Em

This particular day was going horribly, and your shift started an hour ago. As much as you loved kids, it was easier when your patients were fake. You had already narrowly avoided getting peed on, changed numerous bandages, negotiated with a toddler to take his medicine, and gotten puke, snot, or a combination on your scrubs…twice. You were already predicting having to sacrifice your lunch break for catching up on your charts, and now you were on a wild goose chase for a stuffed rabbit one of your patients had dropped earlier in the day. Michael Jackson was the last thing on your mind.

You muttered quietly to yourself as you walked in the vacant room, mentally checking that this was in fact the room Tommy had been in earlier. While the rabbit was the main item on your mind, you still had to do your job and get the room ready for the next patient. You walked over to the supplies cart in the corner of the room and grabbed everything you needed: fresh linens, a new pillow, and an empty bedpan.

You thought the room was empty.

Tommy had been moved to a different room after his procedure, and the room was dark and quiet besides the faint sunlight drifting in from the window.

Something moved in the corner of the room by the bed.

You dismissed it immediately. Probably the AC moving the curtains.

Then a voice came from behind you. Not from the door, but from inside the room.

"Excuse me?"

You panicked.

Your brain didn't have time to catch up as you turned and threw the bedpan straight at where you heard the voice from.

As the bedpan went flying towards his head, the man ducked quickly, dropping the item in his hands in the process. He looked up at you bewildered as the bedpan clattered behind him. You stared back at him in disbelief before recognizing exactly who it was you were staring at.

Oh my god.

I just threw a bedpan at Michael Jackson.

Not a pen or a pillow…a bedpan.

As you started to apologize, your supervisor and Michael's security guard came running into the room, drawn by the clatter and general commotion. It didn't take long for your supervisor to figure out what had happened.

"Mr. Jackson, please let me apologize for this behavior—"

"No, no, it's okay." he laughed, reaching down to grab what he dropped. "It was definitely my fault." Not wanting to make eye contact for fear of humiliating yourself a second time, you focused on the item in his hands.

It was Tommy's rabbit.

Michael looked towards you once again, this time gesturing to the stuffed rabbit in his hands.

"I heard one of the boys mention he lost his stuffed animal, and I figured I'd come find it. I believe this is Tommy's."

"Yes! Thank you, Mr. Jackson. I was worried we'd lost Carrots for good." You mustered up a small smile as you took Carrots, more distracted by the look on your supervisor's face at the mention of the stuffed animal. Michael returned your smile with a grin of his own, one that made your heart beat just a little faster.

Your supervisor interrupted the moment.

"Well, Y/N. Since you've already managed to…introduce yourself, would you mind taking Mr. Jackson back to our patients?" The look on your supervisor's face already clued you in on a discussion you'd be having later, likely to do with professionalism and conduct. You nodded, mumbling a "yes, sir" before motioning for Michael to follow you. You began your trek back to the main pediatric ward, a loud silence between you two.

"Mr. Jackson, I just want to say that I am so sorry for—"

"Please," he interrupted. "call me Michael. And it's not your fault. I'm the one who spooked you." He paused, moving so you two were walking side-by-side. "I'm just glad the bedpan was empty."

His comment pulled a small laugh from you, and he looked almost proud of himself. You walked a bit further before he spoke up again.

"So you're the infamous Miss Y/N?"

You shot him a look.

"I'm sorry?"

He laughed.

"You know you're a mini legend to the kids, right? When I've visited the past few weeks, you're all they talk about."

"Well," You paused. "I'm not sure about a legend."

You opened the door, letting Michael in before stepping into the room yourself. Along with the commotion of kids realizing it was Michael Jackson, there was the unmistakable sound of kids shouting your name. There was a certain level of energy that Michael was used to seeing when he visited the children, but it seemed that their excitement doubled when you walked in the door.

You walked over and handed Carrots to Tommy before almost immediately being pulled into an argument between two little girls in the beds on either side of Michael.

"Miss Y/N, the sky is blue because it's the ocean but up, right?"

"No, that's wrong. The sky is blue because colors get stuck, right Miss Y/N?"

Before you could answer, more children demanded your attention.

"Miss Y/N, why does Grace have blue eyes but Andy has brown eyes?"

"Miss Y/N, why is an apple called an apple?"

"Miss Y/N, you promised you'd give me a cooler band-aid today. This one's falling off."

At the last comment, your head swiveled towards a little boy holding up his arm as gauze unfurled all around him. You sighed, grabbing new gauze from the supply cart before heading over to the boy.

"Well," You paused, smiling at the boy as you start unwraping the rest of his bandages. "I do always keep my promises."

As you started to re-wrap his arm, you went one by one and answered every question you had been bombarded with since you walked in. Michael simply watched in awe. He looked around and noticed a girl sitting cross-legged on her bed, markers scattered around her as she doodled on the cast on her leg. Intricate designs wrapped all around the cast, some colored, some not.

"Did you do that yourself?" he asked her. She glanced up at him, her tongue still sticking out from her concentration.

"I only do the coloring. Miss Y/N does the drawing. She's the best." The girl continued coloring her cast, filling in each of your designs carefully. Michael paused, his attention completely stolen by the beautiful designs weaving across the cast.

"Yeah, it does seem like she's the best at drawing."

The girl looked up at Michael like he was the stupidest person on the planet.

"No, silly. She's the best at everything."

Michael glanced back at you. You had already fixed the one boy's bandages and were now sitting on a vacant bed. Two kids had wiggled their way into your lap, a third sitting in front of you as you carefully braided her hair to cover most of the scars on her scalp. As you finished, the young girl stood up and hugged you tightly.

"Thanks Miss Y/N! You're the best!"

That seemed to be the common theme among the kids. Five minutes couldn't go by without someone shouting "No, Miss Y/N has to do it cause she's the best!" or "Miss Y/N is MY bestest friend."

And as Michael continued to talk to the children and watch you interact with them, he couldn't help but feel inclined to agree.

By 1984, the novelty of nursing had worn off.

The responsibility hadn't.

You had accepted a position as a pediatric burn nurse a few months back, and the burn center had quickly become like a second home to you. While all of your general peds training still applied, you had learned so much from the center in such a short time.

Like how everything changed when something big was happening.

Phones ringing off the hook.

Doctors running instead of walking.

The nurse's station emptying abnormally fast.

Bits and pieces of information being passed through quick chats during breaks.

VIP patient. Pyrotechnic failure. Third-degree burns. No press allowed.

You didn't even know who it was, just the general information your co-workers could ascertain from glances at a chart. Sally said she wouldn't be surprised if there was nerve damage, based on what she'd seen. Ruth, the newest hire for the burn center, had just returned to the nurse's station looking frazzled, asking if anyone knew how to get a patient's heart rate down fast.

You contributed a few ideas to the group discussion as you sat behind the nurse's station, honestly trying to focus on your charts more than anything else. An older gentleman walked up to Ruth and you returned to charting your rounds from that morning.

"Mr. Bray, how can I help you?" Ruth had now fully turned toward the man, and you noticed she seemed to be shaking.

Interesting.

"It's been hours, and his heart rate is still up."

Ruth sighed and nodded.

"I'm aware, sir. Unfortunately, until we can find the cause—"

"You." He interrupted.

Eavesdropping on the conversation, you looked up to see who the man was talking to, only to make direct eye contact with him. He was talking to you. The man looked strangely familiar, but you couldn't place him for the life of you.

"Me?"

He nodded.

"Can you help him?"

The look he was giving you reminded you of the parents you so often saw in the burn center, the ones begging you to do whatever you could to save their child. But this wasn't your department, or your patient assignment.

"Well, sir, I'm just a ped—"

"Please."

You looked over at Ruth, whose face was twisted in confusion. You saw a lightbulb go off in her eyes before she turned to face you a bit more.

"I think that's a good idea. You know more than I do," she leaned closer to you, "and it doesn't hurt to have a calming presence, right? I don't think I'm helping."

"She's not." Sally chimed in, looking over her glasses at the two of you. You nodded and made your way around the nurse's station, following the familiar man down the hallway towards the private rooms. You noticed that the man's fingers couldn't seem to sit still, constantly tapping against his leg as you walked. He stopped in front of a door and gestured towards it, stepping back to let you through.

You walked through the door, immediately getting thrown into what could only be described as chaos. Nurses and doctors filled the room, flitting around like frantic bees, their conversations more like buzzing. The lights were bright as always, the TV played a random movie in the background, and in the middle of it all:

Michael.

He was the VIP patient. As you stood in the doorway, completely unacknowledged by the group in the room, you noticed the bandages wrapped around his head, the third-degree burn cart in the corner of the room, and the Demerol drip connected to his IV. But more than that, you noticed him.

The way he couldn't seem to sit still, always fidgeting with a blanket or the gown he was wearing. The way his eyes wouldn't focus on one thing, darting from the doctors to his monitors to the TV. The way his chest was rising and falling like he had the worst case of silent hiccups.

In that moment, he reminded you more of your kids than the man you met two years ago: scared, overwhelmed, and overstimulated.

So, you did what you always did.

Just this time, the patient wasn't four feet tall.

You quickly walked over to the huddle of doctors in the middle of the room, listening to their conversation for a moment before cutting in when there was a lull.

"Hi, doctors. I was wondering if it would be possible for you to move this conversation elsewhere? We're trying to get the patient's heart rate down and talking about the patient like they're not in the room isn't the most effective way to do that."

The doctors stared at you, absolutely bewildered, and you simply stared at them until they moved. You grabbed Michael's chart from one of them while following them to the door before dimming the lights in the room to where everything was still visible, but not nearly as bright. Finally, you grabbed the TV remote from the bedside table and turned down the volume.

"Okay, Mr. Jackson."

He perked up as you addressed him.

"Before I get started on anything, are your bandages loose enough? They should be tight enough to apply pressure but not squeezing your head."

He nodded at you, so you continued.

"If at any point they are too loose or too tight, just—"

"I know you."

He was staring at you now. Well, as much as he could when his body was fighting to stay awake. Your heart leapt for a second at the notion that he still remembered you years later, but you chalked it up to him thinking you looked like someone he knew.

"Well, you probably know a lot of nurses by now." You looked down at his chart to see if Ruth had managed to collect his latest set of vitals.

"You threw a bedpan at me." His comment made your head snap back up to look at him, and he now had a small smile on his face.

Oh my god.

He remembers me.

"You know, Mr. Jackson, of all of the things to remember about our first meeting—"

"Thought I told you to call me Michael," He mumbled, closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath before looking at you once more. "and what's more memorable than nearly getting decapitated by the legendary Miss Y/N?"

So not only did he remember your encounter, but he remembered your name.

You let out a short laugh.

"I don't know about legendary."

"Oh, trust me. The kids would agree with me."

You rolled your eyes, another chuckle escaping you.

"The kids also think I control the weather."

A tired smile pulled at the edge of his lips.

"Maybe they're on to something and we don't know it yet."

"I promise you they're not. I've been asked if fish get thirsty three times in the past week."

"And?"

You paused.

"I didn't have an answer."

His shoulders shook as he laughed softly, settling himself back into his pillows.

"I don't think it matters to them if you have an answer or not. No matter what, someone always had a story about Miss Y/N."

The smile on your face faded into something softer as you glanced back at his chart, and neither of you spoke for a moment.

"They love you, you know."

Your eyes lifted from the chart as heat crept into your cheeks, a small sigh leaving you.

"I know," You paused as something in your chest tightened. "I love them too."

Michael smiled at you again, this one smaller and softer than before.

"I could tell."

He sighed deeply, a light hum leaving his lips as he did so. His eyes were fluttering open and closed much slower now. You fixed the blanket around his shoulders and hesitated for a moment before gently laying your hand over his.

"You should get some rest."

"Mm."

A pause.

"The kids were right."

"About what?"

"You being the best."

By the time you thought of a response, he was already asleep. And for the first time all evening, the monitor beside his bed sounded exactly as it should.

Michael technically wasn't your patient.

That didn't stop him from asking for you every chance he got.

At first, he just wanted updates about the kids in your ward.

Then he wanted to know how your day was going.

Then he had questions about the burn center.

He ran out of questions on day four, but that never stopped him from trying.

By the end of the week, you were spending your lunch breaks sitting in the corner of his room: you eating whatever lunch you had managed to scrounge up and Michael eating whatever Bill had brought him that day. On certain days, Bill would even bring you lunch when he delivered Michael's.

Night shifts that once seemed to drag on forever were now filled with conversations, either with Michael or, more usually, with Bill. You'd learned that he'd been with Michael 13 years, drank too much coffee for one person, and absolutely despised green beans. In return, you had told him about where you grew up and how you got to LA, along with how you ended up a nurse when it was not your first choice. Your conversations ranged from simple icebreakers to deeper confessions, but they always seemed to connect back to Michael.

"Yeah," He mentioned one night as you sat behind the nurse's station. "I had one assignment with the LAPD go a little too rough, and Gail wouldn't stop until I found something else to do. Said I needed to stick around for at least the kids, maybe even any eventual grandkids." He took a sip of his coffee before sighing.

"Y'know, Joseph originally hired me to make sure Michael didn't get in the same trouble his brothers did on tour."

You'd encountered Michael's father only once, and you had already ascertained all that you needed to know: he didn't care about his son, only the money his son made. Of course he wanted to make sure his cash mule's record stayed clean. But this was neither the time nor the place, and you weren't nearly close enough to Michael to give your opinion.

"And how did that work out?"

"Haven't been fired yet."

And that was your new normal.

Making your rounds to see all of your kiddos, spending your breaks talking with Michael, and getting yourself through late-night charting by chatting with Bill on his breaks.

It had been about two weeks since the incident, and you knew Michael was aching to get off bedrest. He was healing better than expected, but his doctors had kept him confined to small daily walks just as a precaution. You had just clocked in to your shift and were making your way to your first room of patients when you heard giggling and shushing coming from the door you were heading towards. It wasn't unusual for the kids to be out of bed running around in the mornings, so you paid no mind to it. You opened the door, ready to greet your kids and start your day.

THWACK!

Something stuck to your forehead as you stumbled back in surprise and small gasps came from further inside the room. Focusing your eyes up, you could see just the tip of something blue sticking out from your forehead like a horn. As you looked around, you noticed a huddle of kids towards the far side of the room, all surrounding a familiar face that was staring at you absolutely mortified.

Because there was Michael, hospital gown and all.

Holding a Nerf gun.

You reached up, feeling for the object attached to your forehead and pulling it off. It was one of those classic Nerf darts with the suction cup on the end, which explained why it had so easily affixed itself to your face. In the next moment, Michael had thrown the toy to the ground and raised his hands in surrender, his face still twisted in complete and utter embarrassment. The kids surrounding him began quietly giggling.

"Does anyone have an explanation for this?" You shifted your gaze from Michael to the rest of the room, truly taking in the chaos for the first time this morning. Pillows had been stripped from the beds and laid to form a makeshift wall across the middle of the room. Stuffed animals were strewn across the room as casualties. Molly sat in the corner nearest you, a crown made of tubing and rubber gloves balanced precariously on her head. Your kids were spread around the room, some holding Nerf guns while others held beanbags and hackey sacks. You could see Michael following your gaze. The silence stretched on for a few more moments before he sighed.

"It was completely their idea."

His words caused the room to erupt as ten children protested his answer, clearly offended at his accusations.

"Nuh uh!" Danielle cried. "That's not true! Miss Y/N, I promise it was Mr. Michael's idea."

That made you re-affix your gaze to Michael, this time raising an eyebrow at his antics.

"So it was your idea."

"What?!" He gasped dramatically, his hand automatically going to his chest. "This is an outrage! What do they have that you believe them over me?"

"Danielle says she promises it was your idea, and we don't make false promises around here." You crossed your arms, shifting your weight to one leg so you could tap your foot. "So, got a better explanation for what happened here?"

"Well…" He paused, clearly searching for some way to explain the mess. "The kingdom of MollyJasonDanielleAaronBenKatie-ia declared war on Michael-land."

You heard a scoff from somewhere on your side of the room.

"Only because Michael-land attacked us first!" Jason cried as he reloaded his darts. The room descended into chaos once again as Michael carefully made his way towards you, attempting and failing to avoid getting hit by the flying darts and beanbags. You couldn't help the smile that appeared on your face as he reached you and leaned himself against the door.

"So…" You stopped, shifting your focus from your kids to the man beside you. "Michael-land, huh?" He went beet-red and dropped his head into his hands.

"I promise it was their idea. And who am I to say no to them?"

You allowed the pandemonium to continue for a few more minutes before attempting to round everyone back into their beds.

You failed spectacularly.

Everyone either wanted your attention or Michael's, resulting in two growing crowds between you, the chaos now taking the form of small arguments and many questions.

"Miss Y/N, they cheated. Mr. Michael's too tall and reached over our wall."

"Nuh uh, you guys just need to get better."

"Why does Molly's name get to go first? She's only queen 'cause we said so."

"Aaron, that's how it works, and you're just upset because we all said you'd be a bad king."

"Mr. Michael, did you know Miss Y/N cheats at Candyland? I don't know how, but she does."

"I'll have to keep that in mind the next time I play her." Michael shot you a small smile, clearly entertained by the constant questions.

"Miss Y/N, why aren't there girl kings?" Molly asked, the crown having now slipped halfway off her head.

"Those are called queens sweetie, and they exist, just not in America."

"Mr. Michael? Where do you rule?" Michael made eye contact with you for a moment before turning towards the little boy who had spoken.

"What do you mean?"

"I heard my momma calling you the King. But like, of where?"

You could see the moment it clicked in Michael's brain, and he let out a loud laugh, covering his mouth with his hand quickly after.

"Well, some people call me the King of Pop. It's not because I rule over anywhere, but because I'm really good at my job."

His answer caused another tirade of questions, this time solely directed at him. You watched as he explained his process for writing songs and answered every question with a thoughtful response. As the interrogation continued, Michael glanced up from the crowd in front of him and caught your eye, smiling at you like the happiest man in the world.

You returned it with a soft smile of your own before you excused yourself from the room, resigning yourself to returning at a different, calmer time.

Not because you couldn't easily handle getting the kids back to bed.

But because you couldn't handle the man in that room.

Sure, he made the kids laugh hard enough to forget all their worries.

Sure, he answered every ridiculous question with complete sincerity before looking at you with a smile that seemed to hold far more meaning than it should.

And sure, he had a smile that made your heart do something profoundly stupid every time it was sent your way.

But first and foremost, Michael Jackson was a patient.

Maybe not your patient, but a patient nonetheless.

So no matter how your heart leapt or sighed at the sight of him, you considered him strictly off-limits.

For the first time in nearly two weeks, you had a night off.

No overnight rounds.

No charting at 2 am.

No patients trying to convince you that one more round of UNO wouldn't be enough to mess up their sleep schedules.

Just a quiet dinner and eight uninterrupted hours of glorious, glorious sleep.

After finishing your final round of the pediatric ward, you were standing at the nurse's station, coat on and ready to finally be free of this place. All you had to do was submit this final set of charts and you could leave.

That was until a cough, a wheeze, and a sniffle alerted you to someone down the hallway. Your head snapped up as you wondered who sounded that horrible.

The answer was given to you in the form of a woman who looked like she had fought with Death and lost. Pale, clammy, and shivering, she slowly walked toward the station. As she got closer, you realized just who it was.

"Margot, you look terrible."

She stopped in front of the nurse's station, glassy eyes slowly shifting to look at you.

"Thanks."

"That wasn't a compliment."

You had worked with Margot for about a year, long enough to know her habits. Specifically, her habit of giving everyone else grace but saving none for herself, especially when it came to illness.

"Mar, you need to go home."

Her eyes seemed to focus for the first time in your conversation.

"No, no. I'm fine. I just need to take some meds."

"What you need is sleep and—"

You were interrupted as she sneezed, the force of it nearly knocking her over. You immediately reached out to steady her while simultaneously feeling the heat coming from her skin.

"Honey, you're burning up. You need to go home." You reasoned, turning to grab her coat from the rack. She sniffled as you held it out to her.

"I can't. There's no one to cover my shift and I can't just abandon my patients."

You could feel the cogs turning in your head, running through the schedule of everyone on call tonight.

If I can get Jess to switch to peds for tonight, I can call Amy to cover the main unit. No wait, that would put her into overtime. So that just leaves…

Me.

You groaned internally as your dreams of Chinese takeout and an everything shower faded away, crushed by the unfortunate fact that you were a nice person.

"I can cover your shift."

Margot paused in the middle of a cough, grimacing in pain before looking up at you.

"No, I can't let you do that. It's your night off and—"

"Margot. I can not have you getting anyone sick, and I need you getting better. End of discussion."

She stayed silent for a moment before nodding, trading you her coat for the charts in her hands.

"I just finished rounds so you should be good for a bit. Thank you. I'll make this up to you." She mumbled, bundling herself up in her winter attire. You gave her a small smile and patted her shoulder.

"Make it up to me by getting better and only coming back when you're healthy."

With that, she ambled her way out the door, and you set the charts down before removing your coat. As you sat back down at the nurse's station, you started to look at Margot's charts, frequently having to rewrite parts that seemed to have been written when she was half asleep.

By the time you finished reading and rewriting, hours had passed, and you were starving. You grabbed a quick snack from the break room before situating yourself back at the station and running through your mental checklist of tasks to do between rounds. The department had been relatively quiet, only the occasional disconnected monitor interrupting the silence of the night. This had always been your favorite part of the night shift: the moments where everything came to a halt and you could hear a pin drop.

Or someone running down the hallway.

You looked up in time to see Bill hastily making his way toward you, his usually calm and collected demeanor twisted into a furrowed brow.

"Hey Bill! What's—"

"Somethin's wrong."

It took you a second to register his words before you leapt from your chair, not even asking for an explanation before following Bill back towards Michael's room. As you entered the room, you realized exactly why Bill had gotten you.

While you knew Michael was never the best sleeper, the way he was twisting and turning was your first clue. That coupled with his alarmingly high heart rate and garbled muttering settled a knot in your stomach that simply screamed wrong.

You rushed over to his bedside and began checking everywhere for what could have been the issue. His bandages seemed loose enough, his vitals besides his heart rate were fine, all the monitors were properly attached. You resorted to asking him questions, something you typically didn't want to do for a sedated patient in pain.

"Are you cold?"

A small head shake.

"Hot?"

Another.

"Is anything too tight?"

"No." He mumbled.

"Too loose?"

Michael let out a small whine, and as you looked him over once more, you noticed that he wasn't so much panicking as he was grimacing.

He's in pain.

The Demerol.

It was easy enough to miss. Even a trained nurse would have likely looked over it. You even had to do a double take and check his chart to make sure what you were seeing was right.

"Margot, what did you do?" You muttered, making your way over to the Demerol pump as Bill stared at you in silence. While everything looked fine at first glance, the issue became glaringly obvious upon further inspection.

Sure, the dosage was right and everything was connected as it should be.

But the rate was wrong.

Michael had received only about half of the Demerol he was supposed to by now, and while it was still enough to keep him sedated, it obviously had little effect on his pain.

Another whine came from the man on the bed, and you brushed his curls from his forehead before looking back towards the source of his pain.

"Don't worry, Michael. I've got you."

At first, you wanted to curse Margot for causing Michael unnecessary pain. But when you thought about it, it made sense. She was sick, tired, and pushing through her shift while feeling like death. You would have likely made a similar mistake if in her position.

So rather than thinking about murdering your coworker, you focused on resetting the infusion rate. Once you had finished that, you turned back towards Michael.

"There, that should start feeling better soon."

Michael gave you a small nod before settling back against the pillows, still restless but no longer quite as uncomfortable. You turned to start explaining the situation to Bill, and you vaguely noticed Michael starting to sleepily play with your hand.

"It looks like the infusion rate was set for a longer period than it should have been, so he was overall receiving less of the Demerol. I reset it, so it should hopefully be back to normal."

Bill gave you a solemn nod before slowly turning to return to his post by the door. You started to follow him when something grabbed your hand. You looked down to see Michael grasping your hand, his eyes barely open as the Demerol started taking more effect.

"Stay?"

It was a simple question, really. But behind that one word seemed to be weeks of small smiles and mixed emotions you hadn't allowed yourself to feel.

On one hand, Michael now really was your patient.

On the other, you had technically been off shift for 10 minutes at this point, and your relief was due any minute.

You looked towards Bill in the corner of the room, who had conveniently decided the wallpaper was quite interesting in that moment. You couldn't help as a soft smile rose to your face.

"Sure, but just for a little while."

Michael visibly relaxed at your answer, his grip on your hand loosening slightly as the hint of worry on his face disappeared.

"Promise?" He whispered. You reached over to grab a chair from the side of the room and dragged it over to his bedside, taking his hand back in yours as you sat down.

"Promise."

You had only intended to stay until Michael fell asleep.

Instead, you woke to the first streams of sunlight filtering through the window, a blanket around your shoulders that wasn't there before.

You lifted your head to glance at Michael. For the first time since you saw him earlier that night, he looked truly peaceful.

By now, your shift had ended hours ago. You were more than free to head home and spend your day off lounging in your apartment.

Instead, you rested your head back against the side of the bed, focusing on the hand still loosely wrapped in yours.

After all, Michael Jackson had asked you to stay.

And you never broke a promise.