The truck rumbled up the gravel drive a little after four in the afternoon, its tires crunching steadily over the loose stones as it made its way toward the house, kicking up a thin cloud of dust that hung lazily in the warm air before settling back onto the drive.

The late afternoon sun had already started to turn everything a softer shade of gold, catching on the tops of the trees and stretching long shadows across the yard, and for a moment, the only thing you could hear from inside was the low, familiar growl of the engine getting closer. You heard it before you saw it, of course.

After working around cars and trucks for most of your life, you could tell half the vehicles in the county by the sound they made coming up the road, and this one was impossible to mistake. The engine purred far too smoothly, the tires were far too quiet over the gravel, and the whole thing looked like it cost more than your dad's old squad car had ever been worth.

By the time you wandered over toward the front window, wiping your hands absently against the sides of your jeans, the truck had already rolled to a stop near the porch. You caught sight of Bill climbing out of the driver's side, big and broad-shouldered, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head as he stretched one arm over the roof of the truck and looked toward the house with that familiar grin of his.

He had the same easygoing look he always seemed to wear whenever he showed up, like he'd never had a bad day in his life and probably didn't intend on starting one now. You watched him shut the door and glance toward the passenger side before shaking your head to yourself, already knowing exactly who was sitting in there and wondering, not for the first time, how long it would take before that particular city boy came wandering through your door again.

And then the passenger door opened.

You already knew Bill, of course. He'd been coming around for as long as you could remember, long before you'd been old enough to understand what he did for a living, back when he was still just your dad's friend and the two of them were young enough to think they were invincible and stupid enough to prove it. Bill had known your family for years, long enough that nobody really thought twice when he showed up.

He was practically part of the furniture by now, turning up every few months with a bottle of bourbon tucked under one arm and some ridiculous story about something he'd gotten himself into years ago, staying for dinner if your aunt had enough food and leaving before it got too late. You'd known him since you were little, had heard him laugh at the kitchen table more times than you could count, and could usually tell he was coming before you even saw his truck because he'd honk twice as he pulled into the drive.

But the man climbing out of the passenger seat was not Bill.

You stayed by the window, watching him straighten slowly beside the truck, and for a second your brain didn't quite know what to make of him. He was lean where Bill was broad, all long legs and narrow shoulders, dressed in black despite the Tennessee heat that had you feeling warm just standing inside the house. Black jeans, a black jacket, dark shoes that looked far too clean for the gravel driveway, and sunglasses that looked expensive enough to cover a month's worth of rent if you could somehow convince the right person to buy them. He shut the passenger door carefully behind him and then stood there for a moment, looking around as though he wasn't entirely sure what he'd been brought to.

His gaze moved slowly across the property, taking in the old farmhouse, the weathered barn sitting farther back beneath the trees, the fields stretching beyond it, and finally the police cruiser parked crookedly beside the shed.

There was something almost cautious about the way he looked at everything, like he was trying to memorize a place he'd never expected to see for himself. Then he reached up and pushed his sunglasses into his hair, and the afternoon light caught his face just enough for you to finally see him properly.

You stopped breathing for half a second.

You knew that face.

Of course you knew that face.

You'd seen it on magazine covers at the grocery store, on television, on record sleeves sitting behind the counter at the diner. You'd heard his songs whether you'd meant to or not, because there wasn't a radio station in Tennessee that hadn't played them to death. You'd watched half the country lose its mind over Thriller, had seen his name printed so often that it had become almost ordinary to look at, even though the man himself certainly wasn't.

Still, there was something different about seeing him standing there in your driveway, dressed like he was trying very hard not to be recognized, with one hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket and his curls falling messily around his forehead.

Your brain seemed to take an extra second to catch up with your eyes.

Michael Jackson.

Actually standing in your yard.

You stared through the glass.

"...Well, I'll be damned."

Not a poster. Not a magazine. Not a voice coming through your car speakers while you drove the back roads with the windows down, one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel while his songs played through the crackling speakers. This was Michael Jackson, standing in your driveway like he had somehow wandered into the middle of your ordinary Tennessee life by mistake, looking at your house with an almost curious expression as though he was still trying to figure out how he'd ended up somewhere like this in the first place.

You stepped back from the window before anybody could catch you standing there and staring, though it was probably too late for that. Your heart was doing something completely stupid against your ribs, beating hard enough that you could feel it in your chest, and you pressed your palm flat against yourself as if you could physically tell it to calm down. It didn't listen. Of course it didn't. You'd spent the last few minutes reminding yourself that he was just a man, just somebody who happened to have a very famous face and a voice you'd heard more times than you could count, but that argument became considerably harder to believe when said man was standing twenty feet away in your driveway.

"Baby girl!"

Your dad's voice thundered up from downstairs before you could even collect yourself, followed by the familiar squeak of the screen door opening and the warm boom of his laughter carrying through the house and out into the yard. "Get down here, we got company."

You closed your eyes for half a second.

Baby girl.

Of all the things your dad could have called you today, he had to pick that one.

And in front of Michael Jackson, no less.

You were going to die.

Taking one slow breath, you glanced down at yourself and immediately became aware of every little thing you'd never given a second thought to before. You tugged at the hem of your shirt anyway, smoothing it down as if that might somehow make the situation less embarrassing, then caught sight of yourself in the old hallway mirror and stopped. You stared at your reflection for a second, considered doing something, then immediately decided against it.

Another burst of your dad's laughter floated up from below. You sighed, nd finally headed for the stairs.

The old wooden steps complained beneath your bare feet as you made your way down, each creak somehow sounding louder than usual in the sudden awareness that you were about to walk into a room containing a man you'd only ever seen on television. By the time you reached the bottom, you could hear Bill talking, your dad answering him, and another quieter voice mixed somewhere between them. You slowed slightly as you reached the corner, suddenly very aware of yourself again, before forcing your feet to keep moving.

When you rounded the corner into the living room, all three men were already inside, your dad standing near the couch with one hand resting against the back of it, Bill leaning comfortably against the armchair like he'd been there a hundred times before, and Michael standing a little farther away from them with his hands loosely clasped in front of him.

Then Michael's gaze drifted across the room once more, almost absentmindedly, until it landed on you.

And stayed.

Not a glance. Not a polite acknowledgment. And for a long, strange second, neither of you moved or spoke. He looked at you. He looked at all of you. Your face, your throat, your chest and the curve of your hips. His jaw shifted, and his throat moved like he was swallowing something that tasted difficult.

Then your dad's voice broke through.

"There she is. Michael, this here's my daughter."

You stepped forward and offered your hand, because that's what you did when someone came to your house. You shook their hand like a normal person who had simple manners. "Hi."

Michael looked at your hand. Then at you. Then he took it, and his palm was warm and dry and his fingers wrapped around yours and held on a half-second longer than a handshake required.

"Hey," he said, and his voice was softer than you expected. Lighter. A little breathy around the edges. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice t' meet y' too."

His gaze flickered— a spark, there and instantly gone again.

"Soooo... y' Bill's friend," you said, pulling your hand back.

"Somethin' like that."

Before either of you could say anything else, Bill reached over and clapped Michael firmly on the shoulder, the gesture so familiar and casual that it almost made you forget who was standing in front of you. He treated Michael exactly like he treated everybody else, with the same easy familiarity he'd always had with your family, as though he hadn't just brought one of the most recognizable people in the world into your parents' living room.

"This one needed a few days off the road," Bill explained, giving Michael another friendly pat on the shoulder, "and I told him your daddy's got the best property for thirty miles. Peace and quiet."

"And a damn good grill," your dad added from beside him, already grinning. "Hope you like steak, son."

Michael's smile at that, and he glanced toward your father before giving a polite nod. "Sounds perfect."

But when his eyes came back to you, they stayed there for just a fraction longer than they needed to.

You felt the heat climb your neck before you could stop it. His stare wasn't subtle. It wasn't trying to be. It dragged down the length of you again— your hips, your thighs, the way your shirt pulled a little tight across your chest— and when his eyes came back up to yours, there was something in them that made your stomach drop, hot and sudden.

He wanted you.

You'd seen that look before. On boys at the county fair, on men at the bar, in countless movies. You knew what it meant. What you didn't know was why Michael Jackson was looking at you like that — like you were something he wanted to unwrap and taste.

"So," you said, crossing your arms under your chest, which did something interesting to his expression, "y'all stayin' for dinner or what?"

His eyes flickered again.

"Wouldn't miss it," he said quietly.

Your dad was already steering Bill toward the kitchen, one hand settling around his shoulder as he launched into a detailed explanation about some new smoker he'd bought, apparently determined to give Bill the entire history of the thing before either of them had even made it through the doorway. Bill listened with the patient expression of a man who had clearly heard several versions of your dad's latest projects over the years, but just before he disappeared into the kitchen, he glanced back at Michael.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but you knew that look well enough to recognize it immediately. Bill's eyebrows lifted just slightly, his mouth twitching at one corner as if he were trying not to smile, and the message was obvious even without words: behave yourself. Michael caught it too, judging by the tiny shake of his head and the embarrassed little smile that crossed his face before Bill finally turned away. Then the kitchen doorway swallowed both men, your dad's voice immediately rising above Bill's as they started arguing about barbecue.

And just like that, you and Michael were alone.

You tilted your head. "Y' always stare at people like that?"

Michael blinked. A flush crept up the back of his neck, dark against his skin, but he didn't look away. "Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Didn't mean to be rude."

"Didn't say it was rude."

His mouth opened. Closed. You watched him fumble for a response and for some reason— maybe the nerves, maybe the way he was looking at you, maybe the sheer absurdity of Michael Jackson standing in your living room getting flustered— you laughed.

It came out warm and easy, and something in his shoulders loosened at the sound.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Nothin'." You smiled. "Y' just ain't what I expected."

"What'd you expect?"

"I dunno." You shrugged. "Bigger, I guess. More... I don't know. Shiny."

"Shiny?"

"Y' know what I mean."

His smile broke through then— real and crooked and a little shy— and it changed his whole face. "'m shiny enough for you?"

You felt your smile widen.

"I didn't say that neither." You stepped past him toward the kitchen, close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his arm. "C'mon, city boy. Daddy's gonna talk your ear off about that smoker if we don't rescue him."

He followed. You could feel him behind you, feel his eyes on your back, on the sway of your hips, on the way your jeans hugged the curve of your ass. You didn't turn around, but your cheeks went hot, and your pulse beat hard in your throat.

Dinner went like dinner always went when Bill came around—loud, slow, and full of stories you'd heard so many times that you could practically recite half of them yourself.

Your dad had the grill going out back before the sun had even started to sink, and the smell of smoke and charcoal had drifted through the open kitchen windows for nearly an hour while the three men talked over one another on the porch.

Bill had already told some story about a fishing trip from years ago, your dad had interrupted at least twice to correct the details, and by the time the steaks finally made it onto the table, both of them were arguing about whose memory was worse. You were used to it. This was what dinner looked like when Bill came around, plates being passed from one side of the table to the other, glasses being refilled before anybody had to ask, your dad laughing loud enough to be heard from the other end of the house, and Bill always having one more story ready whenever the conversation started to quiet down.

The sun had dropped lower by then, leaving the kitchen windows glowing with that deep orange light that made everything inside look warmer than it really was. You sat across from Michael, and it took you a moment to realize that he had chosen the chair directly opposite yours.

There had been other seats available, but he'd taken that one without making a big deal about it, settling into the chair quietly while Bill and your dad argued over who was responsible for burning the first batch of steaks. You didn't think much of it at first. It was simply where he'd happened to sit. Still, every time you looked up from your plate, you found him there, and every now and then your eyes met across the table for a second before one of you looked away.

Michael seemed to be taking everything in. The food, the conversation, the house, the way your daddy talked with his mouth full despite your mother's complaints about it for years, the way Bill leaned back in his chair whenever he laughed. He looked comfortable. Then you'd catch him smiling at something your dad said, or laughing quietly when Bill exaggerated some part of an old story, and you'd decide he probably was.

"So Bill tells me y' a writer," your dad said eventually, sawing into his steak. "What kind of stuff?"

Michael's eyes flicked toward you for half a second before returning to your dad.

"Songs, mostly."

"Songs." Your dad nodded slowly, apparently deciding that was a perfectly respectable profession. "Y' write 'em yourself?"

"Yes, sir."

Your dad pointed his fork at him.

"That's good. Too many folks these days don't write their own stuff."

"Dad."

"What?"

"You don't even know what he's written."

"I know enough."

Michael smiled into his plate, clearly trying not to laugh. Your dad leaned back in his chair and looked at him again. "How 'bout you sing somethin' after supper?"

You immediately looked across the table.

"Daddy."

"What?" He looked genuinely confused by your reaction. "Boy's got a voice, don't he?"

You gave him a look that clearly said please stop embarrassing everybody.

Michael, meanwhile, ducked his head slightly, that same shy smile appearing at the corner of his mouth as his fingers moved absently around the edge of his glass.

"Maybe later."

Your dad grinned.

"That's what I like to hear."

You rolled your eyes and went back to your plate, though you couldn't quite stop the smile that tugged at your own mouth. When you looked up again a moment later, Michael was already watching you, and the second your eyes met, he smiled again.

You watched him through the candlelight— the way his fingers moved when he talked, the way he barely touched his food, the way his eyes kept finding you over the rim of his glass. Every time your accent curled around a word, you saw his attention sharpen.

"So, y' off the road for a bit?" you asked.

"For a few days," he said. "Bill thought I needed to slow down."

"And y' came 'ere?" You laughed, gesturing at the kitchen, the faded curtains, the dog barking somewhere down the road. "Ain't exactly the Ritz."

His gaze settled on you, heavy and warm. "That's the point."

You felt it low in your belly. That look. The way he said that's the point like he meant you're the point.

"Pass the oil, baby girl."

Your dad's voice snapped through the little pocket of tension before either of you had quite figured out what to do with it, calling across the table for the bottle of steak sauce. You reached for it automatically, your fingers closing around the glass before you even looked up, and held it out toward him. Your dad took it with a distracted thank-you, already turning back toward whatever story Bill was telling, but when you lowered your hand again, you caught Michael still looking at you.

Not just glancing.

Looking.

There was something almost absentminded about it, like he'd gotten caught somewhere between listening to the conversation and paying attention to you and hadn't quite realized he'd been doing it. His eyes moved over your face for another second before finally meeting yours. You couldn't help the small smile that pulled at your mouth.

"Y'alright there?"

Michael's eyebrows lifted.

"Fine."

His answer came a little too quickly, and his voice sounded rougher than it had a moment ago. He cleared his throat quietly, lowering his gaze toward his plate as though the steak suddenly required his full attention.

You watched him for another second, amused.

"You sure?"

He nodded, though he still wouldn't quite look at you.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

There was something about the way he said it that made you want to tease him, but you let him off the hook for the moment, reaching for your glass and taking a sip while trying not to smile. Across the table, Michael finally glanced up again, and this time there was a faint smile on his face too, like he'd realized you weren't going to make a big deal out of it.

Bill was watching him now. Bill knew. You could see it in the way his eyes narrowed, the way he glanced between you and Michael like he was reading a situation he didn't love.

"So," Bill said, leaning back in his chair and wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin, "you got that creek still runnin' through the back forty?"

"Sure does," your dad answered immediately, already pushing his chair away from the table as though Bill had just reminded him of something he'd been meaning to show him all evening. "C'mon, I'll show you."

Bill stared at him for a second, clearly caught off guard by how quickly he'd volunteered himself.

"Now?"

Your dad gave him a look.

"What, you got somewhere to be?"

"Didn't say that."

"Then get up."

Bill laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he slowly stood from the table and reached for his glass. He glanced toward Michael before following your daddy toward the back door, and there was something in that look that made you narrow your eyes slightly. It was the same expression he'd given Michael earlier, only this time there was a little more amusement behind it. Michael caught the look too, judging by the way his eyes followed Bill for a second before dropping back toward his plate.

Neither of them said anything.

The screen door banged shut behind them a moment later, and the sound carried across the quiet yard before gradually fading into the distance along with the low murmur of their voices.

For the first time since dinner had started, the kitchen seemed almost strangely still. The refrigerator hummed from somewhere behind you, the old ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, and every now and then you could hear the faint creak of the house settling around you. The table was still covered with the remains of dinner, half-empty glasses, crumpled napkins, a few crumbs scattered across the plates, and the serving dishes your daddy had left sitting in the middle because nobody in your family had ever been particularly good about cleaning up immediately.

You looked across the table.

Michael had set his fork down.

He reached for his napkin and wiped his mouth slowly, almost absentmindedly, before folding it once between his fingers. Then he looked up.

Straight at you.

This time, neither of you looked away.

—

You didn't remember who moved first.

His mouth crashed into yours and your back hit the hallway wall, his hands everywhere at once— your waist, your ribs, the back of your neck pulling you closer. The kiss was all tongue and teeth, messy and desperate, spit-slick and gasping. He kissed like a man starving, like he'd been sitting across that dinner table losing his mind and couldn't hold it another second.

You grabbed a fistful of his jacket and yanked him against you. He groaned into your mouth.

"Your room," he panted, pulling back just enough to breathe. His lips were wet, swollen, already wrecked. "Where's your—"

"Upstairs."

You grabbed his hand and dragged him. The stairs groaned under both of you, and halfway up he pulled you back against his chest, mouth finding your throat from behind, teeth grazing the soft spot below your ear.

"Keep walkin'," you breathed. "Ain't stoppin' on the stairs."

He laughed against your skin— breathless, giddy, ruined already.

Your bedroom door banged open. Then shut. Then his hands were on your face, cradling your jaw, kissing you slower now but no less desperate, his tongue sliding against yours while his thumbs traced your cheekbones.

You walked him backward. He went easy. The backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sat, looking up at you with those dark, blown-out eyes, his chest already heaving.

You dropped to the floor between his legs. His breath caught. "What are you—"

"Shh." Your hands found his belt, worked the leather through the buckle. "Been thinkin' 'bout this since y' stepped outta that truck. Been thinkin' 'bout gettin' my mouth on this pretty city boy cock."

"Baby—"

"Tell me t' stop."

He just looked at you and opened his mouth, but no words came out.

You yanked his belt open. Popped the button. Pulled the zipper down and watched his jeans part, and there he was— thick and hard, straining against his briefs, a dark wet spot already soaking through the cotton where the head pressed. You leaned in and mouthed him through the fabric, wet and hot, and his hips bucked off the mattress.

"Oh god—"

You pulled his briefs down. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head flushed deep and slick with pre-cum, already dripping down the shaft. You wrapped your hand around the base and he was hot in your palm.

"Shit," he whispered.

You looked up at him. His chest heaved. His mouth hung open. His hands were fisted in the sheets like he didn't trust himself to touch you.

"Y' want me t' suck your, baby?"

He shook his head. Swallowed hard. "yes..."

"Then sit still."

You lowered your mouth.

The first taste—salt and skin and the slick bead of pre-cum on your tongue—drew a groan from somewhere deep in his chest, a sound so raw it vibrated through you. You licked a slow, flat stripe from base to tip, letting your spit pool and drip down the shaft, and his thighs tensed under your free hand.

"Oh god— baby.."

You took the head between your lips and sucked. Gentle at first, just the tip, your tongue swirling around the ridge while your hand worked the base in a slow twist. His head fell back. His throat went long and taut.

Then you took him deeper.

You let your jaw go slack and pushed down, taking him inch by inch until he hit the back of your throat. You gagged around him, wet and loud, not trying to be quiet about it, and spit dripped down his shaft, pooled at the base, slicked your fingers where you gripped him.

"ah—" His voice cracked. "Your mouth— baby, your mouth is so—"

You pulled off with a slick, obscene pop and grinned up at him, mouth slick, chin wet, a string of spit still connecting your lips to his dick. "So what, baby? Use your words."

"So good." He sounded wrecked. His hand found your hair, not pushing, just holding. "Sooo damn good, baby. I can't— I've never—"

"Never what?" You licked a long stripe up the underside of his shaft, slow and filthy, and his hips jerked. "Never had a girl suck your dick sloppy like this?"

"No— no, never—"

"Shame." You took him back into your mouth and went deeper this time, until your nose pressed against the dark curls at the base and your throat convulsed around him. Your spit dripped down his balls. The room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of your mouth working him— slick and messy, gagging and slurping, no pretense at being neat about it.

He was falling apart above you. His thighs trembled. His stomach clenched. One hand was in your hair and the other was still fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, and every sound he made was needier than the last.

"So thick," you mumbled around him, pulling off just enough to breathe, your hand pumping the slick length of him while you talked. "Soooo goddamn thick, Mike. Heavy on my tongue. Y' know how good y' taste?"

"Mmmm..."

"Could suck this pretty cock all night." You dragged your tongue over the head, catching another bead of pre-cum, and he whimpered. Actually whimpered. "Y' want that? Want me to keep goin'?"

"Yeah..." His hips rolled up into your hand, desperate and involuntary. "Please. Baby, please— I want— I need to be inside you..."

You pulled off with a wet pop. Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, slow and deliberate. "Yeah?"

"Please." His voice broke on the word.

"Good boy."

He whined. A high, desperate sound that went straight through you, his whole body shuddering.

"Yeah?" His voice was trembling, wrecked. "'m your good boy?"

"Mhmm." You crawled up his body, pushing him back onto the bed, straddling his hips. "My good boy."

He surged up and kissed you, hands fumbling with the hem of your shirt, yanking it over your head. Your bra followed— his fingers working the clasp with more desperation than skill until it gave. The straps slid down your shoulders. He pulled the lace away and let it fall, and then his mouth was on you.

Hot and open-mouthed, his tongue dragging flat across your nipple before he sucked it between his lips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching into him, offering more, and he took it. He laved and sucked and bit down just enough to make you gasp.

"God, look at you." He pulled back, hands cupping both breasts, thumbs dragging over your nipples. His eyes were dark, reverent. "So soft. So beautiful. Y' so beautiful, baby."

"Michael—"

"I mean it." He looked up at you, earnest and wrecked. "Been losing my mind all night. Every time you looked at me. Your voice— the way you talk— I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe."

You kissed him hard and sloppy and pushed him flat on his back.

"Then don't think."

You shimmied out of your pants and panties, kicking them off the bed. He watched you the whole time, propped on his elbows, his cock slick and hard against his stomach, and when you straddled him his hands found your hips like they belonged there.

"Wait," he breathed.

"What?"

"I want to see you." His palms slid up your sides, slow, deliberate, over the swell of your stomach and the soft curve of your waist. His thumbs traced the stretch marks on your hips, pressing into the give of your flesh. He didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. "Every inch. You're gorgeous, baby. These hips. This stomach. All of you."

Heat flooded your chest, your throat, your cheeks.

"Y' gonna make me emotional 'fore I even get y' dick inside me."

"Can't have that." His smile was shaky but real. His hands squeezed your hips, fingers sinking into the softness. "Come here, baby."

You reached down and wrapped your hand around him. He was slick with your spit, still leaking, thick enough that your fingers didn't quite meet around the base. You lined him up, the head pressing against your soaked entrance, and you both sucked in air at the same time.

"Ready?" you whispered.

"Mhm..."

You sank down.

The stretch of him knocked the breath from your lungs. Inch by thick inch, filling your wet pussy until there was nothing but the feeling of him— hot and heavy and so deep. Your head dropped forward. Your nails bit into his chest.

"Ohhhh, fuck— y' so, so thick, baby—"

The words slurred out of you, drunk and babbling. You couldn't help it. The stretch was obscene, splitting you open, and he just kept going until you were seated flush against his hips, every inch buried inside you.

"Feel good, baby?" His voice was strained, barely holding together. His hands were gripping your hips so tight you knew there'd be bruises. "Tell me— tell me it feels good—"

"S'good. S'fuckin' good. Y' so deep— so thick inside me, Mike— feel so full—"

He moaned, head pressing back into the mattress, throat bared. "Move. Please move. I need you to move."

You did. Slow at first. Just a roll of your hips, grinding down on him, feeling every inch drag against your walls. Then faster. Then harder. You braced your hands on his chest and rode him into the mattress, your tits bouncing in his face, your soft thighs slapping against his hips.

He stared up at you like you were a revelation. Mouth open. Eyes blown wide. Watching your body move above him— the bounce of your breasts, the way your hips rolled.

"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, baby, look at you— look at you riding me—"

"Y' like watchin' me, baby?" Your voice was breathless, catching on every stroke. "Like watchin' this pussy take your dick?"

"I love it." His hands slid up your ribs, cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples while you rode him. "Love watchin' you. Love these tits. Love this body— love the way you feel— so wet, so tight—"

"So heavy," you babbled, grinding down harder, feeling him hit that spot deep inside. "Y' so deep inside me, baby. Shit. Splittin' me open. S'good— s'fuckin' good—"

"Yeah? You like how deep I am, baby?"

"Love it. Love this dick. Love the way it stretches me out—"

Your tits bounced in front of his face. The angle dragged his cock against that spot that made your vision blur.

"Oooh fuck— Mhm! right there—"

He caught a nipple in his mouth and sucked hard, and your rhythm stuttered. His tongue circled the peak, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, and then he switched to the other breast— mouth hot and wet and greedy.

And then you felt it. That creamy, wet slickness building where your bodies met. The sound of it, obscene and unmistakable, filled the room with every stroke.

"Hear that?" He pulled off your breast, looking down between your bodies, watching himself disappear into your pussy. His voice was reverent. "Hear how wet y' are, baby? Y' creaming all over me."

You looked down. There was a ring of white cream coating the base of his cock, slick and shining, smearing on his skin every time you sank down.

"Not my fault," you gasped. "Y' the one with the pretty face 'nd big dick—"

He groaned and grabbed your hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and started thrusting up into you from below— sharp, desperate snaps of his hips meeting every roll of yours.

"That's it. That's it, baby— make a mess on me— cream all over my dick—"

"Shit!—"

"You're sooo fucking wet. So messy. God, I love it— love this pussy—"

The words tumbled out of him, filthy and wrecked, and you couldn't hold back. You rode him harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room, the headboard knocking against the wall. Your thighs burned. Your stomach tightened. You were right there, right on the edge.

"'m close—"

"Me too. Me too." He wrapped his arms around you and flipped you onto your back in one motion.

He was on top of you now. Chest to chest. His forearms braced on either side of your head, curls falling around his face, damp with sweat. He looked ruined. Desperate. Nothing like the composed city boy from dinner.

"Need to feel y'," he breathed. "Need t' be deeper. Need all of you."

"Need y' too...."

He pushed inside again, slow this time, letting you feel every inch, and then he dropped his face between your tits.

His mouth was everywhere. Kissing the swell of your breasts, licking the sweat from your sternum, burying his face in the soft give of your cleavage while his hips rolled into you. His hands slid down your sides, over the curve of your waist, and then they were gripping your ass— both hands full, fingers sinking deep into the plush flesh, pulling you up into every thrust.

"So soft," he groaned against your skin. "So fucking soft everywhere. Love this body. Love your ass in my hands—"

"Mmm, y' fuck me so good, baby.."

"Feel so good, baby. This pussy—" He drove in deep and held there, grinding against you, his face still buried between your tits. "So wet. So wet. Grippin' me so good."

"Y' so deep— y' so deep like this— oh my—"

He fucked you slow and deep, his hands kneading your ass, his mouth working up from your chest to your throat to your mouth. The kiss was sloppy. All tongue and spit and gasping breaths, and when he pulled back there was a string of saliva connecting your lips.

"Need deeper," he said, and it was a plea. "Need— let me—"

He hooked your legs over his shoulders. Folded you nearly in half. Mating press. The new angle made you both groan.

"There." Your voice broke. "Right there, right there!—"

He fucked into you with short, desperate strokes, his rhythm faltering, his breath coming in broken gasps against your mouth. His curls dripped sweat onto your forehead. His hands gripped your thighs, your ass, anything he could hold.

"Baby, 'm not gonna— can't—" He was shaking. His whole body trembling. "can't hold it— y' feel too good—"

"please don't hold it." You grabbed his face, fingers sinking into his damp curls, and pulled his forehead to yours. "Come inside me, baby. Want it. Want all of it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Cream in my pussy. Fill me up."

He buried his face in your neck and drove into you hard— once, twice— and then he was coming. A cry cracked in his throat, raw and broken, his whole body shuddering as he spilled inside you, hot and pulsing, his cock throbbing through every wave.

The feel of him— the hot rush of it, the way his hips kept jerking— tipped you over. Your climax hit like a wave breaking, white-hot and blinding. Your pussy clenched around him, milking every last pulse, and you bit his shoulder to keep from screaming. Your thighs shook. Your nails raked down his back.

He whimpered into your throat, still thrusting weak and shallow, like he couldn't bear to stop. Like he wanted to stay inside you forever.

For a long moment there was nothing but breathing.

He eased your legs down, slow and careful. Pulled out with a wet, messy sound. You felt the slick heat of him and you drip down your thigh, and he collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you into his chest, one arm wrapped tight around your waist.

"Wow," he whispered.

"Mhm..."

"That was—"

"Mhm..."

He laughed— breathless, giddy, still shaking a little. His lips pressed to your forehead, your temple, the tip of your nose, your mouth. The kiss was soft now, tender, a different kind of desperate.

"You called me a good boy?"

You felt your cheeks go hot. "Don't get a big head 'bout it."

"Too late." He nuzzled into your hair, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your hip. "Definitely too late."

From somewhere out in the yard, your dad's voice rang out: "Told you that creek still runs clear!"

Michael froze. Then his body shook with silent laughter, his face pressing into your hair to muffle it.

"Bill's gonna kill me."

"Bill's not gonna do shit." You tilted your face up and kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting salt and yourself and him. "'sides. Worth it."

He looked at you. Brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear.

"Yeah," he said. "It was."

You'd been driving for what felt like hours.

The sun had disappeared not too long ago, leaving the country roads illuminated by little more than your headlights and the occasional glow of the moon overhead. The journey had started pleasantly enough. There was something oddly calming about being alone with your thoughts, watching the scenery change from busy highways to endless fields and quiet back roads. You hadn't minded the drive at all. In fact, for most of it, you'd been singing along to the radio without a care in the world, drumming your fingers against the steering wheel whenever a favourite song came on and laughing to yourself whenever you forgot half the lyrics. There was nobody around to hear you, after all, and that somehow made it even more enjoyable.

Eventually, though, the music faded into bursts of static as you drove further into the countryside. You twisted the dial a few times in search of another station, but every attempt was met with the same crackling interference. With a small sigh, you admitted defeat and switched the radio off altogether.

"Well... that's just rude," you muttered to yourself with a small smile.

The silence settled around you almost immediately.

It wasn't unpleasant, but it did give your mind far too much room to wander. You found yourself thinking about how much longer you had left to drive, whether the little town marked on your map was actually as close as it claimed to be, and if it would still have somewhere open by the time you arrived. You were beginning to regret not stopping at the last gas station you'd passed nearly an hour ago—not because you needed fuel, but because at least there had been people there. Out here, there was nothing but open land stretching endlessly in either direction.

You glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was later than you'd realized. 'If I'd known this road was gonna take forever...' you sighed, shaking your head. Almost as though the car had taken your complaint personally, it gave a small shudder beneath you. Your eyebrows drew together.

"...Huh."

You loosened your grip on the steering wheel for a second before tightening it again, listening carefully. The engine continued to hum as it always had, and after another few seconds you convinced yourself it had probably just been a bump in the road.

Then it happened again. This time there was no mistaking it.

A strange sputter echoed from somewhere beneath the bonnet, followed by a brief hesitation that caused the car to jerk ever so slightly before carrying on.

"Oh, no..."

You instinctively looked down at the dashboard, your eyes darting between the gauges as though one of them might explain what was happening. Everything seemed... normal enough. Nothing immediately jumped out at you.

"C'mon," you murmured a little desperately, giving the steering wheel an encouraging little pat. "Don't start acting up now..."

You pressed your foot a little more firmly against the accelerator. The car responded. For all of thirty seconds. Then the engine coughed again, louder this time.

Your stomach sank.

"No, no, no..."

Your gaze immediately searched the road ahead. Nothing. You checked your rear-view mirror. Still nothing.

Not a single pair of headlights. Not another car. Not even a farmhouse with a porch light glowing in the distance. The realization settled over you far quicker than you'd have liked.

If something happened to the car out here, you were completely on your own.

"...Okay," you whispered to yourself, taking a slow breath. "Think."

You reached across to the passenger seat and rummaged through your bag, eventually pulling out the folded road map you'd been relying on all afternoon. You unfolded it across the steering wheel, smoothing out the stubborn creases with your palm as your eyes searched for where you thought you might be. You thought.

There was one problem.

Every winding road on the page suddenly looked identical beneath the dim glow of the dashboard lights. With a quiet huff, you folded it back up again, and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Maybe you could flag somebody down.

The thought barely had time to settle before you looked through the windshield again. There wasn't anybody to flag down. Not a single passing car.

You chewed thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek before reaching for the door handle.

The night air greeted you immediately, warm but noticeably cooler than it had been during the day. It carried the scent of grass and fresh earth, accompanied by the constant chorus of crickets hidden somewhere amongst the fields. Closing the car door behind you, you wrapped your arms loosely around yourself and looked up and down the road once more, almost hoping that standing outside would somehow make another driver magically appear.

No such luck.

With a defeated sigh, you walked around to the front of the car and released the bonnet latch from inside. A moment later, you lifted it open, propping it up as you stared into the engine. You had absolutely no idea what you were looking at.

There were... engine things. Hoses. Metal. More hoses.

You blinked.

"...Yep."

You couldn't help but laugh quietly to yourself. It was either laugh or cry, and crying wasn't likely to get the engine running again.

Resting your hands on the edge of the bonnet, you let out a long breath and looked across the dark fields surrounding you. They seemed endless beneath the moonlight, interrupted only by the occasional line of fencing disappearing over the hills.

Beautiful.

Just not somewhere you'd particularly wanted to spend your evening. You wondered briefly how long it'd be before somebody happened to drive this way.

Ten minutes? An hour? Morning?

The last possibility made you straighten slightly.

Morning.

You looked back towards the car, then down the empty road stretching out in front of you. No. Surely not.

You weren't going to spend the entire night sitting on the side of some unfamiliar country road waiting for daylight. There had to be another option. There was always another option. At least, that was what you told yourself.

You lowered the bonnet again and walked back around to the driver's side, opening the door and reaching inside for your bag. Your first thought was your phone, even though you already knew what you were going to find. You picked it up anyway, pressing the button and waiting for the screen to light up.

No signal.

You stared at it for a moment longer than necessary, as though the little bars in the corner might suddenly appear out of pity. They didn't.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat and lowered the phone into your lap.

It was strange how quickly a situation could change. Less than an hour ago, you had been enjoying the drive, singing along to the radio and thinking about how peaceful the countryside was. Now you were sitting in a car that refused to start, in the middle of nowhere, trying to figure out what your next move was.

You weren't someone who scared easily. Usually, when something went wrong, you were the person who tried to stay calm and find a solution. Panicking never helped anything, and you knew that. But there was something unsettling about not knowing what came next.

You didn't know how far away the nearest person was. You didn't know if anyone would even pass by. You didn't know if your car was dealing with a small problem that could be fixed in the morning or something much worse. The uncertainty was what bothered you the most.

You rested your head back against the seat, closing your eyes for a moment.

"Okay," you whispered again, mostly to yourself. "Don't panic."

Taking a deep breath, you opened your eyes and looked around the car. There was a small blanket folded in the backseat, a half-empty bottle of water, and a few snacks you'd bought earlier without thinking much about them. Not exactly enough supplies to spend a night stranded, but enough to make you feel slightly less helpless.

You reached for the blanket, placing it beside you, before looking back out through the windshield. You glanced at the road once more, wondering if you should try walking.

Maybe there was a house nearby that you hadn't noticed. Maybe someone would answer the door and let you use their phone.

But the thought of leaving your car behind made you hesitate.

What if someone came by and moved it? What if you walked in the wrong direction? What if the nearest house was much further away than it looked?

You hated admitting it, but you didn't actually know what to do.

For a few minutes, you simply stood there beside the open car door, listening to the sounds around you. The quiet hum of the night. The wind moving through the grass. The distant sound of something you couldn't identify somewhere far out in the fields.

Then, just as you were beginning to accept that you might have to wait it out...

You heard something. At first, you thought it was your imagination. A faint sound in the distance. You held still, listening carefully.

There it was again.

An engine.

Your eyes immediately lifted towards the road.

For a second, you weren't sure if you should feel relieved or cautious.

A pair of headlights appeared in the distance, slowly making their way towards you. The sight of them made your shoulders relax before you even realised how tense you had been.

Someone was coming.

You stepped away from the car slightly, watching as the vehicle approached. The headlights grew brighter, illuminating the empty road in front of it as the sound of the engine became louder.

It was an old pickup truck.

And although you were grateful that someone had finally come along, you couldn't ignore the small voice in the back of your mind reminding you that whoever was driving was still a stranger.

So you stayed where you were, waiting.

The truck slowed as it reached you, eventually pulling over a short distance ahead of your car.

The engine remained running for a moment.

Then the driver's door opened slowly, and for a moment all you could see was the silhouette of the person stepping out against the glow of the headlights behind him.

He wasn't what you had expected.

You weren't entirely sure what you had expected, truthfully. Maybe some tired-looking mechanic who had happened to come across you on his way home, or perhaps someone who would immediately ask what was wrong with the car before anything else.

A cowboy hat rested on his head, casting a shadow over his features, and he wore a simple button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up slightly, paired with worn jeans and boots that looked like they had seen plenty of long days outside. There was nothing particularly intimidating about him. If anything, the way he approached you was careful and considerate.

A flashlight hung loosely in one hand, though he kept it pointed towards the ground rather than directly at you. He stopped a few feet away from you, leaving enough distance between you that you didn't feel cornered.

"Evenin'," he greeted. His voice was softer than you expected.

You gave him a small nod.

"Hello."

His eyes briefly moved towards your car, taking in the open bonnet before looking back at you.

"Everythin' alright?"

There was genuine curiosity in the question. You let out a small breath, almost embarrassed by the situation. "Uh, no, not really—my car. It decided to just stop working..."

He glanced back at it again.

"Out here?"

You nodded.

"Apparently."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Well..." he murmured, adjusting the brim of his hat. "'s probably about the worst place she could've picked." Despite yourself, you smiled slightly.

"Yeah. I was thinking the same thing."

The man seemed to relax a little when he saw you smile. He looked back towards the truck, then towards the road behind you.

"Been waitin' long?"

"Nah, not too long," you answered. He gave you a look that suggested he didn't quite believe you. A quiet chuckle left him.

"Right."

He took a step closer to the car, but stopped before reaching you.

"Name's Michael, by the way."

He removed his hat as he spoke, holding it against his side. It was such a simple gesture, but it immediately stood out to you. Like he had been raised to treat every introduction with a certain amount of respect. "'m sorry. I should've said that first."

You shook your head, "'s okay."

He smiled softly.

"Well, I'm Michael."

He paused, waiting for you to introduce yourself. When you did, he repeated your name quietly, committing it to memory.

"'s a pretty name for a pretty girl."

The words came out naturally. Almost as if he hadn't realized he'd said it aloud until after he had. You just blinked at him, taken aback by the bluntness. A faint blush appeared on his face, and he cleared his throat before looking back towards the car.

"Mind 'f I take a look at it, suga'?"

The nickname caught you slightly off guard as well. But this time not because it felt inappropriate. Quite the opposite. The way he said it was so gentle, so naturally warm, that it felt less like flirting and more like a habit. Something he'd probably been saying his whole life.

You nodded. "uh, yeah sure. Go ahead."

"Alright."

He moved towards the front of the car, rolling his sleeves up a little further as he looked beneath the bonnet. You watched him for a moment.

There was a sense of relief that came with seeing someone who actually seemed to know what they were doing. You had tried your best, but staring at an engine and hoping it would explain itself had only gotten you so far. At least now there was someone who could take a proper look.

Michael leaned over the front of the car, his flashlight moving carefully over the different parts beneath the bonnet. Every now and then he hummed quietly to himself, not in frustration, but more like he was thinking through what he was seeing. You rested against the side of the car, watching him.

"Do you know much about cars?" you asked after a moment. He glanced up briefly.

"A little," he admitted. "Spent 'nough time fixin' up old trucks 'nd farm equipment that y' kinda pick things up whether y' want to or not."

There was a small smile on his face as he looked back down. "Can't say I ever planned on spendin' my evenings under a bonnet, though."

You smiled slightly too. "Sounds like you've had a lot of practice."

"More than I'd like," he chuckled softly. "Somethin' always needs fixin' when y' live out here." He moved something beneath the bonnet, checking a few different parts before stepping back slightly.

"How long has she been actin' up?"

You thought back. "Honestly? Not long. My car was fine most of the drive. The radio started cutting out first, and then itstarted making that weird sound." Michael nodded slowly.

"Mm."

That little sound made you look at him. "Is that a good 'mm' or a bad 'mm'?"

A quiet laugh escaped him.

"I'd say it's somewhere 'n the middle."

"That's not exactly reassuring."

"Nah, I know," he said, smiling. "Sorry, suga'."

There it was again. The nickname. You still hadn't quite gotten used to it. And if you were honest, it does make you blush a little.

Michael leaned back down, examining something near the engine.

"She ain't overheatin', is she?"

"No. The temperature looked normal."

"Strange smells?"

"No."

"Any noises before this?"

You thought for a second. "Just the sputtering."

He nodded again.

"Alright."

There was a brief silence as he continued checking over the car. You noticed that he wasn't rushing. He wasn't randomly pulling things apart or pretending to know exactly what was wrong. He was actually taking his time, trying to figure it out.

"Y' from 'round here?" he asked after a moment.

You shook your head.

"No. Just passing through."

"Thought so." You raised an eyebrow.

"What gave it away?"

He looked up, a small smile appearing.

"Well, folks 'round here know better than to take this road after dark unless they gotta."

You laughed quietly. "Good to know."

"Didn't mean it like that," he quickly added, almost as if he worried he had offended you. "Just... this road's pretty empty. Easy to get stranded."

"I figured that out."

That earned a small laugh from him.

"Yeah, I reckon you did."

He returned his attention to the engine, and for a while the only sounds were the night around you and the quiet movements of him working. It was odd.

A few minutes ago, you had been completely alone, wondering how long you would have to wait before anyone came by. Now you were standing beside a stranger's truck on the side of the road, and somehow the situation felt much less overwhelming.

After another few minutes of looking over everything, Michael finally straightened up, wiping his hands together as he stepped back from the engine.

You watched his expression carefully, trying to figure out whether he had good news or bad news before he even spoke. Unfortunately, his face didn't give much away.

"Well..." he started.

You waited hopefully. He looked back at the car, then at you.

"Don't think she's gonna be drivin' anywhere tonight."

You let out a quiet breath, though you weren't entirely surprised. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you'd already accepted that possibility.

"That bad?"

"No, I wouldn't say bad," he assured you quickly. "Just... ain't somethin' I can fix out here with what I got."

He reached down, closing the bonnet carefully.

"Looks like it's probably somethin' with the engine. Could be a few things, but I don't wanna start guessin' 'nd make it worse."

You nodded, appreciating that he didn't pretend to know more than he did. "So what does that mean?"

Michael glanced down the road, then back at you.

"Means y' probably need a mechanic."

You gave him a small, humorless laugh, "that would be easier 'f I only knew where one was."

"Closest one?"

You nodded.

"Yeah."

He was quiet for a moment.

"About thirty-five, forty miles."

Your eyebrows lifted. "You're kidding..."

"Wish I was."

You looked back at your car, then at the empty road ahead. That was definitely not the answer you were hoping for. Michael noticed the expression on your face and immediately softened.

"Hey."

You looked back at him.

"Don't worry. We'll figure somethin' out."

The way he said it was simple. Not like a promise that he could fix everything, but like a reminder that you weren't stuck dealing with it by yourself anymore. You nodded slowly.

"Thank you for stopping, by the way." He looked almost surprised by the gratitude.

"'Course."

"No, I mean it. You didn't have to..."

Michael shook his head slightly, putting his hat back on.

"Yeah, I did."

The answer came so naturally that you almost didn't know how to respond. He seemed to realize how certain he sounded and gave a small shrug.

"I mean... anybody would've stopped."

You both knew that probably wasn't entirely true. But you didn't point it out. Instead, you smiled a little.

"So what now?"

Michael looked back towards his truck.

"Well..."

He hesitated. And for the first time since he'd arrived, you noticed a little uncertainty in him.

"I got a place not too far from here," he explained. "Jus' a few minutes down the road."

You listened quietly.

"My mama raised me better than to leave somebody stranded out here overnight." A small smile appeared on his face.

"Especially not a lady."

The words made you smile slightly.

"Your mom sounds like a good woman."

"She is."

There was a warmth in his voice when he said it that made it clear there was no hesitation behind the statement.Michael looked back towards the road.

"You got somewhere y' supposed t' be tonight?"

You shook your head.

"Not really. I was just trying to get to the next town."

He nodded.

"Alright."

Another pause. Then he looked at you.

"Now, I know we're strangers, and I don't wanna make you uncomfortable, but..." He adjusted the brim of his hat, almost nervously.

"My place is right nearby. Got a spare room. You could use the phone, get yourself somethin' warm to eat, 'nd figure out what you wanna do in the mornin'."

He quickly continued before you could answer.

"Only if you're comfortable with that, of course. Don't want you thinkin' I'm just some fella offerin' up his house to a woman he just met."

A small laugh escaped you. "I wasn't thinking that."

"Good," he said, smiling faintly. "Just wanted t' make sure."

You looked down the empty road again.

Normally, you wouldn't consider accepting an invitation from a stranger. You knew better than that. But there was something about the way Michael carried himself, the way he had gone out of his way to make sure you felt comfortable, that made the idea seem less frightening. And besides...

You weren't exactly overflowing with better options. You looked back at him.

"How far is it?"

Michael smiled slightly.

"Not far. Five minutes."

You considered it for another moment before nodding.

"Okay."

His expression softened with relief.

"Alright."

He stepped back towards his truck.

"Go ahead 'nd grab whatever you need from your car. I'll give you a hand."

You opened the driver's door, reaching inside for your bag and the few things you'd need for the night. As you did, you couldn't help but glance back at him. Michael was standing beside his pickup, waiting patiently.

The drive to Michael's place was quiet at first. Not uncomfortable, just quiet.

You sat in the passenger seat of his truck, your bag resting beside your feet as you looked out the window at the fields passing by. It was strangely peaceful.

Michael kept both hands on the steering wheel, his attention mostly focused on the road ahead. Every now and then, though, he would glance over briefly, just to make sure you were alright. He tried not to make it obvious. He really did.

But now that you were sitting closer to him, it was a little harder to ignore.

When he had first stepped out of his truck, the darkness and distance had made it difficult to see much about him. Now, under the soft glow of the dashboard lights, he could see you properly. And he thought you were beautiful. Such a pretty girl.

Not just in the way people usually meant when they said something like that. It wasn't only your appearance, though he couldn't deny that you were very pretty. There was something about the way you carried yourself. The way you had tried to stay calm despite being stranded. The way you had thanked him more than once, even though he hadn't done anything extraordinary in his mind. You seemed kind.

And Michael liked kind.

He quickly looked back at the road when he realized he had been staring for a second too long.

"Everything alright?" you asked. His eyes flickered back towards you.

"Yeah," he said quickly. "Yeah, 'm alright."

You smiled slightly, though you weren't entirely convinced.

"You sure?"

He gave a small nod.

"Just thinkin'."

You looked back out the window.

"About my car?"

"That too."

There was a brief pause. Then, with a small smile, he added, "Mostly thinkin' about what I'm gonna do with it tomorrow."

You laughed softly, "I appreciate you taking this seriously."

"'Course."

The answer came easily. You looked at him for a moment. The same thing happened to you then. Up until now, you had mostly been focused on the fact that he was helping you. You had noticed his kindness, his manners, the way he spoke so gently. But sitting beside him like this, you had the chance to actually look at him. And you had to admit...

Michael was very handsome.

Not in an obvious, overly confident way. There was something softer about him. His features were gentle, his eyes kind, and there was an almost boyish quality to his smile that made him seem younger than you initially expected. You found yourself looking away when he glanced in your direction, suddenly aware that you had been staring.

"You always help strangers on the side of the road?" you asked, mostly to distract yourself. Michael just smiled.

"Not always."

You raised an eyebrow.

"No?"

"Nah."

You looked at him.

"Then why me?"

He thought about it for a moment before answering.

"'cause y' looked like y' needed help."

It was such a simple answer. You smiled softly.

"That's a pretty good reason."

Michael shrugged lightly.

"Seems like the right thing to do."

The truck continued down the road, the silence returning for a moment. Michael glanced over again when he thought you weren't looking. And this time, you noticed. You didn't say anything. You just smiled quietly to yourself and turned your attention back towards the window.

Usually, sitting in a stranger's car would have felt strange. You probably would've found yourself searching for something to say, filling every quiet moment just to avoid the unfamiliarity of it all. But with Michael, the silence seemed easy. Every now and then, he would ask you something small. Where you were headed. How far you'd been driving. Nothing too personal. And every time you answered, he listened.

"So," he said after a moment, one hand resting comfortably on the steering wheel, "what made you take this road anyway?"

You looked over at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, like I said before, most folks 'round here know better than t' take this way at night unless they live nearby."

You smiled slightly.

"That your way of saying I made a bad decision?"

He let out a quiet laugh.

"No, no. Ain't sayin' that." His eyes briefly flickered towards you before returning to the road.

"Just curious."

You looked back out the window. "I was trying to get somewhere faster."

Michael nodded.

"That usually ends up bein' how it goes."

"What does?"

"People tryin' to save time and endin' up takin' the longer way."

You laughed softly, "are you speaking from experience?"

He smiled.

"Maybe."

"You've done that before?"

"Maybe."

You smiled at that.

"Do you live alone?" you asked. The question came out naturally, though you immediately wondered if it was too personal. Michael didn't seem to mind it though.

"Nah," he answered. "My family lives close by."

"Oh."

He nodded.

"I've got my own place, but we're all still pretty close." There was a warmth in his voice when he spoke about them. You smiled.

"That sounds nice."

"It is."

The warmth inside the truck slowly became more noticeable as the drive continued.

At first, you hadn't minded it. After standing outside in the cool night air for so long, the heat had actually been comforting. But sitting beneath the soft glow of the dashboard lights with the windows rolled up, you started to feel a little too warm. You shifted in your seat, pulling lightly at the sleeves of your thin jacket.

Michael noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye.

"You alright?"

You looked over.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just getting a little warm." He nodded, immediately turning his attention back to the road.

"Can turn the air up if ya need."

You smiled slightly.

"I think I'll survive."

"Alright. Just makin' sure suga''."

You shook your head amused. After another moment, you slipped the jacket off your shoulders, relieved to finally get rid of the extra layer of warmth. You folded it loosely and tossed it onto the passenger seat beside your bag, revealing the simple black tank top you had been wearing underneath.

The fabric is soft and clings to your curves, hugging your chest and stomach in a way that feels liberating despite the unfamiliar company.

The sudden movement draws Michael's attention. As you settle back into the seat, adjusting your position to find some relief from the heat, the low neckline of the tank top dips lower. Your breasts, full and soft, press against the dark fabric, creating a deep, inviting cleavage that catches the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

Michael's grip tightens fractionally on the steering wheel. His eyes betray him for a split second, flickering downward toward the swell of your chest before he forces them back to the road ahead. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in the shadows. "Yeah..." he manages to rasp out, his voice sounding slightly rougher than it did moments before. "Could be gettin' warmer."

You notice the slight shift in his demeanor, the way his breathing seems to catch for a heartbeat, but you attribute it to the heat as well. "Mhm, it sure is."

You stretch your arms above your head, feeling the fabric of the tank top pull across your torso, emphasizing the soft swell of your hips and the generous curve of your waist.

Michael keeps his gaze fixed forward, but his jaw is set tight. He's hyper aware of your presence beside him now. He was fighting every inch of himself to not look over again. He did not want to come across as a creep and scare you off.

He just wasn't used to this.

Not the feeling itself, exactly. Michael had always appreciated beauty. He noticed it in people, in nature, in music. But there was something different about having someone sitting right beside him, someone whose presence he was becoming increasingly aware of.

And he didn't want to make you uncomfortable.

"So..." you said after a moment, breaking the quiet. Michael glanced over.

"Hm?"

"You said you live on a farm?"

He smiled.

"Yeah."

"Do you actually do all the farm stuff yourself?"

He chuckled, "Some of it. Ain't exactly easy work, but I like it."

"You don't get tired of it?"

He thought about it.

"Sometimes."

You laughed. "At least you're honest."

"Well, 'm not gonna lie 'nd say I wake up every mornin' excited to fix fences."

That made you laugh.

"But most days?"

"Most days, yeah."

You looked out at the passing fields again.

"I think I'd like that."

"Farm life?"

"Maybe. It seems peaceful."

Michaels face softened.

"It can be."

He paused.

"But it can also be a lot of work."

"I believe that."

Another quiet moment passed. Then Michael spoke again, his voice a little softer.

"You'll get to see it soon."

You looked back at him.

"The farm?"

He nodded.

"Yeah."

A small smile appeared on his face.

few minutes later, the glow of the headlights caught the outline of a house in the distance. You looked out the window as Michael turned the truck onto a gravel driveway, the tires crunching softly beneath you. The house wasn't anything extravagant, and honestly, you hadn't expected it to be. It was a simple farmhouse with a porch light glowing warmly near the front door, surrounded by open land that stretched out into the darkness. It looked comfortable. Lived in. Like a place where someone had spent years building a quiet life.

"This is it," Michael said, slowing the truck as he pulled closer to the house. You looked around, taking it in for a moment.

"It's nice."

Michael glanced over briefly, a boyish smile appearing on his face.

"Yeah. 's my home."

He parked the truck and turned off the engine, leaving the two of you sitting in the sudden quiet for a moment. Without the sound of the road beneath you, the night seemed even calmer. You could hear the faint sounds of the countryside around you—the wind moving through the fields, the occasional noise of an animal somewhere in the distance.

Michael reached for his keys before stepping out of the truck. You followed a moment later, grabbing your bag from the seat, though before you could properly lift it, Michael was already reaching for it.

"I got it." You looked at him.

"You really don't have to carry my things."

He looked almost confused by the statement.

"I know."

The simple answer made you smile a little. He wasn't doing it because he thought you couldn't handle it. He wasn't trying to make a point. It was just something he did without thinking. As you walked towards the house, Michael glanced over at you.

"Hope y' don't mind stayin' here tonight."

You shook your head. "Are you kidding? I'm just happy I don't have to figure out how to sleep in my car."

That earned a quiet laugh from him.

"Yeah, figured that probably wasn't the best option."

"No," you agreed. "Definitely not ideal."

Michael smiled slightly as he unlocked the front door.

"I got a spare room y' can use," he explained as he opened it. "'s nothin' fancy, but it's clean. There's fresh towels in there, 'nd y' can use whatever y' need. Bathroom's just down the hall."

You stepped inside, looking around as he switched on the lights.

The house felt exactly like you imagined it would. Not in a stereotypical way, but in a comfortable one. There were little signs of everyday life everywhere. A few things placed where they were actually used, furniture that looked like it had been there for years.

"Michael, this is already more than enough," you said. He looked back at you.

"Don't worry about it."

The way he said it was gentle, like he didn't want you feeling like an inconvenience. You followed him down the hallway as he showed you the room.

"I know this is probably a little strange," he admitted. "Comin' all the way out here 'nd endin' up at a stranger's place."

You tilted your head slightly.

"A little."

He nodded, almost expecting that answer.

"But I promise I ain't gonna make you regret it."

The words came out before he seemed to realize how serious they sounded. His cheeks warmed slightly, and he quickly looked away, adjusting the brim of his hat.

"I mean..." he added, a little awkwardly, "you know what I mean."

You couldn't help but giggle. "I do."

He seemed relieved. When he reached the spare room, he opened the door and stepped aside so you could see inside. It was simple, but comfortable. A neatly made bed, a small dresser, and enough space for your things. Nothing luxurious, but after spending the last hour wondering if you'd be sleeping in your car, it felt more than enough.

"Y' can put your bag there," Michael said, pointing towards the dresser. "'nd if you need anything, just call out."

You nodded.

"Thank you, Michael. Really."

He flashed you a smile.

"You're welcome."

There was a brief pause before he added, softer, "Make yourself at home, suga'."

After making sure you had everything you needed, Michael lingered for only a moment longer.

"Alright," he said softly. "I'll let you get some rest."

You nodded, suddenly realizing just how tired you actually were. The adrenaline from your car breaking down had kept you awake, but now that you were somewhere safe, the exhaustion was finally catching up with you. "Thank you again, Michael."

He smiled, shaking his head slightly. "You've thanked me enough times already."

"Still."

"Well... you're welcome." He stepped back towards the doorway, pulling his hat down slightly as he prepared to leave.

"'f y' need anythin', 'm right down the hall." You nodded. "I will."

"Alright, suga'. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Michael." He gave you one last small smile before quietly closing the door behind him. The moment you were alone, you let out a long breath and looked around the room.

A few hours ago, you had been driving alone, singing along to the radio and thinking about nothing more than getting to your destination. Then your car broke down, a stranger found you, and now you were standing in a spare bedroom on a farm you hadn't even known existed.

You weren't sure how you felt about it all yet. But you were tired. Very tired. You pulled your phone from your bag and checked it again, though you already knew there still wasn't any signal. At least you had downloaded a few songs before the trip, so you wouldn't have to spend the night in complete silence.

You grabbed your earbuds, putting on a familiar playlist. The soft music filled the quiet room, giving you something familiar in a place that was still completely new.

The music through your earbuds helps block out the silence of the house as you move around the small room. You feel a little sticky from the drive and the humidity, so you decide to get out of your clothes before getting into bed.

You reached for the hem of your black tank top, pulling it over your head and setting it aside. You kick your by now uncomfortable pants off, leaving them in a heap on the floor.

You figured you were just going to sleep in your undergarments today, as the jeans and the tank top where a little too uncomfortable right now. For a moment you just stood there in the room, only wearing your matching black lace bra and panties, feeling the cool air from the room finally hit your skin.

Down the hall, Michael walked past the spare room with your thin jacket folded neatly over one arm.

He had noticed it sitting on the passenger seat of his truck when he went back outside to grab the rest of your things. At first, he had thought about simply leaving it on the chair in the hallway or outside your door, but then he figured it might get forgotten there. Besides, it was your jacket, and he knew the nights out here could get colder than people expected.

So, after a moment of hesitation, he decided he would just give it back to you.

He stopped outside the door, adjusting his grip on the jacket before raising his hand and knocking softly against the wood.

"Hey, suga'?"

No answer.

Michael waited a few seconds, glancing down the hallway. Maybe you hadn't heard him. He knocked again, a little louder this time.

"Sorry, 's just your jacket. Y' left it in the truck."

Still nothing.

He frowned slightly out of uncertainty. He didn't want to interrupt you if you were already asleep, but he also didn't want to leave without making sure you had it.

The faint sound of music coming from inside explained it. You must have your earbuds in. Michael hesitated for another moment before carefully opening the door just a little.

"Hey, I just wanted to—"

The words died in his throat immediatly.

You were standing in the middle of the room, facing away from him, and you weren't wearing your clothes. Well, you were barely wearing any clothes.

His brain took a full second to catch up. The black tank top was gone. The jeans were gone. In their place was a thin strip of black lace across your hips and a matching bra that pushed your tits up so high and so full he thought his heart might stop. The lamp on the bedside table threw warm light across your skin, catching the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your ass barely covered by the lace, the long line of your back.

Michael's hand went white-knuckled around the jacket.

He should move. He should turn around, close the door, walk away, pretend he never saw a thing. Every voice in his head was screaming at him to do exactly that. His feet wouldn't listen. His feet were bolted to the floor, and his eyes were locked on you, and his breath had gone somewhere he couldn't find it.

Then it hit him. Not the shame, not the guilt — that came later. First came the heat, low and sudden and brutal, surging up from his gut and slamming straight into his cock. It went hard so fast it almost hurt, a thick, heavy ache pressing against the inside of his jeans, and he felt himself twitch against the denim like his body had a mind of its own.

God. God, he shouldn't be looking. He shouldn't be standing here at all.

You shifted, reaching for something on the dresser, and the movement made your ass sway under the lace. Michael's mouth went dry. His cock throbbed, straining so hard against his jeans that he could feel every heartbeat in it, and the shame hit him then — hot and ugly and tangled up with the want until he couldn't tell them apart.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't stand here watching you like some animal.

Michael pulled the door shut as quietly as he could manage, the latch clicking soft behind him, and he was moving before he even knew he'd decided to. Down the hall, past the bathroom, into his own room. He closed the door and leaned his back against it, chest heaving, and his hand went to the front of his jeans before he could think better of it.

He was already so hard it hurt. The denim was tight and unforgiving around him, and when he pressed his palm flat against himself he let out a shaky breath through his teeth. He fumbled with the button, the zipper, shoved his jeans and his boxers down his hips, and his cock sprang free — heavy, thick, aching, flushed dark and leaking at the tip.

He wrapped his hand around it and his eyes fell shut.

He shouldn't be doing this. You were a guest in his house, a stranger he'd brought in off the road, a woman who'd trusted him enough to sleep under his roof. And here he was, jerking off to the memory of you in that black lace. Shame burned low in his belly, but it did nothing to cool the heat. If anything, it made it worse.

He worked his hand slow, up and down, and his mind went where it wanted to go.

He pictured you on your back in his bed, that black lace pushed up around your waist, your tits spilling out of the bra as he settled between your thighs. Pictured your legs wrapped around him, your heels digging into his back, the way you'd sound as you gasped his name when he pushed into you. He imagined the weight of you, the soft give of your hips under his hands, the way you'd feel clenching around him —

Michael's jaw clenched. A low sound rumbled up out of his chest and he stroked himself faster, thumb dragging over the head, smearing the slick that kept beading there.

Then he pictured you on top of him. Cowgirl. You straddling his hips, that black lace gone, your tits bouncing as you rode him, your head tipped back, your mouth open, taking him deep and slow and then fast, riding him until he couldn't think straight. He could almost feel your weight on his thighs, the heat of you, the way your cunt would grip him —

He was ashamed of himself. He was. But his hand kept moving, and his cock kept throbbing, and the image of you wouldn't leave him alone.

He pictured you bent over the edge of the bed, your ass in the air, that lace pulled to the side. Pictured himself behind you, hands on your hips, pushing into you from behind, watching the way you'd take him. He'd grab a fistful of your hair, gentle but firm, and pull your head back, and you'd moan his name —

Michael's breathing went ragged. He leaned his head back against the door and stroked himself harder, faster, chasing it, and the shame and the want tangled up until he couldn't separate them anymore. All he knew was the heat building low in his gut, the image of you burned behind his eyes, the sound of his own rough breathing filling the dark room.

He was so close. He could feel it building, coiling hot and tight, and he stroked himself with a desperate rhythm, his mind full of you — every position, every angle, every way he wanted to take you. The shame was still there, gnawing at the edges, but it only made the heat burn brighter.

His whole body tensed. He came with a shuddering gasp, his hips jerking into his fist, spilling hot and thick over his knuckles and his stomach, and for a long moment he just stood there, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to the door.

Michael looked down at his hand, at the mess he'd made, at the shame curling in his chest. He should feel worse. He knew he should. But all he could feel was the ghost of you — the curve of your waist, the swell of your pretty ass, the way the lamplight had caught your skin — and the knowledge that he was going to have a hell of a time looking you in the eye coming morning.

He cleaned himself up with a cloth from the bathroom and washed his hands. He didn't sleep much that night.

Morning came slow and pale through the curtains, the light thin and gray, and for a long moment you weren't sure where you were.

Then the smell of old wood and hay and something warm drifted in, and it all came back—

The broken-down car, the empty road, the cowboy who'd pulled over like he'd been sent for you.

You lay there a minute, letting the room come into focus. The bed was softer than you'd expected, the blanket heavy and warm. Outside, a rooster crowed somewhere distant, and you could hear the low sound of a truck engine idling, then cutting off. The farm was also waking up.

You stretched, the sheet slipping down your shoulders. The night air had cooled everything, and you reached for your clothes on the floor — your black tank top and the jeans and pulled them back on.

The hallway smelled like coffee. That was the first thing. Warm and dark and bitter, drifting up from somewhere downstairs, and your stomach turned over at the thought of it. You followed the smell down the stairs, past a coat rack and a stack of old boots, and the house opened into a kitchen at the back.

And there he was.

Michael stood at the counter with his back to you, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other holding a phone to his ear. He'd changed — fresh jeans, a clean flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the same worn boots. But the hat was still there, sitting easy on his head like it was part of him, and the sight of it made you smile.

"Nah, I told you," he was saying into the phone. "She just died on me. Right there 'n the side of the road, 'bout half a mile past the old Whitfield place. Engine sputtered out 'nd wouldn't start again."

A pause. He took a sip of coffee.

"I don't know what's wrong with it, 's the thing. 'm no mechanic, but I looked her over best I could. Somethin' with the engine, I reckon. Y' think y' could take a look at her?"

Another pause, longer this time. He nodded to himself.

"Mm-hm. Yeah. I got her here at the house. She's stayin' with me 'til we figure it out."

He glanced toward the window, and the morning light caught his profile — the line of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed a little as he listened. He was handsome in a way that snuck up on you, easy and unassuming, and you caught yourself staring.

"Alright," he said into the phone. "I'll bring her by tomorrow if that works. Appreciate it, Marlon. Yeah. You too."

He pulled the phone away from his ear, tapped the screen, and set it down on the counter with a small sigh. And then he turned, reaching for his coffee and stopped. His eyes landed on you standing in the doorway, and something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something warmer. He blinked, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, slow and easy.

"Mornin', suga'."

"Good morning," you said, and his smile widened a little.

"Sleep alright?"

"Better than I expected, honestly. That bed's real comfortable."

"Glad to hear it," he said, and he meant it. He gestured with his mug toward a chair at the kitchen table. "Coffee's fresh. Made it 'bout twenty minutes ago. There's eggs 'nd bacon if y' want somethin' to eat."

"You didn't have to do all that."

"No trouble," he said, already moving to the stove. "Was gonna make breakfast anyway. Just makin' a little more."

You sat down at the table, and he worked at the stove with his back to you, cracking eggs into a pan, the bacon already sizzling. The kitchen was warm and smelled like home, and for a minute you just watched him move — easy, unhurried, like he'd been doing this his whole life.

"Soooo, that was your brother on the phone?" you asked.

"Yeah," he said over his shoulder. "Marlon. He's the one in the family who actually knows his way 'round an engine. Runs a little repair shop over in the next town."

"Think he can fix my car?"

"If anybody can, it's him," Michael said. "Said he'll take a look at her tomorrow. I'll drive y' over there myself, if y' want."

"You'd do that?"

He turned, and there was something soft in his expression.

"Course I would."

He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, and your chest did something quiet at the sound of it. He turned back to the stove, and the sizzle of the bacon filled the silence.

"You're really kind, Michael."

He ducked his head a little, and you could've sworn his ears went pink.

"Just doin' what's right."

He slid the eggs onto a plate, added the bacon, and brought it over to set in front of you. He was close enough that you caught his scent again. Dust, hay and soap, fresh from a morning shower, and something underneath that was just him.

"Eat up," he said, settling into the chair across from you with his own coffee. "Gonna be a long day."

You picked up your fork, and he watched you take the first bite. Then he reached for his mug, and his eyes drifted, just for a second, just a glance. Down over your shoulders, along the line of your neck, where the tank top sat loose against your collarbones.

And then he remembered.

It hit him all at once, the way it did every time he closed his eyes last night. You in that black lace, the lamp catching the curve of your waist— The heat came back low and sudden, and his hand tightened on the mug.

He looked away fast, down at his coffee, and his jaw worked. His ears went red, creeping up his neck, and he cleared his throat.

"Good eggs," he managed, not quite meeting your eyes.

You tilted your head.

"You alright, Michael?"

"Yeah," he said, a little too quick. "Yeah, 'm fine. Just — hot coffee. Burns the mouth."

You smiled, not quite convinced, but you let it go.

"Alright."

He took a long sip, staring down at the table, doing everything he could not to think about the way you'd looked yesterday.

You set your fork down, chewing the last bite of bacon, and looked across the table at him. He was still staring at his coffee like it held the secrets of the universe, his ears a little pink at the tips.

"So your brother's gonna take a look tomorrow?" you asked.

Michael blinked, coming back to himself. "Yeah. He's real good with engines. If it's fixable, he'll find it."

"That's good." You paused, turning the thought over. "So I guess I should probably start looking into a hotel or something. I don't want to be a bother."

His head came up fast at that, his brow furrowing. "A hotel?"

"Well, yeah. I can't just stay here for free. You've already done more than enough."

"Suga'." He set his mug down, and there was something almost offended in his voice. "Y' not a bother. Not even close. You're welcome t' stay here as long as it takes. I got the room, I got the food, and I got nobody else fillin' either one. 's no trouble at all."

You looked at him, at the earnest set of his jaw, the way he'd gone from flustered to firm in the space of a breath. "You're sure?"

"Positive." He said it like it was the easiest answer he'd ever given. "You stay right here 'til your car's fixed. I won't hear any argument about it."

A warmth spread through your chest, quiet and unexpected. "Alright. Thank you, Michael."

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth, and reached for his coffee again. The silence settled easy between you, comfortable, and you found yourself looking around the kitchen — the worn wooden table, the row of hooks by the door, the window over the sink looking out onto green fields.

"So," you said, "you got a farm. What kind of animals do you have?"

Michael's face lit up. It was subtle — just a crinkle at the corners of his eyes, a loosening of his shoulders — but it was there. He leaned back in his chair, cradling his mug.

"Well, let's see. I got a couple'a horses — a mare named Daisy 'nd a gelding called Buck. Buck's got a mean streak, but he's all talk. Daisy's the sweet one. She'll follow you 'round the paddock like a dog."

You smiled. "That's cute."

"They're good company," he said, and there was a fondness in his voice that made you believe it. "Then there's the chickens. 'Bout a dozen of 'em, plus a rooster who thinks he runs the whole place. His name's Jasper. He's got an attitude problem, but he lays... well, the hens lay. He just struts around makin' noise."

You laughed. "He sounds like a character."

"He's a menace," Michael corrected, grinning. "But a lovable one. Then I got two goats — Bill 'nd Nanny. Billy's a little escape artist. Got out three times last month, 'nd I found him eatin' my neighbor's roses every single time."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. Neighbor ain't spoken to me since." He shook his head, but he was smiling. "And then there's the cows. I got a small herd — 'bout fifteen or so. They're mostly just... cows. They stand around, chew grass, look at you like you owe 'em money."

You laughed again, and the sound of it seemed to settle something in him. He watched you with a soft expression, like he was enjoying the sight of you smiling in his kitchen.

You looked out the window, at the green fields stretching toward the barn in the distance. The morning light was warm on the grass, and somewhere out there a horse nickered, soft and distant.

"Could we go see them?" you asked, turning back to him. "The horses, I mean. I've always liked horses."

Michael's face did something quiet and pleased, like you'd asked him something he'd been hoping to hear. "Yeah," he said, setting his mug down and pushing back from the table. "Yeah, I'd like that. Let me just grab my boots."

He was already moving, and you smiled at his back, at the easy way he'd said yes. You stood too, and followed him toward the door, the morning stretching out warm and unhurried ahead of you both.

The screen door creaked as Michael held it open for you.

A cool breeze met you the second you stepped outside, carrying the smell of damp earth and fresh-cut grass. The sun had climbed higher while you'd been eating, burning away the last of the morning haze. Everything looked washed clean in the light.

The farm stretched farther than you'd realized from the kitchen window.

Rolling pasture disappeared into the distance, fenced in with weathered wood. A faded red barn stood a little ways off, its doors thrown open, and beyond that sat a wide paddock where two horses grazed lazily with their heads low.

"C'mon," Michael said, slipping his hands into his pockets. "They're out this way."

You fell into step beside him. The gravel crunched beneath your boots as you walked. Every now and then he kicked a loose stone off the path without thinking, his stride long but unhurried, always slowing just enough so you didn't have to keep up.

"You've lived here your whole life?" you asked.

"Mhm."

He nodded toward the fields.

"Parents bought the place when I was just a little thing. Not much changed since then."

"You never wanted to leave?"

He thought about it.

"I did."

You looked over at him.

"When I was younger." He shrugged. "Thought there had t' be somethin' bigger out there."

"And?"

He smiled to himself.

"Turns out... bigger ain't always better."

There wasn't any sadness in the way he said it. Just certainty.

"I like knowin' everybody in town. Like wakin' up before the sun. Like hearin' the birds instead'a traffic." He glanced toward you. "Guess I'm a simple man."

"I don't think simple's the right word."

"No?"

"I think... content."

That earned a quiet laugh.

"I'll take that."

They walked another few yards before the horses noticed them. The chestnut mare lifted her head first. Her ears perked immediately.

"Daisy," Michael called.

The mare whinnied softly before breaking into an eager trot toward the fence. You laughed.

"Oh my God, she really does come when you call."

"Told ya."

He climbed onto the lowest fence rail with practiced ease, leaning over to scratch behind Daisy's ears. She practically melted into him, nudging insistently against his shoulder until he laughed again.

"Easy now."

Watching him with the horse was... different.

He became even gentler somehow.

His voice dropped into a soft murmur, fingers brushing through her mane with absent affection, and Daisy responded to every touch like she trusted him completely.

"You've got her wrapped around your finger."

"Nah." He rubbed her forehead. "I'm the one wrapped around hers."

You smiled. "I can tell."

He looked over his shoulder at you.

"You wanna pet her?"

"I don't know if she'll like me."

Michael looked almost offended by the suggestion.

"Daisy likes everybody."

He stepped aside, leaving space beside him.

"Come here."

You approached slowly, reaching out with a cautious hand.

The mare sniffed your fingers, her breath warm against your skin, before nudging your palm with her nose.

"Oh."

Your face lit up.

"Hi."

Michael watched the entire exchange with an expression so soft it almost hurt.

"See?"

You scratched gently between Daisy's eyes.

"She's beautiful."

"Ain't she?"

You turned to him with a grin that was brighter than the morning sun.

"I think she likes me."

"I think she's already decided you're stayin'."

The words slipped out before he realized he'd said them. His eyes widened.

"I—I mean—"

His ears immediately turned pink.

"I just meant..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Long enough t' get your car fixed."

You couldn't help smiling.

"I know what you meant."

"...Right."

He looked very interested in Daisy's mane all of a sudden.

You bit back a laugh.

The barn had a different kind of quiet than the rest of the farm.

Outside, there was always something moving — the rustle of grass in the wind, the distant call of birds, the occasional sound of an animal making itself known. But inside the barn, everything felt slower. The air was warmer, heavy with the scent of hay and old wood, with sunlight slipping through the cracks between the boards and painting golden lines across the floor.

You'd been following Michael around for most of the morning, watching him move from one task to another. He had shown you the horses, introduced you to the chickens like they were actual members of the family, and warned you very seriously not to trust Bill the goat, who apparently had a personal vendetta against anything that looked expensive.

You were beginning to understand why he liked it here. There was something peaceful about it.

And there was something about Michael himself that fit into it perfectly.

He stood near Daisy's stall, one hand resting on the wooden gate while he checked the latch. His sleeves were still rolled up, his flannel slightly worn at the elbows, and that hat sat on his head like it had been there forever.

Eventually, you couldn't help yourself.

"So…" you said, leaning against the half-door of Daisy's stall. "Do cowboys ever take those hats off?"

Michael looked up from fastening the latch.

"Hm?"

You pointed at him.

"The hat."

He blinked.

"I've been wondering all morning."

His hand instinctively touched the brim. A small smile tugged at his mouth.

"Yeah, I take it off."

"Hmm."

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"What?"

"I don't know. I'm starting to think it's attached."

He laughed, shaking his head. "It ain't attached."

"You sure?"

"Pretty sure."

You looked at him, pretending to study the hat. "I've never actually seen you without it."

Michael opened his mouth to respond, then paused. You caught it. Your eyebrows lifted.

"What?"

"You hesitated."

"I did not."

"You did."

He gave a quiet laugh, looking down at the ground.

"You're somethin' else."

"That's not a denial."

Michael's jaw worked, but nothing came out. He just stood there in the barn door's shadow, arms folded, that worn straw hat low over his eyes, and you watched him try to find words. Before he could answer, you stepped closer. There was a little bit of hay caught near the brim, and you reached up without thinking.

Michael went still.

Not because you were doing anything strange, but because you were suddenly close. Close enough to smell him — hay and sweat and something warm underneath, like sun-baked leather. Your fingers brushed the edge of the hat, and before he could say anything, you lifted it from his head.

"There," you said, placing it on your own. The band was still warm from his skin. "See? Not attached." You tipped the brim slightly, grinning. "How do I look?"

Michael stared. Like his brain had forgotten what it was supposed to do. His eyes moved from the hat, to you, and then immediately away again — but not before they caught on your mouth.

And you saw it, the way his gaze snagged there for half a second too long. The tips of his ears turned pink first, then the color slowly crept down his neck, into the collar of his shirt. You lowered your smile.

"Michael?"

He cleared his throat, and his voice came out rough.

"Yeah. Uh..." His hand rubbed the back of his neck. "Y' might wanna..." He gestured vaguely toward the hat. "...take that off."

You blinked.

"What?"

"The hat."

You laughed softly. "Why? You said it wasn't attached."

"I know, I know." He shook his head quickly. "'s just..."

He looked genuinely embarrassed now, which only made you more confused. His eyes kept flicking to the hat on your head and then away, like he couldn't stand to look at it and couldn't stand not to.

"What?"

Michael glanced toward the barn door, then back at you, like he was hoping someone else might magically appear and save him from the conversation.

Finally, he sighed.

"My brothers... They used t' give me a hard time 'bout it."

"About the hat?"

"About what it means when somebody takes it."

You frowned slightly.

"What it means?"

He nodded, then immediately looked like he regretted saying anything. He shifted his weight, and the movement made his shirt pull across his shoulders, and you noticed it in a way you hadn't before.

"There's... kinda an old cowboy thing." You waited. Michael swallowed, his throat working.

"People joke that if... if a woman takes a cowboy's hat, it means she— uh... that she wants to... ride the cowboy, 'f y' know what I mean..." He mumbled the last words, almost too embarrassed to say it out loud.

The silence they left behind felt different than before— heavier, warmer, like the air had gotten thick.

You stared at him.

A beat passed.

Then another.

"Oh..."

His face somehow got even redder.

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"I know."

"No, I mean—"

You reached up quickly, taking the hat off your head. "I didn't know that—"

"I know you didn't."

"I was literally just messing with you."

"I know."

He smiled a little, trying to reassure you, but he still looked mortified. The smile didn't reach his eyes — his eyes were doing something else entirely, tracking you, watching the way your fingers moved over the brim.

"I figured."

The silence that followed was awkward, but not uncomfortable. Because now you were both suddenly aware of something that hadn't been there a few minutes ago. The closeness.

The way his eyes kept flicking back to you before he caught himself. The way you were suddenly very aware that his hat had been sitting on your head, warm from his skin, smelling like him.

You looked at it, then held it out to him.

"Here."

Michael reached for it, and your fingers brushed. Both of you paused. It was barely a second. But it was enough.

His hand was calloused and rough against yours, and he didn't pull away right away — he let the contact sit there, skin to skin, and you felt the heat of his palm before he finally closed his fingers around the hat and took it back. He settled it onto his head, pulling the brim down slightly lower than before, like he was hiding behind it.

You watched his throat move when he swallowed.

"You know," he said quietly, "for what it's worth..."

You looked at him. A small smile appeared on his face, and this time it reached his eyes.

"Y' did look good 'n it."

Your cheeks warmed.

"Thanks."

He nodded, looking away — but not before you caught the way his gaze dropped to your lips again, lingered, and then dragged itself up to meet yours.

"Y' welcome."

Neither of you moved. The barn creaked around you, and somewhere a horse shifted in its stall, and you both stood there in the warm, hay-scented quiet, the hat between you like a line neither of you was quite ready to cross.

Michael looked away first.

And you could see the effort it took. The way his jaw tightened slightly, the way he adjusted the brim of his hat even though it didn't need adjusting. Like he was trying to put something back into place.

"Well," he murmured, clearing his throat. "I should probably finish up out here before lunch." You nodded, even though neither of you moved right away.

"Right." Another pause.

Then Michael gave you that small, shy smile of his.

"Come on. I'll show you the rest of the place."

You followed him out of the barn, but the moment didn't disappear behind you. It followed you. It lingered in the space between you as you walked across the farm, in the quiet glances that lasted a second too long, in the way Michael seemed just a little more careful with himself than he had been before. Not distant. Just... aware.

Like he had become suddenly conscious of every little thing he did around you.

Michael showed you the rest of the property like he had promised. He took you past the old fence line that bordered the far pasture, pointed out the creek that ran along the back of the land, and told you about the time he had found Bill the goat halfway up a stack of hay bales with absolutely no explanation for how he'd gotten there.

You laughed so hard at the story that Michael had to stop walking just to look at you.

"What?" you asked, noticing. He shook his head. "Nothin'."

"You were staring."

"I was not."

"You were."

A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Just ain't heard someone laugh like that in a while."

Michael seemed to realize he'd said something too honest because he looked away, clearing his throat and turning his attention back toward the pasture.

"You wanna see the creek?" You smiled.

"Yeah."

And you followed him. By the time you made your way back toward the house, the afternoon sun had started to soften. The golden light stretched across the fields, catching on the tall grass and making everything look like it belonged in a painting. You found yourself slowing down. Not because you were tired. Because you didn't want the walk to end. That thought surprised you. You barely knew this man.

Before yesterday, you hadn't even known he existed. And yet somehow, walking beside him felt easy. Natural.

Michael noticed you had fallen behind and slowed his pace.

"Y' alright?"

You looked up. "Yeah, 'm good."

He studied you for a moment.

"Well..."

He looked toward the house, then back at you.

"I should probably start on dinner soon."

The thought of him cooking made you smile.

"You cook every day?"

"Most days."

"By yourself?"

"Mhm."

"That's actually kind of impressive."

He laughed softly.

"'s nothin'."

"You always say that."

"What?"

"That everything you do isn't a big deal."

Michael looked at you. Because you both knew what you really meant. Stopping on the road. Giving you a place to sleep. Making you breakfast.

His expression softened.

"Y' would've done the same."

The certainty in his voice caught you off guard. You weren't sure you would have. Michael didn't seem to think kindness was something special. He just thought it was something people were supposed to give.

Dinner was quiet. Not uncomfortable or awkward. You both were just quieter than before.

There was a new kind of awareness sitting between you both, something neither of you had acknowledged out loud but both of you seemed to feel. The easy conversation from earlier was still there, the small smiles and little jokes, but now there was something underneath it.

You found yourself noticing things you hadn't before— the way Michael's slender fingers curled around his fork, or the way his eyes would drift toward you before quickly finding somewhere else to look. And he wasn't the only one. Every time he adjusted the brim of his hat, every time his fingers brushed over it, you remembered the way it had felt in your hands. Warm from him. Carrying the faint scent of soap, leather, and the outdoors.

It was ridiculous how something so small had changed the atmosphere between you. But it had. Michael seemed to feel it too.

After dinner, the two of you moved into the living room, the sound of rain beginning softly against the windows. It had started while you'd been clearing the dishes, a gentle tapping that slowly grew heavier until it filled the entire house. Michael stood by the window for a while, looking out at the fields.

"You like storms?"

You sat on the couch, watching him.

"Sometimes."

He glanced over.

"Sometimes?"

You smiled.

"Depends where I am."

He nodded like he understood.

"Yeah. I guess it does."

The lights flickered once. Then again. Michael looked up.

"Well."

A second later, the whole house went dark. You both laughed quietly.

"That figures," you said.

Michael disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a few candles. The soft glow filled the room, making the farmhouse feel even older somehow. Warmer. You watched him set one down on the table.

It was strange.

A man you'd met yesterday.

A house you'd never seen before. And yet sitting there in the candlelight, listening to the rain, it felt familiar. Michael sat across from you, resting his forearms on his knees. For a while, neither of you spoke. It was the kind of silence that happened when two people were thinking the same thing but neither wanted to be the first to say it.

Your car would be fixed tomorrow. You would leave. And somehow, after only a day and a half, the thought felt heavier than it should have. You looked down at your hands.

"You know..."

Michael looked up.

"I thought I'd be counting down the hours until that car was fixed."

His expression shifted slightly. He glanced over.

"And now?"

The question was quiet and hung in the air You looked toward the rain-covered window. The fields beyond it were barely visible through the storm.

"Now I'm not so sure."

The silence that followed felt different. Just full.

Michael looked down at his hands, his thumb brushing slowly over one of the calluses along his palm. You noticed the small movement, the way he seemed to retreat into himself whenever something mattered too much. For a moment, he didn't say anything. Then his voice came quieter than before.

"Don't say things like that 'f y' don't mean 'em, suga'."

Your eyes moved back to him.

"Why?"

Michael swallowed. His gaze stayed fixed on his hands. Because he had been trying. God, he had been trying.

Trying not to read too much into the way you smiled at him. Trying not to remember the feeling of your fingers brushing his when you'd handed his hat back. Trying to forget how incredibly beautiful you looked yesterday, in your pretty black lace set.

"'cause..."

He stopped. The rain filled the silence for him. Then he looked up.

"'cause I've been trying real hard not to hope you might."

Your breath caught slightly. Michael immediately looked away, almost like he regretted letting the words escape.

"I know 's probably ridiculous."

"It's not."

His eyes returned to yours.

"You don't even know me." A small, smile touched his mouth. "And I don't know you. Not really...But I think I know enough."

He looked down again.

"Know 'nough t' know I like havin' y here."

Your throat went dry.

"I don't expect anything from you." He said it quickly, like he needed you to understand. "I mean that."

You nodded.

"I know."

"Your car gets fixed tomorrow, 'nd you go wherever y' headed."

You stood slowly. Michael looked up as you moved closer. Neither of you spoke again. The storm raged outside, but inside the farmhouse everything felt impossibly still.

"You know," you said softly, "for someone who says he's not hoping..." A tiny smile touched your lips. "You don't hide it very well."

Michael let out a quiet laugh, but it was nervous.

"No?"

"No."

You were close now. And still, he didn't move. He just looked at you. Waiting.

The candlelight flickered across his face, catching the slight tremor in his jaw. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he was physically holding himself back. Waiting. Always waiting for you to decide.

You reached up.

Slowly.

Giving him every chance to move away.

His breath caught when your fingers brushed the brim of his hat. You didn't take it off. You just let your hand rest there, feeling the warmth of him beneath the shadow of it.

"Can I?" you whispered.

Michael's eyes searched yours.

He didn't ask what you meant.

He already knew.

"Yeah," he breathed, barely audible over the rain. "Suga', you can do whatever you want with me."

The words hit you low in the chest. You pushed the hat back off his head. It fell to the floor between you, forgotten. And then his hands were on you. Not gentle. Not careful.

His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt at your waist and pulled, and you came against him with a soft gasp, your palms flat on his chest. He was warm. Solid. Real in a way the last two days hadn't quite felt.

"Michael—"

"I been wantin' to do this since you walked up my drive," he said, voice rough, eyes dark. "Since you stood in my kitchen smilin' at me like that. Y' such a pretty girl."

He ducked his head and kissed you. It was hungry.

His mouth slanted over yours, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. The other stayed at your waist, thumb pressing hard against your hip through the fabric. He kissed like a man who had spent too long holding back, like he'd been rationing this moment and had finally decided to spend it all at once.

You let out a soft sigh against his mouth. He swallowed it.

His tongue swept along your lower lip and you opened for him, and the groan that rumbled from his chest vibrated straight through you. He tasted like coffee and rain and something warm. His hand tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he was afraid you'd slip away if he loosened his grip.

The storm pressed against the windows. Neither of you heard it.

You broke apart only when you needed air, foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, feather-light, and when he spoke his voice was wrecked.

"Told myself I wasn't gonna do that."

You laughed, breathless.

"Glad you lied."

He let out a shaky sound that might have been a laugh, might have been something else. His hand came up to cup your face, and he looked at you like you were the only warm thing in the storm. You pulled him back down.

The second kiss was slower. Deeper. His hands found the hem of your shirt and tugged it up, and you lifted your arms and let him peel it over your head, the fabric whispering past your skin, dragging over the curve of your breasts before it slid away.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you— and the way his eyes went dark, the way they dropped to your chest and lingered, made your stomach tighten into a hot, wanting knot.

"Jesus," he breathed, and it came out wrecked, like he'd forgotten how to make a sound.

His thumb traced the curve of your breast through the lace of your bra, feather-light, almost reverent, like he was memorizing the weight of you in his hand. He cupped you, tested the give of you, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. Then he dipped his head and pressed his mouth to the hollow of your throat, tongue dragging over your pulse, and the sound you made wasn't one you planned. A soft, broken whimper.

"Michael─"

"Shh," he murmured against your skin, his hands sliding around your back to unhook your bra, his fingers working the clasp like he'd been dreaming of it. "Lemme take care of y', baby."

The clasp gave with a soft click. The straps slid down your shoulders, and he pulled the lace away and let it fall, and then his mouth was on you. Hot and open-mouthed, his tongue dragging flat across your nipple before he sucked it between his lips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching into him, offering more, and he took it. He laved and sucked and bit down just enough to make you gasp, his hand cupping your other breast, thumb working the nipple into a tight, aching peak.

"That's it," he said against your skin, his voice low and rough and thick with wanting. "'s my good girl. God, y' have so pretty tits, honey baby. So soft."

He worked his way down your body, kissing a slow, deliberate trail down your sternum, your ribs, the soft swell of your belly. His mouth lingered on the curve of your hip, his teeth grazing the skin there, and his hands gripped you, fingers sinking into the skin of your hips, thumbs pressing into the jut of bone. He held you like you were something to be savored, not rushed. And when he sank to his knees on the floor in front of the couch, between your spread thighs, you knew exactly what was coming.

He looked up at you from between your legs, the candlelight catching the hunger in his eyes, and he was already breathing hard.

"Wanna taste y', suga'."

You didn't have words. You just nodded.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your jeans and pulled them down your legs, panties with them, slow and deliberate, dragging the denim over the curve of your ass and down your thighs. And the way he looked at you when you were bare, the way his gaze traveled the length of you, lingering on the soft roll of your hips, the plush of your thighs— made your breath catch.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then the other. Each one higher than the last, his mouth working closer and closer, until his breath ghosted hot and wet against your slick, so close you could feel the heat of him.

"Already this wet fo' me," he murmured, almost to himself, his voice filled with desire. "Look at ya', baby. Soaked. 'nd I ain't even touched y' yet."

And then his tongue dragged up the length of you, flat and slow, from your entrance all the way to your clit, and your hips bucked off the couch. "C'mon, angel, lemme get a taste o' this sweet lil' pussy..."

"Oh fuck!—"

He repeated the action.

He licked your cunt like he was starving, like he'd been thinking about this since the moment you walked up his drive, like he'd been starving for the taste of you for years. His tongue circled your clit, flicked, pressed flat and broad, and every time you gasped he'd groan against you like the sound drove him crazy. His hands gripped your thighs, almost with a bruising grip, spreading you wider, holding you open for him, and he buried his face in you like he wanted to drown in your juices.

"Taste like honey," he said against you, the words vibrating straight through your clit, making your whole body clench. "Sweetest thing I ever had, hunny. Could eat this pussy all goddamn night."

He sucked your clit into his mouth and you cried out, your hand flying down to tangle in his hair, gripping him there. He let you hold him, let you grind against his mouth, and he took it— took all of it— groaning like he wanted to live between your thighs. Two fingers pushed into your slickness then, curling, crooking against that spot that made your vision blur, and he pumped them slow while his tongue worked you in relentless circles.

"Please," you managed, your voice breaking. "Michael, please—"

"Please what, beautiful?"

"Want you. Want—" You couldn't finish. You couldn't think. How could someones mouth feel this fucking good?

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his mouth slick and shining with you, chin wet, eyes nearly black in the candlelight. He was wrecked. You'd wrecked him.

"Want what, suga'? Tell me. Talk t' me"

"Want you inside me."

A slow, teasing smile spread across his face, and his fingers curled deeper inside you, making you moan.

"You'll get it. But I want y' t' come on my tongue first." He lowered his head again, his breath hot against your soaked pussy. "Want t' feel it, sweet girl. Want y' t' soak my face. Drown me in it."

He went back to work, and this time he didn't let up. His fingers fucked you in a steady, curling rhythm while his mouth worked your clit, and the pressure built and built until you were shaking, your thighs trembling around his head, your whole body drawn tight as a wire. And he felt it. He felt every shudder, every clench; and he groaned against you like it was killing him.

"Thaaat's it," he said, his voice muffled against you, his fingers never stopping. "Come fo' me, pretty baby. Come on my tongue. Soak me."

And you did. It hit you like the storm outside, white-hot and blinding, your whole body bowing off the couch as you cried out his name. He lapped you through it, slow and greedy, drinking every drop, not stopping until you were twitching and oversensitive and gasping for air, until you had to push weakly at his head.

He kissed his way back up your body, slow and deliberate, dragging his slick mouth over your belly, your breasts, your throat. And when he kissed you, you could taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet. He was hard against your hip, straining through his jeans, thick and insistent, and you reached for him.

"My turn."

He caught your wrist.

"Not yet, sweet baby." His voice was wrecked, barely holding together, shaking at the edges. "Want y' t' come on my dick. Want t' feel that pretty little pussy squeeze me while y' fall apart."

The words went straight through you, hot and liquid, pooling low in your belly.

He stood, shucked off his shirt, and worked open his belt, the leather sliding through the loops. His jeans came down, and when he stepped out of them you got your first look at him — thick and hard and leaking, the head flushed and slick, his hand wrapped around the base. He was beautiful. He was everything.

"See what y' do t' me, suga'?" He stroked himself slowly, his jaw tight, his knuckles dragging up the length of him. "Been hard since y' stood in my kitchen. Been thinkin' about this sweet ass of yours all goddamn day." His vulgar words and confident tone shocked you. Was this really the shy boy from the barn you thought you knew? But you didn't mind. Not at all.

He climbed onto the couch, settling back against the armrest, and reached for you, his hands finding your hips and pulling you toward him.

"Come here, honey baby."

You straddled him. His hands found your hips, thumbs stroking the soft skin and he looked up at you with something raw and unguarded in his eyes, something that made your chest ache.

"You sure?"

"Michael." You reached down and wrapped your hand around him, and his breath hissed through his teeth, his eyes fluttering shut. "I've never been more sure of anything."

He guided you up, the head of his cock pressing against your slick, wet heat, and then he looked at you, one last question in his eyes. You answered by sinking down.

The two of you groaned together as he filled you, inch by inch, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back. He was so thick, so warm, and you felt impossibly, perfectly full. His cock splitting you open, seating deep inside you until you were flush against him, his hips against yours, his balls pressed to your ass.

"God," he breathed, his head falling back against the couch, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. "Feel that, sweet girl? Feel how good y' take me? Ohhh, look at ya. All that soft ass, all that curve, sittin' on my cock like y' were made for it."

His words made you whimper. You rolled your hips, experimental, grinding down on him, and his hands clenched on your waist, a low groan tearing out of him.

"'s it. Ride me, baby. Fuck yourself on my cock."

You found your rhythm slowly, then faster, your hands braced on his chest, your tits bouncing in his face with every stroke. He watched you with dark, hungry eyes, his gaze dropping to your breasts, to the way they moved, and he reached up and cupped them, thumbing your nipples, groaning.

"Lord, y' so beautiful," he said, his voice rough and reverent. "Look at these perfect tits. Takin' all o' me. Squeezin' me so damn good."

You leaned forward and kissed him, sloppy and open-mouthed, and he groaned into it, his tongue tangling with yours. "Mmmm, Mikey... Y' feel soo good." You mumbled messily against his mouth. "Yeah? 'm fucki' you good, baby?" A little 'mhm!' sound left your lips.

His hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing hard, kneading the soft flesh, guiding your pace as you rode him.

"My perfect, beautiful girl..."

You rode him harder, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, wet and obscene, and he let you take what you needed. But then his hands tightened on your hips, and he stilled you.

"Turn around, sweetheart."

You blinked, breathless.

"want to watch that ass bounce on my cock. Want to watch it swallow me up."

He helped you lift off him, the sudden loss of him making you whimper, and then he guided you to turn around, your back to his chest. He pulled you down onto him again, and you both groaned as he filled you from behind, his cock sliding back into you to the hilt.

"Jesus," he breathed against your ear, his hands already gripping your hips. "Feel even better this way, beautiful. Look at that pretty ass..."

You rode him reverse, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth on your shoulder, your neck, kissing down your spine while you moved. The angle made his cock drag against a spot that made your thighs shake, made you gasp and grind down harder. "Shit─ y' so deep in me, Mikey─"

And then his hands moved— one sliding up your back, the other reaching down to grip your ass, and then he spread you. He spread you open with his thumbs, pulling the cheeks apart, and you felt the cool air on your slick, wet flesh, felt him watching you — watching himself slide in and out of you. He groaned, a sound so raw it vibrated through your whole body.

"Ohh," he breathed, his voice wrecked with wonder. "Look at that. Look at my cock goin' in 'nd out o' ya. 'nd look—" His thumb traced the base of him where he was buried inside you, and you felt the creamy ring that had formed there, the mess of you and him slicking his skin. "Look at that, sweet girl. Look at all that cream. 's aaaall you, baby. That's how wet this pussy 's fo' me. How bad you want it."

You whimpered, grinding down on him, and he let you feel him watching, his eyes burning into the place where you were joined.

"Right there," you gasped. "Don't stop."

"Not stoppin', sweet girl. Not 'till y' come on my dick."

His hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your clit, slick and swollen, and you cried out. He worked you in tight circles while you rode him, his other arm banded across your chest, holding you against him, his cock buried deep inside you.

"'s it, sweetheart. Feel that? Feel how deep I am? Feel how good I fill ya up?"

"Yes—"

"Y' gonna come fo' me? Gonna soak my dick like a good girl? Gonna cream aaall over me?"

"Yes, Michael, yes!—"

"Come on, pretty baby. Let go. Come all over me. Make a mess."

You shattered.

Your body clenched around him, wave after wave, your pussy milking him, and he groaned through it, his hips bucking up into you, driving deeper.

"Thaaaat's it. Fuck, feel you squeezin' me."

He didn't let you stop. He shifted beneath you, and before you could catch your breath he was lifting you off him, pressing you down onto the couch on your hands and knees, your ass up, your spine arching.

"Flat, baby," he said, his voice soft but commanding. "Arch that pretty back fo' me. Push that pretty ass up."

You obeyed. His hands spread your thighs wider, and you felt the head of his cock press against you, slick with you and him, the mess of your cream coating his skin.

"Messy girl," he breathed, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your cheeks, squeezing, spreading. "So messy, sweet girl. So perfect. Love this perfect body o' yours."

He pushed in. Slow. Inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, and then he stilled, both of you breathing hard, his balls pressed against your wet flesh.

"You feel that, hunny? Feel how deep I am?"

"Yes," you whimpered.

He pulled out almost all the way, so slowly you felt every inch of him dragging against your walls, and then he slammed back in, and you cried out, your fingers clawing at the cushion.

"That's it," he growled. "Take it, baby. Take all of me."

He set a brutal pace, deep and hard, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and the sound of it filled the room— the wet slap of his hips against your ass, the slick sound of him driving into your soaked cunt, the heavy, obscene slap of his balls against your flesh with every thrust. The couch creaked beneath you, the rain hammered the windows, and your moans mixed with his grunts, a filthy, perfect rhythm.

"You feel so good," he said, his voice wrecked, barely holding together. "So wet, baby. Squeezin' me like y' never wanna let go." Then he slapped your ass, a sharp, wet crack that made you gasp. "Love watchin' it bounce. Love the way it takes me."

He leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

"That feel good, beautiful?"

"Yes—"

"Say it, sweet girl. Tell me how good it feels."

"So good," you gasped. "Mikey, y' feel so good—"

"Mhm," he groaned. "Feels so good."

He drove into you harder, faster, his hand sliding around to grip your throat — not squeezing, just holding, tilting your head back against his shoulder. His other hand found your clit again, working you in tight, relentless circles, and you were already so close, the pressure coiling tight and hot in your belly.

"Y' mine tonight, angel. All mine. Gonna come again, sweet girl? Gonna come on my cock again?"

"Mhm!—"

"Come on, then. Come on me. Let me feel it. Soak me, baby."

You came with a cry, your body clenching around him so hard he groaned and drove into you through it, his hips stuttering, chasing his own release.

"Just like that," he said, his voice shaking, wrecked. "Ohh, that's my good girl. That's my beautiful—"

He buried himself deep and came with a shudder, his hips grinding against you, a groan torn from his throat as he filled you, hot and pulsing, spilling deep inside you. You felt every pulse of him, felt him empty into you, and you collapsed together onto the couch, both of you breathing hard, slick with sweat and each other.

He pulled out slowly, and you felt the mess of him and you slide down your thigh, warm and wet. He kissed the back of your neck, soft and tender, his hand stroking the curve of your hip.

"Y' so beautiful, baby," he murmured against your skin. "'m gonna take good care of you..."

Michael had somehow managed to occupy nearly every inch of your bed despite lying there alone.

Sheets that had been neatly tucked that morning were now creased beneath him, pillows haphazardly stacked behind his back to prop him upright while one long leg hung lazily over the side of the mattress. Beside him sat an ever-growing collection of loose papers, each one crowded with hurried lyrics, crossed-out verses, scattered arrows and little musical notes that only he himself seemed capable of deciphering. Some pages had already been discarded entirely, crumpled into imperfect balls that littered your bedroom floor like casualties of an invisible war.

The only page he seemed intent on protecting rested neatly inside the leather notebook balanced upon his knee.

Your birthday gift.

Months ago, after growing tired of watching him scribble melodies onto napkins, envelopes, receipts and the backs of grocery lists—only to spend the next week frantically searching for whichever scrap of paper held that one lyric—you'd surprised him with the journal. Rich brown leather, soft beneath his fingertips, his initials embossed discreetly into the corner.

He'd smiled so brightly that afternoon you thought he might cry.

It hadn't been an expensive gift by any means. Just a sturdy leather-bound notebook, warm brown beneath his fingertips, with creamy pages thick enough to withstand the relentless scratching of his pencil. You'd spent far longer choosing it than anyone reasonably should have, standing in little stationery shops with your thumb brushing over countless covers until you'd finally found one that reminded you of him. Simple. Timeless. Something that looked as though it belonged in the hands of someone destined to fill it with songs.

At first he'd simply stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the notebook again.

"You... got this for me?"

You'd laughed softly. "I did, baby. Well, unless somebody else has been hiding in my house, waitin' to give you birthday presents."

He hadn't even smiled immediately. Instead, he'd run his palm slowly across the leather as though afraid pressing too firmly might somehow damage it, before carefully opening the first page. His fingertips lingered over the untouched paper for a long moment.

"It's so nice," he'd murmured, almost to himself. You'd watched him with an amused smile.

"It's just a notebook, you goof."

"I know," he'd replied quietly, still turning the pages one by one. "I've just... nobody ever though of buying me somethin' thoughtful as this. Thank you, baby"

Not because the notebook was extraordinary—it wasn't—but because it had never once crossed your mind that something so ordinary could be unfamiliar to him. Michael, who filled page after page with melodies and fragments of poetry, who carried music around in his head from sunrise until long after midnight, had somehow never owned a place that belonged solely to those thoughts. You remembered reaching over then, gently nudging his shoulder.

"Well..." you'd smiled. "Now you've got somewhere to keep all those genius ideas instead of writing them on the backs of shopping lists."

That finally coaxed a laugh from him.

"I don't write on shopping lists."

You'd simply raised an eyebrow at that.

"Well...not often."

"You wrote a chorus on my electric bill last week."

"It was the only paper I could find," He argued back.

"And then you nearly threw it away."

"'Cause I forgot it was the electric bill!"

You'd shaken your head with a laugh while he grinned sheepishly, already clutching the notebook against his chest like something precious.

"Guess I won't lose 'em anymore."

Of course, the notebook hadn't managed to cure him entirely.

Inspiration, you'd quickly learned, was an impatient thing. It cared very little whether Michael happened to have the journal within arm's reach, and even less whether the nearest writing surface was appropriate. If a melody arrived while the two of you were eating breakfast, he'd seize the closest napkin before the thought had time to disappear. If an idea struck during a drive across Los Angeles, the nearest petrol receipt would become home to hastily scribbled lyrics, slanted diagonally across the paper because he'd forgotten there wasn't enough room. More than once you'd discovered little scraps tucked absentmindedly into the pockets of his jackets, or folded so many times over that you wondered how he'd ever expected to read them again.

"You are impossible, bambi" you'd sighed one evening after rescuing a verse from the back of yesterday's newspaper before it disappeared into the rubbish.

Michael had looked up from where he'd been searching beneath your sofa cushions for another missing page.

"I know where everything is."

"You've been looking for that lyric for twenty minutes."

"...I know where most everything is."

But whenever the songs mattered—whenever he wasn't merely chasing inspiration but inviting it to stay—he always reached for the notebook first.

It rested across his lap now, its once-pristine pages softened by months of use, little corners bent from being carried between studios and your house, the leather worn smooth wherever his thumb habitually rested while he thought. It had become less a birthday present and more an extension of him, holding pieces of songs long before anyone else would ever hear them.

Today, however, the notebook seemed to be testing him. What had once become a place of comfort, now lay open across his lap with pages that refused to cooperate, its cream-coloured paper gradually disappearing beneath relentless scratches of graphite and heavy lines drawn through verses that had only existed for mere moments before being condemned. Every now and then Michael would pause, his pencil hovering uncertainly over the page as he quietly mouthed a lyric to himself, hearing it exactly as it sounded inside his mind. Then came the inevitable disappointment. His brows would pinch together almost imperceptibly, the pencil would move once more, and another thought would disappear beneath a thick, impatient strike before he flipped to a fresh page with a sigh that grew progressively heavier as the afternoon wore on.

You knew better than to assume the words themselves were bad. In truth, if somebody else had happened upon those discarded pages, they likely would've found perfectly respectable lyrics scattered across them. The problem had never been whether Michael could write a good song. The problem was that good had never once satisfied him. Somewhere inside his head existed a version of every melody that was brighter, fuller, more alive than anything he seemed capable of translating onto paper, and until those two versions matched, he simply refused to settle. It was a habit that had followed him for as long as you'd known him, though lately it had begun to consume him with a fervour you hadn't witnessed before.

That was hardly surprising. Off the Wall wasn't simply another album to Michael. If anything, calling it merely an album felt like diminishing everything it represented. This wasn't another Jacksons record where responsibility was shared amongst his brothers, nor another Motown project carefully shaped beneath the opinions of executives who had spent years deciding what Michael Jackson ought to sound like. This was the first time he had been handed genuine creative freedom, the first time people were asking him what he wanted his music to be. Quincy Jones had seen something inside him that so few people had ever truly acknowledged—not simply a gifted singer, but an artist with instincts worth trusting—and Michael carried that belief with equal measures of gratitude and pressure. He wanted to prove that Quincy's faith hadn't been misplaced. More importantly, he wanted to prove it to himself.

Over the past several weeks, you'd watched that determination quietly bleed into every aspect of his life. Music had become something he carried with him rather than something he left behind at the studio. He'd arrive at your house with melodies already tumbling around inside his head, absentmindedly drumming complicated rhythms against your kitchen counter while waiting for the kettle to boil, stopping halfway through conversations because a line had suddenly appeared in his mind and simply couldn't wait to be written down. There had been mornings where you'd woken before him only to discover he wasn't beside you anymore, finding him instead sitting cross-legged at your dining table in yesterday's clothes, curls sticking out in every direction, completely oblivious to the cold cup of coffee he'd made for himself hours earlier. Inspiration seemed incapable of respecting ordinary routines, and Michael, in return, refused to ignore it whenever it arrived.

It was one of the things you admired most about him. There was something endlessly beautiful about the way music seemed to exist as naturally within him as breathing itself. Yet admiration didn't stop your heart from aching whenever that same devotion began turning against him. For every evening he'd rushed through your front door with a grin so infectious that he could hardly get his words out quickly enough before humming a new melody into your ear, there was another like today, where every crossed-out lyric seemed to convince him he was somehow drifting further away from the masterpiece he knew he was capable of creating. It was in those moments that you were reminded just how much of himself Michael poured into his art. He wasn't merely writing songs. Piece by piece, he was trying to introduce the world to the man he was becoming.

While Michael attempted to wrestle inspiration onto paper, you had resigned yourself to an entirely different task.

Your record collection had become an absolute disaster over the last several months, sleeves shoved wherever there'd happened to be room after late evenings spent searching for a particular album, promising yourself each time that you'd organise them properly another day. That day, it seemed, had finally arrived. The floor beside your shelves had disappeared beneath little piles of vinyl, separated only by whichever system made the most sense inside your own head. Soul together, disco together, funk together. Every so often you'd pause, smiling fondly as your fingers traced over an album cover you'd not pulled out in months before carefully returning it to its rightful place.

Music had always found a home in your house, long before Michael had begun spending half his life there. Now, though, the rooms seemed incapable of existing without him filling them with melodies of his own. You smiled to yourself as you pulled another record from the shelf.

"Oh, I forgot I had this one."

Michael hummed absentmindedly from somewhere behind you.

"Mhm."

You glanced over your shoulder. He hadn't even looked up. His notebook remained balanced upon his knee, his pencil tapping softly against his bottom lip while his brows knitted together in concentration.

"You didn't even ask what it was."

"...What is it?"

You laughed.

"Too late."

Another quiet mhm.

That one almost made you giggle. He wasn't listening to a word you were saying at all. You turned your attention back towards the shelves, humming softly as you slid the record into its place before pulling another from the pile. Marvin Gaye. Stevie Wonder. Earth, Wind & Fire. Bee Gees... Little by little, the shelf began looking far less chaotic than it had an hour ago. Behind you, however...

Scratch. Scratch, scratch.

A sigh.

The cassette player clicked as Michael rewound the tape.

Again.

The same few seconds drifted through your bedroom before abruptly stopping.

Scratch.

Another sigh.

You paused, another record halfway back into its sleeve. For a few moments you simply listened. The music. The scratching of graphite.

The occasional impatient exhale that Michael himself probably didn't even realise he was making. He'd been at it for nearly two hours now.

"Angelface?"

"Hm?"

"Y'know..." You smiled faintly, turning another record over in your hands. "If you keep frownin' like that, your face is gonna get stuck."

This time, he did look up. The smallest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before disappearing almost as quickly as it'd arrived.

"'m alright."

"You sure?"

"Mhm."

His eyes had already returned to the page. You watched him for another quiet moment. The way he unconsciously bit at the inside of his cheek. The way his pencil hovered uncertainly before another line was scratched out. The way he leaned back against your headboard with a frustrated sigh that sounded heavier than the last.

Who was he kidding.

You gently slid the final record into place before dusting your hands together, remaining seated on the floor as you looked over at him.

"Peter Pan."

"Mhm?"

"You've said 'mhm' about seventeen times in the last five minutes."

That earned you a proper laugh.

"...Sorry."

"You don't gotta apologise." You tilted your head, studying him with the quiet fondness that always softened your expression whenever he became lost inside his own head.

"I just..." You shrugged lightly. "You're usually excited when you're writin'. Makes me sad to see you all distressed."

Michael's smile faded again. His fingers absentmindedly closed the notebook before opening it once more. For a little while he said nothing. You'd long since learnt that Michael wasn't someone who spoke simply because silence had become uncomfortable. If there were words, he'd find them eventually. If there weren't, you'd happily sit beside him until there were.

Finally, he let out a slow breath.

"'m scared."

The confession was so quiet you almost wondered whether he'd meant to say it aloud. He looked down at the notebook resting in his lap, running his thumb along its worn leather cover.

"I want this album t' be..." He paused, searching for words that felt big enough. "...Everythin'."

"It will be."

"But what if it isn't?"

His voice cracked ever so slightly.

"What if people hear it and just..." He shrugged helplessly. "...Don't care."

You frowned.

"Oh, Mikey..."

He shook his head before you could answer, "I know, I know... Quincy keeps tellin' me not t' think like that." A humourless chuckle escaped him. "Says I'm my own worst critic."

"He'd be right."

"I just..." He rubbed tiredly at his eyes. "This one's different, baby. This one's mine."

You understood exactly what he meant.

This wasn't another Jacksons record, where the weight of success rested upon six pairs of shoulders instead of one. Nor was it another chapter in the life of the little boy who had spent years standing in front of microphones, singing words somebody else had written, beneath the watchful eyes of producers, executives and, above all, his father. For the first time in his life, Michael was being asked what he wanted to say. What he wanted to sound like. Every decision, every lyric, every melody would ultimately lead back to him.

When people held this record in their hands, there would be no brothers standing beside him, no familiar family name to soften either praise or criticism. Across the front cover would be just two words—Michael Jackson—and with those two words came every hope he'd carried since he was a little boy dreaming far beyond the walls of his childhood bedroom.

He wanted to prove that he was more than a child star. More than Joe Jackson's son. More than the lead singer of a family band. He wanted the world to finally see him as the artist he knew, somewhere deep inside himself, he was capable of becoming. And that was precisely why nothing he wrote ever seemed good enough—not because it lacked quality, but because he refused to let this moment become anything less than extraordinary.

It pained you to watch him carry that weight so quietly.

You understood why this album mattered to him. In truth, nobody understood it better than you. You had watched him speak about it for months with stars in his eyes, watched him excitedly ramble about working with Quincy until words tripped over one another in his haste to get them all out. There had been evenings where he'd burst through your front door before you'd even had a chance to greet him, immediately launching into animated explanations of new arrangements they'd experimented with, or a bassline he simply couldn't stop thinking about. His enthusiasm was infectious; whenever Michael spoke about music, it was impossible not to fall in love with it yourself.

Which was exactly why seeing him like this hurt.

His excitement hadn't disappeared. If anything, it had grown so large that it had begun collapsing in on itself, every ounce of passion slowly transforming into pressure. The closer Off the Wall came to becoming reality, the more determined he became to ensure it deserved to exist. Every lyric had to mean something. Every melody had to feel alive. Every song had to earn its place. He wasn't chasing perfection because somebody else demanded it of him anymore. The voice urging him onwards now belonged entirely to himself.

You looked around your bedroom for a moment, smiling softly despite yourself.

The room had become such a reflection of the two of you. Your records lay scattered neatly across the floor in organised little piles, waiting patiently to be returned to their shelves, while Michael's side of the room looked as though a small hurricane had swept through it. Crumpled pages surrounded the bed, his jacket had somehow found its way over the back of your desk chair, and three sharpened pencils lay abandoned atop your duvet despite the one tucked securely between his fingers.

He always did leave little pieces of himself wherever he went.

You reached for another record, smiling fondly as your thumb brushed over its worn cardboard sleeve.

"I haven't listened to this one in forever." Michael hummed distractedly.

"Mhm."

You raised an amused eyebrow.

"'Mhm' again?"

That earned you the faintest smile.

"...Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"...No."

His answer came so quickly that you couldn't help laughing.

"There he is."

"What?"

"My Bambi."

Michael finally looked up properly, confusion giving way to a sheepish little smile as he watched you holding the record against your chest.

"You disappear when you get like this," you said gently. "I keep tryin' t' talk to you and all I get is..." You lowered your voice into a teasing imitation. "'Mhm.'" He rubbed the back of his neck, looking adorably guilty.

"I don't even realise I'm doin' it."

"I know."

"You aren't mad?"

You stared at him for a second before breaking into a smile.

"Baby..." You shook your head. "How could I be mad at you for thinkin' too much?"

His shoulders loosened just enough for you to notice. Still, the notebook remained open in his lap, his eyes drifting back towards the half-finished page as though it were pulling him away from the conversation. Even now, while he was looking directly at you, you could almost see the gears turning behind those dark eyes, another lyric trying desperately to piece itself together.

You'd seen that look before.

It usually meant he needed someone to gently pull him back into the room.

You'd learnt early on that there was very little use in trying to compete with the music whenever it wrapped itself around Michael's mind like this. If a melody refused to leave him alone, no amount of coaxing would persuade him to forget about it. Equally, telling him to simply stop worrying was perhaps the least effective advice one could give. Michael had never known how to switch his mind off. He loved too deeply, thought too deeply, dreamt too deeply. felt too deeply. It was one of the many reasons you adored him so much, but it also meant that every disappointment—no matter how small—seemed to linger inside him far longer than it ought to.

What he needed wasn't a solution. He needed permission to breathe.

Your gaze drifted towards the little cassette player perched beside him on the bed, the tape inside no doubt having been rewound so many times that afternoon it was beginning to protest. You'd lost count of how many snippets of unfinished melodies had floated through your bedroom over the last few hours, each one cut short before it had truly begun as Michael searched for whatever elusive feeling refused to reveal itself.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

"Hunny?"

He looked up almost immediately this time.

"Mhm?"

You reached over, gently plucking the pencil from between his fingers before he could absentmindedly return it to the page. His brows lifted ever so slightly, though he made no attempt to take it back.

"I think your notebook deserves a lil' vacation."

A soft huff of laughter escaped him.

"...A vacation?"

"Mhm."

"'Cause I've been workin' it too hard?"

"'Cause you've been workin' it too hard."

His eyes softened, and for the first time all afternoon, the corners of his mouth stayed lifted for longer than a second. You set the pencil atop the notebook before nodding towards the cassette player.

"Play it for me, baby."

His expression immediately turned bashful.

"Huh? The demo?"

"The one you've been drivin' yourself crazy over."

"It isn't finished."

"I know."

"It still needs a lot."

"It probably does."

He blinked.

"...That's not very encouragin'."

You laughed.

"It wasn't supposed t' be."

He couldn't help smiling properly now, his dimples finally making an appearance.

"I just mean..." You shifted closer, resting your chin against the edge of the mattress as you looked up at him. "You've been sittin' here listenin' to the same few seconds over and over again that I don't think you're hearin' it anymore. Lemme hear it."

Michael looked down at the cassette player, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. There was something strangely vulnerable about playing unfinished music for somebody else.

The world would one day hear polished arrangements, perfected vocals and lyrics that had survived countless revisions, but this... this was different. This was raw. Bare. A song still finding its feet, uncertain of what it wanted to become. Letting somebody into that process felt oddly intimate, as though he were asking you to look inside his mind before he'd had the chance to tidy it. Not that he'd ever minded you seeing those parts of him.

Quite the opposite. If there was one opinion Michael trusted above all others, it was yours.

Not because you always praised him—you didn't. In fact, there had been more than one occasion where you'd wrinkled your nose, told him a lyric sounded clumsy, or admitted that a melody hadn't quite caught your ear. You'd never been cruel, but you'd always been honest, and that honesty had become something he relied upon. There wasn't a trace of ego between the two of you when it came to his music. He wanted your genuine reaction, not your reassurance.

After a moment, he finally reached for the cassette player.

"...Okay." His thumb hovered over the play button.

"But y' gotta promise not t' laugh."

You looked at him in mock offence.

"I have never laughed at your music."

"You laughed at that one love song."

"'Cause you rhymed fire with desire."

"It worked."

"It was painfully obvious."

Michael pointed at you with narrowed eyes.

"I still think it worked."

You grinned, "And I still think Quincy would've thrown that page straight in the trash." He groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against your headboard.

"Baby..."

"What?"

"Whose side are you on?"

"Yours, of course."

You reached over, smoothing one of his little curls away from his forehead.

"Always yours."

With a quiet exhale, he pressed play.

he familiar hiss of the cassette filled the room for a brief moment before it gave way to the music, rough around the edges in all the ways unfinished songs often were. There were no polished vocals, no perfected arrangement, no final flourishes Quincy would inevitably insist upon before the record was complete. It was little more than an idea caught on tape—a groove searching for its identity, instruments feeling one another out, melodies still deciding where they belonged. Yet to you, it already possessed something unmistakably Michael. Even stripped bare, there existed a buoyancy to the rhythm that seemed incapable of sitting still, a brightness that filled your little bedroom as effortlessly as the afternoon sun pouring through the curtains. It made the room feel alive.

Neither of you spoke.

Michael watched your face expression intensely

His dark eyes scarcely left your face, searching for the tiniest shift in your expression with an attentiveness that would've made anybody else nervous. You, however, had long since grown accustomed to it. This was how he'd always shown you his music. He never listened to your words first; he listened to your face. Whether your eyebrows lifted at an unexpected chord, whether your lips pursed thoughtfully at a lyric, whether your fingers unconsciously began keeping time against your leg. Long before you ever voiced an opinion, Michael had usually gathered one of his own simply by watching you exist within his songs.

You hardly realised you were moving.

It began with nothing more than your foot, tapping lazily against the floorboards in quiet companionship with the beat. Then your shoulders followed, rocking ever so slightly, your head beginning to nod without permission as a smile slowly, almost absentmindedly, found its way across your face.

There was something infectious about the groove. It wasn't loud, nor particularly complicated in its current state, but it had attitude. It had swagger. It felt playful in a way that made you want to grin for reasons you couldn't quite explain. Michael noticed immediately.

"...You like it?"

His voice was almost hesitant. You turned to him, surprised he'd interrupted the music.

"Hm?"

"The song." He scratched lightly at the back of his neck.

"Do y'..." He shrugged one shoulder, unable to hide the uncertainty colouring his expression. "Do y' like it?"

You stared at him for a second before softly laughing through your nose.

"Baby."

"What?"

"You've been watchin' me this whole time."

"...Maybe."

"And?"

His lips twitched.

"I wanna hear y' say it."

Your smile only widened.

"I think it's wonderful."

Relief flickered across his face so quickly that it almost escaped notice.

"It sounds..." You looked back towards the little cassette player, listening more carefully now as another section rolled by. "...Happy." Michael tilted his head.

"Happy?"

"Mhm." You nodded thoughtfully. "Not childish. Just..." You searched for the right word, your fingertips still absentmindedly marking the rhythm against your knee. "...Free. Like it doesn't care who's watchin'."

His eyes softened. That was exactly the feeling he'd been chasing. You hadn't known that, of course. You simply heard it.

"You really think so?"

"I do." You smiled, your eyes drifting back towards the cassette player as the groove filled the room once more. There was something undeniably infectious about it. Even unfinished, it possessed a rhythm that seemed to slip beneath your skin before you even realised it, coaxing movement from places entirely beyond your control. Your foot had been keeping time almost since the music began, and now your shoulders followed, swaying ever so gently as you sat beside him.

Michael noticed. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"You're dancin'."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You are."

You looked down at yourself, only then realising your knee had been bouncing with the beat.

"...Oh."

"Told y'."

"I didn't even notice." His grin widened, the first truly carefree smile you'd seen on him all afternoon.

"I did."

You laughed softly, unable to help yourself as the rhythm continued carrying you along. "Well..." You shrugged, still absentmindedly bobbing your head. "Can you blame me?"

He watched you for another moment.

"...No."

"It just..." You searched for the words, looking towards the cassette player again. "I dunno, Mickey. It makes me wanna move."

Michael's smile softened.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"It's not finished."

"I don't care."

Your answer came without hesitation. The simplicity of it made something inside him loosen. You looked back at him then, only to find him still sitting exactly where he'd been for the last two hours—criss cross applesauce atop your bed, notebook forgotten beside him now, though the crease between his brows had finally disappeared.

You smiled to yourself before climbing to your feet, smoothing imaginary creases from your jeans as the music continued to play. Michael watched curiously.

"What're y' doin'?"

You held a hand out towards him.

"C'mere."

He looked from your hand to your face.

"...Why?"

"'Cause."

"That's not an answer."

"It is today."

A quiet laugh escaped him, though he made no move to stand.

"'m serious."

"So am I."

He raised an amused eyebrow.

"What if I don't wanna?"

You gasped dramatically.

"Oh, don't be such a grouch."

"'m not a grouch."

"You've been sittin' in one spot pouting at that notebook for two hours."

"I was not poutin'."

"Michael."

"...Maybe a little."

You wiggled your fingers at him impatiently.

"C'mon."

Michael looked at your outstretched hand for another second before slipping his own into it. His long, slender fingers curled naturally around yours, warm as always, and with only the gentlest tug you pulled him up from the bed. He laughed under his breath.

"You are so bossy."

"And you're stallin'."

"I just don't know what we're doin'."

You stepped backwards, still holding onto his hands, a mischievous smile spreading across your face as the rhythm continued spilling from the cassette player.

"c'mon..." you said, giving his hands another playful tug.

"Just get on the floor 'nd dance with me."

Michael laughed.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"You really just want t' dance?"

You beamed at him.

"That's what music's for, isn't it?"

Before Michael had the chance to answer, you gave his hand another gentle tug, encouraging him away from the bed and onto the open space of your bedroom floor. He came willingly this time, though not without an amused shake of his head, his notebook forgotten amongst the rumpled blankets where it'd occupied him all afternoon.

"You are unbelievable," he laughed, still allowing you to lead him.

"I've been told."

"Mostly by me."

"And yet you keep comin' back."

"I do."

"You must like me."

Michael looked at you with mock contemplation.

"...A little."

You gasped dramatically.

"A little?"

"Mhm."

"That's all?"

He couldn't suppress the grin spreading across his face.

"I'll let your ego wonder."

"Oh, you're awful."

"So I've been told."

"Mostly by me."

The music continued to drift through the speakers, its steady groove wrapping itself around the two of you as naturally as conversation always seemed to. There wasn't any choreography, nor any concern over whether either of you looked particularly graceful. You simply moved however the rhythm asked you to, swaying opposite one another with easy smiles, your joined hands occasionally pulling one another into little spins before finding each other again.

You'd always loved dancing with Michael.

Not because he was extraordinary at it—though he certainly was—but because he never danced at you. There was no performance when the two of you were alone, no audience to impress, no expectation to be perfect. The polished precision that captivated crowds gave way to something softer within the walls of your home. He laughed when he missed a step. He exaggerated little movements simply to make you laugh. Sometimes he'd deliberately copy your sillier dance moves with complete seriousness until you were giggling too hard to remain standing. Today proved no different.

"You call that dancin', girl?" he teased, raising an eyebrow as you bounced your shoulders with exaggerated enthusiasm. You narrowed your eyes.

"It absolutely is."

"It looks more like..." He demonstrated your movement with shameless exaggeration, earning an immediate laugh from you. "...Whatever that is."

You pointed accusingly at him.

"Oh, don't start."

"'m not starting anythin'."

"You are."

"I merely made an observation."

"You're a mean."

"So you keep tellin' me."

You rolled your eyes affectionately before slipping your hand from his and turning away from him with an intentionally dramatic flourish, letting the music carry you as you spun across the floorboards. The movement was playful more than anything, your laughter filling the room as you swayed your hips a little more dramatically than before simply because you knew he was watching. Behind you, Michael let out a soft whistle.

"Mmm..."

You glanced back over your shoulder.

"What?"

A mischievous smile slowly tugged at his lips, his eyes sparkling now in a way they hadn't all afternoon.

"I like the way you shake your thing, baby."

You burst into laughter.

"My thing?"

He immediately covered his face with one hand, already laughing at himself.

"'m sorry. it jus' slipped out."

"You mean my ass?"

He peeked at you through his fingers, utterly unashamed despite the ridiculousness of the phrase.

"...It sounded better in my head."

"Oh, Mikey," you giggled, walking back over to him. "You're hopeless."

"I know."

"No, really."

"I know."

Still smiling, you reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt where it'd twisted from dancing, your fingertips brushing lightly over the fabric. Michael watched you quietly, his grin softening into something infinitely more affectionate as your eyes met again.

"You know," you murmured, now closer to his face, "I think I like this version of you a whole lot better."

He tilted his head.

"What version?"

"The one that laughs."

His expression gentled.

"So do I."

Without breaking eye contact, Michael reached out, his hands finding your waist with a familiarity that felt like coming home. He didn't pull you close with any force or demand; instead, his touch was tentative, almost reverent, as if he were still awed by the simple fact that you were standing there, swaying with him in the quiet of the room. His thumbs traced idle, lazy circles against the fabric of your shirt, seeking out the heat of your skin beneath.

"You're so beautiful, hunny," he murmured, now suddenly feeling completely overwhelmed by you. "Sometimes I gotta remind myself 'm not dreamin'"

A soft laugh bubbled up in your throat as you leaned into him, closing the scant distance between your bodies. "You're not dreaming, baby. 'm right here."

When your lips finally met, it wasn't the desperate, bruising kiss of someone starved, but something far sweeter a slow, exploratory press that tasted of comfort and promise. It started soft, but as your arms wound around his neck and your fingers tangled in those familiar curls at the nape of his neck, the kiss deepened. Michael let out a shaky exhale against your mouth, a sound that was half sigh and half whimper as he surrendered to the sensation.

The dance continued, though the rhythm had shifted from something structured to something primal and instinctive. You both swayed softly from side to side, your hips rolling in lazy synchronization with the music that seemed to fade into the background of your own shared breath. Michael pulled you closer to remove every possible millimeter of air between you, seeking the friction of your bodies as you moved.

His mouth wandered from yours to the corner of your lips, then down to the sensitive sensitive line of your jaw, leaving trails of wet, heated kisses in his wake. "I love you so much it hurts sometimes, angel," he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and uneven. "I really do."

The make out session grew more passionate, tongues tangling and teeth clashing in a wet, rhythmic dance that mirrored the swaying of your bodies. Every time you pressed closer, Michael would respond with a needy little hum, his hands sliding down from your waist to splay across the small of your back, holding you.

Michael's mouth left yours only to trail along the sensitive column of your throat, and you hummed at the sensation. His teeth grazing your skin with just enough pressure to make your knees weaken. Hands sliding lower to cup the swell of your ass through your clothes, guiding your hips to roll against his in a way that made the friction feel almost sinful.

"You got that look in your eyes again, baby," he murmured against your pulse point, his breath hot and unsteady. "That look like you're plannin' something. Makes my head spin just thinkin' 'bout what you're gonna do to me once we get past this music."

You let out a breathless laugh, tilting your head back to give him better access, your fingers tightening their grip on his shoulders. "Maybe I am. Can you blame me? Look at how you're holding me. You're acting like you're scared 'm gonna float away if you let go for even a second."

You leaned down to nip at his earlobe, feeling the way his entire frame shuddered beneath your touch.

He pressed his forehead against yours, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like it could strip you bare. "Now you keep swaying like that, and I might just forget we're supposed to be bein' civilized."

"Oh, I think we passed 'civilized' about twenty minutes ago, Mikey," you teased, sliding your hands down to rest against his chest, feeling the rapid, heavy thud of his heart beneath your palms. "Besides, if you're gonna act this needy, you might as well commit to it."

Michael let out a breathless, giddy laugh, the sound vibrating against your skin as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. "Needy? Me? baby, you know damn well you're the one who started this fire. Now I'm just the poor fool tryin' to keep from burnin' up."

He pulled back just enough to capture your lips again, but this time the kiss was hungrier, tasting of desperate wanting even as his touch remained impossibly gentle.

"C'mon, girl, get your thing on this bed. Before I end up beggin' you right here on the floor."

You and Michael were a giddy mess of laughter and messy kisses as you both stumbled backwards. He kept his arms wrapped around you, his kisses never ceasing tracing your jaw, your throat, the sensitive shell of your ear as he sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling you into his lap.

"Y' so sweet, baby," he murmured against your shoulder as you stumbled through the doorway. "Every time I think I can't love you more, you go and do somethin' like this."

"You say that all the time, Mikey," you teased, though your voice was thick with affection. He grinned up at you with that boyish smile, before rolling you over, maneuvering you under him.

He pressed his forhead against yours as your fingers trailed down his chest amd to the bulge of his jeans. His hands cradled your face with such careful delicacy, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones as if you were made of spun glass. "Just wanna look at you, hunny. wanna see every single little expression you make while I'm takin' care of you. You're so precious to me, angel."

"Then keep lookin', baby," you whispered, your own voice thick with arousal as you wrapped your fingers struggled to pull his cock out of his jeans. He let out a giggle as he watched you struggle, to which you gave him an unimpressed look. "Don't laugh at me now, Michael. Help me get you out of those damn jeans before I rip 'em."

He kissed your forehead and let out an amused huff. "'m sorry baby. 'm not laughing at you." He backed off the bad to discard his boxers along his jeans before crawling on top of you again.

"You totally were laughing at me, mister." You mumbled, pulling him in by his shirt as he leaned in to kiss you again.

Your fingers delicately wrapped around the tip of his thick lengh, to which he let out a soft noise against your mouth. You began to stroke him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, watching how his pupils dilated. "Y' so handsome when you look at me like that."

"'s 'cause y' so pretty. so, so pretty baby. Your body's magic," he whimpered, his voice cracking slightly. He let out a shaky breath as your grip tightened just a fraction, his hips rolling upward to meet your hand.

Michael's breathing was loud now, a ragged series of exhales that fanned across your skin as he watched you work on him. "God, you're killin' me, angel baby... just killin' me with how good y' make me feel." He let out a low, guttural sound when your grip tightened around his cock, his hips rolling upward instinctively to chase the friction of your palm.

"Y' love it though," you teased breathlessly, your eyes locked on his as you maintained that steady, maddening rhythm on his dick.

"love everythin' 'bout you," he whimpered, as he leaned down to capture your lips in another messy kiss. When he pulled away, he didn't go far, nuzzling his face against your neck and inhaling sharply. "Y' smell so good angel."

His hands wandered down from your face, sliding past your ribs to the waistband of your panties. He didn't hesitate, his fingers hooking into the fabric with a slow, deliberate tug that made your hips arch off the mattress. "I been thinkin' 'bout gettin' these off the second I saw you," he murmured against your pulse point. "Been thinkin' about what's hidin' under here."

He peeled them down slowly, inch by inch, his eyes never leaving yours. The cool air hit your skin for only a second before he moved back between your thighs, his gaze dropping to where you were already dripping wet for him. "Look at her," he breathed, a genuine sound of awe escaping him as he saw how slick you were. " Y' got the prettiest pussy ever, hunny. Seriously. She's so gorgeous."

"Michael " you whined, the bluntness of him just praising and talking to your pussy sending electricity straight to your core. "Don't just stare at it. 'm workin' real hard on you over here."

"I know you are, babygirl, 'nd y' doin' amazing," he muttered, voice thick with arousal. He reached down, his large hand cupping your thigh to spread you wider, exposing your cunt completely to his intense gaze. "'m gonna make you feel real good, girl."

His middle finger found your clit first, circling the sensitive bud with just enough pressure to make your toes curl. "There we go... yeah, just like that," he whispered as you let out a broken moan. "Yeah, feels good baby, doesn't it?"

"Just like that, baby... oh my God, Michael, fuuuuck," you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer while your other hand continued to stroke  his cock.

"Baby, don't curse... Yeah? Do I make y' feel good?" he whispered, his own hips jerking as your hand moved faster on his dick. He slid one finger inside your wet cunt, then two, his eyes fixed on your face to catch every moment of your pleasure. "Oh wow. Y' so slick, sweet girl... so perfect. Jus' lemme take care of you."

Michael's breathing was ragged now, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he watched your face contort with pleasure. He pushed two fingers deeper into your wet cunt, stretching you open with a slow, deliberate thrust that made your hips buck involuntarily, curling them just the right way to hit that spongey spot.

"Oh my God— Michael yes, right there—" you gasped, your head rolling back against the pillows. Your free hand was clawing at the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto as the friction of his fingers against your walls sent waves of heat crashing through you. "Fuck— don't stop, please, don't you dare stop."

"'m not goin' nowhere, angel. I've got you," he promised, his voice a soothing balm even as his actions became more intense. While his fingers worked deep inside you, finding that perfect spot that made you whimper, his thumb continued to circle your clit in firm, maddening motions. Then, slowly, he began to withdraw, leaving you aching and wanting. "I wanna see all of you, sweetheart. wanna worship every inch."

He started to trail kisses upward, his lips warm and soft as they moved from your inner thighs to your stomach. "Y' so beautiful, baby," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. "Just so beautiful." He moved higher, pressing tender kisses against your ribs before finding the sensitive column of your throat. He lingered there, sucking gently at your neck.

With one hand still holding yours tight, he used his other to hook beneath the hem of your shirt. He slowly slid the fabric upward, exposing the lace of your bra before deftly working it free to reveal your breasts. "There they are," he breathed, his eyes full of wonder. "My pretty girls." He leaned down, capturing one nipple between his lips. He sucked on it with a gentle, reverent hunger, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak until you couldn't help but cry out. His free hand reached up to find yours. He intertwined his fingers with yours, squeezing gently, anchoring you to him as he moved his other fingers in and out of your pussy

"Shit baby— " you whined, your hips rolling involuntarily forward.

"Shh, jus' feel it. Jus' feel how much I love you," he whispered against your breast. Then he pulled away to continue his descent. Still holding your hand lovingly, he pressed his face against your stomach, showering your soft skin with sweet, lingering kisses.

The pleasure was building to something monumental, a tidal wave of heat that started at your clit and rolled through your entire body.

But just as you reached the precipice, something shifted. The sensation changed from a sharp, focused climax to a heavy, terrifying pressure deep inside your pelvis.

"Michael—oh no. wait—" you gasped, your hips freezing mid roll. Your breathing turned shallow and panicked. "Michael, stop, something's wrong."

He pulled back immediately, his face contorting with instant concern. "What? What is it, baby? Did I hurt you? Did I go too hard?" His hands moved to your hips to steady you, his thumbs brushing your skin with anxious tenderness. "Tell me what's wrong, sweetheart. We can stop. We're stoppin' right now if you need to."

"No, it's not " you stammered, your hands clutching at his forearms. Your heart was hammering against your ribs as that strange, full sensation intensified. "I just—don't know. It just... Michael, I feel like I'm gonna pee. Like, I'm gonna pee myself right now. It feels weird. It feels too much."

A flash of genuine panic crossed your features as you tried to process the conflicting signals: the pleasure was still there, humming beneath the surface, but the fear of losing control was overwhelming.

Michael watched you closely, searching your eyes. He didn't laugh or dismiss you; he just listened, his expression softening as he processed what you were saying. "You feel like y' gonna pee?" he repeated gently, his voice low and steady. "Like that pressure right there?" His hand slid down to press lightly against your lower abdomen, offering a grounding touch.

"Yes! And it's it's good, but it's scary, Michael. I feel like I'm gonna lose it," you whimpered, your thighs quivering against his chest.

He didn't hesitate. A small, reassuring smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Well, sugar, if it feels good, then it's right. That's all that matters to me." He leaned up to press a tender kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple. "If that's what your body's tellin' you it needs to get to that good place, then y' let it happen."

"But what if I—"

"Hey, hey, look at me," he interrupted softly, cupping your face in both hands so you had no choice but to meet his adoring gaze. "Look at me, baby. Nothing to be scared of. A little pee not gonna hurt nobody. Not you, and certainly not me. 'm right here. I got you, and 'm not goin' nowhere."

His voice soothed your worries.  "'s okay, lovely. Jus' let it happen. 'm right here with you." His thumb resumed its maddening, gentle circle against your clit, while his other hand reached up to find yours again, intertwining your fingers in a tight grip.

"I'm tryin', Mikey, but 's a bit scary" you gasped, your voice breaking as another wave of that heavy, full pressure rolled through your pelvis. Even as you panicked, your other hand couldn't help but tighten around his cock, your palm slick with his pre cum as you instinctively sought friction to counter the overwhelming sensation.

The dual stimulation his mouth on you and your own desperate grip on his dick was pushing you toward a breaking point you couldn't control.

"I know, baby. I know," he murmured against your inner thigh, his breath hot and steady. "Don't fight it. Just give in to it. Let whatever happens happen. I love every single part of you, even the messy parts." His fingers slid deeper into your cunt, stretching you open to accommodate the building pressure, while his tongue worked with increasing urgency.

The sensations overwhelmed you. That feeling became an unbearable, throbbing fullness that seemed to occupy your entire lower body. "Baby, oh fuck, 'm gonna—"

"Do it, angel. Let it go for me," he urged, his voice a low, commanding caress. "Jus let it all out."

With a choked cry that was half sob and half moan, the dam finally broke. The terrifying pressure exploded into an intense, convulsing climax that felt like lightning striking your core, but it wasn't just a feeling it was a physical eruption. Your muscles spasmed around his fingers with such violence that you couldn't have stopped it if you tried.

"Oh fuuuuck," you whined, your body arching so violently off the bed that your spine nearly snapped. In that instant of total surrender, you felt yourself spray. The release was powerful and uncontrolled, hot jets of fluid shooting forth from your cunt with enough force to send droplets flying in every direction.

It splattered across Michael's jaw as he leaned in close, the warm, clear liquid catching the light before streaming down his chin. His hand, still buried between your thighs, became instantly slick and drenched as the torrent soaked through his fingers and up his wrist. A few stray arcs even landed against his bare chest. Below you both, the sheets were instantly completely and utterly soaked.

"Oh... oh my God..." you whimpered between gasps, your body still twitching uncontrollably from the aftershocks. You felt exposed, raw, and completely spent, staring up at him through teary blurred eyes in shock.

Michael didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. Instead, he looked down at the mess you'd made, then back up at your face with an expression of pure, unadulterated wonder. His eyes were wide. "Baby..." he breathed, his voice reverent, almost awestruck. "That was... you were incredible."

He looked at his wet hand and the soaked sheets as if they were sacred relics, his chest heaving. "Look at what y' did, baby," he whispered, a grin of pure adoration breaking across his face. "Y' just... y' pure magic, angel."

The sight of his awe, the way he looked at you not with judgment but with absolute worship despite the chaos between your legs, made your heart swell even as your body continued to tremble. "Michael, I'm sorry, I—"

"Don't you dare apologize," he interrupted immediately, leaning down to press a warm, lingering kiss to your sweat slicked forehead. "Don't you ever apologize for being this beautiful. I love every single drop of you."

The adrenaline began to ebb, leaving you feeling boneless and hypersensitive. Your breathing was still shaky, each inhale coming in uneven stutters as you stared up at the ceiling, feeling the dampness of the sheets clinging to your thighs. "Michael, I—" you started, "I'm so embarrassed, I— I didn't know I could do that... I made such a mess of everything, I—"

But Michael was already moving. He didn't care about the soaked fabric or the droplets clinging to his skin. He crawled up your body with careful, reverent movements, settling beside your head so he could cradle your face in his hands. "Shh, shh, none of that, angel. None of that," he murmured.

He began to pepper your face with kisses soft, feather light presses of his lips against your temples, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. "You're okay, sweetheart. Y' so okay. Y' were perfect. Amazing baby."

"But Michael," you whispered. "What about you? You're... you're still..." You gestured vaguely toward his still semi-hard cock. "You need to—"

"Shh," he interrupted softly, pressing his lips against your forehead before moving down to kiss each of your cheeks. His thumbs stroked over your cheekbones, wiping away stray tears with tenderness. "Just let me love y', baby. That's all I wanna do right now. Just you."

He lowered his head to nuzzle against your neck, breathing in your scent as if it were oxygen. "I don't need nothin' else but you right here. Just let me take care of you, angel baby. Lemme hold you." His touch was so gentle, so utterly focused on your comfort, that the embarrassment began to melt away, replaced by a warm, overwhelming sense of being cherished beyond measure.

Against his chest, his arms remained wrapped around you like a shield against the world. The dampness of the sheets still lingered beneath you, but it no longer carried even the slightest trace of embarrassment. It simply existed as quiet evidence of what the two of you had shared. You felt safe. Boneless. Entirely adored.

For a little while, neither of you spoke.

Michael absentmindedly traced lazy circles along your back while his breathing gradually evened beside your ear. You'd almost drifted off when you felt his chest vibrate with a quiet murmur, the words too indistinct for you to catch.

"What'd you say, baby?" you asked sleepily, lifting your head just enough to look at him. His eyes weren't on you anymore. They'd drifted somewhere else entirely.

"...Get on the floor," he repeated under his breath, almost to himself this time. You blinked.

"What?"

He didn't answer. Instead, his brows knitted together ever so slightly as though he were trying to catch hold of a thought before it escaped him again.

"What do you mean, get on the floor?" you laughed softly, your voice still hoarse. "Angelface, I love you, but I'm exhausted. I can barely move." That finally brought him back.

"Oh—" He laughed breathily, shaking his head. "No, no, baby. That's not what I meant."

A slow smile began creeping across his face. The kind you recognised immediately. You'd seen it countless times before. It was the smile that appeared whenever inspiration found him.

He reached up, gently brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, his fingertips lingering against your cheek as though he hardly realised he was touching you.

"I remember what you said," he murmured, his eyes beginning to brighten. "Back when I played you the demo..." You looked at him curiously.

"When you started dancin'..."

He smiled a little wider.

"You took my hand..." He chuckled quietly, almost hearing the memory play back inside his head. "...An' you said..." His gaze flickered upward for only a second before returning to yours.

"'So c'mon...'"

His smile grew.

"'Get on the floor and dance with me.'"

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. Then his eyes widened ever so slightly.

"...Baby."

"What?"

He sat up just enough to look at you properly now, excitement slowly replacing the sleepy contentment that had settled over him only moments before.

"I think..." A little disbelieving laugh escaped him. "I think that's it."

You frowned in confusion. "What's it?"

He looked at you as though he could hardly believe the answer himself.

"The song."

A grin spread across his face, brighter with every passing second.

"'Get on the floor...'"

He tested the words quietly, almost singing them beneath his breath.

"'...And dance with me.'"

His eyes met yours again.

"I love the way you shake your thing..especially."

"Oh my god, Michael—"

"Oh, baby..."

He laughed, equal parts astonished and delighted.

𝒯he second he gets access, he's relentless. Immediately finding your clit with his tongue. "You taste sooo good, baby... so sweet f'me," he'll mumble against you, voice muffled by your wetness. He'll use his tongue to swirl around your clit until you're squirming against his face, unable to stay still. "Such a good girl for me, shit, so fucking wet," he'll praise you, his words dripping with intense arousal as he laps up the slickness of your pussy, tongue switching between swirling around your clit and gliding through your folds.

ℋe becomes almost too desperate, whining into your pussy when you try to lift up a bit. "No, stay right there, baby, please. 'need t'taste you real good," he'll plead, his hands squeezing your ass to keep you pinned to his mouth. He wants to consume you entirely, his tongue working in steady, maddening strokes that make you feel like you're melting into the sheets.

𝒜s you shift to find better balance, grabbing the headboard for stability, you glance back at him. The sight made you let out an airy gasp; Jaafar already stroking himself with his big hand, heavy, thick cock pulled out of his boxers. You also noticed a big, dark, wet patch on his boxers; probably from his dick straining painfully hard against the fabric, leaking pre-cum. "Look, baby, look how hard I am for you..." he'll moan muffled, his voice cracking with need. "'m so hard for this pussy dripping down my face... Y'turn me on so much.."

𝒯he sensation becomes even overwhelming when he decides to explore further. While one hand stays possessively on your hip, his other hand spread one of your ass cheeks, dragging his tongue in one long, slow stripe upward, all the way up to your asshole. When he starts circling your hole with lazy, wet circles of his tongue, you can't help but let out a surprised squeak. He'll let out a low, satisfied groan at your reaction, clearly loving how much control he has over your body.

"𝒯hat's it, baby, make those sweet sounds f'me," he'll whisper, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. He'll dive back into your pussy immediately after, his tongue finding your pussy again, slipping between your folds and diving into your hole. The combination of his praise, his hands tightly on your ass and hip, and the raw, wet smacking sounds of him lapping at your cunt made your head spin.

ℋe won't stop until you're completely undone, his tongue working until you're a whimpering mess and weeping slickness all over his cheeks. He'll stay there, holding you close, drinking in every drop of your climax as your pussy pulses against his mouth. "Good girl, my sweet girl," he'll murmur lovingly against your soaked skin, stroking your hip with his thumb, looking up at you with eyes that show he is utterly, helplessly addicted to you and your sweet nectar.

You were comfortably sprawled across Michael's bed, absentmindedly flipping through a magazine as the afternoon sun streamed through the large windows of his bedroom. Spending the week at Neverland with your boyfriend had quickly become one of yours and his favorite things.

Unfortunately, Michael had been called away for a few hours. His new album was still in the works, and the label wanted him at the studio for a quick listening session and progress check. He'd apologized at least three times before leaving that morning, giving you a sweet kiss on the cheek and insisting he'd be back before dinner and promising not to let work keep him away any longer than necessary.

So, with nothing pressing to do and the house unusually quiet, you made yourself comfortable in his room, happily passing the time until he returned home.

The television hummed softly in the background, filling the otherwise quiet room with a steady stream of afternoon programming. It was one of those slow, lazy days where time seemed to drift by without much happening. You barely paid it any attention, your focus wandering between the magazine in your lap and the view outside the huge window.

Then, your ears caught something.

"...Michael Jackson..."

Your head snapped toward the television almost instantly, your full attention now fixed on the screen as the presenter began talking about Michael.

"...And today, we're lucky enough to have the very man everyone's been talking about joining us here in the studio. Please welcome the King of Pop himself—Michael Jackson." A soft smile spread across your lips as the camera cut to him. There he was.

Sitting comfortably in the interview chair, dressed as impeccably as ever, offering the audience one of his warm, unmistakable smiles. God, he was one beautiful man. And all yours.

"Mr. Jackson," the woman began, smiling brightly, "thank you so much for being here. It's truly an honor to have you with us today." He dipped his head politely in return.

"Thank you," he replied warmly, "It's a pleasure to be here." The interviewer glanced down at her notes before looking back up at him. "Now, your latest album feels... different from some of your previous work." A teasing smile tugged at her lips. "I'd even go as far as saying it's much more intimate. Some people have even called it... rather sexual. Some might even speculate, that there might have been a possible muse?"

A bashful laugh escaped him as he reached up to rub the back of his neck, his eyes briefly dropping to the floor. "I don't know if I'd call it... sexual," he said with a sheepish smile, earning a few chuckles from the Interviewer. "I'd rather call it... passionate. I think that's a much better word."

"And..." He paused, a bashful smile slowly creeping onto his face as he glanced down at his hands for a moment. A quiet chuckle escaped him before he looked back up at the interviewer.

"I'd be lying if I said there wasn't... someone." His ears had begun to tint the faintest shade of pink. "There may have been..." He laughed softly, clearly trying to play it off. "...two or three songs that were inspired by a very special person."

The woman let out an amused "aww," and couldn't help but grin, clearly delighted she'd managed to get such a candid answer out of him.

Your own cheeks warmed almost instantly. You knew exactly who he was talking about.

You could still picture the evening he'd shyly confessed it to you, nervously admitting that whenever he sat down to write, his thoughts somehow always drifted back to you. Every lyric, every melody, every love song seemed to carry a little piece of you within it. A smile tugged at your lips.

You still remember the conversation the two of you had before he left for the interview. you'd been far more worried about it than he had.

"What if she's just trying to paint you in a bad light again?" you'd asked, nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket. "Or... what if she starts asking about..." You'd trailed off, giving him a pointed look. "You know what I mean."

Michael had only laughed softly, taking your hands into his, "Baby," he'd said with an affectionate smile, "she's not that kind of interviewer."

"But what if she is?" He simply shook his head.

"It'll be fine. It's just a casual interview." Leaning down, he'd kissed your forehead before adding, "Besides, it'll be good for my image." You'd sighed dramatically, still unconvinced.

"I just have a bad feeling." He'd chuckled again, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You worry too much." Watching him now, smiling politely beneath the studio lights, you couldn't help but hope he'd been right.

As the interview carried on, the knot of anxiety in your stomach slowly began to loosen. Your fears seemed more and more unnecessary with every passing minute. The interviewer stayed focused on his music, asking thoughtful questions about his previous album, his creative process, and offering the occasional tease in hopes of getting a few hints about the next record he was working on.

It was... refreshing.

You found yourself smiling as you watched Michael relax into the conversation. The initial shyness melted away, replaced by the familiar spark that always appeared whenever he spoke about music. His hands moved animatedly as he explained his songwriting, his eyes lit up with genuine excitement, and every now and then he'd let out one of those soft, infectious laughs that never failed to make you smile along with him.

Seeing him so passionate, so completely in his element, reminded you just how deeply he loved what he did, and it made your heart swell with love.

Your magazine had long since been forgotten, lying open across your chest as you watched the interview from beginning to end.

The interviewer glanced down at her cue cards before smiling warmly at Michael.

"And I know this is a bit out of the blue..." she began, almost bashfully. "But would it be alright if I gave you a kiss on the cheek?" Your smile instantly faltered.

'...What?'

Your brows furrowed. That was... odd.

Hadn't she just spent the last half hour talking about the possibility of someone special in his life? Why would she even ask something like that? Still, you weren't too worried.

Michael would politely decline. He always knew how to set boundaries without offending anyone. You waited for the inevitable 'I'd rather not,' or 'Thank you, but no.'

Instead, you watched his posture stiffen ever so slightly.

For the briefest moment, he hesitated. His lips parted, and an almost guilty look flickered across his face, as if he already knew you wouldn't be thrilled with whatever came next.

"...Yeah," he said with a small, uncertain smile. "Of course." Your eyes widened.

'Excuse me?'

Before you could even process what you'd just heard, the interviewer leaned over with a delighted grin and placed a quick peck against his cheek. Michael laughed awkwardly, and the interview carried on as if nothing had happened.

You, however, were no longer listening. Your jaw hung slightly open as you stared at the television.

'Now what the fuck was that?'

Oh he'll definitely be hearing from you the second he gets home. He's lucky he wasn't here right now.

With an irritated huff, you reached for the remote and switched the television off, the room suddenly falling quiet. You picked your magazine back up, flipping absentmindedly through the pages, but you weren't reading a single word.

You sometimes hated how incapable he seemed of saying "no." He was simply too polite, too eager not to disappoint people, even when it came at his own expense.

Eventually, you gave up on pretending to read and wandered downstairs to the kitchen, hoping a fresh bowl of fruit would help take your mind off everything—and cool you down in the process. The California heat that had settled over Neverland was merciless, and you'd changed into a tank top and a pair of flimsy lounge shorts that barely covered your butt.

A few moments later, you heard the front door swing open, followed by the familiar click as it shut again.

"Baby, I'm back!" Michael called through the house, his voice light and full of energy. You didn't answer. You were still quietly slicing strawberries, your thoughts lingering on the interview.

A beat of silence passed.

"Baby?" he called again, a hint of confusion creeping into his voice. "Y'hear me?"

His footsteps echoed down the hallway before growing louder as he neared the kitchen.

"There you are." You glanced up just as he appeared in the doorway.

The moment his eyes landed on you, his expression melted into an easy smile. His gaze lingered for a second longer than usual before he let out a quiet, amused hum, clearly appreciating the sight of you, then biting his lip between his teeth.

Without another word, he crossed the room and slipped his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you gently against him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing your scent in.

"Mmm..." he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. "Missed you, sweet girl."

He lingered there for another moment before lifting his head slightly.

"Why didn't you answer me?"

"Didn't hear you," you replied simply, continuing to slice the fruit without looking up. Michael frowned ever so slightly at your dismissive tone.

"Everything okay, baby?" he asked, his arms still loosely around your waist.

"Mhm." The short response made him tilt his head.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

You reached for another strawberry, keeping your attention on the cutting board. Michael watched you for a moment. Normally, by now, you would have turned around and greeted him with a little kiss.

"...Alright," he murmured, though he clearly wasn't convinced.

"I don't know, Mike..." you said quietly, still focusing on cutting the fruits. "Is everything alright?" Michael turned toward you, a puzzled look crossing his face, "What do you mean?"

You let out a small, humorless laugh.

"Oh, dunno..." You finally looked up at him. "...You going 'round...just letting other women kiss you— on television."

Then it clicked.

"Oh..."

The confusion on his face vanished. Instead, he let out a quiet sigh. He'd been hoping you hadn't seen the interview.

"Baby," he said gently, taking a small step toward you, "don't worry about that. It didn't mean anything. I was just being polite."

You set the knife down on the cutting board with a soft clink.

"Yeah," you replied, meeting his eyes. "You were being polite to her..."

A brief pause.

"...while being pretty disrespectful to me."

He took a slow, steady breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he searched for the right thing to say.

"Look," Michael sighed, then pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, okay? But it's not a big deal." You turned to face him fully, disbelief written all over your face.

"Not a big deal?" you repeated. "How would you feel if I started letting other men kiss all up on me?"

"I wouldn't like it."

"Exactly."

"But that's not what happened."

"It is what happened." He shook his head.

"She asked me first. I wasn't expecting it. I just... I didn't want to be rude." Your eyebrows shot up.

"So you were more worried about being rude to some interviewer than respecting your girlfriend?"

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you did."

Michael let out another long breath, clearly trying to keep the conversation from escalating, "Baby, you're blowing this way out of proportion."

"Oh, so now I'm overreacting?"

"I think you're being unreasonable, yeah." You stared at him for a second, almost waiting for him to take it back.

"...I'm being unreasonable for thinking it's weird that another woman kissed my boyfriend?"

"Yeah," he answered, matter-of-factly. "I think you are."

Silence settled between you. You gave a slow nod, pressing your lips into a thin line.

"Okay."

Michael frowned.

"...Okay?"

"Yeah." You turned back to your fruit bowl as if the conversation had never happened. "Okay."

For a few long seconds, Michael simply stood there, watching you in silence.

"...You mad at me, baby?" he asked softly.

You didn't answer. You didn't trust your voice right now, so you just kept your attention fixed on the fruit, calmly adding the last few slices to the bowl as though he hadn't spoken at all. He let out a quiet sigh.

"You're seriously ignoring me now?"

Still nothing.

Without sparing him a glance, you picked up your bowl and walked out of the kitchen. Michael turned to watch you disappear into the hallway, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly.

"Baby..."

You continued toward the staircase. Only when you were halfway upstairs did his voice carry through the house.

"The kiss didn't mean anything to me!"

You kept climbing the stairs without saying a word, leaving him standing alone in the kitchen.

For the rest of the day, Michael didn't dare bring it up again. He knew he'd upset you. That much was obvious.

But he also couldn't shake the feeling that the whole thing had been blown out of proportion. To him, it had been nothing more than a polite gesture—awkward, yes, but harmless. Still, seeing the way you shut down made the guilt settle heavily in his chest.

So he gave you space.

Dinner passed in near silence. He tried catching your eye once or twice, hoping you'd soften enough to smile back, but you never did. Every question he asked was met with a short answer, if you answered at all. By the time the two of you got ready for bed, nothing had changed.

Michael slipped beneath the covers, instinctively reaching toward you like he always did. Normally, you'd shuffle back against his chest before he even had the chance to wrap an arm around you.

Tonight, you turned onto your side and quietly scooted as far away from him as the mattress allowed. His hand fell back onto the sheets. For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

The only sound in the room was the quiet sigh that escaped him as he stared at your back, realizing you'd never gone to sleep without saying goodnight to each other before.

Not once.

He lay there for another minute, staring at the ceiling.

"...Baby?"

His voice was barely above a whisper. No response. He glanced toward your back, hoping for even the slightest sign that you were still awake. A shift beneath the blankets. A sigh. Anything.

Nothing.

He hesitated before inching a little closer, leaving enough space between the two of you that he wasn't crowding you. "I really am sorry," he murmured into the darkness. "I didn't think it'd hurt you like that."

Silence.

He swallowed. "I would've never done it if I'd known."

Still nothing. Your breathing remained slow and even. Whether you were pretending to be asleep or simply refusing to answer, he couldn't tell. Another quiet sigh escaped him.

"...Goodnight, baby."

Little did he know... You were very much awake. Every word he'd whispered into the darkness had reached your ears.

The corners of your lips threatened to betray you, curling into the smallest smile as you stared at the wall in front of you. Truthfully, you'd forgiven him the moment he'd apologized. You knew Michael.

He'd never agreed to that kiss to hurt you. If anything, he'd been too polite for his own good—that was one of the things you both loved and occasionally found incredibly frustrating about him. But that didn't mean he was getting off that easily.

No, he needed to understand why it had hurt.

He needed to realize that there were moments where being polite to everyone else couldn't come at the expense of your feelings.

So, for just a little while longer... You'd let him sweat. Just enough for the lesson to stick. The smile tugging at your lips grew ever so slightly.

He could wonder a little longer.

The next two days weren't much easier for Michael. You still refused to speak to him unless it was absolutely necessary. If he asked whether you wanted breakfast, he'd receive nothing more than a nod. If he asked where you were going, you'd simply shrug or hum in response before carrying on with whatever you were doing. It was driving him insane.

Not because you were yelling. Not because you were crying. But because you were acting like he wasn't even there. The worst part? Every now and then, he'd catch the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at your lips when you thought he wasn't looking.

You were doing this on purpose. He just knew it.

On the third evening, Michael wandered downstairs after hearing your bedroom door click shut. He frowned.

"...Baby?" No answer. Curious, he stepped into the foyer. Then he saw you.

You stood in front of the hallway mirror, giving yourself one final once-over before heading out. The dress you'd chosen fit you like it had been tailored specifically for you, gently hugging your figure before cinching at your waist and flowing effortlessly over your hips. It wasn't flashy or overly revealing—it didn't need to be. It complemented your curves beautifully, and the simple, elegant neckline drew just enough attention without feeling overdone.

You'd spent longer than usual getting ready, taking the time to style your hair in a way that framed your face perfectly. A touch of makeup highlighted your features without hiding them, and the pair of expensive diamond earrings Michael had gifted you caught the warm hallway light every time you turned your head. They shimmered delicately, adding the perfect finishing touch.

Finally, you slipped into your (Michael's) favorite pair of heels and smoothed an invisible crease from your dress, admiring the finished look in the mirror. A small, satisfied smile tugged at your lips.

You looked good. And, though you'd never admit it out loud...You knew exactly what this outfit was going to do to him.

For a second...Michael forgot he was supposed to be the one being ignored. His jaw practically hit the floor.

"...Wow."

You caught his reflection in the mirror but didn't turn around. He slowly walked closer, unable to hide the grin spreading across his face.

"Angel..." he breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You look gorgeous."

You simply adjusted one of your earrings. He bit his lip, shamelessly admiring you from where he stood. "If it were up to me," he said with a quiet groan, "I'd keep you in our bed all night."

A tiny smirk ghosted across your lips.

"Yeah," you replied casually, reaching for your purse, "I know." His eyebrows shot up.

That...That was the first complete sentence you'd said to him in two days. Before he could celebrate the small victory, you walked right past him. He turned to follow you with wide eyes.

"...That's all I get?"

You slipped your keys into your hand without answering.

"Baby."

He trailed after you toward the front door.

"Where are you even going?"

Still nothing. Just as your hand settled on the doorknob, he let out an exaggerated groan.

"This is torture."

You couldn't stop yourself. A quiet, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of your mouth before you slipped out the front door, leaving Michael standing in the hallway, completely captivated... and absolutely miserable. Meanwhile, you were already halfway down the driveway, a grin threatening to split your face in two.

It had taken every ounce of self-control not to laugh.

The expression on Michael's face when he'd seen you had been priceless. He'd completely forgotten he was supposed to be apologizing. The poor man had looked absolutely hypnotized.

Good. Maybe next time another woman asked to kiss him, he'd remember this feeling.

You spent the evening catching up with a friend over dinner, though every so often your thoughts drifted back to Neverland. To Michael.

You could picture him pacing the house, wondering where you were, checking the clock every ten minutes, probably rehearsing another apology in his head.

The thought made you smile into your drink.

The silence of Neverland usually felt like peace. Tonight, it felt unbearable. Michael stepped through the front doors with a quiet sigh, shrugging off his jacket as he kicked the door shut behind him. His shoulders ached from another long day, but the exhaustion was nothing compared to the weight that had been sitting on his chest for the last two days.

You.

Or, more specifically, the fact that you refused to acknowledge him. Well, barely acknowledged.

It wasn't as though you'd disappeared. You were still here, still moving through the house as if nothing had changed. He caught glimpses of you throughout the day—walking through the gardens with the children who came to visit Neverland, laughing with the staff in the kitchen, curled up on the couch reading one of your books.

But every time he walked into the room... You walked out. Every attempt to talk ended before it even began. Every apology he'd managed to get out was met with nothing more than a quiet "I'm busy," or a polite excuse before you slipped away again.

He missed you.

Michael rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a slow breath as he started toward the staircase. His mind replayed the argument for what felt like the hundredth time, picking apart every word he'd said, every moment he should've handled differently. If he could go back and do it over again, he would. In a heartbeat.

He was halfway across the foyer when something stopped him.

Music.

A low bassline rolled through the house, steady and unmistakable. At first it was little more than a vibration beneath his feet, but once he stood still and listened, the rhythm became impossible to ignore. His eyebrows pulled together. It was coming from upstairs.

He climbed the staircase slowly, and with every step, the music grew louder, the bass filling the otherwise quiet house until it echoed softly through the hallway.

Then he heard you.

♪ "─It's just a feeling, you have to soothe it...

You can't neglect it, you can't abuse it..." ♪

Your voice floated down the hallway, slightly muffled by the bathroom door but clear enough for him to make out every word. You sounded completely lost in the music, singing without a hint of hesitation, as if no one else in the world existed.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

In the Closet.

One of his songs.

One he had quietly, feverishly written with the memory of your skin against his, practically burned into his mind. It was one of the most intimate, carnal things he’d ever created.

Every beat felt like a deliberate, slow grind of hips; every whispered, breathy lyric was a secret meant only for your ears. It wasn't just a song about desire; it was a song about the hunger of it, the tension of anticipation, the ache of stolen moments, and the raw, uninhibited closeness that only happened when the world was shut out and it was just the two of you.

It was bold. It was flirtatious. It was unapologetically, shamelessly sexual. The song felt like a direct, erotic confession. It was the sound of a man losing his composure, a man who was tired of being "polite" and was ready to be primal.

As he siletnly opened the door to the bathroom to not make a sound, he stood there, watching the way the music seemed to move through your body, his eyes dark and dilated as he watched you sway. You were in there singing one of his songs, completely oblivious to the fact that he was standing just outside the bedroom, listening. Watching. Completely oblivious to the fact that in this moment, he was absolutely reader to give you everything the song promised.

Steam drifted lazily into the bedroom, carrying the warm, familiar smell of vanilla body wash and something faintly floral. It was comforting. Familiar. Unmistakably you.

You were lost in the music, lost in the heat, your eyes closed as you let the water slick your hair back. You were swaying to the beat, completely uninhibited, unaware that the bathroom door had been pushed open moments ago.

Michael stepped into the room as quietly as he could, the warm steam immediately surrounding him as he crossed the threshold. For a moment, he didn't move. He just stood there silently, his eyes fixed on the frosted glass. He watched the way your body moved to the rhythm of his own song, his breath hitching as he traced the curve of your hips through the glass.

Finally, he couldn't stand the barrier anymore. He reached out and slid the heavy glass door open with a slow, deliberate hiss. He didn't step into the spray not yet. He just stood at the edge of the stall, the sudden rush of cool air making you jump.

"Did you miss me touching you, sweet girl?" his voice murmured, low and velvet smooth, cutting through the roar of the shower.

"Ah!" You let out a tiny, undignified squeak, spinning around in the spray, your eyes flying open to find him standing right there. He was just outside the glass, his hair already a little mussed from the humidity, and his dark eyes held a warmth you hadn't seen from him in days. Michael let out a soft laugh at your reaction, the sound rich and warm.

"Michael! You scared me!" you gasped, hands flying to your chest. Trying to catch your breath, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. For a moment, neither of you said anything. You simply looked at each other.

And after two days of avoiding his gaze, of pretending you weren't affected by him, seeing that familiar smile on his face made it a little harder to stay angry.

He didn't move to close the gap yet. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, a slow, mischievous, devastatingly handsome smile spread across his face. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"Seems like someone missed me more than she cares to admit," he teased, his voice soft and playful. His gaze dropping to your lips, heavy with a hunger he wasn't even trying to hide anymore.

You felt the warmth rise to your cheeks, caught somewhere between embarrassment and frustration. Two days of ignoring him, two days of keeping your distance, and somehow he still managed to make you forget every reason you were supposed to be upset.

"Keep dreaming, Michael," you huffed, though there was no real bite to it. You turned back toward the showerhead to turn it off. The roar of the water died down into a rhythmic, dripping patter, leaving the room suddenly, startlingly quiet; save for the low, pulsing thrum of the music still playing in the background.

You reached for the large, plush towel hanging just within reach. Drying your hair first, the soft fabric dragging against your skin, and then you unwrapped it, pulling the heavy white cloth around your body, tucking it tightly above your chest to shield yourself.

You turned to face him, the steam still clinging to your skin, your hair damp and heavy against your shoulders. You just looked at him, your eyes steady and expectant, a silent command in your gaze: The shower is done. Now, move.

Michael didn't say a word. The playful, mischievous grin had faded, replaced by a look of intense, focused devotion. He looked like he was watching a miracle unfold. He didn't even blink, his eyes traveling over the damp, glistening skin of your shoulders and to the cleavage of your chest. You noticed it.

He moved with a quiet, fluid grace, stepping back to clear the path. As you stepped out of the glass enclosure, the cool air of the bathroom hit your damp skin, making you shiver slightly. You walked past him, the scent of vanilla and warm skin trailing in your wake, and as you passed.

You didn't look back, but you knew exactly where he was. You could feel him standing just behind you, his breath hitched, his entire being focused on the sway of your hips as you moved toward the vanity.

♪ "─One thing in life, you must understand..

...The truth of lust, woman to man...

...So open the door, and you will see...

...There are no secrets, make your move, set me free..." ♪

The soft pulse of “In the Closet” played in the background, its sultry rhythm wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. You moved to the vanity, beginning your skincare routine with practiced ease.

You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror as he leaned against the doorframe, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. There was a mix of determination and vulnerability in his gaze, and despite your best efforts, your heart raced.

“Baby, you look incredible,” he said, his voice low and smooth, cutting through the silence. You didn’t respond, focusing on applying a serum to your skin, hoping to maintain your composure.

“Come on, don’t ignore me,” he teased lightly, stepping closer, his presence filling the small space. “I know you can hear me.”

You turned slightly, refusing to meet his gaze directly. “I’m busy,” you replied coolly, trying to keep your tone steady.

He moved to stand beside you, his arm brushing against your shoulder as he picked up a bottle from the counter. “Your skincare routine isn’t half as interesting as what we need to talk about.”

You glanced at him, your expression unreadable. “What’s there to talk about? You let another woman kiss you on live television.”

“Not like that,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle. “You know that. It was a moment of politeness, not what you think.”

You scoffed lightly, applying moisturizer with exaggerated care. “So you’re saying it meant nothing?”

“Nobody can compare to you,” he replied, his tone earnest. “You’re the only one I have eyes for, and you know it, my angel.”

You could feel your resolve wavering, but you quickly masked it with indifference. “Then why didn’t you say no?”

He took a step closer, the heat radiating from his body mingling with the steam. “Because I was caught off guard. I didn’t want to be rude. But I’m here now, and I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel disrespected. And I miss you, baby.”

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze in the mirror. The sincerity in his eyes was palpable, cutting through your defenses. “It’s hard not to feel that way,” you admitted, your voice softening despite yourself.

“I get that,” he murmured, reaching out to gently turn your face toward him. “But I want to show you just how much you mean to me.”

“By what? Letting me watch you dance around the issue?” you replied, a hint of sarcasm in your tone.

He stepped closer, closing the space between you until you could feel the warmth radiating from him. “No, by showing you that my heart belongs to you, angel” he whispered, his gaze intense. “Let me prove it.”

With that, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and possessive. As you melted into him, the kiss deepened, and you felt almost all the tension from earlier dissipate.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and you could feel the heat radiating from him, igniting the spark within you. The kiss was both a declaration and an apology, and you found yourself tangling your finger in his hair, leaning into him as he slid his tounge deeper inside your mouth.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, an thin line of saliva connecting your lips . “See, baby?” he whispered against your lips, “You’re the only one who matters to me.”

You rolled your eyes, “Okay, you’ve made your point,” you replied, a teasing smile creeping onto your lips.

Before you could respond, he took your jaw in his fingers, tilting your head toward the mirror. Your breath caught in your throat as he slid the towel from your body, the soft fabric pooling at your feet. You glanced at him in slight surprise. “What are you—”

“Shh, baby,” he interrupted, his voice low and steady. “Just let me show you...”

♪ "─It's just desire, I really love it...

'Cause if it's aching, you have to rub it..." ♪

The cool air of the bathroom hit your bare skin, sending a violent shiver racing down your spine, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze. You stood there, exposed and trembling, your eyes locked onto his in the reflection of the mirror.

"Just let me show you..." he repeated quietly, almost to himself, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder, breath hot and damp against your neck. He inhaled deeply, as if he were trying to memorize the scent of your skin, the lingering aroma of the vanilla soap and the natural, musky heat of your body.

He leaned in, his mouth finding yours again, but this time the tenderness was gone, replaced by a raw, primal need. The kiss was deep, demanding, a frantic collision of tongues and teeth that tasted of pure, unadulterated desire. He groaned into the kiss.

"Look at me, sweet baby" he commanded, his voice a low, rough vibration. He didn't turn you around; he kept you facing the mirror, his hands firm on your hips, forcing you to stay anchored to the glass. "Don't look away. I want you to see exactly what you do to me."

You watched in the reflection as he moved behind you, his large, warm body pressing flush against your back. His hands slid up your ribs, his thumbs tracing the undersides of your breasts before his fingers curled around them, squeezing with a heavy, possessive pressure.

"See that?" he whispered, his mouth hovering just inches from your ear. "See how responsive you are when I touch you?"

His hands moved lower, his fingers splaying across your stomach before sliding down, down, down, until he found the slick, aching heat of your pussy. You watched in the mirror as his long fingers disappeared between your thighs, disappearing into your wetness.

"Look, baby," he growled, his eyes dark and predatory as they locked onto yours in the glass. "Look at how much you want this."

His fingers sliding in and out of your pussy with a rhythmic, devastating precision. He found your clit with his thumb, circling it with a steady, heavy pressure that made your hips buck instinctively. The sound of his fingers working in your wetness was loud in the quiet room, a slick, rhythmic friction that made your breath hitch.

You watched your own expression fracture in the mirror, your eyes rolling back as the sensation intensified. You could see the way your pussy was glistening, the moisture coating his fingers as he worked you.

He leaned forward, his chest pressing hard against your back, his other hand reaching down to fumble with his own pants. You watched in the reflection as he freed his cock, the thick, heavy length of it springing free. It was too heavy and too thick to even fully stand up right. You could see the glisten of pre-cum on his tip as he pulled the foreskin back.

"You're so beautiful when you're coming apart, my sweet girl" he murmured, his voice thick with lust. He leaned in, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder, while his thumb continued to grind against your clit.

He moved his hand, his fingers sliding deeper into your pussy while his thumb kept up that relentless, punishing rhythm on your clit. You were so close, the tension building in your lower belly until it was almost a scream. You watched the reflection of his cock, the way the tip was already weeping more pre cum, and the sheer, primal need in his eyes made you ache to feel him inside you.

"Tell me you want it," he almost whined, his thumb pressing harder against your clit, driving you toward the edge. "Tell me you want me inside you, sweet baby."

♪ "─Just open the door, and you will see...

this passion burns inside of me..

Don't say to me, "You'll never tell" " ♪

"C'mon, girl," he groaned, his thumb still working your clit with a punishing rhythm. "You want me to make this sweet lil' pussy feel real good?"

♪ "─Touch me there

Make the move

Cast the spell" ♪

You couldn't even form words; you could only nod frantically, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps. The sensation of his fingers inside your pussy combined with the sight of his heavy cock in the mirror was driving you insane.

He didn't give you the satisfaction of pushing in immediatly. Instead, he reached down and gripped your hips, pulling you forward so you were bent over the cool marble of the vanity. He leaned over you, his large hand coming up to cup your jaw, his fingers firm against your chin to tilt your head back.

"Don't you dare look away, baby," he mumbled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Watch me make you feel good."

In the mirror, you saw him position himself behind you. He didn't slide in. Instead, he began to slide the length of his dick up and down the slit of your pussy. He was using the moisture of your own juices and the pre-cum from his tip to lubricate the friction, dragging the hot, heavy shaft against your sensitive folds.

His other hand, the one not holding your chin, wandered from your hip to the soft curve of your waist, his fingers sinking slightly into your skin as if he couldn't believe you were real. He loved the way your body yielded to him, the way your soft, feminine curves provided the perfect, heavy contrast to the hard, pulsing length of his cock.

The sensation was overwhelming. Every time he slid up, the head of his cock grazed your clit, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core. Every time he slid down, the heavy weight of his dick dragged against your entrance, teasing the opening, making you ache to be filled.

He was taking his time, savoring the way your pussy gripped the sides of his shaft as he moved, the way your wetness coated him, making every stroke a smooth, sliding caress. You watched in the mirror, your breath hitching as you saw the way his cock disappeared into the folds of your pussy and then emerged, glistening, to drag itself back up your clit.

"Look at it," he whispered, his breath hot against the back of your neck as he watched your reaction in the glass. "Look how much you're soaking f'me. Shit, baby...You're so beautiful," he moaned, his eyes never leaving yours in the reflection. His hand on your chin softened, his thumb tracing your lower lip as he watched the way your eyes were blown wide with desire. "Let me feel you. Let me finally be inside you."

As he continued to slide the heavy, slick length of his cock up and down the slit of your cunt, he leaned forward even more, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His lips were hot and hungry, trailing a path from your shoulder up to the sensitive skin behind your ear. He began to suck on the cord of your neck, his tongue swirling around the pulse point that was thrumming wildly under his touch.

Every time his teeth grazed your skin, a jolt of electricity shot straight down to your core, colliding with the rhythmic, heavy sliding of his dick.

"Please, Mikey, just..." you whimpered, the word barely a breath. You didn't even know what you were begging for for him to stop, or for him to finally, finally thrust himself inside you. You were just lost in the sensation of him.

"You're so close," he murmured against your skin. He pulled back just enough to look at you in the mirror, his eyes burning with a mixture of devotion and pure, unadulterated lust. "I can feel you shaking, sweet girl. I can feel how much you want me."

Your breath was coming in shallow, desperate hitches, and your vision was blurring at the edges. You couldn't take the teasing anymore. You couldn't take the way he was just touching you when all you wanted was to be consumed by him.

The tension in your body had become a physical weight, a coiled spring of desire that was vibrating through every nerve ending. Your breath was coming in shallow, desperate hitches, and your vision was blurring at the edges. You couldn't take the teasing anymore. You couldn't take the way he was just touching you when all you wanted was to be fucked. After almost three days of no physical touch.

"Please," you gasped, your voice breaking as you stared at your own blown out eyes in the mirror. "Michael... please. Inside me. Now."

He didn't need to be told twice. A low, guttural groan ripped from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated hunger that made your pussy clench in anticipation. He didn't hesitate. His hands moved from your chin to your hips, his fingers digging into the soft, generous curves of your flesh with a sudden, bruising intensity. He pulled you back against him, anchoring you, and in one singular, powerful motion, he drove his cock deep into your pussy.

The sensation was overwhelming. It was a sudden, heavy fullness that seemed to stretch you to your absolute limit, that forced a loud, broken moan from your throat. You felt the thick, pulsing length of his dick slide into your cunt, burying himself all the way to the hilt, bottoming out against you with a force that made your entire body shudder.

"God, baby," he groaned, his forehead dropping against the back of your neck as he held the position, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him. He was shaking, his muscles corded and tense as he fought to keep from immediately losing control. "I missed you so much. I missed this sweet pussy so much..."

The sensation of him being inside you, so deep and so solid, was more intoxicating than any of the teasing had been. You felt the heat of him, the way his cock seemed to pulse in sync with your own frantic heartbeat.

He didn't stay still for long. He began to move with a heavy, driving pace. He pulled back until he was almost out, the tip of his cock dragging against your entrance, before thrusting back in with a deep force.

He was fucking you with a desperate, starving need, his hips slamming against your backside, his hands never letting go of your hips as he drove himself into you again and again. "Oh god baby, you feel soo good," He whimpered.

In the mirror, you watched the beautiful, messy reality of it. Your mouth hanging open, the way your skin flushed and your hips bucked to meet every heavy, deep stroke. You saw the sheer, unbridled lust in his eyes as he watched you take him, his expression a mix of adoration and pure hunger.

♪ "─Because there's something about you, baby,

that makes me want to give it to you..." ♪

The world had narrowed down to the sound of your joined breaths and the heavy, rhythmic slap of his hips against yours. Every thrust was deeper than the last, a blunt, hot invasion that made your vision blur.

He wasn't just fucking you; he was worshipping the way you took him. His hands were like iron on your hips, his fingers digging into your curves, but his voice... his voice was what was truly undoing you.

"God, you're so beautiful," he groaned, the words a low, ragged vibration against your ear. He leaned in, his lips brushing your skin as he spoke, his breath hot and frantic. "The way you feel around me... it's like you were made just to hold me. You're ruining me, angel."

In the mirror, you watched him. His eyes were dark, blown wide with a hunger that looked almost painful. He wasn't looking at the room; he was staring at the point where his cock disappeared into you, mesmerized by the sight of your body reacting to him.

"Look at how you're taking it," he whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, desperate pitch. "Look at how much you want my dick inside you. You're so wet for me... you're perfect."

The pressure in your lower belly was no longer a build; it was an avalanche. The friction of his dick, the heavy weight of him, the way he was hitting your G spot with every deep, driving lunge... it was all colliding. You felt the first tremors of the orgasm starting, a violent, electric pulsing that made your legs tremble.

"Michael..." you whimpered, your voice a broken thread. You didn't need him to tell you to come; he could already feel it. He could feel the way your pussy began to spasm, clenching around his shaft in desperate, rhythmic waves.

His pace didn't falter; it became a heavy, punishing drive, his hips slamming into you with a primal, desperate force. He was losing his breath, his words becoming short, choked gasps of pure need.

"That's it, babygirl... yes, just like that," he hissed, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he felt you break. "Take it all... just take it all..."

As your orgasm tore through you, a blinding explosion of pleasure. Your internal muscles began to spasm in violent, rhythmic contractions, clenching around his cock with a desperate strength, gripping him like a vice. your wetness increasing so rapidly it became a slick, sliding heat that coated his length even more heavily.

In the mirror, you saw your own back arch, your skin flushed as your body surrendered to the tremors.

Michael felt the way your walls clamped down on him, the frantic, pulsing grip of your pussy that seemed to demand everything he had. The sheer force of your orgasm, the way you were practically milking him with every spasm, was too much for his control to hold.

"Fuck..." he whimpered against your skin.

He gave one final, devastatingly deep thrust, bottoming out against you as his own release hit. His entire body went rigid, his muscles corded like steel as he poured himself into you, his hips slamming into yours one last time. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of his cock as he came deep inside you, the force of his release vibrating through your own trembling muscles.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged, synchronized breathing and the feeling of your bodies, still locked together, slowly coming down from the heights. He didn't pull away. He stayed buried deep, his forehead pressed against the back of your neck, his chest heaving against your back.

"Baby," he breathed, the word a long, exhausted exhale of pure bliss. "You're so incredible. You're everything."

He buried his face against the side of your neck, his voice barely above a whisper as the words brushed softly against your skin.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he murmured. "I never wanted to make you feel that way. I never wanted to be the reason you were hurting." He let out a shaky breath, holding you a little tighter.

"I promise you... it'll never happen again. I'll do better. I swear I will."

His lips lingered against your temple before he spoke again, quieter this time.

"You're my everything. You know that, don't you?" He pulled back just enough to search your eyes, his own filled with quiet sincerity.

"Just... don't shut me out like that again. I know I deserved for you to be angry, and I know I messed up, but those last two days..." He swallowed hard, a faint, helpless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "They were awful. I missed you every second. Even when you were standing right in front of me, it felt like you were a million miles away."

A soft smile spread across your face, the rest of the tension you'd been carrying for the last two days finally melting away completely.

"It's okay, Mike," you said quietly, your fingers absentmindedly stroking the end of his curls. "I forgive you." Relief washed over his features so quickly that it almost made you laugh. His shoulders relaxed, and he let out a breath he'd been holding.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I know."

"But..." You tilted your head, your smile turning just a little more mischievous as you looked up at him. "If you ever pull something like that again..."

He blinked.

"...I'm calling Janet."

Michael's eyes widened in mock horror.

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, I absolutely would."

He let out a dramatic gasp, placing a hand over his chest as if you'd just mortally wounded him.

"Baby, that's cruel." You couldn't hold back your laugh this time.

"No," you corrected, poking him lightly in the chest. "Cruel was making me upset in the first place."

He caught your hand before you could pull it away, intertwining his fingers with yours.

"Fair enough," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "I don't think I could survive Janet giving me one of her lectures." You raised an eyebrow.

"One of her lectures?" Michael groaned dramatically.

"They're terrifying."

"They're effective."

"They're terrifying because they're effective." Another laugh escaped you, brighter this time, and the sound made him smile in a way that reached his eyes.

"There she is," he murmured. "I've missed hearing you laugh."

Your expression softened.

"I've missed talking to you, too."

Without thinking, he leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against yours.

"No more silent treatment?" he asked quietly. You pretended to consider it for a moment before giving him a small nod.

"No more silent treatment."

"And no more giving you reasons to use it," he promised.

"You'd better keep that promise."

"I intend to."

By now, the music had long since faded away, the last notes disappearing without either of you noticing. The only sounds left in the bathroom were your slow, steady breaths, the occasional drip of water from the showerhead, and the quiet contentment that settled between you.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ January, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ An Undisclosed Location - Los Angeles, California.

Two weeks after the divorce papers arrived, (Name) found herself standing in the back corner of a Rite Aid, lingering near the pharmacy counter with a basket hanging loosely from one arm. Nothing particularly special in it; a little bottle of ibuprofen and some pads. Things that made this visit feel a little more normal. She was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes and a pair of oversized sunglasses, and scarf wrapped loosely around the lower half of her face.

It was funny. She’d become strangely good at blending in during the years she was with him. Michael had turned disappearing into an art form: fake noses, oversized jackets, wigs, and absurd disguises that left them both giggling in parking lots of a grocery store. She indulged him in all of it—somehow beneath all of it, they felt freer than they ever did as themselves at times. It was nice. But this visit didn’t feel that way.

Her managers would’ve insisted on sending an assistant if they’d known where she’d gone. Security would’ve cleared the counter and surrounding areas before she ever reached the pharmacy. Hell, someone else would’ve picked up the prescription, tucked it into a brown bag, and spared her the errand entirely.

But no one knew the perscription existed, and she intended to keep it that way.

Two weeks ago, a stranger in a suit had handed her a stack of papers and it felt as though something had climbed off the page, and directly into her body the moment she’d touched them. It burrowed through her the way an illness does, until it had rooted itself in places she couldn’t reach. It seeped into her bloodstream, threaded itself through her nerves, and nested behind her ribs.

The symptoms hadn’t arrived all at time, they spread slowly.

It fed on sleep and turned the simple act of hearing her own phone ring into something her heart interpreted as danger, taking several minutes to recover. Her appetite disappeared. Her pulse developed a mind of its own even when she was resting. She’d lie awake convinced something terrible was about to happen, only to realize the terrible thing already had.

It was astonishing how quickly grief could colonize a body.

She couldn’t scrub it off in the shower or outrun it. It had settled into the wiring beneath her skin, quietly rewriting instincts she’d trusted her entire life. Silence became suspicious. Even breathing sometimes felt like work.

The prescription was proof that whatever had entered her that afternoon had progressed far beyond heartbreak. A doctor had looked at her and seen something treatable. The shock of the impending divorce had lingered long enough to leave a trace in her nervous system and soil it, leaving behind disorder that wasn’t there previously.

The papers were still sitting somewhere in a drawer, she hadn’t signed a single one or read even a page. Yet somehow they were already changing her from the inside out. Truth be told, she physically couldn’t look at, touch or even be in the vicinity of the documents. Staff handled them that afternoon, locking them in a secure room because they seemed to be a trigger. Understandably so.

The woman beside her was buying children’s cough medicine and cartoon bandages. An older man stood quietly comparing two different bottles of vitamins before deciding on one. Somewhere near the greeting cards, a little girl begged her mother for a chocolate bar while the cashier laughed and told her she’d have to ask permission first. It was painfully, offensively ordinary. The world had gone on with its errands and grocery lists, with all the beautifully mundane rituals of ordinary life, as though her life hadn’t split neatly in half just fourteen days earlier.

(Name) stood among strangers holding the little numbered ticket she’d been handed at the counter and when her name was finally called, she walked forward on legs that didn’t quite feel like her own.

The pharmacist never looked up long enough to recognize her. He simply asked for her date of birth, confirmed her address, and then disappeared briefly before returning with a small amber bottle sealed inside a white paper bag. The exchange lasted less than two minutes. He explained the directions carefully, his voice slightly deadpan from saying the same sentences hundreds of times a day. Take one as needed. It may cause drowsiness. Avoid alcohol while taking this medication. Contact your physician if symptoms worsen. She nodded at all the appropriate moments, signed where he pointed, thanked him with a smile and accepted the bag with both hands.

As she turned toward the exit, her eyes drifted down to the bottle visible through the folded paper.

Twenty seven.

Twenty seven years old, and she was walking out of a pharmacy with medication because she could no longer convince her own body that it was safe. How pathetic is that? Because somewhere between her husband’s legal troubles, hospital visits, rehabilitation, to weeks upon weeks of silence, Lisa Maria, and an envelope full of legal documents meant to separate her from the love of her life, her hands shook for no reason at all. Sometimes she forgot to breathe until her lungs forced her to remember. The physician had called them panic attacks in the same exactly manner someone might use to diagnose seasonal allergies. He’d spoken gently, kindly even, explaining that her nervous system had been under extraordinary strain for a very long time. There was no shame in needing help, he’d said. Plenty of people needed help. She’d nodded then, too.

But there wasn’t a dosage for losing your husband.

There wasn’t a pill that could make her forget the sound of his laugh echoing through hallways he no longer walked. Nothing printed on that prescription label could explain how to wake up in a bed built for two people and remember, every single morning, that only one of the was laying in it. No pharmacist could fold that kind of grief into an amber bottle and slide it across a counter.

She placed the paper bag on the passenger seat beside her and drove home in silence.

That evening, after Aladdin had finally fallen asleep and the house settled into the stillness she had grown to despise, she wandered into the living room carrying a dusty cardboard box she’d pulled from the back of a closet. Inside were home videos she hadn’t touched in ages, each cassette labeled in her own pretty handwriting. Christmas. Aladdin’s birthday. Neverland. 1990. Valentine’s day. Paris. Wedding. Her fingers lingered over the last one before she carefully slid it into the VCR. The mechanical click sounded into the room, followed by the soft hiss of static before the image steadied into brilliant color.

There he was.

Happy. Smiling. Alive in a way that had nothing to do with breathing at all—it feels like watching a dream.

He turned toward the camera for only a second before looking back at her, his entire face brightening with that shy little smile she’d once believed she would spend the rest of her life watching. She saw herself laughing beside him, adjusting the sleeve of his tuxedo before he leaned down to whisper something that made her throw her head back with another laugh. The footage wobbled as the cameraman moved, catching fleeting moments no photographer ever could. His hand finding hers beneath the table. The sweet way he looked at her when he thought no one else was paying attention. The gentle brush of his thumb across her knuckles while guests applauded somewhere in the background.

On the coffee table sat three things.

The remote.

The small amber prescription bottle.

A bottle of vodka.

She stared at them as the television continued playing. Michael fed her a bite of wedding cake before laughing at something she couldn’t hear over the music. She remembered exactly how it had tasted. Sweet vanilla. Buttercream. The kiss they’d shared afterward, both of them giggling because they could still taste the frosting. She remembered believing with complete certainty that this was what her forever looked like.

Her thumb found the rewind button.

The tape whirred backwards.

She watched it again.

Then again.

Every replay felt less like remembering.. and more like searching. She thought that if she studied his face closely enough she’d find the exact frame where everything that came afterward had already been waiting. Some tiny hesitation. Some shadow behind his eyes. Some warning she’d somehow missed.

There wasn’t one.

Only a man hopelessly in love with his wife.

Only a woman who looked back at him as though nothing in the world could ever separate them.

The room grew darker as the evening wore on, lit only by the glow of the television. The prescription bottle opened, as well as the bottle of vodka. They sat side by side beneath the flickering light like two different promises, both offering relief in their own quiet, dangerous way. (Name) rested her elbows on her knees, her tired eyes fixed on the screen as tears slipped silently down her face.

She pressed rewind one more time.

Inside the television, Michael smiled at her as though he still couldn’t believe she’d said yes.

Outside of it, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her that way at all.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ February, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Spago Restaurant - West Hollywood, California.

It had taken nearly three weeks before anyone managed to convince (Name) to leave the house. Not for a recording session, an interview or for a rehearsal. Just lunch. Her manager had called it a ‘change of scenery’, speaking as though she were balanced on the outside of a twenty story window ledge, and they were all desperately pretending the conversation was about the weather. He’d gently suggested that four walls and perpetually drawn curtains weren’t doing her any favors anymore. Elizabeth had agreed immediately, squeezing her hand across the kitchen table and telling her that the world hadn’t ended just because it felt like it had. A few other members of her team quietly echoed the sentiment, though no one pushed very hard. They’d all learned over the past few weeks that this situation had made her extremely fragile. One wrong sentence and she’d retreat upstairs for the rest of the day, emerging only to check on Aladdin before disappearing behind another closed door. Eventually, more out of exhaustion than willingness, she’d nodded. Arguing required energy she simply didn’t have anymore.

Getting dressed felt very odd considering for the past few weeks, she’d only changed clothes out of basic necessity, and even then, it usually took gentle encouragement from one of the older women on the Neverland staff. She’d knock softly before letting herself in, lay out fresh clothes, and patiently coax (Name) through the motions of showering and getting dressed. The same woman reminded her to eat most days, lingering at the kitchen table until she’d managed at least half of whatever meal had been placed in front of her. Somewhere along the way, she’d stopped feeling like an employee and started feeling more like the maternal presence everyone assumed was needed due to the situation at hand.

(Name) stood in front of her closet for several minutes before reaching for an oversized cream sweater that used to fit comfortably, only to watch it slip a little loosely over her shoulders now. The sleeves swallowed part of her hands which was the normal fit but the neckline rested lower against her collarbone than she remembered. She caught sight of herself in the mirror for only a second before looking away again. Her cheekbones had become a bit more angular. The gentle fullness that had always softened her face had disappeared a bit, replaced by a hollowness she hadn’t noticed was there. Makeup covered the worst of the dark circles beneath her eyes, but it couldn’t disguise the fatigue settled deep behind them. She tucked loose strands of hair beneath a baseball cap, slipped on oversized sunglasses despite the gray afternoon sky, and reached for a scarf.

As she stepped downstairs, someone offered a gentle, well meaning, ”Miss! You’re getting out? You look nice.” Someone else remarked without thinking, “Oh! ..You’ve lost a little weight..” And the room fell awkwardly silent. (Name) only smiled politely, adjusted the strap of her handbag and pretended she hadn’t heard the comment. She would be back later she said.

The restaurant had been chosen carefully, tucked away from the busiest streets behind rows of old palm trees and expensive storefronts where celebrities occasionally managed an uninterrupted meal if they were lucky. It wasn’t impossible to find, just inconvenient enough that most photographers didn’t bother waiting outside on speculation alone. For a little while, the plan actually worked. Warm afternoon light spilling across white tablecloths through tall windows, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates and conversations drifted lazily between nearby tables without anyone paying them much attention.

It felt ordinary, getting out like this. She.. she enjoyed it admittedly. Her team made a conscious effort to avoid the subjects hanging over everyone’s heads. They talked about work, albums other artists were releasing, Aladdin’s newest words, and whether he was going to inherit her stubbornness or her sweetness—perhaps even both, he’s a taurus after all. Elizabeth carried most of the conversation herself, launching into one of her wonderfully meandering stories that somehow involved three countries, two dogs, and an actor whose name she’d completely forgotten before arriving at an absurd punchline that made the entire table laugh. Against her own expectations, (Name) laughed too. It startled her more than anyone else. The sound felt rusty, like something her body remembered doing even if her heart hadn’t caught up yet.

For one fleeting hour, she almost believed she’d survive this.

Then somebody recognized her.

She never found out who it was. Perhaps another customer quietly excused themselves to make a phone call. Perhaps a waiter mentioned her name to someone outside. Perhaps word simply spread the way it always seemed to whenever famous people tried to exist in public. It hardly mattered anymore. Fame had long since taught her that privacy leaked away in tiny, ordinary moments exactly like this one until suddenly there was nothing left.

(Name) noticed the shift before anyone said a word. Her head of security, who until then had been standing comfortably near the entrance pretending not to watch the room, suddenly pressed two fingers against the earpiece hidden beneath his jacket. His expression tightened imperceptibly as he listened, eyes drifting toward the front windows where flashes of movement had begun gathering beyond the glass. Another member of security quietly stepped away from the wall to reposition himself closer to the table. Her manager stopped mid sentence, following their line of sight without turning his head too obviously. Even Elizabeth noticed, her smile fading as she reached instinctively for (Name)’s hand beneath the table, giving it one reassuring squeeze.

“They’re outside,” The head of security said quietly.

The words settled over the table like the forecast of an approaching storm everyone had secretly been hoping would pass them by. Conversation dissolved almost immediately. Chairs slid softly across the floor as everyone rose, years of navigating celebrity life taking over without discussion. (Name) lowered her gaze, adjusted her sunglasses with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, and drew a slow breath that caught somewhere halfway inside her chest. The scarf was pulled a little higher. Her baseball cap lowered a little further. None of it would matter. It never really did. She fell naturally into the middle of the group as they began walking toward the entrance, surrounded by security without feeling particularly protected.

The restaurant door hadn’t even finished opening before the noise—her name hit her before she even saw the cameras.

It came from every direction at once, shouted over itself until it no longer sounded like her name at all, just noise. The moment her foot crossed the threshold, the sidewalk erupted into movement. Photographers surged forward as one body, camera shutters firing in relentless bursts that sounded almost mechanical, flashes exploding even beneath the overcast sky until the world dissolved into violent pulses of white. For a split second she couldn’t properly see where the curb ended or where her security team began. People jostled shoulders, stepping into one another’s paths in a frantic effort to get closer, lenses stretching over heads, microphones thrust forward like weapons. The air itself felt crowded.

“(Name)! Over here!”

“(Name), is it true Michael left you?”

“Were you blindsided by the divorce?”

“Is the marriage beyond saving?”

“Who’s getting custody of Aladdin?”

“Are the reports about your health true?”

“Did Michael cheat on you?”

“Do you still love him?”

The questions were invasive. One voice crashed into the next before she’d even understood the first, each reporter trying to shout just a little louder than everyone else, convinced theirs would be the question that finally cracked her open. Camera lenses crowded so close she could see her own distorted reflection staring back at her through polished glass, sallow beneath oversized sunglasses and thinner than she remembered. Someone stumbled against her shoulder. Another photographer leaned so far over the security barricade he nearly fell. Hands reached into her path holding tape recorders, notepads, microphones bearing television station logos.

Somewhere beside her, one of the security guards repeated, “Back up. Give her room. Back up,” in the same firm voice over and over until it blended into the rest of the chaos.

Nobody listened, but nobody ever did. There was money to be made from other people’s misery, and her nightmare had become one of the biggest stories in the world.

Her heartbreak had stopped belonging to her weeks ago. Every grocery store checkout aisle carried another magazine promising the “truth” behind the separation, each issue displaying a different photograph beneath another confident headline written by someone who had never once stepped inside their home. Anonymous friends appeared everywhere, speaking in quotations she’d never heard before, somehow claiming to know exactly what had been said behind closed bedroom doors, exactly how she’d cried, exactly why her marriage had failed.

Daytime television hosts dissected their relationship between celebrity gossip segments and cooking demonstrations, nodding thoughtfully as if they had been invited to the wedding themselves. Entertainment programs replayed years of interviews, slowing footage to half speed in search of glances that supposedly predicted the divorce all along. Fans filled call in shows arguing over which one of them deserved sympathy. Radio hosts joked about whose breakup album would sell more records. Newspapers printed diagrams of their relationship like timelines from a criminal investigation, reducing years of shared memories into neat columns of dates and speculation. Complete strangers debated custody arrangements over breakfast. Opinion columnists confidently explained why the marriage had collapsed despite never having spent a single minute inside it. Every person with a newspaper, a television, or a microphone suddenly believed they understood the most intimate years of her life better than she did.

Everyone had an answer, but no one had been there.

She kept walking because there was nothing else she knew how to do. Her shoulders curled inward beneath the oversized sweater, she thought that making herself physically smaller might somehow lessen the attention. One hand clung so tightly to the strap of her handbag that her fingers had begun to ache, while the other remained tucked close against her body, hidden beneath the loose knit of her sleeve. She didn’t lift her head. She couldn’t. Looking at them felt too.. it was just humiliating. So instead, she fixed her eyes on the black sedan waiting just beyond the crowd, wishing that they parked closer. Every step seemed to take forever.

The flashes refused to stop. They illuminated every new hollow beneath her cheekbones, every collarbone now visible beneath the sweater she’d chosen specifically because it hid how much weight she’d lost in such a short period of time—the difference was noticeable considering where she was before, to where she is now. Tomorrow those photographs would be everywhere. Side by side comparisons from six months earlier. Headlines asking whether she was eating enough. Television doctors offering diagnoses they’d invented from still images.

HEARTBROKEN STAR SPARKS HEALTH CONCERNS. FRIENDS FEAR SHE’S WASTING AWAY. THE PRICE OF DIVORCE?

They would speculate about stress, exhaustion, dieting, overwork. Nobody would write that she’d begun measuring her nights by how many drinks it took to fall asleep. Nobody would know about the little amber prescription bottle tucked inside the kitchen cabinet behind the coffee mugs, or how some evenings she’d stand in front of it with a bottle of vodka in one hand, trying to decide which one might finally quiet her mind. Nobody would know she’d stopped looking into mirrors for more than a few seconds because the woman staring back looked unrecognizable every single morning.

A security guard opened the car door just as the crowd pressed forward again. She slipped inside without speaking, her manager climbing in behind her before another photographer managed to wedge a camera between the narrowing gap. The door slammed shut with a heavy thud, muffling the shouting almost instantly. For one second, there was silence. She let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and leaned her head back against the leather seat, closing her eyes as if the darkness behind them might finally offer somewhere to hide.

Another flash burst through the tinted window.

Then another.

Even with the door closed, even with the engine starting, even as the car slowly pulled away from the curb, they were still taking pictures.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ Early March, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ The Valley - Los Angeles, California.

The strangest part about looking for a house was that she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for.

She knew how to stand beneath stage lights and deliver a performance perfectly timed down to the second. She knew how to walk into a room full of executives and hold her ground. She knew how to negotiate contracts, handle interviews, memorize choreography, and carry an entire career on her shoulders without letting anyone see how heavy it became. She had spent years making decisions that affected millions of people.

But standing inside a potential home with a realtor asking her what she wanted, she felt completely lost.

The woman showing her around was kind it was sickening. She had the bright, professional warmth of someone who had done this hundreds of times before, moving through each property with an enthusiasm that felt untouched by the fact that this was not an exciting new beginning for her. This was something else entirely.

“This room would be perfect for entertaining,” The realtor said, opening the doors to a wide living space with tall windows overlooking the backyard. “I can already picture family gatherings here. Holidays, birthdays…”

(Name) smiled politely.

She could picture them too.

That was the problem.

She could picture Aladdin running through the room. She could picture toys scattered across the floor, little shoes abandoned by the doorway, Christmas decorations covering every surface. She could picture a piano sitting somewhere near the windows, music filling the house in the evenings.

She could picture a life, but she just couldn’t picture herself living it.

The first house was beautiful.

So was the second.

The third had a kitchen larger than her first apartment and a backyard big enough for Aladdin to spend entire afternoons outside. The fourth had everything people dreamed about when they imagined a perfect home: marble floors, a sweeping staircase, a pool that reflected the sky like glass. A tuscan estate, she called it.

Every realtor’s dream.

Every magazine’s dream.

None of them were hers. Because she wasn’t really looking for a house, she was looking for something that didn’t exist—the life she had lost.

The realization came quietly, somewhere between one perfectly decorated room and another. She stood in a bedroom listening as the realtor explained closet space and bathroom renovations, but all she could think about was how, when she was twenty and signing the lease for her first apartment, Michael had been there.

He had known what questions to ask.

He had noticed things she hadn’t.

He checked the cabinets. The windows. The water pressure. The little details she never would have considered because she had been too young and too excited to care about anything except making the place feel beautiful.

He had laughed gently when she admitted she hadn’t even looked at the lease terms before signing. The whole time he had sat beside her, patiently explaining everything.

Now she was twenty seven, standing in a big empty house with a stack of paperwork, realizing she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for. It unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

For as long as she could remember, there had always been a man standing beside her when life asked for grown up decisions. First her father, patiently explaining mortgages, insurance, and contracts but she was too young to care about. Then Michael, who she’d fallen in love with. From then on, the practical parts of life had become shared things.

And neither man believed she was incapable of these things, but they loved taking care of her. And she’d loved letting them.

Now, for the first time in her adult life, no one was reading the fine print before she signed it. No one was pointing out what she’d overlooked or assuring her she was making the right decision. Every choice landed squarely in her lap, and she found herself staring at them longer than she should have because she’d never had to make quite so many of them alone.

It wasn’t dependence she was grieving. It was the absence of the person she’d always instinctively turned toward whenever life became too large to carry by herself. No one warned her that the hardest decisions wouldn’t be the ones in front of cameras. They wouldn’t be the interviews or the performances or the moments where millions of people watched her and expected her to be perfect.

It would be this; mortgages. Insurance. Paperwork.

Choosing where her son would sleep.

The small, ordinary things that somehow felt more terrifying than standing in front of thousands of screaming fans.

After the fourth house, the realtor finally turned to her with a hopeful smile. “Would you like to make an offer?”

(Name) looked around the room. It really was beautiful. Perfect, even. She could imagine Aladdin growing up here. She could imagine birthday parties in the backyard. Christmas mornings. Family dinners. A piano in the corner.

Everything.

Everything except herself.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the folder in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. The realtor’s expression shifted, waiting. (Name) looked once more around the room before lowering her gaze. “I think..” Her voice caught for just a moment. “I’d like to keep looking.”

And the heartbreaking part was that she didn’t know what she was waiting to find.

Because no house was going to feel like home when the person who had made it one was the very person she was trying to learn how to live without.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ Late March, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch, Los Olivos, California.

The closet was the worst.

She had avoided it for days, finding reasons to be anywhere else in the house whenever she walked past it. The kitchen needed organizing. Aladdin’s things needed sorting. There were phone calls she needed to make. Meetings. Interviews. A thousand little responsibilities that were easier than standing in front of the closet they had shared.

Because the closet didn’t look like their marriage that had ended. It looked almost exactly as they’d left it. As though they had simply stepped out for dinner and forgotten to come back.

His clothes were still there—jackets arranged by color because he’d insisted it somehow made getting dressed easier (a majority of his clothing was either red or black). A few empty hangers interrupted the line where assistants had quietly removed some of his things weeks earlier, but enough remained that her eyes continued filling in the gaps automatically. Her mind refused to accept absence. It kept correcting it. He’ll need that tomorrow. He always wears that one when it rains. That sweater belongs in the wash. It was astonishing how stubborn memory could be, continuing to perform little acts of love long after there was nowhere left to put them.

Those were the things that hurt the most.

She stood there for several minutes holding a sweater in her hands without realizing she had stopped moving. It still carried the faintest trace of him, his skin, his favorite perfume. It wasn’t strong enough that anyone else would notice—but she did. She had spent years knowing him in ways nobody else did. The smallest details had become part of her understanding of him. The way he smelled after a shower. The way his clothes felt softer after being washed too many times. The way he would leave things in places without realizing it because he always assumed he would come back to them.

Because he always had.

Until he didn’t.

She reached for one of his long sleeves almost without thinking. The fabric slipped easily between her fingers. Time had already begun doing what time always did, stealing little pieces first. But there was still something there. Something warm and familiar that immediately transported her to sleepy mornings where he’d wander into the kitchen wearing this exact shirt, his hair a complete mess, asking if she’d already made coffee before remembering he didn’t actually drink it. The memory arrived so vividly she had to close her eyes. When she opened them again, she caressed the material gently, honestly too tenderly. As if being gentle with it somehow meant she was being gentle with him. Even after all of this, she couldn’t help but to enately want to be careful with him.

She sat down on the floor beside the open boxes, surrounded by pieces of a life she had never imagined having to separate. Photographs. Letters. Small gifts. Things that had once represented years of love and now felt like evidence from another lifetime.

The strangest part was that she didn't know what she was supposed to take.

What belonged to her? What belonged to him?

At some point, there stopped being a difference. That was the entire point of marriage. You stopped keeping score. You stopped remembering who bought what, who brought what, who contributed which piece. Everything became theirs.

Packing was supposed to feel productive.

People packed because they were moving. Because they had accepted that one chapter had ended and another was waiting somewhere ahead of them. There was supposed to be a rhythm to it. Empty the drawers. Fold the clothes. Tape the boxes shut. Write a label. Carry them to the front door. Repeat until the room no longer belonged to you.

It wasn’t that simple with her.

By the afternoon, boxes had begun appearing throughout the bedroom in uneven little clusters. Some were half full. Others still sat open and untouched because she kept finding reasons not to decide what belonged inside them. Marriage had a funny way of blurring ownership until it barely existed. Nobody warned you about that part when you said your vows. They told you everything became ours and they neglected to mention what happened if one day someone asked you to separate it all again.

She knelt beside a lower cabinet near the back of the closet, reaching into the corner where they had spent years absentmindedly shoving things they didn’t know what to do with.

Old photographs. Ticket stubs. A disposable camera neither of them had ever developed. Then her fingers brushed against something soft.

She frowned and pulled it free.

It was a plush frog. A ridiculously oversized frog wearing a tiny sequined tuxedo and an equally ridiculous little top hat that sat crooked over one stitched eye. One arm had gone limp where the stuffing had shifted over the years, giving it the permanently exhausted appearance of someone who had simply accepted life was happening to them.

For a long moment she just stared at it. Then a giggle escaped her lips. Small. Breathless.

“Oh, my goodness..” She pressed her fingertips against her mouth, shaking her head as another quiet laugh slipped out before she could stop it.

She remembered.

They’d been wandering through a carnival years ago after insisting they were “just going to walk around.” He’d spotted the frog hanging from the top row of prizes and become completely determined to win it for her despite the teenage employee repeatedly explaining the game was nearly impossible.

Michael refused to believe him.

Twenty dollars later he’d won exactly nothing.

Forty dollars later he’d accused the game of being rigged.

Sixty dollars later she’d been laughing so hard she’d nearly fallen over.

Eventually, the poor teenager had sighed, looked around to make sure his manager wasn’t watching, quietly taken the frog down himself and handed it across the counter.

“I can’t watch this anymore,” He’d whispered.

Michael had accepted it with complete seriousness before turning to her as though he’d conquered Everest.

“For my beautiful lady,” He announced, presenting the frog with both hands.

She’d looked between him and the absurd stuffed animal. “You spent sixty dollars on this thing.”

“It was an investment.”

“In what?”

“Our future.”

Now she sat alone on the closet floor with the same ridiculous frog resting in her lap. The laughter disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Her thumb absentmindedly brushed over the crooked little hat.

“You were so stupid, kind of looks like you too..” (Name) whispered affectionately with the kind of fondness reserved for memories that hurt because they had once been so wonderfully ordinary. She smiled through tears that had begun gathering without permission.

The smile trembled, then it broke as she folded forward slowly, hugging the ridiculous frog against her chest hoping that a hug might somehow fix the pieces of her that had been broken for months.

The gift itself was absurd.

Cheap.

Completely impractical.

By every reasonable standard, it should have been one of the easiest things in the room to throw away. Instead, she reached for an empty box, placed the frog gently inside by itself, and wrote only one word across the lid.

KEEP.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ April, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Ashford Mediation Group, Beverly Hills, California.

The drive there felt like purgatory, honestly. The engine hummed beneath them, steady and smooth as it carried the car through late morning traffics. Buildings drifted past the window in slow succession, interrupted every so often by a red light or a pedestrian crossing. Somewhere in the front, her manager kept his voice low over the phone, discussing arrival times, entrances, making sure the press hadn’t caught wind of the meeting.

Beside her, her attorney rested a leather portfolio across his lap, turning over neatly tabbed pages as he reviewed everything one final time. Custody. Financial agreements. Property. Confidentiality. His voice remained calm and almost comforting in its neutrality, pausing now and then to reassure her that nothing unexpected would happen today. They had prepared for this. They had been over every document until he could practically recite them from memory.

She should have been listening. Instead, the words dissolved somewhere between his mouth and her ears, losing their shape before they ever reached her. She answered where she thought she was supposed to, nodding faintly, murmuring quiet acknowledgments she wasn’t entirely aware of making, her eyes fixed on the stitching of the seat in front of her until it blurred into a single uninterrupted line. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers woven together so tightly the joints had begun to ache. She loosened them forcibly and a minute later they were locked together again without her realizing.

Outside, the world continued. A florist arranged fresh bouquets beneath a striped awning. Two businessmen laughed together over paper cups of coffee as they crossed the street. A young mother stopped to kneel in front of her little girl, zipping her jacket before taking her hand and disappearing around the corner. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were headed. Everyone still belonged to someone or something. The thought settled somewhere beneath her ribs before she could stop it. Once upon a time, she would’ve been driving toward Michael. Toward home. Toward the man who reached for the door handle before the car had even come to a complete stop because he couldn’t seem to wait the extra few seconds. Now she was driving toward paperwork that would ask her to untangle years of her life into paragraphs and signatures.

A quiet pressure began blooming beneath her sternum. It was so faint at first she mistook it for hunger. She straightened in her seat and drew in a deeper breath, holding it for a second before letting it out slowly. It helped, until it didn’t. The feeling returned, just a little heavier this time, spreading through her chest like something patiently unfolding. She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat and reached for the bottle of water beside her, taking two careful sips before placing it back exactly where she’d found it. The relief lasted only a moment before her coat suddenly felt heavier than it had when she’d put it on that morning. She slipped the top button loose then adjusted the scarf at her neck. The air conditioning whispered steadily through the vents, yet warmth had begun creeping beneath her collar, collecting behind her ears and along the back of her neck until she wondered if she was getting sick. She crossed one leg over the other. Uncrossed it. Pressed both feet firmly against the floor instead. Nothing seemed to settle the strange discomfort growing quietly inside her.

Her attorney had stopped speaking. “...Mrs. Jackson?”

“Of course.” He offered her an understanding smile, glancing back down at the papers. “I was just saying that, if at any point you need a break, Mrs. Jackson, we can—”

She blinked. “I’m sorry,” She said, her voice quieter than she’d intended. “Could you.. could you repeat that?”

For a second, she simply stared at her own hands.

“Don’t call me that, please.” The words came out and silence settled over the car. She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t snapped, really. But the sentence landed with enough uncomfort that even her manager looked back over his shoulder.

Then, softer this time, embarrassed by how quickly the words had escaped her, she whispered, “Please.”

No one corrected her.

Her attorney gave a small nod, closed the folder for a moment, and apologized before continuing, avoiding the title altogether. She wanted to thank him, but the lump in her throat had grown too large to speak around. She hadn’t realized how much those two words still belonged to him until hearing someone else use them.

Mrs. Jackson.

A name she’d once worn with so much pride it hardly felt borrowed anymore. A name that had come to mean waking up beside him, dancing barefoot through the kitchen with a baby balanced on one hip, signing birthday cards together, whispered “I love yous” after midnight when the house had finally gone quiet. Now it sounded like someone describing a woman who no longer existed.

Not on a television screen.

The realization struck her so suddenly it stole the breath she’d only just managed to steady: in a matter of minutes, she was going to see him.

Not in photographs.

Not through lawyers.

Not through headlines.

Him.

The pressure beneath her ribs tightened and she inhaled, the breath stopped halfway down. She frowned and tried again, slower this time, but it still wasn’t enough. Her lungs worked. She knew they did. They simply refused to feel full. Without thinking, she lowered the window an inch, letting cool air drift against her face. It should have helped, but it didn’t. And she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead, willing the sensation to pass if she ignored it long enough. It had to pass. She wasn’t going to lose herself in the backseat of a car. Not before she’d even laid eyes on him. Not before she had to sit across from the man she’d loved since she was twenty years old and somehow pretend she knew how to discuss the end of him in legal terms.

The realization struck her all over again, fresh enough to steal the air from her lungs.

She wasn’t driving to see her husband.

She was driving to negotiate the end of him.

Her breathing changed before she realized it had.

It came shorter now, each inhale still stopping halfway down her chest like there simply wasn’t room for the rest of it. She swallowed once. Then again. The knot in her throat refused to move as more heat crept up the back of her neck despite the air conditioning humming quietly through the car, settling beneath her collar and behind her ears until she felt almost feverish.

She cracked the window some more but the rush of outside air hit her face wasn’t enough.

Her attorney noticed first, lowering the papers into his lap and studying her for a moment before speaking carefully. “Are you alright?”

The car slowed for another light and she stared straight ahead. The nausea arrived sudden without a kind warning—not the vague discomfort she’d been sitting with all morning but something imminent and violent. Her stomach lurched so suddenly she jerked forward in her seat, one hand flying instinctively to her mouth because she could physically hold herself together.

She nodded before he’d even finished asking, too quickly that movement made her dizzy. “I’m fine.” The lie came. She’d become frighteningly good at saying it these days.

“I..” She swallowed hard. “Could we..” Her voice disappeared. She tried again. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

The conversation in the front stopped immediately and her manager turned around so fast his seatbelt caught against his shoulder. “Pull over,” He told the driver.

The car eased toward the curb and before it had even come to a complete stop, she was already reaching for the handle with shaking hands.

The cool morning air hit her the second she stepped onto the sidewalk, but it did nothing to steady the awful rolling in her stomach. She bent forward, one hand braced against her knee, the other pressed flat against her chest somehow attempting to slow the frantic pounding beneath it.

Nothing came up. Only dry heaves.

Again.

Again.

Her body kept trying to rid itself of something that wasn’t there. Tears burned behind her eyes from the force of it. She hated this. Because she knew exactly why. She knew. It wasn’t the meeting. It wasn’t the lawyers. It wasn’t even the divorce.

It was him.

In a matter of minutes she would be in the same building as the man she’d spent the better part of six years loving with everything she had, and she had no idea which version of him would be waiting on the other side of that door.

The husband who used to kiss her forehead before leaving for rehearsals. Or the stranger who had disappeared without saying goodbye. For the first time since leaving the house that morning, she allowed herself to think the one thought she’d been avoiding.

What if I look at him.. and I don't recognize him anymore?

The possibility frightened her more than the divorce itself.

Her manager was beside her before she even realized the car door had opened. “Easy,” He murmured, one hand settling carefully between her shoulder blades. “Easy, sweetheart. Don’t fight it, alright? That’s it..”

She wanted to tell him she wasn’t, wanted to tell him she had stopped fighting weeks ago. Instead another dry heave bent her nearly in half, her fingers curling tighter against her knee as tears sprang unwillingly to her eyes. Still, nothing came. Nothing except the violent ache in her stomach and the humiliating sound of her own body insisting it had something left to give.

His hand never left her back. Slow, steady circles the same pace every time. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t tell her to breathe like people always did when they had no idea what breathing felt like anymore. He simply stayed there, letting her have.. whatever this was without making it feel like a spectacle.

The attorney lingered a respectful distance away, quietly telling the driver they’d need another few minutes. Traffic continued behind them. Cars rolled past. People walked by without sparing more than a curious glance. The world refused to stop.

“That's it,” Her manager said softly. “You’re alright.”

She laughed, or tried to. It came out broken, somewhere between a cough and a sob. “No,” She whispered hoarsely. “I’m really... really not.”

“I know.” Those two words nearly undid her. Because no one had said them. Everyone else had spent months asking if she was alright, telling her she’d get through it, reminding her how strong she was.

He simply acknowledged the truth.

She wasn’t.

Her breathing refused to settle. Every inhale felt jagged, stopping halfway before she had to pull another after it, her chest tightening with each attempt until it became difficult to tell whether she was breathing too much or not enough.

“I can’t..” She swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can do this.”

He waited. “I can’t look at him.” The words came quietly. So quietly she almost wasn’t sure she’d spoken them aloud.

“I know,” He repeated. “But you have to.”

“What if..” She stopped, squeezing her eyes shut. “What if he looks at me like I’m just..” She couldn’tfinish.

Just someone else.

Just another meeting.

Just another signature.

Just another chapter he’d already closed.

Her manager stepped a little closer, careful not to crowd her, his hand still resting reassuringly between her shoulders. “Listen to me.” He started, she kept staring at the pavement as he spoke. “You don’t have to be brave in there.”

She frowned. “I feel—“

“No.” His voice remained calm, unwavering. “You just have to get through today. That’s all anyone is asking of you.”

Fresh tears slipped down before she realized they had. “I don’t know who I’m walking in to see.”

His expression softened. “Yeah, I understand that. Trust me, I do..”

“The man I married wouldn’t..” Her voice broke. “He wouldn’t have let it get here.”

Silence settled between them.

After a long moment he reached into his pocket, withdrew a neatly folded handkerchief, and held it out without a word. She took it with trembling fingers.

“I keep thinking..” She whispered, dabbing uselessly at her face, “That maybe he’ll walk in and it’ll be him again.” She hated how childish it sounded. As though the husband she’d fallen asleep beside for years had simply gotten lost and might suddenly find his way back.

Her manager looked at her for a long moment before speaking. “You’re young.” Her eyes lifted. “But.. don’t walk in there expecting the past to meet you halfway.” He gently squeezed her shoulder. “You’ve already survived every day that brought you here.”

She let out a slow, trembling breath, the first one that felt as though it reached the bottom of her lungs.

“I’l walk in with you,” He said gently. “I’ll stay until I can’t. Your attorney will handle the rest. And if you need a break, you stand up. I don’t care who’s talking. I don’t care what's being discussed. You stand up, and we’ll take one.”

She nodded faintly. And no matter how desperately she wished the car would simply turn around and take her home, there was no road left that led back to the life she’d been trying so hard to keep.

He waited until the trembling in her hands had eased enough that she could uncurl her fingers.

“Come on,” He said quietly, offering his hand instead of reaching for her. “Let’s get you sitting down.”

She looked at it for a second before slipping her own into his. Her grip was weaker than usual, cold despite the warmth lingering beneath her skin. He steadied her as she climbed back into the car, one hand lightly supporting her elbow until she settled against the leather seat once more. Before closing the door, he leaned down just enough to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to say anything in there until you’re ready—or anything at all for that matter.”

She nodded, the door clicked shut and no one spoke for the rest of the drive. The attorney quietly returned the papers to his portfolio, deciding against continuing whatever explanation he’d been giving before they stopped. Her manager remained turned slightly toward the window in the front seat, giving her the rare kindness of not watching her every few seconds to make sure she was still holding together. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was respectful, really.

She kept her eyes on the city as it slipped past. Every block carried them closer. Every red light felt shorter than the last. She found herself counting them without realizing she was doing it.

One.

Two.

Three.

Anything to keep from counting the minutes instead.

By the time the car slowed for the final turn, the nausea had settled into something quieter. It hadn’t gone away. It had simply become part of her, resting heavily beneath her ribs like a stone she’d accepted wasn’t moving anytime soon.

The building came into view through the windshield.

Large. Modern. Too much glass. It reflected the gray afternoon sky so perfectly it almost disappeared into it. The driver eased to a stop beneath the covered entrance and for a moment, no one moved.

Her manager glanced back. “We’re here.”

The words hung in the air as she stared through the windshield at the revolving glass doors ahead of them, watching strangers pass effortlessly through them. A man in a navy suit exited while adjusting his tie. A woman carrying a briefcase disappeared inside without slowing her pace. Her attorney stepped out first. Her manager followed, circling around to open her door before she had the chance.

When she didn’t move immediately, he crouched slightly beside the car. “You alright?”

She swallowed. “Yeah.” Another deep breath, this one reached a little farther just before she stepped onto the pavement. The cool air kissed her face, carrying with it the faint scent of rain that hadn’t quite arrived yet. She smoothed invisible wrinkles from the front of her coat and adjusted her heel.

Her manager gently rested a hand on the small of her back. Together, they crossed beneath the overhang and approached the entrance. The glass doors slid open with a mechanical hum, revealing a lobby that was painfully pristine. Marble floors reflected the overhead lights in muted pools across the room. Everything smelled like polished wood, fresh coffee, and expensive cleaning products. It was immaculate in the sort of way places often were when difficult conversations happened inside them every day.

The receptionist looked up almost immediately. “Good afternoon.”

Her attorney quietly introduced them, speaking in the same composed voice he’d maintained all morning. The receptionist nodded once after checking a schedule on her desk, offering a polite smile that stopped well short of familiar.

“They’re expecting you.”

Of course they were. She hadn’t.. considered the possibility that they could had already arrived. She was under the impression that they would have been there first and she could at least prepare herself before..

The thought tightened something in her chest again.

“This way.” The receptionist stepped out from behind the desk and led them across the lobby toward a bank of elevators tucked against the far wall. The walk wasn’t long, but it felt endless, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble with each measured step. No one spoke. The only sounds came from the gentle chime announcing the elevator’s arrival and the muted conversation of strangers somewhere deeper inside the building.

The doors slid open and they stepped inside, the receptionist pressing a button near the top of the panel.

As the doors closed, the lobby disappeared behind brushed steel, leaving only the gentle vibration of the elevator climbing floor by floor. She watched the numbers illuminate one after another above the door, each soft chime settling lower in her stomach than the last. When the elevator finally came to a stop, the receptionist led them down a corridor lined with frosted glass offices and framed artwork she couldn’t have described a second later. The hallway seemed impossibly quiet, the thick carpeting swallowing almost every footstep until the only thing she could hear with any clarity was the steady beating of her own heart.

They stopped outside a closed wooden door and the rreceptionist turned toward them, offering another small, professional smile.

“They’re ready for you.” Then she stepped aside.

The hallway fell silent.

(Name) couldn’t move.

At some point it stopped being hesitation. It stopped being indecision, grief, fear, or any emotion she could neatly identify and tuck away beneath a sensible name. It became something far older than that. It was instinctive. Something buried so deep inside the part of the human body that recognized danger long before the mind had time to reason with it. Every muscle seemed to arrive at the same conclusion without consulting her first. Don’t go in there. Don’t open that door. Turn around. Leave. Run if you have to. It wasn’t a thought she was having anymore. It was a command her body had already obeyed, planting her feet so firmly into the carpet that it almost felt as though the floor itself had grown around them.

The trembling began again, just the faintest vibration in her fingertips where they’d been laced together in front of her and subtle enough that no one walking past would’ve noticed unless they were looking for it. She wasn’t herself, even. Not until she felt the tiny, involuntary quiver travel into her knuckles. She instinctively pressed one hand over the other, squeezing hard enough to leave crescent shaped marks in her skin, hoping the pressure might somehow force the shaking to stop.

It didn’t—it spread. Slowly, with nowhere else to be. From her fingers into her wrists. From her wrists into her forearms. Tiny muscles fluttered beneath her skin without permission, a low, constant vibration that made her feel strangely disconnected from her own body. Her body had long since decided it was no longer taking instructions from her and she stared at her hands with detached confusion, willing them to be still.

They refused.

A careful breath caught somewhere halfway down her chest. She frowned. Tried again. Another shallow inhale. Another unfinished exhale.

It still felt like her lungs had abruptly forgotten how much air they were supposed to hold, every breath stopping just before it became satisfying, forcing another after it and another after that, until she couldn’t tell whether she was breathing too much or not nearly enough. A dull pressure settled beneath her sternum, expanding outward until it wrapped itself around her ribs like tightening wire. She swallowed hard against the dryness gathering in her throat, but even that simple movement felt strangely difficult, like something invisible had lodged itself there.

Then came the heat but not the ordinary warmth of nerves. It crept upward beneath the collar of her blouse in slow waves, spreading across her chest before climbing her neck with alarming speed. She shifted uncomfortably, fingers instinctively reaching toward the irritated skin just beneath her throat. It felt hot to the touch. Too hot.

She looked down.

Angry red blotches had already begun surfacing across her collarbone, blooming beneath her skin in uneven patches that spread almost as she watched them, climbing toward her neck like watercolor bleeding through paper. Another appeared just below her jaw, then another.

Stress hives.

She hadn’t broken out like this since she was nineteen, and she could only stare at them strangely fascinated by hrr own body was rejecting this.

Not even metaphorically but,

Literally.

Every system inside her had reached the same conclusion at once. Her pulse had accelerated. Her breathing had shortened. Her muscles had begun shaking. Her skin was erupting in protest. She felt like an animal standing at the edge of a forest fire, every instinct screaming to flee before she could even see the flames.

Run.

The word echoed somewhere deep inside her.

Run.

Her manager noticed before she managed to hide it. His eyes drifted from her face to the spreading rash creeping over her neck, then softened almost immediately with the concern of someone watching another person come apart in slow motion.

“..Hey.”

She didn’t answer but she wasn’t sure she could.

He stepped closer, careful not to crowd her, lowering his voice until it barely carried beyond the space between them. “Look at me, (Name).”

She tried.

God, she tried. But every time she lifted her head, her eyes found the door instead.

It seemed to pull at her attention with force, everything inside her understood that on the other side of it sat the dividing line between the life she’d had and the one she would be forced to live afterward.

“I can’t,” She whispered, voice distant.

“You can.”

She shook her head before she realized she’d moved. “No..” The word barely escaped her lips. “I can’t.”

Fresh tremors rippled through her arms. She tucked them tightly against herself, folding one over the other in a futile attempt to hide the shaking, but it only made it more obvious. Her shoulders had begun trembling too.

“I can’t go in there—I can’t even..” A breathless, broken laugh escaped her, so close to becoming a sob it frightened her. “I can’t even stop shaking.”

He reached up with careful hands, gently smoothing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so grounding it nearly undid her. “Just stay with me for a second.”

She nodded and his voice remained slow. “Can you feel your feet?”

She blinked at him, confused. “..What?”

“Your feet.”

She frowned, attention reluctantly leaving the door. “..Yes.”

“The floor underneath them?”

Another swallow. “Yes..”

“Good.” His hand rested lightly against her upper arm. “You’re here.”

Fresh tears blurred her vision almost immediately. “I don’t want to be. I want to go home.” The confession escaped before she could stop it. Raw. Childlike. Entirely honest. “I just..” Her voice cracked so completely she had to press her lips together before trying again. “I want to go home.”

His expression shifted—a flicker. Gone as quickly as it appeared. Because they both understood the thing she’d just said was nonexistent. There wasn’t a “home” waiting for her anymore. Not the one she meant. Not the one built around shared mornings and baby giggles and a man whose absence had hollowed every room he’d once occupied. There was only whatever came next.

“I wish I could come in with you,” He admitted quietly.

Her head snapped toward him so quickly the movement made her dizzy. “What! You can’t?” The panic returned with astonishing speed. Her knees threatened to give beneath her.

“No. Sweetheart, I told you that.” He hated the answer as much as she did. “They’ve only approved legal representation.”

She stared at him. “No..”

“But I’m staying right here.”

“No..”

“You’ll walk back through these doors, and I’ll still be here.”

“No!” Her voice rose just enough to tremble around the edges. "Please.. please don’t make me go in there.”

For the first time all morning, he looked completely helpless.

Helpless.

If there had been any way to walk through that door instead of her, he would’ve done it without hesitation. She knew that, and he knew she knew it. Which somehow made standing there feel even lonelier. Before either of them could speak again, her attorney’s voice drifted gently down the hallway.

“(Name).”

Neither of them turned.

“It’s time.”

The hallway seemed to narrow around her and air felt heavier. Even the lights overhead appeared suddenly too bright. Her manager’s hand squeezed her arm once, a reminder that when she came back through those doors, someone would still be waiting to catch whatever pieces remained.

She closed her eyes and drew in the deepest breath her body was willing to give her but it still wasn’t enough. Then, with legs that felt borrowed from someone else and a heart that seemed determined to escape her chest before she reached the handle—she took the first step toward the door.

One moment she was standing in the hallway, every muscle in her body pleading with her to turn around, and the next the door had already begun to swing inward beneath the quiet push of a palm.

The room was larger than she’d imagined—too bright from the large floor to ceiling windows and so sterile. A long conference table stretched through the center, polished to the point it reflected the overhead lights in muted streaks across its surface. Leather chairs sat neatly arranged around it, folders already opened, glasses of water placed with almost mathematical precision. Everything had been prepared hours before she arrived, every seat assigned, every document waiting patiently for signatures that would dismantle a life.

She felt them before she saw them.

Eyes.

They settled over her the instant she crossed the threshold, not invasive, not intentionally cruel she thinks, but impossible to ignore all the same. His team was.. ridiculously large: Lawyers who paused mid conversation. Assistants quietly setting down pens. People who had been expecting her arrival and now watched it happen in real time, each carrying the uncomfortable awareness that they were about to witness something far more intimate than legal.

She kept her gaze lowered.

One step.

Then another.

The carpet swallowed the sound of her heels, leaving only the dull rush of blood filling her ears. Halfway across the room, another sensation reached her.

Familiar.

Warm.

The faint trace of cedarwood, bergamot, and something softer she had once associated so instinctively with home that she’d stopped noticing it years ago.

His cologne.

It hung lightly in the room, barely perceptible to anyone else. But to her, it was overwhelming. The smell struck with such force that her stomach lurched before she could brace for it. Every memory attached to it arrived all at once, uninvited. Jackets borrowed on cold nights. Sleepy embraces before dawn. The hollow of his neck beneath her cheek. She had spent years breathing it in without thought.

Now it made her feel violently ill.

She swallowed hard as the nausea climbed steadily into her throat.

Don’t look up.

The thought repeated itself with quiet desperation.

Don’t look.

If she looked too soon, she was afraid everything holding her upright would simply.. stop. So she fixed her eyes on the table instead. On the grain of the wood. On the edge of an unopened folder. On her own hands, clasped together tightly enough that the faint tremor running through them almost disappeared beneath the pressure.

Someone quietly pulled out a chair for her and she thanked them automatically, though she couldn’t have said who it was.

The leather creaked softly as she sat. Her knees felt a sense of reliving beneath the table, bouncing once before she forced them still. She rested both palms against her thighs, pressing down as though she could anchor herself.

A glass of her favorite juice had already been placed in front of her and she stared at it. The condensation gathered in tiny droplets along the outside, slowly slipping toward the polished wood beneath.

It was something to look at.

Something that wasn’t.. him.

Silence settled over the room for one lingering moment, heavy enough that even the quiet rustling of paper sounded intrusive.

Then a chair shifted, a folder opened and the mediator cleared his throat: “Thank you all for coming.” His voice was carefully emptied of emotion. “We’re here today to discuss the terms that remain outstanding and, if possible, reach an agreement that serves the best interests of everyone involved.”

The words floated somewhere above her. Professional. Orderly. Clean. She heard every one of them but none of them felt real. Because all she could think was how absurd it was that the end of seven years could fit inside a folder no thicker than an inch.

The attorney on Michael’s side spoke first, sliding one of the folders forward.

“On the matter of custody,” He began, voice even and courteous almost, “Our client is requesting a standard shared arrangement. Equal time. A fifty-fifty split, alternating weeks, with flexibility for travel schedules given both parties’ professional commitments.”

The words landed in the center of the table, balanced and reasonable on paper—designed to sound like cooperation.

She kept her ⁠eyes fixed on the edge of her glass.

Fifty-fifty? As though fathers simply disappeared for weeks at a time, served their wives divorce papers through attorneys, built new lives somewhere else, and then returned expecting to divide a child neatly down the middle. Like time with a child could be weighed out evenly, as though it was something that could be portioned and exchanged without consequence. She never thought her own child would be subject to this kind of thing—life was cruel.

He wanted equal time. Equal responsibility. Equal claim. After everything he’s done.

Her own attorney shifted beside her, glancing once in her direction before responding. “We’ve reviewed that proposal,” He said calmly, “And at this stage our client is not in agreement.”

A pause.

The room tightened slightly.

Then he continued. “Given the current circumstances, she is requesting primary custody, with structured and supervised visitation.”

There it was, out in the open. Her stomach twisted again slower this time, bracing for impact long after the words had already been spoken. But she still didn’t look up—didn’t trust herself to see him yet. She wondered what his expression was..

Across from her, pens stopped moving. Someone exhaled quietly, the kind of sound people make when they’re pretending not to react.

Michael’s attorney adjusted his posture. “Supervised visitation is a.. significant limitation,” Je said, carefully choosing each word, “Especially in cases where both parties have been primary caregivers. On what basis is that being requested?”

Her pulse ticked harder beneath her skin.

Her attorney didn’t look at her, only answering immediately. “Stability,” He said. “And continuity of care during a period of documented instability.”

Documented instability.

A clinical phrase for something that felt anything but clinical when it lived inside her.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was dense. Heavy with everything no one wanted to say directly in front of everyone else. She could feel it then, faintly, the shift in the room’s attention. Not hostility but something more complicated. Assessment. Quiet recalculation. The way people looked at decisions when they realized they were about to become precedent.

Her fingers tightened under the table again.

Fifty-fifty.

Supervised visits.

The phrases repeated in her mind without sound, colliding against each other until they stopped meaning anything at all except conflict.

Michael’s attorney spoke again, softer this time, “Our client has no intention of being removed from his child’s life. If anything, he is requesting increased consistency. Predictability. Equal access to daily care, schooling routines, and—”

“He’s not being removed,” Her attorney interrupted gently. A pause followed by: “He’s being structured.”

She felt the nausea return in a slow wave, not as sharp as before, but deeper. More settled. Something that sat under her ribs and refused to move.

Across the table, paper turned softly. Someone marked a note. Another cleared their throat. And the discussion continued anyway, the shape of their child’s life simply another item to be negotiated between professionals who had never once had to hold him when he cried.

The attorney on his side spoke first, sliding a neatly tabbed folder toward the center of the table with practiced ease.

Her attorney shifted almost imperceptibly beside her.

“As stated before, we reviewed the proposal,” He said. “My client cannot agree to that arrangement.” The room remained silent as he continued. “She is requesting sole physical custody, with supervised visitation until a consistent pattern of stability has been established.”

Across the table, Michael’s attorney folded his hands together. “Could you clarify the basis for supervised visitation?”

Her attorney answered without hesitation. “The events of the past year.”

“I’m going to need something more specific than that.”

“As documented,” Her attorney replied evenly, “Mr. Jackson entered treatment following prolonged substance dependency. There were also extended periods of physical absence from the child, interrupted communication, and the abrupt dissolution of the marriage.”

His attorney gave a small nod.

“We don’t dispute treatment. In fact, your client voluntarily sought it. Rehabilitation is generally viewed as evidence of recovery rather than evidence of parental unfitness, that isn’t a factor in this.”

Michael attorney spoke again. “Our position is that whatever difficulties existed between husband and wife should remain separate from the child’s relationship with his father.”

Husband and wife.

As though those were just words.

As though the marriage had ended because two people had simply grown apart.

As though she hadn’t spent months bathing him when he couldn’t stand long enough to bathe himself. Feeding him because he forgot to eat. Sleeping beside him through endless nights when every phone call brought another problem. Holding together a household, a career, a child, and a man who no longer had the strength to hold himself together.

As though she’d stayed through every unbearable moment only to be discarded the second he was strong enough to leave.

And now..

Now he wanted fifty fucking percent.

(Name) didn’t want to keep a father from his son. But somewhere in the midst of disappearing, serving her with divorce papers through strangers, and forcing every conversation to happen through attorneys, he had somehow convinced himself he was entitled to walk back into fatherhood like nothing had broken in between? The thought was so staggering she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cry.. Or stand up and leave because she felt offended.

Her attorney let the silence settle for a moment before folding his hands neatly atop the folder in front of him.

“We appreciate the sentiment,” He said, his tone remaining unfailingly courteous. “But respectfully.. we find that position difficult to reconcile with the circumstances that brought us here.”

Across the table, no one interrupted.

He continued. “My client has been the child’s primary source of consistency throughout the better part of the last year. She has maintained his routines, his medical appointments, his education, his home, and his day-to-day care while simultaneously managing an unprecedented level of public scrutiny surrounding the dissolution of this marriage.”

He glanced briefly toward the documents. “During that same period, your client voluntarily entered treatment, ceased regular communication for an extended length of time, and elected to initiate divorce proceedings through legal counsel rather than direct communication with his wife with another woman in his life.”

His voice never rose. “Against that backdrop, requesting an immediate fifty-fifty custodial arrangement is, ridiculous and not a proposal we consider realistic.”

The discussion continued for another two hours.

Nothing changed. Every proposal was met with another counterproposal. Every compromise unraveled the moment someone followed it with, “However..” Custody schedules became calendars spread across polished wood. Holidays were divided before they had even happened. Birthdays were discussed in alternating years. Christmases became odd numbered and even numbered. Every sentence sounded perfectly reasonable on its own.

Together, they sounded grotesque.

The conversation had long since stopped being productive. It was two immovable objects politely colliding with one another over and over again, dressed up in professional language and careful tones.

Finally, her attorney closed his folder, “I don't believe we’re making meaningful progress.”

No one disagreed. Across the table, opposing counsel gave a small nod. “I think a brief recess would be appropriate.”

“Perhaps twenty minutes,” Another someone added. “Give everyone a chance to speak with their clients privately and reassess before continuing.”

There was a quiet chorus of agreement.

Pens were capped. Legal pads were gathered. Someone reached across the table to collect a stack of exhibits that had slowly migrated into the center during the discussion. Chairs eased backward with soft scrapes against the floor, the room immediately feeling larger now that everyone had permission to move.

(Name) didn’t Her hands remained folded tightly in her lap. Her eyes stayed fixed on the untouched glass of water in front of her, the same glass she’d been staring at for nearly two hours. She heard the rustle of jackets, the quiet exchange of voices, the metallic click of briefcases closing. The meeting was ending, at least for now.

Then, for the first time since she had walked through the door.. Michael spoke: “..One moment.”

The room stilled.

It wasn’t that his voice was loud. It was almost the opposite. It was quiet enough that everyone instinctively stopped moving to hear him.

“I have a request.” Every eye shifted toward him and he wasn't looking at the attorneys. He was looking at her. “If everyone is comfortable with it..” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I’d like a few minutes alone with my wife.”

Silence settled over the room.

One attorney glanced toward another and (Name)’s attorney looked toward her, saying nothing as he wasn’t answering for her this time. He was waiting for her to speak while the request lingered between them.

Finally, opposing counsel spoke. “Well.. provided both parties consent, I don’t have an objection.”

Her attorney remained still for another moment before turning slightly toward her. “You don’t have to.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt painfully dry. “I know.”

"If you’d rather I stay, I stay.”

She closed her eyes briefly. This was the conversation she’d spent weeks dreading. It had been waiting for her whether there were lawyers in the room or not.

Slowly, she nodded. “It’s okay, Mark.”

Her attorney studied her face carefully, making sure she wasn’t agreeing out of pressure or obligation. Then he gave a small nod. “We’ll be right outside.”

One by one, the attorneys gathered their files and made their way toward the door. Their footsteps were quieter than before, everyone understood they were leaving behind something no legal training could prepare them to witness.

The door opened, then closed and the latch clicked softly.

And for the first time in months, there was no one left in the room except the two people whose names had been written across every page of the divorce file.

The silence that followed was worse than the situation at hand had been. At least that had given them something to hide behind: numbers, schedules, legal terms, the careful language of attorneys who could take something unbearably personal and reshape it into something that fit neatly inside a folder. Now there was nothing between them. No one interrupting. No one redirecting. No one stepping in when the weight of everything they had avoided finally settled into the room. For several moments, neither of them moved. (Name) remained exactly where she was, her posture still rigid from the hours she had spent forcing herself to stay composed. She didn’t need to look at him to know he was there, and that was the part she hated most. After months of distance, after everything that had happened, some part of her still recognized his presence before she ever saw him.

The quiet scrape of his chair shifting made her body react before her mind could. Her shoulders tensed, her fingers tightening together in her lap, her breath catching slightly. She wasn’t afraid of him, but some part of her was afraid of what would happen if she finally allowed herself to see him. The anger she had carried from a distance felt much easier to hold than the reality of having him sitting only a few feet away. Anger did not remember the good mornings, the private jokes, the years of knowing someone so completely that their absence felt like a missing piece of your own body.

“Can you..” His voice stopped.

An uncertain pause.

Her eyes remained fixed on the untouched glass in front of her, watching the faint reflection of the room distort across the surface.

“Can you look at me?”

The request was painfully simple. Almost too simple for everything that existed underneath it. Her fingers tightened further, but she didn’t answer. For a moment, neither did he. He didn’t push. He didn’t repeat himself. He simply waited.

That somehow made it harder.

“Please.” The word was quiet. Not a demand or even an expectation. A simple request of her.

She hated that he still had the ability to reach the parts of her that wanted to soften. She hated that one small word could pull at years of memories she had spent so long trying to bury beneath anger, paperwork, and silence. She had convinced herself that enough distance would make him easier to face, that time would turn him into someone she could look at without feeling everything at once.

But she was still sitting there, unable to lift her eyes. Because looking at him meant admitting he was real—that this was real. That the person who had once felt like home was sitting across from her, and she had no idea what to do with that anymore.

Her silence stretched for several seconds longer, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of silence that came when too many things were being held back at once, when every sentence she wanted to say had been swallowed before it could reach her mouth because none of them felt big enough to contain what she was actually feeling.

Her hands had started shaking again and she noticed it before he did. A faint tremor at first, barely visible beneath the table, her fingers twisting together. She pressed her thumb against the side of her hand, grounding herself, reminding herself that she was sitting in a room, that she was safe, that she was not back in those months of waiting for a phone call that never came.

It didn’t work, because the truth was she wasn't afraid of the room. She was afraid of the answers.

She finally lifted her eyes, but only for a moment. Long enough to see his face. Long enough for the anger and hurt she’d been carefully organizing for months to collide with the reality of him sitting there.

And then the question came out before she could stop it.

“Did you sleep with her?” Her expression changed the moment the question left her mouth, she looked exhaustion and wounded—the question itself had reached a place he had been desperately trying not to confront. For a moment, he simply stared at her, and when he finally spoke his voice was quiet enough that it almost disappeared beneath the weight of the room.

“(Name).. oh, God, please.” He looked down, his fingers shifting slightly against the edge of the table as he was searching for the right words and finding none of them. There was no defensiveness in him, no attempt to turn the question back on her. Somehow, that made it worse. She had prepared herself for anger. She had prepared herself for him to tell her she was being unfair or emotional or that she didn’t understand. She had prepared herself for a fight because a fight would have been easier than this careful, painful silence.

“Why are you asking me this?” The softness of it made something inside her crack. Her hands tightened together in her lap, feeling the frustration building beneath her ribs-she couldn’t.. she couldn’t fucking believe he didn’t understand why she needed to know. After months of unanswered questions, after watching her entire life collapse through headlines and whispers and conversations she wasn’t invited into, hearing him ask why felt unbearable.

“..Why am I asking you?” Her voice came out quieter at first, almost disbelieving. She looked at him for a moment, tears already gathering in her eyes, before shaking her head. “Why am I asking you?!”

“You know why I'm asking you, Michael!”

“(Name), please..”

“No!” The word came quickly, sharper than she intended. She swallowed, trying to steady herself, but the effort was useless. The control she had walked into the room with was gone, stripped away piece by piece until there was nothing left but the person underneath it.

“No, no, nonononono! Don’t do that!” She stood suddenly, a detached smile pulling at her lips. “I thought this was going to be an honest conversation! Don’t say my name like I’m the one being unreasonable!”

He went quiet and looked away as she pressed her lips together, she trying to keep herself from falling apart in front of him. It was almost humiliating how much she was still affected by him. How after everything, she was still sitting across from him hoping he would say something that made any of it make sense.

“I spent months trying to figure out what happened—look at me!” She snapped, her voice shaking as she watched him reluctantly look. “I spent months wondering if you were okay, wondering if you hated me, wondering if I did something wrong. I was trying to understand how we went from what we were to this, and then suddenly everyone else seemed to know things I didn’t!”

Her fingers curled against the table. “So yes, I am asking you.” She looked back at him. “Because I deserve to know!”

He inhaled quietly, but before he could respond, she continued.

“Tell me.” Her voice rose, the restraint finally snapping under the weight of everything she had been carrying. “Tell me!”

Her palm struck the table before she even realized she had moved. The sound startled even her, echoing through the empty conference room. Aggression and rage, yes. It was desperation. The kind that came from someone who had spent too long swallowing every question because she was afraid of what the answer might be.

“You at least owe me that much.”

The anger vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the grief underneath. Her shoulders shook, tears spilling freely now as she looked at him. “You owe me the truth.”

Michael didn’t say anything. Then his expression shifted, and when he finally answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“No.”

She blinked. “What?”

“No.” He shook his head slightly. “Nothing happened.”

The answer should have relieved her. It didn’t. Instead, it created an entirely new kind of confusion. She stared at him, almost unable to process the words. “Nothing?”

“Nothing happened between us.”

Her brows furrowed as she searched his face, waiting for the rest of the explanation. Waiting for the part that would make everything fit together again. But there wasn’t one.

A small, broken laugh escaped her. “What the fuck? Then what am I supposed to do with that, Michael?”

He didn’t answer. Because that was the question neither of them wanted to confront.

If nothing happened, then why?

Why had everything changed?

Why had she been left behind?

Why had another woman become the center of every conversation surrounding the end of their marriage?

Her breathing became uneven as she looked at him, her anger slowly shifting into something much more painful. “What does she have?”

His expression changed slightly. “(Name), please don’t do this right now..”

“Shut up!” She shook her head, tears continuing to fall.What does she have?” She pressed. “What has she done for you that I haven’t!”

He looked away.

That movement broke something in her. “I was there! I was there!” Her voice cracked. “I was there when things were difficult! I was there when nobody else understood what was happening! I stayed when it was hard—I stayed when it wasn’t convenient! I stayed when I had every reason to walk away! I love you!”

She wiped at her face, but it did nothing. “Tell me what I didn't give you!” He remained silent. “Tell me what I wasn’t!” The room seemed to shrink around them. "m”What did she have that I don't, Mikey? Please!”

Michael couldn’t look at her. And that silence was its own answer. Not the answer she had been expecting. Her expression slowly changed as another realization began settling into place. It wasn’t sudden but a quiet, horrible understanding that arrived piece by piece.

If nothing happened between them.. then something else had.

Something before.

Her voice lowered. “Were you were talking to her before all this? Is that why you were coming home late?” He went still as she stared at him, watching his reaction. “You were.”

A pause. “You had to have been.” The tears blurred her vision, but she didn’t look away. “Because people don’t just wake up one day and end up here.”

Her voice trembled. “She didn’t just appear outta nowhere.” And for the first time, the thought that had been circling her mind for months finally became something she could say aloud. “You—you were already letting her into your life while I was still trying to save ours! To fix you!”

He was quiet for so long that she felt the answer before he ever spoke it. She searched his face desperately for the instinctive denial that never came, for the immediate shake of his head that would let her believe she had spent months torturing herself over nothing. Instead, he lowered his eyes, his jaw tightening subtly as though the effort of choosing his next words had become physically painful. It was such a small movement, so insignificant to anyone else, but to her it felt catastrophic. She had spent the better part of eight weeks replaying every conversation, every silence, every headline, trying to identify the exact moment she’d stopped being enough. Now she was watching it happen in real time, watching the man who had once answered every fear before she could even voice it suddenly become incapable of giving her the one reassurance she needed most.

“Yes.” The word landed with almost no force at all and her expression didn’t change. He swallowed before continuing, unable to meet her eyes for more than a second at a time. “Yes.. we were spending time together. We were friends.” He said it carefully, almost cautiously like there was a version of those words that existed without causing harm. “It wasn’t..” He paused, rubbing absently at his thumb with the opposite hand. “It wasn’t anything you’re making it out to be, honestly.”

She stared at him for several long seconds, trying to reconcile what he’d just said with the reality she’d been living. Friends. Such an ordinary word. Such an innocent word. It almost made her laugh. Months of silence. Months of unanswered phone calls. Months of waking up alone, wondering whether her husband still remembered she existed, only to discover that while she’d been clinging to the ruins of their marriage, he’d been building a “friendship” with another woman. The same friendship he and her once shared seven years ago? Oh, she bets, Whether he believed it had been innocent no longer mattered. Innocent things didn’t grow in secret. Innocent things didn’dmt survive only because one person had been left completely in the dark.

“It wasn’t anything I’m making it out to be?” She repeated quietly, her voice trembling with anger and disbelief. “Michael, I’m your wife!” The last word nearly caught in her throat. “I was sitting at home wondering why you wouldn’t speak to me while you were talking to somebody else, and you’re telling me I'm making something out of nothing?” She laughed then, but it was a broken sound, one born entirely out of exhaustion. “Do you even hear yourself?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but she was already shaking her head.

“No, no, don’t explain it away. Just answer me.” She leaned forward slightly, “Are you planning to be with her?”

The question lingered between them.

He didn’t answer, of course.

He tried. She could see him trying. His lips parted, his chest rose with a slow breath, and for one impossible second she thought he was finally going to give her something, anything, that she could survive. Instead, nothing came. His eyes drifted away from hers again, settling somewhere over her shoulder, as though even the possibility of speaking the truth aloud was more than he could bear.

She felt the air leave her lungs.

“If the answer was no,” She whispered, “You would’ve said no—is that what you do, Michael? You fuck all your girl friends?”

Still nothing.

The room seemed to tilt around her. She could hear the faint hum of the air conditioner somewhere overhead, the muffled footsteps of people passing outside the conference room, the sound of her own heartbeat pounding so violently in her ears that it drowned out almost everything else. It was astonishing, she thought, how quickly a person’s entire world could be rearranged by someone refusing to answer a single question.

“Do you love her?” She hadn’t meant to ask it.

It escaped her the way all the worst truths did, before pride had the chance to stop them. There was no anger left in her voice now, only desperation. It was the question beneath every other question she’d asked since sitting down. Not whether he’d betrayed her. Not whether he’d lied. Simply whether there was still anything left of the man who had once loved her so completely she had built her entire life around it.

Michael couldn’t answer that one either. His eyes closed for the briefest moment, and when he opened them again, they still wouldn’t meet hers. “I..” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

(Name) simply stared at him, then something inside her gave way. A short, breathless laugh escaped her, so hollow it barely sounded human. She sat back in her chair as tears spilled unchecked down her face, looking at him not with hatred but with a kind of horrified disbelief, as though she no longer recognized the person sitting across from her.

“You don’t know?” She repeated, almost whispering. “After everything.. after seven years.. after everything I gave you, everything we survived together, you don’t know?” She shook her head slowly, wiping at tears that refused to stop falling. “You’re a psychopath.”

“I have spent so long convincing myself that I missed something. That I wasn’t enough. That maybe there was something she could give you that I couldn’t.” Her breathing had become ragged now, every sentence interrupted by the effort of trying not to break completely. “So tell me.” She looked at him then, really looked at him, her eyes red and glistening with grief. “What has she done for you that I haven’t? What does she have that I don’t? I stood beside you through everything. I loved you when the rest of the world decided you weren’t worth loving. I built my life around yours because I believed we were building something together.”

Her voice cracked so sharply she had to stop and swallow before continuing. “And now you’re sitting across from me telling me you don’t know if you love this bitch?”

The realization arrived almost imperceptibly, settling over her in slow, unbearable pieces. If nothing physical had happened, if he was telling the truth about that much, then there had still been something. Something that had begun long before the divorce papers arrived, long before the headlines, long before she had any reason to suspect another name belonged in the story of her marriage. She lowered her eyes for only a moment before lifting them again, and when she spoke this time, her voice had become frighteningly calm.

Neither of them spoke after that.

The silence that settled over the room no longer felt tense. It felt exhausted. There was nothing left to argue about, nothing left to explain. Every question she had carried into that building had either been answered or answered by omission, and somehow the omissions hurt more. She sat motionless in her chair, staring at nothing in particular as tears continued slipping down her face, too emotionally spent to wipe them away anymore. Across the table, he remained just as still, his hands folded together in front of him, his gaze lowered to the polished wood between them. Whatever words either of them might have found earlier had long since abandoned the room.

A soft knock broke the silence.

Neither of them responded.

Another knock followed, more tentative this time, before the conference room door opened just enough for one of the attorneys to lean his head inside.

“I’m sorry,” He said carefully, his eyes moving between the two of them almost immediately. It didn’t take legal training to recognize that whatever had happened during the recess had not gone well. “(Name).. Michael.. are we interrupting something?”

She blinked once, she’d forgotten where she was. The conference room slowly came back into focus. The legal folders. The glasses of water. The yellow legal pads scattered across the table. Her attorney stood just beyond the doorway with her manager beside him, both of them studying her face with immediate concern. She could almost watch the realization spread across their expressions as they took in her swollen eyes, the mascara beginning to gather beneath them despite every attempt she’d made to hold herself together.

Her manager instinctively took a half-step forward. “(Name)..”

She lifted a hand before he could come any closer.

It wasn’t to stop him. It was because she couldn’t bear for anyone to fuss over her right now. She drew a slow, uneven breath that caught halfway through her chest before finally managing to speak.

“..Could I..” Her voice disappeared as she swallowed hard and tried again, this time barely above a whisper. “Could I have.. just a few minutes?”

Everyone remained still.

She looked toward her attorney, unable to quite meet anyone’s eyes for more than a second. I just..” She pressed trembling fingertips against the corner of one eye, frustrated when another tear escaped anyway. “I need to.. get away from him.”

No one said anything immediately.

There wasn’t anything to say.

Her attorney gave a small nod first. “Of course.”

She pushed her chair back carefully, surprised that her legs still worked beneath her. They felt disconnected from the rest of her body, numb, and she had to steady herself against the edge of the conference table before taking her first step. No one tried to stop her as she crossed the room, though she could feel every pair of eyes following her. Her manager instinctively moved as though to accompany her, but she offered him the smallest shake of her head.

“I’ll be alright,” She lied quietly.

He knew it was a lie.

She knew he knew.

Still, he respected it.

The receptionist looked up from her desk just in time to see her emerge, immediately rising from her chair with the professionalism of someone accustomed to recognizing distress without drawing attention to it.

“The ladies' room is just around the corner,” She said gently, gesturing toward the end of the hall.

(Name) managed a faint nod. “Thank you.”

Her heels echoed softly against the marble floor as she walked away. She kept her chin lifted until she rounded the corner and disappeared from everyone’s view.

Only then did she let herself unravel.

The hotel suite was unnaturally quiet.

Michael hadn’t spoken once during the drive back. His attorney had attempted conversation exactly twice before recognizing the futility of it, and the remainder of the ride had passed in silence, broken only by the dull rhythm of tires against pavement and the occasional crackle of the radio that nobody bothered to turn off. By the time he let himself into the room, the exhaustion settling over him wasn’t physical. It lived somewhere much deeper, clinging stubbornly beneath his ribs. Lisa looked up from the sofa when she heard the door open, quietly closing the magazine resting in her lap the moment she saw his face.

“How’d it go?” she asked softly as he slipped his jacket from his shoulders without answering, hanging it carefully over the back of a chair before rubbing both hands over his face. Every muscle in his body felt tight.

“..I don’t wanna talk about it.” There was no irritation in his voice. Just fatigue. A kind of emptiness. She watched him for a moment before giving a small nod.

“Okay.” That was all. No questions. No, What happened? No, What did she say? No, attempt to coax the conversation out of him. She simply returned the magazine to her lap, allowing the silence to settle naturally between them. And somehow… that had become unhealthy for him.

Michael lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees as he stared absently at the carpet. He wasn’t thinking about the meeting anymore. Not entirely. He was thinking about everything that had happened before it, about the strange way memory had begun rearranging itself somewhere between the intervention and the weeks he spent in rehabilitation. Rationally, he knew the people around him had been trying to save his life. The doctors. His attorneys. His family. Even (Name). She had wanted him sober, healthy, present, alive. He knew that. He truly did. But memory was rarely interested in fairness. But looking back, he didn’t remember feeling protected. He remembered feeling cornered. Every concerned expression had become another reminder that something was wrong with him. Every difficult conversation became another decision someone else was making on his behalf. Doctors telling him what he needed. Lawyers explaining what was best. Friends watching him with careful eyes, silently evaluating whether today was a good day or a bad one. Even the woman he loved most had slowly become another voice asking him to stop, to change, to get help, to fight harder. She hadn’t been wrong. That wasn’t the point. Pain had a remarkable way of convincing people that love and pressure were the same thing, and by the time he left rehabilitation, he could no longer separate the two.

Then Lisa had called. She hadn’t asked whether he’d been taking his medication. She hadn’t questioned the decisions he’d made or reminded him what his doctors wanted. She never looked at him with that quiet mixture of hope and worry everyone else seemed unable to hide, as though they were all waiting for him to fall apart again. When he complained, she listened. When he sat in silence for minutes at a time, she never rushed to fill it. When he admitted he was tired, she didn’t tell him how to fix himself. She simply stayed. Around her, he didn’t feel like a patient. He didn’t feel like someone everyone was desperately trying to repair before he broke again. He didn’t feel like the center of another intervention. He felt like himself. Or at least, the version of himself he had been before every conversation became about what was wrong with him. He could breathe. The realization should have frightened him. It didn’t. Because nowhere in his mind had he labeled it betrayal.

When (Name) had looked across the conference table that afternoon, tears streaming down her face as she asked, Did you sleep with her? the answer had come effortlessly. No. Nothing happened. He believed it. He still believed it. There had been no affair. No kiss. No stolen night hidden from the world. Nothing physical had crossed the line his conscience had always considered unforgivable. To him, fidelity had always lived in actions that could be seen, touched, named. By that definition, he had remained faithful until the end. What he refused to examine were the things that couldn’t be photographed.

The phone calls that gradually became longer than the conversations he had with his own wife. The fears he confessed to another woman because they somehow felt easier to say aloud there. The loneliness. The frustration. The parts of himself that had once belonged inside his marriage but had quietly migrated somewhere else. He hadn’t chosen another woman in one catastrophic moment. He had simply stopped choosing the first one in hundreds of tiny, forgettable ones, each decision so insignificant on its own that none of them had felt capable of ending a marriage until they had all accumulated into exactly that.

His jaw tightened as her voice returned to him with startling clarity.

“What has she done for you that I haven’t?”

He closed his eyes.

Because there wasn’t an answer. Not an honest one.

Lisa hadn’t sacrificed more. She hadn’t stood beside him through years of scrutiny, impossible expectations, and relentless public judgment. She hadn’t watched him crumble and stayed anyway. She hadn’t built a home with him, celebrated birthdays with him, learned the invisible ways he unraveled when the world became too loud, or spent years believing in him when believing had become difficult. (Name) had done all of that. She had given him years. Lisa had given him relief. Those were not the same thing. Yet somewhere inside him, relief had quietly begun masquerading as understanding. It had become easier to sit beside someone who expected nothing from him than to face the woman whose expectations existed only because she had spent years believing he could survive. He had mistaken the absence of conflict for peace, the absence of accountability for acceptance, and by the time he understood the difference, it was too late to explain it without sounding like he was searching for excuses.

He leaned back against the headboard, staring blankly toward the ceiling as the room settled once again into silence. For the first time since leaving the conference room, he allowed himself to hear her final words exactly as she’d spoken them.

“You don’t even know if you love her.”

He wanted to tell himself she was wrong. He wanted to believe the distinction mattered. That friendship was friendship. That nothing physical had happened. That he hadn’t crossed the line she believed he had. But lying alone in the quiet, stripped of attorneys, explanations, and carefully chosen language, he found himself confronting a possibility he had spent months avoiding. Perhaps the cruelest betrayals were never the obvious ones. Perhaps they happened so gradually they were almost impossible to notice while they were occurring. Conversation by conversation. Confidence by confidence. One ordinary day after another, until the person who had once known you better than anyone else slowly became the last person you allowed inside your heart.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ June, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ 1994 MTV Video Music Awards.

It hadn’t been one thing that made her spiral. If it had been one thing, maybe she could’ve gotten through the night.

But walking into her first award show since the divorce and realizing every hallway, every dressing room, every stretch of red carpet carried memories she hadn’t asked to revisit, was a lot. It was seeing him again for the first time not as her husband, not even as someone she could still pretend belonged somewhere in her future, but as another woman’s husband. It was watching them move through the room together with the kind of love she remembered once belonging to her. Then came them taking the stage. The applause. The cameras. And when they kissed beneath the lights, the room erupted around them as if the entire world had collectively decided to celebrate the life she’d spent months grieving.

That was her melting point.

Her manicured nails fumbled with the tiny bottle in her clutch, the bathroom lights too bright as they glinted off the pill caps. The celebrity style mirror mocks her—this is supposed to be a night of rebirth for her, and yet here she is squeezing five little white lies into her palm like they’re candy. A shaky breath hitches in her throat as she dry swallows them one by one, tasting salt and dissolving on the back of her tongue.

She stares at herself in horror through the mirror because who would cry for someone else’s husband? He wasn’t hers anymore. Her reflection wavers when a knock sounds at the door: “Two minutes ‘til hair and makeup, Miss (Name)!” calls an assistant whose name tag she didn’t remember reading.

There was a point where she stopped feeling like she was in the room at all, like her attention had slipped a few inches behind her actual body and was now watching everything happen from slightly off angle, delayed just enough that nothing lined up cleanly anymore. Voices reached her, but they didn’t land where they were supposed to. They skimmed across the surface of her awareness and kept going.

Someone said her name and she thought she answered, but she wasn’t entirely sure she had.

Her hands were being touched, adjusted, moved into place. Nothing aggressive, just corrective like she was a product on a conveyor belt that needed alignment before being sent forward. The feeling that accompanied it wasn’t panic yet. It was something flatter and an uncomfortable absence of ownership, because her body was no longer something she was directly responsible for managing.

There was a mirror somewhere near her, and she caught herself in it without meaning to. The reflection looked correct in the way costumes look correct on mannequins, everything in place without necessarily belonging to anything living. She stared at it for a second too long, waiting for recognition to catch up, but it never came.

There was just a murmur of thought forming underneath everything else.

I don’t feel well enough to be perceived right now.

But there was no space to say it out loud, and even if there had been, it felt like the kind of statement that wouldn’t change anything. The show would still happen. The lights would still open. The audience would still exist on the other side of whatever threshold she was being pushed toward.

A voice near her said something about timing, something about cues, something about being ready, and she tried to attach meaning to it, but the words kept arriving too late, like subtitles out of sync with dialogue. She focused instead on breathing, because breathing was still something she could technically confirm was happening. In and out. In and out. A system she didn’t have to negotiate with. But even that started to feel slightly detached, like it was happening near her rather than inside her.

From somewhere beyond the curtain there was applause again. It didn’t feel like it belonged to her world anymore. It felt like it belonged to people who still had consistent access to themselves. She wondered, distantly, what that must be like. To be fully inside your own life while it was happening.

A curtain shifted.

Someone said her name again, closer this time, like they were trying to bring her back into range. She tried to respond properly. Tried to find the version of herself that was supposed to be here, ready, contained, professional, whatever word people used for being intact in public.

But she’s not there tonight. The fact is, she’s fucked up on medication no one even knows she’s taking.

The backstage corridor felt so congested, everything moved in a delay. Voices came through water. Hands touched her arm and didn’t fully register as contact until after they had already let go. Someone said her name more than once before she realized it was directed at her and not the general atmosphere of panic forming quietly around her.

She was sitting, or maybe she had been sitting and was no longer, it was hard to tell where one state ended and the next began. The dress was already on. Hair fixed. Makeup finished in a way that looked correct under stage lighting and slightly unfamiliar up close, but it belonged to someone she had seen before but didn’t fully recognize as herself. The award show monitor down the hall flickered with rehearsals, applause, other people’s certainty.

There were voices around her that had shifted from instruction to hesitation.

“She’s not—” Someone started.

“She can’t go out like that,” Someone else said, lower.

A hand adjusted something on her shoulder. Another voice asked if she could hear them. She could hear them. She just couldn’t decide what hearing meant anymore. Words arrived, stayed for a moment, then dissolved before they could attach themselves to meaning. Everything felt slightly out of sync with itself, her body had agreed to show up but her awareness had not signed the same contract.

Someone was talking about timing.

Someone else was talking about canceling.

Her name again, more urgent this time. She blinked slowly at the floor as if it might offer instructions. The thing was, no one was really looking at her like she was a person anymore. That was the first thought that came through clearly enough to hurt— a distant, clinical recognition that she had become a variable in a situation that needed to be resolved.

Another mirror caught her reflection when she turned her head slightly. It looked like her. That was the most confusing part. Everything was correct but nothing matched.

Someone said, “We can push it. We can stall—”

Another voice cut in, “No, she’s on next.”

And that was when the room changed shape again. A stage manager appeared at the edge of her vision, speaking carefully, like approaching something that might break or bite or simply stop responding if handled too quickly.

“You’re up in a minute.” … “Do you understand?”

She tried to answer again. The attempt happened somewhere between thought and speech and didn’t fully complete as either. Instead, she nodded, or thought she did, or maybe just moved her head in a way that could be interpreted as agreement.

The corridor tightened around that decision immediately.

Someone stepped closer, checking her posture, adjusting her position like she was something that needed alignment rather than reassurance. There were words about marks on stage, about timing cues, about breathing. None of it landed in sequence. It came in fragments that refused to assemble into instruction.

Then there was the sound of applause from beyond the curtain. Not for her but for whoever had just finished.

A hand touched her back lightly.

“You go when it opens,” Someone said. “Just follow the light.”

The stage manager looked at her for a long moment longer than necessary, like there was still time to reverse something if enough certainty was introduced quickly enough.

There wasn’t.

The curtain up ahead shifted.

And her body, whether she agreed with it or not, began to move.

Michael almost didn’t attend.

The invitation had been sitting on his desk for weeks, accepted more out of obligation than enthusiasm. Industry events had become exercises in endurance lately. Smile when expected. Shake hands. Congratulate people whose names blurred together before the conversation had even ended. He had become remarkably good at appearing present while feeling entirely elsewhere. Lisa sat beside him as the lights dimmed, the auditorium gradually sinking into darkness as conversations softened into scattered murmurs. Applause rippled through the crowd when someone stepped onto the stage to introduce the next act.

Then her name echoed through the theater, carried through the speakers with practiced enthusiasm. Michael felt his stomach tighten before she had even appeared. He hadn’t seen her since the mediation. Not really. Not outside the memories that seemed determined to replay themselves whenever the world became quiet enough for him to hear them. He still heard her voice sometimes with startling clarity, still heard the accusation she had leveled at him across that conference table.

You dont even know if you love her.

It had followed him home. Followed him to bed. Followed him into every quiet moment since. The curtains parted. She stepped into the spotlight. For one fleeting second, she looked exactly as she always had. Beautiful. Poised. Elegant. Untouchable. The kind of performer capable of commanding an arena simply by standing still. Then the music began, and almost immediately something felt wrong.

Not obvious. Not enough that anyone unfamiliar with her would have noticed. The audience certainly didn’t. To them she was mesmerizing. Magnetic. Yet Michael found himself sitting forward almost instantly. She missed a mark by half a step. Barely noticeable. The kind of mistake most people would never catch. But he did. Then she remained still during a transition where choreography should have carried her across the stage. Her eyes drifted beyond the audience for a fraction of a second too long, lingering somewhere far away before she seemed to remember where she was and continued. Even her smile appeared delayed, arriving a beat late before disappearing altogether. Around him, thousands of people watched in complete silence, captivated by what they believed was an extraordinarily emotional performance.

Michael knew better. This wasn’t artistry. This wasn’t a creative choice. Every movement felt detached from her body, it looked like she was remembering the cues rather than inhabiting it. There were moments where she seemed–drunk. This was not a part of the performance. The realization settled heavily in his chest as the song continued, growing more devastating with every passing verse. Her voice never faltered. If anything, it became stronger. But strength wasn’t what made it unbearable. It was the rawness beneath it. The feeling that every note carried something she had never managed to say aloud. For the first time since the divorce meeting, he wasn’t hearing lyrics. He was hearing everything she’d swallowed. Every unanswered phone call. Every night she’d spent waiting. Every apology he had never given her. Every question he’d never truly answered.

By the middle of the performance, unease had settled so deeply beneath his skin that it became impossible to ignore. He shifted forward in his seat without realizing he’d done it. Beside him, Lisa noticed immediately.

“You okay?” she asked quietly. He didn’t answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on the stage. Something was wrong. The sensation crawled through him with growing certainty.

“I’m gonna go backstage for a minute.” Lisa frowned slightly, glancing toward the stage before looking back at him.

“Michael..”

“I’ll be right back.” He was already standing, beneath reason and logic, an older instinct had begun sounding an alarm he couldn’t ignore. He had spent years beside her. Years learning the subtle signs most people never noticed. The shorter breaths. The thousand yard stare. The way she’d lock her knees when she was trying not to collapse. The tiny changes that happened before panic arrived. Before exhaustion arrived. Before she admitted she wasn’t okay. He knew them all. His body recognized them before his mind could fully process what he was seeing.

The applause erupted behind him as he slipped through the auditorium doors. The sound followed him down a maze of unfamiliar hallways lined with security personnel, production staff, equipment cases, and cables taped neatly across the floor. He walked quickly at first, then faster. The muffled sound of the performance echoed through the walls until, somewhere near the dressing room corridor, the music stopped altogether. Then came shouting. Panicked. Urgent. Sharp. The kind of voices people used when something had gone wrong and everyone was trying not to make it worse. Someone yelled for a medic. Another voice shouted for space. Footsteps thundered down the hallway as crew members rushed past carrying equipment, forcing him against the wall. Security began converging toward a dressing room farther ahead. Michael’s stomach dropped instantly. He didn’t think. He started moving faster. Then running. By the time he reached the doorway, a crowd had already formed. Security personnel. Production assistants. Crew members speaking rapidly into radios. Two medics knelt somewhere beyond the bodies he couldn’t see through. He caught only the briefest glimpse of her sequined fabric disappearing beneath someone’s shoulder before another person stepped into his line of sight.

“What happened?” he asked.

Nobody answered.

The hallway was chaos. People moving in every direction. Radios crackling. Equipment being carried inside.

“What happened?” he repeated, louder this time.

A production assistant glanced toward him only long enough to recognize who had spoken.

“She collapsed.”

The words struck him with almost physical force.

“What?”

“She passed out after she came offstage.”

For a moment everything else seemed to disappear. The hallway. The noise. The people. His feet were moving before he’d consciously decided to move.

“I need to see her.” He barely managed three steps before someone intercepted him. Her manager stepped directly into his path firmly enough to make it clear he wasn’t getting through.

“I’m sorry.”

Michael stared at him in disbelief. “I need to see her.”

“I can’t let you in.” The words sounded unreal. His voice cracked despite himself. “Please.”

For the briefest second, sympathy flickered across the other man’s face. Sympathy. Regret. Understanding. Then it vanished. “She doesn’t need this right now.”

The sentence landed harder than anything that had been said during the divorce meeting. Because for years, he had been the first person people called when something went wrong. The first person through the door. The one sitting beside hospital beds. The one holding her hand. The one making decisions. The one people automatically looked toward in a crisis. Now he wasn’t even allowed inside the room. His gaze drifted instinctively past her manager’s shoulder, searching desperately for some glimpse of her through the crowd moving around the doorway. He saw nothing. Only medics. Only crew members. Only a closed circle of people trying to help her. A circle that no longer included him. His hands hung uselessly at his sides. There was nothing to argue. No legal language to hide behind. No compromise to negotiate. No loophole to exploit. The divorce had quietly altered something he hadn’t fully understood until this exact moment. He still possessed every instinct that had once made him her husband. Every urge to protect her. To sit beside her. To make sure she was okay. But instincts and rights were not the same thing. He no longer had the right. After a long moment, his shoulders sagged.

He lowered his eyes. “..Okay.” The word barely escaped him. Then he turned and walked away, each step feeling disconnected from the last. Behind him, the dressing room door remained closed. The people inside continued working.