The Unsweetened Truth

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The first recording session with Michael is scheduled for the following afternoon.

You spend the night before sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, surrounded by notebooks that you barely end up using. Normally, you research every guest extensively, filling pages with timelines about their careers and possible talking points for the episode.

But for Michael, you close the notebook you have in front of you.

You know that the entire reason he wants to come onto Off the Record is because he's tired of conversations that already know where they're going. So instead, you write only three things on an index card to bring with you (along with your recording equipment).

Who are you when no one's watching?

What makes you feel safe?

What do you hope people remember?

Suddenly, your landline phone rings. You put the index card down on your bed and walk over to your nightstand to pick up the receiver. “Hello?” You say.

“Hi, Y/N? It's Michael.” Michael's voice echoes through the line.

“Michael? How did you get my number?” You ask with surprise lacing your voice as you sit down on your bed.

“I asked Frank to give it to me...I wanted to hear your voice before tomorrow.” He replies, and you can tell that he sounds nervous on the other end.

You blush at his words. “What, you can't get enough of me?” You tease him, and laugh when you hear him sigh.

“Haha, very funny. I just wanted to triple check that we're still good to go for tomorrow?” He asks shyly.

You smile. “Yes, of course.”

“Okay great...I also wanted to ask you if there's anything you'll need from me for tomorrow?”

Your smile widens and your heart warms at his kindness. “Well...I do love coffee, especially vanilla lattes with whipped cream and caramel syrup on top from Studio 28 Café. It's my go-to drink whenever I do an episode for my podcast. I'm sure I can grab one quickly though before Bill picks me up.”

Michael is quiet for a second, and you can almost hear him smiling through the receiver.

“Vanilla latte,” he repeats softly, as if committing it to memory. “Whipped cream...caramel syrup.”

“You don't have to memorize my coffee order!” you laugh.

“I wasn't.”

“You absolutely were.”

"Maybe a little."

The grin on your face grows wider. “But seriously,” you continue, “all I really need is you. Just be yourself.”

“I can do that,” he says, though the uncertainty in his voice makes it sound like a promise he's still learning how to keep.

“Good.”

“I've done thousands of interviews,” he says after a moment. "Magazine articles, television specials, radio interviews and people always have a version of me they want.”

“And I don't.”

“I know.” His voice softens. “That's why this one scares me.”

You lean back against your headboard, twisting the phone cord around your finger. “Being scared isn't always a bad thing.”

“No?"

“No. Sometimes it just means something matters.”

Silence settles comfortably between the both of you and it's a strange feeling. You've only known Michael for a couple of days, but talking to him doesn't feel like talking to the biggest entertainer in the world. It feels like talking to someone sitting beside you in the dark, sharing thoughts you'd never say with the lights on.

“So...” he says eventually. “You're really not going to tell me what you're planning to ask?”

“Nope.”

“Not even one question?"

“You'll find out tomorrow.”

He groans dramatically. "Y/N..."

"Michael."

"Please?"

"No."

"What if I sing for you?"

You laugh so hard you have to pull the receiver away from your ear. "Is that bribery???"

"It's negotiation."

"Nah, that's definitely bribery."

"Well I've been told I'm persuasive."

"You've probably also been told you're charming."

"I have."

"Don't let it go to your head and inflate your ego."

"Too late."

The two of you dissolve into laughter. When it dies down, Michael clears his throat. "I meant what I said earlier."

"About what?"

"Wanting to hear your voice."

Your heartbeat stumbles.

"It's been..." He searches for the words. "A long time since I looked forward to talking to someone who wasn't expecting something from me."

His honesty catches you off guard.

"I don't expect anything from you, Michael."

"I know."

"And tomorrow isn't about getting headlines."

"I know that, too."

"It's just a conversation."

He exhales slowly. "I think I forgot conversations could just be conversations."

You glance at the index card resting on your bed.

Who are you when no one's watching?

What makes you feel safe?

What do you hope people remember?

While talking to Michael, you're not thinking about asking those questions: instead, you're wondering what the answers will be from questions that come up as the conversation naturally flows.

"So," Michael says, his voice lighter again, "what time should I expect you?"

"Bill's picking me up around one and we should be at Neverland by two-ish."

"I'll be ready."

"I know you will."

"And Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you said yes to do the podcast."

Your chest tightens. "I'm glad you asked me."

Another silence stretches, and neither of you seem eager to hang up. Finally, Michael laughs quietly to himself. "We're doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The awkward part where neither person wants to end the phone call."

You smile to yourself. "Yeah, you're right."

"You hang up first."

"No, you."

"I'm the guest."

"And I'm the host."

"I think hosts have to hang up first."

"I don't think that's a real rule."

"It is now."

You shake your head, laughing. "Goodnight, Michael."

"Goodnight, and don't buy your coffee tomorrow."

You frown. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Michael..."

"You'll see."

Before you can question him any further, the line clicks. "He hung up on me," you mutter, staring at the receiver. You slowly place it back in its cradle, unable to stop smiling as you head to bed.

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The next afternoon, Bill pulls up to your apartment building right on time.

"You ready?" he asks as you climb into the backseat, placing your recorder and microphone case in the seat beside you.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

The drive to Neverland passes in a blur of rolling hills and nervous anticipation. However, you're not terrified, you're excited. You've never been this excited to do a podcast episode before: but with Michael, you feel comfortable. You can't wait to get to know Michael Jackson outside of what you already know, and you're ecstatic for your listeners to get to know him too.

When the gates finally come into view, they still take your breath away. Bill whistles. "I don't think I'll ever get used to this place."

"Me either, Bill, me either."

When Bill parks the car, you step out and as you make your way toward the main entrance, you rehearse your opening in your head.

Relax. Listen. And let the conversation go wherever it wants.

The front door opens before you even have a chance to knock.

Michael stands there in dark jeans, a loose white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and a warm smile that immediately dissolves the tension in your shoulders.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi."

His eyes flick down to your hands. "You're missing something."

You blink, a bit confused. "What?"

Without saying a word, he steps aside and you notice that sitting on the entry table is a cardboard drink carrier with two drinks: one that you presume to be tea and the other a coffee topped with a generous swirl of whipped cream and caramel drizzle.

Your vanilla latte from Studio 28 Café. Exactly the way you order it.

You stare at it before looking back up at him. "You actually drove all the way to Studio 28?"

Michael suddenly looks bashful, a blush forming on his cheeks. "You said it was your favourite."

"You remembered every detail." You say, stunned that he actually took the time to get it for you.

He shrugs, trying (and failing) to act casual. "I told you, I wasn't memorizing it."

You raise an eyebrow. "Liar."

A sheepish smile spreads across his face. "Okay, maybe I was."

You shake your head, unable to hide your smile as you enter and pick up the cup. "It's still warm."

"I had someone pick it up about twenty minutes before you got here," Michael admits. "I wanted it to be fresh."

"You planned this?"

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly fascinated by the floor. "Maybe."

"Michael."

"What?"

"That's incredibly sweet."

His cheeks tint pink. "I just wanted you to have one less thing to think about today."

You hadn't expected such a thoughtful gesture over something as small as a coffee order. But it tells you more about Michael than any magazine headline ever could. He paid attention: not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

Bill clears his throat from behind you. "I don't mean to interrupt this adorable moment," he says with a grin, "but I've got equipment to unload."

Both you and Michael immediately look away, embarrassed.

"Right," you mumble.

Michael laughs quietly. "I'll help."

A few minutes later, the three of you have transformed one of Neverland's cozy sitting rooms into a makeshift recording studio. A cream-coloured sofa sits opposite two matching armchairs as sunlight spills through the tall windows overlooking the gardens, where you can just make out the tops of the carousel and Ferris wheel in the distance.

You set your recorder on the coffee table and carefully attach microphones to their stands.

Michael kneels beside one of the microphone cables. "Does this go here?"

You glance over. "No, but thank you."

"I tried."

"You did, I appreciate it."

Bill smirks. "I've never seen him take directions this well."

Michael playfully glares at him. "I can hear you."

"I know."

The easy teasing fills the room. It's different from the tense atmosphere you'd expected surrounding someone as famous as Michael Jackson. There's no assistants rushing around and no publicists hovering nearby. However, as if on cue, Frank pokes his head into the room. "Do either of you need anything before I disappear?"

"We're good," Michael says.

Frank looks between the two of you, noticing the matching cups in your hands, and grins knowingly. "I'll leave you to it."

"Frank," Michael warns.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Chuckling to himself, Frank disappears down the hallway. The room grows quiet again as you finish connecting everything. You finish checking your levels and slip on your headphones. "Okay," you say. "Would you mind saying something for me?"

Michael sits across from you and leans toward the microphone. "Something."

You roll your eyes. "Real mature."

"You didn't specify."

You adjust one of the dials. "Fine. Count to ten."

Michael obediently begins. "One... two... three..."

His speaking voice is softer through the headphones than you'd expected. It's warm and gentle, and it makes you blush.

"...eight... nine... ten."

You make a few adjustments. "Perfect."

He watches you curiously.

"What?" You ask, tilting your head slightly.

"You look different."

Your hands pause over the recorder. "Different how?"

"When you're working."

You blink.

"I don't know." He tilts his head thoughtfully. "You're...quieter."

"I usually am."

"No." He smiles. "You're confident."

The observation catches you off guard. "I've never really thought about it."

"I have."

You meet his eyes across from you, and you see how sincere he is as he continues to speak. "The second you started setting everything up," he says, "it was like you weren't nervous anymore."

He isn't wrong. The butterflies from the excitement that had followed you all morning had vanished the moment you'd started plugging in cables and checking sound levels. Behind the microphone, everything made sense.

"I guess this is my safe place," you admit.

"The microphone?"

You nod.

"It gives people permission."

"Permission?"

"To slow down."

You glance around the room. "When people know they're being interviewed for television, they perform."

Michael nods almost instinctively.

"But when it's just voices, people listen differently. They imagine instead of judge."

His expression grows thoughtful. "That's beautiful."

"It's why I started the podcast." You take one last sip of your latte, set the empty cup on the table beside your recorder, and glance down at the small index card you'd brought with you.

Three questions.

Michael notices it. "Is that your whole interview?"

You smile. "It was."

"Was?"

You look back up at him. "I'm not so sure anymore."

His eyebrows lift. "Why not?"

"Because after talking to you the past couple of days..."

You switch on the recorder, and the small red light flickers to life between you.

"...I think I'd rather find out where the conversation wants to go."

The recorder hums quietly, its reels beginning to turn.

You let the silence exist for a few seconds. It's something you've learned over the past two years since starting your podcast: the most honest conversations often begin in the spaces where no one rushes to fill the quiet.

"Welcome back to Off the Record." Your voice naturally settles into the calm tone millions of listeners have come to know.

"I'm here today with someone who probably needs absolutely no introduction."

Michael chuckles across from you.

"But, introductions usually tell us what someone has accomplished. So please join me in welcoming Michael Jackson."

Michael glances at the microphone, then back at you with a smile. "It's an honour to be here, I'm a big fan of your podcast."

You smile back at him. "The honour is all mine. I do have one rule though before we start."

"I'm listening."

"If there's a question you don't want to answer, just say so."

He looks at you with surprise. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"No follow-up or trying to convince me?"

You shake your head. "If you tell me something is off-limits, it stays off-limits."

He studies your face for a long moment, as if searching for the catch.

"There isn't any catch," you say, reading his expression.

His shoulders visibly relax. "Thank you."

You nod once before leaning toward your microphone. "Whenever you're ready."

Michael inhales slowly, and nods at you, ready for the first question. You glance at the recorder, then back to him. "Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"Who are you when no one's watching?"

Michael lets out a quiet laugh that doesn't quite become a smile.

"That's a hell of a first question."

"It is, that's why I wanted to ask you."

He looks past you instead of at you, eyes settling on the window where both of your reflections hover faintly over the glass.

"When no one's watching..." he repeats. "I don't know if anybody's ever asked me that."

"They are now." You say with a smile.

He rubs his thumb against the seam of his cup, buying himself another second. "I think..." He exhales. "I think I'm tired."

You wait.

"Not physically. Well, physically too. But I mean..." He searches for the words carefully, like they're hidden somewhere beneath years of rehearsed answers. "People know versions of me. The one that's useful. The one that's dependable. The one that's funny enough to keep things light. The one that's got everything under control."

"And when no one's watching?"

"None of those guys stick around." His eyes finally meet yours.

"It's just me. Quiet. Usually making tea I forget to drink. Reading the same page three times because my brain wandered somewhere else. Wondering if I made the right choices. Wondering if the people I love actually know me, or if they just know the version that's easiest to love."

You pause before answering. "That sounds lonely."

"It can be."

"You said 'versions.' Is the real one different?"

Michael considers the question longer this time. "I don't think the real one's different." He shakes his head. "I think he's smaller."

"Smaller?"

"Less impressive." A faint smile flickers across his face. "He talks to himself. He apologizes to furniture after bumping into it. He cries at documentaries about old dogs. He worries he'll disappoint people. He gets scared."

"You make that sound like a flaw."

"I spent a long time thinking it was."

"And now?"

"Now..." He leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment. "Now I think that's probably the only version that's actually mine."

You glance down at your notes but don't write anything. "So, who are you when no one's watching?"

Michael looks at the recorder, then back at you. "I'm someone who's still trying to figure out if being enough is something you become, or something you finally stop arguing against." He smiles, small but genuine.

You nod and reach for your coffee out of habit before remembering you'd already finished it.

Michael notices. "You drank it."

"I did."

"Was it right?"

You laugh softly. "You seriously want a review in the middle of the interview?"

"I worked very hard arranging that coffee."

"It was perfect."

He beams. "I knew extra caramel was the right choice."

"You added extra caramel?"

"You seem like someone who deserves extra caramel."

You shake your head, smiling. "I don't even know how to respond to that."

"You don't have to." Michael says with a smile.

The tension dissolves for a moment. It's subtle, but you notice how naturally he moves between seriousness and playfulness: as though humor is the bridge he uses to return from difficult places.

You make a mental note of it for yourself.

"Can I ask you something?" he says suddenly.

"You just did."

He points at you. "See? That's exactly what I mean when I keep telling you I wanted to meet you."

You laugh. "Go ahead."

He shifts in his chair. "Why radio?"

You blink. "What do you mean?"

"You're good at this." He gestures around the room. "You could have your own television show."

"I've been offered."

"And?"

"I turned it down."

"Why?"

You think for a moment. "I like that people can't see us. They have to listen and not judge."

His expression softens.

"Exactly."

You nod. "I think voices tell the truth before faces do."

Michael sits with that thought for a moment. Then, almost absentmindedly, he says, "I wish more people believed that."

You glance at the recorder. It isn't even twenty minutes into the interview, but you've already forgotten about your three questions. You let another quiet moment settle before speaking again.

"Can I ask you something a little personal?"

Michael smiles. "I thought that was the whole point."

"It is."

He nods once. "Go ahead."

You glance down at your index card, your thumb brushing over the second question.

"What makes you feel safe?"

His smile fades, but not because he's upset: rather, you can tell he's taking the question seriously. He doesn't answer immediately. Outside, you can hear faint laughter from somewhere on the grounds.

Michael listens to it before he speaks. "Children."

The answer comes so quietly you almost miss it.

"They've always made me feel safe. They don't ask for explanations." He folds his hands together. "They don't care who I am or how many records I've sold or what the newspapers are saying about me. If they like you, they just like you." He shrugs, a small smile returning to his face. “They'll ask you the most random things, for example: they ask me why do I wear hats all the time."

"You do wear a lot of hats." You say with a laugh.

"I know." He says, laughing along with you.

"They're not wrong."

"They're very observant and very honest." His grin widens.

"Exactly."

The lightheartedness lingers for a beat before he grows thoughtful again. "When I was little," he says, "I used to think adults had everything figured out."

"And now?" You say.

He lets out a quiet laugh. "I think most adults are just children who've gotten better at pretending."

You nod slowly. "I've met a few of those."

"So have I."

You notice how relaxed he looks now compared to when you'd first turned on the recorder. His shoulders aren't as tense and one of his ankles is resting casually over the opposite knee.

It reminds you why you started Off the Record in the first place. You wanted to make people forget they were being interviewed at all.

"You built Neverland because of that, didn't you?" you ask gently.

His eyes drift toward the window. "I built it because I wanted a place where I didn't have to grow up all the time." He smiles wistfully. "When I was a kid, work came first. Rehearsals. Recording. Touring. I don't regret it though, I love making music."

"But?"

"But I missed things."

He doesn't elaborate, but he doesn't have to.

"So I suppose..." He glances out toward the amusement rides again. "I suppose this place is my way of keeping a promise to the little boy who never really got to be one."

It's the kind of answer you know that your listeners will remember long after the episode ends, because it's heartbreakingly simple and true to what he had to endure all these years.

You decide not to chase the answer with another difficult question. Instead, you smile. "Okay."

He looks back at you, surprised. "Okay?"

"Yeah."

"Aren't you going to ask me what I missed?"

"If you wanted to tell me, you would have."

He studies you for a second before letting out a soft chuckle. "You really mean it."

"What?"

"You don't force people."

"I don't think honesty responds well to being cornered."

He smiles at you. "That's exactly why I wanted to do this."

You feel warmth creep into your cheeks. "Well...I'm glad you did."

"So am I."

Michael suddenly leans forward with a mischievous glint in his eye. "My turn."

You look at him, confused. "Your turn?"

"You've been asking all the questions."

"That's usually how interviews work."

"Not this one." He folds his arms with mock seriousness. "I'd like equal opportunity."

You laugh. "Fine."

He pretends to think very hard. "Hmm..."

"Oh no."

"What?"

"That face means you're about to ask something impossible."

"I've got it." He smiles triumphantly. "What makes you feel safe?"

Your mouth opens. "You stole my question!"

"I borrowed it."

"You absolutely stole it."

He grins, clearly pleased with himself. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

You narrow your eyes. "Using my own rule against me?"

"I'm learning from the best."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. "You clearly are."

The smile lingers as you think. Unlike him, you don't have years of media training to fall back on.

Finally, you speak.

"My grandpa."

Michael's expression softens immediately.

You smile to yourself. "He raised me, and he was the first person who taught me that listening is more important than talking."

You glance down at your hands as you continue to answer. "When I was little, if I had a bad day, he'd never jump in with advice. He'd just sit with me until I was ready to tell him what happened."

Michael listens intently.

"I think that's where all of this started." You gesture toward the microphones. "I realized people don't open up because someone asks the perfect question. They open up because someone makes them feel like they don't have to rush."

A quiet smile spreads across Michael's face. "Your grandfather sounds like a wonderful man."

"He is."

"And your grandmother?"

You laugh. "She thinks everyone leaves my podcast sounding like they've accidentally been to therapy."

Michael bursts into laughter, throwing his head back. "Oh, she's absolutely right."

"I know."

"You should invite your grandmother onto the next podcast episode we do."

"Oh?"

"So she can explain how she knew exactly what was going to happen to me."

You grin. "I'll see if she's available."

"You'd better."

The interview keeps going, and you ask Michael questions about his album Invincible and the creative process, which he happily talks to you about. He lights up as he describes the late nights in the studio and the songs he rewrote countless times before they finally felt right. Every answer comes with an easy smile and the occasional laugh, his passion for music making it impossible not to smile along with him.

After a while, you glance at the recorder's timer and notice that just over an hour has passed. There are still questions on your index card that haven't been asked, ones that you quickly added as backup as the interview went on. But as you’re sitting here with Michael, you realize you don’t need to ask anymore questions, except for the final one

What do you hope people remember?

You almost don't ask it, but you decide it's worth hearing the answer in his own words.

"One last question."

Michael straightens slightly. "This is the last one?"

"I promised I wouldn't keep you all day."

"I wouldn't have minded." The words leave his mouth so naturally that it causes you to blush.

“I mean-”

“I know what you meant.”

“Good.”

A faint blush creeps across his cheeks anyway, causing you to smile at his reaction.

“When all of this,” You gesture vaguely, encompassing everything from the room to the world outside it. “is over. The records, the tours, the awards...”

His expression grows thoughtful.

“What do you hope people remember?”

Unlike the other questions, this one doesn't seem to surprise him. It's almost as though he's been carrying the answer for years.

“I hope...” he begins quietly, “I hope that they remember I tried to make people happy."

He looks down at his hands. “Music can do that. A song can stay with someone after a bad day.” Then he looks back at you.

"I hope the people who actually knew me” His voice softens, as he slightly hesitates. “I hope they remember that I tried to be kind."

Kind.

Not legendary or iconic.

But kind.

You know in that moment, that’s all you need.

“Well, I think that perfectly captures this episode. Thank you for listening to Off The Record, and I’ll talk to you all in the next episode.”

You reach forward and press the stop button, watching as the red recording light disappears.

“That's it?” Michael asks.

“That's it.”

He exhales, almost laughing. “I think that's the shortest interview I've ever done.”

“It was also the longest conversation.”

He smiles. “I suppose it was.”

You begin unclipping the microphones from their stands and look at Michael.

He stands up and looks at you. “Y/N...thank you. Doing this, it's made me realize that this is what I've been missing from interviews all these years. I just needed someone to listen to me and not judge me. You're truly wonderful at this and I can tell this was your life's purpose." He says with a heartwarming smile.

You feel a blush form on your cheeks at the unexpected praise, and you let out a soft, almost embarrassed laugh. "Thank you, Michael. That... honestly means more than you know." You reach over to put the microphone away. "I just wanted to make sure people got to hear you, not just the headlines or the rehearsed answers."

Michael nods thoughtfully, slipping his hands into his pockets. "That's exactly what you did." He pauses for a moment before adding, "Most interviews feel like they're racing toward the next soundbite. While this," He gestures between the two of you with a small smile. "felt like a conversation."

You smile. "Then I did my job well."

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Packing up takes longer than setting everything up, because neither of you seem particularly eager to rush.

Michael coils one of the microphone cables with surprising care.

"You do this often?" you ask.

"I've wrapped enough guitar cables in my life."

"I was going to compliment your technique."

He grins, handing you the cable. "I'll take it."

When everything has finally been packed away, you lift the recorder case off the coffee table. But before you can get very far, Michael reaches for it, brushing his hand against yours. The contact is brief, almost accidental, yet neither of you pull away immediately. You look up at him to meet his gaze, his brown eyes filled with something you can't quite explain. His fingers linger for just a heartbeat before he gently takes the case from your grasp.

"Let me get that for you," he says quietly, offering a small, genuine smile. "It's the least I can do after everything today."

You hesitate before nodding, returning the smile. "Thanks."

He smiles with quiet satisfaction and continues carrying the case toward the front of the house. You and Michael walk side by side toward the front entrance while Bill loads the equipment into the car a short distance away.

Michael sets down the recorder case and turns to you. "I was worried."

"About today?"

He nods. "I thought I'd spend the whole interview wondering if I was saying the right thing."

"And?"

"I forgot there was a microphone."

You smile. "That's the highest compliment you could give me."

"I mean it."

He steps a bit closer to you, so close that you can see the sincerity in his eyes. "I've never forgotten the microphone before."

The words settle somewhere deep inside you. "Thank you."

"No." He shakes his head. "Thank you."

Bill closes the trunk with a solid thud. "Whenever you're ready," he calls.

You nod, but neither you nor Michael moves. Michael slips his hands into his pockets.

"So..."

"So."

"I guess this is it, until the next episode."

"Well, I might have to bother you while I'm editing this episode."

He smiles, looking down at you. "You'd never bother me, Y/N."

You smile and look down, feeling flustered at his words. "Even someone that you barely know?"

He pauses for a moment. "I don't feel like I barely know you."

"Neither do I."

The admission hangs gently between you. A breeze stirs through the trees lining the driveway, lifting a loose strand of your hair across your face.

Before you can brush it away, Michael instinctively reaches toward you.

His hand stops halfway.

The movement is so quick, so unconscious, that you know he hadn't even thought about it. He catches himself. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I..." He glances at his suspended hand before lowering it awkwardly. "I wasn't thinking."

You understand immediately. You tuck the strand behind your own ear and offer him a small smile.

"It's okay."

His shoulders ease, though he still looks embarrassed.

"I just..." He laughs quietly at himself. "I wanted to move your hair out of your eyes."

Your heart gives an inconvenient little flutter. "I figured."

You both stand still for a few moments, until Bill's voice drifts over from the car. "If I leave without you, don't blame me."

You both laugh. "I should go." You say.

"You should."

Neither of you move. Then, finally, you take a step backward. "I'll call you when I've finished editing."

"I'll be waiting."

You smile. "I believe you."

As you turn toward the car, Michael calls after you.

"Y/N?"

You look back.

He hesitates, almost as if he's reconsidering saying it. "I'm really glad you came."

The simplicity of it makes your chest ache. "So am I."

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When you get home, you unpack your things. As you put away the recorder case, your index card from the podcast slips out and falls to the floor.

You pick it up, and on it are still the three questions you brought with you. Except now, beneath the last one, written in neat black ink that definitely wasn't there this morning, is a single sentence.

I hope they remember that I tried to be kind.

You stare at the handwriting for a long moment, and then you smile.

He must've picked up the card while you were packing the equipment away, and he didn't crossed out your question: he'd simply answered it.

That one sentence makes you smile, and it makes you look forward to talking to him again.

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Along with some musicians, technicians, video crews, retinue, assistants, and organizers that were in the studio, brainstorming how to make this song work.

Michael huffed as Lionel played on the piano whilst Stevie suggested some melodies.

He sang along with Lionel to make a vocal guide for the other artists that they had planned to ask to collaborate on this single.

Michael sat down, waving to Stevie as his cousin left, leaving him, Lionel, and Quincy in the studio. Quincy stood up with a groan, stretching his back.

“I’m gonna go smoke, y’all keep brainstorming now.”

“Hey, stay here and help us, man!” Lionel retorted.

Quincy rolled his eyes playfully, pointing at the two of them.

“This y’all fault, y’all kept just playing and goofing around for months, now you stressed. You ain’t gonna get me stressed either.”

He said as Michael let out a laugh at Lionel just accepting Quincy’s answer with a sag on his shoulders.

“It’s okay, smelly. We can do this.” Michael laughed out, amused and excited to let this song create itself.

“It’s gonna be real hard to do this, Mike…we haven’t even created the list yet of the artists we want to join in.”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“Uhh…” Lionel grabbed a notepad and skimmed through it.

“Ray Charles, Billy Joel, Cyndi Lauper, Bruce Springsteen…”

Michael nodded as he played around with the equalizer board, making the beats and sounds that came to his brilliant mind. He took a sip of his orange juice.

“— Tina Turner, Dionne Warwick…and I was really hoping to get (Name) (Last) on the song but her management hasn’t responded yet.”

Michael’s eyes bulged out of his skull, thank god he was wearing his sunglasses, he was so surprised that he almost spat out his orange juice.

Lionel sighed whilst Michael wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“I know, she’s gonna be a hard one to ask, and it would be a miracle if she came. I heard she’s on a break or something after her tour a few months ago…”

Michael stayed weirdly silent for a long moment — staring into something, thinking.

Lionel snapped his fingers in front of Michael’s vision, snapping the young man out of whatever deep thought he was in.

“You alright, Mike? It is getting pretty late…you should probably go home and get some rest—“

“I can get (Name) Ja- (Last) to join in.”

Lionel blinked once, then twice.

“How?”

“Just trust me, I have my ways, smelly. Plus I have a feeling she’ll love what the purpose of this song is, she’s a humanitarian.”

“What?? What are you gonna do — charm her?”

Michael almost nodded.

He put his hand on Lionel’s shoulder, patting him firmly.

“Just trust me.”

———————

“Baby? I’m back!” Michael called out into the hallway of the Hayvenhurst home.

He took off his sunglasses and coat, going up the stairs and opening his bedroom door.

There, he saw you — his lady, his beautiful wife. Holding yours and his newborn.

You were fully knocked out from the joyful yet endlessly tiring journey of motherhood.

You wore a well-worn out maternity shirt, his flannel pajamas, mismatched socks and a pair — well, one slipper on your left foot.

Your hair was messy, framing your face as you snored.

Michael held back a giggle. You had started to snore after you gave birth, so many things about you changed.

From you performing in extravagant and glamorous outfits that clung onto your figure as you danced fiercely for millions — to now, where you were just a mother, caring for your child with the most precious smile on your face.

He caressed your cheek, he thought that you were the most beautiful right now.

“Michael…? Oh, welcome back, honey…sorry, I didn’t even realize that you came back home…”

You said, yawning as your baby slept in your arms soundly.

Michael took the newborn from your arms and cradled them in his, cooing softly, smiling as he held the whole world in his arms.

You smiled, blinking slowly.

“Sorry I came home later than usual, baby.” Michael whispered softly, taking your hand in his free one and kissing your knuckles.

“It’s okay.” You murmured as you sat up, rubbing your eyes, you then huffed when you saw the stains on your shirt.

Michael laughed. “Seems like the little one was giving you a hell of a time.”

“The little bugger’s just been so fussy lately…” You smiled. “But I wouldn’t exchange even one second of being with our baby for the world.”

Michael’s eyes shined, his heart swelling with affection and love for his family.

You snickered as you wiped Michael’s eyes. Oh gosh, was he crying? He didn’t even notice.

“I’m starting to think you were the one who gave birth to our baby, Michael…you even cried and looked more in pain when I was in labor.”

“I couldn’t handle seeing you like that…” He almost shouted before quieting down with a sheepish smile.

“I was in labor for like 5 minutes and our kid just popped out like a dream.”

“5 minutes too long.”

You and Michael laughed softly, keeping your giggles down as your baby slept in their daddy’s arms comfortably.

“Anyway…how’s it going with Lionel and Q, honey? Is the song scratched out of your mind now?”

Michael smiled slightly, standing up as he put the baby in the crib gently.

“Yeah…yep.”

“Michael. You have something to ask don’t you?”

Michael chuckled, you always read him so easily.

He sat back down next to you. “I know it might be too soon but…do you think you can perform with us for this song?”

You thought about it for a moment. “Well, what is it for?”

“Charity.” The brightest smile graced upon his face, making you blush and smile too. He grasped your hands in his. “We’re gonna raise money for the children and people in Africa who are suffering from famine.”

“Oh, Michael…of course, I will.” You said softly as you kissed his hands, he looked elated. “Plus, it’s been 3 months since the public saw me — I’m pretty sure some people think I’m dead.”

You and Michael laughed. He then pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of your lips. You then moved your head, kissing him properly with the same amount of gentleness — revering each other with such love and understanding.

You both then pulled away.

Michael couldn’t hide how excited he was, his feet tapping and shifting on the carpet, you adored that look on his handsome face.

“It’s gonna be so amazing — 46 of the greatest artists of all time are gonna join us-“

Your eyes almost fell out of your skull.

“Wait- hold up now, applehead-“

“Hm?”

“You said what now?”

“46 of the greatest artists of all time are gonna join us? Including you and I.”

You stared at Michael incredulously.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes honey. We need all the traction we can get so that when we donate the proceeds, it’ll be more than enough to aide every family.”

Your shock was then replaced with a smile on your face, you laughed.

“Alright then. But are you sure you can keep your hands to yourself Mr. Jackson?”

“Absolutely. 100 percent to the millions and infinity.”

You raised an eyebrow as Michael scoffed playfully.

“Just so you know, I’m a professional, Ms. Jackson…or should I say, Ms. (Last).”

“Righttt…our management team will have a heart attack if the media finds out anything about us. Plus…I still wanna keep private about us. I like the quiet.”

Michael grinned, letting you rest your head on his sturdy shoulder.

“Me too. I treasure these moments more than anything.”

“Let’s just try to keep our distance when we film the song.” You suggested as Michael’s smile softened a little.

“Of course. Here’s the guide.” He said softly as he handed you a tape.

You looked up at his expression and caressed his hand.

“You sure you can do this?”

“Yeah…plus, I can have my hands all over you afterwards.”

“Michael!”

———————

January 28, 1985.

You were at the American Music Awards, after 3 months of basically disappearing from the public eye, the media was clamoring and shaking in excitement as they saw you again.

The cameras flashed heavily as you arrived on the red carpet, wearing a silk dress in your favorite color with gold embellishments that secretly reminded you of Michael’s own style.

You smiled softly as the photographers took photos of you, your eyes easily adjusting to the flashes.

The other biggest artists at the venue then greeted you warmly, giving you hugs and asking if you were alright. You were more than alright.

Tina Turner then called out to you, you let out an excited laugh as you saw one of your idols and your dear friend after a long time, you gave her a warm hug.

“Tina! I missed you…” “I missed you too, sugar.” She then lowered her voice as you smiled.

“Where’s Michael?” “Oh, he’s preparing for the song, y’know.” You whispered back to her as she then thumbs upped and ushered you to sit down next to her.

She was one of the only few people who knew about yours and Michael’s secret — the biggest secret in Hollywood.

After a while, Lionel was up on stage hosting the award show. You could tell that he was a bit stressed from arranging the secret biggest night of pop.

He then announced your name as the winner of the Favorite Pop/Rock Female Artist. You went up on stage, a bit surprised that you were even nominated because you’ve been in a break for a long time in Hollywood standards.

———————

Michael looked around him, taking a break from recording his solo parts in the song whilst he sipped warm water. He then switched on the television to the channel broadcasting the award show.

He felt a sense of pride and joy well up in him as he watched you go up on stage, looking so beautiful and just positively radiating, accepting the award from Lionel.

His gaze was fixiated on you. You were his wife. His wife. God, even after all this time he can’t believe it.

You were about to give your speech when suddenly a technician came in.

He almost choked on air as he hastily switched the channel to a random cooking show, he cleared his throat awkwardly — adjusting his sunglasses.

The technician just looked at him weirdly and they sighed. “Uh…the artists will be coming soon, Mr. Jackson, please prepare.”

He just gave them a stiff thumbs up.

Michael then let out a cartoonish breath that he was holding when they left.

He wiped his hands on his slacks.

Maybe this was gonna be harder than he thought…

———————

After the award show, late into the night, Lionel finally arrived at the recording venue with 46 of the greatest artists of all time. From Bob Dylan all the way to Huey Nelson, almost every legend arriving to support in this cause.

Michael’s heart warmed at all the different artists greeting each other warmly, showing each other support. It was such a spiritual moment.

Lionel then went up to Michael. A smile on the older man’s face, as Michael adjusted his glasses.

“Isn’t this just amazing Mike? …This is gonna be great.”

“I know.”

Lionel then counted all of the artists in the room and sighed. You still haven’t arrived yet.

Suddenly, Tina let out an excited laugh as she saw you enter.

You hugged her as the other artists greeted you, excited that you were performing with them.

Lionel patted Michael’s back, making him laugh.

“Did you really convince her to join us?!”

“Yeah…y’know, worked my magic, that type of thing.”

You then walked up to Lionel, giving the man a warm handshake and small hug.

“Thanks for joining us, (Last)!”

You smiled a little tightly at that, it took you every fiber in your body not to correct him.

“Just call me (Name). And it’s a pleasure.” You said softly.

You then turned towards Michael, a professional smile on both of your faces but a trained eye could see the secret tension in both of your eyes.

You held out your hand to him and he shook it firmly — holding the grip a second too long.

“Thank you for inviting me to such a wonderful cause, Mr. Jackson.” You said politely, but you had a hint of something in your tone, making Michael bite his lower lip and smile.

“It wouldn’t have been perfect without you Ms…(Last).”

He said, his voice deepening a little at the end.

Your eyes were half lidded as you smiled and turned away, you walked away with his eyes behind his sunglasses trailing you. He hated to see you leave…but for sure loved to watch you go —

“Man, only you can bring the (Name) (Last) out of a break.” Lionel laughed out as Michael snapped out of it.

“I guess so…” He chuckled out.

Lionel then clapped his hands loudly, calling everyone’s attention to start the filming process.

You and Michael stood far away from each other, but you both eyed each other with amused and hidden looks.

———————

Irritated was the most mild way that you could describe how Michael felt in this moment. His leg bounced restlessly on the floor as he listened to each artist sing their lines.

It was like everyone was suddenly off-tune and tone deaf.

He had a tight lipped smile as he murmured to Quincy, “One more time.”

You glanced at Michael and closed your eyes, holding back your laughter, your nostrils flaring.

To everyone, he looked like he was happy, afterall he was smiling right?

But please, of all the years you’ve two been together, there has been no person more obvious that they were mad than your husband.

Difference of Michael happy and irritated:

Michael being happy; moving or shuffling to the music, his smile reaches his eyes behind his sunglasses.

Michael being irritated; just stands there. Stares. His smile turns into one of someone who works in retail.

And that was what he was exactly doing right now.

You cleared your throat as you gathered up the strength to not laugh.

Michael let out a slow, very deep sigh that was disguised as a deep breath.

“Um…wait. Stop. What if we let (Name) sing the chorus?” He suggested to Quincy.

You perked your head up at the mention of you, catching Michael’s gaze. You smiled a little. “No problem for me.” You said softly.

You held back another laugh when you saw how visibly relaxed Michael became when you agreed.

“We are the world, we are the children…We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving.” You sang out beautifully, your voice was confident and healing, making Michael finally smile up to his eyes.

Then his smile gradually disappeared when Bob Dylan sang after you, his voice cracking.

You swear you almost shed a tear in front of the camera, your shoulders shook slightly when you saw in your peripheral Michael’s face.

Lionel rubbed his temples. “Uh, can we get another take? Sorry.” He said as he looked at you with an apologetic smile, you shook your head.

You and Stevie then helped Bob Dylan try to get his confidence back, to let his voice out. Michael stared at you with amazement, even with others — you were so caring. The next take went on with ease.

———————

After a while, you were all finally almost done with the filming and recording of the song. All the artists were currently taking a break. Including you and Michael.

You were sat in a chair near a plant as Michael leaned on the wall next to you, his pant leg brushing against your arm a little.

You bit your lower lip, your willpower was wavering real hard. You’ve been holding back your laugh for almost 2 hours.

Michael glanced at you, a small pout on his face.

“Baby…what are you laughing at?” He murmured quietly.

You sniffled and hid your mouth.

“What do you mean?”

“Baby…”

“Sorry, applehead — it’s just that…” Your voice shook slightly as you inhaled slowly.

“Your face is so obvious that you’re irritated.”

“What?” He sputtered out quietly. “I’ve been smiling though…”

“Yeah. But then you suddenly stop moving and just stare…” You said with your eyes closed, as if that would stop you from replaying the memory.

Michael couldn’t hold back his own chuckle. “Sorry, it’s just that what kind of notes are they even hitting? Are those even notes…”

You clenched your jaw at that, shoulders shaking as you stood up.

He smiled at you as you turned around and laughed without sound at the wall.

You then turned around with tears rolling down your face. You dabbed them with a napkin.

Michael then secretly hooked his pinky with yours.

“Try to keep holding back your laugh to yourself, baby.”

“Okay. I can’t promise you but…I’ll try. Talk to you later.” You whispered as you walked away.

Michael smiled to himself, his irritation melting away briefly from his body. He was really happy that you were here, if not — he probably would’ve combusted.

———————

Michael could almost cry, they were about to be done with recording, just the bridge and chorus with all the artists left.

It had only been a few hours, but it felt like years. Retake after retake…he couldn’t wait to go home and relax with you.

He adjusted the headphones on his ears, he thumped his foot to the tempo of the song.

The cameras then started rolling.

“When you’re down and out, there seems no hope at all…” He sang out beautifully.

Making you and Tina smile where you guys were sitting on the couch.

.

.

.

“BUT IF YOU JUST BELIEVE THERE’S NO WAY WE CAN FALLLL”

Oh my god.

“WAH, WAH, WELLL LET US REALIZE THAT CHANGE CAN ONLY COMEEEE”

You lowered your head as Michael started scooching and slowly walking away from that mess.

“WHEN WE…”

The three then all sang together ‘beautifully’

“STAND TOGETHER AS ONEEE”

“YEAHHH”

You stood up promptly when Quincy stopped the recording, going outside.

You hear someone close the door behind you and you see Michael.

Michael couldn’t hold back anymore and almost fell to his knees, laughing. He didn’t know if he was irritated anymore because what the hell was that??

You burst out laughing next to him, almost falling into his arms.

Well, this night was just perfect.

———————

Finally, it was the group chorus with all of the artists. You all stood together, and coincidentally, you and Michael got to stand together.

You smiled a little and he did too, the cameras then started rolling as you all sang together.

You suddenly felt something hook onto your pinky, and you already knew it was Michael’s own pinky. You secretly squeezed his, making his lips quirk up as he just lipsync’d to everything now.

You were obviously captured by the camera laughing for a brief second but Michael didn’t care for a retake anymore.

Plus, you looked so beautiful when you laughed.

.

.

.

Extra:

You and Michael woke up the next day, your management had sent you the photos that were taken during filming. You shuffled through them, admiring Michael’s candid photos with an affectionate smile and so did Michael for your photos.

You then looked at the group photos and raised an eyebrow. In every single one with you and Michael in it…he was obviously staring at you despite his glasses blocking his vision.

“Michael.”

“Hm?”

You held up a photo of him blatantly staring at you in the back whilst you laughed with Tina, the biggest, love-struck smile on his face.

“Oh…oops.” He said cheekily as he looked at yoh with that same smile.

You couldn’t help but blush and smack his shoulder playfully. “You’re too obvious.”

“I can’t help it — you’re my wife!”

———————

Michael shifted on the leather seat, his fingers nervously drumming against his thigh. He was wearing the iconic military jacket—the brilliant blue one adorned with heavy gold braiding, a sparkling sequined sash, and, of course, the single white glove. He looked regal, larger than life, like a king preparing for his coronation. But when his dark eyes flicked over to look at you, all that carefully crafted pop-star mystique completely evaporated. He just looked completely and utterly breathless.

"Oh my god," Michael whispered for what felt like the twentieth time since you’d left the hotel. His voice was soft, rich, and trembling slightly with an intensity that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "Angel… I just… I can’t take my eyes off you. I really can’t."

You couldn't help the brilliant smile that spread across your face, your rich, brown skin glowing warmly under the car's interior lights. For tonight, you had pulled out all the stops. You were wearing a custom-made, floor-length silk gown in a light, stunning white cream that provided a breathtaking contrast to your complexion. The dress hugged every single curve of your body before pooling elegantly around your heels. Your hair was styled to perfection, framing your face beautifully, and your makeup highlighted your features flawlessly. You looked like a literal goddess, and Michael was reacting like a man who had just witnessed a miracle.

"Michael, you've said that five times already," you teased gently, reaching over to place your hand over his gloved one. "You’re going to make me blush, and I don't want to ruin my makeup before we even step onto the carpet."

"I don't care," he insisted, his grip tightening around your hand. He leaned in closer, the faint, intoxicating scent of his cologne—a mix of expensive musk and sweet vanilla—wrapping around you. "I mean it, Y/N. You look so beautiful it’s actually hurting my chest a little bit. Look at you. Just look at how gorgeous you are."

His free hand reached up, his bare fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a reverence that made your heart skip a beat. His eyes were wide, dark, and dilated, drinking in every single detail of your face, your shoulders, the slope of your neck. There was a raw, heavy hunger buried deep in his gaze, a sharp contrast to his usual gentle demeanor.

"You're going to be the most beautiful woman in that entire building tonight," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, gravelly rasp that made your stomach flip. "Everyone is going to be looking at me, but all I'm gonna be doing is looking at you. I'm so proud to have you on my arm. So proud."

"Thank you, angelface," you whispered, using his nickname, a private intimacy saved only for moments like this. "You look incredible too. Tonight is your night."

"Our night," he corrected fiercely, leaning across the small space to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, being careful not to smudge your lipstick but still managed to communicate the sheer weight of his devotion. "Our night, beautiful."

The limousine finally crawled to a halt in front of the Shrine Auditorium. The noise outside swelled into a deafening crescendo. Flashbulbs began firing rapidly against the tinted glass, creating a strobe-light effect inside the vehicle. Michael took a deep breath, the public persona clicking smoothly into place, but as he looked at you one last time before the door opened, his eyes flashed with a promise that made your blood run hot.

The rest of the night passed in a dizzying, historic blur.

From the moment Michael stepped out of the car and reached back to pull you out with him, the world went completely mad. The cameras went into overdrive, the flashes so bright they left spots in your vision. But true to his word, Michael kept you glued to his side. His arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his large hand pressing firmly into the small of your back, guiding you through the sea of reporters and photographers. Every few paces, he would lean down, his curls brushing against your cheek, just to whisper, "You look so beautiful, mama," or "They're all staring at you, I swear it."

Inside the auditorium, the energy was electric. It was gonna be a memorable night, and everyone knew it.

One by one, Michael’s name was called. Producer of the Year. Album of the Year. Record of the Year. Best Pop Vocal Performance. Over and over again, he stood up, the crowd erupting into thunderous applause, standing ovations that shook the very foundation of the building. And every single time he stood up, he kissed your cheek first. Every time he walked up those steps to accept another golden gramophone, he looked back at you sitting in the front row.

By the time he walked up to the podium for his final acceptance speech of the night, having tied and shattered records by winning a staggering eight Grammy Awards, the atmosphere was euphoric.

Michael stood at the microphone, adjusting his sunglasses, the crowd finally settling down into an expectant hush. He thanked the academy, he thanked his family, he thanked the Records, and he thanked his fans. His voice was humble, sweet, and filled with genuine awe. But then, he paused. He took off his sunglasses, his dark eyes sweeping over the crowd until they locked onto you.

A soft, incredibly tender smile broke across his face.

"And... I want to thank someone very, very special to me," Michael said into the microphone, his voice echoing beautifully through the massive auditorium. "Someone who has been my rock, my inspiration, and the joy in my life. Y/N..."

The cameras immediately panned to you, your face filling the giant screens in the arena. You offered a shy smile, your heart pounding against your ribs as the crowd cheered.

"Thank you for believing in me when things got hard," Michael continued, his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring the thousands of people watching. "Thank you for your love, your patience, and for just being the beautiful, incredible woman that you are. I wouldn't be standing up here tonight without you. This is for you, too. I love you."

The crowd erupted into an absolute frenzy. Your eyes welled with tears of pure pride and love as you watched him hold up the trophy, his gaze never leaving yours. He wasn't just the biggest star in the world in that moment; he was a man completely, utterly consumed by his love for you.

The moment the televised broadcast ended, the backstage area became a madhouse of executives, celebrities, and security guards trying to steer Michael toward the official after-parties. Everyone wanted a piece of him. Everyone wanted to celebrate the historic night.

But Michael wasn't having any of it.

The second he was clear of the main stage, his hand clamped tightly around yours, his fingers intertwining with yours so fiercely it almost hurt. He was moving fast, his long legs eating up the pavement as his security detail cleared a path through the backstage corridors.

"Michael! Michael, wait!" Frank Dileo, his manager, came jogging up alongside him, puffing on a cigar. "We gotta go to the CBS party, Mike! Clive Davis is expecting you, the press is waiting, we gotta—"

"No, Frank," Michael cut him off, not even breaking his stride. His voice lacked its usual soft, compliant edge. It was firm, absolute, and completely non-negotiable. "Tell them I'm tired. Tell them I'm not feeling well. I'm going back to the hotel."

"But Mike, you just won eight Grammys! This is the biggest night of your life!"

Michael stopped abruptly, turning to look at his manager. He didn't look tired at all. In fact, his eyes were burning with a desperate, frantic energy, a wild hum vibrating through his entire posture. He looked down at you, his eyes raking over your emerald green dress, your exposed collarbones, the rich warmth of your skin, and a visible shudder went through his frame.

"I'm going home, Frank. Secure the car. Now."

Frank looked at Michael, then looked at you, seeing the absolute fire burning in Michael's eyes and the flush on your cheeks. Realization dawned on the manager's face. He sighed, throwing his hands up. "Alright, alright. Security, get the limo around back. Now!"

Within minutes, you were pushed through a back exit and shielded into the waiting limousine. The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the world once again.

The car hadn't even pulled away from the curb before Michael was moving.

He didn't wait. He didn't say a word. He practically threw himself across the seat, his large hands coming up to frame your face as he crashed his lips against yours.

This wasn't the gentle, sweet kiss from earlier. This was desperate. This was needy. This was a man who had been starving all night while surrounded by a feast. Michael groaned deep in his throat, his tongue immediately sliding past your teeth to claim your mouth in a deep, wet, possessive kiss. His hands tangled in your hair, completely disregarding the perfect styling, pulling you closer until your chest was crushed against the hard, heavily embroidered front of his bedazzled jacket.

"Michael," you gasped out against his mouth, your hands coming up to grip his broad shoulders as the limousine accelerated. "Michael, wait—the driver—"

"The partition is up," he panted, his lips moving down your jawline, biting softly at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, making you arch your neck with a soft sigh. "It's up, mama. God, you don't know what you did to me tonight. You don't have any idea."

His hands left your face, sliding down the silk of your dress, his touch frantic and heavy as he gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly and pulling you right onto his lap. You straddled his thighs, your cream gown riding up over your knees. Michael’s breathing was ragged, his chest heaving against yours. The heavy gold trophies were sitting in a bag at the floor of the car, completely forgotten. The only thing that mattered to him was the feel of your body against his.

"You looked so beautiful," he whimpered, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes dark, wild, and dilated to the point where the iris was almost entirely gone. He looked completely unraveled, his usual composure entirely stripped away. "Seeing you sitting there... watching me... knowing you're mine. All those people staring at you, wanting you. I thought I was gonna lose my mind, baby. I swear I was."

"Michael, I'm right here," you whispered, running your fingers through his damp curls, feeling the frantic heat radiating off his skin. "I'm yours. Only yours."

A broken, needy sound left his throat, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Show me. Please, just let me get you back to the room. I need you so bad. I'm shaking, mama. Look at me, I'm shaking."

He held up his hand—the gloved one—and it was indeed trembling with a raw, kinetic energy. The sheer adrenaline of winning eight Grammys, combined with the agonizing, hours-long torture of wanting to touch you, had pushed him completely over the edge. He was a desperate man, and you were his only salvation.

The trip up to the hotel penthouse was a blur of shadows and hurried footsteps. Michael kept his arm wrapped securely around your waist, his head down, his fingers digging into your hip through the silk of your dress as if he feared you might vanish if he let go.

The moment the heavy wooden door of the penthouse suite clicked shut behind you, the silence of the room was immediately shattered.

Michael didn't even turn on the lights. The only illumination came from the moonlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, dramatic shadows across the luxurious room and highlighting the city skyline outside.

He grabbed you by the waist and pressed you back against the closed door, the heavy wood cold against your back, but your front was burning hot against him. He tore off his sunglasses, throwing them carelessly onto the floor, followed immediately by his single white glove.

"Michael—"

Your words were swallowed by his mouth. He kissed you with a ferocious, unbridled passion that left you completely breathless, his tongue plundering your mouth over and over again. He was needy, Whimpering into the kiss, his hands moving frantically over your body, tracing the curves he had been staring at all night.

"I need to see you," he panted, breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second, his eyes wild in the dim light. "I need to see this beautiful, gorgeous body out of this dress. Please, baby. Let me see you."

His hands found the zipper at the back of your cream gown. With a swift, practiced motion, he pulled it down. The silk hissed as it parted, loosening around your frame. Michael didn't waste a second. He pushed the straps off your shoulders, the heavy fabric sliding down your body, pooling at your feet in a dark wave on the carpet.

Michael stepped back just an inch, his breath catching audibly in his throat as he looked at you. You stood before him in just your underwear, your rich brown skin glowing like polished bronze in the soft moonlight. The contrast against the dark room was breathtaking, and Michael looked like he was staring at a masterpiece in a museum.

"Oh, God," he breathed, a hand coming up to cover his mouth, his chest heaving. "Look at you. You are so... you're a goddess, mama. You're so beautiful it makes me want to cry. Look at what you do to me."

He didn't wait for a response. He reached for his own clothes, his movements frantic, almost clumsy in his desperation. The iconic blue bedazzled jacket was unbuttoned and tossed carelessly onto the floor, the gold braid clinking softly against the carpet. His shirt followed, thrown aside until he stood before you bare-chested, his lean, toned muscles rippling in the moonlight, a light sheen of sweat covering his skin from the sheer adrenaline of the night.

He stepped back into your space, his bare chest pressing against yours, the heat of his skin instantly transferring to you. He swept you up into his arms, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing at all, and carried you over to the massive king-sized bed.

He came down over you immediately, pinning you into the soft mattress with his weight. He didn't give you a moment to breathe. His hands found your wrists, pinning them gently but firmly beside your head, his long fingers locking with yours.

"I need you so much right now, baby," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs. "I've been wanting this all night. Every time they called my name, every time I stood up there... all I could think about was this. Was you. How gorgeous you looked. How much I love you. Please... let me show you."

"Michael, yes... please," you groaned, arching your hips up against his, desperate for the contact, completely consumed by his heat and his need.

He moved with an urgent, frantic energy. In a matter of seconds, the remaining barriers of clothing were gone. Michael hovered between your thighs, his body trembling, his skin hot and slick against yours. He looked down at you, his eyes drinking in the sight of your beautiful, dark skin against the white sheets, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"You're so beautiful, mama. So beautiful," he chanted like a prayer, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

He didn't ease into it. Driven by hours of pent-up desire, the adrenaline of a historic night, and a deep, possessive need to completely consume you, Michael drove himself deep into you with one firm, heavy thrust.

A loud, breathless gasp tore from your throat, your back arching off the mattress as he filled you completely. It was intense, overwhelming, and utterly perfect.

Michael let out a low, guttural groan, burying his face in your neck as he began to move. He didn't hold back. He began to pound into you with a fierce, relentless rhythm, his heavy, powerful thrusts rocking your entire body against the mattress.

"Ah, god, my angel... you're so tight, so warm," he gasped out, his voice completely unraveled, stripped of any pop-star perfection. He was just a man, desperate and needy, completely losing himself inside the woman he loved.

His pace was fast, hard, and unyielding. Every time he drove his hips against yours, a soft, pathetic whimper would escape his lips, showing just how much your body was affecting him. He gripped your hips with his large hands, his fingers digging into your plush skin, anchoring you to him as he set a punishing, intoxicating pace.

The room was filled with the heavy sounds of his ragged breathing, the wet, rhythmic friction of your bodies meeting, and the soft, breathless cries slipping from your lips.

"Michael... oh my god, Michael," you cried out, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him even deeper into you.

"Tell me you're mine," he begged, his thrusts growing even harder, faster, driving into you with a desperate intensity that brought you right to the edge of a cliff. He leaned down, his sweat-damp curls brushing against your face, his lips frantically kissing your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth. "Tell me, baby. I need to hear it. I need you so bad."

"I'm yours, Michael! I'm yours!" you cried out, your voice breaking as the pleasure began to crest over you.

Hearing those words completely broke whatever restraint he had left. Michael groaned, a raw, dominant sound, and increased his pace even further, his body moving in a blurred, powerful rhythm. He pounded into you, showing you with every single heavy stroke just how much he worshiped you, how much your beauty had driven him insane all evening, how much he needed to claim every single part of you.

The friction was unbelievable. You arched your back, your eyes rolling back as a wave of intense, shattering climax ripped through your body. You clamped tightly around him, your voice crying out his name into the quiet penthouse.

The tight, crushing sensation of your release immediately pushed Michael over the edge. He let out a loud, ragged cry, his body going rigid as he delivered one final, incredibly deep, heavy thrust. He buried himself as deep as he could possibly go inside you, his muscles locking up as he poured himself into you, his chest heaving violently against yours.

For a long, breathless moment, the world stopped moving. There were no Grammys, no fans, no records broken. There was just the two of you, tangled in the sheets, breathing heavily in the moonlight.

Slowly, the tension left Michael's body. He collapsed against you, burying his face in your hair, his breath still coming in ragged, shaky gasps. He didn't pull away; instead, he wrapped his long arms tightly around you, pulling you impossibly closer to his chest, as if he still couldn't get enough of you.

"Oh, god," Michael whispered into your hair, his voice incredibly soft, returning to that sweet, vulnerable tone you knew so well. He was still trembling slightly. "My baby... thank you. Thank you so much."

You smiled softly in the dark, your hands gently rubbing his back, feeling the slow, steady heartbeat beneath his skin. "For what, Michael?"

He shifted slightly, lifting his head so he could look down at you. In the moonlight, his eyes were soft, wet with emotion, and filled with a love so profound it took your breath away. He reached up, his bare hand gently caressing your cheek, brushing away a stray curl.

"For being my real prize tonight," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Those trophies... they don't mean anything compared to this. Compared to you. You're the most beautiful thing in my world, baby. Never forget that. I love you so much."

You pulled his head down, kissing him sweetly, completely secure in the knowledge that no matter how big the world got out there, right here, in the dark, you were his entire universe.

michael stands, the zipper of his pants sounding as he does them up. I’m off the bed a second after him, panicking blindly until Michael hands me a robe off the back of my vanity chair. I pull it on so fast I don’t even notice it’s inside out until I can’t find the ties. “Oh my god!” I whisper-shout as Michael just looks at me. I haven’t even cleaned myself up, I’m in such a hurry. “Hide!”

“Where?” He whispers.

“Closet!”

He slips inside the double doors, pushing it closed as I pull my hair up, rapidly neatening it as I slip out the bedroom and tip toe-run to the top of the stairs. I listen, breathing shallowly, heart racing.

Someone's in the kitchen.

I pad down the spiral stairs as slowly as I can, hating everything about this situation so much, I'm tempted to run out the house myself. I run over what to say as I near the kitchen, mumbling words to myself, practicing the perfect tone of voice as I say, "hey, you're home, I was just about to get in the shower," all the while still having another man's release on my stomach.

I'm practically in cold sweats as I enter the kitchen, expecting to see Johnny pouring himself a drink or something, when I don't. I blink at the back of a woman's head, taking a few seconds to realise who it is as she bends to pull the almost burnt lasagne out the oven. "Oh, it's you," I say out loud. My chef jumps, almost dropping the oven dish of steaming pasta onto the tiles.

"Oh my god, you are home," she breaths as she places the dish on the stove top. "I'm so sorry, I came back to get my cell phone and I saw that the oven was on and I just freaked thinking I'd left it on," she rushes out, "I'm sorry I didn't ring the door bell, I was really going to rush in and rush out."

"Please, do not worry," I breathe, so relieved I could cry real tears. My hands are shaking, and I release a soft laugh as both my chef and I come down from different kind of adrenaline spikes. I thought I was about to get caught in bed with another man, and she thought I wasn't even home.

We talk a little, but I'm eager to get her out of the house. Johnny really could get back any second, and just because I wasn't caught this time, doesn't mean I'm not going to get caught in ten minutes.

My chef leaves, remembering her cell phone this time, and I hurry back upstairs, eager to shower and throw this robe in the laundry hamper. I walk over to the closet door and open it, "It's me, the coast is clear," I say, confused when I don't initially see Michael in the dark, but when his head pops out from a row of big coats, I start laughing.

"S'not funny, I was sure we were got," he mutters, coming towards me.

"Me too," I giggle, smiling up at him as he nears. I feel my eyes doing that thing again, widening and doe-ing, though this time I'm smiling, biting my bottom lip a little.

"On the first time too, that would've been bad luck, huh," he teases, showing off a handsome grin that lifts my stomach. I nod, agreeing with him quietly. He glances me over, eyes my lips, then meets my gaze again. "That was really fun, Tabi," he says softly, he pulls on the tie of my robe, bringing me closer to him. I'm tingly all over, desire pooling between my thighs again as he pulls me gently into his personal space, then places his hands on my waist.

"I enjoyed myself a lot," I whisper, still smiling. I place my hands on his chest, and look into his eyes. Michael hums, then licks his lips slowly. We hold eye contact for a moment, and I'm just reminded how, what, barely twenty minutes ago this man was inside me. As if he's thinking the same thing, his grip on my waist tightens.

"I should go," he murmurs, before your man gets home, he doesn't need to add. I nod, and we part. I'm unsure of what to do with myself really as I watch him step out the closet. I follow, heart thudding against my ribs as we head downstairs. I inform him of a side exit that leads out to a sort of side street alleyway between my property and the one next to mine where he can go... if he wants. He gets the hint though, considering I have neighbours who know who I am, and who will obviously know who Michael is. Even if it's dark, if people see anything, they will talk.

Within a few minutes he's gone, slipping out into the dark and round the back of my villa, following the low lit gravel pathway that leads to that little side street. He glances back at me once, and I wave from the front door before I step back inside.

The door clicks shut and reality creeps back into my thoughts, pouring ice cold water over the last of my desire, and putting the flames out.

I rush back upstairs and strip the bed, dragging the sheets to the hamper. I remake the bed, only pausing to turn the air on as I work up a little sweat moving with such efficiency and speed. I spray my perfume everywhere, suddenly paranoid scents of Michael will linger in the air, then throw open the windows. Then, I practically jog to the bathroom to shower.

I throw off my robe, stuffing it frantically into the hamper with the sheets, then as I walk to the shower, I pause to look at myself in the mirror. The remains of our encounter as still on my skin, and I can't stop myself. I smooth my fingers through it, face flushing pink as memories from barely an hour ago flood my mind.

I'm back in that bed, back with his hands on me, his lips on mine, listening to his soft spoken words, and raspy moans. I can still feel him. Sex aching from the stretch, a little too eager for more it seems because I'm wet again just thinking about him.

I wish we'd had more time. More time to explore each other, kiss and talk a little more maybe.

I brush the thoughts away, though I'm not really sure why. I've already started the affair.

"come on, Tab," I mutter. I turn away and walk into the shower, set the temperature to ice cold and shock my system. I gasp violently, but it does the trick. I wash myself over twice, just to make sure I don't smell like another man, because you just never know, really.

Once I'm done, I spend a while blow drying my hair, then putting it into curlers, over all just getting ready for bed.

I try to settle my mind. I read some sci fi book I picked up a few weeks ago, then journal when my mind keeps whispering foul things in my ear, just remembering his size. He was bigger than I thought he was going to be. Thicker, too. And Jesus, those thrusts... I could feel him all the way up.

I'm chewing on my pen lid, caught up in the memory when the bedroom door opens. I startle, but manage to remain quiet. Johnny stumbles into the room, blonde hair messy, clothes disheveled. I blink at him from my side of the bed, close to the big bay windows. "Ah, you're-- you're still up," he slurs, "good because I wanted to talk to you about... about today."

"You're drunk," I state, closing my journal where I hadn't even finished the last sentence I'd been writing.

"I know, I know," he sighs. He manages to close the bedroom door behind him and kick off his shoes, he slugs off his jacket, leaving them on the floor, in a mess, and walks over to the bed. "I want to talk, Tabi."

"So... talk." I say bluntly. I shove my journal into the nightstand and close the draw.

"I just, I just," he stammers, sitting down hard. The bed bounces under his weight. "I just love you so much," he continues, staring at me with big blue eyes, glassy, either from emotion or alcohol, I can't really tell. "I get so... I just get so worried when all these things happen, I worry about losing you."

"And you--" I begin, but he raises his hands, shushing me.

"Let me finish, please."

I shut my mouth and sigh.

"Ever since I've known you there's always... always been this thing with you and Michael Jackson. This rivalry, or whatever it is. Sometimes it feels like he was here before me. Like he had you before me, and he just keeps this thing going to show me up, to make me feel like you can't ever really be fully my girl with him around."

I slide a look away from Johnny into an open space in the room and stare into space.

"I love you so much Tab, this thing is driving me crazy." Johnny puts his head in his heads, and those blond strands stick up between his fingers. "I want us to work, I need us to."

I don't know what to say. My chest suddenly feels tight. I stare at my boyfriend, bottom lip wobbling. I should tell him. I should confess right now. I fucked another man in our bed, right where I'm sitting.

I open my mouth, words right on the tip of my tongue, but Johnny carries on.

"I see us together when I'm old," he says, "I see us with grey hair, surrounded by all of our children. I see all of it."

I freeze.

"I want... I want so much with you, Tab. I just get so worked up, you know? I love you so fucking much." He looks at me finally and my eyes flicker wide, "I want you to be my wife, I need that with you." He can barely focus on me he's so drunk, and in a way that kind of helps, because I can't control my face.

My heart pounds against my ribs, I'm breathing hard. I used to dream of hearing that from Johnny. Now it feels like a... fuck, I don't know, like an invitation to go and sit in a cage and be his his his, and nothing more.

My eyes well up, and I just sit there, looking at him swaying, unable to even sit still with how much he's consumed. Only a few seconds pass, then he goes a little green. He jolts up from the bed and bolts to the bathroom.

The majority of the next day, Johnny is in bed with a nasty hangover. I'm out the house in the morning, spending some time in the studio alone, just writing some songs that came to mind overnight, trying out new sounds. When I head home in the late afternoon, the house is quiet. So I spend some time by the pool, do some yoga, then get to eating something my chef left behind in the fridge.

Johnny is asleep when I go upstairs to offer him something to eat, so I pad back to the living room to munch whilst I watch a film. My clunky black cell phone sits on the coffee table next to my now empty plate. I feel like it's watching me, waiting for me to make my next bad judgement call.

I've had a glass of wine, and the sun is setting, leaking in golden light into my living room...

Fuck it.

I pick up my cell phone and dial Michael's number. I inputted into my contacts this morning under Manager 2 at practically the crack of dawn, then stuffed the paper into my mouth as I left the bedroom, disposing of it down a toilet downstairs.

It rings for a few minutes, but he doesn't answer. Disappointed, I put my phone back down, thinking perhaps it's for the best since Johnny is upstairs and could wander down at any minute. The problem is, I really want to hear his voice.

I want to talk to someone, and my mind keeps making it him.

I settle back against the long cream couch, sitting on the floor, my boxy TV glowing more and more as the light leaves the sky, and the sun sets almost fully. I get up to turn some of the lamps on, when my cell phone rings.

My heart jumps, I crawl over the back of my sofa, then slide off onto the floor, snatching it up. The caller ID says: Manager 2.

It's him.

I pick up. "Hey," I say lightly, glancing towards the living room door. I leave it open, just so I can hear footsteps if I need to.

"Hey," he sounds like he's smiling, "how are you?" Michael says, voice low and soft. I hear a door click in the background.

"Good, yeah. I'm fine," I murmur softly. I pat my cheek with my free hand, blushing already. "Are you busy?"

"No, I'm just at home with my family," he replies, "what are you doing?"

"Watching a film," I say, glancing towards the door again, but all remains still. Michael asks about the film, so I explain the plot to him, and we get to talking about what movies we like, what music artists, then the conversation just flows, morphing into so many topics that suddenly it's been two hours and I've barely noticed.

I feel like a teenager again, giggling on the phone with a cute guy whilst I should be asleep. It gives me that same rush, perhaps one I've been chasing for longer than I care to admit. I feel alive, like I do on stage, and I'm giddy and so excited about it.

I've been so so careful for the better part of a decade. First with my girl group, then going solo. Keeping my image as clean as I can with no career ending scandals, like this would be if it got out I was messing with Michael whilst in a relationship with the country's favourite up and coming rock band's lead singer.

Anxiety suddenly bites at me, and at the worst moment too. "I've been thinking about last night a lot," Michael says, his tone so smooth and gentle it almost coaxes me into a daze. "I'd like to see you again... Maybe when we can spend more time together."

"Um," I say, voice giving away my nerves. I pause for too long.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, uh..." But I'm thinking about what Johnny confessed last night, about wanting me to be his wife. To have that life together. Would it be stupid of me to throw that away, over... over...? I don't know. I don't know how to define this thing with Michael other than the fact it's an affair driven by a pretty intense mutual attraction.

Guilt very suddenly makes me physically nauseous.

"I need to go." I whisper. My insides are rioting, confused and upset as I think back over the last twelve months I've been with Johnny. The highs and the lows. The way we met at that event. How smooth talking he was. How he pursued me, all the flowers and gifts he sent. I think about when he first said I love you, then when he moved in, how excited I was for our future. All of it. God, I was crazy about him.

"Is he there?"

"No, I just... I should go." I whisper even quieter.

"Wait, did I say something wrong?"

"No, I have to go, I'm sorry." I hang up, then I go as far as to open my contacts and delete his number, but I just stare at it. Tears well in my eyes, and my thumb trembles over the delete option. But I can't do it. I drop my phone onto the floor and push it away from me with my foot.

"Tab, where are you?" The sound of Johnny's voice makes me jump, but I play it off fast as he pads into the living room, looking exhausted. "Oh, there you are."

"Hey," I say before I look at him, fighting the urge to cry more. I sniff and rub at my eyes, pretending I'm yawning. "You're up."

"You crying?" he asks, coming around the couch and sitting beside me, though I'm still perched on the floor, and he's on the actual furniture.

"Yeah, the film is just sad," I mutter, reaching for the remote and turning it off before he can see that it's actually an old black and white comedy from the sixties.

"Listen, um," Johnny begins, leaning forward as I twist to look at him, pulling myself together. "about last night... I wanted to say I'm sorry. I hate that you have to deal with me when I'm like this. I'm gonna try really hard to be better."

I look into his eyes and stay quiet, unsure of what to say again. He reaches for my hand, pulls it up and into his lap, holding it sincerely.

"I meant what I said though, about wanting that life with you."

My breath hitches, nerves cartwheeling through my stomach.

"You can't keep being so up and down, John." I whisper, "you say you hate it when I have to deal with you like this, but you have to be the one to control yourself, you know? I'm not going to put up with you being drunk and high all the time and causing a mess."

"I know, I know."

"I'm serious," I say, "I'm not even going to think about marriage with you until you can show me you can do that." I sound sterner than I feel. Even Johnny blinks at me, surprised at my tone. "I have my own shit to deal with, I can't manage you. I won't."

He nods, "I'll be better, I promise."

I sigh, hoping to feel some of my tension ease, but when it doesn't I don't know what to do. Johnny waits on me that night, bringing me drinks, or more snacks. We watch a film together, and act like a couple again. And even though I know what he's doing, trying to butter me up for later, it's... nice. It feels normal... ish.

A week later I'm stood off to the side of the stage as Johnny runs through rehearsals with his band. His tour starts tomorrow night, and the first venue is already set up with all the lights and stage design. Sound checks are being run, but things are mostly sorted. Dressed down in low rise jeans and one of Johnny's band tee's, I watch him perform, guitar in his hands as he sings.

I'm nodding my head along to the music, arms folded, feeling more settled in myself now that I've kind of refocussed myself on my life. I've been in the studio almost everyday aside from today, writing songs, or perfecting my album. Even though it's finished, I still don't feel quite happy with it. I need to pick another single to release soon, and I just don't know which one. None of it feels right anymore.

In a way, I'm kind of glad Michael has let me get on with it. Since our last phone call, we hadn't spoken. Though, even as I say that, I still have a missed call from Manager 2 from four nights ago that I haven't returned.

I push thoughts of him away as fast as they arrive, and refocus my gaze on my boyfriend as he pulls away from the microphone, electric guitar singing as he plays, lights flaring.

The rehearsals move way into the night, but I stick around, passing out in the dressing room. I head home alone, and for most of the next day, I don't see Johnny until I head back to the venue close to the performance time to watch with some of my friends. Already outside there are lines and lines of people, all wearing the band t-shirts, drinking, smoking, excited to watch my boyfriend's band play.

The energy is electric, and I'm caught up in it, excited to watch him. I head inside with two of my girl friends, we slink by security, waving at fans who see us and scream. There's a VIP section to watch the show, close to the stage, where most celebrities will be if they've bought tickets. We're shown to where we'll be, drinks already flowing.

My hair's done in its usual big messy sixties style, my eye make up dark. I'm in a black mini skirt with a ripped band t-shirt, big platform heels on to match. Heidi and Jane are with me, who are my dancers, but have been my closest friends for years.

The evening passes in a blur, I'm drinking, having fun. Johnny performs song after song, stage lights flaring in time with the music and his guitar solos. The audience screams, jumping up at down. I'm drunk by the time it gets to about half way through the show, just swaying to the music with a glass of wine in hand.

Then I smell something.

My body has a visceral reaction, and my expression falters. Immediately my gaze is jumping around, looking for him. I glance over my shoulder, and catch a glimpse of someone who looks frighteningly like Michael, stood further back, watching the show dressed in dark clothes. Black cap, black t-shirt and jacket, dark pants. Shades on. He looks so unimpressed it might've made me laugh was I not so pissed off that he's shown up here, uninvited.

Another man leans in, dressed similarly, and nudges him, muttering something in his ear. Then his head turns a little, and I sense his eyes on me as I stare openly at him.

Through the flashing lights, it feels almost as if my vision is going in and out. I frown, but he tips his head, towards where there's an exit into the main area of the venue, motioning as if he wants me to go over there.

Before I can even tell myself not to, I'm moving. Even though I'm irritated, there's something else too. Excitement.

He's here.

I shift through the VIP's and out the private section through the dark, acting as if I'm heading to the toilet. I don't even look at him as I pass him, brushing my body against his arm. I smell his cologne and take in a deep breath, dizzying myself. Heat rushes straight to my core.

I walk out into the big wide hall where it's basically a private entrance and exit into the VIP area and keep walking. I hear the door go, and I sense him some metres behind me, blunter footsteps sounding just after the clicks of my heels.

After a few seconds, his throat clears. I pause, glance over my shoulder. He's holding a door open that leads to a fire exit. Once he catches me looking, Michael slips inside. I hurry back over and slip inside too, making sure no one sees me first though.

He waits a few metres away, and I get right to it as I stride over to him. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"You didn't return my call."

"So?" I stop within a few feet of him, not needing to get too close, and yet, I'm closer than I need to be.

"So I wanted to see for myself why," Michael states, he reaches across the gap between us and pulls at my shirt, just to make a point, not to pull me closer. "I think I have my answer." He sounds bitter, and I hate to admit it thrills me.

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know, but I didn't expect to see you jumping up at down wearing his merch a week after we fucked."

"Michael!" I gasp. I glance over my shoulder, but there's no one around. Just me and him. "What the hell is your problem right now?" I whisper-shout at him.

Michael's jaw sets. "I don't have one," he mutters. I just stare up at him, into those shades for a few seconds before they irritate me beyond belief. I reach up and take them off, staring into his eyes. I can see his problem now. He's jealous.

I have enough sense to take this seriously. He takes his shades back and slips them back on.

"Michael," I say carefully, "... this is reckless." I murmur, because I get it. If it was me, if he was here with another woman, I think I'd vomit. And the reality of that stuns me.

"I know," he mumbles.

"We can't do this," I whisper. "I don't..." I can't even finish that sentence even though it's the right thing to do. To end it. Right here. Right now. "We can't..." But I hesitate so hard I literally freeze.

He sighs softly, shoulders dropping just a little. He steps closer to me, into my orbit, and I don't shift away even when I know I should. "I know, ma," he murmurs. That word switches something in me. One second I'm somewhat in control, and the next I'm leaning into him, into his arms, breathing him in. He pulls me to him, folding his arms around me.

"No one can find out," I whisper, holding onto him. "Please." I add, leaning back to look into his eyes.

"I'm not gonna tell, baby."

"please," I whisper again, and I'm not sure if I'm pleading for him to kiss me or not tell anyone still. His head tilts, and he smiles slowly. That energy thrums between us, humming, pulling us closer together. He's closing the distance, leaning in, and my eyelashes are already fluttering, anticipating his mouth on mine, when a door slams back in the hallway beyond this fire exit door, and laughter sounds.

Michael and I jump apart. I turn away from him, embarrassed beyond belief at the putty he turned me into in a matter of seconds. I hear him huff quietly, and I turn, irritated, thinking he's laughing at me, but he's half grinning.

"I'm not laughing at you," he defends, putting his hands up, "just didn't know I could move that fast," he adds, seeing as we've both already put a few metres between us. "I almost took off."

I laugh quietly, holding my hand over my mouth. My heart almost leapt out of my chest, and yet, I don't feel any fear. Just... exhilaration. I exhale hard. "I should, um, go back."

He hums. "I just need a second."

I frown, but he doesn't seem shy about adjusting himself so that his boner isn't as visible. I blush, pressing my lips together I try not to smirk. I mumble something incoherent then step away, heading back to the show.

Johnny is in the midst of one of his guitar solos, and the crowd is going crazy. I slip back to my friends, practically unnoticed in the flashing lights. Only seconds later I sense a presence behind me. I already know who it is. He's not touching me, nor is he doing anything wrong but having him this close makes me want to lean back into his body, have him hold me and it's frustrating.

I step back and accidentally bump him. I twist to apologise. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" I gasp, despite him not being able to hear me, Michael grins. He's brought his, who I can now see is one of his brothers, to the front too. I reach over, extending a hand to greet him politely. I shout my name a few times and he shouts his, but I can't hear shit.

Michael's hand touches the small of my back, it's only a graze, keeping me steady as I have a weird shouting-match conversation with his brother where we're not really understanding each other, but still attempting to talk.

I have my back to the stage, and I'm about to turn around when there's a loud screech of the electric guitar then the most insane, awful sound following. The song keeps going, but I whip around to see that Johnny has smashed his guitar and is walking off. The rest of his band make a snap decision, and it's only for a brief second I see the surprise before they're cheering on the crowd, who still think its a part of the show.

My hand hovers in front of my mouth. But then I quickly drop it, because I know people will look to me for confirmation of whether or not that was real or not. To play along, I laugh and clap, but blood is draining from my face. I turn to Michael, about to tell him he should leave, but he's laughing too, completely unbothered.

"Is it over?" I hear Heidi shout, drunk and confused, as Johnny's band keeps the song going for what feels like a few minutes too long. When one of his bandmates steps up to the microphone and starts explaining that Johnny "probably needed to take a leak" I realise he's probably not coming back to the stage.

The commotion happens within minutes. I'm already considering leaving when I'm approached by Johnny's manager, who asks me to come backstage and try and sort him out. He's locked himself in his dressing room and won't answer anyone. When his manager spots Michael and I standing so close together, it kind of clicks for him. And the guy leans towards Mike and says something, grimacing apologetically.

Michael nods, and they shake hands. He motions to his brother that they're going to leave.

I hesitate. I don't really want to go and sort Johnny out. He's probably high, and furious. And there's a part of me that's always worried about that combination when it comes to him.

Then I hear screaming. It sounds different to the rest of the crowd, more high pitched, frantic and excited. "It's Michael Jackson!" I hear faintly, and whip my head towards where Michael just tried to step away, and leave discreetly. He gives a brief wave, smiling, blowing a polite kiss as he nods. Women scream and try and clamber towards him. There's a chunk of seats behind where we are standing, and one by one, like a wave, all attention starts twisting from the stage, to Michael, following the noise of chaos.

"Oh god," I mumble, cringing deeply as security steps in, wrangling the young women who keep trying to jump the barrier to tackle Michael who isn't sure for a second whether he should leave or not. But then his brother pushes him, and they start walking out, moving away from the screams, followed by a chunk of their private security.

Jesus, I didn't even see those guys before.

I decide to step out too, bringing Heidi and Jane with me. Johnny's manager follows, thinking I'm going to head back stage, but when I start walking towards the exit, some distance behind where Michael and his brother, Marlon, I think he said, are walking with all their big burly security, he gets confused.

"Wait, Tabi! What the hell?"

"You're his manger, you sort him out!" I stride away, but manager jogs to keep up with me.

"You're just going to leave?"

"Johnny and I already spoke about this, I told him if he doesn't act right I'm--" I shut my mouth. I don't know what the hell I'm saying, and slow down, then stop walking. He saw me and Michael near each other in the audience.

I go backstage, but Johnny doesn't want to see me.

A week passes, Johnny doesn't come home.

Instead, as his manager tells me, he's decided to stay at a hotel close to the venue so he doesn't have to travel much. I find myself accepting that, even after I try to call him a few times. I just end up getting pissed off and give up, envisioning going on a week long bender with his band mates with performances in between.

I'm alone on a Saturday night, sipping wine as I play some of my new songs out loud, trying to hear them in a different setting than the studio. I kind of shift around my large living room, music blasting, processing the various sounds and the beats, fighting to try and understand what's not sitting right.

I listen to the love songs over and over, but they're not working. I sip more wine, pour myself another glass, I keep pacing, dancing, moving with the sounds, trying to feel them inside but something is off. I'm tense, frustrated.

And I need... I need...

I pause, wine glass pressed against the edge of my lips.

One of the perks of living with a boyfriend was whenever I got this itch, I could have it scratched. And yet now, especially since we've been on the rocks and my body keeps craving something else, someone else, it's harder for me to... well. Not harder, I guess, but it is a little less ethical.

Still.

It's been a part of my process in recent years. Helps me create.

I wander over to my phone, pause my music, and call Manager 2.

It rings twice, then he picks up. "Hey," he says, "I wasn't expecting to hear from you." There's music in the background. I recognise his voice, but not the song.

"Are you busy right now?"

"Uh... no." The music stops.

"Can you come over?"

Thirty seven minutes later, the door bell goes. As it turns out, Michael's family home isn't that far from me. I pad through the lower part of my villa, dressed in only my baby pink nightgown, hair pinned up and out of the way, feet bare.

I yank open the heavy oak front door and he's there, waiting. "You call, I answer," he grins, holding up a bottle of champagne. He looks so handsome. Curls pulled back aside from those stubborn ones around his face. He has a simple white t-shirt on, black pants, and a big red varsity jacket. I grin, taking the bottle from him. "Johnny not home?"

"No," I answer simply. I walk to the kitchen, and he closes the front door behind himself, locks it, then follows me, sliding off his red jacket, hangs it on a bar stool. I pour us two glasses and hand him one. "You wanna stay the night?"

Michael sips his champagne slowly, and eyes me. "Trouble in paradise, huh?"

"Yes or no?"

"Of course I do."

I smile, "Good. Bolt the front door, and come upstairs when you're done." I turn away from him and head upstairs, knowing that the minute that big wooden bar is across the front door, it wouldn't matter if you had a front door key. It's not opening.

I head upstairs as Mike stands there for a few seconds, then kicks into action. I grin, then hurry, running down the long hallway to the master bedroom, suddenly overexcited and giddy to have him again.

I can hear Michael coming up the stairs quickly and squeal out a laugh, pushing open my bedroom door and twisting to face it, grinning. A second later Michael is there, he smiles, taking me in, teeth latching onto his bottom lip. He watches as I hook my thumbs under my nightgown's straps then gently ease the garment off me. All I have are panties on underneath, and I give him a slow twirl.

He prowls closer to me after closing the bedroom door, desire lowering his eyelids. "You're so pretty, ma," he purrs, "you wear this for me?" he asks, nodding to the panties. They're white lace, with a satin bow on the back.

"No," I tease, "I always wear these."

Michael hums, nearing me enough that he can reach out and touch me, he turns me again, smoothing his hand down over my ass. "Wear these only for me now," he murmurs, gripping the flesh tightly, then giving my rear a soft slap. I gasp and nod. My whole body tingles as I peer up at him through my lashes, sex already hot. My arousal pools between my thighs as I watch Michael drink me in.

He's turning me again, scanning me, breaths slow and deep. His tongue grazes over his lips and I'm blushing so hard I could probably set alight. I face him once more, and he closes in, capturing my lips, holding my hips and bringing me flush against his body. My arms wrap around his neck, and we're kissing, lips separating and locking over and over.

Michael groans, low and rasped, and my knees give way a little as he palms my ass, pulling me up against him as our kiss gets hungrier and hungrier. I'm so wet I'm dripping, and all he's done is kiss me. I whine into his mouth, gripping his shirt. He breaks the kiss a little, "What do you need baby?" he whispers.

"You," I moan, eyelids so heavy it's hard to keep them open. I want to taste him, and take my time. I want another memory to revisit over and over. "In my mouth," I add.

Michael's jaw clenches, but I'm already turning us, pushing him down to sit on the edge of the bed. I press a long kiss against his mouth as I reach for his pants, undoing the button, then the zip. He's already rock hard, and I separate our lips with a satisfying smack, rubbing his thick cock.

He hums, teeth gnawing slowly on his bottom lip as I lower myself down between his knees. I'm so turned on I could combust, and get straight to pleasing him. No more teasing.

I taste precum as i lick his tip. He shudders, hand going to my hair. It's only twisted into a bun, nothing too fancy, but he's still gentle, and doesn't mess with it. Which only seems to egg me on as I suck him further into my mouth, then start massaging him with my lips. He mutters something under his breath, tips his head back, eyes closing, brows furrowing.

Tingles skitter through me, eager and excited, only further fuelling my lust for him. I suck harder, my head moving up and down in his lap. I smooth my palms over his strong thighs, squeezing as I squirm and rub my thighs together.

I feel so needy, my heart's racing. I moan around Michael's cock, really putting in the work to pleasure him with my mouth. He moans along with my rhythm, shifting his hips, pushing himself up into my mouth. I push him right to the back of my throat, then hold him there. A long, rasping moan drawls out of him and I shiver with delight.

Then I pop him out of my mouth. I climb onto him, and pull off his shirt, wanting to see all of him. He's let's me, dazed, drunk off pleasure and so am I, which thrills me since he's barely touched me. He's shirtless now, pulling me in for another kiss. It's slow, passionate, tongues sliding together, I can hardly stand how much this turns me on.

I lift myself up, and slide my panties over my hips, managing to manoeuvre myself enough to get them off entirely. I'm naked on his lap, reaching down to position him in the right place, before I slide him inside me, lowering myself down. "Oh, fuck," I moan as he fills me all the way to the hilt.

He shudders, digging his fingertips into my flesh. Then i'm riding him, and he's moaning with me, so vocal and shameless, I adore it. I push him back onto the bed, hook my ankles over his hips and ride him harder. He's guiding me back and forth, doe eyes scanning me greedily, taking me all in, again and again.

"you fuck me so good, baby," he praises in that soft raspy voice. I nearly lose it, and fresh arousal seeps out of me at his words. I tip my head back, moaning loudly and freely as pleasure tears up my veins. "can't stop thinking about you."

I moan in response, holding his waist, grinding him deep inside me as I rotate my hips in a circle. He tenses, eyes almost rolling back. His bottom lip disappears behind his teeth. I watch him, consuming every body twitch, every micro expression of pleasure like it's a drug. He's so fucking hot, I can't stand it.

I lean down to kiss him, and he responds immediately, kissing me back passionately, grazing his palms up and down my back. Then he's rolling me onto my back, and pressing between my thighs. He takes a second to kick off his pants and boxers then he's back inside me, sliding in with no resistance. He groans needy, thrusting hard and fast, and so deep I can feel him all the way up inside. "God, Michael," I whine, caressing his waist, "fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," I whisper quickly, watching his body move over mine.

His moans deepen, and he frowns harder, fists gripping the sheets tightly. Just seeing him fighting his orgasm, brings mine forward violently. It hits me hard, and my vision turns to stars. I cry out, and I'm spasming around him, gripping him inside so hard, he has to tug himself out of me. He cums all over my stomach, and there's so much I just end up giggling. He's shaking, and I'm still trembling too, coming down my high. But we're both chuckling, a little bashful over the intensity of what we've just done.

Michael flops next to me, and I lie here, basking in this just-fucked daze, on cloud nine. "I can't give you up," he murmurs, turning to look at him. He's already watching me, doe eyes so earnest I can only just stare back into them. "So don't ask me to."

end notes:

AAAH what did we think?! There is so much in here that I've hinted at, but let me know what you think will happen, because I'm so intrigued as to where y'alls minds go hahaha, anywhooooo, the way I love how they interact, it's just so much fun. Since most people go for the sweet and soft MJ, I just thought I'd have a little fun with a more dominant side. He's still a soft sweet angel, but it comes with a twist :) and motivations :) and perhaps a little manipulation :)

pls leave some comments, the more comments the better, I'm greedy and need validation lmao, SO! let me know what you thoughtttt and I will see y'all in part 5!

(Name) enters his life shortly after his previous personal assistant quietly burned out under the demands of preparation for the Bad Tour nearly a year ago, yet another casualty of trying to keep pace with a career that has long since stopped resembling an ordinary life. Assisting Michael Jackson is less about managing a calendar and more about surviving a constant state of absolute chaos. Flights become rehearsals. Rehearsals become interviews. Interviews become recording sessions before dissolving into charity appearances, business meetings, wardrobe fittings, and promotional events that seem to materialize overnight. Somewhere beneath all of it exists a man expected to smile through exhaustion because the world rarely remembers that fame does not exempt someone from being human.

Most people last a few months and some don’t even manage that. And she lasts a week before everyone realizes they no longer have to worry.

She isn’t hired because she’s charming—charm doesn’t keep an international tour running. And she isn’t hired because she’s beautiful, though she undeniably is. Beauty can get you far in life, but even that can’t reorganize three countries’ worth of travel plans before lunch. She’s hired because competence, when refined to its absolute limit, begins resembling something intimidating. Because within days she has memorized everyone’s names, corrected scheduling conflicts that had gone unnoticed for weeks, reorganized filing systems no one else bothered to touch, and somehow untangled years of accumulated administrative clutter without announcing she’d done any of it. Problems disappear around her because she solves them before anyone else realizes they’ve become problems at all.

The thing about (Name) is that she never rushes. And that becomes one of the most fascinating things about her.

Everyone else in Michael’s orbit exists in a perpetual sprint. Managers are answering phones while crossing hotel lobbies and publicists apologize mid stride as they chase photographers down hallways. Security is constantly frazzled, scanning and redirecting. Every day seems to unfold with an underlying sense that everyone is already five minutes behind. And she alone seems immune to that urgency, walking the same pace regardless of whether she’s crossing an airport terminal or backstage at Wembley Stadium. (Name) is granted the luxury because she’s already accounted for the unexpected. She planned for delays before they happened and built room for mistakes into the schedule before anyone had the opportunity to make them. Watching her move through chaos without ever becoming chaotic herself is strangely mesmerizing. She’s always the stillest object in every room she enters.

The title never changes—his title, I mean.

“Mister Jackson.”

Always.

At first, he assumes it’s habit. Then he assumes maybe she’s nervous. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him and one afternoon he smiles real shy at her in the limo, and tells her she can call him Michael. God, he wants to hear how his name sounds coming from those pretty plump lips. Most people fucking leap at invitations like that, to be addressed by a first name is intimacy, however small. It’s permission to cross a line. (Name) “accepted” the sentiment with genuine appreciation, thanked him politely, but then.. continued referring to him as Mister Jackson before the conversation has even ended. There wasn’t a trace of stubbornness in her tone, her response was so matter of fact that it leaves him without anything to argue against.

Slowly, he realizes it isn’t habit at all, it’s discipline.

Professional boundaries, to her, are not flexible depending on who occupies the other side of them. If she addresses executives formally, she’s address him formally. If she protects her private life from coworkers, she’ll protect it from him. She doesn’t create exceptions just because someone is famous, charismatic, or no matter how kind.

That consistency is precisely what makes her so difficult to understand. Michael has spent his life wondering whether people see him or merely the image they’ve built around him. She does something stranger. She sees him exactly as he is, acknowledges every practical reality of his life and still refuses to let that change the structure of their relationship.

Ironically, being treated exactly like everyone else is what makes him feel the most singled out.

Michael finds himself in a relationship where his fame grants him absolutely no advantage. His success can’t impress her because she’s already accounted for it. His kindness doesn’t soften the boundaries she’s spent years constructing. His charm earns him nothing beyond the same polite smile she’d offer anyone else. There is nothing to perform because she refuses to become a part of his audience. And maybe that’s what fascinates him most. She’s the first person in a very long time who seems completely uninterested in the version of Michael Jackson the world has created, leaving him with an unfamiliar, almost unsettling question.

If she doesn't care who Michael Jackson is, then what would it actually take for her to care about Michael?

It baffles him.

He’s spent his entire adult life asking people to relax around him, only to discover the one woman who actually refuses to blur the line. She doesn’t laugh at his jokes, doesn’t linger after conversations have ended. She doesn’t seek his approval or his attention. She completes her work, reminds him to eat, hands him the folder, and disappears until she’s needed again.

The funny thing is that she’s perhaps the most attentive person in his life.

(Name) notices when he’s exhausted before he does, quietly removing interviews from his afternoon if rehearsals run long. She remembers which tea helps his throat after recording sessions, which hotels have mattresses he sleeps best on, which fabrics irritate his skin, which reporters tend to ask invasive questions. She knows his routines better than most people who claim to know him personally, yet never behaves as though that knowledge grants her intimacy.

For her, care is practical. It exists in solutions rather than sentiment.

She shields him from the unnecessary stress. Producers who overstep suddenly find themselves speaking to her instead and pushy photographers somehow lose backstage access. Meetings that would have drained his energy mysteriously disappear from his schedule. (Name) doesn’t ask if he needs protecting, she simply protects him because it’s part of doing her job correctly.

The people around Michael eventually begin consulting her before consulting him.

If she says he needs another hour of rest, they believe her. If she says he’s unavailable, they don't argue. If she says the conversation is over, it's over. She never raises her voice, her authority comes from her competence rather than volume or her attitude.

Her.. appearance only deepens the contradiction. At work she exclusively favors fitted pencil skirts, silk blouses, classy blazers, pointed six inch heels, dainty jewelry, and a french tip. Everything about her makes the people around stop and look. She is undeniably beautiful, but not in a way that feels inviting. It’s the kind of beauty that suggests distance rather than attention. Men often approach expecting charm and leave vaguely intimidated and insecure after realizing they’ve learned absolutely nothing about her.

Michael finds himself staring more often than he’d ever admit. It isn’t merely that she’s beautiful, and again, she unquestionably is. It’s the composure she carries with her, the way she seems completely untouched by the crazy that follows him everywhere. She smooths a page in her planner with elegant fingers, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear without breaking conversation, adjusts the sleeves of her blazer before stepping into a meeting meant to fire someone. Even under the harsh lights of rehearsal studios or after fourteen hour workdays, she somehow remains.. perfect. He catches himself watching her when she isn’t looking, studying the effortless grace with which she moves through crowded hallways, wondering how someone can appear so perfectly composed while everyone else is barely holding themselves together. The realization that she’s become the first thing he looks for whenever he enters a room arrives long before he’s willing to admit what it means.

It becomes something of an obsession for him. And it’s not like she’s playing hard to get. There’s no game to participate in because she’s put up a wall so completely that it barely feels like rejection. It simply exists.

And Michael, for the first time in years, finds himself chasing someone who has absolutely no interest in being chased.

Seven o’clock had become her hour.

No one had assigned it to her, but somewhere over the last several months, she’d developed a habit of arriving at his hotel suite at precisely seven every morning with the day’s itinerary tucked neatly beneath one arm, a fresh folder of revised schedules in the other, and the information to keep the next sixteen hours from collapsing into complete disorder. She was never late.l, not even by a minute. Michael had even started waking a little earlier because of it, though he’d sooner admit to forgetting his own lyrics than confess that to anyone.

She knocked twice before letting herself in.

“Good morning, Mister Jackson.”

“Good morning, (Name).” He greets, eyes lingering on her figure.

She crossed the suite, heels clicking against marble with the same pace she did everything else, setting the folder on the dining table before unclasping the leather strap of her watch to adjust the time by a minute. He’s watched her do it enough times to know she always synchronized it with the hotel’s clock. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d noticed in the first place, only that somewhere along the way he’d begun collecting tiny observations about her the way other people collected photographs.

She slipped her glasses from her handbag and settled them onto the bridge of her nose. They only ever appeared when paperwork was involved: contracts, schedules, expense reports. The rest of the day they remained tucked away as though reading was the only occasion that justified wearing them. He wondered if she didn’t care for wearing them the same way he would later in his life. It was another detail he’d silently committed to memory, alongside dozens of others she likely had no idea he’d noticed. The way she tied her hair tighter on days she anticipated difficult meetings. The faint crease that appeared between her brows whenever someone was running late. The cup of coffee she’d make every morning only to forget about until it had gone cold, drinking it anyway because she refused to waste it. The careful way she aligned every stack of papers with two precise taps against the edge of the table before handing them over.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he knew an embarrassing amount about a woman who had never voluntarily told him a single thing about herself.

“...Following rehearsal, CBS requested an additional fifteen minutes for promotional photographs. I’ve declined on your behalf and rescheduled them for Thursday. Quincy would like to see you after lunch regarding vocal arrangements. Security has adjusted tomorrow’s departure by twenty minutes due to expected crowds.”

Michael heard every word and he processed almost none of them. Instead, he watched her straighten the paperwork with those familiar taps before sliding the folder toward him.

“..The revised contracts are on top. I’ve highlighted the sections requiring signatures.”

He nodded as she closed her planner with a soft snap before removing her glasses and folding them neatly back into their case.

“Your car will be downstairs in twelve minutes, Mister Jackson.” Gathering the remaining paperwork against her chest, she turned toward the door.

He watched her leave. Or rather, he intended to.

“...! Have breakfast with me.” The words left his mouth before he’d fully decided to say them.

(Name) paused and looked back over her shoulder. There wasn’t surprise on her face, nor discomfort. Only the same attentive professionalism she brought to every conversation.

“I’m sorry?”

“Breakfast,” He repeated, suddenly aware of how strange the request sounded now that it existed outside his head. “You’ve.. got a few minutes, haven’t you?”

He wasn’t asking her on a date. At least, that wasn’t how he’d intended it.

Michael simply wanted twenty uninterrupted minutes where she wasn’t reading through tomorrow’s schedule or reminding him about contracts that needed signing. Twenty minutes where she wasn’t acting as his assistant and he wasn’t being managed as her employer. He wanted to know what she talked about when there wasn’t a planner in her hands. What made her laugh. Whether she preferred tea or coffee when she actually had the time to enjoy either.

(Name) didn’t hesitate. “I’ve already eaten.”

The answer was so immediate, so natural, that he couldn’t even be disappointed by the words themselves. Whether she’d actually eaten that morning was almost beside the point. He knew instinctively that if she hadn’t eaten, the answer still would’ve been the same. Breakfast with her employer existed outside the boundaries she’d drawn for herself, and she protected those boundaries with the same consistency she protected everything else in her life.

“I hope you enjoy yours, Mister Jackson.” She offered him the same polite smile she always did before quietly excusing herself from the suite.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the room suddenly, almost conspicuously, silent.

Michael stared at the untouched breakfast waiting on the dining table before letting out a quiet laugh under his breath. It wasn’t disappointment that settled over him so much as embarrassment. He’d allowed himself to believe that perhaps she might make an exception because he was.. him.

Right.

Of course not.

To her, he wasn’t Michael.

He was Mister Jackson.

And Mister Jackson had a car waiting downstairs in twelve minutes..

(Name) pulled the suite door shut behind her with the same care she seemed to apply to everything else, the soft click swallowed almost immediately by the muffled sounds of the hotel corridor. The folder remained tucked securely against her chest as she glanced down at her watch, mentally recalculating the morning.

Twelve minutes until departure. Three before she needed to confirm the motorcade was in position. Five to stop by security. Two to remind wardrobe about the revised fitting after rehearsal.

Her mind resumed its familiar rhythm almost effortlessly. And yet.. her pace slowed, if only slightly.

“Have breakfast with me.”

The request replayed itself with surprising persistence. It hadn’t sounded flirtatious. Not overtly, she thinks. Really, he’d seemed hesitant.

That, more than anything else, was unusual.

Michael was many things, but uncertain wasn’t one of them. Shy, certainly. Soft-spoken. Gentle to a fault. Yet when he wanted something professionally, he simply asked for it. There had been something oddly tentative in the way he’d said it, as though he’d surprised himself as much as he’d surprised her.

She frowned imperceptibly.

Sharing breakfast with him wouldn’t have been inappropriate in itself. They’d eaten at the same tables countless times during tour, award shows, and production meetings. Entire teams did. But that wasn't what he’d asked, was it?

Michael asked her.

Just the two of them.

The distinction mattered. She hadn’t believed he’d intended anything improper, she genuinely didn’t. Michael Jackson had never once given her reason to question his character, and she trusted him far too much to leap to conclusions over a single invitation.

But personal invitations had a way of quietly eroding professional boundaries.

Not all at once.

An exception here.

Another there.

Lunch became conversation. Conversation became familiarity. Familiarity became assumptions neither person had intended to make. (Name) seen it happen in other workplaces often enough to recognize the first loose thread before anyone else noticed the seam unraveling.

It was better not to tug at it. Besides, she’s already established her boundaries nearly a year ago.

He was Mister Jackson. She was his assistant.

The relationship functioned as well as it did because neither of them expected it to be anything else. Still.. as she stepped into the elevator, she caught herself wondering what had prompted the question in the first place.

Had he simply wanted company?

Had something happened she hadn’t noticed?

Had he skipped dinner the night before and assumed she had as well?

(Name) replayed the conversation in her head, searching for some practical explanation she’d overlooked.

There always was one. But by the time the elevator reached the lobby, she decided there probably wasn’t anything more to think about.

He’d asked.

She’d declined.

The morning continued.

And somewhere upstairs entirely unbeknownst to her, Michael was sitting alone with an untouched breakfast, while she was still trying to determine what logistical reason could possibly have inspired such an uncharacteristically personal question. Neither of them realized they had walked away from the same conversation thinking about it for entirely different reasons.