Layla

Weeks later, you knew something was off when certain smells had suddenly started attacking you personally.

You were at rehearsals with Michael, and he had been acting strange all morning. Not bad strange. Michael strange. Which was a very specific category.

The Dangerous tour rehearsals were already intense. Everyone knew that. The room was hot from bodies moving, stage lights testing, dancers running formations again and again until every step looked effortless. Music blasted through the speakers loud enough to make the floor vibrate beneath your shoes.

Michael loved it. You could tell by the way his entire body moved the second the music started.

Offstage, he could be soft-spoken and shy, hiding smiles behind his hand and dodging compliments like they were physical objects. But when he was on stage? Gone. Completely gone.

All of the hesitation disappeared. The softness sharpened. His voice dropped when he gave direction, not loud, but firm enough that everyone listened immediately.

“No, no, no. Stop.”

The music cut. The dancers froze. Michael stood center floor, one hand lifted, head tilted slightly as if he were listening to something the rest of you couldn’t hear.

“The hit is late.”

Someone near the soundboard frowned.

“It’s on count, Mike.”

Michael shook his head immediately.

“It’s on count, but it’s late.”

The room went quiet, nobody argued. You had learned a long time ago that those were two different things to Michael. A thing could be technically correct and still wrong.

He stepped backward, demonstrated the move once, then again.

“See? It has to snap right there. If you wait, the whole thing falls.”

And just like that, everyone understood, or at least pretended to.

You were sitting near Janet, watching from a folding chair with your legs crossed and a bottle of water balanced against your thigh. Janet leaned closer, her voice low enough that only you could hear.

“He’s been like this since he was little.”

You smiled without looking away from him.

“Bossy?”

“Passionate about everything.”

That made you look over. Janet’s eyebrows lifted knowingly.

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself, then closed it.

Because unfortunately, Janet knew Michael all too well. And that man had it bad for you.

The evidence was prominent all morning in between sets. A stolen glance here. Another there. Sometimes a small smile, he'd blow you kisses.

Later, you felt heat on you, as if someone was watching you. Across the room, despite the fact that there were at least twenty people between you, Michael’s eyes found yours immediately.

Then, that slow, pleased look that made you feel like he was remembering something he had no business remembering in public.

You narrowed your eyes at him. Michael’s smile widened. His curls framed his face gently under the brim of his hat, which cast a subtle shadow over his features. He leaned against a loudspeaker like he didn't have a care in the world, one ankle crossed over the other, lazily chewing his gum. And watching you. Not glancing. Watching. The corner of his mouth tugged upward. Then his brows lifted twice.

A tiny gesture. Barely there. But there was nothing innocent about it. Then he turned back to the dancers like he hadn’t done anything at all.

Janet made a noise beside you.

“Oh, he’s terrible.”

You laughed.

“Stop.”

“I’m serious.” She sat back, arms crossed, looking entirely too entertained. 

“I don’t know what you did to him, but he’s been unbearable.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

That was not entirely true. You had, in fact, done something.

Or more accurately, the two of you had done a lot of something. Several times, in several locations after the conversation.

After Debbie Rowe had apparently decided to submit an application to be the mother of your future children. The memory alone made your face warm.

“Things are just really good.” You said, biting back a smile as you turned away, trying not to be obvious.

Janet noticed immediately.

“Oh, I’m sure they are. You got that bedroom glow, girl.” She teased, nudging you with her shoulder.

You covered your face, turning away and squealing.

“Jan!”

“I didn’t say anything!” You both dissolved into a fit of giggles, but yours faded quicker than hers.

Because suddenly the room smelled wrong. Not bad. Just wrong. Someone had opened a container of food near the far wall, and the scent drifted across the rehearsal space before you could prepare yourself. Something greasy and warm. And that immediately turned your stomach.

You sat up straighter. Janet noticed.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

The answer came too quickly. You reached for your water. Took a sip, swallowed. For three seconds, everything seemed fine. Then suddenly it wasn’t. Your stomach rolled so violently that your hand flew to your mouth.

“Oh no.”

Janet sat forward instantly.

“What?”

You stood too fast, your chair scraped loudly against the floor. Michael heard it, of course he did. His head turned before anyone else’s. You barely had time to see his expression change before you were already moving toward the restroom.

“I’ll be right back.”

Janet called your name, but you were halfway down the hall before she finished saying it. The bathroom door had never looked more beautiful in your life. By the time you made it inside, you were already regretting every decision you had ever made. Every meal and every smell.

Every confident little statement you had ever tossed at Michael about being the one to have his babies. Because apparently your body had heard you and taken that personally.

You gripped the edge of the sink afterward, breathing hard, forehead damp, eyes watery. For several seconds, you just stood there. Staring at yourself in the mirror. You looked fine, but you felt awful

A soft knock came at the door. Then Michael’s voice. Soft and gentle enough to not startle you in your frazzled state.

“Baby?”

Your stomach flipped again. For an entirely different reason.

“I’m okay.” The answer came quickly, and unfortunately for you, your voice cracked.

“No, you’re not. Can I come in?” His response came immediately. You closed your eyes and sighed.

When Michael didn’t hear an answer back, he began to grow worried. He softly tapped his knuckles against the door and said,

“Please?”

As if he had said the magic words, the warmth in his tone made you open for him immediately.  The man could miss an entire conversation because he was daydreaming, but God forbid you shifted wrong in a chair.

You unlocked the door, and it opened slowly. Michael stepped inside, one hand still on the handle, eyes already searching your face. He had changed from performer to caretaker so quickly it almost made your chest ache. The sharpness from rehearsal was gone.

Now he looked worried. Deeply worried.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing.”

“Michael.”

Instinctively, Michael stepped closer to you. He rested a hand on your hip protectively, touching the back of his fingers to your forehead. Then your cheek. Then behind your neck. He was checking for fever like he had suddenly become a medical professional.

You tried to swat his hand away and he ignored you completely.

“You feel warm.”

“Well, I just threw up so, yeah.”

His entire face changed.

“You threw up?” The horror in his voice would have been funny if you weren’t still recovering.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

You stared at him.

“Why?”

“Yes.”

“Michael, I didn’t schedule it.”

He did not laugh. Which told you he was genuinely worried. Instead, he guided you gently toward the small couch outside the bathroom, one hand at your back, the other holding your elbow like you might collapse at any moment.

You wanted to tell him he was being dramatic. Unfortunately, sitting down felt incredible. Michael sat next to you, pulling your legs across his lap

“Was it something you ate?” 

He asked as he gently rubbed your legs, massaging them.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what'd you eat today?”

You hesitated.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. There it was. The warning sign. He shook his head

“Baby.”

“I had crackers.”

“Just crackers?”

“And coffee.”

His expression became deeply offended, like you had betrayed him personally.

“That’s not food, baby.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You gotta eat.”

“I know.”

You sighed. He leaned closer, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

His voice softened.

“I’m serious.”

You looked down at your joined hands. And there it was again. That warm, inconvenient ache. This was the part people didn’t see. The part hidden beneath the glittering jackets and stage lights and moonwalks.

When it came to those he loved, Michael fussed. He worried. He noticed. And once Michael decided something mattered to him, he wrapped both hands around it and refused to let go. You had learned that years ago.

Still, somehow, it felt different now. Probably because the last serious conversation you’d had with this man involved rings, cribs, Christmases, and six children. Maybe five. Depending on how generous you felt.

“I’m taking you home.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You’re sick.”

“Michael, you’re rehearsing.”

“They’ll live. I'll come back.”

“You cannot leave rehearsal because I threw up once.”

“I can do whatever I want.”

The answer came so quickly, so plainly, that you almost laughed. Then you remembered who you were talking to. Technically, he was right.

“Michael.”

“What?”

“You are not canceling rehearsal.”

“I didn’t say cancel.”

“You implied cancel.”

“I implied I’m taking care of you.”

Your face warmed.

Before you could answer, Janet appeared in the door frame, arms folded, expression amused and concerned all at once.

“She alive?”

Michael looked deeply offended.

“Janet.”

“What? I’m asking.”

You lifted a weak hand.

“Barely.”

Janet’s eyes moved between the two of you. Then to Michael, then back to your face.

A slow smile appeared.

“Oh, this is serious.”

Michael rolled his eyes which only made Janet’s smile worse. His sister was nosey like him.

“She threw up,” he said.

Janet’s eyebrows lifted.

“Oh?”

The single syllable carried entirely too much meaning.

Your head snapped toward her.

“Don’t.”

"Now I know where the glow is coming from." She smirked mischievously.

Michael looked between you, confused.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you and Janet said at the same time.

That only made him more suspicious.

But before he could ask, another wave of nausea twisted through your stomach. You pressed a hand to your mouth. Your face must have changed because Michael immediately stood.

He moved fast, one hand on your back as he guided you right back through the bathroom door.

Behind you, Janet’s voice floated down the hall.

“Well.”

A pause. Then, entirely too amused:

“Congratulations to somebody.”

You would have cursed at her if you had the strength. Michael, however, paid no mind to his sister's teasing. Or if he did, he was too busy holding your hair back to respond. And that was when the first real thought came. Small. Ridiculous. Impossible.

You shoved it away immediately. No. Absolutely not. It couldn’t happen that fast, could it?

It was probably the coffee. Or nerves. Maybe rehearsal-room heat. Or, that terrible food someone had opened. Anything else.

Later when you arrived home, Michael asked his chef to prepare you a filling lunch before he tucked you into bed like you were made of glass, he pressed a kiss to your forehead and told you he’d be back after rehearsal.

Once he was gone, the thought returned. Quieter this time, and it was gnawing at you in an unnerving way. You waited until his car disappeared down the driveway. Then you sat up slowly. Your eyes drifted toward the calendar on the nightstand.

For a moment, you simply stared at the date. That’s when your stomach dropped. And it wasn’t from nausea this time. It was from realization.

“Oh no.”

For a long moment, you simply stared at the calendar. But the dates stubbornly refused to change. You checked again, then again. Then once more because apparently you had become the sort of person who thought repeatedly looking at the same information might somehow produce a different answer.

It didn't.

"Oh no." The words came out louder this time. The empty bedroom offered no solutions. No explanations or miracle calculations. Just silence. Your stomach dropped. Because suddenly every strange thing from the past week came rushing back all at once.

The exhaustion, the nausea. The way coffee had started tasting wrong. The fact that you'd cried over a commercial three days ago. At the time, you'd blamed hormones. Now— Well.

You sat heavily on the edge of the bed and your brain immediately started doing math. The sort of math that changed lives. The kind that ended with tiny shoes and cribs and baby blankets…the sort of math that ended with Michael Jackson becoming a father.

Your stomach flipped when another memory surfaced.

Michael's fingers had toyed with the hem of your panties.

"So, when are we getting started?"

30 minutes later, and after a trip to your local pharmacy, you stood staring at three pregnancy tests. Different brands.

Those three minutes were the longest three minutes of your life.

Long enough to reconsider every decision you'd ever made. Long enough to mentally prepare for both possible outcomes.

The timer finally beeped and you held your breath, looking down. Two lines.

Frantically, you picked up the other two tests. Positive. All three.

Your knees nearly gave out.

"Oh."

The word escaped on a whisper.

The bathroom suddenly felt too small. Too quiet, and too real. You stared at the test. Shut your eyes tightly, then looked back. Just to make sure.

And somewhere across Los Angeles, Michael was completely unaware that his life had just changed forever— or so you thought.

The front door opened suddenly. From the bathroom you heard the familiar sound of keys and the click of the lock.

Then:

"Baby?"

Your stomach immediately dropped. 

Panic hit instantly. You snatched up all the evidence and scanned the bathroom for a place to hide everything.

"Baby?"

Closer now. You could hear him moving through the house. He was setting things down, probably taking off his shoes. Definitely looking for you.

Your eyes darted around the bathroom. There was nowhere to hide any of it. The trash can? Too obvious. The drawer? He opened those all the time, nosey ass. Under the cabinet? Maybe.

You shoved everything beneath the sink approximately two seconds before Michael’s voice drifted down the hallway. Softer this time, he called your name.

"Y'alright?"

The concern made your chest ache. Like he was already preparing himself for bad news. You took a breath and opened the bathroom door. Immediately you regretted it.

Michael was standing right outside of it, he nearly fell into the bathroom when the door opened.

One hand braced against the hallway wall, and his curls were damp with sweat from rehearsal. A black rehearsal shirt clung to his chest. The second he saw you, his entire expression softened.

"There you are." He leaned in, softly kissing the side of your mouth. The words left him naturally. Like he'd been looking for something, found it, and could finally relax. He searched your face intently.

"You still look tired. You should be resting."

"I was."

"You were hidin' in the bathroom."

Your heart stopped.

"No I wasn’t.” The answer came quickly. Too quickly. Michael narrowed his eyes. Not suspicious, curious. Which was somehow worse. Because now this was a puzzle he had to solve.

"You usually yell hello." He wasn't wrong. "You didn't yell hello."

A shrug, suddenly the carpet under your feet became interesting.

"I was sick." You mumbled, biting the inside of your cheek as you avoided eye contact.

Michael slipped past you into the bathroom. Reaching for the faucet. He placed a washcloth in the sink, wetting it with cool water. You froze, completely.

Because the pregnancy tests were currently sitting underneath the sink approximately four feet away. Your pulse immediately doubled.

Michael glanced up. His reflection caught yours in the mirror. A smile slowly tugged at the corner of his lips.

"There she is."

"What?"

"You got that look."

Your stomach flipped.

"What look?"

"The one where you're thinkin'."

You looked away immediately because unfortunately he was right. You had been thinking. Thinking so much your brain hurt.

Michael sauntered out of the bathroom, cloth in hand. Cupping the back of your neck gently, he pressed it to your forehead. Both of your cheeks, and your neck. You closed your eyes, your body naturally melting into his touch.

He was still watching you, patiently. The way he watched everything. A beat passed.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?"

The question was gentle. There was no trace of accusation, demand or pressure in the words. Just Michael.

He was standing close enough that you could smell rehearsal sweat and cologne. In your newly fragile and hormonal state, the smell was intoxicating. Almost like your body was craving him.

Michael gazed at you like he genuinely wanted to carry whatever was bothering you. Your eyes burned with tears unexpectedly. You grew annoyed, because now you were crying. Again.

"Oh." He cooed softly, pulling you into his chest as he wrapped his arms around your waist. Defeated, you couldn’t find it to wrap your arms around him. So you just let him hold you.

His concern was replaced by curiosity so fast it almost gave you whiplash.

"Baby talk to me"

You laughed through the tears, which only confused him more. Michael looked genuinely alarmed.

Your gaze drifted toward the cabinet beneath the sink. Just for a second. A tiny glance. 

And suddenly one horrifying realization hit you. The cabinet was ajar.

And Michael followed your gaze immediately. Of course he did. And suddenly your stomach dropped all over again. You could have kicked yourself for not picking a better hiding spot.

Because Michael Jackson had always been exceptionally good at noticing things.

"What is happening? I don't understand."

The confession was adorable because he genuinely didn't.

Michael sounded genuinely bewildered now, and the concern laced through his voice was growing. One second you were laughing. The next you were crying. Then laughing again. And somehow neither of you seemed entirely sure why.

His hands found your face immediately. Gentle and careful. His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes, wiping away tears almost as quickly as they appeared.

He knew you were upset. He knew you were overwhelmed. And he knew you needed something. Unfortunately, he had absolutely no idea what that something was. Michael looked toward the ceiling, briefly.

"Janet says this happens."

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

"What?"

He immediately regretted making the comment.

"Nothing."

His face scrunched.

"It’s just... she says women cry sometimes."

The silence that followed was spectacular. You stared. Michael stared back.

Then:

"That's your explanation?"

"I don't know!"

His gaze narrowed, flipping the line of questioning back to you.

"What're you hidin'?"

Your stomach dropped.

"Nothing?" The upward inflection at the end of the word undoubtedly gave you away.

His eyes moved toward the cabinet beneath the sink. Then back to you. Michael pointed.

"What'd you put under there?"

"What do you mean?"

The answer came entirely too quickly. Michael gasped, amusement and curiosity dancing in his eyes dangerously.

"Oh. You’re hiding something."

"What?"

He pointed at you teasingly.

"Oh, that's bad, baby. You lyin'."

You looked offended.

"I am not."

He pointed dramatically toward the cabinet.

"You looked right at it, come on now."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did." The smile threatening the corner of his mouth was making everything worse. Somehow he seemed amused, and he was definitely not going to let this go. It had become a game. A very concerning one.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you princess?” He asked in a sultry tone of voice, not breaking eye contact.

Then, he took a step backward toward the cabinet, keeping his eyes trained on your face as a smile tugged at his lips. You were caught.

You immediately moved, blocking him. His eyes widened and he tilted his head, smirking at you.

“Oh god, you are so hiding something! Now I definitely gotta look."

"No!"

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Because I said so." You said quickly. You placed your hands on his chest, keeping him away from the evidence you tried, and failed, to hide.

Michael erupted into a fit of giggles, he was genuinely amused. The sound echoed through the bathroom.

He gently grabbed your hips, moving you from in front of the cabinet you had been guarding with your life. Then he crouched, opening the cabinet.

And he went completely still. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Michael stared. There it was. The box, the instructions, and of course, the tests. Plural.

His eyes moved over them once. Then twice. Then a third time. It was as though his brain needed help catching up.

The silence stretched long enough that panic started creeping in. And suddenly— his entire face changed. Pure wonder.

The breath left him in a rush.

"Oh."

The sound was barely audible.

Then:

"Oh."

This one stronger. His eyes lifted. Finding yours immediately.

“These are yours?"

You nodded. The room blurred instantly because tears were back. Michael stood so fast he nearly hit his head on the sink. You couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

"You—"

A laugh escaped him. Halfway between disbelief and joy.

"You—"

Another laugh.

His hands covered his mouth. Then his face. Then his mouth again. The man looked completely overwhelmed as he leaned back against the counter, steadying himself.

"Oh my God."

You started crying again which somehow made him laugh harder.

"I'm gonna be a dad."

The words escaped before he could stop them. Soft and awestruck.

Like he couldn't quite believe he was allowed to say them.

"I'm gonna be somebody’s daddy."

His eyes immediately filled with tears. You watched the realization spread through him. It grew bigger, brighter and warmer until it seemed too large to fit inside one person.

He wrapped both arms around you, pulling you against him so carefully it almost hurt. Like you'd become precious overnight. Like he was afraid you'd disappear.

A kiss landed against your temple. Then your forehead. Then, your cheek and the corner of your mouth.

Michael couldn't seem to stop smiling long enough to do anything else.

"We did it, baby."

Hours later, you were still trying to process the fact that life had just changed for you. Michael, however, appeared to have skipped several emotional stages ahead. 

Somehow, at some point in the last hour, you had ended up sprawled across him, your chest flush against him and your legs on either side of him. He wanted you as close as possible.

He had also covered you with two blankets that you absolutely did not need.  Tucked against his chest, he held you, like the world had become something fragile. Or perhaps precious. There was a difference.

His touch had not left you since, not once.

One hand remained spread across the small of your back, his fingertips moving in slow circles against your skin under your shirt. Comforting circles. The kind mothers used on sleepy children. The kind of touch people gave when they were soothing someone they loved.

His chest rose and fell slowly against yours as he breathed calmly. 

Every few moments he would press another kiss somewhere. Your forehead, your temple. Then your cheek. Your lips repeatedly. Not rushed or dramatic, just constant.

It was as though affection had become a language his body no longer knew how to stop speaking.  

The room had gone quiet now. The kind of quiet that only happened after life changes. Real quiet.

The pregnancy tests still sat on the coffee table. Neither of you had moved them. Michael kept looking at them. Then at you. Then back again. Like he still couldn't decide which miracle was more unbelievable.

His baby.

What Michael was feeling was deeper than excitement. Like he had spent his entire life wanting something and was still trying to understand how it had ended up in his arms.

You shifted slightly against him.

"You comfortable?"

The question was soft against your hair. You smiled despite yourself. There it was again. He'd asked at least four times.

"Yes, I’m fine Mike."

"You sure?"

You laughed quietly.

"I promise."

His lips brushed your temple as though kisses had somehow become punctuation.

"You got cramps?" The concern in his voice nearly undid you.

"No."

"Nauseous at all?"

"A little."

That earned an immediate frown. One that meant he had entered problem-solving mode.

"You need to eat."

"I'm really not hungry."

His hand stilled against your hip. Just for a moment. Long enough for you to realize you'd said the wrong thing.

"Baby."

The word came soft. And yet somehow carried all the weight of a warning. You looked up. His eyes had gone impossibly gentle.

"Our baby needs to eat."

Your breath hitched. Not my baby or the baby.

Our baby.

Like he'd already rearranged the entire world around his child. Your family. The thought hit you so suddenly that you felt you eyes welling up again.

Michael noticed immediately. He always did. His hands moved before your tears even fell. One cupping your cheek. The other rubbing slow circles against your back. Grounding , steady circles.

He shifted you to his hip, arms still wrapped around you.

"Hey."

His forehead rested against yours.

"You cry all you want, baby."

A kiss to your forehead.

"It's okay, I understand."

Another.

"You don't gotta hold nothin' in."

Another. Each sentence punctuated with a kiss, patient and certain.

As though there was nowhere else in the world he needed to be. You laughed through tears. Which only made him smile. That soft smile. The one that always felt private.

His hand drifted lower then, toward your stomach. And for the first time all evening, he hesitated.

The hesitation caught you off guard. Michael rarely hesitated with affection.

But this, this was different.

His eyes lifted to yours, asking permission. Your throat tightened, but you nodded.

The breath left him slowly. Like relief, awe.

Then very carefully, with a tenderness so profound it felt almost intrusive to witness, Michael spread his hand across your lower belly.

His fingers splayed there naturally. Protectively. As though they'd been searching for that place all evening. Nothing had changed. Still, his entire face transformed. Pure wonder.

His thumb moved delicately, slow strokes. The kind people used on precious things.

His eyes never left your stomach. And suddenly you understood something heartbreaking.

Michael had spent his entire life around babies.

He remembered his mother carrying Randy. Then Janet.

He'd watched his older sister become a mother. Watched his brothers' wives carry nieces and nephews he adored.

He knew pregnancy. The exhaustion, the tears and wavering emotions, the nausea. He had seen joy arrive for everyone else. Again and again.

And now, for the first time, it was his turn. His turn to become somebody's dad. The realization seemed to strike him all over again.

Your breath caught as Michael’s fingertips brushed against you, gently rolling your shirt up just above your stomach. He leaned down, pressing his lips against the skin of your belly. He repeated this motion three times, like he already loved someone he hadn't met yet.

When he finally lifted his head, he didn't move far. Instead, he rested his cheek against your stomach and closed his eyes.

One arm was wrapped securely around your waist. The other hand still spread protectively across your belly. Holding both of you.

Now when you thought about it, the signs had been everywhere. You just hadn't recognized them.

The first clue should have been the jewelry store. A month earlier, Michael convinced you to accompany him on what he described as a "quick errand".

Any time Michael went shopping, it was never quick. That should've been your second clue.

He claimed that he needed to get one of his watches sized.

But, 45 minutes later, you found yourself sitting across from a jeweler while an older woman measured your ring finger.

You'd stared at her. Then stared at Michael who had suddenly become fascinated by a display case of necklaces. He really was a terrible actor. And an even worse liar.

"Michael, what are we doing?" you'd asked. Michael hadn't looked up.

The man was studying a diamond bracelet like it contained state secrets.

"Just looking."

"Michael."

"Mm?"

The jeweler smiled.

Michael refused to make eye contact.

He had a terrible poker face, and his emotions were often written all over his expression.

You noticed, immediately. You always did.

Nothing further came of it, at least not then.

Three weeks later came the third clue. And somehow it was stranger.

Looking back, the signs had been everywhere. The baby store should have tipped you off.

You just hadn't recognized then.

The two of you had spent the afternoon wandering through Los Angeles.

A rare luxury these days.

Between recording schedules, appearances, interviews, rehearsals, and whatever else came with being two people trying to maintain a relationship while Michael Jackson belonged to half the planet, uninterrupted time together had become surprisingly difficult to come by.

Which was exactly why Michael had spent most of the afternoon attached to you. Not figuratively, literally.

At one point he'd hooked a finger through one of your belt loops and followed you through an entire department store like an affectionate shadow.

When you'd asked what he was doing, he'd simply shrugged.

"Following you."

As if that explained everything.

Now, several hours later, you found yourself standing inside a baby store. Apparently that was where the day had taken you.

Michael often wandered into stores that fascinated him, so you didn't think much of it.

His hand rested against the small of your back as the two of you wandered between aisles.

The touch wasn't possessive. Just familiar and comforting.

Michael always seemed to know where you were. If you stood beside him, eventually he'd touch your arm or your hand. Sometimes your shoulder. Something.

Years ago you'd asked if he realized how often he did it.

His answer had been immediate.

"No."

A complete lie. The man knew exactly what he was doing.

The realization made you smile to yourself as he guided you around another corner. Then suddenly he stopped, completely. You nearly walked into him.

"What—"

Michael was already staring at a row of cribs.

You watched the exact moment curiosity overtook him. His eyes narrowed slightly and his head tilted. And just like that, you lost him.

"Oh no."

You knew this was going to add a minimum of 20-30 minutes to your time in this store.

Michael didn't hear you though, he was already approaching.

You sighed and followed.

Because experience had taught you that once Michael became interested in something, there was no stopping him. Only waiting.

By the time the store associate approached, Michael had somehow progressed from casually observing cribs to performing what appeared to be a full safety inspection.

The poor woman had no idea what she'd walked into.

"What happens if the baby chews on this?"

She peered at Michael in confusion.

"The paint?"

Michael nodded.

The woman assured him it was non-toxic. Michael accepted this information. For approximately 10 seconds.

"What if they climb?"

The associate again looked confused.

"Climb?"

"Out. The baby."

You bit the inside of your cheek hard.

Michael gently pulled you by your hand in front of him without looking, almost as if to say "come be apart of this".

He wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his chin on top of your head. His thumb gently grazed over your belly, thinking about what it would feel like to shop for their first crib of many.

The gesture was so automatic you barely noticed it.

Michael nodded thoughtfully as the woman spoke to the two of you.

Then he crouched beside the crib. Inspecting the hardware, testing the rails. He even started reading safety labels.

The associate watched with growing amusement.

"You seem very interested."

Michael looked up, completely serious.

"Oh I am, very."

The woman smiled.

"How many children do you have?"

The question caught both of you off guard. For a moment Michael simply blinked. Then he looked at you.

"We don't have any, yet."

The associate looked surprised.

"Oh."

A pause.

Then she said,

"You two seem like parents."

The response arrived before either of you could stop it.

"What?"

You both asked simultaneously.

The associate laughed.

Michael looked genuinely puzzled. Meanwhile, your face felt warm.

The woman gestured vaguely between the two of you.

"I don't know."

She smiled.

"The way you interact. I would have thought you were expecting or something."

Michael looked down at you, then back at her.

And to your horror, he didn't seem bothered by the comparison at all. If anything, he appeared oddly pleased. You could tell from the amused look on his face.

The realization made you narrow your eyes at him immediately.

Michael noticed.

A smile threatened the corner of his mouth. He pressed his lips together and shifted them to one side as he looked away.

Dangerous. Very dangerous.

Twenty minutes later, Michael had somehow learned more about crib safety than most first-time parents. And you were beginning to suspect something was up.

That suspicion only grew stronger later that night.

The movie you had been watching together had ended almost an hour ago. Neither of you had bothered turning on another one.

The bedroom remained quiet except for the distant sound of crickets chirping outside.

Michael lay stretched across the mattress beside you and you were reading.

He had one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting across your shoulders as you rested your head on his chest.

He absentmindedly traced circles through the fabric of your shirt with his fingers. It was a habit he'd developed years ago. You'd long since stopped noticing it, until it stopped. Then you noticed immediately.

For several moments neither of you spoke. You just laid in comfortable silence.

The room glowed softly beneath the bedside lamp.

Michael stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. Dangerously thoughtful.

It was a look that you recognized instantly. Usually, it meant he was about to say something important. Or strange. Sometimes both.

"I want a big family."

He said finally.

And there it was.

You smiled without looking up from your book.

"Mhm."

You encouraged him to continue, signaling that you were listening.

"I'm serious."

"I know."

For a moment it was silent.

Then he said:

"Like... a really big family."

That made you laugh. Finally you looked over.

"And what does that mean?"

Michael thought about it. He pondered deeply for a moment.

"Five."

His answer came pointedly, it was certain.

You stared.

"Five what?"

"Maybe six. Children of course."

"Michael."

"What?"

The offense in his voice was immediate. As though six children were the most reasonable thing in the world.

You laughed and he smiled sheepishly.

Then the teasing disappeared. It was replaced by something more reflective.

For a moment his gaze drifted toward the ceiling again. Lost somewhere else. Somewhere years away.

"You know..."

His voice grew quieter.

"When I was little..."

He paused.

"I always had somebody."

The words made you look up. Michael's expression had changed. The playful energy was gone.

Now he looked genuinely nostalgic.

"If I got scared..."

He smiled faintly.

"I had somebody."

A pause.

"If I got in trouble."

The smile widened, like he was remembering being mischievous with his brothers.

"Definitely had somebody."

You laughed softly.

Michael smiled too.

"If I was happy."

Another pause.

"I had somebody then too."

His gaze drifted toward the window.

Toward memories only he could see.

"My brothers... my sisters. There was always somebody around."

The room grew quieter. Suddenly you got the feeling that this wasn't about children. Not really. It was about family. Connection, belonging.

Michael looked back at you. His expression was open. Honest.

The kind of expression that appeared when he stopped guarding his thoughts.

"I want my kids to have that."

The confession settled gently between you.

"I want them to have each other."

His voice softened.

"I want them to know they're never alone."

The pieces suddenly clicked into place for you. Beneath all the fame and success, beneath the moniker Michael Jackson.

There was still a little boy who loved his family and missed them. They were all so busy these days, life had taken them in different directions though they were still close.

But Michael remembered what it felt like to grow up surrounded by people who belonged to him. People who knew him. People who stayed.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Then Michael looked over.

His lips twitched with amusement, as though he'd just thought of something dangerous.

"I think you'd be a good mother."

The words caught you completely off guard.

And judging by the way his breath hitched as he waited for you to process his words, they had surprised him too.

Before you could respond, Michael shifted you closer. He gently grabbed your thigh, draping your leg across his waist. He nuzzled his face into the top of your head like he suddenly needed to be touching you. Like he needed reassurance.

You happily settled against him before teasing,

"You're awfully clingy tonight."

"I'm not clingy. Just wanna feel you."

The response came immediately and honestly.

You chuckled, unable to hide your amusement. Michael only tightened his arm around you. Which proved your point entirely.

"You brought me into a jewelry store."

Silence.

"You interrogated a woman about cribs."

More silence.

"Now you're talking about six children."

Michael stared at the ceiling, he was refusing to take the bait.

A slow smile spread across your face.

"Oh my God."

He closed his eyes, immediately. And just like that, you knew. He was up to something

The realization hit you like a freight train.

"Michael."

No response.

"Michael Joseph Jackson."

His eyes remained closed.

"Hm?" He hummed, still stroking your leg.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

And for the first time all day, you realized exactly why that store associate thought you looked like parents.

Michael wasn't imagining a future anymore, he was planning one.

The realization hit you so hard that you sat upright.

Michael cracked one eye open. Then the other. His expression cautious.

Like a man who had just heard something dangerous rustling in the bushes.

"What?"

You stared. Michael stared back.

Slowly, he pushed himself up onto one elbow.

"What is it?"

You pointed at him.

"You've been acting weird."

His eyebrows shot upward.

"Weird?"

"Yes."

"No I haven't."

The denial came entirely too fast, Michael couldn't even convince himself the statement was true. His voice had that upward inflection on the end, like when someone is caught in a lie.

You laughed and Michael looked offended immediately.

"I haven't."

"You took me to a jewelry store."

Silence. Michael looked away. Danger sign number one.

"You had my ring size measured, even though you pretended we were there for your watch."

More silence. Danger sign number two.

"You spent forty-five minutes interrogating a woman about crib safety."

Michael rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Danger sign number three.

The realization made your eyes widen.

"Oh my God."

"Michael."

His head fell back dramatically against the headboard.

A deep groan escaped him. The kind of groan that said he'd been hoping you wouldn't figure it out yet.

But you weren't stupid. The room fell quiet.

Neither of you spoke for several moments.

Michael gazed toward the ceiling.

You continued to stare at him, refusing to let up. Finally, he sighed.

Long. Slow. Resigned.

"I've been thinking."

He started hesitantly.

You couldn't help but giggle at his bashfulness.

"Clearly."

Michael pointed at you.

"Hey, I'm serious."

"I know."

The smile on your face softened.

Because despite the teasing, you knew this mattered. You knew Michael.

And when Michael started thinking about something, really thinking about it, it consumed him.

The same way songs did. His choreography. The way performances did.

He didn't think or move halfway, he'd always dive headfirst.

Michael's gaze drifted toward the lamp on the nightstand thoughtfully.

"I'll be thirty-five in a few weeks."

You blinked slowly, confused by his statement. Mostly because Michael almost never talked about his age.

Just a few weeks ago, you watched it in real time.

An interviewer said to Michael "We're getting close to your 35th birthday, how is the way you feel about music-"

Michael had quickly interrupted, not allowing the man to finish his sentence.

"I did not circle that question"

Behind the scenes, you nearly doubled over from laughing.

Michael had bit back a smile, ignoring you and smiling politely at the interviewer.

He was getting older, and it was not something he wanted to openly discuss. He would always say he wanted to be young forever.

In the present, he continued.

"Everybody always talks about the music."

A pause.

"The tours."

Another.

"The records."

His fingers absentmindedly found yours, intertwining your fingers with his.

Like he needed something to anchor himself while he spoke. Or maybe to give himself the confidence to say what he said next.

"But lately..."

His thumb brushed across your knuckles.

"I've been thinking about what comes after."

The room couldn't have been quieter. You squeezed his hand, encouragingly.

Michael smiled softly, not looking at you. Still somewhere else mentally.

Somewhere years away. Nostalgia had captured him.

"I know what I want."

The certainty in his voice caught your attention quickly.

Michael finally looked straight at you. And suddenly he looked shy. Genuinely shy.

Which was ridiculous.

The man could perform in front of seventy thousand people. Yet somehow this conversation made him nervous.

"I want a wife. Somebody just for me."

The words came quietly and earnestly.

No theatrics. No charm, no place to hide. Just honesty.

Michael swallowed.

Then continued.

"I want children."

A pause.

"A home."

Another.

"I want Christmases."

You smiled despite yourself. Michael smiled too. The smile growing as he spoke.

"I want birthdays."

Another pause.

"Those are things I didn't have when I was little."

He trailed off sadly.

"I wanna be somebody's dad."

Something warm settled in your chest. Because you knew he meant it.

Every word. You could hear it. See it. Feel it.

Michael looked down at your joined hands. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"And..."

His voice softened.

"I want it to be with you."

The room went still and your heart skipped.

You forgot how to use words in the moment, flattered but unsure of how to respond.

Michael immediately became interested in the blanket.

He was embarrassed.

He bit down on his bottom lip like he wasn't sure what to say next. And he wasn't. So he waited.

Which somehow made the confession even sweeter.

You stared at him, the realization settling slowly.

He wasn't hinting anymore or testing the waters. It became clear to you that he wasn't imagining possibilities.

Michael Jackson was sitting in front of you and very plainly telling you that he wanted to marry you.

The thought made your stomach flip.

"Michael."

He looked up, immediately. He was hopeful, and terrified. Vulnerable in a way you really hadn't seen him before.

The expression made your chest ache.

Before you could stop yourself, your hand found his cheek.

Michael melted into your touch instantly, leaning into your palm. The way he always did.

Like affection was sunlight and he'd spent too long in the shade.

"You know I'd say yes, right?"

The question escaped quietly.

Michael froze completely.

Then his entire face changed.

For one brief moment he looked younger. Almost boyish.

"Yeah?"

The word came out embarrassingly fast.

You laughed. Michael laughed too. Suddenly he felt relieved.

The tension left his shoulders. He felt silly in the moment for thinking you'd reject him.

"Yeah." You confirmed.

His smile widened slowly and uncontrollably.

The kind of smile that started in his eyes.

You loved that smile.

Michael looked down at his fingers that had been fumbling with the trim of the blanket..

He looked back up at you bashfully then down again.

Trying and failing to hide how happy he was.

And that was when he ruined everything. Completely by accident.

"Well..."

He smiled.

Still looking pleased with himself.

"I mean, Debbie offered too."

You nearly twisted your neck with how fast you looked at him.

"Debbie who?" you asked, crooking your neck.

The tension that filled the room could have been sliced with a knife.

It was instant and absolute.

Michael felt the change in temperature immediately. The same way animals sensed incoming storms.

Slowly... Very slowly...

He looked over. You were staring at him expressionlessly, daring him to answer.

Honestly, his remark had caught you off guard and you weren't sure what else to say.

Michael swallowed. There it is. The warning sign.

"Rowe."

You nodded once, never breaking eye contact. Which was both calm and dangerous Michael had come to learn.

"Debbie." you said to yourself bitterly, like she was suddenly an arch nemesis.

The room became very quiet. Michael suddenly wished he'd phrased that differently. Not because he'd said anything wrong. Well, maybe he had.

But because he was beginning to understand how it sounded.

"You mean to tell me..." You sat upright slowly.

"...that we've spent all day discussing marriage."

Michael closed his eyes, here we go.

"...children."

A pause.

"...future plans."

"...and your nurse apparently submitted an application?"

Michael buried his face in his hands immediately. He now understood how his statement sounded when it came out. He had never been very good at explaining himself.

You crossed your arms. You were offended. Deeply so. Sincerely offended.

"Michael, stop playing with me."

A laugh escaped him. It was tiny and accidental. He tried to hide it.

And failed spectacularly.

"Don't laugh."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

His shoulders were shaking as he bit back a smile.

You pointed at him.

"You're laughing."

"I'm trying not to."

That somehow made it worse.

"Debbie?"

Michael finally looked up.

Still smiling and entirely all too amused. The sight only irritated you further.

"If anybody's having your babies, it gonna be me. Period."

You pointed toward yourself, crossing your arms with finality.

The declaration filled the room. It was firm and confident.

And oh, so sexy to Michael.

You had decided that the matter was entirely non-negotiable.

For a moment Michael simply stared. He was enamored with how quickly you became possessive. He felt guilty for enjoying the subtle rage you were actively trying to smother.

Because beneath all of it, he'd heard the thing he'd secretly wanted to hear.

You were picturing a future too.

The realization made something warm settle in his chest.

He reached over to you, settling his palm against your hip and squeezing gently.

"Yes ma'am. I'm all yours, if you'll have me.""

He smirked at you, holding your gaze in a way that made your stomach flutter.

You narrowed your eyes.

"Oh?"

Michael nodded, a grin spreading across his face.

It was slow and dangerous.

The same smile that made women pass out at his shows night after night.

"I guess you're gonna be a mommy." He teased, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours, kissing you repeatedly

You jokingly pushed him away, knowing he'd gotten his way.

Michael dissolved into laughter. The loud kind that comes out when you're genuinely tickled.

A second later he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into his arms.

He ignored your protests entirely.

"Michael."

"Just let it happen."

He sighed playfully as he squeezed you to his chest.

"Michael."

"Nope."

You tried to stay annoyed. Really. You did.

That was until Michael's hand drifted up your thigh mischievously.

Which made remaining angry significantly more difficult.

"I love you."

The words felt automatic. Like breathing, like truth.

Your annoyance lasted approximately three more seconds. Then you sighed. Defeated.

Michael smiled against your shoulder victoriously.

He was entirely too pleased with himself.

He trailed his fingers down your back, toying with the hem of your panties.

Nothing could have prepared you for that morning. Nothing. Before you had fallen asleep, everything had been fine. He was by your side, laying in your shared king sized mattress. He was breathing, he was smiling, he was talking, he had kissed you.

You had gone to check on the children when the doctor came in that morning, Michael was still asleep. You saw his chest rising and falling. You had kissed his head and thought nothing of the anxious feeling growing in your chest.

You were in the nursery, gently rocking your 6 month old baby girl, when you heard the doctor's voice shouting nervously from your bedroom.

After that, things were a blur. Your brain had shut out most of the memory, but you knew you had seen him despite the doctors best efforts to keep you from the room. You remembered the paramedics arriving far later than they should have, you remembered the sounds of the hospital, the voice of the doctor as he tried to tell you that your husband was gone.

You think you cried, you honestly weren't sure. You just remembered the feeling of emptiness settling into your chest, the feeling of your heart growing cold.

You refused to go back to the house for weeks, opting to stay with Janet. Those weeks were the darkest weeks of your life, you had lost your husband, the one person who understood you, the person who you had given your life to. And just like that, he was gone. It wasn't fair, nothing about this was fair. Not the fact that he was gone so suddenly, not the fact that you hadn't gone with him, not the fact that you had the children to look after.

You had really done your best to be there for the children, for the baby, Paris, and Prince. You tried to put up a strong front around them, to show them support, but there was only so much you could do.

There were days where you couldn't find the strength to leave the guest bedroom you were staying in. And there were a lot of days where you had wished that you hadn't woken up. But no matter how badly you wanted to be with Michael, you knew you couldn't.

You and Janet stuck together for a long time, leaning on each other for support. But there came a day when you knew you would have to go back to the Ranch, go back into the room to get your things. You had bought a small apartment, far away from all the things that reminded you of Michael. You couldn't live in the house, it would have driven you insane.

Janet kept the kids for the day, as you headed back to Neverland. You pulled off to the side of the road multiple times, trying to regulate your breathing. Since he had left it was like panic had embedded itself in your chest, you were always short of breath, you were always on guard, and you were always on the verge of a breakdown. It didn't help that you were receiving letter after letter from news outlets begging to get a statement from you. The entire family had given statements, but you were silent. Even at the funeral, you hadn't said anything. It took a lot of convincing to even get you to go, but you did, for the children. But you didn't say anything, instead you stood near the back, holding the children tightly, tears falling into a puddle at your feet.

The press took your silence and ran with it, saying that you had never cared for Michael, saying that you were in it for the money. The paparazzi had been stalking you more than ever, and you knew they would be at the gates of Neverland, waiting for your black Cadillac to drive by.

And that they were. There were so many of them, that they completely surrounded the car, trapping you just outside of the house. Their cameras flashed in a frenzy, blinding you from inside the car. Your throat closed up as you did your best to block out their antagonizing questions.

"Are you here to get the rest of his money?"

"Were you conspiring with the doctor?"

"How much money did he leave you?"

"Will you finally drop the act?"

"Are you happy your husband is dead?"

You covered your ears, sobbing into the steering wheel as security tried to get a hold of the crowd.

But the damage was done. The little amount of your heart left shattered into a million pieces. Everything around you blurred as you gasped for air, choking on your own tears and cries. Your sobs turned to screams as you curled in on yourself in the car, clutching your head in your hands.

It was Michael's two heads of security that shook you from your spiral. You jolted at their touch, body shaking as they looked at you with horrified expressions. You had been unreachable for 10 minutes, despite the fact that the reporters were gone and the two men were trying to talk to you.

You looked pale and frail, and they tried to make you go to the hospital, but you refused, saying that if you didn't go into the house now, you never would. They made you get into the back seat as they drove the car the rest of the way, sharing nervous glances with each other.

They stayed by your side while you walked through the house, getting the things you had come for. It wasn't as bad as you thought until you were standing in front of your and Michael's bedroom door. You quietly asked for a moment alone, to which the two bodyguards begrudgingly agreed to.

You stayed in the bedroom for a long time, hand running against the sheets, or the clothes in his closet. You slowly got your clothes, before carefully taking a few of his, the things that smelled most like him. You knew that his scent would fade away soon, but you didn't care. You needed something of his to hold onto. His familiar scent made your head spin, because you could smell him, but you knew he wasn't there.

When you got back to Janet's, you locked yourself away in the bedroom with his sleep shirt.

The next day, the front pages of the tabloids were plastered with your devastating face. The titles called you crazy, out of your mind, insane, a loose screw, anything they could think of they called you it. Janet was furious, but you couldn't find the strength to care.

All your strength had left you the day your husband died.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It had been almost 17 years now, and you were better, but you still weren't healed fully. Things had been up and down, some years were good, and then some years were particularly bad. Especially while raising the baby, those were the hardest years. You were on your own, you were inexperienced, you were lonely, you were depressed, and you were paranoid beyond all belief. The press had still been bombarding you, still trying to get some sort of formal statement. But you were a sealed door, they weren't getting anything from you. These were the same people who mocked your husband, the same people who lied and tried to ruin him, and now they wanted to play the sympathy card. They could all go to hell.

There were days you begged God to bring Michael back, and there were days where you cursed at him for taking Michael away from you. When your daughter got older, she started asking questions about her daddy. Paris and Prince would always go quiet when she asked, and they would look at you. You always did your best to answer her questions without crying, you wanted her to know everything she wanted about her daddy. But it was hard, it was hard when she asked you why he was gone, if he was coming back, and it was hard when all three of them talked about how badly they missed him. You never tried to sugar coat things, you told them it was hard for you too, but that Michael believed all of you were strong, and that he was watching over you all.

Things got better as the press stopped hounding you, of course there was always a letter or two every month, but nothing like how it was before. That was until your husband's biopic had come out. You were proud of everyone involved, especially Jaafar. The premier was the first time you had been seen publicly at an event since Michael's funeral. You didn't dress up all crazy like other people, but you did wear his favorite dress. You thought the movie would be hard to watch, but it made you smile. For the first time in a long time, you felt your husband's presence. It was almost like he was sitting beside you, holding your hand. After the screening you found Jaafar and gave him the biggest hug you could muster, not caring that cameras were flashing behind you. You pulled back and smiled at him softly, "Michael would be so proud of you."

The moment was brief, but there was a lot said in how you looked at each other.

After the movie, it was like the floodgates opened. All those news outlets who had given up on a statement from you were suddenly pounding at your door, staking out your driveway, emailing you, emailing you, sending you letters. You hadn't felt this anxious in a long time, and you were nervous things would get bad again. You relied heavily on a prescribed medication to keep you from spiraling, but since things had been okay the doctor took you off of them. You had been okay for years, and now everything was starting to crash back in.

As much as the thought angered you, you knew how to get them to stop.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

After a lot of thinking, you had agreed to a singular interview, and only if they sent you a list of questions and stuck to the ones that you okayed.

And so there you sat, fidgeting nervously in a plush chair under studio lights. Janet was off to the side, there for emotional support.

The interviewer was a younger woman, she seemed nice, she seemed new, so you figured she would be professional, that she would stick to the questions on the page. And for the most part she did. She was polite, she asked about how you and Michael met, what it was like being married to him. And then one of the producers from offstage cleared his throat and looked at the poor girl sternly. She looked at you nervously, giving you an apologetic look.

Your chest dropped, you knew what was coming. You wanted to leave, you wanted so badly to take off out the door, but your body felt frozen in its place.

"There's a lot of speculation about that day, Mrs. Jackson. People want to know the truth. Did you have something to do with your husband's death? Did you marry him to get his money, was the love a whole scheme to become rich?"

Your mouth felt like a desert, you could feel your heart beating painfully in your chest. "No-" you breathed out, eyes stinging with tears.

"Is it true that you went crazy after he died? Were you sent to a mental hospital for help?"

The question struck something in you, and the fear was overrun with anger. "Let me ask you something. If the only person on this planet that truly understood you died while you were in the next room feeding your 6 month old baby would you be okay? A part of my soul died with him that day, do you understand what that's like? Do you understand what it's like to have to stay strong for your children when the person you loved more than life itself was taken from you? And do you know what it's like to be stalked, scrutinized, and bombarded by the same people who tried to tear down that person? No. You don't. My husband was my entire world, and when he was taken from me I was accused of being a part of it, I was followed. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I could barely breath most of the time because my world was taken from me. So do not sit there and act like you know anything about what I went through, or assume that I went crazy. Because if that happened to you, you would have gone "crazy" too." You stood up. "I think we're done here,"

"Mrs. Jackson." She called out.

"No more questions, thank you." You walked straight to Janet, taking her hand and walking out of the studio.

As you got in the car, Janet couldn't help but smile, "That was quite the official statement from you. I don't think I've heard you speak that much in 17 years."

"Yeah well, they can take their shitty journalism and shove it up their ass."

Janet smiled and reached over, grabbing your hand, "I've missed you."

You smiled and leaned your head on her shoulder. "I missed you too."

So instead, Michael had gone a little overboard on water balloons, pool floats, ice cream, sea creature decor, and a humongous whale shark themed birthday cake. Aliya had said she wanted her party to be ocean themed since she wanted to be a marine biologist when she grew up, which of course had Michael practically melted onto the floor. There was a little bit of Michael in the whole family, and a love for animals was Aliya's.

You watched from a sun chair as Michael got in on an intense water balloon fight. He chased after the kids, tossing multicolor water-filled balloons at them. The sound was a mix of squeals and giggles. He grabbed Aliya, lifting her onto his shoulders so she would have an above ground advantage. He might have been approaching his 70's but he was still a kid at heart, always had been. You smiled as he shrieked when the kids ganged up on him and pummeled him with balloons. You cheered them on loudly, earning a few laughs from your children beside you.

Michael came back over, soaked head to toe. You scooched back on the chair, not wanting any part of whatever he was planning. "They got me." He breathed heavily.

"Mhm, they got you real good." You tried not to laugh.

"Oh you think it's funny?" He questioned.

"No-" you held in another laugh. The poor man looked ridiculous. There were remnants of bursted balloons hanging to his damp clothes, and the sides of his fedora held water.

"You do! You're laughin at me!" He looked to your eldest daughter, Belle who was sitting next to you. "Can you believe this? I dedicate my whole life to your mama and she laughs in my face."

She smiled, "To be fair, dad, you do look pretty silly."

He placed his hands on his hips, "You're both traitors." He walked back into the main house to change.

You smiled as you watched him, and returned your attention to your conversation with your daughter about how Disney Channel shows were lame now.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

After everyone had gone inside to eat cake and open presents, people spread out about the ranch. You and Michael both sat cuddled up on the couch when your eldest grandchildren came up to you with giggles. They held up their phones towards you and Michael, "Can we make a TikTok with you guys?"

"Sure? What do we do?" You smiled

"You can just answer our questions. It's super simple."

You both nodded. Michael wrapped an arm around you. "Should we be scared?" He whispered to you.

"Very." You replied

The eldest held up the camera, "What's your name, grand bear?" (They liked to call him that because he always gave them big bear hugs whenever he saw them, which was a lot.)

"Michael Jackson." He stated with a smile.

"And how old are you?"

"Well, I'm 67 years old but I turn-"

They cut him off, turning the camera around on them and shouting the two numbers while moving their hands up and down.

You and Michael watched in confusion and slight horror.

"Okay thanks!!!!" They hugged him and ran off.

"What just happened?" Michael looked at you with concern.

"I don't know, and I think that's for the best." You patted his chest.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The day continued like that, the grandkids coming up and asking to do various tik tok trends. They did speed tours, (which were sped up heavily), did some of Michaels dances in front of him, did food transitions, etc.

Michael really enjoyed the ones where they did his dances, even opting to join in on one of their takes, which made them squeal in excitement. You watched with a fond smile as he bonded with the kids. They looked up at him with big eyes as he walked them through the dances. He was gentle with them, nodding and encouraging them as they kept trying. It was a sweet sight, a sight you never got tired of. You remembered him teaching each of your kids his dances. Once the kids had fully grasped that their dad was famous they were eager to learn his iconic moves, running up to him after school and asking him to teach them. And now here he was doing the same thing with the grand kids.

Later that night, your youngest sat beside the two of you. "Mama, dad is trending on Tiktok... again." She showed you the video that had been recorded mere hours ago. It was indeed 'blown up' as she put it.

"Mhm, that's pretty cool. Oh what do the comments say?" You tapped on the icon before she could stop you.

His fans were still as thirsty as ever. It made you laugh, and it made your poor daughter so uncomfortable.

Michael leaned back, happy with himself. "What can I say, gramps still got it."

You eyed him, "Keep actin like that and you won't have it tonight."

"Oh my god! Y'all are nasty! I'm right here!" Your daughter flew off the couch, retreating to her room.

"Oh shit, no way! Okay okay, what happened?" You held the phone close, not wanting to miss anything.

"Alright, remember how I told you Becky missed rehearsal bout a week before tour started?"

"Mhm, which is crazy, she never misses rehearsal."

"Right! And I asked Laurence, cause they're good friends. Well apparently they were more than good friends. They've been fuckin secretly for a whole year!" He whisper shouted into the receiver.

You gasped, "No way no way! That's not possible, cause he and Trina are together, right?"

"Oh yeah, they've been goin out for 3 years. And get this, are you ready?"

"I dunno! Wait, yes tell me!"

"Becks and Trina are pretty good friends right. Well apparently before Trina got with Laurence she and Becky were a thing. Like a hot thing supposedly."

You gasped loudly, "Wait, noooo! Not the lesbians splitting up."

"That's the thing, Trina got with Laurence after telling Becky she didn't like men. So Becks was pissed and went and messed around with Laurence to get back at Trina."

"Wait, now I'm confused. So are neither of them lesbians?" You rubbed your head.

"No, Trina's not a lesbian, she lied about that. But Becks is a lesbian and is just fucking Laurence to get back at Trina. Keep up, baby."

"I'm trying! I just woke up, you ass." You frowned slightly.

"You're right, I'm sorry. I'll let you go back to sleep."

"Uh no. Finish the damn story, mama wants more movie."

He laughed loudly, "I love you, sweet girl."

You smiled, "I love you too, now back to it, angel face."

"Right, okay. So flash forward to Becky missing rehearsal, apparently it's cause Trina found out and went over to Becks place and they got in a huge fight, but then ended up sleeping together."

"So the lesbians prevail?!"

"Kinda? Not really though, because Trina says it was a mistake and goes back to Laurence, which is why Becks didn't show up."

"Oh poor Becky."

"I know. Anyway, so flash forward to now. We were running a number before the concert started and both Becky and Trina were nowhere to be found, we had to call in their swings last second. The whole time I'm standing there thinking, they're definitely goin at it right now. And I'm also watchin Laurence, and he's pissed. He looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel, the vein in his head was soooo big."

"Oh I bet. Okay, so now are the girls together?"

"Mhm, and get this. This is gonna blow your mind. Laurence quit. Like on the spot."

"Oh shit, wait that's not good, what are you guys gonna do?"

"Well, his swing is gonna move into his spot permanently. Honestly, I'm thrilled. Laurence always got on my last nerve. He has an obnoxious laugh. It's like a hyena." He mimics the laugh over the phone.

You grimace, "Oh, that's grating. I think my ears are bleedin."

"Mhm, now imagine that anytime he makes a joke that only he finds funny. So I'm happy. The lesbians are back together, and we got rid of a lazy hyena."

You laugh, "Well, sounds like productive drama for once."

He laughs with you, "Yeah. Well, I'll let my sleeping beauty get her rest. I just needed to tell you about the update."

"Thank you, baby. I appreciate it. I'll talk to you tomorrow, kay?"

"Alright, I love you." He kisses the phone.

"I love you too, get some sleep." You kiss the phone back and gently place the phone down. You laugh to yourself, he's so theatrical, but you love it.

FEBRUARY 2, 1992

the room is buzzing with low voices and the soft clatter of equipment as you and michael step onto the set, his hand warm against the small of your back while crew members rush around adjusting lights and checking cables. he glances at you with that slow, teasing smile that always makes your stomach twist, his short curls falling slightly over his forehead as he leans down closer and murmurs "you ready for this, baby?" in a voice so soft it feels like it’s meant only for you. you nod, even though your nerves are fluttering, and he brushes his thumb along your waist like he’s smoothing them away, his touch warm and grounding in a way that makes everything else fade into the background. the sound crew approaches with the mic packs and michael immediately starts playing around, tapping his mic and pretending he can’t hear anything, making the sound guy groan while you try not to laugh. he keeps giving you these little looks, eyebrows raised like he’s daring you to join in on the mischief, and you finally nudge him with your hip, whispering "behave" which only makes him grin wider. he stands behind you while they clip your mic on, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing your skin in slow circles that make your breath catch. when they finish, he steps around to face you, tugging gently at the wire to make sure it’s secure, his fingers brushing your collarbone as he murmurs "perfect" before leaning in to kiss your cheek. you feel the warmth of it linger long after he pulls away, and he gives you that look again, the one that says he’s proud to be here with you, the one that makes your chest tighten in the best way.

they guide you both to the couch where you’ll be sitting, and michael immediately sprawls comfortably, one arm draped behind you, his fingers brushing your shoulder as he watches the crew adjust the lights. he keeps whispering little comments to you which makes you laugh under your breath even though you’re trying to stay composed. he taps your knee lightly, his ring cool against your skin, and you swat his hand away, but he just catches your fingers and brings them to his lips, kissing them slowly like he has all the time in the world. the interviewer finally steps onto the set, smiling wide as she greets the crew before turning her attention to you and michael. she shakes both your hands, her grip firm, her energy bright and polished in that way only seasoned interviewers have. she takes her seat across from you, crossing her legs neatly, flipping through her cards as the cameras begin to roll. she gives the introduction with a practiced smile, her voice smooth as she says "today we have the incredible michael jackson with us, and joining him is his lovely wife" before turning her full attention to michael like the second half of that sentence was just a formality.

she starts with a question that makes michael sit up a little straighter, "michael, the dangerous album introduced a completely new sound for you. what made you want to explore that new jack swing style and blend it with your signature pop and r&b?" michael nods thoughtfully, his voice warm as he answers, "i love experimenting. i love pushing myself. working with teddy riley was exciting because he brought this fresh energy. i wanted the album to feel bold and rhythmic, something people could feel in their chest." he speaks with that soft confidence he always carries in interviews, his eyes flicking toward you every few seconds like he wants to make sure you are still comfortable. the interviewer smiles brightly and moves on, "the dangerous tour is one of the most ambitious productions ever created. what inspired you to design a show on that scale?" michael laughs softly, shaking his head a little as he answers, "i always want to give the fans magic. i love storytelling. i love creating moments that stay with people forever. the illusions, the staging, the choreography, all of it is about making people feel something real." his voice is calm but passionate, his hands moving slightly as he talks, and you can see the spark in his eyes that always appears when he talks about performing.

she flips through her cards and asks, "the opening of the show has become iconic. that moment where you rise onto the stage and just stand there while the crowd loses their minds. how did that idea come to you?" michael smiles, leaning back slightly as he explains, "i wanted something powerful but simple. sometimes the quiet moments speak the loudest. just standing there, letting the energy build, letting the audience feel that connection. it is beautiful." she continues, "the choreography on this tour is some of your most intricate work. what was the process like creating routines that match the intensity of the music?" and michael answers with that soft, thoughtful tone, "i love working with dancers who bring their own spirit. we spend hours in the studio just moving, trying things, letting the music guide us. i want everything to feel natural. i want the music to move through us, not the other way around." he smiles gently, his eyes warm, and you can feel how much he loves what he does in every word he speaks. she asks him another question about the themes of the album, then another about the creative direction of the tour, and michael answers each one with that same calm, grounded charm, his voice steady, his presence magnetic. he keeps you close without even trying, his hand resting on your thigh now, his thumb brushing slow circles that make your breath catch even though you are trying to stay composed. the interviewer laughs at his jokes, nods at his explanations, scribbles notes on her cards, completely absorbed in him, and you sit there quietly, listening, watching, feeling the slow shift in the air as she continues directing every question at him and only him.

the interviewer finally shifts her attention, her eyes flicking toward you for the first time since the cameras started rolling, she gives you a polite smile, the kind that feels more like a formality than genuine interest, and she tilts her head slightly as she asks, "and for you, what has it been like watching this era unfold up close?" her voice is smooth, practiced, and you can tell she expects a short answer, something quick and neat that she can move past without losing momentum. you inhale slowly, sitting up a little straighter, feeling michael’s presence warm and steady beside you as you prepare to speak for the first time since the interview began.

you start to answer, your voice calm as you say, "it has been incredible to watch him work. he puts so much heart into everything he does, and being able to see that up close every day is something i never take for granted. the dangerous era has been such a powerful chapter for him, and i feel lucky to witness how much passion he pours into every detail. the rehearsals, the late nights, the way he pushes himself to make sure everything feels right. it is inspiring to see how much he cares about giving people something meaningful." the interviewer nods, this time actually listening, her expression thoughtful as she moves to her next question. "and how do you balance the pace of his schedule with your own life? the travel, the rehearsals, the constant movement. it must take a lot of strength to stay grounded through all of that." her voice is gentle, curious, and you feel michael shift slightly beside you, not touching you, but angling his body just enough to show he is listening even more closely now. you begin, "it can be challenging sometimes, but we make it work. we communicate a lot, and we try to stay grounded together. even when things get busy, we always make time to check in with each other. it helps that he is so supportive. he makes everything feel manageable, even when the schedule gets overwhelming." your voice stays steady, warm, and michael’s expression softens, his eyes lingering on you with a quiet tenderness that needs no physical contact to be felt.

the interviewer gives a thoughtful hum, her expression softening as she asks one more question, "and what do you admire most about him during this era? not as the artist the world sees, but as the man you come home to." the question makes your chest warm, and you take a slow breath before answering, "i admire his heart. his kindness. his dedication. he gives so much of himself to the world, and yet he still comes home and finds space to give even more. he is gentle, he is thoughtful, and he cares so deeply. that is what i admire most." the interviewer glances down at her cards again, flipping to a new section with a bright smile that feels a little too sharp, a little too eager, and she looks back at you with a tilt of her head as she says, "and i have one more question for you. as someone who sees him behind the scenes, what do you think people misunderstand most about michael during this era?" the question is thoughtful, layered, and you take a moment to breathe before answering. you begin softly, your voice calm and sure as you say, "i think people forget how much heart he puts into everything. they see the performances, the visuals, the scale of it all, but they do not always see the gentleness behind it. he cares so deeply. he thinks about how every moment will make people feel. he wants to give joy, comfort, hope. he is not just creating a show. he is creating connection." you pause, letting the words settle, and michael’s eyes soften even more, his expression full of something warm and unspoken.

and before you can continue your thought, she leans forward abruptly and cuts in with a quick, bright, "right, right, of course, but what about the pressure? do you ever feel like you have to manage his image or protect him from the public?" her voice is too quick, too sharp, slicing clean through your sentence like she did not even hear you speaking. you try to answer anyway, keeping your voice steady as you say, "i think the most important thing is supporting each other. we do not manage each other. we just communicate and—"

she interrupts you again. clean. careless. dismissive.

you blink, thrown off for a moment, your mouth still slightly open from the thought she interrupted. you can sense the shift in michael before you even look at him. he hates when people interrupt him, and even more so, his lady. he turns his head toward the interviewer with a slow, deliberate calm, his expression unreadable but edged with something unmistakably sharp. his eyes narrow just a fraction, not enough to be rude. then he turns his head back to you. his voice is quiet when he speaks, gentle but firm, the kind of tone that settles deep in your chest, and he says, "don't you wanna finish baby?" you let out a small, awkward chuckle because the tension is thick enough to touch, and you finish your sentence gently, your voice steady even though your heart is pounding. "as i was saying, we support each other. that is what matters most."

the interviewer swallows, nodding stiffly, suddenly very aware of the line she crossed. and she does not interrupt you again. not once. not for the rest of the interview.

The soft murmur of his cellphone vibrating on the bedside table chased Michael’s sleep away, His eyes opening against the darkness of his bedroom.

Now joined with the clinking of his glasses hitting the lamp, the annoying buzz of his phone carried on as his hand lazily searched for the device among his belongings.

Cool hard plastic met his palm just in time for the humming to come to an end. He caught it right before it stopped, bringing the phone to his ear in a hurried daze. This was his cellphone, accompanied by his very own private number. There were only a handful of people who could reach him there— the people he trusted most, the people he was closest to.

One of those people being you.

His creative director.

Or at least that was your professional title. You were hired to help Michael with his music video concepts— organizing the shoots, overseeing costume design and makeup, communicating his artistic vision to all the departments— mostly the technical things. But somewhere along the way your specialized responsibilities morphed into something much more casual as you became Michael’s personal soundboard to test ideas on. He’d call you at all hours of the day, asking for your thoughts on his demos or insisting you come to the studio to give your opinion on the choreography for his upcoming tour. You were the person he trusted most with his creative endeavors.

And you were currently in the backseat of a taxi with one too many vodka soda’s in your system.

“Michael!”

Your voice blared through his speaker so abruptly that he had to pull the phone back to keep his ears from ringing.

“Is everything alright? You okay?” The usual softness of his voice was traded for a sleep induced rasp, each word running into the next in a panic, because why on earth would you be calling him at nearly— he pulled the phone from his ear to check the time— 2am.

He sat up on his elbows, waiting for your response, ready to jump out of bed to figure out how he could help you-

“Oh I’m great! Daniel just didn’t believe me when I told him I worked with Michael Jackson, so I had to prove him wrong!” There was a joyful shriek in your response that sent your words running together.

Michael’s elbows softened into his mattress, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly upon hearing your voice all giddy and sweet. You were safe. Thank God.

Who was Daniel?

“Who?” Michael’s voice was still drowsey as he spoke against the phone in his hand.

“Daniel! He’s driving me home. You’re on speaker phone.”

This time he could clearly hear you slurring your words. Maybe you had been out drinking. It was the only thing that made sense given that you would never be calling him at this hour if you were sober.

“Oh, hi Daniel.” Michael did his best to give the man a warm greeting, shaking the sleep from his voice.

“See I told you I wasn’t lying.” Your voice got softer on the other end of the line— distracted— like you were holding the phone further from your face.

“I guess I should’ve known better. A pretty face like that would never lie to me huh?”

A new voice hits Michael’s ear, one that he can only assume belongs to Daniel. His compliment is oozing with bad intentions, so much so, that it causes an instinctual frown to form on Michael’s lips.

“Are you on your way home?” Michael raises his voice just enough to make sure you can still hear him on your end.

“Yeah, I wanted to stay out longer but Melanie called me a cab…” your voice was light and airy as it poured through his phone.

He made a mental note to thank Melanie— his booking agent who had evidently become close enough with you that the two of you were out clubbing together on a Saturday night.

“Well, why don’t you stay on the phone with me. Until you get home.” Michael spoke softly.

To anyone else his offer would’ve been strictly cordial. But this went far beyond a formality.

Of course he was concerned for your safety and wanted to make sure you got home, but really he just wanted more time with you— even if it was just with your voice. Because despite both of your attempts to keep your relationship exclusively professional, you were drawn to each other in other ways. There was a hidden sense of understanding and attraction between you, a constant flirtatious connection that fueled almost all of your interactions. To you, it was probably all fun and games. He told himself you probably didn’t think much about your close-knit relationship. But Michael on the other hand, had found himself craving your presence— dreaming about your sweet smile and the way you’d touch his arm when you laughed too hard at one of his jokes.

“No Michael it’s okay, I don’t want to keep you.”

Your sudden thoughtfulness made Michael chuckle to himself, as if you hadn’t already woken him in the middle of the night.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.” He laid his head back on the pillow underneath him, his hand still holding the phone against his ear. “Tell me about your night.” A smile crept onto his face as he continued talking to you, relishing in the simplicity of the moment.

That got you going. You chattered into the phone about the three different bars you went to and the friends you were out with. Michael listened as you listed off names, recognizing most of them as people who had worked on his music video sets in some capacity.

You were in the middle of telling him all about how much he would’ve loved the tacky 70s themed club that you ended the night in, when a distant voice interrupted you-

“You sure you don’t need help getting up those stairs princess?”

Your drivers voice echoed through his phone and Michael’s body tensed at the sound of his sleazy offer. He nearly sat up in repulsion. A deep nauseated feeling swam through his stomach at the thought of a random man manipulating his way into your apartment.

“I’m fine, thank you!” Your tone was far too kind, making him want to jump through the cell phone and give Daniel a proper response, but Michael kept his mouth shut, happy to hear the car door opening and closing on the other line.

He listened to the distant sound of your heels clicking against the sidewalk, finally free from the backseat of the cab.

“I wish you could come out with us.” Your phone must’ve been pressed against your face as you scoured your purse for your keys, because your voice, paired with a loud metallic jingling, was suddenly much louder in Michael’s ear.

He couldn’t help but let out a laugh at your comment. The sound was deep and unruly, as the back of his head sunk deeper into his pillow.

You met his response with a giggle of your own as you continued, “I know. I know. You hate clubbing.”

To be fair Michael had very little experience going out to bars, but he couldn’t imagine it would be an activity worth exploring. The overwhelmingly loud music, sweaty bodies pushing each other around, everyone drunk or high with absolutely no decorum or manners. It sounded like his own personal hell.

“I just think it would be so much fun to dance with you.”

His heart skipped a beat as those last words left your lips. They slipped through his phone speaker so slowly, it was almost seductive.

With you.

A foggy desire filled his mind as he thought about it. Dancing with you. Holding your body close to his, keeping a hand on your lower back as he pulled you closer. One of his legs slotting between yours as you both moved to the rhythm of the music. Him guiding your movements with your chest pressed against his and his hands all over your body.

He had to force himself out of his trance to make sure he carried on the conversation at hand, “We don’t have to go to a club to dance. You can dance with me anytime.” His voice floated through the phone with a quiet laugh.

You were silent for a few seconds, the only sound coming from the other end of the call was your keys in the door followed by it slamming shut.

“You mean that?” Your voice reached a lower octave, buzzing through his phone in a velvety vibrato.

Surely you didn’t mean to sound so- seductive.

Michael had to quietly clear his throat before responding, “Of course. Just say the word.”

He kept his voice low, not sure if he should try to match the flirtatious undertones of your words. He’d never been caught in such a whirlwind of a conversation before, his sleep clouded mind was running circles around itself with each curveball you threw his way.

He waited for you to say something, anything. The sudden wave of silence making him think maybe he’d said the wrong thing. You’d been so chatty since he picked up the phone, and now, nothing.

He gave it a few seconds, listening intently to see if you were still on the other line. The only thing he could hear was a soft rustling.

“Sorry, I was changing.” Your words rushed into his ear— blunt and breathless.

Now he was the one offering silence to the conversation.

Your nonchalant confession caught him off guard. There was no denying the way the alcohol coursing through your veins had you oversharing tonight. Throughout the entire phone call Michael had to hold back his giggles at your out of character outbursts.

But he definitely wasn’t laughing now. Instead his mind was preoccupied with the most inappropriate thoughts about you.

You had changed right there in front of him. Well, not in front of him, but on the other end of the phone call. You had taken your clothes off as you were talking to him, perhaps sliding a dress down your body, stepping out of the fabric at your feet. Wearing nothing but bare skin as you kept your phone close to your ear.

He thought about what color your underwear might’ve been, or if you were wearing any at all.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep Michael.” Your voice yanked him back into his bedroom. His chest tightened in embarrassment as if you knew what he was thinking— like he’d been caught. But, Oh, the way his name rolled off your tongue made his skin hot.

“I’ll start showing up at your front door demanding that you teach me how to dance.” The playful threat laughed off your lips, but Michael was still trying to regain his composure.

“And I’ll welcome you with open arms.” His voice held a gentle smile, pairing nicely with your sarcasm as he shook his head. Partly in amusement with the conversation and partly to keep his unsavory thoughts at bay.

“Mmm you’re too sweet Michael.” A happy little sigh came before your compliment and Michael heard a few muffled noises follow your words. You sounded comfortable— content, like maybe you were crawling into bed.

“That’s one of the things I love most about you.” Your voice was so soft it nearly got lost in the static of the phone call, but it was impossible to miss the way your breathing gushed through his phone— soothing and rhythmic.

You were laying in bed, showering him in drunken compliments and all Michael could think about was how beautiful your voice was. How perfect your little sighs were as they hummed through his phone. You made such pretty noises, he couldn’t imagine what you might sound like when you touched yourself. If he were brave and you weren’t so clearly intoxicated, maybe he would ask you to do it— ask you to take your fingers between your thighs just so he could hear the way you’d gasp and moan for him.

“Thank you.” He finally responded to your comment about him being too sweet. Ironic seeing as though he was just imagining what you’d sound like with your hand in your panties.

“You should get some sleep.” He could tell you were getting tired, your breathing was becoming deep and heavy.

“Mhmm you too.” More of your sleepy hums filled Michael’s head as your voice fell into a sleepy murmur.

“Goodnight Michael.”

Your words purred through his phone, making him run his fingers over his silk sheets, picturing your soft skin under his touch.

“Goodnight.” His voice was only a whisper as he listened to your soft little breaths for just a few extra seconds.

You shut the book in your hands, gently setting it down in your lap. The words on the weathered pages started to lose their meaning as you finally gave up on reading.

Repetitive melodies and the quiet murmuring of lyrics from the man sitting a few feet away made it nearly impossible to focus.

He had assured you it wouldn’t be too loud in the studio tonight as he practically begged you to come sit with him while he worked on new music.

Michael made a habit of it— asking you to join him for brainstorming sessions. He once teased that you were his greatest muse.

He was extremely private, never directly involving you in his writing or recording process. Most of the time you would simply sit in the room with him while he worked. You’d thumb through a book and let the incomplete tracks and rhythmic tune of his voice act as background music to your reading.

Tonight was no different. He was focused on the notebook in front of him; sticky notes and scribbles littered the pages. The same melody filled the air over and over again as he hummed along with different words, each one acting as a piece to the never ending puzzle of his next album.

The weight of your book sunk into your lap as you let your back rest against the cushion behind you. Your lids felt heavy and your mind was foggy with sleep as you began dozing off.

“Sleepyhead.”

The familiar voice carried to your side of the room, lulling you out of your slumber before you could completely drift off.

You opened your eyes just enough to see Michael turned around in his chair, facing you with a gentle smile tugging at his lips.

“Well forgive me, I didn’t realize you’d be working well into the early morning hours when you invited me to tag along.” Your sarcasm only made his grin widen.

He watched you for a minute, a small giggle fighting its way past his lips.

“C’mere” He motioned you over to him with a slight tilt of his head toward his notebook.

“I need your opinion on something.”

His voice was soft against the quiet of the room, and a smile still stained his lips as he turned back around to face the array of sticky notes plastered on the surface in front of him.

You stretched from the couch, closing the distance between you and Michael in sleepy strides.

You stood next to him, following his gaze to the words written on the notebook below.

He sat in his chair, fingers tracing the lines of lyrics in front of him.

“Which do you like better?”

Without even looking at you, he began playing the unfinished track that you’d been hearing all night.

You listened to his voice as he sang the first string of lyrics written in his notebook, watching as the written words flowed so effortlessly off the paper and into the room to the tune of his voice.

He played it twice, each time singing a different set of lyrics, both similar yet somehow entirely different.

You leaned down, peering at the two different options written on the page, Michael still humming softly next to you.

As you studied them, you felt the warmth of his palm rest at the base of your spine.

Michael was no stranger to physical touch— not with you.

He was obsessed with having his hands on you, even in the most innocent ways.

He was constantly reaching for your hand, intertwining your fingers with his; always wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer.

“I think I like the first one.” Your stare was still fixed on the notebook below, as your body angled further over his.

“It feels right.” Your mind was still sleepy as you gave your final verdict.

The room fell silent for just a few seconds, and you felt his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your lower back— tender and soothing.

“It feels right.” His voice was a delicate chuckle as he repeated your words into the nearly empty room.

“First one it is.” His words still held a subtle giggle.

With one hand on your back, the other reached for a pen as he wrote a few more words in his notebook.

He looked up at you, admiration in his gaze and that same sweet grin on his lips, “Thank you.”

His hushed words were simple, yet laced with an abundance of gratitude and love.

The gentle devotion in his voice and the careful touch of his fingertips along your spine sent you leaning down further as you placed the softest kiss on his cheek.

“Anything for you.” Your response met him with the same adoration.

You lingered like that, staring at one another. Smitten smiles nestled into your cheekbones, faces only inches a part.

“Yeah, you mean that?”

Michael’s tone shifted ever so slightly. There was a certain playfulness in the way he spoke; the question tucked behind a veil of mischief.

You loved this side of him; when his quiet, gentle demeanor was replaced with something more light hearted and whimsical.

You murmured a quiet, “mhmm” nodding your head and leaning in even closer, this time just barely pressing your lips against his.

It was a quick, gentle kiss, but it was enough to cause Michael’s hand that was once at your back to snake around your body, lightly grabbing your waist and pulling you against him.

Your body responded to his touch, sinking down into his lap, your legs straddling his and your hands cupping his jaw.

This time the kiss shared between you was much deeper, and it was impossible to miss the way he smiled ever so slightly against your lips.

His hands gripped your waist pulling you completely against him. Your lips moved in harmony; a whirlwind of hunger and affection as you melted further into his touch.

You began trailing kisses toward his jaw, under his ear, down his neck…

Each touch of your lips on his skin was determined and methodical— your actions ruminating in the passion radiating between you.

Soft hums fell from his lips as his fingertips tightened at your waist, fighting the urge to guide your hips against his.

You continued peppering kisses to his skin

down

down

down—

Your mouth was dangerously close to his collar bone when you felt one of his hands loosen from your hip.

He was reaching behind you, grabbing the pen from beside his notebook and jotting something down on one of the ink filled pages while your lips were busy on his neck.

“michael…” you sighed in defeat as your face fell into his shoulder.

“Hold on, hold on,” his words were a breathless hush as they spilled from his lips.

You buried your head deeper into the crook of his neck, your giggle muffled against his skin.

You sat there for a moment soaking in the warmth of his chest against yours. Letting him scrawl out whatever idea just came to him.

"now, michael, the world was completely shocked," oprah began, her voice dripping with that familiar, intense gravity as she looked between the two of you on the yellow sofa. "no announcement, no big wedding. just a sudden trip to the caribbean. people are asking... why the secrecy? what is there to hide?"

michael offered a tight, polite smile, adjusting the cuff of his black jacket. "we just wanted something for us, oprah. my life is so public. i wanted the most important day of my life to be private. between me, my beautiful wife, and god."

oprah shifted her gaze to you, her eyes narrowing with professional curiosity. "but you see, the public is skeptical. they look at a regular girl marrying the biggest superstar on earth, and the word 'financial gain' inevitably comes up. how do you respond to the critics who say you're just in this for the money and the lifestyle?"

the question felt like a slap, but you kept your posture straight, swallowing the lump of anger in your throat. before you could speak, oprah turned back to michael, pivoting without a breath.

"and michael, there have been rumors for years regarding your personal life. your innocence. some tabloids are even questioning the consummation of this marriage, wondering about your virginity prior to this wedding. is this a real marriage in every sense of the word?"

you felt the air shift next to you. michael’s frame went rigid. his jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle twitch, and his chest rose and fell in short, shallow breaths. he stared at oprah, his usual gentle demeanor completely vanishing, replaced by a cold, visible irritation. he was a proud man, and having his intimacy and his wife’s integrity questioned on global television was pushing him to his limit.

sensing the storm brewing, you reached across the small space between you and slid your hand into his.

your fingers laced through his large, warm hand, pressing your palm firmly against his. the moment your skin met his, you felt a tremor run through him. you gave his hand a reassuring, grounding squeeze.

“you know what i would tell the tabloids and the fans, oprah? i would tell them that parasocial relationships are unhealthy and obsessive. whether michael, my husband, and i consummated our marriage isn’t your business or anyone else’s. have i asked what you and your husband do in the bedroom?”

you didn’t give her a chance to respond before continuing:

“no oprah, i don’t ask. because i don’t know you and you don’t know me. nor do you know michael. you know michael jackson, “the flashy, king of pop”. but you don’t know michael. the real michael. none of you do. so, you can pretend to care about his wellbeing and his mental health all you want, but if you really knew what was best for him, you would stop assisting the public in spreading these lies and rumors.”

"well, we'll be right back after a quick commercial break," oprah said, catching the tension and looking directly into the camera.

the red light on the main camera blinked off. floor managers instantly began moving around the set, adjusting lights and checking audio cords, creating a wall of ambient noise around the couch.

michael immediately dropped his head, his curls falling over his face as he let out a sharp, angry breath. "i shouldn't have agreed to this," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and hurt. "she has no right. to ask you those things... to talk about us like we're a circus act..."

you shifted closer to him on the sofa, ignoring the crew buzzing around you. you used your free hand to gently cup his face, turning his head so his dark, liquid eyes had to meet yours.

"hey," you said softly, your voice a sweet, calm anchor in the middle of the chaotic studio. "look at me, lovey."

he looked at you, his eyes wide and vulnerable, filled with the frustration of a man who felt constantly misunderstood by the world.

"i can handle anything they throw at us," you told him, offering a small, fearless smile. "let her ask her wild questions. it doesn't change what we have. it doesn't change what happened on that beach and it damn sure doesn’t change how i feel about you.”

michael swallowed hard, his face softening just a fraction under your touch. "she's trying to make it look like you don't love me. like you're using me."

"let them think whatever they want," you whispered, leaning in a little closer so only he could hear. "i am sitting on this couch, in front of millions of people, for one reason only. because i love you. i'm doing this for you, okay? we're a team. they can't get to us unless we let them."

michael closed his eyes for a brief second, breathing in your scent, letting your words settle the roaring in his chest. when he opened them, the tense, angry edge was gone, replaced by a quiet, fierce devotion. he brought your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently.

"i love you too," he murmured, his voice steady now.

You haven't been home in eight months, and somehow the air feels exactly the same as it did when you were seven years old. Some things don't change. Your family's house is exactly as you left it.

"Y/N IS HOME!" your younger brother screams. He barrels into you before you've even dropped your bags, and you stumble backward into the doorframe with an oomph that knocks the breath out of your lungs.

"Daniel, you're seventeen, not seven," you wheeze, patting his back with the one arm that isn't pinned to your side. "You're supposed to be too cool for this."

"Never too cool for my favorite sister."

"I'm your only sister."

"That's why you're my favorite."

Your mother appears from the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour, her face breaking into a smile so wide it crinkles the corners of her eyes. She pulls you into a hug t, and for a moment you just stand there, letting yourself be held, letting the chaos of your family wash over you like water.

"You're too thin," she says, pulling back to examine your face. "Have you been eating? College students never eat."

"I eat, Mom."

"Lies. I can see your cheekbones. That's not natural." She pats your face firmly. "We're fixing this immediately. I made braised short ribs. And your grandmother sent over three kinds of kimchi."

The next hour is a blur of unpacking, being force-fed approximately seventeen side dishes, and deflecting increasingly pointed questions from your mother about whether you're "seeing anyone." You dodge the question with the practiced skill of someone who has been dodging it since high school, and eventually your mother gives up and redirects her energy toward making sure you eat a third helping of everything.

It's only when you're helping clear the table that she drops the bomb.

"Take some of the dumplings next door," she says, already packing a container. "The Yangs just got back yesterday. I'm sure Jungwon would love to see you."

Your hands freeze over the sink. "Jungwon's home?"

"The whole family. And Jungwon looks so grown up now. College has been good to him." She presses the container into your hands and gives you a look that brooks no argument. "Go. Say hello. You used to be inseparable, I'm sure he's been dying to catch up."

You and Jungwon. Inseparable. That's one word for it.

You've known Yang Jungwon since you were four years old, a solemn little boy with a bowl cut and a cute smile who had shown up at your family's barbecue with his parents and promptly shared his packet of strawberry Pocky with you without being asked. That was it. That was the beginning. From that moment on, you were a unit, a package deal, a two-for-one special, a matched set that no one bothered trying to separate.

Your childhood is a highlight reel of Jungwon moments. Jungwon teaching you how to ride a bike. Jungwon walking you to school every morning, even when his own school started earlier and he had to leave his friends to do it. Jungwon sneaking you extra snacks from his lunchbox because you always finished yours first.

You never had to explain yourself to Jungwon. He just knew. He knew that you needed silence sometimes, that your sarcasm was a defense mechanism, that you were terrified of thunderstorms but would rather die than admit it. He knew the exact moment you were about to cry (your left eyebrow twitched, just slightly, before the tears came). He knew you better than anyone, and you knew him just as well.

But then he left for college. And two years later, you left too. And the texts that had started out daily became weekly, then sporadic. The phone calls that had stretched for hours became minutes, then voicemails, then silence. You still sent each other memes sometimes, still liked each other's posts. But the closeness that had defined your entire existence had faded.

It's not anyone's fault. It's just what happens. People grow up, move away, build separate lives in separate cities. It's normal. It's fine. You're fine.

The doorbell chimes, a little melody that you remember from a thousand childhood visits. You hear footsteps inside, heavy and quick, and then the door swings open.

And you forget how to breathe.

Jungwon is standing in the doorway, and he is…he's…he's not the boy you remember.

The Jungwon in your memories is soft around the edges. Lanky limbs, round cheeks, the kind of face that made grandmothers pinch his cheeks. This Jungwon is wearing a tank top that is very, very see-through, because it's soaked with sweat. His hair is damp, pushed back from his forehead, and there's a towel slung around his neck that he's holding with one hand. His shoulders, when did he get shoulders? -are broad and defined. He's been working out. He's been working out, and the evidence is right there, and you are staring.

"Y/N?" His voice is deeper than you remember. He says your name like it's something precious, and his face breaks into that familiar smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes, the one you've known your whole life.

"Dang-" he starts, and then he's pulling you into a hug before you can react, his arms wrapping around you with an enthusiasm that makes the container press awkwardly between your bodies. He smells like sweat and fabric softener and something else, something warm and masculine. "You're home," he says into your hair. "You're actually home. When did you get back?"

"About an hour ago," you manage, your voice coming out relatively normal despite the fact that your face is currently pressed against a pectoral muscle. A pectoral muscle that belongs to Jungwon.

He pulls back, holding you at arm's length, and his eyes sweep over your face with an expression that's so purely, genuinely happy. "You look…you look amazing. Did you get taller?"

"I haven't grown since tenth grade."

"You look taller. It's the posture. You're standing like an adult now."

"Maybe because I’m an adult?"

He laughs. "Come in, come in," he says, stepping aside and gesturing you inside. "Mom's going to lose her mind when she sees you. She was just talking about you yesterday, she found that photo album from the summer we tried to build a treehouse ."

"Oh not the old pictures please."

"You know how nostalgic she can get."

"Y/N?! IS THAT Y/N?"

Mrs. Yang emerges from the kitchen, and within seconds you're enveloped in a hug. She's exactly the same as you remember, warm and effusive, with the same kind eyes that Jungwon inherited.

"Look at you!" she exclaims, pulling back to cup your face in her hands. "You're so beautiful! So grown up! Doesn't she look beautiful, Jungwon?"

"She looks beautiful," Jungwon agrees, and when you glance at him, his ears are slightly pink. Probably from the workout.

"Mom brought dumplings," you say, holding up the container. "She said you just got back yesterday and probably haven't had time to cook."

"That woman is an angel. Tell her we're having dinner together this weekend, no arguments, no excuses. I'm making bibimbap." Mrs. Yang takes the container and steps back toward the kitchen, already calling for her husband to come see who's at the door.

Mr. Yang appears a moment later, and the whole scene devolves into the kind of chaotic, overlapping welcome that you've experienced a hundred times before. Mrs. Yang starts pulling out photo albums. Mr. Yang asks about your classes and nods approvingly at your answers even though you're pretty sure he doesn't fully understand what your major entails.

And then the photo albums open, and the real embarrassment begins.

"Oh, this one!" Mrs. Yang crows, pointing at a photograph. "Look at you two! You must have been... what, six and eight? The school talent show!"

You lean in to look at the photo, and your soul briefly leaves your body.

"We were doing a skit about King Arthur," Jungwon says, his voice pained. "Y/N was Arthur. I was Lancelot."

The photos keep coming. Jungwon's first day of middle school, with you standing next to him on the front steps, your arm linked through his. A Halloween where you both dressed as characters from the same video game. A summer vacation at the beach where Jungwon got sunburned so badly he couldn't move for two days, and you sat beside him reading aloud from his favorite book until he fell asleep.

"I should probably head back," you say eventually, after the photo albums have been exhausted and Mrs. Yang has extracted a firm promise that you'll be at the family dinner this weekend. "Mom's probably wondering if I got kidnapped."

"I'll walk you out," Jungwon says, and there's something in his voice, something slightly awkward, slightly hesitant, that makes your stomach flip.

He walks you to the front door. "Hey," Jungwon says, his hand on the doorframe. "You want to walk to the convenience store? Like old times? I could really go for one of those melon ice creams."

"Sure," you say, and your voice comes out more casual than you feel. "But only if you put on an actual shirt first. I'm not being seen in public with you looking like... that."

He glances down at his tank top, and his ears go pink again. "Right. Yeah. Give me two minutes."

He disappears back into the house, and you stand on the front porch, trying very hard not to think about the way his shoulders looked in that tank top. Or the way his voice has deepened. Or the way his arms felt when he hugged you.

This is Jungwon, you remind yourself firmly. Jungwon, who is basically your brother except not actually your brother but definitely the brother-adjacent figure you've known your entire life.Stop being weird.

He reappears two minutes later in a soft-looking t-shirt and jeans, and the two of you set off down the familiar path toward the convenience store. 

"How's school?" Jungwon asks, falling into step beside you. "Your mom said you're doing really well. Something about making the dean's list?"

"Dean's list, yeah. It's not a big deal."

"It's a huge deal. You're a genius."

"I'm a person who doesn't sleep enough and has spent more time studying than partying."

"That's what being a genius is."

You laugh and maybe this won't be so hard. Maybe you and Jungwon can just... slip back into the rhythm you always had. Best friends, nothing more, nothing less. But when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, at the way the fading sunlight catches the angles of his jaw, the way his sleeves stretch slightly over his biceps, the way his lips curve into that familiar half-smile. This is going to be a long summer.

Apple Cider - Beabadoobee now playing

The next few days are as you expected. Jungwon, as it turns out, is completely, infuriatingly, obliviously the same. Not the same as the Jungwon who left for college two years ago, no, he's different in ways that keep catching you off guard. The broader shoulders. The deeper voice. The way he moves now, with a quiet confidence that wasn't there before, like he's grown into his own skin. But the way he treats you? That hasn't changed at all. He's still the same protective, brotherly, endlessly thoughtful Jungwon who's been orbiting your life since before you could tie your own shoes.

And that's the problem.

On Tuesday, he shows up at your house at 9 AM with a toolbox and a determined expression. Your mother mentioned, in passing, at the barbecue planning session that had somehow materialized in your kitchen, that the hinge on the back door was sticking. Jungwon, being Jungwon, took this as a personal mission.

"You don't have to do that," you say, standing in the doorway with a mug of coffee clutched in your hands. You're still in your pajamas. Your hair looks like it's been through a tornado. You were not prepared for visitors.

"It'll take ten minutes," Jungwon says, already crouching down to examine the hinge. His t-shirt rides up slightly as he bends, revealing a strip of skin above his waistband, and you very deliberately look at the ceiling. "Your mom does so much for everyone. The least I can do is fix a door."

"You're a philosophy major, not a handyman."

"Undeclared, technically. And I've picked up some skills." He glances up at you, and his smile is so genuinely warm, so completely devoid of any awareness that he's currently making your morning extremely complicated, that you want to throw your coffee at him. "Besides, I like helping. It makes me feel useful."

"Your people-pleasing is showing."

"My what?"

"Nothing." You take a sip of your coffee. 

On Wednesday, he helps your mother cook. You walk into the kitchen to find them side by side at the counter, your mom teaching him how to fold dumplings. Jungwon's fingers are clumsy with the wrappers, his dumplings coming out lopsided, but he's laughing, that bright, infectious laugh that makes your mother smile and pat his cheek like he's her own son.

"He's such a good boy," your mom says to you later, after Jungwon has gone home with a container full of the dumplings he helped make. "So polite. So helpful. Any girl would be lucky to have him."

You make a noncommittal sound and flee to your room before she can see the color rising in your cheeks.

On Thursday, he brings you boba. Unprompted. Just shows up at your door with two cups of brown sugar milk tea and that same devastating smile, saying he remembered it was your favorite and the new shop in town finally opened and he wanted to try it with you.

"This is bribery," you say, taking the cup anyway. "What do you want?"

"Can't a guy just bring his best friend boba without ulterior motives?"

"I've known you for fifteen years. You definitely have ulterior motives."

"Fine." He has the decency to look slightly sheepish. "My mom wants me to clean out the garage, and I was hoping you'd keep me company while I do it. She said she found our old middle school yearbooks in there, and I thought we could... I don't know. Look through them. For nostalgia."

Nostalgia. Right. Because looking at photographic evidence of your awkward preteen phase while sitting in close proximity to Jungwon in a dusty garage sounds like a completely safe activity that won't do anything weird to your heart.

"Sounds fun," you hear yourself say, because you're a masochist apparently.

And it is fun. Infuriatingly fun. You sit on an old lawn chair while Jungwon sorts through boxes, and you flip through yearbooks filled with photos of the two of you at every stage of adolescence. Jungwon with braces. You with bangs that were a tragic mistake. The two of you at the eighth-grade dance, standing stiffly next to each other. The two of you at the high school soccer game, your face painted with the school colors, his arm slung casually around your shoulders.

"God, we were such dorks," you say, holding up a photo of Jungwon in a truly unfortunate neon-green track suit.

"Speak for yourself. I was rocking that look."

"You looked like a highlighter."

"A very fashionable highlighter."

The laughter comes easily, the way it always has. And that's the thing that's messing with your head. Because when you're actually talking to him, when you're just existing in his presence the way you've done a thousand times before, everything feels normal. Easy. Like nothing's changed. But then he'll reach past you to grab something, and his arm will brush against yours, and you'll catch the scent of his laundry detergent mixed with something warm and distinctly him, and your brain will short-circuit entirely. Or he'll laugh at something you said, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and you'll find yourself staring at the curve of his lips and wondering things you have absolutely no business wondering about your childhood best friend.

And then the guilt hits. Because this is Jungwon. The boy who has never once looked at you as anything other than his best friend, his little sister. And here you are, mentally glazing every time he so much as flexes his forearms, like some kind of deranged romance novel protagonist who's forgotten the entire context of her own life.

You're terrible. You're a terrible person. You need to get a grip.

The barbecue is on Saturday. Both families, together, in the Yangs' backyard. It's a tradition that's been going on since before you can remember, and missing it would be unthinkable. So you can't avoid it. You can't avoid him.

On Friday afternoon, your mother hands you a grocery list that's approximately the length of a short novel. "We need everything for the marinade, plus the sides, plus drinks, plus-"

"Mom, this is enough food for an army."

"The Yangs are an army. Take Jungwon with you. He's got a car, and you shouldn't be carrying all those bags by yourself."

"I can carry bags. I'm an adult."

"You're a twig. A strong wind could knock you over. Take Jungwon."

So you text Jungwon, and Jungwon responds within thirty seconds with an enthusiastic yes!!! and three emojis that don't go together in any logical way, and twenty minutes later you're in the passenger seat of his car, heading to the grocery store.

"Remember when we used to ride our bikes to the corner store?" he asks, pulling into the parking lot. "We'd pool our allowance and buy as much candy as we could afford, and then we'd sit on the curb and eat it all before dinner."

"And then your mom would be mad because you ruined your appetite."

"She was always mad. I was a very difficult child."

"Yeah, I remember when you used to get ragebaited by your grandma a lot. Really funny."

"Please don’t mention it again."

"You were twelve."

Grocery shopping with Jungwon is an experience. He pushes the cart, pausing every few feet to consult the list your mother gave him and cross-reference it with the items in the cart. He reads the nutrition labels on everything, which is new, the Jungwon of your childhood would have just grabbed whatever had the most colorful packaging.

"College changed you," you observe, watching him compare two jars of sesame oil. "You're like... a responsible adult now. It's disturbing."

"Someone had to become a responsible adult. You're still the same chaos gremlin you've always been."

"You want that gremlin to punch that pretty face of yours?."

"Oh so you like my face? I’m honoured."

"I like your face only when you shut your mouth."

The checkout line is long, and Jungwon insists on paying, "your mom already does so much, let me contribute something", and you're standing beside him, helping bag the groceries, when you see it.

A small box. Brightly colored. Sitting innocently in the plastic bag among the vegetables and the marinade ingredients and the six-pack of Sprite. Condoms. You stare at the box for approximately three seconds, your brain refusing to process what it's seeing. Then the processing kicks in, and a series of thoughts flash through your mind in rapid succession:

That's a box of condoms.

In Jungwon's grocery bag.

Jungwon bought condoms.

Why does Jungwon have condoms?

Oh god, Jungwon has condoms because he uses condoms.

Oh god, Jungwon has sex.

Jungwon has SEX.

WITH PEOPLE.

"Y/N?" Jungwon's voice cuts through your spiral, and you realize you've been frozen in place with a head of cabbage clutched in your hands like a stress ball. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine!" you say, and your voice comes out approximately three octaves higher than normal. "Totally fine. Great. Never been better. Cabbage. Love cabbage. Great vegetable. Very... leafy."

Jungwon squints at you, clearly not buying a single word of this, but the cashier chooses that moment to announce the total, and he turns away to pay. You shove the cabbage into the bag with perhaps more force than necessary.

It's not a big deal. It's not a big deal. He's a twenty-something guy in college. Of course he's had sex. Of course he's bought condoms. This is normal. This is fine. You're fine.

But the thought sticks in your brain like a splinter, and by the time you're back in the car, the groceries loaded into the trunk, you've worked yourself into a state of quiet, internal frenzy.

How many girls has he slept with? Did he have a girlfriend? Multiple girlfriends? Is he seeing someone right now? Why didn't he tell you? Why would he tell you? It's not like you're his- you're not his anything. You're his childhood best friend. You're basically his sister. He doesn't owe you a detailed accounting of his romantic history.

But still.

Who were they? What were they like? Were they pretty? Smart? Funny? Did he hold their hands the way he holds yours? Did he kiss them? Did he-

You cut the thought off before it can finish. You don't want to know. You really, really don't want to know.

Back at your house, you help him carry the groceries inside, your movements mechanical, your brain still running through increasingly unhelpful scenarios. Jungwon is chatting about something, the barbecue, maybe, or his plans for the rest of the summer, but you're barely listening. The box of condoms is burning a hole in your brain.

"Hey," you say, setting down the bag of vegetables with a little more force than strictly necessary. "Can I ask you something?"

"Always." Jungwon turns to face you, his expression open and unguarded, and you feel a pang of guilt for what you're about to do. This is none of your business. You shouldn't be asking this. You have no right to ask this.

But you're asking it anyway, because you're a self-destructive idiot who can't leave well enough alone. "Did you..." You pause, searching for the right words. "In college. Did you... see anyone?"

Jungwon blinks. "See anyone?"

"Like... date. Or... you know. Hook up with. Or whatever." You wave your hand vaguely, like you're talking about the weather. Like this is a casual, normal conversation between two platonic childhood friends who definitely don't have weird, complicated feelings about each other.

Jungwon's ears go pink. "That's... a pretty personal question."

"Forget it. Sorry. None of my business." You turn back to the groceries, your face burning.

"No, it's fine. It's just... unexpected." He leans against the kitchen counter, his arms crossing over his chest. "Yeah. I dated a bit. Nothing serious. I, uh..." He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous gesture you recognize from childhood. "I hooked up with some people too."

Some people. Plural. Multiple. The words hit you like a punch to the stomach.

"Okay," you say, your voice remarkably steady considering the chaos happening inside your chest. "Cool. That's cool. Normal college stuff. Good for you."

"Are you sure you want to hear this? You're making that face."

"What face?"

"The face you make when you're trying very hard not to react to something. Your left eyebrow is doing the twitchy thing."

"Totally sure," you say. "I'm just curious. We haven't really talked about... any of this. I don't know anything about your life in college."

Jungwon is quiet for a moment, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful. "There was... actually, there was someone I really liked. Last semester."

"Someone you liked," you repeat.

"Yeah. A girl in my philosophy elective. I had this whole crush on her for months, but I was too nervous to say anything." He smiles, but it's a different kind of smile, softer, more distant. "It's kind of a long story. She actually ended up with one of my best friends. It's okay now, they're really happy together, and I'm genuinely glad for them. But it was... a wake-up call, I guess."

"A wake-up call?"

"I realized I'd spent so much time waiting and overthinking that I'd missed my chance. I didn't want that to happen again." He shrugs, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "So I decided to just... live. Explore. Stop being so scared of everything. I figured if I didn't put myself out there, I'd just keep watching opportunities pass me by."

"So you started... sleeping around."

"That's a very blunt way to put it."

"I'm a blunt person."

"I know." He laughs, the one that crinkles his eyes. "It's one of the things I've always liked about you."

"So yeah," Jungwon continues. "I hooked up with people. Nothing serious, like I said. Just... trying things. Figuring out what I want. It's been good for me, honestly. I feel more confident now. Less like I'm waiting for something to happen and more like I'm actually living my life."

"That's... good. That's really good." You're saying the right words, but your voice sounds hollow to your own ears. "I'm happy for you."

Jungwon grins. "What about you? Any hot college romances I should know about?"

"No. Nothing. I've been too busy studying."

"Really? No one caught your eye?"

Just you, you don't say. Just the person I'm not supposed to think about like this. Just my childhood best friend who apparently spent his college years having casual hookups with other people while I was sitting in my dorm room wondering why I couldn't feel anything for anyone else.

"Nope," you say out loud. "I'm married to my textbooks."

"That's tragic."

"That's academia."

He laughs again, and then his expression shifts into something more mischievous. "Well, if it makes you feel better, you don't have to be jealous. At least my first kiss was with you."

Your brain screeches to a halt. "What."

"You know. High school. My parents' closet."

Sophomore year. It was a random Saturday afternoon, and both your families were downstairs preparing for some dinner party or another. You and Jungwon had escaped to his parents' room, hiding in the walk-in closet among the coats and the winter boots, having one of those rambling conversations that always seemed to happen when you were alone together.

And somehow, the conversation had turned to kissing. Neither of you had done it before. Neither of you wanted to be bad at it when the time came. And somehow, you still don't remember who suggested it first, you'd agreed to practice. With each other. Just to get it out of the way.

It had started awkward. A nervous brush of lips, both of you too hesitant to commit. But then Jungwon's hand had found your waist, and your fingers had curled into the fabric of his shirt, and something had shifted. The kiss had deepened. Became something hungrier, more urgent. His mouth had moved against yours with a confidence that surprised you both, and you'd made a sound, a small, breathless sound that had made him pull you closer.

It had lasted maybe five minutes. Maybe longer. Time had gone strange and elastic in the darkness of that closet. When you'd finally pulled apart, both of you breathing hard, his forehead pressed against yours, neither of you had spoken. The silence had been so loud it was deafening.

And then his mom had called you both for dinner, and you'd scrambled out of the closet like guilty criminals, and neither of you had ever mentioned it again.

Until now. Apparently. Because Jungwon is just casually bringing it up like it's some funny childhood anecdote, like it didn't fundamentally alter your brain chemistry when it happened.

"That wasn't-" you splutter. "That wasn't a kiss. That was... practice."

"Practice that went on for a really long time."

"We were curious!"

"We were very curious."

"YOU'RE THE WORST."

Your fist connects with his stomach before your brain can intervene. It's not a hard punch, you're not trying to actually hurt him but he doubles over anyway, laughing so hard that his shoulders shake.

"I'm sorry," he wheezes, "I'm sorry, your face, you should have seen your face-"

"I HATE YOU."

"You don't hate me. You've never hated me a day in your life."

"I'm starting today. I'm starting right now."

He straightens up, still grinning, and there's no awkwardness in his expression at all. No hidden meaning. No tension. Just fond amusement, like the memory of making out with you in a closet is just one of many sweet, funny moments in the long history of your friendship.

And that's when it hits you. Really, truly hits you.

This whole situation, the confusing feelings, the stolen glances, the jealousy that's been eating you alive since you saw that stupid box of condoms, it's all completely one-sided. Jungwon isn't looking at you differently. Jungwon isn't secretly harboring feelings for you. Jungwon is exactly where he's always been: your best friend, your brother in all but blood, the person who knows you better than anyone and loves you exactly the way he always has.

Platonically. Completely, utterly, devastatingly platonically.

"I should... go help my mom with the marinade," you say, your voice coming out steadier than you feel. "I'll see you tomorrow. At the barbecue."

"Definitely." Jungwon's smile is warm and genuine and so completely oblivious that it makes your chest ache. 

You're already backing out of the kitchen, your movements stiff and mechanical. Jungwon gives you a little wave, already turning back to the groceries, completely unaware that he's just detonated a bomb in the middle of your emotional state.

You make it to your home, then your room. You close the door. You lock it. And then you punch your pillow with the full force of your frustration.

"At least my first kiss was with you," you mutter, mimicking his voice in a high, mocking tone. "So you don't have to be jealous." Punch. "It was PRACTICE." Punch. "We were CURIOUS." Punch. "I've been pining like an IDIOT and you're out there having HOOKUPS and telling me about your PHILOSOPHY CRUSH."

You collapse face-first onto the pillow, your voice muffled by the fabric.

"He's so STUPID. He's so OBLIVIOUS. He's out there looking like THAT and talking about his SEX LIFE and bringing me BOBA and fixing my mom's DOOR and he doesn't even NOTICE-"

You stop. You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling. "What doesn't he notice?" you ask the empty room.

You know the answer. You've known the answer since the moment you saw him standing in that doorway in his stupid see-through tank top. You're into him. You're into him. Into your childhood best friend who has never once looked at you as anything other than a little sister. Into the guy who just casually told you about his college hookups and his philosophy crush and the fact that he decided to "explore his youth," whatever that means.

And what are you supposed to do with that? Confess? Risk ruining a friendship that's been the most stable thing in your life for fifteen years? Put everything on the line for a chance that he might, maybe, possibly feel something too?

No. Absolutely not. You're not going to be one of those people who ruins a lifelong friendship because they can't control their feelings. You're stronger than that. You're smarter than that. You're going to shove these feelings into a box, lock the box, and throw away the key.

Reality check, you tell yourself firmly. He doesn't see you that way. He's never seen you that way. The closet kiss was just curiosity. The way he looks at you is just friendship. The way he always saves you a seat and remembers your boba order and offers to fix things around your house is just the person he is…kind and thoughtful and completely, thoroughly platonic.

You are his childhood best friend. You are basically his sister. And that's all you're ever going to be.

You press your face back into the pillow and let out a long, muffled groan.

The barbecue is in full swing by the time you make your way to the Yangs backyard, and the scene is exactly as chaotic as you expected.

Mr. Yang is manning the grill. Your father is standing beside him, offering unsolicited advice about the proper way to flip the meet, which Mr. Yang is ignoring with the practiced patience of someone who has been receiving this advice for two decades. Your mother and Mrs. Yang are setting up the side dishes on the long picnic table, their heads bent together in what looks like a very intense gossip session. And Jungwon, Jungwon is walking toward you with a plate of meat fresh off the grill and a smile that makes your stomach do a flip.

"You're late," he says, holding out the plate. "I saved you the first batch before my dad could burn it."

You take the plate, and your fingers brush against his. The contact is brief, barely a second, but your skin tingles where he touched you, and you have to resist the urge to yank your hand back like you've been burned. This is fine. You've made peace with your feelings and shoved them into a mental box, and you're going to act completely normal today.

"Thanks for the meat," you say, and your voice comes out blessedly casual.

"You look kinda goofy."

"And you look like an idiot."

"Your idiot," he says. He doesn't mean it the way you want him to mean it. He means it the way he's always meant it, best friends, partners in crime, the two of you against the world. 

The afternoon unfolds in the easy, familiar rhythm of family gatherings. You eat too much. Your mother tells embarrassing stories about your childhood. Mrs. Yang counters with embarrassing stories about Jungwon's childhood. At some point, someone produces a karaoke machine, and your father treats everyone to a truly spectacular show of an eighties power ballad that has the entire yard howling with laughter.

And through it all, there's Jungwon. Sitting beside you at the picnic table, his knee occasionally bumping against yours. Refilling your drink before you even realize it's empty. Catching your eye from across the yard and making funny faces until you crack a smile. It's so normal. So familiar. So exactly like every other barbecue you've attended in the past fifteen years.

Except it's not. Because now you're aware of him in a way you never were before. Now you notice the way his laugh sounds when he throws his head back. Now you catalog the way his fingers curl around his cup, the way his shoulders move under his shirt, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins at you. It's exhausting. It's infuriating. It's the most alive you've felt in months.

"You're eating all the mushrooms," Jungwon observes, watching you pluck another one from the communal plate. "You know other people might want mushrooms, right?"

"Other people should have been faster."

"There were like ten mushrooms on that plate and you've taken eight of them."

"Nine, actually. I took one while you were talking."

He laughs, and you stuff another mushroom in your mouth to compensate.

The conversation shifts, as it always does, into the easy back-and-forth that's been your default setting since childhood. You argue about the correct way to pronounce a word you both heard differently. You debate whether the new coffee shop in town is better than the old one. You're laughing unguarded, when Jungwon reaches past you to grab the pitcher of lemonade. His hand slides across your lower back as he moves, just for a second, just to steady himself, but the contact sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body. His palm is warm through the thin fabric of your shirt, and his fingers press lightly against your waist, and his voice, when he speaks, is low and close to your ear.

"Excuse me for a second," he murmurs, and the tone, casual, intimate, completely unaware of what he's doing to you, makes your knees go weak.

Do not fold, you command yourself. Do not fold. You are a strong, independent person who is not going to melt because your childhood best friend touched your waist like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"The lemonade," you manage, your voice slightly strangled. "It's... right there."

"I see it now. Thanks."

His hand slides away, and you exhale a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. Across the yard, your mother catches your eye and raises an eyebrow. You pointedly look away.

The drinking competition starts, as all great disasters do, with your father.

"Beer!" he announces, standing up from his lawn chair with the slightly unsteady enthusiasm of someone who has already had two. "We need more beer! And a competition!"

"A competition for what?" Mr. Yang asks, looking up from the grill.

"Drinking! We're all old now. When was the last time we really let loose?"

"Last New Year's Eve," your mother says flatly. "You threw up in the rose bushes."

"Details."

Despite your mother's protests, the beer is produced. And not just a few bottles, your father disappears into the house and emerges with an entire case, his expression triumphant. Within twenty minutes, both sets of parents are lined up at the picnic table, a row of shot glasses (filled with beer, because they're middle-aged adults who know their limits but are pretending not to) arranged in front of them.

"Rules!" your father announces. "First one to tap out loses. Winner gets bragging rights for the entire year."

"There are no rules," Mrs. Yang says. "You just made this up."

"I'm the commissioner of this competition. I can make rules."

"You're an accountant."

"I'm an accountant and a commissioner."

The competition, predictably, devolves into chaos. Your mother, who has the alcohol tolerance of a hummingbird, bows out after two shots and spends the next hour giggling at everything anyone says. Mrs. Yang puts up a surprisingly strong fight, matching your father shot for shot until she suddenly stops mid-sentence, blinks, and announces that the sky is "very sky-like tonight." Mr. Yang, who has been nursing the same beer for the entire afternoon, is declared the winner by default when your father attempts a victory shot and misses his own mouth entirely.

"I won?" Mr. Yang says, looking genuinely confused. "I didn't know we were competing."

"That's the spirit," your father slurs, clapping him on the shoulder. "That's winning energy."

By the time the sun sets, both sets of parents are in various states of inebriation. Your mother is asleep in a lawn chair, her head tilted back and her mouth slightly open. Mrs. Yang is having a very intense conversation with the family dog about the meaning of life. Your father and Mr. Yang are attempting to fold up the picnic table and failing spectacularly.

Which leaves you and Jungwon. The only two sober people in a yard full of chaos.

"We should probably clean this up," you say, surveying the carnage. Empty bottles cover the picnic table. Plates of half-eaten food are scattered across every available surface. Someone, you suspect your father, has draped a string of fairy lights around the grill in what appears to be an attempt at decoration.

"Probably," Jungwon agrees. "Or we could just leave it and let them deal with it tomorrow."

"Your mom is currently explaining life to a golden retriever."

"The dog seems very engaged."

"Jungwon."

"Fine, fine. I'll get the trash bags."

The cleanup takes the better part of an hour. You collect the empty bottles while Jungwon tackles the food, scraping leftovers into containers and stacking plates with the practiced efficiency of someone who has cleaned up after many family gatherings. The parents eventually stagger inside, your mom leaning heavily on your dad, Mrs. Yang still muttering philosophical observations to the dog, until it's just the two of you in the quiet backyard, the only light coming from the string of fairy lights that your father had so artistically arranged.

"Well," Jungwon says, tying off the last trash bag. "That was..."

"A disaster?"

"I was going to say a successful family event, but disaster works too."

"It's not a real barbecue until someone passes out."

"Your dad set a new record this year. He almost made it to sunset."

"Personal growth."

Jungwon laughs, and the sound echoes in the quiet yard. He's standing close to you, closer than you realized and the fairy lights catch the angles of his face, the curve of his smile, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead. He looks like something out of a movie. A romance movie. The kind you watch when you want to torture yourself with unrealistic expectations about love.

"So," he says, leaning against the now-clean picnic table. "The parents are asleep. The food is put away. The dog is having an existential crisis. What now?"

"I don't know. Go home? Go to bed?"

"We could do that." He tilts his head, and there's something in his expression, something teasing, something challenging. "Or we could continue the tradition."

"What tradition?"

"The drinking competition. You know. Carry on the family legacy."

"Everyone else is passed out."

"Exactly. The title is still up for grabs."

You raise an eyebrow. "You want to have a drinking competition. With me."

"I want to see if you can handle it." His smile widens, and it's the same smile he used to give you when you were kids. "Unless you're scared."

"I'm not scared. I'm sensible. There's a difference."

"Sensible is just a word scared people use."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"It makes perfect sense. You just don't want to admit it."

The banter is familiar, comforting. But there's something different about it tonight. Something that feels almost like flirting, even though you know it's not. Even though Jungwon is just being Jungwon, and you're just being you, and this is exactly the kind of stupid challenge you would have accepted without hesitation back when you were teenagers and didn't know any better.

"Fine. But I'm warning you, I'm very competitive."

"So am I."

"My dad keeps a bottle of whiskey in the study," he says over his shoulder. "The good kind. The kind he thinks no one knows about."

"You're going to steal your dad's whiskey?"

"I'm going to borrow it. There's a difference."

"That's not how borrowing works."

"It's how my borrowing works."

The Yangs' house is quiet and dark, the only sound the distant snoring of a parent somewhere upstairs. You follow Jungwon to the study. He rummages through the bottom drawer with the confidence of someone who has done this before, and when he straightens up, there's a bottle of amber liquid in his hand.

"Ta-da," he says, holding it up like a trophy. "Twelve-year aged whiskey. My dad's been saving it for a special occasion."

"And this counts as a special occasion?"

"First barbecue of the summer? Definitely special."

"You're going to regret this tomorrow."

"Probably. But that's future Jungwon's problem. Current Jungwon wants to see if you can hold your liquor."

You follow him back to the living room, where he produces two glasses from the kitchen and pours generous measures of whiskey into each. He hands you a glass, and your fingers brush against his, and you very pointedly do not think about the contact.

"Rules," Jungwon says, settling onto the couch. "We take turns. Each of us drinks when it's our turn. First one to tap out loses."

"That's not a game. That's just... drinking."

"It's a drinking game. The game is drinking."

"That's the laziest game I've ever heard of."

"Do you have a better idea?"

You don't. So you clink your glass against his and take your first sip.

The whiskey burns going down, warm and smoky, and you can feel it spreading through your chest like a slow fire. Jungwon takes his turn, then you take yours. The glasses are refilled. The room starts to feel warmer, Jungwon's face is slightly flushed now, and his laugh comes easier, and he's sitting closer to you on the couch than he was before. Or maybe you're sitting closer to him. It's hard to tell.

"Remember the closet?" he says, and the question catches you off guard.

"What closet?"

"My parents' closet. High school. The-"

"I know which closet." Your face is heating, and it's not just from the whiskey. "What about it?"

Jungwon grins, and it's a looser grin than usual, less guarded. "Nothing. Just... that was a good kiss. For a first kiss, I mean."

"It was practice."

"It was a lot of practice."

"You're drunk."

"So are you."

"I'm not drunk. I'm... pleasantly tipsy."

"That's a very fancy way of saying drunk."

"I'm a fancy person."

"You're wearing a t-shirt with a cartoon cat on it."

"The cat is wearing a top hat. That makes it fancy."

Jungwon laughs so hard he nearly spills his whiskey. You catch his arm to steady him, and the contact is electric, and you pull your hand back like you've been burned.

"You know what," you say, the whiskey courage flooding through your veins, "you were actually a terrible kisser. Back then. In the closet. You were bad at it."

Jungwon's eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Terrible. All teeth and no technique."

"That is... extremely revisionist history."

"It's accurate history. You were bad. I was just being nice about it."

"I was not bad. I was-" He pauses, searching for the right word. "-enthusiastic."

"Enthusiastically bad."

"You were enthusiastic too!"

"I was practicing. There's a difference."

The room is spinning slightly now, but you don't care. The whiskey has unlocked something in you, something reckless and brave and completely, utterly stupid. The mental box where you've been storing your feelings is starting to crack at the edges, and you can't seem to find the energy to patch it back up.

Childhood friend? Brother-sister bond? Screw that. Screw all of that.

"I've had time to perfect it, you know," Jungwon says, and his voice is lower now, rougher. "Since high school. I've gotten better."

"That's what you think."

"It's what I know."

"Prove it."

The words hang in the air between you like a challenge. Like a dare. 

Jungwon blinks, his glass pausing halfway to his lips. "Prove it?"

"You said you've gotten better. I don't believe you." Your heart is hammering, but your voice is steady. "I want to test it out. For scientific purposes."

"You're drunk."

"So are you. That's not an excuse."

Jungwon stares at you for a long moment. His expression is unreadable, surprise, confusion, something else that flickers in his eyes and disappears before you can identify it.

"You're serious," he says.

"I'm always serious."

"You're the least serious person I know."

"And yet here I am. Being serious."

The silence stretches between you. Your heart is pounding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. This is it. This is the moment where he laughs it off, makes a joke, brings back the familiar brotherly distance that's been the foundation of your friendship for fifteen years.

But he doesn't.

"Okay," he says, and his voice is so quiet you almost miss it. "Let's test it out."

He sets down his glass. You set down yours. Jungwon stands up, and you stand up, and the room tilts slightly, but you don't care.

"Let’s go to my place," you say, and your voice comes out surprisingly steady. "My room. The parents are all passed out anyway."

"Your room," Jungwon repeats. "Your childhood bedroom. With the stuffed animals and the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling."

"The stars are still there. The stuffed animals are in a box."

Jungwon follows you to your house (which is literally five steps outside his house). Your room is exactly as you left it, the bed is made, the curtains drawn, and the lamp on your nightstand casts a warm, golden light across everything.

Jungwon stands in the doorway, his hand on the frame, his expression caught between hesitation and something else. "Last chance to back out," he says quietly.

"I don't want to back out."

"You're sure?"

Everytime - Ariana Grande now playing

Instead of answering, you reach out and grab the front of his shirt, pulling him into the room. The door clicks shut behind him.

Jungwon sits at the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. You stand before him for a moment, heart pounding in your chest, before climbing onto his lap, straddling him with a confidence you don't know you possess.

His hands immediately find your hips, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your shorts. He pulls you closer, pressing you against the growing hardness beneath his jeans, and a soft gasp escapes your lips.

"What are you waiting to kiss me?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough with intoxication.

Instead of answering, you lean in, capturing his lips with yours. The kiss starts slow, tentative that quickly deepens as years of suppressed desire come rushing to the surface. His lips are soft but demanding, moving against yours with a practiced confidence that makes your head spin.

The kiss quickly escalates from tender to feverish. You are devouring each other, mouths opening wider, tongues tangling in a desperate dance. It is messy and urgent and everything you haven't let yourself imagine for all those years. Jungwon's hands roam your body, sliding up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, then back down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against him.

He starts sucking your tongue into his mouth, drawing it in with a deliberate, sexual rhythm that sends jolts of pleasure straight to your core. His eyes remain open, locked with yours as he works your tongue, the intensity of his gaze nearly undoing you completely. The wet, obscene sounds of his sucking fill the room, mingling with your ragged breaths.

Your hips begin to move instinctively, grinding against him in a rhythm that matches the pull of his mouth on your tongue. The friction of your clothed bodies sliding together creates a heat that is almost unbearable.

"Fuck," he groans against your mouth, releasing your tongue briefly. "You feel so good. Move harder."

His words spur you on, and you move with abandon, dry humping him with a desperate need that borders on obscene. Every thrust of your hips against his sends waves of pleasure through your body, and you can feel his arousal pressing insistently against you, growing harder with each movement.

Jungwon's hands slip under your shirt, his rough palms sliding against your skin as he explores the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine. He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. You tilt your head back, giving him better access as your hips continue their relentless rhythm.

"You like that?" he whispers against your skin, his voice husky with desire. "Like riding me like this? So desperate for it."

"Shut up," you breathe, even as your body responds to his taunts, moving faster, harder.

"Make me," he challenges, capturing your lips again in another searing kiss. His tongue invades your mouth with renewed intensity, and this time you meet him with equal fervor, sucking and licking and biting in a battle for dominance that neither of you is truly trying to win.

The room grows hotter, the air thick with the scent of whisky and arousal. Jungwon's hands roam freely now, squeezing your breasts through your shirt, pinching your nipples until you cry out against his mouth.

"You’re so cute," he murmurs, his words muffled by your kisses. "Wonder how you'd look with my mouth somewhere else." Jungwon meets your rhythm, thrusting up against you, his hands gripping your hips to guide your movements. "Look at you," he continues, his voice dropping lower, becoming rougher. "So desperate for it. Bet you're soaking through these panties right now, aren't you?"

"Only if you're not already leaking through those jeans," you shoot back, your own voice breathy with need.

His response is a guttural groan as he increases the pace, his hips bucking up to meet yours with an urgency that matches your own. The bed creaks beneath you, the sound joining the symphony of wet kisses, ragged breaths, and whispered profanities that fill the room.

"Jungwon," you gasp against his mouth, the name a prayer and a curse all at once.

"Right here," he responds, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you even closer as he increases the friction between you. "Not going anywhere."

The pressure builds to an almost unbearable level, your movements becoming frantic as you chase your release. Jungwon seems to sense your need, his mouth returning to yours in a kiss that is both possessive and tender, his tongue once again sucking yours into his mouth with a rhythm that pushes you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashes over you with surprising intensity, waves of pleasure coursing through your body as you collapse against him, boneless and trembling. Jungwon holds you through it, his arms wrapped around you, his lips pressing soft kisses against your hair as you struggle to catch your breath.

When your senses slowly return, you become aware of the hardness still pressing against you, a testament to his own unsatisfied desire. You lift your head to look at him, your eyes meeting his in the dim light of the room.

"Your turn," you whisper, a mischievous smile playing on your lips as you prepare to return the favor.

Just as you shift to take control, Jungwon's hands shoot out, gripping your waist with surprising strength. "Oh no," he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your entire body. "I'm not letting you lead this game. Not yet."

Before you can protest, he's flipped the positions, maneuvering you with an ease that is both impressive and infuriating. You find yourself sitting at the edge of the bed, breathless from the sudden movement, while Jungwon kneels before you. His eyes, dark and intense, never leave yours as his fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts.

"These have to go," he states simply, tugging them down your legs. The fabric pools at your ankles, leaving you completely exposed from the waist down. A flush creeps up your neck as you realize how wet you are, the evidence of your earlier orgasm glistening on your thighs.

Jungwon notices too, of course. A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face as he traces a finger along the damp skin of your inner thigh. "Well now," he teases, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Someone got excited. Tell me, Y/N, did you just squirt? Because this looks like more than just regular excitement."

You open your mouth to deliver a sharp comeback, but the words die on your lips as he leans in, pressing soft kisses against your inner thigh. His lips are warm and gentle against your sensitive skin, a stark contrast to the roughness of his earlier actions.

"I should kiss your lips from down there too," he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot against your core. "Since you're so convinced I'm a terrible kisser, maybe I need to practice on a different set of lips."

His mouth moves higher, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Then he pauses, sucking gently at the tender skin of your inner thigh, leaving a dark mark that will surely be visible tomorrow. He repeats the action on the other side, creating matching hickeys that stand out against your pale skin.

"I don't see the point of putting them on the neck," he explains, admiring his handiwork. "These are much more interesting, don't you think?"

You can't form a coherent response, not when his mouth is so close to where you need it most. And then he is there, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path along your folds. The sensation is electric, sending jolts of pleasure through your entire body.

Jungwon doesn't hold back. He devours you with an enthusiasm that is almost overwhelming, his tongue exploring every inch of your most sensitive areas. It is too much, too intense, and you find yourself trying to slide away, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through you.

But Jungwon isn't having it. His arms lock around your thighs, holding you in place as he effortlessly slides you back toward his waiting mouth. "Oh no you don't," he growls against your core. "You wanted proof, and I'm not done proving anything yet."

His tongue enters you then, fucking you with a rhythm that makes your toes curl. It is delicious, the way he moves inside you, exploring every inch of your inner walls with a skill that is both impressive and infuriating. You look down at him, at the way his dark hair falls across his forehead as he works, at the intense concentration on his face as he focuses on bringing you pleasure.

Just as you are approaching the edge again, he slows down, his movements becoming deliberate, teasing. He runs his tongue through your folds with agonizing slowness, pausing occasionally to look up at you, his eyes dark with challenge. He knows exactly what he is doing, the bastard. He is provoking you, testing your limits, pushing you to the brink of insanity with his maddeningly slow pace.

The sounds are the worst part, or the best part, you can't decide. Each slow lick is accompanied by a wet, sucking noise that echoes in the quiet room, a constant reminder of what is happening between your legs. 

"Say it," he murmurs against you, his voice muffled by your flesh. "Say I'm a good kisser."

You bite your lip, determined not to give him the satisfaction. You are always stubborn, always bratty when challenged, and this is no different. If he wants you to admit he is good, he is going to have to work harder for it.

Jungwon chuckles, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through you. "Still so defiant," he says, pulling back slightly to look at you. "Is that how you treat your precious friend?"

He returns to his task with renewed enthusiasm, his tongue moving faster now, his lips sucking at your clit with a rhythm that makes your hips buck involuntarily. 

"Come on, Y/N," he urges, his voice rough with desire. "Just say it. Say I'm a good kisser, and I'll let you come."

That is all it takes. The combination of his skilled tongue and his dirty talk sends you over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you with an intensity that leaves you breathless. As waves of pleasure course through your body, the words finally tumble from your lips.

"You're a good kisser," you gasp, your voice ragged with pleasure. "Oh god, Jungwon, you're such a good kisser."

Jungwon continues his ministrations through your orgasm, drawing out your pleasure until you are completely spent, collapsing back against the bed with a satisfied sigh. Only then does he pull away, a triumphant grin on his face as he looks up at you.

"Glad we settled that," he says, his voice smug with satisfaction. He rises to his feet, standing before you with a noticeable bulge in his jeans. "Now it's your turn. Suck my dick."

Jungwon doesn't wait for an answer. He simply stands and begins to unbutton his jeans. He pushes his jeans and boxers down in one smooth motion, and his cock springs free, hard and heavy.

He stands before you, completely exposed from the waist down. He is bigger than you'd somehow imagined, thick and curving slightly upward, the tip already glistening with precum. A vein pulses along the underside.

"On your knees," he commands, his voice low and rough. It isn't a request, but you find yourself complying without hesitation, sliding off the bed onto the plush carpet of your bedroom floor. He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that his cock is nearly level with your face. He tangles his fingers in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, using it to tilt your head back.

"Open up," he murmurs, his eyes dark with intensity as he looks down at you. "Let's see if that mouth is good for more than just talking back."

You part your lips, your heart pounding in your chest as he guides himself to your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip, tasting the salty bitterness of his precum, and he lets out a low groan, his fingers tightening in your hair.

"Fuck, Y/N," he breathes, his voice strained. "Just like that."

You take him into your mouth then, slowly at first, savoring the weight of him on your tongue, the way he fills you so completely. You move your tongue along the underside, tracing the path of that pulsing vein, and his hips jerk forward involuntarily.

"Careful," he warns, though his tone is more pleased than admonishing. "I’m enjoying this a bit too much."

You want to see him come undone, to hear him gasp and groan, to know that you are the one causing his pleasure. You take him deeper then, until the tip of his cock brushes against the back of your throat, and you swallow around him, your muscles contracting.

"Jesus Christ," he gasps, his hips beginning to move in a shallow rhythm. "You're…fuck…you're really good at this."

You pull back slightly, creating a suction that makes his eyes roll back in his head. Then you take him deep again. Your hands come up to grip his thighs, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch as he fights to maintain control.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with need. "I want to see those pretty eyes when you're sucking my cock."

You look up at him then, your eyes locking with his as you continue your ministrations. The intensity in his gaze is nearly overwhelming, a mixture of raw desire and something that looks suspiciously like affection. Jungwon begins to move more freely then, his hips thrusting in time with the movements of your mouth. The pace quickens, growing more frantic as he approaches his release. 

"I'm close," he warns, his voice strained.

You can feel it too, the way his cock seems to swell in your mouth, the way his thrusts become more erratic. You double your efforts, taking him as deep as you can, your tongue working frantically against him.

"Y/N," he gasps, his fingers tightening in your hair. "I'm…fuck, I'm coming."

His release is sudden and explosive, hot and salty as he spills into your mouth. You swallow instinctively, taking everything he has to give. When he is finished, Jungwon pulls away slowly, his cock softening as he withdraws from your mouth. He looks down at you, his expression a mixture of awe and satisfaction, his chest heaving with the effort of breathing.

"Come here," he says, his voice softening as he reaches down to help you to your feet. He pulls you into his arms, his lips finding yours in a kiss that is both tender and reassuring, tasting of him and of you and of everything you have just shared.

"You did great," he murmurs against your lips, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace.

You melt against him, your body still humming with pleasure, your mind reeling from the intensity of what has just happened. 

You wake up to the sensation of someone driving a truck over you.

No. Wait. That's just the hangover.

Your eyes crack open, and the first thing you register is the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling. The second thing you register is that your mouth tastes like something died in it. The third thing is that you're wearing only one sock. The fourth thing hits you like a freight train.

Jungwon.

You bolt upright so fast that the room spins violently, and you have to press your palm against your forehead to keep your brain from escaping through your ears. The memories come flooding back in fragmented, disjointed flashes, the whiskey, the challenge, the door clicking shut. His hands on your waist. You grinding on him. The way he'd said your name, low and rough, like it was something sacred.

You look down at yourself. You're still in your shirt from last night, wrinkled but still there. Your shorts are on the floor. And there, on your inner thigh, just above your knee, is a mark. A small, purplish bruise that definitely wasn't there yesterday.

You look for more, your heart hammering, and find another one. And another. A whole constellation of hickeys mapping a path across your skin.

"Oh my god," you whisper to the empty room. "Oh my god, it wasn't a dream."

It was not a dream. It was very much not a dream. You and Jungwon had gone at each other like two people who had been waiting their entire lives for an excuse. There had been hands and mouths and the kind of sounds you didn't know you were capable of making. And now you have to face him.

You spend approximately fifteen minutes staring at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to will the evidence off your skin. The hickeys are not going anywhere unfortunately. The smell of breakfast hits you before you even reach the bottom of the stairs. Eggs. Bacon. The unmistakable aroma of your mother's hangover soup, which she only makes when the entire household has made questionable decisions the night before. You follow the scent to the kitchen, your stomach churning with a mixture of nausea and pure, undiluted terror.

And there he is.

Jungwon is sitting at your kitchen table. Your kitchen table. In your house. Eating your mother's cooking like he belongs there, which, to be fair, he kind of does. He's been eating at this table since before he could see over the edge of it. But today, the sight of him makes your entire body go hot and cold at the same time.

He looks... fine. Completely, infuriatingly fine. His hair is slightly damp, like he's just showered. He's wearing a soft-looking sweater and jeans, and he's laughing at something your dad is saying, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that familiar way. There's no sign of a hangover. No sign of regret. No sign that anything at all has changed between you.

"There she is!" your mother announces, spotting you in the doorway. "The last survivor of last night's chaos. Come, sit. I made soup."

You mumble something that might be "good morning" or might be "please kill me," and you slide into the chair across from Jungwon. He glances up at you, and for one heart-stopping moment, you think you see something flicker in his eyes, a flash of recognition, a hint of heat, but then it's gone, replaced by that same easy, brotherly smile.

"Rough night?" he asks, and his tone is light, teasing, completely normal.

"You could say that."

"Your dad was snoring so loud I could hear it from my house."

You stare at Jungwon, waiting for something, a knowing look, a secret smile, something that acknowledges what happened between you. But he just keeps eating his eggs, chatting with your parents like this is any other morning, like he didn't spend a significant portion of last night with his mouth on your-

"Y/N, you're not eating," your mother says, pushing the soup closer to you. "Are you feeling okay? You look flushed."

"I'm fine," you manage. "Just... tired."

"Too much whiskey," your dad says sagely. "I told you kids. The Yangs can hold their liquor. Our family has no chance."

"I'm literally a Yang," Jungwon points out.

"Exactly. You have the advantage. It's genetics."

The conversation flows around and you sit there in silence, pushing your soup around your bowl, watching Jungwon act like everything is normal. Like everything is fine. Like he didn't whisper your name against your lips in the dark of your childhood bedroom.

It's infuriating. It's absolutely, completely, maddeningly infuriating.

The moment breakfast ends, you corner him.

Your parents have retreated to the living room, and Jungwon is at the sink, rinsing his bowl with the same helpful energy he's always had. You wait until you hear the TV turn on, and then you grab his arm and pull him into the hallway.

"Hey-" he starts, but you're already backing him against the wall, your hands planted on either side of him, your eyes blazing.

"What the hell was that?"

Jungwon blinks at you. "What was what?"

"That!" You gesture vaguely at the kitchen, at the breakfast table, at the entire morning. "Sitting there, eating eggs, acting like nothing happened!"

"Because nothing happened."

"Nothing-" You choke on the word. "Nothing happened? Jungwon, we…last night…my room…"

Understanding dawns on his face, and his expression shifts into something more serious. More guarded. "Oh. That."

"Yes. That."

He exhales slowly, his shoulders dropping. "Y/N, look. Last night was..." He pauses, searching for the right word. "It was a mistake."

The word hits you like a slap. "A mistake."

"Not because of you," he adds quickly, his ears turning pink. "Never because of you. But I shouldn't have... we were both drunk. We weren't thinking clearly. I took advantage of the situation, and I'm sorry."

"You didn't take advantage of anything. I'm the one who started it."

"You were drunk."

"So were you."

"That's exactly my point." He runs a hand through his hair, a frustrated gesture you've seen a thousand times. "We were both drunk, and we did things that... that we probably wouldn't have done if we were sober. And I don't want that to change anything between us."

Your stomach drops. "You don't?"

"No. You're my best friend, Y/N. You've been my best friend since I was six years old. I'm not going to let one night of... whatever that was... ruin fifteen years of friendship." His voice is earnest, his eyes searching your face for understanding. "I mean, it wasn't even... we didn't even... it was just foreplay, right? It's not like we went all the way. We can just forget it happened. Move on. Go back to normal."

Just foreplay. The words echo in your head like a taunt. Just foreplay. Like it was nothing. Like it didn't matter. Like the marks on your thighs are just random bruises, meaningless and forgettable.

"Right," you hear yourself say, and your voice comes out remarkably steady. "Just foreplay. No big deal."

"Exactly." Jungwon's shoulders relax, and the smile that spreads across his face is so relieved, so genuinely happy, that it makes your chest ache. "I knew you'd understand. You've always been the reasonable one."

"I'm the sarcastic one. You're the reasonable one."

"Then we're both reasonable. Even better." He reaches out and ruffles your hair, the same gesture he's been doing since you were kids, and then he's walking past you, back toward the kitchen, calling out something to your mom about helping with the dishes.

You stand there in the hallway, your back pressed against the wall, and you feel the sting of tears behind your eyes. You blink them back furiously. You are not going to cry. You are not going to cry over Jungwon, who just called what happened between you a mistake. Who said it was just foreplay. Who wants to forget it happened and move on.

You're not going to cry. But you're also not going to forget.

Two days pass.

Two days of pretending everything is normal. Two days of Jungwon acting exactly the same as he always has, helpful and cheerful and brotherly and infuriating. Two days of you smiling and nodding and laughing at his jokes while something hot and angry and desperate simmers just beneath the surface of your skin.

The problem is, you can't stop looking at him.

Every time he reaches for something, you notice the flex of his forearm. Every time he laughs, you watch the way his throat moves. Every time he brushes past you, your body remembers the weight of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the sound of his voice saying your name in the dark. 

It's frustrating. It's maddening. It's the most alive you've felt in years.

"Convenience store run?" Jungwon appears in your doorway on the third afternoon. "I'm craving melon ice cream."

"You're always craving melon ice cream."

"Pretty please."

"Fine." You grab your jacket and follow him out.

Jungwon chatters about nothing, a movie he wants to see, a new boba flavor he tried and hated. You respond in monosyllables, your attention divided between the conversation and the way the afternoon light catches the angles of his jaw.

You need to get a grip. You really, really need to get a grip.

The convenience store is blessedly air-conditioned and mostly empty. Jungwon heads straight for the ice cream aisle, leaving you to wander toward the chip section.

"Y/N? Is that you?"

You turn. The guy standing in front of you is vaguely familiar. It takes you a moment to place him, but then the memory clicks into focus: Jaehyun. High school. You'd sat next to each other in math class for two years.

"Jaehyun!" you say, genuinely surprised. "Wow, it's been a while."

"Right? Three years, maybe? You look great." He grins, and it's a nice grin, friendly and open. "Are you back for the summer?"

"Yeah, just visiting family. You?"

"Same. My parents still live in the old house, so I'm stuck here until August." He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Small towns, right? Nothing ever changes."

"Tell me about it."

The conversation flows easily, catching up on majors and career plans and mutual acquaintances from high school.

"Hey, we should catch up properly sometime," Jaehyun says, pulling out his phone. "A bunch of us are doing a bonfire next weekend. You should come. Bring whoever you want."

"Yeah, maybe. That sounds-"

And then his hand reaches out and ruffles your hair. It's an innocent gesture. Friendly. The same kind of casual physical contact that people exchange all the time without thinking about it. But before you can even process what's happening, there's a blur of movement behind you, and Jaehyun’s wrist is being yanked away from your head with enough force to make him yelp.

"Hey now," Jungwon's voice says, and it's light, teasing, the same tone he uses when he's joking around. But there's something underneath it, something cold and sharp that you've never heard before. "Let's keep our hands to ourselves, yeah?"

Jaehyun stares at him, his eyes wide. You stare too. Jungwon is smiling, a pleasant, polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes. 

"I was just-" Jaehyun starts.

"Just saying hi. I get it." Jungwon's smile doesn't waver. "But here's the thing…you don't touch her hair. That's not something you get to do. Understand?"

Jaehyun nods quickly, and Jungwon releases his wrist, patting him on the shoulder with that same easy, friendly energy.

"Good talk. Enjoy your summer, man."

And then he's turning away, his hand finding your elbow, steering you toward the checkout counter. You catch a glimpse of Jaehyun’s face, confused, slightly alarmed, before you're being dragged down the snack aisle and out of view.

"What the hell was that?" you hiss, yanking your arm free.

"What was what?" Jungwon doesn't look at you. He's studying the ice cream selection like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

"That! With Jaehyun! You just, you threatened him!"

"I didn't threaten him. I set a boundary. There's a difference."

"You grabbed his wrist!"

"Gently."

"Jungwon." You step in front of him, forcing him to look at you. "What is your deal?"

For a long moment, he doesn't answer. His expression is unreadable, his jaw tight. Then he moves, one step, two, and suddenly you're backing up, your shoulders hitting the cold glass door of the ice cream freezer. He's right there, inches away, his body crowding yours against the door, and you can feel the chill of the glass through your shirt and the heat of him in front of you.

His hand comes up. His fingers slide into your hair. And then he ruffles it,but it's not the casual gesture from before. It's slower. More deliberate. His fingertips trace against your scalp, and the sensation sends a shiver down your spine.

"Don't let other guys touch your hair," he says quietly, and his voice is low and rough and completely, utterly serious. "That's mine."

You stare up at him, your heart hammering, your brain short-circuiting. His face is close, so close you can see the individual strands of his eyelashes, the way his pupils have gone dark and wide. He looks like a completely different person. He looks like someone who wants to devour you.

And then he steps back. "Anyway," he says, and his voice is back to normal, cheerful and light, like nothing at all just happened. "I'm getting melon and chocolate. You want strawberry, right?"

He turns and walks toward the checkout counter, leaving you frozen against the ice cream freezer, your legs weak, your heart racing, your hair still tingling where he touched it.

What. The hell. Was that.

You stay there for a solid thirty seconds, trying to remember how to breathe. The cold from the freezer is seeping through your shirt, and you can hear Jungwon chatting with the cashier like he didn't just press you against a freezer and claim ownership of your hair. Your hair. Like it belongs to him. Like you belong to him.

And the worst part, the absolute, devastating worst part is that some dark, twisted corner of your brain liked it. Liked the way he'd crowded you. Liked the way he'd said mine in that low, possessive voice. Liked the way his fingers had felt in your hair, slow and deliberate and completely unlike anything he'd ever done before.

You push yourself off the freezer door and follow him to the checkout. Jungwon is already paying, his expression serene, his posture relaxed.

"Got your strawberry," he says, holding up the ice cream. "Ready to go?"

You nod mutely.

The walk home is quiet. Jungwon eats his melon ice cream and comments on the weather and points out a funny-shaped cloud, and you walk beside him in a daze, your mind spinning with questions you're too afraid to ask.

*What was that back there?*

*What did you mean by "mine"?*

*Do you want me the way I want you, or was that just some weird protective instinct that you're going to laugh off later and pretend never happened?*

But you don't ask. Because you're scared of the answers. Because if he laughs it off, if he says it was nothing, if he goes back to being the same platonic Jungwon he's always been, you don't think you can handle that.  So you walk in silence, and you eat your strawberry ice cream, and you try very hard not to think about the way his fingers felt in your hair.

The invitation comes on a Thursday, delivered via text message with the casual energy of someone suggesting what to have for lunch.

**Jungwon:** *lake tomorrow? picnic? there's that spot we used to go to as kids. i'll pack food.*

You stare at the message for approximately five minutes. The spot he's talking about is a small, secluded clearing by the lake about twenty minutes outside of town—a hidden gem that you'd discovered together when you were kids. You'd spent entire summers there, swimming until your fingers pruned, eating sandwiches that got slightly soggy from the cooler, lying on the grass and making up stories about the shapes in the clouds.

It's also, objectively, one of the most romantic places in existence. Secluded. Quiet. Surrounded by trees and the gentle lapping of water against the shore. If you were a romance novel protagonist, this would be the chapter where the love interest makes his move.

But you're not a romance novel protagonist.

This is a terrible idea. You should say no.

**You:** *sure. what time?*

The next morning Jungwon picks you up at ten, his car already packed with a cooler, a picnic blanket, and two towels that he definitely stole from his mom's linen closet.

"Ready for adventure?" he asks, holding the passenger door open with an exaggerated flourish.

"Ready for a twenty-minute drive to a lake we've been to literally a hundred times?"

"Every time is a new adventure."

"I’m already tired of you speaking."

"It’s just the beginning."

You roll your eyes and climb into the car, and he closes the door behind you with a satisfied grin. You roll down the window, letting the warm air whip through your hair, and for a moment, everything feels simple. Easy. Like it used to be before your feelings got tangled up in everything. And then Jungwon connects his phone to the car speaker, and a familiar song starts playing.

Lost Island - Enhypen now playing

"Oh my god," you say, recognizing the opening notes. "Is this-"

"Lost Island," he confirms, his grin widening. "Don't pretend you don't know every word."

"I don't know every word."

"You definitely know every word. You made me watch the colour coded lyrics when it came out."

"That was just to see the translation.."

"What about when you made me look at the concept photoshoot of the album?"

"It was for art purposes. I was studying the different concepts."

"You were studying Ni-ki’s pictures for the Afterlight version (iykyk), yeah?"

"Those pictures are a cultural reset."

He laughs, and the sound fills the car, and then he's singing along, loud and off-key and you can't help but join in. You've known this song since it came out. You've listened to it on late-night study sessions, on walks across campus, on the bus ride home from college. You know every lyric, every beat, every ad-lib. And singing it with Jungwon, your voices clashing and harmonizing in all the wrong ways, feels like coming home.

"AND NOTHING’S MORE PRECIOUS THAN TIME? THAN TIME WITH YOU!" he belts, completely butchering the song.

"That's not even close to the right key!"

"It's the right key in my heart!"

"Your heart is tone-deaf!"

The banter carries you the rest of the way to the lake, the familiar landscape scrolling past your window like a slideshow of your childhood. 

"It's exactly the same," you breathe, stepping out of the car.

"Some things don't change," Jungwon says, and there's something in his voice, something almost wistful that makes you glance at him. But he's already turning away, pulling the cooler out of the trunk, his expression back to its usual cheerful neutrality.

Jungwon spreads the blanket on a flat patch of grass near the water's edge, weighting down the corners with rocks so it doesn't blow away in the breeze. He unpacks the cooler very carefully, sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a container of cut fruit, two bottles of lemonade, a bag of chips, and a small box of the cookies you used to beg your mom to buy when you were little.

"You remembered the cookies," you say, and your voice comes out more surprised than you intended.

"Of course I remembered. They're your favorite." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like remembering your favorite childhood cookies is just something people do. "I also brought the chips you like, even though you always eat the entire bag and then complain that you feel sick."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"I will push you into the lake."

"You can try."

After lunch, Jungwon leans back on his elbows, tilting his face toward the sun. "We should swim."

"We didn't bring swimsuits."

"So?"

"So I'm not swimming in my clothes."

"Who said anything about clothes?" He grins at the look on your face. "Kidding. Kind of. You can swim in your t-shirt and underwear. It's basically the same as a swimsuit."

"Underwear is not the same as a swimsuit."

"It's fabric. You wear it. You get wet. Same concept."

"The concept is not the same. There's-" You stop, because he's already pulling his shirt over his head, and the sight of his bare torso short-circuits your brain.

You've seen Jungwon without a shirt before. Plenty of times. Swimming as kids, running through sprinklers, that one disastrous summer when he decided to try to get a six-pack and made you do crunches with him in his backyard. But this is different. He's different. The lean muscle of his shoulders, the planes of his chest, the way his stomach tightens as he tosses the shirt onto the blanket, it's all very, very different.

"See something you like?" he asks, and his tone is teasing, light, completely unaware of the chaos happening inside your brain.

"Just trying to figure out where your tan line starts," you say, your voice blessedly steady. "It's very uneven."

He laughs and wades into the water, his back to you, and you take the opportunity to have a small, internal meltdown. If he doesn't see you as a romantic prospect, then what does it matter if you're in your underwear? It's not like he's going to look at you differently. It's not like anything is going to change.

"Fine," you say, standing up. "But if I get hypothermia, you're explaining it to my mom."

"You're not going to get hypothermia. It's like eighty degrees."

You pull your shirt over your head, shimmy out of your shorts, and are left standing in your underwear, a simple black set that you definitely didn't choose this morning with the vague, subconscious hope that someone might see it. That would be ridiculous.

Jungwon glances back at you, and for just a second, just a fraction of a heartbeat, his eyes flicker down your body. But then he's looking away, splashing into the deeper water, his voice carrying over the lake. "Hurry up! The water's perfect!"

You wade in after him, and the water is cold enough to make you gasp. You push through the discomfort and dive forward, submerging yourself completely, and when you surface, your hair is plastered to your face and you're laughing.

"See?" Jungwon says, swimming toward you. "Not hypothermia."

"Ask me again in ten minutes."

"You'll be fine. You're tough."

You float on your back, staring up at the sky, and Jungwon floats beside you, and for a while, neither of you speaks. It's peaceful. Quiet. The kind of moment you'd want to bottle and keep forever.

And then Jungwon ruins it. "Remember when we used to do this as kids?" he says, his voice dreamy. "You were so small I could carry you around the whole lake."

"I was not that small."

"You were tiny. I could pick you up with one arm."

"That's a lie and you know it."

"It's not a lie. I'll prove it."

Before you can protest, he's moving toward you through the water, his hands finding your waist. You barely have time to yelp before he lifts you, actually *lifts* you, like you weigh nothing and suddenly you're dangling in the water with his hands under your arms, your face level with his.

"See?" he says, and his grin is insufferable. "Still got it."

"That's not, you're using both hands-"

"Details."

The position is ridiculous. You're basically suspended in the water, your legs floating uselessly behind you, his hands wedged firmly under your armpits. But his fingers, his fingers are pressing into the sides of your chest, dangerously close to-

Oh god.

His thumbs are brushing against the curve of your breasts.

You freeze. Every muscle in your body goes rigid. Your face, which was already flushed from the sun, goes approximately forty shades redder. Jungwon doesn't seem to notice, he's still grinning, still holding you up, his fingers still in that exact same position.

"You're so light," he's saying. "Have you been eating enough? Your mom was right, you're like a-"

You don't let him finish. You thrash in his grip, twisting out of his hands with a splash that sends water cascading over both of you. When you surface, gasping, you use the momentum to push a wave directly into his face.

"What was that for?!" he splutters, wiping water from his eyes.

"You were being annoying!"

"I was being helpful!"

"Your hands were-" You stop. You cannot say your hands were on my boobs. You absolutely cannot say that. "You were in my personal space!"

"That's what happens when you carry someone! There's personal space involved!"

"Not that much personal space!"

"You're so weird." But he's laughing, and the moment passes, and he's swimming away from you toward the deeper part of the lake, completely oblivious to the cardiac event he just caused.

You float there for a moment, your heart hammering, your skin tingling everywhere his fingers had touched. He didn't notice. Of course he didn't notice. He was just being Jungwon, playful and physical and completely unaware of the effect he has on you. To him, it was just another childhood game. Just another memory in the long highlight reel of your friendship.

But to you? To you, it was everything.

You take a deep breath and dive underwater, letting the cold silence swallow you whole. When you surface again, you've composed yourself. Your face is still flushed, but you can blame it on the sun. Your heart is still racing, but you can blame it on the swimming.

"You okay over there?" Jungwon calls from the deeper water. "You look like you're thinking too hard."

"I'm always thinking too hard."

"What about?"

About you. About your hands. About the way you said "mine" in the convenience store and then never mentioned it again. About how I'm trying so hard to move on and you keep doing things that make it impossible.

"About how I'm going to get revenge," you say instead, and you launch yourself toward him with a war cry that echoes across the lake.

The splash fight that follows is epic. Water goes everywhere. You end up with lake water in your sinuses and a piece of algae in your hair. Jungwon laughs so hard he accidentally inhales water and spends a full minute coughing on the shore. When you finally drag yourselves out of the lake, shivering and dripping and exhausted, you collapse onto the picnic blanket side by side, staring up at the sky.

The sun is starting its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Your clothes are spread out on the grass, drying in the warm air, and you're lying in your underwear on a picnic blanket next to your childhood best friend, and somehow it doesn't feel awkward. It feels natural. Easy. Like this is exactly where you're supposed to be.

But as the sky darkens and the first stars appear, you remind yourself: this isn't a romance novel. He doesn't see you that way. And you're trying to move on.

You just wish moving on didn't feel so much like falling.

You're both still damp from the lake, a pleasant chill raising goosebumps on your skin. Jungwon notices you shivering slightly as you sit on the picnic blanket, pulling your knees to your chest.

"You're cold," he says, stating the obvious as he stands up. "Come on, let's get you warmed up."

Before you can protest, he's already pulling you to your feet, his hand warm and firm around yours. He leads you toward a large, flat rock at the edge of the clearing that has been baking in the afternoon sun. It radiates a gentle heat against your bare legs as he positions you to sit on its edge.

But he doesn't sit beside you. Instead, he positions himself directly in front of you, between your legs, his body creating a shield against the evening breeze. The proximity is intoxicating, his bare torso just inches from yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, close enough that you could lean forward and press your lips against his if you were brave enough, or stupid enough.

"You need a break," he says, his voice lower than it was moments before, his eyes fixed on yours. "After that epic defeat in the water."

"I didn't lose," you retort, but your voice lacks its usual conviction. You're too aware of his hands as they come to rest on your thighs, his thumbs stroking your skin in slow, deliberate circles. "It was clearly a tie."

"Denial is not just a river in Egypt," he replies, a small smirk playing on his lips. But his eyes... his eyes are serious, intense, focused on yours with an unwavering gaze that makes your breath catch.

You try to ignore the way his hands feel on your skin, the way his touch sends jolts of electricity through your entire body. You try to focus on the lake, on the sunset, on anything other than the man standing between your legs, looking at you like you're the only person in the world.

But then his hands begin to move.

It's a slow, deliberate journey, his fingers tracing a path along the sensitive skin of your thighs. Higher and higher they go, until they reach the inner curve of your legs. Your breath hitches, your muscles tensing as his fingers continue their exploration, inching ever closer to your most intimate place.

His hands reach the apex of your thighs, his fingers curling around the curve where your legs meet your hips. And then, oh god, his thumb slides inward, the tip of it brushing against the edge of your panties, touching the place where your folds begin through the thin fabric.

A soft gasp escapes your lips, your hips shifting involuntarily. The touch is electric, sending waves of pleasure through your entire body. You can feel yourself growing wet, your body responding to his touch with an eagerness that betrays your attempts at nonchalance.

Jungwon's eyes darken, his thumb pressing slightly more firmly against you, a silent acknowledgment of your reaction. The air between you grows thick with tension, charged with unspoken desire. You lean in slightly, your lips parting, your entire being focused on the man before you and the hand that's doing unspeakable things to your composure.

And then he pulls away.

Just like that. As if nothing had happened. "We should probably get back to the blanket," he says, his voice completely normal. "I think there are still some cookies left."

You stare at him, your mind reeling, your body still humming with unfulfilled desire. Is he doing this on purpose? Is this some kind of game to him, a way to provoke you, to test your reactions? Or is he really so clueless that he doesn't realize what he's doing to you, doesn't understand the effect his casual touches have on your body, your mind, your heart?

You slide off the rock, your legs feeling shaky beneath you as you follow him back to the picnic blanket. As you dress, you watch him out of the corner of your eye, searching for some sign, some indication of what's going on in that head of his. But he's whistling softly, sorting through the remnants of your picnic, completely at ease.

And you're left wondering, as you have so many times before, whether the tension between you is real or just another product of your overactive imagination.Or whether, just maybe, he's as confused about this as you are.

Jungwon is lying beside you, propped up on one elbow, his hair still wet and curling slightly at the ends. He's got a cookie in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling through something with casual ease. His phone buzzes, cutting through your thoughts. Jungwon glances at the screen, and his face breaks into a grin.

"Oh, it's Heeseung," he says, already accepting the video call. "I told him I was at the lake. He said he didn't believe me."

Heeseung. The name is familiar, Jungwon's best friend from college, the one he's mentioned a few times in passing. You've never met him, but you've heard enough stories to piece together a rough picture.

"Jungwon!" A voice crackles through the phone speaker, and Jungwon angles the screen so you can see. The guy on the other end is exactly as advertised, sharp jawline, dark eyes, the kind of face that probably breaks hearts without even trying. He's sitting somewhere indoors, a window behind him letting in soft afternoon light. "You actually went to the lake? I thought you were lying."

"Why would I lie about going to a lake?"

"I don't know. To seem more interesting than you actually are?"

"I'm very interesting."

"You read philosophy books for fun. That's not interesting. That's a cry for help."

You snort, and Heeseung's attention immediately snaps to you. "Who's that? Is someone else there?"

"This is Y/N," Jungwon says, tilting the phone toward you. "My childhood best friend. The one I've told you about."

You wave awkwardly at the camera. "Hi. I'm the one who didn't pour coffee on her own head."

Heeseung laughs, and it's a genuine, surprised laugh. "I like her already. She's got better instincts than me."

"Everyone has better instincts than you," Jungwon says. "You're famously bad at decisions."

"I'm famously bad at some decisions. I'm very good at other ones." Heeseung shifts, and in the background of his video, you catch a glimpse of movement. Someone else is in the room with him, a girl, sitting at a desk, her face partially obscured by a laptop screen. She's got headphones on, completely absorbed in whatever she's doing, and there's a colorful highlighter tucked behind her ear.

"Oh, is that-" Jungwon starts, and something in his voice changes. It's subtle, a slight softening, a slight hesitation, but you notice it immediately. You've spent too many years cataloging every nuance of his expressions not to notice.

"Yeah, that's her," Heeseung says, glancing over his shoulder at the girl. "She's studying. Again. I told her it's summer break, but she said, and I quote, the mitochondria doesn't take vacations."

"That sounds like her," Jungwon says, and there's that tone again. That soft, almost wistful tone that makes your stomach clench.

The girl in the background looks up, as if sensing she's being discussed, and Heeseung waves her over. She removes her headphones with a slightly confused expression, and then she's walking toward the camera, and you get your first clear look at her.

She's pretty. Really pretty, in a natural, unassuming way. Round glasses perched on her nose, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing an oversized sweater that looks like it's been through several all-night study sessions. There's something about her expression, a little nervous, a little awkward, but also warm and genuine, that makes you understand immediately why someone might fall for her.

"This is Y/N," Heeseung says to her, gesturing at the phone. "Jungwon's friend."

"Hi, Y/N," the girl says, leaning into the frame. Her smile is slightly shy but sincere. "I've heard a lot about you. Jungwon talks about you all the time."

"All good things, I hope?"

"Mostly good things. He mentioned something about a treehouse incident?"

"I'm not taking responsibility for that. That was entirely his fault."

"It was not entirely my fault," Jungwon protests. "You were the one who wanted to add a second story."

"Because you said you wanted a better view of the stars."

"I was being romantic!"

"You were being delusional. The tree couldn't even support one story, let alone two."

The girl laughs, and Heeseung looks at her with an expression so openly, unguardedly fond that it makes something twist in your chest. That's love. That's real, undeniable, completely transparent love. The kind of love that doesn't hide or apologize or pretend to be something else.

"We should let you guys get back to your picnic," Heeseung says. "I just wanted to confirm that the lake does, in fact, exist."

"Confirmed," Jungwon says. "It's still here. Still wet. Still full of fish."

"Excellent. Very informative." Heeseung grins. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That doesn't leave much."

"Exactly."

The call ends, and the screen goes dark. Jungwon sets his phone down on the blanket and reaches for another cookie, completely oblivious to the storm that's just started brewing in your chest.

That's her. The girl from the philosophy elective. The one Jungwon had a crush on for months. The one he talked about in your kitchen with that soft, distant look in his eyes. The one who ended up with his best friend instead of him. And she's... nice. She seems nice. Genuinely nice, not fake nice, not trying-too-hard nice. The kind of nice that makes it impossible to hate her, even though a small, petty part of you really wants to.

"Jungwon?" you say.

"Hmm?"

"That was her, wasn't it? The girl you liked."

He pauses mid-chew, and for a moment, something flickers across his face, surprise, maybe, or the ghost of an old wound. But then it's gone, replaced by a smile that's a little too casual to be entirely genuine.

"Yeah. That was her."

"She seems nice."

"She is." He swallows the cookie and stares out at the lake, his expression unreadable. "She's really nice. She and Heeseung are good together."

"And you're okay with that?"

"I'm okay with that." He says it firmly, like he's practiced the words. Like he's said them to himself enough times that they've started to feel true. "It took a while, but... yeah. I'm okay with it. They make each other happy. That's what matters."

You don't know what to say to that. There's a heaviness in his voice that he's trying to hide, and you know him well enough to recognize it. He's not lying, he really is okay with it, but that doesn't mean it doesn't still sting. That doesn't mean he doesn't still think about it sometimes, late at night, when the world is quiet and the what-ifs creep in.

"I'm going to take a nap," Jungwon announces, stretching out on the blanket and pillowing his head on his arms. "The sun and the swimming made me tired."

"Okay."

"You should nap too. You look tired."

"I look radiant."

"You look radiantly tired."

"That's not a thing."

"It's a thing now. I invented it." He closes his eyes, and within minutes, his breathing evens out. He's asleep. Just like that. 

You sit there for a while, watching him sleep.

We can't be friends - Ariana Grande now playing

It's strange, seeing him like this. Unguarded. Vulnerable. The tension that he carries in his shoulders has melted away, and his face is relaxed in a way it rarely is when he's awake.

Your eyes trace the familiar lines of his face, the curve of his jaw, the sweep of his eyelashes. You know every inch of this face. You've memorized it over fifteen years of glances and gazes and stolen looks. But there's something different about looking at him now. Something heavier. Something that sits in your chest like a stone.

So that's he*, you think. That's the girl who had his heart.

And she's lovely. She's genuinely, painfully lovely. You saw it in the way she smiled, in the way she looked at Heeseung, in the way she clearly has no idea that she was once the center of someone else's entire world. She probably doesn't even know. She probably went about her life, completely unaware that Jungwon spent months pining over her, working up the courage to say something, only to lose his chance because he waited too long.

And that's the thing, isn't it? He waited too long. He liked her and he didn't say anything, and by the time he was ready, it was too late. Someone else had already stepped in. Someone bolder, someone braver, someone who didn't wait.

But he's not like that anymore. You've seen the change in him. The confidence. The ease. The way he carries himself like someone who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to go after it. He told you himself, after that whole situation, he decided to stop waiting. To start living. To explore his youth and put himself out there and not let opportunities pass him by.

She did that. That girl, with her round glasses and her messy ponytail and her complete, oblivious unawareness of the effect she had on him, she changed him. She's the reason he started hooking up with people in college. She's the reason he bought condoms and learned how to kiss properly and became the kind of person who presses other people against freezers and claims ownership of their hair.

You should be grateful to her. In a weird, twisted way, she's the reason Jungwon is who he is now, more confident, more assertive, more willing to go after what he wants. But all you feel is a hot, jealous knot in your stomach that you can't seem to untangle.

What does she have that you don't?

The thought surfaces before you can stop it, ugly and uninvited. You push it down, but it keeps rising back up, persistent and sharp.

What does she have that you don't? You've known Jungwon your entire life. You've been there for every scraped knee, every broken bone, every triumph and every failure. You know the exact way he takes his coffee and the name of every pet he's ever had and the song he listens to when he's sad. You've seen him at his worst and at his best, and you've loved every version of him.

And yet. And yet.

When he talks about her, there's still a softness in his voice. When he looked at her on that video call, there was still a flicker of something, not longing, exactly, but memory. The ghost of a feeling that was once very real. And you've never had that. You've never been the person Jungwon looked at like that. You've never been the person he pined over, the person he wrote letters to, the person he stayed up late thinking about.

You're just Y/N. His childhood best friend. The person he carries around in the lake and ruffles the hair of and tells all his secrets to, but never, ever looks at the way you want him to.

"It's not fair," you whisper, and your voice is so quiet it barely disturbs the air. "What does she have that I don't?"

The question hangs there, unanswered, and the silence that follows is deafening.

You look down at Jungwon, still sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the turmoil churning inside you. His lips are slightly parted. His chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths. There's a piece of cookie crumb on his chin that he missed when he wiped his mouth earlier.

You reach out and brush it away, your fingers lingering against his skin for just a moment longer than necessary.

"I've been here the whole time," you murmur. "I've always been here."

He doesn't stir. He doesn't hear you. Maybe that's for the best.

You lean down, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you press a kiss to his cheek. It's soft. Barely there. The kind of kiss that could be dismissed as friendly if anyone saw, but is secretly, desperately not. Your lips brush against the warmth of his skin, and you close your eyes, and for just one moment, you let yourself imagine what it would be like if he woke up and looked at you the way Heeseung looked at that girl. Like you were the center of his universe. Like you were the reason he existed.

But he doesn't wake up. And the moment passes.

You pull back, your heart aching, and you lie down beside him on the blanket. The sun is still warm, and the breeze is still gentle, and the lake is still lapping against the shore. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed.

You close your eyes, and you let sleep take you, and the last thing you feel before you drift off is the warmth of his body next to yours, close, but not close enough. Always, always, not close enough.

You wake up to the gentle hum of an engine and the soft pressure of something warm draped over your body.

It takes you a moment to orient yourself. You're not on the picnic blanket anymore. You're not by the lake. You're in a car, Jungwon's car, you recognize the air freshener and the one-eyed bear in the backseat, and someone has covered you with a jacket. Your jacket. The one you'd left in the backseat this morning.

Outside the window, your house is silhouetted against the dusky evening sky. The porch light is on. Your mom's car is in the driveway. Everything is exactly as you left it this morning, and yet nothing feels the same.

You push yourself upright, blinking sleep from your eyes, and that's when you notice Jungwon. He's not in the driver's seat. He's outside the car, leaning against the hood with his arms crossed, staring up at the sky. The first stars are starting to appear, and his profile is illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlamp. He looks pensive. Distant. Like he's been standing there for a while, lost in thoughts he doesn't want to share.

You open the car door, and the sound makes him turn. His expression shifts immediately, the pensiveness replaced by that familiar, warm smile. But there's something tired about it tonight. Something that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Hey, sleepyhead," he says. "You were out cold. I didn't want to wake you."

"You carried me to the car?"

"You were dead weight. It wasn't that hard."

"I'm average height."

"You're fun-sized."

You roll your eyes, but there's no real irritation behind it. You're too busy processing the fact that he carried you from the lake to the car. That he wrapped you in your jacket and drove you home and then waited outside, in the cooling evening air, just so you could sleep a little longer.

"Thank you," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you intended. "For today. For... all of it."

"It was nothing." He shrugs, but his smile is genuine. "I had fun. It was like old times."

Old times. Right. Because that's what this was to him. Just another memory in the long, unbroken chain of your friendship. Nothing more.

He reaches out and ruffles your hair, the same gesture he's been doing since you were kids, the same casual, affectionate touch that used to feel so natural and now feels like a knife twisting in your chest.

"Get some rest," he says, already turning toward the driver's side. "I'll see you tomor-"

"Wait."

The word escapes before you can stop it. He pauses, his hand on the car door, his head tilted in confusion.

"What's up?"

Your heart is pounding. Your palms are sweating. Every rational part of your brain is screaming at you to let him go, to swallow your feelings, to keep pretending that everything is fine. But you're tired of pretending. You're tired of hiding. You're tired of watching him walk away and wondering what would happen if you just said the words you've been holding back for weeks.

"I need to tell you something," you say, and your voice is steadier than you feel. "And I need you to let me finish before you say anything. Can you do that?"

Jungwon's expression flickers, confusion, concern, something else you can't quite name. But he nods. "Okay. I'm listening."

You take a deep breath. The evening air is cool against your flushed cheeks. The streetlamp buzzes softly overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. The world keeps turning, oblivious to the fact that you're about to upend everything.

Earrings - Malcolm Todd now playing

"I like you," you say.

The words hang in the air between you.

"I don't mean like a friend. I don't mean like a brother. I mean... I like you. I have feelings for you. And I've been trying to ignore them, and I've been trying to move on, and I've been telling myself that you don't see me that way and I should just accept it, but I can't. Not anymore. Not after everything that's happened."

Jungwon is completely still. His hand has dropped from the car door. His face is unreadable.

"I know you probably don't feel the same way," you continue, the words tumbling out faster now, a dam that's finally broken. "And that's fine. That's... I mean, it's not fine, but I'll deal with it. I just couldn't keep pretending. I couldn't keep acting like everything was normal when it's not. Not for me."

The silence stretches for what feels like an eternity. When Jungwon finally speaks, his voice is careful. Measured. Like he's choosing every word with deliberate precision.

"Y/N... I think you're confused."

"I'm not confused."

"You've been through a lot lately. The stress of college, being back home, all the changes, it's natural to latch onto familiar feelings and mistake them for something else. But what you're feeling isn't-"

"Don't." Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. "Don't tell me what I'm feeling. I know what I feel. I've known for weeks. Maybe longer. Maybe I've known for years and I just didn't have the words for it until now."

"Y/N-"

"I like you, Jungwon. I want to be with you. Not as your childhood friend. Not as your sister figure. As a woman who wants to be with a man. That's what this is."

He flinches. Actually flinches, like the words have physically struck him. "You don't mean that."

"I do mean it. I've never meant anything more in my life."

"You can't-" He stops, runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration that you've seen a thousand times. "You can't just say that. You can't just drop that on me and expect-"

"Expect what? For you to feel the same way? I already told you, I know you probably don't. But I had to say it. I had to be honest with you, because that's what we've always been. Honest. And I've been lying to you for weeks, and I couldn't do it anymore."

Jungwon is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is low, almost pained. "I can't return your feelings."

The words hit you like a physical blow. You knew they were coming. You prepared for them. But knowing and hearing are two different things, and the sound of them, the finality of them knocks the breath from your lungs.

"I don't see you that way," he continues. "I've never seen you that way. You're my best friend. You're the most important person in my life. But I can't...I don't-"

"You don't see me as a woman."

"I see you as Y/N. My Y/N. The person who's been by my side since I was six years old. And I can't risk that. I can't risk us."

"Risk us?" You hear your voice rising, the hurt transforming into something hotter. Something angrier. "What about the mixed signals? What about the way you held me in the lake? What about the convenience store, when you told that guy not to touch my hair because it was yours? What was that, Jungwon? Was that just friendship too?"

His jaw tightens. "That was different."

"Different how?"

"That was... I don't know. Instinct. I wasn't thinking."

"You weren't thinking." You laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Right. Of course. You never think. You just do things and say things and then pretend they don't mean anything. Just like the closet in high school. Just like my bedroom last week. Just like everything."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" You step closer to him, your eyes blazing. "Let me ask you something. Honestly. Do you still have feelings for her? That girl? The one from the video call?"

Jungwon blinks, clearly thrown by the shift in topic. "What? No. I told you, I'm over that. She's with Heeseung. They're happy. I'm happy for them."

"Then what is it? If you're over her, and you're out there hooking up with other people, then what's so different about me? Why can't you see me the way you see them? Am I not attractive enough? Am I not-"

"Stop." His voice is sharp, sharper than you've ever heard it. "Don't do that. Don't compare yourself to anyone else. This isn't about you not being enough. This is about-"

"About what?"

"About the fact that you're the only thing in my life that's ever been mine!" The words burst out of him like a dam breaking, and suddenly he's not the calm, measured Jungwon anymore. His eyes are bright, his hands shaking slightly at his sides. "Do you understand that? You're it. You're the one thing I've always had. When my parents were fighting, when school was hell, when I was sitting in my dorm room at college feeling like I didn't belong anywhere, I always had you. You were always there. And I can't lose that. I can't."

"So you'd rather keep me as a friend than risk having me as something more?"

"Yes." The word is quiet but firm. "Yes. Because if we tried and it didn't work...if we broke up, if we hurt each other...I wouldn't just lose a girlfriend. I'd lose everything. I'd lose my best friend. I'd lose the person who knows me better than anyone. I'd lose fifteen years of history and memories and-" His voice cracks. "I can't do that. I won't."

"You're a coward," you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you expected. Softer. Almost sad.

Jungwon flinches. "Y/N-"

"No. You are. You're a coward. You've always been a coward. You liked that girl for months and never said anything, and someone else got to her first. And now you're doing the same thing again. You're so scared of losing what we have that you won't even consider the possibility of something more." You swallow hard, the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. "You said you changed. You said after that whole situation, you decided to stop waiting and start living. But you haven't changed at all. You're still the same guy who waits too long and lets things slip away because he's too scared to take a risk."

"Please," he says, and his voice is raw, desperate. "Please don't do this. We can still be friends. We can go back to how things were. Nothing has to change."

"I don't want to be friends!" The words tear out of you, loud and broken. "That's the whole point! I don't want to be your friend anymore! I want to be more! I want you to look at me the way you looked at her! I want you to touch me like you mean it and not pretend it was nothing afterward! I want to be the person you think about when you can't sleep at night! But I'm not! I'm never going to be! Because you won't let me!"

Tears are streaming down your face now, hot and unstoppable. You don't bother wiping them away.

"I have been here," you say, your voice cracking. "I have been here for fifteen years. I was here when you failed your first math test. I was here when you got your heart broken for the first time. I was here when you needed someone to talk to at 3 AM. And I've been here this whole summer, watching you, wanting you, and you didn't even notice. You never notice."

Jungwon's face crumples. "I notice," he whispers. "I notice everything about you. That's the problem."

"Then what is it?" You step closer, your chest tight with frustration and hurt and the desperate need to understand. "You've been giving me mixed signals since I got back. The way you look at me. The way you touch me. The convenience store. The lake. Carrying me around in the water with your hands all over me. What am I supposed to think?"

"I wasn't...I didn't mean to..."

"Didn't mean to what? Lead me on? Make me think there was something there when there wasn't?"

Jungwon's face crumples, and for the first time in this conversation, he looks genuinely stricken. "I wasn't trying to lead you on. I was just... being myself. That's how I've always been with you."

"Maybe that's the problem." Your voice cracks, and you hate it. You hate that he's seeing you like this. "Maybe you've always been like this with me, and I've just been too blind to notice that it doesn't mean anything to you. But it means something to me. It means everything to me."

"Y/N..."

"You know what I hate the most?" You're crying, tears spilling down your cheeks, hot and uninvited. "I hate her. That girl from the video call. I hate her so much it makes me sick."

"That's not fair. She didn't do anything-"

"I know she didn't do anything! That's what makes it worse!" The words are pouring out of you now, unstoppable. "She didn't do anything except exist, and she still managed to change you. She's the reason you're like this now. She's the reason you decided to stop waiting and start living. She's the reason you bought condoms and hooked up with people and became this whole new version of yourself. And I...I've been here the whole time. I've been here for fifteen years, and I've never been able to make you look at me the way you looked at her."

"Y/N, please-"

"You've known her for what, a few months? And she got to have your heart. She got to be the one who changed you. And I've been here since we were kids, and I've never...I've never been anything more than your best friend.. The person you carry around and ruffle the hair of and tell all your secrets to, but never, ever look at the way I want you to."

The tears are falling faster now, and you can barely see his face through the blur. You wipe at your eyes furiously, angry at yourself for crying, angry at him for making you cry, angry at the whole stupid universe for putting you in this situation.

"I've always been here," you whisper. "I've always been yours. And you've never once seen me."

Jungwon's composure cracks. His eyes are wet, his jaw tight, his hands clenched at his sides like he's trying very hard to hold himself together and failing. When he speaks, his voice is raw in a way you've never heard before.

"You asked what she had that you don't? Nothing. She had nothing that you don't. But she was safe. She was someone I could have a crush on from a distance and then let go when it didn't work out. But you...you're not safe. You're not distant. You're under my skin and in my bones and wrapped around every part of who I am. And if I let myself feel what I'm afraid I might feel for you, and it goes wrong..."

He stops, his voice breaking. A tear slips down his cheek, and he doesn't bother to wipe it away.

"I can't lose you," he says quietly. "I would rather have you as a friend for the rest of my life than risk losing you entirely."

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The street is quiet. The stars are starting to come out. And then you shake your head.

"We can figure this out. We can-"

"No. You don't get to have it both ways. You don't get to reject me and then ask me to stay exactly the same. That's not fair."

"Please." His voice cracks, and he reaches for your hand. "Please don't do this. You're too important to me. Our friendship is too important."

"Goodnight, Jungwon," you say.

"Y/N, wait-"

But you're already walking away. Already climbing the steps to your front porch. Already reaching for the door handle with hands that won't stop shaking.

You don't look back. You can't. If you look back, you'll break completely.

The front door closes behind you with a soft click, and you lean against it, pressing your palms to your face, and you let the tears come. All the tears you've been holding back for weeks. All the feelings you've been pretending not to have. They pour out of you in great, heaving sobs that shake your entire body.

You understand. God help you, you understand. He's scared. He's been scared his whole life, scared of losing people, scared of taking risks, scared of wanting something too much and having it slip through his fingers. He looks at you and sees everything he's afraid to lose, and instead of reaching for more, he's clinging to what he already has.

But understanding doesn't make it hurt less. Understanding doesn't fill the hollow ache in your chest or stop the tears from falling or make you forget the way his face looked when you walked away.

You don't know how long you sit there. The house stays quiet. The stars wheel overhead. And somewhere out there, on the street in front of your house, Jungwon is still standing by his car, staring at the door you just closed, hoping you'll come back out.

"Michael..." you dragged out, setting your brush down on the counter. Turning to face him fully, you shook your head, though the smile tugging at your mouth made it clear you were far from annoyed.

“Yes, baby?” he replied, the camera shaking slightly as he struggled not to laugh.

"Why are you filming me?" eyes flicking between him and the camera. The question earned an immediate grin from him.

"Why not?" he asked simply. The camera tilted slightly as he leaned against the doorway. "You look pretty." His answer was so casual that it pulled a small smile from you before you could stop it.

He stepped further into the bathroom then, the camera followed his movement without ever leaving you, despite the fact that he was clearly more focused on you than what he was recording. "Is it a crime to film my beautiful wife?"

Your hand settled over your stomach as your expression softened, a smile started to form before you could stop it.

"There it is," he said, pleased.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could ask what he meant, he was already moving toward you. The space between you closed quickly until he was right in front of you. His free hand came up gently to your face as he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.

A soft giggle escaped you at the affection, and you turned your head away shyly, your hand briefly covering part of your smile. "What was that for?" you asked