Naamloos

“So.” Steve threw several jabs at the punching bag, each landing with sharp cracks that echoed through the training room. “You and our new recruit.”

“You saw that, huh?” Bucky muttered as he loaded the trap bar with weight plates.

“I didn’t see anything until I turned around. I heard everything, though.” Steve caught the punching bag as it flew back toward him and cast his friend a playful smile. “You guys were practically flirting.” 

“I was really hoping you weren’t paying attention,” Bucky grumbled. He assumed a hinge position, gripped the bar, and lifted the weight effortlessly.

“For the record, I think you guys look good together,” Steve teased gently, but his tone suggested he was being honest. 

“Don’t start,” Bucky grunted, his gaze set straight ahead. His perfect form spoke of years of relentless training, drills, and discipline.  

Steve’s face fell as his tone grew more serious. “Buck.”

“It’s pathetic,” Bucky sighed ruefully. He spoke in between his reps, which were becoming more explosive. “I mean… come on… I’ve got a crush… on the new girl… just because… she’s nice to me?” 

“It’s not pathetic to like someone that’s nice to you,” Steve interjected. “That’s kind of how healthy human relationships work.”

Bucky finished his set with a grunt. The plates clunked loudly against the ground as he set the bar down. “I haven’t dated since the forties, Steve. I don’t know what’s normal anymore.” He wiped his brow and raked his hand through his sweaty, disheveled hair. “Hell, I’m not normal anymore. I’ve got baggage. Serious baggage. She doesn’t need that.”

“Buck, you know new recruits get a rundown of their teammates,” Steve said. “She knows about the Winter Soldier. Has she treated you differently than everyone else? Has she been avoiding you?”

Bucky felt his resolve wavering. “Well, no, but—” 

“Plus, she’ll have her own baggage soon enough,” Steve cut him off, refusing to let his friend wallow in shame. “It comes with the territory of being an Avenger. When that day comes, she might need support from someone who knows what it’s like.”

“She has Sam for that,” Bucky retorted.

“Look.” Steve clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m not saying become her therapist. I’m not even saying ask her out on a date. All I’m saying is, don’t sabotage an opportunity to make a connection with someone. Romantic or otherwise.”

Bucky nodded, absorbing Steve’s words, his confidence growing. “I don’t think Sam would approve, but I’ll try.”

Steve grinned triumphantly. “That’s the spirit.” 

The fluorescent lights of the compound lab hummed above you. You stood at a sleek metal table, dripping clear fluid from a baster into an array of thin vials, all held up in a rack.

Sam entered the room unannounced. He pulled up a stool beside you and crossed his arms. You turned and blinked at him, your eyebrows raised in surprise. 

“Hey, Sam,” You said stiffly, turning the baster upright, the fluid slowly oozing down in the container.

“Don’t ‘Hey, Sam’ me. What the hell is going on between you and Bucky?” He demanded immediately.

Here we go, you thought.

You made a contorted face at him, your nose wrinkling with feigned confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t play dumb. I’ve seen it.” He waggled an accusatory finger at you. “The meaningful smiles when you pass by each other. Sitting together during the meeting. Defending his music taste in the kitchen. You ain’t slick. I know you’re hiding something from me.” 

“Relax,” You laughed. “I’ve barely had a conversation with him since I got here.”

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem explaining yourself,” He pressed.

You returned to your work to avoid his unrelenting, scrutinous gaze. 

“We smile at each other in passing because it’s polite. We ended up on the elevator at the same time and walked to the meeting together.” You topped off a vial, then moved to the next. “We sat next to each other because there was no one else in the room. What was he supposed to do? Stand in the corner?”

“Yes, actually,” Sam deadpanned. You rolled your eyes.

“You’re avoiding the most incriminating situation of all.” He cocked an eyebrow at you.

“I just think he should be allowed to listen to his forties music in peace,” You supplied a little too quickly. 

Sam stared you down. He knew you too well and he wasn’t buying it. Years of being friends with him was finally coming back around to bite you. 

“Okay, okay,” You huffed as you loaded a tactical case onto the table. “I think he’s sweet. But I’m not pursuing anything. I’m just trying to be nice.”

“Alright, look,” He said, his tone taking on a warm, brotherly quality. “I know Bucky and I butt heads, but I do care about the guy. He’s working through a lot right now.” 

The reality that Bucky was essentially off limits settled over you again. You began to fill another vial, struggling to hide your disappointment. 

Before you could sulk properly, Sam continued. “And I care about you too, you know? I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“You think Bucky would hurt me?” You asked pointedly. 

“No, he’s not a bad guy,” Sam corrected. “But he’s focused on his own healing. And it would be real disappointing for you if he turned you down because of it.” 

As much as you hated to admit it, Sam had a point. After everything he had endured, what Bucky needed most was time and space to learn to forgive himself. You didn’t need to make that process any more complicated than it already was.

And you certainly didn’t need the sting of rejection, even if it was in everyone’s best interest. 

Still, you couldn’t pass up the chance to push Sam’s buttons. You turned to face him with a mixed expression of understanding, gratitude, and friendly affection—luring him into a false sense of security. 

“Well, you’re too late, because I’m pregnant and we’re getting married tomorrow.”

Sam’s face immediately fell into an exasperated frown. “Don’t even joke like that.” 

Bucky shot up from the floor, his chest heaving, his skin clammy. He whipped his head from side to side wildly in the dark, scrambling to make sense of his surroundings. As the disembodied screams faded, his mind became clearer.

He was safe.

He was no longer the Winter Soldier.

He desperately needed to get out from under his suffocating nest of blankets.

He rifled through his laundry basket and threw on the first shirt and pair of sweatpants his hands touched. He shoved his bedroom door open with his shoulder and started walking. No intention, no plan. He just hoped the movement would loosen the knot in his chest. 

He wandered aimlessly, breathing in the clean, antiseptic scent that always seemed to saturate the compound. 

The halls blurred in his periphery. He stopped in the kitchen for a glass of water, though he couldn’t quite remember how he got there. He smiled as he passed the gym, remembering his earlier conversation with Steve. Occasionally, he reached out to run his fingers against the wall. The smooth texture beneath his fingertips kept him tethered to the present when his mind started to wander into dark corners.

Unsure of how much time had passed or how many steps he had taken, Bucky lifted his head and realized he was approaching the lab—and that the lights were still on. 

He squinted to adjust to the bright, sterile light. He crept slowly toward the tall window and saw you there, tinkering away. Your brow was furrowed in concentration behind your plastic safety goggles. Your gloved hands worked deftly, handling what appeared to be thin needles. 

He stared through the glass, hypnotized by your nimble movements, his brain finally beginning to quiet itself.

The fluorescent lights had been buzzing above you for hours, but you couldn’t pull yourself away from your work. The self-imposed pressure to perform well on the upcoming mission, Sam’s interrogation, and your festering feelings for Bucky all pumped through your veins like caffeine, keeping your mind on high alert.

The uneasy feeling of being watched broke your concentration. You turned your head and saw a looming figure standing just outside the window, staring right at you. A man. 

Your heart fell into your stomach as a burst of adrenaline shot through you. You immediately shrieked, your face contorted in terror, the sharp sound bouncing off the walls.

The figure threw his hands up in surprise and surrender. You heard a frantic, muffled voice call out, “Sorry! It’s just me! Bucky! I didn’t mean to—oh, my god…” 

Your hand flew to your mouth, simultaneously trying to catch your breath and stifle your laughter. You hopped off your stool and moved to open the lab door. There stood Bucky, his head hung in utter mortification. 

You lifted the goggles to rest them on your forehead. “What are you doing out here, Bucky?” 

He rubbed the back of his neck and smiled awkwardly, blush spreading across his face. “To be fair, I could ask you the same question.”

You tilted your head toward your workstation. “Burning the midnight oil.” 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you. Or give you a heart attack,” He apologized, as if scared he had offended you. 

“No harm done,” You reassured him. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

He shrugged casually. “Just couldn’t sleep. Decided to go on a walkabout.” 

The dark circles under his eyes told you there was more to the story, but you didn’t push. 

“So…” He craned his neck slightly to look into the lab. “What are you working on, exactly?”

You waved him in. “Wanna see?”

I’m just being friendly, you told yourself.

Bucky hesitated briefly. I should go, just let her be, he thought. But then, he remembered Steve’s words. 

Don’t sabotage yourself. 

You walked briskly over to your workstation. Bucky followed at a polite distance. 

Spread out on the table were sleek vials containing a clear fluid, with thin needles at one end and aerodynamic fletchings on the other.

“I developed these darts during my time in the Coast Guard.” You held one up carefully, allowing Bucky to get a closer look. “The fluid is a synthetic neurotoxin created from the venom of the Portuguese Man o' War.”

“Woah,” Bucky muttered, turning his head to examine the dart. “Is it lethal?”

“No. The venom causes temporary paralysis,” You explained clinically, proud of your work. “It's designed to incapacitate, not kill. It’s helpful when you need someone alive for questioning.”

“Not bad.” Bucky nodded approvingly, his interest piqued. Then, his eyes narrowed in realization. “Wait, you said Coast Guard. You’re former military too?”

“Yeah.” You nodded as you began to gingerly place the darts in a padded tactical case. “Sam didn’t tell you?”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably. “I may have stopped listening the second he said you guys were friends.”

“Oh.” You pinned him with an exaggerated, reproachful look. “You weren’t too keen on having a Wilson-adjacent team member?”

“I wasn’t at first,” He confessed sheepishly. Then, almost as if he couldn’t help himself, he flashed a charming smile, deepening his chin dimple. 

“But I’ve changed my tune since then.”

For a single, staggering moment, he transformed back into the flirty young man from the forties. Bucky knew he was playing a dangerous game, but it thrilled him to reconnect with a part of himself he thought he had lost, even for a second. 

He also knew that he was enjoying connecting with you, though he was not ready to admit that to himself yet. What he didn’t know was that he had just effectively swept you off your feet. 

Heat spilled rapidly into your cheeks, like water overflowing from a glass. 

“Glad to hear it,” You replied wryly, trying to play it cool. 

“So, uh,” Bucky cleared his throat, popping the bubble. “What’d you do in the Coast Guard?”

“Lots of search and rescue operations,” You answered quickly, thankful for the subject change. “I’ve got some drug busts under my belt. I’ve also helped break up some human trafficking rings.” 

“And you were worried you wouldn’t do good on this mission?” Bucky ribbed you gently.

“Well, there’s a bit of a difference between former Coast Guard with high-tech blow darts and super soldiers with decades of experience,” You quipped as you closed the tactical case with a click. 

Despite his better judgment, he shot you another charming smile. “Nah. You were holding out on me. You’ll do great.” 

Alarm bells blared in your head. Off limits. Be a friend. Nothing more.  

“Hey, I wanted to thank you for earlier,” Bucky blurted, breaking you out of your internal panic and shifting the tone of the conversation. “When you stuck up for me. About the music.”

You blinked at him, amazed that he was bringing it up. You knew your own intentions, but you had no idea the interaction meant anything to him at all.

You waved your hand nonchalantly. “Oh, don’t worry about it.” 

“No, really. I appreciated it,” He insisted. “Sam gives me a hard time. Every day, he’s got some new movie for me to watch, or some album to listen to. He acts like I stabbed him if I say I’m not interested.” 

“Sam means well,” You said sympathetically. “But I’m sure it gets overwhelming. Let me know if you need me to give him a talking to.”

Bucky chuckled humorlessly. “I think he expects me to be just like Steve sometimes. He eats up all of Sam’s recommendations. And I… I guess I’m just trying to pick up where I left off in 1943.” 

His vulnerable admission broke your heart. The world had changed so much and he had never been allowed to adapt and enjoy it. For most of his extended life, he had been living in a violent fog and forcibly put to sleep. Now, all he wanted was the comfort of familiarity.

“You’re reconnecting with things that made you happy,” You murmured, your low, quiet tone matching the intimacy of the moment. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Especially after everything you’ve been through.” 

Then, without thinking, you reached out and gave his arm a friendly, encouraging squeeze. 

He looked down at your hand, then back at you, his eyes wide as saucers. “I… uhm…” His Adam's apple bobbed visibly, pushing whatever he wanted to say back down his throat. “Thanks.”

You jerked your hand away, horrified that you had crossed some sort of line. “S-sorry.” 

“It’s alright.” His lips gently curved upward in a grateful, watery smile. 

Thoroughly flustered, you shifted your focus back to the tactical case as if it were the most interesting object in the room. “I should put this away.”

You crossed to the far side of the lab and secured it in a temperature-controlled locker. With your back to Bucky, you schooled your features and took in a slow, fortifying breath.

As you walked back to your workstation to collect your keys and ID badge, a yawn escaped you.

“Am I boring you?” He teased, his eyes twinkling mischievously. 

“No!“—You covered your mouth as another yawn forced its way out—”I think my brain is finally slowing down. It’s probably time for me to get to bed.”

“Mind if I walk you back to your floor?” He asked smoothly. Another courteous, gentlemanly offer that turned your legs to jelly.

You found yourself wondering how many women he had walked home in the forties. Had they felt as giddy as you did now?

“Not at all.”

You and Bucky walked in a companionable silence, occasionally exchanging shy glances that said more than words could.

When you arrived at your floor, you leaned against your door lazily, hoping to drag the time out just a little bit longer. “Thanks for stopping by the lab. It was nice talking to you.” 

“Thanks for having me,” He replied. His normally chiseled features were softened with drowsiness. His jaw seemed slack and relaxed.

He paused for a beat, then reached out hesitantly and gave your arm a gentle squeeze, returning your gesture from earlier. Your spine went rigid as your breath caught in your chest.  

“I’ll see you around.” 

Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing against the polished floors.

As he disappeared into the shadowy hallway, you slipped into your bedroom and slid down the door, your legs finally giving out. Your heart was fluttering, frantic, and thrilled in equal measure.

“I am in so much trouble,” You muttered to yourself. Then, you reached up and pressed your palm to the spot where Bucky’s hand had been, hoping to preserve its warmth.

Bucky’s head swam the entire walk back to his room. 

He settled down into his nest of blankets on the cool floor and stared up at the ceiling that stretched above him like the sky, full of possibilities. He supported the back of his head with one hand, the other draped across his chest contemplatively.

Just a few hours earlier, he felt pathetic and ashamed. Now, he felt lighter. Younger. Eager for another day, for the first time in a very long time. 

Take it slow, he reminded himself.

As he finally began to doze off, he flexed his hand and imagined what it might be like to hold yours.

With new threats materializing around the world, the Avengers were looking for new recruits to help cover more ground.

Sam Wilson had vouched for you. “I’ve known her forever. I think she’ll be a great fit.”

Bucky Barnes had nearly rolled his eyes into the back of his head.

Great. He thought. Basically another Wilson. Just what I need.

When you arrived at the Avengers compound, Sam was there to welcome you in the parking garage. 

“Sam!” You cried, jumping out of the driver’s seat to give him a hug.

“You made it!” He returned your embrace. “How was the drive?”

“Not too bad. I listened to audiobooks the whole way. Pretty much knocked out my to-be-read list.” You clicked your keyfob to unlock the trunk and began unloading your belongings.

“Let me help,” Sam offered, taking your suitcase from you. “Steve would whoop my ass if he knew I let a lady carry her own luggage up the stairs.”

“Oh, give it back then,” You yanked your suitcase back with a mischievous grin. “I want to see you get your ass whooped by Captain America.” 

“Absolutely not!” Sam barked a laugh and shot his arms out to reclaim the suitcase. 

Just then, Steve and Bucky rounded the corner. Steve laughed at the sight of you two playing tug-of-war. Bucky simply cocked an eyebrow.

“Is this our newest recruit?” Steve called, his voice echoing through the garage.

You snapped your head up and immediately let go of the suitcase, causing Sam to stumble back. 

“Unfortunately, it is,” Sam jested, catching himself before he could eat the pavement. “Allow me to introduce you guys. This is Steve.”

Steve closed the distance first, with Bucky trailing reluctantly behind him. Admittedly starstruck, you thrust your hand forward, trying to make a strong first impression. “It’s great to meet you, Captain Rogers.”

“Likewise,” He grasped your hand and gave it a firm, respectful shake. “We’re excited to have you on the team. And please, just call me Steve.” 

“And this,” Sam gestured unenthusiastically as Bucky approached. “Is Bucky.”

“Gee, thanks,” Bucky glanced sidelong at Sam, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He turned his gaze to you, stone-faced and serious. “Hi.” 

Despite his prickly demeanor, your heart did a stupid little flip that you were not proud of.

Sam had described Bucky Barnes to you in great detail.

Grumpy.

Stubborn. 

Kind of reclusive. 

Painfully unreceptive to modern pop culture. 

He had not mentioned anything about how handsome he was. And those eyes.

Maybe Sam was being dramatic. You thought hopefully. Maybe he’s just a little socially awkward? I can work with socially awkward. 

Attempting to break the ice, you offered Bucky a smile. “Sam’s told me a lot about you. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” You reached out to shake his hand as well. 

“All good things, I’m sure.” He said, his tone bone-dry. He gave you one quick shake with his flesh hand before drawing it back to safety. His metal arm shifted uncomfortably, causing his leather jacket to squeak.

“Terrible things, actually,” You quipped, attempting to chip away at the wall he put up. He blinked and furrowed his brow, deep ridges forming in his forehead like cracks in the earth. He almost looked ashamed. 

“But anyone who gives Sam as much grief as you do is alright in my book.” 

The ridges faded as he let out a stilted, awkward laugh. His shoulders dropped as the tension bled out of them. “Right. Yeah. I try.”

“Please do not form an alliance with Barnes.” Sam groaned as he pulled a box labeled FRAGILE out of your trunk haphazardly. 

“No promises.” You shot Bucky another smile, then whipped your head over to Sam, who was stomping away with your precious cargo. “Hey, be careful with that!” 

Huh. Bucky thought. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

As part of the onboarding procedures, you were given a basic overview of your teammates. Their abilities. Their strengths. Their pasts. 

“Some of the details are… a little unsavory,” Steve explained solemnly, sliding several files across the conference room table to you. “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. But we’re also trying to do better.”

“I get it,” You nodded. “It’s a matter of trust and respect.” 

Steve flipped through photos and bullet points on a hologram projector, tactfully introducing you to reformed assassins, an unassuming scientist who could punch through a brick wall when provoked, and one former weapons manufacturer turned clean energy connoisseur.

Then Bucky’s photo materialized on screen. Steve seemed to hesitate for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“I’m sure you remember Buck from earlier,” He said, his tone carefully neutral. “He used to be known as the Winter Soldier.”

He hesitated again. It was clear this was a tender subject for him. 

Enslaved by a terrorist organization called HYDRA. 

Experimented on. No anesthesia. No pain relief. 

Brainwashed. Abused. Coerced into gruesome murders. 

Shoved into cryostasis when not on active duty.

All over the course of nearly 70 years.

By the end of the explanation, your head was swimming. 

“He’s been reintegrating back into society for a while now,” Steve concluded. “Slowly but surely, anyway. Don’t take it personally if he seems standoffish. He really is a good guy.” 

Steve’s protectiveness touched your heart. Despite your soul-weary exhaustion, you found yourself smiling softly. 

“I believe you, Steve. Don't worry, I won’t terrorize him like Sam apparently does.” You joked, attempting to put him at ease. It seemed to work. 

“Thank you,” He sighed, his posture relaxing. “I practically have to separate them sometimes. Might have to call you in for backup at some point.” He rolled his eyes, but his tone was fond and light again. 

“Just give me a shout whenever you need me.” 

The meeting concluded and Steve dismissed you with another handshake. As you trekked back to your floor, you made a mental note.

Show extra kindness to Bucky Barnes. 

And keep this little crush under control. 

Over the next few days, Sam insisted on showing you the ropes. He gave you a tour of the compound, formally introduced you to the other Avengers, and volunteered to spar and train with you.

While you quickly warmed up to your new teammates, you noticed that Bucky mostly kept to himself, existing in the perimeter of the group. Kind of reclusive, just as Sam had said. 

However, his demeanor had improved since your first meeting. 

You chalked that up to the fact that he often overheard you trading verbal jabs with Sam. On a few occasions, he snorted out a laugh before going silent again. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed into your bubble.

You made a habit of giving him a smile and a small wave whenever you passed by each other. The first time you did it, he only nodded stiffly in acknowledgment. By interaction number three, he started waving back. On interaction number six, you got a lopsided grin in addition to the wave. It nearly knocked the air out of your chest.

Eventually, it became your shared ritual. You looked forward to these little exchanges more than you were willing to admit.

Be cool. He has enough to deal with. You reminded yourself. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Natasha drawled before taking a bite of her takeout during a team dinner. “You got any embarrassing Sam stories?”

“How much time you got?” You fired back with zero hesitation. That earned a laugh from the whole group, and a desperate plea from Sam to change the subject.  

At the far end of the table, Bucky’s lips pulled into a smile. You tried to sneak a glance at him, but your eyes locked instantly. Your heart did another embarrassing little flip.

Feeling brave, he smirked playfully at you. 

“Let’s hear one.” He called, then took a sip of his beer. Everyone turned to face him, expressions ranging from subtle encouragement to shock that he had spoken up at all. With all eyes suddenly on him, he shrunk back slightly in his chair and shot you a “help me” look. 

Sensing his nerves, you quickly brought the attention back to yourself. 

“Oh man, where to begin?” You tilted your head toward the ceiling, reaching into the well of memories you had with Sam. “One time he accidentally sent a girl into anaphylactic shock when he brought her tiger lilies on their first date. She was very allergic.” 

“What?!” Everyone gasped, turning sharply toward Sam with accusatory glares.

“The florist said I needed to impress her! I trusted her professional judgement!” He cried, trying to defend himself. “How was I supposed to know her face would swell up?!” 

“I take it there wasn’t a second date?” Tony quipped.

“No. There was, however, a trip to the ER.” 

More laughter erupted, much to Sam’s chagrin.

But in the middle of the chaos, Bucky wasn’t piling on Sam. He wasn’t joining in the uproarious laughter. He was looking at you. And his heart was starting to do embarrassing little flips too.

The next morning was your first pre-mission meeting. You stepped into the elevator, pressed the glossy button labeled “5”, and began your descent. Your skin was practically buzzing with nerves.

On floor 9, the elevator came to a smooth stop and the doors parted with a hiss. Bucky Barnes stood there, stubble and surprise grazing his face.

You blinked at each other for a single, stretching moment. Then, he presented his signature lopsided smile and wave. You returned the greeting and stepped aside, welcoming him in. You hoped he couldn’t hear your pulse picking up. 

He entered and pressed himself against the opposite wall, shoulders slightly hunched, hands shoved in his pockets as usual. 

“Uh… floor five,” He muttered. “Please.”

“You heading to the meeting too?” You asked, smiling expectantly at him. 

The doors slid closed and the elevator resumed its descent. 

“Yep.” He nodded mechanically, not quite meeting your eyes. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. 

“So… how’s it going?” 

That caught you off guard. You hadn’t pushed for more than passing glances since meeting Bucky. You now felt nervous for reasons that had nothing to do with the upcoming mission.

“Good,” You said, attempting to appear calm. “Everyone’s been really welcoming.”

“Good. That’s good,” He finally faced you, then grimaced. “You already said good. Sorry.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair.

Well, at least we’re both nervous. You thought. 

“No need to apologize,” You laughed light-heartedly. “I appreciate you asking.”

“No problem,” His shoulders seemed to loosen up. “First mission, huh? You ready?”

“I’m feeling pretty nervous, not gonna lie,” You admitted. “Everyone here is so experienced. I just want to do a good job.”

“Don’t worry about it. You wouldn’t be here if Steve didn’t see something in you. You’ll do great.” Bucky’s gaze was steely and resolved, but his tone was certain and kind. It was a glimpse of the good man Steve Rogers believed he was.

Despite your nerves, you stood up a little straighter and offered him a watery smile. “Thank you, Bucky. Really. That means a lot.” You said, your voice warm and grateful.

His expression softened. He gave you a reassuring nod in response.

The doors whooshed open once more, breaking the spell. You had arrived at floor five. 

“After you.” Bucky said, gesturing toward the exit. Once you stepped out, he followed and kept pace with you. You stared ahead, actively fighting the heat creeping up your neck. 

When you approached the conference room, you reached for the door handle absentmindedly. Without a word, Bucky lurched forward, grabbed the handle himself, and held the door open for you. 

It was a simple gesture. Polite. Gentlemanly. And it melted your heart into a puddle. 

“Thanks.” You said softly and entered the room on shaky legs. Steve was already there, organizing intel on the holographic touchscreen, completely absorbed in his work. 

You took the second-to-last seat at the end of the table, not-so-subtly leaving the one beside you open. 

“This seat taken?” Bucky asked, his voice low and casual. 

You’re killing me, Barnes. You thought.

“Yeah. By you.” You replied coyly. 

The corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that could only be described as endearing. He lowered himself down beside you quietly, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. He kept a respectful gap between you, but it still didn’t help your racing heart.

The other Avengers began to spill in and take their spots, the room filling with a low hum of conversation. Sam sat across from you, grim and displeased, his eyes flicking between you and Bucky suspiciously. You shot him a single warning glare and looked ahead, shutting him down before he could call you out on your conspicuous seating arrangement.

Mercifully, Steve began the meeting at that exact moment.

“Alright,” He clapped his hands once to focus the group. “Let’s talk weapons trafficking.” 

Later that afternoon, still mentally kicking your feet over your earlier interaction with Bucky, you walked in on Sam’s latest attempt to drag him into the modern age. 

They sat at the kitchen table, plates with crumbs and half-eaten sandwiches long forgotten beside them. Clearly, this discussion warranted their undivided attention. 

“Come on, man! You haven’t even given it a chance!” Sam’s arms flew up above his head dramatically.

“I gave it a chance. I liked it just fine.” Bucky grumbled back unconvincingly. 

“Just fine? Just fine?! It’s a masterpiece!” Sam was wildly gesticulating at this point.

“What are you boys fighting about this time?” You chuckled as you poured yourself a cup of coffee at the counter.

“Bucky here listened to Trouble Man once and decided it was ‘just fine’.” Sam gestured disapprovingly to Bucky, who crossed his arms defensively. 

“I didn’t say it ‘was just fine’. I said I liked it just fine. There’s a difference.” Bucky shot back.

“There really isn’t.” Sam muttered. 

“Ah. The age-old debate.” You nodded sagely, stirring creamer into your mug. 

“Please help me out here.” Sam rubbed his face in exasperation, his voice muffled by his palms.

You thought for a moment about how best to respond. You knew from Sam’s stories (well, really, your gossip sessions) that he had painstakingly tried to introduce Bucky to new music and media, to no avail. 

It came from a good place. Despite his pushiness, Sam was just trying to help Bucky blend in with the world that had moved on without him. 

But it had to be overwhelming. 

Then, it occurred to you. When was the last time anyone had asked Bucky about what he liked? When had he last been allowed to gush about the things that mattered to him?

You decided to give him that chance.

“What kind of music do you like, Bucky?” You asked pointedly. 

He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, though he began to fidget like he was being examined under a microscope. 

“I like forties music.” He mumbled, his eyes averted. 

“No shame in that,” You said matter-of-factly. “You know what you like and you stick to it. I respect that in a person.” 

“Oh, for the—” Sam rolled his eyes aggressively. “What did I say about forming an alliance with Barnes?”

“You told me not to. But, in my defense, I said no promises.” You smirked, then took a sip of your coffee. 

Bucky blinked up at you from his seat, mildly stunned, processing your words. Then, a grateful smile bloomed, the lines in his face creasing like leather. 

The noise around him—the hum of the kitchen appliances, Sam’s agitated rambling—all seemed to fade as if his head were underwater. His heart began to beat so forcefully behind his chest that he swore it rattled the plates in his arm. His vision narrowed to your laughing face. 

Bucky Barnes knew what he liked. 

Forties music. 

Black coffee. 

Cold beer. 

His growing collection of early edition fantasy novels. 

Long talks with his best friend.

And you. He liked you a great deal. 

그대여 내 눈에 비친 그댈 봐요 아름다워 제발 부끄러워 말아요 내 눈에 그대로 담아 둘래요 My love, see yourself reflected in my eyes So beautiful Please don’t be shy I want to place you in my eyes, just as you are

Michael loved how expressive you were.

You couldn’t hide anything from him even if you tried. No matter how taut your lips would be to how you verbally express yourself, your eyes would always betray you first.

Whenever the two of you went out and you tasted something especially delicious, your eyes would crinkle at the corners before your lips had even decided to smile. Michael would watch the reaction unfold from across the table, as though he had been the one to prepare the meal himself. Sometimes he would insist that he didn’t want dessert, only to order the one you had been eyeing and slide the plate between you- just so he could see your face brighten after the first bite.

He could never forget your face when he showed off the final product of the things he would be wearing for his upcoming tour. Michael could tell immediately which ones you liked.

The ones you loved earned widened eyes, an impressed little lift of your brows, and an eager hand reaching out to touch certain embellishments. The ones you hadn’t quite wrapped your mind around inspired a far more complicated response. Your gaze would flicker from the costume to his face, then back to the costume again, your lips pressing together as you searched desperately for something less offensive to say.

Michael would stand there with his arms folded, already fighting a smile. “Well?”

“It’s…" You look at his gold pants in feigned appreciation. "Interesting.”

“Interesting?”

You maintained your very best poker face, one that would not alarm your husband that his interesting choice of fabric did not settle right with you.

“…Sure.”

Michael’s shoulders dropped. “You hate it.”

“I- I didn’t say that," you scoffed, trying to play off your detachment through your deflections.

“You didn’t have to.”

He would laugh while you swatted at his arm, offended that he had read you so easily. It hardly mattered how composed you tried to appear, one look into your eyes and he knew precisely what you were thinking.

Most importantly, he would never forget the first time he gave you a necklace for your wedding anniversary.

In all his years of loving you, Michael had showered you with extravagant bouquets that occupied nearly every vase in the house. He had arranged elaborate dinners, surprise getaways, and vacations to places you had only ever dreamed of visiting. He even went as far as renting out an entire restaurant because he wanted the evening to belong solely to the two of you.

Yet it was a simple rose quartz heart resting on a delicate chain that made you cry.

He had chosen it himself. The stone was a pale, milky pink- polished until it caught the light with every movement. It was a lovely piece, but modest compared to some of the things he had given you before. For that reason, he hadn’t been certain how you would receive it.

The instant you opened the box, however, your eyes told him everything.

Michael watched what seemed like a dozen emotions pass through them in a matter of seconds. Surprise came first, followed by recognition when you realized he had remembered you once mentioning your fondness for rose quartz. Then came the tenderness that made your brows pull together and your lips part without a sound.

Michael swore he didn’t need the world’s most powerful telescope to discover an entire universe. He had already found them in your eyes.

Before they could glass over completely, you blinked rapidly, tipping your face upward as though the ceiling might offer some assistance. “Oh, no,” you whispered hurridly.

His smile faltered. “What?”

“My makeup," you croaked, the frightened sincerity in your voice pulled a startled laugh from him.

You fanned away the oncoming tears with your hand, your voice peaking in the upmost seriousness of the situation of your makeup being the one on the line- and definitely not your heartstrings. “This isn’t funny, Mike. I spent forty minutes on my eyeliner.”

“You don’t like it?”

That brought your gaze straight back to him. “Michael.”

“What?” he asked, all false innocence.

“You know I love it.”

“I jus' wanted to hear you say it.”

“You’re horrible.” But you were smiling as you said it, and Michael could see the tears gathering despite your best efforts.

He slipped the box from your hands and removed the necklace, brushing your hair aside before assisting in fastening it around you.

His fingers and knuckles lingered against your skin, your signature fragrance radiating only stronger the closer he stood. You suppressed a shiver from the feeling of his roughened fingertips that would always handle you with reverence brush over the nape of your neck as he draped the cool chain onto your neck.

When you turned your head around, he could see the trembling pout that was nearly obscured by your hair, followed quickly after one tear that had escaped and begun slipping down your cheek. Michael caught it gently with his thumb before it could travel far enough to ruin anything.

“There,” he murmured, thumb mindlessly starting to brush the underside of your jawline. “Saved your makeup, f’my pretty girl.”

That only made you cry harder.

He laughed and drew you into his arms while you buried your face against his chest, scolding him for being pleased with himself. The necklace was beautiful, but what undid you was the thought behind it. The fact that he had remembered something you had said so casually months before, without any expectation that he would keep it.

But the thing was… Michael always kept those things. He collected every passing comment, every brief change in your expression, every seemingly insignificant preference you revealed. He knew which flowers made you smile and which ones made you sneeze. He knew that when you were upset, your mouth became very still, as if you were afraid the truth might escape if you moved it. He knew that you bit the inside of your cheek whenever you were trying not to laugh.

And he knew that when you loved something- when you truly, deeply loved it- you looked at it as though you wanted to memorize every detail.

Don't even get the man started on the way that you look at him.

At night, when the two of you settled beneath the covers, Michael loved studying your face before the room went dark. He would lie on his side with one hand tucked beneath his cheek, watching as you recounted some story from your day. Your entire face participated. Your brows rose and fell dramatically. Your nose wrinkled whenever you reached the part that annoyed you. Your lips pulled into exaggerated imitations of the people involved, each person receiving a different voice.

Michael rarely interrupted, he didn’t need to. Watching you was entertainment enough.

Sometimes you would stop halfway through a story and narrow your eyes at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like... that.” You pulled your hand out from under the covers, gesturing vaguely towards Michael's face.

He would just smile as he shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m listenin', mama.”

“You can listen without looking into my soul.”

“But then I’d miss half the story.”

You would roll your eyes and turn away from him, but he could still see the smile you tried to conceal.

Tonight was no different.

You had been telling him about something that had happened earlier before he got home, but Michael had lost the thread of the story several minutes ago. He was too busy watching you. The bedside lamp cast a warm glow across your face, catching every subtle shift in your expression.

You were growing increasingly suspicious. "Michael. You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

“I have, baby.”

“Oh, yeah?" You propped yourself up from the bed. "What did I say?”

He hesitated, mouth hung slightly agape with nothing but a whimper escaping his throat.

Your eyes narrowed as each passing second, you were left with no response.

Michael’s mouth finally twitched before he carefully started out his sentence. “You were talking about-”

“-Don’t hurt yourself, now.”

He laughed, ducking his head into the pillow. His beautiful curls fanned both sides of the silky pillow like soft tendrils.

“I knew it!” You exclaimed, folding your arms over your chest. “You were staring at me again.”

“I can’t help it," he mumbled into the pillow with a cry.

“That isn’t a defense, Mikey.”

“It’s the truth!" Michael turned his head away from the pillow to face his wife, the grown man practically pleading and whining to prove his innocence.

You tried to maintain your stern expression, but your gaze softened despite you. Michael saw it happen in real time and broke into a smile, which only made you more determined to hide.

You reached over your husband and switched off the lamp in defiance, darkness swallowed the room.

“There,” you declared. “Problem solved.”

Michael's head turned from the lamp and then to you. “Hey-”

“-You can listen properly now.”

“Baby," he huffed. dragging the "y"of your petname. "I was listenin'. Promise.”

“No, you were studying me like I was something under a microscope.”

He shifted closer beneath the covers until his knee brushed yours. “Turn the light back on f'me.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No," you laughed, pressing your response firmer.

He found your waist in the darkness and tugged you down towards him. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and Michael immediately grinned.

“I heard that.”

“Heard what?”

“You smiled.”

“You can’t hear someone smile.”

“I can hear yours.”

His hand traveled up your back, settling between your shoulder blades as he drew you against his chest. You tucked your face beneath his chin, still pretending to be annoyed, though the way you melted into him told a different story entirely.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You took in his steady breathing, the thumps of his heartbeat lulling you into his comforting touch. Michael traced slow, absent circles against your back. Even without the light, he could picture every expression that crossed your face. The small crease between your brows would be gone by now. Your eyelids would be growing heavy. Your mouth would be soft and relaxed, no longer fighting a smile.

He pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead. “You know what I love most?” he asked, breaking their brief moment of comfortable stillness.

“About staring at me?” You immediately quipped back.

“About you, silly girl.”

Your voice softened. “What?”

Michael was quiet for a moment. He had spent so much of his life surrounded by his own carefully managed expressions. Smiles arranged for cameras, rehearsed responses during interviews, people who looked at him and saw whatever they had already decided he was before he ever spoke. But there was nothing rehearsed about you.

Every feeling moved through you honestly, even the ones you tried to hide. Especially the ones you tried to hide. Michael loved that you trusted him enough to let him see them. He loved that there was no audience in the room when you looked at him- no expectations or performances. Just you, seeing him.

“I always know where I stand with you,” he murmured. “Even when you won’t tell me.”

You lifted your head from his chest. He couldn’t see your face very well, but he felt the change in you- the sudden motionlessness, the careful breath you took before speaking.

“That sounds like a very polite way of saying I have no control over my face.”

Michael smiled wistful. “No, you don’t.”

You pinched his side out of protest. He flinched with a cackle, catching both of your hands before you could do it again. He brought one of your knuckles to his lips, kissing them one by one.

“But I love that,” Michael continued, bringing the hand he held captive up to cradle the side of his face. “I love knowin' when you’re happy. I love watchin' you try not to laugh when you’re mad at me. I even love that look you give me when you think I’ve lost my mind.”

You hummed in response, your thumb gently soothing the outline of his cheekbone, “I give you that look often.”

“I know.”

“You earn it often," you added in addendum.

“I know that, too, mama.”

Your other hand relaxed within his- fingers sprawled out as Michael threaded his fingers through yours and rested them against his chest.

“And I love the way you look at me,” he quietly admitted. Something in his voice made the teasing leave you.

“How do I look at you?” You asked with the tilt of your head.

“Like I’m just Michael.”

"Baby..." You mirrored Michael’s affection back at him, thumb brushing the top of his knuckles. "You are just Michael," you affirmed.

“I know.” His answer came more quietly. “With you, I know.”

You leaned forward until your forehead found his in the darkness. Michael’s hand that held you to his chest rose instinctively to cradle your cheek. You leaned into his touch, desperate for more. He felt your eyelashes flutter when he pressed a kiss beside your eye. Then the other. Your nose wrinkled against his with a light giggle. Although the room was far too dark for him to see it, he knew you were smiling.

“There it is,” he whispered. You could feel his hot breath just short of your lips.

“What?”

“That face.”

“You can’t even see me.”

“I don’t have to.”

His thumb moved over your cheek, finding the corner of your mouth by touch. His eyes followed the trail his thumb painstakingly and slowly made along the bottom of your lip before his eyes flickered to you. Your smile deepened beneath his touch but your eyes told a different story. You were patiently impatiently waiting for him to make his next move, the slight restlessness in your eyes as they flitted from his partially agape lips to his teasing expression.

The man could only deny his wife any further before being incurred a wrath so extreme.

And just like that, Michael brought your head downward and kissed you slowly, smiling when he felt you smile against his lips. And as you curled closer into his touch, the both of your legs intertwining underneath the sheets, he realized that darkness did very little to conceal you from him.

He had loved your expressions for so long because they made them you. To know your peculiar behavior wasn't a sign that you were predictable, no- quite far from it. To know the way your eyes crinkle or mouth quirk- in all the ways the world would get a reaction out of you- was to know your heart. Much to your dismay when Michael lovingly points them out.

hii if you made it this far, thank you so much for reading my first posted story !! it's a little daunting posting my work after so long so pls lmk what you guys think ;3 tbh i made this blog so i can write whatever i want while also sharing it to a community so pls don't be mean to me i just wanna have fun lol. i have a couple series in the works so i'll be showing certain snippets eventually!

You liked mornings like this, where it was slow, sleepy, it smelled like cinnamon and dark roast, where the regulars would wander in, wrapped in soft scarves and sweaters as they seeked something warm and familiar, a latte or perhaps one of your shop’s best selling blueberry muffins. 

The bell above the door had jingled softly, and you had glanced up from the counter out of habit. 

Steve had stepped in almost like he didn’t quite belong, almost as if the world outside had followed him in on the soles of his boots. Tall, broad-shouldered, a little rain damp around the edges. A navy jacket clung to his frame, his hair—short and golden and tousled from the drizzle was already starting to dry off.

He had looked like a painting you could probably find in an old war-era magazine, only somehow more human. Like if you touched him, he’d be warm.

He didn’t look at you at first, he stood for a beat near the door, blinking at the chalkboard menu with a hint of hesitation, his presence, quiet but heavy, almost as if gravity had settled around him. As if even in stillness, he carried the weight of something larger than himself. 

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and offered your best barista smile, hoping to make him feel a little more comfy. “Good morning”. 

That’s when he looked at you, and that’s when it hit you. 

Oh. 

It was him. 

Steve Rogers. Captain America. The Captain America. Shield-wielding Avenger, a literal national icon, you remembered him from the school trips to the Smithsonian, blonde hair, blue eyes, war hero. He was standing in your doorway, like a quiet storm cloud, wet around the edges, slightly flustered and blinking like he hadn’t quite found his footing. 

“Uh…just a coffee,” he said finally, stepping toward the counter, his voice was low, warm, a little rough around the edges—like gravel in honey. Steve had hesitated, glancing once more at the menu above your head. “Black, please”. 

Your brain had chosen that exact moment to short-circuit. 

“Oh, of course” you had said quickly, fumbling for a cup, trying to keep your hands from visibly shaking. “Just black, coming right up”. 

You didn’t look up again, until you handed it to him. He gave you a quiet thank you, eyes meeting yours with that polite, boyish sort of smile—the one that made your stomach do something fluttery and well, mildly embarrassing. 

You watched Steve go, pretending you weren’t watching. He had taken the far corner table by the window, the one with the wide view of the street outside. He sat like he needed to fold himself smaller, shoulders hunched just slightly forward as though he didn’t want to take up more space than necessary.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him cradle the paper cup in both hands, fingertips pressed gently to the sides for warmth, gaze drifting through the window. 

He looked…tired, not the bad kind of tired, he looked like someone used to carrying the weight of the world, someone who was just quietly resting for once. 

And you felt it, something gentle and inexplicable tugging at the back of your ribs, something about the way he sat in the soft morning light, rain trailing lazy paths down the window beside him, felt achingly human. Lonely, maybe but peaceful too. 

You wiped the counter for the third time in two minutes and pretended your heart wasn’t still doing flips. 

He stayed longer than most people did. Didn’t pull out a phone, didn’t ask for wifi. Just sat, watched the rain, drank his coffee, like he had nowhere else to be. 

And then just as quietly as he arrived, he stood, tossed his cup, and left without another word.

The bell chimed as the door shut behind him. And that was that, you had stood there, blinking after him. You didn’t know he would be back the next day. 

And the day after that. 

And, well, everyday after that. 

“Morning” Steve had said the fourth time he came in, his voice a little lighter now, the edges of shyness worn down. You had looked up from the espresso machine, your hands stilling for half a second, the smile that bloomed on your face wasn’t the automatic one you have your customers, it was warmer, real. 

“Good morning, Captain” you teased, one brow raised, your eyes catching the sparkle of something mischievous beneath his usual calm. 

He had paused, just long enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch, his expression was the kind of deadpan that barely hid his smirk, like he had walked straight into your trap and yet, he didn’t even mind.

“Steve’s fine” he had replied with the kind of patience that said he had heard Captain one too many times but somehow wasn’t annoyed by it coming from you. 

You tilted your head slightly, the tiniest tilt of mock consideration, “alright,” you had said, tone as warm as honey. “Steve”. 

Because how could you not?

He had settled into his seat, shrugging out of his jacket with practiced ease, then from the inner pocket, he pulled out a small sketchbook. You recognised it now—thin leather cover, corners worn and creased, like it had seen the inside of too many pockets and too many years. He opened it casually, and with a pencil held between strong fingers, he began to draw. 

Steve didn’t hunch or fidget like most people did, his posture remained relaxed but still—elegant in its ease. His hand moved in smooth, confident lines, his brows furrowed slightly, just enough to show focus, the kind of look that said he was somewhere else entirely—in a world only he could see. 

The shop was quiet, only a few customers lost in their own rituals, and yet the air felt heavier with him in it. Not in an overbearing way, no, more like gravity, like the place had shifted around him, quietly rearranged itself to accommodate his presence. Not because he demanded it but because that was just how he was. 

When Steve left, he didn’t say much, just a soft nod in your direction and a ghost of a smile, his cup going into the trash, he had put his jacket back on, the bell chiming once more as the door swung shut behind him. 

But when you went to clean his table, you saw it. 

A napkin. Left deliberately, placed in the centre of the table like a calling card. 

Drawn in neat strong pencil lines was a cartoon version of your shop’s logo. Only the little coffee bean mascot—normally smiling beside a latte was now flexing with two tiny arms and lifting a pair of dumbbells. Big cartoon muscle, tiny sweat drops, it was utterly ridiculous. 

Beneath it, written in perfectly blocky handwriting, all caps but still somehow charming: STRONG BREW. 

You stared at it for a moment, heart stuttering like a dropped beat, then you laughed, full and bright, before you could yourself. It had bubbled out of you, warm and delighted and loud enough that your coworker glanced over with a raised brow from the pastry case. 

You cleared your throat quickly, but the grin stayed. 

Your fingers brushed over the napkin’s edge, careful not to smudge the pencil. You had folded it with deliberate care, tucking it beneath the register—behind the spare pens and post-notes and where no one else would see. 

Your cheeks were still warm when you turned back to the espresso machine. 

Steve didn’t write his number, didn’t sign his name. 

But it felt like the start of something anyway. 

And the next morning, when he walked in and said, “morning,” with that quiet little smile?

You were already reaching for the napkin.

It became a thing. 

Everyday like clockwork, Steve Rogers would walk through the door of your shop at exactly 7:33 am. 

Not 7:30. Not 7:35. 

7:33.

You checked, you started checking without meaning to, gaze finding the clock right before the bell above the door chimed, like your body had learned his rhythm before your brain had caught on. 

He always came alone, always wore the same jacket, always said “good morning” like it meant something. And always ordered the same thing—black coffee, one sugar now. A quiet evolution that made you smile every time you reached for the sugar packet.

He’d offer a soft thank you, fingers brushing yours like a habit, he would settle into the window seat like it had always been his. At times, the sunlight would catch the edge of his sketchbook, highlighting pages that had been flipped and filled with steady hands and his careful heart. 

You never asked what he was drawing, he never said. But when he left, there would always be a napkin waiting. 

A soft gift. 

At first they were silly things—almost as if they were quiet jokes that he wasn’t brave enough to say aloud. 

A tiny superhero made entirely of cappuccino foam, cape made of steam and arms mid-fight. 

A croissant with a star-spangled shield, mid leap.

But as the days passed, the sketches started to shift, they grew softer, gentler, more watchful somehow. 

One morning, you found a sketch of the front of the shop, the window you cleaned every morning before opening, the little chalkboard sign you rewrote weekly, the ivy plant that hung a little crooked in the corner—Steve had drawn that too.

All of it captured in soft, deliberate pencil strokes, the rain on the glass had been rendered in streaks, a detail so small, you wouldn’t have expected anyone to notice. 

And then, there was that napkin. 

You found it midshift, in the same spot where he always left them, at first it had looked like another cafe scene—until your breath caught. 

It was you. 

A quick caricature, drawn with a light, fond touch, clearly sketched with memory, not distance. You behind the counter, apron strings flying like wind had caught them, your hair pulled into the ponytail just the way you wore it, your hand pouring steamed milk into a cup, latte art just beginning to form. 

You weren’t glamorous, weren’t posed. You were, well, you, a little lopsided, real and caught in motion. 

And somehow…in the sketch, you looked beautiful. 

You stared at it for a long moment, frozen in the middle of wiping the table. The world around you blurred with the hum of conversation and coffee grinders, but the space behind your ribs felt full.

Sweet. Like your heart had been wrapped in cotton. 

Eventually, you folded the napkin carefully—like it might fall apart if you were not gentle. You slipped it into your apron pocket, tucked against your chest like a secret no else needed to know.

It stayed there for the rest of the day. At times, your hand would drift to it without thinking. Just a light brush, like you were checking it was still real.

And when you saw him again the next morning, smile soft and tired at exactly 7:33?

You handed him his coffee with a heart that fluttered so hard, you were surprised he couldn’t hear it over the hum of the espresso machine.

You weren’t sure when the butterflies started.

Maybe around the tenth napkin—when you had started anticipating them, looking forward to the way his sketches somehow always made your day better.

Maybe it was the first time he walked in and said your name like he’d been waiting all morning to do so. His voice, deep, soft and oh so familiar. Like it tasted good in his mouth.

Maybe it was when he laughed—really laughed—at one of your dumb jokes, head tipping back, eyes crinkling at the corners, and your stomach did something humiliatingly theatrical in response, almost as if it had turned into a stage and thrown confetti.

You weren’t supposed to have a crush on Captain America, for God’s sake.

But the truth was… he didn’t feel like that version of himself in here. Not the Avenger. Not the icon. Not the face on recruitment posters and history books.

He just felt like Steve.

A quiet man who liked his coffee strong, his sketches soft, and his mornings slow. A man who always said thank you like he meant it, who lingered by the counter just long enough so that your hands brushed a little more than they needed to.

And maybe, just maybe, he lingered on purpose.

“Do you ever take a break?” Steve had asked one slow Friday morning, his voice low, laced with something playful as he nodded toward the bar where you stood wiping a counter that had been clean for the last ten minutes.

You had glanced up, caught off guard. “Once in a while.”

He tapped the end of his pencil against the edge of the table—soft, rhythmic. “You should sit.”

You blinked, “With you?”

A flush crept up his neck, turning his ears pink. “If you would like to.”

Your heart had pounded in your chest but you nodded, untying your apron halfway as you crossed the room, sliding into the seat across from him with the kind of nervous grace that came from wanting to look more composed than you actually felt.

Steve closed the sketchbook slowly, carefully, almost as if he was trying not to scare off the moment. 

“I hope I haven’t been annoying, with all the… drawings.” he started, shy smile on his face. 

You shook your head, too fast. “No. God, no. They’re—” You smiled, a little breathless. “They’re wonderful Steve, I keep them, actually.”

His brows lifted, surprised. “You do?”

You bite your lip, a little sheepish as you nod, “I have a box under the counter, though I think I might need a second one soon.”

Steve chuckled, low and warm, but something in his expression shifted into something tender and unsure, like the idea of being cherished caught him off guard. 

Like he wasn’t used to being wanted.

Not without the shield, the red, white and blue. 

Not without the world needing him to be more.

“You’re really good,” you add gently, letting the quiet fill the space between words. “You notice things, the little things that most people miss.”

He shrugged, gaze dropping, but his smile lingered. “It really helps when the subject’s easy to look at.”

The words landed like a skipped heartbeat, your breath caught as Steve looked away, bashful, the tips of his ears reddening again.

And before you could even process how to respond, he reached for the sketchbook, flipping to a page with a kind of softness, his gaze lingering for a moment before he carefully tore it out along the seam and slid it across the table toward you.

You stared.

It was a sketch of you, different from the napkin doodles, and yet more intimate somehow, it was detailed, full of quiet stillness. The slope of your shoulders behind the counter, the curl of your fingers around a ceramic cup, the way your eyes were turned toward the window, caught in some distant thought, like you had drifted somewhere he could see but not follow.

Steve didn’t say anything right away, he just watched you take it in.

“I didn’t want to leave that one behind,” he said finally, voice soft, gentle, “Didn’t feel right, I felt like it was yours.”

You held the drawing like it might fade if you blinked too hard, your fingertips pressing gently into the paper, like anchoring a heartbeat.

“Steve…”

He leaned back into his chair slightly, running a thumb along the edge of the sketchbook still in his lap.

“I like this place,” he said, almost too quietly. “I feel like I can breathe in here.”

You looked up, eyes meeting his baby blue ones.

So do I.

But you didn’t say it.

Instead, you smiled—touched and a little dazed—and folded the drawing with careful hands, sliding it between the pages of your own notebook like something sacred.

You didn’t need to say it.

He already knew.

The napkin he left the next morning was different, this one had writing, not a sketch, it had just a few words, in that careful, blocky script of his:

“Would you let me take you to dinner? Just Steve. Just me.”

You stared at it for what felt like years.

The shop buzzed softly around you—milk steaming, cups clinking, the light drizzle tapping gently at the windows, but all of it faded into the background. All you could see was the way his letters leaned slightly to the right, almost like he had hesitated, then meant every word on it.

When you looked up, Steve was already at the door, hand resting on the knob, shoulders tense with the weight of a held breath, he turned back, eyes searching, hope flickering in those blue irises, quiet and unguarded.

You held up the napkin, a smile tugging at your lips, and you nodded.

The way his face lit up, gentle, stunned, full of that boyish wonder he always tried to hide made your chest ache in the best way.

He left with that smile still on his face.

And well, your heart stayed a little lighter for the rest of the day, tucked safely into your apron pocket with that very napkin. 

Just Steve.

Just you.

 And maybe—something beginning.

You weren’t the jealous type, you had no reason to be, not when Steve and Bucky had given you every reassurance, every reason to trust them. And you did trust them. You trusted them blindly.

But can you trust the world?

Trust didn’t stop the ache in your chest when you saw Cassidy wedged between them on the couch, laughing at something Bucky said. It didn’t stop the sting when Steve placed a comforting hand on her back, so absentmindedly, so effortlessly, like it was second nature.

Like it was something he used to do for you.

You stood frozen in the doorway, fingers tightening around the edge of your jacket. That was your spot. That had always been your spot. Between them. Their arms around you. Their warmth surrounding you.

Now?

Now Cassidy sat there, twirling a lock of her hair, giggling, her body angled towards them like she belonged. And Steve and Bucky?

They didn’t even notice you standing there.

“You’re imagining things, Y/n.” Natasha leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping her coffee as she watched you pick at your food. She didn’t say it dismissively, but there was caution in her voice. Careful, Y/n. Don’t spiral.

“I’m not...” Your voice was hollow. You pushed your plate away and exhaled shakily. “She’s always there, Nat. Always with them. Always touching them...” You swallowed hard, shame burning in your throat. “I feel like… like I don’t exist anymore.”

Natasha sighed, setting her cup down. “Come on. You know Steve and Bucky. They’d never…”

“I know they wouldn’t.” Your fingers curled into fists. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

Natasha studied you, eyes softer now. “Talk to them, then.”

You nodded. You would. Of course, you would.

But deep down, you were terrified they wouldn’t see it, because they never seemed to see you anymore, ever since Cassidy came.

At first, it was small things.

A conversation cut short because Cassidy had a question. A training session where she suddenly needed Bucky to correct her stance, his hands on her wrists, her waist. A mission debrief where she sat beside Steve, too close, her voice too soft.

Then the canceled plans started.

“I’m sorry, Doll, but we promised we’d show Cassidy the training simulations today.”

“I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart. I swear.”

“We’ll take you out tomorrow, okay?”

Tomorrow never came.

And suddenly, your nights felt emptier. You’d wake up reaching for them, only to find cold sheets where they should have been. You weren’t sure what hurt more.

The loneliness or the fact that they didn’t even realize you were lonely.

They were still yours, weren’t they?

Then why did it feel like you were losing them?

It had been days, days since you had a proper conversation with either of them. Days since they held you like they used to. The only time you got them was at night, in bed.

And yet, there she was again, always there, standing too close to Steve as he poured coffee in the kitchen. Bucky leaned against the counter, smirking at something she said, arms crossed over his chest.

“God, Steve, I still don’t know how you carry that shield around all day.” Cassidy reached out, brushing her fingers over his bicep. “Guess it helps that you’re, like, all muscle.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

“What about you, Bucky?” She turned to him, eyes bright. “I mean, that metal arm has to be heavy, right? Can I?”

“Nah, sweetheart, it’s lighter than it looks.” Bucky smirked, flexing his vibranium fingers.

Sweetheart.

Your stomach dropped, that was your name. He called you that. Not her.

Your blood ran cold as Cassidy laughed, playfully nudging Bucky’s arm. Steve smiled, amused. Not once did they notice you standing there. Not once did they feel the air shift, the way your entire world was starting to crumble.

That night, you laid in bed alone. Again.

Because, Steve and Bucky had been in the common room with Cassidy, and you couldn’t take it anymore. So you had left.

You curled into yourself, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the sob from escaping.

They were just being nice. Right?

They didn’t see what you saw. Didn’t feel what you felt. Didn’t see how much it was killing you. Right?

And you were too afraid to ask the question burning inside you, “What if they don’t miss me like I miss them?”

You didn’t know how long you had been sitting all alone in the common room.

The compound was quiet, save for the faint hum of the ventilation system. You sat curled up on the couch in the dark, staring at nothing, arms wrapped around yourself as if that could hold you together. The weight in your chest felt heavier than usual, pressing down, suffocating.

You had spent the entire day alone. Again.

They hadn’t noticed. Again.

The cushion beside you dipped, and you didn’t need to look to know who it was. Natasha.

“You’re doing that thing again…” she murmured.

You blinked. “What thing?”

“Shutting down.”

You inhaled sharply, dropping your gaze to your lap.

Natasha sighed, shifting to face you. “Sweets, talk to me.”

Natasha always called you that name, and her reason was you were the only sweet person in her life.

You shook your head. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Bullshit.” She reached out, squeezing your knee. “I see you, you know. The way you’re fading. The way you barely eat. The way you don’t sleep until you’re too exhausted to fight it anymore.”

You swallowed hard, fingers gripping the fabric of your pants.

“They love you, Sweets.” Natasha’s voice was gentle but firm. “This… whatever this is, it’s temporary. They’ll see what’s happening.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “No, they won’t…” Your throat burned as you whispered, “They don’t see me anymore, Nat.”

Silence.

Natasha shifted closer, resting her forearm on the back of the couch. “We survived worse, you and me. Remember?”

You knew where she was leading the conversation, but you didn’t care.

“I wish I could remember.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Natasha frowned. “Remember what?”

You exhaled shakily, gaze unfocused. “How they trained us. How they made us feel nothing.”

Natasha tensed. “Don’t do that,” she warned. “Don’t go there.”

You lifted your head to meet her eyes. “Why not? It would be easier.” Your voice cracked. “I wouldn’t have to feel like this. Wouldn’t have to wake up reaching for them only to remember I don’t exist to them anymore.”

Natasha’s grip tightened on your knee. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Your smile was hollow. “They canceled our date today, Nat. Again. I was supposed to spend the evening with them. Instead, I spent it watching Cassidy laugh at Bucky’s jokes and touch Steve’s arm and…” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper. “And they let her.”

Natasha’s expression darkened, but she said nothing.

You turned your gaze back to the floor. “I just… I don’t want to feel this anymore.”

She was quiet for a long time before she whispered, “You’re not in the Red Room anymore, Sweets. You have them. You have me.”

You nodded. But the ache in your chest remained, because deep down, you weren’t sure if you still had them at all.

The bed felt massive. You lay curled up on one side, facing away from the door, the covers pulled tightly around you. The scent of Steve and Bucky still lingered on the sheets, but it brought no comfort.

Then the mattress dipped.

First on one side, then the other. Warm bodies slid in beside you, their familiar presence surrounding you.

“Doll?” Steve’s voice was soft, hesitant.

Bucky shifted behind you, his arm resting loosely around your waist. “We’re sorry about earlier, sweetheart.”

Your throat burned.

“We’ll make it up to you,” Steve added quickly. “We’ve got a whole day planned for you tomorrow. Just the three of us. No interruptions, promise.”

Tomorrow.

You closed your eyes.

They had said that last time.

And the time before that.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, willing yourself to stay silent.

Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Come on, talk to us, Doll. We know you’re mad.”

Mad.

Was that what they thought this was? Your lips parted, but no words came out. Because what was the point? Tomorrow would come, and it would be the same.

Cassidy would be there.

Steve and Bucky wouldn’t notice.

And you? You would be alone again. A tear slipped down your cheek, but you kept your eyes closed. If you stayed quiet, maybe they wouldn’t hear how badly you were breaking.

Morning passed in a blur.

You moved through training sessions on autopilot, barely speaking, barely feeling. Natasha watched you carefully, her sharp gaze catching every falter, every moment you hesitated before leaving the gym. You knew she wanted to say something, but you weren’t sure if you had it in you to listen.

So you just kept going.

Kept pretending.

Kept waiting for Steve and Bucky to remember.

And then they did. Or so you thought.

“Doll, come on! Movie night’s all set up!”

Bucky’s voice rang through the hall as you made your way toward the common room, a flicker of hope stirring in your chest.

They remembered. They finally remembered.

For the first time in days, your heart didn’t feel so heavy. You ran your fingers through your hair, exhaling softly as you reached the doorway, ready to sink into the warmth of your boys.

And then you saw her.

Cassidy.

Sitting between them.

Again.

Your body locked up, breath catching in your throat. She was curled up comfortably, her legs tucked beneath her as she laughed at something Bucky whispered in her ear. Steve sat relaxed beside her, arm draped over the back of the couch, so damn close, so damn easy, like she belonged there.

Like she belonged with them.

You forced yourself to speak, though your voice barely carried. “What is she doing here?”

Steve turned, smiling at you. That easy, oblivious smile that used to make your heart race.

Now?

It made you feel sick.

“She didn’t know it was just meant to be us,” he said lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “And we didn’t wanna be rude, so…”

You didn’t hear the rest, your ears were ringing.

They didn’t want to be rude to her. You stared at them. At her. And then you swallowed down every emotion clawing its way up your throat. “Enjoy the movie.”

That was all you said before turning on your heel and walking away.

They didn’t call after you.

Didn’t chase you.

Didn’t even notice the way your hands were trembling as you pushed open the door.

The tears came before you even reached the elevator, but you didn’t stop walking, didn’t wipe them away, didn’t care if anyone saw.

Not that they would. No one ever did.

You should have gone to your room. You should have buried yourself under the covers and let the ache consume you in silence.

But the walls were closing in too fast.

So instead, you climbed, up the emergency stairwell, up to the roof, where the air was sharp and cold, where the wind bit at your damp cheeks, where no one could see you break.

Your hands gripped the ledge as you sucked in deep, desperate breaths.

They had remembered and it still hadn’t mattered.

A hollow laugh escaped your lips, bitter and broken. You should have known, you should have known it would end up like this.

You closed your eyes, head tilting back as the city lights blurred beneath the weight of your tears.

You had never felt more alone.

By the time you came down from the roof, your tears had dried, but the weight in your chest remained, suffocating and unrelenting.

You stepped into the hallway, head down, steps quick, just wanting to reach your room, just wanting to breathe without feeling like you were drowning.

But the moment you turned the corner, you froze.

Steve.

Bucky.

And her.

They were standing there, talking, laughing.

Cassidy’s hand was on Bucky’s arm, her body tilted toward him in that way she always did, like she was drawn to him. Steve stood beside them, relaxed, like the world wasn’t crumbling around you.

Like they hadn’t just broken your heart a little more.

Their laughter died down when they saw you.

You knew they noticed your red, swollen eyes. Knew they saw the way your shoulders tensed, the way your fists clenched at your sides.

But they didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask if you were okay.

Didn’t ask where the hell you had gone.

No, Steve just frowned slightly, like he was trying to piece something together. Like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

You didn’t give him the chance, you walked past them without a word, without a glance.

Without acknowledging them at all.

And still, still they didn’t stop you.

The compound doors slammed shut behind you as you ran, your feet pounded against the pavement, muscles burning, lungs heaving, but you didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down, didn’t care where you were going, as long as it was away.

Away from the suffocating silence, away from them, away from her.

You pushed yourself harder, faster, as if you could outrun the pain clawing at your chest, the unbearable ache of being unseen by the two people who were supposed to know you best.

They had always seen you, hadn’t they? Then why did it feel like you were fading? Why did it feel like you were already gone?

You were so lost in your own head, so consumed by the roaring in your ears, that you didn’t hear the footsteps behind you until a firm hand grabbed your arm, yanking you to a stop.

“Enough.”

Natasha.

You blinked at her, breathing hard, vision blurring. But she didn’t let go. Didn’t loosen her grip. She just stared at you, her green eyes filled with something sharp, something dangerous.

Something like determination.

“I let this go on for too long,” she muttered. “That’s on me.”

You swallowed hard, chest still rising and falling in ragged breaths. “Nat…”

“No.” Her voice was steel. “You’re not doing this. You’re not running until your body gives out just because they’re too damn blind to see what’s happening.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know what to do...”

She sighed, her hand loosening slightly but not letting go. “Then let me do something.”

Your breath hitched, but you believed in her.

Natasha had always been your anchor, your constant. You had survived hell together. She knew you better than anyone, sometimes even better than Steve and Bucky.

So when she said those words, when she looked at you like that, like she was done watching you suffer, something inside you cracked.

You swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper, “Okay.”

You hadn’t spoken much since that night, since the roof. Since Natasha found you and promised to do something.

You weren’t sure what you had expected, but you hadn’t expected him.

You sat on the rooftop again, legs pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around your knees. The city stretched out before you, endless and glowing, but all you saw was the emptiness.

The way you had been fading, the way they had let you, the way it still hurt.

You exhaled shakily, trying to push it all down, trying to keep yourself from breaking again.

“Bub.”

Your breath caught, your heart stopped, that voice.

Rough. Low. Familiar.

A voice that belonged to only one person.

You turned slowly, the cold air biting at your tear-streaked face and there he was.

Logan.

Your brother.

Standing there, broad and tense, his sharp eyes scanning you with a fury you hadn’t seen in a long time, his jaw clenched.

SNIKT.

The sound of his claws unsheathing was sharp, deadly, cutting through the silence like a blade to the heart.

His eyes darkened, fists trembling, rage radiating from his very being.

“Who?”

It was just one word, just one syllable, but it carried the weight of a storm. You swallowed hard, dropping your gaze.

Logan stepped closer, his boots heavy against the rooftop, his presence overwhelming.

“Who did this to you, Bub?” His voice was lower now, dangerous. “Tell me. I’ll gut ‘em.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Logan...”

“Look at me.”

You did and the moment his eyes met yours, whatever restraint he had left snapped.

“Those sons of bitches!” he snarled, pacing now, breathing ragged. His claws flexed, his shoulders heaved, pure, unfiltered rage pouring from him. “You’re telling me those two idiots, our idiots did this? Made you feel like this?”

You couldn’t answer.

Didn’t have to, because your silence was enough.

Logan let out a rough, guttural growl, his fists clenching so tightly that his knuckles went white despite the metal already tearing through his skin.

“I’ll kill ‘em.”

“No, you won’t.” Natasha’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unwavering.

You turned just in time to see her step onto the rooftop, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Why the hell not?” Logan snapped. “They hurt her.”

“I know,” Natasha said evenly. “That’s why she’s leaving.”

Your breath hitched, “What?”

Natasha walked toward you, gaze softening as she reached out and brushed her knuckles against your cheek. “Pack a bag, Sweets. You’re going with Logan.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Logan’s brows furrowed. “Wait, you’re actually letting me take her?”

“She needs to get away from here,” Natasha murmured, eyes never leaving yours. “From them.”

You stared at her, then at Logan, your throat tightening so painfully you thought it might close entirely.

“Tasha…”

“No arguments,” she said softly but firmly. “You’re not okay. And I won’t stand here and watch you disappear.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek.

You felt Logan’s heavy hand settle on your shoulder, grounding you, steadying you.

“C’mon, Bub,” he murmured, voice softer now, almost pleading. “Let’s go.”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to leave.

But because leaving meant giving up. Leaving meant accepting that they had chosen her, that they had chosen everyone but you.

But maybe... maybe they had already made that choice a long time ago.

You inhaled sharply and nodded.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

Part 2

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Not in the scandalous way the tabloids desperately tried to paint it, nor in the passing admiration celebrities often exchanged through magazines.

No—this was the kind of admiration that quietly settled itself into every answer he gave, every compliment he offered, every conversation where your name somehow managed to appear despite nobody asking about you directly.

It had begun in 1979, shortly after Off the Wall was released.

Michael had only just begun to experience what true artistic freedom felt like. His interviews had become longer, more personal.

Journalists wanted to know everything about him now—not just the music, but his favorite foods, his hobbies, what kind of books he read, whether he wanted to marry someday.

One television host leaned forward in his chair with a grin that suggested he already knew the question would embarrass him.

"So, Michael," he began, folding his cue cards together. "Millions of girls want to know this. What's your type? What kind of woman catches your eye? Who would you wanna ask out?"

Michael, who had been smiling politely only a second earlier, visibly stiffened.

His fingers, which had been folded neatly in his lap, tightened around one another.

"Oh..." A bashful laugh escaped him before he looked down at his loafers, rocking them against the floor. "I... um..."

The audience chuckled softly. The host waited patiently.

Michael rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks already turning pink beneath the studio lights. "I don't really... think about it much."

"Oh, come on." The audience laughed again. "There has to be someone."

Michael bit the inside of his cheek. He really hadn't planned on saying it. It simply... came out.

"I think..." he murmured, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "someone like (Name)."

The room immediately erupted into delighted laughter, the host raised both eyebrows.

"Oh?"

Michael blinked, suddenly realizing what he'd admitted.

"I just—I mean—she..." He laughed nervously, waving both hands as if trying to erase the sentence from existence. "She's very sweet."

"So it's (Name)?"

"I—I didn't say—"

"You literally just did."

"I mean..." He ducked his head with a grin so embarrassed it became contagious. "She's just... really wonderful."

The interview aired the following week, nobody thought much of it.

Then another interviewer asked six months later.

"If you could take any celebrity out to dinner, who would it be?"

Michael smiled thoughtfully. "Oh..."

He didn't even hesitate this time.

"(Name)."

The interviewer burst into laughter. "So you weren't joking last time?"

Michael looked confused.

"What?"

"You said exactly the same thing in your last interview."

"I did?"

"You don't remember?"

He frowned. "No."

The interviewer held up an old magazine. "'Someone like (Name),' ring any bells?"

Michael stared at the page, then slowly buried his face behind both hands. "Oh no..." The audience howled.

The pattern only became worse. Every interview seemed to circle back to you somehow.

"What female artist inspires you?"

"(Name)."

"Who's your favorite vocalist working today?"

Michael didn't even pretend to think. "(Name)."

"What artist do you think deserves more recognition?"

"Oh, definitely (Name)." His entire expression softened the instant he said your name. "Her voice is... it's just beautiful."

"What makes it beautiful?"

Michael actually sat forward in his chair.

For the first time in the interview, he looked genuinely animated.

"Oh... everything." His eyes lit up with that familiar childlike excitement he always had whenever music became the topic. "It's so... effortless. She doesn't force anything. She lets the melody breathe."

He absentmindedly moved one hand through the air as though conducting invisible notes. "Sometimes singers think louder means better, but she doesn't have to do that. She knows exactly when to hold back. She knows when to whisper. She knows when to let one little note do all the work."

He smiled to himself, almost forgetting there were cameras pointed at him. "Her phrasing is unbelievable. You can hear every emotion in the way she finishes a sentence. Even if she sings something simple, she makes it feel... important."

The interviewer blinked.

"...You've really listened to her albums."

Michael looked surprised by the question. "Well... yes."

"How many times?"

He laughed sheepishly. "I don't know."

"Take a guess."

Michael scratched his eyebrow. "...A lot."

"How many is 'a lot'?"

"I... um..." He looked down with another embarrassed grin. "...I lost count."

It became increasingly difficult for journalists to ignore.

Especially because Michael never complimented you the way celebrities usually complimented one another. His praise was strangely... detailed. As though he'd studied every song you'd ever released.

One afternoon, during the filming of a European television special, a journalist asked, "Have you heard (Name)'s newest duet?"

Michael smiled immediately. "Oh, yes."

"What did you think?"

"I loved it."

"What did you like most?"

Without missing a beat, he answered, "Her harmonies."

The interviewer tilted his head. "Anything else?"

Michael nodded enthusiastically.

"The second verse was incredible. She changed the melody just enough to make it sound fresh without taking attention away from the lyrics. And the little run she does before the final chorus..." He gently snapped his fingers as if replaying the moment in his head.

"That's difficult to do because if you over-sing it, it loses its feeling. She didn't. She made it sound so natural."

The interviewer glanced down at his notes. "...What about her duet partner?"

Michael frowned slightly. "Oh."

He genuinely seemed to have forgotten another person had even been on the record.

"He was..." Michael searched for the right word. "Very good too."

"'Very good?'"

"Yes."

"Anything specific?"

Michael thought for several long seconds.

"...He stayed in key."

The cameraman snorted.

The interviewer had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing.

Michael looked between them, confused.

"What?"

The more interviews he gave, the harder it became to deny the obvious. He simply loved talking about your music.

Not because he was trying to impress anyone. Not because he expected to meet you. But because whenever someone mentioned your name, his entire demeanor changed.

His shoulders relaxed, his smile became brighter, his voice grew warmer.

He stopped speaking like a carefully rehearsed celebrity and started speaking like someone discussing the artist who genuinely inspired him.

"You know," he said during one radio interview, "I think one of the hardest things in music is making people believe what you're singing. Lots of people have beautiful voices." He shrugged gently. "But not everyone can make you feel like they're telling you the truth."

The radio host nodded. "And (Name) does that?"

Michael smiled to himself. "Every time."

"You've never met her."

"No."

"But you're this confident?"

He nodded without hesitation. "I think you can tell a lot about someone's heart through the way they sing."

The room fell unusually quiet, even the host looked momentarily touched.

Michael noticed the silence and quickly became flustered. "I-I mean..." He laughed awkwardly. "As an artist."

The host couldn't help smiling. "Sure, Michael."

"I did mean artistically."

"Mhm."

"I did."

"If you say so."

Michael covered his face with one hand, laughing into his palm while everyone in the studio joined in.

Back at Hayvenhurst, one evening he was sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet, absentmindedly humming along to your newest single while scribbling lyrics into a notebook.

He didn't even realize he was smiling until Janet quietly walked in, stopped beside the couch, and watched him for nearly a full minute.

Without saying a word, she reached for the remote wanting to watch a show.

Click. The television switched to another channel.

Michael looked up immediately. "...Hey."

Janet innocently shrugged. "What?"

"My song was on."

"Your song?"

"You know what I mean."

She folded her arms, struggling to keep a straight face. "Oh... you mean (Name)'s song."

Michael froze.

Jermaine chose that exact moment to walk into the room carrying a bowl of popcorn.

"What happened?"

Janet pointed toward Michael.

"I changed the channel."

Jermaine looked at his younger brother's expression and immediately burst into laughter. "You interrupted his daily concert."

"I was listening."

"No," Jermaine corrected with a grin. "You were studying."

Michael rolled his eyes, trying very hard not to smile. "I appreciate good music."

Jackie wandered in next, curiosity written all over his face. "What's so funny?"

Jermaine didn't even hesitate. "Janet changed the channel to another, Mike's mad that he can't watch his girlfriend."

Michael's head whipped around so fast his curls bounced. "She is not my girlfriend!"

The room erupted. Janet clutched the couch cushion against her stomach. Jackie pointed at him, laughing in his face.

"You got defensive way too fast."

Jermaine leaned against the wall, wiping tears from his eyes. "That's it."

"What?"

"You've got it bad."

Michael buried his burning face into one of the couch pillows. "I hate all of you."

The room only became louder with laughter.

———————

If there was one thing Michael Jackson believed with his entire heart, it was that fans deserved to be treated with kindness.

He had built his career on that belief.

He knew what it felt like to admire someone from afar, to save magazine clippings, to memorize lyrics, to wait outside venues hoping for just a glimpse of an artist who had unknowingly changed your life.

So perhaps it shouldn't have surprised anyone—not even himself—that when it came to you, he acted almost exactly the same way.

The only difference was that he happened to be Michael Jackson.

And Michael Jackson, despite being one of the most recognizable people on Earth, was convinced that a baseball cap, an oversized brown windbreaker, a pair of thick-framed glasses that magnified his eyes just a little too much, and an obviously fake mustache were enough to render him completely anonymous.

He stood across the street from one of the largest unofficial fan clubs dedicated entirely to your career, adjusting the brim of his cap lower over his face before looking up at the storefront.

Your name stretched proudly across the front window in elegant lettering.

The display windows were filled with framed album covers, imported vinyl records, glossy concert photographs, promotional posters, handwritten lyric books, fan-made scrapbooks, newspaper clippings, cassette tapes, keychains, buttons, oversized tour jackets, and shelves upon shelves of memorabilia that looked as though they'd been lovingly collected over years.

Michael's eyes widened behind his glasses. "...Wow." The word escaped him before he could stop it.

He looked exactly like a child standing outside a toy store on Christmas morning.

After glancing once over each shoulder—as though the FBI were monitoring his movements—he quickly crossed the street and slipped through the front door.

A tiny bell chimed overhead.

Immediately, the scent of old magazines, cardboard record sleeves, and fresh coffee greeted him.

Dozens of fans milled around the shop, quietly chatting while flipping through photo albums or browsing stacks of imported merchandise.

Nobody paid him much attention.

Michael released the breath he'd unknowingly been holding. "See?" he thought proudly. "The disguise works."

It did not.

The young woman working behind the register took exactly one look at him. She blinked. Looked again. Then slowly leaned toward the employee beside her.

"...Is that..."

The second employee glanced over, his shoulders immediately began shaking.

"...That's absolutely Michael Jackson."

Neither of them said anything—Instead, they exchanged amused smiles.

If Michael Jackson wanted to pretend to be an ordinary fan...

Well...

Who were they to ruin his afternoon?

Michael wandered through every aisle with quiet fascination, stopping every few steps to examine another piece of memorabilia with almost reverent care.

He carefully lifted a limited-edition concert booklet from its display stand, smiling to himself as he turned each page with the gentleness usually reserved for priceless museum artifacts.

A wall filled entirely with your magazine covers kept him occupied for nearly fifteen minutes as he studied each photograph, occasionally nodding to himself whenever he found one he particularly liked.

He eventually reached an entire shelf dedicated to your albums.

Every pressing. Every country. Every alternate cover. Every promotional release.

He slowly reached out and ran his fingertips across the collection.

"...They even have the rare Japanese release..."

His voice carried just enough for another customer nearby to hear.

"You noticed that too?"

Michael looked down.

A middle-aged woman smiled warmly at him while holding one of your lyric books against her chest. "The mastering's different," she said. "The vocals sound warmer."

Michael's entire face lit up. "They do!"

"You've listened to it?"

"Oh, dozens of times."

She laughed. "I knew I wasn't imagining it."

For the next hour...they talked.

Then another fan joined them.

Then another and before long, nearly eight people had gathered around one tiny listening station near the back of the shop, passionately discussing your albums with the enthusiasm only genuine fans possessed.

Michael completely forgot he was supposed to be hiding.

He animatedly gestured with his hands while talking about your vocal technique, occasionally humming tiny sections of songs to explain exactly what he meant.

"I think one of my favorite things she does," he said, carefully balancing an unopened vinyl beneath one arm, "is how she never sings exactly the same melody twice during live performances. Most people don't even notice it, but she'll change one note—just one—and suddenly the whole phrase feels brand new."

Several fans nodded immediately. "Exactly!" "I've been saying that!"

"And when she sings softly," Michael continued, becoming more excited with every sentence, "she doesn't lose any emotion. That's really difficult. Usually singers compensate by adding more volume, but she doesn't need to. She trusts the audience enough to lean in and listen."

A younger fan grinned. "You sound like you've analyzed every performance she's ever done."

Michael looked down sheepishly. "...Maybe."

The entire group laughed.

One elderly gentleman folded his arms. "So..."

Michael looked up.

"...what's her best song?"

Michael answered so quickly it was almost startling. The room erupted into another lively debate.

Nobody treated him like the King of Pop. Nobody asked for an autograph. Nobody interrupted him.

For nearly three hours, he wasn't Michael Jackson.

He was simply another person who adored your music as much as everyone else in the room. And strangely...

He loved it.

Eventually, he made his way toward the register carrying what could only be described as an alarming amount of merchandise.

Three oversized shopping baskets overflowed with tour books, imported records, promotional posters, fan-made photo collections, commemorative pins, cassette tapes he already owned, several duplicate albums "just in case," two sweatshirts, four T-shirts, calendars, magazines, and a stack of glossy photographs so tall he had to balance them carefully beneath one arm.

The cashier slowly scanned the mountain of items, sighing through her nose.

"...Big fan?"

Michael nodded with complete sincerity. "The biggest."

"I can tell." After everything had been bagged, she slid the last receipt across the counter before leaning forward ever so slightly. "You know..."

Michael looked up.

"...Your mustache is peeling."

His entire body froze. Slowly...very slowly...he reached up. Sure enough...one corner had come unstuck. Silence.

The cashier blinked, she then spoke dryly. "So... should I make the receipt out to 'Michael Jackson'?"

Michael stared at her for a full three seconds before letting out the most defeated little laugh. "...You knew?"

She looked around the shop. Every single fan looked back at him with identical amused smiles. One of them raised a hand. "We knew the second you walked in."

Another nodded, "The glasses didn't help."

"The mustache made it worse."

Michael covered his face with both hands. "Oh, my goodness..."

The room filled with affectionate laughter, one fan gently nudged his shoulder.

"Don't worry, we weren't going to bother you."

"We figured today..." another added with a grin, "...you deserved to just be one of us."

Michael lowered his hands and his smile softened. "...Thank you."

It was a simple sentence. Quiet. Completely genuine.

The room fell warmly silent for a moment before someone held up one of your newest posters. "So..."

Michael immediately smiled again.

"What about this photoshoot?" The discussion resumed as though nothing had happened. Unfortunately for Michael...

The paparazzi had much sharper eyes than he did, because the next morning, newspaper stands across Los Angeles displayed nearly identical headlines.

MICHAEL JACKSON SPOTTED IN MYSTERIOUS DISGUISE!

KING OF POP VISITS (NAME) FAN CLUB?

SECRET SHOPPING TRIP ENDS WITH ARMS FULL OF MERCHANDISE! KING OF POP OR PRESIDENT OF THE FANCLUB?!

Grainy photographs covered nearly every entertainment section.

One showed Michael standing outside the shop in his oversized coat, awkwardly tugging at the fake mustache that had already begun peeling away.

Another captured him leaving with so many shopping bags that they nearly reached his shoulders, forcing him to peek around them just to see where he was walking.

Perhaps the most humiliating picture of all showed him enthusiastically pointing at one of your posters while speaking to a circle of laughing fans, his hands moving animatedly as though he were giving an academic lecture instead of discussing his favorite artist.

Hayvenhurst was unusually quiet that morning. Michael sat at the breakfast table with the newspaper folded neatly beside his plate.

He hadn't touched it in ten minutes. He was pretending it didn't exist.

Unfortunately...His brothers had eyes.

Jermaine walked into the dining room first, coffee mug in hand. He noticed the newspaper immediately. He stopped. Looked at the front page. Looked at Michael. Looked back at the newspaper.

A grin slowly spread across his face. "Oh..."

Michael kept buttering his toast. "No."

Jermaine hadn't even said anything yet as Jackie wandered in next, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Morning—"

Jermaine silently turned the newspaper toward him. Jackie read the headline. Then doubled over laughing so hard he had to grab the back of a chair to stay upright.

"What?" Tito called from the hallway. Jermaine couldn't answer, he simply pointed. Tito picked up the paper.

Five seconds later, he burst into laughter loud enough to bring Marlon into the room. "What happened?"

Jackie wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. "Our little brother..." He could barely finish the sentence. "...joined a fan club."

Michael sighed deeply. "I did not join a fan club."

Jermaine snorted. "No?"

He tapped one photograph.

"Then why are you buying enough merchandise to open your own museum?"

"I was supporting her."

"You bought four copies of the same album."

"They're different pressings."

"The article says you debated her bridge on track six with strangers for almost an hour."

"They understood what I meant."

"They called you 'Mike' by the end."

Michael muttered something unintelligible into his coffee as his brothers laughed.

From that day forward...an inside joke was born.

Whenever Michael entered a room, one of his brothers would immediately stand up, walk over with exaggerated seriousness, and extend a hand. "Welcome to the fan club."

Michael would groan before reluctantly shaking it.

Jermaine always followed with an overly formal nod. "Our president has arrived."

Marlon would clap dramatically before cackling.

Tito usually added, "Have you paid your membership dues this month?"

And Jackie—who somehow found the joke just as funny every single time—would lean over and ask with the straightest face imaginable, "Any new merchandise releases we should know about, Mike?"

The four of them would dissolve into laughter before Michael even had the chance to defend himself.

"I hate every single one of you," he'd mumble, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Jermaine would throw an arm around his shoulders, still chuckling.

"No, you don't."

Jackie nodded toward the newspaper still sitting on the table. "You know what the funniest part is?"

Michael sighed. "What?"

Jackie grinned.

"You never denied being her biggest fan."

Michael looked down at the photograph of himself leaving the fan club with his arms full of shopping bags. After a moment, the corner of his mouth lifted into a sheepish smile. "...Because it's true."

———————

The award show itself was spectacular.

Every seat in the auditorium glittered beneath golden lights that swept across the audience like slow-moving stars.

Crystal chandeliers reflected flashes from hundreds of cameras, while orchestral music drifted through the room between commercial breaks.

Conversations filled every corner of the theater as the biggest names in entertainment greeted one another with hugs, laughter, and handshakes.

Backstage was even more chaotic.

Stage managers hurried down hallways with clipboards tucked beneath their arms, assistants rushed costumes from one dressing room to another, makeup artists chased performers for last-minute touch-ups, and producers spoke urgently into headsets while counting down to the next live segment.

Michael had just stepped offstage after delivering one of the most electric performances of the evening. His breathing was still uneven from the choreography, tiny beads of perspiration clung to the curls framing his forehead.

An assistant gently draped a towel around his shoulders while another handed him a bottle of water. "You were incredible, Michael."

"Thank you."

"You can go back to your seat now." He nodded absently, barely listening.

His attention had already drifted somewhere else.

Down the hallway, standing near a cluster of dressing rooms...

Was you.

You were speaking with your manager, one hand wrapped loosely around a cup of tea while the other moved naturally as you laughed at something someone had said.

Even from several yards away, your smile carried easily through the busy corridor, warm enough that people passing by found themselves smiling back without realizing it.

Michael stopped walking. His fingers slowly lowered the water bottle. His shoulders straightened instinctively.

For just a moment, the bustling hallway seemed strangely quiet. He couldn't hear the stage crew anymore.

There was only one thought in his mind.

She's actually here.

Not on a television screen. Not on the cover of an album. Not across an arena.

Right there.

Only a few steps away.

His heartbeat picked up so suddenly that he instinctively pressed a hand against his sweaty chest. "Oh..."

A stagehand walking past noticed where he was looking and smiled to himself before continuing on.

Michael inhaled slowly, he smoothed the front of his blue polo. Ran a nervous hand through the curls at the back of his neck.

Then quietly muttered to himself, "Just say hello."

He took one step—stopped. Shook his head.

"No, that's weird."

Another step.

"What if she's busy?"

He took a third.

"What if she doesn't know who I am?"

An assistant passing by blinked at him. "...Michael." He looked over. "She definitely knows who you are."

"Oh." He laughed softly at himself. "Right."

He felt ridiculous but still...

He started walking again, one careful step after another. Trying very hard not to look like someone walking toward the person he'd admired for nearly a decade.

You happened to glance in his direction, your eyes met for the briefest instant.

You smiled politely.

Michael forgot how to function.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He managed exactly one tiny wave.

You returned it with a smile. The most beautiful smile he's ever seen.

He thought his heart might actually stop. He was close enough now that another few seconds would have been enough.

Enough to introduce himself, enough to tell you how much your music had inspired him, enough to finally have a conversation after years of only speaking about you in interviews and defending your artistry to anyone who would listen.

Then—

A familiar voice called your name.

You turned. Prince appeared from the opposite end of the hallway, already dressed for his upcoming performance.

He greeted you with an easy grin. You smiled back.

One of the producers hurried over. "There you two are!"

He clapped his hands together. "You're on in two minutes."

Michael's smile slowly disappeared.

He watched as Prince naturally fell into step beside you. The two of you exchanged a few words that he couldn't hear before disappearing behind the stage entrance together.

Michael remained exactly where he was, completely still.

His eye twitched.

A dancer from his crew approached cautiously. "...uh..Mike?"

Without taking his eyes off the curtains, Michael answered in an unusually flat, low voice. "They're performing together?"

"I... think so."

"They're doing a duet?"

"...Looks like it."

Michael slowly nodded once. "I see."

The dancer shifted awkwardly.

"You okay?"

Michael smiled. It was the tightest, most painfully forced smile anyone in the room had ever seen.

"I'm wonderful."

"You don't look wonderful."

———————

The moment the lights dimmed, the entire atmosphere of the award show shifted.

The endless chatter that had filled the room softened into anticipation as the stage transformed, the golden glow of the spotlights cutting through the darkness while the audience settled into their seats.

Michael had been expecting another performance—another impressive display from two of the biggest artists in the world, trying to put his jealousy aside—but he was not prepared for the sight that unfolded in front of him.

The opening notes echoed through the venue, smooth and dramatic, and then you stepped onto the stage beside Prince, immediately commanding the attention of everyone watching.

There was a confidence in the way you carried yourself, the kind that came from years of knowing exactly who you were as an artist. You didn't need to demand attention; the room naturally followed you.

Every movement was deliberate, every expression matching the emotion of the song perfectly.

The audience immediately reacted, cheers rising as you began the first verse, your voice filling the arena with a warmth and power that made people instinctively lean closer.

Michael, however, barely moved.

He had been sitting with the composed expression he always wore at award shows, one hand resting against his chin, the other tapping lightly against his armrest.

But the second your voice came through the speakers, that carefully controlled expression disappeared.

His eyes widened slightly, his head tilting forward as if he needed to make sure he was hearing every single note correctly.

He knew your voice better than most people did.

He had spent years listening to your albums, studying the choices you made, admiring the way you could turn a simple lyric into something emotional.

But hearing you live was always different. There was something raw about it that recordings could never completely capture.

He watched you move across the stage, watched the way you connected with the audience, watched the way you shaped every phrase with such effortless control, and despite himself, he found himself smiling.

A genuine smile, the kind he rarely showed in public unless he was truly impressed.

One of the people sitting near him noticed almost immediately.

Michael wasn't watching the performance like a fellow celebrity watching another celebrity. He was watching like a fan.

Then Prince joined in.

At first, Michael tried to remain neutral.

He really did.

Prince was talented. Michael knew that. He respected him as a musician and understood why audiences loved him.

But as soon as the two of you began harmonizing together, Michael's admiration for your part of the performance quickly became something much more complicated.

The two of you moved around each other effortlessly, trading lines back and forth with a chemistry that was impossible to ignore.

Prince played into the performance with his usual confidence, leaning into the dramatic energy of the song, and you responded naturally, smiling as the two of you sang together.

And Michael hated how much the audience loved it.

Not because you weren't incredible—you were.

That was the problem.

You were so incredible that he couldn't even convince himself he was annoyed at the performance itself. His frustration was entirely focused on one person standing beside you.

Prince.

Michael's expression slowly changed. The smile faded. His eyebrows drew together slightly. His fingers, which had been tapping along with the rhythm, stopped. He shifted in his seat.

Then shifted again.

At first, people around him thought he was simply enjoying the performance intensely, but anyone who knew Michael well could see the difference.

His eyes followed every single interaction between you and Prince. Every glance. Every smile. Every moment where the two of you stood closer than necessary.

When Prince stepped toward you during the final section of the song, Michael immediately straightened.

When you laughed at something Prince whispered during the performance, Michael's mouth pressed into a thin line.

And when the final chorus arrived, the entire audience erupted as the music built toward the ending.

The stage lights became brighter.

The crowd was already on their feet.

Then Prince took your hand.

Michael's eyes narrowed.

He watched as Prince spun you gracefully, catching you at exactly the right moment before lowering you into a dramatic dip.

You trusted him completely, your laughter blending with the cheers of the audience as the final note rang through the arena. It was a classic award-show ending—the kind designed to make people scream.

And people did.

Everyone except Michael.

Michael sat frozen, his jaw tightened and his eyes remained locked on the stage.

Then, as Prince held you there for the final pose, he looked out into the audience.

And his eyes landed directly on Michael. For one brief moment, neither of them looked away.

Prince's expression was subtle, but Michael understood immediately.

It was a challenge.

A playful one.

A smug one.

The kind that only made Michael's jealousy worse.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, almost offended.

His lips parted.

Then, barely audible beneath the roaring applause, he muttered to himself, "He's dead."

The person sitting beside him turned sharply.

Michael immediately realized what he had done.

"No, no, I mean—"

He quickly composed himself, forcing his expression back into something polite as the cameras swept across the audience.

"Congratulations to them," he said, much louder.

The problem was...

Nobody believed him.

The people around him exchanged amused looks.

They had heard exactly what he said.

And judging by Michael's expression as he clapped his large hands loudly with a lot of force—he knew they knew.

———————

When it was finally time for the award for Best Male Performer of the Year, the tension in the room had completely changed.

The earlier performances had set the stage, and now the audience waited as the presenter stepped forward with the envelope in hand. The nominees appeared one by one on the massive screens, each name receiving applause from the crowd.

Michael Jackson.

Prince.

Several other legendary performers.

The moment Michael's name appeared, the audience erupted.

He sat calmly, hands folded together, his face unreadable.

But those closest to him could see the tiny hint of confidence in his expression.

The presenter opened the envelope.

"And the winner is..."

The entire room became silent.

Michael leaned back slightly.

"...Michael Jackson!"

The crowd exploded. The applause was immediate and deafening.

Michael paused for a moment, allowing the reaction to wash over him. Then slowly, almost dramatically, he stood from his seat.

And there it was.

That smile.

The one that appeared whenever Michael knew he had something to prove.

He adjusted the front of his jacket, smoothed down his sleeve, and accepted congratulations from those around him before making his way toward the stage.

But as he walked past Prince, he couldn't resist.

He stopped.

Just for a second.

Prince looked up at him.

Michael smiled.

Not a rude smile.

Not openly.

But definitely smug.

The kind of smile that said remember earlier?

Prince's expression immediately hardened.

His jaw tightened.

He knew exactly what Michael was doing.

"You enjoy that too much," Prince muttered quietly.

Michael leaned slightly closer, pretending not to hear.

"What was that?"

Prince stared at him.

"Nothing."

Michael's smile widened.

"That's what I thought."

Then he continued toward the stage.

Prince watched him walk away with an expression of pure irritation.

The cameras didn't catch the quiet exchange.

But everyone close enough to see it were so shocked and knew that they would be sharing this story for years to come.

This was no longer about the award.

———————

Michael reached the microphone holding the award.

He looked down at the trophy in his hands before looking back at the audience, his voice soft and slightly nervous as he began,

"Wow. Thank you. Thank you so much. Um, honestly, I don't know what to say. This is such a great honor because there are so many incredible artists here tonight, so many people who inspire me and continue to push music forward..." He paused as he smiled shyly.

"I want to thank God, my family, especially my fans, everyone who has supported me throughout my career. I wouldn't be standing here without the people who believed in me when I was just a kid who loved to sing and dance. This award means more than I can really explain."

He paused, taking a breath as the applause continued. For a moment, he looked exactly like the shy Michael everyone knew—the humble artist who never wanted to appear too proud of himself. Then his eyes moved toward you in the audience. His expression softened.

"And I also want to say something about tonight's performances. There are moments when you watch someone perform and you remember why you love music in the first place. You remember why you started. And tonight, I had one of those moments watching (Name). She has one of the most incredible voices I've ever heard. The way she feels a song, the way she connects with people, the way she can take a simple melody and turn it into something that stays with you... that's a gift. That's something special."

The audience smiled, immediately understanding where his attention was. Michael's confidence grew as he continued, his shoulders relaxing, his famous playful side beginning to appear.

"And, uh, I also saw her duet tonight." He looked toward Prince who had an unreadable but obviously irritated expression briefly before smiling.

"Very interesting performance. Very entertaining. But I think everyone here knows when someone has a voice that can carry a song, they don't need much help."

Laughter immediately spread through the room. Michael smiled wider. "Sometimes one person just has that magic. And (Name), you definitely have that magic." He lifted the award slightly.

"So next time you want to do a duet, I think you should choose someone who can keep up with you a little better."

The audience erupted in gasps and shock. Michael laughed, now completely comfortable, the shy nerves gone.

"Maybe someone with a little more experience. Maybe someone who knows how to let that incredible voice shine."

He looked directly at you, blowing a kiss between his two fingers before adding with a playful wink, "I'm just saying, I'm available."

The entire theater exploded into laughter and applause.

Michael stepped back from the microphone, smiling proudly as you sat there completely stunned, your cheeks warm and your expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

You put your hand over your mouth in absolute shock. “What the hell just happened…?”

.

.

.

The thick scent of expensive cologne and stale cigar smoke hung heavy over the boardroom table.

It was the kind of air that made your throat itch. A room explicitly designed to make anyone who wasn’t wearing a three-piece suit feel small.

Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest. You were staring down the fountain pen that had just been slid across the polished wood toward you.

"It’s really just a simple two-bird, one-stone situation," the head of the label's PR division said. His voice dripped with that corporate reassurance that always made your stomach turn. "The rumors about your... preferences are starting to drift into the mainstream press."

He paused, adjusting his cuffs.

"Your band is about to launch a major nationwide tour. The demographic we're projecting is split evenly between young girls and guys. If the press runs with that narrative right now, it slices our projected revenue in half. We need to squash it before it breathes."

"What you mean to say," you murmured, your tone entirely polite but cuttingly cold, "is that you are uncomfortable managing an artist you cannot entirely control. My sexuality isn't a marketing liability here."

You tilted your head slightly, looking at him dead in the eye.

"And my band's drawing power has never relied on whether the audience wants to sleep with me. They like the noise we make."

"Be realistic," another suit chimed in from the corner. "Look across the table."

Your eyes shifted.

Sitting directly opposite you was the man himself, Michael Jackson. Someone whose face was all over LA and New York when his album was released.

He looked incredibly small in the massive leather corporate chair, almost completely swallowed by the tension in the room. He hadn’t said a single word since you had walked into the room twenty minutes ago.

His silence almost made you forget he was even there.

"Michael is at a critical juncture," the PR head leaned forward, his rings clinking against the glass tabletop. "The Off the Wall album has established him as a massive solo force, but the rumors about his own… preferences… are getting loud. The press is feral. If we pair the two of you up—the rising punk rock frontwoman and the golden boy of pop—the narrative changes overnight."

He laid it out like it was just a simple math equation.

"The allegations about the two of you die out, your album stays on the charts, and Michael enters his next record cycle with a clean slate. It’s a perfect solution."

A bitter knot formed right in the center of your chest.

When you had finally emancipated yourself from your parents after being forced into acting as a child, you had thrown yourself into the gritty sanctuary of the rock scene. You had genuinely thought you were breaking free. And when you officially entered the music industry, you thought it would let you breathe easier.

You were wrong.

You naively traded a leather leash for a gold-plated one.

What annoyed you was that the label knew the truth.

They knew you weren't a lesbian, but bisexual. It was a realization so fresh you hadn't even had the chance to process it, let alone explore it, with your life moving at a hundred miles an hour. Now, the label was snatching away the few private pieces of yourself you were still trying to figure out.

But to the corporate machine, nuances didn't generate capital.

A safe, heterosexual PR stunt did.

"I am entirely against this," you said softly. Your knuckles turned white under the sleeves of your jacket. "It’s dishonest to our fans, and it’s an incredibly lazy patch for a systemic problem with the media."

The PR head let out a dry, patronizing chuckle. "It’s not a request, sweetheart. Michael has already agreed to the terms."

Your eyes flicked back to Michael.

You couldn't really tell what he was thinking.

Was he judging you?

Was he desperate to protect his career at the cost of his dignity, too?

You knew how much his music meant to him—he lived and breathed his artistry with an intensity that you secretly respected from afar.

But the thought of being forced into an artificial box with him made your skin crawl.

"We’ll leave the two of you alone to review the final pages and sign," the executive said, rising from his chair and smoothing his tie. "We expect the signed documents on my desk by five o'clock."

The suits filed out of the room one by one.

Silence filled the massive boardroom, thick and suffocating.

You let out a ragged breath. Your shoulders finally dropped as you slumped back into your chair.

You could already feel a dull ache starting to throb behind your eyes.

"They... they can be really bossy, can't they?"

The voice was incredibly gentle. Barely louder than a whisper.

You lifted your head.

He was looking across the table at you. His gaze shifted over your face, your oversized jacket, and the defensive way you held yourself.

"They don't ask," he murmured. "They just... they lay it out like it's already happened, and you're just a character in their story.”

Your expression softened slightly. The defensive edge in your posture melted away just a fraction. You looked at him, really looked at him, noticing the subtle tension in his jaw, the wariness radiating off him.

“Just to be clear… I don't hate you," you said. You reached out, your fingers lightly tapping the edge of the unsigned contract. "I just... I absolutely hate this."

He looked down at the paper. A faint, bittersweet smile touched the corners of his lips.

"I know," he whispered. "It feels like... like someone else is driving the car, and you're just stuck in the passenger seat, hoping they don't crash."

The comparison struck a chord deep inside you.

"Well," you whispered. You pulled the document toward yourself and finally picked up the fountain pen. The heavy metal felt cold against your skin. "If we're going to be forced into the passenger seat together, we might as well make sure we don't let them drive us off a cliff."

Michael lifted his eyes. A sudden glint of shared understanding passed between the two of you.

He looked down at the pen in your hand, then back up at your face. The lingering tension seemed to evaporate from his shoulders, replaced by curiosity.

"If that’s the plan, then we should probably start over."

He extended a long, slender hand across the polished mahogany table.

"I'm Michael."

You looked at his hand, then let out a breathy laugh that surprised even yourself. You reached out, your fingers wrapping around his. His grip was surprisingly firm, despite his gentle voice.

"I know," you replied dryly, finally giving way to a bit of casual irony. "Your face is on about half the billboards I pass on the way to rehearsal."

Michael giggled, a high-pitched, infectious sound that completely shattered the stuffy boardroom atmosphere. He lowered his head slightly, his cheeks flushing. "Fair point. But you haven't properly introduced yourself yet."

"The label calls me their primary headache," you joked softly, your voice dropping into that relaxed tone as you told him your name.

"I saw your music video," he said, his dark eyes sparkling with a hint of playful mischief. "You looked a lot more intimidating with the smeared eyeliner and the torn fishnets."

"And you looked a lot taller in pictures," you shot back seamlessly, a small, amused smirk on your face. "I suppose we're both disappointing each other."

Michael let out another laugh. He looked at you with a newfound respect, clearly charmed by how effortlessly put-together and sharp-witted you were contrary to his expectations.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The contract was signed and the trap was set.

For three weeks, the label’s machinery ground forward with flawless efficiency. There were pre-arranged chance encounters at upscale restaurants in West Hollywood. A few heavily choreographed walks past a cluster of tipped-off paparazzi outside a recording studio.

But tonight was the real test. The annual industry gala. The grand stage where the narrative was meant to solidify.

The blinding flash of a camera exploded directly in front of your eyes.

Flash.

Then another. And another.

The rapid noise of a hundred shutters sounding all at once sounded like a wall of automatic gunfire. Paparazzi lined the velvet ropes outside the Century Plaza Hotel like hungry, desperate wolves.

"Michael! Michael, over here! Look this way, Mike!"

"Is it true?! Are you two a couple?!"

"Look over here, sweetheart! Give us a smile!"

Any other day, you wouldn’t even bother smiling for them but this was your first official appearance together, you had to cooperate.

At least, while the cameras are on the two of you.

Attending an industry gala was still strictly work, which meant your manager’s heavy-handed directives had been executed to perfection. You were a public figure, so the label had made sure you looked the part.

Your makeup was edgy and dark—a deliberate, stylized extension of your stage persona meant to keep the band's aesthetic intact, even in a room full of suits. Your hair was pinned up into an intricate, slightly undone twist that sat perfectly above a deep velvet jumpsuit.

It was entirely a performance, a costume mandated by the company to ensure you blended seamlessly into the bizarre narrative they had crafted for your image.

Beside you, Michael looked effortlessly stunning. He was a vision in a structured black tuxedo, his curls framing his face.

Then, he reached down.

His fingers slid into yours, intertwining seamlessly.

The crowd went completely feral. The flashes doubled in intensity, turning the night sky into an artificial white.

But what struck you the most was that his hand was warm.

Surprisingly warm, considering how cold the evening air was. But as you walked the gauntlet of the red carpet, you felt a slight tremor in his palm.

He didn’t seem overwhelmed by the noise. No, he had lived under the microscope his entire life. He was used to the cameras. But as the reporters started shouting invasive questions about your private life, the anxiety radiating off him became noticeable.

Your instincts kicked right into gear.

"We're just enjoying each other's company," you responded smoothly, offering a polished smile. "Michael's artistry is incredible, and right now, we’re focused on supporting one another’s work."

"Is this just a cover-up for the allegations?!"

"What do you say to the rumors?!"

Michael stiffened. His grip on your hand tightened drastically.

You could feel the sudden shift of his shoulders.

"Michael is entirely focused on his upcoming projects," you interrupted, your tone dropping just a fraction into something sharp enough to cut glass, though your expression remained perfectly calm. "And we’re both here to enjoy the music tonight. Excuse us."

Before the reporter could even utter a follow-up question, you guided Michael forward.

You practically marched toward the heavy glass doors of the lobby.

Once inside, the heavy roar of the press dimmed into a muffled hum, replaced by the polite chatter of industry elites swirling expensive champagne in crystal glasses.

The air here felt just as suffocating.

"Are you okay?" you whispered, stepping slightly closer to him as you bypassed the main ballroom.

"They're looking right through us," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the string quartet playing in the distance. "If we make one mistake..."

"We aren't making any mistakes," you said firmly. "Come on."

You grabbed his wrist, navigating through the maze of the hotel's back hallways, without looking back.

You had anticipated this exact kind of suffocating pressure before you even left your apartment.

Knowing how claustrophobic these corporate events could get, you had made arrangements with your personal security guard before arriving. He wasn't the label's hire, he was yours. Someone you trusted.

You pushed open a heavy, grey door marked Staff Only, pulling Michael down a dimly lit concrete corridor that led straight to the rear parking space.

Down the ramp, parked in a dark, secluded corner of the lower deck, the sleek black sports car was already waiting. Your bodyguard stood by the driver's door, the keys already glinting in his hand.

He didn't ask questions. He simply gave you a warm smile, handed you the keys, and stepped back into the shadows to cover your exit.

"Get in," you whispered, unlocking the passenger side for Michael.

Michael stood there for a split second, looking at the car, then at you. He pulled off his aviators, his large brown eyes wide with a mix of shock and sudden, childlike relief.

The manicured pop star facade vanished instantly.

"You had this planned?”

"I told you," you smirked, tossing your evening clutch into the back seat.

You bent down, unbuckling the restrictive heels and kicked them into the floorboard behind you. Reaching under the passenger seat, you pulled out a pair of worn leather loafers and slipped them on.

"I’m not going to allow other people drive me off cliffs. Now, get in."

He followed suit and soon enough you threw the gear shift into reverse, and easily backed out of the space that had Michael grabbing the dashboard.

"Hold on," you warned, a dangerous smile tugging at your lips.

You shifted into first. Your foot slammed the gas.

The car shot forward, the tires letting out a loud, satisfying screech as you tore up the exit ramp. The cool night air hit the windshield, swallowing the distant, muffled noise of the gala behind you. You tore past the hotel security gate before the guard could even process who was behind the wheel, breaking out onto the neon-lit asphalt of the LA streets.

Michael let out a gasp, his back pressed hard against the leather passenger seat.

He looked at you. Truly looked at you.

The city lights flickered across your profile—the bold, dark eye makeup from the gala still sharp against your skin, your jawline set with an intense, unwavering focus on the road ahead.

Reaching up with one hand while keeping the other firm on the wheel, you pulled the pins from your hair, letting it tumble down over your shoulders.

"You drive fast," he murmured, his voice a mix of terrifying awe and genuine amusement.

"I drive how I want," you shot back, weaving cleanly between two slow-moving sedans. "It’s the only time nobody’s telling me which direction to take. Look in the glove box."

Michael blinked, reaching forward to pop the latch. Inside sat a handful of cassette tapes, completely devoid of proper labels, just rough black ink scribbled across plastic housings.

"Pick one," you said. "Let's get some real noise in here."

He slid a tape into the dashboard player. A heavy bassline immediately exploded from the speakers—unpolished and fast. A relentless beat that felt exactly like the engine beneath you.

Michael leaned his head back against the headrest, a bright smile breaking across his face. He pulled his tuxedo jacket a bit tighter around himself, watching the blur of palm trees and neon billboards streak past his window.

"Where are we going?" he asked, hanging onto the grab handle.

“Somewhere quiet,” you said, shifting into top gear. "Relax, Jackson. I’m not a serial killer.” You paused dramatically. “But, I could kill for a milkshake right now.”

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Twenty minutes later, the glittering skyline of downtown faded into the darker, winding roads of the hills.

You pulled the car into the gravel lot of a faded, 24-hour diner perched right on the edge of an overlook. The neon sign buzzed irregularly, casting a pink and blue glow over the dusty parking lot. It was completely empty except for a lone pickup truck.

Perfect.

You shut off the ignition. The sudden silence, save for the ticking of the cooling engine and the distant hum of the city below, was staggering.

"Come on," you said, unbuckling your seatbelt. "Let's go get some grease."

Inside, the diner smelled like burnt coffee and fried potatoes. A bored waitress didn’t even look up from her crossword puzzle as you both slid into a vinyl booth in the very back corner.

Right now, he looked incredibly vulnerable beneath the low, warm lights of the booth. He looked around the faded diner, his eyes wide, like he had stepped onto another planet.

"When was the last time you were in a place like this?" you asked softly, leaning your elbows on the table.

He let out a sheepish laugh, nervously tracing a scratch in the laminate table. "I don't... I don't think I've ever been in a place like this. Not since I was really little. Security usually doesn't let me."

"Well, security isn't here tonight," you murmured. "It's just us. Two regular people about to eat unhealthy food."

The waitress dropped a plate of fries and two milkshakes between you with a dull thud, walking away without a second glance.

Michael stared at the plate of fries. Then, he looked at you.

"You surprise me," he admitted softly, his eyes locked onto yours.

"How so?"

"On stage... and in your videos... you're so loud," he said, gesturing vaguely with his hands. "You're tearing things up, shouting, looking like you want to burn the whole world down. I thought you'd be... always like that. Maybe even mean."

You let out a soft laugh, dipping a fry into the ketchup. "That's the music, Michael. That's where the anger goes. And that’s what the label wants me to be. But outside of that? I actually like quiet things." You looked out the window at the sprawling, distant lights of LA. "I think you’re already aware of what a shitshow my childhood was like. When I finally got away, I had all this anger so I turned to music. But now, I just really want peace.”

Michael’s expression softened, a deep understanding settling into his eyes. He reached out, his fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before he lightly tapped the back of your hand.

"I know that feeling," he whispered, his voice incredibly tender. "The pressure. Everyone wanting a piece of you, telling you what your life belongs to. They think because we're on stage, we don't want real things."

"They think we're products," you said sharply. "The label doesn't care about our private lives, Michael. They just care that the rumors don't hurt the cash flow. They want to control who we are."

Michael looked down at your hands, his fingers gently sliding against yours, a slow, comforting warmth spreading between you.

"They can't control this," he said, looking straight at you. The hesitation in his face was completely gone. "They can print whatever story they want in the papers. But they don't get to tell us how to treat each other."

You looked at him across the table.

There was no hidden agenda in his face. No corporate polish, no pop star persona.

Initially, you had braced yourself to deal with a spoiled industry darling or a compliant studio puppet. Instead, you were sitting across from someone who understood the exact weight of the machine crushing you both.

The fake dating arrangement was supposed to be a leash.

But looking at Michael now, you realized it didn't have to be a trap, either. It was just two people in the exact same boat, finally deciding to pull in the same direction.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Over the next few months, the strategy worked almost perfectly. The public absorbed the narrative like a sponge.

Every magazine stand in the country featured the same carefully managed images: the two of you leaving a high-end restaurant in West Hollywood, your hand slipped casually into his blazer pocket; Michael sitting in the VIP balcony at one of your shows looking uncharacteristically edgy while you pointed your guitar directly at him during a guitar solo.

The press stopped asking if you hated men. They stopped asking if Michael was lonely.

The cash rolled in. The tour dates sold out. The label was perfectly content.

But inside the quiet spaces where the cameras couldn't reach, the shift didn't happen with a sudden explosion. It happened in increments. Small, unglamorous pieces of time that nobody else was allowed to see.

There was the Tuesday night in late November when you were both hiding out in a secluded studio at Westlake.

Michael was working on the early arrangements for his next album, obsessing over a bassline that didn't sound heavy enough to his ears. You had just finished a grueling six-hour rehearsal with your band, your throat raw and your muscles aching.

You had showed up at his studio completely unannounced. Your face was entirely bare, lacking even a touch of lip balm. You looked ordinary. Tired.

Michael had looked up from the mixing console, his eyes wide, his usual shyness instantly melting into a crinkling smile.

"You look like a real person," he had teased softly. "Not the scary lady from the billboards."

"Shut up, Jackson," you had mumbled, sliding onto the leather sofa in the back of the room and throwing your legs over the armrest. "I'm exhausted. If even a single paparazzi looks at me today, I'm going to break their lens."

He hadn't laughed. Instead, he had walked over to his small cooler, pulled out a glass bottle of orange juice, and set it on the table beside you. Then, without saying a word, he sat on the carpet right next to the couch, leaning his head back against the cushions near your knee.

For two hours, you didn't talk about contracts. You didn't talk about public relations. You just listened to him hum vocal melodies into a handheld tape recorder. At one point, your hand had dropped lazily from the edge of the sofa, your fingers brushing against the soft collar of his shirt. He hadn't pulled away. He had simply leaned his head back a little further, letting his curls press against your knuckles.

It was a slow and deliberate accumulation of weight.

Then there was the afternoon in February when he bought you a hot dog from a street vendor in Santa Monica while disguised in an absurdly large trench coat, a flat cap, and a pair of thick, ridiculous reading glasses he didn't even need.

You had laughed so hard your ribs ached, your composure entirely shattering in the middle of a crowded sidewalk.

People walked right past him, entirely oblivious that a pop star was currently arguing with a punk rock singer about whether mustard belonged on a pretzel.

"You're a snob," you had told him, wiping a tear of laughter from your bare cheek. "A corporate-molded food snob."

"I am not!" he had protested, his high-pitched giggle drawing a brief glance from an old lady walking a poodle. He quickly lowered his head, his cheeks flushing a dark crimson beneath his fake glasses. "I just... I like things to be clean. Is that a crime?"

"For a rock singer? Yes. It's an absolute felony."

He had looked at you then, the playful teasing dying down in his eyes, replaced by an intense, lingering warmth.

"Good thing I'm not the rock singer, then," he murmured. "I have you to do the dirty work for me."

Step by step.

Piece by piece.

The lines didn't simply blur, they started to vanish entirely.

You found yourself adjusting your schedule just to match his studio blocks. He started calling your apartment at two in the morning, his voice not louder than a whisper, asking if you wanted to go for a drive just so he could escape the walls of Hayvenhurst. You always said yes.

Immediately, you would throw on a shearling jacket over your pajamas, run down the stairs and slide into the driver's seat of your sports car, ready to take him wherever the road opened up.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Now, it was a rainy Thursday evening in April, nearly a year after you had signed that document in the smoke-filled corporate boardroom.

To say that the label was thrilled would be an understatement.

The rumors had died down, entirely buried under the massive anticipation for Michael's new music and your band's skyrocketing radio play. The contract was technically reaching its twilight phase. In a few months, the PR team would stage a "mutual, amicable split" to let both of you move on.

You were sitting on the floor of your small, dimly lit living room, wearing a cardigan over your pajamas, and surrounded by a sea of vinyl records and loose lyric sheets. The windows were open, the steady patter of the rain filling the quiet space.

Michael was sitting on the edge of your worn-out velvet sofa, his long legs tucked loosely toward himself.

The silence between you wasn't heavy anymore.

It was comfortable. Safe.

"The label sent over the preliminary exit strategy today," you said softly, breaking the quiet. You didn't look up from the record sleeve you were examining, your thumb tracing the cardboard edge. "They want to schedule a final joint appearance at the end of the summer. Then an announcement through the trades."

Michael didn't answer right away.

You lifted your eyes. He was staring at his own hands, his fingers intertwined in his lap. The warm light from the floor lamp caught the sharp angle of his cheekbone, casting his eyes into unreadable shadows.

"Is that what you want?" he asked. His voice was incredibly quiet.

You set the vinyl sleeve down on the carpet. Your tongue suddenly felt heavy in your mouth. For a year, you had been the clever one, the one who could talk your way out of any corporate trap, the one who handled the press with politeness. But looking at him right now, sitting in your messy living room, the armor felt completely useless.

"I hate dishonesty, Michael," you murmured. "I hated it when we signed the paper. I hated the idea of lying to people about who I am."

Michael closed his eyes, a small, tight nod escaping him. "I know."

"But," you continued, your heart suddenly initiating that fast, restless rhythm—the exact same pulse that roared through your sports car's engine when you slammed the gas. "The lying is the only part of this I hate."

Michael opened his eyes. He didn't move, but the sudden intensity in his gaze locked you completely in place.

"What do you mean?" he whispered.

You took a slow breath, letting your walls crumble entirely.

There was no label here. There were no parents here to control you. There was no press line.

"They think they made a perfect story," you said, your eyes never leaving his. "They think they found a way to hide my 'problem' and yours. They don’t care about anything else. They just wanted the rumor squashed."

Michael’s jaw tightened slightly, his gaze softening with aching empathy. He knew what it was like to be dissected by people who didn't care about the truth.

"I didn't want another leash," you whispered, your knuckles tightening against the carpet. "I fought my parents to make music because I thought it was freedom. And I love my band—they're my family—but the industry still found a way to put a collar on me. Hanging out with you, though... it’s the only other part of my life lately that actually feels real."

The silence returned, but it was electric now, vibrating with a terrifyingly beautiful weight.

Michael moved.

He slid off the edge of the sofa, dropping down onto the carpet right in front of you.

The proximity was sudden.

You could smell the clean scent of his cologne, mixed with the faint smell of the rain outside.

He reached out. His hand was trembling slightly, that same familiar tremor from the red carpet a year ago, but his eyes were steady and locked on you. His fingers lightly brushed against your cheek, his thumb tracing the soft line of your jaw.

He wasn't looking at a rock star.

He wasn't looking at a character in a PR strategy.

He was looking at you.

"I don't want to do the exit strategy," Michael murmured, his face tilting closer to yours, his breath warm against your lips. "I don't want to announce anything to the trades."

"Michael..." your voice caught in your throat, your heart hammering against your ribs like a wild beast trying to break out of a cage.

"Let them think they won," he whispered, a smile breaking across his lips as his fingers slid back into your hair, gently tilting your face up. "Let them take the credit for the papers. But this... you and me... this belongs to us."

He met your eyes, pausing for a beat to search your face for any hesitation. You gave him a single nod.

He didn't need anything more than that.

When his lips finally met yours, it was clumsy. It wasn't the manicured, calculated kiss a photographer would try to capture from a bush in Beverly Hills. It was soft, hesitant at first, then deep and fiercely possessive, his hands anchoring into your hair like he was trying to hold onto the only solid thing in his chaotic world.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down against you on the floor.

As you reached for him, the cardigan slipped lazily off one shoulder, exposing the thin strap of your tank top and bare skin to the cool air of the room.

But there was no coldness left between you.

The driving, relentless noise of your life—the label's leashes, the press, the constant fight for survival—all of it dissolved into the warm space of his mouth.

He didn't rush either. His hands, softly and slowly slid around your waist, pulling you so flush against him that the quiet space between your bodies completely disappeared. You felt the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering beat of his heart matching your own.

The guardedness he had carried for years had melted away, replaced by a deep intensity that said everything his voice couldn't.

He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, his breath warm against your lips, his eyes searching yours in the dim light.

There was nothing left to hide behind—no pop icon, no act, just Michael looking back at you.

When his lips found yours again, the kiss deepened, unhurried and full of a quiet passion that made your fingers tangle deeper into the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

He traced a slow, burning path of kisses down your jawline, making a soft shiver run through you as he rested his forehead against the crook of your neck, his fingers tightening gently against your hip.

The contract on the desk at the label was just ink and paper.

And as he held you close in the dark, rainy quiet, you finally realized the truth.

The machine hadn't controlled you at all.

They had just accidentally driven you exactly where you belonged.

2003neverland ranch

You couldn't believe you were doing this.

You sat there with your body angled toward Michael in the familiar comfort of your home theater while everything around you felt just slightly unfamiliar. The dim lighting hasn't changed, the seats haven't changed, the quiet intimacy of the room is still there, but now it's filled with cameras, crew members, quiet movement, and the awareness that something so private is about to be shared in a way it never has before. It's strange, letting people into something you've spent years protecting, years keeping close, especially when so many have already tried to define it for you without ever knowing the truth.

You and Michael have lived under that for so long. The stories, the assumptions, the way people take fragments and stretch them into something unrecognizable. You stopped correcting it a long time ago because it never felt worth it, because what mattered was always what existed between the two of you, not what the world thought it saw.

Sitting here now, knowing that for once you get to decide what is shown and what isn't, there's a quiet sense of control in it that you don't usually have. Not enough to take away the nerves completely, but enough to steady them.

"Baby, are you okay?" Michael's voice cuts gently through your thoughts, warm and immediate in a way that pulls you back without effort.

You blink, turning your head toward him, and the concern in his eyes is already there, settled in like it belongs, like it never left. He's watching you closely, reading you the way he always does, like he can feel when your mind starts to drift somewhere heavier than you meant it to.

"Yeah, sorry... just thinking, are we starting?" You ask.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he keeps looking at you, his gaze soft but searching, like he's deciding whether you mean that or if you're brushing something aside for the sake of everything happening around you. It's familiar, the way he pauses like that, like he refuses to move forward unless he knows you're truly okay.

Before he can say anything else, you shake your head slightly and lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, letting the contact speak for you just as much as your words do.

"I'm okay, Michael... I promise," you whisper. He exhales softly, still watching you for a second longer before he nods, though the concern doesn't fully leave his expression.

"If it's too much, we don't have to do this," he says.

There's no hesitation behind it, no pressure to continue just because the cameras are there or because everything has already been set up. It's a simple truth, offered without condition, and it lands deeper than anything else could. After everything the two of you have gone through recently, he means it completely.

The miscarriage is still fresh in ways neither of you has fully put into words, something that sits quietly beneath everything else, shaping how you move through moments like this. You had recently gone through it, and it had been difficult on both of you, but Michael was by your side the entire time, never once stepping away, never once making you feel like you had to carry it alone.

So you shake your head again, this time more certain, letting yourself settle back into the present. "No, it's okay... I was just thinking, I don't know which videos you picked, you wouldn't tell me," you say.

The shift in him is immediate, the heaviness easing just enough as a smile spreads across his face, followed by a soft laugh that pulls one out of you just as easily. It's always been like that with him, how quickly he can pull you out of something heavier without forcing it, just by being himself.

"I want to surprise you," he says, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary.

"I love you," he adds, the words coming out as naturally as anything else he says, like they've lived in him for so long they don't require thought anymore.

"I love you more," you respond, turning your head slightly to look at him more fully.

And when you do, you take him in properly, your eyes tracing over the open white shirt, the way it falls loosely against his chest, the black jacket layered over it in that effortless way he always carries himself. Even here, even in a moment like this, there's something undeniably him about it, something that hasn't changed.

"Sitting here with your chest out like this," you say, laughter slipping into your voice.

He looks at you with that familiar smirk, the one that always comes just before he leans in closer, his voice lowering as he brings his lips near your ear, making sure the moment stays between the two of you.

"Easier for you to take off when we finish this," he whispers.

You turn toward him with a matching smirk, the look that passes between you both unspoken but understood completely, something that belongs only to the two of you, no matter how many cameras are in the room. It lingers just long enough to settle before the presence of the crew pulls you back again.

Someone steps forward, letting you know they're ready, and Michael nods, shifting slightly in his seat as everything around you falls into place. You reach for his hand without thinking, your fingers slipping into his as easily as they always have, and you give a small squeeze. He returns it immediately, steady and grounding, the silent reassurance running both ways.

The cameras begin rolling, the quiet hum of the room shifting into something more focused.

"Many people are wondering why we would put our private home movies on television?" Michael starts.

His voice is calm, measured, familiar in a way the world recognizes, but sitting beside him, you can feel the intention behind it, the quiet decision to let people see something real instead of something constructed.

You take a slow breath before continuing, letting your voice come naturally, without forcing it into something performative.

"And so, we thought it was time to do so because many people have opinions about Michael, about me, and our relationship, and they haven't even met us; they don't even know us," you say.

His hand tightens slightly around yours as you speak, not enough to draw attention, just enough for you to feel it, the subtle reminder that you're not doing this alone.

"So, we thought it was time to open up and show them who we really are, who I really am... I'm simply Michael Jackson, and this is my beautiful wife of 15 years," Michael says, turning his head to look at you as he speaks.

The smile he gives you isn't for the cameras, and you know that instantly. It's the same one you've seen for years, the one that softens everything around it, the one that reminds you that no matter how much of your lives are about to be shared, what matters most has always existed outside of anyone else's view.

Your smile comes just as easily in response, not forced, not measured, just real.

"Cut."

The director's voice breaks through the moment, and the shift in the room is immediate, tension easing as people begin to move again. Before anything else can interrupt, Michael leans over, closing the small space between you to press a soft kiss to your lips, instinctive and unthinking in a way that feels far more real than anything the cameras could ever capture.

You smile against him when he pulls back, because even with everything happening around you, even with everything you're about to share, that part of your life has never needed an audience to exist.

Michael starts with his background, showing home movies from when he and his family still lived in Gary, Indiana, and you feel something soften in you as the footage flickers across the screen. The grainy clips carry a kind of warmth that only comes from time, from moments that were never meant to be preserved for anything other than memory. You watch him there: young, carefree in ways he rarely got to stay, surrounded by his brothers, laughter easier, movements lighter, untouched by everything that would come later. It's almost surreal, seeing him like that, knowing the version of him sitting beside you now, knowing everything in between.

You smile as you watch, because those moments matter. They always have. They're some of the last pieces of normalcy he was allowed to have, and even now, years later, you can feel how much they still mean to him without him having to say it out loud.

dangerous tour

Then the footage shifts, the tone following it, moving from childhood into performance, into the beginning of something much bigger. You already know what comes with it. You've heard the stories, seen the effects, lived through your own version of it alongside him. You knew how hard Joe pushed them, how early the pressure started, how little space there was for anything else.

Michael starts talking about touring as the clips play, and you lean into him without thinking, your head settling gently against his shoulder as you watch both the screen and him at the same time. There's something about seeing those moments while sitting next to him now that makes everything feel closer, more real, like the distance between then and now disappears for just a second.

You remember how grueling touring was for him. It was always the most exhausted you've ever seen him, the kind of tired that didn't just go away with sleep, because it wasn't only physical.

"It's a difficult thing to tour... You go from one continent to another, you're sleepy, the time zones are different, and you can't sleep after the show. The adrenaline is up here," Michael explains.

One of the camera crew looks at him, and even before he speaks, you can already tell where it's going. "Can we just do it again without the negative saying that you don't like to tour?" he asks.

Michael turns his head toward him immediately, shaking it without hesitation. "I don't like it though... I go through hell touring," he says.

You gently squeeze his hand where your fingers are still intertwined, grounding him in a way that doesn't interrupt, just supports. The back and forth between him and the cameraman continues, light but persistent, and you can feel that familiar mix of honesty and compromise settling in.

Eventually, Michael nods, giving in just enough. "Okay, okay, I'll make it positive, but you know the truth," he says.

You laugh softly at that, because of course he does, of course he can't just let it go without making that clear. "Okay, action, Michael," the cameraman says.

Michael turns back toward the front camera, straightening just slightly as he resets himself, and then he nods. "I love to tour," he says.

You don't even get a chance to stop yourself. The laugh comes out immediately, breaking through before you can hold it back, and the second it does, Michael turns to you, already laughing too, the moment dissolving into something real and unpolished as the camera crew joins in.

"See? Baby, why'd you start laughing? I was about to get into it," Michael says through his laughter.

You shake your head, still smiling, the warmth of the moment spreading easily between you. "I'm sorry... it just wasn't convincing at all," you say.

He laughs again, shaking his head as he settles back, the honesty of it lingering even as the moment passes.

Michael goes on to explain that his favorite part of going on tour is his fans, and you feel that shift in him as he talks about them. It's something you've always admired, the way he loves them without hesitation, without distance, the way he sees them as more than just a crowd. Your home has always been filled with fan mail, letters stacked carefully, read and reread, never treated like something disposable.

He talks about how they know every song, every move, how they can recognize what's coming from just a single chord, and there's a kind of light in him when he says it, something genuine and untouched.

The footage switches to one of the Dangerous shows, and you recognize it immediately, the memory rising up before he even says anything. You smile without realizing it, because you remember exactly how that night felt.

Michael is talking about how much love his fans give him when he comes on stage, and then his voice shifts slightly, something softer threading through it.

"One of the best moments is right here," Michael says as he smiles at the screen.

You follow his gaze, your eyes lifting as the footage continues, and then you see it, you see yourself stepping onto the stage with the marching band, and the memory hits fully this time, vivid and immediate.

"It's right in the middle of the show, it's my birthday, and I'm thousands of miles away from my family, and my wife surprised me with a full marching band, and then she brought out this huge, beautiful birthday cake," Michael explains.

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face as you watch it play out. On the screen, he's flustered, overwhelmed in that soft, genuine way he gets when something catches him off guard like that. He's covering his face, smiling through it, and you're there, focused and excited, gesturing for the stagehands to bring the cake out at the right moment, your attention split between the timing and him.

"Okay, everyone, you ready?" your voice on the video says into the microphone.

The crowd erupts, loud and immediate, and you watch yourself lead them into singing happy birthday, thousands of voices joining in, filling the space in a way that feels almost unreal even now.

"I realized two things that night... I don't deserve my wife at all, and I've got family all over the world, everywhere I go, because my fans really show me the love, and I love them just as much," Michael says with a smile.

Your chest tightens just slightly at that, not in a painful way, but in a way that reminds you how deeply he feels everything, how much he carries, how much he gives.

On the screen, the song finishes, the crowd still roaring, and before you can even fully register it, Michael reaches for you, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you into a kiss right there on stage.

The crowd explodes into cheers and applause, the sound echoing through the theater as you watch it happen again, years later, the moment just as real now as it was then.

"His fans have always been so supportive of us... of course, you have some that can be a bit mean and nasty, but I don't take it personally, I know they love him so much and feel like he's theirs, and in a way, he is. I love the way that he is loved by them, and I love the way he loves them back," you explain with a smile.

The words come easily, because they're true, because you've lived inside that dynamic for years now and learned how to understand it instead of fighting it. Sitting there beside him, watching the footage play out on the screen, you can feel that same warmth settle in your chest again, that same appreciation for the connection he has with people all over the world, the way it's never felt distant to him, no matter how large it's grown.

You and Michael turn toward each other for a brief moment as the scene continues, both of you smiling in that quiet, shared way that doesn't need to be explained. There's something about seeing it again, about being back in that moment together, that pulls the same joy right back to the surface. It lingers between you just long enough to be felt fully before your attention shifts back to the screen.

On the footage, Michael pulls away from the kiss slowly, still smiling, still slightly overwhelmed in that soft, genuine way that always shows when something touches him deeply. He looks at you first, like he always does, like you're the anchor in the middle of everything, and then when he speaks, his voice carries out to both you and the crowd.

"Thank you to my wife... Thank you all so much. This is incredible," Michael says on the video.

You can't help the smile that settles deeper across your face as you watch it, remembering exactly how that moment felt, how real it was in the middle of all that noise and excitement. It was never about the spectacle for you: it was about him, about making sure he felt something that he had gone so long without.

"I always love doing something special for Michael on his birthday, no matter where we are, because he didn't celebrate them growing up because of the family's faith, and you know he gives so much to everyone, and especially to me... I just try to always show him he's loved and appreciated in return," you say.

As the words leave you, you feel his attention shift again, not toward the screen this time, but fully toward you. There's something softer in his expression, something deeper that settles there as he takes in what you've said, like it reaches him in a way that goes beyond the moment.

"Every day with you has shown me that," Michael says.

It's quiet, but it lands with weight, with sincerity that you've never had to question. You bite down gently on your lip, feeling the emotion rise just slightly in your chest, not overwhelming, but present enough to remind you of everything that sits behind a simple statement like that.

christmas at neverland

"I've met a lot of people in my life, and very few are real, real, real friends, you can probably count them on one hand... Elizabeth Taylor and my wife are two of the most loyal, loving, and caring people that I know," Michael says as the video switches, and the second the image changes, you feel the recognition settle in, a soft smile already forming as you realize exactly which memory he chose.

Christmas.

The screen fills with the warmth of it before anything else fully registers, lights woven through the trees, garlands wrapped carefully along the railings, the entire space transformed into something that feels almost unreal even now. Sitting there beside him, you feel yourself slipping back into that moment without effort, remembering the quiet excitement you carried that morning, the anticipation of finally sharing something with him that he had never experienced before.

"The two of them decided to transform Neverland into its first Christmas because I don't celebrate Christmas," Michael explained as the video continued, and the camera moves slowly through the house, capturing every detail the two of you had spent hours putting into place. The decorations feel alive in the footage, every light and ornament carrying the intention behind it, and then Elizabeth's voice comes through, clear and full of warmth.

"It is 1993, and this will be Michael Jackson's very first Christmas," Elizabeth says, and the video shifts again, settling on you and Elizabeth sitting together on the couch.

"It has taken me... I think five years of talking him into celebrating Christmas at Neverland... I understood that as a Jehovah's Witness, they don't celebrate Christmas, but when he stepped away from being a Jehovah's Witness, I said to him, I think Christmas is a wonderful way of celebrating love. It's a celebration of love... and we got married in 1988, right after he left the faith, so we never got the chance to have our first Christmas together," you say on the video, and sitting there in the present, you feel Michael's hand tighten gently around yours, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin in a quiet, grounding motion that pulls you fully into the now while the past continues to play out in front of you.

"And I can't see Christmas without Michael, or Michael without Christmas," Elizabeth says on the video.

The footage continues, following you and Elizabeth as you move through the house, the camera capturing every corner of Neverland that had been transformed overnight. You remember how carefully the two of you planned it, how intentional every detail was, wanting him to feel it fully, not just see it. There had been something almost childlike in the way you approached it, not because it was a holiday, but because it was his first time experiencing it.

"I had no idea they were planning this... This was a... a real surprise," Michael says, his voice soft as the video continues, now showing you and Elizabeth making your way upstairs toward the bedroom.

You remember that part clearly, the quiet of the house before he woke up, the way you had slipped out of bed earlier than usual, careful not to wake him, letting Elizabeth in so the two of you could set everything up before he even realized what was happening.

"Michael... baby," your voice calls out on the video.

"And that's our bedroom, they're coming to. I was surprised to hear her voice because I didn't even feel her get out of bed, so hearing her voice outside of the door woke me up and made me realize she was no longer next to me," Michael says, turning his head toward you with a smile that carries both amusement and something softer beneath it, and you laugh quietly, the memory settling warmly between you.

"I couldn't leave Elizabeth to decorate alone," you say, the explanation simple, but the meaning behind it still there, still understood.

On the screen, the bedroom door opens, and Michael steps out in his pajamas, his expression shifting almost instantly as he sees you standing there. There's that brief moment of confusion, of realizing you hadn't been beside him when he woke, and then it melts into something else entirely as he takes in the scene in front of him. He leans in to kiss Elizabeth on the cheek, familiar and affectionate, and then he turns to you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, soft and natural in a way that feels just as intimate now as it did then.

Sitting beside him, you lean into him slightly, your shoulder brushing his as you watch, the memory pulling you closer without you even thinking about it.

In the video, you and Elizabeth guide him back downstairs, and the moment he steps into the main space, everything shifts again. The look on his face: surprise, disbelief, and something almost overwhelmed, fills the screen as he takes in the decorations, the lights, the presents waiting beneath the tree.

"Oh my god... It's incredible. I can't believe this," Michael says on the video.

Next to you, he smiles, squeezing your hand again as if the feeling from that day is still sitting just beneath the surface.

"They decorated the entire house," Michael says, and you can hear it in his voice, even now, how much that moment stayed with him. On the screen, he moves slowly through the space, taking everything in like he doesn't want to miss a single detail, like he's trying to understand something entirely new all at once.

You watch yourself point out the presents, your voice explaining which ones are his, your excitement clear even through the grain of the footage, and it brings another smile to your face as you remember how much you wanted him to enjoy it, to feel it the way you did.

"At the same time, it was exciting, and I felt so guilty too. I remember going to the bathroom and crying later because I felt I had done something wrong, because I was raised not to ever celebrate it," Michael says, his voice quieter now, more reflective, and you feel your hand tighten gently around his in response, instinctive and immediate.

He glances at you for just a moment, that familiar look passing between you, before he turns back toward the camera.

"And she was so good to me that day... she reminded me that I wasn't doing anything wrong, and reminded me that Christmas is a celebration of love. I still felt a little guilty, but she helped ease that for me, and let me know that it was okay," Michael says.

You turn your head slightly toward him, your smile softening as you take in the way he says it, the sincerity that never fades, no matter how many years have passed since that moment.

The video continues on, Michael opening his gifts, and the energy in the room shifts into something lighter, something playful that feels almost effortless after the emotional weight of everything that came before. You watch as he unwraps them on the screen, his reactions just as genuine as you remember, the quiet surprise turning into something brighter when he realizes what he's holding.

Two super-soakers.

Even now, sitting beside him, you can feel the memory before it fully plays out, the way that moment turned into something much bigger than just a gift, the way it carried forward into the rest of the day like it always did with him, turning something small into something unforgettable.

On the screen, he makes the joke, already leaning into it.

"If you're wondering why I love Super Soakers so much, it's because if you come to Neverland, it's a rule that you are bound to get wet," Michael says.

You turn your head toward him immediately, your eyebrow lifting without you even thinking about it, because you know exactly where that sentence could go, and sure enough, he turns to you at the same moment. The second his eyes meet your expression, recognition flashes across his face, followed by that familiar laugh that always comes when the two of you land in the same unspoken place at the same time.

You shake your head, already trying to hide the reaction you know is coming.

"By being thrown in the pool," he continues.

Your face burns instantly, the heat rising before you can stop it, and you turn away from him, refusing to give him the full reaction you know he's looking for, even though the memory behind it plays just as clearly in your mind as it does for him. The way he laughs again beside you only makes it worse, because you can feel the shared understanding sitting between you, a private joke that no one else in the room fully gets, no matter how much they laugh along with him.

You can still hear it in his laugh, the way it lingers just a second longer when it's something that belongs only to the two of you.

The cameras cut for a moment, then shift back to production, subtly but noticeably as someone steps forward, asking Michael if there's a direction he wants to go in next. The room settles again, quieter now, waiting.

He doesn't hesitate. He says he wants to go back to the beginning, to talk more about how the two of you met.

And just like that, everything pulls backward, the warmth of the present blending into something older, something that reaches all the way back to the early 80s, where all of this really started.

thriller

The videos of the rehearsals for Thriller start to play, and the moment the familiar footage fills the screen, something soft and warm settles in your chest. You recognize it instantly: not just the choreography or the setting, but the feeling of it, the beginning of something that neither of you fully understood at the time. You smile without even thinking about it, your body leaning slightly into Michael's as the memory pulls you back.

"We met when I was hired to star in the Thriller video with Michael, as the love interest," you say. Michael chuckles beside you, the sound low and familiar, already colored with the memory of it.

"We probably rehearsed for hours and hours every day... because I wanted to get it right, of course, but also because I wanted to spend more time with her. First day that I saw her, she was beautiful... she still is, obviously, but she made me so nervous," Michael says.

You feel the smile deepen at that, the memory of how it actually felt settling in alongside what he's saying now.

"That's why he wanted to rehearse all the time, he knew that was his best way of communicating with me, by letting me fully see him in his element," you say.

Michael lifts his hand slightly, pointing toward the screen as the footage shifts, and you follow it as it cuts to the dance studio, the two of you there with John Landis. The energy of it comes through even now, focused but playful, structured but alive in a way that felt different from anything else you had done before. The scene of you both practicing the moment where you leave the movie theater plays out, the choreography still familiar, still easy to follow.

"John told me I was going too fast, but I was just so nervous... I mean, look at her, she's beautiful, who wouldn't make a few missteps?" Michael says.

Heat rises in your cheeks before you can stop it, and you shake your head lightly, smiling as you watch the footage continue. You can see it so clearly now, the way John keeps correcting him, telling him not to move too far ahead of you, the way the two of you move through the choreography, and underneath it, something quieter, something that hadn't been obvious in the moment but feels undeniable now.

The camera catches the way Michael is looking at you as you stand just in front of him.

His expression is softened, his focus entirely on you in a way that stands out even against everything else happening in the room. It's a look you've come to know over the years, one that has never really changed, but seeing it there, that early, something about it shifts your understanding of when this all really started.

You feel it more than you react to it, but beside you, Michael notices it too. You can tell by the way he smiles. "From that day... I knew she was the one for me," he says.

You turn your head toward him, the words catching you just slightly off guard, even now. "Really?" you ask.

He nods without hesitation.

"Doing Thriller rehearsals with you was some of the most fun I've had in my life, and you didn't treat me like Michael Jackson... you treated me normally, like I was just some regular costar on a regular job," he says.

You both laugh at that, because it's true, because that was exactly how you approached it without ever thinking twice about it.

"But that's what I've always admired about her, that I can just be myself with her, not a popstar, not a performer, or an entertainer... just hers," Michael says.

The way he says it settles deeper than the words themselves, and you lean over without thinking, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, your hand brushing lightly against his arm as you do.

the grammys

The video shifts again, moving forward, and this time you recognize it immediately.

The night of the 1984 Grammys.

By then, everything had already changed between the two of you. You were officially together, months into something that had already started to root itself in ways neither of you was questioning anymore. It was also the first time the world would see you together like that, stepping into something public that had, until then, been yours.

"Oh, and this is on the way to the Grammys... I had gotten a record 13... I think 13 nominations for Thriller, and uh... so I didn't know what was going to happen," Michael says.

On the screen, the car door opens, and he steps out first, the blue and gold of his outfit catching the light immediately, the sunglasses adding that extra layer of composure he always carried in public. Then he turns back toward the car, reaching inside, and your attention shifts fully to the moment you remember just as clearly.

He's reaching for you.

You watch as he helps you out, his hand steady, familiar even then, and as you step into frame, your gold dress catches the light in a way that almost mirrors his, the two of you visually connected before anything is even said.

You glance at him beside you, and he's already smiling, the same smile that's on his face in the footage, like the moment exists in both places at once.

"Michael insisted we match that night," you say with a smile. He laughs softly, shaking his head.

"We were going public for the first time as a couple... I just wanted to look good next to her... I mean, look at her. She's outshining me in that dress," Michael says.

You roll your eyes, but the smile stays, lingering as you watch the two of you on the screen, moving through that moment like it was just another step forward, even though it meant so much more than that.

You were both so young then.

And sitting here now, watching it all play back, it's impossible not to feel the weight of everything that came after, everything that built from moments just like that, when the world was just starting to catch up to something the two of you had already begun to understand.

The video shows Bill coming up next to you, holding Emmanuel Lewis, and the moment he appears on the screen, both you and Michael react at the same time, smiling as you greet him in the footage. It's easy, natural, the kind of interaction that didn't feel significant in the moment but now feels like part of something much bigger when you see it again. The scene continues, shifting fluidly into the two of you being guided through the back entrance of the Grammys, the energy changing as you step into a room filled with other stars and celebrities, conversations overlapping, people moving, attention constantly shifting.

On the screen, people come up to Michael one after another, greeting him, congratulating him, drawn to him in a way that feels almost constant, and you're there beside him, being greeted too, included in the moment but still new to the scale of it. Watching it now, you realize how much of that night blurred together at the time, how much you were just trying to take in without fully understanding what you were stepping into.

But then you notice something you hadn't noticed that night.

Even with all of that attention, all of those people coming up to him, Michael never fully lets you out of his awareness. The camera catches it over and over again in a way that feels impossible to miss now. He'll be mid-conversation, smiling, responding to someone, and then his eyes shift just slightly, searching across the room until they land on you. He watches for a moment, just long enough to make sure you're okay, that you're comfortable, that you're not overwhelmed, before he turns back to whoever is speaking to him.

And then he does it again, and again. The pattern is so consistent that once you see it, you can't unsee it, and something about it settles deep in your chest.

"I never noticed how much you were checking on me that night," you say to him. Michael turns to you, that soft smile already there, like he doesn't need to think about the answer.

"I knew you weren't used to that level of fame yet... and it was our first public appearance together. I had to make sure you were okay, or if you felt uncomfortable, I needed to make sure I was nearby so I could intervene if I needed to," Michael says.

You smile at that, because it fits him so completely, because it's exactly who he is, even when no one else is paying attention.

The video shifts again, moving into a lighter moment, and the change in tone is immediate. Chuck Berry appears, and before you can even fully process it, the footage shows him lifting you up in his arms, your laughter spilling out freely, Michael's blending with yours in a way that fills the space around it. Sitting there now, you shake your head, laughing along with it, the memory just as vivid as the image on the screen.

Then the scene cuts again, moving forward as you and Michael are escorted further into the building, the movement more focused now as everything leads toward the main event.

"Now we're on our way to go inside the building. Emmanuel tried to go up under her dress," Michael says. The footage switches again, showing you and Michael standing together as you wait to be led into the audience area, Emmanuel beside you, small and curious, his attention clearly fixed on your dress as he plays with the fabric.

"He's a flirt... see, I liked her, well, she was my girl officially at this point, and because of that Emmanuel liked her too, but he knew she was mine," Michael says with a smile.

The video shifts once more, the two of you walking hand-in-hand toward your seats, the movement steady, connected, natural in a way that feels grounding even in that environment.

"Oh, here's us walking in," Michael says.

You watch it carefully this time, noticing things you hadn't allowed yourself to fully process back then, the scale of it all coming into sharper focus as the moment plays out again.

"I remember being slightly overwhelmed because when we walked in, there was a tumultuous applause for Michael. People were really excited... I think it was then that I realized just how big Michael was. I mean, I knew Thriller's sales had done amazing, especially once his short films got in heavy rotation on MTV, but this night... this was when it really hit me," you say.

As the words leave you, you feel his attention shift again, the same quiet concern returning to his expression as he looks at you. He knows what that felt like for you, knows that even though you were already established in your own right, this was something different entirely. His world existed at a scale that few people ever truly understood, and bringing you into it, even gently, even carefully, was still a lot.

Over the years, you've learned how to move within it, how to hold your own without losing yourself, but he's never stopped being aware of it, never stopped watching for the moments where it might feel like too much.

The video changes again, moving into the aftermath of the Grammys, showing Michael with his eight awards, standing with Quincy Jones, the significance of the night captured in every frame. The camera then shifts to you both on the carpet, flashes going off, paparazzi calling out questions, asking if the two of you are together, trying to define something that, at that point, was already real long before they saw it.

And then it ends.

The screen settles, the moment fading out, and beside you, Michael turns his head, looking at you with that same softness that has never really changed.

"I don't think I would've gotten through that night without you. Everything was so big and overwhelming, and you kept me calm through it," Michael says. Then he turns toward the camera, his voice steady, but the meaning behind it deeper than what's being shown.

"And that's what she's always done... in the moments where things felt too big, too loud: award shows, tours, anytime we've gone out in public, she's always been my peace through it all," Michael says as he kisses your temple.

The gesture is gentle, instinctive, something he's done countless times before, but sitting there now, with everything you've just watched, it carries the weight of every moment that led up to it.

bad rehearsals

The next segment you guys do is when Michael was making his Bad short film, and the second, the footage begins to shift, you feel the change in yourself before you even fully process what you're looking at. Your smile comes first, instinctive, but underneath it, there's something deeper, something layered, because the Bad sessions weren't just another era for you. They were complicated. They were beautiful, yes, but they were also one of the few times where you genuinely didn't know if the two of you were going to make it to the altar and the life you had planned together.

You sit there, watching it unfold on the screen, and the memories don't come back in pieces; they come all at once. Michael had been completely consumed during that time. The studio, the sessions, the short films, the pressure of following Thriller, all of it pulling him deeper and deeper into himself until there were moments where you could feel the distance even when you were standing right in front of him. It wasn't intentional, you knew that even then, but that didn't make it easier to live through.

You had your own work happening at the same time, filming two movies back to back, your schedule just as demanding in its own way, but there were moments where it felt like you were the only one trying to bridge the gap. Missed phone calls that you waited on longer than you should have, promises to visit your set that never quite happened, nights where you told yourself you understood, and others where you didn't.

The anniversary dinner you had flown home for plays through your mind just as clearly as anything on the screen now, the quiet disappointment of sitting there without him because he had lost track of time in the studio again.

There had been arguments. Real ones. Not the kind that fade away easily, but the kind that force you to question whether love is enough when life starts pulling you in opposite directions.

And yet, sitting here now, you know how that story ends. You know what you fought through, what you chose, and what you built anyway. You love the record. You're proud of him in a way that runs deeper than just admiration, because you saw what it took out of him to create it.

The video switches from the finished Bad short film into rehearsal footage, and everything in you shifts again, the heaviness giving way to something lighter, something familiar that pulls a completely different reaction out of you. Your eyes light up instantly, and Michael notices it before you even say anything.

He turns toward you, already laughing. "God, she loves these rehearsals," Michael says. You laugh with him, because it's true, because it always has been. "This is at rehearsal at the Helmsey Palace, choreographing it," he says, his voice carrying that same ease as he watches himself on the screen.

You both turn your attention back to the footage, but this time it's different. This isn't just something you remember emotionally; it's something you remember physically, vividly, down to the smallest detail. You bite your lip slightly as you watch him move across the screen, your memory filling in everything the footage doesn't show.

You had gotten a break from set that day and came to see him, something you didn't do as often as you wanted during that time because of how busy both of you were. But that day, you made it happen. And now you're watching him exactly as he was then—the black slacks, the orange shirt half tucked in like he had been moving too much to care about fixing it, the tie hanging loose in a way that felt more like an afterthought than part of the outfit.

But it was never just the clothes, it was his hair.

Even now, sitting beside him years later, you feel the same reaction rise up in you as you watch those curls, messy from sweat, falling in every direction from how hard he had been working. There had always been something about his curls that undid you completely, but that day, seeing him like that, fully in his element, lost in the music and the movement, it had been almost impossible to look at him without feeling it.

And you remember that night just as clearly.

"You're just so handsome, I can't take it," you say as you shake your head.

Michael laughs immediately, the sound full and warm, because he remembers it too. He remembers exactly when you said it, exactly how you looked at him when you did.

"We had two days to choreograph, and I love that pressure," Michael said.

You let out a quiet breath as you continue watching, your eyes still fixed on the screen, but your thoughts slipping between then and now so easily it almost feels like you're in both places at once.

"You should grow your hair out like that again, or bring the curls back," you say.

He turns to you, smiling in that way that already tells you he's about to play into it. "Curls for my girl?" he says.

You both laugh, the moment soft and easy, and he squeezes your hand before lifting it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles that feels just as natural as everything else between you. You nod, already smiling, and he laughs again before giving in.

"Just for you," he says.

You laugh at that, the promise light but meaningful in the way he always makes even small things feel intentional.

"The fans want it too, a few letters addressed to me said, 'Could you ask Michael if he'd wear his hair curly again? We miss the curls. That's a loose paraphrase," you say.

That pulls another laugh out of him, louder this time, and you can see the shift in him as he processes it, the realization settling in as his cheeks begin to warm just slightly. He hadn't realized how much people noticed it, how much they held onto something as simple as that.

And sitting there beside him, you can't help but smile a little more, because you knew. You always knew.

your birthday

The video changes again, and the second the image shifts, recognition settles in before anything else, a quiet warmth rising in your chest as you realize exactly which day this is. You smile without thinking, the memory already beginning to take shape, but before you can fully sink into it, the camera crew shifts slightly, adjusting to capture Michael as he begins to narrate.

"We had a day for my wife... we don't celebrate birthdays really, so we created these days, originally for our father and mother, but I wanted to do it for my wife too... and I got everyone together at Neverland, and we gave speeches on how we feel about her, gave her presents," Michael says.

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks almost immediately, the memory of that day carrying the same overwhelming feeling it had back then, because it had never been something you expected, never something you were prepared for in the way he had done it.

"Yeah, I was only used to having these days for Joseph and Katherine, but this was in '91, my 30th birthday, and that's why he wanted to do it, since 30 is a milestone age technically," you say.

Michael smiles beside you, and on the screen, the footage continues, pulling both of you back into that day completely. You see Joe with Bubbles, the image almost surreal even now, and then it shifts to you and Janet walking together, your arms wrapped around each other as you head toward one of the rides. The ease between you and her is obvious, something that had formed quickly and never really left.

Michael smiles as he watches it.

"If there's one person who thinks they love my wife more than me, it's Janet. Janet was 17 when I brought her to meet the family, and she was immediately joined to her hip," Michael says.

You laugh, the memory of that first meeting coming back clearly, the curiosity, the warmth, the way Janet had taken to you without hesitation.

"She was so surprised Michael was bringing a girl home, she wanted to know everything about me," you say.

Michael's smile lingers, deeper now.

"My whole family loves her... adores her, really, and who wouldn't? Oh, that ride," Michael says, pointing toward the screen. "There are two names for it. The spider and the puke bucket," Michael says as he laughs.

The video switches to you and Janet standing nearby, her arm wrapped around your shoulders, her other hand pressed against her forehead in mock dread, and you can't help but laugh again at the sight of it.

"I don't think Janet got on this; she's just a little chicken," Michael says.

You laugh as the footage cuts to him on the ride, the motion chaotic and fast, and then suddenly his hat goes flying off, disappearing out of frame in a way that makes it impossible not to react.

The video shifts again, slowing down as it moves to Katherine and Joe sitting together on a bench, Joe holding a container of popcorn, the moment quieter, more grounded.

"Here's my mother and father sitting together, which is a great shot. It's fantastic. My mother had pulled me aside later and said how sweet it was for me to do this for my wife. Mother has always loved her, from the moment they met," Michael says with a smile.

You feel your face warm again at that, the weight of it settling in, because you remember that conversation too, the way Katherine had looked at you, the way it had felt to be accepted so fully, so genuinely.

The camera pans again, briefly catching two of Michael's nephews playing together before shifting back, finding you once more. You're walking just ahead of the bench where Joe and Katherine are sitting, and when you notice the camera, you turn toward it, smiling easily before doing a small spin, holding the lens in your gaze like it's second nature.

Beside you, Michael's attention sharpens, the reaction immediate and unmistakable.

"Look at her, she's so beautiful. She's like me, she loves the camera," Michael says.

On the screen, you blow a kiss toward the camera, playful and effortless, and next to you, Michael laughs, the sound filled with something softer beneath it.

"That was always my favorite part," he says.

The footage returns briefly to Joe and Katherine before finding you again, this time walking hand-in-hand with Michael, the cameraman following just behind you. The connection between you is easy, unforced, something that doesn't need to be explained to be understood.

"That's us... I think we're headed toward the movie theater to see the magic show," Michael says.

His smile widens as the footage continues, catching the moment he twirls you mid-step, the movement spontaneous, playful, something that feels entirely like him.

Inside the theater, the camera finds you again, and this time you're holding two ice cream bars, one in each hand, completely unbothered by it, completely yourself.

"Two ice creams, that's her. My baby loves to eat, and I like that too... You know the industry can be so mean to women about their image, their body, and how they look. I've always tried to encourage her, give her affirmations, and make sure she knows I love her no matter what. I love that she's never been self-conscious about eating," Michael says.

The sincerity in his voice lands immediately, and you feel it settle somewhere deeper, enough that you instinctively press your face slightly against his shoulder, turning away from the camera just a bit, the attention suddenly feeling heavier than it did a moment ago.

"Oh, she's getting shy, I can't help it. I just love bragging about her," Michael says.

His voice carries that same warmth, that same pride, and even as you try to hide from it just a little, you can feel it surrounding you completely.

hospital visit

Michael points to the screen as it changes to footage of the two of you visiting children's hospitals, and the shift in the room is immediate, quieter in a different way than before, more grounded, more intentional. The laughter from the previous moments settles into something softer as the images come into focus: hallways, small rooms, children sitting up in beds or gathered together, their attention lifting the second you and Michael step into the space.

"In between concerts and for her movies, whenever we have time off, we always visit hospitals and orphanages, and we do it from our hearts. She's amazing with children, and they all light up whenever she walks in the room," he says.

You laugh as you lift your head from where it had rested lightly against him, the reaction automatic, because you've heard him say things like that before, and you've never quite been able to take it at face value the way he means it.

"No, they light up because Michael Jackson is visiting them," you say.

Michael shakes his head immediately, the disagreement just as instinctive as your deflection.

"They light up because of you, too, look... look at how that girl is smiling at you," he says, pointing toward the screen.

You follow his hand, your attention settling on the footage, and there it is, exactly what he's talking about. A girl, a little older than some of the others, is watching you with this open, unguarded smile that feels almost too bright for the room she's in. It pulls something deep in your chest, something familiar, something that never quite gets easier, no matter how many times you do this.

You smile as you watch, because you do love these moments. You always have. Being able to walk into those rooms with him, to give those kids even a small piece of joy in the middle of something so heavy, something so unfair, it's always meant more than anything else you could do publicly.

But there's always that other part too: the part that stays with you long after you leave, the part that follows you home.

Throughout the years, you've made it a habit to check in quietly, to ask about the kids after the visits are over, wanting to know who made it, who got better, who went home. And for the ones who didn't... You never talked about it publicly, never made it something to be seen, but you made sure their families didn't have to carry that burden alone. Funeral arrangements were taken care of quietly, anonymously, the only thing that mattered being that they were given dignity and care even in the end.

The footage continues, and your voice brings you back into the moment.

"Oh, this was an older girl, early teen... she asked me if being married to Michael Jackson is as magical as it seems because of how sweet he is, and I told her it's more," you say.

Michael's attention shifts to you immediately, the softness in his expression deepening as he takes that in, like the words settle somewhere he feels them more than hears them. He leans over without hesitation, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, something brief but full, before turning his attention back to the screen.

On the footage, he's sitting with a little boy now, the two of them talking, the boy's attention shifting suddenly as he points toward you, smiling in a way that feels just as bright as the girl's did earlier. Michael laughs at something the boy says, and even without hearing it clearly, you can already tell what kind of moment it is.

"Oh, he was trying to steal my girl," Michael teases. You laugh, the sound lighter again as the moment unfolds. "He was! He had asked me if you were my girlfriend, and when I told him you were my wife, he said you're really pretty, and when he gets better, I have some competition," Michael says.

You laugh again, the image of it playing out on the screen matching perfectly with the way he's describing it, the innocence of it making the moment feel even more real.

"The kids are always so sweet, it warms my heart to see them," you say.

Michael smiles beside you, the warmth in his expression lingering as the footage continues, both of you watching quietly for a moment, the meaning of it all settling in without needing to be said out loud.

vacation

The video changes to some clips of the two of you in other countries, the colors brighter, the energy lighter, and you can feel the shift immediately. There's a looseness to these moments, something freer than the structured chaos of tours and events, and even now, watching it back, you remember how rare it was to get time like that together.

"When we get time off, it's a rarity in the first place; it's a real rarity, we always end our tours in the fun places, like Florida, we stay at the Playboy Club hotel, the bunnies walking around serving you... not that I ever looked at them," Michael says as he looks at you.

You meet his gaze with a playful look, one that carries years of shared teasing behind it, because you already know exactly what he's doing.

"I told him if he even glanced at them for a second too long, he would have to pay for it," you say.

Michael laughs, shaking his head as the two of you turn your attention back to the screen, the ease between you settling naturally into place as the footage shifts again, moving into another memory entirely.

"The footage you see now is my wife and me... at this time, we were still dating. We're on a speedboat at Disney World. I actually proposed to her on this vacation. We had so much fun there, we did everything. We did hot air balloons, and we fed turtles," Michael says.

You watch the footage carefully, the movement of the boat, the way the wind catches your hair, the sound of your laughter blending with his, and it all feels so close, like you could reach out and step back into it. That trip had felt different, even before you knew why. There had been something building beneath it, something you couldn't quite name at the time, but looking back now, it makes perfect sense.

The video shifts to the dinner, the lighting softer now, more intimate, and beside you, Michael's entire expression changes the moment he sees it.

"Oh, this is the proposal... I had asked Janet if she would record the moment, but not to be seen, so it wouldn't give away what I was doing," Michael says.

Then he turns to you, and the way he looks at you pulls you out of the footage and into the present all at once. "You looked so beautiful that night, and I was so nervous," he says.

You smile, the memory sitting just as vividly in your chest as it does on the screen. "Did you think I was going to say no?" you tease.

He laughs softly, shaking his head. "No, but I was nervous I was going to mess up what I wanted to say to you before I asked the question," he says.

You laugh with him, because you remember that too, the way his voice had wavered just slightly, the way his hands had been steady but his eyes had given him away completely. On the screen, the moment plays out again, your reaction is immediate and emotional, your yes comes without hesitation as he pulls you into his arms.

Watching it now, you feel it all over again, the disbelief, the certainty, the overwhelming feeling of knowing your life had just shifted most permanently.

"I was crying like a baby when I realized he was proposing. I couldn't believe it. The easiest yes I've ever said," you say. Michael's hand tightens around yours, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as the footage changes again, moving forward into something even more significant.

Your wedding, right there at Neverland. "Oh, the wedding," you say with a smile as the footage begins.

Michael smiles too, but there's something softer in it now, something deeper, his eyes settling on the screen as the moment unfolds.

"We had the wedding here at Neverland, just my family and hers... she looks so beautiful in her dress, look at her. This was between the first and second leg of Bad Tour," Michael says.

You watch yourself appear at the top of the aisle, your dress flowing around you, your father beside you, his arm steady and grounding in a moment that feels almost too big to hold. The camera captures everything—the emotion, the anticipation, the weight of what you're stepping into.

"There's her late father... walking her down the aisle, everyone was crying. He was, she was, I was... when I saw her at the top of the aisle with her Dad, I couldn't hold it back anymore, I just cried so hard," Michael says.

The footage zooms in, catching Michael as he stands at the altar, the tears already falling before you've even taken your first full step toward him.

"And seeing him cry made me cry," you say. The memory settles deeper as you watch it, the way everything felt amplified in that moment, every emotion sitting right at the surface with nothing to hide it.

"It was overwhelming, in a good way. As she was coming down the aisle, I just remember thinking that I couldn't believe she had said yes, and she was choosing to spend her life with me, and I couldn't believe how lucky I was to have someone like her who loves me so genuinely, who gets to see a side of me that not everyone gets to see, and she protects that," Michael says.

His words don't just sit in the air: they land, fully, and you feel it in your chest as your eyes begin to water, the emotion rising without resistance. It's not just what he's saying, it's how he says it, the truth in it, the way it reflects everything you've lived together.

"And now here we are, 15 years of marriage and 20 total years together," you say as you turn to look at him. At the same time, he turns to you. The timing is effortless, like it always has been, like you've been moving in sync for years without needing to think about it.

"I wouldn't change anything," he says to you.

You smile, leaning toward him, the space between you closing naturally. "Neither would I," you say softly.

Michael leans in, and you meet him halfway, your lips coming together in a kiss that feels quiet and grounding, something that belongs entirely to the two of you. For a moment, everything else fades: the cameras, the crew, the fact that any of this is being recorded, and when you pull away, you're both still smiling, still looking at each other, both of you caught in the weight of everything you've built over the past twenty years.

When you remember the cameras are still around, the cameraman cues the two of you to film the closing, and the shift back into that awareness happens quietly, like stepping out of something deeply personal and back into something being shared. Michael smiles, that familiar calm settling over him as he turns toward the camera, his hand still wrapped around yours like he hasn't let go of you for a second.

"You've seen a lot of footage tonight of my life, my joys, my happiness, you know, um... but what you're gonna see now is what I'm most proud of," Michael says.

You turn to him, your eyebrows lifting slightly, curiosity settling in because you don't know what he chose, and there's a small part of you that's suddenly unsure of what's about to play.

Then the music starts.

Butterflies plays over the footage, soft, smooth, and familiar in a way that immediately pulls something deeper from you, and as the first new footage begins to play, you realize very quickly that this isn't like anything that came before.

It's you, not posed, not aware, or not performing in any way, just you.

The first clip shows you standing in the bathroom, dressed in an evening gown, your attention focused on your reflection as you apply your makeup. The lighting is warm, slightly dim, and you can see the way you move without thinking, swaying slightly. You're dancing, soft and absent-minded, completely lost in the music, completely unaware that Michael had been standing there, capturing it.

The memory hits you instantly. You were listening to the Bad album as you were getting ready for the Oscars that night, the excitement, the nerves, the comfort of putting on his music to steady yourself, and the fact that you never noticed him filming makes something in your chest tighten just slightly.

Then, the footage shifts.

Now you're in the kitchen, moving around with the same ease, making breakfast, the light coming in differently this time, softer, calmer. Again, you're dancing, small movements, barely noticeable unless someone is watching closely, but Michael had been watching. Recording. Keeping it.

You recognize this moment, too.

Right after your honeymoon, when everything still felt new in a different way, when you had just returned to Neverland before he left again for the second leg of the Bad tour. There had been a quiet happiness in those days, something simple and unspoken, and seeing it now, through his eyes, makes it feel even more intimate than it did at the time.

The video changes again, and this time, it's older. The early 80s.

You're sitting with his nephews, a book open in your hands as you read to them, your voice unheard but the moment clear in every other way. They're gathered close to you, two on both sides of you, leaning against your shoulders, a third nestled between your legs, resting back against you, all of them focused, listening, completely at ease in your presence.

Beside you, you feel Michael shift slightly, and when you glance at him, you see the smile already there, softer than anything he's shown all night.

"I love and adore my wife, she's my everything... and this moment, seeing her reading to my nephews before they went to bed, this was when I knew I wanted to marry her, and have a family with her," Michael says.

Your eyes begin to water almost immediately, the emotion rising without warning as more footage begins to play, each clip pulling something deeper from you.

These were moments you didn't know he had. You, sitting quietly and reading. You, sketching something at the table, completely focused. You, curled up on the couch watching TV, eating a snack, unaware of anything but the moment you were in. You, dancing again, always dancing when his music played, something you never seemed to realize you did as often as you did.

And then even you when you're sleeping. You looked peaceful, still, and captured in a way that doesn't feel intrusive, just... careful and intentional. He wanted to remember you exactly as you were in those quiet, unguarded moments.

You can't even be embarrassed by it, not really, because the way he chose them, the way he framed them, they don't feel exposed. They feel... loved.

"I love my wife very much, and I'm so proud to be her husband," Michael says.

The footage comes to a close, the screen dimming slightly as the moment settles, and when he turns to look at you, your eyes are already full, the tears slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them.

"I'm very proud to be your wife, Michael," you say after the cameras cut.

The shift happens quickly after that, the crew beginning to move, equipment being adjusted and packed away, voices lowering as they start to file out. Michael thanks each of them as they pass, his attention still warm, still present even as the moment winds down. The director lets you know that the final edit will be sent over for approval before anything airs, and then just like that, the room empties.

Leaving the two of you alone.

The quiet that follows feels different from before, heavier in the best way, filled with everything you just experienced together.

Michael turns toward you, his hand lifting gently to tuck a piece of your hair behind your ear, the gesture slow, careful, like he's grounding you back into the moment.

"You did good, baby... are you feeling okay?" he asks. You nod, leaning into him instinctively, your body settling against his as you take a deep breath, trying to steady the emotions still moving through you.

"That was so beautiful... to see our memories like that, everything we've built over the last two decades," you say. He smiles as he looks at you, that same softness still there, still present in the way he holds your gaze.

"Every single moment I've spent with you has been so wonderful," he says as he kisses your temple.

You sniffle, unable to stop the wave of emotion that hits you again, stronger this time, and before you can fully pull yourself back together, you feel his fingers gently lift your chin, his thumb brushing away the tears from your cheeks.

He leans in and kisses you, and you kiss him back a little harder, holding onto him, grounding yourself in the familiarity of him, in the way he's always been able to steady you just by being there.

When you part, your breathing is uneven for a moment, both of you trying to settle again, and you let your head rest against his shoulder, closing your eyes as the feeling of it all finally begins to soften into something calmer.

"I love you, Michael," you say softly.

"I love you more, baby... come on, let's go back to the house," he says.

You nod, lifting your head as you both stand from the theater seats, and he keeps you close as you make your way out, his arm steady around you, the connection between you as natural as it's ever been.

You're glad for today.

For the way it let you see everything again, not just as memories, but as something living, something still growing even after all these years. Seeing where it started, how it changed, how it held through everything, it only makes one thing clearer.

Twenty years later, you love Michael more than you ever thought possible, and Michael feels the same. To him, you're more than just his wife.

You're the other half of his soul.

it was a rainy morning, dark clouds had covered the sky, and the atmosphere was melancholic. you had just stepped out of the book cafe you usually went to study or read in, it was a hidden gem in the ever-crowded streets of new york city, usually quiet and peaceful. this time, you’d just paid a visit to buy a drink with some pastries.

today’s gloomy weather felt right to you, somehow, it spoke to your soul and fit your mood. you’d stuffed the pastries you’d bought into your bag, and you were going to walk around a little bit, holding your drink in one hand, your umbrella in the other. you thought you might sit somewhere, maybe go to a park after walking for twenty or so minutes, you enjoyed the smell of rain mixing with earth to bring life to the world.

and that’s when you saw him.

he was standing at the other side of the road, wearing a simple hoodie, getting wet from the rain. an expression on his face as gloomy as the weather. he’d grown, his face had taken a sharper shape, his hair had curled on the tips from meeting with water.

peter parker, the boy from your ap chemistry class, from days long forgotten, and much less destructive.

you froze, your gaze set on his face, which had been painted in subtle and few scars, and bent downward from either the rain getting into his eyes, or life. the regular noise of the city was reduced to background buzzing in your ears, all the pedestrians walking past you, and the people waiting to cross roads around peter had turned blurry and faceless, the cars passing by had become trails of colors. the boy, or perhaps now man, you had just noticed, was someone you’d never thought you’d see again.

peter parker had been the smartest student in the class you took together, you used to keep notes and read ahead before every lesson, and he’d come sleep-deprived, busy himself with unrelated trinkets, and answer every unexpected question coming his way correctly. later, when you learned that he was spiderman, you realised he must’ve been so tired and out-of-it every day for saving lives and fighting crime.

you had learned of his superhero activities, like everyone else in the world. you didn’t use to see him outside of your shared lecture hours, not because you were actively avoiding him, fate just hadn’t coincided a conversation between you two. after you’d passed the course and stopped seeing peter entirely, you hadn’t busied your mind with thoughts of him, until that incident with mysterio. learning that he’d been trying to help people every step of the way, back when you used to see him, had changed your view of him.

and then, suddenly, no one remembered anymore. you saw it all happen. you saw the sky shatter and shadows watch the earth through its cracks. you saw what you could only describe as hundreds of aliens preying on your planet. you knew spiderman fought to save the world from their clutches. yet when it was all over, no one remembered the hell-torn skies. or peter parker.

no one remembered he was spiderman. no one remembered he was peter parker. no one remembered peter parker was. no one from your old high school, not even his best friend, not even his girlfriend. they all looked at you as if you spoke of a ghost, he was a painted over memory, he’d escaped from the weak grasps of the growing brains of the youth and the ever-tired minds of the grown.

he’d even escaped from records and photos, like how short-lived cherry blossoms disappeared in a week, as if trees had never been pink. like how spring never lasted. you’d questioned whether you’d made him up, if something was wrong with you. but how could you make up a whole person, that you simply never had a relationship with? he wasn’t an imaginary friend, he had never been a friend.

trying to catch a glimpse of his existence had been like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. and yet, now, he was standing right in front of you, waiting to cross roads. waiting to come towards you.

the lights turned green for pedestrians, and peter snapped out of his stillness, he gained motion, he slowly came closer. people around you made noises indicating they were annoyed at your inaction, but you could barely hear any of them. you were focused completely on one person only.

he crossed the road, and started walking the opposite way from where you had been nailed to the ground, unable to take your eyes off him.

no, don’t go. i must know. i must talk.

you ran after him, forcefully making yourself a way amongst bodies covered in layers of clothing. you closed your umbrella, so it wouldn’t get tangled in others’. you caught up to peter, and grabbed his arm.

he turned instantly, gripping your arm in return, a shocked expression on his face, ready to take you down, had you posed a threat. he looked into your eyes; questioning, confused, hesitant… sorrowful? how had he grown so solemn? how had he lived forgotten?

“peter?” you asked, “peter parker? is that you?”

his eyes widened, grip loosened, lips parted. he looked completely dumbfounded, drops of water dripping down strands of his hair, and the tip of his nose. he searched for something in your eyes, just silently thinking. trying to process, you assumed.

he opened his mouth to talk, and his breath hitched.

“you…” he started, seemingly talking feeling like labor to him, “you know who i am?”

you couldn’t help giving him a sincere smile, he really was peter parker. the boy from your class who was remembered by no one. he was real.

“i was in the same ap chemistry class as you in high school,” you explained, he might not have remembered you, as you’d never interacted outside of topics regarding course materials, “if you don’t remember.”

“no, no,” said peter, his voice still laced with shock, and a tune that dropped a tiny piece of despair into your chest, “i remember. you were the smartest student in class.”

“that’s… debatable,” you said, your surprise clearly read from your face.

“it wasn’t,” he said, defensive, “everyone borrowed your notes, and you always had the correct answers.”

“so did you,” you said softly, the bitter taste of nostalgia repainted with a blue hue catching up to you, tightening your chest, placing a lump in your throat. “what happened, peter?” you asked, “why have you disappeared?”

peter closed his mouth, and his grip slightly hardened, he hadn’t let your arm go. you hadn’t let his go, either.

he lowered his head, and fixed his gaze on the grey stone ground. you couldn’t quite name the emotions you saw in his eyes, but they made you tear up. what must it have been like to suddenly cease existing? what must he have been through? what must he have thought, watching his chosen family from afar, like a vampire looking at a mirror, erased from his own reflection?

the cloudy weather truly felt fit for the day, maybe peter had been feeling it too, today. raindrops fell on earth like shattered glass pieces, you thought you might’ve been bleeding with your umbrella down, but peter wasn’t, was his skin thicker?

“would you like to sit down somewhere, peter?” the tale must have been long, how else could a person, and a rift in the atmosphere, be erased from the minds of billions? “like a bench at the park, or maybe my place?”

he looked deep into your eyes, thinking.

“okay,” he said at last, determination adorning his words now, “we can. we can,” he said while nodding.

“okay,” you repeated after him, and finally let his arm go.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter had been on his way to his small apartment, by himself, as always, after another long, sleepless night, that rainy morning. clouds had covered the sky, obscuring the sun, as if to match the weather inside his ribcage. the sun hadn’t shone on him since it had seen space ripped apart because of him, for his mistakes.

it was a day the same as any other; he was walking in the crowd, unseen without a mask, faceless. then, someone he hadn't sensed had touched him, must have been because no harm was intended, yet he'd felt alarmed.

a girl, he'd realized, a familiar face. that wasn't strange, he was used to seeing people he used to know, what was strange was... the look you had in your eyes, almost like you recognized him. a kind of tiny beam of light in your irises, aimed at him.

and then you called out his name.

the world tilted. he felt as if hit by a shockwave, rolling backwards, losing the tightness of his grip on reality, on you. he’d been completely dumbfounded, he could barely process what was happening. someone remembered him. you remembered him. you knew.

he looked you over again, he remembered, too. he remembered how you sat at the front seat, carefully trailing the teacher with your eyes, focus unbreakable. you didn’t use to look his way unless he was asking or answering a question related to the course, he wouldn’t think you would recognize him under normal circumstances, without happenings made foggy through magic, let alone when the whole world has left him behind. the whole multiverse.

he couldn’t get out of the shock he’d been thrown into, not even enough to wonder the why, the how, or think of the implications of the possibility that someone(s) might not have forgotten. he had been erased even from stone and paper, ink had evaporated, computers had lost their binary numbers. human memories couldn’t even be held, they must’ve been so easily broken apart and mended without wholeness again, didn’t people always forget things, anyway?

that had been hard to accept, of course. the fact that the feelings people reserved for him were fragile and unresistant, that they could be so fully erased, that they could be erased at all. but you remembered, was your mind stronger, or was it the impression he’d left on you? was it you, or him?

he hadn’t even been able to ponder if this was a good thing at all, if he should be worried, if he should accept this, how he should react. the past year had been so soul-crushing, so lonely, that after slightly getting over the initial shock that had hit him, holding back his tears had been all he could manage to do. you were wet from the rain, a drink forgotten and an umbrella folded in one of your hands, the other one holding him, looking at him expectantly, worried. you had come after him. you were holding onto him. he tightened his grip again.

you’d even wanted to talk more, to learn of his story, to listen. so he’d agreed, he suspected he would chase you on that road if you’d walked away. his chest had been closing in on his veins and heart, increasing the pressure and twisting his organs, breathing had become harder every day for the past year, he was suffocating. you’d held his arm like a tree branch offered to a drowning kid, an olive branch offered to a warring people, a willow… willows were hunched and weary, weren’t they? he was like a willow, layers of leaves covering his face, unseen.

he didn’t have anywhere to go, or anyone waiting for him. he hadn’t wanted to let you go, now that someone had finally, truly seen the shape of his face. so he had just followed you, let you draw a destination for two.

you had brought him to a small apartment, similar to his own, in an austere street lined with buildings that were short compared to the signature buildings of new york city. you’d told him you were staying there for the time being. your place, as you’d put it. the inside was much nicer than his living space, expectedly, and it contrasted with the grey view of the street from your windows and the pipe-filled outer layer of your apartment building. the floor was covered in soft carpets, the living room was filled with books, its walls covered in bookshelves, academic books left open and stationary scattered about on a table, notebooks filled with your handwriting, it was lived in.

you had taken him to the kitchen, said you’d just bought pastries and had some leftovers to reheat for him, he’d insisted it wasn’t necessary, but you’d shut him down. “how could i send my guest off on an empty stomach?” you’d asked, made him sit down at the kitchen table, and gotten to work on the countertop. the living room had smelled of a flowery incense he couldn’t name, the kitchen was now smelling of baked dough and vegetable soup, making him feel his hunger. he hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast, or during the night.

“i apologize for the mess,” you said, while putting two bowls of steamy soup on the table, “i wasn’t expecting a guest.”

“oh, no, no,” he quickly scrambled to apologize himself, “i don’t mind at all, i’m sorry for… for…” he gestured around himself, trying to find the right words. being a burden? interrupting?

“for accepting my invite? i’d say that was the polite response,” you said, finally sitting opposite to him, having brought the pastries you’d sliced and placed on plates nicely, and the fruit salad you’d quickly put together. “thank you for that, by the way.”

he didn’t know what to say, he looked down flustered, “i- of course- i mean, thank you for inviting me,” he said, gesturing towards you with his hand, a slight smile on his face. how long had it been since he last smiled? it sure didn’t feel like an every day occurrence.

you gave him back a smile that made him… feel warm. he was still on the verge of tears, he was barely holding it together, focusing on the moment, trying not to let all the overwhelming feelings leave his body.

“please, enjoy,” you said, as you slid the plates closer to him, and he nodded in gratitude. he was hungry, and looking at the warm vegetable bisque… he hadn’t eaten a homemade meal in a very, very long time, especially one that was delicious, one that was warm.

and it was delicious. it tasted like a hug, a hearthfire, a blanket. it tasted like something you would eat at your home, like something your mother would cook for you. “this is,” he started, in between spoonfuls, “this is great. you’re a good cook.”

“thank you,” you said, and then started explaining. “i roasted tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, potatoes, bell peppers, and an onion, and blended them with vegetable broth and cream, so probably the easiest way to make something like…” you trailed off as you realised peter was… crying. he was looking down on the bowl of soup in front of him, and tears were silently rolling down his cheeks, as he kept taking spoonfuls.

peter was mortified at his reaction, he quickly scrambled to wipe his face with the tissues you’d placed on the table, and apologize. you told him it was fine, and he could take however much time he needed or wanted. you let him eat and think in silence for as long as he needed, you gave him time and space as he filled his stomach with warm food and sweet fruits. he didn’t know why tears had won against his willpower this time around, considering how good he’d gotten at holding them in. he didn’t know why just eating in your kitchen, with you, had made him feel emotions overwhelming enough to rush out of him. he was embarassed, despite your reassurances. it was the first time he was meeting with you in years, the only person who still remembered him, and he had started crying over a soup. he wasn’t a teenage high schooler anymore, why was this happening?

after a silence long enough to make someone less patient uncomfortable, he finally felt he could talk, and decided to tell you everything that had happened. all of it. you were the only person who knew him now, was it wrong to want to be known fully? to be understood?

so he told you everything, from the start… from a time too early, one might’ve thought; from before he even became an avenger. there had been people in his life who knew of his journey, how he became a hero, how he became an avenger, who he fought against, who he fought with, what really happened with mysterio, and then… then aunt may’s death… then everyone else’s little deaths.

peter used to be talkative, he used to converse with even the people he was actively battling, yet telling you all he wanted made him realise it had been a long time since he’d spoken so much. so transparently, willingly. had life crushed him under a fallen bridge without him noticing? he had been feeling it, but couldn’t guess how dire his cuts and walls had been drawn.

you listened all of it, without looking away once, without looking at the time. and then, once he concluded his speech and drifted off to silence, you let it fester. it seemed as if you had a hard time proccessing everything peter had dumped on you, or maybe couldn’t find the right words to continue with. this time, peter left you in your own silence, his hands slightly shaking in nervousness. what was your reaction going to be? what were you thinking?

“i’m truly sorry,” you said at last, a rueful expression adorning your face, making you look older than you had when telling him of the soup recipe. you had grown older, peter had noticed, more beautiful. “i’m sorry about your aunt, too. i had no idea. i thought… i guess i assumed at least your family would remember you.”

“yeah,” said peter in defeat, “there is no one.”

you looked deep into his eyes, pain visible on your face, “i remember,” you said. “and now i know.”

peter sighed and put his face in between his hands, closing his eyes in despair. “there is nowhere i belong, now. i fight for this city, and… and no one cares.”

this was horrible. truly horrible. a weight had been lifted off his shoulders when you’d recognized him, listened to him, welcomed him into your home. but he also felt bothered by it, too. had being known always been so scary? he hadn’t meant to say the last bit, he hadn’t even thought that to himself before. he’d been on the verge of it, but hadn’t actually thought it. why did he say it out loud now? why did he tell you?

you took a deep breath, “a lot of people care, especially the ones you save. you’ve been making a huge difference, peter. yours can be a thankless job sometimes, but many are grateful.” you paused for a moment, “i’ve always been grateful. when i learned how you’d been fighting for people this whole time, my respect for you skyrocketed. i thought i would help you in any way i could if it ever came to that.”

peter pressed his hands harder on his eyes, he didn’t want to start crying again. he didn’t know if you realised how your words had fallen into the deepest part of his soul. it was strange, how only a few words could help people keep going, how humans could be built merely by caring, and how humans could be so worn-out that they could stop tasting without even realising.

his phone vibrated silently in his pocket, taking him out of spiraling. he sighed again, what was it now?

strong fire in a building, spreading speedily, authorities unable to protect the citizens despite doing their best. he stood up abruptly, “i should go,” he said.

“what is it? what happened?”

“fire in a tall building, i need to save those people,” he said while walking towards the door, you trailing behind him.

“okay- be careful, peter. and come back here after you’re done there, okay? even if it’s late, because i’ll wait for you, and if you don’t come back, i’ll wait until morning,” you said quickly as he was wearing his shoes, the door to your house open.

“okay,” he said, stuttering slightly, “thank you.” truly. you’ve made breathing possible for me again. thank you.

and he left you behind like that, because he never had a break. he didn’t know if he deserved a break. none of that mattered though, there were people suffering, and he couldn’t leave them behind, no matter what.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were leaning on the metal handrails of your small balcony, looking at the few people and cars that passed by the road in front of your apartment. it was desolate, compared to most of new york, but it was steadily never-ending, there never was a time when people stopped in this city. your view was made up of other grey apartments like yours, sharp corners and square shapes, nothing tasteful added to their designs. could this be good for the soul?

you looked up at the sky, to watch the stars, but as always, not many were visible. you counted four stars that could be clearly seen from your balcony. the same as yesterday. you sometimes wondered: if you could reach greater heights, would more of them shine on you? the city had offended the stars in an effort to be independent from them, brighten night time, they didn't show their faces anymore. even if they wanted to, they couldn't be seen.

peter had been shining since he was a kid; clever, kind, righteous, fair-faced in a way the cleanness of his heart had reflected on his features. how big of a loss was it for the world to be forsaken from his face? it was lucky that peter was good-hearted, for he kept showing up under a mask anyway, offering those who looked a glimpse into his light.

it was past midnight already, and peter was still nowhere to be seen. he'd left you a little past noon, the fire had been extinguished by now, and spiderman had left the premises after saving dozens of lives (that the firefighters would've been too late for, despite their best efforts), and yet, peter was nowhere to be seen. it worried you, you wished you had asked for his phone number; you'd considered asking, but decided against it, thinking he might be bothered by the request.

after you'd talked to michelle, his girlfriend, some time back, and she hadn't remembered the boy she’d been in love with, you'd been thinking of peter regularly. even if you had made him up in your mind, it had just flooded your chest with such profound sadness, that you had decided at least you would remember him, whether it would matter to him or not.

and, he was real, he was spiderman. and he’d been so lonely. graveyards had become his only sanctuary, teenage diaries and late night messages had been buried next to the corpses of anyone who'd ever taken care of him, and he did not know their hiding spots. he just wandered around graves, knowing they were somewhere under his feet, to stay there forever. if he tried to dig them out, he would be swallowed up by lava, dooming the rest of the world to a volcanic apocalypse.

it seemed like volcanos had already been erupting behind his eyes, in his lungs. the peter you remembered used to be a jolly kid.

your head perked up as you heard your doorbell ring, and quickly rushed to open the door. a smiling peter greeted you, clothing changed. he looked more put-together than he had in the morning; a clean shirt under a black jacket and denim pants, not the baggy sweats he had on before.

you welcomed him inside, and brought him to sit on your couch, in the living room.

“are you all right?” you asked, “does anywhere hurt? do you need anything?”

he hesitated for a moment, a little surprised. “no, no- it’s fine. i didn’t fight anyone, so didn’t really get injured… much. it’s fine. i took care of it.”

you looked at him in silence for a few seconds, thinking. “liar,” you said.

“what?” he said in low voice, sounding worried. did he think he’d messed up somehow?

“you gave me your word that you would come straight to me, instead you took your sweet time tending to your injuries and changing your outift? you showered too, didn’t you?”

“i… i-” he quickly started talking, and then stopped to think. that was fine, he didn’t need to rush a response, never with you. he would learn that you’d always wait for him patiently. with time, he’d become more comfortable. you assumed this must be… somewhat of an uncomfortable experience for him, after being alone for so long. “i thought-”

he didn’t know what to say, you supposed.

“did i sound mad? i’m sorry. i was just worried. i.. uh, i’d wanted to help you with your injuries and stuff, too,” you weren’t exactly used to these kinds of conversations either. “since you’re not alone anymore… and all.”

“oh…” was all he could say.

“i mean, i’m glad you’re okay, and you look great, and i don’t mind that you had some alone time before coming and all, but you could, uh, if you want to, just come straight to me as well. after a fight or whatever. and you can take care of… your stuff here,” you forced the words out, you had to take these kinds of initiatives, if you wanted to have a closer relationship with him. because he wouldn’t impose anything on you. “if you want to, of course,” you added.

“i… thank you, i would, uh, yeah,” he said. you supposed that was a positive answer.

“so, what happened?”

he recounted the fire and the struggles in detail, how he saved the people trapped, how he had to deal with the authorities after him, how he got injured (only a little, he emphasized), and then how he went home to wear something better to come back to you. he’d wanted to rid the smell of ash and soot off his skin.

“i got tired just listening to you,” you said.

he chuckled slightly, “ah, yeah, things like this happen sometimes.”

“would you like anything to eat or drink?”

“no, no. not necessary, thank you,” he said quickly, raising his hands.

“okay, just tell me if you need anything.”

“all right, thanks… again,” he had a beautiful smile, but it looked like guilt had mixed into his skin, stopping him from smiling fully, with his eyes, or eyebrows. you wanted to tell him that none of this was his fault, he wasn’t responsible for the cruelty of others, he wasn’t at fault for being a victim. his aunt hadn’t died because he’d shown mercy, he was just being humane, the fault lied solely with the… whichever supernatural freak had done that, it was getting harder to keep track of them now. and the spell hadn’t gone wrong because of him, couldn’t doctor strange tell that he obviously wouldn’t want his own family to forget him? why wouldn’t he automatically add that to the spell? and the second time? surely he could’ve just kept two people out of his spell. none of it was his fault.

but you couldn’t bring yourself to, you didn’t want to push too hard, or overstep your bounds. peter didn’t know you, not really. you assumed he must be happy that someone remembered him, but you wouldn’t be too surprised if he had forgotten you.

why had you remembered? you weren't magical, as far as you knew, so what had gone wrong? wasn't this... somewhat bad news? if you remembered, could it be possible that someone evil might, too? you didn't know, you supposed maybe you should try to ask doctor strange, somehow.

after a while of silence, you decided telling him how you feel, being straightforward, should be better than leaving thoughts to go back and forth in your head, bothering you. “peter,” you started, “i know what kind of a person you are for the most part. i know that you have a good heart, and you’re loyal, and honest. i… don’t doubt that you’ll be a good friend, that’s why i can be… this comfortable with you. i know, because i’ve been able observe you quite well until now.”

he was listening to you, eyes getting wider and smile dropping slowly, as you went on.

“i also know that you don’t really know me as well, so i’ll have to prove my character to you, in the way that you’ve already proven yours,” you quickly added, which was the point you’d wanted to make. “so, uh, i just wanted to say that… is the reason why i would like to be… good friends with you, even though we didn’t interact much back then. telling you just in case… you were wondering.”

he gave you a shy smile. "thank you," he said, occasionally glancing away.

then a small chuckle escaped his lip. “all i’ve been doing the whole day has been thanking you."

you giggled in return, "i thank you as well."

"for what? i haven't done anything."

"for saving this city and the world over and over again."

his expression turned serious, thoughtful. "i just do what i should. it’s my responsibility."

you leaned back on the couch, observing him. was it? did he really have to do what he did? he didn't have to, no one had to do anything. but it was right that he did. you supposed, being able to help people did mean you should, would it be wrong if he didn't interfere?

"what are you thinking?" he asked.

you hummed. "i think you are right, but then it's our responsibility to be grateful, and to help you in any way we can, even if that's just emotional support." you looked into his eyes carefully, "you've been doing your duty, but most others in the city haven't."

"that's all right," he said. "i don't expect anything. i don't do this to get anything in return."

"well," you started, "you can expect things from me, and feel free to let me know."

the shy smile returned to his face, "thank you again," he said. "you as well," he hastily added, raising his eyebrows while gesturing at you.

you were glad he seemed to be in a better mood now, compared to this morning. he was more put together, and somewhat more confident. you assumed having more time to process your situation must've helped.

the two of you talked for around another hour, peter got more talkative as you went on, and by the end, he was the only one talking. he'd started to tell you all about the various villains he'd been fighting, and you were very interested; you enjoyed listening to him.

but the time was getting closer to two in the morning, and you were having to fight your own eyelids to keep yourself from dropping to the floor right at that moment.

peter stopped abruptly mid-sentence, looking at you concerned. "oh," he started "i'm sorry, it's really late, i talked too much."

"no, no," you said, shaking your hand, "i really want to know about all of these things. let's continue tomorrow?"

"okay, sure," he said, smiling. "i'll get going now, and uh, see you tomorrow."

"get going? i could arrange my living room for you, if you'd like to stay the night? should you be alone when you're injured?"

"i don't want to bother you," he said as he stood up. “it’s fine, this isn't really all that bad, I've had much worse."

"okay, but call me if anything happens. i'll be more upset if you don't," you said as you followed him to the door.

"i will. you call me too," he said, having gotten out, wearing his shoes.

"deal."

“good night."

"good night."

and he was gone.

and you were so sleepy that you could fall asleep standing there. as you made your way to your bed, you decided to go over today's events tomorrow, when your braincells wouldn’t be forming a union to counter your abuse.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter opened his curtains to look outside, as soon as he managed to get out of his bed.

the sun was shining down on him, bathing his room and face in its light. he opened the window, and took a deep breath in. the air had the beautiful smell of rain, still lingering, left from yesterday.

he leaned on his window, and for the first time in forever, a smile graced his lips for the sun, for the day ahead of him.

he wanted to put on his spiderman suit and swing around in the city, not out of obligation or because he didn’t have anything else to do; he had an unfamiliar motivation in him to do something with his day.

so he did. he quickly got ready for the day, and all the steps felt less intimidating today. even brushing his teeth had become a tiring chore. he'd supposed it must've been because he was so tired all the time, but today, it had been easier, all of it. even breathing.

and it wasn't like he'd gotten more sleep than usual, either. sleeping was something out of routine for peter. sometimes he could only get a few hours at night, having to be spiderman. sometimes he would stare at the ceiling, unable to drift off to sleep. sometimes he would end up sleeping for more than ten hours, not wanting to get out of his bed, forcefully scraping his body off of it with a mental spatula, skin tearing apart from muscle, using every bit of his willpower. but, no matter which scenario happened to play out, peter would never feel rested.

he got mad at himself sometimes. for sleeping. or not sleeping. surely none of this was supposed to be this hard, everyone always did them just fine. so why was he like this? what was wrong with him?

he shook his head, getting out of his window as spiderman, and started wandering new york from the tops of buildings. not today, though. today he felt rested. and like something good could happen, strangely. and his chest could host the air he breathed in, unlike any day he could remember in months. he hadn't realised how air had been refusing to get into his lungs, until it finally did today.

he watched people walking towards their destinations without looking anywhere else. the streets of new york were always overfilled with motion and a million faces, and no one stopped to look at one another.

how had you seen him, yesterday? were you looking? were you always looking at people? were you searching for someone, something?

clouds had poured more rain on the city at night, and towards the morning. it was almost as if they had only stopped momentarily for the fire in the building to spread.

peter had gone to his apartment as soon as he was done rescuing civillians from the fire. he'd wanted to wear something nice, look cleaner for you. he was sort of embarrassed that your first meeting had been when he looked... less than ideal, let's say.

while showering, he'd spaced out, and ended up thinking for almost an hour. mostly about you.

he'd tried to remember everything about you, any kind of clue about your exceptional situation, but there was nothing. you used to mostly keep to yourself, peter hadn't even interacted with you all that much.

despite that, you'd been so accepting of him so quickly yesterday. he had wondered why, before you explained that you… knew him.

not only remembered, you knew him. not completely, but enough to trust. his heart fluttered in his chest, making a gentle movement for the first time since the last time he'd been called peter by anyone at all. thinking about your words excited him, energized him, made him move faster,

you wanted to get closer. you offered to patch up his wounds. you weren't afraid or displeased. you wanted to be close. his friend.

he would call you around noon, he'd decided. he'd kept you up quite late and didn't know when you would wake up. then maybe you could meet up this evening. outside, perhaps? he could take you to... he would come up with some ideas, by then.

he stopped and perched on top of a building, examining the back alleys. he knew the way to your house from where he was, he was really looking forward to seeing you again. was that why waking up had been easier today?

he shook his head and took a deep breath, preparing himself for the day, and the task in front of him. he needed to focus, do his job. he would get to see you when the time came for it. you would respect him more for his service, anyway... or at least he hoped so.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

the the sun had just started setting, the orange hue of dusk hadn't settled in the sky yet. you were sitting on the stairs at the entrance of your apartment building. the ground was still wet, but the upper part of the stairs had been protected from yesterday's rain thanks to the architecture of the building. you would just need to dust off its filth once you stood up.

peter was supposed to come any minute now, he'd called you around noon and asked if you'd like to meet up this evening, and he could take you to see some places. you had started preparing some hours ago. you hadn't known what to wear, or what he had in mind, and had been too nervous to feel completely good about an outfit. you didn’t want to mess this up. at last, you'd just decided to get out of your house and wait. sitting on cold stairs. you were beginning to regret your choices slowly.

“hi,” appeared a head suddenly in front of your nose, making you yelp in surprise and slide backwards on the stairs. you put your hand on your mouth, wide-eyed, and finally processed what the dangling head in red was: peter. he was hanging from your building, held by his web, upside down, in his spiderman suit. he wouldn’t be as instantly recognizable from afar, as he was wearing a jacket, pants, and sneakers on his suit. it looked good.

“sorry,” he said, landing next to you, but not moving towards you. “sorry,” he repeated quickly. “i didn’t mean to scare you.”

“my goodness, peter,” you said, exhaling a deep breath. “no, sorry, spiderman.”

he chuckled lightly. “did i make you wait too much? sorry about that, too.”

“no, no, you are…” you looked at your watch, “right on time, actually.”

“uh,” he started, then hesitated for a moment before taking out a piece of cloth… no, a mask from the pocket of his jacket. “this should be really comfortable, i brought it in case you wanted to, you know, keep your identity hidden.”

“oh, you will stay in your spiderman costume?” you asked, taking the mask, and putting your hand in it so see what it looked like.

“yeah,” he said, “i can’t do what i want to do with you without my suit.”

you looked at him questioningly, “what is it that you want to do with me, peter?” you asked with mock seriousness.

he made a low-volume laughing sound. “i was planning on carrying you in the sky with me. if that’s okay.” he raised his hands in hurry, “it’s okay if you don’t want to, of course. just… i just thought you might like it, is all.”

you looked at the mask, and swiftly wore it. fixing it on your face, you looked at peter. “how do i look?” you asked.

“wait, let me help,” he said as he came closer to you, and fixed the back of the mask.

“thank you.”

so peter took you to the skies.

you held onto him like your life depended on it (it did), arms wrapped around his shoulders. his movements in the air were fast and sharp, the wind felt like a slap to the face at points. yet, you didn’t feel an ounce of fear, if anything, excitement and joy would be descriptive of your feelings. peter had a strong grip on you, somehow, you trusted that without doubt, he would never drop you.

──────

he had taken and placed you on top of a skyscraper, with a view of busy streets and the decorated balconies of shorter buildings. having ascended on the city as rain yesterday, clouds in the sky had thinned, and the atmosphere was clear. the sun was half gone by now, and all your gaze rested upon was dusk-touched; bathed in the burning scarlett of the sun’s farewell.

you smiled, looking over at the city. the wind was caressing your face gently, and breathing had become easier since seeing peter. being where you stood now, it felt freeing.

“this is amazing.” you glanced at peter briefly, and saw he’d been looking at you.

“i’m glad you like it,” he said, then joined you in gazing towards the horizon.

──────

you’d been sitting where peter had caried you to, on top of the skyscraper, for a while now. topics chased each other with ease, built onto each other, and you ended up talking about things you’d never told anyone before. but peter listened, contributed, he seemed truly interested, and then he outclassed your yapping, so words ended up spilling out of your mouth naturally.

“my favorite tree is willow, actually. i love willows, they are so pretty, they have leaves like drapes. they look magical," you said, adding onto the conversation that you’d ended up talking about because… the city layout, then parks, then trees, then if many people have favorite kinds of trees, then his being olive trees…

he looked into your eyes carefully, like you'd said something that struck a cord, something he'd considered before.

"really?" he asked, then turned his gaze towards the city again, eyebrows laying heavier, eyes looking below. "willows look hunched," he said, "they look weary."

was he hunched? had he grown tired? was he trying to tell you that was how he saw the world now? hunched, instead of magical?

"hmm, " you thought for a moment, "do you know why willows are hunched?"

he looked at you questioningly. "no?"

"i've been told a story from someone who'd been told a story; there once was a willow next to a lake. you know how willows like wetlands. and there once was a child sweet as a sugar beet, yet did not know how to swim. choose one day from the countless days the old willow had seen, the sweet child fell into the lake right next to its roots, he couldn't stay on the surface, so he asked the willow for help. the willow bowed its leaves as fast as it could, to offer a branch to hold onto, but it was too slow, and the leaves touched the water too late. after that day, the willow's leaves never rose again. word spread to every willow with time, and they lowered their branches one by one, so if a child were ever drowning, they would never be too late."

he was still looking down, but his expression had changed lightly. his brows were slightly tented, his eyes seemed watery. you studied him, it looked like the story had touched him; he was quietly in thought.

was he a willow? had he failed to save a drowning child? had he been hunched?

had he realized being hunched didn't have to be ugly?

"stories are great," you said, not to fill the silence, but because you now felt comfortable enough to share your thoughts with him. "they can verbalize things you keep in your head, and make you realize; oh, someone else thought the same thing back when who knows how many years ago, and i’m not the only one."

he nodded after another moment of silence. "that was a beautiful story," he said, looking at you, "do you know many like it?"

"short tales like these? not many. i generally read novels."

"maybe i should start too."

you perked up. "you could!" you said, voice coming out too excited for your liking, "i'll lend you some."

"okay," he said, smiling in his usual, reserved way, "thank you."

poor, innocent peter. he had no idea what he'd just signed up for, basically accepting to be subjected to a reader's propaganda of their favorite books.

"i should be thanking you," you responded, "for bringing me here."

the sun had fully gone down, no traces of orange left in the sky, although it hadn't gotten fully dark yet. the moon could be seen, finally getting out of the sun's shadow. or more so, light. too bright for anything else to stay visible near it, yet nothing on earth would be visible without its light, including the moon.

you looked down at the ant-sized citizens of new york, ever-moving, flowing like a river. the wind was caressing your face, chilly, up here was colder than down below, yet it didn't feel as hostile.

"i used to really like it," he said while nodding, a half-smile left on his face from your previous conversation, and perhaps memories of years gone.

"sitting atop buildings?"

"yeah. sitting or swinging or... just height."

"it is kind of freeing."

"and just... you know, a different kind of perspective."

"yeah, i get it," you said, looking at your ant subjects, "why don't you like it anymore?"

he seemed to search for words for a moment, looking around. and then shrugged. "i guess i just... don't really like things anymore."

you sighed, nodding. "well, it's a miracle that you liked my below-average vegetable soup, then."

"it was very much above average!"

"as i said, a miracle."

"why am i having to defend my tastes in the middle of a date right now?"

he stopped abruptly, his smile fading, eyes widening. "i mean!" he quickly scrambled to fix his mistake, "not like- not a date like a date date, you know, i was just saying... just-"

was this a time for you to interrupt? he didn't seem like he wanted to finish that sentence.

"i know," you said, chuckling, "don't worry. i'm also really glad we're doing this. take me soaring the skies more often."

"i wouldn't necessarily call it soaring."

"well, whatever it was."

and then, once again, hours chased one another, carrying your long-winded conversation back and forth, and the deep black of night had fallen on the two of you like a blanket.

peter was sweet, it was like honey dripped from his lips; you hadn't found a conversation so enjoyable in years. you were glad he'd opened up more, back in high school, you had no idea he was so talkative.

you had brought a homemade meal with yourself, considering how much he'd appreciated that yesterday. and you’d shared it over the hours you’d spent together.

peter seemed to relax more and more around you, smile actually coming naturally to his face now, dangling his feet with comfortable, quiet joy.

“ah,” he said at some point, “this is… somewhat hard.”

“what is?”

he thought on it for a moment. “no, nothing. forget i said anything.”

“nooo,” you grabbed his arm and slightly shook him, “i’m curious now!”

he chuckled, “no, it’s embarrassing.”

“peter, listen to me,” you started with mock seriousness, “whatever it is, it cannot be as embarrassing as my cringeworthy memories, so i won’t even register it as embarrassing.”

“okay,” he said after a short silence, “i guess… i guess i got used to being alone too much, now i find it kind of hard to… be known, i guess. it leaves me with a kind of anxiety.”

“it wasn’t like that before?”

“no,” he turned his gaze to the city, “i don’t remember it being like this.”

you hummed, nodding your head. you were going to tell him that you understood, that you felt similarly occasionally, that it was normal, but he kept going before you could.

“at least, the bad parts.”

“what bad parts?”

“you know, my mistakes and flaws and other such things,” he took a deep breath before continuing. “i told you everything but… i wish you didn’t know some of it, now.”

you studied his face; he definitely looked more youthful, like the weight of the world wasn’t crushing him anymore. like he could put his burden down for a moment, take a break. peter didn’t seem like a person who would have a hard time being vulnarable, or being known, but pain did change people. was it just being alone, or being alone with what he thought were his mistakes, scenes repeating over and over in his head as he stared at empty walls, with no one to talk to?

“i like you as you are,” you said, “with your mistakes and flaws; that’s being human, and you’re not lesser for any of it. not objectively, and not in my eyes.”

he was looking into your eyes now, he’d become more comfortable resting his gaze upon yours; you found it comforting, you tried to make him feel the same.

“isn’t that the part of being known that matters?” you asked. “knowing the imperfect parts, the harder to accept parts, and accepting anyway, and loving anyway. doesn’t it make you feel better that i know you fully and like you even more for it?”

peter seemed truly lost for words, for the second time since you’d met. you’d wanted to make him feel welcome into your life, so you’d done your best to tell him things you’d wish to hear yourself, and they were the truth, but you really hoped it would come across right. he wasn’t the only one to overthink conversations.

he opened his mouth to give an answer, and then, suddenly, chaos erupted.

the thunder of a bomb going off shook the ground and the buildings around you. screams mixed into a deafening whistle of the wind that carried them as people ran away from the sound collectively, pushing each other.

peter stood up instinctively, looking towards the explosion. it had happened close enough that you’d felt the shockwave.

“what was that?” you yelled, trying to be heard over the sound, clumsily standing up next to peter, as you were quite high up. he held your arm to steady you.

“i’m not sure, but i think i know who’s responsible for it,” he said with a serious expression on his face, brows furrowed, thoughtful, voice lower than yours, but you could still hear him.

“are you going to go?”

“i have to, this is… these people are dangerous, you should go home.”

he grabbed you by your waist and brought you down to the ground in a hurry, gently placing you. “i’m sorry,” he said, “i’ll come back, uh, to your house, if that’s okay?”

“of course,” you responded, “i’ll be waiting. and don’t be sorry.”

and he dissapeared into the sky, swinging.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter hated villains, truly. criminals who committed heinous acts of terrorism, knew nothing but cruelty, unashamedly hurt people, kidnapped, wounded… there were so many of them, too. he kept defeating those hurting new york, and new ones kept popping up.

well, he thought he hated them, but he didn’t know how exactly he felt. he remembered a time when feelings so negative and irritating hadn’t ever been inside him, it was like they added onto each other. one would think it would get easier with time, that he would get used to repeated things. like losing… but not only had losing aunt may been harder than losing uncle ben, he was now more bitter, and more mournful over the past deaths he’d thought he’d gotten over, as well. or, how instead of growing numb to seeing horrible crimes unfold, every act of abuse and cruelty made him angrier, every time he hated… he hated more, although he wasn’t sure exactly what he was hating.

when he tried to track the target his hatred was pointing at, he saw blurry pictures. villains were a part of it, surely, but he didn’t feel a burning rage while fighting them, it was more so weariness, or disgust, mostly, he just wanted all of it to be over. he didn’t want to… ponder more on it, after that point. he had tried once, and then felt an untangible pain. he couldn’t admit it to himself, but he was afraid of what else he could find in that blur. himself? tony? aunt may? mj? new york? the world?

so the picture stayed anonymous, and he couldn’t fully direct his fury at anything, and he disliked all the villains, but could hardly muster up the energy to truly hate them. and perhaps it wasn’t in his nature, either. anger and hatred, he’d never been very good at those. was that why his heart was withering? because he couldn’t feel well? because those were all there was to feel in his life now, and he failed at it?

he felt so done with everything, currently. was he not going to be able to spend time with you uninterrupted? the conversation was going well, too. or at least he thought it was. he hoped you would agree.

back in high school, he knew you were smart, and funny, and would be a good friend if anyone could approach you, but you’d prefered to stay away from him, and he hadn’t had the courage to initiate a relationship with you, he’d found you intimidating. now getting to know you better, he wished he’d just done it, back then. but maybe not. maybe then he would lose you too.

would he lose you now, as well? he’d lost everyone, hadn’t he?

or he’d break your heart, maybe. he’d left liz, he’d left mj, he’d left ned. thrice taken, something was wrong with him.

he arrived at the site of the explosion, looking from above. the thick, suffocating hotness, the pain-filled wails of the survivors, the rubbles of the building crumbled down, his eyes searched for certain signs in between the horrors. he would first save those who couldn’t save themselves, then he would stop whoever was responsible.

as he started carrying survivors out of flames and rubble, he also started scanning everything around him carefully. a sign, a clue, a mistake on the culprit’s part… he knew who it was, he was almost sure the organization he’d been tailing down for the past few months was responsible for this. they were onto him, too, they knew.

he’d found out the position of their base was last week, a site with several factories and buildings in it, towards the border of the city, in a mostly desolate area, as it used to just be an industrialized site, but had now turned into an unpreferred place for bussiness. he’d wondered if they had something to do with that as well, but he supposed that didn’t matter much, in the grand scheme of things.

he would go there, and… and confront them. fight them. end them. something. somehow. the police were rendered useless for the most part, when it came to these underground syndicates, some were bought puppets, some were too powerless, peter knew better than to give away his knowledge now. he’d been burned enough. he would have to do it himself, and do it quick, before any other disasters struck his city.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you hadn’t gone back home, you were waiting next to a shop near the place peter had left you, looking at the exploded building from afar. you were growing more worried by the second; peter had seemed serious, and talked about a criminal organization who would bomb a whole building like it was a normal thing. was he engaged in a fight, currently? how often did things of this magnitude happen to him?

your phone buzzed, you immediately looked at the screen, it could be important in these circumstances. peter. peter was calling. he’d gone to fight, said he’d come back to you, and now was calling-

“peter?” you answered before you made any assumptions.

quick gasps cut short responded to you, and peter’s voice had taken the shape of slow, low wailing, or wheezing, or… regardless, it was obvious he was in pain.

“i…” he started, clearly having a hard time speaking, “i’m stuck. it was a trap.” he was breathless, his voice kept cracking.

“you- where?” you asked, choosing your words carefully. he was stuck. trapped. time. time was important. ask only for the information that matters right now.

“the building- that- there were people, i wanted to save them,” he was crying, it was obvious. “but i couldn’t, they are stuck too, and unconscious, some are dead. i couldn’t-” he cut his sentence short, taking quick breaths, most likely trying to keep himself awake, or too pained to continue. you understood it anyway.

“where are you, peter?”

“the building crumbled down, and it’s all rubble- but, it’s a huge- a huge, i don’t know. i’m under a heavy part, big, i can’t move it. not safely. i can’t try anything too dangerous, or the- the others might get crushed,” he managed to say in between his gasps and pained groans.

your heart sank, an awful dread dropped into the pit of your stomach. what to do now?

“i’m sorry,” he said, “i just- i didn’t know what to do, and i’d told you i’d come back, i don’t know. there is no one else i could call, i’m not- i’m sorry.”

no one else.

“don’t apologize,” you said, voice firmer, having gotten slightly angry. you weren’t angry at peter, you were angry at… at the reason why peter was hurt. it had only been two days since you’d truly gotten to know him, and you wanted to scream into a void at the top of your lungs already.

you started walking towards the road, looking for a taxi, or you would call one. the initial chaos had subsided, but now people wanting to immediately go back home around you had taken its place, taxis were working, you just didn’t know how fast you could go to wherever peter was.

“send me your location or describe where you are,” you said.

you could only hear his gasps for a moment. “no,” he said, “no, no, i don’t want you to come, that’s not why i-” his breath hitched, he started coughing.

your eyes had gotten teary, you blinked harshly a few times to get rid of the blurriness. would a bicycle be faster? a… motorcycle, perhaps? you started looking around to see any unclaimed ones, you could maybe pay someone-

“i’ll come either way, i’ll help you,” you said, as you started walking towards the site of the explosion, you thought finding an abandoned vehicle might be easier there… maybe even one that no longer had an owner. maybe even a gun. “send your location or i will go into the flames and try to find a clue.”

another pause.

“okay,” he said, exhaling in pain, “but be careful, run away the moment you see anyone dangerous. okay?”

“all right.”

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

it had been a long while since peter had been in such peril, had he underestimated his opponents? had he been too rash, reckless? it was highly unlikely that his street-level work would be as dangerous as the avengers-level threats, and he’d survived those, hadn’t he? so why was he crying now?

when he’d arrived at the site, and looked around a little, he’d found people, kidnapping victims, being sent to somewhere. he’d thought he’d needed to act fast to save them, but he’d fallen into a trap. not a trap specifically set for him; it more so looked like a last resort to cover up their traces while killing anyone at their tail, just destroying the building with evidence and their enemies in it. peter was just one person though, was that enough for them, or had they not bothered to check?

he didn’t know where exactly he was wounded under the rubble, everything was hurting. somewhere on his abdomen, he assumed, and legs, they were stinging like a thousand needles were sinking into his flesh at the same time.

he sighed, putting his forehead on the fallen stone in front of him.

he hated himself. that was it, yeah. that was the true target of his hatred. more than anything else. he realised so when he admitted it to himself; hating had suddenly gotten much easier, much deeper.

he’d just killed the last person on earth who knew him. why had he called you, anyway? he should’ve just… done as he always did before meeting you, deal with it himself. or die. the world wouldn’t lose much if he did, there was no one to mourn him. well, maybe you could get a little sad, but it wasn’t like you were particularly close to him, you’d never really been friends before. and you had a life, other people around you, you had no reason to hold onto him like he did you. so why were you even coming? why would you do this to him?

he killed everyone around himself. he would kill you. he would kill you. he would lose you.

no, no, stop. you could survive this, right? sinking into despair had never been helpful. he would need to stay sharp for you. he would… you could survive this much, right? and then he would never see you again. he would block your number, and… good thing he hadn’t brought you to his apartment.

he’d been so selfish, thinking only of himself, the happiness he felt at being remembered. what was he thinking? he should’ve never talked to you. he should’ve told you to raise your umbrella and go home without getting wet. he’d been erased from existence for a reason, hadn’t he? had he forgotten why he hadn’t gone back to mj and ned? how could he do this? how could he keep doing this? why did he never learn from his mistakes?

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were breathless, having ridden a bicycle (that you really had managed to find abandoned next to the explosion) until a point where traffic wasn’t jammed, then taken a taxi to the point where the driver would be willing to drive to, then ran until you could see the eerie factory site peter had told you about. you’d stopped to catch your breath briefly, your throat was hurting, sweat was coming down on your face like rain had been on the morning you’d grabbed peter’s arm. you put your hand on the right of your abdomen, you had a bad case of side stitch pain. you were holding a metal pipe in your other hand, you hadn’t been lucky enough to stumble upon a gun lying around, unfortunately. you had wanted to find a shield of some sort, but the blown off car bits were mostly too heavy, and couldn’t be carried on a bicycle.

there it was, the area of a dangerous mafia organization. how many cameras were there? you wore the mask peter had given to you, even though you really didn’t want to when you needed so much air.

you could see the remnants of a big dust storm behind a few buildings, you would need to get closer to truly figure it out, but you assumed you could go towards that direction to find peter. your heart was drumming against your chest, your fingertips had suddenly gone cold. a tiny portion of it was because of your previous marathon, mostly your nervousness and… fear were the cause.

but you had to do this. there was simply no other choice. someone needed to save peter, and the authorities wouldn’t do it, and the heroes wouldn’t do it, and you were there already. so you got a move on.

you mostly walked behind walls and next to corners, nervous about being seen and shot dead on the spot before you could even get into the mafia’s base. you reached… a chain-link fence, surrounding the complex.

“NO TRESSPASSING” the sign on the fence read, “PRIVATE PROPERTY”.

well, you’d already stolen a bicycle.

you took a shaky breath, and put your foot into one of the chains. you’d never climbed over a chain-link fence before, but everything had a first time, right? so you gripped the chains for dear life, and although you probably looked ridiculous and unnatural doing it, managed to climb to the other side. you did scratch a few places on your legs and hands, but it was mostly a success.

now you needed to sneak deeper into the complex, somehow.

you walked half-crouched down, mostly next to walls, looking around yourself nervously, yet as fast as you could. as you got closer to the collapsed building, you started hearing screams, and gunshots. there was a commotion going on somewhere close to you, was it the kidnapped people? the ones peter had been able to save, the ones who’d gotten out? you stopped where you were and pressed your back to the building next to you, where did you go from here? where were the gun noises coming from? what did you need to do to avoid that, yet still reach peter?

your hands had started shaking, would it be possible to find an abandoned gun as you walked closer? it would be so easy for them to kill you.

you'd only managed to make a few turns from that point before you were caught. by a man with a gun in his hand.

"look at that," he said, as he pointed the gun at you. “it seems a little mouse sneaked in, in this chaos."

you stopped, completely frozen. your heart was beating in your throat, your hands were trembling, you'd forgotten how to breathe. you'd never been so fear-stricken in your life.

what could you do? one shot and you would be dead, what could you do with the metal pipe in your hand? you couldn't look away from the man to see what else you could use.

he started walking towards you slowly, saying things that would only distract you and make you more nervous if you focused on them, so you blocked them out.

he was clearly enjoying cornering you like a prey animal, that must have been why he was walking closer to you; to scare you. you fought against your urge to back away, to protect a distance between you two; you had a metal pipe. a gun was a long-range weapon, being closer might make it harder to run away, but would make it easier to fight back, and running away in this situation would do you no good. if he missed the first time, he would get you in the second. so you forcefully nailed your feet to the ground, ignored the alarms setting off in your mind, and tried to prepare yourself for a confrontation. your legs were trembling; you hoped the man would just think you'd frozen in fear.

he came close enough to put the gun to your head, just an arm's length of a distance between you. “you can't run even when the gun is in your face?” he asked mockingly.

would begging work? would it keep you alive long enough to catch an opening?

you would die. you would die.

you hadn't opened your mouth to form a single sentence since this man had found you, and you didn't think you could now. one wrong word and it would be over. you needed to act.

was there anyone else around? why was he alone? had you lucked out, somehow? they weren't going to take you into custody, you were a transgresser, they were going to kill you. you assumed this man had stumbled into you coincidentally in the ruckus, and hadn't felt the need to call for reinforcements. even if there were others in places you couldn't see, you had no choice but to act now.

the gun's tip was touching your forehead. seconds. i must act in seconds. by bending your knees, you ducked your head faster than he could process what happened and pull the trigger, and while ducking, swung the pipe in your hand as fast as you could, with as much force behind it as you could muster, and hit him in the groin.

you immediately made a move to get behind him while he buckled over; there was no running away from someone with a gun.

should you hold his hand with the gun, or hit it with your pipe? he was turning his face towards you, and would shoot you the moment he got a good view.

no, you’d taken too much time to think, and he’d already directed the gun at you, pulling the trigger. you immediately hit his hand with your pipe. the shot wasn't completely wasted, however, and grazed your leg.

you screamed in pain.

he reached for you with his other hand, grabbing your hair.

no time.

you gripped your pipe with all your strength, and hit his hand again while he was yanking your hair. and then kept hitting his hand, lest he direct the gun at you again. one, two, three, four, five— he kicked your leg. you buckled over in pain as he put your head to the ground, your hair still entangled in his hand. he was saying something, eyes bulging, looking very mad, but you weren’t proccessing any of it. your ears were still ringing because of the gunshot, and the pain in your leg was so powerful that you couldn't focus on anything. it was as if endless knives were constantly stabbing you. it was unbearable.

his hands were occupied with your head and the gun, you were nowhere near strong enough to set free from his grip, but he'd forgotten you were still holding onto the pipe. or maybe he'd just thought you'd be in too much pain to use it now. or maybe he just hadn't had the time to do something about that yet, everything was happering in seconds.

you swung it again in one last, reckless effort to fight back, and hit his head. the momentum tossed him to the side while taking you with him as he hadn't let go of your hair. before he could turn to face you back, you hit his head again, with all your might. he let go of your hair while balancing himself with his other hand, and hit you across the face before you could land your third hit, but you planted yourself to the ground, and landed another hit anyway. his head was bleeding, and he was clearly distraught.

what now? a few seconds. this had given you a few seconds of decision time. what now? should you keep hitting him? take the gun, somehow? how could you get rid of him?

you tried to move reflexively, to get away. but your leg was done for, you couldn’t get up. no. no. you couldn't move.

your heart was going to burst out of your chest, your nerves were completely wrecked; you couldn’t get up.

what, then? did you have to… kill? you were going to throw up. your hands started trembling even more violently. you couldn't. you just couldn't.

you wished you could yell for help. but you were supposed to be the help. it was as it had always been before, pick yourself up and dust yourself off.

no time to think.

you hit his head again, and when he flailed, this time you put his head to the ground, climbing on top of him, twisting his gun-holding arm under his body. now… now you could... how could you stop him? if you managed to take the gun, and told him to stay put until you could run away... you couldn't move, though. you couldn't even properly restrain him because you were having to drag one leg. the concussion he had was doing most of the heavy lifting.

an idea did come up in your mind. you supposed you had no other choice.

──────

you were lying on the floor, your back towards the sky. you’d left your unconscious attacker where he was lying, and managed to drag yourself for a few centimeters before you’d stopped, and leaned your forehead against the ground. you needed to get away, you knew. at least near a wall, somewhere you wouldn’t be seen so clearly, but your leg was hurting too much to use.

you couldn’t raise your head, and just started sobbing openly. you’d already been crying, but trying to hold back, keep quiet. you needed to sit up, and look at how bad the wound was, and how much blood you’d lost. the pain was all you could think about, your head was hurting from stress and forcing yourself to think through the pain, your eyes and throat were hurting from crying (and maybe also sleep-deprivation, as time was diving deeper into the night), your face was hurting from the hit you’d taken, and yet, nothing could be compared to the pain you felt in your leg. you wanted to take off your mask, it was suffocating enough even without it, but any cameras catching your face would be more of a disaster long term.

you took a deep breath, and put your hands on the ground. you pushed yourself up while shaking, and turned around. you looked at your leg, and immediately regretted it. it was bleeding a lot, and your flesh had been ripped apart. you didn’t know what to do, there was no one you could call.

you took out your phone from your pocket, and found peter’s number. you really didn’t want to, but you had no other choice.

peter answered by calling out your name questioningly, his voice came across better than last time; it still did sound like he was in pain, but he was calmer.

“peter,” you said, failing to sound like you weren’t crying. “a guy shot me. my leg is hurt.”

“a- what? where are you?”

“i’m near the collapsed building you should be in.”

“i- i-”

you took a second to breathe. “no, no, i… i just don’t know what to do,” you said, sniffling and gasping, “i can’t get up. i, uh, should i wrap something around my leg?”

“yeah,” he said, “a piece of cloth until you can get out, how close are you to the exit? you should call an ambulance or a taxi or—” he also had to stop to take a breath in pain, “i don’t know— i’m sorry. i’m really sorry.”

“what are you sorry for? it’s the fault of this piece of— well, garbage. at least i have a gun now.”

“who was it? is he still there?”

“i don’t know, some random guy. he’s unconscious.”

“… how?”

“well, i… kind of strangled him? he was,” you huffed, “he fainted because he couldn’t breathe, he’s alive though. i did hit his head a few times, i don’t know how that bodes for him.”

“probably not well,” he said, now with a hint of surprise and amusement in his voice, “you, uh, you did well. very well.”

“huh, thank you.”

good, this was good, hearing peter’s voice had been good for you. you pushed yourself up somehow, and sat up straight.

“what happened?” he asked, “why is the pain worsening?” probably because of your increasing groans.

“i was trying to sit up. i need to find a piece of cloth.”

you looked around, and decided to take anything you could from the man who attacked you. you went through his pockets, and sure enough, found a knife. you cut a piece off of his shirt, and used it as bandage.

“how tight should it be?”

“you should be able to slide a finger under it.”

next, you needed to drag yourself away from the middle of the road, to somewhere you could hide—

no.

no, that wasn’t why you were here.

“how are you doing, peter?” you asked, but couldn’t add that you would be there soon.

“i’m…” he started, but drifted off. and then you heard silent sobbing. “i’m sorry,” he said.

“you have nothing to apologize for.”

“no, it’s all my fault. i never should’ve dragged you into this mess.”

“you didn’t drag me into anything, i stole a bike and ran a marathon to get to you,” you’d sounded firmer now, although still couldn’t stop your crying; the pain just wasn’t getting any better.

“i let you down along with everyone else,” he wasn’t listening to you, “and i don’t know what to do, i can’t come to you, i don’t know how to get you out,” his voice had gotten frantic again.

you sighed, trying to get your sobbing under control, and think of a reply. was it his fault? no, you were certain it wasn’t. had he let you down? no, the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. should he stay away from you? were you afraid of pain or death? would you rather live a more stress-free life than stay with peter?

you closed your eyes to let the tears roll down your cheeks as the realisation that you couldn’t immediately say “no” set in, you felt betrayed by yourself. you’d thought about this, yesterday… or two days ago, you supposed, as it was past midnight. he’d told you everything, so you knew the risks, and you’d thought about it. you’d decided it would be fine; worrying for his safety or being at risk yourself. and if you got injured, then you could handle some pain. and if you died, well… there was no getting ahead of death. if you died, that would mean your time had come.

so where had your conviction gone to? had the pain been too much, after all? it was the pain, the stabbing sensation was making your brain foggy, demanding all the attention be on it. you hated it, you hated everything. you were mad at yourself; why couldn’t you just be better?

“peter,” you cut him off, “i know i can’t understand you fully, but i get it,” you’d decided to just ramble. you couldn’t come up with the perfect answer to make his worries disappear, so you would just… tell him whatever was going through your mind.

“i lay awake some nights, randomly afraid of the dark. then i curl up under my blanket, and try to comfort myself. because there is no one to lie next to me. i look out from my window and see grey walls. i look up at night and see no stars. i walk outside and hundreds of people just walk past me without even looking at my face, and i don’t remember any of theirs the next hour. all i hear all day are the honks of cars, and depressing news. abuse. crime. kid died. alone person went missing. don’t go out at night. don’t talk to anyone. there is no one anyway, who would i talk to?” you paused to sniffle again, and catch your breath.

“i come home and say ‘hello’ to emptiness and darkness, i turn on the lights myself, then think about what i’ll eat. and i don’t properly eat most days, because i just don’t want to prepare something only for myself. yesterday, i was so happy you liked the food i made, i wanted to cook something for the first time in months while waiting for you,” words were just coming out of your mouth without restraint now, was it the sleep deprivation?

“in high school, i used to watch you and your friends, and wish i could find someone who would be in sync with me too. i used to wish i had a reason or an excuse to join in when i saw you three laugh or talk. i go to university now, and i attend lectures, and i make small talk with a few people, and then i drown in my own thoughts the whole day. i tell myself that i’m fine by myself, but i feel like my soul is getting thinner by the day, looking at walls. is it just me, or is everyone just disconnected now, i don’t know.”

you finally stopped, and let silence stretch after your words. your crying had gotten worse as the suffocation of your life had built up enough to rush out of you; you didn’t cry much, not really. sure, you sometimes shed silent tears, sitting by yourself on your couch, but normally, you just kept going without thinking much about it. you had your exams, and job, and volunteer work, and projects to worry about, so pitying yourself was at the bottom of your to-do list. but now? you were crying waterfalls. was it because you’d finally found someone to tell what you were really thinking? no, it was probably because of the pain you were already in.

peter didn’t answer, for a long while, it was just silence.

“you were right,” you said, “being known with your negative sides sucks.”

“no,” he said, “you were right. i’m glad to know you as you are.”

he didn’t sound good. he didn’t sound good at all. you sighed in resignation, closing your eyes tightly shut to clear your view of tears. “i’m closing now, peter, wait for me,” you said, and closed the call before he could reply.

you looked at the ground, and furrowed your brows in concentration. you would get up. you had to. you had no choice. peter had called you for help. he had no one. no one else to call. no one else to save him from making a choice between death and killing innocent victims under rubble. no one else to save him from death.

you gritted your teeth, your leg hurt as the deep cut touched the bad guy’s shirt, and in some parts, the cold air of the night. the wound kept bleeding, and hurting more by the second. but you gritted your teeth anyway, through your tears and gasps for air that you had an abundance of, but your lungs refused to take in. you put your hands on the ground, and pushed yourself up, using all the strength you had.

you whimpered and groaned in many attempts to stifle your screams before they could come out, and alert whoever was close enough to hear, and managed to set your back straight. it was unbearable, the pain was holding you from the collar, trying to drag you down, making your vision red, exploding in your brain.

it’s just pain, you kept repeating to yourself, it was just a feeling, you could move through it. so you would walk now. towards peter. as quickly as possible. you needed to reach him, that was why you’d come this far, how could you let pain make you forget? it was simply unacceptable, the thought of peter dying under that rubble.

so you put one foot in front of the other, and made your way to peter through every force working against you.

──────

"peter?" you asked, trying to walk through the rubble, and then heard your name back.

"i'm here!"

you tried to reach him at least enough to see his face, as fast as you could, but it was still taking too long with your injured leg. too long for your impatience currently, anyway.

"i'll remove the victims so you can get out of there," you said as you stretched your head enough to see his face, not being able to get closer. he was... he'd taken off his mask, and he looked horrible; his eyes had become red from tears and most likely his injuries, his face was covered in dust and some drops of blood. looking at him stung your chest. "tell me where they are."

──────

peter was strong. he truly was. not only mentally; you were currently watching him lift what was essentially an entire ceiling with other pieces of rubble on it off himself, with most likely many crushing injuries. insane. he was insane. no wonder he couldn’t move with all with those unconscious people around.

you had somehow managed to move them out of his way, seven people in total, much more than you’d anticipated. how could you get them out of here now? you were injured, peter was probably in worse condition… although he did seem to be able to carry significant weight. maybe you could carry them until the exit and call an ambulance, for yourselves, too.

──────

peter walked towards you until he was a breath away, his face was covered in sweat on top of everything else, and he was gasping for air, as were you. he looked at your leg.

“i’ll carry you,” was all he said. he seemed so tired.

“we need to carry these people first.”

“no, i’ll carry you first. until you’re out of this complex.”

──────

you were sitting on the sidewalk, waiting for the ambulance you had called. well, ambulances, as they’d be carrying nine people. you had, also, finally taken off the mask you’d come to despise at this point, associating it with very negative feelings.

you saw peter swing down with the last one of the survivors. he landed, placed the unconscious man on the sidewalk, and sat right next to you.

you sat together in silence for a while, until you took a deep breath, and chuckled lightly. it was over. you’d done it. everyone was alive.

peter looked at you questioningly, although it was hard to read his face; he’d turned mostly expressionless. because of how much effort it must have been taking to even stay awake for him, you assumed.

“it’s over,” you said, “we did it.”

he looked away again, to the desolate road in front of you. “you did it,” he said, “i messed up.”

“how so?”

“i acted rashly. i should’ve been more careful. now they’ll find a new base, and i have to start from nothing to track them down again. and they know i’m after them. and i couldn’t change anything in the end, i just made things worse. all of this was for nothing, it could have been completely avoided. it started with the collapse of one building and then it ended with the collapse of another for no reason.”

you were watching him carefully. lines of exhaustion had formed on his face, the sorrow and… and whatever it was that dropped a boulder of burning despair into the pit of your stomach from when you first met had come back; you’d thought the youth had somehow returned to his face this evening.

“so,” you started, taking another deep breath, “you came here after they exploded a building to stop them, like, end them in general, or at least weaken them, do something. that makes sense to me. then you acted rashly here? why?”

“i saw… the kidnapped victims, and they were suffering, so i wanted to save them.”

“then you didn’t mess up, right? you saved them.”

“not all of them, and i wouldn’t have without you.”

“well, a big majority of them, you did save. all of them would die without you. and what else could you have done but to directly interfere? you did the only thing you could.”

he just stayed silent, was he not convinced?

“i don’t think this was a failure, peter. i think you did well and saved many people, and i think it was worth it.”

his eyes were teary, but he didn’t look at you again, he turned his gaze to the ground, and just stayed silent.

──────

you had decided on what to tell the authorities before the paramedics had arrived, and then you’d been separated, put into different ambulances.

then… well, the rest was as you imagined it would go. still a lot of pain, and a lot of hasty doctors as they asked questions and barked orders. it was horrible, really, with the way your head had been aching, but at least they were numbing your leg. and you would most likely be allowed to drift off to sleep at some point, right?

──────

you lied on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. it was almost noon, and you’d waken up not so long ago. you just kept playing what happened again and again in your head, trying to make sense of every detail.

it was a miracle you were alive. you’d faced off a gun. an actual gun.

it was good that all you could do by yourself in this hospital bed was think; you’d been asking yourself the same questions for a while now. did you still want to be involved with peter? you’d known him only for two days, and you’d ended up in a hospital already.

you’d considered every outcome and every reason, every choice you could make. in the end, it boiled down to a few core options. would you rather live a less risky life by yourself, or risk getting hurt like this to be with someone? someone who can meet you as deeply as you crave?

not just that, human bonds were too important to be disregarded because of what external threats might arise. the reality now was that you loved peter, he was a good person, he didn’t deserve to be abandoned because of what evil people did. your choice didn’t come out of loneliness; even if you had a dozen bonds like this, you would still choose to stay with peter, because you’d formed a relationship with him now. and that was that.

out of every outcome you considered, the worst one was definitely living your life without peter, and then getting news that spiderman just died somewhere, by himself. even the thought of it was nausiating. then again, the thought of just him getting hurt like this, and having no one to go to was just as horrible. so you needed to choose the opposite of what would cause that outcome to happen.

it hadn’t been that hard a decision to make; staying involved with peter. you’d already been tangled, it wasn’t much of a possibility to untangle yourself now, a part of you would be left behind.

besides, you somehow remembered him, didn’t you? that had to mean something. there had to be a reason for it.

──────

after finally being discharged, the first thing you did was look for peter, but he’d somehow gotten out before you. not because his wounds were less severe, quite the opposite, the nurses had said he’d been restless to get out, and they couldn’t keep someone against their will.

the orange of dusk had faded away, although it wasn’t fully dark yet. you were on your way to your apartment while you kept ringing peter’s phone, he was stubbornly refusing to answer.

you huffed as another attempt turned out to be in vain. you looked at the taxi driver, who did not acknowledge your existence, and then turned back to your phone.

“peter, are you okay? is everything all right?”

you messaged him. then waited for him to see. aaand waited. still waiting.

you huffed again, three minutes of staring at your screen impatiently and he wasn’t responding.

although you’d asked him if he were okay, you knew the truth. it wasn’t that he couldn’t answer, it was that he’d decided to go through with his stupid “i’ll never see you again because i’m ruining your life” nonsense. in your heart of hearts, you knew. so you sent another message.

“if you’re thinking about cutting ties with me, then do it properly. come and talk to me about it.”

and then looked out the taxi’s window for the rest of your journey.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were right, peter knew. after everything that happened, opening up to you and accepting you into his life, if he wanted to step away now, he needed to respect you, and tell you about it properly. so he was standing in front of your door now, trying to gather up the courage to ring your bell, and tell you he’d never see you again. this door had seemed so inviting one night ago, and it had tricked peter. he was not supposed to be invited into any house, didn’t your house know that?

he took a deep breath, and rang the bell. when you opened the door, you looked tired. not your expression, but the lines on your face and the look in your eyes gave it away. that was his fault, wasn’t it?

you stepped aside to welcome him, and he followed you into the living room, the couch he’d sat on the night he’d told you everything.

bidding you farewell was going to be hard, he didn’t know if he could be brave enough, or selfless enough. he’d been so when he had been wiped from the memories of every living being, and that was much harder a task, wasn’t it? so couldn’t he do it a second time?

but he hated waking up every day, and hated… well, he couldn’t even properly hate. getting up, putting one foot in front of the other was becoming harder every day, he didn’t want to do anything, anymore. so circumstances had changed since then, but he still kept fighting every day, and he still kept doing what he thought was right. so he could do this too.

or you would die. he’d lost enough people. to love was to lose. to love was the possibility of loss eventually.

he shouldn’t even have sat on this couch, actually, why had he done so? he should’ve just told you he was leaving, and then leave. he made a move to get up again, you grabbed his arm to stop him.

“you should stay seated,” you said, “i’ll bring something to eat for dinner.”

“please don’t, i’ll be on my way shortly anyway.”

“no,” you said as a statement, firmly, and left him alone in the living room.

peter never should’ve come. you deserved to have one last conversation, but how could peter move on from you? he supposed it would’ve been impossible even if he hadn’t come to your place today, even if he’d told you to turn back without getting wet the day you first recognized him. he would just have to live missing you forever, and that wasn’t unrealistic. it’s what he was doing now, missing everybody he’d ever known. and he was living, wasn’t he? well, he was alive.

you brought pasta with chicken, obviously freshly made, and put down two plates on the couch.

“we could eat in the kitchen,” he said.

“couch is comfier.”

he sighed, looking at his plate. he really didn’t want to eat anything made by you again, he didn’t need more things to miss. you’d said you didn’t feel like preparing a meal just for yourself, that he made you want to cook something… he remembered everything you said, of course. that you’d apparently wanted to get closer to him in high school too, why had he been so nervous? afraid?

it was for the best, though. otherwise, you might’ve died years ago. no matter what you felt, he couldn’t be selfish enough to assume he could be there for you, or good for you.

“so,” you started, “you decided to go forward with your plan of ignoring my existence for the rest of your life?”

“it’s not ignoring,” he had a defensive tone, “i was wrong to even confirm i’m peter at the start, i’ll fix my mistake.”

“it wasn’t a mistake, how can you say that? would you prefer i believed i’d lost my mind?”

you had a hard time walking now, limping although you tried to hide it, and several wounds were visible on your face. you’d beat up a man with a metal pipe, what kind of damage did that leave on your psyche? peter didn’t know, he’d been warring since he was fifteen.

“you wouldn’t be in pain, at least.”

“you’re unbelievable,” you sounded exasparated, and seemed offended, but peter didn’t know what else to say. it was the truth. “i’d rather know the bitter truth, or suffer from its consequences than believe a lie any time. besides, you couldn’t have known this would happen, it’s not on you.”

“you can’t tell me you would still get a gunshot wound yesterday if we hadn’t met two days ago.”

“maybe not, but i don’t blame you for it and i don’t care.”

“you don’t care?!” peter was getting angry, was it because you were getting angry? he was angry at himself, was it dripping out of his chest into his tongue as poison?

“no,” you backtracked, “i mean, i’m fine with it. i can live with it. and i don’t hold it against you, i don’t have any resentment for you. i don’t know how else to explain this.”

he took a deep breath to hold back his tears. he couldn’t let your words get to him, make him feel better about what had occurred. he needed to protect you, he kept reminding himself.

“i can’t put you in harm’s way,” he said.

you paused for a moment.

“do you take care of your wounds by yourself? you did so after the fire the other day, and you basically ran away from the hospital this time around.”

peter was taken aback. “uh, yeah?” he answered.

you grabbed a bag that was positioned right next to the couch on the floor, and took a… first aid kit out of it. and then a salve, and bandages, and… what was going on?

“i bought these today after being discharged, figured you might need some.”

“i’m… fine?”

your expression was very unimpressed when you looked at him.

“so you think i don’t see your arm, or the way you have a hard time eating or breathing, or even just your hands?”

ah, right. his hands were bruised, not enough to warrant bandaging though, this happened regularly. and his arm did hurt, but the pain would go away in a few days or so. his abdomen… that was taken care of, too, the dressing they did at the hospital would be enough.

“it’s all taken care of,” he said.

“we need to put salve on your hands, and then wrap-”

“we don’t, this happens all the time.”

you looked at him in surprise for a moment. “this happens all the time and we don’t need to treat it?” you repeated with your eyes wide, tone something between offended and shocked.

he didn’t know what to say, so you just started doing whatever you’d set your mind to even before he came to your house. you gently held his hand, and started applying the salve. he sighed, and closed his eyes, leaning his head to rest on the couch. he shouldn’t have, but you didn’t give him much choice.

“i’ll learn how to suture,” you said, “and anything else that’s necessary.”

peter spoke your name, “i’m sorry,” he said, “i am so, so sorry. i don’t want to leave you either, but you saw what happened. mj and ned have forgotten me, and they are happier for it. this is what i need to do.”

“peter,” you said, as you started wrapping the bandage around his hand, “i haven’t forgotten you, and if you leave now, i still won’t forget. i don’t know how mj and ned are doing, having forgotten, but you can’t compare me to them. and even if i had forgotten, i still would want to know. how else can i put this?” you searched for the words, “i care about you more than i care about happiness. i’d choose you over happiness, i’d rather be in pain with you than be painless by myself.”

peter had straightened his back, his gaze fixated on your eyes, as you spoke. a lump in his throat, tears threatening to roll down his cheeks in his eyes, his hand in your hands… a warmth in his chest, how he hadn’t felt in so long. your words did soften his edges, but he couldn’t accept it. he still held back his tears, and still wanted to escape. run away. was that why he wanted to leave you? was his true reason to protect you, or his fear? he wanted to run, he wanted to run as fast as he could and hide, from anyone who could see him.

it was too much, but he couldn’t exactly tell what was too much. he was afraid of hurting you, but that wasn’t all he was afraid of, yet he couldn’t recognize what else scared him so.

“but,” you continued, “being with you will make me happy anyway, do you understand? i’ll be happier with you than alone, even if my life is at risk, and even if guns chase my back.”

you had teared up too, peter realised, but were wiping your tears away, to keep your vision clear while working on his now other hand, he assumed.

and that was it, the last drop of water to make his glass overflow. silent tears started finding their way to his chin, his gaze lowered in embarrassment. he’d already cried a dozen times in front of you, and he wished he hadn’t, he wished he could be stronger, firmer, he wished he could aspire confidence instead of silently crying. he hadn’t been able to cry for a while, before meeting you. even when it hurt deep inside his bones, his tears had dried up. were they all spilling out now?

he wanted you to stay, too, he was tired of being alone. he was tired of imagining “what if”s. he was tired of walking directionless with his hoodie covering his face, face a blur in crowds, never known by anyone. if you could bandage his hands every time after a fight, or have your textbooks scattered around in his room, then-

he didn’t want to imagine it. he just couldn’t accept it.

you were done with his hands, even though peter didn’t want you to let go. “how about this,” you started, “why don’t we give it some more time? i mean, how many times did mj or ned get wounded while knowing you?”

“… never, really.”

“yeah, so, either i’m also cursed, or this was a rare occurrence. either way, me staying with you won’t change anything. so, instead of making a rash decision like this, why don’t we try to be friends first? and if it doesn’t work out, then you can put some distance?”

that was… peter thought on it. and then his silent tears turned into straight-up sobbing. because that could work. he could accept that, it made sense to him.

he leaned down and buried his face in his hands. you started caressing his hair, which made it impossible for his tears to stop.

when everyone had forgotten, you'd remembered him. when faced with a gun, you'd survived. when injured, you'd walked. maybe he really was cursed, considering what had happened to you after you just met, but you seemed determined to break it.

and it might not be perfect, but it would be.

it must’ve been hard for you to make such a decision, you must’ve thought about it; staying with peter. you’d chosen him anyway. he could do the same, too. despite his fears, his horrible instinct to shrink and escape, he could stand his ground, and choose to stay, as you had. and maybe with time, it could get easier.

he stopped his sobbing, calmed down enough to face you, and raised his head.

“i don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” he said with a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“right,” you smiled, “exciting, isn’t it?”

ghost towns (youtube music) by radical face... as we part ways for now.

Michael had returned the next day. But he did not buy anything; he just stayed at the counter, talking with you. At first, you found it peculiar. Not that he wanted to talk, but that he wanted to talk with you. You had assumed he had plenty of friends of his status. But you quickly realized it was not what he was seeking. He wanted normalcy. The little things people had: a friend, conversations about mundane, almost insignificant subjects, just sitting in a public setting, bonding, a true, emotional bond. Something so trivial that he did not have, for the grandeur of his life left no place for it, always being under scrutiny.

And so the two of you talked and talked and talked about anything and everything: comic books, cartoons, films, music, clothes, life, nature, anything that could be discussed. You'd laugh at his jokes and listen as he ranted about something he had recently learned, you asking questions about it, for he could make even a rock interesting. And before you could blink, he was visiting any time he could and phoning you every week.

Michael found in you what he had been searching for all his life: a safe haven. A friend and a lover who saw him. Who truly saw who he was inside. And you had found in him what you thought you'd never find: someone who accepted you for who you were. A partner who loved you and listened to you, and never made you feel smaller.

So, love blossomed. You both had always known that the world would eventually find out about it, but you wanted to enjoy as much privacy as his extraordinary life would allow. You would meet late at night for dinners, stroll in empty streets, he in disguise, and sometimes he would stay days over at your place, hiding from his life and enjoying domesticity with you like a normal, regular guy. Cooking with you, doing the dishes with you, doing the laundry with you, cleaning the apartment with you, like an average couple that did not have to fear being chased down the street. Free from the pressure of always being perfect.

But neither of you wanted privacy to become a secret. Michael did not want you to ever feel like he was ashamed of you. He was scared for you, yes, but he would do everything in his power to protect you from the unusual nature of his life. He loved you, and because he loved you so much, he could barely understand it himself; he was willing to take that leap of faith. And you loved him the same amount. It fueled you with a strength you were not aware you possessed, a strength that made you feel like you could face anything. He made you feel like you could face anything as long as you were both together.

So the announcement was made when you walked the red carpet with him, hand in hand, for a gala. Before that, Michael had helped you prepare. Despite being together, you never had a taste of his life. You'd sit at home and watch him attend events, and you liked it that way. You could see how he'd get overwhelmed sometimes, and for you, who knew nothing of that Hollywood world, it was nerve-wracking just watching it unfold.

So Michael had spent days, perhaps even weeks, helping you imagine the entire event, rehearsing your walk, all the while telling you that whatever would happen, he would be stuck to your side at every second. And it did reassure you. Still, the bright flashes of the camera and the screams of the fans still exceeded everything you had ever imagined. Not even a meter on the red carpet, you were already overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd and the stakes of the event, not wishing to ruin Michael's reputation.

But all he cared about was you. Michael had kept his arm around your waist at all times, stroking your side and whispering sweet words to your ears, his soft voice easing your nerves. He'd kiss your temple and let his thumb rub on your knuckles, intertwine his fingers with you, and hug you whenever he could. And soon enough, it was as if everything vanished. Because he was here with you.

And, of course, the media thrived on that novelty in Michael's life. They printed all kinds of theories and lies, speculating about how he met you, who you were, and whether you were some kind of gold digger, and such and such. It hurt you. Michael had confided in you about the frustration of having your life dissected and lies printed about him, lies coming out of nowhere. The frustration of seeing the perception people had of him change before his eyes, without the ability to do anything about it. But now living it yourself. It hurt. And he was hurt to see you hurt.

Michael hated it when you'd force a smile, telling him everything was fine after he had asked you if you were okay. He hated it when he'd catch you watching the news, tears clearly in your eyes as you listened to them debate about you. He hated it when you had finally broken down in his arms, and he could do nothing to soothe your pain. But unbeknownst to him, his presence alone was already helping you. He was your sun. Always shining a reassuring light on you, in broad daylight or through the moon--even when you thought he was not there.

And that helped you rebuild your confidence. Because what the media thought of you did not matter as long as Michael and your loved ones knew who you truly were.

Every newspaper and tabloid wanted to interview the two of you. After months and months of requests, you and Michael finally agreed to grant a channel your time.

Under the set's warm light, you sat in a chair, Michael right beside you. You held in a laugh as you watched him look back and forth between his seat and yours, his nose crunched. He was definitely annoyed that a couch had not been chosen instead of two separate chairs, so he could comfortably rest his hand on your thigh or keep your hand in his. He needed your touch to stay grounded and soothe himself.

Holding his chair's armrest, Michael wriggled it closer to yours, as the staff crew got the cameras ready.

You giggled. "What are you doing?"

"You're too far," he replied with a pout.

"Baby, I'm literally right next to you."

He only stopped when his armrest was pressed against yours. "Now it's better." His palm was up, his fingers moving to incite you to hold his hand. You shook your head, amused, but still obliged. "See? Much better already."

You laughed again, your eyes squinting with joy. "You're unbelievable."

"I'm just in love." You had to bite the inside of your cheek to control your smile. Michael leaned in to press a chaste kiss on the corner of your lips. "I'm right here with you, baby. If you're uncomfortable at any time, just squeeze my hand, and I'll handle it, okay?"

You could not help but melt at his world, your heart swelling with joy.

"Thank you, Michael. Really," you said.

He beamed you the most radiant of smiles. "No need, mama. I got you, always."

The reporter greeted the two of you before sitting in the chair opposite you. The interview started slowly, with the journalist questioning Michael about his latest album, Dangerous, and his upcoming world tour. But all those present on set knew it was only the appetizer leading to the main dish. The juicy, best-selling, exclusive news everyone was waiting for.

The reporter finally asked how you and Michael met. He told the tale, but kept the details to himself, not wishing to feed the world's voracious curiosity too much. He did not want your love to become some kind of twisted reality show, nor did he wish to share private moments and risk making you uncomfortable. These memories belonged to the two of you and you only.

Looking through her interview cards, the reporter then turned to you.

"You are fairly new to Hollywood and all the spotlights," she told you. "It must have been quite a drastic change for you, no? Michael Jackson is easily the most famous person in the world; it changes everything."

"Well." You paused a second to organize your thoughts. You wanted to be truthful without leaving room for people to twist your words into something else. "Being with Michael didn't change anything, relationship-wise, I mean. I feel like a lot of people think he's some kind of higher being that lives differently than most, but most of the time we just sit down and talk, and read books together. We cook together and do laundry together. Loving him is very peaceful. I'd say it's the interviews and the events that were the drastic change. It's certainly very different from what my life had been before, but Michael helps me through it."

Michael did not exactly train you for the interview, but he did give you some advice. Still, he was impressed by how well you handled it. His heart warmed because he could feel your sincerity and the kindness with which you talked about him.

The interviewer nodded as she listened to you, then turned to Michael. "Was it frightening for you to bring her into that world? You have grown up in the industry, so you know how it works. You are used to it, but she is not. Were you worried for her? Or did you wish you'd keep it private?"

"Even if we wanted to keep it private, the media would have found out about it anyway," Michael replied. "And I don't want to hide her like a secret. I love her, and I want to live our love like anyone else in the world. But, yes, I was worried for her. Especially because of the paparazzi. They follow you everywhere and have no respect for your boundaries and your feelings. They can get very ruthless with you. And I'm constantly scared that she'd get swarmed by them when I'm not around. But we've talked about it, and we'll go through that together."

The interview continued quite smoothly. You were initially anxious about the idea of receiving inappropriate or disrespectful questions, but the reporter was fairly deferential and courteous. She asked about your job and how you felt about having to quit due to the paparazzi, about what your family felt about the relationship, and if it changed anything about the way people viewed you. She asked Michael if this relationship was to be approached differently since he had been dating celebrities before, if you got along with his family, and if certain songs on his album were about you, which he shyly confirmed.

"Do you ever get overwhelmed by his life?" the interviewer then asked you. "I assume Michael is very busy, with his music, his short films, and his activism. How do you balance that? Mingled with the paparazzi and the scrutiny."

You felt Michael tensing, his hand going rigid. He had never told you, but you knew it was a fear of his that you'd leave him due to his intense and almost extreme lifestyle. The lack of privacy, the chasing down the street, the lies about you and him; he would not blame you if you decided to leave. But he would not recover from it. He did not know what he'd do without you. And you could feel all that in the way he'd always ask you if you were alright. In the way he was always looking after you. Of course, you knew he did because he cared. A part of it also came from fear.

"Some aspects of his life are overwhelming, but it's the aspects that are out of his control, so not him, if that makes sense?" Your thumb stroked the base of Michael's thumb; he relaxed under your touch. "I understand that his job is demanding, and I'm fine with it. Music and film are his passions, so I try to support him as best as I can. He does the same for me. And Michael and I, we communicate a lot. He always lets me know when he's too busy to talk, and when he's done, he always calls me. He tells me when he has to be absent for a long period of time and makes sure I'm okay. So I never really feel the weight of it."

You glanced at him, bumping your shoulders into him.

"I do miss him when he's gone a little too long," you teased. "But I get it. It's fine. Honestly, Michael is so considerate and kind that it's so easy to love him, and love should be easy. So, I truly couldn't dream of a better husband than him."

Michael's head snapped at you, his eyes wide. You continued to talk, but he could no longer hear you. Did you just refer to him as your husband? A grin was already making its way onto his lips, and he glanced at the interviewer as if checking whether he had imagined it or not. And seeing the way she glanced back at him with an amused smile, he definitely did not imagine it. You called him husband. Husband.

His bottom lip trapped between his teeth, Michael tried to contain his smile as much as he could, but it had already stretched from one ear to the other. A deep blush crept from his neck, coloring his cheeks and ears a deep red as he hid his face behind his hand, trying to stifle a giggle. To no avail. You referred to him as your husband. Husband. That word played and played and turned inside his head over and over and over again, making his stomach flip-flop and the butterflies frenetic, his heart swelling with so much love he feared he would explode. Actually, he might just straight up faint from how high with love he was at the moment.

What did that mean? Were you often thinking of him as your husband? Were you thinking of marriage? Should he be starting to look for a ring? Should he plan a proposal? Michael's leg was bouncing up and down as he wriggled in his seat, unable to sit still. You called him husband. Husband. It was silly how giddy it made him, but it just sounded so good from your lips. He felt like flying, as if wings had sprung out of his back. He was on cloud nine. In paradise. Completely elated just from the fact that you called him husband. Michael was already gone for you, but now, no word existed to describe how in love he was with you.

From all the leg crossing and uncrossing and twisting and turning of his side, you finally looked at him and noticed his red face and giggling state.

You tilted your head, feeling like you had missed something. "What? Did I say something funny?"

Michael cleared his throat, shaking his head, a smile never leaving his face.

"No, no, it's just..." He chuckled again, his eyes squinting and twinkling. "No, nothing."

"No, tell me, what it is," you gently pressed. "You know I hate being left out."

"It's just..." He bit his lip again. "You said 'husband'."

You blinked. "Hm?"

Michael caressed the back of your hand, his eyes fixed on your ring finger.

"You said that you couldn't dream of a better husband," he cited.

You stared at him for a second, rewinding everything that you had said, and it was now your turn to have your face heat up.

"Oh..." You let out a nervous chuckle. "I'm sorry, I meant 'boyfriend'."

"No, I don't mind." Michael kissed the back of your hand. "I really, really don't mind."

"I guess you don't really need to worry about her answer if you pop the question, right, Michael?" the interviewer teased.

Michael looked down, letting his hair hide his face as yet another big grin spread on his lips. It was the first time you saw him that flustered, as if rendered a teenager not knowing how to act anymore. It was flattering to know you had such an effect on him, but also quite amusing to see him so flustered and giddy from a simple lapse. He valued you, truly. He loved you, truly. And it made you curious. How much of your affection could Michael truly take before short-circuiting?

The interviewer looked through her cards again and turned back to you. "Is there anything that he does that annoys you? Like, a little habit?"

Your eyes flickered to Michael, who was still trying to compose himself, his ears still very red. And it put you in a mischievous mood.

"It's not something that he does, but it's rather his face," you said.

Michael frowned and looked at you. "My face?"

You nodded. "Yeah, you're always so beautiful all the time; it's annoying."

The sentence rolled out so smoothly, your eyes fixed deeply on his. He didn't react for a split second before he let out a sound between a nervous chuckle and a choke, as his face was growing red all over again. He swore he could hear his heartbeat in his head, every pulsation reverberating throughout his body as his mind just completely shut down.

Why did you have to flirt with him so openly like that when you knew it'd render him speechless? When you knew he'd fold so quickly? When you knew he loved it so much when you looked at him like that?

Amused by his reaction, the whole staff crew tried to hold their laughter. You continued, "Like, I often wonder how someone can look this good; it's just baffling, really." You turned to the interviewer. "In any hairstyle, any kind of garments, he always looks amazing in anything. He's definitely God's favorite; it's unfair. I spend hours doing my makeup, and he just wakes up looking like a prince charming. His smile is the prettiest, and his eyes are so stunning that I could look at them for hours. And his voice, oh my, his voice is so soothing. No one should look that good because it's truly dangerous. He's an absolute angel. Like, how is it possible that he exists--"

But his hand gently pressed against your mouth, silencing you as Michael looked at you with pleading, begging eyes. He was two seconds away from fainting. He was the biggest star in the world, overflowing with charisma whenever he stepped on a stage, commanding the whole world with a snap of his fingers. He always looked so unstoppable. Invincible. And yet, here he was, rendered a blushing and flustered mess by the woman he so loved.

"Baby, please..." Michael was so red he almost matched his shirt. "My heart can't take any more; you're gonna kill me."

You giggled against his palm, kissing it as he slightly pulled on his shirt collar as if trying to get some air. The interview continued and ended well. In the car, on the way back home, Michael complained to you about you teasing him too much, though from the way his arms were around you and his face deep in your neck, you knew he was just pretending.

Safe to say, Michael really did start looking for a ring that very night.

In the rehearsal room, you sat on a black transport box, Michael standing next to you as he nearly gulped down an entire bottle of water in one go. Some strands of his curls that were tied into a low ponytail stuck to his face, glistening with sweat. His white shirt also clung to his torso, slightly see-through in some parts from how soaked in sweat it was. You could not help but wet your lips at the sight. He was just so handsome.

The rest of the dancers were taking a break, stretching or chatting together. You had decided to stop by to see how the practice for the second leg of the Bad tour was going. He had been working so hard for the past months to pull everything together, and the first show was getting closer and closer.

The choreographer soon walked up to Michael, discussing some parts of the dance.

"I was thinking, you know," the dance director said. "It's kind of a sexy song, so we could implement more sensual moves into the choreo."

Michael nodded as he screwed the bottle closed and set it back on the box you were sitting on. "What do you have in mind?"

"I was thinking, maybe, with a partner. Body rolls, against one another. Not real grinding, but the illusion of it." The choreographer then looked at you. "If that's okay with your lady, of course."

"Fine with me," you reassured. "It's just a performance."

The director looked back at Michael. "What do you think?"

But the tips of Michael's ears were red as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Um, I don't do dirty dancing," he said.

A silence settled. You stared at him for a second, then glanced at the choreographer, who gazed at you, too. He was clearly thinking the same thing as you.

And Michael noticed it. His eyes darted back and forth between you and the director, confused. He could tell the two of you were having some kind of silent conversation he was not a part of.

So he said, "What?"

You looked back at him. "What do you mean, what?"

"I saw that look you two shared."

Again, you looked at the choreographer, and that did not fail to make Michael pout, disliking being left out. The director only let out a chuckle and motioned for you to handle it.

So you turned to Michael again: "Baby, you rip your shirts open and thrust your hips on stage; that's pretty much what dirty dancing is." Immediately, his face turned red. "In The Way You Make Me Feel, you literally mimed her silhouette, moved your hips, and held your head back--"

"It's different!" He exclaimed.

You frowned. "Literally, how?"

"Because--" Michael scowled at the choreographer who was stifling his laugh. "Hey, don't laugh!" He looked back at you. "It's just different."

"Baby, you humped the stage," you pointed out.

"I didn't--" He stopped himself because he knew he had done exactly what you said. He sighed, scratching the nape of his neck. "Dirty dancing alone is wholly different than doing it with someone. With a partner, it's too... intimate."

You leaned back on your hands. "Mhm... I guess it kind of makes sense."

"But would it be okay if you dirty dance with (Y/N)?" The choreographer asked. "Would it make you more comfortable?"

Michael's initial embarrassment vanished, replaced by a smile. His eyes were now on you with a glint of mischief and excitement.

"That, I can do."

You rolled your eyes, but the tug at your lips betrayed your feelings. One thing was certain: Michael didn't mind getting dirty with you in any kind of way.

Love was like a painting. It wasn't created with a single brushstroke, but built layer by layer until, one day, you stepped back and realized the canvas had become something entirely different.

You met Michael before you knew his name.

Encino was quieter after midnight.

The daytime traffic had faded, leaving the streets to the people who couldn't sleep. The glow of porch lights and the silhouettes of tall palm trees gave the neighborhood a peaceful stillness.

You had always preferred those hours. The world felt slower, calmer then. There were no clients asking stupid questions, no neighbors knocking on your door, and no distractions beyond the occasional car drifting through the streets.

It was when you painted best.

You carried a folding stool, your easel, and whatever canvas held your attention that week—a landscape, a rain-softened storefront, or a stranger destined for oil.

The first time you noticed him, he was simply another silhouette walking beneath the streetlights.

He wasn't in any hurry, he never seemed to be.

His hands always stayed tucked inside the pockets of his jacket, his head lowered beneath the brim of a cap, as though he didn't want anyone to see him. Same, you thought.

He didn't walk absentmindedly, though. He noticed the flowers growing through cracked sidewalks, stopped to pet the stray cats and dogs that wandered the neighborhood, and sometimes paused just to watch them.

He looked at the world the way an artist did, with detail and adoration.

You didn't speak for several nights.

There was only quiet recognition. A nod, a small smile.

The first conversation happened because of the rain.

The showers had left the streets glistening, turning the potholes into mirrors that reflected the orange glow of the street lamps. You were working quickly, charcoal racing across your sketchbook, desperate to capture the light before it disappeared.

"It'll be gone in another minute." The voice startled you.

You looked up to find him standing a respectful distance away, looking not at you but at the puddle you had been sketching for the past ten minutes.

"The reflection," he clarified softly. "The water will stay longer than the light."

It was such an oddly beautiful observation that you couldn't help smiling.

"You notice things."

"So do you."

That became the beginning.

No introductions, no names—just two people sharing observations about the ordinary things they find beautiful and entertaining, while most others walk past without noticing them.

Weeks passed before you learned who he was.

You had never asked, and he had never offered. To you, he was simply the young man who wandered the neighborhood late at night and liked asking why you mixed blue into your shadows instead of black.

The truth hit you in the middle of a grocery store. A cashier gasped, customers gathered around him, and someone whispered his name in disbelief.

Michael Jackson.

You watched the scene unfold from a several aisles away, watching the way strangers surround the quiet young man you'd spent weeks discussing color theory with.

He looked uncomfortable—not annoyed, just tired. Even so, he signed everything that was handed to him, ruffled every child's hair, and gave each one a hug.

He noticed you the entire time you stood there. He expected everything to change. Instead, you asked if he still wanted to hear why certain paints made better shadows. The relief that eased his shoulders became one of your favorite things you would ever witness.

Friendship came naturally after that.

He visited your apartment often, delighting in the way paint seemed to live everywhere. It stained your jeans, streaked your hands, dried into your hair, and somehow even your kettle had acquired flecks of color. Michael found it endlessly charming.

He would sit for hours in the old wooden chair beside your easel, reading while you worked. Sometimes he would sing softly as you painted. On other afternoons, the room remained silent except for the gentle tap of brushes against glass jars. He never seemed to mind the quiet. He simply enjoyed the peace and watching you create.

You didn't mind the silence either. It had never frightened either of you. With time, it became another language, your language.

You painted everything. Landscapes, children, elderly couples, wedding portraits—you even painted Louie. Eventually, without ever realizing exactly when it had happened, your favorite subject became Michael.

Not because he was famous, but because he was fascinating. You painted him reading. You painted him laughing so hard his eyes disappeared as he clutched his stomach. You painted him asleep on your couch after the two of you stayed up until dawn talking about God knows what.

He rarely noticed when you sketched, and those became the best portraits. Natural and honest.

By the time Off the Wall was released, everything around him seemed to accelerate. The world had begun paying closer attention. Interviews multiplied, recording sessions stretched late into the night.

Everyone seemed to want a piece of Michael, yet somehow he still found time to disappear into your apartment, escaping into the familiar scent of linseed oil and drying paint. Those evenings became sacred to both of you.

You would work while he hummed unfinished melodies beneath his breath, occasionally asking your opinion on lyrics or rhythms. He never expected you to understand technical musical language. Instead, he asked what colors his songs reminded you of, and you always answered honestly.

Neither of you realized how unusual those conversations were, but you cherished them nonetheless.

Your own career quietly flourished alongside his. Portrait commissions became gallery invitations, and gallery invitations became exhibitions. Art collectors began requesting your work months in advance. You never became wealthy enough to stop working—you never wanted to anyway—but you became successful enough to choose your projects and live comfortably.

Most importantly, you became successful enough to work from anywhere, and that changed everything. Touring wasn't as glamorous as some people made it out to be. People imagined luxury hotels, private planes, and endless excitement.

But the reality looked very different. Early flights. Sleepless nights. Constantly being on the move. Half-finished paintings drying in the strangest places. You traveled with a collapsible easel, a wooden paint box worn smooth from years of use, and dozens of carefully wrapped canvases.

Every hotel room became a temporary studio, and Michael loved watching them transform. Within an hour, expensive suites looked wonderfully lived in. Brushes stood in coffee mugs, drop cloths covered the carpets, and canvases leaned against furniture.

It reminded him of home, no matter what country you found yourselves in.

While he rehearsed, you painted the city from hotel balconies.

When concerts ended, exhausted and exhilarated all at once, he returned to find you still awake beneath a lamp, quietly working.

Those moments became your favorite part of every tour. Not the concerts, not the applause, nor the beautiful cities— but the peaceful hours afterward when the noise disappeared and he could simply exist again.

Sometimes he sat nearby reading, sometimes he watched you paint, and sometimes he'd simply fall asleep on the sofa before saying a single word.

You learned that love often looked like allowing someone to rest.

Then Thriller changed everything.

Fame exploded beyond anything either of you had imagined. Airports became impossible, hotels required security teams, and strangers began creating stories about every friendship, appearance, and photograph.

For the first time, your relationship felt fragile—not because of each other, but because the world had opinions about something that had always belonged only to the two of you.

People assumed you were dating long before you actually were. Magazines made up engagements, while others insisted you were only his employee or someone who painted him for publicity.

But the truth was much simpler. You were just two friends sharing quiet rooms, neither brave enough to admit that friendship had slowly become something more.

It finally happened in Paris.

There was no grand declaration, no big moment. You spent a lovely and peaceful afternoon between performances wandering through museums. Michael barely looked at the famous paintings—he watched you instead.

He watched the way your eyes followed centuries-old brushstrokes and the way you smiled whenever you discovered a beautiful color combination.

That evening, back in the hotel, you began another painting. Of him of course.

"You've painted me hundreds of times." He laughed softly. "I know." You smiled as you worked your brush. "Aren't you tired of my face yet?" You looked up from the canvas. "Nope."

The room fell quiet.

Not awkward, but the kind of silence that arrives when something important has finally reached the surface.

He crossed the room slowly, uncertainty still lingering in his expression—the same uncertainty you'd seen years earlier at the grocery store. As if he still wondered whether anyone could choose him once they truly knew him.

His hand found yours, stained with blue and ochre, and he intertwined his fingers with yours before kissing you gently. You kissed him back, careful not to leave any paint on him. When he pulled away, the relief in his smile said everything.

As though he'd been carrying those feelings alone for years. Perhaps he had as well. You certainly had.

Being together changed surprisingly little.

You still painted and he still wandered when he couldn't sleep. You still spent long afternoons in comfortable silence. The difference was the ease between you—hands finding each other, goodbyes becoming forehead kisses, and hotel rooms feeling like home because you were together.

During the Bad era, you watched him become more confident yet more guarded. The world demanded perfection, but your paintings became the opposite.

You painted him after rehearsals with messy hair and tired eyes, barefoot and laughing until tears filled his eyes, asleep beneath blankets in quiet moments no one else ever saw. You painted every version of him the world never knew. Those portraits belonged only to the two of you.

Years passed. Albums were released, tours crossed continents, and your own career flourished alongside his. Collectors celebrated your work, exhibitions traveled the world, and Michael jokingly called them your own tours. Eventually, your name became known beside his.

Still, the one thing that never change was the subject: Michael.

Not because he was famous, but because he remained the person you wanted to understand most. You painted every version of him—wiser, tired, joyful.

The only thing that changed? You were now Mrs. Jackson. You had the privilege of continuing your career alongside your husband's, sharing in each other's successes while still remaining your own person.

Eventually, while organizing old canvases, Michael found your first sketchbook. The pages had yellowed, the charcoal had faded, but there he was: a figure beneath a streetlamp.

His cap, his oversized jacket, his hands tucked into his pockets.

He stared at the drawing for a very long time.

"You drew me before we were friends." His eyes found yours. "I know." You smiled, your hand resting gently over your pregnant belly. "You never told me."

"I didn't think it mattered."

"It mattered enough to keep."

"I keep everything." You smiled again.

He turned page after page.

Hundreds of portraits. Thousands of sketches. Every hairstyle, every era, every smile. An entire lifetime preserved in pigment and paper.

Not one of them showed stadiums or crowds.

Not one captured awards, headlines, or sold-out tours. Instead, they showed him in the quiet moments—watering plants, reading by windows, holding cups of tea. They showed the man you knew, the version of him few others ever got to see.

"I spent so much of my life wondering if people only loved the idea of me." He closed the sketchbook gently and looked at you, tears glistening in his eyes.

You rose from the couch and crossed the room to him, your hands resting softly against his face.

"I never painted the idea." He leaned into your touch. "I painted the man who stopped to admire puddles. The man who still got nervous when someone called him handsome."

Michael laughed softly, his hands resting on your pregnant belly as he gently caressed it.

Outside, rain began tapping softly against the windows, almost exactly as it had the night you first met. Without another word, you walked together to the window. He wrapped his arms around you again, and you rested your head against his chest.

Years continued to pass. Your family grew, albums became classics, and tours eventually ended. The one thing that never changed was the way canvases filled the walls of every home you shared.

And somewhere, tucked safely inside the oldest sketchbook you owned, would always remain the very first drawing of the young man walking through Encino after midnight—completely unaware that he would become the masterpiece you would spend the rest of your life painting and the love of your life.

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