You woke up first.

The light coming through the bedroom window was the grey of a New York morning after rain — it wasn't quite harsh, more like the gentler kind of sky that allowed you to keep the lights off at home, powered only by the cloud.

This kind of weather made the room look like a photograph someone had taken with an old SLR camera, slightly underexposed. Your bedside lamp was still on from the night before which brought a slight warmth to the otherwise still room.

You had no memory of getting into the bed. You had a vague memory of him carrying you, sometime around three, after the second round, when neither of you had been able to keep your eyes open any longer.

You were warm.

You were warm because Michael was wrapped around you from behind, one of his arms heavy across your waist and one of his legs hooked over yours, and his breath was slow and warm against the back of your neck.

You lay still for a long time. You did not want to move. To risk waking him would mean that he might once again try to leave, clouded by his insecurity.

Instead, you watched the grey light shift on the ceiling and you let yourself feel, properly, what it felt like to wake up with him actually in your life. He wasn't just a side character that reared his head when things needed to get interesting, or propel the plot forward. He was a real, living, breathing, perfect thing you wanted to hold onto forever.

Light.

That was the word for it.

Everything in your body felt lighter. Your shoulders. Your jaw unclenched. You had been carrying what felt like 3 tonnes of anxiety for three months without ever realising you were doing it.

All of it had loosened in the night. You had not understood, until now, how much you had been holding. How much energy it had taken to be the woman who held back, who let him set the pace, who was patient and grown up and careful.

You were not going to be that woman anymore. You would not hold back. Not with him. Not when you had so much to lose.

He shifted behind you. A small sound in his throat, sleepy, contented. His arm tightened briefly around your waist and then went slack again.

He wasn't quite awake yet. You could feel his eyelashes against the nape of your neck, him off in some dream world.

You closed your eyes. You smiled into the pillow.

He stirred properly about twenty minutes later.

You felt him wake up by degrees — first the shift in his breathing, then a small stretch of his arm across you, then a kind of confused pause where you knew he was working out where he was. You waited, happily on him letting it all come back.

His face pressed into the curve of your shoulder.

"Morning," you said.

He made a noise that was not quite a word.

"You alive back there?"

"Mm."

You laughed. You felt him laugh too, a small huff of breath against your skin.

He propped himself up on one elbow behind you. You turned over to face him.

His hair was a complete disaster. It had been wet when you fell asleep and had dried into something that looked like a small animal had been living in it. There was a faint pink mark on his cheekbone where he had been pressed against the rug for an hour before you'd made it to the bed. He blinked at you in the grey light, looking sleepy and rumpled and not at all like the most famous man in the world.

He looked at you for a long minute without saying anything.

Then —

"It's you."

"Hi." You said back, meekly.

He smiled. The real one. One you think you might have only ever seen a rare few times. There wasn't anything hiding behind it anymore.

"You're still here," you said.

"Where would I have gone?"

"I don't know. I half thought I'd wake up and find a note."

"A note." He said, surprised.

"On the kitchen counter. Something polite. Dear Y/N. Thank you for last night. I have several pressing engagements in Geneva."

He laughed, a loud, achingly cute cackle. He buried his face in the pillow next to yours after realising how loud he was.

"Geneva." He mumbled.

"It very well could have happened, knowing your crazy schedule."

"I don't even know where Geneva is."

"It's in Switzerland, Michael."

"Okay, well I do know where Switzerland is."

He turned his face back toward you.

The look on his face reminded you of the first dinner you had. It had only been a few months back, but everything just felt so different. You felt like you had known him in all of the alternate universes.

He reached out and brushed a strand of your hair out of your face. His hand stayed at your jaw afterward. He just held it there for a moment.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. Quiet and caring.

You thought about it.

"Lighter," you said. "I feel really light."

He nodded slowly.

"Me too."

There was a beat.

"I was so tired," he said. "I didn't know how tired I was until I flopped into your comfy bed."

"I know."

"I've been carrying this for so long. I don't know how long. Years, maybe. Just a genuine disbelief that anything romantic could ever work out for me"

"I know, love."

The word came out before you knew you were going to say it. You had never called him that before. Not in the time you had spent together You had been so careful with the names you used for him, so professional about it — Michael. It felt almost too formal now.

He didn't say anything. But you saw his eyes change. Soft and surprised and a little wet.

You watched him take the word and hold it.

Then he leaned over, and kissed you. Slow. Lazy. A morning kiss.

He tasted like sleep.

His mouth was warm and unhurried and there was no urgency in him, none of the desperation of last night, just a man kissing a woman, not allowing preconceived false truths to hold him back.

When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead against yours.

"I want to make you breakfast," he said.

"Do you cook?"

"I cook a… little."

"How little?"

He looked at you, eyes serious, still very close. You could see his smile lines, his eyes bare, no eyeliner, no makeup at all really. He was gorgeous  his skin patchy in areas, but it felt a little like looking at constellations.

"I can make toast."

"That is not cooking, Michael." You stated, matter of factly.

"I have a range of toast techniques."

You couldn't help but cackle now. You threw your head back, completely unguarded. He looked so genuinely pleased with himself for the joke.

"Alright," you recovered. "Show me your range, Jackson."

₊˚°⊹˚

Your kitchen, in the daylight, looked exactly like what it was; a small, gritty New York apartment kitchen that had been chosen by a single woman in her early thirties, who did most of her serious eating at the restaurants other people took her to.

There was a kettle, and an old vintage toaster; a loaf of sourdough on the counter from the bakery on the corner, which you bought every Sunday and which lasted you until Thursday; you mostly ate it as toast at 3am when the adrenaline from the show was haunting you.

It sat lamely beside your fruit bowl, that looked like it belonged in a sad conceptual painting hung in a museum.

He stood in the middle of your kitchen in a pair of his boxer shorts and the undershirt he had been wearing last night, hands on his hips. He surveyed your countertop like a man planning an expedition.

"Right," he said. "Toast."

He whipped his head around to you as you hovered in the doorway.

"Do you have butter?"

"I have butter, in the refrigerator."

"Do you have jam?"

"I might have jam."

"Then we are well within my range, m'lady."

You sat down at your kitchen table in his dress shirt — the one from the night before, the white one, which you had pulled on while he was still asleep and which came halfway down your thighs — and you watched him.

He was so focused on the toast.

"Michael."

"Mm."

"You can walk away. It'll pop up when it's done."

"I prefer to monitor the cooking situation."

You just eyed him, unsure that toasting bread could be labelled 'cooking'.

"I have had bad experiences." He finally said, breaking the brief pause.

"With toast?"

He turned around and grinned at you, clearly not wishing to elaborate.

It was a cheeky and boyish look.

The toaster popped.

His face did something complicated.

"It's a bit dark," he said.

You got up and then looked into the toaster.

The toast was quite literally jet black.

Not lightly browned, or slightly singed like some folks liked. Black. Like coal. There was a faint wisp of smoke coming off it.

You pressed your hand to your mouth.

"Michael."

"I genuinely thought I had this in me!"

"It is on fire."

"It is not on fire."

"It was on fire, look at it."

He was laughing now, leaning on the counter with his hand over his eyes. It was coming from somewhere deep.

You had not heard him laugh like this before. You had heard the small relieved laugh in passing, and the soft, slightly cracked laugh on the phone. You had noticed around a month in that he faked so many aspects of himself, to fit in, to be like everyone else. You loved that now after your admissions to each other, and the unraveling of your feelings for each other – he was ready to bare the truth to you.

He reached for you and pulled you into him by your waist. You leaned your face on his chest, you were much shorter, so you could hear the beat of his heart from this angle. He was warm, and smelled a little like expensive aftershave and rain.

He kissed the top of your head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm going to do better. I'm going to make you better food than this."

"You have a lifetime to redeem yourself, Michael."

He went very still.

You realised what you had said about half a second after you had said it.

You looked up at him.

He was looking down at you. His eyes were enormous.

"A lifetime," he said. Quietly.

"That came out before I —"

"No," he said. "No. Don't take it back. Don't take that one back."

You looked at him for a long minute.

"Okay," you said. "I won't."

He cupped your face with both hands. He kissed you, very gently, on the forehead. Then on the bridge of your nose. Then on your mouth.

You stood in your kitchen in your bare feet, in his shirt with his arms around you and the burnt toast still smoking faintly on the counter beside you, and you thought, this is the rest of my life. This is what the rest of my life looks like. This man, with his questionable cooking skills and boyish charm.

Later in the day, after hanging around the apartment, dancing to the radio and cleaning up the mess left in the wake of heated intimacy, you finally managed to witness him cook. Well, sort of.

The slice of bread had survived Michael's wrath.

He buttered it, put jam on it and then lovingly cut it into triangles, which charmed you completely.

He set the plate down in front of you with the kind of ceremony usually reserved for a state dinner.

"My masterpiece," he said.

"Michael."

"Eat it before it gets cold."

You shovelled the toast down, realising you had not eaten since lunch the day prior.

It was lukewarm, basically like heated up bread, soft in the middle. There was entirely too much jam on it, and it was the best piece of toast you had ever eaten in your life.

₊˚°⊹˚

He had to go.

Not back to LA; not yet. To his hotel, where his people were, where Wayne, his assistant was no doubt already trying to work out where his boss had spent the night.

He stood in your doorway in his ruined suit from last night with the buttons missing on the shirt you had just been wearing, and his hair still wild and he looked, somehow, more like Michael Jackson now than he had at any point during the previous twelve hours.

The world was already pulling him back. You could see it in the way he was bracing himself to walk out into it.

You straightened his collar.

"When do you have to leave the city?"

"Friday."

"Will you let me see you tonight? After your show?"

"Of course."

"And tomorrow?"

"And tomorrow."

"And the night after that? And then whenever we possibly can?"

You smiled at him. "Yes, Michael."

He kissed you, hard. He kissed you like he was trying to memorise it, the rhythm and the feeling of it.

He was feverish; a man who had spent the entire morning being given beautiful experiences he had not believed he was allowed to want and was still in disbelief about every single one of them.

He had the domestic bliss he'd always hoped for, from a lover. Finally able to have what most people took for granted on a daily basis. The space to not be the version of himself that was strung along in narrative by the press.

He pulled back.

"I'll call Frank," he said. "I'll have him pick you up at the stage door tonight."

"Okay."

"And Y/N —"

"Yes."

His eyes were so warm, his smile creating squishible cheeks and smile lines.

"Thank you for giving me a second chance," he said.

"I am glad I answered the door."

He kissed your forehead one more time. Then, he went off into the bustling city.

You closed the door behind him and stood with your back against it for a long time.

Your mind was racing a million miles an hour – so much had whizzed right past you.

It was a feeling; an instinctual gut reaction, that this was going to work out and be so worth the agony and all the questioning and the missed opportunities.

The situation before felt like you were both constantly facing each other across a busy road, not able to cross over because there was whizzing traffic; the threat of moving closer was too much.

You knew deep down that you were no longer going to feel alone like you had previously, not with Michael.

You went back to bed for an hour. You curled up on his side of the mattress, where the sheet still smelled faintly of him, and you slept properly for the first time in months, no more residual adrenaline to stop it.

₊˚°⊹˚

Three weeks went past in a blur.

He came to your show on the Wednesday after the morning of the burnt toast. And the Thursday. He flew back to LA on the Friday morning and called you that night, and then he was back in New York the following weekend, and the weekend after that, and at some point in the middle of the second week you stopped counting the flights and just started expecting his presence.

He stayed at your apartment. Not at the hotel anymore. The hotel had become a problem; your address was easier to keep quiet than a known suite at the Pierre — so Wayne quietly cancelled the booking and Michael's overnight bag took up residence in the corner of your bedroom. You found his toothbrush in the cup beside yours one morning and stood staring at it for a full minute. A crazy concept to have moved in with the most prolific person you'd met in your life.

He bought you a coffee machine. A proper one, the kind that ground the beans, because he had decided very seriously that the coffee press was not enough for you, when you worked such irregular hours. He didn't even like coffee.

He installed it himself, on the counter, looking very pleased with himself about the whole project. You came home from a Saturday matinee to find him reading the manual on your kitchen floor in his cute white socks and a Disney World sweater. His hair soft and unstyled.

You did not tell anyone about your relationship thus far. Sandra knew, obviously — Sandra had known the afternoon after you'd slept together for the first time, because Sandra had a good eye and knew when you were hiding something.

You and Michael had agreed that, mutually, nothing about the relationship was going public until you were both ready. Which was fine. It was preferable. You had a Tony nomination to do press for. He had an album to finish off. There was no part of either of you that wanted to poke the bear, but it had to be done at some point.

You wanted it off of your chest, so you could just start living your life. You felt anxiety at the press knowing you were “hiding” it, knowing that they would then make up some sort of elaborate story as to why that was the case.

The Tonys were the first time he was going to be seen in public with you and it made you feel sick with nerves. Mostly for him, as people had been so cruel to him throughout his life for no apparent reason.

It made you sad to read the tabloids on a daily basis extort his name and person for money. It was like vultures sweeping down and ripping more and more from a dead animal.

Michal always said he’d fine love in his heart to forgive them one day, but you could not find that grace deep down.

Your life had been sheltered for the most part — your parents had normal 9-5 jobs in the city, as you grew up there. You were the anomaly of the family, but it was nothing like the fishbowl Michael endured.

You wanted him to be able to feel validation from whatever the press were going to run the next day after the announcement.

You wanted them to see you weren’t just another girl he was closely associated.

Not as a friend. As his, loving and genuinely adoring date. You’d show them by just being in his presence how much you cared for him. and secretly you hoped that they’d just back off, understanding how that there is limited stories they could run now about Michael fathering 15 different children to 15 different mothers; or that he was gay, or even that he was an asexual aliens. It was foul what they did do him.

You'd had the conversation about it on a Tuesday, lying in bed at six in the morning before he had to leave for his car to the airport. He had said

“I want to come with you. I want to be there with you. I don't care what the papers do”

You had said “are you sure about this?”

He had said “I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”

So Michael's team briefed yours, and the publicists on either team briefed each other. It was all a bit overwhelming, all just to get fitted for outfits that sort of matched.

Michael hired a designer you had never even heard of, to pick out your looks. You'd been in the limelight, in the acting world for quite a few years, but had never had the opportunity to delve into high fashion.

You did three fittings. You went with the baby blue one in the end. Floor length, slim, structured at the shoulders. Michael's stylist had brought it as a backup to the first that the designer had chosen that you were not entirely sold on, and knowing your feelings on it; then quietly moved it to the front of the rail.

The morning of the Tony's had you viciously anxious. You had about 3 espresso's using the new coffee machine, and once again found yourself staring at the kitchen wall. You were trying to make sense of your brain  wrestling with the thought that you might not win this award, and it could be utterly devastating considering how much blood, sweat and tears went into Blanche daily.

Michael had been at the studio early morning, to lay down vocals on a new song he was very excited about. He couldn't sleep the whole previous night, as he said he'd lose the beat if he didn't get it on tape, you didn't have a tape recorder laying around, so he flew out the door toward the nearest studio his assistant could find that would let him in for a session.

He came back after it in a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses, the way he travelled when he didn't want to be photographed, and he kissed you in the hallway in your apartment on the way to the shower and told you he was sorry he left you so abruptly

"You're nervous, Y/N."

"I'm so nervous."

"Never seen you like this. Just pretend everyone is naked, like I do."

"Michael. You perform in stadiums. That's literally thousands and thousands of naked people, and honestly quite disturbing."

"MM yeah, maybe not the greatest thing to say aloud. This is —" he gestured vaguely at the air around the two of you "this feels so good. To support each other. I am going to be there to hold your hand and dissipate the nerves."

You just smiled shyly, thinking yeah, this is so very real now.

You spent the morning together. You ate eggs that he made after he showered — he had graduated from toast — and you switched from coffee to fresh orange juice, and you ran through the order of the night with him at the table. The carpet. The seating. The category. The afterparty. He listened to all of it with the slightly a slightly nervous attention. He wanted to do everything right for you.

At one in the afternoon, Wayne came with the clothes, the stylist by his side.

You spent the next four hours getting ready.

₊˚°⊹˚

Sandra came over at three. Hair and makeup were in your living room by four. By five you were in the dress and your hair was up and your makeup was done and you were standing in front of the long mirror in your bedroom looking at a version of yourself you almost didn't recognise.

Sandra came to stand behind you. She put her hands on your shoulders.

"Baby."

"Mm."

"You're going to win."

"Sandra, don't jinx it"

"I'm saying it, because I can see it."

"Ughh." You covered your face with your hands in anxious agony.

"I'm not going to jinx anything. You're going to win and you're going to walk up there in that dress and you're going to thank me by name of course." She squeezed your shoulders, jokingly, looking at you through the mirror at the vanity.

"And then you're going to come down off that stage and find your boy and you're going to kiss him on national television."

"I am not kissing him on national television, he might freak out"

"I have a good read on Michael, and I think he'd welcome it."

"Sandra."

She grinned at you in the mirror. "I'm just saying."

You laughed. You couldn't help it. You felt your nerves crack open slightly under the weight of her looking at you like that.

She straightened the strap on your dress. She picked an invisible piece of fluff off your shoulder. She kissed the back of your hair very gently and then she left to get herself ready, and you stood alone in the bedroom for a moment, looking at the woman in the mirror.

You had spent eighteen months becoming Blanche. You knew in your bones that the performance and the wider team around it, deserved the win of this award.

₊˚°⊹˚

Frank pulled up at the kerb of Radio City at six twenty.

You could hear the carpet before you could see it. The roar of the crowd. The bursts of sound when a famous name was announced down the line. The high whine of camera flashes somewhere further up the street.

Michael looked over at you, fondly.

"Ready?"

"As I will ever be. Are you?" You asked, you whole body vibrating with nerves.

"No. I always get nervous at these things, even if I have been doing it for 20 odd years,"

"Let's go anyway." He said with finality.

He squeezed your hand. He let it go. He got out of the car first.

The crowd at the far end of the carpet noticed him before the photographers did. A wave of sound moved down the line as people clocked who had just stepped onto the kerb — a low rolling oh that broke into a proper roar by the time the photographers caught up and the flashes started.

He did not look at the cameras.

He turned. He held his hand out for you.

You took it.

You stepped out of the car in the baby blue dress with your hand in his, and the entire press line completely lost their minds.

The flashes were physical. You felt them in your chest. You smiled — the trained smile, the one you had been practising in fittings — and you let him guide you into the position the publicist had marked for you, and you stood with him at the start of the carpet and let them take their first photograph.

Then he leaned in slightly, very close, his lips almost at your ear, and said — you are doing so well, my love.

You felt every muscle in your shoulders drop an inch.

You walked the carpet with shaking, aching legs.

He kept hold of your hand the entire way. He did not let go. Even thought the press were shouting at him 'Michael turn to us, look over here', even when the designer's lead talent escort tried to gently separate you for the solo shots the team had requested — you shook your head at her, smiling, and she got the message in about half a second and waved the photographers off, and the two of you walked the rest of the carpet with your hands locked together.

A reporter shouted from the line — how long have you two been together?

You felt Michael glance at you. You answered for him.

"None of your business." You laughed nervously, your eyes trying to adjust to how bright it had been.

The reporter laughed. Several reporters laughed. Michael leaned in slightly, under the noise, his mouth right at your ear again, and said — that's my girl.

Goosebumps raised on your skin, his voice had been sultry.

You did not know your face was capable of going as warm as it went in that second.

Another reporter, further down the line — Michael, can we get a comment from you?

He turned. He didn't let go of your hand. He gave a toothy smile  genuinely seeming happy and content.

"She's extraordinary," he said. "She was extraordinary the first night I saw her on stage and she has been extraordinary every day since. I'm just glad I get to walk in with her tonight."

The press line went silent for a half second. You felt it. The collective intake of breath at his brutally honest statement.

Then the flashes started up twice as fast.

He squeezed your hand 3 times and started leading you to the entrance.

₊˚°⊹˚

The ceremony went past in a blur.

You sat with Michael's hand on your thigh under the table for the first five categories. The weight of it was the only thing keeping you grounded on earth and breathing.

When your category came up, you stopped being able to hear properly.

The whole room went slightly underwater. You watched the presenter walk out and you watched her open the envelope and you felt Michael's hand tighten around yours and you knew, in the half second before she said it, that you were not going to remember this moment afterward except in pieces.

She said your name.

The room exploded.

You turned to Michael first  He was beaming, so earnestly proud of you, his eyes a little wet. He'd truly believed in your performance and you were so grateful it brought you together.

He nodded at you, frantically, and pushed you very gently toward the aisle.

"Go, baby. Go."

You don't remember the walk.

You remember the lights, though and squinting to make your way through the sea of tables to try to get to the stage.

You remember the weight of the trophy once they put it in your hand.

the presenter kissing your cheek and whispering I am so proud of you like she had been waiting all night to say it.

You stepped up to the microphone.

You looked out into the dark room, a lump in your throat and finally thought, despite all of your insane insecurity; tears shed after shows, the nightmares you would wake from that were centered around fumbling lines and misrepresenting a dear to all character, your lack of sleep, your borderline unhealthy relationship to food, it was all just worth it. All in that one moment your name had been uttered.

You had written a speech three different times. You had folded the most recent version into the small clutch at your table, but in the midst of the frenzy. You did not, in this moment, remember a single word of it and maybe talking more from the heart was better, anyway.

You thanked Greg. You thanked the production. You thanked your director, who you could just make out in the third row, and who had taught you that Blanche was not a tragedy but a woman of multitudes, a groundbreaking look into mental health and playing it had been a great honour. You thanked Daniel by name, properly, generously, for however many weeks of carrying you across a stage, or screaming and shouting at you with the kind of trust most actors never got to have with a scene partner. You watched him stand up in the audience and put his hand over his heart.

You thanked Sandra. You thanked her by name like you had promised her you would. You said she had been the woman behind every single show of yours for the last six years and that no version of you on any stage in any city existed without her. Your hair would simply not survive without her and neither would your heart.

The camera cut to her in the audience. She was already weeping into her napkin.

And then you paused.

You looked into the dark.

You looked toward where you knew he was sitting.

"And to a special man, who knows exactly who he is" you said. "Who has fueled my passion tenfold. Thank you. I turned a corner with my character 'Blanche' when I met you. I was a more, fully realised version of myself the moment you appeared. I love you."

The audience had been so still, hanging onto every single word you articulated, just like in the play. You could hear, somewhere in the dark, a woman saying oh very softly into her hand.

The camera cut to him, it seemed everyone had followed your eyeline.

You did not see it at the time. He had both hands over his mouth, hiding his gorgeous smile, like he did when he was nervous. Tears brimming in his eyes at the thought of being loved on this scale.

You stepped back from the microphone.

You held the trophy up.

The audience rose to cheer you on.

₊˚°⊹˚

Backstage was chaos.

Press. Photographers. Producers. A woman with a clipboard and headset trying to walk you to the official photography room. Sandra somewhere behind you, still buzzing, holding your clutch like a small animal she was responsible for.

You just wanted Michael.

The clipboard woman walked you through the photo line. She walked you through each of your marks, the press shot you on backdrops with the trophy heavy in your small hands.

After, she walked you toward the press room and you scanned every corridor as you went, because you wanted him, you wanted him, you wanted to see his face.

You came around a corner and he was there.

He was standing in a quiet area between the press room and the green room. Bill at the far end lingering, clearly concerned that Michael would be swarmed at some point. The clipboard woman, to her credit, took one look at his face and quietly disappeared.

He pushed off the wall and you ran to him, to completely surrender.

He caught you. He picked you up off the floor, both his arms under yours, and he spun you once and set you down and pressed his forehead against yours and he was shaking.

"I'm so proud of you. I'm so proud of you. I am so proud of you, baby —"

You couldn't speak.

He pulled back to look at you. His eyes were red. His mouth was open slightly.

"You said it."

"I said it."

"On national television," He said, "what a way to tell the world."

He laughed — a surprised, completely unhinged laugh — and then he kissed you. There, in the corridor backstage at Radio City, with the trophy still in your hand and the press room thirty feet away and the entirety of the Broadway industry about to come looking for you.

He kissed you, strong hands on either side of your cheeks. Strong, true and so honest.

When he pulled back, his thumb brushed the tear that had finally escaped onto all your makeup artist's hard work.

"I love you too," he said. "I know I don't say it too often due to my nerves. But, I think I have since I saw the curtain come up on that third performance of Streetcar."

₊˚°⊹˚

Streetcar closed in the September. You did not extend.

You signed on for a new play in October — a small, hard, brilliant thing at the Public, written by a woman you had admired since drama school. Rehearsals started in November. You found yourself, for the first time in your career, in a production where the press junket was kind to you. nobody asked you about what you were eating, or who you were dating, or your work out routine to stay skinny. It was a relief like no other to focus on the art, and only the art

He went back on tour in January.

Europe. South America. Then Asia. You knew the schedule by heart because Wayne had given you a printed copy and because Michael had pinned it to the inside of your kitchen cabinet so you could see it every time you went to get sugar for a coffee, which was a lot, admittedly.

You spoke every day. You spoke twice a day on the good days. He flew you out to Berlin for a long weekend in February for a date night at a premiere of an indie movie he’d been invited to and to Paris for two nights in March to just celebrate your relationship. How in love you were. Michael liked very much to be out of the limelight when he could, to keep some semblance of normalcy in his private life, but sometimes he would just become Michael Jackson in order to get something for you. And in the Paris situation - he was able to shut down the entire Eiffel Tower for you during the day, so you both could have a picnic at the top of it. Picnics were his favorite.

There were so many moments that you started to see the want to be a pop star diminish and unfurl. Like it just wasn’t worth it to him anymore. The arguments in the press with his siblings, the accusations, the settlements for large sums of money. It continued to greedily steel from his life force. You stuck around regardless, fighting every battle you could for him.

You stood in the wings of his stadium shows in a small private viewing area and watched him become the other version of himself time after time, despite illness or fatigue and you understood, properly, for the first time, what he had been protecting you from for so long.

He was tired. Oh so tired. A life of trauma and extreme wear on the body was showing. Maybe not to fans but…

You could see it. He hid it well — he hid most things well — but you had been watching him for nearly a year now and you knew his face better than anyone alive except his mother, and you knew, in a matter of months, that he was going to be running on fumes, and not enjoying it as he couldn’t be “perfect” anymore.

You told him to take a break.

He told you he was fine and that he needed to change the world.

You told him to take a break anyway.

₊˚°⊹˚

The London leg of the Dangerous tour started in July '93.

It was the eightweek leg. Two stadium shows at Wembley, then a break, then a press cycle for the album, then more shows. You'd ironically seen photos of him sold to the New York times, on the stands in the streets as you walked to the theatre you worked at daily; he looked very slim, his skin very pale and he just looked unbelievably over it.

He had been in London for ten days before it happened.

The call came at five past 3 in the morning, your time.

You picked up on the second ring. You had trained yourself – out of panic mostly – to not let the phone ring out, because when it rung, it was usually him.

"Baby."

His voice was wrong.

You sat up in bed.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry."

"What's wrong, Michael."

"I'm sorry I'm calling you. I promised to myself I wouldn't let you see me falter, so you'd think I was strong for the both of us. I —"

He was crying.

He was crying a lot. You could hear it through the line, the unsteady catch of his breath, the small choked sound at the end of every word.

You turned the lamp on. You put your feet on the floor.

"Hey. Hey. Baby. I'm here. Just talk to me."

"I haven't slept."

"For how long, my love."

"I don't know. Four nights. Maybe five. I keep — I keep getting into the bed and I lie there and the second I close my eyes my brain just starts. It just starts and it doesn't stop. I can't get it to stop."

"What's it doing? Tell me what it's doing."

He took a ragged breath.

"The British papers have been awful. The whole week. There's a piece in one of them today about — about my face. Again. About the way I look. They've put it on the front. There's a doctor they've interviewed. He's never met me. He's never been in a room with me. He's making things up about me and they printed it like it's news."

You closed your eyes.

"Oh, baby."

"I shouldn't have read it. I know I shouldn't have. Bill told me not to. Wayne told me not to. They keep the papers out of my room every morning but somebody left it in the green room before the radio thing and I just — I saw it. I picked it up. I read the whole thing."

"Michael —"

"They do this every couple of years. I know. I know they do. I know it's a cycle. I know to expect it. It's just — this week it has been every single day. There's been something every single day. And I cannot — I cannot get my brain to stop reading it back to me when I try to sleep. It just plays. Over and over. Like a record."

You stood up.

You walked to the window in your bare feet. You pulled the curtain back. Manhattan was asleep beneath you. The lights of the Empire State Building were off for the night. The sky over the river was the early kind of dark that was already thinking about morning.

"How long since you slept properly?" you asked. Voice barely above a whisper.

"Properly?"

"Properly, Michael."

A long pause.

"I don't know. A while."

"Before the tour?"

"Maybe."

"Baby."

"I know."

"You have been running on nothing for four months."

"I know. I know I have."

You pressed your forehead against the cold glass of the window.

"What does your body feel like right now?" you asked.

A small, surprised laugh through the tears.

"Why."

"Because I want to know. Tell me."

"My hands keep going numb. The last show, the third song, I couldn't feel my hands properly for about a minute and a half. I played the rest of the show worrying I was going to drop the mic. My — my chest feels strange. It has done for a few days. Not bad. Just — present. Like I can feel my heart all the time. I cannot get warm. The hotel is warm. The bath is warm. I cannot get warm."

"Michael."

"I know."

"You need a doctor."

"I have a doctor."

"You need to call him."

"I'll see how I feel tomorrow morning."

"Now."

"Y/N —"

"Tonight, or this morning, or whatever fucking time it is there Michael. Whatever time it is there. Call him. Wake him up. I don't care."

"Y/N. I cannot — I cannot do that to him, he may be with other clie—"

"Then I will call him."

There was a small silence.

"You don't have his number," he said.

"Wayne has his number. Wayne will give it to me."

"Y/N."

"Michael."

He was quiet for a long moment.

"I love you," he said. Quiet. Wrecked.

"I love you too. Now stay on the phone with me while I figure this out."

So he stayed on the phone.

You did not call the doctor. You called Wayne. Wayne called the doctor. The doctor was at the Dorchester within forty minutes — a man Michael had known for years, who was used to being called in the small hours. He asked all the right questions and gave Michael something mild to help him sleep and told him, very firmly, that the next two days were going to be rest, full stop, no negotiation.

You stayed on the phone for the whole thing.

"Are you still there?" he asked quietly.

"I'm still here."

"Of course I am."

"I'm sorry I'm a mess."

"Stop apologising."

"I —"

"Michael. Stop."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Tell me something normal," he said. "Tell me about today. Tell me about anything that isn't this."

So you did.

You sat on the floor by the window with the phone in your hand as you'd yanked it off of the nightstand and were tangled in the wires trying to take it around the room with you. you talked to him about nothing in particular.

You told him about the second act of the play you were working on, one of the scenes was physically demanding.

You told him about the woman in the bakery downstairs who had started giving you extra helpings of the sourdough bread for free, because she knew you liked it. You told him about a dream you had three nights ago about a house with a yellow door that you couldn't remember the rest of, just the door, which had bothered you for two days because you thought you recognised it from somewhere but couldn't for the life of you figure out where from.

You heard his breathing change.

You kept talking, quieter, because you knew he was right at the edge of sleep and you did not want to startle him out of it. You told him about a song you had heard on the radio that had reminded you of him. You told him you had passed a bookshop in the Village yesterday and seen a book in the window he would have liked about claymation film techniques. You told him you loved him.

He made a small sound. Almost a word.

You waited.

His breathing slowed properly.

You listened to him sleep on the phone for almost twenty minutes before you allowed yourself to hang up.

You did not go back to bed.

You stayed where you were on the floor by the window. You let the light come up over the river. You watched the sky turn from dark blue to grey to the soft pink of an early summer morning in Manhattan, and somewhere in there, you made the decision.

You called Wayne again at 5am.

"Wayne."

"Miss."

"I need a flight to London. As soon as possible. Today."

There was a beat.

"What time, miss?"

"Whenever you can get me on something. Heathrow. First class, economy, the airline doesn't matter."

"Understood, Miss. And to speak plainly, he really needs you."

You couldn't even muster a response to that as it broke your heart.

"And Wayne – ."

"Yes, Miss."

"Don't tell him. Please. Don't tell anyone in his camp other than Bill. I want to surprise him."

"Understood, Miss."

"Thank you."

You hung up. You sat on the floor for another minute. You looked at the sky over the river.

Then you got up. You went to the closet. You started to pack.

₊˚°⊹˚

You landed at Heathrow at twenty past ten in the evening, London time.

You had slept on the plane in short pockets. You had spent most of the flight reading but you weren't really absorbing, you probably read the same paragraph of a novel over and over.

You gave up halfway and instead just stared out at the dark Atlantic for the rest of the flight, thinking of him. Thinking of how mad the director of your play was going to be when he realised that you were going to be out and that the star of his show was replaced by an understudy for however long it took to get Michael better.

A driver was waiting at the gate. Wayne had arranged it without Michael knowing. The driver took your bag. He drove you into the city. The Dorchester was on Park Lane and the trees in Hyde Park were full and dark against the streetlights as you came up Knightsbridge in the back of the car.

The doorman knew who you were. He had clearly been briefed. He nodded at you and waved you through without making a fuss, and the night manager met you in the lobby and walked you to the lift personally, and you went up to the top floor of the Dorchester at half past eleven at night with a small bag in your hand and your heart in your throat.

The lift opened.

The Harlequin Suite was at the end of the corridor.

You walked toward the door.

You knocked.

There was a pause. A long one. You could hear footsteps inside.

The door opened.

Michael was in pyjama bottoms and an old white tshirt. His hair was loose. His face was pale, blotchy and tired. His brown eyes were puffy and he was holding a book in one hand, his finger marking the page, and when he saw you standing in the corridor at the door of his hotel suite, his face contorted into joy, whatever of it he had left.

He did not speak. He could not.

You set your bag down on the carpet.

He pulled you into him by the front of your coat. He buried his face in your shoulder. He made a sound that was barely a sound at all — a small, broken release of breath, the sound a person made when something they had been holding for too long and their body could not hold it anymore.

He cried into your neck. The book fell out of his hand and onto the carpet behind him.

You let him cry. You stroked the back of his hair, waiting patiently for him to release you.

When he could speak, he pulled back. He looked at you. His eyes were filled to the brim with sorrow. His eyes never lied to you.

He looked at you like he could not believe you were standing there. Like he had not allowed himself to even consider that you might come.

"How are you here?"

"Frank booked the flight at like six this morning, my time."

"Y/N —"

"You needed me here."

"You crossed an ocean – what about your play?"

"I would cross a hundred of them, Michael if it meant I could make sure you were okay."

He just looked at you. You reached up. You put your hand on the side of his face. You held it there.

"I'm here," you said. "I am here. We are going to figure this out. We are going to figure out how to do this — all of it. The tabloid stuff and the tour. We are going to figure it out together – how to get you into a good mental place. I am not going anywhere. Not now, not ever. I don't care if I need to quit the play – I want you to be okay."

He nodded solemnly.

You pulled him back in. You held him in the doorway of his suite at the Dorchester until he stopped shaking.

₊˚°⊹˚

You did not leave the suite for two days.

Wayne quietly moved the album press around. Bill kept people away so that he could rest. The London leg paused for fortyeight hours and nobody in the press caught wind of why, because Frank, Wayne, Bill and Michael's team were good at what they did, and because Michael had spent twenty years building this team that knew him intrinsically. He rarely took time for himself and so when he did, they honoured it completely.

You ordered room service. You watched television with him. You sat on the balcony of the suite and looked out over Hyde Park in the rain and held his hand. You went for a walk together very late at night, around two in the morning, when there was nobody about, and he wore a baseball cap pulled low and you walked the length of Park Lane in silence with your arm through his. You spoke of cartoons, and dreams of his that weren't fully realised yet. You told him you'd been scribbling ideas down for a new play.

He apologised, on and off, for the first few days you were there. You told him to stop apologising. He apologised for apologising. You hated how broken he looked. How much the external teams pushed him, just complete disregard to his health.

The doctor came back on the third morning. He sat with Michael in the suite for an hour. He spoke to him gently. You couldn't make out a lot of it, but you hoped it would be okay.

He spoke to you afterward. He told you, very plainly, what you already knew — that Michael had been running on empty for a long time, that the sleep was the urgent thing, that the tour management was going to have to be looked at properly to figure out why this kept happening. Why the scheduling was so tight.

It was not normal for a person to travel and exert themselves so much as he did.

The doctor left a prescription and his number written down. He shook your hand at the door and said thank you for being here.

You closed the door and you cried for a few minutes in the bathroom and then you went back out and got into bed beside Michael and watched a film with him until he fell asleep on your shoulder.

By the fifth evening together, he was sleeping properly.

He fell asleep with his head on your stomach on the sofa in the suite, with a movie playing on the television neither of you were watching. You read a book over the top of his head and you ran your fingers through his hair and you felt him breathing slow and steady against your ribs.

You looked at him there.

This was what mine, properly meant. Caring even when things felt like they were never looking up. Even when it affected your life.

You leaned down. You kissed the top of his head, willing all of his pain to diminish.

₊˚°⊹˚

Day six was different.

Michael slept for fourteen hours. You woke at some point in the middle of it and watched him for a long minute, struck by the way grown men only really look like boys again when they are properly asleep — face turned into the pillow, one hand curled loosely against his jaw, the line between his eyebrows finally smooth.

The room was full of the grey light a London morning could offer. It could not decide whether to rain or not, and somewhere in the city a church bell was ringing the hour.

You let him sleep, ordered tea and read for two hours by the window.

When he finally stirred, just past eleven, the first thing he said was —

"I am extremely hungry."

You laughed.

"What do you want?"

"Everything."

"Be specific."

He rolled onto his back and considered the ceiling.

"Pancakes. The tallest pancakes they have. And toast with jam, please"

You picked up the phone on the nightstand and ordered the kind of breakfast that would have fed a small wedding. Pancakes, bacon, eggs, fruit, two pots of coffee in case one of them was wrong, a stack of toast, a small pot of marmalade because he had once mentioned, in passing, that he liked English marmalade and of course, the Jam.

The man on the other end of the line did not flinch.

A waiter arrived twenty minutes later with a trolley so elaborate it had its own subtle suspension system. He set the table by the window with the practised, eyesdown discretion of a man who had served stranger people in this suite than the two of you, and he was gone before you had finished saying thank you.

Michael came out of the bathroom in his red plaid pyjama bottoms and the same old white tshirt, his hair damp at the temples where he had splashed his face. He took one look at the trolley and stopped.

"Y/N."

"Mm."

"This is a lot of food."

"You gave a long list."

"I underestimated the amount, I think."

You watched him approach the trolley the way a person approaches something at a museum. He lifted the silver cover off the pancakes. He looked at them for a long moment.

Then he turned to you with his face completely serious and said —

"This is the best day of my life," his smile was reaching his eyes again.

"My sweet girl, and all these sweet foods"

You spent breakfast on the carpet by the window in the end. He insisted. He said the chairs were too formal for the magnitude of the meal, which made you laugh so hard you choked on your tea you had been nursing that whole time, and you ended up sitting crosslegged on the floor with the plates between you.

Hyde Park beyond the glass and the soft, even patter of London rain just starting against the window.

He cut his pancakes into perfect triangles, which you found a little neurotic but very endearing.

He poured maple syrup with the slow ceremony of a priest performing communion.

You watched him from across the makeshift picnic and felt something burn in your stomach. He was letting himself be a bit more free again – released from the prison of his mind. The prison of his job.

He looked up halfway through munching on the toast.

"You are staring at me."

"You are very entertaining to watch. You look at everything with such wonder"

He raised an eyebrow.

The rain picked up against the window in a soft, even rush, and for a moment neither of you spoke, it felt like a small holiday from the rest of complicated adult life.

₊˚°⊹˚

By the afternoon, the rain had settled in properly.

Michael was lying on the sofa with his head in your lap. He had a paperback open against his chest that he had not turned a page of in twenty minutes. You were reading too, one hand absently working through his hair, the soft thick of it sliding through your fingers in the same slow rhythm you had been doing it for nearly an hour. He had not noticed. You were not sure he was awake.

The television was on but muted. A music programme was playing — old footage of various artists from various decades, the kind of nostalgic midafternoon slot that British television loved.

You glanced up at the screen and immediately stopped reading.

Thriller.

The opening shot. The famous tracking shot. The video had just begun.

You looked down at Michael.

He had felt you go still. His eyes opened.

"What."

You nodded at the television.

He turned his head. He saw what was on the screen. His face contorted and he pulled away.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

"No. Y/N. We are not doing this." He grabbed the remote off of the glass side table and switched the TV off.

"I am proud of it, but my god is it awkward to see yourself act on the screen" He said.

"Tell me about it" You rolled your eyes playfully.

He turned around and looked at you incredulously.

"Are you getting feisty with me?"

He started trying to tickle your sides. You laughed and pushed him away but he, even with his small frame, was still much stronger than you.

He then dove in for a sneaky kiss.

The kiss started as a punctuation mark — a firm, grounding press of his mouth against yours, something to stop the laughter, to halt the teasing.

But it didn't end there. It deepened, softened, became a question instead of a statement. Can we do this?

His lips parted against yours, and you felt the warm, slow slide of his tongue seeking entrance.

You granted it with a soft sigh, your hands coming up to cradle his face, your thumbs stroking the high, sharp planes of his cheekbones.

He tasted of maple syrup and orange juice and the faint, clean mint of toothpaste from earlier.

The scent of him — sandalwood soap, the warm, dry smell of his skin, laundry detergent and the lingering sweetness of marmalade on his breath — wrapped around you, pulling you deeper into the moment.

The rain was a steady, hushed rhythm against the window now, sealing you both inside this quiet, private world. A world you never seen often.

He shifted, turning more fully toward you on the sofa, one knee coming up to bracket your hip.

The paperback was forgotten, slipping from his chest to the floor with a soft thump. His hands left your sides, one sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, the other coming to rest at the base of your throat, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse there.

"You're really here," he murmured against your lips, “real.” the words a warm puff of air. It wasn't a question. It was a wonder.

"I am now feeling fully awake, to realise it." He said, wonder struck.

"I'm really here," you whispered back, and you felt the shudder that went through him, a fullbody tremor of relief.

He kissed you again, slower this time, explorative. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, then delved inside, mapping your mouth, the line of your teeth, with a lazy, thorough curiosity that made your toes curl against the sofa cushions.

This wasn't the frantic, desperate clinging from the doorway. This was something else. Something reclamatory. He was rediscovering you, and in doing so, perhaps, rediscovering a part of himself that had been buried under fatigue and headlines.

His hand left your throat and drifted down, skating over the soft wool of your sweater. His fingers found the hem and slipped beneath, his palm flattening against the bare skin of your stomach.

You gasped into his mouth at the contact, feeling a little touch starved — his hands were always surprisingly warm, a contrast to his often cool exterior. He made a low, approving sound in his chest, the vibration of it against your own.

"This okay?" he breathed, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. His were dark, pupils blown wide, the hazel almost swallowed by black. The puffy tiredness was still there, but it was overshadowed now by a kind of hungry focus that was entirely for you.

"More than okay," you managed, your voice rough.

He nodded once, a small, decisive movement, and then his mouth was on yours again, hotter, hungrier. His hand under your sweater roamed upward, palming the curve of your breast through the lace of your bra. He rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, like he learned you like; pressure but still tender, and you moved into the touch, a sharp, sweet bolt of pleasure lancing through you.

You tugged at the hem of his old white tshirt. He broke the kiss long enough to pull it over his head in one swift, graceful motion, tossing it aside. The sight of him still caught your breath sometimes. He was lean, all elegant lines and taut muscle, the pale skin dusted with a faint sprinkle of dark hair across his chest and of course, patches of much darker skin. The v line down into his pants was just as distracting as the coily, dark happy trail. You throbbed with want.

A dark patch on his collarbone, another on his ribs — mapped a history of his life you knew only in fragments. You leaned forward and pressed your lips to the one on his collarbone, feeling him suck in a sharp breath. You thought he was an otherworldly beautiful.

“Michael, you genuinely are gorgeous,” you whispered against his skin. He threw his head back, probably euphoric at hearing that sentiment, “my angel face” you finished, basically whispering at his throat.

Your own sweater followed his shirt, then your bra.

The cool air of the suite pebbled your skin, but his gaze was hotter than any fire. He looked at you with that same museumintensity he'd given everything in his life he loved, but now it was layered with a possessiveness that made your core clench.

"Beautiful," he whispered, the word reverent. He leaned in and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue flicking over the peak. You moaned outloud into the quiet air, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He switched to the other, lavishing it with the same devoted attention, one hand coming up to knead and tease the wet, abandoned breast.

The friction of his plaid pajama bottoms against your thighs was maddening. You reached for the drawstring, your fingers fumbling. He helped you, lifting his hips so you could push them down, along with his briefs. He sprang free, very hard, the tip glistening from pent up want.

You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly from root to tip, feeling the velvety skin slide over the iron hardness beneath. He dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a choked groan.

"Baby… wait, wait," he panted. "Not here. Not the first time in days. I want… the bed. I want to take my time with you."

You nodded, breathless. He stood, pulling you up with him, and then, in a move that made you squeal, he bent and scooped you up into his arms. He was stronger than he looked, dancer's strength and totally unassuming.

He carried you through the suite, past the remains of the grand breakfast, into the dim, raingrey light of the bedroom.

He laid you down on the massive bed with a tenderness that belied the urgency thrumming between you.

He followed you down, covering your body with his, and the feel of him — all warm, bare skin and hard angles settling against your softness — was a homecoming. He kissed you deeply, his weight a perfect, welcome pressure.

He began to move down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of fire. He kissed the hollow of your throat, the space between your breasts, the quivering plane of your stomach.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your leggings and panties and drew them down your legs ever so slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. When you were bare, he knelt between your thighs, just looking for a long, heated moment.

"So ethereal," he murmured, his voice thick. "All for me."

And then he lowered his head.

His mouth on your cunt was a revelation every single time. He was an artist here, too — meticulous, attentive, devastatingly skilled.

He had learned you over the year time had to together: listening out for what made you whine most and what had you bubbling over quickly. He was a quick study.

He started slow, broad, wet strokes of his tongue through your folds, gathering your wetness.

He licked into you, deep, and you bucked, a nonsensical mumble of pleasure coming from your throat. He held your hips down with surprising firmness, his moan of pleasure vibrating against your most sensitive skin. He genuinely enjoyed making you feel good.

"Mmm, you taste so good, sweet girl," he growled, the filthy words at odds with the angelic focus of his actions. "Always so sweet for me."

He zeroed in on your clit, circling it with the very tip of his tongue, fast, then slow, then fast again, reading your body's responses like sheet music. His fingers joined the symphony, one, then two, sliding into your tight, dripping heat with ease, curling upward to stroke that perfect, hidden spot inside you.

"Michael— right there, please—" you babbled, your hands fisting in the duvet.

He hummed against you, the vibration pushing you higher, higher. His fingers pumped in a steady, relentless rhythm, his mouth never leaving your clit. The world narrowed to the fourposter bed, the sound of the rain, and the exquisite pressure building tighter and tighter in your belly.

You were chanting his name now, a broken litany, your hips rolling against his face, seeking more, more, more. Grabbing his soft curls with your hand, guiding, frantic.

He slid a third finger into you, stretching you beautifully, and sucked your clit hard between his lips.

You came with a shattered yelp, your back bowing off the bed, your vision whiting out at the edges.

Pleasure soared through you, wave after wave of it, your inner muscles clenching rhythmically around his dexterous fingers.

He crawled back up your body, his face glistening with your wetness, and kissed you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and you moaned into the kiss, the sensation deeply, primally erotic.

"I need you," he gasped against your mouth, his cock, rockhard and leaking, nudging against your soaked entrance. "Please, Y/N. I need to be inside you."

"Yes," you breathed, wrapping your legs around his hips. "Now, Michael. Please."

He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against you. He looked into your eyes, his own blazing with a mix of love, lust, and a vulnerability that made your heart ache. He rubbed the tip up and down your core, exciting you even more. The sensation was so heightened from your unwinding before.

He then pushed forward, slowly, inexorably, filling you inch by glorious inch.

"Fuhhhck," he hissed, his entire body trembling with the effort of going slow. "So tight. So perfect. God, I missed this. I missed you, my girl"

When he was fully sheathed, he paused, buried to the hilt, letting you both adjust to the overwhelming feeling of fullness, of reconnection.

You could feel every heartbeat pulsing through him, deep inside you. You lifted your hips, a subtle, begging movement. His eyes were hazy looking, blown out and high on you.

He got the message.

He began to move, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in with a deep, rolling thrust that punched the air from your lungs. He set a slow, deep, grinding rhythm, each stroke dragging against every nerve ending inside you. It wasn't frantic. It was profound. Each penetration felt like a vow, each withdrawal a promise to return.

"Look at me," he whispered, his voice ragged. You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. "See me in this moment. Only you see me like this."

Tears pricked at your eyes. You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw, his lips. "I see you, baby. I always see you."

He kissed you, swallowing your words, and his pace began to quicken, the slow grind giving way to more urgent snaps of his hips. The angle changed, and he hit a spot that made you see stars, over and over again. The wet, filthy sound of your bodies joining filled the room, a counterrhythm to the rain.

"You feel so good," he panted, his breath hot against your ear. "My sweet girl. Taking my cock so well. Gonna make you come again. Gonna feel you. Gonna make you shout my name so everyone can hear who makes you feel this good”

His dirty talk, so at odds with his public persona, never failed to unravel you. He only got this filthy when he was near his finish.

You felt the second orgasm building, deeper, slower, a rising tide rather than a crashing wave. He felt it too. He slipped a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight, rapid circles.

"That's it," he coaxed, his thrusts becoming harder, less controlled. "Come for me, baby. Let go. I've got you. I'm looking after you now"

You shattered. This climax was different — less scream, more sob. A deep, fullbody unclenching that washed through you in warm, pulsing waves, pulling a guttural cry from your throat.

Your cunt clamped down on him, rhythmic and intense, and that was all it took.

With a broken shout of your name, he followed you over the edge. His hips stuttered, his body locking as he buried himself as deep as he could go, pulsing hotly inside you.

"Y/N— ah—!" He came in long, hot spurts, his release filling you, his whole body shuddering through the aftershocks.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a blissful anchor, his face buried in your neck. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, a frantic echo of your own. You held him, your hands stroking the sweatslick skin of his back, listening to his ragged breaths slowly even out.

The rain continued its gentle patter. A distant siren wailed somewhere in Mayfair and faded.

After a long while, he shifted, sliding out of you which made you both shiver with the intimacy.

He rolled to the side, pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest, your back to his front. He wrapped his arms around you, his legs tangling with yours, and kissed the top of your shoulder.

"I love you," he said, his voice sleepslurred and utterly satiated.

"I love you more," you whispered.

He made a soft, dismissive sound. "Impossible."

You lay there in the grey afternoon light, wrapped in each other and the quiet, the smell of sex and rain and his skin filling the air.

The world and its tabloids and its stages felt a million miles away. Here, in this bed, there was only this; the steady beat of his heart against your back, the warmth of his body curled around yours, and the profound, quiet certainty that, for now at least, he was safe. He was at home home. And so were you. You found it in each other, you realised.

₊˚°⊹˚

Two whole decades passed.

You got married, in the end, when you were forty one and Michael was forty two. A Thursday in October at Neverland, a very very small gathering.

You both, despite your lavish lifestyles, didn't enjoy such a fuss being made, and valued privacy more than anything. No ammunition to give to the press.

He had bought Neverland three years before that.

Not for himself. Not really. A two thousand acre estate in the Santa Ynez Valley, two and a half hours north of LA, with rolling oak hills and a lake and a stand of trees so old they predated California's statehood; and he had told you about it on a phone call at two in the morning from Tokyo. He said he wanted somewhere quiet and freeing. He said he wanted a piece of the world that was only his.

The other reason came out slower. In small admissions at different times, that he had not planned to make to you about his childhood.

He told you, one night in the brownstone you owned together in NYC, with his head on your stomach on the sofa, that he wanted a place where children could come and feel safe. Feel safer than he did as a kid, as he was constantly thrown into adult situations, and was robbed of the magic of playing make believe.

He planned to bring children who were sick. Children from hospitals. Children from all different circumstances. Children who had never seen a horse or sat on a Ferris wheel or eaten sweeties that had not been bought from a vending machine.

He wanted to build the kind of place he had never been allowed to have — a place that was just for being a child, with no schedule and no audience and no work attached to it. He wanted to give them what he had never got.

He said it with his eyes closed. He said it like a confession and something he could clearly see in his mind.

He started building within the year. A small fairground. A theatre. Then, a garden with a railway line that ran through it and a station.

He hired a head of operations and a small staff and started bringing groups of children up every other weekend, with their families and their nurses, and the press did not know about it for a long time because neither of you wanted them to ruin the perfect.

The first time he brought you up to see the property, you got to see him fully release the stress in his shoulders and frolic gracefully around in the grass. You felt so compelled to do the same, because you totally shared his vision.

It was the most honest thing Michael had ever done in his life; care for those kids. It came from such a deep gratitude for his fame, fortune and experiences within music – he could provide a wealth of experience to the greatly deserving.

It was also, you realised, over the years that followed, where he had finally become himself. Not the version on the stages and the magazine covers. The other Michael.

The one who walked the gardens in the early evening to check the train was running properly and would babble, cackle and play pranks on his staff.

The one who knew every member of the local community by name and the names of their children.

You'd watch fondly as he, now in his fifties, would sit on the low wall by the carousel with a cup of tea and watch the families come through and not need to be anywhere else in the world.

He had spent his whole childhood working. He had built himself a place to finally discover what it was like to be still. And just be… Michael.

₊˚°⊹˚

Jane was born thirteen months after the wedding.

It was a Tuesday in November. You went into labour at four in the afternoon at Neverland and the staff drove the two of you to the hospital in Santa Barbara, and Michael held your hand in the back of the car the entire way and did not let go of it for the next fourteen hours. He was there for every second of it.

"Breathe Y/N, in and outttttt" he sung the last word, strong vibrato. The nurse was giving him a major side eye.

You grabbed his hand as hard as you could and yelped out, another contraction wracking through your very heavily pregnant body.

"Fuck." You screamed, sweat lashing down your forehead, as you tried your best to breathe, and push, and also not shit yourself in front of the 15 people working in the room right now.

Michael didn't let go, but he proclaimed brightly; "She meant fudge everyone, fudge!"

You rolled your eyes as hard as you could and then gave him a death stare. He didn't seem to care about your reaction, the elation of his baby being born was keeping him on an untouchable plane, he was on cloud 9.

₊˚°⊹˚

He stayed at the head of the bed when the time came and he did not look away once, and when the doctor finally placed her on your chest; small and almost purple, screaming, with a head of dark curly hair that nobody had quite been expecting, he made a sound you had never heard out of him in your life and then just burst into the most happy sobs.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. He could not stand up, his legs so weak from pure, harmonious joy. You'd given him a daughter. A baby you had made lovingly.

He put one hand on her tiny back and cupped one hand on your cheek, catching any tears that spilled over from your eyes.

You both just wailed, of sheer, unfiltered happiness, for about ten minutes, while she screamed and the nurses moved gently around the three of you with the practised care, making sure everything was alright.

He named her, in the end. You let him. He had been carrying the name Jane around in his head since he was a boy, from the world of the infamous novel 'Peter Pan' by JM Barrie. His love of the Disney film was apparent early on in your relationship, and you smiled, reminded of the first time he explained the plot of the movie to you. 'Jane' was Wendy Darling's daughter in the book – and he swore that whenever he had a girl himself, that would be her name.

Oliver came two years later. A boy. Smaller than Jane had been. Quieter, even at birth, he didn't really cry that much. Michael wept again. He carried Oliver back and forth across the hospital room for two hours that night while you slept, just walking and talking to him quietly, and when you woke up at four in the morning he was sitting in the chair by the window with his son asleep against his chest, telling him very softly about the 'magical' trees on the grounds of Neverland.

Audrey was the surprise.

You were forty six. He was forty seven. You had both decided, maturely, that you could not have any more — mostly due to the post natal depression you experienced and had to pull yourself out of each time. He had agreed that it made sense to focus on the two little monsters you already had.

And then, 'pregnant' appeared on a test that you felt randomly compelled to take on a Saturday morning in your bedroom bathroom at the ranch, and you had walked downstairs in your dressing gown and shown it to him at the kitchen table and he had stared at it for ten full seconds before he started laughing and crying at the same time. He picked you up and kissed you so hard, you swore your lips would bruise.

"Jane, applehead, your mommy has a baby in her tummy" he explained proudly, whist kneeling down to cuddle your two other kids.

₊˚°⊹˚

He held her in the hospital with his face wet and said, very quietly — thank god we were wrong about being done.

He was there for every single one of them. Every single birth. Every single first feed. Every single sleepless night for the first three months after each baby came home.

He turned down a tour leg in asia the year Jane was born because he refused to leave her. He turned down a Disney soundtrack offer the year Oliver was born for the same reason.

He told his label, and management team, very politely and very firmly, that for the foreseeable future the children came first, and they could either work around it or drop him, and the label very wisely worked around it. His life’s work had led him to become a father and that was his priority.

₊˚°⊹˚

The brownstone in the Village was your refuge in the city. The ranch became your real home.

The children grew up between the two places, with a private tutor for the years they could not be in a normal school, and then normal school in the local community near the ranch, for the years they could.

They also had ecentric summers at Hayvenhurst with Michael's rather large family. They had so many cousins it got hard to count them all. Grand birthday parties, clowns and magicians that Michael would hire in to make sure his children, nieces and nephews would have exciting formative memories.

They had weekends with their grandparents on both sides and a childhood that you had both worked very hard, very deliberately, to make as ordinary as possible for children whose father was the most famous man alive and the least ordinary person to walk this earth.

You had never felt so alive, as to see Michael get along with his family again, after years of being distant from them. His brothers were fantastic uncles to your little ones and genuinely amazing company to keep. It was all relentless jokes, BBQ parties, mini concerts and A LOT of people. You loved the Jackson's but they were a messy bunch. Figuratively and literally.

Jackie, Michael's eldest brother, had cuddled you on a bright summer early evening, and told you that he was glad you were looking after his little baby, Michael. You had welled up at the thought of his brother finally seeing him happy, after a dark past.

₊˚°⊹˚

You retired from the stage at fifty two. You wrote two plays after that. The second one won the Pulitzer.

Michael, who had quite literally been your number 1 fan —and was still known to sneak into the stalls at performances of your written work, well into his 50s, even if you weren't there — went on to hang the certificate in his office.

He stopped touring at fifty six.

Not by choice exactly. His back had been going for a long time — the kind of slow wear that dancers know all too well. His knees had followed, and then somewhere in the year he turned fifty six there had been a show in Madrid where he had finished the encore and walked off the stage and quietly told Bill he was done.

He came home that week. He sat with you on the back terrace and he held your hand and he said — I want to be at home with them. While they still want me there. I don't want to be the dad who came back in the summer. I want to be the one who's just here.

Jane was twelve. Oliver was ten. Audrey was eight.

He told them himself, at dinner, the night he made the decision. He told them their dad was going to be at home from now on. He told them he was sorry he had been gone so much. He told them he was going to take Audrey to school in the mornings and pick her up in the afternoons and be at every single one of Oliver's tournaments and every single one of Jane's school plays.

Jane had cried.

Audrey, who had been eight at the time, had said — but Daddy, what are you going to do all day?

Michael had laughed. He had picked her up onto his lap. He had said; I'm going to be your dad, Auddie. That's the job.

You knew Michael loved you so, but he loved his kids even more and then sent sparks of unfiltered delight through your veins.

He had been your home for the best part of 30 years, and now he could live peacefully within the one he built to protect himself and his children, without burden and without harm.

fin.

--

TAGLIST

“how old are they?” he hid the disappointment in his voice with a soft smile. but your confusion made him laugh a little "your kids, how old are they?"

“ah I did it again didn’t I…” you nervously chuckled under your breath. "sorry, I just have this habit of calling all patients ‘my’ kids” you hurriedly finished the rest of your home care instructions, hoping that michael found your comment cute rather than weird.

lucky for you, it was endearing to him. "that's adorable" he responded. as you handed him the prescription, he checked for a ring on your finger, before quickly glancing over your desk to see for a picture of a boyfriend. he felt relief when he couldn't find any evidence.

"thank you doctor, i'll take good care of him" your fingertips brushed against each other, and he noted how easy you are to blush.

MICHAEL THE REGULAR PATIENT

michael ends up at your office at least once every month. Sometimes just to ask a question or two. And sometimes, without any of his children.

“mr. Jackson, you know, you don’t have to come all the way up here to ask a question. I’d be glad to answer any of your concerns through email” you offered with a small smile as you placed your card in front of him.

to you, a friendly offer.

to him, it felt like a boundary.

you don’t miss the way his face fell, eyes baring the disappointment. moments like this he wished he had his sunglasses on.

“n-not that I don’t enjoy our little chats, I just…I know it’s inconvenient having to come all the way here to the hospital that’s all. I know you get mobbed at the lobby almost every time and that must be stressful for you…” you rambled “and for the kids, of course”

he's touched by how thoughtful you are. and he hoped that your care for his family's wellbeing isn't just because you're their pediatrician.

“y-yeah the kids..they don’t enjoy that so much” he added. a beat goes by before he leaned forward from the chair, elbows resting on your desk as he cocked his head with a question

“do you do home visits as well?”

BECOMING THE IN-HOUSE DOCTOR

monthly professional visits at his home were routine now. regular checkups on prince and paris, vitamin restocking, vitals checking, basic developmental tests. you were honestly running out of things to do. his children were so perfectly healthy, you didn't have to be there.

michael would always invite you over to stay for dinner. at first, you refused. afraid that this was unprofessional. but prince had learned how to talk recently, and you couldn't refuse his "pwease doctor y/n. pwease have dinner with us"

michael liked having you over for dinner because that meant prince would finish all the food on his plate. or at least, that's what he tells bill. but everyone in the room can see the way he stares so lovingly at you, mesmerized by the way you talk as you enticed prince to eat all his spaghetti. it's so mundane. but he smiled to himself anyway as he fed paris another spoonful of mush.

more often than not, the dinners turn into late night conversations, soft voices over freshly brewed calming teas in the living room. fireplace in full display with an old record playing in the background. you talked about anything and everything. dreams for yourself and for the world. you share in a mission to end child suffering. he thinks you're perfect.

“and your wife?….” you had the courage to ask one night.

“oh we’re not…like that. debbie is a good friend. we have an...agreement about the children...” he took a long sip of his tea, afraid of your response.

“like a surrogate? that’s very modern of you mike” a name you have only used once or twice before – he needs to get used to it so his ears stop flushing.

“yeah, is that weird?” you found it cute that he still seeks for validation

“I think it’s beautiful.” was your honest answer.

then it was his turn to ask. “do you ever think about having kids?”

“all the time. but I want to get married first. i'm a bit traditional that way” you admitted, a shy smile on your lips as you held your gaze to the fireplace.

“I think you and I are very alike y/n" he turned to face you, not breaking eye contact as you clinked your teacups together. chamomile in his, and peppermint in yours.

HIS DIVORCE

his divorce was all over the newspapers. and he spared no time in publicly winning your affection immediately after. he would send flowers to your hospital every. single. day. each came with a different love note, always signed with MJJ, as if you needed to be reminded on who it came from.

your older kid patients teased you if they caught you blushing.

LIFE AS MIKE'S

it didn’t take much for you to start dating officially.

soon you were at his home almost every night. and slowly, you were weaved into every corner of his life, and every fibre of his being.

the guards let you pass through the gates with ease. security didn’t have to pat you down thoroughly anymore. the chefs learned your favorites. bill knew your home and work address by heart. and the children started including you in their crayoned family portraits.

one of the greater perks of being his girl was getting to know and seeing the man that he truly is. more than the performer on stage – you saw the doting father, kind-hearted friend, loyal brother, and loving partner.

and my god did he looove to spoil you. not just with pretty gifts but with experiences you both could cherish forever. he would think of something new and exciting for the two of you to try. whether that's a night drive at a safari or going on a disney world tour.

"i want to see the whole world with you" he'd say as he smiled from ear to ear, guiding your hand to follow him.

he cared so much for others that he often forgot about himself. you took on this role quickly. you had audited his entire medical team and demanded a change in healthcare regimen, a focus on long-term healing rather than short-term numbing. "hey, who's the professional here" michael protested at first, but you made a very good argument.

and when the pressures of being the king of pop bubbled up to the surface, there is no better person to turn to than you. his insecurities, anger, frustration – all melt the moment you lay by his side.

the night air got chilly, but you nuzzled your face closer to his neck as you whispered "remember the important things Mike" your voice was small, quiet and steady. he' was so focused on the way your chest moved up and down with every breath, slowly synching with his. and just like that, he was grounded once again.

"i love you, you know that right?" he said into the air as he hugged your waist tighter. "you're one of the important things" is the last thing he muttered before he lulled into a deep sleep.

DOCTOR MOMMY

"is doctor mommy coming over today?" paris asked one morning while she was on a walk with her father, bright blues looking up at him as she firmly held his fingers. he had never heard his kids call her that before. his heart swelled, and he bent down to her level before saying "how would you like it if she were here everyday?"

paris' bright smile was all the confirmation he needed.

HAPPILY EVER AFTER

michael proposed over a candlelit dinner at his property. he transformed his garden at the ranch into an intimate celebration – a table just for two, surrounded by the beauty of nature. string lights hanging from his giving tree, illuminating your beauty amidst the night sky.

he brought out a letter he wrote, afraid he'd forget what to say. he was sweating a little, and you found his nervousness cute. you lightly dabbed his forehead with a napkin, and before you could retreat your hand, he grabbed it and interlocked fingers with yours.

he began to read

"my dearest y/n.

it's been over 3 years since i met you. and i swear, my heart has been beating faster ever since. you are the most intelligent, kind, and beautiful woman i have ever met. and you have given me the utmost privilege of being able to love you.

you make me a better man and a better father. i live everyday hoping to see you smile, or hear your laugh. i love your childlike wonder, and how you never judge me for who i am, inside and out. to the world, i may be michael jackson. but at the end of the day, i prefer to just be your mike. always.

i also cannot thank you enough for loving my kids like your own. i never pictured them having a mother in their life, the same way i never pictured falling in love again. but I'm sure glad this is the life i have been given. I thank God every day for the gift that is you.

if you could do me this honor, i would love to spend the rest of my days with you. y/n my wife.

your husband, michael"

you wanted to make fun of him for being so sure you'd say yes. but you couldn't, not when he's knelt on his knee, as tears threatendd to spill from his eyes. because you felt the same way. this was your husband, and so by far the easiest "yes" in your life.

you could only muster a nod as he slipped the ring into your finger. he held both your hands tightly as you both stood up, leaning forward, foreheads touching. you placed your hands on his cheeks as your eyelashes fluttered upwards to look at him

you really, looked at him. the beautiful, kind man you fell in love with.

you kissed him, fervently, and fully. he embraced your waist with large hands, and pulled you closer so that your bodies pressed tightly against each other. he didn't comment on the tears he can taste on your lips, or the drum-like beating of your chest.

all he could think about was how lucky he was to have found peace in you.

michael never panics anymore, not with you by his side.

૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ............✎ masterlist

By the time he quietly lets himself through the front door, he exhales , exhausted from the trip. The house is dark, peaceful and he leaves his bags downstairs, straightens a few things absentmindedly as he moves through the house, smiling when he notices little reminders of you everywhere.

Your favourite blanket folded over the couch, a half finished book sitting on the coffee table, a cardigan draped over the back of a chair that he knows you’ll eventually come looking for tomorrow morning. The sight of those ordinary things gave a wave of comfort and warmth in him , they always do remind him that despite any harsh attention words him in life, he’s got a little flower waiting to take him in her arms at home.

After making his way upstairs, he showered and changing into something comfortable, he pushes open the bedroom door carefully, not wanting to wake you, and spots your sleeping form beneath the blankets. Micheal just stands there, watching you sleeping peacefully, chest moving up and down slowly , seeing you asleep in your shared bed after weeks apart pulls a tired smile onto his face almost instantly. GOD you look so beautiful…

He crosses the room, leans down & presses a kiss against your cheek and another against your forehead before moving around to his side of the bed. He slips beneath the blankets and carefully settles behind you, automatically seeking out your warmth the same way he always does after being away. His arm slides around your waist, his face disappearing briefly into your hair as he breathes in the scent he’s missed more than he’ll ever admit out loud. After weeks of concerts, rehearsals & interviews , he feels himself properly relax.

It’s only when his hand settles against your stomach that something catches his attention.

At first he doesn’t think much of it, the thought barely registers because he’s tired, half asleep already, and his mind is still somewhere between airports and time zones, But a few seconds later his eyes slowly open again. His hand remains where it is while his brain quietly tries to make sense of the feeling, after a moment he shifts slightly, brushing his hand across the same spot again, more consciously this time, he makes sure to keep the movement subtle & careful not to wake you.

His brow furrows immediately.

No way……..

For several seconds he simply lies there staring into the darkness, trying to understand why a strange feeling of familiarity has suddenly settled over him. Then, memories from the past several weeks begin resurfacing. Little things and details that seemed small. You becoming tired more easily, the sickness you’d brushed off repeatedly, the way you’d seemed distracted during some of your phone calls and that doctor’s appointment you’d mentioned briefly before changing the subject. He remembered the oversized clothes that had slowly become your preferred choice lately. Separately, none of those things had meant much but together, however, they begin forming a picture so obvious that Michael actually feels his breath catch in his throat.

He slowly pushes himself up onto one elbow and looks down at you.

You remain completely asleep still peaceful, his gaze lingers there for a moment before drifting downward again Micheal gently removes the covers untill your stomach was visible.

ROUND…….a small bump…..

He looked back to your face, then downward once more.

Your pregnant

Your PREGNANT

A few minutes pass and he doesn’t move, he just keeps staring , his mind racing while the rest of him remains perfectly still. Because the very wish he has ever wanted with you when you promised him you’d love to bare his children, to be the mother of his children and to give him as many as he wants is right infront of him.

A baby

His hand remains resting lightly against your stomach while he sits there staring in complete disbelief. Michael has spent his entire life standing in front of thousands of people. He’s accepted awards, performed for stadiums and lived through moments most people could never imagine, yet somehow none of those experiences prepared him for this. None of them prepared him for sitting in a dark bedroom in the middle of the night while you the women he loves deeply sleeps peacefully beside him while carrying his child and realizing that the future he’s been imagining for years may has quietly arrived while he was away.

A smile appears before he even realizes it, small at first, then larger. Until he finds himself covering part of his face with one hand because the emotion building inside him feels ridiculous and so intense. He thinks about all those phone calls, all those times he’d asked whether you were alright, all those moments where he’d felt like something was different but couldn’t understand why and it all makes sense. The more he thinks about it, the more emotional he becomes. Then frustration slides in because you’ve been carrying this secret alone for weeks.

Attending appointments, hearing news, experiencing all of these changes and he wasn’t there. The realization softens some of his excitement with guilt. Guilt from leaving you all by your self, and not standing beside you, his wife that’s carrying a life he’s always dreamed of. He wished he’d been sitting beside you in those waiting rooms. Whishes he’d been there to experience every part of it with you instead of finding out accidentally in the middle of the night. If only he’d come sooner, though he understood why you haven’t told him over the phone. He had a feeling that you didn’t inform him because of his work, you didn’t want him overwhelmed and panicking and you were right he would have been so overwhelmed with joy and panic over this news.

Still, none of that changes the overwhelming happiness slowly taking hold of him. His gaze keeps drifting back toward your sleeping face then towards your stomach on that beautiful bump that has that bundle of life growing inside you. With all the harsh and negative part of attention he gets , he can already feel himself becoming protective and possessive . Already imagining things and planning for you and his baby.

Wondering what the baby might look like, whether they’ll have your smile or inherit his curls. Whether they’ll be loud or quiet or maybe they’ll love music and laugh like you. His thoughts run so far ahead of him that he eventually has to stop himself. Yet every time he does, another smile threatens to appear and silent tears start to run down his face while he gazes longingly at you and your stomach his large warm hand still covering the bump with his thump caressing it gently. A small laugh escaping his mouth, still in disbelief.

Eventually the excitement settles into something quieter and the questions stop coming, the nervous laughter eases, even the tears begin drying, though every now and then a few tears shill shed. Carefully, he leans forward and presses a lingering kiss against your forehead & another against your cheek & another on your shoulder. His hand comes up to brush a few loose strands of hair away from your face.

“Oh, baby…” he whispers softly. A quiet laugh escapes him before he can stop it.

Shaking his head to himself, Michael slips back beneath the blankets and gently gathers you closer without disturbing you. One arm slides beneath your pillow and settles comfortably beneath your head while the other wraps around your waist, his hand instinctively finding its way back to your stomach. His thumb brushes slowly across the fabric of your nightgown. Tender and Protective.

He buries his face into your hair, breathing in the familiar scent that had felt so far away only hours ago. A few soft kisses find your shoulder. Another against the back of your neck. Michael closes his eyes, his hand remains over your stomach breathing in and out slowly. After a long moment, he leans forward slightly and murmurs against your ear.

“God…”

A small breath of a laugh follows.

“Thank you, baby doll.”, His voice wavers slightly,

“Thank you so much.”

His arm tightens around you just a little.

Michael and you were laying in your shared bed. His legs were tangled with yours. His head layed deep into your chest. You were rubbing his back, paying attention to the TV that was playing quietly in front of you too.

He had just gotten back from being on tour, and stated right when he walked in that all he wanted to do was lay down on the bed with you.

Your attention slowly drifted away from the TV thinking about when he walked in the house. The look on his face kept replaying in your head. His face just looked so drained, his eyes were slightly puffy, and posture was slouched. You regretted not questioning him in the moment. It’s just the look on his face convinced you otherwise.

The thoughts in your head were interrupted hearing the soft voice of your boyfriend below you.

“(Name), do you think I’m ugly?”

His voice was so small, his tone was neutral. Almost like he has said this before and gotten a negative answer. Your mouth slowly became agape. How could the man below you even say that? Woman practically fell to his knees. They fainted at his concerts. How could a thought like that even form in his head? You felt him lift his head off your chest sitting on his knees staring straight at you.

“Please answer me.”

Your boyfriend said practically pleading. You were so caught up in figuring out how he could even think this. That you completely forgot about even answering his question.

“Mike, how could you even say that- or I mean. Even for that thought.”

You were so caught off guard that you were stuttering. You were now sat upright staring into the eyes that stared back. Your eye brows were furrowed in confusion.

“I don’t know- I guess. Maybe when I was walking out of the airport on my way here. All of the paparazzi- they just were saying rude things.”

He looked down, covering his face with his hands. He shook his head. His hands pulling off from his face.

“They just kept commenting on my appearance. Saying, ‘Oh Michael! How many times have you gotten your nose done?!’ Laughing in my face- or saying ‘Michael, how does it feel that your girlfriend thinks your ugly?’ and saying-“

You couldent bare to hear further more. Embracing him into a deep hug. You lifted your head up, trying to avoid the tears that were forming. You held in his into the hug, feeling your shirt becoming wet. He was crying silently, not making a sound. The hug was just a release button to let out all of the sadness he endured throughout the tour.

You kept repeating soft ‘sorrys’ moving your hand up and down his back. With your other hand holding his head.

“Micheal, I wish I was there. I’m so sorry. Don’t ever listen to them. If I was there I would have blew there fucking head out for talking to my man like that.”

Michael laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist. You thought for a moment.

“You know, I didn’t even answer your question.”

She stated, looking down at her boyfriend who still had silent tears falling.

“I think your the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid my eyes on. I’m not just saying that because I’m your girlfriend. I’m saying that because everyone thinks it. The woman who pass out at your concerts think that, the men that accompany the woman think that, even the paparazzi that spread and say evil and malicious lies about you think that. The people who say other wise are just jealous. I could name every thing I appreciate about you right here right now without a thought.”

You stated, almost out of breath from speaking so fast and angrily. Your hands were now twisted in his hair. He looked up, his tears were now put at a falt.

“Can you?”

His voice was small, scared for your answer. Yet he questioned with curiosity. You looked down smiling, nodding your head. Quickly getting comfortable laying how you two were before.

“Well, for starters. I love your eyes. Those eyes. I could stare into them for hours. They have so much thought and feeling. I get lost in them every day. I love your nose. Every time I pass by you I always need to sneak a little peck. I love your style. I mean, I get inspired every day with how you dress. Your style is so unique. I love your voice. The way it softens when you get shy. The way your voice changes around the way you feel about people. I love your-“

“Alright, Alright..”

Michael said smiling cutting you off. When you looked down at him. His tears stained cheeks were now a bright pink. You giggled, moving to sit on top of him. The two of you both smiling big.

“What? You were the one that asked if I could!”

You leaned down, slowly, yet passionately kissing every single thing you love about his face. Ending with his lips. When you leaned up you saw how his normally tan cheeks, were bright red. You smiled.

“I love you so much Michael, please never let these haters ever get to you okay?”

Caressing his cheek, staring into his big deep brown eyes. He slowly nodded.

“I love you to the moon and back my girl.”

He stated leaning up and kissing your lips.

You and him have been friends for a good few years now, having met him just a little before his 'Off The Wall' album release. Accidentally bumping into the then-twenty year-old-star in a record store of all places, a few apologies were exchanged before your eyes noticed the Donna Summer album in his hands. That led to further conversations ranging from talking about how good Donna Summer's latest single is, to Michael showing you the Bee Gees album he's planning on purchasing, and somehow ends with you playing a record of Blondie's on the store turntable to make him listen to the B-sides.

It was a whole hour and a half before a burly looking gentleman kindly reminded Michael he had other affairs to tend to, and after eagerly sharing each other’s contact details, you got home urgently to listen to the newly bought records of Jackson Five. 

From then on, you've been calling and exchanging letters with Michael non-stop. Postcards from the different states he’s touring in, long distance telephone calls when his shows end, and everything in between. He finds a way to contact you so often that when his mother knew of you, she asked you to come over for one of their family gatherings. That's likely when it's been established that you and Mike are pretty much best friends. 

You were lucky enough to witness Michael at his most focused when he was working on final touches to Off The Wall, changing musical tunes during late nights in the studio. Memories of celebrating with him when said album won the Grammys, as well as the AMAs. There’d even been numerous times where you got to come to his shows during the Triumph Tour with his brothers. It’s been well over four years since you met, and at this point he’s the only person to truly know you inside and out.

A quick snap out of your thoughts when the bathroom lights turn off, and Michael steps out as he dries his curls with a towel. He’s been out the whole day doing… whatever it is pop stars do during their spare time, only reaching home about half an hour after you already made yourself a cup of tea to heal from a long day at the diner. You don’t even know how it got to the point where you can just waltz into Michael’s home without him even being there, but it’s better not to question much about it. 

Michael walks around the bedroom, shifting things as he gets ready for bed. Glancing at you, his eyes soften. "Tired, baby?" He asks gently. 

"Mhm," you hum in response, sinking further into the blankets. "Had the worst customers today. I don't even care about the no tipping, y’know? The thing that’s bugging me is why the hell were they drinking fifteen shots of espresso at 9.30PM? And God... One of them had a rat-tail, Mike. I sure hope it doesn't become a thing because it's just so unfortunate to witness." 

A soft chuckle escapes him, warming your heart. You continue ranting, “Mike, that one mean woman who comes for coffee every lunchtime? She got to the diner late, and then proceeded to blame me for making her late because by the time her food arrived, her break was almost ending. Can you even believe that?” 

Michael clicks his tongue, getting on the bed. Making himself comfortable, he pulls you in and wraps his arm around your back, your head laying atop his chest. "I told you to please just stop working there. I can take care of you, baby. You know that. We'd be just fine and you can do whatever it is you want." 

Shaking your head vehemently, you nudge at his chest. "No way, Mike. I can handle myself. I'm a responsible adult. I'm a strong, independent woman, y'know?" 

"I know you are, beautiful. I'm just tellin' you that I can help while you look for somethin' you'd actually enjoy. Not that horrible diner place. You deserve so much better," Michael says as he leaves soft kisses on your temple. 

You melt at his touch and close your eyes. Murmuring, "Thank you, Mikey. It's just hard leaving Daisy all by herself. The others are so mean to that poor kid." 

"Hell, I'll hire her for somethin' if it means you're out of that damn place," Michael grumbles as he shifts and pulls you closer. 

Snickering quietly, you hush him before kissing his jaw, "That's enough out of you, hm?” 

“I'm serious, sweetheart. That job is stretching you thin, and I'm not liking any second of it. I'm just worried about you,” Michael looks at you with furrowed brows, thumb stroking your cheek. 

Michael has never not worried about you, you think. The man has protective tendencies towards everyone he cares for, but it's been noted by many that whenever you're in the picture, it's as if it gets dialed up to the maximum level. One of the most insane things he's done so far was that he had three extra secure locks installed at your front door when you first moved into your apartment, and despite it being against the rules, the landlord couldn't really argue with the Michael Jackson over his loved one's safety. 

You respond quietly, “I know, Michael. Don't worry too much. I got everything handled, okay? I'm looking for job openings as we speak.” 

“If you'd just consider the fact that I know many people in all kinds of businesses, baby–” 

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “Uh-uh, I'm not doing this again. Mikey, I don't want to take advantage of you for this. I'm doing this myself because that's the right thing to do.” 

“It's not taking advantage, it's called networking,” Michael sighs. 

Shaking your head again, you shift to make yourself more comfortable against his chest. “No helping, Michael. Not unless I'm absolutely desperate. Which I'm not… yet.” 

He sighs again, silent for a moment before kissing your head. “Fine. But I'm tellin' you right now. The minute you want to quit, go on ahead and don't hesitate. You got me, you know that right?” 

“Yes, I do.” A small smile forms on your face, eyes closing slowly. “Goodnight, Mike.” 

"Goodnight, baby," he wishes, shifting down slightly as he gives a peck on your lips before burying his head into your neck. Murmuring softly, “Love you.”  

“Love you,” you reply, already out of it. The room’s silence filled with only the sounds of you and him breathing in sync, and the TV playing the end credits of Roman Holiday. 

Despite the quiet, your mind races. 

Okay. You're aware of how it seems between the both of you. It’s been mentioned by a few who witness your dynamic and you’re aware of how weird and frankly, even disturbing for friends to be this close. Cuddling is one thing, but kissing on the lips and saying ‘I love you’s are on a totally different level. It doesn't really occur to you when that has evolved. As far as you're concerned, he just started calling you sweet names one day and became more physically needy than usual. 

It happened around after he returned from his tour in Europe, so you figured they really weren't joking about how Europeans are more touchy. Well, that's what the travel magazines say anyway. 

With that, you leave it be. In retrospect, you're never one to turn down any physical affection from Michael. And deep down you know it gives you butterflies, but you remind yourself daily to just ignore it.

So you do. Remind yourself, that is. Without fail. 

It gets a lot more difficult each day, if you're being honest with yourself. On some days, it feels almost impossible. Especially when he gets so touchy and soft. Holding your waist as he talks to his brothers. Firmly holding your hand when he walks down the studio hallways. Even during the little days when he has free time and instead of doing something more worthwhile with someone more important, he'd persuade you to come stay at his house and play all kinds of board games.

You beat him at Connect Four every time, by the way. 

Once having realized the risk of this becoming a huge problem if you don't handle the… pool of feelings swirling in your gut… and how it would lead to everything crumbling down, you knew you had to do something.

That's why, after much pressure from your boss, Janine, you're going on a blind date with her nephew. 

“He'll be just the perfect man for you, doll,” she said to you so excitedly. In fact, so excitedly that you couldn't really turn her down. It's set for the day after tomorrow, and you still haven't told Michael.

Make it work first, see the guy first. See how things go before saying anything to Mike. That's your plan. It'd be a waste of time if the date didn't work out and you got Michael's hopes up regarding your love life for no reason at all.

How on Earth would you even start? Michael knows you're not exactly the type of person to go on just any blind date. He'd ask. And what could you answer? That you're falling in love with him more every single day that passes? That you're only doing this to get over it? 

Absolutely not.

•

Mornings with Michael are always the epitome of domesticity at its finest. Both of you are hanging around the kitchen. Michael is sitting at the kitchen island, with only intentions of accompanying you, who's currently craving a bowl of freshly sliced fruit. 

“Hey, baby? I'm gonna be home late again. Q called and said somethin’ about some adjustments the album needs. You got anything planned for today?” Michael asks, eyes focusing on his book of notes. Hand gripping on a pencil, eager to underline or scratch words about whatever it is he's working on. He writes down any important pieces from meetings, or anything that comes to mind about a lyric or a tune. You call it his ‘book of wonders’, and Michael laughs it off with a shy blush every time. 

“What more adjustments does it need? I think the album is already perfect!” You scoff. 

Michael laughs quietly and shrugs, “I think he's gonna cut another song from the final tracklist. Been drivin’ me crazy with that.”

Pointing at him briefly, you press your words firmly. “Don't let him cut Billie Jean, Mike. I swear to God.” 

“I promise I won't. Not Billie Jean,” Michael snorts, “Anyway baby, your plans? For today?” 

You hum absentmindedly, too distracted with cutting up some apple slices for your fruit bowl. “I’m going out later. Thinking about doing some shopping.” You're off work today and tomorrow, so there's plenty of time to get ready and make yourself beautiful for the stranger you're about to go on a date with. 

God, everything is so silly.

“Ooh, somethin’ special going on? You never shop for yourself spontaneously. I always have to beg for you to do that,” Michael asks, getting up from his seat and walking up to you. Hands snaking around your waist, chin resting on top of your shoulder as he takes a gander on the bowl of fruit snacks you're making for yourself. 

“Looks like heaven, doesn't it?” You ask with a teasing grin, gesturing towards the bowl. 

“No, angel. You do,” he replies with a kiss on your temple. “You didn't answer my question.”

“Oh, that. Well…” You shrug, “Maybe, maybe not. We'll have to wait a bit and then you'll get your story, hm?” 

“Hmm… Okay, I'll bite. I'll be waitin’ for some kind of update soon, okay?” 

“I promise,” you say. 

Michael nods with a smile, tilting down and softly presses his lips against yours. Your heart lurches as you hesitantly kiss him back. Not two seconds later though, he pulls away with a grin when a knock comes onto the door. “That's Bill. Hold on, baby.” 

As he walks away, you take a minute to gather yourself. Breathing deeply, you groan at the delusional path your heart was heading down. What was that kiss? Jeez, Europe really did a number on him. 

Turning back to the bowl of fruit, you rethink how good of an idea it is to actually go on this damn blind date. 

•

“I’m telling you, Daisy, what if this is a bad idea?” You hiss in desperation into the telephone. 

You’re back in your own apartment, surrounded by messy piles of clothing. It’s almost 10PM and the thing is, what you should be doing is some facial care before the date tomorrow, but instead you’re currently freaking out on Daisy. You were supposed to be back at Michael’s. But then. During your retail run, you belatedly realized it’s almost impossible to sleep at Michael’s the night before your blind date.

One, he would try to heckle his way into knowing what you’re going to be up to. 

Two, you would immediately give in to him and tell him everything. 

Three, after all of that, he’d question your sudden urge to date.

And finally, you’d have to tell him you’re doing it to get over your stupid feelings for him. 

Ruining your friendship with Michael would have to be the worst thing that you could do to your life. 

So that’s how you end up back in your own space, though the comfort you felt at Michael’s is sorely missed. Picking up a nearby sweater, you throw it across the room to the ‘No’ pile. “What if the date turns out really well but it’s just my subconscious self making it work to forget about Mike? That wouldn’t be fair to Janine’s nephew.”

“Okay, first of all, if your subconscious self is making it work, that’s a good thing. At least some part of you have an effort to try. Second, it’ll be exactly perfect if you got over Michael. I mean… c’mon, you’ve been friends for years. If he hasn’t made his move by now, then he never will.”

‘Well yeah, but if I told you he kisses me almost every day, you’d probably be saying something different,’ the thought runs through your head silently. Blinking away your delusions, you sigh, “What if Janine’s nephew thinks I’m too breezy?”

Daisy laughs, “Girl, you’re not as breezy as you think you are. And even so, breezy is in now. You’d be having him drooling all over ya’.” 

A brief pause. 

“You keep saying ‘Janine’s nephew’,” Daisy says, “Girl, do you even know what his name is?”

Shameful heat blushes your neck, grimacing silently, mind running to remember. 

“Uhm… Kevin… what’s-his-name?”

Shrieking laughter from the other side of the telephone makes you flinch in shock. You’re telling her off, whining as Daisy repeats to herself the word Kevin. “It’s Calvin, girl,” she corrects you, chortling unabashedly. “Calvin Johnson, Janine’s sister’s son. Remember that before you embarrass yourself tomorrow night.”

“But Daisy! What if it’s a bad idea?”

“Listen to me. Calvin is also being set up, right? He’s probably just as nervous as you are. And he doesn’t know you yet. If you somehow don’t hit it off, which I seriously doubt because, well, don’t tell Janine this, but she’s a killer matchmaker, I mean, hello? Douglas from the kitchen and Jake from the laundromat across the street? Who the heck expects that? Anyway, if you somehow don’t hit it off, he won’t be hurtin’ and cryin’ in the ditch somewhere. He’s fine, and so are you. Just do this.”

You bite your lip, “Daisy…”

She immediately cuts you off. “The main reason why you’re still apprehensive is because you want to know what Michael thinks. And he probably would not give you the input you secretly want. I love you, really I do, but it’s time to acknowledge the fact that nothing seems to be blossoming there. You deserve the world, babe... You can go try and gettin’ it yourself instead of waitin’ around for someone to give it to you.”

Listening to her gentle voice, you fiddle with the string of pearls on your corner table. Sitting back on the couch, looking at the mess in front of you while the words she says slowly take root in your mind. Daisy is right. You’ve spent years trying to hollow out your feelings, ignoring whatever is growing inside the crevices of your heartstrings whenever you look at Michael, forgetting those sneaky thoughts of what it would be like to have him as your boyfriend, husband, the lover of your life. All of that, you’ve been pushing down so deep, and the fact that Michael is so openly and brazenly affectionate with you starts to feel a little insulting. Here you are, absolutely spiraling from every single touch shared, and yet, for him it’s just another friendly peck. Everything he does means the whole world to you, but why doesn’t it seem to mean much to him?

You’re aware you’re being unfair. Michael doesn’t owe you anything. All he asks from you is a loyal companionship, be it in a platonic way. He never expressed intentions of something more, at least not officially. It’s your own fault for developing feelings. You can’t be mad at him.

You can never be mad at Michael. Not when all he’s done for you is provide love and unconditional support. 

After a few more minutes of slow conversation with Daisy, you tell your goodbyes after reassuring her you won’t back out on the blind date. Heaving a deep sigh, you get up from the couch and start cleaning up your mess. Already deciding on what to wear for tomorrow night, you’re determined to never have to look at a piece of stray clothing ever again because it will absolutely slay you if you did. You haven’t been this fashion anxious since forever ago. Having Michael as a friend has its perks, and one of them is receiving endless fashion tips; that actually works for you. 

And obviously, Michael should be no such help for this particular instance. 

The landline rings and you pick it up, half assuming it’s Daisy to convince you to not back out again. The girl has such little faith in you, you scoff. 

“Daisy, I promise—”

“It’s Michael.”

Your eyes widen briefly before a soft laugh escapes you, “Oh, hey, Mike.”

“Where are you?” he asks, voice sounding a little stiff. Momentarily freezing, your head tilts in confusion over his tone.

“I’m at home, why?”

“No, you’re not. I know this because I’m calling from home. I thought you’re staying here tonight?” Michael asks.

“Oh, I thought you’re supposed to come home late tonight?” You ask him. 

Michael replies with the same stiff tone, “I got out early, Q just wanted to get rid of Billie Jean and I chewed him off and got out of there before he could jump me. Baby, you’re not home. Why?”

“I meant I’m at my home, Mike. And because I figured I had to stay here at least for tonight, the space is literally about to gather dust.”

“That’s never stopped you before?” he argues.

Letting out a nervous laugh, you say, “Mike, maybe it’s because I don’t want you to get sick of me—”

“That’s a bunch of bull, sweetheart. C’mon, what’s happenin’? Please, baby, tell me,” Michael pleads, voice almost upset. “You’re supposed to be here with me. I want you here.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sensing the upcoming begging and persuading coming from him. Firmly reminding yourself that no matter what pretty words he says, you’re putting your foot down and not surrendering to him. Regardless how tempting it is.

How insanely tempting.

“I’m sorry, Mike. It’s just so late already, you know?” You try to deflect. 

“Who said anything about you drivin’? I’ll get Bill to drive you, I’ll call him right now—”

“Wait, Mike, don't!" You exclaim. “Poor Bill needs his rest. And so do you. Mike, we can sleep apart for one night.”

“We can but I’d rather not, baby…” he replies, almost completely quiet. “Is something the matter? You usually tell me when you’re not coming over.”

Slapping your palm to your forehead, you let out a soft gasp. “Of course! Oh, Mike, I’m so sorry. It completely slipped my mind. I was too distracted from the– from today! I’m sorry, honey, I should have given you some kind of note.”

Michael hums, “That’s okay… Just… Don’t you want to come over?” 

Hearing his desperate tone, you almost stood up to grab your keys right then and there. Fighting against the strong urge, you sigh out and try to ignore the heavy guilt inside, “Mike, I’d love to but it’s late. Please rest. I promise I’ll see you the day after tomorrow okay?”

“Woah, hang on, why not just tomorrow?”

A tugging of your bottom lip, you think of what to say. You genuinely can’t bring yourself to tell him the truth. You don’t want to risk it. Not if he’s going to interrogate you until you confess your undying love for him. Gosh, your head feels as if it’s about to explode.

“Because I’m gonna be doing something tomorrow. Remember the little update?”

“Why can’t you just tell me now? Or tomorrow night?” Michael almost pleads. 

“Mike, please don’t make this harder for me,” you tell him, whining. “I promise, promise, promise I’ll tell you the day after tomorrow. Please?”

A beat of silence. 

“I can’t…” he starts so timidly.

You hum in question, “You can’t what, Mike?”

A clearing of his throat before he replies, voice firmer, “Nothing. Okay, baby. I’ll wait until the day after tomorrow to see you, but I’m callin’ you tomorrow midnight. I need to hear your voice and I need to know you’re at home safe.”

“Okay, Michael. That’s very sweet of you.”

He only hums in response. Furrowing your brows, you ask him. “Mike, are you alright?”

“I just miss you so much, baby,” he replies after a short second. He says it so earnestly, your cheeks warm up. 

“We just saw each other this morning,” you softly remind him with a laugh.

“I don’t care.”

You smile softly, finger coiling with the landline wire. “I miss you too, Mikey. I’ll see you, okay?”

“Don’t forget to call.”

“I won’t!”

“You better not… Go to sleep. Goodnight, baby. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mike. Goodnight.”

Hanging up, you let out the deepest sigh you could muster. Plopping your head on the back of the couch and staring off into space, you wonder why Michael is taking it so hard about you sleeping in your own apartment. 

•

Taking a sip from your wine glass, you smile politely as Kev– Calvin tells his story. Sitting at a table for two in a fancy restaurant is honestly not what you expected, but when he stood in front of your doorstep dressed in a black suit and tie, that would have been your first hint. You’re immediately relieved about choosing the dark, sleek dress that was purchased spontaneously the day before. 

“And then my boss just went off on him, I did nothin’ but walk away, it was so bad,” he laughs. Calvin Johnson has a really cute laugh. He was pretty, too, you think. His hazel eyes gleam brightly and he knows how to land a joke. He orders good food and good wine. His voice is pleasant and deep. He dresses nice. 

But… nothing. You feel absolutely nothing.

Here you are, dinner with the perfect gentleman who knows to compliment, and you’re feeling absolutely nothing. Your mind is just filled with thoughts of what Michael would have done if he saw the waiter passing by with mismatched neon socks, or what Michael would have ordered if the menu only consisted of fourteen different types of spaghetti, if he would have vomited and just starved altogether, or what Michael would have said to you when you pointed out the painting of the restaurant’s owner at the entrance that resembled Gene Kelly. Michael, Michael, Michael. It’s like he’s taken over your life the more you try to forget about your feelings. 

You’re immediately being consumed by guilt at the thought of hurting Janine and her nephew. They are both really nice and warm people, and you’re returning the favour by playing games. Michael would have been so disappointed. He probably would enjoy talking to Calvin. Maybe if it doesn’t work between you and Calvin, and you’re being real honest here, it definitely won’t, you could introduce him to Michael. They already have the musically talented section in common. Only Calvin was more towards classical instruments. Well, maybe they could read music sheets together. 

Biting your lip, you realize you’re only thinking of things that include Michael to help you go through this date. And that only makes you feel worse. You’re a terrible person. 

“ — Hey, are you okay?”

You slightly jump, wide eyes gazing back at Calvin’s concerned ones. “O-oh, yeah, yes! I am okay, I’m so sorry. I’m just so… full, I get a little breezy when I’m, uh, full.”

Just pulling shit straight out of your ass. 

He nods in acknowledgement, giving a small smile before he continues his story about… kangaroos or underoos. Either one. 

You couldn’t really focus on the rest of his story, not that you did in the first place, but this time the focus was actually elsewhere instead of inside your own head. Your eyes flicker to a few tables behind Calvin, and the familiar face catches you off guard. Slightly squinting, you try to make out who the person is, before pausing your breath. It’s one of Michael’s bodyguards, you think. He’s newly appointed, but he seems nice. He has ginger hair and a small tattoo behind his ear, that’s how you know it’s him. Tilting your head further to the side, you try to recognize the rest of the table he’s sitting at. Nerves racking, you hope with everything you have that Michael isn’t there with them. But after seeing the whole table only has burly men laughing aloud, you realize they’re just on their break. Michael gives them his card sometimes and tells them to get fancy dinners. This must be one of those nights where he wants to be completely and utterly alone. Your heart drops. Could something be bothering him? He was definitely off from the phone call last night. 

Your eyes suddenly make contact with one of the guards, who looks just as dumbfounded as you are. It was the world’s worst staring eye contest before you clear your throat. Averting your gaze, you force a smile as Calvin cluelessly continues his story. 

That redhead is so gonna rat you out. 

•

Returning home couldn’t be any more relieving than it is now. You’re leaning against the front door after closing it, sighing heavily. Thinking of moments prior. 

“Hey, listen… I had a wonderful time tonight. And I think you did, too. But just as friends, huh?” Calvin asks as he walks you to your doorstep. You only look at him with your mouth slightly agape, not knowing what to say. 

He laughs, shrugging, “I only agreed because of Aunt Janine. And I’m assuming you did too. That woman doesn’t know how to take no for an answer, that’s for sure.”

“She sure doesn't,” you softly chuckle. 

Calvin rubs his nape, looking at you with an almost sympathetic grin. “And uh… don't take this the wrong way, but I sincerely hope you don't go on another date with a stranger.” 

Trying to hide your offended face, you ask him. “Why do you say that?” 

“Because this whole night, I was just talkin’ your ears off but your mind is in a completely different place. I mean, I was talking rubbish towards the end, with the kangaroos and all. Not even a peep from you, because you're busy thinking…” he trails off, displaying a pitying look as you nervously fiddle with your fingers, looking away. 

“... Of someone else, hm?” 

You don't respond, but you settle for a small smile. “You're too understanding.” 

Calvin sighs deeply, “I know.” He says in a melancholic tone. 

Laughing with him, you sigh and step closer to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Calvin. I'm so sorry this didn't work out. I'm sorry for not trying.” 

“Eh, forget it,” he reassures you. “Honest. We wouldn't work anyway, I actually liked those risottos.” 

“They were disgusting,” you tease back. Hugging Calvin a very short second, you let him off with a goodbye. 

Which brings you to now, sighing like the world's biggest loser. You hated letting people down. It feels like you're hurting them on purpose, but it truly isn't your intention. You thought you'd get over your feelings for Michael at least a little. 

Instead, the thing you want to do most right now is cuddle up against him. 

You're thinking of the possible phrases on what your excuse could be if Michael asks what you've been up to today, not taking any chances that he wouldn't heckle. It's been a good two minutes since Calvin left your doorstep, and the date is being fast forgotten.

More so when a sudden knock comes down on your front door. You instantly know it's not Calvin. This one felt too comfortable, familiar…. Intimate.

You must be imagining things. 

Walking back to the door, you take a look at the peephole. And lo and behold, Michael's standing right at your doorstep. His face unreadable. 

As you open the door, you force a bright grin onto your face. “Michael, hey—” 

“Who's he?” Michael asks sharply. Almost robotic. His body tense, jaw clenched ever so slightly.

“Hm?” You hum in response, tilting your head in confusion. 

“The guy you were just with,” he quietly adds, walking into your apartment. 

You realize what he's talking about and let out an ‘Oh’. “That's Janine's nephew,” you answer. 

Michael just looks at you with a deep gaze. Murmuring hoarsely, he says to you, “C’mon, baby… don't play with me like this. Not right now.” 

“Michael, I'm telling the truth, that is Janine's nephew. His name's Calvin.” 

“Calvin…” he scoffs before turning around to pace back and forth in your living room. Meanwhile, you get more and more confused. 

“What, you went on a date with him or somethin’?” Michael asks you shakily.

Well, the cat's definitely out of the bag, but Michael's reaction is not one you're expecting in any way, shape or form. 

“Y-yes, I did… Come on Mikey, what's going on?” 

He gives you the most incredulous look he's ever given anyone. “What's going on? Are you actually asking me that? What's… What's wrong with you?” 

Hurt strikes through your chest at his words. Michael has never, ever been rude or said anything harsh like that towards anyone, least of all you.

Why is he talking like that to you? And why does it hurt so much with the way he's being so… different?

“What did I do, Mike?” You ask in a small voice, hugging yourself nervously.

“Oh no, no, no, you don't get to be upset, I'm upset,” he says with glassy eyes staring back at you. You almost gasp at the sight, his hurting can be seen as clear as day. Michael continues, “You were on a date with a rando? What, did you think I wasn't gonna find out? And you're so– so casual about it, do you even care at all?” 

“Mike, what's… It's one date, Michael, what could be the issue? Please tell me why you're so bothered!” 

“Why the hell do you think I'm bothered?” 

“I don't know! It's just one date and you're not even my boyfriend, so tell me, Mikey, please.” 

Michael throws his arms in the air, “Oh, sure! Just one would be fi– wh-what? I'm sorry?” 

“What?” 

“What did you say?” 

“It's just one date!” 

“No,” Michael whispers, shaking his head. “After that… what did you mean by that?”

Tilting your head, you furrow your brows. “Mike?” 

He suddenly walks right up to you, hands slowly coming up to cradle your face. “I'm not… your boyfriend?” 

“ … No?” 

Michael's eyes flutter, pain being etched on every surface of his face. “Are you breakin’ up with me, baby?” 

“What?” You ask with a soft voice, eyes widening. “When did we get together?”

“What?” 

“What?” You repeat, starting to breathe really hard. Michael gives you an astounded look, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek. His lips part in surprise, and it appears as if his brain is taking an extremely long time to register your words. 

“What do you mean when did we get together?” 

Close to crying, you whine softly, “Michael, I don't follow!” 

Michael clenches his jaw, eyes boring into yours as his brows furrow deeper. “Baby, this isn't funny.” 

“I'm not trying to be funny!” You reply. 

“Then what are you talking about? I am your boyfriend!”

“Since when?” You ask loudly, eyes getting wider by the second. 

His jaw only drops further in response, head shaking repeatedly. “She's joking,” he murmurs softly to himself. You deny it again, strongly needing to know what the hell is actually going on. 

“Well, baby,” Michael starts with a bewildered look on his face, “I happen to think we got together since I started callin’ you baby every day and how you're practically livin’ with me because I don't think I can actually sleep without you anymore, oh and I almost forgot, we're kissin’ damn near all the time!” 

You stand there, yet another dumbfounded look on your face. “I just thought you took home some European customs,” is the only thing you could say in a small voice. 

“What?” Michael asks again, another confused facial expression before he sighs and pulls you close. “Baby… you're telling me this whole time…?” 

You shake your head, hand coming up to softly stroke his jaw. “I didn't know anything. God, I'm so sorry, Mikey. I mean, I mean what am I supposed to think? You never asked me about it– you didn't clarify anything, did you?” 

“I thought in a way, you knew!” 

You ask softly, “How could I have known?” 

Michael looks away, arms still wrapped around you. “Okay… I’m sorry. I’m really sorry for yelling because now I’m just rethinking everything… I was a stupid twenty year old. Remember how we kissed for the first time?” 

Heat rises to your cheeks at the memory. Yes, you certainly did.

By then, both of you have been friends for about a few months. It was late at night, and you were sleeping over at his family house. It was just you two in front of the television, everyone else having already gone to bed. The time was nearing 1.30AM when the movie finally ended. 

“Mike, I told you we should have just rewatched Dog Day Afternoon.”

“How was I supposed to know it was gonna be that bad?” He snorts as he places the half eaten bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. 

Laughing, you lean back on the couch and make yourself comfortable. Turning to him, you ask. “We went straight for the movie earlier, I never got to ask you how your day was.” 

Michael sighs and closes his eyes, making you frown in concern. Reaching out to softly grip his hand in between you two, you give a small smile.

“Wanna talk about it?” 

He shrugs, looking elsewhere. “I don't know, it's just…” 

“New album jitters?” You try, knowing how under the pressure he's been, with Off The Wall about to be released in a few days. If someone were to ask you how dedication was to be presented in real life, you'd point instantly to the man next to you. You've never seen someone so passionate about what they do as much as Michael is with his music. 

“... No, it's not that,” he laughs softly. “I mean, I'm nervous about that too, but tonight is different. It's just my brothers. They wouldn't stop ragging on me earlier.” 

Pulling your knees to your chest, you tilt your head. “Why? What's the matter?” 

“I had them listen to the final picks for the album, and they—” 

“If they didn't like it, that's their problem. The album is perfect!” You cut him off, already raging at the thought. You’ve always been his number one supporter and defender.

Michael laughs again, shaking his head. “No, no, they were real supportive about that… it's just the fact that I've uh, I've been singing about, y’know… romance and all.” 

You nod, and raise your brow when he doesn't continue. “And?” 

He sighs after what felt like forever, “Well it's silly... because I've never even had my first kiss yet, so.” 

“Michael, that's okay. Me neither.” 

Eyes widening, he sputters out, “You haven't?” 

“No,” you laugh. “Is that so unbelievable for you?” 

Yes, he happens to find it completely unbelievable because you're so gorgeous all the time. Boys were bound to try something on you. Now once he's realising nobody's ever come close, he feels a sense of happiness. Happy that nobody came close. That she rarely gives her time of day for anyone. And he happens to be one of the few exceptions. 

He only shrugs in response to your question before shifting closer. “Does it bother you?” 

Shaking your head, you smile at him. “Not really. I'm not dying to be kissed. I know it's gonna happen when it happens. There's no use dwelling on it. But then again, I don't have brothers, nor am I releasing songs about romance.” 

“Yeah, they really did their thing when I Can't Help It played,” Michael grumbles. 

Softly giggling, you grip onto his hand more firmly. “Don't let them get to you. You have so many girls that've been wanting to kiss you for years. Take your pick, Mike,” you tease. 

He only smiles and brings your intertwined hands to his lap. “I know, oddly enough. And I'm flattered that a lot of pretty girls like me. But I don't know them. I can't… I'm not like my brothers.” 

“I know you're not,” you whisper. “And that's okay. It's great, even.” 

“Yeah?” He says softly in response.

“Yeah.”

Michael bites his lip, thoughts running in his head. He’s thinking of something stupid… Something reckless. Something that can’t be undone if he does it. The silent hum of the room becomes overbearing to him, gaze focused on your soft eyes, down the slope of your nose to your lips. He lingers there, thinking to himself how it would feel like. What it would taste like. Would he still taste the remnants of your flavoured lip balm? Would it be soft and light? Or something else he can’t even imagine?

“Michael?” comes your quiet voice.

“Hm?” He’s out of it, almost. Dazed with some type of need. He doesn’t want to call it lust. He doesn’t think you deserve that. He feels more. The need to be with you. Sit beside you. Hold your hand. Kiss you. Everything he imagines to do with a girlfriend, is what he’s imagining with you. 

Good grief, since when did he start crushing on you?

“Michael, do you want to kiss me?”

His brain shuts down. His mouth, hands, and eyes don’t move. Mind blanking out.

After a few moments of silence, he manages to stutter out, “Wh- I’m sorry?”

Softly giggling, you shift your legs down and scoot closer to him. Hand still laced together with him, you look deep into his eyes. Gleaming with amusement, excitement and trepidation altogether. “Do you… Would you like to share our first kiss?”

He stares at you, jaw slack. “I thought it’ll… I thought it’ll happen for you when it happens.”

“Mhm,” you nod, “If you want to, it happens now. If you don’t want to, it will happen for me another time. I won’t be mad at you, Mike. I promise.”

You try to act cool, but the truth is your insides feel far from it. You don’t know what came over you, but from the way he was staring off into space, looking at your lips, the quiet surrounding you felt almost suffocating from the way you wanted him to lean in closer. To do something. Say something. So, you gathered your courage and took initiative. Even if there is no guarantee of him actually agreeing, you find yourself not regretting making your move. You wanted to know what a kiss feels like. And you wanted to know how it feels with Michael. You couldn't think of any better way to have your first kiss if not with him.

Michael is quiet for a few seconds, giving you some time to think of some lame segue out of this suddenly odd predicament you singlehandedly put you and him in. Before you could utter out an excuse, though, he cuts you off. 

“I’d really like that.”

Your eyes widen, “Oh?”

“Yeah, I’d like that a lot, actually,” he whispers, leaning more towards you. “Are you sure you want this?”

You could only nod, breathing out a ‘yes’. 

Michael’s eyes flicker down to your lips, before gazing back into yours. Shifting closer, his head slightly dips down, you moving with him. Lips a hair’s breadth away from each other, his fingers coming up to gently hold your chin, closing the distance.

When your lips meet his, it feels like a quiet magic blossoming from your lungs and into every crevice of your heart. Eyes closed, you press yourself further against him. Sighing out, Michael tilts his head to the side, parting your lips with his and kissing you deeper.

He does taste your flavored lip balm. And he thinks that’s the happiest discovery of his life.

A close second to knowing now how it feels to kiss you. At first, when you suggested to him to share his first kiss with you, he thought you were joking. But when you joke, he’d know right off the bat. And he knows your tone. You weren’t joking one bit. His mind was racing through what felt like numerous mountains of anxiety and anticipation. In that second, there was nothing he’d like more than to kiss you. 

During the kiss, your hand comes up to stroke his cheek. A hum reverberates from him, sliding his tongue against yours, almost breathing into you. It’s a few more seconds of pure bliss before Michael slightly parts away, eyes still closed as he bites his lip. Closing the distance again, you leave some more pecks against the corner of his mouth, making him tilt his head and meet your lips with more passion and fervour. Smiling against the kiss, you melt into him as he holds you against him. 

It feels like a long time before one of you takes the initiative to pull away, properly this time. The room is quiet save for the sounds of your heavy breathing. A soft smile is etched onto your face as you eye his gleaming face. 

“Was that good?” You ask him, teasing. 

“That was good, babe,” he laughs, “That was real good. I liked that a lot.”

Letting out a soft chuckle, you tell him, “I did too.”

“Can we do that more often?” he tries, leading to rounds of shy laughter to echo through the walls of the room. 

Snapping out of your memories, you clear your throat. “Yes, what about it?”

Michael reaches and cradles your face, “Well, that was quite literally… one of the best things to ever happen to me. I loved that night. I loved kissin’ you. I loved it so damn much, and I assumed– I assumed you loved it too. I didn’t say anythin’ about you bein’ my girl because I thought it was gonna naturally happen. And the longer I left it alone, and the more we got closer, I just... I thought we'd been together for a while. Nothing too official, because… I didn’t know where you stand on that, but I figured we’d only feel like this towards each other.”

You lean into the palm of his hand, and he leans down and presses a kiss against your temple, continuing gently, “I didn’t think we needed any establishing. I thought you already knew I’d… I’m so in love with you, baby. I fall in love with you more and more each day. But it’s my fault for, well, for not telling you properly. For assuming. I’m really sorry, I should have said something sooner.” His voice is bordering on sounding pained now, but you hush him.

“Mikey, gosh, stop, you’re fine. You’re perfect, don’t be sorry,” you whisper as you leave kisses on his forehead, down his nose and to the apples of his cheeks. “We’re both really stupid.”

He laughs and pulls you closer, if it’s even possible. “Tell me about it. Baby, I really am sorry. Please forgive me?”

“Shh, I forgive you, and I hope you’ll forgive me too. I’m sorry,” you say.

“There’s nothin’ to forgive. You didn’t know. See how funny that sounds now? God, I could just hit myself,” he sighs heavily. “Sweetheart, are we together officially now? I want you to be my girl. Been wantin’ that for years, if you must know.”

You teasingly grin and shrug, “I don’t know… Quite presumptuous of you, already calling me your girl.”

“Baby, I’ve seen the way you look at me,” Michael smirks smugly, “It’s not wholly my fault for thinkin’ we’re together when you gaze at me the way you do.”

“I don’t gaze at you,” you gasp.

His arms snake around your waist again, pulling you closer and nodding dramatically. “Yes, you do and I can’t blame you, baby. I’d want to be my girl, too.” Swatting at his chest, you could only laugh in response.

“I’m serious, y’know? I’d like for you to be my girl. And just mine. No foolin’ around with this amateur stuff,” he says in a quiet tone, “I want you. You’re my best friend and I’ve never loved or wanted anyone as much as I do you. I want to marry you one day, I want everything a man can have with the love of his life, and I want that with you. There had never been and never will be anybody else. I love you, so much. Can you be my girl for real now?”

A soft hum escapes you, “Michael, I love you too. God, I love you so much.”

He doesn’t reply. Michael only leans in and catches your lips so, so urgently, it almost brings you down to your knees. It almost feels like your first kiss again. Except, this time Michael wasn’t afraid. Or doubting. He knows you want him just as much as he wants you. Heat grows from the way he pulls you closer, every inch of you burning from his touch and passion. His lips brushing against yours, tongue slipping in between to glide against yours. Softly nudging you backwards until you’re leaning against the wall, he tugs your bottom lip with his teeth before continuing to kiss you fervently. Your fingers come up to run through his curls, and he tilts your head upwards into the kiss. And that drives you crazy. 

Leaving small pecks against your lips before kissing down your neck, he murmurs against your skin, “I love you.”

You could only hum dazedly, weakening as he continues his ministrations on your skin. “I’m so glad you’ll have me, baby.” He continues to whisper.

A final kiss to your lips, he pulls away to softly grin at you. “Tell that Kevin schmuck to kindly get out of your life, please?”

“It’s Calvin, honey.”

Everybody on the set knew Michael Jackson was hopelessly in love and obsessed with his girlfriend, Y/N.

Not regular boyfriend obsessed. Not casual celebrity relationship obsessed. No.

This man looked at her like every love song he’d ever written had somehow become a person.

And unlike people assumed Michael wasn’t oblivious. Naive sometimes? Sure. Too kind for his own good? Absolutely. But stupid? Never.

He noticed when women flirted with him. He noticed the lingering touches. The giggling. The way too-long stares. He just usually ignored it because none of it mattered to him.

Not when his Y/N existed.

And honestly? Michael kind of enjoyed letting people embarrass themselves sometimes.

Especially when Y/N got possessive.

Because underneath all her confidence his girl had a little crazy in her.

Not toxic crazy. Fun crazy. Sharp-tongued. Territorial. The kind that smiled sweetly while threatening somebody psychologically.

And Michael secretly adored it. Secretly even got a little bit turned on by it.

Especially during the making of his album History.

Because, lucky Michael, Y/N followed him everywhere during that time. Sets. Tours. Studios. Rehearsals. You name it, she was there. And he absolutely love it and begged for her to be around.

Sometimes she would sit behind the monitors in giant sunglasses and one of his jackets criticizing choreography like an offended sports commentator.

Sometimes she wandered onto stage during lighting checks just to bother (kiss) him while he worked.

And Michael? Oh, he orbited her constantly.

If she disappeared too long he noticed immediately.

If somebody annoyed her he noticed immediately.

If she looked jealous—oh, he definitely noticed immediately.

Which became a problem once that stupid (according to Y/N) backup dancer showed up.

Beautiful girl. Very aware she was beautiful too. One of those women who walked around like every room was an audition.

At first it was harmless. Too much laughing. Standing too close. Finding excuses to touch Michael during rehearsals. Nothing they weren’t used to. And Michael ignored all of it politely. Not passively, though. He’d subtly step away. Redirect conversations. Immediately look for Y/N afterward.

One afternoon during choreography rehearsal the dancer pressed herself against him during a move that absolutely did not require it. Michael caught it instantly.

His expression flickered. Not flustered, no.

Annoyed.

He stepped backward smoothly.

“Careful,” he said lightly. “That’s not part of the choreography.”

The room went awkwardly quiet.

Because the correction sounded polite, but very pointed. The dancer recovered quickly though. Smiling wider instead. “Sorry,” she purred. “It’s hard to focus around you.” Michael gave the smallest tight smile imaginable.

Then immediately looked across the room.

Right toward where Y/N was.

She sat on top of a monitor table sipping on some tea while watching the entire interaction over the rim of her cup.

Their eyes met instantly. And Michael saw it.

That little look.

Worse than insecurity.

Amusement. Dangerous amusement. Like she was deciding whether to kill somebody recreationally.

Michael bit back a smile and abandoned rehearsal entirely, walking straight toward her.

The dancer blinked in disbelief and confusion.

Michael stopped between Y/N’s knees automatically while she looked up at him lazily.

“You surviving over there?” she asked sweetly.

Michael leaned down just enough for only her to hear. “She’s annoying me.”

Y/N nearly smiled. Nearly. Instead she tilted her head innocently.

“Aw. You need me to save you?”

Michael looked at her through his lashes with a tiny smirk. “Maybe I want you to.”

That was the thing about Michael. People thought he was shy all the time. But around Y/N? He knew exactly what he was doing.

The next few days only got worse.

The dancer became bolder because apparently humiliation wasn’t enough to stop her.

One day Y/N walked into Michael’s trailer and immediately stopped in her tracks.

The dancer stood there laughing at something Michael clearly had not found funny.

Too close again. Hand on his arm. Michael looked up the second Y/N entered.

And immediately—immediately—his entire body language changed. Relief crossed his face and his shoulders relaxed.

“Baby.” He said, an enormous smile taking over his pretty face.

That one word alone made the dancer look irritated.

Michael stood up right away crossing the trailer toward Y/N while the dancer still talked. It was like he genuinely forgot she existed halfway through the conversation. And the best part was that he didn’t even did it on purpose.

He kissed Y/N’s forehead softly before murmuring. “Please tell me you’re done with wardrobe?”

The dancer stared at them like she wanted to scream. Or commit a felony.

Y/N smiled sweetly.

“Mhm.” Then she looked toward the dancer casually and waved her fingers at her. “Oh. Hi.”

The girl crossed her arms. “You’re always here.”

Michael answered before Y/N could. “Yeah.” He looked down at Y/N and smiled. “That’s where I keep her.”

Y/N bit her bottom lip, a small giggle getting through. The dancer clenched her jaw. And Michael noticed that too. Because again: that man was not oblivious.

That night after filming the music video wrapped, Y/N sat in Michael’s lap backstage while he removed the iconic tape pieces from his fingers. He grunted with frustration as one particular tape was stubbornly sticking to his hand. He shook his head lightly and placed his hand on Y/N’s lap, giving up on taking it off. She took his hand in his and started to work on it.

“Told you she wants you,” Y/N muttered, eyes on the tape.

Michael didn’t even look up.

“She wants attention.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “She does?”

Now Michael looked up. Completely calm. “Baby, women who actually get my attention don’t act like that.”

That sentence sat directly in Y/N’s bloodstream for the next forty-eight business hours.

Unfortunately the dancer overheard enough little moments like that to start resenting Y/N badly.

And truly? Y/N was handling the situation with all the grace and emotional restraint of a jealous housecat.

Not because she doubted Michael, never that. But because watching another woman repeatedly ignore boundaries made her act a bit mean.

One morning while getting some coffee with a makeup artist from the crew, Y/N watched the dancer laugh a little too loudly at something Michael said from across the room. She stared for a moment.

“You know,” Y/N said casually to the makeup artist, “I actually feel bad for her.”

He looked up.

“Why?”

Y/N sighed dramatically. “Can you imagine embarrassing yourself in front of Michael Jackson every day?”

“Babes, that’s literally all you do.”

“That’s different.” She argued, eyes not leaving Michael’s little annoyed expression as the dancer talked his ear off.

The makeup artist frowned. “How?”

“Well, he thinks it’s cute when I do it.”

That made him snort.

Across the room, the dancer laughed again. Too loud. Way too loud for Y/N’s liking.

Y/N’s eye twitched. Just a little. Michael looked up automatically. Their eyes met.

And immediately he knew.

Uh-oh.

The dancer kept talking. Y/N kept pretending she wasn’t watching. Michael kept pretending he wasn’t watching her watch him.

The cycle continued for approximately three full minutes. And then rehearsal finally broke for lunch.

Michael made it maybe halfway across the room before finding her. As usual. As he always did.

He dropped into the chair beside her, arms crossed over his chest and a tini-tiny smirk on his pretty face. He looked far too pleased with himself.

Y/N narrowed her eyes.

“I don’t like your face.” She motioned to his face.

“My face?”

“That face you have going on.”

“What face?” He was doing it on purpose at this point.

Y/N nodded, a bit annoyed, actually. “The one you’re making right now.”

Michael smiled. Exactly. That face.

Y/N sighed dramatically.

“She’s so annoying.”

Michael’s smile widened instantly, cheeks starting to hurt. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

Y/N looked away rolling her eyes.

Michael bit the inside of his cheek as he tried not to laugh. He failed, the tiniest of giggles leaving his lips. “Baby.”

“Oh, don’t you ‘baby’ me.” Y/N said, a pout taking over her face as she crossed her arms over her chest.

He shook his head in a very teasing way.

“Oh, my miss possessive.”

Y/N whipped her head around so fast. “Excuse me?” Voice laced with annoyance.

Michael’s smile got bigger.

“Miss Possessive.”

“Michael.”

“My miss Possessive.”

“I swear to God—”

Now he was just fully laughing. Shoulders shaking. Head ducked down. The worst part? The man looked delighted. Absolutely delighted.

“You were staring.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You so were.”

“I was observing.”

Michael nodded thoughtfully. “Right.”

“I was.”

“Very scientific.”

“Exactly.”

“Research purposes, am I right?”

“Absolutely.”

Michael looked away again. Trying (unsuccessfully) to recover.

Y/N pointed a sharp finger at him, eyes wide. “Stop enjoying this.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” She nodded. “Too much, actually.”

“I’m really not.” He mumbled holding his hands up like a guilty man.

“Michael.”

“Okay, maybe I am enjoying little.” He clicked his tongue. “You’re cute when you’re jelous of me.”

Y/N groaned loudly and threw her head back. Michael looked like he’d just won an award. “I don’t get jelous.” Deny, deny, deny.

Michael nodded, a full ironic expression on his face. “Right, what ever makes you sleep at night, princess.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Deny, deny, deny.’ She thought to herself. But then again, what the hell? “You know what?” She finally snapped, whipping her head in his direction. Immediately he perked up.

“What?”

She cocked her head to the side and raised her brows for a moment. “I lied.” She stared into his eyes. Michael blinked.

“You lied?”

“Yeah.”

She threw both hands into the air. “I’m jealous.”

Silence. Then Michael smiled so hard he nearly looked embarrassed.

“Really?”

“Oh, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.”

Y/N pointed at him again.

“The face again.”

“What face?”

“The one I just said you do when you’re enjoying something way too much.”

Michael laughed. Actually laughed.

Oh, the audacity of this man.

“Baby—”

“Shut up.”

“Baby.”

“Nope.”

“You’re so cute.”

Y/N covered her face immediately.

“This is very humiliating for me.”

Michael gently pulled one of her hands away.

Still smiling. Still completely in awe of her.

“I like that you care.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“I do.” He intertwined their fingers and kissed her hands.

“You’re making it worse.”

Michael leaned closer.

“Miss Possessive.” He whispered.

Y/N pointed at him immediately.

“Keep talking and I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not.”

She stared at him for about two seconds. “Yeah, probably not.”

“Exactly.”

And somehow that made him smile even bigger.

One afternoon the dancer walked past Y/N and muttered. “Some girls get way too comfortable.”

Y/N smiled immediately. “Oh, I’m beyond comfortable, thank you!”

The makeup artist nearby actually choked on her water at that.

Then came the shirt.

Michael arrived on set late one morning wearing black jeans, curls tied back loosely, sunglasses and a T-Shirt that read:

MY GIRLFRIEND IS HOTTER THAN YOU

That man.

That. Impossible. Man.

The crew in the studio did not know how to react.

Screaming.

Wheezing.

People dropping things.

Y/N’s hand just flew over her mouth, disbelief flashed across her face. She shook her negativity head at him.

That infuriatingly beautiful man.

“Michael Jackson, you are unbelievable.”

Michael looked around confused.

“What?”

“You cannot wear that!”

He glanced down at the shirt casually.

“What? I thought it was cute.”

“You are insane.”

Michael smiled slowly then. A little smug this time. Good Lord. “I know.”

Y/N stared at him in disbelief.

“You did that on purpose?”

Michael shrugged lightly. Then leaned close enough for only her to hear. “She keeps staring at me.”

Y/N went silent immediately.

Because oh. So he had noticed.

Michael slid his sunglasses down slightly.

“And she keeps making you mad.”

Y/N folded her arms trying not to look pleased.

“And?”

“And I don’t like it.”

That should not have been as attractive as it was. Unfortunately for Y/N it was devastatingly attractive.

Y/N just shook her head again, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face into his chest. Michael let out a loud laugh and kissed the top of her head.

The final confrontation happened two days later.

Y/N sat backstage getting her eyeliner fixed when the dancer appeared again.

Arms crossed, cocky expression on her face.

“You know,” she started casually, “it’s kind of embarrassing how attached he is to you.”

Y/N looked at her through the mirror.

“It is?”

“He’s obsessed.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “Yeah, I know.”

That clearly wasn’t the reaction the dancer wanted. She stepped closer.

“I just think if Michael met somebody more…” She actually looked Y/N up and down. “,exciting—”

Y/N actually laughed this time. Not fake. Real. Sharp. “Okay,” She mumbled still smiling.

Then finally she stood up slowly.

And suddenly the room felt different.

Because Y/N wasn’t intimidated. Not even slightly.

She walked closer until the dancer had to tilt her head upward slightly.

“My boyfriend would never look twice at you,” Y/N said calmly.

The dancer scoffed. “You sound very confident.”

“I am.” Then Y/N smiled. Mean. Beautiful. “But if you wanna embarrass yourself…” She shrugged lightly. “Try him.”

And apparently the woman was dumb enough to do exactly that.

Later during rehearsal Michael sat alone near the stage sipping on some orange juice while checking choreography notes when the dancer approached.

Y/N watched from across the set already bitting down a smile because she knew this was about to go horribly.

The girl leaned against his chair.

“You know…” she said softly. “I think you deserve somebody less possessive.”

“Huh?” Michael looked up slowly, brows frowned slightly. Already looking very unimpressed. “My girlfriend is a little possessive.” His eyes flickered briefly to where Y/N stood, a small smile appearing on his lips. “I like it.”

The girl laughed lightly.

“She watches every woman around you.”

Michael capped his water bottle calmly.

“Because every woman around me keeps bothering me.” The dancer blinked. Michael continued before she could recover. “And honestly?” He tilted his head slightly. “I’m starting to think y’all do it on purpose.”

The dancer forced a smile. “I just think maybe you’d get bored eventually.”

Michael stared at her for a long moment. Then glanced across the room toward Y/N. And the second he saw her? His entire face softened automatically.

Then he looked back at the dancer and said very simply: “I’ve been in love with her for years.” Silence. “People don’t get boring when you actually love them.”

Murder. Complete murder.

The dancer looked like she wanted earth to swallow her whole now.

And Michael wasn’t finished. Because suddenly he smiled politely. Not cruel, which felt, somehow, worse. “And respectfully…” He gestured vaguely toward Y/N across the room. “Have you seen my girlfriend?”

The dancer’s face went blank. She honestly didn’t know what to say.

Y/N covered her face laughing discreetly, pretending she wasn’t doing her absolute best to eavesdrop when Michael finally stood up and walked straight toward her.

The second he reached her he wrapped one arm around her waist naturally, pulling her closer.

Y/N looked up at him through a grin.

“You’re a little crazy in the head, you know that, right?”

Michael looked very pleased with himself.

“Yeah? Well, I’ve learned from the best.” He teased her and Y/N shook her head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Then Y/N grabbed the front of his stupid shirt and kissed him right there in front of everybody. Just because she could.

And because Michael Jackson looked at her like she’d invented sunshine just to brighten his day.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭

Tags:

you had grown up with michael, being best friends since your pre-teen years. you were the only person he really let in, letting you see every side of him. now, at age 20, he was about to release his first solo album and you were closer than ever. throughout the whole process, you’d been there for the late nights, the stress and doubts, but now? it was time to celebrate. you two had decided to have a night at your place in celebration of the album’s release. drinks freely flowed, both of you comfortable to be your true drunk selves with each other. around 11pm, you were drunken, giggling messes, relaxing and listening to music.

“i’m so proud of you, mikey. i hope you know that.” you said softly, turning your head to look at him with a soft smile. gentle touches and looks were nothing new between the two of you, so you gently took his hand. “really, really proud.”

he smiled back, displaying his beautiful teeth to you, his eyes sparkling right back at you. “couldn’t have done it without you, y/n. i mean that.”

you laughed softly, shaking your head and telling him to shut up. despite how different you two were personality wise, you were each other’s most treasured person. you loved going to clubs, dancing, meeting new people and having fun in more ways than one; michael wasn’t like that. he preferred to keep his circle small, a few people that he could fully trust. you had always wondered if he had lost his virginity, or even kissed a girl. after all, you were both 20; you had already had a few hookups, experimenting and finding what you like. the alcohol giving you a little liquid confidence, and bringing down your filter, you asked,

“mikey, are you still a virgin?” your head was turned to face him, both of you laying back on the sofa. he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. he looks away, sighing as his cheeks got redder. he nods.

“yeah, i am. i’ve never even—“ he sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. “i’ve never even kissed a girl.” he was purposely avoiding your gaze, his head turned away from you.

you smiled, taking his hand in yours again and moving so he had to look at you, speaking softly. “do you want to?” he laughed nervously, cheeks reddening even more.

“seriously, y/n? i’m not a charity case. just because i’m 20 and haven’t kissed anyone, doesn’t mean you have to offer.” he said, turning his head to look at you. you took the moment and inched closer, speaking softly.

“yes, seriously. i mean, come on…i’m like, your most trusted person. wouldn’t you rather your first kiss be with your best friend than some random woman?” you smiled softly, and he giggled. you moved closer, and he didn’t move away. “just…close your eyes, alright?”

he nods, closing his eyes. you placed one hand on the side of his face, gently moving him closer as your lips softly met. he gasped softly at the contact, but didn’t pull away; in fact, his one hand moved to hesitantly rest on your waist. you kept softly kissing him, not wanting to rush him in any way. after a few seconds more, you pull back, smiling at him.

“well?” you asked teasingly. he was a flustered mess, and god, did he look good. he laughed softly, looking away. “yeah..that was—that was good. nice.” he said, quietly. “do you want to do it again, or?”

he nodded. you moved closer, your one hand gently moving in his hair, the other resting on his shoulder. you kissed him again, firmer this time. he immediately reciprocated, his hand squeezing your waist gently. you ran your tongue across his bottom lip, asking for entry which he willingly gave. you slowly slipped your tongue between his lips, deepening the kiss; which earned a soft moan from him. you took it as a sign to keep going, moving closer to him and gently pressing your body against his. both of his hands were now on your waist, fidgeting slightly as if he was trying to stop them from roaming your body. you briefly broke the kiss to whisper, “you can touch me.”

with your word, his hands started to slowly move up your waist, on a path to your breasts. you moved to straddle his lap, which he welcomed by spreading his legs slightly so you could sit more comfortably. his hands got to their destination, gently touching your chest. he started to circle his thumbs around your nipples, eliciting a gasp from you. you deepened the kiss again, moaning into his mouth. you could feel his lips curve into a slight smile, proud of himself for being the reason that you made that noise.

you broke the kiss, panting softly, your cheeks a soft pink. “did i do okay?” he asked, clearly nervous. “mmh. yeah, of course. more than okay. you seriously haven’t kissed anyone before?” you asked teasingly, to which he laughed softly.

you stayed sat on his lap, looking at him. “what are you staring at?” he asked, smiling. “just your face.” he laughed at that, looking away. you leaned in, kissing his cheek and slowly trailing the kisses down his neck.

“y/n…” he said softly, almost groaning your name. his hands went back to your hips, pulling you closer against him. you took initiative, grinding against him. you could feel that he was getting hard beneath you, and the fact it was all because of you made it even better. he whimpered softly at the feeling of you grinding against him, becoming needier by the second. “i’ve only ever touched myself” he said quietly, almost a whisper in your ear. you nod, laughing softly, but not in a way to mock him. “yeah, i thought as much.”

“do you want me to touch you? to make you feel good in ways you haven’t with another person before?” you said to him, your lips inches from his. he breathed out shakily, nodding. “yes. please, i want that…”

you moved to sit back next to him, trailing your hand slowly up his thigh. he looked down, watching your hand get closer to the tent in his pants. you look at him, smiling as your hand makes contact with his hard cock, palming at it and pulling out a moan from him. his hips bucked up into your palm, his head tilting back in pleasure as he breathed deeply. “more, please…” he begged.

you undid his pants, pulling them down just enough along with his boxers to free his hard, leaking cock. he was big, as you’d always suspected, or…hoped. you couldn’t deny this wasn’t something you’d thought about, because you did. more than you should when it comes to someone who’s supposed to be just your best friend. you wrap your hand gently around the middle of his cock, slowly starting to stroke it. he gasped softly, his breath catching and his hips stuttering up into your fist. “oh, my god…” he whispered, causing you to smile.

you started to pick up the pace a little, your thumb occasionally sliding over his slit that was dribbling precum. he sounded beautiful, soft whines and moans leaving his pretty lips. it had only been a minute or so, and his balls were already starting to tighten—he was close. you sped up, his eyes rolling back with a loud moan, his hands gripping the couch. he came with a cry, panting as his cock shot ropes of cum over his t-shirt and leaked down onto your hand. you didn’t stop, though. you kept jerking him off, watching his expressions and revelling in his moans and whines. “fuck—stop, i can’t…oh, fuck, y/n…” he begged, writhing under your touch. in seconds, he was orgasming again, his moans louder, even more pathetic than the last. he was tightly gripping your wrist, looking at you with those beautiful doe eyes.

you moved your hand away, maintaining eye contact with him as you slowly licked any of his cum from your fingers. you moved to get down between his legs, and he looked down at you, blushing. “y/n—“ you cut him off with a look. “just let me make you feel good… please? we’re celebrating your first solo record…” you said, pouting and slowly moving your hands up his thighs. he laughed softly, lifting his hips to take off his pants and boxers. “you always make me feel good, no matter what.” he said, smiling sincerely at you.

you helped him get his pants and boxers off, discarding them to the side and settling yourself back between his legs, on your knees. he was already hard again, leaking and desperately needing to be touched. you moved closer, your elbows gently resting on his thighs and one hand at the base of his cock. you look up at him, slowly licking the beading precum from his slit. he moans softly, smirking with a slight roll of his eyes. his hands went to your hair, gently holding it back for you. you took his tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it as you slowly moved your hand up and down at his base. your other hand went to his balls, gently playing with them.

you took his cock further into your warm mouth, he moaned softly. his hands tightened their grip in your hair, tugging at it as he hissed in pleasure. “fuck, you’re so good…oh, you’re so good..”

you hummed in response, sending vibrations down his shaft. he groaned, slightly pushing your head down. you started to move faster, using that hand at his base to jerk off what you couldn’t fit in your mouth. he had already had two orgasms, so he was quickly becoming overwhelmed in pleasure. he choked out a moan, his hips bucking up and pushing his cock further into your throat. you choked slightly, gagging on him and spit dribbling down his cock. you kept going, pushing further and further until he was spilling his release down your throat. you slowly pulled off, licking him clean of any cum and wiping your mouth as you looked up at him.

“you’re a goddess” he said weakly, his legs shaky and his breathing laboured. you sat back next to him on the couch, watching him. he turned to look at you.

“please let me make you feel good. i want to touch you, wanna hear you make pretty noises.” he moved closer, kissing your cheek, then your neck, gently nibbling you. you knew he had no idea how to get a woman off, but his desperation was a turn on. you slipped off your jeans and panties, laying back on the sofa. you spread your legs, revealing your wet, needy cunt to him.

“oh, my god… you’re beautiful, y/n.” he said softly, moving closer. you put your hand between your legs and started using a finger to circle your clit. “this is what you need to do, okay?” you said, looking at him. he eagerly nodded and complied, replacing your finger with his own. he was gentle, too gentle, his nervousness evident. “you can be a little firmer, sweet thing.” you said, causing him to blush. he nods, applying a little more pressure which caused a soft moan to leave your lips. “is that good? am i doing it right? i just wanna make you feel so good.”

you nod, spreading your legs further. he started becoming more confident in his moves, circling quicker, using more pressure. he was a quick learner, that’s for sure. you relaxed into it completely, letting yourself get consumed by the pleasure he was providing you. his gaze was locked onto your face, his bottom lip between his teeth. “you’re so fucking pretty, wanna make you come.”

you were getting close, already having been wet and aching since you started touching him. your back arched, soft whines and moans leaving your lips. “michael, fuck—“ he sped up just a little bit more, pushing you over the edge. you came over his finger, legs shaking slightly as you panted. he was good.

“did i do okay?” he asked, back to his seemingly nervous demeanour again. you nodded, smiling and speaking softly, “so, so good.”

“i want to taste you,” he said, looking at you. he moved down, settling himself between your thighs. he looked up at you, licking a slow stripe up your core, swirling his tongue around your clit. you moaned softly, your hand going to his hair. he hummed, closing his eyes briefly to take in your taste. he slowly, gently pushed two fingers inside of you, dragging a moan from your lips as he did so. he explored you tenderly, still circling your clit with his tongue as he moved his fingers in and out. the motion was perfect, you didn’t even need to direct him and tell him what felt good—he just listened to your moans, to the way your hips bucked against his face to know what he was doing was good. “that’s it…god, mikey, you’re so good…”

that encouragement was what he needed, he kept going, speeding up his fingers and relentlessly hitting your g-spot. you tugged his hair, moaning and whining loudly. your hips started to buck against him, your legs shaking as you came over his tongue and fingers. he slowed down, letting you ride out your orgasm.

he sat back on his knees, wiping his mouth with a smile. you stayed laying down, panting and shaking slightly; he knew he did a good job. his cock was sprung hard between his legs again, leaking.

“do you… want to have sex?” you asked, looking at him. he nodded, crawling over the top of you and leaning down to softly kiss your lips. “yes… please.”

he sat back on his knees between your thighs, guiding his cock to slide up and down your cunt, gathering your wetness. he lined up with your entrance, slowly pushing in. he groaned, his head tilting back. “holy fuck, y/n.”

he fully entered you, staying still for a few seconds to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of being inside of you. he leaned down to kiss you, and started slowly thrusting. you moaned softly into the kiss, your hands going to his shoulders, slowly pulling him closer. he started to pick up the pace, moaning into your ear. “you feel fucking amazing, y/n. god, i’m obsessed with you.”

you kissed his neck, gently sucking, marking what’s yours. his hands held your hips, starting to hit deeper and faster. he wouldn’t last long, and you both knew it. he’d already cum multiple times, and this was his first time ever actually having sex. he kept up the momentum, fingers digging into your hips as he thrusted hard. you were whispering praise into his ear, telling him how good he felt inside of you, how well he was filling you up. in a few minutes, his hips started to stutter and his moans became more whiney, desperate. “can’t—gotta stop, gonna come—“

you cut him off with a kiss, wrapping your legs around his. “fill me up…wanna be full of your cum.” you whispered. he groaned, his eyes rolling at your words. his pace quickened again, cock pounding into you relentlessly. with a final deep hit, he moaned, filling you up with his release. he stayed inside of you, his body resting over yours, head in the crook of your neck.

“that was insane… i can’t believe it. you’re perfect.” he said, peppering kisses to your neck and cheek. he slowly pulled out with a whimper, watching his cum leak from your cunt. he looked at you, smiling softly.

1987

When you and Michael started dating about two years ago, the very first thing he warned you about was the press.

Hell, he outright refused to date you at first because of the press and they’re meddling.

The two of you met at your job at the animal shelter, when Michael came in to spend time with some of the animals. He was very shy, but said hello to each worker one at a time nevertheless. The two of you locked eyes before he actually reached you in the line you and your coworkers had formed, and when he did reach you, his small smile grew bigger. He visibly inhaled through his nose as he shook your hand, his thumb caressing the skin there.

“Are you wearing perfume?” He had asked. You still remember the way his gentle voice curled and flew around you like wind upon hearing it up close for the first time, and the way your stomach did that loopy thing that usually only happens when you drive over a hill or something.

Your free hand reached up and absentmindedly grabbed at your necklace as you processed his words, a habit you didn't even notice you had. The necklace was a dainty, gold plated chain with a small sun charm. It was something cute and cheap that you found at a market, something that seemed good quality.

“I am," You nodded, "My friend gifted it to me for my birthday, I don’t remember the name. It’s something fancy.”

The two of you continued to hold each other’s hand, despite the handshake having been long over. “Something fancy,” He repeated. He looked down at his feet for a moment, then scanned his eyes up to land on your lips. Then your eyes.

He smiled. “I like fancy.”

Your instigating coworkers demanded that you be the one to give him a tour of the whole place after that.

Alone, the two of you walked throughout the entire building as you lead him to some of the most precious animals. You introduced him to a three-legged kitten, who he laid on his stomach to pet, and even taught him how to handle the shelter’s most energetic dog, an Australian Shepherd bamed Lucy. You and Michael ended up on the floor, Lucy’s wet snout excitedly sniffling back and forth between your faces. When she sniffed you, paused, then snorted the biggest inhale either of you have ever heard in your lives, you both fell into a loud fit of laughter. Through your wheezing, you giggled, “Animals are truly the best friends.”

It was then that Michael’s interest in you set off like a lit firework fuse. Looking over at you, he agreed nonchalantly, but you felt the energy there. It felt kind of fuzzy, and you liked it.

He didn’t revisit in person again after that day, as the fans would definitely crowd up the shelter if he did, but he had begun to consistently send in donations. Money, food, toys, supplies. You name it and he’d send it.

He’d also send letters for you. It started friendly, and actually remained that way right until you gave him your phone number. Something changed between you after that.

Or maybe it was always there, and electrified even more the night he first called you. It'd been late at night, and you sat on your balcony, looking up at the moon as you both spoke to each other. It started as a silly conversation, before blooming into something flirtatious. Something deep and raw and real.

He took you out on plenty different kinds of dates and remained a gentleman the whole time, showering you with a type of affection you’ve never received before. Honestly, you were starting to doubt that men like Michael existed before you met him.

Then, right when things had begun to really take off between you both, the press decided to bite.

It was a cruel release. A bunch of bullshit words about Michael’s face and skin, littered all over the media. You reminded him that the tabloids didn’t know anything about him. That they’d photoshop and twist every little thing they could to fit their fake stories. You told him that you knew him, saw him, and liked him for him.

He broke it off with you anyways. Plain and simple, like all the letters, calls, and dates meant nothing.

Unfortunately for him, however, you had different plans. Stubborn as ever, you glued yourself to the door before he could leave and forced him to talk to you about what was going on. You knew he wouldn't be able to move you without getting forceful, and if there's one thing Michael's NOT, it's forceful.

You begged him, through your sobs, to tell you what he was feeling. It was unbearable for Michael to watch you cry so desperately, especially since it was because of him. He admitted that him attempting to leave wasn’t out of malice or because of a lack of attraction. It wasn’t even because of what the press would say about him.

It was about what the press would say about you.

He tried leaving you as a way to protect you, but it's always been impossible for you to stay away from each other, and after a long life of always doing things to avoid the media, you pleaded with him to finally do something for himself.

He warned you, seriously, that the press were a bunch of blood-sniffing sharks. That if they learned you were with him, the two of you would become a package deal, and they’d try to tear you apart in any way they could. He drilled it into your head as best as he could. You didn’t care.

Two years later, and you still don’t. Not really.

You’d deal with the press again and again in every lifetime if it meant being with Michael. He’s kind, sensual, and attentive; exactly what you’ve dreamed of in a boyfriend since you were a little girl. He devotes a lot of his time towards you, surprises you with extravagant gifts, and does silly little things that make you feel like you’re floating every now and then like forcing you to slow dance with him under the chandelier near the staircase. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

But sometimes when you’re alone, on the nights when he’s out preforming or working or whatever it may be, it’s hard to ignore what the world has to say about you. And lately, they’ve had a lot to say about your body.

You’re not as skinny as you used to be. Certainly not as thin as when you and Michael first met. But he loves to take you to dinner and surprise you with meals and treats! Of course you were gonna gain a few extra pounds, it was sort of inevitable! You try reminding yourself that this is a natural part of life, and that the press doesn’t know what they’re talking about when they make stupid, hurtful comments about your hips and thighs.

A specific headline jumps out to scare you in your own head. “Michael Jackson’s fat and unlovable girlfriend.”

…Ouch.

Insecurity slithers in the core of your chest and tightens around your soul like a snake. A terrible feeling settles underneath your muscles, like it plans to stay there. It does.

“Ay Mike!”

Jackie’s voice booms outside of Michael’s bedroom door in Hayvenhurst, causing both you and Michael, who’s tidying up his room before bed, to jump in shock. It tears you out of the spiral you were going down and snaps you back to the present. “Is the ice cream in the freezer for your lady or can I have it?”

Michael turns to look at you from where he’s putting a couple of shirts away into his dresser, one eyebrow raising in a silent offer. His button up shirt is hung open, showing off his chest and abdomen. From where you’re seated on his bed, using your handheld mirror so you can wipe your makeup off, you bite your lip. The idea of ice cream makes your stomach rumble, a sudden craving for it rising inside of you. You’re sure it’s your favorite kind, the Jacksons always have your favorite ice cream in stock.

A voice in your head forbids you. “No, thank you, I’m alright,” You decline.

Michael nods, but before he can give Jackie the go-ahead, you babble, “I gotta lose some weight, anyways. 'M gettin' fat.”

There's a pause, stillness blanketing the air.

Then, both Michael and Jackie, who is still on the other side of the door, bark out an astonished "Huh?"

You glance between your man and the bedroom door, slowly lowering the hand that’s holding up the mirror. “What?” You ask.

“Why would you say that?” Michael questions.

You swear your brain short-circuits, and when you realize what exactly you just said, you curse yourself internally. “Well, you know…”

A small frown grows on Michael’s lips after a moment and he shuts the dresser drawer with a smooth, single slide. “Well I know… what?”

Heat crawls up your spine in the most uncomfortable way, embarrassment sinking deep beneath your cheeks in a crimson blush. You frown at the bedroom door.

Michael doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he calls out to his brother, “Leave the ice cream, please.”

You look back into your mirror and nervously continue to take off your makeup, dreading the conversation that you’re definitely about to have. The sound of Jackie’s retreating footsteps echo in the room before it goes perfectly quiet.

Michael’s just looking at you.

You fumble around with your makeup cloth for a couple of seconds under his intense gaze, anxiety cascading down you like boiling water. You know he’s thinking about what you said, and you so did not plan on talking about this today.

Michael approaches carefully as you’re wiping the contour off of your cheek, placing both his hands on either side of your legs on the bed. He slightly hovers over you with a gentle smile. “Baby?”

You look at yourself closer in the mirror to avoid his stare. “Hm?”

“Can you look at me?”

“I’m taking off my makeup.”

Michael reaches up and clutches your chin with his thumb and index finger, gently turning your face to look at him. “Look at me, mama.”

Your heart skips a beat when your eyes fall onto his concerned ones, the peck to your lips that he gives you doing nothing to help the palpitations. “‘M looking at you,” You reply in a mumble, “you look good.”

He chuckles and removes his hand from your chin, placing it back down next to your leg. “So do you,” he says, starting to caress your knee. “My gorgeous girl.”

You frown, placing your things down onto the nightstand by the bed. You’re not sure why Michael's compliment feels like a strike, but you flinch like you’ve been slapped. Gorgeous girl.

Were you? Were you really?

Curling into yourself, Michael notices the way you deflate and moves to sit beside you. His hand pulls you in by your waist. “Woah, woah, hey,” he calls gently. “What is it, baby? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing, I’m sorry,” You apologize, huffing dramatically, “I’m being so stupid.”

You cover your face with your hands, exhaling sharply to keep your sudden tears at bay. It’s as if the moment someone asks you what’s wrong, something triggers inside of you and you break down. Forcefully squeezing your eyes shut, you will yourself to get a freaking grip.

Michael’s voice cuts through your foggy thoughts. “No, you’re not being stupid,” he reassures. The rich smell of his fragrance feels stronger now that he’s closer. In the back of your mind, you’re amazed by how long it’s lasted on him. “Will you please just look at me?”

Your teeth clench as you drag your head up, and when you see Michael’s stressed face you feel ashamed. He looks lost, confusion swimming in his eyes. Confusion that only intensifies when he sees your tears.

You feel your heart shrivel up inside your ribcage as your guilt eats away at you. You know, deep down, that he deserves to know what’s going on with his girl. If things were reversed, you’d sure want to know what was going on with him.

“The press- they... called me fat. And unlovable,” You hear yourself confess.

The sentence comes out of you on it’s own, punching through your chest with a kind of force that makes your lungs sore. You watch as Michael’s eyes widen a fraction before shuts them calmly, as if he’s trying to regain his composure. He moves one of your hands to his mouth, kissing your knuckles as you continue speaking. “It wasn’t just that. They, um, used a lot of other names and words too. I just- …that’s what it all pretty much summed up to.”

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” He sighs, opening his eyes again. “If the press can’t even show respect towards someone as lovely as you, I think it’s safe to say that anything coming out of them is a lie.”

You nod once, weak and unconvincing.

He pins you with a look so genuine and loving that it makes your stomach do that same loopy thing it did when you first met him. “And you know that, right? You know that you’re perfect as you are?”

You shrug. His words feel nice, like warm sun rays on a breezy day, but your insecurities can’t be so easily washed away.

“Pretty.”

You grunt grumpily. “What, Mikey?”

He leans in close, a few of his dark curls falling in front of his face. He looks down at your lips, at your blush-dusted cheeks, your cute nose, and scoffs. “There’s no way you- …you don’t actually believe what they’re saying, do you?” He asks incredulously.

The pent up anxiety thrumming deep in your bones paired with his disbelief makes you shoot up from the bed with a burning, humiliated look on your face. “And what if I do, Michael?! I mean, you’re everywhere! Everyone loves you, they want to see you with someone who- you know- you could have anyone--”

“I don’t want anyone but you,” Michael interrupts sternly. He’s sitting on the bed with his hands in his lap now, observing you as you begin to pace back and forth. The gravity of the situation seems to have finally hit him.

Your hand moves to absentmindedly grab at your necklace, this time an expensive pure gold chain with a diamond encrusted sun charm. It’s quite the upgrade from the one you bought at the market, and you haven’t taken it off since Michael had it made for you. “You deserve to have a girlfriend who’s… in your league, Mikey. Not some random that stuffs her face with ice cream and multiplies in size by the week.”

Michael’s hand shoots out to snag your wrist when you’re close enough, and he yanks you in, forcing you to stand between his open legs. “Don’t talk about yourself like that,” He demands. The words are wrapped up in love, carried by the gentleness of his breathy voice, but there’s something bone-chillingly sobering beneath it. A no-nonsense tone that makes you bite the inside of your cheek, dropping your head down to look at the way his fingers are locked around your wrists. “Do y’hear me?” He nudges.

Tears free themselves from the corners of your eyes, and you sniffle pathetically. “I’m- I’m not as skinny as I was when we met,” You whisper brokenly. “I don’t look like that girl you first wanted anymore.”

Michael exhales slowly through his nose and shakes his head. His hands move to the front of your thighs, where he then slides them up to your hips. It’s almost as if he’s trying to memorize all of your curves with his fingers.

“Mama…” His voice drops impossibly softer. “It wasn’t your weight that I fell in love with when I met you.”

You try to wipe some of your tears away with a shaky hand. “Then what were you attracted to?”

He tugs you in and kisses at your navel over your brown pajamas. “I fell in love with the way you laughed,” He chuckles, squeezing your hips in his hands. You smile shyly. “The way you talked to and treated the animals. Called ‘em your friends.”

You bury a hand in his hair, toying with his curls while the fingers on your other hand trace the side of his face.

“And, you know I fell in love with you all over again when you heard my album for the first time. You’re so cute when you dance,” He flirts playfully. You roll your eyes, a wet laugh coming out of you despite how you’re feeling. Hearing Bad for the first time in the studio with Michael was one of your favorite memories.

“Well, so are you,” You sass.

Michael grins and lures you down so that you’re straddling his lap. “I’m serious, baby. You’re the most stunning woman I’ve ever been blessed enough to see.”

You wrap your arms around his neck intimately, falling into the way he holds you closer. Your body feels so warm against his.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The sensation of Michael's hands touching you all over makes you light headed. “I usually don’t care what the press has to say. I don’t know why this time it… felt different,” You say. You can feel Michael’s sadness in the way he places a gentle kiss against your collarbone.

“I spend my whole life with people tellin’ me what I should fix,” he responds. His hands flatten and settle at your lower back. “My face. My body. My personality. Everything. And I know…”

He trails off, sighing out a deep breath. “I understand what happens after a while. You hear so much terrible stuff from the world and one day it starts soundin’ like your own thoughts.”

You don’t know what to do with the devastated look on his face, so you just hug him. Burying your face into his shoulder, you tighten your arms around him and mentally face-palm. Of course he’d understand. Michael would understand more than anyone.

“There isn’t an inch of you that I’m not in love with,” He continues. “It doesn’t matter if you get heavier or thinner, sick or old. You’re my girl. I love you, mama.”

You feel so much. So much you can’t even speak, and you flatten your lips together in a thin line as you try your best to hold off a new wave of tears. It’s been two years, but hearing him tell you he loves you still doesn’t feel real. It feels like it did the first time he whispered them against your mouth in the dark, nervous and breathless.

Your brain and heart slow down into a patterned, easy rhythm, and your anxiety finally steps aside to let you breathe. It takes you a few minutes, but you eventually dig your head out from where it was stuffed into the crook of Michael’s neck.

“I love you, too, Mikey.”

He smiles, playfully gnawing at your shoulder. “I’d sure hope so, girl. This would be very awkward otherwise.”

You grant him a small, cute grin, toying with his button up. “And thank you for taking me seriously, baby. I’m sorry I’m so emotional.”

Michael shakes his head and takes ahold of your chin again. “‘S okay to be emotional,” He coos. He doesn't even think about it before he says it.

And just when you start to crave his kiss, he presses his lips against yours, effectively washing away any leftover pain aching in your chest. You melt into him, into the way he lightly groans into your mouth, and into the way he tilts his head to kiss you deeper.

He only stops long enough to take a breath before finding your mouth again like he’s addicted to it. “I can’t believe you even thought for a second that you weren’t attractive.”

Tilting your head, you ask, “Is it really that hard for you to believe that I could be insecure?”

“Uh, yes,” He answers pointedly, a lovesick smile stretching across his face when you start to mess with his curls again. “You’re Mrs. The Way You Make Me Feel. The pretty girl behind the song.”

You roll your eyes, failing to stifle the happy smile he brings out of you. You jokingly push his face away with your hand. “Sap.”

Michael only shoves his nose into your palm in response. A goofy, mischievous beam paints across his handsome face, and he starts to sing, “You knock me off of my feet, now, baby--”

“Mikey! I swear--”

He does his signature howl with full energy, making you squeal and basically fall over to the side with laughter. He falls with you, joy dancing in his eyes.

“It’s almost midnight and you’re being so loud like that!” You whisper-shout at him, still giggling. He’s got this smug, satisfied smirk on his face, so you poke at his chest. “Your family is sleeping! You could’ve woken up your mother!”

He cuddles you closer, until you’re almost laying on top of him, then turns your head to the side to drink in the smell of your skin by your pulse. He doesn’t bother responding. Instead, he just continues to kiss around your face, content to lay in silence with you.

Much later that night, after every last word is done being said, your head is tucked beneath Michael’s chin as the two of you lay tangled under the bed covers.

A calmness rocks within you. You feel ten times lighter than before. Michael’s fingers move up and down your back lazily, slow enough to make your eyelids heavy, and you’re thankful that your mind isn’t running at 60 miles per second anymore.

The bedroom is completely dark except for the distant glow of the world outside. In here, a different level of safety envelops you, one that only you and him can touch and feel. The cruel words from all of the tabloids and headlines still exist somewhere out there, but not in here.

Not when it’s just you and Michael.

You let your eyes flutter shut, your head on his chest. All the worries about the world and what they have to say about you seem so small compared to his steady heartbeat in your ear.

“I’ll still want the ice cream tomorrow,” You sleepily inform him.

Michael chuckles, scratching at your scalp lovingly.

the music started again. 

you didn't bother looking up right away.

you already knew what you'd see.

jaafar moved through the same section he'd been working on for most of the night, his reflection following him across the mirrored wall. every now and then, he'd stop to watch the playback on his phone before trying again. you couldn't see what he was seeing. to you, it had looked good hours ago. 

jaafar strongly disagreed.

a fond smile pulled at your mouth as you watched him pause halfway through the choreography and mutter something to himself. 

his white shirt had long since lost the battle against rehearsal. the fabric clung damply to his skin, and a few curls had fallen loose across his forehead. 

drawing your knees up to your chest, you rested your chin on your folded arms, content to watch him from across the room. 

the track looped back to the beginning. jaafar moved easily with it, already counting under his breath before the choreography fully began. his feet seemed to know where to go before he even thought about it. every movement flowed naturally into the next, sharp one second and smooth the next. 

you weren't a dancer. half the time you couldn't tell what he was trying to fix. but you liked watching him anyway.

maybe it was the way he got so focused that he forgot about everything else around him. maybe it was the little habits you'd learned by heart after sitting through enough rehearsals.

the way he'd bite the inside of his cheek when he was concentrating, or the way his hand would automatically push his curls back whenever they fell into his eyes. 

or maybe you just liked looking at him. 

across the room, jaafar spun before coming to a stop, shaking his head at himself almost instantly. 

you smiled.

he was cute when he got like this.

instead of reaching for his phone again, jaafar lingered where he was, clearly debating whether he could get away with checking it one more time. 

you tilted your head. "i think you've earned a break."

a breathless laugh escaped him. "have i?" he asked, tilting his head back at you with his hands resting on his hips. 

“yes. my feet are hurting just watching you dance for this long.” 

he laughed, the sound softer this time, but his gaze still flickered toward his phone before returning to you. 

“don’t even think about it,” you warned playfully.

his mouth twitched into a grin. holding both hands up in surrender, he finally made his way over to your corner of the room.

“you know what?” he said. “i could go for a snack.”

he crouched down in front of you, reaching for your hand. you placed it in his without hesitation. his hands were warm against yours from dancing, his thumbs drifting lazily over the back of your hand as he looked at you.

you tried very hard to ignore the flutter in your chest.

“we could go down to the vending machines and pick something out,” you offered. 

“there’s a convenience store just down the street, baby. these vending machines aren’t gonna cut it,” he said with a dramatic sigh. 

you laughed.

“i like the way you think.”

“also, fresh air,” he added.

jaafar stood up, keeping his hands locked with yours as he effortlessly pulled you up after him.

“best decision you’ve made all day,” you teased.

he rolled his eyes, smiling as he reached for his sweater and pulled it on.

the last of spring lingered in the air, cool enough to feel against your skin but softened by the promise of summer. jaafar walked beside you with his hand locked in yours, your fingers laced together as he lightly swung your joined hands between you. 

the streetlights cast soft pools of gold across the quiet sidewalk.

you couldn't help looking at him.

maybe it was the lighting, or maybe it was just him, but the glow from the lamps caught along the sharp edges of his features, softening some parts of him while making others stand out even more. 

either way, he looked so handsome. 

he caught you staring after a minute of walking in deep thought. you flashed him with a grin, which he returned.

“take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he teased, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

you laughed despite the painfully lame joke.

“okay,” you said cheerfully.

the sudden agreement caught him off guard.

before he could question it, you slipped your hand from his and stepped behind him, reaching up. you grasped his shoulders and gave him a small tug to make him stop walking.

jaafar caught on quickly, crouching without a word.

the moment you hopped onto his back, his hands settled beneath your thighs to steady you. you wrapped one arm securely around his shoulders while using the other to dig your phone out of your pocket. 

opening the camera app, you stretched your arm out in front of you. jaafar leaned in beside you, the two of you flashing the cheesiest, most ridiculous smiles you could manage at the screen

the automatic flash went off without warning.

jaafar squeezed his eyes shut as the camera snapped the picture.

you pulled the phone back to look at the result and immediately burst into giggles, turning the screen so he could see.

you looked fine– a wide grin stretched across your face, your eyes squinting slightly from smiling too hard.

jaafar, on the other hand, looked ridiculous.

his eyes were squeezed shut from the flash, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead, and a dopey grin stretched across his face that somehow matched your own. 

“delete that,” he said through a laugh, letting go of one of your thighs to make a grab for your phone. 

you saw it coming and pulled it out of reach before he could get anywhere near it, quickly tucking it back into your pocket.

“baby!” he laughed.

“nope. that’s officially my new favourite picture of us.” 

“i’m deleting that when you fall asleep tonight.”

“you better not,” you said, lightly whacking his arm.

as the glowing neon sign of the convenience store finally came into view, you shifted on his back, preparing to hop down so you could walk inside normally. 

instead, jaafar's grip only tightened around your legs. you turned your head to look at him with a confused expression, which he completely ignored. 

“put me down,” you laughed.

“nope.”

a mischievous spark flashed through his eyes before he turned his head and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. he bounced you slightly on his back as he adjusted his grip.

“jaafar, seriously. we're going inside,” you whisper-shouted, already fighting a laugh as you buried your face against the side of his neck. his cologne had faded a little over the course of the night, softened now by hours of dancing.

“i know," he replied, his voice rumbling low against your chest. 

he pushed open the glass door with his shoulder, the bell above it letting out a cheerful ding that seemed far too energetic for nearly one in the morning. 

inside, the store was bathed in that familiar, unforgivingly bright fluorescent lighting.

the cashier behind the counter barely glanced up with a bored look before returning to whatever was on his phone. 

“see? no one cares," jaafar murmured, though he was grinning so wide his cheeks were practically pressing into yours. 

“you're ridiculous," you giggled, burying your face in jaafar’s shoulder as he carried you straight toward the candy aisle. your feet swung idly with each step.

he stopped in front of the shelves and immediately reached for a bright yellow bag. 

reaching out with one hand while keeping a steady grip on your thigh with the other, he snagged a bag of sour patch kids and shook them right next to your ear so the sugar rattled inside. 

“the best part of the night, right here," he said, a genuine, boyish grin pulling at his lips. 

“you're going to burn a hole in your stomach eating those this late," you joked, leaning over his shoulder to scan the rows. your fingers wrapped around the packaging of your own absolute favorite snack, pulling it down.

“the sour wakes me up," he argued, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "what's your excuse?"

“i don't need an excuse. i'm just keeping you company,” you countered, nudging his cheek with your own.

jaafar let out another one of his breathless laughs. he turned around on his heel, keeping you securely on his back as he walked the few steps over to the drink cooler to grab a couple of bottles to wash down the sugar. 

the cashier scanned everything with the same bored rhythm he’d had since you’d walked in, the register beeping softly in the quiet store.

“reach into my pocket,” jaafar said, tilting his head back slightly. “my wallet's in there.” 

you nodded as you leaned down to slide your hand into his pocket, pulling out his wallet.

as the cashier muttered the total, you flipped it open, found his card, and tapped it against the reader for him. the machine chimed as you slipped the wallet back into your own pocket for safekeeping.

“teamwork,” you whispered in his ear.

his smile widened at that as he leaned forward just enough for you to grab the snacks from the counter before turning back toward the door. 

as soon as the glass door swung open and the cool, crisp night air hit you again, jaafar finally let you slide down his back, your sneakers hitting the pavement.

you felt a sudden wave of peaceful contentment wash over you. the city was so quiet, like the dark streets belonged entirely to the two of you. 

jaafar didn't even wait to get back to the studio.

before you had even walked ten steps from the storefront, you heard the sharp tear of plastic. 

he reached into the bag, his long fingers pulling out a red sour patch kid.

instead of eating it himself, he held it up to your lips.

“first one’s yours,” he said softly, nudging it towards your mouth.

you smiled and leaned forward, taking the candy from his fingers. the familiar sweet-and-sour flavor burst across your tongue as you chewed.

jaafar watched you for a second, a quiet, satisfied chuckle escaping him when you gave him an approving nod.

only then did he grab a couple for himself. 

“good, right?" he murmured. 

you nodded.

he shoved the candy bag into his jacket pocket and slipped his fingers back into yours, lacing them together.

he slowed his pace to match yours perfectly, lifting your joined hands just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles. 

by the time you made it back to the studio, the midnight chill was easily forgotten.

jaafar pushed the heavy door open, and the quiet warmth of the building welcomed you both back inside.

the music from earlier was still paused on his phone, the empty floor and the wall of mirrors exactly as you had left them. 

instead of heading back to your corner by the wall, jaafar tugged gently on your hand, pulling you right into the center of the room. 

“c’mere,” he said, a mischievous grin playing on his lips as he reached over to hit play on his phone. 

“jaafar, no, I told you I'm not a dancer," you laughed, trying to pull back, but he didn't let you get far. 

“doesn't matter. just follow me," he murmured. 

the music started up again, a smooth, slow rhythm filling the empty space.

jaafar wrapped one arm securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand kept yours held high. he started to move, guiding you through a relaxed, effortless sway that had absolutely nothing to do with the sharp, intense choreography he’d been stressing over all night. 

much to your surprise, it actually went okay. jaafar steered you with a gentle pressure at your waist, guiding you in wherever you needed to go next.

“see? you're doing great," he teased, spinning you out under his arm before pulling you right back into his space. 

"okay, this isn't that ba– shit!"

the words barely left your mouth before jaafar dipped you, arm locked around your waist to keep you from falling. 

your grip on him locked around him until he pulled you upright again, nearly stepping on your own feet.

"jaafar!"

his laugh echoed through the empty studio as he pulled you securely against him.

“i hate you.”

“no, you don’t,” he countered, his voice full of amusement. 

“i do. my life flashed before my eyes,” you complained, though the grin stretching across your face completely ruined any attempt at sounding serious.

you rested your hands on his shoulders, your heart thumping a little faster.

partly from the sudden dip.

partly from how incredibly close he was holding you. 

“i had you the whole time. I'd never let you fall," he murmured. the playful edge in his voice softened just a bit, his thumbs tracing quiet, comforting circles through the fabric of your shirt.

the music around you began to fade out, the last notes drifting through the studio before disappearing altogether.

silence settled over the room, but neither of you moved.

the playful banter trailed off into a quiet, breathless smile as jaafar looked down at you. the studio lights caught the damp curls falling across his forehead, casting a warm glow over the sharp angles of his face. his gaze drifted down to your lips before rising back to your eyes, a sudden, heavy tenderness settling between you. 

“i love you,” he whispered.

before you could even respond, he leaned down and closed the small distance between you. 

the kiss was soft at first, a gentle, lingering pressure that tasted faintly of the sweet candy you’d just shared. a quiet sigh escaped you, your eyes fluttering shut as you melted into him. jaafar’s grip on your waist tightened, pulling you a fraction closer as the kiss deepened. his lips were incredibly soft, moving against yours with a slow, deliberate sweetness that made your head spin. 

one of his hands slid up from your waist, his long fingers trailing up your spine before tangling gently in the hair at the nape of your neck, holding you close.

the kiss was soft, slow, entirely unhurried, and full of quiet affection that left you completely breathless.

every time he pulled back just an inch, his lips would brush yours again, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to fully break the contact. 

when he finally did let you catch your breath, he rested his forehead against yours, his warm breath fanning across your cheek as his thumb gently traced your jawline. 

“thanks for staying up with me," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate register that always made your heart do a dangerous little flip.

"even if you are keeping that blackmail photo." 

a quiet laugh slipped out of you.

“oh, it's never leaving my phone," you smiled, your voice a little breathy as you leaned into his touch. 

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

he'd sooooo put that pic as his wallpaper later

The argument afterward had not gone.. well. Mostly because it stopped being about jealousy almost immediately—that would’ve been easier. Instead it became about disrespect. About spending an entire evening standing in a room full of people while another woman monopolized her boyfriend’s attention. About feeling invisible and like a second choice. About Diana acting like she possessed a claim on Michael that nobody else was supposed to fucking question. Then, Diana made the catastrophic mistake of questioning her right back. Michael doesn’t remember every detail because the second the tension started rising, his survival instincts kicked in and his brain effectively left the building. But he remembers (Name) asking if she could maybe have five uninterrupted minutes with her own boyfriend. He remembers Diana not appreciating the tone. He remembers trying to smooth things over then—the drink in (Name)’s hand found itself splashing in Diana’s face before Michael had to physically pick up and pull her away while another nearby did the same with Diana.

Now Diana is on one side of the club pretending none of it happened. His girlfriend is on the other side pretending he doesn’t exist.

And somehow Michael is the common denominator in both disasters.

After spending nearly fifteen minutes pacing around the bar (like a condemned man awaiting execution), Michael finally orders her favorite drink. Then orders another because his hands are shaking badly enough that he drops the first one. By the time he starts walking toward her booth, he’s rehearsed approximately seventeen? different apologies and forgotten every single one of them. His girlfriend notices him immediately but she simply chooses not to acknowledge it. Michael stops beside the table and waits. Nothing.

“Hi.” Silence. “Hi,” he tries again, somehow sounding even more nervous the second time. Still nothing then carefully, he sets the drink down in front of her.

“..I got this for you, baby..” That finally earns him a reaction: she looks at the glass. Then at him and back at the glass. A smile appears and Michael’s stomach immediately drops to the floor. Because it’s not her happy smile. It’s the smile. The one that means she’s about to make him suffer.

“Oh.” One word as she picks up the drink and studies it thoughtfully before slowly lifting her eyes back to his. The smile widens.

“Oh,” She says again. “Finally remembered who your girlfriend is?” And just like that, every apology Michael spent the last fifteen minutes rehearsing evaporates completely.

Michael just stares at her. Which, unfortunately, is probably the worst possible thing he could be doing right now. He just.. stares. Partially because he's terrified and genuinely, sincerely terrified in a way that feels ridiculous considering he’s a rising star, one would think very little scares him. But he’s staring mostly because she’s angry, and he's never actually seen her like this before. Not really—not directed at him. Usually when she’s upset, there’s still something soft underneath it. Its huffy, pouty, there’s some visible crack where he can see his way back in. Tonight there isn’t. Tonight she’s sitting across from him looking completely unimpressed, completely unaffected by his presence, and somehow so damn beautiful. She’s beautiful everyday, yeah. But right now? Whew. Her eyes seem darker, her posture straighter and there’s a confidence that feels like she owns the entire nightclub and everyone inside it. Michael knows he should be apologizing. Knows he should be speaking. Knows he should be doing literally anything other than staring at her. Instead, his brain completely betrays him by noticing how pretty she looks when she’s mad.

The silence stretches longer than it should and her eyebrow slowly lifts. Michael continues staring.

“Hello?” Nothing. “Michael?”

His brain finally restarts with all the grace of a car refusing to turn over. “Pardon?” The second the word leaves his mouth, she lets out a short laugh and leans back against the booth cushions.

“Oh my God,” she mutters. “You're not even listening to me.”

Michael immediately opens his mouth to argue before deciding against it. Bad idea. Very bad idea. Then she gestures casually across the club toward Diana and smiles in a way that makes every survival instinct in his body activate at once.

“Please go back over there before I drag that old bitch.” Michael’s eyes widen and his gaze instinctively flickers toward Diana before snapping right back to his girlfriend. Huge mistake. She catches it immediately.

“Oh, don't worry,” she says sweetly. “I’m sure she’d love to see you.” And suddenly Michael understands that this isn’t really about Diana at all—or at least entirely. It’s about spending an entire evening making his girlfriend feel unwanted while he floated around Studio 54 like he didn’t even have one. The realization settles heavily in his stomach, and for the first time all night, he's no longer scared of her being angry. He’s scared because she has every right to be.

(Name) stares at him for another few seconds before letting out a long sigh and sliding out of the booth. Michael immediately straightens because the fact she's standing up usually means a decision has been made, and Michael has a horrible feeling he isn’t going to like it. She smooths down her outfit, picks up her purse, and points directly at him.

“I’m leaving.” She says and Michael blinks.

“Okay..” He nods.

“You can stay if you want.” His face falls instantly. “But,” She continues holding up a finger, “I’m changing the locks if you do.” The statement confirms he is, in fact, still very much in trouble and (Name) watches the realization happen in real time. His shoulders sink. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Then without a single argument, he simply stands up and follows after her immediately with no hesitation. He’s trailing along a few steps behind like a giant, miserable puppy that knows exactly why it’s being punished.

(Name) makes it approximately ten feet before glancing over her shoulder and finding him still there looking guilty and pathetic. Looking like if she left him alone in Studio 54 for more than twenty minutes he’d probably just stand in the corner thinking about life. The sight nearly breaks her resolve. Nearly.

“That's what I thought,” She says, reaching back and hooking a finger into the collar of his shirt and Michael doesn’t even protest. If anything, he seems relieved to be collected. (Name) rolls her eyes and starts steering him toward the exit while he obediently follows along behind her. They’re halfway across the club when a familiar voice cuts through the crowd.

“Well, look at this.” Quincy appears out of nowhere, drink in hand and a grin already spreading across his face as he takes in the scene before him. (Name) with one hand on Michael’s collar. Michael following behind her with all the dignity of a man being escorted out of kindergarten. Quincy immediately starts laughing.

She brightens instantly. “Hi, Q!” she calls cheerfully, as if she isn’t actively dragging her boyfriend through the middle of Studio 54. “We're leaving!”

Quincy glances at Michael and at the hand attached to his collar. “I can see that, sweetheart.”

She nods enthusiastically. ”Early too!” And behind her, Michael closes his eyes for a brief moment as Quincy nearly doubles over laughing.

“What’d you do, Mike?” Quincy asks.

“I don't wanna talk about it,” Michael mutters.

“He knows what he did,” She answers at the exact same time, giving his collar another tug toward the door and Quincy laughs even harder. Michael wishes the floor would open and swallow him whole.

The walk to the car is painfully embarrassing for Michael but she saves him from the embarrassment of the paparazzi because releases his collar the second they step outside, but somehow that’s worse. At least when she was dragging him around, she was touching him. Now she’s just walking beside him with her purse tucked under her arm and her expression fixed firmly ahead. The night air is cooler than inside the club, carrying away some of the heat and noise of Studio 54, but none of it helps the growing sense of dread sitting in Michael’s stomach. When the car finally pulls up, he nearly lunges for the door handle, rushing ahead to open it for her before she can do it herself. She doesn’t acknowledge the gesture beyond sliding into the seat without a word and Michael follows a moment later, settling beside her as the door shuts and the city begins moving past the windows.

The silence inside the car feels louder than the music had.

(Name) sits with her arms crossed tightly over her chest and one leg thrown over the other, looking out the window because she’s suddenly become fascinated by New York traffic. Michael glances at her once.. then again. Then a third time. Every few seconds his eyes drift back toward her before darting away when she doesn’t react. He lasts maybe five minutes before finally giving up. Slowly and cautiously, he reaches across the seat and rests his hand lightly on her knee.

She just refuses to look at him.

“Lovey..” Michael says quietly. No response.

“I’m sorry.” His thumb moves against her knee. “Will you look at me?” Nothing.

“Please? What can I do?” The worst part is how sincere he sounds. He’s not making excuses or defending himself. He’s just being her Michael. Soft and sweet and looking so genuinely miserable that she can physically feel her resolve beginning to crack down the middle. She hates it. Hates how easy it is when he uses that voice. Hates how his eyes get all sad. Hates that she still wants to forgive him..

So instead she turns her head slowly and narrows her eyes at him. Michael immediately brightens.

Big mistake.

“Don't,” she warns and his smile falters. “You are going to massage my feet until your hands hurt.”

For a moment he stares at her then relief washes across his face so quickly it’s almost embarrassing. “That's it?”

Her eyes narrow further and Michael wisely corrects himself. “I mean.. yes. Absolutely. As long as you want.”

“Good.”

“Okay."

“And I'm still mad at you.”

“I know.”

“Very mad.”

“I know, lovey.”

She turns back toward the window, fighting the smile threatening to appear on her face and a few seconds later, Michael’s hand quietly slips from her knee into her hand.

This time she lets it stay there.

The second she lets his hand stay in hers, Michael immediately gets hopeful in that cutie way he gets when he thinks he might still be forgiven. She doesn’t even have to look at him to feel it. Its the little glances he keeps sneaking at her and the way his thumb moves against her knuckles. She keeps her gaze fixed out the window acting like she hasn’t noticed any of it even though she absolutely has.

The quiet doesn't last long.

“..Can I have a kiss?” Michael asks, voice softer than it already is because he’s testing whether the ground is stable again. (Name) closes her eyes for a second like she’s physically bracing herself, then finally turns her head toward him. The look she gives him is unreadable, but it doesn’t stop her from leaning across the space and pressing a quick kiss to his lips anyway. It’s brief, barely even a second, and the moment it’s over she’s already pulling away and turning back toward the window like nothing happened. Michael goes completely still beside her for a second then lets out a small, disbelieving laugh under his breath.

“I got a kiss,” he says softly, and she immediately groans and hides her face in her hand.

“Don’t start,” she warns, but her voice isn’t nearly as firm as she wants it to be. And Michael, still holding her just leans back in his seat with a smile that makes it very clear he knows exactly what he’s doing to her.

By the time they get back to her apartment (he pays for), the argument has started to lose its intensity. She kicks off her shoes the second she walks in and Michael follows her in without a word, already looking for ways to make things right without overcomplicating it.

A few minutes later she’s settled on the couch with one leg tucked under her, a cigarette resting between her fingers as she leans back into the cushions, watching him move around the room. Michael eventually ends up sitting on the floor in front of her, carefully taking her feet into his hands and he starts massaging slowly, thumbs pressing into her arch. She doesn’t look at him at first, just exhales smoke toward the ceiling, acting like she’s still mad, but her foot relaxes in his grip anyway, betraying her before she can stop it.

Michael glances up at her once, then keeps going when she doesn’t tell him to stop. “Still mad at me?” he asks quietly, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it from her anyway.

(Name) doesn’t look down at him right away. She just takes another slow drag from her cigarette, considering it for a second longer than necessary, then finally tilts her head slightly in his direction with the faintest trace of a smile pulling at her mouth. And Michael, still on the floor with her feet in his hands, keeps massaging like he’s already accepted whatever verdict she decides to give him.

Michael keeps working his thumbs into her feet and she lounges back into the couch like she’s testing how long she can stay annoyed before it dissolves on its own. She finally speaks without looking at him, voice light but still edged with something he knows better than to fully relax around.

“I dunno,” she says, exhaling another thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Do you think I should still be mad?”

Michael pauses for half a second, hands still resting around her ankle. Then he looks up at her properly, curls a little messy, expression soft and painfully earnest.. that look always makes her anger feel less solid than it should. “Yes,” he says immediately, then corrects himself just as fast, “I mean—no. I mean.. I think you were right to be mad.”

That earns him a look.

So he keeps going, “I was stupid,” he admits, thumbs resuming their slow pressure like he needs the movement to stay grounded. “I should’ve been with you more. I didn’t mean to.. make you feel like that.” His eyes flick up again, searching her face carefully, like he’s trying to read whether he’s losing her in real time. “But I.. also really don’t want you to stay mad at me.”

(Name) watches him for a moment, cigarette still between her fingers, expression unreadable in a way that makes his stomach tighten slightly. Then she tilts her head, studying him like she’s deciding something she hasn’t fully committed to yet. Michael doesn’t move, he just waits there on the floor with her foot in his hands.

Finally, she lets out a small breath through her nose, something almost like a laugh buried in it, and leans her head back against the couch.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” she says, not quite forgiving him but not holding on to the anger either. Michael lets out a relieved breath he clearly didn’t realize he was holding and immediately goes back to massaging.

“But you’re definitely putting that mouth to work tonight.”