Michael couldn't believe it. He had the prettiest girl he had ever seen sitting on his lap, with your slender fingers tracing circles on his sun-kissed, exposed chest, listening to him ramble on about one of his personal thoughts. That's what he liked most about you: you never made him feel like he was odd or bizarre for the things he adored. California was delightful this time of year, with cloudless, slow, hot days spent wrapped up in each other's arms.
“Tink, can I tell you something—never mind…It’s stupid.” Michael says, hiding his blushing face into your neck. You didn’t like it when he did that, made himself smaller like his thoughts didn’t matter. In reality, they meant the world to you. You tenderly lift his face from your neck. “No…,” you dragged out, curiosity lingering in your voice, “Let me know what’s on your mind, angel face.”
Michael presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder, playing with the hem of your shorts, caressing the soft skin. “I have an idea. A great one, mama.”
He adjusts you on his lap, clearing his throat. “I want to do a film, I think it’s going to be great. You’ll be there, of course. I jus’ want to get away from music for a bit and get more into acting.”
You smile at him, “That sounds great, Michael!” A light bulb sparks in your head. “I’m sure I know a few people who could help. I know they won't mind!”
Michael can remember the first day he met you. Waiting in the lobby, peeking up from the page of his magazine, eyes following your lace kitten heels clicking against the linoleum floors of Motown Records—everything about you drew him in. Michael yearned for an experience of a fulfilling, passionate connection.
Passing him by walking into your dad’s office, as if he had been blessed, his longings answered. You waved at him. A small, simple wave.
It was rare to see someone who didn't merely see him as a celebrity but as a person, which brought out an unfamiliar side of him.
Michael grinning at you virtually instantly, pressing a kiss upon your lips. “My girl, looking out for me.”
“Oh, I’m your girl now?” You smirked.
You feathered your fingers, tickling Michael’s ribs. “Stop, Tink! You know I'm ticklish!” he says, squirming away from your attack.
He really relished the days like this. “You’re so funny, y’know,” He says, adjusting you so you're sitting fully on his lap. “Why thank you, Mr. Jackson, my soon-to-be-million-dollar Hollywood man!”
It was the cutest thing—the sight of your incredibly beautiful, flustered boyfriend. The “M” engraved heart-shaped necklace, sat perched on your clavicle—a gift, a reminder of your love. You throw your arms around his shoulders, wildly peppering kisses on his face. “C'mon, angel, show me that Hollywood smile!”
His face heats up with every wavering moment, failing to repress his smile. Just him and his girl. Michael wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
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