─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It was early afternoon when Michael arrived home unexpectedly. These days, most of his time was divided between the recording studio and the dance studio. It was rare that he was allowed a moment to breathe, so he decided to come home for a little during his studio engineers' lunch break. 

Michael slid off his loafers and placed them neatly on the shoe rack before wandering into the kitchen.

“Baby, I’m home” he called out to you. Usually around this time of day, you were in the den reading or doing yoga out on the patio. Michael perused the fridge absentmindedly looking for something good to snack on. He settled on a charcuterie style lunchable you’d meal prepped for him; grapes, berries, cheese, almonds and pepperoni. You knew he wasn’t someone who particularly enjoyed eating, so you made sure you kept his favorite snacks ready for him when the mood did strike. Just another small way you showed your love for him.

Michael stood at the counter munching quietly. When your soft voice never called back out to him, he went looking for you. He wandered up the stairs, and he was nearly to the top when the sound reached him. Low and warm, rich like honey. Notes with a slight raspy edge caressed Michael’s ears and he stopped in his tracks.

Was someone else here? That’s weird. You never mentioned one of his sisters or your girlfriends stopping by. And this wasn’t the day Michael worked with his vocal coach. 

The sound lured Michael closer, like a siren calling to a sailor. He was mesmerized. The soulful melody led him to right outside the master bathroom. A soft gasp escaped his throat when he realized where the sound was coming from.

It wasn’t a stereo that had been forgotten, still churning out melodies. And there was no one else here.

“My girl can sing” Michael said to himself quietly, his hand drifted to his chest over his palpitating heart. He had heard you sing before, but never like this. Usually, it was half-hearted melodies or sing-songy Broadway tunes that made Michael giggle. This was different.

Michael closed his eyes and instantly he saw colors and shapes. The notes danced together behind his eyelids, soft gold that melted into a burnt amber before dissolving into a deep violet at the edges. The colors moved the way your voice did, warm and slow, folding into one another.

He had wandered inside the bathroom without even realizing it. He rested his back against the wall and the experience became euphoric. Warm steam flooded from the shower and the manuka honey and vanilla body wash that he loved drifted in the air. 

Michael couldn’t believe it. You had been together for just over 8 months, cooking together, lying awake at night chatting about any and everything, and most recently you’d moved in with him. You had accompanied him on more flights and drives than he could remember. And he never knew. It was completely lost on him that the woman he’d been sharing his daily life with possessed a gift of this caliber that had gone unheard.

Before he knew it, the producer in him roared like a lion. 

“She’s a mezzo soprano”

“Her chest voice is incredible. She can do so much with that.”

“I love how she carried that vowel; she came up with that on her own”

“How long has she been able to do that?”

“Does she know she can do that?”

Before Michael realized it, he had been still for a full minute— and without meaning to— he did what he always did when he heard a melody he couldn’t shake. 

His lips parted and he found the harmony you’d been carrying. It was soft, a few notes below your melody. His voice intertwined with yours as naturally as your bodies tangled together in the warmth of your bed as you lulled each other to sleep. As natural as breathing. The notes locked together and blossomed as if you and Michael had been harmonizing together your whole lives, like two missing pieces of a puzzle. 

On the other side of the shower curtain, your eyes flew open when you realized a third voice had joined you and Lauryn Hill. The water kept running but your singing had stopped cold, leaving Michael’s tune drifting through the air.

“Mikey?” You opened the shower curtain and peeked at him. There he was with a lazy, adoring smile tugging at his lips. 

His eyes drifted over you longingly, admiring the way your soft brown skin contrasted against the pale, soapy bubbles dripping down your body. Water droplets dripped from your lashes onto your cheekbones and your curls began to coil once removed from the stream of water. 

Having natural hair meant that your wash days were extensive, so you had to find some way to entertain yourself. You hadn’t accounted on your doting boyfriend coming home early and catching you belting out notes from "I Used To Love Him".

“Wow baby. Why didn’t you tell me you could sing?” He asked, tone full of wonder. He leaned in to kiss you and let his lips linger, savoring the moment, before pulling away.

Immediately you covered your face.

“How long you been there? Oh God.” You felt heat spreading across the back of your neck from embarrassment. You shut off the water and stepped out of the tub, allowing Michael to wrap a towel around your body.

“Long enough mama, how long were you gon’ keep this lil’ secret?” He teased as he watched you wrap an old t shirt around your curls to dry them. You tried to slip past him into the bedroom and instinctively, his palm cracked across your ass, squeezing gently to soothe it.

You made a face and rolled your eyes. 

“Don’t start Mike, I was just messin’ around.” Michael continued to trail behind you like he always did when he planned to ask you a million and one questions about a discovery he’d made about you.

“I’m serious. I’ve never heard you sing like that before.” He murmured, taking the bottle of lotion from your hands. He squeezed a little into his palm before dropping to his knees. His hands roamed over your thighs and calves gently, massaging the lotion into your skin as he looked up at you.

“That’s because I don’t. Especially not around you or any of my loving sister and brother in laws.” You laughed to yourself under your breath at the idea of trying to hold a candle to anyone in the Jackson family. Singing was really just a hobby to you. Something you took great pleasure in when you could be as loud as you wanted without fear of anyone judging you.

Confusion made its way through Michael’s features. He trusted you with his whole soul and hoped you felt the same way about him.

“Especially not around me?” the question came naturally he was genuinely lost.

You cocked your head to the side like he’d just said the most foolish thing you’ve ever heard.

“Mike, you serious? Because you’re Michael Jackson.” Your statement had every bit of  “duh” laced through it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Ain’t no way I’m gonna try to hold a tune ‘round you when you’ve got the voice you do.” You took the lotion from him and added, “And I’ve seen the face you make when somebody can’t sing. You can’t help it.”

At that, Michael laughed, full-bellied and warm. He was absolutely guilty as charged. Woman, man, nor child was safe from the concerned look that would screw up his features when someone was off-key. And unfortunately for him, it happened often. Just like when he froze mid-sway with a look of absolute discontent while recording “We Are the World” when Huey Lewis took over the melody and messed up his whole groove. Unfortunately for Michael, the camera caught the whole thing and now it was a running joke. Admittedly, Michael was a perfectionist.

“You ain’t wrong. But that, baby— that was perfect pitch. You’ve got one of the strongest chest voices I’ve heard in a real long time. Full of soul, the perfect mezzo-soprano. Reminds me of my Motown days, don’t nobody sing like that these days.” You continued to stare at him skeptically through the mirror as you rummaged through the dresser for something comfortable to put on. 

“You not messin’?” You asked, voice a little shy.

“No baby, I’d never play with you like that. I really mean it. You got somethin' special.” He came up behind you once you’d slid on a t-shirt and a pair of boy shorts. He rested his chin on your shoulder so he could meet your eyes in the mirror. His arms wrapped around your midsection and pulled you close to him.

“C'mon, let me hear it again. Just a lil’ bit. One little tune.”

Teeth found your bottom lip and you shook your head even though you were laughing, a clear signal you were close to giving in. Michael’s voice dropped into a low, old-timey soulful tone, the one he always used when he was teasing. He sang the words deep and sweet,

“IIIIIII would like to sing with youuuu, would you like to sing with meeee?” The melody was simple and he smiled at you boyishly in the reflection of the mirror as he brushed his lips over your shoulder.

Instinctively, you answered in perfect pitch. Your voice was rich and clear, “Nooo” you sang, holding the note with a vibrato and his eyes lit up. Michael turned you in his arms.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You been holdin’ out on me.” You tried to look away as a smile continued to take over your features. He moved his head, following your gaze. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl. Let me see you. All of you.” Soft lips brushed against yours as he swayed you both back and forth.

“Mike, I’m not a singer. ‘S just for fun.” You were still shaking your head at the idea. 

“I’ma put you on a record, baby. Maybe start with background vocals, maybe more. That voice is dangerous.” Your eyes widened at his statement and instantly you blurted,

“Who?! Not me, that's your job papa.” You patted his chest and smiled cheekily. He laughed at your small outburst and pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose. 

“Mark my words, you gon’ sing for me, mama.” Nodding, a glimmer of mischief twinkled in his eyes. One you realized all too well. 

Before he could get any more ideas, you wiggled out of his grasp and sashayed out of the room.

“Boy quit botherin’ me and go shower. You smell like you been dancin’.” 

“Hey!” Michael frowned, lifting one arm and sniffing before his eyebrows rose. “Oooh, you right” he mumbled to himself before wandering back to the bathroom.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

A few days later Michael found himself absentmindedly tapping a pen against a notepad. His studio engineers had gone off for break and he was left alone with the same melody looping through the speakers.

Michael sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. He needed to pivot to get his creative juices flowing again. He began absentmindedly flicking through different melodies he’d been sent by various producers. Sometimes he liked to listen to the tracks again after stepping away from them for a while, maybe inspiration would strike.

Then the speakers changed to a track that Michael didn’t remember declining. The melody was lazy, bluesy like the stuff he grew up on. Marvin Gaye, Sam Cooke, Etta James. It had the warm soul doo-wop that was lost from today’s music. 

Immediately, Michael’s fingers began moving. He layered an electric piano, a clean electric guitar, a deep thumping kick that gave the tune a soulful rhythm, a ticking snare. His mind kept drifting back to your warm, velvety tone. He began building the song around that memory. Every layer he added complimented the sultry, thick mid-register notes Michael had heard you deliver. Before he knew it he had completed the entire melody. 

“Oh” punched from his chest softly when he played back the final result. 

It was so good. So you.

He snatched his notepad from the desk beside him so fast that he nearly ripped the top page. He began messily scribbling down lyrics. The song reminded him of  “I’d Rather Go Blind” by Etta James, and immediately it got his gears turning.

A pen tapped Michael’s lips as he played around with the lyrics in his head, singing softly to himself before jotting.

And you got me like, oh.

What you want from me?

And I tried to buy your pretty heart, but the price too high

Michael paused every few moments and paced the studio as he continued to work through the song. Within 30 minutes, he had the lyrics and melody completed along with a demo. 

His studio engineers returned, and Michael was in a flow state. Quickly, he dismissed them, telling him they’d reconvene that evening. When Michael got like this and a new idea for a song grabbed a hold of him it possessed him until he saw it through.

The confused engineers looked at each other and shrugged, thanking Michael for the extra break time. The second they left Michael swiveled his office chair over to the phone.

He dialed the number he knew by heart and tapped his foot anxiously as he waited for you to pick up. The line trilled three times before your voice came through the receiver,

“Jackson residence, who’s speaking?” Michael couldn’t help but smile to himself at you performing wifely duties already.

“It’s me, baby. How you doin’?” 

The clerical tone melted away from your voice and it was replaced with the warm, loving tone he was used to.

“Doin’ fine just came back in from yoga. What’s up, papa?” You were still wiping sweat from your brow from your work out.

“I need my muse. Can you come down here and lay eyes on some new stuff I been workin’ on? Want your opinion on if its album worthy, and I need some inspiration. Come sit with me.”

Warmth spread through your chest at his words. Michael never failed to make you feel needed, loved, and wanted. He often referred to you as his muse, a source of pure inspiration.

“Of course. Gimme an hour to shower and get dressed and I’ll stop by, alright?”

“Fine by me baby. I’m gonna send someone to get you, take your time.”

You told him you loved him and ended the call. Wonder what he has up his sleeve now.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

A woman of your word, you arrived at Michael’s studio just an hour later. You were dressed cute and comfy. You wore a loosely buttoned flannel that fell open just enough the reveal the curve of your cleavage. The sleeves were rolled up to your forearms showing the smooth brown skin there.

A pair of black shorts sat low on your wide hips and hugged the full shape of your thick thighs. Anklets rested against each ankle and a pair of strappy sandals adorned your feet. A pair of sunnies were pushed into your hair,  holding your curls back from your face and spilling freely around your shoulders. You weren't wearing makeup and your bare face was soft and open. 

Michael felt a possessive tug in his chest as his eyes trailed over your collarbones. Your signature gold jewelry caught the studio lights as you moved, a gold plate that bore Michael’s initials rested there. Unashamedly he took in your shapely figure, admiring the way you rolled your hips as you walked over to him.

You gently grabbed his face, squishing his cheeks as you gave him a warm wet kiss. Michael felt his heart flutter, like it always did when you loved on him like that. You sat in the empty office chair next to him, obviously confused by the lack of studio engineers.

“What’s up, baby? Where is everybody?”

“Gave ‘em the afternoon off. I needed to work somethin’ out. Check this out for me?”

You trailed the tips of your toes up his clothed shin affectionately as he brought up the track. The demo Michael had just recorded began floating through the room and his eyes flicked up to yours. He watched your face the way he always did when he wanted your honest opinion and thought you might hold back. He filed every little expression away mentally with time stamps. He would adjust those parts later.

When it ended, Michael turned fully toward you.

“So, what do you think?”

“It’s beautiful… really beautiful.” You looked over at him. “Who is it for?” You had heard all the tracks for his upcoming album, and you were aware that this was not one of them. 

Sometimes, Michael would record demos for his siblings to emulate if he was writing new material and wanted to hear how it sounded with someone else’s voice or in a different key. This was something he often did with La Toya, sometimes Rebbie.

A shy look took over Michael’s expression and he smiled while biting down on the right side of his lip. He moved closer to you and took your smaller hand in his. He pressed his lips to your palm, giving it soft kisses while he held your gaze tenderly.

“It’s for you.”

His statement didn’t register at first and you just blinked at him.

“Quit playin’. You givin’ it to Rebbie or La Toya? I think it fits Toya more.” 

Michael shook his head and pressed your palm to his cheek.

“That’s too bad, ‘cause this was written exclusively for your vocal range. That chest voice of yours is what this song needs to pop.” You still looked unconvinced, disbelieving almost. Wandering lips drifted over your palm and knuckles again. 

“C’mon baby, for me. Please? I wrote it just for you.” He coaxed in a tone that would make the bees give up their honey. His doe eyes never left yours as he waited patiently, trying not to pressure you— even though he was aching to hear that voice of yours wrap around the lyrics he’d written. He could already imagine your pretty lips forming the notes effortlessly.

Your heart rate picked up when he didn’t take it back or say he was joking. Pointing a finger at your chest, you lifted your eyebrows.

“For me? You serious right now?”

Michael’s expression didn’t change. He was dead serious.

“I’m always serious when it comes to you.” He stood and continued holding your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles sweetly. “You don’t even have to do the whole thing. Just try the chorus or the first verse. Whatever feels good to you. If you hate it, we’ll stop… I promise.”

The room was empty. It was just you, Michael, and the soft hum of machinery. This was the definition of no pressure, Michael had set up the environment perfectly for you. He knew his woman. This was a gift you’d been protecting for a long time, and he wasn’t going to let anyone snuff that light out. There was no one to tell you to sing differently or anyone who could try to polish your authenticity. And he damn sure wasn’t going to.

You were still sitting motionless. Staring at him with a bewildered look. He was acting as if he wasn’t Michael Jackson— like he didn’t just tell you he wrote a song especially designed to cater to your voice. Your eyes blurred with tears and Michael’s expression softened.

“Baby don’t cry, I’m sorry” he cooed, dropping to his knees. “Was it something I said? Am I pushing too hard?” He brought his hands up to your cheeks and brushed your tears away, ready to do anything to soothe whatever ache had arisen.

Your hands came up to his wrists, not to push him away but to anchor yourself and hold him closer. You shook your head before saying,

“No one’s ever done anything this thoughtful for me before. I can’t believe you did this. You’re always watering me and helping me grow, and I just—” He rose to his feet and pulled you into his chest, he held you tight. He understood everything you were trying to say without you needing to.

“I love you. I’ll never dim your light baby, you’re a star to me.”

He held you like that for a long while. He didn’t push or bring the song up again. Just rocked you back and forth like he was soothing a hurt child. After a long while, barely above a whisper you said

“I think I’m ready.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do baby.” Michael mumbled against your hair. He loved the song he’d made for you, but your comfortability was more important than any of that.

You sniffled and pulled away a little to look up at him.

“I want to. Let’s do it.” 

Michael studied your face for a moment looking for any trace of distress before finally nodding and agreeing. He turned and held your hand in his as he guided you inside the booth. Instinctively he adjusted the mic stand to your height from his. He resized the headphones so they were snug and placed them over your ears before placing a kiss to your forehead.

He lifted your arms and gently removed the gold bangles that you wore one at a time. 

“These’ll make too much noise, I’ll hold on to ‘em for you.” He slid the bracelets into the pocket of his slacks. A room temperature water bottle was placed on the stool next to you and he handed you the notepad that contained the lyrics he’d messily scribbled down while in his flow state. “Sip on that and look the words over. Make any changes you want, whatever feels natural. It’s your song, baby.”

Michael was prepping your vocal chords with the room temp water and making sure everything was perfect. When he went back to the control center, he smiled brightly at you and gave you two thumbs up before making a heart with his hands. 

After giving you a few moments to study your lyrics and jot down any revisions you wanted to make you gave Michael a thumbs up. He leaned into the mic to speak to you. 

“You ready, mama?” You nodded and took a deep breath. “You’re gonna kill it, let’s do it.”

Michael counted you in and started the track. Your voice filled the studio just as Michael imagined it would. Warm, rich, and soulful. He was on the edge of his seat and an astonished smile spread across his face. It was like he finally plugged in the one piece the song was missing. You.

When the last note faded, Michael almost broke his thumb trying to hit the talkback button.

“Sooo good, baby. That was magic. Please let me hear it again. Just… one more time.”

So, you sang the song again. And once more after that, just because he asked in that soft tone and looked at you like you had just given him something irreplaceable— a look that made you wanna throw your panties at him. 

When you finally exited the booth you nearly fell over from the force of Michael colliding into you and wrapping you in his arms. He pressed his cheek to your head and held you tight, swaying you like he always did when one of you was overcome with emotion. This time, it was him. 

“You’re so incredible” he murmured against your temple. “I already knew it, but that was amazing, baby I’m so proud of you.”

Your laugh was a little shaky when it came out from the adrenaline you were still feeling. 

“Boy stop, you’re so extra. You’ve been in the studio with the likes of Stevie Wonder and Smokey Robinson. I can do a lil sum’, but I ain’t all that.”

“You all that and two bags of chips.” He pulled back to look at you and you laughed hard at his twist on the euphemism. “I’m serious. We’re keeping this. This belongs to you. And one day when you’re ready… I hope you’ll show the world. I want the whole world to hear what I heard that day you were in the shower.”

“Maybe.” Your voice was softer than you intended and full of possibilities.

The track kept humming in the background under the low studio lights. Michael’s heartbeat was steady under your cheek, and for a long moment neither of you said anything. Everything else could wait— including the unfinished tracks Michael had forgotten he was supposed to be working on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

please respect my work 💌 Everything posted here is written by @brownsugarletters. Please do not repost, copy, translate, claim as your own, upload to AI tools, or share my writing outside of Tumblr without permission.

I put a lot of care into these stories, so please keep them here and respect my space.

It was only a few minutes into your takedown, a small pile of the discarded hair sitting next to you in a neat pile, as you leaned against the foot of the bed. The faint, quiet creak of the wooden door scraping against the frame of the door gave away Michael's presence before he even made himself known as he stepped closer, his feet padding lightly against the floor.

“Baby?” he called out, a soft chuckle falling from his lips, mixing with the sounds of the TV that filled the room.

“Hey, Mikey,” you spoke, leaning into the warmth of his touch as his lips pressed against your temple, almost making the dull ache that built up in your arms disappear.

“Let me help you,” he sat on the foot of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he adjusted himself, your head resting comfortably between his legs as he took one of your braids, careful not to tangle your strands with each other.

“Thank you,” you let your eyes flutter shut as Michael let his fingers take over the braid you were working so hard to unravel, making progress quicker than you would on your own, his years of practice now showing in the way he took care of each braid as the time ticked by, each episode of your show passing by with the outro playing on repeat.

“How do your arms feel?” He spoke, running his fingers through the section he'd just taken down.

“Like Jello,” you sighed, tossing your head back as you slipped your arms down to your sides, giving them a break from the time-consuming takedown.

“Yeah?” He chuckled softly before he spoke again. “Let's get you washed,” he softly spoke, quickly getting up to grab a towel, and as you made your way to the sink.

The strands of your fro thick with the buildup of gel, as you turned on the water, wetting the tips of your fingers to make sure it wasn't scalding hot, dipping your head under the faucet, the constant stream of water running throughout your curls, springing them back to life as Michael let his calloused fingers massage your scalp before taking a few pumps of shampoo, coating every strand, taking his time to give your hair the TLC it desperately needed, a satisfying hum escaping your mouth.

“Is that good?” He spoke, rinsing thoroughly, watching as the buildup and shampoo washed away.

“Mhm, it feels nice,” you whispered, like you were so close to falling asleep right on the spot as he ran the conditioner through your hair, taking a minute to give you another scalp massage. Your eyes fluttered open before shutting again, the warmth of the water soothing you as he rinsed it out, stopping the water, placing the towel over your head, gently drying the dampening curls.

“There you go,” he ruffled the towel against your hair one last time, stepping back to admire his work.

"Thank you, Mikey," you giggled, attempting to keep the towel balanced on your head.

"Of course, baby," he pressed a tender kiss to your lips.

©angelfacediary

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“Who’s angel face over there?” A man said next to you, his beer sloshing over the rim of his plastic cup and spattering on the floor.

You raised an unimpressed brow at him, but pulled your eyes back to the ring. Back to the person he was referring to.

You watched as he ducked, coming back up again and arcing a fist through the air. Landing a clean hit on his opponent's head. The man stumbled back, dizzy and trying to find his footing. But angel face lunged, his steps light, hitting the man in the ribs and the next second his other fist connected with a temple. 

His chest was heaving as he watched the man crumble to the floor, his fists still up and ready, but the referee whistled and reached for his arm, yanking it up to claim victory.

“Michael Jackson wins again!”

Cheers erupted.

Some groaned who had placed unlucky bets against him. 

Michael was practically glowing. Not just from adrenaline, not just from the sweat glistening off his body or his damp hair. It was the energy around him. Pulsing as he spit out his mouth guard and grinned, waving to the crowd. His face flashing on the large monitors hovering in the arena. 

He downed his water before tossing it to the side, not wasting time as he jogged to the edge of the ring and leaned over the side. Smiling wide and ignoring all the cameras.

Looking at you.

You moved on auto pilot, being drawn to him like always. Your feet carried you to the edge and up to your tiptoes.

The world faded away as Michael tipped over the rope, grinning into the kiss as he pressed his lips to yours, his hand cradling the back of your neck with bruised knuckles. 

Despite the salt from the sweat, there was always that hint of cinnamon lingering on his tongue. A little bit of copper too, given his lip was slightly split from a punch. 

Michael pulled back, cradling your face in his hands. “I told you, you’re my good luck charm.”

You rolled your eyes, “you just like being stared at.” 

He shook his head lightly, ignoring the thousands of people sitting up in the stands, of the cameras that were broadcasting to thousands more.

“I just see you.”

His trainer, Bill, came up behind him then, slapping him on the arm. “Alright lovebirds come on, time for your interview.” His tone was exasperated, but he sent you a wink as he pulled Michael away. 

Your eyes flicked from him to the big screens above, watching as he spoke, his words well crafted and breathless.

Wondering how you had gotten so lucky.

THREE YEARS AGO

You winced as the sound of bones cracking echoed across the gym, followed by pained grunts. But before you could even push off the wall you were leaning against, the two men were back at it, circling each other with heads ducked low beneath raised fists. 

When you saw the advert posted in the papers, you hadn’t thought much of it. Medic as needed for a boxing gym. For some reason, you pictured kids running around learning how to fight. Or maybe beginners classes, which they did have every wednesday and friday evening.

What you hadn’t considered, was fully grown men who knew how to knock someone out with one hit. Men who punched like they had a mountain to move. Men who didn’t know how to quit. 

You were fine with blood. You were trained to take care of injuries after all.

Seeing violence on the other hand, you didn’t have the best stomach for it.

This was a little different. Violent yes, but there was something methodical about it. 

Regardless, you weren’t in the headspace to sit and watch. So you pushed off from the wall and made your way back to your office. A little space that probably used to be a closet shoved into the back corner of the gym. 

You’d only been at there for a month, so it still felt clinical. Cold. Only a poster from your favorite movie hung on the wall followed by some flowers you routinely switched out on your desk. 

For the next hour, you flicked through order logs. Any medical supplies they needed more of, maybe some more office decor. You were browsing through lamp options in a furniture magazine when the door suddenly threw itself open and you jumped half way out of your seat. 

Bill, the gym owner, had a man at his side, half way supporting his weight.

You didn’t get a clear look at his face because he was holding a cloth to it, the fabric quickly soaking through with blood. 

Your mind slipped into that comfortable place of being put to work. You had a patient and they needed your help, simple as that. 

“What happened?” You asked, quickly washing your hands at the sink that was in the back corner of the room.

Bill lowered the mystery man onto the examination table, an annoyed look on his face. At least he didn’t seem worried.

“He got carried away, again.” With an annoyed huff, the man left. Already yelling at someone else as he walked out the door.

You raised a brow at the again part, but slipped on your gloves and walked up to the fighter, his breathing a little shallow, probably from the pain.

“Here, let’s see what I’ve got to work with.” You muttered, gently grabbing hold of the bloody cloth and pulling it away. The man's hand dropped into his lap, squinting through an already swelling eye at the light.

You pursed your lips together when you realized who it was. “Are you incapable of a clean fight?” 

Michael grinned at you, teeth slightly stained with blood. “Good to see you, too.” 

Rolling your eyes, you stepped away and threw the rag into the hazards bin before getting everything you needed together.

Looking over your shoulder at him, taking in the cuts and bruises. “You’re going to need stitches.” 

Michael leaned against the wall, his feet scuffing the floor lightly as he kicked his legs. Despite how beaten up he was, he seemed to be in a good mood.

Your eyes trailed over his form, telling yourself it was for medical reasons. His skin was lightly covered in sweat, his knuckles were still wrapped with light flecks of blood seeping through the bandaging, and you watched the rise and fall of his toned chest for a moment. Only a second, really.

He tilted his head, his grin slipping into something more closed mouthed and knowing. “You’re staring.”

“I’m diagnosing.” You clenched your jaw, walking up to him and wiping away the blood around his cuts. The muscles in his stomach clenched at the sting of alcohol. 

Now he was the one staring.

Watching your face carefully as you got the suture ready, his features falling into something more relaxed but too… intense.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered as you came to stand in front of him again, gently tilting his head up. 

He barely flinched as you pierced his skin, beginning to thread the main cut closed.

His eyes, dark brown and glowing in the fluorescents.

“Like what?” His voice was light, his breath lightly fanning over your face. 

You dared a glance down, catching his gaze for only a moment.

He was a very overwhelming person. “Like I’m the reason you keep walking in here like this.” 

He leaned into your touch as you tied off the suture and wiped away more blood.

“Maybe you are.”

You sighed, men like him were always trouble. Never serious. Always chasing the next girl who turned their head. Messy. The last thing you needed. “That’s not funny.” 

He tilted his head, watching you intently as you dug through a drawer.

“Wasn’t a joke.” Michael huffed as he watched you roll your eyes, “is it really so hard to believe I’m utterly head over heels for you?”

You ignored him and grabbed his chin again, using a small flashlight and observing his pupils for a moment.

You clicked the light off and crossed your arms. “You’re a mess.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got the best hands in the business patching me up.” 

“I’m going to stitch your mouth shut next.” Stepping away, you pulled off your gloves and started to scribble instructions for treating his light concussion on the page. Though you knew he’d probably ignore them. 

“That oddly sounds like something I’m willing to try if you’re the one doing it to me.” 

You ripped the page from your notepad and handed it to him, not amused. “You’re lightly concussed and delusional–”

“Not delusional, that’s just you.” He took the paper from your hands, standing up and smiling down at you. “Always messing with my head.” You pursed your lips, but he soaked up the sight of you blushing. He could get drunk off the sight till the end of his days. 

“You’re impossible.” 

“How about dinner?”

You walked to the door, holding it open and gesturing him out. “Goodbye, Jackson.” 

He sighed, walking out but pausing next to you, his voice slipping into a whisper. “You’ll say yes one of these days.” 

Michael left you with a wink and you slumped against the door after you shut it.

Part of you wanted to throw caution in the wind and say yes. A million times yes. But you knew men like him. That would get you nowhere but heartbreak. 

Weeks passed. More stitches. More scolding grown men for being reckless. More declining advances from Michael, the man was committed, you could give him that. 

You had just gotten back from your lunch break when someone rapped their knuckles on the door. Looking up, you raised a brow at Marlon. He didn't come around as often as his younger brother. 

“Can I help you?” He looked okay as you gazed at him. He wasn’t even dressed to fight. Jeans and a sweatshirt hanging on his body.

“Yes, actually.” He walked into your office, leaning against the observation table and giving you an odd look.

“And?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but as if he was trying to figure something out. Figure you out. You straightened a bit at his rapt attention. 

“Why are you dragging my brother through hell?”

You blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

Marlon gave you a Really? expression. “When are you going to give him a chance? I can’t keep listening to him ramble on about you every day, it’s getting really annoying.”

“I’m not going to date your brother just so you can get some peace of mind.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with him?”

Your balked at Marlon. “Nothing’s wrong with him, it’s just–”

“Just what? Are you seeing someone?”

“I…” you stuttered over your words. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“So, no? Then just say yes.”

You were speechless for a moment, looking at him like he’d grown two heads. “Marlon, I’m not going to go on a date with your brother just because you–”

“Don’t do it on my account. Do you like him?”

You felt like throwing something at him. A scalpel maybe. “Why are you so keen on this?”

He shrugged, looking like a copy of his brother, just less roughed up. “Why aren’t you?” 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you leaned back in your chair, tapping your pen on the desk. “No offense to either of you, but I don’t trust him. I don’t trust most men. All of his talk, but I’m sure after every fight he a has a line of women to choose from and I–“

“You do realize he’s practically in love with you, right?”

You shut your eyes. “Marlon, he doesn’t even know me.”

“He’s trying to.” 

Sighing, you considered him. Debating with yourself. Wondering if Michael flirted with everyone like the way he did with you. You didn’t want to look like an idiot if you said yes. Didn’t want to fall into the deep end and not have him there to help pull you out. You had been through that before and it was a pitiful, embarrassing mess.

You should’ve known better. 

Not to mention you were greedy with your affection. Greedy to have the sole focus of whoever you ended up with.

You didn’t have time for wandering eyes.


Marlon gave a short sigh, pushing himself off the table with a shrug.

“You don’t have to say yes. Just stop pretending you don’t see how hard he’s trying.” And with that, he turned and left your office, leaving the door ajar.

You sat in silence for a long while, pen still tapping against the desk, thoughts louder than the gym noise bleeding in through the corridor.

The following evening, you found yourself leaning against the ropes at the side of the ring, watching Michael spar.

He hadn’t noticed you yet, focused on his movements, his strikes sharp and precise. Sweat clung to his skin, making every muscle shift and ripple beneath the light.

You should’ve turned and gone, truly. But your feet stayed planted.

Michael glanced over his shoulder and froze mid motion when he spotted you. The grin was immediate, cheeky and familiar. 

He jogged over, wiping at his brow with a towel. “What’s this? A surprise visit?”

“I’m your medic, Jackson. Hardly a surprise.”

“Actually, it's 11pm, you’re not on shift,” he said, a little too proud that he noticed. “So, unless you’ve suddenly started caring for Bill’s medical paperwork, I’m calling it. This is a visit.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, looking up to the ceiling for a second, not believing you were about to do this.

Your eyes flicked back to Michael, he stood there with hands resting on his hips, sweating, his muscles on show as well as his easy smile. His hair was a mess, sticking up in different directions and his skin was flushed with heat.

“One drink,” you held up your index finger to drive the point home. That’s it. Just to get him to lose interest. Get you out of his system. Get him out of yours.

His tongue wet his bottom lip before he smiled, closed mouthed and cocky. He leaned against the ropes on his elbows, bending his head down to be closer to your eye level.

“Just the one?”

“Mhm, that’s all you get to convince me.”

He raised a brow, looking amused. “Convince you?”

“If you’re worth my time.”

He laughed lightly, running a hand through his hair. “Does now work?”

You blinked at him. “Now?”

Michael nodded once, backing away to pick up his stuff and he shrugged a hoodie over his head. 

“It's nearly midnight.”

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he walked right up to you, eyes taking in your face and the light blush you always seemed to wear.

“And I’m not wasting any time.”

“No.”

He leaned back, brows furrowed. “No?”

You shook your head. “If you want to do this that badly, we’re doing it right. Pick me up from my apartment tomorrow like the gentlemen I’m sure you’re going to pretend to be.”

Michael's hands flew to his heart like he’d been shot, but his lips were tugged up slightly. “I am a gentleman.” He winked as he walked around you. “When I want to be, at least. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“But you don’t–”

“Bill gave me your address.”

You huffed, crossing your arms as you saw him walk towards the exit.

“That seems highly unprofessional.”

“So is agreeing to date one of your patients.”

“It's a date and you’re not–”

“It’s okay, mama, I know you fantasize about me.” He bowed his head, soaking in your flustered face. “Goodnight.”

You stood there for a moment, speechless and trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.

The next evening arrived far too quickly for your liking.

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the soft fabric of the dress you’d impulsively bought that morning. It wasn’t particularly showy, but it fit well, flattering even.

Your hair was down for once, and there was a touch of gloss on your lips that you tried to convince yourself was not for him.

A knock at the door pulled you out of your thoughts.

You opened it, and immediately wanted to shut it again.

Michael stood there, stunned silent for a moment, eyes roaming respectfully, but definitely not subtly, from your face to your legs and back again.

“Fuck me,” he breathed. “You own a dress?”

You raised an unimpressed brow. “You own a shirt with buttons?”

He laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “Touché. You look, well. Stunning doesn’t quite cover it.”


“You’re stalling,” you replied, grabbing your coat.

“Where’s the car?”


He grinned, stepping aside and gesturing down the steps of your apartment.

You followed, eyebrows pinched, only to come to a full stop.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

There, parked neatly beneath the streetlamp, was a black motorcycle.

Sleek. Loud. Predictably him. 

He turned to you, eyes glinting with mischief, and held out a helmet from behind his back. 

“Come on,” he said, “I promise I’ll go slow.”

“You’re not even wearing leather, you're in a button up shirt!”

“And you’re wearing heels,” he said, taking a step closer. “Stop pointing out the obvious. We’re both a little out of our element tonight, come on.”

You stared at the helmet like it had insulted you. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

He leaned in, his voice a notch lower now. “I’ll drive like a saint, I swear on my mother’s life. Besides…” His eyes flicked to your lips, then back up. “We’re not that far. And I’d never let anything happen to you.”

It was the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like he’d burn down cities before letting a scratch land on you.

You snatched the helmet from his hands with a sigh. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

He helped you onto the bike, his hands lingering just a second too long at your waist. When he climbed on in front of you, you hesitated, then wrapped your arms around his middle. His torso was solid, warm, and smelled unfairly good.

As the bike roared to life beneath you, you tightened your grip. You could feel his laugh more than you could hear it, and your cheeks flushed under the helmet.

Maybe you were already in trouble.

By the time you pulled up outside the restaurant, your legs were a bit wobbly, your dress slightly creased from the ride, and your heart still thudding in your chest, not from the speed, but from the way he’d felt beneath your arms.

He gently took the helmet off your head, laughing at the state of your hair before smoothing it down with his hand.

God, you felt like a teenager all over again, it was ridiculous. 

You looked past his shoulder, not wanting to read too much into the intensity of his gaze.

“Mexican?”

The restaurant had a blue neon light flickering with the name, the flag of Mexico swaying softly next to the American one.

“Best one in town, come on.” Without another word he grabbed your hand and led you in.

His skin was warm, his hand much larger than yours and you felt an electric shock shoot up your arm.

Your heart was stuttering. Which was absurd. You’d touched him numerous times while stitching him back together. But all of those moments had been clinical. Years of practice and steady hands. Touches simply meant to mend. 

It was just hand holding, you knew that. It was nothing to get excited about. 

You followed Michael to a table, a white and green checkered table cloth covering it. The lights were low and twinkling, the walls covered in pictures from the family who owned the restaurant. He pulled the chair out for you, really laying the chivalry on thick but you sat without complaint. 

“So,” he said as he sat himself across from you, not wasting any time. “What changed your mind?”

You traced a nail on the table cloth, not wanting to admit his brother talked you into it. So you shrugged, “curiosity.” It was a half truth. You couldn’t wrap your mind around why he’d be actually interested.

Sure, attraction is one thing. Surface level. But you were over and done with flings. Of awkward good mornings after one night stands and crying on the floor of your bathroom. Tired of being scared when you stayed up too late, staring at your door like he was about to break it down. 

You’d been too trusting in the past and not careful with your heart. Not caring about your safety if it meant someone loved you— Wanted you. Was there a difference?

And Michael… he was a puzzle you were trying to figure out. 

The small talk was easy, it usually was with him. That didn’t mean you weren’t blushing or avoiding meeting his eye as you focused on your food or margarita. He didn’t push, and wasn’t necessarily groveling. He seemed equally curious about you. 

“What got you into healthcare?” He asked, leaning back in his chair, his own cheeks flushed from the tequila and his spicy enchiladas. His eyes glowing in the soft light as he looked at you. 

There was a softness about him that night that you weren’t used to seeing on him. You’d only seen him with his chest heaving, sweaty, knuckles bruised and fists swinging. Everything about him and his movements in the ring were sharp. A shark who just caught a whiff of blood in the water. The violence in his eyes palpable. Dangerous. 

But as he sat across from you… he felt like a daydream your mind made up. Brown eyes doting, looking like he was gazing at heaven's gates. Curly hair clean from a fresh shower, looking soft to the touch. A red shirt hanging on his shoulders with the top two buttons undone. On the ride to the restaurant, as the wind blew past them, the smell of his cologne was still fresh in your mind. Sandalwood and salt, maybe a hint of vanilla. 

Everything about him was addicting. Temptation in every sense of the word. Thus, your conscience was screaming at you to be careful. 

You shrugged, twirling your drink, looking at your reflection in the liquor.

“I don’t know. Being able to help people, for one thing. Knowing how to help. The security in it too, maybe? Doctors and nurses are always needed.” 

Michael hummed, “I understand the feeling of wanting to be needed.” 

Your eyes flicked up for a second, a little breathless at the look on his face. He’d leaned forward, elbows on the table and looking at you. Really looking. 

“It sounds selfish when I put it like that,” you mumbled, looking away again. 

Michael tilted his head. ‘We’re only human.”

“I suppose… What about you? What got you into beating people up for a living?’

He clicked his tongue, “you know, voicing this all out loud is making me realize our professions are on the opposite sides of a spectrum.” 

You laughed lightly. That was true enough. He lived day to day breaking people apart while your job was to stitch those people back together. Put him back together. 

“I don’t know,” he continued. “It started out as an outlet, still is, I suppose. It helps clear my head, you know? The world gets too loud and my body needs to be doing something or else I feel like I’m going to explode. And my father…” he trailed off, looking down at his plate but he shook his head, smiling at you but it held a hint of spite in it.

“How about ice cream?”

You considered Michael for a moment, wondering what else lay beneath his exterior. He always seemed so untouchable, but now you were starting to see the fissures. The hairline fractures running beneath the surface of his features. Held tightly together by sheer force of will.

Smiling lightly, you nodded. “Sure.”

You walked side by side down strip of sidewalk in Santa Monica, Michael picked vanilla flavored gelato while you went with your favorite. The dessert was cold on your tongue but did nothing to cool the furnace going off inside you. 

It was a comfortable silence as you passed by bands playing from open-window restaurants, the moon and stars glittered on the water of the Santa Monica Bay.

You found a ledge to lean against that overlooked the water.

He finished off his ice cream, looking at you, a little mischief underlining his expression.

Michael’s shoulder bumped yours, “you don’t like eye contact very much, do you?”

Your face was apparently permanently blushed at this point.

You licked your ice cream, briefly looking at him, only proving his point. 

“Come on,” he turned towards you slightly. “If you can hold eye contact with me and not break it first, I’ll stop bothering you at work.”

You scoffed, “that’s a lose-lose on my part, you know that.”

“So little faith in yourself,” he tsk-d. He then leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Or maybe you like me bothering you.”

You finished your treat, wiping your hands together. “Fine, only so I can finally have peace at work and your brother will stop complaining to me.”

His brows furrowed. “Marlon spoke to you?” 

You waved him off, not meaning to let that out but maybe the Don Julio was making your tongue loose. And reckless. You should not be doing this. 

The moment your eyes met, you immediately regretted it.

He looked too smug. Too soft around the edges. Dimples in his cheeks as he stared down at you. His focus going from each of your eyes to your mouth, before trailing back up again. As if trying to memorize you. Commit you to memory.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe. Being able to look at him properly, up close.

Of course you’d look at him when he was at the gym, watching from a distance as he fought. Standing off to the side on medical stand-by during tournaments. But this close, he was something else entirely.

The different shades of brown in his eyes. His pupils blown wide. The sharpness of his nose and jaw, the soft curve of his lips still stained from his drink.

When Michael muttered your name, breath low and fanning over your own lips you caved, everything feeling too much. Life suddenly in technicolor. 

You went to turn away, but his hands gently took hold of your face and brought it back up, making you look at him.

He was smiling. One you hadn’t seen before. A million different reasons behind it but before you could try and decipher the first one, he was kissing you.

It wasn’t gentle, but it was soft. Michael held you against him like he didn’t know how to handle you, cautious, but sure. No hesitancy in the way his mouth moved against yours, one hand sliding down to your throat while the other buried itself into your hair. 

When his teeth grazed your bottom lip, he breathed in your gasp, your open lips making room for his tongue to explore yours.

You could feel him smiling into the kiss and you felt more drunk off of him more than any cocktail ever could.

Michael went slow with you as the weeks bled into months. Hands held you softly, a complete antithesis to the strength behind his punches. 

Bruised and cracked knuckles brushing softly against your cheekbone. Rough hands loving to touch you whenever he was able to. Drifting along the back of your neck or on the small of your back. His hands falling to your waist anytime you were stitching him up or wiping away blood as he sat on the examination table with you standing between his legs.

No one said anything, but it was obvious as time went on.

You’d stay later than you were supposed to, watched more training sessions and volunteering to be the medic at tournaments or competitions. 

Michael didn’t bother with subtlety. Eyes always going to you, grinning like he’d already won. Winking at you as he downed water after a round.

What really sealed it was the first time he hopped over the ropes after winning, striding right up to you and kissing you. 

The attention from the crowds was a bit overwhelming but he made it easy to tune them all out. He made everything feel easy. 

He’d bring you coffee in the mornings paired with flowers once a week. He didn’t push. Wanting to make sure you were comfortable. You went out for dinner when you could, dancing under string lights and drunk off wine and each other.

All those cautionary sirens eventually dulled in your mind.

On nights where you were both too tired, he was at your apartment or you were at his. It was simple. Secure. 

You felt like you were in a day dream every time you woke up at his side or his head resting against your chest, tangled in sheets and smelling of his shampoo. No longer anxiously looking at the door like it might cave in.

One lazy morning, dawn just barely kissing the California skyline, you ran your fingers through his hair as he slept partly on top of you. Arms wrapped securely around your middle with his head rested against your sternum. It was his favorite position.

He said your heart beat helped him sleep. 

“Michael?” You muttered, voice low and it swirled around the room.

He hummed, his grip tightening. 

You ran your nails lightly up and down his back. “I want to learn how to fight.”

You felt his eyelashes flutter as he blinked, waking slowly and he lifted his head to rest his chin on your chest, looking at you with tired eyes and furrowed brows. 

Michael’s voice was rough with sleep as he spoke. “Okay, but why?”

Shrugging, you messed with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I want to know how to protect myself.”

He turned his head to the side, kissing the inside of your wrist. “I won’t let anything happen to you, you know that right?”

You couldn’t help it as your eyes drifted to your bedroom door. Picturing the wood splintering as it was being kicked in. Of shouting.

His hands threaded in your hair as he leaned up, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he muttered, “come back to me.”

Shutting your eyes, you leaned into him. “I know that, but when you’re not around, I need to know I can protect myself.”

Michael looked at you, his lips tugging down slightly. “I’ll teach you, but is there something I should know? Why–”

Shaking your head, you sat up, slipping out of the bed. “It’s nothing to worry about, I just want to learn. Really.” You weren’t sure if he believed you, given you didn’t look at him as you shut the bathroom door behind you.

Your gloved fists collided with the boxing pads Michael was wearing. 

You were drenched in sweat. Feeling your pulse in every muscle and your breathing too tight. But with each sharp sound of a hit, it drove you forward. 

Michael walked you through the motions. Easy things first. Steps. Dodges. Good practice rhythms. How to angle your arms when you swung so you didn’t hurt yourself. 

Simple. 

And you were furious at yourself for not knowing any of this before. Wondering if it would’ve helped you.

When you messed up the rhythm again, fist missing the pad and grazing his shoulder, you groaned. The sound on the cusp of a scream as it echoed around the empty gym. 

“Hey, what is it?” Michael lowered his hands to his sides, looking every part the trainer instead of the fighter. Wearing a snug t-shirt with the gym's name plastered across it, sweats, and worn sneakers he’s had for years. 

“It’s nothing,” your tone was sharp. A bit bitter and you didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but it was already in the air. 

He looked down at you pointedly. Not believing you. Not pushing either, he needed you to trust him enough to tell him something when you were ready. 

Pulling one of the boxing pads off his hands, he reached up and brushed away some hair that was stuck to your sweat covered skin. Leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ve got you, okay?”

Shutting your eyes and still trying to calm down your breathing, you suddenly felt cold and leaned against him. Burying your head beneath his jaw. Trying to summon the courage to just spit it out. 

He deserved to know you. Completely. Every ugly part of your past, regardless if it was your fault. 

Over the months he had let you in. Let you help or just offer comfort. Telling you of his bad days. Why he really got into fighting. How it started underground before Bill scouted him out. Of drunken nights spent on cliffs. Pain was a creature comfort to him.

But you’d never forget that night… a few months in and you were regretting taking things so slow, worried he was getting bored but a cord snapped almost as violently as his punches. 

It happened under sheets heated up with your breaths. Skin sliding against each other. Exploring and remapping.

Michael tracing over the bruises he’d left on you days before. Muttering things you could hardly hear against your hip. Hands shaking as he held you, guided you, worked you up to a tipping point. 

Thumbs wiping away your tears as you cried out and his voice was nearly inaudible as he spoke into your neck, teeth grazing your throat, “I’m in love with you.” 

You held onto him tighter. Your life line. Crying for a whole other list of reasons.

Using the memory to fuel your courage, you sighed and leaned your head back. Searching his eyes, always so soft with you, before looking down. You were still dreadful at eye contact. 

“I had an ex,” you began, fiddling with the boxing gloves just to occupy your hands and try and ignore how still Michael had gone. 

“I was young and naïve… I thought, or maybe just tried to convince myself, that he acted the way he did because he cared so much.” You could practically hear the memories of him shouting at you. Of objects flying, shattering against the wall by your head. Wincing from sore wrists of where he’d grab you. The splintering of wood as he kicked in your door when you’d finally left him. 

Shaking your head, you continued. “I’m fine now, really. I know I’m safe. I have a restraining order against him. Not to mention you’ve helped.” Chancing a glance up at him, you stilled yourself. 

His experience was unreadable.

Jaw clenched, eyes dark and unblinking. You’d seen him angry and worked up on adrenaline in the ring before, but this… this was silent as it stirred beneath him. Those fissures you noticed that first night you spent together beginning to shift and crack. 

“Michael—“

“What’s his name?” His voice was quiet. Not icy. Not venomous. Not even a bite to it. Just smooth, oil-like in its softness. 

You pressed your lips together. “No.”

Now, his eyes narrowed. Not in any sort of accusation. More so determination. “No?”

Pulling off your gloves and letting them drop to the floor, you gently held his face with your hands, thumbs running softly along his cheekbones. Making yourself meet those eyes of his that saw too much. “I’m okay.” 

You felt his jaw shift beneath your hands. A moment later he let out a slow breath before wrapping his arms around you, resting his chin atop your head. 

Neither of you said anything. Didn’t need to. 

A few days later, when you had been utterly bored after work and waiting for Michael to be done training, you decided to bake something while a movie played in the background.

You’d been in a good mood. Lighter. A weight off your chest. 

You felt a little silly as you decorated the Christmas cookies. Childish. But you were learning to allow yourself moments like these. Healing your inner child or whatever it is that therapists ramble about. 

You drew hearts in icing. Did some other poorly attempted art that you then tried to mask with too many sprinkles.

On a few, you wrote your initials next to his. 

Eventually, you heard the door open and shut. The thud of Michael dropping his gym bag by the door and his feet padding into the kitchen. 

“Hey,” you mumbled, still aptly focused on decorating.

His steps halted, silence greeting you, and when you looked up you paused. 

Michael was staring. Really staring at the cookies laid out in front of you on the table. He looked furious. 

You frowned. “I made cookies.” You looked down at them all. They really did look awful. And the longer you looked you realized how much of a mess you’d made.

Flour was coating everything like dust, colored frosting was smeared, dishes were piled in the sink… “I know they’re not bakery level or anything. But I promise they’re good. My mom and I used to always make them from scratch when we needed something to smile about.” You reached over to a cookie with both your initials written inside a lopsided heart and held it up for him to see.

Michael exhaled, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You froze. Stomach sinking a little. Watching as his hand rubbed at his jaw as he looked away from the cookies. Looking away from you. 

“What?” Although you were trying to shove down the hurt bubbling up your throat, a little bit of frustration seeped into your tone. 

He let out another long sigh. Nearly sounding distraught. Furious. 

You dropped the cookie on the table. The world suddenly tilted beneath your feet. “What the hell did I do?”

Michael looked back at the cookies, not meeting your eyes and he shook his head, running a hand through his hair and tugging at the root. “I can’t fucking do this tonight.” 

Your brows furrowed. “Do what?”

“You’re-“ Michael shut his eyes for a moment. “I need a minute, I can’t breathe in this fucking place.” With that he turned around and left, door shutting behind him and you stood there, the edges of your vision starting to blur. 

Time had passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. 

You packed up all the cookies, shoving them into a corner of the counter before forcing yourself to do the dishes. Needing to keep yourself busy. 

Showered just to do something. Shrugged on one of his oversized gym shirts and crawled under the sheets that smelt like him. 

Your eyes adjusted to the dark and ears pricked when you heard the front door softly open and close. Of slow footsteps. Pausing before the bedroom door. A breath or two before he opened it gently. 

Holding your breath, wondering what he would do. 

When he walked to the bed and gently lowered himself onto the edge, fingers softly brushing back your still damp hair, you couldn’t help it as you leaned into him. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice swirling in the dark. 

“Do you have a hatred of cookies I wasn’t aware of?” You needed to make this light. Manageable. Your heart calmed a fraction when his laugh softly met your ears. 

“No, I love them. It was just…” he trailed off, as if to calm himself down all over again. 

Michael then reached out for you, maneuvering you easily so you were laying against him, your head against his thigh as he played with your hair.

“I don’t know. Seeing you like that. Seeing what you made and you’re just… I want to beat his head in for laying a hand on you.”

You considered his words for a moment before lifting yourself up, fingers meeting his neck in the dark, pure muscle memory at this point. “I’m okay, Michael. Just stay.”

As the weeks went on, he was fighting harder than before. Not pulling any punches. A new rage bubbling beneath his skin. 

The thought of anyone thinking it was okay to hurt you was driving him into a bloodlust every time he stepped in the ring. 

It caused him a few penalties. Shouts from Bill. Fines from tournaments.

But his eyes would meet yours through the ropes. The rest of the crowd fading into blurs. Your gaze was knowing. Brows furrowed at the violence. 

It made his heart swell to know you trusted him so much despite what you’d been through. Trusted him enough not to hurt you. Not to raise his voice. Not to add pressure unless you asked. 

Christmas lights twinkled above the bed. 

It happened slowly yet all at once. Your lives bleeding into one another so seamlessly as another year went by. 

He had moved into your apartment months ago but he still felt his breath catch every time he called you from the gym, saying he was heading home. 

The holidays were his favorite, though they didn’t used to be. 

After dinner with his mother and siblings, you two had come back home to unwind. A bottle of moscato opened and music played softly.

He leaned against the headboard of the bed, sheets falling low on his waist as he watched you move around, arranging lights anywhere you pleased.

For the ambience, you kept saying. 

You were on your toes hanging up a string of lights, one of his shirts falling off your shoulder. 

How perfectly you fit into his life. 

Michael’s voice was soft as he spoke, “Will you marry me?”

Slowly, your hands lowered, the lights gently falling to the ground as you turned to look at him. That crease between your brows making you look adorable.

Your voice was quiet. “What?”

“Come here,” he held out his arm and gestured for you to come closer. Eyes intent as he watched you approach, lifting one knee up before the other as you climbed onto the mattress, sitting before him, hesitant, not quite meeting his eye. 

He wet his bottom lip, smiling a bit as he took hold of your chin, making you look at him.

He said it again. Slow. Purposely. A promise in every syllable. 

“Will you marry—“

Your lips collided with his, arms wrapped around his neck and he rolled you over, grinning into your mouth. Meeting each move of yours with equal intensity. 

His bruised and freshly cut knuckles ached with each movement but he didn’t mind. It made it sweeter. 

Him and Marlon decided to pay your ex a visit two days ago. 

If you ever asked him, he’d just say it was an early engagement present. 

Michael’s teeth tugged at your bottom lip as he pulled back, taking in your flushed features and eyes that glowed in the Christmas lights. 

“I’d still like a yes, if it’s all the same to you.”

You laughed, the sound filling him up with bliss. “I don’t see a ring.”

He didn’t waste any time as he leaned over you and slid open the drawer of the night stand.

In all honesty, he’d been wanting to ask for over a year now. But he wanted it to be perfect for you. For it to be comfortable, genuine. 

And at the dinner with his mother earlier that night, he was finally able to get the ring he’d asked her about all those months ago. 

Michael took hold of the box and then slid off the bed and down to his knees, elbows resting on the edge of the mattress, looking up at you with heaven in his eyes as he popped it open. 

And he said it for the third time, but different.

“Marry me.”

You said yes about a hundred times against his lips, falling back into the sheets and a new ring on your finger that glinted in the lights. 

michael jackson masterlist

It was known that you dominated the charts and the fashion scene; it was hard for even top artists to get a number one album with you around.

The lights were heavy against your face, nearly blinding you as you tried your best to blink away the white spots that took over your vision as you looked over at the interviewer.

“Michael Jackson just came out with his first solo album. How do you feel about you being more successful than him, despite being in the industry less time and being the same age?” she asked, smiling at you, waiting for an answer as the cameras rolled, broadcasting that grainy texture that was fine for the time.

“Like Jackson Five Michael?” You laughed before continuing. “He's a cute little opening act, but it's very clear that I dominate the charts, and you know, I don't compete with opening acts. I mean, you don’t see him on the cover of Vogue either, do you? He's adorable though,” you relaxed back in your cushioned seat.

Unbeknownst to you, twenty-year-old Michael sat in front of his TV screen, looking at you like you'd hung the moon and the stars one by one. His hand clutched one of the magazines you were on the cover of; one of your CDs from his personal collection sat on the ground next to him. He was both angry yet intrigued by you somehow, and though he was beyond offended, he was still enticed by you.

Maybe that was just the effect you had on people despite your shitty attitude.

Fast forward to present day. Michael Jackson, the guy who sang hit songs of the time like "I'll Be There," "I Want You Back," "Don’t Stop 'Til You Get Enough," "Rock with You," and now most recently: "Thriller." But your main problem was the fact that both of your songs were fighting for the number one spot and the fact that it was Michael who you were fighting with. But you should have expected it with the fame he had from all his eras leading up to "Thriller," and though you were way more popular than him, you were still pissed. In fact, that number one spot should've been yours all the way, considering the fans all over that you'd accumulated through your years of making music, not to mention the modeling gigs that you had lined up for months in advance, including the shoot with Michael to promote the '84 Grammys.

The Grammys wanted to see their views climb, and the fans wanted to finally see the two most recognized artists in the world in one shot, so there you were at the Rolling Stone shooting that both of your PR teams forced you to be at in spite of you two hating each other's guts.

The set was beyond lively, the lights blared against the shoot, the crew ran around fixing the lighting and your outfits. Everyone was excited to work with the two biggest stars of the time.

“Michael, don't step on the dress!” you snapped at him, the tip of his shoe just barely nudging the edge of your dress, ruffling the fabric slightly.

“I'm barely touching it, stop being a baby!” he raised his hands up, acting as though he was so annoyed, but in reality, he was beyond excited to be near you.

“Okay, you two, let's get this over with so we all stop hearing this bickering,” the photographer spoke, angling her camera perfectly, attempting to catch the perfect shot.

“You heard her,” Michael whispered quietly enough that you were the only one who heard that slick comment.

“Whatever, just do what you're here for,” you bit back harshly. “You're only here because I'm carrying the cover.”

“Let's let the votes decide that on Grammy night,” the remark was smooth as he adjusted his tie, getting back into position.

“This isn't going to work,” the photographer looked at the images again, shaking her head. “I need you guys to scoot closer and act like you don't hate each other! Ah, perfect!” she snapped another photo, admiring the shot.

It was a few more hours of being in close proximity to the person you hated most, your eyes and head hurting from the giant lights that brightened the room as you stretched out your limbs, completely ready to take the restricting dress off and change into something less restricting as you headed towards your manager.

“See you Grammy night,” Michael smirked, walking past you and out the door. You hated that gorgeous smirk and how cocky he was no matter what room he was in, and it annoyed you completely. Actually, it did more than annoy you; it completely pissed you off.

Grammy night was beyond hectic, the constant flashes of light bearing down on your face as you smiled on the red carpet, full of other nominees as they chatted with each other, excitement buzzing in the air. The gorgeous updo that you had your hair in was perfect, matching with a silk ivory dress that made you look like an angel that fell down just for this night. The heels you wore were perfect, clicking across the floor as the hem of your dress swept against the carpet.

You looked unreal, angelic, and everyone knew it, especially Michael as his eyes drifted off to where you were standing. Even though in the public eye you were enemies, hated each other's guts, and though Michael didn't speak too much on it, it wasn't his style, but you? You were more than vocal on how much you despised him.

While Michael was nominated for twelve categories, you were nominated for just one more, making it one of the most anticipated Grammy nights in history. People were desperate to see who would take home the most Grammys in one night between the two of you as everyone sat in their seats, whirling with excitement. You sat in the front row, chatting with a few other celebrities, the lights dimming as a familiar voice, one you knew sounded familiar, spoke the opening monologue.

As the night went on, you became increasingly frustrated with the fact that Michael was following close behind in the amount of wins.

One, then two, then suddenly the count was tied with you, coming to a whopping eight Grammys. Each time he stepped up to the mic, he made sure to wink at you. The cameras instinctively moved in to see if there was a change in your facial expressions, a bitter smile playing out on your face that very few would be able to see through.

By the end of the night, you'd both cradled eight Grammys in your arms, a smile plastered all over Michael's face behind the blacked-out aviators as he smiled for the pictures, but you were pissed. You were supposed to be the winner tonight, not both of you. So there you were, a strained smile spread across your face, cradling the eight hard-earned Grammys you'd won like it was a baby you tried so hard not to wake.

It was even worse at the after-party. People swarmed the two of you, constantly asking how you felt about eight Grammys as the music blasted heavily through the speakers in the dim lights. Colored rays of light streamed through the air as the heat from everyone's body made the room feel immediately hot and stuffy. Your head started to hurt from the constant pounding of noise and questions that hounded you, taking a second to step out into the February night.

The sounds of the nightlife spilled out from the building. There was something about the dark night sky, stars that twinkled, illuminating them with the dim light as you took another deep breath. Sure, on the outside you were cocky and overconfident for a good reason, considering the fact that you were used to being on top, people all over rushed to catch your attention, pulling you every which way for photo shoots and performances. But deep down, it was nice to have someone who understood the pressure of being perfect all the time, even if it was your worst enemy.

"Hey," the sound of the door closing and that familiar voice, taking your attention away from the night sky. For once, you stopped to think if you should snap at him with a slick remark or if you should just be normal for once.

"People are looking for you." He stood next to you, hands dug in the pockets of his trousers, his eyes too focused on you, the occasional golden beam of light veiling over the two of you. It was a rare moment of silence, silence where there were no flashes of cameras, no yelling of paparazzi, no one there to ask you how you felt.

Just you and Michael.

“You feelin' all right?” Concern took over his voice; he looked anxiously between you and the road.

“I'm fine, Michael.”

“Oh, okay.”

Another moment of silence washed over you. The nightly sounds taking over the conversation as you stepped side to side.

“Y'know, I've always been a fan of you,” he laughed before continuing. “I kept up with you like you were the most important thing in my life. Then I saw that interview of you calling me an opening act and… I felt some kind of way, kind of angry, but I couldn't be mad because I was so obsessed with you.” The words fell out uncontrollably, falling into the almost empty night air.

"Yeah? I didn't know you felt like that," you shuffled, heels snapping against the concrete.

"Yeah, I've always thought you were gorgeous, hoping I'd have the opportunity to be close to you, but you always seemed to have something against me." He turned to face you as you stepped closer, your bodies nearly touching as you turned to face him.

"If I really hated you, would I still be standing here? And I sure as hell wouldn't be standing this close to you," you spoke, poking a finger at his chest, feeling his heart's heavy rhythmic beating under your finger.

"What? So you don't hate me?"

"Of course not. In fact, I admire you, how well you handle the pressure of the world." You leaned in closer, the warmth from your glossy lips radiating, only making the urge to press his lips against yours more heavy.

"I wanna kiss you," he murmured nervously, despite that cocky exterior.

"Do it then," you spoke like you were daring him before the feeling of warmth enveloped your lips, fingers instinctively intertwining with his own gloved hand.

Everything after that was a blur, from you two in the back of your car, lips sloppily connecting with each other as you made your way back to your penthouse, Michael feeling so bad that he ended up tipping your driver hundreds just for what he had to endure.

The heavy elevators slammed shut, the two of you barely making it inside without tearing each other apart, lips mashing together again, more desperate this time as the two of you could barely contain the excitement that whirled through the stuffy elevator before the ding of you reaching your floor caught your attention. The sound of the heavy door parting, revealing your penthouse, and the smell of you taking over his senses completely.

Your heels were the first thing to come off, the ache that was pinging through your heels easing from the sudden pressure that was being released from your shoes being tossed near the door before a trail of clothes led up to the door of your bedroom, your dress being the last thing to go as you slipped it down, revealing the perfect set underneath that made Michael's jaw go slack and his underwear grow tighter by the second.

"I-I've never done anything like this." The words came out nervously, despite the fact that he was on top of you, arms caging you in as you lay down against the plush sheets of your bed.

“What?” To be honest, you were a little shocked hearing that, and considering the fact that he was such a ladies' man and that he had Brooke Shields hanging on his arm all night, you were almost sure he'd at least have some kind of experience.

"Is… that okay?” You nodded slowly, sitting up on your elbows.

“Sit on the edge of the bed," you spoke, watching as he followed your orders, scooting closer to the edge of the bed as you slipped down to your knees, your finger intertwining with the waistband of the underwear, nudging it down and encouraging him to lift his hips as you slipped it down to his ankles, watching as his dick sprung against his stomach.

“Let me take care of you, okay? " you cooed, letting your fingers wrap around his shaft. The familiar leak of precum coating the sensitive head, your thumb rubbing over the slit. The warmth from your hands sent Michael in a spiral; his body felt hot, hands covering his mouth, worried that the lewd sound that threatened to slip from his throat would be too loud as he felt your hands slide up and down in a slow, teasing motion that made his hips buck instinctively.

“Oh…” he groaned, tossing his head back, soaking in every little bit of your pretty hands running against him.

“Is that good?” You murmured, slightly speeding up the pace.

“Mhm, more than good." His eyes were just barely open, looking at your eyes that peered up at him through his lashes, gasping at the sudden gush of sensitivity that washed over him, the sensitivity that was building up in his dick, which was so intense that he wasn't sure what to do with it.

He kept one hand on your head, the other planted into the mattress, keeping him up right.

“Wait, wait," he moaned out, his hips bucking up into your hand. “What's wrong?” You stopped in your tracks, filling your face as you shifted on your knees, the soft carpet saving your knees from the pain of the floor.

“It's not you, I promise. I just want to feel you, Mama."

It wasn't long before your bra and panties were tossed somewhere in your room. Michael was in between your legs as you lay on your back, too eager to feel your walls against him as you kept your arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips, soaking up the feeling of him pressing inside your entrance, earning a moan from the both of you as he rocked his hips slowly, trying his best not to seem desperate for you.

“Is this okay?” He was nearly breathless. The only thing he wanted to do was bury himself inside of your walls as you cried out his name.

“Please, Michael," you whined, rolling your hips in a circle in order to get some kind of friction before he moved gently, each thrust accompanied by the wet squelching and skin slapping as you grasped at his back, manicured nails digging into his skin that went unnoticed because of the fact that he was way too deep inside you to care.

"Mike, you're doing so good, just like that." Everything felt way too much; the heat between your bodies made everything way too hot. A thin layer of sweat spread across the two. Your once neat updo is completely run ragged by you repeatedly tossing your head back against the pillows. The rest of your limbs were wrapped around Michael like he was the last thing you'd be able to touch.

His rhythmic thrusts became sloppy, mixed with the sensitivity of his previous near-orgasm, and the way he was pumping in and out of you now almost made him dizzy as your walls clenched around him.

“I can't s'good," he whined, continuing the sporadic movement of his thrusts. Michael didn't know much about sex, but he did know a few tricks from his years of hearing his brothers talk about all the girls they'd hooked up with. Taking that knowledge, he slid a hand that was once used to cage you in down to your clit, rubbing gentle circles, your body lurching forward in slow waves of pleasure as you rolled your hips.

“Fuck—” You were so close; everything was so, so hot, makeup running down your cheeks from the tears that kept falling through your already hazy vision.

"Michaell," you huffed out. Your body convulsed around him as you bit your bottom lip, nearly drawing blood from how hard you were biting down on it, as you gripped the sheets, making your knuckles hurt. Michael, on the other hand, was in pure bliss, somehow just barely managing to pull out, spurts of his cum leaking out onto your stomach as he caught his breath.

"Are you okay?” You laughed at his dazed face, eyes that seemed unfocused, glazed over, and mind clearly too fogged up to even think properly.

“Hm? Yeah, yeah."

“You sure?"

“Yeah, I mean, I'm here spending Grammy night with you, so I'm more than fine."

"Ugh, don't be cheesy."

“What? I thought I was being romantic or somethin”

“Yeah, no."

Taglist :

　WHEN MICHAEL CAST one last glance at the clock perched above the fireplace, he let out a tired sigh. The television screen was the only source of light in the room, its images throwing muted colours onto the singer’s exhausted face.

　It was almost three o’clock in the morning.

　Michael was no stranger to sleepless nights ━ those endless nights when he would sometimes find himself swamped with work. Yet tonight, it wasn’t that he lacked the desire to sleep. For once, he was utterly exhausted.

　But you still hadn’t come home, so there was no way in hell he was going to go to bed without you.

　His fingertips rolled over his thighs in a rhythm meant to be comforting and patient. He had been wearing his checked pyjama bottoms and his old white t-shirt ever since you had left the house a good six hours earlier.

　Michael was slumped on the sofa, a plate of ice cream abandoned on the coffee table, his eyes darting back and forth between Some Like It Hot and the clock, which, over the course of those six long hours, had become his worst enemy.

　He felt as though every tick-tock was actually mocking him, a way for it to remind him that you still weren’t there and that, despite the hours ticking by, time was passing oh so slowly.

　Michael had hesitated over whether to hurl the remote control at it or throw it into the fire. He wanted to put a stop to the taunts, but something told him that you wouldn’t appreciate him destroying your Canetti, which you had paid a small fortune for to fill that wall that had seemed too bare to you.

　He regretted not having invested in a dartboard instead…

　The singer shot another glare at his arch-enemy and, realising that only two minutes had passed, threw his head back, his curls falling limp against the velvet sofa. His stomach seemed to knot up again, and he found his lip caught between his front teeth.

　You should have been home at least a good fifteen minutes ago. Not that Michael was keeping tabs on you or expecting you to come home at a set time ━ no, you were perfectly entitled to have fun, he had complete faith in you ━ but your friend had phoned him from the bar where you were partying to let him know you were on your way home…

　And that had been twenty minutes ago.

　Michael liked to tell himself that he wasn’t the sort of boyfriend who made his girlfriend feel as if she were in prison with him but ━ damn ━ right at that moment he regretted it.

　He should have at least sent Bill.

　That was what his mind kept repeating over and over. He should have asked him to come and pick you up to make sure you got home safely, but your friend had told him that you had slipped away in a taxi, and it had been too late to send anyone to fetch you.

　Michael decided to wait another three short minutes before phoning Bill to ask him to come and pick him up so they could search the whole state for you.

　If anything happened to you, it would kill him. You had been his whole world ever since he first met you a few years ago. Love at first sight, Michael had told you, and ever since then, he had been certain that if you looked up love in the dictionary, you would find your name in the definition.

　You were going to walk through that door safe and sound, Michael was convinced of it; it couldn’t end like this. He took a twentieth deep breath, his foot unconsciously swaying from side to side on the coffee table.

　Where the hell were you?

　The metallic jingle of keys was enough to dispel the fear that was beginning to gnaw at him in the darkness of the living room.

　Michael sprang to his feet and raced across the room, his long legs giving him the edge. His hands were trembling slightly as he grabbed the door handle and flung the door open. The wood banged against the wall; there would surely be a mark, but he didn’t care.

　You had finally made it home safe and sound.

　"Oh, God thank you," he whispered. "I was getting worried sick, baby…"

　You had to cling to the door handle to stop yourself from falling. Your purse had slipped off your shoulder and was now dangling from your wrist, mirroring the pair of heels you were holding in your other hand. Your eyes were half-lidded, your lipstick had smudged and your eyeliner had run slightly at the corners of your eyes. You looked like a mess.

　"’m fi… ne…" you hiccuped.

　"Girl, you’re not fine," Michael chuckled, walking toward you. "Come here, let me help you get to bed━"

　You flinched back, almost falling to the ground as you pressed yourself flat against the door.

　"Noooooo!" you shouted suddenly. "Back… off! I have… a boyfriend, mis… mister. So… shoo!"

　Michael blinked. He let his arms fall to his sides, his eyebrows gradually furrowing. He glanced behind him, as if to check that there was no one else there whom you might be addressing, before turning his gaze back to you, looking completely confused.

　"You… you what now?"

　"A boyfriend!" you declared, trying to stand up straighter. "He’s tall and… handsome and str… ong… and he will… beat your ass… if you get too close to… me."

　If you hadn’t been so heavily intoxicated, Michael would probably have burst out laughing at the way you were talking. He wasn’t sure how you would react if he made fun of your hiccups.

　He opened his mouth to try to talk some sense into you, but when he saw how close you were to collapsing to the floor, he decided to take a different approach instead.

　"Oh, you got a man, huh?" he asked, taking a step closer to catch you just in case ━ he needed to get you to bed as soon as possible. "That’s a real shame, sweetheart. What’s he like, this boyfriend of yours?"

　You beamed at the question, swaying lightly.

　"The best… sings to… to me all the time…"

　"Does he now?" Michael mused, taking another step. "And where’s that man of yours now, mmm?"

　You face fell into a pout.

　"Busy… works too much…" you answered sadly. "… but if you try anything he’ll ki… ck you!"

　His amusement gave way to a sense of guilt. Michael knew he was working incredibly hard and was rarely at home these days. He had probably never realised just how much it might be affecting you until tonight, as he saw your eyes fill with tears. Michael panicked for a moment. He didn’t want to make you cry ━ he hated seeing you sad ━ so he stepped closer and placed a hand on your forearm.

　"Alright. I hear you, I hear you. I’m not trying to steal you, I promise. I’m just here to get you to bed safely. Your man would want you safe, right?"

　You looked at him suspiciously for a moment. His black hair curled around his face, with a stray lock resting against his forehead. He was looking at you with four large brown eyes that seemed strangely familiar to you. Surely, that wasn’t normal.

　"You know… you kinda look like him… like, a little bit…"

　"Oh yeah?"

　"Yeah…" you nodded, stepping closer. "… Same eyes… same… same smile…" you squinted harder. "… but my man is prettier… like way prettier… no offense…"

　Michael let out a laugh.

　"None taken. I’m sure he is, baby," he was smiling now. "Come on, pretty girl, let's get you to bed. I promise, I'm just helping, that's all."

　You let him guide you, but you kept your distance, your body tense. He led you to the hallway, his hands firm but gentle around your waist. You were mumbling things, your head rolling down to the side opposite his neck. The guy smelled of sandalwood and musk just like your boyfriend and it was enough to send you spiralling.

　"Miss him sooo much… like so, so much… you know how much?"

　"I’ve a feeling you’re about to tell me," he murmured, walking you around a corner.

　"He has those eyes… big, brown, doe eyes that just… he looks like Bambi, you know?"

　Michael flashed you a smile.

　"From Disney?"

　"Oh, yeah… but Mike’s waay cuter…" you missed a step. "Love kissing his nose too... so perfect... and his hair… so soft… he likes when I… run my fingers through it… he even purrs."

　"I do not purr," he chuckled sheepishly.

　"’course you don’t… you don’t have nice hair like him…"

　"Right, right."

　"... And his hands... things he does with his hands and his mouth, oh━"

　"Okay! Okay, wow," Michael cut you in, feeling the heat creeping up his neck. "That's enough detail, don't you think, sweetheart?"

　"You're just jealous..." you hiccuped. "He's the best... so sweet to me... makes me breakfast in bed and lea... ves notes for me when he goes to wo... rk... and dances with me in the kit... chen..." you let out a lovesick sigh. "Just love him sooo much..."

　He gently eased you down onto the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you. Michael was looking at you with such a shy smile that he almost felt childish about it. No one had ever spoken of him as kindly and affectionately as you had.

　He knew you loved him, even though you weren’t the sort to say it every day. In fact, you hardly ever said it, but he knew. It was written in all the small things you would do like giving him small things that made you think about him for no reasons at all or you staying up all night just to have a chance to see him after a long day at work.

　"You really love that guy, huh?" he murmured, taking off your shoes delicately.

　"With my whooole heart..." you patted your chest clumsily.

　"He's very lucky to have you."

　"’m luckier…" you hiccuped once more.

　You peered down at him, your head tilted at an angle that was giving you a double chin. You could see white teeth flashing at you. Your eyes squinted, trying to focus on his face in the dim light.

　"You look... familiar..."

　"Do I?"

　"Yeah... you kinda look like my Mi... ke... if i close one eye..." you squint harder. "... or both..."

　Michael laughed at you, putting your shoes aside.

　"Must be the lighting..." he bit his lips, trying to hide his giddiness. "Handsome guy?"

　"Very..." you nodded eagerly. "... most handsomest of handsome perfectsome man..."

　"Girl, that sentence makes no sense!" he threw his head back.

　You simply hummed and sank into the mattress, your eyes already fluttering closed.

　That was the moment Michael chose to get to his feet. He stood there for a moment, watching your chest rise and fall beneath your dress, which looked far too uncomfortable to sleep in. He would try to take it off you later, though Michael doubted you would let him in your current state. He was about to walk into the bathroom when he felt a hand grip his wrist.

　He looked down at you.

　"Tell him ‘m home... safe, 'kay? He gets so... worried when I go out... Don't want him to be mad..." you mumbled sleepily.

　"Don't worry, baby, he's not mad at all," Michael reassured you, sitting on the bed next to you, the back of his fingers caressing your cheek lovingly. "He could never be mad at you."

　"I know... he likes when I've fun... but... don't want to worry him..."

　"It's okay, he's not worried anymore, sweetheart, you can sleep," he cooed, his hand never leaving your face.

　For a moment, you seemed satisfied with his words, welcoming Morpheus gladly, but the very next second a wrinkle appeared between your eyebrows and your eyes flew open, your pupils almost swallowing your irises.

　"You need to… back off... Told you I had a man... I'll tell him to... kick you..."

　Michael laughed, pulling his hand away from your warm skin. He raised both hands in a gesture of peace.

　"Alright, alright. I don't want any trouble."

　He got to his feet and continued on his way to the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, as he reached for some cotton pads to remove your make-up, Michael looked at himself for a moment. His eyes scanned his face carefully and lingered on his nose. You had called it perfect, and it was true that you loved kissing him in that exact spot. Yet he was often embarrassed when you did it... But now that he had heard your drunken words, Michael couldn’t help thinking that perhaps... you were right.