glorious

“Oh, thank goodness you haven’t left yet!” Your voice bursts through the speaker in a breathless rush. 

“Hey, pretty girl,” He says, plopping down on the edge of the bed, smiling at the sound of your voice. “Y’alright?”

“I’m fine,” you respond. In the background he can hear the typical hospital noise—the clatter of something in the distance, overhead pages, phones ringing urgently—a chaotic soundtrack he’s grown used to hearing whenever you call him from work. “I’m just… held up. Again.”

He can picture you clearly: scrubs wrinkled, hair messily pulled back, your foot tapping as you anxiously fiddle with the phone cord. 

“Let me guess… Your coworker?”

“Yes,” you groan. “The same one. Late, again! I swear she lives in a different time zone.”

Michael chuckles under his breath, trying to ignore the slight pang of disappointment in his chest at the thought of your long-awaited plans being delayed. He didn’t want to make you feel even worse. “I was about to head downstairs for Bill.”

”I know, I know, and I’m sorry, baby.” You say quickly. “But listen—I still want you to come over. Just head over to my place. Use your key.”

The key. Even after months of having it, the reminder of it still makes something flutter in his chest. His palm lands softly on his front pocket, where the small silver key sits on its own ring. You had tried to be nonchalant as you handed it to him, but he hadn’t missed the way you blushed and stumbled over your words when offering it—still nervous and giddy around one another despite nearly two years together.

”You sure?” He asks, now having taken the key out of his pocket, fiddling with the cold metal between his fingers.

“Positive.” You assure him. “I’ll only be an hour… or two. Tops.”

Your voice lowers. “And before you say anything—I bought groceries this time.”

He blinks, chuckling at your declaration. “You did?”

“Yes, Michael. Real groceries. My refrigerator now contains more than stale bread and expired milk.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything!” He laughs again, warm and bright. 

“You absolutely were!” You counter. “But you can’t, because I stocked up on your favorites.”

That gets him. He feels it—the soft, quiet bloom of warmth in the center of his chest at the feeling of being considered. You’re tired, juggling a dozen things at once, and still, you thought of him.

”Alright,” he says, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he stands up to zip his jacket the rest of the way. “I’ll head over now.”

”Good.” You say, a smile in your voice. “Make yourself at home, okay?”

He bites his lip shyly; smiling at nothing, at everything. “I always do.”

There’s a small pause—the kind that only happens when neither of you wants to be the first to hang up.

“I love you,” you say softly.

His smile deepens, that feeling in his chest growing even warmer. “I love you too, baby. See you soon.”

You both linger for a beat before the line finally goes quiet. By the time Michael arrives at your apartment, the sun has dipped low enough to paint the sky in soft pinks and golds. He thanks Bill, throws his bag over his shoulder, and exits the vehicle with a quiet, eager energy he hasn’t felt in weeks. 

It’s been too long—too many late nights for him in the studio, too many early mornings for you at the hospital, too many missed calls and ‘sorry baby, I just got home,’ messages, and he misses you. He misses this—the simple act of spending the weekend with his girlfriend.

He reaches your door, pulling out his key and slipping it into the lock. He steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click, shrugging off his jacket and draping it neatly over the back of a chair. He toes off his loafers with a relieved sigh, nudging them aside neatly with a soft scrape against the floor. He exhales, shoulders finally relaxing as he takes in the space. 

He loves your apartment, he always has; each and every corner a reminder and reflection of you. Photos line the walls—some crooked, some perfectly straight—more stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets. Knickknacks and trinkets cover every shelf and surface; mismatched decor, tiny animal figurines from your childhood, little gifts he’s given you over the years. Your books and record collection are neatly arranged, meanwhile a heap of mail is stacked in a slightly chaotic pile on the counter. A few dishes from breakfast sit in the sink. Your diplomas hang proudly on the wall outside of your bedroom. Below, a small mountain of laundry waits patiently on the floor.

It’s lived-in. It’s warm. Clean, despite the clutter. It smells like you—familiar and comforting.

He smiles to himself, wandering further into the kitchen. When he opens the fridge, he actually laughs out loud. You really did buy groceries. An unopened gallon of orange juice sits front and center: a blue post-it with your handwriting pasted to the front of the jug: “for angel face <3”

He blushes, shaking his head at your shameless flirting, and is about to close the door when something on the fridge catches his eye—a photo tucked under a magnet shaped like a strawberry.

A photo of him.

It was taken the night of the Off The Wall release party in 1979. He’s smiling wide, laughing at something or someone outside of the frame. He has a hand in the pocket of his blue jacket and he balances on roller skates. 

He remembers the night vividly—but not because of the party.  Because of you. 

Michael’s smile softens as the memory pulls him in—

The rink was buzzing that night—music loud, neon lights spinning, people laughing as they wobbled around on skates. 

You were working part-time at the roller rink—juggling shifts between nursing school classes and study groups. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills. You were behind the rental counter that evening, exhausted and burnt out, but still smiling at everyone who came your way.

Then Michael walked in with his friends and family, and the whole atmosphere of the room shifted.

Of course, you had recognized him—all of them, actually—instantly. Aside from being a fan, you knew the group was coming, your manager having told the whole crew in advance about the party being held in honor of Michael Jackson releasing his new solo album, Off The Wall. You were all under strict instructions not to make a scene—or swoon—when they arrived.  The same could not be said for Michael himself, though.

He had walked into the room excited and proud, ready to finally celebrate the album he had worked so hard on with some of his favorite people, but the moment he saw you, he stopped in his tracks. Completely. 

You were laughing at something a coworker said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear when he felt it—a sudden, ridiculous flutter in his chest. 

“Mike,” Jackie nudged him. “You good?”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy staring.

“Earth to Michael,” Tito added, waving a hand in front of his face.

Nothing. He was hopelessly, helplessly smitten at the sight of you in your cute little uniform, totally oblivious to his swooning just ten feet away.

When he finally approached the counter to collect his skates (or was he shoved?), you looked up at him with that bright, open smile—the one he would eventually come to love more than anything—and he was speechless. Utterly speechless. As in, literally unable to form words. 

“What size?” You had asked, pen poised over the rental sheet.

He didn’t respond. He simply stared at you—openly, hopelessly—essentially forgetting the whole reason he was there the second he laid eyes on you. 

”Um… what size skates do you need?” You repeated, blushing.

He blinked, snapping out of it. “Oh—sorry! Uh, size… nine? Yeah, nine. Please.”

You handed him the skates, trying not to be too obvious as you stared into his pretty brown eyes. “Happy birthday,” you had said, shy but sincere as you recalled the date.

He smiled, but shook his head. “Thank you, but… we’re actually here to celebrate the release of my new album. Would you like a copy?”

He gestured to the box his team had brought with them—signed copies of the album to give to the staff as a ‘thank you’ for hosting the party.

“Oh! I would but I… kinda already have one.”

He blinked. “You do?”

You nodded, a blush rising to your cheeks. “I stood in line for hours at the record store this morning. I’m…kind of a big fan.”

His heart did a full somersault at that, his smile turning boyish and shy. “Well, then… you should have a signed one too.”

Before you could protest out of sheer politeness, he reached into the box and handed one to you, trying not to become flustered as your hands accidentally brushed. He giggled nervously as you thanked him, quickly disappearing into the crowd in hopes of not embarrassing himself further. 

He tried to act normal the remainder of the night, he really did, but he failed. Miserably.  Every few minutes, he’d drift dangerously close to the wall because he was craning his neck to catch another glimpse of you. At one point, he’d nearly collided with a group of kids doing tricks, almost wiping out himself.

His brothers noticed—because of course they did— and didn’t hesitate to tease him mercilessly.

“Mikey…” Marlon sing-songed. “You’re starin’ again.”

”I’m not!” Michael protested, while actively staring.

”Uh-huh,” Tito adds. “Our little Mikey’s in love.”

“Shut up Tito!” He hisses under his breath, cheeks becoming hotter by the minute. 

”Just go talk to her!” Jackie urged.

“I did talk to her,” Michael shoots back, his cheeks turning more and more red the further they taunt him.

”Yeah,” Marlon said. “And you stared at her like a lovesick fool. Go ask for her number, you pathetic schmuck.”

By the end of the night, after watching him sneak glances and make a fool of himself for hours, the entire group had had enough. Marlon himself eventually grabbed Michael by the shoulders, and physically shoved him toward the rental counter.

”Go. Now. Before I do it for you.”

”Marlon!” Michael hisses, mortified, heart hammering in his chest as he stumbled toward you. If he were being truthful, the only thing worse than him making a move and being rejected was the thought of Marlon making a move and getting your number instead.

He set the pair of skates on the counter—harsher than intended—and immediately began rambling. “Uh—hi. I mean—hello. Again. I just, uh, wanted to return these. The skates. Obviously. And also I—well—I was wondering if maybe, if it’s not too forward or anything—if I could, um…have your number? Your… phone number?”

You froze, jaw falling open in shock as he babbled, totally unconvinced that you weren’t simply daydreaming.

Taking your silence as rejection, Michael immediately began to regret all of his life decisions and had opened his mouth to backtrack when you began to scramble wildly for anything to write on—a receipt, a napkin, a scrap of paper, anything. 

You finally settle on a crumpled up candy wrapper and scribble your number down with shaky hands, and hand it to him, your fingers brushing once again, sparks igniting at the brief contact.

You both pretend not to hear his brothers hooting and cheering in the background. - Michael closes the refrigerator door gently, continuing to smile fondly at the photo. The memory continues to unfold—not just that night, but everything that followed.

The truth was, you never expected him to actually call. You were flattered of course, dizzy with disbelief. You had practically floated home that night, clutching the signed album to your chest as if it were made of gold. 

But you knew who he was: famous, busy, traveling the world and performing for millions of people. And you were just… well, you: an ordinary girl working part-time at a roller rink trying to survive college.

But he did call. The very next day, actually.

You were in the middle of studying for an exam when the phone rang. Then you heard his voice—soft and shy—and you nearly dropped the receiver. “It’s Michael. Remember? From the roller rink…?” He had said. You had to hold back a giggle at his introduction—acting as if he were just some random guy who had asked for your number, and not Michael Jackson himself. You didn’t get any more studying done that night, the call lasting hours. He called the next day too. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Even when he was on the road, even when you were drowning in exams and clinical rotations, you talked. Somehow, no matter how chaotic life became, the two of you always made time for each other—sometimes five minutes, sometimes hours, and sometimes just enough to say “I miss you.”

You had clicked instantly. Not simply as a crush, but as friends—real friends. The kind who could talk about everything and nothing without ever running out of things to say.  The kind who laughed until your stomachs hurt, the kind who felt strangely familiar from the very beginning—saying things to one another that you had never said out loud to another soul.

It wasn’t long before he asked you on a date, and it took even less time for him to ask you to be his girlfriend. His first girlfriend. His first everything. And he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

You had fit into his world with an ease that surprised everyone around you. His sisters adored you. His mother welcomed you with open arms, always insisting you stay for dinner or come by whenever you had time. Even Joseph tolerated your presence… well, somewhat—which was about as high of a compliment as you could get from that man, so Michael took it as a win. His brothers teased the both of you relentlessly, flirting with you shamelessly simply to get under Michael’s skin. You never missed a beat, though, effortlessly putting them in their place with a quick comeback or humbling retort—and they loved you for it. Michael loved you even more for it.

He loved the way you held your own with his family, the way you made him laugh, the way you treated him like a person rather than a superstar. He loved the way you made everything feel lighter on even the heaviest days.

It wasn’t until your third date—a quiet dinner with the two of you sitting close enough that your knees brushed beneath the table—that you finally admitted to him that the night at the roller rink hadn’t actually been the first time you met.  Months earlier, you and a friend had won a radio contest—front row tickets to The Jacksons’ Destiny Tour that included a meet and greet with the group.

When you told him, he was absolutely devastated. ‘You were there? And I didn’t remember you?’ His voice had gone soft, quivering slightly as if he had failed you somehow.

You reached across the table, grasping his hand. ‘Michael, don’t be silly. You were exhausted. And it was so quick, you probably met hundreds of fans that day.’

Still, he was crushed. In his mind, he was mourning the extra months he could have had with you. You, on the other hand, seemed… relieved? “Honestly…I’m kind of glad you don’t remember.”

“Why?” He blinked.

“I mean…” You shrugged, cheeks growing hot as you tried to deflect. “I was so excited to meet you all. I probably embarrassed myself.” 

He was sure that wasn’t true—you were always perfect in his eyes. You insisted though, so he let it go and he accepted your reassurance, despite his disappointment.

Michael finally shakes himself from the memory, feeling hopelessly lovesick as he tears himself away from the photo. You couldn’t get home soon enough. 

A half hour slips by before Michael grows restless. He tries to be patient—really, he does.

The first ten minutes pass easily enough. He puts on one of your records, something he knows you like, letting the music fill the quiet of your apartment. He sits on the couch for a while, stretching out and tapping his fingers against his knees, humming along to the soft tunes. 

Another ten minutes pass. He checks the clock. Then checks it again two minutes later. 

He even considers taking a nap, leaning back against the cushions and closing his eyes for a moment. But the stillness of the apartment, the soft hum of the record spinning and the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air all make him restless in a way he can’t quite shake.

Then, his curiosity wins out. It always does. 

He tells himself he’s not snooping. He’s just… looking around. Appreciating the space. He really tries to believe it, but after a few minutes of wandering around the living room with his hands in his pockets, he sighs and admits it to himself: Alright. He’s snooping.

It’s a terrible habit—one he’s had since he was a little boy. He’s always been endearingly curious, poking around drawers and closets he had no business opening. His mother used to scold him for it constantly, telling him it was bad manners and just plain rude.

He should know better by now, he really should—but he can’t help it. He loves your space—loves the little pieces of you tucked into every corner, and he never gets tired of learning things about you that you never think to mention. It makes him feel closer to you, even when you're not there. And, frankly, you should have known better than to leave him unattended and bored. 

He starts with the bookshelf, running a finger along the spines of your novels and old nursing school textbooks. At the end, a few cookbooks. 

He snorts softly. You own cookbooks. You, who barely has time to buy groceries, let alone cook. He shakes his head in amusement, imagining you optimistically buying them and then promptly forgetting they exist. He pulls one out and quickly leafs through it—finding not a single page dog-eared, nor one stain or smudge. He snickers under his breath before sliding it back into place.

And that’s when he spots it—a thick, slightly worn high school yearbook wedged in at the end.

He pulls it out carefully, glancing nervously toward the door like you’re about to walk in at that exact moment, then settles onto the couch with it resting on his lap. He examines the pages slowly—scanning the class photos and candid shots of students laughing in hallways. It takes him less than a minute to find you.

He spots your photo and immediately breaks into a grin that he couldn’t hide even if he tried. You look younger, of course—softer around the edges and hair styled differently, but still undeniably you. He giggles under his breath, tracing the edge of the photo with his thumb. He reads the messages your classmates wrote to you in the margins—grinning at the inside jokes he doesn’t understand and the sweet notes from friends he’s never met.

He wonders, not for the first time, how differently things would have turned out if the two of you had gone to school together—if he’d seen you in the hallways, or sat behind you in class, or watched you laugh with your friends at lunch. Would you have gone to prom together? Went to football games hand-in-hand? The thought makes him smile, then laugh softly at himself. 

Who was he kidding? He was nearly too shy to talk to you when he met you at age twenty-one. If he had met you as a teenager, he probably would have tripped over his own feet trying to say hello. 

He allows himself another moment of reminiscing before putting the yearbook away where he found it. 

He continues exploring. On the bottom shelf of your TV stand, he finds an old shoebox with a lid that doesn’t quite close all the way. He hesitates for barely a second before picking it up and lifting the lid. 

Inside is a jumble of old memories—some new, some old: friendship bracelets, faded movie tickets, a few Polaroids, some photo negatives, a folded note or two. He smiles as he sifts through them, careful not to bend or misplace anything. It feels like flipping through a scrapbook of your life before he knew you.

Then, he finds something else tucked near the bottom of the box—a bundle of photos with a rubber band holding them together. He pulls them out gently. 

On top is a ticket stub—The Jacksons’ Destiny World Tour. 1979.

Jackpot. He thinks to himself, immediately sliding the rubber band off and beginning to look through the photos—grainy, slightly overexposed shots of the stage. The crowd. Him and his brothers mid-dance. 

Then he finds one that makes his heart skip a beat: a photo of him—he’s mid-spin, completely unaware that somewhere in the crowd, a girl he hadn’t met yet was watching him with a camera in her hands. The girl he would fall in love with. The girl he would marry someday—he’s sure of it.

He continues flipping through the stack of photos, settling deeper into the couch. He recognizes some of the photos, you had shown them to him before, back when you first told him about the concert you attended. He had to coax you into letting him see them at all—he recalls how shy you were, insisting they were so embarrassing. Michael disagreed.

He flips to a photo of you and your friend outside of the venue, both of you pointing excitedly at the billboard advertising the tour. You’re both grinning so wide it looks painful. You both wear white t-shirts: “The Jacksons” and “Destiny Tour 1979” spelled out in bright lettering across the front, the design clearly homemade. He had tried to tease you about the DIY project when you originally showed him the photos, but he’d barely gotten a sentence out before you smacked his arm playfully and told him to hush.  “We were broke college students! We had to make our own merch!”

He remembers laughing—he had never seen someone look so adorably proud in a t-shirt they had designed themselves with a pack of fabric markers.

He moves onto the next photo, another shot of the two of you outside the venue, this time with your arms thrown around each other mid-laugh, the crowd buzzing behind you. He can feel the energy radiating from the photo—the anticipation, the excitement, the electricity.

Then, he reaches the first photo from the meet-and-greet. He’s seen his photo before too, but for some reason, it hits him differently this time. Maybe it’s because he’s sitting in your apartment, surrounded by your things, thinking about your history all afternoon.

There he is—right in the middle, where he was always positioned. You’re sandwiched between him and Marlon, and your friend stands on the opposite side between him and Randy.

Him and his brothers look exhausted—sweaty, flushed, hair sticking to their foreheads—but they’re smiling, bright and genuine, still riding the adrenaline high from the performance. Always excited and grateful to meet fans. 

Michael can’t stop looking at you in the photo; so young, so excited and unbelievably cute. It still drives him crazy that he can’t remember you. He knows he shouldn’t feel bad— he’s told himself that a million times. It was after a show, he was exhausted. You were one face in a sea of faces. But still.

He wishes he remembered you, that he had noticed you that day, that he had looked up and seen the girl who would someday become the most important person in his life.

He flips through the rest of the photos with a quiet fondness, taking his time with each one as the stack gets smaller and smaller. 

Then he reaches the last photo and freezes, nearly dropping the whole pile in surprise. He’s never seen this one, he’s sure of it. He would have remembered.

It's another shot taken in front of the venue, but this one was taken from behind—you and your friend standing with your backs to the camera, hips popped out dramatically, each of you pointing your thumbs toward writing on the backs of your DIY t-shirts, the lettering bold and bright.

Written on the back of your friend’s shirt:  ‘Randy’s #1 Girl’

On yours? ‘Marlon’s #1 Girl’

Michael’s jaw drops. 

Then, he bursts out laughing. It's loud, sudden and completely unrestrained—the sound surprising even himself. He doubles forward, hand flying over his mouth, shoulders shaking. His cheeks flush, partly from amusement, and partly from the sheer irony of it all. 

“Oh… oh lord…” He wheezes, wiping at his eyes.

He should be jealous, he thinks. And a year or two ago, he probably would have spiraled—making up all sorts of ridiculous scenarios in his head, convincing himself you would have preferred someone else, letting his insecurities gnaw at him until he was sick.

Maybe he is a little jealous, just a tiny bit. But more than that? He’s delighted. Absolutely thrilled.

Because this—this—is leverage. Real leverage. The kind he never gets with you.

You almost always have the upper hand when it comes to teasing. You’re quick, clever, merciless in the most affectionate way. You know exactly how to fluster him, exactly how to make him blush, exactly how to get him sputtering and defensive.

He tosses the rest of the stack to the side and holds the photo up, grinning like he just discovered buried treasure. “Girl… you are never living this down.” He murmurs to himself.

Admittedly, if it were anyone else, perhaps he would have been jealous, but it's not anyone else. It’s Marlon.

You and Marlon bicker like you were siblings yourselves—loud, dramatic, ridiculous, and completely harmless. Michael has never once felt threatened by your relationship with any of his brothers. Even if he does get irritated at times, he knows their natural flirtiness is just part of who they are, and you’ve always handled it with humor and a scathing comeback. 

Besides, it was Marlon himself who gave him the final shove toward you at the roller rink. A fact that his older brother likes to bring up constantly, essentially crediting your entire relationship to his self-proclaimed matchmaking genius.

Michael leans back into the couch, snickering to himself. He cannot wait for you to walk through that door.

-

You finally pull into your driveway, turning off the engine and letting your head fall back against the seat for a moment, closing your eyes and letting out the kind of long, heavy sigh that only comes after a shift that lasted far too long. 

What was supposed to be a normal twelve-hour shift had stretched into fifteen—cutting into your perfect evening with Michael—all because your stupid coworker was late. Again. You’d spent the last few hours trying not to fall asleep on your feet, counting down the minutes until you could go home and fall into his arms. 

You’re exhausted in that bone-deep way that only healthcare workers understand. All you want to do is to peel everything off and stand under a hot shower until the day melts off of your skin. Preferably with your very pretty boyfriend in there with you. 

Despite the exhaustion, though, a spark of energy remains humming beneath your ribs—the excitement that’s been building for days.

Because the rest of the night belongs only to you and Michael—movies, snacks, and a whole weekend with no interruptions, no opposite schedules, and no rushed phone calls squeezed in between responsibilities. Just the two of you, finally in the same place at the same time.

It had been too long—truly too long. 

You’re so incredibly proud of him—of the work he’s pouring into Thriller, of the long nights and early mornings he spends in his studio, of the way he talks about his music like it’s alive—an entity of itself. 

You can’t wait to hear the final record. You have no doubt that the sneak-peeks and demos he sometimes lets you hear do no justice to the finished project. But more than anything, you can’t wait to have him to yourself for a little while.

The thought of coming home to him tonight makes your heart flutter in a way you try not to think too hard about—especially when it’s quickly followed by the thought of coming home to him everyday.  The idea of moving in together has crossed your mind more than once—slipping in between late-night phone calls and early mornings when you’re half-awake and missing him more than anything. You wouldn’t have to worry about going weeks without seeing each other if you shared the same bed every night and woke up next to each other every morning. Maybe soon. Maybe once the album is out. Maybe when life slows down just enough for the two of you to breathe at the same time.

You gather your things—your bag, your change of shoes, the lunch you never had time to eat—and step out of your car into the cool evening air. 

Your body aches, your feet hurt, and you’re dog-tired, but none of that matters because Michael—your Michael—is inside waiting for you, and suddenly the day doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. 

The moment you push open your apartment door, the familiar warmth of home wraps around you like a blanket—the soft lamplight, a hint of vanilla from a candle Michael must have lit while waiting for you, soft hum of a record spinning in the background, and a whiff of his cologne coming from his jacket draped over the chair closest to the door. 

You barely step one foot inside the threshold when you hear it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps hurriedly making their way toward you. 

Then Michael appears—or rather, launches himself into the room—skidding around the corner. He couldn’t possibly look more goofy as his socked-feet slide a little on the hardwood and he catches himself on the wall. He straightens himself quickly, like he meant to do that, and hadn’t just sprinted toward you like a puppy greeting its owner. He tries to look casual, lifting his chin as he leans nonchalantly against the doorway—but the bright, boyish excitement in his eyes gives him away instantly.

You, meanwhile, don’t even pretend to play it cool.  You drop your things to the floor in a completely ungraceful heap, and you’re in his arms before either of you can say a word. 

He catches you easily, arms wrapping around your middle with a kind of desperation that makes you want to melt into him and resurface. He squeezes you tight, lifting you just slightly off the ground before setting you back down, but not letting go yet.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur against his skin, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. He smells like home—the scent hitting you so hard that you almost do melt—right then and there. 

He hums a soft sound—something between a laugh and a relieved sigh—and presses his cheek against the top of your head. You can feel him smile against your hair, his arms tightening even more. “Hi.”

You pull back just enough to get another look at his handsome face—and you lean in and kiss him. He sinks into it, his warm hands gliding up your back simply for the opportunity to hold you a little closer.

“I hope you didn’t get too bored waiting for me,” you say, finally breaking away for air, brushing your thumb along his jaw.

Before he can respond, the dam breaks—the exhaustion and frustration of your very long day comes rushing back all at once, and you start shedding layers as you talk—your coat first, then your scrub top, the long sleeved undershirt getting tangled along with it as you pull the fabric over your head and throw it aside. You kick off your shoes haphazardly, causing them to land messily next to Michael's neatly-placed loafers. You ramble on without taking a breath, words spilling out in a rush as you stand there in your bra in front of him, long past any shyness or decorum.

”You would not believe the day I had—fifteen hours, Michael, fifteen! I swear if my coworker is late one more time I’m going to lose my mind. I’m starving, I’m exhausted, I feel gross. I just want to shower for an hour and then order pizza and put on a Disney movie and—”

You stop when you realize he’s staring at you. Not in a worried or confused way, or in a ‘my girlfriend is standing in front of me half-naked’ kind of way—but in a way that is so foreign it makes your stomach flip and your brows knit together.

He’s trying—very poorly—to suppress a smirk, and he’s holding one hand behind his back.

You narrow your eyes. “What are you doing?”

”Nothing,” he says, far too quickly.

“Michael Jackson.” You say sternly, crossing your arms at his evasion.

”Nothing!” He giggles—actually giggles—the sound bubbling out like he just can’t help it. “I just missed you.”

You squint at him, suspicious. “Then why are you looking at me like that?"

He shrugs, all innocence, though the corners of his mouth twitch. “Just looking at my girl.”

You soften a little at that, and begin to turn away to gather your dirty clothes off the floor—until he adds with a casualness so deliberate it was practically glowing:

“My #1 girl.”

You freeze. Oh no. Oh no, no no.

Your entire body goes still—his words hitting you like a jolt of electricity. You spin around on your heel so fast you nearly lose your balance, because you know exactly what he’s referencing—that exact phrasing.

And he knows you know. He stands there, trying—and failing—to hide the cocky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, hand still tucked behind his back like he’s holding an explosive.

You stare at him with a wild, startled look. Your pulse jumps as your eyes dart around the room, and then you see it: the source of his smugness. 

Your memory box, wide open—sitting on the coffee table in the background like a glowing neon sign that reads: you fucked up!

Your soul briefly leaves your body as you look back up at him to see what he’s holding. 

The photo. That photo. The one you probably should have burned. 

He pinches it between two fingers, dangling it in the air like bait—a victorious expression spread across his stupidly pretty face. You let out a horrified, choked sound—and immediately lunge for it. 

But he’s faster.

He lifts his arm effortlessly, holding the photo high above your head. Damn your height. Damn his height. Damn the universe for giving him such long arms. 

“Michael!” You whine, standing up on your tip-toes, fingers brushing uselessly at the air.

He giggles again, stepping back just enough to keep the photo out of your reach. 

“Or…” he says, drawing the word out torturously, eyes sparkling with mischief. ”Is it Marlon’s #1 girl?”

You gasp, making another grab for the photo. He lifts it even higher. “Michael Joseph Jackson! You nosy little—“

You jump again, uselessly—your fingertips missing the photo by a good four or five inches. You can only imagine how pathetic the scene would look to anyone watching—you, dressed only in a bra and wrinkled scrub pants, leaping like a frantic gremlin while your boyfriend stands there laughing at you. 

”You weren’t supposed to find that!” You whine, continuing to stretch your arm as far as it will go. You briefly consider getting a stepstool.

You stop jumping, finally admitting defeat. Your shoulders slump as you let out a long, dramatic groan, dropping your head until your forehead lands against his chest. Michael simply stands there, smug and delighted. He looks so pleased with himself—too pleased, really, for your taste—and you know there’s absolutely no recovering from this.

You should have known better. You did know better. Leaving your sweet, curious boyfriend alone in your apartment with nothing but time and his lifelong, incurable nosiness to keep him company? That was on you.

”Baby?” You mumble against his chest, your cheeks warm.

“Hm?” 

“Are you mad?” You ask, suddenly feeling a little guilty and ashamed for hiding the photo from him at all.

The question hangs in the air—soft, genuine, vulnerable—and for the first time since he flashed that stupid smirk, his expression changes. The teasing fades just a little, replaced by something else entirely. Your chest tightens. 

He lowers the photo a fraction, dark bambi-eyes softening as he looks down at you, then back at the photograph. 

His expression shifts into something thoughtful, humming softly—the sound low in his throat, and says, almost to himself, “I mean… I probably should be mad.”

You look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, searching his face for any sign of real hurt or insecurity. He doesn’t give you one, and the uncertainty makes your breath catch. You would almost rather die than hurt his feelings, intentionally or not.

“I really should,” he continues, nodding solemnly while keeping his eyes on the photo. His tone is slow, deliberate and downright torturous, each word landing heavier than the last.

”I mean…my girlfriend, my sweet, beautiful girl…” He pauses, tilting his head slightly. “…swooning over another man. Right in front of me.”

He lifts the photo a little higher, examining it like evidence. Your face burns even hotter. “And over my own brother, no less.”

Now, your entire body feels like it's on fire. With every teasing word, your embarrassment grows. You want to disappear into the floor. Or snatch the photo and run. Or both.

”Michael…” You whisper, fully mortified.

Michael looks at you fully now, biting his lip, and finally lowers the photo, extending it toward you. You snatch it back gently but urgently, gripping it with both hands and holding it protectively against your chest, effectively hiding it from the world. 

Your cheeks burn, the heat blooming all the way to your ears. You can barely look at him in the eye, your embarrassment so intense it borders on dizzying.

Before you can open your mouth to defend yourself—or scold him some more, you haven’t decided—he leans down and kisses you. Not a quick, teasing peck, but a deep, steady kiss that anchors you right where you stand, immediately silencing every frantic thought swirling around in your head. 

His hands cradle your face for a moment, warm and steady, before one pinches your cheek gently, affectionately, causing you to let out a surprised squeak.

His hands trail down your sides and land on your bottom with a soft, mischievous squeeze. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze intense. “I’m not threatened by anyone,” he says quietly, but firmly. “Especially not Marlon.”

You let out a long, shaky sigh of relief, shoulders finally relaxing. “Good,” you murmur, still clutching the photo that has begun to crumple slightly in your grip. “Because I love Marlon, but as a brother. As a friend. There were never any sparks. Ever.”

You pause at that, and add with a groan, “And he can never find out about this photo. If he does, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Michael laughs at that, clearly imagining exactly how unbearable Marlon—and the rest of his brothers, really—would be with this information.

You roll your eyes and continue, “Besides, my other friend—you remember Kayla? From middle school?—had already claimed you as her favorite member. I couldn’t break girl code like that. So naturally I had to pick someone else.”

Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as soon the words leave your mouth. Good god, you sound like a 16 year old. 

Michael simply laughs again, shaking his head. He pinches your cheek again. “I’ve been in this industry for a very long time, sweet girl. I am very familiar with fangirl logic. It’s very cute.”

You smack his shoulder lightly, your embarrassment finally giving way to amusement. “Well, if it makes you feel better, my favorite has definitely changed.”

He nods, eyes sparkling with mischief again. “Good. Because we are going to the store first thing in the morning to pick up fabric markers so you can make yourself a new shirt.”

You groan, burying your face in his chest again. He giggles again, wrapping his arms around you again. He pulls away slightly, studying you for a moment—your flushed cheeks and embarrassed little frown, the way you’re still clutching the photo like it might leap out of your hands and betray you for a second time—and he kisses you again.

You melt into him without thinking, the tension of your day dissolving with the warmth of his mouth against yours.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. Instead, he presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Then the other. Then the tip of your nose. Your forehead.

You start to giggle helplessly as he continues—kissing all over your face with exaggerated affection, each one softer than the last. He trails down your jaw, your chin, the crook of your neck, beginning to nip and bite at your collar bones. He continues until you’re laughing openly, half-heartedly pushing at his shoulders.

”Michael—!” You squeal, half-laughing, half-pleading as he continues his assault.

He grins against your skin, clearly delighted by your reaction. His hands glide down your waist, fingers curling gently as he delivers a playful tickle against your bare skin—just enough to make you squirm and laugh harder. 

“Stop, stop!” You shout breathlessly, attempting to twist out of his grip. He finally relents, pulling back to take another look at you—cheeks flushed, eyes bright, breath unsteady from laughing. He smiles, impossibly in love.

He turns you by your hips, pushing you gently towards your bedroom, delivering a light, affectionate swat against your backside to send you on your way. “Go on, get in the shower and change into something comfy f’me.”

You watch as he begins walking in the opposite direction with a little bounce in his step. “And what are you doing?”

“Ordering us a pizza!” He calls over his shoulder.

You bite your lip, shaking your head as you start down the hallway toward the washroom. Your heart is impossibly full—still fluttering from his kisses, cheeks warm from his teasing, ribs aching from how hard he made you laugh. 

You can hear him humming—something soft and unfamiliar—and you can’t help but smile. Then, you realize you’re still holding the photo and another thought hits you. 

You stop dead in your tracks, spinning around so fast your hair whips in front of your face. You clear your throat loudly, and he freezes mid-stride, turning to look at you with confusion.

You narrow your eyes, lifting a finger to point at him with all the authority you can muster for a person who was just kissed breathless. “Don’t you dare get into anything else while I’m gone. I mean it, Michael. Not one drawer. Not a single cabinet. Not one.”

He blinks innocently, lips twitching as he tries to think of a retort. You continue, “Because if you do, I swear to god my new shirt is going to say ‘Jermaine’s #1 Girl.’”

His jaw drops in faux-outrage, clutching his chest as if he were mortally wounded. “…You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Now you’re just playin’ dirty.” He shoots back, hands landing on his hips.

“Oh really?” You raise an eyebrow. Clearly, it was time to show him exactly what ‘playin’ dirty’ actually looked like. You casually reach behind your back and unclip your bra. “Try me.”

He watches as it falls to the floor. He chuckles slowly, taking a single step toward you. “You better run, girl. You’re in for it now.”

You let out a yelp as you bolt down the hallway, laughter spilling out as he chases after you. 

Pizza and movies would have to wait. You have a long and eventful night ahead of you. It’s good to be home.

a/n: thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading this far. this is my first time writing for michael, please enjoy and be kind! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.

Michael breaks the kiss and begins to trail his mouth down your neck. There are love bites—new and old—littering your skin as he eagerly adds to the growing collection. He has a few of his own, too—the first few buttons of his black shirt are already undone from your earlier attack. His makeup artist is going to have so much fun trying to cover them up. You can’t bring yourself to care.

His lips are warm and soft, now sucking lightly at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. You shiver when he blows against the wet spot, pulling away to hook a finger into the collar of your—his—shirt, yanking it aside in order to expose more skin. Quickly growing irritated at the obstruction, he finally yanks the shirt impatiently over your head. You lift your arms and allow him to slide the fabric up, breaking the kiss just long enough to be rid of the piece of clothing. You pay no attention to where it lands as he tosses it away, wrapping your arms around his shoulders so you can resume kissing him.

He immediately turns his attention to your now-exposed breasts. His hands, large and warm, cup them—thumbs brushing over your nipples. He pulls away and leans down, mouth open and ready. The second he applies more pressure, though, a sudden and unexpected pain jolts through you. You yelp sharply—causing Michael to pull back immediately, eyes wide with concern.

”What’s wrong?” He asks, breathless. He looks equal parts cute and handsome like this—face flushed, lips kiss-swollen and shiny with spit, yours and his. His brown eyes are glassy and his pupils blown, hair even messier now. His hands hover hesitantly over you as he waits for you to tell him what hurts. 

You gape at him for a second, nearly forgetting to respond as your brain stalls at the sight of him. You shake your head. “I’m not sure… They’re just really sore today, I guess. Keep going, I’m okay. I promise. Just be careful.”

He nods, hesitant, but leans back in—slower this time as he presses a gentle kiss against your skin, right on your sternum. Then another, then another. 

You comb your fingers through his hair again, your mind beginning to drift as he resumes his affections, kissing and licking your sore breasts. Something… isn’t right. 

You’d been extra horny lately. Extra emotional, too. You told yourself that it was simply the stress of him leaving soon—clinginess and desperation building as you anticipate being separated for months. But you were sick a few days ago. And now, your boobs hurt. They’re always sore before you start your period but—

At that thought, a realization slams into you. Hard.

Without warning, you shove Michael off of you. He lands ungracefully on the bed beside you with a startled yelp. 

You scramble off the bed, rushing straight toward the full-length mirror a few feet away from the bed. Your reflection stares back—messy hair, flushed skin, love bites scattered across your neck and chest. Wrong. Something is wrong. 

And you’re pretty sure you know what it is. 

Michael sits up slowly, adjusting his clothes as he watches you with a curious, but wary, expression. After a moment he speaks, voice small and hesitant: “...Baby?”

You turn sharply toward him, eyes wild. “Michael, what’s the date today?”

The abruptness of your question catches him off guard. “Uh…” He glances around the room, thinking. “It’s the… twenty-ninth, I think?”

His response feels like a physical blow—your face drains, your stomach drops. Knees go weak, and for a second you think you might collapse. You curse, “Fuck!—”

His eyes go wide at the sudden explosion. “What?! What’s wrong?”

”I’m late,” you breathe, voice raising an octave as panic begins to set in. “Michael, I’m late!”

”Late.” he repeats, oblivious. “Late for what...?”

You stare at him incredulously, stunned that he doesn’t immediately understand. Instead, he sits there looking genuinely lost, brows knitting as he attempts to catch up. 

Then you see it—the exact moment it clicks.

”Oh.” He says with a loud gulp. “You mean… late. As in, your—“

You nod, throat tight. “Like, over a week.”

The room suddenly feels too small, the air too heavy and your feet begin to move before your mind has the chance to catch up. You begin pacing—fast and frantic, back and forth across the room. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears as you begin to hyperventilate.

“This can’t be happening,” you mutter, running your hands frantically through your hair. “This cannot be happening right now.”

Michael stands slowly, taking a cautious step in your direction. “We don’t know anything for sure yet—“

”That doesn’t matter!” You snap, voice cracking. “Even the possibility is insane! Thriller just came out. You’re about to go on tour. On tour, Michael! For months!”

He flinches at your intensity but stays silent, allowing you to rant. He keeps his distance as you begin to wear a hole in the carpet.

“Do you understand how bad this timing is? How impossible this will be?” You continue, volume continuing to rise.

“We will figure it out, baby. Whatever it is—“

”And we’re not married yet,” You cut in, nearly out of breath now. “Oh god—your mother, Michael. Your mother! Katherine is going to be so disappointed. She’s going to think we’re irresponsible. That I’m—“

His brows lift slightly, surprised at the sudden direction your panic has taken and opens his mouth again to speak but you cut him off again.

”And Joseph—“ You stop pacing just long enough to throw your hands up, bawling them into fists. “Joseph is going to throw a fit. He’s going to blame me. He’s going to say I ruined everything. He’s going to—“

“Hey,” Michael says, taking another careful step forward, beginning to reach toward you. “That’s not—“

But you’re already moving again, already spiraling—ranting about schedules and timing and the press and his family—and just about everything else that could possibly go wrong. Your hands are trembling, breath uneven and wheezy as your thoughts continue to crash into one other. 

“And I’ll be here alone,” you continue, breath shaking. “Pregnant, and alone while you’re halfway across the world.”

Michael's expression tightens—hurt flickering briefly across his features. “You wouldn’t be alone,” he says quietly, voice soft.  But you don’t hear him. You’re too far gone, too overwhelmed and tangled in anxiety. 

”I can’t do this right now. I can’t—I don’t even know how this happened—”

Michael opens his mouth, but quickly closes it, deciding that now is not the time to point out the obvious. He tries again, doing his best to keep his voice steady. “Just sit down. Please.”

You shake your head, eyes beginning to well up with tears. “I can’t sit down. I can’t think. I can’t—“

“Alright, hey—“ Michael says, moving closer. You barely notice. You’re still spiraling.

“Hey!” He shouts—not harshly, but loud and sudden enough to jolt you out of your frenzy. You halt mid-step, breath catching as his fingers close gently, but firmly, around your wrist.

“Look at me,” he says, your eyes snapping to his immediately at his firm tone. “You’re scared. I get that, yeah? But let's slow down so we can think. Just for a minute.” 

He continues, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Okay, mama?”

You swallow hard, but nod—the buzzing beneath your skin is still there, but now muted slightly as he takes charge. His own anxiety eases slightly when he sees you calm down, even a little.

He hands lift in a careful, deliberate motion and settle on your shoulders, warm and steady as he guides you toward the bed.

”Sit down,” he says softly, but with a firmness that leaves no room for argument. You allow him to guide you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You sit, body too overwhelmed to resist. You watch helplessly as he crouches down to pick up your discarded shirt from the floor, pulling over your head and smoothing your hair back until it's out of your face. 

Michael lowers himself to the floor in front of you, kneeling until he’s eye-level. The posture makes him look smaller, but somehow stronger—like he’s bracing himself to carry whatever weight you can’t.

His expression is calm—almost unnervingly so—as he looks up at you. He takes your hands in his—enclosing them in his warm grasp and squeezing gently, as if trying to bring you back to reality with a single touch. “We don’t know anything yet, and panicking won’t help. But I’m not going to expect you to be calm right now. So I’ll be calm for the both of us.”

The words land with a weight that makes your chest ache—he’s not asking you to be okay. He’s not telling you to stop feeling what you’re feeling. He’s stepping into the space he knows you can’t fill right now. 

Your eyes sting at his complete and utter conviction. His hands around yours suddenly feel like the only solid thing in the room. You want to cry, but you no longer feel like you’re spiraling out of control. 

"I’m scared,” you admit, voice trembling.

“I know,” He nods, lifting one hand from yours and bringing it up to your face, his thumb brushing gently along your cheek as he tucks a strand of hair back. “You’re allowed to be. We’re gonna take this one step at a time. Here’s what we’re going to do—we’re going to get a pregnancy test. And then we’ll go from there.”

Your breath catches—the word pregnancy still feels too heavy, too big. But you nod anyway, because he’s right. Then, another reality sets in and your face crumples again before you can stop it. “Michael, we can’t just… go to the store. Not without being mobbed. And if anyone sees me buying a pregnancy test…”

”Right,” he murmurs, leaning back on his heels. “…I’ll call Bill.”

You don’t argue. You trust Bill as much as Michael does, but the idea of having to explain this to him, or anyone really, makes your stomach twist. 

He stands, squeezing your hand once before letting go. He hesitates for a moment before picking up the phone from its receiver on his nightstand, taking a moment to gather himself before dialing. 

Bill picks up almost immediately. You can hear his voice faintly through the reciever—warm, steady, familiar. Bill isn’t just security—he’s family. Practically a second father to Michael, and he’s always adored you.

“Hey, Bill. It’s me.” He says, voice uncharacteristically tight. “Um… I need a favor.”

There’s a pause. Michael swallows thickly. “No, no, everything’s fine. I just... need you to pick something up. From the drugstore.”

Another pause—his cheeks blushing immediately. You’ve seen him embarrassed before—shy, bashful, flustered—but never like this. You would giggle if you weren’t so distressed yourself. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes squeezed shut as he struggles to find his words.

“A pregnancy test,” he finally blurts out. Michael begins to stammer immediately. “I mean—not for me. Obviously. For her. She’s—we think she might be—we don’t know yet, but—“

You hear Bill say something on the other end, and Michael stops, mortified. His cheeks go red—a full, warm flush that climbs all the way to the tips of his ears. “Please don’t tease me about this, Bill.” He practically whines, voice small and embarrassed. “Just… Please? Will you?”

You can hear Bill’s tone shift—gentle and affectionate. He loves Michael like a son, of course he wouldn’t do this without a little teasing thrown in. But still, he doesn’t push it. He agrees without hesitation. Michael exhales. “Yeah, yeah. Yeah. Thank you. And please… be discreet. I know you know. See you soon. Okay. Bye.”

He hangs up and immediately flops back onto the bed. His hands cover his face, pressing against his cheeks like he’s trying to cool them down. 

“You okay?” You whisper, holding back your own amusement. 

“Yeah,” He peeks at you through his fingers, cheeks still burning. “That was… embarrassing.”

“I know. Thank you,” you respond, leaning down to peck his cheek, the action not helping his blushing.

You lie on the bed in silence as you wait for Bill, listening for the sound of his car pulling in the driveway. You stay lost in your thoughts, and Michael stays in his. He opens his mouth to say something when you notice headlights finally sweep across the driveway. 

“That’s him. I’ll be right back,” Michael says, pressing kiss against your forehead as he stands. He hesitates for a half second—not wanting to leave you—before finally scurrying out of the bedroom.

He’s gone just long enough for the quiet to press in around you, your mind beginning to race again. Before you can fall into another spiral, you stand and walk to the other side of the room, watching out the window as your boyfriend practically jogs across the driveway to meet Bill.

The older man gives him a look—half concern, half amusement—the kind of look only someone who’s known you since childhood can give. Bill says something you can’t hear, but you watch as Michael’s shoulders tense, then relax, and then tense again. 

Bill hands him the paper bag, and pats his shoulder—a fatherly gesture, warm and steady—and says something else that makes Michael's cheeks turn pink. He shakes his head, embarrassed, but smiles gratefully, thanking him. 

You watch as Bill climbs back into the car and drives off. Michael hurries back inside, and seconds later he steps back into the room holding the paper bag to his chest as if it held something delicate. “We got it,”

You nod, and head into the adjacent bathroom, Michael on your heels. He sets the bag down and pulls out the box—tearing it open and unfolding the instructions, smoothing them out flat against the countertop.  You stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder, reading the tiny print together. His eyes move slowly across the page, afraid to miss something important. 

“Okay…” You take a breath. “I guess I just… go.”

He nods, still reading. “Yeah. That’s what it says.”

You glance at him, expectantly. You clear your throat. He looks at you, blinking in response. You raise an eyebrow. “Uh, are you going to watch?”

"Oh! Right. Sorry.” He spins around so fast he nearly bumps into the door, facing it like it's the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. He hums, hands folded behind his back as he bounces on his heels. 

”Michael…” You sigh, defeated. “You gotta get out.”

He whips around halfway, eyes wide. “What? Why?”

”Because I’m pee-shy,” you hiss, flustered. “Especially with you just standing there listening.”

“But I want to be supportive!” He objects, looking genuinely wounded.

”I know. And you are. But you can be supportive from the other side of the door.”

He hesitates—torn between wanting to be close and wanting to respect your space—but finally obliges when you point impatiently at the door.

”Alright,” he sniffs. “I’ll be right outside, okay?”

He slips out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You let out a long, shaky sigh, slumping against the counter. You take a breath. Then another. You do what you need to do—heart pounding and hands trembling as you follow the instructions step by step. When you finish, you set the test on the edge of the counter—carefully, as if it were a bomb and not a pregnancy test. 

You stare at it for a moment, then finally leave the room to find Michael sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, hands wringing together anxiously. His foot taps nervously against the floor. He's tightly wound, but his expression is thoughtful. Focused. Worried. There’s something else there too—something you can’t decipher. 

He looks up quickly when he notices your presence. “You okay?”

You nod, though you feel anything but. ”It’s done… it says it’ll take five minutes.”

Wordlessly, he extends his arm out in a silent invitation. You don’t hesitate—falling into his embrace and curling up against his side, letting his warmth wrap around you like a blanket. His arm folds around your shoulders, pulling you tightly against him.

He rests his chin on the top of your head, his fingers absentmindedly playing with your hair—twisting a strand around his finger and letting it fall again over and over again. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in, allowing the familiar scent to calm your nerves. 

A minute passes like that. Maybe two—you’re not sure. Time feels strange, stretched thin and heavy. The bathroom is only a few feet away, yet it feels like another world. One where a tiny, unassuming piece of plastic that could change the entire course of your life sits on the counter, counting down minutes that feel impossibly long. 

Finally, Michael breaks the silence, his voice low, chest rumbling softly against your cheek where it rests. “No matter what,” he says, pausing to kiss the crown of your head. ”It’s going to be okay.”

You want to agree, but the fear doesn’t go away. “But what if it’s positive?”

He doesn’t flinch. His fingers continue moving through your hair, gentle and deliberate. “It’ll still be okay.” He says—the certainty in his tone causing your breath to catch. You want to believe it. To believe him.

You shift slightly, pulling away enough to face him—to ask how he can be so sure, to question the promise he’s making so easily. But before you can speak, he leans in and presses his lips against yours, quieting your thoughts.

He lingers for only a second before pulling back, resting his forehead against yours. The panic that had been clawing at your heart finally loosens its grip, and you feel like you can breathe. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. 

”I should…. Go check,” you murmur, the shakiness in your voice betraying your nerves.

Michael tightens his arm around you briefly—keeping you anchored a second longer, before releasing you. You take a deep breath as you stand. He rises with you and you walk side by side into the bathroom, where the test sits exactly where you left it. You hesitate. “I’m afraid to look.”

”We’ll look together,” he says, shoulder brushing softly against yours. You lean forward at the exact same. 

One single blue line. 

Negative.

The breath you were holding leaves you in a rush, your knees nearly buckling with relief. The tension drains from your body so fast it makes you dizzy. 

“Oh my god,” you gasp. You press a hand to your chest, closing your eyes as you allow the relief to wash over you. “Praise the lord.”

Behind you, Michael doesn’t move. He barely reacts, simply staring at the now-useless test—blankly, quietly. Almost… longingly. But you don’t notice. Your relief is too loud, too consuming, too overwhelming for anything else to register.

You turn toward him, now feeling sheepish—cheeks suddenly turning red with embarrassment as the memory of your earlier panic flickers back. “I’m sorry. For how I acted. Well… overreacted.”

Michael shakes his head, his expression unreadable. He steps closer and leans down, pecking your forehead. ”You were scared,” he murmurs. “I’m glad it’s… over now. I’m—I’m… glad.”

His voice is calm, but there’s something underneath it—something quiet and thoughtful. Something you can’t quite place. 

“It’s late,” he continues before you can question him. “Let's go to bed, yeah?”

You nod gratefully, suddenly realizing how tired you are—emotionally wrung out and physically drained from the whole ordeal.

He doesn’t say anything else, remaining uncharacteristically quiet as you each get ready for bed. You can usually read him so well, but his expression stays neutral and it makes you wonder what’s going on in that head of his.

You lay in bed for a long while. The room is quiet, but it’s thick and heavy, pressing against you. 

You’re lying on your side, your back to Michael, but you don’t need to look to know he’s awake. You can practically feel the faint tension that seems to hum from his side of the bed. 

There’s something he’s not saying. You can feel it. You stare at the wall for another few minutes—trying to convince yourself you’re imagining it. But the longer you lie there, the more certain you become. He's awake, and whatever he’s thinking about is sitting heavily in the dark between you.

Finally, you decide to bite the bullet—turning slowly onto your other side. The mattress dips slightly as you shift. The room is dim, but the moonlight cutting through the window illuminates his face.

He’s indeed awake—one hand tucked under his head, the other resting lazily on his abdomen. His eyes are open, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, lost somewhere far inside his own mind. 

“Mikey?” You whisper, reaching out to gingerly place a hand on his chest.

He grasps it immediately—instinctively, really—his fingers curing around yours like he’s been waiting for you to touch him. He hums in response, a low sound from deep in his throat, but doesn’t look away from the ceiling.

”What’cha thinking about over there?” You ask softly.

“Nothin’,” he responds after a moment.

“You’re a bad liar.” You scoff. “And a loud thinker.” That earns a small, quiet chuckle from him. His thumb begins to slowly trace small shapes on the back of your hand. “Tell me what's on your mind. Please?”

He goes quiet again, gathering whatever he’s been holding back. You wait patiently, watching him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm. 

The moonlight catches the edge of his profile—the curve of his cheekbone, the soft line of his jaw as he chews the inside of his lip, the faint crease between his brows that only appears when he’s thinking too hard. He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Anyone else might have thought he had fallen asleep.

”Would it have been so bad?” He finally asks, voice soft and barely above a whisper. “A baby? With me?”

The words land hard, shattering something in your heart. His voice is small, the words vulnerable. He still doesn’t look at you, but his hand tightens around yours like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. Then you see it: a faint echo of the way he stared at the negative test earlier—a look you didn’t understand at the time. 

You know immediately that this is one of those moments—one where you need to choose your words carefully, where the wrong phrasing could bruise something tender.

“Michael…” You murmur, cautiously. You lift yourself up on your elbow slightly—enough to face him without breaking away physically. “You know that’s not what my panic was about, right? It wasn’t about you.”

He nods slowly. He bites his lip, gaze drifting back to the ceiling. “Yeah, I know.”

You study him for a moment. “Then what are you saying?”

“It’s just that…” He swallows. “I wouldn’t have minded if it had been positive.”

The admission is soft, and he continues staring upward, like he can’t bear to look at you as he says it. Your heart twists as his voice betrays something aching. Something he didn’t mean to reveal out loud.

“I know the timing is bad,” he continues, voice trembling slightly. “The album… The tour. Everything’s… complicated. But part of me was disappointed when the test came back negative.” As the words leave his mouth, he winces slightly. “I’m sorry.”

”Why are you sorry?”

He shrugs—a small, helpless motion.  “Because I know that you’re—that… we’re not ready. Either of us.” His voice tightens, like he’s trying not to cry. “But… It hurt a little. Hearing you say that you’d be alone. ‘That you think I would abandon you and our baby.”

He turns his head, finally looking at you fully—bambi-eyes watery, and in them you can see the aching that he’s been carrying around for the last few hours. He’s not angry or resentful. Just… Sad. Yearning for something he doesn’t have.

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can speak he shifts, his grip tightening around your hand.

”I would cancel the tour,” he continues, slight defensiveness creeping into his tone. “before I left you alone and pregnant.”

“Michael…” you start, voice catching. “That’s exactly why the timing is wrong. I don’t want you to put your career on hold for me.”

He rolls his eyes slightly—not at you, but at the situation. “I don’t want to go on the Victory Tour in the first place. You know that.”

“I do.” You exhale, nodding. “I do know that, baby.”

He looks at you sharply, frustrated. Not with you—never with you—but with everything else: The obligations. The pressure. The expectations. His father.

”But you made a commitment.” You remind him gently. “To your fans. To your brothers.”

His jaw tightens, conflict registering across his face. He knows you’re right, that he couldn’t simply walk away from the tour. Not without consequences.

”And…” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “I want to be married first, before we have a baby. And I know you want that too.”

Again, you’re right. He does want that. To do things the ‘right’ way. He wants that more than anything.

“Yeah,” he finally relents. “You’re right.”

A beat of silence settles into the space between you as he resumes his task of tracing shapes into your skin, slow and thoughtful. Then, suddenly, he stops.

“Would you marry me if I asked?” He blurts out, as if the thought had pushed its way to the surface before he could stop himself.

Your entire body goes still—the abruptness of his question essentially giving you whiplash. You stare at him, stunned—mouth opening and closing over and over as you try, and fail, to form a response. ”Michael… I— are you asking me—?“

He shakes his head immediately, quick and earnest. “No, no. I’m not asking you. Not like this.” He turns his whole body to face you—a boyish grin tugging at his lips. “I’d do it in a much more romantic way than in bed on a random Tuesday night after you just peed on a stick.”

Your heart does a backflip at his certainty, at the sweet promise tucked into his words.

“I was just wondering if you would say yes.”

“Oh.” You say dumbly, your face growing warm as you smile despite yourself. You squeeze his hand. “I—Yes. If you asked. I would.” 

“Okay, good.” he nods, almost to himself, a secret little smile playing on his lips. He lets out a relieved sigh, squeezing your hand in return. He reaches up and brushes his thumb along your jaw. “Thats real good. Because after this stupid tour is over with… I’ve got all sorts of plans.”

Your heart flutters, and you can’t hold back the little giggle that escapes as you lie back down against his chest. The thought is warm, dizzying, and impossible not to voice— ”Engagement.” You murmur. “Wedding. And then a baby?”

“Babies.” He corrects. 

”Babies.” You repeat, deadpan. “Like… multiple?”

”I want eighteen,” he states with full conviction, not even slightly joking.

“Michael Joseph Jackson!” You squeak, smacking his chest playfully. “That’s not… I can’t believe—let me remind you, Mister ‘Eighteen Kids’, that you would not be the one pushing something very large out of a very small hole.”

He snickers mischievously—a warm, delighted sound. His bright eyes crinkle at the edges, the tension from earlier finally melting into something soft and hopeful.

”Okay, alright,” he concedes, dramatically rubbing the spot you hit. “We’ll start with one. And see how that goes.”

Your mutual laughter fades into a quiet hum as you settle against him again, and the future you’re both imagining—engagement, wedding, marriage, and babies—hangs in the air like a warm, sure promise. You lift your head up from his chest just once more—and lean up to kiss him.

His lips meet yours without hesitation, and when you pull back his eyes stay closed, as if savoring it. ”M’gonna miss you so much. This tour is already too long, and it hasn’t even started.” He murmurs against your lips.

”I know, baby. I hate it too. But we’ll talk every day. And write letters. And I’ll visit you on as many stops as I can. And hey—one perk of me not being pregnant is that I can visit you on tour as much as I want.”

“That is a perk,” He admits, but the melancholy in his tone doesn’t fade.

”And besides,” you continue teasingly, trying to cheer him up. “You’ll be keeping yourself real busy looking for an engagement ring.”

He laughs finally—an actual laugh, warm and bright and boyish. ”Hush, woman,” he playfully reprimands, poking you in the ribs. “Don’t go and try to spoil my plans, now.”

Your left hand rests against his heartbeat and suddenly, in your mind's eye, you can see it: a ring sitting there, glinting softly in the moonlight, comfortable and natural, like it always belonged there. 

The picture continues to unfold—a life, a full and happy one, with the man you love. A life with Michael. 

(and, apparently, his eighteen babies.)

He hums contentedly as you curl up against him, pulling you impossibly close before drifting off to sleep. 

a/n: if you’ve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. please enjoy and be kind ❤️

taglist: @roses-without-raindrops @amnesia-sc @slickdickwitchbitchh @daydreamerwithnolife @umibug @unknwnbrii @i-heart-carlisle @yomamajbkj @18lkpeters @alohaluz @miratate @sarcasmismyfirstlove @escuzimwa @brownsugarletters @ap-ple-head @alikedaya @moonwalkheart @strawbevrri @imbetterinstereo @bunnykay @mysterious--treasure comment to be added or removed :)