Lxredixts

1987 yokohama

You've always loved Japan, which only made you more grateful that filming had finally paused long enough for you to come meet Michael on tour. The Bad Tour hadn't started too long ago, but you were arriving in Yokohama for his final show here before joining him in Osaka and then Australia. After months of long days on set, production meetings, and constantly watching the calendar for the next chance to see him, the timing felt almost perfect.

The movie you were currently working on was taking a break until the end of the year as the holidays approached, which meant that for the first time in what felt like forever, you had three uninterrupted months ahead of you. Three months with Michael before you had to return to filming, and the thought alone had carried you through more than a few exhausting days at work.

You knew the reality of touring with Michael wouldn't mean the two of you spending every waking moment together. Between rehearsals, interviews, appearances, sound checks, and everything else that seemed to demand his attention while he was on the road, his schedule remained just as overwhelming as yours often was. But that had never really mattered before.

Over the years, the two of you had learned how to make time count. You and Michael had always been intentional about your relationship, even during the busiest periods of your careers. Somehow, no matter how chaotic life became, he always found ways to carve out moments that belonged only to the two of you.

Sometimes it was a quiet dinner after midnight when everyone else had gone to bed. Sometimes it was sitting together on a plane between cities while Michael rested his head on your shoulder and talked about whatever song or idea was currently occupying his mind. Those small moments often became your favorites because they belonged to the two of you and no one else.

Now, standing in the wings of Yokohama Stadium, you watched Michael perform "Shake Your Body" with a smile that seemed permanently fixed to your face. The energy in the stadium was impossible to ignore. Tens of thousands of fans filled the seats, their screams echoing through the massive venue every time Michael stepped forward or hit a familiar move.

Even after all these years, you never got tired of watching him perform. There was something mesmerizing about seeing him onstage, something that remained just as captivating as the first time you'd ever watched him command a crowd. He always put on the best show he could for the fans, pouring every ounce of himself into each performance, and from where you stood, you could practically feel the effort behind every movement.

Watching him tonight, it was impossible not to admire him. The audience saw the polished performance, the effortless dancing, the confidence that seemed to radiate from him beneath the lights, but you knew what came afterward. You knew how exhausting these shows truly were.

You thought about the nights after dress rehearsals when Michael would finally make it back to your shared hotel room, disappear into the shower, and emerge looking completely drained. More than once, he had climbed into bed beside you with damp curls and sleepy eyes, only for you to barely get a sentence out before he was already asleep. As much as he loved performing, you knew exactly how much of himself he gave away every time he stepped onto a stage.

The demand for Michael was everywhere, and no matter how many years you'd been together, you still found yourself caught off guard by the sheer scale of his fame sometimes. Being successful in your own right meant you understood what it was like to be recognized in public. Fans approached you often enough, asking about your movies, requesting photographs, or occasionally asking questions about Michael. But your experiences with fame were nothing compared to his.

When Michael was involved, everything changed.

The two of you could rarely go out in public together because the second someone spotted him, word spread like wildfire. It didn't matter what city or country you were in; within minutes, crowds would begin forming. Hundreds of people became thousands, all trying to get close enough to see him. Fans screamed his name, cried when they caught sight of him, and pushed forward for even the briefest chance to be near him.

Michael always pulled you closer and held you tighter in those moments while Bill and the rest of the security navigated you through the crowds. The second things started becoming overwhelming, his hand would find yours. His arm would settle around your waist or across your shoulders, quietly anchoring you to him while security created a path forward. Michael worried constantly about the people he loved, and in situations like that, keeping you close seemed to calm something inside him.

Most of the time, those experiences made you feel for Michael more than yourself. People often assumed he thrived on the attention because they saw the smiles, the waves, and the genuine affection he showed his fans, but they didn't see the entire picture. You knew how deeply Michael loved them. He talked about his fans all the time and never took their support for granted. He always insisted they meant well, even after particularly chaotic crowd encounters. He truly believed that people weren't trying to hurt him, that their actions came from excitement and love.

But love that intense could still be overwhelming.

You'd seen it yourself. You'd watched the tension settle into his shoulders after difficult crowd situations. You'd seen the relief on his face when hotel room doors finally closed behind him, and the noise disappeared. Being surrounded by thousands of people who all wanted a piece of him at the same time was exhausting, no matter how much he cared about them. Michael understood their intentions, but understanding them didn't make those moments any less frightening.

The rest of the show continues much the same way, with you watching Michael from the wings with admiration and love in your eyes. Every time his gaze finds yours through the sea of flashing lights and screaming fans, your heart reacts exactly as it always has. Years together haven't changed that. If anything, they've only made you appreciate him more.

Your cheeks flush whenever Michael looks at you after singing a certain line with a smile on his face, fully aware of what he's doing. There is always a particular softness in those smiles, something that belongs to you rather than the audience. Then come the attempted winks that never fail to make you laugh. After all these years, Michael still can't close just one eye. He tries every single time, but instead of the smooth, charming wink he intends, both eyes squeeze shut before he grins at you as though nothing went wrong at all.

It's ridiculous and endearing all at once, and standing there in the wings while the biggest entertainer in the world performs for tens of thousands of people, you find yourself smiling even wider. For all the screaming crowds, flashing cameras, and unbelievable fame surrounding him, moments like these still feel strangely private. Just a brief exchange across a stage, a smile, a failed wink, and the quiet reminder that beneath everything else, Michael is still the same man you fell in love with.

When the show is over, Bill leads you back to Michael's dressing room while he finishes wrapping things up backstage. The distant roar of the crowd still echoes through the stadium walls, lingering long after the final song has ended, and it makes you smile to yourself as you wait. Watching Michael perform never gets old. It doesn't matter how many shows you've seen or how many years you've spent by his side. There is still something magical about standing in the wings and watching him command an entire stadium.

A few moments later, the door opens.

Michael steps inside with damp curls sticking to his forehead, his skin still glistening slightly from the show. The adrenaline is practically radiating off him, visible in the quickness of his movements and the brightness in his eyes. The second he sees you standing there, his entire face lights up.

He doesn't hesitate.

He closes the gap between you and lifts you into his arms as he hugs you tightly. You smile as you wrap yourself tightly around him, hugging him back just as hard. The two of you haven't seen each other in a few months due to your busy filming schedule and his rehearsal schedule.

The separation hadn't been horrible, but that didn't make it easy. Months of missed dinners, rushed phone calls, and schedules that seemed determined to keep the two of you moving in opposite directions had left you both missing the simple things. Being held by him now feels like finally getting something back that had been missing for far too long.

"I'm so happy you're here, mama. I missed you so much," Michael says as he holds you closer, as if he lets go for even a second, you'll be gone again.

A small giggle escapes you from how much he's squeezing you, but you smile as you squeeze him back, because you did miss him so much. His rehearsals and everything leading up to the tour and your filming schedule had you guys on opposite schedules.

When Michael would be getting in after rehearsing all night, you were already awake and leaving home for a 4 am call time, and by the time you'd get home from set, Michael was in rehearsals. But the two of you would leave notes for the other to find to let each other know that you're always thinking about each other and you love each other.

Over time, those little notes became part of your routine. Some mornings you'd find one waiting beside the coffee pot before leaving for work, while other days he'd discover one tucked into his rehearsal bag. They were small reminders that no matter how exhausted either of you became, neither of you was ever far from the other's thoughts.

Sometimes, if Michael would get back from rehearsals before you had to get up for set, you would feel him wrap his arms around you in the middle of the night and pull you close. You'd wake up just enough to kiss him, and you'd fall right back asleep again, but deeper once you were wrapped up in him. Even half-asleep, there was always an immediate sense of comfort that came from knowing he was finally home. Those brief moments often felt more intimate than entire days spent together because they were so effortless, neither of you asking anything of the other except to be there.

"You were so amazing out there, baby... every time you perform, it's magical," you say to him, and you watch as his cheeks flush. He looks down at the ground, gently biting the inside of his cheek.

The reaction makes your heart melt every time. No matter how many awards he wins or how many stadiums he fills, there is still a part of Michael that gets shy whenever the praise comes from you.

"Oh, I don't know, there were some—" he starts to say, but you cut him off and gently shush him. You already know exactly where he's going with that sentence. Michael could put on the performance of a lifetime and still somehow find something to critique afterward.

"Baby... you put on an amazing show, like you always do," you say with a smile, and then you look at him with a small smirk. "And now, I can't wait to get back to the hotel for the encore," you say, and Michael's eyes widen before his lips settle into a smirk.

The blush vanishes instantly, and his entire expression changes. The performer who was just trying to downplay his own success disappears, replaced by your husband, whose attention has suddenly shifted somewhere far more interesting.

His hand settles against your cheek, his thumb slowly brushing across your jaw as his eyes linger on your face. "Is that right, mama?" He asks softly, and you smile while nodding.

"That's right," you say, and Michael quietly laughs as he leans in and kisses you.

Your hands lay flat against his chest, and you can feel the fast rhythm of his heart. Michael always still has pent-up energy after a performance, and you feel that radiating through him now as he kisses you deeply with hunger. A small sound escapes from the back of your throat, and Michael kisses you harder when he hears it.

When he pulls away, you're slightly breathless and warm all over. Michael smiles at you before taking a step back so he can change out of his stage clothes and back into casual clothes.

The look he gives you makes heat creep into your cheeks all over again. There is something undeniably pleasing about the way he's looking at you, like he's thoroughly enjoying the effect he still has on you after all these years. Married life had never dulled the spark between you. If anything, it had only made the connection deeper, more familiar, and infinitely more dangerous whenever the two of you had been forced apart for months at a time.

You turn away so you don't distract him while he's getting undressed, because you both know you would, but you know you'll have plenty of time for that when you're back at the hotel.

For once, neither of you has to say goodbye in a few hours. There won't be an early call time pulling you away before sunrise or another rehearsal keeping Michael occupied until the middle of the night. For the next three months, you'll wake up beside him instead of finding another note on the pillow where he should have been.

Once Michael is dressed, he opens the door to the dressing room where Bill is standing outside waiting for you both.

"Ready, Joker?" Bill asks, and Michael laughs, the sound warm and unguarded as he shakes his head at the nickname. You smile too, watching the familiar exchange between them before nodding and following Bill toward the car. Even though the concert ended several minutes ago, the energy outside the venue hasn't faded at all.

Fans are still gathered everywhere, screaming, crying, and calling Michael's name the second they catch sight of him. The devotion is impossible to ignore. Through the window, Michael continues waving as Bill slowly navigates through the chaos, security working to clear a path while more people surge forward for one last look. You've seen this countless times over the years, yet it still amazes you how deeply people love him.

By the time the car finally pulls away from the venue, some of the noise has faded into the distance, leaving behind a rare pocket of quiet.

Almost immediately, you find yourself gravitating toward Michael.

Your arms slip around his waist, your head settling naturally onto his shoulder, while his arm wraps around you without hesitation. His fingers begin tracing idle patterns against your arm, and the simple familiarity of it makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.

For months, you've been missing moments exactly like this. Being able to lean against him at the end of the day, feeling his arm around you, and listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing while neither of you is rushing off to the next obligation. The touch is so familiar that it almost hurts, a reminder of how long you've both been surviving on phone calls, handwritten notes, and brief glimpses of one another between impossible schedules.

"How's the movie going, baby? I can't wait to see it," Michael says, and you smile.

You'd been working on a new film, Dirty Dancing, alongside Patrick Swayze, and despite preparing for a world tour, Michael had still managed to find time to visit the set whenever he could. The disguises were always amusing because they never worked on you. You could spot him instantly, no matter what he was wearing; whether it was a hat, sunglasses, or oversized clothes, it never mattered because you always knew when he was there.

Most of those visits ended with you trying not to laugh at how obvious his jealousy was whenever Patrick got a little too friendly between takes. Patrick was charming and easy to get along with, which naturally meant the cast spent a lot of time together, but every now and then, you'd glance across the set and find Michael watching with an expression that practically screamed that he was trying very hard not to be bothered. You never paid Patrick any mind beyond friendship, but there was something incredibly endearing about the way your husband could command an entire stadium of screaming fans and still get jealous when another man made you laugh.

"Are you sure you're going to be able to handle the movie? I mean, just visiting on set, you got jealous," you tease, and Michael's cheeks flush as he bites down on his lip, and you almost start laughing before he even answers. After all these years together, he still gets caught every single time.

"Yeah, well... I didn't like the way Patrick was all over you, even after the director called cut... it was unnecessary," Michael says, and you laugh a little while looking up at him. The pout in his voice only makes it worse.

"You know I only have eyes for you, baby," you say, and the second the words leave your mouth, something soft settles across his features. The insecurity vanishes along with the jealousy, leaving behind the look Michael always gets whenever you remind him he's loved.

He smiles before leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. You kiss him back immediately, your hand sliding against his chest as warmth spreads through you. No matter how much time passes, moments like this never become ordinary. Being loved by Michael has always felt like being treasured, and after months apart, that feeling is stronger than ever.

The car comes to a stop before either of you is ready to pull away, and you smile at him.

"I'm ready for my encore," you tease. Michael immediately drops his head, smiling as he bites his lip, and the blush crawling back into his cheeks is answer enough.

"You're so bad, mama," Michael says, and you laugh softly before leaning over to kiss his cheek. For a second, it feels like the rest of the world doesn't exist, and the only thing that matters is the two of you finally being together again after months apart.

Then Bill turns around, and by the look on his face, you can tell it's something serious. "Somehow it got out where you're staying, as you can see, even the private entrance is surrounded by fans. Stay close, okay?" Bill says.

The shift is enough to change the atmosphere inside the car, dulling some of the playful warmth that had filled the ride back from the venue. You nod, and Michael's hand settles on your shoulders before he looks down at you.

"Don't let go of my hand, okay, mama?" He says. The teasing smile doesn't disappear entirely, but enough of it fades for you to notice the concern underneath.

You nod immediately because you know exactly what that tone means. Over the years, you've learned to recognize the moments when Michael is genuinely worried. He loves his fans more than almost anyone, but crowds have always made him nervous in ways people rarely understand. It isn't because he's afraid for himself. If anything, Michael has always worried far more about losing sight of the people he loves once a crowd becomes large enough to stop behaving like individuals and start moving as one.

His fingers find yours before either of you even leaves the car, and you squeeze his hand automatically in response, a silent promise that you're right here and not going anywhere. As soon as Bill opens the car door, the noise crashes over you, hundreds of voices colliding together at once in a deafening mixture of screams, sobs, and desperate calls for Michael's attention.

The other members of the security team had cleared a path for you, but you can already see the fans pushing against it. Michael steps out first and immediately turns back for you, one hand helping you from the car while the other wraps securely around you, the second your feet touch the ground.

While you do love how much Michael is loved, this part does get really overwhelming at times.

The reality of being inside a crowd like this is completely different than watching it from a distance. The emotion is overwhelming. People are sobbing, shouting, and reaching from every direction, every face turned toward Michael and every movement seemingly directed at him. You can feel the desperation in the air, thousands of people wanting the same thing at the same time: one touch, one glance, one moment that they'll remember forever.

Without realizing it, you move closer to Michael, and his arm tightens around you instantly. The response is automatic, protective, and familiar, born from years of navigating situations exactly like this together.

The next few seconds pass quickly and in slow motion all at once.

The crowd starts pushing against the barricade, and soon you and Michael are surrounded. Bill is trying to get to you both while the rest of the security detail are trying to get the fans back. They're screaming, crying, and reaching for Michael.

At first, it feels like something security will get under control, but then the crowd surges again, and the carefully cleared path begins disappearing. Bodies press closer together, hands appear from every direction, and the noise grows so loud that it becomes almost impossible to distinguish one voice from another.

You feel Michael's grip tighten around yours so suddenly that your attention snaps to him. The playful, affectionate husband who spent the car ride blushing over your teasing is gone. In his place is the version of Michael that always emerges when things become chaotic, hyperaware of everything around him and entirely focused on keeping you close.

His arm stays locked around your shoulders, his hand never leaving yours as he repeatedly glances down to make sure you're still beside him. Around you, the crowd continues pushing forward despite security's attempts to force them back, while fans keep reaching toward Michael from every direction.

And deep in your stomach, a knot of unease begins to twist tighter and tighter as the situation slips further beyond anyone's control.

And for one terrifying second, you don't feel Michael next to you anymore, and Michael feels the moment you're not against him either. The crowd surges between you so suddenly that neither of you has time to react, and the panic that follows is immediate. One moment, his arm is around you and his hand is firmly wrapped around yours, and the next, you're reaching through a sea of strangers trying desperately to find him again.

You hear him shout your name, but he sounds so far away that you're not even sure where to look. The noise of the crowd swallows everything, hundreds of voices colliding together until they become one overwhelming roar, and all you can think about is finding Michael before the distance between you grows any larger.

Then you feel someone grab you.

The grip is so rough that your stomach immediately drops because you know without looking that it isn't him. Michael has always touched you carefully and instinctively protective in the middle of chaos, but whoever is holding you now is gripping hard enough to hurt as they abruptly turn you around. You come face-to-face with an older woman, and your eyes widen in shock at the fury written across her face. Before you can say anything, before you can even process what's happening, she's already screaming.

"You don't deserve someone like him! You don't get him like we do!" The words barely have time to register before white-hot, agonizing pain explodes through your side. It tears through you so violently that a scream rips from your throat before you can stop it, and the sound cuts through the crowd with a force that immediately sends Michael spinning around.

For a split second, he catches sight of the woman disappearing back into the crowd, slipping between people before security can react, but then he sees you. He sees your knees buckle beneath you, and suddenly, nothing else matters.

Bill and several members of security are already moving toward you because they heard you scream, and the fans closest to the scene begin realizing something is horribly wrong. The excitement that had filled the crowd only moments earlier dissolves into shock as people stare at the blood spreading across your clothes. Several of them instinctively begin backing away, creating space as Michael forces his way toward you and security struggles to regain control of the crowd.

You barely register any of it.

The noise around you feels distant now, muffled beneath the overwhelming pain radiating through your side. You can still hear Michael yelling your name somewhere nearby, but it sounds fuzzy, like he's speaking from the other end of a tunnel. Your legs give out completely, and your body hits the ground hard before momentum carries you backward. The back of your head slams against the concrete with enough force to send dizziness crashing through you immediately, and black spots begin swimming across your vision as the world tilts violently out of focus.

Michael reaches you the moment he sees your head strike the ground. One second, he's fighting through the crowd, the next he's on his knees beside you.

His eyes are wide with horror as they dart across your body before settling on the blood covering your abdomen. Every trace of color drains from his face. His hands tremble as he reaches for you, terrified of hurting you and terrified not to touch you at all.

"Baby... baby, look at me," he chokes out, his voice already breaking.

Bill reaches you a moment later, and even he looks shaken by what he sees. His eyes widen before years of experience force him into action. He immediately turns toward one of the other bodyguards and orders them to get the car started again while dropping to his knees beside you.

"Michael... Michael," Bill says as he kneels in front of you both. He's already pulling off his jacket, folding it before pressing it firmly against your wound. "She's losing blood too fast for us to wait for an ambulance; we have to get her back to the car," Bill says, but Michael barely processes the words.

All he can do is stare at you in his arms, bleeding, barely conscious, and none of it feels real.

Tears spill down his face as he cradles your head against his chest. His entire body is shaking. The guilt arrives almost instantly, vicious and relentless, sinking its claws into him before he can stop it. He knew how crowds got whenever he was in town. He'd lived with this level of fame for years. Ever since Thriller, crowds had followed him everywhere, and the entire time he'd been in Japan, he'd been met by overwhelming mobs of fans at every turn.

He should have known; he should have planned better for this. He should have done something. Instead, you're lying in his arms, covered in blood, and the thought of you possibly dying is tearing him apart.

"Michael... we gotta move her, Joker," Bill says again.

This time, the words manage to break through. Michael finally looks up at him, his eyes red and filled with panic, before he nods. Bill is right. They have to get you to a hospital.

As carefully as if you're made of glass, Michael slides one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back before lifting you into his arms. The movement draws a weak sound from you, and the noise nearly destroys him all over again.

"I'm sorry," he whispers immediately. "I'm so sorry, baby."

Bill leads the way while security clears a path, and within seconds, they're back at the car. As soon as the doors close behind them, the vehicle takes off toward the nearest hospital.

You drift in and out of consciousness as Michael holds you against his chest. The blood loss is making everything feel heavy, the blow to your head is making it difficult to focus, and every time your eyes start to close, Michael's panic seems to spike all over again.

"You're gonna be okay... please, just stay with me, baby," Michael cries into your hair.

His hand remains firmly pressed over Bill's jacket, helping maintain pressure on your wound, while tears continue streaming uncontrollably down his face. Across from him, Bill is already on the phone with the hospital, informing them who is coming and exactly what happened, making it very clear that Michael wants everything handled as quickly and privately as possible.

But Michael barely hears any of it; his entire world has narrowed to you: the weight of you in his arms, the blood staining his hands, and the desperate hope that when they reach the hospital, it won't already be too late.

"How she doing?" Bill asks as he turns around to look at you both. One of the other security personnel was driving.

Michael looks down at you again, and the sight makes fresh tears burn behind his eyes. Your body is limp against his chest, your head resting beneath his chin exactly where it always fits so naturally, but there is nothing familiar about this. Your skin feels cold and clammy, your breathing has become frighteningly shallow, and no matter how tightly he holds you, he can't stop the blood soaking through Bill's jacket.

"I–I don't know. Her breathing is slowing down... T–There's so much blood, Bill," Michael cries as he looks at you helplessly.

His voice trembles so badly that he barely recognizes it as his own. One hand remains cradling the back of your head while the other stays pressed near your wound, afraid to move, afraid to do anything that might somehow make things worse. Every few seconds, his eyes drop to your face, searching for any sign that you're still with him. The only thing keeping him from completely falling apart is the faint rise and fall of your chest. As long as you're breathing, he can still convince himself that everything is going to be okay.

The ride feels endless.

Every second stretches painfully longer than it should, and by the time the hospital finally comes into view, Michael feels as though he's lived through an entire lifetime of fear in the space of a few minutes.

The moment the car stops, doctors and nurses are already rushing toward them. Everything happens so quickly that Michael barely has time to process it. Medical staff carefully lift you from his arms and transfer you onto a gurney while doctors begin firing questions at one another, and nurses call out instructions. Michael stays beside you as long as they'll allow, walking alongside the gurney as it races through the hospital corridors.

The sterile smell of the hospital fills the air around him. Bright lights blur overhead. People move past him so quickly that he can barely focus on any individual face. Then he hears someone call for the operating room. The words hit him harder than he expected.

Until now, some desperate part of him had been clinging to the hope that once you reached the hospital, doctors would immediately fix everything and tell him you were going to be fine. Hearing them prepare for surgery shatters that illusion. This is serious. Serious enough that they're rushing you directly into the operating room before they've even finished assessing everything else.

His stomach twists violently because he doesn't want to let you go. Every instinct inside him is telling him to stay beside you, to follow the gurney through those doors and refuse to leave your side. The thought of you waking up frightened and alone hurts almost as much as the sight of you bleeding in his arms.

But he can't follow; all he can do is watch.

His fingers remain wrapped around yours until the very last possible second before hospital staff gently separate him and continue down the hallway. Michael stands frozen as he watches you disappear through the operating room doors, and for several long moments, he can do nothing except stare at the place where he last saw you.

Bill lays a hand on his shoulder, and the contact finally breaks through the shock that has settled over him. Michael immediately turns and folds into him. Bill's heart aches at the sight.

For years, he has watched over Michael, protected him, and helped him navigate crowds, tours, and impossible situations, but seeing him like this is different. Michael is trying so hard to stay composed, trying to hold himself together through sheer determination alone, but Bill can feel how close he is to completely breaking. Without hesitation, he wraps his arms around him.

"She's going to be okay, Joker," Bill says. Michael nods, but the tears continue falling. The reassurance helps, but not enough to quiet the terror clawing at his chest. He grips the back of Bill's shirt tightly, clinging to him in a way he rarely allows himself to do.

"I can't lose her, Bill... I–I don't know what I'd do," Michael says, his entire body shaking against Bill. The words are painfully honest. They come from a place so deep inside him that he doesn't even try to stop them.

He truly doesn't know what he would do.

The last several years of his life have been built around you. Every accomplishment, every tour, every celebration, every difficult moment has been shared with you. You're the person waiting for him when the lights go down, and the crowds disappear. You're home. The thought of a world where you aren't there is so unbearable that his mind immediately recoils from it.

"You won't... don't think like that. We've already contacted the local police, and they're out looking for the person who did it," Bill says. Michael slowly nods.

The information doesn't erase the fear consuming him, but it does bring a small measure of relief. Ever since the attack happened, a part of him has been terrified that whoever hurt you would simply disappear back into the crowd without consequence. Knowing the police are actively searching for them gives him something to hold onto, however small it might be.

Eventually, Bill helps him sit down, though Michael remains close beside him. The hours that follow feel almost impossible to endure.

Time seems to move differently inside the waiting room. Minutes drag into what feels like entire days, and every time someone walks through the doors, Michael looks up with immediate hope before disappointment settles in all over again. He spends part of the time sitting beside Bill, part of the time pacing the floor, and part of the time quietly approaching nurses to ask whether there have been any updates.

There never are, not because anyone is ignoring him or they don't care, but because you're still in surgery and there really are no updates. The nurses can see exactly how frightened he is, and it genuinely makes them sad.

Each time he approaches the desk, his eyes immediately drift toward the operating room hallway before he asks if anyone has heard anything. His voice is always polite, always soft, but the panic underneath it is impossible to miss. Several of the nurses find themselves wishing they had something reassuring to tell him because watching him wait is heartbreaking.

Outside the hospital, the rest of the world continues moving forward.

News of the attack spreads rapidly across television stations and newspapers. Reports begin circulating everywhere about what happened outside the hotel. The hospital's location remains private, but speculation about your condition quickly becomes international news. Michael barely notices. The waiting room has become his entire world; nothing exists beyond the operating room doors.

When a doctor finally emerges several hours later, Michael is on his feet before the man has fully entered the room. A translator accompanies him, and Michael's heart pounds so hard that he can barely hear anything else. As the doctor begins speaking, the translator carefully explains that your surgery was successful and that you're now stable.

The relief that crashes through Michael is so overwhelming that he physically sags where he stands. For the first time since the attack, he feels as though he can finally breathe.

His eyes immediately fill with tears again, but these are different. They come from the sudden release of hours of fear and tension that had been holding his entire body hostage. He closes his eyes briefly and lowers his head, silently thanking God for letting you survive.

The translator continues explaining that the doctors would like to keep you for at least two days while they monitor your recovery and make sure your stitches begin healing properly.

Michael says that's fine. The dates barely register in his mind as the translator continues speaking. It's October 4th, and he doesn't have to be in Osaka until the 10th. Under normal circumstances, those details would matter. There were contracts, schedules, and venues full of people waiting to see him perform. Right now, none of that feels important.

The only thing that matters is that you're alive. If the doctors decided you needed another week, another month, or even another year in that hospital bed, Michael would stay without hesitation. The tour could wait. The shows could be rescheduled. Nothing in his career, no matter how important, had ever mattered more than you.

When the doctor finally tells him he can see you, Michael thanks him before immediately asking for your room number. The walk to your room feels both too long and not long enough. By the time he reaches the door, his heart is racing all over again. He pauses in the doorway and inhales sharply.

The room is quiet, and seeing you lying in the hospital bed sends a fresh ache through his chest.

Your eyes are closed. Your face is pale. The steady rhythm of the monitors beside you is the only sound breaking the silence. Michael knows the medication in your IV is probably responsible for how deeply asleep you are. The doctors already explained that you'd be heavily medicated after surgery.

He knows and understands that, but after spending hours wondering whether you were going to survive, seeing you so still is unsettling in a way he can't quite explain.

The relief of knowing you're alive remains overwhelming, and now that the immediate crisis has passed, another emotion begins settling heavily over him: standing there looking at you lying in a hospital bed, pale beneath the fluorescent lights and surrounded by machines, makes it impossible for him to escape the reality of how close he came to losing you. The relief of knowing you're alive is tangled so tightly with the guilt that he can barely separate the two. Every time he looks at the bandages covering your abdomen, all he can think about is the fact that the attack never should have happened in the first place.

Michael has always defended his fans.

Even after difficult crowd situations, he was usually the first person to remind his security that they meant well. He understood the excitement, the emotions, and what it felt like for people to finally see someone they admired standing right in front of them. Most of the time, he knew they weren't trying to be frightening. They simply got caught up in the moment and didn't realize how overwhelming those situations could become.

But this wasn't that; this wasn't simple excitement or someone accidentally getting carried away.

The woman who attacked you had looked directly at you before she did it. She had spoken to you. She had made a conscious decision to hurt you, and no matter how many times Michael turns that reality over in his head, he can't make sense of it. He can't understand how someone who claims to love him could intentionally hurt the woman he loves. He can't understand how anyone could look at his wife and see an enemy instead of the person who brought so much happiness into his life.

The thought leaves an ache in his chest that refuses to go away.

Slowly, he steps further into the room and moves toward your bedside. The chair beside the bed scrapes softly against the floor as he pulls it closer, positioning it as near to you as possible before sitting down. The moment his hand gently closes around yours, some of the panic that has been consuming him for hours eases ever so slightly.

For the first time since they took you away for surgery, he can finally touch you again.

The warmth of his hand reaches you immediately.

Everything feels distant and heavy beneath the medication, your body still exhausted from surgery and blood loss, but Michael's touch cuts through the haze almost instantly. It's familiar in a way that requires no thought. Your eyes slowly flutter open, and after a few moments of trying to focus, your gaze lands on him.

The sight nearly breaks your heart.

His curls are a mess from repeatedly dragging his fingers through them while pacing the hospital floors. His eyes are swollen and red, his face exhausted in a way you've rarely seen before, and tears are still slipping silently down his cheeks as he looks at you.

"Michael..." you softly rasp. The sound of your voice undoes him completely, and a small sob escapes from the back of his throat.

For hours, he had been sitting outside an operating room imagining a future he couldn't bear to think about. Even after the doctor told him your surgery had been successful, a part of him remained terrified. Hearing your voice now makes everything real in a different way. You're awake, looking at him, and talking to him.

"I'm so sorry, baby," Michael says as he shakes his head, and you slightly frown.

"It's not your fault, Michael..." you say, gently squeezing his hand, although Michael could feel how weak the squeeze was, which tore through him all over again.

His eyes immediately drop to your hand before lifting back to your face. Normally, your touch is so full of life and certainty that he never has to think about it. Seeing how much effort something so simple requires right now is another reminder of what you've just survived.

"You got attacked... by someone claiming they're a fan of me," he says, and you let out a breath.

"I know, baby... that doesn't mean it's your fault... You didn't tell her to attack me," you say, and Michael frowns. "She's a grown woman who made a choice... don't carry that with you, it's not your fault," you say, and Michael sniffles, using the back of his hand to wipe his eyes, but tears are still falling.

Your words settle over him gently, and he wishes they were enough to erase the guilt sitting in his chest, because he knows you're right. He knows he didn't tell that woman to attack you. He knows he would have done anything to stop it if he'd had the chance, but knowing those things doesn't stop the memories from replaying every time he closes his eyes.

He can still feel the panic that shot through him when he realized he couldn't feel your hand anymore drumming softly beneath his skin. He still sees himself turning around and searching desperately through a sea of strangers, trying to find you. He can still hear your scream, a sound so filled with pain and shock that it immediately cut through the noise of hundreds of people. Most of all, he's still replaying reaching you on the ground and seeing blood spreading across your clothes while you struggled to stay conscious in his arms.

And it all still makes his stomach twist.

"There was so much... I was so scared, I—" You gently cut him off.

"I'd never leave you, Michael... I'm not done using my cuteness to get whatever I want," you softly tease. For a moment, he simply stares at you. The joke is completely ridiculous. You're lying in a hospital bed after emergency surgery, still groggy from medication, and somehow you're still trying to make him feel better.

A laugh escapes him before he can stop it, soft and shaky through the tears still clinging to his lashes. He shakes his head, and watching that familiar smile begin to return to his face makes something inside your chest loosen. Since waking up, you've been watching him carry the weight of what happened, watching him blame himself for something that never belonged to him in the first place. You know Michael. You know how deeply he loves, how deeply he hurts, and how easily he takes responsibility for things outside of his control.

If anyone was going to leave this hospital carrying emotional scars from tonight, it was going to be him, and that was the last thing you wanted. Seeing him laugh, even for a few seconds, feels like finally pulling him back toward you.

"The police are looking for who did it... they'll probably want to come talk to you... The doctor said they want to keep you under observation for a couple of days. Is that okay?" Michael asks, and you look at him.

"When do you need to be in Osaka?" you ask.

"Baby, that doesn't matter right now," he says, and you frown.

"Yes, it does... this is your first solo tour," you say. Michael looks at you in disbelief. The fact that you're worrying about him right now feels almost impossible for him to comprehend. You're the one lying in a hospital bed. You're the one recovering from surgery. Yet somehow you're still thinking about his career.

He says your name, and the seriousness in his voice immediately tells you exactly how strongly he feels about this. "You almost died... I don't care about the tour right now," Michael says.

The words immediately bring tears to your eyes.

You aren't trying to diminish what happened. You aren't pretending the attack wasn't terrifying. Every ache in your body reminds you just how real it was. But you also know what this tour means to him because you've watched him spend months pouring every ounce of himself into it.

You've seen the excitement in his eyes whenever he talked about new ideas for the show. You've listened to him discuss choreography, staging, costumes, and transitions long after both of you should have gone to sleep. You've watched him work himself into exhaustion because he wanted everything to be perfect.

The Bad Tour isn't just another tour. It's the first time Michael has truly been given the freedom to create something entirely his own. When Off the Wall became a massive success, there wasn't a solo tour. When Thriller became the biggest album in the world, there wasn't a solo tour.

Instead, there were the Triumph and Victory Tours, responsibilities shared with his brothers, compromises that often left him feeling creatively boxed in, and expectations that never fully reflected what he wanted to do as an artist. You know how difficult parts of that experience were for him. You know how badly he wanted the chance to build something that belonged entirely to him.

Now he's finally doing it, he's finally standing onstage exactly the way he's always dreamed of.

And then this happens.

You know none of it is your fault. The blame belongs entirely to the woman who attacked you. But, looking at Michael sitting beside your hospital bed with tear-stained cheeks and exhausted eyes, you can't stop yourself from worrying that something he's waited years to achieve might be disrupted before it's even truly begun.

"I'm going to be okay. We can have the private physician travel with us to keep monitoring me," you say, and Michael sighs.

The suggestion clearly doesn't reassure him nearly as much as you'd hoped it would. Ever since he walked into the room and saw you lying in that hospital bed, every thought he has seems to circle back to the same thing. You're hurt, recovering from surgery, and you're supposed to be resting. The tour, the schedule, the logistics of getting from one country to another all feel insignificant compared to the fact that you're here and alive.

"We'll worry about that after you're discharged, okay?" He says, and you nod. "You should get some rest... do you need anything?" Michael asks, and you shake your head.

Your body feels heavy beneath the effects of the medication, and exhaustion is beginning to pull at you again. The pain is manageable for now, dulled by the medication flowing through the IV, but what you want has very little to do with the physical discomfort.

"Lay with me?" You ask.

Michael's eyes soften immediately. The request is simple, but it means everything.

The last several hours have been some of the most terrifying of both your lives. You've spent them separated by operating room doors, fear, uncertainty, and circumstances neither of you could control. Now that you're finally together again, neither of you wants distance.

Michael nods because, as much as you're feeling the need to be held, he also needs to hold you, to feel you in his arms, to really know you're okay and that you're not going anywhere.

He stands from the chair and carefully removes his jacket, draping it over the back before slipping off his shoes. Every movement is quiet and deliberate, as though the room itself feels fragile. Once he's finished, he carefully climbs into the hospital bed beside you, taking extra care not to jostle you more than necessary.

The mattress shifts slightly beneath his weight. Michael settles behind you and gently wraps his arms around you before slowly bringing you against his chest. Even something as familiar as holding you makes him cautious now. Normally, when the two of you cuddle like this, his hand naturally settles across your stomach without him even thinking about it. After years together, it's simply where it belongs, but tonight, he hesitates.

His hand hovers uncertainly for a moment because he isn't entirely sure where the wound is beneath the blankets and hospital gown, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt you, and you feel the hesitation immediately. Carefully reaching for his hand, you guide it yourself and rest it against your stomach in a spot safely away from the stitches.

"Are you sure, baby?" He asks, and you nod, gently tightening your fingers around his.

"It's okay... you're not going to irritate the stitches," you say. Michael nods before leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss against the back of your head.

Neither of you says anything for a moment. The steady beeping of the monitor fills the silence, replacing the chaos that had surrounded both of you only hours earlier.

"I love you so much, mama... I don't know what I would do without you," Michael whispers. The words settle deeply in your chest.

Ever since you woke up, you've watched him trying to hold himself together. You've seen the fear in his eyes, heard it in his voice, and felt it in the way he's refused to let go of your hand. For all the conversations you've had about the attack, this might be the most honest thing he's said.

He truly doesn't know what he would do without you. The possibility alone nearly destroyed him.

A soft smile pulls at your lips as the medication begins pulling you back toward sleep. "I love you more, Michael," you whisper back.

His arms tighten around you slightly, not enough to hurt, but just to keep you close. Gradually, he feels your body growing heavier against him as sleep begins reclaiming you. Your breathing becomes slower and softer, settling into a steady rhythm that immediately eases some of the tension that has been lodged inside his chest since the attack.

Michael remains awake for several more minutes, listening to your breathing, the quiet beeping of the monitor, and the steady rhythm of your heart.

Every sound reassures him in a way words never could.

Hours ago, he sat outside an operating room, wondering if he would ever get to hold you again. Now you're safe in his arms, warm against his chest exactly where you belong. The realization settles over him slowly, and for the first time all night, he allows himself to stop bracing for the worst.

He nestles closer, resting his head gently against yours, and closes his eyes.

The warmth of your body, the familiar feeling of holding you, and the steady confirmation that you're still here gradually quiet the fear that has been consuming him for hours. Wrapped around you in the hospital bed, Michael finally lets himself believe what the doctors have been telling him all evening.