A Grammy and a Kiss || Michael jackson x Underground artist! Reader ||
1984. If someone had told you a year ago that you'd be attending the Grammy Awards, you would've laughed until your stomach hurt.
Even now, with the invitation tucked safely inside your evening clutch and your name printed neatly among the guest list, it didn't quite feel real. The Shrine Auditorium glittered before you in a way no magazine photograph had ever managed to capture. Every crystal chandelier scattered light across polished marble floors, every camera flash illuminated another familiar face, and every conversation seemed to belong to someone whose records had already changed the world.
You found yourself standing in the middle of it all, wondering how you had somehow wandered into someone else's dream.
You weren't a household name.
Far from it. Your songs lived in small record shops, college radio stations, and well-loved cassette tapes passed between friends. You had listeners, more than you ever dared hope for, but they existed quietly, tucked away in corners of the world that never made headlines. The invitation had felt like proof that maybe... just maybe...someone important had been listening. Tonight, you wanted to believe that. Which was precisely why you'd chosen the dress.
It shimmered with thousands of tiny silver sequins that caught every passing light, sparkling with every cautious step you took. It wasn't extravagant by Grammy standards, not beside the gowns dripping in diamonds or the tailored suits worn by music legends, but it was brighter than anything you had ever worn.
You'd convinced yourself that, just this once, it was alright to stand out. Now, surrounded by artists whose names alone turned heads, you weren't so sure.
People looked past you more often than they looked at you. Some brushed shoulders with hurried apologies before continuing toward someone more recognizable. Others smiled politely, only to let their attention drift elsewhere the moment they realized they couldn't quite place your face. For a fleeting moment, you wondered if the glitter had only made your anonymity more obvious. The thought lingered just long enough to sting.
Then you straightened your shoulders.
No.
You belonged here.
Whether anyone recognized you or not, someone had listened to your music. Someone had believed it deserved to be in this room. That had to count for something. So you lifted your chin, smoothed an invisible crease from your dress, and stepped farther into the sea of flashing cameras and unfamiliar faces, determined not to let doubt become the loudest thing you carried that evening.The air inside the auditorium grew thicker, vibrating with the electric energy of the pre-show rush. Guests were still mingling and finding their places, but just a few yards away from you, the atmosphere changed completely. A dense wall of photographers, executives, and security personnel had formed, parting only to allow passage for the man everyone was talking about.
Tonight was anticipated to be a historic evening. The entire building was buzzing with whispers about whether he was going to break records and sweep the awards for Thriller. He stood in his iconic gold-embroidered military jacket and single sequined glove, politely nodding and smiling as people clamored for even a second of his time before the curtains went up.
Standing just behind Michael was Bill, one of his trusted personal security guards. Billâs job required absolute, unwavering focus on his surroundings, scanning the pre-show crowd. But as his eyes swept over the room, they paused on you.
Bill blinked, momentarily breaking his professional stoicism. He recognized that face. He knew that specific, quiet elegance. Bill wasn't just a security guard; he was a massive fan of the underground music scene, and your hauntingly beautiful, indie cassette tape had been on repeat in his car for the last six months. Seeing you here, shimmering in your silver dress but standing entirely alone before the show started, completely caught him off guard.
Leaning down slightly, Bill tapped Michaelâs shoulder, speaking over the roaring crowd. "Michael, excuse me, sir."
Michael turned his head slightly, his dark eyes curious behind his aviator sunglasses. "Yes, Bill? Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine, sir. It's just..." Bill cleared his throat, pointing subtly past a group of executives. "Do you see the lady in the silver dress over there? By the column?" Michaelâs gaze followed Bill's hand. He spotted you instantly. In a room full of loud, boisterous personalities trying desperately to be noticed, you looked like a quiet oasis. "I see her," Michael murmured, his interest piqued by how genuinely gentle and out-of-place you looked. "Who is she?"
"She's an underground artist." Bill explained, a rare grin breaking through his tough exterior. "I listen to her tape every single day. I never expected her to be here tonight. Sir, would it be alright if I stepped away for just one minute before the show starts to go say hello and get an autograph? I promise I'll be right back."
Michael looked from Bill back to you. He saw the slight, nervous way you adjusted your evening clutch, the shy smile you gave to a passing usher. There was an innocence about you that Michael recognized instantly, and deeply respected.
Michael smiled warmly, a soft chuckle escaping him. "Oh, wow. Of course you can, Bill. Go ahead. Don't make her wait."
"Thank you, sir," Bill said, adjusting his suit jacket before walking quickly through the crowd toward you.
You were just about to look for your assigned seat when a large, imposing figure stepped into your line of sight. Your heart skipped a beat, assuming you were blocking someone's path or doing something wrong.
"Excuse me, miss?â
You looked up, wide-eyed, taking in the official Grammy security badge and the manâs massive frame. "Um, yes? Yes, I am," you whispered, your voice catching in your throat.
Billâs face softened into a huge, enthusiastic smile. "I knew it! Man, I'm sorry to startle you. I'm Bill. I just had to come over because I am a huge fan of your music. That track you have, the acoustic one? It's genius. I listen to your tape all the time."
Your mouth parted in genuine shock. Your cheeks burned a bright, furious pink, and a breathless, incredibly sweet smile took over your face. "You... you know my music? Really?"
"Are you kidding? You're incredible," Bill said, pulling a small polaroid camera from his jacket pocket. "Look, I know this is unprofessional of me, but do you think I could get a quick picture with you before they call everyone to sit down? And maybe an autograph?"
"Oh my goodness, of course! I'd be honored," you stammered, genuinely touched.
An usher nearby took the camera, and you stood beside Bill. You were so tiny compared to him, smiling shyly into the lens as the camera flashed. Bill eagerly took the developing photo, then looked around for something to write on. He didn't have paper, so he grabbed a clean white linen napkin from a nearby beverage tray and handed you a pen.
With slightly trembling, delicate hands, you smoothed the napkin against your clutch. To Bill, thank you for listening. Love, Y/N, you wrote in your neat, looping handwriting. You handed it back to him like it was a precious gift. "There you go. Thank you so much, Bill. You just made my entire night."
"No, thank you," Bill said proudly, tucking the napkin safely into his breast pocket. "Enjoy the night. You belong here."
As Bill walked back to his post, your heart was soaring. The anonymity didn't hurt anymore. Someone in this room loved your art.
Meanwhile, Bill slid back into position right next to Michael, who was currently nodding politely to a fast-talking record producer. The moment the producer walked away, Michael immediately turned to Bill, his eyes bright with intense curiosity.
"Well?" Michael asked, his voice dropping to a fascinated whisper. "Did you get it?"
"Sure did, Michael," Bill beamed, carefully pulling the napkin from his pocket to show him. "Look at that. She wrote me a note. She is honestly the sweetest, most down-to-earth person Iâve ever met in this industry. So shy. She was literally blushing because I recognized her."
Michael took the napkin from Billâs hand, his slender fingers tracing over your elegant handwriting. He looked across the room, his eyes locking back onto you. You were walking toward the seating bowl now, a soft, lingering smile on your lips, the silver sequins of your dress dancing under the lights.
Michael felt a sudden, magnetic pull. In a world full of people wearing masks and playing characters, your genuine, sweet aura felt like a breath of fresh air. He couldn't take his eyes off you.
"She's beautiful, Bill," Michael murmured softly, handing the napkin back but keeping his gaze firmly fixed on your distant silhouette. "She really has a cassette tape? What kind of music does she make?"
"It's beautiful, Michael. Soulful, poetic. Completely different from what's on the radio."
Michael bit his lower lip, a quiet, determined smile spreading across his face as the overhead lights in the lobby began to blink, signaling that the show was about to start. The king of pop, who was about to have the whole world at his feet tonight, suddenly found himself completely captivated by the underground artist in the silver dress.
"Bill," Michael said softly, his voice filled with a sudden, eager excitement as they began walking toward the front row. "We have to find out where she's sitting tonight. I want to meet her."
You made your way down the sloping aisle of the seating bowl, moving further away from the front-row glamour. Your ticket led you toward the back rows. You sat down in your assigned seat, surrounded by other indie creators, foreign press, and lesser-known nominees.
The view from the back offered a stark perspective. All the way down at the front, bathed in the brightest stage lights, sat the industry elites. You could easily spot Michael Jackson. He was seated directly next to Brooke Shields, the stunning Hollywood starlet. Together, they looked like royalty, encapsulated in a glittering bubble of fame, beauty, and absolute power. Flashbulbs erupted around them in a continuous, blinding wave.
Seeing him there, the absolute center of the universe, made the heavy weight of imposter syndrome settle deep back into your chest.
The brief rush of confidence you felt after talking to Bill evaporated. You looked down at your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for believing a single napkin autograph meant you belonged in a room like this. You were an underground artist whose songs were played in smoky basements. He was a global phenomenon about to make history. The physical distance between your seat in the back and his seat in the front felt like a literal manifestation of your entire career compared to his. You shrunk back into your chair, the silver sequins of your dress suddenly feeling less like a celebration and more like a loud reminder of how out of place you truly were.
As the house lights dimmed to signal the start of the live broadcast, you kept your eyes fixed on the stage, unaware that miles ahead of you, Michael was doing the exact opposite.
Before the opening act even hit their first note, Michael leaned over the back of his chair. His eyes scanned the massive, rising sea of faces in the darker rows behind him, searching the shadows for the unmistakable shimmer of silver sequins.
The dimming of the house lights didn't soothe you; it made the walls feel like they were closing in. As the opening bassline of the first performance thundered through the massive speakers, the sheer volume of the sound waves seemed to trap the air right inside your lungs.
A sudden, sharp wave of panic crashed over you. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird, and your hands grew ice-cold and slick with sweat. You gripped the arms of your velvet seat just to keep your balance as the room began to tilt. Breathe, you told yourself, but your chest felt locked tight, completely paralyzed by the suffocating weight of your own insecurity. You felt so incredibly small, so agonizingly invisible, that you were convinced everyone around you could hear your frantic, shallow breathing.
Terrified of making a scene or drawing unwanted eyes, you tightly squeezed your eyelids shut. You forced your hands to release the armrests, smoothing your palms flat against the cool, metallic sequins of your dress instead. The texture gave your mind something concrete to focus on.
Five seconds in, you instructed yourself, drawing a shaky, ragged breath through your nose. Five seconds out.
Slowly, agonizingly, the phantom fist around your throat began to loosen. You opened your eyes, blinking back the hot tears that threatened to ruin your makeup. You swallowed hard, smoothed down your hair, and forced a fragile, practiced mask of calm onto your face, praying that the darkness of the back rows was enough to keep your momentary breakdown a total secret.
Down in the front row, Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The crowd around him was cheering wildly for the opening act, but his focus was completely fractured. He leaned back against his chair, his eyes restlessly scanning the shadowy, elevated rows of the auditorium. He had spotted the faint, rhythmic glimmer of your silver dress just a moment ago, but now, he noticed your silhouette had suddenly gone tense and completely still. Even from a distance, something about the way you were holding yourself looked incredibly fragile.
Michael turned his head slightly, whispering over his shoulder to his security guard. "Bill. Look up there, in row thirty-two. Is she okay? She looks... she looks really uncomfortable."
The night progressed exactly the way history predicted. One by one, Michaelâs name was called, and one by one, he claimed his record-breaking eight Grammy awards. The entire Shrine Auditorium stood on its feet over and over again, the air roaring with thunderous applause for the King of Pop. From your seat in the back, you joined the standing ovations, genuinely marvelling at his genius, even as your own sense of belonging sank lower into the shadows.
Then, the presenters for the Best New Artist category walked up to the podium.
You didn't even prepare yourself. Your producer sat next to you, looking tense, but you just kept your hands neatly folded in your lap, waiting to applaud whichever mainstream pop star or rock legend took the trophy.
The presenter tore open the envelope. "And the Grammy goes to...!"
The room erupted. For a second, your brain completely short-circuited. The sound of the crowd became a distant, muffled hum. You froze completely in your seat, your eyes wide and unblinking, your breath catching squarely in your throat. You were entirely paralyzed by sheer, unadulterated shock.
"I told you! You won! Go, get up!" your producer shouted over the noise, clapping furiously and nudging your shoulder.
Your legs felt like lead, but your producer gently guided you out of the row. Your mind was a total blank as you walked down the long, sloping aisle toward the stage. The physical distance that had made you feel so small just an hour ago now felt like a miles-long runway.
As you reached the stage, the presenter handed you the heavy golden gramophone. Holding it brought no comfort; your hands were visibly shaking so violently that the metal award trembled in your grasp. You stepped up to the microphone, looking out at the sea of legendary faces.
Down in the very front row, Michael Jackson was watching you with absolute fascination. While others applauded politely, he leaned forward, his dark eyes locked onto your trembling form, completely captivated by your raw vulnerability.
You swallowed hard, gripping the microphone as your voice trembled into the stadium speakers. "I... I didn't think anyone was listening," you whispered, a breathless, tearful laugh escaping you. You didn't have a flashy speech prepared. Instead, you looked out at the crowd and thanked your small circle, your listeners, and the academy from the absolute depths of your soul. âOmgâŚI can not believe thisâŚâ Your words were so deeply genuine, so utterly devoid of Hollywood ego, that a quiet, respectful hush fell over the auditorium. You weren't playing a character. You were just a sweet, shy girl sharing her heart.
As you finished and began the walk off-stage, Michael stood up, clapping enthusiastically, a massive, incredibly warm smile spreading across his face.
The moment you stepped away from the microphone, the heavy curtain of the backstage area seemed to block out the blinding lights. You instantly turned around to face your producer, the golden gramophone still vibrating in your visibly shaking hands.
Seeing the sheer pride on his face, the last of your composure crumbled. You leaned into him, and he threw his arms around you, pulling you into a really tight, protective hug. You buried your face into his shoulder for a brief second, just breathing, letting the reality of what had just happened sink in. He squeezed you tight, whispering over the noise of the backstage crew, "I told you so. I told you they were listening."
When he finally pulled back, he gave you a warm, reassuring smile and kept a steady, grounding hand on your arm. He gently walked you down the stairs leading back into the auditorium floor, making sure you didn't trip over the hem of your silver dress as your legs still felt like jelly.
As your feet hit the floor of the main aisle, you were still looking at your producer, trying to blink away tears. You were completely unaware that your path back to the rear seats was blocked by a very familiar, towering figure.
Bill was standing right at the bottom of the stairs, a massive, proud grin on his face. Behind him, leaning slightly out of his front-row seat to watch your descent, was Michael Jackson himself.
Your producerâs hand remained steady on your arm as you took the final step down. You finally lifted your gaze from the floor.
Your eyes locked directly onto Michael
He had leaned completely out of his aisle seat. His dark eyes shone with genuine warmth behind his glasses. Michael raised his hand, offering you a proud, enthusiastic thumbs-up.
A breathless, tearful smile broke across your face. The lingering panic melted away into pure, unfiltered joy. Gaining a sudden burst of playful courage, you lifted the heavy golden gramophone up into the air, tilting it toward him as if to show it off.
Michaelâs smile widened, a soft, delighted chuckle shaking his shoulders at your playful gesture.
You kept moving past his row, but you looked back over your shoulder. Your lips moved to silently frame the words, "Congratulations on yours, too."
Michael caught it instantly. He pressed a hand over his heart, nodding deeply in appreciation as you were led back toward the shadows of the rear rows, leaving the King of Pop completely charmed.
The strobe lights of the official Grammy after-party pulsed in time with a heavy bassline, but you couldn't focus on the music. The venue was packed to the brim with the industry's most popular artists, all laughing, drinking, and basking in the glow of the night's victories. Everywhere you looked, famous faces were huddled in tight, exclusive circles.
The heavy weight of feeling like an outsider pressed down on you once again. You stood near the edge of the room, clutching your heavy golden award tight against your chest like a shield.
Honestly, you just wanted to leave.
The thousands of tiny silver sequins that had made you feel so magical earlier were now scratching relentlessly against your skin. The dress was incredibly itchy, and all you could think about was escaping the stiff fabric, slipping into a pair of oversized sweatpants, and retreating to the quiet safety of your hotel room. More than anything, you desperately wanted to find a quiet space to call your mom. You wanted to hear her familiar, grounding voice and tell her the impossible truth, that her shy, underground daughter had actually made it.
You took a deep breath, adjusted your clutch, and began navigating through the sea of towering models and loud rock stars toward the exit doors. You kept your head down, trying to slip away completely unnoticed before the crowd swallowed you whole.
You were only a few feet away from the exit when a large, polite shadow stepped directly into your path. You stopped short, looking up to find Bill standing there with a knowing, gentle smile.
"Leaving so soon, Miss?" Bill asked softly, looking down at you. "The night's still young."
"Oh, hi Bill," you said, your cheeks turning a faint pink. You offered a shy, self-deprecating smile. "Yeah, I think I'm going to call it a night. It's a little too loud for me in here, and I really need to call my mom."
"I completely understand," Bill nodded warmly. Then, he leaned down, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But before you go... someone has been looking for you all night. And he'd be really disappointed if you left without saying goodbye."
Bill stepped aside, and your breath hitched. Standing just a few feet behind him, tucked into a slightly quieter, semi-private booth away from the main chaos of the party, was Michael. He had swapped his structured military jacket for a softer, relaxed black shirt, but his eyes were just as bright as they had been in the front row.
The moment he saw you, a massive, eager smile spread across his face, and he took a step forward.
"I hear you want to call your mom," Michael said softly, his voice a gentle contrast to the loud bass thumping across the room.
A wave of shyness hit you, and you looked down, lightly shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "Oh. Yeah," you murmured, your cheeks flushing. "I just really want to tell her everything that happened tonight. I know she's waiting up for my call."
Michaelâs expression softened completely. The aviator sunglasses were gone, and his dark eyes literally melted with warmth. He pressed a hand over his heart, a genuinely touched smile gracing his features. "Oh, that is so beautiful," he whispered. "I love my mother so much, too. She's my absolute world. Family is everything, especially on a crazy night like this."
He looked at the heavy golden award cradled in your arms, then back to your shy face. He could see how overwhelmed you were by the flashing lights and the towering crowds.
"Please don't leave just yet," Michael said, his tone turning softly pleading as he gestured toward the velvet booth behind him. "Come spend the rest of the evening next to me. We can escape all of this together. I have a private phone line right back there. You can call your mom from the booth, and then we can just talk. I really want to hear about your music."
You blinked, completely stunned. You looked at the private section, then back at Michael Jackson, the man who had just swept eight Grammys, asking you to stay.
Your imposter syndrome flared up again. You hesitated, biting your lip as you glanced down at your itchy dress. You felt so entirely out of place among the pop royalty surrounding his table.
"I... I don't know, Michael," you stammered softly. "I'm not really used to all of this. I don't want to intrude on your big celebration."
"You wouldn't be intruding at all," Michael insisted gently, stepping just an inch closer. He tilted his head, his eyes full of sincerity. "I want you there. Please?"
Looking into his kind, encouraging eyes, the heavy weight in your chest finally lifted. You offered him a small, genuinely sweet smile and nodded. "Okay. I'll stay."
Michaelâs face lit up with a brilliant, ecstatic smile. He immediately held out his hand to guide you into the quiet safety of his booth, thrilled that the sweet, underground artist was choosing to spend the historic night right by his side.
The loud bass of the after-party faded into a distant hum as Michael guided you into the deepest corner of the velvet booth. Bill stood guard a few feet away, creating an invisible shield that kept the lingering photographers and eager executives at bay. For the first time all evening, you could actually breathe.
"Tell me about what drives you," Michael murmured, leaning in close so you could hear his soft voice over the ambient noise. He rested his chin on his hand, his eyes completely locked onto yours. "When you sit down with your guitar or your notebook, where does it come from?"
You swallowed your lingering shyness, tracing a finger over the smooth metal of your Grammy award. "It comes from wanting to connect with the people who feel unseen," you said softly, looking up to meet his gaze. "I write because I want to give people hope when they're sitting in the dark. For me, music is a form of spiritual strength. Itâs like... manifesting a light in a place that feels completely hopeless."
Michaelâs eyes widened, a look of profound recognition washing over his face. He nodded slowly, his hand moving to rest near yours on the velvet seat. "Yes! Exactly," he whispered, his voice tinged with a sudden, breathless excitement. "That is exactly it. People think music is just about fame or a catchy beat, but itâs so much deeper. Itâs spiritual. I always feel like Iâm just a vessel for the music. The songs are already out there in the universe, and we just have to be tapped in enough to manifest them into reality."
For the next hour, the absolute center of the music world and the quiet underground artist sat completely lost in each other's minds. You talked about the lonely nights spent creating, the divine spark of inspiration, and how faith carried both of you through the moments when the world felt too heavy to bear. In the middle of Hollywood's biggest celebration, the two of you had found an island of pure, genuine depth.
Michael noticed a subtle, uncomfortable shift in your posture, his sharp eyes catching how the stiff, silver sequins were scratching against your bare arms. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a protective murmur. "You're tired, aren't you? And that dress looks so uncomfortable."
You offered a small, weary smile, shifting slightly against the velvet booth. "It is a little itchy," you admitted softly, your cheeks tinting pink. "And the adrenaline from winning is finally starting to wear off."
"Let me take you home," Michael offered immediately, his eyes bright with gentle earnestness. "You shouldn't have to navigate the crowds outside or wait around for a crowded shuttle. Please, let us drive you back."
You looked at him, touched by his thoughtfulness, and nodded gratefully. Michael gave a quick nod to Bill, who instantly moved ahead to clear a quiet, private path out of the venue. Michael walked close beside you, his arm hovering protectively behind your waist to shield you from any stray flashbulbs until you reached the waiting car.
The heavy door of the luxury vehicle clicked shut, instantly sealing out the chaotic noise of the Hollywood nightlife. The interior was incredibly quiet, bathed in the soft, warm glow of the dashboard lights. Bill slipped into the driver's seat, smoothly starting the engine and pulling away from the curb.
You sank deep into the leather seat, letting out a long, relieved breath. The heavy golden Grammy award sat safely in your lap, but your hands were still resting against the cool leather.
Slowly, carefully, Michael slid his hand across the space between you. His long, slender fingers gently brushed against yours before he took your hand in his. His palm was warm, his grip incredibly tender but firm enough to let you know he wasn't letting go. A beautiful, comforting wave of warmth rushed through your chest, and you turned your hand to interlock your fingers with his, your thumb softly tracing the back of his hand.
Michael looked down at your joined hands, a quiet, purely happy smile gracing his lips. He looked up, his dark eyes searching yours in the soft light of the moving car.
"Tonight was supposed to be about the awards," Michael murmured softly, his voice filled with a profound sincerity that made your heart skip a beat. "But meeting you... talking to you like this... itâs the best part of my entire night."
He squeezed your hand gently, leaning a little closer as the car glided down the quiet, midnight streets. "I know this world can get so loud and crazy, and I know how much you value your quiet space. But I don't want tonight to be the end of this. Could we... do you think we could be friends ?
Your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering a sweet, frantic rhythm against your ribs. Looking into his gentle, hopeful eyes, the last remnants of your imposter syndrome completely dissolved. You smiled, a genuine, radiant expression that reached your eyes, and squeezed his hand back tightly.
"I would really love that, Michael," you whispered. "I'd love to see where this goes."
Michaelâs face lit up with a brilliant, relieved smile, and he held your hand close to his chest for the rest of the drive, both of you looking forward to everything the future was about to bring.
The car smoothly pulled up to the curb outside your hotel. Bill quietly stepped out to open your door, giving you a respectful, warm smile as he held your heavy golden Grammy award for a brief moment.
You turned back toward Michael in the dim, cozy backseat. The air between you felt heavy with a sweet, lingering reluctance to say goodbye. Michael reached out, his long fingers gently cupping the side of your face, his touch as soft as a whisper. He leaned in slowly, and your eyes closed as his lips met yours. The kiss was brief, incredibly tender, and filled with a quiet promise for the future.
When he pulled away, his cheeks were dusted with a soft flush. "Goodnight, Pretty..." he murmured, his dark eyes shining. "Call me tomorrow."
"Goodnight, Michael," you whispered, your heart doing backflips as you stepped out into the cool night air.
You practically floated through the lobby, up the elevator, and into the quiet safety of your hotel room. The very first thing you did was kick off your heels, unzip the beautiful but incredibly itchy silver dress, and slip into your favorite t-shirt. Your hands were still trembling, but this time, it was from pure, unadulterated happiness.
Sitting on the edge of the bed with your golden Grammy resting on the nightstand, you picked up the hotel telephone and dialed your home number from memory. It only rang once before a familiar, anxious voice picked up.
"Hello? Baby ? Is that you?"
your motherâs voice flooded through the receiver, thick with worry and excitement. "I've been watching the television all night! I saw the crowd, but the cameras didn't show your section, and I've just been sitting here prayingâ"
"Mom," you interrupted softly, a breathless, tearful laugh bursting from your chest as you gripped the phone tight.
"Sweetheart, what happened? Are you okay?"
You looked over at the gleaming golden trophy, then down at your lips, which still tingled from the warmth of his touch. You took a deep, shaky breath, a massive, triumphant smile breaking across your face.
"Mom... I kissed Michael Jackson."
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