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Thriller! Michael would walk to the direction of the door with his eyes shut tight. The moment that he finds the door, he leaves the room swiftly while closing the door silently. So that you don’t become aware that he left the room to give you the privacy you need. As soon as you discovered that he left the room, you went out of your way by slightly opening the door whilst shouting his name. “MICHAEL!! get over here this instant.”

Bad! Michael would still be respectful by turning around to not face you, but glance back once awhile. When you realized that he was taking little glimpses at you. You couldn’t think of a better way to get revenge than to throw your clothes at him. “Stop peeking at me you perv.” This unexpected action made him startled. “Pftttt, me? Glancing at you? How could you accuse me of such a thing, baby. I would never do that, especially not without your permission.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his sarcasm.

Dangerous! Michael would look at you briefly before slightly fake cough then look elsewhere, while awkwardly whistling to distract him. That didn’t work whatsoever though no matter how hard he tried not to look at you. He was unable to refrain himself from doing so. When you caught him staring at you from head to toe, you tried to hide your privates as quickly as possible but it was very much too late for that. You were way too embarrassed to say a word so you just kept silent waiting for him to say anything, but nothing came out of his mouth. You were both just staring at each other to the point where it looked like you both were having an staring contest.

History! Michael would look at you with his eyes popping out, like if they were going to fall out at any given time and his mouth wide open. “Don’t act like you ain’t never seen me naked before, Mike.” Crossing your arms as you looked at him. Patiently waiting for an answer. “I know, lovey it was just unexpected y’know.” Shrugging as he continued, to stare at you like a portrait seen in a museum.

Invisible! Michael would scan you up and down like never before as he sat comfortably on the bed to enjoy the view while it lasted. He stayed extremely quiet causing you to turn around to see that he was already looking right at you. “Knew you were up to something because you’re never this quiet.” This caused him to smile widely as he hid his face from your view. “You caught me there, but looking isn’t a crime.”

1982 west lake recording studios

It was another late night in the studio, the kind where time seemed to blur together under dim lights and the low hum of equipment, where the outside world felt distant and unimportant compared to what was being built inside these walls.

For the last few months, Michael has been working on his upcoming album, Thriller, and you know how stressful it's been for him. Michael had felt that Off The Wall didn't get the recognition from the Grammys that it deserved, and you had agreed.

Michael didn't go to the Grammys that year in 1980. You remember how still he had been that night, how quiet, not the soft, thoughtful quiet you were used to from him, but something heavier, something that settled deep in his chest and refused to move.

The two of you sat in your apartment, his head resting in your lap as you watched the ceremony, his fingers idly tracing patterns against your knee, absentminded, like his body was there but his mind was already somewhere else entirely, somewhere ahead, chasing something bigger. And when he made that vow, that they weren't going to ignore his next album, that he was going to make the greatest album of all time.

And now two years later, he was bringing his ideas to life. You've been with Michael for the last three years, since 1979, ever since that first night Stephanie Mills introduced you at an industry event after The Wiz, when everything had been loud and alive around you, but somehow your attention had settled on him anyway.

You were already building your name as a professional costume designer for films, but at that time, you had been working on The Wiz on Broadway, which is how you and Stephanie grew close in the first place, the two of you bonding quickly, naturally, your friendship forming just as easily offstage as everything you created came together on it.

Stephanie had seen something in both of you, something she couldn't quite explain but trusted enough to act on, and when she said she wanted to introduce you to Michael, she had been right.

You remember how gentle he had been when he spoke to you that night, how there was no performance in it, no need to impress, just something genuine and a little shy that made you feel seen in a way that lingered long after the conversation ended. When he asked to see you again, it turned into a year of late-night phone calls and stolen time between his touring and your traveling, a whirlwind that somehow never felt overwhelming, just... right.

Now you're here with him in the studio, watching him build something he's poured himself into completely. He had told you about the short films he wanted to create for Thriller, Beat It, and Billie Jean. You loved the way his eyes lit up as he described them, making it clear that he wasn't just thinking about music, he was seeing full worlds, movement, story, something cinematic and alive.

You sit on the couch with your sketchbook resting against your lap, working through costume designs for Thriller, because Michael gave you his ideas for what he wanted to wear and asked if you could design some sketches, the red pencil moving across the page in steady strokes as you fill in the jacket, shaping something bold enough to match the energy he carries when he performs.

But your focus isn't fully on the page. It keeps drifting, pulled back toward the sound of his voice carrying through the room as he works through The Lady in My Life, a song you can't hear without feeling something deeper settle in your chest, because he told you he wrote it for you.

"You are the lady in my life," Michael sings the closing notes, his voice soft but controlled, and you hear the beat fade out into a silence that feels unfinished, like something is still hanging in the air, unresolved.

You glance up, and you don't need anyone to say anything to know it didn't land the way he wanted. It's in the way his expression shifts, in the subtle tension that settles into his posture, in the quiet frustration that he never voices out loud but carries anyway.

"You are the lady in my life," Michael sings the closing notes, and you hear the beat fade out, the last note lingering just long enough to leave the room suspended in something unfinished. You look up momentarily, your attention pulling fully to him, and you see the look on his face immediately; he's not happy, something with the song isn't landing right, and you can tell before anyone even says anything.

You know Michael has been extremely stressed making this album. Epic Records has him on a tight deadline to finish it by a certain day, and that pressure has been constant, sitting on his shoulders in a way that never really lets up, following him from the studio to home and back again.

And Michael, being the perfectionist he is, doesn't know how to settle for something that's just good enough. It has to feel right. It has to land the way he hears it in his head, the way he feels it in his chest. And because of the feeling that Off the Wall was ignored, that lingering frustration sat with him, still pushing him; he wants this album to be recognized. Not just heard, but seen for what he knows it is.

So he's pouring everything into it: every late night, every take that still isn't quite enough, every ounce of himself.

Sometimes he wouldn't get home until after 3 am, and you'd try to wait up for him, telling yourself you would stay awake just a little longer, just until you heard the door so you'd know he was home. You'd try to fill the time by working on sketches, flipping through pages, or reading something to keep your eyes open, but sometimes you couldn't, and the need for sleep would get too strong, pulling you under no matter how hard you tried to fight it.

You knew he was trying to make the album work against everything he was up against, trying to meet the expectations, the deadlines, the pressure he refuses to let break him, and Michael always apologized for those nights, every single time, whenever he came home after you had already fallen asleep. He always felt terrible knowing you were waiting up for him and he couldn't get to you, like he had let you down in some way, even when he hadn't.

And every time, you reassured him it was okay:  because it truly was. You know how much getting this album right means to him. You know how important it is.

You lower your gaze back to your sketchpad, picking up the red colored pencil again, filling in the jacket with careful precision. His ideas are good, more than good. You've never thought of yourself as creating something separate from him, only giving shape to what's already there, what's already alive inside his mind, inside his genius.

But even as the pencil moves across the page, your attention isn't really there anymore. It's on him, the way the room shifted after that last note, the fact that he's still searching.

And you already know he's not done.

"Mike... something's not landing right with this," you momentarily look up when you hear Quincy Jones speak, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet that had settled after the last take. Michael pulls the headphones off his ears with a slow exhale, the sigh that leaves him carrying more than just frustration, something heavier sitting just beneath the surface.

"I know..." Michael said, and there's a quiet weight to it, the kind that comes from repeating something over and over and still not reaching what he hears so clearly in his head.

They'd recorded and re-recorded the song probably a dozen times, each take technically right, each note placed exactly where it should be, but both Quincy and Michael agreed that something was missing, something intangible that couldn't be fixed with technique alone.

Michael had never struggled so much with a song like he was struggling with this one, and you can see how much it's starting to wear on him in the way he runs his hand briefly over the back of his neck, in the way his shoulders don't quite relax even when he's standing still.

The reason he was struggling was that it was hard for him to sing a song so intimate with all these people around, with eyes on him, with the pressure of performance sitting too close to something that wasn't meant to be performed. Michael wrote this song for you, and about you, and that truth lives too close to the surface for him to separate it from what's happening in the room.

He wrote this song out of the deep love he has for you, something quiet and real and unguarded, and it feels wrong to him to sing it for anybody else but you, to let something that personal exist under observation instead of in the privacy it was meant for.

You look up as you hear Quincy stand from his seat, the subtle shift of movement in the control room pulling your attention away from the page. He cuts off the talk back before walking into the booth, the sudden absence of sound creating a barrier between you and whatever he's about to say, leaving you with only the visual of it as Quincy steps inside and pulls Michael aside.

Michael glances at you through the glass for just a moment, a flicker of something soft and searching in his expression before he turns his attention back to Quincy, and that brief look alone is enough to make something in your chest tighten, because it feels like you've been pulled into something without hearing a single word.

"Take a minute to regroup... get some water, take a walk, something. Then I want you to come back in here and beg," Quincy says, his tone firm but measured, and even though you can't hear them, the way Michael's eyebrows lift slightly tells you the word caught him off guard.

"Beg?" Michael asks, the single word sitting somewhere between confusion and hesitation, like he's trying to understand what Quincy is asking of him beyond just the performance.

"You wrote this song for her, right?" Quincy asks as he gestures his head toward you, sitting outside the booth, and Michael's gaze follows the motion almost instinctively, his eyes finding you without effort. The moment he sees you, everything in his expression softens in a way that feels unguarded, like whatever tension he was holding loosens just slightly.

He takes in the small details without even thinking about it, your legs curled underneath you, the blanket from the couch draped over you, the way you've gone back to sketching like you've been doing all night, the red colored pencil moving lightly in your hand, and there's a quiet warmth that settles into his features at the sight of you being exactly where you always are for him.

"About how much you love her, how much you need her, everything that's right there in the lyrics?" Quincy continues, grounding the moment in something undeniable, and Michael's attention shifts back to him, though not without a slight delay, like part of him is still lingering on you.

"Yeah. It's all for her," Michael says as he nods, and there's no hesitation in that answer, no performance in it, just something steady and certain that makes it clear why this song matters so much to him. That truth is also what's making this so difficult, because part of him hates that you're hearing this right now in a way that feels incomplete, hates that something meant to reflect how deeply he feels for you isn't landing the way it should.

"So beg for it... Beg her for it," Quincy says, and this time when Michael looks at you again, the shift is more intentional, more focused, like he's starting to understand what's being asked of him, not just to sing the song, but to feel it fully, to let it exist in its most honest form. His gaze lingers for a second longer before he looks back at Quincy and nods, the understanding settling into him in a way that feels quieter but more certain.

"Okay, but I need a few things," he says, and there's a steadiness in his voice now that wasn't there before, like he's already beginning to shape the space into something he can exist in.

"Name it," Quincy responds without hesitation.

"Can you turn down the studio lights and close the curtain between the studio and control room?" Michael asks, and even without hearing the reasoning out loud, it's clear what he's trying to do: strip the room down, remove the audience, create something that feels private enough for him to let go of the restraint that's been holding him back. Quincy nods easily, understanding it without needing an explanation, because he's worked with Michael long enough to know exactly what that kind of environment means for him.

"Alright, you need a break, or wanna just get back to it?" Quincy asks as he moves toward the door, already preparing to give him what he needs.

"I don't need a break... one more thing," Michael says, stopping him just before he leaves, and Quincy turns back, waiting. There's a brief pause, just long enough to feel deliberate, before Michael speaks again. "Tell her to come in here, please?" he says, and there's something softer in his tone now, something that makes it clear that this part matters just as much as everything else he asked for.

Quincy nods without question, because it makes perfect sense. He told Michael to sing like he's begging you, and the way Michael is approaching this now, asking for the lights to be turned off, the curtain to be closed, and for you to come into the booth with him, it's clear that he isn't trying to perform anymore. He's trying to create something real and intimate. Something that exists only between the two of you.

Quincy understands exactly what Michael is building in this moment, that he wants to create a space where the outside world doesn't exist, where no eyes are watching, no expectations sitting on his shoulders, just you and him and the truth of what he feels. So he nods without another word and walks out of the booth, closing the door behind him as he makes his way over to you.

You look up when you hear his footsteps approaching, the soft sound of them grounding you back into the room as your hand stills, the red colored pencil slowing to a stop against the paper, your attention shifting fully as he comes closer.

"Everything okay, Q?" You ask as you look up, your voice soft but laced with curiosity, your attention fully pulled away from your sketch the moment he approaches you.

"Yeah... Mike just wants you in the studio," he says, and your eyes widen before you can stop them, surprise flickering across your face because Michael's never asked you to come in there before, never broken that quiet boundary he keeps around his creative space, the place where he disappears into the music and becomes something else entirely.

"Is he okay?" you ask as you set your sketchpad down, the red pencil slipping from your fingers and resting against the page as your focus shifts completely, and Quincy nods quickly, reassuring but purposeful.

"Yeah, yeah, he's fine... It's just to make the song land. Come on," Quincy says, already turning slightly as if expecting you to follow, and you nod, pushing the blanket off your legs as you stand, the warmth of it slipping away as you step out of your spot on the couch and move toward him.

The short walk to the booth feels different than it ever has before, like you're stepping into something you've only ever observed from the outside, something more personal than you expected, and when Quincy opens the door for you, the shift in atmosphere is immediate as you step inside, the sound softer, more contained, the space smaller than it felt through the glass. He shuts the door behind you, sealing you in, and for a moment, it's just you and Michael in the room.

Then you notice Quincy moving again through the glass, his hands reaching for the curtains that separate the studio from the control room, drawing them closed until the outside disappears completely, leaving nothing but the reflection of dim light against the fabric. You turn back to Michael, your brow lifting slightly in silent question, and he smiles at you in that quiet, familiar way before holding his hand out toward you, waiting.

You don't hesitate. You place your hand in his, letting him pull you closer, and the distance between you disappears easily as he guides you in, his movements gentle but intentional. He's sitting on the stool in front of the microphone, and when you reach him, he draws you in close enough that you can feel the warmth of him immediately, his head lowering until it rests against your collarbone, right above your chest, like he's grounding himself there.

"Baby, are you okay?" You ask, your voice softer now, concern threading through it as your hand instinctively moves to him, and instead of answering right away, Michael presses a gentle kiss to your collarbone, something quiet and familiar, something that feels like comfort more than anything else, before he turns his head slightly toward the curtain, aware of the people still just beyond it.

"Q, the lights, down, not completely off," Michael says, his voice steady but quieter than before, and after a brief pause, the lights shift, dimming just enough to change everything about the room. The brightness softens into something warmer, shadows settling in around the edges, the space shrinking into something more private, more intimate, until it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you standing there together.

You lean down and kiss the top of his head, your lips brushing softly against his curls, lingering for just a moment. "Baby?" you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper now, matching the quiet that has settled around you.

"Q, cut me off, I'll knock on the window when I'm ready," Michael says, and there's a firmness in it now, a need for space that's clear even without seeing Quincy's reaction.

"You got it, Mike," Quincy says faintly through the speaker, and then there's nothing but silence again, the kind that stretches just long enough to feel intentional.

Michael stays like that for a moment, his head still resting against you, his breathing evening out slowly, like he's letting himself settle into something deeper, something more honest than what he's been able to reach so far. After a few minutes, he finally lifts his head and looks at you, and there's something different in his eyes now, something more open, more vulnerable than before.

"Just wanted to talk privately for a moment," he says, his voice quieter, softer, like the words are meant only for you.

"Are you okay? Q said you wanted me in here?" you ask, searching his face as he nods, taking a slow breath before he speaks again, steadying himself.

"You can probably hear I've been struggling with this song... I wrote this for you, so he gave me some notes, and I was hoping that having you in here would help me make it land right," he says, and the honesty in it settles between you, unguarded and real.

"Of course, baby, whatever you need," you say, your answer immediate, your voice warm and certain, and the small smile that spreads across his face in response is soft but genuine, like your reassurance lands exactly where he needed it to.

He points toward the couch a few feet away, his hand lingering in the air for a second.

"Just stay right there," he says, and you nod, turning to move toward it, but before you can take more than a step, his hand finds your waist, gentle but firm as he pulls you back toward him. The motion is instinctive, like he can't quite let you go just yet, and when you turn back to him, he's already leaning in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that starts soft but deepens almost immediately.

Your fingers slide into his curls without thinking, threading through them as he pulls you closer, his hand tightening slightly at your waist as he presses you back against him, melting into the moment like he's been holding onto it all night and is finally letting himself feel it. There's nothing rushed about it, nothing distracted; it's just him, fully present, fully there with you.

When he pulls back, it's slow, reluctant, like he doesn't quite want to break the contact, and when your eyes open at the same time, you meet his gaze, his brown Bambi doe eyes soft and open in a way that makes something in your chest ache every single time. There's a quiet warmth in the way he looks at you, something that always manages to undo you, no matter how many times you've seen it.

"I love you," he says, and it never loses its weight, never becomes something ordinary. It still lands the same way it did the first time: warm, steady, grounding, like something you can hold onto.

"I love you more," you whisper, your voice soft but sure, and you lean in to press a gentle kiss to the top of his head once more before finally stepping away, giving him the space he asked for.

You cross the studio and settle onto the couch, tucking your legs underneath you as you get comfortable, your attention fixed on him without even trying, and he moves toward the curtain, lifting his hand to gently knock on the window, keeping everything else the same, the curtains drawn, the lights low, the atmosphere still wrapped tightly around the two of you.

"Alright, Mike, you ready?" Quincy asks, his voice faint but present through the speaker.

Michael looks at you, and you give him a small, reassuring smile as he reaches for the headphones, sliding them back over his ears. You can see the shift settling into him now, the focus returning, but this time it feels different, quieter, more grounded, like he's not trying to perform anymore.

"I'm ready," Michael says as he takes a deep breath, and you hear Quincy telling everyone to stay quiet, the room beyond the curtain fading even further away.

He knows how badly Michael wants to nail this, and now... it feels like he finally might.

The music starts, low and smooth, something almost hypnotic in the way it settles into the room, the bassline soft but steady as it wraps around you and pulls you in before a single word is even sung. It's slow, it's seductive, and you feel it immediately, the way the atmosphere shifts, the way the air itself seems to thicken with it.

You look up at the same time Michael looks over, and the second your eyes meet, everything else fades into the background. There's no awareness of the studio anymore, no awareness of anything beyond him, because once your gazes lock, you're both in it completely. You feel a shift immediately when your eyes meet Michael's, something deeper, far more intimate, something that settles into your chest and spreads outward, and he hasn't even started singing yet; the music alone is already pulling you in.

"There'll be no darkness tonight, lady, our love will shine," Michael starts, his voice velvety and smooth, softer than before but fuller in a way that doesn't feel performed. It feels like it's meant for you, and you already know the air between the two of you is shifting with every word he sings.

The playback is also on, his own voice layered beneath the one he's giving you now, and you catch it instantly, recognizing the difference between what was recorded and what he's doing in this moment. You figure it's for the ad-libs at the end, and you already know that if Quincy likes this recording of it, they'll use this take for the playback and have Michael come back and layer the ad-libs again, but even with that awareness sitting in the back of your mind, it doesn't pull you out of the moment.

If anything, it makes you more aware of how different this take feels.

"Just put your trust in my heart, and meet me in paradise."

The way he sings it doesn't feel like a lyric. It feels like he's saying it directly to you, like the words are meant to land somewhere deeper than just your ears. You shift slightly in the chair without even realizing it, adjusting under the weight of the moment, but you don't take your eyes off of him, not even for a second.

"Girl, you're every wonder in this world to me, a treasure time won't steal away," Michael's voice grows stronger, filling the space more fully now, but it still carries that vulnerable undertone, something soft underneath the strength, like he's giving you everything Quincy asked for without losing the truth behind it.

"So, listen to my heart, lay your body close to mine, let me fill you with my dreams, I can make you feel alright," he continues, and it hits you all at once, sharp and undeniable, because you've heard these words before. Not like this, not sung into a microphone, but whispered softly against your skin in the quiet moments you've shared, when the world was smaller, when it was just the two of you tangled together with nothing else around you.

You've heard pieces of this song for months without even realizing it.

In bed, when his voice would drop low against your ear, when his words felt more like confessions than anything else. In the way he would hold you close, murmuring things that made your chest feel too full, too warm. And now, hearing it like this, hearing it all come together, it settles into you differently, deeper, because you finally understand what he meant when he said he wrote this song for you. He wasn't exaggerating. He wasn't being poetic.

He was giving you something real.

"And baby, through the years, gonna love you more each day, so I promise you tonight that you will always be the lady in my life."

Your eyes stay locked onto Michael's as he sings, completely unable to look away, like breaking that connection would pull you out of something you don't want to leave. His voice, the music, the way the room has softened around you with the lights dim and the curtains drawn: it all pulls you deeper, wrapping around you until nothing else feels as important.

You've forgotten that the two of you are sitting inside the studio with Quincy just on the other side of the glass. With the curtains drawn closed and the lights low, it doesn't feel like a studio anymore.

It feels like it's just you and Michael.

You feel the song, his voice, the words deep inside you, not just in your heart but throughout your entire body, something warm and consuming that settles in slowly and then all at once, until you're completely surrounded by it.

And by the time he gets to the second verse, you're already warm all over, caught in the weight of it, in the way he's looking at you, in the way every word feels like it belongs to you.

"Lay back in my tenderness, let's make this a night we won't forget. Girl, I need your sweet caress, oh," Michael sings, and this time there's no hesitation, no restraint left in him at all. He's fully immersed now, completely locked into you in a way that makes everything else disappear, and something about the way your eyes met earlier has shifted him entirely. He's not trying to find the song anymore. He's in it. Living it. Feeling every word as it leaves him.

Because now it doesn't feel like he's singing. It feels like he's asking.

Like he's reaching for you in real time, like every note is carrying something heavier than just melody, something that sits deep in his chest and spills out without filter. Begging for you to hear him. Begging for you to understand just how much of himself is wrapped up in you. Begging you to stay right where you are, right where he can see you, feel you, hold onto you.

The shift in his voice is unmistakable now, the vulnerability threaded through every note, the way he lets it crack just slightly in places where he would've held it steady before, and it doesn't weaken it; it makes it real. He's pouring his heart out without holding anything back, and you can feel it in the way it reaches you, the way it settles into you.

From outside of the studio, in the control room, even though all he could see were black curtains, Quincy could hear and feel the difference in this recording in comparison to the others. He didn't need to see what was happening inside to know something had changed, because it was in Michael's voice, in the way the emotion carried through the speakers with a kind of rawness that hadn't been there before.

And in that moment, Quincy knew he made the right choice by telling Michael to beg, and he knew Michael made the right choice by asking Quincy to bring you inside.

"And I will keep you warm, through the shadows of the night. Let me touch you with my love, I can make you feel so right," Michael sings, and the words don't just reach you, they move through you, settling somewhere deeper than you can control, and your eyes fall closed for a moment under the weight of it, like it's too much to hold all at once.

You feel it in your chest, in your stomach, in the way your body reacts without asking for permission, and when your eyes close, it's like everything else sharpens, the sound of his voice, the softness of the music, the warmth that's already spreading through you.

Michael notices everything.

The way your body responds, the way your shoulders shift, the subtle way your breath changes, the way you adjust in the seat like you're trying to ground yourself. He sees the way you slightly squeeze your thighs closer together, the way your body reacts to him, to his voice, to what he's giving you in this moment, and something inside him tightens in response, because he knows.

He knows you're feeling it too. That same pull. That same warmth. That same intensity building between you that neither of you is trying to stop.

Desire was building in both of you.

When you open your eyes again and meet Michael's, the difference in him is immediate and impossible to ignore. His eyes are darker now, deeper, filled with something more intense than before: passion, yes, but something layered with it, something that feels almost consuming in the way it holds onto you.

And still, he doesn't stop. He keeps singing to you like there's nothing else in the world that matters.

"And baby, through the years, even when we're old and gray. I will love you more each day, 'cause you will always be the lady in my life," he sings, and there's a shift again, softer this time but just as powerful, something that settles over the moment like a promise being made right in front of you.

You feel it as soon as he reaches it. That change in the structure of the song. The part that's coming next. You know this part. And something in the way he's looking at you tells you he knows exactly what he's about to do with them.

"Stay with me..." Michael sings, his eyes slightly closing as he feels himself getting fully pulled in, his voice softer but heavier now, like it's coming from somewhere deeper than before. "I want you to stay with me..." The words settle into the space between you, and your body reacts before you can stop it, your legs pressing together again as that familiar effect his voice has always had on you builds, heat pooling low in your stomach, steady and impossible to ignore. "I need you by my side..."

When he finishes the note, his eyes open slowly, and they meet yours immediately, like he already knows exactly where to look. He catches everything in an instant, the slight pout in your expression, the tension in the way you're sitting, the desire you're feeling but holding back because of where you are, because he's recording, because you're not alone, and the recognition hits him just as strongly, because he feels it too. His pants are tight as his arousal for you grows.

"Don't you go nowhere," it comes out of him almost guttural this time, rougher, pleading in a way that feels unfiltered, and you feel the difference immediately, the shift between the other takes and this one undeniable now. This isn't controlled anymore. This isn't held back.

The playback continues underneath him, his pre-recorded vocals filling the room and layering beneath what he's giving you live, creating that overlap of sound that wraps around you from both directions. "Ooh, girl, let me keep you warm," the recorded version of his voice carries smoothly through the speakers.

"Let me keep you warm," Michael sings over it, his live voice lower, rougher, dipping into that same guttural tone that makes your breath catch, and he sees it happen, sees the way your chest rises slightly, the way your body reacts without permission. Watching you respond to him like this only feeds into it, and he can feel his own body responding too, the intensity building in ways he can't ignore.

"You are the lady in my life," his recorded voice continues, smooth and controlled, while Michael stays locked on you, singing over it in real time. "You're my lady," he adds, holding your gaze, the words feeling more like something claimed than something sung.

"Fill you with the sweetest love," his pre-recorded voice carries through the room.

"I wanna squeeze ya," Michael's voice drops again into that lower register, heavier now, more weighted, and you feel it immediately, the heat in your body deepening as you shift in the seat again, trying to ground yourself in something steady that isn't there.

"Always the lady in my life," the pre-recorded vocal continues, smooth beneath him.

"I wanna touch you, babe," Michael sings more intensely this time, and the shift is immediate, visible in his eyes, in the way his focus sharpens on you like nothing else exists.

"Lay back in my tenderness, you are the lady in my life," his pre-recorded voice sings, and through it, over it, around it, he holds your gaze without wavering, and you feel yourself getting warmer by the second, the heat building under your skin in a way that makes you hyper-aware of everything.

You had been wearing one of Michael's jackets in the control room because it was cold, but now the warmth feels overwhelming, like it's too much against your skin.

Michael's eyes track your every move as you slide the jacket off your shoulders and drape it over the back of the couch, and you don't take your eyes off him either, the connection between you unbroken, stretched tight between where you sit and where he stands.

"Rock me with your sweet caress, always the lady in my life," the pre-recorded Michael sings as Michael comes in stronger, his live voice carrying more force now, more emotion.

"You're my lady, and I love you, girl," Michael sings passionately, and you feel the weight of it, the intensity behind every word, the way it presses into you. He wants to reach for you; you can see it, feel it in the way his body leans just slightly forward, the way his hands flex at his sides, just like you want to get up and go to him.

You bite down on your lip, trying to steady yourself, and Michael notices immediately, the reaction hitting him just as strongly as everything else, every movement you make pulling more out of him, more emotion, more intensity, more of that raw, pleading energy that Quincy had asked for.

"Ooh, girl, let me keep you warm. You are the lady in my life," the pre-recorded Michael sings, smooth and controlled beneath the moment.

"Don't you go nowhere," Michael sings again, his voice rougher now, more strained in the best way, and you see him bite his lip briefly when you shift again, a deep breath leaving you that you didn't mean to let out.

"Fill you with the sweetest love... always the lady in my life," the pre-recorded version continues, steady underneath him as he keeps going, fully in it now.

And all you can picture is kissing him, the thought taking hold so vividly it almost feels real, like you can already feel the press of his lips against yours, slow at first and then deeper, the kind of kiss that pulls you in completely.

You want to kiss him, want to close the distance between you so badly it makes your chest tighten, want to feel his hands over your body, touching you, grabbing you, squeezing you, exactly like he just said in the song, like every word he's singing isn't just a lyric but something he's already given you in quieter, more private moments.

The memory of it and the anticipation of it blur together, your body reacting to both at once, heat settling low and steady, making it harder to sit still, harder to pretend you're unaffected, until it builds to the point where it's almost too much to hold in.

It's so close you can almost feel it, and an involuntary whimper slips out of you, soft but unmistakable in the quiet of the room.

Michael catches it immediately.

You see it in the way his expression shifts, in the way his breath falters just slightly before he bites down on his lip, his grip tightening on himself as he keeps singing, even though every part of him is pulling toward you. Hearing you like that, knowing he caused it, feeling your reaction in real time, almost undoes him completely, making it take everything in him not to break the space between you and pull you into his arms right then and there.

Michael sucks in a breath into the microphone, the sound pulling through the speakers in a way that feels almost too close, too intimate, like you're standing right there with him. "Ooh, babe... Don't you go nowhere... You're my lady," Michael's velvety voice hits you again, wrapping around you and settling deep, and you still feel hot, the warmth already spread through your body refusing to fade.

But you know you can't start discarding layers right there in the studio, not when he's still recording, not when you're still in that space, even if Michael is the only person who can see you.

"All through the night..." Michael holds the note, stretching it out, letting it linger in a way that makes your breath catch, and you let out another breath slowly, trying to steady yourself. He watches you closely, catching the way you swallow hard, the subtle movement of your throat, the way your body reacts without you meaning to. Beneath him, his earlier recorded voice begins to carry the line forward, smooth and controlled, filling the room while he stays locked on you.

You don't look away.

You watch as Michael licks his lips slowly, deliberately, and the motion alone sends another wave through you, making you shift in your seat again, trying to ease the tension building inside you. He's rubbing his hands against his thighs now, grounding himself, containing something he's barely holding onto, while you're trying to slow your heart rate, trying to breathe through the intensity instead of letting it completely take over.

"Fill you with the sweetest love," his earlier recorded voice moves through the room, steady and warm beneath the moment.

"Let me fill you, babe..." Michael's voice drops to that lower register again, deeper, heavier, and it's all you can picture. The multiple times he has filled you, the way those moments felt, the way they lingered after, and now all you want is to feel that again. You can feel your body responding to the thought, to him, to everything happening at once, the warmth building, undeniable, your panties soaked and only growing worse the longer he keeps looking at you like that. "All over... all over... all over," Michael's voice shifts into something more seductive, slower, more intentional, each repetition landing deeper than the last.

You start feeling dizzy, the intensity of it all settling in fully now, because with every "all over," the images come easier, clearer, your mind filling in the space between you without permission. You can see him, feel him, Michael on top of you, his warm hands moving across every inch of your skin, slow and deliberate, his lips following, kissing you everywhere, and you swallow again, trying to steady yourself, but it doesn't help.

You're still looking at him, and he's still looking at you.

Your lips part slightly without you meaning to, your breath catching again, and the shift in him is immediate. He wants to kiss you so badly it's written all over his face, in the way his jaw tightens, in the way he leans forward just slightly without even realizing it, like something in him is pulling toward you. He holds himself there, barely, and instead of breaking, instead of moving, he gives you the smallest nod, subtle but clear, letting you know he feels it too.

"Lay back in my tenderness... you are the lady in my life," his earlier voice continues smoothly beneath the moment, while Michael sings over it, his presence heavier now, more grounded in what he's feeling.

"Lay back with me... Let me touch you, girl," his voice intensifies, fuller, deeper, and your body reacts instantly, a tightening you can't control, because his touching you is all you can think about now, all you want, the distance between you suddenly feeling unbearable with every second that passes.

"Rock me with your sweet caress..." his earlier recorded voice carries through the room, smooth and steady beneath Michael as he sings over it, his presence stronger now, more anchored in you. "Lay back with me," he repeats again, and this time it comes out more pleading, the words softer but heavier, like he's asking instead of telling.

"Always the lady in my life," his recorded voice continues, filling the space beneath him, and Michael leans into the moment, his eyes locked on yours as his voice intensifies with it.

"All over, all over, all over, all over, all over, all over," each "all over" comes out more intense than the last, more sensual, more charged, his voice dipping and stretching as he gives himself over to it completely, and you swallow hard again, your body trembling with need as the images in your mind come faster now, clearer, impossible to ignore.

And as he continues the "all over," his earlier vocals carry underneath him, smooth and controlled. "Ooh, girl, let me keep you warm. You are the lady in my life," the layered sound wrapping around you, surrounding you completely.

"All over, baby," Michael sings again, his voice dropping into that lower register, softer but heavier, like he's holding onto the last of it, not ready to let the moment slip away.

And that's it for him.

The two of you stay locked there, holding each other's gaze as the rest of the song continues through his earlier vocals, the room still thick with everything that just passed between you. "Fill you with the sweetest love. Always the lady in my life," his recorded voice carries on, but neither of you is really hearing it anymore, too caught in each other.

You slowly stand up from your seat, and Michael already has the headphones off, already moving toward you like he can't stop himself now, like whatever was holding him in place before is gone.

"Lay back in my tenderness... You are the lady of my life," his earlier voice continues behind you, but it fades into the background the second Michael reaches you.

His lips meet yours roughly, the built-up tension between the two of you finally snapping, everything that had been held back pouring into that one moment. The kiss is messy, unrestrained, filled with all the want and need that's been building from the second the music started, and for a moment, neither of you is thinking about where you are or who might be just on the other side of the room.

You're too wrapped up in each other, in the way he's kissing you, in the way you've both been holding onto this.

In the control room, Quincy had just been about to tell Michael that the take was perfect when the sounds of the two of you reached him, unmistakable even through the speakers. Without hesitation, he reaches for the talk-back and cuts it off, the room going silent on their end as he turns to usher everyone out, giving you both the space without a word. He leaves as well, the door closing behind him, leaving you and Michael completely alone.

Michael pulls you down with him as he sits back onto the seat you were just in, his hands already on you, and instinctively, your body moves with his, the distance between you gone completely now. He lets out a low sound against your mouth as the kiss deepens, and you take advantage of the way his lips part, meeting him fully, giving into it just as much as he is.

His hands move over you, familiar and sure, and you feel yourself melting into him, every bit of tension from before turning into something else entirely now that you're finally allowed to close the distance.

"Michael," you whisper when the kiss breaks, your voice softer now but still unsteady, and when you look down at him, he's already looking up at you, his expression just as affected, just as caught in it as you are. His hand comes up to your cheek, warm and grounding.

"Tell me what you want, baby," he says, his voice low, and just hearing it sends another reaction through you, your body shifting against him before you can stop it, and he lets out a quiet groan in response.

"To do what you said... touch me," you say, your voice barely above a whisper before you kiss him again, and this time he meets you immediately, deeper, more consuming, like he's been waiting for you to say it.

His hands move along your sides, holding you there for a moment longer before he stands, lifting you with him effortlessly, the kiss only breaking for a second as he moves you. He sets you back down on the couch, and before you can even fully settle, he's already in front of you, lowering himself down, completely focused on you.

You look at Michael in anticipation, your lips slightly parting as he lays his hands on your thighs. He watches as your breath catches, the way you swallow as you try to contain yourself.

"Touch you where, baby?" Michael says. His hands inch toward the waistband of your pants. You had dressed casually today, as you normally do after working. You had on a pair of Michael's sweatpants and one of his shirts, and he loves it when you wear his clothes.

You slightly lift off the chair as Michael slowly pulls your pants down your legs, dragging it out, and he smiles when you squirm. He lays his palms flat on your thighs, close to your knees, and the warmth spreads immediately.

"Here?" He asks, and you shake your head, letting out another breath. "Tell me where," Michael says, pressing a kiss to your outer knee.

"Higher," you say, your words are shaky, and you let out a deep breath. Michael's lips trail kisses up your thigh as he reaches for your hand and pulls you out of the chair. At first, you're confused, until you feel his hand rubbing down your body.

You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck because you know if Michael is going to do what you think he's about to do, you're going to need help standing.  You feel his hand slip into your panties, and your breath hitches. Michael's eyes close, and he softly hums when he feels how wet you are. You feel his lips against your ear as he chuckles.

"So I take it you liked the song," he whispers, and you roll your eyes, but you're still smiling. You turn Michael's head to you and kiss him hard. His hand moves, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slowly, you kiss him harder, making him speed up his movements as a finger slips inside of you. "That's how you make me feel," he mumbles when he breaks away from the kiss.

You lean your head into his shoulder as he slips a second finger in, his motions getting faster, making you bite down on your lip. "Michael," you whisper between breaths, and Michael smiles.

"Tell me what you want, baby," he whispers again as his lips trail across your neck in slow kisses, while his fingers quicken their pace. You hold onto him tighter, feeling your legs get weaker.

"You," you manage to speak between moans. Michael smiles, his fingers pulling out of you, and you stagger at the loss of contact, but he holds you upright. He kisses you again before easing you down onto the cushioned chair once again, and he sinks down to his knees in front of you.

His hands find the waistband of your panties, and you lift your hips up, allowing him to pull your panties down your legs. Then he spreads your legs, settling on his knees between you, seeing the way you're already glistening and pulsing for him makes him lick his lips as he looks up at you.

"You're so beautiful," Michael mumbles before kissing your thigh. You lean your head back against the cushion, closing your eyes as you feel Michael's lips trailing inward, until you feel his tongue glide over your clit. Your hips buck instinctively, and then you feel his mouth moving. Lips sucking, tongue gliding, your body feeling the sensations of pleasure vibrating through every fiber of your bones.

You grind against his mouth, and he moans into you, sending another wave of vibrational pleasure up your spine. You feel his tongue dip into you before lapping at you, slowly gliding up the sides of your slick folds, and you're breathless.

Your legs start shaking as Michael presses his tongue in and out of you harder, sucking on your clit. With a cry, your orgasm comes, soaking his mouth in your juices. You feel him moan against you, the vibrations sending a jolt up your body as he cleans your finish with his tongue. When he pulls away, he leans over you, and you cup his cheeks, pulling him into a kiss, the taste of you fresh on his lips.

You stand up, starting to peel back the layers of his clothing. Michael watches every move you make, the way your hands smooth across his skin, the way your tongue glides over your lips whenever you pull another piece of clothing off of him.

When he's fully undressed, he lays you back down on the couch, moving on top of you as his lips trail kisses over your body, your shoulder, your collarbone, and he slowly unbuttons the shirt you're wearing, his shirt, kissing your exposed skin with every button undone. The fabric quickly falls from you, your bra following quickly behind it.

You reach forward, grabbing his throbbing length, and you stroke him. Michael leans more into you, pressing harder kisses against your neck as you stroke him. "Baby... let me feel you, please," Michael pleads in your ear. You use your free hand to pull his face to you, kissing him hard as your hand moves faster against him.

Michael deepens it, tongues colliding, fighting for dominance as your hand moves quicker. Michael's body shudders as he feels his pleasure increase, and you use your thumb to tease the head. Michael moans into your mouth, intensifying the kiss as you pull him closer.

You tease your entrance with his tip, a shudder running through both of you at the contact, and when you let him go, Michael wastes no time; your wetness helps him easily slide into you, filling you as he pushes inch by inch until he fully disappears in you.

He's not slow about it.

Michael's thrusts are quick, sliding in and out of you like a man desperate. You pull back from the kiss, throwing your head back against the armrest of the couch as your body melts completely into him. You buck your hips to meet his, and he wraps your legs around his waist, allowing him access to fill you deeper. You feel every thrust, like a tremor of lightning running through your system.

"You feel like Heaven, baby," Michael says lowly, taking your nipple into his mouth. His tongue swirls around the hardened peak, while his hand reaches down between you, rubbing your clit with his thumb. Pleasure builds inside of you from all directions in a way that overwhelms you. Your eyes roll back, your vision blurring with tears as Michael fucks you.

"Michael," you whimper, feeling yourself get closer, and he feels it too. He feels it in the way your walls clench every time he takes you deeper. He feels it in the way your legs are shaking around his waist, and your body is trembling beneath him. He feels it in the way your moans get more breathless and desperate.

"Come for me, baby," Michael murmurs in your ear, and you do, his voice the final piece that sends you over the edge as your orgasm hits. His name leaves your lips like a cry, and Michael swallows it with a kiss as he slows down his thrusts to bring you through the wave of aftershocks. Your body trembles as you ride out your orgasm. "Stay with me," Michael says softly to you when he pulls back.

You kiss Michael again as he keeps moving, your juices dripping down your thighs and his balls as your body twitches again, and Michael comes undone soon after. Spilling your name onto your lips as his release mixes with yours, making a further mess on both of you. Michael pulls back from the kiss, burying his face in the nape of your neck as he finishes his release, breathing out heavily against you, your name falling from his lips again.

You kiss the side of his head, your hands roaming his body as your breaths slow down and sync back with the other. Michael lifts his head from your neck, his eyes softening with the tender gaze he only keeps reserved for you as he looks at you. It's then, when your heart isn't beating so loudly in your ears, that you realize his song is still playing, throughout the sound booth, and you look at him.

"That song is dangerous," you say, and Michael laughs as he slips out of you and lies down behind you on the couch, pulling you on top of him.

"So are you... That's why I wrote it for you," Michael says. Your cheeks flush as you lean in and kiss him again. You're the first to pull away, and Michael lays his thumb down on your cheek, slowly grazing across your skin, and you bite down on your lip.

"I love the song, Michael... and I love you," you say. Michael smiles more, his thumb pausing on your skin.

1982 west lake recording studios

It was another late night in the studio, the kind where time seemed to blur together under dim lights and the low hum of equipment, where the outside world felt distant and unimportant compared to what was being built inside these walls.

For the last few months, Michael has been working on his upcoming album, Thriller, and you know how stressful it's been for him. Michael had felt that Off The Wall didn't get the recognition from the Grammys that it deserved, and you had agreed.

Michael didn't go to the Grammys that year in 1980. You remember how still he had been that night, how quiet, not the soft, thoughtful quiet you were used to from him, but something heavier, something that settled deep in his chest and refused to move.

The two of you sat in your apartment, his head resting in your lap as you watched the ceremony, his fingers idly tracing patterns against your knee, absentminded, like his body was there but his mind was already somewhere else entirely, somewhere ahead, chasing something bigger. And when he made that vow, that they weren't going to ignore his next album, that he was going to make the greatest album of all time.

And now two years later, he was bringing his ideas to life. You've been with Michael for the last three years, since 1979, ever since that first night Stephanie Mills introduced you at an industry event after The Wiz, when everything had been loud and alive around you, but somehow your attention had settled on him anyway.

You were already building your name as a professional costume designer for films, but at that time, you had been working on The Wiz on Broadway, which is how you and Stephanie grew close in the first place, the two of you bonding quickly, naturally, your friendship forming just as easily offstage as everything you created came together on it.

Stephanie had seen something in both of you, something she couldn't quite explain but trusted enough to act on, and when she said she wanted to introduce you to Michael, she had been right.

You remember how gentle he had been when he spoke to you that night, how there was no performance in it, no need to impress, just something genuine and a little shy that made you feel seen in a way that lingered long after the conversation ended. When he asked to see you again, it turned into a year of late-night phone calls and stolen time between his touring and your traveling, a whirlwind that somehow never felt overwhelming, just... right.

Now you're here with him in the studio, watching him build something he's poured himself into completely. He had told you about the short films he wanted to create for Thriller, Beat It, and Billie Jean. You loved the way his eyes lit up as he described them, making it clear that he wasn't just thinking about music, he was seeing full worlds, movement, story, something cinematic and alive.

You sit on the couch with your sketchbook resting against your lap, working through costume designs for Thriller, because Michael gave you his ideas for what he wanted to wear and asked if you could design some sketches, the red pencil moving across the page in steady strokes as you fill in the jacket, shaping something bold enough to match the energy he carries when he performs.

But your focus isn't fully on the page. It keeps drifting, pulled back toward the sound of his voice carrying through the room as he works through The Lady in My Life, a song you can't hear without feeling something deeper settle in your chest, because he told you he wrote it for you.

"You are the lady in my life," Michael sings the closing notes, his voice soft but controlled, and you hear the beat fade out into a silence that feels unfinished, like something is still hanging in the air, unresolved.

You glance up, and you don't need anyone to say anything to know it didn't land the way he wanted. It's in the way his expression shifts, in the subtle tension that settles into his posture, in the quiet frustration that he never voices out loud but carries anyway.

"You are the lady in my life," Michael sings the closing notes, and you hear the beat fade out, the last note lingering just long enough to leave the room suspended in something unfinished. You look up momentarily, your attention pulling fully to him, and you see the look on his face immediately; he's not happy, something with the song isn't landing right, and you can tell before anyone even says anything.

You know Michael has been extremely stressed making this album. Epic Records has him on a tight deadline to finish it by a certain day, and that pressure has been constant, sitting on his shoulders in a way that never really lets up, following him from the studio to home and back again.

And Michael, being the perfectionist he is, doesn't know how to settle for something that's just good enough. It has to feel right. It has to land the way he hears it in his head, the way he feels it in his chest. And because of the feeling that Off the Wall was ignored, that lingering frustration sat with him, still pushing him; he wants this album to be recognized. Not just heard, but seen for what he knows it is.

So he's pouring everything into it: every late night, every take that still isn't quite enough, every ounce of himself.

Sometimes he wouldn't get home until after 3 am, and you'd try to wait up for him, telling yourself you would stay awake just a little longer, just until you heard the door so you'd know he was home. You'd try to fill the time by working on sketches, flipping through pages, or reading something to keep your eyes open, but sometimes you couldn't, and the need for sleep would get too strong, pulling you under no matter how hard you tried to fight it.

You knew he was trying to make the album work against everything he was up against, trying to meet the expectations, the deadlines, the pressure he refuses to let break him, and Michael always apologized for those nights, every single time, whenever he came home after you had already fallen asleep. He always felt terrible knowing you were waiting up for him and he couldn't get to you, like he had let you down in some way, even when he hadn't.

And every time, you reassured him it was okay:  because it truly was. You know how much getting this album right means to him. You know how important it is.

You lower your gaze back to your sketchpad, picking up the red colored pencil again, filling in the jacket with careful precision. His ideas are good, more than good. You've never thought of yourself as creating something separate from him, only giving shape to what's already there, what's already alive inside his mind, inside his genius.

But even as the pencil moves across the page, your attention isn't really there anymore. It's on him, the way the room shifted after that last note, the fact that he's still searching.

And you already know he's not done.

"Mike... something's not landing right with this," you momentarily look up when you hear Quincy Jones speak, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet that had settled after the last take. Michael pulls the headphones off his ears with a slow exhale, the sigh that leaves him carrying more than just frustration, something heavier sitting just beneath the surface.

"I know..." Michael said, and there's a quiet weight to it, the kind that comes from repeating something over and over and still not reaching what he hears so clearly in his head.

They'd recorded and re-recorded the song probably a dozen times, each take technically right, each note placed exactly where it should be, but both Quincy and Michael agreed that something was missing, something intangible that couldn't be fixed with technique alone.

Michael had never struggled so much with a song like he was struggling with this one, and you can see how much it's starting to wear on him in the way he runs his hand briefly over the back of his neck, in the way his shoulders don't quite relax even when he's standing still.

The reason he was struggling was that it was hard for him to sing a song so intimate with all these people around, with eyes on him, with the pressure of performance sitting too close to something that wasn't meant to be performed. Michael wrote this song for you, and about you, and that truth lives too close to the surface for him to separate it from what's happening in the room.

He wrote this song out of the deep love he has for you, something quiet and real and unguarded, and it feels wrong to him to sing it for anybody else but you, to let something that personal exist under observation instead of in the privacy it was meant for.

You look up as you hear Quincy stand from his seat, the subtle shift of movement in the control room pulling your attention away from the page. He cuts off the talk back before walking into the booth, the sudden absence of sound creating a barrier between you and whatever he's about to say, leaving you with only the visual of it as Quincy steps inside and pulls Michael aside.

Michael glances at you through the glass for just a moment, a flicker of something soft and searching in his expression before he turns his attention back to Quincy, and that brief look alone is enough to make something in your chest tighten, because it feels like you've been pulled into something without hearing a single word.

"Take a minute to regroup... get some water, take a walk, something. Then I want you to come back in here and beg," Quincy says, his tone firm but measured, and even though you can't hear them, the way Michael's eyebrows lift slightly tells you the word caught him off guard.

"Beg?" Michael asks, the single word sitting somewhere between confusion and hesitation, like he's trying to understand what Quincy is asking of him beyond just the performance.

"You wrote this song for her, right?" Quincy asks as he gestures his head toward you, sitting outside the booth, and Michael's gaze follows the motion almost instinctively, his eyes finding you without effort. The moment he sees you, everything in his expression softens in a way that feels unguarded, like whatever tension he was holding loosens just slightly.

He takes in the small details without even thinking about it, your legs curled underneath you, the blanket from the couch draped over you, the way you've gone back to sketching like you've been doing all night, the red colored pencil moving lightly in your hand, and there's a quiet warmth that settles into his features at the sight of you being exactly where you always are for him.

"About how much you love her, how much you need her, everything that's right there in the lyrics?" Quincy continues, grounding the moment in something undeniable, and Michael's attention shifts back to him, though not without a slight delay, like part of him is still lingering on you.

"Yeah. It's all for her," Michael says as he nods, and there's no hesitation in that answer, no performance in it, just something steady and certain that makes it clear why this song matters so much to him. That truth is also what's making this so difficult, because part of him hates that you're hearing this right now in a way that feels incomplete, hates that something meant to reflect how deeply he feels for you isn't landing the way it should.

"So beg for it... Beg her for it," Quincy says, and this time when Michael looks at you again, the shift is more intentional, more focused, like he's starting to understand what's being asked of him, not just to sing the song, but to feel it fully, to let it exist in its most honest form. His gaze lingers for a second longer before he looks back at Quincy and nods, the understanding settling into him in a way that feels quieter but more certain.

"Okay, but I need a few things," he says, and there's a steadiness in his voice now that wasn't there before, like he's already beginning to shape the space into something he can exist in.

"Name it," Quincy responds without hesitation.

"Can you turn down the studio lights and close the curtain between the studio and control room?" Michael asks, and even without hearing the reasoning out loud, it's clear what he's trying to do: strip the room down, remove the audience, create something that feels private enough for him to let go of the restraint that's been holding him back. Quincy nods easily, understanding it without needing an explanation, because he's worked with Michael long enough to know exactly what that kind of environment means for him.

"Alright, you need a break, or wanna just get back to it?" Quincy asks as he moves toward the door, already preparing to give him what he needs.

"I don't need a break... one more thing," Michael says, stopping him just before he leaves, and Quincy turns back, waiting. There's a brief pause, just long enough to feel deliberate, before Michael speaks again. "Tell her to come in here, please?" he says, and there's something softer in his tone now, something that makes it clear that this part matters just as much as everything else he asked for.

Quincy nods without question, because it makes perfect sense. He told Michael to sing like he's begging you, and the way Michael is approaching this now, asking for the lights to be turned off, the curtain to be closed, and for you to come into the booth with him, it's clear that he isn't trying to perform anymore. He's trying to create something real and intimate. Something that exists only between the two of you.

Quincy understands exactly what Michael is building in this moment, that he wants to create a space where the outside world doesn't exist, where no eyes are watching, no expectations sitting on his shoulders, just you and him and the truth of what he feels. So he nods without another word and walks out of the booth, closing the door behind him as he makes his way over to you.

You look up when you hear his footsteps approaching, the soft sound of them grounding you back into the room as your hand stills, the red colored pencil slowing to a stop against the paper, your attention shifting fully as he comes closer.

"Everything okay, Q?" You ask as you look up, your voice soft but laced with curiosity, your attention fully pulled away from your sketch the moment he approaches you.

"Yeah... Mike just wants you in the studio," he says, and your eyes widen before you can stop them, surprise flickering across your face because Michael's never asked you to come in there before, never broken that quiet boundary he keeps around his creative space, the place where he disappears into the music and becomes something else entirely.

"Is he okay?" you ask as you set your sketchpad down, the red pencil slipping from your fingers and resting against the page as your focus shifts completely, and Quincy nods quickly, reassuring but purposeful.

"Yeah, yeah, he's fine... It's just to make the song land. Come on," Quincy says, already turning slightly as if expecting you to follow, and you nod, pushing the blanket off your legs as you stand, the warmth of it slipping away as you step out of your spot on the couch and move toward him.

The short walk to the booth feels different than it ever has before, like you're stepping into something you've only ever observed from the outside, something more personal than you expected, and when Quincy opens the door for you, the shift in atmosphere is immediate as you step inside, the sound softer, more contained, the space smaller than it felt through the glass. He shuts the door behind you, sealing you in, and for a moment, it's just you and Michael in the room.

Then you notice Quincy moving again through the glass, his hands reaching for the curtains that separate the studio from the control room, drawing them closed until the outside disappears completely, leaving nothing but the reflection of dim light against the fabric. You turn back to Michael, your brow lifting slightly in silent question, and he smiles at you in that quiet, familiar way before holding his hand out toward you, waiting.

You don't hesitate. You place your hand in his, letting him pull you closer, and the distance between you disappears easily as he guides you in, his movements gentle but intentional. He's sitting on the stool in front of the microphone, and when you reach him, he draws you in close enough that you can feel the warmth of him immediately, his head lowering until it rests against your collarbone, right above your chest, like he's grounding himself there.

"Baby, are you okay?" You ask, your voice softer now, concern threading through it as your hand instinctively moves to him, and instead of answering right away, Michael presses a gentle kiss to your collarbone, something quiet and familiar, something that feels like comfort more than anything else, before he turns his head slightly toward the curtain, aware of the people still just beyond it.

"Q, the lights, down, not completely off," Michael says, his voice steady but quieter than before, and after a brief pause, the lights shift, dimming just enough to change everything about the room. The brightness softens into something warmer, shadows settling in around the edges, the space shrinking into something more private, more intimate, until it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you standing there together.

You lean down and kiss the top of his head, your lips brushing softly against his curls, lingering for just a moment. "Baby?" you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper now, matching the quiet that has settled around you.

"Q, cut me off, I'll knock on the window when I'm ready," Michael says, and there's a firmness in it now, a need for space that's clear even without seeing Quincy's reaction.

"You got it, Mike," Quincy says faintly through the speaker, and then there's nothing but silence again, the kind that stretches just long enough to feel intentional.

Michael stays like that for a moment, his head still resting against you, his breathing evening out slowly, like he's letting himself settle into something deeper, something more honest than what he's been able to reach so far. After a few minutes, he finally lifts his head and looks at you, and there's something different in his eyes now, something more open, more vulnerable than before.

"Just wanted to talk privately for a moment," he says, his voice quieter, softer, like the words are meant only for you.

"Are you okay? Q said you wanted me in here?" you ask, searching his face as he nods, taking a slow breath before he speaks again, steadying himself.

"You can probably hear I've been struggling with this song... I wrote this for you, so he gave me some notes, and I was hoping that having you in here would help me make it land right," he says, and the honesty in it settles between you, unguarded and real.

"Of course, baby, whatever you need," you say, your answer immediate, your voice warm and certain, and the small smile that spreads across his face in response is soft but genuine, like your reassurance lands exactly where he needed it to.

He points toward the couch a few feet away, his hand lingering in the air for a second.

"Just stay right there," he says, and you nod, turning to move toward it, but before you can take more than a step, his hand finds your waist, gentle but firm as he pulls you back toward him. The motion is instinctive, like he can't quite let you go just yet, and when you turn back to him, he's already leaning in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that starts soft but deepens almost immediately.

Your fingers slide into his curls without thinking, threading through them as he pulls you closer, his hand tightening slightly at your waist as he presses you back against him, melting into the moment like he's been holding onto it all night and is finally letting himself feel it. There's nothing rushed about it, nothing distracted; it's just him, fully present, fully there with you.

When he pulls back, it's slow, reluctant, like he doesn't quite want to break the contact, and when your eyes open at the same time, you meet his gaze, his brown Bambi doe eyes soft and open in a way that makes something in your chest ache every single time. There's a quiet warmth in the way he looks at you, something that always manages to undo you, no matter how many times you've seen it.

"I love you," he says, and it never loses its weight, never becomes something ordinary. It still lands the same way it did the first time: warm, steady, grounding, like something you can hold onto.

"I love you more," you whisper, your voice soft but sure, and you lean in to press a gentle kiss to the top of his head once more before finally stepping away, giving him the space he asked for.

You cross the studio and settle onto the couch, tucking your legs underneath you as you get comfortable, your attention fixed on him without even trying, and he moves toward the curtain, lifting his hand to gently knock on the window, keeping everything else the same, the curtains drawn, the lights low, the atmosphere still wrapped tightly around the two of you.

"Alright, Mike, you ready?" Quincy asks, his voice faint but present through the speaker.

Michael looks at you, and you give him a small, reassuring smile as he reaches for the headphones, sliding them back over his ears. You can see the shift settling into him now, the focus returning, but this time it feels different, quieter, more grounded, like he's not trying to perform anymore.

"I'm ready," Michael says as he takes a deep breath, and you hear Quincy telling everyone to stay quiet, the room beyond the curtain fading even further away.

He knows how badly Michael wants to nail this, and now... it feels like he finally might.

The music starts, low and smooth, something almost hypnotic in the way it settles into the room, the bassline soft but steady as it wraps around you and pulls you in before a single word is even sung. It's slow, it's seductive, and you feel it immediately, the way the atmosphere shifts, the way the air itself seems to thicken with it.

You look up at the same time Michael looks over, and the second your eyes meet, everything else fades into the background. There's no awareness of the studio anymore, no awareness of anything beyond him, because once your gazes lock, you're both in it completely. You feel a shift immediately when your eyes meet Michael's, something deeper, far more intimate, something that settles into your chest and spreads outward, and he hasn't even started singing yet; the music alone is already pulling you in.

"There'll be no darkness tonight, lady, our love will shine," Michael starts, his voice velvety and smooth, softer than before but fuller in a way that doesn't feel performed. It feels like it's meant for you, and you already know the air between the two of you is shifting with every word he sings.

The playback is also on, his own voice layered beneath the one he's giving you now, and you catch it instantly, recognizing the difference between what was recorded and what he's doing in this moment. You figure it's for the ad-libs at the end, and you already know that if Quincy likes this recording of it, they'll use this take for the playback and have Michael come back and layer the ad-libs again, but even with that awareness sitting in the back of your mind, it doesn't pull you out of the moment.

If anything, it makes you more aware of how different this take feels.

"Just put your trust in my heart, and meet me in paradise."

The way he sings it doesn't feel like a lyric. It feels like he's saying it directly to you, like the words are meant to land somewhere deeper than just your ears. You shift slightly in the chair without even realizing it, adjusting under the weight of the moment, but you don't take your eyes off of him, not even for a second.

"Girl, you're every wonder in this world to me, a treasure time won't steal away," Michael's voice grows stronger, filling the space more fully now, but it still carries that vulnerable undertone, something soft underneath the strength, like he's giving you everything Quincy asked for without losing the truth behind it.

"So, listen to my heart, lay your body close to mine, let me fill you with my dreams, I can make you feel alright," he continues, and it hits you all at once, sharp and undeniable, because you've heard these words before. Not like this, not sung into a microphone, but whispered softly against your skin in the quiet moments you've shared, when the world was smaller, when it was just the two of you tangled together with nothing else around you.

You've heard pieces of this song for months without even realizing it.

In bed, when his voice would drop low against your ear, when his words felt more like confessions than anything else. In the way he would hold you close, murmuring things that made your chest feel too full, too warm. And now, hearing it like this, hearing it all come together, it settles into you differently, deeper, because you finally understand what he meant when he said he wrote this song for you. He wasn't exaggerating. He wasn't being poetic.

He was giving you something real.

"And baby, through the years, gonna love you more each day, so I promise you tonight that you will always be the lady in my life."

Your eyes stay locked onto Michael's as he sings, completely unable to look away, like breaking that connection would pull you out of something you don't want to leave. His voice, the music, the way the room has softened around you with the lights dim and the curtains drawn: it all pulls you deeper, wrapping around you until nothing else feels as important.

You've forgotten that the two of you are sitting inside the studio with Quincy just on the other side of the glass. With the curtains drawn closed and the lights low, it doesn't feel like a studio anymore.

It feels like it's just you and Michael.

You feel the song, his voice, the words deep inside you, not just in your heart but throughout your entire body, something warm and consuming that settles in slowly and then all at once, until you're completely surrounded by it.

And by the time he gets to the second verse, you're already warm all over, caught in the weight of it, in the way he's looking at you, in the way every word feels like it belongs to you.

"Lay back in my tenderness, let's make this a night we won't forget. Girl, I need your sweet caress, oh," Michael sings, and this time there's no hesitation, no restraint left in him at all. He's fully immersed now, completely locked into you in a way that makes everything else disappear, and something about the way your eyes met earlier has shifted him entirely. He's not trying to find the song anymore. He's in it. Living it. Feeling every word as it leaves him.

Because now it doesn't feel like he's singing. It feels like he's asking.

Like he's reaching for you in real time, like every note is carrying something heavier than just melody, something that sits deep in his chest and spills out without filter. Begging for you to hear him. Begging for you to understand just how much of himself is wrapped up in you. Begging you to stay right where you are, right where he can see you, feel you, hold onto you.

The shift in his voice is unmistakable now, the vulnerability threaded through every note, the way he lets it crack just slightly in places where he would've held it steady before, and it doesn't weaken it; it makes it real. He's pouring his heart out without holding anything back, and you can feel it in the way it reaches you, the way it settles into you.

From outside of the studio, in the control room, even though all he could see were black curtains, Quincy could hear and feel the difference in this recording in comparison to the others. He didn't need to see what was happening inside to know something had changed, because it was in Michael's voice, in the way the emotion carried through the speakers with a kind of rawness that hadn't been there before.

And in that moment, Quincy knew he made the right choice by telling Michael to beg, and he knew Michael made the right choice by asking Quincy to bring you inside.

"And I will keep you warm, through the shadows of the night. Let me touch you with my love, I can make you feel so right," Michael sings, and the words don't just reach you, they move through you, settling somewhere deeper than you can control, and your eyes fall closed for a moment under the weight of it, like it's too much to hold all at once.

You feel it in your chest, in your stomach, in the way your body reacts without asking for permission, and when your eyes close, it's like everything else sharpens, the sound of his voice, the softness of the music, the warmth that's already spreading through you.

Michael notices everything.

The way your body responds, the way your shoulders shift, the subtle way your breath changes, the way you adjust in the seat like you're trying to ground yourself. He sees the way you slightly squeeze your thighs closer together, the way your body reacts to him, to his voice, to what he's giving you in this moment, and something inside him tightens in response, because he knows.

He knows you're feeling it too. That same pull. That same warmth. That same intensity building between you that neither of you is trying to stop.

Desire was building in both of you.

When you open your eyes again and meet Michael's, the difference in him is immediate and impossible to ignore. His eyes are darker now, deeper, filled with something more intense than before: passion, yes, but something layered with it, something that feels almost consuming in the way it holds onto you.

And still, he doesn't stop. He keeps singing to you like there's nothing else in the world that matters.

"And baby, through the years, even when we're old and gray. I will love you more each day, 'cause you will always be the lady in my life," he sings, and there's a shift again, softer this time but just as powerful, something that settles over the moment like a promise being made right in front of you.

You feel it as soon as he reaches it. That change in the structure of the song. The part that's coming next. You know this part. And something in the way he's looking at you tells you he knows exactly what he's about to do with them.

"Stay with me..." Michael sings, his eyes slightly closing as he feels himself getting fully pulled in, his voice softer but heavier now, like it's coming from somewhere deeper than before. "I want you to stay with me..." The words settle into the space between you, and your body reacts before you can stop it, your legs pressing together again as that familiar effect his voice has always had on you builds, heat pooling low in your stomach, steady and impossible to ignore. "I need you by my side..."

When he finishes the note, his eyes open slowly, and they meet yours immediately, like he already knows exactly where to look. He catches everything in an instant, the slight pout in your expression, the tension in the way you're sitting, the desire you're feeling but holding back because of where you are, because he's recording, because you're not alone, and the recognition hits him just as strongly, because he feels it too. His pants are tight as his arousal for you grows.

"Don't you go nowhere," it comes out of him almost guttural this time, rougher, pleading in a way that feels unfiltered, and you feel the difference immediately, the shift between the other takes and this one undeniable now. This isn't controlled anymore. This isn't held back.

The playback continues underneath him, his pre-recorded vocals filling the room and layering beneath what he's giving you live, creating that overlap of sound that wraps around you from both directions. "Ooh, girl, let me keep you warm," the recorded version of his voice carries smoothly through the speakers.

"Let me keep you warm," Michael sings over it, his live voice lower, rougher, dipping into that same guttural tone that makes your breath catch, and he sees it happen, sees the way your chest rises slightly, the way your body reacts without permission. Watching you respond to him like this only feeds into it, and he can feel his own body responding too, the intensity building in ways he can't ignore.

"You are the lady in my life," his recorded voice continues, smooth and controlled, while Michael stays locked on you, singing over it in real time. "You're my lady," he adds, holding your gaze, the words feeling more like something claimed than something sung.

"Fill you with the sweetest love," his pre-recorded voice carries through the room.

"I wanna squeeze ya," Michael's voice drops again into that lower register, heavier now, more weighted, and you feel it immediately, the heat in your body deepening as you shift in the seat again, trying to ground yourself in something steady that isn't there.

"Always the lady in my life," the pre-recorded vocal continues, smooth beneath him.

"I wanna touch you, babe," Michael sings more intensely this time, and the shift is immediate, visible in his eyes, in the way his focus sharpens on you like nothing else exists.

"Lay back in my tenderness, you are the lady in my life," his pre-recorded voice sings, and through it, over it, around it, he holds your gaze without wavering, and you feel yourself getting warmer by the second, the heat building under your skin in a way that makes you hyper-aware of everything.

You had been wearing one of Michael's jackets in the control room because it was cold, but now the warmth feels overwhelming, like it's too much against your skin.

Michael's eyes track your every move as you slide the jacket off your shoulders and drape it over the back of the couch, and you don't take your eyes off him either, the connection between you unbroken, stretched tight between where you sit and where he stands.

"Rock me with your sweet caress, always the lady in my life," the pre-recorded Michael sings as Michael comes in stronger, his live voice carrying more force now, more emotion.

"You're my lady, and I love you, girl," Michael sings passionately, and you feel the weight of it, the intensity behind every word, the way it presses into you. He wants to reach for you; you can see it, feel it in the way his body leans just slightly forward, the way his hands flex at his sides, just like you want to get up and go to him.

You bite down on your lip, trying to steady yourself, and Michael notices immediately, the reaction hitting him just as strongly as everything else, every movement you make pulling more out of him, more emotion, more intensity, more of that raw, pleading energy that Quincy had asked for.

"Ooh, girl, let me keep you warm. You are the lady in my life," the pre-recorded Michael sings, smooth and controlled beneath the moment.

"Don't you go nowhere," Michael sings again, his voice rougher now, more strained in the best way, and you see him bite his lip briefly when you shift again, a deep breath leaving you that you didn't mean to let out.

"Fill you with the sweetest love... always the lady in my life," the pre-recorded version continues, steady underneath him as he keeps going, fully in it now.

And all you can picture is kissing him, the thought taking hold so vividly it almost feels real, like you can already feel the press of his lips against yours, slow at first and then deeper, the kind of kiss that pulls you in completely.

You want to kiss him, want to close the distance between you so badly it makes your chest tighten, want to feel his hands over your body, touching you, grabbing you, squeezing you, exactly like he just said in the song, like every word he's singing isn't just a lyric but something he's already given you in quieter, more private moments.

The memory of it and the anticipation of it blur together, your body reacting to both at once, heat settling low and steady, making it harder to sit still, harder to pretend you're unaffected, until it builds to the point where it's almost too much to hold in.

It's so close you can almost feel it, and an involuntary whimper slips out of you, soft but unmistakable in the quiet of the room.

Michael catches it immediately.

You see it in the way his expression shifts, in the way his breath falters just slightly before he bites down on his lip, his grip tightening on himself as he keeps singing, even though every part of him is pulling toward you. Hearing you like that, knowing he caused it, feeling your reaction in real time, almost undoes him completely, making it take everything in him not to break the space between you and pull you into his arms right then and there.

Michael sucks in a breath into the microphone, the sound pulling through the speakers in a way that feels almost too close, too intimate, like you're standing right there with him. "Ooh, babe... Don't you go nowhere... You're my lady," Michael's velvety voice hits you again, wrapping around you and settling deep, and you still feel hot, the warmth already spread through your body refusing to fade.

But you know you can't start discarding layers right there in the studio, not when he's still recording, not when you're still in that space, even if Michael is the only person who can see you.

"All through the night..." Michael holds the note, stretching it out, letting it linger in a way that makes your breath catch, and you let out another breath slowly, trying to steady yourself. He watches you closely, catching the way you swallow hard, the subtle movement of your throat, the way your body reacts without you meaning to. Beneath him, his earlier recorded voice begins to carry the line forward, smooth and controlled, filling the room while he stays locked on you.

You don't look away.

You watch as Michael licks his lips slowly, deliberately, and the motion alone sends another wave through you, making you shift in your seat again, trying to ease the tension building inside you. He's rubbing his hands against his thighs now, grounding himself, containing something he's barely holding onto, while you're trying to slow your heart rate, trying to breathe through the intensity instead of letting it completely take over.

"Fill you with the sweetest love," his earlier recorded voice moves through the room, steady and warm beneath the moment.

"Let me fill you, babe..." Michael's voice drops to that lower register again, deeper, heavier, and it's all you can picture. The multiple times he has filled you, the way those moments felt, the way they lingered after, and now all you want is to feel that again. You can feel your body responding to the thought, to him, to everything happening at once, the warmth building, undeniable, your panties soaked and only growing worse the longer he keeps looking at you like that. "All over... all over... all over," Michael's voice shifts into something more seductive, slower, more intentional, each repetition landing deeper than the last.

You start feeling dizzy, the intensity of it all settling in fully now, because with every "all over," the images come easier, clearer, your mind filling in the space between you without permission. You can see him, feel him, Michael on top of you, his warm hands moving across every inch of your skin, slow and deliberate, his lips following, kissing you everywhere, and you swallow again, trying to steady yourself, but it doesn't help.

You're still looking at him, and he's still looking at you.

Your lips part slightly without you meaning to, your breath catching again, and the shift in him is immediate. He wants to kiss you so badly it's written all over his face, in the way his jaw tightens, in the way he leans forward just slightly without even realizing it, like something in him is pulling toward you. He holds himself there, barely, and instead of breaking, instead of moving, he gives you the smallest nod, subtle but clear, letting you know he feels it too.

"Lay back in my tenderness... you are the lady in my life," his earlier voice continues smoothly beneath the moment, while Michael sings over it, his presence heavier now, more grounded in what he's feeling.

"Lay back with me... Let me touch you, girl," his voice intensifies, fuller, deeper, and your body reacts instantly, a tightening you can't control, because his touching you is all you can think about now, all you want, the distance between you suddenly feeling unbearable with every second that passes.

"Rock me with your sweet caress..." his earlier recorded voice carries through the room, smooth and steady beneath Michael as he sings over it, his presence stronger now, more anchored in you. "Lay back with me," he repeats again, and this time it comes out more pleading, the words softer but heavier, like he's asking instead of telling.

"Always the lady in my life," his recorded voice continues, filling the space beneath him, and Michael leans into the moment, his eyes locked on yours as his voice intensifies with it.

"All over, all over, all over, all over, all over, all over," each "all over" comes out more intense than the last, more sensual, more charged, his voice dipping and stretching as he gives himself over to it completely, and you swallow hard again, your body trembling with need as the images in your mind come faster now, clearer, impossible to ignore.

And as he continues the "all over," his earlier vocals carry underneath him, smooth and controlled. "Ooh, girl, let me keep you warm. You are the lady in my life," the layered sound wrapping around you, surrounding you completely.

"All over, baby," Michael sings again, his voice dropping into that lower register, softer but heavier, like he's holding onto the last of it, not ready to let the moment slip away.

And that's it for him.

The two of you stay locked there, holding each other's gaze as the rest of the song continues through his earlier vocals, the room still thick with everything that just passed between you. "Fill you with the sweetest love. Always the lady in my life," his recorded voice carries on, but neither of you is really hearing it anymore, too caught in each other.

You slowly stand up from your seat, and Michael already has the headphones off, already moving toward you like he can't stop himself now, like whatever was holding him in place before is gone.

"Lay back in my tenderness... You are the lady of my life," his earlier voice continues behind you, but it fades into the background the second Michael reaches you.

His lips meet yours roughly, the built-up tension between the two of you finally snapping, everything that had been held back pouring into that one moment. The kiss is messy, unrestrained, filled with all the want and need that's been building from the second the music started, and for a moment, neither of you is thinking about where you are or who might be just on the other side of the room.

You're too wrapped up in each other, in the way he's kissing you, in the way you've both been holding onto this.

In the control room, Quincy had just been about to tell Michael that the take was perfect when the sounds of the two of you reached him, unmistakable even through the speakers. Without hesitation, he reaches for the talk-back and cuts it off, the room going silent on their end as he turns to usher everyone out, giving you both the space without a word. He leaves as well, the door closing behind him, leaving you and Michael completely alone.

Michael pulls you down with him as he sits back onto the seat you were just in, his hands already on you, and instinctively, your body moves with his, the distance between you gone completely now. He lets out a low sound against your mouth as the kiss deepens, and you take advantage of the way his lips part, meeting him fully, giving into it just as much as he is.

His hands move over you, familiar and sure, and you feel yourself melting into him, every bit of tension from before turning into something else entirely now that you're finally allowed to close the distance.

"Michael," you whisper when the kiss breaks, your voice softer now but still unsteady, and when you look down at him, he's already looking up at you, his expression just as affected, just as caught in it as you are. His hand comes up to your cheek, warm and grounding.

"Tell me what you want, baby," he says, his voice low, and just hearing it sends another reaction through you, your body shifting against him before you can stop it, and he lets out a quiet groan in response.

"To do what you said... touch me," you say, your voice barely above a whisper before you kiss him again, and this time he meets you immediately, deeper, more consuming, like he's been waiting for you to say it.

His hands move along your sides, holding you there for a moment longer before he stands, lifting you with him effortlessly, the kiss only breaking for a second as he moves you. He sets you back down on the couch, and before you can even fully settle, he's already in front of you, lowering himself down, completely focused on you.

You look at Michael in anticipation, your lips slightly parting as he lays his hands on your thighs. He watches as your breath catches, the way you swallow as you try to contain yourself.

"Touch you where, baby?" Michael says. His hands inch toward the waistband of your pants. You had dressed casually today, as you normally do after working. You had on a pair of Michael's sweatpants and one of his shirts, and he loves it when you wear his clothes.

You slightly lift off the chair as Michael slowly pulls your pants down your legs, dragging it out, and he smiles when you squirm. He lays his palms flat on your thighs, close to your knees, and the warmth spreads immediately.

"Here?" He asks, and you shake your head, letting out another breath. "Tell me where," Michael says, pressing a kiss to your outer knee.

"Higher," you say, your words are shaky, and you let out a deep breath. Michael's lips trail kisses up your thigh as he reaches for your hand and pulls you out of the chair. At first, you're confused, until you feel his hand rubbing down your body.

You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck because you know if Michael is going to do what you think he's about to do, you're going to need help standing.  You feel his hand slip into your panties, and your breath hitches. Michael's eyes close, and he softly hums when he feels how wet you are. You feel his lips against your ear as he chuckles.

"So I take it you liked the song," he whispers, and you roll your eyes, but you're still smiling. You turn Michael's head to you and kiss him hard. His hand moves, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slowly, you kiss him harder, making him speed up his movements as a finger slips inside of you. "That's how you make me feel," he mumbles when he breaks away from the kiss.

You lean your head into his shoulder as he slips a second finger in, his motions getting faster, making you bite down on your lip. "Michael," you whisper between breaths, and Michael smiles.

"Tell me what you want, baby," he whispers again as his lips trail across your neck in slow kisses, while his fingers quicken their pace. You hold onto him tighter, feeling your legs get weaker.

"You," you manage to speak between moans. Michael smiles, his fingers pulling out of you, and you stagger at the loss of contact, but he holds you upright. He kisses you again before easing you down onto the cushioned chair once again, and he sinks down to his knees in front of you.

His hands find the waistband of your panties, and you lift your hips up, allowing him to pull your panties down your legs. Then he spreads your legs, settling on his knees between you, seeing the way you're already glistening and pulsing for him makes him lick his lips as he looks up at you.

"You're so beautiful," Michael mumbles before kissing your thigh. You lean your head back against the cushion, closing your eyes as you feel Michael's lips trailing inward, until you feel his tongue glide over your clit. Your hips buck instinctively, and then you feel his mouth moving. Lips sucking, tongue gliding, your body feeling the sensations of pleasure vibrating through every fiber of your bones.

You grind against his mouth, and he moans into you, sending another wave of vibrational pleasure up your spine. You feel his tongue dip into you before lapping at you, slowly gliding up the sides of your slick folds, and you're breathless.

Your legs start shaking as Michael presses his tongue in and out of you harder, sucking on your clit. With a cry, your orgasm comes, soaking his mouth in your juices. You feel him moan against you, the vibrations sending a jolt up your body as he cleans your finish with his tongue. When he pulls away, he leans over you, and you cup his cheeks, pulling him into a kiss, the taste of you fresh on his lips.

You stand up, starting to peel back the layers of his clothing. Michael watches every move you make, the way your hands smooth across his skin, the way your tongue glides over your lips whenever you pull another piece of clothing off of him.

When he's fully undressed, he lays you back down on the couch, moving on top of you as his lips trail kisses over your body, your shoulder, your collarbone, and he slowly unbuttons the shirt you're wearing, his shirt, kissing your exposed skin with every button undone. The fabric quickly falls from you, your bra following quickly behind it.

You reach forward, grabbing his throbbing length, and you stroke him. Michael leans more into you, pressing harder kisses against your neck as you stroke him. "Baby... let me feel you, please," Michael pleads in your ear. You use your free hand to pull his face to you, kissing him hard as your hand moves faster against him.

Michael deepens it, tongues colliding, fighting for dominance as your hand moves quicker. Michael's body shudders as he feels his pleasure increase, and you use your thumb to tease the head. Michael moans into your mouth, intensifying the kiss as you pull him closer.

You tease your entrance with his tip, a shudder running through both of you at the contact, and when you let him go, Michael wastes no time; your wetness helps him easily slide into you, filling you as he pushes inch by inch until he fully disappears in you.

He's not slow about it.

Michael's thrusts are quick, sliding in and out of you like a man desperate. You pull back from the kiss, throwing your head back against the armrest of the couch as your body melts completely into him. You buck your hips to meet his, and he wraps your legs around his waist, allowing him access to fill you deeper. You feel every thrust, like a tremor of lightning running through your system.

"You feel like Heaven, baby," Michael says lowly, taking your nipple into his mouth. His tongue swirls around the hardened peak, while his hand reaches down between you, rubbing your clit with his thumb. Pleasure builds inside of you from all directions in a way that overwhelms you. Your eyes roll back, your vision blurring with tears as Michael fucks you.

"Michael," you whimper, feeling yourself get closer, and he feels it too. He feels it in the way your walls clench every time he takes you deeper. He feels it in the way your legs are shaking around his waist, and your body is trembling beneath him. He feels it in the way your moans get more breathless and desperate.

"Come for me, baby," Michael murmurs in your ear, and you do, his voice the final piece that sends you over the edge as your orgasm hits. His name leaves your lips like a cry, and Michael swallows it with a kiss as he slows down his thrusts to bring you through the wave of aftershocks. Your body trembles as you ride out your orgasm. "Stay with me," Michael says softly to you when he pulls back.

You kiss Michael again as he keeps moving, your juices dripping down your thighs and his balls as your body twitches again, and Michael comes undone soon after. Spilling your name onto your lips as his release mixes with yours, making a further mess on both of you. Michael pulls back from the kiss, burying his face in the nape of your neck as he finishes his release, breathing out heavily against you, your name falling from his lips again.

You kiss the side of his head, your hands roaming his body as your breaths slow down and sync back with the other. Michael lifts his head from your neck, his eyes softening with the tender gaze he only keeps reserved for you as he looks at you. It's then, when your heart isn't beating so loudly in your ears, that you realize his song is still playing, throughout the sound booth, and you look at him.

"That song is dangerous," you say, and Michael laughs as he slips out of you and lies down behind you on the couch, pulling you on top of him.

"So are you... That's why I wrote it for you," Michael says. Your cheeks flush as you lean in and kiss him again. You're the first to pull away, and Michael lays his thumb down on your cheek, slowly grazing across your skin, and you bite down on your lip.

"I love the song, Michael... and I love you," you say. Michael smiles more, his thumb pausing on your skin.

1982 west lake recording studios

It was another late night in the studio, the kind where time seemed to blur together under dim lights and the low hum of equipment, where the outside world felt distant and unimportant compared to what was being built inside these walls.

For the last few months, Michael has been working on his upcoming album, Thriller, and you know how stressful it's been for him. Michael had felt that Off The Wall didn't get the recognition from the Grammys that it deserved, and you had agreed.

Michael didn't go to the Grammys that year in 1980. You remember how still he had been that night, how quiet, not the soft, thoughtful quiet you were used to from him, but something heavier, something that settled deep in his chest and refused to move.

The two of you sat in your apartment, his head resting in your lap as you watched the ceremony, his fingers idly tracing patterns against your knee, absentminded, like his body was there but his mind was already somewhere else entirely, somewhere ahead, chasing something bigger. And when he made that vow, that they weren't going to ignore his next album, that he was going to make the greatest album of all time.

And now two years later, he was bringing his ideas to life. You've been with Michael for the last three years, since 1979, ever since that first night Stephanie Mills introduced you at an industry event after The Wiz, when everything had been loud and alive around you, but somehow your attention had settled on him anyway.

You were already building your name as a professional costume designer for films, but at that time, you had been working on The Wiz on Broadway, which is how you and Stephanie grew close in the first place, the two of you bonding quickly, naturally, your friendship forming just as easily offstage as everything you created came together on it.

Stephanie had seen something in both of you, something she couldn't quite explain but trusted enough to act on, and when she said she wanted to introduce you to Michael, she had been right.

You remember how gentle he had been when he spoke to you that night, how there was no performance in it, no need to impress, just something genuine and a little shy that made you feel seen in a way that lingered long after the conversation ended. When he asked to see you again, it turned into a year of late-night phone calls and stolen time between his touring and your traveling, a whirlwind that somehow never felt overwhelming, just... right.

Now you're here with him in the studio, watching him build something he's poured himself into completely. He had told you about the short films he wanted to create for Thriller, Beat It, and Billie Jean. You loved the way his eyes lit up as he described them, making it clear that he wasn't just thinking about music, he was seeing full worlds, movement, story, something cinematic and alive.

You sit on the couch with your sketchbook resting against your lap, working through costume designs for Thriller, because Michael gave you his ideas for what he wanted to wear and asked if you could design some sketches, the red pencil moving across the page in steady strokes as you fill in the jacket, shaping something bold enough to match the energy he carries when he performs.

But your focus isn't fully on the page. It keeps drifting, pulled back toward the sound of his voice carrying through the room as he works through The Lady in My Life, a song you can't hear without feeling something deeper settle in your chest, because he told you he wrote it for you.

"You are the lady in my life," Michael sings the closing notes, his voice soft but controlled, and you hear the beat fade out into a silence that feels unfinished, like something is still hanging in the air, unresolved.

You glance up, and you don't need anyone to say anything to know it didn't land the way he wanted. It's in the way his expression shifts, in the subtle tension that settles into his posture, in the quiet frustration that he never voices out loud but carries anyway.

"You are the lady in my life," Michael sings the closing notes, and you hear the beat fade out, the last note lingering just long enough to leave the room suspended in something unfinished. You look up momentarily, your attention pulling fully to him, and you see the look on his face immediately; he's not happy, something with the song isn't landing right, and you can tell before anyone even says anything.

You know Michael has been extremely stressed making this album. Epic Records has him on a tight deadline to finish it by a certain day, and that pressure has been constant, sitting on his shoulders in a way that never really lets up, following him from the studio to home and back again.

And Michael, being the perfectionist he is, doesn't know how to settle for something that's just good enough. It has to feel right. It has to land the way he hears it in his head, the way he feels it in his chest. And because of the feeling that Off the Wall was ignored, that lingering frustration sat with him, still pushing him; he wants this album to be recognized. Not just heard, but seen for what he knows it is.

So he's pouring everything into it: every late night, every take that still isn't quite enough, every ounce of himself.

Sometimes he wouldn't get home until after 3 am, and you'd try to wait up for him, telling yourself you would stay awake just a little longer, just until you heard the door so you'd know he was home. You'd try to fill the time by working on sketches, flipping through pages, or reading something to keep your eyes open, but sometimes you couldn't, and the need for sleep would get too strong, pulling you under no matter how hard you tried to fight it.

You knew he was trying to make the album work against everything he was up against, trying to meet the expectations, the deadlines, the pressure he refuses to let break him, and Michael always apologized for those nights, every single time, whenever he came home after you had already fallen asleep. He always felt terrible knowing you were waiting up for him and he couldn't get to you, like he had let you down in some way, even when he hadn't.

And every time, you reassured him it was okay:  because it truly was. You know how much getting this album right means to him. You know how important it is.

You lower your gaze back to your sketchpad, picking up the red colored pencil again, filling in the jacket with careful precision. His ideas are good, more than good. You've never thought of yourself as creating something separate from him, only giving shape to what's already there, what's already alive inside his mind, inside his genius.

But even as the pencil moves across the page, your attention isn't really there anymore. It's on him, the way the room shifted after that last note, the fact that he's still searching.

And you already know he's not done.

"Mike... something's not landing right with this," you momentarily look up when you hear Quincy Jones speak, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet that had settled after the last take. Michael pulls the headphones off his ears with a slow exhale, the sigh that leaves him carrying more than just frustration, something heavier sitting just beneath the surface.

"I know..." Michael said, and there's a quiet weight to it, the kind that comes from repeating something over and over and still not reaching what he hears so clearly in his head.

They'd recorded and re-recorded the song probably a dozen times, each take technically right, each note placed exactly where it should be, but both Quincy and Michael agreed that something was missing, something intangible that couldn't be fixed with technique alone.

Michael had never struggled so much with a song like he was struggling with this one, and you can see how much it's starting to wear on him in the way he runs his hand briefly over the back of his neck, in the way his shoulders don't quite relax even when he's standing still.

The reason he was struggling was that it was hard for him to sing a song so intimate with all these people around, with eyes on him, with the pressure of performance sitting too close to something that wasn't meant to be performed. Michael wrote this song for you, and about you, and that truth lives too close to the surface for him to separate it from what's happening in the room.

He wrote this song out of the deep love he has for you, something quiet and real and unguarded, and it feels wrong to him to sing it for anybody else but you, to let something that personal exist under observation instead of in the privacy it was meant for.

You look up as you hear Quincy stand from his seat, the subtle shift of movement in the control room pulling your attention away from the page. He cuts off the talk back before walking into the booth, the sudden absence of sound creating a barrier between you and whatever he's about to say, leaving you with only the visual of it as Quincy steps inside and pulls Michael aside.

Michael glances at you through the glass for just a moment, a flicker of something soft and searching in his expression before he turns his attention back to Quincy, and that brief look alone is enough to make something in your chest tighten, because it feels like you've been pulled into something without hearing a single word.

"Take a minute to regroup... get some water, take a walk, something. Then I want you to come back in here and beg," Quincy says, his tone firm but measured, and even though you can't hear them, the way Michael's eyebrows lift slightly tells you the word caught him off guard.

"Beg?" Michael asks, the single word sitting somewhere between confusion and hesitation, like he's trying to understand what Quincy is asking of him beyond just the performance.

"You wrote this song for her, right?" Quincy asks as he gestures his head toward you, sitting outside the booth, and Michael's gaze follows the motion almost instinctively, his eyes finding you without effort. The moment he sees you, everything in his expression softens in a way that feels unguarded, like whatever tension he was holding loosens just slightly.

He takes in the small details without even thinking about it, your legs curled underneath you, the blanket from the couch draped over you, the way you've gone back to sketching like you've been doing all night, the red colored pencil moving lightly in your hand, and there's a quiet warmth that settles into his features at the sight of you being exactly where you always are for him.

"About how much you love her, how much you need her, everything that's right there in the lyrics?" Quincy continues, grounding the moment in something undeniable, and Michael's attention shifts back to him, though not without a slight delay, like part of him is still lingering on you.

"Yeah. It's all for her," Michael says as he nods, and there's no hesitation in that answer, no performance in it, just something steady and certain that makes it clear why this song matters so much to him. That truth is also what's making this so difficult, because part of him hates that you're hearing this right now in a way that feels incomplete, hates that something meant to reflect how deeply he feels for you isn't landing the way it should.

"So beg for it... Beg her for it," Quincy says, and this time when Michael looks at you again, the shift is more intentional, more focused, like he's starting to understand what's being asked of him, not just to sing the song, but to feel it fully, to let it exist in its most honest form. His gaze lingers for a second longer before he looks back at Quincy and nods, the understanding settling into him in a way that feels quieter but more certain.

"Okay, but I need a few things," he says, and there's a steadiness in his voice now that wasn't there before, like he's already beginning to shape the space into something he can exist in.

"Name it," Quincy responds without hesitation.

"Can you turn down the studio lights and close the curtain between the studio and control room?" Michael asks, and even without hearing the reasoning out loud, it's clear what he's trying to do: strip the room down, remove the audience, create something that feels private enough for him to let go of the restraint that's been holding him back. Quincy nods easily, understanding it without needing an explanation, because he's worked with Michael long enough to know exactly what that kind of environment means for him.

"Alright, you need a break, or wanna just get back to it?" Quincy asks as he moves toward the door, already preparing to give him what he needs.

"I don't need a break... one more thing," Michael says, stopping him just before he leaves, and Quincy turns back, waiting. There's a brief pause, just long enough to feel deliberate, before Michael speaks again. "Tell her to come in here, please?" he says, and there's something softer in his tone now, something that makes it clear that this part matters just as much as everything else he asked for.

Quincy nods without question, because it makes perfect sense. He told Michael to sing like he's begging you, and the way Michael is approaching this now, asking for the lights to be turned off, the curtain to be closed, and for you to come into the booth with him, it's clear that he isn't trying to perform anymore. He's trying to create something real and intimate. Something that exists only between the two of you.

Quincy understands exactly what Michael is building in this moment, that he wants to create a space where the outside world doesn't exist, where no eyes are watching, no expectations sitting on his shoulders, just you and him and the truth of what he feels. So he nods without another word and walks out of the booth, closing the door behind him as he makes his way over to you.

You look up when you hear his footsteps approaching, the soft sound of them grounding you back into the room as your hand stills, the red colored pencil slowing to a stop against the paper, your attention shifting fully as he comes closer.

"Everything okay, Q?" You ask as you look up, your voice soft but laced with curiosity, your attention fully pulled away from your sketch the moment he approaches you.

"Yeah... Mike just wants you in the studio," he says, and your eyes widen before you can stop them, surprise flickering across your face because Michael's never asked you to come in there before, never broken that quiet boundary he keeps around his creative space, the place where he disappears into the music and becomes something else entirely.

"Is he okay?" you ask as you set your sketchpad down, the red pencil slipping from your fingers and resting against the page as your focus shifts completely, and Quincy nods quickly, reassuring but purposeful.

"Yeah, yeah, he's fine... It's just to make the song land. Come on," Quincy says, already turning slightly as if expecting you to follow, and you nod, pushing the blanket off your legs as you stand, the warmth of it slipping away as you step out of your spot on the couch and move toward him.

The short walk to the booth feels different than it ever has before, like you're stepping into something you've only ever observed from the outside, something more personal than you expected, and when Quincy opens the door for you, the shift in atmosphere is immediate as you step inside, the sound softer, more contained, the space smaller than it felt through the glass. He shuts the door behind you, sealing you in, and for a moment, it's just you and Michael in the room.

Then you notice Quincy moving again through the glass, his hands reaching for the curtains that separate the studio from the control room, drawing them closed until the outside disappears completely, leaving nothing but the reflection of dim light against the fabric. You turn back to Michael, your brow lifting slightly in silent question, and he smiles at you in that quiet, familiar way before holding his hand out toward you, waiting.

You don't hesitate. You place your hand in his, letting him pull you closer, and the distance between you disappears easily as he guides you in, his movements gentle but intentional. He's sitting on the stool in front of the microphone, and when you reach him, he draws you in close enough that you can feel the warmth of him immediately, his head lowering until it rests against your collarbone, right above your chest, like he's grounding himself there.

"Baby, are you okay?" You ask, your voice softer now, concern threading through it as your hand instinctively moves to him, and instead of answering right away, Michael presses a gentle kiss to your collarbone, something quiet and familiar, something that feels like comfort more than anything else, before he turns his head slightly toward the curtain, aware of the people still just beyond it.

"Q, the lights, down, not completely off," Michael says, his voice steady but quieter than before, and after a brief pause, the lights shift, dimming just enough to change everything about the room. The brightness softens into something warmer, shadows settling in around the edges, the space shrinking into something more private, more intimate, until it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you standing there together.

You lean down and kiss the top of his head, your lips brushing softly against his curls, lingering for just a moment. "Baby?" you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper now, matching the quiet that has settled around you.

"Q, cut me off, I'll knock on the window when I'm ready," Michael says, and there's a firmness in it now, a need for space that's clear even without seeing Quincy's reaction.

"You got it, Mike," Quincy says faintly through the speaker, and then there's nothing but silence again, the kind that stretches just long enough to feel intentional.

Michael stays like that for a moment, his head still resting against you, his breathing evening out slowly, like he's letting himself settle into something deeper, something more honest than what he's been able to reach so far. After a few minutes, he finally lifts his head and looks at you, and there's something different in his eyes now, something more open, more vulnerable than before.

"Just wanted to talk privately for a moment," he says, his voice quieter, softer, like the words are meant only for you.

"Are you okay? Q said you wanted me in here?" you ask, searching his face as he nods, taking a slow breath before he speaks again, steadying himself.

"You can probably hear I've been struggling with this song... I wrote this for you, so he gave me some notes, and I was hoping that having you in here would help me make it land right," he says, and the honesty in it settles between you, unguarded and real.

"Of course, baby, whatever you need," you say, your answer immediate, your voice warm and certain, and the small smile that spreads across his face in response is soft but genuine, like your reassurance lands exactly where he needed it to.

He points toward the couch a few feet away, his hand lingering in the air for a second.

"Just stay right there," he says, and you nod, turning to move toward it, but before you can take more than a step, his hand finds your waist, gentle but firm as he pulls you back toward him. The motion is instinctive, like he can't quite let you go just yet, and when you turn back to him, he's already leaning in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that starts soft but deepens almost immediately.

Your fingers slide into his curls without thinking, threading through them as he pulls you closer, his hand tightening slightly at your waist as he presses you back against him, melting into the moment like he's been holding onto it all night and is finally letting himself feel it. There's nothing rushed about it, nothing distracted; it's just him, fully present, fully there with you.

When he pulls back, it's slow, reluctant, like he doesn't quite want to break the contact, and when your eyes open at the same time, you meet his gaze, his brown Bambi doe eyes soft and open in a way that makes something in your chest ache every single time. There's a quiet warmth in the way he looks at you, something that always manages to undo you, no matter how many times you've seen it.

"I love you," he says, and it never loses its weight, never becomes something ordinary. It still lands the same way it did the first time: warm, steady, grounding, like something you can hold onto.

"I love you more," you whisper, your voice soft but sure, and you lean in to press a gentle kiss to the top of his head once more before finally stepping away, giving him the space he asked for.

You cross the studio and settle onto the couch, tucking your legs underneath you as you get comfortable, your attention fixed on him without even trying, and he moves toward the curtain, lifting his hand to gently knock on the window, keeping everything else the same, the curtains drawn, the lights low, the atmosphere still wrapped tightly around the two of you.

"Alright, Mike, you ready?" Quincy asks, his voice faint but present through the speaker.

Michael looks at you, and you give him a small, reassuring smile as he reaches for the headphones, sliding them back over his ears. You can see the shift settling into him now, the focus returning, but this time it feels different, quieter, more grounded, like he's not trying to perform anymore.

"I'm ready," Michael says as he takes a deep breath, and you hear Quincy telling everyone to stay quiet, the room beyond the curtain fading even further away.

He knows how badly Michael wants to nail this, and now... it feels like he finally might.

The music starts, low and smooth, something almost hypnotic in the way it settles into the room, the bassline soft but steady as it wraps around you and pulls you in before a single word is even sung. It's slow, it's seductive, and you feel it immediately, the way the atmosphere shifts, the way the air itself seems to thicken with it.

You look up at the same time Michael looks over, and the second your eyes meet, everything else fades into the background. There's no awareness of the studio anymore, no awareness of anything beyond him, because once your gazes lock, you're both in it completely. You feel a shift immediately when your eyes meet Michael's, something deeper, far more intimate, something that settles into your chest and spreads outward, and he hasn't even started singing yet; the music alone is already pulling you in.

"There'll be no darkness tonight, lady, our love will shine," Michael starts, his voice velvety and smooth, softer than before but fuller in a way that doesn't feel performed. It feels like it's meant for you, and you already know the air between the two of you is shifting with every word he sings.

The playback is also on, his own voice layered beneath the one he's giving you now, and you catch it instantly, recognizing the difference between what was recorded and what he's doing in this moment. You figure it's for the ad-libs at the end, and you already know that if Quincy likes this recording of it, they'll use this take for the playback and have Michael come back and layer the ad-libs again, but even with that awareness sitting in the back of your mind, it doesn't pull you out of the moment.

If anything, it makes you more aware of how different this take feels.

"Just put your trust in my heart, and meet me in paradise."

The way he sings it doesn't feel like a lyric. It feels like he's saying it directly to you, like the words are meant to land somewhere deeper than just your ears. You shift slightly in the chair without even realizing it, adjusting under the weight of the moment, but you don't take your eyes off of him, not even for a second.

"Girl, you're every wonder in this world to me, a treasure time won't steal away," Michael's voice grows stronger, filling the space more fully now, but it still carries that vulnerable undertone, something soft underneath the strength, like he's giving you everything Quincy asked for without losing the truth behind it.

"So, listen to my heart, lay your body close to mine, let me fill you with my dreams, I can make you feel alright," he continues, and it hits you all at once, sharp and undeniable, because you've heard these words before. Not like this, not sung into a microphone, but whispered softly against your skin in the quiet moments you've shared, when the world was smaller, when it was just the two of you tangled together with nothing else around you.

You've heard pieces of this song for months without even realizing it.

In bed, when his voice would drop low against your ear, when his words felt more like confessions than anything else. In the way he would hold you close, murmuring things that made your chest feel too full, too warm. And now, hearing it like this, hearing it all come together, it settles into you differently, deeper, because you finally understand what he meant when he said he wrote this song for you. He wasn't exaggerating. He wasn't being poetic.

He was giving you something real.

"And baby, through the years, gonna love you more each day, so I promise you tonight that you will always be the lady in my life."

Your eyes stay locked onto Michael's as he sings, completely unable to look away, like breaking that connection would pull you out of something you don't want to leave. His voice, the music, the way the room has softened around you with the lights dim and the curtains drawn: it all pulls you deeper, wrapping around you until nothing else feels as important.

You've forgotten that the two of you are sitting inside the studio with Quincy just on the other side of the glass. With the curtains drawn closed and the lights low, it doesn't feel like a studio anymore.

It feels like it's just you and Michael.

You feel the song, his voice, the words deep inside you, not just in your heart but throughout your entire body, something warm and consuming that settles in slowly and then all at once, until you're completely surrounded by it.

And by the time he gets to the second verse, you're already warm all over, caught in the weight of it, in the way he's looking at you, in the way every word feels like it belongs to you.

"Lay back in my tenderness, let's make this a night we won't forget. Girl, I need your sweet caress, oh," Michael sings, and this time there's no hesitation, no restraint left in him at all. He's fully immersed now, completely locked into you in a way that makes everything else disappear, and something about the way your eyes met earlier has shifted him entirely. He's not trying to find the song anymore. He's in it. Living it. Feeling every word as it leaves him.

Because now it doesn't feel like he's singing. It feels like he's asking.

Like he's reaching for you in real time, like every note is carrying something heavier than just melody, something that sits deep in his chest and spills out without filter. Begging for you to hear him. Begging for you to understand just how much of himself is wrapped up in you. Begging you to stay right where you are, right where he can see you, feel you, hold onto you.

The shift in his voice is unmistakable now, the vulnerability threaded through every note, the way he lets it crack just slightly in places where he would've held it steady before, and it doesn't weaken it; it makes it real. He's pouring his heart out without holding anything back, and you can feel it in the way it reaches you, the way it settles into you.

From outside of the studio, in the control room, even though all he could see were black curtains, Quincy could hear and feel the difference in this recording in comparison to the others. He didn't need to see what was happening inside to know something had changed, because it was in Michael's voice, in the way the emotion carried through the speakers with a kind of rawness that hadn't been there before.

And in that moment, Quincy knew he made the right choice by telling Michael to beg, and he knew Michael made the right choice by asking Quincy to bring you inside.

"And I will keep you warm, through the shadows of the night. Let me touch you with my love, I can make you feel so right," Michael sings, and the words don't just reach you, they move through you, settling somewhere deeper than you can control, and your eyes fall closed for a moment under the weight of it, like it's too much to hold all at once.

You feel it in your chest, in your stomach, in the way your body reacts without asking for permission, and when your eyes close, it's like everything else sharpens, the sound of his voice, the softness of the music, the warmth that's already spreading through you.

Michael notices everything.

The way your body responds, the way your shoulders shift, the subtle way your breath changes, the way you adjust in the seat like you're trying to ground yourself. He sees the way you slightly squeeze your thighs closer together, the way your body reacts to him, to his voice, to what he's giving you in this moment, and something inside him tightens in response, because he knows.

He knows you're feeling it too. That same pull. That same warmth. That same intensity building between you that neither of you is trying to stop.

Desire was building in both of you.

When you open your eyes again and meet Michael's, the difference in him is immediate and impossible to ignore. His eyes are darker now, deeper, filled with something more intense than before: passion, yes, but something layered with it, something that feels almost consuming in the way it holds onto you.

And still, he doesn't stop. He keeps singing to you like there's nothing else in the world that matters.

"And baby, through the years, even when we're old and gray. I will love you more each day, 'cause you will always be the lady in my life," he sings, and there's a shift again, softer this time but just as powerful, something that settles over the moment like a promise being made right in front of you.

You feel it as soon as he reaches it. That change in the structure of the song. The part that's coming next. You know this part. And something in the way he's looking at you tells you he knows exactly what he's about to do with them.

"Stay with me..." Michael sings, his eyes slightly closing as he feels himself getting fully pulled in, his voice softer but heavier now, like it's coming from somewhere deeper than before. "I want you to stay with me..." The words settle into the space between you, and your body reacts before you can stop it, your legs pressing together again as that familiar effect his voice has always had on you builds, heat pooling low in your stomach, steady and impossible to ignore. "I need you by my side..."

When he finishes the note, his eyes open slowly, and they meet yours immediately, like he already knows exactly where to look. He catches everything in an instant, the slight pout in your expression, the tension in the way you're sitting, the desire you're feeling but holding back because of where you are, because he's recording, because you're not alone, and the recognition hits him just as strongly, because he feels it too. His pants are tight as his arousal for you grows.

"Don't you go nowhere," it comes out of him almost guttural this time, rougher, pleading in a way that feels unfiltered, and you feel the difference immediately, the shift between the other takes and this one undeniable now. This isn't controlled anymore. This isn't held back.

The playback continues underneath him, his pre-recorded vocals filling the room and layering beneath what he's giving you live, creating that overlap of sound that wraps around you from both directions. "Ooh, girl, let me keep you warm," the recorded version of his voice carries smoothly through the speakers.

"Let me keep you warm," Michael sings over it, his live voice lower, rougher, dipping into that same guttural tone that makes your breath catch, and he sees it happen, sees the way your chest rises slightly, the way your body reacts without permission. Watching you respond to him like this only feeds into it, and he can feel his own body responding too, the intensity building in ways he can't ignore.

"You are the lady in my life," his recorded voice continues, smooth and controlled, while Michael stays locked on you, singing over it in real time. "You're my lady," he adds, holding your gaze, the words feeling more like something claimed than something sung.

"Fill you with the sweetest love," his pre-recorded voice carries through the room.

"I wanna squeeze ya," Michael's voice drops again into that lower register, heavier now, more weighted, and you feel it immediately, the heat in your body deepening as you shift in the seat again, trying to ground yourself in something steady that isn't there.

"Always the lady in my life," the pre-recorded vocal continues, smooth beneath him.

"I wanna touch you, babe," Michael sings more intensely this time, and the shift is immediate, visible in his eyes, in the way his focus sharpens on you like nothing else exists.

"Lay back in my tenderness, you are the lady in my life," his pre-recorded voice sings, and through it, over it, around it, he holds your gaze without wavering, and you feel yourself getting warmer by the second, the heat building under your skin in a way that makes you hyper-aware of everything.

You had been wearing one of Michael's jackets in the control room because it was cold, but now the warmth feels overwhelming, like it's too much against your skin.

Michael's eyes track your every move as you slide the jacket off your shoulders and drape it over the back of the couch, and you don't take your eyes off him either, the connection between you unbroken, stretched tight between where you sit and where he stands.

"Rock me with your sweet caress, always the lady in my life," the pre-recorded Michael sings as Michael comes in stronger, his live voice carrying more force now, more emotion.

"You're my lady, and I love you, girl," Michael sings passionately, and you feel the weight of it, the intensity behind every word, the way it presses into you. He wants to reach for you; you can see it, feel it in the way his body leans just slightly forward, the way his hands flex at his sides, just like you want to get up and go to him.

You bite down on your lip, trying to steady yourself, and Michael notices immediately, the reaction hitting him just as strongly as everything else, every movement you make pulling more out of him, more emotion, more intensity, more of that raw, pleading energy that Quincy had asked for.

"Ooh, girl, let me keep you warm. You are the lady in my life," the pre-recorded Michael sings, smooth and controlled beneath the moment.

"Don't you go nowhere," Michael sings again, his voice rougher now, more strained in the best way, and you see him bite his lip briefly when you shift again, a deep breath leaving you that you didn't mean to let out.

"Fill you with the sweetest love... always the lady in my life," the pre-recorded version continues, steady underneath him as he keeps going, fully in it now.

And all you can picture is kissing him, the thought taking hold so vividly it almost feels real, like you can already feel the press of his lips against yours, slow at first and then deeper, the kind of kiss that pulls you in completely.

You want to kiss him, want to close the distance between you so badly it makes your chest tighten, want to feel his hands over your body, touching you, grabbing you, squeezing you, exactly like he just said in the song, like every word he's singing isn't just a lyric but something he's already given you in quieter, more private moments.

The memory of it and the anticipation of it blur together, your body reacting to both at once, heat settling low and steady, making it harder to sit still, harder to pretend you're unaffected, until it builds to the point where it's almost too much to hold in.

It's so close you can almost feel it, and an involuntary whimper slips out of you, soft but unmistakable in the quiet of the room.

Michael catches it immediately.

You see it in the way his expression shifts, in the way his breath falters just slightly before he bites down on his lip, his grip tightening on himself as he keeps singing, even though every part of him is pulling toward you. Hearing you like that, knowing he caused it, feeling your reaction in real time, almost undoes him completely, making it take everything in him not to break the space between you and pull you into his arms right then and there.

Michael sucks in a breath into the microphone, the sound pulling through the speakers in a way that feels almost too close, too intimate, like you're standing right there with him. "Ooh, babe... Don't you go nowhere... You're my lady," Michael's velvety voice hits you again, wrapping around you and settling deep, and you still feel hot, the warmth already spread through your body refusing to fade.

But you know you can't start discarding layers right there in the studio, not when he's still recording, not when you're still in that space, even if Michael is the only person who can see you.

"All through the night..." Michael holds the note, stretching it out, letting it linger in a way that makes your breath catch, and you let out another breath slowly, trying to steady yourself. He watches you closely, catching the way you swallow hard, the subtle movement of your throat, the way your body reacts without you meaning to. Beneath him, his earlier recorded voice begins to carry the line forward, smooth and controlled, filling the room while he stays locked on you.

You don't look away.

You watch as Michael licks his lips slowly, deliberately, and the motion alone sends another wave through you, making you shift in your seat again, trying to ease the tension building inside you. He's rubbing his hands against his thighs now, grounding himself, containing something he's barely holding onto, while you're trying to slow your heart rate, trying to breathe through the intensity instead of letting it completely take over.

"Fill you with the sweetest love," his earlier recorded voice moves through the room, steady and warm beneath the moment.

"Let me fill you, babe..." Michael's voice drops to that lower register again, deeper, heavier, and it's all you can picture. The multiple times he has filled you, the way those moments felt, the way they lingered after, and now all you want is to feel that again. You can feel your body responding to the thought, to him, to everything happening at once, the warmth building, undeniable, your panties soaked and only growing worse the longer he keeps looking at you like that. "All over... all over... all over," Michael's voice shifts into something more seductive, slower, more intentional, each repetition landing deeper than the last.

You start feeling dizzy, the intensity of it all settling in fully now, because with every "all over," the images come easier, clearer, your mind filling in the space between you without permission. You can see him, feel him, Michael on top of you, his warm hands moving across every inch of your skin, slow and deliberate, his lips following, kissing you everywhere, and you swallow again, trying to steady yourself, but it doesn't help.

You're still looking at him, and he's still looking at you.

Your lips part slightly without you meaning to, your breath catching again, and the shift in him is immediate. He wants to kiss you so badly it's written all over his face, in the way his jaw tightens, in the way he leans forward just slightly without even realizing it, like something in him is pulling toward you. He holds himself there, barely, and instead of breaking, instead of moving, he gives you the smallest nod, subtle but clear, letting you know he feels it too.

"Lay back in my tenderness... you are the lady in my life," his earlier voice continues smoothly beneath the moment, while Michael sings over it, his presence heavier now, more grounded in what he's feeling.

"Lay back with me... Let me touch you, girl," his voice intensifies, fuller, deeper, and your body reacts instantly, a tightening you can't control, because his touching you is all you can think about now, all you want, the distance between you suddenly feeling unbearable with every second that passes.

"Rock me with your sweet caress..." his earlier recorded voice carries through the room, smooth and steady beneath Michael as he sings over it, his presence stronger now, more anchored in you. "Lay back with me," he repeats again, and this time it comes out more pleading, the words softer but heavier, like he's asking instead of telling.

"Always the lady in my life," his recorded voice continues, filling the space beneath him, and Michael leans into the moment, his eyes locked on yours as his voice intensifies with it.

"All over, all over, all over, all over, all over, all over," each "all over" comes out more intense than the last, more sensual, more charged, his voice dipping and stretching as he gives himself over to it completely, and you swallow hard again, your body trembling with need as the images in your mind come faster now, clearer, impossible to ignore.

And as he continues the "all over," his earlier vocals carry underneath him, smooth and controlled. "Ooh, girl, let me keep you warm. You are the lady in my life," the layered sound wrapping around you, surrounding you completely.

"All over, baby," Michael sings again, his voice dropping into that lower register, softer but heavier, like he's holding onto the last of it, not ready to let the moment slip away.

And that's it for him.

The two of you stay locked there, holding each other's gaze as the rest of the song continues through his earlier vocals, the room still thick with everything that just passed between you. "Fill you with the sweetest love. Always the lady in my life," his recorded voice carries on, but neither of you is really hearing it anymore, too caught in each other.

You slowly stand up from your seat, and Michael already has the headphones off, already moving toward you like he can't stop himself now, like whatever was holding him in place before is gone.

"Lay back in my tenderness... You are the lady of my life," his earlier voice continues behind you, but it fades into the background the second Michael reaches you.

His lips meet yours roughly, the built-up tension between the two of you finally snapping, everything that had been held back pouring into that one moment. The kiss is messy, unrestrained, filled with all the want and need that's been building from the second the music started, and for a moment, neither of you is thinking about where you are or who might be just on the other side of the room.

You're too wrapped up in each other, in the way he's kissing you, in the way you've both been holding onto this.

In the control room, Quincy had just been about to tell Michael that the take was perfect when the sounds of the two of you reached him, unmistakable even through the speakers. Without hesitation, he reaches for the talk-back and cuts it off, the room going silent on their end as he turns to usher everyone out, giving you both the space without a word. He leaves as well, the door closing behind him, leaving you and Michael completely alone.

Michael pulls you down with him as he sits back onto the seat you were just in, his hands already on you, and instinctively, your body moves with his, the distance between you gone completely now. He lets out a low sound against your mouth as the kiss deepens, and you take advantage of the way his lips part, meeting him fully, giving into it just as much as he is.

His hands move over you, familiar and sure, and you feel yourself melting into him, every bit of tension from before turning into something else entirely now that you're finally allowed to close the distance.

"Michael," you whisper when the kiss breaks, your voice softer now but still unsteady, and when you look down at him, he's already looking up at you, his expression just as affected, just as caught in it as you are. His hand comes up to your cheek, warm and grounding.

"Tell me what you want, baby," he says, his voice low, and just hearing it sends another reaction through you, your body shifting against him before you can stop it, and he lets out a quiet groan in response.

"To do what you said... touch me," you say, your voice barely above a whisper before you kiss him again, and this time he meets you immediately, deeper, more consuming, like he's been waiting for you to say it.

His hands move along your sides, holding you there for a moment longer before he stands, lifting you with him effortlessly, the kiss only breaking for a second as he moves you. He sets you back down on the couch, and before you can even fully settle, he's already in front of you, lowering himself down, completely focused on you.

You look at Michael in anticipation, your lips slightly parting as he lays his hands on your thighs. He watches as your breath catches, the way you swallow as you try to contain yourself.

"Touch you where, baby?" Michael says. His hands inch toward the waistband of your pants. You had dressed casually today, as you normally do after working. You had on a pair of Michael's sweatpants and one of his shirts, and he loves it when you wear his clothes.

You slightly lift off the chair as Michael slowly pulls your pants down your legs, dragging it out, and he smiles when you squirm. He lays his palms flat on your thighs, close to your knees, and the warmth spreads immediately.

"Here?" He asks, and you shake your head, letting out another breath. "Tell me where," Michael says, pressing a kiss to your outer knee.

"Higher," you say, your words are shaky, and you let out a deep breath. Michael's lips trail kisses up your thigh as he reaches for your hand and pulls you out of the chair. At first, you're confused, until you feel his hand rubbing down your body.

You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck because you know if Michael is going to do what you think he's about to do, you're going to need help standing.  You feel his hand slip into your panties, and your breath hitches. Michael's eyes close, and he softly hums when he feels how wet you are. You feel his lips against your ear as he chuckles.

"So I take it you liked the song," he whispers, and you roll your eyes, but you're still smiling. You turn Michael's head to you and kiss him hard. His hand moves, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slowly, you kiss him harder, making him speed up his movements as a finger slips inside of you. "That's how you make me feel," he mumbles when he breaks away from the kiss.

You lean your head into his shoulder as he slips a second finger in, his motions getting faster, making you bite down on your lip. "Michael," you whisper between breaths, and Michael smiles.

"Tell me what you want, baby," he whispers again as his lips trail across your neck in slow kisses, while his fingers quicken their pace. You hold onto him tighter, feeling your legs get weaker.

"You," you manage to speak between moans. Michael smiles, his fingers pulling out of you, and you stagger at the loss of contact, but he holds you upright. He kisses you again before easing you down onto the cushioned chair once again, and he sinks down to his knees in front of you.

His hands find the waistband of your panties, and you lift your hips up, allowing him to pull your panties down your legs. Then he spreads your legs, settling on his knees between you, seeing the way you're already glistening and pulsing for him makes him lick his lips as he looks up at you.

"You're so beautiful," Michael mumbles before kissing your thigh. You lean your head back against the cushion, closing your eyes as you feel Michael's lips trailing inward, until you feel his tongue glide over your clit. Your hips buck instinctively, and then you feel his mouth moving. Lips sucking, tongue gliding, your body feeling the sensations of pleasure vibrating through every fiber of your bones.

You grind against his mouth, and he moans into you, sending another wave of vibrational pleasure up your spine. You feel his tongue dip into you before lapping at you, slowly gliding up the sides of your slick folds, and you're breathless.

Your legs start shaking as Michael presses his tongue in and out of you harder, sucking on your clit. With a cry, your orgasm comes, soaking his mouth in your juices. You feel him moan against you, the vibrations sending a jolt up your body as he cleans your finish with his tongue. When he pulls away, he leans over you, and you cup his cheeks, pulling him into a kiss, the taste of you fresh on his lips.

You stand up, starting to peel back the layers of his clothing. Michael watches every move you make, the way your hands smooth across his skin, the way your tongue glides over your lips whenever you pull another piece of clothing off of him.

When he's fully undressed, he lays you back down on the couch, moving on top of you as his lips trail kisses over your body, your shoulder, your collarbone, and he slowly unbuttons the shirt you're wearing, his shirt, kissing your exposed skin with every button undone. The fabric quickly falls from you, your bra following quickly behind it.

You reach forward, grabbing his throbbing length, and you stroke him. Michael leans more into you, pressing harder kisses against your neck as you stroke him. "Baby... let me feel you, please," Michael pleads in your ear. You use your free hand to pull his face to you, kissing him hard as your hand moves faster against him.

Michael deepens it, tongues colliding, fighting for dominance as your hand moves quicker. Michael's body shudders as he feels his pleasure increase, and you use your thumb to tease the head. Michael moans into your mouth, intensifying the kiss as you pull him closer.

You tease your entrance with his tip, a shudder running through both of you at the contact, and when you let him go, Michael wastes no time; your wetness helps him easily slide into you, filling you as he pushes inch by inch until he fully disappears in you.

He's not slow about it.

Michael's thrusts are quick, sliding in and out of you like a man desperate. You pull back from the kiss, throwing your head back against the armrest of the couch as your body melts completely into him. You buck your hips to meet his, and he wraps your legs around his waist, allowing him access to fill you deeper. You feel every thrust, like a tremor of lightning running through your system.

"You feel like Heaven, baby," Michael says lowly, taking your nipple into his mouth. His tongue swirls around the hardened peak, while his hand reaches down between you, rubbing your clit with his thumb. Pleasure builds inside of you from all directions in a way that overwhelms you. Your eyes roll back, your vision blurring with tears as Michael fucks you.

"Michael," you whimper, feeling yourself get closer, and he feels it too. He feels it in the way your walls clench every time he takes you deeper. He feels it in the way your legs are shaking around his waist, and your body is trembling beneath him. He feels it in the way your moans get more breathless and desperate.

"Come for me, baby," Michael murmurs in your ear, and you do, his voice the final piece that sends you over the edge as your orgasm hits. His name leaves your lips like a cry, and Michael swallows it with a kiss as he slows down his thrusts to bring you through the wave of aftershocks. Your body trembles as you ride out your orgasm. "Stay with me," Michael says softly to you when he pulls back.

You kiss Michael again as he keeps moving, your juices dripping down your thighs and his balls as your body twitches again, and Michael comes undone soon after. Spilling your name onto your lips as his release mixes with yours, making a further mess on both of you. Michael pulls back from the kiss, burying his face in the nape of your neck as he finishes his release, breathing out heavily against you, your name falling from his lips again.

You kiss the side of his head, your hands roaming his body as your breaths slow down and sync back with the other. Michael lifts his head from your neck, his eyes softening with the tender gaze he only keeps reserved for you as he looks at you. It's then, when your heart isn't beating so loudly in your ears, that you realize his song is still playing, throughout the sound booth, and you look at him.

"That song is dangerous," you say, and Michael laughs as he slips out of you and lies down behind you on the couch, pulling you on top of him.

"So are you... That's why I wrote it for you," Michael says. Your cheeks flush as you lean in and kiss him again. You're the first to pull away, and Michael lays his thumb down on your cheek, slowly grazing across your skin, and you bite down on your lip.

"I love the song, Michael... and I love you," you say. Michael smiles more, his thumb pausing on your skin.

You've been hired as Michael's personal nanny for around 8 months — nearly a year. You enjoy it a lot, playing Jenga with his kids all night long, then tucking them in bed with a little story you made up. Even doing the dishes was enjoyable. Also, not to mention that Michael's house was huge, he had countless rooms for each of his specific niches. Sometimes when everyone's gone to sleep, you'll sneak out of your bed & snoop around each of the rooms, just out of curiosity. Your house is so small, so being here is like being on holiday. Although when he’s away touring or just busy, you’d miss his company.

Michael’s been so very kind & just to you ever since you've been working for him. You protested to him that you didn't even need a room at first, that you could just sleep on one of his couches. The idea irritated him.

"I'm not having no lady sleep on a couch, you'll sleep in a proper room, your own. I'll make it real nice for you." He'd say.

& he did. You told him you loved baby pink, so he'd hire someone to paint the walls pink, install clean white coving & put some pretty floral sheets on your bed with a little vanity installed across the room. You were shocked when you saw your bed was king-sized.

“This is too much Michael…”

“It’s the least I could do to thank you.”

You aggressively scrub the stains from tonight's dinner off the bone china plates as you do the dishes, your hair tied up in a messy pony with a tight polka-dot white apron on. Soft rain taps on the kitchen window, the draft of air from the opening crack hitting your face blissfully. You overhear the soft mumbles of Michael & his children a few floors above you as he puts them to bed.

“Goodnight, Daddy. Love you.” They say in their sweet little voices.

“I love you guys too. Sleep well now. Busy day tomorrow.” You hear Michael say.

You smile to yourself, continuing to scrub as you hear heavy footfall coming down the stairs. You straighten your back & flick the hair out of your face. You hate to admit it, but you think you’re starting to develop a little something for Michael. Any little thought you have of him that’s mildly inappropriate, you push it away instantly. You’re a professional after all.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you hear a soft voice mumble behind you.

You turn to see Michael propped up against the doorframe with his hands behind his back. His eyes were dark and worn from the intensity of the day. He’s wearing a loose linen white shirt paired with baggy grey sweatpants & his glasses. You only really see him wear them in the evening, you secretly love them.

“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all. It’s my job after all, right?” You chirp sweetly as you continue to scrub, a little gentler now.

You always try to appear perfect around Michael, sweet & polite at all times. Not because it’s part of your job to maintain a modicum of respect, but because you want him to like you personally. He’s such a huge public figure, a star — the thought of being close to him excites you.

“I know.” He says, taking the wet plates you’ve washed & drying them off. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman. So nanny or not, it never sits right with me for a woman to be doing all my dirty work, y’know?”

You nod softly, giving him an understanding smile as you continue to lay wet plates on the rack.

A few minutes pass of you & Michael cleaning & drying the dishes together, mindless small talk floating in the air. It'd been a long day for you, the weather was burning hot, which automatically made you sluggish, & the children were constantly begging for your attention while you attempted to do 1000 other tasks at once. So surprisingly, doing the dishes with Michael in the cool of the temperate evening soothed your nerves.

You passed Michael the last remaining dish as he dried it off, placing it in the cabinet with a clank. You pull the plug as you watch the soapy water collect down the drain, feeling Michaels eyes on your back.

You turn around with a loud sigh, attempting to fill in the awkward silence that hangs in the air while you two share a glance, just smiling.

"Well," you cut in, wiping surplus water off your manicured hands on your apron, "you tucked the children into bed?"

Michael takes his glasses off in one swipe, hanging them on his shirt opening.

"Yes I did, they'll sleep tight. I know they bothered you a lot today, they can get pretty active, so i'm sorry about that." He chuckles softly, the sound sending a mere tingle to your belly.

You two haven't had a proper two-on-two conversation since the morning started. After that, tasks had to be done, errands had to be run, so you two never got the chance to really talk. You shake your head with a reassuring smile, your cheeks a little rosy.

"I understand that constantly playing with children can be hard & tiring, especially when you don't want too but,"

You untie your apron from behind, placing it on the counter top. Michael's eyes fall to your waist instinctively, crossing his arms & shifting his feet.

"I like playing around y'know? I find it fun. I like my job." You smile, showing off your pearly whites.

Michael nods slowly, trying his hardest to keep his eyes on yours & not gawk like a pervert at your tanned legs n' thighs under your sundress.

"Good," he said gently. "You know I'd hate to think you're only staying because the pay's decent."

You let out a little giggle from his comment.

"If I didn't like being here I'd be gone by now, trust me."

Something about your comment seemed to please him by the look on his face; he liked having you here. Not because you were doing most of his work for him or taking extra care of his children, but because he liked you. Secretly, he liked having a sweet piece of ass around the house 24/7. He'd never tell you that, though; he's a gentleman after all.

Michael clapped his hands together, turning around to open the cabinet behind him full of all different types of liquor. You watch him pull out an expensive looking bottle of pinot, holding it in front of you.

"its's been a long day, how do you feel about a glass of wine? Do you drink?" He asks.

"Occasionally, yes." You mumble, taking the bottle from his hand as you analyse the label intently.

"Great."

Michael takes 2 slim wine glasses from the bottom cabinet as you read the label, you forget how wealthy he is. The wine you drink is nowhere near as rich as this.

"Burgundy Pinot Noir? Seems nice."

Michael hums in agreement as you pass the bottle back to him. He pops open the cork, the soft glug of wine filled the silence as he tipped the bottle. Deep red swirled into both glasses, a little more than you'd usually drink of an evening. You take a quick peek at his back before he turns to pass you the glass; it's lean & broad. His back bones n' muscles stretch his shirt a little. You feel your bottom lip pull in a little before you stop yourself.

"Here," he turns to hand you a glass, "I hope this isn't too much."

You take the glass & swirl it around a little, smelling the rim. It's rich, fruity, & sexy. The scent travels straight down in-between your legs.

"No it's not. I enjoy your company," you say.

"I meant the contents of your glass," Michael laughs as he takes a short sip, his pearly whites shining.

You feel your face burn up a little from embarrassment, chuckling to yourself.

"Oh! no, this is perfect. The amount is perfect." You reiterate.

Michael smiles to himself, the innocence of your embarrassment flattering him. Sure, you're a full-grown adult, but you have this innocence about you that he picks up on. Your sweet floral scent when you pass him by, or your cute coordinated outfits you pick out every day. He'd always love seeing you in those little sundresses that revealed the smooth of your calves & chest. He'd feel guilty for thinking of you like that, but he couldn't help it. He finds you immensely beautiful & special, he can't help but wonder who gets to enjoy you.

"You wanna go to the front room? Might be a little more comfortable to sit down," he questions, starting to move towards said room.

"Yeah sure, good idea."

You follow him to the front room. It's lit up dimly with a singular chandelier & scattered candles around the room in various places. He usually does this after he puts his children to bed —  relishes in his solitude. You never really got the chance to share this opportunity with him. You'd usually go to bed around this time too but since the day was drawn out longer than usual, he caught you just in time. The room smells of him, with notes of incense. You feel your heart rate pick up, for what reason you don't know.

"Do you do this often?" You say, taking a seat on the couch as he follows, plopping himself down a little too close to you, so close you can smell him.

Michael leans back on the arm of the couch, one hand wrapped around the back cushion while the other holds his glass. You swallow, your legs neatly closed as you sit upright, holding your glass with both hands in front of you. You don't know why you're nervous. You've spent time with him before, but this time just feels different. Maybe it's in your head, you try to relax.

"Drink wine?" he questions.

"Invite your employees for a drink after work kinda thing," your voice sweet in comparison to the deepness of his own. You've noticed it gets lower in the evening, perhaps from his lack of energy.

"Uh, sometimes yes. But if it makes you feel better, I enjoy your company the most." He says softly. "Not only do you do a lot around here, but you've got a lovely personality. Im grateful to have you in my home, truly.”

You smile warmly. The thought of your presence being accepted in his home makes you warm.

"Thank you, Mr Jackson. Means a lot." You take another sip, you feel your head start to become weightless, a little more ditzy. You've never been good with your alcohol.

"Oh, & I've been meaning to tell you, please don’t call me that." He pleads, placing a hand on his chest sincerely. "Call me Michael. My father used to make us call him Joseph; it's not the way it should be."

"Well, thank you, Michael. It means a lot." You say, pressing your thighs together a little harder than usual.

“No, thank you.”

A solid 10 minutes pass by of you & Michael sharing each others company, growing closer & closer by the minute, learning more about each other with each sip. Before you knew it, the conversation was drifting from topic to topic without paying any attention to the appropriateness of it. You were both too far gone, only a quarter of your wine left.

"You ever think you'd be somewhere completely different by now?" you questioned. Your body now slouched into the couch, one leg thrown over the other.

Michael stared at you a little longer, his eyes half lidded n' hazy as he tries to understand your question before answering.

"Different how? Like marriage?"

You shrugged, your lips pouty n' stained a deep red from the wine. Your eyes slightly drunken. The state of you making his cock twitch in his pants.

"Yeah, marriage. You never wanna get married? I don't see a ring on your finger," you slur, pointing to his hand.

Michael blushes, scratching his head.

"No, I do. I wanna get married. I've been married, I've had a lot of experience in that sector, but it never works out, y'know."

You nod, a sympathetic look on your face, "I'm sorry about that."

"It's okay. Well, and you? you've never been married?" He asks, sliding a hand through his thick black hair. Part of him inside is smiling at the fact he's able to find out more about you. He didn't ask you to drink with him for that specific reason, but the line is starting to blur.

"No never. I've had a few boyfriends but...they also never worked out. I've never been happy with someone. In all ways."

"So you've never had a serious man?" He inquires, subconsciously sitting up. Now more intently focused when it comes to your love life.

You snicker into your glass, your teeth clanking against the delicate material, "None worth writing home about."

His eyebrows raise in surprise, taking a final sip of his wine before placing the glass on the coffee table beside him.

"Thats very hard to believe."

You furrow your brows with a little tantalising smirk, inching him to elaborate.

"Well you're beautiful," he gestures a hand at your figure. "Smart, good with children. I would've thought somebody would've appreciated you enough to keep you by their side by now."

Tingles n' heat creep up into your cheeks, your lashes fluttering with nerves as you force yourself to smile & thank him.

"Thank you." Is all you can manage.

"Why do I get the feeling every guy you've dated has been a total dimwit?" He whispers. His irritation rising knowing no man will ever take care of you the way he knows he could.

You chuckle, "You'd be right then."

His eyes never leave yours, "What, did they just never treat you right, Is that it?"

You hesitated a little, lips moving to say something but then faltering. Your lips stay around the rim of your empty glass. Michael noticed your hesitation instantly.

"What? Come on!" he teases you, giving your knee a soft nudge.

"No I cant, it's so embarrassing." You laugh, stretching your hand to put your glass down on the table.

Michael points at himself, his face straight all of a sudden.

"Embarrassing? Do you know the amount of embarrassment I had to go through in my career?" He snickers.

He shifts to sit up more, counting on his fingers, "Pepsi Incident, false accusations, women not liking me back. Countless things! I can go on-"

"Okay, okay." You start, pinching your eyes together with your fingers, your cheeks practically on fire at this point.

Michael goes silent instantly as he waits, his hands wrapped around the couch again.

“I’ve just never been satisfied, sexually. I find that important in a relationship.” You come out.

“You what?” He laughs breathlessly, taken back.

The thought of what you're saying to Michael right now doesn’t even register in your brain. You’re just talking, completely relaxed. It’s a nice feeling, yet a little risky to your relationship.

“I’ve never got there.” You close your eyes.

Michael’s lips fall agape as you confess to never having an orgasm. Not knowing what to say. He can’t help but ask more questions, as less perverse as possible.

“Not even…alone?” He says barely above a whisper.

You shake your head slowly, letting your head fall into your hands as you laugh to yourself, completely exposed & vulnerable. You’re drunk, yet after saying it it’s like you’ve sobered up. You're regretting it. You press on, trying to explain yourself.

“I’ve heard my friends talk of it about their relationships, even alone. But I’ve just never been able to, let alone with another person. So there you go, that’s my secret.”

You reach for your glass before realising it's empty, not knowing what to do with your hands. You just keep your head down, avoiding eye contact. The silence is unbearable, the room is practically choking you from how small it feels. Michael doesn't answer right away, though you feel the burn of his stare on you. You cant tell if it's sympathy or judgement. The confusion is killing you. You decide to look up at him momentarily, he's already looking into your eyes. He didn't look shocked or amused, he was just looking at you.

"Wanna know how it feels?" He says, his voice an octave lower.

Your eyes shot up at him, your heart racing so hard you swear he can hear it.

"What do you mean?" You mumble pathetically, your face like a deer in headlights.

"I mean do you wanna know how it feels? just a question, truly."

His poker face isn't telling you jack, it's like he's left you to interpretation. You straighten your back, trying to appear confident.

"Uh, yes. Yes I do."

Michael scoots a little closer to you on the couch, his knee brushing yours. You can tell he's trying to seem as natural as possible. You watch him through half lidded eyes, trying to keep your balance upright as you're a little tipsy, so is he.

"You're a kind girl, I cant help but feel genuine sympathy for you. You mean to tell me you've spent all this time wondering what it feels like?"

You clear your throat, crossing your legs as you give him a little nod.

He pouts a little, "& how far would you be willing to go?"

"How far would I be willing to go for what?"

"To feel the one thing no one has ever made you feel."

You think to yourself, the number of times you'd feel terribly aroused at home, knowing you need some sort of release but not knowing how to deal with it. Or the sickening envy you'd feel hearing your friends talk about the way they came so hard they cried. Or even just your string of bad dates that included horrible sex. You hated it; you felt like a child.

You nod, "Far."

"Let me help you then." He snaps with no restraint. You look at his face, searching for any sign of unseriousness. You don’t find anything.

You feel a pulse start to build up in your cunt at the mere thought of Michael helping you. You work for him, you think to yourself. The taboo nature of the idea arouses you, yet you try to let your morals win.

“Help me with that?” You say below a whisper, saying it out loud feels like a crime. “I don’t think that’d be right, I work for you.”

“I know you do, but I’m only trying to help. It stays in this room. Only if you’re willing.” He says, his bottom lip drawing in at the possible reality.

“But what will I tell people-“

“You don’t have to tell anyone anything. This is supposed to be private. Just a person helping another person hm?”

You let the thought ponder in your head, you remember you’ve had fantasies of this man. You’d wake up in hot sweats from multiple sex dreams of him lapping up your pussy with his tongue, only to beat yourself up for it afterwards. The frame of his body, his hair, those sexy pair of eyes that threaten your self respect everyday.

“Teach me.” You nod innocently, your voice laced with a mix of desire & hesitation. You knew deep down you wanted him bad.

“You sure?” He says, tucking a strand of hair out of your face.

“Yes, I want too. I want you to make me feel it.” You scoot forward, blinking rapidly from excitement.

“Take your hair down,” he says, rubbing your shoulder gently.

You follow his command, letting your hair down out of your clip, placing it neatly on the table.

“Good, now just relax okay? you look tense. That’s not gonna help either y’know?” He cooes.

You nod along like you have no brain of your own, completely in his mercy. You like being told what to do, not having to think.

Michael’s now close & facing you, softly rubbing your smooth arms to try & relax you — prepping you. His eyes fall to your lips, ripe & agape. Just begging to be kissed n' licked.

Without any warning, he leans in & presses his lips to yours, automatically moving his hands to cup your jaw; your skin burns under his touch. He proceeds to slide his tongue between your lips, asking for permission to be let in. You hum, allowing him. With no time to waste, you feel him enter your mouth, his tongue dancing with your own, warm & wet. You mewl into the kiss, your brows pressing together as the ache in your core grows larger. You place your hands on his shoulders & squeeze, forcing yourself to have a mind of your own.

"Mhm, there you go. Just go with the flow." He mumbled, his words barely audible, muffled by your puffy lips.

He breaks the kiss, leaving you pouting in loss of contact. Strands of hair stick to the wetness he left on your lips.

"What happened?" You say, your eyes blown out.

"Nothing," he chuckles, "Just relax & lay back, can you do that for me?"

"Mhm," you slowly lay back on the couch cushions behind you, keeping your legs together as your hands remain on your lap. It's like you've been fantasising about this moment, but when it comes, you get all shy. You can tell he's getting off on it by the bulge growing in his sweatpants, but you pretend not to notice.

"Face me, baby." He says, turning you in his direction by your waist. You feel your pussy grow wetter & wetter by the second, your thoughts clouded by the unrelenting desire for his touch down there.

His calloused hands run down from your thighs to your knees, "gonna open now okay?" he whispers, peppering a little kiss on your collarbone.

You nod, keeping your doe'd eyes on him as he slowly pushes your legs open, your sundress riding up as he does so. A few more forced pushes of your legs & they're completely open. Your pink cotton panties stained with a dark circle in the middle from your arousal. You hear him whisper profanities under his breath as he stares at your clothed pussy, your lips showing a little through the material.

"Pink really is your favourite colour, so damn pretty." He purrs, caressing the inner skin of your thighs. The rough texture of his palms against the smoothness of your skin causing little mewls to fall from your lips. He's here to help you, yet the stiffness of his cock keeps betraying him.

Michael places a gentle hand against your chest, "Breathe, baby."

You realise how hard your heart is beating, you can't tell if it's from nerves or pure arousal but you attempt to steady your breathing.

"Sorry, I think I'm just really turned on." You shudder.

Michael caresses your jaw, "Thats the most important factor."

He leans down, placing light little kisses on your thighs & knees. You tremble from the contact. He holds one of your feet with one hand, kissing your perfectly manicured toes as the other hand rubs on your the curve of your ass.

"Please touch me," You beg, giving your pussy a little stroke to signal to him where you want it.

He gently slides his middle & index finger up your wet slit, your arousal totally soaked through the cheap fabric of your panties. Your mouth falls open with no sound at first, just pleasurable shock. The feeling of the tips of his fingers grazing over your clit making you squeak like a slut.

Michael presses a finger to your lips with his free hand, "Try to be quiet okay? I know it's hard." He orders.

His cock is throbbing like a ticking time bomb under his sweatpants at the sight of you all drunken & horny in front of him, legs splayed open waiting for him to help you.

"Mm, sorry." You mumble under his finger, trying to keep your eyes out of the back of your head as he continues rubbing softly.

He tugs at the side of your panties, moving them to the side slowly to reveal your glossy folds. There might as well be a twinkle In his eye as he stares.

"Damn," He breathes out, giving your swollen clit a rub with his thumb.

You arch your back immediately, covering your mouth as he rubs your clit tantalising slow.

"Fuck, Michael. I swear It's never felt that good." You gasp, drawing your bottom lip under your teeth painfully hard.

He smiles, his ego rising from your comment. He proceeds to rub in small circles with his index & middle finger in a steady rhythm, gathering your juices from the bottom to rub all over your clit.

"Let's get this down," he says to himself, pulling the upper half of your dress down with one hand, letting your perky tits fall free. He gawks at the view, forgetting this isn't about him — it's all about you.

You feel heat rise in your face again, you've never felt so exposed & horny in your life.

He gropes the curve of your breast with his free hand, rolling your nipple through his fingers as he continues his work on your pussy.

"Feeling good, ma? You need to tell me."

Your head falls back on the arm of the couch as you nod, your stomach twitching from the pleasure as you try to stop your moans from erupting — you're soaked for him.

"Feels so good Michael," You cry out. The muscles in your thighs starting to clench as you chase something you don't even know what.

He takes his hands away, unbuttoning his shirt in a frenzy as he tosses it on the floor. He comes back, though this time you feel 2 slender fingers slowly slide in you, curving just right.

"Oh my god," You whine, your eyes falling into your head.

He continues to roll your nipple between his fingers with his free hand, all while kissing you simultaneously.

Your body wasn't the only thing he'd ogle at, your lips were insanely arousing to him too, he didn't know where to touch or kiss you now that he had you like this.

Your hand snaps into his hair, grabbing on for dear life as you feel yourself begin to tremble & shake, he feels it too.

"Michael? Something's happening." You whimper, your brows pressed tight as you look at him for an answer, your eyes glossy.

"Thaats it," he encourages you. "You feel it baby? I ain't stopping."

Immense pressure coiled tighter inside of you, every breath becoming harder & harder to catch the more he fingers you perfectly on your g-spot — no one's ever hit the right spot, yet he seems to know exactly where you like it.

"Michael, Michael!" You cry.

"Yes," he hisses, "Let go." He leans down.

You feel his supple mouth latch onto your pussy, lapping & sucking gently on your sensitive nub as he continues to curl his fingers into you. You break immediately; the tension that had been building for minutes reaches a point where it feels unmanageable. The coil in your belly snaps, something in you lets go, your muscles tightening as your pulse thunders in your ears with blind spots covering your vision.

You squeal as you cum on his mouth, your eyes pinched shut as you tug on his hair for support. Once you had the energy to lift your head & come back to life, you look down at Michael, the lower half of his face glistening with your juices as he pants, smiling at you warmly. He sits up, licking n' sucking his fingers like a child with candy.

"Thats an orgasm," He smirks, a cocky look on his face. He brings a finger to your mouth, "Taste yourself, you did that."

You hesitate before latching your mouth around his finger, sucking on it looking at him. You taste sweet, just how you're feeling.

"I didn't know I could do that," You bite your lip, feeling a sense of achievement wash over you as Michael watches you in amusement.

"Glad I could help." He chuckles.

You stay lying, your panties still shifted to the side. You pull them off in one swift motion, throwing them on top of his shirt on the floor. You don't know how, but your orgasm gave you a wave of confidence. You feel like you could do anything; you feel like a woman.

"Though," You press on the bulge through his sweatpants with your foot, it's extremely hard.

"I wanna cum again, but with this," you plead, not wanting to say the word.

He bites his lower lip as he thinks about it, running a hand through his hair. Touching you is one thing, but fucking his nanny on his living room couch while his children are asleep, that's messy — & he liked it.

Before you could process what's happening, he's rolling his sweats down, giving his cock a little grab before finally sliding off his boxers too. You salivate at the sight of him. Thick, slender, & deep in colour. You instinctively open your legs wider, inviting him over. He climbs over you, one hand braced next to your head while the other juts your chin up for you to look at him, your eyes too busy on his cock.

"No one can know about this, you hearin' me?" He presses.

You nod frantically, "I promise."

You reach out to touch him, you give him a few little strokes. Your hand felt tiny up against it. He drops his head on your chest from the feeling of your hand movements. You let out a little moan as you attempt to line him up to your weeping slit, the feeling of it rubbing against you driving you crazy. You buck your hips forward, desperate to have him inside of you.

"Let me baby, relax." He takes over, lining himself up with your entrance.

You feel him begin to crown you a little, already feeling a bitter sweet sting start to form.

"Please, all in." You beg as you hold your legs open, your hands in the backs of your knees.

"Dammit,"

Michael sinks all of his length into you, the pleasure even more intense than before. You quickly shoot your hands to his shoulders to push him back a little as you squeal, your lashes fluttering as you look at him from beneath them. You start to move your hips desperately, you loved watching how it disappears & reappears beneath you, he's the biggest you've ever felt. It feels like you're having sex for the first time again. Your hands return to the backs of your knees again, spreading yourself wider for him greedily.

The sound of your mixed arousal is like music to his ears as he begins to form a steady rhythm with you. He manages to hit your g-spot constantly, never missing.

"You're gonna be the death of me." He grits, grabbing one of your breasts as he leans down to suck on one of your nipples slowly & sensually.

You whimper into his clammy hair as he's leant down, your eyes rolling back as you begin to feel the same coil in your belly you felt earlier — now able to recognise it. You let go of your thighs, your strength faltering as you come closer to your release. Michael's hands quickly replace yours, pushing your thighs back a little as he continues rolling his hips into you.

“Mm—harder,” you beg, looking up at him all pretty. Your eyes sparkling with quiet mischief, “fuck me harder.”

The sweet sound of skin meeting skin starting to creep up the harder he goes, eager for you to come again. He wants that for you.

"Michael, It's happening again I feel it. I think i'm gonna come." You warn, your eyes squeezing shut as you feel his mouth press against yours hot & messily.

He pulled back an inch from your lips, just enough to murmur, "Come for me," as he planted an encouraging slap on the side of your ass.

With a sharp cry buried deep into his shoulder, you come hard. Your vision is blocked out once again, the same pulse in your ears as you squeeze around him. You twitch beneath him.

Michael planned to last longer in the hope of pleasuring you for as long as you saw fit, yet the way your pussy clenched around him brought him to a sharp halt instantly.

"Oh, god." He whines, pulling out & stroking himself desperately as he finishes all over your thighs. You hum in pleasure as you watch his warm release slide down your skin slowly.

You pant, looking up at him with a satisfied smile as he runs a hand across your cheek, droplets of sweat from his hair hitting your forehead.

"Thanks for helping me."

Michael brushed a strand of hair from your face.

"Anytime." He giggles.

"For the first time in my life, i'm able to understand what everyone is talking about."

“you like it, baby?” he asks.

“i’m obsessed with it,” you exaggerated, shifting to sit up from your lying position on his bed.

“you like it that much?” he hums, and you find it within your self-restraint to not comment on how good his voice sounded whenever he spoke in that low, sultry tone.

you fail to respond to him, only able to look at him from your sitting position on the edge of his bed. instead of maintaining eye contact, he looks away and continues to sift through his vinyls like he’s been doing for the past twenty minutes.

“you’re weird,” you mutter.

“what?”

“you won’t look at me,” he can’t see you, but he already knows there’s a look of mild irritation adorning your face.

“‘cause you’re too pretty, baby,” he coos.

you roll your eyes at his words, although you can’t deny the feeling of warmth that traverses through your body. michael was shy, yet he had a way with words that always seemed to render you speechless.

before you let yourself get too lost in his sweet talking, you remember what the topic was conversation originally was. “the chanel bag is to die for.”

“mhm, i hear you. you want it?” he questions you.

you laugh, automatically assuming he was joking. your smile falters as he turns around to face you and you notice the solemn look on his face. he was serious about this.

“mikey, that’s too much damn money. don’t joke like that,” you chided.

now, michael was the one rolling his eyes. “‘m not joking. y’know i’ll get you whatever you want, baby.”

“the purse is gorgeous but no, i don’t want it. well, i do want it. but i don’t want you spending that much money on me,” you complained.

“we both know i can do more than afford it. let me spoil you,” his luscious voice combined with the endearing look in his eyes was nearly enough to convince you. but, you were determined not to let your boyfriend spend what you saw as ludicrous amounts of money on you.

“jus’ because you can afford doesn’t mean you have to buy it. but i love you for the offer.”

“i love you too, baby. the offer still stands if you ever wanna let me buy it for you,” he teases.

two days later, michael had invited you to hang out at his house like you usually did. the only thing different about this time was that nobody was home.

for the first time in ages, there was no joseph, katherine, jermaine, or anybody. it would just be you in michael alone in his encino mansion. you couldn’t help the lurid thoughts that filled your mind at the thought of you being home alone with your boyfriend for the first time.

arriving at his house, you let yourself in with the key that katherine gave you months ago. she claimed that you were “a part of the family” and you could bear to turn down her offer.

absolute silence was the first, and only thing you noticed when you walked into the house. there was no arguing, no joseph screaming, not even any music playing from a random room in the house.

“hello?” you call out.

nothing. no response from your boyfriend. “mikey?” you call out again. yet you still didn’t hear anything.

without saying anything else, you walk up the stairs to his bedroom. the closer you get to his room, the more you still fail to hear the faintest of noises.

you slowly push his bedroom door half open and you don’t see him. instead, you’re greeted with the exact black chanel jersey classic purse you spoke about mere days ago.

with its quilted exterior, black and gold chain, and gold-plated hardware, it might’ve just been the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. seeing your dream purse in the flesh was enough to render you speechless and leave you frozen.

amidst your admiration for the bag, you failed to notice michael appearing from behind the bedroom door. he had a somewhat smug look on his face like he was more than proud of himself for securing the thing you spoke so highly of.

“you like it, baby?”

“mikey!” you shout, throwing your arms around his neck to engulf him in a hug. “i love it so much, oh my gosh!”

he stumbles back for a moment due to the force with which you threw your body against his. after regaining his composure, he wraps his arms around your lower waist. his hands were splayed dangerously close to your ass, but you couldn’t find yourself to care in the moment.

“michael!” you shout once again. “it’s so fuckin’ cute,” you gushed.

his arms tighten around their place on your waist. then, he walks both of you back to his bed before he takes a seat on the edge of it. he drags you so you’re standing between his legs and his hands rest on your waist.

“you really like it, baby?” he asks.

“mikey,” you place both your hands on his shoulders, “i could kiss you so bad right now. that’s how much i like it.”

“you can’t jus’ say things like that,” he turns his head away from you.

“i mean it. i was jus’ talkin’ about how much i liked this bag a few days ago and you jus’ went and bought it! even though i told you not to,” you mutter the last part.

“i wanted to make you happy,” he turns his head back to you, gaze meeting yours.

you could’ve died where you were standing purely because of the look in his eyes. it was a mix of gratification and altruism. it was like he knew you liked the gift, yet he needed to hear you say it.

“i’m more than happy, mikey. much more,” you finish your sentence with a kiss on his cheek.

he scrunches his nose as your lips come into contact with his face. that only fuels you to continue your tirade on his face. you kiss his cheek, forehead, chin, and eventually his lips.

in the meantime, michael isn’t doing anything but laughing and tightening his grip on your waist. eventually, he flops back onto his mattress and takes you with him.

the two of you are a mix of laughter and the sounds of kisses being placed on michael’s face, purse long forgotten on the bed. you can’t remember the last time you’ve been this content with your life.

“i love you, baby.”

“you know i love you more,” you gush.

you sit up from where you were lying on your boyfriend's chest, and now, you’re straddling him. the atmosphere in the room shifted from what was once playful to something you couldn’t quite place. something much more tense.

“you mean it, baby?” he asks, hands tightening around your waist once again.

you run your hands under his shirt, manicured nails skimming the expanse of his toned stomach. he sucks in a breath at the feeling of your nails on his abdomen.

“of course i mean it.”

“you wanna show me how much you mean it?”

you don’t offer him a verbal response. instead, you rock your hips against his. michael groans at the contact, and it’s a low provocative sound that immediately goes to your core.

you continue your pace, and michael guides you whenever you begin to falter in the slightest. a mess of fluids is beginning to manifest where your hips meet and the room is beginning to get increasingly hot, but at this point, you’re physically unable to stop.

“baby,” he murmurs, “‘m not gonna—“

you rock your hips in a particularly salacious way that leaves him speechless. he’s unable to let out anything but a string of moans and whispers of your name. you’re no better, only being able to whine and whimper “michael!” here and there.

“i’m so close, mikey,” you keen.

“me too, baby. ‘m not gonna last long if you keep moving like that.”

you’re on fire and a wet, sticky mix of both you and your boyfriends' fluids. you’ve given up on your set pace and now, you’re just desperate to move as fast as you can. you’re chasing the friction and satisfaction that you get whenever your core makes contact with his bulge.

michael is a mess of moans and heavy breaths with a grip on your waist that would’ve been painful under any other circumstances. he’s frequently bucking his hips up into you, seemingly chasing the same friction as you.

“you’re so pretty, my baby,” he compliments.

“thank you, mikey. you make me feel so good,” you whimper.

he hums in response, and a distinctly rough thrust into your clothed core is enough to send you both over the edge. your orgasm shakes your entire body and it takes you a few moments to come to your senses.

when you do, michael is still underneath you, chest heaving with each heavy breath he takes. it’s a sticky and slightly uncomfortable spot where both of your hips meet. you’re hot and you know you’re probably sweating as much as he is, yet the only thing that’s on your mind right now is him.

you lean down to where he’s lying and connect your lips to his. the kiss is messy and you can’t feel anything but his tongue against yours and his hands on your waist traveling down to your ass.

you pull away from him in order to catch your breath and he’s already looking at you. wide-eyed and glossed over with swollen lips. you could actually fuck him right now.

“you’re so handsome, mikey,” you swoon.

“thank you, pretty girl. i love you so much.”

“i love you too. ‘n i need you so bad right now,” your hands trail down to the waistband of his sweatpants whilst you speak.

his breathing picks up and for a moment, he says nothing in response to you. “that wasn’t enough?” he asks you.

you almost laughed because no, dry humping wasn’t nearly enough. you needed to have him inside you or you were sure you’d go insane.

“‘s never enough. i need you nowwww,” you drag out the word.

“then take what you need, baby. i’ll buy you every chanel purse in existence if it means i get you like this.”

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Three months felt like a lifetime.

Each day droning on and the hours ticking by in a lethargic sort of hum. The electrical buzz of the air conditioning unit hanging from the window in your apartment making white noise in your head while it overshadowed the static coming from the radio.

And you sat there listlessly, vision fuzzy at the sides as you stared at the phone, waiting for him to call.

It was getting late in London so it should be any moment now.

This was what your life had dwindled down to ever since Michael went on tour.

Months on end of phone calls, him falling asleep on the other end of the line and you gnawing at the your lip not wanting to hang up.

A rare four days sprinted across the weeks when there was a gap and he’d fly out to see you, but those moments were gone quickly like breath on a mirror.

You missed him. The way you felt your heart starting to rot inside of your chest felt dramatic, but then you remembered he was half way across the planet and you wouldn’t get to see his face for another five weeks.

You knew the moment you met him, you’d have to share him with the world. You knew that. Knew there was no way around it and knew that despite the frustration it offered, Michael wanted the world in return.

So there you sat, like clockwork, fingers picking at a thread in your sheets and waiting for the phone to ring with a cup of tea long gone cold on your nightstand.

Your cat meowed from the doorway, sensing your upheaval of emotions as another minute ticked by—

The phone rang and it was picked up and pressed to your ear barely a second later.

“Hey, baby.”

You shut your eyes at the sound of his voice. Labored with exhaustion and a rough edge to it that made your heart flutter.

“Hi, Michael.”

Your finger twirled around the cord as you heard the shuffle of sheets as he got settled into whatever hotel room he was staying the night in. His breath slower and a bit heavier on the phone when he finally spoke again.

“I really wish you were here.”

“I know, me too.”

“Real bad,” there was something unraveling beneath his tone. Something you hadn’t heard from him in a while given the distance and your teeth sank into your bottom lip.

“I had a dream about you last night,” you spoke quietly, shy despite the privacy.

“Oh yeah?” Michael’s voice held a hint of amusement, though the cadence was definitely more on the teasing side. “You must be in my head, because I had one about you too.”

You hummed, “what happened in it?”

“Do you remember that night in Florence?”

You blushed. You’d never forget it. “Of course.”

“Well, we’re there. And instead of my head between your thighs in the hotel suite I had you laid out and open for me while we were in the Accademia Gallery.”

You clicked your tongue. “A public escapade? Naughty.”

“Only for you. Now what was your dream?”

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Michael’s hand was gripping himself through his boxers, the pressure making his head spin as he listened to you.

“Well, we were in the living room and there was this massive couch. You were sitting down and I lowered myself to my knees.”

He could picture it. You in one of your little sundresses he loved so much. Eyes doting as you looked up at him from the ground and he let out a low sigh as he finally gave himself permission to slide his hand down, back up.

“And what’d you’d do next, baby?”

Your own voice was a little heated and he knew you were in bed right now. The thought of you rubbing your thighs together while you rehashed the wet dream made his cock twitch in his hand.

“You had me crawl to you as you spread your legs, having me kneel right between them as you undid your belt and took your cock out for me to see.”

As you spoke, he did just that, his hand finally reaching under the waistband of his boxers and pulling himself out, the cool air hitting him made him shiver. His tip already leaking pre-come. He would’ve been embarrassed but it had been so long.

He dragged his hand up and down, his grip firm and trying to imagine it was yours.

“Keep talking, honey.” His voice slipped into a lower register, one he only used with you when the hour was late like this.

“You took hold of one of my hands and had me take hold of your cock. God, it felt so real and you felt so warm, your skin like velvet and I could feel your pulse along the veins as I ran a nail along it.”

His head fell back against the head board, his whole body tightening and he could feel the muscles in his stomach clench as he tightened his grip and pumped his hand up and down.

God what he would give to have you here.

“Then you told me to open my mouth and I did, real wide to try to get you all the way in but you’re too big.”

“Oh fuck,” Michael shuddered and he gnawed at his lip as he suddenly got an idea, eyeing one of his suitcases. “Keep going,” he muttered, standing up to dig through it for a moment and when his finger caught on a piece of pink lace he smiled, his grin akin to a shark who’d just got a whiff of blood in the water.

He sat back on bed after kicking his boxers off, one hand holding the phone while the other wrapped his favorite pair of your underwear around his cock, the soft material providing an enticing sensation as it rubbed against the tip and he shuddered as he started to jack off again.

“I wrapped my lips around the head of it and then you told me to lick and I kept doing it again and again and you were making so much noise for me, baby. Then I hollowed out my cheeks, trying to be good for you and take you deeper but your cock already made my mouth feel so full and I wasn’t even half way down.”

“Fucking hell.” A moan left him, fracturing his speech. The imagine of your head bobbing up and down between his legs made his thighs tense and his hips rose up in blind thrusts, seeking you out desperately.

“I started to gag and you told me how pretty I looked when my eyes started to water and spit was drooling out of my mouth.”

He wasn’t think straight, or at all, caught up in a lust induced delusion of wishing you were there so he could dig his fingers in your hair to push you down deeper. Fuck your throat harder. Spitting on his own cock to fuel the daydream.

“You loved being face fucked didn’t you?”

You whimpered quietly and he couldn’t help it as moan rose up from the back of his throat, dancing up his tongue like a spider.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

“Fuck baby, are you touching yourself?”

As if being able to see you even though you were thousands of miles away, your hand had begun to dance its way down.

The sound of him over the phone was intoxicating. His heavy breaths, the whimpers dancing on the edge of his teeth, the wet sound of Michael jacking himself off… it was too much.

“I can’t help it when I’m hearing you like that,” you panted and the second your fingers touched your swollen clit, a moan tore up your throat violently and you barely heard Michael swearing on the other end of the phone.

“How’d the dream end?” He practically bit out and you could so clearly envision the way his muscles were clenching in his stomach as he masturbated, his head thrown back and curls damp with sweat as he neared a finish.

“With you… with you coming down my throat,” you struggled with your speech, your fingers sliding down and in and it wasn’t enough at all. Knowing Michael’s hands were so much bigger than yours and how much better his cock would feel if he were fucking you right now. “You held my jaw and had me swallow it so you could feel it going down.”

A broken sort of sound left him, utterly raw and human. “I’m coming baby, fuck—“

You actually whined, the sound leaving you without warrant and wishing you could be face down in the mattress by him.

“Michael.”

“That’s it baby, just think of me.”

Your ears were ringing and head spinning, your fingers dancing back up to your clit and imagining it was his mouth instead, picturing his eyes meeting yours as he flattened his tongue over it and you fell right off the edge of oblivion.

You practically melted back into the bed once your high started to ebb, hearing Michael trying to catch his breath as well and you laughed.

“What?” He asked, the lazy smile evident in his tone.

“Nothing, just… wow.”

Michael hummed and you heard the shuffle of papers before he spoke. “I’m buying you a plane ticket to come see me, I can’t do this anymore. I’m gonna go insane.”

You smiled, “when?”

“Tomorrow morning, I’m having a car pick you up at nine.”

“I‘ll wear that thong you seem to like so much as a hello gift.”

Michael was silent for a brief moment before laughing. “I might’ve taken it.”

michael jackson masterlist

taglist: @solarrandom @mjssluttyfish @tojiswifeforlife @sometranslationnoteru @sunshineyrosie @swgarpeas @amoravelee @softchaosdiary505

Cameras pan side to side, following you as you strut slowly to the instrumental of your latest song. You hold your microphone close to your lips, practically kissing it as your rich vocal tone sways through the many bodies in the theatre. Red and white light illuminate your stature as you dance, your body painted in an array of warm hues; it captures every lift of your arms, every body roll, and every leg lift.

“Since you've been like this.” You look to your left, singing softly. The camera pans to you, focusing on your eyes. “Baby, I don't really wanna be in like this.”

You strut slowly across the stage, like a cat stalking its prey. Every word you sing comes out with a smooth, silky and rich tone. You can’t quite see the audience, but you feel their eyes on you with every move you make

“Said I can do this all night, baby” You crouch at the edge of the stage. “Said I was actin' out of line, maybe.”

Slowly, you slide down to the floor with your back on the cold stage. When you lift your legs in the air and circle the microphone cord around your arm, a camera near you travels over your form, stopping near the mic to capture your concentrated expression.

You blink slowly, smiling while you rap the last line of the verse. “Thank God I ain't been like this, yeah!” An applause erupts from the sound of your gorgeous voice punching that line out to the crowd. You continue singing, getting up from the floor and taking a few steps backwards in your heels. The crowd continues to cheer, enjoying your last verse.

“I, bless your heart,” The lights turn a soft shade of pink, capturing your curves in a rosy haze, “But I, I can't take no more.”

When the music dies down, the crowd cheers. The main lights go on, and you can finally see your audience. They all stand and clap their hands together, some men whistling in the back while others hoot and squeal. You stand and take it all in, absorbing praise from your peers.

This performance is different from others you’ve done. As a rising star, you had only performed for fans in small venues and festivals, but tonight you’re in a room filled with other artists. Producers, singers, songwriters and even actors are standing and cheering for you, never mind the millions of people watching you from the comfort of their homes.

You take a deep breath and smile, blowing kisses throughout the theatre as you make your way backstage. When you’re out of the camera’s sight, your manager places his hands on your shoulder and shakes you with an excited gaze.

“That…that was amazing!” He whisper-shouts. Diana Ross walks past you bitterly as she steps on stage to announce the next award winner in the ‘Best Music Video” category. You and your manager, Kyle, don’t pay her much mind.

“You think so? I was so nervous.” You walk further backstage and sit in a quiet room with Kyle. “I couldn’t even see the crowd. The lights were in my face and everything.”

Kyle nods enthusiastically while handing you a bottle of water, “You did great! Michael Jackson couldn’t peel his eyes away from you when you started dancing. That's why that witch’s got a stank face on.”

A soft laugh escapes from you, and you shake your head in disbelief. “You’re saying the Michael Jackson was watching my performance?”

Kyle chuckles beside you. He takes a deep breath and stretches his arms, “Honest to god, he was watching you from backstage, then he rushed back to his seat when you finished. I think the next award is his.”

Your heart skips a beat at the explanation. Was Michael Jackson actually watching you? As in the king of pop? No way, nope, nope—

“I’m serious, woman,” Kyle reassures you. He stands and calls in your stylist for some touch-ups before the final red carpet walk at the end of the show. The middle-aged woman enters and sets her makeup kit to the side before packing in extra foundation on your forehead and nose.

“I overheard him speaking with his manager about your performance,” your MAU speaks softly, packing in some more highlighter on your eyes’ inner corner, “he said you looked good up there, then asked one crew member for your name.”

You take a deep breath and giggle nervously. The mere thought of someone as great as MJ being interested in you is scarily exciting.

90 minutes pass. The award show finally comes to an end. You can hear cheering in the main room as the cameras pan around familiar faces for the closing credits. Kyle makes sure your outfit is properly worn, holding up a Polaroid camera to snap a picture of you — he’d later give you the photo titled ‘1st Award Show Performance’.

“Okay! Ready for the red carpet?” Kyle asks excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Yup,” you giggle and head out with him, making your way outside, “I’ll see you in the car.” Kyle waves goodbye, protectively watching you disappear into the flashing camera lights.

Cameras flash violently with your appearance, press and cameramen asking you multiple questions all at once. The hype around your performance tonight is palpable. You’re certain tomorrow’s pop culture papers will be about you, and you alone. Every movement you make is accompanied by a camera flash. It’s ridiculous, really. The obsession the press has with new, hot stars makes you nauseated, but you keep a steady smile on your face, letting the press get all the photos they need.

When you reach the end of the red carpet, the cameras flash harsher than they did for you, almost as if someone has simply turned on a large flashlight. You gracefully step off the carpet and get a glimpse of who’s suddenly taken the attention off of you.

Michael Jackson

He walks confidently, flashing the cameramen a gorgeous smile. God, he’s beautiful. He seems to have his attention on something else…Someone else. Your heart thumps in your chest when you realise who his eyes are on.

He’s. Looking. At. You.

Michael carefully strides across the red carpet, giving short nods and barely-there smiles before he reaches you. When he does, he motions for you to walk with him to a more secluded area near the many expensive cars.

“H-hi.” You stutter and try to act as calm as possible.

“Hi,” his smile is warm and inviting. He keeps a respectful distance from you, somehow noticing your nervousness, “Your performance was…really something.”

You hesitate to answer. This moment feels unreal, as if just a dream. Michael Jackson is speaking to you, talking about your performance.

“Oh, I…I hope that means something good.” You laugh nervously, and he nods reassuringly.

“Of course. I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Michael’s eyes travel down your outfit, skintight shimmery leggings and deep maroon spandex one-piece. He wants to compliment your figure, but decides against it. He bites his lip instead, holding your gaze for a second longer.

The moment between you makes your head fuzzy. Michael shifts on the balls of his feet, suddenly feeling nervous, too. It’s your turn to assess his outfit now. Your eyes travel over his lean legs, then his broad shoulders, landing on his large eyes. Unbeknownst to you both, a cameraman has been capturing every second of your interaction, snickering to himself about how much money he’ll make selling these photos.

“The song you were singing, ‘Been like this', right?” He breaks the thick silence. “Who’s it about? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“It’s uh, it’s about my ex-boyfriend. Bad breakup.” You nod, looking at your long nails.

Michael takes a step closer, a sudden urge he fails to restrain. He tilts his head to gaze down at you, licking his lips slowly. You look up at him and inhale his rich scent.

“It’s beautifully composed. I love the passion in the track, and you somehow made it more passionate on stage tonight.” Michael’s face lightens up, gaze relaxed now that he’s speaking about something he’s comfortable with.

“Wow, I hadn’t expected you to be into my sound.” Your laugh fills his chest. He laughs as well.

“Why not?” He questions you playfully.

“Well…I’ve been labelled as ‘promiscuous’ and ‘inappropriate’.”

Michael scoffs, shaking his head as if mentally dismissing the accusations against you. “You’re changing the game. Men sing about sex all the time. It’s about time women do the same.”

You’re taken aback by his words, having never expected him to be so open-minded. Men in the industry tend to be hypocritical about music. They sing about ‘slutty” women, but then ridicule women for embracing said slutty-ness. You hug yourself as a wisp of cold air blows past you.

“Wow…I—,” you’re at a loss for words, “I hadn't considered you’d have that mindset.

Michael instinctively takes his jacket off and hands it to you, motioning you to follow him to the cars. Coincidentally, your cars are parked next to each other. You can see Kyle in your car. A shit-eating grin is plastered on his face when he sees you wrapped in Michael’s large black jacket. Michael’s scent fills your senses with the jacket on you. You breathe deeply to savour the smell, wondering how long it’ll last.

“I have two older sisters. Pretty much grew up hearing them talk about boys and what they wanted to do with them,” Michael chuckles when he sees your manager in the car. “Keep it up. You have an amazing voice, and you rap like a pro. Maybe we can work together one day. Dance too?”

You freeze at the future offer. Your eyes pop open in shock, and you gasp softly. Kyle can’t quite hear what you two are saying, but he scoffs playfully in the car at your reaction. Another gust of wind passes you both, and you shiver, hugging Michael’s large jacket tightly around your smaller frame.

“I would love to work with you.” You shiver, shifting to make yourself smaller to avoid the cold. “I think our voices will mesh well together.”

Michael opens the passenger side door of your car, sensing you’re probably getting too cold to continue speaking. He gives you a charming “yeah, you’re right” and holds the door open for you. When you attempt to hand him his jacket, he stops you with a gentle hand.

“Keep it for tonight,” he winks (more like a blink) and waits for you to enter the car. “I’ll come by and get it another time.”

Your heart flutters, and your cheeks get warmer. Michael gently closes the door for you and waves goodbye before striding casually towards his own car.

⟡ ۫ . ✉️ — in the winter of '69, eleven year old michael jackson met his darling wife, the mother of his children, on his first day at gardner street elementary school. in the sandbox during recess was where he first laid eyes on the beautiful girl he would go on to call his own.

the girl in question hadn't noticed him at first, partly because michael was always very shy and quiet outside the stage, but also because she—our sweet, ditsy reader—was lost in her own world. as that happy little child, you often didn't notice the people around you when you were busy with something.

then when you did look to the side, you began your very first conversation with the boy who had been observing you. shy little michael thanked the heavens that you'd been the one to say something, because even at first glance he thought you looked really pretty, and while his mother had brought up the sweet boy to be a confident gentleman with the ladies, his shyness often overwhelmed the ability to spark conversation—especially with such an angelic girl as yourself.

you thought he was very cute—but in that boyish, adorable sort of way, not bearing the burden of those fluttery butterflies that michael was dealing with upon first sight. at eleven years old, and without really having had such jittery feelings for anyone before, he wasn't quite sure how to understand said feelings. all he knew was that he had been placed beside a very beautiful girl, and that made him very happy.

once you'd started talking, he was determined to lengthen and drag out whatever it was that you ended up discussing, because he quickly realised that he would happily listen to you talk forever, and because he worried that if your conversation ended, you would walk away and he'd have to restart an instigation of your friendship all over again.

but that first conversation took you both all the way to next period, a class that luckily you shared, and beyond that to lunch, where by the end of the day it became clear that two sweet, doe-eyed children were entering a dear friendship, one that was sure to extend past the four walls of the classroom.

a few months later, michael eventually left in favour of being homeschooled, but you lived close by, and your relationship happily blossomed. you were the only one who saw him for who he really was—not the cute pop star everyone wanted to say that they knew, but the caring little boy, who you were of course so privileged to say that you knew, but who mattered so much more than a claim to fame. while many around you and in the media were beginning to judge michael as he grew into his adolescence through misunderstanding his personality, his best friend knew everything about him, and there was nobody he felt safer with.

however, as you both turned fourteen, the forceful nature of michael's circumstances triggered a turn for the worse. you were growing up in two very different households. where michael's was strict and absent of care, yours was much more relaxed and loving. you could pretty much do whatever you wanted, within generous limits—staying out at night with friends as long as you were back in time for curfew, spending your own allocated hours on studying rather than being forced to do so on your parents' terms.

michael, however, experienced the exact opposite, controlled by his father, joseph jackson, and there had been multiple nights initially where you had gone over to his house with the intention of either inviting him out or asking if he wanted to hang with you in his bedroom, but despite how covert you attempted to be, joseph was constantly on alert, where he always saw and heard everything. especially late at night, when the house was at its quietest. many times he shunned you away, and you knew he wasn't to be messed with, so you never retaliated or protested.

sometimes you were in fact lucky enough to make it inside without anyone other than michael and katherine noticing—katherine who always supported your presence and kept it a secret from her husband—but one night, where you had been so certain that nobody else was aware, joseph found you at the top of the stairs as you headed to the bathroom. sinister and cruel as he always was, he now forced you to leave, and for good this time, making it clear to you that you would never be seeing michael again. you had been at a loss for words, utterly dumbfounded at why on earth his resort to this was supposedly necessary, but joseph only told you that nothing in the world mattered to him more than his son's career, ever-promising now that his voice was beginning to bloom into its youth, and therefore there could be no distraction. you wanted to go out and have fun with your best friend, or if not at least have the same harmless sleepovers you'd always had, but joseph was explicitly certain that you would prove to be nothing but a needless distraction from michael's focus on his craft.

at the time, you hadn't understood exactly how your presence and his career were linked—other than joseph's extreme over-protection of said career, which you eventually had to accept as the sole explanation—but you would find out the depth of it all eventually.

seven dreadfully long years went by without your very best friend. you hadn't even said goodbye to him, and it pained you both equally. joseph had felt no concern when he informed michael of what he'd told you, and if the boy hadn't already been certain of his father's relentless cruelty, this was now a whole other level of evil. joseph had taken away the one person who truly understood him, and at that he cried all night.

from that point on, sometimes you would see each other in the street—like the times where you'd be hanging with your friends directly opposite the entrance to the recording studio, supposedly coincidentally, but more accurately wanting to get a glimpse of the boy you missed dearly. it hurt so much to look at each other, knowing that three years of friendship had been forced to come to an end all because michael had been cursed with such a horrible father. he had influence and control in every part of michael's life, somehow always there in his presence, so it wasn't even like you could be sneaky and meet up in secret. attempted secrecy was what had caused the trouble in the first place.

you each wondered if things might be different in a few years. you were four away from turning eighteen, and while it seemed like a lifetime until adulthood would begin, there was slight hope in that things might be different when that time came. surely michael wouldn't still be under the oppression of joseph's constraints?

but eighteen came and went. two years prior you had moved with your family to new york, so meeting up with michael in los angeles was incredibly unlikely, and because it had been so long since you last saw each other, you began to feel awkward if you even suggested to your mother the opportunity to fly out to see him. what if he no longer cared about you? what if you hadn't even entered his mind in that time? after all, you had only been friends for three, and michael was a busy man in an even busier industry. surely he must have copious amounts of friends by now. you knew he'd struggled to attain them as a child, but the boy had always been incredibly charming, so certainly he must have better friends than you at this stage in his efflorescing career. perhaps he even had a girlfriend. weirdly, you found yourself searching for the answer to that question in the newspapers more often than you'd like to admit.

you were experiencing him only through the medium of music and television, always eagerly waiting for his next live TV appearance, buying each jackson 5 album as soon as they were released. you couldn't believe your horrible luck—that this beautifully talented young man had been your person, for three straight years, only to be stripped from you without warning.

the jacksons visited new york multiple times on tour, and every one of those times you purposely avoided attending, despite how much you craved to see michael in person again. you believed it would hurt too much, and that he might see you and... well, what would he think of you? would he be emotional to see you, as you would be to see him? or would he think you were using the night as a way to creep back into his life, to use him like everyone else wished to? you weren't even sure whether or not joseph had told him the truth. he had, but the possibility that michael had completely misunderstood your departure nagged at you anxiously. there were too many reasons not to be faced with him after all that time.

but your worry couldn’t have been more baseless, because michael missed you painfully. he felt he had never experienced such a loss as great as the day you disappeared, and while you may have guessed that he'd forgotten about your mere existence, the exact opposite was true. michael loved deeply and thoroughly, so not a day had passed where he hadn't thought of your name and your face. he owed great thanks to the existence of photography, because without it he wouldn't have the three pictures of you that always rested safely in his bedroom, those pictures that kept you with him no matter how far you were in reality. he often sat and wondered if you still looked the same, if you wore a different hairstyle now or sported a different fashion. he always wondered about you, and whenever he was in new york, he looked for you in every crowd. you never appeared, but he held strong hope that one day you would. he considered if perhaps he hadn't scanned the crowd with enough focus, and you'd been there all along.

in your desolate little bubbles, so stuck in melancholy over a friendship lost, neither of you could have predicted that soon enough—after some more painfully patient waiting—time would bring you back together, and elevate your once platonic love to define the two of you as forever sweethearts.

september, 1979 ♡

it was late afternoon in encino—the sweet sunlight of early autumn painting the greenery, its familiar warmth coating the air—when you stepped out into your hometown for the first time in five years. everything still looked the same, for it hadn't really been that long in the grand scheme of things. but for a girl who'd left at sixteen, those years had been experienced as akin to a lifetime. this place was where you were born, where you'd done everything for the first time, and now as an adult you were reentering what had birthed you.

your reason for returning was that your aunt was gravely ill, and you had been instructed to take care of her children while she was in hospital. initially, you had been so panicked for her that you hadn't felt the rush of second-thought that you usually had whenever the suggestion of returning to encino was brought up. you'd wanted to visit for so long—of course you had—but that uncertainty over michael and over joseph had consistently deterred you. you had essentially resorted to hoping that fate would bring you and michael together again, because you wished to absolve yourself of any responsibility in the matter. there had been opportunities, and you had chosen not to take any of them.

and still you wondered—if he was merely your best friend, why did it matter so much what he might say if you were to visit him? why did the thought of him rejecting your visit or misjudging your departure hurt you so badly you felt like you might throw up?

ironically, it seemed fate had now in fact intervened. through negative familial circumstances, you now had a reason to return to your hometown, the neighbourhood in which michael still inhabited—albeit with the same man who had forced you away. it deeply confused you how michael had now reached twenty one without yet escaping from joseph's control, but then again that family were always the most tight-knit group there ever was, and you knew michael was likely very afraid to get up and leave.

you also knew that he had released his debut solo album one month ago, and you'd bought it instantly—listened to it close to a hundred times, in complete awe of his talent. off the wall was so different to the sound produced of the jackson 5, and you'd hoped that with this venture into a solo career, he wouldn't be far off from separating himself from his father entirely. you always kept up to date on the latest news surrounding the family, hoping tirelessly that such separation would be soon, but still it seemed michael was trapped under joseph's power.

from the moment you stepped foot into encino, you couldn't stop thinking about him. the thought of his existence consumed you even more than it had done all these years, because now there was a very likely chance the two of you might run into each other. perhaps you wouldn't, but you couldn't be so pessimistic.

you needed to buy some new toys for your cousins who you were taking care of, and so you ventured off into the nearest toy store. it was big enough to have a worthy selection.

you scanned the aisles, walking up and down with a basket and dropping various teddybears and games into it as you went. you hummed in content, for the store was mostly empty at this time on a weekday, and you appreciated the calm.

and then all of a sudden, something mildly hard hit your shoulder, seemingly from out of nowhere. immediately you furrowed your eyebrows and whipped your head around to see who the culprit was. something had been shot at you from the barrel of a toy gun, and you chuckled to yourself, assuming it must have been a kid messing around.

as you turned back, you noticed a man beside you, smiling apologetically. the man was bald, in his fifties—incredibly familiar, although you couldn't pinpoint a name. "excuse me, ma'am. he was aiming at me."

you laughed again. growing up in a big, boisterous family, you knew how kids were. "oh, don't worry about it. at least he's having fun."

and then a head poked around the corner of the aisle, shooting a teasing smile at the man beside you, and what you saw certainly wasn't the face of any kid.

it was michael.

michael joseph jackson, the boy you'd been estranged from for the better part of the 1970s, was standing right at the corner of a random toy store in encino. your mouth widened in shock, but then you realised—of course michael was in a random toy store in encino. dressed in a plaid long sleeve and jeans, he still wore the same essence of the boy you knew, now enhanced by a visible maturity. and you’d seen him a lot over your years of distance, even if only on a screen or in pictures, but to see him now in person only affirmed just how handsome he was. you had always told him so, even before you were both teenagers, but he'd always shrugged off each compliment. now girls were desperate for his attention, and you always wondered how he was handling it.

he was still smiling at the bald man, toy gun held in his hands, and in an instant you recalled who that man was. bill bray—michael's bodyguard. joseph had assigned him to be of michael's assistance when he was thirteen, and you had to admit he was a great choice. how heartwarming that eight years on, here he was, still shopping for toys with that young boy, now a man.

bill didn't recognise you. it had been too long, and if you hadn't instantly recognised someone as distinctive as bill, it would've been a miracle for him to have done so of you.

you both stood together as michael's glance flicked from his bodyguard to the girl standing opposite him. it was a natural subtle movement of his eyeballs, but immediately upon the alteration he took a fast double-take, mouth opening as if to say something, but his vocal cords found no words.

"mikey..." you whispered, that long-lost nickname falling so instinctively from your lips.

michael’s eyes had lit up, but his expression still held a reflection of shock. you were really here—right in front of him.

"wh…” he started to speak, slowly as if trying to work out whether he was hallucinating or not. had he entered the stage of grief where he was seeing things that weren’t really there?

but his countenance only grew happier as he took in your appearance. you really were right in front of him—finally, after all these years.

“applehead…” he grinned, but still standing at the corner of the aisle in disbelief.

you chuckled at the familiar nickname, it sounding so silly after so long, but your heart warmed incredibly so. he still saw you in that way. he still saw you as his childhood best friend. as silly as it sounded to bill, to michael you were still his applehead, even at twenty one years old, seven years distanced.

smiles spread across both of your faces, and bill watched with fondness as he remembered exactly who you were. michael had never possessed many friends, and as his closest, you were the most memorable. it also helped that he had continuously mentioned you over the years. so much reminded him of you—things he saw, media he consumed, things that made him wonder if you might have liked them too, or perhaps you were watching the same thing as him at the same time…

michael often spoke his thoughts out loud with people he was comfortable with, so indeed bill had heard a lot about you.

now, the heart of the man opposite you was quite literally jumping up and down in his chest. this moment was what he’d wanted for so long, and by the look on your face, it relieved him to realise just how much you’d clearly missed him too.

he took a few steps forward, passing the toy to bill, a wide smile decorating his handsome face.

your smile mirrored his, and without another word, the two of you still unsure exactly what to say after all this time, michael initiated what you always used to greet each other with.

“c’mere, honey…” he sighed happily, enveloping you into a hug, his arms wrapping tight around your waist. honey? he’d never called you that before, and you felt something strange in your chest at the sound of the word from his lips.

with no hesitation, your arms threw themselves around his neck as you smiled against his warm chest, and the two of you giggled in pure glee. you each had missed this just as much, and michael’s hugs were truly special. how had you survived seven years without them?

“i missed you,” you both said in unison, chuckling again at the synchronicity. your words muffled against his chest as he spoke his into the crown of your head, taking in the scent of your hair.

“god, you have no idea…” he sighed, before pressing a warm kiss to your forehead and pulling away to look at you. bill was of course still standing there, but michael seemed to have forgotten about him altogether.

you both looked at each other in silence for a few moments, bright smiles on your faces that said everything without the need for words. your smiles somehow equally spoke of the sadness of years past, and the happiness of such a long time ago, with the beautiful relief of the current moment.

"so what are you doin’ here?” he asked in delighted disbelief. “i thought i might never see you again…”

"oh, i'm here to take care of my cousins for a little while," you explained, still beaming with joy. "just shopping for some toys. i really think fate brought us here. i can’t believe i’m looking at you right now."

the pretty smile ahead of you grew evermore. michael tugged you back into his embrace with playful aggression, and you squealed as you fell forward into his warmth again.

“mikey—” you laughed, but it wasn’t a real protest. you felt so safe in his arms, how he now held you to his chest. “you have somebody waiting, remember?”

“i have somebody right here, i know,” he said softly, still smiling and still holding you so tight, rocking you in his arms. his voice had always been so soft and gentle, but in this moment you realised it now seemed even more so.

you allowed him to hold onto you for a little longer, and despite michael being the one to initiate the hug, you really had no issues with being held in the warmth you’d missed so much. you’d be glad to live in this one moment forever.

“would’ya come to my place?” he whispered, still not letting go of you. “like old times?"

“to hayvenhurst?” you asked anxiously, hiding your face in his neck. you knew joseph still lived there.

“yeah, i wanna show you my room,” he smiled, and you could hear the smile in his tone, as you always could. he had always been such a happy, curious boy, but who simultaneously carried so much sadness. you hoped life had been better to him in recent years.

“it’s a lil different now. i have a pet monkey. his name’s bubbles.”

at that you pulled back in surprise, laughing as you did. “a pet monkey? and he stays in your room?”

he nodded as if it was a given that he’d share his living space with a monkey. but truthfully, when it came to him you should’ve predicted nothing less.

“michael…” you shook your head in amusement.

“so, d’you wanna come?” he raised a brow, a little shyly.

you almost visibly hesitated, but didn’t want to give him any impression that you weren’t interested in spending time with him. your reaction to seeing him had made that clear enough, but michael had seemed slightly shy to ask twice, as if he’d read your anxieties.

"yeah, of course—i'd love to mikey." you smiled to mask your worry.

but he could see through you well enough, the same way he always had. he furrowed his brows, and then almost immediately understood what was wrong.

"are you nervous about joseph?" he asked, weaving his long fingers between yours seamlessly.

you took a deep breath, looking at where you were interlocked, then looking back up again. "mhm. i know we're adults now but... it's his home, and—y'know... he did kick me out and tell me to never come back again."

"repeat that first part," michael said with that beautiful, reassuring smile. "you said it yourself: we're adults now. he can't hurt you."

you smiled sadly. "so does that mean he's stopped hurting you?"

michael squinted and squeezed your hand. "i fired him. as my manager."

your eyes widened. "for real?"

"yeah..." he chuckled under his breath. "i couldn't say it to his face, but we got it done in the end. yeah, he still lives with us an' all, but he's not in control anymore."

"are you sure?" you asked, still a little nervous at the prospect of a supposedly dismissed joseph still living in the same space as michael, that same space he would be taking you.

michael nodded again, opening his mouth to respond, but all of a sudden there was the happy shout of a child nearby.

"michael jackson?" the voice of a young girl called out.

you laughed happily and tapped his chest. "i'll let you deal with that."

michael turned back to wave at the fan, then gestured to her that he'd be one moment, before turning back to you.

"and yes," you added sincerely, "i'll come back to your place. you can give me a room tour."

your best friend's face lit up again, and you felt a strange twinge of emotion for the second time in two minutes.

"d'you wanna play twister? i'm just buyin' it here. my brothers don’t play w’me no more." he chuckled under his breath, but he held up the game in bill's cart with so much light in his eyes it strangely made you want to cry. and oh, poor bill was still standing there, waiting patiently for this standstill to end.

"i'd love to, mikey," you grinned, squeezing his hand that you noticed you were still holding.

after the little girl wanting his attention, there were several others—children, teens, adults—and the toy store quickly turned into a meet and greet with the one and only michael jackson. in the meantime, you paid for the toys in your cart, then stood and watched michael interact with the kids, and the smile on your face didn't falter the entire time. he was so lovely and gentle with them, even the ones that were a little boisterous. it was in that moment you knew that fame would never change the sweet boy he was within.

once he was finally done with signing autographs for everybody who had lined up, bill took the two of you home to hayvenhurst. michael sat in the back of the car with you, holding your hand the whole way. it reminded you of how you'd always hold his whenever as kids you'd walk back together anxiously, knowing that joseph's patience threshold was particularly low that day. you'd squeeze his hand as you walked, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles to soothe his nerves much like the way a gentleman might do for his girl—ironically, the very thing michael was doing for you right now. certainly a gentleman, but not yet in possession of a girl to call his.

michael definitely succeeded in soothing you now. neither of you talked much during the ride, mostly because you were too busy taking in the scenery around you, so immersed in the reality that you really were back home again.

and as you entered the all too familiar home, you couldn't have been luckier. joseph was out, and you discovered that he would continue to be until late at night, so you had nothing more to worry about. there was still that underlying concern you had for michael's wellbeing in general, but you had gratitude for the fact that his father at least wouldn't be ruining your reunion. you could have this one day together.

you greeted michael's brothers and sisters, talking with them for a while where michael impatiently waited for you to devote your attention to only him. then you spoke with katherine, his mother, who felt deeply sorry for what had happened, and quite guilty that she didn't attempt to sway joseph in another direction at the time. but you had to forgive her, because you knew that if you had been in her position, you wouldn't have had the courage to stand up for anything against that man.

michael was struggling to hide his frustration by the time you both finally reached his bedroom.

"what is it?" you laughed, nudging his arm. "you've been scowling at everybody for the last thirty minutes."

"it's nothin'," he shrugged, pushing open the door while trying to conceal the smile you always brought to his face. "i want you to myself, silly," he added, now certainly smiling again.

you rolled your eyes playfully. "i haven't seen them in seven years. i think a short conversation per person can be justified."

"whatever, honey," michael sighed.

again, that unfamiliar feeling pressed inside your chest, and now you were certain it was literal butterflies. what the fuck?

but before you had a chance to process what on earth was going on with your emotions, you blinked once and michael had a monkey in his arms. a real life pet monkey. you blinked a few more times to ground yourself in the chaos of the sight before you, and started to giggle.

"this is bubbles," he smiled, and his friend stared up at you with curiosity and intrigue.

you raised a brow, crossing your arms to your chest. "am i seeing things?"

"no," michael laughed softly.

"and what happened to rosie the crusher? she still here somewhere?" you asked in amusement, referring to michael's pet snake from when he was thirteen.

michael set bubbles down, and the latter skipped off into a corner to settle himself again. "well, joseph made me get rid of her a couple years back. i don't know where she is now."

you sighed in dismay, but you were also quite glad that this time you wouldn't be hanging out in a room where a snake was slithering around in the corner. yes, you understood michael more than anybody, but you were never quite sure what had possessed him to want a snake of all things.

over the next hour, you caught up on everything you'd missed of each other's lives over the time you'd been apart. you congratulated michael on his recent album, which really was an incredible work of art, especially considering it was his solo debut. you made sure he understood just how talented he was, and he kept blushing every time you did so—just as he had done those years ago.

then, after a lot of talking, you played twister together—beside bubbles, who kept eagerly trying to join in, so eventually michael had to let him join, and that made for a very humorous afternoon. you played for a long time, because you knew how much michael loved that silly game, and it made you so happy to see him having so much fun—for there was an underlying anxiety surrounding your best friend in the back of your mind.

being a famous musician could often bring more horror than happiness, and even though michael was flourishing now, you saw the innocence in him, the sweet angel desperate to experience a childhood that you lived and he didn't. the world could hurt this caring angel, and if that did happen, there was nothing you could do to stop it. so, as you played together you couldn't help but feel quite sad—despite the genuine smiles and laughter—because michael wanted to live in true freedom and a complete, child-like paradise, but you seriously feared that the world wouldn't understand that. the media already nitpicked at him, and you knew how deeply insecure he was as a result of his father's comments and abuse—no matter what you said to try to console his thoughts about himself—so your anxiety about what the future might hold made you want to freeze time.

perhaps you'd be wrong. perhaps the whole world would see him as you do, and therefore show him nothing but love and care. you would never infantilise michael, but he was a sensitive soul, and even as teenagers you knew that he had a gift, but with such gifts often came sacrifice and pain.

now, you shook your head of the thoughts, but something else tugged at you—something physical now, a pain building in your lower abdomen.

your period. fuck.

you grimaced with the pain, and despite how much fun michael was having, he quickly noticed the change in you.

"y'okay?" he asked, concern written in his eyes.

"um, yeah," you murmured, but the look on your face said otherwise. "cramps coming on, y'know..."

his brows raised automatically in response. "oh, is it—?"

"yeah, and i'm... not exactly prepared either."

god, this was fucking embarrassing. but you'd known michael for years, and he'd always cuddled you and done anything he could to soothe you whenever it was that time of the month—as opposed to how much of a taboo subject everyone else treated it. it had been the early '70s, and those things just weren't talked about, but michael never understood the need for anybody to suffer in silence.

"hey, don't worry," he said in that beautifully soft tone of his. "i'll go to latoya's room."

you smiled to yourself despite the pain, so in awe of how gentle he had always been (while busying yourself with watching bubbles mess around in his designated corner) but your smile quickly shifted into an expression of cringe when you looked down and saw a splotch of blood seeping through your jeans. thankfully, they were a dark blue denim, although the stain was still visible despite that.

you cursed to yourself, but then michael was back in the room, holding a pair of lounge pants, with panties and a sanitary pad underneath.

"here," he smiled, handing them to you.

"are these latoya's?" you smiled back, but you still felt very embarrassed. "thank you so much, michael... and remind me to thank her later before i leave."

michael nodded, then got settled under the comforter, while you went into the bathroom and changed. then quietly you got under the comforter too, turning on your side facing away from him, already knowing that he would spoon you, because this position had been custom whenever you were suffering with cramps in his presence.

"i'm sorry for ruining the afternoon," you sighed. sure, you'd had a great time so far, but you knew michael would have had all sorts of games planned, especially for the friend he hadn't seen in years, and now you were both instead confined to his bed.

"shh," he whispered, weaving his arms around your waist as you got settled, your head cosy against the pillows. "you've ruined nothin'. get some rest, and if you fall asleep, i'll be here when you wake up."

content in his embrace, you did fall asleep pretty quickly, and the ache miraculously subsided in order for you to do so. michael stayed resting against your back the entire time, and when you woke, you had almost forgotten where you were.

it took you a moment, but you remembered as soon as you opened your eyes. "michael?" you muttered sleepily, turning around to face him.

"hey, sleepyhead," he grinned, stroking your hair.

"how long was i asleep?"

"uh, like an hour? i don't know, i fell asleep too at one point."

you yawned, still so tired, and still feeling a little guilty about what your afternoon had turned into. you remembered your cousins, and how you needed to have arrived by tonight, but it was a relief that there were still a few hours left of the afternoon.

"i need to tell you somethin'..." michael said all of a sudden.

"yeah?"

there was more quiet, as he seemingly hesitated to say what he'd intended to, and then the words fell out.

"i wrote she's out of my life about you," he said all of a sudden, breaking the silence.

you whipped your head up to look at him. “what? seriously?”

“yeah…” he turned away shyly, but you held his jaw to guide his face back to you.

“michael… i know you write some of your own songs but i never…” you paused, running a hand over your face. “i love that song but i never even thought for a second that you would write something about me. let alone something so beautiful.”

there was more silence, where michael was glad he’d told you but he was so shy now that his cheeks were burning up.

“mikey, stop looking away from me,” you gently urged, cupping his jaw again.

his beautiful brown eyes looked into yours, the orbs shining under the filter of sunlight through the window, and suddenly, crazily, you understood everything you were feeling.

you were beginning to fall for your best friend. hell, perhaps you’d already fallen.

“how long have you felt this way?” you asked quietly, fingers still delicately playing with his soft hair as he now shuffled downward to lay his head on your chest. it felt so intimate, as though it was your very first cuddle in this position despite having laid this way together many times in the old days. but the intimacy arose from how different everything was now. the subtext of romance had emerged out of nowhere, and neither of you knew how to feel. in fact, the very purpose of michael sliding down to meet your chest was so that you couldn’t see his expressions of pure embarrassment.

but you didn’t care one bit. he was opening his heart to you about something he’d clearly spent so long harbouring inside himself, and even though he’d had to wait so long, now was the perfect time—because you were beginning to realise that you felt the same.

strangely, it didn’t feel to you like the beginning of falling. more accurately it was the start of an understanding of what you’d been experiencing for much longer than you realised. michael’s brothers would always tease the two of you because they claimed to be certain that you were both in love, and the comments had always made you feel a certain way. not genuine irritation at everybody being so wrong in what they said, but rather a jittery sensation that wondered if there was some truth in their remarks. it was always difficult for one to analyse those sort of feelings as a young child, especially if the feelings surrounded somebody who they were sure they only attached platonic love to. for example, sometimes you would play fight, and you’d feel all giddy and notice the butterflies jumping in your stomach, but that had been the product of adrenaline from the playfight itself, you’d assumed.

you had always brushed off all those little things, and only now was all of it catching up to you, as you looked down at that boy’s pretty head resting on your chest. he still hadn’t answered your question.

“michael,” you whispered.

“yeah?” he still wouldn’t look up.

“please answer me.”

“sorry, what was the question again?”

“i said how long have you felt this way about me? in the song you write that you kept your love for the girl locked deep inside. that’s really about me?” your voice faded a little, cracking with emotion.

“honey, i’ve always felt this way,” michael murmured against your skin, toying with the strap of your shirt.

your eyes widened in shock. “always?”

he nodded. “since the day we met. i just remember noticin’ the pretty girl beside me and thinkin’… i hope she talks to me.”

and joseph jackson had been very aware of those feelings, so he hadn't exactly been wrong in what he assumed. incredibly wrong in his response, but correct in believing that michael would become distracted by you. he had always been distracted by you, but what a beautiful distraction to have. you inspired his writing, so that could only be a positive.

“mikey…” you began, completely stunned at this revelation. “why didn’t you tell me? it’s been so long…”

“well, i had a lot to lose. i could see y’ just wanted to be my friend and nothin’ more, so i didn’t wanna ruin what we had. it’s really difficult, y’know, to feel so in love with your best friend. and—like i said in the song, it really did cut like a knife. i thought you were never comin’ back to me.”

“so your brothers were right…” you shook your head in disbelief, still coming to terms with everything.

“well, not entirely. half right. they always said you felt the same.”

you froze at that, and michael felt the restraint where he was attached to your body. he looked up a little as you tried to maintain a neutral demeanour, then he looked back down again. you had to tell him now.

“i do,” you blurted out. your hands were fiddling with his hair like a stim toy, trying desperately to act normal despite your anxiety. but really, there was nothing to be anxious about, because now you knew for certain that he felt the same way.

“you—?” michael looked up again in confusion, brows furrowed as he moved to sit up against the headboard beside you.

“feel the same way. yeah," you said slowly, shuffling a little where you laid. “but i didn’t even realise that’s what i’d been feeling until today, actually. and i don’t know when it first started but… i do remember getting butterflies around you sometimes… when we were younger. i just didn’t know what they meant, so i ignored them.”

michael started to smile, and so did you. this was the best possible conclusion to the separation you’d both had to endure. here you’d been, each assuming that the other might have lost interest, but the exact opposite was true. that morning you would’ve never predicted that by afternoon you’d reunite with the man you’d wanted to see for seven years, let alone that you’d be confessing your love to each other in the bed you used to playfight in as kids.

“c’mere, baby," he said to break the short silence.

“baby?” you raised a brow.

“yeah, that’s what guys call their girls.”

“have you had a girl before?”

“no, uh,” he laughed shyly. “you’d be my first.”

“and who says i want to be your girl, michael jackson?” you teased.

“oh i think you wanna,” he smirked. “you’re blushin’ right now, sweetheart.”

"no, i'm not," you protested, but weakly, and you hid your face in embarrassment.

"shh," michael whispered, dragging your hand away before pulling you down so that you both lay on your sides facing each other.

you squealed softly as he pulled you to him, and his eye contact was so strong that you grew impossibly shyer. "mikey, stop it..."

"stop what?" he grinned even more, running his hand up and down your waist. since when did he get so confident? perhaps it was because it was you he was with, but you were experiencing the opposite, where because it was michael, this all made you so ridiculously anxious.

you shut your eyes tight, a playful smile on your lips, and gently he tapped one of your eyelids. "hey," he whispered. "look at me, 'm serious."

you opened your eyes again—sort of reluctantly because the way he was looking at you was still too much to handle, especially because all of this had suddenly happened so soon, with no room for preparation.

"y'gonna kiss me?" you asked sweetly, noticing the way his brown eyes kept shifting their attention from your eyes to your lips.

he nodded quickly, and you giggled, turning your own attention to one of the teddybears beside you.

"c'mon, don't try tellin' me you never kissed anybody before," michael said, the happiness on his face impossible to wipe away. "i know you have."

you looked at him properly. "no, i've never kissed my best friend before. that's what's happening here."

michael bit his lip, chuckling at you. "don't think about it too much, sweetheart."

your heart fluttered like crazy. "you're really enjoying these pet names, huh?"

he only nodded again, this time so enamoured of the thought of kissing you that he had no need to say anything else. and his heart was aching at how beautiful you looked, so cosy and shy in his bed, beaming because of him. so much time had passed since you were teens, but to you both it felt like no time at all as you laid there together.

and then finally, he cupped your cheek and leaned in. your warm smiles collapsed into each other as his lips touched yours, and you couldn't believe this was really happening. you kissed softly and sweetly, mouths moving in a slow rhythm, and instinctively you interlocked his fingers with yours. it had just felt right to do so.

you kissed for about fifteen seconds, before you were the one to pull away. you needed to take a minute to process what had just happened. "that was weird," you giggled.

michael furrowed his brows.

"no," you squeezed his hand, "not a bad kind of weird. very good, actually..." you smiled wide, still blushing. "it's just... we're best friends, y'know?"

"but can't we be both lovers and friends, baby?" he asked, a teasing smile on his lips each time he called you one of those names.

you pulled a playful scowl. "you're doing that on purpose."

"doing what?" he tugged you even closer, and started to play with your hair while his other hand still held yours.

"calling me baby, honey, sweetheart..."

"course i'm doin' it on purpose, applehead." he messed with your hair, and you ruffled his in turn. he always hated anyone else touching his hair but you, and even with you he squinted at the touch. "now here's another one..." he kissed your nose. "my pretty dove."

it was almost as if everything he'd ever wished to intimately address you as was now coming into fruition.

"okay," you spoke against his lips—to disguise how that new pet name sent shockwaves of butterflies through your body—the softness of his lips touching your own now as you prepared to initiate another kiss. you pecked his lips once and spoke again. "i like how the words sound coming from you."

you both fell into another slow kiss, this time with slightly more passion, but mostly just gentle and a little messy, while you both practiced trying to make this feel normal. but as soon as your lips had met the first time, you both knew that this was what home felt like. what a waste all those years had been without this very feeling.

"you're a good kisser, michael," you giggled, playing with his fingers.

"yeah?" he smiled brightly.

you responded with more kisses, soft ones to his waiting mouth.

"and such a sweet talker..." you added.

"well, i'm not tryin' to be."

"oh i know," you said quietly. "but you do have such a pretty voice. not just when you're singing."

"yeah?" his face lit up even more, apparently not expecting you to think that of him. "how come y'never told me?"

"i thought it might get you all flustered. like right now," you laughed, squeezing his cheek before he playfully smacked your hand away.

"i mean, i'm a little flustered already, honey," he admitted.

now you decided you'd contribute to your side of the intimacy too, aside the handholding you'd initiated. "i can see that, baby."

"baby," michael repeated with a smirk. "are you tryna tease me?"

"maybe," you giggled. so did he, and again you resumed your kisses that soon spiralled into a gentle makeout.

"i love kissin' you, sweetheart. i've been wantin' this for so long, you really have no idea..." michael whispered against your cheek as he peppered kisses up and down your face.

"i love kissing you too, mikey... so much..."

it must have been at least an hour that the two of you continued to make out, so peaceful in the quiet of michael's bedroom, aside from those two minutes where marlon and jackie came in and teased the hell out of you both. they begged for confirmation that you were finally in a relationship, and without hesitation, michael declared that you were, while you covered your face again in shyness.

your time in encino was supposed to last for only a few weeks, but soon those initial weeks turned into months, which then turned into a whole year. michael had been right—joseph no longer had control over what he did in his personal life, therefore as much as he resented you, he surprisingly left you alone.

after your aunt recovered and could be back with her children, to her it seemed there was no longer a reason for you to stay in the area, but you told her that you'd actually be moving back into your childhood home, just a few miles from the jackson compound. she was pleasantly surprised to find that you had fallen in love with the boy she'd been so certain you'd marry while she watched you play as children. your mother had always agreed too, and you later found out that so had katherine.

michael won his first grammy in the year that followed, and he thanked you in his speech—his 'beautiful lady'—despite how you hadn't even been in contact with him when he'd made the song he won the award for. to him that didn't matter, because you'd been in his mind the entire time, and you meant more to him than anybody else, therefore you must share the achievement.

your love only continued to blossom as you grew into adulthood together, and by the mid eighties, you were a married couple, away from hayvenhurst and in your own little bubble elsewhere in california, eventually with three sweet children of your own. you might have suffered for seven years of adolescence, but perhaps that suffering had been a blessing in disguise, because everything panned out how it needed to, and you would forever be grateful that michael jackson, your sweetest friend, was the man you were indebted to for the rest of your life.

i’m sleepy as hell posting this so i hope there were no typos! :3 it also took me almost a whole week to write because i’ve been so busy but god i adore childhood friends to lovers so much…