𝒮𝓀𝓎𝑒

The drought had settled into the Los Angeles area around nineteen long days ago. The air tasted of hot asphalt and exhaust from passing cars; it clung to the back of your throat. 

Your face felt tight, sun-scoured, a dull throb behind your eyes that the fluorescent lights of the café only sharpened. You were desperate for water. Wildly dehydrated.

The espresso machine at your 2nd job had been shrieking since five a.m. An unwelcome, piercing shrill in your ears.

You tried to focus on the forgotten sociology homework spread beside the register, the words swimming in the steam. 

Social constructs of intimacy in the digital age. 

The irony was so silly to you. 

A line of customers tapped impatient fingers on the counter, their eyes glazed with heat and caffeine-need, waiting for you to notice them. You really were a bad barista.

Outside, the hills were the color of rusted tin, looking so brittle and skeletal. The news droned on the small TV mounted in the corner: Conserve, conserve. Do your part for your city. It felt like a cruel joke that they were asking US to do our part.

The AC in your apartment was a joke too; a wet, rattling gasp that just pushed the soupy heat from one corner to another. And you were paying entirely too much for the shitty space, just so you could walk to work and college comfortably.

Your life was a triptych of exhaustion: college in the bleary morning, the café till you dropped, and then… 

nocturncamz.com

The name alone felt like a secret. 

The site loaded with a plum-colored login page, a carousel of girls on the landing; plump lips wrapped around lollipops, collarbones glittering with sweat or sparkle, eyes heavy-lidded and looking somewhere past the camera. Obscene, but prettily framed. A curated gallery speaking to the lonely modern man.

Saturdays were when you sat at your desk after dark and made rent, one anonymous stranger at a time. It wasn’t what you had in mind for senior year, nor was it glamorous. It was a cheap headset, a webcam angled carefully to exclude most of your sad box bedroom and the peeling Justin Bieber poster left by some previous tenant. 

The setup was crude, sometimes degrading, but it was fifty to a hundred bucks you didn’t have. Sometimes more. The tips were always better later on in the evening, when the loneliness in other time zones grew teeth.

It was late now. The fan on your desk chittered like insect wings, fighting a losing war against the heatwave bleeding through your single window. 

Sweat prickled at the small of your back, your tank top sticking to the faux-leather chair. You took a sip of flat Diet Coke that was sat stale in a take away cup, the fizz long dead, just a chemical sweetness coating your teeth.

A new username blinked in your private chat log: king777tut. Unfamiliar. 

Most men arrived already fired up, demanding the private room link and password, the transaction beginning with heavy breathing and blunt, miserable need. They'd usually be naked when the camera turned on - and that was usually a jumpscare. But this one… his typing was slow. 

Each message appeared with a weight, a pause between sentences you could feel in the silence of your room.

You leaned back, the chair groaning. The ellipsis danced. Disappeared. Danced again.

king777tut: good evening, do you have time to talk?

You almost laughed. Someone being respectful? You started the thirty-minute timer he’d paid for.

SweetViolet: Timer’s on. So talk to me. What do you like? What do you want to do?

A long pause. The fan whirred. Your foot tapped a frantic, nervous rhythm against the desk leg.

king777tut: I like your voice. From your preview. It’s soft. It sounds like… honey.

The breath left your lungs in a quiet, surprised rush. A laugh, mostly air. You pulled your knees to your chest, the chair protesting, your toes curling against the seat’s edge. 

SweetViolet: Honey, huh? That’s new. Most guys say its sultry like whiskey. Or something more… dumb or just crude.

king777tut: Whiskey is for forgetting. Honey is for… savoring. For whispering sweet nothings that stick.

Your stomach flipped. You pressed your forehead to your knees. The stubble on your legs was rough against your skin. Older, you thought. The cadence of his words, the spaces between them….they felt considered. Heavy. You typed before the hesitation could crystallize.

SweetViolet: So whisper to me then, King Tut. Tell me what you need.

Another pause. Longer. You could hear the old analog clock on your wall, its second hand scraping a path around the dial. Then, his message came in two parts.

king777tut: I am in my room. It is very late. The house is quiet. I can hear the coyotes howling in the hills beyond my window.

king777tut: I am thinking about what you might be wearing.

Your breath hitched, a tiny catch in your throat. You uncurled, planted your feet on the cool floor. He wanted to sext rather than request photos? Wow. you thought about how unsexy your clothes were right now. 

Just a pink tank top and old cotton shorts, the hem frayed from too many washes.

SweetViolet: A tank top. Pink. And shorts. They’re soft.

king777tut: Is the tank top… loose?

You looked down. The thin cotton did drape, hanging away from your body in the still heat, away from your bra-less chest. A slow heat began to bloom outward from your core; lazy, languid, inevitable. Your hand drifted over your stomach, fingers tracing the pronounced ridge of your hipbone through the fabric.

SweetViolet: Kinda. It hangs. I dont have a bra on.

king777tut: I am picturing it. The way it would fall if you moved… whether the shift would be revealing, or still so innocent.

king777tut: I am in my bed. I am wearing linen pyjamas. The sheets are silk. They feel cool, but I am growing warm. Warm with want.

You swallowed, your mouth parchment-dry. The Diet Coke was useless; you tried taking a gulp to quench your thirst. Your other hand drifted down, palm resting on your thigh, your thumb making absent, tiny circles on the sensitive skin of your inner leg. Goosebumps rose in its wake.

SweetViolet: What are you doing? Are you touching yourself in your bed?

The ellipsis pulsed. Once. Twice. A slow, tantalizing heartbeat.

king777tut: not right at this moment. My free hand is on my stomach. Just resting. I can feel my heart beating so hard right now It is beating… for you, I think.

The run-on sentence, the odd comma, the raw, unvarnished admission, it unspooled something deep inside you. You let your head fall back against the chair, staring at the water-stain shaped like a ghost ship on your ceiling. you still hadn’t let your landlord know about that. It was getting worse by the day. black mould wasn’t going to do you any good.

your mind drifted back to the situation;

Silk sheets. Still fully dressed. It was a universe away from the grunted demands you usually fielded. This was pure attention. attraction.

SweetViolet: Why is your heart beating so fast?

SweetViolet: You should move your hand lower. Tell me more.

king777tut: I feel… an ache. A good ache in the pit of my stomach. Maybe its want? Ive wanted you for several weeks now. I have… pleasured myself to your content

King777tut: my head feels fuzzy, like im struggling to form sentences from nerves. 

king777tut: and my heart is beating fast because I am talking to a beautiful girl and I cannot quite believe it is real.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

He wasn’t just dirty. He was sweet. He was painting a scene and you were being woven into its canvas. Your hand slid up, under the hem of your tank top, palm flattening against the warm skin of your ribs. Your breathing shallowed. you found the tight peak of your nipple already hardened by the cool draft of the dying fan, and you rolled it slowly between your fingers.

SweetViolet: I moved my hand too. Under my shirt. My skin is hot. I can feel my own heartbeat under my palm. It’s racing. At the thought of you watching me. 

king777tut: Yes. Yes. Do you… do you touch yourself? oftne? Thinking of strangers?

The question was blunt, misspelled, and it sent a jolt straight to your core. Despite him being logged onto this lewd site, there was an innocence to his curiosity, an eloquence laced with hunger. Your back arched slightly off the chair, a silent, delicious answer to you playing with your nipple. There was a sticky wet heat growing in your underwear.

SweetViolet: Sometimes. Not all the time i will admit; i have to fake it, if the person is into something i am just… not into. Right now I am. My hand is in my shorts. Just feeling how wet I already am.

You hit send and closed your eyes. The darkness swam with bursts of color. Now you had to follow through. You braced, then let your fingers slip past the elastic waistband, through the soft thatch of hair on your pubic bone. You were already slick, swollen, the sensation so immediately intense you bit your lower lip hard enough to sting. No lying tonight, you were actually going to touch yourself along with your customer. 

king777tut: I have my hand on my cock now. I pushed my pyjamas down. I am thinking of your hand. How it must look, small and pretty, wrapped around me. Moving for me.

King777tut: it feels so dirty to do this with a stranger but i cant meet people the normal way. And it feels like from your videos before, i already know uoy. And i want you.

His typing deteriorated, and the spelling was getting significantly lazy and it was the most erotic thing you’d ever witnessed. 

This broken, earnest confession from a man whose words were failing but whose intent was crystal clear. You let one finger slide inside yourself, a slow, testing penetration, and a gasp tore from your throat, loud in the silent room.

SweetViolet: I’m touching myself. For you. I’m so wet. Thinking about your hand on yourself. Picturing it. You all alone in your room. Being so dirty telling me about it.

king777tut: Tell me. Tell me how you touch yourself.

So you did. You narrated the slow, circling pressure of your fingertips, the building heat low in your belly, the short, panting breaths that fogged the windowpane beside you. 

You described the ache, the needy, empty feeling you had, and the sharp sound you made when you finally curled two fingers deep inside—a choked, shuddering ah-ah-ah that you typed out letter by trembling letter. To try give him a picture.

He told you about his rhythm, starting slow, then faster, the grip of his own hand, how he was biting his lip to stay silent, how he was picturing your mouth, your eyes, your honey-whisper voice saying a name he hadn’t given you yet. How he was having to stay quiet as he had guests.

It built. A shared, silent symphony conducted through misspelled text and raw desperate need. 

Your thighs began to shake. Your toes curled until they cramped. Your eyes were struggling to stay open as you reached your peak. But you had to look and see what he was saying back to you

Then, his final, fragmented plea:

king777tut: im almost there thinking of you at the edge.  are you there?  please cum with me

And so you did.  You shattered with a silent, violent convulsion, your body seizing in the cheap chair, vision bleaching into white static. Your fingers, slippery, fumbled the keys.

SweetViolet: yes. god. yes. i’m here. i came to the thought of you. what you look like. who you could be.

The fan chose that moment to choke, rattle violently, and die with a pathetic click. You kicked it over with your bare foot. Your brain couldnt even explore how catastrophic that was for your health in the heatwave and a god damn drought - you were too wrapped up in this unreal man.

It didn’t matter though. No machine could cool the furnace now glowing in your chest and belly. 

This hadn’t been a normal transaction on here.. This had been… more real. And on top of that, you’d managed to feel pleasure out of it.

king777tut: I have been lurking on your page for a month. Wondering if I should pay for a session.

SweetViolet: Well? Was it good? Will you come back?

king777tut: If I could have you all the time, I believe I would. You have such angelic features. I want to kiss those lips.

king777tut: In short, you are incredible. And I am… utterly undone by you.

A stupid, wide, giddy smile broke across your face. A post-coital glow with no right to be this potent from pixels and text. 

SweetViolet: You’re pretty incredible yourself. Want to take this to a private cam? I can turn mine on. We still have five minutes.

The ellipsis appeared.

Then vanished.

A full minute of dead, empty space. The glowing timer ticked down. The warmth inside you began to curdle into anxiety.

king777tut: I cannot.

SweetViolet: Why not?

king777tut: My face. I cannot show it. For security. It is not safe.

Of course. Married. A father. A catfish. The old, familiar disappointment, sharp and acidic. The connection which was fragile and electric before, totally diminished for you. Of course it had been too good to be true. 

SweetViolet: Right. Security. Okay…

king777tut: No, please. It is not like that. I wish I could. You have no idea how much I wish I could see you. To have your eyes looking into mine. But I am… known. In certain circles. It would cause… problems.

Known. The word sat in the chat box, strange and heavy.. You wiped your damp hand on your shorts, feeling suddenly exposed, foolish for the vulnerability you’d offered.

SweetViolet: Known how?

king777tut: It is better I do not say. It is better for you, this way. You can just be Sweet Violet. And I can just be… me. Talking to you.

The sadness in the text was palpable, a loneliness that seeped through the grammar. The knot in your gut softened. It was dangerous that you were so interested.

SweetViolet: Are you famous or something? A singer?

A pause. Then:

king777tut: Perhaps. Does it matter?

You chewed your thumbnail, thinking. Your survival instinct, usually a shrill alarm, was quiet. There was no screaming danger. Just lingering arousal and a curiosity now grown ravenous.

SweetViolet: I guess not. It’s just… you talk different. This whole interaction is different to my others.

king777tut: I am different. And I want to talk to you more. Not just like this. I mean… really talk.

SweetViolet: How?

king777tut: In person.

You laughed—a short, sharp bark of disbelief that echoed in the hot room. The rule was absolute, scrawled on a neon sticky note beside your monitor: NO MEET-UPS. EVER.

SweetViolet: I don’t do that. That’s not what this is.

king777tut: I know. I know what this is. And this… what we just did… that was not what I usually do. It was my first time.

king777tut: I am obsessed with you. In the best way. I just need more.

king777tut: I feel a connection to you. I would like to explore it.

Hooked. He had you completely. No one had ever been this plain, this disarmingly honest. It was the opposite of 

talk dirty to me, slut. 

This was intimacy, sexually charged yet serene. It felt terrifyingly real.

Your heart pounded with a new, volatile adrenaline. This was insanity. This was ditch-in-the-desert behavior. And yet… your gut wasn’t sounding the alarm. It was a low, thrilling feeling. What if?

SweetViolet: No. Not in person. Not yet.

king777tut: Oh.

The single syllable hung there, weighted with a disappointment that physically tugged at you. You typed quickly, before the silence could solidify.

SweetViolet: Hear me out. I’m not saying no forever. I’m saying let’s do this right. A cam call. You and me, live. I want to hear your voice. Not just read you.

king777tut: But my face. I told you—

SweetViolet: So wear a mask. Cover it. I don’t care about your face, not yet. I want your voice. I want to see if this… this little thing here… works when it’s real. On camera. When it’s live. 

SweetViolet: When you can’t sit there and craft every perfect sentence for five minutes before you send it.

The ellipsis stuttered, hesitant.

SweetViolet: If we’ve got chemistry on cam, then maybe. Maybe I think about the rest. You have to earn my trust. Show me something real. Tell me about yourself in your own voice. What you like. What you don’t. Your age. Anything.

A long pause. You chewed your thumbnail raw.

king777tut: I could wear a mask. I have many.

SweetViolet: Any mask you want. I’ll never see your face until you’re ready. But I’ll hear you. That’s the deal.

The ellipsis again. An eternity in three blinking dots. You wondered if you’d finally spooked him, if he’d vanish into the digital ether, becoming just another ghost—

king777tut: Yes. king777tut: Yes. I can do that. I want to. Tomorrow? This time? I can try to make myself available.

And your heart, that stupid traitorous organ, did a full, soaring flip.

SweetViolet: Tomorrow. This time. Don’t be late, tut.

king777tut: I will not be. Goodbye, Sweet Violet.

king777tut has left the private chat.

The screen reverted to your lobby where another 16 users were waiting for their turn.

You sat for a long time in the suffocating, silent heat, your skin still on fire, every nerve ending alive. Staring at the blank chat window on internet explorer. You couldn’t after that interaction ruin it by speaking to a dumb asshole on here asking to see your feet.

A soft cha-ching notification sounded from your payment portal totally disarming your weird thoughts. You glanced over.

$700.00 deposited from user: king777tut.

A memo line below: For you, honey. Until tomorrow.

Your breath froze. Seven hundred dollars. For half an hour of text. Jesus christ. Thats going to cover half of your rent.

You leaned back, the leather sticking to your skin. The dead fan lay on its side. 

Shit, you thought, a slow smile touching your lips despite the tremor in your hands. You had absolutely no idea what you’d just agreed to. You had no idea who he was.

-

The heat, for the first time all day, relented slightly

There was an orange-y soupy darkness in the sky from the sunset and the city lights looked like supernovas in comparison; that sharp unforgiving LED light against the warmth. It was 9pm on the dot.

Your own room felt like the inside hell—warm, damp, close. 

You’d showered, the water tepid and insufficient, and now sat before your webcam in a simple black lace bralette and matching panties. The fan was dead, so the only sound was the frantic beat of your own pulse in your ears.

Your dashboard showed king777tut was online. Waiting. 

The private room link glowed on your screen. You took a deep breath that did nothing to steady you, clicked it, and your own face appeared in a small preview window—eyes wide, lips parted. 

You hit ‘Start Broadcast.’

For a moment, there was only your image, and the black rectangle where his feed would be. 

Then, with a soft digital blink, his video connected.

The breath caught in your throat.

His camera quality was poor, grainy, washed with a faint greenish tint from low light. But you could see enough. He was propped against a massive, ornate headboard, dark wood carved with intricate, swirling patterns. 

The bed itself seemed enormous, a sea of rumpled white linens around him that stretched into the shadows behind. The room beyond was vast, hints of high ceilings and dark furniture just at the edges of the fuzzy resolution.

And his face… was hidden.

It was a mask, but not some cheap plastic thing. It was elaborate, antique-looking, made of what appeared to be pale porcelain and very finely painted. 

It covered his entire face, a stylized, androgynous visage with faintly rouged cheeks, arched eyebrows, and full, solemn lips. It reminded you of a Venetian carnival mask, or something from a masquerade ball in a gothic novel. Eccentric and beautiful and… deeply, profoundly strange. 

Who the hell has exquisite enough taste that this kind of mask is just laying around?

He wore a simple, loose white t-shirt, the neckline broad, the sleeves covering his shoulders. His hair was dark and long, hitting his collarbones; all curly. It hid his chest, his frame. 

The laptop was propped to his right, on the bed, giving this angled, intimate view. You couldn't see below his waist. The sheets were pulled up, and most of his bottom half out of the frame. You had no idea what he was or wasn't wearing.

“Hello,” a voice said, and your entire body went still.

It was his voice. The one you’d imagined from the delicate words from the chat log. It was airy, almost breathy, but underpinned by a sensual, rustic grain. It was a voice that had known singing, or perhaps shouting and late nights. There was a soft rasp at the edges, like worn velvet. It was shy, hesitant, yet it filled your headphones with an intimate, undeniable presence.

“Hi,” you managed, your own voice a whisper. You shifted, and your cheap office chair let out a loud, protesting squeak. You winced. “Sorry. The chair’s a piece of junk.”

The mask tilted slightly. “Don’t apologize,” he said, his tone softening. “I’m only payin’ attention to you.”

The simple sentence, delivered in that unique, raspy-shy cadence, made your stomach flip again. The nerves were killing you and the awkwardness was there, palpable in the digital space between you, but it was charged, not uncomfortable. 

It was the tension of two people standing at the edge of something unknown.

“Your room is… huge,” you said, glancing at the shadowy expanse behind him.

A slight movement—a shrug? “It can feel too large, sometimes. Empty.” He paused. “Yours seems more homely. better.”

You swallowed during the awkward beat. “What do you want to do tonight? Just… talk?”

“I would like that,” he said. “To talk first. May I… ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“What do you like?” The question was quiet, sincere but very broad. He sensed your awe and then corrected. 

“When you are with someone. What makes you feel good?”

The directness, devoid of the usual crude packaging, threw you. You took a moment, tracing the lace edge of your bralette. 

“I like… anticipation. The build-up. When someone takes their time.” You felt a blush creep up your neck. “I like feeling… overwhelmed. In a good way. Like I’m not completely in control.”

“How so?” His voice was a low murmur, utterly focused.

You took a deeper breath, committing. “Like… being tied up. Gently. With something soft. Or being blindfolded. Not knowing what’s coming next, just… feeling it. It makes every touch louder, you know?”

A long silence. You could see the faint reflection of your own feed in the dark lenses of his mask. Then, a soft, wondering exhale.

“Wow,” he breathed, the word full of genuine surprise. “I didn’t… I didn’t really think a young girl like you would be into all that. That’s… sophisticated.”

There was a note in his voice then, a wistful, almost sad quality. “It makes me feel old,” he confessed, the rasp more pronounced. “And simple. I’ve never tried any of those things. My experiences have been… straightforward. Traditional, I suppose.”

His vulnerability was disarming. “Traditional isn’t bad,” you offered. “How old are you?”

He let go of some breath; “I’m 45. Is that bad?”

You laughed a bit, your eyes twinkling, the computer light was reflecting off of them. “No.. its not. I like older men,”

“hmm,” he agreed softly. 

“well hearing you describe your desires from before… the trust it requires… the artistry of it…” He trailed off. “I think… its beautiful. I think I could make you feel good. Even being my simple self. If you let me.”

The promise, so humbly stated, sent a bolt of pure heat straight to your core. “Oh yeah?” you challenged gently, your voice dropping. “How would you go about that?”

The mask seemed to gaze right through the screen, into you. His voice, when it came, was a low, deliberate whisper, painting pictures in the dark.

“I would start by washing your hair,” he said, and the domestic intimacy of it shocked you. “In a deep, lavish bathtub. I would massage your scalp and then your shoulders, and wherever you needed it for an hour, until every knot in your body was gone. Then I would dry you with the softest towel I own. I would carry you to a bed much softer than that chair you’re on. And I would just… admire you. For a long time. memorise every curve, every freckle, the way your breathing changes when you’re nervous.”

You were motionless, captivated.

“Then,” he continued, the words flowing now, “I would kiss the inside of your wrist.” You instinctively looked at your own wrist. 

“Where your pulse beats. I would kiss my way up your arm, to your shoulder, to your throat. Learning what makes you sigh, what makes you shiver. I would use my mouth… everywhere… but so slowly you’d think you were dreaming. I wouldn’t touch you between your legs until you were begging me for it, until you were arching up off the sheets, offering yourself. And even then… I might just tease you with my breath. To hear the sound you’d make.”

A small, helpless whimper escaped you. Your hand had drifted to your own thigh, squeezing lightly.

On screen, you saw his own hand move. It slid from where it had been resting on his stomach, down, out of the frame. The laptop, perched on the bed, gave a subtle but distinct wobble. A shaky, unstable movement.

A soft, stifled sound; a sharp intake of breath, almost a whimper, came through your headphones. He was touching himself. You were sure of it. 

The laptop jittered on the rumpled silk; one, two, three frantic stutters that mapped perfectly in your mind to the stroke of his fist around his cock

“Would you…” you gasped, your own fingers creeping under the edge of your panties, finding wet heat. “Would you fuck me then?”

A low groan. 

“Yes,” he hissed, the word strained. “But not like you’re thinking. Not fast. I would lay you on your side and curl myself around you, behind you. I’d wrap my arm around your waist, hold you tight against me… and I’d push into you like that, so slowly you’d feel every single inch. And I’d whisper in your ear the whole time. Tell you how beautiful you are. How perfect you feel. I wouldn’t stop until you came around me, crying from how full you were.”

“Fuck,” you moaned, your head falling back. Then you refocused, you had to know more.

“And then what? When I'm crying and full of you, would you fuck me harder? Would you tell me how much you needed this? How long you've been waiting for my body?”

He didn’t even answer, totally undertaken by the sentiment you’d shared.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You hooked your thumbs into your panties and dragged them down, kicking them away. You plunged two fingers inside yourself, already slick and throbbing. The sound was obscene. “I’m touching myself,” you panted. “Thinking about that. About you filling me up.”

“Let me see,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Please. Show me.” You moved the webcam so he could see you play with yourself - he was paying for it after all.

You brought your glistening fingers up to the camera, then, holding his gaze, slowly sucked them into your mouth, cleaning them with a long, languid stroke of your tongue.

A raw, guttural sound ripped from him. The laptop shook more violently. “Again. Do it again. For me.”

You were lost in it now, a feedback loop of his whispered, detailed fantasy and your own frantic touch. 

You fucked yourself with your fingers, imagining the slow, inexorable push he described, then brought them, dripping, back to your mouth.

“Mm good girl” he whispered behind the mask. You then grabbed your panties and shook them down to your mid thigh so you had unobstructed access. You fingered yourself with your two middle fingers, imaginingg it was his instead. Despite the weird mask, you could tell that he was attractive, his voice alone could probably bring you over the edge. 

“I’m close… I’m so close,” you chanted, breathlessly.

“You look so good like that, all hungry for it,” he whispered back, his voice unsteady from the repeated strain of stroking his cock.

“Come for me” he commanded, his own breath a ragged series of gasps. “Come for me, Sweet Violet. Let me hear you.”

Then it was serene convulsions. Muscles locking. Air stolen. White static behind your eyes. Then a keening sound, high and thin, tearing itself from your throat as the waves battered you, receding and then battering harder again. You were drowning in the thoughts of him.

Through the haze, you heard his finish. It wasn’t loud. It was a crescendo of those same shaky, whimpering breaths,  followed by a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to hold a lot of loneliness. 

The laptop on his end gave one final, definitive jerk and then was still.

The timer in the corner of the screen glowed: 08:47. The post-climax haze was a physical thing, a warm, heavy blanket of lassitude that made your limbs feel like lead.

On his screen, he hadn't moved. The porcelain mask stared blankly at the ceiling of his cavernous room. His chest rose and fell in a slow, deep rhythm beneath the rumpled white cotton of his shirt. The fabric had ridden up, revealing a tantalizing slice of his lower abdomen;

a taut plane of skin that, even in the grainy resolution, you could see was mottled with patches of darker pigment against a lighter one. The contrast was stark, intimate, laid bare by accident. You wondered what the rest of his chest looked like.

“That was…” you started, voice wrecked.

The mask tilted slowly toward the camera. A soft, almost inaudible sound of affirmation escaped him.  "Mmm-hmm." It was a vulnerable, boyish sound, utterly at odds with the grandeur of his surroundings and the intensity of what had just transpired. 

But then he was moving. Sitting up abruptly, as if electrocuted. The shyness flooded back, laced with panic. “I have to go,” he blurted out.

“Wait—”

“Thank you,” he rushed, his voice small and flustered. “That was… more than I… Thank you.”

And before you could say another word, his video feed winked to black.

king777tut has left the private broadcast.

The sudden disconnect was a physical slap. You sat in the buzzing silence, the afterglow cooling into a confused, hollow ache. You checked your payment portal. Another deposit. $1,500.

An hour passed. You were lying in your own bed, staring at the ceiling, when the chat pinged.

king777tut: I am sorry. I became… overwhelmed. Shy. It was so intense.

SweetViolet: It’s okay. It was for me too.

king777tut: I cannot get the image of you out of my head. The way you tasted your fingers. The sound you made.

SweetViolet: Your voice… I can’t get your voice out of my head.

A long, long pause. The ellipsis blinked for nearly a full minute.

king777tut: I need to see you. Not on line. In real life.

king777tut: 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road, Los Olivos, California 93441.

king777tut: Will you come meet me?

Your heart stopped. Then slammed against your ribs. 

SweetViolet: Who are you? Why are you giving out your address so easily?

king777tut: Come and find out. I will explain everything. I will keep you safe. Please.

You stare at the address in the chat log. 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road.

Every survival instinct you’ve honed in this job screams at you. This is how it happens. This is the first chapter of every true crime documentary about girls like you. You meet a sweet, lonely guy online, he pays well, he seems harmless, and then you get in a car and vanish. 

NO MEET-UPS. The rule is there for a reason.

But… the money. The absurd money. $2,200 in total from him for less than an hours work. That’s next semester’s books. That’s three months of your shitty rent. That’s breathing room and less panicked nights wondering where the fuck youll get the cash from to pay the landlord, or to even buy food.

And the curiosity. It’s an unscratchable itch. The mask. The voice. The way he talked to you like you were a person, not a fantasy dispenser or some ‘slut.’

Who is he? What kind of person shares their address that blazenly if they weren’t desperate?

The fear and the curiosity are having a fistfight in your chest. The fear is logical and well, the curiosity is a deep, hungry pull.

Screw it. You open Google Earth. You type the address.

The satellite view loads and your breath catches. It’s an estate, not just a house on a street. Its a huge, sprawling property in the middle of wine country. 

You zoom in. You see a massive main house, guest cottages, what looks like a… is that a Ferris wheel?

A cold, nervous laugh escapes you. What the actual hell?

You open a new tab. You search the address and “owner.”

The results are a mess of weird articles and reviews.

But one link catches your eye: a gossip blog from years ago. The headline makes your blood run cold for a second, then hot with pure, disbelieving shock.

The headline reads: “Neverland Valley Ranch Listed: Owner Seeking Private Buyer.”

You click it. The article is old. It says the property has been on and off the market for years. That the owner was motivated to sell after a brutal, public trial, but that no buyer had ever been deemed suitable or serious enough to finalise the deal. That the place sat in a kind of purgatory.

That place… it belongs to…. 

The pieces click together with a soundless, chilling thud.

All the fear doesn’t vanish, but it transforms. This isn’t a random creep. This is… something else entirely. The risk is astronomically different. You need to go. You MUST go see this through.

You look back at the chat.

Will you come meet me?

Your fingers are steady but sweaty as you type your reply. 

SweetViolet: Yes. I’ll come. 

pt 2?

back to masterlist

“So, when are you goin’ to tell him how you feel?”

It was the year of 1979—a sweltering summer night, the best kind. The sort of night when people your age slipped into their finest outfits, doused themselves in perfume, and disappeared into the city until dawn.

And, as always, you'd been roped into an outing with your girlfriends. Every last one of them were now crammed into your tiny room, lounging across your bed, leaning against the walls, and perched atop your dresser while they waited for you to finish getting ready. 

Naturally, conversation had become their source of entertainment. 

Unfortunately, there was one topic that always managed to surface. One topic you desperately wished they'd leave alone.

"So," one of them began, a knowing smile spreading across her face, "when are you finally gonna tell Michael how you feel?"

You froze. A gasp lodged itself in your throat as you turned to scan the room, finding grins waiting for you in every direction. Slowly, your hands dropped from your hair, fingertips coated with oil from unraveling the days-old braided updo you'd been wearing all week.

“Why do y’all always ask this question?” You responded, eyes squinted with aggravation. 

An eruption of scoffs is given in retort.

"Uh—because you've been beating around the bush since, like, forever. And we're just wondering when you two are finally gonna tie the knot!" Another one of them voiced, earning a series of nods in agreement. 

An eye roll is gifted from you. Pushing away from your dresser, you turned to face your ‘audience’. They watched you expectantly, eager for even the slightest bit of drama. 

“I don’t know how many times I have to say this! We’re just friends. There are no ‘feelings’.” You voiced, adding air-quotes with your fingers.

A chorus of doubtful responses answered you. Their responses came in perfect unison. 

“Right.” 

“Sure.”

“Mhm.”

Your jaw clenched.

It was painfully obvious by their reactions that none of them were buying any of the words you said. Though the frustration soon simmered as you turned away, refusing to entertain their comments any further. 

Instead, you stared at your reflection, eyeing your current state. 

Your hair was nearly finished. Only a few stubborn braids remained on the left side, sticking out in every direction. But you'd already envisioned exactly how you wanted to look tonight.

A fitted bell-bottom bodysuit.

A perfectly shaped afro.

And a generous spray of perfume to tie everything together.

Tonight was going to be perfect.

Especially because Michael would be there. 

You caught yourself before your lips could curl into a shameless grin. 

You were certain that the ‘feelings’ your friends would spout about endlessly were false. You’ve even engraved that reminder deep into your own brain. Alas, if you had to be honest, they weren't exactly pulling these assumptions out of thin air.

The mere thought of him was enough to soften your mood. His smile. His doe-like eyes. His ability to lighten every room he’d walk into— those were the things that tugged at your silly little heartstrings. 

And when you traced it all back to the beginning, it wasn't difficult to understand why your feelings had grown into what they were now.

In fact, it started when you were a child.

You remembered watching him perform beneath dazzling stage lights, his tiny feet gliding effortlessly across the stage. Every movement seemed effortless, every smile captivating. And those vocals. Goodness.

He would transform the entire stage into his canvas—a young Van Gogh in a room full of Rembrandts.

Back then, you'd convinced yourself he was some sort of angel sent down from heaven. A childish belief, perhaps, but one that felt completely reasonable at the time. 

After all, how else could someone make people so happy? 

In any case, one day, your mother had taken you to a concert featuring Michael and his brothers—the Jackson 5. Even now, years later, you could still feel the excitement lingering in the memory. The deafening cheers. The thunderous applause. The electric energy hummed throughout the crowd. And Michael was shining beneath the spotlight like the brightest star in the sky.

But somewhere amidst all the excitement, you'd let go of your mother's hand. You just wanted a closer look! A foolish decision, you’ve realized that now. One moment she was beside you. The next, she was gone. You remembered the panic that settled into your chest once the music ended and the crowd slowly began to disperse. You searched desperately. Called out for her. Waited. And cried.

Then, Michael found you. 

Against his father’s wishes, apparently. 

But—he saw you. All alone. 

And he stayed by your side.

You could still picture the moment perfectly. The way he sat beside you. The way his small thumbs wiped away your tears, encouraging you to smile. He stayed with you until your mother finally found you—until you were safe, until you were smiling again.

Looking back, that was probably the moment everything changed. What had begun as innocent admiration slowly blossomed into something far more serious. Something deeper.

And it didn't fade, especially after he moved into your neighborhood in Encino, California, into the infamous Hayvenhurst estate. And it probably grew when the two of you started hanging out in secret.

But that was just childish puppy love! At least, that's what you told yourself.

You cherished your friendship with Michael far too much to risk changing it in pursuit of some ridiculous romance. Besides, he was a star. A symbol. Someone admired by millions.

Someone far beyond your reach…

So, you buried those feelings where they belonged. Even if it stung a little.

Going back into the present, a quiet sigh escaped your lips as your fingers returned to unraveling your braids. Every so often, a knot snagged beneath your fingertips, drawing a small wince from you. Reaching across your dresser, you grabbed your comb and held it between your teeth while you worked through another section of hair. 

"Michael's a sweetheart," you mumbled around the comb.

Several pairs of eyes immediately narrowed. 

"But..." You paused, removing the comb from your mouth, using it to straighten a tangle at the end of a remaining braid.  "He's not really my type."

The lie slipped out far too easily. The room fell silent. Dangerously silent. You didn't even need to turn around to feel the judgmental stares boring into the back of your skull.

Slowly, one of your friends rose from the bed and crept up behind you, resting a hand on your shoulder. “We're all gonna pretend you didn't just lie…”

The room erupted into laughter, immediately prompting you to turn around.

“I'm serious!” you insisted. “Why don't y'all believe me?”

“Girl…” one of your friends drawled.

“So, we're just gonna ignore the fact that you run to his house whenever he calls?” Another chimed in. “Or how you two gave each other those cute little nicknames? What were they again? Applehead and Angel Face?”

You stiffen once more. “Friends do that all the time,” you argued. “Sometimes they hang out when the other is having a hard time. And Michael is constantly under a lot of pressure. I'm just there to support him.”

Silence. You could almost hear a pin drop.

Then—

“So, you have sleepovers because he's ‘stressed out’?” one of the girls asked, earning another round of laughter.

“Hey—” 

Your sentence is interrupted; another friend leaning against your dresser. “Wait. You're telling me that the two of you be all curled up under the same blanket, watching The Three Stooges, and absolutely nothing happens after that?”

A chorus of dramatic "ooohs" erupted throughout the room.

You answered with nothing more than an annoyed stare.

Unfortunately, your friends took your growing embarrassment as an invitation to keep going. 

One of them even went far enough to place both hands on your shoulders. “Not even when his voice gets all soft,” she teased, her voice dropping to a sultry octave. “And he's telling you how happy he is that you came over to see him?”

You could feel heat rushing farther up your neck.

“Stop it…” You protested. 

Alas, it fell on deaf ears.

“Not even when he's got his arm all around you in that giant bed of his? Looking all handsome and smelling like whatever expensive cologne he be wearin’?”

You shot her a look. 

She pursed her lips. “Come on, girl. You know he smells good.”

The mental image alone was enough to make you bury your face in your hands, desperate to smother the thought before it could take root. 

One of your friends even fanned themselves at the thought. “Whew! All I'm saying is, honey, if I were in a bed with thee Michael Jackson, I'd be running my fingers right through that afro and trail them all the way down to his—”

“Okay! Enough!” you shouted, cutting her off before she could finish. Snickers followed your outburst.

“Careful,” another friend said between giggles. “She gets real possessive when it comes to her man.”

You sigh.

This was going to be a long night.

~.~

The roller-skating rink was no more than a fifteen-minute drive from your place. All of you were squeezed into one of your friends' cars—a standard Chevrolet Chevelle—with the music turned up loud to set the vibe for what promised to be a blissful night. The radio flowed effortlessly, from the angelic vocals of Chaka Khan, the smooth grooves of Earth, Wind & Fire, the funky rhythms of James Brown, and the upbeat tunes of the Jackson 5. 

You chose to ignore the playful grins thrown in your direction from the front and back seats when I Want You Back began to play.

Nevertheless, when the car finally pulled into the parking lot, you could barely wait to jump out. 

Childish giggles filled the air as you pushed open the rink’s double doors. Instantly, you were greeted by bright fluorescent lights shining overhead. A glittering disco ball hung at the center of the rink, scattering flashes of light across the polished floor.

The place had been around for decades, first opening in the early 1930s and rising to popularity by the late 1950s. Over the years, countless skaters had glided across its floor, moving effortlessly to the rhythm of unforgettable music. And now, as someone stepping into a roller-skating rink for the very first time—to experience a spectacular night.

Caught up in the excitement, you and your girlfriends rushed to the rental counter, eagerly rattling off your shoe sizes to the man behind the marble countertop. He looked moments away from losing his patience, likely overwhelmed by the chaos. Regardless, he disappeared into the back and returned with armfuls of skates. 

One by one, he handed them out, and one by one, your friends slipped them onto their feet.

Well, all of them except you.

As everyone rolled toward the dance floor, you lingered behind. You tugged at your laces, then let them fall to the floor.

How could you forget such a key detail?

You didn’t know how to skate.

Still, through the blaring music, you heard your name. 

"Hey! You comin' or what?" One of your friends waved from the semi-crowded rink, gesturing for you to join them. 

You flashed a grin and waved her off. "Give me a second! Just tying my laces!" 

That was your second white lie of the night.

As your friends entered the rink, you just stared down at your skates, fingers absently tugging at the laces before giving up, hiding them beneath the fabric of your bell-bottoms. Around you, the rink buzzed with life. Wheels rolled across polished wood. Laughter echoed from every direction. Somewhere overhead, one song faded into another, the bass vibrating faintly beneath your feet.

You swallowed, anxiously tapping your finger against the bench beneath you. You wrestled with the decision between attempting to stand or staying put. 

Besides, everybody fell their first time, right?

Then again, the mental image of you falling flat on your ass made you cringe.

Maybe sitting this one out wouldn't be so bad. You thought.

You could still vibe, right? You could just watch your friends skate. Cheer them on from the sidelines. Maybe grab a snack—or a milkshake. Nobody would judge you for that… right?

…This is embarrassing.

A sigh slipped past your lips. "Damn it."  

Your eyes fluttered shut, your heart beating steadily as you kicked one skate-clad foot against the carpet floor, then the other, but you still couldn't bring yourself to stand.

Until—

A warm, calloused hand settled on your shoulder. 

You nearly jumped out of your skin, your head whipping around so quickly that it almost hurt.

"Who the hell—" The words died in your throat, and you gasp. Wide-eyed, you stared at the person standing beside you as surprise and delight washed over your features.

There he stood.

A crisp white button-up shirt peeked from beneath his tailored velvet jacket, its sharp collar framing a glimpse of his partially exposed chest. His perfectly sculpted afro crowned his head, accentuating his striking features, commanding your attention. Around his wrist, a polished gold bracelet gleamed, catching and reflecting the vibrant flashes of the spinning disco lights with every subtle movement.

His navy bell-bottom jeans were equally eye-catching; tiny rhinestones carefully scattered across the dark fabric, they shimmered like scattered stars, creating the illusion that the denim itself sparkled beneath the colorful glow of the dance floor. 

Even amid the mingling scents of buttery popcorn, sugary soda, and the faint aroma of freshly polished wood, one fragrance stood out above the rest. 

The familiar scent of his cologne—Bal à Versailles—drifted through the air, rich and warm, carrying notes that were both rich and unforgettable. It lingered in your senses for a moment, drawing you in more. 

For one brief, embarrassing moment, you nearly forgot how to breathe. Thankfully, you recovered before making a complete fool of yourself.

Placing a hand over your chest, you let out a shaky laugh. "Michael, you scared me."

A soft giggle greeted you in response. "Sorry," he said. "I wasn't sure if it was you. So, I just kind of…walked up.”

You couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't being entirely truthful about that. Regardless, you rose to your feet, intending to give him a quick embrace. 

Unfortunately, you forgot that you were wearing skates.

The moment you pushed yourself forward, your wheels rolled out from beneath you, and because of your untied laces, you toppled forward. You still managed to wrap your arms around his neck, but not before your temple collided with his bony shoulder.

You winced. "Ow."

Michael immediately steadied you, large hands gripping your forearms as he kept you upright. "Whoa, easy! Are you okay?"

A soft curse slipped from your lips, fingers gently tracing at the aching spot along your tender skin. "Shit. I'm sorry."

"No, no, don't apologize!" Michael said quickly, eyes scanning your features with a concern so pure, one would assume you needed a hospital. "Are you hurt? Do you need to sit back down?” His gentle voice was comforting, as always. It was one of his most endearing qualities, even if he never seemed aware of it.

You force a giggle amidst the embarrassment. “It’s okay. I doubt this will leave a bump or anything. Don’t worry.”

Regardless of your words, Michael looked you over, his hands still steadying you as though letting go had never crossed his mind. His gaze then fell to your feet before he released a breathy laugh. “Your shoelaces are untied. Here, I got you.”

Before you could protest, Michael dropped to one knee, already reaching for the long laces. He worked them with careful, practiced ease, fingers moving deftly as he pulled them tight and began to tie them properly.

For a moment, your eyes lingered on him rather than what he was doing—the way his brows furrowed slightly in concentration, the way his hands were steady like this was second nature, like taking care of you didn’t require thought so much as instinct. When he glanced up briefly, he caught you watching him.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” he asked quietly, softer now.

You shook your head, but you didn’t look away. “Nothing.”

That only made his smile deepen a little, like he didn’t quite believe you—but didn’t need you to explain either.

He finished the knot with a final, firm pull, triple-tying it so it wouldn’t come loose for the rest of the night. His fingertips lingered for just a second longer than necessary before he finally let go. Then he stood back up, meeting your eyes again like he had never really left them in the first place, his hands settling back around your arms as if that was where they belonged.

A moment later, almost absentmindedly, he lifted one hand from your forearm and reached up, brushing his thumb gently against your temple. He traced the spot with a soft, careful pressure, as though trying to soothe something only he could see.

“I hope this doesn’t swell,” he murmured, speaking more or so to himself.

The touch was featherlight, deliberate—like he was handling something precious, something he didn’t want to risk hurting even by accident.

The gesture should have felt ordinary. After all, Michael had always been like this with you. Thoughtful. Protective. Close. The two of you had shared countless moments just like this over the years.

And yet...

Something about this felt different. 

You blamed your friends’ risqué commentary earlier that night.

Maybe it was the way his eyes lingered a little too long. 

Maybe it was the warmth of his hand against your skin, or the way your breath caught when his thumb brushed your temple. 

Whatever it was, it sent an unfamiliar flutter through your chest and left you suddenly, painfully aware of how close he was. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Michael spoke before you could lose yourself in the moment completely.

"You don't know how to skate, huh?" he snickered, flashing a grin that lit up his face with pearly white teeth.

You rolled your eyes. "Wow, what gave it away?" you replied, tone dripping with sarcasm, but your voice lacked any real bite. Michael only chuckled in response.

You straighten your posture—or try to. Soon after, rising onto the tips of your skates, you leaned forward, peeking slightly over his shoulder. "So, you and the boys just got here? I’m surprised there isn’t a whole crowd of paparazzi outside."

Another snicker is earned. "Oh no, it’s just me right now. Bill snuck me in through the back entrance," Michael explained, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder before his hand settled back onto your forearm.

“The rest of the guys should be here any minute now. I would've come with them, but...” He lifted a shoulder in a small shrug. “I didn't want to be a burden, you know? I want everyone to have fun. Just one night of pure escapism. No cameras, no media.”

You nodded, your gaze drifting toward the front entrance before finding its way back to Michael. The second your eyes met his again, you quickly looked away.

Hopefully, he hadn't noticed.

A thoughtful hum escaped you as you tucked a loose curl behind your ear, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Then silence settled between you.

Your gaze dropped to your skates first, as though you needed something solid to focus on, something steady to anchor yourself. Slowly, your eyes traveled upward, tracing the length of your arms until they landed on Michael.

He was still holding you. His large, slender hands remained wrapped around your forearms, gentle yet firm, as if he hadn't quite realized they were there—or perhaps hadn't quite decided to let go.

Longer than necessary. Longer than either of you cared to acknowledge.

You swallowed hard, your breath catching somewhere between uncertainty and something warmer that you weren't ready to put a name to. In an instant, your girlfriends' earlier teasing came rushing back, uninvited and impossible to ignore.

Your eyes widened slightly. “Uh... Michael?”

The words barely left your lips, soft enough to be swallowed by the music and chatter around you, yet somehow they reached him perfectly.

His attention snapped back to you. One brow lifted in silent question before he followed your gaze downward.

And froze.

For a brief second, he stared at his own hands as though he were only just noticing them. A faint flicker of realization crossed his features. His fingers tightened ever so slightly—a final, absent squeeze that lingered for a heartbeat too long, like he was reluctant to end the moment.

Then he let go. The sudden absence of his touch felt strangely noticeable.

Michael cleared his throat and stepped back almost immediately, creating a careful distance between the two of you, as though a few extra inches of space could somehow erase what had just happened.

It couldn't. The moment had already settled between you both, quiet and undeniable.

"Sorry. I didn't—I just didn't want you to fall again and—"

"No, you're okay—" You attempt to reassure.

"But I made you uncomfortable—" He persisted.

Your words overlapped. Both of you stopped. The silence somehow became even worse.

Michael awkwardly wiped his palms against his jeans, pressed his lips together to lick them, and even threw in a fake cough for good measure.

You eventually cleared your throat, and your hands fidgeted together before you hurriedly changed the subject. "So, how's the album coming along? It's been a while since you last showed me your demos."

The effect was immediate. A spark of excitement lit up Michael's eyes, pure enthusiasm brightening his entire face. He looked like a child who'd just been handed a mountain of candy.

"Oh!" He laughed softly before continuing. "It's actually finished now! The release is next week. Hopefully!”

Your eyebrows shot upward. "Already?"

“Yeah!” he said, practically glowing, like the thought alone was enough to light him up from the inside out. “There are ten tracks altogether, and I’d like to think I put a lot of myself into every single one of them.”

His excitement was contagious—impossible not to catch. He practically buzzed with glee, shifting on his feet as though standing still was asking too much of him. Every so often, he rocked slightly forward on his heels, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to stay grounded or float away with his own enthusiasm. It was another thing you’d started to notice about Michael. The way music didn’t just make him happy—it made him come alive. There was something almost endearing about it, the way his whole face softened and brightened at once, like every thought he had, found its way back to joy. 

‘Escapism and magic’, as he would phrase it.

And watching him like this, so openly happy, it was hard not to feel a little swept up in it too. 

"So you've been busy, then?" You ask, placing a hand on your hip. 

Michael nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes, very busy. I think I re-recorded one of the tracks almost twenty times. Thirty max!”

You laughed. “Twenty to thirty times? Michael, that's insane.”

“I know,” he admitted with a sheepish chuckle, one hand slipping into the pocket of his jeans. “Every time I listened back to it, I'd hear something I wanted to change. One note. One harmony. One tiny detail that nobody else would probably notice. I wanted everything to be perfect.”

His smile turned thoughtful. Then, with his free hand, he began snapping softly to an invisible beat, humming under his breath and clicking his teeth in time with a rhythm you didn't recognize. The melody definitely was a part of the final product of his new solo album.

The tune carried a familiar trace of Michael's style, but there was something different about it—something fresh. Freeing his other hand from his jeans, his fingers tapped absentmindedly against his leg as he continued piecing together the rhythm, completely unaware that he'd given you a glimpse behind the curtain.

“I’d tell Quincy things like, ‘Play that part back,’ or ‘Start from the beginning!’ Even if the click was off, I wouldn’t stop repeating it until it was perfect.” 

You nodded. “Sounds groovy. And now you think you've finally perfected it?”

Michael's smile softened instantly. Without a moment's hesitation, he nodded. “I know I did,” he said. “No doubt!”

For a moment, you simply watched him, absently tapping a finger against your hip. There was something infectious about his confidence—not arrogant, just certain in a way that made it impossible not to smile.

A soft giggle slipped from your lips. You shook your head. Michael immediately mirrored your laughter, his cheeks lifting with amusement. “What?” he asked, grinning. “Why are you laughing?”

You waved a dismissive hand. “It's nothing. I just…”

The words trailed off as you found yourself studying him for a moment longer than intended. 

Your own smile softened. “I like when you light up like this,” you admitted wholeheartedly. “The way you look like you're about to burst from excitement whenever music is brought up.”

Michael blinked.

You glanced away for only a second before adding, a little more softly, “You're just so… bright to me.”

The words hung gently between you, simple and honest, yet somehow carrying more weight than you'd intended.

Michael stiffened for a moment, his wide smile softening into something quieter—shyer, almost guarded; you could even notice that he subtly bit his bottom lip. 

He then lifted a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly as he broke eye contact. His gaze dropped to the tips of your skates, as though they were suddenly far easier to look at than you. 

Then he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. And then back again.

It was a small movement, but it only gave him away. The way his shoulders seemed to draw in just slightly beneath the weight of his own shyness. The way he looked like he wanted to disappear and stay exactly where he was at the same time.

Yet, despite all his efforts to look elsewhere, his eyes kept finding their way back to you. Just brief glances. A second here. Half a second there. Gone before you could fully catch them. As if he couldn't quite help himself. As if looking away for too long wasn't really an option.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on your part.

“You really think so…?” His voice was quieter now. There was a shyness to the question, a genuine uncertainty.

But beneath it lingered something else. Something warmer. Something flirtatious. The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he waited for your answer, and suddenly the space between you felt much smaller than it had a moment ago.

You blinked, caught completely off guard by the question.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered. “Is that… weird to say?”

The words tumbled out more awkwardly than you'd intended. 

Michael's reaction was immediate. “No—no, not at all…!” he said, lifting both hands in a gentle wave of reassurance. The motion was quick, almost frantic in its sincerity.

As his hands lowered again, one drifted to his opposite elbow, rubbing absently at the sleeve there. His gaze dipped toward the floor, and for a moment he looked strangely shy—softer than usual, stripped of the easy confidence and bright energy he carried everywhere else.

The colorful lights of the rink swept across his features, painting brief flashes of blue and gold across his face. Then he glanced up. Only for a second. Just long enough for his eyes to find yours.

“In fact…” The words came quietly. Almost too quietly.

His gaze slipped away again, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as though he couldn't quite believe he was about to say it.

“I think you're the brightest thing in this entire place.” The confession barely rose above the distant music and chatter around you. 

And the words didn’t quite make it to you. 

They were swallowed by the noise, lost in the rhythm and laughter and sound all around you—kept safely between him and the moment, as if he’d meant for them to stay there all along.

“Sorry?” You asked, subconsciously leaning forward.

Michael swallowed again, his tongue briefly flicking over his bottom lip like he was trying to find the courage hidden there to repeat himself. “I said… that you—”

“MICHAEL!”

“Ay! What up, Mike!”

The voices cut across the rink like a sudden whistle, sharp and loud.

Both of you jumped so abruptly it would have been amusing under different circumstances. Michael, especially, was nearly startled out of his skin. His shoulders snapped upward in an instant, his entire posture stiffening as though he'd been caught in the middle of something he wasn't supposed to be doing—a guilty look flashing across his face, like a child sneaking a cookie from the cookie jar.

A group of his friends came barreling over, already laughing before they even reached you. One of them slid in a little too fast and grabbed Michael’s shoulders for balance, which only made him lurch forward. He nearly toppled over—arms flailing forward for half a second—before catching himself just in time. 

Thankfully. Otherwise, he might’ve fallen straight into you.

“There you are!” one of them said, giving his shoulders a firm, teasing shake. “Glad to see you made it, man!”

Michael blinked, his expression shifting from nervous focus to pure shock, eyes big and unblinking. “Huh? When did you guys get here?”

Another friend leaned in over his shoulder like he was inspecting evidence. “We’ve been here for like five minutes. What were you doing?”

“We were just talking.” Michael blurted out immediately. Way too immediate. That only made them grin wider. 

“Ooooh,” one of them drawled, elbowing the guy next to him. “Talking, huh?”

The grin that spread across Michael's face looked strained, stretched too tight around nerves he clearly wasn't hiding nearly as well as he thought he was. His fingers kept flexing at his sides, opening and closing in restless little movements. Even his posture seemed different. Tighter. Smaller somehow. 

One of his friends immediately noticed. "No way," he gasped dramatically. "Mike’s blushing."

"I am not," Michael argued.

"You totally are." Another friend chimed in.

"I'm literally not." He persisted.

His denial came so quickly that it only made the accusations seem ten times more believable.

The entire group erupted into laughter, some doubling over while others pointed shamelessly at Michael. Eventually, the teasing died down enough for their attention to shift back toward you.

“Anyway,” one of them said, still chuckling under his breath, “you ready to have some fun tonight?” 

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in subject, and folded your lips inward before giving a small nod.

A chorus of approving nods met your response. “That's what we like to hear.”

Before Michael could recover from his embarrassment, several of his friends crowded around him. Large hands landed on his shoulders, kneading them dramatically as they began steering him away from you and toward the skate rental counter.

“Come on, Romeo. Let's go get our skates.”

Michael blinks, lips parting to voice a protest. “Hang on—!”

“Yeah, man. I'm tryna get my groove on!”

Michael furrows his brows. “But I—!”

“And I already spotted, like, six girls I'm tryna take home tonight!” Another friend chimed in.

The group dissolved into another fit of laughter.

“Six?” someone scoffed. “Man, focus on learning how to skate first.” 

More laughter follows, drowning out Michael’s soft comments; he eventually just fell silent in defeat, making you slightly snicker, hiding your giggles behind your hand.

As they dragged Michael farther away, he twisted around just enough to glance back at you. For a brief moment, he managed to mouth the words ‘I’ll be back’; a gentle notion of reassurance. 

You nod, waving in his direction before slouching back onto the bench behind you. A breath that you weren’t aware of even holding was released. The moment the noise of Michael and his friends disappeared into the sea of music, the world seemed strangely quieter.

Not actually quieter. The rink itself was alive.

Yet somehow, after standing beside Michael, everything felt a little distant.

You sank further into the bench and exhaled softly. The interaction replayed itself in your head almost immediately.

"I said... that you—"

And then his friends appeared. Your fingers absentmindedly twisted together in your lap.

What was he trying to say?

You turned your attention toward the rental counter where the group had scurried off to. Across the rink, Michael's friends were still gathered around him like a pack of vultures. Even from this distance, it was obvious he was being playfully harassed.

One of them was talking animatedly while Michael rolled his eyes. Another was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his own rental skates. Additionally, every few seconds, someone would point in your direction, earning an immediate shove from Michael.

You couldn't hear the conversation. But you could definitely see him losing. Badly.

A smile tugged at your lips.

Then, suddenly—

Michael looked over.

The distance between you wasn't small, but somehow his eyes found yours immediately. Like he'd been searching. The second he realized you'd caught him staring, he licked at his bottom lip, his hand lifting slightly to give you a shy wave.

You wave back, eyes half-lidded with a look of utter admiration, one would assume that you looked helplessly infatuated with him. 

But it wasn’t like that at all! Right…?

The explanation sounded much more believable in your head than it felt in your chest.

As the colorful lights of the rink swept across Michael's face, he stood back to his feet, bathing in flashes of blue, pink, and gold. Eventually, the group started drifting toward the rink entrance, all loud confidence and competitive energy, already arguing about who would win the first race across the rink. Or who would land their first girl of the night.

Michael followed—partially. Because halfway there, he slowed. Then stopped. Then turned right back around like it was the most obvious decision in the world. A few steps later, he was back in front of you, hands tucked behind his back like he hadn’t just abandoned his entire group mid-way.

“I’m back,” he said, a childish gleam in his eyes.

You glanced up at him. “I can see that.”

That earned him a small laugh—soft, quick, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out. It settled between you two easily, like it had been waiting there the whole time. For a moment, neither of you moved. 

Then Michael tilted his head slightly. “So…” he started, slower now, almost careful. “Do you wanna skate…with me?”

Your confidence immediately betrayed you. You paused. “I… I’m not too sure, Michael. What if I fall—”

You didn’t even get to finish. His hand reached down without hesitation, warm and steady, sliding into yours like it belonged there. He then gave your knuckles a small caress.

“I won’t let you fall,” he said, like it was the easiest promise in the world.

You blinked at him. “But—”

He shook his head once, still holding your hand. “Mm-mm. Come on. Let’s go.”

This man—always so ambitious, it's almost impossible to say no to him. Nevertheless, you tightened your hand around Michael's and allowed him to guide you back onto your skates.

The second the wheels met the floor, they rolled forward before you were fully prepared, sending you into a soft, unsteady wobble. Your legs felt strangely disconnected from the rest of you—awkward and uncertain.

Instinctively, both of your hands shot toward his. A frustrated huff escaped you. Michael answered with a quiet snicker. The worried expression written across your face was impossible to miss. You looked as though you were one bad wobble away from crashing straight into his arms.

Truthfully, he wouldn't have minded. Not even a little. But that thought remained safely hidden behind his teasing smile.

“Easy,” he said, his voice gentler than his grin. “Relax. If you keep overthinking it, you're definitely gonna fall.”

Unfortunately, his advice barely seemed to reach you.

Your eyes kept darting down to your skates as if they were plotting against you, and every tiny wobble only made your grip on his hands tighten.

“Michael...” you whined, your breath puffing out in frustration as your balance faltered again. “I don't think this is for me. I'm definitely gonna fall.”

His response came immediately.

“You're not gonna fall.” The certainty in his voice left no room for argument. “Not while I've got you.”

His hands tightened ever so slightly around yours—warm, steady, reassuring. The simple gesture anchored you in place while the rest of the rink blurred into colorful lights, distant music, and drifting laughter.

Then he gently tugged you forward.

You rolled toward him before you could stop yourself, your chests colliding in a clumsy collision that sent another wave of embarrassment rushing through you.

Michael caught you effortlessly. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then he adjusted his grip. One hand remained wrapped around yours while the other began to drift down toward your waist, stopping just before it made contact. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face.

His eyes lifted to yours. “Can I...” he asked quietly. The question came out softer than before. “Can I put my hand here?”

His gaze flickered briefly toward your waist before returning to your face, patiently waiting for your answer. Your breath caught slightly at the question—not because it was loud, but because it felt like it changed the shape of the moment. 

Michael’s eyes didn’t rush you. They just waited, steady and patient. Your fingers were still tangled with his, your balance still not fully yours to claim. Though the warmth of his grip made it easier to think than to panic.

“Y-yeah,” you managed after a second, a little quieter than you meant. “Okay.”

The second the word left you, something in his expression softened—subtle, but unmistakable. Carefully, he guided his hand to your waist. Not suddenly. Not forceful. Just deliberate enough that you could feel every second of his restraint as he made sure you were still comfortable.

“There,” he said gently. “Now? I’m going to move you onto the rink.”

Before you could protest, he began to skate backward—slow, careful—matching his pace to every tiny hesitation in your legs. The soft hum of wheels filled the space beneath you as he guided you away from the carpet just outside the rink. Then, finally, onto the smoother, polished floor bordered by wood. The change was noticeable, like balance suddenly mattered twice as much.

You stiffened almost immediately, your gaze dropping on instinct.

“No, no. Don’t look,” Michael murmured gently, catching you right away. His hand briefly left your waist, rising to guide your chin back up with careful ease before settling again at your side as if it had never left.

“Just… look at me,” he added softly. “Only me.”

You swallow on instinct. There he was—right in front of you—steady and unshaken as he skated backward, guiding you with quiet confidence. The teasing had faded from his expression, replaced by something softer… more attentive. Like nothing else on the rink mattered except you.

“There you go,” he murmured, leaning in just slightly, his voice slipping into your ear like a secret meant only for you. “Just like that… you’re doing so well.”

Your legs still trembled a little beneath you, but the fear didn’t feel as sharp when he spoke. It softened—dulling at the edges—like his words were steadying you more than the wood beneath your skates.

“See,” he said again, lower this time, calm and certain. “Not so scary anymore, right?”

You scoff. “That’s debatable.”

A giggle is shared between the two of you.

Soon after, a new song drifted through the speakers—older, but unmistakably iconic. “Night Fever” by the Bee Gees. The rink seemed to groove with it, everything easing into the rhythm like the floor itself had decided to heat up.

Michael caught it immediately. His smile widened, something lighter and almost amused slipping in. “Oh,” he said, glancing up. “I love this song!”

Before you could respond, his hand adjusted in yours and he guided you into a wider glide—no longer pulling, just syncing. The shift was subtle, but everything changed with it, like you were both finally moving to the same beat.

Around you, skaters blurred past in streaks of motion and color, their laughter bouncing off the walls and folding into the music. One song flowed into the next, then another, until time itself felt less structured—before an hour or two had soon passed. Additionally, something in you began to ease. Michael caught it immediately, his smile brightening once he noticed your pure enthusiasm. 

Then, a slower song began to ripple through the rink, the shift in rhythm changing the entire atmosphere almost instantly. Around you, the energy softened as skaters adjusted with it—some gliding more slowly, others moving in closer pairs, their movements easing into the new beat as they drifted and swayed together across the floor.

You both fell silent.

Though the silence between you wasn’t empty. 

It was filled—with the low pulse of music, the distant scrape of skates against polished floor, the occasional burst of laughter softened by the slower rhythm now wrapping around the rink.

Michael didn’t let go of you. If anything, his hold felt a little more careful now, like the shift in tempo had made him more aware of every point of contact between you.

Eventually,  Michael swallowed, as the silence had finally gotten too loud for him.

“You look very beautiful tonight…” It came out softer than everything else he’d said so far. Unplanned in a way that made it feel heavier than if he’d rehearsed it.

You let out a small, nervous snicker on instinct, trying to turn it into something light. Your eyes rolled before you could stop them. “Stop it,” you muttered. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not,” he said right away. No hesitation this time. No joke in it either. Your breath caught a little.

Not because you didn’t believe him—but because he said it like there wasn’t even room for it to be untrue.

“Your hair, your outfit…” he added quietly, still holding your hand like it was the only stable thing in the rink. “I mean it. You’re beautiful.”

You opened your mouth, fully prepared to deflect—make a joke, roll your eyes again, anything—

But he didn’t stop.

“It’s like…” He hesitated, licking his lips and searching for the words. “You’re ethereal, and…you make it really hard to focus on anything else. That’s what you do to me.”

That made your steps falter. Not enough to fall—he adjusted instantly, like he’d memorized your balance already.

“Michael, I don’t know what to say—” you started, but he shook his head.

“You don’t have to say anything back…I just…wanted to say it.” 

That shut you up faster than any fall could’ve.

Meanwhile, across the rink, you finally caught sight of your girlfriends, laughing as they skated with a few of Michael’s friends. One of them had an arm looped around a guy’s shoulder like she’d claimed him for the night; another was half-dragging someone forward while pretending she wasn’t struggling at all.

They looked like they were right where they wanted to be. 

And then they saw you.

More specifically—you and Michael.

The reactions spread instantly into teasing smiles, exaggerated gasps, and one very obvious “okay, girl—” that was cut off by laughter.

You felt heat crawl up your neck, the doubt creeping into your brain once more.

Michael, of course, didn’t notice at first. Or maybe he did and just refused to care. He was still looking at you like he’d forgotten there was an entire rink full of people—including your friends, watching you two. Soon, you’d had enough. There were too many thoughts and emotions running laps within your brain right now.

“Okay,” you blurted, a little too fast, forcing a smile that definitely didn’t match the sweat on your brow. “So—uh—do you want a milkshake?”

Michael blinks, tipping his head. “Pardon?”

“A milkshake!” You repeated, already gently steering your movement toward the exit rail as if you were suddenly a pro-skater. “I heard they’re really good here! They have various ice cream flavors, too! Strawberry. Chocolate. Whatever you want! Very important decision-making situation!”

For a moment, he simply stared at you, the sudden mention of milkshakes hanging awkwardly in the air. The change in subject was so abrupt that it was almost impressive.

One second, the two of you had been gliding around the roller-skating rink beneath flashing neon lights and the steady pulse of music. Next, you’re talking about milkshakes as though your heart hadn't nearly stopped the moement he called you beautiful.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The disappointment was subtle, but it was there.

It showed in the way his expression softened, as though he were letting go of something he'd finally gathered the courage to say. For a second, it looked like he'd been hoping you would stay in that moment with him a little longer.

Then, he laughed quietly to himself and let it pass. Maybe…you just weren’t ready for that sort of conversation yet. And he was more than willing to understand that. 

That last thing he wanted was to draw you away.

“Yeah…let’s go.”

~.~

The moment your skates rolled off the rink, the noise softened. The music still pulsed through the building, but the snack bar felt warmer and calmer beneath the glow of overhead lights. Michael stayed beside you the whole walk, or glide, rather, your hand in his to steady you.

By the time you reached the counter, the butterflies in your stomach had finally started to settle.

Then, Michael ordered.

Before you could even open your mouth, he was already asking for your favorite milkshake—exactly how you liked it, down to the smallest detail. You blinked, caught off guard, and reached instinctively for your wallet. But Michael had already handed cash to the employee.

Completely unbothered. Completely certain. You stared at him, momentarily at a loss, as if trying to understand how he’d known—or how he’d decided so easily.

Only when he noticed your expression did he glance over. A familiar smile tugged at his lips, soft and effortless, like it always did. “What?”

You blinked. “You ordered my favorite.”

Michael let out a soft chuckle, rubbing the nape of his neck as his gaze flicked away for a second.

“Oh,” he said, as if just realizing it. “I did, didn’t I?”

There was a brief pause.

Not awkward—just warm. Thoughtful.

He shifted his weight slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting again, though this time it came with a hint of something quieter underneath it. “Guess it just stuck in my head,” he added, almost casually.

His eyes found yours again, steadier now. “I pay attention,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. The milkshake machine hummed in the background, but you barely heard it.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then his smile softened, just a little.

“And you always get the same thing,” he added lightly, like he was balancing it out. “So it’s not that hard to remember.”

The employee slid the milkshake across the counter, the cup sweating slightly against the plastic lid.

“Thank you…” You murmured, reaching for it first, fingers brushing the cold surface before Michael’s hand hovered beside yours—close, but not quite touching. For a moment, you just looked at it. 

Then, almost without thinking, you shifted it slightly toward him. “Do you… want some?” you asked, trying to sound casual and immediately failing.

Michael blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Me?”

You nodded once, a little too quickly. “Yeah. You got it for me. It’s only fair.”

A small laugh slipped from him, soft and amused, but there was something gentler in his expression as he nodded.

“Okay,” he said simply.

He didn’t hesitate after that. Michael leaned in, and you lifted the cup slightly to meet him halfway. The moment felt too small and too big all at once, like the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you and the straw.

He took a sip, eyes meeting yours for a moment before falling to the cup. It was quick—simple. But your brain still decided to stop working for a second anyway. 

Because it was your straw.

And now—

Your eyes widened slightly as realization hit, heat creeping up your neck before you could stop it. Michael pulled back, blinking as if nothing unusual had happened, then paused when he noticed your expression.

“What?” he asked lightly, licking his lips. “Did I take too much?”

“No!” you blurted immediately, too fast. His smile tilted, slow and knowing, like he was just starting to understand.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he teased gently.

“I am not,” you insisted, even as you avoided his gaze entirely. But the word indirect kiss was suddenly very loud in your head. Michael leaned back slightly, clearly amused now, but he didn’t push it further. Instead, he just handed the cup back to you with an easy shrug.

“Relax,” he said softly. “It’s just a milkshake.” 

But the way he said it—like it wasn’t a big deal at all—only made it worse. Because somehow, it kind of felt like one.

You took the milkshake back a little too carefully, as if it had suddenly become something delicate.

For a moment, you didn’t say anything. Neither did Michael.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable—just soft, stretched thin by the distant music and the hum of the rink around you. 

You lifted the straw and took a small sip.

It helped. A little. When you lowered it again, Michael was no longer looking at you. His gaze had drifted outward, past the crowd—like he was watching something only he could see.

You followed his line of sight. The rink was alive in a quieter way now. Couples swayed, friends laughed in slower motion, and even the fast skaters seemed to move like they were floating instead of rushing.

Michael exhaled slowly. “I’m really happy that I came out tonight,” he said after a beat, his voice softer than before. You turned back to him. He still wasn’t looking at you yet.

“It’s been hard recently,” he added, almost like an afterthought—like saying it out loud made it more real. His fingers tap lightly along the edge of the counter. “I love being on the stage. I truly do. But…”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes yet. “Being in the studio. Producing. Performing until I faint.” He let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Sometimes I forget what it feels like to just… exist outside of it all.”

That made you look at him more closely. The usual spark he carried when talking about music was still there—but it was quieter now. More honest. Less guarded. Then, finally, his eyes shifted back toward you.

“And then tonight happened,” he said.

A pause. His voice softened even more.

“And I don’t know… it just felt good. Not performing. Not thinking. Just being here. With you.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, steady and open in a way that made your chest feel unexpectedly tight.

A small, almost embarrassed smile crossed his face. “I often forget how fun it is,” he admitted. “Just hanging out. With people who make everything feel like… magic.” The words settled between you, warm and unhurried, like they belonged there.

You let his words sit there for a moment longer than you meant to.

There was something about the way he said it—quiet, unguarded—that made it hard to immediately respond. So instead, you focused on something safer.

“Your album,” you said eventually, lifting the milkshake again just to have something to do with your hands. “What’s it going to be like?”

Michael’s attention shifted back to you fully now. That familiar spark flickered in his eyes again, subtle but unmistakable. “What is it going to be like?” he repeated, like he was tasting the question.

You nodded. “Yeah. Like… what should people expect?”

For a second, he looked like he might answer normally. Like he might slip into the usual version of himself—the artist, the performer, the careful explainer.

Instead, he smiled. Slow. A little knowing. And then he shook his head.

“I could tell you,” he said lightly, “but I’d rather you be the first person to hear it.”

You blinked.

A small laugh slipped out of you almost immediately, more reflex than reaction. “In person? Michael, that’s like… the whole album.”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “All the more reason to go right now, right?”

Your laughter faded slightly as you studied him. The realization didn’t hit all at once—it crept in slowly, like a song changing key before you notice it’s different.

“…Wait,” you said, quieter now. “You’re serious?”

Michael’s smile didn’t waver. “Yeah,” he said simply.

A pause lingered between you. Then, his tone softened. “I think I’m spent for the night. And my place isn’t that far from here,” he added, glancing briefly toward the exit. “So… we could.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the milkshake without you even noticing. Because suddenly, it didn’t feel like a casual suggestion anymore. “I mean—” you started quickly, trying to steady your voice. “We could, Michael. But… what about our friends?”

Michael’s gaze drifted back toward the rink. He scanned it for a moment, as if actually considering it, before his eyes widened just slightly in realization.

Then he lifted a hand and pointed. “I think…” he said slowly, “they won’t notice that we’re gone.”

You frowned, following the direction of his finger.

And nearly dropped your milkshake. 

There they were. Your friends. Some were wrapped up in warm embraces, swaying gently to the music. Others were a little closer than that—completely absorbed in each other’s lips, lost in their own world as the rink continued to spin around them.

Michael let out a quiet, amused hum beside you. “Well,” he said lightly, “that answers that.”

“Definitely,” you replied.

For a moment, your gaze lingered on him—just long enough for the shared amusement to settle between you. Then it broke into laughter, soft and breathless, like the tension of the night had finally found somewhere to go.

Together, you finished off the last of the milkshake, tossing the cup before gliding back toward the rental counter to return your skates, hand in hand.

It was all quick and slightly clumsy in the way good nights tended to be—hands brushing, quiet laughs slipping out between movements, the two of you trying and failing to act like anything about this was ordinary.

Your shoes were back on in no time. And then, still laughing under your breath, you slipped out through the back door with Michael beside you, leaving the noise of the rink behind as the night opened up in front of you. Whilst your arm was gently hooked around his.

~.~

The moment you stepped into Michael’s place, you pressed both hands over your mouth to stifle a giggle, trying your best to stay quiet as you slipped up the stairs.

The house was still, almost too still, every sound feeling louder than it should have been. You moved carefully, like the slightest misstep might wake the entire Hayvenhurst estate.

Michael followed close behind, just as quiet—but far less composed. He even lifted a finger to his lips, though the big grin on his face made it hard to take the gesture entirely seriously. Without a word, he guided you toward his room, easing the door shut behind the two of you as softly as he could.

Once you were safely inside the confines of his bedroom, the quiet energy between you shifted almost instantly—like both of you had been holding something in all night and only now had the space to let it out.

Excitement flickered through you in small, uncontrollable bursts, mirrored perfectly in the way Michael moved as he guided you toward the foot of his bed. “Sit here,” he said lightly, already halfway across the room as you followed his instructions.

He maneuvered to his portable cassette tape recorders and reel-to-reel machines, fingers quickly adjusting knobs and dials as though he could navigate them blindfolded. The soft mechanical clicks and faint hum of equipment filled the room as he fine-tuned the volume, then paused, turning back toward you with a grin he clearly couldn’t hide.

“Okay,” he said, voice soft but bright with anticipation, a quiet laugh slipping between his words. “There was this one song that I really hope will set the vibe when you roller-skate.”

You settled more comfortably, crossing your legs and resting your chin on your hand, watching him with open curiosity.

“Oh?” you prompted gently. Michael’s eyes lit up at your response like he’d been waiting for the exact opening. Without another word, he leaned over and pressed play.

At first, the room filled with a soft crackle—tape warming to life—then the unmistakable groove began to bloom through the speakers. Smooth, steady, effortless. A rhythm that immediately shifted the air in the room.

Girl, close your eyes

And then, almost immediately, he started moving.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t staged. It was Michael completely unguarded—swaying on his heels, shoulders bouncing lightly, snapping his fingers as he followed the beat. He stepped backward, then forward, then did a little turn that was more playful than precise, laughing to himself as if the song was pulling it out of him.

You couldn’t help it. A laugh slipped out, bright and genuine.

“Michael,” you said through it, shaking your head. “You’re not serious right now.”

“I am very serious,” he replied instantly, already sliding into another goofy little step, pointing at you as if to include you in the rhythm. “This is the groove I have envisioned. I can almost see it!”

The confidence in his voice contrasted completely with the fact that he was now doing a small shuffle across his bedroom floor like the music had possessed him. That only made you laugh harder. He stopped abruptly, placing a hand on his hip, his grin widening. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No,” you insisted, still smiling. “I’m laughing with you.”

“You’re such a nut,” he said, narrowing his eyes playfully. Then, suddenly, his expression shifted—brightening with an idea. “Come on,” he said. “Dance with me.”

You blinked. “What? No, I—Michael, I can’t dance like you.”

“Yes, you can,” he said immediately, as if it were fact. “It’s easy. Just rock. Enjoy yourself!”

You hesitated. 

He tilted his head, softer now, but still teasing; his hand now extended, waiting for you. “Don’t you trust me?”

That did it. You stand, taking his hand. “Always.”

The word lingered between you both a moment longer than it should have, suspended in the warmth of the music and the quiet space he’d created around you.

Michael’s lips parted slightly, like he had something ready to say—but it never quite made it out. Instead, he caught his bottom lip between his teeth, a shy smile breaking through anyway, softening his whole expression. 

And then, gently—carefully—he pulled you closer.

Not in a way that demanded anything. Not in a way that rushed the moment. Just enough to close the distance, to fold you into the rhythm of the room where the music hummed low and steady around you both. 

He stepped backward, then side to side, drawing you with him like an invisible thread tied the two of you together through the music. His hand stayed clasped with yours—warm, steady, certain—while his other hovered near your waist, careful and restrained, like he was giving the moment room to breathe… and giving you the choice to close the distance if you wanted to.

The song rolled on, smooth and unhurried, wrapping around you both like a secret no one else in the room had been invited to hear.

Michael spun you once—playful, a little exaggerated on purpose just to make you laugh—and the sound of it seemed to light something up in his eyes.

Before you could drift too far away, he was already pulling you back in, like letting you go for even a second had never really been part of the plan. Then, the song ended.

The two of you broke into laughter after that, the kind that came easier now—like the awkwardness had melted completely into the music itself.

Michael was still smiling when he finally slowed, letting the movement settle. His grip on your hand didn’t disappear, but the playful energy in him shifted—subtle, like a light dimming into something warmer.

He glanced past you toward the little sound system near the edge of the room. “Wait,” he said softly, as if something had just clicked in his mind.

Before you could ask, he stepped over and flicked through the selections, fingers moving with quiet familiarity. A moment later, a new track filled the space—smoother, softer, almost glowing in its own way.

It’s the Falling in Love.

The mood changed instantly.

Michael didn’t move right away. He just stood there for a second, listening, like the song carried more weight than just sound. Then he looked back at you, a small, almost nostalgic smile tugging at his mouth.

“This album,” he started, quieter now, “Off the Wall… It’s really important to me.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching him more closely.

“There was a lot of pressure when I was making it,” he continued. “Like… a lot. I had to get it right. People were expecting so much, and I just—” He exhaled, shaking his head faintly, like he could still feel it. “I was in my head all the time…”

His eyes flicked back to you for a second, then away again, like he was choosing his words carefully. “But there was always someone I kept thinking about, to keep me going,” he said.

Your brows lifted slightly. “Someone?”

He gave a small nod. “A specific person.”

That did it. The air in your chest tightened before you could stop it. “Oh,” you said, trying to sound casual and immediately failing. Your gaze dropped for half a second before you forced it back up. “I see.”

Michael watched you for a beat too long.

And then—very quietly—he snickered. Not mean. Not dismissive. Just like he’d seen something unfold exactly the way he expected it to. 

You frowned slightly, crossing your arms. “What?”

He tilted his head, still smiling in that infuriatingly calm way of his. “You’re jealous.”

“I am not—” you started instantly, too fast to be convincing.

That only made his smile deepen. He took a small step closer, just enough to close the space you’d instinctively tried to create. He then took your hand, lowering you back to the foot of the bed. “You’re terrible at lying; do you know that?” 

Your silence answered for you. Michael shook his head, amusement softening into something gentler, almost fond. He then lowered himself to the floor beside the bed, resting his back against the mattress. For a moment, he simply listened as the song continued to play through the tapes.

"You remember all those fan letters you used to send me as kids?" He suddenly spoke.

Your eyes soften. "Michael..."

"I'm serious." He laughed softly. "Whenever things got stressful, I'd read them."  He turned his head to look up at you. "You'd always write about the most random stuff. School. Your friends. Some movies you liked. Things that happened during your day." His smile widened. "You were just... talking to me. Like a normal person.”

The certainty in his voice left no room for doubt. Michael looked away for a moment, his gaze settling on the tape player across the room. “When I was performing with my brothers, everything felt huge." He shook his head with a quiet chuckle. "Everybody had opinions. Everybody had expectations. I had so much pressure put onto me as a child.”

His fingers drummed softly against the floor, the quiet rhythm nearly lost beneath the music drifting through the room.

Then he looked at you.

"But your letters… made me forget all of that." His voice was gentle, stripped of its usual teasing confidence. The air between you seemed to shift, growing warmer, more intimate, as though the entire world had quietly stepped away and left only the two of you behind.

Michael's gaze lingered on yours. "They reminded me that there were people who cared about me even when I wasn't on stage. You checked in; long before you knew me personally. That brought me peace."

A small smile touched his lips, softer than any you had seen before.

For a moment, he glanced away, almost embarrassed by the confession. Then he looked back at you, and whatever hesitation had been there melted into something achingly sincere.

"That person who kept me going throughout the process of Off the Wall…" he began, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes searched yours, as though he needed you to understand every unspoken word. "...was you.”

The music continued to play, but it felt distant now, drowned out by the sudden pounding of your heart. Michael smiled then—a quiet, tender smile filled with years of memories, old letters, and feelings that had been growing unnoticed in the spaces between them.

"It was always you," he admitted.

The words settled between you like starlight. Not dramatic. Not uncertain. Simply true.

His gaze dipped briefly to your lips before lifting back to meet your eyes. Then he moved, his arm brushing lightly against your leg as he reached for your hand. His fingers slipped between yours, warm and steady, and with a gentle tug, he guided you up from the bed as he also rose from the floor.

Then he spoke your name, softly, almost reverently, in that gentle tone that always seemed to find its way straight to your heart.

"I'm a bit nervous to say this right now, but…" The words trailed off as he licked his lips. For a moment, his gaze drifted away, as though he was gathering the courage to voice something he'd carried for years. 

"I have feelings for you." The confession hung between you, delicate and breathtaking. "I am so in love with you. I think I've been in love with you since I was a kid." A small, nervous laugh escaped him before his expression softened. "But I'm not standing here as that same ten-year-old boy anymore. I'm coming to you as a man."

A lump rose in your throat.

Michael gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "And I want to be your man."

His voice was quiet now, but every word carried the weight of absolute sincerity.

"I want to wake up beside you every morning. I want to spend my days loving you and my nights holding you. I want to fall asleep with you in my arms and wake up grateful that you're still there, safe with me." His eyes shimmered with emotion. "I want every ordinary moment with you. The good days, the difficult days, the boring days that don't seem important until years later when they're the memories we cherish most."

His grip tightened ever so slightly around your hand. "I yearn for that more than anything in this world. More than any dream I've ever chased. More than anything I've ever wanted."

For a moment, his voice nearly failed him.

"I just... I want you. God… I want you.”

The silence that followed felt endless.

Your eyes remained fixed on him, wide and shining, but no words came. Not because you didn't have an answer, but because every coherent thought had abandoned you the moment he confessed. Your heart was beating too loudly. Your emotions were too tangled.

Across from you, Michael waited. And waited. As the seconds stretched on, uncertainty began to creep into his expression. He released a shaky breath. His grip on your hand loosened slightly, though he couldn't quite bring himself to let go.

"I'll understand if you don't feel the same way," he said quietly. "I mean... we've been friends for so long. I wouldn't want this to ruin what we have."

A nervous laugh escaped him, though there was no humor behind it. "I just..." His gaze drifted downward. "I'd still want you in my life. No matter what. I'd still want you by my side."

The silence lingered. Michael swallowed hard. His eyes fell to the floor, his confidence finally beginning to crack beneath the weight of your lack of response. 

"I-I'll just..." He took a small step back. "I'll call Bill. Have him pick you up and—"

"Michael." Your voice finally broke through the room, fragile and trembling.

Instantly, he froze.

Your fingers tightened around his hand before he could pull away. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours. Tears glimmered along your lashes. The sight alone was enough to send him into immediate concern.

"Hey, hey..." His voice softened. He stepped closer, lifting a hand to your face. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall. "Don't cry."

The tenderness in his voice nearly made you cry harder.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I shouldn't have put this on you out of nowhere."

"No." The word escaped you in a breathless laugh. Another tear slipped free despite your smile. "No, Michael." You shook your head, laughing through the tears that refused to stop. "I'm happy." Your voice cracked around the words. "So unbelievably happy." A watery laugh escaped you as you squeezed his hand tighter. "Truly. I am."

For a heartbeat, Michael simply stared at you, as if he were afraid he had misheard. Then the tension that had been coiled through his shoulders began to melt away. Relief softened his face first, followed by something even warmer—hope.

“You're happy?” he asked quietly, almost disbelieving. 

You nodded, fanning your eyes with a shaky laugh. “I'm crying because I've wanted this for so long that I don't even know how to process it.”

The confession hit him like sunlight after a storm. His eyes widened, and a breath escaped him that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh. “You have?”

“Probably since we were kids,” you admitted, your cheeks burning. “I just… never thought you felt the same way. I always filled my head with this idea that, given you’re a star and I’m me…it’d never work.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The years of friendship, longing, missed chances, and unspoken feelings seemed to settle around you all at once. Then Michael laughed softly under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “We're really something, huh?”

You smiled through the tears. “Yeah, we're both terrible at this.”

“No,” he said gently, stepping closer. “I think we were just scared.”

His hand slid fully into yours again, fingers interlacing this time. The gesture felt different now—not tentative, not uncertain. Intentional. He lifted your joined hands slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. You look up at him, admiring the height difference between you. He was so tall, yet he was never truly out of your reach.

“I don't want to be scared anymore,” he said. “Not with you.”

Your heart fluttered painfully at the sincerity in his voice. “Neither do I.”

The answer seemed to steady him. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and affectionate. “I want…I want to kiss you. Can I?” he asked.

The question was so earnest, so careful, that it made your chest ache.

You nodded before you could second-guess yourself. “Please.”

Michael leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn't. His free hands rose to cradle your cheeks, warm and gentle; however, he froze just before reaching your lips, wanting you to seal the deal. So, you did. And when his lips finally met yours, the kiss was soft at first—almost reverent.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't dramatic. It felt like something that had been waiting for years to happen.

When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours. You could feel him smiling.

“Hi,” he whispered, a little breathless.

A laugh bubbled out of you. “Hi.”

His grin widened. “I've been wanting to do that for a very long time.”

You squeezed his hand. “Me too.”

The two of you fell quiet again.

Your gazes drifted downward almost at the same time, lingering on each other's lips before slowly returning to meet. A shared breath hung between you, warm and nervous and full of possibility.

Michael's eyes narrowed. "Can I..." he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can I do it again?"

A rush of excitement fluttered through your chest. "Yes."

That was all the permission either of you needed.

He closed the distance first, and this time the kiss came easier. The nervousness that had accompanied the first one had melted away, replaced by familiarity and years of unspoken affection finally finding somewhere to go. Your hands rose instinctively, cupping his rosy cheeks as he did the same.

You laughed quietly when your fingers disappeared into his curls, catching on a few stubborn tangles.

Michael smiled against your lips, giggling alongside you.

The room seemed to fade around you. The music, the walls, the passing minutes—none of it mattered. All that remained was the warmth of his hands, the softness in his eyes whenever you pulled back for even a second, and the overwhelming realization that this was real.

After all those years of convincing yourself that your feelings were impossible, that someone like Michael could never feel the same way, every doubt began to dissolve.

He wanted you. And somehow, unbelievably, you had always had his heart.

Eventually, the kiss broke, though neither of you moved very far away. Your forehead brushed his, and your hands wandered absentmindedly across the front of his shirt, smoothing wrinkles that weren't really there.

Michael's smile grew shy beneath your attention.

Then, he gently guided you toward the edge of the bed. This time, however, you stopped him. Michael settled onto the mattress first, looking up at you with big, curious eyes. You shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

"Can I..." A breathless laugh escaped you. "Can I sit on your lap?"

The answer was immediate. Michael nodded without a moment’s hesitation, the same yearning reflected in his eyes. "Of course."

Like you needed to ask…

Drawn together by something neither of you could ignore, you carefully settled onto his lap, your arms slipping around his neck. His hands found your hips almost timidly at first, steadying you as though he still couldn’t quite believe this was real. 

Then the distance vanished yet again. Your lips met again, and this time neither of you held back. The kiss was fierce yet certain, filled with a devotion that words could never quite capture. Every brush of his lips seemed to linger, every breath shared between you carrying years of unspoken feelings. 

The rest of the world faded into insignificance as you lost yourselves in one another, savoring each stolen second and making up for all the time that had slipped through your fingers. Michael held the back of your head, pulling you a little closer, and you melted into him just as easily. Both of you content to remain suspended in that perfect moment, where nothing existed except the warmth between you and the kiss that neither of you wanted to end.

The immense make-out lasted for entirely too long, and the music from Michael’s demos had long ended. Soon enough, you two broke apart, panting from exhaustion. 

Neither of you spoke a word. You simply sat there, drinking each other in with a fresh kind of yearning, the air between you heavy with affection that neither of you cared to hide anymore. Then a sudden snicker escaped you. Michael immediately lifted a brow, a grin tugging at his lips as his white teeth flashed. “What?” he asked, amused. “Why are you laughing?”

You quickly covered your mouth, trying—and failing—to suppress the laughter bubbling up from your chest.

“I got my lipstick all over you,” you managed between giggles. “You’re literally covered in red right now.”

His confusion only lasted a second before realization dawned. Every kiss you'd pressed to him had left its mark behind. Bright lipstick stains decorated his lips, dusted his rosy cheeks, and lingered along his chin. A few particularly shameless prints even trailed lower, staining the skin of his neck. The sight of it only made you laugh harder.

Michael reached up, feeling at his face before huffing out a laugh of his own. “Wow,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You really went to work, huh?”

“You weren't exactly stopping me.” You teased.

“No,” he admitted, his voice dropping slightly. “I definitely wasn't.”

And somehow, despite the lipstick covering half his face, you found yourself staring at him all over again, your laughter fading into a smile as the distance between you seemed to disappear once more. Michael stayed close, his forehead now resting gently against yours.

The world around you felt quieter now, distant—reduced to just the rhythm of your breathing and the warmth lingering between you. His fingers hovered near your waist, not quite pulling you in, not quite letting go either, as if he was still learning how to hold something he didn’t want to lose.

“I’m so happy you’re here.”

The words didn’t rush. They landed gently, like they’d always belonged there—like they were simply being returned to you after too long apart. For a second, all you could do was look at him, the red lipstick still faintly marking his skin, the same face you’d been laughing at moments ago now holding something infinitely more tender.

And then, quietly, like it was the only truth that mattered—

“I’m so happy too, Michael.”

~.~