P.Y.T

1968

“Come on, y'all need to tighten up!” Joseph’s voice echoed loudly through the room, cutting the music dead. He stepped into Michael's line of sight, his eyes narrowing. “Michael, look at me. I need your eyes.”

You sit next to Michael’s mother, Katherine, on the couch as you watch Michael and his brothers practice in the living room. The space, normally meant for family gatherings, has been completely cleared out, the furniture pushed against the walls to make room for the rhythm of heavy loafers hitting the floorboards. They air in the room is thick, warm, and heavy with the subtle scent of sweat vibrating with the intensity of Joseph’s expectations.

Even at nine years old, Michael carries a weight on his shoulders that looks far too heavy for his small frame. His brows are knit together in concentration, his afro bouncing slightly as he executes a sharp, flawless spin. But despite the precision of his movements, you can see the deep exhaustion behind his eyes.

Suddenly, Joseph steps forward, his large frame cutting off the light from the window. "Hold it! Stop, stop," he barks, clapping his hands together with a sound like a pistol shot. The Tito abruptly takes his fingers from his guitar, leaving an deafening, ringing silence in the room. Joseph points a finger directly at Michael. "Michael, you draggin’ on the turn. Ya’ mind is wanderin’. I told you, I need your eyes locked in. You think the people at Motown are gonna pay to see you daydreamin’?"

Michael drops his gaze to the floor, his chest heaving as he catches his breath. "No, Joseph. ‘M sorry."

Still sitting on the sofa, you feel yourself tense up, your fingers digging into the fabric of your skirt. But beside you, Katherine remains a calm, unyielding anchor. She reaches out, her hand resting gently on her husband's arm as he steps closer to the boys.

The tension in the room hung as thick as the heat pressing through the windows, heavy and suffocating. Michael stood in the center of the floor, his chest heaving beneath his damp shirt as his father’s harsh words echoed off the walls. He looked so small in that moment, his shoulders curving inward as if he was trying to shield himself from Joseph's glare.

Slowly, but carefully, as if testing whether his father would catch him moving, Michael lifted his chin just an inch. His eyes didn't look at his mother, and they dare didn't look back at Joseph.

Instead, they flicked straight to you.

They were swimming with a mixture of exhaustion and a quiet, desperate plea. It was a look you knew all too well—the one he only used when the pressure felt like it was going to crush him entirely.

Your heart squeezed. You unclasped your fingers and smoothed them out over your skirt as you gave him a soft nod. Your lips curved into a warm, reassuring smile, a private signal meant just for him. It’s okay, the smile promised. I'm here.

The change in him was almost immediate. The line of Michael's shoulders relaxed by a fraction, and a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was fleeting, gone in a blink so Joseph wouldn't catch it, but the sudden spark of relief in his eyes was unmistakable. For a second, the room seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you together in the quiet understanding you had shared.

"Joseph, please," Katherine’s voice broke the brief silence, her tone dropping into a low, private murmur that barely carried across the living room. Her hand remained steady on his forearm. "The boys have been running these steps since early this morning. Look at them, they're spent. Give them a break.”

Joseph didn't yell, instead his voice dropped into a low, gravelly snap that made the everyone, including you, stiffen. "I look at them and I see sloppy footwork, Katherine. If they spent, it's because they wastin’ energy on unimportant things."

He slowly turned his head, his eyes cutting directly past his wife to lock onto you. His brow furrowed deeply, his voice now only low enough for Katherine to hear. "That girl shouldn't even be in here during rehearsal, Kate. Every single minute he spends gigglin’ with her out in the yard is a minute he isn't focusin’ on the group.”

Katherine didn't back down entirely, but her posture softened, knowing exactly how far she could push before the argument turned into something much worse for the children. "She’s a sweet child, Joseph, and her mother is a dear friend of mine," she replied, her voice dropping even lower, laced with a quiet, maternal protectiveness, despite you not being her child. "They aren't doing any harm. They're just children. Let them have ten minutes."

Joseph scoffed, looking from his wife down to Michael, who had quickly dropped his eyes back to his shoes. With a resentful grunt, Joseph finally waved a hand in dismissal.

"Ten minutes," Joseph grumbled, turning on his heel toward the kitchen table to look over a stack of documents, his heavy footsteps vibrating through the floorboards. "Ten minutes. And then we run the entire set from the top, flawlessly."

The second Joseph's back was fully turned, the suffocating weight in the room seemed to lift. Michael's head snapped up, his eyes bright and completely alert as he looked back at you. The timid expression he wore for his father completely vanished, replaced by a familiar warmth.

He didn't wait for his brothers to scatter. In three quick strides, Michael walked across the floor straight to the couch. Before his father could even think to turn around and change his mind, Michael caught you gently by the wrist, his hand warm and slightly damp from the practice.

He didn't say a word, but the urgent tug on your hand spoke volumes. With a soft, breathless laugh, he pulled you up from the sofa and guided you quickly up the stairs, rushing toward his bedroom.

The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind you, the tense atmosphere of the house evaporated completely. Michael let out a long sigh, the kind that came from deep in his chest, and threw himself backward onto his mattress, staring at the ceiling.

He stayed like that for a long moment, completely motionless, as if letting the quiet of the room wash over him. The only sound was the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the faint, distant sound of birds chirping from outside.

You crawled further up the bed, your knees sinking into the soft quilt, and sat cross-legged just a few inches away from his feet. You didn't press him to talk. You knew that sometimes, the greatest gift you could give Michael was just letting him occupy a space where nothing was expected of him.

Slowly, Michael turned his head on the pillow, his brown doe eyes looking up at you. "Did I really look like I was daydreaming?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, cracking slightly with a vulnerability he would never dare show his father.

"No," you said softly, reaching out to gently nudge his arm. "I think you looked amazin’, Mikey, you always do. Your spin was so fast I don't even know how you didn't get dizzy."

A small, genuine smile finally tugged at his lips, a faint dimple appearing on his cheek. It wasn't the practiced, dazzling smile he flashed for the cameras, it was soft and shy. "I was dizzy," he confessed with a tiny, breathless giggle, rolling over onto his side so he was facing you, propping his head up with his hand. "But Joseph says if you think about being tired, you become tired, so I try to think about other things."

"Like what?" you asked, leaning forward, resting your chin in your hands.

Michael’s eyes lit up with a sudden excitement, the heavy exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "Y’know, like the music we listened to on the radio yesterday, or what it's like on the other side of the world—like do you really think people in Europe have to practice dancing all day?"

"I don't think anybody practices as much as you do," you replied honestly, giving his shoulder a few light pats.

He leaned into your touch slightly, though it was brief, his expression softening into something deeply peaceful. "I like it when you're here," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the quilt between you before rising back to meet your eyes. "When Joseph is yelling and everything feels so loud... I look at you, and it just gets quiet. Like the rest of the house disappears. I dunno’.. does that sound silly?"

Your heart swelled, a profound sense of protectiveness washing over you, "No, You’re my best friend, Mikey. I’m gonna be around till’ you get tired of me.”

"Promise?" he smiles, his voice suddenly small, reaching out a hand and extending his pinky toward you.

"I promise," you whispered, hooking your pinky into his.

1973

You were there for just about every practice from then on, watching the hours blend together. And when they weren’t singing and dancing until their feet went numb, you and Michael would play together, retreating into a world that belonged only to the two of you.

But Joseph always found you to be a problem. He kept a hawk like watch on the room, noticing how Michael would act whenever you were around. He was less focused, too.. giddy, laughing a little too easily, and sometimes even forgetting the lyrics whenever you were in the room. His brothers noticed, sharing knowing glances or teasing nudges when Joseph wasn't looking. Katherine noticed, her eyes softening with a gentle warmth. And of course, Joseph noticed—his jaw tight, tracking every stolen glance and every drop in Michael's concentration.

To Joseph, you weren't just a friend of his son anymore. You wrre a problem.

The years bled into one another, and the innocence of childhood began to shift under the weight of their skyrocketing fame. Michael was fourteen now, transitioning into a deeper voice and a sharper, more measured presence, while you were twelve, growing up right alongside him. The Jackson 5, who were now dubbed The Jacksons from Epic Records, was topping the charts, and every single second of their lives was controlled for success.

The boys had just finished a grueling, five-hour rehearsal. The room was hot and the boys were exhausted. The moment Joseph called a temporary recess, Michael didn't even pause to grab a towel. His eyes immediately sought yours out across the room, and with that familiar, quiet urgency, he nudged your shoulder.

Joseph’s sharp eyes tracked the two of you as you left the living room, heading up the stairs and down the hallway to disappear into Michael's bedroom.

The heavy wood of the bedroom door clicked shut behind you.

In the living room, Joseph watched the empty hallway. A dark, venomous huff rolled out of his chest. He turned on his heel, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards as he marched into the kitchen where Katherine was quietly folding laundry.

"I done had it, Katherine," Joseph slammed his heavy palm down onto the countertop, the sharp crack echoing through the lower floor of the house . "I've had it with that damn girl.”

Katherine didn't flinch, but her hands paused over a faded cotton shirt. She closed her eyes for a brief second, bracing herself, before looking up with a steady, quiet resolve. "Joseph, what is the issue, they’re only resting?"

"Restin’?" Joseph’s voice didn't rise to a shout, but it dropped into a dangerous, gravelly register that carried a terrifying weight. He leaned over the counter, his frame casting a long shadow over his wife. "Michael don't need to rest with her. Did you see him in there today? He missed the cue on the bridge twice. Twice, Katherine. He was over there looking at her—waiting for her to give him a lil’ nod like he needs her permission to sing or some shit."

“He's fourteen, Joe," Katherine countered, her voice dropping lower, trying to absorb the impact of his anger. "He’s a boy. He's growing up, and he needs a friend who sees his normally. He’s already told me it’s hard for him to make friends with other kids and that girl gives him peace."

"Peace don't pay the bills, Kate! And peace damn sure don't put records at number one!" Joseph snapped, his eyes flashing with a cold, unyielding fury. He pointed to the ceiling,directly toward the room where you and Michael were in. "I’m tellin’ you she’s a distraction to that boy—I see the way he gets. Look, he’s the leader of this group. The lead. This whole family’s future is riding on his back, on his focus. If his mind is wanderin’ to some girl, the boys stop listenin’ to ‘em. The discipline falls apart."

"She isn't doing anything but sitting there, Joseph," Katherine said, her voice trembling slightly now. "She clearly loves him. They've been around each other since they were kids."

"And that's exactly why she’s a problem," Joseph hissed, leaning closer, his words cutting like glass. "She think she's entitled to his time. She think she owns a piece of him. I'm tellin’ you right now, Katherine, she gotta’ go. If she keeps cluttering up his head, if she keeps making him act like he ain’t got no sense, I will keep her from this house permanently. I don't give a damn who her mother is. Michael belongs to the stage, and I won't let some lil’ girl ruin everything I've bled for."

Katherine held his gaze, her jaw tight, a deep, painful ache in her chest. She knew Joseph meant every word. She knew that as Michael grew older, Joseph’s grip would only tighten—and you would be the very first thing he would try to get rid of.

1977

Upstairs, the heavy, muffled thuds of Joseph’s pacing downstairs eventually faded into a tense, distant background noise. Inside the sanctuary of Michael’s bedroom, the world always slowed down.

Four years had blurred past in a flurry of television specials, stadium lights, and endless travel, but within these four walls, nothing changed. Michael was eighteen now, his frame stretching out, taller and more defined, though he still carried that gentle, shy humbleness.

You were sitting on the edge of his bed, fiddling with the hem of your top while you shared a secret that had been keeping you awake at night.

"My mama... she's been talkin’ to some people, Mike," you admitted softly, looking up to meet his gaze. "She really wants me to start a singing career. Professionally. Like, in the studio, makin’ records—the whole thing."

You held your breath, suddenly nervous. Michael knew the brutal reality of the industry better than anyone. You half expected him to warn you, to tell you how exhausting it was, or how much it could change a person.

Instead, an incredibly sweet smile broke across his face. He leaned forward from his chair, his voice dropping into that trademark, soft tone that always made the rest of the world vanish.

"Your voice is beautiful," he said softly, his large brown eyes shining with absolute sincerity. "I think you should do it, really. People deserve to hear you."

There was something so pure, so completely adorable about the way he said it—completely devoid of the skepticism that usually surrounded the business. His words, laced with that quiet, unwavering faith in you, finalized your decision right then. If Michael believed in you, you were sure you could handle it.

And he was right.

Within the next year, everything moved at a dizzying pace. With your parents guidance and Michael’s quiet encouragement acting as your foundation, you caught the attention of the industry. Before you knew it, you had signed a major deal with Epic Records. Your debut solo album dropped, instantly climbing the R&B charts and blasting through the radio across the country, making you one of the quickest growing young artists of the 70s. You were suddenly being pulled into a whirlwind of fame, but through it all, your heart remained anchored to the boy who had cheered for you first.

To celebrate your massive success, Michael wanted to do something completely private, away from the prying eyes of the press and his family. He had Bill take his vehicle through the roads of Los Angeles, dropping the two of you off at a secluded clearing near a quiet creek he had personally scouted out earlier that day during a drive.

When you stepped out into the cool night air, your jaw dropped. Bathed in the soft, silver glow of the moon, a cozy picnic layout was waiting for you on a thick blanket, complete with a basket of a few of your favorite foods and flickering lanterns.

“Mike, you did all this for me?” you asked in complete awe, turning around to look at him as the crickets chirped softly around the clearing.

Michael immediately rubbed the back of his neck, a deep, bashful flush creeping up his cheeks as he looked down at his shoes.

“Yeah," he mumbled shyly, giving you a quiet, nervous little smile. "I wanted to show you how much I appreciated you. And—y’know—I know you don’t like big, extravagant stuff, so I thought this would be nice… you like it?”

“I love it,” you said softly, your heart swelling to the point of aching.

Without a second thought, you stepped into his space and wrapped your arms tightly around his neck in a warm embrace. Michael froze for a fraction of a second in surprise before his arms came up, wrapping shyly and securely around your waist. His hands were shaking slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs, completely captivated by your closeness.

After you had finished eating, the nervous energy melted into a comfortable, familiar ease. You sat close next to each other on the blanket, your shoulders brushing as you both leaned back on your hands, tilting your heads up to watch the endless tapestry of stars shining through the trees.

The silence between you was peaceful, until Michael broke it.

“I don’t wanna’ be in a band with my brothers anymore.”

The sudden confession caught you completely off guard. You turned your head quickly, looking at the sharp, gorgeous profile of his face under the moonlight. “Really? I thought you liked singing with them?”

“I do—well.. I mean.. they’re my brothers and I love them,” Michael stammered softly, his eyes tracing the constellations as he tried to find the right words to express a truth he had kept locked away for so long. “But... I wanna’ start doing my own thing, living my own life. I don’t wanna’ be up under Joseph anymore. I want a solo career.”

A warm, knowing smile spread across your face. You shifted your arm, your hand still resting on the blanket but now slightly closer to his. “You do have a voice of gold, Mikey.”

The old childhood nickname made him instantly blush, and he quickly covered his face with one hand, a soft, embarrassed giggle escaping his lips.

“I understand your reasonings,” you continued, your voice steady and full of the same faith he had given you a year prior. “I support it, I really think you should. You encouraged me to do my own thing. And if I made it, I know you can. You’re really talented, you always have been.”

Michael lowered his hand from his face, turning his head to look at you. An adoring, intensely deep look pooled in his eyes at your confession. Your belief in him seemed to pierce through every doubt Joseph had ever planted in his head.

Slowly, his breath hitching, he shifted his weight. He nervously rubbed his sweaty palms against the denim of his jeans, his heart beating so hard he was certain you could hear it echoing over the sound of the nearby rushing water.

“There was.. um.. another reason I brought you here tonight…” he murmured, trying to hide the small quiver in his voice.

You took your gaze away from the sky once more, turning your full attention back to him. Michael gulped, his eyes locking onto yours. The ethereal shine of the moon caught your skin so perfect, with the warm night breeze gently rustling your hair, God... you were so pretty. It felt like the entire universe had narrowed down to just this moment.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight as he looked down at his lap for a split second, trying to gather the courage that usually came so easily to him on a stage. When he looked back up, his eyes were completely filled with a vulnerability that almost made your breath hitch.

"I've been tryna’ find the words to say this for... I don't know—maybe my whole life," Michael began, reaching out, his fingers trembling slightly as he gently took your hand, his thumb tracing soft, slow circles over your knuckles. "Ever since we were little kids... you were the only thing that really made sense to me. I could be stressed out from all the pressure put on me, but… if I could look over and see you smiling at me, I knew I was gonna survive it."

He took a slow, deep breath, his chest heaving under his shirt as he squeezed your hand a little tighter.

"Everyone else looks at me and just sees me as a performer, someone they can look at and take pictures of. But you see me. A-and when I'm with you, I feel like I'm finally allowed to just breathe. I’ve watched you grow up, and I’ve watched you become this incredibly beautiful, talented girl, and every single day my heart just gets heavier because I’m so full of these feelings for you." He paused, a shy, incredibly tender smile breaking through his nervousness. "I don’t love you just as my best friend. Girl, I’m completely in love with you. I’ve always been in love with you. And tonight, seeing you shine with your own success... I just couldn't keep it a secret anymore. I wanna’ be the one who supports you, who holds you, if you'll let me."

The confession hung beautifully in the warm night air, the steady rush of the creek providing the perfect ambiance to a moment that was long overdue. You didn't say a word at first. Instead, you let your actions speak for you, leaning in to seal your lips against his in a sweet, lingering kiss that answered every unspoken question.

1979

The world didn't stop turning after that night, but for Michael, everything had changed. He had a secret anchor now—a deep, passionate romance with you that kept him grounded even as he prepared to make the biggest gamble of his musical career.

It was 1978 when the trajectory of Michael's life altered forever. While filming The Wiz, Michael found himself coming in contact with a legendary force in the music industry: Quincy Jones.

The studio was far different from the Jackson home. There was a faint scent of cigars, something Michael would soon get accustomed to. Quincy sat behind the massive mixing console, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose, exuding an effortless aura of confidence.

"You've gotta’ lot of fire in you, son," Quincy said one late afternoon. He leaned back in his leather chair, looking at the young man standing by the microphone. "But you're still singin’ like you're holdin’ onto somethin’. You gotta let the music come from your soul. What do you wanna’ say, Michael?"

"I wanna’ make a record that shows who I am as a man, Q," Michael said, his voice firm, stepping out completely from his father's suffocating shadow. "I want full creative freedom. I want people to dance, but I want ‘em to feel my heart, too."

Quincy smiled, a low chuckle rolling out of him. "Alright then.. let's get to work."

The months that followed were a blur of pure musical bliss. Working on what would become the Off the Wall album was the first time Michael truly felt like, what he called: ‘the master of his own destiny’. He wasn't just executing Joseph's vision anymore, he was creating his own.

On the few nights you would spend curled up on the studio couch when you weren’t busy, you watched Michael collaborate with Quincy. The atmosphere was electric, filled with the funky, driving bass lines and smooth, intoxicating rhythms. Michael was a force of nature in the room, snapping his fingers, tapping his leg, and letting out those sharp, joyful vocal hiccups that were uniquely his.

Every time a track came together perfectly, Michael would bounce out of the recording booth, his face completely radiant. He wouldn't go to the executives or the producers first; he would go straight to you, grabbing your hands and spinning you around the studio lobby with a breathless laugh.

When the album finally dropped in late 1979, it was a staggering, triumphant success. It shattered records, blending R&B, pop, and disco into a masterpiece that critics and fans couldn't get enough of.

One evening, after a massive celebration party hosted by Epic, Michael snuck away into a quiet, dimly lit playback room in the studio, pulling you in with him and locking the door. He put on a personal vinyl record of his, letting the smooth title track wash over the room.

Michael smiled, pulling you flush against him as he gently buried his face in the crook of your neck. He just held you there for a long time, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, breathing you in while the smooth, rhythmic baseline of the title track filled the quiet room. There was no dancing, no performing, no movement at all—just the heavy, grounding weight of his body pressed against yours, letting the reality of his achievement finally sink in.

He let out a soft, shaky breath against your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction. It felt less like a celebration and more like a relief, a quiet moment of peace before the rest of the world demanding a piece of his success came knocking on the door.

"I don't think I would've made it here if I didn’t have you," he murmured, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his thumb gently brushing across your cheekbone. "When I’d started getting frustrated or didn’t have any inspiration... I'd think of you. And I'd remember who I was doin’ this for."

You reached up, cuping his jaw with your hand, feeling the slight warmth of his skin. "You did this for you, baby.”

"No, I did it for us," he corrected softly, a cute smile reaching his eyes. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as the music spun out on the turntable. "Yeah—I want the whole world to love my music. But I only care if you do, doll."

For the first time in his life, he felt like a truly independent man, riding the highest wave of his career. He was completely at peace.

1980

Joe tapped his foot impatiently on the living room carpet. The instruments sat on the cleared table, and the brothers stood in a loose, tense semi-circle on the wooden floor, shifting from foot to foot. Rehearsal was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago, and Joseph’s patience had worn thin.

“Where the hell is Michael?” Joseph huffed in deep frustration, his heavy brows slamming together as he checked his watch. He scanned the faces of his sons, his glare sharp enough to draw color from someone’s face.

The older brothers exchanged uneasy glances. Jackie bit his lip, Marlon quickly looked down at his shoes, each of them offering a silent shrug or a quiet "I don't know" to avoid their father's rising temper.

Except for Randy.

Randy chuckled, a knowing, mischievous glint in his eye. “Think he's upstairs with his girl,” he smirked, crossing his arms over his chest.

A few of the other brothers couldn't help but let out slight, muffled laughs at the comment, the sound cutting through the tension for a split second. But the amusement died instantly. Joseph didn’t find it funny at all. A dark scowl twisted his features, and without a single word, he turned and immediately marched up the stairs to get Michael, his heavy boots slamming into the steps with purpose.

Upstairs, the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Inside the quiet sanctuary of his bedroom, you were perched comfortably on Michael’s lap. His hands were resting gently but firmly on your waist, his grip warm and steady as the temperature in his body grew hot against yours. He was completely lost in the rhythm of you two making out, something he’s never done before you, so, of course, he let you take the lead.

Slowly, you moved your lips away from his mouth, sliding down to press soft, lingering kisses along the warm skin of his jawline and down his neck. Michael let out a series of soft, breathless chuckles, his chest heaving as a heavy shudder ran through him.

“Mama..” he sighed, his voice a velvet whisper, his fingers tightening against your hips as he tilted his head back to give you better access.

Your fingers moved to the front of his shirt, just beginning to undo the top button, when several violent pounds on the wooden door shattered the silence of the room. The force of the knock was so loud it rattled the frame, instantly breaking the moment.

Joseph’s loud, booming voice cut through the thick wood from the other side, causing you to instantly pull your head up toward the door, your heart leaping into your throat.

“Michael! Boy, you better get down here with your brothers ‘fore I come in there!”

The raw, authoritative venom in his voice hung heavily in the hallway. You slowly lowered your gaze back to Michael. The passionate glow that had filled his eyes just seconds ago was gone, replaced by a mix of irritation, embarrassment, and a intense sense of defeat. He looked like he wanted to scream, but the invisible chains of his father's control still held their weight.

Brushing your thumb gently across his cheek, you offered him a soft, reassuring smile to ease the sudden tension in his jaw. “It’s alright, angel,” you whispered softly, your voice a calm contrast to the shouting outside from just seconds ago. “I should probably be heading home anyway.”

He looked up at you, his large brown eyes melting into that heartbreaking puppy-dog look he always gave whenever he didn't want you to leave. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice incredibly small.

“Yeah,” you nodded gently, sliding off his lap to give him room to breathe. “I’ll be back Saturday, though. I gotta’ record on Friday.”

Hearing that you had to work seemed to bring him a little comfort, a reminder of the shared world you both navigated now. Michael stood up, smoothing down his shirt with a heavy sigh. “I’lll get Bill to take you home.”

You and him made your way down the stairs together, bypassing the living room where Joseph was already barking orders at the rest of the boys. Michael didn't say a word to his father as he walked you straight out the front door, stepping into the warm California sun.

Down in the driveway, the sleek car was waiting. Bill was perched against the side of the vehicle, quietly reading a newspaper to pass the time. He looked up as the front door opened, folding the paper neatly under his arm.

“Bill, can you take her home for me?” Michael asked, his hand lingering gently on the small of your back.

You had been in Michael's life for so long that Bill didn't even need an address. He already had the exact route to your house completely memorized by now, having taken you home countless times after late, secret nights spent wrapped in your boyfriend's arms.

“Sure, kid,” Bill said with a polite, respectful smile, immediately moving to open the back passenger door.

Before you stepped inside, you turned around to look back at Michael. The sunlight caught the beautiful, rich details of his face, but you could tell by the tight line of his mouth that he didn’t want you to go.

Reaching up, you put his face gently in your hands, your fingers brushing against his temples as you pulled him down to place a few soft, lingering kisses on his lips.

“I love you. I’ll see you Saturday, okay?” you murmured against his mouth.

“Okay,” he whispered back, his eyes closing briefly as he inhaled your scent, holding onto the feeling of your hands. “I love you too.”

When your moment was finished, you reluctantly pulled away. Bill held the backseat door open for you, ensuring you were completely settled and comfortable before he gently clicked it closed.

You looked out the window as the car began to roll down the long driveway. Michael stood alone on the pavement, his hands tucked into his pockets, watching you go with a heavy, longing gaze. Only when the car finally disappeared behind the massive iron gates did Michael turn around, his shoulders dropping as he walked back inside to face his father.

That wasn’t the only time you’ve interfered with practices like this. Joseph could barely handle it when you two were just friends in your younger years. But now that you’re older and we’re coming over a lot more, the crack in the Jacksons was growing impossible for him to ignore. He’s noticed Michael’s subtle distance from the group. Michael didn’t care about the the band anymore, his heart just wasn't in it the way it used to be. He cared about his own solo career, and he cared about you. And Joseph absolutely hated it.

It was getting too frequent now. Michael would show up late, or he'd miss rehearsals entirely, because he’d be tucked away with you, losing track of time in a world where his father’s rules didn't apply. And now that you had your own successful career, the stakes had completely changed. Joseph saw you as more than just a little distraction, he saw you as direct competition. You were a rising star on the exact same label, an independent force pulling his money maker away from the family brand. Joseph could feel his control slipping, and he needed to get rid of you, quickly.

A few days after the broken moment in the bedroom, their was heavy tension throughout the Hayvenhurst estate. Michael was downstairs, enduring a grueling vocal session with his brothers, while Joseph sat in his private office. The blinds were drawn, cutting the sun into sharp lines across his wooden desk.

On the top lay copies of the latest music trades. Your name was printed in bold, climbing the charts right alongside the tracking for Michael's solo work.

Joseph stared at the pages, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his cheek twitched. He remembered the little girl who used to sit on his couch, the one Katherine always defended. He had thought it was a phase, a childish crush that would burn out under the exhausting pressure of show business.

Instead, you had grown into a threat.

"Sum’ bullshit’," Joseph muttered to the empty room, his gravelly voice thick with resentment.

Just yesterday, Michael had arrived forty-five minutes late to an important meeting with the him and his brothers because he had been driven out to your studio just to watch you record. When Michael finally did show up, his mind was entirely somewhere else. He had smiled through the meeting, polite but distant, his thoughts clearly lingering on the soft kisses you had shared in the studio parking lot.

Joseph slammed his fist down onto the desk, rattling the gold pen casing. He had spent decades working his ass off for this family’s success, making his sons practice until their feet bled, building a legacy from nothing. He wasn't about to watch the only thing keeping that group afloat—walk away from them because he was too lovesick to focus.

In Joseph's eyes, you were poison to Michael. You gave him a taste of freedom, a solo career of your own that proved a person could survive in the industry without Joseph's iron fist guiding them.

"Had enough of this" Joseph hissed, standing up and walking over to the window, peering out toward the long driveway where Bill usually waited.

A plan was already forming in his mind. He couldn't stop Michael from loving you—he knew his son well enough to know that Michael's devotion was fierce and stubborn. But he could change your mind. He knew how the industry worked, knew the levers to pull, and knew exactly how vulnerable a young female artist truly was when a powerful manager decided to make things “difficult”.

Joseph checked his watch, the tick of the gold hands a reminder of the little time he had left to protect his investment. He didn't have to wait for Friday. His mind flashed back to the quiet conversation he had stealthily caught a piece of earlier—the soft exchange of promises between you and Michael right before you left the room.

Saturday. You were coming back to his house, planning to slip right back into Michael's bedroom, right back into his head. Joseph wasn't going to let that happen. He wasn't going to let you cross that line or get anywhere near his son until he had handled this. He needed to intercept you before you could even catch Michael's eye.

Saturday morning arrived with a heavy stillness. The sun was blindingly bright against the pavement of the long driveway as Bill pulled the car up to the gates.

From the backseat, you looked out the window, a warm smile already tugging at your lips. Your recording session on Friday had gone beautifully, and all you wanted was to throw your arms around Michael’s neck, tell him all about the tracks you had laid down, and melt right back into his safety.

But as the iron gates slowly swung open, the car didn't continue for long down the driveway.

Standing right in the center of the asphalt, blocking the path, was fucking Joseph. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his shadow stretching long and dark across the hood of the car. He didn't look like a father greeting a guest, he looked like a prison warden.

Bill brought the car to a smooth, hesitant halt. He glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes meeting yours with a look of quiet, tense warning.

Before you could even ask what was happening, the rear passenger door was pulled open from the outside. The hot morning air rushed into the air conditioned car, and Joseph leaned down, his sharp, calculating eyes locking onto yours.

"Get out," Joseph said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly tone that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It wasn't a shout, but the absolute coldness in his tone left no room for argument. "We're gonna have a talk before you go anywhere near my son."

You stepped out of the backseat, the tiny rocks crunching beneath your shoes as you stood face to face with the man who had loomed over your boyfriend his entire childhood. You didn't flinch. You didn't shrink. Instead, your crossed your arms, mimicking his posture, and looked him dead in the eye.

"If Michael is still busy, Joseph, I can wait in his room," you said, your voice level, completely lack of the fear he usually demanded from people. "You don't need to block the driveway."

Joseph let out a short, harsh laugh, dry and condescending. He shook his head, looking down at you like you were nothing more than an insect he was about to step on. "Really? You think you own a key to this house? You think ‘cause you got a lil’ name for yourself on the radio now, you equal?" All the irritation, the years of suppressed resentment he had harbored since you were a child finally spilled out into his expression. "You always been an arrogant lil’ girl. Walkin’ into my house, actin’ like you belong here. I saw right through you from day one."

A cold, humorless smile touched your lips. You weren't stupid. You had known Joseph hated your guts since you were little, you just never gave a shit.

"I don’t give a damn what you saw," you shot back, stepping closer, your tone sharp as glass. "I'm not one of your sons. You don't control me, you don't intimidate me, and you don't tell me where I belong. Michael invited me here. I'm going inside."

You made a move to step past him, but Joseph moved with surprising speed, his massive frame shifting to completely block your path. The condescending smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a ruthless, terrifying gravity that made the air between you turn to ice.

"You gettin’ a lil loose at the lip," he hissed, his voice dropping into a low, venomous register that finally made your heart stumble. "If you don't do exactly what I say, I will pick up the phone and with one call your album will be pulled from the shelves, them tracks will be banned from the airwaves, and I will personally make sure that lil career is dead and buried before it even began.”

The sheer harm in his words hit you like a physical blow. Your breath caught in your throat, your confidence faltering for the very first time. You opened your mouth to curse at him, to tell him he was lying, but he leaned in closer, his eyes flashing with a sickening certainty.

"And don't think Michael’s safe from me either," Joseph whispered, his words cutting deep. "He ridin’ high on that album right now, thinkin’ he's an independent man. But he still answers to me. If you keep messin’ up his head, makin’ him soft, makin’ him miss rehearsals, I’ma’ break his solo career piece by piece. I’ll pull the plug on his next project. I will ruin him, and I'’ma’ make sure he knows it was your fault."

The world seemed to spin on its axis. The defense you had put up just seconds ago completely evaporated, replaced by a suffocating dread. He wasn't just threatening your dream—he was threatening Michael's. He was threatening the music Michael had worked so hard for.

Joseph saw the sudden terror in your eyes and smiled, a cruel, triumphant expression. He reached out, his finger cutting through the air to point directly toward the front door of the mansion.

"So here’s your ultimatum, girl," Joseph commanded softly, the venom practically dripping from his lips. "You're gonna’ walk up them stairs, look my son in the eye, and you're gonna’ break up this lil’ fling y’all got goin’ on. Right now. You're gonna make him believe you don't want him anymore, that you're choosin’ your own fame over him. Either you play the bad guy, or I will."

You don’t respond, you simply walk past him and toward the door. The absolute silence of your defiance makes Joseph’s smile falter for a split second, but he doesn't chase after you. He doesn't need to. He already knows what your choice is. He knows he has you backed into a corner, and that knowledge follows you like a shadow as you push open the heavy front door.

You discreetly head upstairs, keeping your steps quiet as you navigate the familiar hallway up to Michael’s room without anybody noticing.

Luckily, the faint, rhythmic muffled thuds from downstairs prove he’s still trapped with his brothers, so that gives you time to think. Your hands are shaking so violently you have to sit on the edge of his mattress just to keep from collapsing. How could Joe do this? Was he seriously that evil that he’d sabotage his own son? To destroy everything Michael had built, everything he had achieved, just to maintain a twisted sense of control?

You felt like you were going to throw up. The air in the bedroom, which usually felt like your only sanctuary, suddenly felt hot and suffocating. How were you gonna tell Michael? You can already picture his face—the way those big, beautiful eyes would fill with total confusion, then shatter into a million pieces of heartbreak.

Before you can even try to form the words in your head, the doorknob jiggles.

The door swings open, and Michael steps into the room. Immediately, an excited look takes over his face the second he sees you sitting on his bed. The heavy exhaustion from rehearsal vanishes from his features in a heartbeat.

He practically skips across the room and engulfs you in a tight, desperate hug, burying his face in your shoulder. When he pulls back just enough to look at you, he's wearing that big, adorable smile that you love so much—the one that always makes his whole face light up.

"You came early!" he beams, his voice a breathless, joyful whisper. He cups your face, his thumbs brushing over your skin as he presses a few gentle, lingering kisses to your lips before he even lets you speak. "I missed you so much, mama. I wanna hear all about your day yesterday. Did the recording go good? Tell me everything."

You feel utterly sick. The warmth of his lips against yours contrasts so sharply with the cold dread in your stomach that you stiffen under his touch.

Michael's smile slowly falters. He's perceptive of you, always has been, and he quickly notices the hollow, disassociated expression in your eyes. His hands drop from your cheeks to hold your wrists, his brow furrowing with immediate concern.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” he asks softly, his voice dropping into a vulnerable, frightened register.

You look up at him, your heart shattering into pieces inside your chest as you force the words past the lump in your throat.

“Mike.. we gotta talk..” you say lowly.

Michael’s hands tightened on your wrists, his grip instantly turning from a warm embrace into a frantic, grounding hold. That smile started to vanish slowly, replaced by a sudden, sharp panic that made him look so agonizingly young.

"What happened" he whispered, his large brown eyes searching your face, desperately scanning for any sign that you were just playing a cruel joke. "Baby, you're scaring me. Did somethin’ happen at the studio? Did somebody say somethin’ to you?”

You had to pull your hands away because if you kept feeling the steady, frantic beat of his pulse against your fingers, you were going to break down and tell him everything. You slid your wrists out of his grasp, the friction of the movement feeling like a physical tear, and stood up from the bed. You walked toward the window, turning your back to him so he couldn't see the tears that were already shining in your eyes.

"No, Mike. Nobody said anything," you said, your voice trembling despite your absolute best efforts to keep it cold. "The session went fine. It's about us."

Behind you, you heard the soft rustle of the mattress as he stood up. His footsteps were hesitant as he walked towards you.

"Us?" Michael asked, a nervous, breathless chuckle escaping his throat. "What do you mean—what about us? We're good? I was just thinking about you all day yesterday. I even started writing down some lyrics for you, and—"

"Michael, stop," you choked out, forcing yourself to use his full name. You turned around, gripping the window sill behind your back so hard your knuckles turned white. You had to look at and lie to the only person who knew you better than anyone else. "We can't do this anymore."

Michael froze in the middle of the room. The words seemed to hit him like a physical blow, his heart stopping to his stomach. He blinked, his brow furrowing in utter confusion.

"What?" he breathed, the sound barely escaping his lips. "Where is this coming from—Did I do something wrong? Is it because I was late the other day? Baby, I'm sorry, I promise I'll be better with my time. I can try to talk to Joseph, I'll make sure he doesn't—"

"It's not your dad, Mike! It's me!" you lied, your voice cracking, it teared out of your throat, the pressure in your chest was becoming too much to contain. You forced your eyes to harden, looking right past his heartbroken expression. "It's me. I've been thinking about it all weekend. Ever since my music started taking off, everything is changing. My career is growing, Mike. I'm getting pulled into meetings and promos... and I can't have this distraction anymore."

Michael flinched, his head jerking back slightly as if you had slapped him. Distraction. It was the exact word his father had hurled at you since you were children, and hearing it come out of your mouth seemed to pierce a hole straight through his heart.

"A distraction?" Michael whispered, his voice cracking violently. He took a step closer, his eyes filling with sudden tears that threatened to spill over his thick, beautiful lashes. He reached out, his hands hovering in the air between you, trembling, wanting so badly to touch you but suddenly terrified to try. "Baby, how can you say that? We've been doing this since we were kids. You're the one who gave me the courage to even do my solo album. We promised we'd support each other—"

"That was before, Michael." you said, the cruelty of your own words making you feel physically sick. "We’re not kids anymore. Were grown. We're competing for the same numbers, the same radio play, the same attention. I need to focus on my life, on my name. I can't keep carrying the weight of your family's drama, or sneakin’ around behind your father's back, or waiting for you to finish a five hour rehearsal just so I can freaking see you!"

A single tear finally escaped, tracing a slow line down Michael's cheek. He didn't even bother to wipe it away.

"I don't care about that," he tried, his voice rising slightly in a desperate, agonized plea that shattered whatever was left of your strength. He took two steps, closing the distance between you, and before you could push him away, he grabbed your upper arms. His grip wasn't harsh—it was begging. "I don't care about the songs. If you want me to stop, I'll stop. I'll give it all up! I don't want a career if it means I don't have you. You're my peace, baby. You're the only part of my life that belongs to me."

"Dont say that!" you sobbed, the tears finally bursting from your eyes as you violently pushed against his chest, breaking his grip. You couldn't let him say things like that. He was Michael Jackson. He was born for the stage. If you let him sacrifice his dream for you, Joseph would ruin him anyway, and Michael would end up hating you for the rest of his life. "Don't you dare say that shit to me! Music is your entire life, Michael! It's who you are!"

"No, it's not!" His chest was heaving, his face flushed with a desperate, wild look in his eyes you had never seen before. "It's just a job—It's just songs. But you're my best friend. You've loved me since longer than I can remember. I can’t lose that now!“

He stops and looked back at you, his hands dropping to his sides, completely defeated. His eyes were red, utterly hollowed out by a betrayal he never saw coming.

"Please," he whispered, a tiny, broken sound that completely destroyed you. He slowly dropping to his knees on the carpet right in front of you, wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face directly into your stomach, his shoulders shaking violently as he wept. "Please don't leave me. Don't do this to me. I'll do whatever you want—Just don't walk out that door. I can't do this alone."

You stood frozen, lookingdown at one of the biggest stars in the world completely brought to his knees by your words. The pain in your stomach was so intense you felt sick. Slowly, with an agonizing hesitation, you lifted your shaking hands and placed them on his head, your fingers tangling into his soft curls one last time. You leaned down, pressing a single, desperate kiss to the top of his head, letting your tears fall into his hair.

"I'm sorry, Mikey," you whispered, using the childhood nickname that felt like a goodbye to your entire youth.

Gently but firmly, you unclasped his arms from your waist. Michael let out a soft, choked gasp of air as you pulled away, his hands falling limply to his sides. He didn't look up as you grabbed your purse from the desk.

You walked across the room, every step feeling like you were dragging a mountain behind you. When you reached the doorway, you paused for a fraction of a second, looking back at his trembling frame on the floor one last time.

You stepped out into the hallway and clicked the door shut behind you, leaving the sanctuary of your childhood behind in the dark, completely blind to the fact that Joseph was standing at the end of the corridor, watching you walk away.

1984

Three years had passed, and the world had completely rewritten itself under the weight of a single album: Thriller. Michael was no longer just a successful solo artist stepping out from his family's shadow, he was a global phenomenon, the biggest superstar in the world, holding the crown for the highest selling album of all time.

You had also carved out your own legendary path, too. Your name sat comfortably at the top of the charts right alongside his, your tracks playing on a near endless loop across every radio station in the country. But the glitz and glamour of the top spot felt cold whenever your worlds inevitably collided.

Because you were both the reigning royalty of the music industry, you were constantly forced into the same rooms. High profile galas, award shows, after parties, elite industry celebrations—you were always just a crowd away from each other.

But Michael actively avoided you.

The first time you saw him across a crowded room at a gala, your heart had stopped. He was surrounded by a massive entourage, towering bodyguards, and flashing cameras, wearing a sharp, iconic military jacket that shimmered under the chandeliers. You had tried to catch his eye, to send him just a fraction of the warmth you used to share, but the moment his gaze drifted over and landed on you, his expression went entirely blank.

He didn't glare. He didn't look angry. He simply looked right through you, turning to speak to a manager, deliberately putting his back to you.

The rejection stung worse than a slap. For three years, that had been his pattern. If you walked into a VIP lounge, he quietly exited through the back. If you were seated at a table near the front of an auditorium, his team ensured his seat was on the exact opposite side of the aisle. The sweet, bashful boy who used to hide his face in his hands had built an impenetrable wall around himself, still deeply guarded from the pain you had caused him three years ago.

But the cold shoulder didn't mean he didn't still love you.

In the quiet, lonely sanctuary of his limousine, away from the screaming fans and his new reality, the ghost of your memory still held him captive. Every single time your voice came out through the car radio speakers, a sharp ache would form directly in his chest. He would open his mouth to ask the driver to shut the sound off to protect his heart—but he never could. He would just sit there in the dark, listening to the beautiful texture of your vocals, wondering if any of the lyrics were about him.

And it was even worse during the awards season. Michael had to sit in the front row of packed auditoriums, the flashing lights reflecting off his sunglasses, and watch you walk up the steps to the stage to receive win after win. You looked utterly breathtaking under the spotlights, your hair styled flawlessly, your confidence radiant as you accepted your awards.

To the rest of the world, Michael looked like an untouchable king, politely clapping his sequined glove in approval. But behind the shades, his eyes were wide and glassy, tracing the your smile, the curve of your hips, completely torn between the deep resentment of how you had abandoned him and the overwhelming love he still carried for you.

He wanted to hate you for what you did. He wanted to believe the lies you had screamed at him about competition and distractions. But every time he looked at you, the palace of fame he had built felt like a prison.

1984

The pulsating bass of the latest hits vibrated through the floorboards of the Hollywood venue, a lavish penthouse draped in dim lighting. The room was a mob of elite talent. Actors, producers, and chart topping musicians all drinking champagne and unwinding from the high stakes tension of the award show that had concluded just hours prior.

The air grew impossibly tighter the moment the heavy double doors opened, and a quiet, electric wave of whispers rippled through the crowd.

Michael had walked in.

He was flanked by a couple of security guards, his presence immediately commanding the room despite how quietly he moved. He wore a stunning, tailored black jacket with silver accents that caught the low light, his curls falling perfectly around his face. To anyone watching, he looked like the absolute epitome of an untouchable icon—calm, poised, and towering above the industry.

But the moment his eyes scanned the room, the composure faltered.

He noticed you immediately. You were standing near the center of the lounge, comfortably mixed into a lively group conversation with a few other major celebrities. You were wearing a beautiful champagne colored dress, laughing at something a fellow artist had said, your head tilted back as the warm light danced across your skin.

Michael stood frozen for a split second, his breath hitching in his throat.

For the rest of the night, he didn’t know what got into him. The discipline he had spent three years perfecting—the strict rule to look away, to walk in the opposite direction, to erase your presence from his view—completely vanished. He couldn't stop looking at you. No matter who stepped up to congratulate him on his historic night, or how many executives tried to corner him to talk business, his gaze kept drifting right back across the crowded room, pulled to where you stood.

You never noticed it, though. You were completely absorbed in your surroundings, glowing in the success of your own career, and seemed to be genuinely enjoying your time. You smiled, sipped your drink, and conversed with an effortless grace that made his chest ache with a burning nostalgia.

Watching you look so happy, so unbothered by the madness of the room, a quiet, painful spiral of thoughts began to consume his mind.

He wondered if you had thought about him at all since you two had last spoken. He wondered if when his songs played on the radio, your chest squeezed the way his did with yours. Had you meant it when you said you needed to focus on your own name? Did you miss him, or was he truly just a chapter of your youth that you had successfully closed?

As you shared another bright laugh with the celebrities around you, Michael gripped his glass a little tighter, his heart pounding against his ribs. The anger and the hurt were still there, heavy and suffocating, but as he watched you shine from across the room, the love he had carried for you still, threatened to spill over the walls he had built to keep you out.

During the night, you found yourself out on the balcony. The booming bass of the music inside the penthouse was reduced to a distant, muffled noise. The air was crisp, a contrast to the heat of the crowded party indoors. You leaned your forearms against the cold stone railing, staring out into the, glowing Los Angeles city lights. Your hair flowed gently in the breeze, a stray curl catching across your cheek as you blinked back the heavy exhaustion of the night.

You didn't know how much longer you could be here.

To the rest of the world, you were at the absolute peak of your life. You had the fame, the money, and the industry bowing at your feet. But standing out here in the dark, the emptiness in your chest was deafening. You should be sharing these events and these massive successes with Michael. He should be the one holding your hand, spinning you around the room, laughing about how you both actually conquered the world just like you promised you would.

But you had been such a coward back then. You had actually listened to Joseph, letting his venomous threats terrify you into breaking the only heart that truly mattered. You had played the villain to protect him, and now, your relationship was forever broken.

You let out a ragged sigh. Michael probably hadn’t even thought about the past like this. It didn't seem like he had. Watching him avoid you for three years, watching him look right past you with those cold, unbothered eyes—he had moved on. He didn’t need you anymore.

A soft, hesitant clear of a throat suddenly broke the silence, shattering your thoughts.

Your head snapped around, your heart leaping violently into your throat.

Michael.

He was standing just a few feet away near the glass double doors, the light from the party casting a soft golden halo around him. He looked good—way too good. The tailored black jacket hugged his frame perfectly, and his dark curls shimmered slightly under the patio lights. He looked like a living legend, completely out of reach, yet his posture carried a faint trace of that familiar, hesitant stillness you knew by heart.

“Michael..” you muttered softly, the name escaping your lips before you could even think to stop it.

He didn't say anything at first. He kept his hands tucked loosely into his pants pockets, his movements agonizingly slow as he walked up to stand right next to you at the railing. He didn't look at you, he just stared out at the glowing city line through his sunglasses, his jawline sharp and rigid in the moonlight.

There was a small, agonizing beat of silence, the tension between you so thick it felt like it was crushing the air right out of the balcony.

Then, he finally spoke, his voice smooth, velvety, and entirely calm.

“Wanted to say congratulations.. top 3, 4 weeks in a row.”

The casualness of his tone sent a quiver straight through your veins. He was tracking your success. He knew exactly where your music sat on the charts.

“.. Thank you," you replied, your voice dropping into a soft tone. You gripped the stone railing a little tighter, choosing your next words as if you were walking on a tightrope, terrified that a single wrong word would send him back inside. "You too, you did amazing on Thriller. Whole world’s talkin’ about it."

Michael didn't move a muscle, but the corner of his jaw tightened just a fraction under his sunglasses. The steady, distant hum of the traffic below drifted up into the night air, but on the balcony, the silence returned, heavier and more suffocating than before. Michael still didn't look at you. He kept his hands in his pockets, his chin tilted up slightly as he stared out at the endless grid of the city lights.

It was silent for a long, agonizing beat before he simply asked:

“Why?”

The word was so quiet, so completely stripped of the smooth, polished superstar persona he had been wearing all night, that it caught you entirely off guard. You blinked, turning your body slightly toward him.

“Huh?” you said, your voice barely a breath.

“Why did you leave me?" Michael said, his tone shifting from smooth calculation to a raw, trembling gravity. He finally turned his head, his hand reaching up to slowly slide the sunglasses off his face, forcing you to look directly into his brown doe eyes. "I want the real reason.”

"Michael—" you choked out, your throat instantly tightening as the lie you had lived with for so long began to crumble under his gaze.

"And don't tell me it was about our careers," he interrupted, his voice dropping into a breathless, desperate whisper that cut through every defense you had. He stepped closer, the space between you disappearing until you could feel the sudden, familiar warmth radiating from his chest. "Don't tell me I was a distraction. I don’t wanna’ hear that. I know you well enough to know that there was another reason that we separated. So just tell me... please. Why did you leave?"

As the weight of his gaze pinned you to the railing, the armor you had worn all this time completely shattered. You couldn't keep the lie alive anymore. The words came crumbling out of you in a desperate, tearful rush, a confession you had choked down every single day since you walked out of his life.

You laid bare the ugly truth of that Saturday morning at the estate. You told him how Joseph had basically cornered you the second you arrived. You mentioned the venom in his father’s voice, detailing the exact ultimatum Joseph had given you: end your relationship, or watch Joseph dismantle both of your rising careers in the blink of an eye. You admitted to him how terrified you were—not just for your own dreams, but for his. You explained that you were a coward who actually believed his father's threats, and that playing the villain was the only way you knew how to protect the both of you.

As you talked, the transformation on Michael's face was devastating to watch.

The guarded, distant coldness on his face melted away first, turning into absolute shock as the missing pieces of his life finally fell into place. Then his eyes widened, the glassiness of his tears giving way to a sudden clarity. Then, as the realization of his father's betrayal settled deep into his chest, his expression shifted from disbelief to anger. The corners of his mouth trembled, his jaw tightening so hard the muscles jumped beneath his skin. The resentment he had carried against you for three years didn't just crack—it completely disintegrated, leaving his features entirely bare, struck by the agonizing realization that the girl who had broken his heart had actually been trying to save it.

“I’m sorry, Michael, I’m so sorry," you sobbed, the tears pouring down your cheeks as the weight of that secret finally lifted from your chest. "I didn’t want any of this! I just wanted to protect you. I didn’t know what else to do.”

You covered your face with your hands, your shoulders shaking violently in the cool night air. "I just—I love you so much. I didn’t want you hurt. You had worked so hard... I didn’t wanna be the cause of your success falling apart."

But Michael didn’t hear anything else. The mention of Joseph, the threats of the executives, the stolen years—it all faded into a dull hum. The only words echoing in his mind, striking his heart with the force of a punch, were the ones you had just confessed.

You loved him. You still loved him? After all this time, after the coldness, the avoidance... you were still his.

“You love me?” he said softly.

The velvet, breathless quality of his voice was so thick with emotion it sounded entirely broken. He took a slow, trembling step toward you, his hands coming out of his pockets, hovering in the space between you as if he were waking up from a nightmare.

You slowly lowered your hands, looking up at him with teary, swollen eyes, the city lights turning into a blur of gold and silver behind him.

“I know," you whispered, a heartbreaking sob catching in your throat. "I shouldn’t. Not after what I did to you.”

Michael didn't care about what you shouldn't do. Before you could even draw your next breath, he closed the distance between you. His trembling fingers found your jawline, his thumbs gently wiping away the hot tears on your cheeks as he pulled you flush against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his large frame shaking as a ragged, heavy sigh of pure relief tore out of his throat, holding onto you so tightly.

You immediately wrap your arms around him, your hands gripping the fabric of his sharp jacket as you bury your face into his chest, crying softly. The wall that had stood between you all these years completely vanishes, replaced by the familiar, comforting warmth of his heartbeat thumping against your cheek.

Michael’s arms tighten around you until there is absolutely no space left between you. He holds you with a desperate, fierce intensity, as if he’s trying to make up for every single day wasn’t able to hold you.

"I know, sweet girl, It’s okay.." Michael whispers into your hair, his own voice cracking as his tears finally spill over, wetting the crown of your head. He rocks you gently on the secluded balcony, completely ignoring the flashing lights of the roaring party just behind the glass doors.

Michael pulls back just enough to look down at you, his pretty brown eyes glassy with tears but shining with a warmth you hadn't seen in so long. His gaze drops to your lips, his chest heaving with a soft, breathless sigh that tells you everything you need to know.

He doesn't wait. He leans down and presses his lips to yours, and the moment they meet, the entire world outside of this moment completely ceases to exist.

The kiss isn't like the careful, hesitant ones from before. It’s deep, intense. It carries the weight of three long years of aching silence. The lasting love that neither of you could ever truly erase. Michael cups the back of your neck, his fingers gently tangling into your curls to pull you impossibly closer, while his other hand rests firmly on your waist, keeping you close to him as if he's terrified you might disappear the second he lets go.

You melt completely into his touch, your hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck, kissing him back with everything you have left. The taste of him makes your knees go weak.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you completely out of breath. Michael lets out a soft, wet chuckle against your lips, his thumbs gently wiping away the fresh tears on your cheeks as that smile you love so much finally returns to his face.

"’M not lettin’ you go this time," he whispers, his voice a velvet promise in the midnight air.

The contrast was jarring because less than half an hour ago he’d arrived at her apartment looking like a man being chased by his own thoughts. He had barely made it through the front door before pulling off his sunglasses and throwing them onto the coffee table. His jacket had followed seconds later, landing carelessly across the arm of her couch where it still sat now, half sliding toward the floor. He’d accepted a glass of water from her, taken exactly one sip then abandoned it entirely. After that came the pacing. Endless pacing. Across the living room. Through the small hallway. Back again. Hands in his hair. Hands on his hips. Hands moving every time he spoke. He hadn’t even seemed aware he was doing it. The frustration had been rolling off him in waves, making him restless in a way she rarely saw. Michael wasn’t naturally confrontational. If anything, he tended to avoid conflict until it cornered him. So when something upset him enough to make him pace, she knew it had unsettled him deeply.

Now all that franticness seemed to have collapsed inward. She’d seen it happen before, Michael never stayed angry for long but hurt lasted much longer. Anger burned hot and quickly in him before giving way to something quieter and infinitely sadder. He’d withdraw into himself piece by piece until he seemed distant even while sitting inches away. It wasn’t cold like he was punishing her nor was it him shutting people out intentionally. If anything, it felt more like watching somebody disappear underwater. He was still there. She could see him, but reaching him became harder the deeper he sank.

She hated it because she knew exactly where it came from. People looked at Michael and saw a confident young man. They saw stardom. Adoration. They saw screaming crowds and magazine covers and gold records hanging on walls. What they didn’t see was how quickly he retreated when somebody he loved wounded him. They didn’t see the flashes of uncertainty, the pressure and uncomfort that appeared whenever his father was involved. The way a single comment from Joe could undo an entire weeks worth of confidence. The way Michael still carried himself around that man with the cautiousness of a son instead of the certainty of a grown man. Sometimes she wanted to shake him and remind him who he was. Remind him that millions of people adored him, remind him that he didn’t need permission anymore. But it wasn't that simple. Family never was.

Her fingers slipped back into his curls, scratching lightly against his scalp and usually he would lean into it without thinking. Usually his eyes would close and a smile would tug at the corner of his mouth. Tonight there was only the smallest reaction, his eyelids fluttered briefly before settling again. The tension was still there though, it sat in the line of his shoulders and in the slight crease between his brows. In the way his jaw occasionally tightened before relaxing again. Even lying there in her lap, safe and far away from home, he looked like part of him was still standing in that conversation.

For a while she simply watched him. The television cast shifting colors across his face. Blue. White. Gold. They slid across his skin like reflections on water, constantly changing while he remained perfectly still beneath them. Looking at him now, it was hard to reconcile him with the version that had stormed into her apartment earlier. That version had been restless movement and angry frustration. This version looked exhausted—exhausted in a way that settled behind the eyes.

Finally she spoke, her voice quiet enough that it barely disturbed the room around them.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Michael didn't answer.

His gaze never left the ceiling, but she felt the smallest shift beneath her fingertips. A swallow and a breath that caught for half a second before continuing normally. Tiny things. The kind of things most people wouldn’t notice. But she noticed them because she knew him. Because despite how absent he looked right now, she knew he had heard every word. The problem wasn‘t that Michael didn’t want to answer, he was still trying to untangle feelings he’d been carrying since long before he ever knocked on her door tonight.

The silence lingered long enough that she eventually stopped waiting for one. At first she’d thought he was simply choosing his words carefully, turning them over the way he always did whenever a conversation wandered somewhere uncomfortable. But after another minute passed, she realized he wasn’t searching for the right response at all. He was somewhere else entirely. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling.

Her fingers continued moving through his hair for another few moments before slowing to a stop. There wasn’t much else she could do. She couldn’t solve whatever war was taking place inside his head, and she knew him well enough by now to understand that forcing him to talk would only make him withdraw further. Michael spoke when he was ready. Sometimes that meant minutes. Sometimes hours. Sometimes he would disappear into his thoughts entirely only to bring something up three days later as if no time had passed at all. She glanced toward the dark windows across the room, then toward the clock in the kitchen, realizing how late it had become. The apartment had taken on that strange after midnight stillness where everything felt like a liminal space.

“You don’t have to talk about it tonight,” she said softly, letting her hand rest against his curls instead of continuing to play with them. “We can just go to bed.”

For the first time in several minutes, Michael moved. His eyes finally left the ceiling, drifting somewhere toward the television before falling away again. Eventually he nodded once, the movement small and reluctant and she had the distinct impression that he wasn’t agreeing because he felt better. He was agreeing because he was tired. Not physically tired either, emotionally exhausted.

The process of getting ready for bed unfolded with her turning off the television while Michael sat up slowly, dragging both hands over his face before standing. The apartment immediately felt different without the flickering blue light filling the room; dimmer and more intimate as she carried his abandoned glass into the kitchen and poured the untouched water down the sink. He collected the things he’d scattered around her apartment earlier, sunglasses disappeared into the pocket of his jacket and the jacket itself found its way over the back of a chair instead of remaining half fallen where he’d thrown it. He was functioning on autopilot while the rest of him remained busy with thoughts he hadn’t shared.

A little while later she stood in front of the bathroom mirror brushing her hair. The overhead light casted a warm glow across the small room while the rest of the apartment remained dark behind her. She watched herself in the reflection absentmindedly, working through a stubborn knot near the ends and trying not to think too hard about the evening. About Joe. About Michael. About the way he had looked when he first arrived, pacing her living room like he couldn’t stand being trapped inside his own skin.. it broke her heart. The brush moved steadily through her hair while her thoughts drifted further and further away.

She didn't hear him enter the bathroom. But what she noticed first was the sudden warmth at her back and the feeling of arms wrapping around her waist. Then Michael's reflection appearing beside hers in the mirror.

The brush stopped mid stroke.

For several seconds neither of them spoke. Michael simply stood there with his arms looped around her middle and his chin resting lightly against her shoulder. He wasn’t holding her tightly. If anything, the embrace felt unusually tentative. There was something uncertain about it. Something that made her stomach tighten unexpectedly in a way she didn’t like because? One of Michael’s main love languages was physical touch. Looking at their reflections together, she was struck by how tired he looked. So vulnerable as the anger from earlier had burned itself out completely, leaving behind only whatever hurt had been underneath it the entire time.

His gaze remained fixed on the mirror too. Not looking at himself exactly but not looking at her either. Just staring at the two of them standing there together as if searching for reassurance somewhere inside the image.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that she almost missed it.

“Are you mad at me?”

(Name) actually turned slightly in his arms and for a second she just stared at him from over her shoulder. Because of all the things she expected him to say tonight, that hadn’t even crossed her mind.

Michael looked away first. His eyes dropped toward the sink before lifting again and she could see the insecurity beneath the question, genuine worry that he’d brought his problems into her home and made them hers too. That he’d spent the evening pacing and shutting down and disappearing into himself and somehow burdened her in the process. It was such a painfully Michael thing to worry about that her chest physically ached.

”I know I wasn't exactly..” He paused, searching for a word before giving up entirely. “Good company.”

The attempted joke barely survived the trip out of his mouth.

And suddenly she understood that while she’d spent the entire evening worrying about him, Michael had apparently been worrying about her too. About whether she’d finally gotten tired of carrying him through nights like this and about whether one day she might decide the weight of loving him wasn’t worth it anymore.

Even now, after everything that had happened with his father, some part of him was standing here asking permission to fall apart when he never had to worry about that.

“Baby, why would I be mad at you? Ever?”

The question left her mouth almost immediately, carrying more confusion than anything else. She turned in his arms, the movement forcing him to loosen his hold around her waist just enough for her to face him properly. The bathroom suddenly felt very small. Warm light spilled down from above the mirror, washing everything in gold and catching against the tiredness etched into his face. Up close, she could see all the things he probably thought he was hiding. The tension still lingering in his jaw. The faint shadows beneath his eyes. Michael’s gaze dropped almost instantly the moment she looked at him, drifting somewhere toward the floor between the. He genuinely meant the question. He genuinely thought there was a possibility she could be upset with him for needing her.

Her hands rose without thinking, settling firmly against either side of his face. The second he tried to glance away again, she gently but insistently redirected him back toward her.

“Michael.” His eyes flickered away once more and she immediately nudged his chin back toward her again with an expression that said absolutely not. The stubbornness (virgo men) of it almost made her laugh if the moment hadn’t felt so serious. Michael had a habit of avoiding eye contact whenever he felt vulnerable, especially when somebody was saying something he desperately needed to hear.

“Stop it.” Her voice softened, but there was an unmistakable firmness underneath it. Once again, she guided his face back toward hers when his gaze started drifting elsewhere. This time she held it there and by now, he understood she wasn’t giving him another option. For a second he looked sheepish, caught in the act. It would’ve been endearing under different circumstances. Instead, it just made her heart hurt more.

“I will never be upset with you for venting,” she said slowly, making sure he heard every single word. “Or being upset. Or needing me to listen. Or needing me to be there.”

His eyes dropped again. Unbelievable.

Her thumbs pressed lightly against his cheeks, “No.” The word came out harsher than before. “Look at me.”

Michael let out the smallest breath through his nose, somewhere between embarrassment and reluctant obedience, before finally meeting her eyes properly.

“Thank you.” Her words were quiet and affectionate. And somehow that made his expression soften more than anything else had.

“I need you to listen to me right now.” The bathroom had gone completely silent around them. Even the faint hum from the light above the mirror seemed distant compared to the sound of their breathing. Michael remained still beneath her hands now, watching her carefully and for the first time all evening she felt like she actually had his full attention.

“I don't care if you’re upset.” Her thumb brushed across his cheek. “I don’t care if you need to complain.”

Another gentle stroke. “I don't care if you spend three hours pacing holes into my floor because you’re angry.” The corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it and he saw it immediately.

Good. Because she wanted him present for this.

”I don't care if you come over here and sit on my couch all night without saying a single word.” Her voice softened further. ”What I care about is you standing here wondering if I'm angry because you needed me.”

Because beneath all the fame and success, there was still a large part of Michael that seemed convinced love had to be earned somehow. Through performance. Through achievement. Through being easy to deal with. Through never asking for too much. And every now and then she caught glimpses of it, usually on nights like this.

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Do you understand me, Michael?” The question hung between them and he nodded immediately.

The response was so quick she almost rolled her eyes. And judging by the flash of embarrassment that crossed his face a second later, he knew exactly what he’d done.

“No.” She gave his cheeks the tiniest squeeze. “No, sir.”

His expression shifted into something dangerously close to a smile. “You don't get to nod your way out of this conversation.” And his smile grew slightly despite his obvious attempt to suppress it.

“Use your words.”

For the first time since he’d arrived at her apartment, something sweeter finally broke through the exhaustion, appearing for only a moment before he ducked his head again out of habit. Immediately one hand slid beneath his chin and guided him right back.

“I hear you.” The corner of her mouth lifted.

The smile that appeared on her face felt genuine at first. Small and warm and effortless in the way smiles always seemed to be around Michael when he let his guard down. For a moment, the heaviness that had settled over the entire evening loosened its grip. Watching him finally crack after her relentless insistence that he look at her, watching the reluctant amusement tug at the corner of his mouth despite how exhausted he was, it felt like she’d managed to pull him back from wherever he’d disappeared to. Enough that she forgot.

For exactly one second.

Then she remembered.

The smile faltered almost immediately. One moment it was there and the next it wasn’t quite as bright. Because the second her mind stopped focusing on Michael, it returned to the thing waiting patiently in the background. The thing she’d spent days avoiding. The thing sitting between her ribs every waking moment. Tell him. The thought arrived so suddenly it almost startled her. Tell him. Her stomach tightened because he was right here. Right in front of her. Standing inches away. Looking at her. Listening to her. Trusting her. If there was ever going to be a moment, surely this was it.

She could practically feel the words pressing against the back of her teeth. They seemed so simple in theory. A single sentence. It would take less than five seconds to say aloud. Michael, I'm pregnant. That was it. No speech required, just the truth. But the second she imagined actually saying it, panic swept through her. Not now. The excuse surfaced immediately. Not now. Her eyes drifted over his face. The tiredness was still there. The remnants of whatever argument he’d had with his father still lingered around the edges of his expression. He’d spent the evening unraveling, asking if she was mad at him for simply needing her. She had just spent the last twenty minutes convincing him he wasn’t a burden. Convincing him it was okay to fall apart sometimes. Convincing him she wasn’t going anywhere. How could she possibly drop something like this into his lap now?

The thought alone made her feel sick. He had just calmed down. Just breathed. Just smiled. And now she was supposed to tell him something that had the potential to change the course of both of their lives forever? No. Tomorrow. Tomorrow made more sense. Tomorrow was better. Tomorrow was responsible. Tomorrow wasn’t standing barefoot in a bathroom after midnight with his father’s voice still haunting the evening. Tomorrow wasn’t while he was exhausted emotionally. Tomorrow wasn’t while she was terrified. The excuses came quickly in her mind. One after another, so quickly they nearly sounded reasonable. And deep down she hated that she recognized them for exactly what they were. Excuses. Because tomorrow would become next week. And next week would become after his next rehearsal. And after that there would be another reason. Another bad day. Another inconvenient moment. Another excuse to keep postponing the inevitable.

Her chest tightened painfully. Fuck. Just tell him. The thought returned again. Louder this time. More insistent. She looked at him, at the warmth in his eyes. At the concern that always seemed to appear whenever something was wrong with her. At the man standing in front of her who had spent the last hour unknowingly proving exactly why she loved him. And suddenly the words felt impossible. Not difficult but fucking impossible. They had lodged themselves somewhere behind her ribs and refused to move.

The silence lasted only a few seconds though, it felt much longer. Michael noticed immediately. Of course he did. The smile he’d been trying to suppress faded slightly as his expression shifted. Concern settled across his face almost at once. She watched his brow furrow, his eyes searching hers. Michael had always been frighteningly observant when it came to her. He missed entire conversations sometimes when he got trapped in his own thoughts, but the second her mood changed even slightly, he noticed.

“What’s the matter?” The question came quietly, gently. Not suspicious but concerned as his hands remained resting against her waist. ”What is it, pretty girl?”

Her heart dropped straight into her stomach. For one terrible moment, she thought she was actually going to do it. The words surged forward. So close she could practically hear them. Michael, I'm... Instead she froze. Completely. The truth hovered there between them, desperate to be spoken and utterly trapped at the same time. So she did the cowardly thing. The easy thing. The thing she'd been doing for days.

She smiled.

Or at least she tried to and it wasn't nearly as convincing this time. Her hand drifted slowly, settling against the side of his neck. Her thumb brushed lightly against his skin while she desperately searched for something to say. Anything to redirect him. Anything that would keep him from asking another question.

“Nothing.” The lie came out softer than she intended—she could have believed herself. Her throat felt tight as she swallowed hard, then forced another smile. “I just..” Her voice nearly cracked and she hated that. Hated how emotional she’d become lately. The affection in her eyes was real, though. That part wasn’t a lie. Not even a little. She looked at him for another second before gently smoothing a curl away from his forehead.

“I just love you.” For the first time all night, it occurred to her that loving him and telling him the truth might soon become the exact same thing.

“I can tell you’re thinkin’ about somethin’ though, baby..” He says, but it never really gets to settle because she shifts and that gaze she’s giving him changes the entire shape of the moment before it can become any spoken language. Her hands are still on him, still warm at his neck but something in her attention to him.. Michael notices it immediately, even if he can’t define what he’s noticing yet—or maybe he can and he’s pretending not to for the sake of being a good boyfriend.

His sentence starts to form and then fractures halfway through. “You can tell me anythin—” he begins, but it breaks apart before it can become anything stable as she comes closer, closing the space between them by pressing her breasts up against his chest. The conversation he was attempting to hold onto doesn’t go away, but it does loses structure as his mind has to reset around her presence.

And she knows that.

She can feel it happening in real time.

(Name) knows exactly what she’s doing, that’s the worst part. Her hands slide down from his neck to his chest, fingers flattening lightly against him before one hand moves higher, to his jaw. Her thumb brushes once along the edge and her touch is gentle, but the intention beneath it is already shifting away from conversation.

She tilts his face toward her.

Michael’s eyes flicker down to her mouth before he can stop them, confusion still present, still trying to hold onto the question he lost. And that small lapse is all it takes for her to lean in. The kiss lands softly at first, her hand staying at his jaw while the other slips lightly up into the hair at the nape of his neck as her fingers curl there while she draws him in.

Michael responds instantly because he always does with her, like instinct has learned her before thought has time to interfere. His hands settle at her waist again, pulling her in closer against him without hesitation. There is no resistance in him, no suspicion, just familiarity taking over where confusion was trying to exist. But the confusion doesn’t vanish. It scatters instead. The question he was holding breaks apart, fragments of it still lingering somewhere behind his eyes, no longer organized enough to become speech.

When she breaks the kiss, it is only enough to breathe but she stays close, forehead almost brushing his for a second before she shifts slightly, her attention drifting lower. Her lips find the line of his jaw first, slower now—this time it feels less like an interruption and more like something she’s sinking into because if she stops now it, would force her back into words she is not ready to say. She kisses there once, then again, each one lingering a little longer than the last.

Michael exhales under it, a sound that catches halfway between thought and reaction. “Hey—” he tries.

Her mouth moves again along his jaw slower now and his head tilts slightly without him fully realizing it, his body responding before his mind can catch up and reassert control. That small shift is enough to undo whatever sentence was trying to form. It breaks cleanly, leaving only sensation where language was trying to exist.

“I—Baby, hoh—” he tries again, softer this time, but it dissolves mid breath. His brow pulls faintly together, not in frustration with her, but with himself. He’s is aware something is slipping but cannot grab it fast enough to pull it back into place. He swallows, attempting to reset, to return to whatever he was asking, but the rhythm between them has already changed. The conversation no longer has a clear edge to land on.

Michael’s hands rested loosely at her waist and she watched him for a moment before a smile slowly tugged at her mouth. ”Let’s play,” she murmured. The words were enough to make his brows raise a bit, faint pinkness touched his cheeks before he could stop it. He was feeling warm.

“Pattycake?” he asked quietly, already knowing exactly what she meant. She nodded once, trying and failing to suppress her smile with a bitten lio. The second he saw it, he let out a small laugh through his nose and dropped his gaze toward the floor.

For a moment, Michael looked almost embarrassed by how easily she’d derailed the entire evening. One hand slid up to rub the back of his neck while he shook his head at her, smiling despite himself. “You’re somethin' else,” he muttered, the words carrying more affection than criticism.

His earlier questions seemed distant now, not forgotten entirely, but pushed to the edges of the room where neither of them wanted to look at them yet. When he finally glanced back up, there was a warmth in his expression that hadn't been there when he’d first arrived. ”Pattycake,” he repeated under his breath with another quiet laugh, he still couldn’t believe that was the name they’d settled on, even after all this time. But he was still too shy to refer to their sex as what it is: fucking. She’s too ”ladylike” and he’s too much of a gentleman.

At some point, he ended up on his back with her naked skin close against him, one arm locked tightly around her waist because letting go had stopped being a consideration altogether. His breathing wasn’t fully steady yet, still a little uneven as sis curls were slightly damp, falling messily against his forehead. His eyes stayed half lidded for a moment before drifting shut again.

He looked completely gone—a sweet angel boy lost in his own pleasure. He deserved this, he deserved his dick getting swallowed up by her perfect pussy. Her thighs tensed as she sank up and down repeatedly, her slick, tight pussy swallowing his pretty dick inch by inch. She rode him with a steady rhythm, the wet heat gripping him tight every time she bottomed out. A frothy ring of white cream gathered at the base of his shaft, growing thicker with each downward thrust as she bounced relentlessly on top of him. She pushes him downward, making him fall back down onto the pillows at the headboard as she steadies herself by planting her hands onto his chest. (Name)’s already managed to cum twice, but now it was his turn.

Michael was so pretty. Such a beautiful man.

She stayed pressed against him as she continued to bounce onto him, feeling the uneven rise and fall of his breathing under her hands. Michael looked completely gone—fucked out already and by then his grip at her waist had loosened, looking up at her through his lashes with lidded eyes.

And her mind started to drift with him.

He deserves this, she thought immediately—it was obvious, it had always been obvious, right? He deserves to be like this. Elated.. warm. Not thinking so hard all the time. Not carrying everything. Her fingers moved through his hair again and the thought softened as it repeated itself, not really structured anymore, just circling.

He deserves this, he deserves this, he deserves to just be here for a minute. He deserves this.

It almost sounded like relief in her head. Almost.

But it kept going anyway, loosening as it spun. He deserves this, she thought it again but slower this time and its more scattered, she was watching the idea from farther away while still holding onto it.

He deserves it after everything tonight, after how tense he was, after the way his whole face changed when he came in. He deserves this and I’m just.. I’m just helping him, I think. I think that’s what this is. Helping him. Keeping him here. Keeping him okay.

The words started to blur into each other a little after that.

Because underneath them, something else kept trying to push through—a quieter thought.

He deserves this.

And I deserve.. what?

The question didn’t fully form, it flickered and broke apart almost as soon as it appeared. She tightened her hold on him slightly without meaning to, like anchoring herself back into something physical would stop her from drifting too far into her own head.

Michael shifted a little against her, still half lost in his pleasure.

He deserves to feel good. He deserves to not be thinking about any of that right now. Not tonight. Not when he finally looks like this. Not when I finally got him here.

And that last part slipped in without her asking for it.

I got him here.

The thought made something twist in her chest—guilty. She felt fucking guilty. She swallowed it down quickly, tucking it behind the other thoughts before it could grow teeth.

He deserves this! She told herself again, pleading with the idea instead of stating it

He deserves this and I can’t ruin it right now. I can’t. Not when he’s finally quiet. Not when he’s finally okay. Not when he’s finally—

Her gaze dropped to him again.

Cum, he’s about to cum.

His hands gripped her hips as she rose off his cock, the wet suction breaking with a soft pop. She leaned forward, lips on his ear and holding his jaw in place while presenting her ass to him, and he immediately reached around them both. With a few rough strokes of his own fist, his dick twitched violently—one thick pulse, then another, shooting hot ropes of cum across her rounded ass cheeks.

“That’s right, baby.. give it to me—” She whispered in his ear, her grip on his jaw tighter as she places kisses on the side of his face. “You have so much of it for me, don’t you?”

“Oh, oh.. baby—” Michael’s moans nearly sound like he’s crying, so tightly wound and high pitched. “So much of it!”

He pumps the last bit of seed out of him and his breathing eventually evened out into something slower, heavier, the kind that came after too much of everything all at once. The tension that had been clinging to him since Hayvenhurst had finally drained away completely, leaving him softened in her arms, his grip at her waist loose but tracing patterns into her skin. She stayed with him in the quiet, feeling the last remnants of his warmth settle into the space between them while the room dimmed into near silence.

Somewhere between her thoughts slowing down and his breathing deepening, sleep took them both without ceremony, pulling them under.

Then.. morning arrived too quickly.

The golden light had barely started to warm the room when hard knocks landed at the door, loud enough to cut straight through the sleep they’d fallen into. More knocks came again, harder this time, followed immediately by a voice that cut through the thin walls of the apartment like it had been waiting there all night.

“MICHAEL!”

She and Michael both stirred at the same time, pulled out of sleep in pieces rather than fully waking at once. For a few seconds, neither of them moved properly, just disoriented in that soft, half dream space where reality hadn’t fully arrived yet. Then another knock hit the door, sharper, more insistent, followed by overlapping voices outside.

“Dad, calm down—”

“Just let him open the door—”

“Joe, stop—”

The brothers were there too.

Michael pushed himself upright slowly, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep, confusion immediately giving way to something more alert as the voices outside kept rising. She could feel the shift instantly.

“Michael!” Joe’s voice came again, louder now. “Open this door!”

They both stood, quickly getting dressed before moving down the hallway. Michael glanced back at her once before moving toward the door as she held onto his bicep tightly.

When he opened the front door, Joe stood at the center of it rigid with anger, with his sons behind him trying unsuccessfully to contain the situation, their faces tight with exhaustion.

Joe’s eyes landed on her immediately.

Not Michael, but her.

And whatever restraint he had been holding onto snapped into something cold and direct.

“I don’t want you around my son.”