𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒊

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

The air inside the private mixing suite at Westlake Recording Studios was heavy with a rich, unmistakable scent of vintage leather, magnetic tape, and the subtle, lingering floral notes of Michael’s preferred perfume. Outside the soundproofed mahogany double doors, the chaotic machinery of the global press launch for Bad was already humming at a frantic pitch—publicists whispering into bulky corded phones, assistance shuffling schedules, and security guards pacing the carpeted hallways.

Inside, however, time seemed to slow to a deliberate, excruciating crawl.

You sat in a plush, chocolate-brown velvet armchair, carefully smoothing down the hem of your sharp cream blazer. Underneath, a deep burgundy silk blouse hugged the lush, generous curves of your bust, tucking neatly into a tailored pencil skirt that emphasized the dramatic swell of your hips and the long, smooth line of your legs. 

Your long, dark curly hair tumbled over your shoulders in soft, voluminous coils, framing a face characterized by smooth, glowing dark skin, sharp high cheekbones, and expressive pair of dark brown eyes that had seen through enough media fluff to know when an artist was performing and when they were being real.

Across from you, sitting on a matching velvet sofa with his long legs casually crossed at the knee, was Michael Jackson.

He was striking—almost painfully so. Wrapped in the dark, edgy aesthetic of his newest era, he wore a black leather jacket fitted with silver buckles along the sleeves, a soft red shirt unbuttoned slightly at the collar, and black trousers that clung to his lean frame. 

His dark jheri curl glistened under the warm studio spotlights, soft tendrils framing his face. His aviator sunglasses rested on the glass coffee table between you, right beside the polished silver cassette recorder that sat waiting to capture your exchange.

What surprised you most wasn’t his appearance, but his eyes.

Press rumors had painted him as painfully shy, timid, and quick to hide behind his hands or his sunglasses. But from the moment you had stepped into the suite, extended your hand, and introduced yourself as a senior feature writer for Ebony, those dark, wide eyes had locked onto yours with a quick, unwavering intensity.

He didn’t look away. He didn’t blink. He sat there, chin resting lightly in his palm, studying the cadence of your voice, the curve of your lips, and the confidence with which you carried yourself. 

You reached down, your long, manicured fingers hovering over the small red button of the tape recorder.

“All set, Michael?” you asked, your voice smooth, rich, and naturally composed.

Michael tilted his head, a slow, incredibly soft smile playing at the corners of his lips. His dark eyes tracked the movement of your fingers, then drifted back up to hold your gaze with an intensity that sent a subtle, electric shiver straight down your spine.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmured. His voice was a gentle, velvety purr, but there was a quiet, playful edge underneath it. “I’m all yours.”

You pressed Record. The small red light flickered to life, and the subtle click of the reels turning filled the narrow gap between you.

“It’s been almost four years since you’ve recorded and come out with a new album,” you began, leaning back into your chair, crossing your long, smooth legs. The slit of your skirt shifted slightly, exposing a silver of golden-brown skin. Michael’s gaze flicked down to your knee for a fraction of a second before snapping right back to your eyes. “How do you feel now that the album is out?”

He shifted on the sofa, leaning his elbow on the padded armrest, resting his jaw against his knuckles. He didn’t break eye contact for a single breath.

“I feel… rejuvenated, kind of,” he answered softly, his voice carrying that signature rhythmic cadence. “Because after working on it for so long… it's so much work. A lot of people, they’re used to just seeing the outcome of the work. They never see the side of the work you go through to produce the outcome. And… I feel, you know, rejuvenated and happy. It’s a jubilation. I mean, it’s what it is. It’s like a celebration. Like we’re done.” 

“A celebration well deserved,” you said, offering a warm, knowing smile. You looked down at your notepad, though you hardly needed it. “How long did it take to come up with the creative process for this project? You wrote seven or eight of the songs on this album yourself.”

Michael let out a soft, airy laugh, his dark eyes sparkling as he watched you.

“I don’t remember,” he admitted softly, a gentle shrug shifting his black jacket. “I totally don’t. I don’t even count the hours or anything. Every song is different. Sometimes it happens quickly, sometimes it happens slowly. No one can quite say what the creative process is, because I have nothing to do with it, almost. Because it’s created in space… it’s God’s work, not mine, you know?”

“Talking about that,” you said, leaning forward slightly, resting your forearms on your thighs. The movement brought you closer across his space, the subtle of your vanilla-and-cherry blossom perfume drifting across the table. His dark eyes widened slightly, his nostrils flaring just enough to catch the scent before his gaze anchored back on yours. “God gives us a lot of gifts, a lot of times. And you’ve been really blessed with a tremendous amount of gifts. And yet, it seems as though a lot has been required of you. Do you sometimes regret being so famous?”

A quiet beat passed. 

Michael’s expression softened, the playful spark giving way to something deeper, more introspective. But his eyes never left yours.

“No… sometime. Only sometime,” he corrected gently, trailing off for a moment. “Sometimes I want to sneak into places and not have any hoopla, or you know… and it doesn’t work all the time, because people start and they crowd around, which is sweet—I mean, I shouldn’t complain…”

“No, but you have a right to complain,” you interjected smoothly, your tone dripping with genuine empathy. “Because everybody has the right to go out there and just be alone. But it seems like that right isn’t really given to you.”

Michael’s gaze deepened, a profound look of appreciation washing over his features. It was clear he was used to reporters glossing over his feelings or pushing for scandal, but the warmth and authority in your voice held him captive.

“That’s part of the work, I would say,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave lower, turning darker, more intimate. He leaned forward, crossing his wrists over his knees, effectively closing the physical distance between your chair and his sofa. “It’s just… part of the work.”

You swallowed down a sudden knot of tension in your throat, maintaining your poised, professional mask even as your pulse accelerated under the weight of his stare.

“Let’s talk about the title track,” you said, shifting smoothly to keep the momentum going. “How do you feel about the song Bad? I have to tell you, when I listened to it, I liked it because it feels like a real statement. You’re making it clear that when it comes to the music industry… you’re the baddest out there.”

His lips curved into a slow, mischievous smirk. The shy, thoughtful man vanished, replaced in an instant by the formidable, supremely confident artist behind the leather and buckles. He bit down gently on his bottom lip, his dark eyes sweeping over your face—taking in the arch of your eyebrows, the rich tone of your skin, the full curve of your lips—before returning to lock onto your gaze. 

“Well, it is quite different from anything I’ve ever recorded or I’ve ever written,” he said, his voice laced with a subtle, teasing warmth. “It’s a bold statement to say… but I mean it in all good ways, you know? Don’t take it wrong.”

“Of course not,” you replied with a playful tilt of your head, leaning back and boldly crossing your legs again. The rustle of your skirt drew his eyes downward once more, a dark, hungry flicker passing through his gaze before he forced his sight back up to yours. “It’s a way of saying you’re cool, you’re tough, you’re all right.”

“Right,” Michael chuckled softly, leaning his head back against the velvet cushion, though his eyes remained fixed on you like a hawk. “I’m not saying I’m like, criminally bad, of course. That’s how some people might take it. It’s just… a bold statement to make.”

“And the short film reflects that,” you continued, holding his gaze without flinching. “A lot of songs make social statements, and the video does too. You know, when I watched it… my name is Darryl in the script Martin Scorsese shot, but listening to the narrative of that young man… I grew up in Harlem and the South Bronx. I went away to a private school on a scholarship, and I had to come back home and deal with the intense peer pressures of two completely different worlds. How did you come up with that specific idea?”

He paused. 

The flirtatious air yielded instantly to a profound, respectful quiet. He looked at you not just as a journalist, but as a woman with a rich, complex history—a Black woman who had walked through the fire of the very reality he was trying to depict on screen.

“Well… it wasn’t really my idea,” Michael explained softly, his voice dropping into a tender, solemn register. “It’s actually part of a true story…”

He goes on to tell the story of a kid from the ghetto who went to school upstate in the country, emphasizing on how he tried to make something out of his life, leaving his friends behind. But when he returned for a holiday break, his friends became so envious of him that they killed him.

“That’s a heavy reality,” you murmured softly.

“In the film, I don’t die, of course,” Michael added, his eyes searching yours, as if checking to ensure you were okay with the subject matter. “It’s a true story we took from Time magazine. And… he was a Black kid, like me. And it’s a very sad story.”

“How does that make you feel when you see those kinds of sad stories?” you asked, your tone rich with quiet intimacy.

Michael sighed, a soft breath escaping his lips. "Well... something like that is very sad, because it's all negative. It's wrong. I think that's life—to want to grow and become more. Like you plant a seed, it grows into something beautiful, and it never dies, really. I think people should be that way."

The silence that followed was charged, thick with an intellectual and emotional connection that neither of you had anticipated when the tape started rolling. Michael was no longer just answering questions; he was hanging on your every word, completely captivated by the quiet strength and striking beauty sitting just inches away from him.

You took a slow, measured breath, letting the solemn weight of the short film discussion settle before subtly shifting the atmosphere back toward the music itself.

“You know what my personal favorite song on the album is?” you asked, allowing a small, genuine smile to warm your features.

His eyes instantly lit up, a soft curiosity breaking through his intense demeanor. “What is it?”

“Man In The Mirror,” you answered smoothly. “I tend to hold a feeling that no matter what you do in the world, it really has to start with you. That’s always been my philosophy.” 

A brilliant, radiant smile across Michael’s face, illuminating his features. He clapped his hands together once, a soft, delighted sound, before resting them back on his lap, leaning in even closer.

"It's my philosophy, too!" he exclaimed softly, his voice full of warmth. "If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and then make a change. People don't look at themselves honestly. They don't look at themselves and point the finger at themselves—it's always the other guy's fault, or somebody else. You should change yourself. Look at yourself, make better of yourself."

"When you look in the mirror," you asked softly, holding his gaze with absolute poise, "are you happy with what you see?"

Michael hesitated. His dark eyes flickered over your face, dropping down to the curve of your throat, the swell of your collarbones beneath the burgundy silk, and the rich, glowing tone of your skin, before rising back up to lock with yours.

"In what way?" he countered, his voice smooth as velvet, turning the question back onto you with an undeniable flirtatious edge.

"In terms of that social philosophy," you clarified, a small, knowing smirk gracing your lips. "Or just... as a man."

He let out a quiet, raspy chuckle, shifting his weight on the couch, sliding slightly closer to the edge of his seat. His long fingers played casually with the zipper of his jacket, but his eyes never left yours for a single microsecond.

“I’m… never totally satisfied,” he admitted, his voice dipping low, laced with a smooth, lingering warmth. “I always wish the world could be a better place. But… when I look in the mirror right now… I’m pretty happy with what’s reflecting back.”

The implication hung in the air, heavy and sweet. You felt a wave of heat rise along your neck, but you maintained your composure, offering him a slow, indulgent nod before glancing down at your notes to transition to the next topic.

The red light on the cassette recorder flickered steadily, casting a faint, rhythmic glow across the glass table.

You shifted slightly in your leather armchair, uncrossing and recrossing your legs with a quiet rustle of fabric. The tailored pencil skirt rode up just an inch or two higher over the smooth curve of your thigh, exposing another sliver of glowing dark skin to the warm studio lights.

Across the table, Michael didn’t miss a single beat of the movement. His dark, almond-shaped eyes flicked down to your legs, tracking the golden hue of your skin before slowly–deliberately—rising back up to meet your gaze. A heavy, lingering stillness settled between you both, thick with the scent of your perfume and the quiet hum of the studio tapes.

“Let’s talk about the ballads,” you said, keeping your voice cool, rich, and impeccably professional, though the sudden intensity in his eyes made your pulse flutter against your ribs. “On the album version of I Just Can’t Stop Loving You… you make some very strong, very sensuous remarks to the woman you’re lying next to. You’re whispering to her in the dark…”

The moment the words left your lips, a low, raspy chuckle escaped Michael’s throat.

The reserved, quiet posture he had maintained earlier completely dissolved. He shifted forward again, sliding his long frame right up to the edge of the cushion. He uncrossed his legs, leaning in close over the table, effectively closing the physical distance between you until he was sitting mere inches away.

“I was in a bed when I was doing that,” he confessed softly.

His voice had dropped an entire octave, turning into that thick, velvety purr—the exact tone he used in the spoken intro. He rested his chin on his knuckles, his dark curls spilling forward to frame a face lightened by a slow, wicked smirk.

“Really?” you asked, leaning forward just a fraction to meet his halfway, refusing to let him see you sweat. “In a bed?”

“Yeah,” he purred, biting down gently on his bottom lip as his gaze swept over your face. He took in the arch of your brow, the smooth expanse of your collarbones peeking through your burgundy silk blouse, and the rich fullness of your lips. “I was lying under the covers and everything when I did that whole rap. In the dark… just me and the microphone.”

“It sounded… remarkably authentic,” you countered smoothly, holding his gaze without flinching. “Almost like you weren’t acting at all. Like you were talking to someone specific.”

He tilts his head, his eyes sparkling with unadulterated heat and playfulness. He reached out casually— his slender fingers hovering over the glass table before settling right next to the tape recorder, his knuckles brushing against the edge of your notepad. 

“Maybe I was thinking about someone,” he whispered, his eyes dropping intentionally down to your lips before locking back onto yours with agonizing intensity. “Or maybe… I was just waiting for the right woman to come along and make me say it for real.”

A subtle wave of heat flushed down your neck, but you offered him a slow, tantalizing smile, arching one dark eyebrow in silent challenge. 

“Is that right?” you murmured, leaning your elbow on the armrest and resting your cheek against your knuckles, matching his exact posture. “And what kind of woman makes Michael Jackson want to say those things out of the studio?”

Michael let out another quiet, breathless laugh, his gaze dropping down the length of your body—admiring the generous swell of your hips, the sharp tailoring of your blazer, and the long, shapely line of your legs—before settling back on your face with undeniable appreciation. 

“A woman who knows what she wants,” he said softly, his voice carrying a dark, smoldering edge. “Someone smart. Someone who asks real questions and doesn’t get intimidated when I look at her… even when I’m looking really close.”

He leaned in another inch, his chest rising and falling rhythmically under his red shirt. The quiet hum of his presence was overwhelming, radiating a potent, masculine confidence that had nothing to do with fame and everything to do with pure, raw attraction.

“You’re very comfortable making your subjects nervous, aren’t you?” you whispered, your voice dipping low to match his intimate register, the tape recorder catching every soft, dangerous breath between you.

“Not all my subjects,” Michael murmured, his fingers twitching on the table as if itching to close the last few inches of space and touch your knee. “Just you.”

The silence went on for a fraction of a minute before you had to continue. It was becoming increasingly hard in between his eyes burning a hole so deep into you that you could feel him penetrating your soul and the way he leaned so close to you that with one wrong move, his hand could end up your skirt. 

“And the lyrics…” you snapped out of the staring contest, watching the way his chest rose and fell beneath his shirt. “You talk about people not understanding you. 'I see a lot of people misunderstand me, because they don't know me.' Is that really how you feel when you're being that intimate with someone?"

"People believe a lot of crazy stories they read," he murmured, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper, yet every word carried immense weight. "Some is true, some are not. But when you're with someone... when you're really with them, in the dark, under the covers... none of that press stuff matters. They get to see the real me. The man behind all the noise."

He paused, his eyes scanning your face with an intensity so raw it made your breath catch in your chest. His dark gaze traced the lush fullness of your dark curls, the smooth perfection of your skin, and the elegant, curvaceous silhouette of your body sitting before him.

"Does it hurt when you see those crazy stories?" you asked quietly, pushing past the sudden surge of static in your veins to keep the interview on track.

"Sometimes," Michael admitted softly. "But... it's part of the work, you know?"

"You ever want to lash out?" you pressed, offering a sympathetic tilt of your head. "In any type of way, and say, 'Hey, that's not true'?"

"A lot of times," he chuckled softly, shaking his head, a dark curl falling across his forehead. "Yeah. A lot of times. But why bring more attention to a thing?"

You nodded slowly, noting his response on your pad before looking back up. "There’s another song on the album that caught my attention. It’s not quite Man in the Mirror, but Liberian Girl."

Michael smiled warmly, a soft, nostalgic look entering his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Is there a Liberian girl in your life right now?" you asked directly, raising an eyebrow with a cool, confident air. "Or perhaps... another Black woman who inspired that kind of devotion?"

Michael let out a soft, melodious laugh, a sound so genuine and sweet it made the entire room feel warmer. He leaned back against the sofa, but his eyes remained anchored on yours, refusing to let you go.

"No," he said gently, shaking his head. "I wrote that at my house, in the game room. I guess I was playing some pinball or something, and the song just popped in my head. And I think I ran upstairs, put it on tape, and it became Liberian Girl. Same thing with We Are the World... I didn't really think about it, it just comes."

"It just comes," you repeated softly.

"It just comes," he confirmed, his voice dropping into a lingering, velvet hush. "Like inspiration. You can't force it. You just have to be open to it when it walks into the room."

The tension in the suite had morphed from professional curiosity into an overwhelming, magnetic pull. Michael was no longer making any effort to hide his fascination with you. Every answer he gave was wrapped in that intense, unwavering gaze, his soft spoken words serving as a delicate contrast to the sheer, smoldering heat radiating from his posture.

You glanced down at the tape recorder. The reels were still spinning silently, capturing every breath, every pause, every subtle inflection of his voice. You knew you had already gathered incredible material for Ebony—the kind of candid, deeply human interview that editors dreamed of.

But as you looked back up and met Michael’s dark, hungry gaze once more, you realized with absolute certainty that the most compelling part of the afternoon wasn't going to be captured on tape at all.

The soft click of the cassette reels turning served as the only break in the heavy silence that followed his quiet confession. He remained leaned forward over the coffee table, his hand resting inches from your knee, his dark eyes burning into yours with a flirtatious intensity that threatened to melt your professional composure entirely. 

You took a slow, deliberate breath, allowing a subtle, knowing smile to curve your lips as you reached down to adjust the page on your notepad.

“Let’s move on to another track that’s already generating massive conversation,” you said, your voice a rich, velvety alto that filled the narrow space between you. “You have some extremely heavy rock and metal influences on this record, specifically with Dirty Diana.”

The moment the title left your lips, a low, knowing murmur rumbled in Michael’s chest. He shifted his long frame, sliding even further toward the edge of his cushion. 

“Ah, yeah,” he purred, a dark, slow smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Dirty Diana. I love that track.”

“Why that song in particular?” you asked, crossing your legs once more. The subtle rustle of your skirt drew his eyes downward before his eyes were on you again. “It’s aggressive, it’s intense… what brought that narrative out of you?”

“Because it’s a life story of a groupie,” he explained softly, gesturing subtly with his long, elegant fingers. “I used to hate the word ‘groupie’, but that’s really what it is. It’s something that I’ve experienced, and a lot of people who grew up on the road like me experience. You have these women who… they know the locks to every door. They know the nights you’re lonely, and they know exactly what to say to get what they want.”

You leaned back slightly, arching one dark, perfectly shaped eyebrow in silent intrigue. “And do they usually get what they want from you, Michael?”

Michael’s smirk broadened into a full, breathless laugh. He rested his chin against his knuckles, his dark eyes sparkling with an intoxicating blend of mischief and heat. 

“Sometimes,” he confessed, lowering his voice until it was barely a whisper above the hum of the tape. “When you’re young, and you’re on the road… it’s easy to get caught up in the thrill of it. But as you get older… you realize those women aren’t really seeing you. They just want the idea of you. The stage light. The fame.”

He paused, leaning forward until his chest was mere inches from the edge of the glass table. The distance between your chair and his sofa had effectively evaporated.

“That’s why a woman like you is so dangerous,” he murmured, his gaze dropping down to your lips before returning to hold your eyes with an agonizing, deliberate slowness. 

You kept your face completely composed, though your heart hammered heavily against your ribs. “Dangerous? How so?”

"Because you aren't looking at the jacket, or the buckles, or the record sales," Michael said softly, his voice dropping an entire octave, wrapping around you like velvet in the dark. "You look right through all of it. You sit there, asking these sharp, beautiful questions with those smart eyes... and you don't break eye contact once. That's a different kind of power. That's the kind of woman a man actually loses his mind over."

A subtle wave of heat flushed along the back of your neck once again, but you offered him a slow, tantalizing smile, refusing to yield an inch of ground.

“Is this your way of trying to distract the interviewer, Mr. Jackson?” you asked, leaning forward just enough to bring your face into his immediate space, your vanilla perfume washing over him. “Flipping the script when the questions get too personal?”

“Is it working?” he countered instantly, a wicked, boyish spark dancing in his eyes.

“Not a chance,” you replied coolly, tapping your pen against your pad. “We’re still on the record.”

Michael let out a soft, raspy chuckle, shaking his head as his dark curls fell over his forehead. “Okay, okay… ask your next question, Miss Writer.”

“You’ve been in the industry virtually your entire life,” you noted, leaning back into your armchair, your dark eyes studying the subtle shifts in his posture. “I mean, do you even remember a time when you weren’t performing?”

"No," Michael admitted, a quiet, nostalgic shadow crossing his features before he offered a gentle shrug. "I don't remember not performing."

"Do you feel as though you missed out on something because of that?"

“‘Course I missed out on things,” he admitted quietly, his voice gentle and raw. “A lot of simple things people take for granted. Just walking down the street holding someone’s hand, or sitting in a quiet room without ten people waiting outside the door. But… I’ve gained a lot, too. I get to see the world. I get to express love to millions of people.”

He paused, tilting his head as his gaze swept slowly over the curve of your cheekbones. 

“But you’re right,” he added softly, leaning in even closer. “Real connections… normal connections… they’re rare for me. Most people are too nervous to just talk to me like a man. They stumble over their words, or they act like I’m a statue in a museum.”

He reached out slowly. His hand hovered over the glass coffee table, right past the cassette recorder, until his long fingers gently—almost imperceptibly—brushed against the side of your knee.

The touch was feather-light, just a whisper of heat through the fabric of your skirt, but it sent an electric jolt straight through your entire body. He didn’t grab, and he didn’t press; he simply let his fingertips rest there for a heartbeat, testing your reaction, keeping you entirely on your toes. 

Your breath caught in the back of your throat, your pulse spiking violently, but you didn’t pull away. You looked down at his delicate hand resting against your knee, then raised your eyes back to his, holding his smoldering gaze with absolute, unyielding boldness.

“And am I acting like you’re a statue in a museum?” you whispered, your voice dropping into a thick, low register that matched his own.

Michael’s thumb made one slow, tender stroke against the side of your knee before he casually lifted his hand, pulling it back to rest on his lap, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across his lips. He had felt the quiet gasp you held in; he knew exactly the effect he was having on you.

“No,” he purred, his eyes burning into yours with pure heat. “You’re treating me like a man who’s got your full attention… and I intend to keep it that way until that little tape runs out.”

The silence in the room stretched paper-thin, vibrating with a raw, undeniable physical tension. Your heart was drumming against your ribs, but you were far too poised to let him completely derail your interview.

You took a slow, deliberate breath, leaning back into your armchair with an unbothered, regal composure. You crossed your legs smoothly, pulling your knee just out of his immediate reach, and arched one dark eyebrow at him.

"You speak about people treating you like a statue or a novelty," you said, your voice rich, steady, and commanding as you pulled the dynamic right back into your hands. "Which is interesting, because when you look beyond the music and the press, you have very specific personal interests that touch on that exact feeling. You've mentioned before having a deep fascination with human anatomy... specifically the story of John Merrick, the Elephant Man."

The playful, dangerous smirk on Michael’s face faltered, morphing in an instant into a look of quiet, profound surprise. The flirtatious rockstar persona receded, revealing something far more raw and vulnerable underneath. He uncrossed his arms, leaning forward over the coffee table once more—not to tease you this time, but because you had genuinely touched a nerve.

"Yes," Michael whispered softly, his dark eyes wide and remarkably clear as he held your gaze. "I... I do. I feel a real closeness to his story. It’s a very sad story."

"Is that fascination purely anatomical for you?" you asked gently, your tone shifting from competitive banter to genuine, deeply respectful empathy. "Or is it emotional?"

Michael rested his chin in his palm, his dark curls spilling over his brow. His eyes searched yours, clearly touched by the fact that you weren't ridiculing his interest or bringing it up like a tabloid headline.

"It's both," he admitted, his voice dropping into a tender, solemn register. "I’ve been to the London school for doctors twice just to visit his remains. People look at his history and they just see a spectacle... but when I look at him, I see someone who was misunderstood. Someone who was judged by everything on the outside, while nobody bothered to care about what was on the inside."

He tilted his head, his gaze anchoring onto yours with a new kind of intensity—one built on emotional intimacy rather than just physical heat.

"The part of his story that hits me the most," Michael continued softly, his voice carrying a vivid, almost theatrical passion, "is when he’s trapped in that subway station after being used and chased around... and he finally turns to the crowd and yells, 'Leave me alone! I'm not an animal! I'm a human being!'"

The sheer raw emotion in his voice echoed through the carpeted suite. You held his gaze without flinching, nodding slowly as the weight of his words settled between you.

"Do you think," you asked quietly, leaning in slightly, "that we treat people like animals too often in this world?"

"Too many times," Michael whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before rising back to your eyes, heavier now, layered with both desire and profound respect. "Man's inhumanity to man... it's in war, and it's in how we treat each other every day. That's why when I meet someone who actually sees me—who listens to what I'm saying and treats me like a real human being..."

He trailed off, reaching out across the glass table once more. This time, he didn't touch your knee. He simply rested his hand near your notepad, palm open, offering a quiet, silent invitation as the tape reels continued to spin.

"...it makes it very hard to let them walk out that door when this interview is over."

“Are you scared of war?”

“I don’t think anybody likes war, in truth,” Michael said gently, shaking his head. “No… I don’t like war. I like peace. I’m a peaceful person.”

“You know,” you said smoothly, leaning forward and resting your forearms on your knees, bringing your face just inches from his across the small table. “with how accepted you are around the entire world… do you ever think about being an ambassador of some kind?”

Michael let out a soft, breathtaking chuckle, his dark eyes scanning the full curve of your lips, the sharp elegance of your jawline, and the calm authority radiating from your presence.

"I feel I'm that already," he purred, his voice dropping into a low, smoldering hush that made the hairs on your arms stand up. "With my music... and what I've done. Music breaks all barriers. I don't have to make a political statement. I do all of that with music. It breaks all language barriers, to all races of people... it goes all over the world."

He reached out slowly, his long, slender fingers hovering right over the edge of the glass table, just a hair’s breadth from touching your hand.

"And when I'm sitting across from a woman who actually understands that..." Michael added, his voice so velvet-soft it was almost a whisper, "it makes me feel like the message is getting through exactly where it needs to."

The small red light on the cassette recorder flickered one final time before the tape reached its end, the internal mechanism stopping with a crisp, definitive click.

The quiet sound echoed through the warm, dim studio suite like a starter pistol.

You sat back in your velvet armchair, taking a slow, deep breath to steady the rapid pulse thumbing against your ribs. With practiced elegance, you leaned forward, clicked open the cassette door, and slid the small plastic tape into your leather briefcase, snapping the brass lock firmly into place.

“Well, Mr. Jackson,” you said, your voice returning to its smooth, authoritative, professional register, though your dark eyes remained locked onto his. “That covers everything I need for the feature. Thank you for your time.”

Michael didn’t move an inch.

He remained seated right on the edge of the velvet sofa, his long legs uncrossed, his arms resting on his knees. The moment the tape recorder was safely stowed away, the quiet, thoughtful interviewee completely dissolved. In his place sat a man radiating an undeniable, magnetic authority—the smooth, confident rockstar who commanded global stadiums, nor narrowing his laser focus onto a single room.

“Is that so?” he murmured. His voice was no longer the soft, airy purr he used for public broadcast. It had dipped into a raspy, low register, thick with a dark smoldering warmth that sent a sudden shiver tracing down your spine. “Official business is all done?”

“Official business is wrapped,” you replied, arching one dark eyebrow as you closed your notepad. You smoothed the hem of your cream blazer, aware of how his eyes tracked the movement, taking in the rich curve of your bust and the long line of your legs beneath your tailored skirt. “My editor at Ebony will be thrilled.”

Michael let out a low, breathy laugh, biting his lower lip as he slowly stood up from the sofa. Standing at his full height, he looked imposing—clad in black leather, silver buckles, and dark jheri curl tendrils framing a jawline set with quiet determination. 

He walked over to the mahogany double doors that led out to the bustling hallway. He opened them just a crack, peeking his head through to where his personal manager, security detail, and two audio technicians were standing by with heavy equipment. 

“Bill,” Michael called out softly, his voice carrying an effortless command that made the hallway quiet down instantly.

“Yeah, Joker? We ready to head to the soundstage?” his bodyguard asked, stepping forward.

“We’re done with the tape,” he said calmly, keeping his hand on the brass doorknob. “Give us twenty minutes. I need to go over some… post-interview notes with Miss Writer. Privately.”

Bill paused, glancing past Michael into the room to see you sitting composedly in your armchair, your briefcase resting against your leg. Sensing the unmistakable shift in the air, the manager nodded slowly.

“Understood, Joker. We’ll clear the corridor. Security will hold the floor.”

“Thank you,” Michael murmured.

He slid the heavy mahogany door shut. The lock engaged with a solid, heavy thud that echoed through the room, sealing out the rest of the world, the press rollout, and the noise of the studio.

Michael turned around slowly, resting his back against the locked door. His dark, almond-shaped eyes locked onto yours, unblinking, heavy with an explicit, simmering heat that made the air in the room instantly feel ten degrees hotter.

He reached up with long, slender fingers, casually unbuttoning the top two buttons of his red collar, exposing the smooth skin of his neck. Then, with deliberate slowness, he unbuckled the top silver strap of his leather jacket, letting the heavy material slide slightly off his shoulders.

"Now," Michael whispered, his voice dropping into a thick, velvet hush as he took his first slow, deliberate step back toward your chair. "No tapes. No security. No official business."

You stayed seated, resting your cheek against your knuckles, holding his gaze with absolute, regal composure even as your heart hammered wildly against your ribs.

"And what happens now, Michael?" you asked softly, a teasing, dangerous smile curling your lips.

Michael stopped directly in front of your armchair. He leaned down, placing one hand on the left armrest and his other hand on the right, trapping you completely within his frame. The scent of his perfume, mixed with the warm, masculine heat radiating from his chest, enveloped you instantly.

"Now," Michael purred, leaning in until his lips were brushing the shell of your ear, his warm breath fanning across your neck, "you answer my questions."

He didn’t back away, and you refused to yield. You slowly turned your head, bringing your face mere millimeters from his. Your dark eyes locked onto his—unblinking, steady, and blazing with an authority that matched his own. A single dark curl cascaded over your temple, brushing against the smooth, flushed expanse of his cheek. 

“And what makes you think I’m off the clock, Mr. Jackson?” you whispered, your voice dipping into a thick, velvet purr that made his jaw flex in subtle surprise. “The tape stopped, but my memory is sharp. Every word still counts.”

Michael let out a low, breathy laugh, the sound rumbling deep within his chest. Slowly, his right hand slid off the leather armrest, his long, slender fingers weaving gently into the thick, voluminous coils at the nape of your neck. His thumb rested along the sharp curve of your jawline, holding you anchored in his space.

“Because your pulse is racing,” he murmured softly, his gaze dropping down to the deep, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest beneath your burgundy silk blouse. His thumb stroked gently over the sensitive hollow behind your ear, making an involuntary shiver trace down your spine. “And because you haven’t moved an inch toward that door.”

“Maybe I’m just evaluating my subject,” you countered smoothly, arching one dark eyebrow in silent, delicious challenge. “Checking to see if the man in person is truly bold as the man on the record.”

Michael’s smirk broadened into something slow, hypnotic, and undeniably dangerous. He reached into the inner pocket of his black leather jacket with his free hand, pulling out a sleep, unlabelled cassette tape. With a quiet flick of his wrist, he set it down gently on the glass coffee table right beside your leather folder.

“That’s a rough mix of a track nobody in the world has heard yet,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a thick hush. His face hovered so close to yours that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, his eyes tracking every flutter of your dark lashes. “It’s yours. But only if you stay right here for another twenty minutes… and tell me what you really came here to find out.”

Before you could offer an answer, a firm, heavy knock echoed against the outside of the door.

“Mike?” Bill’s muffled voice called out from the corridor. “Press manager’s calling from Tokyo. They need you on the satellite line in two minutes. You coming out, or should I clear the floor for another half hour?”

The heavy silence in the room stretched thin, vibrating like a pulled guitar string.

Michael didn’t look back at the door. His hands remained tangled in your dark curls, his thumb resting against your jawline, his gaze dark, heavy, and completely unblinking as he waited for your move.

Your fingers hovered right over the edge of your briefcase. You could pick up your tape, take the exclusive story for Ebony, and walk out that door as the polished, untouchable professional… or you could leave the briefcase right where it sat, let the security wait, and find out what happened when the man in front of you got everything he wanted. 

Michael tilted his head, a slow, wicked smirk touching his lips as he read the sudden flicker of hesitation in your eyes.

“Well, Miss Writer?” he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheekbone one last time. “What’s it gonna be?”

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱

You sat on the edge of his bed, your back held uncomfortably straight by the corsetry beneath your dress. At the sound of his voice, you looked up- and promptly forgot whatever teasing remark you had already loaded and were about to fire.

Michael stood near the bathroom door with his arms slightly away from his sides, waiting for your verdict.

You had seen him in nearly every state imaginable. Pajamas, rehearsal clothes, rumpled shirts after sleepless nights in the studio. Yet whenever the occasion demanded that he make an entrance, he committed to it completely.

Your heart performed a dangerous little leap as you took him in, from the pointed toes of his boots to the curls framing his face. You concealed the reaction beneath a disbelieving laugh and rose from the bed.

“Mike,” you huffed as you approached him. “We look like the same person.”

Michael’s expression brightened as he examined your outfit again. “Well, you are my date. Jus’ makes sense for us to coordinate.”

“You didn’t know what I was wearing.”

“Didn’t need to.” He shrugged, as though the coincidence proved something. Then his attention returned to your attire, moving over it with an openness that made you suddenly conscious of every inch of exposed skin. He gestured vaguely toward you. “And you look just… wow.”

“Wow?” You repeated.

Michael’s lips pressed together, already anticipating the ridicule.

“All those songs, drafted lyrics, poems,” you continued, “and that is the best you can do?”

Michael scoffed, playing it off. “You caught me off guard.”

Your teasing expression faltered by a fraction. “It’s a dress, Michael.”

“I’ve seen dresses before.” The answer came so easily that you could not tell whether he understood what he was implying or had decided, for once, not to care. Michael held your gaze, his expression open and deceptively innocent.

“And?” You prompted when he offered nothing more.

“And… I’ve never seen that one on you.” The quiet confidence of the answer sent an unwelcome warmth creeping from your chest toward your neck.

You turned slightly, pretending to inspect yourself in the mirror rather than allow him to watch the compliment settle over you. “You’re getting better at this.”

“At what?”

You caught his reflection. “You know what.”

Michael’s mouth curved at one corner as he shook his head. “I don’t, actually.” However, the denial was undermined by the look in his eyes.

Your ensemble was Vivienne Westwood from head to toe, sent by the dame herself after she learned you would be attending the wedding. The signature corset was constructed from black satin, with velvet boning sculpting your waist and a curved neckline dipping low enough to leave your collarbones bare. The matching velvet skirt hugged your hips before following the length of your legs, its severe silhouette relieved only by a subtle slit at one side for mobility. Black patent heels completed the look, their glossy finish catching whenever you stepped beneath the light.

The only accessory you donned was the chain link bracelet you’ve had for years. Not only did it serve you as a reminder of your journey, but it held sentimental value as that was the very first thing you had bought with the allowance your parents had given you from your first major gig. The stainless steel had never once tarnished, but you still took meticulous care of the dainty bracelet.

And should the October evening turn cold, Vivienne had also sent a long, fur-trimmed duster coat that now lay folded across the foot of Michael’s bed.

You glanced between your reflection and his. Both black, well structured, and far more dramatic than either of you had apparently realized.

“People are going to think we planned this,” you sighed, sounding almost defeated.

Michael came to stand beside you before the mirror, near enough that the beaded sleeve of his jacket brushed your bare arm. “Let ’em.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” You turned your head towards him.

“Why?”

“Because no one is going to corner you and ask what it means.”

His eyes shifted from your reflection to your face. “Well, if someone were to corner you- what would you tell them?”

“That we unfortunately have similar tastes.”

The smile on his face faded into something smaller and less easily interpreted. Neither of you looked away. Michael's hands were tucked behind his back and yours were crossed, but the both of your shoulders were touching- sharing that familiar warmth you both learned to never question. But right now, the air between you seemed to draw tight- stretched thin by the awareness that one careless remark could turn the joke into a conversation neither of you was prepared to have.

Michael recovered first. “I was lookin' at the dress,” he felt the need to clarify. "Very closely, I mean."

“Of course.” You nodded in acknowledgement as a smirk began to tug at your lips. Though you were sure neither of you had believed that, it was better to make excuses for the lingering eyes to emphasize the line in which your friendship drew dangerously close to something neither of you dared to cross.

His gaze dipped once more before returning to your eyes, rendering the claim entirely useless.

You turned back toward the mirror. “We do look good together.” The admission escaped before you could soften it.

Michael went still beside you.

You could feel him looking at you, but you kept your attention fixed on your reflection and added, “The outfits, I mean.”

“I know what you meant.” Something in his tone suggested that he did not- or that he had chosen to hear something else.

“I’m sure you do,” you murmured.

Michael smiled at your reflection before turning to the real deal. “Shall we?” He held out his hand. “Don’t wanna keep Liz waiting in her room.”

You accepted without hesitation, allowing him to draw you closer before hooking your arm through his. Together, you left his bedroom and made your way down the hall.

The steady knock of his heeled boots and the sharper clacking of your shoes echoed through the corridor, announcing your approach with such authority that you glanced at him halfway there.

“We sound like we’re on our way to conduct serious business.”

“We are,” Michael replied. “It’s a wedding.”

“That isn’t business.”

“It is to Liz.”

You couldn’t argue with that.

When you reached the next corridor, you stopped outside Elizabeth’s guest room and rapped your knuckles against the door.

“Liz?” You leaned closer. “We’re here.”

Her voice came muffled from the other side. “Come in, my loves!”

You turned the knob and were immediately met by rolling garment racks, open gift boxes, tissue paper, makeup cases, and several pairs of shoes crowding the entrance.

“Sheesh.” You looked over your shoulder at Michael. “It looks like a fashion bomb went off in here.”

Michael covered his mouth as he laughed.

The two of you carefully maneuvered into the room, sidestepping a garment bag and what appeared to be an entire case of jewelry.

Elizabeth sat before the vanity while a makeup artist added the finishing touches to her lips. Every available surface had disappeared beneath perfume bottles, trays of cosmetics, flowers, jewelry cases, and cards from well-wishers.

The room carried the unmistakable air of extravagant preparation. You should have expected nothing less. Everyone in your life possessed an instinct for overdressing, and enough of their influence had rubbed off on you that you had begun arriving at events looking like a peacock without realizing it.

Elizabeth’s gown was magnificent- a floor-length creation of pale cream lace that followed every curve of her body before spilling elegantly around her feet. If you remembered correctly, Valentino had sent it to her personally. With the veil arranged behind her and the diamonds at her ears throwing fragments of light across the vanity, she looked every inch the grand Hollywood bride.

“My babies,” Elizabeth cooed, though the makeup artist’s brush prevented her from expressing herself with her usual enthusiasm.

“Hi, Liz.” You released Michael’s arm and crossed the room, extending a hand toward her. Elizabeth placed hers in yours, and you rubbed the back of it affectionately with your thumb. “God, you look killer.”

“Says you,” Elizabeth purred. Her gaze traveled approvingly over your outfit before moving toward Michael. “And not a sword in sight, thank fuck.”

Michael immediately straightened, looking personally wounded by her sailor-mouthed accusation. “My designer and I settled on a sash, see?” He lifted the edge between his fingers and displayed it to her as evidence. “Compromises were made. Don’t worry.”

You looked between them. “What sword? What is going on?”

Elizabeth appeared delighted to enlighten you. “This little bastard thought it would be clever to wear a matching sword with his outfit. I could smell the scheme from a mile away, so naturally, I had to shut it down. It’s my wedding!”

Your eyes widened. Slowly, you turned toward Michael- who had folded inward beneath the combined weight of your stare and Elizabeth’s accusation. His shoulders were drawn up and his expression guilty enough to confirm every word.

“You were planning to bring a sword to Liz’s wedding?”

“It was ceremonial,” he felt the need to clarify.

“If it can stab someone, it’s still a weapon.”

“It would’ve stayed in the scabbard.”

“Until he became inspired,” Elizabeth added darkly.

Michael threw up one hand. “I wasn’t gonna take it out!”

“The fact that you feel the need to promise that,” you pointed out, “is exactly why you weren’t allowed to bring it.”

His mouth fell open, he called out your name in the usual sweetness when things weren't going his way. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side. I’m just protecting you from being remembered as the man who impaled the groomsman during the first dance.”

“It wouldn’t have happened, I would've made sure of it.” He promised with a whine, but the decision had already been made for him. There was no sword in sight.

Elizabeth’s laughter escaped so suddenly that the makeup artist pulled the lipstick away just in time.

“Elizabeth,” the woman scolded gently. “Please hold still.”

“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said, without sounding remotely apologetic. “It’s just so nice when someone else handles him for me.”

Michael narrowed his eyes at you. “You enjoy this too much.”

“Oh. Immensely," you had not denied.

He gave your shoulder a light nudge. The movement shifted his sash slightly out of place, and before you thought better of it, your hand rose to straighten it.

“Oop- Hold still.”

Michael immediately obeyed.

Your fingers smoothed the sash over his chest before adjusting the brooch pinning it to his jacket. A small section of embroidery had folded beneath it, and you carefully worked it free.

“You would’ve noticed that late,” you murmured.

“I knew you would eventually.”

You glanced up.

Michael was already looking down at you.

The response had been teasing, but his expression was strangely soft. For a moment, you forgot that anyone else was in the room. Your hand remained against his chest a second longer than necessary, your fingertips resting over the intricate beadwork.

Then Elizabeth’s voice interrupted. “Look at the two of you.”

You withdrew your hand. “What?”

Elizabeth watched you through the vanity mirror with an expression of quiet satisfaction. “Nothing,” she said.

You knew her well enough to distrust that answer immediately.

“…What are you plotting?”

“On my wedding day?” Elizabeth pressed one hand dramatically against her chest. “I’m wounded that you would even suggest such a thing.”

“You plot most aggressively on special occasions, I've noticed.”

“She really does,” Michael, without missing a beat, agreed- further supporting your statement.

Elizabeth ignored both of you. Her gaze moved between your matching black outfits, and her entire face suddenly brightened with an idea. “Oh! I need a picture of you together!”

The declaration came with such urgency that the makeup artist barely had time to step aside before Elizabeth rose from the vanity. She gathered the front of her gown and hurried toward you, diamonds and lace flashing with every step.

You laughed at her haste, one hand hovering near her elbow in case she caught a heel beneath the dress. “All three of us, right?”

Elizabeth’s head snapped up- she gave you the most pointed look imaginable. “Don’t be ridiculous. I want a picture of you and Michael together.”

“Why just us?” You asked, an incredulous scoff leaving from the back of your throat. “You’re the bride.”

“I’ll be in hundreds of photographs today for the sake of charity. Can’t a woman have her own personal collection to look back on, instead?” Elizabeth then glanced toward one of her attendants. “Where’s that instant camera?”

Michael looked at you, visibly amused by the determination that had overtaken her. “Y’should know by now there’s no use arguing once she gets like this,” he whispered.

“I heard that,” Elizabeth interjected without even turning her back around once.

“I meant for you to!”

One of the attendants retrieved the instant camera from beside the vanity and held it up.

Elizabeth clapped her hands once. “Perfect. Both of you, over there. Now.” She directed you with the firm insistence of a parent who just needed a picture of her children, despite already having blood-related children herself. It was still heartwarming to see the sentiment still stood in your eclectic friendship.

You followed her outstretched hand towards an uncluttered stretch of wall near the windows. Michael followed close behind, resting a hand briefly against your back as the two of you navigated around the train of Elizabeth’s dress.

Once in position, you folded your arms across your chest. The pose might have appeared stubborn on anyone else, but the warm, playful smirk pulling at your lips betrayed how entertained you were by Elizabeth’s sudden determination.

Michael settled comfortably beside you, close enough that your sleeves brushed. He looked down at you for a moment, his entire face alight with a smile, before inclining his head and resting it directly on top of yours.

You adjusted beneath the unexpected weight. “You’re crushing my hair,” you began to complain- only teasingly nagging as a way to cope with the close proximity you were forced under. “This took me hours to get my hair right.”

“No, I’m not,” he replied, making no effort to move. His large hand menacingly hovered above your perfectly coiffed locks, fingers in position to flick right over the part where you spent the most time pinning down.

“You absolutely are," you persisted. You had to unfold your arms to swat that same hand away from your head.

His only answer was to grin more broadly at the camera.

Elizabeth looked between the two of you and frowned. “Well, that was disgustingly natural.”

You glanced toward her, arms tucked back into your usual pose. “Would you rather we look miserable?”

“No, darling. I’d rather the two of you stop pretending to need instructions.”

Michael’s shoulders began to shake against yours, his little giggle only making your heart want to jump out of your chest.

You tried to maintain your composure after the addictive sound of his laugh, but Elizabeth continued studying the two of you with theatrical severity.

“Honestly,” she declared, “you look like a pair of terribly overdressed children who’ve just gotten away with something.”

“That’s because we have,” Michael said from atop your head, feeling the tenor of his voice onto your skin.

“And what have you gotten away with?”

You snapped your eyes toward him in panic. “Don’t. Tell. Her.”

That did it.

Michael broke first, lifting his head as laughter spilled from him. His movement jostled you, and the smirk you had been fighting to preserve opened into a laugh of your own.

Elizabeth waved her hand urgently toward the attendant. “Now, now!”

The camera flashed while neither of you was looking.

The photograph caught you midway through laughing at Elizabeth’s accusation, your arms still folded and your body leaning almost instinctively toward Michael’s. The warmth of your earlier smirk remained at the corners of your mouth, now overtaken by an unguarded laugh. Michael’s head was still resting crookedly against the top of yours, his eyes nearly closed and his entire face bright with a wide, effortless smile. There was nothing carefully arranged about it. You did not look like two people attempting to appear close for a photograph.

You looked so sickeningly at ease.

Like Michael had rested his head upon yours a hundred times before and neither of you had ever thought to wonder what that meant for the both of you.

The tips of your fingers found purchase against the dainty chain of your bracelet, tracing back and forth the grooves as a way to control your heartbeat.

“Wait.” You blinked through the fading burst of light. “We weren’t ready.”

“That was precisely why I took it.” Elizabeth eagerly accepted the photograph as it emerged from the camera. “The moment you know you’re being watched, you both become hopeless.”

“Hopeless?” Michael repeated.

“You ambushed us!” You followed up in accusation shortly soon after his remarks.

“And produced art because of it.” Elizabeth smugly told the both of you off with a cheeky look over her shoulder.

She held the photograph by one corner, watching as the image slowly developed. First came the black of your coordinated outfits, then the unmistakable outline of Michael leaning against you. Finally, your faces appeared, both caught in the same burst of laughter.

Her expression softened into something quietly satisfied.

You noticed immediately. “What?”

“Nothing.” Elizabeth pressed the photograph protectively against her chest when you reached for it. “You’ll thank me later.”

You looked at your friend, confused by her meaning. “For what?”

“For having the good sense to take this before either of you could ruin it by posing.”

Michael leaned toward you, attempting to peer at the picture. “Can we see it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s mine until I decide otherwise.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You do realize we can take another one.”

Elizabeth glanced down at the photograph once more. “Well then, it wouldn’t be this one.” There was something in the certainty of her answer that briefly quieted you.

Michael looked at you, equally puzzled, before his smile returned. “She’s being dramatic,” he whispered. “As always.”

“She's an actress,” you reminded him. "What do you expect?"

“I am a bride,” Elizabeth corrected. “Just for today. And tomorrow, I'll be officially promoted to wife.”

Michael rested his head on top of yours again simply to irritate you. You could feel the muscles of his face against your head turning up into another amusing smile. You shoved lightly at his shoulder, laughing as he leaned more of his weight against you, and the significance of Elizabeth’s words disappeared beneath another round of teasing.

june 1994

The scissors opened beneath Michael’s smiling face.

Your hand shook so violently that the lower blade scraped against the glossy edge of the Polaroid. One small movement- one firm press of your fingers- and the photograph would split cleanly through the middle.

Through Michael’s head resting atop yours. Through your folded arms and the hand he had placed against your shoulder. Through the laughter Elizabeth had captured before either of you could conceal it.

You sat on the floor of your bedroom closet with the photograph clenched in one hand and the scissors in the other, surrounded by every piece of Michael you had ever been sentimental enough to keep.

A little stuffed canary lay on its side near your knee. The old X-Men comic rested open against the carpet, its softened pages bent beneath the weight of several scattered Polaroids. Birthday cards, backstage passes, folded notes, more Polaroids and developed pictures and other parts of a friendship you had once believed indestructible covered the floor around you.

You had taken everything out of the box in a fury. Now you could barely breathe being around by this many fragments of memories that had stretched throughout the years.

The bittersweet thing was that there were no diamonds in this box. No grand declarations or hidden love letters. Nothing that could prove you had been more than what Michael claimed. But you knew the life inside them.

You painfully knew the feel of his knuckles brushing against yours so tenderly to indicate he wanted to interlock fingers with you. The true, thunderous sound of his dorky cackle when he was not around a public audience. The look he gave you whenever a room grew crowded and he needed to know you were still there. You knew what it meant to have been loved by him in every way except the one that would have made a difference.

Your grief flipped, hardening into anger.

Tears trembled along your lashes, blurring the image until Michael’s black jacket bled into your dress and the two of you became one dark, indistinguishable shape. You blinked hard. One tear slipped free and struck the back of your hand.

Michael’s voice from a couple hours ago followed you into your haggered silence.

Don’t disappear on me.

You closed your eyes and drew in a long, trembling breath.

He had sounded so frightened when he said it. For years, his fear had been enough to move you. It had brought you across time zones and even countries, keeping you awake well into the morning, and making you forgive things you would never have accepted from anyone else.

It could not- should not- move you now.

If Michael would not release you, then you would have to remove every excuse to remain.

You opened your eyes.

The decision felt clean for all of three seconds.

And yet, the photograph remained completely untouched.

Elizabeth had eventually given it to you after the wedding. She had pressed it into your palm with that same infuriatingly knowing expression and repeated her prediction.

You’ll thank me later.

You had laughed then. So had Michael.

You could still hear him in the photograph somehow- the bright, unrestrained sound of his laughter as he leaned his weight against you, deliberately crushing your hair after you had told him to stop. You remembered trying to keep your arms folded and your expression unimpressed, only for Elizabeth’s comment to break through both. You remembered how natural it had felt to have him close.

That was the cruelty of the picture.

Nothing about it looked uncertain.

Anyone else might have seen it and assumed you belonged together. They would not have known how many years the two of you had spent balancing on the narrowing edge of friendship, leaning toward something neither of you possessed the courage to name. They would not have known that Michael could look at you that way, touch you that way, make a place for you in every private corner of his life…

…And still marry somebody else.

Your grip tightened around the scissors. “What was I supposed to think?” you whispered to nothing. Your voice sounded small and helpless in the darkened room.

The Michael in the photograph only continued smiling.

Anger surged through you again, sudden and blinding. You positioned the blades more deliberately this time, placing them between your bodies. It would be easy. Easier than throwing the photograph away whole.

One cut, and you could separate yourself from him. One cut through the arm pressed along yours. Another through the tilt of his head. You could remove him from the picture and leave behind the version of yourself who had not yet understood what loving him would cost.

Your fingers began to close.

The blades bit into nothing but air.

Your muscles stopped you from going any further. A strangled breath left your chest. Your hand remained suspended, the sharpened edges poised against the photograph but refusing to move any farther.

You tried again.

Your fingers would not obey.

Michael’s face swam behind another rush of tears. He looked so happy. Not the careful smile he offered cameras or the composed expression he wore when he knew the world was watching. This was Michael as you knew him. He was so unguarded, so delighted to be in your presence- leaning into you as though yours were the safest place he could think to rest.

Cutting the photograph would not change what had happened afterward. It would not unmarry him. It would not return the years you had spent waiting without admitting you were waiting. It would not erase the conversation in his driveway or the unbearable tenderness with which he had wiped away your tears. It would not stop you from hearing the fear in his voice when he asked you not to disappear. And, unfortunately, it would not make you love him any less.

The scissors slipped from your hand and struck the carpet with a dull thud. Your shoulders collapsed soon with it.

For several seconds, you simply sat there, clutching the photograph against your chest as tears tracked silently down your face. You refused to let yourself sob. You had already given Michael enough tonight- your anger, your humiliation, the truth you had spent years concealing from him. You would not give him the sound of you breaking, too.

He had failed you. He had led you on. He had spent years keeping you close enough to satisfy every private loneliness while building a life with somebody else. He had taken your loyalty, your time, your affection- all the parts of yourself you offered no one else- and called it friendship whenever the truth became inconvenient.

He did not see you as a woman. You were merely the familiar face he searched for across crowded rooms. The voice he called after midnight. The person he reached for whenever fame became too loud and solitude became unbearable. You were the friend expected to remain patiently in place while he chased after someone else.

The thought caused you to wrap yourself in your arms, poorly replicating the warmth that Michael should have given in its place.

Then, just as quickly, your frustrations turned ice cold against you.

Michael had never promised you anything beyond friendship. He had never asked you to wait. Whatever meaning you had given the long embraces, the secret smiles, and the touches that lingered beyond necessity had been your own doing.

Perhaps you had mistaken comfort for desire. Perhaps loving him had made you arrogant enough to believe that being essential to him meant he would eventually choose you. And perhaps, if you had been braver, he might have.

What if you had told him that night several years ago, when the two of you had fallen asleep beside one another on your living room floor with an unfinished song still playing through the speakers?

What if, when you woke to find his hand resting loosely over yours, you had not pretended to remain asleep?

What if you had said something during one of those long telephone calls when neither of you wanted to hang up?

What if you had let one of those embraces become something more?

Michael’s confession returned to you with sickening clarity.

I kept waiting for you to give me a reason not to go.

Your jaw clenched.

How dare he? How dare he place that possibility before you now, after the vows had been spoken and the decision had already been made? He had wanted you to stop him without trusting you enough to tell you where he was going. He had expected you to confess something neither of you had ever been brave enough to name, then punished you both when you failed to understand the test.

No. You would not carry that responsibility for him.

He had chosen Lisa. He loved Lisa. He had married Lisa.

Yet he had held you in the driveway as though you were the one abandoning him.

With unsteady hands, you began gathering the memories.

You stacked the Polaroids without looking at them again. The wedding photograph went face down beneath the others, hidden before Michael’s smile could weaken you further. You closed the X-Men comic and smoothed its bent cover with your palm before placing it at the bottom of the box. The cards and notes followed, then the backstage passes and every other useless little object that had once seemed too precious to discard.

Last was the stuffed canary, its yellow fur flattened with age. Michael had bought it for you after deciding that Tweety was an appropriate nickname, an opinion you had loudly disputed until he presented the toy with a ribbon tied crookedly around its neck.

You had threatened to throw it away that very night, but he had known you would not.

The blue ribbon was still there.

You held it for a moment, your thumb brushing over the faded ribbon tied around its neck.

Then you forced it into the box and shut the lid.

It did not close properly at first. One corner remained lifted, caught on something inside. You pressed harder until the cardboard gave a faint groan and the lid finally settled into place.

There. Gone.

Only to be hidden again.

You pushed the box into the deepest corner of the closet. When it caught against a pair of shoes, you shoved it harder, sending it scraping across the floor until darkness swallowed it completely.

Then you slid the closet door shut with enough force to rattle it in its track, the sound echoing through your bedroom.

You remained kneeling before the closed door, one hand still braced against it and the other curled tightly in your lap. Tears hung from your jaw and darkened the velvet of your dress, but you made no attempt to wipe them away.

On the carpet beside you, the scissors lay open and gleaming.

Downstairs, the telephone began to ring.

You froze in fear, fingers tightening against the closet doors.

One shrill note traveled through the house. Then another.

You knew who it was.

Michael had asked you to call. When you failed to keep your promise, he had done what he always did whenever silence frightened him: he reached for you first.

The telephone continued to ring.

You lowered your face- with eyes squeezed shut- into your wrist where the cool metal of your bracelet met your feverish skin, only doing worse in making yourself smaller in your bedroom.

You could not answer him. If you heard his voice, you would forgive him before you understood what forgiveness would cost you.

For an agonizing five seconds, your staggered breathing and the shrill ringing of your house phone occupied the air.

And eventually, the ringing stopped.

The silence that followed was immensely made worse.

You remained on the floor- eyes swollen and chest aching and still clutching onto the trim of your closet- while every object was now physically pushed back into a dark place. You vowed to yourself that night with the intentions of never reaching back into those memories in the foreseeable future.

You had gone into the closet determined to rid your life of Michael. In the end, you could not throw away a single thing.

Instead, you willingly created a limbo for yourself to live in- where all you could do was stay at arm's reach from the person you once held dearly with all your heart.

It was a macabre thought process, but you would rather live like this, dragging each passing day on- in a sick and twisted sense of preserving the memory of your love for him.

At first, the distance was easy to disguise. You were preparing for a tour. Your recording sessions ran late. Interviews, rehearsals, wardrobe fittings, and promotional appearances swallowed your days. When Michael called, you let your assistant answer. When he invited you to Neverland, you sent flowers and an apology.

You became exceptionally skilled at sounding regretful.

You were never cold enough to make your absence appear deliberate. That would have prompted questions. Instead, you remained warm and perpetually unavailable.

The private jokes faded from your conversations because neither of you was present often enough to create new ones. You stopped sending him unfinished songs. When inspiration struck at two in the morning, you reached for the telephone by instinct, only to force your hand back beneath the covers.

There were no more nightly phone calls, as those had dissolved from- when you remember- the night of the ugly confrontation. Instead, what took place was one sided phone calls from Michael- who continued trying. He left rambling messages that began playfully and ended in uncertainty.

“I heard that song you were talking about. You were right about the bridge.” “You would’ve loved what happened at rehearsal today.” “I haven’t heard your voice in a while.”

Then, sometimes after a pause:

“I miss you.”

You listened to that message until the tape nearly wore thin but you would never return them.

On the occasions you did see him, it was always in public. Award shows. Charity dinners. Industry parties crowded with enough people to keep you from being alone. Sometimes with Lisa, sometimes not. You still embraced him, but your arms no longer settled around his neck. You no longer whispered into his ear. You called him Michael instead of Mike and stepped away before his hands could linger at your waist.

Anyone watching would still have called you close friends.

Only Michael knew how much had disappeared.

act three.

mtv vma's september 1995 - radio city music hall

The red carpet demanded a version of you who never hesitated. She knew where to stand without being guided, found the camera on instinct, angled her body toward the light, and gave every interviewer the impression that there was nowhere else she would rather be.

You had spent years constructing her.

Tonight, however, you could feel that girl beginning to crack beneath the heat of the lights. It was just the matter of when that was.

“So,” the MTV correspondent began, leaning closer with the microphone, “you’ve been notoriously secretive about tonight’s performance. What can you tell us without getting yourself in trouble?”

“Nothing,” you answered brightly. “I enjoy remaining cool and mysterious.”

The correspondent laughed. “Not even a hint? How about a move?”

“The hint," you dragged out your words as a way to tease, before monotonously finishing your thought, "is that I’m performing.”

Another choreographed laugh followed after your comment.

The camera operator grinned from behind his equipment, and you allowed yourself to relax by a fraction.

This was light work- easy, even. Easier than singing, easier than dancing, and easier than just standing before thousands of people and trusting your body to remember what months of rehearsals had carved into it. A red carpet interview was simply a performance with choreography designed around social cues.

“You’ve also had quite a summer,” the correspondent continued. “Your new album is everywhere. You and Michael Jackson have both been dominating the charts-”

There it was- the name drop.

Your smile did not falter at that.

“-and naturally, people have been making comparisons. Do you pay attention to that? Is there any friendly competition between the two of you?”

The choice of word was deliberate.

Friendly.

The public still remembered what the two of you had been. Every award show embrace, every backstage photograph, every interview in which one of you found some excuse to mention the other. Now that those appearances had stopped, people had begun treating your silence like a mystery they were entitled to solve.

“I don’t think of our music as much of a race,” you replied smoothly. “His album is his, and mine is mine. There’s room for both of us.”

“So you’ve listened to History?”

“Oh, of course," you naturally responded without skipping a beat.

“And?”

You tilted your head as if considering it for the first time. “And I think Michael knows he’s a talented guy. He doesn’t need me making his head any bigger than it already is.”

The correspondent laughed again, pleased to have been given something that sounded affectionate enough to replay.

You did not tell her that the album had remained unopened on your kitchen counter for nearly a week. You did not tell her that, once you finally worked up the nerve to listen, you made it halfway through ‘Stranger in Moscow’ before turning it off. And you certainly did not tell her that you returned to the album again that same night and listened to the entire thing alone in the dark- completely motionless as you curled yourself in bed.

A sudden swell of screaming overtook the carpet.

The correspondent’s attention darted beyond your shoulder. So did the camera operator’s.

But you already knew who the commotion was for.

Your body recognized Michael’s arrival before you allowed yourself to turn around. The air changed whenever he entered a space. Reporters abandoned their questions mid-sentence. Photographers shouted over one another. Fans pressed against the barricades as security rushed to contain the sudden movement.

“Speak of the devil,” the correspondent piped up, completely delighted with herself from the timing.

You looked despite yourself.

Michael was advancing down the carpet beneath an assault of camera flashes, surrounded by security, publicists, and several members of his team. A flash of a high collar of his black jacket framed his face, its embellishments throwing fractured light across his shoulders each time he moved. He did not have his signature longer locks you were accustomed to from the glance you had spared.

Lisa was not with him.

You noticed that part a bit too quickly.

Your eyes passed over every member of his party once, then again, searching for the dark-haired woman who should have been beside him. There was no hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. No wife stepping into place when someone called for the two of them to look toward the same camera.

Just Michael.

Her absence should not have interested you.

You had made it your business not to be interested in anything involving his marriage. You had removed yourself precisely so you would no longer spend nights wondering what occurred inside it.

Still, the question came to the forefront of your mind.

Where was she?

Michael turned his head to address the crowd. Across the shifting bodies, microphones, and spontaneous flashes of white light, his eyes found you with the same unbearable ease they always had.

And then his confident stride faltered. It was slight enough that no one else would have noticed. One measured step became half a beat slower than the last, the next foot in the front of the other became more deliberate. His expression brightened with instinctive recognition, and the beginning of a smile touched his mouth.

Your stomach pulled tight.

The correspondent followed your gaze. “Have you had a chance to say hello yet?”

“No,” you answered, eyes lingering onto his presence for a beat too long before turning back to the interview. "Not yet, at least."

“Think you will?”

You returned your attention to her with a polished smile. “This carpet is long. Anything can happen.”

The screaming rose again as Michael drew closer.

You could feel him watching you now. The awareness settled between your shoulder blades, warm and insistent. Every instinct you had spent the last year trying to bury urged you to turn around properly- to smile, to embrace him, to fall into the easy familiarity that had once required no thought at all.

Then you spotted Janet on the opposite side of his entourage- deliverance arriving in a crop top ensemble.

“Janet!” You called loudly enough to carry over the crowd.

Her head snapped in your direction. Surprise widened her eyes before her face broke into a warm smile.

You excused yourself from the interview, hastily thanking her for the time, before crossing toward her- timing your steps so precisely that you passed within a few feet of Michael without ever looking his way.

You felt his smile disappear.

“Look at you!” Janet exclaimed, opening her arms.

You laughed as you embraced her. “Look at you. All those nominations and you still decided to show up in person.”

“I thought I’d be humble tonight.” She nonchalantly responded with a shrug of her shoulders.

“Oh, is that what this is?” You arched an eyebrow at her.

Janet pulled back with a playful narrowing of her eyes. “Careful. I haven’t complimented you yet.”

“You were about to.”

“Now I'm reconsidering.”

That earned a genuine laugh from you- bright and far less controlled than anything you had offered during your interview.

Janet’s hands remained around your forearms as she looked over your outfit. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you," you gently smiled. "So do you.”

“You nervous about performing?”

“Not yet," you squeaked, shoulders playfully tensing up. "I don't have time to schedule a nervous breakdown even if I tried.”

Janet laughed. “Very professional.”

“What can I say?" You quipped. "I believe in punctuality.”

Janet laughed again, before squeezing your arms.

Over her shoulder, Michael had stopped in his tracks.

Several members of his team continued forward before realizing he was no longer with them. A publicist doubled back, speaking near his ear, but Michael did not appear to hear a word. He stood amid the chaos of the carpet with his eyes fixed on you.

Janet’s amusement gradually softened. Her gaze moved past you to her brother, then returned to your face. Something knowing entered her expression.

You pretended not to see it.

“You’ll be incredible tonight,” she reassured.

“So will he.” It was the first acknowledgment you had given of Michael’s presence.

Janet glanced over your shoulder again. “You know he’s standing right there.”

Your smile strained at its edges. “I know.”

“Are you going to-”

“-Not tonight.” You said it quietly, but not so quietly that you could be certain Michael had not heard.

Janet studied you for a moment. She knew better than to press once your voice took on that particular firmness. Still, disappointment pulled faintly at her features.

Before she could say anything else, Michael spoke your name out loud once and with intended brevity. It was nearly swallowed by the reporters shouting his.

Your heart reacted as though he had spoken directly into your ear. For one dangerous second, your body began to turn toward him. But you caught yourself a second into reconsideration before you could do anything you would come to regret in the public eye.

Instead, you pulled Janet into another brief embrace. “I’ll see you inside.”

When you stepped away, Janet’s hands lingered around yours as if she were reluctant to release you into whatever waited between you and her brother.

“Don’t disappear after your performance,” she said. "Please." Just one simple word, and it sounded like a plea that she had wanted to reciprocate from Michael himself all the way to you.

You offered her another gentle smile. “I’ll try not to.” However, your promise tasted more complicated than it should have.

You then let her go and continued down the carpet.

Not once did you look at Michael.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. You saw him in the black reflection of a production monitor as you passed: shoulders rigid, lips parted around something else he had not gotten the chance to say. His team closed around him again, gently urging him toward the next bank of photographers.

You kept walking.

By the time you entered inside Radio City Music Hall, your pulse was beating harder than it ever had during the interview.

Ignoring Michael had been the right thing to do.

You repeated that to yourself as an usher led you toward your seat.

It was necessary, respectful- mature, perhaps. But a part of you was aware that it also felt needlessly cruel.

You had barely settled into your place when movement across the orchestra caught your attention. Lisa was being guided down a separate aisle with members of her own party, her face carefully composed beneath the shifting lights.

So she had come after all.

Michael, however, was nowhere near her. He had already been taken backstage to prepare for the opening performance.

You watched Lisa reach her seat. She spoke briefly to someone beside her, smoothed her pants beneath her as she sat, and turned toward the stage without once glancing in the direction from which Michael had disappeared.

There could have been a dozen harmless explanations. Separate schedules. Security complications. Delayed traffic. The impulsive machinery of outside factors that required moving two famous people through the same building. You tried to accept one of the theorized reasons.

Then the house lights dimmed.

The first eruption of sound tore through Radio City before the stage was fully visible.

The audience naturally surged to its feet. You rose with them, applause breaking from your hands as light flooded the stage and revealed Michael standing perfectly still at its center.

For several breathless seconds, he did nothing.

Actually, he didn't even need to. Michael understood stillness better than most performers understood movement. He knew how to let anticipation tighten until thousands of people were screaming at the mere incline of his head.

You had watched him do it countless times- from the wings, from rehearsal floors, from half empty arenas where only technicians and dancers were present. Even then, he had possessed the ability to alter the atmosphere simply by deciding when to move.

His head turned sharply.

And then the music struck. Michael exploded into motion.

The crowd followed suit in becoming deafening.

Fragments of his older songs bled rapidly into one another, each transition arriving before the audience had recovered from the last. His body seemed to snap directly against the rhythm, every lock of his shoulders and strike of his heel landing with punishing precision. When 'Scream' cut through the theater, the performance sharpened into something almost combative.

The audience saw command.

You saw agitation.

There was too much force behind certain movements. His jaw tightened whenever he turned away from the cameras. Each time the choreography required him to become still, his fingers flexed once at his side before curling into his palm.

Michael had always known how to make anger look beautiful.

He drove it into the stage now, letting the percussion carry what his expression could not. The dancers moved around him like an extension of his frustration. By the time Slash appeared and the guitar tore through 'Black or White', Michael looked less like a man entertaining an audience than one daring the entire room to withstand him.

The number transitioned to 'Billie Jean', transforming the atmosphere again.

Then 'Dangerous' arrived, all rigid formations and controlled aggression. Your heart panged at the hard-hitting lyrics of a fatal attraction to a manipulative "lover".

Everyone around you screamed. You remained standing, hands clasped before your mouth.

He was magnificent, and you resented him for it. You resented that after all this time, you could still predict the moment before his foot slid backward. That your muscles remembered choreography you had watched him develop years ago. You wanted to so badly to bounce your leg up and down to the counts of the choreography and all you could do was clench your fist against your thigh. You knew the precise breath he would take before throwing himself into the next sequence. You, most of all, resented that beneath the spectacle, you could still read him.

By its end, his chest was heaving.

The stage went dark.

The audience screamed for more, certain the performance had concluded.

A softer progression of notes drifted through the theater.

The lighting changed from harsh white to a muted blue, washing the stage in something quieter and more intimate. Dancers disappeared into the darkness. The spectacle receded until Michael stood alone beneath the light.

The opening of ‘You Are Not Alone’ began.

Something cold crept through you.

The video had been released only weeks earlier. Images of Michael and Lisa together had been broadcast everywhere- tender, intimate, and carefully constructed to show the world a marriage untouched by rumor.

Now Lisa sat somewhere across the orchestra while her husband sang alone.

Your attention drifted towards her despite yourself.

She remained seated, shoulders straight and expression unreadable from this distance. Everyone around her had risen. She did not.

You looked back at Michael. The ferocity had left his body. His shoulders lowered, and his voice emerged with a tenderness so vulnerable that the entire theater seemed to quiet around it. But there was something wrong with the way he delivered the song.

The title was meant to be an assurance. From Michael, however, it sounded like a question.

He extended one hand toward the audience, palm open. As he drew it back, his fingers closed slowly over empty air. His gaze traveled across the front rows without settling anywhere, searching faces he could scarcely see beneath the lights.

You had heard Michael sing in empty studios. You had watched him shape emotion deliberately- softening a phrase, roughening the edge of a note, allowing the vibrato of his voice to tremble only when he wanted it to.

This tremble had not been chosen. He swallowed between lines. His lips pressed together whenever the music allowed him a breath. When one of the cameras swept close, softness returned to his expression with remarkable speed; the instant it moved away, the smile fell apart.

No one else appeared to notice.

They saw a love song. You saw a man trying not to look toward his wife.

Once, his eyes drifted toward her side of the theater. His head turned no more than an inch before he caught himself and faced forward again.

Lisa did not move.

Your fingers tightened on the arm rest of your chair, your freshly manicured nails that were just done today were sure to be tainted by then.

Whatever happened between them is none of my concern. You reminded yourself of that as the song climbed.

The choir joined him. Michael raised his arms, letting the sound swell around his body as the audience lifted theirs in response. Thousands of people reached for him at once, and for one brief, terrible moment, he had never looked more alone.

Your anger began to lose its clean edges.

It had been easier on the carpet, where Michael had been surrounded by security and flashing cameras. There, he had looked untouchable. You could punish him with your silence and tell yourself he would be too occupied to feel it.

From your seat, you were beginning to no longer feel certain.

Michael dropped to one knee near the end of the song. His head bowed as he drew a breath, and when he raised it again, anguish had broken cleanly through the performance.

The crowd responded with another deafening cheer, mistaking the emotion for artistry.

Perhaps it was both.

Michael stood for the final refrain. His eyes swept across the theater once more, pausing somewhere above the audience. Not on Lisa. Not on you. On some distant point only he could see.

When the music faded, he whispered his thanks and pressed one hand over his heart. “I love you,” he simply declared, the words offered to hundreds of thousands of people.

To you, they sounded intended for someone who would not answer.

The stage soon plunged into darkness.

For a fraction of a second- before the lights rose again, before his public smile returned- you saw Michael’s shoulders collapse.

Then the theater erupted.

You applauded with everyone else, though your palms met numbly. Michael bowed, assembled his expression, and allowed himself to be guided toward the wings.

As he disappeared, Janet happened to glance across the orchestra.

Her eyes found yours. She did not smile, she didn't need to. Something in her expression told you she had seen you watching him with all the concern you had refused to show on the carpet.

You had to force yourself to look away first.

The next presenter walked onstage, but you absorbed none of what was being said. Michael’s final expression remained lodged in your thoughts- the brief emptiness that had crossed his face when he believed the darkness had hidden him.

You had no right to worry. You had surrendered that right when you left.

Until tonight, the rehearsal schedule had been merciful. Every call time you received for Radio City Music Hall had fallen comfortably apart from Michael’s- not merely in a different slot, but far enough away that there was little chance of an accidental encounter.

You had been privately grateful for it. Had your rehearsal come before his, you would have spent the entire time watching the doors, wondering whether he might arrive early to prepare. Had it come after, you would have been left waiting in the wings while he wrapped up, forced to listen to his voice carry through the hall before passing him and his team on their way out.

Either possibility would have demanded some acknowledgment. A tight-lipped greeting. A polite smile. Perhaps a few empty words exchanged beneath the watchful eyes of dancers and stagehands who remembered when the two of you had once been inseparable.

Instead, the separate hours had allowed you to slip in, rehearse, and leave without ever having to test how convincing your indifference might be at close range. Avoiding Michael had remained clean and uncomplicated so long as the two of you were never placed in the same room.

Tonight, there was no rehearsal schedule spacious enough to keep you apart. Eventually, all would be laid bare.

“She’s onstage in T-minus thirteen, guys!” The stage coordinator’s voice cut through the commotion surrounding your crew.

Showtime.

You looked up from your boots and faced your dancers, steeling your gaze.

Time was now at a standstill.

The playfulness from moments before vanished from your face, replaced by the focus they had all learned to recognize. Your eyes narrowed as they moved from one dancer to the next. Somewhere beneath your ribs, a surplus of adrenaline waited to be released.

“Huddle up, everyone,” you called over the noise. "This is one of the last performances of the night, let's make it count."

You had always possessed a strong sense of leadership. It was the very thing that had carried you to places you had once only dreamed of reaching- sold-out stadiums, millions of records in the hands of people across the world, and, more importantly, the loyalty of those who had helped you get there.

You would not trade any of it.

The high it gave you could never be replicated by a stimulant. It was entirely natural, coursing through your veins each time the lights went down and the first note rang out. Performing was not merely something you did well. It was, you believed, your higher purpose. Being able to shape that purpose into art was simply the blessing that came with it.

Your dancers gathered around you, resting their arms across one another’s shoulders. Heads bowed. Bodies pressed together. The noise of the venue seemed to recede as you began your usual pre-performance ritual.

“You are happy, you are healthy, you love your job,” you chanted, squeezing your eyes shut.

Laughter rippled through the circle.

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched into a smile.

“Whatever higher power you believe in- whatever gives you strength- take from that energy tonight and give it back tenfold.”

Several dancers nodded. Others murmured in agreement.

You opened your eyes, looking around at the people who had rehearsed beside you until their bodies ached and their clothes clung to them with sweat.

“In three, two, one, we say ‘hwaiting.’ Ready?”

A chorus of approval rose around you.

“Three… two… one.”

“Hwaiting!”

The circle broke apart with a roar.

Whatever nerves had existed before seemed lighter now. A few of your dancers bounced on the balls of their feet, psyching one another up. Others came to squeeze your shoulders or bump their fists against yours. This time, the smile that spread across your face was genuine- one gifted to you by the love pouring from your team. Your friends. Your reason.

And just like that, everything was set into motion again.

Another coordinator appeared to lead your dancers toward the stage. You followed behind them, listening to their excited chatter while a member of the sound department intercepted you to check your in-ears and microphone pack.

You patted the receiver secured beneath your jacket.

“Mic’s live?”

“Live and clean.” You flashed a thumbs-up.

“In-ears?”

“Good on our end.” Instinctively you tapped one into place, hearing the faint pulse of your cue track. Everything was ready.

But you had made a rookie mistake. Or perhaps it was a statistical error. An unforeseeable lapse in judgment.

Whatever it was, what followed erased every ounce of confidence you had built only minutes before.

You had left your side wide open.

A hand closed firmly around your forearm.

Your boots stopped clacking against the floor as you were forced to turn toward the one person who had caused you so much grief.

Michael.

The light in your eyes dimmed the moment you saw him.

For one disorienting second, all the dragged out months between you folded in on themselves. You were no longer the woman about to command one of the largest stages in music. You were a miss twenty-something year old girl again- naive enough to believe that you and Michael could remain suspended in whatever beautiful, unnamed thing had existed between you forever.

You had seen his look in passing on the red carpet. But, God, he looked good.

You had grown accustomed to his shoulder-length curls, but shorter length you had seen in passing on the red carpet and on stage was slowly growing on you. The style had framed his face in a way that made his features appear sharper. Even in the dim backstage corridor, you could make out the glittering details of his black jacket and its rigid, high collar.

The man looked deadly. Like he was out for revenge with just the way he looked.

Whoever had styled him for the evening deserved a generous paycheck- and the bill for the therapy session you would inevitably need within the next few days.

He said your name firmly for the second time in the night. There was a sense of urgency but he was sure to deliver it with his usual sweetness now that you were up close, not having heard that come out of him in a long time.

Old habits died hard. Your eyes softened for the briefest second before you remembered why any of this had begun. Your gaze hardened again, expression quickly overturned in aversion.

The corridor swarmed around you- stagehands shouting cues, performers being ushered from one place to another, headsets crackling with urgent instructions- but Michael somehow contained the intensity between you with the simple act of saying your name.

You became painfully aware of your own breathing. Of his fingertips curled around the sleeve of your jacket. Of the agitation and confusion taking turns across his face.

“We’re gonna have to talk,” Michael had declared himself. His brows were drawn so tightly together that the line sounded less like a firm request than a foregone conclusion.

You knew what he wanted to talk about. What you could not understand was why he had chosen the worst possible moment to demand the conversation.

The anger you reserved only for him began to boil within you.

He had inserted himself into one of the most important moments of your night to discuss something deeply personal- in a public corridor, no less, where dozens of wandering eyes could land on you.

You forced yourself to remain composed. “Couldn’t this wait?” The words slipped through your clenched jaw.

“You’ve been avoiding me all night-”

“-I’m about to perform-”

“-You said hello to Janet.” His voice dropped lower, forcing you to lean closer to hear him. “You hugged her, stood there smiling and laughing with her, but you walked right past me.”

You could only stare at him in disbelief.

“I’m here, too,” he added. His grip remained around your forearm, never tightening enough to hurt. Beneath the material of your jacket, however, you could feel the faint tremble in his fingers.

Something else was wrong.

Maybe it was because you had seen every facet of him- the artistic journey, the physical transformation, the jaded self that hardens after every battle- externally and internally- that was fought. You were so used to the change because it was gradual and never in your face. But now you had deliberately stepped out of his life from all that time ago, unable to continue watching him grow from all the circumstances that it threw at him.

The man that stood before you had a different fire in his eyes- one where he looked fed up, was at his limit.

You had seen Michael angry before. You had seen him wounded, defensive, humiliated, and pushed so far beyond his patience that he could barely speak. This was different. His frustration seemed scattered, as though it had been building long before he laid eyes on you and had simply chosen you as the safest place to land.

Your gaze shifted beyond him.

Lisa stood farther down the corridor, surrounded by several members of her own party. Her posture was stiff, one arm folded over her stomach while someone spoke near her ear. She glanced in Michael’s direction once before looking away. There was no mistaking the distance between them, and the physical boundary wasn’t just one of the factors involved.

A flash went off in your periphery.

Both you and Michael flinched.

You turned to find a photographer standing beside a reporter, a small camera crew trailing behind them.

Like second nature, the anger vanished from your face. A pleasant, indifferent smile replaced it so quickly that someone less familiar with you might have believed it was genuine.

“Wow.” A reporter, most likely with MTV getting backstage footage, approached with a grin- delighted by the scene he believed he had stumbled upon. “Two of the biggest names in music in the same frame after all this time!”

Michael’s hand immediately released your arm. That small absence of contact should not have been noticeable, but it was.

The reporter lifted his microphone between you. “Rumors have been circulating for months that the two of you aren’t speaking anymore, but that clearly isn’t the case. What caused the fallout?”

There it was. The question both of you had avoided answering for nearly a year, asked beneath fluorescent lighting with a camera trained on your faces.

You shook your head and gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “That’s crazy,” you supplied with a curated response. “Nothing happened between us. I guess we both got busy.”

You glanced at Michael, waiting for his own response. He had already arranged his features into an equally practiced expression. Only the tension around his eyes betrayed him.

“What the little lady said.” He chuckled and slipped his hands behind his back. “We’re both promoting albums, coincidentally at the same time, too.”

You laughed with him. Neither of your hearts was in it.

“Just because we aren’t photographed together doesn’t mean we aren’t still friends,” Michael continued.

Friends.

His gaze remained on you as he said it, silently daring you to contradict him.

The reporter looked between you eagerly. “So there’s no bad blood?”

“None whatsoever,” you replied, gently shaking your head.

“Never,” Michael added.

“Sorry!” The coordinator appeared at your side again, visibly panicked to have lost you for even a minute. “We really need her. Now. You’re on in five.”

Your obligation had never felt more like divine intervention.

You turned back to Michael, a sickly sweet smile plastered across your face. “Gotta go.”

As you pulled your arm away, you allowed your nails to graze the back of his hand. Michael gave a quiet hiss. Petty satisfaction flickered through you, but you did not turn around to savor his expression. The hefty thud of your boots and clinking of your belt chains followed you down the corridor, leaving Michael behind in a state of stunned agitation.

You could feel his stare against your back until you rounded the corner.

Your choreographer had shouted: “Places!”

Your dancers moved into formation in the darkness behind the curtain. A stagehand guided you toward your mark as someone adjusted the wire running along the back of your neck.

“You good?” your choreographer asked as you passed by them.

No.

“Never better," you looked back and gave them somewhat of a vague response, still making your way to your position.

The roar of the audience swelled on the other side of the curtain.

You found your place at the seat of the grand piano- feet adjusting to your usual position and fingers gracefully ghosting over the starting notes.

You rolled your shoulders back, pushing them and arching your back to order. You drew one controlled breath into your lungs.

Michael’s voice remained trapped inside your head.

I’m here, too.

As though you could ever forget.

As though you had not built your entire absence around the fact that he was always there- somewhere in the world, under the same sky, occupying a place in your heart you could neither offer him nor reclaim for yourself.

The stage went black. Your cue sounded. Then you struck the first note.

The curtain lifted, and the woman Michael had reduced to a trembling twenty-something disappeared.

In her place stood the performer.

Every ounce of anger found somewhere to go. You drove it through your platform boots, your instrument, and onto the stage. It sharpened your movements, deepened your voice, and made every glance into the camera feel like a challenge. Each count landed with punishing precision.

Five, six, seven, eight.

Your dancers moved around you in perfect synchronization. Lights flashed white and crimson overhead. The bass pounded through the floor hard enough to rattle your bones.

The audience screamed your name.

You gave them everything.

Heartbreak could humiliate you in a corridor. It could keep you awake at night, make you stare at a telephone you refused to answer, and turn the sight of one man’s hand around another woman’s waist into something you needed days to recover from.

But onstage, heartbreak belonged to you.

You bent it into choreography. Forced it into melody. Made it beautiful enough for hundreds of thousands of people to mistaken your pain for power.

By the final chorus, sweat had gathered beneath the collar of your jacket. Your lungs burned, and strands of hair clung to your face, but you pushed harder. The cameras closed in as you reached the edge of the stage, singing directly into the lens.

Then your gaze shifted beyond it.

You found Michael in the wings.

He stood partly obscured by darkness, watching you with an intensity that nearly cost you the next lyric.

Lisa was, one again, nowhere beside him.

For one dangerous second, the performance ceased to be for the theater. The lights blurred, the crowd disappeared, and the words belonged only to the two of you.

Michael did not look away. Neither did you.

Then the track struck its final beat.

You turned sharply into your ending position as the stage plunged into darkness.

The audience erupted.

Your chest heaved while applause crashed around you. One of your dancers caught your hand in the dark, squeezing it in triumph, and the spell broke.

You had done it.

The instant you stepped backstage, your team surrounded you.

Bodies collided with yours. Someone wrapped both arms around your shoulders. Another dancer shouted that you had nearly kicked his head off during the final break, earning a breathless laugh from you.

“That was insane!” “You were killin' it, girl!” “That last chorus-”

You embraced everyone within reach, allowing their excitement to hold you together. This should have been the moment you savored. Months of rehearsals had led to this. You had earned the right to stand here, sweating and laughing while your team celebrated what you had accomplished.

Then the circle around you shifted, the smiles nearest the corridor began to fade.

Michael stood several feet away.

He had waited.

Your choreographer looked between the two of you before placing a cautious hand on your shoulder. “Do you want me to-”

“No.” You wiped the perspiration from beneath your chin. “Gimme five, I'll be with you guys soon.”

Your team hesitated, but gradually dispersed. Several dancers looked back as they went, their earlier excitement replaced by suspicion.

Michael watched until the last of them disappeared, carefully stalking his way towards you. “That was… low,” he huffed.

A humorless laugh escaped you. “You cornered me five minutes before I went onstage.”

“You scratched me.”

“You’ll live.” You shrugged.

He glanced down at the faint marks across the back of his hand. “You’ve changed, y’know that?”

“You haven’t.” You jeered, the remark landed harder than you intended.

Michael’s expression tightened. “Can we… can we go somewhere private?”

“This was your idea," you shot back. "You wanted to talk here.”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“No,” you jabbed. “When do you ever?”

Michael flinched at your cold response, lower lip caught in a bite as his head tilted at the unexpectedly standoffish remark.

A stagehand hurried past the two of you, followed by several people wheeling equipment down the hall. At the far end of the corridor, two photographers lingered with far too much interest.

You quickly side-eyed the photographers as you swore beneath your breath. “Fine.”

You led Michael into your temporary dressing room and waited until he entered before closing the door. The cheers from the auditorium became muffled behind the walls, replaced by the whir of a small fan and the sound of your own uneven breathing, still coming down from your performance.

Michael remained near the door.

You walked toward the vanity, pulled out your in-ears, and set them down with more force than necessary. “Well?” You threw your arms down in agitation.

Michael looked at you through the mirror. “You really were avoiding me.”

You met his reflection with a pointed stare. “We've already established that.”

“Why?”

“We’ve had this conversation.”

“No, we haven’t.” He pushed away from the door, his voice tightening. “I talked. You lied.”

Your hand stilled over the vanity.

Michael took another step into the room. “You told me you needed time. Then you said we grew apart. People don’t just wake up one morning and decide they don’t care about someone anymore.”

“I never said I didn’t care.”

“Then why do you keep acting like it?”

You turned around. “What exactly do you want from me tonight?”

“I want you to tell me what happened.”

You let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now.”

“At an awards show.”

“I don’t know when I’ll see you again!” His voice cracked through the room.

Silence followed after his morose statement.

Michael lowered his gaze, his chest rising beneath the stiff lines of his jacket. When he spoke again, the anger had thinned into something far more vulnerable. “…I don’t know when I’ll see anyone again lately.”

You studied him for a moment.

His shoulders had fallen. The sharpness in his expression was gone, leaving behind a weariness you had failed to notice beneath the lights backstage. You had been so determined to remain angry with him that you had not stopped to consider whether all that agitation had truly belonged to you.

“This isn’t only about me,” you mused.

Michael heaved a sigh as he rubbed a hand over his face, careful not to disturb his makeup. “Lisa... she went away.”

Your head tilted slightly. “Went away?”

“With Danny, and the children.” His mouth tightened around the name. “She left on vacation without properly telling me. Everything had already been arranged by the time I found out. Then she wouldn’t answer when I called.”

You stared at him, trying to fit this information into the scraps you had gathered from a distance. You had seen photographs. Heard rumors. Watched reporters construct entire narratives from the way Michael and Lisa stood beside one another. You had never known any of this.

“That’s between you and your wife,” you said carefully.

“I know that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

Michael’s eyes snapped up.

“You stopped me on my way to the stage because Lisa stopped taking your calls,” you pointed out. “Do you understand how unfair that is?”

“That isn’t why I stopped you.”

“Then why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you used to be the person I told everything to.” His voice had risen into a harsh whisper, but the words reverberated through the small room as though he had shouted them.

Michael dragged his gaze away from you. “She wouldn’t speak to me for weeks. I didn’t know when she was coming back or whether she even cared that I was upset. And when she finally did come back…” He trailed off, as if trying to formulate a more carefully worded answer. "I… I couldn't stand being around her…"

Your eyes lowered towards Michael in suspicion as he had trailed off from his words. “…What did you do?”

“I left.”

You had to make sure you had been hearing him correctly as you echoed back at him, “You left?”

Michael solemnly nodded.

"I’m trying to understand all this.” You lifted both hands, baffled beyond the point of anger. “Your wife left with her former husband, refused to answer your calls, and when she came home, you responded by disappearing on her?”

“I needed space.”

“No," you shook your head in agitation- lamentably feeling more sympathy for his poor wife than the husband whom you had thought was your friend. "You wanted her to wait for you.”

Michael’s jaw tightened.

“You wanted her to call and get no answer,” you continued. “You wanted her to wonder where you were and whether you were ever coming back.”

“She did it to me first.”

You stared at him again.

Michael appeared to hear himself only after the words had left his mouth. Shame flickered across his face, but his pride kept him from taking them back.

“That is the defense you chose?”

“I didn’t say it made what I did right.”

“Then what are you trying to say?” You looked at the man before you, struggling to comprehend everything that had unfolded during your absence.

You had removed yourself from Michael’s life because you believed his marriage deserved room to breathe. You had convinced yourself that your closeness was the threat- that if you stepped away, Michael and Lisa would be free to settle into the life they had chosen together. Instead, they had apparently filled the space you left behind with silence.

“What in God’s name happened while I was gone?” you breathed.

Michael’s gaze lifted to yours. “You were gone." He responded with a flair as if to point out the glaringly obvious issue at hand. His answer cut cleanly through your bewilderment.

Your expression hardened. “Don’t do that.”

“You asked.”

“Do not make me responsible for what you chose to do to Lisa.”

“I’m not.”

“It certainly sounds as if you are.”

Michael had firmly called out your name. “I’m telling you that you weren’t there!” He shot back. “I couldn’t call you. I couldn’t ask what you thought. I couldn’t tell you when I was angry or when I thought I was losing my goddamn mind because you had already decided you didn’t want to know me anymore.”

“You should not have needed me to tell you not to disappear on your wife, Michael."

“I didn’t need you to tell me that.” His voice broke around the words. “I needed my friend.”

You felt the force of that distinction, but refused to let it show. “That is not what I decided.”

“Then what did you decide?” His voice struck the walls and penetrated every layer of composure you had worn into the room.

Your mouth opened, but no answer emerged.

The question hung between you, taut and dangerous.

Michael gave a small, bitter nod. “That’s what I thought.”

You folded your arms over yourself, though the gesture had less to do with defensiveness now than restraint. A year ago, you would have crossed the room and taken his hands. You would have coaxed the anger out of him until his shoulders loosened and his voice softened. You would have reminded him that hurt was not humiliation and that loving someone did not require surrendering his pride. Now, as you stood there, you did not know what you were allowed to offer.

Worse, you did not know what you could offer without wanting to give him everything else.

Michael looked down at his hands. “I’m not saying any of it was your fault,” he said, quieter now. “I know what I did was wrong."

You gave him space to continue talking.

"I thought leaving would make me feel better. I told myself Lisa and I could talk once I came back.” His fingers curled against his palms. “But the longer I stayed gone, the angrier I got. I kept waiting for her to call. Then whenever she did, I wouldn’t answer because I wanted her to keep trying.”

“You wanted to punish her.” You weighed in, eyes cast upon the floor in contemplation.

“I wanted her to understand.”

“By doing the same thing to her?” You had tried to reason with him

“She hurt me.”

“So you made certain she hurt, too?” You continued to hammer into him- this time, your eyes locked onto his in anguish.

Michael turned away, uncomfortable with the reality that had played out. He paced two steps before the cramped room forced him to stop. One hand settled on his hip while the other rubbed anxiously across the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what else to do. She wouldn’t listen.”

“You could have tried-”

“-You don't think I didn't try?” His voice struck the walls hard enough to make you flinch.

Michael saw it. He saw it in his reflection, the tense expression upheld on his face. He saw it in the way you had slightly backed away in shock at his usually calm composure. His anger faltered immediately, but he remained wound tight- hands clenching at his side.

“I called,” he said more quietly. “I called, and waited, and I kept wondering what she was doing with him while I was sitting there feeling stupid. By the time she came home, I didn’t want to hear anything she had to say. I wanted her to wonder for once. I wanted her to be the one waiting.”

There it was- the humiliating truth laid bare.

“I don’t know…” He tried to formulate his next thought carefully, but he had sounded helplessly more quieter without defense this time. “I don’t know why I do this,” he repeated, his voice growing unsteady. “Every time I think someone is going to leave me, I shut them out first. Then I get angry when they stay gone.”

Michael’s face tightened as the admission settled over him.

“So I stopped talking to her,” he continued quietly. “I gave her the same treatment she gave me. I knew it was hurting her, and I still kept doing it because…” He swallowed. “Because at least then I wouldn't be the only one hurting.”

Something in him seemed to collapse the moment he heard the ugliness of it spoken out loud.

His head lowered. “…Why do I do this to the people I love?”

The question did not require an answer. Even if it had, you were in no position to give him one. His confession had placed a mirror between you, and you hated what stared back.

Michael had emotionally disappeared from his wife because her silence had made him feel powerless. You had disappeared from Michael because loving him had made you feel the same. Neither of you had known how to leave cleanly or had been brave enough to stay and talk things out.

Perhaps Michael had hidden in himself because you knew that was his only way of knowing how to protect himself. You had hidden in recording studios, hotel rooms, and an endless procession of professional obligations for much the same reason.

The realization did not excuse what he had done to Lisa. It only made it harder to aim your anger at him without feeling some of it turn back on you.

“You wanted control,” you concluded at last.

Michael looked up.

“If you were the one who stopped answering, then you could pretend you were choosing the distance.” Your arms tightened around yourself. “You wouldn’t have to sit there wondering whether she had abandoned you. You could tell yourself you had abandoned her.”

His eyes narrowed- not with anger, but recognition. “…Is that why you did it?”

Your breath stopped. “Michael," you warned him, carefully shaking your head. You slipped a finger beneath the chain of your bracelet, tracing it back and forth to sooth your increasing anxiety. “Stop it-“

“-Is that why you stopped calling me?”

“We're talking about your marriage right now. You can’t just-”

“-No.” He moved closer. “We’re talking about what people do when they’re afraid someone doesn’t want them anymore.”

Your finger tightly hooked onto the chain of your bracelet in agitation. “You don’t get to use Lisa to corner me into this conversation.”

“I’m not using her.”

“You came in here because she ignored you, and now you expect me to explain why I left as if they're the same thing.”

“Aren’t they?” He raised the question, striking something raw in your psyche.

You let go of your bracelet, stepping toward him before you could stop yourself. “I didn’t disappear to punish you," you persisted through gritted teeth and clenched fists.

“Then why did you?”

“I have been walking away for a reason.”

“What reason?”

“Michael-”

He persisted, hoping for you to crack so that he could get an answer he had spent months trying to get out of you. “What reason?”

You turned toward the vanity, unable to endure the directness of his gaze.

He stepped closer. “Did Lisa say something to you?”

You looked back at him, baffled. “What?”

“Did she ask you to stay away from me?”

“No.”

“Did she ever tell you that you were causing a problem between us?”

“No.”

“Then stop blaming my marriage.”

“What the fuck?” The words burst from you before you could temper them. Your anger had been simmering too close to the surface all evening; now you could feel it frothing over. “I’m not blaming anything.”

“Yes, you are,” he insisted. “Everything changed the moment I married her.”

“Of course it fucking did!”

Michael recoiled at the force of your answer.

You closed your eyes, but it was too late to retrieve the words. The frustration had already broken free. When you looked at him again, his gaze was moving across your face and posture, searching for every answer you had kept hidden.

“Why did it have to?” he asked.

“Because you're somebody’s husband!”

“And I'm still your best friend.”

Best friend. The title felt like a cushion for something else entirely, causing your heart to falter. “You couldn’t be both in the same way," you surmised.

“Why not?”

A bitter laugh rose from your throat. “You truly don’t understand, do you? Even after all this time?”

“No, I don’t.” He came closer still. “I don’t understand why getting married meant I had to lose you.”

“You didn’t lose me.”

“Then what do you call this?” Michael gestured toward the space between you. It was scarcely more than a few feet, yet it contained an entire year of unanswered calls, deliberately missed rehearsals, and conversations you had rehearsed without ever intending to have.

You had no answer that would not reveal too much.

Michael waited. When your silence stretched on, his voice softened. “Was I supposed to choose?”

Your head snapped toward him. “No.”

“Then why does it feel like you made the choice for me?”

“Because I never wanted you to have to make one.”

Something changed in his expression.

The room seemed to shrink around you as you realized you had set yourself up.

Michael searched your face as though the truth might be hidden in some small movement you could not control. Once, he had been able to read you without effort. You had spent the past year teaching yourself how to become illegible to him.

“What choice?” he asked carefully.

You looked away, feeling like you had cornered yourself from what you had said.

“Was there something I was supposed to know?”

Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs.

You could have told him right then and there. Some reckless part of you wanted to, actually. Michael stood only a few feet away, hurt and desperate for an explanation while his own marriage crumbled around him. You could have admitted that leaving had never been easy. That every call you ignored had cost you. That watching him promise himself to Lisa had forced you to recognize a love you had hidden so thoroughly that even you had failed to name it.

But that would make you the woman who confessed her feelings when his marriage was at its weakest.

You would not do that to Lisa. You would not do it to Michael. And you certainly could not do it to yourself.

“There’s nothing you need to know,” you quietly gave.

Michael’s jaw clenched. “There you go again.”

“What do you want me to say, Michael?”

“The truth.”

“The truth is that I was trying to respect your marriage.”

“You could have respected it without disappearing.”

“No," you insisted, "I couldn’t.” Your answer escaped before you could stop it.

Michael’s anger vanished. “Why?”

You inhaled unsteadily. “Because I knew the way I looked at you,” you confessed, slowly letting out that breath. Your eyes lowered to the floor between you. “Like sometimes I forgot you belonged to someone else-”

He did not move.

“-And eventually, she would have seen it, too.”

The cheers beyond the walls sounded impossibly far away.

The silence that followed soon after your confession was painfully deafening. Your confession had been indirect, stripped of every dangerous word, and still it seemed to settle into all the empty spaces between you. Every lingering embrace. Every night with his head in your lap. Every almost-touch and interrupted glance.

Recognition entered Michael’s face slowly. It wasn't close to certainty, but it was enough. “So that’s why you stopped calling me-”

You shook your head carefully. “Don’t.”

“-Because you thought I would choose her.”

“You had already chosen her.”

“I married her. That doesn’t mean I chose to lose you.” His voice carried no anger now, and that had only made your conflicting feelings worse.

Michael’s gaze moved across your face once more, taking in every betrayal of emotion you had failed to conceal. “I didn’t even know if Lisa was gonna be here with me tonight,” he said. “She wouldn’t tell me. Nobody would tell me anything. Then she appeared, and suddenly there were people telling us where to stand, where to sit, when to smile. Everyone was watching us, waiting to see whether we would touch each other.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “They don’t care whether we’ve spoken. They only care whether it looks like we have.”

Your anger softened against your will.

Michael’s eyes found yours. “And then I saw you.” His voice soon dropped. “We were finally in the same room together, and you wouldn’t even look at me.”

You folded your arms more tightly, afraid that if you let them fall, your hands might reach for him of their own accord.

“Do you know what that feels like?” he asked. “To walk into a room and have two of the most important people in your life act like you aren’t there?”

“Yes.” The answer brutally and truthfully escaped before your pride could stop it.

Michael blinked.

You held his gaze despite the ache gathering in your throat. “Yes, Michael," you emphasized, "I know exactly what it feels like.”

Something shifted in his expression.

“And I know what it feels like to be the person doing the ignoring,” you painfully acknowledged your actions. “That doesn’t mean I know how to stop.”

“Then why did you do this to me?”

“To keep me from hurting anyone!”

“Okay, well, you hurt me!” He exclaimed. Michael’s eyes shone, though whether from anger or grief, you could not tell. “You hurt me anyway,” he repeated a bit more quietly.

Your fury wavered, but you wanted to hold on to it for longer so badly. Anger had carried you through the hallway, onto the stage, and into this room. It had been so much easier to regard Michael as selfish and inconsiderate than to acknowledge the frightened man standing before you.

But his pain did not absolve him. And your guilt did not mean you owed him the comfort you had spent the last year trying to withhold.

“I’m aware,” you solemnly acknowledged.

Michael went still. It was the first honest answer you had given him all night.

You looked away before the relief in his expression could undo you.

“But that still doesn’t make what you did to Lisa right.” You looked away before the relief in his expression could undo you. “You don’t get to punish someone for frightening you and then call it love. And you don’t get to come running to me whenever your marriage stops feeling safe.”

His expression tightened, but you refused to retreat. “Caring about what you’re going through does not make me the place you go to when you want to hide from it.”

The room seemed to contract around you. This was the matter of the heart, and it seemed like there was no proper time to ever admit or unpack all of things you thought of Michael. So you did what you had always done, stay silent afterwards- further simmering in your own dissonance.

A knock sounded against the door.

“Michael?” Someone called from the corridor. “They need you and Lisa in two minutes.”

Neither of you answered the door.

Michael did not take his eyes from you. “You want me to leave you alone?” he had finally asked.

You swallowed.

Only minutes ago, the answer would have been easy.

Now, with his marriage unraveling somewhere beyond the door and the full weight of his loneliness exposed between you, nothing felt simple enough to say out loud.

“I want you to stop looking at me as if I can fix what happened tonight.”

“I’m not asking you to fix it.”

“Then what are you asking?”

His expression softened, and that was far worse than his anger. “I’m asking you not to disappear anymore.”

Your breath hitched, realizing the irony in his words. You bitterly responded back, "I think you need to try working on that yourself."

Michael cast his gaze on the floor of the dressing room, unsure of what other words to give you.

Another knock struck the door, firmer this time. “Michael, they’re waiting.”

You could only stare at him.

You wanted to open your mouth and say something else, but nothing emerged. You didn't know if he needed comfort, because you didn't want to come off as excusing his behavior. You didn't want to be any more vulnerable than what Michael had apprehensively forced out of you. Because if you said something wrong at that moment, then you feared the already frail grasp you had on Michael would further slip away.

Michael’s gaze finally moved over your face, lingering on every betrayal of emotion you had failed to hide. The tension slowly left his shoulders, but not out of relief. For the fact that his obligations excused him from exhausting the both of you any further.

His silence had given you the answer you wanted. It was also the only answer he could afford.

“Michael,” the voice outside called again, a lot more insistent than before.

He took a step backward. “…I should go.” And then he turned towards the door. His hand had settled on the doorknob, but he hesitated. “You were incredible tonight,” he said softly without having to look at you. The tenderness in his voice hurt more than his anger had.

Michael soon opened the door.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You looked at one another from opposite sides of the threshold, suspended between what you had once been and everything you had refused to become.

Then someone called his name from farther down the corridor.

Michael turned away.

You watched him walk toward the life from which you had removed yourself. Toward waiting photographers. Toward handlers prepared to arrange every public gesture. Toward his wife, who would stand beside him while the cameras captured whatever remained of their marriage.

The door finally closed.

You remained where you were, still dressed in the clothes you had worn while thousands of people screamed your name. Minutes earlier, you had commanded an arena. You had transformed your pain into something powerful and made the entire world believe you were untouchable. Yet Michael had needed less than ten minutes to expose the truth.

You had not left because the friendship meant too little, you had left because it meant everything.

And in trying to keep your heart safe, you had only taught the person who knew it best what it felt like to lose you.

By the time the awards show ended, the encounter in your dressing room had taken on the distorted quality of something you might have imagined.

The building remained alive long after the broadcast concluded. Publicists herded artists toward press rooms, photographers shouted for one last picture, and every corridor seemed to contain another person eager to congratulate you on your performance.

You were left with a mellow buzz as you left the building, clutching onto the award you had won for the night for 'Best Cinematography in a Video'. On stage, you graciously gave all the credit to the team that made the vision for your comeback come to fruition. You threw in a line about how your new album felt like a rebirth, which had perfectly mirrored itself onto your music video. If only you had felt that interpersonally.

Out of all the categories you had been nominated for, this one felt well-deserved- being content with the idea that the general audience understood what you were getting at from your ambitious artistry.

You accepted each passing compliment as you made your way out the building with the composure expected of you.

You smiled. You thanked them. You allowed yourself to be embraced by people whose names you only half remembered.

All the while, Michael’s words followed you even outside the building.

You hurt me anyway.

You searched for him without meaning to. Every flash of a black jacket in the crowd made your attention sharpen. Every familiar laugh drifting from another corridor caused your steps to falter. But you never saw him.

You did, however, pass a television monitor replaying footage from earlier in the evening. Michael and Lisa stood together before a wall of photographers, their bodies angled toward one another with the practiced intimacy demanded of them. His hand rested against her waist. Her smile appeared perfectly composed.

The cameras had captured no trace of the argument that had preceded it.

For all anyone watching knew, they were blissfully happy. For all anyone knew, you and Michael had politely passed one another backstage without incident.

You continued walking before the footage could begin again.

When your publicist suggested the after-party, you declined so quickly that she stared at you.

“I’m exhausted,” you explained, gesturing towards your weary body.

It was not entirely a lie. Your body had begun to register every demand you had made of it that evening. Your feet throbbed inside your boots, your muscles ached from the performance, and the adrenaline that had carried you through the night was abandoning you in cruel increments.

What you did not explain was that the prospect of entering another crowded room and wondering whether Michael might appear in it felt unbearable.

Your team accepted your decision with minimal protest. The work had been done. Someone promised to send champagne to your room. Someone else reminded you of your call time the following afternoon. Then you were guided through a private exit and into the waiting car.

The door shut, sealing you inside a sudden, merciful quiet.

Only then, did you slump over in the purest forms of exhaustion an artist could face. You still would have to carry the emotional and mental weight that Michael had unknowingly added onto your shoulders. The idea of showering, brushing your teeth, and going to bed while thinking about your exchange with Michael began to bloom through your temples in the form of a headache.

You turned your attention towards the car window. Manhattan passed beyond the tinted window in streaks of white and red. Crowds remained clustered outside Radio City, still buzzing from the show, but their voices faded as the car pulled into traffic.

You leaned your head against the seat, staring into an empty space conjured up in your mind. Strangely enough, for the first time all evening, there was nothing left to distract you.

You could still see Michael standing in the dressing room, his shoulders lowered beneath the rigid lines of his jacket. You could hear the crack in his voice when he admitted what had happened with Lisa. You could feel the way the room had contracted when he began asking questions you had spent a year avoiding. Worse, you remembered the look on his face when your silence answered them.

You had wanted him to understand why you left, now you were terrified that he was about to catch on.

The car stopped beneath the hotel awning sometime after midnight. Security ushered you through a quieter side entrance, sparing you from the handful of photographers lingering near the lobby. You offered tired good nights to your entourage in the elevator and stepped onto your floor alone.

The corridor was still.

Your footsteps sank soundlessly into the carpet as you approached your room. For one irrational moment, you expected to find Michael waiting outside it.

There was no one there.

Relief arrived alongside something dangerously close to disappointment.

You unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The room greeted you exactly as you had left it: curtains drawn open to overlook the sparkling city, garment bags hanging near the wardrobe, a champagne bucket waiting unopened on the table. Someone from housekeeping had turned down the bed and left a lamp glowing beside it.

You pressed the door shut behind you with the heel of your boot. Only then did you notice the folded piece of paper lying on the carpet.

You froze in place.

It had been slipped beneath the door.

Your first name was written across the front in dark ink, the letters leaning into one another with a familiar, hurried slant. You knew the handwriting before you bent to retrieve it.

“Fuck off,” you murmured under your breath in slight agitation.

The paper bore the hotel’s name across the top- the same cream-colored memo pad sitting beside your telephone. The culprit- Michael- had written on it hard enough for faint impressions to remain beneath several of the words.

You unfolded it.

Please come see me. I am asking you one last time.

The word “Please” had been underlined two times in ink. Beneath his message, he had written a room number. Then his name, though he could not possibly have believed you needed it.

Michael.

You stared at the message until the letters began to blur.

There was a postscript at the bottom, squeezed into the remaining space as though he had remembered it only after folding the note.

P.S. Lisa won’t be there.

Your eyebrows rose.

As if that made anything better.

If anything, the clarification made the invitation look considerably worse. Michael evidently understood that asking you to visit his hotel room after midnight required an explanation. What he had failed to understand was that mentioning his absent wife did not qualify as one.

You read the note again. Then once more, even flipping the note around for good measure, as though another sentence might appear and clarify precisely what he wanted from you.

…It did not.

You looked toward the room number.

Michael was somewhere in this building.

Perhaps several floors above you. Perhaps one elevator ride away, waiting to see whether you would accept the invitation or disappear from him yet again.

You could call his room and tell him he had lost his mind. You could tear the note in half, take off your makeup, and go to bed. You could walk into the hallway.

Your fingers tightened around the corner of the paper, crinkling it in the process of your grip.

Then your gaze drifted toward the hotel’s name printed across the top. The moral implications of the invitation vanished beneath a much more immediate question.

How the fuck did Michael know you were staying in the same hotel?

author's note: guys imma be so real i am not content with this chapter but shit is going to go down in the third part, so expect something morally incorrect next part :D

taglist: @rafageovanna78-blog @fncythatt @phenomenalphysicslover @beatitjean @absdoesnothaveabs @nextbigtalk @whereswario @sukunasstomachtongue @yvespoems @sugacor3 @elena834504

Racing excitement, bouncing anxiety and a splash of anticipation. A familiar bundle of emotions wrapped up into one neat little package, the kind that can't be explained unless expierenced and didn't live in the realms of daily life. Those that understood knew and those that didn't never would.

The perfomance had yet to start and already, the sour aroma of sweat filled the air. Bracing, sharp, the kind of smell that alludes to something major happening in close proximity.

Loud chatter of controlled chaos. The space heavy with eagle eyed security and hard working crew, a few paces away stood two dancers, carefully stretching, their chests expanding with each deep breath of oxygen as they prepared for what was to come.

The dull setting of an empty stage greeted attendees, yet, the humid heat of the rig lights could still be felt against his skin, a reminder of the opening act who had make a swift exit off the stage not too long ago.

Stage managers barked urgent orders left and right, heavy footsteps bounced off the floor and the roar of an impatient crowd could be heard a mile away, like a shaking crescendo of anticipation. Oddly, to the shadow of a man hiding behind the curtains, this felt like coming home.

These backstage moments had become the backdrop for his most memorable days ― the ones that held the world captive in sheer adoration and unwavering support. If these walls could talk, they'd whisper his name, his secrets until they echoed around the globe, like subtle mythology of the legend he would never allow himself to believe in.

Unable to stay still, he found himself tapping his foot in an frustratingly addictive rhythm, expressive eyes gazing towards an unassuming crowd behind the curtain and for once, he thanked his ability to plan ahead and tie his hair out of his face so he had an outstanding view.

Right now, he could afford to be backstage and not be dressed to the nines. There was no one to please, no one he needed to impress or pull focus. Finally, it was his chance to sit back and relax.

After all, this wasn't a Michael Jackson show.

The applause wasn't for him, but rather his younger sibling, his littlest sister. The same one he used to cast in small plays in their childhood home, where they created music for what they assumed would be fun, but even that seemed temperamental under the watchful eye of their father ― or rather Joseph as he demanded they call him.

The more he thought about that, the more it hurt him. As a child, he didn't ask questions and while confusion festered deep within the walls of his mind, he was taught not to answer back. What Joseph said goes and that was that.

Along with his siblings, he did the best he could to survive and found comfort in the family he had, the ones who knew and understood exactly what he was going through. His angel of a mother, the same women who he considered to be the best humanity had to offer. His brothers, despite their arguments, they never failed to show up when it mattered. Through the good and the bad, he loved them and knew they felt the same, even if they didn't show it all the time.

Then there were his sister, the ones that helped shape him from a young boy into the grown man he had become.

Rebbie, the oldest of the Jackson's who felt more maternal than any of the others. Maybe it was the age gap, but he had always looked at her like she was so grown. In a way, he pitted her for it. She'd seen and expierenced this way of life for the longest time, he's never really known her as a child.

La Toya, only two years and three months older than he was and regardless of the distance that passed them in age, they were so alike in so many ways. Their family had always affectionately referred to them as 'the twins.' Even Joseph who rarely spoke to any of them with any kind of loving nickname had come to terms with that one.

La Toya had been one of the people Michael found himself closest to as a kid, constantly looking up to her in regards of how to carry yourself or when he needed fashion advice. They'd grown distant over the years. No longer one entity in two bodies, but Michael knew he would always hold her in high regards.

Then there was Janet, of course. His youngest sister and the one he had always been the most protective of. While Michael might have been La Toya's baby, Janet had been his.

A fierce kind of devotion had grown within him the moment she had been born and they'd been as thick as thieves ever since. They were so different, yet somehow so similar in ways even they didn't understand. So much so, that they often found themselves having the same ideas at the same time.

Maybe that exact likeness was the reason he now found himself waiting backstage, listening to the overwhelming surge of applause of a hungry crowd waiting eagerly for his little sister to take center stage.

A well maintained flight of security flanked close by, but that fact seemed to fade into the distance once the echoes of the beginning provoked a loud reaction from the audience. Pre-show rituals were over and it was finally time for the main event.

Melodic chimes crescendoed through the building, followed by a beaming white light to set the stage, billowing, thick fog swirled and heaved far and wide as a the height of a stage riser grew high above the ground, shadowed in a black box of mysery, leaving more questions than answers.

Suddenly, with the finale drop of a single onyx curtain drew a familiar silhouette into view.

For a moment, there was simply no movement at all. The blacked out hollow of her figure stood perfectly still, but that was more than enough to solicite an onslaught of screams from those already losing their mind at the imagery her short skirt and strong shoulder pads.

There was no mistaking who this was: Janet Jackson herself.

Michael felt the chills rise against his flesh as the anticipation built, pride formed at the overwhelming nature of knowing she'd done this her own way and had succeeded in making the word her own.

"This is a story about control." As a playback sound of her own voice moved through the area, the riser began to lower close to the ground. "My control. Control of what I say, control of what I do. And this time, I'm gonna do it my way." Dancers stood in a perfect formation, legs a shoulders width apart, hands clasped at their waist.

Once Janet reached the ground, the music kicked in, a fuchsia light beamed and suddenly the show was in full force and boy, what a show it was.

Janet was a star for a reason and that went far beyond her brother's influence. She had carved her own path, made her own way, owned every stage she set foot on and none of that was more evident that at this exact moment.

The light bounced off her face, warming her skin from the very first hit and she looked like a force of nature, as though she was born for this very thing that defined her life.

While Michael knew his focus should be zoned in on the magnetic way his baby sister so effortlessly commanded such a large stage, he would be lying if he said that's where his priorities lay.

Initially, of course, he'd been unable to tear his gaze away. A soft melody had escaped his own lips from instinct alone ― unplanned but in perfect harmony, at one with the music, becoming the very rhythm his sister sang against. He couldn't help it. Sometimes it felt like music was marked into his DNA. Such things came to him as simple as the reality of breathing. He didn't have to think for it to happen.

Really, there was no other thought in his mind other than the show.

Well, nothing until she seemingly appeared from the darkness, glowing effortlessly like the brightest star guiding the three wise men towards greatness. As his carefully controlled, obsidian gaze found her form, how could he be expected to resist such a holy sight?

There, to Janet's left, practically glittering beneath the rigid heat of unkind stage lights, his eyes caught a tempting glimpse of a figure and felt the moment his laboured breathing was practically knocked from his lungs.

Who needed oxygen anyway? Certainly not Michael. The shape of this women was enough to prove he had already made it to heaven.

It wasn't the beauty that held him captive (though if he were honest with himself, there was a lot to admire), nor was it the precision of every move she made (but again, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't impressed and really, it took a lot to impress the Michael Jackson.)

No, it was something else. Something that went beyond any form of attraction he'd felt before, if attraction was even the correct term for this particular emotion. He wasn't fully convinced. While he could admit her physically appearance was pleasing, there was something much more alluring pulling him under the surface.

Cascading down like a wave of nostalgia, her presence hit against him like a ton of bricks.

The lines of her body, so heavily focused on the perfomance, there was no room for error. Every movement held purpose. The slide of her foot, the twist of her hips, even the fierce focus displayed so perfectly on her face. She was a performer, that much could never be taken from her.

So perfectly in tune with every beat, her body moved as though tied to the very rhythm in which she performed. Like a flowing river, each step came with breathtaking fluidity, so at ease with every turn, making it easy to see how she had landed a place on such an in demand tour.

It told him so much, yet nothing at all.

There was a love for her craft, a beautiful cadence in the steps which must have taken time to master, yet came so effortlessly. And he knew, of course he knew, just how much time she would've spent in rehearsals studios or alone in her own home working tirelessly to make this moment serve a purpose beyond perfomance.

Michael found himself watching with such intense desire, barley registering the song fading out as another began. The world around him seemed irrelevant as he noticed the mischievous, exciement gleaming in her eyes.

A couple dancers left the stage. They weren't needed for this particular number.

Still, she remained.

One particular move stopped his heart. Nothing fancy, nothing particularly hard. A simple movement of her arms, the sharp lines of her hands, held outwardly on either side, bent expertly at the wrist, reminding him of vibrant, multi-colored paint etched into the walls of what would now be considered a historical landmark.

If he didn't know any better, he could've convinced himself she had been the inspiration for some of the great hieroglyphics locked behind even greater curses, hidden far within the depths of a foreign land.

For a moment, reality slipped from his grasp. The dark, black military attire and the bright, white lighting faded entirely, replaced with something that he shouldn't recognise.

Golden lamé sudden cascaded down her body, like a metallic stream still flowing, some areas cut with a perfect precision to showcase inches of beautiful, soft skin, just enough to tease, but left far too much to the imagination. Iridescent layered silks and chiffon moved rhythmically with each step and dusted against exposed collarbone sat the softest champagne shimmer.

Lit with a royal hue, her face glowed with the light of a thousand suns, eyes ringed with heavy khol eyeliner and hair sleak and gleaming with beautiful jewelled beads.

An ethereal beauty that shouldn't exist and perhaps it never did, because as soon as he blinked the image disappeared and he was greeted with the all too real sight of her back in her militarian style costume, dancing with a ferocity he rarely saw these days, while Janet sang her heart out like siren calling upon a willing audience.

Maybe he was going crazy.

Yes, that made much more sense than whatever nonsense his mind had just conjured up. He must have been tired. He never really did sleep at night, did he? Maybe in he was far more exhausted than he realised.

But even as he tried his hardest to concentrate on the world around him, the gold imagery continued to creep up on his completely rational thoughts, tainting then with a familiarity strong enough to drive him into a temporary state of insanity if he wasn't careful.

Guilt was a funny thing and it always found odd ways to creep up on you.

Michael knew he should have been playing the part of the supportive brother, beaming in pride while Janet proved her place as an entertainer. She was wonderful. He knew that to be true and he so hoped he could be the one to shower her with praise, much like she did with him every time she so graciously attended one of this shows. That's what he'd come here for. That's exactly what he had intended to do.

He loved his sister. Sometimes, when he was younger, he would convince himself that they were an old soul split into two youthful bodies. His other half and he cared for her dearly. Michael was so proud of everything Janet had accomplished and he knew his support was something irreplaceable in her eyes.

But every time he tried to bring his focus back to her, that little red devil on his shoulder whispered words of temptation, telling him he would regret tearing his gaze away from the women who had so effortlessly held his attention span captive with zero effort on her part.

Not so much as a tapping foot or a gentle hum had come from Michael, and that had been the first tip off that something wasn't quiet right.

Usually such a huge fan of his sisters music, especially this particular album cycle, he should have been reacting in someway.

Back at Neverland, Michael often locked himself in his dance studio for hours, where he would play Rhythm Nation at full volume and simply allow his body to move.

Those were precious moments where he would give himself chance to discover new things, different moves, how to curve his foot just right and perfect a dance he had long since convinced himself should have be impossible.

Janet's music wasn't simple pop. It had the ability to create a legend. He should have been moving by now.

Yet, there he stood, still as stone with a blank look decorating the delicate contours of his face. A far off gaze settled against his features, no tell tale signs that anything was particular bothering him, no indication that he was how fascinated with a women he had never even so much as caught the name of. But to those that knew him, it wasn't hard to notice how completely out of character his current demeanour was.

"Mister Jackson, is something wrong?"

If anyone knew Michael's mannerisms, that would fall on Bill Bray. Having met a young, twelve year old version of the boy that would later take the world by storm, Bill had been there to see it all.

Initially signing on to become security for the boys, he had stuck around all these years. Going from the Jackson 5 to being a steady, grounding, protective presence in his solo career. Bill was more than a bodyguard. He was more like family.

As a child, after shows, Michael would throw himself carelessly into Bill's arms, trusting the older man, with the innocence only a child could hold, to carry him back to safety.

That safe haven had never been broken. He loved him like a father when his own had failed to allow him to show that affection, so it came as no shock to Michael when he heard the curious assumption of his current state leave the mouth of the very man that ushered him into security when life became overwhelming.

Feeling no need to lie, he stepped back, shoulders brushing those of his trusted friend while curious eyes never once moved from the dancing silhouette he'd been fixated on for almost two entire numbers now.

"She's extremely familiar to me, Bill." Michael nodded in her general direction for what good it was worth.

The whole stage was a masterclass in perfomance. His sister the top billing order, but she was not the only person giving it her all. There were multiple bodies creating a show worth watching and it was easy to lose a dancer in to the beat if you didn't know what to look for.

"Who?" Squinting his kind eyes, Bill made a strong attempt to pick a face from the performers, but the choreography moved so fast, it was hard to settle on just one. "A dancer or back up singer?"

Shaking his head, Michael failed to understand how she wouldn't stand out to another.

"The women on Janet's left." He huffed, refusing to allow his focus to be broken for even a second while his eyes followed the elegant position she'd formed with her body.

Bill hummed in understanding, her pretty face suddenly in view once he knew who to look for. "She danced for you before?" The question obvious when the subject of Michael's familiairy to the women came into conversation.

"No."

The answer instantaneous, like Michael didn't even have to think to know.

Of course, he was extremely tuned into every detail that came along with each project he had ever participated in, from singing, to lyricism, to complex choreography, intricate short films and of course, the people working around him.

Being the kind of man he is, Michael always tried his absolute hardest at remembering names and faces of those that surrounded him. While he wasn't perfect and with time, those memories faded to be replaced with new, exciting moments, he was sure of one thing: he would certainly remember her.

"Are you sure?" Bill asked, eyebrows pinched together, not fully convinced.

"I'd remember a name." Michael insisted sharply, a hint of attitude before his face softened.

Other workers backstage weren't in tune with the conversation, they had no clue what they were speaking of and knew better than to approach Michael Jackson out of the blue when he was otherwise occupied by watching the performance. Yet, he could still feel their prying eyes and an instant, an unfamiliar wash of shame came over him once he realised he might have snapped unfairly, so he made a quick move to apologise.

Bill simply waved him off, telling him not to worry about it, but he was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery women causing his friend so much turmoil.

"Could she be a fan you've met before?"

The question wasn't that peculiar. Michael had met many people through various parts of life. That scenario was entirely plausible, yet something screamed at him that this was not the case.

Not by a long shot.

"No." He answered almost instantly and then sighed heavily with the weight of her familiar features now burnt into his brain. "Well, I don't know actually. Maybe." Even as he said it, the words felt wrong in his mouth, like chewing cardboard to combat hunger. "But if she was… wouldn't she have approached me while all the dancers were waiting in the wings?"

It was a weak attempt at gaining clarity and he knew it, but that niggling voice in the back of his mind told him there was more to this than a simple fan encounter.

"I don't know, Sir." Bill's attempt at being rational fell on dead ears as the two men curiously watched the dancer give her all to a crowd that would never know her name. "She has a job to uphold and I don't think screaming praise towards the 'king of pop' really cements a look of professionalism in the eyes of his sister." Still running with the fan theory, even if he didn't fully believe in it himself.

Watching on, a flash of gold temporarily clouded his vision prompting a tense jaw and stubborn shake of his head. "No. There's just something about her."

For a moment, the two men fell silent, the sound of a rowdy crowd, Janet's beautiful singing and the boom of a heavy bass being the only sound between them. The with a soft smile, Bill turned his steady gaze towards Michael and sighed.

"Good fish?" He asked.

An overwhelming reminiscence showered him with stubborn determination. There was something about her. He knew her. He knew he knew her.

Somehow, someway. Even if it didn't make sense to him.

There was simply no way to express that without sounding like a deranged man with a terrifying obsession, so instead of voicing his curiosity, Michael allowed himself to nod along and give peace of mind to the situation for the time being.

"Yeah…" he hummed without conviction. "good fish."

While he didn't voice it with words, his body language was enough to show he wouldn't let this go without getting an answer. He was nothing if not stubborn, so use to getting what he wanted these days. Michael could and absolutely would go out of his way harass Janet for a month straight if he had to. He would refuse to settle until he met this women.

The rest of the show played out like a masterclass in entertainment. Lighting queues, electric guitar, costume changes, powerful notes and daring routines. It was enough to solidify exactly why the world had fallen at Janet's feet. This had been her magnum opus. No one could take that from her.

The crowd screamed with joy, alive with electricity surging through their bodies. Disappointment lingered for curtain call, but they'd been too enthralled and grateful for the expierence that no one dared groan.

The final music notes of Rhythm Nation burned out and soon dancers were filling the backstage area.

Eagle eyed and set with a new found form of determination, Michael kept his eyes peeled, focused as his head weaved back and fourth between the new bodies. She had to be here. People don't vanish.

While he tried his absolute hardest to scout out the familiar sight he'd been oggling all night, he failed to notice the wide eyed look on everyone else's faces when they started to notice that yes, Michael Jackson had in fact been watching them from backstage. Had the black fedora really escaped all their attention until now?

Gasped filled the air, excited whispers from band members and crew alike, but neither he nor Bill paid it any mind. This was light work in comparison to the hoards of people that usually crowded the space around him.

In an attempt to play it casual, Michael didn't walk around and search every face, but the urgency was there and he didn't quite understand it either. What was this thing pulling him towards someone he didn't know? Why couldn't he ignore it?

Michael sighed in frustration, finally giving up after a few minutes of careful consideration. She must have slipped past in the busy crowd and he had somehow misplaced her. Just his luck.

Still, not all was lost.

With a beaming grin, bright enough to light up a whole room, Janet rushed backstage, glowing radiantly from the post show adrenaline, the rumbling sound of applause following her steps. Her soft brown eyes instantly found Michael's and with a soft laugh of his own, he automatically crossed the distance and let out a dramatic 'woah' as she threw her arms around him.

"Easy, Dunk." He teased, but reciprocated the embrace and held his sister close for a couple of seconds. "You did so great out there. The dance break in State Of The World was mesmerising. You've clearly been spending a lot of time rehearsing for this."

If it were possible, her smile grew wider as she pulled back from the hug, the famous Jackson grin sitting pretty across both of their faces. When they were together, it was impossible to ignore their similarities.

"You really liked it?" He words came out like a joke, but Michael knew she genuinely valued his opinion.

With a firm nod, he temporarily forgot that there were prying eyes watching the pair and instead, focused all his energy on his sister.

"Yeah, of course." He nodded without conviction. "You didn't miss a single beat and you looked so confident out there. You have to believe me, you know I'd tell you if you messed up."

While it sounded harsh, they both knew it was the perfectionist within him that pushed his honesty. None of it was ever out of malice, just striving for impossible goals.

That's partly why his approval meant so much to Janet. He pushed himself so hard sometimes, it was nice knowing he could see that reflected in herself. Sometimes she still felt as though he saw her as that clumsy five year old who used to follow him around like a shadow.

"Yeah." She chuckled. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course!" Momentarily looking around, he suddenly became aware of the eyes watching them and with a gentle grasp at her wrist, Michael pulled the two of then into an isolated corner, nodding in gratitude when Bill kept a short distance between them. "You know I wouldn't have missed this."

Janet had attended countless of his own shows. Now that he had the time, it made the most sense for him to show that kind of support back.

He had spent years exhausting himself but since the Bad tour had ended last year, he'd finally allowed the presence of a small break to enter his life. Of course, he was still working. He liked to stay busy, so Michael had been writing and recording for his next album, which didn't have a title yet, but he had far more freedom this year than he had for most of his life and he planned on making the most of it.

"Are you staying in the same hotel or are you travelling back already?" Janet curiously asked, wiping the sweat from her brow.

"I've already checked in, so I'll be staying tonight." Michael confirmed, eyebrows arched. "Actually, I was wondering if you could do something for me."

Eyebrows arched, she looked around before letting out a dramatic sigh and inching closer to her brother. "Depends on what it is."

A brief pause hung heavy in the air. Michael bit down on his lower lip in hesitation at what he was about to ask. Now that he thought about it, the idea really did sound stupid in reality. Wanting to talk to a women he felt he knew but couldn't even place a name to the face was ridiculous. Janet would surely poke fun at him and if she didn't, she would definitely tell their siblings and they would do it for her.

Still, he couldn't stop picturing the mischievous gleam in her eyes or the smooth roll of her body. The warm feeling that grew in the pit of his stomach when he first laid eyes on her returned at just the thought and so swallowing his pride, Michael faced his sister with a sense of determination.

He could do this. He didn't have to tell her the whole truth. Maybe just expressing interest would be enough.

"Could you introduce me to one of your dancers?" The words tumbled clumsily from his mouth before he could stop them.

Wide eyed, Janet pulled her lips inwards to stop herself from laughing. It wasn't every day Michael so freely showed this kind of enthusiasm towards someone else and he basically never did it in front of her.

His wide doe eyes were almost too pathetic and so with a dramatic sigh, Janet nodded her head. "Which one was it? I'm not saying I'll hook you guys up, but I might consider it."

Michael groaned and it reminded her of when they were younger and their brothers would tease him tirelessly for his growing crush on Diana Ross.

"It's not like that." He insisted, lips pouted like a grouchy teen. "I just want to say hello. She did a great job out there tonight."

"And the others didn't?" She teased, smirk forming menacingly against her full lips.

"No... that's not what I'm saying." He huffed, ignoring the brittle heat rising to the apples of his cheeks. "There's just something about her."

"Right..." Janet laughed. "she's so special."

Narrowing his eyes in annoyance, Michael gently shoved his sister against her shoulder and then gasped as she retaliated. The two dissolving into a small burst of laughter until she eventually asked him to describe her again.

He did, but it didn't help.

The hair style, the outfit choice, her body type, her height. It was too vague. She could have practically been any of her female dancers and with the vague description he gave, she would never be able to pull this mystery women from a crowd.

"I'm sorry, Mike. I don't know who you're talking about."

"Come on." He groaned, hands dragging down his face in frustration. "You have to know her. She was on stage with you the whole time and she moved like water. She's perfect!"

"Woah!" Her laugh sharp and loud, giggling shamelessly at her brothers expense. "She's perfect now? Wow, what a women."

"Dunk, I'm being serious." Michael pleaded. "Help me."

"I'm trying, but you're not helping yourself."

"Come on. She's some sort of dance machine." He continued, hands falling to his narrow hips while speaking, trying to remember as much detail as he could. "She had this fierce look of determination in her eyes. She was on your left during Nasty and she caught one of the other dancers before they slipped."

He continued to ramble nonsense, failing to notice the way Janet's eyes had already lit up with recognition.

"She was on my left during Nasty?"

Her words were quiet, but he heard them and soon his eyes were wide as he nodded in confirmation. A sudden excitement bubbling in his stomach. Maybe soon, the mystery would be unravel after all.

"You remmeber her now?"

"Yes." Janet confirmed and then spoke a sweet name Michael couldn't place, but immediately knew.

He repeated it and then feverishly asked if she would introduce him to her.

Shaking her head, arms folded over her chest, Janet teased him again, not fully understanding why he was so persistent about this. Michael met women all the time. Different races, different faces, some of them smaller, some of them more full. He'd witnessed girls falling at his feet and encountered those that tried to play cool in his presence. So many women and always vying for his attention, yet this particular dancer had been the one to catch his eye.

With a heavy sigh, Janet's curious gaze moved around the backstage area and sure, there were plenty of people around. Some of them she knew by name, others worked for the venue and she had never met until that evening. Dancers were spaced out, pretending they weren't gawping open mouthed at her brother, but she knew better. Despite the sea of people, there was one face she couldn't make out and so she turned back to her brother with a small frown.

"I'm sorry, Mike." Shurgging her shoulders, she offered him a sympathetic smile. "She must have already gone to change. She might have left by now."

"Come on, Janet." He groaned. "You're her boss. Please, I need to meet her."

"Why?"

"I do― look, I don't really know, but something is telling me that if I don't, I'm going to regret it for the rest of my life." The words felt heavy on his tongue, but he needed her to know how serious this was for him. "Come on, please."

Rolling her eyes, but conceding, she stepped back and knew he would follow.

"Always so damn dramatic." She huffed.

He didn't comment back, but his silence said enough to him not appreciating her witty commentary. Following her step by step, Michael and Bill eventually made it to the dressing room and entered with Janet who stopped, only for a moment, to speak to her personal assistant.

Neither of the men heard what she said, but a minute later, the assistant left through the door while Janet turned with a smile of her own and announced that she would be going to take a shower now.

"Wait, but what about the girl?" Michael asked.

"It's being handled. Just sit down, shut up and stop tapping your foot. You're going to drive poor Bill crazy."

Bill laughed behind a raised hand and Michael suddenly felt exposed. His foot stopped still and he realised that this entire time, he hadn't known he had been doing it at all. His own fault. A nervous habit he'd picked up from his youth and never been able to tackle.

"Sorry."

"It's fine." Janet huffed. "Look, I don't know why you're so obsessed with this girl or why you're so determined to meet her, but relax. She's just a person and she's actually pretty nice in comparison to a lot of company you keep."

His lips parted, as if to argue his case but Janet simply held her hand out and shook her head as if to say she didn't care about his rebuttal.

"She'll be here any minute. Take a breath and remember: be nice, be normal and don't freak her out with the whole 'if I don't meet her I'll regret it for the rest of my life' stuff." She was paraphrasing of course, but her words got the point across.

Michael finally conceded and told her he'd be good, to which both Janet and Bill laughed. He rolled his eyes, but it was more out of humour than frustration.

Politely excusing herself, Janet left to go and use the showering facility to clean herself up ― a seperate room in the back of of the dressing area where she could rid herself of the sweat and grime from a hard day's work.

Pacing back and fourth, the nerves had once again kicked in and Michael hated it. Why was he so anxious? The question was driving him crazy. How could someone he'd never met cause this kind of reaction?

Eyes formed into small slits, Bill watched on, baffled by his friends behaviour. This wasn't like Michael at all. He couldn't recall a time he had seen him this worked up over a woman he barely knew the name of and Bill had pretty much seen it all. From the highest highs to the lowest lows, it had been Bill who Michael often searched for in moments of weakness.

Stepping forward, he planted his hands on the younger man's shoulder and sighed, eyes wide as Michael looked up towards him. For a second, he was transported back to a time where Michael barley reached his chest. A moment from the past where too much pressure had been given to a boy far too young.

Bill never claimed to be good at pep talks then and he certainly wasn't good at them now, but Michael needed him. They didn't have to say it to know it to be true. Somehow, the two men shared their own secret language. They didn't have to talk much at all in order to communicate.

Still, this felt like a moment where words would be appreciated, so swallowing his pride, Bill looked towards his friend with nothing but appreciation.

"Joker, you need to relax." Despite being in this thirties, Michael would always be a kid to Bill. "She's just a woman. You meet different women pretty much every day. It's going to be fine, she isn't going to bite. Stop pacing. You're going to put a hole in the floor."

Stopping in his tracks, he tried hard to calm his rising nerves. Bill was right after all, Michael really did women all the time. This wasn't new to him. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself, but then his foot started to tap without his permission and Michael knew he was screwed either way.

"Bill, when she comes... will you wait outside?"

His security looked over at him with arched brows, lips set into a straight line which made it impossible to read his mood.

"I shouldn't."

"I know." Michael admitted with a boyish grin. "But you'll be right outside the door. If you hear any funny business going on, you can come right in."

Reluctantly, Bill nodded his head, parting his lips to chip into the conversation, but before he could utter a word, a sharp knock against the wood grain pierced through the room. Neither men discussed what happened next, Bill simply walked towards the dressing room door and pressed down on the handle, like a play by play, as though he knew exactly what steps would happen next.

"Oh." Her voice echoed and without seeing her face or ever hearing that tone before, Michael felt his heart stutter a beat. "I'm sorry. Is this the wrong room? I was told Miss Jackson wanted to see me."

So that's the lie Janet's assistant ran with.

"No, sweetheart." Bill spoke with a polite smile. "You're in the right place. I was about to step out, but please, come in."

A very simple exchange happened next. With practiced ease, Bill slipped out the door and in she walked.

The sound of her footsteps had been the first thing to catch his attention, the gentle click of the door proving that someone had closed it behind them was next and then as he braved a very quick glance in her direction, Michael felt it again. That sudden pull directing him towards a perfect stranger, her sharp eyed gaze met his own, but rather than the dreaded anxiety he had been expecting to feel, his body suddenly washed with ease.

In most scenarios where a women entered a room to unexpectedly find Michael Jackson standing in wait, one of two things usually occurred. They'd either scream their lungs out and jump at him, so much so, he usually feared for his life, or they simply fell mute.

For a heavy moment, he thought the latter had happened with this exchange. He watched with genuine interest as the girl assessed the situation before her and found no sign of his sister in sight, though he knew if she listened hard enough, she would hear the steady flow of water of the shower coming from the room behind them.

Suddenly, a knowing smile curved sweetly against the corners of her lips and she approached with very little caution.

"Wow, I usually avoid tabloid rumours, but I guess it's true." She spoke without introduction, circling like prey, eyes twinkling in amusement.

Michael felt his heart stop, the topic of press gossip always brought the fear of God to him. Then she spoke again and the tension fell straight from his shoulders.

"You and Janet really are the same person. Did you know you're currently wearing your Michael disguise right now?"

That had surely been the last thing he had expected for their first conversation. A burst of genuine laughter left his mouth, nose scrunched in amusement.

"Girl, you play too much." He hummed. "You scared me for a second."

"Really?" She gasped dramatically, coming to a sudden stop only inches away. "Can I get that in writing? I'm putting that bad boy on my resume."

The small distance between them provided Michael with a great view point and he gladly used that to his advantage.

Greedy eyes followed from the top of her head to the tip of her toes, taking in her alluring build and pretty features. She was unlike anyone he'd ever met before, but somehow she seemed to fit into his world.

Changed out of her militarian clothing now, she dressed more for comfort. A slouchy sweater, the neckline cut haphazardly, now sliding down one shoulder, a pair of well loved jeans clung adoringly against her curves, showing them off in the most delicious manner and her feet were dressed in a simple sneaker, like she had no intentions of impressing anyone other than herself.

He liked it.

Visually, he could happily admit, she was the single most interesting human being he had stumbled upon in his thirty one years on earth.

Expressive eyes fell back to her face, softly starring at her exquisite features and it was the one time he saw a break in her otherwise composed demeanor. A small crack as she shuffled on her feet once she caught his heated gaze.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Her voice practically that of a whisper.

"Sorry." Michael began, mentally cursing himself for his own inability to play subtle. "Have we met before?"

"Not in this lifetime." She joked.

Pretty soon, she realised every misconception she had heard of the great Michael Jackson was all baseless. She'd never imagined what it would be like to meet him, but now that she had, she felt herself loose with ease. There was no overbearing arrogance nor anything to truly fear. If anything, he seemed disarmingly normal.

"Huh? What did you say?" Michael breathed out, eyes wide like she held the key to the garden of Eden.

"I'm guessing you don't believe in reincarnation."

"Well, I was raised as a Jehovah's Witness." His voice soft, head tilted slightly to the right. "That wasn't exactly in the books."

"Pity. I've always said when I die, I wanted to come back as some kind of big cat."

This had not been at all what he expected at all. Talks of another life had been far from on his agenda, but it surprised him just how easy the conversation felt.

Soft, obsidian eyes lit with humour, he could barley contain the smile the fell across his lips and why would he want to? He was drawn to her like a moth to a flame and it seemed like his intuition was guiding him in the right direction for once in his life.

"A lion?" He played along.

Her eyes flicked up as though in deep thought, but then she shook her head in denial. "I was thinking something more along the lines of a Jaguar."

"Why a Jaguar?" Genuinely interested, Michael hadn't realised how close he was leaning into her orbit.

"They're avid swimmers, you know?" She didn't seem to mind the lack of space between them, happily continuing with the conversation. "I've always liked the water."

"And big cats, I presume."

"Big or small. I don't discriminate." She assured, enjoying the simple conversation they shared. "I've always found myself more akin to the feline species than humanity"

"Well, you certainly have their grace." Michael didn't miss a beat, all too eager to compliment her with a flirty grin. "I saw you dancing earlier."

That comment certainly brought a spark to life. Her eyes gleamed in mischief, alerting Michael that he had unknowingly given her ammunition to taunt him for the rest of eternity if she so desired.

"Watching me, were you?"

Her words were teasing, playfully even and Michael found himself stuttering out a mess of a reply, cheeks brushed with a familiar heat. He'd known this girl for all of two minutes and she was already playing games with him.

"Don't worry." She smiled and despite the look of innocence pressed across her face, there was something else lurking beyond the surface. "I'll keep your secret."

"You can be trusted?" Michael asked, sliding his large hands into the pockets of his black pants.

"More than most."

He laughed, eyes shining bright. "How can I be so sure?"

"Well, I would offer to spit swear, but something tells me you would hate that."

"A spit swear?" Eyebrows knit together in genuine confusion.

"You know, when you're a kid, making promise with your friend, you both spit in your palm and shake hands to seal it."

"That's disgusting." He complained, faced scrunched up at the thought.

"No worse than kissing."

Until that moment, Michael's somewhat shy nature hadn't had much of an opportunity to rear it's head, but the mention of kissing had his mind racing with inappropriate thoughts.

The uninspiring dressing room dissolved before his very eyes, replaced with a sooth white walls, but that wasn't where his focus lay. He wasn't concentrating on the painted brands of aqua blue nor the green lotus blossoms strung beneath the ceiling, not when the object of his affection was so painfully close.

A soft breeze brushed against his arm from the open window, linen curtains stirred carelessly in the unpredictable breeze. Somewhere within the room, a bronze incense burner perfumed the air with myrrh, pleasant, but not overbearing.

Pressed against the wall, he held the greatest prize. His hands settled firmly against her waist, almost possessive in a way while keeping her back against the creamy, white surface. His grip tightened while he crowded her space, so close he could feel a subtle fan of breath, that wasn't his own, against his lips.

The shimmering gold of his attire illuminated her skin in a soft glow and for a beat too long, he could've sworn he was looking an a person far too beautiful to exist in this world.

Beneath the heavy khol surrounding her eyes, there was something fragile laying just under the surface. Something he claimed entirely as his own and not because he took it for himself. No, it was far more meaningful than that. She had handed part of her heart over so willingly, he'd almost broke down at the implications.

"We shouldn't be doing this." She whimpered, but her eyes told him she was exactly where she wanted to be.

"Tell me to go."

She couldn't. Her voice lost in a pathetic attempt to keep keep herself from truly losing composure. Lips curved into a seductive grin, he inched forward, closing the distance between them.

"By the way, you're being extremely rude right now."

Breaking out of his daydream, the very voice from his overactive imagination brought him back to reality.

Only this time, he wasn't pressing against her a wall, she was standing right in front of him and the smell of myrrh had been replaced with a displeasing odour of sweat from the venue they stood in. Her eyes, still devastatingly beautiful and sure to haunt his dreams at night, no longer carried the thick, black eyeliner. In fact, she was barley wearing any make up at all.

He watched as her arms folded carefully over her chest, eyebrows raised as though she had been waiting for an answer and so Michael cleared his throat, trying to keep his compsure.

He wasn't used to being in a room where he wasn't the one with the power.

"I am?" He asked, genuinely concerned.

"Yes." She shrugged. "You're yet to introduce yourself."

His melodic laughter filled the air, eyes bright in a way they hadn't been for at least a week now.

This women had a way to keep him on his toes and even though he was still dazed by his fleeting moments of temporary insanity where the world seemed to slip from his grasp, her taunting seemed to make him forget.

"Well, I just assumed that you knew."

"That's very presumptuous of you."

"Come on." Holding out his arms in faux surrender. "Even if you didn't know the music, I'm Janet's brother."

"Janet has siblings?" Her mouth dropped wide in shock. "That's news to me."

Their joint laughter made waves around the room, a funny kind of openness neither of them had expected settled over the duo and for once, there was no expectations weighing down his shoulders.

Michael could feel the universe granting him peaceful tranquillity in a manner he hadn't experienced for quite some time now. Shuffling on his feet, he found himself craving a closeness he'd heard of through books and film, but had truly never experienced himself.

"Are you always this much trouble?" He asked, eyebrows pinched in concentration.

"No. I'm simply an avid supporter of stranger danger."

"Boy, you don't make things easy." He teased right back, leaning on the balls of his feet and then dropping straight back down. "I'm Michael."

Looking far too smug, a smirk replaced the gentle smile as she eyed him up and down, biting down on her lower lip as if she knew secret he didn't.

"I know."

His mouth dropped, stuttering temporarily in either shock or confusion, he couldn't yet tell. Michael wondered if this is how she always acted around people or if she simply enjoyed tormenting him.

"You just said-"

"I wanted to see you sweat a bit." She cut him off with a small shrug and then offered him her name in return.

Obviously, he had heard it earlier that evening. Janet had spoke it once and Michael recalled uttering it just to prove to himself it was real, that she was real and not just a figment of imagination he's conjured up while watching his sister on stage.

Both times, the name had sounded pretty, but coming from her own tongue, there was something particularly exquisite. Her sweet tone caressed the name in a sinful melody and the alluring accent made it impossible to forget.

With a playful grin of his own, Michael replied back. "I know."

"Oh, do you now?" She was having far too much fun with this. "Are you keeping tabs on me, Mister Jackson?"

Mister Jackson?

He hated it. Too impersonal. Like she either worked for him or saw him as old. Neither option suited hum.

"Michael, please. Mister Jackson makes me sound ancient."

"I'm trying to be a professional here." She admitted. "I call your sister Miss Jackson."

"Well, I'm not my sister."

"So you say, yet here you are, in her dressing room while she's noticeably absent." She teased. "Suspicious."

Without meaning to, they found themselves staring at each other, soft smiles on both of their faces and as time passed, neither of them were witness to it.

Small movement near her neck caused his eyes to flicker downwards where he noticed her fiddling idly with a thin gold chain around her neck. Furrowed brows, Michael attempted to make out the pendant, but found it difficult with her fingers covering the metal.

"What's that?" He asked before really processing.

"Oh, it's just a necklace I've had since I was a kid."

"Can I see?"

"Yeah, sure."

Stepping into his personal space, she graciously extended the gold pendant forward and Michael tried hard to ignore the delicious scent of cinnamon radiating from her body, a sweet treat he certainly had no right to indulge on.

To rid his mind from such thoughts, he cast his gaze down to her palm to find an unfamiliar symbol resting in her hand. A small kind of cross, with a teardrop shaped loop where the upper arm would usually rest.

"It's called the ankh." She spoke without needing any prompting. "From the Ancient Egyptian times."

Her smile was breathtaking, but Michael couldn't stop to appreciate it. Not when he felt his blood run cold. The slips of reality he'd experienced washing him in what felt like a freezing cold shower.

Ancient Egyptian times?

"It's supposed to represent life, immortality and rebirth." She hadn't noticed his void expression and simply continued with her brief history lesson. "In their temple carvings, the ankh is usually depicted in the hands of deities... you know, like Isis, Ra, and Anubis. They would hold it to the lips of kings and pharaohs to offer the breath of eternal life, like a gift."

"It's known as the key of life... or the key of the Nile." She continued, her tone dropped to something just above a whisper. "It depends on who you're talking to, but there's a rich history behind it. At least... that's what I gathered from the history book I checked out years ago."

Her giddiness as she explained her favourite subject was almost infectious. While remaining rightfully cautious to the situation he found himself in, he couldn't deny how his stomach fluttered with butterflies at the enthusiastic tone she spoke with, like she was trusting him with something important.

Michael finally tore his gaze from the gold charm, eyes wide with an emotion he couldn't exactly name.

"How did you get it?"

"It's weird... when I was twelve, it arrived at my door in a small box with my name on." Her eyes glazed over as she recounted the tale. "I thought it might be off one of my friends from school, but no one came forward."

"Why did you put it on?"

"I- I don't know." She admitted with a simple shrug of her shoulders. "When I opened the box, I kind of felt drawn to it, like it belonged to me."

"Have you ever taken it off?"

"No."

Parting his lips to speak, but never getting the opportunity to finish his thoughts, Bill suddenly burst through the door and on instinct, Michael stumbled backwards, creating distance between himself and the women who was now looking over her shoulder towards the intruder with confusion flickered across her soft features.

"Sorry, Sir." Bill and his horrid formalities. "I don't mean to interrupt, but a crowd has formed outside the venue. They must have heard about you being backstage. We need to get you and Miss Jackson out immediately."

"Right now?" Michael protested, eyes moving between his head of security and the girl he was trying to unravel like a mystery.

"Afraid so, if we want to avoid a stampede."

"I was kind of in the middle of something, Bill."

Disregarding the protest in Michael's voice, Bill charged forward and knocked on the door leading to the showers. "Miss Jackson, please hurry. We need to get you out of here."

During the commotion, Michael's eyes moved back to her frame and watched as she carefully tucked her necklace back beneath the neckline of her sweater as though she'd already resigned herself to the idea that their conversation was over and Michael felt the panic begin to rise.

He didn't want the moment to end.

And it wasn't just the feeling tugging him towards her, but for the first time in a long time. he'd finally spoken to a stranger who hadn't treated him like a deity. She'd smiled and spoke in full sentences, even teasing him when the moment felt right and Michael couldn't recall the last time he'd met an adult who treated him so perfectly ordinary despite the intense level of his fame.

"Don't worry about it. I should be going anyway." Offering a small smile, she was already moving towards the door. "My friend, Tina is probably wondering what happened to me."

Ignoring everything else happening in the room, Michael barley flinched as Janet entered the room, finally expelling any rumours they were the same person, he was entirely too focused on not letting this girl slip from his grasp now that he'd met her.

It had only been a short conversation, but his mind and body craved so much more.

"Wait." He called out before she reached for the door. "Can I have your number?"

A burst a soft laughter hit him in square in the chest, her eyes full of mischief, daring him to step closer.

"I don't know if you noticed, but I'm currently following your sister around this wonderful planet as she tours the world." She hummed in amusement.

Giving him her number would be of no use when she wasn't in her apartment to pick up the phone.

The sudden realisation hit Michael like a bullet and disappointment quickly followed.

"You can have my lucky number if that helps."

"Oh yeah?" He hummed with a sad smile. "And what would that be?"

"Seven."

An audible gasp fell from his lips, already wide eyed and looking on in wonder, Michael felt himself practically dancing on his feet.

"No kidding. That's mine too."

"Wow, we must be soulmates." She teased, completely obvious to how those words affected him.

Somewhere within the depths of the dressing room, Bill was ushering Janet into her coat as she watched the scene play out like her favourite soap opera. Watching Michael become totally enamoured by a woman he hardly knew. It was comical if she really thought about it for too long and she knew if she told their siblings, like she planned on doing, they would never allow him to live this down.

Completely unaware of the prying eyes, Michael knew he had to talk again before she left. She was slipping from his grasp and although his next question probably sounded completely foolish to anyone else, he needed answers.

With his feet drawing him closer, Michael nervously began to tap his foot, coming to a stop once he found himself in front of her.

"What you said earlier..." he began, taking a deep, shaky breath before he could continue. "do you actually believe in reincarnation?"

He looked at her with wide doe-eyes and she felt the moment her heart ached for him. Only used to knowing him as a man that dominated the music scene, seeing him almost vulnerable was hard to shake.

"I don't like to rule things out." She confessed.

"Do you think we could have... I don't know, met in another life?" Saying it out loud felt wrong, like he was outing himself as a crazy person before she even knew him.

If any press got hold of this story, they'd never let it go, using it as written ammunition to lock him away in an insane asylum for simply being curious.

Then something stranger happened. Her eyes softened, a small curve tilting against the edge of his mouth making it painful obvious that she wasn't judging him at all.

"No. I would definitely remember you... and not just from a tv screen." She assured, smiling fully at the hopeful gleam in his eye as she reached for the handle. "Have a nice night, Mister Jackson."

"It's Michael." He called out.

"Sure thing, Mister Jackson."

She left with a teasing grin, the door shut tight, hiding her retreating figure like she had never been there to begin with.

But she had.

He could still feel the effect her presence held over him, pulling him into her orbit like he belonged there.

The next few hours of his life passed by in a hazy kind of blur.

Michael didn't remember the ridiculously, intense rush back to his car, he couldn't picture Bill's face in the mirror as they discussed getting into the hotel through the back entrance and he certainly hadn't memorised Janet's particularly creative taunts when they met up in her room later that evening.

He did remember half heatedly settling down on the lavish sofa, watching some kind of vague attempt at a comedy movie, but the plot had been forgotten fifteen minutes in. He hadn't laughed once, even if Janet's roaring howls had made him jump once or twice.

Shovelling fist fulls of popcorn in his mouth, Michael had somehow made the poor decision to substitute a substantial meal for the sweet treat, but he found himself happy with that choice.

It wasn't often he was able to spend such an extended period of time in the presence of any of his siblings these days. Getting some one on one time with his sister meant more to him than he could put into words. Janet was still winding down from the adrenaline of the show and Michael chronically had trouble sleeping, so staying awake late into the night was pretty standard for him anyway.

They reminisced about childhood, how Michael would somehow still find creative ways to spend his time even when he was busy. Janet poked fun at the days he would use up all his allowance to buy candy at the store and then ended up giving it to kids in the neighbourhood.

Similarly, Michael joked about how Janet would often cry into their mothers loving arms whenever she learned that he andd his brothers would have to leave for an extended period of time to perform.

The company took his mind mostly away from the events of the day, but lurking beneath, the presence of sharp lines and khol rimmed eyes taunted his memory.

When quite moments passed between them, he was haunted by the phantom sound of laughter, the smile curved against pink lips he swore were familiar. He tried to ignore it to the best of his abilities, but there was something screaming he had forgotten something important.

He tried to shrug it off, he didn't get her number. She wouldn't be around much these days anyway and maybe that was for the best. Convinced he'd never see her again anyway, he really tried hard not to dwell on the situation. After all, she was just one dancer amongst hundreds he had encountered in the industry. Their paths wouldn't intertwine again and while that should have brought some comfort, for some reason, that thought left him unsettled.

Eventually, both he and Janet decided to call it a night and Michael was ushered up to his own room by Bill, who watched him with careful eyes. In no mood for anymore conversation, exhausted with the weight of the day, Michael politely thanked the older man before he entered his suite and carefully got ready for bed.

Slipping under the covers, he dreaded the long waited horror that was the desperate longing for sleep. It had never come naturally for him, less so since the Pepsi incident, but for once, the world seemed to grant him a small mercy.

He didn't know when he'd closed his eyes. He'd barley laid his head against the pillow before his consciousness slipped from under him.

From the darkness bloomed sound. Vibrant and divine, as though trying to reach a source much higher than any mere mortal could possibly reach.

Tall, stringed instruments. Beautiful, curved and standing at least three feet tall, plucked with such conviction, even the most cynical human being would have felt the emotion behind the captivating melody.

One particular wind instrument carried it's own hypnotic cadence. Crafted from reeds, the soft breathy tone floated through the air and into the hearts of a captivated crowd.

Framed drums, played in large part by artful women, created a trance like rhythm, the very backbone of the sound echoing through the land.

Capable of comforting the dead, honour the Gods, or stiring up divine emotion, out here, melody had a meaning. Music was believed to awaken the Gods, calm chaotic forces and guide the souls through the afterlife.

Crowds of people sang along in a sweet melody, words conveying humble hymns, each syllable was sang with desire. And who was this particular celebration for? Hathor: Goddess of music, fertility and joy.

The words suddenly bloomed to life around him. Tall, flamed torches offering a light source, bouncing off the stone cylinder columns ahead. A community gathered close by, celebrating happily in the midst of a festival, the white linen of their clothing washed in the soft yellow hue of a burning flame.

Walls were painted in rich pigments, turquoise, gold and black standing out to the untrained eye. Carved relics stood taller than a single man could ever dream, beautiful and purposeful in design. A joyful atmosphere surged through the air, scented faintly with the salt of the Nile. Greeted with a soft breeze, the evening descended, but the celebrations had only just began.

Strangers walked by, laughing with one another as friends do, drinking merrily while approaching merchant stores set up specifically for this occasion.

The city was alive, not just with music, but with hope. People were conversing and eating together, others happily captivated by a local magician. All the while the music never once stopped, playing out like a euphoric bass track for the night that lay ahead.

Misery has been his greatest ally since arriving in Memphis only two days ago. He didn't belong, he knew that.

No one knew his name. They didn't care. He wasn't important. A simple outsider who felt as though he was overstaying his welcome. He had planned of heading straight back home. Honest, he had.

Then he heard news of the festivities taking place and had been unable to resist temptation.

Children ran past in excitement, smiles stretched wide on their youthful faces and soon any trace of ice he held in his heart melted away at the mere listenings of their whimsical cheers. So innocent. Untouched by any cruelty of the world. Brief hope swelled in his heart that with any luck, they could stay that way.

Not searching for anything in particular, his feet carried him along with an enthusiastic crowd, the flames of nearby torches licking at his skin with a persistent heat. The weather was already overwhelmingly humid, but not a single soul complained about the added warmth.

His senses were overwhelmed. Music swelled, loud chatter, the smell of the river, the sandy texture against his soles and the taste of kyphi hit his tongue from an incense burning consistently to sooth the watchful deities.

Consumed by the magnitude of the event, he almost turned around and left and if he could have found his way out of the crowd, he very well might have. However, bodies surrounded him made finding an escape route feel like an impossible task.

Eyes moved rapid, as if searching for a way out, but amongst the surge of bodies and the hypnotic sound pulling him into a peaceful kind of acceptance, he was granted sight of something impossibly holy.

His shifted attention drifted across the temple courtyard, captivated by the sight of a small group of women, all dressed in a similar fashion: airy white linen, gold cuffs closed around their biceps, turquoise jewels embedded against the metal with their hair cascading down, over their shoulders, decorated with small beads which shined entrancingly with every step.

Precise feet moved with an impressive cadence, elegant and full, not a single move out of time or place. They danced as though one with the music, alluring and dangerous all at once.

On lookers watched, others cheered with every distinctive shuffle or rhythmic twirl. For one easy moment, he focused on the performance, impressed not only by the skill, but the impressive use of synchronisation.

These women must have practiced day and night and even more thrilling, they actually seemed to love what they were doing.

A soft kind a smile tugged unceremoniously against the corners of his mouth, their joy almost contagious. He carefully eyed the women one by one, watching in wonder with each new face that caught his gaze.

So in tune with the music, he hardly noticed when his fingers began to tap against the charcoal color of his hip and he certainly didn't notice when they came to an abrupt halt.

Across the courtyard, he caught sight of a face that blinded him to any other. She moved as one with the other dancers, but they faded into darkness once his sights settled on her soft features.

So focused on her next move, she paid no mind to the watchful eyes, far too happy to be participating in the ceremonial dance to even bother acknowledging anything else happening beyond the boarders of the space she'd created for herself to move so freely. She could have been anywhere, with anyone and her body would still shift with the gift the Gods had so kindly blessed upon her.

His heart unexpectedly turned painfully in his chest, his lungs screaming for him to come to his senses and breath once more, as it seemed like he'd forgotten anything that wasn't her.

His mind was running with a thousand thoughts, telling him something he wasn't quite ready to process just yet and without realising he'd opened his mouth at all, he whispered so quite, only he could hear.

"I know you."

In fact, he knew nothing. Not the sound of her voice, not the way she felt, not even her name. And despite the odds being stacked again him, still, his soul reached out, practically claiming her as his own. Tying an invisible string so tight sound her orbit, he physically stumbled just to keep up.

She was pretty.

Beautiful, even.

Anyone with eyes could have made that assumption.

Perfect features, gentle eyes and the kind of smile that beamed brighter than the midday sun. The sweltering heat had left her body dewy with a glittering sheen, and somehow even as she sweat, she still looked like she wasn't made for this world.

Even though, yes, he was attracted to her, something else pulled him in.

A sense of familiarity. The kind of epiphany people only came to when the find the person who is going to change their destiny forever. Fate be damned, she was something else.

Desperate to know more than what was presented before him, he managed to tear his eyes from her delicatable form for a few minutes, just enough time to catch sight of one of the elders.

Her greying hair and withered lined face looking like that of tree bark from a life well lived. Kind eyes lit with happiness as she joyfully clapped along with the crowd. Those beside her offered smiles, stepping aside each time she inched forward as a sign of respect for someone her age.

She eyed the women with a gleam of knowing, nodding her head in acknowledgement at one of the women dancing in the group turned towards her and smiled wide.

"You know these women?" The question was out of his mouth before he knew he had said anything at all and for a moment, he really considered throwing himself into the flame and allowing the heat to consume him.

With a graceful turn of her head, she eyed the stranger and upon seeing the curious nature of his gaze, a gentle, comforting smile graced her aged features.

"I do." She spoke matter-of-fact and she took note of his fading attention. The way in which he desperately attempted to keep his focus on her, but those dark eyes refused to cooperate.

Coffee stained optics constantly flickering back towards the group, zoning in of one girl in particular. He couldn't help it, he was entranced and she could see it so vividly, she almost pitied him.

"Do I even need to ask which beauty has captivated your vision?"

How easily she had read him and briefly, his voice caught in his throat. Cheeks heated and flared, but the kind understanding of her gaze prevented any further embarrassment.

"No, I suppose not." He laughed somewhat awkwardly, tearing his gaze from her to look around where he noticed something inevitable. "It seems I'm not the only one vying for her attention."

Creaking laughter reached his ears, not cruel or mocking, simply knowing the circumstances in which he found himself. He turned back towards the older women, a small, pitiful smile on both their faces.

"Regrettably, that holds some truth." Nodding, she turned her attention back to the dancers. "She's rather popular around here."

"Her name?"

Noise roared around them, too much to consider in one breath, but the absence of her voice was more than noticeable. Flicking his nervous gaze to the ground, shadowed with insecurity, he thought to himself that she must find him unworthy of the younger women's time.

Only, that wasn't the case at all.

The elder looked at him with such interest, taking in his stance, the idle tap of his foot and the inconsequential manner in how he held himself. He was nothing of note right now, but she knew one day, crowds would gather far and wide for a simple glimpse.

Just as he gave up hope of discovering the name, the gentle hum of perfectly formed syllables hit him like a shot to the heart. His stomach bloomed with warmth, breath caught from under him.

A doe-eyed gaze turned back to the performance and he quickly realised that yes, that name suited her well.

"Her mother passed many moons ago. She too, was a performer. A singer to be specific." Offering more information he hadn't expected, she didn't fail to notice the way he leaned closer to learn more about the women who had captivated his senses.

"Her father is over there." Nodding in his direction, he followed her focus and their eyes caught sight of a stern looking man who never once turned his attention from the dance. "He supervises the ceremonial performances. A good family, strong. The Priests here hold her in high regard, all the Nobels know of her."

"And the Pharaoh?" He couldn't help but ask.

"It'd difficult to assume. He may not know her at all." She continued. "Although I find that hard to believe. Who's to say where his desires lie?"

A twinge of jealousy prickled beneath his skin at just the implication and he hated himself for it. She wasn't his. She had never so much as looked in his direction.

So why did the idea of another swooping in and knocking her off her feet cause so much pain?

The pretty melody continued around them, for a moment he allowed the sound to wash over him, swaying cautiously with the rhythm once it hit him deliberately. He understood the love for dance, why she looked so elated to be part of the performance.

It wasn't a simple movement. Dancing was an art form. Storytelling in a very specific manner, which people would either understand or be completely ignorant towards. He saw the beauty in it. Delicate lines of her body, the arch of her waist. She was a performer and he was completely at her mercy.

Deciding he was not yet finished with the conversation, he leaned back, lips close to the older women's ear while speaking in a shy tone.

"If I presented myself to her, do you think she would pay me any mind?"

"I don't see why she wouldn't." The women responded rather quickly, eyes ablaze in knowing mischief. "Handsome boy like you."

Heat rushed to his cheeks, the compliment unexpected, but appreciated. Even still, uncertainty crept up. There was so much to take into consideration that went beyond the longing burning within.

"I don't know if I should." Rubbing the back of his neck, he kicked the sandy ground beneath his feet. "I won't be here this time tomorrow."

Grey eyebrows pinched in confusion, but despite her age, her eyes were still somehow entirely youthful and they gazed at him as though they could see through his soul.

"Why should that matter?"

"Would it not be a waste of her time?"

"Is that not for her to decide?" She laughed. "The Gods have funny ways of bringing people together."

Assuming the words of encouragement to be nothing more than a simple push directed at him to seek out the women he so desired, he couldn't help but find the wording particular peculiar.

His eyes wandered once more, catching sight of her gleaming eyes and soft grin. She moved with the grace of someone not of this earth. So alluring, yet entirely human all at once. A perfect walking contradiction and he felt the familiar depth of longing build within.

She wasn't something shiny or new he wanted to buy and keep out of sight. His soul called her name and he believed hers reciprocated. It was a tale as old as time, but until now, he had never believed in it, had never wanted someone to this magnitude.

Yearning for affection, craving her company, he'd never felt so out of odds.

How does one approach the women who had the ability to change your world forever?

"What should I say?" He hummed absentmindedly, hoping desperately for some guidance.

Greeted with nothing but the echoed thump of tactical drumming, he managed to rip his gaze from the very women he knew would haunt his dreams, only to find the space beside him empty.

Like the elder had never been there in the first place, the ghost of her memory left him feeling perplexed. The space was still closed in, bodies pressed tight together along the foreground.

How on earth had she left without him noticing the struggle? He could have helped. He would have helped.

Evidently, she hadn't needed it.

Thinking it be wise not to dwell on the sudden disappearance, less it drive him crazy, he allowed the uneasy feeling go and focused his full attention ahead.

The ceremonial performance continued, beautiful women creating art with breathtaking persission. The jewels they trusted to be their own gleamed beneath the flames, burning brighter than any sun.

There she stood, dead centre, standing tall and proud while moving with a delicate grace. How could one women be responsible for captivating the hearts of an entire city? She had a way of making him feel like it was just the two of them, that mischievous gleam in her eyes told him she knew everyone was watching her and she dared them to find another sight even half as alluring as she was.

As the festival continued on, on lookers grew. Cheerful exclamations of a good time had could be heard far and wide, proof that a community could easily come together and enjoy life rather than allow their difference to divide them.

As all good things do, eventually, it had to come to an end. With the music dying down and the sound of heavy footsteps making their leave, he couldn't force himself to go.

Not without at least attempting communication.

Stepping forward, he allowed the moon to guide his way, joining to flickering orange flame to carve a path just for him in his mission find the women who had turned his life inside out on sight alone.

It wasn't hard.

Much like him, she hadn't willed herself away either.

Once the dancing commenced, he had lost her in the crowd. A sea of bodies made it impossible to locate her when everything was so busy, but now that things had started to slow down, he caught sight of the white linen of her skirt, the shine of her golden cuffs and he knew he was in the right place.

Still, he paused.

As much as he wished he had the confidence to cross the courtyard and strike up a conversation, his nerves got the best of him. So he did exactly as he had all night, he watched.

Peering unexpectedly behind a tall, white column, he fixed his gaze on her as she crouched down to the height of a child to stoke the jet black hair of a little boy, whispering softly in his ear and giggling as the child grinned wide.

The child seemed to hold some affection for this women, something he could relate to and then without warning, the little boy ran as fast as his legs could carry him and he watched as the child leaped into, what he assumed must be his father's arms before the two of them walked off.

Flickering his wandering gaze back to her form, he watched for a minute of two as she began to help with the cleaning process. No one else had really bothered, but she moved carefully, collecting whatever waste she could find.

Her body stopped, her back towards him and so naturally, it took him by surprise when he heard her call out.

"If you're going to watch, you might as well come closer."

His heart stopped beating. It must have because he froze still. At first, he refused to believe she was addressing him in any manner but once he was brave enough to look around and realise there was no one near, he knew the truth.

He'd been caught, like some kind of pervert, he had been found watching her with utter adoration. Dishevelled embarrassment washed over him, mixed with a hint of shame. How could he be so stupid?

Of course she would notice some strange man lurking around corners.

Giving up his hiding spot, he shuffled out from behind the column, lips turned up into a small, awkward smile.

"I-I'm sorry." Stuttering like a fool, he could've hit himself for how pathetic he felt.

Chancing a look over her shoulders, he was taken back to find not disgust etched against her pretty features, but instead, she looked rather curious. Soft lips curved into a small smile had been the saving grace which prevented him from running with his tail between his legs.

"You're not as subtle as you may think." She continued, voice as smooth as honey. Her eyes lit with something playful he couldn't name and soon she turned fully so he was greeted with her whole charm rather than just the back of it. "I could feel your eyes on me the entire performance."

Lost for words, he found himself stuttering without forming a complete sentence. How had she known?

Was it possible she had caught his eye without him acknowledging it? Surly not. He'd barley looked from her. Had she reciprocated the glance, he would've noticed. She was impossible to ignore.

Clearing his throat, hands clasped in front, he looked at her through his dark lashes and awkwardly kicked the ground beneath him. "You knew I was watching?"

"No." She spoke clearly, laughing softly under her breath. "Not until right now."

A dramatic gasp tore through his throat, faux shock edged with humour. He felt his eyes widen and then he offered a half smile. "You tricked me."

"You made it easy." She countered, eyebrows arched as if to challenge him, but he held his tongue and her face softened significantly. "Well, I hope you had a nice evening."

"I did... thank you."

As she moved to continue with her work, picking up pieces of broken pottery, shredded palm fibres, woven reed mats, baskets and lotus flowers, all of which had been used for serving food and wrapping offering for the festival.

With ease, she walked with a grace he didn't know could exist within humanity, it was something he had only noticed in the feline variety that occasionally roamed the streets they walked upon. His heart beat fast when she glanced over at him, hands half full, but showing no signs of stopping.

"Would it be okay for me to help?" He asked, lifting his head, allowing his doe-eyed gaze to settle against her own. "Maybe we could get to know each other while we work."

The soft orange glow of the torchlights flickered across her face, painting her skin in a faint yellow luminosity, somehow complimenting her complexion without washing her out. She stood still, fingers curled around a lotus petal and with the way she fluttered her eyes, once, twice, he figured she must have been weighing up the pros and cons.

With his heart practically leaping from his chest, he couldn't help put take note of how she held herself, not with arrogance, but an air of confidence that comes along with people knowing your name.

"I'd like that." She replied, her voice impossibly soft, so sure of the words she spoke.

Her lingering gaze made him nervous, but he forced his legs forwards, less he mess up and entirely ruin the opportunity presented to him.

Stepping close, he felt the warmth of her body as he brushed past. Reaching down, he picked up one of the stray baskets, placed it beneath her palm and watched as she gently laid the litter inside. "Do you often find yourself on clean up duty?" He found himself questioning, wondering how a well admired dancer like her would end the night this way.

"Someone has to." She confessed, her voice quiet now that they stood close together, almost touching, but maintaining a good distance. "After all, you don't enter paradise should you pollute the Nile."

Lips quirked into a small grin, he found himself nodding in complete agreement. "Well, I wouldn't want to harm your chances at paradise, so thank you for allowing me to help."

"It's only fair... you were watching me all right, after all." The cadence of her voice verge on a sultry undertone, teasing in a way that assured she knew exactly what game she was playing.

The two worked together, picking up tiny bits of debris they would find staining the floor of the city. In the not too far distance, people lingered, but unless they really strained to hear it, they could pretend it didn't exist.

Here in the idyllic part of Memphis, they'd been granted their own slice of heaven. A gentle breeze cut through the humid air and they were lucky enough to still have the wondrous gift of light. The night time bugs seemed to be respectfully keeping their distance and the heavy incense from earlier in the evening had now faded, leaving only a hint of luxury behind.

Deciding to swallow his pride, he looked up from beneath his lashes from where he'd been crouched near the floor, inspecting the ground for anything either of them might have missed. "I'm certain you have heard this a lot, but you were wonderful out there tonight?" His tone gentle and raw with honesty.

"I should hope so." She spoke not to boast about her performance, but with genuine desire to reach her full potential. "I would hate to be the one out of step. I fear the girls would never forgive me and Hathor would curse me for a thousand lifetimes if I dared to embarrass her." While presented as a joke, there were echoed of uncertainty in her tone, moments of insecurity she tried not to show. With a shy glance, she placed her own basket down and brushed her hair back. "Thank you." Sincere and honest, her eyes could never lie.

When he looked towards her, he suddenly didn't feel any echoes of shyness that had previously plagued him. He smiled, wide and true. "You're most welcome."

"You have a very beautiful smile." He flushed at her words, but she mainly said it for herself, as if she could document his beauty for a lifetime if she spoke it out loud. "You're new around here."

With furrowed brows, he stood to his full height and allowed a half humoured scoff to pass his lips. She was truly a fascinating sight to behold. She spoke with such certainty and as they both worked to rid the street of any mess, he couldn't help but feel like this is exactly where he was supposed to be.

"How can you be so sure?"

She didn't miss a beat, side eyeing him as she continued her self given duties. "I'm good with faces and I would certainly recognise yours had I seen it before." Her tone smooth and certain, like she was presenting a fact without realising her words had knocked the wind from his lungs.

It was brief, the way his heart settled with an overwhelming warmth, as if it recognised the beauty of her soul. He stepped forward and had to physically refrain from reaching out to touch her.

"What does that mean?" He asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

"You have particularly striking features." Her lips curved into coy grin. "You'd be hard to forget."

She really had to stop saying stuff like that or else he feared for the state of his heart. It was too early for him to be greeted in the afterlife, he barley knew her yet.

"You think so?"

"I know it." Confident in her assumption, she didn't hesitate to step forward, closing in on his boundaries as she reached for the basket, her hand brushed against his, eliciting a shaky breath and he wondered if she felt the burnt of a spark brush her skin too. "But if it's not too bold, I must ask, are you always this rude?"

Blinking once, twice, his brows pinched together until he couldn't help but laughed at the insinuating. "Pardon? How have I been rude?"

He'd never seen eyes twinkle like stars in the sky, but hers certainly did.

"You're yet to introduce yourself." She persisted, eyeing him from head to toe. "Wouldn't you consider that rude?"

"Well, you might have a point." He laughed, scratching the back of his neck.

After a pleasant exchange of names, the distance between them grew even smaller and he discovered relatively quickly that he enjoyed the taste of her name on his tongue.

"I wasn't the only one watching you tonight." He pointed out, knowing every well that he would be pushing his luck with the next words that left his mouth. "With every man captivated by your very presence, I wouldn't be surprised if you had lover to call your own."

The implications sat heavy in the air, so vivid, he could almost reach out and touch it if he tried hard enough.

She didn't flinch, she didn't so much as stutter, but she did arch a defined brow and allow the beginnings of a smirk to form on her tempting mouth.

"That's very presumptuous of you."

"Are you telling me I'm wrong?' He fired back.

"I'm telling you you have no business prying into my life." But as she said it, there was no real bite. If anything, she looked humoured by his inquisition and maybe a little worried if he looked hard enough. "However, I would hate for you to leave thinking I've tied myself to another."

With both their hands to clasped to the weaved handle of the basket, he boldly shifted an inch and allowed his fingers to fully encapsulate hers, heart thumping rapid when she looked from beneath dark lashes towards him and used her thumb to gently stroke his exposed flesh.

"Why would you hate for me to think such things?" He asked, desperate for more than this.

She hesitated and for a brief pause in time, he saw a minuscule crack in the confident amour she wore so proud.

Biting her lower lip, she cast her gaze downwards to where their hands met and then caught his doe-eyes looking directly back at her, silently cursing the Gods for ever allowing a man so beautiful to roam so freely.

"Would it be too crude to admit that you might have caught my eye as much as I've caught yours?"

He almost choked on his own saliva.

Now he wasn't a fool. Somewhat naive when it came to situations involving the opposite sex, but never idiotic. If only this women were someone else, he would manage to get through a conversation without feeling constantly flustered every time she opened her mouth.

"How so?"

"I can't explain so much with words." She admitted, almost shy, which was strange to hear from her mouth. "It's a feeling I have, which must sound practically foolishly now that I think about it."

"It doesn't. Not to me." He spoke eagerly, heart on high alert that she could very much be feeling just as he did. However, she was far too beautiful, far too talented and charismatic. "You really don't have a lover of your own?"

"No, Sir. I do not."

"You tell the truth?" His voice impossibly soft.

"On the name of Ma'at, I would never tell a lie." Holding a hand to her chest, she made a vow and then sighed, willing to be more honest than she owed. "Men have tried. To say they haven't would be dishonest, but I have never reciprocated their affection."

Even the thought of another man feeling as though they were entitled to have her as the main attraction of their perverted desires was enough to make him see red.

She deserved more than that. He knew how men thought, how they treated women when they should've been held on a higher ground. To him, her gender was the closest they had to Gods in the mortal realms.

"No?" He shakily asked, adams apple bobbing in his throat. "Why not?"

"I want to be loved for who I am, not admired due to my reflection."

"And who are you?" He asked, desperate for the answer.

"Well, that's the thing." She admitted, wide eyed and almost vulnerable. "I'm still trying to figure that out."

"Perhaps I could help." Eager and unapologetic, he didn't care how insane it sounded. He wanted to be the one by her side and he would do anything to make that a reality.

"Yes..." she began, smiling the most sincere smile she'd offered all night. "I think I would like that."

He reciprocated the grin, squeezing her fingers with his own and attempting not to look away when heat rose to his cheeks.

Unable to maintain eye contact, he eventually cast his gaze upwards to the inky black sky, the stars visible with the lack of clouds as though their beauty could mirror that of the shared moment.

"It a beautiful night."

"Yes." Nodding, she removed her hand from under his, but only so she was given more freedom to stand beside him and glance towards the heavens. "The Gods have been generous this season."

Everything was perfect, almost disarmingly so. He couldn't have wished for a better way to have spent his time, but reality was beginning to settle in and he knew he couldn't stay long.

"I should leave soon." He confessed, disappointment etched into each word and his heart cracked as her face fell. "I'm expected to arrive back home tomorrow."

"Why so?"

"I'm needed." He confessed with a heavy sigh. Dropping the basket between their feet, he turned towards her and this time didn't hesitate to intertwine finger, revealing in the marvellous smile she rewarded him with as he did so. "Don't worry, you'll see me again."

"How do I know that to be true?"

This had been their first meeting and for all they knew, their last.

It wasn't as though they knew each other well enough to find one another in the future, but he was determined.

He would not allow her to slip from his grasp.

"The Nile does not fail to return." He spoke with reassurance.

"The Nile is trustworthy." She argued.

A grin appeared on his lips, dimples on full display. "Are you saying I'm not?" He almost teased.

"I don't know you well enough to have the answers your seeking."

"You will do." Spoken like a promise he needed her to believe. "I can assure you, this won't be the last time you see me."

"Will you come back?"

He's never witnessed eyes so large, full of hope, but ready for disappointment. Her words would surely light a fire beneath him and carry him straight back to her once the stars lined up.

"When the flood returns, so will I."

"How long will it take you to get home?" Her voice quiet, her palm squeezed his own. "You'll be safe, won't you? I believe I heard the Priests speaking of a particularly nasty storm brewing."

"Then pray the overseer is in a forgiving mood."

She did so, with an elegant grace, she lifted up on her toes and gave a soft press of her lips to his cheek.

Time paused. Despite nightfall, the world had never felt so bright. He wouldn't be able to forget this. The memory of her lips, the gift she'd bestowed on him would keep him alive until they were reunited once again and he vowed to himself that he would not rest until that happened.

"May the Gods favor your journey and bring you back to me when the times right." She spoke one final time.

Unwilling to bare the sight of watching him leave, he was forced to observe her as she lifted the basket he had dropped and turned her back towards him, disappearing into the night and taking half his heart with her.

Not that he minded, she could have it. He trusted her to take good care of it until they met again.

A fluttering of lashes tickled his cheek, bright sunlight burning his eyes once he braved a chance at opening them fully.

Michael turned to his side, the mattress solid beneath him and the digital clock on the bedside table was proof enough that he'd slept the entire night for the first time in what felt like forever.

A foggy haze lifted and the dream his mind had conjured suddenly had him shooting up from where he lay, pacing the floor in confusion.

Vivid images of a time long since past, white linen dressed and playful grins.

And it hadn't just been anyone.

It had been her.

Janet's dancer.

Head in hand, Michael let out a muffled scream.

He was totally, unequivocally screwed.

"What'dya say, sweet thing?"

Michael immediately flushed at the name. His fingers tremble slightly from a surge of anxiety that suddenly rushed through him, tangling and fiddling with one another in an attempt to quell it. Before him stands a woman—she stares at him as if he's a diamond or maybe a lotus that blooms in the middle of a muddy lake. He almost wants to scoff at the thought. Him? Oh, please! But her gaze has him oh so flustered and he can't help but preen underneath it.

He can recall how he got to this point… sort of.

She'd been eyeing him all night, dark gaze tethered to him and unrelenting, but Michael doesn't believe he was putting up much of a struggle. Her dress clung to her body like a second skin, outlining each curve which only further made Michael even more embarrassed—more so at himself.

And now she's here, poised and smiling like she's won the lottery, eyeing him up and down. She tilts her head slightly. "Well?" her voice is soft, almost teasing.

Michael blinks rapidly, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat.

All he can manage is a barely audible, "Um,"

But this woman, she finds him terribly amusing, giggling at his antics.

"I got no bad intentions, baby. You're just such a pretty young thing, y'know?" she purrs, stepping an inch closer, the click of her heels sending a shiver down his spine.

They seem to be the same age? Why is she…?

God, he's so dizzy.

"Wha-" he starts. "What are you proposing again?"

Her eyes light up and she reaches into her purse to pull out a card, handing it to him.

"I got money to spend. I'd like to blow it all on you." she shrugs, as if what she's said is the most ordinary thing ever.

He looks down at the card, at the phone number written neatly across the plastic.

Michael gasps as she steps closer, letting her fingers tip-toe up his chest before tilting his head down by his chin, forcing him to stare into her captivating gaze.

"Not gonna force you. But think on it, okay?" she smiles. "Gimme a call if you decide on it."

And then she's turning on her heel and walking away, not giving him even a simple glance over her shoulder.

Michael's fingers still tremble.

His heart pounds against his chest.

Oh, geez.

Sometimes when people were hurt, it felt like a quiet pang. Other times the feeling was all-consuming, taking over the other senses until it was impossible to remember what normalcy felt like. You had taken a different approach to having your heart broken. You tried to shut it out.

It would’ve been fine, normally, to use this method. You could drink until you forgot your name, sleep for hours and waste the day away. This time however, you didn’t just have yourself to think about. You had baby Thumper, growing inside of you, already so loved and cherished. You had to be strong. Not for yourself, because you had given up on that. Clearly your love was not enough for someone romantically. The evidence was laid out in front of you in the form of your past relationships. You could, or you hoped, that you would channel that into motherhood. You decided to focus all your energy on that, instead of mourning Michael. Maybe it was for the best.

Your mother had taken the initiative to move in with you in your small home, which felt cold and haunting. The last time you’d been in it, you were conceiving the child you were now carrying. The child that would be born any day now. It felt like an eternity had gone by since your failed wedding. You hadn’t heard anything from Michael. Even Bill, who seemed to love you like you were his own, didn’t show up unannounced like you had quietly hoped. Nothing from his family either. It was like he had disappeared into thin air, or as if he never existed. Like the love you had shared wasn’t ever real.

It would’ve been fine, except his presence was everywhere. Not just in your own home, but in the world. He was playing on the radio, or smiling on the TV, or even worse, you’d find a pair of his socks that he’d left over. Shirts of his, trinkets of him scattered around. It wasn’t as if you could pick up the fragments and put him back together. Clearly, he didn’t want that - or want you.

As much as you tried to block it all out, even the unrelenting fall of night didn’t give you a chance for a silent mind. You would toss and turn, constantly mulling over the last nine months of your life in hopes of understanding what could have happened that made it so easy for him to walk away. You could reconcile him leaving you, but what you didn’t understand was abandoning you when you were carrying his child. Michael wanted to be a father more than any man you had known, and you thought he was overjoyed. Thumper hadn’t been planned, sure, but the pregnancy wasn’t something either of you turned away from. If anything, you thought that it was bringing you closer. At least for a time. Maybe that was why they said hindsight is 20/20.

The day that you went into labor, you were resting in your garden. You were lucky to have a small backyard that allowed you to flourish beautiful plants, although at this time most of them had succumbed to neglect. After spending almost the entirety of your pregnancy with Michael, you didn’t expect everything to stay alive. It felt darkly humorous in a way; the dying plants were merely a metaphor for the death of your relationship. It was the lone rosemary plant that gave you a small inkling of hope. You felt like maybe, in some way, this meant there was a possibility of life, however small that possibility may be.

Your water breaking signaled the start of the beginning, or maybe the beginning of the end. Your old life was gone, for better or for worse, and with or without Michael you were having this baby. And evidently, that day had arrived.

The rush to the hospital was not necessarily dramatic, but it had you dissociating. Your eyes were staring out the window, unmoving as scenery flashed by. Your mother was driving your beaten up old Ford, saying something that you weren’t even listening to. All you could think about was him. Michael had wanted this baby and he wasn’t even here to see it.

Your mother helped you out of the car. You allowed yourself to be shuffled into a wheelchair and pushed into a room that was already occupied by one other woman. A curtain ran the length of the room between you, and you were grateful for the attempt at privacy. It was a bit striking to you then that even in a room full of people, you felt like the loneliest one in the world.

Only a few minutes had gone by when a nurse walked into the room, clipboard in hand. “Mrs. Jackson?” She asked, looking at you with a smile.

You flinched. “What?” It was all you could think to say.

“Sorry Mrs. Jackson, we had a mix-up getting you in here. Your husband has ordered a private room for your labor and delivery. We’ll get you there shortly, of course. Our deepest apologies for the inconvenience.”

You gaped at her. Surely this was some odd lucid dream, or perhaps you were having some kind of mental break. “My husband?”

The nurse smiled. “Yes, Mr. Jackson has already made the arrangements. He should be here any time now. Don’t worry, we’ll have you in there before, so you’ll be able to get settled. Congratulations, by the way!” She was out the door before you could respond.

You looked to your mother, completely dumbfounded. “This is a joke, right?”

“Sweetie,” your mother tried for a smile. “He probably made these plans weeks ago. Don’t worry, I’ll be looking out for him.”

“I don’t want to see him,” you bristled. Of course, that wasn’t exactly true. You desperately wanted more than anything to see him. You wanted him to hold you while you delivered your baby, and to tell you how happy he was that you were doing this together. You wanted to see his face when the baby was finally in the room. But you knew that you shouldn’t want that. Couldn’t want that. “He’s obviously not coming anyway.”

Your mother reached for your hand with a sad smile, standing up and gesturing towards the door. “I’m just gonna go find that nurse, okay? Stay here.”

You laughed under your breath, smiling a little. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” you said, placing a hand atop your stomach. “Not any time soon.”

Your mother laughed in turn. “Be back soon.”

You nodded, watching her walk away. You shivered despite the warmth in the room, feeling the solitude hit you like a physical weight. The weeks that had stretched between your wedding to now hadn’t felt completely real. You didn’t allow yourself to feel the truth of it all, hoping that if you didn’t register what actually happened you would be fine. It was impossible to hide now though, the harsh fluorescent bulbs of the hospital room looming above you, seemingly illuminating every dark secret that you had been attempting to bury. You watched a man shuffle behind the curtain near you, and wondered if he was the father of the other baby waiting to be born. Suddenly it felt like someone had flipped a switch in you, the dam of emotions bursting all at once. You lurched forward, your chest tightening. A hand flew to your mouth, attempting to hide the sound of the sob that broke. All of those years of promises, and yet you were here alone. Michael had really left you.

It was as if the air became inhospitable. You struggled to gasp in a breath, hands flying to the sides of the hospital bed in hopes of some sense of stability. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words would form. All you could do was try to breathe through it, body jolting with each painful drag of air through your lungs. It never felt like enough.

“I can’t,” you got out, gasping. “Breathe.”

The man behind the curtain peeked his head out, taking one look at you before he flew to the door. “Nurse!” He called, his voice floating miles away from where you were. “She doesn’t look too good in here!”

Everything happened so fast after that. The nurses at the nearby station rushed in, exchanging glances before they moved towards you. “Ma’am, can you breathe?” One of them asked you, eyes wide. They were shifting things on your bed, and suddenly the whole thing was moving towards the door.

You tried to respond, shaking your head. “The baby,” you managed, tears prickling your eyes. “Is the baby okay?”

The nurse attempted a smile as she held your hand in a firm grip. “We’re going to move you, Mrs. Jackson,” she said, and the name sent another pang of panic through you. “I think you’re having a panic attack. I need you to breathe with me,” she said, squeezing your hand.

You gasped in another quick breath, trying your best to slow the rise and fall of your chest. “Where?” You asked, words coming a little easier now. “Where is my mom?”

The nurse holding your hand motioned towards another nurse, and they turned you down another hallway. “We sent someone for her,” she told you, her thumb stroking over your hand soothingly. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Jackson, she’ll be in the room with you.”

“Please,” you said, leg twitching with adrenaline. “Please don’t call me that.” Your breath was evening slowly but surely, although you still felt a fear for something you couldn’t quite place.

The nurse raised an eyebrow but nodded, squeezing your hand again. “Just keep breathing for me, okay?”

You nodded, squeezing her hand back. “Thank you,” you said, air filling your lungs finally. Your head fell back against the pillows, and your eyes squeezed shut. “Is the baby okay?”

“We’ll send the doctor in,” she told you.

“Thank you,” you said, the realization of your exhaustion sinking in. “Do you… do you think after that, I can take a little nap?”

“That should be fine,” she smiled, squeezing your hand once more. Your bed was being rolled against the wall, and you could feel your eyelids drooping. “We’ll be here, don’t worry.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but sleep clouded your vision.

When you woke, the room was occupied by a few nurses, and you noticed your mother sitting in the corner. She gave you a smile, which you returned.

The nurse who had helped you earlier came into view, and she wore a smile as well. “We were just about to wake you,” she said. “We need to check how much you’re dilated.” You registered a look of apprehension on her face as she glanced over her shoulder. “Also your hus… um. Mr. Jackson is here.” She grimaced a little.

Your spine went rigid. Before you could say anything in response, you heard his voice.

“Hi honey,” he said, sounding a little breathless.

You turned your head in the direction of the sound. Honey. You let out a shaky breath.

The nurse cleared her throat. “I just need to check you, okay?”

You nodded at her, turning away from Michael. You barely registered what she was doing, your body stiff and your mind running one thousand miles a minute.

You heard a small gasp from below, and your focus zeroed in on the nurse. “Is everything okay?” You asked nervously.

She smiled, looking up at you. “Yes,” she said. “Sorry. You’re actually just about ready to start pushing.”

“Oh!” You exclaimed. “Oh wow, okay.”

Michael moved towards you then, and you had to fight to avoid looking at him. “She’s okay?” He asked. He sounded genuinely concerned, and you wondered if your mother had told him about the panic attack.

“Yes,” the nurse replied. By the way she glanced at him, you could tell she was fighting some kind of internal battle. Probably a fan, although she seemed stricken by his presence. This nurse, whose name you didn’t even know, was becoming your anchor to sanity. “She’s okay. She’s strong,” she looked up at you, smiling. You felt yourself smiling back.

“Thank you for everything,” you said, reaching for her hand. She took it, and the warmth was steadying. “I’m sorry, but what is your name?”

“Melanie,” she replied, giving your hand a squeeze before she pulled away. “No thanks needed. I’m going to alert the doctor now, but I’ll be back soon.” She looked over at Michael, and her smile faltered. “Congratulations,” she murmured, eyes seemingly unable to meet his.

“Thank you,” Michael said, nodding.

You finally looked up at him, the immediate eye contact causing you to shiver. None of this felt very real. “You came,” you managed to say.

“Of course,” he said, brows furrowing. “I wouldn’t miss this.”

You tried to stifle the exasperated laugh that rang into the room. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Please,” your mother sounded from her chair, speaking before Michael could reply. “You two can do this later. Not until the baby is here, okay?”

You snorted, head finding the pillows behind you. “Fine.”

Michael said nothing, and somehow it hurt more than if he had.

The rest of the birth was faster than you’d expected. You had remembered your mom telling you that she was in labor for almost a day, but you felt like your labor had lasted only a few hours. Thankful for the epidural, you pushed out your beautiful baby - a girl. The doctors and nurses rushed to clean and care for her, but Melanie stayed by your side.

“She’s so beautiful,” she told you, glancing over to where your baby was.

You smiled, nodding. “She is,” you agreed.

Michael was waiting near them as they cared for her, cleaning her off, and you watched him from the bed. You felt your eyes struggling to stay open, the sudden exhaustion of the emotional and physical events of the day weighing on you. Your eyes closed then, heavy. The last noise you heard was Rosemary’s cry, and it brought a smile to your face despite everything.

The rush of the birth had finally passed, and you were cradling your baby in your arms, staring into her large unblinking eyes. She looked so small, but she already meant so much to you. She was the culmination of so many hours and months of pain, love, hardship. She was a piece of you in this world, and your entire heart wrapped in one.

“What about…” you trailed off, clearing your throat. You looked over to Michael, almost flinching at his gaze; he was looking at you, not the baby. It made you feel small suddenly. “What about Rosemary?” You asked, thinking to your beacon of hope - the one plant that lived above the rest. You fought the emotion from your voice, trying to smile. “Or Rose, for short. Rose, Rosie.”

Michael’s eyes shined with unshed tears, and you could feel your own filling up at the sight. “Rose,” he said, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. His lips twitched, and he reached for your hand. For some reason you allowed him to take it. “Our Rose,” he said, voice breaking a little. You could only imagine he was thinking of the numerous bouquets of roses he’d gotten you over the years, and it made your chest burn. “Our little Rosemary. Our beautiful baby girl.”

Your hand shook beneath his touch. Our. You wanted to scream. Of course it was his baby, but where was he when you were going into labor? Where was he when your mother was crying in your living room, sure you were asleep and unable to hear her? Where was he when you woke in the middle of the night, grasping for his comfort that simply wasn’t there? You couldn’t think of anything to say back, so you looked away.

“Another Rose for Angel,” he said, and you looked up at him. “How is she?”

You pulled your hand from his grip, feeling a volatile change in your demeanor. “She’s fine,” you replied, voice taut with anger. “Michael, I don’t want to do these pretend pleasantries. The only reason you’re here is because I know you’ll be a good father, and I want you to be here for her. Not for me. You don’t get to ask about me right now.”

Michael tried for your hand again, but you moved it away from his reach. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please, lovebug. I’m sorry. I wasn’t me. I needed some time away.”

You recoiled at the nickname. Surely he didn’t think you were going to fall to his feet in forgiveness? “And I needed you,” you stated simply. You held out the baby towards him, allowing him to take her. “I need to sleep. If you’re going to stay here don’t talk to me anymore. At least not right now.”

He nodded, taking the baby. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the look on your face stopped him. He smiled sadly, holding little Rose to his chest. He gazed down at her, adoration in his eyes. You watched him press a kiss to her forehead, and the tenderness made your heart ache.

“Goodnight,” you said, turning over so your back was facing him. “Turn the light off when you get the chance.” The room felt so small all of a sudden. It was just the three of you, tucked away from the world. This had been exactly what you wanted, so why did it hurt so much?

“Goodnight,” he said. The room descended into darkness. “I love you.”

You didn’t say it back.

The hospital stay came and went. Michael had stayed by your side, but whenever he spoke he always addressed your mother, not you. They were kind to one another, and it made your chest tighten. Despite what had happened, he was still so deeply woven into your life.

Your mother was emotional as you left, hugging and kissing you all over your face. She was crying, and so were you, clutching to each other. “She’s so beautiful,” she said, holding you against her. “I’ll… I’ll take your car back to your house,” she told you. “Are you sure… you’re okay going back with Michael?”

You nodded, trying for a smile. “I will be for now,” you said. “If I need anything, I’ll call you. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she pressed a kiss to your forehead, and you waved at her.

Bill helped you into the car waiting for you, a small smile on his face. You were grateful to see him. “Here,” he said, offering his arms out to take your baby. “Let me get her into the seat.”

You nodded, giving Rosemary over. “Thank you, Bill.”

The drive back to Neverland was hazy, your brain battling between sleep and staying awake, constantly shifting your eyes over to check on Rosemary. Michael was quiet the whole time, and so were you.

The silence stretched over a few days, until eventually it was a week of nothing. Michael would come in and out of your room, helping with the baby, offering silently to feed her the bottles of your pumped milk. The pumping was an effort, as was breastfeeding, so you were grateful for the moments of peace.

Still, you felt the emptiness and didn’t know what to say, if there was anything at all. You felt abandoned again, worried that maybe this was how the rest of your life would be. After all, Michael was the reason for this, wasn’t he? So why did you feel the guilt of it eating away at you?

The silence had reached a boiling point. You and Michael were both in your shared bedroom, watching Rosemary as she slept. You were perched on the edge of the bed, and he was standing near the wall, pacing back and forth slightly.

“Do you remember when I first told you I loved you?” Michael asked, startling you from your thoughts. You’d barely gotten any sleep since you’d gotten back from the hospital a few days ago, and his presence was a reminder of your anguish.

You looked up at him, willing yourself not to cry. The sound of his voice had made you jump, pulling you from your state of grief. “Of course. How could I forget that?”

Michael smiled a little, running a hand along the back of his neck. “I just… I still love you, you know? I just didn’t want you to forget that, either.”

You scoffed. “You have an interesting way of showing your love, then.”

Michael sighed. “It wasn’t about you, though. I needed some time to myself. I had to think about things.”

“Things you didn’t have time to think about during the eight years we’ve been together?” You looked over at your baby, sighing. “Well, almost nine now. If we are still together, I guess. I don’t really know what this,” you gestured between the two of you. “Is.”

Michael frowned. “I wasn’t leaving the relationship. I was just… I had to think,” he repeated himself. There was so much going on.” He paused, looking away. “And on top of that the vitiligo is spreading again,” his eyes were looking everywhere but your own. “I know you said you don’t care about that, but I do. I try not to, but the things people say-”

“Michael,” you cut him off. Your heart clenched. “You’re allowed to have insecurities, although I wish you could see what I see,” he finally met your gaze, and you tried to smile. “I fell in love with this,” you placed a hand against your own heart. “Of course, the package yours came in is also very handsome,” you smiled at the quiet laugh he let out. “No matter what,” you continued. “I wouldn’t love you any less because of something you can’t control. But what I can’t do is deal with you shutting me out. I needed you, Michael. I needed you here with me, not just physically. If you can’t do that, you need to let me know. We used to actually talk, remember? If you were going through something, why couldn’t you just tell me? What was I supposed to think?”

“I just… Don't you see the things they’re saying about me? That I left my wife at the altar? That I don’t want to be the father of our child? That I don’t like who I am, implying that this,” he gestured to himself. “Is my doing?”

“Michael, I don’t care about the press! Why would I care about what a bunch of racist journalists have to say? They repeat these stories because they have nothing else. Because they know what gets them paid. They never talk about how good you are, or…” you trailed off, voice breaking. “Is that what this is about? The press? You left me alone because of some tabloids? Is that really it, or is it something else? Do you not trust me anymore? Because despite their lies, you did leave me at the altar," he shrunk away from your words. “The other stuff is bullshit, and we both know it.”

Michael took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Before he could respond, you cleared your throat. “Look. I just have to ask. Is my love not enough for you, Michael? I feel like you never got over what I did to you before we found out I was pregnant. If that’s the truth, just tell me. I won’t scream or get mad. I just need to know. Because I’ve been killing myself over this, trying to figure it out. I’m not trying to save you, or fix you, or whatever other crap a lot of women throw at you. I’m just trying to love you. Or I guess, I was.”

Michael’s breath faltered. He looked up at you, something raw and broken in his expression. “I know you are. I… I guess in trying to protect your heart, I broke it. I thought maybe… I don’t know what I thought. Diana,” your body reacted to the name like you were shocked with electricity. He noticed the flinch and turned away. “She said something to me, the day I found the pregnancy test. She told me… well, she asked me if this was what I wanted. She asked if I thought you wanted it, too.”

“You know I wanted this,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “You know me, Michael.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But then she said…” He turned away for a moment, and you held on to his words like an anchor; you were either going to sink, or he was going to pull you up to the surface. “She told me she had thought about what it was like if we… if she and I. If we were in that position. She asked if I remembered what it was like when we were younger, before I met you. If I still loved her.”

Your eyes blurred with tears as you felt the weight of his confession. You stood up, pacing back and forth before you allowed yourself to drop to the floor, back against the wall for stability. “You always got mad when I asked if you loved her,” you said. “So just tell me. Do you want me, or do you want what you think you could have with her? I don’t…” you shivered, turning away. “I don’t want to beg for you. It makes me sick, thinking about what she’s done to you. But still, I can’t beg for you to love me. You either do or you don’t.”

“I do,” Michael slid to the floor next to you, reaching for your face in his hands. You allowed him to cup your cheeks, and the touch caused a sob to break out of you. “I’ve always wanted you, lovebug. I just had to find myself first. I don’t want her. She’s not you.”

Your body trembled as you looked up at him. “So why did you leave me?”

Michael searched your eyes for a moment. “I thought I was punishing myself, but I forgot that I would also be hurting you. I wanted… no, I needed to think about everything. I had to be alone.”

“You could’ve left a note,” you said, tears spilling out without abandon. You could barely see his face through the blur of them filling your eyes. “You could’ve asked me for some time. Instead you just left. You made me feel like… you left me, Michael. You told me you loved me and then you were gone. I needed you, so badly. I would forget you were gone, sometimes. Especially in the mornings, when I was waking up. I’d reach over for you, but you weren’t there. I know Diana hurt you. But you hurt me.”

You heard his sniffle, and you blinked enough to clear your vision. He was crying too, hands shaking as he held your face. “I never meant to do that,” he said. “I didn’t.”

“But you did,” you whispered.

Michael pressed his forehead against yours, and you felt yourself losing control of your tears once again. For so many weeks, all you had wanted was his touch. All you had wanted was him. So why did it hurt so badly, finally having what you wanted? “So what do we do now?” He asked.

“We wait,” you said, hands reaching up to cup his. “I can’t… I need some time.”

Michael nodded. “Okay,” he said, voice stiff. “I’ll, um. You can take the bedroom, obviously. I’m going to stay in one of the guest rooms. Unless you don’t want to be alone?”

Your thumb traced over his knuckles, and a visible shiver ran through him. “I’ll need help when Rosie can’t sleep through the night. But I don’t… we’re just sleeping there. I’ll be on my side of the bed, you’ll be on yours.”

Michael nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. “So, we wait.”

Many days passed with little spoken between you or Michael, other than questions like, “do you need me to take her?” or “watch her while I’m in the shower?” The silence was louder than it was quiet - you could feel it as a physical presence looming over you, suffocating the hope that you had remaining. Maybe it was for the best. Was the pain worth it if it meant being together? You weren’t entirely sure.

On a rare day of rain pouring down in buckets over the ranch, a cruel reminder of how you felt inside, Michael finally spoke to you about something other than the baby.

“Can I ask you something?” He asked, voice drawing your attention.

You were doing your usual routine of pretending the other didn’t exist while you sat in the bedroom. “Sure,” you said, eyes drifting back down to the book you were pretending to read. In truth, you were thinking about Michael, observing how gentle he was with your daughter. She was almost two months old now.

“Can I… Can we try to be friends again, at least?” Michael asked. He was using that voice he had when he wanted something. In the past it had made you smile, but now you were a bit annoyed.

“Civil isn’t enough?” You asked, sliding your bookmark between the pages and closing your book. “I told you, I need time.”

“I know, and I’m trying to give you that,” Michael said, hands fidgeting. “But I miss you.”

You let out a sigh. “How do you propose we go about being friends again?”

“Maybe a date?” He shook his head, speaking quickly before you could respond. “A friend date.”

You snorted. “A friend date? You mean hanging out?”

Michael laughed a little, dropping his eyes. “Yeah, hanging out. Can we hang out? My mother, or yours, can watch Rose. What do you say?”

“Fine,” you sighed, trying not to smile. “But I don’t wanna go far. Let’s go on a few rides, or something?”

Michael nodded, smiling so widely that the sight affected you. You could feel just the faintest hint of butterflies, but you tried to shoot them down. “Sounds perfect to me.”

“There’s just one other thing,” you said. “You’re not getting laid on this date, okay?”

Michael burst into a fit of warm, unapologetic laughter. “Absolutely not,” he agreed. “I’m a gentleman, after all.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I mean it, no funny business.”

“Cross my heart,” Michael said, laughter dying down.

“Then it’s a date.”

The day of the “friend date,” you couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. You had dropped little Rose off in the guest bedroom of your home, Katherine smiling as she accepted her grandbaby. You still felt a little hurt by Michael’s family, who hadn’t reached out to you after the supposed wedding, but you were trying to just reconcile and move on for the sake of your baby.

“I won’t be gone long,” you said, nervously shuffling back and forth. This was the first time you’d be away from Rosie for longer than a few minutes.

Katherine smiled. “No rush,” she said, and you attempted to smile back.

“Well,” you said awkwardly. “Thank you again.”

“Of course,” she said.

You gave her a curt nod and a wave, leaving the room. Michael was still busy getting ready, which felt a little silly now as you looked down at your own outfit - a wrinkled denim skirt, and an old shirt that you were thankful was clean. You hadn’t done anything special with your appearance at all, not that it mattered. This was just an attempt at being more cordial with the father of your baby, right?

Michael met you downstairs roughly ten minutes later, a bit out of breath. “Sorry,” he said, a sheepish smile on his face. “Are you ready?”

You observed him for a moment, irritated that he looked so good. Of course it wasn’t a surprise, but it felt unfair. “Ready,” you nodded.

“You wore my favorite shirt,” you stated, not meeting his eyes as you started walking towards the golf cart that would take you towards the rides. It was a simple short sleeve red button-up, and he always wore it unbuttoned with a white t-shirt underneath. Something about how casual it was always made you smile. Of course you loved his gorgeous stage clothing, but the laid-back stuff felt so Michael. Your Michael.

He smiled at that, shrugging. “I also got you this,” he said, extending a single pink rose.

You raised an eyebrow, accepting the flower. “Do you get people flowers when you’re just hanging out with them?”

“Not really,” Michael said. “But this really beautiful woman I know once told me that she got herself roses, so I was hoping you would like it.”

You felt your cheeks burn and you had to turn away from him so he couldn’t catch your smile. “Well, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

The golf cart ride was almost completely quiet, both of you seemingly unsure of what to say. It had been months since you’d discussed anything other than Rose, and the silence stretching was a testament to that. Every jolt of the cart that brought you closer to Michael, or any brush of his leg caused goosebumps to decorate your arms and legs. The two of you hadn’t touched casually in so long, you almost forgot what it felt like. Almost.

“Where to first?” Michael asked, parking the golf cart and giving you a shy smile.

“Hm,” you contemplated your surroundings, glancing up at the ferris wheel. In truth you were afraid of heights, but Michael always made you feel safe. You thought back to your first time on it together, and how nervous you’d been. He’d distracted you by tickling your sides, and eventually you ended up with a leg slung over his lap, making out and impossibly close, allowing the wheel to loop, and loop, until one of the staff kindly asked, “Another go around?”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Michael asked, pulling you out of your own memory.

You couldn’t help but giggle, wondering if he was indeed thinking of the same thing. “Ferris wheel?”

His eyes twinkled with mischief and you were unable to tamper your grin. “Don’t try to scare me, though,” you said, still smiling. “I’m not in the mood.”

Michael smiled right back. “I won’t.”

As you made your way over, you noticed that the park was mainly empty, except for a few people tending to some flowers. “Where is everybody?” You asked him.

“I gave a lot of people the day off,” he told you. “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. I’ll get Gary over there to start the ride, and he’ll keep an eye on us.”

You nodded, watching Michael walk over to one of the few staff in attendance. The two of them made their way back over, and you and Michael boarded the ride.

“Ready?” He asked. At your nod, he signaled to Gary. The ride soared to life, and you couldn’t help but grip the bottom of your seat. “Hey,” he said gently, and you glanced over at him. “We’ll be fine.”

“It’s just been a while,” you said, loosening your grip.

You both sat in a calm quietness for a moment before Michael cleared his throat. “You’re such a good mom,” he said, his hand brushing yours so gently you wondered if you had imagined it. “I know it was hard for you to leave Rosie today.”

You smiled a little. “You’re a great dad,” you said, meaning it. Despite the anger you still had for what he’d done, you wanted him to know it. Not only because being a father was something he’d wanted so badly, but also because you wanted him to know he was nothing like his own father. “Rosie loves you. Sometimes she seems to want you to hold her more than me, which seems a little unfair since I’m the one that feeds her.”

He let out a surprised laugh at that, and when you glanced up you noticed unshed tears in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, and you felt your heart clench.

“You’ve never been anything like him,” you said, voice quiet. “You’re a wonderful dad. And when Rose gets older, and everyone at school is jealous that her dad is Michael Jackson, she’s going to laugh and tell them you’re just her daddy. The one who will help her get ready for school, and make her those pancakes I love. Who will teach her to draw, and show her the beauty of music.”

Michael reached for your hand, and you didn’t pull back. “Thank you,” he said again.

You squeezed his hand and opened your mouth to reply when you felt the ride lurch to a stop. “What’s going on?” You asked, panic rising in your chest.

“I’m not sure,” Michael said, frowning. He glanced down and your eyes followed his gaze, realizing based on the size of the ground below that you were basically at the very top. “Gary must’ve stepped away for a moment. We’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

You tried for a smile, but you found yourself holding his hand tighter. “Distract me?” You asked, pulling your eyes away from the view of the ground.

Michael smiled, hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you a little closer to him. You didn’t protest, and you hated that the contact of his thigh pressed against yours felt so good. “Angel and Rosie get along pretty well, huh?” He asked.

You smiled, nodding. “Yeah, they actually do. I was worried that Angel would be jealous but she has taken on the role of older sister very well.” As you spoke, Michael’s fingers gently ran along your waist where he was still holding you, and you felt yourself getting lost in the feeling. As far as distractions go, it was working. You tried your best to not react to his touch, not wanting him to realize that it affected you so much. “How have you been sleeping?” You asked him, absentmindedly tracing your thumb along his knuckles that were wrapped around you.

“Not too bad,” he replied.

“Really?” You asked, looking up at him. “Are you just saying that?”

He shrugged, smiling faintly. “I sleep better with you in the bed,” he said, and your heart stopped for a moment. “Even if there is a wall of pillows between us.”

You fought the smile, letting out a small laugh. “Those pillows are for your protection, buddy.”

“Hm, the way I see it is you have plenty to smother me with,” Michael said, smirking. “Although, I probably deserve it right now.”

You let out another laugh, nudging his knee with yours. “My method would be much stealthier than that, trust me. You’d never see me coming.”

“Oh yeah? I think I would,” he countered.

“No way,” you smirked. “Seriously, I’m really sneaky.”

“I don’t know if ‘really sneaky’ people say that they’re sneaky,” Michael laughed. His arm had been subconsciously pulling you in closer, and by this point you were practically glued to his side.

“Trust me, I am though,” you smiled, shaking your head. “Seriously.”

“I’ve missed you,” he said, breath catching. “I know I’m… selfish to feel that way, but it’s true. You’re so close to me but I can’t help it. I miss you.”

You shivered a little under the weight of his gaze, feeling his words settle in your stomach. You took a deep breath, looking away for a moment before your eyes met his again. “Michael, I… I miss you, too. But it’s not that simple. You broke my heart. I’m scared.”

“I know words don’t mean anything sometimes, but I really, really mean it when I say I won’t do that to you again. I just…” he looked away, closing his eyes briefly. “My whole life I feel like everyone and everything around me has been controlling me, telling me what to do. I don’t think you’ve done, not at all. I guess I’m just… I get scared, too. That’s not an excuse. I was so scared of hurting you that I did it anyway. And it’s not… it’s not about Diana, or what she said to me. Yes, I loved her. But with you it’s different. You gave me a new perspective on life. No one has ever made me feel like I feel when I’m with you. I love parenting with you, but I just… miss you.”

You looked down, stomach clenching with something you couldn’t place - anxiety, fear, happiness all in one. “I never stopped loving you,” you whispered. “Even when I hated you, I loved you. I still love you. But you just… you ran away from me because you were scared of being happy. You used Diana as an excuse so you didn’t have to say how you really felt. You were the one who picked the date of the wedding!”

“I know,” he said with a sad smile on his face. “I know. I ran away like a coward.”

“I can’t just go back to the way things were,” you replied. “I want to, sometimes. When I watch you with Rosie… I want to just go over and cuddle with you as you hold her. I think… maybe we could get there. But I’m terrified of getting hurt again. I can’t handle that.”

“I know,” he said. He brought your hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss over your knuckles one at a time. You closed your eyes at the sensation, turning away.

“Michael,” you whispered. “God, I’m going to regret this. Can you kiss me?”

“You want me to kiss you?” He asked, unable to mask his surprise.

“Yeah, just as a distraction,” you teased, shrugging.

Michael smiled a little, biting the edge of his lip. He reached for your chin, holding it in his hand before he leaned towards you. Just as you were about to close the gap between you, you felt the ride jolt forward, breaking you out of the spell.

“Wait,” you exhaled, shivering as you felt his breath against your lips. “Wait, this is a bad idea.”

Michael let out a small noise of indignation, but he pulled back. “Yeah,” he agreed. “You’re probably right.”

“Must be the altitude getting to my head,” you murmured, turning away as the ferris wheel descended.

Michael laughed under his breath, pulling his arm away from your waist. “Probably,” he said, and you watched him smile out of the corner of your eye.

When the ride finally touched ground again, you suddenly felt anxious to get off. Gary was apologizing profusely as he helped both of you down, and you were all smiles despite the nausea rising in your stomach. “It’s not a problem!” You told him. “We had a great time. Thanks, Gary.”

Michael echoed your sentiment. “Yeah, thank you. It was great.”

“Hey,” you said, turning around to look at Michael. “Let’s just go back, okay?

Michael nodded, blinking a few times in quick succession. “Yeah, good idea.”

Another few months went by of a similar routine between you and Michael. You talked a lot more, but mainly about mundane things. It was friendly, and sometimes you would laugh together. You’d have to look away when you’d catch his eye from across the room, nervous he would take notice of you staring. You stared at Michael a lot, but you were trying to break the habit. It was hard to reconcile your feelings; a part of you was still guarded, and another part that you didn’t like to admit was larger than the other part missed him so deeply that you felt it in your bones. He was doing all the “right” things, if there was a right way to go about reforming your relationship. He still got you fresh roses weekly, always varying in color. He took over with Rose when you were tired, and oftentimes refused to let you get up when she fused in the middle of the night. By now you were pumping milk more than you had been for these nightly feedings, thankful for the ability to roll back over and sleep a little longer. Michael was always tender, making you pancakes every Saturday morning, and offering to send someone to get you anything you needed. It felt like more than co-parenting, you just didn’t have an exact word for it.

There were no more almost-kisses, or much physical touch other than your hands brushing when you handed things to one another, but it was comfortable. Gentle. You hated to admit it, but you were starting to trust Michael again. It didn’t stop the fear, but it gave you a bit of hope. Your own rosemary plant of hope.

When Rosie was about to hit another milestone, five months, you decided you wanted another hangout with Michael, just the two of you.

“My mom can watch Rose,” you said, wringing your hands together to rid yourself of your nerves. “I already pumped enough milk this week to last her two days, just in case.”

“Two days?” Michael laughed. “Are you planning on kidnapping me?”

You rolled your eyes, throwing a pillow at him from across the bed. Rose was fast asleep, and the two of you were sitting up and talking, each on your respective side of the bed. “You know I get anxious,” you pouted.

“I know, and you’re such an amazing mom and a great planner. Rosie’s gonna have so much milk she won’t even know what to do with it,” Michael smirked, catching the pillow in his hands.

You giggled. “Shut up, you’re making fun of me.”

“I would never,” Michael threw the pillow back at you. “I love your thoughtfulness.”

You caught the pillow with another laugh. “I’m glad someone appreciates it.”

“Always. So, what did you have in mind?”

“Just… us,” you smiled, feeling a little shy all of a sudden. “I wanna have a drink,” you let out a laugh, turning away. The last time I drank was… well, the night Rose was conceived.” Your face burned at the admission, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at Michael to see his reaction. “Just a glass of wine or two. I read about it, and I called the pediatrician and she said it should be fine. So that’s why I pumped in advance. Of course, I’m also going to feed her beforehand, obviously.”

Michael reached across the bed and grabbed your big toe, and you looked at him with a startled laugh.

“What?” You asked, flexing your foot in an attempt to escape from his grip.

“You’re cute when you ramble like that,” he said, squeezing your foot once before he let go. “I believe you. It’s safe. I’ll tell someone to get your favorite wine.”

“Okay, it’s a date. A friend date.”

Michael smiled, and you felt yourself get lost in the warmth of it, the feeling of butterflies taking over your stomach. “That’s my favorite kind of date,” he said.

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. “Mine too.”

The second friend date approached faster than you had expected, and you couldn’t help but feel a rush of nerves. Part of you felt like maybe it was a mistake to just let loose and see what happened, but the other part of you was tired of fighting a losing battle. Despite your best efforts, your feelings for Michael remained.

By the time you had made it to the bedroom after freshening up, Michael had already set out two glasses of wine. He was playing some music faintly, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers drumming over his knees nervously. You smiled at the sight, clearing your throat to get his attention. “Hey,” you said.

Michael looked up, smiling. “Hey, you.”

“Thank you for the wine,” you said, crossing the room. You took both glasses, handing him one. “Cheers.”

Michael clinked your glass, looking up at you. “Cheers.”

You took a sip, letting out a noise of content at the taste. “Worth the wait,” you said, taking another sip. “So good.”

“I do like this one,” Michael agreed, taking his own sip.

“Do you remember the first time we had this together?” You asked, unable to contain your laugh. “You got so drunk. I think that was the first time I’d ever seen you really drunk before.”

Michael smiled, letting out a laugh of his own. “I do remember,” he replied. “I was so nervous that night. We’d only been dating for a few months, but I was scared that you were getting bored of me.”

“I wasn’t bored,” you said, taking another sip and sitting down next to him. “I thought you were afraid of me. I kept trying to jump your bones. I thought that you figured I was a pervert.”

Michael smiled, laughing once more. “No, not at all. I think that I thought drinking would give me some courage to finally try something with you, but then I ended up passing out.”

“It was cute,” you said, patting his knee affectionately. “We were kissing, and then you just rolled over and… fell asleep,” you giggled. “I was concerned with my kissing abilities.”

Michael rolled his eyes harmlessly. “No, your kissing abilities were fine. I just had no tolerance for alcohol. You still have no tolerance for alcohol.”

You scoffed at him, raising an eyebrow in challenge. “We’ll see, Jackson,” you teased, tipping your glass up to down the rest of its contents in one swig.

Michael laughed, reaching for your glass. “I cannot in good conscience let you have another. You’ll be stumbling down the hallway asking for someone to take you through a drive-thru."

You pouted. “I can’t believe you’re prohibiting me from drinking. I am a grown woman, you know.”

Michael smirked. “Trust me, I know.”

You shoved his shoulder gently, leaning backwards until your back hit the mattress. “Fine, but if I’m not stumbling in an hour, you owe me another glass.”

“Deal,” Michael said, sticking out his pinky. You linked yours around his, sitting up a little so you could bring it to your mouth to seal the promise with a kiss. Michael shivered at the feeling of your lips, and you smiled a little.

“Deal,” you said quietly, letting go of his pinky.

About an hour or so passed, and you were thankful Michael had taken the initiative to cut you off. It wasn’t that you were drunk, but you were a little buzzed. The wine had a slightly higher alcohol percentage than most, and on top of that you hadn’t consumed alcohol in a little over a year. Plus he was right, you were a lightweight.

Michael had finished his glass as well, and he was pacing back and forth as you recounted a story from earlier in the week when you were certain Rose was about to crawl.

“She was so close,” you said, smiling. “I can’t believe how big she is now. I feel like she was born yesterday.”

“I can’t believe it either,” Michael replied, sharing your smile. “She’s probably the best baby of all time, right?”

“Obviously,” you giggled. “We made her.”

Michael paused at that, looking over at you with a shy expression. He walked over to the room, sitting down next to where you were sprawled out. “You’re on my side of the bed,” he observed, amusement twinging his tone.

“Yeah,” you said, propping your head up on your elbow. “Well, it smells like you, and I like the way you smell.”

“Is that so?” Michael asked, lips twitching.

“Mmhm,” you nodded, head falling back against the mattress. You could feel the words coming up, but you didn’t try to stop them. “Sometimes when you’re in the studio I take a nap on your side. I miss… being right next to you in bed. Feeling the warmth of you.”

You could hear Michael’s gulp, and you looked up at him to find his pupils dilated enough that the brown of his irises were just barely visible. “You do?”

“Yes,” you admitted. “I miss,” you paused, turning away so he couldn’t see your face. “I miss kissing you, too. But I’m not gonna ask you to kiss me again, because I already asked before.”

You could hear his laugh, and you pictured the smile that you knew was adorning his face. “Does that mean you want me to kiss you?” He asked. “Was this whole night an elaborate ruse to tell me that?”

You rolled back over to look at him, feeling your cheeks flush with heat. “Well, not at first. But then I had a glass of wine, and now I’m just thinking about it. You make really cute noises when we kiss, you know? Miss hearing them.”

Michael bit the edge of his lip. “What else do you miss?”

“No way, it’s your turn,” you said, shaking your head.

Michael smiled, eyes dropping to your lips briefly. “You have some pretty cute noises, too.”

“Do I?” You asked, feeling a low simmer of heat begin to pool in your stomach. “Do you miss them?”

Michael sighed, leaning in closer to you. “Are you just trying to get a rise out of me, baby?”

You shivered at the pet name, biting the edge of your lip. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “No. I think… Maybe I’ve just been a little horny lately. Have you… been horny?”

Michael leaned in once more, placing a hand on top of your thigh. You looked down at your bare skin, wearing only some sleep shorts to cover the tops of your thighs. The feeling of his palm against you caused goosebumps to spring up and down your body. “Yes,” he said. “If you want me to be honest, yes. Sleeping in the same bed as you, knowing you’re so close… of course, yes. Very much so.”

You couldn’t help but inch closer to him, turning just slightly so his palm slid over the inside of your thigh. You let out a sigh at the feeling. You watched as he slid his hand up, his touch gentle and a bit experimental. “I guess we’re on the same page then.”

“Do you want this?” He asked, tracing circles with his thumb right below your pajama shorts. “Do you want me?”

You let out a deep breath, feeling your heart rate picking up. “Yes,” you whispered, clearing your throat. “Yes, Michael, I want you.”

Michael cursed under his breath, sliding his thumb up even more until you could feel him just under the edge of the hem of your shorts. “So if I asked to kiss you, you would say yes?”

You nodded, looking up at him. “Yes.”

Michael shifted his weight until he was on top of you, pressing you down against the mattress. His head hovered just above yours, and his breath ghosted your mouth before you felt his lips against the shell of your ear. “I need you to be one hundred percent sure that you want me, lovebug,” he pressed one kiss against your neck, and the feeling made you squirm. It had been so unbelievably long since you’d felt his mouth on you. “So tell me again, do you want me?”

You ran your hands up the sides of his body, resting your palms against his shoulders. He was pressing light, barely-there kisses along your neck, and your head tilted back, exposing the column of your neck to him. “I can’t pretend I don’t want you anymore,” you whispered. “Please, Mike.”

He kissed against your pulse and held his lips there for a moment before he pulled back, looking directly into your eyes. The expression on his face made your body feel like it was on fire. “Your mom said she’d watch Rose all night?” He asked, biting the edge of his lip.

You nodded, feeling your breath picking up in short bursts. You could feel the hardness of him pressing against your thigh, and you were dizzy all of a sudden. “Yes, I told her we would get her in the morning. Maybe after ten, so we could sleep in.”

Michael smiled a little, his eyes lighting up. “That’s really great news,” he said. “So I can have you all to myself the entire night?”

You felt a throb between your legs, trying your best to keep a straight face. “I’d say so.”

Michael leaned his head down towards you and captured your lips in a scorching kiss that had you chasing after his mouth as he pulled away. “Thank God the room she’s staying in is on the other side of the house,” he murmured.

You couldn’t help but laugh, pushing back on his shoulders a little. “Please don’t joke about traumatizing my mother.”

“I’m sorry,” he smirked. “I just want you so badly, I can’t think straight.”

You exhaled a shaky breath. “Why don’t you feel how badly I want you?” You asked him, reaching for one of his hands and guiding it underneath the waistband of your shorts. He kept going, slipping under your panties, and down between your thighs where you knew you were already wet for him.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, his forehead dropping against yours. “Let me taste you, please. It’s been so long.”

You nodded, helping him remove your shorts and panties. Before you knew it, he was down the bed and in between your thighs, gazing up at you. He used his hands to spread your legs, letting out a low groan of appreciation. “So beautiful,” he said, sounding completely transfixed.

You attempted a response but his mouth was suddenly against you, and your mind went blank. The feeling of his tongue licking all the way up from your leaking entrance had you letting out a moan, much louder than you meant to.

“That’s my girl,” Michael coaxed, spreading you open with one hand before pressing his tongue against your clit. He lapped slowly and carefully, tracing against you in the way he knew you liked.

You moaned loudly again, feeling your legs moving around as he continued to lick at you. When you felt his lips form a suction around you, your back arched and your breath caught. You felt one of his fingers slowly enter you, and the drag made you feel delirious. He was moving so slowly, in and out, deeper than you could ever manage with your own fingers. It had been so long since you’d been with him, so long even since you’d even masturbated, that you knew you wouldn’t last very long if he kept this up.

At the feeling of a second finger, your legs started to shake. Michael was picking up the pace, curling his fingers inside of you, pumping them in and out relentlessly. His tongue against your clit was steady, a warm pressure and unyielding rhythm. Every time he sucked you into his mouth, you cried out, unable to muffle any of your cries of pleasure.

“Are you close, baby?” He asked, glancing up at you from between your legs.

You looked down at him, pupils blown and face covered in your arousal. You clenched around his fingers, nodding. “Yes, so close,” you whimpered, trying and failing to keep your legs still.

Michael dove back in, sucking and lapping at your bundle of nerves as he continued to pump his fingers in and out. You felt the pleasure building, spine going rigid as the invisible chord snapped. You came around him, crying out his name like a prayer as he worked you through it. When he felt your body relaxing, he gently pulled his fingers out, kissing up your leg. His hands slipped under your top, gently tracing at the sensitive skin on your lower abdomen.

“Michael,” you whispered, body still trembling a little. “I can’t feel my body right now.”

He laughed, shifting himself up on the bed so he could rest his body next to you. He pulled you close by the waist, turning you on your side so you faced him. “Are you still feeling okay with this?”

You smiled, nodding. You cupped the side of his cheek, searching his eyes. You felt something in you crack at his expression, which was so full of love and adoration. “I can’t stay away from you anymore. Not just sexually. I think, no I know, I need you in my life.”

Michael sucked in a breath, turning away into the pillow. You rubbed at the side of his neck with your thumb, a gentle caress of reassurance. “I don’t know if I deserve that,” he said, glancing back up. You noticed the glint of tears in his eyes, visible by the strip of moonlight pouring in from the window facing your bed.

“Maybe not,” you agreed. “But I’ve tried to stop loving you, and I can’t.”

“I’m gonna keep spending every day making it up to you,” Michael said, blinking. A few tears cascaded down his cheeks, and you reached your thumb up to collect them.

“I know,” you smiled gently. “And maybe I can start going to the studio with you again?”

“Yeah?” Michael grinned. “Really?”

You nodded, sliding your thigh between his and shifting yourself closer to him. “Yeah, I miss it. And maybe… you can make your pancakes twice a week?”

“I think I can manage that,” he smiled, hands sliding beneath your shirt and up your back. You shivered at the contact. “Anything else?”

You bit your lip, nodding again. “Yeah,” you said. Your thigh slid higher, pressing against him and he let out a small groan. “I wanna remember what it feels like when you’re inside of me. Is that okay?”

Michael sighed, pulling you against him completely. “More than okay,” he smiled a little, lifting you so that you could rest on top of him.

You placed your knees on either side of his hips, letting your body relax against him. You rolled your hips forward once, smiling at his gasp. Your hands slid under his top, and he helped you discard it along with your own shortly after.

He lifted you up a little as he slid down his pants, and when you felt the length of him against you, you couldn’t help but let out a moan. Your head fell back as you continued to rock your hips over him, feeling the slow crawl of pleasure pulsing between your thighs. Your body was a blaze, overwhelmed and reeling in bliss.

Below you, Michael didn’t look like he was fairing much better. His eyebrows were scrunched beautifully, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He was moaning softly, barely audible as he let you control the pace. You took a moment to really admire him, feeling something unravel in your belly. You had tried, more than anything, to desperately stop loving him. You told yourself the pain wasn’t worth it, that he would hurt you again, that in the end maybe you weren’t enough for him. But as you watched him, his eyes filling with unshed tears, you felt like you could see into his soul - the soul you’d fallen in love with.

It hit you, all at once, like a crash of waves breaking against a sandy beach. The pebbles and rocks in the sand held onto you, reminding you of the pain, but you could feel it then; your desire to allow yourself to love him, and to let him back in. Here he was, cast beautifully by the light of celestial evening, so real and all yours.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You got off of his lap, pulling him over as you flipped and landed on your back. He moved soundlessly with you, spreading your legs with his warm hands as he positioned himself at your entrance.

“Ready, lovebug?” He asked.

You nodded, feeling a tear slide down your cheek, and then another soon after. You hadn’t even realized you’d started crying until the tears kept coming, salty and wet against your face. “Please,” you said, voice breaking. “I need you.”

And he understood. He needed you too, in more ways than one, and so he pushed in, filling you with him. As he slowly moved in, stretching you out, your head lolled to the side. A few tears fell against the sheets below you, and you felt him come to a stop when he was to the hilt.

“I love you,” he whispered. The words filled a hole in your heart that had cracked, unable to repair itself despite your best efforts.

You let out a fresh sob, tears falling again. Your vision was blurred as you looked up at him, feeling a tear from his own eye drop against your skin. “I love you too,” you replied, grasping at his arms for stability. “I can’t live without you, Michael,” you gasped, feeling him move again. You could register how it felt, how the pleasure crawled up from your toes all the way to your scalp even through the emotion. “I’ve tried, and I just can’t.”

“I’ll never leave you again,” he promised, pulling out and pushing in once more. He repeated the motion a few times until he picked up a steady pace. “I don’t deserve you, my angel. God made you just for me and I don’t deserve you.”

Your head hit the pillow as he sped up just a bit more, your body reacting to the feeling. He was looking down at you, gaze unwavering, and you pulled his head towards you by gently gripping the back of his neck. Your lips met in a kiss, him immediately moaning into you as he thrusted impossibly deeper, rocking forward to press into the spot inside of you that had you clawing against his back. He remained deep, thrusting shallowly so he could hit the spot again, and again, effectively rubbing against it. He wouldn’t let up until you were a babbling and whining mess below him, thrashing your head back and forth.

“Mikey, baby,” you gasped, and he broke at the pet name, hips stuttering. “Oh, God, feels too good.”

“I love, I love you,” he repeated against your lips. He reached between your legs, fingers finding your clit as he moved inside of you. “I love you so much.”

Your toes curled at the feeling, chest rising and falling rapidly. You were right on the edge, barely able to form a coherent thought other than him and the feeling of him inside of you and all around you. “I love you,” you gasped, orgasm blinding you as your walls clenched around him, body jolting off of the mattress.

He worked you through it, still thrusting in and out and getting sloppier by the minute as he approached his own peak. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he cooed, kissing your tear-stained cheeks. “My beautiful girl, love you so much.”

“Finish inside of me,” you said, reality coming back into focus as you gasped at another deep thrust. “Please.”

Michael moaned at that, head falling against your shoulder as he immediately spilled into you, almost as if on command.

He stayed there against you, pressing kisses against your skin, lips traveling up and down your collarbone, and eventually up the column of your neck.

Your lips met his and you stayed like that, kissing for a while until you felt him harden inside of you. You let out a soft moan, breaking away from the kiss so you could take a deep breath of air.

“Can I have you again, please, please?” Michael begged.

Then he did, again and again, until the sounds of the birds chirping mixed in with your gasps and moans, and the moon disappeared, only to be replaced by the sun. And for the first time in a long while, you felt a little more complete.

The morning after you woke up to the feeling of Michael smothering you, and you briefly panicked for a moment when your eyes traveled over to the crib and didn’t spot Rose. Your brain registered she was with your mother before your anxiety did, and you accidentally shook Michael awake before you realized what you were doing.

“Sorry,” you said, kissing his forehead. “Go back to sleep. I forgot Rose was with my mom.”

He smiled, pulling you back against him. “It’s okay,” he said, words muffled by the press of his mouth into the warmth of your neck. “Can’t believe I’m waking up with you in my arms.”

You smiled a little, feeling your body relax against his. “As much as I love waking up next to you, I really need to pee.”

Michael groaned, squeezing you into a quick hug before he reluctantly let you go. “Okay, but be back soon.”

“I will,” you said, smacking one more kiss to his forehead before you detangled your limbs and crawled over to roll off of the bed. Your legs and arms cracked as you stood up, feeling the stiffness from the way you had fallen asleep.

You pushed the slightly ajar bathroom door all the way open, glancing over your shoulder before heading inside. As you approached the toilet, you suddenly felt an urge different from the urine pressing on your bladder. You fell suddenly, to your knees, dry heaving into the toilet.

Michael stirred at the noise, and he was at your side in no time. You hardly registered him dropping to the floor right next to you, hand soothing over your spin as you leaned towards the toilet bowl. “What’s the matter, honey? Are you sick?”

“I don’t think so,” you said, feeling another clench of muscles in your stomach, not enough this time to induce any retching.

“You’re not… pregnant are you?” Michael asked.

“Michael,” you deadpanned, turning to look at him. “We had sex a few hours ago. I would not be showing symptoms yet.”

“Right,” he laughed a little, shaking his head. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, nudging his shoulder. “I think it’s stress.”

“About last night?”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But probably not. I just get anxious sometimes, and it makes me feel sick. I’m gonna be okay.”

“Was the sex bad?” He asked, sounding genuinely nervous.

You scoffed. “No Michael, sex is actually one thing we do not have a problem with in the slightest.”

“So it was good?” He grinned.

You looked over at him, fighting the urge to roll your eyes again. “Getting worse in hindsight by the minute,” you teased.

“Are you thinking that you regret it?” He asked, voice lowering in volume.

“No,” you stated. “I don’t regret it. I think that I just felt a lot of emotions all at once and I guess it manifested in me dry heaving into the toilet. I really do want to make this work. Not for Rosie’s sake,” you went on, pushing away from the toilet. “Because I don’t care for the staying together for the kids bullshit. I want it to work for us. Can you promise me something, though?”

Michael nodded, eyes locking with yours. “Of course. What is it?”

“Can you promise me that you won’t talk to Diana anymore? Not just for my sake, but for your own. I can’t do this with you anymore if she’s still in your life. I mean it.”

The ghost of a smile traced Michael’s lips. “I haven’t spoken to her since the day she found out you were pregnant.”

“You really mean that?” You asked.

“I really mean that,” he confirmed.

You pulled him against you for a hug, resting your cheek on his shoulder. “You do know that you need to propose to me again, right?”

He laughed, hugging you even tighter. “I know, and I will.”

And so he did.

Michael never forgot his promise to you, and so you continued to fall in love with him all over again every single day.

And two years later, when you were married and pregnant once again, Michael announced to the world that his beautiful wife was expecting every chance he could get. He announced it to the crowds at his concerts, when he was accepting an award, and when he allowed for a rare interview.

As the weight of the world turned to look at you after that, all you saw was him. Because really, it was always going to be him.

the end.

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