angelface

Type: Long One Shot (13k+ wc)

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Michael Jackson x Reader

Tags: #moonwalker!michael, tension, friends to lovers, secret admiration, best friends brother, set in the 40s, angst and yearning, Bridgeton Inspired, love confession, you fall first x he falls harder

Summary: You have been in love with Michael since you learned what love was. However, he’s your best friend’s brother which means he’s off limits. You write him anonymous love letters one day, making him fall in love with the lady in the letters. Now, you try to get him to fall out of love with her and fall in love with you instead.

TW: Mentions of Blood and J*e

Smut Version

an: I couldn’t decide if this should include smut or not…the story can be told the same either way but if you want that extra spice I got you ((;

Badum. Badum. Badum.

Is the sound you internalize as you hold on to Michael, face pressed against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. You squeeze him tight, and he counters it with an even tighter squeeze.

You were going to miss him. Michael was leaving for a three month long trip. So, you stand at a train station with his family as you say goodbye to him.

You pull away from him slowly because the hug was getting far too long for your comfort. Any longer and everyone would start to question how friendly you two really were.

To be completely transparent, you weren’t that friendly. He was your best friend, Janet’s, older brother. You grew up among side them, in their homes, at their dinners, in their family pictures that hang all over their walls.

You were there when they went from low class to new money in less than a single decade.

Now you stand waving goodbye to the boy who had your heart since you first met him.

“You better write,” Michael says, a slight smile ghosting the corners of his lips.

“You better answer,” you retort, taking an extra step back, fighting the heat that creeps across your cheeks.

The Jacksons pull Michael into one last hug before he’s off. You watch from the side as they all embrace him at once. His mother smooths his jacket. Marlon takes his hat off before putting it back on, and Janet fits perfectly in the crook of his side to give him the best hug.

Then he’s off.

Janet joins you, hands locking with yours, as you watch the train begin to gear up, then begin its gradual descent east.

“I’m going to miss him,” Janet says.

“At least we don’t have to worry about ice cream running out for a couple of months,” Marlon says as he puts an arm over Janet’s shoulders.

Once the train is out of sight completely, everyone finally turns around and heads for their fancy cars to return home. You hop in with Janet and Marlon.

The farther Marlon drove, the quieter you became.

You watch the road that was beautifully paved, not a single crack. The late California sun pours gold over the car, the rays catch on the edges of palm trees and hills making them appear blue and hazy.

Everything on this side of town always seemed to have been exactly where it was meant to be.

White fences. Houses with wide windows and long driveways that lead to big garages that were bigger than the homes in your neighborhood.

Everything looked fresh and new like crocus flowers after a harsh winter.

You didn’t even know grass could be that vibrant until you saw this side of Cali.

You sit in the back with Janet who was leaned against the window napping. You sat with your knees angled toward the door, watching as the afternoon bleeds into evening.

You let yourself get lost in it. In the trees that bend against the breeze, in the neat rows of flower bushes, in the people dressed in pastels as they live in their truths.

This was the California people dreamed about.

The California the Jacksons lived in and the California you only seemed to visit.

“You good?” Marlon asks, looking at you through the rear mirror.

You meet his eyes in the glass.

“Yeah,” you say.

He smiles at you, but he doesn’t look too convinced.

As the ride prolongs, the houses start to get smaller and smaller. The roads loose smooth curves and become straight and cracked.

The sidewalks disappear in places and there are random metal fences bent unnaturally.

Here the landscape becomes less intentional and more like an after thought.

Where there should be palm trees are telephone boxes with crazy wires dangling. Where there should be rows of fresh fruit are cardboard box homes with legs that peak out the end.

The trees you did have, had their way and grew anywhere they pleased.

The big beautiful homes became old run down homes. The generational homes became apartments. The apartments became trailers with cars parked on the lawn.

You watch it all through the window without a sound. This was always the worse part to you.

Five years ago, the Jacksons lived here too. Back then they didn’t think much about the neighborhood other than their father who was way in over his head.

Y’all knew which streets flooded when it rained and which houses had the aggressive dogs y’all used to taunt for fun. Y’all knew which corner stores stayed open late and which had your favorite snacks.

But then the Jackson’s family business exploded. Not literally of course but in the way that changes peoples lives.

In the way freshly pressed money does.

Within a few years, they moved out into a bigger house. A better neighborhood. Better schools. Actual vacations.

But you remained in the same place, you probably will always be. And they didn’t judge you for it either. You come from a single mother and a father who died in the war.

You look down at your reflection in the window. Your hair was still curled from earlier. Your skin still glowed with youth and life. The red in your lipstick was still potent. The pearls Katherine gave you sit beautifully against your complexion.

You looked foreign against the scenery, like a diamond in the rough. You just spent the afternoon surrounded by luxury, playing a part as if you had also fell into wealth.

It was strange.

The cracks on the sidewalks were deeper now. The paint on houses lost their luster. The weeds swallowed parts of the fences.

Marlon slows as he pulls into your neighborhood. The houses grew even smaller. Then he pulls in front of yours.

Tiny was the only way to describe it.

It sat a little too close to the road, it had dusty blue shutters that tilted with age, your father had been working on them before he was drafted. The grass you did have was patchy, uneven, green in some places and brown in others.

A narrow walkway cut through it toward the front door.

For a moment, you just stare at it. No one moved in the car, not even Janet, as she slowly came too. The silence inside the car always seems to get heavier every time they drop you off.

“This is me,” you say quietly.

Marlon looks at your house then to the one right next to it then back to you.

“I remember,” he says.

Of course he had. Your houses were right next to each other. Every morning you and Janet met between the houses squealing and hugging as if you hadn’t seen her in years (thankfully that never changed).

You reach for the door handle, then pull yourself out, stopping just before the worn wired fence gate.

You watch as the sunset settles over the neighborhood. The sky was still beautiful, even here. Pink and orange stretched over every rooftop no matter who lived there.

The sun kisses broken fences and dusty windows with the same tenderness it had given the mansions.

Perhaps that was the cruelest thing about beauty. It didn’t care for where you lived or what you came from.

You turn around with a smile on your face.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say, waving at Janet and Marlon.

“Anytime,” Marlon says.

“Always,” Janet follows.

You smile at them to ease their nerves. They hated this part just as much as you did. It was even worse when Michael was there.

Then you turn, open the gate that didn’t really keep anything out and was slightly ajar year around, walk up the uneven path and into your home.

You hear them drive away once you shut the door. Through the window you watch as taillights disappear down the street until they grow small then out of sight.

The floor boards creak with every step you take. The house smells of a nice pot of chili. As you round the kitchen you hear the pot bubbling.

“Hey baby, how was it?” Your mother says as she stirs the pot.

“It was nice. Michael says to write him,” you tell her.

“I’ll be sure to send him a letter,” she responds.

You give her a tight squeeze to ground you again.

This is where you are from.

This was home.

Despite the luxuries you were fortunate to experience because of the Jacksons, it gets exhausting after a while.

Always having to sit a certain way, laugh a certain way, always having to know the newest gossip from the papers when your papers were always three issues behind.

You breathe in the familiar musk of the house, your shoulder sag immediately.

“You gone ahead and shower. Dinner will be done in twenty minutes,” your mother says.

You nod before pealing off her. You slip off your shoes, moaning at the liberation of your toes. You undo the bow that ties your curls together and reel at the tension that dissipates instantly.

It’s well into the night when you are bathed, full from your mother’s cooking, and ready for bed as you sit at your desk.

This desk was the only new thing in your room. The Jacksons gifted it to you for your birthday because they knew how much you loved to write.

They just had no idea how much you loved to write to their son.

You wasted no time drafting your first letter to Michael. You memorized the address he told you immediately.

You don’t write anything crazy. Just that you wished he had a save travel, wished him well and hope he writes back soon.

The first letter from Michael arrived that following Tuesday. You knew it was him before you even opened it.

You recognized his handwriting on the envelope from the slightly slanted letters that didn’t know if they wanted to be print or cursive. The way his name was pressed harder in the paper, and the small crease in the corner where he folded letters the exact same way each time.

You had been waiting for it…not that you’d ever admit that to anyone. You checked the mailbox three times that day.

The first had been reasonable. You’d just woken up, you know get the morning paper and such. The second had been because you so happened to be walking past it. And the third time had been because…well maybe the mail man was running late.

Now, when you spot the familiar envelope resting among bills and advertisements, your heart jumps ridiculously in your chest.

“Pull yourself together,” you whisper, shaking your head.

You pick it up and tear it open.

Inside, Michael wrote about his safe journey and how happy he was that you wrote to him. That you were the first to.

The smile that splayed across your face was huge. Your cheeks were so high, you could see them in your vision.

Michael didn’t write much but his effect on you was still the same. Either through words scribbled on the page or as he stands before you.

You were head over heels in love with him.

You waste no time, scrambling to your desk, picking out your favorite pen to write him back.

You told him his mother was doing well. His brothers were doing well. His older sister had started piano lessons and according to Jackie was “determined to destroy every key she dare touched.” You laugh softly to yourself as you catch him up to speed.

That same day you sent out the letter. A little more than a week later you get a letter back from Michael.

You smile as you read it. He told details about the place he’d been, the things he saw, the people he met, what the east coast was like.

How the part he was helping rebuild looks a little like the place he grew up.

The little details he wrote made the letters feel more like an in person conversation than an exchange of scribbles across sheets of paper.

Michael wrote about an old man who insisted on giving him fruit every time he visited, despite Michael repeatedly telling him not to.

And the little fat wobbly lady who worked hard to care for her community but still had energy to laugh and dance with him anyways.

You should’ve seen their faces when they found out I could sing. Now every time I see them they beg me to sing for them.

He wrote. You could picture the way his face animates when he sings.

It’s truly beautiful. He’s beautiful.

Every part of him was beautiful.

And then there were the children. Michael had a weakness for them, and through his letters you began to grow fondly of them too.

He wrote about one little boy who followed him around whenever he was near by because he was fascinated by Michael’s shoes.

Michael described this adorable little girl named Paris who gave him a flower then demanded it back because she decided it would look better in her own hair than in his hands.

The children here are adorable. I don't think they realize how funny they are.

You read that sentence more times than you care to admit. You could picture him saying it. The way his eyes slightly widen when he’s happy, the way his upper lip disappears when his smile widens.

You could picture him far too easily.

That’s because you had many years of experience of daydreams (is what you like to call it while your mother calls them delusions).

You’d think of many scenarios of you and him before you slept and you’d replay moments with him in your head over and over.

You stored all his letters in the pages of your personal notebook.

When your crush got to intense you told yourself you were just glad to hear from a good friend.

That’s all.

A good friend.

Like that your letters continued easily through the weeks. At first, they were spaced apart by weeks then they became more frequent.

You wrote about his family and your life updates, little triumphs like you getting your license despite being in your twenties.

Michael wrote back about his journey of turning a run down community into one rebuilt and buzzing with new life. Putting his money to good use like he used to talk about when he was younger.

He used to give his lunch money to the neighborhood kids despite not having enough for him to eat too.

He asked questions. You answered and countered his with your own questions.

Your heart would leap every time he’d mentioned details you mention earlier.

Did Miss Shirley find her cat?

How did my mother’s luncheon go?

You said you were starting up crochet. How did it go?

Those little things made you stare at the ink longer than you should have.

Michael always remembered.

You began to look forward to the mail with an eagerness of a woman waiting for a letter from her husband at war across the seas.

Only Michael wasn’t your husband. He was your closest friend and most of all Janet’s off limits older brother.

But that didn’t stop the feelings that grew even bigger everytime Michael wrote your name on an envelope.

Your feelings had become so intense for him that you just had to tell him.

I hope you know how rare you are. I adore the way you speak to people.

You have this beautiful way of making everyone around you feel seen and valued.

There’s something about you that makes the world feel softer.

You make the world gentler just by being in it.

To someone who doesn’t realize how deeply he’s admired,

Sincerely, Billie J.

You signed the letter not with your name but as an alias, and send it in with no return address.

The idea came to you on a rainy day when you couldn’t stop thinking about him and the time when just the two of you played in the rain when you were younger.

Your first few attempts at writing a love letter were embarrassing to say the least.

Dear Michael,

You start before crumbling the page. Your face heats uncomfortably before you could get a real word in.

You decided on not addressing him directly so it wasn’t so intimate.

The night you sent your first love letter, you could barely sleep. Regret clinging like smoke in your lungs. You were completely in disbelief at yourself.

You had no idea of the effect of your letter.

Michael wrote back to your usual letter. He recounted his progress, how much he missed everyone, and the little antidotes from his daily life.

But near the end where he’d usually sign off, was something different.

Something weird happened recently.

Your breath catches in your throat.

I received a letter from someone named Billie J.

Your heart begins to pound like a bird trapped in a cage.

I have no idea who she is, but it was kind. Very kind. I’ve read it several times.

You cover your mouth. It was suddenly all too real.

He'd read it.

Several times at that.

I’m telling you this because I trust you, whoever wrote that should know that it meant more to me than they could ever imagine. Do you know who Billie J is?

You felt like you were going to die from all the emotions raging inside you. Embarrassment and happiness fought a fatal war inside your body.

Your heart thumped uncontrollably in your chest while the widest grin spread across your face.

whoever wrote that should know that it meant more to me than they could ever imagine.

You look over that line a million times before dropping your forehead against the desk.

This was absurd and wonderful all at once.

A terrible idea as well.

You were going to do it again.

And you did.

The second letter was longer. The third letter had more vibrato. You told him how much you loved the way he described the world. How you loved the way he noticed others people often overlooked.

All the while sending him letters as yourself claiming to not know Billie J, but promising you’d ask around.

He wrote back again, still mentioning how beautifully she writes.

In a weird way you were jealous of his relationship with Billie J. Even though she was you. They could be together with no exterior pressure.

Another part of you was scared if he ever found out who Billie J really was would he be disappointed?

But you were also happy to finally be able to express your feelings toward him. To finally let him know how special he truly was to you.

You never told him you’d love him but it’s laced in the words of your letters.

If you ever wonder whether anyone is thinking of you, know that somewhere someone is.

If you ever feel like you’re not wanted anywhere, you've got a place to go.

If you ever feel lonely, know that there is someone who’d love to hear every single thought that kisses your mind.

Eventually Michael’s letters spilled out your notebook. You begin to collect them in a small clothed box under your bed.

You felt safe in the letters. You could love him from ink and paper, say all the things you wish you could tell him in person through passionate scribbles, all while Michael still thought you simply a friend.

Thankfully he accepted the love letters instead of rejecting them and calling them weird. But deep down you knew he wouldn’t. Michael was a huge romantic just like you.

Eventually, you have to be pulled back to reality. Like that three months passed by quickly.

Michael was on the train back to Cali right now and the Jacksons were waiting for him.

This time you opted out. You couldn’t face him just yet. How could you? Not when your feelings for him quadrupled. And especially not when you’ve been secretly writing him love letters.

But you could only avoid them for so long. It was Sunday dinner, and Janet had invited you over. After dinner a couple of Janet’s friends were going to come over for a sleepover.

A maid opens the door for you. When you enter, you can hear them before you see them. Laughter spills through the house, warm and familiar, mixed with the clatter of dishes.

Even though you have no idea what they’re laughing about, a smile ghosts across your face anyways.

The fullness of their home is what you always adored about them. With it just being you and your mom, all you had to lean on was each other. But being with the Jacksons, the support was pouring from every corner of the house.

You step farther inside, smoothing your dress. When you round the corner toward the dining room, you stop dead in your tracks.

Your smile falters just a little and your breath catches in your throat.

Michael is sitting at the end of the table, laughing at something someone said. His sleeves are pushed up to his forearms, and his curls are slightly rustled, as if he ran his hand through them without thinking.

You knew you had to face him eventually. And you went into the dinner knowing there was a strong possibility he’d be here but for some reason you didn’t think he actually would be.

But of course, it’s his house, his family, why wouldn’t he be here?

You stare at him noting how much different he looks now even from back here.

His shoulders were a bit broader, his arms were stronger, he looks older in the best way.

It was clear the east definitely did something to him.

Whatever happened over there made him so unbelievably handsome that your brain stutters for a moment.

Then his head turns, sensing your presence, and your eyes meet.

For a moment everything goes quiet. Michael’s smile softens the longer your eyes at catch on each other.

The air in your lungs can’t seem to escape and you can’t seem to suck in any new fresh air.

Then Marlon does something goofy and everyone erupts into laughter again, and his eyes snap toward his brother.

You breathe again, and your heart hammers in your chest. It beats faster and faster. So fast you think it’s trying to outrun a cheetah.

Then Janet jumps out her chair.

“There you are! Come girl, dinners about to be served,” she smiles and pulls you into the room.

You smile and wave as you find your seat next to Janet and across from Michael.

“Hi,” you say, and it comes out embarrassingly quiet.

“Hey, how’ve you been?” Michael asks, his tone remains gentle despite all his other changes.

“Good, you?” you say.

“Happy to be home,” he smiles.

Your heart squeezes in your chest. Your face is so hot you could probably cook an egg on it.

Three months of writing love letters to this boy and the best you could manage was three words.

“You’re late,” Janet leans into you and says.

“I’m not late.”

“You are.”

“I’m exactly on time.”

“Exactly on time is late.” she counters.

You give her a confused look and she grins.

“You made that up,” you say.

“All things are made up if you really think about it,” she says with a smile.

You laugh under your breath.

Across the table, Michael smiles. You catch him then he catches you catching him.

You immediately look down at your empty plate.

Just like Janet says, dinner comes out.

Three months apart has done absolutely nothing to improve this family’s ability to have a peaceful meal.

Someone is always messing with someone else. Conversations overlap. Someone too eager to get bread rolls almost knocks over a glass.

Janet starts telling a story that keeps getting interrupted by Jermaine because according to him she was “too little to remember properly.”

Michael mostly watches, laughing softly, and occasionally throwing in a comment that makes everyone yell at him.

And you keep sneaking glances at him. Just little ones of course. Quick enough to think you’re getting away with it.

When you’re not. At one point, you look up to him already watching you.

His eyes linger on yours. There’s something different about the way he looks at you now.

Or maybe you are just imagining it because you spent three months writing him things you couldn’t dare say to his face.

You drop your gaze.

“So,” Jackie says, leaning back on his chair, rubbing his stomach, “Michael.”

Michael looks up.

“What?”

“Are you going to tell us about your mysterious girlfriend?”

You choke on your water.

Michael laughs.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Yet,” Marlon adds.

The table erupts.

You stare very intently at your plate, suddenly fascinated by the china.

Michael shakes his head, looking amused.

“There isn’t a girlfriend,” he says.

“Then who keeps writing you?”

Your heart stops.

Completely.

Michael leans back in his chair, “I have no idea,” he admits.

“You still don’t know who she is?” Janet asks.

He shakes his head.

You do your best to hide the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth.

“So there’s a girl who writes you love letters and you have no idea who she is?” Jermaine scoffs.

Michael only responds with a laugh while he rubs the back of his neck.

“Well I hope you find your mystery woman Mike,” Tito says before taking a quick bite.

“I hope so too,” Michael says under his breath.

Your stomach flips. He likes the letters—like actually likes them and the girl behind the letter.

You bite inside of your cheek to keep from smiling like an idiot.

“Do you know if you’ve met her before?” Marlon asks.

“I might have,” he shrugs.

That makes you look up. Michael’s eyes find yours and your heart thumps hard, so hard it feels like it might fall out.

He holds your gaze for a second then looks away.

“I don’t know,” he says, ”Maybe.”

“So you like her?” Janet asks.

You hold your breath because what ever he says next might crush your delusions dressed up as hope.

“Yeah,” Michael smiles, looking down bashfully.

A chorus of teasing ooohs erupts around the table.

“Awh Michael,” Katherine coos.

He laughs.

“I really like her,” he admits.

In any other situation you’d hate to hear him proclaim his love for another woman, but since he’s talking about you (unknowingly), you buzz with life.

“You’ve never even met her,” Tito points out.

“I’ve read enough of her letters.” His voice is softer now.

You stare at him as he defends your honor unknowingly.

“I like the way she writes. I like reading what she thinks about things. And…”

He pauses.

“And?” Janet says.

Michael smiles to himself.

“I want to meet her.”

Your heart practically launches itself out of your chest.

You press your lips together, desperately trying to look uninterested.

Janet shoots you a look. You shake your head and smile.

“So,” Marlon says, “what do you think she looks like?”

Michael laughs.

The longer this dinner goes on, the closer your demeanor gets close to snapping. You are holding it together by a thread.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, you can see his cheeks begin to redden.

“Come on, what do you think she looks like?” Marlon pushes.

He thinks for a moment.

“I think she’s probably beautiful,” he says with so much sincerity that it falters your high a bit.

A nasty seed of insecurity sprouts in your mind.

You reach for your glass just to have something to do. Under the table, Janet grabs your knee.

She leans toward you.

“You’re being weird,” she whispers.

“I’m not,” your voice takes a high defensive note.

“You’ve been staring at the same piece of chicken for five minutes.” She says pointedly.

You glance down, stabbing it with your fork.

“I just wasn’t ready to eat it yet,” you say cooly.

She rolls her eyes.

Across the table, Michael is still smiling. Your eyes meet again for a moment. But your heart doesn’t care if it was a millisecond or ten minutes, it continues to beat hard, so hard you feel it in your ears.

You were going to pass out by the end of dinner for sure.

Michael has no idea the girl who he’s been crushing on is sitting right across from him.

The rest of dinner passes in a blur. Michael gets pulled into an argument with his brothers about something completely ridiculous, Janet joins to defend him. Tito nearly falls out his chair and that’s what brings everyone back together when they all laugh.

This is how it usually goes. It felt like Michael never left. Except every time you look at him, you see the change, you see the man he’s becoming.

Hearing his stories about the east beat reading about them easily. Having to no longer imagine his voice and see the way his whole body lights up when talking about the people there was a beautiful sight to see.

After dinner, you help clear the table.

“Come on,” Janet says.

“Hold on,” you tell her.

“Girl you know you don’t have to do that anymore.”

“But—“

“Girl,” she grabs your hand, ”We have a sleepover.”

“Janet—” you whine.

“Let’s go.”

She practically drags you down the hallway. You glance back once. Michael is standing near the dining room doorway watching you.

For the hundredth time that night, your eyes meet. A tiny spark passes through you causing your heart to shutter.

Then Janet pulls you around the corner.

Sleepovers at Janet’s house was a newer thing she did. Now with a nice, big house she could finally invite people over the way she always dreamed.

Everyone had their own rooms now, own bathrooms, own little corner in the house.

That was a perk of Janet’s life now. She could afford to make room for people in ways you couldn’t. With everyone constantly buried with work and whatever rich people did, nights like these had become a way to slow down and live in the moment instead of worrying about the next.

It was four of you, sprawled on her bed with wine glasses in hand, laughing as if you were teenagers again.

Janet was sitting crosslegged at the foot of her bed, laughing so hard she nearly spilled her wine.

Like always the conversation turned to men and the people who y’all were interested in.

Everyone went around talking about the men they’d been seeing, ones they kicked to the curb, and the ones they shouldn’t be thinking about.

You listened mostly, chiming in when you had something funny to say, because your love life was drier than the desert.

Only composed of thoughts and daydreams.

Then Evelyn suddenly sat up, as if she had an epiphany.

“Hold on,” she says.

All eyes flick to her.

She points at Janet.

“You have all those fine brothers, let me have one.”

Janet’s face scrunches with disgust.

“Right?! Janet don’t you wanna be sister in laws?” Alice adds in.

Both girls clink their wine glasses together in understanding. You smile softly.

“Absolutely not!” Janet declines.

Everyone bursts out laughing.

“Aww, come on,” Evelyn pleads.

“They are so cute,” Alice says.

“No way!”

“Not even one?” Evelyn asks.

“Not even one,” Janet says back.

The girls burst into laughter once more. You laugh with them but somewhere underneath, your stomach drops. Because you’d been crushing on her brother for the longest time.

You lower your wine glass and take a sip to relax your nerves.

“All my brothers are off limits! End of discussion!” Janet points at each of you like she was laying down law.

“Fine,” Evelyn huffs, holding up her hands.

“Good,” Janet nods.

“Still unfair,” Alice chides.

“Life is unfair,” Janet says.

Everyone laughs again, and you join them. However yours comes out a little too guilty.

Eventually, the wine caught up with everyone. Conversations faded into yawns. Someone curled into herself. Someone disappeared into the bathroom to wash her face. Janet gave everyone blankets as sleep kissed everyone’s forehead. Everyone’s forehead but yours.

You lay there awake, staring at the ceiling. The room was quiet say for the soft hum of the house, and the occasional sound of shifting beneath blankets.

Your mind kept replaying Janet’s words.

All my brothers are off limits.

You turn onto your side and huff.

Ridiculous.

You were an adult. Michael was an adult. You haven’t done anything wrong, and yet just thinking about him makes your heart behave like it was on trial.

After twenty minutes of pretending you were going to fall asleep, you quietly slip from under Janet’s grasp.

You needed a good snack to put you to bed.

You pad down the stairs quietly. The house was dark but you knew your way around easily. When you reach the kitchen, you stop.

Michael stood at the counter. And of course there was a box of ice cream sitting beside him.

You couldn’t help the smile that ghosts your lips.

He looks up and your eyes meet. For a second, neither of you say anything, then you both laugh softly.

“Guess some things never change,” you whisper.

He looks down at the ice cream and shakes his head with the sweetest smile.

You step closer. He had already gotten out a cup for himself. You grab another one and sit it beside his.

“Make me some?”

“Of course.”

He scoops some ice cream into your cup, then pauses.

“Actually…”

You look at him.

“Do you wanna go for a walk?” He asks.

You blink, “A walk?”

“Yeah,” he says softly.

You glance toward the stairs. Everyone was asleep. Then you look back at him.

“Sure.”

He scoops more ice cream into your cup then his before you both slip outside.

The night is cool against your skin, owls hoot in the distance. For the first few minutes neither of you said much. Just walked quietly as the sound of slippers scraping against the pavement fill your ears.

It was a comfortable silence. And when you did finally speak, it’s like no time has passed between you at all. Sure, you wrote those letters but nothing beats face to face conversations.

Y’all talked about everything and nothing.

Then, Michael tells you something he’d been thinking about.

“I've been wanting to clean up some of the neighborhoods around here,” he says. “Like what I did out East.”

You look at him, the moon positioned behind him, making a halo of light around the edges of his curls.

“You really want to do that?” You ask.

“Yeah.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” you say.

“You do?” He smiles, it makes your heart squeeze, so you look down.

“Of course I do. You always cared about that stuff—helping people.”

That’s what you liked about him most. His compassion for others even when they don’t show him any.

“Someone has to,” he says, looking ahead.

You keep walking, your ice cream finished, and sleep singing in the back of your mind.

Eventually, you made your way back inside. The house was just as quiet as you’d left it.

The both of you stop in the hallway. You should’ve said goodnight, instead you look at him. Moonlight from the window bathes you both, illuminating every fleck of brown in his eyes silver.

He looks at you too as he takes a step closer. Your heart begins to beat quickly.

There was something about this silence that made you immobile. Something that made the rest of the house disappear and glue your eyes on his.

“Goodnight,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Goodnight, Michael,” you whisper back.

He leans forward, you hold your breath, then he kisses your cheek gently.

Then he steps backwards, and that tiny movement is what breaks the spell that had been holding you there.

He turns and walks away. You rush back into Janet’s room, crawling beneath the blankets, right back into her arms.

Everyone was still asleep. You stare into the darkness while your heart races so fast you press your hand on it to calm it.

You suck in cool air and close your eyes. Eventually your heart returns to a manageable rhythm, and sleep finds you finally. However you are unable to escape Michael because he’s waiting for you in your dreams.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Crystal chandeliers glitter from high ceilings, casting a warm glow across the ballroom. Waiters drift through the crowd carrying trays of glasses that costs more than what you make in a single year.

Everywhere you look were beautiful people dressed in clothes that looked like they’d been made especially for them.

Gorgeous diamonds drape around the women’s necks with diamond earrings to match. The men in perfectly tailored suits.

You were Janet and La Toya’s guess to the annual gala their country club threw. It was your first time here. You felt so out of place.

Everything about this place seemed to be designed to remind you that you didn’t belong unless you had the diamonds to prove it.

You wouldn’t have been invited if it weren’t for them, you’d be turned down at the door, or casted as a waitress.

You certainly wouldn’t have been invited with the clothes you have hanging in your closet.

Thankfully, Janet gifted you a dress she insisted you would look beautiful in a while back.

At the time, you laughed and told her you had no where to wear it but accepted it all the same. It actually hung in your mother’s closet instead of yours.

The dress was fitted and feminine, with a wide softly draped neckline that rests just off your shoulders. The skirt hugged your body all the way down, enhancing your every curve. The fabric was a deep midnight color that looked best under lights, it shimmers like a beach under the moon.

To most, you look the part. But up close to anyone who cared to look you over, would know the dress was old. The cut was slightly outdated and the fabric wasn’t what the new dress makers were using.

La Toya told you that much.

You stay near the wall, despite Janet who tried to drag you from it. You didn’t know these people or what they were talking about, and you wanted to save yourself from pretending that you did.

Eventually, you get tired of standing there and your feet were starting to hurt.

You slip outside unnoticed.

The moment the terrace door close behind you, the noise instantly softens.

You breathe in deeply, allowing crisp air to fill your nose and deep into your lungs, then you exhale it, feeling the fog in your mind disappear.

You walk farther onto the terrace, shoes clicking, expecting to be alone.

But you weren’t.

Michael was standing near the railing, his back facing you as he looks out at the country club grounds. The lights spill faintly across the stone of the terrace.

"Needed some air too?" You ask.

He turns at the sound of your voice. His eyes move over you, a hint of surprise and something unreadable flickers.

“Yeah…” he finally says.

“You okay?” You laugh softly as you join him.

“Yeah,” he looks away for a moment, “You look nice.”

Your cheeks heat at the unexpected compliment.

“Thank you,” you reply shyly.

Michael hadn’t come with you and his sisters, but you knew he’d be here as the male representation.

The two of you stand there for a moment, neither of you having any interest of going back inside.

You glance around.

"Wanna go for a walk?" You ask.

"Sure," he nods.

You slip away from the terrace, and start walking along the grounds. The further you both go from the gala, the quieter everything became.

The orchestra disappears behind you, now replaced by the soft sound of footsteps on the path and the rustle of trees in the breeze.

Y’all talk about little things first, laughing gently together. Then eventually the conversation shifts. You’d been carrying around a question for weeks. Now was the perfect time to ask.

"How sure are you that you're going to find Billie J.?" You look at him, watching his face.

Michael's expression changes.

You immediately regret asking.

That question had been haunting you longer than he ever knew.

Billie J. wasn’t some stranger in the world. She was you. The girl in the letters he’s been searching for was looking him right in the face.

What if he actually found Billie J. somehow and he’d show up to your house completely betrayed and disappointed.

"I'm going to find her," he says assuredly, not even a flicker of doubt in his voice.

Your heart sinks.

"But what if she doesn't want to be found?" The words come out quieter with each syllable.

You stop walking. Michael takes a few steps before realizing you weren’t beside him. He turns to you.

"I’ma find that girl," he says with a boyish grin.

The certainty in his voice makes you laugh despite yourself.

“You sound very determined,” you note.

"I am."

You laugh again, and after a moment, he joins in.

Then a raindrop lands on your cheek.

You look up and another hits your forehead.

Oh no.

Then the rain falls down harder.

Michael looks up at the sky and laughs.

He shrugs off his suit jacket for you. You stare at him. He shakes the jacket as if to say put it on. Then you slip your arms into it.

It was still warm from his body. The scent of his cologne clings faintly to the fabric.

The two of you run as the rain came down harder, laughing as you search for somewhere to take shelter.

You finally find a pergola, and duck underneath, breathlessly.

Your dress clung to you in ways it wasn’t meant to, your hair was definitely a mess, and Michael’s jacket hangs heavy around your shoulders.

"What?" You say defensively.

"Nothing,” Michael shakes his head.

"You're laughing at me," you pout.

"I’m not," he continues to laugh not adding mirth to his claim.

You both sit and listen to the rain hammer against the ground around you.

Not wanting to get caught in that mess, the two of you silently agree to sit here and wait it out.

You talk for what feels like hours. He’s still the boy you grew up with despite all that has happened. You talk to him easily despite your body buzzing with nerves.

The conversation wanders from Billie J., to music, to his dreams, family, and whatever else between.

Then Michael became quiet.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm not doing enough," he admits.

You turn toward him. There was something vulnerable in his expression that makes your chest ache.

“You being in this world is enough,” the words leave your mouth before you could think twice about them.

Michael stares at you.

Your heart immediately starts to pound.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his expression softening.

You look down for a second, suddenly all too aware of how close he was sitting.

And when you look back up, Michael’s gaze is on you. Your breath hitches because the look in his eyes is none like you’ve ever seen.

Michael leans closer. You stop breathing. He comes closer, tilting his head slightly.

Then—

BOOM!

Thunder explodes overhead.

You jump so hard you nearly scream. Michael gets startled too, for a second you stare at each other before laughing.

“That scared me,” you exclaim, hand to your chest.

Then a silent beat passes through the two of you that reminds you what almost happened.

Neither of you brings it back up. Instead you begin to talk about anything else.

By the sound of the thunder, the storm refuses to let up. Eventually the drinks you had earlier, the warmth of the spring night, and the steady sound of the rain catch’s up to you.

All you remember is leaning back against one of the wooden posts, Michael saying something that makes you smile, and then…

Nothing.

You awake to the sounds of birds chirping.

For a moment, you have no idea where you are. You blink slowly, staring at the pale sky. The storm was gone. The earth felt dewy as the sun slowly begins to rise in the distance.

Then you remember.

The walk. The rain. The pergola.

Michael.

You turn your head, he was asleep beside you, arm draped loosely over you.

“Oh my god,” your eyes widen.

You immediately sit up.

“Michael!”

He doesn’t move.

“Michael, wake up!” You pat his arm.

He groans.

“Michael!”

"When did we fall asleep?" He mumbles.

"I don't know,” you say as you look around anxiously. “But we have to go.”

“Okay. Give me a second,” he groggily says.

“We don’t have seconds.”

“Why?” He blinks.

"Because your sister is going to kill me."

"Why would Janet kill you?" He pulls his brows together.

You stare at him because you don’t have an appropriate reason to give him.

"Don’t worry about it," you stand up and brush your dress that’s still damp.

He gives you a suspicious look.

“Come on, let’s go,” you rush him.

Michael laughs sleepily as he rises to his feet.

You hurry back toward the country club, your mind spinning as you replayed the nights events.

All too aware of the shift in your relationship.

You just hope the shift was small enough to ignore.

But to your detriment it wasn’t.

Because now there was a small spark that sizzled whenever he was near.

It wasn’t only you, but him as well. He could feel it.

The two of you suddenly forget how to coexist together.

In the hallway, you bump into him, you try to go around him but he steps in that same direction, and when you shuffle again, he’s there too. It goes on far too long to admit when he caves and allows you to pass by.

There was an awkward tension lingering between the two of you. Neither of you chose to acknowledge it, so your conversations become simplified to quick hellos.

So now when you are in the living room there’s only one seat left next to Michael who looks at you expectedly, you chose to squish next to Janet instead.

And when one day in the kitchen, you reach for the same snack as him, you let him have it. You mumble an apology and scramble back to Janet’s room.

“Hey, where’s our snacks?” Janet asks.

This was becoming all too real and all too possible. Because there was a possibility that Michael could be feeling you now.

You’ve been in the fantasy of being Michael’s girl so long it exceeds the time when you hadn’t.

Now there’s a small possibility, and it freaks you out.

So, you pull away from him.

You stop going to the Jackson’s house. Instead you and Janet go to cafes or the local shopping centers. And when there’s no where to go, you only go over when you know he’s not there.

And it wasn’t like you didn’t miss him, because you did. You wanted to hear him talk and see him laugh.

Find little excuses to be around him like you did before the gala but you were scared.

This was beginning to exceed the limits of your dreams.

You could control your own heart, your own feelings, add his feelings to the equation and you had no idea what to do.

So, you pull away.

Tonight you sit by the window, mindlessly sewing something, as rain lightly taps against it.

Then there was a sound of pounding on your door. You gasp then put your needles down.

You tentatively head towards the door slightly on edge because your mother doesn’t knock like that.

The floor creaks underneath you as you reach for the door.

When you open it, your heart stops.

“Michael?” You breathe.

He stands outside, breathing heavily. For a second you couldn’t understand what you were looking at.

His clothes are dirty. His hair is disheveled. There is blood on his face. A cut ran along his cheek, and his lip was split. His breathing is uneven, and he looked completely disoriented.

"Oh my God, Michael,” you immediately reach for him.

"Are you okay? What happened?" You ask desperately.

“I—“ he tries, but he is so out of breath that the words can barely come out.

"Come inside."

You usher him inside, grabbing his arm and helping him through the small doorway.

You didn’t care that your house was small, old, and a bit unorganized. The paint on the walls has faded since the last time he’d been around.

You guide him into your bedroom, lowering him onto the edge of your bed, a quiet groan escapes him.

You hurry to the dresser and pull out your mending kit. It wasn’t much but you kept medical supplies tucked inside.

You kneel in front of him.

“What happened?” You ask.

He doesn’t answer immediately. You carefully dab at the blood near his eyebrow which causes him to wince.

“Sorry,” you softly whisper.

“You’re okay,” he says.

“Michael, what happened?” You ask again sternly.

He drew in a shaky breath.

“Remember when I told you I wanted to clean up the neighborhoods around here?”

You nod as your expression softens with concern.

"Well, I began to,” he looks down at his hands as if they were at fault.

“I started in one neighborhood, just a few blocks down. There were gang signs painted all over some of the walls,” he continues.

You stop moving, scared of where this was going.

“I painted over them.”

The room suddenly feels too quiet.

“Oh my god, Michael,” you gasp, understanding exactly where he went wrong.

Everyone knew better than to touch anything belonging to the gang around here. Especially men that look like him.

That was the main reason it still looked outdated in these parts.

You look him over to see if they did anything more than just beat him up, but it looks like he still has his jewelry and valuables.

"Why would you do that?" You stare at him, your heart aching.

"I just wanted to make the neighborhoods nice,” he says so genuinely that it hurts.

"Oh, Michael,” you reply, your heart strings tugging hard in your chest.

You reach up and gently brush the dried blood from his cheek.

“I know,” your voice softens, “I know.”

Something in his expression shifts at your gentle words. Maybe it was relief, maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe he just needed to hear someone tell him what he was doing mattered.

You continue to clean his wound. He quietly watches you. You dab antiseptic along the cut on his cheek, then carefully clean the blood from his lip.

When you finish, you wrap small bandages around the worst of his cuts.

"There,” you say as you lean back slightly to inspect your work.

It was weird. You’d spent weeks avoiding him because you were scared of getting too close and now he sits on your bed, battered and bruised, looking at you with something unfamiliar in his eyes.

You glance up, he was still watching you.

“What?” You whisper, your heart beginning to kick.

"Nothing," he shakes his head but he doesn’t look away.

You knew deep down it wasn’t nothing.

You let out a soft sigh, finally cleaning up the blood stained cotton swab and the antiseptic, putting the kit back in the dresser.

Your hands still tremble slightly as the remainder of the adrenaline leaves your body.

Every time you’d touch him, you felt a jolt of electricity shoot through you, mixing with the ache in your chest at the sight of him hurt.

“Don’t I get a kiss?” Michael murmurs.

Your breath hitches. The room suddenly feels smaller than it already was.

“I suppose so…” you whisper, heart hammering in your chest.

You lean in, your movements slow and careful.

You start with the small cut just under his eye, pressing your lips to his skin, the touch lighter than a feather. You taste the faint metallic tang of dried blood.

You feel him shudder beneath your lips.

Next, you press a tender kiss on the scrape on his cheek, your eyes fluttering shut. Then, you hover just before his lips, feeling the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin.

Your mind feels hazy, like the world outside was dissolving into nothing.

Finally, you press a kiss to the corner of his lip.

When you finally pull away, just an inch, you open your eyes to find his locked on yours. His eyes were wide, pleading with something so raw it makes your knees weak.

Michael reaches up, his large hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb grazing your cheekbones with the same tenderness that you gave him.

Slowly, he pulls you closer. Your lips hovering so close, not even paper could fit between them. The anticipation stretches like a taut wire.

Then, he gently presses his lips onto yours, soft and tentatively.

He kisses you as if you were made of glass, terrified you might shatter if he presses too hard.

You melt into him, your hands find his shoulders, feeling his muscles beneath your fingertips.

You kiss him back just as cautiously, your lips sliding against his in a slow rhythmic dance.

The only sound in the room was the soft, wet smack of your lips and the heavy breaths you pull in.

The kiss was slow but it was still all consuming. Like a whirlpool that pulls you deeper the longer his mouth connects with yours.

Kissing him was far better than any fantasy you ever mustered. He was warm and gentle in ways that melted your mind.

You can feel the heat from his body, the way he sighs into your mouth, his grip on your face that tightens slightly as he begins to lose his restraint.

Then the front door slams open with a force that shakes the walls. The bubble that kept you hostage shatters. You both jerk apart, gasping. You can feel your lips still tingling and your chest still heaving.

The silence of the house is replaced by the wet footsteps of your mother.

“My mother’s home,” you tell him, smoothing your dress.

He stares at you, like he’s trying to process what just happened.

You run out the room in order to explain to your mother what happened before she gets the wrong (right) idea.

After that night, your feelings for him grew uncontrollable. You replay the kiss in your mind a million times. Still shocked by it all.

This wasn’t a fantasy.

You kissed him. And he kissed you back.

As beautiful as it was, it could never happen again. What Janet said earlier rings louder in your head with every thought of him.

Was your love for him worth several years of her friendship? Was your love for him worth the risk of his friendship as well?

You’d been his friend the same amount as Janet.

Was it worth trampling over?

These days the answer was no. You couldn’t do that to Janet.

So you try to talk to new guys. See if there was a dazzling man that would sweep you off your feet like Michael did.

But all the guys around here are just as broke as you, working long hours, or a crook.

The men in Janet’s circle never look your way because they knew you didn’t have the wealth to counter theirs.

A few of them did try to in the past, but they didn’t want you the way you hoped they would.

Your search for something better was futile because you stand in the hallway with Michael just inches apart.

The same kindling from before sparks between you.

Michael reaches for your hand, locking it with his at his side. You look into his eyes, desire swirling slowly in those midnight pools.

You step closer to him, tilting your face up, he lowers himself.

“Hey, could you—“ Janet says from behind you.

You jerk away from him.

“What’s going on here?” She says suspiciously.

“I was looking at his cuts,” you say quickly.

“Right! She helped me with them when the whole ordeal happened,” he adds.

“Hm,” Janet says, narrowing her eyes, “Anyways…let’s go get our nails done,” Janet says, hooking her arm around yours, yanking you away.

You turn back, watching Michael longingly as he stood there.

Sensing something between the two of you, Janet began making excuses to pull you away whenever Michael was near the days following.

You don’t mind it either. That was way too close of a call.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The diner was loud that night, it buzzes with the noise of too many people talking at once, silverware clinking against plates, and a Louis Jordan song playing softly through the jukebox.

You sat next across from Janet and Marlon. Michael sat beside you.

Which was extremely dangerous.

Michael had always been funny, but these days, everything he says seems ten times funnier. Which was horrible when you were trying not to let anyone notice the way your stomach flips whenever he looks at you.

You nudge your fry around the plate, pretending to be interested in it, all while under the table, you stretch your leg toward Michael.

He glances down for a second but you don’t look at him.

You drink your drink as if nothing is happening, then slowly curl your foot around his ankle.

You feel his surprise, but then you feel him relax into your touch. He’d been so close for hours but you couldn’t touch him.

To Janet and Marlon, you two were friends, nothing different, even as you lock legs under their noses.

Throughout the night, the two of you found little ways to touch.

Your fingers brush when passing something across the table. His shoulder against yours. A glance stolen mid conversation.

You smile down at your plate.

Then, Marlon asks a question that has your smile drooping.

“So,” he says, pointing his fork at Michael, “how’s your search for your mysterious lady?”

The fry you just bit into suddenly tastes sour in your mouth.

Michael pauses.

“Huh?” He says.

You keep your eyes down, fearing whatever he says next.

“Did you ever find her? Billie J.?” Marlon clarifies.

Your heart begins to pound. The name still feels strange to hear in your own head, yet alone from their mouths.

Everyone here knew Michael had been obsessed with her for months.

He’d read every letter she sent him so many times he could recite them.

He used to talk about her whenever he could. Wondering who she was. Where she lived. What she looked like.

All the while you were the one who wrote them and he still didn’t know.

Michael stares down at his plate.

Something in his expression changes. The sparkle he'd once had whenever Billie J. came up wasn't there anymore.

“I gave that idea up weeks ago,” he says coolly.

Your heart sinks. Marlon blinks. Janet smiles.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Michael shrugs.

“Finally woke up,” Marlon laughs and claps him on the back.

“I guess so,” Michael chuckles, but it was hollow.

You knew him well enough to hear it. You look at him, but he doesn’t look back.

And suddenly you don’t know how to feel. A part of you was happy because he finally moved on from Billie J., and maybe that was because of you.

Because whatever was happening between you had become real enough to make him stop searching for the woman he dreamed about.

But the other part of you hurt. He’d really wanted to find her. He grew attached to her and cared for her.

There was something terribly sad about watching him give up on a person he really wanted to be real.

If only if he looked at you and realized that Billie J. was sitting next to him all along.

A couple of milkshakes and hours later, Janet leans into Marlon’s shoulder, looking pale.

“I think I'm ready to go home,” she says quietly.

The milkshake caught up to her. You warned her against it but she never listens.

“I'll take Jan home,” Marlon says.

Michael nods then glances at you.

“I’ll take you home, then.”

Your heart begins to race.

Fast.

“Okay,” you say as nonchalantly as you could, trying to keep your expression normal.

Somehow that made things complicated.

Y’all say goodbye to Janet and Marlon outside the diner. Marlon gives Michael a knowing look before getting into his car.

You climb into Michael’s passenger seat.

The door shuts.

Then silence.

It was the first time you’d been alone with him all day.

Michael starts the engine. You look out the window.

Neither of you know what to say.

It had been like this before, after the pergola. Back then words felt dangerous.

Now it’s worse. At least you could see the ground back then, now you have no idea where you stand.

Even though you knew exactly what you’ve been doing.

You just didn’t know about everything else.

Streetlight slide across the windshield as he drives.

You want to say something. Anything. A random fact. But no words seemed to find you.

Even the thought to tell him who Billie J. really was crossed your mind.

But fear stopped that one.

So you stay quiet. Michael did too.

Eventually, he pulls outside your tiny home.

He opens his car door, and you roll your eyes because he was so extra sometimes. He did this every time he dropped you off home.

Your car door swings open. You step out, but Michael is in the space that was meant for you.

He looks over you, caging you between the car and his chest, you can feel the warmth of his body in the crisp spring air.

“Hi,” you breathe, the sound barely a whisper, your chest heaves against his.

“Hey,” he says back, his voice low.

He leans in, pressing his lips against yours that is soft in a deceptive way.

He pulls back just an inch, a wet soft pop echoes in the silence between you. The air crackles with electricity and a magnetic pull makes your skin warm and prickly.

He crashes back in, his mouth claims yours in a slow kiss. It’s as if he’s apologizing and telling you he misses you all at once.

When the kiss thins like the air in your lungs, you wrench yourself away.

“Goodnight, Michael,” you say before sliding past him, and sprinting toward the front door without looking back, leaving him standing there, still tasting you.

You toss and turn all through the night, unable to sleep as a flurry of emotions attack your mind.

This was insane.

This was real now. Tonight only cemented it. Billie J. is out of his mind. He kissed you. He kissed you in ways he hadn’t before.

This was supposed to be all in your head, where you could move the chess pieces. Now Michael joined the game and his moves are unpredictable.

And unpredictability was dangerous. Real dangerous.

The next day you wake up with a clearer head and sure of the next steps. You catch the bus to the richer part of California, mind replaying your speech to Michael over and over, doing your best to not forget or falter in your stance.

You walk to The Jackson’s house going over every way this could go and how to counter what Michael could say.

You slip into their house uninvited, and you were about to round the steps when something piques your interest.

“Who? Janet’s friend?” Joesph asks as if you are unworthy.

You know whatever comes out his mouth is cruel and you should probably leave. But it seems he’s talking about you to someone.

“Yes, I think she’s perfect for one of our boys,” Katherine says, her tone light.

At least she thinks your perfect for one of her boys despite you feeling otherwise.

“Absolutely not,” Joseph says harshly.

“Why not?” Katherine asks.

“She’s poor,” he says flatly.

Your heart sinks.

“So were we,” Katherine counters.

“Sure she’s nice but we need our boys to marry rich. That’s the only way to maintain our wealth. Our sons need to marry daughters from bank and business owners, not girls from seamstress mothers who make pennies,” He says.

You run upstairs, tears welling in your eyes. That only solidifies your resolve.

You find Michael in his rooms sitting on his bed, a guitar on his hands.

For a horrible, beautiful second you almost turn around.

He was sitting there, lost in the gentle melody and you were about to burst his perfect moment.

Then he looks up. The second he sees you the guitar is a second thought.

“Hey what’s wrong?” He stands quickly.

He crosses the room in three hurried strides, his eyes searching your face as if he could already tell something was wrong.

Because something was horribly wrong.

This was the moment you rehearsed over and over. In every version you were strong, didn’t cry, and walked away without looking back.

But those versions didn’t account for asshole parents so tears already prickle your eyes, smearing the edges of your vision greasy.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asks as he takes your hand.

You swallow the ache clawing up your throat.

“We can’t do this anymore,” you say.

His expression changes instantly, scrunching together in confusion.

“What?” He breathes, the look in his eyes was complete disbelief.

“We can’t do this anymore,” your voice trembles. “We have to end this.

“No,” he says so quickly, so instinctively, that your heart shatters.

“Michael—”

“No,” he steps closer, still holding your hand. “Why?”

Because you love him.

Because you love him so much that staying with him feels like waiting for the day something rips him away from you.

Because you’re terrified that one day he’ll look at you and realize you aren’t enough.

Because his family has everything and you have nothing.

Because you don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending this doesn’t hurt. Because it does. It’s been hurting you since you sent that first letter all those moons ago.

Instead you say, “We almost got caught by Janet and your family won’t allow it.”

“She has a made up war in her mind,” he says, stepping closer, jaw tightening.

“She doesn't think it's made up,” you counter.

“My family loves you.”

You shake your head.

“My mother adores you,” he continues, throwing out anything that would make you see, make you understand, make you stay.

It hurts tremendously because you want to believe him. You really want to.

“That isn't what I heard.”

“What did you hear?” He pulls his brows together.

You don’t answer, only shake your head.

He stares at you for a long moment.

Then his expression falls.

“It was Joseph, wasn't it?”

Your silence was an answer.

Michael sucks his teeth and looks away, frustration flashing across his beautiful features.

“Please…” he whispers, his eyes glitter with hope.

“I don't want to upset Janet.” You say.

“She doesn't get to decide who I’m with,” Michael says, a hint of irritation in his tone.

Your chest tightens.

“You deserve better.”

“You are better.”

“You deserve someone who doesn't have to rely on you financially.”

Michael goes completely still making you immediately regret saying it.

But the words were already between you.

“I don't care about that,” Michael says, his voice low and trembling.

“I do.”

“I don't.”

“I do, Michael!” Your voice cracks. “I care about everything. I care about your family. I care about what people say. I care about what they’ll think when they look at me and wonder what I'm doing with you.”

“You think I care about any of that?”

“No,” You whisper. “That's the problem.”

Despite your every plan, tears spill down your cheeks, warm and wet.

Michael steps closer, completely covering your entire vision.

“Please don't do this,” his voice was barely above a whisper.

You look at him. Really look at him.

His eyes were shining with something so desperate you almost give in.

His fingers tighten around yours like he was afraid you’d disappear if he loosens his grip.

Perhaps he was right to fear.

“Please,” he begs again, his head tilting like a sad dog.

You have never heard Michael beg for anything. Now he was begging for you to stay. Something you used to dream about. Every part of you screams to say yes.

To throw your arms around him and kiss him senseless.

But instead, you force your next words out.

“I'm sorry.”

His face crumples. You see him start to shut down.

You slowly pull your hand from his. His fingers lingering around yours for one last stolen moment, as if he couldn’t understand why you were letting go.

Then they slip away, your body immediately mourns the lost heat.

You turn before he could see you fall apart completely. You head for the door, each step feels like you were walking away from a piece of yourself.

In a way you were. Michael was fused into every aspect of your life. Now you were trying to diffuse decades worth of memories in one single day.

You leave him behind with the silence that follows you out the door.

You knew you took your heart with you as it beats in your chest, but it still feels like you left it bleeding on his bedroom floor.

Your biggest fear and the reason you kept your crush for Michael hidden for all these years happened.

You had to walk away from him and in doing so, you walked away from Janet too.

You told yourself you just needed space initially. But then space turned into ignoring her phone calls. Ignoring her phone calls turned into not seeing or speaking to her for weeks.

These past few weeks were hell as you scrubbed Michael out of your life. He was in everything for you. He was everything to you.

You retreat into a shell, into solitude that was safe even if it was lonely.

But then came Janet’s birthday. You couldn’t hide forever. There’s no way you could miss Janet’s birthday because you were heartbroken. Especially when she warned you about this.

And you were excited to give her gift. You spent months skipping lunches, taking extra shifts, and picking up odd jobs, just for a small blue box.

Inside the Tiffany box sat a silver shimmering bracelet with a dangling J.

When you finally step through the door of her crowded home, the noise hit you like a physical wave. After spending so many days alone, you forgot how loud the world was.

Janet spots you immediately, her face lighting up as she rushes toward you.

“I’m so happy you came. I was worried about you,” she squeals, throwing her arms around you in a tight embrace.

You hug her back, squeezing harder, as if you were using her as an anchor.

“Things at home got rough, so I had to handle some things,” you lie, voice steady despite the tremor in your chest.

Janet pulls back, her expression shifting to one she makes before gossiping.

“Things are rough here too. Michael’s been in such a mood lately, girl.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Really?” You look away, a bitter taste in your mouth.

Little did Janet know you were the one behind his misery.

Throughout the night, you feel his gaze. It was heavy and consistent. He tracks your every move from across the room. You try to blend into the wallpaper, but Michael is relentless.

Eventually, you stand by the snack table, picking some grapes, when he floats beside you. Only he didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

You could see all he wanted to say swirling with love in his eyes. Raw, desperate, and longing cling to the lines of his face.

For a moment, the wall you built flickers. But then the memory of pain flashes through your mind, and for the safety of your own heart, you walk away without a word.

You need a moment of quiet but the hallway bathrooms were occupied by a long line of chatting guest. So you head upstairs toward Janet’s bedroom to use her private bathroom.

Everything is muted here. You draw in shaky breaths and try to center yourself. It was one night. You could do this.

One minute at a time.

You tell yourself that this will get easier with time.

The moment you push the door open, everything you practiced collapses.

Michael was standing outside.

You draw in a sharp breath.

“Can we please talk?” he asks, his voice low and strained.

“What’s there to say?” you snap, trying to brush past him.

“There’s more to this you aren’t telling me,” he counters, his eyes searching yours.

Your mouth suddenly tastes like copper, a metallic tang as anxiety floods your senses.

“There’s nothing more. I don’t think we should be doing this,” you say, your voice trembling despite your attempts to remain cool.

He doesn’t listen. Michael never listens. Instead, he takes a step forward, his frame crowding over you, backing you against the closed door.

The sudden proximity sends a jolt through your body as you breathe in his familiar scent. Your body gravitates toward him, you press your palms against his chest, trying to push him back or maybe to pull him closer.

“I don’t want to do this with you,” you whisper.

“I miss you,” he groans, his hands sliding down to grip your waist, pulling your hips against his.

“I miss you,” he repeats. He leans in, pressing a searing kiss to the sensitive spot just below your ear.

A cold shiver races down your spine, you fight the urge to melt into him.

“Michael, stop...what if Janet sees?”

“What if Janet sees what?”

The voice was sharp, cutting the tension like silk. You jump before violently pushing Michael off you.

Janet stands in the doorway, her eyes wide, her expression caught between confusion and absolute horror.

“Nothing!” you cry out.

“What were you two doing?” she demands, her voice rising.

“Nothing, Janet, it’s not what it looks like!” You desperately shake your head.

“I knew it!” Janet shouts, her finger pointing accusingly at you. “I knew there was something still going on between you two. How could you?”

“There’s nothing between us! I promise!” You plea.

Janet’s eyes well up with tears, her voice cracking with betrayal. “On my birthday? In my room of all places???”

“I was just using your bathroom and he followed me in here! I swear I wasn’t trying to do this. Please, Janet—”

“Leave,” she says, her face hardening.

“But—”

“I said leave! I don’t want to see you, and that means you too, Michael!”

Michael’s mouth opens, a plea forming on his lips, but no sound comes out. He looks ten times more defeated than he did before.

The two of you left the house in a suffocating heavy silence. He drives off to some destination of his choosing while you spend the next hours walking mindlessly through the streets, the early spring night uncharacteristically cold. You sob. You sob hard finally releasing the weight of losing your biggest love and your best friend in one single night. The weight crushes the air in your lungs.

Thankfully the streets were bare because someone would have called the police on you for disturbance from the way your sobs raked through you.

It was early in the midnight hours when you had to embarrassedly go back to the Jackson home to get a ride back home.

You see Michael’s car parked in the driveway.

Janet pulls you aside the moment you walk through the doors. Her eyes were red and her posture rigid.

“You know how much I love and care for you, right?” Janet asks, her voice trembling.

“Yeah…” you whisper.

“You know how much I love and care for Michael too, right?”

“Mhm.”

Janet took a deep breath, her expression fifty shades of pain.

“I don’t want to see a day where I have to choose between you or him… because I know I’ll choose him. I’ll always choose him. But I don’t want to lose you either. You are like a sister to me.”

Her words are a blow to your gut. You look down at your feet, exhausted from crying, feeling like your spirit had been gutted and hollowed out.

“I know…” you murmur, your voice devoid. You look at her. “You won’t have to worry about that.”

Janet frowns, confused by your lack of fight.

“You don’t know that. As much as I think you’re a lovely person, you don’t know if you and him are end game.”

“That’s not what I mean,” you say, “You won’t have to worry about that.”

You see the words sink in when her face shifts with realization. You weren’t fighting for him anymore.

“Oh…” she breathes, her expression flickering between guilt and hidden relief.

You offer her a soft, sad smile.

You get Marlon to drive you home, though it was awkward. You happy to be back in your side of town. For once the scenery didn’t bother you because you were no longer a diamond amongst pebbles but now a puzzle piece that blends in with the others.

You lay in bed for what seems like years but in reality was only a couple of hours because the world doesn’t stop for a broken heart. You rise the next morning and carry on with life. You make your bed. You take out the trash. You collect the mail. You make sure to put your mother’s favorite pot of tea on. You go to work. You make dinner then head to bed.

You continue on like this for weeks, holding on to a consistent schedule so you don’t completely shatter.

You figured running away wouldn’t help anything. The last time you ran, things only got worse. So this time you continue to see Janet, to go over her house.

When you see Michael you give him a polite smile and greeting. He does the same and you try your best to ignore the ping and longing in your chest.

Every night you break slowly.

Your pillows become a well for your tears as you silently sob yourself to sleep.

You had everything you ever wanted in the palms of your hands but fear holds you back.

You replay the conversation you had with Michael the day you ended things. The things you said, the reasons you held onto were all silly.

You know his family adores you, his father be damned. Your lack of wealth would never be a problem. Janet’s disapproval would be something you could work out with her, in due time you knew she’d come around.

Michael had been correct on one thing, there was something else holding you back.

It had been holding you back for ages.

Fear.

Fear you wouldn’t be able to love him the same way you wrote in your letters.

You wrote about your grand love for him and how you’d give him the world, but what if you didn’t have a world to give?

You were fighting the hardest battle. One with yourself.

On top of that he still doesn’t know that you are Billie J. At this point you don’t want him to know anymore.

You succeeded, Michael fell in love with you, not once but twice. You had enough of living in fantasies now it was time to get practical and create a new normal.

You are cleaning the bathroom when you hear a knock at the door. You rise from the soaking floor, pulling off your yellow gloves and head toward the door. The floor squeaks in the same spot. You look through the peephole to see Janet.

When you open it, Janet flings her arms around you immediately.

“I was wrong. I was so wrong,” she cries, squeezing you tighter.

“What are you talking about?” You ask.

“I thought I could do it…”

“Do what? Janet what’s going on? Are you okay?”

You pull her inside.

She looks at you for a moment, all kinds of emotions swirling through her kind eyes.

Then she says the last thing you’d ever thought she’d say.

“Please take him back.”

“What,” you say breathlessly.

Your heart thumps hard against your ribs.

“He’s miserable without you. I can’t keep seeing my brother like this knowing l’m the reason behind it,” she sobs.

“Please take him back…”

“I…” the words die in your throat. You can’t belief your ears. You blink a couple times to confirm Janet is indeed standing in front of you pleading for you to give Michael another chance. You pinch yourself for good measure too.

“It’s not your fault,” you start again.

“Yes it is.”

“It’s not your fault. I haven’t been completely honest,” you say, nerves bubbling in your stomach.

“What?”

“Janet, I’m the girl from the letters,” you confess.

The profound dismay on her face shifts into full body shock. Her eyes widen. Her jaw drops. Her body stiffens.

You watch her nervously.

“That was you?!” She shrieks.

“Yes…” you nod your head slowly, a shy smile creeping across your face.

Then to your surprise, Janet hugs you hard.

“If there was a girl I’d want for my brother it would be you. You are perfect,” she whispers in your ear, her voice full of delight.

After hours of hugging, laughing, making up for real, Janet leaves you alone with a new resolve.

You sit at your desk as fresh sheets of paper stare at you waiting to be scribbled on.

Your pen moves faster than your mind could.

Then you head to bed, determined to reach tomorrow.

The next night, you find yourself in Michael’s room uninvited. You find the letters you sent him as Billie J. under his bed and wait.

When his bedroom door clicks open, a million nerves dance around in your stomach.

Michael walks in, looking like he came from handling business. When he sees you he stops in his tracks, breath caught in his throat.

“I hope you know how rare you are. I adore the way you speak to people,” You start, voice lightly shaky.

“What are you—“ Michael gasps, taking a tiny step toward you.

You let go of that letter, letting it fall slowly to the floor.

“If you ever wonder whether anyone is thinking of you, know that somewhere someone is,” You continue, voice firmer as your confidence grows.

You drop that letter and it lands by your feet. You continue reading your words to Michael, voice growing louder as passion lights you on fire. You remember each word. How deeply you meant what you said.

Finally, there’s only one sheet of paper that sits between shaky fingers.

Michael watches you with uneasy eyes.

You suck in a deep breath.

Then begin to read off the page.

“If I were braver, I would tell you that loving you was not a choice but a destiny. Like something my heart learned to do way before I understood what it meant,” Your voice begins to shake the more you read.

Michael steps closer to you, his eyes sagging with something you don’t dare to unpack right now.

“For years, I’ve remembered the little things you said, days after you forget saying them. In every room my eyes look for you first without really meaning to. Every quiet moment, I wished I could tell you how much I cared for you.” You draw in a breath. “Which is why I think you should know that I will no longer be hiding behind ink and paper.”

You lower the paper, looking Michael right in his eyes as you confess to what you’ve been holding in for far too long.

“I was the one who wrote those letters.”

His lips part but no sound comes out.

“I wrote every single one of them,” you say, voice faltering.

A silence engulfs the room. The kind of silence that it feels like all the air in the room was sucked out.

“I wanted to tell you so bad, so many times,” you whisper. “God, Michael, you have no idea how many times. All the nights when it was just the two of us and you’d look at me I would think Now-Now is my chance—but the words…the words never came out.”

You swipe at something warm trickling down your face. You were crying and you didn’t even know it.

“I felt so strongly for you but I knew I could never tell you.”

Michael takes a step toward you.

“So I hid,” you continue. “I told myself Billie J. was the type of woman you could fall in love with. Then I’d know what being loved by you would feel like, even if you didn’t know you were in love with me,” your voice breaks on the last word.

You close your eyes, pressing the letter against your chest.

“I love you,” you say, your chest shaking.

Michael just stares at you. An undecipherable look in his eyes.

A sudden fear clings to your stomach, maybe you lost him forever, but you shake that thought away because you were sick of fearing.

And if you were being honest, you were going to be completely honest.

“I’ve loved you since we were children. I loved you even when the thought of you marrying someone else crushed me.”

You take a step closer. Eyes meeting his, you see a million questions swirling around his mind.

“All this just to let you know that it was all me. Every word. Every letter. It was all real even if Billie J. was fake.”

You reach up, the letter falling from your hands, and gently cup his face.

“I want you to know that I love you so much,” you whisper, thumb brushing off the tear that escapes down his eyes.

Michael’s body shudders under your touch. He looks at you with so much love that it’s painful.

He flutters his eyes shut and leans into your touch.

Your heart bangs hard, terrified of what he could say. No matter what he says, you’ll leave this room satisfied because you finally lived in your truth.

When he opens his eyes again, they soften. He looks at you as if he was seeing you for the first time. Then, he lets out a shaky breath, his hands coming up to cover yours, pressing your palms firmer against his face.

"There could be no other woman I could love the same way I love you," he whispers, his voice raw and thick with emotion. He leans further into your touch.

His gaze softens with a tenderness that makes your knees weak and your heart throb.

"I want you to know that I love you too," he continues, his voice growing with certainty. "I’ve loved you for just as long. At every dinner. At every party. Anywhere you are, my love follows. I’m sorry that you felt like you had to hide behind a pen. But I promise you that you’ll never have to feel like that again."

His words were like a high tide that pulls you under.

As if words weren’t enough, Michael kisses you. His lips meet yours in a collision of desperation and deep devotion. His mouth presses against yours in tentative exploration that tastes of longing. It quickly turns into something more passionate as something ignites inside him.

He doesn’t just kiss you, he consumes you. His tongue tangles with yours in a confession of its own.

He wraps his arms around your waist, hauling your body against his, erasing the space between you.

You snake your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting to combine your souls together.

Close wasn’t close enough.

This kiss was all consuming, taking every part of you, pouring into him. Years of unspoken desire radiates from your lips to your toes, low and hot.

His fingers dig deeper into your skin as his tongue slides against yours possessively sweet.

You gasp into his mouth, the air in your lungs runs thin but you don’t care. You tilt your head to give him deeper access.

His mouth meets yours like a conversation, telling you everything he couldn’t find the words for.

You find yourself lost in him. In the warmth of skin. In the feeling of his love pouring into you.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. He rests his forehead against yours. The both of you breathless, lips swollen and tingling.

Michael keeps his eyes closed for a second, living in the moment before opening them to look at you with a pure expression of adoration.

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips.

That night you fall asleep wrapped in his arms, hearts slowing and uniting as you both drift off into a deep sleep, catching the best Z’s you ever had in your entire life.

an: The story got too long for the ending I wanted, so just imagine they live happily ever after lol. If you saw typos plz pretend you didn’t.

Taglist

MICHAEL JACKSON

summary: you’re michael’s personal assistant on the bad tour. when a snowstorm grounds your flight and leaves you both stranded, you’re forced to share the last hotel room—and its one bed. the quiet night leads to more than you ever expected. (or let yourself hope for)

pairing: bad!era Michael Jackson x reader

w/c: 9.8k

notes: & THERE WAS ONLY ONE (1) BED—smut ahead!!! boss/employee relationship. forced proximity (or is it?), unprotected sex, they're pathetic and desperate your honor!!! michael EATS. there is discussion of michael’s struggle with insomnia & loneliness. the story also briefly touches on his eating habits. michael is a level 10 yearner, but so is the reader—so much vulnerability. he is a cheeky lil shit in this but still an absolute lover boy & dirty talker. some suspension of disbelief may be required—there are probably (definitely) historical and timeline inaccuracies. also, the role of a personal assistant in this universe is very subjective but lets pretend for The Plot

disclaimer: i give absolutely no one permission to use my writing to train AI ‼️

masterlist • ao3 • wattpad

DENVER, COLORADO. MARCH 26, 1988.

It’s late—11:47 p.m., according to the glowing red digits on the backstage clock. The air inside the McNichols Sports Arena still hums with the leftover electricity of the final night in the city. You can practically feel it in your bones—the faint echo of applause, the way the floor still seems to vibrate even though the crowd has long since spilled out into the cold Denver night. 

Normally, you would have already been on Michael’s private jet, halfway to Hartford, Connecticut—the next stop on the Bad World Tour. Tonight ran longer than usual, though. Michael stayed behind after the concert to finish a series of post-show interviews with local charities before leaving the city—something he refused to skip, no matter how exhausted he was.

i feel like this sounds like him…

not AI // listen w headphones!!

i need a fucking cigarette

michael during the bad tour rehearsal in Rome, 1987

————

Black or White (2/∞)