lula𐙚🧸ྀི

canvas of a ghost

pairing: bad era michael jackson x fem!reader

summary: months of preparation for your solo gallery exhibition are shattered when your fiancé, michael, fails to show up—arriving only as the lights dim with diana ross by his side. the humiliation turns you into a ghost in your own apartment, punishing him with weeks of icy silence. but silence has its limits. when michael finally breaks down, weeping under the weight of his guilt, the night dissolves into a tempest of rough, intense longing sex, it becomes a desperate collision of tears, continuous whimpers, and raw possession from a man terrified of losing you forever.

warning: smut! 18+, mdni, angst, mention of diana ross, rough sex, make up sex, reader is an artist, fight in relationship, mention of hitting, silent treatment, yearning

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you yawned as you felt the glimmer of sunlight slipping through the bedroom curtains you both shared. a smile curled onto your lips when you turned your head over your shoulder. michael was softly snoring against your shoulder, his arm wrapped gently around your waist, while his right leg rested between yours.

you lifted your thumb to stroke his chin. he looked like an angel from heaven, so handsome and beautiful, his long curls spilling across his right cheek. michael let out a quiet hum at the touch of your fingers before slowly opening his eyes, blinking several times as he adjusted to the sudden light filling his orbs.

you were now fully facing michael, your smile growing even wider, utterly charmed by the sleepy expression on his face as he tried to process waking up.

"good morning, applehead."

"mmm," was the only sound he made before stretching his body from side to side, letting out a sleepy groan. he exhaled and looked at you.

"good morning, princess. how was your sleep?" he asked in the raspy voice that always came with just waking up. his bare chest brushed against your arms, which were folded in front of your chest.

you pressed a quick kiss to his forehead before sitting up on the edge of the bed and getting to your feet. you pulled open the curtains of the apartment bedroom the two of you had been living in together for the past two years, ever since michael proposed to you and decided to buy an apartment for the two of you to share. the morning was especially bright. you smiled widely and looked at michael with sparkling excitement.

"michael! it's the day! my gallery day. i feel so excited and wonderful."

michael looked slightly dazed, making you furrow your brows.

"you didn't forget, did you, honey?"

"n—no, of course i remember, sweetheart. i just have a practice today, but it won't take long. i'll be there as soon as i can, baby," michael replied before quickly climbing out of bed. he walked straight over to you and wrapped both arms around your waist. his eyes drifted down your body, dressed in nothing but a pair of maroon lace underwear.

"how can someone look like this right after waking up?" michael pulled you closer, placing several quick kisses along the right side of your neck, making you squeal with laughter. you tried to gently push against his shoulders, completely overwhelmed by the endless ticklish kisses that now covered your entire neck from one side to the other. laughing, you gripped his bare shoulders.

"mikey! enough!"

"alright, alright..." michael chuckled before softly kissing your lips. you wrapped both arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. michael smiled against your lips as he gently sucked on your lower lip. his right hand lightly gripped your waist while his left cupped your jaw, searching for the perfect angle as his tongue slipped deeper into the kiss.

you pulled away and placed a kiss against the right side of his jaw.

"i'm going to take a shower first. it's going to be a big important day for me!" you lightly patted his chest before walking past him toward the bathroom. "you can't be late, mike. you know that, right?" you said as you glanced back over your shoulder, finding michael smiling with teeth as white as pearls.

"yes, ma'am."

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you drove your white sedan at a moderate speed. you looked beautiful today, wearing a bright butter yellow knee-length dress. you quietly hummed cheerful tunes to yourself. bruce—your bodyguard hired by michael—sat in the passenger seat beside you today. you had insisted on driving yourself. you felt full of energy, like you could do anything. today would be filled with important people, including michael's connections whom the two of you had personally invited to attend the opening of your art gallery.

you opened your car door once it was neatly parked behind the gallery building. the voices of the staff greeted you the moment your feet touched the marble floor. the scent of lilies mixed faintly with oil paint in the air. your chest warmed.

this was it.

the day that had kept you awake almost every night for the past several months.

every painting hanging on these white gallery walls was a piece of yourself. some were painted when you fell in love. some were painted when you cried alone. some were painted while michael sat quietly on the apartment sofa for hours, simply keeping you company while you painted.

"this is really happening..."

"it is, miss," bruce said, standing directly behind you with a proud smile, equally proud of everything you had achieved.

after spending nearly an hour walking through the gallery, making sure everything was absolutely perfect, your gallery officially opened. guests slowly began arriving.

your legs felt like jelly. you were terrified.

"bruce?"

"yes, miss?"

you cleared your throat, your eyes scanning the entire gallery as you searched for the person you loved most.

"is he done with the rehearsal?"

"i'm sorry, but mr. jackson didn't answer any of my calls, miss."

you let out an uneasy sigh. you really needed michael beside you right now. you needed him standing with you. you needed his warm hand holding your cold, nervous one. you needed to hear his loving words whispering in your ear, telling you everything would be alright and that you had already done your very best. you needed him now.

you nodded at bruce and forced a smile. "he'll come."

bruce smiled but said nothing.

"he will come. right, bruce?" you asked, your voice growing hoarse.

"i'm sure he will, miss."

you smiled brightly when a famous art collector stopped for quite a while in front of one of your paintings.

it was your favorite piece.

the painting michael had helped name three months ago.

"golden silence."

you still remembered that night vividly.

oil paint covered both of your hands. michael sat cross-legged on the studio floor, his chin resting on his knee as he watched you finish the final brushstroke. he tucked his curly hair behind his ear, smiling softly as he watched you completely focused on the canvas before you.

"what are you gonna call it?" michael asked as he stood up and walked over to you.

"i don't know yet," you answered without looking away from your work. you mixed several colors together on your palette, trying to find the perfect shade.

"golden silence."

you turned around and found michael already sitting cross-legged behind you, your shoulders now resting directly in front of his chest.

"what?"

"because that's what it feels like."

then he smiled.

that small smile that always made your heart stop for a moment.

"it feels like peace." michael wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. you giggled at how clingy he was. unable to resist how adorable he looked, you turned toward him and placed two quick kisses right on the tip of his nose.

"mikey, i'm not finished yet," you said with a pleading voice.

michael pouted dramatically. "you've ignored me for three whole hours, pretty. at least let me stay like this for a little while."

"mikey, i promise i'll make it up to you once i'm done, okay?"

michael let out an exaggerated sigh before getting back to his feet. his left hand gently stroked your head with affection. “you better be."

"baby, do you want me to turn on the patio lights so you'll have better lighting? i don't want your eyes to hurt because the lighting isn't good enough." michael gently poked your shoulder from behind, trying to get your attention.

before answering, you smiled at his words. michael always made you feel so deeply loved.

"yes. can you do that for me, applehead?"

michael chuckled at your pet name and blushed.

"anything for my princess. now i'm gonna turn the lights on and grab some food for ya." he placed a quick kiss on your forehead before jogging out of the studio.

hours pass. the anxiety that had been eating away at you slowly fades as you’re pulled into conversations with the endless stream of guests arriving at your gallery. you talk to dozens of people, smiling until your cheeks ache.

then, you hear a familiar man’s voice call your name. you turn around to find lionel richie walking toward you with his signature warm smile.

“hey, congratulations. this is amazing.” he wraps you in a friendly hug before giving your back a light pat.

you grin. “thank you so much for coming, richie. let’s get you a drink, shall we?” you lead him toward the champagne table, handing him a glass.

the older man murmurs a quiet thank you before taking a sip, his eyes wandering around the gallery. “where’s michael? i didn’t see him anywhere.”

you force a small smile. “ah… he’s gonna be a little late. he’s still at rehearsal.”

a little late?

he’s already been hours late. your gallery will be closing in another hour.

“but isn’t the gallery gonna close in about an hour?”

you freeze, unable to answer, you simply raise your glass and take another slow sip, hoping it hides the disappointment written all over your face.

now everyone’s gone. after spending the entire day surrounded by people, talking nonstop, every ounce of your energy has been drained. your feet throb painfully after wearing heels all day. only a few staff members remain, cleaning up the gallery. you sit alone on a bench in the center hall, staring at the entrance, you slip off one of your heels. your eyes begin to sting as tears threaten to spill.

it hurts, you don’t know where michael is. you don’t know what excuse he’ll come up with this time.

“jerk,” you mutter under your breath, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand.

“miss, mr. jackson is here.”

bruce approaches you carefully, you immediately shake your head. “tell him i don’t want to see him.”

“are you su—”

“i’m a hundred percent sure, bruce. i don’t wanna see him.”

you stand and begin walking toward your office, only for a voice to stop you in your tracks.

“baby… baby, please let me in.”

you slowly turn toward the glass entrance.

there he is.

michael stands outside, staring at you through the glass with pleading eyes. he’s holding an enormous bouquet of flowers against his chest. gently, he knocks on the glass door.

“just go away, michael.”

your voice comes out cold as you stare at him for a long moment. he looks exhausted, his shoulders have slumped, and guilt is written all over his face. you let out a shaky breath. despite how angry you are, despite how much he hurt you, your love for him wins in the end.

you walk toward the door and unlock it.

the moment he steps inside, he offers you the oversized bouquet of baby pink roses. “baby, i’m so sorry. i don’t know what i should do to make it right, but i—”

“hi, congratulations on your gallery opening.”

you frown.

your attention shifts to the woman’s voice coming from behind michael. she steps forward with a bright smile, wearing a long silver dress.

diana ross.

“…what the fuck?”

it’s the only thing you’re capable of saying.

“baby—”

your lips part in disbelief as you struggle to process what’s happening. “what is she doing here?”

“why are you so surprised?” diana says, looking almost offended. “i’m here to congratulate you.”

she casually slips her arm through michael’s left arm. meanwhile, his right hand is still holding the bouquet of flowers you haven’t accepted.

“exactly. i don’t need you congratulating me—not on my special day, and not on any ordinary day.” your voice trembles, “so… michael, you missed the most important day of my life because you were with her?”

the disappointment burns through your chest. you fight as hard as you can to keep the tears from falling.

“answer me., michael.” your voice comes out quieter this time and that somehow hurts more as michael immediately shakes his head.

“no, baby, it’s not what you think.”

“isn’t it?” your eyes dart toward diana’s arm still looped around his.

“because from where i’m standing, it looks exactly like what i think.” your eyes never leave michael’s.

michael swallows hard with eyes filled with guilt. “baby… please.”

“don’t.” you take a step back before he can reach for you.

“don’t call me that right now.”

his hand freezes midair, his chest tighten because you’ve never done that before, you never pulled away from him, never looked at him like he was a complete stranger.

“i waited for you, michael. do you even know how many times people asked me where you were?" your voice cracks despite your best effort.

he lowers his head. “…i know.”

“no.”

you shake your head.

“you don’t.”

“lionel came.”

“everyone came.”

“everyone except you.”

every word lands like another knife.

“i kept making excuses for you.”

“‘he’s rehearsing.’”

“‘he’ll be here soon.’”

“‘he’s just running a little late.’”

you laugh bitterly. “hours, michael. you were hours late.”

his eyes glisten. “i know, and i’m so sorry.”

“stop saying you’re sorry, for god's sake!" you snap as your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, every inhale burning, every exhale trembling with everything you've kept buried. your throat aches from holding back tears that refuse to stay hidden.

michael doesn't speak, he just stands there, frozen, as if your words have rooted him to the floor. you shake your head, a humorless laugh slipping past your lips.

"sorry doesn't change what happened. it doesn't erase the way everyone looked at me." you swallow hard. "it doesn't erase how humiliating it was to keep defending someone who never showed up."

his lips part, but nothing comes out because there isn't anything left to say. not this time.

“i tried, baby.” michael finally speak. “there was traffic, and then—”

“stop.” you shake your head again.

“i don’t want another explanation.”

“i don’t care.”

“because if this day had mattered to you as much as it mattered to me…” you inhale shakily. “…you would’ve been early.”

that sentence completely breaks him, his shoulders slump.

his lips part, but nothing comes out because he knows you’re right.

your voice becomes almost inaudible. “i’ve spent months planning this gallery. and all i wanted was for you to be there when those doors opened.”

another tear slips free before you can stop it, tracing slowly down your cheek. the moment he sees it, michael's composure breaks.

his feet move on instinct, closing the distance between you before he even realizes it. one trembling hand lifts halfway, wanting to wipe the tear away, wanting to hold your face, wanting to do something—but he lets it fall back to his side.

"please..."

his voice barely exists.

"don't cry."

a hollow laugh escapes you, shaking with disbelief. you drag the back of your hand across your cheek, smearing away the tears with more frustration than tenderness before looking up at him.

"now you're asking me not to cry?"

your voice quivers despite every attempt to steady it.

"after making me spend the happiest day of my life wondering if i mattered to you?"

the words hit him like a physical blow.

michael's face crumples. his lips part, but no sound comes for a heartbeat. his eyes search yours desperately, as though he's trying to find the version of you that always softened for him.

"you matter more than anything, baby..."

his voice is ragged.

"really?"

your chin lifts just enough to look past him you don't even have to say her name, a small tilt of your head toward diana is enough.

"then why did you bring her here?"

michael turns so quickly it almost looks panicked. "diana insisted on coming. i thought maybe—"

"why are you being so dramatic?" diana interrupts before he can finish. she lets out a small scoff, one hand settling lazily against her hip. "haven't you two been together long enough? you should know michael better than anyone by now." she shakes her head, looking at you with thinly veiled judgment. "because if you can't understand him... then clearly someone has to."

your gaze slowly shifts to her as you wipe another tear from your cheek with the heel of your palm, blinking away the sting before letting out a quiet, incredulous laugh.

"excuse me?"

diana rolls her eyes. "come on. you're acting like he cheated on you."

michael's head snaps toward her.

"diana."

she ignores him.

"he was late. yes, it was awful. but this?" she gestures vaguely between the two of you with both hands. "this is a little over the top, don't you think?"

your fingers curl into your palms so tightly your nails bite into your skin. "he missed my wedding. he apologized. hours later."

diana sighs dramatically, shaking her head as though your answer has exhausted her. "people make mistakes." she takes two slow steps toward michael until she's standing close enough that their shoulders nearly brush.

"you're making him feel like a monster."

without asking, she reaches out and smooths a nonexistent wrinkle from the sleeve of his jacket before letting her hand linger against his upper arm.

"you've punished yourself enough."

michael immediately stiffens, his eyes flick down to where her hand rests on him, then back to her face, visibly confused.

"diana..."

his voice is quiet and uncertain.

"don't."

she barely acknowledges him, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze instead. "stop blaming yourself."

he carefully slips his arm from beneath her touch, taking half a step away without even realizing he's doing it. his brows pull together, his breathing uneven, caught somewhere between guilt, confusion, and disbelief that this conversation has spiraled so badly.

you watch the entire exchange every second of it then a hollow laugh escapes you.

your voice is almost frighteningly calm.

"you don't bring the woman people have spent decades linking you with... to your devastated fiancé." the sentence hangs in the air and diana's expression finally falters. the confidence drains from her face, replaced by an uncomfortable silence.

michael presses the heel of his hand against his forehead before dragging it down over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

when he opens them again, they're already glassy.

"i messed up."

"yes."

"i know."

his voice cracks.

"i messed up so badly."

"yes."

his shoulders cave inward like he's finally carrying the full weight of what he's done.

"i hate myself for this."

"good." the word leaves your lips before you can catch it.

silence.

thick.

absolute.

your own stomach twists.

because you don't actually want him to hate himself.

you just wanted him...

to choose you.

for once without making you wonder if you were asking for too much.

no one says another word after that, the bouquet is left behind on the gallery floor. bruce quietly escorts diana outside after michael asks him to. she leaves without apologizing and without looking back. the drive home is painfully silent. for the first time in years, you don’t get into michael’s car.

“i’ll drive myself.” your voice is flat.

bruce immediately steps forward. “miss, would you like me to accompany you?”

you shake your head. “no.”

“i’ll be fine.”

he hesitates and his eyes flicker toward michael, silently asking for permission. michael can’t even look at either of you. “…let her.”

it’s barely above a whisper, and bill opens the rear door for michael like he always does. normally, you’d slide in beside him. normally, your hand would find his before the car even pulled away.

tonight… the seat beside him stays empty. bill glances at the vacant space through the rearview mirror. he’s driven the two of you for years.

he’s never seen it empty.

you arrive at the apartment first, you don’t wait. you don’t ask where michael is. you shower longer than usual. not because you need to but because standing beneath the hot water is easier than thinking.

when you finally step out, the apartment is quiet and the only sound is the faint hum of the air conditioner.

you pull on an oversized t-shirt.

your hair is still damp.

you walk into the hallway and head straight for the linen closet.

one pillow.

one blanket.

that’s all.

you’re halfway to the studio when you hear footsteps behind you.

“…baby.”

you don’t answer.

“please.”

still nothing.

his footsteps grow quicker before you can reach the studio door, his hand catches your wrist. it’s barely a touch. careful like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he holds on too tightly, you slowly look down at where he’s holding you and he lets go immediately.

“…sorry.”

his voice breaks on the word as you continue walking.

another step.

another.

then—“please don’t sleep in there.”

you stop because something in his voice doesn’t sound like michael anymore. you turn and see him standing in the middle of the hallway. his suit jacket is gone with tie hangs loose around his neck and his eyes are swollen. the rims of his nose are bright red.

he looks like someone who’s been trying not to cry for hours and finally lost. he takes one hesitant step toward you. “i know you don’t want to look at me.”

another step.

“i know i don’t deserve to ask you for anything.”

another.

“but please…” his voice cracks.

“…don’t leave me alone tonight.”

you stare at him expressionless but he reaches for your hand again this time, he doesn’t try to pull you closer. he simply holds it between both of his, trembling.

his forehead lowers until it rests lightly against your knuckles.

michael's shoulders shake, and his tears fall onto your skin. “i’ve replayed tonight a thousand times already and every single version ends with me hurting you.”

he lets out a broken laugh. “i kept thinking if i called sooner… if i told diana no…”

another sob interrupts him, shaking. “if i had just chosen you first…”

his grip tightens for only a second before loosening again.

“i should’ve left rehearsal early.”

“i should’ve ignored everyone.”

“i should’ve ignored her.”

“i should’ve been standing beside you when those doors opened.”

his breathing turns uneven. “when lionel asked where i was… it should’ve been me greeting him.”

“when everyone congratulated you…”

“…i should’ve been the first.”

he shakes his head violently.

“instead…”

“…you had to lie for me.”

his eyes finally meet yours, filled with guilt, filled with terror.

“do you know what kills me?” his voice is barely audible.

“you never once asked me to choose between my career and you.”

“never.”

“all you asked… was one day.” michael wipes at his face with his hand.

“one day, and i still failed you.”

you remain silent and the silence hurts michael more than shouting ever could. he gives a small, hopeless nod, “you’re right. i don’t deserve forgiveness tonight.”

“…maybe not tomorrow either.” he swallows.

“i just…”

michael's voice disappears for a moment. "i need you to know there wasn’t a single second today where i loved her.”

“not one.”

“i love you.”

“i’ve only ever loved you.”

another tear slips down his face. “and somehow…”

michael lets out a bitter laugh, a sound laced with sorrow, as tears slip silently down his cheeks. slowly, he sinks to his knees before you, his trembling hands reaching for your ankles, as if they are the only tether to reality. he wraps his fingers around them, a desperate grip, grounding himself in your presence. then, with a broken exhale, he lowers his forehead against your bare skin, seeking solace.

you feel the warmth of his tears soaking into you, each drop a testament to his heart's turmoil. his shoulders shake with silent sobs, the weight of guilt pressing down on him, before he presses the softest kiss to the top of your foot, a tender act laden with unspoken longing.

“…i still managed to make you feel like you came second.”

“get up, michael.”

your voice is cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of the moment. you give his shaking shoulder a gentle pat, feeling every quiet sob that wracks through his body beneath your hand, a rhythm of sorrow that resonates deeply within you.

he shakes his head harder, as if denying the reality before him. “no… please, baby…”

his grip around your legs tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to plead. his voice is hoarse, trembling apart with every word, a melody of desperation that tugs at your heart.

you let out a slow, exhausted sigh, the weight of the moment pressing down upon you.

“let me go.”

he doesn’t budge.

after a few lingering seconds, you gently push against his shoulder until his hands slowly loosen their hold around your legs. the moment you are free, you bend down to retrieve the blanket and pillow that had fallen to the floor, each movement deliberate, a quiet defiance against the storm swirling within.

without another word, you turn your back to him and begin to walk toward the studio, each step heavy with unspoken words and unfulfilled desires.

“please… baby…”

his voice is barely a whisper, a ghost of a plea.

you don’t look back.

“look at me once.”

silence envelops the space, thick and suffocating.

“you don’t have to forgive me…”

his breathing grows uneven behind you, each inhale a struggle against the tide of regret.

“just don’t shut me out.”

another shaky breath escapes him, a fragile sound.

“yell at me.”

“throw something at me.”

“tell me you hate me.”

his voice finally shatters, breaking like glass under pressure.

“anything is better than you pretending i’m not here.” the yearning in his words hangs in the air, a bittersweet reminder of the love that lingers despite the pain.

the apartment grows quieter after that. not because the sharp, jagged edges of the pain have faded, but because the grief has expanded so entirely that it has nowhere left to go. it settles into the floorboards, anchors itself to the corners of the ceiling, and swallows the ambient noise of their shared life until every room feels vacuum-sealed.

weeks pass in a blur of agonizing, hollow routine. michael stops knocking on the heavy oak door of your studio only after the skin over his knuckles splits, leaving small, dark rusty smudges on the white paint. at first, he tries everything with the frantic, desperate energy of a man trying to catch smoke with his bare hands. fresh flowers arrive every morning like clockwork, each bouquet more understated and muted than the last—as though he finally understands that grand, sweeping gestures won't fix what your sudden, devastating absence broke. they pile up by the front door in an awkward, beautiful heap, entirely untouched until the vibrant petals begin to curl, brown, and rot into the floorboards.

then come the handwritten notes. they aren't long, sprawling letters of explanation or defense; they are just small, torn pieces of lined paper tucked gently beneath your studio door, sliding across the hardwood with a soft rustle.

i made your favorite soup.

please remember to eat.

your exhibition was beautiful.

i'm still proud of you.

good morning.

good night.

none of them receive an answer. none of them are even moved from where they land.

he calls you. once. twice. then he stops counting because the digital ledger of his own desperation becomes too heavy to look at. your robotic, pre-recorded voicemail greeting becomes far more familiar to him than the actual cadence of your voice. bill quietly pulls him aside in the hallway one afternoon, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder, telling him to just give you some space. elizabeth tells him, with a soft, pitying look, that healing can't be rushed, that pain has its own timeline. even quincy, after watching michael stare blankly at the untouched, cooling dinner sitting in front of him for forty minutes, speaks up. "if she needs silence, son... let her have it," he says, his voice gravelly and tired.

he tries. god, he tries so hard it makes his chest ache. he sleeps exclusively on the lumpy living room couch because your side of the mattress still smells faintly of your vanilla shampoo, and the olfactory ghost of you is enough to tear him apart by midnight. he wanders into your studio only after he hears the front door click shut when you leave for work, careful not to disturb a single speck of dust. sometimes he just stands perfectly still in the center of the room, hands buried deep in the pockets of his oversized sweatpants, staring at your unfinished, chaotic canvases until his eyes sting and blur.

once, in a moment of overwhelming weakness, he catches himself reaching out for one of your favorite paintbrushes resting on the easel. his fingers hover over the dried blue paint on the handle. he pulls his hand back immediately, as if the wood had burned him.

"don't," he whispers into the empty room, his voice cracking in the quiet. "that's hers."

slowly, the house begins to feel less like a home and more like a museum dedicated to a tragedy. everything reminds him of you. nothing belongs to him anymore.

you, meanwhile, become a ghost haunting the periphery of his vision. you leave the apartment before the sun even breaches the horizon, sliding through the shadows, and you come home long after midnight when the city has gone cold. when michael catches you in the hallway and mutters a fragile "good morning," you simply nod without making eye contact. when he asks if you've eaten, his voice laced with a terrifying amount of hope, you answer with a quiet, monotone "yes."

nothing more. there is no explosive anger. no cathartic tears. no bitter accusations thrown across the kitchen island. just... a vast, suffocating absence. michael quickly learns that this dead silence is infinitely crueler than screaming. because screaming means there is still fire left. screaming means there's still something worth fighting for, some thread of connection left to pull. this... this feels like mourning someone who is still breathing in the next room.

the breaking point comes on a bleak, rainy thursday evening. michael returns home early from work, hoping—foolishly, childishly—that maybe tonight will be the night you'll finally sit down and eat dinner with him.

instead, the house is completely dark, hollowed out. your keys aren't on the entryway table. your heavy winter coat is gone from its hook. bill looks up from the kitchen counter, his expression tight with a reluctant discomfort.

"she said she'd be out," bill says softly.

michael freezes, his hand still resting on the doorknob. "with who?"

bill hesitates, looking down at his hands, wishing he didn't have to be the one to deliver the blow. "a friend."

michael stills completely, his posture going rigid. "...what friend, bill?"

"aaron."

the name lands heavily in the small space between them, vibrating with history. your oldest friend. the one who knew the architecture of your mind long before michael ever entered the picture. the one you used to laugh with until your stomach hurt and tears streamed down your face. the one who had always known exactly how to pull you out of the dark, labyrinthine corners of your own head.

michael nods once. it is too calm, too practiced.

"i see," he says quietly. he turns away, walking toward the dark living room before bill can notice the terrifying way his jaw locks or the way his hands begin to tremble.

it is nearly eleven o'clock when the front door finally clicks open. you step inside quietly, slipping your shoes off, expecting the heavy darkness of an asleep apartment.

instead—michael is sitting upright in the living room. every single light in the place is turned off except the harsh, amber glow of the small lamp right beside him, casting long, dramatic shadows across his face. he hasn't even changed out of his work clothes; his button-down shirt is wrinkled, the collar undone. his elbows rest heavily on his knees, and his hands are clasped together so tightly in front of his mouth that his knuckles have turned a stark, bloodless white. he looks utterly exhausted, hollowed out from the inside.

when he hears the latch click shut, he slowly, deliberately lifts his head. his bloodshot eyes find yours immediately through the gloom. for a long, agonizing moment... railway silence stretches between you. neither of you speaks. the air is thick with things unsaid.

exhausted and unwilling to engage, you move to walk right past him toward the hallway.

"did you have fun?"

his voice is calm. too calm. it's a terrifying, flat line of sound.

you pause in your tracks, your back still turned to him. "...we talked."

"for six hours?" he asks, the calm facade beginning to chip at the edges, revealing something sharp and bleeding underneath.

you don't answer. your silence is the final catalyst.

something inside michael snaps completely. he stands up so abruptly, with such violent force, that his knees slam against the coffee table, rattling the empty glass mugs sitting on top of it.

"what does he have that i don't?"

the question echoes fiercely through the high ceilings of the room, vibrating with weeks of suppressed agony. you finally turn your body around to look at him.

he lets out a short, bitter, ugly laugh that sounds like choking. he drags both of his hands through his dark curls, pulling at the roots until they stand unevenly around his face in wild disarray.

"i've spent weeks begging you to just look at me," he says, his voice shaking violently despite his best efforts to hold it together. he takes a heavy step toward you. "i've slept outside your studio door like a dog. i've written letters until my hands cramped. i've cooked every single meal hoping against hope that you'd just sit down across from me for five minutes."

his eyes glisten, catching the amber lamplight as tears finally well up over his lids.

"i've watched flowers die on the porch because you wouldn't even bring them inside," he takes another step, closing the distance between you, his breathing growing ragged, shallow, and uneven. "i've apologized until i don't even recognize the sound of my own voice anymore. i have stripped myself of every ounce of pride i possess for you."

he swallows hard, a single tear cutting a clean path through the shadow of stubble on his cheek. "and you..." his voice drops to a broken whisper. "you gave six hours to someone else."

his bitter laugh breaks apart, transforming into something painfully, devastatingly close to a sob.

"six hours..." his wet, desperate eyes search your blank face, looking for any sign of the person he loves, any flicker of warmth or anger or recognition. "do you know what i'd give for six minutes?"

the heavy, suffocating silence stretches until it feels like it might crack the walls. michael is still trembling, his chest heaving as he waits for something—anything—from you. a scream, an insult, a door slammed in his face.

instead, looking at his bloodshot eyes and the raw, unraveled state of his clothes, the icy shield you’ve built around yourself for weeks finally begins to fracture. the numbness that felt so safe, so protective, suddenly feels like a prison.

you take a slow step forward. then another.

"michael," you whisper. your voice is raspy, unused, breaking on the two syllables of his name.

that’s all it takes. the sound of his name on your lips breaks whatever tiny thread of composure he had left. he collapses back onto the couch, burying his face in his stained, white-knuckled hands, and he just breaks.

it’s a violent, gut-wrenching kind of crying—the kind that comes from the very bottom of a person's chest. his shoulders shake uncontrollably, his breath hitching into ragged, pathetic gasps as weeks of terror, grief, and desperate loneliness pour out of him all at once. he looks so incredibly small, stripped of all pride, completely bare before you.

"i'm sorry," he chokes out between heavy, wet sobs, his voice muffled by his palms. "i'm so sorry. please don't leave me. please don't look at me like i'm a stranger. i can't do this anymore. i'm losing my mind."

your knees feel weak. seeing him like this—this strong, careful man reduced to sobbing on a couch in the dark—melts the last of your resistance. you cross the small distance between you and drop to your knees on the floor right in front of him.

you reach out, your hands hesitant at first, before firmly grasping his wrists and gently pulling his damp hands away from his face. his cheeks are flushed, wet with hot tears, his nose red, his eyes completely swollen.

"look at me," you murmur, your own eyes finally filling with tears that you've held back for a month. "michael, look at me."

he opens his eyes, his gaze frantic and desperate, looking at you like a drowning man looks at a lifeline.

"i'm not going anywhere," you say, a tear finally slipping down your cheek, your lowercase words soft against the quiet room. "i was just... i was so numb. i didn't know how to come back to you without bringing all the mess with me. i'm sorry i punished you for my silence."

"i don't care about the mess," he cries openly, leaning forward until his forehead rests heavily against yours, his hot, tear-stained breath mingling with your own. "bring the mess. scream at me. break things. just don't lock me out. please, god, don't lock me out."

he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you tightly against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck. his tears soak into your skin, warm and grounding. you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely, rocking him slightly as the heavy sobs slowly begin to taper off into shallow, shaky breaths.

the shift between you happens rapidly, the sheer emotional exhaustion morphing into a sudden, consuming need to physically re-anchor yourselves to one another. the dynamic pivots—michael is still unraveled, tears still leaking from his eyes, but a quiet, trembling authority takes over him. his deep, agonizing yearning manifests as a soft but absolute dominance.

he stands up, pulling you up by your waist effortlessly, his large hands gripping your hips with a quiet, undeniable strength. he doesn't ask. he commands you with a shaky, broken whisper.

"walk with me," he murmurs, his eyes burning into yours. "we’re going to the window. i want to see you. i want to look at what's mine."

you wrap your legs around his waist, and he carries you across the hardwood floor toward the massive, floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the rainy city below. he presses your back gently against the cool pane, the sudden chill making you gasp as his burning body pins you in place.

he strips your shirt over your head, his hot palms sweeping down your ribs, before fumbling with your jeans, pushing them and his own clothes down into a discarded heap until there is nothing left between you but raw skin and weeks of starvation.

as he stands between your thighs, the guilt inside him seems to boil over. he looks down at you, his chest heaving, new tears spilling over his eyelashes. he takes your right hand, his fingers trembling, and presses your palm flat against his own wet cheek.

"hit me," he whispers, his voice breaking into a quiet sob. his eyes search yours with an intense, agonizing vulnerability. "slap me, baby. punish me for whatever i did to make you shut down. hurt me, please, if it means you'll feel something for me again. don't just give me silence."

"no," you cry out softy, your heart breaking as your fingers instead curve around his jaw, wiping away his tears with your thumb. "michael, no. i don't want to hurt you. i just want you, i missed you so much."

a choked, ragged sound escapes his throat at your words—a mix of intense relief and overwhelming yearning. his soft dominance returns, possessive and desperate. he hooks his hands firmly under your thighs, lifting you higher against the glass.

"then hold on to me," he commands, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly line that leaves no room for argument. "wrap your arms around me. don't let go. not for a second."

you obey instantly, tangling your fingers into his dark, messy curls. michael guides himself against you, his breathing shallow and uneven, before he drives into you with one slow, deep, possessive push.

a loud, uninhibited cry escapes your lips, echoing off the high ceilings. your body stretches to accommodate the sheer, sudden fullness of him. michael lets out a low, gut-wrenching groan into the crook of your neck, his whole frame shaking as he takes a moment to absorb the feeling of being inside you again.

"you're mine," he mutters against your wet skin, a soft but fierce claim. "say it, angel. tell me you're mine."

"i'm yours, michael," you gasp, your head tossing back against the glass pane. "i'm yours."

he begins to move, setting a heavy, agonizingly deep pace. it is soft in its tenderness but completely dominant in its execution—he controls every movement, every shift of your weight against the window, claiming every inch of your body with a desperate, crying hunger. each time his hips lock against yours, your back slides against the cool glass, the freezing sensation keeping you tethered while your core burns with an escalating, liquid heat.

"open your eyes," he commands gently, his rough breath warm in your ear. "look at me while i take you back."

you open them, your vision blurred by tears, looking directly into his bloodshot, weeping eyes. he is crying openly as he moves inside you, the sheer weight of his love and the terror of almost losing you spilling over. he drives deeper, faster, his hands gripping your waist so tightly his knuckles turn white, hitting the exact spot that makes your mind go entirely blank.

the friction builds to a fever pitch. you are loud now, your breath coming in short, needy pants as the pleasure coils tight and sharp in your stomach. michael is trembling violently beneath your hands, his chest heaving as he pours every ounce of his weeks-old grief into the surrender of your body.

"i love you," he breaks out, the words ripped from his chest like a sob as his pace becomes frantic, uncontrolled. "i love you so much, please, don't ever leave me again—"

"i—i love you more... mikey, i'm gonna—ah!" the final coil snaps. your climax hits you like a sudden wave, your internal muscles clamping down around him in tight, rhythmic waves of pure release. you throw your arms around his neck, sobbing softly into his shoulder as the pleasure completely tears through you.

hearing your undone cries is the final catalyst for him. michael lets out a deep, guttural shout against your skin, his body turning rigid as he drives into you one last time, spilling himself inside you in a long, shuddering release that leaves him completely spent, his head burying into your neck as he weeps softly from sheer relief.

the first release isn't enough to exorcise the weeks of agonizing starvation building inside his chest. the desperation doesn't leave him; it mutters against your skin, turning darker, thicker, and deeply insatiable. his yearning is an endless, hollow pit that a single climax can't possibly fill, a burning hunger that has been compounding over days of dead silence and cold, untouched bouquets.

instead of letting your legs slide down from his waist, michael’s grip tightens into your skin, his fingers pressing so hard into the flesh of your thighs that it leaves white, bloodless marks before flushing a dark, bruised red. his breathing is a series of harsh, shuddering gasps in your ear, his chest heaving violently against your back as he downshifts from the soft, crying tenderness into something feral, unhinged, and desperately rough.

"i'm not done," he chokes out, his voice a raw, broken whisper full of tears and absolute possession, vibrating straight through your collarbone. "i can't... i can't let you go yet. i need more. i need to know you're real."

he doesn't wait for a response. before your mind can even process the lingering, buzzing waves of your first climax, michael shifts your weight with a quiet, dominant strength that leaves you completely breathless. he turns you around completely, forcing your body to face the massive, freezing pane of glass, cutting off your view of the apartment and replacing it with the dark, wet expanse of the city outside.

he pushes your upper body down, forcing your hips to high-arch back toward him, tilting your pelvis up at an angle that leaves you entirely exposed to his gaze. with a firm, unyielding pressure of his palm against the back of your head, he presses the side of your face and your forehead flat against the cold window. the contrast is dizzying, a violent shock to your system—the freezing glass sticking to your sweaty skin, and the blinding, terrifying heat of his body looming directly behind you, pressing his hard chest flat against your shoulder blades.

"look at what you do to me," he commands with a trembling, ragged sob, his fingers digging mercilessly into your hips, pinning your pelvic bone against the glass frame until you can feel the cold metal of the track beneath your toes. "look at how much i need you. look at me, please."

he re-enters you in one sharp, brutal, uncompromising thrust.

a loud, shattered scream escapes your throat, fogging up a wide patch of the glass in front of your mouth, turning instantly into a high-pitched, pathetic whimper as your cheek slides slightly against the cold, wet condensation. he doesn't ease you into it this time; there is no tentative testing of the waters. the pace he sets is relentless, heavy, and devastatingly rough. each time his hips slam into yours, the force ripples through your entire body, rattling the massive glass window beneath your flattened hands and forehead, the deep thud of his pelvis against you echoing like thunder in the empty room.

the apartment is no longer quiet; it is filled with the explicit, wet friction of your bodies, the heavy, desperate thud of his chest against your back, and a chaotic symphony of vocal surrender. you are moaning entirely out of control, the sound broken up by constant, breathless whimpers as he hits the deepest parts of you over and over again, his angle so precise and unyielding it makes your brain turn to liquid.

michael is still crying behind you, completely unraveled by his own intensity. you can feel his hot, heavy tears dropping onto your bare shoulder blades, trailing down your spine to mix with the sweat pooling at the small of your back. his ragged sobs hitch every time he drives into you with that insatiable, aching yearning, his hands moving from your hips to grip your hair, pulling your head back just enough to expose the long line of your throat before pressing you right back down against the glass. he is sex-mad, entirely consumed by the terror of the past weeks, using his body to violently stake a claim on your soul, making sure you feel every single ounce of his pain, his loneliness, his desperate love.

"please," you sob into the glass, your eyes wide and unseeing as the blinking lights of the city blur into long, neon streaks through the rain. your voice is cracking, your knees beginning to shake violently under the sheer, unmitigated weight of his assault. "michael... michael, please—"

"no," he whimpers back, a dark, desperate command as his hand flies to your throat, not to choke, but to hold you firmly in place, forcing your face back against the window, anchoring you to his rhythm. "don't ask me to stop. don't do that to me. tell me you feel me. tell me you're here."

"i feel you—ah!—michael, i'm here, i'm yours," you wail, your eyes rolling back into your head as the pleasure becomes too sharp, too intense, too overwhelming to bear.

the friction is blinding, an absolute sensory overload. you are overstimulated, your senses completely short-circuiting between the freezing glass against your face, the tight, bruising grip of his hands on your hips, and the punishing, rhythmic depth of his length inside you. a heavy, liquid heat coils so tight in your lower stomach that your head begins to spin, the blood rushing to your ears until his ragged breathing sounds like it's coming from miles away. your vision blurs entirely, the dark city rain streaking down the outside of the pane matching the frantic, wet sliding of your bodies against each other.

you are right on the edge of passing out from sheer, unadulterated ecstasy. your mind feels completely hollowed out, your muscles trembling so hard you can barely keep your feet planted on the hardwood floor. your moans degenerate into tiny, breathless whimpers of pure exhaustion, your chin slick with saliva against the glass, your body completely at the mercy of his dominant, weeping rhythm.

he pulls back all the way, almost entirely leaving you, before slamming back in with a force that makes you cry out a sound that isn't even human, your fingers clawing uselessly at the smooth glass, leaving long, smeared streaks in the condensation.

"michael... i'm... i'm going to—" you choke out, your voice fading into a dizzy, breathless whisper as your strength completely gives out, your eyelids fluttering rapidly as darkness edges into your peripheral vision.

just as your knees buckle and your upper body begins to slide down the glass, your second climax rips through you with a violent, paralyzing force. it is so intense it leaves you gasping for air, your lungs locking up as your internal muscles clamp down around him in tight, frantic, desperate spasms of pure release. your head swims in a black, blissful vacuum of pure sensation, your consciousness slipping away for a fraction of a second into total oblivion.

feeling your undone body shuddering and collapsing around him, michael lets out a broken, guttural cry—a sound of pure, agonizing surrender that has been trapped in his throat for weeks. "i love.. ah! i love you so much. oh!" he drives into your seizing body three more times, fast, deep, and clumsy with desperation, before his frame goes completely rigid against your back. he spills himself inside you with a heavy, shuddering force that echoes through his entire skeleton, his chest collapsing flat against your spine as he weeps openly into the nape of your neck, his fingers still tangled tightly in your hair, completely spent, completely unraveled, and finally quieted.

slowly, carefully, he slides out of you and lets your feet touch the cold floorboards, but he doesn't let go. he wraps his arms entirely around you from behind, pulling your back flush against his chest, his chin resting heavily on your shoulder as you both stare out at the blurred, foggy glass.

his hand comes up to gently wipe the dried tears from your cheeks, his thumb soft against your skin.

"don't disappear again," he whispers into the quiet darkness of the room, his voice tired but finally whole.

summary: michael is a shy young man, and one summer day at hayvenhurst, his older brothers drag him to a private club to enjoy a beautiful night out. swept up by the excitement and temptation of the evening, he finds himself wanting to experience something he has never done before—to share a kiss and a lustful desire with the beautiful club singer who catches his eye during the night out his brothers insisted he join.

warning: smut! 18+, mdni, sexual themes, michael thriller era!, (m receiving), 6.5k words

a/n: here's a one shot for you guys. i hope you like reading this!

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on a bright summer morning, michael woke up to the sound of loud laughter coming from downstairs. his brothers. apparently, they had all arrived and gathered at the house. it was the weekend, which usually meant family time for the jacksons.

the sweet-faced young man let out a soft groan, stretching his stiff body after spending the entire night sleeping on his side with his legs curled up. yawning, he finally decided to get up. he'd only slept for three hours. the entire night had been spent scribbling lyrics that would eventually become part of the album he was working on—thriller.

he walked over to his bedroom window, opening it and pulling the curtains aside. his eyes swept over the wide stretch of lawn outside before landing on louie, his beloved pet, whom he had rescued from a circus where the animal had once given children rides and performed tricks.

a smile spread across michael's face.

“hi, louie!”

afterward, he left his room and made his way downstairs.

“hey, mike!”

“hi, jermaine,” michael replied.

he headed toward the kitchen and found katherine, his mother, cooking something. leaning down, he pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

“morning, mother.”

“good morning, sweetheart. did you sleep well last night?”

michael chuckled softly as he opened the refrigerator. his hand reached for a cold bottle of deep orange-colored juice, and he drank straight from it, thirsty. letting out a satisfied sigh, he said, “well, if three hours counts as sleeping well, then yes, mother.”

“you shouldn't push yourself so hard, son.”

marlon arrived with a basketball in his hand. he was wearing a pair of casual red shorts and no shirt. without warning, he tossed the basketball toward michael, who instinctively caught it with one hand, causing the orange juice bottle to wobble and spill slightly.

“hey!”

marlon laughed.

“come on, let's have some fun, michael! how old are you now? don't be so focused and ambitious all the time. you're gonna miss out on a lot of fun things.”

katherine shook her head fondly at the sight of her two sons, who couldn't have been more different. michael was shy, observant, sensitive, and ambitious. marlon, on the other hand, was easygoing, fun to be around, and carefree, though not particularly driven. katherine adored them both equally, just as she adored all her children.

“just do your own thing, marlon,” michael said with a soft laugh.

just then, jermaine stepped into the kitchen.

“michael, marlon, come here.”

michael sighed.

“what is it?”

“just hurry!”

michael and marlon followed jermaine into the living room. everyone was gathered there. jackie wasn't coming today, and randy was away on vacation with his friends. tito sat comfortably on the couch reading a newspaper, while a large bowl of potato chips and several half-empty glasses of cold lemonade rested on the table.

“there we go, everybody's here.” jermaine grinned, placing his hands on his hips as though he were about to announce something important.

“what?” michael asked, raising an eyebrow.

“the pool.”

“the pool?” michael repeated, confused.

“yeah. it's hot as hell today. let's go swimming,” marlon immediately chimed in enthusiastically, not even giving jermaine the chance to explain.

tito folded his newspaper and smiled. “i agree. it's been a while since we've all hung out like this.”

“i just woke up,” michael whined softly, his curls still messy and sleep lingering in his eyes. “i haven't even eaten yet.”

“and you look like a corpse,” jermaine laughed.

“thank you very much.”

“come on, mike.” marlon slung an arm around his shoulders. “you spend too much time in your room. thriller can wait a day.”

michael let out a dramatic sigh.

“everybody keeps saying that.”

“because it's true,” tito added.

“and you look pale.” jermaine pointed at his younger brother. “a little sunshine won't kill you.”

“the sun might actually kill me,” michael muttered.

everyone burst out laughing. just then, katherine appeared from the kitchen carrying a bowl of fresh fruit and shook her head with amusement.

“let the boy eat first.”

“ten minutes!” marlon shouted.

“five minutes!” jermaine argued.

“twenty minutes,” michael answered quickly.

“ten!”

“fifteen!”

“ten.”

“fine.” michael raised both hands in surrender. “you guys are worse than reporters.”

some time later, the backyard was filled with laughter. the california summer sun shone brightly, its light dancing across the crystal-blue surface of the swimming pool. palm trees swayed gently in the warm breeze while the faint sound of birds could be heard in the distance.

michael stepped outside wearing a pair of simple black swim shorts and the loose white t-shirt he still hadn't taken off.

“you're swimming in a shirt?” marlon immediately burst out laughing.

“yeah. problem?”

“you're weird.”

“i know.”

jermaine, already standing at the edge of the pool in his sunglasses, pointed at him. “if you don't take that shirt off, i'm pushing you in.”

“don't you dare—”

splash!

michael didn't even have time to finish his sentence before marlon and jermaine shoved him into the pool together.

“aaah!”

the enormous splash soaked tito, who simply closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. “children…” he muttered, though he couldn't help laughing.

a few seconds later, michael's head emerged above the surface. his curls were soaked, clinging to his forehead.

“you two are evil!” he exclaimed between breaths, though a laugh still escaped him.

“see? you're alive,” marlon declared proudly.

“i'm getting you back.”

“not if i get you first!”

and just like that, a water war broke out.

jermaine yelled when michael splashed him with both hands. marlon laughed so hard he nearly drowned himself. even tito, usually the calmer one, eventually climbed into the pool and grabbed jermaine from behind.

“hey! tito!”

“that's for soaking my newspaper earlier.”

michael laughed so hard his eyes squeezed shut, his high, unmistakable laugh filling the backyard. every now and then he swam away, only to return and splash marlon again, prompting his older brother to chase him like a child.

“mike!”

marlon managed to grab his younger brother by the ankle.

“no! let me go!”

“you're dead now!”

“jermaine!”

“don't drag me into this—”

too late.

michael grabbed jermaine's arm and yanked him into the water.

“michael!”

their laughter echoed beneath the bright summer sky.

and from the back patio, katherine watched her four sons with a warm smile. every now and then she shook her head fondly at how noisy they were. to her, they were still the same boys who used to run around the yard back in gary, only now they had grown into men with lives of their own.

meanwhile, michael, having just escaped marlon's pursuit, rested his arms along the edge of the pool, breathing slightly hard, his cheeks flushed from laughing. water dripped from his long eyelashes. for a moment, he closed his eyes and simply enjoyed the warmth of the sun and the sound of his brothers teasing one another endlessly.

the album. recording schedules. interviews. all the pressure that had occupied his mind lately seemed to disappear.

today, he was simply michael.

just a younger brother laughing with his older brothers beneath the summer sun.

after ten full minutes of endless joking and splashing, things finally calmed down. michael leaned against the edge of the pool, humming little melodies under his breath as he occasionally sipped from the orange juice he'd placed nearby. marlon swam lazily from one end of the pool to the other, while tito seemed lost in his own thoughts, staring up at the sky.

then jermaine suddenly spoke.

“tonight, let's go to a private club.”

michael had just taken a sip of his drink and nearly choked, “what?”

“you heard me.”

marlon's head popped up from underwater. wiping his face roughly, he grinned.

“yeah, and you, mike, you're coming.”

tito nodded in agreement. “michael, you're not allowed to come up with excuses.”

“i've got a deadline in a few days for q,” michael answered. his soaked t-shirt clung to his body, outlining his slender frame and soft muscles. his caramel skin glowed under the morning sunlight, and he looked incredibly handsome.

“oh, man, quincy can wait. i don't accept excuses!” jermaine declared.

“what are you gonna tell mother?” michael asked.

“for god's sake, michael, you're not twelve years old,” marlon groaned in exasperation. amused and slightly frustrated by his younger brother, he swam closer and threw an arm around michael's shoulders. “go have your first kiss, mike. there are plenty of beautiful women at those private clubs. beautiful dancers, too. sexy ones.”

jermaine completely lost it. he burst into laughter at the sight of his younger brother's face turning bright red, from his ears all the way down to his cheeks.

“you're crazy,” michael said, shaking his head.

tito, being the oldest among them, clicked his tongue. “you guys have filthy minds. why are you teaching him nonsense?”

“tito, the man sitting next to me is twenty-four years old,” marlon replied with a careless shrug. “it'd be weird if he's never even kissed anyone. let him try something new.”

“oh, shut up,” michael muttered.

embarrassed beyond belief, he swam away from marlon and dove beneath the water, ignoring the roar of laughter from his brothers, all of whom knew perfectly well just how shy he really was.

beneath the surface, michael stayed there for a few seconds longer than necessary, hoping the cool water might somehow erase the burning heat in his cheeks.

it didn't.

because even underwater, he could still hear jermaine and marlon laughing.

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despite his endless protests, michael eventually found himself going along with them. tito merely shook his head the entire time, muttering under his breath about how childish his younger brothers still were, while michael spent the better part of the evening insisting that he wasn't interested and that he had work waiting for him. in the end, however, there was no winning against jermaine and marlon when they had their minds set on something.

now, the sweet-faced young man stood in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, scrutinizing his reflection for what felt like the hundredth time. he'd already changed outfits four times.

first, a blue button-down.

too formal.

then a red sweater.

too warm.

then a white shirt.

too plain.

he groaned softly and ran his fingers through his dark curls, letting them fall back around his face. eventually, he settled on a fitted black t-shirt beneath his favorite black leather jacket, dark jeans, and the black loafers he always seemed to gravitate toward. simple. comfortable. maybe even a little cool.

he tilted his head.

"well..." he muttered to himself. "i suppose this doesn't look too ridiculous."

truthfully, he looked unfairly handsome. the leather jacket framed his slim figure perfectly, and his curls spilled around his delicate features in soft ringlets, making him look younger than twenty-four. his warm caramel skin practically glowed beneath the bedroom light, and those large brown eyes of his, always filled with curiosity and gentleness, gave him a sweetness that no amount of leather could disguise.

still, he scratched the back of his neck nervously.

he couldn't help it.

for some reason, the entire thing felt embarrassing.

taboo, almost.

marlon had spent the last hour telling him stories.

"it's not just a club, mike. they've got beautiful dancers. beautiful women everywhere. high-class ladies."

every time marlon said it, michael's ears turned red.

he was beginning to regret agreeing.

"mike!"

marlon's voice echoed from downstairs.

"coming!"

michael quickly adjusted a few curls that had fallen into his eyes and let out a breath.

"it's just a club," he whispered to himself.

he jogged downstairs, only to nearly crash into janet, who was on her way up.

"michael!" she exclaimed. "watch your step, will you?"

"sorry, jan. i'm in a hurry. those guys won't be able to wait any longer."

he affectionately patted the shoulder of his little sister—the one he adored perhaps more than anyone. janet grabbed his elbow before he could leave. "where are you all going?"

michael immediately raised his index finger to his lips. "shhh."

his eyes widened dramatically, "private club. don't tell mother. or joseph."

janet's mouth fell open.

"goodness! you guys are disgusting!"

"they insisted!" michael defended himself immediately, pointing both thumbs at himself. "this wasn't even my idea!"

"whatever." janet rolled her eyes and released him. "you're hopeless."

michael laughed.

"love you too, jan."

"yeah, yeah."

he rushed out the front door and found marlon leaning casually against his black sedan. jermaine and tito were already sitting in the back seat like two kings awaiting their chauffeur.

marlon clicked his tongue, "you take longer to get ready than a woman."

michael frowned immediately.

"and you always have something to complain about, marlon. now let me drive. gimme the key."

he held out his hand expectantly.

marlon looked horrified, "absolutely not, brother. you're gonna kill us before we even get a chance to taste all those pretty girls."

from the backseat, jermaine burst out laughing.

"let marlon drive, mike."

"alright, alright."

michael laughed softly, unable to stay annoyed for long. there was always something so boyish and warm about him; even his laughter sounded musical. he walked around the car and slid into the passenger seat beside marlon.

at exactly two-thirty in the morning, the digital clock on the dashboard glowed softly. behind them, another car containing the jackson family's security team followed close behind. none of them could exactly go anywhere unnoticed anymore. marlon stepped on the gas, and soon they were speeding through the quiet california streets beneath neon lights and moonlit palm trees.

the next thirty minutes were filled with endless teasing.

mostly directed at michael.

jermaine leaned forward from the backseat.

"mike, seriously, have you kissed anybody yet?"

michael nearly jumped out of his skin.

"jermaine!"

marlon cackled.

"look at him blushing already!"

"i am not blushing."

"you absolutely are."

"i'm not!"

"your ears are red."

"because you're embarrassing me!"

tito sighed deeply.

"you three sound like teenagers."

"oh, c'mon, tito." jermaine grinned. "we're trying to educate him."

"educate me about what?" michael whined. "you guys talk like i'm twelve."

"you act like you're twelve," marlon teased.

michael crossed his arms dramatically, "i have a big album coming out."

"and?"

"i'm an adult."

"and?"

"and i pay taxes."

jermaine and marlon exploded with laughter.

even tito chuckled.

"listen to him," marlon wheezed. "'i pay taxes.'"

michael broke into giggles himself, his nose scrunching adorably as he laughed. "oh, shut up."

he turned his face toward the window, trying to hide his smile.

but they could all see it.

because despite all the fame, despite the pressure and the endless work, michael jackson at twenty-four was still, at heart, the sweetest and shyest little brother among them.

and right now, sitting in the passenger seat with his leather jacket, messy curls, and flushed cheeks while his brothers teased him mercilessly, he looked less like the future king of pop—and more like a boy hopelessly dragged into trouble by the people he loved most.

they had arrived.

the main entrance of the club was enormous, cream-colored stone framed by tall palm trees and golden lamps that cast warm pools of light onto the pavement. valets hurried around expensive cars while well-dressed couples disappeared through the doors, laughing and smoking beneath the summer sky. the neon sign above glowed softly against the darkness, and even from outside, michael could hear music spilling into the night.

his stomach fluttered.

he almost turned around.

almost.

"come on, mike, don't stand there lookin' scared," marlon laughed, slapping him lightly on the back.

"i'm not scared."

"you are."

"i'm not."

"your ears are turning red."

"that's because it's hot."

"mm-hmm."

jermaine burst out laughing.

"leave him alone, marlon. our baby brother's trying to act cool."

"i am cool," michael protested.

"yeah?" marlon grinned. "you've fixed your hair six times in the car."

michael's eyes widened.

"i did not!"

"you absolutely did."

tito simply shook his head.

"lord, give me strength."

they walked inside.

the moment michael stepped through the doors, he froze.

music.

soft, smooth, beautiful.

a woman's voice immediately wrapped around him like silk, rich and warm and effortlessly elegant. somewhere beyond the crowd, beneath the dim amber lights, she was singing. her voice floated above the clinking glasses and quiet conversations, making michael instinctively lift his head.

his large brown eyes widened.

"wow..."

he almost whispered it to himself.

the place was unlike anything he'd expected.

he'd imagined something loud and outrageous, thanks to marlon's descriptions, but instead it felt classy. luxurious.

dark mahogany walls. crystal chandeliers. velvet booths. women in satin dresses and men in expensive suits. cigarette smoke curled lazily beneath golden lights while a jazz band accompanied the singer on stage.

and all michael could think was—she sounds beautiful.

"hey, come on," jermaine waved his hand. "keep moving."

"yeah, yeah."

they reached a large booth near the stage, and immediately a waiter recognized them.

"good evening, gentlemen."

"good evening," tito answered politely.

michael sat beside marlon, nervously tugging on the sleeves of his leather jacket. despite being arguably the most famous man in the room, he looked oddly out of place. his long legs crossed awkwardly beneath the table. his curls framed his small face beautifully, and his huge eyes moved around curiously, taking in every detail like an excited child visiting disneyland.

he looked impossibly handsome sitting beneath the warm amber lights of the club, and somehow, impossibly innocent, too. the black leather jacket hugged his slim frame perfectly, and his soft curls fell around his delicate features in a way that made him look younger than twenty-four. his long legs were crossed beneath the table, and every now and then he'd adjust the rings on his fingers or brush away a curl that had fallen into his eyes. despite being arguably the most famous man in the room, he looked adorably out of place. his large brown eyes wandered curiously around the club like a child being brought somewhere new for the first time, taking in every detail with quiet fascination. and that alone was enough to make jermaine grin over the rim of his drink.

"hey, mike," jermaine called, taking another sip of his whiskey while leaning comfortably against the velvet booth. "relax."

"hm?" michael answered absentmindedly, his eyes still roaming around the room. "i am relaxed."

jermaine chuckled softly and nodded toward the menu in michael's hands.

"you sure about that? you're squeezing the menu like it owes you money."

michael blinked and lowered his eyes. sure enough, his long fingers had nearly folded the poor menu in half. immediately, he loosened his grip and laughed nervously.

"oh."

the sight was enough to make marlon nearly choke on his drink. setting his glass down, he leaned back and pointed dramatically toward his younger brother.

"look at him!" he exclaimed between laughs. "this boy acts like he's about to meet the president!"

michael frowned, though he couldn't help smiling, "i don't come to places like this."

"exactly," marlon replied with a grin, spreading his arms as though he were presenting some grand revelation. "that's why we're helping you."

"helping me do what?" michael looked genuinely confused.

jermaine immediately sat up straighter, his smile growing wider as he leaned forward over the table.

"live."

michael frowned.

"i am living."

"nah," jermaine said, waving dismissively. "you're surviving."

the beautiful boy raised an eyebrow. "what's the difference?"

jermaine smirked.

"one includes beautiful women."

immediately, michael groaned and buried his face in his hands, elbows planted on the table.

"oh, god."

beside him, tito laughed quietly into his glass, shaking his head in amusement.

"leave him alone," he said fondly, his deep voice calm compared to the others. "you boys act like he's sixteen."

jermaine burst out laughing. "tito, this man is twenty-four."

"and?" tito shrugged. "he's still my little brother."

"he's everybody's little brother," marlon added with a laugh.

that earned another groan from michael, who slouched deeper into the booth and crossed his arms.

"can we talk about something else?"

"alright, alright," jermaine agreed, though the mischievous sparkle in his eyes suggested otherwise. setting his glass down, he rested his chin on his hand and smiled wickedly. "what kind of woman do you like?"

michael had just lifted his water to his lips. big mistake. he nearly inhaled the entire thing.

"jermaine!" he coughed, eyes widening as he grabbed a napkin.

all three older brothers exploded into laughter.

michael's cheeks had already turned pink, and the tips of his ears were bright red.

"you guys are unbelievable," he muttered, wiping his mouth.

"i'm serious, mike," marlon insisted, pointing around the room. "look around. lots of pretty ladies."

obedient as ever, michael actually looked.

his big eyes scanned the room.

beautiful women everywhere.

smiles.

perfume.

long dresses.

and some of them were definitely looking back.

immediately, michael looked down again.

"too many."

marlon blinked.

"too many?"

"yeah."

"what does that even mean?"

michael shrugged helplessly, tracing the rim of his glass with his finger.

"i don't know. they're all looking."

"that's because you're michael jackson," marlon replied matter-of-factly.

michael sighed.

"well, i don't know what to do with that."

that sentence alone made jermaine laugh so hard he had to lean back against the booth, tears beginning to form in the corners of his eyes.

"listen to him," he wheezed. "he says that like it's some kind of disease."

"because you guys make it weird!" michael whined, pouting.

marlon pointed accusingly at him.

"we're making it weird? michael, you've been blushing since encino."

"i hate y'all."

"no, you don't," tito said softly with a smile, taking another sip of his drink.

michael's pout slowly melted into a smile.

"no," he admitted quietly. "i don't."

and he meant it.

because despite the teasing, despite jermaine's inability to stop embarrassing him and marlon's endless commentary, despite the fact that tito kept treating him like a kid, michael loved this. he loved hearing their laughter. loved the way jermaine slapped the table whenever he laughed too hard. loved marlon's ridiculous jokes and tito's quiet chuckles. with them, he wasn't a superstar. he wasn't thriller. he wasn't michael jackson.

he was just mike.

their little brother.

and maybe that was his favorite thing in the world.

their laughter filled the booth once again after marlon made another joke at his expense, and michael laughed too, head thrown back slightly, shoulders shaking, his nose scrunching adorably as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. absentmindedly, he turned his head toward the stage, expecting to see the singer finishing her performance.

instead, the spotlight dimmed.

the audience applauded.

and from behind the velvet curtains, another figure stepped into the light.

michael blinked.

then blinked again.

and suddenly, marlon's voice disappeared.

the laughter disappeared.

the music disappeared.

he forgot the drink in his hand.

forgot to breathe.

"oh..."

he whispered softly.

beside him, jermaine stopped mid-sentence and glanced toward his little brother. seeing him suddenly silent, he followed his gaze. marlon did the same.

then a grin spread across marlon's face.

"well, well."

tito smiled knowingly and shook his head into his glass.

because michael—sweet, shy, hopeless michael—was staring.

and he didn't even realize it. his eyes had widened with wonder, lips slightly parted, one curl hanging over his forehead while his head tilted ever so slightly. he looked mesmerized. like a little boy seeing fireworks for the first time.

and neither jermaine nor marlon had ever seen their baby brother look at anyone quite like that before.

the moment michael turned his head toward the stage, whatever jermaine had been saying dissolved into meaningless noise. one second he had been absentmindedly sipping from his drink while pretending not to listen to marlon's relentless teasing, and the next, his fingers froze around the glass. the lights had dimmed, soft purple and gold illuminating the velvet curtains behind the stage. then you stepped out.

and lord.

you were beautiful.

not just beautiful.

beautiful in a way that made people stop talking.

your skin looked like silk beneath the spotlights, smooth and glowing with warmth. your long legs seemed endless beneath the slit of your shimmering gown, and your hair, styled into elegant waves, cascaded over your shoulders like something out of old hollywood. there was a softness to your smile, but confidence too—a kind of effortless glamour that belonged under lights and beside music. diamonds sparkled against your ears as you adjusted the microphone with graceful fingers, and immediately the room erupted into applause.

michael forgot to blink.

forgot to breathe.

forgot about his drink entirely.

"oh, man..." marlon whispered, catching the direction of his brother's gaze.

jermaine nearly burst out laughing.

"there it is."

"what?" michael whispered absentmindedly, eyes still fixed ahead.

"he's gone."

tito smiled over the rim of his glass.

"poor boy."

because michael wasn't hearing them anymore.

his large brown eyes remained glued to you, fascinated. he wasn't staring in the rude sense. no, he was simply... enchanted. like a child seeing fireworks for the first time. his pretty features softened instinctively, lips parting slightly, his head tilted ever so subtly as though he were trying to memorize every little thing about you. the curls framing his face fell into his eyes, but he didn't bother moving them away.

then, somehow, your eyes found his.

and you noticed him.

of course you noticed him.

everyone knew who he was.

there, sitting in the booth with his brothers, dressed in black leather and dark jeans, looking impossibly handsome with his soft curls and those ridiculously long eyelashes, was michael jackson. and unlike every other man in the room who had spent the evening trying to impress women, he looked almost adorably out of place. sweet. shy. slightly overwhelmed. blushing from something his brothers had teased him about moments earlier.

you smiled.

and to your amusement, the poor man nearly stopped breathing.

michael straightened in his seat immediately.

"she looked over here."

"mike, she's looking at you," marlon whispered excitedly.

"no, she's not."

"yes, she is."

"shut up."

jermaine was trying so hard not to laugh.

"look at him sitting up straight."

"i always sit straight."

"no, you don't."

you chuckled softly to yourself before bringing the microphone closer.

"good evening, ladies and gentlemen," you said, your voice smooth and warm, earning whistles and applause from the audience. "i hope everyone's having a wonderful night."

more applause.

then your eyes wandered toward the jackson brothers' booth again.

and there he was.

those huge eyes.

that shy smile.

he was still looking at you.

and the way his expression changed when he realized you'd caught him again—it was downright adorable. his cheeks immediately turned pink, and he looked down into his drink as though the ice cubes inside had suddenly become fascinating.

you smiled wider.

"and tonight..." you continued, amusement dancing in your voice. "we have some very special guests with us."

the crowd quieted.

"would everybody please give a warm welcome to mr. michael jackson and his brothers!"

instantly, the room exploded with applause.

michael's head snapped upward.

"oh, no."

jermaine and marlon howled.

"oh, yes!"

"no, no, no!"

michael practically sank into his seat, laughing nervously while covering his face.

"don't do this to me."

"wave, mike!" marlon shouted.

"i hate you!"

the crowd continued clapping, some people standing up.

you laughed softly, unable to help yourself. there was something endearing about him. most stars thrived on attention. they stood, waved dramatically, soaked it all in.

but michael?

he looked like he wanted to disappear beneath the table.

finally, with everyone cheering, the sweet-faced young man removed his hands from his face and offered the crowd a bashful smile, waving shyly.

the entire room cheered louder.

and when his eyes found yours again, you gave him a little wink.

that was it.

completely finished.

michael froze.

then his ears turned bright red.

jermaine slammed his hand on the table.

marlon nearly fell off his chair laughing.

and tito simply shook his head, chuckling quietly into his drink.

"lord have mercy," he murmured. "that boy just fell in love in under thirty seconds."

michael leaned closer to marlon and whispered, "who's that woman?"

"i don't know. probably just a regular high-class club singer." marlon grinned, "oh, have you really fallen in love, mike?"

"no. i just think she's very beautiful. that's all."

that was a lie. michael had clearly been incredibly restless, feeling his penis harden in his jeans, only for his eyes to wander and not be able to tear themselves away from your beautiful curves. you sang the song—again jas—so melodiously. your slender body swayed gracefully to the tune of the song. your full, plump cleavage, beautifully firm because the dress you were wearing squeezed your breasts.

michael swallowed, imagining what it would feel like to just touch and caress your breasts, which looked so soft in the light.

michael's lips parted, captivated as you swung your arms to dance, your movements caressing your thighs, which looked moist as if they had just been smeared with lotion. michael's heart beat faster and faster. he looked to his left and found jermaine making out with a woman sitting on his lap, kissing her neck.

the sight he had just seen made his head spin even more, his eyes blurring as he looked back down at your chest, which was slightly shaking from your dancing movements. “i need to go to the toilet,” michael cleared his throat and rose from his seat. marlon nodded.

michael hurried to the restroom and opened the stall. he held his heaving chest, his thoughts filled with lust. he felt his genitals throb violently. he closed his eyes. then, his hand reached for his belt, loosened it, and then unzipped his pants, pulling down his pants and boxers. he whimpered desperately as he felt his thick, naked penis, the cold air making his skin crawl. he had touched himself before, but this time he really needed to let go now, before his crazy thoughts completely took over.

his hand reached for his long, veiny penis, gripping it and pumping it up and down with his large hand. he held his breath as he felt the pleasure spread throughout his body, "oh... shit."

michael threw his head back, his eyes closed tightly, imagining your full breasts, your curves, your beautiful thighs, and your dance moves that captivated his eyes. your soft, melodious voice rang in his ears.

"ngggh, feels so good," he gasped, whispering softly and holding back the feeling of his orgasm threatening to erupt. he quickened his up and down movements, his breath hitching and sweat pouring down his temples, his moans suffocating in his throat. he was about to reach seventh heaven.

"oh! fuck!"

"excuse me?"

michael gasped. his eyes widened when he heard a woman's voice from behind the toilet stall. his orgasm hadn't even reached him yet. his heart was racing.

"are you okay over there?" now the woman, none other than you, knocked on the stall door.

michael muttered softly, barely audible, "yeah, yeah, i'm alright."

"is that you, mr. jackson?"

michael gasped. he reflexively quickly tucked his penis back into his pants, zipping up the zipper, and cleared his throat slightly to disguise the sound of the zipper.

then he hesitantly opened the stall door.

his breath hitched as he saw your face. he froze for a split second, then smiled faintly. "i am."

"are you just touching yourself?"

"pardon?" was the word he reflexively uttered after hearing your question.

you stepped closer to michael and leaned in. you whispered softly in his ear. your sudden and unpredictable movement made him extremely nervous. his body stiffened as your slightly damp lips from the lip gloss brushed against his now red ear. "are you just touching yourself, mr. jackson?"

you could smell michael's intoxicating scent, his expensive musky perfume making something from your genitals leak out into your underwear. you pulled your face away and stared at michael's flushed face, looking utterly embarrassed.

"please don't tell anyone, i—i just can't help it..." michael stuttered, his eyes pleading with yours.

you chuckled softly, "what made you so uncontrollable that you went to this extent? seriously, mr. jackson. i thought you were innocent."

"you looked incredibly beautiful and all that on stage earlier, and—i don't know—"

"can i kiss you, mr. jackson?" before michael could finish, you interrupted him with a question that made him hold his breath again.

michael stared at your lips, his gaze darkening with lust as he lowered his gaze to your chest, which looked slightly sweaty from dancing and singing. his cock hardened again, and he could even smell your intoxicating scent. don't know what possessed him, but michael's hand flew to your back, pulling you quickly toward him. then, with his other hand, he pushed open the bathroom stall door. you were surprised by his sudden movement.

with lightning speed, michael locked the door, then trapped you between his arms, his breath ragged with lust. you smiled softly with a pitying expression, "look at you, mr. jackson. in such a rush to satisfy your desires..."

you leaned in, kissing his lips, which tasted like the vodka he'd drunk earlier. michael let out a soft sigh, muffled between your lips. oh my god, this is what kissing feels like. michael's head was spinning. the sound of your kisses echoed in the room, wet and intoxicating. michael lowered his hand to reclaim your waist before his large hand came down to gently squeeze your butt.

you let out a moan, breaking the kiss, strands of saliva connecting between you. your combined saliva was wet on michael's beautiful chin, his lips red and slightly swollen, his eyes glazed over from tears. then a worried expression appeared on his face, "did i do something wrong?"

"no, mr. jackson. you did everything good."

"please, just michael."

you nodded slowly. then your face moved closer to plant a kiss on his sharp jawline, your hands starting to roam his crotch, michael's cock felt so ready and hard inside. "you're so hard, michael."

"mmmh, pleaseee..." he whined as you felt your hands begin to gently squeeze his penis through his jeans and when your lips began to suck on his long neck. michael hugged your body tightly.

"sit on the toilet for me, michael." michael obeyed your words and sat on the closed toilet, his breath hitching as he saw you kneeling between his trembling thighs.

you slowly unzipped it.

"w—what are you doing?" michael gently held your hand, his face flushed.

you looked up, your face innocent. "i want to give you incredible pleasure. is that okay?"

“y—you don’t have to do that. you’re too beautiful and lovely to do that,” michael’s words made you feel even wetter down there, michael was so gentle and shy, making your heart ache.

“i want to. please, mike. let me,” you begged, rubbing his right thigh. michael bit his lower lip between his pearly white teeth. then he nodded.

you started to pull his pants and boxers down, michael reflexively raised his hips to make it easier for you.

now his penis, which had been leaking precum, was free from his pants, long, hard, and veined, the tip a tinge of red. you swallowed, imagining the pleasure you would feel once you launched your tongue and mouth at his penis.

his lips parted in two, seeing how beautiful your stunned face was when you saw his genitals. shame and lust merged. you stuck out your tongue to lick the head of his penis. michael whimpered, his hands spontaneously reaching for your shoulders, touching your silky skin, the part that wasn't covered by material.

you smiled, continuing to lick from the tip of the head to the base of his trembling penis, his veins protruding. “oh god, oh lord…” michael threw his head back in pleasure, his eyes tightly closed, his sobs muffled and audible in your ears.

you began to take him completely into your mouth, sucking him gently, bobbing your head up and down at a tempo that made michael feel frustrated and dizzy, he wanted more. his hips rose up, making you almost choke because you were overwhelmed by the pleasure of michael's penis thrusting into your throat, your tears falling, unable to withstand the power of michael's hips thrusting into you repeatedly. michael sobbed.

“you feel so good, lord…” michael said, looking down to meet your tear-filled eyes.

this was all beyond michael's expectations. he, who had never even kissed before, was now receiving his first blowjob. he felt ecstasy and the peak of pleasure. you deepened your suction on his penis. the wet sound of your mouth and his penis colliding was erotic. you felt michael tense, his thighs spasming. "i—i wanna cum..."

you grabbed michael's hand that was previously pressing on your shoulder, guiding it to hold the back of your head. you murmured under your breath, "push my head, mikey."

michael gaped, then, with his hesitation completely gone, he pushed your head against him with a force you honestly hadn't expected. you nearly vomited. "please... i'm almost there—oh, look at you taking me so good..."

you sucked his cock as hard as you could, your right hand massaging his cock, pumping it up and down. michael lost his mind with the double pleasure he was feeling. his body trembled violently, his grip on your head tightening. you felt his cock pumping and throbbing.

"fuck!" michael shot his juices deep down your throat, tasting salty and sweet. you gasped loudly, your eyes staring at michael, who threw his head back, his breathing erratic, his juices still gushing into your mouth. you sighed softly, swallowing them clean.

after a few moments of catching your breath, michael grabbed your wrists and sat you on his lap. “you’re unbelievable.”

“do i make you feel good?” you stroked his sweaty jaw. michael looked so sweet, making your stomach flutter with butterflies.

summary: during a rainy night at the studio, michael jackson finally comes face to face with the receptionist whose voice he had secretly grown attached to over months of late-night phone calls. after trying so hard to avoid meeting you, michael finds himself unable to resist the feelings that had been quietly building between the two of you, leading to a kiss neither of you saw coming.

warn: yearning michael! kissing, whimpering, secondbase, MDNI!

a/n: thank you so much for reading ♡ i just had this idea stuck in my head and wanted to write something soft, yearning, and a little bit dramatic. if you guys enjoyed this, i'd be more than happy to write a part two and continue their story. let me know if you'd like to see more <3

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rain began falling at ten o'clock at night. heavy, striking the studio windows with a rhythmic sound that nearly drowned out the hum of the recording equipment around it. the scent of wet earth drifted in from outside every time someone opened the door, filling the air with a smell that reminded michael of his childhood in indiana.

michael took a slow sip of his bottled water, trying to soothe the soreness in his throat after hours of singing. he had been in the studio for almost twelve hours today. maybe more. he had lost track since the sun went down.

dangerous was still in production and, as always, nothing ever felt good enough.

one note sounded slightly off.

one drum hit felt a fraction of a second too late.

one vocal layer sounded too thin.

small things that other people probably would not even notice.

michael always noticed them.

sometimes he hated that. hated how his mind kept searching for flaws even when everyone else in the room had already said the result was perfect. joseph probably had more to do with that habit than michael cared to admit.

he let out a long breath and reached for the telephone sitting beside the mixing console.

his hand paused above the buttons. not because he had forgotten the number he needed to dial.

quite the opposite.

he knew that number now.

far too well.

michael stared at the buttons for several seconds before finally pressing the receptionist's extension.

one ring.

two rings.

his heart beat a little faster.

embarrassing.

he was a thirty-four-year-old man who had spent his entire life performing in front of tens of thousands of people. yet somehow, waiting for a receptionist to answer the phone always made him more nervous than stepping onto a stage.

"hello, crescent studios."

her voice.

instantly, something inside him softened.

warm.

michael closed his eyes for a moment.

three months.

the woman had only been working at the studio for three months, but her voice had already become part of michael's daily routine in a way that bothered him. at first it had only been work.

calling a technician.

contacting a producer.

looking for missing documents.

simple things.

then their conversations started lasting a few minutes longer.

then ten minutes.

then fifteen.

until one day michael realized he had called the receptionist just to ask what time the rain was expected to stop. information he could have easily checked himself through the window. and even more embarrassingly, he kept calling despite realizing it.

he knew your name. knew your age. twenty-four. ten years younger than him.

young enough to make him feel guilty every time he realized how much he looked forward to hearing that voice. young enough to make him decide from the very beginning that the two of you should never meet.

a decision that had felt sensible during the first month, much harder to maintain now. because the more often he heard your voice, the clearer the face he had never seen began to form in his mind.

because he started waiting for the night shift just to call the reception desk.

because sometimes he caught himself smiling before the phone had even been answered.

because that voice had become something he missed.

and michael did not like that fact at all.

"mr. jackson?"

michael snapped back to reality.

he had not even spoken yet.

"hm?"

a small laugh came from the other end.

soft.

carrying that amused tone he had become very familiar with.

and, as always, that voice made his heart do things that the heart of a thirty-four-year-old man had no business doing.

"did you call me, or are you planning to breathe into the phone for five minutes again tonight?"

"no. connect me to bruce, please." michael cleared his throat before abruptly hanging up the phone. he could not keep doing this. he could not take it anymore.

michael shook his head in frustration, trying to push the strange thoughts out of his mind. he should just go home. to hell with the technician. so he quickly gathered a few of the things he had brought with him, stuffed them into a black carry bag, and slung it over his shoulder.

he opened the recording room door. the studio was already dark, with only a few main lights still glowing dimly. the sound of rain could still be heard.

he needed to get home quickly because it would be the end of your shift soon as well.

the last thing he needed was to run into you and lose his resolve like an idiot.

michael walked briskly. his curly hair was tied back. the white shirt he was wearing was hopelessly wrinkled. when he finally reached the studio door handle and pulled it open, he immediately stopped in his tracks.

his brown eyes landed directly on a young woman wearing a dark brown leather skirt that stopped mid-thigh and a white tank top layered beneath a velvet jacket the same color as her skirt.

the girl turned around, "mr. jackson?"

you looked at michael. the cigarette you had been smoking immediately lowered from her lips. smoke drifted from her mouth, lips that looked sweet in michael's eyes.

michael felt his entire body freeze.

not because of the rain. not because of the cold night air.

but because for the past three months he had built hundreds of versions of you inside his head, and not a single one had prepared him for reality.

for several seconds that felt embarrassingly long, he simply stood in the doorway.

rain poured heavily behind you, creating a curtain of water that made the world seem to shrink until it was nothing more than the studio porch where the two of you stood. the yellow light above the door cast a soft glow across your slightly damp hair. a few strands clung to your cheek from the mist carried by the wind.

michael instantly hated himself for noticing things like that. for noticing the way your fingers held the cigarette, the way your shoulder rested casually against the iron railing.

the way your eyes widened slightly when you recognized him.

because all of it meant one thing.

he had been thinking about you for far too long.

far too long.

"oh."

the sound escaped before he could think of something smarter to say.

stupid.

very stupid.

after months of conversations, after hundreds of minutes spent listening to your voice over the phone, after all the effort he had made to avoid this moment, that was all that managed to come out of his mouth.

you looked like you were trying not to smile.

"that's all you got?"

michael lowered his head for a moment, letting out a quiet laugh as an overwhelming wave of nervousness suddenly hit him.

god.

he was even worse than he had imagined.

"i..." he shook his head slightly. "i didn't expect to meet you."

"what a coincidence."

there was a hint of teasing in your voice.

"because i was starting to think you've been avoiding me this whole time."

michael immediately lifted his head. and from the way you raised an eyebrow, he knew you had hit the target perfectly.

damn.

you laughed.

the same laugh.

the laugh that had lived through telephone speakers all this time and made him smile unconsciously every time he heard it, only now it was much worse because he could finally see your face when you laughed, see the way your eyes narrowed slightly.

the way the corners of your lips lifted.

the way your head tipped back a little when your laughter became more unrestrained.

michael felt like he was in serious trouble.

"you have been avoiding me, haven't you?" you asked.

he let out a long sigh.

the truth felt easier than lying.

"a little."

"a little?"

"alright." michael smiled sheepishly. "a lot."

you laughed again.

and strangely, instead of feeling embarrassed, michael felt calmer.

as if that voice had already become too familiar to make him uncomfortable.

the rain continued pouring around the two of you.

neither of you made any move to leave.

even though just a few minutes ago michael had practically been ready to run out of the building just to avoid the possibility of meeting you.

now he was standing less than two meters away from you and suddenly couldn't remember why that had sounded like such a good idea.

"i thought you'd be taller," michael said with a small laugh.

"oh, so now it's my turn?"

"you started it."

"i haven't even said anything."

"your expression said enough."

michael shook his head, laughing softly. his nervousness had not disappeared. if anything, it had only gotten worse. because every time he looked at you, he found a new detail that had never existed in his imagination before.

your voice was familiar. far too familiar.

but your face, your expressions, the way you moved—everything was new. and all of it made him want to keep looking. his eyes unconsciously drifted back to the cigarette in your hand.

the tip still glowed red. thin wisps of smoke danced into the night air.

you followed his gaze.

"don't tell me you're about to give me a lecture on the dangers of smoking."

michael laughed quietly. "no."

"good." you lifted the cigarette slightly, "because i'm not quitting tonight."

michael watched the way you took a drag from it for a moment.

then immediately looked away.

too late, his mind had already registered the detail, and what frustrated him was not the cigarette. it was the fact that he had been watching your lips.

michael swallowed. suddenly his throat felt drier than it had after hours of singing earlier.

he really needed to go home.

now.

before his thoughts became any stranger.

before the closeness that had only existed through a telephone line turned into something far more difficult to control.

but when he looked back at you, you were already looking at him.

not with awe, like most people did.

not with nervousness either.

but with a gentle curiosity.

as if you were trying to get to know him.

michael felt something tighten in his chest. because for years, very few people had genuinely tried to see him.

not michael jackson. just michael.

and somehow, the girl he had only known through a voice for the past three months had managed to do it without the slightest effort.

you walked closer to michael. now you were only five finger widths apart, very close. michael swallowed. he took a step back from you. you frowned, “mr. jackson, you don’t look well. what happened?”

michael sighed, “give me your cigarette.”

you were surprised by michael’s words, “pardon?”

“give it to me.”

“you don’t smoke, do you?”

“i smoked tonight.”

“why? it won’t be good for your voice, and this is the last cigarette i’ll have tonight, mr. jackson, besides, it’s already got my lips and lipstick on it,” you replied, taking another drag, exhaling the smoke slowly upward.

michael suddenly reached for your hand, snatching the cigarette from your fingers. then he stared at you intently, your eyes locked deeply. his gaze changed; there was nothing of michael’s shyness in his gaze this time. you bit your lower lip lightly, watching michael slowly raise the cigarette and take a slow drag without taking his eyes off you.

“so this is what you taste like…”

“you taste sweet.”

you held your breath for a few seconds. it felt like your heart had stopped beating, "mr. jackson..."

michael stepped closer. your faces were only inches apart, and he stared at you as if there was no tomorrow. he threw the cigarette that had been clutched in his fingers down and stomped it out with his black shoe. "i tried, i tried to avoid all of this. why did we have to meet today?"

the scent of michael's perfume sent shivers down your spine. you stared at his expression, watching his breath rise and fall erratically.

you don't know what possessed you, but seeing michael like this pushed you far beyond your limits. your hands grabbed the collar of his shirt. "shut up. just kiss me."

michael whimpered deeply before finally wrapping his arms around your waist, his left hand pressing against the back of your head, his fingers gently gripping your hair. you floated to seventh heaven at the soft, sweet feel of michael's touch. michael deepened the kiss, his tongue dancing for more access, your eyes squeezed shut. you draped both your hands on his shoulders, your legs seemingly useless. michael growled as he felt him press deeper into your body.

the rain was still pouring down in front of you. as if allowing your meeting tonight. allowing you to be together longer.

soft whimpers slipped from your lips as michael gently and hungrily sucked on your tongue, your eyes fluttering shut. you felt his large hands wandering aimlessly across your back before one of them gave your left cheek a firm, loving squeeze. michael let out a quiet moan, savoring the softness of your skin still hidden beneath the fabric.

he broke the kiss, his beautiful wide eyes glassy with desperation, lazily looking deep into your haze as he whispered softly in front of your parted, plump lips, "do you wanna come over to my place?"

a choked little sound escaped you. your heart pounded harder as you looked at michael standing before you, desperate, vulnerable. before you could answer, michael, his hand still resting on your backside, pulled you closer and pressed his hips against you, rubbing himself against you with trembling need, silently pleading for you to ease his ache.

"ah... michael..." you couldn't suppress your moan. michael deepened the motion, his jaw tightening, his eyes fixed on the beautiful expression you made.

"is that a yes, pretty?"

Hi guys this is my first MJ fanfic! I think it would be a long story. I hope you guys like it the way I do.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

Chapter 1

Michael 1982

I was tired of the sun people insisted belonged to me, so I decided to go far away and see sunlight from a corner of the world I had never explored before.

My body ached after hours of dancing without pause. Rehearsals meant to make every movement perfect, one last time for today. I had decided to disappear somewhere still untouched by most people.

I needed an escape.

For months, it had felt difficult to breathe. It wasn't that I hated fame. It wasn't that I hated my fans. They were my family, and I loved them. But sometimes everything felt so suffocating. Every now and then, I wanted to know what life felt like without fame. Without people losing their minds just because I was there. What it felt like to walk quietly, humming to myself, enjoying the cool shade of the wind and the leaves brushing against my face on a peaceful afternoon without being surrounded by crowds.

Journalists.

Fans.

Bodyguards.

The blinding flash of cameras.

The only people who knew about this trip were Marlon and Bill.

I felt like I could trust them a little more than the others.

At first, Marlon had shaken his head in disbelief.

"No, Mike. You can't just do this. Everyone's gonna lose their minds if you disappear without telling anybody."

But after a bit of persuasion—and a bribe involving a beautiful model I'd met during an Off the Wall photoshoot (she was friends with one of the makeup artists who worked on me, and I'd offered to introduce them)—Marlon finally sighed and said with an indifferent smile,

"I'm not promising how long I can keep my mouth shut. You know I talk too much. At least until you get to Bali. Call me as soon as you arrive, Mike."

Bali.

I knew the island from a travel brochure tucked inside a magazine I'd picked up in Los Angeles a while ago.

Paradise Island.

That was what they called it.

The title stretched across the page in large letters, accompanied by photographs that immediately made me sit up straighter. I remember studying every page carefully.

Not many people knew about Bali back then.

I glanced at the clock hanging neatly on my bedroom wall.

Midnight.

My flight left at one in the morning.

Joseph was asleep.

Mama too.

Slowly, I opened my bedroom door and looked both ways down the hallway.

I could hear a television still playing inside Janet's room.

Perfect.

The sound would make my escape even harder to notice.

I tiptoed through the hallway, half-running until I reached Marlon's room and quietly turned the doorknob.

"You ready?" he asked.

He was already dressed, wearing a blue denim jacket, his curls neatly arranged. I had no idea what he planned to do after dropping me off at the airport.

A date, maybe.

I didn't know.

"Yeah," I whispered.

Marlon smiled, grabbed his bag and car keys, then walked over and patted my shoulder.

"Let's go."

We hurried down the staircase that seemed endless in the dark. Sweat gathered at my temples. I was terrified Joseph would wake up. Hayvenhurst felt unusually cold beneath the strong wind outside that night.

Bill was already there, leaning against Marlon's car, waving when he saw us.

"Come on, boys."

We'd intentionally taken Marlon's car. If Joseph woke up and saw a car leaving Hayvenhurst, we'd still be safe. He wasn't nearly as strict with Marlon as he was with me. I wished he could be. Marlon tossed the keys to Bill, who caught them effortlessly. I lifted my large carry bag filled with clothes for a tropical climate and hurriedly shoved it into the trunk.

Marlon and I sat together in the back seat while Bill glanced at us through the rearview mirror.

"Get ready."

The gates swung open.

The fans who spent night after night waiting outside our house immediately erupted into screams.

My name echoed through the darkness.

Ever since Off the Wall, the crowds had become impossible.

Everywhere we went.

I pulled my hat lower, covering half my face.

"MICHAEL!"

"OH MY GOD, MARLON! MARLON!"

"MICHAEL! OVER HERE!"

“MICHAEL! I LOVE YOU!”

Bill pressed harder on the gas.

The car shot forward.

My heart hammered inside my chest as I imagined Joseph waking up because of the commotion at the front gate.

The hour-long drive passed with Marlon firing off jokes, Bill shaking his head at nearly every sentence that came out of Marlon's mouth, and me staring out the window at the city lights that somehow still seemed impossibly bright.

"Hey, Mike."

"Hm?"

I turned toward him. Marlon had always been the brother I was closest to. Maybe because our ages weren't far apart. Wherever Marlon was, there was Michael. And vice versa. Me, overly sensitive. Marlon, drifting through life with an ease I never understood. Sometimes I wondered if he had any ambition at all. But as we grew older, I realized I needed someone like him around me. Someone capable of untangling the knots in my head.

Marlon wrapped an arm around my shoulder and squeezed gently, "I'm gonna miss you. No more than two weeks. Got it?"

I laughed softly.

"Stop being sentimental, Marlon. I'll be back."

"Whatever you say."

He rolled his eyes.

Bill cleared his throat.

"We'll be there soon, son. Marlon, be careful driving back. Watch the road signs. Don't run a red light."

Bill and his fatherly lectures.

And yes, Bill was coming with me.

The truth was, I wasn't brave enough to travel that far alone. Coward. But what if people recognized me there? What if I got trapped in a crowd and ended up crushed beneath all the chaos and panic? Still, from everything I'd read about Bali, Indonesia, it sounded nothing like America.

More traditional.

Slower.

Maybe somewhere on the far side of the island, away from the noise and crowds, nobody would know who I was.

Maybe.

I hoped so.

–

Bali, 1982

I never expected the journey to Bali to feel this long.

Maybe because I was too excited to go. Or maybe because, for the first time in my life, I was going somewhere without a packed schedule, without interviews, without television appearances, without someone constantly knocking on my hotel room door telling me I had five minutes to get ready.

As the plane began its descent, Bill, who was sitting beside me, lifted the window shade a little.

"Michael."

Half asleep, I slowly opened my eyes.

"What?"

"Look."

I turned my head.

And for a few seconds, I didn't say a word.

Below us stretched an ocean whose color I couldn't even explain. It wasn't blue like the one I was used to seeing in California. It wasn't green either. It sat somewhere between the two, like someone had mixed watercolor into clear glass and let the sunlight shine through it from every direction.

The island looked small from up here.

Green.

So incredibly green.

The palm trees looked like tiny dots scattered along the coastline. I could even see the white lines of waves breaking against the shore.

I rested my forehead against the window.

"Wow."

Bill smiled.

"Yeah."

I spent the rest of the flight watching the island grow closer and closer. For the first time in months, my mind wasn't filled with songs, choreography, meetings, or album sales targets.

I was just curious.

Curious about what it would feel like to be there. Curious if the place was really as peaceful as the brochure made it seem. Curious if, for the next two weeks, I could be an ordinary person.

The little airport felt different from the ones I usually visited.

There were no huge crowds.

No reporters.

No people shouting my name.

I was still wearing a hat, sunglasses, and clothes I'd deliberately picked to avoid standing out. Habit. It's hard to let go of that kind of thing.

But a few minutes passed.

Then an hour.

And no one came up to me.

I couldn't help but laugh to myself.

So this is what it feels like.

I even helped Bill carry one of the suitcases for a while without anyone noticing.

That would've been impossible in Los Angeles.

A local man recommended by the travel agency came to pick us up. His English wasn't very fluent, and of course I couldn't understand a word of Indonesian, but he seemed friendly enough.

The drive to the house we'd be staying in took nearly three hours.

At first, I tried reading the book I'd brought with me.

Five minutes later, I gave up.

The view outside was too interesting.

Small roads cut through shimmering rice fields glowing beneath the afternoon sun. Barefoot children ran through the villages. Some people rode old bicycles. I saw women carrying large baskets balanced on top of their heads with a kind of grace that amazed me.

Nobody seemed to be in a hurry.

No endless honking.

No towering buildings.

It felt like I was watching a world moving at an entirely different pace.

I rolled the car window down a little, and warm air brushed against my face, carrying the salty scent of the ocean. The breeze was slightly humid. I closed my eyes for a moment.

And for the first time in a very long while, my chest didn't feel tight.

Slowly, I opened my eyes again and spotted a few monkeys swinging through the trees lining the roadside.

The afternoon was beginning to fade into evening by the time we finally arrived.

The car turned onto a narrower road. Trees grew thick on either side. In the distance, I could already hear the sound of the waves.

Closer.

Clearer.

Until the house finally came into view.

I recognized it immediately.

The same house I'd seen in the brochure.

Or maybe even more beautiful.

A large wooden house stood on a hill overlooking the sea. A wide veranda stretched across the front. Frangipani trees grew around the yard, their white and yellow petals drifting through the breeze.

Bill hadn't even turned off the engine before I opened the car door.

I stepped out slowly.

Then stopped.

Just like that.

Because the ocean stretched out right in front of me.

The late afternoon sunlight reflected off its surface like thousands of tiny shards of glass.

I don't know how long I stood there.

A few seconds.

Maybe a minute.

Maybe longer.

All I know is that I felt very small.

And strangely enough, I liked that feeling.

"Mr. Jackson?"

Someone's voice made me turn around.

A middle-aged man was walking toward me with a warm smile. Beside him stood a woman who seemed to be his wife.

They welcomed me kindly.

I smiled back.

Then, without meaning to, my eyes drifted toward the veranda.

And that's where I saw her.

A girl was sitting on the wooden floor with a large canvas spread out in front of her.

Her black hair was tied up carelessly. I could tell it was long and wavy from the thickness of the ponytail, with a few loose strands framing her face.

Beautiful.

The sleeves of her yellow shirt were rolled up to her elbows.

Her hands were covered in paint.

She looked completely absorbed in what she was painting, so focused she didn't seem to notice I'd arrived.

Or maybe she had noticed.

And simply chose not to care.

I wasn't sure which possibility was more interesting.

I watched her for a few seconds too long.

Until she finally looked up.

Our eyes met.

And unlike most people, she didn't widen her eyes. She didn't smile. She didn't look surprised.

She simply looked at me, her dark brown eyes catching the afternoon light.

Calm.

As though I was just another guest who had arrived and would leave again a few weeks later.

Then she went back to her painting.

Just like that.

I wasn't even sure she knew who I was.

For some reason, that made me smile.

"Please, come in."

"Here's the key you'll be using. We'll be staying in the house out back, so if you need anything at all, don't hesitate to come find us," the middle-aged man who owned the house said. He seemed incredibly kind, and the smile never left his face while he spoke. His English wasn't very fluent.

"Thank you very much," I replied.

Bill accepted the key from the man, who had introduced himself as Bapak Nyoman. He was dressed entirely in white, wearing what looked almost like a skirt, and something wrapped around his head that resembled a hat. I didn't know what it was called. It wasn't familiar to me.

But it was impressive.

I started wandering around the house I'd rented for the next two weeks.

A set of wooden sofas was neatly arranged in the open-air sitting area. The late afternoon sunlight poured over everything beautifully. There were several bungalows scattered around the property. One of them belonged to the owners.

The same house where I'd seen the girl who seemed to be a painter.

I stopped in front of one of the paintings hanging on the living room wall.

Ever since I'd stepped inside this house, my eyes kept drifting toward the paintings displayed in almost every corner. None of them looked carelessly made. Everything seemed to belong exactly where it was. Even the colors felt carefully chosen.

I stepped a little closer.

The painting in front of me showed a vast stretch of ocean. The waves weren't clearly defined, almost abstract. Yet somehow, I could still feel the sea inside it.

I didn't know much about painting techniques, but I'd always believed that good art didn't need too much explaining.

You looked at it. And you felt something. And this painting made me feel something.

Maybe peace. Maybe longing.

Or maybe it was simply because I was standing so close to the ocean myself.

I squinted at the lower corner of the canvas.

A name was written there in small letters.

Nadine Paradisha.

So she was the one who painted all of this.

I found myself thinking about the girl I'd seen on the veranda. The girl with paint-stained hands. The girl who hadn't seemed particularly interested in my arrival.

I didn't know why she kept crossing my mind.

Maybe because I wasn't used to being treated that way.

"Excuse me."

I nearly jumped.

My hand flew to my chest.

"Oh my God!"

I spun around.

She was standing right behind me.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

I let out a long breath before laughing softly at my own reaction.

"No, no, it's alright," I said, shaking my head. "I was just startled."

For some reason, I felt like a little kid who'd just been caught snooping through something that didn't belong to him.

Our eyes met again.

From this close, I could see her face more clearly. She couldn't have been much younger than me.

Her black hair was still tied up carelessly. A few strands had escaped and danced around her face in the breeze. She was still wearing the same yellow shirt.

And her hands were still stained with paint.

I noticed the paint covered nearly all of her fingers. Not just a few tiny spots. Which meant she truly spent her time painting not just as an occasional hobby.

"Welcome to our home," she said.

Her voice was softer than I'd imagined.

"My father's away taking care of something for a while. So I'll be the one looking after you while you're here."

"Oh, I see," I said with a small nod.

I didn't know why, but suddenly I felt a little nervous.

Usually I didn't have trouble talking to new people.

At least, not this much.

But there was something about this girl that made me unsure of how to act around her.

She seemed friendly. But distant.

I held out my hand.

"Michael."

Usually, this was the part where people told me their names.

Or said they recognized me.

Or smiled too widely.

Or suddenly got nervous.

But the girl simply looked at my hand for a few seconds.

As if she were considering something.

Only then did she shake it.

Her hand was cool.

"You're famous, aren't you?"

I frowned.

The question was so sudden that I didn't know how to answer it right away.

Not because I didn't know the answer.

But because I'd never heard anyone ask it quite like that before.

Usually people already knew.

Or at least pretended they did.

"I guess so?" I finally answered.

I didn't even sound convinced myself.

The girl nodded.

"My cousin likes your songs."

That was it.

Nothing else.

No long story.

No overwhelming admiration.

No request for an autograph.

I almost laughed.

For some reason, her answer was funny.

"Ah..."

I rubbed the back of my neck.

I could feel an odd sense of embarrassment creeping up on me. I wasn't sure why.

Maybe because I'd hoped she'd say something more personal.

Maybe because I wanted to know if she'd ever listened to my music herself.

"What about you?" I asked.

"What about me?"

She tilted her head slightly.

Such a simple gesture.

And somehow it only made me more curious.

"Do you like my songs?"

The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them.

What kind of question was that?

I sounded like I was fishing for compliments.

If Marlon were here, he'd never let me live it down.

But now it was too late.

I waited.

And somehow, I really wanted to hear her answer.

Nadine didn't answer.

Instead, she laughed softly, her big eyes narrowing as she smiled.

It wasn't mocking.

It wasn't awkward.

It was more like someone who'd just heard a question they found amusing.

I wasn't sure whether I should feel offended or not.

"Come on," she finally said, turning around.

"I'll show you to the master bedroom."

I followed her.

A little annoyed that I hadn't gotten an answer.

"What's your name?" I asked.

I knew I'd just read it on one of the paintings.

But I wanted to hear her say it herself.

"I'm Nadine."

Nadine.

For the second time that day, I'd heard that name.

And for the second time, I thought it suited her perfectly.

I picked up my pace until we were walking side by side up the wooden staircase to the second floor.

Behind us, I could hear Bill carrying my suitcases.

Nadine glanced over her shoulder.

Her eyes landed on my luggage.

Then back at me.

"You brought a lot of luggage for a two-week trip."

I looked back too.

Bill was carrying one huge suitcase that was already making me feel a little guilty.

Then I remembered there were still several more waiting outside.

I cleared my throat.

"Yeah..."

Nadine raised an eyebrow.

I don't know why, but I suddenly felt judged.

And somehow, I felt like she was right.

She pushed open the bedroom door.

A rush of ocean breeze greeted me through the large windows at the end of the room. White curtains drifted gently in the wind. From here, I could even hear the waves crashing against the cliffs below.

I stepped inside. The room wasn't luxurious. But that was exactly what I liked about it. A large wooden bed stood in the center. A writing desk faced the ocean.

There was no telephone.

No television.

No stack of messages waiting for me to answer.

For the first time in a very long time, I felt like no one could find me.

"It's beautiful."

I nodded.

"Really beautiful."

Nadine leaned against the doorframe.

"My father designed this room."

"Oh?"

"He believes people think more clearly when they can see the ocean."

I walked toward the window.

"And does it work?"

Nadine thought for a few seconds.

"No."

I turned toward her and she looked completely serious.

I laughed.

Nadine smiled a little too.

"At least he tried."

I nodded.

"That makes sense."

Bill set down the last suitcase beside the bed.

"I'll be in the room next door then, Michael."

"Alright."

Bill walked out, smiling at me and now it was just Nadine and me in the room.

For some reason, everything suddenly felt a little quieter. Nadine glanced at my suitcases again.

Then another one.

Then another.

I followed her gaze.

And immediately knew what she was thinking.

"Don't."

"I haven't said anything."

"But I know you want to."

Nadine folded her arms across her chest.

"Are you moving house?"

I closed my eyes.

"Oh, Great God."

"That's a fair question."

"It's not a fair question."

"That's six suitcases."

"Five," I corrected, sounding slightly offended.

Nadine pointed toward the corner of the room.

"There's another one."

I sighed.

Six.

She was right.

I'd only just noticed.

Nadine looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh.

"I like being prepared."

"That's not being prepared."

"It is being prepared."

There went my wounded pride.

For a moment, I found myself thinking about how good Nadine's English was, considering it wasn't her first language.

Her accent was still there.

Very faint.

But noticeable.

Some letters sounded different when she spoke them.

Other than that, though, she spoke effortlessly.

I listened to the way she talked, she didn't seem like someone searching for the right words.

They simply came naturally, as though English had always been part of her everyday life.

It suddenly occurred to me that I knew almost nothing about her.

Other than the fact that she painted.

And that she seemed to enjoy embarrassing me.

Nadine walked farther into the room while I stayed standing near my suitcases.

She opened one of the half-closed windows, and another breeze swept inside. The thin white curtains drifted gently, brushing against her arm now and then.

From here, the ocean looked even clearer.

I could see the waves breaking in the distance.

The afternoon sun was slowly sinking toward the horizon, turning the water gold.

"Did you paint all the paintings in this house?"

The question slipped out before I could think about it.

Nadine looked at me.

"Which paintings?"

"Most of them."

I pointed toward the hallway we'd just walked through.

"The ones downstairs. The one by the living room too."

She followed my hand, then nodded.

"Most of them."

"Most?"

"A few belong to my mother."

"Oh."

I nodded, I thought about the painting of the ocean again.

There was something about it that lingered in my mind, not in a bad way it's quite the opposite, I felt like I'd seen that ocean before. Not a real ocean. An ocean from a dream. It wasn't truly blue. There was gray. A little green.

A color I couldn't quite describe.

I walked toward the window.

"The one by the living room is beautiful."

Nadine didn't answer right away.

"Which one?"

"The ocean."

"That doesn't narrow it down."

I laughed quietly.

"So you paint the ocean a lot."

"I live by the ocean."

"Fair enough."

"Of course it's fair."

I looked at her. Nadine was smiling a little. I was beginning to realize that most of her expressions were impossible to read.

Sometimes she looked serious when she was joking. Sometimes she seemed distant, only to laugh a few seconds later.

I hadn't known her long enough to understand her face.

And strangely enough, that made me curious.

"So, are you really a painter?" I asked.

The question made her laugh again.

I didn't understand why.

"What?"

"You asked that as if I have some special identification card that says painter."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

I shook my head, smiling.

"Alright. I mean, do you do it for a living?"

Nadine thought for a moment before answering.

"I do it because I like it."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the best answer I've got."

I studied her face for a few moments.

I didn't know why, but I had the feeling Nadine wasn't the kind of person who liked putting herself into neat little boxes.

"Maybe that's the right answer," I finally said.

She looked slightly surprised.

I shrugged.

"I make music because I like it too."

She simply looked at me for a few seconds, then her gaze shifted to the row of suitcases still lined up across the floor.

"So why does a musician who makes music because he likes it bring six suitcases for a two-week vacation?"

I closed my eyes.

"Oh, God."

And for the second time that day, I heard Nadine laugh.

“I’ll let you get settled.”

“Right.”

I cleared my throat softly. For some reason, it felt like there was something lodged there.

Nadine pressed her lips together and offered me a small, polite smile. The kind that didn’t linger. It lasted only a second before she turned and headed toward the door.

I nodded, then watched her leave.

Our shoulders brushed as she passed me. So briefly that maybe it hadn’t happened at all. And yet I still felt it.

My body stiffened for a fraction of a second. Before I could even process what had happened, I caught her scent.

Not perfume. At least, I didn’t think so.

Something softer like freshly washed hair. Like flowers growing wild around the house after rain. Sweet, but not overpowering. Barely there. I wasn’t even sure whether I had actually smelled it or simply imagined it.

The door closed and suddenly I was alone again.

Something was wrong with me.

I stared at the door for several seconds longer than necessary before forcing myself to move.

For the next hour, I pretended to unpack.

Pretended.

Because the truth was that most of my clothes were still everywhere. Several shirts hung carelessly over the back of a chair. Trousers lay piled across the dark brown sofa facing the bed. One suitcase remained completely untouched.

I walked toward the window.

Outside, the afternoon was slowly dissolving into evening.

The sky that had been blue only moments ago was melting into shades of gold. Small birds crossed the horizon in the distance. Beneath the cliffs, the ocean continued its endless rhythm, rising and falling like a steady breath.

I pushed the window open wider, the sea air filled my lungs.

I took a long breath and for the first time in months—I felt like I could breathe.

Really breathe.

“Mike.”

I turned. Bill was standing in the doorway, dressed far more casually now. A navy-blue T-shirt. Shorts. For the first time since we'd arrived, he actually looked like a man on vacation.

“Hey, Bill.”

“Looks like dinner’s ready. You coming?”

I nodded, “What do you think they made?”

“No idea. Something unfamiliar. I’ve been smelling something pretty strong coming from the kitchen for the last hour.” Bill shrugged.

I laughed softly, “That’s a very reassuring description.”

“You’ll survive.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You ate mystery food in Japan.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

Bill shook his head with a chuckle. We made our way downstairs.

The house felt different now that evening had settled in. Warm yellow lamps glowed from the corners, reflecting softly against the wooden floors. Somewhere beyond the property, I could hear insects singing and waves crashing against the shore.

But when we reached the kitchen area, it was empty.

No one was there.

I frowned.

Bill did the same.

Then a voice called out from outside.

“Mr. Jackson! Over here!”

We both turned. In the backyard, on a stretch of green grass overlooking the sea, a long wooden table had been set up, a white tablecloth covered its surface. Large dishes filled with foods I didn’t recognize sat neatly arranged in the center. The fading sunlight mixed with the warm glow of lanterns, making the entire scene look almost like a painting.

Bapak Nyoman waved enthusiastically.

His wife sat beside him.

And Nadine sat across from them.

I don’t know why my eyes found her first.

There were three people sitting there.

Yet somehow, my eyes found her first.

Her hair was down now. Dark waves spilled over her shoulders, moving gently whenever the ocean breeze passed through. One side had been tucked behind her ear, held in place by a white frangipani flower. I had never seen someone look so completely at home in a place.

As though the sea, the wind, the trees, and her belonged to the same story.

Meanwhile, I still looked like a tourist who had arrived with six suitcases.

“Michael?”

I blinked.

“Oh.”

Bill was trying not to smile. I immediately started walking toward the table.

“You’re back, Bapak Nyoman.” Said I.

“Yes!” he said cheerfully. “My wife and I went to buy ingredients. You must try Balinese food. I don’t know whether you’ll like it, but we worked very hard preparing everything.”

His smile was so sincere that I immediately felt guilty for having worried about the food.

“You really didn’t have to do all this. Thank you very much. Of course I’ll try it.”

“Please, sit.”

I followed the direction of Ibu Nyoman’s hand. And only then did I notice a small problem.

The only empty chair was directly across from Nadine.

Of course it was.

I pulled out the chair and sat down. A terrible mistake. Because from this distance, I could see her more clearly. The frangipani flower in her hair. The slight sun-kissed warmth of her skin. And the faint trace of blue paint that still lingered on one of her fingers.

She hadn’t managed to wash it off completely.

I didn’t know why I noticed things like that.

“Mr. Jackson?”

Bapak Nyoman’s voice startled me.

Everyone was looking at me.

Including Nadine.

I blinked.

Then realized I hadn’t heard a single word anyone had said for the last several seconds.

“I’m sorry.”

God.

This was embarrassing.