#nexalune

The voicemails in his inbox had begun to pile up, but  Spencer couldn’t bring himself to delete a single one, not until the robotic voice screamed: the mailbox is full and cannot take any more messages. Even then, he would listen to them over and over, until he could recite your messages forwards and backwards. Begrudgingly, (after Hotch complained that he couldn’t leave Spencer messages if he followed a lead on his own), he’d finally delete one. Of course, after that, you’d send him another voicemail, which made the process repeat. For a week and a half, that had been his life. He’d speak with you when he could, if he was being honest, he much preferred speaking with you over just hearing your voice, but when he couldn’t, those little recordings were the highlight of his day. 

A week and a half. Normally, cases didn’t last that long. Normally, the BAU was in and out within four to seven business days. Not this time, though. If he was being honest, the profile fit the Unsub, but not a single person they’d spoken to  fit the profile. The Unsub was clearly suffering from delusions, killing people who reminded him of his abusive father. The stressor was likely the death of the man. It didn’t make sense. The nature of the kills were angry. Expressive. The Unsub was asserting control over others because he’d never had any before. The death of a parent was a stressor that he saw far too often, but if said parent was abusive, it was even worse. More violent. Less merciful.

Which meant that it was only a matter of time before the Unsub began to devolve. Before he left something behind that could identify him. Spencer didn’t exactly feel bad that these people were dying. Objectively, they were horrible people who had done horrible things. Who had hurt innocent people. But he wished that they hadn’t died, not because they didn’t deserve it, but because it meant that someone’s father had hurt his son so badly that something broke inside him. That he was so angry, so anguished, that he ended up killed people, continuing the cycle. That someone who could have grown up to be innocent was instead shaped into a vengeful shell of what could’ve been. 

So yes. The people who had been killed probably deserved to die. But the person who was doing it definitely didn’t deserve to be a killer. 

—

You’d left Spencer so many voicemails. It had been a week and a half since The Incident, and much to your dismay, nothing like it had happened. What did happen, however, oftentimes upwards of twice a day, were the voicemails. Spencer kept his personal phone off for most of the day, so you used it as a diary. His inbox was your journal. Most of the time, you talked about random things. Silly things. Things that you probably shouldn’t be bothering him with, but you did it anyway. You talked and talked about books, people, facts, statistics, anything that came to mind, really. So, you weren’t exactly deterred from calling him that night, drunk and feeling particularly sentimental. 

You weren’t deterred from leaving him another voicemail, either.

—

Of course, it wasn’t unusual for Spencer to receive a voicemail from you, even in the middle of the night. But when he finally began listening, he realized that this one was different. There was loud music in the background, and voices. Lots of voices. 

“Hiii,” you slurred. “Lucy convinced me t’ go out tonight.” You sighed softly, and then giggled at seemingly nothing. Spencer couldn’t have cared less; your laugh was something he had yet to hear. Something sacred. It hit him like a semi truck- this was something he wanted to protect. To bury it in his heart and keep it there forever. To share it with no one. It was something that he would listen to on his darkest days- something that would make him feel better.

That laugh was everything to him.

You kept talking. “ ‘nd she said I should call you, ‘nd I was like! No way! But here we are.” You sighed again. It was soft and sweet. “I was thinking, if I’m gonna call you,” you paused for a moment, and then began whispering. Your voice was barely audible, but the words he heard shocked him. “I need to tell you s’mthing. I think..” you trailed off. “Woah. I think that you’re really, realllyy, pretty. Like, super pretty. Like, I could totally bite you. Just-” you burst out laughing. “-cannibalism!” Your voice was louder now, and Spencer could imagine the people around you staring. “And I think I remember you sayin’ that you wanted t’ kiss me, and I think, I think I’d let you, y’know?” He could hear you shifting in your seat. “If you wanted to,” you sounded more sober now. “I’d let you.”

A beat went by. A moment, maybe. It could have been a year of silence, and Spencer would have sat there. Waiting. Just so he could hear your voice again. 

“I-” he heard a familiar voice, one that didn’t belong to you, but recognizable nonetheless. Officer Chen. It made sense that she’d be with you if you went out. “Oh!” You yelled, probably louder than you meant to. Your friend picked up on that too, because you lowered your tone and repeated yourself. “Oh. I gotta go, Dr-” you caught yourself, and giggled again. “Spencer.”

—

Your headache was the first thing that hit you, next came feeling like you’d been beaten with a sack of doorknobs. Slowly, you got out of bed, only to look in the mirror and have a third realization hit you: you hadn’t taken your makeup off last night. Your hair was a disaster, you were covered in glitter, and somehow, there was mascara smudged across your face- and your ear. Somehow, you had managed to both ruin your professional image in front of the only person in the precinct who actually enjoyed your company, and look like a fucking idiot while you did it. Great.

Time to tackle the fact that, due to the state of your face, you could be confused for a humanoid raccoon. 

It took a while (and a few face cloths), but eventually, you managed to scrub the makeup off. The glitter, however, was another story. The little fucking devils got themselves everywhere. In your hair, on your skin- you wouldn’t be surprised if there was glitter in your shoes. Or if you’d somehow morphed into a sentient piece of glitter. Or if you never left your house again, because your face was bright red from the assault with a deadly washcloth you’d just committed on your skin.

You felt horrible, you looked horrible, and all you wanted to do was curl up and cry. But if you stayed home and cried, you’d probably lose your job, and you wouldn’t get to see Spencer. 

So, you picked up your workbag and left your dreams of sleep and relaxation in your apartment. 

You were in the parking lot of the police station when you realized two more things, making your grand total of realizations for the day rest at five. 

One, you’d grabbed the wrong bag, and two, you’d accidentally worn your slippers to your very professional, very judgemental job. Now, of course, because your day couldn’t get any worse, the bag you’d grabbed was from last night: it had your dress, and heels. Thankfully, you’d chosen to wear black ones from the night before. You couldn’t walk into the precinct with slippers on, so shoes of death it was. Because of fucking course. You were a genius, yet mix intellect with alcohol, and you became an idiot who somehow managed to mix up her work bag with her party bag. 

Maybe your mother was right. Maybe being smart didn’t make up for being a mistake. For constantly making mistakes. For apologizing when you didn’t have to, for sharing morbid facts when everyone else was clearly uncomfortable. For being too much, all day, every day. 

Maybe you should just give up and go home. Let Spencer find someone who didn’t fuck up all the time. Someone who could actually string a coherent sentence when she got upset. Someone who wasn’t too much, but rather just enough. Someone who could be perfect. Someone who deserved someone like him. 

And because you were so, inexplicably you, your alarms and planning meant nothing, simply because you’d sat in your car, moping, and were now fifteen minutes late. You could only imagine Tim’s dissappointment. Why you kept seeking his approval, you didn’t know. Maybe you just wanted someone to like you. Maybe you unconsciously seek out the most emotionally unavailable person in every room and try to bond with them, because all you want is to please. Please, please, please. Like me. Want me. Please, make me feel like I should be here, because deep down, we all know that I shouldn’t. So please, keep up this facade of amiability for just a little while longer. Pretend for one more day. 

—

The first thing you heard when you stepped into the precinct was a voice. A deep, booming voice. Tim. He was talking to you, you realized (6)  all of a sudden. The tone of his words made you want to die on the spot. Shrivel up, descend into hell. You were sure it would be nicer than the torment of being put in the spotlight like this, in front of everyone.

To your surprise, the verbal assault you were expecting never came. Instead, what you got was much worse. Humiliation. 

“Go make me a coffee.” Were the words that you caught from him. Proverbial hands outstretched, the rest of his sentence fell through the gaps between your fingers. Lost forever, because you didn’t dare risk the social suicide that would befall you, should you ask him for repetition. 

And because the filter on your readied response system was spotty today at best, you did the unthinkable. You asked Tim Bradford to repeat himself. Not just that- you questioned his authority.

“Wait- what? Why?” Though you were probably beyond salvation, you prayed for divine intervention. Even more shocking was the fact that it came to you, albeit in the form of remembering that he was your superior, therefore, you could call him sir in attempt to salvage the situation. “-sir.”

“Because,” he said firmly. His tone didn’t waver, didn’t budge. Not like yours. “Since you want to act like a rookie, make mistakes,” he emphasized the word mistakes, because he knew, obviously. He knew that you were prone to making them, knew that you didn’t belong here, among the shiny, polished professionals. You never would. All you could hope for was that the wolves didn’t detect that you were a sheep, wearing their skin like it was your own and pretending to fit in, because even most people similar to you didn’t like you at all. “-you can make coffee like one too. Or will that be fifteen minutes late as well?” It didn’t incite rage inside you like it should have, maybe because you knew it too. You didn’t deserve to be here at all.

“I, sir, my alarm didn’t go-” but he didn’t give a damn, and it wasn’t like you tried to defend yourself. Not now, not ever.

“Another rookie mistake. I’m still your superior officer. So go and make me a coffee.” And like it was an afterthought (because it was), he added: “Please.”

You did as you were told. You always did as you were told. You always would do as you were told, because you weren’t good enough, smart enough, special enough to try anything else.

You told yourself it could be worse. Sure, Spencer had heard it, Lucy had heard it- but hey, at least Agent Hotchner hadn’t. You didn’t think you could take disappointing multiple authority figures in one day. 

—

“Is that glitter?” Was the second thing SSA Derek Morgan ever said to you. If you were being honest, it probably was glitter. You weren’t exactly feeling very honest today, though. But because Tim’s unexpected display of authority had shattered any ability to lie to anyone you deemed above you, you told him the truth. “Probably,” you said, your tone as even as you could force. Maybe, if you were nonchalant enough about this, you wouldn’t embarrass yourself completely. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t seem very keen on leaving you alone. “Someone had fun last night?” He said with a smirk. If you were a normal person, you probably would have shrugged it off. Maybe given a little chuckle, a “you know how it is,” anything, absolutely anything other than the words that came out of your mouth. 

“Lots of fun.” To your dismay, only after the words left your lips, did you realize (7) exactly what they implied. Your faux nonchalant-ness didn’t help your case, either. Everything you did just made things worse.

 It was an out of body experience, watching the small smirk on his face grow wider. 

“Oh?” He said, and instead of rectifying your mistake instantly, you tried to salvage the conversation. You didn’t want to discuss your nonexistent sex life with a stranger. 

“You could say that,” you could also say that you had no social skills, but you’d realized that years ago. He just nodded at you, patted you on the shoulder, and walked away with his coffee. For some reason, he was comfortable joking like that, even though this was your second conversation, first if you didn’t count the five words he’d said to you a week and a half ago. 

Just as you were beginning to recover, you felt a presence behind you. To both your dismay (you weren’t in any state to have a conversation without collapsing due to sheer exhaustion) and joy (because you got to have another conversation with him), the face of the presence was none other than Spencer Reid. Instead of standing next to you, or maybe waiting for you to turn around, he wrapped his arms around your waist. He wrapped his fucking arms around your waist. He was touching you, and somehow, all the aches in your joints went away. The sounds around you, other than him, warped and melted until there was nothing there but you and him. He leaned down, resting his chin on your shoulder. The touch was welcome, if not begged for on your end. Spencer was holding you, flustering you, making you want to lose the game in a way you’d never imagined you’d ever want to. 

“You sent me an.. Interesting voicemail last night,” he whispered, his voice deep and smooth, like honey on toast. Like the sun split in half by the water on a lake. You were sure you would have collapsed just from the sound of it, had he not been holding you up. “I believe you said that you wanted to- hmm, what was it? Oh, yes. Bite me.”

Of course you had. Of course you’d called him, drunk, at 2am, and instead of saying something sweet or funny, you told him that you wanted to eat him. It was so you, it hurt. So out of place. Wrong. 

Your mouth was already apologizing before your brain caught up with you.

He tsk’d. “Hey. What did I tell you about apologizing?” 

“You said not to,” you said weakly. “But- it has to be annoying, right? I mean, there’s no way you actually like it.” The: ‘No way you actually like me’, didn’t need to be said. Your tone was enough.

“I did.” He said. It was like he knew you already. Like the grooves of his voice fit perfectly with the ugly parts of your personality, parts that jutted out like rocks, like he knew exactly how to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t too much for him. 

“Because,” he continued, “-I think it’s sweet. I mean, cannibalism is extremely rare. There aren’t even documented percentages today. Historically, sure, but right now? The chances are extremely low. Practically zero. I really am flattered that you’d like to bite me, just because you think I’m pretty.”

“I, well-”

“And,” he began, “If I recall correctly, you said that you wanted to kiss me. Is that so?” He smirked at you. You didn’t realize (8) that the man who’d seem so flustered during your first conversation could be so.. Whatever this was. Whatever was happening. If there was a word for going back and forth, for being sweet and then insanely attractive (there probably was, and he probably knew it), then this was it. This was where you melted on the floor and passed away. ‘Died of embarrassment", your tombstone would say.

“I was inebriated. You can’t take anything I said seriously, I wasn’t in my-”

“Are you saying that you don’t want to kiss me?” 

“I’m-” you tried. Tried to collect your thoughts, but they were butterflies, and your reasoning was a net full of holes. “I’m going to let you draw your own conclusions, based on the data I’m sure you’ve recovered from our previous conversations.”

He paused, for just a moment. Thinking. Calculating.

Against your better judgement, you broke the silence. “So, what’s the verdict, Doctor? Do I want to kiss you?” You asked. Your heart was racing, and you were sure he could feel it. After all, his chest was pressed against your back. So close. He was so, so close. And warm, too. And innocent looking. But you saw through it. You saw the devil underneath the sweater vests. Saw the desire behind his glasses and between the pages of the books he carried with him everywhere he went.

“There’s a 93% chance that you do want to kiss me,” he said. 

“Well, where did the other seven percent go?” You asked. 

“Are you implying,” he said softly, slowly, like he was making sure you weren’t fucking with him, “that the number should be 100%?” That it really is 100%? 

“Maybe,” you whispered. “You’ll just have to find out.”

This time, it was your turn to walk away, to leave him completely defenseless. But, not before you slipped a small note in his satchel with the updated score.

Spencer- 2

You- 1

You weren't heavily involved in the creative development of your solo album.

Epic Records had assigned an entire team to help you give shape to your debut. You had a songwriter who was doing his best to balance your age with what the company believed could become commercial successes, You had an incredible producer, talented vocal coaches, and a manager who always seemed to give his most honest reviews.

Everyone had a role.

Everyone except you.

At first, you tried not to let it bother you; the idea of recording your own album for the company felt like a dream come true. This was everything you had worked for. Years of training, auditions, rehearsals, and sacrifices had finally led to this moment. You had a record deal. You had a chance.

Every meeting seemed to revolve around people discussing what the audience would like, what image would sell best, what songs fit the market. Your opinion was in deed welcomed, but rarely needed.

When the conversation shifted toward songwriting, things only became more difficult.

You struggled every time someone asked what you wanted to say.

How were you supposed to write about heartbreak, love, longing, or nights spent dancing and partying when you had barely lived enough to understand any of it yourself?

In your own words, you hadn't experienced anything worth writing about.

Eventually, your manager decided to rearrange the entire process.

Instead of pushing you to write material you couldn't connect with, they shifted your role. You would focus on what you did best: singing.

From then on, you mostly lent your voice whenever it was needed, only coming into the company a few days a week to record vocals, rehearse, and occasionally sit in on production meetings.

And that made it almost impossible for Michael to learn your routine. Not that he was actively trying to figure it out; he didn't want to sound like a stalker, nor did he want to act like one. The truth was much simpler than that. Ever since the day the two of you had met, he had found himself thinking about you more often than he cared to admit.

The conversation had barely lasted a couple of minutes before your manager had appeared and practically swept you away from him.

The only things he knew about you were your name, the fact that you worked for Epic, and what your manager looked like. It wasn't much. In fact, by any sensible standard, it wasn't enough information to justify the amount of curiosity he felt. Yet curiosity had always been one of Michael's greatest weaknesses. Once something managed to capture his attention, it rarely left his mind until he had figured it out.

Of course, there were ways to learn more about you. The label wasn't exactly a small company, but it wasn't impossible to ask around either.

Still, he tried not to be obvious about it.

He didn't go around introducing himself into conversations about you, nor did he ask direct questions whenever your name came up. Instead, he listened. He paid attention. And when opportunities presented themselves, he asked the occasional harmless question, hoping someone would know something.

Unfortunately, nobody seemed to know much about you or your schedule.

A few songwriters recognized your name. Some musicians remembered seeing you around the building every now and then. Others knew you were supposedly working on a solo project. But whenever Michael tried to dig a little deeper, the answers always stopped there. Nobody knew where you spent most of your time.

It was odd.

And quite frustrating, if he was being honest.

For someone whose voice was slowly becoming familiar throughout the company, you remained strangely absent.

The more he thought about it, the more he noticed how little he actually saw you around.

Epic was filled with artists, producers, executives, musicians, and staff members constantly moving from one room to another. Yet somehow, despite working for the same company, he almost never crossed paths with you.

Eventually, Michael started taking advantage of the amount of time he already spent at Epic. His father had never been particularly generous when it came to work schedules, Long hours had never bothered him; if anything, they felt familiar. Years of rehearsals, recordings, interviews, and performances had made work feel as natural as breathing.

Lately, however, he found himself choosing to spend even more time at the company's recording facilities than at the private studio back at Hayvenhurst. If he had a session that could easily be recorded elsewhere, he would schedule it at Epic instead. If he found himself with an hour or two between commitments, he spent it wandering through the halls, lingering near rehearsal rooms, or finding excuses to remain in the building a little longer than necessary.

One afternoon, after a long studio session with his brothers, Michael slipped out of the room as quickly as possible. He scarcely avoided whatever teasing, double meanings, or annoying remarks Marlon was undoubtedly preparing for him and made his escape before either of them could stop him.

The hallway felt unusually quiet compared to the noise he had just left behind.

Outside the recording booth sat a small table with a pitcher of water and a stack of paper cups left behind by the staff. Michael leaned over and poured himself a drink, grateful for a moment of peace after hours spent singing beneath hot studio lights.

He had barely lifted the cup to his lips when something caught his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, a figure moved across the courtyard connecting the different buildings.

At first, he paid it little attention.

People were constantly coming and going.

But then he paused.

His gaze lingered on the figure a second longer than necessary.

The hair.

For a brief moment, he convinced himself it was a coincidence. Plenty of people had hair like yours.

Then the figure turned slightly.

Michael immediately set the cup back down on the table.

No.

That was definitely your hair.

Before he could stop himself, he was already moving.

You were walking quickly as you crossed the small garden; Whatever destination you had in mind, you seemed determined to get there as fast as possible.

For a split second, Michael considered letting you go.

He could always try again another day.

Then he remembered how many weeks had passed since your first conversation.

And just like that, the decision was made.

He followed.

You were fast. Much faster than he had expected.

The distance between you barely changed as you hurried across the courtyard and toward the far end of the property. Under different circumstances, Michael could have easily caught up. Years of dancing had left him with more stamina than most people his age.

The problem wasn't speed.

It was the doubt.

Every time he considered calling your name, doubt stopped him.

What if you didn't remember him? What if you were busy?

What if he sounded ridiculous after spending weeks trying to find an excuse to talk to you again?

Those thoughts slowed him down far more than any physical obstacle could.

Soon, he followed you all the way to the exit of the building; The moment he saw you pushing open the glass door, preparing to leave, he couldn't help himself.

Your name left his lips before he had the chance to think twice about it. The sound startled even him. For weeks, your name had existed only in passing thoughts, in brief conversations, and in moments when he caught himself wondering where you had gone. Yet hearing it aloud felt strangely different. His voice carried across the reception, soft and breathless despite the urgency behind it.

You stopped immediately.

One hand remained on the door as you turned around, the urgency in the voice that had called after you enough to stop you in your tracks.

Michael was suddenly standing much closer than you expected. Somehow, he had managed to slip through the narrowing gap between the glass doors, as though the thought of missing his chance to talk to you had outweighed any concern for dignity.

You smiled, both confused and slightly embarrassed once you recognized who it was.

"Oh, hi Michael. You were calling me? Sorry, I could... I didn't hear you."

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, yet made no move to leave the doorway.

Michael nodded.

He already knew it was you.

Still, seeing your face bathed in the golden warmth of the California sun made something tighten unexpectedly inside his chest. The light caught the edges of your hair and softened your features, and for a brief moment, Michael found himself staring.

For a moment, he almost forgot what he wanted to say.

It took him a second to realize you were waiting for an answer.

"Yes," he said, clearing his throat. "I've been trying to get your attention since I saw you crossing the courtyard."

His fingers tightened slightly around the metal frame of the door.

"It looked like you were in a hurry." He swallowed. "I apologize. Am I keeping you from something?"

"Not at all. Well, not in the way you're thinking."

You shifted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder before letting out a small laugh. Your free hand immediately found its way to your hair, tucking a few loose strands behind your ear only for them to fall right back into place.

"I was just on my way to find somewhere to eat. I just got out of a meeting and honestly...

Your voice slowly faded into the background as Michael's thoughts began taking over.

He had heard the words.

You were busy.

Of course you were busy.

You had somewhere to be. Somewhere you had already been heading before he called after you. The only reason you were standing there now was because he had stopped you.

The realization settled heavily in his stomach.

Maybe he should have waited for another day.

A better day.

The thought made his chest sink too.

When all of a sudden a voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Sorry, kiddo."

Michael blinked.

A man in a suit stood directly in front of him.

For a second, Michael simply stared at the guy. From the outside, it might have looked like he had some personal issue with him, but in reality, Michael was just confused.

Then he realized he had been blocking the entrance the entire time.

Heat immediately rushed to his cheeks.

"Oh, sorry."

He stepped aside quickly, moving out of the doorway and onto the sidewalk to let the man pass.

When the stranger disappeared inside, Michael let out a quiet sigh and shoved his hands into the back pockets of his pants.

His mood had shifted completely.

Moments ago he had been excited to finally see you again.

Now he couldn't even bring himself to look at you.

He had interrupted you.

You were probably looking for a polite way out of this conversation.

You watched as Michael's gaze remained fixed on the sidewalk, his hands buried in his back pockets and his shoulders noticeably tenser than they had been moments ago.

The enthusiasm that had been written all over his face when he first called after you seemed to have disappeared entirely.

Deciding to rescue him from whatever spiral he had managed to talk himself into, you shifted your weight and spoke.

"Do you want to come with me?"

His head snapped up so quickly it almost hurt.

You tilted your own slightly, trying to catch his eyes.

"Come with you?" he repeated, almost stupidly.

"I'm honestly starving," you admitted with a small smile. "And I could really use someone to talk to."

The invitation took several seconds to register.

"You mean... with you?"

The question left his mouth before he could stop it.

You laughed softly.

"Well, I wasn't planning on inviting anybody else."

For the first time since he had begun to suspect that you were only being polite, Michael smiled.

A real smile. One that reached his big brown eyes.

"I'd love to."

Relief softened his expression almost instantly.

"But please, let me go get my wallet."

"Oh, you don't have to. My treat."

That only made him smile harder.

"No, no."

He shook his head, still slightly breathless, as if the idea itself made him uneasy.

"I don't think that's proper."

Then, much softer, he spoke your name.

"Just wait for me a little longer. I won't be long."

He turned and pushed the glass door open, but even as he stepped inside, he glanced back over his shoulder.

You were still there.

He kept walking, only to look back again once he reached the hallway.

Still there.

As if he needed confirmation, he slowed for half a second more before finally disappearing deeper into the building.

It wasn't until you lifted your hand in a small wave through the glass that he fully turned away.

And the moment he was out of sight, he broke into a sprint, disappearing down the corridor like he suddenly had somewhere very important to be.

a/n: Originally, I was going to make this chapter almost 4k words, but I decided to split it into two parts. Also… I love angst. I really do. I kind of want to go down the rabbit hole with it, but please let me know if you’d prefer that I take this story in a different direction instead.

Michael had made the music industry hungry for young artists with incredible voices.

You were only eleven years old when your parents had a long conversation in the living room of your family home. A year later, you were pulled out of regular school and began homeschooling so you could focus entirely on music.

It all seemed to happen out of nowhere. Your father had suddenly decided that you were going to audition for some of the biggest record companies in California. He created a strict training schedule, filling your days with vocal exercises, dance rehearsals, and performance coaching.

Unbeknownst to him, however, it wasn't the training that made you fall in love with music.

It was the late night ice cream runs after rehearsals that he used as a reward.

Before long, music became more than a goal or a career. It became something you genuinely loved. Performing gave you a the opportunity to express yourself, and dancing across a stage felt as natural as breathing.

You had started your career as a backup vocalist. Whenever a studio needed someone to sing harmonies or background vocals, you were one of the first people they called. It earned you valuable connections and helped ease the nerves that came with working in such a demanding industry.

By 1977, you had become known as someone reliable. Your voice had matured in every aspect, you had found your sound, and you had grown increasingly comfortable performing in front of others.

Most importantly, your father never stopped believing in you and eventually, that persistence paid off.

Combined with your growing reputation, undeniable talent, and years of hard work, the opportunity your father had been searching for finally arrived. Epic Records offered you a contract, turning a distant dream into something frighteningly real.

Seeing Michael was bound to happen.

After all, you worked for the same company.

As you worked on your debut album, you spent countless hours inside Epic's offices; Always moving between recording studios, rehearsal rooms, and meetings. Some days, it felt like you practically lived there.

There had been a time when you often caught yourself wondering what it would be like to meet him. Sometimes, you even dreamed about it.

But nothing could have prepared you for the way it actually happened.

You really wished there was a designated area for non-smokers. You were sure there must have been one somewhere in the building, but far too many people seemed to ignore the signs.

With no proper rest area in sight, you walked across a small garden until the next building, where you found the sign of a seating area.

A sigh of relief left your mouth as you finally breathed in the mostly clean air.

That’s when you noticed someone sitting near the window. As you observed his young frame, you felt drawn to approach him.

For a brief moment, you thought it might be nice to have a casual conversation with someone your age.

You were halfway to sitting down next to him when you realized who it was.

Michael Jackson.

The Michael Jackson.

You recognized him mid-step. Turning around at that point would have looked ridiculous, and a hundred thoughts immediately ran through your mind.

There was nothing you could do anymore, so you went with the first thing that came to you.

You practically flopped onto the sofa the same way you would at home. Too relaxed, too fast, completely without grace. Yes, there was still distance between you and him, but your cheeks flushed instantly when you notices that at the exact same moment you landed, the sofa shifted, causing Michael to bounced off the seat for a brief moment

He quickly settled back down, blinking in mild surprise, clearly not expecting the force of your dramatic landing. He turned to look at you a small smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth as he kept staring at you in disbelief.

You had no idea how to recover from what had just happened. Either way, you knew you had to greet him; it was the manner you were raised with. You were still fidgeting in your seat when you decided to choose denial as your escape plan.

“Uh, hey, man. I didn’t see you there,” you said, offering a crooked, embarrassed smile.

The sofa where you were both sitting was directly across from the door. There was absolutely no way you could have missed him, but it seemed like that didn’t really matter to Michael.

“It’s okay,” he replied softly, placing a hand on his knee.

And that was it. Silence flooded the room, as neither of you knew what to say.

The truth was, you had no idea how to continue the conversation. Yes, introducing yourself would have been ideal, but what if he thought you were just a groupie who only approached him because of who he was? And not introducing yourself felt rude; and God, you hated the idea of coming off as rude.

You sighed and placed your hands on your abdomen, still lying back on the sofa. Your fingers intertwined as your gaze dropped to the floor.

This was nothing like you had dreamed...

A sound pulled you out of your thoughts. Michael had started lightly tapping his hands on his thighs in a rhythm. You smiled, realizing there was no reason to be nervous; he was just a huge superstar sitting next to you, just as you were just… you.

“Hi,” you said.

“Y-you look p—” he started.

“Oh, I’m sorry, what?” you interrupted.

“Sorry, I—I…” he tried again.

We kept interrupting each other until you finally sat up properly. He quickly looked away, suddenly shy.

“I’m sorry, I speak in front of you like this,” he said.

“No, I’m the one who needs to apologize. Please, what were you going to say?”

Michael hesitated and let out a nervous laugh.

“I… I was just going to ask if you were tired,” he paused, his voice softer now, breathier with shyness growing. “Which I don’t know if it’s a proper question to ask a lady. I didn’t mean to—”

“I am,” you interrupted gently, saving him from spiraling like you had just moments before. “I… I apologize. I was really tired and—” you gestured around the space, including the sofa. “Also for making you jump. I didn’t think I could do that.”

Michael giggled, in a high pitch, yet, soft, warm; and leaned slightly closer, closing some of the distance between you.

“Please, there’s no need to apologize. That was actually… pretty funny.”

You couldn’t help but laugh too.

You met his eyes, but it didn’t last long, he quickly looked away again, his doe-like gaze dropping as he kept smiling softly, almost shyly.

Feeling the tension ease slightly, you shifted a little closer. Not enough to invade his personal space, but just enough to let him know you were still there.

You offered your hand with an enthusiastic smile, introducing yourself as you did so.

He hesitated for a moment before taking it. He didn’t really shake it in a formal way; the way he would when signing contracts. Instead, he just held your hand gently, almost carefully, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what the proper response should be, and gave a small, polite nod.

“Very nice to meet you,” he said softly. “I’m Michael.”

His voice was quiet, warm, and a little shy, like he wasn’t used to saying his own name out loud in situations like this.

For a brief moment, neither of you let go.

Every single one of his brothers had stared at him as he left, and the looks alone had been enough to tell him exactly what they were thinking.

Michael Jackson had willingly left a rehearsal early. Not only that, but he had done so knowing perfectly well that there would be consequences waiting for him back at Hayvenhurst. Marlon had opened his mouth, undoubtedly ready to make some comment about it, while Randy looked seconds away from laughing himself sick. Michael, however, had refused to give either of them the satisfaction.

He had grabbed his jacket, ignored the teasing that followed him out of the room, and left before anyone could stop him.

The ride itself had been pleasant enough. Conversation came and went naturally, flowing far more easily than either of you had expected. At some point, Michael admitted that he hadn't seen you around the company in quite some time, a confession that seemed to surprise you more than anything else.

"You noticed that?" you asked with a small laugh.

Michael immediately looked out the window, suddenly interested in the passing traffic.

"Well... maybe."

The second the words left his mouth, he ducked his head slightly, as if he regretted admitting it. His fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of his jacket while he refused to look in your direction.

You couldn't help a giggle out.

"The truth is, I'm barely there most days. They don't really need me unless I'm recording something."

You explained gently, noticing the way he suddenly seemed very interested in everything except looking at you

That made Michael turned his attention back to you.

"Really?"

You nodded.

"Most of the album is already planned out, you know? The writers write, the producers produce, and I show up whenever somebody needs vocals."

There was no bitterness in your voice, but something about the answer made Michael frown slightly.

He knew what that felt like.

"So what do you do when you're not there?" he asked.

You shrugged.

"Honestly? Not much. Rehearsals. Home. Sometimes I come into the city. Sometimes I come here."

You pointed ahead, toward the diner that was slowly coming into view.

The conversation drifted elsewhere after that, interrupted every now and then by comfortable silences.

Through the car window, Los Angeles moved around you in a blur of traffic lights, storefronts, and pedestrians hurrying down crowded sidewalks. Michael seemed content simply listening whenever you spoke, occasionally asking questions that made it obvious he was genuinely paying attention.

Still, by the time Bill finally pulled into the parking lot, however, you found yourself feeling slightly embarrassed.

The diner wasn't particularly impressive. Its sign had faded with age, some of the paint peeling away after years beneath the California sun, and the building itself looked as though it had been standing there forever. As the car came to a stop, you glanced toward Michael apologetically.

"I'm sorry. It probably took longer to get here than it was worth."

Michael's gaze immediately lifted from the window.

"What do you mean?"

You adjusted the strap of your bag before gesturing toward the building

"I usually take the bus when I come here. It's usually a long-ish ride, but I like it because it helps me relax."

The answer seemed to catch him completely off guard. Michael reacted as if you had just told him about some great adventure, his eyes widening slightly as he processed it.

"The bus?"

You nodded.

"Yeah."

Then, after a brief pause, you look out the window.

"It's my favorite place."

Michael's eyebrows lifted before he could stop himself. His gaze moved slowly across the small old diner.

"Really?"

The reaction escaped him before he had the chance to hide it.

You laughed.

"I know, it does not look like the great thing."

You looked toward the diner.

"And if I'm being honest, it's not even the food that keeps bringing me back."

"No?" Michael tilted his head slightly, clearly intrigued now.

You shook your head.

"It's the desserts."

Your eyes lit up at the thought.

"They have the best desserts I've ever had in Los Angeles."

The excitement in your voice made Michael smile.

He found himself looking at you rather than the building.

You were already climbing out of the car before he realized Bill had parked.

As you reached for the entrance door, Michael quickly stepped forward, closing the distance between you in a single movement. Before your hand could even touch the handle, he stretched past you and caught it first.

You paused, caught slightly off guard, turning your head just enough to look at him.

Michael pulled the door open properly this time, holding it steady instead of letting it swing back. A small, slightly nervous smile tugged at his lips as he glanced at you.

"Please," he said, his voice soft but certain. "After you."

You stared at him for a second longer than necessary before stepping aside with a small nod.

"Thank you," you murmured.

The cool air inside the diner hit you immediately as you stepped in, a contrast to the warm weather outside.

The diner looked almost empty. A handful of customers occupied a few scattered booths and stools, most of them truck drivers taking a break from the road thanks to the diner's convenient location near one of the main highways. None of them seemed particularly interested in what was happening around them. One man sat alone with a newspaper spread open in front of him. Two others occupied a booth near the windows, discussing something in low voices.

Somewhere behind the counter, a radio played quietly enough to be ignored but loudly enough to fill the spaces between conversations. The smell of fresh coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of warm pastries and food that had been cooking all morning

Without really thinking about it, you started walking ahead, instinctively guiding him toward your favorite booth as if it were second nature. Halfway there, you glanced over your shoulder to check if he was still following, silently asking without words if the spot was okay.

Michael simply nodded, already observing the space around him with quiet curiosity.

A few moments later, you both settled into the booth across from each other. From there, you noticed Bill already comfortably seated at the counter, leaning slightly as he spoke with a waitress.

You placed your purse beside you and let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

"Please tell me I didn't pull you away from a rehearsal or a recording session," you said, half joking, half genuinely concerned.

Michael immediately shook his head, as if the answer had been waiting for him.

A crooked smile pulled at his mouth as he leaned back slightly in the booth.

"Not at all."

His fingers intertwined loosely on top of the table, his gaze drifting to the table, as though the next words suddenly felt more difficult to say.

"I actually really appreciated the invitation."

"Oh please, it's the least I could do after…" You let out an embarrassed laugh, briefly licking your lips as you searched for the right words. "…the way I introduced myself."

The moment the words left your mouth, Michael's hands landed on the table with a soft thud. The reaction was so immediate it almost made you laugh. He leaned forward in his seat, a bright laugh escaping him before he could stop it, as though you had accidentally opened a conversation he had been waiting weeks to have.

"You have no idea how long I've been thinking about that."

The confession made you raise your head, blinking in surprise.

He had been thinking about your first meeting?

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"I've had hundreds of first meetings with people," Michael continued, leaning back slightly in his seat. "Lawyers, managers, musicians..." He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Everyone always does the same thing, you know? The same handshake. The same boring introduction."

His expression brightened as the memory came back to him. For a moment, he looked almost excited, like he had finally found an excuse to bring up something that had been sitting in the back of his mind for weeks.

"But you just..."

The words trailed off.

Only then did he seem to realize how animated he had become. The smile on his face softened, and the tips of his ears slowly turned pink. His attention dropped to his hands resting on the table, suddenly finding them much easier to look at than you.

"You just..." he tried again, letting out a small laugh under his breath. "I don't know."

It wasn't until he heard your laughter that he finally looked back up, his embarrassment easing almost instantly.

"I was so confident when I walked over there," you admitted, leaning forward slightly and clasping your hands together on the table. "I saw you and thought, 'Oh, someone my age.'"

You narrowed your eyes playfully.

"I just didn't realize you were... you, you."

"Me, me?" Michael repeated, amused.

"Yes, you." A laugh escaped you once again. "I saw you, but then my brain finally caught up and suddenly it wasn't just some guy anymore. It was Michael Jackson."

Michael immediately ducked his head with a quiet laugh.

"And by then I couldn't exactly back out and..."

"You threw yourself onto that couch and nearly launched me across the room."

You gasped.

"Now you're just making things up."

A quiet laugh escaped Michael.

"Maybe a little."

"It was just a little high" you corrected.

"A little high..." he repeated thoughtfully.

For a moment, the conversation settled into comfortable laughter. Then he shifted in his seat. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it again, clearly unsure of how to say what was on his mind.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was much softer.

"Were you disappointed?"

The question caught you completely off guard.

Your laughter faded as you searched his face, trying to understand where it had come from. A moment ago you had been teasing each other about the couch. Now Michael wouldn't even look at you.

You were beginning to notice that habit of his.

Every now and then, Michael would allow himself to relax completely. During those moments, conversation flowed easily, his laughter came naturally, and it almost felt as though you were simply talking to another teenager your age.

For a few precious minutes, it was just Michael.

But then something always seemed to pull him back. A thought, a memory, a sudden awareness of himself. Whatever it was, it would settle over him without warning, softening his voice and making him retreat into a more careful version of himself.

You shifted slightly in your seat, now fully aware of the change in tone. Whatever had prompted the question, it clearly wasn't a joke.

A small smile appeared on your face, an instinctive attempt to reassure him even though you didn't entirely understand where the question had come from.

"I don't understand," you admitted gently.

Michael nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the table between you. His fingers rubbed absentmindedly against one another as though he was trying to organize his thoughts before saying them out loud.

"You said you wanted to talk to me," he began quietly. "Then you came closer and realized who I was."

He paused for a moment, carefully choosing his next words.

"You said you saw me, and then you saw Michael Jackson."

The name sounded oddly distant coming from his own mouth.

One shoulder lifted in a small shrug before falling again.

"And after that, you wanted to back out."

His eyes remained lowered for another heart beat before finally lifting toward yours.

"Were you disappointed?" he asked again, his voice barely above a murmur.

The insecurity behind the question was subtle, but impossible to miss.

Suddenly, you had the feeling that this wasn't the first time Michael had wondered that about someone.

"Oh, Michael, of course not," you quickly said, your hands moving closer to his without fully thinking about it, as if you needed him to understand you were still there, still present. "I wanted someone to talk to about how upset I was with..."

You hesitated, swallowing the frustration as it resurfaced.

"With my team," you continued, your voice tightening slightly. "About the lack of creative involvement in my own album. I barely get to be part of it anymore, it's mostly just… me showing up and singing when they tell me to."

Your fingers brushed his hand briefly as you spoke, grounding yourself in the moment.

"I was upset, and I just needed someone to talk to. And then I realized it was you," you admitted, letting out a small, embarrassed breath. "I thought… We’ve never even really talked properly… I mean, we hadn’t even been introduced," you added softly, looking down before forcing yourself to meet his eyes again. "I thought I would just be wasting your time."

Michael frowned slightly at that and leaned in a little closer.

"Why?" he asked, so softly it was almost a whisper.

You hesitated, your gaze dropping for a second before you forced yourself to meet his eyes again.

"How could I bother you with something as mundane as an argument with my manager the first time we met? It just didn't seem fair," you said quietly.

Unbeknownst to you, that had landed somewhere deeper than expected in Michael’s chest.

"I would’ve listened," he said simply, after a pause. "I want to listen."

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

"And I'm sorry," you added quickly, rushing the words out before he could interrupt. "All I meant by wanting to walk away was that I didn't want to overwhelm you. I know you're a person, just like everyone else. I never wanted you to think I was treating you any differently."

Michael didn’t respond right away.

You’re a person, just like everybody else.

He was looking at you now, really looking at you. His eyes didn’t blink for several seconds, as if he was afraid to miss anything you were saying. He was still listening, you could tell, but there was something in the way he held your gaze.

"You must have your own struggles and goals," you added. "And the need to talk to someone about them too. I’m sure you know what I mean..."

Yeah, he had completely lost track of the conversation. Now he was openly staring at you, studying your face as if trying to hold onto every detail.

He wasn’t a bother to you.

You had wanted someone to talk to, and you had chosen him for that.

"But now I know you're here," you continued softly, "that you'll listen; and I promise I will also be here to do the same thing for you."

Something opened in his chest then, a warm, unfamiliar feeling that caught him completely off guard. He couldn't quite name it, only feel it settling somewhere deep inside him.

Michael finally blinked and nodded. Then he slowly lifted his hand, offering his pinky.

"Promise?" he asked softly.

You looked at him, then at his hand, and a laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.

It had been years since someone had asked you to promise something like that.

Smiling, you gently hooked your pinky with his.

“Pinky promise,” you confirmed, still laughing quietly.

And Michael didn’t let go right away.

A waitress finally arrived and looked between you and Michael, her expression completely neutral, as if nothing about the situation was unusual.

Michael raised his eyebrows slightly, almost expecting some kind of reaction; surprise, recognition, maybe even a request for an autograph or a photo.

“Are you guys ready to order, or do you need more time?” she asked, letting out a barely disguised sigh as she stood there.

Michael blinked a couple of times, then turned to look at you, his expression clearly saying Are you seeing this?

A laugh threatened to escape you.

You had spent the entire drive hoping for something like this.

For the first time since arriving, Michael looked genuinely caught off guard.

And for a moment, he looked happy about it.

You smiled softly, glad he was getting to experience a little of the normality you had hoped to share with him when you invited him to your favorite diner.

As you moved your hand away from his, he hesitated for a moment before glancing down at the menus, just realizing they had been there the entire time.

Oh.

They really had been there this whole time.

“I’ll get the cheeseburger with a side of fries,” you said easily, not even needing to open the menu. The waitress placed it down before you had even finished speaking.

“So... your usual,” she replied flatly, already used to you.

Then her attention shifted back to Michael.

Michael straightened slightly, suddenly more animated, intertwining his fingers with a small spark of excitement as he leaned forward just a bit.

“What do you recommend for dessert?” he asked.

The question caught you off guard.

“Are you starting with dessert?”

“Why not?” he replied simply.

“Well, usually my father wouldn’t let me-”

“Well, our fathers aren’t here,” Michael interrupted gently, a smile forming. “Come on… you said that was your favorite part. Show it to me.”

You let out a small laugh and nodded.

“Can I just get my burger for last?” you added, turning back to the waitress. “And can we get a key lime pie and a caramel apple cake, please?”

The waitress left with their order, disappearing back toward the counter with the same indifferent pace she had arrived with, not lingering a second longer than necessary.

The bell above the diner door rang softly as someone entered, but the sound barely reached their table, swallowed by the low hum of the diner and the distant clatter of plates.

Michael’s presence felt quieter now, less guarded than before. He leaned back slightly in the booth, no longer tense, his attention no longer pulled in a hundred different directions at once.

Just where he already was.

Just you, right in front of him.

Across from him, you watched him without really meaning to. You wanted to give him space, not make him feel flustered or watched, but you couldn’t quite help it; you kept smiling anyway, small and quiet.

Reader trying to make Michael feel seen and human, validating him.

Michael: blah blah blah proper names, places, backstory stuff

a/n: Hee hee, I’m back 😭 Kind of weird to suddenly have such an inspiration rush, but honestly I’m really loving where this story is going.

And that’s it… I don’t really know what else to say, but please—