked nervously. “It’s just for the shoot….”
“She’s married.”
“Yes, but..”
“She still married during the shoot.”
Y/N bit her lip trying not to laugh because Michael looked genuinely offended by the suggestion.
Eventually she touched his arm gently.
“It’s okay, baby.”
He looked unconvinced.
Very unconvinced.
But after several long suffering sighs, he allowed it.
Unfortunately, the second the ring came off Y/N’s finger, Michael visibly hated the situation.
He kept staring at her hand.
At one point he finally walked over during a lighting reset and took both her hands dramatically.
“I don’t like it.”
“It’s one afternoon.”
“You look unmarried.”
She burst into laughter.
“That’s the problem?”
“Yes.”
“You know I’m still your wife without jewelry, right?”
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
“I prefer the jewelry.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: May this love find me and slap me in the face with it. Hope you enjoyed!
Deciding to do This Is It. - love of a lifetime series.
Summary: When Michael decides to do This Is It.
Authors note: Bit angsty… This Is It Michael will forever break my heart. Let me know what you think? And if you’d like more from this era… I got a lot lol. Enjoy! 🥹
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Michael didn’t tell Y/N about the meetings at first.
Not because he wanted to hide it from her.
Because he was scared that saying it out loud would make it real.
The comeback.
The residency.
The rehearsals.
The pressure.
By the time discussions around This Is It became serious, Michael was already exhausted in a way that settled deep into his bones. Not just physically, emotionally too.
He was tired of lawyers.
Tired of expectations.
Tired of headlines.
Tired of people wanting pieces of him constantly.
Most of all, he was tired of feeling like he had to prove himself over and over again.
~~~~~~~~~~
One night Y/N found him sitting alone in the theater room long after midnight, staring blankly at old performance footage playing silently across the screen.
Young Michael.
Fast Michael.
Untouchable Michael.
He barely looked up when she entered.
“You’re supposed to be asleep” she said softly.
He shrugged slightly.
Y/N crossed the room and sat beside him on the couch, immediately noticing the stack of contracts beside him.
Her stomach sank a little.
“…they asked again?”
Michael nodded.
Silence stretched.
Onscreen, the crowd screamed for a version of him that looked almost unreal now; sharp movements, endless energy and impossible stamina.
Michael watched quietly for a long moment before finally whispering:
“What if I can’t do it anymore?”
That broke her heart instantly.
Because beneath all the nerves and stress and negotiations, that was the real fear.
Not ticket sales.
Not critics.
Relevance.
Michael turned toward her slowly, eyes vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see.
“What if people don’t care anymore?”
Y/N frowned immediately.
“Honey….”
“I’m serious.” His voice cracked softly. “What if they only want who I used to be?”
Oh.
Oh, sweetheart.
Y/N moved closer immediately, taking his hands, fingers lightly tracing over his wedding ring.
“You listen to me very carefully, applehead” she said firmly. “There is not a universe where people stop caring about you.”
Because Michael had spent his whole life performing through exhaustion. Smiling through pain. Dancing through injuries. Giving people everything even when there was nothing left.
The idea of disappointing people terrified him.
“You don’t have to be twenty-five anymore” she whispered.
He looked down quietly.
“You know what I think?” she continued gently. “I think people don’t want perfection from you anymore.”
Michael looked unconvinced.
“I think they just want you.”
That stayed with him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But the closer rehearsals got, the more conflicted he became.
Some days he’d come home energized and inspired, bouncing around the kitchen talking excitedly about staging ideas and dancers and music arrangements.
Other days he looked completely depleted.
One evening after rehearsals in Los Angeles, Y/N found him sitting on the edge of their bed still fully dressed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
The house was quiet.
The children asleep.
Michael didn’t even seem to notice she’d entered.
“Hey,” she said softly.
He looked up slowly.
And Y/N immediately saw tears sitting in his eyes.
Her chest tightened.
“What happened?”
Michael laughed once without humor.
“I can’t keep up with these kids anymore.”
“Michael..”
“No, really.” He rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. “They’re incredible and I’m just…” His voice lowered. “I’m not him anymore.”
She knew exactly who “him” meant.
Thriller era Michael.
Bad era Michael.
Dangerous era Michael.
The version the world had frozen in time.
Y/N crossed the room and knelt in front of him instantly.
“You know what I saw when I visited rehearsal?”
Michael looked away.
“I saw dancers staring at you like you hung the moon.”
Silence.
“I saw grown men crying when you walked into the room.”
His mouth twitched slightly.
“I saw every single person there waiting for you. Not 1987 you. You.”
That finally made him look at her.
And quietly, like a confession:
“I don’t want this forever.”
Y/N stilled.
Michael leaned back slightly, exhausted honesty pouring out now.
“I just want to finish this.” He swallowed. “I want to do the shows, remind people who I am one last time…”
His voice softened.
“…and then disappear.”
That hurt in a strange way.
Not because she didn’t understand.
Because she did.
God, she did.
Michael had spent his entire life belonging to the world.
Maybe he wanted one small piece of himself back.
“What does disappearing look like?” she asked gently.
And for the first time in weeks, Michael smiled properly.
Small.
Dreamy.
“Just us.”
Her heart melted immediately.
“No cameras.”
He nodded.
“No tours.”
Another nod.
“Taking the kids somewhere beautiful where nobody bothers us.”
Michael’s eyes softened further.
“Waking up with you every day.”
Oh.
Y/N climbed into his lap carefully then, arms wrapping around his neck while his settled automatically around her waist.
“You know” she murmured against his cheek, “retirement sounds very sexy on you.” Y/N said cheekily.
Michael laughed quietly for the first time all evening.
“I’m serious.”
“What would I even do?”
“You?” She smiled softly. “You’d garden for three days and then start writing music again because you got bored.”
“That’s fair.” he nodded solemnly.
“You’d also become emotionally dependent on family breakfast.”
“I already am.”
“And you’d absolutely cry dropping the kids off at school.”
“I would NOT.”
“You cried at Prince’s karate grading ceremony”
“He broke a board!” Michael explained passionately.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Over the following months, Y/N became his anchor through all of it.
The exhaustion.
The rehearsals.
The self-doubt.
The pressure.
Every night she sat with him while he iced injuries and ran lines and second-guessed himself endlessly.
And every single time Michael spiraled into fear about aging or relevance or stamina, Y/N reminded him gently,
“You already proved yourself.”
That became the thing he held onto.
Not that he needed to conquer the world again.
Not that he needed to become the old Michael.
Just that he needed to finish this chapter on his own terms.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One night after an especially good rehearsal, Michael came home almost glowing.
The kids tackled him the second he walked through the door.
He laughed harder than Y/N had heard in weeks.
And later, after everyone fell asleep, Michael crawled into bed beside her and whispered quietly into the dark,
“I think I remembered who I am today.”
Y/N turned toward him immediately, snuggling in close.
“And?”
His tired smile was soft and certain as he pulled her in close.
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Summary: Michael secretly writes Y/N a song and wants to perform it for her but things don’t go to plan…
Authors note: Based on Michael’s performance of Remember the Time at the 1993 Soul train awards, when he had to perform in a chair… poor baby looked so frustrated.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Remember the time
The moment the doctors told him he couldn’t dance, Michael Jackson had gone completely silent.
Not angry. Not loud.
Just… quiet in that dangerous way he got when something mattered too much.
The dressing room at the awards venue buzzed around him anyway; stylists moving, stage managers talking over one another, makeup artists pretending not to notice the tension sitting heavy in the room.
His white sock peeked out beneath the black cast propped on a chair, mocking him.
“This isn’t how it was supposed to happen” he muttered finally.
Across from him, Y/N looked up from the couch.
“What isn’t?”
He hesitated.
Because technically she still didn’t know.
Not fully.
She knew he’d been working obsessively on a new song for months. She’d heard pieces drifting through hallways at Neverland, caught him humming melodies under his breath at breakfast, watched him scribble lyrics onto napkins during flights.
But she didn’t know it was for her.
Didn’t know tonight was supposed to be the reveal.
Didn’t know he had imagined walking across that stage perfectly—every step sharp, every spin effortless—before looking directly at her during the chorus.
Remember the time…
He’d wanted the entire world to witness it without him having to explain a thing.
Now he was stuck in a chair.
“I had this whole vision” he admitted quietly, staring down at his taped fingers. “I wanted it to be… magic.”
Her expression softened immediately.
“Michael….”
“And now I’m sitting down like somebody’s grandfather.”
That pulled a startled laugh from her before she could stop it.
He looked offended.
“You are so dramatic.”
“I’m serious!” he insisted. “This was important.”
She moved from the couch to kneel in front of him carefully, smoothing her hands over his knees.
“You wrote a song” she said softly. “That already feels magical.”
His eyes flickered away because compliments still embarrassed him after all these years.
“You haven’t even heard it yet.”
“I know you.”
That hit him harder than she intended.
The room quieted around them for a moment, the noise outside fading beneath the weight of that simple truth.
She knew him.
Not the performer. Not the myth. Not the headlines.
Just him.
And that was exactly why tonight mattered so much.
—
The performance still brought the entire venue to its feet.
The opening notes of “Remember the Time” rolled through the theater smooth as silk, and the crowd screamed before Michael Jackson even appeared.
When the spotlight finally found him seated center stage in gold and black, Y/N felt her chest tighten.
Because even sitting down; injured, frustrated, unable to move the way he loved, he still somehow commanded the entire room.
But she noticed the tiny things nobody else would.
The stiffness around his smile.
The way he gripped the chair during instrumental breaks.
The split-second disappointment in his eyes whenever the choreography happened around him instead of through him.
And then he looked at her.
Right into the audience.
Right into her.
Remember the time when we fell in love…
Oh.
Oh, this was for her.
The realization hit slowly and then all at once.
The lyrics.
The softness in his voice.
The way he sang the bridge like a confession instead of a performance.
By the final chorus, Y/N’s eyes were shining.
And when the camera cut briefly to her in the audience, smiling helplessly with one hand pressed against her chest, the tabloids would spend weeks speculating afterward.
Neither of them would confirm a thing.
—
The limo ride home was blissfully quiet.
No managers.
No entourage.
Just the soft hum of the city outside the tinted windows.
Michael sat beside her still looking faintly annoyed, one arm folded across his chest, while the other hand played with her fingers.
“I hated the chair” he mumbled.
Y/N turned toward him immediately. “Are you kidding me?”
“I couldn’t do half the choreography.”
“You had an entire audience screaming.”
“That’s not the point.”
She shook her head, smiling in disbelief.
“You know what your problem is?”
“What?”
“You think people only feel something when you dance.”
He frowned slightly.
“But Michael…” Her voice softened. “Tonight they felt you.”
That finally made him look at her properly.
The vulnerability in his face nearly undid her.
“You really liked it?” he asked quietly, almost shy beneath all the superstardom.
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then she reached over, took his face gently in both hands, and kissed him.
Slow.
Private.
Tender enough to make the whole noisy world outside disappear.
He melted instantly, one hand sliding against her waist as he kissed her back carefully, smiling against her mouth when she leaned closer.
When they finally parted, his forehead rested against hers.
“You know” he murmured, “I was trying to be romantic.”
She laughed softly. “Baby, you wrote me a song. I think you succeeded.”
And for the first time all night, the frustration left his face completely.
The way you make me feel, the kiss. - love of a lifetime series.
Summary: Tatiana unexpectedly kisses Michael at the New York show.
Author notes: non consent kiss and some angst. Y/N and Michael would have been married for a few years at this point.
Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bad World Tour, New York City - 1988.
The kiss happened in less than three seconds.
Three seconds that changed the entire atmosphere of the Bad World Tour backstage.
At first, the crowd screamed.
Because of course they did.
Michael Jackson was performing The Way You Make Me Feel, all swagger and teasing smiles and electric stage energy beneath the lights.
Then suddenly—
Tatiana grabbed his face and kissed him.
Not choreography.
Not planned.
A real kiss.
And Michael froze.
For one horrifying second, the entire stadium thought it was part of the show.
But backstage afterward, nobody thought that anymore.
Because Michael looked physically ill.
—
“She what?”
His manager had barely closed the dressing room door before Michael started pacing.
Rapidly.
Hands shaking.
“She wasn’t supposed to do that.”
“We know.”
“She kissed me.”
“Yes, Michael, we saw.”
“No, you don’t understand—”
His voice cracked suddenly.
And everybody in the room went quiet.
Because beneath the shock and anger was something worse:
Panic.
Real panic.
Michael dragged both hands through his curls, breathing unevenly now.
“Oh my God” he whispered. “Y/N’s gonna see it.”
—
By morning, the headlines were everywhere.
Photos splashed across tabloids.
Television replays.
Speculation exploding instantly.
And thousands of miles away, Y/N stared at the newspaper in complete disbelief.
Then fury.
Not at Michael.
Never at Michael.
Because she knew him.
Knew the difference between performance and violation.
Knew immediately from the look on his face in the photos that something was wrong.
The distress was obvious once you knew how to read him.
And Y/N knew him better than anybody alive.
The phone rang before she could even call.
Michael.
She answered instantly.
“Baby—”
“I’m sorry.”
The brokenness in his voice stopped her cold.
“Michael—”
“I didn’t know she was gonna do it, I swear to God.” He sounded frantic now, words stumbling over each other. “I pulled away immediately and I tried to—”
“Hey. Hey.” Her voice softened immediately. “Breathe.”
Silence.
Then shakier:
“I feel sick.”
Her anger shifted direction instantly.
Not toward him.
Toward her.
Because Michael sounded genuinely devastated.
“I’m coming to you,” Y/N said immediately.
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes I do.”
His breathing hitched softly over the line.
“I would never cheat on you” he whispered painfully.
And that was the moment Y/Ns heart fully broke.
Because he truly believed he had somehow failed her.
—
By the time Y/N arrived at the hotel the next evening, Michael looked exhausted.
Not regular exhaustion.
Emotional exhaustion.
He opened the hotel room door wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt, curls messy, eyes red behind his sunglasses.
The second he saw her, his entire face crumpled with relief.
“Oh thank God.”
Y/N barely got through the doorway before he wrapped himself around her completely.
Both arms tight.
Face buried against her neck.
Holding her like he’d been drowning.
“I’m sorry” he whispered again immediately.
She pulled back just enough to cup his face.
“Michael. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, he removed the glasses.
His eyes looked miserable.
“You didn’t cheat on me.”
“But she kissed me.”
“She kissed you without permission.”
His jaw tightened immediately.
“I should’ve stopped it.”
“You did.”
“Not fast enough.”
The guilt in his voice made her furious all over again.
Not at him.
At the situation.
At the way people treated him sometimes like he belonged to public consumption instead of being a person with boundaries.
“You have got to stop blaming yourself for other people’s behaviour” she said firmly.
Michael looked unconvinced.
“But you’re upset.”
“I’m upset for you.”
That stunned him quiet.
Then suddenly his eyes glossed again.
“She made me feel like I betrayed you.”
And Y/N realized with painful clarity that this wasn’t about jealousy for him.
It was shame.
Michael loved with terrifying sincerity. Completely. Faithfully.
The idea of hurting Y/N genuinely destroyed him.
She kissed him immediately then.
Soft.
Certain.
“You are my husband” she whispered against his mouth. “Nothing changes that.”
Tracing his cheek, “There” she murmured kissing him deeply again. “Now it’s just mine again.”
His shoulders finally loosened slightly for the first time since she arrived.
—
The confrontation happened the next day.
And according to several dancers later, it was one of the scariest things they’d ever witnessed.
Because Y/N wasn’t loud when she was truly angry.
She went cold.
Tatiana arrived at rehearsals expecting tension.
She did not expect to find Y/N already waiting backstage beside Michael’s dressing room.
Michael himself sat nearby silent and anxious while Y/N stood calmly in a cream blouse, sky high stilettos and tailored pants looking devastatingly composed.
Tatiana hesitated immediately.
“Y/N…”
“What you did was inappropriate.”
Straight to it.
No performance.
No yelling.
Just ice.
Tatiana tried to laugh nervously. “It was just part of the moment—”
“No” Y/A cut in sharply. “It wasn’t.”
The room went still.
“You kissed a married man without his consent on live television.”
Tatiana’s face tightened.
“It wasn’t that serious.”
Behind Y/A, Michael visibly flinched.
That alone sealed her fate.
Y/A took one slow step closer.
“It was serious enough that my husband has barely slept in two days because he thinks he betrayed me.”
Tatiana looked startled by that.
And maybe, for the first time realized the damage she’d actually caused.
But Y/N wasn’t finished.
“You embarrassed him publicly.” Her voice stayed perfectly controlled. “You violated a boundary. And you disrespected our marriage.”
The words landed like slaps.
Then finally:
“I’m Mrs. Jackson.”
Absolute silence.
“And you’re done here.”
Tatiana blinked. “You can’t fire me.”
“No” Y/A said calmly. “But management already did.”
That part was true.
By then the decision had already been made quietly behind the scenes.
Tatiana’s removal from the tour was immediate.
Not because Michael demanded revenge.
But because he no longer felt comfortable performing with her.
And everyone around him knew it.
Tatiana looked toward Michael desperately then, maybe expecting softness.
But Michael only looked tired.
Deeply disappointed.
“I trusted you” he said quietly.
Honestly?
That hurt worse than Y/N’s anger.
—
Later that night, Michael sat beside Y/N on the hotel balcony in silence, city lights glowing beneath them.
“You scared everybody today” he admitted softly.
She looked over innocently. “Did I?”
“You had the voice.”
“The voice?”
“The calm voice.” He shivered slightly. “That’s the dangerous one.”
Despite everything, she laughed.
Michael smiled faintly for the first time in days.
Then after a moment, quieter:
“You really weren’t mad at me?”
Y/N turned fully toward him then, reaching for his hand immediately.
“Michael” she said gently, “someone crossing your boundaries is not cheating.”
He looked down silently.
Still processing.
Still hurting.
She squeezed his fingers tighter.
“You are the most loyal person I’ve ever known.”
That finally made him look at her.
And the relief in his eyes was almost heartbreaking.
“I love you” he whispered.
“I know.”
“No” he said softly, emotional again. “I really love you.”
Y/N smiled and kissed him slowly beneath the city lights while Michael held her hand so tightly it almost hurt.
Like he needed the reminder that she was still there.
Still his.
Still choosing him.
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