lust4life

Sunlight peaked through the crack of the otherwise blackout curtain, spawning a direct beam of light against her face. The warm glow arose a mild irritation as she stirred awake with a gentle huff, the only comfort of the early wake up call being that of a familiar weight of muscle slung across her waist.

It seems that in the night, he'd attempted to fuse himself against her, like he could somehow merge them into one with nothing but stubborn determination and a strong set of arms.

If it weren't so damn restrictive, she'd have found it sweet. Then again, everything Michael Jackson did somehow warmed her heart. The hold (both physically and metaphorically) he had over her wasn't fair, but she never complained. Being with Michael was like orbiting close to the sun. Warm and bright, but if you stepped too close, completely devastating. That was the risk she ran. People had always warned her about the price that came along with his lifestyle, but a year of being considered 'his' had taught her that he was multi-layered. You couldn't put him in a box.

Yes, with fame came harsh consequences, even more so with the jolt in status that had been unleashed with the release of Thriller, but he was so much more than the persona his celebrity had inflicted. Beautiful. Charming. Hilarious. And most unknown to the world that was so quick to slap a label on him, was his heart. The playful consideration, that longing to be wanted. He was so much more than the pop legend they portrayed him to be. Still, the title suited him well and he had no complaints about playing the role. It served a purpose and he relished in the power bestowed on him. After all, he hadn't put all those hours in to come up empty handed.

But the Michael she knew, underneath the bravado made her feel safe and loved. As she turned in the iron clad grip of his arms, she didn't note the stray Spiderman comic book on the bedside table, nor the empty glass of orange juice from the night before. Her focus fell to the man beside her, the mess of dark curls spread across his forehead and the peaceful look splashed over his face as he basked in the much needed sleep he'd been lacking with the pressure his career dictated.

If she tried hard enough, she could pretend this was the way they lived their lives everyday. Comfy, in her apartment, with only the sounds of the birds chirping echoing through the open window, letting a cool sweep of fresh air leak into the once stuffy room. Still, she loved him and embraced all the challenges that came along with being involved with a man of his stature.

With that thought in mind, she knew she had to get up. He was due to attend rehearsals with his brothers soon. The Victory tour was fast approaching and while Michael had begrudgingly had no choice but to agree to be present, he was a professional and wouldn't settle until he completed the thing he set out to do. The sake of his sanity relied on a shower before he left for the day and that thought alone presented itself loud and in charge until she did something about it.

Struggling to free herself from the restrictive hold he had over her waist, a small laugh escaped her lips as she pried his large hands from her hips and managed to successfully plant her feet on solid ground.

The air was cool, goosebumps rising against her soft flesh. So much so, that the chill forced her hand to reach down and throw a white over-sized t-shirt over her bare frame.

It was Michael's. Or to be more precise, it had been Michael's.

Their first night together, after the echoed praise, unholy chants of each others names and the joining of bodies, she'd slid out of bed and stole the shirt from his closet. The soft fabric, the stretched neckline and the scent of him warmed her so much, she never quite had the heart to give it back.

She didn't want to wake him.

Seriously, she didn't. Michael barley slept as it was, quoting himself to be somewhat of a night owl. She knew there was more to it.

Sleepless nights plagued with a mass of over thinking. Insomnia had got the best of him and so those rare nights when he did find himself drifting into a dream filled slumber, like last night, reluctance ached her bones, with a tender need to allow him to stay tucked neatly in her bed, away from the destructive world outside her doorstep.

But like clockwork, it happened again.

The action of it amost instantaneous, the subtle shift of his body against the mattress as the ivory material settled against her thighs, like his body ached with a fear of abandonment when she wasn't around. His head lifted, dark eyes narrowed in a tired squint he didn't try to hide, but his tense form eased once he spotted her just out of reach.

"What's the time?" He grumbled, voice rasped from sleep and much deeper than he had ever allowed the public to hear.

"Seven fifteen." She spoke softly, brushing her hair back from her face.

With a longing whisper of her name, Michael carelessly threw himself back against the pillows. "Come back to bed, please."

Michael was good at that. Tempting her into bad habits. Truthfully, it didn't take much. Just a glance at the coffee tinted hues flickering in her direction and she was an utterly gone.

Mostly.

"I wish I could, but you have rehearsals this morning. And I'm not dealing with Jermaine if you're late." She pouted almost too naturally and then stretched her arms above her head, the hem of his old t-shirt skimming her upper thighs. "You know how irritated he gets."

"Oh boy." As though she'd personally offended him, Michael allowed a frustrated groan to fall from his lips and dragged a heavy hand across his face like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Those wandering eyes of his not once leaving the long expanse of her legs, his jaw clentched while his usually tame thoughts ran wild. "You can't mention my brothers name when you look like that."

"Like what?" She feigned innocent, ignorance despite feeling the burn of his gaze.

"Like you're beggin' for trouble." His voice dropped, almost impossibly low. Giving her no time to react, he was on her, arms snaking around her waist, tossing her back against the mattress with a lazy form of dominance. "An awful distraction." He husked, his weight pressing her into the sheets as he continued to mutter against her ear. "One day, I'm taking this shirt back. You look better without it anyway."

Barley catching her breath, a teasing grin rose against the corners of her mouth. "That's cruel of you. I'm attached to this shirt."

Lips curling into a smirk, his mouth ghosted against her own, voice thick with familiar sense of desire. "Yeah, well... I'm attached to you, baby. A bad habit I can't kick." Then without missing a beat, he kissed her. Slow at first, then rough enough to make her forget about the rehearsals and his brothers entirely.

There was something about each kiss they shared. All that time they'd spent together and she'd never grow tired of it. With his body against her own, Michael's intoxicating warmth crowded her in the most delicious way. This was something far from innocent and the more it transpired, the more she lost herself in the moment. Time began to blend together, so much so, it became blaring obvious that not even a full scale hurricane could draw her away.

With expert ease, his tongue slid into her mouth, brushing against her own. Michael then pushed a knee between her own, a hand beside her head holding him up as the other grasped at the swell of her hip like he could keep them in this moment forever, if he only held her tight enough. It was almost dizzying, the way he hummed in triumph as he sucked on her tongue and got a real taste of her first thing in the morning. Suddenly any exhaustion he felt evaporated and all that remained was his a blazing need for her.

"Well, good morning to you too." She spoke, breathless once the kiss broke, as the heat simmered between them.

Michael smirked, fingers pinching at her delicate waist while not so subtly dragging his eyes over her body. Flushed skin on display covered by nothing other than that distracting shirt. "It's 'bout to be."

Before she could come up with a response, Michael had already brought his head back down to seal their lips together again. The familiar flick of his tongue against hers prompting a pathetic whimper to vibrate against their mouths.

Now, she knew him well enough to know that if she could see him, that cocky smirk wouldn't just be felt, it would be on proud display. The undoing of her by his hands was one of his favourite things.

Michael was always been that way inclined. He didn't want to be good at something, he wanted to be great. The best. The same could be said from a career standpoint or something as simple as winning a game of twister when he finally convinced his family to play. He had a competitive streak and that definitely followed him into the bedroom.

"You know I love it when you make those sounds." He muttered softly, pulling back only slightly so he was able to kiss down her jawline and along her neck.

"You-" She wanted to speak. Really, she did. But the attack against her sensitive skin, the bruising movement of his mouth proved to be a consuming distraction. "Fuck."

"What was that?" Michael paused his movements, breathing heavy as he looked down at her like prey. His already obscenely pink lower lip had deepened in colour, the smug grin still prominent and growing wider by the second. The familiar tone of his eyes darkened, the blown pupils leaving only a small ribbon of brown to surround it. He was gorgeous. He didn't know it all the time, but she certainly did, having fallen victim to that look one too many times in the past.

A moment of clarity seemed to catch up.

"You-" Her breath hitched while her fingers trailed the exposed expanse of his chest. "You have rehearsals. "

"Yeah, well..." Assured hands inched against her thighs, lifting the white fabric higher, exposing more of her to the cold air that had encouraged her to place it on in the first place. "They know I didn't want to agree to this tour." There were layers to his words, a heated frustration he tried to bury deep. Michael wanted more for himself, no longer wanting people to associate him the days he needed a group to keep him relevant.

Ambition clawed at him like a vice, telling him he had more to give and prove to the world that doubted the legacy a black man could hold. He's proved he'd earned his spot at the top billing order with his latest solo project and now he couldn't help but begrudge the fact he was still playing band of brothers with the same group he'd been forced into from the age of five.

Brushing the tip of his nose against her own, his voice dipped into a whisper. "They can wait a little while longer." And like a starved man seeing food for the first time, Michael's eyes gleamed in delight as he finally ripped the offending material over her head. "There she is."

Michael dipped down, his hands cradling her face in an almost possessive hold as he stole a kiss. It was common for him to be gentle, but this time, it didn't last long. Before either of them could gage the change, his mouth descended lower. A mirage of movement. All teeth and lips. The inability to remember her name had suddenly kicked in as he lapped his tongue against her nipple, tugging it almost painfully between his teeth only to sooth it with a lingering lick while a hand busied itself with her neglected breast.

No one could get her off the way he could. He knew her body, the way it worked and the things that she loved. He'd learnt the art of bringing those tempting moans to the surface and that was almost reward enough. Every time they did something like this, it was like they switched roles. With an open mouth, she'd sing him sweet lullabies and he knew exactly what to do to bring those high notes to the surface.

"You like that, don't you?" His voice thick with desire, knee barley pressing against her centre with a clear agenda. The goal was to drive her crazy, he was good at that. His mouth curled into a satisfied grin against her breast, knowing he had her right where he wanted her. There was no coming back from this. No clarity that could break through that incredible mind of hers to remind her to be responsible. Michael loved seeing her like this. How she tried her hardest to be rational, only for that to be utterly ripped from her with every indecent lick gracing her abdomen. It only made him want her more.

Hips rising off the mattress, desperate for some real fiction, she hated herself for how easily she fell for his little games. Her mind begged for her to come to her senses, but fogged over in a lustful haze when she found herself in this state. It was no use. She wanted him. Anything he was willing to give her. His fingers. His mouth. His cock. So long as he was the one touching her this way, she didn't care about anything else that was happening in the world beyond her bedroom. "You're an asshole." She muttered, half breathless, knowing he wasn't going to make this easy for her.

A soft spout of laughter fell from his lips, a hand falling to her hip to pull her closer. "You should be a lot nicer to me." He suggested with a demonic arch of a brow, his face coming up and aligning with her own.

"Why's that?" The muttered whisper kissed his mouth, his dark hues drinking in the sight of her in the early hours of the morning.

"Because..." He started, lips brushing against the soft pillows of her own, a dimpled grin taking over his features. "I have the power to make you feel real good right now." Surging forward, he didn't wait for a response, lips claiming hers in a heated echo of dominance, one that warmed her from the inside out. Long fingers clawed the meat of her thigh, guiding her leg up and around the slim apex of his waist.

Michael was bare under the covers, having fallen asleep that way the night before. If her eyes were open, she would see the smooth skin, the slightly uneven blotchiness he'd grown so insecure about despite her protests of how beautiful he was. The heat from his body trapped her against the mattress, a breathy hitch of a sound falling from her lips.

There were so many divine creatures in this world. Michael had taken the time to appreciate so many from afar, but he swore to himself, the heavens must have taken their time when it came to the craft of the women beneath him.

"You want me to make you feel good?" He pulled back briefly to mutter against her mouth, hand cautiously caressing her ribs, higher and higher until she felt his tumb grazed the underside of her bare breast. She arched instantly, a desperate plea for more and Michael couldn't stop it, the lively groan, low in his throat, casting vibrations where their bare chests met. His lips descended, lower, a leisurely trail of his mouth against her jaw and with an instinctive tilt of her head, she easily allowed him the access he silently asked for. The sharp sting of his teeth against her pluse illicited an addictive gasp, and in the next moment, his tongue flicked out, soothing the redness he'd created.

Michael laughed then nipped against her earlobe. "You're so beautiful like this."

"Stop teasing me." She protested, trailing her nails up the delicate line of his spine.

Again, he laughed, breathing hot air against her skin. "I'm sorry."

He wasn't sorry at all. He got off on this, enjoyed knowing the effect he had over her entirety. With a surge of confidence, she caught his mouth again, relilish in the way he opened up, a messy collide of tongues and teeth, breathless whispers churing into one.

"I want you." She breathed against his lips, pulling back enough to see the blowout, depraved look tainting his usual kind eyes. "What are you waiting for?"

"You have no idea what you do to me, do you?" His voice soft for the first time since he woke, large hand sliding to her waist like he was trying to map out her body from touch alone.

A shiver ran down her spine, the effect he had over her wasn't just physical but deeply rooted into the essence of her being. She knew a life without him, but it felt so long ago now.

"No." She breathed out, eyes fluttering at the feel of him so close.

For a long beat, he studied her, his tumb tracing maddening circles against her skin. "By now, you definitely should. Can't you feel it?"

A soft pink glow rose against the apples of her cheeks because yes, she very much could. The hardened length prodding against her hip, ready to take her as she was. He wasn't her first, but he had become her everything and time spent tangled in the sheets together always felt like more like a celestial event than a simple shared moment.

His gaze was searing, but then he leaned in and kissed her again, heavy but slow, as though he didn't have any time restraints when they both knew the truth. "I'm gonna take care of you."

Holding himself up, Michael allowed himself a glance, starring down in unadulterated awe at the sight below him. It didn't matter how many times he's seen her like this, she would always set his heart racing. Sometimes, he still failed to understand how it was possible he got the luxury to see her like this, how she trusted him so intimately. If divinity lived in a person, it would be this women. Michael felt like he could write albums of content with her as his muse, but no words would do her justice. The burning ache for more built up and with an aching sigh, he pulled away only brief enough to reach into her nightstand draw and and take out a familiar, foil wrapper.

Baring his new found possession, his slender fingers handed the item over. "Put it on." He muttered, lips teasing nipping the sensitive flesh of her collarbone. Holding himself up, he watched in wondement, the way she feverishly ripped into the packaging and with a quite kind of precision, rolled the latex onto his hard length. The touch of her hand already setting his body alight. With a heavy sigh, Michael's forehead dropped against her own, a shared smirk settled on both their features.

"Don't get shy now." She teased, but the words lost momentum the second he reached between their bodies, taking the base of his cock in hand to line himself up against the sticky, sweet entrance he's come to adore.

The second his tip pushed into her opening, a gasp was torn from her lungs. Like their brains worked on the same wavelength, their eyes found each other, a burning gaze as he surged forward with his skilled hips and pushed fully into her, stretching her walls with ease, like she was made for this, made for him specifically.

Time wasn't on their side, just outside, they both knew they would find a car waiting. Bill (Michael's trusty bodyguard) would be checking his watch, wondering what was taking them so long, but neither of them seemed to take note.

With little thought and ample need, he barley gave her time to adjust before he found himself moving against her, sliding almost completely out before spearing back in, knocking the air from her lungs with each precise thrust. The sight of Michael lost in pleasure burnt into her brain, something she didn't want to lose sight of, but each movement brought a new surge of pleasure which made it impossible to keep her thoughts straight. Rolling her eyes to the back of her head, he showed no signs of stopping, if anything, his pace grew faster and in an attempt to keep a hold of him, her nails scratched into the brown flesh of his back.

The consuming weight of his body against hers, the force of his thrusts, it was too much and not enough all at once. Her hips moved against his, finding a perfect rhythm in the intimacy of her bed. A large hand encased one of her own, lifting it above her head, fingers intertwined with the sound of his desperate pants echoing down her ear. With their bodies pressed so close together, a beading sweat slicked their skin, her lips pressed to his jaw as he whined her name.

"You're so pretty. So... so pretty." The muttered words barley escaped his lips, like he wasn't aware he was saying them in the first place.

"So are you." She urged, pressing her lips against his protruding collarbone, earning a deep groan from him as Michael moved to nip at her earlobe. With a tentative twinkle in his eye, he stopped his movements, buried deep with the slick warmth of her walls, to his own detriment as much as hers. Impatient for more, her hips attempted a desperate wiggle, but with a fierce determination, Michael pinned her hips, keeping her perfectly still.

It never used to be like this. Their first time, three months into dating, after some coaxing on her part, they finally let go of their inhibitions, but he had been painfully shy. So much so that she had questioned if he's ever done this before or if she had been the unknowing soul to deflower Michael Jackson. Never quite answering her question, he assured her he knew what he was doing, but definitely allowed her to take the lead.

Nowadays, his confidence had improved tenfold and that was only made more apparent by the hungry gleaming gaze those dark optics of his shined with.

"Who's making you feel this good?" He uttered, brushing the bridge of his nose against the delicate arch of her jawline.

"You." She whimpered, body aching and ready to go.

The mocking laugh that he released shouldn't have lured her in the way it did, but arousal pooled, staining the sheets beneath her.

"You gonna be a good girl?" Michael husked, unmoving, relishing in the immediate nod she gave, but it wasn't enough. "I know you can speak, baby. Tell me."

"I'll be good." She whimpered, the ache between her legs growing by the second. "I promise. Please, Mike... I need you."

A hot sigh of relief feel from her swollen lips once his hips began to move again. The movement almost sob inducing as the sound of their bodies pressing together set the soundtrack for the morning, overshadowing the sophisticated bird song just beyond the window.

A strong hand grabbed against the meat of her hip, harsh and bruising, but so deliciously addictive that the uttering of his name soon followed, over and over like a broken record or a sort after prayer. Burning and so fucking delicious.

With the tilt of his head, his mouth devoured her own, pouring every thought and emotion into a hazy kiss. Messy and a little off kilter as his tongue moved against her own, forcing her to move her own head and an angle that ached, but she wouldn't dare correct.

Sweat gathered at his hairline as he pulled her thighs tight around his hips, gasping as the slight movement helped him slide further into her warmth, his tip hitting that designated spot bound to drive her crazy.

"Michael!" She gasped, face flushed and twisted from the overwhelming surge of ecstasy, like she could feel everything all at once and yet, nothing at all.

"Come on, darlin', let go, I wanna feel you." He urged, quickening his pace in a manner she always found impossible.

"Fuck - ah..."

The burn ripped through her, his name the sin on her lips as her orgasm tore through her body, possessing her with the inability to control her limbs as she thrashed and withered beneath him. Her voice hoarse with praise, clinging onto the last waves when suddenly her release triggered his own.

His formally precise movement, the ones that came from a dancers hips, turned sloppy, thusts falling out of a rhythm to a well timed groan as he spilled himself inside the latex and eventually fell against her warm body.

Ragged breaths and rapidly rising chests filled the space around them. When was the last time she's felt so fulfilled?

Sweaty and satisfied, the temptation to forget the world around them was easy enough. If either of them thought they could avoid consequences, maybe they would. In the safety of her bed, Michael felt normal. She's seen versions of himself he'd forever hidden from public viewing and stayed. She valued him not for his status, but for the man that lay beneath it.

A small, soothing hand cradled the back of his neck, careful to avoid the tender flesh that lived a few inches North. She was good that way, knowing what he needed and when was the right time to put those actions into practice.

"Baby, we need to get up." She gently encouraged once she had finally caught her breath, pressing a soft kiss to his hairline, completely unphased by the dampness clinging to his skin after their earlier escapade.

A hard groan could be heard, the sound bouncing off the four walls around them and landing deep in his throat. "Girl, why'd you gave to remind me? I was at peace pretending for a while."

A light giggle passed her lips, his attitude, as bratty as it was, somehow still charmed her. Nudging his shoulder, she watched in amusement as he pulled himself from her and flung his body down on the empty space beside her, honey brown eyes narrowed in mild irritation both of them knew to be a lie.

"I'm sorry, Michael." And she was, he knew that. "If I could keep you here forever, you know I would."

"Yeah..." He nodded, lips quirked into a small grin. "I know."

"But you can come back tonight and you know..." Brows arched, her voice dipped in tone. "my bed will always be waiting for you."

"It had better be." Pouncing forward, Michael trapped her against the mattress, prepping a series of well throughout kisses over every inch of skin he could get to and relishing in the delightful laugh he recieved as a reward.

Eventually, she managed to tear away with a playful push against his shoulder. "Go and shower. You stink."

Sliding out from the warmth they'd created, her gleaming eyes watched as he moved across the room with a gentle, "Stop looking at me." To which she rolled her eyes, but found it hard to follow his order. In fact, her eyes stayed trained on his retreating figure until he hid himself behind the ensuite bathroom door.

With him out of sight, her bare feet touched the cold ground for the second time that morning. Picking the white shirt from where it had been thrown, she pulled the comforting piece of fabric over head and exited the safety of her own room.

In the main space of her apartment, she moved gracefully towards the other bathroom where she cleaned herself up before she started with her day.

Back in the kitchen, busy hands moved to make breakfast. Michael wasn't much of an eater, he never had a big appetite and unless reminded, he could go days at a time forgetting the fuel he needed to keep up with the energy his twenty five year old body held. As much as she tried talking to him about it, the worry of her words never got her anywhere. Pretty quick into their realtionship, she'd taken note that nagging only laid the foundations of his own stubbornness. To get Michael to do something, you had to physically place the thing in front of him and make it seem like it was his idea.

Slicing fruit and filling a bottle of orange juice was the least she could do to ensure his day started as well as she hoped it would continue. Gutting the seeds of a fresh pomegranate plucked from her fruit bowl, her actions were placed on a temporary pause when a knock at the door alerted her to a guest.

It was no surprise as she crossed the room and flung the door open, the face that greeted her back was the harded, worn exterior of an overworked bodyguard.

"Hello, Bill." She spoke politely with a smile.

"Hey, kid." He acknowledge with a stern nod. "Where is he? He's going to make us late." As if to make a point, Bill raised his arm, kind eyes falling to the face of the watch strapped to his wrist.

With a small laugh, she invited him in with a gentle promise that she would go and find him so they could go on their merry way. She knew the pressure he was under. Working for the Jackson's really should have been something that came with a manual, but Bill navigated the challenge well and frankly, she didn't know what Michael would do without him. Having troubles with his own father, Bill had somehow became a surrogate for the life he could've had.

Closing the door behind her as she entered her bedroom, her soft voice called out to her boyfriend as her gaze fell to the door of her ensuite, opened a few centimeters to reveal a small stir of steam developed from the shower he must have taken.

With no sound of running water and with the assumption he must be getting ready, she crossed the floor as quietly as she possibly could, carefully sliding into the room and allowed herself to oggle glorious the sight that greeted her.

The well toned muscles of his bare back, strong and flexed, proof that the body of a dancer would always triumph. His skin smooth and taut, a mouthwatering shade of brown, marbled with a contrasting lightness where the pigment had been stripped, but still looked as perfect as the rest of him was. He hated it. She knew that and as she trained her eyes upwards, the view of him covering the lighter spots on his face with a darker foundation shade in the mirror was made visable.

As if sensing her presence, his gaze met her own stare in the reflection and the beautiful smile he was known for began to curve against his lips, a subtle, but very real flush rising against his cheeks, flashing a peak at those famous dimples she adored so much.

"Hey, stop watching me." He laughed, though she could hear the subtle insecurities lay deep within his tone. "I'm shy."

"After what we just did?" She teased, giggling as the redness of his cheeks flared further.

With the initiative to step towards him, she found herself standing in front her lover, jumping up onto the bathroom counter and sitting with her back pressed to the mirror. As she reached to take the foundation bottle and sponge from his hands, Michael's large, protective grip instantly fell to her waist, further elongating that breathtaking smile. All perfect teeth and lips. She found herself questioning how she got so lucky.

"You're so pretty." She spoke offhandly, not realising she's said it until his forehead came down to rest of her shoulder, hiding his flaming face from view. "None of that, come on, let me help."

Eventually, Michael pulled back and allowed her to pile a light layer of make up on his face, something he used to be deeply insecure about until he realised she loved him exactly as he was. If it were up to her, he wouldn't have to hide away like this, but Michael refused to go outside without it and so she helped when he allowed it.

With a squeeze against her waist, the depth of his dark eyes focused entirely on her, the way she looked and felt, so heavenly and entirely his. She took over all of his senses and Michael didn't mind one bit. "You smell good." He muttered, doe eyed and in love.

"I smell like you." She countered, tilting his chin down so she could cover a small spot beneath his eye. "Look up."

He did as he was told with little argument, but laughed. "I like that you smell of me. Makes me feel like I marked my territory."

"Yeah? I always knew you were an animal." The laugh he gave was reward enough and then she remembered why she was rushed off to find him in the first place. Clearing her throat, her hand rest against the apples of his cheek, thumb carefully brushing the delicate skin beneath his eye. "Bill's in the living room."

"What?" His voice rose in pitch, eyes wide as he took into account the thin white t-shirt barley covering her tempting frame. "And he saw you? Like this?"

Before he could spiral further, the sound of her merry laughter broke through the surface and his eyes softened almost instantly.

"Relax, would you?" Pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, she finally finished with the make up she'd been applying to his face and neck when she jumped down and handed him the long sleeved, Mickey Mouse sweater he'd picked out for the day. "We're grown. I think he knows what goes on between us when he isn't around."

"Yeah, but..." Michael's voice carried low while he shrugged into the magenta material, smoothing the fabric over with large hands once his head poped out the neck of the fabric. "I don't want him to say anything."

"You're over thinking, baby. You know he cares too much to embarrass you on purpose." With a simple peck to his lips, she felt his smile against his own and then playfully nudged him. "Brush your hair. I'll finish cutting your fruit and then you can leave."

So that's what they did. Fifteen minutes later, she found herself standing in her doorway, sending him off with a simple kiss, a soft promise to see him later and a tub of cut up fruit and a bottle of fresh orange juice.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Wasn't that the bullshit phase a Roman poet spewed once up a time and it stuck? Well, she supposed it must true since she had found herself resonating with the saying more and more in recent days.

Since embarking on the Victory Tour, she had barley seen Michael. It wasn't through a lack of longing on either of their part, their situation simply dictated that it wasn't something that could happen easily for the two of them. While he was out, commanding stages night after night, she still had a life of her own, a career she'd grown passionate about and responsibilities she couldn't wiggle out of at the drop of a hat.

Although all of the shows for this tour were hosted in the States or Canada, she couldn't tear herself away from her job in order to follow him around, even if his brothers wives expected her to exactly that, just as they had.

Independence clung to her body, stubborn but admirable. It was one of the many qualities Michael had constantly praised her for. She didn't need him to be her own person, she existed in a reality where she didn't rely on someone else to lead a fulfilling life, but stuck by his side because he elevated every aspect.

Days passed by in a relatively similiar manner. Wake up, get ready, work, come home, dinner and if she was really lucky, Michael could sneak away for an hour or two as she settled down for the night and they would talk until one of them into a peaceful fell asleep, though it was usually her on account on Michael's persistent insomnia keeping him up at all hours.

With a hectic day at work finally drawing to a close and having caught up with all the tedious household chores she had been putting off, all that was left to do was relax. A foreign concept with how busy life had proved to be within the past couple of weeks. It was beginning to feel like the universe had purposely been conspiring against her.

The warm, comforting weight of a checkered blanket sat across her lap as she lost her mind in some other world ― her latest read divulging into a welcome distraction from reality. The words lingered, painting delicate landscapes of a place far away from earth, one she could lose herself in for hours with no repercussions.

Page after page, consumed by captivating dialogue and complex character, then it all came crashing to a halt by a shrill ringing breaking through the quiet. With the beginnings of a smile etched against the corners of her lips, she made quick work to slide her bookmark into the correct page before she darted forward to retrieve the phone up off the hook.

Leaning back against the plump sofa cushions, she brought the landline to her ear while curling a single finger around the curved wire. "991 emergency, how can I assist you today?"

Sharp, melodic laughter broke through the silence and without so much as a word, it would have been impossible to mistake the sound for anyone else. "You're so silly."

"Me?" A dramatic gasp filled the space between them. "Never."

"Yes, girl, you." His delicate hum warmed her from the inside out and with the futtering close of her eyelids, she could imagined him sprawled out on his hotel bed, all sparkling eyes and beaming grin. "I miss you."

"Hmm... me too. You always were my favourite distraction." She found herself admitting, tucking her legs beneath her body.

"Distraction from what?"

"The terrors of the mundane."

He was the total opposite, but perhaps that was what drew her towards him. Opposites attract and his life was so vastly different from her own.

The first day the met, he's been running, running like he was born to do it his whole life. Legs moving with vigor, leaving little room for breath and yet, he hadn't seemed to have broken so much as a sweat. His frantic actions, a mission to hide away from a small crowd that had gathered had him running straight into the first building he could see with a tired head of security flanking him.

It had been there, in the middle of a forgotten library that they first set eyes on each other.

The laboured breathing of his companion had been the first thing to draw her eyes to the new comers. Being one of the few people actually using library at the time, Michael was quick to meet her gaze and offered a shy smile with a quite apology. Did she recognise him? Of course and she knew he knew she had, but she brushed it off and went back to searching the shelves.

It was then that a little voice echoed in his mind, urging him forward and giving him a small burst of confidence to ask what she was searching for. Things escalated quickly from there. She asked why he's entered the library in the first place and he sheepishly had no choice but to admit his car had broken down, leaving him no other option but to get out. Instantly, he was recognised and before he really knew what was happening, he was running from a surge in the crowd.

The library had offered him not only solitude as his head of security made a few important calls to send a new car their way, but companionship that went beyond a simple conversation. What bloomed that day had grown into something that surpassed both of their expectations and had lead to her sitting idly by on a random Tuesday evening, grinning like a fool into the phone as he recounted life on the road.

Jermaine was still driving him crazy, no shock there, but he wasn't much trouble when his wife was around. Tito and Randy bickered a lot and when they weren't too loud, Michael found their little spats pretty amusing. He noted cautiously that he's gotten closer with Jackie since they started back up, how Randy constantly stole everyone's fresh socks and mostly, how he wished Joseph would leave them alone.

The tumultuous relationship he had with his father had become somewhat more contentious as Michael had grown into his adulthood. No longer shackled by his father's control, but somehow still entirely under his thumb. He hated it. Michael was a lover by nature and his family meant the world to him, but had also been his breaking point. The abuse, the taunts, the never ending cycle that brought on the feeling of not being enough.

He wanted more for himself.

Craved it like the air he breathed.

As he spoke, she offered him loving reassurances of how she cared, how she knew he was destined to do more. The Thriller album was really just the beginning for him and how he already had changed the aspects of the world, not just with his talent, but his heart too.

"How is it you always know what to say to make me feel better." He mused and she could practically picture the way in which he was dragging his hand through his curls.

"Comes from a year of loving you." Her voice soft, leaving no room for arguments as she curled up against herself, holding a pillow close as if it could mimic the press of his body against her own. It didn't work, but it didn't hurt either.

"I love you too. I really wish you were here right now." He admitted. "Everything has been so crazy. At least if you were here, I would have something solid to hold onto."

"I wish I was there too." She confessed. "I hate knowing you're so unhappy."

"It's not that I don't love our fans, you know I do. I just thought that by now, with everything I've done, with the success of the last album, I might have been given the opportunity for a solo tour."

He wanted it, more than he wanted anything. A chance to prove himself as not only an artist, but a performer away from his brothers, where he called the shots and had all the creative liberties. He wanted to be hands on, to shine as MJ rather than the child from the Jacksons.

This wasn't something he discussed openly with most people, but with her and the trust they had build, confessing his deepest thoughts had been a relief he'd been craving for years now. She never judged, never cut in, only ever encoruaged his passions and offered comfort he'd been denied for years.

She had her own personal grievances with the Victory tour. While, yes, it has stripped him of the solo projects he had been actively seeking out, it went beyond that. She thought it was too soon to get back on stage after the Pepsi incident, he had yet to full recover and was still expected to perform every night.

If that wasn't bad enough, everything that went wrong suddenly became Michael's fault. The ticketing system, the lack of Jackson music in the shows, the ticket pricing. It seemed he had a target on his back and she was the only one there to comfort him.

"It's going to be your day soon, baby, I know it." She said, innocently, like it was a fact and not an opinion. "How about I fly out and see you soon?"

"Really? Don't play games with me."

The excitement inched in his tone provoked and onslaught of butterflies to form in pit of her stomach. This silly, brilliant man had no idea what he meant to her.

"Yeah, of course. I can clear it with work." She laughed. "I feel bad. Your brothers all have their wives, kids and friends flying out constantly to see them. I hate that you don't have that."

"Well, that's not entirely true." He mused.

"Huh?"

"Didn't I tell you?" Michael breathed a delicate sigh, raising an arm above his head to fluff at the pillow beneath him. "Diana said she'd come out and see a show next month."

"Diana Ross?"

The women Michael had idolised since he was a mere child, far too young to be raised in a world to cruel. He latched onto those around him that brought a form of solace he lacked in his day to day life. Diana had been a source of comfort, someone he not only looked up, but longed for.

She knew of the childhood crush he had on the brilliant pop legend, had witnessed first hand as he got gooey eyed whenever she entered the room. She tried not to make a habit out of jealousy, but it couldn't be helped when your boyfriend looks at another women like she crafted the sun just to make his days burn a little warmer.

Still, she never made a scene. She trusted Michael and so naturally, he never sensed any of the discomfort his relationship with his mentor may had caused.

"Yeah, the very one." He sounded almost giddy, retelling the conversation he'd indulged in only a day ago. "She currently has a break between her Vegas shows and said she would fly out next month to come and watch us. Isn't that great?"

"Yeah, that's wonderful, Michael." She nodded and if he noticed her tone fell flat, he didn't draw attention to it. "I'm really happy for you."

"Me too." He practically beamed. "Maybe you could come the same night? Or the show after? You know I'll be putting on my best perfomance for you."

"You'd better."

Eventually their conversation turned to her, how her job was, if her boss was still a hard-ass and if she hid from her responsibilities by indulging in a new read.

Cuddled up against in her blanket, wrapped tightly in a familiar white shirt, she recounted the vast details of the latest book to capture her attention. Michael hummed with appreciation as she told tales of a world different from the one they lived in, packed with adventure, magic and longing.

Cutting in, he eventually asked if she would read a chapter to him. Instantly, she obliged, picking her book up from the coffee table and skipping straight back to the first page. One chapter became two and eventually, she stopped reading as the sounds of his deep breaths evening out signalled he'd entered the dream state.

Loving Michael had always come with consequences, mostly through no fault of his own. He couldn't control the screaming fans or the intrusive paparazzi. In fact, he'd gone out of his way to keep her name out of headlines and reporters mouths. She wasn't a secret, but she wasn't all that public either. His management thought it would be better that way. Maintain the single image to keep the fans invested. While it certainly made going outside their houses challenging at times, she could handle it.

What she couldn't handle, however, was the tense silence that seemed to build while he was away. The calls hadn't completely came to a devastating end, but they had become few and far between. When he did get the chance to call, it was brief, rushed, like it was more of an obligation than a privilege.

She tried not to take it to heart and told herself he was busy and she knew that was true. The tour was in full swing and Michael was being pulled in all directions, but suddenly, it felt like he was slipping from her grasp and the tighter she tried to hold on, the quicker he fell.

He wasn't cruel, she knew that to be a fact and so maybe somewhat foolishly, she continued to give him the benefit out the doubt. Not wanting to badger him while he was working, she allowed him to take things at his own pace, on his own terms, but even she admit, the lack of communication was growing somewhat tiresome now.

She missed him, probably more than she was supposed to and in a days time, she was set to be flying out to New York to see him. The tickets were booked, a bag was half packed and for a brief period of time, she was excited.

Soon, that exciment turned to dread.

Would he want to see her at all? What if he'd decided he wanted to call it off and was too kind to do it over the phone?

Doubts swarmed her already overcrowded mind and with a dismissive sigh, she forced herself to shake them away.

She loved Michael. Michael loved her and she trusted him enough to be honest with her.

Early morning passed and before she knew it, mid afternoon hit. Taking a break from packing for her trip, she told herself to go out and get some fresh air. Maybe being cooped up all day had been a contributing factor to misery and so she left the warmth of her apartment, telling herself a brief walk around the park would calm her nerves, but she didn't make it that far.

Sat on the floor, just opposite, the apartment right across from her, she saw it. The newspaper her neighbour must have subscribed to and hadn't be home to take it inside their own place yet. And like it was mocking her, she found her eyes drawn to the black and white print, an unmistakable image burnt on the front page.

Now, usually, tabloid gossip was of no interest to her. She really had very little interest in what celebrities were getting upto in their free time. Then she realised she must have been a hypocrite because when the picture showed the undisputable snapshot of her lover, pressed tight against a beautiful goddess, sharing a sly smile she thought he had reserved just for her, she suddenly changed her mind.

People had warned her, men like Michael don't do monogamy. He's too young, too famous, the world was at his feet and settling down would be a disservice. How idiotic had she been to call them cynical, to push aside any doubt and run straight towards him with nothing blind trust?

She remembered asking him about it once and how he replied innocent enough, assuring her that he wasn't like that, that women throwing themselves at him made him uncomfortable. He was too shy, too nervous.

But then again, this was no ordinary women. No, those dark eyes and beautiful curls were brunt into her memory.

'MICHAEL AND DIANA: FROM MENTOR TO LOVER?'

She wanted to throw up.

Every trace of rationality left her body as she watched her hands pluck the paper from her neighbour's welcome mat, stealing the item with very little thought and instsntly turning on her heel to let herself back into her apartment.

Back in the safety of her own home, she gave herself a second or two to calm her nerves, not yet noticing the shaking foundation of her hands or the rapid beating of her heart against her ribcage.

It couldn't be true. He wouldn't do it.

Would he?

For a few minutes, the entirety of her weight leaned carelessly against the door, eyes cletched shut as she willed herself to relax. She couldn't break before she knew the truth, so with a deep breath and a strong thirst for gospel, she forced herself to move, to sit down and read the entire article from beginning to end.

The words hit like lightening against water. Painful and damaging as the writer detailed the events of the night before. How Diana Ross had been spotted at the Jackson's Victory tour, polished and proud for the boys she'd watched grown into stars, how she sang and dance along, then slipped backstage mid-performance and ultimately found herself leading Michael up to her hotel room straight after curtain call.

Flaky witnesses reported seeing them close, all hands and flirty exchanges. Of course, this could be nothing more than a fabrication. After all, the photo didn't show anything outwardly damning, but she knew Michael, she knew that look and it was far from friendly.

Ice filled her veins, a sudden coldness deverstating her from the inside out. Had this been the reason he's been so agonisingly distant with her lately?

He wanted Diana. She's known that and like an idiot, she had allowed fate to make a victim of her. Just like Stephanie Mills had.

Like her, Michael had dated the young Broadway star not too long before he'd been cast in 'The Wiz' alongside Diana. Stephanie (who played the leading role on stage) had been the expected to take the role of Dorothy in the movie production and then suddenly, she was out of the picture, the rug pulled from under her feet. Diana got the part and brought Michael into the picture with the promise of making him the Cowardly Lion.

Shortly after the contracts were drawn, his realtionship with Stephanie fizzled out and the two went their separate ways.

Once, she had asked him if the end of that particular realtionship had anything to do with Diana. At the time, he smiled shyly and denied it, but the recent article had her rethinking every word he had ever spoke to her.

Had he love her at all? Was she just a place holder until the real thing came along?

It hit like a punch to the gut and before she even had time to process when she had just read, she felt a familiar streak of wetness trickle down her cheek. She was crying and she hated herself for not being able to stop.

Despite not yet having lost him, she knew this couldn't last and it hurt. The first man she had ever truly loved and he played her just as easily as he played his favourite song. Was that all she was to him? A temporary distraction?

Time stretched. Crying herself into a heavy migraine, she didn't move an inch. The newspaper still sat on her lap forty five minutes later and with one last lingering glance, she knew what she had to do.

Until now, she hadn't bothered calling Michael. It was a difficult process while he was on the road, but not entirely impossible. Before he had left, he's passed along numbers, given her code words and fake names to bypass any security in case she really did need to talk to him and at this point, she absolutely needed to hear his voice.

Standing on shaky legs, her body stiff from sitting in the same position for too long, she forced her feet forward, the walk across the room feeling more like a marathon than a simple five second journey. Reaching for the landline, her body slid down the wall, knees coming to her chest as she dialled.

The process to speak to Michael on the phone was a lengthy one, and truthfully, she hadn't processed or remembered most of it. Time seemed to drag as slow as possible while simultaneously passing by in a distinctive blur. Whoever had been playing security in the measures of Jackson phone calls eventually let up and told her they would be passing the call forward.

Nerves began to bubble before she fully registered what was about to happen. Her mind a swirl of printed words and painful glimpses of a smile that should have been hers.

The ringing that once whould've provided hope, only brought along dread and for one brief, tempting moment, she seriously contemplated hanging up and dealing with the issue another day. She didn't have to do this now. Before she could even attempt to bring the reciever down, the ringing stopped and for a second, she was greeted with clumsy rustling.

He'd picked up.

"Hello?"

The familiarity of his voice only aided in furthering the devastation she felt, the welling of tears she stubbornly refused to let fall. When he heard no reply, Michael spoke in greeting again. As the silence lingered, he seriously considering hanging up but then he heard the subtle heavy breath and realised, he knew exactly who that was.

A soft call of her name was all it took and suddenly she felt like a scared child during a nightmare, lost, confused and needing to tackle the beast head on.

"Baby, are you there?" To his credit, Michael actually did sound concerned.

And she hated it.

Did he not know? He seemed entirely oblivious to headlines currently making their way into the average American household. Maybe he really hadn't seen it, but she couldn't be sure she trusted anything he said or did anymore.

"Yeah." She spoke for the first time, clearing her throat and resting her chin against her knees. "I'm here."

"Hey." She could hear the smile in his tone. "Are you all packed? I can't wait to see you tomorrow. Bill will meet you at the airport and you ca-"

Unable to listen to his ramblings of a visit she wasn't sure would happen, she found herself cutting him off. "Is it true?"

For a second, there was nothing. He didn't speak or hum in confusion, he stayed so quite. So quite, she could barley hear the small breaths of air pass through his mouth

"Huh?" He eventually spoke, though the word lacked conviction.

"Is it true?" She repeated, eyes screwed shut, voice completely void of emotion.

"Is what true?"

He played the fool well, she would give him that.

"Last night." Her voice wavered. "You and Diana. Is it true?"

He paused and it was heavy. No playful taunts or amused laughter. Just a hefty silence where his voice should have been.

"I mean, she came to the show." Michael eventually confessed and she could hear the distinct sound of his black loafers hit the floor as he paced back and fourth. "I told you she would."

"Yeah." A bitter laugh passed through her lips. "What you didn't tell me was how you would find yourself in her hotel room by the end of the night."

A painful gasp tore through his throat and only further perpetuated the ache in her chest. He knew now and he hadn't denied it, he couldn't. She could picture the way he looked when he was stressed, brows furrowed inwards, begging to be soothed with a gentle touch, but she wasn't there and even if she had been, she no longer felt obligated ease his tension when she could feel the pain of her own heart breaking.

"H-how?" His voice cracked. Quickly clearing his throat, Michael closed his eyes and then found the courage to speak again. "How did- how did you know?"

With an unflattering chuckle, her head hit the wall behind her, eyes snapping open to view the plain, white ceiling above her. "And here I thought you were always so vigilant of the paparazzi."

For a moment, Michael forgot how to breath. They'd seen, she'd seen and he's always promised himself, he would never hurt her. Shuffling on his feet, usually he knew what to do to make tense moment fall into laughter ― it was the way he survived, but right here, right now, he was met with the realisation that there really was nothing funny to laugh about.

"Just tell me ―" The words in her throat broke before she was able to form a full sentence. With an unsteady breath and tears welling against her waterline, she tried again. "Just tell me, did something happen between you two last night?"

What greeted her wasn't a confession. He didn't grovel or admit he was at fault, but the heavy silence that lingered between the phoneline told her everything he refused say with words. He'd done it, been intimate with a women that wasn't her and now he didn't have guts to confess his sins.

Before she could stop it, a tear slipped and anger swelled, ugly and unwelcome. Michael hadn't uttered a word and somehow, that felt worse, like he was running from responsibility or hoping she was too stupid to call him out on it.

"Tell me, you coward!" Her voice seethed, but while the angry was present, there was no mistaking the deverstation that lingered beneath. "Tell me why! Why would you do this to me?"

No matter how hard she tried, she could never imagine a situation where things would have transpired this way. They'd been happy, she knows they had been.

Every time they were together, a beacon of hope suddenly lit the world around them. That gorgous smile of his rarely fell and he trusted her enough to keep his secrets. That must mean something. Michael didn't really trust anyone.

At some point, he must have loved her, for all that was worth.

Eventually, the shock wore off and he found himself able to talk. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" She mocked with an cruel scoff. Picking at the loose thread on her jeans, her gaze fell still. "Why? Tell me."

Like the air had been vacuumed out of the room, she suddenly found it hard to breath. Every inhale burnt, every exhaled required too much effort. Wiping the wetness from her cheek, she felt the weight of the conversation breaking her down.

"I don't have a good answer." Michael breathed out, frozen like stone as he looked out the window of his hotel to a beautiful view of New York. It did nothing for him. How could he admire anything after huring someone he held so dear? "Not one that will make sense."

"I don- I don't care. I d-deserve to know." Suttering and fumbling over her words, she vowed to get an answer out of him one way or another. "Why did you do this? A-all I ever did was love you."

"I don't want to make excuses." His voice had never sounded so fragile before. "For as long as I've known Diana, she..." Like he didn't know how to continue his sentence, the words lost momentum and came to a sudden halt.

"She?"

Releasing a small whimper, Michael closed his eyes. "Please don't make me say this."

"If you don't tell me," she started, her voice hoarse but serious in tone. "I'm hanging up."

"No!" Panic and desperation mixed into a deverstating plea. "No. D-don't hang up."

"Then stop stalling."

"Okay." He found himself nodding, though she couldn't see. Pacing back and fourth once again, Michael finally convinced himself to bare the truth. "Since I've know her... I don't know, it's like she has me under a spell. People thought it was some childhood crush, I tried to tell myself the same, that it would fade with time, but it didn't."

And it had been true.

The harmless crush he had on Diana in his youth had never been a secret. They'd joked about it plenty of times, in the press or on TV. At the time, it seemed sweet, a little boy infatuated with his mentor.

Then seasons passed and he grew older. So had she, but suddenly the age gap didn't seem quite so large. The crush hadn't faded, but certainly felt forbidden, so Michael kept his thoughts and strong emotions to himself, assuming she would never want him.

That was until last night.

"Keep going."

"I don't know what to say." He admitted. "She means something to me."

"You love her." She spoke flat. Not in a questioning tone, but as though it was a straight fact no one could deny.

"I d-don't know." And as Michael said it, he hated himself for it.

Here he had this beautiful, incredible, funny women and she liked him, truly liked him as Michael and not the big star the world had built him into. She comforted when he was upset, held him when he was lonely, she told him stories of other worlds to read him to sleep and loved him more purely than anyone else ever had.

She wanted nothing from him and here he was, breaking her heart.

"You wouldn't have done this if you didn't." He heard the exhaustion in her voice, but nothing could have prepared him for what she asked next. "What happened last night?"

The world tilted on it's axis. Did she want him to relive it?

His heart pouted, hot tears threatening to fall loose as he recounted the night in his mind until the physical need to vomit presented itself.

"You're not serious." He muttered.

"Not the gory details." She assured, wanting to spare herself more than him from that particular aspect. "Just the build up. I want to know why. What lead you to follow her when you knew I was waiting for you?"

Michael uttered her name, delicate and precise. Maybe if he said it soft enough, she would take mercy on him, but he knew he didn't deserve it and that thought alone provoked the first tear to fall.

"I really don't want to talk about this."

He was shy in nature and she knew it. Talking about the intimate details of his late night escapades would've been hell, but she didn't let up. If she did, she provided him an out and that was something she couldn't afford.

"You owe me this much, Michael."

With a quivering sigh, he found himself submitting entirely to her request. To deny her would only cause more heartache and he couldn't stand it. Her pain brought more tears from the both of them as he explained the lead up to the night before.

How Diana appeared before the show and met with him backstage. It was fun and playful. A little flirtation back and fourth was nothing new with the two of them, but this felt different. Her touched lingered, her gaze had darkened. She had been zoning in like a wild animal hunting its prey. When he noticed, Michael excused himself to get ready for the show, shy and awkward with the thought of his lover back home.

While he was getting dressed, she'd taken it upon herself to speak with his brothers, light banter, nothing like it had been with him and then when Michael came back out, she hugged him for good luck and pressed a kiss against the corners of his mouth. Not necessarily any indication she wanted anything more and from a distance, it would have looked innocent enough, but he had noticed the longing gleam in her eyes and knew there was nothing holy about the thoughts she'd been having.

He turned towards her, confused but excited as she promised she would be waiting for him backstage after the show.

The particular perfomance was full of energy. Michael had always been on top form, but there was a very distinct spring in his step that night and once he left the stage, dripping in sweat and desperate for a shower, there she was: waiting for him just as she promise.

One thing lead to another. Excited hands, a first kiss and then the invitation to her hotel. It was like the world had closed off and they were the only two people in the world.

So blinded by a childhood fantasy coming true, Michael forgot all about the paparazzi swarming and the women waiting for him in LA.

Once the deed was done, guilt swarmed and he politely excused himself and later vomited in the bathroom, but he couldn't take it back, no matter how hard he tried.

As he concluded the tale in deveratating detail, a tidal wave of misery washed over both of them. A sob of agony ripped from her lungs and Michael, sitting on his bed with her head hung low, wanted nothing more than to die in that moment.

What had he done?

"Funny thing is, she doesn't even want me." He admitted with a bittersweet laugh as if that would make up for his indiscretions.

"What?" She spoke for the first time in what felt like hours, voice rough from the tears she'd spilt.

"She told me after..." he began, squeezing his eyes tight at the memory. "that i-it meant nothing to her, no one could know, that it was embarrassing she even went there with me."

For reasons even she couldn't comprehend, her heart broke for him despite what he had put her through because on some level, she understood Michael.

He wanted to be loved, craved a life where he was treated as more than a prize horse and was accepted by those around him, not only as an equal but as a human being.

He's been used by the industry from the age of five and treated like nothing more than a shiny trophy for the world to gawp at. Having Diana dangle her love just to snatch it away would have broken him in ways he never thought possible, but if she comforted him, she would have nothing left for herself. For the first time in over a year, she had to be selfish.

The ache in her chest felt worse than it ever had before and with an ugly sniffle, she resisted the urge to tell him things would be okay.

Whiping a neverending stream of tears, she responded with a simple: "Well, I hope it was worth it."

And it was in that moment, he heard it. The lack of emotion now tainting her words. Every ounce of warmth she had ever held for him blown out by the cold truth of his betrayal and Michael felt the air leave his lungs when he realised what that meant.

He didn't want to lose her. He couldn't.

"Please." He spoke in a desperate attemmpt to win her back. "I love you."

"No you don't." Her laugh barley had any bite to it, but still stung from miles away. "You love how I love you. That's not the same."

There had been no real harshness in the words she spoke, but his blood ran cold, like a bucket of ice water had been thrown over his head and he was expected not to shiver.

It wasn't true, he did love her. She had to know.

She had to.

"No, I love you." He furiously protested.

"You wouldn't do this to someone you love."

"It was a careless mistake! I don't want to lose you." Michael rarely raised his voice, but there are exceptions to every rule. "Fly out tonight like we planned. We-we can talk it over. I can- I can make this right." He spoke fast, like if he could get enough words in, she would see reason and he wouldn't face a version of reality where she didn't exist.

"Are you crazy? Listen to yourself." She scoffed. "Why the hell would I fly out? We're done. Don't contact me again."

With a harsh slam, the phonecall ended and with it, so did any hope of the two of them as a couple.

Finally, she let it all go. If she had been sobbing before, it was nothing compared to the barrage of tears now streaming at an alarming rate. Her heart pounded, her throat ached with heavy cries, but nothing could've prepared her for the loneliness that descended over her like a dark cloud.

This wasn't as simple as losing a boyfriend, Michael had been another part of her and now they didn't even have the trust of a friendship to fall back on.

Alone in her apartment, she allowed the sadness to overwhelm her, refusing to move as she cried against the wall with her knees tucked to her chest and her face buried in the stiff denim. Her arms wrapped around herself as if that could protect her from a devastating fate that had already happened, but it was too late. You can't change the past.

An inky black hue stained the sky over Los Angeles, not a single star gleaming in sight, but there was no denial that night time had finally fallen.

In the early hours, the last thing the quite halls of a tired apartment bulding had expected to hear was the deafening sound of frantic, pounding knocks ricocheting from apartment twelve.

No one had the courage to step out into the hallway, but if they had, they would've been greeted with a rather peculiar sight of a desperate Michael Jackson, exhausted from an impulsive six hour flight, calling the name of his girlfriend through the door like a prayer.

He hadn't thought things through properly. The moment she hung up, he had rushed to his feet and ran to find Bill. His bodyguard confused, but unable to refuse the restless pop stars request to go back home.

He had a show that night. His brothers would've been livid and he dreaded to think the repercussions he would face with Joseph's wrath once he returned, but none of it seemed to matter in the large scale when he realised he was about to lose the best thing thst happened to him.

Ten minutes of unanswered knocking and aching calling of her name, Michael didn't know what to do. He couldn't force his way inside, that would only worsen the situation and so instead, he did the one thing that scared him more than anything. He became vulnerable.

"Please." He called out, the palm of his hand settling on the wood grain of her door. "I know you're in there. I saw your car in the lot."

Nothing.

His heart clentched painfully in his chest, fear rooted deep with the knowledge that if he couldn't get her to open the door, he might never see her again.

"Come on, you know me." A string of tears fell beneath the black aviators he wrote depiste the darkness of the night. "I'm not malicious and I would never want to hurt you. You've been so good to me, so good for me. I don't like who I am when you're not around."

His pleas went unanswered, but little did he know, only an inch or two away, she sat against the door in a pair of oversized pyjamas, a hand covering her mouth and nose to muffle the cries that broke lose. She was there, she was listening and he had absolutely no idea.

"Remember when you kissed me for the first time?" He cried, head hanging low while recounting that moment twelve months prior. "I'd been too scared to do it. My brothers had been teasing me for weeks, calling me a chicken and they were right because I was scared... not of you, but what it meant if I were to kiss you and have you reject it. It would've meant I'd lose you... really lose you, not as a partner, but as a friend too and I couldn't risk that."

"But I didn't need to." He continued, lips quivering with each breath he took. "Because you were brave enough for both of us, you took the leap and I remember thinking, 'wow, she's going to change my life.' And you did... from the very first time I saw you in the library, wearing that awful grey sweatshirt. For the first time in a long time, I felt human again."

Still, nothing, just the aching sound of his own stubborn tears refusing to let up and who was he to deny them? He's never felt a sadness so strong and entirely consuming. She was slipping from him, he could feel it and every second felt like a year without her voice.

"Please, just- just open the door." He tried one last time. "We can fix this. I can. I'm so sorry I hurt you. You mean everything to me."

When he was young, Michael had promised himself he would never turn out like his father, he would never purposefully hurt the people he loved. He had been so sure of himself too. In hindsight, looking on at the devestaion inflicted by his actions, maybe he was Joseph's son after all.

With no indication that she was even inside, Michael stepped back, arms around his stomach like he could hold himself together through willpower alone even as the pieces of him crumbled from within.

Until now, Bill had remained quiet, but slowly he inched closer and placed a comforting hand on the younger man's shoulders.

"Come on, kid, let's get you home." He spoke in a kindness only Bill held. "You can try again tomorrow."

And while he knew that to be true, he also realised how low the probability was that she would actually hear him out of she had already refused.

Allowing the safety of a man he regarded as a father to lead him outside, Michael could barley remember stepping into the car nor the exhausting journey back to Hayvenhurst. One second he was standing at her door and the next he was walking into his own home.

What he hadn't expected was to find his oldest sister, Rebbie to be awake at this hour. She turned to face the door, unable to see his eyes behind the glasses but she could sense the cruel pain plaguing her brothers half breathless frame.

"Get some sleep, Mike." She muttered after giving him a brief hug, telling him they could talk about this in the morning once he had caught his bearings.

Michael nodded and began to walk down the hall to find his own room when his sibling called his name once again.

Turning on his heel, exhausted and wanting nothing more than to lock himself away for the rest of eternity, he gave Rebbie a small nod of acknowledgment. "Yeah?"

"You're friends stopped by earlier... gave me a box of your stuff. I put it in your room."

Eyes widening with in inpending terror, Michael took off as fast as his feet would carry him and tore through his bedroom.

Everything looked the same. He hoarded books and albums, his room was never the most organised, but everything had a place that made sense to him. He knew where things were, which is why the cardboard box sitting on his bed felt so out of place.

Heavy legs carried him forward and with a shaking hand, he reached out to inspect the contents.

A stray comic book or two, a sketchbook he would doodle in from time to time, a key chain from his last trip to Disneyland and then he saw something painful enough to knock the breath from his lungs and bring his world crashing down.

He never thought that in the absence of her presence, the thing that would truly cause his heart to break would be what remained.

There it sat, folded neatly at the bottom of the box, stretched neckline and still smelling just like her ― his old white, t-shirt, the same one she stole the first night they shared together. She'd claimed it along with his heart... and now she'd given it back.

It felt wrong, like it no longer belonged to him.

Then he heard it again, those words echoed through hus mind, sure to haunt him for the rest of his life.

"You love how I love you. It's not the same... We're done. don't contact me again."

You waited patiently, eyes filled with sparkle, cheeks blooming with warmth. You came over, your first time, usually only conversing through the cracks of the walls or by mail due to the massive amounts of fans outside of his gates.

It happened by coincidence, a mistake that turned into a blessing of sorts. 

You had packages delivered to his front door, a mishap by the mailman, but you didn't seem to mind it too much. You simply found the perfect opportunity to catch him while he was leaving from his recording studio, calling for someone to answer because you've been trying to get past the gates all week. 

He heard, remembering that Latoya had mentioned that there were a few packages that weren't meant for the Jacksons a few days ago and he followed the tune of your shouts. 

After another helpless call, he answered. 

"I think we have your packages," he said, your voice immediately stopping. 

He heard silence for a while, the breeze brushing through the trees. "Um, Hello?" He said. The sun was slowly making its way down to introduce the night. He was getting cold, and he had a meeting to get to in the morning. 

He thought you left, but you spoke up. 

"Y-Yes! I'm sorry, I've been doing this every day, I thought I started to hear things!" 

He chuckled lowly, finding it all amusing. "Sorry, the front gates are always guarded, but I can have someone deliver it to you tomorrow."

"Oh, that would be perfect! Thank you!" 

It wasn't the last time he got your packages, occasionally getting them every few weeks. But it was all cleared when he had the mailman return them. 

"Do you really read through all of this mail?" Latoya gasped, opening a red envelope with decorated hearts. "There are so many, it'll be next year by the time you finish." 

"I don't mind, it makes me feel important to people when they take the time to write to me." 

He picked up a white envelope, his eyes immediately drawn to the last name. 

He's seen that name before, on the wrong packages often delivered to his front step.

He opened it, turning away from Latoya who was still in awe of the thousands of letters scattered around on his floor. 

He finally got your name— a pretty name at that. Handwriting that was cursive and bubbly, penmanship you don't see often decorated the paper. 

You thanked him. A few sentences written about how grateful you were that even with the mishap, he didn't mind sending the packages back. You also mentioned how you were amazed at the fact that you could see a giraffe from your bedroom window sometimes, a sight you don't see often but felt delighted by it. 

"I would love to see one up close the same way you do. But maybe when I'm much older and can travel the world on my own, perhaps I will. Thank you once again!" 

And that was it. 

He probably read the letter ten times before he realized that for the first time, you didn't want to see him as everybody else did— hoping they could get something out of him like a picture or an autograph— but you didn't mention any of it. You simply stated that you wanted to see his animals. 

Not him. 

His animals. 

And that is what started his deep infatuation with you. 

He wrote a letter back in the dead of night. The Pen scratching off certain words, frustration hitting through him, and then he was crumpling the paper once more, a fresh sheet already settled under his hand. It's been an hour, the fifth paper so far, and he tried his best to make sure the letter was perfect. It's easier sending a fax to businessmen about his ideas and new musical ideas regarding his career and the next album of his life, but sending a letter to somebody so… regular felt like the hardest thing in the world. 

And sending it out was even harder. 

But it happened. 

And he kicked himself for it. 

When he got his fan mail in two large bags, the only thing he wanted to read was yours. 

The dial rings once before the line is picked up, the receiver immediately placed against his ear. You greet him first, voice trembling. “Oh! H-Hello? Im S-Sorry, is this the Jackson’s residence?” 

“Depends." Michael was lying on his back, the cord stretching from his night stand. “Missing a package again?”

"Michael? Oh goodness, I thought I got the wrong number. I thought that, maybe you were pranking me or something—"

That was a few days ago. 

"Why would I give you a fake number?"

"Why wouldn't you?" 

There's some hidden underlying fact in your words, like this wasn't the first time you've gotten somebodies number and it was fake. But Michael wasn't like that. He was kind and genuine— he liked having someone to talk to, even if they were animals sometimes. 

"No, this is real. My own personal number."

"O-Oh, I see." 

It went quiet on the other line. 

"I hope I'm not bothering you, I know it's late but you said if I needed anybody to talk to you… you were always free—"

"Did I say that?" He sounded dead serious. 

"Huh? I think so? Wait— I'm pretty sure?" You gasped in distraught. "Oh my gosh, did I read that wrong? I'm so sorry, I-I thought the letter —"

Michael laughed behind the line. "I'm joking with you."

“Hey! Come on, don’t be a tease!" you whined. 

He found comfort like this, something he only truly found in his family centric circle— besides Joe. 

"So, what's the matter?"

He heard you shuffling, the line going quiet. 

"I um…needed to hear someone other then my parents… I guess?"

Michael sat up, the tension hardening. "What's wrong with your parents?"

"They think it's okay to control your life," you sighed. "I understand, respect your parents, blah, blah, blah— but I have dreams too you know? I wanna be an actor! Or maybe a journalist? I'm not sure yet, but I'm working it out."

He could relate to that. All of his life has been controlled by Joe. Singing, dancing, shows, music— all of it. His last album was probably the first time he's felt free and the thought of making another one gave him hope but that heavy presence has never left. 

"I get it. I have issues with my parents too." 

The connection sparkled. 

You both talked for hours afterwards, bubbles sleeping besides him, curled up against his side. You talked about more of your dreams, thoughts you had of the world and he listened. 

Eventually it turned into him listing off exotic animals he liked and planned on inviting to his home. He was on number 47, the list already bizarre as it was. 

"— and If I could own a panda, I could have free cuddly hugs every minute of the day." 

"Panda… elephant… koala…" you said in anstonishment. "Gee, what are you going to say next? A snake?"

"No, I wouldn't say that."

"Thank goodness—"

"I already own a snake. His name is Muscles." 

Another slew of chuckles shot through him at how silent you had gotten. "Are you surprised? I mean, do you think that's…" his laughter died, jaw setting tightly. He didn't want to say that word, he hated using that word, but he wouldn't be surprised if you used it. "—That's … not like…weird…to you?" 

"Weird?" You started, voice shooting up an octave in offense. 

"Y-Yeah, I mean, some people say it's weird. My brothers think so, and Joesph—"

"Oh Michael—" He thought he heard an angel on the other line. "—that's not weird at all. If anything, it makes you more interesting. Not a lot of people care about animals." 

He chewed his bottom lip. "If you want— I mean, only if you want, you can say no if you want too. But… You can come over— I mean, visit. I can show you what I have so far."

"You mean that?" 

"Yes. How about tomorrow?" 

"Tomorrow is no good—" He kicked himself for asking. "— the day after is perfect though. If you still want me?" 

He jumped from the bed and bubbles snorted in annoyance but went back to sleep. "Yes! yes, of course. I'll have Bill come for you."

"Who's that?"

"He's my body guard, but I trust him like a father."

"Okay." 

Michael got the excited jitters, pumping his fist. 

"The day after tomorrow then?" You asked. 

"The day after tomorrow then," he repeated back, like he couldn't believe what he was saying. 

"Goodnight Michael."

The line cut, and Michael felt like he was on cloud nine. 

You came over, just as he hoped, and he immediately showed you his home. The pool, the garden, his room. Nobody was home but the maids, his brothers and father were off somewhere he didn't care to know. All that mattered was that he got the house to himself so that he could show you around without questions following. 

You were amazed at his room, the collections of toys and posters he had almost made your eyes pop. You asked about his endless figurines of the Disney character Peter Pan and he gave you the simplest answer. 

"He's me." 

You didn't make a face in disgust, but you did ask a question. 

"Can you fly too?"

He laughed at that. "I'm working on it. If we can land on the moon, it's not far off that a man could fly too." 

He introduced you to Bubbles first and while you were scared to get close— holding onto his hand and shaking like an earth quake— you told him that it was very kind of him to rescue a chimpanzee. Muscles on the other hand you refused to go in the room. 

He's never laughed so much in his life. 

Louie made you calmer. Finding that he was cute and cuddly. And the famous giraffe you often saw outside of your window made the time spent perfect. 

You had to go of course, but the late night call was filled with joy. 

After that, the calls only kept coming. When he was away, far off while traveling with his brothers, he would send letters to your home in hopes that you would send back. It made him feel special in some way, knowing that somebody cared more about who he was then just the musical aspects of his character. 

Whenever you felt down, expressing concern about life and your parents exhausting expectations, he would sneak you over to his house and play twisters in his room. 

The maids saw you enough, but they didn't say anything. 

And he was thankful for that. 

But Bill, his bodyguard and trusted friend had a whole lot to say with a sharp raise of his brows and that light smirk on his face. 

"She's your girlfriend now?"

Michael would dodge the question with another question. "So men can't have female friends?" 

Bill didn't push for more, but he knew deep down that as long as Michael was happy, that's all that mattered. 

"I wonder what he's thinking?"

You were sitting besides him, arms stretched out to pet Louie's head, a small grin adorning your face.

He's known you for a year and your friendship still felt new. Like always, you snuck over, played one of his many board games, and he talked about the stress he had over his upcoming album. So, you suggested that some fresh air could do him good. 

Here you were, dangerously close, while showing one of his friends love that he so desperately wanted himself. He believed this was his chance to confess his deepest desire. He chewed the inside of his lips, formed the words in his head, and let it go. 

"I think…" He took a deep breath, eyes scanning your face for your next reaction. You were petting Louie's head, comepletly enamored by him— a girl unlike anybody he's ever seen. "I…um, I think he likes you," He finally said, his breath leaving seconds after. 

Your eyes slowly found his, attention drawn, your hands slowing down but still acknowledging Louie. "Really?" You questioned, lips curling into a grin. "How'd you know that?" 

He gulped, suddenly put on the spot. "He told me."

"Told you?" You titled your head, cheeks puffing with your grin. "Who Louie?" 

If this was anybody else, they would have laughed in his face. Called him insane, maybe delusional— in need of more time with humans and less time with animals— but you didn't do either. 

You stared at him in wonder, your attention all on him. 

Michael cleared his throat, "Y-Yeah, when they like someone, t-they make this small humming noise— sometimes you can tell by the ears. It's down, relaxed— he likes you. A lot." And he probably shouldn't have stumbled on his words so much, painfully obvious, but thankfully you didn't seem to catch it. 

"Oh wow, you sure know a whole lot about llamas." you drew your attention back to Louie. 

He could finally catch his breath. 

"I should probably leave soon. Your family might be back any minute now." 

He didn't want you to leave. 

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Your probably a very busy man. Don't need to cut your time to spend it with me."

And that was the problem, he wanted to spend it with you. 

He needed an excuse to get you to stay longer. "Wait— can I show you something?"

"Show me what?" You looked at him questionably. 

"I've been working on something but I need input."

"You want my input?" You looked down in thought, "I mean, sure, but I'm not that very good at criticizing things." 

"Don't worry, I don't bite." 

You shoved him with your elbow lightly. "Please, I'm more scared of the snake." 

"Then let's go." He stood up abruptly, dusting off his pants. "It's only a few steps away from here—" 

Michael's jaw almost dropped. 

You were leaning forward, placing a kiss against Louie's cheek, a goodbye filled with love. Michael wasn't often jealous, but standing here, now, watching you show affection for someone other than him filled him with jealousy beyond comprehension. 

"Goodbye Louie." You petted his head once again and stood up. 

Michael swallowed around a lump. 

"Where is it again?" You questioned.

The studio felt warmer than before. Inches away from you once again but this time it was in his most vulnerable field. 

He finished playing a few of his demos, the ones Quincy gave his stamp of approval. You listened and bobbed your head, side eyeing him at particular high ending sections of the songs with a amazement on your face. 

"These were really good," you smiled, "I particularly like Starlight, although I'm a little confused on the meaning." 

"It's upbeat— something to get the crowd moving." 

"Sure,but—" you tapped your chin, "I feel like it's missing something." 

He wrote something down on paper, a few words taken straight from your mouth. 

Good but missing something

He placed his pen down, turning towards you. "The album isn't done yet, but I'm hoping it becomes the biggest album ever. Still working through some other songs, a title for the album, promotional pictures— other tedious things that you probably don't want to hear."

"I don't mind," you looked over at him. "I like when your like this— happy. You get so hyper about music, I can't help but be hypnotized." 

Michael begin to sweat, his face suddenly warm. "You do?"

"We're alike, you and me. Although I'm not a Super Star like you," you laughed. "I can barely handle cleaning my room and your here mixing instruments and doing tours." 

"T-That makes sense." 

A knock on the door startled you both. 

Bill came in, tapping his watch. "You family will be back soon, time to go." 

Michael screamed internally. 

"Guess I'll see you later?" You titled your head, rubbing a hand over his arm. 

"I-I guess so." 

You both couldn't break eye contact even if you tried. 

"Can I do something real quick?" You asked, catching Michael off guard. 

"Sure—" 

He wasn't sure what this feeling was— if he was going through cardiac arrest or if someone was hitting him with a bat at the chest, but all he knew was that he didn't want that feeling to go away. 

You leaned in, same way you did with Louie and kissed Michael's cheek. Your eyes shut close and your hands resting over his knee. You didn't pull away, even when Bill knocked on the door again. Time fell still. The moment so right that everything was swept away and replaced by your presences only. 

Michael didn't know what to do with himself. 

Finally, you broke away and chuckled to yourself. "See you later Mikey." You stood up and left a very flabbergasted Michael Jackson. 

You opened the door, Bill greeted you and you left with a light skip in your step. 

Bill came in, checking in on Michael. "You alright?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah," he shook the shock from his body, cheeks still warm. "I was going to write down a new song." 

"Ohhh, Okay. Well, if you need me, I'll be out here— " before he turned, he called out. "— and Michael?"

Michael looked at him in question. "Yes?"

Bill pointed to his cheek. "You got a little something there. It's red, like a kiss—"

Michael quickly rubbed his hand over his cheek. "O-Oh okay! I gotta get to work. I'm a very busy man Bill." 

Once Bill left, Michael finally left to his thoughts. He wrote something else under your critique, his face still bloomed with heat. 

Good but missing something 

Title track name — Baby Be Mine

He had plopped down next to you before the bell even rang, but you made an effort not to pay him any mind. You knew who he was, most people did, what with majority of his life spent in the public eye. He was also known to be somewhat of a flirt, not in a harmful way, just in a way that seemed like he couldn’t help but be charming. That made you nervous. But it didn’t stop him from engaging.

“You don’t look like you’re paying attention,” he finally broke the silence between you, in the middle of lecture. You raise your eyebrows in surprise, looking up at him. He was smirking, not cocky but soft. He glanced at you before glancing down at your notebook, doodles dancing around your notes. “I am,” you reply, before you go back to finishing your little drawings.

“You’re doodling,” he states, matter-of-factly. “I can do both,” you reply almost instantly. He leans a bit closer, peeking further at your page. “It’s not even related to the assignment,” he chuckles out, eyes glancing between your drawings and your face.

It was true. Around your little amount of notes was countless of doodles, some meaningless, but most meaningful. Drawings here and there of inspiration for designs. Fashion designs. You’d been intrigued in fashion design for quite some time now.

“You don’t even know what the assignment is,” you bite back eventually. That makes him pause, looking at a loss for words. All before that smile creeps back on his face. “That’s not the point.”

“Seems like you don’t have one,” you bite back a grin at how easy this flowed. The back and forth. The banter.

From then on, it was always easy. You both find each other’s way into your lives. You sit together, you walk the halls together, you have conversations that last longer than they should. For Michael, the best of all was that you didn’t treat him like everyone else. You didn’t treat him like you wanted something from him. You just let him be.

Regardless, the flirting starts almost immediately and naturally. But it’s completely different than how he is with other girls. With other girls he’s confident, smooth, almost like he practices. But with you it’s playful and constant.

With you, he laughs. But it’s not the same laugh you hear when he’s with other people, this one is real. That’s when things start to change.

You see him being flirty all the time. The way he talks to other girls and the way he moves about a conversation like he always knows where they’ll go. You even thought that the fact that you’d already seen it would make you immune to it. It didn’t. It actually makes it worse.

When he flirts with you, it doesn’t feel the same. It feels personal.

“You know you’re trouble right?” He asks one day, looking at you a little longer than usual. You blink up at him, caught slightly off guard. “Me?” You ask.

“Yeah, you.” He simply responds. You recover quickly, being used to this back and forth. “It sounds like you’re projecting,” you grin as you respond. He smiles, in that slow and knowing way that is sort of intoxicating. “Maybe I am,” he replies softly.

Your heart skips and it’s like you short circuit. But you don’t let it show.

“Careful, you’re starting to sound nervous.” You tease. “I don’t get nervous,” his reply is almost instant. “Everyone gets nervous,” you quip back. “Well, I don’t” He smirks, and you just roll your eyes before responding. “Liar.”

He laughs again and you feel it in your chest, like always. That’s the thing, you always always always flirt back. No matter how nervous you get, no matter how fast your heart beats. You don’t let him win, but of course he notices. He notices the way your look flicks away for even just a second too long, and the way your tone changes just a bit when he gets too close. The worst thing about it is that when he notices he leans further into it.

It happens during one of your usual back and forth rituals. He’s teasing and you’re teasing back. It’s the same rhythm it’s always been. Until he says it.

“You know… you’re a pretty young thing,” his voice drops slightly when he says it, and his gaze stays locked on you. It sounds casual, like he didn’t even think twice about it, like it slipped out. But it doesn’t feel casual.

Your breath catches just slightly, and your entire body reacts before your mind can catch up. You feel your face heat up almost instantly, and the way your composure slips just slightly. Of course, he sees it. That’s what gets him, because you never react like that. You try to recover, you really do. You roll your eyes and cross your arms, trying to force that familiar energy into your voice.

“That was so smooth,” you say, trying to make the sarcasm in your voice sound as genuine as possible. But your voice isn’t as steady as it usually is, and he knows. “Oh you like that,” he mumbles immediately, while stepping just a little bit closer as his tone becomes softer.

“I don’t,” you try to lie, knowing it’s useless. “You do,” he argues back instantly. You stay quiet in hopes that he’ll just drop it, but he doesn’t. “You’re flustered,” he points out. “I’m not flustered.” You bite back, although you definitely were flustered. He smiles, that knowing smile he gets when he knows he got through to you some way.

“Pretty young thing” He says again, slower this time and softer. “Stop,” you immediately respond, feeling another wave of heat starting to flush your face.

That’s the moment he locks it in. From that point on, the name is yours. He doesn’t say it all the time, it’s not constant, but it’s enough. He uses it when he wants to get a reaction out of you, when he wants to see that same shift in you, when he wants to push you just a bit further again. Every single time, you react, and every single time, he notices.

Neither of you actually acknowledge what’s there between you. You just both stay in that space where you’re close, flirty, and dangerously unmentioned. Because saying it out loud would change everything, and neither of you are ready for that.

At least not yet.

When high school ends, everyone was expecting you both to drift apart, or for something to change between you. But it doesn’t, at least not how they were expecting.

You each do technically go your separate ways. You have different campuses, different schedules, and different lives that begin to take shape in ways that feel just right. You go right into fashion, how you always imagined, you had long hours in the studio, samples of fabric covering every surface of every table, and sketches filling up your notebooks faster than you can keep track of. It's everything you’ve ever wanted.

You still somehow manage to see him every day. It’s funny, because it wasn’t really planned or discussed, it sort of just happens. As soon as you finish classes, you make your way over to him. He finishes up whatever he’s up to, and makes time for you. Sometimes it’s quick, like an hour squeezed in between everything else going on. Other times, it’s all night, conversations taking the same shape they’ve always had. No matter how busy things get for each of you, that part always stays exactly the same.

The only big difference, is that his world doesn’t just change, it almost explodes. It starts off exciting, as something that’s manageable. The performances, the attention, and the people that start to recognize him outside of his circle. You watch it build up, proud in a way that feels almost protective. You’ve always seen and known he had something special, something bigger that what most people noticed. Now everyone is starting to see it, and with that come the people that start treating him differently. But you don't, you never do.

The flirting doesn't change either, persistent and constant as always. If anything, it gets worse, because now he knows how to get a reaction out of you.

"You've been busy," he randomly says one evening. It had been spent watching movie after movie, stopping once in a while for a round of twister or him asking if he can show you a song. He watches you more closely than usual. "I have a life," you reply, as you flip through your mini sketchbook. "So do I." He quickly has a rebuttal.

"Debatable," you grin, which in turn also makes him grin as he tilts his head slightly. "You saying I don't?" He asks, that glint in his eyes he always gets when you guys have this back and forth being very prominent. "No, what I'm saying is that you're starting to think you're more important than you are," you bite, though there's no real heat behind your words.

He steps closer, too close. Close enough that you can feel his breath on you, and you start to wonder if he can hear your heartbeat. "You don't think I'm important?" He asks, dropping his voice just enough to make your heart skip. But you don't back up, because you never do. "I think you like hearing that you are," you shoot back, even as you feel that same heat creeping up your neck. He smiles. That damn smile. "Careful, you're starting to sound jealous," he almost whispers.

"I'm not jealous," your reply was immediate. "Then why're you getting so worked up, pretty young thing?"

There it was.

It hits you like it did the first time, and all the times after that. Your breath catches, for a small second, but he notices. He notices your entire body reacting before you can stop it. "Stop," you mutter, you try to brush it off, but there's no real strength behind it. He leans in slightly, his voice soft like he's doing it on purpose.

"What? You don't like it?" His voice is almost husky at this point, he was so obviously amused at how flustered he could make you. You swallow, and try to force yourself to hold his gaze. "You're annoying," your voice was kind of shaky despite your efforts to keep it steady.

"You like it," he immediately points out. He was right.

That was the thing about you two. Despite the fact that neither of you had been brave enough to try to name or even acknowledge what was going on between you, it still hadn't changed. So, nothing changes but at the same time, every thing does. Because now, people are watching.

It starts off small. Looks that linger a little too long when you're together, people whispering, trying to piece together how you're related to him. You're around too often, too naturally, and too comfortably for it to go unnoticed by the public. You don't think much of it, or maybe you just don't let yourself. Until it becomes louder. Questions start popping up in places you don't expect. In articles, speculation, people trying to define something you two hadn't even labeled. The assumption becomes obvious.

You and him. Together.

You see it before he even says anything. The headlines and the small mentions, the conversations that make it obvious and clear what people think is going on.

"Have you seen this?" You finally ask him one night, holding up a magazine as he walks in. He glances at it, already knowing what it is. "Yeah." He simply says. "And..?" You ask, expecting more of an answer from him. He shrugs lightly, like it doesn't matter, like it's no big deal. "They're gonna say whatever they want."

His response ticks you off, because it's not like him to act so nonchalant about something like this. Because it's not like him to pretend something that involved you didn't matter. "That's not an answer," You tell him, and there's a pause. "They don't know what they're talking about," He simply says, and you don't respond to that. Because something about what he said and the way he said it lets you know that it's going somewhere, and it does.

It didn't take him long after that to address it, publicly and directly. You're not there with him when it happens, but you hear about it almost immediately. Everyone does. In an interview, with a question he can't avoid.

"Is it true you're seeing this woman you're photographed with?" The interviewer asks, and you laugh at it because of how much it seems like an interrogation. You expect him to pause, to hesitate, or to just show some emotion other than the one he ends up showing.

"No," he responds almost instantly. "She's just a close friend."

Just.

It shouldn't hurt the way it does. The words shouldn't land the way they do. You watch the clip for longer than you should, replaying it even though you already heard it and processed it clearly the first time.

Just a close friend.

It obviously makes sense, how could it not? What else would he say? What else could he say?

But that doesn't stop something heavy from settling in your chest. Later, when you see him like you always do, you don't bring it up, and neither does he. But it doesn't all flow the way it usually does.

"You're quiet," he says, he's been watching you closely all night. He sort of feels like he should be walking on egg shells around you, but he also knows he doesn't want to bring it up. He doesn't want to address the elephant in the room. "I'm always quiet," you mutter out, not looking at him. Suddenly the movie you weren't really paying attention to had become interesting all of a sudden. "No, you're not." It didn't seem like he was going to let it go.

You shrug, trying to brush it all off. "You're imagining things." And of course, he doesn't believe that. And of course, you can tell. But he chooses not to push, because even now, after everything, you're still in the same place you've always been. Always constant and close, and flirting like nothing's changed.

But still, you weren't quite anything more.

You figure you should try to do everything in your power to move on, to get yourself to not rely on that space you've created with Michael. So you meet someone. But from the moment you mention him, something in Michael doesn't sit right.

It's subtle at first, just a pause that's a second too long when you say his name. His expression hardens just slightly, like he's trying to process something he can't quite understand. He doesn't say anything outright to you, at least not immediately, but you know him well enough to realize when there's something off.

"You really like him?" He asks, and you can tell it's taking everything in him to keep his tone neutral. You nod, more defensive than you realize. "Yeah." He scans your face for a moment, like he's trying to read something hidden in your answer. "Okay," he finally says. Just that. But it doesn't really feel like acceptance.

He's never liked any of your boyfriends, that's not something new. Every time you've dated someone, he's always had something to say. Whether it was small comments, small criticism, or an almost disapproval that seems like instinct. You've learned to brush it off, to roll your eyes and tell yourself it's just how he is.

But this time feels different. He's quieter this time.

When you finally introduce them, the tension doesn't go by unnoticed. It's not loud, or obvious to anyone who doesn't know to look for it. But it's definitely there. Michael is polite, like he always is. He greets him, shakes his hand, and keeps his tone even and his posture relaxed. There's nothing obviously wrong with the way he behaves, there's no disrespect or unnecessary attitude. It actually looks almost too controlled.

You watch them interact, closely without even meaning to. The way your boyfriend talks and the way Michael responds. It's short and measured, like he's keeping the conversation exactly where he wants it, nothing deep and nothing personal. "Nice to meet you," your boyfriend says. "Yeah, you too." Michael replies, and you're not sure if you imagine it, but you hear an ounce of passive-aggressiveness in it.

Later, when it's just the two of you again, you decide to bring it up. "You could've tried a little harder," you whisper, not wanting the calm bubble you always seemed to be in pop. "I was polite," he whispers back. "You were barely polite."

He just exhales quietly, all while shaking his head. "I don't trust him." The bluntness of the statement catches you off guard. "What? You don't even know him," you immediately respond. "I don't need to." The routine of it all makes you roll your eyes, trying to brush it off like you always do. "You say that about everyone."

"No, not like this." He says, quieter this time. Against your better judgment, you decide not to push it. Because you don't want to, it's easier to believe he's just being protective, just being himself.

At first, everything seems fine and normal. But "normal" doesn't last. The shift happens so slowly that you don't even realize it from the beginning. It starts with his tone, little things. The way your boyfriend speaks to you when no one else is around, the way his words have a sharp edge when he's frustrated or when he doesn't get his way. You try to tell yourself it's nothing. Everyone gets irritated, everyone has their moments.

But then it becomes more, his patience wears thinner and his reactions get bigger, while his voice gets louder. But it gets worse, because then it crosses a line. His aggression takes over, and you're at the receiving end of it, feeling the sharpness of his hand smacking across your face. You freeze, not because it hurts but because you didn't expect it.

After the first time, it turns into something you start anticipating while trying to avoid it all at the same time. You adjust and get used to it, without even realizing. You speak more carefully, more cautiously. You start choosing your words before speaking, when before you would let them come naturally. Slowly, you even start disappearing.

Of course, Michael notices. How could he not? Though it's the simplest thing, you not being there as often, the daily rhythm that you've had for years breaks. What used to be constant and effortless turns into something inconsistent. Days pass where he doesn't see you, excuses in the place of your presence.

"I've just been busy," you tell him, the same way you'd practiced, because you knew he would eventually ask. "You've always been busy, that's not new," you hate how much it sounds like this has been weighing on him for some time, like he's been thinking about it a lot.

He decides not to push right away, but he also doesn't let it go. Then, it turns into something else. The way you act when you are around him. You're quieter, and not in a thoughtful or observant way, this feels like you're withdrawn. "You're not talking," he points out one day, watching your expression closely. "I am," you respond, and it's obvious that you don't believe it yourself. "I'm just tired," You add.

He doesn't believe you, and you know that. Then, he sees it. It's small and barely noticeable. Someone drops something nearby, a sharp sound against the floor, and you flinch. It's quick, like an instinct. But he catches it. His expression changes immediately. "What was that?" He asks instantly. "What?" You reply too quickly, trying to act oblivious. "You flinched," he mutters.

"You're imagining things," he stares at you when you respond, obviously not convinced. You force a small laugh and shake your head, trying to brush it off. But now he starts paying more attention, more than before. Once he starts noticing it, he can't stop. The way your shoulders tense at sudden movements, the way you hesitate before you speak, and the way you look over your shoulder sometimes like you're expecting something. He doesn't know what to make of it, he just knows it doesn't fit who you are.

"What's going on?" He asks, his voice more serious than you've ever heard it. "Nothing." You reply, and again it sounds practiced. "That's not nothing, and don't tell me you're fine. You don't come around anymore. You barely talk when you do, and you flinch at everything. You expect me not to notice that?" You can't look at him as he seems to finally let it all out. "Talk to me," his voice drops, unsteady, as he steps a little closer. You just shake your head. "I can't."

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and that's what really scares him. Because it's not that you won't, it's not that you don't want to, it's that you feel that you can't. Suddenly, everything feels a lot more serious than he realized.

He tries to let it go, he really does try, for your sake. After that last conversation, after the way you shut down, Michael pulls back in the only way he knew how. Not completely, he doesn't abandon you, but just enough to give you the space you needed. Enough to make it feel like he's respecting whatever this boundary was that you put up, even if he doesn't like it. But it doesn't get rid of the feeling in his chest.

It doesn't stop the way his eyes track your every move whenever you're around, and it doesn't stop the way he listens for any changes in your voice or the way he notices the small shifts in your posture and reactions. Most importantly, it doesn't stop the instinct inside him that's screaming that something is wrong.

The moment it all comes down happens by accident, it always does. You're sitting with him, closer than you've let yourself in a while, the space between you familiar in a way that almost feels normal again. You're really trying to act like nothing is wrong, like everything is fine and you can still exist in this space without it slipping. But your sleeve rides up when you reach for something. Slightly, but enough, and he sees it.

His brain doesn't automatically register what he's looking at, not fully. Just the mark, something against your skin that doesn't belong there, and it finally clicks. His entire body freezes.

"What is that?"

His voice isn't calm or controlled, just still. You follow his gaze, your stomach dropping the second you realize what he's looking at. Your hand moves quickly, too quickly, pulling your sleeve back down like that'll undo the fact that he already saw it. "It's nothing," you say immediately. He doesn't move, or say anything. He just stares at you, and then he steps closer.

"Let me see it," his voice is no longer quiet, more strict now. "No," you say, your voice sharp as you pull your arm back. That's when he knows, because you've never reacted like that with him. You've never pulled away or said no like that. His jaw tightens, and something dark settles into his expression as he reaches for you again. This time he's more careful, but he still has this firmness that doesn't leave any room for argument. "Let me see it," he repeats, this time quieter but still heavy.

You hesitate for a second, but it's enough. He pulls your sleeve up before you can stop him, and there it is. Clear now, and worse than it looked at first glance. It's a handprint. His breath leaves his body in a way that doesn't come back right away.

"Who did that?" He already knows, but he has to ask. "Michael, it's not... it's not a big deal-" But he doesn't let the excuses that he knows are coming settle in. "Who did that?" He repeats, louder this time. You don't answer, but he doesn't really need you to. Something in him snaps, not in a loud way, but in a quiet and controlled way that's somehow worse. He slowly lets go of your arm, like he's afraid to hurt you more. He clenches his hands at his sides slightly, scanning your face. That's when he sees something else, and he doesn't know how he didn't notice at first.

There's a slight discoloration around your eye, color that doesn't exactly match the rest of your skin. His eyebrows furrow and he sighs heavily, before turning abruptly and walking away from you without a word. For a moment, you think he's leaving. But then you hear it, the cabinet opening, the urgency in his movements. He comes back seconds later, with makeup wipes in his hand and your stomach drops.

"Michael..." you try, but he doesn't listen. He steps close again, too close, and raises one hand up to your face. You flinch, and it takes everything in him not to freeze at it, and before you can move away, he grips your chin firmly, tilting it slightly. "What are you doing?" You ask, your voice breaking slightly.

He doesn't answer, he just starts wiping. The first swipe is rougher than he means it to be, the pad dragging across your skin. The tears start coming before you can stop them, the concealer you spent so long applying carefully that morning coming off with every wipe. "Stop," you try, as you pull back slightly. But he doesn't stop. His movements turn sort of frantic, something driven by the need to see, to confirm what he already knows but won't let himself believe until it's in front of him. He swipes again and again, the makeup coming off too easily.

Then, he finally sees it. The swelling and the black eye you tried so hard to hide. You feel your breath catching, not because it's revealed, but because of his reaction. He goes completely still, his grip on your face loosening and his movements slowing as the reality sinks in. "...No," is all he can murmur, you almost don't hear him.

Your tears don't stop. He lifts his other hand slowly, cupping your face with a gentleness that wasn't there a second ago, like's he's afraid you'll break if he's not careful. When you look at him, he's already tearing up. Tears sit heavy in his eyes, and they start slipping down before he even realizes, his expression a mix of anger and heartbreak. "Why didn't you tell me?" He asks, his voice breaking. You just shake your head, as your own tears continue to spill out as well. "It's not... Michael, it's not what you think-"

"It's exactly what I think," he snaps now, the anger growing again, but it's not towards you. Not really. "He did this to you." He mutters. You don't answer, but that's really all he needed. "Why are you still with him?" He asks, a desperation in his voice. "It's complicated." You whisper. "It's not complicated!" He responds, his voice rising. "He hurt you!"

"It's not like that..." you try to build up a lame excuse, but he won't let you. "Then what is it like? Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly like that!" He presses, his hands drop from your face now as the frustration in him continues to grow. You take a step back, and then another.

"Stop." You say, your voice shaking. "No, I'm not stopping. Not when this is happening." He responds. You couldn't take it anymore.

"It's none of your business!" It was your turn to snap, the words came out louder than you intended and the room goes silent. He freezes. Your chest rises and falls as you breathe unevenly, heart pounding as your words settle in around you both. Then, you finally let it out. "You said it yourself, I'm just a close friend."

That hits him hard, harder than anything else. "You made that clear, so don't act like you suddenly get to..." you hiccup, tears still streaming down your face at a fast pace. "Don't act like you get to decide what I do."

His face drops. He's not angry anymore, or frustrated, just stunned. Like the ground under him just disappeared. "That's not..." he tries, but the words die. Because he knows what he said, what he meant, how it sounded. And now, he knows how much it hurt you.

You quickly wipe your face, shaking your head like you're trying to pull yourself together. "I'm fine," you say, though nothing about you looks like you're fine. Before he can say anything else, you turn and leave. The door closes behind you with an echo in the silence that you leave him in. Michael doesn't move. He can't, so he just stands there. He's frozen in place, your words playing in his head over and over, your face all bruised and broken. It's burned into his memory. Because now he gets it, you weren't just hurting because of your boyfriend, you were hurting because of both of them, just in different ways. He doesn't know which part of that hurts more.

You feel it the moment you step back into that house. You know before a single word is even said. The air feels heavy and waiting. It presses on you the second you close the door behind you, like something is already building. You see him in the living room, he's watching you. You felt his stare before you even saw it. "Where were you?" He sounds calm, but you know better than that.

You try to keep your voice steady. "I told you, I was out."

"With him?" He snaps, walking closer to you. "You think I'm stupid? You think I don't know where you go?" Your stomach drops. This is the exact reason you stopped going, why you started pulling away from Michael. You made yourself smaller, quieter, and easier to manage. But it was never enough.

"I wasn't..." But your voice falters, because you were. And he can so obviously see it. "Don't lie to me," his voice harsh as his hand cocks back, and the next moment you realize your face is turned the other way, cheek stinging. The argument explodes and gets out of control, how it always does. Loud and fast before you can even try to control it. His hand reaches into your hair, gripping and tugging with a force that whips your head back and tears a whimper from you. That's when you notice the tears falling down your face, ones you didn't even know when they started pouring.

"You think I don't see the way you look at him? You think I don't know what's going on?" His voice rises. "There's nothing going on!" you cry, your voice dripping with desperation. You just wanted it all to stop. "You're lying," he yells, his hand coming in contact with your face once more before you're thrown to the ground off to the side. That's when you taste it, the metallic taste in your mouth. Your hand comes up and catches the blood that started dripping out, and for some reason it makes you cry harder. Not the pain, just the sight of your blood.

He rushes back over to you, picking you up by your hair and grips your shoulders, with a force that you knew would leave new bruises. You barely have any time to react or process anything before it spirals and starts getting worse. You're trying to get away, trying to protect yourself, trying to make it stop. Your mind goes into survival mode and every instinct is focused on just getting out. You black out and when you finally come to it, you'd somehow made it out. You genuinely didn't remember how.

You just remember finally opening the door, the cold air hitting your face, and your body moving before your mind can catch up. You're crying, shaking, and your breath is uneven as you put as much distance as you can between you and that place. You're trembling, one eye unable to open from how swollen it is, blood still dripping though you were unsure if it was still from your mouth, from your nose, or from both. But you keep moving, and there's only one place your mind goes. One person.

Michael.

By the time you reach his door, you're barely holding it together. You're limping and growing weaker by the second. Your hands shake as you knock, your body swaying slightly as you try to stay standing. Your breath is coming out in broken pieces. The door opens almost immediately. The second he sees you, everything in him drops. His face falls completely, any composure he may have had was shattered in an instant as his eyes take you in. The bruising, the blood, the way you're shaking, your tears. It all hits him at once.

"Hey, hey..." he breathes, his voice breaking as he steps forward quickly. You don't even get a word out, you just collapse into him. Your hands grip his shirt tightly as you sob into his chest, the sound coming out of you like you've been holding it in for too long. Because you had. Your entire body shakes with adrenaline and fear. All of it catching up to you at once. He holds you tightly. "I got you," he whispers, his arms wrapping around you like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't hold you hard enough. "I got you, you're okay."

His own voice keeps breaking and you can hear it. His face presses into your hair, his lips brushing against your head over and over again as he tries to calm and soothe you. He's also trying to make sense of what he's seeing and feeling. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry," he whispers. So typical of him, to apologize when none of it was his fault. That makes you cry harder. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands slowly coming up to your face, more gentle than anything you've ever felt. His thumbs hover, like he's afraid to touch too much, like he'll hurt you if he's not careful. Then you notice, his eyes were full of tears.

"He's not touching you again," he says, his voice shaking with emotion. "Do you hear me? He's not coming near you ever again. I'm gonna kill him, I swear I'm gonna kill him for ever touching you." You can hear it in his voice that he's crying and you feel his tears hitting your head. "You're safe here, I got you... I got you," he continues pressing kisses to your forehead, to your hair, then again. Like he doesn't know how else to comfort you. His hand moves to cradle the back of your head, pulling you gently back against him as you cling to him again. Your sobs quiet just slightly against his chest.

"Pretty young thing..." he murmurs softly into your hair. The nickname hits different now, not teasing or playful, but protective. "You're okay," he repeats, his voice is steadier now, even as the tears from his eyes continue to fall. "You're okay, pretty young thing... I got you." His hand rubs slowly up and down your back, steadying and never stopping.

"You're safe, you're okay," he whispers again, and then quieter, more certain, "My pretty young thing."

The words settle into you like nothing else has, not as a tease or a reaction, but as something real and protective. For the first time in a long time, you believe it. Because in his arms, you finally feel safe.

The recovery isn't quick, it's not easy either. There are good days, where you almost feel like yourself again, where you laugh easily and your shoulders aren't constantly tense, where you're not replaying things you wish you could forget in your mind. Then there's the bad days, where something small sets you off. A loud noice, a sudden movement, a voice raised just a little too fast. Your body reacts before your mind realizes.

Those are the days that Michael notices the most. He's careful, not in a distant way or a way that makes you feel fragile, more in a way that shows he's paying attention to everything. The way he moves around you is slower now, more intentional. He makes sure to announce himself without making it obvious, he gives you space when you need it but never too much, not enough to make you feel alone.

The first time you flinch around him after everything, it hurts him. He reaches for something near you too quickly, his arm moves into your space without warning, and you recoil instinctively, your breath catching as your body pulls you back before you can stop it. He freezes immediately, not annoyed or confused, just still.

"Hey... hey, it's me," he whispers softly, his voice dropping into something gentle and steady. You blink, and force yourself to breathe. Your hand presses lightly against your chest as you to calm the sudden feeling of panic. "I know," you whisper back. "I know, I'm sorry-"

"Don't," he cuts you off quickly, while he shakes his head. "Don't apologize." He moves slower this time. "Can I...?" He asks quietly, his hand hovering just slightly in front of you, waiting for permission. You nod, and only then does he touch you.

It becomes something he learns, the way to ground you when you drift too far into your head. The way to bring you back without overwhelming you. His voice and his presence, the way he softly says your name when you start to shut down, it becomes your anchor.

But the flirting? It never goes away. It actually comes back stronger. Not right away, not in the beginning. At first, everything is softer and focused on making sure you're okay. Slowly, as you start to feel like yourself again, it slips back in. Carefully and playfully.

"You're staring," you mumble one afternoon, after you catch him looking at you from across the room. "I'm not staring," he defends himself. "You look different," he adds after a couple seconds of silence. That makes your eyebrows raise a bit. "That's a weird thing to say."

"In a good way," he adds quickly. You narrow your eyes slightly and bite back a grin. "You better mean that." He smiles at your rebuttal, that same smile that always gets to you. "You're still my pretty young thing," he says casually, like it's nothing. But it's everything. Your heart skips like it always does. "Stop," you mutter, even as you feel the heat rising to your face. "You like it."

"I don't," you argue. He smirks and you just roll your eyes, but you don't walk away. You never do.

Somehow, even after everything that happened and what you went through, despite the fact that you're still healing day by day, you grow closer. Closer than you've ever been, and neither of you thought that was even possible.

So when he asks you to come to the studio with him, you don't question it. He's done it before, so it's nothing new. "I got something to show you," he says, trying to sound casual. But he sounds off, he almost sounds nervous. And you notice.

"You're acting weird," you look at him suspiciously, as the elevator doors close, before lifting you guys up to the floor where the studio was. "I'm not acting weird," he mutters, not even making eye contact with you. He exhales slowly, looking up at the light above the doors indicating what floor you were on. "You're nervous." It wasn't a question.

That makes him scoff lightly. "I don't get nervous," he tries to act casual, and it's not working. "You do when it matters." He doesn't respond to that, and that's how you know you're right.

The studio feels alive in a way that's different from everything else. There's always energy in it, quiet and focused, while people move with purpose. You settle into the couch behind the producers, like you've done thousands of times before, watching as Michael steps into the booth. He looks at you through the glass, as he puts on the headphones. That same smirk growing on his face and your stomach flips.

You hear his voice through the speakers, softer now, and a little breathless as he leans into the mic. "This one's for you," he says, and pauses for a second before, "I wrote it."

Your heart stops.

Then the music starts.

"You know you,

you make me feel so good inside.

I always wanted a girl just like you,

Such a P.Y.T."

You can feel your heartbeat everywhere, in your ears and your face, in your finger tips. His voice sounds smooth and seductive. It catches you a bit off guard. Your brows furrow in confusion though, at the term 'P.Y.T.' You weren't sure if it was supposed to mean something. You're in the middle of racking your brain before he answers your question.

"Pretty Young Thing, ooh

Where did you come from, lady?

And, ooh, won't you take me there."

Your mouth drops. As the music continues, there's an intense heat flooding your face. You laugh softly without even realizing it, and you can't take your eyes off of him. He sings smoothly and moves his body in tune with the music, his eyes closing from time to time when he savors the music but opening once in a while to look at you with a mischievous glint.

"Let me take you to the max,

I want to love you (P.Y.T.)

Pretty young thing.

You need some loving (T.L.C.)

Tender love and care

And I'll take you there, girl, ooh-oh"

He continues singing and you can't help the tears building in your eyes. You feel so seen and loved as the music flows around you and his voice hits something deep inside you. He keeps smiling at you in that way that makes you weak. The song carries on until he's done and he's still smiling big and wide, as he takes the headphones off and makes his way out of the booth.

"So? What did you think?" He asks, putting his arms out in question. The producers step out quickly and quietly, to leave you in the intimacy of the moment. You chuckle and do the only thing you can even bring yourself to do. You cross the distance between you fast and grip his shirt before pulling him down for your lips to meet.

You both gasp and he freezes before melting into it, hands coming down to your waist. You both let out a breath that sounds like you were drowning without kissing each other. Your hands wrap around his neck as you pull him closer to you, the moment passionate and heated. When you finally pull apart, your foreheads rest against each other, both of you breathing unevenly with the cheesiest smiles on your faces.

"So, I take it that means you liked it?" He murmurs softly. You laugh quietly, still trying to catch your breath. "Yeah, I loved it," you whisper.

At the world premiere for the "Michael" movie, the film has finished and now it is time for the interview section of the evening.

You are stood infront of a small, blond reporter who's interviewing you for your work of the costumes in the "Micheal" movie. The evening sun beams on your face, illuminating your golden skin like a spotlight.

"Hello y/n, you look stunning tonight! Would you tell us about who you're wearing?" she asks.

You flash a timid smile at her before replying,

"Thank you so much, I am wearing custom y/n y/l/n tonight, I am very proud to say that I designed my own dress for tonight and that I am debuting my designer clothing line very soon." You shyly respond while running two manicured hands down the curve of your hips, over your gold beaded floor length dress. Your curly hair falls down your back and you shift your weight from one strappy gold heel onto the other.

"That is amazing! The media has been going insane over you ever since you were announced as the costume designer for the movie, you're only 19! What was it like working with the cast? It seems as Jaafar in particular has a real soft spot for you!" The reporter teases.

Unbeknownst to you, Jaafar stands not far from you on the black carpet doing an interview of his own. He is wearing a black suit with some gold detailing (before the premier, you refused to show anyone your dress, but Jaafar insisted that his suit matched your dress in some way so you made sure to tell him to wear gold). He glances over to you, soft eyes travelling up and down your body admiring your beauty while still trying (he's failing) to stay subtle as he knows all eyes are on him tonight.

"So Jaafar, one last question, we all know how important and impactful Michaels outfits were so how was the costume design process?" The reporter infront of him asks and holds out the mic, anticipating his reply.

Jaafar smiles at the mention of you. He can't wait to talk about you, tell everyone how amazing you are.

"The costume design process was amazing as I got to work with the incredible y/n y/l/n. Me and her really became so close during the process of this movie, she's so kind and made sure that everything fit me like a glove." His smile grows as he continues to speak about you. "We were all really grateful to be able to work with her, she is the most talented girl I know and I value what we have so much".

"It is rumoured that y/n is releasing her own clothing line very soon, what can you tell us about that?" The reporter prys.

Jaafar does know about your clothing line, but doesn't appreciate this man trying to get your personal information out of him. He knows how hard you've worked and doesn't want that to be wasted, he really is so proud of you. So he decided to respectfully (attempt) to deflect.

"That I will not speak on, that is definitely a question for y/n". Jaafar replies, trying not to come across as rude and ends up coming across as protective and territorial.

"Speaking of y/n, there she is right now" The reporter dips his head round another reporter next to him and extends his arm to point towards where you are standing, a few meters down the black carpet. "She looks incredible tonight doesn't she Jaafar", he questions.

Jaafar turns his head towards the direction of the reporters arm, rapidly scanning the crowd in search for you. And there you are. Jaafar's gaze softens as soon as he lands eyes on you. He drags his eyes up and down your body, not only admiring your dress but also the dip of your curves, the way your hair falls down your back, and then his eyes land on the way your breasts fill your corset-style neckline. He watches as your chest falls and rises with every breath. Goddamn you look sexy, he thinks to himself.

"Yeah y/n really does look beautiful, if you excuse me I am going to go and see her." The moment her caught sight of you, her was done with the interview, all he wanted was you. The two of you had not yet seen each other as you had spend all day preparing for the premiere. He missed you.

"Well it really was amazing to have this opportunity to work on this movie and the whole cast really was incredible. Me and Jaafar..."

'Well speak of the devil!"

The reporter soon cuts you off as she sees Jaafar approaching you.

You feel him before you see him. Jaafar swiftly moves to your side and snakes am arm around your waist, gently pulling you towards him. He places a soft kiss on your cheek before lowering his mouth to your diamond earring-clad ear.

"I've missed you, beautiful"

You turn to face him, eyes lighting up and smile brightening,

"Jaafar!" You squeal. Aware of relief washes over you when you see his face.

You throw your arms around his neck and he engulfs you in a hug, arms landing round your waist. You bury your face into his neck, you note how good he always smells and in this moment it's no different. You finally feel like you can breathe. He rocks you softly a few times before pulling away, large hands planting on your lower-back (suspiciously close to your ass). He rubs your back as he tells you how good you look, flashing you his adorable smile.

"you look incredible, y/n" He runs his hands up and down your sides, forgetting where you are. His comment makes you blush, although him complementing you is nothing new.

"Thank you Jaafar, you look really handsome" you respond as you grab his hands and give them a small squeeze.

The reporter stood infront of you is clearly loving this moment as she is watching in awe, but when you divert you attention back to her to finish answering the question she quickly extends the mic back towards you.

"Well as you can see, Jaafar is such an amazing person and he really made going into work so exciting and I'm so grateful that I got to make his costumes. We really bonded during this process and I will forever be grateful for what we have." you speak into the mic while Jaafar looks at you with adoration.

"I really would agree, y/n is so talented and she did an amazing job with this movie, I wouldn't have been able to do it without her support" Jaafar adds.

With that the reporter wraps up the interview, and it is now time for the premier to end. Jaafar places a hand on the small of your back and leads you away from all the reporters. You find a somewhat secluded area down the street, finally some form of privacy for the two of you. You stand, near the wall of the side-alley as Jaafar steps infront of you.

"Hi", you say with a smile.

"Hi" he smiles back. "How are you feeling y/n, are you okay? I know the interviews aren't your thing." He asks.

Jaafar has always been so attentive with you, he knows you may struggle to speak infront of cameras while doing interviews. Which is why you decided to pursue your dream of fashion design. You've always known that you wanted to be famous, but behind the cameras. Not infront of it.

"Im okay. I was very nervous this morning and not being able to see you definitely didn't help." You tell him as you play with the cuff of his jacket. You take notice of the gold trim round the edges of his suit. He really meant it when he said he wanted to match with you.

"Well Im here now, okay. You were so perfect tonight Im so proud of you sweetheart" He places a hand on your cheek and rubs gentle circles with his thumb. His gaze catches yours and you drop his other arm. You place both hands on his chest and he steps closer to you. His body touches yours, now leant up against the wall. Jaafar's eyes never leave yours as he takes another step closer so his body is now flush against yours. You are encapsulated in him. You can feel every inch of him, he's consuming you. You slide you arms up round his neck as he gives your waist a squeeze. His mouth drops down and you tilt your head up to meet him, breath mingling in the small space between you. "You look so fucking good". He breathes before he presses his lips to yours.

Im kinda scared guys I hope you like this lmk if you want a part two... ive never written smut before sooooooo but I hope you enjoy