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1988 neverland ranch

This was bad, really bad.

You knew something was wrong the second you woke up.

Pain pulsed through your entire body immediately, deep and overwhelming. It settled heavily into your back, your shoulders, your arms, and your neck. Every inch of you ached in a way that made your stomach twist uneasily. It wasn't soreness from sleeping wrong. It wasn't the kind of ache that disappeared once you stretched or moved around; it was sharper than that.

A miserable groan left your lips as you shifted beneath the blankets, your body protesting even the smallest movement. Heat clung to your skin uncomfortably, sweat dampening the back of your neck and the collar of your sleep shirt, the feverish warmth that had pulled you awake in the first place. You felt like your body was burning from the inside out.

Your eyes drifted toward the clock sitting on your nightstand: 3:00 a.m. blinked back at you. You were supposed to leave for the airport in three hours. You were supposed to be flying out to meet Michael in Rome.

Michael had already left the States days ago with the crew to begin preparing for the second leg of the Bad World Tour. Even though the Rome shows weren't for another two weeks, rehearsals and preparations had already started overseas.

You had stayed behind because of work obligations, but the plan had always been for you to join him early so the two of you could finally have a little time together before the chaos of touring swallowed him whole again.

He had been so excited.

You could still hear his voice from your last phone call, soft and warm through the line as he rambled about all the places he wanted to take you once you got there. Little cafés tucked away from crowds. Late walks through the city. Quiet mornings together before rehearsals started taking over his schedule again. Michael had been clinging to the idea of having you there with him, especially after the insanity of the American leg of the tour.

Your packed suitcases sat neatly beside the bedroom door, ready to go, but there was absolutely no way you could get on a plane like this.

The nausea rolled through you next, sudden and vicious enough to make your stomach clench painfully. You squeezed your eyes shut as the sensation intensified, bile creeping up the back of your throat. There was nothing in your system to throw up, not at this hour after barely eating the evening before, but you already knew if you got sick, it would just be miserable dry heaving.

Your entire body hurts. Even breathing felt uncomfortable now, every inhale dragging against aching muscles and feverish exhaustion.

You swallowed hard before trying to sit up so you could reach your landline, but the second you lifted yourself from the mattress, dizziness slammed into you violently. Your vision blurred almost instantly, black spots flickering across your eyesight as lightheadedness crashed over you so hard it made your stomach churn.

"Shit," you muttered weakly under your breath before immediately forcing yourself back down against the pillows. Your heart pounded heavily from the effort alone.

Breathing carefully through the dizziness, you slowly scooted yourself closer to the edge of the bed until your fingers could finally reach the phone sitting on the nightstand. Even lifting your arm felt exhausting.

You dialed Bill's pager because you knew he would recognize the number immediately, and you also knew it was already noon in Italy.

Three minutes later, the phone rang.

You grabbed it quickly despite the ache in your arm and answered weakly, your voice barely above a rasp. "Bill?"

"Hey, sweetie, you okay?" Bill's familiar voice filled the line warmly, but concern immediately lingered beneath it.

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to gather enough energy to answer him properly. You had always considered Bill your real future father-in-law in every way that mattered. Michael loved him deeply, trusted him deeply, and over the years, so had you. Bill had become family long before the engagement ring ended up on your finger.

"Bill..." Your voice cracked painfully around his name. "Is Michael available?" On the other end of the line, Bill frowned instantly. Your voice sounded awful. It was hoarse and weak, every word strained like speaking itself was taking energy you didn't have.

"You don't sound good," Bill said immediately, his tone sharpening with concern as he listened closer. Even your breathing sounded shallow through the phone.

You swallowed thickly against the nausea crawling in your throat. "I don't think I'm gonna be able to fly... Michael should hear it from me." The sentence alone drained you. You let your head fall back heavily against the pillows afterward, your body feeling impossibly heavy beneath the blankets.

"Okay, hold on for one moment, I'll go get him," Bill said quickly. You nodded instinctively even though he couldn't see you.

The second the line muffled, you let yourself sink further into the bed, exhaustion swallowing you whole. A shaky breath left your lips, but the inhale immediately made pain flare sharply through your body again, another miserable groan escaping you before you could stop it.

Your body hurt so badly that even breathing was starting to feel like work.

"Baby?" Michael's voice filtered softly through the phone, pulling you out of the haze you had started drifting into. You hadn't even realized how close to sleep you had gotten again until you heard him. Everything felt foggy and heavy, your body sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress with every passing second.

"Bill says you don't sound good... what's wrong?" The concern in his voice immediately twisted painfully in your chest.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment because guilt hit you almost instantly. Both of you had been looking forward to this trip for weeks. Michael had been counting down the days until you got there. Every phone call lately had somehow circled back to Rome, to all the little plans he'd made for the two of you before the tour completely consumed him again.

And now this.

"I'm so sorry, Michael..." Your voice cracked weakly around the apology. "I don't think I'll be able to fly." The words sounded awful even to your own ears.

On the other end of the line, Michael immediately straightened where he was sitting. He could hear how hard it was for you to get the sentence out. Every few words were interrupted by another shaky breath, your breathing uneven and strained in a way he didn't like at all.

"Bill's right, you don't sound good," Michael said quietly, concern sharpening underneath every syllable.

You could practically hear the wheels turning in his head already, and that alone made your stomach twist harder. The last thing you wanted was for him to start spiraling while he was supposed to be preparing for tour rehearsals.

"Michael, I'll be okay... probably just..." You stopped, forcing yourself to breathe through the ache in your chest and the nausea rolling through your stomach. Even speaking was beginning to exhaust you. "Probably just need some more sleep."

Michael shook his head immediately. This was not "just tired." As you spoke, he was already turning toward Bill, panic beginning to settle quietly into his chest as he mouthed: Start looking for flights back to California.

Bill nodded instantly without hesitation.

"Baby... I really don't like the way you sound," Michael admitted softly. "You're straining to breathe just to say words." Your brows pulled together weakly at that because you had been trying so hard to conceal it.

"It's fine," you whispered. Another wave of pain crashed through your body suddenly, sharp enough to make your eyes sting. A soft sniffle escaped you before you could stop it, and the sound cut straight through Michael.

His entire expression changed. The exhaustion from rehearsals, the tour stress, the overseas travel, all of it disappeared beneath immediate fear. "I'm coming home."

Your eyes widened slightly at the firmness in his voice.

Ever since you had moved into Hayvenhurst with Michael back in 1985, the two of you had built a life together there naturally. But after he proposed to you last year, right before the first leg of the Bad Tour began, everything had changed. Michael had wanted something that belonged fully to both of you.

A place that existed outside of cameras and screaming crowds and tour schedules. The second he remembered Sycamore Valley Ranch from filming Say Say Say there years ago, he had known, and now it was Neverland.

Your home.

The home the two of you built together from the ground up, filling it with warmth and life and softness in all the ways Michael had always craved. Exotic animals roamed peacefully across the property under the care of trained staff. Children visited constantly, their laughter filling the grounds alongside carnival music from the amusement rides Michael had built. Every piece of Neverland carried both of your fingerprints on it.

It wasn't just Michael's dream anymore; it was yours, too.

"Michael... you're in the middle of the tour," you said weakly before another strained breath interrupted you.

"And the Italy shows don't start for another two weeks," Michael replied immediately. His voice had taken on that soft but immovable tone you knew well. The one that meant his mind was already made up. "I can't leave you alone in this condition, baby."

Your eyes burned with tears instantly. Of course, he was coming home.

That only made the guilt feel heavier because you knew how many people were depending on him right now. The tour was massive. Rehearsals were massive. Entire crews moved around Michael's schedule constantly, and now, because of you... All of that was getting interrupted.

"Baby, I'm okay..." Your voice trembled as exhaustion dragged at every word. "It'll pass in a few days, and I should be able to... to make it to Rome before the..." You paused again, trying to force enough air into your lungs to finish the sentence. "...before the shows start."

Michael's face tightened painfully as he listened to you struggle through every word. It only solidified the decision already settling deeper into his chest.

He was coming home; there was no discussion anymore.

"Michael, I found a flight that leaves in the next two hours," you heard Bill say somewhere in the background.

"Book it," Michael said with no hesitation in his tone. You closed your eyes with a quiet sigh as you heard movement on the other end of the line, Michael's attention returning fully to you again. "I'm coming home, and that's final, baby." The firmness in his voice told you instantly there was no point trying to argue anymore.

You knew Michael; once he made up his mind about something involving the people he loved, especially you, there was no changing it. Not when he already knew something was wrong. Not when he could hear it for himself every time you spoke.

You hated the idea of derailing the tour. Hated knowing how many people depended on him right now. But you also knew nothing you said was going to reassure him enough to stay in Italy while you sounded like this.

"Okay," you whispered quietly.

Another deep breath followed instinctively, but the uneven strain behind it was impossible to hide now. Michael heard it immediately, and the sound made his chest tighten painfully all over again.

"What are your other symptoms besides your breathing?" Michael asked softly.

You frowned weakly against your pillows; you didn't want to answer that. You could already hear the worry in his voice, could practically feel him spiraling from thousands of miles away, and the last thing you wanted was for him to panic while trapped in another country waiting for a flight home.

"I'm okay," you said automatically. There was a brief pause.

Then, instead of one of his usual endearments, he said your name, softly and gently like he always does, but there was a quiet firmness underneath it that immediately told you he was serious.

Michael rarely used your actual name like that unless he truly needed something from you emotionally. He needed to know. You sighed weakly before forcing yourself to speak again.

"It's 3 a.m., and I woke up this early because I'm really hot..." Your voice rasped painfully around the words. "And my body hurts... everywhere."

You swallowed thickly, squeezing your eyes shut as another wave of aches pulsed through you.

"My back... shoulders... my neck." You paused again to breathe carefully through the nausea twisting in your stomach. "My head is pounding... and my stomach hurts too."

On the other end of the line, Michael's expression tightened with helpless worry. He hated this. He hated being this far away from you while you sounded so miserable. Twelve hours suddenly felt unbearable. Entirely too long to be separated from you when you sounded weak enough that even talking exhausted you.

For one irrational second, he genuinely wished he could somehow teleport home.

"I will be home in twelve hours," Michael said softly but firmly, grounding both himself and you with the certainty in his voice. "And I'm calling my mother to come stay with you until I get there, and then I will call the doctor to come see you."

A small sniffle escaped you instantly for multiple reasons.

Because you loved him so much, it physically hurt sometimes. Because even from another country, Michael was still trying to take care of you in every way he could think of. Because he sounded terrified but was still trying to keep you calm, and because the guilt sitting in your chest felt overwhelming.

He was pausing the tour for you.

"Okay... thank you, Michael," you whispered softly.

"Get some sleep, baby. I love you." Another shaky breath left you automatically, rough and uneven from exhaustion and fever, and when Michael heard how difficult even breathing sounded for you now, his heart clenched so painfully it almost stole his own breath for a moment.

"I love you more," you whispered weakly.

Neither of you hung up. Instead, silence lingered softly between you for a moment before Michael's voice drifted quietly through the receiver again, he was singing.

Gentle and warm and achingly tender despite the exhaustion weighing on him. "You know how I feel, this thing can't go wrong, I'm so proud to say I love you..."

The familiar melody wrapped around you softly in the darkness of your bedroom, Michael's voice soothing something deep inside you, even through the fever and pain. Your body still hurt terribly, every inch aching beneath the blankets, but hearing him sing to you made some of the fear loosen slightly in your chest.

Michael kept singing quietly over the phone, his voice low and intimate, meant only for you, and slowly, your breathing started getting heavier and deeper as exhaustion was finally dragging you back under again.

Michael recognized it immediately. He knew your sleeping patterns too well not to. Sick or not, he could always tell the difference between your awake breathing and your sleeping breathing.

Even now, from thousands of miles away.

He hated knowing it wouldn't be restful sleep. Hated knowing your body was probably burning with fever while you slept alone in your bed.

"I love you," he whispered one more time after he was sure you were asleep. Then finally, reluctantly, he hung up the phone. The second the line disconnected, the exhaustion and fear he'd been trying to suppress settled visibly across his face.

Bill looked up immediately when Michael stepped back into the room. "When do we leave?" Michael asked quietly.

Bill nodded once. "In an hour." Michael nodded, already mentally somewhere else entirely.

"Okay..." He rubbed a tired hand over his face briefly before exhaling shakily. "I have another call to make." Bill understood instantly and stepped out quietly to give him privacy.

The second the door closed behind him, Michael sat down heavily and took a deep breath before dialing a number he had known by heart for years.

Hayvenhurst.

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Several hours later, you were pulled out of an uneasy, feverish sleep by the sound of knocking against your bedroom door.

The noise barely registered at first through the heavy haze clouding your head. Your body felt impossibly weighted down, every limb aching worse than it had earlier in the night. Even opening your eyes felt difficult. You blinked slowly toward the clock sitting on your nightstand and saw that it was a little after 10 in the morning.

And somehow, you felt even worse now than you had at 3 a.m. Your fever had clearly climbed while you slept. Everything hurt.

Your head throbbed relentlessly, your body aching so deeply it felt embedded into your bones now, and your stomach still twisted unpleasantly every time you moved even slightly. Your skin felt damp and overheated beneath the blankets, yet chills still trembled through your body hard enough to make your teeth almost chatter.

"It's open," you managed to croak out weakly.

Your voice sounded awful, raw and strained, and barely recognizable even to yourself.

You weren't entirely sure who was on the other side of the door, but you knew Neverland security remained on the property whenever Michael traveled. The guards who didn't accompany him overseas always stayed behind with you when you weren't on tour with him, so whoever was knocking had already been cleared through the gates, so you knew it had to be someone you're familiar with.

The bedroom door opened carefully a moment later, and Katherine Jackson stepped quietly inside, carrying a tray assembled carefully with water, medicine, and a steaming bowl of soup.

The second you realized it was her, your head immediately dropped back against the pillow again because even lifting it had exhausted you.

"Mama Katie, what are you doing here?" you asked weakly through shallow, shaky breaths. The second Katherine got a proper look at you, her expression fell into immediate concern.

The blanket was tangled halfway over your legs and twisted beneath you from how restless you had clearly been while sleeping. Your body trembled faintly beneath the sheets despite the visible sheen of sweat coating your skin. Damp strands of hair clung to the sides of your face and neck, and your cheeks were flushed deeply with fever.

You felt miserable, too hot and too cold at the same time. Your back was damp with sweat, heat radiating off your skin uncomfortably, while chills still crawled underneath it.

"Michael called me and told me what was going on," Katherine said softly as she crossed further into the room. "Since his flight is twelve hours, he didn't want you to be alone, but as soon as he told me your condition, I was going to come over anyway."

A small sound escaped you then, somewhere between relief and a weak cry. You hadn't realized just how alone and miserable you'd felt until someone was finally there with you.

Your family was still back home in New York while you and Michael built your life together in California, and suddenly the distance between those two places felt very real. Normally, Neverland felt warm and alive and comforting even when Michael traveled.

But being this sick inside the massive house without him there had made everything feel strangely empty.

The mattress dipped gently beside you as Katherine sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. She placed the tray on your nightstand before turning all of her attention toward you fully, her expression immediately softening further with concern.

"I'm going to help you sit up so you can take this medicine and try to eat, okay?" she said gently. You wanted to nod, but your body felt so heavy and weak that you couldn't even convince your head to move properly.

Katherine noticed immediately. "Oh, honey," she murmured softly under her breath.

Carefully, she slid one arm behind your shoulders and helped ease you upright. Even that small movement made dizziness ripple through you instantly, your stomach twisting again as your body protested being moved.

Michael's pillows from his side of the bed were gathered gently and tucked behind your back so you could lean against them without straining yourself further. The familiar scent of him lingering faintly on the pillows made your chest ache suddenly because you missed him.

Katherine's hand moved gently to your forehead, then the back of her hand rested carefully against your overheated skin before she checked your flushed cheeks, too. Her face tightened with concern immediately.

"You definitely have a fever, honey..." she sighed softly. "The medicine will help bring it down."

For some reason, that almost made you cry. Maybe because she was taking care of you so naturally. Maybe because you felt so terrible. Maybe because, despite everything, she had still come immediately.

"Thank you," you whispered weakly.

Katherine gave you a soft smile before reaching for the medicine bottle. Knowing you probably wouldn't handle swallowing pills very well in your current condition, she had brought liquid Tylenol instead. The sweetness of it sat unpleasantly against the nausea already twisting in your stomach, but you forced yourself to swallow it down anyway.

The second you finished, Katherine handed you the glass of water. You drank gratefully, your throat painfully dry despite the fever. Then, once she was sure you had gotten enough down, Katherine carefully lifted the tray from the nightstand and settled it gently across your lap.

Although your entire body hurt, you pushed through it and reached for the spoon anyway. Even lifting your arm felt exhausting.

Your hand trembled faintly from weakness as you scooped up a small amount of soup, the steam curling softly against your flushed face. You managed two spoonfuls before your stomach twisted hard enough to make you stop completely.

The nausea hit almost immediately.

You swallowed thickly against it before slowly shaking your head and looking over at Katherine, your eyes glassy with exhaustion and fever.

"I can't," you whispered weakly. Even those two bites felt like they had taken everything out of you.

Your body ached terribly from simply sitting upright this long, your muscles heavy and sore beneath your skin, while dizziness lingered faintly at the edges of your vision. The warmth from the soup should have been comforting, but instead, your stomach rolled harder in protest, making you feel dangerously close to getting sick.

Katherine didn't push, but the concern in her eyes softened immediately instead. "That's alright, sweetheart," she said gently.

Carefully, she lifted the tray from your lap before setting it aside, then moved back toward you to help ease you down against the pillows again. The second your head touched the mattress, you let out a shaky breath of relief. Even sitting upright for those few minutes had exhausted you so badly that it felt like your body was shutting down all over again.

Katherine quietly carried the tray to the bedroom door and handed it off to one of the staff members waiting outside before disappearing briefly into the bathroom.

You could hear soft movement inside through the haze clouding your head: running water, cabinet doors opening and closing quietly. When she returned, she had several cold, damp cloths folded carefully in her hands.

"Let's try to cool you down," she said softly. You nodded weakly. At this point, you didn't have the energy to fight anyone anyway.

Katherine moved around the room with the same gentle calmness she always carried, settling one of the cold cloths carefully across your forehead before placing another lightly against the back of your neck. The coolness against your overheated skin made you exhale shakily, your body instinctively relaxing into the relief despite the chills still trembling through you underneath the blankets.

Your fever made everything feel strange. You felt too hot and too cold simultaneously. You were sweating while shivering. You felt miserable.

Katherine adjusted the blankets carefully around you afterward, making sure you were comfortable before brushing another damp strand of hair away from your forehead.

"Try to get some sleep," she murmured gently. "I'll be downstairs, but I'm going to keep checking on you, alright? You don't need to try to call out for me." The tenderness in her voice almost made your chest ache.

You had spent years around the Jackson family now, long enough that Katherine's warmth toward you no longer felt formal or polite. It felt real. Genuine. Maternal in a way that wrapped around you softly, even now, while you lay feverish and exhausted in bed.

"Thank you, Katie..." you whispered weakly. "You didn't have to do this for me." Katherine's face softened immediately. She reached down instinctively, smoothing your hair back from your damp forehead with the same tenderness she showed any of her children whenever they were sick or hurting.

"Sweetheart..." she said quietly, her voice full of affection. "You've been my daughter-in-law in my heart for years. I was just waiting for Michael to make it official." Something warm bloomed painfully in your chest at her words. Even through the fever and exhaustion and body aches, emotion tightened suddenly in your throat, because she meant it, she genuinely loved you.

Katherine lightly brushed her fingers through your hair one more time before finally standing from the bed, leaving the room quietly so you could rest.

And less than five minutes after the bedroom door closed behind her, exhaustion dragged you back under completely.

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When Michael got back to Neverland, the second Bill pulled the car to a stop in front of the house, and Michael was already halfway out the door before the engine had even fully settled. Exhaustion clung heavily to him after the long flight from Italy, his body aching from jet lag, readjusting to the new time, stress, and lack of sleep, but none of it mattered the moment his feet hit the ground.

His entire mind had been consumed by you for the last twelve hours. Every mile between Rome and California had felt unbearable, knowing you were here alone and sick enough that even speaking had exhausted you.

He moved quickly through the front doors of Neverland, his eyes immediately scanning the house as staff members moved quietly throughout the downstairs like normal, though there was an unmistakable tension lingering beneath everything.

Then he saw his mother sitting in the living room. "Mother, how is she?" Michael asked immediately.

Every instinct in him had screamed to run upstairs the second he walked through the door, but he forced himself to stop long enough to ask first because if you were asleep, he didn't want to wake you unnecessarily. Katherine had been here with you the entire time he was in the air, helpless and terrified.

Katherine looked up the moment she heard his voice, and the expression on her face made Michael's stomach drop before she even spoke.

"Not good, Michael," she said softly, and Michael felt something inside his chest tighten painfully at the words. "She has a fever. Her forehead and face are very hot, nearly burning to the touch. I put wet cloths over her forehead and body to try to bring her temperature down. She had medicine, and she drank water. She tried to eat, but I don't think she can keep anything down. She stopped after two bites, but it was taking a lot out of her just to try."

Every word hit Michael like a weight pressing harder and harder against his chest. He pictured you trying to force yourself to eat while barely able to sit upright. Pictured you feverish and trembling in bed while he was trapped on a plane thousands of miles away. Pictured you trying to hide how sick you really were from him over the phone because you didn't want him to worry.

The guilt alone nearly made him sick.

"Thank you for staying with her, Mother... I'll take care of her now," Michael said quietly, leaning down to press a kiss to Katherine's cheek. Katherine smiled softly at him, though concern still lingered heavily in her eyes.

"I know you will, baby... but do call me if you or her need anything, okay?" Michael nodded immediately before escorting her back outside, where Bill waited to take her home to Hayvenhurst. The second Katherine was settled into the car, and Bill pulled away, Michael turned and headed back into the house, his pulse pounding harder with every step he took toward the staircase.

By the time he reached the hallway upstairs, his chest already hurt from anticipation and fear. The bedroom door opened quietly beneath his hand before he carefully shut it behind himself, trying not to disturb you if you were sleeping.

But the second his eyes landed on you, something inside him shattered.

You were asleep, but even from across the room, Michael could immediately tell it wasn't restful. Your blanket was tangled halfway off your body like you had spent hours tossing feverishly beneath it, and your body trembled faintly every few seconds despite the visible sheen of sweat dampening your skin. The cool cloth his mother had placed across your forehead had slid slightly crooked during your sleep, damp strands of hair sticking to your flushed cheeks and neck.

But what broke his heart the most was the position you were curled in.

You had folded completely into yourself beneath the blankets, curled tightly into a fetal position with your arms wrapped around your own body as though you were trying to physically hold yourself together through the pain.

And Michael knew what that meant immediately. You only slept like that when you were hurting badly.

When your cramps were so severe during your monthly cycle that you swore it felt like someone was twisting knives into your stomach. When you had gotten sick before and curled inward because every part of your body hurt too much to stretch out normally. Whenever the pain became overwhelming, your body instinctively folded into itself, as if protecting your stomach and chest might somehow lessen it.

So seeing you like this now, curled so tightly inward, trembling weakly in your sleep while trying to comfort yourself because your body hurt that badly, made something inside Michael ache so violently he could barely breathe through it for a moment.

You looked small, fragile, and miserable. And all Michael could think about was the fact that he hadn't been here.

Slowly, he crossed the room and knelt carefully beside the bed. His movements softened instantly once he was close enough to touch you, all urgency melting into tenderness the second he reached out. Gently, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against the top of your head since the cool cloth still covered most of your forehead.

His hand slid carefully into your hair afterward, fingers combing slowly through the damp strands with heartbreaking gentleness.

The touch made you stir weakly beneath the blankets.

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, unfocused at first from exhaustion and fever, and for a brief moment, you genuinely thought you were dreaming him. Michael had been in Italy twelve hours ago. Your fever-clouded brain couldn't fully process how he could suddenly be kneeling beside you now, looking at you with tears nearly gathering in his eyes.

But then your vision cleared enough for recognition to settle in. "Michael," you croaked weakly, your voice rough and painfully hoarse.

The sound alone made Michael's expression crumple further. "Hi, baby... I'm home," he whispered softly. His hand continued moving gently through your hair as he watched your eyes flutter shut again almost immediately, like even keeping them open for more than a few seconds hurt.

The sight devastated him.

"And I will be home for as long as you need me," he whispered quietly, the promise settling heavily between you as he looked at you curled weakly beneath the blankets, already knowing there was nowhere else in the world he could possibly be right now besides beside you.

"Michael... your tour," you whispered weakly as you tried to shake your head. Or at least, you thought you were shaking it.

Your body was so exhausted and feverish that you barely moved at all, the effort stopping somewhere between your brain and your muscles. Even trying to protest took too much energy now, your voice rough and strained from dehydration and sickness.

Michael's expression softened immediately as he looked at you lying there, and you were still worrying about him, even now.

Even curled into yourself with a fever burning through your body and exhaustion dragging at every breath you took, you were still thinking about his tour before yourself.

"That doesn't matter right now," Michael said quietly, his voice low and unwavering as he gently brushed another damp strand of hair away from your forehead. "Only you do."

Your eyes slowly opened again at his words, glossy and heavy with exhaustion. "Michael—" He cut you off gently before you could continue trying to convince him to leave.

"Hey..." His thumb stroked softly across the back of your hand as he held it carefully in both of his, his voice full of quiet emotion. "You turned down a huge clothing contract after the Pepsi incident because you wanted to stay by my side..."

The memory hit both of you immediately: the burns, the pain, and the terrifying aftermath of nearly losing him.

You had dropped everything without hesitation back then because the only thing that mattered to you was being beside him while he recovered. Michael still remembered the way you refused to leave the hospital for hours at a time, remembered you sleeping in chairs beside his bed because you couldn't bear being away from him while he was hurting, and now here you were trying to apologize for him doing the same thing for you.

"So if I have to postpone the tour to stay by yours," Michael continued softly, "then that's what I'm going to do."

His fingers slowly slid over your hand, finding your engagement ring, then gently turning it against your finger as he stared down at it for a moment. The gold caught softly in the afternoon light filtering through the bedroom windows, and emotion tightened visibly across Michael's face as his thumb traced over it carefully.

"I gave you this ring with the intention of promising you for better or for worse," he whispered.

Your chest tightened painfully at the emotion in his voice.

Michael had never taken commitment lightly, not with you. Everything between the two of you had always been deep and consuming and real in a way that grounded him beneath all the chaos of fame and touring and public scrutiny. Neverland existed because of the life the two of you were building together. The ring on your finger existed because Michael always saw forever when he looked at you.

And right now, forever meant this too: sickness, caretaking, and staying.

"We've been through my worst..." Michael murmured softly as he lifted your hand closer, pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles near your ring. His voice cracked slightly around the next words despite how gently he spoke them. "Now we're gonna get through yours."

Emotion burned behind your eyes instantly.

You managed the smallest nod before exhaustion pulled at you again, your eyelids growing impossibly heavy as another wave of feverish fatigue settled over your body. Michael noticed it immediately, the way your breathing deepened slightly as your body started slipping toward sleep again.

Carefully, he leaned forward and pressed another kiss against the top of your head, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary as his fingers continued smoothing gently through your hair.

"Get some rest, mama..." he whispered tenderly. "I'll be right here."

And for the first time since waking up sick and alone in the middle of the night, some of the tension in your body finally eased, because Michael was here now, his hand still wrapped carefully around yours as sleep slowly pulled you under again.

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The next time you woke up, it was because of the overwhelming pressure in your bladder pulling you out of another feverish, restless sleep.

For a moment, you just lay there trying to orient yourself through the heavy fog clouding your head. Your body still ached everywhere, deep and relentless, the kind of ache that settled into your bones and made even breathing feel exhausting. You had no idea how long you'd been asleep this time. The room remained dim, the lamps turned low enough that you couldn't tell whether it was daytime or nighttime outside the windows.

What you noticed first, though, was that Michael wasn't beside you.

He had only stepped out briefly to call his private doctor and return one of Frank's increasingly worried calls about the tour, but in your exhausted state, all you processed was the empty space beside the bed.

You swallowed thickly before slowly forcing your legs over the edge of the mattress. The movement alone made your head pound harder. Your muscles protested immediately, soreness radiating through your back, your shoulders, your stomach, even your legs. You paused there for a moment, sitting hunched slightly forward while you tried to steady your breathing through the dizziness already creeping into your head.

You hated this. You hated how weak you felt; you hated that even something as simple as standing up felt like preparing for something physically demanding.

But you needed the bathroom.

Taking a slow breath, you carefully pushed yourself to your feet, but the second you fully stood upright, the room tilted violently around you. Your vision blurred at the edges as another rush of dizziness hit hard enough that you instinctively grabbed for the wall beside you before your knees could buckle completely beneath you, and a shaky breath escaped you.

The bathroom wasn't far. Under normal circumstances, it would've taken seconds to cross the room. But now, feverish and exhausted, your body trembling from weakness, it felt impossibly distant. You forced yourself to take another step anyway, then another.

Each movement drained you further, your breathing turning shallow from the effort alone. Michael had left the lights low before stepping out, enough that the room glowed softly without the brightness hurting your head, but the shadows around you only made the dizziness feel worse.

Another wave hit suddenly. Your hand slid harder against the wall as your body sagged with it, your forehead nearly brushing the surface while you tried to keep yourself upright. You barely even heard the bedroom door opening. The only thing you could focus on was the terrifying feeling that your body was giving out underneath you.

The second Michael walked back into the room and saw you half collapsing against the wall, his heart pretty much stopped. "Baby—"

He crossed the room so quickly it barely registered before his arms were around you, carefully catching you before you could slide any farther. One arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other steadied your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest as he held your weight for you.

"Baby, what are you doing out of bed?" he asked softly, panic buried beneath the tenderness in his voice. Your head fell weakly against his shoulder almost immediately, too exhausted to even fully hold it up anymore.

"I have to pee..." you whispered hoarsely.

The words alone made humiliation crash over you so hard it almost hurt more than the fever itself, because this was Michael.

Michael, who had seen you dressed beautifully on red carpets, laughing beside him in interviews, dancing around Neverland with him at two in the morning, planning your wedding with stars in his eyes whenever he looked at you.

And now he was carrying you to the bathroom because you were too weak to walk there by yourself.

Michael didn't react to any of that embarrassment, though. He only tightened his hold on you gently and carried you into the bathroom without hesitation, helping lower you carefully onto the toilet before quietly stepping outside to give you privacy.

The second the door clicked shut behind him, the tears started. At first, you tried to stop them.

You pressed your lips together tightly, swallowing hard against the lump forming in your throat, but the humiliation kept building anyway because you felt trapped inside a body that suddenly couldn't do anything right anymore. Everything hurt: standing, walking hurt, and talking too much left you breathless. Even trying to use the bathroom by yourself had nearly ended with you collapsing against the wall.

You felt helpless, weak, and worst of all, you felt ugly in your suffering.

Michael had already seen you sweating through your clothes, feverish and disoriented, curled into yourself in pain, barely able to eat without getting nauseous. Now he was carrying you around the house because your body physically couldn't support itself for long enough to cross a bedroom.

The tears slipped harder down your cheeks, a choked sob coming from your lips before you could stop it and when Michael hears it... when he hears you crying from outside the bathroom door, his heart dropped instantly.

He pushed the door open without hesitation before immediately kneeling in front of you, concern flooding his face the second he saw the tears running down your flushed cheeks.

"Baby, what's wrong?" he asked softly.

You shook your head weakly before squeezing your eyes shut, more tears slipping free.

"This is... so humiliating, Michael..." Your voice cracked apart around the words as another shaky breath left you. "I can't do anything because everything hurts so much."

Talking was already exhausting you again. You had to pause to catch your breath before continuing, your chest tightening painfully as you tried not to cry harder in front of him.

"And you have to see me like this," you whispered brokenly. "It's embarrassing." Michael felt his own eyes sting almost instantly.

The sound of your ragged breathing between every sentence, the way every tear seemed to physically exhaust you further, the humiliation written all over your face while you sat there crying in front of him, it shattered something inside him completely.

Because none of this was embarrassing to him.

It devastated him that you genuinely thought he could ever look at you like this and see anything shameful, when all he saw was the woman he loved hurting so badly she could barely stand on her own, apologizing for needing care when all he wanted was to protect her from every ounce of pain he possibly could.

Without thinking, Michael reached up and cupped your face carefully in both hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears spilling over your cheeks.

"You don't have to be embarrassed, baby," he whispered, his own eyes beginning to water as he looked at you. "Never with me." His voice was impossibly soft, steady in the way he only became when he was trying to hold someone else together emotionally. "I will always take care of you, no matter what."

The sincerity in his voice only made fresh tears fall harder because you knew he meant it completely. There wasn't hesitation or obligation in him. Michael loved with his entire heart, and right now every ounce of that love was wrapped around you so carefully it almost made your chest ache.

Once you had calmed enough to stand again, Michael helped you carefully back to your feet so you could fix your clothes and wash your hands at the sink. He stayed just outside the bathroom doorway the entire time, close enough that if your legs weakened again, he could catch you immediately.

And the second you opened the door afterward, Michael stepped forward without hesitation and lifted you back into his arms again.

"Michael..." you whispered softly as he carried you back toward the bed.

He leaned down instinctively and pressed a gentle kiss against your temple, immediately frowning against your skin when he felt how warm you still were beneath his lips. Your fever hadn't broken at all. If anything, you still felt overheated despite the medicine, and Michael silently made a mental note to wake you for another dose later, even though you could barely keep your eyes open now.

"I'm right here, baby," he murmured as he settled you carefully back beneath the blankets.

"You shouldn't stay... in here too long..." You whispered hoarsely, your eyes already drifting shut again from exhaustion. "You can't get sick."

The words hit him deeply because even now, even feeling as miserable as you feel, you were still worried about him first.

Michael brushed his fingers gently through your hair before answering softly, "If I get sick, then I get sick. I'm not leaving you."

At some point while he sat beside you, your body instinctively shifted closer to him beneath the blankets. Without even realizing it consciously, you wrapped your arms loosely around his forearm, where it rested beside you on the bed, clinging softly to him in your exhausted state like your body recognized him as safety before your mind even fully could.

The sight made Michael's chest ache with love. A small smile finally touched his face for the first time since getting home as he looked down at your arms wrapped around him.

Carefully, he settled closer beside you before softly beginning to hum under his breath, his voice quiet and soothing as he sang gently to you the same way he always did whenever you were upset, hurting, or unable to sleep.

And slowly, curled beside him with his voice wrapping softly around you, your breathing deepened again as sleep finally pulled you back under.

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The next few days melted together so completely that eventually you stopped being able to tell where one ended and another began. Everything became centered around the same miserable cycle that your body refused to break out of.

You slept for hours at a time only to wake up feeling just as awful as before. The fever never fully left you, lingering stubbornly beneath your skin, no matter how many cool cloths Michael pressed against your forehead or how carefully he kept track of your medicine schedule. 

Your body ached constantly, deeply enough that even lying still hurt after too long, but moving hurt worse. Every muscle in your back, shoulders, neck, and legs felt exhausted and inflamed, like your body was fighting itself from the inside out.

Most of the time, you drifted in and out of sleep because staying awake required too much energy. Whenever you did wake up, Michael was there.

Sometimes he sat beside you quietly reading while keeping one hand absentmindedly against your leg or arm so he could feel if your fever changed. Sometimes he hummed softly under his breath while changing out the cold cloths on your forehead after they became warm against your skin. Sometimes you woke up to find him simply watching you with exhausted eyes, his expression heavy with worry, he tried desperately not to let you fully see.

You tried to eat because he asked you to, and that alone was usually enough to make you try.

Michael would sit beside you, carefully holding a tray while encouraging you softly through every bite, his voice gentle and patient, even though you could see the concern tightening behind his eyes whenever you managed only a few spoonfuls before your stomach started turning again.

And every single time, guilt hit you immediately afterward, because you could see how badly he wanted you to improve. You could see the hope that flickered briefly across his face every time you attempted to eat something, only for it to quietly disappear again when nausea forced you to stop.

The doctor Michael brought to Neverland, had explained everything gently after examining you. A viral infection. Antibiotics wouldn't work; there was no instant fix. Just hydration, medicine for the fever, and rest while your body slowly fought through it on its own.

You understood, but that didn't make it easier. If anything, hearing there was nothing either of you could do except wait somehow made the whole thing feel worse, and Michael took that helplessness harder than he ever let himself admit aloud, because he hated seeing you in pain.

And not in the casual way people said it when someone they loved got sick for a few days, but in a way that visibly affected him every hour he spent beside you. Michael absorbed the suffering of the people he loved deeply, and there was something quietly devastating about watching someone he adored hurt this badly while being unable to truly fix it.

Every time you stood up and your body immediately swayed from dizziness, his entire face tightened with panic before he moved instinctively to steady you. Every time you curled into yourself beneath the blankets because stretching out fully made your body ache too much, he looked at you with the same wounded expression he'd worn since the moment he came home and saw you lying there trembling in pain. Even hearing you speak hurt him now because your voice remained weak and strained, every sentence clearly costing you energy you didn't have.

And still, he kept himself together for you. He stayed gentle, patient, and soft.

But sometimes, usually late at night after you fell asleep again, Michael would sit quietly at the edge of the bed with his head lowered while exhaustion and helplessness settled visibly across his face, tears slipping from his eyes. Because now he understood exactly what you must have felt after the Pepsi incident.

Back then, when he'd been lying in the burn unit with pain radiating through his scalp every time he moved, you had looked at him the same way he looked at you now. He remembered the way your face used to crumble every time he winced despite trying to hide it. He remembered waking up during the night and finding your head resting on his bed near his thigh because you couldn't bear leaving him alone while he was hurting. He remembered how helpless your eyes looked whenever the doctors explained how bad the burns had been and how extensive the treatment afterward would be.

Now he understood why you used to cry quietly afterward when you thought he couldn't hear you, because loving someone while watching them suffer felt unbearable.

When you woke up this time, your body still felt heavy with fever and exhaustion, but before you even fully opened your eyes, you heard Michael's voice across the room.

He was trying to keep his tone low, trying and failing.

"I don't care, Frank... I told you I'm not coming back until she's better and able to travel with me."

Your eyes slowly fluttered open at the sharpness in his voice.

Michael stood near the windows with the phone pressed tightly against his ear, one hand rubbing frustratedly over his face while tension radiated through his entire posture. His hair looked slightly messy from repeatedly dragging his hands through it over the last few days, and exhaustion sat heavily beneath his eyes from barely sleeping since he'd gotten home.

He was talking to his manager, Frank DiLeo.

Everyone else remained in Italy, preparing for the tour, while Michael stayed here with you. The rehearsals, interviews, photoshoots, and scheduling meetings, all of it was still continuing overseas while Michael delayed everything from California because he refused to leave you in this condition.

Michael went quiet for a moment while Frank responded on the other end, but whatever he said only made Michael's frustration finally snap through completely.

"Then postpone them, Frank!" Michael's voice rose sharply, anger breaking through in a way you had almost never heard before. "I don't care about photoshoots and interviews when my fiancée is so sick she can barely stand."

Your chest tightened painfully listening to him. Michael rarely got truly angry. You'd seen him serious before, firm before, upset before, but genuine anger almost never surfaced because Michael hated confrontation. Usually, when something upset him deeply, he became quieter rather than louder.

But this was different.

Because Frank wasn't just talking about tour dates to Michael right now. In Michael's mind, Frank was asking him to leave you while you still couldn't walk across the room without nearly collapsing.

"You work for me, not the other way around," Michael said sharply, his voice low and controlled in that dangerous way it only became when he was genuinely furious. "I will call you when we make our way back to Italy. Goodbye, Frank."

The line disconnected hard enough that you could hear the sound from across the room. For a moment, Michael just stood there breathing heavily through the frustration, one hand still gripping the phone tightly.

Then he turned around, and the second his eyes landed on you awake in bed, every trace of anger disappeared from his face so quickly it almost felt surreal. His shoulders softened first, then his expression.

The tension left his jaw almost immediately, replaced by concern so gentle and immediate that it made your chest ache as he crossed the room toward you.

"Hey, mama," he said softly the second he reached the bed, his voice completely different now, warm and careful as he sat beside you and immediately brushed the back of his hand against your forehead to check your temperature. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

"No," you whispered as you shook your head weakly before letting out a slow breath.

Your body still felt exhausted, heavy beneath the blankets, but at least the pain wasn't as sharp as it had been a few days ago. The fever still lingered inside you, though. You could feel it every time another chill rolled through your body, despite how warm your skin remained.

"Michael, I don't want you to get in trouble..." you said quietly. "I'm sure your Mom can come back and stay until I'm better."

Another cold shudder passed through you hard enough that your body trembled beneath the blankets, and instinctively you pulled them tighter around yourself as though you couldn't decide whether you were freezing or overheating.

Michael's expression softened immediately, but there was still an unmistakable firmness behind his eyes.

"Baby... I'm not having this discussion again," he said gently as he settled himself more comfortably beside you. "I'm not leaving until you're well enough to come back to Italy with me."

Before you could protest again, he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss against the top of your head, his lips resting there long enough that he could immediately tell the fever wasn't nearly as high as it had been before.

Your forehead was still warm, too warm, but not burning anymore, so that was a good sign. Relief loosened something quietly inside his chest at that realization. It was the first real sign your body might finally be starting to fight through the worst of it.

"I need to shower..." you murmured softly after a moment, your voice rough from days of sickness and sleep. "I've been sweating and sleeping for days."

Michael nodded immediately, understanding the discomfort behind your words. Your hair still felt damp most of the time from the fever, and despite how exhausted you were, he knew you probably felt miserable physically after being stuck in bed for days.

"How about a bath?" he suggested softly. "You're still wobbly when you stand, and with the steam and heat from the shower, I don't want you to pass out."

The protectiveness in his voice made your chest ache softly. Even now, he watched every movement you made carefully, constantly anticipating what might exhaust you too much or make your dizziness worse.

"Okay," you whispered.

Michael stood and disappeared briefly into the bathroom to start the water while you slowly pushed yourself upright in bed. Your body still protested the movement, soreness flaring through your muscles as you sat up, but the pain wasn't nearly as unbearable now as it had been during those first few days. The worst of the body aches had dulled slightly, though every so often, sharp waves of pain still pulsed unexpectedly through your back or shoulders hard enough to make you wince.

Still, this was better.

Weakly, you managed to peel yourself out of the oversized shirt and shorts you had been wearing since the morning you woke up sick. Even that small effort left you breathing a little heavier afterward, exhaustion still clinging stubbornly to your body despite the slight improvement.

When Michael came back out of the bathroom, he already had a towel waiting in his hands. Without saying anything, he wrapped it carefully around you before helping you slowly to your feet, one arm immediately sliding around your waist to steady you.

You noticed the difference instantly.

You still felt weak, but you weren't immediately collapsing into dizziness anymore. You could stand for longer now before the lightheadedness crept in, and although your legs still felt shaky beneath you, at least you could walk the short distance to the bathroom without your vision going black.

Michael noticed the improvement, too.

He didn't say it aloud because he didn't want to overwhelm you or make you push yourself too hard too quickly, but quiet relief settled visibly across his face as he carefully walked beside you into the bathroom.

The warm water was already filling the tub with soft steam by the time he helped you over. "Easy," he murmured gently as he helped lower you down into the bath.

The second the warm water touched your body, a deep breath escaped you automatically.

Relief spread through your aching muscles almost instantly, the warmth soothing places in your body that had felt tense and sore for days. Slowly, you leaned your head back against the tub wall and let yourself sink slightly deeper into the water, your eyes fluttering closed as some of the tension finally eased from your shoulders.

Michael watched you carefully the entire time.

Even now, after days of caring for you almost nonstop, his eyes tracked every little expression crossing your face, every shift in your breathing, every sign that something hurt or exhausted you too much.

When he saw some of the tightness leave your body, his own shoulders softened slightly, too. He lowered himself beside the tub afterward, kneeling near you so he could stay close in case you needed help.

"Do you need help?" he asked quietly.

You shook your head softly. Right now, you just need a moment to sit there in the warmth and let your body breathe for the first time in days before trying to move again.

"Thank you for taking care of me, Michael," you whispered softly, your eyes still closed.

The warmth of the bath felt incredible against muscles that had been aching relentlessly for nearly a week now, and just being clean again already made you feel a little more human.

Michael's expression softened immediately at your words.

"You never have to thank me for that, baby," he said quietly. "I'm going to get you some soup... hopefully you can hold something down."

You nodded faintly. You hadn't properly eaten in days.

Not because you didn't want to, but because every attempt ended the same way: nausea twisting violently through your stomach after only a bite or two until you physically couldn't force yourself to continue. For days now, your body had survived almost entirely on medicine and water because it was the only thing you could consistently keep down.

Michael lingered beside the tub for another moment, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before finally standing and quietly stepping out of the bathroom.

Once he was gone, you slowly started washing yourself, everything still took effort.

You had to pause occasionally to breathe through sudden waves of soreness or dizziness, but eventually you managed to wash your hair and body completely, the warm water easing some of the lingering ache from your muscles with every passing minute.

And once you finished, you simply stayed there soaking quietly in the warmth, your body finally beginning to feel just a little less miserable than it had been the last few days.

When Michael came back upstairs about thirty minutes later after making the soup, he balanced the tray carefully in his hands as he walked back into the bedroom. The house had gone quiet again while he was downstairs, the only sounds coming from the distant hum of Neverland outside and the soft creak of the floor beneath his feet as he crossed the room.

He set the tray down on the nightstand before making his way toward the bathroom, pushing the door open gently. The sight waiting for him immediately softened his entire expression.

You had fallen asleep in the bathtub.

Your head rested against the cool tile behind you, your damp hair clinging slightly to your skin while the rest of your body remained submerged beneath the water. The steam had long since faded from the room, leaving only the lingering warmth of the bathwater around you, and Michael could already tell from how long you'd been asleep that the water was probably cold by now.

A quiet smile tugged softly at his lips despite the lingering worry that had been sitting heavily inside him for days.

You looked exhausted.

Even sleeping, he could still see it written all over you; the fatigue had settled deeply into your face and body after nearly a week of fever, pain, and barely eating. But at least now, for the first time in days, your body looked more relaxed than miserable.

Michael lightly shook his head to himself before grabbing the towel he had wrapped you in earlier and kneeling beside the tub.

"Baby..." His voice came out soft and warm as his fingers carefully slid through your wet hair. "You have to wake up really quick, baby girl."

Your eyes fluttered faintly at the familiar touch before slowly opening. For a moment, your gaze stayed unfocused, heavy with sleep and lingering exhaustion as you blinked through the haze, but then your eyes landed on Michael kneeling beside the tub.

"Did I fall asleep again?" you asked quietly. Michael chuckled softly under his breath as he nodded.

"Yeah," he murmured. "The water must be cold by now, so let's get you back into bed."

You nodded sleepily, and Michael reached over to pull the drain plug, letting the water slowly begin draining from the tub before he helped you carefully to your feet once the water lowered enough. His hands stayed steady against you the entire time, one supporting your waist while the other held your arm gently in case your legs weakened again.

The bath had helped. You still felt weak, but not in the same unbearable way you had a few days ago. Michael dried you off carefully before wrapping the towel around your body again and helping you back into the bedroom. By the time you reached the bed, you felt tired in a different way now, cleaner and more comfortable instead of feverishly miserable.

And for the first time since getting sick, you were able to stand long enough to get dressed on your own.

Michael had already picked clothes out for you and left them on the bed: a pair of soft cotton shorts exactly like the ones you always loved sleeping in, and beside them sat one of his oversized Bad Tour shirts, freshly washed.

A small smile finally pulled at your lips when you saw it.

The shirt swallowed you completely once you pulled it on, the familiar softness and faint scent of fresh laundry making something inside you relax further. It felt comforting in the way Michael always felt comforting, and by the time you climbed back into bed afterward, your body already felt calmer than it had earlier.

Michael immediately handed you the soup once you settled yourself upright against the pillows.

You still couldn't eat much.

Your stomach remained sensitive, and the exhaustion lingering in your body made even holding the spoon feel draining after too long, but this time, you managed more than just two or three bites before the nausea finally started creeping back in again.

When you eventually looked over at Michael and slowly shook your head, silently telling him you couldn't manage anymore, Michael glanced down at the bowl and immediately took note of how much more was gone compared to the last few days.

Relief softened visibly across his face.

"Hey... this is more food than a few days ago," Michael said softly before leaning forward to kiss your forehead gently. "I'm proud of you, mama." The praise made a small smile tug weakly at your lips again, and the second Michael saw it, his entire expression warmed.

"There's my girl," he murmured softly.

The tenderness in his voice made your chest ache.

You had missed this version of yourself. The version that could smile at him instead of only curling inward from pain and exhaustion. You still felt weak, and your body still hurt in waves, but for the first time since waking up sick that morning days ago, you finally felt like maybe you were slowly coming back to yourself again.

"Will you lie down with me, please?" you whispered.

Michael nodded immediately.

He stood long enough to carry the tray to the bedroom door and place it outside so the staff could take it downstairs later, once they saw it, then he came right back to you without hesitation.

"Do you want me to hold you?" he asked softly as he slipped back into bed beside you. "I know you're going back and forth between being hot and being cold."

You nodded. You never minded warmth when it came from Michael. "Yes," you whispered.

Michael's arms wrapped carefully around you from behind, slowly pulling your body back against his chest until you were fully settled against him. The warmth of him immediately surrounded you, steady and comforting in a way that made your entire body slowly unclench. You rested your hands over his, where they lay against your stomach, lacing your fingers through his as your eyes drifted closed again.

Everything about this felt better.

You were finally clean after days of fever and sweat clinging to your skin, dressed in soft, comfortable clothes, wrapped safely in Michael's arms. Even the bed felt different beneath you now because while you had been soaking in the bath, Michael had changed all the bedsheets too, replacing them with fresh, clean ones before going downstairs to make your soup.

The clean sheets, the warmth of Michael behind you, the lingering softness from the bath easing your aching muscles, all of it combined into the first genuine sense of comfort you'd felt since getting sick.

"Your fever is going down, baby... it shouldn't be too much longer now," Michael said softly against the top of your head.

You nodded faintly where you were tucked against his chest, his arms still wrapped securely around you beneath the blankets. The warmth of him had become grounding over the last few days, especially during the moments when chills rolled through your body hard enough to make you shiver despite the lingering fever still heating your skin.

For the first time since getting sick, though, your body didn't feel like it was fighting itself quite as violently anymore. You still felt weak, exhausted, and achy in ways that made every movement slow and careful. But there was relief beginning to settle underneath it now, too.

"Will we still be able to get to see some of Italy before your shows?" you asked quietly. Michael let out a soft little chuckle at that, leaning down to kiss the top of your head again as his fingers absentmindedly traced along your arm beneath the blankets.

"I will make sure we do," he murmured. A small smile tugged at your lips.

Even now, exhausted and half-asleep against him, the thought of finally getting to Italy with Michael still made warmth bloom softly in your chest. The trip had meant so much to both of you before you got sick. It wasn't just about the tour. It was about finally having a little time together away from cameras and schedules and rehearsals before Michael became swallowed by work again.

Very slowly, you turned in his arms so you could look at him properly. The movement alone visibly worried Michael.

His expression shifted immediately as he watched you carefully, noticing how much energy even that small adjustment seemed to take out of you now. Your breathing deepened slightly from the effort by the time you settled facing him, and his hand instinctively slid along your back gently like he could somehow steady the exhaustion still moving through your body.

"Easy, baby," he murmured softly.

You looked up at him quietly for a moment before speaking again. "Can we get married in Italy?" Michael's eyes widened instantly. Of all the things he thought you might say, that wasn't one of them.

For a second, he just stared at you, searching your face to make sure the fever wasn't making you delirious or emotional in a way you'd regret later, but then he saw it clearly in your eyes. You meant it.

"We can get married wherever you want, baby," he said softly. You nodded slightly against the pillow.

"I want to..." You paused briefly, your voice still rough from days of sickness and sleep. "When we're in Italy... I want to get married there, even if it's just legally, and we have an actual ceremony later so our families can come."

The softness that spread across Michael's face at your words was immediate and overwhelming; it wasn't hesitation or uncertainty. It was pure love.

"You know I'd marry you anywhere, mama," he whispered, smiling down at you so warmly it made your chest ache softly. "Let's do it."

Your eyes widened slightly. You had wanted him to say yes, obviously, but part of you still hadn't fully expected him to agree so quickly, especially with everything surrounding the tour right now.

"Really?" you asked quietly.

Michael nodded immediately before leaning down to press another gentle kiss against your forehead. "Really."

Emotion swelled so suddenly in your chest that you instinctively buried your face against him, inhaling deeply against his skin. The breath shuddered all the way through your body in his arms, and Michael felt every bit of it.

He tightened his hold around you immediately, his hand slowly smoothing up and down your back beneath the oversized shirt you wore.

"I'm really glad you came home, Michael..." you whispered softly.

The words settled heavily between you because both of you knew exactly what it had cost him to leave Italy so suddenly. The tour. The rehearsals. Frank is practically losing his mind over postponements, interviews, and schedules.

And still, Michael had gotten on a nonstop twelve-hour flight without hesitation the second he realized how sick you really were. You knew he was frustrated with Frank, but you also knew part of him worried about delaying things.

But sitting here in his arms now, finally feeling some small sense of comfort after days of pain and exhaustion, you couldn't stop yourself from admitting how grateful you were that he had come home anyway.

Michael's arms tightened around you slightly at your words.

"I couldn't stay away after hearing you like that, baby," he admitted quietly. "I just knew I needed to be here." Your eyes fluttered closed briefly because you understood that feeling completely.

You had felt it after the Pepsi accident. You had been working when Jackie called you from the hospital to tell you what happened, and you immediately left, not caring if you got in trouble; the only thing you felt was the overwhelming certainty that there was nowhere else in the world you were supposed to be except beside him while he hurt.

And you would do it again without hesitation.

"I love you, Michael," you whispered softly before another yawn slipped from you, your body instinctively curling closer against him underneath the blankets. Michael smiled faintly against your hair before kissing the top of your head once more.

"I love you more, mama... get some rest," he whispered.

You nodded weakly against him, already feeling sleep beginning to pull at you again, but this time it felt different.

For the first time since waking up sick that morning days ago, you finally felt truly safe enough to rest deeply instead of just collapsing from exhaustion. Michael's arms remained wrapped securely around you, his heartbeat steady against your body while his fingers continued moving slowly through your hair.

And somewhere between the warmth of him, the clean sheets beneath you, and the lingering comfort still relaxing your muscles from the bath, hope finally settled softly inside your chest that maybe you were going to start getting better soon.

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Over the course of the next few days, you slowly began to come back to yourself.

The changes were so gradual that neither you nor Michael fully realized how much better you were getting until he caught himself no longer panicking every time you stood up from the bed. Your fever finally disappeared completely, leaving your skin warm instead of burning beneath his touch, and little by little, color started returning to your cheeks again. The dark exhaustion still lingered beneath your eyes, but you no longer looked pale and feverish in a way that made Michael's chest tighten every time he looked at you.

You were finally able to eat more, too.

Not full meals yet, and Michael was careful not to push your body too hard after nearly ten days of barely keeping anything down, but now you could manage soup, toast, crackers, and small portions at a time without your stomach immediately turning violently afterward. 

Every time you finished a little more than the day before, Michael tried not to look too visibly relieved, but you always noticed it anyway. The softening in his shoulders. The little smile he tried to hide. The way he'd kiss your forehead afterward, like he was proud of you for something as simple as eating.

And honestly, after feeling so miserable for so long, it made your chest ache every single time.

The biggest difference, though, was that you could move again.

You could walk across the room without your legs giving out underneath you. You could stand in the bathroom long enough to brush your teeth without gripping the counter for balance. You could hold conversations without needing to pause every few words just to breathe through the exhaustion crushing your chest.

The only thing that still clung stubbornly to you now was the fatigue.

Your body had fought hard against the virus, and now that the worst of it was over, all the exhaustion left behind seemed to settle deep into your bones. You slept heavily every night, sometimes drifting off in the middle of conversations with Michael simply because your body still needed rest so badly.

And throughout all of it, Frank never stopped calling.

Rome was getting closer and closer, and every single day, the pressure mounted more from overseas. Rehearsals had to be rescheduled. Interviews postponed. Photoshoots rearranged. Every time the phone rang, Michael's expression would tense before he answered because he already knew what the conversation would be.

Frank wanted him back in Italy, but every time Michael looked at you, all he could still see was the first night he came home: you curled tightly into yourself in pain, too weak to even properly hold yourself upright.

That image had stayed lodged painfully inside him ever since.

So now, seeing you improve day by day affected him more emotionally than he knew how to explain aloud. Watching you walk into the bathroom on your own for the first time had nearly made him emotional. Seeing you shower by yourself again without nearly collapsing afterward had filled him with such overwhelming relief that he'd had to look away for a second just to compose himself.

For days, Michael had genuinely been scared, and now, finally, he could feel that fear beginning to loosen its grip on him too.

When you woke up that morning, Michael was already awake beside you.

You had fallen asleep tucked against his chest again sometime during the night, your body naturally seeking him out in sleep now after days of him holding you through fevers, chills, pain, and exhaustion. One of his arms remained wrapped securely around your waist beneath the blankets while the other rested lazily across your back, his fingers occasionally tracing soft patterns there absentmindedly while he watched you sleep.

He couldn't help it, you looked peaceful again: not feverish, trembling, or hurting anymore. Just resting. After how terrified he'd been seeing you sick like that, watching you sleep peacefully against him now felt healing for him, too.

"You're staring at me," you mumbled sleepily, your voice rough with sleep as you slowly started waking up. A soft laugh escaped Michael immediately before he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead.

"Because you're so beautiful," he murmured.

A sleepy smile spread across your face almost instantly, and without even opening your eyes fully yet, you tucked yourself closer against him beneath the blankets. Over the last several nights, you had stopped sleeping, curled into yourself in pain. Now you slept curled around Michael instead, your body instinctively seeking comfort from him even while unconscious, and every single time he woke up with you wrapped around him like this, it affected him deeply.

"When's the flight?" you asked softly after a moment. "I know you have to get to Italy... I feel a lot better. I can survive a twelve-hour flight." Michael's expression softened immediately, though concern still flickered behind his eyes.

Of course, he wanted you there with him.

He had missed you terribly before all of this happened, and honestly, after spending the last week terrified and attached to your side almost nonstop, the idea of leaving you behind again sounded unbearable to him. 

But at the same time, he could still see how exhausted you were. Even though the fever was gone and your strength was returning, your body still tired easily, and Michael hated the thought of pushing you too hard, too fast, after how sick you'd been.

"Baby... are you sure?" he asked quietly, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. "I don't want you to push yourself too hard while you're still recovering."

At that, your eyes finally fluttered open fully so you could look at him, and immediately, Michael's breath caught slightly, because you looked so much more like yourself now.

Your eyes weren't clouded with fever anymore. Your cheeks held real warmth and life again, instead of that flushed, sickly heat that had haunted him for days. Even tired, even still recovering, you looked alive in a way that made relief wash through him all over again.

"I want to go," you said softly. "I know we probably won't get to spend as much time together because you have to make up rehearsals, but I want to be there, Michael."

The sincerity in your voice softened him instantly. Michael leaned down and kissed your forehead again before pulling you a little closer against his chest.

"Okay," he murmured softly. "Bill arranged the flight already... We'll leave later tonight." A smile spread slowly across your face at that.

Very carefully, you pushed yourself up onto your elbow so you could look at him better, the oversized Bad Tour shirt shifting against your shoulder as you moved closer toward him in the bed.

"I know I already said it, but thank you for taking care of me, Michael," you said softly, the sincerity in your voice making Michael's expression immediately melt into something warm and affectionate.

He smiled while lightly shaking his head, his fingers still absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against your back beneath the blankets. "In sickness and in health..." he murmured. "It's in the vows."

A quiet laugh escaped you as you rolled your eyes playfully, the sound soft and still slightly sleepy from just waking up. "We're not married yet," you pointed out.

Michael's smile only widened at that. "I know," he said softly, his eyes moving across your face with that same overwhelming tenderness he'd been looking at you with for days now. "But we will be soon."

The warmth in his voice settled deep into your chest.

You smiled before shifting closer to him until your foreheads rested together, your breath mingling softly between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Michael's hand slid gently along your waist while your fingers rested against his chest, and suddenly the thing you had missed most over the last ten days settled heavily between you both at the exact same time.

Kissing him.

Not feverish kisses pressed to your forehead while you drifted in and out of sleep, or exhausted, little touches while he checked your temperature or helped you back into bed.

A real kiss.

You could see Michael wanting it too in the way his eyes softened the closer you got to him, the way his breathing shifted slightly before he leaned in to meet you halfway. He had held himself back for days because you'd been too sick, too weak, too exhausted to even think about something like this while your body fought through the virus.

But now you were here, warm in his arms instead of burning with fever, looking at him with clear eyes again. Your lips met softly, and immediate warmth spread through your body that had absolutely nothing to do with being sick anymore.

Michael kissed you carefully at first, almost reverently, like he was still worried you might break if he touched you too hard after everything your body had just gone through. His hand came up slowly to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your jaw while your lips moved together softly.

And the second the kiss deepened even slightly, you melted into him completely. You had missed this, missed him.

You missed the intimacy of simply being able to kiss your fiancé without exhaustion or fever or pain interrupting it. Michael felt it too in the way he pulled you closer instinctively, his forehead pressing more firmly against yours between kisses like he couldn't stand even the smallest amount of distance between you anymore after the fear of the last week and a half.

You were the one who eventually pulled back first, your breathing growing slightly uneven from lingering exhaustion more than anything else.

Michael noticed immediately. His hand stayed gentle against your cheek as he pressed another soft kiss against your forehead while you steadied your breathing.

"You okay, mama?" he asked quietly.

You nodded almost immediately, smiling at him softly. "I love you."

The words made Michael's entire face light up. His full, wide, and genuine smile that's so full of love, it made your chest ache just looking at him.

"I love you more," he whispered.

And for the rest of the day, the two of you stayed wrapped up in each other like that.

The heaviness that had hung over Neverland for the last ten days finally began lifting now that you were recovering, and for the first time since Michael had flown home from Italy, things started feeling normal again between you. You spent hours lying together, talking quietly about your wedding plans once you reached Italy, both of you getting increasingly more excited the more real it started to sound.

The thought of marrying Michael in Italy made your stomach flutter now in an entirely different way than sickness had.

Since your suitcases had already been packed before you got sick, there wasn't much left to prepare before leaving. Instead, the day became about simply being together again without fear hanging over either of you.

You and Michael made lunch together slowly, Michael still hovering slightly every time you stood too long or moved too quickly, though now it made you smile more than anything else. He still watched you carefully while you ate too, quietly relieved every time you managed to finish food without getting nauseous afterward.

Later, the two of you showered together, not out of desperation this time, but simply because after spending days caring for you so intimately, neither of you wanted distance from each other anymore.

And when it was finally time to leave for the airport that evening, Bill drove both of you there while Michael kept one arm wrapped around you almost the entire ride.

The second you boarded the private plane and settled into your seats for the long flight ahead, exhaustion immediately started creeping back into your body again. Recovery still weighed heavily on you, even though you felt infinitely better now than you had days ago.

Michael noticed instantly.

"Get some sleep, baby," he murmured softly as he pulled you against his chest again beneath the blankets provided on the plane.

You curled into him easily, your head resting against his shoulder while his arms wrapped securely around you, warm and familiar and safe in the quiet cabin.

Even now, with Italy finally ahead of you again and the tour waiting overseas, Michael still remained conscious of your health in every little thing he did. He adjusted the blankets carefully around you, pressed soft kisses against your hair, and kept his hand slowly rubbing along your back until your body relaxed fully against him.

Tucked safely into his arms in the back of the plane, surrounded by his warmth and the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, you finally let yourself drift off to sleep again.

2008 neverland ranch

Sunrise had only just begun to spill through the curtains, pale gold light stretching softly across the bedroom in slow, quiet waves. The ranch itself still felt half asleep, wrapped in that rare kind of silence that only existed in the earliest hours of morning, before laughter echoed through the halls and little footsteps started racing through the house. The warmth of dawn brushed against your face, gentle but persistent enough to stir you from sleep, and with a quiet groan still heavy with exhaustion, you instinctively rolled over in bed to escape the light.

Your body searched automatically for the familiar warmth beside you, for Michael. But instead of finding his arms waiting for you, your hand met empty sheets.

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, blinking through the haze of sleep until your vision steadied enough to focus on the space beside you. The bed was empty, but the blankets still held traces of warmth, the indentation of where he'd been still visible against the mattress. He hadn't been gone long.

Before you could even fully process the absence, your bedroom door creaked open, and there they were.

Michael stood in the doorway with the softest smile on his face, dressed casually in loose pajama pants and a long-sleeved shirt, his curls slightly messy like he'd rushed around all morning trying not to wake you. In his hands was a breakfast tray balanced carefully against his chest, and the second the door opened wider, the smell of breakfast drifted into the room: warm butter, bacon, eggs, fresh fruit, and coffee. The scent wrapped around you instantly, comforting and familiar in the way only home could feel.

Clustered around him were your three children, each one looking impossibly proud of themselves.

Your oldest son, now eleven, stood tall beside his father with a gift bag clutched tightly in his hands, trying very hard to look composed despite the excitement practically radiating from him. Your daughter, eight years old and already carrying so much of Michael's artistic soul inside her, held several drawings protectively against her chest. The sight alone made your heart ache warmly because she never gave away her artwork lightly. Every piece she handed you was precious to her. Your youngest, only four, held a card in both tiny hands so carefully that it looked like he thought it might break if he squeezed too hard.

"Happy Mother's Day!" Their voices rang out together, uneven and overlapping and perfect.

A smile spread across your face instantly, so wide your cheeks hurt with it, and your chest tightened painfully with love. Moments like this never stopped feeling surreal to you. Fifteen years of marriage to the love of your life, fifteen years of waking up beside Michael Jackson and somehow loving him more with every passing year instead of less. 

And then there were your babies: the living, breathing proof of everything the two of you had built together. Every single morning, you woke up and still found yourself stunned by them. By this life. By how lucky you had somehow been to love and be loved this deeply.

The children wasted no time climbing onto the bed with you, immediately talking over each other as they tried to present their gifts first.

"Mine first!"

"No, Mommy has to see mine!"

"I made hers myself!"

Their excited voices blended until you burst into laughter, the sound warm and sleepy as you gathered all three of them into your arms. Your youngest immediately crawled into your lap without hesitation, curling against your chest while your older two squeezed in tightly on either side of you beneath the blankets.

Michael stayed standing near the bed for a moment longer, watching all four of you with an expression so soft it almost hurt to look at directly. There was something about seeing you surrounded by your children that still stole the breath from him after all these years. The sight grounded him in a way nothing else in the world ever could.

"Okay, okay, there's plenty of me to go around, and I would love to see all of your gifts. Okay, applehead, what do you got?" you say to your youngest son.

He giggled instantly at the nickname, bouncing slightly in your lap before proudly handing you the card. The second you saw the front of it, your heart melted completely.

You could immediately tell your daughter had helped him with the drawing on the cover, but the scribbled picture of you and him together was unmistakably his own contribution too, full of uneven lines and earnest little details only a child would think were important. Inside was another drawing of the two of you together, alongside shaky handwriting clearly helped by either Michael or your oldest son.

"I love you, Mommy." Emotion swelled in your chest so fast it nearly overwhelmed you.

You leaned down immediately and kissed his forehead, lingering there for an extra second as his little arms wrapped around your neck. "I love you more, sweet boy," you say.

Your daughter practically vibrated beside you, waiting for her turn. "Okay, my turn," your daughter says as she hands you the multiple drawings.

The second you looked down at them, your eyes widened.

You and Michael had enrolled her in art classes almost immediately after realizing how naturally gifted she was, and you wanted to nurture that gift. At first, it had been little sketches scattered around the house: drawings of animals, family portraits, tiny details she somehow noticed that most adults overlooked completely. But the older she got, the more obvious her talent became. She had Michael's eye for beauty, for emotion, for preserving moments exactly as they felt. Her attention to detail was astonishing for someone her age.

The classes had only strengthened something already living naturally inside her.

She loved telling you and Michael about every new technique she learned, loved dragging both of you into her room to show off fresh sketches or paintings with paint still drying at the corners. And Michael adored it. Sometimes you'd catch him quietly saving every single drawing she gave him, storing them away like priceless treasures.

You carefully lifted the first drawing and immediately recognized it. Your breath caught softly in your throat.

She had drawn one of the photos Michael had taken of the two of you during a family trip to Disneyland. You and your daughter, while the two of you stood outside the teacup ride in matching Minnie Mouse ears. Your daughter had been younger then, still small enough to cling to your side constantly, and in the photo, she had her arms wrapped tightly around your waist while you leaned down laughing at something she had whispered to you.

Michael had always loved taking pictures like that.

Quiet and unscripted moments. The kinds of memories nobody else would think to preserve, but him. And your daughter had redrawn the image perfectly, not just the appearance of it, but the emotion living inside it. She captured the warmth, the joy, and the feeling of being loved all in the details.

The tiny bows on the Minnie ears. The folds in your sweatshirt. The way your daughter's smile crinkled wider on one side than the other. Even the softness in your own expression as you looked down at her had been drawn with startling tenderness.

It felt like she had taken a memory straight out of your heart and placed it on paper.

Your eyes burned almost instantly with tears as you stared down at it. And when you looked back up at your daughter, she was watching you anxiously, searching your expression for approval in that painfully vulnerable way artists always do when they hand someone a piece of themselves.

"Oh, bunny... this is beautiful, do you remember this day? You were only about 3," you say as you look at her. She shakes her head softly, curls slipping across her cheeks as she nestles a little closer into your side, her small fingers still holding carefully onto the edges of the remaining drawings.

"Not fully, but... I think I remember being happy," she says.

Your eyes soften immediately as you look at her, now knowing that what stayed with her after all these years was simply the feeling of happiness. The feeling of being loved enough for the memory itself to linger somewhere inside her, even after most of the details faded away. It says more about the life you and Michael built together than anything else possibly could.

Your fingers brush gently through her hair before she eagerly hands you the next drawing, clearly unable to wait any longer for you to see the rest.

The second you look down at it, a soft laugh escapes you.

This one is of all five of you together on the carousel at Neverland. Every person in the drawing is caught mid-laughter, frozen in one of those fleeting moments of joy that usually only exist for a second before disappearing again.

Your oldest son is leaning forward dramatically in the picture, clearly in the middle of saying something ridiculous, while you and Michael are both laughing at him. Your youngest is clutching onto Michael's arm with one tiny hand while grinning so hard his little cheeks puff outward, and Michael himself is drawn exactly the way he always looks when he's surrounded by the people he loves most, completely relaxed, completely unguarded, happiness softening every part of him.

You turn the drawing around so everyone can see it properly, and immediately all three children begin talking over each other.

"That's when he almost fell off the horse!"

"No, I didn't!"

"Yes, you did!"

"Daddy caught me!"

Michael's laughter fills the room low and warm while you shake your head affectionately at the chaos unfolding around you, your chest tightening with that overwhelming kind of love that sneaks up on you in quiet moments like this. The room feels so full of life, so warm and lived in, and there are still mornings when you can't believe this is the family you were lucky enough to have.

"This is beautiful, sweetie," you say, and your daughter's entire face lights up instantly at the praise.

The expression reminds you so much of Michael that it almost makes you emotional all over again. She tries to act confident when she talks about her artwork, but the second someone she loves compliments it, all that vulnerability rises straight to the surface in the same way it still does for Michael whenever someone genuinely praises his music or artistry.

"One more!" she says excitedly as she quickly hands you the final drawing before the emotions from the others can fully settle.

The second you look down at it, your breath catches softly in your throat. You know immediately that she had to have found the original photograph somewhere in the house because she hadn't even been born yet when the picture was taken.

It's you and Michael at the Oscars in 1991.

Bill Bray had taken the photograph while the two of you were getting ready for the ceremony that night, capturing one of those quiet moments before the flashing cameras and endless noise of the evening began, and it had always remained one of your favorite pictures of the two of you. Michael had his arm wrapped securely around your waist while he pressed a kiss against your cheek, and you were leaning fully into him, your hands resting against his chest with a smile so full of love it practically glowed from the photograph itself.

And somehow, your daughter recreated it perfectly. Not just the appearance of it, but the emotion living inside the memory itself. She perfectly captured the softness, love, and devotion between the two of you. The overwhelming kind of love that had consumed the two of you so completely back then that the rest of the world seemed to disappear whenever Michael looked at you.

Your eyes linger on the drawing as memories from that night begin unfolding quietly through your mind. That evening had been your first public outing together after getting engaged, and the press had spotted the ring almost instantly. Cameras followed the two of you everywhere throughout the night, reporters practically tripping over themselves trying to get photographs because suddenly the entire world wanted confirmation that America's sweetheart and Michael Jackson were truly planning forever together.

You had been nominated for Best Actress in a Leading Role for Pretty Woman, though Kathy Bates ultimately won for Misery. But by the end of the night, you remembered not even caring about the loss because you had been too happy to feel disappointment over anything.

Especially because Michael had spent the entire evening looking at you like you hung the stars themselves.

He had spent the evening unable to stop touching you, his hand constantly against your back, your waist, your fingers intertwined together beneath tables whenever cameras weren't directly pointed your way, like he physically couldn't stand the idea of not being connected to you for too long.

Most of the headlines the next morning barely focused on the awards themselves. Instead, they talked endlessly about your engagement, about the ring sparkling beneath the lights, about the way Michael looked at you like you were the only person in the room. Several magazines even joked that, although you hadn't won your category, you still walked away from the ceremony a winner because you were engaged to Michael Jackson.

And now, nearly two decades later, your daughter had somehow managed to preserve all of that love inside a drawing.

"Baby, look at this," you say as you turn the picture toward Michael. His eyes widen immediately because your daughter hadn't shown him this drawing either. Even though these gifts were for you, she had wanted the surprise to belong to both of you.

Michael carefully shifts the breakfast tray aside before taking the drawing into his hands, and the second he really looks at it, his entire expression softens in that quiet, deeply emotional way it always does whenever something truly touches him.

"Princess, it's beautiful... just like the photo Bill took," Michael says with a wide smile.

Your daughter immediately buries her face against your shoulder, blushing hard from the praise, and you can't help smiling because she inherited that same painfully sweet shyness from her father. Both of your sons have Michael's enormous Bambi eyes, and your youngest inherited his giggle almost perfectly. 

But your daughter inherited the softer emotional parts of him: the sensitivity, the artistry, the vulnerability that comes from pouring your heart into something and then nervously waiting to see if the people you love understand it.

"You both really like it?" she asks softly.

"Like it? Honey, I love it. I'm gonna get all three of these framed, okay? The one of Dad and me will stay in here, and you can pick where we put the other two," you say. Her eyes light up instantly with excitement so pure it makes your chest ache.

"Really?" she asks.

"Really," you say. She squeals happily before immediately throwing her arms around you again, nearly crushing the drawings between the two of you in her excitement, and your laughter fills the room while Michael watches the entire moment unfold from the foot of the bed.

The tray of breakfast still rests carefully in his lap, mostly forgotten now as he looks at you, surrounded by your children, wrapped in laughter and softness and love, and something warm spreads through his chest so intensely it almost overwhelms him because this right here had always been the dream.

Michael had known you would be an incredible mother long before the two of you ever had children together.

About two years into your relationship, he had invited you to one of the celebrations for his mother's birthday. Officially, everyone called it "Katherine Jackson Day," since she doesn't celebrate birthdays because of her faith, but it was really just a reason for the entire family to gather together around the woman who held all of them together. It had been one of the first times you spent extended time around so many of his nieces and nephews while they were still little, and Michael remembered spending most of the evening watching you instead of participating in conversations himself.

He watched the way you knelt down to answer every single question the children asked you sincerely instead of brushing them aside. He watched the way you played games with them for hours without ever seeming distracted or impatient, and he watched how naturally nurturing you were without even realizing anyone was paying attention. The way you played games with them for hours, listened to their stories like they were the most important conversations in the world, and somehow made every child around you feel seen.

But the moment that stayed with him forever happened later that night, when Jackie's daughter fell asleep with her head resting in your lap while you sat talking with Jackie, LaToya, and Katherine. Even while carrying on the conversation around you, your fingers continued absentmindedly running through the little girl's curls to soothe her, your touch gentle and instinctive in a way that made something settle permanently inside Michael's chest.

He remembered standing across the room staring at you while the noise of the party blurred into the background because suddenly he knew with complete certainty that he wanted this with you someday.

Not just romance or marriage, but a family. A home filled with children and warmth and mornings that looked exactly like this one.

And every single day since your oldest son had been born, every moment he had watched you mother your children with tenderness and patience and unconditional love, he had somehow fallen even deeper in love with you than he thought humanly possible after fifteen years of marriage.

"Okay, my turn," your oldest says as he hands you the gift bag. "Dad helped me pick it out," he says.

You smile immediately at the proud look on his face as you take the bag from him, your fingers brushing lightly against his hand before you begin carefully pulling back the tissue paper. The second you see the velvet box nestled inside, you already know it's a necklace of some kind before you even pick it up. 

After nearly two decades together, Michael has spoiled you with enough necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and lockets that you can tell what kind of piece you're getting simply by the size and shape of the box alone.

But what catches your attention just as quickly is the card tucked beside it.

You pull both items out gently before opening the card first, and the second you see your son's handwriting messily stretched across the paper, your heart already begins softening.

Mom, Thank you for being the best Mom. You always take care of me, my siblings, and Dad. You're always so kind and loving to us, even when we mess up and don't listen to you... sorry. You're my best friend, Mom, and I love you sooooooooooooooo much. — MJJJr

By the time you reach the end of the card, your vision is already blurred with tears.

There's something about reading words written by your child's own hand that always affects you differently, especially now that he's getting older. Every year, he feels a little taller, a little more independent, a little closer to becoming someone who won't need you in the same ways anymore, and yet somehow moments like this still remind you that, beneath all the growing up, he is still your baby.

Your throat tightens painfully with emotion as you lean over and kiss the top of his head.

"I love you more, Bubba," you whisper to him. He immediately ducks his head a little at the affection in the same way Michael always does when he gets emotional, trying to hide how much it affects him while still secretly soaking in every second of it.

Then you finally open the velvet box, and the second you see the necklace inside, your heart melts all over again. It's a heart locket. Of course, Michael helped him.

The sight alone already has emotion swelling inside your chest because Michael has always loved sentimental jewelry more than flashy jewelry when it comes to you. Over the years, he's given you diamonds, sapphires, rubies, custom pieces worth more money than you could even comprehend, but the gifts you treasure most have always been the ones attached to memories.

"Oh, honey, it's beautiful," you say softly.

Your oldest immediately grins wider. "Open it," he says.

You carefully lift the locket from the box and open it, and the second you see what's inside, your entire chest aches so hard with love that tears immediately spill over again before you can stop them.

Inside one side of the heart is a tiny photograph of Michael with all three of the children dressed in the matching Christmas pajamas you all wore the previous year, the four of them smiling so brightly in the picture that even the tiny image radiates warmth. On the other side is a photograph of you and Michael together, one of those candid pictures where the two of you are looking at each other instead of the camera, completely lost in your own world, the way you still so often are even after all these years.

And suddenly you can't breathe around the amount of love sitting in front of you.

You look up from the necklace toward your family, your children pressed around you on the bed, your husband sitting nearby watching you with that same soft expression he's had since the morning began, and the happiness becomes so overwhelming that tears begin falling freely down your cheeks before you can stop them.

"You okay, Mommy?" your youngest asks.

His little voice is filled with immediate concern, and you nod quickly as you wipe at your face, trying to smile through the tears.

"Mommy's okay, sweetie. They're happy tears... because I just love you all so much," you say.

The second the words leave your mouth, all three children instinctively lean even closer into you again, like they physically can't get close enough. Your youngest settles his head fully against your chest while still curled in your lap, and your older two wrap their arms tighter around your sides before resting their heads against your shoulders.

You pull them all closer immediately, surrounding them with your arms as emotion continues flooding through you in painful, beautiful waves.

"All three of you remain the best gifts I've ever gotten for Mother's Day," you whisper to them before kissing each of their heads one by one. Michael watches the scene unfold quietly from the foot of the bed, and the amount of love he feels in that moment is almost indescribable.

He loves his family so much it physically hurts sometimes.

He loves the way your children instinctively gravitate toward you whenever they need comfort. He loves how safe they feel wrapped up in your arms. He loves the softness in your voice whenever you speak to them, even when you're exhausted or frustrated. And more than anything, he loves the way your children adore you so naturally because to them, loving you is as instinctive as breathing.

Michael loves your children more than anything else in the world, but the one thing he has never tolerated from them, not once, is disrespect toward you.

The memory surfaces in his mind almost immediately as he watches your oldest curled against your shoulder now, so sweet and gentle it's hard to connect him to the frustrated pre-teen he'd briefly become several months earlier when hormones and attitude first started settling in.

Your oldest had asked one night if he could stay up late playing video games with his friends despite having school the next morning, and when you told him no, he immediately started arguing back.

At first, Michael stayed out of it.

You and your son had always been close, and you normally resolved little disagreements easily enough. But then frustration overtook him, and Michael heard the exact moment his son crossed the line.

"Mom, why are you being such a bitch—"

The word 'bitch' barely even made it halfway out before Michael appeared in the doorway. He remembered the stunned look on your son's face the second he realized his father had heard him.

Michael hadn't yelled. That was the thing about Michael when he was truly angry, his voice actually became quieter. Firmer. Controlled in a way that somehow felt far more intimidating than shouting ever could.

Without another word, he had taken your son out of the room immediately while you sat there equally shocked, and although you couldn't hear every word they exchanged afterward, you heard enough.

Michael told him very clearly that he did not care how frustrated or upset he became; he would never speak to you like that again. He reminded him that while you were his mother, you were Michael's wife first, and there had never been a single moment in your life together where he tolerated disrespect toward you from anyone.

And he wouldn't tolerate it inside your own home, especially not from one of your children.

Your son had come back into the room only a few minutes later, tears gathered in his eyes, and guilt written all over his face the second he looked at you. The frustration from earlier had already completely crumbled away, replaced by the realization that he had genuinely hurt your feelings, and you remembered how quickly he crossed the room to hug you tightly.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he had whispered against your shoulder. "I don't think you're the b-word at all." Your heart had broken a little at how sincere he sounded.

You understood immediately that the outburst hadn't truly been about you. He had just been frustrated because he wanted to stay up with his friends, and emotions always feel bigger when you're eleven years old and still learning how to control them. You loved him far too much to stay angry over something said in a moment of immaturity, especially when he came back on his own to apologize so genuinely.

So you kissed the top of his head, thanked him for apologizing, and softly told him to start getting ready for bed.

And since that night, he had never once attempted to disrespect you again.

"We love you too, Mommy," your daughter says softly, pulling you back into the present.

When the children finally pull away from the hug, they climb off the bed one by one, still lingering close like none of them wants to leave the warmth of the room just yet.

"We'll see you tomorrow, right?" she asks. You smile immediately and nod.

Michael had already told you days ago that he planned on completely spoiling you for Mother's Day, and because he refused to let you spend the day worrying about the kids instead of relaxing, he had called Katherine ahead of time to ask if she would keep them overnight. Katherine had been delighted by the idea, immediately insisting that getting to spend Mother's Day surrounded by her grandchildren would be a gift for her too.

"And you guys remembered to pack Grandma Katie's gifts, right?" you ask.

All three children nod enthusiastically.

"Yup! Paris packed the gifts from us, and then I packed the gifts for her from you and Dad," your oldest says proudly.

You smile warmly at him because he has reached that age where he genuinely enjoys helping take care of things. There's already so much of Michael's protectiveness and thoughtfulness growing inside him, and sometimes it catches you off guard just how quickly he's maturing.

"Good, and be sure to mind your Grandmother, okay? It's Mother's Day for her too, so make sure you're sweet little angels for her... and you'll probably see some of your cousins too," you say.

All three of their faces light up instantly at the mention of their cousins.

Being some of the youngest grandchildren in the Jackson family meant your children were spoiled endlessly by everyone around them. Their older cousins adored them, their aunts and uncles practically fought over who got to spend time with them, and every family gathering somehow turned into all three children being passed around between relatives who wanted cuddles and attention from them.

"Mommy, we're always angels," your daughter says with the sweetest smile imaginable.

You and Michael both burst into laughter immediately because the innocence in her voice is so convincing, even though all three children inherited at least a little bit of chaos from their father. Michael shakes his head, smiling as he finally stands from the bed.

"Auntie Janet will be here soon to pick you up, go get the rest of your stuff and take it to the door, okay?" Michael says.

All three kids nod quickly before bouncing excitedly out of the room, their footsteps echoing loudly down the hallway as their voices blend together in overlapping excitement about seeing their cousins.

The second the room quiets again and the children disappear downstairs, a completely different kind of softness settles over the space. Now it's just you and Michael.

He turns toward you immediately, and the smile on his face shifts into something gentler the second his eyes settle on you again. "Happy Mother's Day, beautiful," Michael says softly.

Your own smile widens at the tenderness in his voice. "Thank you, baby... because without you, I wouldn't be one," you say.

The words affect him instantly.

You watch that familiar shyness creep over him despite everything the two of you have shared over the years, his teeth catching lightly against his bottom lip while his eyes soften in that way they always do whenever you say something sincere enough to reach straight into his heart.

Even after decades together, Michael still reacts to love like it surprises him.

He stands from the foot of the bed then and slowly walks around toward your side, carefully lifting the breakfast tray again before settling it gently across your lap.

"Hmm, biscuits and gravy with scrambled eggs, and fruit, my favorite," you say, your mouth already watering from the smell alone. Michael smiles proudly at your reaction before sitting down across from you on the bed, his knee brushing lightly against yours beneath the blankets.

But before you even touch the food, you lean forward and kiss him, because you hadn't gotten your good morning kiss yet.

The second your lips touch his, Michael melts into it immediately, one hand instinctively moving to your waist while he kisses you back slowly and deeply, like he still hasn't figured out how to kiss you casually after all these years. And honestly, neither have you.

It still amazes you sometimes that after decades together, a kiss from him can still make your stomach flip exactly the same way it did when you were young and newly in love.

When you finally pull away, Michael looks almost dazed for a second before smiling shyly again, and you can't help laughing softly as you begin eating breakfast while encouraging him to have some too.

Even though he insists the tray is only for you, he still keeps sneaking bites whenever you hold food toward him, and at one point, he dramatically attempts to feed you himself, making you laugh so hard you nearly spill your orange juice.

The entire morning feels warm and unhurried, comfortable in the way only long marriages built on genuine friendship can feel.

After breakfast is finished, you carefully set the tray beside you on the bed while Michael quietly stands from the mattress. You watch him disappear into the closet for a moment, and when he comes back out, there's a velvet box in one hand and a card in the other.

Immediately, your heart softens, because after all these years together, you know this look on his face. The shy excitement and nervousness underneath the confidence.

Michael still gets emotional giving you gifts, especially when they mean something deeper than jewelry or extravagance. And the closer he gets to the bed again, the more you can already tell this is one of those gifts.

He sits beside you once more before carefully placing both the velvet box and the card into your hands. From the shape and size of the box, you can already tell it's a bracelet, but just like you did with your oldest son's gift, you reach for the card first.

The second you open it and see Michael's handwriting stretched across the page, a smile immediately pulls at your lips. His penmanship is still messy after all these years, letters slanting unevenly together in that familiar way that used to make you tease him endlessly when the two of you first started dating. But somewhere over the last twenty years, you learned how to read his writing almost instinctively, like loving Michael had taught you how to understand every language he speaks, even the messy ones.

Baby, Watching you be a mother for the last 11 years has been the greatest honor of my life. My family was complete the moment you told me, "I do" 15 years ago, and our kids have just made this life more full. I am so proud of you. You've balanced filming a movie with being pregnant, health issues during your pregnancy with our baby girl, and for so many days and months, I felt so helpless, wanting to do more for you, wanting to take the pain from you, but you always looked glowing. Every pregnancy, you were literally glowing, and seeing you hold each of our children for the first time did something to me that I can't explain with words. You becoming a mother, us becoming parents together, it deepened everything I feel for you, my love, my desire, my unwavering need for you. I don't take for granted what you've done for our family. You're a superhero, you're everything, you're the one person that holds us together. You've put up with me for nearly 3 decades, and every day I fall more in love with you than the previous one. I love every version of you. My best friend, the actress, my wife, the mother of my children. Baby, it's an honor to be your husband. It's an honor to be the father of your children. Seeing the four of you together, seeing us give our beautiful children the childhood I was never allowed to have, makes my heart so happy, filled with more love than I thought was possible to have for someone. I'm very proud to be yours. You've made me feel safe in a way no one has before. You've made me feel seen, not just as Michael Jackson the superstar, king of pop, but you've always been the one place where I can just be Michael, and just being Michael has always been enough for you. I love you more than any words can say, every album I've ever made was for your heart to know how much it owns mine. You're my everything, and I love you so much. Michael

By the time you reach the end of the letter, tears are already streaming freely down your face, because every word drags memories back to the surface all over again. You remember those pregnancies.

You remember how exhausted your body became some days, so exhausted you genuinely felt like you might collapse if you stood too long. You remember the terrifying flashes of pain that came unexpectedly during your pregnancy with your daughter, the panic that settled into your chest every single time because you didn't know if something was wrong, if you were miscarrying, if labor was coming too early, if your baby was okay.

You remember recovery afterward, too, how all over the place your hormones were. How much sleep you didn't get. The overwhelming feeling of suddenly being responsible for a tiny human who cried at all hours while your own body was still healing.

There were nights when you cried simply because you were overstimulated, tapped out, and exhausted beyond words, and through every single moment of it, Michael stayed beside you.

You remember him pulling you against his chest while you cried from exhaustion, gently rubbing your back and whispering reassurances against your hair until your breathing calmed. You remember waking up in the middle of the night, expecting to handle feedings, only to find Michael already awake with the baby in his arms because he wanted you to sleep longer. You remember him massaging your swollen feet while sitting on the floor at the edge of the couch. You remember him kissing the stretch marks on your stomach while telling you they were beautiful because they were proof of the family you created together.

Everything he did for the children was ultimately rooted in love for you, too. Because Michael never once took for granted what your body and heart endured to bring your babies into the world.

Emotion overwhelms you so suddenly that before you can even think, you reach for him.

You pull Michael toward you immediately, crashing your lips against his in a deeply emotional kiss that steals the breath from both of you. The velvet box nearly slips from your hand in the process, but neither of you cares.

Michael kisses you back just as intensely.

For decades, he has spoiled you endlessly: birthdays, Christmases, anniversaries, Mother's Days, and somehow every single year he still finds a new way to love you harder than before. Every year, you think he's already given you everything possible, and then he somehow reaches deeper into his heart and gives you more.

Michael pulls you fully into his lap while kissing you, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as though he physically needs you as close as possible. Every ounce of love inside him pours straight into the kiss, into the way he holds you, into the way his fingers tremble slightly against your body from emotion.

"I love you so much, Michael," you whisper once the kiss finally breaks.

He presses his forehead gently against yours, eyes already glossy from watching you cry over the letter. "I love you more," he says softly.

You're still curled close together when you finally remember the velvet box resting in your hand. Without moving from Michael's lap, you carefully open it, and the second you see what's inside, your entire expression softens.

It's a charm bracelet, and instantly, you understand why he disappeared into the closet, looking so nervous, because this isn't just jewelry, it's your life together.

Your fingertips move carefully over each charm while emotion swells all over again inside your chest. A tiny pair of Minnie Mouse ears symbolizes all the trips to Disney together before and after the children. A carousel horse sits beside it, identical to the one at Neverland. Then there are the birthstones representing each of your children, and the sight of them alone nearly breaks you again.

And then there's the heart charm. Your initials are engraved into it alongside three dates.

1988: The year you started dating. 1991: The year Michael asked you to marry him. 1993: The year you became husband and wife.

"Oh, Michael... It's beautiful," you whisper through fresh tears. You've only been awake a few hours and somehow already feel more loved than your heart knows how to hold.

Michael carefully takes the bracelet from the box before fastening it gently around your wrist himself, his fingers lingering against your skin afterward while he admires it there like he's imagining this moment for himself too.

"I love you so much, baby," Michael says softly.

Still sitting in his lap, you immediately curl deeper into him, burying your face against the nape of his neck while his arms wrap securely around your body. The familiar warmth of him surrounds you instantly.

"I love you more, Michael..." you whisper against his skin. And the way his arms tighten around you afterward tells you he still doesn't fully believe that's possible.

By the time you and Michael release each other and make your way back downstairs, Janet has arrived downstairs. You and Michel enter the room just as Matt opens the door for her, and the second she sees you, Janet lights up immediately before pulling you into a fierce hug.

"Happy Mother's Day!" she says excitedly.

You laugh softly as you hug her back, already smelling her perfume and feeling the familiar warmth of her presence. Janet has always loved loudly, openly, without hesitation, and your children adore her for it.

You call upstairs for the kids to come down and let them know their aunt is here, and within seconds, thunderous footsteps echo through the house before all three children practically launch themselves at Janet simultaneously.

Janet lets out an exaggerated gasp before falling dramatically onto the floor beneath them, pretending they tackled her completely to the ground while all four of them burst into laughter.

You shake your head affectionately while Michael laughs beside you because although your children love all of their aunts and uncles dearly, everyone knows Janet and Marlon are absolutely their favorites.

Janet eventually manages to gather the children and all their bags together while still laughing, and after another round of hugs and kisses goodbye, the kids finally head out the door with her.

The house falls quiet almost immediately afterward, and the second the front door closes, Michael's arms wrap around you from behind. He pulls you gently back against his chest, holding you there like he's been waiting for the moment you were finally alone all morning.

"You know, one of the sexiest things you've ever done is become a mother," he says.

A laugh escapes you instantly as you gently push against his chest, warmth already rushing to your face from the sincerity in his voice alone.

"Stop it," you say.

Michael only smiles wider, his eyes soft and impossibly fond as he looks at you standing there in his kitchen wearing one of his old HIStory tour shirts and a pair of shorts, your hair still slightly messy from the morning, cheeks flushed from laughing with the kids only minutes earlier.

To him, you've never looked more beautiful.

"I'm serious," Michael says quietly.

The playfulness in his voice fades into something softer then, something deeper, and your breath catches slightly as his hands begin moving slowly over your body. His fingertips trail lightly across your collarbone first, featherlight touches that still somehow make your skin shiver beneath them after all these years together. Michael has always touched you like he's memorizing you instead of simply holding you, like every inch of your body is still something sacred to him, no matter how familiar it's become.

The oversized tour shirt shifts slightly beneath his hands as his palms slowly drift lower, and when his touch settles over the outline of your breasts, his expression changes completely.

"When you were breastfeeding... I could barely keep my hands off of you, they fit so perfectly," Michael says as he lightly squeezes you.

A giggle escapes your lips immediately, despite the warmth already beginning to coil low in your stomach from the feeling of his hands roaming over your body. There's something about the honesty in the way Michael desires you that still undoes you completely. He has never made you feel looked at in a shallow way. Even now, decades into your relationship, every touch from him still feels tangled up in love first.

"Michael," you breathe softly.

Before you can say anything else, his hands slide to the backs of your thighs, and with practiced ease, he lifts you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter in front of him. A small gasp leaves your lips as he nudges your legs apart gently with his knees before stepping between them, immediately crowding into your space in the way he knows drives you insane.

"You've given me everything I've ever wanted... unconditional love, someone I can trust... three beautiful children. I love you so much," Michael says against your skin before his lips begin pressing slow kisses against your neck.

Your head tips instinctively to the side, giving him more access as a soft sigh slips from your lips. His mouth against your skin feels dangerously familiar in the best possible way, capable of unraveling you within seconds because no one knows your body the way your husband does.

"I love you more, Michael," you whisper.

He shakes his head lightly against your throat like he'll never fully believe that's possible.

"You never wanted anything from me, other than me being myself... and I've only ever wanted you to be mine," he mumbles, his lips brushing lower along your throat between every word.

The sincerity in his voice makes your stomach flip harder than the touching itself.

Because after everything Michael has experienced in his life: the fame, the pressure, the people constantly wanting pieces of him, the fact that he still speaks about being loved by you like it's the greatest gift he's ever received, never stops affecting you.

"I am," you manage to say between a soft moan as his mouth continues moving against your skin.

"Say it again," Michael mumbles immediately.

You feel his hands slide beneath the hem of your shirt, then his palms warm against your bare skin as they slowly travel upward along your body. The contrast between his cold rings and the heat of his hands makes you shudder beneath his touch, and Michael notices instantly because he notices everything about you.

"I'm yours, baby... always have been, always will be," you whisper.

The words barely leave your lips before his hands reach your breasts again, squeezing gently enough to pull another moan from you, and the sound seems to completely undo him.

Michael leans forward immediately after, his mouth finding yours in a deeper, hungrier kiss than before, and you kiss him back just as desperately, your fingers tangling into his hair while the entire world narrows down to the feeling of his body pressed between your knees and the overwhelming certainty that after all these years, you are still completely consumed by each other.

Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, pulling him closer until there's barely any space left between your bodies, and the feeling of his fingers moving over your perked nipples sends another shiver straight through your spine. His touch remains slow, reverent almost, like even after all these years, he still can't quite believe he gets to have you like this.

You moan softly into his mouth as the kiss deepens, your fingers sliding through his hair while the warmth building low inside your body spreads hotter with every passing second. Michael has always known exactly how to touch you, exactly how to unravel you piece by piece without rushing a single moment of it.

Michael pushes your shirt up, detaching his lips from yours and immediately wrapping his lips around your nipple. Your head falls back instinctively, your hand tightening gently in his hair while pleasure rolls through you in steady waves. Every touch from him feels deliberate, devoted, like worship disguised as desire.

You squeeze his waist with your legs again since you can't squeeze them together to contain the throbbing you're already starting to feel. Michael lifts from your nipple with a small pop, and he latches onto the other one.

"You're so good, baby..." you breathe out shakily as your back arches slightly beneath his touch. "You always treat me so good."

The praise affects him instantly.

You feel it in the way his hands tighten against you, in the soft sound that leaves him against your skin, in the way his entire body seems to melt deeper into yours whenever you speak to him like that. Michael has always loved being praised by you almost as much as he loves pleasing you.

His hand trails down your body, stopping at the waistband of your shorts. Instead of pulling them down, he slips his hand inside, knowing that you never wear panties to bed, and he knows your body as intimately as his own, knows every reaction before it even fully happens. Your legs instinctively part further for him as soon as you feel his hand, and his expression darkens with affection and hunger all tangled together.

He dips two fingers into your glistening folds, and you feel the vibration of him moaning against your breast when he feels how wet you are for him. Michael lifts off your nipple with another wet pop, and when his eyes meet yours, it's there again, that same all-consuming spark that first ignited between you decades ago, still burning just as fiercely beneath the surface. Time has softened certain things between you, deepened them, matured them, but never this. Never the way desire and devotion blur together whenever he looks at you.

"Lift up, mama," Michael says softly.

You obey immediately, allowing Michael to pull your shorts off of you before settling you back onto the counter. The look he gives you afterward nearly makes your entire body tremble.

There's something so intensely intimate about the way Michael looks at you when the two of you are alone like this, like every version of you he has ever loved still exists all at once in his mind. The young woman he fell hopelessly in love with. The wife who stood beside him through every storm. The mother of his children. The person who still somehow leaves him breathless after decades together.

He pulls you closer toward the edge of the counter and him slowly, his mouth trailing lingering kisses along your stomach and torso as he moves lower, and every touch leaves you aching for more. Your fingers grip the edge of the counter as your body shudders beneath the attention, soft breaths slipping from your lips each time his mouth brushes somewhere sensitive.

"Michael," you whine softly.

He looks up at you immediately, one eyebrow lifting slightly in amusement, and the expression alone almost undoes you because even now, he still knows exactly what he's doing to you.

"You're so beautiful when you're needy," Michael murmurs, his voice low and warm enough to send another wave of heat through your body.

The words settle heavily in your chest because Michael has always made you feel wanted in a way that goes far beyond physical desire. Even now, with years of marriage and children and life lived together between you, he still looks at you like he's starving for you.

Michael kneels in front of the counter, perfectly lining himself up with you. He leans in slowly, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses against your thigh. You feel the vibration of him humming against your skin as his lips move closer to the center, to the place where you're aching for him to be.

"I love it when breakfast is waiting and ready for me," he mumbles, looking at how you're already dripping on the counter, your folds glistening with your slickness, and he sees you pulse as your body shudders. He leans in, pressing a slow kiss to your center that melts you to the core.

You feel his tongue press against you, slowly licking up your folds on both sides, savoring every reaction he pulls from you while your breathing grows more uneven beneath him, and your body shudders. Instinctively, you try to close your legs around his head from the intense building of pleasure, but Michael keeps your legs apart, keeps you open for him as his tongue starts to play with you.

The sounds leaving your mouth only encourage him further, and you can feel how much he loves this, how much he loves making you unravel beneath his hands, and loves knowing he can still make your entire body respond to him this way after all these years.

Brushing his lips against your clit, he kisses you once, and then more firmly, his tongue swirling as his lips suck, the sensation hitting you hard as your head falls back and Michael's name falls from your lips loudly. The louder you are, the more you feel him press into you, wanting to hit every spot to make you feel it. You feel his tongue enter you, his nose pressed up against your clit as he dips his tongue in and out of you.

"Michael... you're doing so good for me, baby, please," you moan softly.

The praise encourages him. His hands tighten against your hips, a deeper sound comes from his throat, and his attention gets more intense as he pours himself even further into making you feel good. Michael has always loved you openly, fully, and desperately. Moments like this only make it clearer.

One of his hands slides slowly along your inner thigh, his touch warm and steady as he keeps you open beneath him, and when you feel one of his long fingers slip inside of you, your entire body reacts instantly. Pleasure builds in slow, relentless waves as his mouth continues worshipping you with the same devotion he pours into everything else when it comes to loving you.

Michael glances up at you then, and the look in his eyes nearly undoes you completely.

There's playfulness there, but beneath it is something far deeper: satisfaction, affection, and hunger, all tangled together as he watches you come apart for him piece by piece. A second finger slips inside of you as Michael lifts from your clit with a wet pop, his chin glistening from your slickness.

"I love the way you look coming apart under me," Michael says softly, his voice roughened with want. Then he spits, using his thumb, he mixes it with your slickness, spreading it across your clit and folds, pushing you higher and higher until your thighs tremble around him.

"You're so sexy, mama... can you take another finger?" Michael teases gently, his lips curving into the faintest smirk when you whimper at the question.

"Yes... Give it to me," you manage between shaky breaths. Michael lets out the softest chuckle at how desperate you sound for him, and the sound alone nearly makes your hips jerk toward him again. "And keep eating," you say breathlessly as another wave of pleasure rolls through you.

"Your wish is my command, mama," Michael murmurs immediately. There's something devastatingly intimate about the way he says it, like pleasing you is never a task to him but a privilege.

He leans back down, capturing your sensitive and throbbing clit in his mouth once more. His tongue swirls over you before you feel him sucking. As he sucks, a third finger slips inside of you. The pace of his touch intensifies gradually after that, every movement perfectly in sync with the sounds falling from your lips as your body begins trembling harder beneath him. He watches every reaction carefully, adjusting instinctively, completely attuned to you in a way only someone who has loved you for decades possibly could.

"Just like that, Michael... I'm so close," you moan as you throw your head back again.

The praise continues to activate him, and suddenly the pleasure becomes overwhelming.

The wet sounds of Michael's fingers quickly moving in and out of your entrance fill the kitchen, your juices drip onto the counter as Michael moves at a relentless pace, making your body buck again, while Michael continues guiding you through it with the same devotion he's shown you your entire marriage. The sounds filling the kitchen become messier and breathless, your fingers gripping helplessly against the counter while your entire body tenses beneath him.

Michael feels the exact moment you finally break apart for him, he feels it over his fingers, lips, and dribbling down his chin.

Your body convulses beneath the intensity of it, pleasure ripping through you so suddenly that a cry escapes your lips before you can stop it, and the force of it leaves you collapsing backward against the counter, completely breathless.

For a moment, all you can do is lie there trembling, your hands moving above your head while you struggle to steady your breathing again. Your chest rises and falls unevenly while Michael's tongue is still moving across your most sensitive areas, lapping up everything you released to him. Michael's touch is turning softer immediately, more soothing than demanding now.

Even in moments like this, Michael loves you gently. Your pleasure matters to him just as much emotionally as it does physically.

Once your breathing finally begins calming again, Michael carefully pulls you upright until you're sitting against him once more, his hands steady on your waist while he looks at you with the kind of overwhelming tenderness that still makes your chest ache after all these years together.

"You're so beautiful when you fall apart. You taste like Heaven," he says before leaning in to kiss you again.

A soft moan leaves your lips instantly the second his mouth captures yours, and the taste of yourself lingering on him only makes the kiss feel even more intimate somehow, more consuming. You pull him closer immediately, your fingers tangling into the fabric of his shirt while Michael's hands grip your waist tightly enough to make your entire body shiver.

Then suddenly you're lifted effortlessly from the counter and set back onto your feet in front of him.

The kiss deepens almost immediately afterward, slower at first, then hungrier, years of love and desire pouring into it until your chest feels tight from the intensity of him. Michael kisses like a man who still hasn't figured out how to love you halfway. Every touch from him still feels overwhelming, still feels like devotion wrapped inside want.

And when he presses closer against you, you feel exactly how affected he is. The heat of his body against yours, the unmistakable tension of his throbbing length straining beneath his sweatpants, sends another pulse of warmth straight through you.

Your hand drifts downward instinctively, rubbing and palming him over the fabric, and Michael groans deeply into your mouth at the contact. The sound vibrates through your entire body, rougher and more desperate than before, and you feel him melt further into your touch immediately.

"Are you ready for me, baby?" you murmur lowly against his lips.

The question alone nearly destroys him.

Michael moans softly before instinct completely takes over, his hips rolling against yours in a slow grind that pulls a breathless sound from your throat in return. The two of you move together automatically, perfectly in sync, the way only lovers who have spent decades learning each other possibly can.

"I need you, mama," Michael groans against your mouth.

The desperation in his voice makes your stomach tighten because no matter how many years pass, no matter how many times you've done this, Michael still says he needs you like it's the most honest thing he's ever spoken.

Your hands slip to the waistband of his pajama pants, pushing them down enough for him to free himself from the fabric, and the sight of him, seeing it lightly slap against his stomach, immediately makes heat flood through your body all over again. Michael shudders beneath your touch, his forehead falling briefly against yours while he tries to steady his breathing.

You pull back from the kiss and spit in your hand, rubbing Michael's tip, mixing your spit with the precum already leaking from him. Michael reacts instantly, a shaky groan slipping from him while his hands move to cup your face, kissing you harder in response like he can't physically handle how good you make him feel.

Every reaction he gives you only encourages you further, and you love the way he still loses composure for you so easily after all these years.

Michael suddenly moves your hand away before turning you gently toward the counter again, pressing himself close behind you until your breath catches from the feeling of him surrounding you. One hand glides slowly down your spine, making your body shudder and clench around nothing while your fingers grip the edge of the counter instinctively.

Michael lifts one of your legs carefully onto the counter before settling himself behind you again, and the sound that leaves him when he looks at you, fully exposed and spread for him, nearly makes your knees give out completely.

He looks at you like even after decades together, he still can't believe you belong to him.

His hands tighten gently against your hips as he pulls you closer, and the tension between you becomes almost unbearable. The aftermath of your earlier release still clings to your skin, dripping to the floor, and Michael presses himself against it, glistening himself with your slickness.

The first push of him into you pulls a broken sound from your throat immediately.

The stretch, the fullness, the familiar feeling of him after all these years still overwhelms you every single time. Your head falls forward slightly as Michael keeps moving slowly at first, giving your body time to adjust while he buries himself deeper and deeper until he's fully pressed against you.

And the second he settles fully inside you, buried at the hilt, Michael groans loudly enough for the sound to echo through the kitchen.

"Oh, mama, look at you," Michael moans.

The praise alone nearly sends another wave of pleasure through you as he begins moving properly, his thrusts deep and steady at first, each one dragging another helpless sound from your lips. Your body responds to him instinctively, stretching around him only to tighten again the deeper he pushes, and the intensity builds almost immediately.

Michael leans forward then, burying his face against the curve of your neck while his movements grow faster, rougher, and needier. His lips keep brushing against your skin between breathless sounds and scattered kisses while one hand slides slowly up and down your raised leg soothingly, lovingly, even while he completely wrecks you beneath him.

The combination of his body pressed against yours, his kisses and bites along your neck, and the relentless rhythm of his hips becomes overwhelming so quickly. "Let me hear you, mama," Michael mumbles against your skin.

And the sound that leaves you afterward is somewhere between a moan and a sob, loud enough to echo through the kitchen walls while Michael groans in response, completely intoxicated by every reaction you give him.

The kitchen fills with the messy, breathless sounds of two people completely consumed by each other: skin slapping against skin, the squelching sounds of Michael sliding in and out of you, and your cries tangled together with Michael's groans while years of love, desire, and devotion pour into every desperate movement between you.

"I love how you feel in me," you whimper as your fingers tighten helplessly against the edge of the counter. The words hit Michael like a physical blow.

A broken sound leaves him immediately as his arms wrap tighter around you, pulling your body more firmly against his chest while his lips continue moving across your skin in scattered kisses. The praise goes straight to his head the way it always does, and you feel the exact moment his control begins slipping further because every movement afterward becomes rougher with need, more desperate, more emotional.

"You fill me so good, Michael," you breathe out shakily. Hearing that from you nearly undoes him completely.

Michael has always loved hearing what he does to you. Not from ego or arrogance, but because making you feel good has always been deeply tied to the way he loves you. Your pleasure affects him emotionally just as much as physically, and every soft sound falling from your lips only drives him further.

His rhythm loses some of its steadiness after that, becoming more erratic, more needy as he clings tighter to you, his forehead briefly pressing against the back of your shoulder while he tries to hold himself together.

Then he feels the way your body tightens around him, the way your breathing suddenly catches, and the way your legs begin trembling harder beneath you. Michael knows your body too well not to recognize the signs immediately.

He knows you're close.

And judging by the way his own movements are beginning to falter, the way uneven sounds keep leaving his throat against your skin, he knows he's not far behind you.

The pleasure becomes overwhelming so quickly after that.

Your hand slaps weakly against the counter as your body finally breaks apart around him, the intensity ripping through you hard enough to leave you shaking uncontrollably. Your leg nearly gives out beneath you from the force of it, but Michael immediately presses himself more firmly against you to keep you steady, holding you together while your entire body trembles in his arms and you completely coat his dick with your release.

Michael keeps his chest pressed against your back, pressing kisses through your skin as his hips roll more slowly, bringing you through the intensity of the orgasm. "Take it for me, mama... You can do it," Michael whispers against your skin.

His voice sounds wrecked, tender, and completely consumed by you.

The encouragement only makes the pleasure hit harder, a choked sob coming from you, as wave after wave keeps crashing through your body, and all you can do is cling to the counter and to him while he gently guides you through it.

Michael has always been so attentive afterward, so focused on taking care of you, even in the middle of losing himself, too. His touch softens instinctively the second he realizes you're overwhelmed, like loving you and caring for you have always been inseparable things in his mind.

And then you feel him finally break too.

His entire body shudders against yours, his movements turning uneven for a brief moment before he buries himself closer, holding you tightly while pleasure overtakes him completely. The sound that leaves him against your shoulder is half groan, half whimper, and hearing Michael come apart because of you still affects you just as intensely after all these years together.

Michael pulls out to watch how you've both come together inside of you. Your mixed releases dripping from your spent hole in a way that makes Michael's hunger even deeper. He watches as it drips out of you, leaking onto the kitchen floor, and he gives your pussy a light smack, making you shudder and whimper from the sensitivity and pleasure.

"Look at the mess you made, baby," Michael says as he turns you around. You look at him first, and then you look down at the kitchen floor, the puddle of arousal that leaked out of you sitting there. You look at Michael, your cheeks flush. His hands immediately cup your face while he looks at you with overwhelming affection written all over his expression.

"Look at you, so beautiful," Michael murmurs softly, his thumb brushing beneath your flushed cheek. You look completely spent standing there in his arms, lips swollen from kissing him, hair messy, cheeks flushed warm, and Michael honestly thinks you've never looked more beautiful in your life.

He pulls you against him again before kissing you deeply, slower this time, the kind of kiss that feels full rather than desperate. Both of you are still breathless, still trembling slightly, but wrapped inside the warmth of each other now.

And somehow, even after everything the two of you just shared, you can already feel that Michael still isn't finished loving you today.

Without breaking the kiss completely, he lifts you easily into his arms and starts carrying you upstairs. You finally pull back enough to rest your forehead against the side of his neck, your body boneless and relaxed against his chest while he holds you securely.

"I love you, baby... Happy Mother's Day," Michael says softly before pressing a kiss against your forehead.

The tenderness in his voice makes your chest ache all over again because this is who Michael has always been with you, beneath everything else: loving, attentive, gentle in all the places that matter most.

He carries you carefully into your bedroom before laying you down gently across your shared bed like something precious, "I love you more, Michael," you say softly, and the smile he gives you in return still has the power to make you fall in love with him all over again.

He disappears into the bathroom, and only a few seconds later, you hear the sound of water beginning to run in. A smile spreads across your face instantly.

Because Michael has always been incredibly soft with aftercare, always focused on soothing you afterward just as much as he focuses on pleasing you. Baths drawn with warm water, soft kisses pressed against your skin while he washes your hair, quiet praise whispered while he holds you against his chest afterward: loving you has always been an experience he treats tenderly from beginning to end.

1982 west lake recording studios

It was another late night in the studio, the kind where time seemed to blur together under dim lights and the low hum of equipment, where the outside world felt distant and unimportant compared to what was being built inside these walls.

For the last few months, Michael has been working on his upcoming album, Thriller, and you know how stressful it's been for him. Michael had felt that Off The Wall didn't get the recognition from the Grammys that it deserved, and you had agreed.

Michael didn't go to the Grammys that year in 1980. You remember how still he had been that night, how quiet, not the soft, thoughtful quiet you were used to from him, but something heavier, something that settled deep in his chest and refused to move.

The two of you sat in your apartment, his head resting in your lap as you watched the ceremony, his fingers idly tracing patterns against your knee, absentminded, like his body was there but his mind was already somewhere else entirely, somewhere ahead, chasing something bigger. And when he made that vow, that they weren't going to ignore his next album, that he was going to make the greatest album of all time.

And now two years later, he was bringing his ideas to life. You've been with Michael for the last three years, since 1979, ever since that first night Stephanie Mills introduced you at an industry event after The Wiz, when everything had been loud and alive around you, but somehow your attention had settled on him anyway.

You were already building your name as a professional costume designer for films, but at that time, you had been working on The Wiz on Broadway, which is how you and Stephanie grew close in the first place, the two of you bonding quickly, naturally, your friendship forming just as easily offstage as everything you created came together on it.

Stephanie had seen something in both of you, something she couldn't quite explain but trusted enough to act on, and when she said she wanted to introduce you to Michael, she had been right.

You remember how gentle he had been when he spoke to you that night, how there was no performance in it, no need to impress, just something genuine and a little shy that made you feel seen in a way that lingered long after the conversation ended. When he asked to see you again, it turned into a year of late-night phone calls and stolen time between his touring and your traveling, a whirlwind that somehow never felt overwhelming, just... right.

Now you're here with him in the studio, watching him build something he's poured himself into completely. He had told you about the short films he wanted to create for Thriller, Beat It, and Billie Jean. You loved the way his eyes lit up as he described them, making it clear that he wasn't just thinking about music, he was seeing full worlds, movement, story, something cinematic and alive.

You sit on the couch with your sketchbook resting against your lap, working through costume designs for Thriller, because Michael gave you his ideas for what he wanted to wear and asked if you could design some sketches, the red pencil moving across the page in steady strokes as you fill in the jacket, shaping something bold enough to match the energy he carries when he performs.

But your focus isn't fully on the page. It keeps drifting, pulled back toward the sound of his voice carrying through the room as he works through The Lady in My Life, a song you can't hear without feeling something deeper settle in your chest, because he told you he wrote it for you.

"You are the lady in my life," Michael sings the closing notes, his voice soft but controlled, and you hear the beat fade out into a silence that feels unfinished, like something is still hanging in the air, unresolved.

You glance up, and you don't need anyone to say anything to know it didn't land the way he wanted. It's in the way his expression shifts, in the subtle tension that settles into his posture, in the quiet frustration that he never voices out loud but carries anyway.

"You are the lady in my life," Michael sings the closing notes, and you hear the beat fade out, the last note lingering just long enough to leave the room suspended in something unfinished. You look up momentarily, your attention pulling fully to him, and you see the look on his face immediately; he's not happy, something with the song isn't landing right, and you can tell before anyone even says anything.

You know Michael has been extremely stressed making this album. Epic Records has him on a tight deadline to finish it by a certain day, and that pressure has been constant, sitting on his shoulders in a way that never really lets up, following him from the studio to home and back again.

And Michael, being the perfectionist he is, doesn't know how to settle for something that's just good enough. It has to feel right. It has to land the way he hears it in his head, the way he feels it in his chest. And because of the feeling that Off the Wall was ignored, that lingering frustration sat with him, still pushing him; he wants this album to be recognized. Not just heard, but seen for what he knows it is.

So he's pouring everything into it: every late night, every take that still isn't quite enough, every ounce of himself.

Sometimes he wouldn't get home until after 3 am, and you'd try to wait up for him, telling yourself you would stay awake just a little longer, just until you heard the door so you'd know he was home. You'd try to fill the time by working on sketches, flipping through pages, or reading something to keep your eyes open, but sometimes you couldn't, and the need for sleep would get too strong, pulling you under no matter how hard you tried to fight it.

You knew he was trying to make the album work against everything he was up against, trying to meet the expectations, the deadlines, the pressure he refuses to let break him, and Michael always apologized for those nights, every single time, whenever he came home after you had already fallen asleep. He always felt terrible knowing you were waiting up for him and he couldn't get to you, like he had let you down in some way, even when he hadn't.

And every time, you reassured him it was okay:  because it truly was. You know how much getting this album right means to him. You know how important it is.

You lower your gaze back to your sketchpad, picking up the red colored pencil again, filling in the jacket with careful precision. His ideas are good, more than good. You've never thought of yourself as creating something separate from him, only giving shape to what's already there, what's already alive inside his mind, inside his genius.

But even as the pencil moves across the page, your attention isn't really there anymore. It's on him, the way the room shifted after that last note, the fact that he's still searching.

And you already know he's not done.

"Mike... something's not landing right with this," you momentarily look up when you hear Quincy Jones speak, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet that had settled after the last take. Michael pulls the headphones off his ears with a slow exhale, the sigh that leaves him carrying more than just frustration, something heavier sitting just beneath the surface.

"I know..." Michael said, and there's a quiet weight to it, the kind that comes from repeating something over and over and still not reaching what he hears so clearly in his head.

They'd recorded and re-recorded the song probably a dozen times, each take technically right, each note placed exactly where it should be, but both Quincy and Michael agreed that something was missing, something intangible that couldn't be fixed with technique alone.

Michael had never struggled so much with a song like he was struggling with this one, and you can see how much it's starting to wear on him in the way he runs his hand briefly over the back of his neck, in the way his shoulders don't quite relax even when he's standing still.

The reason he was struggling was that it was hard for him to sing a song so intimate with all these people around, with eyes on him, with the pressure of performance sitting too close to something that wasn't meant to be performed. Michael wrote this song for you, and about you, and that truth lives too close to the surface for him to separate it from what's happening in the room.

He wrote this song out of the deep love he has for you, something quiet and real and unguarded, and it feels wrong to him to sing it for anybody else but you, to let something that personal exist under observation instead of in the privacy it was meant for.

You look up as you hear Quincy stand from his seat, the subtle shift of movement in the control room pulling your attention away from the page. He cuts off the talk back before walking into the booth, the sudden absence of sound creating a barrier between you and whatever he's about to say, leaving you with only the visual of it as Quincy steps inside and pulls Michael aside.

Michael glances at you through the glass for just a moment, a flicker of something soft and searching in his expression before he turns his attention back to Quincy, and that brief look alone is enough to make something in your chest tighten, because it feels like you've been pulled into something without hearing a single word.

"Take a minute to regroup... get some water, take a walk, something. Then I want you to come back in here and beg," Quincy says, his tone firm but measured, and even though you can't hear them, the way Michael's eyebrows lift slightly tells you the word caught him off guard.

"Beg?" Michael asks, the single word sitting somewhere between confusion and hesitation, like he's trying to understand what Quincy is asking of him beyond just the performance.

"You wrote this song for her, right?" Quincy asks as he gestures his head toward you, sitting outside the booth, and Michael's gaze follows the motion almost instinctively, his eyes finding you without effort. The moment he sees you, everything in his expression softens in a way that feels unguarded, like whatever tension he was holding loosens just slightly.

He takes in the small details without even thinking about it, your legs curled underneath you, the blanket from the couch draped over you, the way you've gone back to sketching like you've been doing all night, the red colored pencil moving lightly in your hand, and there's a quiet warmth that settles into his features at the sight of you being exactly where you always are for him.

"About how much you love her, how much you need her, everything that's right there in the lyrics?" Quincy continues, grounding the moment in something undeniable, and Michael's attention shifts back to him, though not without a slight delay, like part of him is still lingering on you.

"Yeah. It's all for her," Michael says as he nods, and there's no hesitation in that answer, no performance in it, just something steady and certain that makes it clear why this song matters so much to him. That truth is also what's making this so difficult, because part of him hates that you're hearing this right now in a way that feels incomplete, hates that something meant to reflect how deeply he feels for you isn't landing the way it should.

"So beg for it... Beg her for it," Quincy says, and this time when Michael looks at you again, the shift is more intentional, more focused, like he's starting to understand what's being asked of him, not just to sing the song, but to feel it fully, to let it exist in its most honest form. His gaze lingers for a second longer before he looks back at Quincy and nods, the understanding settling into him in a way that feels quieter but more certain.

"Okay, but I need a few things," he says, and there's a steadiness in his voice now that wasn't there before, like he's already beginning to shape the space into something he can exist in.

"Name it," Quincy responds without hesitation.

"Can you turn down the studio lights and close the curtain between the studio and control room?" Michael asks, and even without hearing the reasoning out loud, it's clear what he's trying to do: strip the room down, remove the audience, create something that feels private enough for him to let go of the restraint that's been holding him back. Quincy nods easily, understanding it without needing an explanation, because he's worked with Michael long enough to know exactly what that kind of environment means for him.

"Alright, you need a break, or wanna just get back to it?" Quincy asks as he moves toward the door, already preparing to give him what he needs.

"I don't need a break... one more thing," Michael says, stopping him just before he leaves, and Quincy turns back, waiting. There's a brief pause, just long enough to feel deliberate, before Michael speaks again. "Tell her to come in here, please?" he says, and there's something softer in his tone now, something that makes it clear that this part matters just as much as everything else he asked for.

Quincy nods without question, because it makes perfect sense. He told Michael to sing like he's begging you, and the way Michael is approaching this now, asking for the lights to be turned off, the curtain to be closed, and for you to come into the booth with him, it's clear that he isn't trying to perform anymore. He's trying to create something real and intimate. Something that exists only between the two of you.

Quincy understands exactly what Michael is building in this moment, that he wants to create a space where the outside world doesn't exist, where no eyes are watching, no expectations sitting on his shoulders, just you and him and the truth of what he feels. So he nods without another word and walks out of the booth, closing the door behind him as he makes his way over to you.

You look up when you hear his footsteps approaching, the soft sound of them grounding you back into the room as your hand stills, the red colored pencil slowing to a stop against the paper, your attention shifting fully as he comes closer.

"Everything okay, Q?" You ask as you look up, your voice soft but laced with curiosity, your attention fully pulled away from your sketch the moment he approaches you.

"Yeah... Mike just wants you in the studio," he says, and your eyes widen before you can stop them, surprise flickering across your face because Michael's never asked you to come in there before, never broken that quiet boundary he keeps around his creative space, the place where he disappears into the music and becomes something else entirely.

"Is he okay?" you ask as you set your sketchpad down, the red pencil slipping from your fingers and resting against the page as your focus shifts completely, and Quincy nods quickly, reassuring but purposeful.

"Yeah, yeah, he's fine... It's just to make the song land. Come on," Quincy says, already turning slightly as if expecting you to follow, and you nod, pushing the blanket off your legs as you stand, the warmth of it slipping away as you step out of your spot on the couch and move toward him.

The short walk to the booth feels different than it ever has before, like you're stepping into something you've only ever observed from the outside, something more personal than you expected, and when Quincy opens the door for you, the shift in atmosphere is immediate as you step inside, the sound softer, more contained, the space smaller than it felt through the glass. He shuts the door behind you, sealing you in, and for a moment, it's just you and Michael in the room.

Then you notice Quincy moving again through the glass, his hands reaching for the curtains that separate the studio from the control room, drawing them closed until the outside disappears completely, leaving nothing but the reflection of dim light against the fabric. You turn back to Michael, your brow lifting slightly in silent question, and he smiles at you in that quiet, familiar way before holding his hand out toward you, waiting.

You don't hesitate. You place your hand in his, letting him pull you closer, and the distance between you disappears easily as he guides you in, his movements gentle but intentional. He's sitting on the stool in front of the microphone, and when you reach him, he draws you in close enough that you can feel the warmth of him immediately, his head lowering until it rests against your collarbone, right above your chest, like he's grounding himself there.

"Baby, are you okay?" You ask, your voice softer now, concern threading through it as your hand instinctively moves to him, and instead of answering right away, Michael presses a gentle kiss to your collarbone, something quiet and familiar, something that feels like comfort more than anything else, before he turns his head slightly toward the curtain, aware of the people still just beyond it.

"Q, the lights, down, not completely off," Michael says, his voice steady but quieter than before, and after a brief pause, the lights shift, dimming just enough to change everything about the room. The brightness softens into something warmer, shadows settling in around the edges, the space shrinking into something more private, more intimate, until it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you standing there together.

You lean down and kiss the top of his head, your lips brushing softly against his curls, lingering for just a moment. "Baby?" you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper now, matching the quiet that has settled around you.

"Q, cut me off, I'll knock on the window when I'm ready," Michael says, and there's a firmness in it now, a need for space that's clear even without seeing Quincy's reaction.

"You got it, Mike," Quincy says faintly through the speaker, and then there's nothing but silence again, the kind that stretches just long enough to feel intentional.

Michael stays like that for a moment, his head still resting against you, his breathing evening out slowly, like he's letting himself settle into something deeper, something more honest than what he's been able to reach so far. After a few minutes, he finally lifts his head and looks at you, and there's something different in his eyes now, something more open, more vulnerable than before.

"Just wanted to talk privately for a moment," he says, his voice quieter, softer, like the words are meant only for you.

"Are you okay? Q said you wanted me in here?" you ask, searching his face as he nods, taking a slow breath before he speaks again, steadying himself.

"You can probably hear I've been struggling with this song... I wrote this for you, so he gave me some notes, and I was hoping that having you in here would help me make it land right," he says, and the honesty in it settles between you, unguarded and real.

"Of course, baby, whatever you need," you say, your answer immediate, your voice warm and certain, and the small smile that spreads across his face in response is soft but genuine, like your reassurance lands exactly where he needed it to.

He points toward the couch a few feet away, his hand lingering in the air for a second.

"Just stay right there," he says, and you nod, turning to move toward it, but before you can take more than a step, his hand finds your waist, gentle but firm as he pulls you back toward him. The motion is instinctive, like he can't quite let you go just yet, and when you turn back to him, he's already leaning in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that starts soft but deepens almost immediately.

Your fingers slide into his curls without thinking, threading through them as he pulls you closer, his hand tightening slightly at your waist as he presses you back against him, melting into the moment like he's been holding onto it all night and is finally letting himself feel it. There's nothing rushed about it, nothing distracted; it's just him, fully present, fully there with you.

When he pulls back, it's slow, reluctant, like he doesn't quite want to break the contact, and when your eyes open at the same time, you meet his gaze, his brown Bambi doe eyes soft and open in a way that makes something in your chest ache every single time. There's a quiet warmth in the way he looks at you, something that always manages to undo you, no matter how many times you've seen it.

"I love you," he says, and it never loses its weight, never becomes something ordinary. It still lands the same way it did the first time: warm, steady, grounding, like something you can hold onto.

"I love you more," you whisper, your voice soft but sure, and you lean in to press a gentle kiss to the top of his head once more before finally stepping away, giving him the space he asked for.

You cross the studio and settle onto the couch, tucking your legs underneath you as you get comfortable, your attention fixed on him without even trying, and he moves toward the curtain, lifting his hand to gently knock on the window, keeping everything else the same, the curtains drawn, the lights low, the atmosphere still wrapped tightly around the two of you.

"Alright, Mike, you ready?" Quincy asks, his voice faint but present through the speaker.

Michael looks at you, and you give him a small, reassuring smile as he reaches for the headphones, sliding them back over his ears. You can see the shift settling into him now, the focus returning, but this time it feels different, quieter, more grounded, like he's not trying to perform anymore.

"I'm ready," Michael says as he takes a deep breath, and you hear Quincy telling everyone to stay quiet, the room beyond the curtain fading even further away.

He knows how badly Michael wants to nail this, and now... it feels like he finally might.

The music starts, low and smooth, something almost hypnotic in the way it settles into the room, the bassline soft but steady as it wraps around you and pulls you in before a single word is even sung. It's slow, it's seductive, and you feel it immediately, the way the atmosphere shifts, the way the air itself seems to thicken with it.

You look up at the same time Michael looks over, and the second your eyes meet, everything else fades into the background. There's no awareness of the studio anymore, no awareness of anything beyond him, because once your gazes lock, you're both in it completely. You feel a shift immediately when your eyes meet Michael's, something deeper, far more intimate, something that settles into your chest and spreads outward, and he hasn't even started singing yet; the music alone is already pulling you in.

"There'll be no darkness tonight, lady, our love will shine," Michael starts, his voice velvety and smooth, softer than before but fuller in a way that doesn't feel performed. It feels like it's meant for you, and you already know the air between the two of you is shifting with every word he sings.

The playback is also on, his own voice layered beneath the one he's giving you now, and you catch it instantly, recognizing the difference between what was recorded and what he's doing in this moment. You figure it's for the ad-libs at the end, and you already know that if Quincy likes this recording of it, they'll use this take for the playback and have Michael come back and layer the ad-libs again, but even with that awareness sitting in the back of your mind, it doesn't pull you out of the moment.

If anything, it makes you more aware of how different this take feels.

"Just put your trust in my heart, and meet me in paradise."

The way he sings it doesn't feel like a lyric. It feels like he's saying it directly to you, like the words are meant to land somewhere deeper than just your ears. You shift slightly in the chair without even realizing it, adjusting under the weight of the moment, but you don't take your eyes off of him, not even for a second.

"Girl, you're every wonder in this world to me, a treasure time won't steal away," Michael's voice grows stronger, filling the space more fully now, but it still carries that vulnerable undertone, something soft underneath the strength, like he's giving you everything Quincy asked for without losing the truth behind it.

"So, listen to my heart, lay your body close to mine, let me fill you with my dreams, I can make you feel alright," he continues, and it hits you all at once, sharp and undeniable, because you've heard these words before. Not like this, not sung into a microphone, but whispered softly against your skin in the quiet moments you've shared, when the world was smaller, when it was just the two of you tangled together with nothing else around you.

You've heard pieces of this song for months without even realizing it.

In bed, when his voice would drop low against your ear, when his words felt more like confessions than anything else. In the way he would hold you close, murmuring things that made your chest feel too full, too warm. And now, hearing it like this, hearing it all come together, it settles into you differently, deeper, because you finally understand what he meant when he said he wrote this song for you. He wasn't exaggerating. He wasn't being poetic.

He was giving you something real.

"And baby, through the years, gonna love you more each day, so I promise you tonight that you will always be the lady in my life."

Your eyes stay locked onto Michael's as he sings, completely unable to look away, like breaking that connection would pull you out of something you don't want to leave. His voice, the music, the way the room has softened around you with the lights dim and the curtains drawn: it all pulls you deeper, wrapping around you until nothing else feels as important.

You've forgotten that the two of you are sitting inside the studio with Quincy just on the other side of the glass. With the curtains drawn closed and the lights low, it doesn't feel like a studio anymore.

It feels like it's just you and Michael.

You feel the song, his voice, the words deep inside you, not just in your heart but throughout your entire body, something warm and consuming that settles in slowly and then all at once, until you're completely surrounded by it.

And by the time he gets to the second verse, you're already warm all over, caught in the weight of it, in the way he's looking at you, in the way every word feels like it belongs to you.

"Lay back in my tenderness, let's make this a night we won't forget. Girl, I need your sweet caress, oh," Michael sings, and this time there's no hesitation, no restraint left in him at all. He's fully immersed now, completely locked into you in a way that makes everything else disappear, and something about the way your eyes met earlier has shifted him entirely. He's not trying to find the song anymore. He's in it. Living it. Feeling every word as it leaves him.

Because now it doesn't feel like he's singing. It feels like he's asking.

Like he's reaching for you in real time, like every note is carrying something heavier than just melody, something that sits deep in his chest and spills out without filter. Begging for you to hear him. Begging for you to understand just how much of himself is wrapped up in you. Begging you to stay right where you are, right where he can see you, feel you, hold onto you.

The shift in his voice is unmistakable now, the vulnerability threaded through every note, the way he lets it crack just slightly in places where he would've held it steady before, and it doesn't weaken it; it makes it real. He's pouring his heart out without holding anything back, and you can feel it in the way it reaches you, the way it settles into you.

From outside of the studio, in the control room, even though all he could see were black curtains, Quincy could hear and feel the difference in this recording in comparison to the others. He didn't need to see what was happening inside to know something had changed, because it was in Michael's voice, in the way the emotion carried through the speakers with a kind of rawness that hadn't been there before.

And in that moment, Quincy knew he made the right choice by telling Michael to beg, and he knew Michael made the right choice by asking Quincy to bring you inside.

"And I will keep you warm, through the shadows of the night. Let me touch you with my love, I can make you feel so right," Michael sings, and the words don't just reach you, they move through you, settling somewhere deeper than you can control, and your eyes fall closed for a moment under the weight of it, like it's too much to hold all at once.

You feel it in your chest, in your stomach, in the way your body reacts without asking for permission, and when your eyes close, it's like everything else sharpens, the sound of his voice, the softness of the music, the warmth that's already spreading through you.

Michael notices everything.

The way your body responds, the way your shoulders shift, the subtle way your breath changes, the way you adjust in the seat like you're trying to ground yourself. He sees the way you slightly squeeze your thighs closer together, the way your body reacts to him, to his voice, to what he's giving you in this moment, and something inside him tightens in response, because he knows.

He knows you're feeling it too. That same pull. That same warmth. That same intensity building between you that neither of you is trying to stop.

Desire was building in both of you.

When you open your eyes again and meet Michael's, the difference in him is immediate and impossible to ignore. His eyes are darker now, deeper, filled with something more intense than before: passion, yes, but something layered with it, something that feels almost consuming in the way it holds onto you.

And still, he doesn't stop. He keeps singing to you like there's nothing else in the world that matters.

"And baby, through the years, even when we're old and gray. I will love you more each day, 'cause you will always be the lady in my life," he sings, and there's a shift again, softer this time but just as powerful, something that settles over the moment like a promise being made right in front of you.

You feel it as soon as he reaches it. That change in the structure of the song. The part that's coming next. You know this part. And something in the way he's looking at you tells you he knows exactly what he's about to do with them.

"Stay with me..." Michael sings, his eyes slightly closing as he feels himself getting fully pulled in, his voice softer but heavier now, like it's coming from somewhere deeper than before. "I want you to stay with me..." The words settle into the space between you, and your body reacts before you can stop it, your legs pressing together again as that familiar effect his voice has always had on you builds, heat pooling low in your stomach, steady and impossible to ignore. "I need you by my side..."

When he finishes the note, his eyes open slowly, and they meet yours immediately, like he already knows exactly where to look. He catches everything in an instant, the slight pout in your expression, the tension in the way you're sitting, the desire you're feeling but holding back because of where you are, because he's recording, because you're not alone, and the recognition hits him just as strongly, because he feels it too. His pants are tight as his arousal for you grows.

"Don't you go nowhere," it comes out of him almost guttural this time, rougher, pleading in a way that feels unfiltered, and you feel the difference immediately, the shift between the other takes and this one undeniable now. This isn't controlled anymore. This isn't held back.

The playback continues underneath him, his pre-recorded vocals filling the room and layering beneath what he's giving you live, creating that overlap of sound that wraps around you from both directions. "Ooh, girl, let me keep you warm," the recorded version of his voice carries smoothly through the speakers.

"Let me keep you warm," Michael sings over it, his live voice lower, rougher, dipping into that same guttural tone that makes your breath catch, and he sees it happen, sees the way your chest rises slightly, the way your body reacts without permission. Watching you respond to him like this only feeds into it, and he can feel his own body responding too, the intensity building in ways he can't ignore.

"You are the lady in my life," his recorded voice continues, smooth and controlled, while Michael stays locked on you, singing over it in real time. "You're my lady," he adds, holding your gaze, the words feeling more like something claimed than something sung.

"Fill you with the sweetest love," his pre-recorded voice carries through the room.

"I wanna squeeze ya," Michael's voice drops again into that lower register, heavier now, more weighted, and you feel it immediately, the heat in your body deepening as you shift in the seat again, trying to ground yourself in something steady that isn't there.

"Always the lady in my life," the pre-recorded vocal continues, smooth beneath him.

"I wanna touch you, babe," Michael sings more intensely this time, and the shift is immediate, visible in his eyes, in the way his focus sharpens on you like nothing else exists.

"Lay back in my tenderness, you are the lady in my life," his pre-recorded voice sings, and through it, over it, around it, he holds your gaze without wavering, and you feel yourself getting warmer by the second, the heat building under your skin in a way that makes you hyper-aware of everything.

You had been wearing one of Michael's jackets in the control room because it was cold, but now the warmth feels overwhelming, like it's too much against your skin.

Michael's eyes track your every move as you slide the jacket off your shoulders and drape it over the back of the couch, and you don't take your eyes off him either, the connection between you unbroken, stretched tight between where you sit and where he stands.

"Rock me with your sweet caress, always the lady in my life," the pre-recorded Michael sings as Michael comes in stronger, his live voice carrying more force now, more emotion.

"You're my lady, and I love you, girl," Michael sings passionately, and you feel the weight of it, the intensity behind every word, the way it presses into you. He wants to reach for you; you can see it, feel it in the way his body leans just slightly forward, the way his hands flex at his sides, just like you want to get up and go to him.

You bite down on your lip, trying to steady yourself, and Michael notices immediately, the reaction hitting him just as strongly as everything else, every movement you make pulling more out of him, more emotion, more intensity, more of that raw, pleading energy that Quincy had asked for.

"Ooh, girl, let me keep you warm. You are the lady in my life," the pre-recorded Michael sings, smooth and controlled beneath the moment.

"Don't you go nowhere," Michael sings again, his voice rougher now, more strained in the best way, and you see him bite his lip briefly when you shift again, a deep breath leaving you that you didn't mean to let out.

"Fill you with the sweetest love... always the lady in my life," the pre-recorded version continues, steady underneath him as he keeps going, fully in it now.

And all you can picture is kissing him, the thought taking hold so vividly it almost feels real, like you can already feel the press of his lips against yours, slow at first and then deeper, the kind of kiss that pulls you in completely.

You want to kiss him, want to close the distance between you so badly it makes your chest tighten, want to feel his hands over your body, touching you, grabbing you, squeezing you, exactly like he just said in the song, like every word he's singing isn't just a lyric but something he's already given you in quieter, more private moments.

The memory of it and the anticipation of it blur together, your body reacting to both at once, heat settling low and steady, making it harder to sit still, harder to pretend you're unaffected, until it builds to the point where it's almost too much to hold in.

It's so close you can almost feel it, and an involuntary whimper slips out of you, soft but unmistakable in the quiet of the room.

Michael catches it immediately.

You see it in the way his expression shifts, in the way his breath falters just slightly before he bites down on his lip, his grip tightening on himself as he keeps singing, even though every part of him is pulling toward you. Hearing you like that, knowing he caused it, feeling your reaction in real time, almost undoes him completely, making it take everything in him not to break the space between you and pull you into his arms right then and there.

Michael sucks in a breath into the microphone, the sound pulling through the speakers in a way that feels almost too close, too intimate, like you're standing right there with him. "Ooh, babe... Don't you go nowhere... You're my lady," Michael's velvety voice hits you again, wrapping around you and settling deep, and you still feel hot, the warmth already spread through your body refusing to fade.

But you know you can't start discarding layers right there in the studio, not when he's still recording, not when you're still in that space, even if Michael is the only person who can see you.

"All through the night..." Michael holds the note, stretching it out, letting it linger in a way that makes your breath catch, and you let out another breath slowly, trying to steady yourself. He watches you closely, catching the way you swallow hard, the subtle movement of your throat, the way your body reacts without you meaning to. Beneath him, his earlier recorded voice begins to carry the line forward, smooth and controlled, filling the room while he stays locked on you.

You don't look away.

You watch as Michael licks his lips slowly, deliberately, and the motion alone sends another wave through you, making you shift in your seat again, trying to ease the tension building inside you. He's rubbing his hands against his thighs now, grounding himself, containing something he's barely holding onto, while you're trying to slow your heart rate, trying to breathe through the intensity instead of letting it completely take over.

"Fill you with the sweetest love," his earlier recorded voice moves through the room, steady and warm beneath the moment.

"Let me fill you, babe..." Michael's voice drops to that lower register again, deeper, heavier, and it's all you can picture. The multiple times he has filled you, the way those moments felt, the way they lingered after, and now all you want is to feel that again. You can feel your body responding to the thought, to him, to everything happening at once, the warmth building, undeniable, your panties soaked and only growing worse the longer he keeps looking at you like that. "All over... all over... all over," Michael's voice shifts into something more seductive, slower, more intentional, each repetition landing deeper than the last.

You start feeling dizzy, the intensity of it all settling in fully now, because with every "all over," the images come easier, clearer, your mind filling in the space between you without permission. You can see him, feel him, Michael on top of you, his warm hands moving across every inch of your skin, slow and deliberate, his lips following, kissing you everywhere, and you swallow again, trying to steady yourself, but it doesn't help.

You're still looking at him, and he's still looking at you.

Your lips part slightly without you meaning to, your breath catching again, and the shift in him is immediate. He wants to kiss you so badly it's written all over his face, in the way his jaw tightens, in the way he leans forward just slightly without even realizing it, like something in him is pulling toward you. He holds himself there, barely, and instead of breaking, instead of moving, he gives you the smallest nod, subtle but clear, letting you know he feels it too.

"Lay back in my tenderness... you are the lady in my life," his earlier voice continues smoothly beneath the moment, while Michael sings over it, his presence heavier now, more grounded in what he's feeling.

"Lay back with me... Let me touch you, girl," his voice intensifies, fuller, deeper, and your body reacts instantly, a tightening you can't control, because his touching you is all you can think about now, all you want, the distance between you suddenly feeling unbearable with every second that passes.

"Rock me with your sweet caress..." his earlier recorded voice carries through the room, smooth and steady beneath Michael as he sings over it, his presence stronger now, more anchored in you. "Lay back with me," he repeats again, and this time it comes out more pleading, the words softer but heavier, like he's asking instead of telling.

"Always the lady in my life," his recorded voice continues, filling the space beneath him, and Michael leans into the moment, his eyes locked on yours as his voice intensifies with it.

"All over, all over, all over, all over, all over, all over," each "all over" comes out more intense than the last, more sensual, more charged, his voice dipping and stretching as he gives himself over to it completely, and you swallow hard again, your body trembling with need as the images in your mind come faster now, clearer, impossible to ignore.

And as he continues the "all over," his earlier vocals carry underneath him, smooth and controlled. "Ooh, girl, let me keep you warm. You are the lady in my life," the layered sound wrapping around you, surrounding you completely.

"All over, baby," Michael sings again, his voice dropping into that lower register, softer but heavier, like he's holding onto the last of it, not ready to let the moment slip away.

And that's it for him.

The two of you stay locked there, holding each other's gaze as the rest of the song continues through his earlier vocals, the room still thick with everything that just passed between you. "Fill you with the sweetest love. Always the lady in my life," his recorded voice carries on, but neither of you is really hearing it anymore, too caught in each other.

You slowly stand up from your seat, and Michael already has the headphones off, already moving toward you like he can't stop himself now, like whatever was holding him in place before is gone.

"Lay back in my tenderness... You are the lady of my life," his earlier voice continues behind you, but it fades into the background the second Michael reaches you.

His lips meet yours roughly, the built-up tension between the two of you finally snapping, everything that had been held back pouring into that one moment. The kiss is messy, unrestrained, filled with all the want and need that's been building from the second the music started, and for a moment, neither of you is thinking about where you are or who might be just on the other side of the room.

You're too wrapped up in each other, in the way he's kissing you, in the way you've both been holding onto this.

In the control room, Quincy had just been about to tell Michael that the take was perfect when the sounds of the two of you reached him, unmistakable even through the speakers. Without hesitation, he reaches for the talk-back and cuts it off, the room going silent on their end as he turns to usher everyone out, giving you both the space without a word. He leaves as well, the door closing behind him, leaving you and Michael completely alone.

Michael pulls you down with him as he sits back onto the seat you were just in, his hands already on you, and instinctively, your body moves with his, the distance between you gone completely now. He lets out a low sound against your mouth as the kiss deepens, and you take advantage of the way his lips part, meeting him fully, giving into it just as much as he is.

His hands move over you, familiar and sure, and you feel yourself melting into him, every bit of tension from before turning into something else entirely now that you're finally allowed to close the distance.

"Michael," you whisper when the kiss breaks, your voice softer now but still unsteady, and when you look down at him, he's already looking up at you, his expression just as affected, just as caught in it as you are. His hand comes up to your cheek, warm and grounding.

"Tell me what you want, baby," he says, his voice low, and just hearing it sends another reaction through you, your body shifting against him before you can stop it, and he lets out a quiet groan in response.

"To do what you said... touch me," you say, your voice barely above a whisper before you kiss him again, and this time he meets you immediately, deeper, more consuming, like he's been waiting for you to say it.

His hands move along your sides, holding you there for a moment longer before he stands, lifting you with him effortlessly, the kiss only breaking for a second as he moves you. He sets you back down on the couch, and before you can even fully settle, he's already in front of you, lowering himself down, completely focused on you.

You look at Michael in anticipation, your lips slightly parting as he lays his hands on your thighs. He watches as your breath catches, the way you swallow as you try to contain yourself.

"Touch you where, baby?" Michael says. His hands inch toward the waistband of your pants. You had dressed casually today, as you normally do after working. You had on a pair of Michael's sweatpants and one of his shirts, and he loves it when you wear his clothes.

You slightly lift off the chair as Michael slowly pulls your pants down your legs, dragging it out, and he smiles when you squirm. He lays his palms flat on your thighs, close to your knees, and the warmth spreads immediately.

"Here?" He asks, and you shake your head, letting out another breath. "Tell me where," Michael says, pressing a kiss to your outer knee.

"Higher," you say, your words are shaky, and you let out a deep breath. Michael's lips trail kisses up your thigh as he reaches for your hand and pulls you out of the chair. At first, you're confused, until you feel his hand rubbing down your body.

You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck because you know if Michael is going to do what you think he's about to do, you're going to need help standing.  You feel his hand slip into your panties, and your breath hitches. Michael's eyes close, and he softly hums when he feels how wet you are. You feel his lips against your ear as he chuckles.

"So I take it you liked the song," he whispers, and you roll your eyes, but you're still smiling. You turn Michael's head to you and kiss him hard. His hand moves, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slowly, you kiss him harder, making him speed up his movements as a finger slips inside of you. "That's how you make me feel," he mumbles when he breaks away from the kiss.

You lean your head into his shoulder as he slips a second finger in, his motions getting faster, making you bite down on your lip. "Michael," you whisper between breaths, and Michael smiles.

"Tell me what you want, baby," he whispers again as his lips trail across your neck in slow kisses, while his fingers quicken their pace. You hold onto him tighter, feeling your legs get weaker.

"You," you manage to speak between moans. Michael smiles, his fingers pulling out of you, and you stagger at the loss of contact, but he holds you upright. He kisses you again before easing you down onto the cushioned chair once again, and he sinks down to his knees in front of you.

His hands find the waistband of your panties, and you lift your hips up, allowing him to pull your panties down your legs. Then he spreads your legs, settling on his knees between you, seeing the way you're already glistening and pulsing for him makes him lick his lips as he looks up at you.

"You're so beautiful," Michael mumbles before kissing your thigh. You lean your head back against the cushion, closing your eyes as you feel Michael's lips trailing inward, until you feel his tongue glide over your clit. Your hips buck instinctively, and then you feel his mouth moving. Lips sucking, tongue gliding, your body feeling the sensations of pleasure vibrating through every fiber of your bones.

You grind against his mouth, and he moans into you, sending another wave of vibrational pleasure up your spine. You feel his tongue dip into you before lapping at you, slowly gliding up the sides of your slick folds, and you're breathless.

Your legs start shaking as Michael presses his tongue in and out of you harder, sucking on your clit. With a cry, your orgasm comes, soaking his mouth in your juices. You feel him moan against you, the vibrations sending a jolt up your body as he cleans your finish with his tongue. When he pulls away, he leans over you, and you cup his cheeks, pulling him into a kiss, the taste of you fresh on his lips.

You stand up, starting to peel back the layers of his clothing. Michael watches every move you make, the way your hands smooth across his skin, the way your tongue glides over your lips whenever you pull another piece of clothing off of him.

When he's fully undressed, he lays you back down on the couch, moving on top of you as his lips trail kisses over your body, your shoulder, your collarbone, and he slowly unbuttons the shirt you're wearing, his shirt, kissing your exposed skin with every button undone. The fabric quickly falls from you, your bra following quickly behind it.

You reach forward, grabbing his throbbing length, and you stroke him. Michael leans more into you, pressing harder kisses against your neck as you stroke him. "Baby... let me feel you, please," Michael pleads in your ear. You use your free hand to pull his face to you, kissing him hard as your hand moves faster against him.

Michael deepens it, tongues colliding, fighting for dominance as your hand moves quicker. Michael's body shudders as he feels his pleasure increase, and you use your thumb to tease the head. Michael moans into your mouth, intensifying the kiss as you pull him closer.

You tease your entrance with his tip, a shudder running through both of you at the contact, and when you let him go, Michael wastes no time; your wetness helps him easily slide into you, filling you as he pushes inch by inch until he fully disappears in you.

He's not slow about it.

Michael's thrusts are quick, sliding in and out of you like a man desperate. You pull back from the kiss, throwing your head back against the armrest of the couch as your body melts completely into him. You buck your hips to meet his, and he wraps your legs around his waist, allowing him access to fill you deeper. You feel every thrust, like a tremor of lightning running through your system.

"You feel like Heaven, baby," Michael says lowly, taking your nipple into his mouth. His tongue swirls around the hardened peak, while his hand reaches down between you, rubbing your clit with his thumb. Pleasure builds inside of you from all directions in a way that overwhelms you. Your eyes roll back, your vision blurring with tears as Michael fucks you.

"Michael," you whimper, feeling yourself get closer, and he feels it too. He feels it in the way your walls clench every time he takes you deeper. He feels it in the way your legs are shaking around his waist, and your body is trembling beneath him. He feels it in the way your moans get more breathless and desperate.

"Come for me, baby," Michael murmurs in your ear, and you do, his voice the final piece that sends you over the edge as your orgasm hits. His name leaves your lips like a cry, and Michael swallows it with a kiss as he slows down his thrusts to bring you through the wave of aftershocks. Your body trembles as you ride out your orgasm. "Stay with me," Michael says softly to you when he pulls back.

You kiss Michael again as he keeps moving, your juices dripping down your thighs and his balls as your body twitches again, and Michael comes undone soon after. Spilling your name onto your lips as his release mixes with yours, making a further mess on both of you. Michael pulls back from the kiss, burying his face in the nape of your neck as he finishes his release, breathing out heavily against you, your name falling from his lips again.

You kiss the side of his head, your hands roaming his body as your breaths slow down and sync back with the other. Michael lifts his head from your neck, his eyes softening with the tender gaze he only keeps reserved for you as he looks at you. It's then, when your heart isn't beating so loudly in your ears, that you realize his song is still playing, throughout the sound booth, and you look at him.

"That song is dangerous," you say, and Michael laughs as he slips out of you and lies down behind you on the couch, pulling you on top of him.

"So are you... That's why I wrote it for you," Michael says. Your cheeks flush as you lean in and kiss him again. You're the first to pull away, and Michael lays his thumb down on your cheek, slowly grazing across your skin, and you bite down on your lip.

"I love the song, Michael... and I love you," you say. Michael smiles more, his thumb pausing on your skin.

the phone cord wrapped around her index finger. an additional loop that breached the threshold of unacceptable blood circulation was added at the muffled command. [name] slumped in the armchair, and on instinct did she bring her knees to her chest, excuses coursing her mind like an artist drafting their next piece.

‘i have to walk my dog…’ she didn’t have one.

‘my roommate’s real sick…’ the whole campus knew her roommate wouldn’t stay inside if she had the bubonic plague.

‘i’ve got an essay to work on…’ it was friday night.

the voice on the other side was feminine. krista, her name was, and she liked to flatter herself by thinking she ran her humble little cafe like the navy. [name] knew she didn’t, and everyone who worked and dined there knew she didn’t. instead she was flying by the seat of her pants every day and it was a miracle from god himself that she knew how to keep the thing afloat. that was what made the food so good.

“ellen’s in a standoff with her guy and won’t leave her room, pat’s down with crabs…” her boss ran on and on. “and, y’know, i went down the list like you told me to,” it had to be mentioned that the entire workforce of chivalry coffee pitched in their own efforts to keep krista’s ducks in a row. [name] included, by introducing her to effective ways of handling call-offs and unexpected staffing issues like this.

it bit her in the ass.

“so there’s nobody to close, then,” she noticed the paint on her right pinky toe was chipped. a shame, “and you’re calling me on my friday night—“

“it’s real busy,” chivalry’s proprietress whined, “and you’re the only one who can make those lattes with the hearts.” she was digging real low in her pockets for a compliment, voice pitching up all cute.

[name] couldn’t help but chuckle, “you say that like they’re lining up for ‘em.”

“they could be! you wouldn’t know unless you came in… like i’m askin’ you to do right now,” a quick rebuttal. she cursed krista’s wit.

looking over her shoulder, the rest of her apartment came to life outside the vacuum that she shrunk herself into for the sake of conversation. meridian hall’s apartments, exclusively for upperclassmen, weren’t anything to write home about. a thin layer of smoke served as a permanent fixture passed down from those who came before her. the atmosphere was warm thanks to the scattered lamps of questionable origins, casting everything that surrounded [name] in an amber filter. the butter yellow walls all throughout the apartment were tattooed with posters, pictures, and miscellany alike. each roommate had their own signature which melted into a soup of clashing colors and patterns and themes. it was just the way they liked it.

the living room entrance peered into the hallway that reached down to their individual rooms, where the smoke concentrated from fresh cigarette butts and curling irons. this friday night in particular was young yet, evidenced by the fact that everyone there was sober still. a record spun from one of the bedrooms, it’s music staining the sound barrier and obscuring the offkey voices that sang along.

everyone had plans that night, including [name]. those plans consisted of takeout, joan crawford, and staring at the telephone until it eroded. it wasn’t exactly fulfilling. if she had been truthful with herself, she’d be able to confidently look in the mirror and say it was depressing. thankfully, there was no need to do that. she already had two people in her ear telling her so.

a pent up sigh escaped her, “give me half an hour, alright? i don’t know how long it'll take for me to—”

“yes! yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, thank you!” krista couldn’t contain her excitement. “okay, see you soon!”

the music gained clarity as she entered the hallway, those familiar offkey voices trying to reach notes they had no business flirting with. she made a beeline for her room with the goal of slipping past her roommates’ ire. one step onto her carpet solidified her success.

a question born from morbid curiosity was found sitting above all the noise, “you comin’ out with us tonight?”

[name] stopped right beside her dresser. she had almost made it, almost narrowly slid under the rug. there was a part of her that knew it wouldn’t go her way, but she hadn’t exactly scripted what she’d say in an event like this.

rosie was a hot one, a young woman born with flames that held little mercy. she stood tall on her convictions and her beliefs, with a tube of lipstick within arms reach at all times. justice rang it’s bells loud and proud in rosie’s head. if she wasn’t at a rally or a protest, something was wrong. she looked at [name] through the bathroom mirror, curling iron clicking in one hand as it released a piece of her hair. when no answer came, the activist spoke up again, “or are you plannin’ on waiting by the phone again all night?”

the woman in question gave no bite and instead plucked her bag from her bed. she didn’t bother changing into anything different, more laundry meant more quarters to dish out and she was saving them for the gumball machines. her cheeks gained heat while her mind internalized rosie’s cadence and intention. persuading herself that waiting by the phone for someone to call (who hadn’t called in months) wasn’t downright pathetic was getting increasingly difficult. and the thing about [name] was that she hated when rosie was right.

michael had become a sensitive topic in her life at sixteen, when the body truly started changing and the world suddenly became heavier to hold. the two of them grew close from the proximity of their homes in their youth and the chattiness of their mothers. innocence and discovery painted the young pairs’ blossoming friendship and even when the boy did a hop, skip, and a jump to fame, [name] kept his feet on the ground. when she’d watch him lie about his age on television she felt as if she knew the truth of oz, knew something that everyone else didn’t.

their lives had started the same and there was a whisper in the back of her heart that wished they had stayed the same. she’d lay in bed selfishly wondering what it could’ve been had michael and his brothers not been thrust into the spotlight by his father. he wouldn’t have discovered his gift or his artistry, and that was more important than whatever they had back then. michael was happy and for the years that followed his departure to california, that was enough for [name].

not many people knew about the valley that laid between friend and lover. it was murky and gray and opaque. one day a bridge was built to connect these two stages. for some it took no effort to cross. for her and michael it was never there to begin with. they danced and laughed and sang in the dark depths of the valley without even knowing where they were. in the letters they exchanged, the phone calls that lingered far past when they should’ve ended, the persistent stares while the other looked away, that sick and twisted place surrounded them with no way out.

as michael took the reigns of his own artistic journey, the communication slowed. while still rich and dense with substance, the time taken between letters and phone called stretched longer with each passing year. though it wasn’t just him, [name] had found a life of her own and had begun to bury the idea of them into the ground. she convinced herself the chapter had ended, so why did she still sit by the phone as if a plot thread hung loose?

her shoulders hung low and her head dipped to the side when she stood in the bathroom doorway. rosie turned to her, giving a once-over lined with silent judgement. loving, as always. “you’re not going out like that, right?”

another girl sat on the windowsill, blowing cigarette smoke through the grates. her dress was short and slid even further down her thigh as she propped her boot up onto the towel rack, “i have clothes you can wear.”

[name] finally spoke up, “don’t get mad, please.”

the record had stopped playing. it needed to be flipped.

“i’m gonna go to work.”

“[name] [surname]!” rosie’s face morphed into her mothers’, “you’re joking! what the hell!”

the window dweller piped up, “aren’t you off on fridays?”

“they need help, they're slammed right now,” she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. “the tip money’s gonna last me a few weeks, anyway.”

rosie couldn’t contain herself, “your options were to wait for whoever-the-fuck to call or go out with us, and you chose to go to work?” she turned her attention back to the mirror.

everyone in the apartment knew it was pathetic, and it was even more pitiful that neither of her roommates knew who the glorified pen-pal was. “said i’d be there in twenty,” she started to make way for her shoes at the front door.

“mel, please tell her that she’s pissing her life away!” rosie kept on. [name] drowned the objections out of her ears once she closed the front door. she didn’t need to hear what she already knew.

this was going to be a long night.

april 1982. — hayvenhurst estate. — encino, california.

the halls of the jacksons’ family home had shrunken, michael was sure of it. everyone was getting too big, too loud, too close and in his face. his room served as his safe haven away from joseph’s surveillance, but he still seeped under the doorframe and crawled into his head. even he himself felt too big in his own body, like another growth spurt was due at the ripe age of twenty-two.

“michael!” katherine called out to him from the foyer. concern was etched onto her face, though it quickly shifted to frustration once her head turned to joseph and jermaine. the dust was settling, but whatever they had fought about, it was enough for michael to completely shut down and retreat.

there were emotions that the man held in his hands that he didn’t know what to do with. he could drop them, squeeze them, break them, and it would all be wrong in his fathers’ eyes. what more it was that joseph required of michael the musical prodigy did not know, and it was eating away at him the longer it kept on.

he didn’t enjoy shutting everybody out, especially his mother. but her pleas melted in with jermaine’s incessant complaints and joseph’s militaristic condemnation of his every move. it all became one singular voice and shockingly, for once in his life, michael yearned for silence. but he heard music in everything; in the low rumble of the homes’ internal workings, the inaudible sharp tone katherine had taken up downstairs, and in the frenzied shuffling of his hands through his nightstand.

he was looking for something, a box, with pale dated ribbon and a dent on its side. a flash in his memory told him to look underneath his bed. his hand blindly skirted the tops of everything he shoved there. some of it was banished there in an effort to forget about it, this box included. it had become a symbol of those emotions he had no basis of navigating, and so his best option was to shut it away and hope for the best.

the worst came, it was just his luck, that every dream he had she was somehow there and every song he wrote he imagined singing it to her. he saw her in every woman that passed his way. michael felt truly sorry for them, as they were silently being set to a standard they couldn’t reach. so when the fated box reared it’s head to him he let out a long breath, one that he had an iron grip on.

michael read [name]’s letters to him like gospel. her life was documented in that box, responses going back to their early teens preserved like wedding day flowers. the last one she wrote to him felt so far away yet so close that she was practically whispering in his ear. her words were laced with some kind of clairvoyant knowing that this distance was sanctuary and getting closer only attracted trouble.

but the two of them loved nothing more than to sit in their denial. michael cuddled up to the comfortability that she was pursuing her life, going to college and getting and education. she'd grow up to be beautiful and talented and smart. she'd find someone good for her who could take care of her while he fell in love with the stage.

"’s not right," he unknowingly shook his head as his eyes glossed over her handwriting, vision unfocused and doubling in real time. the silence he needed wasn't here in his bedroom but in a place where he could just hear her breathe and know she was there.

twenty minutes had soon elapsed; twenty minutes of sifting through their ever-evolving string of conversations tethered together by blue and black ink. a quiet rapping against his door reminded him that the world kept pushing on beyond his flustered stupor. the darkness of his bed swallowed the box in a flash.

michael wrapped his calloused hands around his legs, “hi, mama.”

“hi, baby,” katherine sat on the edge of his bed, him on the floor burning holes into the carpet with eyes of burnt mahogany. her gentle touch reached to his furrowed eyebrows, “if you keep scrunching like that you’ll be stuck with that face.”

that got a weary grin from him, “it’s just not fair, i don’t get it.” michael’s foot thumped once, twice, “i’m finally making something of my own and, and joseph’s got nothin’ but a laundry list waiting for me.”

he continued, “n’ i see you give him a piece of your mind and he just looks anywhere but at you. he doesn’t listen.” his head finally craned up to her, “it bothers me.”

katherine felt an all-too familiar sting. she was good at brushing it to the wayside under these circumstances, “it’s not about me, you know that, and i don’t like you worrying like this.”

she joined him on the bedroom floor, taking his hand into hers and rubbing circles into his skin, “you got something he can’t take away from you..”

michael met her gaze as she spoke, “a big heart, that’s what.”

“i got it from you,” a smile broke onto his face. katherine mirrored it instantaneously. “you always know what to say.”

“didn’t come overnight,” a quiet chuckle escaped her and soon did her expression shift to subtle worry. “you can’t stay in here forever, whatcha gonna do now?”

“i gotta clear my head, i need…” his mind rewound to the box that hid behind him, “i need to see someone.”

this sparked curiosity in katherine, “see someone? you don’t mean a shrink, baby? because we—”

“no, mama,” michael’s laugh was music to her ears, “no, a friend!” hopping to his feet, he helped his mother up without a second thought.

“are you gonna make me guess who?” once the words escaped her mouth, she dutifully noted a particular look in his eye. a cloudiness shrouded by a thick fog only that mystic valley held. katherine supposed he need not say anything else. he hadn’t spoken of [name] in months, almost a year.

“…you’d best be careful,” motherly advice that michael didn’t want to hear.

“i’ll be fine.”

“you said that last time.”

his back was turned to her when she said that, in the middle of grabbing his things; a jacket, sunglasses, a spare hat, “i know.” they were two fools in love who couldn’t stop dancing.

katherine lingered by the door, one hand on the knob. she had more, much more to say, “take bill with you,” was all that came out. ‘love you’s were shared yet a knowing presence found residence in his hayvenhurst bedroom. michael’s heart was already three-thousand miles east, he just had to get there to meet it.

april 1982. — howard university. — washington, dc.

there existed very few instances in which michael could quietly watch life progress. he could count them on his hand, those times, and he felt rather joyful that he could add another tally to that list. sitting in the passenger seat of his bodyguards’ hastily rented vehicle, the blanket of nighttime comfortable put michael in the shadows, where he could observe with glutton.

“ahah! look at ‘em,” he tapped against the window, two underclassmen being chased out of meridian hall by girls with much bigger gusto than them, one daring to bark loudly as they fled for their lives. just along the way more kids crowded around each other to coordinate plans for the night. this was their world and michael looked on with the happiest face of jealousy.

bill shifted in his seat. his fingers drummed against the steering wheel, “you ready to go in?”

ah, right. they were there for a reason. the gentle reminder of their goal shifted the singers’ mood instantly. michael looked over at him, “yeah… yeah, how do i look?”

“like a true visionary,” bill stifled a laugh. a dark curly wig sat on his head, and his sharp cheekbones were obscured by sideburns that would easily be mistaken a cats tail. black tinted carrera aviators blurred his eyes from view as they swooped down into his nose. unruly, comical teeth were carelessly shoved into his mouth, his soft-spoken cadence replaced by a shoddy daffy duck impersonator.

a stark yellow hat was perched on top of the wig, a bit lopsided, but bill refrained from adjusting it and instead marveled in the wonder of michael’s disguise. besides, it matched the mustard and navy flannel he wore underneath his vest.

“alright, well—” michael was already out of the car, not giving bill a chance to get another word in.

this must’ve been what normalcy felt like.

the halls of the apartment complex stretched far beyond what he could clearly see from behind his glasses. students slammed their doors, chunks of three and four heads at a time moved together like microbial organisms, music blasted from both sides of the walls. nobody seemed to bat an eye at him besides the occasional drunk psychology major who wanted to dissect why he insisted on wearing aviators indoors at night. bill kept on his heel and they were lucky that [name] was a chronic over-sharer lest they lose themselves in the seven-story building.

michael didn’t know what to do with himself. with his disguise hard at work he saw what most people in his position didn’t. he witnessed people acting without a care in the world, without a worry that their blackout keg stand would make it on the front page the next morning. they swore, they whined, they bitched, they danced, they fought and they did it so happily. they did it in front of him without knowing who he was or what he stood for. and michael couldn’t help but think about [name] yet again, how she walked through these same halls and saw these same people. she had a good life and he wanted to keep it that way. if her having that life she worked so hard for meant he wouldn’t be in it.. he swore up and down he’d make that sacrifice.

and so he was here because he couldn’t bring himself to do that. michael was selfish and if a book publisher mistakenly swapped marie antoinette’s picture with his he wouldn’t complain. he wanted to have his cake and eat it too.

her apartment door rattled with the sounds of music and heavy-footed shuffling. “just behind here,” michael brought a soft hand up to the door, giving it a set of dainty raps.

there was no answer. “you gotta put some more into it, boy,” bill suggested. “like you want it.”

his next set of knocks surpassed the clinking of glass bottles and obnoxious bickering from inside. the music stopped, and a distant ‘okay, damn!’ could be heard. michael gave bill a look.

suddenly the peephole cover slid open, “not openin’ the door ‘til you take them glasses off.” rosie.

michael froze, “…i can’t do that.”

silence entered the conversation unceremoniously until rosie inquired, “you blind or somethin’?”

“wh—” this wasn’t how he was expecting it to go, and it appeared bill felt the same as all he could give michael was a short shrug and quirked brows. “no! no, i’m… i can’t take them off, okay?”

“then i can’t open the door.”

“that’s a weird rule.”

before he could continue, rosie interrupted, “you’d get it if you lived here. what do you want? we’re tryin’ to leave.”

“um, lookin’ for [name], is she there?”

strangely enough, two sets of low laughs rumbled from the door. a different voice answered this time, “why should we tell you?”

this was proving difficult, “i just really need to see her.”

“she’s at work,” mel delivered the bad news like she had been asked that same question a hundred times before.

michael nodded, taking a half step back, “alright…” he didn’t know where that was.

it grew quiet again for some unknown stretch of time. every single person surrounding that door on both sides wondered what they were still doing there. the disguised man opted to lean against the wall, stare at his loafers a bit. [name] never talked about her roommates and he was starting to understand why.

rosie was utterly fascinated with the people [name] attracted, all of them were oddballs and couldn’t carry smalltalk if their lives depended on it. soon she felt pity for the man and wished better for him and his teeth. to michael’s surprise, the locks on the door began to turn and it finally opened. a half-drank bottle of boone’s farm swung without a care in rosie’s hand. her hair was curled from root to tip and cascaded down onto her second-hand jean jacket cut at the waistline.

she was annoyed and on the fast-lane to tipsy, “chivalry coffee, on the corner of harvard street. we’re leaving now.”

michael’s eyes lit up. waiting it out was successful after all, “okay, thanks a lot!" his kindness was always at the forefront of everything he did.

the two duos went their separate ways down opposite ends of the hall until mel called for him, "hey, uh," michael turned around.

"if you're looking to rob her, she doesn't have anything," the young woman stated plainly, "you're better off finding someone else. not worth the trouble."

with a grin, he raised his hand in formality, signaling a final goodbye to the two girls. she had everything he wanted.

april 1982. — chivalry coffee. — washington, dc.

much to bills' dismay, michael demanded they walk to chivalry coffee. he had grown quite fond of the disguise and, since it was working, he wanted to indulge on everything the college area had to offer. they were lucky, as they had chosen a particularly eventful evening. underground concerts of no-name bands and raw talent were abound at almost every bar and dive they passed. pacers and wagoneers flew down georgia avenue full to the brim with college students and crushed beer cans in the trunk. a low howl of the winds’ whisper kissed the apples of michaels’ cheeks. and on top of it all, nightfall painted the perfect backdrop, complete with van gogh’s own stars winking a sleepless eye.

for the fifteen — perhaps twenty — minutes that the singer and bodyguard walked the streets of washington d.c., he had nearly forgotten what he’d eventually have to come back home to, for he was completely submerged in the banter and business of the streets surrounding him. he didn’t mind it when people ignored him or bumped shoulders with him. it was quite the opposite. michael became a fly on the wall, another person in an anonymous crowd.

while chivalry coffee was nothing to write home about, the students at howard university held a special place in their hearts for it. it was a love letter to the area, a devotion to all that four fleeting years meant to them. the walls were a scrapbook of memories and concert posters and stolen traffic signs and if you looked at a certain spot on the ceiling you’d see a pair of plaid boxers. a wrap-around bar served at the centerpiece of the dining experience. complementing it was a makeshift stage to its’ right with a singular microphone and two speakers. none of the couches or chairs matched each other as well as the tables, but krista seemed to possess a quality for design that far surpassed her own ability to run the place logically.

thankfully, she had her boyfriend, robbie, in the back kitchen, who had carefully curated the menu and kept the woman in line. he was the last person to head out for the night, leaving [name] to finish closing up shop.

michael’s gaze bounced from the flickering chivalry coffee sign down to the apron-clad man that walked out the door. the windows lining the restaurant peered into the dimly lit atmosphere, and from his vantage point across the street something in his stomach made him feel like an intruder. it wasn’t until the stage-lights mellowed that he saw her walk out from the backroom behind the bar.

her hair was thrown up without a care in the world. she had done so just ten minutes after arriving, after seeing just how slammed they truly were. she was different to michael but just the same that from the side she shapeshifted into the girl that taught him how to jump rope. a singular overhead light above the counter gave her figure a renaissance feel and the surrounding lamps in the cafe brought about a familiar warmth he had always associated with her. there existed an image of her in his head and it didn’t hold a candle to what his eyes captured. and he didn’t bother to see the forest for the trees, because it would tell him something he already knew so well: that he was in love with her no matter how strained the strings between them felt. michael had finally met his heart where it was.

bill broke through the city’s ambience, through michael’s deafening heartbeat, “i’ll sit right here.” he took a seat on a bench behind him.

“i’m nervous,” michael’s rubbing hands created sparks of anxiety. bill offered no words of encouragement.

“aren’t you going to say something?”

a shrug from bill, “waitin’ for you to cross the street.”

“but i said i’m nervous, i—” michael whipped his head back to make sure [name] was still there. “she might not recognize me, maybe i’ll take all this off.”

“mike,” bill sat up a bit, “you’re fussin’ for no reason. so, i’m gonna count to ten, and if you’re not over there by the time i get to nine, i’m gonna start walkin’ off.”

“oh, c’mon, bill, stop that! i’m not six, all i need is a pep talk or somethin’.”

“one…”

michael looked both ways before jogging to the opposing sidewalk.

[name] had forgotten to lock the door after robbie left, and from having retreated back to the kitchen her sharp ear caught the sound of it slowly opening. a string of both established and made-up profanities were uttered under her breath and she set down the crate of glass mugs before coming out.

she called to the unknown patron prior to seeing who it was, “we’re closed, sorry.”

the quiet rumble of d.c.’s heartbeat filled the silence that otherwise would’ve taken the throne as she beheld michael’s disguised gaze. he had taken the aviators off by then, both hands behind his back as he caught the breath she let out upon seeing him. she thanked whatever god told her to put the glassware down or else she would’ve shattered it.

doe-eyes latched onto her for safety whilst his body pressed onto the door preparing to leave in a moments notice. they put each other in a stand-off to see who was going to speak up first.

[name] took the plunge, asking a question she knew the answer to, “michael?”

“hey,” he hurriedly removed the fake teeth, “hi, [name].”

“…how are you?” she was too chicken to ask what he was doing there.

“i’m good! good…” an unconvincing nod paired with a stare down at his loafers, “i’m okay.”

he piped up again, “how are you?”

“okay, too,” she had drawn closer to the bar now to get a better look at him. “…you can sit, if you want.”

michael did as such, sitting just feet away from her. he didn’t care for his disguise anymore, setting it all on the counter. it was useful to look at while he watched [name] clean out the coffee grinder in the corner of his eye.

the mental rolodex of things to say served useless for her, and once again did the ambience of the night fill the space where words should’ve been said. an elephant made itself comfortable in the room. he didn’t call, didn’t respond to her last letter, didn’t do anything to show he even cared for what they had anymore and yet the universe demanded him be there in front of her helplessly.

she earned her badge of hospitality by setting a cold glass of water in front of him. a quick exchange of ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’s commenced.

“been thinkin’ about you a lot,” michael began to open pandora’s box. “i like reading your letters.”

her eyebrows furrowed, “you haven’t written back.”

“yeah,” that was expected, “i’ve been busy.” his tail was in-between his legs.

“you could’ve called.”

“well, so could you,” the pot had declared the kettle black.

she grabbed a broom and swept the floor, still behind in her fortress of the main bar, “i didn’t want to bother you.”

“you’re never a bother, don’t say that ‘bout yourself,” michael shook his head fervently.

“then why haven’t i heard from you?”

i didn’t want to bother you, he thought to himself. instead, “you deserve a good life.”

she stopped sweeping, “what do you mean?”

“i mean you deserve quiet… and peace,” michael finally met her eyes again. they were laden with sincerity and if you tilted your head to the side you’d see a tint of heartbreak, “you shouldn’t get caught up in all this, what i’ve got goin’ on.”

“that’s your excuse?”

“i’m serious, [name],” it all sounded better in his head.

the words festered in the air, she let them marinate and absorb the tension, and for a moment she pretended he wasn’t there.

“i’ve got something good here. i’ve got friends and this job and a good future, i think,” she didn’t articulate herself as convincingly as she liked, “i have everything i want.”

michael simply looked at her as she kept on, “but i still wait by the phone for you.”

she didn’t think it necessary to tell him those were her original intentions tonight.

“you’re gonna have the world at your feet one day, michael, and you flew three thousand miles for some girl?”

his fingers tightened around his aviators, “why do you do that all the time?” frustration bore into the wrinkles of his face, “you act like you’re not important to me, you’re startin’ to sound like joseph, saying this and that about priorities.”

[name] could cut through michael’s irritation with a knife. unfortunately, it wasn’t entirely wrong of her to surmise that a portion of his annoyance came from her as well. just out of her view, the elephant had begun to close its’ distance from them.

“alright, come with me.”

michael quirked a brow at that. following nonetheless, he rounded the bar and kept on her heel.

the backrooms of chivalry coffee weren’t exempt from krista’s eclectic design philosophy. the kitchen, spotless from robbie’s overtly sanitary hand, had pots and pans hanging from a lazily installed wirerack. a plague of outdated grocery flyers mixed in with half-naked model posters stained the walls. just beside the freezer door, a corkboard hung just slightly lopsided. polaroids of each employee, past and present, were pinned lovingly on it.

“who’s that?” michael pointed with a squint.

she chortled, “the girl that runs the place.”

“her hair’s a mess…”

krista would’ve considered it a good hair day, “have fun telling her that.”

a mist of cold air bellowed out onto the pair once the door flew open. while spacious for one person to file in and out of, the freezer struggled when two or three people got involved. and despite the hair on their arms poking to the heavens, internally both michael and [name] were sweating. it was the closest their bodies had come in proximity to one another. to make matters worse, he could’ve sworn her eyes peered at his lips.

“this is where we come to scream,” she rested her hands on either side of the freezer racks. “nobody can hear you, it helps when you’re really pissed.”

“did i look mad?” michael wasn’t exactly the face of self-awareness. the moment joseph’s name left his mouth the red flags were raised.

a laugh escaped her and crystallized into the frigid atmosphere, “oh yeah, fuming, even. now, scream!”

“do it with me!” he was starting to loosen up, starting to remember the way he didnt feel the immense weight of the earth when she was there. she’d make him forget, and it mystified him.

on their count of three, the pair gathered all the might in their lungs and broke the dam of their voices. it all came out in droves; the frustration, the anger, the words abandoned on the cutting room floor. for a brief blush in time’s fabric they forgot all that was asked of them and simply screamed. not a soul came to check on them for truly nobody could hear the shrieks of two young souls who’s tethers to each other only fortified with time despite their protests.

heavy breathing was all that could be heard once the screams concluded, faces hot and red, daring perspiration. [name] ogled the ground while michael’s pleading eyes hooked onto her for the meaning of life.

“i can’t keep doing this,” he shamelessly ripped the bandaid off, “and… and don’t ask me ‘what?’ because you know it too.”

she attempted to skirt around him to no avail, “it’s getting hot in here, i have to—”

“you’re not leaving until you hear me out, [name], please.”

avoidance seeped through the freezers’ molding. michael was putting all he had on the line for a woman who wouldn’t bring herself to look at him. rosie and mel would’ve been the first ones to call him pathetic.

“i’m just going to get in your way,” her dismissal was just shy of a newborn cats mewl.

without a hesitation he blurted out, “you are my way! god…” michael hadn’t the room to pace back and forth, “would any sane man fly across the country like this? like i have? don’t you see it?”

pandora peered down on them with a sly grin and the light from that treacherous valley they curled up in poked at the clouds. michael persisted, “i don’t know what i have to do, say the word and i’ll do it, but please… let me be someone important in your life.”

she finally met his eyes, regret welling up in her tear ducts, “you already are.”

“more important than that.”

“i think you’re underestimating things.”

he let out an exhausted sigh. at that point he had become a cocktail of desperation, expenditure, and anguish. they’d been through this before, but a bit younger, when words didn’t come as easily or with as much clarity. it hadn’t gotten much better since then, but something in the back of their minds was telling them that what was unfolding then in chivalry coffee’s freezer would be the final verdict of the years to come.

an exorcism may have taken place within [name], due to the swift motion of her hands cupping his cheeks and reeling him in. lips soft but cold to the touch, they met in a frosted celebration while michael’s hands, no, his entire body was slow to comprehend what she had done. he soon enough recalibrated, enveloping himself in her embrace for it was nothing short of tender and kind. an exterior hardened from the trials of life, the woman melted beside his ever-burning flame. it was the culmination that years of stolen glances and brushed hands built.

the tether that brought them together by force was at its’ most powerful there. perhaps it was the earths’ leylines or maybe it was just fate or gods’ righteous hand. she, with hesitance, pulled away to take a breath, his eyes still shut and mouth agape.

“[name]—”

“when do you have to leave?”

he didn’t want to think about that, “tomorrow, probably.”

“…you wanna go to party?”

fin.

a/n: this is not proof read and this is also my first fanfic ever so constructive criticism is welcomed please and thank you so much!

divider credit: @uzmacchiato

new york city, 1977 .

sometimes you wonder if your impulsive behavior was an asset or a liability to your livelihood. when michael asked you to move to new york with him while he filmed the wiz, you were excited—probably way too excited, which is why your parents were hesitant to let you go in the first place. in your delusional and overly optimistic mind, you thought that this was your chance. you’d live in the big city with michael, away from the watchful eye of his close knit family (who you did love but were honestly total cockblockers) and his controlling father and you’d be able to run away from the pressure of being a solo artist after your musical group abandoned you disbanded to pursue new ventures.  

you had it all planned out in your head. you and michael would spend the summer traveling from club to club, eating at high-end restaurants, and with the new romantic atmosphere, michael would realize his feelings for you and he’d finally confess his undying love under the city’s beautiful skyline. it was supposed to be perfect, something you’d tell your grandchildren about in the future.

in actuality, new york is one of the shittiest and dirtiest places you’ve ever stepped foot in, you have a permanent banging in your head from how many times you’ve visited studio 54 in the past month, and worst of all, he never even planned for the two of you to be alone because he also invited his older sister, latoya, to live in new york with him, acting as a 24 hour cockblock and shattering any romantic ideas you had conjured up in your head on the spot.

this wouldn’t be the first time you had read too much into his otherwise friendly actions, but this is by far the stupidest you’ve ever taken it. dropping everything to move to follow michael across the country pissed your label off to the max. you wanted to use your newfound freedom to work on your discography, but as of recently, you couldn’t get a single producer on the phone with you, your former groupmates were too busy releasing platinum records to return your calls, and your label kept postponing meetings with you—not even your dad/manager wanted to return your calls anymore.

you were so fucked and it’s not even funny.

the only thing you could do now is distract yourself from your impending doom by shopping in various stores and ordering takeout. all of this without michael by the way, because while you were dying out of boredom everyday, he was filming scenes for the wiz while charming his longtime crush, diana ross. you had absolutely no idea how much time went into creating a movie and you completely underestimated how much time the duo would have alone together—way more than you and michael have had this entire time—and you were spiraling just thinking about what they got up to all day.

you always wanted to believe that the feelings you held for michael were mutual and the relationship the two of you shared was special, but the way he acted around diana was hard to deny and it didn’t help that she was the total opposite of you. she was older, absolutely stunning, confident in herself, and despite the fact she couldn’t hold a note to save her life, she had an insanely successful solo career. it was hard to believe michael could have feelings for you when she was so clearly his type. 

you let out a groan, tossing the throw pillow that you were holding onto the floor out of frustration. currently, you were sitting alone in yours, michael’s, and latoya’s shared manhattan apartment. michael obviously had left in the morning for filming and a couple of hours ago, latoya went out shopping for some records at the request of michael, which left you home alone with your own thoughts, which was never a good idea. the longer you were left alone, the closer you got to losing it. 

you were waiting for something—anything—to happen to give you something to keep yourself busy with. after a while, you simply started staring at the entrance to the apartment from your spot on the couch, hoping somebody would come through the door so you wouldn’t be alone anymore.

if on cue, the door slowly opens, and on instinct you pop up from your seat on the couch. your eyes light up and a smile forms on your face, assuming michael came back early from filming. however, that excitement faltered slightly when latoya came shuffling through the door with a ridiculous amount of shopping bags, causing her to shruggle to get through the door. 

“oh, it’s just you,” your smile drops slightly, as you plop back down on the couch, resting your head in your hands.

“wel, it’s nice to see you too,” latoya replies in that soft spoken, docile, voice that all the jacksons seemed to have as she dropped all the bags onto the floor in one unceremonious movement, “have you been sitting here all day?”

“damn, did you buy out the entire store? i thought michael said he wanted you to pick up a couple of records. this is way more than a couple,” you pointed to the pile of bags on the floor, opting to ignore her question.

“these are the records michael asked for!”

“oh shit,” you let out a surprised laugh. moving from your seat on the couch to the door entrance, crouching down on the ground so that you could ruffle through the various bags, picking up any records that caught your eye, “this is too much…”

“well, not all the bags are his. i went shopping as well,” latoya shrugged, “and i also got something for you too.”

“for me?” you perked up, unable to hold back the childish smile that was forming on your face.

“mhm,” latoya nodded, scanning through the mountain of bags on the ground, looking for one specifically and when she found what bag she was looking for, she pulled a record out it and handed it to you, “here, i thought you’d be interested in hearing this.”

you graciously accepted the record with a close eyed smile, wondering what music latoya had picked out for you. but, when you opened your eyes, your smile immediately dropped.

staring back at you was the face of your older sister and ex-groupmate on the cover of her globally successful album. the same album she released the day after she left the group, completely blindsiding you in the process. you were filled with so much anger, you started twitching, causing latoya to give you a concerned look. without another word, you got up from the ground, traitor’s album and headed straight towards the highrise balcony with latoya following close behind.

opening the door to the balcony, you quickly chucked the album off the balcony and dusting your hands of the trash.

“y’know that cost money, right?” latoya crossed her arms and huffed. 

“it’s alright, i’ll pay you in pizza when i order some tonight,” you patted her on the back, heading back to your seat on the couch.

“whens the last time you’ve been outside?” latoya followed after you with a raised eyebrow, suddenly becoming more concerned. 

“umm…” you scratched the back of your head sheepishly. 

“i’m going to see michael on set, you should come, okay?” latoya suggested, but the both of you knew that deep down, you wouldn’t refuse the offer. 

“i guess i could make some time in my schedule,” you shrugged feigning nonchalance as you slowly made your way towards your bedroom to change into something more presentable than the soda stained floral pajama pants and hockey jersey you were currently wearing.

after a short, 40 minute wardrobe change, you and latoya were out on the town (incognito of course), heading towards where michael was filming for the day. unsurprisingly, butterflies were swarming in your stomach the closer you got to the set. it had gotten to the point that you started fidgeting with a loose thread on your bell bottom jeans. it was like your heart was magnetically connected to michael and the closer you got towards him, the quicker your heart started beating. 

however, when the two of you finally arrived on set, you were met with the one sight you didn’t want to see: michael and diana cuddling up and laughing together. it seemed like everyone was taking a break and the duo were standing in a corner, far away from everyone else, giggling and whispering to each other like they were an actual couple.

you felt your stomach turn in a million directions and you wanted to throw up and honestly, you were considering it as a valid option to stop the scene in front of you. instead, you followed behind latoya with a look of mortification stuck on your face. 

after a second, michael noticed the two of you approaching and his smile grew wider as he turned his attention towards you both, causing diana to begrudgingly follow suit, “you guys? what are you two doing here?!” he asked genuinely surprised.

“we wanted to visit you, y'know see you in your element,” latoya grabbed you by your shoulders and shook you, while you simply kept your gaze on your boots, “what have you guys been up to today?” 

“oh nothing much, we just finished filming for the day and diana and i have just been hanging around,” michael shrugged, talking without thinking before he was reminded of something. suddenly, he called your name in his normal soft spoken voice, which forced you to finally look up at him and diana.

“have you met diana yet? i feel like you have but i’m not sure…”

michael’s casual tone did nothing to calm all the voices in your head, which were mostly telling you to scream and punch them both in their face. instead, you forced yourself to turn your head towards diana and give her a painful smile. diana stuck her hand out at you with an overwhelmingly confident smirk that made you want to crawl into a hole and die. despite it being painful, you smiled and extended your hand to meet hers.

“we haven’t met yet, but it’s an honor,” you started off, shaking her hand robotically before quickly adding with a smile that was just a little bit more genuine, “my mom is a huge fan, she’s been following you since she was a little girl!”

diana let out one dry life before snatching her hand away from yours. you suddenly felt just a little bit better about yourself, even though it was a low blow. 

“anyways, that’s great,” latoya let out an awkward chuckle before motioning between the two and adding, “well, tonight she offered to pay for dinner so we're heading out to eat. you guys should definitely come. we can do like a group thing.”

“that’s not even close to what i offered you,” you shook your head to yourself, scoffing in disbelief.

you were completely stunned by latoya’s offer. the thought of having to sit across from michael and diana for an extended period of time made you want to throw yourself from the balcony of our apartment. never once in your friendship had michael ever spoken in detail about the inner workings of his relationship with diana—no matter how much you pressed him for answers—but you knew he used to have a major crush on her when you guys were kids. that fact alone left you to speculate what they really meant to each other, which was worse than him just outright saying they were in a relationship because the secrecy let your imagination run wild.

“i’d love to go to dinner with you,” michael cut through your train of thoughts with his shy smile and quiet voice. he tilted his head to the side slightly and his smile widen, which caused you to imitate his movements. 

for a quick second, you forgot that anyone else was around as you just stared into each other's eyes. it was in moments like these, where you were able to convince yourself that you weren’t just being delusional and that he actually had feelings for you. the way he looked at you as if he was trying to peer into your head and read your every thought left you feeling overwhelmed in the best way possible. it was like the two of you were sharing a secret that no one else was in on.

“it’s funny that you say that actually, because michael and i are actually going to my house to rehearse lines. together. so, we can’t join you guys today, but maybe next time you can pay for our dinner,” diana interjected like a record scratch causing that personal barrier that you and michael built up to shatter immediately.

the way she grabbed onto his arm, pulling him unbelievably closer to her made you physically recoil. you were 99% sure she was attempting to leave a bruise on him with how tightly she sunk her nails into his skin. it was jarring to watch her cling to him like he was her lifeline, but it was also jarring to see how he immediately leaned into her touch with the same look you thought he had just given you.

your lip quivered ever so slightly, and the tiniest pout graced your lips before you finally spoke again, “well i wasn’t actually offering—”

“i mean you understand all the effort we have to put into this movie. we have to dedicate every free hour we have to each other,” diana cut you off and smiled, but you felt the mocking undertone in every giggle she let out.

“right…” you finally spoke, trying to make sense of whatever nonsense she was spewing out.

“not that we don’t already do that already,” she cut you off again, this time moving to wrap her arms around michael’s waist, resting her head on his shoulder, “its just that we get distracted very easily, getting caught up with other things.” but because she still had more audacity, diana leaned into michael’s neck, letting her lips gently press against his ear.

you turned to latoya sharing a look of confusion with her, before shaking your head again. you could only do so much to hide your frown. it hurt to watch the scene in front of you and it hurt even more that you couldn’t react. you felt so helpless to the cruelties of life. no matter how much you tried, you simply couldn’t control how michael felt about you and you couldn’t turn your platonic relationship to a romantic one. your friendship with michael was extremely grounding to you. your entire life you were forced to focus on music, and your brand and he was the only one who made you feel like a normal kid, and not just an adult stuck in a child’s body. you knew he felt the same way towards you, but you had always hoped his feelings for you would naturally develop into something more. before you even realized it, you were starting to hyperventilate. 

“i’m going home,” you threw your hands up in defeat. 

dramatic? probably. but, you were never good at controlling your feelings and you were never known for your discreteness. you started to walk off the set, not even turning around at the repeated call of your name. when you realized the call was following you, you started to pick up your pace, going from walking to running as the tears began to fall down your cheeks. you knew it was michael, but you couldn’t stop your legs long enough for him to catch up to you. you hated how weak you felt but couldn’t control it.

you soon realized that your dramatic exit was a mistake because after running for what felt like forever, you realized you were completely lost. you had no clue how the subway system worked (and had no plan of figuring it out) and you had no money to hail a cab, so you were forced to walk across new york city alone and miserable in boots that pinched your toes. you were once again left alone with your thoughts and you were spiraling trying to figure out how to come up for an excuse for your behavior but nothing came to mind.

by the time you reached the shared apartment, your feet were hurting and it was dark out, but you were grateful to get home without being mugged. you expected latoya to be asleep when you got home and michael to be with diana, so when you opened the front door, you were surprised to see michael walking back and forth, pacing throughout the living room while muttering something to himself that you couldn't quite hear.

at the sound of the door opening, his head immediately perked up and he turned to look at you. you could see the worried expression on his face turn into pure relief as he made his way over to you. quickly, he embraced you in a tight hug and wrapped his arms around your waist, which caught you off guard. usually you'd be quick to return the hug, using it as an excuse to be as close to michael as possible, but this time you just couldn't move. when he realized you weren't going to return his affection, he slowly pulled back and created space between the two of you but, bringing his hands up to your shoulders to maintain some physical touch. he spoke your name, breaking the silence between you two.

“i was so worried for you. i tried running after you but you were too fast. what the hell was that about earlier on set? you could've gotten lost or even worse. that was extremely irresponsible” he spoke in a rushed, almost chaotic manner as he frantically scanned your face, searching for a response from you.

you kept your gaze fixated on the ground and you bit the inside if your cheek. you wanted to come up with a little but you weren't quick enough on your feet. the only reason you came to new york was to experience what you thought to be your one great love, but it seems like the only thing you’ve experienced so far is one big heartbreak.

“why did you even ask me to come with you?” you finally spoke in a hushed tone and if he wasn't standing 10 inches away from you, michael probably wouldn't have heard you.

“what? what do you mean?” he stuttered, caught off guard by the question and the fact you brushed off his own question.

“to new york i mean,” you clarified, looking up with teary eyes to be met with his brown eyes squinting in confusion, “why did you even ask me to stay with you? i don't understand it at all…”

you felt humiliated, being vulnerable like this in front of michael of all people. he hadn't even given you a response yet and your cheeks were already burning in embarrassment and your heart was pounding out of your chest. as if the gears were turning in his head for the first time in years, michael grabbed you by the arm and without any pushback, you allowed him to pull you out towards the balcony. the breeze of the city night hit you immediately and calmed you down just a bit.

“i think i finally understand what happened today…” he chuckled, which didn't feel appropriate to you, “honestly, i've been trying to figure out why you’ve been acting differently lately. i know i've been busy filming but i’ve noticed you've just been…off lately.” not being able to explain himself further, michael simply led you towards the balcony’s railing.

you knew exactly where he was going with this. how could you not? he rested his arms on the ledge and you followed suit, however you made sure to look straight forward, refusing to make eye contact with him. this isn't at all how you expect things to go. you close your eyes for a second, simply letting your hair blow in the wind as you prepare for the inevitable rejection.

at least michael was nice—it was one of the many reasons you found it easy to fall in love with him. you knew he'd be nice when he was rejecting you. he'd try his best to make you feel normal about your feelings and he'd say he still wanted to be friends—really mean it too. it still hurt all the same though.

“i know we've been friends for ages, but i just can't help the way i feel. if i could make myself not feel all these emotions, i would. in a heartbeat.”

you could easily feel michael staring at you for what felt like eternity. the longer the silence between you two stretched on, the more awkward you felt and you had to bit your bottom lip to keep from crying. you wanted to be as mature as possible since you already ran away crying like a baby once before.

“it's not like i want to be jealous and insecure all the time. i just can't help the thoughts in my head…” you continued, feeling the need to overcompensate for his silence.

“look…” michael spoke with a relaxed tone, cutting you off from ranting anymore, “whatever you think you know about diana and i know just isn't true.”

his words made you perk up a bit. although you couldn't meet his gaze yet, a sliver of hope was brought back to you, though it was short lived as he continued to speak, “when we were younger, i definitely had a crush on her. i was completely infatuated by her. she was the most beautiful woman i had ever met and i’ll probably always hold a special place in my heart for her…”

any hope you had left of michael recuperating your feelings were swiftly shattered and burned alive with a couple of sentences. immediately, you slumped up against the railing and let out a dramatic groan as you felt your heart genuinely burst into a million pieces.

“but i’m not 10 years old anymore. i’ve grown up and i've learned that there's a difference between childish infatuation and genuine love,” he quickly added and just to get his point across he continued, “i don’t love diana—at least not in a romantic way.”

with those words alone, it was like he had done a resurrection spell on you, and brought you back from the dead. it was an incredible feeling, knowing that all those hours you, regrettably, spent comparing yourself to diana and worrying about michael’s relationship with her was totally unnecessary. you were doing the calculations in your head and the chances of him accepting your confession immediately skyrocketed. they weren’t actually together, which calmed your nerves a lot, though you weren’t entirely convinced.  

“but what about all that flirty touching and cuddling you guys are constantly doing,” you mumbled, gagging at the memories while finally turning your head to face him.

michael smiled when he finally got the opportunity to look at your face again, even if it was you making silly faces at him. “that’s just how she is,” michael shrugged indifferently, “i think she just enjoys being desirable, not so much me. which is one reasons i don’t want to be with her.”

michael took a second to just stare at you again, which of course left both of you flustered. both of you were naturally shy people and it was only amplified under these circumstances. only once you broke eye contact did michael feel confident enough to make his next move, sliding closer towards you, only stopping when your shoulders were touching. then, with a smirk, he leaned down so that your faces were only inches apart. you had to swallow a lump in your throat and remind yourself not to let your eyes drop down to his lips.

“you want want to know the other reason i don’t want to be with her?” he asked in a tone that wanted to make you pass out from overheating.

“yes,” you quickly responded, not even taking a second to think about it. 

“because i already fell in love with someone else. she’s one of the most talented, beautiful, and funniest girl i’ve ever met, plus she has the voice of an angel, but i was too scared to confess to her because i didn’t think she’d feel the same way about me.”

“what?!” you blurt out in disbelief, face contouring into one of disgust. you thought you knew where this was going, but obviously not! this time, you didn’t have to feel heartbroken because you were so pissed. you thought you had to worry about diana, but really it was some mystery girl? you squinted your eyes at him in suspicion, “who?!” 

mentally, you were going through the list of young, talented, and beautiful singers in the industry that michael could’ve crossed paths with in fall in love with, it could’ve been anyone. you were about to demand more information from michael about this mystery woman, but you were cut off by the feel of lips pressing against yours.

immediately you went silent and your eyes widened. just as quickly as it happened, it was over and you were left with the lingering heat of his lips on yours. you cheeks heated up and you brought your fingers up to your lips and let out an obnoxiously high laugh that reminded you more of your 13 year old self rather than your current self.

“were you talking about me?” you giggled again, still stunned by the kiss, which caused michael to roll his eyes in mock annoyance.

“of course i was. how oblivious can you be?” he scoffed before lifting your head up between his fingers and kissing you again under the city skyline.

it really was a dream come true. this kiss wasn’t like the last one. it was longer and said so much more. it held years of unrequited love you both thought you held for each other, as well as the excitement about the next step in your relationship.

1995 new york

You were pissed.

Not the kind of anger that flickers and fades, not the kind that cools with time or distance. This sat heavy in your chest, constant, simmering, alive. It moved through your body like a current, sharp and electric, making it impossible to sit still on the private jet from Los Angeles to New York. Every shift in your seat, every restless adjustment of your hands in your lap, every tight inhale felt like it was barely containing it.

Your husband had been gone.

For six weeks, a little over a month, he was gone, and you had no idea where he was. That was the part that didn't settle, the part that never stopped feeling wrong, no matter how many days passed. It wasn't just that he needed space; it wasn't just that he left after the argument, it was that he disappeared in a way that shut you out completely. There was no location, no real explanation, nothing that grounded his absence in something you could understand.

And the worst part? He hadn't even spoken to you. Not once.

Every message, every update, every piece of information you'd gotten had come filtered through his team, passed along like you were just another person on a list of obligations instead of his wife. It made your jaw tighten just thinking about it, made your fingers curl slightly against the armrest as you stared out the window, the clouds stretching endlessly beneath you.

A little over a month ago, the two of you got into an argument, and when you got back to Neverland later that evening, Michael was gone. The memory of it lingered with a sharp clarity that hadn't dulled over the weeks, the way the house had felt too quiet when you stepped inside, the way something had immediately felt off before you even knew why. A note that barely gave any explanation at all sat in his place, small and insufficient for what it represented.

Needed space. Be back later.

Those words had stayed with you in a way you hadn't expected, not because of what they said, but because of everything they didn't. You had stood there longer than you meant to, staring at it, reading it again and again like it might change if you gave it enough time, like it might reveal something hidden underneath its simplicity.

And you had initially thought later would mean later that night, or even potentially the next day, because that has happened before. Because there had been moments where things got too heated, where he needed distance, where the best thing either of you could do was step away and come back when it wasn't so raw.

But no.

It's been six weeks, and you still haven't seen him or spoken to him.

Six weeks of waking up without him. Six weeks of going to sleep in a bed that felt too big, too empty in a way that made it impossible not to notice. Six weeks of conversations that never happened, of apologies that never came, of tension that never had the chance to be resolved because he never gave it the space to.

What started it all was Quincy Jones reaching out to you and asking for a favor.

Even thinking about that now felt complicated, tangled up in everything that followed, even though at the time it had felt so simple. He is the executive producer of the sitcom The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and he asked you if you wanted to guest-star on the show as yourself because they've had a lot of musical guest stars on the show. It had felt easy to say yes in your head, easy to imagine yourself stepping into something fun, something different, something that wasn't heavy or complicated.

Michael wasn't entirely happy or comfortable with Quincy asking you for a favor because of how things ended between them after the Bad album.

You had expected that. You had known that before the conversation even started, you could feel it the moment Quincy's name came up in the context of anything that involved you. Michael had wanted more creative control and felt like Quincy was stifling that, and you had seen what that frustration looked like up close, had heard it in his voice, had watched it build over time until it became something he couldn't ignore anymore.

Quincy felt like he was owed more because of how successful all three of Michael's albums that he helped produce, Off the Wall, Thriller, and Bad, were.

And that difference in perspective had never really resolved itself. It just... ended.

But to you, it wasn't even about Quincy.

You loved Fresh Prince, and guest-starring on it was something you didn't want to pass up at all. It was yours. That was the part that mattered. It wasn't tied to history, or ego, or unresolved tension. It was something you enjoyed, something you wanted, something that felt like it belonged to you and your own career.

But Michael couldn't see past it.

He couldn't separate Quincy from the opportunity, couldn't look at it without seeing everything that had happened between them layered over it. It felt disrespectful that Quincy would treat him the way that he did, but then have the nerve to ask you, his wife, for a favor, and you understood that.

You and Michael went back and forth about it for days.

It wasn't one conversation. It wasn't something quick and resolved. You argued for days about it. The same points, the same frustrations, the same inability to land anywhere that didn't leave one of you feeling unheard. Every time it came up, it carried more weight, more tension, more of that underlying frustration that neither of you knew how to soften without giving something up.

You understood where Michael was coming from, you really did.

That was the part that made it harder. Because you weren't dismissing him, weren't brushing off his feelings like they didn't matter. You supported Michael's decision to separate creatively from Quincy because you also felt that Quincy was stifling him creatively, and you had seen firsthand what that freedom had done for him. Dangerous and HIStory were proof of that. They were bold, different, entirely his in a way that felt undeniable.

And you didn't like some of the comments Quincy had made about Michael, especially when it came to his vitiligo.

That wasn't lost on you. None of it was.

But you tried to explain to Michael multiple times, it wasn't about Quincy; it was about guest-starring on your favorite show, getting your music out there in a new way. It was about doing something that made you excited, something that felt like growth in a way that was separate from him, even if your lives were so deeply intertwined.

You're a successful artist.

That mattered. Even if it looked different. Even if it didn't carry the same scale, the same level of attention, the same weight that his name did. No one is on Michael's level, and you honestly don't want the level of fame your husband has; you get enough elevated fame from being his wife, along with being a musician in your own right.

Your two hit singles I'm Your Baby Tonight and I Will Always Love You were still in heavy rotation on the radio stations.

You heard them everywhere. In passing. In cars. In rooms you walked into unexpectedly. Little reminders of something that had come from you, from your voice, from your experiences. Both of those songs you had written about Michael, and there was something that twisted slightly in your chest when you thought about that now, about how much of him existed in your work while he had removed himself from your life so completely.

And I Will Always Love You was the song Quincy wanted you to sing on the show. The same song that had spent 14 weeks as number 1 on the Billboard charts, the same song that was used for Whitney Houston's movie, The Bodyguard.

It meant something. It carried weight. It was yours.

After days of arguing about it, you told Michael that you were sorry that he didn't like Quincy asking you for a favor, but you weren't going to pass up the opportunity to guest star on your favorite sitcom because of Quincy Jones.

There had been a finality to that moment, something that settled into the space between you that neither of you moved to fix. You told Michael you were going to the set for a meeting with Quincy Jones and the other executive producer, Benny Medina.

When you got home after the meeting, Michael was gone.

The quiet had hit you first, the kind that didn't feel natural, didn't feel like a home that was lived in, even though everything was still there. Nothing had been disturbed. Nothing had been taken. It was just... him that was missing.

You haven't heard from him since.

He didn't come home, his side of the bed remained empty, and the bed itself remained cold. It wasn't just something you noticed once and adjusted to; it was something you felt every single night, the untouched sheets on his side holding their shape like time had stopped there, like he had simply stepped away and never returned. The cold wasn't just physical; it settled deeper than that, sinking into the routine you had built together, turning something that was once familiar into something that felt incomplete every time you lay down.

He didn't call; only his team did, their voices always careful, always measured, never carrying the weight that his voice would have, never sounding like someone who belonged to you. Every message passed through them felt wrong, like a conversation that should have been yours being filtered and controlled before it ever reached you, and eventually, you stopped answering, because if Michael wanted to tell you something, he needed to do it himself. You weren't going to accept distance disguised as communication, not from him.

But yesterday, something had told you to answer the phone when it rang.

Your hand had paused before picking it up, that split second filled with hesitation you hadn't felt in the beginning, because at first you had expected him, had hoped it would be him, but now you didn't expect anything at all. Still, you answered.

His representatives from Sony called and told you that Michael wanted you to be at the VMAs, to which you told them that if Michael himself had ever bothered to pick up the phone to call you, you would've told him that you had to be there anyway because you were presenting a few awards in different categories.

The words came out steady, but there was something sharp beneath them, something that didn't need to be raised in volume to be felt. It wasn't about the award show, not really; it was about the fact that even now, even after everything, he still wasn't the one reaching for you.

And then you hung up and called your manager, Amelia.

The second she answered, everything you had been holding in found its way out, not uncontrolled, but no longer contained either. She let you vent because she knew you were pissed at Michael's behavior to begin with, so for his team to call you and tell you that he wants you at an award show you were already going to be at, pissed you off even more, because it felt dismissive, like he hadn't even thought about the fact that you had your own career, your own obligations, your own presence in that space without him.

You were already going. You didn't need him to tell you.

And then you packed your stuff, each movement deliberate, controlled, like putting everything into place was the only thing you could manage when everything else felt so unresolved. Someone from your and Michael's security team brought you to the airport for you to board your private jet, and now you were in New York, the transition happening so quickly it almost felt disconnected from everything that led up to it.

You were taken to the hotel that Michael would be staying in, and you were brought up to his room so you could get ready, but he wasn't there, and you knew he wasn't going to be. The space felt temporary, impersonal, despite belonging to him, like it was just another place he had passed through without staying long enough to leave anything behind.

You knew you probably weren't going to see him until you got to the award show, so you might as well take your time.

You take a long bath, trying to scrub away some of the stress you're feeling, letting the heat wrap around you until your muscles finally begin to loosen, until the tightness in your chest eases just enough to breathe through. It doesn't erase anything, but it gives you a moment where the anger isn't sitting quite so close to the surface.

You had intentionally picked your dress before you and Amelia left Neverland.

You wanted—no, needed to make a statement, to let Michael know that what he did wasn't okay. Not something subtle that could be overlooked, not something that could be misread or ignored, but something undeniable, something he would see and feel without you having to say a single word.

You've been married for ten years, together for 13 years in total. That kind of time wasn't surface-level; it wasn't fragile; it was built on years of knowing each other in ways no one else did, years of arguments that had always ended with resolution, even if it took time to get there. You've argued before, but those moments had never turned into this, had never stretched into silence, into absence, into something that left you alone to sit with it for six weeks without a single attempt to fix it.

It wasn't okay, and he needed to know that.

Once you stepped out of the bath, you dried yourself off before putting on your robe, the soft fabric settling around you as you stepped back into a room that was already moving with quiet urgency. Your glam team was already waiting in your room, ready to do your makeup, their presence filling the space with purpose as you sat down in front of your makeup artist.

Amelia is keeping track of time, keeping everyone on track, her attention sharp, her voice steady as she moves through the room. Your styling team is steaming your dress so it's not wrinkled, the gold fabric hanging under the light, shimmering even before you've put it on, every detail catching softly as steam lifts around it. It already looks like a statement before it's even on you.

Your makeup artist, Lauren, is asking you what kind of look you want to go for, and you tell her you want a golden smoky eye since your dress is gold.

"You okay?" Amelia asks as she watches you.

She's been watching your body language, which is relaxed, thanks to your bath, but still very much controlled, like she knows what you're trying to conceal. There's a stillness to you that isn't natural, something held too tightly beneath the surface.

"I'm fine," you say, and Amelia doesn't press because she knows you're not going to say.

You're completely focused on making sure you're ready and on the carpet on time. You weren't walking the carpet with Michael; you already knew that, and that knowledge sits quietly in the back of your mind, something you don't allow yourself to dwell on. But you knew that you would be seated by him, and that's unavoidable, something waiting for you whether you're ready or not.

After your makeup is finished, your stylist helps you into your dress.

The fabric settles against your skin like it belongs there, the gold catching the light immediately, every movement sending a shimmer across the surface. The halter neckline draws the eye upward, clean and strong, while the deep cut adds just enough edge to make it impossible to ignore. The beading is intricate, precise, laid across the fabric in a way that makes the entire dress feel alive under the lights, hugging your body through your waist and hips before falling straight down in a sleek line that elongates you completely.

And then the black feather wrap.

It drapes over your arms, soft but dramatic, the contrast against the gold sharp enough to shift the entire look. It isn't just an accessory; it changes the energy of the dress entirely, adding something darker, something more controlled, something that feels less like softness and more like armor.

Your hair, long and flowing down your back, looks glossy under the lights, shining in a way that's hard to miss, and parted in the middle, the way you like it.

You looked hot, and you knew you looked hot, and you knew Michael would know it too.

Within the hour, you were pulling up to the red carpet, the city alive outside your window in a way that felt almost electric, flashes already visible in the distance before the car had even fully come to a stop. Amelia would be meeting you inside, but for now, it was just you, the quiet interior of the car, and the weight of everything waiting on the other side of that door. She looks at you as the car stops, her eyes scanning over you one last time, not for the dress or the makeup, but for you—for whatever you were holding beneath it all—and you take a slow, steady breath, letting it fill your chest before releasing it carefully.

"You ready?" she asks, and you nod.

There's no hesitation in the motion, even if there's something tighter sitting underneath it, something you don't let surface, something you keep tucked behind the composure you've been holding onto all day.

"I'll see you on the other side," you say as the door opens for you and your driver helps you out.

The second your heel hits the pavement, the world shifts.

Flashes explode around you instantly, rapid and blinding, cameras going off in waves as voices rise over each other, your name being called from every direction. The energy hits all at once, loud and overwhelming, but familiar, something your body knows how to step into without thinking, even when your mind is somewhere else entirely.

You don't rush. You never do. You move with intention, every step measured, your expression perfectly set as you turn just enough for the cameras, giving them angles, giving them exactly what they came for without giving anything else away.

A few questions from the press do catch your ear.

"Why didn't you walk the carpet with your husband, Michael?" "Are you and Michael having issues?! You've both been spotted separately for weeks." "Have you seen Michael yet? Seems like you both wanted to be the hottest in the room."

The words reach you, clear enough to register, sharp enough to land, but you don't react to them. You ignore them and smile as they take their pictures, the expression effortless, practiced, the same one you've worn a hundred times before. To them, to the cameras, to the press, nothing is different. Your smile is bright, your movements fluid, your presence commanding in a way that looks completely natural, completely untouched by anything happening beneath the surface.

They don't see the control it takes. They don't see the way you're holding everything in place.

After you walk the carpet and they get the pictures they need, you're escorted inside and to your seat, the noise of the outside world fading behind you as the atmosphere shifts into something more contained, more focused. The lights are lower, the energy still buzzing but quieter, concentrated.

Now you start to feel it: the nerves, because you know you'll be seated next to Michael.

The thought settles in your chest, heavy and unavoidable, but you don't let it show. Not in your face, not in your posture, not in the way you carry yourself as Amelia meets you in the aisle. You gently grab onto her arm as you two are led to the front row, your touch light but grounding, something to anchor yourself to as you walk forward.

Because when Michael is at award shows, he's always given a seat in the front row. There's no avoiding him tonight.

You thank the usher who brought you to your seat, your voice soft but polite, and you let out a quiet breath when you see that Michael isn't there yet. The space beside you sits empty, untouched, and for a moment, there's a flicker of something you don't quite let yourself name: relief, maybe, or just the absence of immediate tension.

You take a seat, smoothing your dress slightly as you settle, the gold fabric pooling perfectly around you, catching the light even in stillness. Amelia takes a seat in the row behind you, where her reserved seat is, close enough to feel like support, but far enough that you're still on your own in this.

The seats soon start to fill up, people moving around you, voices blending in low conversation, but Michael's remains empty. You hear others talking around you, their voices casual, unaware of how closely you're listening. They say that Michael is opening the show with his performance.

And soon it was starting.

Once all the seats were filled, the lights went down, the room dimming until the stage became the center of everything, and Michael came on stage.

And just like that, your breath catches.

You hated how even when you were angry, he managed to take your breath away, how it wasn't something you could control, something your body did before your mind could catch up and remind you why you were pissed in the first place.

He had cut his hair; it was short, his curls defined and framing his face, softer in a way that made him look almost unreal under the stage lights. He looked angelic, and it pissed you off even more, because it didn't match what he had done, didn't match the frustration you had been sitting with for six weeks.

The opening notes of Don't Stop Til You Get Enough start, and Michael is immediately in it, his energy snapping into place like it always does, effortless and consuming, and so is the crowd, the reaction instant, loud, completely drawn into him.

But his eyes find yours. Out of everything, out of everyone in the room, they land on you like it was inevitable. You don't give anything away. Not in your expression, not in the way you sit, not in the way you hold his gaze for just a second before letting it go.

And neither does he.

However, seeing that you did take his breath away a little, he almost stumbled over the lyrics. It's subtle, something most people wouldn't catch, something that blends into the performance so easily it could be dismissed, but you see it. You recognize it. Because you know him.

Seeing you in that dress, your hair glossy under the lights, you looked breathtaking in the most devastating way because he knew you were pissed.

Your face was controlled, composed in a way that gave nothing away to anyone else, but Michael knows you better than anyone, and he knows your body language. He knows the difference between calm and contained, knows the way your shoulders hold just a fraction tighter, the way your stillness isn't ease but restraint.

He knows you have every right to be pissed, but he also feels validated in his feelings. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, something unspoken passes between you, something that doesn't resolve anything, doesn't soften anything, just exists.

But he knew he shouldn't have ignored you for six weeks; that was too far.

Michael performs Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough, The Way You Make Me Feel, Scream, Beat It, Black or White, Billie Jean, and Dangerous, moving through each song like he always does, completely immersed, completely lost in it, like nothing else exists once the music starts.

And you sit there and watch him the entire time. You hate how it affects you. You hate how flustered it's making you feel, because you're pissed and you want to stay pissed, you want to hold onto that anger, that clarity, that sense of control you've had all day.

But you can never control how your body reacts whenever Michael performs.

The way he loses himself in the music, giving himself over to it completely, it's always been one of your weak points, something that has never changed, no matter how much time passes, no matter what's happening between you. There's something about the way he moves, the way he exists in that space, that pulls at something deeper than logic, deeper than anger.

It's always turned you on. It's always made you want him badly. And you didn't want to feel any of those things right now, not when you were still carrying everything he had done, not when you hadn't even spoken to him yet.

But your body was reacting to what was familiar without your permission, responding to him in a way that had been built over years, something instinctive, something ingrained.

And you couldn't do anything to stop it.

The opening notes of You Are Not Alone start, and your breath hitches, the reaction immediate and completely out of your control as the sound settles into the room. It's familiar in a way that feels too close, too personal, because this isn't just another song to you. It never has been. Michael had always told you, since he started recording this song, that it was for you, and that truth sits heavy beneath every note, threading itself through your chest in a way that makes it harder to separate the performance from what it actually means.

He had asked you to be in the music video with him, and the memory comes back without effort, warm and vivid, the kind that still feels real when you think about it: the laughter between takes, the way he stayed close to you even when the cameras weren't rolling, the ease of it, the way nothing felt complicated back then. And you know he's performing it because it's a big hit right now, you can't turn on any R&B station without hearing it every hour, the song everywhere, constant, unavoidable in the same way he is.

Towards the end of it, a choir comes out to sing the chorus while Michael sings over them, their voices rising together and filling the space in a way that almost feels overwhelming, layered and powerful, pressing into you from all sides. He walks to the edge of the stage as the choir is singing, "I am here with you," they sing, and Michael sings the line as well, his voice slipping through theirs, distinct enough that you feel it more than hear it, like it's meant to land somewhere specific.

"I'm here with you," Michael sings, and then he does it; he points directly at you, and then he winks... well, attempts to wink. Michael has never been able to wink, and the second it happens, something in you shuts down just as quickly as it had opened. The softness that had been building, quiet and dangerous in the way it threatened to undo everything you've been holding onto, disappears completely, like it was never there at all, leaving nothing behind but the sharp, familiar edge of your anger snapping back into place.

How dare he?

The thought hits hard enough to settle into your body, because it isn't just the gesture, it's everything behind it that makes it feel wrong. He disappears and ignores you for six weeks and then shows up to this award show, has his team tell you that he wants you to be there, and something about him pointing to you during this performance made you even more mad, because it isn't private, it isn't real in the way it should be. It's something he's doing in front of everyone, something that looks like closeness without actually being it, and that contrast sits wrong in a way you can't ignore.

When Michael finished his performance, you stood up with everyone else and clapped, your hands moving in rhythm with the rest of the room while your expression stayed exactly where you wanted it: neutral, composed, completely unreadable. You don't give anything away, even though you knew the camera would be on you since you are his wife and he had just done a 15-minute opener, and you can feel that awareness sitting just beneath your skin, keeping everything in place.

When Michael comes back to his seat, right next to you, he's in all black, sunglasses on, in place, and he sits down in his seat. The space beside you shifts the second he's there, his presence immediate, impossible to ignore even without looking at him. You don't turn to him, you keep your focus forward, but you can feel his eyes on you, steady and waiting, like he's trying to catch something you're refusing to give.

The camera pans past you guys, and when it gets to him, he points and smiles, slipping back into that ease effortlessly, giving them exactly what they expect from him, and as soon as it passes, as soon as the attention moves on, he turns back to you.

Just as he opens his mouth to say something, one of the stagehands comes to your seat and tells you that it's time for you to go backstage to get ready to present the award for Best Dance Video. The interruption cuts through the moment cleanly, stopping whatever he was about to say before it can reach you. You nod and rise from your seat without turning to Michael, your movements smooth, controlled, like none of it affected you at all, and follow the stagehand backstage to wait for your cue.

The distance between you resets the second you step away, but the tension doesn't leave with it.

You were presenting the award with Notorious B.I.G., and you were a fan of his. When the two of you were announced, he offered you his arm, and you smiled, taking it and letting him lead you out to the podium. The contact is brief, simple, but grounding in a way that steadies your step as you walk back into the lights, the room opening up in front of you again.

The first thing you did was look at Michael, and you see how his jaw clenches when he sees you with your arm looped through Biggie's, the reaction quick but unmistakable, tension flashing across his face before it settles again. It's subtle, easy to miss if you didn't know him as well as you do, but you catch it instantly.

You let go of his arm when you two reach the podium, the movement easy, deliberate, and he goes to the microphone first.

"Yeah, uh, we up here to present the award for the Best Dance Video," he says, and you smile.

"And those of you at home are probably wondering, how do you find the best dance video? Personally, I think it should just be whichever one I like the most... but then again, given who the nominees are, you all might call me biased," you say, and that sends a laugh throughout the room because everyone knows that Scream is nominated.

"I mean, I'd say the same thing. I should give it to whoever I want to give it to, and I think we might want to give it to the same video," he says, and you turn to him with a smirk.

"This is how we do it?" you tease, and the crowd laughs again, and so does Biggie.

"Damn, you're cold, Ma," Biggie teases you, and you laugh while shaking your head, the sound coming easier than you expect, light and effortless in a way that contrasts sharply with everything sitting underneath your skin. You glance at Michael again, instinctively, and the reaction is immediate, the second your eyes land on him. 

His hand is tight around the arm of his seat, knuckles tense, the grip controlled but unmistakable. He doesn't like this. It's written all over him in the way his posture stiffens, in the way his jaw sets just slightly, in the way his attention doesn't leave you for even a second. 

He doesn't like how close Biggie is to you, doesn't like the ease of it, the casual way you fit into that space beside someone else. He doesn't like how Biggie is making you laugh, how that sound comes from you without hesitation. And he definitely doesn't like how you're playing into it, how you're letting it happen without pulling back, without softening it for him.

"Here are the nominees for Best Dance Video," you say with a smile as the video montage plays of all the music videos that are nominated for the category, your voice steady, smooth, slipping back into that practiced rhythm as the screen lights up behind you. 

The room shifts its attention forward, but you can still feel it, that awareness of him sitting out there, watching, taking everything in, whether he wants to or not. When the montage ends, you turn to Biggie. "Do you want to read the results?" you ask as you hold out the envelope to him.

"By all means, it's all you, Mrs. Jackson," he says, and you give him a look while everyone laughs, the title landing with a weight that feels deliberate tonight, something that sits differently now than it usually does. You turn to the crowd and smile, letting the moment pass without lingering on it.

"And the winner is..." You trail off as you open the envelope, the paper sliding smoothly beneath your fingers, and when you read the name, something soft flickers across your face before you can stop it. "Michael and Janet Jackson, Scream," you announce. Everyone stands to applaud, the room rising in a wave of sound and movement while Michael and Janet get up from their seats. You were actually surprised Janet was seated on the opposite side of the room from you and Michael, the distance between all of you something you hadn't noticed until now, something that feels oddly intentional in hindsight.

Michael comes to the stage first, accepting the award from Biggie, shaking his hand with that same composed ease he carries everywhere, and when he steps toward you, you let him hug you. It's automatic, expected, and necessary. You know the press is going to talk about it if you don't, know that every movement is being watched, interpreted, dissected, and you're not giving them anything they can twist into something bigger than it needs to be. The contact is brief, controlled, nothing like what it used to be, but it's enough to satisfy what's expected.

Then Janet joins you all on stage shortly after, her presence warmer, more familiar in a way that feels grounding. She and Michael hug, and then she hugs you tightly, her arms wrapping around you in a way that feels genuine, not performative, like she's holding onto you for just a second longer than necessary. It settles something in you, just slightly.

You take a step back to allow Janet and Michael to take the podium, shifting your weight subtly, giving them the space that belongs to them in this moment, and once they are done giving their speeches, all of you are escorted backstage, the noise of the crowd fading behind you as the energy changes again. You loop your arm through Janet's, the movement easy, familiar, and the two of you fall into step together, smiling and giggling as you make your way backstage, the lightness between you real in a way that feels almost like relief after everything sitting heavy in your chest.

"I knew you guys were going to win," you say to her, and Janet smiles at you, her expression soft, knowing, before she silently gestures to Michael. It's subtle, just a small movement of her eyes, but you know exactly what she's asking without her needing to say it out loud. Have you talked?

You shake your head and roll your eyes, the motion small but telling, and she laughs, a quiet, understanding sound that carries just enough sympathy without pushing you to say more than you want to. Biggie congratulates them both again before he leaves the three of you alone, his presence fading out of the space as the moment shifts again.

Michael turns to look at you, taking his glasses off, the movement slower than usual, like he's giving himself a second before fully stepping into whatever this is about to be. Janet clears her throat, the sound light but purposeful, and excuses herself, leaving just the two of you standing there.

Now you and Michael are alone.

The space changes immediately, the air between you heavier, quieter, everything that had been held back now sitting right there, waiting. You don't speak. You've already endured six weeks of silence; what's a few more minutes? The quiet doesn't feel unfamiliar to you anymore, but it doesn't feel comfortable either. It just exists, stretching between you.

Michael isn't really sure what to say, and it shows in the way he hesitates, in the way his eyes move over you instead, taking you in like he's trying to understand something without words. Your dress catches his attention again, the gold shimmering under the backstage lights, reflecting softly against your skin, and he can't look away from it. 

He knows every single curve of your body, every line, every detail, and he notices immediately how the dress accentuates all of it, how it sharpens everything, how it makes you look just out of reach even when you're standing right in front of him.

"Hi," Michael says, and you scoff, the sound sharp, immediate, your anger rising so quickly it almost feels like it's been waiting for that exact word.

"That's all you have to say to me?" You ask, and Michael shakes his head, the movement small but certain.

"No... but I can tell you're not in the mood to listen," he says, and you nod as you laugh a little, the sound lacking any real amusement.

"I was ready to listen six weeks ago, Michael... but you never came back home," You slightly snap, the words slipping out with more edge than you try to control, because they've been sitting there for too long. Michael sighs as he rubs behind his neck, the gesture familiar, almost automatic, and takes a deep breath like he's trying to steady himself before speaking.

"I know... I'm sorry, I just—" you cut him off.

"I'm not in the mood for your excuses. If you had something to say, you should've picked up the phone and called, not had your team call our home... or better yet, you should've just come home," you snap while rolling your eyes, the frustration breaking through more clearly now as you move to walk past him.

Michael catches your arm and turns you around, the contact quick, instinctive, but you react just as fast, pulling back from him like the touch itself is something you don't want.

"You don't get to touch me," You say.

"Baby, please," he says, the word slipping out rougher than he intends, his voice dropping as he stops himself from reaching for you again, his hand falling back at his side as he takes a breath that doesn't quite steady him.

"No," You respond, the word firm, leaving no space for negotiation, and Michael takes another breath, deeper this time, slower, like he's trying to keep himself grounded.

He knew this wasn't going to be easy. He knew you were going to be pissed, and he was going to have to work extra hard and give more than verbal apologies to get your forgiveness.

"Just tell me what I need to do, I'll do anything," Michael says, and you nearly roll your eyes, the reaction instinctive, but you stop yourself before it fully shows, holding onto that control even now.

"You should've come home... weeks ago," you say before walking off, your voice quieter this time but heavier, the weight of it landing differently than the anger did.

And this time, Michael doesn't try to stop you, because he can hear it, the other part that's lying underneath the anger, the part that doesn't need to be said out loud for him to understand. He hurt you.

And he knows he hurt you deeply, and there's not going to be an easy fix to it.

♡

After the award show is over, you don't feel like going to the after party, the thought of more cameras, more people, more pretending sitting wrong in your chest in a way you don't have the energy to push through. You want to go back to the hotel, somewhere quieter, somewhere you don't have to perform. 

You're sitting in the car, Bill in the front, as you're both waiting for Michael, the interior dim, insulated from the noise outside. You're looking out of the tinted window at the night sky, the city lights blurring past in reflection, when you hear the door open, and you feel Michael's presence in the backseat before you even register the shift in weight beside you. Bill pulls off a few moments later, smooth and practiced, and you don't turn to him.

During the rest of the show, you and Michael sat next to each other, but didn't speak. The silence hadn't been accidental; it had been held, deliberate on both sides, stretched thin between you with everything that hadn't been said. You didn't even smile for the camera, not once, even when you could feel it lingering on you, waiting for something to soften. You knew the press was going to run stories tomorrow, speculating about what was going on between you and Michael, but you didn't care. Let them. None of it came close to what it actually felt like to sit next to him after six weeks of nothing.

You were angry, and your anger was giving way to the hurt you felt underneath it, something heavier, something that didn't flare as sharply but lingered longer.

You were hurt for every night that you cried yourself to sleep because Michael wouldn't call or come home. The memory sits too close, too easy to reach, your chest tightening slightly at the thought before you push it back. 

Every time you tried to call him, a member of his team made up an excuse as to why he couldn't come to the phone; their voices polite, rehearsed, always just enough to end the conversation without giving you anything real, until eventually you stopped calling, because there were only so many times you could hear the same distance repeated back to you before it stopped being worth it. 

You think about how you spent a short period of time feeling guilty for going on Fresh Prince, even though you knew you didn't do anything wrong, the doubt settling in quietly before you forced yourself out of it, because you refused to let his silence rewrite something you had every right to do.

Because you hated how Michael was using his silence to punish you.

And now Michael wanted to make it up to you, but you wanted to punish him. The thought doesn't come with hesitation; it settles in cleanly, sharp, and certain in a way that feels almost grounding after weeks of feeling like everything has been out of your control.

And you had an idea of how you were going to do it.

The car ride was silent; you didn't speak to Michael, and he didn't try to push you into conversation either. The quiet between you feels different now, heavier, aware, like both of you are sitting in it on purpose. He knew how badly he had messed up. It shows in the way he stays still, in the way he doesn't interrupt, doesn't push, doesn't try to force anything out of you before you're ready. He just wanted the chance to explain and apologize to you, because he knows he shouldn't have stayed away as long as he did.

Bill parks in the back and leads you and Michael through the hotel's private back entrance, the transition from the car to the quiet interior quick and controlled, away from the crowd, away from the noise. He takes you both straight to the elevator and presses the button for the penthouse floor. The elevator ride also passes in silence, the soft hum of movement the only thing filling the space as the numbers climb, the reflection of the three of you faintly visible in the mirrored walls.

When you finally make it to the top and the doors open, the men let you step out first, then Michael, and then Bill. The hallway is quiet and empty, like the rest of the world has been shut out completely.

You turn to Bill with a smile. "Goodnight, Bill," you say, and he smiles back at you, giving you a nod.

You use the keycard you were given upon arrival to unlock the door, the soft click sounding louder than it should in the quiet, and you and Michael walk inside. The room is dimly lit, still, untouched, and you move through it without hesitation, going straight to the bed and sitting down, the edge dipping slightly beneath your weight as you start to take off your heels.

Michael walks over before kneeling in front of you, the movement immediate, instinctive, like he doesn't want the distance between you to stretch any further now that you're finally alone.

"Baby... please, let's talk about this," Michael says, and you scoff, the sound sharp, cutting through whatever softness he's trying to bring into the moment.

"Oh, now you're ready to talk? Are you sure you don't need to get your representatives in here to do the talking for you?" You ask as you toss one of your heels to the side before unfastening the other, the small action giving your hands something to do, something to focus on that isn't him.

"I know I should have called you myself... I'm so sorry that I didn't," he says, and you nod, not because you accept it, but because you already knew that.

You toss your other heel to where the first one was, the soft thud barely registering, and only then do you look down at Michael, kneeling in front of you. The pleading was behind his eyes, clear in a way he isn't trying to hide, something open and vulnerable that you haven't seen from him in weeks. He wanted to do whatever he could to fix this, and you could tell.

"Okay," you say, the word coming out easier than it should, because you don't want to talk about this, not right now. Not when your head is still filled with everything from tonight, everything he stirred up without even trying.

Right now, you couldn't get how crazy he was driving you all night out of your head.

From his shorter curls to his performance, the way the stage lights caught every movement, the suit, his outfit change, the way he looked in his glasses, the way he carried himself with that quiet, effortless confidence, it lingers in your mind in pieces, replaying whether you want it to or not. It pulls at something familiar, something instinctive, something that doesn't care that you're still pissed at him.

You were losing yourself in your desire for him, despite being pissed at him.

Michael wraps his arms around your legs, the movement sudden but not forceful, grounding himself there like it's the only place he knows to go. He lowers himself, resting his head against your lap, the weight of him settling in a way that feels familiar, too familiar for how much distance has been between you.

"Please, mama... just tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this. I'll do whatever you want," he whispers as he presses kisses against you over the fabric of your dress.

The nickname hits first.

It lands deeper than anything else he's said tonight, slipping past your defenses in a way you weren't prepared for, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep your reaction contained. His lips follow, soft and insistent even through the fabric, and it takes more effort than you want to admit not to respond, not to let your body lean into something it recognizes so easily.

"I can't stand you ignoring me, especially when you look this good," he whispers.

There's something raw in the way he says it, something honest and stripped down that doesn't feel practiced, doesn't feel controlled, and it makes it harder to hold your ground, harder to stay exactly where you've decided to be.

"So now you know how it feels to be ignored... try again in 5 more weeks," you say, your voice unsteady despite the words themselves being sharp.

Michael's hand moves along your leg, slow, absent-minded at first, like he's not even thinking about it, just following instinct, and the sensation pulls at you immediately, familiar and dangerous all at once.

"Stop," you say. His hand stills the second the word leaves your mouth, no hesitation or pushback. He lifts his head from your lap, the shift immediate, his attention snapping fully to you as he searches your face. "You think you can ignore me for six weeks and get to touch me?" You ask.

The question lands heavier than your tone, and you see it register in him instantly, his eyes widening slightly as the reality of it settles in. His arms loosen around your legs, and he lets go, pulling back without being told again.

"Baby..." he says, quieter this time. You don't let him finish. You point to the cushioned chair across from the bed.

"Go sit over there," you say.

Michael's eyes are still wide, and when he stands up, you can see the bulge pressing against his pants. Sitting in front of your lap, touching you, and kissing you has already made him hard. When he gets to the chair, your voice calls out again before he sits down. "Take off your pants and boxers," you say.

Michael's hands are already on his belt, unbuckling it, and he tosses it to the side before pulling his pants and then his boxers down. He had already taken his shoes off as soon as you two walked into the room. You resist the urge to bite your lip when you see Michael's length lightly slap against his stomach when he frees it. "Now sit down," you say.

Michael does what you say, sitting down in the chair, and you stand up from the bed. "Touch yourself," you say, and he sputters over his words as he speaks.

"W-What?" he asks, and you tilt your head to the side.

"You heard me... You don't get to touch me yet... so touch yourself," you say. Michael swallows, as he feels himself get harder, his dick pulsing almost uncomfortably at your commands. He grabs himself, slightly hissing under his breath as he does, at how sensitive he is to the touch. "Start slow," you say.

Michael nods as his hand slowly starts to move along his length. You watch his hand, slowly sliding the straps of your dress off your shoulders before reaching behind your back and unzipping your dress. You let it pool at your feet and step out of it. Michael, watching you the whole time, stills his hand, and you turn to him.

"Did I tell you to stop?" You ask. Michael swallows again and resumes his movements, his hand slowly stroking himself as his eyes are glued to you. You reach behind your back and unhook your bra, letting your breasts spill out, and your bra falls to the floor. Michael bites his lip as his grip on himself tightens, and his entire body is pulsing.

You reach for the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down your legs before you step out of them. Your movements are slow and deliberate, drawing it out because you know Michael is watching. "A little faster now," you say. Michael nods, increasing the speed of his hand down against himself, and you hear him whimper.

You stand fully bare in front of him, and then you move to the bed. You adjust the pillows before propping yourself up on them. Michael swallows as your legs slowly spread, your glistening folds exposed to him, and you won't permit him to come to you. You place two of your fingers in your mouth, coating them before reaching down and rubbing your clit, keeping your pace the same as Michael's.

His breath hitches when he sees you touch yourself, his hand almost stilling, but he doesn't. Instead, he whimpers again, desperate to join you on the bed, desperate to touch you. You shiver at the sensitivity of your clit, but you keep rubbing, running your fingers along your folds to slick them in your wetness, a soft moan slipping out of you.

"Faster, Michael," you say as you look at his hand again, moving against his length. Michael swallows, speeding up his hand, and you match his pace, speeding up the pace of your fingers against your clit. You close your eyes and moan louder this time, and Michael feels himself twitching. He's aching to touch you. He keeps stroking himself, his movements getting faster as he watches you pleasure yourself.

"Mama, please," Michael whimpers, and you look at him, your fingers speeding up against your clit when you see his hand moving faster. You're both watching each other, feeding off of each other. When your movements against your clit slow down, Michael's movements speed up. Every time you moan, he squeezes his dick, trying to keep himself under control, and every time he whimpers, you move your fingers faster, letting the sounds of him bring you closer to the edge.

Your hips buck as your back arches, and you move your fingers faster. Michael whimpers as he watches you, moaning and writhing on the bed, knowing that it should be him making you fall apart like that, but he doesn't get that he is making you fall apart like that. Watching him jerk himself off was wildly turning you on.

"A little more, Michael," you say, and Michael goes faster; he feels his release coming, and he wishes that he were spilling himself inside of you, and you also feel your orgasm building. "I'm so close," you moan out, and Michael is aching to have his mouth on you to help you finish. "Faster," you moan, and Michael obeys, stroking himself faster, his whimpers and moans coming quickly.

The orgasm hits you fast, your body convulsing against the bed as a moan pours out of you. Michael can't stand it, seeing an orgasm hit, and he's not connected to you to feel it. He loves the way you feel when you fall apart as your orgasm hits. He loves to feel your legs shaking around him, how tightly you grip him, how his name falls from your lips in a sob because of the pleasure.

You sink back against the pillows, your breath still quick and shallow as you try to regain it. You look at Michael, he's still stroking himself, his whimpering filling the room, and you can feel his desperation. "Come here," you say. Michael is up immediately. He walks over to the bed and stands over you at the side, waiting for you to tell him what to do next.

You slowly sit up, turning over until you're on your hands and knees. "Sit down... watch," you say. You don't have to turn around; you feel the weight of the bed dip as Michael sits down behind you. He swallows as he licks over his lips, seeing your glistening pussy in his face, still dripping with your release.

You reach behind yourself, pressing your fingers into your release and spreading it around your folds. Michael bites his lip as he watches. He whimpers again, trying desperately to control the urge he has to grab your hips and fuck you senseless until you speak to him again. You sink deeper onto your knees, spreading yourself more, and Michael whimpers again as more of you is exposed.

You rub your clit again, rolling your hips in the air. You can almost feel Michael inside of you, and you want him badly... but you also need him to feel the way you've felt for weeks. Your fingers rub your clit faster, and Michael bites down on his lip. Watching you play with yourself is making his dick twitch. He's so hard it's almost uncomfortable.

More of your cum from your first orgasm slips out of your hole, and Michael desperately wants to lap it up. "Mama..." he whimpers.

"Be quiet, Michael," you respond as you rub yourself harder, a louder moan coming from you as your legs shake. Michael watches intently, wanting nothing more than to press his face against you and fuck you with his tongue until you're shaking against him.

You slip one of your fingers inside of yourself, and Michael groans. You slip it back out, feeling it coated in your own cum, and you rub alongside your folds, purposely parting them, and you hear Michael swallow. He grabs his length again. He needs to feel the relief, the release of everything that's pent up inside of him. When you moan again, he squeezes himself, hissing under his breath.

You turn your head to look at him, and his eyes are locked on you. He's waiting for your permission to move. "Get behind me," you say. Michael gets on his knees behind you immediately. "You can touch me to line me up, and then you do nothing," you say. Michael swallows again as he nods, gently grabbing your hips to line your entrance up with him, and when you feel him let you go, you press back, feeling yourself sink against him as he fills you.

You moan on contact, and Michael stiffens as you continue to press back until he's filled you. You start to move, rocking yourself back and forth, feeling Michael moving in and out of you. You feel Michael's hand go to your hip, and you slap it away, shaking your head as you continue to move against him. Michael throws his head back. He hates that you won't let him touch you, but he will let you use him to take your pleasure.

You spread more, pressing your upper body more into the bed as you continue to move against him. Your ass slapping against Michael every time you move back, and he whimpers. Feeling your heat wrapped around him, sliding in and out, he's fighting the urge to hold you down and thrust into you until you can't remember why you're mad in the first place.

Your movements suddenly stop, but you keep Michael inside of you. Without turning to look at him, you speak. "Fuck me," you say.

Michael doesn't hesitate.

He grabs your hips and pushes you more into the bed. He pulls fully out of you before slamming back into you with one powerful stroke, making you cry out, and he groans. He keeps both hands on your hips as he fucks you, fast and relentless. Both of you are taking out your pent-up anger on each other. You reach down and rub your clit as Michael's movements get faster. Tears prick your eyes as you feel him deep inside of you, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

Wet sounds of skin slapping together, squelching sounds of Michael's thrusts inside of your slickness fill the room. "Just like that, mama... You take it so good," Michael says as he squeezes your hips, fucking you harder. You cry out, gripping the pillows tightly as your legs start to shake.

Michael lifts one of your legs, holding it so he can fuck you deeper, his body trembling against yours as he moves. "Come on.... come on," he practically growls as he fully pulls out and slams back into you again, rocking you forward.

His name spills from your lips in a choked sob as your orgasm hits you hard. Your body is shaking hard against his, and Michael doesn't slow down his thrusts to bring you through it. He keeps going at a relentless pace. His balls slapping against your swollen clit when he buries himself fully inside of you. Your vision blurs from the tears of pleasure as a second orgasm rips through you, your body still sensitive from the first one.

Michael's name spills from your lips as a scream. Michael leans down, pressing kisses against your back as he keeps fucking you. He doesn't want to stop; he can't stop. His arms wrap fully around you as he continues to move inside of you.

"M–Michael... I can't take another one... I–I can't," you whimper as he pulls you upright, your back against his chest as he keeps thrusting into you.

"You can take it, mama... keep going," Michael growls into your ear, his thrusts getting more erratic as he gets closer to his release. You're shaking, your full body is shaking against him, as a third orgasm hits you hard. The sheets beneath you are soaked as Michael's thrusts push through your juices, making them spill all over. "Look at the mess you're making," Michael says as he reaches in front of you to rub your swollen clit.

You twitch against him, your eyes falling closed as your head falls against his shoulder, the pleasure and ecstasy feeling like too much, and you genuinely think you're going to pass out. Your body twitches again as Michael keeps fucking you, every thrust pushing deeper, every stroke drawn out so you can feel it. Michael whimpers in your ear as his dick twitches inside of you.

You feel the warmth as it hits you, and your body twitches again, Michael still rubbing your clit as he fucks you through his orgasm. His cum mixes with yours, squelching out of you and dripping more onto the sheets. You cry out as a fourth orgasm hits, your body completely spent as you shake against Michael.

He slows his thrusts and slows his fingers against your clit, bringing you through the orgasm. He pulls out, pressing you back down into the bed, keeping you on your knees. He spreads your folds apart, watching as your combined orgasms spill from your spent hole.

Michael attaches his lips there, licking and sucking the release, and you start shaking again. You know you can't take another orgasm, and you feel on the verge of passing out from the overwhelming pleasure. Michael lightly slaps your pussy, making you shake again, before he attaches his lips back to your folds, licking up your full release before he pulls back. He turns you around and lays you back on the bed, his breathing heavy and erratic as he looks at you.

"Don't you ever do that to me again, Michael," You say as you look at him, and he knows what you mean, not just from the words but from the way you're holding his gaze, from everything still sitting underneath them. Don't ever leave you like that for that long ever again. He nods, the movement immediate, serious, before he leans down and kisses you, slower this time, like he's making sure you feel it. You taste yourself on his lips as you kiss him back, and it pulls something deeper out of you, something softer than the anger you were holding onto before. You missed him, you ached for him, you needed him, and now that he's here, that absence feels almost unbearable in hindsight.

You're the first to pull back, needing the space for just a second, and Michael leans his forehead against yours, keeping close anyway, like he's not ready to let any distance settle back in. "I promise I won't. I'm so sorry... I love you so much," he says, and there's nothing guarded in it, nothing held back, and you nod, taking it in even if you're not fully ready to let it settle.

"You have six weeks' worth of making it up to me to prove it," you say, and Michael laughs, the sound softer than usual, like the tension is finally easing out of him.

"Mama, I just made you cum four times," he says, and you shrug, your expression shifting just enough to let him know you're not letting him off that easy.

"That only covers one day. You still have 41 more to make up for," you say. Michael laughs again, more relaxed this time, and he leans in to kiss you again, the contact lighter, easier, like something has shifted between you. Your chest loosens for the first time tonight, the tightness that's been sitting there finally easing just enough to breathe through it without effort. You knew that this didn't fix everything, but you were willing to work through it with him, willing to meet him somewhere in the middle now that he was actually here.

You pull back and lay your hand on his jaw, your thumb gently rubbing across his skin, the gesture slow, absent-minded, something that comes naturally after all these years.

"I love you, too," you whisper.

You shut the book in your hands, gently setting it down in your lap. The words on the weathered pages started to lose their meaning as you finally gave up on reading.

Repetitive melodies and the quiet murmuring of lyrics from the man sitting a few feet away made it nearly impossible to focus.

He had assured you it wouldn’t be too loud in the studio tonight as he practically begged you to come sit with him while he worked on new music.

Michael made a habit of it— asking you to join him for brainstorming sessions. He once teased that you were his greatest muse.

He was extremely private, never directly involving you in his writing or recording process. Most of the time you would simply sit in the room with him while he worked. You’d thumb through a book and let the incomplete tracks and rhythmic tune of his voice act as background music to your reading.

Tonight was no different. He was focused on the notebook in front of him; sticky notes and scribbles littered the pages. The same melody filled the air over and over again as he hummed along with different words, each one acting as a piece to the never ending puzzle of his next album.

The weight of your book sunk into your lap as you let your back rest against the cushion behind you. Your lids felt heavy and your mind was foggy with sleep as you began dozing off.

“Sleepyhead.”

The familiar voice carried to your side of the room, lulling you out of your slumber before you could completely drift off.

You opened your eyes just enough to see Michael turned around in his chair, facing you with a gentle smile tugging at his lips.

“Well forgive me, I didn’t realize you’d be working well into the early morning hours when you invited me to tag along.” Your sarcasm only made his grin widen.

He watched you for a minute, a small giggle fighting its way past his lips.

“C’mere” He motioned you over to him with a slight tilt of his head toward his notebook.

“I need your opinion on something.”

His voice was soft against the quiet of the room, and a smile still stained his lips as he turned back around to face the array of sticky notes plastered on the surface in front of him.

You stretched from the couch, closing the distance between you and Michael in sleepy strides.

You stood next to him, following his gaze to the words written on the notebook below.

He sat in his chair, fingers tracing the lines of lyrics in front of him.

“Which do you like better?”

Without even looking at you, he began playing the unfinished track that you’d been hearing all night.

You listened to his voice as he sang the first string of lyrics written in his notebook, watching as the written words flowed so effortlessly off the paper and into the room to the tune of his voice.

He played it twice, each time singing a different set of lyrics, both similar yet somehow entirely different.

You leaned down, peering at the two different options written on the page, Michael still humming softly next to you.

As you studied them, you felt the warmth of his palm rest at the base of your spine.

Michael was no stranger to physical touch— not with you.

He was obsessed with having his hands on you, even in the most innocent ways.

He was constantly reaching for your hand, intertwining your fingers with his; always wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer.

“I think I like the first one.” Your stare was still fixed on the notebook below, as your body angled further over his.

“It feels right.” Your mind was still sleepy as you gave your final verdict.

The room fell silent for just a few seconds, and you felt his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your lower back— tender and soothing.

“It feels right.” His voice was a delicate chuckle as he repeated your words into the nearly empty room.

“First one it is.” His words still held a subtle giggle.

With one hand on your back, the other reached for a pen as he wrote a few more words in his notebook.

He looked up at you, admiration in his gaze and that same sweet grin on his lips, “Thank you.”

His hushed words were simple, yet laced with an abundance of gratitude and love.

The gentle devotion in his voice and the careful touch of his fingertips along your spine sent you leaning down further as you placed the softest kiss on his cheek.

“Anything for you.” Your response met him with the same adoration.

You lingered like that, staring at one another. Smitten smiles nestled into your cheekbones, faces only inches a part.

“Yeah, you mean that?”

Michael’s tone shifted ever so slightly. There was a certain playfulness in the way he spoke; the question tucked behind a veil of mischief.

You loved this side of him; when his quiet, gentle demeanor was replaced with something more light hearted and whimsical.

You murmured a quiet, “mhmm” nodding your head and leaning in even closer, this time just barely pressing your lips against his.

It was a quick, gentle kiss, but it was enough to cause Michael’s hand that was once at your back to snake around your body, lightly grabbing your waist and pulling you against him.

Your body responded to his touch, sinking down into his lap, your legs straddling his and your hands cupping his jaw.

This time the kiss shared between you was much deeper, and it was impossible to miss the way he smiled ever so slightly against your lips.

His hands gripped your waist pulling you completely against him. Your lips moved in harmony; a whirlwind of hunger and affection as you melted further into his touch.

You began trailing kisses toward his jaw, under his ear, down his neck…

Each touch of your lips on his skin was determined and methodical— your actions ruminating in the passion radiating between you.

Soft hums fell from his lips as his fingertips tightened at your waist, fighting the urge to guide your hips against his.

You continued peppering kisses to his skin

down

down

down—

Your mouth was dangerously close to his collar bone when you felt one of his hands loosen from your hip.

He was reaching behind you, grabbing the pen from beside his notebook and jotting something down on one of the ink filled pages while your lips were busy on his neck.

“michael…” you sighed in defeat as your face fell into his shoulder.

“Hold on, hold on,” his words were a breathless hush as they spilled from his lips.

You buried your head deeper into the crook of his neck, your giggle muffled against his skin.

You sat there for a moment soaking in the warmth of his chest against yours. Letting him scrawl out whatever idea just came to him.

“baby,” he had asked with complete sincerity the moment he saw you (it took him 5 minutes and a gentle cough from you to realise you were in the room), “be honest with me.”

already a terrible start. you leaned against the counter cautiously. “…about what.”

“the pants.”

 a pause.

“what about them?”

“that woman online said they were ‘a little much.’”

you stared at him. then at the pants. then back at him again. 

“…you’ve been thinking about that for forty minutes?”

“i need objective feedback.”

michael held the trousers up higher, genuinely alarmed now.

“are they too shiny?”

“no.”

“too tight?”

“mmmm… ehhh… borderline.”

“too theatrical?”

“michael,” you interrupted, “you literally sing and dance for a living.”

“that’s not the point.”

he resumed his pacing immediately, still clutching the gold fabric in visible turmoil. “she said they looked too tacky.”

you were physically made to sit down after that. meanwhile michael continued spiralling restlessly around the kitchen island as you noiselessly wheezed into actual tears. by the end of the night the pants had somehow become an active third participant in the conversation. at one point michael placed them solemnly across your lap and asked: “…do they make me look difficult to approach.” 

“you’re asking me if the disco trousers are intimidating…?”

anyway…

so, in short, occasionally you will find him curled up in bed late at night — a bulky silver laptop balanced carefully across his knees — silently lurking through fanclub websites. using usernames so painfully obvious that they somehow loop all the way back around into being believable again.

‘moonwalker1983’, ‘applehead4real’, ‘totallynotmichael’

that last one, in particular, made you seriously question the observational skills of the internet as a whole.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁﹏𓊝﹏. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

rain taps gently against the bedroom windows in slow, unpredictable rhythms, blurring the world outside into distant amber streetlights and dark silhouettes. somewhere downstairs, the grandfather clock ticks quietly through the stillness, while an old jazz record spins low enough to barely exist, a soft hum of white noise. all of existence seems to dissolve into the warm hush of midnight. the bedside lamps cast everything in muted gold, illuminating the satin sheets and discarded books slumped half-open across the duvet. the faint shine of michael’s wedding ring catches the light whenever his fingers move across the keyboard, sending flickering reflections dancing against the ivory-colored wall.

michael sits on the bed, propped up comfortably against the headboard in charcoal silk pyjamas—damp, fresh-out-the-shower curls falling loosely around his face and catching the dim glow of the lamplight. his reading glasses rest low on the bridge of his nose. every few moments, his mouth twitches upward at something on the screen, a small smile he quickly attempts to hide before it can fully form.

draped halfway across his side, you’re dressed in an oversized t-shirt—at least three sizes too large—and a pair of fluffy white pyjama bottoms. your limbs are warm and heavy with exhaustion as you absentmindedly play with his fingers in your lap, tracing over their long lines while sleep slowly threatens to pull you under from reality. one of his hands remains trapped beneath yours while the other scrolls steadily through forum posts with deep concentration, occasionally smiling tenderly whenever somebody compliments a performance or defends him against tabloid nonsense online.

“aw,” he murmurs suddenly into the void.

you glance lazily toward the screen without lifting your head properly from his shoulder.

“hm…?” you replied, the call of sleep interwoven within the timbre of your voice.

“this person said my speech in munich made them cry.”

a familiar note of astonishment colors his tone, the same fragile awe that surfaces whenever he encounters sincere affection rather than a public performance, as if he still struggles to grasp that people could offer him devotion without a hidden agenda.

you squint sleepily at the username beneath the comment.

‘billiejean_420’

a snort escapes you. “nice.”

michael’s mouth twitches with the faintest hint of a smile, but he says nothing, choosing instead to gracefully ignore the fact that this touching declaration of love came from someone named after one of his songs and a strain of weed. he simply keeps scrolling, the glow of the screen painting blue light across his cheekbones.

the room slips back into its gentle hush — the low click of keys, the shuffling of duvet covers, the forgotten record player murmuring somewhere across the room. you’re just beginning to drift again when something at the edge of the browser catches your eye.

a tab labelled: fanfiction archive.

you blink, suddenly more awake.

“…what’s that?”

michael goes very still beside you. his fingers freeze over the trackpad.

“uhhh... nothing,” he says, with a little too much hesitation.

that is, unfortunately, the worst possible answer he could have given.

you narrow your eyes, lifting your head from his shoulder. “michael.”

“it’s nothing important. something incredibly, boring you won't like it.” he adds, already reaching to click the tab shut before kissing your forehead in an attempt to distract you.

you push yourself up on one elbow, now fully alert and deeply entertained. “michael joseph jackson, do not close that tab.”

michael looked heavenward in despair, pulling the laptop closer and attempting a frantic three-finger salute to shut it down, but you were faster. your hand shot out, grasping the edge of the silver screen and yanking it firmly back toward your side of the bed.

“nice try,” you declared, already maneuvering the cursor with wicked intent.

michael let out a deeply distressed sound the moment your fingers touched the trackpad.

“no, no, no—baby, don’t read the titles first,” he pleaded, his low sleep voice suddenly pitching higher. “the titles are always so dramatic.”

“that is exactly why i’m reading them,” you said, already grinning as you began scrolling.

your eyes moved down the list, and almost immediately they widened.

“oh my god.”

michael physically sank lower against the headboard like a man preparing for impact, one hand coming up to cover half his face. the tips of his ears had gone noticeably pink beneath the damp curls.

you kept scrolling, barely containing your violent chortles.

“‘your man in the mirror’? really?”

he groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. “i didn’t write the titles.”

“‘the king and i’… ‘moonlight and magic’…” you paused, biting your lip. “michael. there’s one called ‘smooth criminal, rough play.’”

a muffled, mortified grimace came from beneath the pillow. “please stop.”

you were laughing properly now, shoulders shaking as you leaned against his side. “this one is a 40 chapter long slow burn entitled ‘heal the world… and then me.’”

he peeked out from under the pillow just enough for one mortified eye to meet yours. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“immensely,” you confirmed, scrolling further. “there’s an entire tag list. ‘angst then fluff,’ ‘mutual pining,’ ‘jackson family drama,’ and—oh, this is my favourite—‘protective!michael.’”

he made a helpless sound and gently tried to tug the laptop away, but you held on, still reading titles aloud between bursts of amused giggles. the rain continued its steady rhythm against the windows, the jazz record long since ended, but the room felt brighter somehow, warmer, filled with the rare sound of michael jackson dying of embarrassment beside you.

eventually, still cackling to yourself, you clicked one open before michael could successfully wrestle the laptop away from you.

“baby—”

“oh this one has a description.”

“i don’t wanna hear the description.”

“you are literally the main character. you have no choice.”

michael released another deeply pained “ughhh” before dropping backward onto the pillows. you bit back a smile, eyes still flitting across the screen as you kept reading.

“okay,” you began, trying to compose yourself enough to read properly. “‘a lonely king burdened by fame discovers that love may be the only thing powerful enough to heal the darkness in his heart.’”

you let the dramatic summary hang in the air for a second, then glanced sideways at him.

“…that’s kind of sad.”

michael peeked out from beneath the pillow, one eye narrowed in suspicion. “it’s sad?”

“a little,” you admitted, softer now.

you clicked into the first chapter. the page loaded with a flourish — glittering cursive headers and tiny animated stars drifting magically across the top banner like a private constellation.

“oh, this person is committed,” you murmured, impressed.

michael’s features seemed to collapse inward at that, a sinkhole of grief pulling his eyes and mouth into one deeply perturbed expression. you prodded him lightly with a finger, a wordless instruction to keep it together. then, clearing your throat with immense theatrical importance, you began reading aloud in your best storytelling voice.

“‘the rain lashed violently against the stained glass windows of neverland as michael stood alone in the grand hallway, consumed by thoughts too painful to name.’”

you stopped reading mid-sentence.

the words hung in the air for a beat before you slowly turned your head toward him, one eyebrow raised. “do you stand in hallways when i’m asleep?”

michael’s answer came instantly. “no.”

“that was way too fast.”

he spoke into the bedding covering him. “no, i do not stand in hallways when you’re asleep.”

“you wander, though.”

“why would i wander?”

“you’re a wanderer,” you said with absolute certainty. “i’ve seen you. midnight hallway patrol. very dramatic.”

michael sighed deeply, the sound vibrating against the pillow as he burrowed further into it. but you could see the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting a smile even as he pretended to be mortified. you turned back to the screen, now fully invested, voice slipping back into your dramatic reading tone.

“‘consumed by thoughts too painful to name…’” you announced, glancing sideways at him again. “should i be concerned?”

michael reached over without looking and gently poked your side. “keep reading before i close the laptop.”

you chuckled under your breath and obeyed, nestling closer against him as the ridiculous story continued to unfold between you.

“‘his chocolate eyes darkened with longing as he loosened the first two buttons of his cotton shirt—’”

you barely got through the next line before beginning to snort again.

“‘—revealing a glimpse of the smooth, moonlit skin beneath, a silent invitation to the one who alone could soothe his weary soul.’”

michael pressed his face harder into your hairline, his body shaking with silent laughter and abashment.

“moonlit skin,” you repeated, delighted. “michael, this is all very poetic. i feel like i should be taking notes.”

“don't do that.”

you kept reading anyway, voice rich with mock seriousness.

“‘a single tear traced down his perfect cheek as he whispered her name into the empty night—’”

he poked your side again, harder this time.

“i’m learning things about you,” you said innocently, scrolling down. “apparently you whisper names dramatically in hallways. and you cry beautifully. good to know.”

michael moaned in protest, but his arm had slipped around your waist, holding you closer instead of pushing you away. his fingers idly played with the hem of your sleep shirt, an unspoken betrayal of how much he was secretly basking in the attention.

you continued in a hushed, theatrical whisper:

“‘she approached him slowly, her heart pounding with the weight of destiny—’”

he lifted his head just enough to peek at the screen, curiosity finally winning. “what happens next?”

you glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “i thought you weren’t interested.”

“i’m just finishing what you started,” he said with a very subtle roll of his eyes.

you collapsed against him, leaning more comfortably against his side while continuing to scroll through the chapter. eventually, he even started peeking openly at the screen beside you, faintly correcting details under his breath.

“i’ve never owned curtains like that.”

you turned toward him slowly. “you’re fact checking the fanfiction.”

“i'm not fact checking, i'm just making observations.”

“michael, you just got upset about the curtains.”

“they said velvet drapes.”

“and?”

“do you see any velvet drapes around us?”

that broke your composure, your forehead dropping against his shoulder while michael finally gave up entirely and let the laptop rest across both your laps.

some time had passed until you noticed how quiet he had become beside you.

he wasn’t upset, exactly. just… shy. his face was still glowing a deep shade, obvious against the background of his skin, and he kept his face half-hidden in your hair, as if he could will the entire situation away by not looking at it.

your chest tightened.

“y’know, baby,” you murmured, gently nudging his shoulder with your own. “i’m not making fun of you.”

michael peeked out from under the pillow, one cautious brown eye meeting yours. he looked so disarmingly vulnerable like this — curls messy, reading glasses slightly askew, pyjamas rumpled — that it made something tender ache behind your ribs.

“i actually think it’s kind of sweet,” you added, voice warm and sincere.

he blinked at you, searching your face like he was waiting for the punchline that wasn’t coming.

“really?” he asked.

“really.” you turned the laptop slightly so the screen faced both of you again. “all these people… they’re not just fans. they’re dreaming about you. building entire worlds just to spend more time with the version of you they love. it's kind of beautiful.”

michael remained silent for a long moment, his gaze lingering on your face instead of the glowing archive, finding a more profound truth there than in the flurry of words. slowly, the tension in his shoulders ebbed away. he let the pillow he was previously holding onto for dear life slide to his lap and reached out, his fingers grazing your arm with a feather light touch. you shifted into his space, curling into the familiar heat of his side until your head found its home against his chest. his heartbeat was a steady, grounding thrum beneath your cheek. beneath the weighted blankets, his hand found your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, hypnotic circles against the plush fabric of your pyjamas.

you continued to read vacantly.

“oooooh.”

“what now,” he asked warily.

“it says that your eye contact alone can single handedly ‘rewire the female nervous system’,” you tilted the screen slightly. “and apparently you smell like warm cinnamon.”

michael made a wounded sound , pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “…why does everybody keep saying that? i’ve never even been associated with cinnamon.”

you grinned. “i can see what they’re going for.”

he exhaled a long, melodic sigh, the last of his grievances dissolving into the silence. you began to read again, your voice possessed a subtle lilt that carried snippets of their devotion into the room—descriptions of his effortless grace under the stage lights, the way strangers dissected his silences like sacred scripture, and entire paragraphs and theories devoted to his sunglasses, as if they were symbols of a deeper mystery.

and slowly, you noticed something.

despite the occasional embarrassed protest, michael’s expression kept softening. not at the grand romantic declarations or the dramatic love scenes. but at the more intimate observations. the ones that described him as kind. lonely. soft-spoken. misunderstood. every time one of those lines appeared, his thumb would hold on your thigh for a second, as if he were absorbing the words.

you leaned your head against his shoulder again, the laptop warm between you both.

“this person says you ‘carry sadness gracefully.’”

michael paused for a beat.

“…that’s nice,” he mumbled.

you glanced up at him. there it was again — that small, surprised look he wore whenever someone saw past the headlines. past the performer, past the myth, just him.

you nudged your arm gently against his. “see? they like you.”

michael huffed, exhaling through his nose. “they don’t know me.”

“no,” you replied, still scrolling slowly through the archive, “but i think they’re trying to.” a small smile tugged at your mouth. “and honestly… who wouldn’t want to know you.”

the room settled into a hush, warm blankets twisted around your legs. michael’s fingers traced lazy, absent patterns over yours.

he leaned in a little closer, pointing toward another story entitled ‘captain eo’s love story’. “…what’s that one about?”

you grinned, unable to hide it. you responded in a sing-song-y manner; “see, you are interested.”

“no, i'm not,” he muttered, though he didn’t pull away.

“you literally just leaned in.”

“i can’t see well from here, you’re hogging up all the laptop space"

“uhuh.”

you clicked the story open anyway.

and though michael kept up the act — sighing dramatically at the more over the top lines and hiding his face against your shoulder whenever a sentence became particularly outrageous — he never once actually asked you to stop. by the time the clock crept past three in the morning, the two of you were still curled together beneath the blankets, shoulder to shoulder in the dark, reading fanfiction side by side while trading commentary and sharing occasional bursts of breathless amusement. outside, the rain had long since passed, leaving the windows silvered beneath moonlight now that the clouds had finally begun to disperse.

much later, when michael had finally fallen asleep beside you, his curls now dry where they fell across his forehead, you glanced once more at the glowing archive page still open on the laptop between you.

for a moment you simply watched him — the way the screen’s faint light caught the curve of his cheek, the faint crease between his brows that had finally smoothed out in sleep. then, as noiselessly as possible, you reached over and bookmarked the page.

just in case his nights on tour stretched too long again.

author's note ⋆ HIII thank you again for all the love for my last mj x reader fic. i didn't expect it to get that much traction. I SHALL BE WRITING MORE AFTER THIS I'M ON AN MJ HIGH

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IT WAS NO SECRET... that michael jackson was one of the most photographed, most filmed figures in modern history. from press conferences, tours, red carpet appearances, and arms full of coveted awards, even a blurry photo of him beneath a tattered baseball cap and oversized aviators would get a few hundred underneath the table. it was part of the business; soul-suckingly taking bits and pieces of the man in an effort to feed the tabloid beast. unfortunately, the consequence of fame that rising stars commonly fail to account for is that this beast is seldom satiated, equipped with a bottomless appetite fueled by curiosity and shock value.

michael learned this at a young age, the hard way, as a budding boy with enough wisdom to power all of gary, indiana. he looked to the world with open arms, with a kindness and heart for all it could give to him. perhaps it was his fault that he didn’t think of what the world could take away. perhaps it was his fault that the things the world slipped from him were intangible and invisible to the eye: privacy, protection, peace, and innocence. so it meant something when he agreed to a one-hour special of his private videos.

the scene was like any other day to him. the usual onslaught of cameras, crewmen without a name to rattle off to him, producers wanting the perfect commentary of each video he coughed up. michael felt the expectations to be inconsistent with how he truly perceived his memories, encased in amber film frozen in snippets of moments he’d hop into the delorean to go back to. from watching himself on the set of black or white, to his dearest friend elizabeth surprising him with an elephant, the smile that stretched across his face was genuine. it was warm and inviting and extended up to his eyes as they squinted with each laugh.

and even when the room was abuzz with faces most unfamiliar to him, full of life and an ambition to complete this project, the man was still alone, occupying one of many empty velveted theater seats. it felt awkward, but certainly not unfamiliar. he had been here before. he was at home in his solitude.

“alright, michael,” the main producer called out to him, the left side of his headset pushed behind his ear temporarily, “here’s your next video.” the man in question noted the way his blonde hair sprung out like weeds beneath the filming gear, and it brought a grin out of him, one that sat on the cusp of a soft laugh. a young woman behind the producer, no older than a quarter century at best, quickly switched out the tapes, her eyes flickering back and forth to ensure she didn’t break anything.

michael gave an affirming half-nod and a quiet ‘okay’, shifting in his seat rather uncomfortably. he’d been sitting here for some time now and could feel his body branding itself onto the cushion beneath. out of anxiousness or perhaps impatience did he begin tapping his foot. though as the video sprung to life on the projector before him, he couldn’t recall if his heart sank, or if it grew wings and fluttered into his throat.

“oh, i love this one,” michael’s voice lowered to just a hair above a soft whisper, hands clapping together. his eyes told the story much better than words could. they lit up at the sight of a shaky camera pointed downward to the tile of the neverland ranch home…

1989. -

the click of black loafers echoed against the high walls of neverland. sunlight made itself known inside, plastering itself on every surface it could find, the warmth of that july day pressed to permanent memory. towering over a bulky, gray camcorder stood michael, clouded pink button up and all. a sweat bead threatened to manifest on his right temple as diligent hands fidgeted with the tape. “come on now…” he didn’t want to hurt the poor thing, but life was happening outside, slipping by with every second that the camcorder refused to function. his curls hung just perfectly, framing his face in such a way that this frustration was not so easily revealed. but maybe if he just…

thud!

a little nudge of encouragement seemed to do the trick, bringing the temperamental device to life. the lens zoomed into the tile beneath michael, taking a moment to focus. “there we go.”

the backyard was a sight to behold, out of a storybook where princesses and fairies and proud knights came to play. streamers of pink and blue twisted and hung from poles installed just for the occasion. balloons decorated the sky as they poked to the heavens in clusters attached to chairs and tables. the laughter of children was as sweet as song whilst the jacksons and the [surname]’s mingled harmoniously. as evidenced by the smell of the grill, manned by none other than joe jackson, there was no shortage of food. a table nearby, covered with a dainty floral cloth, was but swallowed whole by an overwhelming amount of wrapped gifts, of pink and blue and yellow paper alike. a larger-than-life teddy bear sat slumped beside the presents.

the lens zoomed in again, a bit rough at first, but once it focused, a smile crept onto michael’s face. it creased into the camera, pushing the view upwards.

“…and there’s [name],”

he carried her name as if it were scripture, and gazed upon her with the hope that he’d forget tomorrow, all so he could see her face for the first time again. the video lingered on the woman as she sat in a painted chair adorned with pink and blue balloons, tassels, and frilly things. her hands idly wrapped around her stomach. it protruded from her rest of her body, though from the angle michael was recording from, it proved difficult to see. the dress she chose for that day made her appear almost ethereal; a pale green number whose frilled neckline scooped down past her collarbone, the fabric of layered tulle that moved with each hush of the wind.

her hair had originally meant to be down that day, but janet had so lovingly pinned it back for her in preparation for the heat. michael’s eye, through the camera, continued to persist on her, as if she was the only person there with a worthy story to tell. her gaze seemed to have latched onto her niece. whatever it was she had grabbed from her - a magazine it looked to be - the woman began fanning herself with it, a sigh bordering obnoxious rising and falling from her chest. behind the video, a gentle, low chuckle erupted from the director...

-

michael, from the theater chair, pointed to the screen. he was growing more and more giddy, like a child who had but brushed knuckles with their crush in the school hallway. “this was nineteen-eighty-nine… just before our first child was born. i felt so sneaky for getting that shot of her,” he shook his head, covering half his face with his hand. there was another grin tugging at his lips, “she hated being filmed, especially then.”

to hear him speak of his children was a privilege. he kept his wife close to him, shielded her as best he could from the ever-hungry public, and he did the same for their kids. to grow up as the child of michael jackson was a unique life to be given, a hand dealt to you with a multitude of thorns. and it was their mother and father that did their best to provide normalcy for them, to prick each thorn off and give them something they themselves never had.

“my kids — my family — they are everything to me. they are in the music i write and are part of my creative process, every step,” sincerity dripped from his voice like sweet nectar off a honeycomb, his body language opening up to the world. “fatherhood is a new journey every day for me. i’m learning things about the kids all the time. they love to read and to play outside and climb the trees, just like i do.”

he pressed on, “and doing it all with her is such a blessing.” a laugh bubbled and broiled from michael at the next shot, “oh, she still teases me for this…

-

“bunny…”

her back was turned to the camera, hands on her hips as she swayed side to side. she and latoya stood next to the pool, watching the kids show off their cannonballs and backflips. the conversation between the two women appeared passionate, well, on latoya’s end. [name] was simply nodding, giving the occasional input here and there, but otherwise resorting to that of a lent ear. as michael approached the duo slowly, it was as if his wife’s newfound motherly instinct had taken form prematurely, her head turning sharply to the camera.

“mike! stop that!” as annoyed as she was, there was nevertheless a smile on her face. her palm almost swallowed the view completely, holes of that day peeking through her fingers. michael’s laugh was all that could be heard as she pushed the camcorder down.

the culprit feigned a hurt pout, “you know i just think you’re pretty.” he readjusted the camera, “‘n’ i want everyone else to see it, too.”

she couldn’t tell if it was the heat of the july afternoon that had begun to pulsate on her cheeks, or the shade of crimson that was, oddly enough, always around when michael put her under the limelight. it had been that way since they were kids, a tale as old as time. he’d muster up the courage to say something sweet, almost too sweet, and she’d turn away and find the ground more interesting.

but it was the way she twisted her mouth from side to side, then keeping it on the left, that told michael all he needed to know. she was never great with receiving compliments, never great with having the attention. all the while, the undisputed king of pop lifted her to new heights. he built a foundation of confidence within her over the course of their lives, doing whatever he could to someday make her see herself the way he did.

the nickname “bunny” came from their childhood, too. her first pet, cautiously gifted to her on her seventh birthday after months of allowance money and beggary had been saved up. michael was the first to meet the lop eared animal. there was something about the young boy and animals, she noticed. there looked to be a language spoken between every one he offered a smile to. thus, he bestowed the title to her after watching the way her nose scrunched up at the smell of her mothers latest gelatin monstrosity.

needless to say, she hated it from the beginning. and it only served to bite her in the behind as time passed, as michael’s brothers picked the nickname up too. even janet and katherine slipped the name a few times, despite both pinky promising never to use it.

she didn’t know exactly when it was that the nickname suddenly changed to her. maybe when she heard michael whisper it to himself absentmindedly, or when he’d begin every letter and every call to her with it. it was something between them that remained consistent for a lifetime, and that was exactly what michael needed.

“you gotta show the gifts!” latoya unceremoniously interrupted the moment, taking it upon herself to turn the camera towards the table. michael’s eyebrows furrowed. his sister certainly had a delicate, heavy-handed touch. “you take it then!” he released his palm from the side handle of the camcorder, hoisting the equipment from his shoulder and onto latoya’s with one fell swoop.

[name] stifled a laugh, giving the woman a poke in the back, “didn’t think it’d be so heavy, huh?”

“oh, whatever!” latoya quickly made her way to the gift table, shooing one or two tiny jackson kids away from the camera’s view.

with the husband and wife left alone, michael made up for lost time in the directors seat, wrapping an arm around her waist and gently guiding her into his embrace. she didn’t fight it, letting her body lean into his side. the temporary feeling of weightlessness brought her bliss, something she hadn’t felt for close to eight months.

a firm kiss was planted onto her forehead, followed by a studious look upon her features. their time spent together had paid off in that words became less and less necessary. there were little long-winded explanations, few moments of true misunderstanding. it was a double edged sword at times, as neither of them could truly hide from one another. which is why…

“you smell like paint,” she blurted out.

michael’s eyebrows shot up, “what’re you talking about?”

“i can smell you,” she brought her hand to his wrist, pulling it up to her nose, “you know what they say about pregnant women.”

“i don’t actuall—“

she finished his sentence, or perhaps cut it short, “they can smell everything, heightened senses and all.” her head tilted to the side, eyes fixed on the curls that framed his face. they somehow stayed tight in the summer heat, “you were in the nursery again.”

“i just wanted to get it done,” michael brought his hands up to surrender, guilty as charged. “what’s the baby going to think when they come into their room and see an unfinished mural?”

[name] failed to suppress her smirk. he was cute when the determination set in, “it’s okay to ask for help, you know.”

“i’m doing it myself, bunny.”

there it was again.

“i want to help you,” she crossed her arms, opting to lean into his body again and peer down at his loafers. the baby shower went on around them, but they hadn’t a clue about it. stuck in their own bubble. “you do everything by yourself.”

michael dug his hooves in the ground, “and i’ll be doing this myself too.” he shifted his body weight a bit, straightening her up and wrapping his hands around her shoulders. “you are doing more than enough, look at you!” doe-eyes gazed upon her. delicate and tender was his stare, boring into every crevice of her skin. she looked just as she did when he first met her, on the steps of her front porch in gary, indiana. and despite wearing a worn expression, she had a light in her eyes none other than michael could conjure.

she threw her head back and let out a tired laugh to the sky. there was one lone cloud up there in the deep blue, and she took note of it, held onto it for the rest of the day. he was still there once she met his eyes again, still holding all the wonder in the world for her.

“you are carrying my child, our child,” michael pushed a stray hair out of her face.

“crazy to think about,” distracted, she poked her attention at the festivities. tito and jermaine had overtaken joe on the grill. katherine and her mother sat at a table alone, closely discussing the family happenings. they had been so engrossed in each other that she had nearly forgotten what everyone was here for. he was excellent at pulling her away from the noise, oftentimes absorbing it for himself just so she could get some quiet. “you know what else is crazy?”

-

from the projector, latoya’s voice could be heard commentating on what the camera captured. the picturesque view taken in by the grainy tape, comparable to that of a painting.

“there’s your mommy,” a slow zoom into [name]’s figure as michael engrossed himself in her presence, rubbing her shoulders. it slowly panned over to him, “and there’s your daddy.”

there was silence from the set, not a peep from michael as latoya brought the past to life. his head tilted oh-so slightly. surprisingly, he hadn’t known about this part of the video.

latoya continued, “they love you very much, and they can’t wait to meet you.”

the producer hesitated, “michael?”

he snapped out of his head, readjusting himself in the chair and smoothing out his jacket. “um, i’m sorry.” he waved his hand, “you can scrap that part. i just, you know, she was so beautiful here.”

he was borderline jealous. latoya had captured his wife so well. “she is beautiful every day, and i’ve known her for many days.” a dry chuckle crawled out of him while something bashful crept in. even years later did the man struggle to put comprehensible sentences together when speaking about her. it could’ve been voodoo magics at play, or just the unexplainable way she made him feel.

“she lived four doors down from me, and our mothers were friends,” the child within him reflected on his face, his cheeks pushing up and out whilst a wide smile emerged. “when i left school for the jackson five she was still there, buggin’ me about the homework they had.”

“i remember her getting me a jump rope one day,” michael continued, “she told me the girls at school made up a routine to ‘abc’! i didn’t know how to feel ‘bout it. that was the first time she brought up anything to do with my music.”

he didn’t look to care that the was rambling on, they’d take out what they needed to from the final cut anyway. “it was like she wanted me to forget about what was happening around me and how fast it was going. i never had a childhood like she did. she must’ve known that…”

was he getting choked up again? surely not. the lump in his throat was telling him otherwise. out of the corner of his eye, the timid girl that had put the tape in watched him carefully. like he was going to break at any moment. but michael pressed on, he knew what happened next. “keep going!” a small hitch in his voice broke the facade of confidence.

-

“what is it?” michael’s face folded into concern, fully prepared for her to say her water broke. but instead, a sly grin was given to him.

“got you!”

an army of children fully broke the tender moment the soon-to-be mother and father shared. supersoakers abound, the camera shook with latoya’s laughter as they ambushed michael with straight-shots to the chest and face. [name] narrowly escaped imminent death by stepping to the side. she couldn’t contain herself either, nearly howling with amusement while michael threw his hands up, doing a poor job of keeping his clothing dry.

“hey!” a shriek could be heard from the supersoaker victim just before he took off for the yard, rounding the pool and making for the grass. the kids, jackson and [surname] cousins alike, certainly put up a fight. they kept him on his toes, and soon did michael have no choice but to retreat into the trees.

his body moved swiftly and with ease. the muscle memory of every bend and branch of the tree served to pay off in the end, as he quickly settled into safety from the band of youth down below. panting like a dog, michael’s heart was racing and pumped with adrenaline. “you guys are crazy!”

“come down, mikey!” [name]’s nephew taunted. his watergun was already pointed to the trees, trying to find the popstar amongst the leaves. “we won’t hurt you!” a ripple of giggles ensued at that.

“liar!” he had become quite comfortable up there. no wonder it was one of his favorite places to write songs. nevertheless, he was having fun.

the grass crunched beneath heavier footsteps, a taller shadow joined the cluster of smaller ones, “not even for me?”

michael’s shoulders relaxed instantly. his favorite voice poking above the crowd of loaded supersoakers. if it was any other day, he’d be down in an instant, “that’s not fair!”

“they promised they wouldn’t hurt you,” she called out to him. she was fully under the tree then, her head craned up to him. thinking for a breath, she turned to the kids. her face lit up unexpectedly, “i heard they’re doing cake now. ask jackie.”

“what?!” “no way!” “let’s go!”

the last few shots of the video, before it cut to latoya’s precise viewing of each and every gift, was of the children stampeding their way back to the main area. it was rather trembly and unfocused, the last words a loud demand of, “i want a piece of chocolate cake!”

-

in hindsight, michael should’ve known the kids were plotting his doom from beneath the tree. but he always had a trust in them. hindsight also told him that his wife’s little white lie got jackie in lots of trouble with the little assailants, because the cake was in fact not happening when she said it was.

it had him wiping a tear from his eye in hilarity, “she always knows how to get me out of trouble.”

from the sidelines, the producer raised a hand, “let’s take five, everyone.”

as the crew scattered into their own directions, michael hoisted himself from the seat. he was on a mission, as evidenced by the smile that lingered on his face. “where’s my phone? i’d like to call my wife.”

fin.

concluding notes. again this really wasn't my best work :sob: so i apologize if it's a little weird. i just had this thought in my head and wanted to get it out! i really like the idea of childhood friends to lovers with michael (foreshadowing for later fics)... it's so cute...

His disdain for the relationship wasn’t loud or blatantly in the face, Joesph rarely needed volume to make people uneasy. But that was the mistake outsiders made about him, right? They imagined rage first because rage was easier to identify when they would catch wind of just how evil of that man he is.

Joe’s real “talent” had always been pressure. The ability to make people feel cornered without touching them at all.

At first his disapproval came in smaller ways. Long looks across rooms. Questions that sounded harmless until she sat with them afterward. Comments about distractions. Timing. Career trajectory. It was always framed around Michael’s future rather than her specifically, which somehow made it feel more insulting.

Back then, it had seemed so small.

But that was the dangerous thing about certain memories. They don’t announce themselves as important while they were happening only to hurt years later after enough other pieces finally clicked around them.

During the Off the Wall, Michael still carried softness that fame hadn’t fully punished out of him yet. There was something open about him then. Earnest. He reacted before he concealed the reaction and smiled before remembering people were watching him smile—he was such an angel faced prince.

She remembered sitting on the edge of his bed at Hayvenhurst trying not to cry while music played low from somewhere across the room. One of his records spun softly near the stereo with warm bass and static hum blending into the nighttime quiet of the house.

Michael had been teasing her only minutes earlier, dancing badly on purpose yrying to make her laugh until he noticed her expression.

“What’s the matter?” he asked softly, the playfulness vanished from his voice.

She shook her head once, embarrassed now that tears had already started slipping down her cheeks. “Nothing.”

“Tears ain’t nothin’, my girl..” He crossed the room toward her without hesitation, expression tightening with concern the closer he got. “Baby, what’s wrong?” He repeated again but softer this time.

She stared down at her hands instead.

The confession felt stupid now that it sat at the edge of her mouth. Childish. Too sensitive. But it had been eating at her the entire night, growing heavier every time his father looked through her instead of at her.

Finally she whispered, “I don’t think your dad likes me..”

Michael stopped moving and then almost immediately, before anything else: “Did he say somethin’ to you?” He’s worried.

His reaction is what made her stomach sink, because to her, it meant the possibility already existed naturally in his mind by the innate urgency of his question. There was no hesitation—almost like he had already filed this away just in case a long time ago. Which, spoke volumes.

Her eyes lifted to his face then, and he looked tense in a way he hadn’t a second ago. Shoulders tighter. Mouth pressed faintly together. It looked like he was already mentally retracing the evening trying to identify where something might’ve happened.

“No,” she said quietly. “No..”

Michael exhaled softly through his nose, but it wasn’t exactly relief either.

“He just…” She swallowed hard. “I don’t know. He looks at me like I’m bothering him.”

“That’s just how he is.”

The defense came automatically—dismissive, even. And Michael seemed to realize it himself because his expression shifted immediately afterward, softer now, guiltier somehow.

She laughed weakly through the tears gathering in her throat. “So, deal with it?”

“No, I mean..” He sat beside her quickly then, turning toward her fully. “He’s.. just a mean, ugly old man stuck in his ways.”

“Yeah..”

A small gap of silence.

Michael looked down briefly, rubbing his palms together once—a nervous habit he had whenever emotions started cornering him faster than he could organize them.

“He’s not..” He paused carefully. “He doesn’t trust people around me easy—around us I mean.” The wording stung.

Around me.

It sounded like she had become another person orbiting the phenomenon of Michael Jackson rather than someone simply.. loving him. She looked away before he could see fresh tears gathering and immediately his entire demeanor softened further.

“Hey,” he murmured, moving closer until their shoulders touched. “Don’t cry, please..”

“I’m not trying to.”

“I’m sure..” His voice turned gentler still. “But you do this silly thing where you try real hard not to cry and then you get even sadder.”

Despite herself, a tiny laugh escaped her. Michael’s face relaxed instantly at the sound, he physically couldn’t tolerate her being upset for too long without trying to fix it somehow.

He reached up then and brushed his thumb carefully beneath her eye.

“He didn’t say anything mean though?” he asked again quietly and the way he was looking at her, with so much concern..

Yhat’s when she started to understand something she hadn’t fully before: Michael already spent part of his life anticipating emotional trauma before it happened because he had to. Especially from his father. The vigilance sat inside him naturally now, woven so deeply into him he probably didn’t even recognize it anymore.

“No,” she whispered. “Not yet anyway..”

Michael nodded slowly, though something still lingered in his expression. Then after a moment he leaned his head lightly against hers and said, almost shyly:

“Well.. I like you enough for everybody anyway.”

The implication was clear enough from his father.

She was temporary.

Michael’s success was not.

And Michael, for all his fame and brilliance and talent, still had remnants of a timid son inside him whenever his father entered a room. She noticed it before she understood it. The way his posture subtly shifted around Joe. The way excitement became restraint almost instantly—some invisible hand reached inside him and tightened everything smaller.

Fear? Yes, but as Michael’s grown up and matured, it's more so turned out to be.. conditioning. Years of it.

That was the part (Name) never fully learned how to navigate. Because Michael loved gently, openly even, but he had been raised inside an environment where affection often arrived tangled up with expectation. Approval was earned, performance was survival and rest rarely existed without guilt attached to it.

And now there was a growing baby sitting silently in the middle of all of that. A baby Michael did not know about yet.

Sometimes she wondered if her body already knew before her mind did. Looking back, there had been signs. The nausea she blamed on stress. The exhaustion. The strange emotional sensitivity she kept trying to laugh off. But once the test sat positive in her hands, nothing felt funny anymore.

And somewhere beneath all the panic and beneath the timing and the fear, there had been a flicker of something you could call hope. A light at the end of the tunnel of emotion.

Because she could picture him as a father too easily, not the superstar version of him but the real one. The one who held small animals with so much care because he’d genuinely cry if he accidentally hurt it. The one who crouched to speak to children at eye level instead of towering over them. The one who carried loneliness around so heavily he made sure that no one felt the way he did ever.

A child would completely alter his brain chemistry so severely—nothing would be more important than being a good dad to Michael. Which was precisely why Joe could never allow it.

(Name) realized his father knew before he ever really confirmed it.

It happened at Hayvenhurst one afternoon, things were normal. Staff moving through hallways as phones rang somewhere throughout, voices spoke softly in other rooms. Michael was upstairs working on music loud enough that bass occasionally trembled faintly through the ceiling.

She had barely been able to eat all morning and Joe noticed.

It wasn’t surprising, he had spent decades studying people for weaknesses: monitoring moods and watching behavior shifts. So when she excused herself from the kitchen too quickly after nearly getting sick from the smell of food, she already knew he was watching her leave.

(Name) had been washing her hands in the downstairs bathroom when the door opened behind her—intruding, mind you. He stood there looking at her through the mirror as she looked at him with wide, startled eyes. He’s never quite crossed a boundary like this, ever. She was afraid and rightfully so.

“You pregnant?” He asked bluntly, leaving her stunned and taking the air right out of her lungs. Her body betrayed her before her face could.

For a second neither of them spoke as water continued running softly from the faucet while her heart slammed hard against her ribcage.

Then Joe sighed once through his nose and leaned slightly against the doorway, the confirmation had merely finalized something he already suspected.

“You can’t have that baby,” He said calmly, too calmly as if he were talking to her about a scheduling conflict almost.

“He finally got the world where it need to be,” Joe continued. “You think people wanna see diapers and a babymama right now? He’s bigger than he ever been.”

Her throat tightened instantly. “Michael would want—”

“Michael don’t know what he want.” The interruption came in quick. “He too emotional,” Joe said. “Too soft. That’s his problem.”

Something hot rose in her chest then because—because the softness Joe dismissed so easily was the exact thing she loved most about Michael. But fear sat heavier than anger right now.

Because she understood suddenly, that Joe was not asking. He was positioning the future in front of her like a controlled narrative with only two acceptable endings.

Leave.

Or get rid of it.

The calls with Michael usually happened late because nighttime was the only part of Michael’s life that still belonged even partially to him. Once the house quieted down and the constant movement around him finally slowed, he became easier to reach.

She could always tell what kind of day he’d had by the way he answered the phone.

Tonight he sounded tired immediately.

“You sleepy?” she asked quietly, laying back against her pillows with the cord of the phone twisted loosely around her fingers.

A soft laugh crackled through the line. “Maybe a little.”

“You sound a little.”

“I been in the studio all day.”

She smiled faintly despite herself. Of course he had. After the release of Thriller, Michael barely seemed to exist outside studios, rehearsals, interview and stages anymore. The world was beginning to swallow him whole in real time, each week demanding more than the last.

And still, somehow, he always called her.

“What’d you work on?” she asked.

Immediately he brightened a little, she heard it happen. His little sounds he makes when he’s excited to talk about something.

“Oh, wait till you hear it,” he said softly, excitement slipping into his exhaustion now. “Quincy think we finally got the bridge right.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“No, this time for real.”

She laughed quietly and Michael laughed too, lower and breathier through the receiver.

God.. she missed him terribly and that was the problem lately. Every time she heard his voice now, the pressure inside her chest worsened because the clock in her head never stopped ticking anymore.

Weeks.. only weeks left before the choice stopped being a choice. Meanwhile Michael kept talking to her, completely oblivious.

“You still comin’ over tomorrow?” he asked after a while.

Her stomach dropped a bit. She had been avoiding Hayvenhurst more and more these past couple weeks. Not enough for him to accuse her of disappearing but it was enough that he had definitely noticed.

“I don’t know yet,” she answered softly.

A small pause. “Oh.” That one syllable carried disappointment so nakedly it made guilt rush through her instantly.

“I’ll try,” she added quickly.

“Okay.” But he sounded quieter now.

She closed her eyes hard as the urge to tell him everything had become almost unbearable recently. Sometimes she imagined just blurting it out recklessly before fear could stop her. Your father knows. I’m pregnant. I don’t know what to do.

But then Joe’s voice would replay in her mind all over again.

You think he can handle this right now?

And the horrible part was she genuinely did not know. Michael already looked exhausted all the time lately. Fame sat on him strangely during Thriller. Beautiful from the outside but crushing up close.

“I miss you,” he said suddenly.

She pressed the phone closer to her ear instinctively. “I miss you too, angel face..”

Then softly, almost shyly, Michael murmured: “I love you.” He was handing over something so, so fragile whenever he told her. And tears burned unexpectedly behind her eyes.

“I love you too,” she whispered back.

A faint sighed smile entered his voice immediately afterward.

“Okay, well.. I know you’re sleepy. So I’ll let you go. Goodnight, baby.” She says.

“Goodnight, pretty mama..” The line shifted slightly, muffled movement crackling through the receiver as though he’d moved the phone away from his mouth for a second.

Michael smiled to himself for a second after the call ended.

He kept the phone in his hand a moment longer than necessary, staring vaguely at nothing while her voice still echoed warmly around the edges of his mind. She always left him softer after conversations like that. So much calmer, part of the noise surrounding his life lowered in volume for a little while afterward.

“Goodnight,” he’d whispered one last time before hanging up.

Then the line clicked dead and the room settled back into quiet. Or almost quiet.

“You still seein’ that girl?”

Michael’s shoulders tightened immediately as he turned toward the doorway slowly, already knowing who it was before he looked up. Joe stood there with one hand braced against the frame with the expression that Michael had spent most of his life trying to interpret correctly.

The knot in Michael’s stomach formed instantly.

“Yes, Joseph.” Michael answered after a second, setting the phone back into its cradle carefully.

Joe stepped fully into the room. “Thought that would’ve burned out by now.”

Michael stayed still, arms folding loosely across his chest—defensive without trying to look defensive.

“It didn’t.”

Joe hummed once through his nose like that answer irritated him more than he planned on admitting.

Michael hated when this happened. The strange shift that occurred whenever his father entered a conversation about his personal life.

Joe glanced toward the phone briefly before looking back at him. “You spend every free minute on that damn phone.”

Michael looked away first. “I work all day.”

“That ain’t my point.” Joe moved farther into the room slowly, eyes drifting across the scattered records and notebooks around Michael’s space before settling back onto him again.

“You too distracted lately.”

Michael’s jaw tightened slightly. “I’m workin’.”

“You workin’, but your head somewhere else.”

Michael rubbed his thumb absently against his own wrist, a nervous habit he didn’t even realize he still did around his father.

“She makes me happy,” he said quietly.

The second the words left his mouth, the atmosphere changed.

Joe’s face did not soften. If anything, he looked more annoyed.

“Happy,” he repeated flatly. “Boy, you think this business care whether you happy?”

Michael swallowed hard but kept his expression neutral. He had learned young that visible emotion around Joe usually made things worse, not better. “She ain’t got nothin’ to do with my work.”

Joe laughed once under his breath. “That’s what you think.”

Michael looked up at him then, frustration finally flickering through the exhaustion in his face. “Why you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Act like every person around me has bad intentions.”

Joe’s eyes sharpened slightly at that. “Because most of ‘em do.”

“She doesn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that.” The firmness surprised even Michael a little.

Joe studied him for a long moment then, and suddenly Michael felt young in a way he hated. Emotionally. It felt like no matter how successful he became or how independent or how old he got, some part of him still reverted back into being a son standing in front of his father trying to defend pieces of himself.

“You get too attached,” Joe said finally. “That’s your problem,” he continued. “You start thinkin’ people love Michael instead of what come with Michael.”

Anger flared hot in Michael’s chest, sudden and sharp enough to surprise him. “She knew me before all this.”

“That don’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Joe sighed heavily, already sounding tired of the conversation. “You right at the edge of somethin’ huge right now. Biggest thing this family ever seen. Last thing you need is some girl distractin’ you.”

Michael’s expression hardened slightly at that. “She’s not ‘some girl.’ She’s my other half—I can’t imagine a life without her.”

Joe stared at him for a second before shaking his head once like Michael had proven a point he didn’t want proven. “That right there? That’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about.”

Michael’s chest felt tight suddenly.

Not explosive anger. Something worse. The kind that had nowhere to go. Because the truth was he was frustrated. Deeply. But frustration around his father had always been dangerous territory. Growing up, anger was something you swallowed quickly in the Jackson house before it became weakness, disrespect, punishment. Even now, years older and world famous, Michael still felt that instinct crawl up his spine whenever conversations with Joe turned heated.

Don’t escalate.. don’t push. Don’t make it worse.

So instead of saying half the things burning at the back of his throat, he just stared at the floor hard enough for his jaw to ache.

“She already got you actin’ different,” he continued. “Sensitive.”

Michael inhaled slowly through his nose. “I’m not doin’ this tonight.”

Joe scoffed softly behind him. “That girl got you thinkin’ emotionally instead of professionally.”

That finally snapped something loose.

Michael looked up quickly then, hurt flashing across his face before he could hide it properly. “Why you keep talkin’ about her like she ain’t a person?”

Joe’s expression barely shifted. “Because she ain’t the priority.”

Michael could feel his pulse in his throat now, he hated this feeling. Hated how conversations with his father always made him feel eight years old again no matter how old he actually was. Hated that even defending someone he loved felt exhausting instead of empowering.

And worst of all, he hated the small voice in his head whispering that maybe Joe would never approve of anyone because approval had always been conditional in that house. Based on usefulness. Discipline. Results.

“She matters to me,” Michael said quietly.

Joe’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You too old to still be thinkin’ with your feelings.”

Michael had spent most of his life being punished for softness in one way or another..Too sensitive. Too emotional. Too quiet. Too strange. And now the one thing in his life that actually felt safe was being spoken about like a liability too.

Without another word, Michael turned and grabbed his jacket from the chair nearby.

Joe’s voice followed immediately. “Where you goin’?”

Michael shoved his arms into the sleeves too quickly, movements tense now. “Out.”

“It’s late.”

“I know.”

Joe’s tone sharpened slightly. “Boy.”

Michael stopped near the doorway for half a second, shoulders rigid beneath the leather jacket.

For one tiny moment it almost looked like he might finally say everything he actually felt. That he was tired. That he loved her. That he was sick of every vulnerable thing in his life being treated like weakness.

Instead, all he managed quietly was: “I can’t breathe in here right now.”

Then he walked out, quickly.

The house was mostly dark now as he moved through it. A few lights left on downstairs. Distant television noise from somewhere. Staff pretending not to notice the tension rolling off him as he headed toward the front entrance.

Outside, cool night air hit his face immediately.

It helped a little but not enough.

Bill looked up from near the car the second Michael appeared. One glance at him and his expression shifted subtly in recognition.

“You alright, son?” he asked carefully.

Michael rubbed a hand hard across his face before answering.

“Can you drive me somewhere?”

Bill nodded immediately. “Course.”

Michael hesitated only a second before giving her address quietly.

Then softer, almost to himself:

“I just wanna see her.”

a/n : whew im so obsessed with michael i just had to whip something up im down bad also feedback is appreciated thank you and pls drop ideas in my ask box my requests are open i def wanna write more of him and follow me on tiktok @imnameiyaaa been posting michael edits :)

Soft golden light spilled across the suite like it belonged in a film warm against the marble surfaces, catching in the folds of velvet curtains, glinting off details that were clearly chosen to impress rather than comfort.

You were sprawled across the bed irritated. You had known his concert would run late this life came with waiting.

Your phone was in your hand as you scrolled with sharp, restless movements, the kind that said everything your silence didn’t.

You heard the keycard slide into the lock. The door opened. Closed. The soft pad of his expensive loafers tapped against the floor.

“Baby?” came his voice, softer than the stage version of him you knew the world worshipped. Tired. Careful. Almost searching.

"I know I'm late. The concert ran over, and then there was the afterparty, and i couldn't get away.”

You looked up from your phone. He was at the edge of the bed already, just standing there like he wasn’t sure if you were going to talk to him or ignore him.

“I don’t care about the afterparty, Michael,” you said, meeting him at the edge of the bed.

He sighed, long and deep. "Don't do this. Not tonight. I've had a long day. The crowd was insane, and I gave everything I had on that stage, and all I could think about was getting back to you."

You looked up at him, letting him see the frustration in your eyes.

“I’ve been in this suite for hours. I chose not to go to the show tonight. I watched you perform live from here, and then I just… waited. I’ve reorganized the minibar, counted bathroom tiles, watched like three soap operas I don’t even understand.”

He stood there in a all black tailored jacket, fitted shirt underneath slim trousers that clung to him so well.

He looked so good in black too good, honestly.

"I'm here now," he said softly.

"Are you?" You sat up, tossing your phone aside. "Because it feels like I'm dating a ghost. A very busy ghost who forgets I exist”

His jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration in his face before it softened. “You know that’s not true. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I wasn’t here.”

“Then why does it feel like that every time?” Your voice came out quieter now, less angry and more tired. “I know you don’t mean it, Michael… but I’m still the one sitting here feeling it.”

His eyes met yours again, softer now, less guarded. “It gets chaotic out there and I come off stage and it’s just… people pulling me in every direction. Interviews, crew, everyone needing something from me.” He shook his head slightly. “And then I get back here and I realize I didn’t even check in with you properly.”

He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “I’m not trying to make you feel like that.” A pause. “I swear I’m not.”

"Then prove it." You said smirking.

He took a step closer then another, not breaking eye contact once.

"You want me to prove it?" His voice dropped, losing that soft edge and gaining something darker. "Is that what this is about?."

That’s exactly what you wanted you were angry at him but deep down u wanted him you two hadn’t had sex in a while because he was so busy.

“Well-”

"Don't." He held up a hand, and your mouth snapped shut. "Don't lie to me sweetheart . I know you. I know that look in your eyes. That challenge. Like you're daring me to do something about it."

You met his gaze, refusing to back down. "Well maybe i do want you to do something about it."

He was standing too close. Looking too good. Smelling like that familiar cologne that made your focus slip.

“Mm.”

“Talk to me. Tell me what you need right now.”

A small breath left you. “You,” you said quietly. “I need you. Right now.”

A long pause and then, slowly, he reached up and unbuttoned his jacket.

He shrugged it off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor without looking at it.

Then he tugged his shirt over his head.

You couldn't help but let your eyes trail over his lean torso, the smooth skin, the subtle definition of muscles built by years of dancing.

He knelt on the bed. Not beside you. In front of you. He took your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.

"Baby," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Look at me."

You did. Oh, you always did. Those eyes of his pulled you in like gravity.

"I know I'm gone too much. I know it's hard. Harder than you thought it would be when you signed up for this." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "But I need you to understand something. When I'm out there, in those lights... a part of me is always here. With you. You're the only real thing in my life, do you understand?"

"Then why do I feel so invisible?" The words came out cracked, vulnerable.

"Because I'm an idiot." He smiled his smile was so pretty. "Because I get so caught up in trying to be perfect for everyone else that I forget to be perfect for the one person who actually matters."

The second your hands came up to grip his shoulders, the kiss deepened instantly, turning messy and heated. His mouth moved against yours with desperation now.

“Fuck…” he muttered when he finally pulled back for air, eyes dropping to your lips he was addicted to your lips.

“Your mouth is so sweet.”

He kissed you again his tongue sliding against yours, slower this time, savoring it, and the soft sound that escaped your throat only seemed to make him melt further into you. One of his hands tightened at your waist while the other moved up your neck, holding you close like he couldn’t get enough.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered against your mouth,

“How?” you asked softly, tilting your head just enough to look up at him through your lashes like you didn’t already know exactly what that tone in his voice meant.

His fingers slid slowly along your waist beneath the thin fabric of your nightgown. "I’ll show you."

“Show me then,”

He undressed you slowly. Reverently. Each piece like he was unwrapping a gift he'd been waiting years to open. When you were bare beneath him, your skin prickling in the cool hotel air, he just looked at you. His gaze traveled over every curve, every dip, every shadow.

"God, you're beautiful," he breathed. "Do you know that? Do you know how many nights I've thought about this? About you? When I'm out there, dancing, singing, giving myself to thousands of people... all I can think about is coming back here and being inside you."

He pressed you back against the pillows, his body covering yours. He kissed down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. His tongue circled your nipple, and you arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair.

"You like that?" he murmured against your skin.

"You know I do."

"I want to hear you say it."

His mouth moved lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, your hips. Your breath hitched as you realized where he was heading.

"Mikey.."

"Hmm?" He looked up at you, his lips inches from where you wanted him most. His nose traced along your inner thigh, and you felt his breath hot against your core. "Something you want to say?"

"Stop teasing."

He laughed, low and dark. "Always demanding." His hands pressed your thighs apart, spreading you open to his gaze you were so wet.

"But I know how to shut you up, don't I?"

He lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue against your clit was electric. You gasped, your hips bucking, but his big hands held you in place. He licked you slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring you. Like you were a delicacy he'd been denied for too long.

"Oh, fuck..."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Your fingers grabbed the sheets your thoughts scattered as heat blurred everything you were trying to stay mad about.

He hummed against you, the vibration alone sending a ripple straight through your whole body.

His tongue circled your clit dipping lower against your entrance. He fucked you with his tongue, and you clutched the sheets even tighter, your mind going blank.

"That's it," he said, pulling back just enough to speak. "That's my good girl. Let me hear you.”

“Couldn’t wait to get back here and put my mouth on you."

"Oh, please"

"Please what?"

"Please don't stop."

He didn't. He ate you like a man starved, his tongue working you with a skill that made your toes curl and your eyes roll. He found every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and moan. His fingers joined the party, sliding inside you, curling in that perfect come here motion that hit your g-spot dead on.

"You're so wet for me," he said, his voice muffled against your flesh. "So perfect. All mine. I can just taste how much you need me."

"Yes, yes, all yours-"

"Who do you belong to?" He looked up at you, his chin glistening, his eyes dark with hunger.

"You. Only you, Michael. I promise."

"That's right." He went back to work, his tongue lapping at your clit while his fingers pumped inside you.

The pressure was building, coiling in your belly like a spring being wound tighter and tighter. Your hips moved against his face, chasing the pleasure, and he let you. He let you ride his mouth, his tongue, his fingers.

"Come for me sweet girl," he coaxed. "Let go. I've got you. Please, baby, wanna taste it." He begged.

That was all it took. The wave crashed over you, and you screamed his name, your body convulsing as pleasure ripped through you. He didn't stop, lapping up every drop, drawing out your orgasm until you were a trembling, gasping mess. He groaned against you as you came, like he was drinking in your pleasure, needing it as much as you needed to give it.

He crawled up your body, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your neck, until he was hovering above you. You could taste yourself on his lips when he kissed you.

"See?" he whispered. "That's what you've been missing. I'm going to remind you, over and over, just how much you mean to me. I need you to know it. I need you to feel it."

He reached down, and you heard the sexy rustle of his belt, the zip of his pants. "I've been thinking about being inside you all night. Every dance move. Every moment I was on that stage, I was imagining this." He kicked his pants off, and you felt his cock, hard and thick, pressing against your thigh. "And now I'm going to fuck you until there's nothing in your head but me."

"Promises, promises." You teased.

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just a raw, predatory intent. "Still smart-mouthing? Don't worry. I know exactly how to fix that."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your slick folds. He didn't push in. He just stayed there, teasing you, letting you feel the promise of what was coming.

"Look at me."

You did. His eyes burned into yours.

"I love you," he said. "I know I don't say it enough. I know I don't show it enough. But I love you. And I'm going to spend the rest of this night proving it. I need you to understand that every time I'm out there you're all I can think about."

"Show me."

He pushed in slowly inch by inch. You felt yourself stretching around him, accommodating to his size. He filled you completely, deeper than you thought possible, and when he was fully sheathed inside you, he paused.

"Feel that?" he whispered. "That's me. All of me. Nothing between us. I need this. I need you."

"Oh fuck..it feels so good."

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you, Michael. I love you."

He began to move. Slow, deep strokes that hit places you didn't know existed. His hips rolled against yours, and the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. He wasn't fucking you fast or hard. Not yet. He was making love to you, taking his time, worshipping you with every thrust.

"You feel so good," he breathed against your ear. "Taking me so well. So perfect. This pussy was made for me, wasn't it? Tell me it's mine."

"Yes, yes, it's yours-"

"All mine. Say it."

"It's all yours. Every part of me."

He kissed you, deep and demanding, his tongue fucking your mouth in time with his cock fucking your cunt. His hand found your clit, rubbing in circles, and you felt that coil tightening again.

"Already?" He smiled against your lips. "You're so sensitive tonight. Or did you miss me that much?"

"Shut up and fuck me."

"There she is." He laughed, but it turned into a groan as he picked up the pace. "There's my bratty girl. Always gotta have the last word, don't you?"

"Make me shut up then if you don’t like it.”

His eyes flashed. He pulled out, and before you could protest, he grabbed your legs and pushed them up, hooking your ankles over his shoulders. The position opened you up completely, and when he slammed back into you, he went deeper than ever before.

“I.. you’re so deep.” you mumbled not even able to finished what you were going to say fully.

"That's what I thought." He braced his hands on either side of your head, caging you in with his body. His face was inches from yours, his breath hot on your lips. "You wanted my attention? You've got it. All of it. Every fucking drop. I'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere."

The new angle was devastating, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars literally. Your fingers clawed at his back, your moans turning into incoherent babbles. His skin was slick with sweat, the vitiligo patterns on his back glistened under the light.

"Look at you," he growled, his voice breaking with need. "Taking me like a good girl. And you were so angry earlier. So upset."

“I was-I am-“

"I know." He leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. "And I deserve it. I deserve every bit of your anger. But right now, I just want to make you feel good. I need to make you feel good. I need to feel your body come apart around me."

"Michael..." you babbled that was all you could say.

"Let it all go. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere. I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

He kissed you, sloppy and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours. His hand found yours, interlocking your fingers, pressing your palm into the mattress beside your head. He held your hand tight, like he was afraid you might disappear.

"I need you," he whispered against your lips. "I need you so bad sweet thing. You don't even know. When I'm out there, when the lights are blinding me and the crowd is screaming, I close my eyes and I see your face. That's what gets me through. That's what keeps me going."

His thrusts grew more urgent, more desperate. "I can't do this without you. I don't want to do this without you. You're everything to me."

His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed you in frantic circles, matching the pace of his hips.

"Come for me," he commanded, but his voice was raw, pleading. "Please, baby."

You shattered. Your orgasm ripped through you, so intense that you saw white. You screamed his name, your body convulsing, your inner walls clenching around him like a fist. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes locked on yours, watching you fall apart.

"That's it," he breathed. "That's my princess. I love you. I love you so much."

He didn't stop though. He kept fucking you through it, riding out every wave, every pulse. And then you felt him stiffen, heard his guttural groan as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you up completely. His body shuddered above you, his grip on your hand tightening almost painfully as he rode out his orgasm.

"I love you," he gasped, the words falling from his lips like a prayer. "I love you, I love you, I love you." He didn’t care how many times he had to say it.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcoming pressure. His cock twitched inside you as he rode out the last of his orgasm. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city below.

Finally, he shifted, pulling out slowly. But he didn't move away. He stayed close, his body still covering yours, his face buried in your neck.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against your skin. "I'm sorry I make you feel like you don't matter. I'm sorry I'm always gone. I'm sorry I'm not here when you need me."

“Michael, you-” your voice caught, breath uneven. “I’m sorry… I should’ve just-”

You looked away for half a second, guilt finally breaking through the frustration you’d been holding onto all night.

"No, let me say this." He lifted his head, and his eyes were wet. "I know I'm not easy to love. I know I'm complicated. I know I have all these walls and all these fears. But you... you break through all of them. You make me feel like I can be normal. Like I can just be a man in love with a woman."

“I know you’re tired,” you whispered. “I know you’ve been working nonstop and I just… I miss you so much sometimes it makes me angry.”

“Babygirl…” he breathed, forehead resting against yours. “You never have to apologize for wanting me.”

"Angelface." You said reaching up, cupping his face in your hands. "I'm not going anywhere. I love you. All of you. Every part of you."

"You mean that?"

"I mean it."

He kissed you, soft and sweet this time. Gentle. A promise.

"Let me show you again," he whispered.

"Ride me," he breathed. "I want to watch you.“

He shifted, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him until you were straddling his hips. His hands found your waist, guiding you as you sank down onto him, taking him deep inside you.

You moved on top of him, finding your rhythm. His hands slid up your thighs, your hips, your stomach, finally cupping your breasts. His thumbs circled your nipples, and you moaned, throwing your head back.

"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice full of awe. "How did I get so lucky? How did I find someone like you?"

“You’re so sweet” you muttered softly, almost shy now as if you weren’t currently riding him.

"I mean it." His hips bucked up into you, meeting your movements. "I don't deserve you. But I'm too selfish to let you go."

“You’re not selfish,” you murmured weakly, the words breaking apart as moans slipped from the both of you.

"I am. When it comes to you.”

He sat up, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. The position changed the angle, and you gasped as he hit that spot again. He held you tight, his face buried in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"I need you so much it hurts.“

"Tell me you're mine again."

"I'm yours. All yours."

He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. His hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements, setting the pace.

"Come for me again," he begged. "Please.”

You were close. So close. The pressure was building, coiling tight in your belly. He reached between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles.

"That's it," he coaxed. "I've got you. I'll always have you."

You came with a cry, your body shuddering against his. He held you through it, his arms wrapped tight around you, his lips pressed to your skin.

He came too, his body tensing beneath you, his groan muffled against your neck. You felt him spill inside you again the sensation sent another wave of pleasure through your oversensitive body.

You stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together, breathing together. Finally, he pulled back, looking at you with those, beautiful eyes.

"You tired yet," he said.

"Never."

"Good."

He kissed the tip of your nose. "I'm going to spend the whole night showing you how much I love you. Every hour. Every minute.”

When you woke up the suite was quiet sunlight spilled through the curtains in soft streaks, warming the sheets tangled around your legs.

At some point during the night, you must’ve drifted off completely. You didn’t even remember when.

“Morning,” Michael murmured against your skin, his voice rough with sleep.

One of his arms tightened around your waist instinctively, pulling you a little closer against him beneath the sheets.

His hand slid down your side, over your hip, settling on your thigh.

"I love you," he said again, like he couldn't say it enough. Like he needed to fill every silence with those three words.

“And i love you more.”

"I don't deserve you," he whispered.

"Stop saying that."

"It's true."

“That’s not true.”

He kissed you softly. "I'm just not used to it. Not used to someone wanting me for me."

"I want you for you. Just you."

He held you close, his body pressed against yours, his heart beating against your chest.