⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ sunny 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The stage lights cut through the golden haze of the Grammy Awards while your heart pounded so hard it felt synced to the beat of the music.

Your name echoed through the arena. The performance of the night. The label’s biggest bet. The newcomer nominated in four categories.

And at that moment, you stood center stage wearing an outfit that had nearly given your stylists heart attacks for being “too daring”: a pair of low-rise sparkling pants and a cropped top that left your stomach completely exposed.

Including your belly button piercing. You knew exactly the effect it had on people. And you liked it. The music started.

The audience erupted into applause.

You walked confidently toward the center of the stage with the microphone in hand while the first notes echoed through the theater. Your hips naturally followed the rhythm of the song, your hair moving perfectly with every choreographed turn.

In the front row, Michael Jackson simply could not take his eyes off you.

Not for a second.

Of course he already knew who you were. You had briefly met months earlier at a label event. A short conversation. Only a few minutes.

But now…

Now it was different. Because he was completely hypnotized. By your voice, by the way you danced, by the insane confidence you carried on stage.

And especially by the way that piercing glittered every time the lights hit your skin.

Michael discreetly ran his tongue across his lips while watching you spin across the stage.

Jesus Christ.

He was 40 years old.

40.

And somehow he still felt like a teenager staring at his first crush. Ridiculous. But impossible to stop.

Then you looked directly at him during one part of the song. Just for a second. But it was enough. Michael literally forgot how to breathe.

Someone beside him was saying something about the performance, but he didn’t hear a word. Because the only thing he could think was:

I need to know this woman properly.

And that obsession only got worse when you won the Grammy later that night.

Your speech was short, emotional, and beautiful. Michael smiled to himself while watching you hold the award with discreet tears in your eyes. And that was exactly why, for the first time in years, he decided not to leave after the ceremony.

The after party was packed. Loud music, neon lights, celebrities scattered throughout the ballroom. Michael normally hated places like this.

But tonight? He had a reason to stay.

Sitting alone at one of the tables farther away from the crowd, an untouched drink in his hands, he discreetly watched the dance floor.

Watched you.

You danced with Britney Spears in the middle of the crowd, laughing about something while spinning to the music. And somehow you looked even more beautiful now. Brighter, more radiant. Michael couldn’t stop staring.

Then the song ended.

You and Britney walked off the dance floor still laughing, both breathless. Until Britney suddenly spotted Michael sitting alone.

“Oh my God, Michael’s here.”

You froze instantly.

“The Michael Jackson?”

Britney laughed.

“Is there another one?”

Your stomach flipped immediately.

“Britney—”

But it was already too late. She grabbed your hand and started pulling you across the ballroom.

“Let’s go say hi.”

“I’m not surviving this,” you muttered nervously, making Britney laugh even harder.

Michael noticed the two of you approaching immediately. And stood up at once.

Britney hugged him first.

“Hi, baby.”

“Hi, Brit.”

Then she turned excitedly toward you.

“Have you two met properly yet?”

“Only a little,” you answered, trying to sound casual.

Michael smiled instantly the second he heard your voice this close to him.

“She wins a Grammy and still stays humble,” Britney teased.

You rolled your eyes.

Michael opened his arms toward you.

“Congratulations.”

You stepped closer and instantly caught his cologne as he wrapped you in a careful hug, warm, elegant.

Dangerously good.

“Thank you,” you answered, trying to ignore how fast your heart was beating.

Then someone called Britney from across the ballroom. She glanced over her shoulder quickly.

“I gotta go.”

Britney looked between you and Michael with a very obvious smirk.

“Behave.”

“Britney!” you complained, mortified.

She only laughed before disappearing back into the crowd. And then…

It was just the two of you.

Michael slipped his hands into his pockets while tilting his head slightly.

“Looks like it’s just us now.”

The ridiculously attractive way he said it sent a shiver straight down your spine.

So you decided to play along.

“That’s great.”

Michael’s smile slowly grew. His eyes traveled shamelessly down your body, stopping directly at your stomach. At the piercing.

“Did that hurt?” he asked calmly, subtly gesturing toward it.

You smiled slightly.

“Not at all.”

Michael raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

You took a small step closer to him.

“I have other ones hidden too.”

That nearly destroyed what little self-control he still had. A very inappropriate response instantly appeared in Michael’s head. But for once in his life, he decided to behave.

So instead, he just smiled. Slowly. Purely sinful.

“Dangerous girl…”

Your heartbeat instantly sped up at the sound of his rough voice. Michael leaned slightly closer toward you.

“Want to go somewhere less loud?”

You held his gaze for a few long seconds. And smiled.

“I do.”

Michael placed a gentle hand against your back while guiding you away from the loud music of the party.

The touch was light. But enough to make your entire body hyperaware.

The two of you walked through quieter hallways of the hotel until reaching a nearly empty balcony lit only by the city lights reflecting against the glass.

Finally, silence.

Well… almost.

Because your heart was still beating ridiculously fast.

Michael closed the balcony door behind you and let out a small breath.

“Much better.”

You smiled softly.

The night breeze lightly moved your hair while you leaned against the balcony railing.

Michael watched every movement you made. Every detail. And now, without the harsh party lights around you, somehow you looked even prettier. More dangerous.

“So…” you started playfully. “You stayed for the after party. That’s rare.”

Michael let out a low laugh.

“You noticed?”

“Everybody noticed.”

He stepped closer slowly.

“Maybe I had a reason.”

Your stomach instantly flipped again. Michael stopped beside you, close enough for you to feel his body heat.

“You were staring at me during the performance,” you commented casually, even though you already knew the answer.

Michael didn’t even try to deny it.

“Yeah.” He smirked slightly. “Was I obvious?”

“Completely.”

His eyes briefly dropped toward your stomach again.

Damn.

That piercing was genuinely ruining him. Michael slowly ran his tongue across his lips before asking:

“Do you have any idea what you did to me tonight?”

The low, rough way he said it sent chills across your entire body. You decided to tease him.

“Maybe.”

Michael let out a quiet laugh through his nose.

“Dangerous answer.”

You turned slightly toward him.

“And what exactly was the effect?”

Now the tension between you was impossible to ignore.

Michael tilted his head slightly while watching you carefully, like he was trying to decide how far he was allowed to go.

Then his eyes lifted back to yours.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you all night.”

Your heart skipped instantly.

And the worst part? He sounded completely sincere.

“Michael…”

“No.” He stepped closer. “Seriously.”

The closeness made you stop breathing for a second. He was even more beautiful up close.

More charming.

More intense.

Michael placed one hand against the railing behind you, practically trapping you between him and the balcony.

And somehow he still looked careful, waiting for some sign that he should stop.

You didn’t want him to stop. Not even a little.

“You know this is kind of surreal for me, right?” you admitted softly.

Michael raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“You.”

That made him laugh quietly.

“Baby, I’m the one losing my mind over you.”

You bit the corner of your lip trying to hide your smile.

Fatal mistake.

Because Michael’s eyes immediately followed the movement. And darkened instantly.

“Oh, you can’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.”

His voice came out rougher this time. Your heartbeat sped up even more. Then Michael slowly lifted his hand.

His fingers slid gently along the side of your exposed waist. Just one touch. But enough to make you hold your breath.

“Your outfit tonight…” he murmured. “That was cruel.”

You let out a nervous laugh.

“Cruel?”

“Very.”

He was too close now. Close enough for you to smell his cologne. Feel his breath.

Michael’s self-control looked dangerously close to disappearing. And honestly?

So did yours.

“You’ve been flirting with me since I got here?” you asked playfully.

Michael smiled slowly.

“Since the Grammy performance, actually.”

You widened your eyes dramatically.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m serious.”

“So that look from the audience…”

“Baby.” He laughed softly. “I almost lost my mind when I saw your piercing.”

You burst out laughing immediately. Michael laughed too, shaking his head.

“Don’t laugh, I’m trying to be smooth.”

“You’re doing very well.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm.”

His smile slowly faded while his eyes drifted back down to your lips.

And suddenly the atmosphere shifted again.

Hotter.

Slower.

More dangerous.

Michael slowly leaned in toward you. Carefully, giving you enough time to pull away. You didn’t pull away. Didn’t even think about it.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured softly.

But both of you already knew you wouldn’t.

Michael leaned closer slowly. Like he was giving you enough time to change your mind. But his gaze had already been fixed on your lips for far too long.

And you wanted this.

Badly.

Your heartbeat skyrocketed as he stopped only inches away, one hand still resting against the railing behind you while the other hovered dangerously close to your waist. Then, at the very last second, you placed your hand against his chest.

Michael stopped immediately.

His dark eyes lifted to yours.

“Not here,” you whispered softly.

Your voice came out weaker than you intended. Michael slowly exhaled through his nose, clearly trying to regain some level of self-control.

“Why not?”

You let out a nervous laugh and glanced toward the balcony door.

“There are too many people around.”

Michael briefly followed your gaze. Then looked back at you. Still too close.

“Then come home with me.”

Your stomach flipped completely.

The calm way he said it. Natural. Confident. Like he could already picture you in his space.

“We can have a drink,” he continued quietly. “Talk somewhere private.”

You almost said yes immediately.

Almost.

But then the rational part of your brain finally returned. You smiled slightly.

“I think it’s better if we’re not seen leaving together.”

And that immediately changed his expression. Only for a second, but you noticed.

Michael pulled back slightly, almost like he was trying to hide his disappointment. He thought you weren’t interested.

The thought nearly made you laugh. Because that man clearly had no idea what he was doing to you.

So you stepped slightly closer again.

“Michael.”

He lifted his eyes back to yours.

“I’m staying here tonight.”

Now he looked confused.

“At the hotel.”

The silence lasted exactly two seconds before his smile slowly returned.

You saw the exact moment he understood.bAnd honestly? It was ridiculously attractive.

Before Michael could respond, a familiar voice echoed from the other side of the balcony.

“There you are!”

Britney Spears appeared in the doorway, instantly smiling when she saw the two of you together.

“There’s an after-after party downstairs.”

You laughed softly.

“I’ll be there in a minute!”

Britney looked between you and Michael quickly. Her expression clearly said she understood exactly what was happening between you two.

“Sure you will,” she teased before disappearing again.

You shook your head, laughing. Then looked back at Michael.

“Looks like I’m being summoned.”

Michael smiled slowly. But this time, his hand finally settled against your waist. Firm, warm, making your entire body shiver instantly.

You leaned in just enough to leave a lingering kiss against his cheek. And immediately felt his fingers tighten against your waist.

When you pulled away, the two of you kept staring at each other for far too long. Silence. Tension.

That dangerous kind of chemistry impossible to ignore. Then you smiled slightly.

“Room 505.”

Michael slowly raised an eyebrow.

“Twelfth floor.”

His smile turned devastatingly beautiful.

“I’ll be there.”

Your heartbeat immediately sped up.

You started walking back toward the balcony doors, but before stepping into the brightly lit ballroom again, you looked back over your shoulder one last time.

Michael was still watching you, with that intense look.

Warm.

Hungry.

And honestly?

That only made your anticipation worse.

You walked back onto the dance floor trying to act normal while Britney excitedly rambled beside you. But it was impossible to focus.

Michael first saw you at an art gallery event. You were invited by a friend and were only there for the free champagne. The moment his eyes met yours, he was completely captivated. At the end of the night, he came up to you and introduced himself.

You were shocked at first, but you recovered quickly. You talked about art and music, and the chemistry was almost instant. You gave him your number, and the next morning he called you and invited you to dinner.

After a week, he showed up at your apartment (to this day you don't know how he got your address) with a huge bouquet of roses in his hand, inviting you for a walk. You invited him in, and while you were getting ready, he happened to see the overdue rent notice on the table. At that moment, he decided he would help you.

He made the proposal during lunch that day, and you said no. You didn't want him to think you were a gold digger; you were with him because you genuinely liked him. He insisted, saying he didn't have much money to spend it on and would be happy to help you and be useful.

After much insistence, you finally agree.

You thought he would only help you with occasional expenses, but when you give him your account number so he can make the rent payments, he ends up overspending. Michael always sends you triple the rent, telling you to spend the money however you want. You feel guilty at first and try to return it, but he insists.

Then, he gives you a credit card with no limit and tells you that you can spend as much as you want. He closes an entire shopping mall so you can shop in peace and makes you go to the best clothing stores and buys you the most expensive items.

Usually, after shopping at practically the entire mall, you go back to your apartment and spend the rest of the day together. Michael likes the comfort and privacy of your apartment, but he plans to ask you to move in with him soon.

Three weeks later, Michael Jackson was finally discharged from the hospital.

The second the doctor gave permission, Michael looked happier than he had in days. Not because he hated the hospital, but because he knew you were taking him home.

And somehow, over those three weeks, taking care of him had quietly become your entire routine.

You slept curled awkwardly in hospital chairs. Helped the nurses change bandages. Forced him to eat when he claimed he “wasn’t hungry.” Held his hand during painful treatments.

And every single night, Michael fell asleep only after making sure you were still sitting beside him.

So when he finally arrived home, it felt natural for you to stay. At first, it was supposed to be temporary. Just until he recovered properly.

That’s what you kept telling yourself while your clothes slowly began appearing inside his closets.

Your skincare products took over one of his bathroom counters. Your books ended up stacked beside his bed.

And Michael…

Michael loved every second of it.

“You know,” he said one afternoon while dramatically lying across the couch, “my hand still hurts.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately.

“You used that hand to steal my fries thirty minutes ago.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I suffered while doing it.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then snatched the bag of fries away completely. Michael gasped dramatically.

“That’s emotional blackmail.”

“You’re healing remarkably fast for someone supposedly dying five minutes ago.”

He smiled instantly.

That smile. The one that had become dangerously effective against you.

Three weeks after the accident, Michael looked much better. Most of the bandages were gone now, though a few still covered parts of his scalp and hand. The doctors said the recovery was going extremely well.

Mostly because he was actually resting for once.

Which, according to everyone around him, had never happened before you. The truth was, Michael liked being taken care of by you far more than he should have.

He liked waking up and finding you asleep beside him. Liked the way you scolded him whenever he forgot medication. Liked when your fingers carefully adjusted his bandages.

Liked how the entire house suddenly felt warm whenever you were inside it. And somewhere during those quiet mornings together, something terrifying settled into his chest.

He didn’t know how to exist without you there anymore. One evening, rain tapped softly against the windows while you sat on the floor beside the coffee table organizing his medication schedule.

Michael watched you silently from the couch. Completely distracted.

“You’re staring again,” you murmured without looking up.

“I can’t help it.”

You smiled faintly.

“You’re feeling better today?”

Michael immediately made a thoughtful face.

“Hm. Maybe a little weak.”

You finally looked up suspiciously.

“Weak enough that you can’t put away your own records?”

“Yes.”

“Weak enough that you somehow danced around the kitchen this morning?”

“That was recovery therapy.”

You burst out laughing.

Michael smiled immediately after hearing it. God, he loved that sound.

You shook your head while reorganizing the pill bottles.

“You know you’re getting spoiled, right?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re impossible.”

Michael stayed quiet for a moment.

Then softer:

“You make me want to be.”

That made you pause. Your fingers slowly stopped moving.

When you looked up, Michael was already watching you with that same vulnerable expression he only showed when the two of you were alone.

“You know…” he started quietly. “Before the accident, I hated being home sometimes.”

You frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?”

“It felt empty.”

The confession surprised you. Michael looked down briefly before continuing.

“I’d finish tours or recordings and come back to this huge house and…” He shrugged lightly. “It never really felt like mine.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“But now…”

His eyes lifted to yours again.

“Now you’re here.”

The room suddenly felt very still. Rain tapping against the windows.

Soft music playing somewhere downstairs.

Michael’s voice quieter than usual. And then he said the thing that completely stole your breath away.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

Your heart skipped instantly.

“Mike…”

“I’m serious.”

He sat up slowly from the couch.

“I know this started because of the accident, but…” He smiled nervously. “I can’t pretend I don’t love waking up beside you.”

Emotion tightened painfully in your chest. Michael looked strangely nervous now. Almost shy.

Which was absurd considering this was Michael Jackson.

“You don’t have to answer right now,” he said quickly. “I just—”

“Yes.”

He blinked.

“…What?”

You smiled softly.

“Yes. I’ll move in with you.”

For one full second, Michael looked completely frozen. Then the biggest smile you had ever seen spread across his face.

“Really?”

You laughed quietly.

“Really.”

Michael stood up so quickly you almost protested about his recovery until he crossed the room and wrapped his arms tightly around your waist.

“You just made me the happiest man alive,” he mumbled against your hair.

You smiled immediately and wrapped your arms around his neck.

“You’re very dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

That soft look in his eyes nearly destroyed you.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You touched his face gently, careful around the healing skin.

“I love you too.”

Michael smiled softly.

Then immediately ruined the emotional moment.

“So… does this mean you legally have to keep making me pancakes every morning?”

You burst out laughing.

“Oh my God.”

“That sounds like a yes to me.”

Michael kept smiling against your hair like he still couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Like he was afraid the moment would disappear if he let go of you.

You cupped his face gently, your thumb brushing carefully against the healed part of his skin while his eyes stayed locked on yours with an almost overwhelming amount of affection.

“You’re staring again,” you whispered softly.

“You’re moving in with me,” he answered immediately, like that explained everything.

You laughed quietly. Michael leaned down instinctively, kissing you before you could say anything else.

Slow, warm, full of relief.

But the kiss deepened almost immediately when your fingers slid into his curls.

One of his hands tightened around your waist, pulling you closer against him while the other rested carefully against your cheek.

God, he missed this. Missed kissing you without hospital walls around you.

Missed holding you without fear sitting in the middle of his chest. You smiled against his lips when he backed you slowly toward the hallway.

“Michael…”

“Hm?”

“You’re being suspiciously affectionate.”

“I’m always affectionate.”

“Not like this.”

He laughed softly before kissing you again. This time longer.

Needier.

The kind of kiss that made your heartbeat feel unsteady. When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested lightly against yours.

“Come to bed with me.”

The sentence came out low. Almost shy.

But the look in his eyes said something very different. You raised an eyebrow immediately.

“Oh really?”

Michael tried to look innocent.

“Yes.”

You crossed your arms dramatically.

“That’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because up until five minutes ago, you were apparently too weak to put away your own records.”

Michael burst out laughing instantly.

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before my girlfriend agreed to live with me.”

You laughed so hard you had to grab his arm.

“That’s miraculous recovery.”

“I know. Doctors should study me.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

Michael grinned before stealing another kiss from you.

Then another. And another.

Until eventually you were both laughing breathlessly in the middle of the hallway.

“Come on,” you whispered finally.

Michael’s eyes softened immediately.

He intertwined his fingers with yours and followed you upstairs without hesitation.

Halfway down the hallway toward the bedroom, he suddenly wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you gently against his chest while his lips brushed slowly against your neck.

“I love you,” he whispered softly against your skin.

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache. You turned your head just enough to smile at him.

“I know.”

Michael kissed your neck one more time.

“And I’m never letting you leave again.”

The smell of hairspray and stage lights filled the Pepsi set while dozens of assistants rushed around backstage adjusting cables, cameras, and costumes. The noise should have been overwhelming, but somehow everything always faded into the background whenever Michael Jackson was beside you.

Especially when he was holding your hand the way he was now.

His fingers were loosely intertwined with yours while a makeup artist carefully retouched the curls falling around his face. Even distracted, even focused on rehearsal notes spread across his lap, he still refused to let go of you.

He had always been like that.

Ever since the day he met you, he constantly needed some form of contact. A hand around your waist. Fingers brushing yours. His head resting against your shoulder during long studio nights. Tiny gestures that slowly became second nature between you.

You smiled softly while watching the makeup artist dust powder across his cheekbones.

"You look beautiful."

Michael immediately glanced at you through the mirror.

That shy smile appeared instantly.

The one that still made your chest tighten after two years together.

"You think so?" he asked quietly.

"You know you do."

He ducked his head bashfully, trying to hide the grin forming on his lips.

Sometimes it amazed you that the biggest pop star in the world still got embarrassed when you complimented him.

Your mind briefly drifted back to the night everything started.

The Oscars. Two years ago.

You had won Best Supporting Actress and nearly tripped walking to the stage because your hands were shaking so badly. Later, Michael confessed he barely remembered the rest of the ceremony after seeing you walk up to accept your award.

According to him, it felt like the entire room disappeared.

Later that night, he convinced David Lynch, who had directed your latest movie, to introduce the two of you.

The chemistry was immediate. Dangerously immediate.

Dinner turned into another dinner. Then another.

Two weeks of late-night conversations, laughter, and Michael finding increasingly ridiculous excuses to see you again.

Until one Saturday night, when you arrived at his house for dinner and discovered your entire home covered in roses.

Hundreds of them.

Bill later admitted Michael had forced him to organize an entire truck delivery because "normal flowers weren’t enough."

That same night, Michael asked you to be his girlfriend.

And now, two years later, here you were.

Hopelessly in love. Ridiculously happy.

Michael looked at you through the mirror again while the makeup artist fixed the last details around his eyes.

"Isn’t she beautiful?" he asked her suddenly.

You laughed immediately.

"Michael."

The makeup artist smiled knowingly.

"Very."

You rolled your eyes playfully while Michael looked entirely too pleased with himself.

A few moments later, the makeup artist finally stepped away.

"Done."

Michael turned toward you immediately.

"How do I look?"

You stepped closer, gently adjusting the collar of his red shirt.

"Beautiful. As always."

His smile softened instantly. Then he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss against your lips.

Before you could tease him about it, another voice interrupted the moment.

"The lighting is wrong over there."

Your smile disappeared almost immediately.

Joseph Jackson walked onto the set while scolding one of the assistants before finally noticing the two of you standing together.

"Oh. You’re here."

"Joseph," you greeted politely.

Tense. Careful.

Your relationship with Joseph had never been good.

He thought you distracted Michael. Thought relationships made him "soft." Thought Michael spent too much time with you instead of working.

Michael never cared.

He stayed with you anyway.

But for Michael’s sake, you tried to remain respectful whenever Joseph was around.

Even when he clearly disliked you.

"We need to go," Joseph told Michael firmly.

Michael nodded slightly.

"I’m coming."

Joseph walked away again.

You let out a small sigh before forcing a smile toward Michael.

"It’s okay."

Michael looked unconvinced.

"I have to go," he murmured apologetically.

"Yeah… me too.

Your fingers slid gently through the side of his curls.

"I’ve got interviews for the movie today."

"I wish you’d stay."

His hands slipped around your waist while he gave you the dramatic pout he knew always worked on you.

That look.

Pure emotional manipulation.

You laughed softly and wrapped your arms around his neck.

"I want to, Mike. But I can’t."

"But it won’t take long."

His expression brightened slightly.

"When you’re done… wanna sleep over tonight?"

You smiled immediately.

"What’s the plan?"

"We’ll have dinner, eat ice cream, watch a movie." He grinned. "You pick."

"That sounds perfect."

Michael’s entire face lit up. Then he kissed you again. Longer this time.

Completely ignoring the fact that people were actively walking around the set nearby. You laughed against his lips and gently pushed his chest.

"Go before the general comes back."

Michael burst out laughing. He gave you one last quick kiss.

"See you later."

Then he disappeared toward the stage.

You grabbed your purse and headed toward your own obligations, completely unaware that your entire world was about to change.

Hours later, exhaustion was beginning to settle into your bones by the time your final interview ended.

You smiled politely at the journalist, thanked her, and stepped behind the cameras where your assistant was already waiting nervously.

The second she saw you, she hurried closer.

"Bill called."

You frowned immediately.

"Bill?"

"He said you need to call him back as soon as possible."

Confusion twisted in your stomach.

Usually Michael called you himself.

Your assistant handed you a slip of paper with the number scribbled across it.

Something suddenly felt wrong. Very wrong.

You quickly walked toward the nearest phone and dialed the number.

It rang several times before Bill answered.

"Hello?"

"Bill?" you asked quickly. "What happened? Did Michael finish filming already?"

Silence.

Your stomach dropped instantly.

"Bill?"

A long pause.

Then finally:

"There was an accident."

Your entire body went cold.

"What?"

"He’s at the hospital."

For one horrible second, your brain stopped functioning completely.

Your heartbeat slammed violently against your ribs while fear unlike anything you had ever known spread through your body.

Tears instantly filled your eyes.

"No—"

You struggled to breathe properly. Your hand tightened around the phone. Finally, somehow, you forced yourself to speak.

"What hospital?"

The hospital waiting room felt suffocating.

Bright white lights. The smell of antiseptic.

Doctors and nurses walking past while your heart threatened to beat straight out of your chest.

The second you arrived, your eyes immediately landed on Michael’s family gathered near the chairs.

Then you saw Joseph.

And something inside you snapped.

Before anyone could stop you, you stormed toward him.

"This is your fault!"

Bill immediately grabbed your arm.

"Hey— hey—"

"You knew he didn’t want to do that commercial!" you shouted. "You pushed him anyway!"

Joseph stayed silent. Just staring at you.

That made you even angrier.

You ripped yourself away from Bill and shoved Joseph hard against the wall.

"If something happens to him, it’s your fault!"

"Enough!"

Everyone froze.

Katherine stepped forward, visibly shaken.

"Please," she said firmly. "Let him go."

Your breathing was ragged. Hands trembling violently. But after a second, you released Joseph. The rage immediately collapsed into panic again.

You stumbled backward and dropped into one of the waiting room chairs while tears blurred your vision completely.

Bill sat beside you quietly.

Then gently squeezed your shoulder, trying to calm you down while you stared at the hospital doors, silently praying Michael would walk through them again.

Time seemed frozen inside that waiting room. Every second felt suffocating.

You kept staring at the hospital doors while your leg bounced anxiously without stopping. Your hands were shaking so badly that you had to lace your fingers together in your lap just to hide it.

Then finally, a doctor appeared. Everyone stood immediately. Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Michael is stable.”

Air finally returned to your lungs.

You closed your eyes for a brief second, almost feeling your knees give out from relief.

“The fire caused second and third-degree burns to his scalp,” the doctor continued calmly. “But he’s awake and responding well.”

Katherine Jackson placed a hand against her chest, visibly emotional.

“Can I see him?” she asked quickly.

The doctor nodded.

“He asked for his mother… and Mr. Bill.”

Bill let out a heavy sigh beside you.

Katherine walked past you and gently squeezed your hand, silently trying to reassure you.

Bill did the same before following the doctor down the hallway.

You stood there watching them disappear.

Then your eyes landed on Joseph Jackson.

For the first time that night, he actually looked worried. But all you could feel when you looked at him was rage. Pure hatred.

Joseph held your stare for a few seconds before slowly lowering his head, unable to face the hatred in your eyes.

After that, silence took over the waiting room once again. The minutes felt endless.

You paced back and forth, sat down, stood up again, flipped through old magazines without actually reading them.

Until finally, Katherine and Bill returned. You stood immediately.

“Is he okay?” you asked quickly.

Katherine smiled softly.

“He is. He’s just in some pain.”

Relief rushed through your body instantly.

“Can I see him?”

Katherine and Bill exchanged a quick glance. Your stomach dropped immediately.

“Michael asked for you to go home,” Katherine answered carefully.

You frowned in confusion.

“What?”

“It’s going to be okay,” she assured gently. “You don’t need to worry.”

“But why?”

She hesitated. Bill looked away.

And suddenly, you understood something was wrong.

“He doesn’t want to see me?” Your voice came out quieter this time.

Katherine didn’t answer directly. Instead, she gently touched your arm.

“I’m going to ask Bill to pick up some clothes for him.”

Bill nodded silently and started walking toward the exit. You immediately followed him.

In the empty hallway, you grabbed his arm.

“Bill.”

He stopped.

“Why can’t I go into that room?”

Bill let out a tired sigh. Because he already knew this conversation would hurt.

“Michael doesn’t want you to see him like this.”

Your chest physically hurt.

“He thinks…” Bill hesitated. “That you’ll leave once you see the burns.”

That shattered you completely. Michael truly believed that. Even after two years. Even after everything.

Tears burned your eyes again. You needed to see him.

Needed to hear his voice. Needed to see that beautiful smile and know he was really okay. So you took a deep breath and quickly wiped your face.

“Then I’m not leaving.”

Bill raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Not until I see that he’s okay.”

For a second, Bill almost smiled. He knew you well enough to understand there was no point trying to change your mind.

“I’ll get some clothes for him,” he murmured. “And some for you too.”

Then he left.

You returned to the waiting room and sat down again. Katherine watched you quietly for a moment before smiling softly. Like she finally understood that you truly loved her son.

The entire night passed painfully slowly. You didn’t sleep for even a minute.

You wandered the hallways, flipped through old magazines, checked the clock every five minutes.

When the morning sunlight finally began filtering through the hospital windows, a nurse appeared pushing a breakfast cart.

“I’m taking this to Mr. Jackson.”

Bill immediately stood.

“I’ll take it.”

But before he could grab the cart, you were already holding it.

“I’ll do it.”

Bill barely had time to react. You were already pushing the cart through the restricted wing of the hospital.

Your heartbeat echoed loudly inside your chest. One of the nurses pointed you toward the correct room.

You took a deep breath. Then slowly opened the door.

Michael was awake. Sitting up in bed, quietly staring out the window.

Your heart tightened instantly. His hand was wrapped in bandages. Part of his hair too. You hated seeing him like that.

Even though you wanted to cry, you forced yourself to stay composed. Michael noticed the door opening and slowly turned his head.

His eyes widened slightly when he saw you. Then almost immediately dropped downward.

“Please… go away,” he said quietly. “You can’t see me like this.”

That shattered your heart.

“It’s okay.”

You placed the breakfast cart beside the bed and carefully sat on the edge of the mattress.

“You don’t have to act like this.”

“I look horrible.”

“You don’t.”

You gently took his hand. And finally, that made Michael lift his head enough to look into your eyes.

You could see the fear there. Real fear.

Insecurity.

Like he truly believed you would stop loving him because of this.

“You won me over two years ago,” you said softly. “And now I’m not going anywhere.”

Michael went completely still. His brown eyes searched yours like he was trying to figure out whether you truly meant it.

Because when it came to you, Michael never felt good enough. He constantly tried to be worthy of you. Perfect, beautiful, enough.

But now, seeing you sitting there holding his hand without hesitation, looking at him with the exact same love as always…

Something inside him finally relaxed.

“Thank you,” he whispered, smiling weakly for the first time since the accident.

Your heart nearly melted instantly.

“You’re going to be okay,” you promised. “And I’m staying here twenty-four hours a day to take care of you.”

That made Michael genuinely smile this time. Because between your impossible schedules and endless commitments, the two of you rarely got time like this together.

“Brought your breakfast,” you said, picking up the tray. “Including your favorite: orange juice.”

Michael let out a soft laugh. You placed the tray in his lap and immediately stole one of the cookies.

He watched you do it, clearly amused. Then his eyes softened completely.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

And you knew he meant it.

“So much.”

You smiled immediately.

“I love you more.”

Michael made a dramatic expression.

“I’d kiss you right now if it weren’t for these bandages.”

You burst out laughing.

“When I get better, we’ll fix that.”

“Definitely.”

And for the first time since receiving that phone call, you finally felt like everything was going to be okay.

The two of you spent the rest of the morning talking quietly and laughing between conversations while Michael finally seemed relaxed again.

On the other side of the door, Katherine and Bill watched discreetly. Then exchanged a quiet look.

Because it was painfully obvious how deeply the two of you loved each other.

And more than that…

You used to tell yourself it was just friendship.

It was easier that way.

Behind the scenes of Michael, you and Jaafar Jackson had grown close naturally. Endless filming hours, costume fittings, late nights adjusting jackets identical to the originals Michael wore, and long conversations about vintage fabrics created intimacy without either of you noticing it happening.

He showed up in the wardrobe department even when he didn’t need to.

Sometimes just to talk. Sometimes to bring coffee for the entire team. Sometimes simply because he wanted to be near you.

And you hated how much you noticed it.

Maybe it started with the way he focused before scenes. Or the almost hypnotizing way he danced. Maybe it was the easy smile, the stupid jokes in the middle of chaotic filming days, or the genuine kindness he showed every single person on set, from producers to assistants.

Or maybe you were simply doomed from the beginning. Still, you never allowed it to interfere with your work.

You were leading the entire Lionsgate wardrobe department for the project. You had been chosen to faithfully recreate some of the most iconic outfits in music history. It was the opportunity of a lifetime.

You were not going to ruin it because the lead actor happened to be ridiculously attractive.

So you did what you did best: worked.

And Jaafar did the same.

The movie became a massive success. Critical praise. Huge box office numbers. Award nominations. Internet frenzy.

Then came the sequel announcement.

And suddenly, you were trapped on another set with your biggest crush. What you didn’t know… was that Jaafar felt exactly the same way about you.

The sound of the beat echoed through the nearly empty studio while blue lights reflected across the polished floor. A temporary sign reading MICHAEL 2 — rehearsal stage flickered in the corner behind cameras and racks of costumes.

You held a clipboard tightly against your chest while trying to observe everything from a safe distance. Or at least, you tried.

Because it was impossible to ignore Jaafar standing in the center of the stage.

He wore a burgundy shirt partially open at the chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the fedora tilted exactly the way Michael used to wear it in You Rock My World. Sweat ran down the side of his face while he repeated the choreography for what had to be the tenth time, perfectly synchronized with the music.

And every time he smiled during the routine, someone in the studio forgot how to breathe.

Including you.

"Five-minute break!" the choreographer called, clapping his hands.

The dancers scattered quickly. You took the opportunity to cross the stage and adjust a gold chain on Jaafar’s costume.

"It’s crooked," you muttered, focused on the accessory.

"You always talk to me while staring at my chest?"

Your eyes snapped up immediately. Jaafar was smiling. That slow, teasing smile. You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

"I’m working."

"So am I."

"Clearly."

He laughed softly.

Before either of you could say more, the choreographer returned to center stage holding his phone.

"Quick change. Naomi’s running a high fever and can’t make it today."

A wave of murmurs spread through the crew.

"We need to rehearse the bar sequence now because tomorrow’s the official shoot."

His eyes scanned the room before landing on you.

"You."

You blinked.

"Me?"

"Same height. You’ve watched the choreography fifty times. Good enough."

You laughed nervously, assuming it was a joke. Nobody else laughed.

"Wait, no. I’m a costume designer."

"For the next twenty minutes, you’re a dancer."

"I literally don’t dance."

Jaafar slowly removed his hat.

"She dances."

You turned toward him instantly.

"How would you know?"

"That party after the premiere? You were drunk singing Beyoncé on top of a table."

Your jaw dropped.

"You promised you’d forget that."

"I lied."

The choreographer clapped again.

"Positions!"

And somehow, that was how you ended up in the middle of the stage.

The music started again.

You tried to ignore the dozens of people watching while you repeated the female dancer’s movements from the original music video, but it became difficult to think about anything once Jaafar placed his hands on your waist for the first time.

His touch was firm. Warm. Far too warm.

"Relax," he murmured near your ear. "You’re stiff."

"Maybe because I’m being professionally humiliated."

He laughed again.

The sequence continued.

A spin.

Another step.

Then came the close-contact part.

In the original video, Michael pulled the woman against him while they exchanged lingering looks before continuing the dance.

You knew the scene. But knowing it and living it were two very different things. Jaafar grabbed your hand. Pulled you toward him slowly.

Your body collided with his in a way that felt almost cinematic. The entire studio seemed to disappear.

You felt his fingers tighten around your waist while his face moved closer to yours exactly the way it was supposed to for the rehearsal.

Except this didn’t feel like acting. His eyes dropped to your mouth for one second too long.

Your heart stuttered.

"Jaafar," you whispered.

"Hm?"

"You missed your mark."

"Maybe I liked this one better."

Your brain completely stopped functioning. The choreographer suddenly cut the music.

"That!"

Everyone started talking at once.

"The chemistry is perfect."

"Oh my God."

"That’s exactly what the scene needed."

You stepped away too quickly and nearly tripped over your own feet. Jaafar caught your arm before you could fall.

His fingers slid slowly across your skin before letting go. Deliberately. And that smile appeared again.

"See?" he said quietly. "You dance."

After the disastrous, or dangerously good, rehearsal, you practically fled the stage.

Your heart was still beating too fast.

Every time you remembered his hands on your waist or the way he looked at your lips, heat spread through your entire body.

You were reviewing costume sketches when someone from your team approached.

"We need to adjust some of Jaafar’s costumes before the final fitting."

You nodded immediately, grateful for the distraction.

Maybe work would solve the problem.

Maybe not.

"Bring everything to my trailer."

You looked up instantly.

Jaafar leaned against the makeup chair while casually watching you speak with your assistant.

"It’ll be faster," he added.

Liar. But nobody questioned it.

Twenty minutes later, you stood inside his trailer pretending you could still act normal. Pretending.

Because it was difficult to stay professional while Jaafar changed clothes in front of you. Very difficult.

"This sleeve needs to come up half an inch," you told your assistant while observing the black jacket.

She scribbled notes quickly. Jaafar changed again. And again.

And you avoided looking directly at him the entire time. You were still embarrassed about the rehearsal. Still able to feel his hands on your body.

Jaafar noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything about you.

When he tried on one of the last outfits, you stepped closer to adjust the collar while your assistant wrote down alterations.

Then he casually removed the shirt.

Your brain stopped working for approximately five seconds.

His toned torso was fully exposed beneath the warm trailer lights and you immediately turned toward the clothing racks instead.

"There’s one last jacket," you said too quickly.

Jaafar nearly smiled. You searched through the racks.

Nothing.

You frowned.

"Where’s the red jacket?"

Your assistant checked too.

"Maybe it’s still in storage. Someone probably forgot to bring it."

"We need to test it. It’ll be used during filming this week."

"Maybe someone should go get it," Jaafar suggested casually.

Far too casually. You nodded immediately.

"Do you know where it is?"

"I think so," your assistant answered.

"Can you grab it for me?"

She nodded and hurried out of the trailer. The door closed.

Silence.

You stood completely still for several seconds. Everything you feared. Everything he wanted.

You pretended to organize clothes while feeling his stare burning into your back.

The silence became heavy. Hot. Dangerous.

"Did you like the rehearsal?" Jaafar finally asked.

You let out a nervous laugh.

"Dancing isn’t exactly my thing. It caught me off guard."

"Yes, it is."

You continued pretending to search through clothes.

"Jaafar—"

"You’re a great dancer."

Your breathing faltered when you heard his footsteps slowly approaching.

"It’s important not to look at you."

You stopped moving.

Turned slowly.

He was too close.

The heat from his body practically surrounded yours.

"I can’t stop looking at you."

Your heart instantly raced.

"W-what are you doing?" you asked quietly.

Now he stood only inches away.

The warmth of his skin nearly consumed you.

"What I should’ve done a long time ago."

His hand slid slowly around your waist. The other rose to your face. Dark eyes locked onto yours.

Your breath caught when your gaze instinctively dropped to his mouth.

And Jaafar understood. Of course he did.

The kiss was immediate. Intense. Needy.

Like both of you had been waiting for it for months.

Your hand instinctively grabbed the fabric hanging from his shoulders while your fingers brushed against the hot skin of his chest. Jaafar deepened the kiss immediately, pulling you impossibly closer until there wasn’t a single inch left between your bodies.

A soft sigh escaped you against his lips. His hands tightened around your waist. Then he guided you backward until your back hit the trailer wall.

Your body collided with his again and you completely lost your breath.

"Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?" he whispered against your skin before kissing your neck.

You closed your eyes instantly.

"Not just you."

Jaafar let out a low laugh against your skin before kissing you again, even more intensely this time.

And then—

Knocking.

You both separated far too quickly.

Breathless.

Disheveled.

Jaafar grabbed the nearest shirt he could find while you desperately tried to look normal.

"Come in," he answered, voice rough.

Your assistant entered holding the red jacket.

"I found it!"

"Great," you answered much too fast.

Your assistant looked from you to Jaafar. Then back to you again. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Everything okay in here?"

"Perfectly fine," you answered.

At the exact same moment, Jaafar said:

"No."

You turned toward him in horror.

He was smiling. That smug, dangerous smile.

Your assistant raised one eyebrow slowly.

Jaafar took the jacket from her hands without taking his eyes off you.

"Because now I’m completely distracted."

Your assistant very clearly knew something had happened. Maybe it was the way you avoided looking directly at Jaafar. Or the fact he looked entirely too pleased with himself. Or maybe because neither of you seemed capable of breathing normally anymore.

She narrowed her eyes once more.

"I’ll… leave you two to finish the fitting."

"Thanks," you replied far too quickly.

The door shut again.

Silence.

You exhaled sharply and covered your face with your hands.

"Oh my God."

Jaafar laughed softly behind you.

"That’s usually a good sign."

You turned toward him in disbelief.

"Have you completely lost your mind? We’re on set."

"So?"

"So?" you repeated, offended. "Jaafar, there are literally people working two feet away from us."

"Yeah. Including you. You should probably be working."

You grabbed the measuring tape from the counter and threw it at him. He dodged it easily, laughing again. That laugh did dangerous things to your heartbeat. Again.

"You make this impossible," you muttered.

Jaafar watched you quietly for a moment. His smile softened slowly into something gentler. More sincere.

"I tried to make it easier."

You frowned slightly.

"I spent the entire first movie pretending I didn’t like you."

Your heart stumbled inside your chest.

"Jaafar—"

"You think I kept showing up in wardrobe because I care about fabric?"

A laugh escaped you involuntarily. He stepped closer again. Slowly this time.

"I made up excuses just to talk to you."

Warmth spread through your body.

"Then why didn’t you say something before?"

Jaafar tilted his head slightly.

"Because you took this job seriously."

"I do."

"I know."

His voice turned quieter. Almost affectionate.

"And that’s exactly what I liked about you."

That hit harder than it should have. Because nobody truly understood what this project meant to you.

The sleepless nights. The pressure. The constant fear of getting things wrong while recreating something so iconic.

But Jaafar understood. He carried the same pressure. The same fear. The same weight.

And maybe that was exactly why the two of you kept gravitating back toward each other. Even while trying not to.

"So…" he murmured. "What happens now?"

You crossed your arms, trying to hide your smile.

"Now you try on the jacket."

Jaafar laughed immediately.

"You’re impossible."

"And you’re a problem."

"Your problem?"

Your eyes met his. Dangerous. Warm.

You felt your heartbeat speed up again.

"Maybe."

His smile appeared slowly.

That smile that always destroyed your ability to think clearly. A knock sounded outside the trailer.

"Jaafar! Five minutes until the next rehearsal!"

You both stepped apart automatically. But before you could fully turn away, he caught your hand discreetly. Warm fingers squeezing yours for only a second.

Long enough. Your heart raced all over again.

"You gonna keep running away from me after rehearsal?" he asked quietly.

You raised an eyebrow.

"Depends."

"On what?"

Your eyes briefly dropped to his lips before meeting his gaze again.

"On whether you kiss me again."

Jaafar smiled slowly.

And for the first time, you were absolutely certain of one thing:

There is a specific kind of torture that only people who have worked on a film set truly understand.

It's not the hours. It's not the twelve hours on your feet, the repeated takes until your smile stops looking real, the artificial cold of the studio that seeps into your bones. It's none of that.

It's when the camera points at you and asks you to look at someone as if you loved them, and the problem isn't the pretending. The problem is that somewhere across six months of filming, you stopped needing to pretend.

You played one of Michael's girlfriends, a character created specifically for the film. A woman who loved Michael Jackson in the most complicated way possible: with admiration, with desire, with the awareness that some loves are born too large to fit inside a single life. The script demanded intimacy. It demanded that you and Jaafar share a space that had no room for professional distance.

And Jaafar had been a problem since the very first rehearsal.

You remember the exact day you realized it.

Scene 34. The Motown party, 1964. You had been in position for forty minutes while the crew adjusted the lighting, and his hand was on your waist because the script said so, and you were talking about nothing, about the catering, about a song he'd heard that morning, and then he said: "You laugh differently when you actually find something funny."

You had looked at him.

"What do you mean?"

"You close your eyes a little." He had said it with a disarming naturalness, as if watching you were simply something he did, with no intention of hiding it. "It's different from your scene laugh. That one's the real one."

The camera wasn't rolling yet. No one else had heard.

You had looked away and said it was time to get back into position.

But something had shifted that day, and you never managed to put it back.

The film had premiered six weeks ago.

Since then, you and Jaafar had shared red carpets, interviews, press panels, and a number of moments you had stopped counting, moments when the cameras were on and you needed to be professional while every memory from the set pulsed beneath the surface like something alive.

The internet had noticed.

Of course it had.

"the chemistry between them in the film doesn't look like acting, sorry" "can someone explain why he smiles differently when she talks?" "not saying anything, just observing"

Your publicist had sent a message last week: keep it professional, okay? Press tour runs through July.

You had responded with a thumbs-up emoji and stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes.

The 2026 Met Gala is, in theory, just another press obligation.

In theory.

You arrive with your stylist and your publicist and a dress that took three months to build, hand-embroidered, a direct reference to 1960s Harlem, a tribute to the era you spent months inhabiting. You know you look good. You know because your stylist went silent for ten seconds when you put it on, and his silence always means exactly that.

What you don't know, what no one warned you about, is that Jaafar will be right behind you in the entrance line.

You hear him before you see him. His voice has a specific frequency that your nervous system learned to recognize before your brain catches up.

When you turn, he's already looking at you.

He's in a black suit, impeccable cut, something subtle and gold on the lapel that suits the night's theme without looking like he tried. He always had that irritating gift of seeming like he hadn't tried. You know, from six months on set, that he tried very hard.

His eyes travel down your dress once, not quickly enough to be discreet, slowly enough to be intencional, and return to your face.

He doesn't smile right away. He just looks, for a moment that lasts longer than it should, and then the left corner of his mouth lifts.

"You look" He starts, and stops. Starts again. "Hi".

"Hi." Your voice comes out steady. Small victory.

"I didn't know you were going to be here."

"The guest list has been on the website for three weeks, Jaafar."

"I know." He says it with a calm that unsettles you. "I just prefer it when it's a surprise."

The night unfolds in layers.

You are photographed separately, then together, for press purposes, obviously, it makes sense, and there is a moment in front of the cameras when the photographer asks you both to move closer, and Jaafar places his hand on the small of your back with the faintest pressure, almost nothing, and you hold your smile in place on pure professional muscle memory.

Inside, he finds you near the bar.

It isn't an accident. You know it isn't an accident because he crossed a room full of people to get to where you were standing.

"Water or champagne?" He asks, already signaling to the bartender.

"Champagne. I need it."

He laughs. Orders two.

You stand side by side, shoulders nearly touching, and watch the room for a while. It's a skill you developed on set, the ability to be silent together without it becoming strange. You always thought that meant something. You tried not to think too hard about what.

"Your Vogue interview was really good." You start, because talking about work is safe.

"Yeah, it went well." He agrees, but there's something in his tone that says he knows exactly what you're doing. "Did you see what fans are saying about it?"

"I never read the comments."

"Liar"

You drink your champagne.

He smiles at his glass.

"They think we have chemistry." He says it like a neutral observation about the weather.

"We had six intense months on set. It makes sense that it shows on screen."

"Is that all it is?"

You look at him.

He's looking back, and there is nothing neutral in that expression. There's something direct, patient, like someone who has waited long enough and decided to stop pretending they're waiting for any other reason.

"Jaafar…" Your voice comes out as a warning that you both know you're not sure you want to give.

"I'm just asking."

"You're not just asking."

"No." He agrees, without looking away. "I'm not."

Later, after another hour of the event, after more conversations with people whose names you'll forget by morning, after three more moments where you found each other on opposite sides of the room and felt his gaze before you went looking for it, he appears at your side again.

This time, he tilts his head slightly toward a discreet exit near the staircase.

"There's a terrace."

"I know there's a terrace."

"Come with me."

It isn't a question. It isn't an order, either. It's an invitation that carries the weight of everything left unsaid across six months of filming and six weeks of press, and you stand there looking at him for a moment while your publicist networks on the other side of the room and every camera is pointed somewhere else.

You go.

The terrace is nearly empty. New York below is loud and indifferent, and the May air has that ambiguous temperature that can't decide between warm and cool.

You lean against the railing. He stands beside you, close enough that you feel the warmth of his arm without him touching you.

"Press runs through July." You speak first, because if you don't put it out there now, you'll forget to. "We have four more red carpets confirmed. Two major interviews. If we-"

"I know." He interrupts, quietly.

"So you understand why this is-"

"I understand everything you're thinking." He turns his body slightly toward you. Not much. Enough. "I know you're calculating. What the press will say, how it'll play in interviews, whether anyone will use it to pull focus from the film. I know how your mind works."

You open your mouth. Close it.

He knows how your mind works. Six months on set. Of course he does.

"And yet you brought me out here."

"Because I'm tired." He says it with a simplicity that knocks the ground out from under you. "I'm tired of being careful. Of calculating the right angle for every camera so it wouldn't be too obvious. Of standing on the other side of every red carpet because that was the sensible thing." A pause. "Aren't you tired?"

Your throat tightens.

Yes. The answer exists before you can build any argument against it. Yes, I'm tired, I've been tired for months, tired since scene 34 when you said my laugh was different and I realized you'd been paying close enough attention to notice.

But you say:

"This isn't simple."

"I know it isn't simple." He doesn't back down. "I'm not asking for simple."

"What are you asking for, then?"

He's quiet for a second. You watch him think, that specific habit of his, which you learned to tell apart from the silence of when he has nothing to say.

"One night." He says at last. Voice low, almost private, built only for you. "We forget the film, the press tour, July, what the fans are saying, what your publicist thinks. We forget all of it for one night." His eyes find yours and stay there. "And tomorrow we decide what to do with the rest."

The warmth rises up your neck and down your arms and you hate how your body simply responds to him like that, without asking permission, as if six months on set had wired something directly between his presence and every nerve in your skin.

Your publicist is in the ballroom. There are photographers in every corner of this event. You have an interview on Tuesday.

You look at his mouth for one second, just one, and feel everything you built out of practical reason begin to unravel at the edges.

"What if one night isn't enough?" You hear your own voice come out, and it betrays you completely, because it doesn't sound like an objection. It sounds like the opposite.

Something shifts in his expression. It goes quieter, warmer.

"Then we figure that out tomorrow too." He says.

He doesn't move. He leaves the decision to you, that's another thing you learned about him, that he always leaves the decision to you, and you never knew whether it was consideration or cruelty, because either way the result is the same: you with no external reason to say no. Only your own.

And your own are losing.

When you close the distance between you, inches, only inches, he meets you halfway.

The city stays loud below.

You stop calculating.

His lips find yours with an urgency months in the making, like someone who has finally stopped holding something heavy, and you respond before you're conscious of having made that decision, your hands rising along the lapel of his suit jacket because your body has its own memory and that memory knows the texture of the fabric over his shoulders, knows the exact height you need to be to reach him, and all of this is information you stored without realizing it.

He presses you gently back against the nearby wall, behind the heavy white curtains that frame the terrace entrance, the thick fabric creating a world of two, and one of his hands grips your waist with a firmness that has nothing technical about it, nothing contained, nothing the set ever allowed.

You gasp against his mouth.

He makes a low sound in his throat that travels directly down your spine.

There's something almost absurd about realizing, in this specific moment, that you spent six months convincing yourself the chemistry was purely professional. That it was training, context, the pressure of a set. That any other actress in your position would have felt the same thing.

His hand shifts slightly up your waist, fingers pressing through the embroidered fabric of your dress, and you think: no. she wouldn't have.

And then you hear footsteps.

You separate in a simultaneous reflex, two actors who spent months learning to read the room on a set, and that instinct doesn't disappear when the cameras go away. You step back once, then twice. You raise one hand and run your thumb discreetly beneath your lower lip, checking. Jaafar looks out at the city skyline with the expression of someone simply enjoying the view, and you would have found it convincing if you didn't know exactly what his real expression looks like when he's doing that.

"Oh my god, I have been looking for you two everywhere!"

Your publicist appears through the gap in the curtain like a small, determined force of nature, already with her hand on your arm, already pulling you away, already muttering about scheduling and windows of opportunity and how Anna isn't staying for the after-party, so it's now or never.

You go because there's no reasonable choice not to.

But you turn.

It's automatic, that impulse to look back that you should have learned to control months ago and clearly haven't. Jaafar is where you left him, leaning slightly against the railing, the white curtains still moving behind him.

He smiles.

That specific smile. The one that starts on the left side first, slow enough to be deliberate, the one you spent six months on set cataloguing as not professional, not professional, not professional and filing somewhere that clearly wasn't safe enough.

He bites his lower lip, light, deliberate, and says:

"See you around."

You turn back before your face gives you away completely.

Not quite in time to stop the smile from spreading.

At 2:17 in the morning, during the after-party, you receive a message.

"tomorrow still exists."

You stare at your phone for a long moment.

Then you reply:

"i know."

It was past 3 A.M. and you were still on Harcourt’s rooftop. It had been a surprise when she called you, inviting you to a party—and even more surprising when she said it would be at her place.

You never thought Emilia would let any human being into her house, but here you were, holding your fourth beer, sitting on a beach chair while listening to Chris tell yet another story about his disastrous missions.

The alcohol was already kicking in, making you feel lighter, more relaxed. You were usually always on alert, ready in case something happened. It had been a while since you allowed yourself to have fun. But after the success of Project Butterfly, you deserved a break with your friends.

— And that’s when this idiot showed up and almost shot me — Chris pointed at Adrian, making everyone burst into laughter.

— I thought you were one of the dealers with that ridiculous shirt — Adrian laughed, making everyone laugh even harder.

He was sitting next to you, like he always did since you met. No one really understood how two people with such different personalities became friends—and honestly, neither did you. But you liked Adrian’s company. His talkative nature, the way he made you feel more comfortable than anyone else. You thought it was cute how his glasses were always dirty, his messy hair, the way his eyes closed when he smiled—just like now. Yes, you had a crush on Adrian Chase. And no, you were not going to tell him.

You were afraid he wouldn’t feel the same and that it would ruin what you had. It wasn’t worth the risk. So you pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the conversation. The music blasted loudly around you as everyone switched between drinking and talking. That’s when a random electronic song from Leota’s playlist started playing.

— Dance battle! — Economos shouted, getting up. He was definitely the drunkest one there.He moved to the center and Leota followed. You and the others laughed as they gave their all with moves only they understood. Then Leota came over and grabbed your hands, pulling you up as everyone cheered behind you.

You started dancing along to the beat, laughing at their chaotic moves. You looked back at the others, calling them over. Emilia shook her head with a laugh, while Chris quickly got up. Adrian stayed seated, laughing at Chris. So you went to him.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but you liked the idea. You smiled at Adrian, taking his hands and pulling him up. He looked surprised, but didn’t resist. He set his beer down and got up, awkwardly moving his shoulders to the rhythm—which made you laugh. He started dancing in a goofy way, and you burst out laughing.

Adrian smiled proudly. He loved seeing you laugh like that. Actually… he loved everything you did.It was getting harder and harder for him to hide how in love he was with you. Chris had told him countless times to stop being an idiot and just confess, but Adrian was sure you wouldn’t feel the same. And he couldn’t handle losing your friendship. So he kept it to himself—even though he was terrible at keeping secrets. But tonight… he couldn’t take his eyes off you.He didn’t know if it was the beer, but everything about you seemed to glow. His heart raced the moment you arrived, and he barely tried to hide how completely gone he was for you.

The song ended, and soon a reggaeton beat started playing—your favorite. You looked at Leota.

— You killed it, girl! — you said, and she raised her beer in thanks. You closed your eyes and started moving to the rhythm, your hips swaying in a way that completely mesmerized Adrian. He looked at you like you were a goddess.

Your movements were effortless, hypnotic. Everything else around him disappeared. His focus was entirely on you, the most perfect person he had ever seen. You opened your eyes and caught him staring. But instead of getting shy like you usually would…you let the alcohol take over.

Still dancing, you turned your back to him and pressed your hips against his. Adrian froze. Completely. Panic set in as he started to sweat, unsure what to do. You noticed how tense he got and gently took his hands, placing them on your waist. One on each side. You had never been this close before. And it made him nervous. But he didn’t want to move away.

So he gathered what little courage he had left and let you guide him. He would do anything you asked. You kept moving, and he followed, holding your waist tightly, almost afraid to let go. You felt his uneven breathing against your neck, and in a bold moment, you reached back, sliding your hand into his hair. You had been wanting to do that ever since he cut it and this was the perfect excuse.

A shiver ran down Adrian’s spine at your touch. He had always wondered what it would feel like. He didn’t usually like being touched… but you were the exception. He wanted you to touch him. He didn’t want you to ever stop.

When you tugged lightly at his hair, his breath hitched. In response, he tightened his grip on your waist, and you let out a soft gasp. His hands were strong. Skilled. And you couldn’t help but wonder what else they could do.

Unfortunately, the song ended. You turned to face him. He looked completely dazed and confused. Adrian opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the sound of Economos vomiting near Emilia’s plants.

— Fuck, Economos! — she exclaimed, rushing over. You turned back to Adrian, and he gave you a small smile before heading over to help. He and Chris took Economos inside while Emilia held the door open.

You sighed and exchanged a knowing look with Leota before helping clean up the mess.

About half an hour later, everything was clean. You and Leota went inside, finding Emilia washing dishes while Chris dried them.

— Where’s Economos? — Leota asked.

— Bathroom. Adrian’s helping him throw up — Chris replied.

You decided to check on them. You knocked and heard a response before entering. Adrian was sitting shirtless, wearing what you assumed was Harcourt’s robe, on the cabinet in front of the mirror. Economos was passed out in the bathtub.

You only noticed Adrian was shirtless the second time you looked.

— Where’s your shirt?— Economos threw up on it. Figured I’d take it off — he said casually.

You couldn’t help but notice his arms, his toned torso, the scars scattered across his skin, reminders of missions. You knew he was fit, but not that fit.

— Is he okay? — you asked, trying not to stare again.Adrian let out a short laugh, running a hand through his damp hair.

— Yeah… I mean, relatively. He’ll survive. I think.

You nodded. But didn’t leave. The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable like before. It was different, heavy, charged.

You leaned lightly against the door, arms crossed, trying to look casua, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. To the way his chest rose slowly. To the water still trailing down his neck. To the way he was looking at you… without looking away this time.

— You were… different out there — Adrian said quietly.

For someone so talkative, that meant a lot. You raised an eyebrow.

— Different how?

He hesitated. For the first time in a long time, Adrian Chase didn’t know what to say.

— You know — he muttered.

But he didn’t look away. You stepped closer. Then closer again. Slowly. Like you were testing how far you could go before everything broke.

— What about you? — you said, stopping in front of him. — You were different too.

Now it was impossible to ignore. The proximity. The heat. The silence between you. Adrian swallowed hard.

— I’ve always been like this with you.

It came out faster than he meant. More honest, too. Your heart started racing. Because now…there was no going back.

— Then why didn’t you ever do anything?

Your voice was low. Almost a challenge. He let out a nervous laugh.

— Because I’m not completely stupid.

You tilted your head.

— Debatable.

That made him smile. And then, you moved.

No overthinking. No planning. No giving him time to run.

You cupped his face.

Not playful.

Not teasing.

Firm.

Certain.

Adrian froze. Completely. Like his brain shut off for a full second.

— If you won’t do anything… I will — you whispered.

And he didn’t stop you.

The kiss started hesitant.

Like a question.

But it only lasted a second.

Because then everything they had been holding back crashed all at once. His hand went straight to your waist, pulling you closer without realizing the strength behind it. You let out a soft breath against his lips, and that was enough to break whatever control was left.

It was different, not just desire. It was built-up tension. Weeks. Months. Maybe since the beginning. He pressed you lightly against the wall, still like he was afraid of doing something wrong… even though he clearly didn’t want to stop.You grabbed the collar of his robe, pulling him back when he tried to pull away for a second.

— Don’t stop now — you whispered. And that was it for him.

Adrian let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh.

— Wasn’t planning to.