unapologetically me frl🥰

The antiseptic sting of the facility was worse than the pain in his knee.

It smelled like bleach and finality, the kind of place where careers came to die — where men like Joe Burrow were stripped of their helmets and swagger and left with nothing but the hum of fluorescent lights. He limped through the automatic glass doors alone, hoodie up, expression unreadable. The marble floor didn’t echo — it absorbed sound, swallowed the rhythm of his limp like a secret.

The receptionist didn’t need to ask who he was. The eyes said it all — awe, pity, curiosity.

“Dr. Amani will see you now.”

He followed the corridor, sterile and endless, lined with frosted glass that reflected fragments of himself: the limp, the clenched jaw, the weight of a future uncertain.

Dr. Maya Amani was not what he expected.

No white coat. No fake smile. No overcompensation. She stood by the lightbox, analyzing the scan of his shredded knee with one hand in her pocket, the other resting lightly on the edge of the film. Her dark hair was pulled into a low knot, precise, clinical. The light caught on the thin scar along her jaw — old, faint, but sharp enough to betray a story she never told.

When she finally looked at him, it wasn’t admiration or sympathy in her eyes — it was assessment.

“You’re Joe Burrow to the world,” she said, without preamble, her tone smooth but unyielding. “But here, you’re just a body fighting a lost cause.”

His brow furrowed. He’d been through injuries before. He’d been talked to like a brand, an asset, a miracle waiting to happen. But never like this.

“Lost cause?”

“You have a complete ACL rupture, partial MCL tear, and cartilage damage. The kind that doesn’t care about your highlight reels.” She gestured toward the scan, her voice even. “You’re not invincible. Not here.”

He crossed his arms, weight shifting to his good leg. “You’re supposed to fix that.”

“I will—if you give me something worth fixing.”

It wasn’t arrogance. It was precision, sharpened by too many nights in operating rooms where egos bled out faster than patients.

Maya took a step closer. “You will make a sacrifice of your comfort, your privacy, and your ego. If you want a chance at coming back, you’ll live for this room. Fail to commit, and I fail you.”

Joe’s lips parted, a flicker of disbelief mingling with something deeper — the shock of being stripped bare. No cameras. No cheers. No control. “You talk to all your patients like that?”

“Only the ones who think they’re gods.” She answered.

For a moment, silence pressed between them — dense, electric.

Then, she turned back to the lightbox. “Take a seat. We’ll start your intake.”

He watched her work — the surgical efficiency, the steady hand that traced across his chart. She didn’t make small talk. She didn’t fill silence. She commanded it.

When she finally looked at him again, her eyes lingered not on his face, but his leg — the swollen, rigid knee beneath the brace. Her voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “You’re in more pain than you’re admitting.”

He smirked, bitter, an instinctive defense. “You a mind reader now?”

“Observation.” Her gaze met his, steady. “You’re clenching your fist every time you exhale.”

He released his hand without thinking.

It was the smallest surrender, but she saw it — and he knew she did.

The first week blurred into a haze of painkillers, swelling, and restless nights. The world outside still whispered his name — reporters, sponsors, fans — but inside this facility, there was only her.

Maya ran her schedule like a metronome. Sessions at 7 AM sharp. No entourage. No distractions. No phone.

“You need to understand,” she told him one morning as she adjusted his brace, “recovery isn’t punishment. It’s discipline.”

“You sound like my old coach.”

“Then he did something right.”

Her fingers brushed against his skin as she aligned his knee — not gently, but deliberately. The contact was brief, clinical, yet it burned longer than it should have.

He watched her when she wasn’t looking — the way she wrote in her notes, her focus absolute, her movements controlled. There was a quiet authority about her, the kind that came not from power, but precision.

And beneath it all, something in him began to shift.

One evening, the rain came down hard against the facility’s glass walls. Everyone else had gone home. He was still there, grimacing through his exercises, pushing further than he should.

Maya appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. “Rehab’s over. You should’ve stopped an hour ago.”

“I’ve got time.”

“No, you’ve got swelling,” she said flatly, walking toward him. “And if you tear the graft, we start from zero.”

He threw the resistance band aside, frustration boiling over. “You don’t get it. If I don’t push—”

“I do get it,” she cut in, eyes sharp. “You think pain is proof you still matter.”

The words hit too close.

For a moment, neither moved. The air felt charged, as if the storm outside had found its way in.

She stepped closer, taking the band from him. Close enough that he caught the faint scent of vanilla and rose from her perfume. “You are not your injury,” she said, quieter now. “But if you let it define you, you’ll never leave this room.”

He stared at her — at the composure, the certainty, the quiet challenge that lived in her eyes. And for the first time, he didn’t have an answer.

Later that night, after she’d gone, he found himself sitting in the darkened room, the hum of the MRI machine still faint in the background. His phone buzzed with messages — teammates, sponsors, reporters. He ignored them all.

He thought about her — not the surgeon, but the person who had looked at him like he was human first, myth second. He didn’t know her story, but he could tell she carried one — something buried beneath her precision, something that made her so unwilling to break her own rules.

And for reasons he couldn’t name, that made her all the more dangerous.

The following morning, he was back before sunrise. Not because he had to be, but because he couldn’t sleep.

The world outside was already dissecting his timeline—sports shows looping the same grainy clip of his collapse, headlines counting the days, the odds, the doubts. Inside, though, the only clock that mattered was the rhythmic click of Maya’s pen as she adjusted his plan.

“Early start,” she said without looking up.

“Couldn’t stay still.”

Her eyes flicked to him then, quick, unreadable. “You will have to. Recovery is patience disguised as punishment.”

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “You write that one down somewhere?”

“I lived it.”

That was the first personal thing she had ever said. It was out before she could stop it.

Joe caught the shift—the brief tightening of her mouth, as if she regretted letting the words slip.

He didn’t press. But something in him filed it away.

By the end of week two, their routine had become ritual. Same schedule. Same sterile playlist of instrumental focus tracks. Same tension that lived between their silences.

She worked with mechanical precision. Her touch was firm, never indulgent, always measured. But sometimes, when she adjusted his leg or aligned his knee brace, her fingers lingered a fraction too long—just long enough for both of them to feel it, neither acknowledging it.

“Flex,” she instructed.

He did.

“Hold.”

His breath trembled; pain shot through his thigh like wire tightening.

“Again.”

He met her eyes, sweat rolling down his temple. “You enjoy this?”

“If you’re asking whether I like seeing you in pain—no.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She leaned closer, her expression unwavering. “You mistake necessity for cruelty.”

He wanted to answer, but she pressed her palm to his knee to stabilize it, and the thought vanished into the static between them.

By the third week, he’d begun noticing details about her that had nothing to do with medicine. The faint streak of graphite on her wrist from jotting notes. The small gold watch she always wore, turned inward, as if she didn’t want to see time moving.

The way she stared at his scar not with disgust, but focus—like it was a code she was determined to crack.

Once, during a rest interval, he asked, “Why ortho?”

She hesitated. “Because bones are honest.”

“Honest?”

“They don’t lie to make you feel better.”

He smiled faintly. “You could say that about yourself.”

Her glance was sharp, almost defensive. “That’s not a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

But he was smiling when he said it.

And she looked away first.

He started leaving his phone in the locker during sessions. Not because she told him to—because he wanted to. The outside noise felt irrelevant in her space. The cameras, the speculation, the social media chaos—it all died in the antiseptic quiet of the facility. Here, it was only breath and pain and discipline.

And her.

Maya never asked about his life, never pried. But she listened. When he cursed under his breath, she didn’t flinch. When he failed a rep, she didn’t console. She only said, “Again.” And for reasons he couldn’t articulate, that simple word was steadier than any pep talk he’d ever heard.

He started craving that voice. That steadiness. That absolute control she carried. Even when he hated her for it.

One evening, as the sky bled orange over the glass walls, he lingered long after the session ended. She was still there, disinfecting tools, in a room close by, her hair messier than usual, a loose strand falling across her cheek.

“You don’t go home?” he asked.

“Eventually

“Don’t tell me you live here.”

“I’ve spent more nights here than in my apartment.”

He let out a low whistle. “Sounds healthy.”

Her lips curved, the faintest ghost of a smile. “I’m not the one who tried to run routes three weeks post-op.”

He smirked, caught. “Touché.”

Then silence again—heavy, but not empty. He watched her finish cleaning up, her movements methodical, calm. When she finally looked up, she found him still standing there.

“Something else?”

He hesitated. Then: “You’re not what I expected.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And what did you expect?”

He thought for a moment. “Someone who’d treat me like I was made of glass. Or someone who wanted something from me.”

“And what do you think I want?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Her gaze held his for a beat too long. “You shouldn’t try to find out.”

He almost smiled. “Why not?”

“Curiosity slows recovery.”

Then she turned off the lights, leaving him standing in the dim hallway, pulse pounding harder than it had during any drill.

That night, in his apartment, sleep refused to come. He laid awake, replaying her voice, her precision, that almost-smile. He’d faced linebackers, coaches, reporters—everyone who tried to break him. But nothing unnerved him quite like her calm.

She didn’t need to raise her voice to command him. She didn’t need to flatter him to make him obey. And in that quiet, exacting authority, he found something dangerous—something magnetic. Because beneath all the order and rules, he could sense it: she was fighting something too.

The next morning, the facility was silent when he arrived early again. He expected to find her in the therapy room, but she was in her office instead, standing by the window, phone to her ear. Her voice was softer than he’d ever heard it. Not gentle—just human.

“Yes,” she murmured, “I understand. No, I can’t come tonight. I have a late case.”

A pause.

“Please tell him I’m sorry.”

The tone carried a weight he didn’t recognize.

She hung up quickly when she noticed him in the doorway, her professional mask snapping back into place.

“You’re early again,” she said, brisk.

“Couldn’t stay still.”

He waited, curious if she’d explain. She didn’t. Instead, she picked up the clipboard, her tone cool. “Then let’s make use of the restlessness.”

Her hand trembled when she adjusted his brace that morning. Barely—but enough for him to notice. And for the first time, he wondered what it would take to make her lose control.

By the end of the session, the air between them felt stretched thin. Every instruction carried an echo. Every silence had an aftertaste.

When he left that day, she watched him go through the glass door, her reflection merging with his in the pane—a surgeon and an athlete, both stitched together by things that refused to heal clean.

She told herself she was just doing her job.

He told himself it was just recovery.

Both knew they were lying. Joe’s house felt emptier than it had ever been, though the streets outside hummed with noise, with life that seemed both impossibly close and impossibly distant. He lay on the sofa, brace removed, and stared at the ceiling. Pain had become a kind of companion, nagging, persistent, reminding him he was mortal. But that wasn’t the only weight pressing on him. Her presence lingered in the room as though she had left a piece of herself behind, a shadow that whispered discipline, quiet authority, and something dangerous, something fragile.

He found himself replaying every small interaction: the brief tremor in her hand adjusting his brace, the way her voice softened when she thought no one was listening, the look in her eyes when she stared at his scar—not pity, not fear, just a measuring, calculating attention that made him feel both exposed and alive. He realized he was trying to read her in a way that was reckless, something more than professional curiosity. The thought unsettled him because it was entirely uncharted. He had read teammates, coaches, journalists, even opponents. But not her.

And then, in a fragment of memory he hadn’t expected, he remembered the way she had stiffened once on the phone, the flicker of human fatigue behind her perfect composure. He had caught it the same morning as the rainstorm, when she spoke softly to someone on the other end, then returned to him without a hint that she’d been momentarily human. He didn’t know why it had struck him—why it had mattered—but a quiet, insistent feeling lodged itself in his chest, the feeling that she carried a story she would never tell, and that story somehow shadowed her with him, here, now.

He tried not to think about it, tried to focus on pain and recovery, on measured steps and repetitions, but it was difficult. Everything about her pulled his attention, from the faint scent she carried—the sterility of antiseptic tempered with something colder, more private—to the cadence of her movements when she walked down the hallway. His own mind betrayed him, mapping her routines, anticipating her adjustments, feeling satisfaction in small victories when he followed her instructions perfectly. And with that satisfaction came a gnawing awareness that he was responding to her beyond the demands of rehabilitation.

By week four, he had begun arriving even earlier, forcing himself into the therapy room before she even unlocked the main doors. Sometimes she would already be there, moving silently between equipment and charts, and when she noticed him, her gaze sharpened into a scalpel-like focus. He started timing his arrival to see the subtle ways she read his posture before speaking. He didn’t know why. He only knew that the way she assessed him, so methodically, so unerringly, made him aware of himself in ways no locker room pep talk ever had.

“You’re early,” she said one morning, her tone clipped but not unkind. Her eyes, normally so impenetrable, had a flicker in them he couldn’t name. “You should’ve slept.”

“I wanted to make use of the quiet. Don’t give me another one of that Yoda quotes,” he said, trying to sound casual.

Her mouth twitched briefly, almost like she was holding a smile back. “Quiet is wasted on impatience,” she replied.

It became a game neither acknowledged. He watched her every morning, waiting for the smallest human crack. He wanted to catch it, to see her vulnerability. But she gave nothing, or at least nothing overt. Every twitch of her wrist, every faint crease at the edge of her eye, every subtle hesitation became a secret language he attempted to decode. He knew better than to name it; he knew it was dangerous to try, but the magnetic pull of her controlled presence was nearly irresistible.

Pain was no longer just a physical thing. It was tied to her. When she adjusted his knee, when she pressed on a sore tendon or guided him through an excruciating step, the brush of her fingers became layered, ambiguous, and for the first time, he began to feel a strange warmth under the sting. That heat was fleeting, always restrained by her professionalism, but it lingered long after she left the room, twisting in his chest like a secret he couldn’t admit aloud.

One night, after an especially grueling session, Joe lingered in the empty facility, leaning against a wall while she wiped down equipment. He had been pushing himself further than usual, testing the limits she had set. His breath came in short bursts, sweat rolling down his temples, and his knee throbbed, screaming at him for hubris. She came to him without a word, bracing his leg, guiding him to a seated position. Her hands were steady, but her proximity made him painfully aware of the space between control and surrender.

“You pushed too far,” she said, but the low timbre carried weight.

“I needed to,” he admitted, grit in his teeth. “I needed to know I can.”

“You don’t need to prove anything here,” she said, and for a moment, the air between them shifted. There was no professional barrier, no clinical distance—just something heavier, unspoken. She looked at him then, and he felt the faintest trace of something in her eyes: a shadow of pain, or fear, or memory. It lasted a heartbeat, then vanished. But it had been there, undeniable.

He swallowed hard. He didn’t speak, didn’t dare. He had felt athletes falter under pressure, seen coaches crumble, but he had never seen a professional carry so much authority while simultaneously hiding something that raw and intimate. The awareness that she had endured something he couldn’t imagine made her presence both terrifying and compelling. He wanted to ask her, wanted to reach across that distance, but he knew better. And yet, he also wanted it more than he had wanted anything in a long time.

By the fifth week, routine became ritual. He began to notice little patterns: the way she tapped her pen before giving instructions, the faint flick of her eyelid when she detected fatigue, the almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw when she forced herself to remain composed. These were cracks, yes—but she was fastidious in masking them, so fastidious that the rare glimpses of vulnerability burned into his memory. Each one was a secret he hoarded, savoring the tension it created, the impossible intimacy it suggested without ever being spoken.

One afternoon, he lingered longer than usual after she left the room. The empty space smelled faintly of her presence, the antiseptic tempered by a subtle undertone that was hers alone. He pressed his hand to his knee, rubbing the soreness, imagining her there, imagining that small, almost imperceptible tremor of a wrist that suggested she had once cared, once hurt, once been caught in something she had never named. He didn’t know what it was, but he wanted to.

He began to notice that his thoughts about her were no longer strictly professional. He caught himself imagining her at home, alone, maybe reading charts, maybe replaying conversations from years ago with someone he would never know—someone who had left a scar she carried like a secret code. A story she would never tell him, never anyone. He could feel it in the way she moved, the way she spoke, the precise, controlled lines she drew between herself and the world. And though he had no right to, though he understood the professional boundaries, he wanted to cross them.

It was addictive. The tension between them thickened with each session, with each controlled interaction. He became aware of the subtle ways she influenced him without speaking: the pacing of his steps, the force he put into every movement, the restraint he exercised simply because she expected it. He began arriving earlier, staying later, not to rebel but to be near her, to exist in the space she had claimed so thoroughly, and to feel the pull she exerted without even trying.

By week six, Joe understood he was no longer the one in control. His body was hers to shape, his mind to push, his attention to command. And he liked it. He liked it more than he would ever admit, even to himself.

The facility was quiet after dark. The hum of fluorescent lights and the faint whir of machinery filled the air, a sterile lull that seemed almost intimate in its insistence. Joe had stayed late, insisting on one more set of exercises, his knee screaming against every movement, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. Maya moved beside him, guiding his leg with that same measured authority, her hands firm yet just shy of overstepping boundaries, brushing against him in ways that left echoes long after they pulled away.

“Hold,” she said, her voice low and steady, almost too calm.

He did. He felt the strain rip through him, felt the pull of every tendon and ligament, and yet what lingered most was the heat of her hand, the subtle pressure on his knee, the exacting angle she held his renewed bone, tendons and ligaments at. He wanted to tell himself it was just rehab, but he could not.

“You’re pushing too hard,” she said, adjusting the resistance band. Her fingers lingered a fraction longer than necessary. He could feel it: the deliberate control, the silent warning not to take liberties, and yet the contact burned.

“I need to,” he admitted, exactly like he already had, voice tight, low. “I need to know I can.”

Her eyes flicked up briefly, sharp, assessing, and then she looked away. The faintest twitch in her jaw betrayed a flicker of something—memory, restraint, a ghost of a past she kept buried. He didn’t dare name it, but he felt it. It hummed in the spaces between her instructions, in the pause before she spoke, in the way her hand adjusted his brace with almost imperceptible care.

“Focus,” she said finally, her hand leaving his thigh, the cool air filling the space where it had been.

He nodded, swallowed hard, trying to chase away the heat that lingered under his skin. The room was silent for a moment, each of them breathing in tandem, aware of proximity, aware of tension, aware of the unsaid.

The minutes stretched. He moved, she guided, and a rhythm developed that had nothing to do with recovery and everything to do with this strange, magnetic hold she had over him. Every glance, every brush of skin against fabric, every precise instruction carried weight he hadn’t anticipated. The kind of weight that made his pulse stubbornly fast, made his body feel taut in ways unrelated to his knee.

She stepped back after the final set, removing her gloves and straightening her posture. He took a few tentative steps, his knee steady enough, but his mind caught on the way she watched him. Her gaze was clinical, yes, but it was also deliberate, lingering in ways that left him exposed, aware of himself beyond the physical. He caught a faint catch in her breath as he straightened fully, as though he had challenged her in ways he didn’t yet understand.

“I… think that’s enough for tonight,” she said, voice even but a touch rougher than usual.

“Yeah?” His words were soft, carrying an edge that belied curiosity and something deeper. “You sure you don’t want me to do one more?”

Her hand paused on the edge of the counter, tension coiled like a spring. Her eyes flicked to him, then to the floor, then back. There was a heartbeat where the air thickened, a single second of unspoken understanding.

“Go home,” she said finally. Her hand fell away, leaving him both relieved and wanting.

He lingered, catching the faint glow of a laptop on the desk. She hadn’t noticed him glance. On the screen, the pre-game show of the Chargers played quietly, almost hidden, the statistics and highlights flickering across the screen. He recognized the familiar number, the quarterback’s stance.

“You watch them often?” he asked, voice low, testing, barely audible.

Her eyes snapped to his. She froze for a heartbeat, lips pressed thin, then turned away sharply, returning to straightening the desk with exacting precision. “Not relevant,” she said, flat, clipped, a barrier rebuilt in milliseconds.

Joe felt the pull of her restraint, the heat of her denial, the weight of the things she would never tell him. The room was quiet again, machinery humming, the faint glow of the Chargers game in her laptop painting her silhouette, her body poised, controlled, untouchable yet burning with a tension he could almost taste.

He exhaled slowly, letting the unsaid sink into him. She had left the room now, sliding into the hall with measured steps, leaving behind the faint echo of movement and a trace of something he could not name. His pulse was racing, muscles still trembling—not just from exertion, but from the silent charge that lingered where her touch had been. He knew she had not invited it, and yet, it hung there, heavy in the air like a promise that neither of them could name.

He stayed a moment longer, eyes catching the flicker of the screen again. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The tension had not broken, and he had no idea when or if it ever would.

The honeymoon had been its own little bubble. No schedules, or reporters, or football. Just sunburnt shoulders, late dinners that stretched past midnight, and the strange novelty of introducing each other as husband and wife. Even now, back in Cincinnati, the words still felt new whenever they crossed your mind.

Joe was your husband. and You as Mrs. Burrow.

Sometimes you'd catch Joe staring at his left hand absentmindedly, turning the gold band around his finger while watching football film. Other times he'd reach across the kitchen island and tap the ring against your own with a smile, as if he still couldn't believe it was real either.

You'd spent months picking them out together. Not because either of you cared about diamonds or price tags or matching aesthetics, but because the process itself had become important for a different reason. Every jewelry store appointment had forced two busy people to sit down and talk about the future in concrete terms.

Not contracts or football seasons or travel schedules. Marriage, home, children someday, the kinds of conversations that felt impossibly far away until suddenly...they weren't, they were finally around the corner.

The rings themselves had become symbols long before the wedding itself.

Joe's was simple. Solid gold, no engraving except the date hidden on the inside of the band. He'd insisted on something practical, something he could wear every day without thinking about it.

That was exactly why he noticed the second it was gone. The realization happened on an ordinary Tuesday morning.

Nothing dramatic, just Joe sitting in his car outside the practice facility, reaching for his coffee before heading inside.

His eyes dropped automatically toward the steering wheel.

Then froze.

The place where the ring should have been...was empty.

For a second he simply stared, then his hand turned over once. Then twice. His thumb rubbed against the bare skin where the band usually rested.

Nothing.

A strange cold sensation slid down his spine. Joe checked his right hand. Then his left again as though a wedding ring might somehow switch sides overnight.

Still nothing.

The coffee was forgotten entirely. He searched the cupholder first. Then the center console. Then every inch of the car.

The panic didn't arrive all at once. It crept in slowly, replacing confusion piece by piece until his chest felt tight. Because losing a wedding ring two weeks after getting married wasn't just losing a piece of jewelry.

It felt careless, irresponsible. Almost disrespectful.

The kind of mistake that shouldn't happen this early, the kind of mistake that definitely shouldn't happen to him. By the time he walked into the facility, he'd already begun mentally retracing the last twelve hours since he'd last seen it.

The gym, the house, the grocery store, the gas station, the shower, the kitchen, the bedroom.

Every place he'd been. Every place the ring could have slipped off. Every place it had to be.

Because there was no chance - absolutely no chance - he was going home that night and telling his brand-new wife that he'd somehow managed to lose the symbol of their marriage before they'd even finished opening wedding gifts.

No. He'd find it first. Then he'd tell you, and once he found it, the whole thing would become a funny story the two of you laughed about years later.

At least...that was the plan.

By the afternoon, Joe had become a problem. He'd grown strangely absent inside his own life, moving through the facility with a distracted intensity that made him seem as though he were constantly listening for something nobody else could hear.

During film review, his attention drifted every few minutes toward the floor beneath his chair. In the weight room, he paused between sets to inspect the rubber matting beneath the racks.

He lingered in hallways after conversations had ended, scanning corners and baseboards with narrowed eyes before finally forcing himself to move on.

The first few hours, nobody thought much of it.

Joe was crouched beside his locker for the third time that morning, one knee pressed against the carpet while he reached his arm into the narrow gap between the metal lockers and the wall. Dust coated his fingertips when he pulled them back - a forgotten wristband surfaced first and a protein bar wrapper, then nothing.

His jaw tightened. The ring had to be somewhere - objects didn't simply disappear. There had to be a moment he could identify - a place, a mistake.

The problem was that every time he convinced himself he'd found the answer, it dissolved into another dead end.

Maybe it had slipped off while changing after practice, or maybe it had fallen into his gym bag. Maybe he'd left it on the bathroom counter, or maybe he'd dropped it while unloading groceries last night.

Every possibility seemed plausible until he checked, until another took its place.

"What are you doing?"

The voice came from directly behind him.

Joe nearly slammed his head into the locker door.

When he looked up, he found one of the offensive linemen staring down at him with the expression people reserved for stray animals or malfunctioning electronics. Curious, but slightly concerned.

Joe straightened immediately. "Uh, nothing."

The response was automatic as the lineman looked at the pile of discarded items sitting on the floor.

"Looks like nothing."

Joe pushed the locker shut. "I'm looking for something."

The answer should have ended the conversation. Instead, it invited three more people over. Within moments, a small audience had gathered around him, drawn by the same instinct that made teammates stop and watch whenever someone looked even remotely embarrassed.

The attention only worsened his mood. He could feel the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes.

"What'd you lose?"

Joe rubbed the back of his neck.

For a moment he considered lying, then he realized there was absolutely no version of this story that sounded less pathetic than the truth.

"My...ring."

Silence followed. Three faces blinked at him. Then somebody laughed, the kind of surprised laugh that escaped before a person could stop it.

"Your brand new wedding ring?"

A second laugh joined the first, then a third. Joe's expression darkened, the reaction only seemed to encourage them.

"You've been crawling around the building all day because of a ring?"

"It wasn't all day."

"Joe."

"...it wasn't."

The grin spreading across their faces made him feel about twelve years old.

One of them leaned against a locker. "Dude, just tell your wife."

Joe stared at him.

The suggestion felt so absurd he almost laughed himself.

Tell you?

Walk into the house and casually announce that he'd somehow managed to lose the physical symbol of your marriage less than three weeks after standing at the altar?

Absolutely not.

He looked away first. That alone answered the question.

The laughter erupted all over again. "My god, you're terrified!"

"I'm not terrified."

"You are terrified."

Joe folded his arms.

The fact that he was currently calculating whether he could leave practice early to search his car again did not help his case.

The teasing continued long after the conversation ended, following him through the facility in the form of passing comments and smirks. Normally he would've given it right back, or he would've rolled his eyes and moved on.

Instead, every joke seemed to sharpen the knot already sitting in his stomach. Because to everyone else, it was a ring - replaceable and insured, a minor inconvenience.

To Joe, it felt different.

Every time his eyes landed on the pale band of skin circling his finger, he remembered standing beneath strings of warm lights with your hands folded in his, remembered your voice shaking during your vows and the way you'd smiled at him afterward as though neither of you quite believed you'd finally made it there.

The ring wasn't valuable because of what it was, it was valuable because of what it represented, and somehow he had lost it.

The thought followed him everywhere.

It followed him into the training room, where he spent ten unnecessary minutes inspecting the space beneath treatment tables while trainers stepped around him in confusion.

It followed him into the parking lot, where he emptied his car for the second time that day. Floor mats came out first. Then gym shoes, then loose papers from the center console. By the end, half the contents of the vehicle sat arranged across the asphalt while he searched every crack and seam with growing desperation.

It even followed him to the cafeteria, where he retraced his steps from breakfast before checking a trash can he knew, logically, could not contain the ring.

Still he searched.

By evening, the panic had settled into something quieter and far more dangerous.

Certainty.

Not certainty that the ring was gone forever, no, certainty that he would find it.

He had to.

Which was precisely why, when he pulled into the driveway and saw the warm glow of the kitchen lights waiting through the windows, he made the same decision he'd made the night before - he wasn't gonna tell you until he found it.

So he slipped his left hand into his pocket before opening the front door and stepped inside carrying a secret that had already begun to consume him.

The moment he walked in, you knew something was wrong.

The problem was that you knew your husband too well.

Marriage had not magically granted you that ability. It had existed long before the wedding, long before the engagement, before either of you had become comfortable enough to admit how thoroughly your lives had intertwined. Loving someone for years created a kind of familiarity that existed beneath language. You learned the shape of their silences, learned the difference between exhaustion and frustration, between distraction and sadness, between a bad day and a bad thought.

Joe was hiding something.

The certainty settled over you gradually throughout the evening, collecting evidence with every passing hour.

He kept his left hand tucked into his pocket.

It appeared in strange moments, brief enough that someone unfamiliar with him might never notice. Whenever he stood beside the kitchen island or whenever he thought you weren't looking.

The movement possessed an unnatural quality, as though he were consciously managing something that should have been instinctive.

Twice you caught him reaching for something before abruptly switching hands midway through the motion.

At dinner, he sat with his forearm angled strangely against the table.

When you handed him a glass of water, he accepted it with his right hand despite being perfectly capable of using either.

None of it made sense.

And because it didn't make sense, your imagination began doing what imagination always did when left unattended, it wandered.

The first possibility was injury. A strained tendon or a broken finger. Something football-related he hadn't wanted to mention.

You dismissed that theory almost immediately because Joe was terrible at hiding physical pain.

He could tolerate it better than almost anybody you had ever met, but concealing it was another matter entirely. Physical injuries irritated him, they made him restless and impatient. If he'd hurt his hand, you'd know.

The second possibility lingered longer. Something involving football - a contract issue, disagreement with coaches. Some problem he wasn't ready to discuss yet.

That explanation survived nearly an hour before collapsing beneath its own weight.

This wasn't professional anxiety, you had seen professional anxiety. Professional anxiety made Joe quiet. This was making him nervous. There was a difference.

The realization settled heavily in your chest.

By the time evening arrived, darker possibilities had begun creeping into the spaces logic had vacated.

The thought embarrassed you even as it occurred. You hated yourself for considering it, yet once the possibility existed, it became impossible to entirely ignore.

People hid things when they were afraid of being discovered, people avoided eye contact when they carried guilt, they became strange when they were protecting secrets.

You stood at the kitchen sink rinsing dishes while Joe hovered nearby, pretending to scroll through his phone.

Pretending being the operative word. His thumb hadn't moved in almost a minute, the screen remained unchanged.

Outside, twilight stretched across the backyard in shades of blue and gold. The house felt unusually quiet. The television wasn't on, no music drifted from another room. The only sounds came from running water and the occasional clink of dishes.

The silence made everything worse.

Your eyes drifted toward him, as his left hand immediately disappeared into his pocket.

Something inside your chest tightened. You dried your hands slowly.

Joe noticed.

The instant he looked up and found you watching him, some emotion flashed briefly across his face.

Fear, not guilt.

Fear.

The distinction should have reassured you. Instead it made your stomach drop - whatever was happening had clearly become serious enough that he was actively afraid of your reaction.

"Joe."

The sound of his name seemed to physically affect him.

His shoulders stiffened. "Yeah?"

You crossed your arms. "What is going on?"

The question hung between you, and for a moment neither of you moved. The kitchen lights cast soft shadows across the room. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. The refrigerator hummed quietly.

Joe looked down.

That, more than anything else, made your pulse quicken.

Joe Burrow rarely looked down from difficult conversations. He met problems head-on. Sometimes stubbornly, infuriatingly. But directly.

Watching him avoid your eyes felt profoundly wrong.

A dozen awful possibilities crowded your thoughts and you hated every one of them.

"Nothing's going on."

The answer arrived too quickly and rehearsed.

Suddenly you were angry. "Don't do that, Joe."

His gaze lifted immediately. "Do what?"

"Lie to me. I know you, I know when something's wrong.

The words landed harder than you'd intended.

You watched the color drain from his face and for several seconds, neither of you spoke. Then something changed. You simply watched whatever determination had been holding him together finally begin to crack.

The last twenty four hours had left visible marks.

There were shadows beneath his eyes, shoulders looked tight with exhaustion. The constant tension he'd been carrying suddenly seemed impossible to conceal.

When he finally exhaled, it sounded less like a breath and more like surrender. You expected an explanation -- a confession of some kind, maybe an argument.

But instead he sat down, as though his legs no longer trusted themselves.

The sight immediately extinguished your irritation because Joe looked genuinely miserable.

Not embarrassed or inconvenienced.

Miserable.

The knot in your stomach twisted tighter. You crossed the kitchen and sat beside him.

For a long moment, he simply stared at the hardwood floor.

The silence stretched. Then stretched further.

When he finally spoke, his voice sounded rough. "I've been trying to find it."

You frowned. "Find...what?"

His eyes closed. For a second, you genuinely thought he might be sick.

The reaction seemed entirely disproportionate to whatever conversation he was preparing to have.

His throat moved, and again. When he finally lifted his left hand from his pocket, your gaze immediately dropped toward it.

Toward the bare finger where his wedding band should have been.

The realization arrived instantly.

The ring, it was gone. For a moment you simply stared, not because you were upset but because your brain was trying to catch up.

Joe interpreted your silence in the worst possible way.

The words began spilling out before you could say anything. "I don't know where it is."

His eyes remained fixed on yours, anxiously.

"I thought I lost it this morning. I've checked my car three times. My locker, every room in the facility, every bag I own."

The confession seemed to gain momentum. Once it started, it refused to stop. "I checked trash cans."

You blinked. "What?"

"I checked trash cans."

The statement sounded so absurdly earnest that you almost laughed.

Joe looked horrified. "I checked six of them."

The fact that he knew the exact number somehow made it worse. For a moment you could only stare at him - the sheer level of panic required to search six separate trash cans was almost impressive.

His expression remained stricken. "I was going to tell you."

A strange realization settled over you. Joe genuinely believed you were angry, and that understanding transformed the entire situation.

Suddenly the nervousness made sense. The hiding, the secrecy. The exhaustion. He hadn't spent a whole day terrified because he'd lost a ring. He'd spent a day terrified because he thought losing the ring would hurt you.

The absurdity of that thought nearly brought tears to your eyes. For twenty four hours he'd been carrying this around by himself.

Searching parking lots, lockers, trash cans, convincing himself the world was ending.

Meanwhile, he looked moments away from throwing up in your kitchen.

Your heart broke because your husband looked absolutely miserable.

"Oh, Joe." Something in your voice finally made him look up.

You reached for his hand, the same hand he'd spent hours hiding from you. The same hand he'd been staring at with mounting panic.

His fingers tightened around yours immediately. Instinctively, almost desperately.

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

The question emerged softly, without accusation or anger.

Joe looked away as a humorless laugh escaped him. "Because we got married two weeks ago."

The answer sounded so obvious to him. So painfully obvious, as though it explained everything.

You squeezed his hand. "It was an accident."

"I know."

"It wasn't intentional."

"I know."

"So why are you acting like you committed a crime?"

The question finally pulled a reluctant smile from him. Only a small one, and only for a second before it vanished.

His gaze dropped toward his bare finger again.

When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "It...wasn't about the ring."

The words settled between you. You understood immediately.

Neither of you had ever cared much about jewelry. Neither of you had chosen those rings because of their material value. The gold itself meant nothing. The symbolism, however, meant everything.

Joe swallowed. "When I realized it was gone..." he paused, searching for something difficult to articulate. "It felt like I'd been careless with something important."

Your chest tightened.

The vulnerability in his voice was rare because he carried emotions privately and carefully. The thoughts he considered deepest often remained hidden until they had nowhere left to go.

He looked down at your intertwined hands. "I know it's stupid."

"It isn't."

"It is."

"It isn't."

His jaw flexed. "I stood there making promises to you. Then two weeks later I lose the thing that represents those promises."

You stared at him for several seconds, long enough that he finally looked back. Whatever expression he found on your face seemed to surprise him.

Because there was no anger there. Only affection and exasperation and love. "Joe," his name emerged almost as a sigh. "You think a piece of gold is carrying those promises?"

The question seemed to catch him off guard.

You leaned closer. "The ring isn't our marriage," his eyes remained fixed on yours. "The ring isn't why I married you. I married you because you're you."

Raw emotion flickered briefly across his face.

"You could lose ten wedding bands."

"Please don't say that."

Despite everything, a laugh escaped you.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"You could lose ten wedding bands," you repeated, "and I'd still be married to the same idiot."

That finally earned a proper smile. Relief began easing some of the tension from his shoulders.

Not all of it, because the ring was still missing.

But enough. Enough that the room felt lighter, that he finally looked like he could breathe again.

You stood first. "Come on."

His brows furrowed. "Where are we going?"

"We're finding your ring."

The search began in the bedroom. Then the bathroom. Then the laundry room.

You checked every surface, every drawer, every pocket.

Joe followed with renewed determination, though significantly less panic than before.

The difference was noticeable. Now that the secret no longer existed, the problem itself seemed smaller. Manageable, almost ordinary.

An hour passed, then another.

Eventually the search migrated toward the mudroom where several bags had accumulated after practice. Joe's gym bag sat beside the wall, large and unzipped.

You eyed it. "Did you check this?"

"Three times."

The confidence in his voice made you suspicious immediately.

You knelt anyway.

The bag smelled faintly like detergent and football equipment. Inside sat the usual collection of necessities like extra shirts, athletic tape, headphones, a charger.

Joe watched. "It's not in there."

You ignored him. One compartment, then another and another.

Nothing.

Joe folded his arms. A look of vindication began creeping across his face, but you rolled your eyes.

Then reached toward a narrow zippered pocket hidden near the bottom seam. "What about this one?"

"I checked that."

"You checked all of them?"

"I did."

"Hm."

The zipper caught briefly before sliding open.

Your fingers disappeared inside. The compartment extended deeper than expected, almost to the bottom of the bag.

For several seconds, you felt nothing except fabric.

Then... Cold metal. Small, and circular.

Your entire body froze. Across from you, Joe immediately noticed. The room became impossibly still. Slowly, you withdrew your hand, the gold band rested against your palm.

For a moment neither of you moved.

The ring that had inspired twenty four hours of panic, the ring that had launched a facility-wide scavenger hunt, the ring that had nearly made your husband physically ill.

Then you looked up.

Joe's expression was indescribable. Relief arrived first, then disbelief.

"Oh my God." The words escaped him in a whisper.

You started laughing.

Joe dropped onto the floor beside you and pressed both hands over his face, the sound that emerged from him was half laugh, half groan.

"It was in the bag."

"It was."

"I checked the bag."

"You absolutely did not check the bag."

"I checked the bag."

The ring disappeared from your palm as Joe immediately snatched it back.

The motion was so quick it made you laugh harder. Without hesitation, he slid it onto his finger, exactly where it belonged.

For a moment he simply stared at it.

The gold gleamed beneath the overhead light - ordinary and unremarkable. A simple wedding band, yet the relief visible on his face made it seem priceless.

Eventually his gaze lifted toward yours.

You were still smiling, still sitting on the floor, still looking at him with enough affection to make his chest ache.

The next thing you knew, his arms were around you, pulling you close and holding you tightly, as though he were making absolutely certain he hadn't misplaced anything else important.

Sitting there on the floor beside a half-unpacked gym bag, with his wedding ring finally back where it belonged and your laughter still echoing through the room, Joe realized the thing he'd been terrified of losing had never actually been the ring at all - it was you.

The morning arrived with the peculiar lightness that follows a crisis once it has been resolved. Nothing about the house had changed. The same pale sunlight filtered through the kitchen windows, catching on the polished countertops and the vase of flowers somebody had sent after the wedding.

The same coffee maker sputtered and hissed on the counter. Outside, a neighbor's dog barked somewhere down the street before the sound disappeared into the quiet of suburban morning. Yet the atmosphere felt noticeably different, as though the walls themselves had finally relaxed after spending two days absorbing Joe's anxiety.

You found him standing barefoot in the kitchen wearing gray sweats and a faded LSU t-shirt he'd slept in, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee while the other remained lifted directly in front of his face. The gold band had returned to its rightful place less than fifteen hours earlier, and already he seemed incapable of looking away from it for more than a few minutes at a time.

Every so often his thumb brushed against the metal in a movement so absentminded it was almost childlike, as though he needed repeated confirmation that it was still there.

The sight would have been endearing had it not been so ridiculous.

Not because he loved the ring. You understood that part completely. What remained ridiculous was the fact that he had spent twenty four hours tearing apart half of Cincinnati before discovering it exactly where any reasonable person would have checked first.

The gym bag he had apparently searched three separate times, the gym bag that had contained the ring the entire time. The gym bag you now suspected had become the source of at least three jokes circulating throughout the Bengals facility.

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you crossed the kitchen and placed a small cardboard box beside his coffee.

Immediately his attention shifted as his eyebrows drew together.

"What is that?"

Rather than answering, you leaned against the counter and watched him pick it up. The box was small enough to fit comfortably in his palm, plain brown except for a shipping label and a company logo printed along one side. Nothing about it appeared particularly interesting until he opened it and discovered the contents waiting inside.

His expression changed almost instantly.

The silicone band rested in black foam packaging, simple and understated. Matte black, lightweight, flexible. The sort of ring designed specifically for athletes, construction workers, mechanics, and every other person likely to destroy expensive jewelry through sheer stubbornness.

For several seconds he simply stared at it, then he looked at you. Then back at the ring, then back at you again.

The realization dawned slowly. "You ordered this."

The accusation sounded almost offended.

You nodded. "I ordered it two days ago."

His face somehow managed to become even more offended. "You ordered a replacement before you even knew I lost it?"

A laugh escaped you. The fact that he genuinely sounded betrayed only made the situation funnier.

"It isn't a replacement, Joe."

"It looks like a replacement."

"It costs twenty dollars."

His gaze dropped toward the silicone band, then toward the wedding ring on his finger, then back toward the silicone band.

The comparison clearly wounded him. You could practically see the argument forming in his head.

"No." The refusal arrived immediately.

You hadn't even formally suggested anything yet. "No?"

"No."

The certainty in his voice carried all the stubbornness that had made him impossible to deal with throughout the entirety of your relationship. It was the same tone he used when refusing to ask for directions, refusing to admit he was sick, refusing to acknowledge that a piece of furniture required instructions rather than intuition.

"Nope," he repeated. "I'm not wearing that."

You studied him for a moment.

The crossed arms, defensive posture. The expression that suggested he believed himself entirely reasonable.

Your eyes drifted toward the gold band currently occupying his finger.

The gold band that had nearly caused a psychological breakdown - a psychological breakdown he somehow, seemed determined to repeat.

"You spent a whole day losing your mind."

"I still found it."

"You checked trash cans."

His jaw tightened, but you continued.

"You dismantled your car."

Silence.

"You made grown men watch you crawl around on the floor looking under lockers."

The silence lengthened.

A smile slowly appeared as Joe looked away. That was always how you knew you were winning.

Not because he admitted defeat (Joe almost never admitted defeat) but instead he developed a sudden fascination with nearby objects and refused to make eye contact until the conversation moved on.

You stepped closer, the silicone ring remained balanced in the center of his palm. "Nobody is taking the real one away."

His eyes lifted.

"The gold ring stays exactly where it belongs whenever you want it to."

His expression softened slightly.

"But if you're practicing, lifting, traveling, swimming, or doing anything that gives you an opportunity to accidentally launch your wedding band into another dimension...maybe wear the twenty-dollar ring."

The argument made sense. Annoyingly so. You watched him struggle with that reality.

Several seconds passed before he finally picked up the silicone band and examined it more carefully. It stretched easily between his fingers before returning to shape, lightweight enough that it barely seemed real compared to the solid weight of gold.

His mouth twitched. "It feels fake."

"You know what's worse than fake?"

He sighed as you smiled. "Losing the real one."

The look he gave you was deeply unimpressed. The fact that he slid the silicone ring onto his finger anyway felt like victory.

For the next several weeks, the arrangement worked surprisingly well, far better than either of you expected.

The gold band remained on his finger most days, especially whenever the two of you attended events together or spent quiet evenings at home. During practices, workouts, travel days, and training sessions, however, the black silicone ring gradually became part of his routine. The transition happened reluctantly at first. He complained about it often enough that you suspected he enjoyed complaining more than he disliked the ring itself.

Then something interesting happened - he stopped noticing it.

The silicone band became as natural as his watch, his headphones, or the countless other objects that followed him through daily life. Some mornings he slipped it on automatically while gathering his things for practice, other days he switched rings without consciously thinking about it at all. The dramatic resistance faded into habit, and habit eventually settled into comfort.

Life continued moving forward.

Football consumed its usual share of attention. Weekends disappeared into travel schedules and game preparation. Wedding gifts finally found permanent homes throughout the house. Thank-you notes were completed. Honeymoon photographs were framed. The strange newness of marriage softened into something steadier and more familiar.

The panic surrounding the ring slowly transformed into one of those stories couples tell at dinner parties years later. The sort of story that always earned laughter because enough time had passed to make it funny.

At least, until three weeks later.

One afternoon while emptying his pockets after practice, Joe stared down at his hand and felt something cold settle into his stomach. Then his eyes immediately moved toward the black silicone band still sitting securely on his finger.

A long silence followed. Slowly, very slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold wedding ring he had removed before practice.

The ring remained exactly where he had left it. Safe, secure, impossible to lose.

For a moment he simply stood there. Then he looked toward the kitchen where you were making dinner, then back toward the silicone band, then toward the gold ring.

A grin slowly spread across his face, because for the first time since getting married, he realized he had successfully managed not to lose his wedding ring.

Mostly because his wife apparently knew him better than he knew himself.

MY 7K CELEBRATION! | NEXT UP IS...VELCRO CHILD FOR PAIGE BUECKERS (MOM OF THE YEAR AU

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

The headlines are everywhere.

BAD BLOOD IN HOLLYWOOD! Michael and (Y/N)’s Secret Feud Exposed!

and

CAUGHT ON CAMERA! THE ICY-COLD MOMENTS BETWEEN THE MUSIC’S BIGGEST STARS

and

The Smiles Are Fake—Sources Say the Rivalry is Real

oh, and (Y/N)’s absolute favorite so far

EXCLUSIVE: (Y/N) (Y/L/N) TALKS ABOUT WHY SHE CAN’T STAND MICHAEL JACKSON

(She really wants to know who they spoke to, because it certainly was not her.)

It’s annoying, such an obvious sham, and of course everyone falls for it. The public loves it, the rumors, the whispers, the juicy gossip. There is something enticing about a battle of giants, she supposes, the taller they stand, the harder they fall.

If someone were to ask—not that anyone every would, if you don’t ask, you don’t get direct answer, and without direct answer you can make up just about anything without technically lying—(Y/N) would vigorously deny hating Michael Jackson. Hate is too much of a strong word, it carries too much weight, settles too heavy. Hate implies passion which requires effort and those are two things Michael Jackson does not evoke from her.

Heavily dislikes, now that’s more accurate, describes pretty accurately how she truly feels about Michael freaking Jackson. This, however, she would never admit. Her media training would never allow it—she’s almost certain some perfectly crafted response would fall out of her lips if she dared try—and Thomas Allen, her darling, sweet manager and publicist, would no doubt throttle her to death if she ever uttered the words ‘I don’t like Michael Jackson’ or anything of the sorts to anyone other than him. Oh, his nagging would be relentless. (Y/N) would rather avoid that.

But if she were to ever admit it, talk about the ugly feelings that fester at the bottom of her chest when she thinks too hard about Michael Jackson—not that she does that often or anything—she would be adamant on the fact that they have nothing to do with the phoney rivalry the tabloids have fabricated. No, (Y/N) does not care about Michael Jackson’s wins and awards and achievements, she does not care about the fact that their careers seem to constantly eclipse each other, following trajectories that are so similar it is almost eerie, she does not even mind the constant comparison—for all she dislikes him, (Y/N) cannot deny his talent, cannot deny he is one of the best to ever be, and she likes being in league with the best. (Y/N) (Y/L/N) heavily dislikes Michael Jackson because he, like almost every other man in the music industry, is an asshole.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

(Y/N) vividly remembers the day she met Michael Jackson.

Hands down the most disappointing day of her life.

(Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but she does recall deflating, just a little, after meeting him for the first time, nervousness quickly melting into something cold and paralyzing. Maybe not the most disappointing days of her life, but top ten for sure.)

The things is, (Y/N) had been a big fan of Michael prior to meeting him. She’d felt that they kind of grown up together, in an odd sort of way. After all, they’d lived these two bizarre parallel lives—two kids thrown to the wolves to be devoured whole, childhood memories filled with music and work and pressure, so much pressure. They’d orbited each other, even back then, moving close but never meeting, like the universe knew better than allowing them to collide. And yet, despite not knowing him, (Y/N) would hear Michael Jackson on the radio, his voice fading in after hers would fade out, songs overlapping for the briefest of moments, and she would see him on TV, dancing and singing with his brothers, and some sense of fondness would bloom in her chest, a kinship built on that innocence that only children can have. If he performed like she did and was managed by his father like she was and lived on the road like she did, then they already had so much in common. They could be friends! As a child, (Y/N) had dreamt of meeting him. She hadn’t had many friends back then, much less friends who understood what her life was truly like.

But they never met. Not really. They saw each other, of course. As children at local stage and regional theaters and later, as they got older and their careers began to really gain traction, at music events and industry parties. It was only logical, for them to catch brief glimpses of each other, they ran in the same social circles, worked with some of the same people, had a few acquaintances in common. So they knew of each other, sure, but had never been properly introduced, never exchanged a single word.

And then came that fateful day.

Their first interaction should have never happened. (Y/N) was not supposed to be anywhere near Quincy Jones’s studio that day, she was supposed to be recording the music video for her latest single. But her director had cancelled last minute, something about a family emergency, and when she tried to start working on the last song for her album—the one that’d been giving her a massive headache, stubbornly refusing to cooperate, apparently hell bent on tormenting her—she’d found out her music director had mistakenly left some of her demos at Q’s studio.

And that’s how she ended up there, awkwardly standing in a hallway covered with platinum records and framed photographs as she waited for Beth, Quincy Jones’s very nice executive assistant, to retrieve the demos for her.

When she’d heard footsteps coming down the hall, she’d expected to see Beth. (Y/N) had turned, mouth ready to express her gratitude for the thousandth time, and had stopped short when she’d seen him. Michael Jackson, in all his glory, standing right in front of her. (Y/N) had never felt awestruck the way she did at that moment, a weird fluttering creeping into her stomach.

Michael had frozen mid-step, too, when he’d caught sight of her.

For a second, they’d just stood there. Two teenagers staring dumbly at each other.

Then he’d spoken, and the first words Michael Jackson ever said to her had been, “What are you doing here?”

(Y/N) had flinched, caught off guard by the curtness of his tone. She’d stuttered, like an absolute fool, “Um— I— I am picking up some… stuff?”

Michael had looked at her, unblinking, for a long moment, his face twisted in some detached expression she couldn’t quite decipher.

“I am (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” she’d said, offering him her hand and trying to shake off the initial aloofness of their conversation. “It's so nice to finally meet you.”

“I know who you are,” had been his response. It’d come out very dismissive, and (Y/N) had felt her stomach tighten with unease.

She’d shifted a little, awkwardness slowly creeping in. She’d gone to pull her hand away, certain that he wouldn’t shake it, and it was at that moment that Michael seemed to pay it any mind. He’d looked at it, briefly, before hastily reaching for it, shaking it firmly before cringing away.

A few seconds of painful silence ticked by. (Y/N) had found herself praying that Beth would hurry and interrupt whatever this thing was, she could feel the awkwardness in every bone in her body.

“I should go,” Michael had mumbled, after it became evident neither of them was about to start speaking again. Looking everywhere but at her, he’d side-step her, and simply walked off.

“What the hell was that?” She’d whispered to herself, the remnants of the conversation enough to keep her feeling off-kilter.

Later that week, she’d found out that he’d been working on a new solo album with Quincy, Off the Wall, and so, she’d chalked off the weirdness of their interaction to stress.

But the weird interactions just kept happening.

Now that she’d met Michael, talked to him, (Y/N) couldn’t seem to escape him. It was as if the universe, which had fought very hard to keep them apart for so long, had suddenly decided it was no longer necessary to do so. It appeared to now be playing the ‘let’s throw them together at every given opportunity’ game, much to (Y/N)’s dismay.

Every interaction was painful. (Y/N) tried, she really did, but she was always met his terse words and clipped answers. Michael would look at her and go all stiff, like he would rather be anywhere else than around her. He was never cruel or mean, just cold and indifferent, like he was too good to spend time talking to her.

It took her a while to understand that his whole problem with her was her.

Because Michael seemed to have no issue talking to other people—executives, producers, actors and celebrities. He would easily make small talk, exchange stories, share a quick laugh. For whatever reason, he would only turn frosty with her.

It grew old very quickly. The way he dismissed her, so offhandedly, stopped being confusing and became annoying, really annoying.

(She spent years being cast aside—because she was a little, whiny girl, her voice too pitchy, too deep, too soft, because she was not pretty enough, not tall enough, not smart enough, not talented enough—and she worked hard, paid with blood, sweat and tears, to not be looked down upon. When Michael did this thing of his, of giving her a tense, polite nod and then immediately avoiding eye contact, like the mere idea of talking to her sickened him, (Y/N) felt small. And she’d worked hard to leave the pain and embarrassment of not feeling good enough in the past.)

And all that anger, once she rationalized it, mellowed into displeasure.

So now (Y/N) finds herself disliking Michael Jackson as much as he dislikes her, maybe even more.

She finds him to be absolutely insufferable.

And finding Michael Jackson to be insufferable is nothing if not an uphill battle. Because everyone—literally everyone— in the industry adores him. They have nothing but good things to say about the guy. They’ll insist that he’s sweet and shy and gentle, and every time (Y/N) hears it she isn’t sure if she wants to laugh or pull out her hair. Because yes, he is sweet and shy and gentle with everyone but her. Sometimes she wonders if it’s all in her head, if she’s going insane, if she’s meeting and entirely different Michael Jackson, but then she sees him again, at some award or dinner party, and she's met with short, stilted answers and that odd unreadable expression on his face.

It drives her mad.

On her lowest moments—of which, she must admit, she is ashamed about—, she wishes he was mediocre, talentless. That way she could dismiss him entirely, shake off whatever is wrong with him, roll her eyes and move on. But no, she can’t do that, because the universe hates her and God evidently has favorites and He decided to give Michael Jackson the ability to breathe magic into music. It is unbearable, his talent. (Y/N) would die before admitting this, but sometimes, just sometimes, she sits on the couch and plays his music and obsesses over his vocal arrangements. Then, she fumes, annoyed over the fact that the man is a genius.

A genius that is so utterly unimpressed with her.

(That, too, might be something that bothers her more than she’s willing to admit. Not because she wants his approval—although would it be too bad if she did? everyone considers that she is at his level, but does he agree? she hates that, in some way, that matters to her—but because she’s built her career to a point where everyone else gives it so freely. Not everyone might like her, but they respect her music. Michael doesn’t give the slightest indication of caring about either.)

(Y/N) wishes he would just come out and say it, that he finds her unremarkable, or doesn’t like her character, or whatever it is that he so evidently dislikes about her. It would certainly make things easier; it would pull her out of this eternal limbo of unease. (She’s always so sure about how to act and what to say. With him, it is impossible to guess—will she get a tight-lipped smile and a polite nod? will she be completely ignored, avoided even?—and it makes her feel unsteady. She hates unsteady.) Of course, that never happens. Michael, after all, has an image to maintain. The proper, gentlemanly image, a man who would never speak ill of a fellow musician. So (Y/N) is left to deal with this weird tension that follows them everywhere.

Whatever. So what if Michael Jackson ignores her at every public event? So what if he acts all strange and awkward when they’re in the same room? She doesn’t care. Really. She doesn't. Caring would require effort, and (Y/N) does not spend effort on just anyone, much less Michael Jackson.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

There are days when (Y/N) heavily dislikes her job. And it is odd, because even when she’s loathing it, when she would rather chew chalk than see one more music sheet, part of her, a big part of her, still loves what she does.

It’s the reason she’s still at the studio at half past three in the morning, even when she’s been unable to write for days.

The thing is, being a musician is fun, until it isn’t. Composing is great, until the beat and lyrics that have been bouncing around in your head relentlessly for weeks refuse to come out. It isn’t often that she suffers from this musical disease—a creative block, some may call it, but she likes to be dramatic—but whenever she does (Y/N) is plagued by headaches. She enters a never-ending loop of trying, and failing, to translate what’s going on in her head into the real world. It is frustrating and the more annoyed she gets the less she's able to create and the more her head pounds.

A true dilemma for someone who doesn’t know when to quit and likes to push through the pain.

(Y/N) sighs, laying on the ground and staring at the ceiling. With one hand she hold an ice pack to her head, just over her right eye. The other plays with a pencil, fingers twisting it around in circles.

She is tired. She also desperately needs to finish this song. She can hear it out perfectly in her head—the ad-libs, the baseline, the piano—but when she strums the guitar the melody doesn’t come out right. Self-control is the only reason she hasn't smashed her head against a wall. That and the fact that it already hurts enough.

Knowing that she will not get anything done if she lets herself keep cycling over the same thoughts, she drops the pencil and carelessly twists around on the floor, reaching upward to grab the remote control that she left by the mixer. It tumbles downward and, even in her sleep deprived mind, she manages to catch it before it slams against the ground. She huffs out in satisfaction, giving herself a mental pat in the back. At this moment she’ll take any small victory she can take, preventing the smashing of the remote control included. It’s pathetic. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Her sudden movement makes some of the papers she’d rested over her stomach fall to the ground beside her. She wishes they would disappear, stop haunting her. Better yet, she wishes the bridge of the song would write itself.

The TV that has been playing mutely in the background comes to life. (Y/N) allows the chatter of voices to fill the studio as she resumes her previous position and stares, hard, at the ceiling. Little droplets of water trail down her cheek, courtesy of the melting ice pack, and she wills herself to relax. Her thumb, as if having a mind of its own, presses the control's buttons, surfing through channels without any real purpose, as she tries to disengage from the world around her.

It’s a testament of the terrible state of her mind, and a probable indication that she is losing whatever sanity she has left, that she doesn’t recoil, doesn’t immediately switch to the next channel, when she hears a familiar voice. Michael’s voice is distinctive, soft and melodic. Usually, it fills her with dread and something akin to annoyance. She’s surprised when she reaches deep within herself and comes up empty. Against her better judgment—because, really, she knows better than to engage with any sort of celebrity media, especially Michael's— she sits up and watches the rerun of his interview.

(It's annoying, that despite not liking him she is not immune to the gravitational pull of him, his natural charisma. Michael is like the Sun and everyone around him, (Y/N) included, is Icarus, willing to burn for a flicker of warmth. She detests it and yet, she watches.)

“You and your brothers are about to set out on the 'Victory Tour',” the interviewers says and that's almost enough to make (Y/N) turn her TV off—because she knows the words that are going to come out of the interviewer’s mouth next, the inevitable comparison that follows them everywhere—, but she doesn’t, because she is curious. It was certainly a choice to decide to tour with his brothers after producing his biggest—and best, (Y/N) has to admit that 'Thriller' is really freaking good—album to date. “It is projected to be the highest-grossing tour, surpassing (Y/N)’s 'Recognition' tour'.” And there is it. “How do you feel about that?”

(Y/N) wonders, as she shifts the ice pack from her right eye to her left one and rests back against the couch, if Michael ever tires of it, the way everything they do always ties back to the other. Sometimes, she does. It is hard, having every single detail of your career inspected and dissected and compared to someone else’s.

She awaits his response, expecting the perfectly manicured PR words to fall from his lips—how she did a good job, how him and his brothers are trying to go for something different, bigger and unique, the subtle shift back to his own music—but it doesn’t come.

He looks genuinely confused, “What do you mean?”

“Well, with the rivalry thing going on between you guys, how do you feel about beating her in this?”

“Rivalry?” It sounds so demeaning that even the interviewer laughs in disbelief. Michael looked genuinely perplexed, like he cannot fathom the comparison between them.

What a dick.

Honestly, this is what (Y/N) gets for breaking her own unspoken rule of not consuming Michael Jackson media.

In the screen, Michael opens his mouth, but (Y/N) switches the channel before she can hear him utter another word.

That annoyance she hadn’t felt a couple of minutes before makes itself present. (Y/N) looks down to her rumbled music sheets, at the annotations in the corners. The dismissive words (what rivalry?) replay over and over in her mind. She lets the ice pack, now barely even cool, drop against the ground. The sound resonates around the studio and, out of nowhere, triggered by the loud thud and those damned words, something clicks in her brain.

“Oh my God,” she mumbles to herself, almost gleefully, as she lurches forward for her notepad.

She spends the rest of the early morning mixing, composing, trying out different beats.

And if Michael’s words act as somewhat of an inspiration, she keeps that to herself.

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TOUR WAR! by Jaime Vynn The Jacksons are preparing what insiders are calling the most ambitious concert tour in music history. There's only one problem: (Y/N) got there first. Last year's 'Recognition' Tour shattered attendance records, sold out stadiums across multiple continents and generated enough revenue to make industry executives dizzy. Now, Jackson appears ready to challenge those numbers. The question everyone is asking is, can he do it? (turn to page 3 to read more!)

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(Y/N) has decided, as the mature adult that she is, that avoiding Michael is the only viable option left.

He very much does not care about her and she is tired of being filled with a terrible sense of dread and uneasiness whenever she's attending an event she knows he will be at. (She knows the root of those emotions, much as she likes to ignore it. She’d realized it late one night, as she’d furiously scribbled lyrics on a ketchup-stained napkin in the corner booth of her favorite diner. It’s not being disliked that bothers her or being in the receiving end of scorn and contempt, she is much too used to that. It is having the coldness come from a person she, begrudgingly, admires, a person that everyone else regards as warm.)

She is tired of trying to figure the whole thing out, of trying to figure him out, of overthinking every interaction and feeling unsteady—she really does hate feeling unsteady—, so she just starts mimicking his actions.

She’s subtle with it, too. Gracefully avoids any possible interaction, tries to stay as far away from him as societal, and music industry, norms allow.

Four months in, she’s going a great job, if she does say so herself.

Tonight, (Y/N) has managed to successfully avoid being anywhere near Michael a total of four times (a new record!). She’s about to move away from a conversation, having caught Michael in the periphery of her vision, when she catches Thomas glaring at her from across the room.

(Y/N) knows, immediately, that her attempts at having some peace of mind have not gone unnoticed are not being well-received.

She cringes to herself, smile faltering ever so slightly.

Tom is an angel. He's been by her side for ages, as long as she can remember. There are few people who truly care about her— (Y/N) as a person, not as a celebrity or a symbol or a money-making machine—, and Tom is undoubtedly one of them. The man practically raised her, he is probably more of a dad than her father ever was, and (Y/N) loves him. Up until the point where he tries to speak reason into her and starts making sense. Then (Y/N) sort of wants to fire him. Why must he have her best intentions at heart? It's so annoying.

He gives her another pointed look, and tilts his head, subtly, toward one of the side exits. (Y/N) knows that look, knows that signal. He wants to have some words with her, in private.

Great.

Trying not to draw much attention to herself—something she's not really ever been successful at, especially not tonight, since her stylist decided to go all out and dressed her in a beautiful, deep emerald silk that hugs every curve and catches the light every time she moves—(Y/N) politely excuses herself from the conversation she was already planning on extracting herself from and begins to cross the room.

The room blurs into movement around her. Conversation, laughter, music. Famous people, powerful people, the type who shape careers with a single phone call, all around. It smells like flowers and money and (Y/N) really wants to go home. Everything to avoid being reprimanded by Tom. The man might be an angel, but he's also the tough-love kind of guy, somewhat intimidating when he wants to be. He says it like he sees it, no filters and absolutely no sugarcoating.

People stop her along the way, and she takes her sweet time with every interaction, smiling and exchanging pleasantries. (Y/N) can feel Tom’s stare burning a hole through the side of her face. Apparently, she’s not being subtle about wanting to delay this as much as possible and he’s not planning on relenting.

By the time she reaches him, he’s already moving, heading toward one of the side hallways without looking back.

Anxiety twists in her stomach. It’s not like she was doing a bad thing. She’ll be fine.

Tom stops near a tall window overlooking the city, Los Angeles stretching endlessly below them. He waits for her to join him before turning around.

Okay, maybe she will not be fine.

He doesn’t look angry. Irked, is a better word for it, and Tom has had enough years to master that look to make it deadly efficient. (Y/N) has been on the receiving end of what she calls his 'disappointed dad' look many times before and not once has it ever failed to make her feel guilty.

“You need to stop it,” he says, arms crossed over his chest.

(Y/N) squirms under his stare, just a little, before mirroring his position, “Stop what exactly?”

He arches his eyebrow, a very clear do not play with me, girl.

“Avoiding Michael,” he specifies, even though there is no real need for it. (Y/N) knows what he is talking about and Tom knows she is just being difficult for the sake of it. “The press is beginning to whisper about how it looks intentional.”

(Y/N) rolls her eyes. Well, duh, because it is.

“Why does it matter, anyway?” she asks, “Let them talk. God knows they’re already having a field day with the supposed rivalry thing we have going on.” A thing Michael had made very clear did not exist. He was too good for her.

Tom studies her for a second, and when he speaks again his tone is sterner, “Get out of your head, kid, and think. Do you really want to feed the beast? You always talk about how you feel like the press makes it seem as if you live in Michael’s shadow,” (Y/N) opens her mouth to interrupt him, because those words have never left her mouth, but Tom raises a hand, “I know you, (Y/N). I can see it. You don’t have to say it for me to know.” He knows her too well, it is an unfair fight. “This thing you’ve got going on will only make it worse. It will be all people will talk about. It will overshadow your music. Is that what you want?” This is what (Y/N) means when she says she hates when he starts talking sense. Why can’t he just let her be petty, for once?

She sighs, frustrated, “What do you want me to do? Go up to him and strike a conversation? It's impossible! The man hates me!”

“He does not hate you,” Tom says, placating, like she’s a child. She does feel like a child, complaining to her father about the most stupid thing ever.

“Pardon me if I disagree.”

“Where did you even get that silly idea from?” Tom asks and (Y/N) swears that there’s an amused glint in his eyes, one he’s trying very hard to hide, the one that always shows when he knows something she doesn’t. (Y/N) really wants to fire him. “You've spoken no more than six sentences to him!”

“And that was more than enough, trust me.” She breathes deeply, trying to get the simmering annoyance under control. Words keep spilling from her mouth, anyway. “He looks at me like I killed his pet monkey or something.”

Tom lets out a startled laugh.

“He does!” She exhales out and allows what she knows to be true to tumble out of her lips, spoken out loud for the first time. “And he has no respect for me, or my music, and he’s openly dismissive and always so short with me and it is unbelievably irritating. So, yeah, I know avoiding him is childish, but please, Thomas, do try to understand that I am doing this for my own mental health.”

She’s begging, but Tom is not looking at her anymore. He’s looking over her shoulder.

His face morphs and he allows the amusement to fill his eyes completely.

(Y/N)’s stomach drops.

Oh, no.

Tom finds her eyes again, smiles cheekily. The audacity of this old man.

“I am going to get a drink.” He goes to move away, and (Y/N), quite desperately, grabs the edges of his sleeve to prevent him from leaving her. It is pathetic and ineffective.

“Do. Not. Leave. Me.” She mouths, eyes pleading.

“Talk. To. Him.” He parrots back, using the same whisper-shouting tone, and leaves.

What a traitor.

With dread, (Y/N) turns around and, yeah, just like she guessed, Michael is standing there, looking somewhat awkward. He rubs the back of his neck, nods his head at Tom as he makes his way past him and then looks back at her.

Great.

For a second, she déjà vu hits her and she sees platinum records, framed photos, a marble hallway and a very painfully awkward conversation.

Oh, she hopes this one goes better than that one did.

(Y/N) opens her mouth, probably to blabber some nonsense, but he beats her to it.

“I needed some quiet,” he explains, words falling from his mouth in quick succession. “It gets too loud sometimes, you know? And I just... well, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

Any hope she had that he, by some sort of miracle, hadn’t heard them, immediately evaporates. God truly has favorites and she is, at the moment, apparently not on the list.

(Y/N) sighs, closing her eyes and rubbing her temple, where a headache is beginning to bloom. She feels like she's twelve again, caught doing something she shouldn't. It's embarrassing.

“I’m sorry,” is all she can say when she finds the willpower to meet his eyes again. “I shouldn’t be...” Talking about you? Complaining that you very evidently hate me? She's not sure what she’s going to say, but, once again, Michael beats her to it.

“I don’t hate you,” he blurts out.

She stills, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, because that’s not what she’d been expecting from him at all. She’s actually surprised he’s still here, talking to her.

Michael shifts, from one foot to another, and (Y/N) catches a glimpse of that person everyone talks about, the one she’s never been privvy to. Shy, gentle Michael.

“It’s okay if you do, you don’t have to lie,” she responds, somewhat hesitant and a bit uncertain, like she is unsure if she should be providing reassurance on whether it’s okay to dislike her after just complaining about that.

“I’m not lying.”

She lets out a soft laugh, not particularly amused, “Well, I mean, you did say that thing, so excuse me if I don’t particularly believe you.”

It's Michael’s turn to look confused. “What thing?”

(Y/N) blinks, “About the rivalry?”

He stares at her for a long second, eyes completely blank, and (Y/N) realizes, with a start, that he has no idea what she’s talking about, probably does not even remember the comment he made, the disdain that had coated his words.

(Y/N) shakes her head, “Forget about it.”

“No, no, wait. What rivalry thing?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She wants to extract herself from this conversation, have the earth swallow her whole, but Michael is looking at her intently and she caves, speaking fast to try to outrun the embarrassment that’s began to prickle her skin. “There was an interview. They were asking about the tour, wanted to know how you felt about beating me with the rivalry thing going on. You said something along the line of there being no rivalry.”

“Because there isn’t?”

And there it is, but he doesn’t sound arrogant or dismissive when he says it. Not this time. That odd blank look he always gives her is also gone. It’s like the confusion of this whole conversation has laid him bare for her.

“Because you don’t respect my music enough to consider me to be competition, right.” She's not sure why she says it. Maybe she wants to take a dig at him, pinch and hurt the way he’s done with her many times in the past, but the words come out too soft for that, somewhat vulnerable.

Apparently, confusion has laid her bare, too.

For a second, Michael only stares at her.

“What?”

And now it's her turn to stare at him, because what does he mean what?

He shakes his head and, as realization settles in, his eyes go wide, “Oh my God. No, no, no. That’s not—” He runs a hand through his curls, looking distressed.

(Y/N) cannot do anything but just keep staring, eyebrows raised.

“Why would you think that?” He seems genuinely appalled at the conclusion she has arrived to and (Y/N) cannot help the disbelieving, startled laugh that comes out of her lips.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes!” Exasperation bleeds into his tone and then shifts to something kinder, “How?” The question sounds almost pained.

(Y/N) blinks at him, parrots back his own question, “How?”

Michael nods, “How did you get that from what I said?”

(Y/N) stares at him and Michael stares right back. It’s the first time they've ever held eye contact for longer than a second. The longest conversation they’ve ever had. And (Y/N) is hit with the startling realization that they’re just not understanding each other. Maybe that's the issue, maybe they never have.

So, she relents, sighs, “It wasn’t what you said, it was the way you said it.” She sounds absolutely silly, like a brat throwing a tantrum, and Tom is to blame for all of this. She would be happy sipping champagne and making idle conversation if he hadn’t dragged her here. Why couldn’t he just let it be? She breathes deeply, forces herself to get this over with, “You made it sound like the mere idea of a rivalry was ridiculous, like I wasn’t good enough.”

(Y/N) does her best to talk matter-of-factly, objectively, but she can taste the hurt in her tongue. And the way Michael's face shifts, cracks a little, lets her know that he heard it too.

Embarrassing.

“No, no.” He shakes his head, as if trying to organize his thoughts. “I mean it more like— like, why would they even compare us?”

It comes out all wrong. Michael cringes and (Y/N) cocks her head at him, chuckling in disbelief. “That’s exactly what I meant, by the way, that tone.”

Michael groans, closes his eyes and turns his head to the ceiling, like he’s praying to the Lord for help. It’s a bit amusing, the most human he's ever been with her.

“I am not good with words.” He says it softly, like it’s an admission that he doesn’t make to most people. He looks shy, honest. And yet, (Y/N) doubts it— she doubts that Michael Jackson, the man capable of filling albums with melodies and stories and emotions that people carry with them, is truly bad with words. He must read it on her face, her disbelief, because he rushes to explain, “Songs are simple, the music helps. I don’t have to explain everything for people to get it.” He shrugs, helplessly. “Talking is much harder.”

She gets it, in a way. Journaling has always been easy for her, expressing her thoughts on pieces of paper is straightforward, trying to detangle said thoughts to properly articulate them is another thing entirely. It’s why she sometimes struggles when writing songs, everything becomes too convoluted.

(And wow, won’t you look at that. Not only is she having an actual conversation with Michael Jackson, but she’s also found they have something in common. (Y/N) from thirty minutes ago would’ve never believed it.)

“I did not mean it like that, at all.” Michael tries again and (Y/N) feels like she’s seeing him for the first time. His shoulders are tense, he’s fiddling with his fingers and there's this nervousness about him, one so at odd with the idea she has of him, one she hadn’t glimpsed before. She wonders if it’s been there all along, if she’d been too busy looking for other things in him that she’d just missed it.

“What I meant was— I don’t sit around planning how to outperform you, and I know you don’t spend your time thinking of ways to beat me, either. Everything you do comes from a love of music, I can sense it in the way you perform. You’re a professional.” She is listening, but she's mostly watching him. The softness and openness of his expression catch her off-guard. (Y/N) knows how to read people—an essential skill she’d developed as a child to try to survive the music industry—and Michael Jackson is being earnestly honest.

It dawns on her, with some sort of terrible, comical horror, that she might’ve possibly, just maybe, misinterpreted everything. Every awkward, tense smile, every strange look, every curt comment. Because the Michael standing in front of her, trying to desperately get her to understand him, does not seem to hate her. Not even dislike her, really.

Oh God, he might just be impartial to her, uninterested.

(This is exactly what Tom meant when he’d told her, many years ago, that she has the terrible habit of jumping into conclusions and then refusing to change her mind. Had she simply been reinforcing a narrative she’d created for herself?)

Throwing herself off the window suddenly sounds like an amazingly rational decision. It would be one hell of a way to ease the embarrassment that’s now taken over every fiber of her body.

She’d been such an idiot.

(Y/N) tries to apologize, to explain—because goddammit Tom had been right, Michael did not hate her, and she would've known if she’d spoken more than a total of six sentences to the man—, but Michael keeps talking.

“And I just think it’s silly, for the media to create this rivalry thing when in reality I just—”

“Look, Michael—”

“I just really admire you.”

Everything goes quiet.

Naturally, (Y/N) freezes, suddenly aware of the distant chatter in the ballroom around the corner, of the soft, velvety music, the clinking of glasses, the sound of laughter.

She’d just began to process the whole ‘hey! so maybe he doesn't hate me and i’ve been wrong all along’ thing. She was not, in any way, prepared for that admission.

What?

(Y/N) doesn't realize she’s spoken out loud until she catches the glimpse of confusion and amusement in Michael’s eyes.

“I admire you,” he repeats, slower this time. Hearing that isn’t any less shocking the second time around. “Truly. There are things that you do that I cannot begin to even dream about. When you perform, it’s like—” He struggles for a second. “It’s like watching somebody do what they were born to do.”

(Y/N)'s breath catches. That might be the most sincere thing anyone has ever told her, the best compliment she’s ever received.

“You’ve seen me perform.” She says, stunned, because of course that’s what her mind has decided to focus on.

“At The Forum, yeah.”

“You went to my tour?” Now she just sounds dazed.

Michael shrugs, like the answer is obvious, “There’s no way I would’ve missed it.”

She pinches herself, hard. Okay, good, not a dream.

“Okay. Wait. Hold on.” She has to get her bearings, process all the information she’s received. Michael had bought tickets for her concert. He’d seen her perform. How could she not know that? How had the tabloids missed that? “But… you’re always so dismissive.” That’s the only thing that doesn’t make sense, the part of the puzzle that doesn’t fit. Because the way he’d acted, that hadn’t been in her brain. He had been weird towards her—skittish, awkward, cold—and she’s having a hard time reconciling what she’s hearing and what she has experienced. “Every time I’ve ever tried to talk to you, you shrugged me off.”

He opens his mouth, closes it.

“Oh.”

The soft whisper bounces around in the hall.

“No, I—” A hand comes up to cover part of his face and when he lowers it (Y/N) can almost swear he is blushing. He bites his lip, annoyingly cute, before blurting out, “You intimidate me.”

Michael recoils immediately, like he hadn't really meant to admit that much.

(Y/N) can’t do much but blink at him.

“A little.” He adds, a bit softer.

“Me?” It comes out filled with disbelief. “Why?” She lets herself walk a bit closer to him, a bit amused at the way Michael's eyes follow her as she closes the distance between them. “You’re—” She gestures at him. “You're freaking Michael Jackson.”

Michael lets out an incredulous laugh, his shoulders untensing. “And you are freaking (Y/N) (Y/L/N)!” He mimics her own actions, gestures at her.

Huh.

Guess she never thought of it that way. (Y/N) always judges herself through the harshest of lenses, in the most brutal manner. It makes it hard to see herself from an outsider perspective, the way others do. She is just, well, (Y/N).

Fair enough, she supposes. Still, it’s hard, to wrap her mind around the fact that Michael Jackson had been too shy to speak to her. That everything she’d perceived as dismissal had been nervousness.

“So, just to be clear,” she finds herself saying, “You don’t hate me.”

It comes out more as a question than a statement.

“No!” He relaxes some more, like finally getting her to understand has settled something in him. “You really thought I did?”

“Yeah! For the last five years I’d been trying to figure out why.”

Michael sputters, aghast, “Five years?!”

“Yeah.”

“But we met five years ago.”

“I know.”

Michael stares at her, “So all this time you thought—”

“Right.” She nods, then amends, a tad bit playful, “Well, I didn’t think you hated me, just heavily disliked me, or, you know, something like that.”

Michael chuckles, “Oh God.” He shakes his head, “That doesn’t really make it much better. I feel terrible.”

It's bright, his laughter, sweet. And (Y/N) suddenly understands why people who know him—not Michael the popstar, but Michael the person, stripped from all headlines and myths and assumptions—talk about him the way they do.

Oh, she’d really been such an idiot. Tom is not going to let her live this one down. Ever.

They look at each other, lingering smiles on their faces. Neither of them looks away.

“Let's rewind, then. Take it from the top.” She extends her hand for him to take, “(Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

Michael’s smile widens. He takes her hand in his, “Michael Jackson. Pleased to meet you, Miss (Y/L/N).”

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FROM RIVALS TO FRIENDS? THE INDUSTRY'S MOST TALKED-ABOUT DUO SPOTTED TOGETHER AGAIN by Danielle Marks For the third time this month, Michael Jackson and (Y/N) (Y/L/N) have been photographed together. The two artists were seen leaving a charity gala on Thrusday evening after spending several hours speaking inside the venue. Witnesses report that the pair arrived separetly but remained together for most of the night (...)

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“THEY'RE ALWAYS TALKING” PEOPLE MAGAZINE If you attend enough music industry events, you'll eventually notice a pattern: Michael Jackson and (Y/N) seem incapable of staying away from each other. At last week's benefit concert, the pair were seen backstage, deep in conversation. Three days later, they appeared together at a record industry luncheon. Now, insiders claim (Y/N) has visited Jackson's recording studio on multiple occasions. Whether friendship or something more is developing remains unclear (...)

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SECRET ALLIANCE?!? by Carl Kesterson Fans are growing excited after a sudden increase in public appearances involving music icons (Y/N) (Y/L/N) and Michael Jackson. The pair have been spotted together at award shows, charity events, industry parties, recording studios and private dinners. One source claims the stars speak on the phone regularly, having become "nearly inseparable". Coincidence? We think not. Are they planning a musical collaboration? A surprise project? Stay tuned to find out more!

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It's incredible, how easy they settle into a friendship.

(Y/N) had never had a friend who understood what it was like to carry the pressure and expectations of the world on your shoulders, who’d been raised similar to the way she’d been—constantly on the road, always performing, unable to make friends, permanently exhausted, chasing a dream that wasn’t hers, not completely. Michael gets it. He gets her.

They make space for each other in their lives so quickly, so easily, that (Y/N) often forget he hasn’t always been there.

The media eats it up. The blooming friendship between the King of Pop and the Princess of Soul becomes the hottest topic. They talk about a possible collaboration, about a secret relationship. It's all background noise for (Y/N), she just enjoys hanging out with Michael. Her social battery never seems to drain when it comes to him. Maybe, it’s because she doesn’t feel the need to pretend, put up an act, as she does for others. Maybe, he is just that person for her.

They spend whatever little free time they have with each other. Michael comes over and they watch movies, the old ones he likes, or they play board games, the ones (Y/N) never got the chance to play as a kid, too busy working. He gives her the keys to his house and sometimes, when everything gets too loud and her head starts to pound, she hides there, even if he’s not around.

They talk on the phone, all the time. (Y/N) feels like a teenager again, especially when Tom—who does not let her forget that their friendship exists thanks to him and that she should forever be grateful and maybe start listening to him more—gives her that amused, knowing look and she pokes her tongue out at him in response. He’s such a dad, honestly.

“Did I wake you?” Michael asks, sheepish. It is three in the morning and the only reason she picks up is because she knows it’s him.

“Well, Mike, it is the middle of the night.” She yawns, her voice thick with sleep. Michael’s soft chuckle manages to efficiently cut through the fogginess of her brain.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding very apologetic at all.

The thing about Michael is that once the nerves leave him, once he gets comfortable and comes out of his little shell, he becomes surprisingly teasing and self-assured. (Y/N) finds it unbelievably endearing.

“No, you’re not.”

"I am!” Michael protests, laughing a bit. The sound is full, rich, (Y/N) loves it. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I promise. I thought you’d be awake, you usually are.” (Y/N) can’t see him, but she can hear the tentative smile in his voice.

“That I am,” she confirms. “What’s up?”

“I am working on something and I need you to hear it, let me know what you think.”

She smiles into the darkness, settles more comfortably in her bed. “Play it for me.”

Sometimes they stay on the phone just to keep each other company. The silence settles between them, gentle, easy, and (Y/N) loves it, the way she can just exist with him.

(Because she has spent her entire life surrounded by people—producers and fans and journalists—and still loneliness has been her fiercest, most loyal companion. It is the price of success, of fame, of growing up in an industry that would chew you up and spit you out for its own amusement. Michael understands it. He’s lived it too. She never feels alone when she’s with him, even if it’s a phone line what’s connecting them, even if they don’t talk at all.)

“I miss you,” he whispers sometimes, low over the phone, when life becomes hectic and they haven’t seen each other in weeks.

“I miss you, too.”

She’s never meant those words more. She’s found out, with some sort of startling surprise, that her heart has created a little gap in the shape of Michael, and she finds his prolonged absence painful. She doesn’t mention that.

(Y/N) realizes just how important Michael has become, how much she truly trusts him, when she finds herself giving him a duplicate of her keys to her personal studio. Three keys exist: Tom’s, hers and now Michael’s.

Music is the most intimate thing (Y/N) possesses. She does not let many people see past the perfectly curated version of herself, much less let them into the place where all the ugly, jagged, complicated pieces of herself end up, and that place is her studio.

Every version of herself exist, in some way, within those four walls. In pages of lyrics scattered across every available surface and half-filled notebooks that lie open on chairs and couches. In the yellow sticky notes plastered across the entire wall, connected by symbols and arrows sometimes even she struggles to understand. In voice memos labeled with cryptic letters and dates, perfectly stacked in a drawer, that will never see the light of day. In songs she hates but refuses to get rid of, songs she loves too much to share, songs that contain things that are too personal, that cut too deep.

It is a terrifying thing, letting someone into that space, allowing herself to be seen. It is the reason creating has always been a solitary thing for her—sacred, in a way—because it leaves her feeling raw. She writes alone, curled up on the floor of her living room at two in the morning, records rough melodies on cassette tapes nobody will ever hear, hides her jumbled thoughts in journals she keeps under lock and key.

Most people only ever see the polished versions of everything, the almost finished products. He is the first person—Tom excluded because, well, he is Tom—that she lets see the mess, lets see all of her.

And Michael seems to understand how much of herself she’s offering to him. He treats her studio with so much respect, as if it’s something holy. Never peaks or wanders without asking first. He is careful with her equipment, her instruments, her lyrics. (Her heart, he is so very careful with her heart.)

Somewhere along the way, she finds herself growing comfortable with scribbling down in her journal when he’s around. Next thing she knows, she’s letting him listen to songs before they're even close to being finished. Not many people have ever had such privilege.

Letting him in is easy. Dangerously easy.

(Y/N) should be scared, terrified really.

She finds out that she isn’t.

And just like, as quickly and easily as falling asleep, Michael Jackson—once her rival—becomes the safe places she falls back into.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

(Y/N) knows she’s a perfectionist, an overachiever. She’s intimately aware with the fact that she pushes herself too hard, that she suffers from the ailment of being viscerally brutal with herself, that she doesn’t allow herself any margin of error.

But she has no other choice. The music industry isn’t kind, much less to women. Talent is not enough, never enough. Every achievement is scrutinized, every mistake magnified. Male artists get some respite, messy performances are excused by personal difficulties, failures easily swept under the rug, forgiven. Experience has taught (Y/N) that women are not allowed the same grace.

She cannot be just good; good gets replaced, good is easily forgotten.

To survive, she has to be constantly exceptional—any little mistake would result in a fall and she’s built herself to high, achieved so much, that the tumble would be catastrophic, undoubtedly deathly. And the only way she knows how to keep control over everything, to be perfectly consistent, is by running herself to the ground.

And (Y/N) doesn’t complain. After all, isn’t she lucky? She is passionate about what she does, completely in love with her job. Complaining is for those who have it hard, who really struggle. So what if it consumes her? So what if there are days the exhaustion threatens to drown her, swallow her whole?

Greatness demands payment—even as a young girl, nothing but a child, she’d understood this, that success meant sacrifice, it demanded blood, and she’d been willing to bleed herself dry to make it big, there’d seemed to be no other option—so (Y/N) pays the price.

And she’s been paying it for so long—in the shape of blooming headaches and absolutely no sense of privacy from the outside world, in the way her private and professional life have become so intertwined she can no longer distinguish them, threads so tightly woven she cannot pull them apart—that it has become instinct. She no longer feels the ache.

(It’s not a conscious choice, not anymore. Once upon a time, a young girl had wanted to be the best, to climb the ladder, and so she’d trained her body to withstand it all, to push past basic physiological needs, to function properly while running on nothing on fumes. (Y/N) reaps the consequences of the sacrifices of her younger self.)

(Y/N) knows it isn’t exactly healthy—she does not lack self-awareness, despite what Tom often suggests—, but she doesn’t know how to stop. She’s been operating like this for so long that everything else feels unnatural, wrong, like she’s not doing enough, like she’s somehow failing if she allows herself to breathe.

Tom does his best to get her to pace herself—brings food and won’t stop glaring until she pauses and eats, forcibly drags her out of the recording booth when she refuses to take a break—but they both know that she’s as stubborn as they come, that once she starts something she cannot physically stop until it’s done. (Y/N) finds it shameful, embarrassing, the way she sometimes lacks control of her own mind, her lack of regard for her own well-being, so she pretends it isn’t a thing. She doesn’t allow anyone to see how bad she gets, not even Michael, especially not Michael.

Most of the time she can manage it, but not during tours. (Y/N) sort of loses all grasp on reality when she’s touring. Meals are often forgotten, replaced by recording sessions that start late at night, after she’s performed, and bleed into the early mornings, because she cannot leave until every note feels perfect. The rehearsals feel endless, the interviews more so. Sleep becomes a foreign concept. It’s grueling. She keeps going. Takes another plane, lands in a new city, and repeats the cycle. Again and again.

The warning signs are there.

Explosive headaches that become migraines more and more often, pain spreading from the back of her eye to the base of her skull. Dizziness, nausea, shaking limbs after concerts.

Which is to say, she knew better and just went ahead and ignored the way her body was begging her to stop. She should’ve known it would end up the way it did. Maybe she thought herself untouchable, unbreakable. Maybe she just couldn’t find time in her schedule to worry.

By the time the final concert of the European leg of the tour arrives, (Y/N) is functioning entirely on adrenaline and muscle memory. Just one more, you just have to push for one more, is the mantra she repeats after every night. It’s true this time around. She gets a whole three-month break after this, a little space to breathe.

The Wembley is massive. She’s been here before and the sheer size of it never fails to impress her. Empty, it feels huge. Sold out, it feels gigantic. And when it’s filled with fans, with a crowd that screams her lyrics back at her so loudly she feels them reverberate through the floor, it feels like magic.

The music flows through her in that all familiar way and she feels that heavenly rush of excitement and elation. Lights flash so bright the world seems to blur together, sweat clings to her skin, her lungs burn every time she inhales, but she loves it. Lives for it really.

For three hours it’s just her and the music and the fans and everything else quiets down, fades into the background.

This is what she loves. This is why she bleeds herself dry. All of this makes up for the exhaustion clawing at her bones. It makes it worth it.

And when the final note rings through the stadium, when the crowd erupts and she lifts her hand in a sweet farewell, she lets herself relax. Just the tiniest bit.

She’s done it.

And then, as she makes to leave the stage, the world tilts.

Her sight becomes hazy, distorted, and she thinks it’s just another dizzy spell, until her legs refuse to cooperate.

Suddenly, everything is too loud and somehow strangely distant at the same time. The edges of her vision blacken.

Someone calls her name, she thinks, but she cannot focus on it.

The stage sways beneath her feet, like the floor itself is moving.

At least the concert’s over, a deluded part of herself ponders, somewhat amused.

(Y/N) is out before she hits the floor.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

COLLAPSE ON STAGE! MUSIC SUPERSTAR (Y/N) (Y/L/N) RUSHED TO HOSPITAL AFTER SHOCKING CONCERT INCIDENT Last night, thousands of fans watched in horror as global music sensation (Y/N) (Y/L/N) collapsed moments after finishing her final song at Wembley Stadium. The performance marked her third and final night of three sold-out shows at the iconic venue, as well as the final concert of the European leg of her 'Resonance' World tour. Fans have reported that (Y/L/N) appeared to be unsteady on her feet before suddenly collapsing. Medical personnel reportedly arrived within moments, and the singer was transported to a nearby hospital. Representatives for The Princess of Soul have yet to provide a detailed statement.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

When consciousness returns, it’s a slow, progressive thing.

She hears murmurs nearby, but can’t quite make out what they’re saying. She can feel someone’s touch, someone holding her hand, but cannot find the strength to return the gesture.

Everything hurts. There’s a dull ache behind her eyes. A throbbing in her head.

For a moment, (Y/N) doesn’t know where she is. Not even who she is, really.

Then the memories come back in waves, all at once.

Embarrassment hits harder than the pain. And the pain is bad.

“Oh God.” Talking feels unnatural. Her voice is raspy, her tongue feels heavy, the sound of it is odd.

A chair scrapes sharply beside her bed.

Suddenly, there’s a hand in hers, the hold steady.

Her head pounds, moving it to the side makes her ears ring. Slowly, she opens her eyes. She’s met with warm brown eyes, concern lingering in every corner.

“Mike?”

“Hey.” The relief that floods his features is overwhelming. There's a heaviness in his voice, some sort of strain, that (Y/N) pain-filled brain cannot comprehend.

“What—” She looks around. White walls, the pungent smell of antiseptic. Her hand, the one that isn’t entwined with Michael’s, is connected to an IV drip. There’s a low beeping in the background, her heartbeat resonating around the room. A hospital, okay, that makes sense. She knows where she is, she remembers flashes of what happened—her vision blackening, the stage tilting—, she does not understand why Michael is here. Thinking is too hard, it makes the dull ache of her head spread, so she asks, “What are you doing here?”

“You collapsed,” he says, as if that explains everything. It explains nothing at all, really, because she’d been in London and last she remembers Michael had been in New York, recording the music video for one of the songs of his newest album, 'Bad'.

“I know that.” She does, the memories are getting cleared by the minute. It’s enough to let her know it had been bad and most likely downright embarrassing. She hopes no one recorded it. Oh, God, the tabloids are going to have a field day with it. She can already see it; pregnancy rumors, drug rumors, whispers that will get traction, until they follow her everywhere. Great, just fucking great. Still, it does not explain why he’s here. Her mind’s confused, the pain lingers and she’s pretty sure they're giving her some sort of medicine through the drip, one that’s aggravating the fuzziness. “Are you— Michael, please tell me you did not fly across the Atlantic Ocean because I passed out?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, stares at her for a long minute, like he's unsure of what to say. “I saw the video.” Well, of course there is a video, that’s just her luck. Someone just bury her alive already. Truly, is she in God’s blacklist? “It didn’t look like you'd passed out. It looked like—” Michael stops, looks away. Whatever he meant to say, he keeps to himself, swallows it down. “Anyway, I managed to get in contact with Tom. He was frantic. He’s always so in control that the sound of him completely losing it scared me, (Y/N). He said they couldn’t wake you up and I thought—”

Michael’s voice falters, cracks a bit, and the alarm in his voice is enough to make something akin to fear clutch (Y/N)’s chest. It had been bad, then. Really bad.

She squeezes his hand, tries to reassure him that she’s here and she’s okay. Michael offers her a wobbly smile, but the worry in his eyes does not dim.

“So, I took the first flight. I had— I couldn’t—” Michael exhales, deeply. He squeezes her hand, mirroring her action, and pulls it to press the back of it against his lips. He murmurs against her skin, “I had to be here.”

She doesn’t know how she feels about it, the fact that Michael dropped everything to be here with her. Warmth floods throughout her, a knot forms on her throat; it’s affection and something more, something her hazy, muddled brain cannot identify. She suddenly hit with the striking realization that she would do the exact thing for him, cross every ocean and mountain to be there if he needs her. She doesn’t know what to do with that information, either.

“Thank you,” she says it so quietly, but the words still reverberate around the room. He’s here, with her. (Y/N) still can’t believe it. Her heart feels full in a way it never has before. “For being here.” His eyes soften when they meet hers and (Y/N) is surprised by how much of an open book Michael is. She sees so much when she looks into his eyes, raw vulnerability, glimpses of affection and some other emotion she can’t quite place. She wonders what Michael sees when he looks at her, sometimes (Y/N) thinks he sees too much.

“Always.” It sounds like a promise.

She’s still trying to process the information, when her brain catches up to everything he said. Tom was frantic. Where is Tom?

Tom has always been there, the one constant throughout (Y/N)’s life. He’s seen the good, the bad and the ugly, and not once left her side. Tom is the shoulder she leans on, the solid presence that grounds her, the person she looks for support. In between the pain and confusion and Michael’s presence, (Y/N) hadn’t noticed his absence. Now, it’s a palpable thing. He wouldn’t have left, (Y/N) knows him. Irrational panic grips at her. Tom would’ve never left her alone in an unfamiliar place.

(But he hadn’t left her alone, had he? Tom had left her with Michael. (Y/N) does not have the mental capacity at the moment to realize that, to understand the magnitude of that trust, what it signifies.)

(Y/N) tries to sit up, “Where’s Tom?” The movement makes dizziness crash through her in waves. She winces.

“Hey, hey,” Michael soothes, voice gentle. He must notice the twinge of alarm in her voice. “I convinced him to go back to the hotel to shower and have some breakfast. He hadn’t left your side since, well, the concert.” He hesitates a bit on the last two words, like he isn’t sure how to refer to what happened. “He’ll be here soon. Just try to get some rest in the meantime, yeah?”

It’s hard. She’s not sure if she knows how to rest anymore. Now that she’s awake her mind is going at a thousand miles per hour—she needs to talk to Tom, see him with her own eyes and apologize for making him worry, she needs to know what people are saying, what has been printed, how bad the situation is and what she needs to do to fix it.

Then she feels it, Michael’s thumb slowly caressing the back of her hand, almost an absentminded gesture. She’s not sure he even notices he’s doing it, but it helps. It grounds her, pulls her out of her mind and back into her body. To keep herself from spiraling away, she talks.

“How long was I out?”

“Almost four days.”

(Y/N) gapes at him, “You are kidding.” Michael just shakes his head, face somber. No shit Tom was losing his mind. Being unconscious for four days due to exhaustion and dehydration... Jesus. (Y/N) can’t believe she left herself get that bad.

“Well, you did hit your head pretty hard when you collapsed,” Michael offers as an explanation.

That explains the nauseating pain in her skull. It spreads everywhere, duller in some places and throbbing in others. It is only truly painful if she focuses on it, otherwise she can block it out pretty well, she has experience in managing headaches, after all.

(Y/N) allows her free hand to drift upwards, letting her fingers explore her scalp.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Michael states, face twisting in worry as she tries to find the source of the pain.

With practiced ease, (Y/N) ignores him. She has to know, has to feel the wounds.

Everything feels okay and for a second there she questions whether the impact looked worse than it actually was. And then the pad of her index finger rubs against one spot in the back of her head, close to her right ear, and pain flares up so viscously that her vision whitens.

“Fuck.” It comes out as a pained whimper. Michael’s hold tightens on her. When she looks at him, he's wincing, like her pain causes him pain, too. “You were right,” she tells him as she lets her hand fall back to her lap, “It was a terrible idea.”

It’s a testament to how distressed the whole situation must’ve been for him, how distraught he must’ve been—maybe still is—that Michael doesn’t say ‘Told you so!’ and instead just huffs out a small chuckle. He still looks so worried, every muscle on his face tense, and something in (Y/N)’s chest constricts.

Michael cares too deeply, worries too much. She is lucky to be someone who gets to see this side of him, she also feels unbearably guilty at the traces of concern that linger in his face. That’s her fault.

In search of soothing him, she says, “Don’t look so gloom, Mike. I’m okay, I promise.” She squeezes his hand, offers him a tentative smile. “I got too carried away. You know how hectic things get during tours.”

“No.” Michael’s voice tightens unexpectedly, something shifts in his demeanor. He’s never used that tone, not towards her. It renders her speechless, the sternness of it. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to play this down. Tours are hell, sure, but this—” Michael gestures around them, desperate. “—this isn’t that.”

He pins her down with his stare and there is so much raw emotion there that (Y/N) thinks she might burn with the intensity of it. She wants to look away, but can’t.

“You didn’t get too carried away, you are running yourself to the ground, (Y/N),” Michael says, and all she can think about it how weird it is, to hear those words from someone other than Tom. “And I knew how hard you were working and how relentless you become with yourself under high stress situations and I should’ve—” Michael’s voice breaks. He shakes his head, clearing his throat as looks away from her. He’s not fast enough. (Y/N) notices the glassiness of his eyes, the tears brimming at the corners.

Her chest tightens painfully, almost uncomfortably. She needs him to stop blaming himself, needs the distress in his tone to disappear. (Y/N) cannot bear being the one making Michael hurt.

“Michael, hey,” she tugs at his hand, “Look at me.” He does, a bit begrudgingly. There’s a tear trailing down his cheek and (Y/N)’s heart hurts. She hates herself for making him feel like she’s his responsibility. “It’s not on you, Mike. There’s nothing you could’ve done. I knew I was asking too much of my body, I just couldn’t—” Couldn’t stop, couldn’t allow myself to breathe or fail or be anything but perfect. “I let it get too far. Not enough sleep, too many skipped meals, but I am okay.”

Michael breathes out, heavy and deep. He presses the back of her hand to his forehead, closes his eyes and whispers, “It wasn’t just exhaustion, (Y/N).”

(Y/N) frowns, confused. What does that mean? She doesn’t have to ask because Michael elaborates, looking back at her, “I don’t really know the extent of it, the doctors couldn’t give me any information. I am not family, so—” He shakes his head. “But Tom did mentioned something about low potassium levels,” Okay, that does not sound that bad, so why is Michael looking at her like she might disappear any second? “He also said something about a cardiac event.”

Oh.

“Did my heart stop?” The question comes out clinical, detached. Her mind is spiraling. She’s suddenly very far away, trying to grapple with this information. She feels like a spectator in her own body. All she remembers is blackness and nothingness, her heart couldn’t have possibly stopped.

“I don’t know, Tom didn’t—” Michael’s voice falters and he clears his throat to get rid of the shakiness. It doesn’t work very well. “He wouldn’t tell me much.”

Everything around her becomes heightened. She’s suddenly acutely aware of the dimmed light of the room, the beeping of the machines, the sharp smell of antibacterial, the heaviness of Michael’s gaze.

Michael is getting good, too good, at reading her emotions. The instant she feels the flare of panic, he’s already soothing it. He moves closer, presses the back of her hand to his cheek. The closeness works, his skin against her reassures her, grounds her, acts as a tangible reminder that whatever happened she is okay and she is alive and she is not alone. She wonders, for a fleeting second, if Michael needs the touch as much as she does, if it settles something in him as well.

“I’m here,” he tells her, tone so sweet and soft and tender it sort of makes her want to cry.

“Will you stay?”

She regrets the words as soon as they leave her lips. It’s selfish, to ask so much of him. He already flew halfway across the world to get to her, to make sure she was okay. How can she ask him to stay longer, now that she’s awake? Michael—for all that he is her best friend— is still Michael Jackson. He’s busy and she shouldn’t even be asking. But she doesn’t take the words back, she doesn’t find it in herself to do so. Because some part of her knows that the only reason she isn’t wallowing in pits of self-deprecation and self-hatred, the only reason her mind isn’t punishing her, is because Michael is here.

(Y/N) doesn’t have time to panic, to overthink, because Michael is already answering. He gives her a soft smile, the corners of his lips barely tilting upwards, and presses a fleeting, almost tentative, kiss to the back of her hand, “For as long as you want me to.”

She’s smacked with the sudden realization that she might want him to stay forever.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

TOUR SHOCKER: (Y/N) (Y/L/N) POSTPONES ENTIRE AMERICAN LEG FOLLOWING MEDICAL EMERGENCY Fans across the United States were left stunned after representatives for global sensation, (Y/N) (Y/L/N), announced the postponement of all the North American and South American tour dates following what sources have described as a "serious and unexpected medical emergency." The singer, who has spent the last year dominating international charts and selling out arenas worldwide, was hospitalized earlier this week after collapsing on stage. While official statements have remained carefully worded, citing only a "health related incident requiring immediate medical attention", insiders have suggested the situation is more serious than initially thought. The announcement comes as a devastating blow to thousands of concertgoers who had anticipated the highly successful American leg of the 'Resonance' tour, which was projected to become one of the year's highest-grossing concert runs, competing only with Michael Jackson’s upcoming 'Bad' tour. Questions surrounding the severity of the incident intensified after reports emerged about several members of the singer's inner circle flying immediately to her bedside following her hospitalization. Perhaps most notably, superstar Michael Jackson was spotted arriving at the London medical facility only hours after news of the emergency leaked. Witnesses reported seeing Jackson enter and remain at the hospital for extended periods over multiple days. Neither Jackson nor his representatives have commented publicly. As speculation continues regarding the exact nature of (Y/L/N)'s condition, representatives of the artist have urged fans to respect her privacy (...)

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

Recovery is unbearable mostly because it forces her to stop and (Y/N) can’t remember the last time she did. Her body and mind aren’t wired for it, for long days doing nothing, for the lack of adrenaline. She is restless. She spends most of her time journaling, writing lyrics that don’t make much sense, pacing around the house while the speculations on the tabloids grow wilder.

The doctors order strict rest for at least three weeks, pending another medical evaluation, and it’s almost like everyone in her life conspires together to make sure she actually listens.

Tom confiscates her work schedule. After a long discussion with her, he decides to postpone the entire American leg of the tour, even though she should technically be okay by then.

(She doesn't fight him very hard on that decision, she knows just how badly she scared him, how worried he was. It turns out her heart had stopped, only for a few seconds, but enough to have Tom feeling like his own heart was going into cardiac arrest. It’d been a severe case of electrolyte imbalance what’d caused her to collapse. He’d seen it all from backstage, had been there when they’d used a defibrillator on her in the back of an ambulance, when she’d been rolled into the ICU. When he’d seen her awake for the first time after she’d collapsed, talking to Michael in hushed voices, he’d broken down completely. (Y/N) had never seen Tom cry before. It’d been enough to sober her up completely.)

Michael visits almost every other day, when he isn’t busy working on the last details for his upcoming tour.

He might be the only reason (Y/N) doesn’t lose all her sanity.

Sometimes they talk and Michael fills her in on the outside world, sometimes he brings board games, and they play until it’s late and Michael has to leave. Sometimes they just sit quietly, he works on his lyrics and she watches him, enthralled. There’s something magical in watching him create, in being allowed so close. Sometimes, and these are her favorite, Michael brings cassettes with unfinished versions of some songs and asks for her insight on the snares and basslines. Not only does she love being privy to the raw, unpolished, unguarded version of Michael’s artistry, but she loves pretending, for an hour or two, that nothing ever happened. They dissect songs together, piece by piece, and it is familiar territory, comfortable. It makes her feel less unsteady, like she has some semblance of control over her life.

Tom doesn’t say anything about Michael’s presence, but (Y/N) notices the way he relaxes a little when he’s around. Like he can rest for a while, knowing that Michael is there, knowing that she wouldn’t dare try anything crazy with Michael.

(Sometimes (Y/N) swears that Tom actually believes she’ll just rip out her IV drip—the one that she uses twice a day to ensure her electrolyte levels are balanced—and make a run for it. Which, in her defense, she only ever considered once, on the third day of this medical confinement, when she felt like she was going to lose her mind. And she didn’t even truly consider it. It was just a passing thought. She wouldn't do anything to worry him. Or Michael. She’s done enough of that. And yet, despite her being on her absolute best behavior, Tom still worries. She suspects that he would worry even if she sat quietly in a padded room doing absolutely nothing. He’s such a dad. (Y/N) is so grateful for him.)

She doesn’t understand it entirely, this sudden trust that Tom has in Michael. Not because of Michael—(Y/N) knows him, knows his character, she thinks he might be the person she trusts the most in the world—but because Thomas Allen simply does not trust anyone, ever. It’s not in his nature. But the tension in his shoulders loosens when Michael arrives and he seems to breathe easier and (Y/N) finds it so very interesting.

“You trust him,” she comments off-handedly, trying to catch Tom off-guard. Michael had just left, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and nodding at Tom, and (Y/N) had caught the way that stoic guardedness in Tom’s eyes had relented, just slightly, at the sight of Michael.

Tom doesn’t turn to look at her, busy going over some documents. (Y/N) tugs at the sleeves of her sweater—Michael’s sweater, one he’d accidentally left behind, and she’d stared wearing around the house when she was too lazy to think of what to wear—and studies him from her place on the couch. In response to her statement, he just hums.

“Is that a yes?”

Tom looks up, amusement in his eyes, “You didn’t ask a question, kid.”

She stares at him, a deadpan stare that has him chuckling.

“I do,” he confirms, adjusting his glasses to keep reading the pieces of paper in his manila folder.

“Why?” She can’t help but ask.

Tom raises his eyebrows at her, “Do you not trust him?”

(Y/N) scoffs, “You know that’s not what I meant. Of course I trust him, he’s my best friends.” She tugs at the sleeves of the sweater again, pulls her knees to her chest. “But you never trust any of my other friends.”

“Yeah, well—” Tom makes a sound, his tongue pressing against the back of his teeth, and shrugs, “Michael’s a good kid.”

But (Y/N) knows him too well, there’s something he isn’t telling her. Since Tom has made sure she has absolutely nothing better to do than spend her time annoying him, she presses, “There’s something else.”

“Is there?”

“Tom!” she pouts at him, using that petulant tone she knows drives him mad. “Come on, I want to know! What did Michael Jackson do to gain the unattainable trust of Thomas Allen?”

Tom looks up at her, rests his pen against the table. The shift in his semblance is sudden and (Y/N) straightens up immediately.

“What did he do?” she asks again, less playful this time around.

Tom breathes out, like he’s considering whether to tell her or simply walk out of the room. “It’s how he sounded, when he called that day.”

(Y/N) stills. Tom and her haven’t talked about the collapse, not since she was released from the hospital. It’s become this unspoken topic, a wound neither of them are willing to touch in fear of causing some infection.

“The panic in his voice—” Tom shakes his head. There’s a glint of dread in his eyes, like he is reliving it too. “He kept asking me if you were okay, if you were breathing.” (Y/N) had known, although neither had ever said it, that both him and Michael had thought she’d died. Hearing Tom confirm that is another thing entirely. She breathes out shakily, hugs her knees closer to her chest. “And then he was there, in London. I didn’t expect him to fly out. God, kid, you can’t even begin to understand how worried he was. He looked as terrible as I felt, and I care a whole lot for you, so I figure he must care a whole lot for you, too.”

(Y/N) suddenly feels like she can’t breathe.

She knows that Michael cares for her. Of course she does, it’s in every little thing he does—the late nights at her music studio, the random calls in the middle of the day, the way he appears to have memorized every part of her, how he accommodates her and prioritizes her—, but having Tom say it to her makes it more real, deeper, somehow.

She sniffs, rests her cheek against her knee. “He’s a good friend.”

Tom smiles at her, there’s kindness in his eyes and something that looks remarkably like pity.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he shakes his head, looks down at his papers, “Friends don’t worry to that extent.”

The words settle heavily between them.

Neither of them bring up the topic again.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

Michael leaves for tour three weeks later.

(It’d been a coincidence, the overlapping of their tours, something neither of them had realized would happen until (Y/N) was leaving for Europe and Michael was announcing tour dates. She was supposed to be closing up her tour, starting in South America and moving up all the way to Canada before doing the last show in New York, and Michael starting his in Japan.

They were going to be apart for a very long time, but (Y/N) had only been vaguely aware of that fact. She’d known the tour would demand too much of them, they would be too busy to notice each other’s absence. Now, with the American leg of her tour being pushed back and Tom advocating for her to take a break from music, placing her basically in house arrest until the doctor’s discharge her, (Y/N) is very aware of how long it’ll be before she sees Michael again.)

He comes to say goodbye, even though (Y/N) insists he doesn’t need to. She knows how chaotic the weeks leading up to a tour can be, she doesn’t want him to strain himself to much, least of all for her. Still, he shows up. (Michael always shows up.) He ignores the doorbell, as always, and bangs on the door in that particular way of his, always to the rhythm of one of her songs.

He stays too long—(Y/N) wonders if he, too, has suddenly become aware of the distance that’ll be between them, the time that’ll pass before they see each other again—until Bill starts honking the horn outside.

“You’ll miss your flight.” She has to physically drag him to the front door.

“Promise me that you’ll take care of yourself,” he says, offering little resistance as she moves down the hall, her hand wrapped around his wrist. “Good care of yourself.”

“I’ll do my best,” (Y/N) assures him. She isn’t sure how well she’ll do—she’s been managing these past few weeks, but he’s been here and that’s made it easier somehow, she doesn’t need to think about the fragility of her body, how unsteady she feels when she’s alone—but she will try, maybe more for Michael and Tom than for herself.

“And you’ll call, right?”

(Y/N) laughs, “Yes, Mike, all the time. You’ll get tired of hearing of me.”

Michael doesn’t skip a beat, “Impossible.”

She smiles, fondness spreading all over her chest. (Y/N) knows he means the words.

When they make it to the front door, he halts her, pulls at her hand, forcing him to turn around and meet his eyes

“If anything feels off, if the headaches come back, you’ll tell me?”

Her smile freezes as (Y/N) hesitates. It’s just a second, but Michael notices.

He raises his eyebrows, reaching for her hand and intertwining their fingers, “Promise me you’ll tell me.”

She sighs, pressing her lips together. She doesn’t want to make promises she might have to break. She’s never lied to Michael, she doesn’t want to start now.

“You’ll have much more important things to worry about.”

That’s the reason she’s so hesitant. Not because she wants to keep anything from him—they’ve gotten to a point where she’s not even sure she would be capable of deceiving Michael if she wanted, she’s certain he would be able to tell immediately, he knows her too well, has learned to read between the lines—but because he will need to be completely focused on his tour.

Michael opens his mouth, closes it. He sighs, running his free hand through his hair. He looks almost nervous, shy in a way he never is around her. Not anymore.

His admission is quiet, almost mumbled, “Nothing is more important than you.”

(Y/N)’s heart lurches. It’s gotten the tendency of doing that around Michael these days. She does her very best at keeping it under control. Instead, she pokes him on the cheek, her smile softening.

“Okay, a compromise, then,” she says. “If it gets bad, I will tell you.”

“How bad?”

“Need-to-go-to-the-hospital kind of bad.” She’s sure it won’t get to that point. She’s had some minor headaches and dizzy spells in the past few weeks, but nothing serious.

Michael doesn’t seem to like that answer. He looks over her shoulder, at Tom, and the older man must mouth something or do something because Michael relaxes. “Fine, deal.”

Once that’s settled, Michael breaks into a smile.

“C’mere.”

He opens his arms and (Y/N) happily walks into them. She closes her eyes and breathes him in, tries to commit the feeling of their hug to memory. She will miss him. (Y/N) has never had someone to miss before.

“Be safe,” she yells after him as he leaves her house. She watches his figure get smaller as he crosses the front yard to where Bill is waiting for him. He hasn't even left and (Y/N) already misses him. Oh, these upcoming months are going to be unbearable.

Michael turns around at the sound of her voice, walking backwards. He sends a dazzling grin her way and, there he is, that’s her Michael, sweet and handsome and all too mischievous.

(Y/N) squints her eyes, the playful look in his eyes too familiar. She isn’t surprised when he presses his index and middle finger to his lips and throws a kiss her way.

She rolls her eyes, good-naturedly, maybe a tad bit too fondly. Her grin widens. She plays along, catching the kiss and pressing it to her heart.

“Miss you already, pretty girl.”

Now that catches her by surprise.

The nickname hits her somewhere in the middle of her stomach. She’s glad that Michael’s not close enough to see the way heat crawls over her face.

“Miss you, too,” she sighs out, the words punched out of her.

From the corner of her eye she can see the way Tom is looking at her, all smug and amused and (Y/N) wishes she could fire him.

Instead, she turns around, pokes her tongue at him, and walks back to the house.

She does her very best to ignore the way her brain won’t stop replaying Michael’s words (pretty girl, pretty girl, pretty girl).

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

(Y/N) does a great job at recovery, if she does say so herself. Tom would undoubtedly disagree, because he likes teasing and arguing and just overall disagreeing with her. He would say that she’s a terrible patient, always forgetting when it’s time to take her pills—which is true, she is very bad at that—but (Y/N) has noticed the way he no longer looks skittish. He no longer looks at her like he’s judging whether she’s two seconds away from fleeing. He has relaxed, maybe just a fraction, but when it comes to Tom, that’s a whole lot.

The doctor discharges her, officially, on a Monday. He makes a point by telling her she needs to take it easy, that her heart has incurred in permanent tissue damage—minor but still evident—and another severe electrolyte imbalance could kill her. Tom gives her a pointed look and (Y/N) flinches under the intensity of it. There won’t be a repeat, she’ll do better. She promised Michael she would take good care of herself and she’s never broken a promise to him.

She calls Michael as soon as she gets to her studio. Tom had said she’d be able to go back, start easing herself into the normal, hectic rhythm of her life once the doctors gave the green light. He’s not looking very happy about it, but he lets her do her thing. He keeps the hovering at a minimum and (Y/N) doesn’t think she could ask for more.

“Guess where I am,” she says as soon as he picks up.

(Y/N) doesn’t have to guess to know where he is, she has the dates and places of his tour memorized. He’s in Melbourne, probably just got back to his hotel after his first night performing in Australia.

“Hello to you, too.” Is his teasing response. She can hear the smile on his face, can almost picture it. It makes her smile in return.

“Hi Mike,” she amends, teasingly, “C’mon, guess.”

“Home?” His answer comes out like a confused statement, before he’s suddenly taking a sharp intake of breath, “No, wait. You had the doctor’s appointment today, didn’t you?”

(Y/N)’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. She hadn’t thought he’d remember, she’d only ever mentioned it once, very briefly.

“I did.”

“And how did it go?”

“Very well.”

“Officially discharged?”

“Yep! Praise the Lord.”

“That’s good,” he sounds heartbreakingly relieved. “You’re at the studio, then?”

(Y/N) chuckles, “I’m that predictable, huh.”

Michael hums, the sound of it traveling all the way across the line and settling somewhere in between her ribs, “I just know you too well.”

“That you do.”

“Are you happy?” There’s ruffling on the other side, like he’s settling into bed, “You sound happy.”

“I am very happy,” she confirms, twisting the telephone cord around her finger. Michael gets it, (Y/N) doesn’t need to explain that being cut off from music had felt like losing a limb, such an integral part of her life ripped away from her. It’d been necessary, she knows that, but it’d still hurt. Being back in her studio feels like coming home. She relishes on the feeling. “I had so much time to write and now I finally get to turn all the jumbled mess in my brain into something tangible. I’m so happy I could burst.”

Michael laughs, soft and full and (Y/N) loves knowing there’s someone out there that gets joy from her happiness.

“Will you play the demos for me?”

“You know I will.” She thinks it’s sweet, that he still asks. “Anyway, how was the concert?”

Distance changes things.

Not between them—if anything, they seem to grow impossibly closer, Michael calls her whenever he’s free, from airports and hotel rooms and backstage corridors, and (Y/N) drops everything when he’s on the other side of the line. No, the change happens inside her.

Maybe it doesn’t change a thing, maybe it just sheds light to what was already there, something (Y/N) had spent a long time ignoring.

Without Michael physically beside her at all times, without his constant presence filling every aspect of her life, (Y/N) has time to think about him.

Thinking is a dangerous thing.

(She thinks of his eyes and his hands holding hers. She thinks of their late night calls, the way his voice is enough to ease her worries, settle her anxiety. She thinks of days spent together obsession over music, watching movies, playing games. She thinks of those damned words (pretty girl, pretty girl) and the way she’d sworn her heart was going to beat straight out of her chest.)

(Y/N) misses him terrible, with an intensity she’d never thought herself capable of. Not in the vague ‘oh, things are sort of quieter without you around’ way she’s used to missing people and more in the ‘there is a whole in my heart in the shape of you and i don’t really know what to do with it’ way she’s never experienced before.

Every interesting thing that happens becomes something she wants to tell Michael about. Every exhausting interview leaves her reaching for the phone, because his voice is the one thing capable of quieting everything down, making the world tolerable.

One night, after a particularly grueling press event—where the journalists kept digging and pushing and reaching for information on her health, trying to dissect her private life for public amusement—she calls him without thinking.

She doesn’t think he’ll pick up—it’s too late and he’s most likely sleeping and God, he must be tired and she shouldn’t be calling him at all—but Michael does. It only takes him two rings.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice sleepy.

Relief floods through her instantaneously at the sound of it. She doesn’t reply, just breathes deeply, closing her eyes when she feels tears brimming at the corner.

“You okay?” He asks not even second later, sounding much more awake.

She clears her throat, “I’m fine. Just tired.” Michael must know she’s not being completely truthful, he must also know it is not the time to press because he keeps quiet. The sound of his breathing anchors her, makes everything feel steady. “Just wanted to hear your voice.”

The admission startles her.

Michael hums softly. “Is that so?”

She huffs out a laugh, “Don’t tease.”

“M’not.” His voice is rough with traces of lingering sleepiness, deeper. “I like hearing your voice, too.”

Suddenly, the ache of missing him becomes almost unbearable.

No one has cared for her so gently before, so openly. There is transparency when it comes to Michael’s love. He doesn’t wish to possess her or control her or polish her raw edges into something easier to hold. He loves with clarity, with intent, proudly, loud in the small ways that matter and (Y/N) loves him.

The thought appears so suddenly she nearly drops the phone.

She goes completely still.

On the other end, Michael keeps talking softly, completely unaware that her entire world had just tilted off balance.

She loves him.

Oh.

Oh no.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

JACKSON FEVER HITS BRISBANE: KING OF POP SET FOR FINAL AUSTRALIAN BAD TOUR SPECTACULAR Australia's biggest music event of the year reaches its grand finale as international superstar Michael Jackson prepares to take the stage for the final concert of his Australian tour. Thousands of fans have descended on Brisbane Entertainment Centre ahead of what is expected to be one of the most electrifying performances ever staged in Queensland. Tickets sold out months ago, with devoted followers camping overnight and traveling from across the country for one last chance to witness the King of Pop in action (...)

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

Realizing she’s in love with Michael is the most consuming, terrifying thing (Y/N) has ever experienced. (And she almost died, so that’s saying a lot.)

Once the realization settles, once it sinks into her bones and becomes part of her essence, her truth, it threatens to overwhelm her, consume her entirely.

She loves him.

Entirely.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

How she never noticed before is beyond her, because now that she knows, she cannot turn it off. It’s like the wiring in her brain and her heart have been altered beyond repair and she simply cannot force herself back into the comfortable shape of friendship. Not now that she’s glimpsed beyond it.

(Y/N) realizes, as she tosses and turns around in bed, as she stares at the darkness of her ceiling, that maybe the realization of being in love with him isn’t what’s scary— loving Michael is easy, it feels right, like everything has suddenly slotted into place and things make sense once more— it’s losing him that has her paralyzed, frozen in terror.

Because Michael is not just anyone. He is her best friend, her safe place, the person she trusts the most, the one she would look for in a crowded room.

Losing Michael would destroy her.

And that’s what she fears, the complexity of her feelings, the confusion of wanting him so badly it hurts, of missing him so deeply his absence is like a phantom ache she cannot rid herself of, of knowing she could be a few words away of ruining the most important relationship of her life.

(Y/N) does not want to lose Michael. She wouldn’t survive it.

So she says nothing.

Tries her very best to bury her affection, even it makes her feel like she’s dying.

And then Michael calls one night.

He sounds exhausted, voice rough from a day spent rehearsing and performing, but happy— happy because the crowd’s energy had been surreal and most of all happy because it’ll only be a couple of days before he sees her again.

Her heart sort of skips a beat when he says that.

“I wish you were here,” he says softly over the phone, as he’s done retelling most of his night.

Something in (Y/N)’s chest aches so violently she has to close her eyes to keep it at bay.

“I miss you,” And they say that to each other a lot—all the time, really— but something about the way Michaels says it this time sounds different. It’s in the way he enunciates the words, the tenderness behind them, the way they travel all the way and settle somewhere deep inside her.

After they hang up, she sits alone in the darkness of her room for a long time, thinking.

About fear and love and rejection.

And suddenly another fear rises above the rest, the stifling panic of regret, of watching Michael fall in love with someone else while she stands beside him, smiling as if her heart isn’t breaking apart inside her, of looking back to these days and wishing she would’ve done things differently.

The thought alone is enough to make her feel sick.

She cannot do that to herself.

So, the very next day, she gets on a plane.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” she admits to Tom before she leaves the house, finger looping around the straps of her sweater in a desperate attempt to calm herself down. He’d arrived early in the morning and found her moving around the house in almost a manic state. He’d said nothing as she’d explained where she was going and what she was doing, hadn’t even teased her about it taking her so long to finally realize what was most likely obvious to him. Instead, he’d called the chauffer and helped her pack.

“You’ll be okay.”

“Oh God, but what if he—”

Tom grabs her face between his hands, like he’d done when she’d been a kid about to spiral into a panic attack.

“Breathe.” She does, lifting her hands to grab Tom’s wrist in an effort to keep herself anchored. “You will be okay, kid.” Tom repeats and this time the words do cut through the panic. He’s looking at her like he’s certain, his words firm, and (Y/N) has no choice but to trust him.

The flight feels endless. Too much time to think and think and overthink, way too much time to panic— and without Tom by her side it’s harder to keep herself from losing her mind.

(What if this is the biggest mistake of her life? What if she’s wrong and Tom is wrong and all Michael has ever felt is platonic affection, friendship? What if she confesses her feelings and he doesn’t reciprocate and they drift apart?)

She forces herself to keep going.

Love, no matter how brief, is never wasted. And she thinks she could die happy knowing she loved without restrain, without fear. She owes herself that much.

By the time she arrives backstage, her heart is pounding and her stomach is in knots.

She might actually throw up.

The arena is enormous.

(Y/N) can hear the crowd roaring beyond the walls while staff rush frantically through the corridors. Music shakes the floor beneath her feet.

A young girl with a headset recognizes her immediately and nearly drops the walkie-talkie she’s holding.

“Holy shit.”

That manages to bring out a small laugh from (Y/N). It’s the first time all day that she’s felt something other than life-altering dread.

“Michael doesn’t know I’m here,” she finds herself telling the girl, “I was hoping to surprise him.”

“So you guys are friends.” The girl muses before immediately realizing what she’s said. Her eyes widen comically, “I just meant— I mean, with the tabloids you can never know. Like the rivalry, you know, I always thought it was such bullshit the way they pitted you against each other and—”

Huh, so there were people who didn’t fall for it. It’s good to know.

(Y/N) interrupts her with another laugh, because the girl looks like she’s about to go on a tangent about the media, “It’s okay. I get what you mean.”

The girl nods, visibly relaxing a bit, “Uh— Do you— Do you want me to take you to his dressing you?”

“I was hoping to sneak a little glance at him, from the wings, if it’s not too much trouble?”

The girl, who she finds out is named Isla, leads her through backstage hallways. The closer they get to the stage, the clearer Michael’s voice becomes. The sound of it loosens some of the anxiety in her chest.

They arrive at the spot, sheltered from the public by the wings of the arena, and (Y/N) finally catches a glimpse of Michael. There he is. Drenched in sweat, looking like God’s favorite creation, every feature enhanced by the stage light.

God, she loves him.

He’s breathing hard as the song ends and the crowd’s scream become even more deafening.

He turns slightly, to say something to his drummer, and that’s when he sees her.

Everything stops. (Y/N) feels the breath catch in her throat. Michael, who she has never seen falter, freezes mid-step, for the briefest of seconds. His expression shifts so fast she can’t process every emotion, but she can pinpoint the softness in his eyes, the one that’s always present when he’s looking at her.

Calm settles over her, unexpectedly.

Michael recovers quickly. He winks at her and she smiles back and then he’s back to performing, but all she can thinking about are those eyes.

She can’t even remember why she was so worried. This is Michael. Her Michael. The person who feels most like home.

For a quick second, the fleeting thought crosses her mind.

Maybe he loves me, too.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

Michael runs to her.

Once second, he’s waving goodbye to the crowd, sending kisses out to his fans. The next, he’s bolting.

He must be exhausted, about to be slammed in the face with that post-concert adrenaline crash, and yet, he’s still running to her.

There’s a bright smile on his face, his eyes are shinning, little crinkles around the edges. He’s moving like something is pulling him towards her, like finding his way to her is nothing more than muscle memory.

Michael pulls her into him so hard it knows the breath out of her lungs. His arms wrap around her waist, lifting her a bit so that only her toes touch the ground. Almost as if it’s second nature, her arms loop around his neck.

He’s covered in sweat, his skin sticky, curls damp against his forehead, and (Y/N) should be disgusted, but she isn’t. She feels nothing but an overwhelming amount of fondness, warmth. She pulls him closer, wishing she could sink into him.

For the first time since she realizes she loved him, (Y/N) feels like her heart and mind are at ease. The ache burning inside of her simmers down.

He’s here, and it’s almost as if her soul knows it.

“Oh my God,” he breathes against her hair, elated. “You’re here.”

(Y/N) laughs shakily against his shoulder.

Michael buries his head against the side of her neck, breathing heavy. His arms tighten around her waist, like he’s making sure she’s actually here and not a figment of his imagination.

And, God, (Y/N) wants to stay here forever.

She wants to pull him so close, until there is no space left between them, wants to crawl inside his heart, settle somewhere between his ribs. She wants to be consumed by him, by the love she has for him.

Somewhere nearby a camera clicks.

Neither of them pay it much mind.

(The picture, taken by one of Michael’s staff, will later become one of their most famous ones. (Y/N) doesn’t know it yet, but she will keep it neatly tucked in her wallet, carry it with her for the rest of her life.)

“I cannot believe it. You’re actually here,” he whispers to her. His breath is warm against her skin. “I missed you.” The words sound reverent somehow, like a prayer, like they’d sounded that night they’d been on the phone and (Y/N) had realized she couldn’t keep her feelings from him any longer.

Something inside her breaks open, “I missed you more.” And it is so true her voice cracks, filled with emotions she has not yet named, not out loud, and Michael, her sweet Michael, notices immediately.

He pulls away, only slightly, so that he can see her face. His arms stay wrapped around her, hands anchored firmly on her waist.

“What’s wrong?”

Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s wrong. (Y/N)’s not sure what to say or precisely what she’s feeling. It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

She shakes her head, because she doesn’t know what else to do. Michael is looking at her with those eyes that see too much and God, she cannot hide a single thing from him. Tears gather at the corner of her eyes. She’s not quite sure if they’re happy tears or sad tears or I’m-scared-I’m-about-to-ruin-it-all tears.

“Hey, hey,” Michael murmurs softly, pulling her close against him once more. One of his hands slides gently to her hair, “It’s okay.”

And it is okay, she is in Michael’s arms and she is safe and she is alive and she is in love and she cannot help the way the words slip out of her mouth.

“I love you.”

Michael smiles, she feels it against her temple.

“I love you, too, pretty girl, you know that.”

Him and that stupidly endearing nickname.

She cannot pull away, does not want to see his face as she lays herself bare for him. Those eyes of his, (Y/N) would be able to see everything in them. She cannot bear it.

“No, I mean—” Her voice trembles. She presses her face harder against his shirt. “I am in love with you.”

And it’s an anguish-filled confession, one mumbled into his white, sweat-soaked shirt so quietly that (Y/N) would believe Michael didn’t catch it if it weren’t for the way he immediately freezes.

Slowly, carefully, he pulls back. Her arms untangle from his neck, hands settling on his chest. (Y/N) grabs the edges of his leather jacket to keep herself grounded, she doesn’t think she’s ever been more scared in her life.

They come face to face and there are so many emotions flashing though his eyes that (Y/N) cannot grasp them, she cannot read him.

“Say that again,” he says in a low voice, tentatively.

(Y/N) swallows, then breathes out, “I’m in love with you.”

A beat.

“Do you mean that?”

(Y/N) nods because she doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know what else to say.

Michael’s hands move to cup her face, thumbs brushing against her cheekbones. He’s looking at her so intently, like he’s searching for something. Whatever it is, he seems to find it.

“Do you really mean that?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

Michael’s eyes soften, face breaking into a devastating smile, “I am going to kiss you now.”

He does.

Hesitantly and oh so softly at first—like he’s testing the waters, like he doesn’t want to scare her away—then deeper, more intense.

Everything melts.

There is no arena, no people around them, every noise fades into the background; it’s just her and Michael and their hearts beating in sync and his thumb caressing her skin and his lips on hers.

He loves her too.

Somewhere, very far away, there’s another click.

(That photo never makes it to the public. Michael keeps it at their bedside table.)

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

POP ROYALTY CAUGHT IN MOONLIT EMBRACE?! by Carl Kesterson Los Angeles was rocked last night when pop icons Michael Jackson and (Y/N) (Y/L/N) were allegedly spotted sharing a passionate kiss outside an exclusive after-party following a charity concert. For months, rumors have swirled around the chart-topping duo, with fans pointing at lingering glances, matching jewelry and suspiciously affectionate comments as evidence that there might be more than friendship between the two superstars. Neither Michael nor (Y/N) has commented on the photographs, but insiders suggest the pair has been quietly dating for nearly a year. Are wedding bells next for music's newest power couple? Is this all an elaborate publicity scheme? (turn to page 4 for more!)

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

Everyone had accepted one simple truth: Michael Jackson and Y/N were going to get married.

Nobody questioned ‘if’ anymore. They only questioned the ‘when’.

Which, unfortunately for Michael, had become the most frequently asked question in entertainment journalism.

They had been together for nearly four years now.

She was the industry’s newest darling—a powerhouse vocalist whose soul, jazz and pop influences had made her one of the fastest-rising artists at the time. Every awards season belonged to her just as much as it belonged to him.

Together, they were impossible to ignore.

Magazine covers.

Award shows.

Movie premieres.

Charity galas.

Somehow they always ended up photographed laughing in corners, stealing little glances when they thought cameras weren’t paying attention.

And every interview somehow eventually became the same conversation.

“So…” The interviewer smiled knowingly. “When’s the wedding?”

Y/N always laughed. “Don’t look at me!” She shook her head and held out her hands. “It’s not me you should be asking that!”

The audience laughed.

Michael laughed.

The interviewer laughed.

Then the camera inevitably cut to Michael.

He’d smile innocently. “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” she’d tease. “They’re asking you!”

He’d simply shrug. “I don’t know what everyone’s talking about.”

“Oh, you know exactly what they’re talking about.”

“I really don’t.”

“You’re such a bad liar!”

Another interview. Another city. Another red carpet.

“So,” another reporter grinned, “have you started planning the wedding?”

Y/N sighed dramatically. “Well, I’ve started.”

Michael blinked beside her. “You have?”

“Yes, I have.” She nodded throughly. “I’ve picked flowers.”

Michael tilted his head at her. “You have?”

She nodded once again. “I’ve picked music.”

“…You have?”

“Oh, honey, I’ve even picked the cake.” She stated in a very serious tone.

Michael laughed. “Of course you have.” He said, pulling her closer with the arm he had around her shoulder and placing a kiss on her temple.

The clip aired everywhere.

Fans adored them.

The jokes became a running thing.

Whenever Michael left for another leg of his tour, Y/N would wave him goodbye dramatically.

“Come back with a ring!”

He’d point at her. “No promises.” She threw hands every time.

Months passed. Another tour. Another album. Another awards season.

And still…

No proposal in sight.

But what nobody knew—not the press, not the fans, not even Y/N—was that tucked safely inside the back drawer of Michael’s dresser sat a navy velvet ring box.

Inside rested the most beautiful marquise-cut diamond he’d ever seen.

He’d spent nearly six months searching for it.

Six long months of sneaking around in jewelry stores.

Six long, exhausting months of yearning to drop on one knee and call the woman he loved his fiancée and eventually wife already.

But Michael simply refused to rush something he’d dreamed about his entire life.

He wanted the moment perfect. She deserved nothing but perfection.

Y/N, meanwhile, was getting very impatient.

Not genuinely, thought. Comically impatient.

On one specific afternoon she stormed into the studio chewing on some gun and carrying righteous indignation.

Her producer looked up from the piano. He grimaced. “Should I be worried?”

“Yes.” She answered, dropping onto a chair near the piano.

He sighed, turning on the bench to face her. “What happened?”

“My boyfriend is testing me.” She pressed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes harshly.

“…Michael?”

“Michael.” She affirmed in a low voice while nodding.

“He do something?”

“Absolutely not.”

“…Okay?” The producer frowned. That man was getting confused.

Y/N groaned and dropped her head dramatically. “He won’t propose.”

Silence.

He pondered for a few seconds before nodding. “Yeah, that’s actually fair.”

“Thank you!” She threw herself dramatically onto the chair one more time. “I’ve been so, so patient.”

He snorted at her, getting up from the bench and placing his hands on his waist. “Darling, you’ve been making jokes about it on national television.”

“Exactly.” She pointed a sharp finger at him.

“So what’s your plan?”

Y/N sat up slowly, a mischievous smile slowly spreading across her face.

“I am about to write the most direct song of my entire tiny career.”

Her producer immediately started laughing. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

Three hours later she walked into the vocal booth.

The band watched through the glass.

The backing vocalists waited beside their microphones.

She adjusted her headphones. Smiled and cleared her throat.

Then announced: “Okay, this one goes out to my wonderful boyfriend,” A beat. “who apparently needs some instruction.”

Her producer snorted, shaking his head at her. This girl was impossible.

When the recording was finished, the producer slowly removed his headphone. “You’re going to make Michael Jackson melt on the spot.” He noted.

“Oh, I know.”

“You’ve publicly declared war.”

“Well, you know what they say,” She said through the microphone while shrugging slightly.

The producer shrugged and frowned. “Uh, I actually have no idea what ‘they say’” He paused. “Please, enlighten me.”

Y/N smirked. “All’s fair in love and poetry.”

⋆⭒˚.⋆

She kept the song secret for a few weeks.

Even from Michael. Well, especially from Michael.

Which made the invitation to perform at a major Award show ceremony all the more dangerous.

Nobody knew what she planned.

Not the audience.

Not the press.

Certainly not the man sitting front row in a black tuxedo who believed he was simply there to support his girlfriend.

The auditorium lights dimmed. A spotlight illuminated center stage. The curtain lifted and the audience erupted.

Y/N stood beneath a vintage microphone wearing a floor-length crimson gown that glittered beneath every light in the room.

The silhouette hugged her perfectly before flowing elegantly to the floor.

Her hair curled softly beneath her jaw.

She looked like she’d stepped straight out of a 1950s Hollywood film.

Behind her waited an entire live band.

Piano.

Double bass.

Drums.

A brass section.

And three women in matching satin gowns standing behind vintage microphones.

Michael smiled immediately at the sight. But something about this entire setup made him a bit nervous, what he couldn’t place a finger on it.

“You know, she didn’t let me hear this one yet,” Michael commented casually to the man sitting beside him. It was Y/N’s producer, who didn’t take his eyes off the stage.

“Oh, trust me, I know.” He answered with a scoff.

Michael frowned a little at that response. “She just keeps saying it’s ‘special.’”

The man scratched the back of his neck and clicked his tongue. “It is.”

“You’ve heard it?” Michael asked, turning towards him.

“Unfortunately.”

Michael laughed. “Unfortunately?”

“Yeah, yeah,” The producer finally looked at him. “You’ll see.”

Then the lights dimmed.

The pianist played the opening chord.

Y/N wrapped one elegant hand around the microphone.

Smiled sweetly.

“Oh, baby…” She sang, her voice floating through the room like velvet. Warm. Playful. Dangerously theatrical. Then she tilted her head, a mischievous grin appeared on her red lips. “Where the hell is my husband?”

The audience exploded.

People gasped and screamed before she’d even finished the sentence.

Michael covered half his face with one hand.

“Oh my God…” He murmured under his breath.

The cameras immediately found him. Worst possible thing ever for Michael.

Because Michael Jackson looked like he was trying to decide if he should laugh, cry or faint.

Y/N caught him looking. Smirked. Then continued.

God, how he loved her.

Michael slowly turned to her producer with widened eyes.

The producer was doing his absolute best to not look back at him.

Michael shook his head in disbelief, a smile starting to appear on his face. “You knew about this?”

“Mhm.”

“And you let her do this?”

The man shook his head with a tiny smile, but after a few seconds the nods turned into a negative head shaking, the smile vanishing from his face as he stared at a very amused Michael Jackson. He gulped.

“Michael, I value my life.” He kept glancing between Y/N and Michael. “Do you know how stubborn your girlfriend is?”

Michael grinned and nodded knowingly.

“Your wife can be very persuasive—No, not wife—I mean, I—girlfrie—wife to be—I mean—“ Michel roared with laughter at the poor man. “I’ll just…” He sealed his lips shut and turned towards the stage once again with cheeks as red as Y/N’s gown.

Michael stared at him for a few more seconds before sighing with content and turning his eyes to his girlfriend on stage.

The backing vocalists answered every phrase behind her like a mischievous Greek chorus.

“Woo-hoo…” She wandered slowly across the stage. Shielding her eyes dramatically as though searching the audience. “What is taking him so long…” She scanned the balcony, the orchestra and the celebrity tables. “…to find me?” She pointed at herself.

By the second verse the audience had completely surrendered to her.

“I’m doing lonely acrobatics…”

She dramatically reached behind herself pretending to unzip the back of the gown.

Then threw one hand dramatically into the air. “This where your wife is!”

Without missing a beat she pointed directly toward the front row. Toward Michael.

Every head in the theater turned.

Michael slowly leaned back in his chair.

He couldn’t stop smiling.

When the bridge of the song came through entire room somehow got louder.

“I would like a ring…” She lifted her left hand beneath the spotlight. Completely bare, no ring in sight.

She admired the nonexistent engagement ring as though it were worth millions. Turning her wrist elegantly, smiling proudly at absolutely nothing. “I would like a diamond ring…”

She extended the imaginary diamond toward the audience.

“I would like a biiiiig…” Her hands spread dramatically apart. “…and shiny diamond…” She suddenly gasped and shielded her eyes.

“Oh!”She stumbled backward theatrically. “It’s blinding.” She said, a little comment in between the verses.

Then the choreography began.

All four women lifted their left hands simultaneously.

Waving their empty ring fingers around the theater, turning their wrists and admiring invisible diamonds from every angle.

One backing vocalist pretended to faint over Y/N’s imaginary engagement ring.

Another applauded.

The third dramatically shielded her own eyes from the ‘sparkle.’

The theater roared.

Michael had both hands over his mouth now, shoulders shaking with laughter. He wasn’t even trying to be discreet about it.

Y/N looked directly at him and grinned wider.

She was loving every second of this.

The music softened, brass disappearing and drums fading away, until only the piano remained.

Y/N glanced toward the ceiling.

Then slowly lifted one finger upward. “…Grandma?” She nodded to herself, pointing upwards once again. “Oh, there she is.” She smiled with satisfaction.

Then, through the speakers, a female elderly voice echoed through the speakers.

“Your husband is coming.”

The audience yelled at the iconic line.

Michael looked at the producer in disbelief, his cheeks starting to hurt from smiling and blushing. “She even got grams involved?” He couldn’t believe it!

The producer nodded once like it was obvious.

“Oh, yeah, the whole family’s is out to get you.” He said bluntly. Michael laughed loudly once again.

Then, Y/N clutched her chest dramatically.

She laughed into the microphone at herself before stepping away from it completely.

And instead of returning to center stage she wondered towards the very edge of it.

Toward the front row.

Toward Michael.

Every camera followed.

Every screen in the theater showed only them now.

She stopped directly in front of him.

Only a few feet separated them.

Michael looked up at her with the expression of a man realizing he was absolutely not surviving this performance.

Then—to everyone’s surprise—Y/N gracefully lowered herself onto the edge of the stage, onto her stomach and resting on her elbows. Her chin settled into her hands. High heeled feet kicked lazily behind her in the air. Completely girlish. Completely shameless. Like she was lying on her bedroom floor gossiping with her best friend instead of performing in front of Hollywood.

The crowd completely lost whatever composure they still had left.

Michael threw his head back laughing before looking back at her with the most loving and tender eyes known to mankind.

“Oh, my love…” He mumbled through smiles.

She smiled innocently at him and batted her eyelashes. Then pointed directly at him.

“Where…” She tilted her head, singing in a paused voice. “…is my husband?” She smiled so sweetly it was almost criminal.

The cameras immediately cut to Michael.

He bit his lip, a big, big smile on his face.

The audience screamed louder.

He shook his head lightly before looking around the theater innocently. Then—that teasing, teasing man—pointed towards himself. “Me?”

The audacity of this man! Y/N only raised a sharp brow in response.

The building practically shook.

People were already standing.

Cheering.

Screaming.

Whistling.

Y/N laughed so hard she had to pull the microphone away from her mouth.

She leaned forward just enough to tap the tip of Michael’s chin with one finger before gracefully pushing herself back to her feet.

She smoothed down the shimmering red gown as though she hadn’t just publicly confronted the biggest pop star on Earth just because she could.

Then she turned and walked back toward center stage with the effortless elegance of an Old Hollywood leading lady.

The band exploded back to life.

The brass returned.

The backing vocalists joined her one last time.

She held the final note effortlessly.

The lights cut.

Blackout.

Then, half a second later, the standing ovation hit.

It was deafening.

Michael stood immediately. Still laughing. Applauding louder and harder than anyone in the room.

She caught his eye from across the stage.

Blew him a kiss.

He caught it.

Pressed it dramatically against his heart.

Then mouthed “You’re unbelievable.”

She simply winked. Not sorry. Not even a little bit.

The ovation continued.

And then, something nobody noticed. Not the cameras. Not the audience. Not even Y/N.

As the applause kept going Michael quietly slipped one hand inside his tuxedo jacket.

His fingertips brushed against the small navy velvet box resting inside of his inner pocket.

He smiled and looked down at the object. Then his eyes traveled back to woman taking her final bow beneath a shower of applause.

She thought she’d just cornered him.

She thought she’d declared war.

She thought she’d just spent four minutes publicly bullying her boyfriend into proposing.

Little did she know the ring she’d spent the entire performance pretending to wear already existed.

And was less than two feet away from her.

Michael closed his hand around the little velvet box for a second longer than necessary before slipping it carefully back into his pocket.

Beside him, Y/N’s producer happened to glance down at that exact moment, his eyes catching the corner of the small box. He blinked once. Twice. Mouth opened and closed. Then looked slowly back at Michael. Actual relief crossed his face.

“Oh, thank goodness, man!” He ran a hand through his hair.

Michael didn’t say anything, just smiled and bit his bottom lip. He simply looked back toward the stage, where Y/N was taking another bow beneath the thunderous applause, still wearing that triumphant smile she wore whenever she thought she had won a battle.

The producer followed his gaze.

A slow grin spread across his face.

“Well,” he murmured. “Guess she wasn’t singing to the void after all.”

Michael laughed quietly to himself.

“No,” he admitted, unable to take his eyes off her. “She wasn’t.”

The applause kept echoing through the theater.

Y/N waved one last time before disappearing behind the curtain, completely unaware of Michael’s plans.

Michael smiled to himself. ‘Okay,’ he thought. ‘I think I’ve made my future wife wait long enough.’

“She is never going to let you live this performance down, you know that, right?” the producer asked rhetorically.

Michael’s smile only grew. “Oh, I know.” He patted the pocket of his jacket almost absentmindedly.

“I can’t wait.”

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭ .

Taglist:

The producer's voice came from off-screen: "Just introduce yourself for us."

She exhaled, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Alright, alright, you've got me. Happy now?"

The accent hit immediately—thick, Northern, unmistakably Yorkshire.

She laughed softly, relaxing slightly. "I'm Y/N, been with Joe since LSU. That's about it, really."

"How long have you been together?"

"Uh..." She tilted her head, calculating. "Since 2018? So, what, seven years now? Bloody hell, that's gone quick."

"And you're engaged?"

She held up her left hand, a simple ring catching the light. "Yeah, finally made an honest woman of me, didn't he?" She grinned, then dropped her hand back to her lap.

The camera held on her for a beat—her easy smile, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the accent that seemed to color every word.

The scene transitioned to Joe in the same interview setup, relaxed, familiar with cameras after years of press conferences.

"Tell us about Y/N," the producer prompted.

His expression softened immediately—subtle, but there. "She's... she's great. She's a coastal ecologist with a PhD and works in wetland restoration. She's based mostly in Louisiana still, doing field work, so she travels back and forth."

"That must be difficult."

"It is," Joe admitted. "But her work matters. She's been doing this since before I met her. I'm not going to ask her to give that up." He paused with a small smile. "She's really good at what she does. Like, really good. Published, presenting at conferences—she's the smart one."

* * *

The documentary shifted to their origin story, weaving both of their perspectives together.

"So how did you two meet?" the producer asked Y/N.

Her face lit up—half embarrassed, half amused. "Oh bloody hell, this is proper embarrassing. Right, so—it was at a party, beer pong tournament, dead sophisticated like—" she said it sarcastically, grinning, "—and I needed a partner. I just clocked him across the room, thought 'he's a big lad, he'll do,' and told him he was playing with me."

"She didn't ask," Joe said in his own interview, smirking slightly. "She pointed at me and said, 'You—you're with me.' Just... decided."

Y/N continued, her hands moving animatedly as she talked. "I mean, he looked like he could throw, didn't he? Tall, athletic—I wasn't being picky, I just wanted to win. And we were mint! Absolutely battered everyone. Undefeated."

Her expression shifted to pure mortification. "And then—oh god—I got a bit carried away with the celebrations. I'd had a few drinks by that point, and I just... launched myself at him. Full-on jumped on the lad like he'd just scored the winning goal or something."

Joe's amusement was obvious as he recounted his side. "She tackled me. Full koala hug. Just wrapped around me. I'm thinking, 'Who IS this girl?'"

Y/N covered her face with her hands, laughing. "The absolutely mortifying bit—and Joe takes the piss out of me for this constantly—I hadn't got a clue who he was. Not a scooby." She shook her head, grinning through the embarrassment. "So we're chatting after, yeah? And I ask what he does. He says he plays football for LSU, and I'm like, 'Oh, sound.' Then he says he's the quarterback."

She paused for effect, cringing. "And I said—I actually said this—' Is that good then? Sorry, I don't really follow American football."

Joe was grinning in his interview. "I thought she was messing with me. Like, no way someone doesn't know. But she really didn't."

"His mates found us later," Y/N continued, "and one of them goes, 'Burrow, we're heading out,' and that's when it clicked. I was like—" Her eyes widened, reenacting the moment. "—' wait, Burrow? THE Burrow? Joe Burrow?" She laughed, properly embarrassed now. "One of his teammates looked at me like I was mental. Said something like 'you serious right now?' And I just stood there like a right idiot."

She shook her head. "As soon as I got home, I googled him. Absolutely bricking it, I was. Texted my lab partner like 'I've only gone and got off with the most famous person at LSU. What do I do now?" Another shake of her head. "She told me not to fuck it up. So obviously I panicked for about three days, didn't text him back, figured he'd forget about me anyway."

"I texted her that night," Joe said. "She didn't respond till three days later."

"In my defense, I was playing it cool!" Y/N protested. "Didn't want to seem too keen, did I? Also, I was mortified. Couldn't believe I'd asked if quarterback was a good position. That's like... asking if the captain does anything important."

The camera lingered on her laugh — genuine and unfiltered — before the scene shifted dramatically.

* * *

The controlled environment of the interview room gave way to the wild expanse of Louisiana marshland. Y/N stood in chest waders, her hair pulled back in a practical bun, a clipboard in one hand and a sample container in the other. The golden afternoon light caught the water around her, making the whole scene look almost painterly—except for the very real mud splattered up her arms and the scientific equipment scattered around her workstation.

She was completely in her element.

"So what we're measuring here is the salinity levels and sediment composition," she explained to the camera, gesturing with the sample container. "The saltwater intrusion is pushing further inland every year, which kills the freshwater marsh vegetation, which then destabilizes the soil, which then..." She made a hand gesture of washing away. "...washes away. It's a proper mess."

She crouched down, carefully taking a sample, her movements practiced and efficient. When she stood back up, she looked out over the marsh, her expression shifting to something more serious.

"People don't realize how fast Louisiana's disappearing. Like, we're losing a football field of land every 100 minutes. That's mental." The camera pulled back, showing the vast expanse of marsh around her, the precarious beauty of it. "This whole area? Might not be here in 50 years if we don't sort it." She went back to her samples, focused. "But that's why I'm here, innit? Someone's got to give a shit."

The documentary then showed the contrast of their lives—Joe in a hallway at the Bengals facility between meetings, pulling out his phone. The camera captured the call from slightly behind him as it rang twice.

"Hiya, love. You alright?" Her voice came through, Yorkshire accent thick even through the phone speaker.

"Yeah, just on a break. Where are you?"

The camera shifted to show Joe's phone screen as Y/N flipped it to show her surroundings—marsh, equipment, and an endless Louisiana sky. "Where do you think? Out in the marsh. Cocodrie site." The camera flipped back to her face—sweaty, hair escaping her bun, completely focused. "It's absolutely boiling today. I'm dying."

Joe's mouth quirked up slightly. "You look it."

"Oi, cheeky." But she was smiling. "You're not exactly looking fresh yourself. How's it going? You look knackered."

"Long day. Film study, then practice, now more meetings."

"Sounds riveting." She was still doing something with her hands off-camera, multitasking while talking. "Have you eaten?"

"Not yet. Will in a bit."

She gave the camera a look—that universal girlfriend expression of mild exasperation. "Joseph."

"I will. What about you?"

"Had a sandwich earlier. I'm good." She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "How much longer you got today?"

"Few more hours. You?"

"I've got at least three more sample sites to hit, so... probably til sundown?" She adjusted her phone, and the background showed more of her scientific setup. "It's proper beautiful out here though. Saw a gator earlier."

Joe's expression shifted slightly—concern, but controlled. "How close?"

"Close enough." She grinned at the camera. "Don't worry, I'm not being thick about it. Gave him plenty of space." A pause. "Anyway, I'll let you go. Just wanted to see your face."

"Yeah. Miss you." It was said matter-of-factly, but the weight of it was obvious.

Her expression softened. "Miss you too, love. I'll be back Friday night, yeah?"

"Your flight gets in at 8?"

"Half 8, yeah. Don't worry about picking me up, I'll get an Uber—"

"I'll be there."

A small smile. "Alright then." Pause. "Right, I've got to crack on. These samples won't take themselves."

"Be careful."

"Always am. Love you. Go eat something."

"Love you too."

The call ended. Joe sat there for a second, staring at his phone, a small smile on his face, before he stood and headed back to meetings. The contrast was stark—him in the sterile, controlled environment of an NFL facility, her alone in the wild, both completely dedicated to their work, both making space for each other despite the distance.

* * *

Game day at Paycor Stadium. Robin Burrow leaned forward in her seat, animated, hands moving as she talked. Jim sat beside her, quieter, eyes locked on the field.

And there, standing near the glass with a beer in hand, was Y/N.

She was dressed up—nice jeans, a Bengals-colored top, hair down—but she looked slightly uncomfortable with the attention, with being filmed. She kept her focus on the field, tracking Joe's movements with the intensity of someone who understood the game despite her initial ignorance seven years ago.

A play developed. A questionable call.

"Oh for FUCK'S sake!" Y/N's voice cut through the ambient noise. "That's a penalty! How is that not a penalty?!"

Robin laughed behind her, exchanging a look with Jim that clearly said here we go.

Y/N took a swig of beer, shaking her head. "Absolute joke, that is."

Another play. Joe made a beautiful throw.

"YES! That's it, love! Fucking brilliant!" She turned around to Robin and Jim, animated. "Did you see that?! Perfect placement!"

Jim, grinning: "We saw."

The game continued, and so did Y/N's commentary. Another bad call against the Bengals, this one egregious.

"OH YOU'RE FUCKING KIDDING ME! That's the worst call I've ever seen!" She gestured wildly at the field. "He's got two hands on him! That's holding! How are you missing that?!"

Robin, laughing: "Y/N—"

"Robin, I love you, but if you tell me to calm down right now—"

"I wasn't going to! I agree with you!"

Jim, his voice dry: "That was a bad call."

Y/N, vindicated: "THANK you!"

The game built to crucial moments, Y/N's investment growing with each play. "Oh piss OFF! You're having a laugh!" She ran her hand through her hair, stressed. "I swear to God, if we lose because of this absolute shambles of officiating—"

She caught herself, turned to Robin. "Sorry for swearing."

Robin waved her off. "Honey, I've said worse."

Y/N, delighted: "I love you, Robin."

When the game reached its most tense moment, Y/N stood frozen, beer clutched in both hands, barely breathing. "Come on, come on, come on..."

Joe completed a crucial pass.

"YES! THAT'S MY BOY!" She whipped around to Jim and Robin, both hands up. "That's your son! That's your son right there!"

Jim, proud but amused: "We know."

Another bad call had her exploding again. "For FUCK—" She caught herself, turned to Robin. "Sorry—"

Robin: "Don't apologize, that was bullshit."

Y/N, absolutely delighted: "I love you, Robin."

The camera caught Robin laughing, shaking her head fondly. She leaned toward the camera, stage-whispering: "Every game. Without fail."

Jim added, his tone dry but affectionate: "She's been like this since LSU."

Y/N, not turning around: "I can hear you!"

Robin: "We know!"

During a timeout, Y/N finally sat down, taking a long drink of her beer. The camera caught her glancing at the Netflix crew, as if suddenly remembering they were there. She addressed the camera directly: "This is what I'm like. Every single game. Joe told me I'm not allowed in the family group chat during away games anymore because I get too wound up."

Robin, laughing in the background: "She sent 47 messages during one quarter."

Y/N: "It was a LOT of bad calls!"

Jim: "She wasn't wrong, though."

Y/N pointed at Jim, vindicated: "See? Jim gets it."

* * *

Late at night in their Cincinnati home. Modern, clean lines, but lived-in: research papers scattered across the coffee table, a University of Hull mug in the kitchen, her boots by the door caked in dried mud.

Joe came through the door after a loss, dropping his bag. His jaw was tight, movements controlled. Y/N was on the couch with her laptop, working. She looked up immediately, reading him in a glance.

"Alright?"

He nodded, headed straight to the bedroom without a word. She closed her laptop, waited. He came back in sweats and a t-shirt, moved to the couch. Sat next to her, but not quite touching. Needing space.

She didn't move closer, didn't push. Just went back to her laptop, giving him room to breathe. They sat in silence for several minutes. He pulled out his phone, scrolling—probably film, probably Twitter, definitely things he shouldn't be looking at right now.

She glanced over. "You on X?"

"No."

"Joseph."

He locked his phone, tossed it aside with more force than necessary. More silence. She kept working, let him sit with it.

After maybe twenty minutes, he broke: "That interception in the third—"

"Not doing this tonight," she said, not looking up.

"—the safety was sitting right there—"

She closed her laptop, turned to look at him. "Joe. Stop." He was quiet, jaw working. "You'll watch the film tomorrow with Zac. You'll see what you missed. You'll adjust." Matter-of-fact, not coddling. "But sitting here right now, replaying it in your head? That's not helping anyone."

He knew she was right. He hated that she was right. "I should've seen him."

She sighed. "Yeah, maybe. But you didn't. And now it's done."

She took a second, then shifted, opening her arms slightly. An invitation, not a demand. He moved immediately—reached for her, pulled her against him so her back was to his chest. His arms wrapped around her, solid and tight, his chin resting on top of her head.

They sat like that, the TV off, the room quiet except for the sound of their breathing. She didn't ask if he was okay. Didn't try to talk about the game. Just: "What are we watching?"

His voice was quiet against her hair. "Don't care."

"Helpful."

She picked up the remote, scrolled through options without really looking. Put on something they'd seen before, something that didn't require thinking. They settled in. His breathing was still tight, controlled. She could feel the tension in him, the way he was holding himself together through sheer force of will.

After a while, she said casually, "Your mum texted." A small noise acknowledging he heard. "Said you played well."

"She has to say that."

"Robin doesn't lie to make you feel better, and you know it." She felt him huff—almost a laugh. "She said—and I quote— 'that third down conversion in the fourth was perfect placement. Tell him I said so.'" A beat. His grip tightened slightly. "She also said the refs were shit, but I think we all knew that."

This time, he did laugh—small, but real. She felt it in his chest against her back. She didn't push further. Just settled more firmly against him, solid and present.

They watched in silence. After maybe twenty minutes, she felt him relax incrementally. His breathing evened out. One hand moved from her waist to absently play with her fingers. Neither of them spoke.

At some point, she said quietly: "You good, pet?"

"Yeah." It wasn't entirely true, but it was better. "Okay."

She brought his hand to her lips, kissed his knuckles once. Then, just held it. They stayed like that through the rest of the film. Eventually, his voice came low: "Thanks, baby."

"For what?"

"Just... being here."

"Where else would I be?"

It wasn't a question that needed answering. His arms tightened around her briefly. That was all that needed to be said. The camera lingered on them for a moment—wrapped around each other, the quiet intimacy of a relationship built over seven years, the kind of comfort that didn't need words—before fading to black.

* * *

By the time the final episode of the season dropped, the internet had reached a fever pitch. Y/N had become the unexpected star of QuarterbackSeason 2—not because she was trying to be, but because she was so unapologetically herself.

The documentary gave viewers glimpses into a relationship hidden for seven years: the beer pong origin story, her work in the Louisiana marshes, her passionate (and profane) game-day reactions, and the quiet moments of care after a loss. Every episode revealed another layer, another reason to love her.

And the internet did love her.

* * *

Social Media Explosion

X 

@NetflixQueue WAIT. Joe Burrow's fiancée is BRITISH?! And has been with him since LSU?? #Quarterback

@BengalsNation HOLD ON. HOLD ON. Nobody told me Joe's been with a Yorkshire woman this whole time??? Where has she BEEN

@SportsCenter Joe Burrow's fiancée steals the show in Quarterback Season 2 premiere with her Yorkshire accent and the story of how they met 👀 #Quarterback

@NFLMemes "Is that good then?" - Joe Burrow's fiancée when she found out he was the quarterback.

ICONIC. LEGENDARY. UNMATCHED.

X Reactions

@BurrowToChase "not a scooby" I'M FUCKING CRYING 😭😭😭 she really had no idea who he was

@YorkshireLass As a Yorkshire woman living in the US, seeing Y/N represent us is EVERYTHING. She said "not a scooby" and "bricking it" and I FELT SEEN 🙌

@BengalsWAG wait she's a SCIENTIST?? With a PhD?? And she's been with Joe since 2018?? How did we not know about her???

@PopCultureTea The way she tells the beer pong story with that accent... I'm obsessed. "Proper embarrassing" GIRL YOU'RE ADORABLE

@NFLRumors Joe Burrow kept his relationship completely private for 7 YEARS. That's actually incredibly impressive in this day and age.

@FootballWifeLife Not me watching a football documentary for the girlfriend content but HERE WE ARE

@TheBengalsBlog She's a coastal ecologist who works in Louisiana and splits time with Cincinnati. She has her own whole career. The more you learn about her the more interesting she gets.

@BritishInUSA The Americans are about to discover Yorkshire slang and I'm HERE for the chaos that's about to unfold

@QuarterbackNetflix "Is that good then?" is going to live rent-free in my head forever

@GameDayReactions That whole game day sequence with Robin backing her up when she's cussing out refs??? CINEMA. "I've said worse" - Robin Burrow is a LEGEND

@BengalsFanPage "47 messages in one quarter" I'M SCREAMING she really got banned from the family group chat 😭

@NFLMoments The contrast between her in the marsh doing research and her at games losing her mind at refs is SENDING ME

@SportsWives "Where else would I be?" after the loss... I'M NOT CRYING YOU'RE CRYING

* * *

TikTok

@NFLWives (3.2M views) Video: Clips of Y/N telling the beer pong story, her laughing, the accent

Text overlay: "JOE BURROW'S FIANCÉE DIDN'T KNOW WHO HE WAS 😭"

Bullet points appearing:

Caption: "I'm in love with her actually"

Top Comments: "NOT A SCOOBY I'M SCREAMING" "the way she's just casually brilliant and funny and gorgeous" "Joe Burrow really said 'I want the one who doesn't care about football' and I respect it" "her ACCENT. I could listen to her talk for HOURS" "'absolutely bricking it' is my new favorite phrase"

@SportsGossip (1.8M views) Side by side video

Left: Y/N saying "I study coastal ecology" Right: Her in waders in a marsh

Text: "She studies COASTAL ECOLOGY and spends half her time in LOUISIANA doing FIELD WORK"

"She's not a regular WAG, she's a COOL WAG"

Top Comments: "A PhD AND she's funny?? Joe won the lottery" "Finally a WAG who isn't trying to be an influencer" "She really said 'I have my own career thanks' and I love that for her" "someone's got to give a shit" about Louisiana's coast - her MIND

@AccentCoach (892K views) Video breaking down her accent

"Okay so for my Americans confused by Joe Burrow's fiancée:

She's from YORKSHIRE - that's Northern England 'Not a scooby' = no idea (Scooby Doo = clue, rhyming slang) 'Bricking it' = very nervous 'Mint' = great/perfect 'Sound' = good/okay 'Proper' = very/really 'Taking the piss' = making fun of/teasing You're welcome 😂"

Top Comments: "I NEED a full Yorkshire dictionary now" "The way she talks is so attractive I can't explain it" "Americans discovering British slang in real time is hilarious"

@QuarterbackEdits (4.1M views) Romantic edit: clips of Y/N talking about Joe, Joe talking about her, set to emotional music

Text overlay appearing throughout: "Seven years" "Private relationship" "She's the smart one" "He's been hiding her this whole time" "THEY'RE ENGAGED"

Top Comments: "I'm crying they're so in love" "The way he said 'she's the smart one' 😭" "Joe really kept this woman a secret for SEVEN YEARS. The restraint." "She seems so genuine I love her already"

@GameDayCompilation (5.7M views) 10-minute compilation of Y/N at the game

"Y/N cussing out refs for 10 minutes straight ft. Robin Burrow being iconic"

Clips of:

Top Comments: "Robin backing her up is EVERYTHING" "She's all of us watching our team" "'I love you Robin' I'M SOBBING" "Jim's quiet 'she wasn't wrong though' SENT ME" "I need her energy at every Bengals game"

@RelationshipGoals (6.2M views) Compilation of Joe and Y/N moments

Text: "Find someone who loves you like Joe loves Y/N"

Top Comments: "The way he immediately said 'I'll be there' 😭" "'Where else would I be?' IM NOT OKAY" "7 years and they're still like this" "He kept her private to protect this and I respect it so much"

@BritishReacts (2.1M views) British person reacting to Americans trying Yorkshire accents

"Please... I'm BEGGING... stop trying to do Yorkshire accents"

Shows various American attempts

"This is painful. This is physically painful."

Top Comments: "As a Yorkshire person, thank you for your service." "The Americans are trying their best leave them alone 😭" "I'm American and even I know these are terrible"

* * *

Reddit: r/nfl

u/BengalsFan2025 Joe Burrow's fiancée in Quarterback S2 - Thoughts?

Posted 2 hours ago

Just finished the whole season. Did NOT expect Joe's fiancée to be British?? Or a scientist?? The beer pong story is hilarious but also the game day footage and the scene after the loss... damn.

Top Comments:

u/DefendJoe (4.3k upvotes, 2 hours ago) She's actually really impressive. PhD in coastal ecology, works on Louisiana wetland restoration. Published researcher. And she's funny as hell. "Is that good then?" is going to live rent free in my head forever.

└ u/LSUalum (2.1k upvotes) I was at LSU 2018-2019 and HAD NO IDEA Joe was dating anyone. He kept this LOCKED DOWN. Respect.

u/NFLAnalysis (2.9k upvotes, 2 hours ago) The most shocking thing is that Joe kept this relationship completely private for SEVEN YEARS. In the social media age? That's almost impossible. She doesn't even have a public Instagram.

└ u/PrivacyMatters (1.5k upvotes) And good for them honestly. Look what happened when she agreed to be in the doc - instant chaos. They were smart to keep it private.

u/BengalsInsider (1.8k upvotes, 1 hour ago) My favorite part is that she's clearly not interested in being famous. She has her own career and life. She agreed to be in the doc to support Joe, not to become an influencer. That's refreshing.

u/AccentAppreciation (3.4k upvotes, 2 hours ago) As a British person in the US, I'm LOVING seeing proper Yorkshire representation. She's not code-switching or playing down her accent. Just fully herself. The Americans in the comments trying to figure out "not a scooby" is sending me 😂

└ u/YorkshireBorn (891 upvotes) FINALLY someone representing the North properly! None of this posh London stuff. Proper Yorkshire lass.

u/RelationshipGoals (2.7k upvotes, 1 hour ago) The way Joe's whole face softened when he talked about her... "She's the smart one." Man is IN LOVE.

u/GameDayAnalysis (5.1k upvotes, 1 hour ago) Can we talk about the game day footage? Her absolutely losing it at the refs while Robin and Jim just laugh? "I've said worse" - Robin is a LEGEND. And Jim's deadpan "she wasn't wrong though" killed me.

└ u/BurrowFamily (2.8k upvotes) The Burrows clearly love her. She's family. The way she turned around and celebrated with them after that completion? "That's your son!" I'm emotional.

u/AfterTheLoss (4.6k upvotes, 47 minutes ago) That scene after the loss though. The way she just... knew what he needed. Didn't try to fix it, didn't make him talk about it. Just pulled him close and put on a movie. "Where else would I be?"

That's seven years of knowing someone. That's real.

└ u/LongTermRelationship (3.2k upvotes) And the hand kiss. Such a small gesture but it said everything.

* * *

Reddit: r/BritishProblems

u/YorkshireTea American Netflix doc features Yorkshire woman, everyone's doing terrible impressions

Posted 1 hour ago

Just watched Quarterback on Netflix. Joe Burrow's fiancée is from Yorkshire. The Americans are OBSESSED and now TikTok is full of people attempting our accent. It's painful to watch.

Top Comments:

u/NorthernLass (5.2k upvotes, 1 hour ago) I JUST WATCHED THIS. She said "not a scooby" and I nearly fell off my chair. Proper Yorkshire lass representing us well, to be fair. She didn't tone it down at all.

└ u/ProudYorkshire (2.3k upvotes) The way she said "bricking it" and "proper embarrassing" - that's HOME. I'm emotional.

u/LeedsUnited (3.7k upvotes, 59 minutes ago) "Is that good then?" when asking if QUARTERBACK is a good position. She's an absolute legend. The Americans are losing their minds over her.

u/ManChesterLad (2.1k upvotes, 48 minutes ago) The Americans in the comments trying to do Yorkshire accents is making me cringe so hard my teeth hurt. PLEASE STOP.

└ u/YorkshireTea (1.8k upvotes) I've already seen three TikToks of Americans saying "proper mental innit" and I want to die

u/BritAbroad (4.1k upvotes, 52 minutes ago) She's a COASTAL ECOLOGIST with a PhD. Working on Louisiana wetland restoration. And Americans are surprised that she has her own career? The bar is in hell.

u/RepTheNorth (3.9k upvotes, 44 minutes ago) Her cussing out the refs while drinking a beer and Robin Burrow saying "I've said worse" is the most Northern thing I've ever seen on American television. We're being represented well, lads.

* * *

Reddit: r/Quarterback (new subreddit, just created)

u/ModTeam MEGATHREAD: Season 2 - Y/N Discussion

This is the official megathread for discussion about Joe Burrow's fiancée. All other posts will be removed and redirected here.

Top Comments:

u/NewFan (8.9k upvotes, 2 hours ago) I came for football content. I stayed for the Yorkshire scientist who had no idea who Joe Burrow was. This is the best thing Netflix has ever done.

u/ProtectHer (6.7k upvotes, 1 hour ago) Can we all agree to be normal about her? She clearly values her privacy and agreed to this to support Joe. Let's not be weird and invasive. She seems lovely.

└ u/AgreeCompletely (4.2k upvotes) THIS. She has a private Instagram for a reason. Don't go digging, don't harass her at work, just appreciate what we got in the doc.

u/BeerPongLegend (5.4k upvotes, 1 hour ago) The beer pong origin story is TOP TIER. She really grabbed a random tall guy, won the tournament, jumped on him, and had NO IDEA he was the star quarterback. That's rom-com level meet-cute.

u/ScienceNerd (7.1k upvotes, 2 hours ago) For everyone asking what she does: She studies coastal wetland ecology, specifically how saltwater intrusion and sediment loss are destroying Louisiana's coastline. It's actually really important work. Louisiana is losing land at an alarming rate and her research helps understand how to slow/stop it.

└ u/LSULocal (3.1k upvotes) Louisiana native here. Can confirm her work is crucial. Our coast is disappearing and most people don't even realize it. Respect to her for dedicating her career to it.

u/MarshFootage (9.2k upvotes, 3 hours ago) The juxtaposition of her in full waders in a Louisiana marsh taking samples and then her at a Bengals game in makeup cussing out refs is CINEMA.

└ u/DualLife (5.4k upvotes) And Joe in the sterile NFL facility vs her alone in the wild. The documentary did such a good job showing they have completely separate careers but make it work.

* * *

Entertainment Sites

E! News: Joe Burrow's Fiancée Steals the Show in 'Quarterback' Season 2 - Everything We Know About the British Scientist

People: Who Is Y/N? 5 Things to Know About Joe Burrow's Very Private Fiancée

Cosmopolitan: The Internet Is Obsessed With Joe Burrow's Yorkshire Fiancée and Honestly, Same

BuzzFeed: 19 Tweets About Joe Burrow's Fiancée That Prove She's Already Everyone's Favorite Person

The Athletic: Inside Joe Burrow's Seven-Year Relationship: How the Bengals QB Kept His Personal Life Private

Barstool Sports: Joey B's Girl is a British Scientist Who Didn't Know Who He Was and the Internet is LOSING IT

Deadspin: Joe Burrow's Fiancée Cursing Out Refs Is the Best Thing in Quarterback Season 2

Sports Illustrated: Meet Y/N: The Coastal Ecologist Who Stole America's Heart (and Joe Burrow's)

Rolling Stone: How a Yorkshire Scientist Became the Unexpected Star of Netflix's Quarterback

Vanity Fair: Inside the Private World of Joe Burrow and His British Fiancée

* * *

Back in Louisiana, Y/N was waist-deep in marsh water, completely unaware that her phone—safely tucked in a waterproof case back at her truck—was exploding with notifications. She had three more sample sites to get through before sundown. The internet would have to wait.

* * *

Late evening, when she finally made it back to the rental near the research station—barely more than a bedroom and a kitchen, but it worked. She'd been out since dawn. Waders covered in mud, dead on her feet. Boots kicked off by the door, beer from the fridge, and then—finally—she checked her phone.

It immediately started buzzing. And buzzing. And buzzing.

"What the fuck?"

Notifications flooded in, a seemingly endless stream. Instagram follow requests in the thousands. Twitter mentions. Text messages from people she hadn't spoken to in years. Her lab partner had sent approximately fifteen messages, each more caps-lock than the last. The most recent one just said: "HAVE YOU SEEN X??"

Y/N opened X, her brow furrowing. She searched her own name. The results were... extensive. Pages and pages of tweets. Videos of her. Clips from the documentary. "Is that good then?" was everywhere—screenshots, memes, people attempting (poorly) to mimic her accent. There were compilation videos. Edits set to music. Entire threads analyzing her relationship with Joe.

"Oh bloody hell," she muttered, scrolling. "What've I done?"

She clicked on one video: "Y/N being an absolute legend for 10 minutes straight." It had millions of views. Millions. She watched, mortified, as it compiled her cussing at refs, telling the beer pong story, talking about her work, and various moments she'd barely remembered happening.

"Jesus Christ."

She kept scrolling, unable to stop. It was like watching a car crash. "Millions?! What the—"

Her phone rang. Joe. She answered immediately. "Have you SEEN this?! Have you seen what's happened?!"

"Seen what?" He was clearly amused, the bastard.

"Don't play daft with me, Burrow! Twitter! TikTok! I'm bloody everywhere! There's edits! People are doing impressions of my accent like I'm some sort of—I don't even know what!"

"Yeah, I saw." He was definitely laughing.

"You SAW?! And you didn't think to give me a heads up?!"

"I texted you."

"I've been in the field! Haven't had proper service for days, have I?!" She was pacing now, phone in one hand, scrolling with the other. "There's—Joe, there's people analyzing how we met. Someone's made a whole timeline of our relationship. There's a—" She scrolled more, eyes widening. "—there's a fucking REDDIT thread about whether I'm good for you or not!"

"What's the consensus?"

"That's not the POINT!" But she checked anyway. "...they reckon I am, apparently. Which is—that's still not the point!"

"Baby, breathe."

"Don't 'baby' me right now, I'm having a proper crisis!" But she was also sort of laughing despite herself. "How are you so calm about this? You're not even bothered!"

"Because it's not a bad thing."

"Joe, I'm a MEME. Multiple memes! 'Is that good then?' is on every single platform! People are putting it on t-shirts! T-SHIRTS!"

"It's a good meme."

"Oh my god, you're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Little bit."

"You're a nightmare, you are." She scrolled more, taking a long pull from her beer. "They've made compilation videos! There's one that's just me swearing at refs for eight minutes! Eight minutes! How did they even—" She paused. "Oh god, Robin's in this one. Your mum's in the comments saying she agrees with me!"

Joe laughed. "Yeah, she texted me about that."

"And you STILL didn't warn me?!"

"I thought it was funny."

"I'm going to kill you when I get home."

"No, you're not."

"I might! You don't know!" She was still scrolling, unable to stop. "There's people wanting me to make a public Instagram now. A PUBLIC one! What am I meant to post? Pictures of marsh mud?!"

"You don't have to do anything."

"I know I don't have to, but—" She scrolled more, and her expression softened slightly. "Oh, this one's actually quite sweet." She read a thread about how refreshing it was to see a WAG with her own career who wasn't trying to be famous. "Still weird that they're calling me a WAG though. What even is that? Sounds like something you'd call a dog."

"Wives and girlfriends."

"I know what it stands for, I'm just saying it's a daft name, innit?"

More scrolling. Then her face went red. "Oh NO. Oh no no no."

"What?"

"People are asking about our sex life, Joe! Our SEX LIFE! There's whole threads speculating about—I can't even—why would anyone—"

"Don't read those."

"Too late! I've seen things! People have THEORIES! About us! About what we—" She made a disgusted noise. "That's it, I'm deleting everything. Burning my phone. Moving to a remote island."

"You're not doing any of that."

"You don't know that! I might! Could live in a marsh forever, couldn't I? No WiFi, no Twitter, no people making edits of me to—" She paused, staring at her phone. "—is that a TAYLOR SWIFT song?!"

"Which one?"

"You're not helping!" But she was laughing now despite herself, collapsing onto her bed. "This is absolutely mad. Completely mental. I study coastal erosion! Why do people care?!"

"Because you're you."

She softened slightly. "That's not fair, you can't be sweet when I'm trying to be wound up."

"Come home and be wound up here."

"I've got three more days of sampling!"

"So be wound up here in three days."

She sighed. "I hate that you're being reasonable right now." Beat. "I'm still going to kill you for not warning me properly."

"I'll take my chances."

"Right. I'm going back to ignoring my phone now."

"No, you're not."

"...no, I'm not. I'm absolutely going to keep scrolling like a masochist, aren't I?"

"Probably."

"This is your fault, you know."

"How is this my fault?"

"You're the one who asked me to be in the documentary!"

"You said yes."

"Well, I didn't know I'd become a bloody meme, did I?!" She was smiling despite herself. "Right. I've got to go. I'm going to spiral in private now."

"Love you."

"Yeah, yeah, love you too, even though you've ruined my life."

"So dramatic."

"I'm ALLOWED to be dramatic! I'm VIRAL!"

She hung up. Immediately went back to scrolling. "Is that good then?!" she muttered to herself. "Of course, that's the one that stuck. Brilliant. Just brilliant." She kept scrolling anyway, unable to look away from the bizarre reality that her life had become in the span of a few weeks.

* * *

Three days later, Y/N flew back to Cincinnati. Joe picked her up from the airport as promised, pulling her into a hug the moment he saw her.

"How bad is it?" he asked, taking her bag.

"Bad," she confirmed. "My Instagram requests are in the tens of thousands. I've had three news outlets try to contact me through the university. Someone found my research papers and posted them on TikTok."

"Your research papers?"

"My research papers! People are reading about sediment deposition rates! What is happening?!"

He was grinning as they walked to the car. "It's not funny, Joe."

"It's a little funny."

She glared at him, but there was no heat in it. They drove home in relative quiet, her scrolling through her phone intermittently, shaking her head at new developments.

"There's a fan account," she said at one point.

"A what?"

"A fan account. For me. It's called @YNUpdates and it has 50,000 followers."

Joe glanced over, trying not to laugh. "What do they post?"

"I don't know! There's nothing to post! I'm either at work or at home!"

"Maybe they'll post pictures of marshes."

"This is your fault."

"You've said that."

"I'll keep saying it."

Over the next few days, the attention didn't die down. If anything, it intensified. Every morning brought new memes, new compilations, and new threads dissecting every moment from the documentary. Y/N tried to ignore it. She had work to do—data to analyze, papers to write, grant applications to review. But it was everywhere. Her colleagues kept sending her links. Her phone wouldn't stop buzzing.

Robin texted her daily with new favorites:

Robin: Have you seen the one where they put your "that's bollocks" over bad referee calls from other games? 😂

Robin: Someone made a compilation of every time you said "proper," and it's 4 minutes long

Robin: Jim and I are in a GIF now. He's thrilled. (He's not thrilled, but he thinks it's funny)

Even Joe's teammates were in on it, constantly sending him screenshots and videos. It was overwhelming. It was invasive. And if Y/N was being honest with herself, some of it was actually quite sweet. People were genuinely interested in her work. The coastal restoration organizations she'd mentioned in passing were getting attention. Students were reaching out to ask about careers in marine ecology.

But the attention on her relationship with Joe, the speculation, the constant scrutiny—that part she could do without. She lasted a week before she made a decision.

* * *

The Bengals had just won a close game. Joe sat at a press conference podium, still in his uniform, answering the usual questions about plays, strategy, and what went right. Then a reporter shifted topics.

"Joe, different subject—your fiancée has kind of become an internet sensation after the Netflix documentary. Have you seen the reaction online?"

Joe's expression shifted slightly—not uncomfortable, just more guarded. "Uh, yeah. I've seen some of it."

"She's gotten a pretty overwhelmingly positive response. How's she handling it?"

Joe gave a small smile. "She's... she's dealing with it. It's not really her thing, the attention, but people have been respectful for the most part."

Another reporter: "A lot of people are saying she's their favorite part of the documentary. Does that surprise you?"

Joe paused, considering. "No. Not really." The room waited for him to elaborate. "She's... she's great. She's funny, she's smart, she's good at what she does. I'm glad people got to see that."

"She mentioned in the documentary that she didn't know who you were when you met. Is that really true?"

Joe relaxed slightly, a genuine smile breaking through. "Yeah, that's true. She'd been in the States for about three months and didn't follow football. Had no idea." He grinned. "Still brings it up when she wants to keep me humble."

The reporters laughed.

"There's a clip of her at a game that's gone pretty viral—her reaction to some of the officiating. Have you seen that one?"

Joe was definitely grinning now. "Yeah. That's... that's pretty standard for her, honestly. She gets invested."

"Your mom was in that clip too, backing her up."

"My mom and Y/N have that in common. Neither of them holds back." More laughter.

Then a reporter asked: "Do you think this changes anything? Her being more in the public eye now?"

Joe's expression got more serious. He leaned forward slightly. "I hope not. She's got her own career, her own life. This—" he gestured vaguely at the press conference setup, "—the football, the attention, that's my world, not hers. She shows up because she supports me, not because she's trying to be famous or build a brand or whatever." Beat. "I think that's pretty clear to anyone who watched the documentary. She's just... herself. And I hope people respect that."

"Fair enough. Back to the game—"

The questions shifted back to football, but the clip of Joe's response would be everywhere by morning.

* * *

She was sitting at the kitchen counter in Cincinnati, laptop open, coffee going cold beside her. Joe was at the facility. She'd been thinking about it for days. The attention wasn't going away. People weren't going to stop asking her to go public, to post more, to give them more access to her life.

She couldn't control what people said about her. But maybe—maybe—she could direct the attention somewhere that actually mattered.

She opened Instagram on her phone. Her private account, the one with 200 followers, is mostly friends and colleagues. She stared at it for a long moment. Then she switched it to public.

She uploaded a photo—one from last week, her in full field gear, waders and all, taking samples in the marsh. The sunset behind her painted everything gold, but you could still see the mud on her arms, the scientific equipment around her, the reality of the work.

She started typing the caption:

Since everyone's suddenly interested in what I do:

This is coastal Louisiana. We're losing it at a rate of about a football field every 100 minutes. The wetlands are disappearing due to saltwater intrusion, subsidence, and lack of sediment replenishment.

This isn't just an environmental issue—it's about communities, culture, and livelihoods. The people who've lived here for generations are watching their home disappear.

I've spent the last seven years studying this, trying to understand how we can slow it down, maybe even reverse some of the damage. It's complicated, it's frustrating, and it's bloody important.

If you're genuinely interested (and not just here because of a Netflix show), there are organizations doing real work to protect and restore the coast:

@coalitiontorestorelascoast @healthygulf @lacoastal

They need funding, volunteers, and people who give a shit.

That's it. That's the post.

Back to work.

- Y/N

She read it over three times. Then, before she could second-guess herself, she posted it. And then she closed Instagram and went back to her data analysis.

Her phone started buzzing almost immediately. Within an hour, the post had thousands of likes. Within two hours, tens of thousands. By that evening, it had over a million.

The comments were overwhelmingly positive:

"Using her platform for good, we have no choice but to stan"

"I had no idea Louisiana was disappearing this fast"

"Just donated to all three organizations"

"This is why we love her"

"'people who give a shit' TELL THEM"

News outlets picked it up. Environmental organizations shared it. The three charities she'd tagged suddenly saw donations and volunteer applications flood in.

Joe saw it when he got home from the facility. He found her in the living room, looking slightly shell-shocked as she scrolled through the response.

"You posted," he said.

"I posted."

He sat next to her, looking at her phone. "This is good."

"People are donating," she said, sounding dazed. "A lot of people. The organizations are getting so much traffic that their websites keep crashing."

He smiled, proud. "You did that."

"I just... it was going to keep being a thing anyway. Might as well make it useful."

He pulled her closer, kissing her temple. "I'm proud of you."

She leaned into him. "It's still mental. This whole thing is mental."

"Yeah."

"At least some good's coming from it."

"A lot of good."

They sat in silence for a moment. "Your mum sent me like fifteen texts in all caps," Y/N said eventually.

"Yeah, she does that."

* * *

The attention continued, but it had shifted. People were still interested in Y/N, but now they were also interested in coastal ecology, in Louisiana's environmental crisis, in the work she'd dedicated her life to. It wasn't perfect. There were still invasive comments, still people who wanted more access to her relationship with Joe. But she'd drawn a line. This was what she was willing to share. This, and nothing more.

* * *

X 

@RestoreLACoast Thanks to @YN and everyone who donated, we've raised over $2M for coastal restoration and enrolled 500+ new volunteers. The work continues. 🌊

@QuarterbackNetflix Quarterback Season 3 has been confirmed! 🏈

└ @BengalsFan Please tell me Y/N is in it again 

└ @NFLFan Honestly I'm only watching for her at this point 

└ @CoastalEcology Same but also because I care about wetlands now???

* * *

Y/N's Instagram remained public, but she posted sparingly. Photos from the field, updates on her research, occasional links to environmental organizations. Nothing about her relationship, nothing about games, nothing that invited more scrutiny than she was willing to give. Her bio simply read: "Coastal ecologist. Yorkshire. Trying to save Louisiana one sediment sample at a time."

She had over a million followers now. Most of them, surprisingly, seemed genuinely interested in the work. The fan accounts still existed. The memes still circulated. "Is that good then?" was still quoted regularly. But Y/N had made her peace with it. She'd set her boundaries, used the attention for something meaningful, and gone back to her life.

Which, as it always had been, was split between Louisiana marshes and Cincinnati, between her work and Joe's, between the private life they'd carefully built and the public moments they occasionally shared.

Some things had changed. She was recognized sometimes now, particularly in Cincinnati. People occasionally asked for photos. But mostly, things stayed the same. She still spent weeks at a time in the field. Still FaceTimed Joe from the marsh. Still showed up at games when she could and cussed out refs with Robin. Still came home to Cincinnati and curled up on the couch with Joe after bad losses, offering comfort in the quiet way they'd developed over seven years together. Still made him tea in the morning (even though he didn't really like it). Still stole his sweatshirts. Still reminded him to eat between meetings.

The fundamentals hadn't changed. They were still them. The world just knew about it now.

Late evening in Cincinnati. Y/N sat on the couch with her laptop, working on a paper. Joe next to her, tablet propped on his knee—film playing, but he wasn't really watching. Just there.

Her phone buzzed. Another notification. She'd turned most of them off by now, but some still slipped through.

She glanced at it, then showed Joe. It was a tweet from a high school student in Louisiana: "Because of @YN's post I'm applying to study marine biology. Never knew this was a career option. Thank you for showing us what's possible."

Joe looked at it, then at her. "That's pretty cool."

"Yeah," she said softly. "It is."

She set her phone down and went back to her paper. After a moment, Joe set his tablet aside and pulled her feet into his lap—their usual position. She didn't look up from her laptop, but she smiled.

"You good?" he asked, hands absently massaging her ankle.

"Yeah, love. I'm good."