★nya

© yearlyjams , a reposted work from my archived blog

1989 neverland ranch

you had always loved villains.

as an actress, your favorite roles had always been the ones that let you disappear into someone darker than yourself. there was something endlessly fascinating about playing a woman with complicated motives, someone who kept audiences guessing until the very end. but every now and then, there was something equally thrilling about a villain who didn't need a tragic backstory or a grand justification. sometimes evil simply existed because it wanted to, and there was something deliciously theatrical about embracing that without apology.

so when your agent, amelia, told you they were casting for a live action adaptation of sleeping beauty, you knew exactly who you wanted to audition for.

maleficent.

an evil queen whose revenge stemmed from something as petty as not receiving an invitation to a christening. she cursed an innocent princess over wounded pride, wielded magic with effortless elegance, and commanded every room she entered without ever raising her voice.

it was perfect.

your fiancé michael loved disney movies just as much as you did, and he had been genuinely excited when you told him you were auditioning for sleeping beauty. even so, he never missed the opportunity to tease you about the fact that you somehow managed to root for the villains more often than the heroes.

he'd grin every time you passionately defended one of them, looking at you like you were impossible to figure out. thankfully, there was one disney opinion the two of you never argued over; captain hook.

even you had to admit he was just... the worst.

you were home at neverland ranch when amelia finally called.

michael was wrapping up the final stretch of the bad world tour with two closing shows in los angeles, and you were already in the middle of getting ready for tonight's concert. your outfit had ended up being almost entirely black, an oversized leather jacket thrown over a fitted black romper with sheer tights and knee-high leather boots, the kind of look that felt effortlessly bold without trying too hard. you had decided to leave your hair down, letting it fall freely over your shoulders, knowing michael would inevitably smile the second he saw you. it matched his style in a way that felt intentional without being obvious, something only the two of you would really appreciate.

your phone rang from the vanity, and the second you saw amelia's caller id on the receiver, you smiled before answering. "hey lia, what's up?" you ask with a smile.

"i know you're getting ready for michael's show so i won't hold you for long. just wanted to tell you, congratulations ms. maleficent, you got the role," she says. an excited squeal escapes you before you can stop it, your free hand immediately flying to your mouth as your heart leaps into your throat.

"i got it?" you ask and amelia laughs.

"you got it. production starts in a few months, congratulations again," she says and you smile. the smile that spreads across your face is so wide your cheeks begin to ache, and you find yourself pacing across the room because standing still suddenly feels impossible.

"i can't wait to tell michael!" you exclaim. you and amelia say your goodbyes, and after hanging up, you stand there for another moment, phone still clutched in your hand as the news settles over you. 

all the auditions, callbacks, rehearsing lines in front of the mirror, and obsessing over every little detail had been worth it. even michael had spent countless hours helping you practice whenever he had a break between rehearsals and shows, reading opposite you until he had your scenes practically memorized himself. every bit of hard work, yours and his encouragement alongside it, had led to this moment.

you were going to be maleficent.

with renewed excitement buzzing beneath your skin, you finished getting ready for the concert before making your way down to dodger stadium, unable to stop smiling because you already knew the person you wanted to tell first.

when you get to dodger stadium, michael's crew is already familiar with you. after three years together, they had seen you countless times between tour rehearsals and being on set during the short films michael was always dreaming up. by now, you weren't just michael's fiancée, you were part of the routine. they greeted you with warm smiles, waved you through without hesitation, and handed you a backstage badge to slip around your neck before sending you toward the dressing rooms.

bill spots you almost immediately, a grin spreading across his face as he walks over. "hey sweetheart," bill greets you and you smile.

"hey bill, did he eat?" you ask and bill chuckles before nodding.

"i made sure," he says and you smile. knowing michael, if someone hadn't reminded him, he probably would've been too busy rehearsing to think about it.

bill leads you through the familiar maze of hallways until he stops outside michael's dressing room. he gives the door a couple of easy knocks, waiting only a second before michael's voice drifts through the other side. 

"come in." bill opens the door for you, and you smile before stepping inside.

the moment michael looks up and realizes it's you standing there, his entire face lights up. his eyes immediately travel over your outfit, lingering for just a second as an unmistakable smile spreads across his face.

"baby!" he exclaims, crossing the room so quickly you barely have time to brace yourself before he's wrapping his arms around you. he lifts you effortlessly off the ground, spinning you around as your laughter fills the dressing room and your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders. "i missed you," he says.

"you just saw me last night," you tease with another giggle.

"i know but i had to leave so early this morning, i wasn't even there when you woke up," he says with a pout. your heart melts at the sight. after three years together, michael had never stopped missing you the moment you were apart, even if it was only overnight.

"it's okay, baby... guess what? i have some exciting news," you say and michael's eyes light up.

"are you pregnant?" he asks, suddenly as giddy as a child and you can't help laughing.

the excitement on his face is so sincere that it makes your heart ache a little. his eyes sparkle with the kind of hope he has never tried to hide from you, because from the beginning michael has talked about the family he dreams of building together. you want that future just as much as he does, but not yet. there are still dreams the two of you are chasing before little footsteps fill the halls of neverland.

"no, you silly man," you say and his playful pout is so exaggerated that you know he's putting it on just to make you feel guilty, and you roll your eyes affectionately before cupping his face between your hands. the moment you kiss his pouting lips, the performance crumbles and his pout is replaced by the smile he always seemed incapable of hiding whenever you kissed him.

"amelia called this morning... i got the role in the live action sleeping beauty. i am maleficent," you say with a smile. michael is still holding you against him, your legs wrapped comfortably around his waist, and he immediately pulls you even closer until you're practically tucked against his chest.

"baby! that's amazing! oh im so proud, mama," he says, his excitement bubbling over so naturally that you can't help laughing. there wasn't a hint of jealousy or competition in his voice, only pure pride, the same unwavering support he'd shown while helping you rehearse your audition scenes between his own rehearsals and concerts.

you feel your cheeks warming beneath his praise. unable to resist, you straighten slightly in his arms, letting your expression harden as you slipped into character without warning.

"she shall prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel... and die!" you exclaimed dramatically, but fully in character. the playful warmth disappears from your face so completely that michael actually stills. it's always amazed him how easily you could switch on and off.

for just a heartbeat you're no longer his fiancée he's holding in his dressing room. you're the woman who cursed a kingdom without an ounce of remorse. by the time you finish the line, he's staring at you with wide eyes, almost forgetting to blink before a disbelieving laugh finally escapes him.

"you're definitely going to terrify everyone," he says and you immediately soften as you start laughing. the cold, commanding queen vanished as quickly as she'd appeared, leaving only you smiling back at him.

"good," you say.

michael laughs before leaning in again. the kiss is gentle, lingering just long enough for the excitement buzzing inside you to settle into something warm. when he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours for a moment, both of you smiling like children who'd just been handed the greatest surprise. between the role you had dreamed of playing and the man celebrating it like it was his own accomplishment, you couldn't remember the last time your heart had felt this full.

you couldn't wait to start filming.

a year later, you stood beneath the flashing lights of the red carpet at the premiere of the live action sleeping beauty. the black gown custom designed for you flowed elegantly with every step you took, dramatic without overwhelming you, and resting atop your head was a delicate crown inspired by maleficent's iconic headpiece. it was subtle enough to feel regal rather than costume, but anyone who had seen the film immediately understood the tribute.

michael never let your hand leave his as the two of you made your way down the carpet together.

camera flashes erupted from every direction while photographers called both of your names, asking for one more picture, one more smile. michael leaned down every few moments to whisper something into your ear that was just ridiculous enough to make you laugh, earning exactly the candid reactions the photographers were hoping for. every so often, he'd glance at you with that unmistakable softness in his eyes before pressing a quick kiss against your cheek, completely unfazed by the thousands of people watching.

it wasn't an act for the cameras, this was simply how he loved you.

before long, the two of you were gently ushered toward the line of reporters waiting for interviews. after answering a few questions about your preparation for the role, the physical demands of portraying maleficent, and your lifelong fascination with disney villains, one interviewer smiled before asking what was your favorite moment on set.

"oh, definitely when michael came with some of his nephews and his nieces. when they saw me in full costume, bless their hearts, they were in awe of me but also terrified of me. when i was done for the day and my look was deconstructed, his niece said... auntie, you're never gonna be mean to us like that, are you?" you ask with a small laugh.

the memory still made you smile.

beside you, michael chuckled to himself, already knowing exactly where the story was going as he shook his head. "they kept clinging to me whenever she was filming scenes because they had never seen her like that before," michael says.

you laughed again, remembering how every time you walked onto set in full costume, the children would instinctively drift toward michael, peeking around his legs just enough to keep an eye on you. they wanted to watch, fascinated by the towering horns, dark robes, and piercing stare, but they weren't entirely convinced you weren't actually the evil fairy.

"but i assured them that auntie was just pretending and they know who i really am and they know i'd never treat them the way maleficent treats aurora," you say and the interviewer nods.

"why do you love playing villains so much?" she asks.

you paused for just a moment, considering the question even though you'd been asked some version of it countless times throughout filming.

"i guess because i like stepping into another character's shoes and figuring out how their mind works. what are the circumstances that got them here? what are they thinking about while constructing these plans? what are they thinking during the moment? it's all so complex and fun to explore," you say with a smile.

the interviewer nodded thoughtfully before turning toward michael.

"and mr. jackson, we know you also love disney movies but have more biased to the heroes, what's it like to see your fiancee taking on villainous roles?" the interviewer asks.

michael looked over at you first, smiling in that quiet, affectionate way that always made your heart flutter before turning back toward the microphone.

"it's incredible. i know i tease her about it all the time, but she really does incredible work. she brings a sort of humanity to these villains where even if you don't fully understand their motives, or even if you don't agree, you want to try to understand, im very excited for everyone to see this, to see her," michael praises.

your eyes drifted toward him as he spoke, your smile growing softer with every word. after all these years together, hearing him talk about your work with so much admiration never became something you expected. he celebrated your accomplishments as though they were his own, and somehow managed to make you feel just as proud of yourself as he already was.

the interview wrapped up soon after, and with one last wave to the cameras, you and michael made your way inside for the premiere.

sitting beside him in the theater, you found yourself stealing nervous glances at the audience throughout the film. every laugh landed exactly where it was supposed to, every gasp rippled through the room at just the right moments, and by the time the credits began to roll, the theater erupted into applause that seemed to go on forever.

only once you were finally back in the car, leaving the lights of the premiere behind as the drive to neverland stretched out before you, did you finally let yourself breathe.

the adrenaline slowly melted away, replaced by a quiet exhaustion that settled comfortably over you.

without saying a word, michael reached for you, guiding you against his side until your head rested over his chest, his arm wrapping securely around your shoulders as his fingers lazily stroked your arm.

"just like i told that interviewer. you're incredible," he says.

you smiled to yourself, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear as the words settled warmly in your chest. of every compliment you'd received that evening from critics, directors, and reporters, somehow his was the only one that made your eyes sting.

"i love you, michael, thank you for always believing in me and supporting me," you say.

michael's hand gently found your chin, encouraging you to look up at him. the pride in his eyes hadn't faded since the moment you'd told him you got the role a year earlier, and it was still there now as he leaned down, brushing his lips against yours in a slow, lingering kiss that said everything words couldn't.

when he pulled away, he rested his forehead lightly against yours, smiling so softly it made your own smile impossible to hide.

"i love you more, mama."

1979 los angeles

You couldn't believe it. Tonight was the night you'd be attending the Destiny World Tour for The Jacksons. Your mom had gotten you tickets as an early Christmas present since their tour didn't come back to California until December, and the second she handed you the envelope weeks ago, you had screamed so loudly your little brother thought something terrible had happened. You were going with your best friend, who was also a huge fan of The Jacksons, and for the last month, the two of you had done almost nothing except talk about the concert.

But everyone who knew you knew that your favorite was Michael.

You had every one of his solo Motown albums stacked carefully beside your record player, and ever since Off The Wall was released a few months ago, the vinyl practically never left your turntable. The album had become the soundtrack to your apartment lately, filling every quiet moment with something warm and alive, and right now, "I Can't Help It" drifted softly through your bedroom while you got ready in front of your vanity mirror.

Your friend would be picking you up soon, but you refused to rush through any part of tonight. The two of you had front row seats, actual front row seats, close enough for the boys to see your faces clearly, and even though you tried to tell yourself you weren't dressing up specifically for Michael Jackson to notice you... You absolutely were.

Steam still lingered faintly in your room from your shower as you moved carefully through your routine, taking your time rubbing lotion into your skin before smoothing body oil over your legs and collarbones until they caught the warm glow of your bedroom lamp. A sweet perfume followed after, settling against your pulse points while Off The Wall continued spinning softly in the background.

Then came the dress. The champagne-colored fabric shimmered every time you moved, delicate beadwork catching the light like scattered diamonds across the soft material. The deep neckline and loose, flowing sleeves gave it an effortless glamour, and when you stepped back to look at yourself in the mirror, the dress moved around your body like liquid gold.

Your hair took the longest.

You carefully curled it away from your face before pinning part of it back beneath a silky satin scarf tied around your head in a soft wrap, the warm brown fabric complementing your skin beautifully while loose curls framed your face and fell down your shoulders. The look felt glamorous without trying too hard, polished but soft, and by the time you finished your makeup with glossy lips and shimmering eyeshadow, you finally allowed yourself to grin at your reflection.

Maybe Michael Jackson would notice you tonight. The thought immediately made your stomach flip.

Right as you finished putting on your earrings, there was a knock at the door. You hurried to answer it, and the second you opened the door, both you and your best friend broke into excited smiles at the sight of each other already dressed for the night.

"Girl, you look good. No way Michael doesn't notice you," she says, and heat instantly rushes into your cheeks.

She looked gorgeous too, dressed in a fitted jumpsuit with her hair feathered perfectly, but unlike you, her attention had always been firmly on Jackie. She'd had a thing for older men for as long as you'd known her, and despite both of you being the same age as Michael, twenty-one years old and convinced adulthood meant you had your lives together when neither of you actually did, she swore Jackie Jackson was the finest man alive.

The one thing the two of you did agree on, though, was that behind your favorite Jacksons, you both shared the same second-favorite brother: Marlon.

"And if Jackie wasn't already married, maybe you'd have a chance," you tease, and she gasps dramatically before both of you dissolve into laughter loud enough for your downstairs neighbor to probably hear.

"You grab the gift you wanted to hopefully give to Michael?" she asks, and your eyes widen immediately.

"Oh, my God." You spin around and run back toward your room before she can even finish laughing at you. Your heart pounds while you search your vanity until you finally spot the small wrapped book sitting beside your lamp, and relief floods through you as you grab it carefully.

You knew it was silly. Realistically, there was almost no chance you'd actually get close enough to hand something directly to Michael Jackson at a sold-out concert full of screaming fans and security guards.

But you wanted to try anyway.

Months ago, during an interview, Michael had mentioned loving classic literature, the way books let him disappear into other worlds whenever life became overwhelming, and for some reason, that answer had stayed with you. So when you'd gone Christmas shopping downtown last week and spotted a beautiful vintage copy of one of your favorite classic novels, you bought it without even thinking twice.

Inside the front cover was a handwritten letter folded carefully between the pages. Nothing crazy or embarrassing. Just something honest. Thanking him for his music and what he gives to the world.  You hoped maybe, if he ever read it, he'd understand that not everyone saw him as just a superstar.

Your best friend smiles knowingly the second she sees the book tucked against your chest as you return to the front door.

"You're so down bad," she says while shaking her head, and you roll your eyes even though she's absolutely right.

The two of you leave your apartment together, your heels clicking against the pavement while the cool December air brushes against your skin. Excitement buzzes through you so intensely it almost feels electric as you slide into her car, and the entire drive to The Forum in Inglewood is spent singing Jackson's songs at the top of your lungs and arguing over which brother was most likely to fall in love with one of you first.

You feel the energy before you even make it inside the venue, the second you step out of the car, it's everywhere.

People flood the parking lot dressed in glitter, platform heels, satin shirts, and leather jackets, their voices blending together into one giant current of excitement pulsing through the night air. Men, women, kids sitting on their parents' shoulders, groups of girls already screaming before the concert even started,  everyone here for one reason.

The Jacksons.

The entire show was sold out, and every flashing marquee and crowded entrance only made it feel more real. Your mom somehow managed to get front row seats for this. Front row. Every time you remembered it, your chest tightened with excitement all over again.

By the time you and your best friend finally push your way through the sea of people and reach your seats, your adrenaline is so high you can barely sit still.

Then the lights go down.

The crowd erupts instantly into deafening screams, and the second the opening notes of "Dancing Machine" hit through the speakers, you and your best friend grab each other at the exact same time, both of you practically jumping in your seats.

And then they appear. The boys explode onto the stage in flashing lights and glittering costumes, and the entire arena loses its mind.

Especially Michael. Pictures and television did absolutely nothing to prepare you for what he was like in person.

He moved like electricity itself had taken human form, every spin and sharp movement effortless, while sweat glistened against his skin beneath the stage lights. His voice cut through the arena smooth and alive, and every time he smiled at the crowd, thousands of girls screamed so loudly the floor beneath your feet almost seemed to vibrate.

Song after song, the boys are incredible, but Michael completely pulls you under without even trying.

The confidence he carried onstage was hypnotizing, so different from the soft-spoken version of him you'd seen in interviews. Here, he was magnetic. Untouchable. All flashing smiles, sharp choreography, and endless energy that seemed to consume the entire room.

You and your best friend are screaming every lyric until your throats burn, dancing so hard your curls are starting to stick to your skin despite the cool December air still lingering faintly inside the arena.

And somewhere halfway through the set, while clutching the small wrapped book tightly against your chest between songs, you catch Michael glancing toward your side of the stage for just a second longer than before.

Long enough for your stomach to completely flip over.

Throughout the night, Michael's eyes kept finding you in the crowd without him even meaning for it to happen. There were thousands of people packed into The Forum tonight, thousands of screaming fans reaching toward the stage beneath flashing lights and clouds of heat rising from the audience, but somehow his attention continuously drifted back to you anyway.

Maybe it was the way your dress shimmered every time you moved, the delicate beadwork catching the stage lights until you practically glowed amongst the crowd, or maybe it was the way you danced so freely, completely immersed in the music instead of trying to fight for his attention like everyone else around you. You looked like you were genuinely enjoying yourself, singing every lyric with your whole chest, smiling so brightly that even from the stage he could see it.

And Michael found himself watching you just as much as he was performing.

Every time he moved toward your side of the stage, his eyes searched for you automatically, and every single time, he found you already looking back at him. Your curls bounced around your shoulders while you danced, the silky scarf tied around your hair staying perfectly in place despite how much you moved, and the second your eyes met his, your smile always widened like you couldn't quite believe this was real either.

By the middle of the show, even his brothers had started noticing, especially Marlon.

Marlon kept smirking every time Michael somehow ended up near your side of the stage again.

Then the opening notes of "I'll Be There" begin, and the energy inside the stadium softens almost instantly. The screaming doesn't stop, but it changes, becoming more emotional as the boys slow their movements onstage. Michael drifts closer toward the edge of the platform while Jackie starts the opening lines, and your breath catches immediately because he's moving directly toward your section.

Toward you.

Your best friend grabs your arm tightly beside you. "What are you doing?" you whisper to her over the noise of the crowd, but she's already nudging you forward excitedly.

"He's coming down here in your direction. Try to go forward," she whispers back before pushing lightly against your shoulder again.

You stare at her like she's completely insane, but when you look back up, Michael is still getting closer, his voice floating beautifully through the arena while his eyes remain fixed on you in a way that makes your stomach twist itself into knots. Even his brothers are starting to glance toward him curiously now, clearly trying to figure out what exactly he's doing.

Then Michael reaches the edge of the stage and gestures for you to come closer. Your heart feels like it completely stopped.

For a second, you can't even move, frozen beneath the overwhelming reality of thousands of people screaming around you while Michael Jackson stands there looking directly at you, waiting for you to come closer to him. Your best friend shoves you lightly again, panic and excitement written all over her face.

"Go!"

You stumble forward instinctively, and before security can fully process what's happening, your best friend suddenly lets out an exaggerated scream behind you, clutching dramatically at her chest like she's about to faint. Several security guards immediately rush toward her, and when you turn back in confusion, she winks at you quickly and motions for you to keep moving.

You almost laugh from disbelief. Instead, you slip past the distraction she created, your pulse pounding violently in your chest while you move closer and closer to the stage until Michael is suddenly right there in front of you.

His brothers smoothly take over the melodies while Michael lowers the microphone slightly away from his mouth, giving himself room to focus completely on you, and the second you're standing directly below him, tears spill down your cheeks before you can stop them. The entire night had already overwhelmed you emotionally, seeing him live, hearing him sing in person, being close enough to actually see the sweat against his skin beneath the stage lights, but now you were standing face-to-face with Michael Jackson while he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

You clutch the small book tightly against your chest, and Michael notices immediately.

"Hi, pretty... is that for me?" he asks softly.

His voice is gentler now, almost hidden beneath the music still playing around the arena, and your throat tightens so badly you can only nod your head in response. Michael smiles instantly, warm and beautiful and somehow even more overwhelming up close than he was from the stage.

"How'd you manage to slip past security?" he whispers.

A shaky laugh escapes you despite your nerves. "My best friend gave a pretty good distraction," you admit quietly, and Michael laughs softly under his breath at that. The sound sends warmth flooding through your chest so intensely that it almost makes you dizzy.

Then you notice movement behind you. A few security guards are already starting toward you before Michael casually lifts his hand slightly in their direction, silently stopping them in their tracks.

"Don't worry about them, honey," he says gently, and the pet name alone nearly makes your knees weak.

Michael reaches forward for the gift in your hands, his fingers brushing lightly against yours when he takes the small book from you. Instead of handing it off to someone backstage or passing it to security, he tucks it carefully into the waistband of his pants like it's something important, like it actually matters to him that you brought it.

Then his hand lifts toward your face. Your breathing catches completely the second his palm settles softly against your cheek.

The screaming crowd, the lights, the music, all of it suddenly fades into the background beneath the warmth of his touch. His thumb brushes gently along your cheekbone while he looks at you with an expression so soft it almost doesn't feel real, and your entire body goes still when you realize he's leaning closer toward you.

Your eyes widen slightly before fluttering shut altogether the moment his lips press softly against yours.

The audience absolutely erupts.

Screams explode throughout the stadium so loudly that the floor beneath your feet almost seems to shake, but you barely hear any of it because all you can focus on is Michael kissing you like he momentarily forgot there were thousands of people watching him.

His lips are warm and impossibly soft against yours, and when you kiss him back instinctively, Michael melts deeper into the kiss for a brief second, his hand tightening ever so slightly against your cheek while he gently pulls you closer toward the stage.

The moment only lasts a few seconds, but it feels endless.

When Michael finally pulls away, he's smiling at you so brightly that your chest aches from it while you stand there completely stunned, your lips still tingling from the kiss and your mind struggling to process that this was actually happening.

"You and your friend come backstage after the show, okay? I'll tell security to let you through... what's your name?" he asks softly.

Your heart stutters violently inside your chest. Your voice shakes slightly when you tell him your name, but the second he hears it, Michael's smile somehow widens even more.

"Beautiful name for a beautiful girl... see you soon, pretty," Michael says with a wink before stepping backward toward center stage again, seamlessly falling back into the performance beside his brothers like he hadn't just completely altered your entire world in front of a sold-out stadium.

You remain frozen there for several seconds afterward, your chest rising and falling too quickly while the crowd around you screams hysterically. Then you feel a gentle hand touch your arm, one of the security guards carefully guiding you back toward your seat, and the second you reach your best friend again, she grabs both of your shoulders so hard you almost lose your balance.

Both of you let out startled little screams at the exact same time, the adrenaline from what just happened still rushing wildly through your systems. "Did he really just kiss you?" she asks breathlessly, staring at you like she can't fully process what she just witnessed.

You nod your head quickly, still looking completely stunned yourself. "And he told us to come backstage too," you say, and her eyes widen so dramatically it nearly makes you laugh despite the fact that your entire body still feels shaky.

"Oh, my god." The two of you spend the rest of the concert in a complete daze after that.

Every song somehow feels even more electric than before, your cheeks aching from how hard you keep smiling while you scream lyrics until your throat burns alongside your best friend. Every time Michael glances toward your side of the stage again, your stomach twists itself into knots all over again, and more than once, you catch Marlon grinning knowingly in Michael's direction whenever he drifts too close to your section.

None of it feels real: not the kiss, not the way he touched your face, and certainly not the fact that Michael Jackson wanted to see you again after the concert was over.

By the time the final song ends and the house lights begin coming back up, the rush inside The Forum feels almost more chaotic than before the show started. Thousands of people pour toward the exits while security moves quickly around the venue, but instead of heading toward the parking lot with everyone else, you and your best friend are escorted backstage by one of the guards Michael spoke to earlier.

The entire walk feels surreal.

Your heels click nervously against the concrete hallways while muffled voices and movement echo throughout the backstage corridors, and every few seconds, you glance at your friend like you need her to confirm this is actually happening.

"He gave them your name," she whispers excitedly for what feels like the tenth time. "Michael Jackson literally gave security your name."

"Stop saying it like that," you whisper back, even though your own heart pounds harder every single time you hear it out loud.

Eventually, the security guard stops in front of one of the dressing rooms and knocks firmly against the door before stepping back. A few seconds later, the door swings open.

And there he is.

Michael's curls are damp with sweat from the show, several strands sticking lightly against his forehead while the gold stage shirt he wore during the concert hangs partially unbuttoned now, exposing glimpses of warm brown skin beneath the fabric. Up close, he looks softer than he did onstage somehow, the overwhelming electricity of performer Michael settling into something gentler now that the concert is over.

Then he sees you standing there, and smiles instantly. "Hi, pretty," he greets you warmly, and heat immediately rushes back into your cheeks all over again.

"Hi, Michael," you say softly. He steps aside to let both of you inside, but when you start moving forward, you notice your best friend staying planted in the hallway instead.

You stop immediately. "What are you doing?" you ask quietly.

"I'm not going to cockblock you, spend some time with him," she whispers back dramatically.

Your eyes widen. "What about you?"

Michael laughs softly from beside the doorway when he overhears the exchange, the sound low and amused as he glances between the two of you. Then his eyes shift toward Bill, who's standing further down the hallway nearby.

"Bill, can you take her to LaToya? I think they'll get along well," Michael says.

Bill nods immediately, and your best friend's face lights up so quickly you almost burst into laughter. "LaToya Jackson?" she mouths silently toward you.

You barely have time to react before she's already walking away beside Bill, shooting you one last look over her shoulder that very clearly says don't screw this up. Then Michael closes the dressing room door gently behind you, and suddenly it's just the two of you.

The quiet feels almost strange after the overwhelming noise of the concert.

For a moment, you simply look around the room while trying to calm your racing heartbeat. The dressing room itself isn't particularly glamorous, not the way you imagined celebrity dressing rooms would look, but it feels lived in after the hours Michael's spent there tonight. Garment bags hang near the wall beside pieces of stage costumes, half-finished drinks sit abandoned near the couch, and the air still smells faintly like sweat, cologne, and stage makeup.

"Do you kiss all your fans and invite them backstage to meet you?" you tease lightly as you walk slowly around the room. Michael's sitting on the couch now, wiping lingering sweat from his brow with a towel, and he chuckles softly before shaking his head.

"No, I don't," he says sincerely. The honesty in his voice makes your heart stutter unexpectedly.

You turn toward him fully then, studying his face carefully while your nerves slowly begin mixing with curiosity. "So, what makes me different?" you ask quietly.

Michael stands from the couch almost immediately after you say it, crossing the room until barely any space remains between the two of you again. Up close, his presence feels almost overwhelming in the softest possible way, all warmth and quiet intensity beneath those deep brown eyes.

"I don't know..." he admits softly. "It was just something I felt when I looked at you. You weren't trying to get attention, you were just enjoying the show... I could tell you felt the music just as deeply as I did."

Your stomach twists at his words, and you bite down lightly against your lip while trying, unsuccessfully, to stop smiling. "So, Mr. Jackson," you tease softly, "what exactly did you intend to happen by inviting me back here?"

This time, Michael's confidence falters a little. He bites his lip shyly before rubbing the back of his neck nervously, suddenly looking much younger and softer than the magnetic performer who had kissed you in front of thousands of people less than an hour ago.

"I was hoping..." He pauses briefly before meeting your eyes again. "Maybe I could have your number and call you sometime?"

Your eyes widen instantly. For a second, you genuinely can't process what he just said. Michael Jackson wanted your phone number. The realization sends warmth rushing through your entire body so quickly you feel almost dizzy from it, and all you can think is that your mother was absolutely never going to believe this story.

"I'm just a random fan who came to a show..." You say softly, still struggling to understand why he was looking at you like this. "You could have anyone you want."

Michael shrugs gently at that before stepping even closer toward you again. "I know," he says quietly. "But I don't want just anybody."

His hand lifts slowly until his palm settles against your cheek once more, and the second his skin touches yours, your breath catches sharply in your throat again. Michael smiles immediately when he hears it, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheekbone while your eyes lift to meet his.

God, those eyes. Warm brown and impossibly soft now that there wasn't a stage separating you from him.

"You're one of the biggest names in the world right now," you whisper, still sounding slightly overwhelmed by the reality of this entire night.

"Let me prove to you I'm not like any other guy, pretty..." Michael says softly. "Because I can't let you leave this venue without knowing that I can see you again." The words settle deep inside your chest instantly, and judging by the way Michael continues looking at you, it's clear he means every single one of them.

"I wrote you a letter... in the book I gave you, I can write my number down at the end," you say softly, and Michael's entire face brightens at that in a way that makes warmth spread through your chest instantly.

Before he even lets you pull away to retrieve the book, he leans forward and kisses you again.

The suddenness of it catches you off guard at first, a soft, surprised sound leaving your throat before you immediately melt into him anyway. Michael's lips move gently against yours, slower this time, like now that the shock of the first kiss has passed, he wants to actually feel you kissing him back. Your hands settle instinctively against his torso, feeling the lingering warmth beneath the thin fabric of his shirt while his thumb brushes softly along your jaw in slow, absentminded movements that make your entire body feel light.

For someone who had just spent the last two hours commanding an arena filled with screaming fans, there was something unexpectedly tender about the way Michael kissed you.

Like he was trying to memorize the feeling of you already.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes linger on your lips for another second before he reluctantly steps back and walks toward the vanity where he'd placed the book earlier. You watch him flip it carefully in his hands before grabbing a pen nearby and returning to you again, his stage jewelry glinting beneath the warm dressing room lights.

"How'd you know I liked classics?" Michael asks as he hands the book back to you.

"I remembered you said it in an interview, and this is one of my favorites," you explain softly.

The answer makes something tighten painfully in Michael's chest.

He knew he didn't really know you. Realistically, you were a girl he'd spotted in the crowd only hours ago, a stranger whose name he'd learned hours earlier, and yet somehow you already felt different from anyone else he'd met in a very long time. There had been something pulling him toward you all night, something magnetic he still couldn't fully explain, but hearing that you remembered a tiny detail from an interview and chose one of your favorite books because of it made his heart stumble hard against his ribs.

Many people listened to him; very few people paid attention to him.

You carefully open the book to the folded letter tucked inside, and Michael's eyes drift over your face while you unfold it gently, smoothing the paper against the cover before adding your number beneath your name where you'd already signed it earlier. The sight alone feels strangely intimate to him, watching you write something so personal into a gift you'd chosen specifically for him.

Once you finish, you slide the letter back into place and hand the book over again. Michael smiles softly before setting it carefully back down on the vanity instead of tossing it aside with the rest of his things.

"I promise I'll call," he says.

There's something earnest in his voice when he says it, something sincere enough that you actually believe him, even though a tiny part of your brain is still struggling to comprehend that Michael Jackson is standing in front of you promising to call you.

You smile a little as you look at him. "I'll hold you to it," you tease, pointing a playful finger toward him.

Michael laughs softly at that, but before you can even react further, his hands suddenly find your waist again, pulling you against him with enough confidence this time that it makes your breath catch sharply in your throat.

Then he kisses you for the third time, and this one feels different. The first kiss had been shocking and impulsive beneath thousands of screaming lights. The second had been softer, slower, almost curious. But this kiss? Now Michael knows the rhythm of your mouth against his, he kisses you like he means to remember it.

There's more emotion behind it now, more certainty in the way his lips move against yours while his hands tighten gently at your waist, and you can feel the growing passion underneath his softness as though he's pouring every unspoken thought into the kiss itself. It almost feels like he's sealing the promise he just made to you with it, silently asking you to believe him when he says he wants to see you again.

Your arms slide around his neck instinctively while you kiss him back, and Michael exhales softly against your lips at the feeling of you holding him closer. For a moment, neither of you seems to want to stop.

When you finally pull apart, both of you are slightly breathless from it, and Michael leans his forehead against yours while trying to steady his breathing. You can feel the warmth of his skin, hear the faint unevenness in his breath, and somehow that affects you almost more than the kisses themselves because it makes him feel real.

Not Michael Jackson, the superstar. Just Michael.

"I'll see you soon, pretty, I promise," he says softly before leaning forward to give you one last gentle peck against your lips.

The night eventually ends with you and your best friend sitting in her car outside your apartment building long after she parked, both of you still too overwhelmed to actually go inside yet.

You recount everything that happened inside Michael's dressing room while she practically vibrates in the driver's seat listening to you, interrupting every few seconds with horrified screaming whenever you mention another detail. Meanwhile, she tells you that being taken to LaToya somehow turned into meeting Jackie too, and despite trying desperately not to act like a complete fangirl in front of him, Jackie apparently found her nervousness adorable.

"You don't understand," she says dramatically. "Jackie Jackson smiled at me."

You burst into laughter before admitting that Michael kissed you two more times after she left the room and asked for your number personally, and the sound she makes afterward is loud enough that someone passing nearby probably thinks something terrible happened.

The two of you eventually make your way upstairs, still giddy with excitement, your ears ringing faintly from the concert and your body exhausted in the best possible way.

Tonight, you saw your favorite band live, and you met them. Michael Jackson kissed you three separate times in one night, and somehow, unbelievably, he still wanted to see you again afterward.

As you lie awake later, staring up at your ceiling with swollen lips and Michael's kisses still lingering like warmth against your skin, one thought keeps replaying over and over in your head, no matter how hard you try to process everything else.

This was the best night of your life.

The digital clock on the small dashboard up front glowed a faint, radioactive green: 3:14 AM.

Outside the tinted windows of the Custom Coach tour bus, the dark, flat stretches of the Midwestern highway blurred past in a monotonous hum. Inside the cabin was a narrow cavern of shadow, smelling of stale upholstery, Aqua Net, leather jackets, and the lingering, sweet scent of fast-food grease from a late-night pit stop three states back. The engine vibrated beneath the floorboards, a steady, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of tires against the asphalt seams that acted like a mechanical lullaby for the ten exhausted people crammed into the vehicle.

You lay perfectly still in your narrow, mid-level bunk, your eyes wide open, staring at the padded vinyl ceiling just a foot above your face. You couldn’t sleep. You hadn’t slept properly since Pittsburgh.

Being hired as a wardrobe assistant and personal coordinator for the Jacksons’ 1979 Destiny Tour was supposed to be the break of a lifetime. As a young black woman trying to break into the industry, having the biggest family in music on your resume was golden. But the reality was a dizzying whirlwind of high-stakes pressure, endless rows of silver-sequeled shirts, ironing out creases under the blinding backstage lights, and navigating the intense, chaotic energy of the five Jackson brothers.

And then, there was Michael.

Your best friend. The boy you’d known since you were kids, back before the world fully claimed him, back when he was just the skinny kid with the biggest laugh and the loudest talent in the neighborhood. You’d stayed close through the Motown transition, through the move to Encino, through the name change to the Jacksons, and now into this monumental moment where he was shedding his teen-idol skin and stepping into something terrifyingly mature, brilliant, and magnetic.

But being his best friend on a tight, claustrophobic tour bus where his overprotective brothers, an eagle-eyed tour manager, and their security detail were always watching? It was a recipe for pure, agonizing tension. Because lately, the way Michael looked at you hadn’t felt very brotherly at all. And the way your heart hammered against your ribs every time he leaned in close to whisper a joke in your ear was getting impossible to hide.

A sudden, sharp rattle from the bus’s suspension made you flinch. You held your breath, listening.

Across the narrow, carpeted aisle, tucked behind a matching set of heavy, dark blue velvet curtains, Marlon was snoring softly. Below him, Jackie was dead to the world. The whole bus was an obstacle course of sleeping bodies and strict boundaries.

J*e Jackson wasn’t on this particular leg of the tour, but his spirit lingered in the rigid discipline expected of the brothers. No distractions. No scandals. No messing around with the crew. If anyone caught you so much as holding hands with the lead singer, you’d be off the tour and on a greyhound bus back home before sunrise, and Michael would face the wrath of a family dynamic that demanded absolute focus.

Suddenly, the soft, distinctive slide of plastic rings against a metal rod broke the silence of the cabin. Your chest tightened. You froze, your ears straining over the low drone of the engine.

Slow, hesitant footsteps padded softly against the thin carpet. They were weightless, almost silent–the unmistakable gait of someone who spent his life dancing on his toes. The footsteps stopped right outside your bunk.

For a second, there was nothing but the steady hum of the highway. Then, the heavy velvet curtain of your bunk parted an inch. A silver of the low, amber floor lighting cut across the dark interior, revealing a familiar, striking silhouette.

Michael.

His massive, perfectly rounded afro was backlit by the faint amber glow, framing his face in a halo of soft shadow. He was wearing his favorite, oversized red and white striped pajama pants and a thin, white cotton shirt that clung to the lean, dancer-cut lines of his chest and shoulders. His brown skin, smooth and dark, caught the dim light, looking damp and glowing. His large, expressive doe eyes searched the darkness of your bunk, wide and restless.

“You awake?” he whispered.

The sound of his voice was barely a breath, a soft, raspy murmur that vibrated straight through the quiet air and sent a shiver down your spine. He sounded so young, so gentle, yet there was a heavy, breathless weight to it that made your pulse instantly quicken.

“Michael?” you breathed, pushing yourself up slightly on your elbows, the thin cotton sheet pooling around your waist. “What are you doing? Oh my god, go back to bed.”

“I can’t,” he whispered back, his bottom lip turning out in a slight, boyish pout that you could just make out in the dim light. He shifted his eight from one foot to the other, looking around the dark cabin nervously before looking back around the dark cabin nervously before looking back at you. “My brain won’t turn off. I’ve been laying there for three hours just staring at the ceiling. The music won’t stop playing in my head. It’s just… buzzing.”

“Michael, your brothers are right across the aisle,” you hissed under your breath, your heart beginning to slam against your ribs like a trapped bird. You glanced frantically toward Marlon’s curtain, terrified it would twitch open. “If Jackie wakes up, or if the driver looks in the rearview mirror and see you standing here—”

“They won’t,” Michael cut in softly.

A tiny, teasing smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and pure exhaustion. He leaned a little closer, lowering his head into the opening of your bunk. “Marlon sleeps like a log, you know that. You could fire a cannon in here and he’d just roll over. Please? Just let me sit with you for a little bit. Just until I calm down.”

You looked at him–really looked at him. Away from the stage lights, away from the screaming fans and the demanding producers and the pressure of his family’s expectations, he just looked like the boy you loved.

There was a raw, vulnerable tiredness in the slope of his shoulders, a quiet plea in his eyes that you had never been able to resist. You had been his safe haven for years, the one person who didn’t want anything from him except his happiness.

You let out a long, defeated sigh, though your heart was hammering so loud you were certain he could hear it.

“You are going to get me fired, Michael Joe Jackson,” you muttered, shifting your body all the way back against the cold, carpeted wall of the bus to create a narrow sliver of space on the mattress.

“No, I won’t. I promise,” he whispered, his smile widening, instantly lighting up his features.

With agonizing slowness, he lifted one long leg and slid into the bunk, his movement incredibly fluid and careful to avoid making the mattress creak. He pulled his other leg in, turning around so his back was to the opening, and reached out. His long, slender fingers gripped the heavy velvet curtain, pulling it completely shut until the plastic rings clicked softly together.

Instantly, the ambient amber light was cut off. You were plunged into total, velvety darkness.

The atmosphere inside the tiny bunk shifted instantly. It was a space designed strictly for one person; with Michael inside, it became an impossibly tight, suffocatingly intimate cocoon. You were forced chest to chest, your knees tangling with his long legs beneath the sheet just to fit within the narrow confines.

The first thing that hit you was his warmth. Michael radiated heat like a stove, his skin burning through the thin cotton of his shirt. The second thing was his scent–that intoxicating, distinct mixture of classic Bal à Versailles musk, clean sweat from the high-energy performance he’d given hours earlier, and the faint, comforting smell of cocoa butter. It filled the tiny space, completely overwhelming your senses.

“Gosh, it’s small in here,” Michael murmured, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating directly against your collarbone.

“I told you,” you whispered back, your hands instinctively coming up to rest against his chest to keep a sliver of distance between you. You could feel the rapid, steady thudding of his heart between your palms. He was just as wound up as you were. “You shouldn’t be here, Mike. Seriously. If your brothers find out, they’ll think… they’ll think something else is going on.”

“Let ‘em think,” Michael whispered softly.

Your breath hitched. That wasn’t the shy, giggly boy from the afternoon interviews. That was the voice he used when he commanded a room, low and steady and filled with a quiet, undeniable confidence.

In the pitch black, you felt him shift. His long arms came around your waist, his large hands spreading across the small of your back, pulling you firmly against him. The friction of his satin-lined pajama pants against your bare legs made your skin tingle. You were so close that every time he breathed, his chest expanded against yours, his nose brushing against the soft cloud of your hair.

“You smelled s’good today backstage,” Michael murmured, his voice a raspy, warm current against your ear. He tilted his head down, burning his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “I was on stage, singing ‘Rock With You’, and I looked out into the wings and saw you holding that silver jacket, just smiling at me. I swear, I forgot the words for a split second. You just… you just looked so beautiful.”

A hot flush traveled up your neck, your cheeks burning in the dark. “Michael…” you breathed, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that. You know we can’t. We’re best friends. And this… this tour is everything to your family. You can’t let anything mess it up.”

“You’re not a mess-up,” he said softly, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin right beneath your jaw as he spoke, sending a wave of electric goosebumps cascading down your arms. “You’re the only thing that keeps me sane out here. Everyone wants a piece of me. Everyone’s pullin’ at me, telling me how to sing, how to dance, who to be. But when I’m with you… ‘m just Michael. I’m just me.”

He pulled back just enough so that you could feel the warmth of his gaze, even if you couldn’t see his eyes in the dark. His hand slid up from your waist, his long fingers framing across the side of your face. His thumb, slightly calloused from years of holding microphones, gently traced the line of your cheekbone, smooth and tender against your brown skin.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about you all night,” he confessed, his voice dropping into a desperate, breathy register that made your pussy ache with a sudden, sharp heat. “Ever since we left the venue. I just… I want to be close to you. s’close.”

The sheer honesty in his voice broke something inside of you.

The walls you had spent months building up–the professional distance, the reminders that he was a global superstar and you were just a girl from the neighborhood crumbled to dust in the dark of that tour bus bunk. You loved him.

You loved him in silence for god knows how many years, burying the need beneath laughter and shared secrets. But tonight, with the world locked outside that velvet curtain and the steady rumble of the highway beneath you, the temptation was too beautiful, too overwhelming to fight.

“Michael,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as you leaned into the touch of his hand. “We have to be quiet. If anyone hears…”

“Shh,” he whispered, his thumb moving to brush against your lower lip, tracing its fullness. “I’ll be quiet. I promise. Just let me… let me love you tonight.”

Before you could respond, his head tilted, and his lips found yours.

The kiss was a revelation. It started soft, hesitant, a gentle press of warm, plush lips in the dark, testing the waters, asking for permission. But as you let out a soft, shaky sigh against his mouth, your hands sliding up his chest to wrap around the back of his neck, the kiss deepened with a sudden, intoxicating hunger.

Michael groaned softly into your mouth–a low, throat-centered sound that you quickly swallowed, terrified it would travel past the curtain. His lips were incredibly soft, moving against yours with a natural, rhythmic grace that matched the way he moved his body on stage. He tasted like the peppermint candies he always sucked on before bed, sweet and sharp.

His tongue swept out, lightly tracing the seam of your lips, and when you opened for him, the kiss became deep, possessive, and thick with a desire that had been building between you for years.

His hands gripped your waist tightly, pulling you so flush against him that you could feel the hard, unmistakable ridge of his dick pressing through his pajama pants straight against your thigh. A sharp gasp caught in your throat, but Michael caught it with his lips, his tongue tangling with yours in a slow, intoxicating rhythm that made your head spin.

He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, both of you panting softly, your hot breaths mingling in the confined space. He didn’t let you go; instead, he rained a trail of soft, biting down the line of your jaw, his lips finding the sensitive pulse point on your neck. He sucked gently, his teeth grazing your skin, and you had to bite down hard on your own lip to keep from crying out as a surge of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot straight between your plush thighs.

“Michael… oh god,” you whimpered, your fingers tightening in his thick, soft afro, holding him close.

“You’re so soft,” he rasped, his voice thick with desire, his breath hot against your collarbone. “s’beautiful. Gosh, you drive me crazy…”

His hand slid down, his long fingers hooking into the hem of your oversized nightshirt. With slow, deliberate care to avoid any sudden movements that might rock the bunk, he pushed the fabric up, his warm palms skimming over the smooth skin of your thighs, your curvy hips, until the shirt was bunched around your ribs. When his bare hand made contact with the bare skin of your waist, you both shivered at the contrast of the cool air of the bus and the intense heat of his skin.

He shifted his weight, his knee gently prying your legs further apart so he could settle himself directly in between them. The sheer weight of him, lean but incredibly muscular from hours of daily dancing, pressing down onto you blew your mind. The bunk creaked–just a tiny, metallic groan from the springs, and you both instantly froze.

Your heart felt like it was about to burst out of your chest. You lay completely paralyzed, your eyes wide in the dark, listening intensely.

Outside the curtain, the steady thump-thump of the tires continued. Then, a heavy, rustling sound came from Jackie’s bunk across the aisle. Someone turned over, a low, sleepy mumble echoing in the dark cabin before settling back into silence.

Michael let out a silent, shaky laugh against your neck, his shoulders trembling slightly against yours. The sheer, dangerous adrenaline of the moment was like gasoline on a fire, making the desire between you burn twice as hot.

“See?” he whispered, his lips brushing your earlobe. “We’re okay. We’re okay, mama. Just stay right here with me.”

Instead of pressing forward immediately, Michael began to slide downward, his chest brushing against your abdomen as his hands firmly but gently gripped the supple flesh of your thighs, parting them wider.

“Michael, wait, what are you doing?” you gasped in a frantic whisper, realizing he was moving toward the foot of the bunk. The danger felt amplified tenfold now.

“Shh, let me,” he murmured from the darkness near your hips. “I want to taste you. Let me take care of you first.”

Your breath completely caught as you felt his warm, large hands slide under the small of your back, tilting your hips upward. You clenched your jaw, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the thin mattress beneath you. His fingers gently pulled aside your panties and when his warm, wet tongue made its first slow stroke from the entrance of your pussy up to your aching clit, a bolt of pure electricity shot straight up your spine.

You had to shove the fabric of your nightshirt into your mouth to muffle the high, desperate moan that tore from your throat. Michael was incredibly attentive, his mouth alternating between sucking your clit in and a soft, rhythmically flicker of his tongue.

He swirled his tongue over your clit, parting your lips with his fingers to lay the hood bare. He sucked gently, drawing the tiny, swollen bud into his mouth, finding a steady, agonizingly perfect lap that drove you absolutely wild. The heat radiating from his face against your inner thighs was overwhelming, making your dark skin slick with a mix of sweat and pooling slickness.

He paired the relentless friction of his tongue with his fingers, his slender index finger gently pressing against your entrance, slicked completely by your own heavy cream, before slowly sliding all of the way inside of you.

The sudden, blunt stretch of him filling you made you gasp against the cloth that was lodged between your teeth.

His finger pushed deep, tracking your internal curves. Michael let out a muffled hum against your pussy, clearly pleased by how hot and ready you were for him. He added a second finger, spreading you open from the inside, his long digits pumping slowly, deeply, curling upward to stroke the ribbed wall of your g-spot in a slow, bedroom groove that mimicked the heavy basslines he danced to every single night.

“Michael… please,” you whimpered through the cloth in your mouth, your thighs shaking violently, your lower body completely at the mercy of his tongue and his hands.

He was slicking your folds, his mouth widening to suck more of your flesh, his fingers thrusting in a wet, heavy rhythm that had your slick dripping down his hand. You were right on the edge, the coil of white-hot tension in your stomach tightening into an unbearable, beautiful knot.

He knew exactly what he was doing. He quickened the pace of his tongue, flicking hard and fast against your clit while his fingers bottomed out inside you, over and over. The dual sensation shattered you.

The dam broke, and you went completely rigid, a violent, trembling orgasm cascading through your entire body. Your muscles clamped down like a vise around his fingers as you shook, your muffled cries completely swallowed by the fabric of your shirt as your cum flooded over his hand.

Michael stayed right there, drinking in your orgasm, lapping up the sweet taste of you as your body bucked. He held your trembling hips steady until the last pulsing waves rippled through you, then pulled his fingers out slowly with a soft, squelching sound. He kissed the inside of your thighs before crawling up the length of your body, panting softly.

When he reached your face, he gently pulled the shirt from your mouth, slamming his wet mouth over yours to taste yourself on his lips. The kiss was deep, sloppy, and thick with shared, reckless passion. He reached behind himself, his long arm moving with fluid grace as he pushed his pajama pants down, his thick, heavy dick springing free in the dark. It was fully erect, dark and glistening with pre-cum, pulsing with a life of its own against your hip.

When the warm, blunt tip of his dick brushed against your dripping pussy, a sharp gasp caught in your throat. You didn’t waste time, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, the need to be filled by him overriding every ounce of fear left in your body.

“Michael, please,” you begged in a frantic, barely audible whisper, your hands gripping his broad shoulders, feeling the defined muscles of his back ripple under your touch. “I need you. Please.”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered back, his voice trembling with the effort it took to control his own breathing. He raised himself up on his forearms, his hands coming up to trap your wrists gently against the padded vinyl wall of the bunk right above your head to anchor you both. “Look at me. I know it’s dark, but look at me. Hold onto my arms. Don’t make a sound, okay? Just let me love you.”

You nodded frantically in the dark, your eyes locking with where you knew his were.

Slowly, deliberately, Michael shifted his hips forward, aligning himself perfectly. He plunged into you with one, smooth but slow push.

The feeling was so intense, you felt so overwhelmingly full and hot, that your mouth flew open to scream. He was thick, stretching your gummy walls to their absolute limit as he sank deeper and deeper, the wet friction making a soft, sliding sound between your thighs. But Michael was already prepared.

He dropped his head, catching the high, breathless cry in the back of his throat with his own mouth. He groaned deep in his chest, a low, vibrating rumble that you felt through his chest walls as he sank completely inside of you, burying his hips hard against yours until he was fully bottomed out.

You broke the kiss, burying your face directly into the crook of his neck, your teeth gently biting into the hot skin of his shoulder to keep yourself silent. Your fingers dug into your palms as he began to move.

Because of the incredibly tight space, he couldn’t take long, sweeping strokes. Instead, he moved with short, shallow deep thrusts. His hips rolling against yours in a slow rhythm that mirrored the sensual, funky groove of his own music. He pulled out nearly all of the way, letting the slick head of his length graze your entrance, before burying himself back inside you with a heavy, wet thud of his hips.

It was pure, concentrated friction, every single movement designed to maximize the pleasure while keeping the physical impact completely silent.

“Oh, gosh,” he rasped, a breathy, broken sound escaping him as his pace quickened just a fraction.

His forehead rested against yours, his afro mixing with your own curls as his sweat began to drop onto your skin, warm and slick. “You feel so good. s’tight… s’warm. I can’t… I can’t get close enough.”

Your hips instinctively rolled up to meet every deep, heavy thrust, your slickness squelching loudly between your bodies in a way that made your face flush with heat. The pleasure was building rapidly all over again, a tight, second wave of tension that threatened to shatter you. Every time his dick hit that perfect, deep spot inside you, your toes curled and a wave of pure euphoria washed over you.

The high-stakes nature of the environment only heightened every single sensation. The danger of the dark cabin, the knowledge that his brothers were sleeping mere feet away, the rhythmic thump-thump of the bus tires acting as a metronome to your hidden sin–it made every touch feel forbidden, sacred, and incredibly intense.

Michael’s control was staggering, but you could feel him reaching his limit. The muscles in his back were tight as steel cords under your hands. His breathing coming in shallow, ragged gasps that he forced himself to smother against your hair. He unpinned your wrists, his large hands sliding down to grip your thighs, lifting your legs higher onto his shoulders to drive himself deeper, harder, with a quiet, desperate urgency.

He began to pound into you faster, his hips slamming against yours in a frantic, quiet rhythm, his dick sliding through your cream over and over again until you were completely delirious.

“Hold onto me,” he whispered, his voice cracking with the sheer force of his movements. “Don’t let go. I’m right here. I’m right here with you.”

You wrapped your hands around his biceps, pulling him down until there was absolutely no space left between you, your bodies completely fused together in the dark, sweating and slick. You rocked against him, your rhythm matching his perfectly, driving him wild.

“I’m close, Mike… I’m gonna…” you breathed, a tear of pleasure slipping from the corner of your eye.

“Cum for me, mama,” he rasped into your mouth, his lips finding yours again, his thrusts becoming faster, deeper, more intense, bottoming out against your cervix with every strike. “Do it for me. Keep it quiet… just let it go.”

With one final, deep, rolling push of his hips, the coil inside you snapped for a second time. A beautiful wave of release crashed over you, your internal muscles clamping down tightly around his dick in a series of intense, pulsing contractions. You bit down so hard on his shoulder that you could taste the salt of his skin, your entire body trembling as you came harder than you have ever done before.

The tight, intense clenching of your body instantly pushed Michael over the edge. He let out a muffled, broken groan against your mouth. His body tightening into a rigid cord as a violent shudder wracked his frame. He split himself deep inside you, pulsing hard as he flooded your walls with thick, hot ropes of his cum. He gave two more slow, heavy, trembling thrusts, driving himself as deep as he could possibly go, before freezing completely. His forehead resting against your shoulder as his breath came in ragged, gaspy hitches.

For a long time, neither of you moved.

The only sound in the tiny bunk was the heavy, synchronized sound of your breathing, gradually slowing down to match the steady, familiar drone of the tour bus engine. Michael remained buried deep inside you, his heavy body pressing you comfortably into the mattress, his skin warm and slick against yours.

Slowly, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a deep, heavy, and incredibly fluffy wave of warmth.

Michael shifted, letting out a long contented sigh that ruffled the hair near your ear. He carefully slipped out of you, a soft and wet sound breaking the silence that made you smile in the dark. He reached down, finding his discarded shirt at the foot of the bed, and gently cleaned you both up in the dark, his touch incredibly tender and sweet.

Once finished, he didn’t make any move to leave. Instead, he pulled the thin cotton sheet back up over you and him, shielding you from the cool air of the bus. He shifted his long body, pulling you back against his chest so that you were cradled perfectly in his arms, his chest to your back, his knees tucked behind yours in a perfect spooning position.

His long arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you tightly against his warm, bare chest. He tilted his head down, kissing the back of your neck softly, his lips lingering against your skin.

“You okay?” he whispered, his voice returning to that soft, gentle, boyish register you knew so well.

“Yeah,” you whispered back, a soft smile spreading across your face as you rested your hands over his large ones that were splayed across your stomach. “I’m more than okay, Mike. But you really need to go back to your bunk before the sun comes up. If Marlon wakes up and sees your curtain open…”

“Five more minutes,” Michael murmured, his voice already sounding heavy and thick with sleep.

The restlessness that had plagued him hours ago was completely gone, replaced by a deep, profound peace. He snuggled closer, burying his nose into the soft curls of your hair, his grip tightening just a fraction around your waist. “Just five more minutes. This is the best sleep I’ve threatened to get all week.”

You let out a soft, quiet laugh, closing your eyes as the steady, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the highway tires lulled you both into a deep, dreamless sleep, wrapped up into the beautiful, forbidden warmth of the night.

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱

2023 los angeles

if someone would've told you that during your acting class you would've fallen in love, you would've called them crazy. you hadn't walked into that classroom looking for anything other than becoming a better actor. romance wasn't part of the plan, and neither was finding someone who would slowly become your favorite part of every week. somehow, though, love had a way of slipping through the cracks when you weren't paying attention.

jaafar was different. he was kind, soft-spoken, endlessly patient, and so genuinely sweet that it caught you off guard. there was never any need for him to be the loudest person in the room or the center of attention. instead, he had this quiet warmth about him that naturally drew people in, and before long, you realized it had drawn you in too.

your teachers quickly noticed how well the two of you worked together and started pairing you for scene work whenever they could, always commenting on the "natural chemistry" between you. you didn't mind in the slightest. jaafar was an incredible actor, completely committed to every scene, and working opposite him always made you feel like a better performer yourself.

somewhere along the way, though, those scenes stopped feeling like just assignments.

every time the class was given a romantic monologue or an intimate scene, jaafar would look at you with such unwavering focus that the rest of the room seemed to disappear. he always held your gaze just a heartbeat longer than necessary, his eyes carrying a softness that wasn't written anywhere in the script. it was enough to make your pulse stumble, enough that more than once you nearly forgot your next line because all you could think about was how convincingly he looked at you.

the acting coaches praised the authenticity between you two, and neither of you had the heart to admit it was becoming less and less like acting.

then came the dates.

about a month into the class, jaafar had asked if you'd wanted to grab coffee before rehearsal one morning. the invitation had been casual enough that it didn't make your heart race until after you'd already said yes. the two of you exchanged numbers, met at a small coffee shop before class, and somehow spent nearly three hours talking.

he told you stories about his family. funny moments growing up, memories with his parents, stories about his siblings, aunts, and uncles that always made him smile while he told them. you noticed he never actually said anyone's name, but you hadn't thought much of it. everyone shared things differently, and if he wasn't ready to introduce names into those stories, you weren't going to pry.

instead, you found yourself wanting to know more about him.

he asked about your childhood, where you grew up, what first made you fall in love with acting, your favorite films, the places you wanted to travel, the dreams you hoped acting would someday make possible. every answer only led to another question, and before either of you realized it, you were laughing so much that you nearly forgot you had class to get to.

after that, the dates became a weekly tradition; sometimes it was coffee before class, other times it was dinner afterward. sometimes you'd wander around a bookstore for an hour, recommending your favorite novels to each other. other times you'd see a movie together, only to spend the drive home happily picking apart every performance like the acting students you were.

being together felt easy.

your first kiss happened after one of those dates, ironically, it was because of the michael movie. you had been scrolling through your phone when an article caught your attention, mentioning that the upcoming michael jackson biopic was still holding auditions as the filmmakers searched for the right actor to portray michael.

you turned your phone toward jaafar.

“you should audition for this,” you told him, having no idea that the very role you were showing him was the reason he was in your acting class to begin with.

jaafar looked down at the article before letting out a quiet chuckle to himself. there was something almost surreal about the moment. nobody in the class knew why he was really there. to everyone else, he was just another actor trying to sharpen his craft, another student chasing auditions and hoping for a big break.

if only you knew.

“i think you'd be really good for it. you're naturally soft-spoken like michael was, and really cute like michael,” you say without even thinking about it.

“oh, so you think i'm cute?” jaafar latched onto the one part of your sentence that made your composure immediately crumble.

you bit down on your lip as warmth rushed to your cheeks, silently cursing yourself for letting that one slip.

“yeah, yeah, you are... but seriously, i know taking on the king of pop would be a lot, but i think you can do it,” you said, trying to steer the conversation back to the movie.

jaafar's smile softened instantly. you had no idea how much those words meant to him. you didn't know he'd already been cast and the entire reason he'd spent the last several months in acting class was because he was preparing to become michael.

you didn't know the countless hours he'd spent questioning whether he was good enough, whether he could carry the weight of portraying not just a global icon, but his own uncle.

yet somehow, without knowing any of it, you looked at him and saw exactly what the filmmakers had seen. you believed he could do it before you even knew there was something to believe in.

he wished, more than anything, that he could've told you the truth right then and there.

“only if you audition for ola ray,” he said instead, teasing you about being his love interest in thriller. you giggled, your cheeks somehow growing even warmer as you rolled your eyes, unable to stop smiling.

“if they do a part two, i'll wait and audition for iman for remember the time, michael's first on screen kiss in all of his short films,” you said with a teasing smile.

jaafar raised an eyebrow. “oh, yeah? if you wanted to kiss me, you could just ask.” for a split second, your brain completely short-circuited. you stared at him, trying to decide if he'd actually just said that or if your imagination had gotten the better of you.

“hmm, you're so confident you're gonna get the role?” you teased, finally finding your footing again.

he laughed, shaking his head. “no, so if i don't, i'll have to watch you kiss someone else.”

your smile only widened. “now who wants to kiss who so bad?” you teased, thoroughly enjoying the way his cheeks immediately turned a deep shade of red.

it was impossible not to smile triumphantly at finally making him just as flustered as he'd made you, but your teasing only lasted for a moment. almost without thinking, you found yourself leaning a little closer across the table and jaafar noticed.

his smile softened again, his expression losing every ounce of playful confidence as something quieter settled over him. he lifted one hand slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, before gently cupping your jaw. his thumb rested lightly against your cheek, his touch careful and warm, as if he was still making sure this was really happening.

you both leaned in at the same time, closing the last few inches between you until your lips met in the middle in a soft, lingering kiss, right there in the middle of the coffee shop. it was gentle and tentative in all the best ways, like two people who had spent months dancing around their feelings had finally allowed themselves to stop pretending they weren't there.

when you finally pulled back, neither of you could stop smiling.

acting class had changed after that.

not because you and jaafar started acting any differently, but because now that your feelings were out in the open, neither of you were particularly good at hiding them anymore. there was still a level of professionalism the two of you maintained during class, always committed to your scenes and giving each other honest notes afterward, but the little things had become impossible for everyone else to miss.

the way he'd instinctively save the seat beside him before every class started, how the two of you were always the last to leave because one conversation somehow turned into five, or the soft smiles that would spread across both of your faces whenever your teachers announced you were paired together again. it didn't take long before everyone in the class realized there was clearly something more going on between the two of you.

for months, your lives settled into a routine that felt so natural it was hard to remember what acting class had been like before jaafar walked into it. the two of you continued performing together and keeping things mostly professional while you were there, but the moment class was over, he was yours.

some nights he took you out to dinner, while other nights you cooked together in your apartment, laughing every time one of you inevitably made a mess in the kitchen. movie nights became a weekly tradition, usually ending with your dog atlas insisting on curling up across both of your legs at the foot of your bed, refusing to move no matter how many times either of you tried.

sleepovers became so common that waking up beside jaafar started feeling as ordinary as waking up alone once had, and somewhere over the course of those months, he realized he didn't want to keep calling you the girl he was dating. he wanted you to be his girlfriend.

then came the day.

the moment graham king walked into your acting class, every conversation in the room came to an abrupt stop. nobody expected one of hollywood's biggest producers to casually walk into an acting studio, and judging by the confused looks everyone exchanged, no one had the slightest idea why he was there.

after introducing himself, he began talking about the michael biopic, explaining that after an extensive search, they had finally found the actor who would portray michael jackson.

sitting beside jaafar, you leaned over with a grin and gently nudged his arm. “did you audition like i told you to?” you tease.

jaafar let out a small laugh, but it did little to settle the nerves that had been building in his stomach since the moment he'd walked into class that morning.

you had noticed something was off almost immediately. he had been quieter than usual, smiling whenever you looked at him but seeming distracted, as though something was constantly pulling at the back of his mind. you'd assumed he was nervous about an audition or maybe something going on with his family, never imagining that the reason for his anxiety was sitting only a few feet away from him.

because jaafar already knew exactly why graham was there.

he knew that within the next few minutes, everyone in the room would learn who he really was, and as excited as he was for the announcement itself, all he could think about was you.

for weeks he'd been carrying around a completely different plan for today. after class, he was going to take you to dinner at one of your favorite restaurants before finally asking you to be his girlfriend. he'd thought about what he wanted to say more times than he could count, wanting the moment to be perfect because that's what you deserved.

now, he wasn't sure if he'd even get the chance.

he'd never wanted to keep something this big from you. graham had made it clear from the beginning that nobody in the acting class was to know he was jermaine jackson's son or michael's nephew. the entire point of sending him there was so he'd be treated like every other aspiring actor, not like someone with one of the most recognizable last names in the world. he needed to learn, to struggle, and to grow without anyone treating him differently because of who his family was.

still, that didn't stop the guilt that had quietly settled in his chest over the months he'd spent getting closer to you.

he'd told you stories about growing up, about his parents, his siblings, his aunts and uncles, carefully dancing around names every single time. there had been so many moments he'd wanted to tell you the truth, especially as your relationship became more serious, but every time he thought about it, he remembered the promise he'd made and convinced himself he'd explain everything once he was finally allowed to.

he just hadn't wanted you to find out like this.

“and we're excited to announce the lead for the michael movie is... jaafar jackson,” graham said. your entire body seemed to freeze.

you watched as jaafar slowly stood from his seat, an almost shy smile spreading across his face before he walked over to graham and accepted a congratulatory hug. for a moment, you couldn't hear anything except the pounding of your own heartbeat, your brain struggling to catch up with what had just been said before the room suddenly erupted into applause, cheers, and countless voices talking over one another in complete disbelief.

“this is jaafar's first acting role, so we sent him here to get some acting lessons and told him not to tell anyone his surname or that he's michael's nephew or that this class was to help him prepare for the role, so jaafar didn't lie to you all, we did,” graham explained, almost as though he knew exactly what everyone in the room was thinking.

while your classmates crowded around jaafar with congratulations and endless questions, his attention never left you. through the sea of people between you, his eyes searched your face, desperately trying to read an expression he suddenly couldn't understand.

you looked completely stunned.

your eyes were wide as you sat quietly in your seat, your hands folded together in your lap while everything you'd learned about jaafar over the last year replayed in your mind. all those stories about his family where he had never once said a name. the countless conversations you'd had about auditions and acting. every date, every night he'd spent at your apartment, every moment you'd shared together. for months, you'd fallen in love with a man who had kept something so unimaginably huge from you.

but even through the shock, graham's words echoed in your mind. jaafar didn't lie to you all, we did. he hadn't been allowed to tell you.

that realization didn't erase your surprise, but it kept your heart from immediately assuming the worst because, knowing jaafar the way you did, you couldn't imagine him willingly keeping something like this from you unless he truly had no choice.

your acting teacher eventually dismissed class early, knowing nobody was going to be focusing on scene work after an announcement like that.

the second you stood from your chair, jaafar felt his stomach drop, you were the first person to walk out of the room.

his smile faded almost instantly as panic settled over him. after quickly excusing himself from graham and apologizing to the classmates still trying to congratulate him, he hurried after you, his only thought being that he couldn't let you leave believing he'd intentionally kept this from you.

“baby,” he gently grabbed your wrist once you were both outside and turned you around. you didn't pull back from him, but you also didn't know what to say. t

here were so many thoughts racing through your mind that you couldn't seem to grab onto just one long enough to put it into words, and judging by the nervousness written all over jaafar's face, he was terrified of what you were about to say.

“this whole time?” you finally asked, your voice quieter than you'd intended and jaafar's heart sank.

“i wasn't trying to be malicious, or trick you, or intentionally lie to you, i promise,” jaafar says, his voice soft and full of sincerity. you nodded.

“i know but i just... i mean i get it, but... we've been going on dates for nearly a year, i've told you things i've never told anyone... i invited you into my home, my bed... i let you meet my dog, i don't let anybody meet atlas, because he usually hates everyone,” you say, and hearing yourself say it out loud makes you realize how ridiculous that last part sounds. despite everything weighing on your heart, you couldn't help letting out a small laugh. “but he really loves you,” you say, and jaafar can't help laughing too.

“i really love atlas too. i wanted to tell you, so many times, i did,” he says and you frown, because that was the other thing that held jaafar back from asking you to be his girlfriend.

he didn't want to enter a serious relationship with you if you didn't know the truth. every time he'd thought about asking you, the excitement of finally making things official had been followed by the same nagging feeling in the back of his mind.

if you found out afterward, would you think he'd built your relationship on a lie? would you feel betrayed that something so significant had been kept from you for so long? he wanted the two of you to start that next chapter with complete honesty between you, but every time he'd come close to telling you himself, he remembered the promise he'd made to graham.

he'd convinced himself that once the announcement was public, he'd finally be able to explain everything to you, answer every question you had, and then ask you to be his girlfriend knowing there would be no more secrets between you.

“did you not trust me? i wouldn't have said anything to anyone,” you say and jaafar immediately shakes his head.

“i know, baby... i know you wouldn't. i should've told you, i should've never let it be an ambush like that in class,” he says, guilt evident in his voice. “i hated watching you find out like that.”

you slowly ran your fingers back through your hair, trying to make sense of the last several months before your eyes suddenly widened.

“so months ago during one of our early dates when i told you that you should audition for the movie because you'd probably be good for it...” you trail off and he nods.

“yeah...” he says. you let out a disbelieving laugh, still trying to wrap your head around it.

“and all the stories about when your uncle would take you, your siblings, and your cousins to the amusement park and to the zoo, you really meant—” he gently cuts you off.

“family days at neverland ranch,” he says as he bites down on his lip to suppress a smile.

the words hung in the air between you, and suddenly every conversation you'd ever had with him replayed differently in your mind. all those stories he'd told you over coffee, during late-night drives home, or while the two of you were curled up watching movies suddenly had names attached to them.

he hadn't been vague because he didn't want to share his life with you. he'd been vague because he was trying to share as much of it as he could without breaking the promise he'd made.

“wow... wow,” you say, because you're not sure what else to say. “so michael is really your uncle?” you ask and jaafar nods.

“yeah.”

“so who's your dad?” you ask.

“you can't tell?” he asks with a teasing smile.

you roll your eyes, but you find yourself studying his face again, this time with completely different eyes than before. you'd spent nearly a year memorizing every feature of his face without ever thinking about who he resembled, but now that you knew the family he came from, the resemblance became impossible to ignore.

recognition washed over you almost immediately, followed by a laugh as you realized you'd noticed it before and convinced yourself you were imagining things.

“i always thought you looked like jermaine, but thought i was crazy for thinking that,” you say, and jaafar laughs while shaking his head.

“well you'd be right, jermaine is my dad,” he says.

you nodded slowly, and the silence that settled between you felt different this time. the brief moment of teasing had faded as the reality of everything finally settled over you. for nearly a year, you'd been falling in love with someone from one of the most well-known families in music, and you'd had absolutely no idea.

somehow, despite everything that had just changed, when you looked at jaafar, you still saw the same man you'd shared countless dinners with, the same man atlas adored for reasons neither of you could explain, the same man who held your hand during movies and kissed you goodbye after every date. he didn't suddenly feel like someone else.

he still felt like jaafar.

“i should probably... go now,” you say, needing a little time to process everything you'd just learned. jaafar's heart immediately dropped.

“wait, before you do... can i tell you what i wanted to tell you today?” he asks, and you raise an eyebrow, surprised that after everything that had just happened, there could possibly be something else he wanted to say.

“you had something to follow up being told you're michael jackson's freaking nephew?” you ask, and a soft chuckle escapes him.

“i had a whole plan for today, for after class. i was going to ask you to get dinner with me again, and i had this whole speech prepared,” jaafar says.

you raise an eyebrow. “a speech?”

“a big one,” he says, the nervous smile on his face making it obvious he'd probably rehearsed it over and over in his head.

despite everything still swirling around in your mind, the image of jaafar standing in front of his bathroom mirror practicing a speech made the corners of your mouth lift into the first genuine smile you'd had since graham's announcement. seeing that smile appear on your face seemed to let him breathe for the first time all afternoon, and you realized he wasn't worried about whether you knew he was a jackson anymore.

he was worried about whether you still wanted whatever the two of you had been building toward for the last year. you walked over to the bench nearby before sitting down, then looked up at him and nodded toward the empty spot beside you.

“okay, i'll hear your speech,” you say.

jaafar lets out a quiet laugh, relief softening every bit of tension in his face as he realizes you're giving him exactly what he'd hoped for.

a chance.

“during this dinner, i wanted to tell you that i’ve never met anyone like you. i had come to this acting class to learn, before taking on the weight of a global icon, i expected to go through monologues, learn techniques, learn what it means to be an actor, but i hadn’t expected you,” jaafar says.

your smile immediately softens, warmth blooming in your chest despite everything that had happened over the last hour. he was standing there in front of you, clearly nervous, pouring his heart out exactly the way he'd planned to before his entire world had been turned upside down. as sweet as it was, though, you couldn't resist teasing him just a little.

“is the whole speech this corny?” you ask. jaafar lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he looks down at the ground for a second before looking back at you.

“that right there, is one of the things i love most about you, because i'm in love with you... and i was scared that if you knew who i really was that maybe you'd end up only seeing the jackson name. you made me feel normal, where i didn't have to be the man who came from a famous family, i could just be jaafar, a first time actor trying to learn what the hell to do,” he says.

you let out a soft laugh at the end of his sentence, but it was quickly overtaken by the sting behind your eyes.

he loved you. he hadn't stumbled over the words or said them by accident. he'd said them with complete certainty, like he'd been carrying them around for months, just waiting for the right moment to finally let you hear them.

suddenly, the shock of everything you'd learned that afternoon became so much smaller than the man standing in front of you. the famous last name, the movie, the pressure that was about to consume his life, none of it seemed nearly as important as the vulnerability in his eyes as he waited for you to hear him out.

“jaafar…” you say.

he gently shakes his head with a small smile, he's not done.

“i love our movie nights. i love when atlas lays on our legs and i can't move because it means i get to have you closer. i love when you dance while cooking when you think no one's watching you. i love how you yell at characters in movies for making dumb choices. i love you, baby, and i'm sorry i didn't tell you who i was sooner and you had to find out with everyone else, but i would love for you to be my girlfriend, if you'll still have me,” jaafar says.

your eyes widened as the last of his words settled over you, and before you could stop them, tears spilled down your cheeks. every little thing he'd listed wasn't some grand romantic gesture, they were the ordinary moments, the quiet moments, the ones that happened when nobody else was around.

he hadn't fallen in love with some perfect version of you, it made your heart ache in the most beautiful way.

jaafar finally let out the breath he'd been holding before walking over and sitting down beside you on the bench. the adrenaline that had been carrying him through his confession suddenly disappeared, leaving him feeling almost lightheaded as he took a slow, steadying breath. he'd finally said everything he'd spent weeks rehearsing.

now all that was left was your answer.

“i love you too, jaafar... it hit me so hard it scared me, but seeing you curled up asleep in my bed, i just thought to myself... i always want to wake up like this, next to him. i don't care what your last name is. i don't care if you came from the richest family or the poorest. i love you, and i would love to be your girlfriend,” you say.

the moment the words left your mouth, the nervousness he'd been carrying all day completely melted away. without wasting another second, jaafar reached up and gently cupped your face before pulling you toward him, kissing you with everything he'd been holding back for the last hour.

you melted into him just like you always did whenever he kissed you, your arms naturally wrapping around his neck as your fingers found the curls resting against the nape of his neck, gently playing with them the way you knew he loved. the kiss was slow and unhurried, filled with every emotion the two of you had struggled to put into words that afternoon.

when you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far away. your foreheads nearly touched, your noses brushing as you both smiled through damp eyes, completely content just to exist in the quiet moment the two of you had fought so hard to get back.

“the next few years... however long it takes to make this movie... it's going to be a lot,” he whispers to you.

you nodded before answering just as quietly. “i know.” there wasn't any fear in your voice, only understanding.

you'd watched how dedicated he'd been to acting over the last year, and if portraying michael required even more of him than acting class had, then you already knew the road ahead wasn't going to be easy. you weren't walking into this relationship expecting all of his time or attention. you knew this role meant something bigger than either of you.

“between rehearsals and filming, i don't know what my schedule will always look like, but i promise... i will always prioritize our weekly dates,” jaafar says.

you smiled and nodded.

you'd already anticipated that the movie was going to consume most of his life for a while. it was the opportunity of a lifetime, one he'd worked unbelievably hard for, and you would never ask him to choose between you and the dream he'd sacrificed so much to achieve.

instead, you reached over and intertwined your fingers with his.

“i'll be here every step of the way,” you promise.

the conviction in your voice made something soften behind his eyes. through everything that had happened that day, through the fear that you'd walk away after learning who he really was, the only thing he'd wanted was for you to still choose him, and you had.

“i love you,” he says.

the words still felt new.

hearing them sent warmth flooding through your chest all over again, and you couldn't stop the smile that spread across your face. you weren't used to hearing someone say them to you like that, with such certainty and tenderness, but you already knew you could spend the rest of your life listening to him.

“i love you too,” you whisper back.

his smile only grew before he leaned in and kissed you again.

2026 los angeles

whoever told you that wedding planning would be some of the most fun you had in your life, they lied. there had not been a single moment over the past few years where planning your wedding with jaafar had actually been fun.

everything was stressful.

every venue you fell in love with seemed to get booked for the exact weekend you wanted before you could even secure it. catering companies all had their own endless lists of rules, requirements, and restrictions that somehow made choosing food feel like negotiating a business merger. your maid of honor, jaafar's sister genevieve, had been doing everything she could to keep the peace, but even she was starting to get overwhelmed by your bridesmaids, who always seemed to have something new to complain about, whether it was the destination for the bachelorette trip, the style of their dresses, or some other detail that suddenly became the end of the world.

then there were your families.

jaafar had a huge family. you adored every single one of them, but there were so many jacksons that trying to account for everyone felt impossible. between the nine original jackson siblings, all of their children, and the grandchildren that many of the older cousins now had, his side of the guest list seemed to multiply every time you looked at it.

your family wasn't exactly small either.

you were the youngest of five siblings, the baby of the family, and every one of your older brothers and sisters had children of their own. some of your nieces and nephews were only a couple of years younger than you, meaning there was another sea of cousins to consider.

making seating charts had become its own special form of torture.

who sat with who? who absolutely couldn't be placed at the same table? which aunt would get offended if she wasn't close enough to the sweetheart table? which cousin would inevitably complain if they were seated too far away? every adjustment seemed to create two more problems, and before long, the dining layout looked less like a wedding reception and more like someone trying to solve an impossible puzzle.

everything about planning the wedding had become so overwhelming that you were genuinely close to giving up on the whole thing.

it didn't help that there had never been a convenient time to actually get married.

you and jaafar had been together for ten years. you'd grown up together in so many ways, celebrating birthdays, career milestones, family holidays, quiet nights at home, and every ordinary moment in between. getting married had always been the obvious next step, and when jaafar proposed in 2023, you had been convinced it finally was.

then, just before everything was supposed to begin, he got cast in the michael movie.

late-night rehearsals became normal. then came the long filming days that stretched well into the night. you watched your fiancé slowly disappear into the role, carrying the responsibility of portraying his own uncle with an unwavering level of dedication that left little room for anything else. there were nights he stayed at hayvenhurst instead of coming home, wanting to remain surrounded by family history while preparing for emotionally demanding scenes or simply because the commute after filming had become impossible.

the wedding naturally slipped onto the back burner.

not because either of you stopped wanting it, but because jaafar already had more on his shoulders than anyone should have to carry. you couldn't bring yourself to add another source of pressure by asking him to spend his few free hours touring venues or tasting cakes when he was already pouring every ounce of himself into the biggest opportunity of his life.

now filming was over, but the schedule hadn't slowed down. the press tour for michael was only weeks away, and you already knew what that meant. months of traveling. interviews. red carpets. premieres. photoshoots. late-night television appearances.

months where the two of you would barely be in the same city. there wasn't any point in trying to force wedding planning into an already impossible schedule. at this point, you didn't even care about having a huge ceremony with everyone there.

you just wanted to marry jaafar, which was exactly what you were going to tell him when he got home.

he had spent the day filming a series of interviews that would be released closer to the premiere of michael, and knowing he'd be exhausted, you'd already made his dinner and left it waiting in the microwave. curled beneath a blanket on the couch, you had love island reruns playing across the television, though you couldn't have told anyone what was happening on the screen. your thoughts kept drifting back to venue contracts tucked inside a binder on the coffee table, guest lists that still weren't finalized, and a wedding that somehow felt farther away than it had the day he'd proposed.

your eyelids grew heavier with every passing minute, and you were just beginning to drift off when the familiar sound of the front door opening pulled you back awake.

jaafar stepped inside as quietly as he could. the moment his eyes landed on your curled-up figure on the couch, a soft smile spread across his face. even after a long day of interviews, he immediately realized you'd stayed awake waiting for him.

your eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep, and you found him standing in the entryway as he quietly slipped off his shoes. slowly, you pushed yourself upright, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your gaze met his.

“hi baby,” you say.

jaafar walks over to you, the exhaustion from the day still evident in the slight slump of his shoulders, but the moment he sees you awake waiting for him, his expression softens. he leans down without hesitation, pressing a lingering kiss against your forehead before settling onto the couch beside you, close enough that your knees brush.

“hi, mama, did i wake you up?” he asks, his voice quiet from habit after coming home so late, and you shake your head.

“no i was trying to wait up for you because i wanted to talk to you,” you say, and jaafar raises an eyebrow.

“is everything okay?” he asks. the concern on his face is immediate. despite how tired he is, his attention shifts entirely to you, the interviews, cameras, and long day instantly forgotten.

“yes… no… i’ve been thinking… wedding planning is really stressing me the hell out, so what if we just go to the courthouse and elope?” you ask. jaafar is quiet for a moment, blinking as he processes your words, because for a split second, his stomach had dropped.

after spending the last three years juggling filming, rehearsals, and everything that came with michael, hearing "i wanted to talk to you" immediately made his mind jump to the worst possible conclusion. he wondered if he'd missed something, if the distance the movie had forced between you had finally become too much.

instead, you were asking him to marry you sooner. relief washes over him so quickly that he almost laughs.

“baby, i’m sorry i haven’t been as helpful as i should’ve been when it came to planning,” he says first with a frown, guilt settling across his features as he thinks about all the appointments you'd gone to without him, all the decisions you'd had to make while he was on set or halfway across the country.

you immediately shake your head. “no, it’s okay… you had to focus on the movie, and i’m so proud of you, but everything is just stressing me out. i’m pretty sure i’ve cussed out like five different caterers,” you say.

despite the seriousness of the conversation, jaafar can't stop the laugh that escapes him. it comes out warm and genuine, the image of you losing your patience with wedding vendors somehow being one of the funniest things he'd heard all day.

“baby, you should’ve told me… you shouldn’t have to carry this by yourself,” he says. the smile fades back into something softer, more regretful. he hated that while he'd been pouring everything he had into the film, you'd quietly been carrying the weight of planning an entire wedding alone.

you frown. “i know, but i know how much the movie was taking out of you, and i didn’t want to add to your stress,” you say.

jaafar slowly shakes his head as his hand comes up, his fingertips gently resting against your jaw. his thumb brushes softly along your cheek, his touch as careful as if he were trying to erase every ounce of stress you'd been holding onto without him realizing.

“i know the movie was a big priority these last three years… but you’re always my number one priority. it was easier for me to give everything to the movie because i knew… or i thought you were okay. you gotta tell me these things,” he says.

he'd thrown himself so completely into becoming michael because he'd believed home was okay. he'd believed you were okay. knowing you'd been quietly drowning in seating charts, contracts, vendors, and expectations while trying to protect him from feeling guilty made his chest ache.

you nod. “i know… im sorry. but can we? can i please just throw out this entire planner and just go buy a pretty dress? i don’t care for a big ceremony, j, i just want to be your wife,” you say.

jaafar smiles before gently cupping your face in both of his hands and pulling you closer. he kisses you deeply, full of every emotion he struggles to put into words, smiling softly against your lips as the reality settles over him.

the wedding had never been the important part, you were.

“and i want nothing more than to be your husband. i’ll go get our marriage license first thing tomorrow, okay?” he says.

your eyes light up almost instantly, every ounce of tension you'd been carrying seeming to disappear in the span of a single sentence. before you can stop yourself, you throw your arms around him.

jaafar catches you effortlessly, letting out a quiet chuckle as he pulls you onto his lap. his arms wrap tightly around your waist, holding you against him as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. he closes his eyes and inhales deeply, the familiar scent of your shampoo and perfume replacing the sterile interview studios and flashing cameras that had surrounded him all day.

being home with you grounded him in a way nothing else ever could.

“i love you,” you whisper, your fingers threading through his curls, gently scratching against his scalp in the way you knew he loved after especially long days. you feel him smile against your skin before his lips begin pressing slow, absentminded kisses along the side of your neck, each one lingering for just a second longer than the last.

“i love you more,” he mutters into your skin, his voice softened by the embrace, making an uncontrollable smile spread across your face.

and that’s how, 48 hours later, the two of you found yourselves standing at the courthouse, finally doing what life had refused to let you do for years.

the wedding the two of you had spent so long trying to plan had become something much simpler than either of you had originally imagined, and somehow, it felt even more perfect because of it. there were no rows of chairs waiting to be filled, no florist frantically making last-minute adjustments, no wedding coordinator rushing everyone from one event to the next. it was just you and jaafar, dressed up for one another, ready to finally become husband and wife.

thankfully, you didn't need a witness because the two of you had decided you wanted to surprise everyone with the news. after spending years trying to coordinate schedules, guest lists, and venues around two enormous families, there was something freeing about keeping this moment entirely to yourselves. everyone would find out soon enough, but for right now, this belonged only to the two of you.

despite knowing this was exactly what you wanted, you couldn't stop the small flutter of nerves in your stomach as you sat beside jaafar waiting for your names to be called. your fingers rested comfortably in his hand, his thumb absentmindedly brushing back and forth across your knuckles in a rhythm so familiar that it immediately calmed you. you hadn't realized how tense you were until you felt his warmth beside you, and suddenly every anxious thought that had been swirling around your head since you woke up that morning seemed to quiet.

jaafar couldn't stop looking at you.

he'd seen you dressed up countless times over the last ten years, from galas and premieres to birthdays and anniversaries, but seeing you sitting beside him in your wedding dress made his heart swell in a way he'd never experienced before. the dress wasn't extravagant, and neither of you had spent months searching for it the way you'd once planned, but he didn't think he could've imagined anything more beautiful. all he could think about was that in only a few minutes, you were going to be his wife, and after everything life had thrown at the two of you over the years, that thought alone was enough to make his eyes begin to sting.

when your names were finally called, jaafar looked over at you with a soft smile before gently squeezing your hand. the simple gesture said everything neither of you could find the words for, and together you stood before walking inside. after presenting your marriage license, the ceremony officially began.

courthouse weddings usually lasted no more than fifteen minutes, but thankfully your judge happened to be a huge michael jackson fan. after recognizing jaafar, he'd smiled and joked that he wasn't about to rush michael jackson's nephew through one of the biggest moments of his life. as long as there weren't any appointments immediately after yours, he was more than happy to give the two of you extra time, even allowing you to exchange your own vows instead of limiting the ceremony to only the traditional wording.

“j… when i think about everything over the last ten years, i really come back to the same thing; i’m so proud of you,” you begin, your voice softer than you'd expected, emotion already tightening your throat.

the moment the words leave your mouth, you watch jaafar's expression change. his eyes soften almost instantly, the corners becoming glassy as he tries to keep himself composed, but after everything the last three years had demanded of him, hearing those words from the person who had stood beside him through every sacrifice was enough to unravel him before you'd even finished your first sentence.

“for years, you’ve worked so hard to prove that you’re more than your last name. for years you’ve stood by my side, even during my moments when i wasn’t the easiest person to be in a relationship with, but you’ve always made me feel safe. you’ve always shown me that it’s okay to come to you with emotions that are too heavy to carry alone and that i don’t have to suffer in silence, and you’ve always carried me with grace and love. and although i’m about to have to share you with the world when this movie comes out, but just know… i promise that you’ll always have me to come home to, to be the quiet in the midst of the storm, and to love you through it,” you say, reaching your hand up to gently wipe the tears that had escaped down his cheek.

your thumb lingered there for a moment after brushing them away, and jaafar instinctively leaned into your touch, unable to stop smiling through the tears. no matter how much his life was about to change when the movie released, no matter how much attention or success came with it, home would always be wherever you were.

he took a slow breath before beginning his own vows, giving your hands a gentle squeeze as though he needed to remind himself that this moment was real.

“baby, you’re my life. you’ve been in my life for so long, there’s no version of my life that exists without you. you’ve been there for everything; the trial and error with trying to make an album, the rejections, the highs, the lows, you’ve seen me through so much…” he softly trails, emotion catching in his throat as he glances down at your intertwined hands.

he smiled to himself for a brief second when his eyes landed on the rings now resting side by side on your fingers. after years of postponing dates, changing plans, and wondering when life would finally slow down enough for the two of you to get married, it had finally happened, and somehow it still felt impossible to believe.

you gently squeezed his hands, silently encouraging him to continue.

“but i’m also proud of you. i know the last three years haven’t been easy, i wasn’t always home, i wasn’t always there when you needed me, and you never held it against me. you keep me grounded, you showed me love in all the little ways that mattered, and i’m so honored you chose me to be your husband. i promise that i will always keep you safe, and no matter how much i have to give to the world and the fans, i’ll always make sure the most important parts of myself come home to you,” jaafar says, his voice trembling just enough that it makes the tears you'd been trying so hard to hold back spill freely down your cheeks.

the judge allowed the two of you a quiet moment to simply look at one another before warmly smiling and finishing the ceremony. after officially pronouncing you husband and wife, he looked toward jaafar with a grin and told him he may kiss his bride.

jaafar's hands gently came up to cup your cheeks, his thumbs carefully brushing away the fresh tears that had fallen before he leaned forward and brought your lips together. you melted into him the way you always did, instinctively closing the distance between you, but this kiss carried a different kind of emotion than any you'd shared before. it wasn't simply the kiss of the man you'd loved for ten years or the fiancé you'd spent years planning a future with. this was your husband kissing you for the very first time, and as you felt his wedding band brush lightly against your skin while he held your face so carefully, every delayed venue, every stressful planning meeting, every sacrifice the two of you had made, and every year you'd spent waiting suddenly felt worth it because it had all led you here.

when the kiss finally ended, neither of you moved very far apart, your foreheads naturally resting together as the two of you smiled through tear-filled eyes. the judge congratulated you both before officially concluding the ceremony, and after thanking him for allowing you the extra time to exchange your vows, the two of you made your way back outside.

once you and jaafar were back in the car, the silence between you wasn't awkward. it was peaceful, the kind of silence that only existed between two people who no longer needed words to understand what the other was feeling. jaafar turned toward you, his wedding band catching the afternoon sunlight as he reached over to gently cradle your face again before leaning across the center console to kiss you once more. you couldn't help smiling into the kiss as you wrapped your hand around the back of his neck, still unable to believe that after ten years together, you were finally husband and wife.

“my wife, mrs. jackson,” he says once the kiss ends.

your cheeks instantly begin to warm as your noses brush together, neither of you making any attempt to create more space between yourselves. even after everything that had happened over the last hour, hearing him say it out loud somehow made it all feel real in a way signing paperwork never could.

you were mrs. jackson.

“say that again,” you whisper, barely louder than a breath.

jaafar's smile only grows. “mrs. jackson,” he repeats.

the title settles over you like the softest blanket, and before you can stop yourself, a wide smile stretches across your face. you don't think you've ever loved hearing your own name more than you do right now.

“how would you like to celebrate?” he asks. you pretend to think for a moment before grinning.

“can we go to in-n-out? i’m really craving some fries,” you say. jaafar laughs, the sound warm and affectionate as he leans over to steal another kiss from your lips before finally starting the car.

“fries for my wife it is,” jaafar says.

there it was again, wife.

every time he said it, you felt warmth spread all the way through your body, your heart somehow finding a way to beat even faster than it already had been all morning. after spending three years being called his fiancée, hearing yourself become his wife in the span of a single afternoon felt surreal, and judging by the smile that hadn't left his face since walking out of the courthouse, jaafar wasn't having any easier of a time believing it either.

the drive to in-n-out felt wonderfully ordinary, and maybe that was your favorite part.

after years of waiting to get married, your first moments as husband and wife weren't extravagant. they weren't spent in a limousine on the way to some lavish reception or boarding a private jet for an expensive honeymoon.

instead, jaafar's hand rested comfortably on your thigh the way it always did whenever the two of you were in the car, absentmindedly rubbing slow circles against your leg whenever he stopped at a red light. every now and then he'd glance over at you, smiling for no reason other than the simple fact that you were sitting beside him, and every time you caught him looking, he'd smile even wider before turning his attention back to the road.

it felt like every other drive the two of you had ever taken together.

except now, you were husband and wife.

once you and jaafar got your food, the two of you headed outside to one of the patio tables. it wasn't exactly the elegant wedding dinner either of your families had imagined over the years, but neither of you cared. the paper wrappers, plastic trays, and familiar smell of fresh burgers and fries somehow made the afternoon feel even more special because it was so unapologetically the two of you.

jaafar softly teased you, just like he always did, when you dipped one of your fries into your milkshake before taking a bite. he'd spent ten years insisting it was strange. you'd spent ten years insisting he was wrong. neither of you had changed your minds.

he shook his head with an amused smile, watching you with the same fond expression he always wore whenever you did something that made absolutely no sense to him. somehow, even something as simple as watching you happily eat fries dipped in a milkshake made him look at you as though you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

your heart swelled beneath his gaze. without thinking, you leaned across the table and gently rested your hand against his cheek. the gold wedding band that now sat beside your engagement ring caught the afternoon sunlight as your thumb softly brushed across his skin.

the two of you were so wrapped up in each other that you didn't notice the paparazzi gathering a short distance away. at first it was only one photographer who happened to recognize jaafar, but within minutes, several cameras were pointed toward your table.

you didn't notice the flashes quietly going off through the windows as photographers zoomed in, quickly realizing there was now a simple gold wedding band resting beside the engagement ring that hadn't been there just two days before. they had just stumbled across one of the biggest celebrity stories of the year, and neither of you had the slightest idea.

when you finally leaned back, smiling to yourself, you reached for another fry and dipped it into your milkshake again. jaafar let out another quiet laugh, shaking his head before taking another bite of his own food.

“you're never gonna convince me that's normal,” he mumbles.

“it's delicious,” you protest.

“it's criminal,” he teases.

“you've never even tried it,” you say as you point a fry at him and he laughs.

“because i love myself,” he says making you playfully roll your eyes as you laugh, but before either of you could continue the playful argument, you heard someone quietly clear their throat nearby.

you almost hadn't noticed the small group of fans approaching the table, but jaafar had. he'd always been attuned to things like that, noticing people long before they reached him.

the fans immediately apologized for interrupting before asking if they could have his autograph. they excitedly told him they couldn't wait for the michael movie to come out and that from everything they'd seen in the trailers, they already knew he was going to do an incredible job.

you couldn't help smiling when you saw the faint blush spread across jaafar's cheeks. after everything he'd poured into the role over the last three years, hearing genuine excitement from people who couldn't wait to see the film still embarrassed him in the sweetest way.

he thanked each of them sincerely, taking his time signing their posters and chatting with them for a minute before wishing them a good afternoon.

once they walked away, you found yourself looking at him with that same soft smile still lingering on your face.

he caught you staring almost immediately. “what?” he asks.

“nothing…” you say, your smile only growing. “but you should get used to that… once this movie comes out, you’re gonna be everywhere.”

jaafar simply shakes his head as he reaches across the table for your hand. his thumb slowly brushes over your wedding band, his eyes lingering on it for a moment as though he still couldn't quite believe it was there.

then he looks back up at you. “as long as i have you by my side, i can face anything,” he says.

it amazed you how, even standing on the edge of becoming one of the most recognizable faces in the world, he still measured everything against the life the two of you had built together.

fame had never been the thing grounding him, you were.

“we should probably tell your family… god are they gonna be mad? especially your mom… you know how happy she was at genevieve’s wedding, now she missed yours?” you ask.

jaafar laughs, already knowing exactly how the conversation was going to go.

“she’ll probably just want to throw a party for us, and maybe we can do another mini wedding for them,” jaafar says.

you nod. honestly, that sounded exactly like alejandra.

she'd probably cry first, hug both of you until neither of you could breathe, tell you she wished she'd been there, and then immediately start planning some kind of family celebration before the phone call was even over.

“call your siblings first. group facetime,” you say.

jaafar laughs as he reaches into his pocket for his phone. after unlocking it, he opens the family group chat before tapping the facetime button, setting his phone against the drink carrier sitting between the two of you on the table, unable to stop smiling as the familiar ringing sound filled the patio.

neither of you could wait to see their reactions.

they all answer one by one, each familiar face popping onto the screen until the call fills with overlapping voices. the second they see jaafar, they all grin.

“look at mr. movie star.”

“next big superstar over here.”

“don't forget us when you're famous.”

jaafar immediately shakes his head with a laugh, already used to the endless teasing that had become even more frequent since the michael trailers had been released. he reaches over with one arm, gently wrapping it around your waist before gesturing for you to scoot your chair closer so you'd both fit comfortably in the frame.

you move beside him until your shoulders are pressed together, smiling at the three siblings looking back at you from the screen.

jermajesty squints for a second. “why are y’all so dressed up?” he asks.

from the angle of the phone, he could only see the two of you from the waist up, but it was enough to notice that jaafar was wearing a suit and you were dressed far more elegantly than someone grabbing burgers on a random afternoon.

you and jaafar exchanged a quick glance before looking back at the phone. “uh, we have something to tell you guys, but don’t freak out,” you say.

genevieve's eyes immediately widen. “oh my god, are you pregnant?” you immediately burst into laughter, shaking your head so quickly your earrings swayed.

“no, definitely not,” you say.

“not for lack of trying,” jaafar teases. your eyes immediately snap toward him as you lightly smack his arm.

“shut up,” you giggle.

“yes, please, shut up,” jermajesty agrees without missing a beat, making genevieve and randy laugh as jaafar dramatically rolls his eyes. “okay, what’s the news that we’re not supposed to freak out about?”

you looked over at jaafar one more time, both of you smiling to yourselves as though silently counting down together. then, at the same time, you lifted your left hands toward the camera. the afternoon sunlight immediately caught against the matching gold wedding bands resting beside your engagement ring.

“we got married today,” jaafar says.

for a full second, nothing. every one of them simply stared at the screen, trying to process what they were looking at. then all three reactions happened at once.

“no fucking way,” randy is the first to speak.

“are you kidding me!?” jermajesty blurts out, leaning so close to his phone that his face nearly filled the entire screen.

genevieve's mouth had fallen completely open, one hand covering it as she looked back and forth between the two of you and your rings. you and jaafar couldn't help laughing as you nodded.

“trying to plan this wedding was stressing me out, and gen said the other bridesmaids were stressing her out with their constant complaining, and it just seemed like we never had time, so i told j, fuck it, let’s just go get married,” you say with a shrug.

all three of them immediately started laughing.

genevieve pointed toward the screen. “your bridesmaids were stressing me the hell out,” she says. that only made you laugh harder.

you'd asked genevieve to be your maid of honor almost immediately after getting engaged, never once questioning who you wanted standing beside you. from the very first day jaafar had introduced you to his family, she'd welcomed you without hesitation, treating you like another little sister instead of just her brother's girlfriend. she'd joked more than once that after growing up surrounded by brothers, it was nice finally having another girl around, and somewhere over the last ten years, she'd become one of your closest friends.

“we’d still like to have a celebration with everyone though…” you say, your smile softening. “your mom isn’t gonna be mad, is she?” the call suddenly became very quiet. the three siblings all looked at one another through their screens.

finally, jermajesty grinned. “let’s find out.”

before either you or jaafar could stop him, he tapped his screen and added alejandra to the facetime. the phone rang only twice before she answered. the moment her face appeared, she smiled.

“hey, everyone, what’s going on?” alejandra asks.

there was a hint of confusion in her voice. she wasn't usually included in the siblings' group facetimes, so seeing all of her children together along with you immediately made her wonder what she'd missed.

jermajesty, of course, didn't waste a second. “your son got married.”

alejandra blinked. “what?”

you and jaafar both held your hands toward the camera again, letting the wedding bands answer the question before either of you could. her eyes immediately dropped to your rings, then widened.

jaafar's smile became a little sheepish. “mom… we’re sorry, we never wanted to exclude you, we just—” he didn't even get the chance to finish.

“no, baby,” alejandra says, her eyes already beginning to glisten. “i’m not crying because i’m sad… i’m so happy for you both.” she laughed softly as she wiped beneath one eye. “it’s about time you two got married. it’s been what? ten years? you’re lucky she stuck around long enough.”

the teasing immediately sent the entire call into laughter. jaafar let out an embarrassed groan as his cheeks turned a deep shade of pink, ducking his head while everyone else continued laughing at his expense.

“she’s right… waiting ten years for a man to marry me is crazy,” genevieve says.

that only made everyone laugh harder. you turned toward your husband, whose face had somehow managed to become even redder.

he looked adorably embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck while trying to defend himself through a smile. you couldn't help smiling at him.

reaching over, you gently shook your head before leaning in to press a soft kiss against his warm cheek. “it’s okay, baby,” you say.

his eyes met yours almost immediately, and despite all the teasing coming through the phone speakers, the look he gave you made it feel like, for just a second, the two of you were the only people there, because at the end of the day, whether it had taken ten years or twenty, he'd kept the promise he'd made when he got down on one knee.

you were his wife, and he’s your husband.

“make sure you call your father and tell him,” alejandra says jaafar nods with a small smile.

jermaine had never quite figured out facetime, especially when it came to group calls. every time someone tried adding him, there was usually a solid five minutes of confusion before he accidentally turned the camera toward the ceiling or disconnected altogether.

“we will, don’t worry,” jaafar says.

everyone smiles. “congratulations, both of you. we love you both so much,” alejandra says. your heart warms at the sincerity in her voice.

“thanks mom, we love you too,” jaafar says.

“yeah, congratulations, guys… i mean she’s already been like our sister for years, so thanks for finally making it official,” randy jr. says.

you can't help smiling. somewhere over the last decade, the line between jaafar's family and your own life had quietly disappeared. holidays, birthdays, family dinners, vacations, graduations, weddings, you had been there for all of it. there had never been a moment where anyone made you feel like an outsider. long before the wedding bands resting on your finger, they'd already treated you like one of their own.

“gen, i will call you tomorrow and we can plan the party,” you say. she immediately smiles.

“perfect… will any of your original bridesmaids be coming?” she asks. the exhaustion in her voice makes you laugh. of all the people involved in wedding planning over the last three years, genevieve had probably earned this courthouse wedding almost as much as you had.

“it depends, we’ll discuss all that,” you say. genevieve nods, looking visibly relieved that the final decisions could wait until tomorrow.

the conversation slowly winds down after that, everyone offering another round of congratulations, telling you how much they loved you before promising they'd celebrate properly once you were all together. after saying your goodbyes, jaafar ends the facetime call and sets his phone back down on the table.

the second the screen goes dark, the two of you look at one another, then, without either of you saying a word, you both burst into laughter. everything that had felt so impossibly overwhelming only two days ago suddenly seemed so insignificant now that the two of you were finally married.

once you'd both finished eating, jaafar gathered the empty wrappers, cups, and fry containers before tossing everything into the nearby trash can. when he returned, he naturally held his hand out toward you.

you smiled, slipping your hand into his without hesitation. your wedding band lightly bumped against his as your fingers intertwined, and the tiny sensation made both of you smile all over again.

the walk back to the car was unhurried, when you reached the passenger side, jaafar reached for the handle before pausing. instead of opening the door, he turned toward you.

his hand gently found your waist before he guided you back until your shoulders rested lightly against the car door. you looked up at him, already smiling before he'd done anything at all. your arms naturally slid around his neck as he leaned in, his forehead brushing yours for the briefest moment before his lips found yours.

you smiled into the kiss immediately, your fingers slipping into the curls at the nape of his neck as you gently pulled him closer, savoring the feeling of being wrapped in his arms. the kiss was slow and unhurried, neither of you trying to rush through the moment, as though the rest of the world had simply disappeared around you.

what neither of you noticed were the camera flashes going off from across the parking lot. the paparazzi were still there. they'd watched the two of you leave the courthouse, they'd followed you to in-n-out, they'd photographed the wedding bands, the kisses, the laughter, every quiet moment the two of you thought belonged only to yourselves. by tomorrow morning, your elopement would be front-page news.

but right now, none of that mattered. right now, you were simply standing in the parking lot of an in-n-out, kissing your new husband, happier than you'd ever been. when you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far away.

“we called your family tonight, but we’ll have to call mine tomorrow,” you say. jaafar lets out a quiet laugh as he nods.

he'd loved your family from the very first time you'd brought him home to meet them. after everyone got over the initial shock that you were dating someone from the jackson family, they'd welcomed him with open arms. your brothers had wasted absolutely no time teasing him, and jaafar had fit right in, happily throwing the jokes back at them as another older brother would. your sisters had adored him from the beginning, and watching the people you loved most love each other had always made your heart feel full.

“i love you, wife,” jaafar says softly once you pull back. your cheeks immediately flush. you still weren't used to hearing it. every time he said it, your heart fluttered all over again. unable to help yourself, you leaned in and stole another quick kiss from his lips.

“i love you too, husband… now take me home so we can get the wedding night celebration started,” you say, a small, suggestive smirk tugging at your lips.

jaafar laughs, the warmth in his eyes giving way to a familiar spark as he looks at you. he gently helps you away from the car door before opening it for you like he always does.

requested　﹒　too many 2 count!! (check taglist)!!♡

The roar of the Roman crowd is a physical thing. It’s a living, breathing entity that presses against you from all sides, a hot, vibrating force that hums deep in your bones. You’re tucked away in the shadows of the wings, a world away from the spectacle but completely immersed in it. From here, you can see the magic and the machinery. The frantic scurrying of stagehands, the precise, almost balletic movements of the dancers, the stark, utilitarian scaffolding that holds up a fantasy.

But your eyes are only for him.

Under the glare of a thousand lights, Michael is a force of nature. He’s a comet, a whirlwind of pure, unadulterated energy. Every hip thrust, every kick, every spin is executed with a breathtaking precision that borders on the divine. He owns this stage, this stadium, this city. He owns the hundred thousand people who are screaming his name. You’ve seen him perform before, on grainy VHS tapes and on the small screen of your television, but it’s nothing—nothing—compared to this. Seeing him like this, up close, is like witnessing the birth of a star.

He’s in the middle of “Smooth Criminal,” the iconic white suit a stark slash against the dark stage. He leans forward, defying gravity, and the crowd erupts. A grin splits your face, a fierce, proud, proprietary thing. That’s your best friend up there. The boy who used to build forts with you in your living room, the boy who cried when you gave him a black eye with a wayward baseball swing, the boy who called you from a payphone just to hear your voice before a big show. He’s all of that, and he’s also this. A global phenomenon. A legend.

The song ends, and he strikes a final, dramatic pose, chest heaving, head bowed. The lights go down, plunging the stadium into a sudden, expectant darkness. For a beat, there’s only the sound of a hundred thousand people catching their breath. Then, a single spotlight finds him, sitting on a stool at the center of the stage, a fedora pulled low over his eyes.

He’s going to sing “Rock With You.” Your heart does a familiar little flutter. He always says he dedicates this one to you, even if he never says your name out loud. He starts to sing, and the raw, emotional rasp in his voice sends shivers down your spine. It’s a different kind of performance now. Stripped of the pyrotechnics and the dizzying dance moves, it’s just him, and the microphone, and the sheer power of his voice. He’s pouring everything into it, every ounce of love and longing and gratitude he feels. And you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your soul, that he’s singing to you.

When the final note fades, he’s off the stool and running, sprinting towards the wings. He’s a blur of white and sweat, a kinetic missile aimed directly at you. You barely have time to register his movement before he’s there, in front of you, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug.

He’s soaking wet, his t-shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin. He smells of sweat, and that expensive, clean cologne he loves, and something else… something uniquely him. It’s the scent of adrenaline, of pure, unadulterated joy.

“You were incredible,” you breathe into his hair, your arms wrapped tight around his neck. “Absolutely incredible.”

He pulls back, just enough to look at you, his face split into a wide, brilliant grin. His eyes are shining, impossibly bright, a frantic, beautiful energy thrumming just beneath the surface of his skin. He’s still high off the rush, a live wire buzzing with an electric current.

“You think so?” he asks, his voice a low, happy rumble.

“I know so,” you say, standing on your tiptoes to press a quick, firm kiss to his sweaty cheek. You taste salt and the faint, ghost of a stage makeup. “They loved you, Mikey. They really, really loved you.”

“They loved it,” he corrects, a playful glint in his eye. “But I love you more.” Your heart does a little flip-flop, a familiar, dizzying sensation that you’ve learned to live with over the years. You’re about to say something, to tease him, to deflect, but he’s already pulling away. “Gotta go,” he says, dabbing at his face with a towel a stagehand shoves into his hands. “Makeup’s a mess. They’ll have my head for lettin’ myself get so sweaty.” He winks, a quick, mischievous gesture that’s just for you. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you call after him as he disappears deeper backstage, a whirlwind of white energy and purpose.

You lean against a stack of road cases, letting the post-show chaos wash over you. The roar of the crowd has subsided into a dull, expectant hum, a thousand conversations happening at once. The stage is a flurry of activity, a well-oiled machine resetting for the next leg of the tour. You’re an island of calm in the middle of it all, a quiet observer in a world that’s not your own. But it doesn’t feel alien. Not with him here. With him, this strange, chaotic world feels like home.

The rest of the show passes in a blur of light and sound. You watch from the wings, your eyes never leaving him. He’s a dynamo, a force of nature, a whirlwind of pure, unadulterated energy. He’s in his element, a king on his throne, and you’re the queen of his shadow kingdom, a silent, supportive presence in the wings.

When the final curtain falls, and the last of the pyrotechnics fades into the night, the stadium is plunged into a sudden, jarring silence. The energy of the crowd dissipates, replaced by a collective, exhausted sigh. The stage lights come up, revealing the messy, chaotic reality behind the fantasy.

You wait for him, a patient sentinel in the dimly lit wings. You can hear him before you see him, a familiar, happy hum that cuts through the noise of the crew. He appears a few moments later, a towel draped around his neck, his hair still damp from the post-show shower. He’s changed into a pair of black jeans and a simple black t-shirt, but he’s still buzzing, a live wire humming with a residual energy. “Hey,” he says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Ready to go?”

“Go where?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “It’s after midnight. I was thinking we could order some room service and watch bad Italian TV until we pass out.” He chuckles, a low, throaty sound. “That sounds nice,” he says, taking your hand. “But I have a better idea.” He leads you through the maze of backstage corridors, past a sea of exhausted-looking crew members and half-dismantled equipment. He nods at a few people, a quick, easy gesture of acknowledgement, but he doesn’t stop. He’s a man on a mission, and you’re happy to follow him, a willing accomplice in whatever adventure he’s planned.

You emerge into the cool night air, the smell of exhaust fumes and distant garbage a stark contrast to the sterile, air-conditioned world of the stadium. A black car, sleek and unassuming, is waiting for you, its engine a low, purring rumble. He opens the door for you, a gentlemanly gesture that never fails to make your heart flutter. “Where are we goin’?” you ask, sliding into the plush leather seat. “It’s a surprise,” he says, sliding in beside you. He closes the door, and the city disappears behind the tinted windows. The car pulls away from the curb, merging seamlessly into the flow of late-night traffic.

Rome at night is a different creature. It’s a city of ghosts, of echoes, of memories. The ancient ruins are bathed in a soft, golden light, their shadows stretching long and thin across the cobblestone streets. The usual throngs of tourists have vanished, replaced by a handful of late-night revelers and the occasional stray cat. The car winds its way through the narrow, winding streets, the city a blur of color and light. You lean your head against the cool glass, watching the world go by. Michael is quiet, but it’s a comfortable silence, a shared understanding that needs no words. He’s just happy to be here, with you, in this beautiful, ancient city.

The car finally pulls to a stop in a small, secluded piazza. A single fountain, its water glinting in the moonlight, stands in the center, its gentle splash a soothing, rhythmic sound. The surrounding buildings are old, their stucco walls a patchwork of faded colors, their windows dark and shuttered. “C’mon,” he says, opening the door. “There’s someone I want you t’meet.” He leads you towards a small, unassuming door tucked away in a corner of the piazza. A single, flickering lantern hangs above it, casting a warm, inviting glow. He knocks, a soft, rhythmic beat. A moment later, the door creaks open, revealing a tiny, ancient-looking man with a shock of white hair and a kind, crinkly face.

“Michael!” he exclaims, his face breaking into a wide, toothy grin. He pulls Michael into a tight, affectionate hug, patting him heartily on the back. “S’good to see you, my boy. It has been too long.” “It’s good to see you, too, Enzo,” Michael says, his face split into a wide, brilliant grin. “I brought someone with me. Someone special.” Enzo turns his attention to you, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft, courtly kiss. “A pleasure,” he says, his voice a thick, melodic Italian accent. “Any friend of Michael’s is a friend of mine.”

“Enzo owns this shop,” Michael explains, gesturing towards the door. “He’s the best shoemaker in all of Rome. Maybe the world.” Enzo chuckles, a modest, dismissive wave of his hand. “I am a simple craftsman,” he says. “But Michael, he has an eye for beauty. He knows a good shoe when he sees one.”

“He’s bein’ modest,” Michael whispers to you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He’s made shoes for popes and kings. But he makes the best loafers for dancing.” He turns back to Enzo. “We’re here for a little midnight shopping, if you’re not too busy.” “For you, my boy, I am never too busy,” Enzo says, stepping aside to let you in. “Come in, come in. The night is young, and the leather s’fresh.”

The shop is a magical, olfactory wonderland. The air is thick with the rich, earthy scent of leather, of polish, of old wood and history. The walls are lined with shelves, each one overflowing with shoes of every shape and size, from delicate, bejeweled heels to sturdy, well-worn boots. The workbench in the center of the room is a chaotic masterpiece of tools and half-finished projects, a testament to a life dedicated to the art of shoemaking. “You see?” Michael says, his voice a low, happy murmur. “It’s like a museum.” “It’s more than a museum,” Enzo says, a proud, happy smile on his face. “It’s a sanctuary. A place where beauty is born.”

Michael starts to browse, his fingers tracing the delicate stitching of a pair of velvet loafers, the smooth, worn leather of a pair of well-loved boots. He’s in his element, a connoisseur appreciating fine art. You watch him, a soft, contented smile on your face. You love seeing him like this, so passionate, so alive. It’s a side of him that the world never gets to see, a quiet, intimate glimpse into the soul of the man behind the legend. “What do you think?” he asks, holding up a pair of black patent leather loafers, the leather so shiny it reflects the single, flickering lantern. “I think you have enough shoes,” you tease, a playful glint in your eye. “You could open your own museum.”

“A man can never have enough shoes,” he retorts, a smug little smile on his face. “Especially when they’re this beautiful.” Enzo chuckles, a low, throaty sound. “He is right,” he says, a knowing twinkle in his eye. “A good shoe is like a good woman. Hard to find, but once you do, you never let her go.”

Your heart does a little flip-flop, a familiar, dizzying sensation that you’ve learned to live with over the years. You can feel Michael’s eyes on you, a heavy, lingering gaze that makes your skin tingle. You clear your throat, turning your attention to a nearby shelf, your fingers tracing the delicate, beaded embroidery on a pair of satin slippers. “These are beautiful,” you say, your voice a little too bright. “Who are they for?”

“They were for a princess,” Enzo says, a wistful look on his face. “A long, long time ago. She never came to pick them up.” “Her loss,” Michael says, coming up behind you. He’s so close, you can feel the warmth of his body, the faint, clean scent of his cologne. He picks up one of the slippers, holding it in his palm like a fragile, precious thing. “They’d look good on you.” You laugh, a light, airy sound that does little to dispel the tension in the room. “I don’t think I’m quite princess material.” “Sure you are,” he says, his voice a low, intimate whisper. “My princess.”

The words hang in the air between you, a quiet, unspoken truth that’s as beautiful as it is terrifying. You want to lean into him, to close the distance between you, to let the current that’s been humming between you for years finally pull you under. But you’re scared. Scared of ruining the perfect, fragile thing you have. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, your voice a strained mix of affection and deflection. You gently take the slipper from him, placing it back on the shelf. “Now, are you going to buy somethin’, or are we jus’ here to admire the craftsmanship?”

“Alright, alright,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, a playful glint in his eye. “You win.” He turns back to Enzo, a serious, business-like expression on his face. “I’ll take th’ patent leather ones. And the ones with th’ silver buckles. And…” He pauses, a mischievous glint in his eye. “And the slippers. For th’ princess.” Enzo beams, a happy, proud smile on his face. “Excellent choices, my boy. Excellent choices.” He disappears into the back of the shop, returning a moment later with several boxes, each one a work of art in its own right. He carefully wraps the shoes, his movements precise, practiced. It’s a ritual, a sacred ceremony, and you feel like you’re witnessing something special, something that few people ever get to see.

Michael pays him, a quick, discreet transaction that’s handled with a quiet, mutual respect. As he’s signing the receipt, you find yourself drawn to the workbench, to the chaotic, beautiful mess of tools and half-finished projects. You pick up a small, intricately carved wooden last, the surface smooth and worn from years of use. “My father made that,” Enzo says, appearing at your side. “He was a shoemaker, too. And his father before him. It is in our blood, you see? To make things that are beautiful, that last.”

“It’s a dyin’ art,” you say, your voice soft.

“Not as long as there are people like Michael,” Enzo says, a fond, paternal look on his face. “He understands. He knows that beauty is not a luxury. It is a necessity. It is what makes us human.” You look over at Michael, who’s now laughing with Enzo, his face lit up with a joy so pure it’s almost painful to witness. And you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your soul, that Enzo is right. Michael is a collector of beauty, of moments, of memories. And tonight, in this tiny, magical shop in the heart of Rome, he’s collecting another one. “You’re a lucky man, Enzo,” you say, your voice a quiet murmur. “To have a friend like him.”

“I am a lucky man,” Enzo agrees, a knowing twinkle in his eye. “But I think he is the lucky one. To have a friend like you.”

The words land with the weight of a confession, a quiet, intimate truth that hangs in the air between you. You feel a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the stuffy, leather-scented shop. You’re about to say something, to thank him, but Michael’s already at your side, a small, wrapped box in his hands. “Ready to go, princess?” he asks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Don’t call me that,” you say, but there’s no heat in your words. “Why not?” he asks, a playful whine in his voice. “It suits you.”

“It does not,” you retort, swatting him lightly on the arm. “Does too,” he says, a smug little smile on his face. He turns to Enzo, pulling him into another one of his bone-crushing hugs. “Thank you, my friend. For everything.” “Always, my boy,” Enzo says, patting him heartily on the back. “Now go. Go enjoy the city. Go live a little.”

“We will,” Michael says, taking your hand. “We will.” The cool night air is a welcome relief after the stuffy, leather-scented shop. The car is still waiting for you, a silent, black shadow in the moonlit piazza. Michael opens the door for you, a gentlemanly gesture that never fails to make your heart flutter.

“So,” he says, sliding in beside you. “What’s next on the midnight adventure tour?” “You’re the tour guide,” you say, leaning your head against the cool leather of the seat. “I’m just along for the ride.”

“Good,” he says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Then I’m taking you to get the best gelato in Rome.” The car winds its way through the narrow, winding streets, the city a blur of color and light. You’re quiet, but it’s a comfortable silence, a shared understanding that needs no words. You’re both just happy to be here, in this beautiful, ancient city, together.

The gelateria is a tiny, unassuming shop tucked away on a quiet side street. A single, flickering neon sign illuminates the window, casting a soft, colorful glow on the cobblestones. There are no tourists here, no lines of people waiting to be served. Just a sleepy-looking teenager behind the counter, and a handful of locals, their faces illuminated by the soft light of the fluorescents.

Michael orders for you, a rapid-fire string of Italian that’s surprisingly fluent. The teenager nods, a sleepy, unimpressed expression on his face. He scoops a generous portion of pistachio gelato into a cone, the color a vibrant, unnatural green. He follows it up with a scoop of chocolate, so dark it’s almost black. He hands the cone to Michael, who pays him with a handful of colorful euros.

“Here,” he says, holding out the cone. “Try this. It’s life-changing.” You take the cone, your fingers brushing against his. The gelato is cold, a welcome relief in the warm, humid night. You take a tentative lick, the flavor a burst of intense, nutty sweetness. It’s unlike any pistachio you’ve ever tasted, rich and creamy and impossibly flavorful. “Oh, wow,” you say, your eyes widening in surprise. “That’s… that’s really good.”

“Told you,” he says, a smug little smile on his face. He leans in, taking a quick, playful lick of your cone. “Hey, not bad,” he says, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I should’ve gotten that.”

“Hey, get your own,” you say, swatting him lightly on the arm. But you’re laughing, a light, airy sound that does little to dispel the easy, comfortable warmth that’s settled over you. You walk together, the gelato a sweet, sticky mess in your hands. The city is quiet now, the usual throngs of tourists replaced by a handful of late-night revelers and the occasional stray cat. The ancient ruins are bathed in a soft, golden light, their shadows stretching long and thin across the cobblestone streets. “It’s beautiful here,” you say, your voice a soft murmur. “It’s like… like a movie set.”

“It’s real,” he says, his voice a low, intimate whisper. “All of it. That’s the crazy part. People built this, thousands of years ago. They lived here, they loved here, they died here. And we’re just… walkin’ through their ghosts.” He leads you towards a small, secluded park, the trees a dark, shadowy canopy against the moonlit sky. He finds a bench, a simple, wrought-iron thing that’s been worn smooth by years of use. He sits down, patting the space beside him.

You settle in beside him, the silence stretching between you, a comfortable, familiar blanket. You finish your gelato, the last of it a sweet, sticky memory on your tongue. You can hear the distant sound of a siren, the soft, rhythmic chirping of crickets, the gentle splash of a nearby fountain. It’s a symphony of the city, a lullaby for the sleepless. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, his voice a quiet, fragile thing. “I don’t think I say that enough.” “I’m glad I’m here, too,” you say, your voice a soft echo of his.

He turns to you, his eyes searching yours. In the dim, moonlit light, they’re dark, impossibly deep, a universe of unspoken feelings and shared memories. He’s so close, you can feel the warmth of his body, the faint, clean scent of his cologne. You can see the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the tiny, almost invisible laugh lines around his eyes.

You’re leaning in before you even realize you’re doing it. It’s an instinct, a reflex, a magnetic pull that’s been humming between you for years. Your heart is a frantic, hummingbird beat against your ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm that drowns out all other sounds. His gaze drops to your lips, a slow, deliberate gesture that sends a jolt of electricity through you. He leans in, too, closing the small distance between you. The air is thick with anticipation, with the unspoken promise of a thousand missed opportunities, a thousand almosts. This is it. This is the moment.

“Michael!”

The voice is a sharp, intrusive crack that shatters the delicate, fragile bubble you’ve both been living in. You both jump, pulling apart as if you’ve been burned. A figure is striding towards you across the grass, a silhouette against the moonlit sky. It’s Bill, his face a mask of stoic professionalism, but you can see the faint, almost imperceptible line of worry etched between his brows.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, his voice a low, neutral rumble. “But it’s late. And we have an early flight tomorrow. It’s time to get back to the hotel.” Michael lets out a frustrated sigh, a sharp, angry puff of air. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure, unadulterated annoyance. “Yeah, okay, Bill,” he says, his voice tight, strained. “We’re comin’.”

“Good,” Bill says, a curt, professional nod. He turns and walks away, disappearing back into the shadows, a ghost in the night. “Well,” you say, your voice a little too bright, a little too brittle. “That was… fun.” “Yeah,” Michael says, a grim, tight-lipped smile on his face. “A blast.”

He stands up, holding out a hand to help you to your feet. You take it, his fingers closing around yours, a warm, firm grip. You’re both awkward, stiff, the easy, comfortable intimacy you shared just moments ago replaced by a tense, self-conscious silence. The unspoken words hang in the air between you, a heavy, suffocating weight. The ride back to the hotel is a study in quiet tension. The car is a silent, plush bubble, the city lights a blurry, colorful smear outside the tinted windows. You sit close, but not too close, a careful, deliberate distance between you. Your knees are almost touching, a whisper of space that feels like a vast, uncrossable chasm.

You can feel the heat radiating from him, the familiar, comforting warmth of his body. You can smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, a ghost of a memory that makes your heart ache. You want to reach out, to close the distance, to bridge the gap, but you’re frozen, a prisoner of your own fear. He’s just as tense. He’s staring out the window, his jaw set, a muscle working in his cheek. His hands are clenched into fists in his lap, a white-knuckled grip that betrays the calm, indifferent facade he’s trying so hard to maintain.

You arrive at the hotel a few minutes later, a grand, imposing building that’s all gleaming marble and hushed, reverent silence. A team of discreet, efficient-looking bellhops descends upon the car, their movements a well-choreographed ballet of silent service. They open the doors, they take your bags, they lead you towards the private elevators, their faces a mask of polite, professional anonymity. You ride the elevator in silence, the soft, instrumental music a grating, intrusive soundtrack to your shared discomfort. The numbers on the display climb higher and higher, a slow, agonizing ascent to your own private purgatory. The elevator doors slide open with a soft, whooshing sound, revealing the penthouse suite. It’s a palace of opulent excess, a sprawling space of gleaming marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and plush, oversized furniture. The city lights twinkle below you, a breathtaking, glittering panorama that should feel magical, but just feels empty.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna take a shower,” you say, your voice a strained, awkward thing. “I’m all sticky from the gelato.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a quiet, hoarse echo. “Me, too.”

You retreat to your bedroom, a beautiful, spacious room with a king-sized bed and a bathroom that’s bigger than your entire apartment back home. You close the door behind you, a thin, flimsy barrier that does little to muffle the sound of your own frantic, hummingbird heart.

You strip off your clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. You turn on the shower, the water a hot, pounding spray that you hope will wash away the tension, the awkwardness, the unspoken words that are clinging to you like a second skin. You step under the spray, the water a scalding, cleansing force that soothes your aching muscles and calms your frayed nerves. You stand there for a long time, letting the water cascade over you, your eyes closed, your mind a blank. You can hear the distant sound of Michael moving around in the other room, the soft, muffled thud of a door closing, the faint, almost imperceptible sound of the shower in his own bathroom starting up.

The thought of him, just a few feet away, naked and wet, sends a jolt of something hot and sharp through you. You push it down, a desperate, futile attempt to maintain a semblance of control. You’re not ready. You’re not ready for this, for the inevitable, terrifying collision of your two worlds. You finally turn off the water, grabbing a thick, fluffy towel from the heated rack. You dry yourself off, the rough terrycloth a welcome, grounding sensation against your skin. You pull on a soft, silk robe, the fabric cool and smooth against your still-damp skin. You take a deep breath, a fortifying, desperate attempt to brace yourself for what comes next.

You open the door, stepping out into the quiet, dimly lit suite. The only light comes from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city a glittering, silent spectator to your private drama. He’s there, standing in the middle of the living room, a silhouette against the glittering backdrop of the city. He’s changed into a pair of black silk pajama pants, his chest bare, his skin still damp from the shower. He looks… vulnerable. Stripped of all the artifice, all the performance, he’s just Michael. Your Michael.

And he’s looking at you with an expression that makes your heart ache. It’s a look of raw, unadulterated longing, a look of a man who’s been waiting for this moment for a lifetime.

“You’re still here,” he says, his voice a low, hoarse whisper. “Where else would I be?” you ask, your voice a quiet, fragile echo. He takes a step towards you, then another, until he’s standing in front of you, so close you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. He doesn’t touch you, not yet, but you can feel the current humming between you, a live wire of unspoken feelings and shared memories.

“I was so scared in that park,” he says, his voice a low, intimate confession. “Not of Bill, or of the fans, or of the world. I was scared of this. Of us. Of what would happen if I finally told you the truth.”

“What truth?” you ask, your voice a strained, breathy thing.

“The truth that I’m in love with you,” he says, the words a quiet, devastating blow. “That I’ve been in love with you since I was fifteen years old, and you helped me pick out the right tie for my first award show. That I’ve been in love with you through every bad date, every broken heart, every failed relationship. That I’ve been in love with you every single day for the last fifteen years.” The words hang in the air between you, a beautiful, terrifying confession that changes everything. You can feel the tears welling up in your eyes, hot, stinging tracks that trace a path down your cheeks. You’re not sad. You’re… overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated weight of his love, by the sheer, unadulterated weight of your own. “I’m in love with you, too,” you whisper, the words a quiet, desperate prayer. “I’m so in love with you it hurts.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. He reaches up, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, wiping away your tears. His touch is electric, a spark that ignites a fire deep in your soul. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” he says, his voice a low, happy rumble.

And then he’s kissing you. It’s not a frantic, desperate kiss. It’s a slow, deliberate, soul-shattering kiss. It’s a kiss that says, “I’m home.” It’s a kiss that says, “I’ve been waiting for you.” It’s a kiss that’s fifteen years in the making. His lips are soft, warm, tasting faintly of mint and the lingering sweetness of gelato. He’s gentle, at first, exploring, learning. But then the kiss deepens, a slow, deliberate burn that consumes you both. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer, until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your chest, a slow, reassuring rhythm that matches your own.

You lose all track of time, all sense of self. There’s only the feel of his lips on yours, the taste of his mouth, the warmth of his body. The world outside ceases to exist, the glittering city lights a distant, irrelevant memory. There’s only this. Only him. Only us. When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. The air is thick with the aftermath of the kiss, a heavy, heady thing that’s as intoxicating as it is terrifying.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice a shaky, breathy thing. “Yeah,” he says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Wow.” He takes your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, a perfect, familiar fit. He leads you towards the bedrooms, a silent, unspoken agreement passing between you. He stops at your door, a hesitant, questioning look on his face. “Stay with me,” you say, your voice a quiet, confident plea. “Please.”

He doesn’t need to be asked twice. He follows you into your room, closing the door behind him. He pulls you into another kiss, a quick, sweet thing that’s full of promise and possibility.

He pulls back, his dark eyes searching yours in the dim light of the city that spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A slow, contented smile touches his lips, a genuine, unguarded thing that you’ve rarely seen, and only ever when he thought no one was looking. Now, it’s just for you. “Let’s go to bed,” he whispers, the words a soft, simple promise.

There is no more hesitation, no more awkward dance of proximity. He leads you to the bed, not with passion, but with a quiet, settled rightness. You slide under the cool, crisp sheets, and he follows, settling beside you. He doesn’t pull you into an embrace or demand more. Instead, he simply takes your hand in his, your fingers intertwining on the pillow between you. It’s a small, simple gesture, but it feels more intimate, more profound, than anything that has come before.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @camillemonroe @mikaylajacksonnn @ghosteras @angelfacemj07 @kuinnoaa @michaelsbabymother @urdeftones-grrrl @plan3tch1ld @ag1rllikeyou @shamonemjshamone @thatpettyho @neverstreett @feenin4dietcoke @skibidicutepreppy @eternal-life94

2026 london 

the day had started off like any other. it was a quiet sunday in london. jaafar had been invited to wimbledon, something the two of you had been looking forward to ever since the invitation arrived, and getting to watch him experience milestones like this never stopped making you smile. after everything he'd accomplished over the last few years, it still made your heart swell knowing you got to be by his side for moments like these.

the two of you were renting a country house for your stay, while his brothers, randy jr and jermajesty, had rented another nearby because, in their words, they didn’t want to hear “married people doing married people activities,” a comment that had left both you and jaafar laughing far harder than it probably should have.

the morning settled into an easy rhythm. you were already downstairs, dressed and ready for the tournament, moving around the kitchen while breakfast cooked on the stove. upstairs, you could hear the shower running as jaafar got ready, the familiar sound blending with the quiet sizzle coming from the pan. it felt ordinary in the best way, until your phone began ringing across the counter.

you glanced at the screen and immediately smiled to yourself, rolling your eyes when “maj 😝” flashed across the caller id beside one of the most ridiculous contact pictures you'd ever saved for him.

you answered and put it on speaker. “maj, i swear if you’re rushing us again, i will not bring any breakfast over for you,” you say, remembering how he'd already texted in the group chat that you have with the brothers that you and jaafar better not make everybody late today with any extracurricular morning activities.

“one, good morning to you, too. two, that’s rude. three, no i was calling because did you see the news?” he asks and you raise an eyebrow as you flip another pancake.

“what news?” you ask and you hear him laugh.

“the movie hit a billion worldwide,” jermajesty says. your hand froze halfway through flipping the pancake as your eyes widened, your mind struggling to catch up with the words you'd just heard.

the movie hit a billion, the michael movie… your husband's movie.

the movie that had consumed the last three years of his life.

in an instant, it was like every memory came rushing back at once. endless rehearsals that left him too exhausted to do much more than collapse into bed beside you. acting classes where he worked twice as hard because he wanted to earn every bit of the role he'd been entrusted with. the days imposter syndrome got the better of him, when no amount of reassurance seemed enough to quiet the voice telling him he wasn't ready. the choreographers who pushed him because they knew exactly how high the standard was. the blood on his feet after dancing for hours because stopping simply wasn't an option in his mind.

you remembered loving him through every high and every low, through every breakthrough and every setback, and there had even been moments where the weight of the film had settled so heavily over your marriage that the thought of what it might cost the two of you had quietly crossed your mind.

and now... the movie hit a billion.

“what?” your voice is barely there when you speak, shock still filled you.

“j made history! first actor of any gender to have their debut film make a billion worldwide. we hit a fucking billion!” jermajesty says again, and this time the words finally sink in.

the breath caught in your chest before a scream burst out of you, loud, joyful, completely disbelieving as the realization crashed over you all at once.

upstairs, jaafar had just stepped out of the shower. he'd barely managed to wrap the towel around his waist when he heard you scream, and his heart dropped.

without thinking, he was already moving.

you were still standing there, your hand pressed against your mouth as another shocked scream escaped you, barely hearing jermajesty's laughter coming through the speaker. your thoughts were moving too fast to form a sentence, every emotion colliding at once as you tried to process the fact that the movie, his movie, had just become the first biopic in history to reach a billion dollars worldwide.

“baby?!” jaafar’s voice snaps you out of the haze just enough to look up.

his eyes are impossibly wide, his chest still damp from the shower and rising quickly as he struggles to catch his breath after racing downstairs. the towel is hastily secured around his waist, a few drops of water still slipping from the curls at the nape of his neck, but all of that is forgotten the second his eyes land on you.

before you can even answer, he's already in front of you.

his gaze moves over you instinctively, from your face to your hands, down the rest of your body, searching for any sign that you'd been hurt. the smell of breakfast reaches him and his eyes briefly flick toward the stove before returning to you again, his expression filled with nothing but concern as he tries to understand what could've possibly made you scream like that. he doesn't even notice your phone sitting on the counter, jermajesty still very much on the other end of the line. in that moment, the only thing occupying his mind is making sure you're okay.

“baby girl, what’s wrong, why are you screaming?” jaafar asks, and the longer you stay silent, the more panic settles into his voice. you finally look up at him.

his eyes immediately find yours, and the moment he sees the tears gathering there without falling, his stomach twists. one second ago he'd been convinced you'd burned yourself or gotten hurt. now, with tears in your eyes and no explanation, his mind races through every possibility, each one worse than the last.

“j…” your voice trembles as you try to steady your breathing enough to speak. “maj is on the phone… the movie, it hit a billion worldwide.” everything about him stills. his hands remain on you, but his expression changes completely as the words slowly settle in. it takes a second for his mind to catch up, as though the sentence is simply too unbelievable to process.

“what?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“your debut acting role made a billion… you hit a billion, baby, oh my god,” you say as your smile widens. for a heartbeat, he only stares at you, then the disbelief breaks.

a laugh escapes him before he can stop it, loud and completely unrestrained, the kind of laugh that comes from carrying something impossibly heavy for far too long and finally being allowed to put it down. without a second thought, he scoops you into his arms and spins you around the kitchen, your own laughter joining his as you instinctively wrap yourself around him.

“we really made a billion?” he asks.

still smiling so hard your cheeks hurt, you lean over his shoulder just enough to grab your phone from the counter. the group chat lights up the screen exactly as you'd expected. jermajesty had already flooded it with article links, randy jr following right behind him, every headline saying the same unbelievable thing.

you turn the screen toward him. “you did it,” you say.

jaafar shook his head. “no, baby… we did it. i couldn’t have done it without your support,” jaafar says.

“okay if you guys are gonna start with the sappy shit, im hanging up,” jermajesty teases. you laugh, the sound lighter now that the shock is beginning to settle, while jaafar lets out an exaggerated sigh and rolls his eyes.

“he’s gonna be insufferable when he gets a girl,” jaafar says. that only makes you laugh harder.

“whatever, we’ll be over soon for breakfast,” jermajesty says. you say your goodbyes and hang up, but neither of you moves. jaafar is still holding you in his arms and it feels like the rest of the world has disappeared.

“i’m so proud of you, j… you worked so hard for this, you deserve this,” you say as you lay your hand on his cheek. his smile softens, neither of you says another word, but you don't have to.

as your eyes stay locked on each other, the last three years replay between you in complete silence, each memory finding its place without either of you needing to speak it aloud.

you remember the nights he'd stumble through the front door long after dark, exhausted from rehearsing until all hours of the night. there were evenings where he'd given so much of himself to the day, to the choreography, to the acting, to becoming michael, that by the time he made it home there wasn't much left for anyone else.

you'd never held that against him. instead, you'd quietly found your own ways of loving him through it, making sure there was always a plate of food waiting in the microwave, laying out ice packs and hot water bottles for his aching feet before he even asked, helping him upstairs on the nights his body was so worn down that he'd barely make it to the bed before falling asleep.

those were the easier days. the harder ones left bruises no one else ever saw.

rescheduled dates became canceled ones. anniversary dinners turned into promises that you'd celebrate another night. there was the birthday he'd almost missed altogether because filming had run later than anyone expected, and somewhere along the way the two of you had started living on opposite schedules, missing each other more often than you actually got to be together.

the loneliness had been suffocating.

there were nights you'd lie awake wondering how much longer your relationship could survive living around a movie that seemed to demand every piece of the man you loved. and then the guilt would creep in just as quickly, because how could you resent the thing he'd worked his entire life for when you knew the impossible weight he was carrying? everyone expected him to honor one of the greatest entertainers who had ever lived, and you knew better than anyone how desperately he wanted to get it right.

it hadn't been perfect, not even close. there were arguments that stretched longer than either of you intended, words spoken in frustration that lingered long after the moment had passed, and nights where tears came easier than understanding. there were times when the distance between you felt too wide to bridge, when you slept in separate bedrooms and moved around each other like strangers, unsure of how to close the gap that had formed.

but even in those moments, even when it felt like everything was unraveling, neither of you ever stopped choosing to come back to each other.

the conversations were difficult, sometimes painful, but they mattered. jaafar listened when you told him you missed your husband. he reorganized his priorities. he started coming home earlier whenever he could, making a conscious effort to leave the role at the studio instead of bringing it into your home. he still poured everything he had into the film, but he learned that giving everything to the movie couldn't come at the cost of having nothing left to give the person waiting for him at the end of each day.

looking at him now, standing in the kitchen with tears threatening to spill from both of your eyes, you realized every rehearsal, every sacrifice, every difficult conversation, every lonely night, every compromise the two of you had fought so hard to make had somehow led to this moment.

and it had all been worth it.

you were so caught up in the memories that you didn't even notice the tears gathering in jaafar's eyes until a quiet sniffle pulled you back to the present.

your gaze immediately found him.

“baby?” you ask softly.

he doesn't answer right away.

instead, he carefully walks you backward until the backs of your legs meet the kitchen counter. his hands never leave you as he gently lifts you onto it before stepping between your knees. he takes a slow, shaky breath, as though he's trying to gather three years' worth of emotions into words.

“there were so many moments when i didn’t know if i’d be able to get through the movie. michael’s choregraphers initially not thinking i could do it… feeling like i had to prove myself, that i deserved this role, not because michael’s my uncle but because i earned it… and all the work put into it… it almost cost me you… i couldn’t have made it through these three years without you, yet i almost lost you… us,” he says as he shakes his head.

every word chips away at your heart.

you reach up without thinking, your thumbs gently brushing away the tears slipping down his cheeks. it hurt knowing that even today, after all he'd accomplished, a part of him was still carrying the guilt of what those years had asked of both of you.

“it was hard… but we got through it, and you more than proved yourself to everyone. no one else could’ve played this role, j… look at the many people who have tried before and failed. you were meant to do this… you told your uncle’s story with the respect and kindness he always deserved, and you put your literal blood, sweat, and tears into this,” you say with a small laugh that makes jaafar crack a smile.

the smile is small, but seeing it return feels like watching the sun break through after days of rain.

“and you always had ice or a hot water bottle ready for me,” jaafar says.

you can't help smiling back as your fingers drift into his damp curls, gently combing through them. only then do you fully register that he'd sprinted downstairs exactly as he'd stepped out of the shower, still standing in nothing but a towel because hearing you scream had mattered more than anything else.

“i remember when you took off your socks and your feet were… so cracked with dried blood, it took everything in me not to cry,” you say as you shake your head.

the memory still sat heavy in your chest.

he'd tried so hard to brush it off that night, insisting he'd be fine after a little rest, but you'd seen the pain written all over his face long before he'd admitted it. you'd knelt in front of him anyway, cleaning his feet as gently as you could, wishing there was some way to carry even a fraction of what he was carrying.

jaafar presses a kiss to your forehead.

“when i say i wouldn’t have made it here without you, i mean it. this is just as much your win as it is mine… i know i dropped the ball and messed up a lot, and i ended up neglecting you and us… but even through your disappointment, you held me together,” he says.

more tears spill over, and seeing them makes your heart clench.

because this wasn't an acceptance speech. there were no cameras, no interviewers, and no audience waiting to applaud. it was just your husband standing in the middle of your kitchen, letting himself be vulnerable in the one place he'd always felt safe enough to be.

“there was never a moment where i wasn’t proud of you, jaafar,” you say softly.

you watch him exhale. you feel it beneath your hands as the tension he'd been carrying slowly leaves his body, like he'd been waiting three years to hear those words. looking into his eyes, you realize he'd been afraid. not that the movie would fail, not even that audiences wouldn't accept him.

he'd been afraid that somewhere along the way, after everything the two of you had endured, you'd stopped being proud of him.

you gently cradle his face. “michael is proud of you,” you say. the words break something open inside him.

he lets out a shaky breath before lowering his head against your shoulder, burying his face into the crook of your neck as his shoulders begin to tremble. this time he doesn't try to hide the tears or apologize for them. he simply lets them fall, clinging to you as though his body finally understood it didn't have to stay strong anymore.

you wrap your arms around him without hesitation, one hand rubbing slow circles across his back while the other rests against the back of his head, your fingers disappearing into his curls.

these weren't just tears of sadness.

they were tears of relief and release.

for three years he'd given pieces of himself away one rehearsal at a time. he'd poured everything he had into dance rehearsals that pushed his body to its limits, into acting classes that challenged every insecurity he'd ever had, into honoring his uncle with the care, respect, and humanity he knew michael deserved. he'd carried impossible expectations on his shoulders every single day, never allowing himself the luxury of putting them down.

today, for the first time since this journey began, it finally felt like he could.

for three years he'd stopped knowing where michael ended and jaafar began.

there were days he'd spend so many hours studying interviews, rehearsing mannerisms, perfecting the voice, the movement, the smallest expressions, that by the time he walked through the front door he wasn't always sure how to simply be himself again. the role had demanded every part of him, and he'd willingly given it.

for three years, without ever meaning to, he'd let his marriage drift to the backburner while he chased the impossible expectations that came with portraying one of the greatest entertainers who had ever lived. every day became another chance to prove himself. to prove he belonged. to prove he wasn't standing there because michael was his uncle, but because he'd earned the right to tell his story.

for three years he'd carried that weight.

and now, it had all led here: the highest grossing biopic ever made. the first biopic to ever gross one billion dollars worldwide, and him, the first actor of any gender to have their debut film gross one billion dollars.

the reality of it was almost too overwhelming to hold onto. relief washed over him in waves so powerful they left him shaking, and after spending years holding everything together, he simply couldn't anymore.

as he sobbed into your shoulder, you held him even closer, your fingers slowly combing through his curls while your other hand traced comforting circles over the warm skin of his bare back. every few seconds you whispered the same things into his ear.

that you loved him, that you were proud of him, and that he deserved this.

each reassurance seemed to loosen another piece of the weight he'd been carrying, yet his arms only tightened around you, holding you like you were the one thing anchoring him to the present. after spending three years giving so much of himself away, all he wanted was to be here, in your arms, where he could finally just be jaafar again.

eventually, his crying softened into quiet sniffles. he drew in a long breath before slowly lifting his head from your shoulder. you reached up without thinking, gently cupping his face as your thumb brushed away the last few tears clinging to his cheeks.

“thank you for sticking by my side,” jaafar says, his voice still thick with emotion as he looks at you like he’s trying to memorize every part of your face.

your smile comes easily, soft and full of everything you’ve both endured together.

“it’s in the vows… i love you so much, j… we definitely have to celebrate after the matches,” you say, your voice warm and steady, grounding him in a way nothing else ever could.

for a moment, jaafar just stares at you, the words settling in before realization suddenly flickers across his face. his eyes widen slightly, and then he lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head at himself.

he’d completely forgotten about wimbledon.

“right, the matches… let me go change, and i’m sure my brothers will be here soon,” jaafar says, still smiling as he pulls himself back into the rhythm of the day.

you laugh, shaking your head at how quickly the morning had spiraled into something neither of you could've ever expected.

“yeah, i should finish making breakfast for everyone,” you say.

before you can hop down from the counter, jaafar leans forward and captures your lips in a deep kiss. it isn't rushed or playful, it's grateful.

every emotion he'd struggled to put into words poured into the kiss instead, and you felt it immediately. the way his lips lingered against yours, the tenderness behind every movement, the silent thank you that only the two of you could understand after everything you'd survived together.

when your lips parted, he deepened the kiss without hesitation, and the quiet sound that escaped the back of your throat only made him smile against your mouth before kissing you even more deeply.

your legs instinctively squeezed around his waist, drawing him a little closer until there wasn't any space left between you. his hands settled against your sides as the kiss grew more fervent, the rest of the world fading away until neither of you noticed the front door opening or the footsteps echoing through the house.

your fingers found the towel wrapped around his waist, and just as you were about to tug it away, the front door opened wider.

you immediately pulled back, your eyes widening before you started laughing. “damn your brothers,” you tease.

jaafar laughed too, though the sound came out breathless as he hurried to put even the smallest bit of space between you before randy jr and jermajesty stepped fully into the kitchen.

they both froze the moment they saw you.

their gazes lingered, slowly taking in every detail of the scene in front of them—jaafar standing between your legs, you still perched on the counter, your hand curled around the towel secured at his waist like you hadn’t quite let go yet.

for a brief second, silence stretched between all of you, then they looked at each other, and just as quickly, the silence shattered into laughter.

“man, i told you we should’ve called first,” randy jr said, shaking his head as he tried to catch his breath. jermajesty only grinned wider, clearly far less apologetic about the interruption.

“nah, this is exactly what i was talking about when i said they better not make us late,” he replied, his tone teasing but knowing. “so it’s good we showed up.”

you roll your eyes, unable to stop laughing anyway, while jaafar just shakes his head, laughing along with all of you.

“you better get up there and dress like your movie just grossed a billion bucks,” jermajesty says to his brother.

jaafar bites down on his lip, shaking his head as another smile slowly spreads across his face, softer this time, touched with something deeper than excitement alone.

before heading upstairs, he leans down one last time, pressing a lingering kiss against your forehead, letting it stay there for a moment longer than usual as if he’s grounding himself in you before stepping away, then he finally disappears toward the staircase to get dressed for wimbledon.

his brothers watch him go with matching smiles, pride evident in the way their eyes follow him.

“a billion dollars baby!” randy jr calls out after him.

jaafar laughs from halfway up the stairs, the sound echoing through the house, lighter than it had been in a long time.

you shake your head with a smile of your own before hopping off the counter to finish making breakfast, your heart somehow feeling impossibly full, like everything had finally come together in a way you hadn’t even realized you’d been waiting for.

requested　﹒　n/a ♡

The knock on the door isn’t polite. It’s a rapid, staccato beat, full of restless energy, the kind of knock that could only belong to one person. You grin, setting your glass of sparkling water on the bathroom counter. The tub is almost full, steam curling in the soft light, the scent of lavender and chamomile filling the air.

“Comin'!” you call out, wrapping a towel around yourself. You pad through your small New York apartment, the floorboards cool under your feet. You swing open the door to find him leaning against the doorframe, a chaotic masterpiece of New York night and post-concert adrenaline.

His hair is a mess of curls, still slightly damp from sweat, the matching initial necklaces you shared shining from the light. He’s wearing black jeans, a bit worn at the knees, and a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a couple of thin, silver bracelets. His eyes are wide and impossibly bright, a frantic, beautiful energy thrumming just beneath the surface of his skin. He looks exhausted, but electric. Alive.

“Hey, girl,” he says, a wide, brilliant grin spreading across his face. It’s the kind of smile that could light up Times Square, a private, unguarded thing he saves only for you.

“Hey, rockstar,” you reply, your smile just as wide. You pull him into a quick, tight hug, smelling sweat, and that expensive, clean cologne he loves. He’s solid and real against you, not a pixelated face on a screen or a staticky voice over the phone. “Long distance no more.”

“For tonight,” he agrees, his voice a low, happy rumble. He pulls back, but his hands stay on your arms, grounding you. “God, it’s good t' see you for real. My face's startin' t' get tired of lookin' inta cameras for pictures.”

“I know the feelin',” you say, your hands resting on his chest. You can feel the rapid, steady beat of his heart against your palm. “You're a mess, y'know that?”

“A happy mess,” he corrects, winking. “Adrenaline's a helluva drug.”

“So I see,” you laugh, gently pushing him inside and closing the door. “I was just about t' get in the bath. You caught me at a good time.”

His eyes flicker towards the bathroom, where the steam is now gently billowing out into the hallway. A slow, mischievous smile spreads across his face. “A bath, huh? Don’t start without me,” he teases, a playful glint in his eyes. You roll your eyes, swatting him lightly on the arm. “Down, boy,” you tease back. “I was gonna invite you t' sit in with me. We can catch up. If you can behave yourself.” “I can behave,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, though the sparkle in his eyes tells a difforent story. “Scout's honor.”

“Good,” you say, nodding towards the living room. “There's clean stuff for you in the top drawer of the dresser. the ones you left last time. Go get changed. I'll grab you a drink.” “You're a saint,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before disappearing into the living room.

You retreat to the kitchen, the cool tile a welcome relief against your bare feet. You pull a carton of orange juice from the fridge, the bright, citrusy scent a stark contrast to the calm lavender of the bath. You pour him a tall glass, the liquid a vibrant, sunny orange. For yourself, you top off your sparkling water, the bubbles fizzing gently against the sides of the glass. You grab both glasses and head back to the bathroom.

Michael’s already there, leaning against the counter, looking domestic and like yours. He’s changed into the gray pajama bottoms you’d gotten him, soft and worn, and a simple white t-shirt that clings to his lean frame. His feet are bare, and he’s fiddled with one of the silver bracelets on his wrist, a nervous, restless energy still radiating from him. He looks up as you enter, a grateful smile on his face. “Thanks for this,” he says, taking the glass from you. He takes a long swallow, a happy sigh escaping his lips. “Gosh, that's good. I'm so thirsty.”

“You were probably sweatin' out about ten gallons of water up there,” you say, setting your own glass down. You slip off your towel and slide into the tub, the hot water a blissful embrace. You sink down until the water’s lapping at your chin, a soft, contented sigh escaping your lips.

“It was somethin' else tonight,” he says, sliding down to sit on the floor, his back against the wall opposite the tub. He pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “the crowd was just... electric. you could feel it all the way up on the stage. Like a livin', breathin' thing.”

“I wish I could've been there,” you say, your voice soft. “T'see it. T'see you.” “You were there,” he says, his eyes meeting yours, a strange intensity in their depths. “I always look for you. Even when I know you ain't there, I still look.” Your heart does a little flip-flop, a familiar, dizzying sensation that you’ve learned to live with over the years. You’ve been best friends for so long, your lives intertwined in a way that feels both natural and utterly profound. But there are moments, like this one, where the line between friendship and something more blurs into a beautiful, terrifying, undefined space. “Did you find me tonight?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

“Every night,” he says, his gaze never wavering. He takes another sip of his orange juice, the silence stretching between you, comfortable and easy. He’s still buzzing, a live wire, but here, in the steam-filled quiet of your bathroom, he’s starting to unwind. The frantic energy is softening, melting away.

“So,” he says, setting his glass down. “Tell me everythin'. What've I missed in the life of a normal New Yorker? Any good gossip? Any disastrous dates I need t' save you from?”You laugh, a light, bubbly sound that echoes off the tiled walls. “Well, let's see. I discovered a new coffee shop that makes a disgustin'ly good latte, I finished that book you told me t' read, n’ I had a date with a guy who spent theentire night talkin' about his collection of vintage staplers.”

Michael’s eyebrows shoot up. “Vintage staplers? Seriously? What is wrong with people?” “I ask myself that question every day,” you say, shaking your head. “But it makes for a good story, at least.”

“Definitely,” he agrees, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Though I think you need better standards. I mean, vintage staplers? C'mon. you can do so much better.”

“Like who?” you tease, splashing a little water in his direction. He yelps, ducking away from the spray.

“Hey! Watch it! You'll get my shirt wet,” he protests, but he’s laughing. “That’s the point,” you say, a wicked grin on your face. “you need t' cool down. You're still hummin'.”

“I can't help it,” he says, running a hand through his tangled curls. “It's the best feelin' in the world. Up there, with all those people, singin' along... it's like bein' plugged inta a socket. An' then comin' here, t' you... it's like the whole world just... quiets down.” He says it so casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to say. But it lands with the weight of a confession, a quiet, intimate truth that hangs in the air between you. You feel a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the bathwater.

You reach for your sparkling water, your fingers brushing against his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns his hand over, lacing his fingers with yours. His hand is warm, calloused in places from years of playing guitar, a comforting, familiar weight. “Remember that one time,” he says, his thumb stroking the back of your hand, “we stayed up all night watchin' old movies, an' you fell asleep on my shoulder?”

“I remember,” you say, your voice soft. “My neck was sore for a week.” “Mine, too,” he says, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. “But I wouldn't've moved for the world. It was the best night's sleep I'd had in months.”

The air crackles with unspoken words, with years of shared history and suppressed feelings. You’re so close to the edge, so close to saying something, to doing something that would change everything. But you’re both too scared to make the first move, too scared to ruin the perfect, fragile thing you have. “So,” you say, pulling your hand back and clearing your throat. “'Sides the stapler guy, what's new with you? Any groupies I should be jealous of?”

He laughs, a short, sharp sound that breaks the spell. “You know me. I'm a one-woman man. Even if that woman is just my best friend who lives three thousand miles away.”

“Lucky me,” you say, a little too quickly. You dunk your head under the water, rinsing the soap from your hair. When you come up, slicking your hair back from your face, he’s watching you with an unreadable expression. You lean your head back against the cool porcelain of the tub, the water swirling gently around you. “Alright, Mr. World Tour, your turn for gossip. What's happenin' on your block? Or, y'know, your heavily-guarded compound.”

He chuckles, taking another sip of his juice. “Oh, y'know. the usual. Janet dyed her hair again, this color I think she's callin' 'autumn brown.' Mrs. Johnson down the street still thinks my garden gnomes are devil worshippers. An' Bubbles figured out how t' work the VCR, so now I can't find any of my tapes. He's got a thing for The Sound of Music.”

You laugh, picturing it perfectly—the chaos of the Jackson household, a bizarre, beautiful symphony of fame and family. “So, basically, the same as my building, but with more monkeys an' better security. Mrs. Henderson in 3B still thinks I'm runnin' a speakeasy because I have people over past nine p.m. Last week, she left a note on my door about the 'racket' from my 'flapper music.' She thinks I'm a bootlegger.”

“Flapper music?” he grins, a real, unguarded grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “What were you listenin' to?” “Your demo tape. the one you sent me. the one with the piano track that sounds like i’m floatin'.” You say it quietly, and the grin softens into something more tender. “I s'pose she's not entirely wrong. It does make me wanna dance n' drink illegal gin.”

“See? You're a menace t' society,” he teases. “A regular Bonnie Parker.”

“Only if you're my Clyde,” you shoot back, the words slipping out before you can stop them. The flirty banter is a familiar dance, a carefully choreographed routine you both know by heart, but sometimes the steps lead you closer to the fire than usual.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you, his eyes dark and serious, and for a split second, you think he’s going to close the distance between you. But then he blinks, and the moment is gone. He clears his throat, looking down at his empty glass. “We should watch that when you get out. The Sound of Music. See if Bubbles has good taste.”

“Okay,” you say, your voice a little too bright. “Okay, but I'm gettin' all pruney. Time t' evacuate the tub.” You stand up, water sluicing off your body in rivers, and grab your towel from the hook. Michael doesn’t move, just watches you, his expression unreadable. “You're just gonna stand there?” you ask, wrapping the towel securely around yourself. He shrugs, a lazy, comfortable gesture. “I'm comfy.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Michael. Turn around.”

“Seriously?” he asks, a playful whine in his voice. “It's nothin' I haven't seen before, y'know. Remember that time in the hotel pool in Tokyo when your bikini top came off?” “That was different, an' you promised you would never speak of that again,” you say, pointing a finger at him. “Now. Turn.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh of theatrical sufforing, but he does as you ask. He turns to face the wall, resting his forehead against it with a dramatic thump. “I'm turnin',” he calls out, his voice muffled. “I'm a perfect gentleman. I'm blind. I see nothin'.”

You laugh, quickly drying off and pulling on a pair of soft cotton shorts and an old, faded t-shirt of his that you’d stolen ages ago. The fabric is soft and worn, and it smells faintly of him—clean laundry and that expensive cologne. “Okay, you can look now.” He turns around, leaning back against the wall. His eyes scan you, a slow, appreciative glance that makes your skin tingle. “Much better,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Oh, shut up,” you say, tossing your wet towel into the hamper. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Do I wanna hear it?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“So, yes. you do.” you say, grinning.

“I'm listenin'.”

“Face masks,” you say, pulling a small jar from the cabinet. “An' then we're gonna raid my freezer for ice cream an' watch The Sound of Music.”

“You had me at face masks,” he says, pushing himself up from the floor. He follows you into your bedroom, sprawling out on your bed like a big, lazy cat, taking up more than his fair share of the space. You climb onto the bed, kneeling beside him. You open the jar, scooping out a dollop of the cool, green goop.

He obeys without question, a look of utter trust on his face. You start to apply the mask, your fingers gently tracing the contours of his face. You smooth the cream over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, over his high cheekbones. He’s so still, so pliant under your touch, his breathing slow and even. His skin is warm, soft. You find yourself getting lost in the simple act, in the intimacy of it. “You're good at this,” he murmurs, his eyes still closed. “you shoulda been an aesthetician.”

“Nah,” you say, your thumb gently stroking his temple. “I'd rather just do this for only you.” He doesn’t say anything to that, but you feel him take a sharp, quiet breath. You finish with the mask, sitting back to admire your work. He looks ridiculous, with green goop smeared all over his face, but he’s beautiful. He always is.

“Okay, my turn,” he says, opening his eyes. He sits up, taking the jar from you. He’s clumsy, less gentle than you were, but his touch is careful, deliberate. He scoops out a smaller amount of the mask, his brow furrowed in concentration. He starts to apply it to your face, his fingers tracing your jawline, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. His touch is feather-light, sending shivers down your spine. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, can see the intense focus in his eyes. You’re so close, closer than you’ve been in months. You can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint scar above his left eyebrow. You can feel the current running between you, a silent, electric hum that’s been there for years.

“All done,” he says, his voice a low whisper. He leans back, a small, proud smile on his face. “Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad at all,” you agree, a slow smile spreading across your own face. “We look like a couple of aliens.”

“A couple of very pretty aliens,” he corrects, a playful glint in his eye. You both dissolve into laughter, the sound filling the small room. It’s easy, comfortable, a familiar rhythm you both know by heart. For a moment, everything is simple. He’s just Michael, your best friend, and you’re just you. There’s no fame, no distance, no unspoken feelings hanging in the air. Just two friends, wearing face masks, about to watch a movie about a singing nun.

“We should let these dry,” he says, leaning back against the headboard. “Ten minutes, the lady at the store said.”

“Plenty of time t' pick our poison,” he says, sliding off the bed. “I have cookie dough, I have rocky road, an' I have... somethin' healthy an' green that my mom left here last time she visited. We will not be partakin' in the healthy an' green option.” He follows you into the kitchen, a green-faced specter padding silently behind you. You pull open the freezer door, a gust of cold air washing over you. You grab the cartons of cookie dough and rocky road, setting them on the counter with a thud.

“Alright, let's do this,” you say, grabbing two spoons from the drawer. But Michael has other ideas. He takes both cartons, a mischievous glint in his eye. He pries off the lids, grabbing a big bowl from the cupboard.

“Why choose?” he asks, scooping a hefty portion of rocky road into the bowl. “When you can have the best of both worlds?” He follows it up with an equally large scoop of cookie dough, swirling them together into a chaotic, delicious mess. “Michael Jackson, you are a genius,” you declare, watching him work. “A legend. An ice cream revolutionary.”

“I try,” he says, a smug little smile on his face. He grabs two spoons from the drawer, handing one to you. “Now let's go before our faces crack.”

You settle on the couch, the bowl of ice cream resting between you. The opening credits of The Sound of Music start to play, the iconic hills coming to life on your small screen. Michael shifts, moving to sit behind you, his long legs stretched out on either side of you. He leans back against the arm of the couch, pulling you with him until you’re nestled between his legs, your back resting against his chest. It’s a familiar position, one you’ve fallen into a hundred times before. It’s comfortable, safe. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, a slow, reassuring rhythm. “This is nice,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

“Yeah,” you agree, your voice a soft sigh. “It is.” He starts to play with your hair, his fingers gently combing through the damp strands. It’s a mindless, soothing gesture, one that never fails to make you feel calm, centered. You can feel the calluses on his fingertips, a rough, comforting texture against your scalp.

The movie plays on, but you’re not really watching. Julie Andrews is singing about her favorite things, but your attention is elsewhere. It’s on the feeling of Michael’s fingers in your hair, on the warmth of his body against yours, on the quiet, domestic perfection of the moment.

“So,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. “Tell me more 'bout Stapler Guy. Was he at least a good kisser?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy sound. “I wouldn't know. He tried t' kiss me goodnight, an' I told him I had t' go wash my cat. An’ we both know I’m allergic.” He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. “That's my girl. Always thinkin' on your feet.”

“You're one t' talk,” you retort, your head lolling back against his shoulder. “I've seen you dodge a question from Barbara Walters like it's an Olympic sport.”

“Hey, that's a survival skill,” he says, his fingers still stroking your hair. “you learn quick in my business. How t' say a whole lot of nothin' without ever actually sayin' nothin'.”

“It's an art form,” you agree. “But you can't do that with me. I see right through you.” “Yeah,” he says, his voice a soft, intimate whisper. “you do.”

The air between you shifts, the easy banter giving way to something more fragile, more honest. The spoon in your hand feels suddenly heavy, the melting ice cream forgotten. You can feel his breath on your neck, a warm, steady caress that sends shivers down your spine.” “Michael...” you start, but you don’t know how to finish. What do you say? How do you bridge the gap that’s been widening between you for years?

He doesn’t press you. He just holds you a little tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. On the screen, the von Trapp children are learning to sing, but the only music you can hear is the frantic beating of your own heart. “I miss this,” he says, his voice barely audible above the sound from the TV. “Just... bein' normal. With you.”

“Me, too,” you whisper back. “It's the only place I feel normal anymore.”

You’re both quiet for a long moment, the weight of your shared reality settling over you. His gaze feels too heavy, too real. You feel a prickle of panic, a desperate need to break the tension before it shatters into something irreparable. Without thinking, you twist in his arms, grabbing a spoonful of the half-melted concoction—rocky road and cookie dough swirled together. Before he can react, you shove the spoon directly into his open mouth.

“Stop lookin' at me like that,” you say, your voice a strained mix of command and desperation. “'Fore I do somethin' stupid. Somethin' I won't regret.”

His eyes go wide, comically surprised. A smear of chocolate ice cream is on the corner of his lip. He freezes for a second, processing your words and the sudden intrusion of ice cream. Then, a choked sound escapes him. He starts to laugh. Not a small chuckle, but a full-bodied, deep, infectious cackle that makes his whole body shake. The sight of him—Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, with a green face mask and chocolate on his chin, laughing so hard he can barely breathe—is too much. The knot in your chest loosens, and you’re gone, dissolving into a fit of helpless laughter right along with him. You collapse back against him, both of you shaking, your gasps for air mingling with the sound of the von Trapps singing “So Long, Farewell.” The ice cream tub tips, spilling a little onto the couch cushion, but neither of you cares. In the midst of the laughter and the mess, the unspoken words are forgotten, for now, drowned out by the familiar, joyful sound of two best friends, two bad kids, sharing a secret in the dark.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow

2026 los angeles

you've always thought jaafar was an affectionate drunk.

having been friends for the last ten years, you'd seen jaafar drunk a multitude of times, but tonight was a little extra. you didn't blame him, though. tonight had been the premiere of the michael movie in los angeles, and you knew just how hard he'd worked on it over the last three years of his life. the film had cost him more than long hours and endless rehearsals. he'd lost his relationship with his ex-girlfriend because of it. she couldn't handle that nearly every spare moment he had disappeared into rehearsals, filming, and the overwhelming responsibility of carrying a story that meant so much to him.

jaafar had taken the breakup surprisingly well. it didn't seem to bother him that she'd left, but it meant everything to him that you hadn't. you'd stayed, just like you always had, never asking him to choose between you and the role he'd poured himself into. somewhere after the relationship ended, he'd finally admitted something to himself that he'd spent years trying to ignore.

he'd been in love with you for a long time. looking back, he realized the only reason he'd ever started dating maddie was because he never believed you could possibly look at him the way he looked at you, and he couldn't bear the thought of ruining the friendship the two of you had built. having you in his life was the most important thing. it didn't matter what role you occupied in it, as long as you were still there.

when jaafar asked you to attend the premiere with him, you immediately agreed. you'd been ecstatic when he'd first landed the role, and ever since then, you'd watched him dedicate every ounce of himself to portraying his uncle the way michael deserved to be portrayed. you knew this wasn't just another acting job to him. it was personal. it was family. it was an opportunity to give michael's story the care, dignity, and justice it had always deserved.

there had been countless nights during filming when jaafar would show up at your apartment long after rehearsals ended, sometimes well past midnight. the sound of the lock turning would make your heart jump before you remembered you'd been the one who gave him a spare key. by the time you walked into the living room, you'd usually find him already collapsed across your couch, exhaustion written into every line of his body.

he'd always apologize, insisting he hadn't wanted to wake you, but admitting he just couldn't bring himself to go home. your apartment had become a place where he could finally let the weight fall off his shoulders. whatever waited for him at home had never offered the same comfort you did.

after watching him give absolutely everything to this role, there was nowhere else you would've been tonight.

then came the after-party.

people had been praising jaafar all night, congratulating him, telling him how incredible he'd been, but none of it carried the weight your words did. every time you told him how proud you were, that shy, wide smile spread across his face, so reminiscent of his uncle's that it never failed to make your own smile grow in return. he'd lean in close enough for only you to hear, whispering a quiet thank you against your ear before pressing a kiss to your cheek.

each time he caught you telling someone else about the months of work, the relentless rehearsals, and the dedication he'd poured into becoming michael, something inside him softened a little more. he'd never really had someone outside of his parents brag about him like that. coming from them was expected. they were his parents. but you didn't have to do any of it, and yet you spoke about him with a pride that made it feel like his accomplishments belonged to you, too. every word only made him fall a little harder for you.

but you couldn't help bragging about him. you were so unbelievably proud of him, and you wanted everyone in the room to know exactly how hard he'd worked to get here. every compliment people gave him felt deserved, every congratulations long overdue, and hearing others finally recognize everything you'd watched him sacrifice over the last three years filled you with a quiet kind of happiness.

you'd also been in love with jaafar for years, you'd just never been brave enough to tell him.

just like he'd assumed about you, you'd spent years convincing yourself he could never possibly feel the same way. when he started dating maddie, every insecurity you'd buried suddenly felt confirmed. you'd smiled through it because that's what best friends did, but behind closed doors, it had devastated you more than you'd ever admit. still, as the months went on, you noticed something that kept your heart from breaking completely.

having a girlfriend hadn't changed the amount of time he spent with you. if anything, he still showed up at your apartment just as often, still called you first, still wanted you beside him for everything that mattered.

you'd never had anything against maddie. she'd always been kind enough to you, but you knew she didn't like you. she never fully believed jaafar whenever he'd tell her that you were "just his best friend," and that you were a girl she "didn't need to worry about."

she worried anyway, especially when it seemed like jaafar continued spending more time with you than he did with her. that had been another reason she'd eventually broken up with him.

what maddie never understood was how you could be so oblivious. the first time jaafar introduced the two of you, she'd seen it immediately. the way he looked at you. the way his attention instinctively drifted back to you no matter who else was talking. the way his face softened whenever you laughed. to her, it had been painfully obvious that jaafar was completely in love with you.

to you... he was just your best friend.

selfishly, you'd been relieved when they broke up. the guilt over feeling that way lingered, but you couldn't deny the quiet comfort that settled over you afterward. you had jaafar all to yourself again.

watching him now, moving effortlessly through the room as cameras flashed around him, stopping to pose with other celebrities who'd come to celebrate the premiere, accepting their praise with that bashful smile that somehow still hadn't changed after all these years, made something warm bloom inside your chest. he looked genuinely happy. lighter than he'd been in months. his smile was so wide it seemed to brighten everything around him. he deserved every second of it.

you also knew the exact moment he got drunk.

jaafar was… shy, at least in public. around people he trusted, his personality came alive. he'd joke around, laugh until he couldn't breathe, tease everyone in sight, and somehow become the loudest person in the room. but industry events were different. he usually stayed reserved, speaking when someone approached him, smiling politely, and letting everyone else command the attention.

but, now... he was everywhere, talking to everyone. shaking hands, laughing, and dancing. you knew exactly what that meant.

you were halfway through a conversation with his brothers, randy jr. and jermajesty, when jaafar suddenly appeared beside you and reached for your hand without a second thought.

"come on, mama, dance with me," jaafar had said, earning matching smirks from his brothers, both of whom had known for years that jaafar was hopelessly in love with you. ever since maddie ended things, they'd been relentlessly telling him to stop dancing around his feelings and finally tell you the truth.

"someone's had lots of liquid encouragement," you tease and jaafar rolls his eyes, his grip on your hand tightening.

"please?" he asks again as his lips form into a pout. his brothers immediately burst into quiet laughter.

"come on, girl, you see he's practically begging," randy jr teases you and you roll your eyes before squeezing jaafar's hand and letting him pull you toward the dance floor, the whistles and teasing calls from his brothers following close behind.

jaafar wastes no time spinning you beneath his arm before pulling you flush against his chest. you naturally slide your arms around his neck as the two of you begin swaying together with the music, his hands settling comfortably at your waist like they'd always belonged there.

"did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?" he asks and you laugh, because he has. multiple times, actually. from the moment he'd picked you up earlier that evening, he'd found every excuse possible to compliment you.

"yes, j, thank you again," you say with a smile.

"no, no... really... you're the prettiest person i've ever seen," he says and you feel warmth immediately spread across your cheeks. your heart stumbles for just a moment before you gently shake your head, convincing yourself it was only the alcohol talking.

jaafar had always been an affectionate drunk, that was all this was, you told yourself.

"you're so drunk right now," you say with a small giggle and jaafar's smile immediately widens at the sound.

"your giggle is like music to my ears, always has been," he says as he spins you again, and you feel warmth rush back into your cheeks.

"you're really laying it on thick tonight," you say and jaafar gives you a playfully exasperated look.

"good god, woman, can you just take a compliment?" he teases, making you laugh even harder as you roll your eyes. every word that came out of his mouth only convinced you further that he was definitely drunk.

"okay, fine... thank you jaafar, you're very sweet," you say and he smiles like you just handed him the greatest gift he'd ever received.

"only for my favorite girl," he says and you shake your head again, brushing the comment aside just as the song comes to an end. jaafar takes a step back before giving you an overly dramatic bow that makes another giggle escape you.

"this isn't bridgerton, j, you don't have to bow to me," you tease and he looks up at you with a grin that somehow manages to be both playful and impossibly sincere.

"you always have to bow in the presence of a queen," he says, and you instinctively bite down on your lip as heat blooms across your face for what feels like the hundredth time that evening. "do you want another drink?" he asks.

"i think you need to be cut off," you say and he immediately sticks his bottom lip out into another exaggerated pout, letting out a drawn-out whine.

"come on, i'm not even that drunk," he says and before you can stop him, he's already weaving his way back toward the bar in search of another drink.

with a quiet sigh, you turn back toward randy jr. and jermajesty, only to find both of them already watching the two of you with knowing expressions. neither of them had taken their eyes off you during the entire dance, and judging by the amused looks they exchanged, they were probably continuing whatever conversation they'd been having while you were out on the floor. they were once again wondering how two people could spend so many years orbiting each other without realizing what everyone else seemed to see so clearly.

you simply shook your head at their brothers' antics, and they laughed. randy jr. flashed you an encouraging thumbs up, making you roll your eyes before turning to follow after jaafar. somehow, you already knew it was going to be a long night.

you were right.

by the time the premiere festivities finally came to an end, jaafar was so drunk he could barely stay on his feet. randy jr. and jermajesty had to help you guide him out to the car, each of them taking one side while you stayed close in case he lost his balance. despite how exhausted everyone else looked, jaafar remained blissfully unaware of the spectacle he was creating.

the entire ride back to your apartment, he talked almost nonstop.

he rambled about how happy he was that the movie was finally out in the world, still sounding amazed that people had embraced it the way they had. every compliment he'd received throughout the night seemed to surprise him all over again as he replayed conversations out loud, admitting more than once that he hadn't expected so much love.

every few minutes, his attention would drift back to you. he'd smile softly before offering another compliment; your eyes were so pretty, your face was perfect, and you were the best person he knew.

he thanked you again for agreeing to be his date that night, telling you he couldn't have imagined sharing such an important evening with anyone else.

you accepted every compliment with a smile, quietly thanking him each time, while stubbornly reminding yourself they only existed because alcohol had loosened his tongue. if he were sober, you were sure he wouldn't be saying half these things.

by the time the driver pulled up outside your apartment building, jaafar was leaning so heavily against you that you had to wrap an arm around his waist to help steady him. together, you managed to get him upstairs and inside, guiding him toward your bedroom.

the second he reached the bed, he practically collapsed onto the mattress with a long, satisfied sigh, every ounce of tension finally melting out of him as the familiar comfort of your room settled around him, you couldn't help but shake your head.

"god, j, you're heavy," you tease. jaafar's eyes slowly flutter open, and he lazily lifts a finger to point at you.

"don't do that, mama," he says, his words slurring together just enough to make you laugh again.

you shake your head affectionately, knowing he's far too drunk to bother trying to change on his own. as much as he insisted he was "not even that drunk," there was no chance he was sleeping comfortably in his tailored premiere suit. thankfully, being the great best friend you were also meant routinely stealing his clothes whenever he left them at your apartment, so you had more than enough options for him to sleep in.

you start to stand from the edge of the bed, but before you can take more than a step, warm fingers wrap loosely around your wrist. "where are you going?" he asks, his voice carrying the unmistakable hint of a whine.

"do you want to sleep in your suit?" you ask with a laugh. he slowly shakes his head. "okay, then i have to get you some clothes," you say.

"my clothes that you always steal?" he says as his eyes drift closed again, and another laugh slips past your lips. "they look better on you anyway," he mumbles.

your breath catches. for just a second, your heart forgets how to beat before you quietly force yourself to breathe again, repeating the same thought that had carried you through the entire evening.

he's just drunk, that's all this is.

carefully slipping your wrist from his relaxed grip, you walk over to your dresser and pull open the drawer that, somehow, held almost as many of jaafar's clothes as it did your own. you grab one of his oversized t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants before making your way back to the bed.

"okay, j... you're gonna have to help me out here, can you undress yourself?" you ask. his eyes slowly open again, finding yours almost immediately.

your heart softens at the sleepy, unfocused look he gives you. there was something so disarmingly gentle about him like this, all the walls he'd carefully kept around himself throughout the evening completely gone.

"can you help with the buttons, please?" he pouts and you laugh as you sit beside him.

"of course," you say.

you help him sit upright before reaching for the buttons on his dress shirt while he lazily shrugs out of his suit jacket. your fingers work carefully down the front of the shirt, freeing each button one by one.

jaafar barely notices the jacket slipping onto the bed beside him because he's too busy watching your hands.

his gaze stays fixed on the way your fingers move, gentle and patient as they undo each button, and his mind drifts somewhere it probably shouldn't. he'd imagined you this close more times than he cared to admit, dreamed about your hands on him in moments that looked nothing like this, moments far more intimate than helping him out of formal clothes after too much to drink.

instead, this was you taking care of him, again.

"you're such an angel," jaafar mumbles as you help slide the button-up from his shoulders before guiding the t-shirt over his head. "always taking care of me," he says.

"you're drunk, i couldn't leave you to fend for yourself," you tease with a smile.

he immediately shakes his head. "no, no... even when i'm not... not drunk, you always take care of me... always brought me lunch on set... dinner if it was a late night... even before the movie... always lookin' out for me... i wish you'd let me take care of you too," jaafar says before another yawn overtakes him.

the room falls quiet as his words settle over you far more heavily than you expected them to.

you'd never thought twice about the things you did for him. showing up on set with food when you knew he'd forgotten to eat, dropping by after long rehearsal days, making sure he had someone waiting for him whenever life became too much... none of it had ever felt like a sacrifice. you hadn't done those things because you were trying to prove you were a good friend, you'd done them because you loved him.

you just never imagined he'd noticed, and somehow, it wasn't even that realization that lingered the most, it was the last thing he'd said.

i wish you'd let me take care of you too.

"because that's what best friends do, j, and you do take care of me, all the time... now, can you take your pants off?" you ask and jaafar's lips pull into the slightest smirk.

"if you wanted to get into my pants, you just have to ask," he teases and you laugh, immediately rolling your eyes.

"boy, shut up and strip so you can put these sweatpants on," you say.

jaafar's laugh fills the room, bright and completely unguarded, the kind of laugh that only ever came out around people he trusted. still smiling to himself, he unzips his pants and pushes them down his legs without another complaint. you help him step into the sweatpants before pulling them up for him, making sure he's comfortable.

the second he's changed, he curls farther into your bed with another contented sigh, the familiar mattress seeming to melt every remaining ounce of tension out of him.

you can't help smiling.

almost absentmindedly, your fingers drift into his curls, gently combing through them. the touch is soft, affectionate, something you've done countless times over the years whenever he was exhausted enough to let you fuss over him. tonight, though, he unconsciously leans into your hand, chasing the warmth of your fingertips as though it were the safest place in the world. the movement is so instinctive it makes your chest ache.

"thank you, mama," jaafar mumbles and your smile only grows.

"i just need to change and then i'm getting you water," you say. jaafar gives a sleepy nod, his eyes drifting closed once more as you quietly stand.

walking over to your dresser, you pull out a pair of soft cotton shorts before reaching for one of jaafar's oversized t-shirts that had somehow become a permanent resident in your drawer. you quickly change out of your dress, draping it neatly across the chair in the corner of your room before padding down the hallway toward the kitchen.

you grab your prescription ibuprofen, knowing tomorrow morning would not be kind to him, then fill a glass with cold water before heading back.

the sound of your footsteps draws jaafar's attention almost immediately, and his eyes slowly open. the moment they land on you, a sleepy smile spreads across his face. his shirt hung loosely over your frame, covering your shorts, leaving only the view of your bare legs, and he couldn't seem to look away.

even after you sat back down beside him, he was still staring.

"what?" you ask.

"i told you... you look better than i do in my clothes," he says. you roll your eyes, refusing to let yourself read into another one of his drunken compliments.

"here, take one of these and then try to go to sleep," you say as you hand him an ibuprofen and the glass of water.

"why is the pill so big?" jaafar asks and you laugh.

"it's prescription ibuprofen so it's stronger than the over-the-counter stuff, which is why you only need one," you say. jaafar nods obediently before taking the medicine. once he's finished drinking, you take the glass from his hand and set it carefully on the nightstand beside the bed.

"now get some sleep, j, you earned it," you say.

he nods again. "thanks for coming with me tonight, i love you," jaafar says.

those words don't catch you off guard. he'd said them a thousand times over the years, always as naturally as breathing. they had never carried any expectation behind them, only the quiet certainty that the two of you loved each other as best friends.

you smile warmly before leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss against his forehead. "i love you too, jaafar," you say.

instead of settling back into the pillows, jaafar slowly shakes his head. with visible effort, he pushes himself upright until the two of you are sitting at eye level. his gaze stays fixed on yours, hazy from the alcohol yet carrying an unfamiliar kind of determination beneath it.

"no... no i mean, i... i think i'm in love with you... i think i always have been," he slightly slurs.

your breath catches so sharply it almost hurts, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. your mind goes completely blank, refusing to process what he just said because it doesn't make sense. it can't make sense.

jaafar... in love with you? no, that couldn't be right.

you've been best friends for nearly ten years. ten years of late-night phone calls, movie nights, inside jokes that no one else understood, holidays spent together, borrowed clothes that somehow never made it back to him, and countless moments that had always felt safe because you'd convinced yourself they were nothing more than friendship. you'd spent years carefully burying your own feelings because you believed he could never possibly return them, and when he started dating maddie, you'd accepted that as proof you were right.

your heart immediately wanted to believe every word he'd just said, but your head refused to let it. he was drunk. incredibly drunk. people said things they didn't mean when they'd had too much to drink. they got emotional, affectionate, sentimental. that was all this was. it had to be.

you slowly shake your head, offering him a small, patient smile that does little to hide the way your heart is pounding against your ribs.

"go to sleep, j... you're drunk," you say. jaafar's expression immediately falls.

"you don't believe me," he says. the disappointment in his voice tugs at your heart, but you force yourself to push past it. if you let yourself believe him, even for a second, you weren't sure you'd be able to recover if he woke up tomorrow with no memory of any of this.

"i don't think you believe you... go to sleep," you say, taking another slow breath as you try to steady yourself. the initial shock had begun to settle, but it hadn't made his confession any easier to process. if anything, the words seemed to echo louder the more you tried to convince yourself they didn't matter.

"only if you lay with me," he says. another wave of warmth spreads through your chest.

there was nothing unusual about the request. the two of you had fallen asleep beside each other countless times over the years after late-night movies or conversations that lasted until sunrise. there had never been anything romantic about it, at least, that's what you'd always told yourself.

"okay," you say.

jaafar immediately scoots across to the other side of the bed, making room for you where he'd been lying only moments before. as soon as you settle into the mattress, you're greeted by the lingering warmth he'd left behind, and before you've even gotten comfortable, his arms find their familiar place around you.

he gently pulls you back against his chest.

his face nestles into the crook of your neck with a quiet sigh, and one of his hands slips beneath the hem of your oversized shirt before coming to rest lightly against your stomach. his palm is warm against your bare skin, and despite how many times the two of you had fallen asleep tangled together like this, the simple touch suddenly feels different.

everything feels different, because now all you can hear are the words he'd spoken only minutes earlier. i think i'm in love with you, and i think i always have been.

your eyes remain fixed on the dark room in front of you while your thoughts race in circles. every instinct begged you to believe him, to turn around and tell him you'd loved him for years too, but reason continued pulling you back. he wasn't thinking clearly. he'd had too much to drink. tomorrow morning he'd probably wake up embarrassed, with no memory of anything he'd confessed, and you'd rather carry the weight of your own feelings forever than risk losing the friendship the two of you had spent nearly a decade building.

"i love you," jaafar says again. his voice is barely above a whisper as the words brush against the sensitive skin of your neck. a few seconds later, his breathing begins to deepen, the steady rhythm telling you he'd already drifted off to sleep.

you lie awake for what feels like hours, staring into the darkness while his arms remain securely around you. his confession replays over and over in your mind until you can't remember the last thing either of you said before it. every time you start to let yourself imagine that maybe he'd meant it, you immediately pull yourself back.

he was drunk, that was all, wasn't it? eventually, another thought settles into your mind. would he even remember saying any of it in the morning?

the answer begins to reveal itself the moment the sun comes up.

jaafar isn't surprised when he wakes curled around you.

it isn't the first time the two of you had fallen asleep like this, and if he were being honest, it had become one of his favorite things over the years. waking up with you tucked safely against him always made your apartment feel a little more like home.

what does surprise him is the lack of agony pounding behind his eyes. the headache is there, he can feel it, but instead of the unbearable hangover he was expecting, it's little more than a dull ache lingering at the edges of his temples.

his gaze drifts toward your nightstand, landing on the prescription bottle labeled 600 mg of ibuprofen, and he understands immediately. you'd taken care of him again.

a quiet smile tugs at his lips as he silently offers a prayer of thanks, grateful not only for the medication but for you.

his memories of the night before are frustratingly scattered. he remembers walking the red carpet, sitting through the premiere, feeling an overwhelming mixture of nerves and pride as the credits rolled. he remembers pieces of the after-party, conversations blending together beneath music and laughter, but everything after that dissolves into hazy fragments.

somehow he'd ended up at your apartment, though that part didn't surprise him in the slightest. whenever life became overwhelming, whether it was because of exhaustion, celebration, or heartbreak, he always seemed to find his way back to you.

you start to wake up when you feel jaafar stirring behind you. the subtle shift beneath his arm draws his attention, and as he loosens his hold, you turn over until you're facing him.

"hey, sleepyhead, how are you feeling?" you ask. his smile returns almost instantly.

"not as much on my deathbed as i expected to be... thank you," he says. you smile back, relieved to see him looking more like himself than the man who you’d helped stumble through your front door only a few hours earlier.

your mind can't stop circling back to the night before. you want to ask him about what he said.

more than anything, you want to know if he remembers saying it at all.

but before you can bring yourself to ask, you realize there's something you need to know first. you need to know how much of last night he actually remembers.

"so... how much of last night do you remember?" you ask, and the familiar shy smile immediately returns to jaafar's face, the kind that always seemed to appear whenever he thought back on a good memory.

"i remember the premiere and the after party... but i don't remember how we got back to your apartment," jaafar says.

your heart sinks before relief quietly settles over it just as quickly.

if he couldn't remember getting back to your apartment, then he couldn't possibly remember everything that happened after. he didn't remember you helping him change, falling asleep wrapped around you, or the confession that had completely turned your world upside down.

that realization both comforted you and broke your heart at the same time. a part of you had desperately hoped he'd wake up remembering every word so you could ask him if he'd truly meant it, but another part was grateful you didn't have to watch him deal with the embarrassment of confessing feelings he probably never intended to reveal.

"you had a quite a bit to drink... which you deserved to... you worked hard on this movie, you deserve to celebrate and be celebrated," you say. jaafar smiles, the praise making his shoulders relax.

"thank you for taking care of me," he says. you nod before leaning over and pressing a gentle kiss against his cheek.

"always," you say. as he reaches over to grab his jacket, his eyes catch on something sitting on your nightstand; his phone plugged into your charger.

he pauses for a moment, quietly taking it in. you'd gotten him home safely, changed his clothes, made sure he drank water, gave him medicine before bed, and even thought to charge his phone so it wouldn't die overnight.

they were all such little things, the kinds of things most people probably wouldn't even think twice about, but with you, those little things had always meant the most. you had this quiet way of caring for him without ever expecting recognition for it, and every time you did something like that, it reminded him why you had become the safest place in his life.

"can you hand me my phone, mama?" he asks. you nod, leaning over to unplug it before placing it in his hand. he scrolls through the flood of notifications waiting for him, letting out a quiet sigh as reality slowly returned. "i have some press to do today, but i'll call you later?" he asks.

"of course... have a good day, j," you say. he smiles as he gathers his suit from around your room before leaning down to press a soft kiss against your forehead, then he leaves.

true to his word, he calls you later that evening after his press obligations are finished. you watch your phone ring until it eventually stops, instead of answering, you send him a short text telling him you were busy and that you'd call him back later.

you never do.

over the next several days, you begin pulling away in ways you hope aren't obvious, but to someone who knows you as well as jaafar does, they stand out immediately. your phone calls go unanswered, your replies become shorter and less frequent, and eventually you turn your location off because you know that if he can't get ahold of you, his next step will be showing up at your apartment unannounced and you couldn't let that happen.

every time you thought about seeing him, all you could hear was his voice from that night. i think i'm in love with you.

those words refused to leave you alone, and no matter how many times you reminded yourself he'd been drunk, your heart stubbornly clung to them. being around him now felt impossible because you no longer knew where the line between friendship and everything you'd secretly wanted for years actually existed.

while you were trying to convince yourself that distancing yourself was the right thing to do, jaafar was slowly unraveling.

at first, he'd accepted every excuse you gave him. everyone got busy, work got hectic, and schedules stopped lining up sometimes.

but then days passed, then a week, and with every text he sent became a little more concerned than the last. is everything okay? did i do something? are you mad at me? please just tell me what's wrong.

when those messages went mostly unanswered, panic started settling in. desperate to figure out what had happened, he even asked jermajesty to call you, thinking maybe you were only avoiding him.

you didn't answer his call either, because you knew jaafar too well. you knew he'd eventually ask one of his brothers to try to reach you, so you stopped answering anyone.

life continued moving around you as though nothing had changed. you went to work every day, kept up with your routine, and answered just enough of jaafar's messages to reassure him you were alive, but never enough to actually have a conversation. every notification from him made your chest ache because he genuinely had no idea why you were disappearing from his life.

by the time you got home from work that afternoon, your phone was filled with missed calls, unread texts, and voicemails from him.

your heart twisted, this wasn't fair anymore. whatever happened that night wasn't his fault, and avoiding him for something he couldn't even remember only made you feel worse.

with a heavy sigh, you unlocked your phone and opened his contact, finally deciding you were going to call him back.

before you could press the button, a knock echoed through your apartment and your head snapped toward the front door. slowly, you crossed the room until you reached it, peering through the peephole, your breath caught.

it was jaafar.

he looked up the moment he heard the lock click, and as soon as you opened the door, he stepped inside and immediately pulled you into his arms so tightly that you barely had time to react. as you wrapped your arms around him, you felt the rigid tension he'd been carrying for days finally begin to melt away, and when a quiet sniffle escaped him, your heart broke.

he'd been crying.

"j..." you say softly, but he only shakes his head as he pulls you closer.

it's been weeks since he'd seen you, weeks since he'd heard your voice outside of the occasional short text, and weeks of wondering if you'd been hurt, if something had happened, or if he'd somehow done something terrible without even realizing it. standing here with you finally in his arms, he isn't ready to let go just yet.

when he eventually does, you quietly close the door behind him and gesture toward the couch, silently inviting him to sit down, but he doesn't move. he stays rooted where he is, his eyes never leaving yours, as though he's afraid that if he gives you even an inch of space, you'll disappear again.

"why have you been so distant from me? what did i do wrong? i can't fix it if you won't tell me what i did," he says. the desperation in his voice makes your heart ache.

you immediately shake your head. "you didn't do anything wrong," you say.

his expression only grows more conflicted. the hurt never leaves his face, but now it's joined by genuine confusion. if he hadn't done anything, then none of this made sense.

"what's going on?" he asks.

you let out a slow breath, your eyes dropping to the floor as you search for words you'd been avoiding for weeks. eventually, you look back up at him, finding him watching you with the same patience he'd always given you, even now.

"the night of the premiere... something happened and i... i guess i didn't know how to handle it, or didn't want to be embarrassed and i didn't want you to be embarrassed either, so i... i don't know, i pulled away instead," you say.

the crease between jaafar's brows deepens. he searches his memory, trying to piece together whatever happened after the parts of the night he could still remember, but everything beyond the after-party remained frustratingly blank.

"what happened the night of the premiere?" jaafar asks.

you take another deep breath. "after i helped you change... you thanked me for going to the premiere with you and said you love me," you say.

for just a second, jaafar has to fight back a laugh. was that really what all of this had been about?

"i always tell you i love you... you know that," jaafar says and you sigh.

"i know... but when i said it back, you said that you think you're in love with me, and that you always have been, and when i told you to fuck off and go to sleep," that time he does laugh. "you got upset that i didn't believe you, and i would've talked to you about it the next morning, but you didn't remember anything, so i didn't want to embarrass you or be embarrassed myself if i brought it up and you said you didn't mean it," you say, finally letting out everything you'd been carrying by yourself.

"oh," jaafar says quietly. the single word barely leaves his lips before the realization crashes over him.

his eyes widen. for years, he'd imagined what it might feel like to finally tell you the truth. after things ended with maddie, he'd come closer than ever to confessing, convincing himself that if there was ever going to be a right time, that had been it. but every time he worked up the courage, fear won instead. the thought of losing his best friend had always outweighed the hope that maybe, just maybe, you felt the same way.

so he'd kept loving you in silence, yet somehow, without meaning to, he'd told you everything while he was drunk. except instead of bringing the two of you closer, you'd spent weeks pulling away because you'd convinced yourself none of it had been real.

he didn't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of it all or cry over how much unnecessary pain the two of you had put yourselves through.

"i'm sorry... i know i shouldn't have avoided you like that, i just didn't know what to do," you say. before you can say anything else, jaafar closes the small distance separating you.

his hand gently comes up to cradle your cheek, his touch so careful it makes your heart skip. his thumb slowly brushes along your jaw as he looks at you with an expression of tenderness you've never seen directed at anyone else.

"i did mean it... i may not remember, but if i told you that i'm in love with you, it's because i am," he says.

the words settle over you, quiet and unwavering, spoken without alcohol to soften them or courage borrowed from champagne. this was jaafar, standing in front of you completely sober, looking into your eyes as he chose to tell you the truth all over again.

still, your heart struggled to believe it after spending years convincing yourself he could never love you that way, hearing him say it now almost felt too impossible to trust.

you slowly shake your head. "you don't have to do that, j," you whisper.

jaafar's expression softens even more as he gently shakes his head, refusing to let you hide behind the same fear that had kept both of you apart for so long.

"listen to me, mama..." he says, and you slowly nod, waiting for him to continue.

"i love you, i'm in love with you. you're the one constant in my life... this movie has consumed me for the last three years and even my own girlfriend didn't stick around, but you did, you've always been there, and she was just a placeholder for you anyway... i only started dating her because i didn't think you'd ever feel for me what i feel for you," jaafar says.

your eyes widen as every assumption you've spent years clinging to begins unraveling in front of you.

this whole time, you'd believed him dating maddie had been confirmation that you would never be anything more to him than his best friend. every time you'd seen them together, every time he'd mentioned her, you'd quietly convinced yourself that whatever feelings you carried for him would always have to remain yours alone.

but somehow, you'd both been living the exact same fear.

jaafar slowly lowers his hand from your cheek before gently taking yours instead. without breaking eye contact, he places your palm against the center of his chest, right over his heart, and keeps it there beneath his own hand.

"do you feel that? the way my heart beats for you? i'm so in love with you it scares me sometimes, not because of you, but because what if we give this a try and it doesn't work? not only do i lose the love of my life, but i lose my best friend too... so i pushed my feelings aside because having you in my life as my best friend is more bearable than losing you completely," jaafar confesses. beneath your hand, his heartbeat is steady, strong, and impossibly real.

by the time he finishes speaking, tears are already streaming freely down your cheeks. every wall you'd spent years building around your heart crumbles beneath the weight of his words, leaving nothing but the love you'd worked so hard to hide.

"you won't lose me, j... never," you whisper through your tears.

jaafar's expression softens even further as he leans in, pressing gentle kisses just beneath your eyes, catching your tears with his lips before they can fall any farther.

"i love you, too... it's always been you," you say as you look back at him.

the moment the words leave your mouth, the smile that spreads across his face is unlike anything you've ever seen.

he laughs quietly, almost as if he can't quite believe what he's hearing. he'd spent so many years imagining what it would feel like to hear you say those words, wondering if that moment would ever come, and now that it finally had, it almost didn't feel real. hearing you tell him you loved him, not as a friend but in the same all-consuming way he'd loved you for years, filled him with a happiness so overwhelming it left him almost breathless.

he doesn't waste another second, jaafar closes the remaining distance between you, gently bringing your lips to his. the kiss is everything you'd imagined it would be and somehow still so much more.

his lips are impossibly soft against yours, lingering just long enough to make your heart race before he kisses you again with a tenderness that speaks louder than any confession ever could. every year of longing, every moment he'd spent convincing himself he could never have this, pours into the way he holds you.

when you feel his tongue gently brush against your lips, silently asking for permission, you part them for him without hesitation. a quiet moan escapes you as he deepens the kiss, and your fingers instinctively tighten around the fabric of his shirt while his hands settle more firmly against your waist, holding you as though he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

he'd imagined kissing you more times than he could count; late at night, during long drives, every time you'd smiled at him, and every time you'd fallen asleep beside him. none of those fantasies had ever come close to what it actually felt like.

when he finally pulls away, the two of you are left breathing the same unsteady breath, your foreheads naturally coming together as neither of you is willing to put more than an inch of space between you.

"don't ever do that to me again, please," he says softly. the vulnerability in his voice makes your chest tighten. he isn't talking about the confession; he's talking about losing you, and about believing, even for a few weeks, that you'd chosen to walk out of his life.

you nod immediately, another shaky breath leaving you. "i won't... i'm so sorry," you say.

jaafar gently shakes his head before pressing another kiss to your temple, then your cheek, your jaw, and finally your forehead, each one slower than the last, as though he were making up for every kiss he'd spent years never allowing himself to give you.

"i love you, jaafar," you say.

the words earn that wide, radiant smile all over again, and he closes his eyes for just a moment, letting himself savor the sound of them in your voice.

1992madrid

Spain was like no other.

The country wrapped itself around you in a way that felt almost dreamlike, its warmth lingering in the air even as the sun dipped below the horizon, its streets alive with a quiet kind of magic that made everything feel softer, slower, more intentional. You had spent your days wandering through it, taking in the beauty, letting yourself get lost in the colors and the history and the life that pulsed through every corner. You were grateful for it, truly. Grateful that you had the opportunity to see any of it at all while Michael worked.

But even in all of that beauty, something was missing.

You missed him.

The Dangerous World Tour was taking a toll on both of you, just in different ways. For Michael, it was physical, emotional, and all-consuming in a way that demanded every ounce of him. For you, it was quieter, more subtle, settling into your chest like an ache that refused to ease.

The tour demanded Michael's full attention, and you understood that. You had always understood that. Night after night, he stepped onto that stage and gave everything he had to the people who loved him, pouring himself into every movement, every note, every moment. Watching him perform had always filled you with pride, had always warmed something deep inside you, because no one loved their fans the way Michael did. No one gave to them the way he did. But understanding it didn't make the distance hurt any less.

You missed your husband.

The last couple of weeks had felt different. Subtly at first, then more noticeably with each passing day. He had been distant: not cold, never that, but quieter, more withdrawn, like parts of him were slipping further away each time the tour demanded something new from him. You had told yourself it was exhaustion, that it made sense, that anyone in his position would feel the same way.

So you gave him space. You let him rest when he could, didn't press when he seemed lost in his own thoughts, didn't reach for more than he had the energy to give. You told yourself it was what he needed.

But God, you missed him.

Because even though you were here, even though you were traveling with him, you barely got time with him as it was, and now the little time you did have felt like it was slipping through your fingers. His distance had created something deeper than simple absence—it had carved out a quiet kind of longing inside you, something that settled into your bones and stayed there, heavy and constant.

Michael had always been the opposite of distant.

From the very beginning, he had given you everything.

You think back to that night sometimes, the memory still vivid in a way that makes your chest tighten with something warm and familiar. The Grammys in 1984 had been historic, the entire world watching as he made history, becoming the first solo artist to win eight Grammys in one night. You had only seen it on television, standing behind the counter of the bookstore where you worked, watching the celebration from a distance like everyone else.

You never expected him to walk through your door, but he had.

Right as you were closing, the bell above the door chimed softly, and there he was: Michael Jackson, standing in the middle of your bookstore, looking almost out of place in the quiet stillness of it. His blue and gold jacket caught the dim light, shimmering just enough to remind you that he had come straight from something extraordinary.

You had been completely frozen at first, the reality of who was standing in front of you taking a moment to settle into something you could even comprehend. It didn't feel real, not at all. But when you finally found your voice, you didn't ask him about the Grammys. You didn't ask him about history or records or anything the rest of the world had already been asking him all night.

You asked him something normal, something human, and you watched the tension in his shoulders ease because of it.

He had apologized almost immediately, soft-spoken and a little shy, explaining that he knew you were closing, that he didn't mean to intrude, that he just needed a moment to breathe. And something in you had softened at that, at the way someone so adored by the world still needed something as simple as quiet.

So you gave it to him.

You offered him water, gave him space, and let the conversation unfold naturally in a way that didn't feel forced or overwhelming. You got to know him: not the performer, not the icon, but him—and somewhere in that quiet bookstore, something shifted between the two of you.

He asked for your number, and somehow, that moment turned into everything. Eight years later, here you were. Married since 1990, your life has been intertwined with his in ways you never could have imagined back then.

And from the very beginning, Michael has loved you in a way that felt limitless.

He didn't just show it, he lived it. In the way he never let a single day pass without reminding you how much you meant to him, in the way he found reasons to celebrate you even when there wasn't anything to celebrate, in the way he paid attention to the smallest details about you and turned them into something meaningful. 

It was in the quiet mornings that he refused to let you get out of bed without pulling you back into him just one more time, in the handwritten notes he'd leave behind when he had to be away, in the way he would light up simply from being near you, like your presence alone grounded him. He spoiled you, yes, but it had never been about extravagance.

It was about intention.

About love that was constant and overwhelming in the best way, the kind that made you feel seen in ways you didn't even know you needed. Private dates that felt like entire worlds built just for the two of you, laughter that lingered long after the moment had passed, affection that was soft and steady and never once made you question where you stood in his life.

He had always kept you close.

And in a world that constantly tried to pull him in every direction, that had meant everything.

Since you weren't part of that world yourself, since you had never been under cameras or flashing lights or the constant scrutiny of people who thought they knew everything about you, Michael had done everything he could to keep you out of it. Not to hide you, but to protect you. He knew better than anyone how cruel the tabloids could be, how quickly they twisted things, how easily they tried to tear people apart.

He didn't want that for you.

So he shielded you where he could, kept your life together as private as possible, created a space where you could just exist without the weight of the world pressing down on you the way it did on him.

Your only fame came from him, from being his girlfriend, and now his wife, and you didn't mind that. Not even a little.

Because if the choice was between having your own place in that world or standing beside him in his, you would choose him every single time. Being known because you were his didn't feel like losing something; it felt like gaining everything that mattered.

And surprisingly... his fans loved you.

At first, you hadn't been sure how they would react. You knew how deeply people loved Michael, how protective they were of him, how easily admiration could turn into something sharper when they felt like someone was taking a place they wished they had.

But when the two of you sat down for that interview after your engagement, just before he left for the Bad tour, something shifted.

People saw it.

They saw the way he looked at you, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way your presence seemed to steady him in a way nothing else did. They saw the love, real and undeniable, and for most of them, that was enough.

Because if Michael was happy, they were happy. Of course, not everyone felt that way. There were always a few who let their jealousy show, who said things that were meant to hurt, who tried to make you feel like you didn't belong in his world.

But it never stuck, because at the end of the day, none of that mattered. You were the one he came home to. You were the one he reached for in the quiet moments, the one he trusted with the parts of himself he didn't show anyone else. And that was something no headline, no rumor, no opinion could ever take away.

Most of the time, when fans caught the two of you together, they didn't just ask for him.

They asked for you, too.

And every single time, it caught you off guard in a way that made your heart soften just a little more, a quiet reminder that even in a world that could be so loud and overwhelming, there were still people who saw you not just as an extension of him, but as someone worth noticing all on your own.

Michael just had rehearsal tonight, and the next show wasn't until tomorrow, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, you had a window. A small one, but enough. Enough to take him somewhere, to pull him out of the cycle he had been trapped in, even if it was just for a few hours. 

You had already set everything up down to the smallest detail, every part of the night carefully planned with him in mind, and now all that was left was the part that made your chest tighten slightly with nerves.

You just needed him to say yes.

You needed him to feel it too: the distance that had quietly grown between you, the way it lingered in the air every time he came back too tired to do anything but collapse into bed, the way your conversations had shortened, softened into something that lacked the depth you were used to. You needed him to want this night the same way you did.

You were sitting on the bed in your shared hotel suite when the door finally opened, the soft click echoing through the room as your heart immediately lifted at the sound, and then he stepped through. The sight of him hit you all at once.

He looked exhausted.

His curls were damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead in uneven strands, his skin still flushed from the intensity of rehearsal. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of it all, his posture carrying that familiar heaviness that only came when he had pushed himself too far for too long. It wasn't just physical, it never was. It was deeper than that, something that settled into his bones and stayed there.

And still... when his eyes landed on you, he smiled. He was tired, yes. Worn down in a way that made your chest ache. But he was genuinely happy to see you.

"Baby," Michael says.

There's something in his voice, soft and relieved, that makes your heart twist. Usually, by the time he made it back to the room, you were already asleep, your schedules just barely overlapping in passing moments that never lasted long enough. The fact that you were still awake, sitting there waiting for him, clearly meant something to him.

"Hi, baby, how was rehearsal?" you ask, your voice gentle, careful not to overwhelm him the moment he walks in.

Michael exhales, the sound heavy as it leaves him, like he's been holding it in all night. "Exhausting... I'm gonna shower, and then I'm all yours, okay?"

You smile at that, something warm flickering through your chest at the promise of even a little time with him. "Can I shower with you?" you ask, a mischievous smile tugging at your lips despite the softness of the moment.

You watch the shift happen in real time. 

The way his lips slowly curve, the exhaustion still there but momentarily pushed aside by something lighter, something more familiar. "You'd better get in there, then."

You laugh, the sound easing some of the heaviness that had settled in the room as you push yourself off the bed. But instead of heading straight to the bathroom, you move toward him first, because there's something in you that needs this before anything else.

Your arms slide around his neck, pulling him down just enough for your lips to meet his in a proper greeting, not the rushed, half-asleep kisses you had been exchanging lately. This one lingers. This one means something.

Michael responds instantly, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you flush against his chest, kissing you back with a depth that makes it clear just how much he's missed this, too. Missed you.

And for a moment, everything else falls away. The tour, the exhaustion, the distance, it all quiets beneath the simple fact that you're here, together, holding onto each other like you've both been waiting for this exact moment.

Because he has been.

He's missed you more than he's let himself admit. Every long rehearsal, every performance, every second spent giving everything he had to the world: it's been pulling him further and further away from the one place he actually wants to be. He knows he's been distant. He feels it every time he sees the way you look at him, soft and patient but carrying something deeper underneath.

And it's been killing him, but this tour... It's been taking everything out of him.

Touring has never been his favorite thing, no matter how much he loves his fans. It demands too much, asks too much of his body, his voice, his energy, and he gives it anyway because he can't imagine doing anything less for the people who support him. But there are moments where he wishes he could just walk away from all of it.

To take you somewhere no one else could reach, just the two of you.

"I also have a surprise for you, so we need to get ready," you say, your smile returning as you pull back just enough to look at him.

His brows lift slightly, curiosity breaking through the exhaustion. "A surprise for me?"

You nod, your fingers still resting lightly against him, grounding yourself in his presence. "Yeah, you've been working so hard and giving so much to this tour, I want to give something to you, and I already cleared it with Bill."

A quiet chuckle leaves him as he shakes his head, the sound softer than usual but genuine. "You tryna spoil me, girl? That's my job."

You bite down on your lip, smiling at him, at the familiarity of the dynamic that has always existed between you. "Yeah, well, you deserve to be spoiled, too."

Michael leans down again, his lips finding yours in another kiss, slower this time, more deliberate, like he's trying to memorize the feeling of it. "Every day that you love me makes me the most spoiled man in the world."

The words settle over you gently, warm and sincere in a way that immediately brings heat to your cheeks. You drop your gaze for a moment, smiling despite yourself before looking back up at him. "Corny," you tease.

He laughs, the sound fuller now, something lighter threading through it. "You love it, and me."

There's no hesitation in your answer. "I do."

And the way he looks at you after that: soft, open, and completely yours, makes something in your chest tighten in the best way.

He kisses you again, lingering just a second longer before the two of you finally pull apart, the moment naturally shifting into something quieter, more intimate as you both begin to undress and make your way to the bathroom.

The shower slows everything down.

The sound of the water fills the space as steam rises around you, wrapping the two of you in a kind of privacy that feels separate from the rest of the world. Michael's hands move over you with a softness that speaks louder than words ever could, his touch careful, intentional, like he's grounding himself through you. Every brush of his fingers, every lingering kiss pressed against your skin carries something deeper, something that says he's here, that he hasn't drifted as far as it's felt.

He spoils you in the way he always has.

Not rushed, not distracted, but fully present.

His hands washing your body slowly, reverently, like he's memorizing you all over again, like he needs this moment just as much as you do. And in return, you hold him just as close, letting the water wash away the tension that's been clinging to him for days, feeling the way he gradually relaxes beneath your touch.

By the time you step out nearly forty-five minutes later, something has shifted. Not completely, not enough to erase everything the tour has taken out of him, but enough that the weight on his shoulders feels just a little lighter, and when he looks at you again, there's more of him there than there has been in weeks.

Michael gets dressed first, and you take a moment just to watch him, to really look at him in a way you haven't been able to lately. He slips into a sleek red button-up, the color rich against his skin, bold in a way that draws your attention immediately, paired with black slacks that fall perfectly along his frame and his signature loafers that always make him look effortlessly put together. Even exhausted, even worn down from rehearsal, there is something about him that still commands the room without him even trying.

You move closer to him, your hands instinctively reaching for his hair, falling back into a rhythm that feels second nature at this point. Carefully, you dry his curls, your fingers gentle as you work through them, taking your time in a way that feels almost intimate, almost grounding. You gather part of it into a half-ponytail, securing it neatly while letting the rest fall just past his shoulders, soft and loose. When you step back slightly, taking in your work, he reaches for his fedora and settles it onto his head, completing the look in a way that feels so undeniably him.

There's a quiet moment where he just watches you.

You slip into the black lingerie first, the fabric soft against your skin, before pulling the sheer lace dress over it. The material clings to your figure in a way that feels intentional, delicate but bold, the intricate lace revealing just enough to leave nothing to the imagination without ever crossing into something too obvious. You can feel his eyes on you the entire time, heavy, unwavering, like he can't quite look away even if he wanted to.

And he doesn't want to.

You don't even have to look at him to know the effect it's having. The way the room shifts, the way the air thickens slightly, the way his presence behind you feels more focused, more attentive.

When you finally glance at him, you catch it, the way he bites down on his lip, his gaze lingering in a way that makes warmth rise in your chest and spread outward.

You turn back to the mirror, forcing yourself to focus long enough to finish getting ready, curling your hair and fluffing it out so it falls with more volume, softer, fuller, framing your face just the way you like it. It takes a little effort to pull yourself away from the moment, from him, but you do, reaching for the phone and calling Bill to let him know you're both ready.

Before you can even set the receiver down fully, Michael's hands are on you.

He pulls you back against him, his arms wrapping around your waist in a way that feels both grounding and possessive, like he needs to hold you there for just a second longer. You lean into him without hesitation, your body naturally settling against his.

"You look beautiful, baby girl," Michael says quietly in your ear.

The softness in his voice, the way it brushes against your skin, sends a warmth straight through you. You feel your cheeks heat as you instinctively bury your face further into him, trying to hide the way his words affect you, even though he already knows.

"You always look beautiful, Michael," you say back, lifting your head just enough to look at him.

For a brief moment, you catch the way he reacts: the subtle bite of his lip again, the way his gaze flickers away from yours like he suddenly feels seen in a way he's not used to. There's something shy about it, something soft that contrasts the confident presence he carries everywhere else.

A light knock interrupts the moment; you both know it's Bill.

Michael smiles at you, that familiar warmth returning as he straightens slightly. "You're really not gonna tell me where we're going?"

You shake your head, a small smile playing on your lips as you reach for his hand. "Nope, it's a surprise, now come on." He lets you lead him without protest, his fingers intertwining with yours as you both leave the suite together.

Bill is already waiting, guiding the two of you toward the car with the quiet efficiency he always carries. You had told him your plan earlier, and he had taken care of the rest, already knowing exactly where to go, which removes the last bit of pressure from your shoulders.

Once you're settled in the backseat, Michael immediately pulls you against him, like he always does, his arm wrapping around you with a familiarity that feels comforting, instinctive. You lean into him easily, your body fitting against his like it always has, like it always will.

The car starts moving, and the city outside begins to blur softly as the drive begins.

"Baby, you look so good in this dress, how am I supposed to control myself all night?" Michael whispers in your ear before pressing a kiss to the soft skin just below it.

A quiet giggle escapes you, softer than usual, shaped by the way his lips linger against your skin, the way his voice drops just enough to make the words feel heavier. You lean further into him, your body reacting without thought as his lips trail downward, his touch following, his hand sliding along your thigh in a way that makes your breath catch just slightly.

"If you behave... I promise I'll reward you," you say, turning your head just enough to meet his gaze.

His hand stills against your thigh immediately, the shift noticeable, deliberate. "You better not be playing with me, girl... or I'll give you a punishment."

Your smile widens at that, something playful but layered with something deeper, something that makes the moment feel charged without losing its softness. "You promise?"

You watch the way his throat moves as he swallows, the reaction small but telling, before he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he pulls you closer again, like he needs to anchor himself before he loses control of the moment entirely.

"You're gonna be the death of me, baby," He says. You lean up, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek just as the car slows to a stop.

Bill parks in front of Sobrino de Botín, the exterior glowing softly under the night lights, carrying a quiet kind of elegance that feels almost untouched by time. The door opens, and you step out first, Michael close behind you, his presence immediately at your back like it always is.

Inside, the hostess is already waiting.

The moment she sees you both, her face lights up with recognition and warmth. "Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, welcome."

Michael's attention shifts instantly, his gaze moving around the interior as he takes everything in. The lighting is low and golden, casting a warm glow that softens everything it touches, turning the room into something intimate without trying. Candlelight flickers across polished wood and aged stone, the shadows dancing gently along the curved brick walls overhead. The space feels tucked away from the rest of the world, like something hidden, something meant to be discovered rather than found.

There's a richness to it: not loud or extravagant, but deep. The kind that settles into the atmosphere rather than demanding attention. Dark wood, warm tones, the subtle elegance of carefully set tables dressed in white linen, each one lit just enough to feel private, like every seat holds its own quiet moment waiting to happen.

It's romantic without trying to be. It all feels authentic, untouched, like stepping into something that has existed far longer than either of you. You watch his reaction closely, your heart softening at the way his eyes widen just slightly, the wonder there unmistakable.

You chose this place for a reason.

You had seen it in the Guinness Book of World Records, the title standing out immediately: the oldest restaurant in the world. And you had thought of him instantly. The way he loves history, the way he's drawn to things that last, to stories, to legacy.

You wanted to give him something that felt meaningful. He turns to you, that soft smile forming on his lips, and you feel your chest tighten just a little under the weight of it.

"I rented it out for us," you say softly. His hands tighten gently around yours, his fingers squeezing just enough to let you feel it, and when you look at him, his expression has shifted into something deeper. Softer. Warmer.

These are the things he usually does for you.

The quiet dates. The private spaces. The effort to create moments that belong only to the two of you, untouched by the outside world. And now, standing here, realizing that you've done the same for him, something settles in his chest: something that feels a lot like being cared for in a way he doesn't always allow himself to receive.

And for the first time in a while, his exhaustion doesn't feel quite as heavy.

The hostess leads you through the softly lit restaurant, your hand still intertwined with Michael's as you follow her deeper into the space. The atmosphere settles around you the further you walk in, warm and intimate in a way that feels intentional, like every corner of the room was designed to slow people down without them even realizing it. When she stops at your table, you immediately notice how perfectly it's placed, close enough to the small stage that sits off to the side, set up as if someone is about to perform, but still tucked into its own little pocket of privacy.

Michael notices it too.

His gaze lingers on the stage for a moment before he turns back to you, one eyebrow lifting in quiet curiosity.

"Don't worry, baby... you're not performing tonight," you say, a teasing smile pulling at your lips.

A soft laugh leaves him as he shakes his head, the sound easing something between you as he takes his seat across from you. The hostess takes your drink orders before stepping away, and shortly after, your server joins you, helping the two of you navigate the menu, translating dishes, and offering suggestions in a way that feels unhurried, like there's nowhere else you need to be but right here.

Once you've both ordered, the moment settles into something quieter, something softer, as you look at him and let yourself really take him in.

"What do you think?" you ask, your smile gentle, carrying a hint of anticipation you can't quite hide.

Michael leans back slightly in his chair, his eyes moving slowly around the room again, this time not just observing but absorbing, letting the atmosphere sink into him. "It's beautiful in here. How'd you find this place?"

A small laugh slips past your lips, the answer still feeling a little surreal even now. "The Guinness Book of World Records. Apparently, this holds the record for being the oldest restaurant in the world. It's almost 300 years old."

"Really?" You nod, and the reaction you get is exactly what you were hoping for.

His eyes light up, that boyish grin breaking through so effortlessly that it softens something deep inside you. It's the same look he had the night you met him, the same quiet wonder that had nothing to do with fame or performance and everything to do with who he is when the world isn't watching.

"I knew you'd think that was interesting, so I wanted us to come here," you explain.

His attention shifts back to you, and something in his expression changes, softening into something deeper as he reaches across the table. His fingers wrap around your hand, warm and steady, before he lifts it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your skin.

"You're perfect," he says softly.

Heat rises to your cheeks immediately, your fingers tightening around his as you try to hide just how much those words settle into you.

Before you can respond, your food arrives, the moment shifting naturally as the plates are set down in front of you, the rich aroma filling the space between you. And just as you both begin to eat, the movement near the stage draws Michael's attention again.

The band you arranged starts to filter in.

They move with a quiet kind of nervous energy, setting up their instruments while exchanging small glances with each other, and you can tell immediately that they're aware of exactly who they're performing for tonight. You glance at Michael, and he's already watching them, that same focused curiosity settling over him, the kind that always appears when something genuinely captures his attention.

What you don't see right away is the shift happening beneath that. Michael feels the moment settle into him slowly, then all at once.

Sitting across from you, in a place you chose specifically because you knew it would matter to him, surrounded by something that feels so intentional, so thoughtful, it hits him in a way he isn't prepared for. The love in the moment doesn't feel small or subtle: it feels overwhelming in the best way, filling his chest so quickly that he doesn't quite know where to put it.

And right alongside it, something else creeps in: guilt.

It settles quietly but firmly, threading through everything he's feeling as he looks at you, because he knows. He knows he hasn't been present the way he should have been, that the last few weeks have pulled him further away than he ever intended. The exhaustion has taken more from him than he's wanted to admit, leaving you with the parts of him that are left over instead of the version of himself you deserve.

And still, you did this for him. Still, you're sitting here across from him, smiling at him like he hasn't fallen short at all. The thought alone is enough to tighten his throat, his eyes stinging slightly as he forces himself to stay grounded in the moment, not letting it overwhelm him completely.

He doesn't feel like he deserves you, not like this. Not when he hasn't been the husband you've needed. The first notes of music drift into the space before he can get too lost in it.

"Please, please, please, let me get what I want..."

The sound is soft, almost delicate, but it catches him immediately. He leans back slightly in his chair as he continues eating, but his attention is no longer split. It settles fully on the stage, on the musicians, on the way they play with a kind of quiet sincerity that feels real.

And then you see it, the exact moment it pulls him in.

His movements slow, his fork pausing for just a second as something in his expression shifts. His gaze sharpens, not in intensity but in focus, as he begins to study them: each member individually. The guitarist's fingers moving across the strings, the rhythm of the drummer's hands, the way the singer leans into the microphone like the words matter to him in a personal way.

Michael absorbs all of it, and beneath that focus, the meaning begins to settle in.

There's something about the song that lingers with him, something deeper than just the melody. It speaks to a quiet kind of longing he doesn't always allow himself to acknowledge: the desire for something simple, something untouched by expectations or demands. A life where moments like this aren't rare, where peace isn't something he has to chase between obligations, where love doesn't have to compete with everything else pulling at him.

His hand finds yours on the table without him even thinking about it, his thumb brushing slowly over your skin as if grounding himself in the one thing that feels constant.

The set continues, and the next song shifts the mood into something more introspective. Her. This one draws him in differently.

He leans forward slightly, his attention narrowing as he listens more closely, the lyrics settling into a place that feels uncomfortably familiar. There's something in it about being seen: not for what people expect, not for what the world projects onto you, but for who you actually are beneath all of it. The thought lingers because with you, he is seen. He's not Michael Jackson.

He's just Michael.

He glances at you for a brief moment, his gaze soft, searching in a way that carries more meaning than words ever could, because you've always been the one person who looks at him and sees exactly who he is without asking him to be anything else.

By the time the final song begins, the atmosphere has shifted again, something heavier threading through the sound. Rinsed. The emotion in it is raw, unfiltered in a way that settles deep in his chest. This one feels too close.

There's no distance between him and the meaning this time, no space to just observe it. It speaks to exhaustion in a way that feels honest, like being drained until there's nothing left to give, like constantly pouring yourself out for the world until you don't know where you begin and where everything else ends.

Michael exhales slowly, his shoulders dropping just slightly as the weight of it settles into him, because he knows that feeling. He's been living in it.

And yet, sitting here with you, your hand still in his, your presence steady and unwavering across from him, something shifts just enough to keep him grounded. Because even in that exhaustion, even in everything the tour has taken from him, he still has this.

He still has you.

And for the first time in a while, that feels like something he can hold onto instead of something he's afraid of losing.

As the last plates are cleared and the quiet rhythm of the evening settles into something slower, something softer, the band transitions seamlessly into their next song. The first notes of Be My Angel drift through the room, smooth and almost tender, wrapping around the space in a way that feels more intimate than anything they've played so far.

And the moment it begins, Michael looks at you.

There's no hesitation in it, no distraction lingering in his expression the way there had been earlier in the night. Whatever distance had been sitting between you feels quieter now, pushed back just enough for something else to come forward: something softer, something more vulnerable.

He holds out his hand. "Will you dance with me?"

Your smile comes easily, instinctively, as you place your hand in his, letting him guide you away from the table. There's something about the way he leads you that feels familiar, grounding, like muscle memory neither of you has lost despite everything the past few weeks have put between you.

When he pulls you to his chest, it feels like coming home.

His arms wrap around you, firm but gentle, holding you close in a way that feels more like he needs it than anything else. You settle into him just as naturally, one arm wrapping around his torso while your other hand rests against his chest, right over his heart, where you can feel the steady rhythm beneath your palm.

The two of you sway together, slow and unhurried, moving with the music rather than thinking about it, and as the melody continues, something shifts in him again.

Every song tonight has touched something inside of him, each one peeling back a different layer of everything he's been carrying, everything he hasn't said. But this one... this one settles somewhere deeper, somewhere quieter.

There's something in it that feels unfamiliar to him, not longing for the world to understand him, not the exhaustion of giving too much, but the idea of being held, protected, and taken care of.

It's a feeling he doesn't often let himself sit in, doesn't often allow himself to want, because his life has always been about giving, about being the one people look to, the one people lean on. But right now, standing here with you, your hand resting over his heart, your body pressed against his, something in him softens in a way that feels almost fragile.

Like for once... he doesn't have to be everything, like, for once, he can just be yours.

His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer without even realizing it, holding onto you like you're the only place he can rest. You feel the way his grip shifts, the way something deeper settles into his touch, and you close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the moment completely. Because as much as tonight has been about him, there's something in you that's holding onto this just as tightly.

You've missed him.

Not just his presence, but him. The way he feels when he's fully here with you, the way his attention settles into you instead of drifting somewhere else. And as his arms tighten around you, as his body relaxes into yours, you can't help the quiet fear that lingers beneath the surface.

That this might be temporary, that when the night ends, the distance might come back with it. And so you hold onto him just a little tighter, too.

Letting yourself memorize the way this feels. The warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand, the way the music seems to fade into the background because being here with him feels like enough.

When the band reaches the final note, neither of you moves.

The music ends, but you're both still swaying slightly, still wrapped up in each other like the moment hasn't quite caught up to reality yet. Michael presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his hand gliding slowly down your back in a motion that feels more like comfort than anything else.

It's only when the silence settles fully into the room that you realize the song has ended.

You pull back just slightly, your body reluctant to create even that small space between you, and before you can fully step away, Michael leans down and kisses you, slowly and deliberately, like he's trying to say everything he hasn't been able to put into words.

There's emotion in it, layered and heavy in a way that makes your chest tighten, his hands lingering on you like he doesn't want to let go, even as the moment shifts around you.

"I love you," he whispers when you finally pull back.

Your smile softens, your heart already full from everything he's said without saying. "I love you more."

He lingers there for just a second longer before stepping away, and you watch as he turns toward the band, something brighter settling into his expression as he approaches them. Their reactions are immediate.

Their faces light up the second he reaches them, shock and excitement flashing across their expressions as he greets each one of them, shaking their hands, speaking to them with a sincerity that you've always admired in him.

He tells them they have a great sound, and he tells them that he really appreciates them playing tonight. And you can see it in their faces: they're stunned. Not just because he's Michael Jackson, but because he's taking the time, because he means what he's saying.

You watch from where you stand, a soft smile resting on your lips as warmth settles into your chest. Moments like this always remind you of who he is beneath everything else, the way he connects with people, the way he makes them feel seen in the same way he makes you feel seen.

As the night begins to wind down, one of the band members asks if it's okay to take pictures.

Michael, of course, agrees immediately.

You step forward instinctively, offering to take the camera, ready to capture the moment for them, but the lead singer shakes his head with a grin, insisting that you be in the pictures too. He calls over one of the servers to take the photo instead, and for a moment, you hesitate, surprised.

You're not used to that, not fully. But you step in anyway, standing beside Michael as the picture is taken, feeling the quiet warmth of the moment settle deeper into you.

And it doesn't stop there.

Some of the servers come forward next, asking if they can take pictures with Michael as well, and once again, you offer to take them, falling back into what feels natural—but once again, they insist.

They want you in them, too, and how much they love Michael. How much they love the two of you together. How your relationship shows them that real love exists, that something genuine can survive in a world that often feels the opposite. And for a moment, you don't quite know what to say.

Because you never see yourself the way they do.

But hearing it... It settles into you in a way that feels warm, steady, and real.

By the time everything wraps up, even though the night has already been paid for, Michael makes sure to thank everyone properly, leaving each worker and each member of the band more money than expected, his gratitude quiet but genuine in a way that never feels performative.

When it's finally time to leave, his hand finds yours again, fingers intertwining as naturally as breathing.

The cool night air hits you the moment you step outside, a soft contrast to the warmth you've been wrapped in all evening, and you exhale deeply, letting it settle into your lungs.

"Let's take a walk," Michael says.

You look at him, studying his face for just a second before nodding, your fingers tightening slightly around his hand.

He turns to Bill, explaining that he wants to walk with you for a bit, and Bill agrees without hesitation, assuring him he'll follow behind in the car, keeping enough distance to give you privacy while still being close enough if needed.

Michael nods, satisfied.

And then, without letting go of you, he starts walking.

As you begin to walk, Michael's arm settles naturally around your shoulders, his hand draping across you in a way that feels both protective and grounding, like he's instinctively pulling you closer without even thinking about it. You reach up and take his hand, your fingers threading through his, holding onto him in a way that feels familiar, like something you've done a thousand times before but still never take for granted.

The two of you fall into step together, your bodies moving in sync as the quiet of the night settles around you. For a while, neither of you speaks, but the silence doesn't feel empty or awkward; it feels full, warm in a way that comes from simply being near each other without expectation. The city hums softly in the distance, far enough away that it fades into the background, leaving you wrapped in a moment that feels private despite being out in the open.

"This night was amazing, baby, thank you so much," Michael says softly, his voice carrying a quiet relief as he exhales.

You feel the shift in him, the way some of the tension he walked in with has loosened, and your arm tightens slightly around his torso as you gently squeeze him, wanting him to feel that you're right there with him.

"Of course, Michael," you reply, your tone just as soft.

There's a small pause after that, but this one feels different. You can sense something building in him, something he's been holding back, and you don't interrupt it, giving him the space to get there in his own time.

"I'm so sorry... I know I've been distant, and that's not fair to you... I miss you so much, I'm just..." he trails off, his voice faltering as he searches for the words.

You feel the hesitation in him, the conflict between wanting to open up and not knowing if he should, and it makes your chest tighten because you know him well enough to understand exactly where that comes from.

"You can tell me, baby... I'm here for you," you say gently.

He takes in a slow breath at that, like he's steadying himself before finally letting everything spill out.

"I'm so exhausted. When I said after the Bad Tour that it was going to be my last tour, I meant it in the moment. I've been touring for two decades... but I know how much money I could raise for others with the tour, and how much the fans love to see a show... but it takes so much out of me," Michael admits, and the weight behind his words settles heavily between you.

Your grip on him tightens slightly, your heart aching at how much he's been carrying on his own.

"Baby..." you say softly, the word filled with more feeling than anything else you could add.

He lets out a deeper sigh, the kind that feels like it's been building for a while.

"I know how it sounds... I've been blessed with a wonderful gift that's meant to be shared with the world, and I'm so grateful for that, but—"

"Baby... you're allowed to be frustrated, you're allowed to want a break. Feeling that way doesn't make you ungrateful. Your fans know how much you love them because you always make sure that they know they're loved, and I'm sure more than anything, they just want you to be okay," you say, gently cutting in before he can finish spiraling into guilt.

He nods slowly, your words grounding him as his fingers tighten around yours, holding onto you like he needs that reassurance to stick.

"But the tour and everything that comes with it, all the traveling, rehearsals, shows, interviews, appearances... I feel like I'm being pulled in so many different directions and giving so much of myself to everything else that when I get back to you... I have nothing left to give, and that's not fair to you," he continues, and this time the guilt in his voice is impossible to miss.

It's not frustration that sits in him; it's the feeling that he's failed you.

"Michael, it's okay," you try to reassure him, your voice steady even though your chest tightens at hearing him say that.

He shakes his head immediately, more firmly this time, like he can't accept that.

"It's not okay... you're my wife, and even though I've been neglecting you... You still put this whole night together for me... for us, and I just... I don't deserve you, baby," he says quietly as he turns to face you fully.

The two of you stop walking without even realizing it, the moment pulling you into stillness. A few feet behind you, Bill slows the car to a stop as well, giving you space without needing to be asked.

"Yes, you do... because you deserve everything good. During our vows, we said for better and for worse. I'm sorry that touring is so grueling for you. If that's your 'worse,' then let yourself fall back on me because I'm here to help you through it," you say, your words steady and sincere.

You see the way they land on him, the way something vulnerable breaks through his expression, and before you can say anything else, his hands come up to cup your cheeks, holding you there like he needs to anchor himself in you.

When he kisses you, it's immediate and full of everything he hasn't been able to say. There's no hesitation in it, no restraint, just emotion pouring through the contact as he deepens it, pulling you closer as if that alone can express what words haven't been able to. You respond just as fully, your hands finding him, grounding him in the same way he's grounding you.

When you finally pull back, you notice the shine in his eyes, the way emotion has gathered there, and your expression softens instantly as you lift your hand to gently wipe at the tears before they can fall.

"I promise, I'll be better... I'll do better," Michael says quietly.

You shake your head, not letting him take that on himself. "You're already the best. I love you," you tell him.

Something in him eases at that, and he pulls you into another hug, tighter this time, like he's finally allowing himself to lean into you fully instead of holding anything back. You feel the way he exhales against you, the tension leaving him in a way that feels real this time, not just temporary.

"I love you, more..." he murmurs.

When you finally pull apart, your hands find each other again, fingers intertwining as naturally as before, and you resume walking, slower now, more intentional, letting the quiet settle between you again. This time, it feels different, not weighed down by distance or uncertainty, but full in a way that feels steady and grounded.

You walk like that for another thirty minutes, staying close to each other, before eventually making your way back to the car, where Bill is waiting to take you back to the hotel.

As the elevator doors slide shut and begin their quiet ascent, the world seems to narrow down to just the two of you again. The hum of the machinery is soft, almost unnoticeable, and the reflective walls catch the image of you pressed close together, still carrying the warmth of everything the night has given you. Michael looks down at you, his expression softer than it's been in weeks, and leans in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering there for just a second longer than necessary.

"Have I been good enough for my reward?" Michael whispers to you, his voice low, playful, but layered with something deeper that hasn't quite left him since the walk.

A soft giggle slips from you before you can stop it, your face instinctively tucking into his chest as you nod, the warmth of him surrounding you in a way that feels both comforting and familiar.

"You've been very good, Mr. Jackson," you respond, your voice light but teasing, and you feel the way his hands tighten just slightly at your waist in response.

The elevator finally opens onto the penthouse floor, and the moment stretches just long enough for both of you to glance toward Bill, offering him a quick goodnight before Michael unlocks the suite. The second the door closes behind you, the space around you feels different—private again, untouched by anything outside of the two of you.

Michael doesn't waste a second.

His lips are on yours almost immediately, the kiss eager but not rushed, like everything he's been holding back all night is finally allowed to surface. He guides you backward toward the bedroom, his hands steady on you as you laugh softly against his mouth, trying to keep up with him while slipping your heels off in between steps.

The sound that escapes you when he suddenly lifts you is half surprise, half laughter, your body instinctively wrapping around him as he carries you the rest of the way. His lips never quite leave yours, brushing, pressing, stealing pieces of the moment in between the laughter that still lingers between you.

Just the two of you, caught in something simple and alive, like teenagers falling in love for the first time, where everything feels new even though it isn't.

When he finally lowers you onto the bed, the kiss doesn't break, only deepens slightly as you instinctively pull him closer, your arms wrapping around him as if you're trying to keep him right there with you. His body settles against yours, the familiar warmth of him grounding you as the world outside fades completely away.

His hands move with a kind of quiet reverence, slipping to the straps of your dress and easing them down slowly, not rushed, not careless, but deliberate, like he's taking his time with you in a way that means something. The touch of his hands against your skin sends a warmth through you that has nothing to do with the room itself and everything to do with him finally being fully present again.

Michael gently cups your breasts in his hands, gently squeezing them and teasing your nipples with his fingers, which makes you moan in his mouth as your back arches slightly, pushing your breasts further into his hands. You've always loved how big his hands are, for moments like this, how he can cup you fully.

Michael momentarily breaks the kiss to pull your dress down your body and discard it to the floor, then he leans back down to kiss you again. Your hands run down his shirt, and you begin to unbutton his shirt slowly. When you get all the buttons done, Michael shrugs out of his shirt as you're pushing it off his shoulders, and you run your hands down his bare chest, slowing at his torso as you mess with the waistband of his boxers. You can already feel the growing length beneath your palm, and he's pulsing, just like you're throbbing.

He kisses you deeper when he feels you pulling his boxers down, his length coming free from their constraints, and you immediately grab him. You feel his breath hitch against you, but his kisses don't slow; instead, they get heavier, a bit quicker as you stroke him with your hand. You feel his breathing get heavier through your kiss as your hand moves slowly against him, drawing out the feeling.

One of Michael's hands trails down your body until he's cupping you outside of your panties. Your breath slightly hitches, but neither of you stops kissing the other. Michael moves the bottom of your panties aside, giving himself enough room to rub his thumb over your clit. At his movements, your hand starts moving faster against him, making him groan.

"Baby," he mumbles roughly against your lips, but neither of you stops. Michael pushes a finger inside of you while your hand still pumps him, alternating between moving quicker and slower. You moan into his mouth, and he slightly speeds up his thumb against your clit and his finger moving inside of you.

"Michael," your moan comes out as a slight whimper, and his breathing is rough against your neck. He peppers kisses across your neck as your thumb slides over his tip, and you feel him slightly shudder. You spread the precum you feel, using it to slide your hand back down his length again to the base, and you feel his fingers moving quicker. Your hips buck and grind, matching the pace of his fingers, and you lean your head back into the pillow as you moan louder.

"I love seeing you like this," Michael murmurs as he presses a kiss to your throat, right where he can feel your pulse quickening, but he does love seeing you come apart under him. He loves seeing you pleased and making sure you reach pleasure before he does. You feel yourself getting closer, and Michael groans again when your grip tightens against him as his fingers speed up in you.

Your thighs start shaking as your orgasm comes, you cry out Michael's name, and he kisses you, deeply, his tongue immediately slipping its way inside as you ride out the wave of your orgasm. When Michael pulls his fingers out of you, they're slick with your release, and you feel your face flushing.

Michael brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean before kissing you again. You can taste yourself on him, but still taste him in his kiss. You're the one to pull away, still gripping him in your hand. You let go and use your hands to push Michael to sit, and then you get on your knees in front of him, between his legs.

You grip him at the base again before leaning in. Your lips slide down the outside of his length, your tongue slowly licking at him, and Michael's breath hitches. He had already been close, just when you were using your hand, now he felt he was going to explode. When your tongue slowly trails back up, you stop at the head, seeing the pre cum sitting at the tip, and you rub it with your thumb to spread it before taking him into your mouth.

Michael's body shudders on contact, and he moans when he feels your tongue glide over the tip, lapping up the precum. His fingers immediately go to your hair; he doesn't pull it, he just grips it tighter as you move. You take more of him slowly into your mouth, inch by inch, leaving your hand at the base, stroking what won't fit inside.

"You always feel so good," Michael chokes out between his moans as your pace quickens. His hands grip your hair tighter, but not enough to hurt, as you take him deeper, until you feel him closer to the back of your throat. You pause for a minute to breathe before slowly sliding back up his length, slower this time to draw it out, and Michael shudders. You feel him twitching inside of your mouth as you move again, knowing he's close.

"I need to be inside of you, mama, please," Michael says as he pulls you up from him. You're slightly gasping for breath, your chest heavy as it rises and falls. Michael lays you down, sliding your panties down your legs until they're off, and then he spreads your legs apart as he comes between you. His body flushes against yours as he lines himself up to you.

He pushes inside of your slickness with one long thrust, making you both moan at the contact. Your legs wrap around his waist, squeezing him closer. He leans down and kisses you as he moves, pushing himself into you inch by inch until your bodies press together. Your body stretches for him, like it knows that he's exactly where he belongs. Then his hips begin to roll, his strokes pushing slowly and deep.

He didn't want to just fuck you; he wanted to make love to you.

He wanted to show you how much he loved you, show you how much you planning this night for him means to him. He wanted you to feel his love in ways he couldn't express with his words. And ever since he saw you in that black dress you'd been wearing, he'd been wanting to be buried deep inside of you for hours.

Michael's lips attach to your neck and collarbone as he presses warm, open-mouthed kisses against your flushed skin. Michael leans towards your ear. "I love you, I love you so much," he whispers into your ear, and you let out another moan.

"I–I love you... more," you choke out between your moans. You feel it coming, the pressure building until it explodes. The orgasm rips through you, making you shake and slightly convulse under him. Michael gently grips your hips to keep you still, as his thrusts get slower, but remain as deep.

"Stay with me... Baby, stay with me," he whispers as he brings you through it. Your legs are still shaking, your body still slightly jerking whenever you feel an aftershock of your orgasm, Michael's name spilling repeatedly from your lips. You feel him twitch inside of you, and soon he releases too, your name coming out like a cry and a prayer from his lips as he fills you.

You lean up and kiss him, your lips finding his as he slows everything down, the movement between you becoming softer, more deliberate, like neither of you is in any rush for the moment to end. There's a gentleness to it now, something unspoken but deeply felt, as your breaths grow heavier and begin to mingle together in the small space between you. 

When he finally stills, your foreheads press together, both of you holding there for a second, suspended in the quiet aftermath, your breathing the only thing grounding you in reality. Michael leans down to kiss you again, slower this time, unhurried and full of something deeper than before, his lips lingering like he's trying to stretch the moment out for as long as he can. 

His arms pull your body closer against his, holding you in a way that feels protective, like he's keeping you right there with him. When he pulls away, his hand comes up gently, smoothing your hair back behind your ear with a softness that makes your chest tighten, before he presses a tender kiss to your forehead.

Reluctantly, he lets you go just enough to settle you back against the pillows, making sure you're comfortable before he slips away to the bathroom. It's routine by now, something so familiar it feels like its own quiet language between you. When he returns, the warmth of the cloth against your skin is gentle, careful, the way he always is with you, taking his time in a way that feels less like obligation and more like care, just quiet attentiveness as he makes sure you're okay before taking care of himself.

When he finally climbs back into bed, he doesn't leave space between you.

He pulls you immediately to his chest, tucking you into him like that's exactly where you belong, his arms wrapping around you in a way that feels grounding after everything the night has held. His lips brush against your forehead again, softer this time, like he's settling into something he's been missing.

"Thank you, baby... for always loving me through it," Michael whispers. You know exactly what he means. It wasn't just about tonight; it was about everything. The exhaustion, the distance, the parts of himself he doesn't always know how to give, the way life pulls him away from you more often than either of you would like. And still, you're here. Still, you choose him.

A soft smile settles on your lips as your fingers begin to trace along his bare back, slow and absentminded, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch as you close your eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat anchor you.

"And I promise I always will," you whisper back.

You feel the way he reacts to that, the way something in him softens even further, his body relaxing against yours in a way that tells you he's finally letting himself rest. He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering just slightly, as if he's holding onto your words and letting them sink in fully.

He hasn't been sleeping well.

You've felt that too, the restlessness, the tension that never quite leaves him, even when he's still. But now, with you wrapped in his arms, with your presence steady and familiar against him, something shifts in a way that feels real.

The tension leaves him slowly. The weight he's been carrying eases, just enough.

And for the first time in weeks, as his breathing deepens and evens out, Michael allows himself to fully let go. Wrapped in your warmth, in the safety of you, he drifts into sleep; not the restless kind he's been used to, but something deeper, something peaceful.