milli

You weren’t entirely sure how it all happened.

The past twenty-four hours had been a blur. One big beautiful, exhausting blur. After nearly a year of counting down the days turned into counting down the hours, you somehow found yourself front row in a stadium full of people. Feet planted firmly. Hands gripping at the metal barricade infront of you. Eyes raking along the plethora of security guards and miscellaneous musical equipment. Gnawing nervously at the inside of your cheek. Your friends stood closeby, all talking cheerfully, excitement evident on their faces. You, however, were a nervous wreck. Watching the stage hands and roadies scatter to apply the finishing technical touches before he came out. Your heart pounded almost violently at the thought of him standing infront of you in mere moments.

Swallowing hard, you tried to ground yourself. Fingers tapping on the barricade. Stomach churning.

And suddenly, at 8:23pm, the lights dropped. Your pulse hammered, screams erupting around you. Surely you wouldn’t be able to hear a thing after the show. Darkness surrounded you and the crowd pushed forward, pressing you against the barricade. You’d prepared yourself for the chaos, but you were positive your knees would be bruised from the way they slammed harshly against the metal.

The second he stepped onto the stage, time seemingly stopped. Your eyes locking onto his shadow through the darkness as he approached center stage. And when the music started, the crowd absolutely erupted.

Michael Jackson. Right before your very eyes.

You watched him dance around, your eyes full of pure devotion as you witnessed him pour his heart and soul into every single song. Owning the stage like he always did. His presence was electrifying. Dancing and singing along, your cheeks ached from the smile you couldn’t seem to rid yourself of— not that you wanted to anyway.

Pure adrenaline coursed through you as the next song started and you beamed happily— face only changing when a man quickly approached you from infront of the barricade. In a matter of seconds he managed to hurriedly wrap his arms around you, hauling you over it. You were sure you heard your friends shriek loudly, alongside a couple of other fans around you when they realized what was happening. When your feet met the ground again, your eyes were wide, pulse hammering. The security guard hollered something along the lines of “Stage, let’s go.” as he dragged you along towards a small set of stairs. You most certainly looked like you’d seen a ghost, feeling as though you were floating as you climbed the stairs to the stage. The security guard let you go and backed away, leaving you standing there. Absolutely frozen and only a few feet away from Michael. Thousands of eyes watching.

You didn’t run to him like many others had, nearly knocking him down and screaming in his ear. He watched you stand there nervously, reaching a hand out without hesitation as he started to walk to you. And that’s when it all hit you. Your feet started to carry you, brain not fully registering what exactly was happening. The crowd disappeared around you for a moment, ears ringing loudly as your eyes met his. He smiled at you, hand grabbing yours as he immediately pulled you into him. You absolutely melted, face nuzzling into his neck as he cradled the back of your head, fingers lacing through your hair. That’s when you realized hot tears had started to stream down your face. Arms wrapped tightly around him as he started to sway you around. He sang into the microphone as he clinged to you, the sound of his voice so close to your ear sending an electric current through you.

When he felt you crying against him, he pulled your head back, eyes boring into your own as he looked at you with pure admiration, singing to you now. His hand moving to the side of your face, thumb swiping at your cheek. You were frozen in time, watching his eyes light up when you started to sing the song with him. He started the raise the mic to you, but you quickly moved your face to his neck again, shy. He giggled a little, moving the mic away from his face as he reached a break in the song. “Thank you for everything” You said loudly, hoping he could hear you over all the chaos, lips near his ear. He leaned into you, head resting against yours. “I love you, You are so loved” You said next. At the very least, you wanted your exchange with him to be different. You wanted him to know how thankful you were. Knowing you couldn’t sit down with him and tell him how his music had gotten you through some of the darkest parts of your life or how deeply the lyrics touched you, you hoped the few words you’d said to him would convey atleast the slightest bit of gratitude to him.

He smiled against you, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. The feeling of him against you sent you spiraling into oblivion, your chest nearly cracking open when he spoke into your ear. “I love you more.” He murmured, holding you tight. “Thank you.”

You rested your head on his chest for a moment as he started singing again. You knew time was fleeting, but you did your best to soak the moment in. Trying painfully hard to memorize the feeling of him holding you. The way he smelled. The way his curls tickled your face.

And when a security guard started to walk up to pull you off and send you on your merry way, Michael shook his head, continuing to sing as he waved them off. The kindness of your words still stung deep in his chest. He knew his fans loved him, sure. But his interaction with you felt different. Deeper. The way you’d thanked him and reminded him how loved he was nearly made his eyes sting with tears. Touring was a lot. He was drained and dead tired. But this is what made it worth it. The fans. The love that poured out of them.

The feeling of you against him, tight in his embrace, was grounding. You gave off a certain energy. One that made him feel comfortable. Thankful. Seen. And because of that, he didn’t want to let you go. Security be damned.

So, he finished the rest of the song with you in his arms. Watched your eyes speak for you as you looked at him in awe, still clinging to him. As the song came to a close, the crowd became impossibly louder when Michael pulled you into a final bone-crushing hug. You closed your eyes, crying into his neck freely now, absolutely in shock. “You touch so many people, you have no idea.” You decide to pour your heart out to him, because you know you’ll likely never get the opportunity to speak to him again. “Your music helps so many people. You help so many people. Thank you for everything you do. You’re a wonderful human being.” You say, words straight from the heart.

Unknowingly, your revelation strikes something deep inside the man. A man who’s been struggling with far too much lately. Relationships, tabloids, loneliness, lack of sleep. Suddenly, noticing the way he’s trembling against you, you realize— Michael Jackson is crying in your arms. And for just a second, you feel horrible. Like you’ve done something wrong. Until he speaks to you again. “Thank you.” He says against your hair, voice shaking. “You have no idea how much hearing that means to me.”

Your heart swells as you realize that you’ve truly made him feel something. A total stranger. Just a random fan of his.

The cameraman is close by, continuing to film the special moment between the two of you as the crowd goes insane. The music has stopped now, and before you know it the security guard is back, gently grabbing your upper arm. Michael releases you, but keeps your hand in his for a second, offering you a sweet smile. His eyes still glistening. And before the guard starts to lead you away, Michael is quick to speak up. “Keep her.” He says, motioning to side stage. The guard leans in closer, seemingly in an attempt to hear him better, and after a moment he quickly obeys whatever Michael told him, moving as if he’s on a mission.

You blink away tears as the guard tugs you along, pulling you backstage. Truthfully, you want to fall to your knees. Gasp for air. Clutch your chest. Sob uncontrollably. And yet, the crippling realization that for some reason Michael wanted the security guard to usher you backstage instead of back to your friends has brought something inside of you back to life.

“What’s happening?” You ask the guard softly, sniffling.

“Mr. Jackson wants to speak with you after the show.”

Now when you thought about it, the signs had been everywhere. You just hadn't recognized them.

The first clue should have been the jewelry store. A month earlier, Michael convinced you to accompany him on what he described as a "quick errand".

Any time Michael went shopping, it was never quick. That should've been your second clue.

He claimed that he needed to get one of his watches sized.

But, 45 minutes later, you found yourself sitting across from a jeweler while an older woman measured your ring finger.

You'd stared at her. Then stared at Michael who had suddenly become fascinated by a display case of necklaces. He really was a terrible actor. And an even worse liar.

"Michael, what are we doing?" you'd asked. Michael hadn't looked up.

The man was studying a diamond bracelet like it contained state secrets.

"Just looking."

"Michael."

"Mm?"

The jeweler smiled.

Michael refused to make eye contact.

He had a terrible poker face, and his emotions were often written all over his expression.

You noticed, immediately. You always did.

Nothing further came of it, at least not then.

Three weeks later came the third clue. And somehow it was stranger.

Looking back, the signs had been everywhere. The baby store should have tipped you off.

You just hadn't recognized then.

The two of you had spent the afternoon wandering through Los Angeles.

A rare luxury these days.

Between recording schedules, appearances, interviews, rehearsals, and whatever else came with being two people trying to maintain a relationship while Michael Jackson belonged to half the planet, uninterrupted time together had become surprisingly difficult to come by.

Which was exactly why Michael had spent most of the afternoon attached to you. Not figuratively, literally.

At one point he'd hooked a finger through one of your belt loops and followed you through an entire department store like an affectionate shadow.

When you'd asked what he was doing, he'd simply shrugged.

"Following you."

As if that explained everything.

Now, several hours later, you found yourself standing inside a baby store. Apparently that was where the day had taken you.

Michael often wandered into stores that fascinated him, so you didn't think much of it.

His hand rested against the small of your back as the two of you wandered between aisles.

The touch wasn't possessive. Just familiar and comforting.

Michael always seemed to know where you were. If you stood beside him, eventually he'd touch your arm or your hand. Sometimes your shoulder. Something.

Years ago you'd asked if he realized how often he did it.

His answer had been immediate.

"No."

A complete lie. The man knew exactly what he was doing.

The realization made you smile to yourself as he guided you around another corner. Then suddenly he stopped, completely. You nearly walked into him.

"What—"

Michael was already staring at a row of cribs.

You watched the exact moment curiosity overtook him. His eyes narrowed slightly and his head tilted. And just like that, you lost him.

"Oh no."

You knew this was going to add a minimum of 20-30 minutes to your time in this store.

Michael didn't hear you though, he was already approaching.

You sighed and followed.

Because experience had taught you that once Michael became interested in something, there was no stopping him. Only waiting.

By the time the store associate approached, Michael had somehow progressed from casually observing cribs to performing what appeared to be a full safety inspection.

The poor woman had no idea what she'd walked into.

"What happens if the baby chews on this?"

She peered at Michael in confusion.

"The paint?"

Michael nodded.

The woman assured him it was non-toxic. Michael accepted this information. For approximately 10 seconds.

"What if they climb?"

The associate again looked confused.

"Climb?"

"Out. The baby."

You bit the inside of your cheek hard.

Michael gently pulled you by your hand in front of him without looking, almost as if to say "come be apart of this".

He wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his chin on top of your head. His thumb gently grazed over your belly, thinking about what it would feel like to shop for their first crib of many.

The gesture was so automatic you barely noticed it.

Michael nodded thoughtfully as the woman spoke to the two of you.

Then he crouched beside the crib. Inspecting the hardware, testing the rails. He even started reading safety labels.

The associate watched with growing amusement.

"You seem very interested."

Michael looked up, completely serious.

"Oh I am, very."

The woman smiled.

"How many children do you have?"

The question caught both of you off guard. For a moment Michael simply blinked. Then he looked at you.

"We don't have any, yet."

The associate looked surprised.

"Oh."

A pause.

Then she said,

"You two seem like parents."

The response arrived before either of you could stop it.

"What?"

You both asked simultaneously.

The associate laughed.

Michael looked genuinely puzzled. Meanwhile, your face felt warm.

The woman gestured vaguely between the two of you.

"I don't know."

She smiled.

"The way you interact. I would have thought you were expecting or something."

Michael looked down at you, then back at her.

And to your horror, he didn't seem bothered by the comparison at all. If anything, he appeared oddly pleased. You could tell from the amused look on his face.

The realization made you narrow your eyes at him immediately.

Michael noticed.

A smile threatened the corner of his mouth. He pressed his lips together and shifted them to one side as he looked away.

Dangerous. Very dangerous.

Twenty minutes later, Michael had somehow learned more about crib safety than most first-time parents. And you were beginning to suspect something was up.

That suspicion only grew stronger later that night.

The movie you had been watching together had ended almost an hour ago. Neither of you had bothered turning on another one.

The bedroom remained quiet except for the distant sound of crickets chirping outside.

Michael lay stretched across the mattress beside you and you were reading.

He had one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting across your shoulders as you rested your head on his chest.

He absentmindedly traced circles through the fabric of your shirt with his fingers. It was a habit he'd developed years ago. You'd long since stopped noticing it, until it stopped. Then you noticed immediately.

For several moments neither of you spoke. You just laid in comfortable silence.

The room glowed softly beneath the bedside lamp.

Michael stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. Dangerously thoughtful.

It was a look that you recognized instantly. Usually, it meant he was about to say something important. Or strange. Sometimes both.

"I want a big family."

He said finally.

And there it was.

You smiled without looking up from your book.

"Mhm."

You encouraged him to continue, signaling that you were listening.

"I'm serious."

"I know."

For a moment it was silent.

Then he said:

"Like... a really big family."

That made you laugh. Finally you looked over.

"And what does that mean?"

Michael thought about it. He pondered deeply for a moment.

"Five."

His answer came pointedly, it was certain.

You stared.

"Five what?"

"Maybe six. Children of course."

"Michael."

"What?"

The offense in his voice was immediate. As though six children were the most reasonable thing in the world.

You laughed and he smiled sheepishly.

Then the teasing disappeared. It was replaced by something more reflective.

For a moment his gaze drifted toward the ceiling again. Lost somewhere else. Somewhere years away.

"You know..."

His voice grew quieter.

"When I was little..."

He paused.

"I always had somebody."

The words made you look up. Michael's expression had changed. The playful energy was gone.

Now he looked genuinely nostalgic.

"If I got scared..."

He smiled faintly.

"I had somebody."

A pause.

"If I got in trouble."

The smile widened, like he was remembering being mischievous with his brothers.

"Definitely had somebody."

You laughed softly.

Michael smiled too.

"If I was happy."

Another pause.

"I had somebody then too."

His gaze drifted toward the window.

Toward memories only he could see.

"My brothers... my sisters. There was always somebody around."

The room grew quieter. Suddenly you got the feeling that this wasn't about children. Not really. It was about family. Connection, belonging.

Michael looked back at you. His expression was open. Honest.

The kind of expression that appeared when he stopped guarding his thoughts.

"I want my kids to have that."

The confession settled gently between you.

"I want them to have each other."

His voice softened.

"I want them to know they're never alone."

The pieces suddenly clicked into place for you. Beneath all the fame and success, beneath the moniker Michael Jackson.

There was still a little boy who loved his family and missed them. They were all so busy these days, life had taken them in different directions though they were still close.

But Michael remembered what it felt like to grow up surrounded by people who belonged to him. People who knew him. People who stayed.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Then Michael looked over.

His lips twitched with amusement, as though he'd just thought of something dangerous.

"I think you'd be a good mother."

The words caught you completely off guard.

And judging by the way his breath hitched as he waited for you to process his words, they had surprised him too.

Before you could respond, Michael shifted you closer. He gently grabbed your thigh, draping your leg across his waist. He nuzzled his face into the top of your head like he suddenly needed to be touching you. Like he needed reassurance.

You happily settled against him before teasing,

"You're awfully clingy tonight."

"I'm not clingy. Just wanna feel you."

The response came immediately and honestly.

You chuckled, unable to hide your amusement. Michael only tightened his arm around you. Which proved your point entirely.

"You brought me into a jewelry store."

Silence.

"You interrogated a woman about cribs."

More silence.

"Now you're talking about six children."

Michael stared at the ceiling, he was refusing to take the bait.

A slow smile spread across your face.

"Oh my God."

He closed his eyes, immediately. And just like that, you knew. He was up to something

The realization hit you like a freight train.

"Michael."

No response.

"Michael Joseph Jackson."

His eyes remained closed.

"Hm?" He hummed, still stroking your leg.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

And for the first time all day, you realized exactly why that store associate thought you looked like parents.

Michael wasn't imagining a future anymore, he was planning one.

The realization hit you so hard that you sat upright.

Michael cracked one eye open. Then the other. His expression cautious.

Like a man who had just heard something dangerous rustling in the bushes.

"What?"

You stared. Michael stared back.

Slowly, he pushed himself up onto one elbow.

"What is it?"

You pointed at him.

"You've been acting weird."

His eyebrows shot upward.

"Weird?"

"Yes."

"No I haven't."

The denial came entirely too fast, Michael couldn't even convince himself the statement was true. His voice had that upward inflection on the end, like when someone is caught in a lie.

You laughed and Michael looked offended immediately.

"I haven't."

"You took me to a jewelry store."

Silence. Michael looked away. Danger sign number one.

"You had my ring size measured, even though you pretended we were there for your watch."

More silence. Danger sign number two.

"You spent forty-five minutes interrogating a woman about crib safety."

Michael rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Danger sign number three.

The realization made your eyes widen.

"Oh my God."

"Michael."

His head fell back dramatically against the headboard.

A deep groan escaped him. The kind of groan that said he'd been hoping you wouldn't figure it out yet.

But you weren't stupid. The room fell quiet.

Neither of you spoke for several moments.

Michael gazed toward the ceiling.

You continued to stare at him, refusing to let up. Finally, he sighed.

Long. Slow. Resigned.

"I've been thinking."

He started hesitantly.

You couldn't help but giggle at his bashfulness.

"Clearly."

Michael pointed at you.

"Hey, I'm serious."

"I know."

The smile on your face softened.

Because despite the teasing, you knew this mattered. You knew Michael.

And when Michael started thinking about something, really thinking about it, it consumed him.

The same way songs did. His choreography. The way performances did.

He didn't think or move halfway, he'd always dive headfirst.

Michael's gaze drifted toward the lamp on the nightstand thoughtfully.

"I'll be thirty-five in a few weeks."

You blinked slowly, confused by his statement. Mostly because Michael almost never talked about his age.

Just a few weeks ago, you watched it in real time.

An interviewer said to Michael "We're getting close to your 35th birthday, how is the way you feel about music-"

Michael had quickly interrupted, not allowing the man to finish his sentence.

"I did not circle that question"

Behind the scenes, you nearly doubled over from laughing.

Michael had bit back a smile, ignoring you and smiling politely at the interviewer.

He was getting older, and it was not something he wanted to openly discuss. He would always say he wanted to be young forever.

In the present, he continued.

"Everybody always talks about the music."

A pause.

"The tours."

Another.

"The records."

His fingers absentmindedly found yours, intertwining your fingers with his.

Like he needed something to anchor himself while he spoke. Or maybe to give himself the confidence to say what he said next.

"But lately..."

His thumb brushed across your knuckles.

"I've been thinking about what comes after."

The room couldn't have been quieter. You squeezed his hand, encouragingly.

Michael smiled softly, not looking at you. Still somewhere else mentally.

Somewhere years away. Nostalgia had captured him.

"I know what I want."

The certainty in his voice caught your attention quickly.

Michael finally looked straight at you. And suddenly he looked shy. Genuinely shy.

Which was ridiculous.

The man could perform in front of seventy thousand people. Yet somehow this conversation made him nervous.

"I want a wife. Somebody just for me."

The words came quietly and earnestly.

No theatrics. No charm, no place to hide. Just honesty.

Michael swallowed.

Then continued.

"I want children."

A pause.

"A home."

Another.

"I want Christmases."

You smiled despite yourself. Michael smiled too. The smile growing as he spoke.

"I want birthdays."

Another pause.

"Those are things I didn't have when I was little."

He trailed off sadly.

"I wanna be somebody's dad."

Something warm settled in your chest. Because you knew he meant it.

Every word. You could hear it. See it. Feel it.

Michael looked down at your joined hands. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"And..."

His voice softened.

"I want it to be with you."

The room went still and your heart skipped.

You forgot how to use words in the moment, flattered but unsure of how to respond.

Michael immediately became interested in the blanket.

He was embarrassed.

He bit down on his bottom lip like he wasn't sure what to say next. And he wasn't. So he waited.

Which somehow made the confession even sweeter.

You stared at him, the realization settling slowly.

He wasn't hinting anymore or testing the waters. It became clear to you that he wasn't imagining possibilities.

Michael Jackson was sitting in front of you and very plainly telling you that he wanted to marry you.

The thought made your stomach flip.

"Michael."

He looked up, immediately. He was hopeful, and terrified. Vulnerable in a way you really hadn't seen him before.

The expression made your chest ache.

Before you could stop yourself, your hand found his cheek.

Michael melted into your touch instantly, leaning into your palm. The way he always did.

Like affection was sunlight and he'd spent too long in the shade.

"You know I'd say yes, right?"

The question escaped quietly.

Michael froze completely.

Then his entire face changed.

For one brief moment he looked younger. Almost boyish.

"Yeah?"

The word came out embarrassingly fast.

You laughed. Michael laughed too. Suddenly he felt relieved.

The tension left his shoulders. He felt silly in the moment for thinking you'd reject him.

"Yeah." You confirmed.

His smile widened slowly and uncontrollably.

The kind of smile that started in his eyes.

You loved that smile.

Michael looked down at his fingers that had been fumbling with the trim of the blanket..

He looked back up at you bashfully then down again.

Trying and failing to hide how happy he was.

And that was when he ruined everything. Completely by accident.

"Well..."

He smiled.

Still looking pleased with himself.

"I mean, Debbie offered too."

You nearly twisted your neck with how fast you looked at him.

"Debbie who?" you asked, crooking your neck.

The tension that filled the room could have been sliced with a knife.

It was instant and absolute.

Michael felt the change in temperature immediately. The same way animals sensed incoming storms.

Slowly... Very slowly...

He looked over. You were staring at him expressionlessly, daring him to answer.

Honestly, his remark had caught you off guard and you weren't sure what else to say.

Michael swallowed. There it is. The warning sign.

"Rowe."

You nodded once, never breaking eye contact. Which was both calm and dangerous Michael had come to learn.

"Debbie." you said to yourself bitterly, like she was suddenly an arch nemesis.

The room became very quiet. Michael suddenly wished he'd phrased that differently. Not because he'd said anything wrong. Well, maybe he had.

But because he was beginning to understand how it sounded.

"You mean to tell me..." You sat upright slowly.

"...that we've spent all day discussing marriage."

Michael closed his eyes, here we go.

"...children."

A pause.

"...future plans."

"...and your nurse apparently submitted an application?"

Michael buried his face in his hands immediately. He now understood how his statement sounded when it came out. He had never been very good at explaining himself.

You crossed your arms. You were offended. Deeply so. Sincerely offended.

"Michael, stop playing with me."

A laugh escaped him. It was tiny and accidental. He tried to hide it.

And failed spectacularly.

"Don't laugh."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

His shoulders were shaking as he bit back a smile.

You pointed at him.

"You're laughing."

"I'm trying not to."

That somehow made it worse.

"Debbie?"

Michael finally looked up.

Still smiling and entirely all too amused. The sight only irritated you further.

"If anybody's having your babies, it gonna be me. Period."

You pointed toward yourself, crossing your arms with finality.

The declaration filled the room. It was firm and confident.

And oh, so sexy to Michael.

You had decided that the matter was entirely non-negotiable.

For a moment Michael simply stared. He was enamored with how quickly you became possessive. He felt guilty for enjoying the subtle rage you were actively trying to smother.

Because beneath all of it, he'd heard the thing he'd secretly wanted to hear.

You were picturing a future too.

The realization made something warm settle in his chest.

He reached over to you, settling his palm against your hip and squeezing gently.

"Yes ma'am. I'm all yours, if you'll have me.""

He smirked at you, holding your gaze in a way that made your stomach flutter.

You narrowed your eyes.

"Oh?"

Michael nodded, a grin spreading across his face.

It was slow and dangerous.

The same smile that made women pass out at his shows night after night.

"I guess you're gonna be a mommy." He teased, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours, kissing you repeatedly

You jokingly pushed him away, knowing he'd gotten his way.

Michael dissolved into laughter. The loud kind that comes out when you're genuinely tickled.

A second later he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into his arms.

He ignored your protests entirely.

"Michael."

"Just let it happen."

He sighed playfully as he squeezed you to his chest.

"Michael."

"Nope."

You tried to stay annoyed. Really. You did.

That was until Michael's hand drifted up your thigh mischievously.

Which made remaining angry significantly more difficult.

"I love you."

The words felt automatic. Like breathing, like truth.

Your annoyance lasted approximately three more seconds. Then you sighed. Defeated.

Michael smiled against your shoulder victoriously.

He was entirely too pleased with himself.

He trailed his fingers down your back, toying with the hem of your panties.

Lacy, oh Lacy, skin like puff pastry

Aren’t you the sweetest thing on this side of hell?

Dinner time at Hayvenhurst was chaotic. Everytime. Besides the plethora of Jackson children, Katherine welcomed others frequently. Friends of the children. Significant others. The occasional business partner. It was the gathering spot for many. Always full of laughter and joy. And tonight, like many others, you sat around the large dining table basking in said joy. Right next to Janet, your longtime friend.

You were mid-conversation, bickering with Jackie about something and giggling, when— in walks Michael. You can’t help but straighten up a little. The crush (which you considered to be fairly miniscule, or atleast you told yourself that) you had on him was very obvious to others— everyone but him apparently. It had only grown over the years. Spending time with Janet had eventually turned into watching movies with Michael. Reading fan mail with Michael. Listening to records with Michael. Being in the studio with Michael. You got so comfortable with him, sometimes even sleeping curled up next to him in his room after staying up til’ ungodly hours of the night talking.

But then, something changed. Seemingly out of the blue.

In came Brooke. Literally and figuratively.

You gnawed at the inside of your cheek as you watched her follow Michael into the dining room. Recently, she’d become a staple in the Jackson household. The actress, who was a few years your junior, was breathtaking. Perfect teeth. Gorgeous smile. Long legs. Your eyes flickered down to your lap as you tried hard to calm the feeling growing deep in your gut. Pure, burning jealousy.

Within the last couple of months, Michael had spent less time with you and more time talking to Brooke on the phone. Prancing around red carpets with Brooke. Hanging out with Brooke. Talking about Brooke.

Brooke. Brooke. Brooke.

It was devastating.

Like perfume that you wear, I linger all the time

Watchin’, hidden in plain sight

“What are you thinkin’ about over there? You’re gonna burn a hole thru the ceiling.”

Michael’s voice pulled you from your trance. You were sprawled out on his bed on your back while he sat on the floor, flipping through a random magazine. The two of you had been listening to music, but you’d stopped humming along a while ago. He couldn’t help but notice.

You huffed, turning onto your stomach to face him, resting your chin on your hands, elbows digging into the plush mattress below you.

You shrug, eyeing him. Face emotionless.

Michael wasn’t stupid. He’d picked up on the way your friendship had started to wither. You seemed distant. Painfully so. But, he figured maybe it was because he was around less and less. Spending more time at the studio. Attending meetings. Planning a tour. Or maybe you had a secret boyfriend you weren’t telling him about. He had no clue.

So, he had been ecstatic that you’d agreed to hang out with him tonight. Tucked in the dim light of his bedroom. Enjoying each others company. Though, you seemed extra reserved tonight. Not your typical bubbly self. Taunting and teasing. Spitting jokes to him. Ranting about girl stuff. He knew you well enough to know something was wrong. But he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

Before you could even begin to think about answering his question, the phone rang.

Michael was quick to hop up, answering the phone in his typical sweet tone. He wrapped the cord around one of his fingers, fidgeting with it as an obvious smile spread across his face. It was clearly a woman’s voice on the other end. Brooke undoubtedly. And, he began chatting back. Basically forgetting your mere existence, leaving you laying on his bed aimlessly. Your face flushed, a sudden urge to cry beginning to claw at your insides. Clenching your jaw, you move fast. Wanting nothing more than to get out of his room. But he saw your movement as you trying to give him privacy. Nothing more.

Michael eyed you, watching you bend down to gather a few of your belongings before you made your escape to Janet’s room. He waved a hand at you, keeping the phone to his ear, mouthing a ‘no no no!’ but made no further attempt to stop you.

Your eyes burned as you stepped out of the room, leaning against the door as it shut. Chest heaving as you tried hard not to break down into a sob right then and there.

Smart, sexy Lacy, I’m losing it lately

I feel your compliments like bullets on skin

Dazzling starlet, Bardot reincarnate

Well aren’t you the greatest thing to ever exist?

It wasn’t your typical Saturday night. No, this was different. The sudden barrage of camera flashes and yelling. The red carpet beneath your feet. You were attending the Grammy’s and that alone had you reeling. Arm-in-arm with Janet, you navigated past reporters and celebrities. It was a no brainer for Janet to bring you along tonight. The two of you did everything together. Though, Janet was admittedly a little nervous.

She knew Michael was coming with Brooke. More importantly, she knew how much you’d been struggling with that whole situation lately. She was your bestfriend after all. The one you’d thought would’ve been horrified when you’d admitted your feelings for her brother. Instead, she was the one who held you when you cried a few times recently when it all got too much. Your overwhelming feelings pouring from you as you sobbed to her.

Janet kept you close, watching your eyes sparkle at your surroundings.

And then, she watched them fill with raw emotion when Michael began to walk over. Hand clasped tight in Brooke’s. You swallowed hard, putting on your best fake smile. Something you’d mastered recently. Michael offered you and Janet both a quick hug, then your eyes met Brooke’s.

“You look amazing!” She grinned, her words genuine, yet somewhat of a metaphorical punch to the gut. In her defense, she had no clue about your feelings for her date.

“Thank you.” You smiled a little. “So do you.” Your reply was also genuine. Despite the position you were in, you’d never pray on anyone’s downfall. Especially someone Michael clearly admired. It wouldn’t do you any good.

So, seconds later after Michael had mumbled a few things to Janet, him and his date sauntered off. Janet immediately touched your arm, offering you a look of pure sympathy.

“I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I wish things were different.”

Ooh, I care, I care, I care

Like ribbons in your hair

My stomach’s all in knots

You got the one thing that I want

This was hell. You were sure of it.

You sat silently, lounged on a chair near the pool at Hayvenhurst. Sun beaming down, music playing loud. The brothers all splashing around, talking loudly and tossing a ball at one another.

Then there was Michael and Brooke who were giggling like children, chasing each other around the shallow end. Michael’s arms wrapping around her waist when he caught up to her, lifting her playfully.

You averted your eyes, tilting your head up towards the sun. If you didn’t know any better you’d settle for staring at the bright orange fireball above you, permanently burning your retinas. That might be less painful than this.

Over the last couple of weeks, you’d picked up the pieces of your heart alone. Or tried to atleast. A clueless Michael too busy with an all too familar Brunette. Despite your pain, you refused to stay away from Janet. She had been your rock through all of this, and you couldn’t imagine not hanging out with her. Even if it meant seeing Michael daily. And apparently Brooke.

Even though you’d accepted the fact that you’d never be with him in the way you’d dreamed about, that surely didn’t mean it didn’t sting to hear him shamelessly flirt with her or laugh at her jokes. Her name alone would always be a knife to the heart.

You shuffled uncomfortably in the lounger, reaching for your drink. It was only then that you spotted Michael whisper something in Brooke’s ear before she placed a kiss to his cheek. You sucked in a breath, clumsily dropping the glass onto the concrete beneath you— the sound of it shattering making everyone freeze.

Fuck.

Wincing, you moved to start cleaning it up until Katherine quickly ducked in.

“S’ okay baby.” She said, her calming voice floating around you. “Just a glass. It happens.” She knew.

You nod, eyes welling with tears behind your sunglasses. Everyone returned to what they were doing, and you followed Katherine inside as she disposed of the broken glass.

Moving to wash the sticky liquid of your drink off your hands, you stared aimlessly out of the large kitchen window.

“He doesn’t know.” She said suddenly, standing behind you. You shut the water off, not sure if you’d understood her correctly.

“What?” You murmured, turning to her.

“Michael.” She smiled a little, expression sympathetic. “He doesn’t know how you feel.”

You blink, suddenly speechless as you exhale a long breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Janet told me.” She reiterated, reaching out to rub your arm comfortingly.

You drop your gaze to the floor because you don’t want to cry infront of her. And when you start to speak, your voice cracks. Katherine was quick to pull you in, sighing to herself when you began to sob into her chest. “I know, baby.” She soothed, rubbing your back with one hand and cradling your head with the other. “I know—It’s hard. Feelings are hard.”

She moved to grab your face, urging you to look at her. “You need to tell him. You shouldn’t hold things like this inside.”

“No.” You sniffle. “No— I can’t do that to him.”

“I don’t think things are as serious with Brooke as you think they are.” Katherine said, voice hushed.

“I think it’s just a special friendship. Nothing more.”

“I can’t handle rejection from him.” You whimper. “And it would ruin our friendship.”

“Sometimes we have to take chances, honey.” The woman’s motherly wisdom poured from her effortlessly. Somehow she always knew what to say and just how to say it. “We might fall time and time again. But you have to fall to walk. Take a chance. I think you might be surprised.”

I despise my jealous eyes

And how hard they fell for you

It was nearly two weeks later when you found yourself creeping quietly down a long familiar staircase, heading for the front door of Hayvenhurst. Overnight bag in hand. It was a little past six in the morning, the sun just barely up. The wood of the stairs creaking beneath your weight.

Janet was still fast asleep when you’d exited her room. You’d barely slept, mind overly busy per usual. Suddenly, you decided that you wanted the comfort of your own apartment. Your own bed.

But, when you reached for the doorknob, the door began to open without your touch. And then, there was Michael. Standing infront of you with tired eyes. You froze, a little startled.

“What are you doing up?” He smiled a little, face lighting up at your presence. “It’s early.”

“Going home.” You mumbled, attempting to move past him without looking him in the eyes.

That’s when he gently grabbed your wrist. “Hey.”

You huffed, forcing yourself to look at him. Annoyed. “What?”

“Can we please talk? Are you mad at me?” He asked simply, looking a little hurt. “You’ve barely spoken to me for weeks.”

“You’ve been busy, Michael.” You say pointedly. And it’s not false. He has been extremely busy this month.

“But I’ve been around.” He says, eyes searching your own. “And when I am, you avoid me at all costs.”

You sigh, defeated— The anger that had been bubbling in you dying down when you realize the disappointment and confusion written on his features. He looked tired. Worn down.

“Say something.” He speaks up again.

“I don’t know what to say, Michael.” You say, exasperated, stepping past him and starting to walk towards your car.

“I need you to tell me what I’m missing.” He walks behind you, clearly upset.

“Everything!” You turn to him, watching his face change when he notices your eyes are full of tears. “You’re missing everything Michael!”

His brows furrow as he steps closer. “I—”

“I’ve totally lost you.” You cry. “And for the sake of you and Brooke—”

“Wait, this is about Brooke?” He interrupts, and you almost laugh, hot tears streaming down your cheeks now.

“I’m in love with you, Michael!” You almost yell, chest heaving. “I’ve been in love with you. For a long time. And I can’t watch anymore. I can’t watch you and her any longer. I’m happy for you, really. She’s beautiful and kind. But I can’t—” As you continue to ramble, your voice cracks. Words failing. You reach to cover your mouth, choking on a sob.

His expression shifts to shock, mouth falling open as he tries to come up with something of substance to say in response to your admission.

“I’m sorry if this changes things between us— but we’ve already changed so much. I just.. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Brooke and I aren’t together.” Michael speaks up, his voice soft. Cautious almost. “She’s just a really good friend. She’s one of the only people I trust. Besides you.”

“No, she absolutely likes you Michael. It’s so clear to everyone. It’s more than that. Everyone thinks you’re an item.” You start to turn away, reaching for the handle of your car door until Michael begins to grab at your arm to stop you. His touch soft but demanding.

“Listen to me.” He begs, face entirely too close to your own. “Please, baby.” There it was. That silly little pet name he’d let slip a few times before. One that always had you spiraling. You chewed at your lip anxiously.

“I don’t want Brooke.” He breathes. “I can’t picture myself with Brooke like that. Getting married. Having kids. I just don’t see it. We have a wonderful connection but I don’t love her. Not in that way.”

You sigh, sniffling. Not wanting to accept what he’s saying but forcing yourself to listen. You were far too stubborn for your own good.

“I’m sorry if it looked like something else. And I’m sorry I didn’t realize you felt this way earlier.” He says soothingly, eyes begging.

You shake your head, denial taking over.

“I don’t want her.” He breathes again. “I want you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes.” He corrects you quickly. “I do.”

“You don’t mean it.” You sniffle again, lashes wet. And God, you look so beautiful like this to him. It pains him to see you crying because of him, but seeing you this close. The softness of your features. The plushness of your lips. So, so pretty. It made warmth creep through his chest.

He’d admired you for years. Though, as Janet’s bestfriend, you were off limits. Atleast in his eyes. That didn’t mean he didn’t daydream about you though. Frequently. He loved having you around. In his room. On his bed. Thighs touching when you sat next to each other watching a movie with a huge bowl of popcorn on your laps. Fingers brushing when you passed him the remote. You were one of the only constants in his life. One of the only people he was comfortable around. Could fully trust. Really, truly loved. Deeply. Unconditionally. He just didn’t think it would evolve into anything more. That seemed too good to be true.

So, at your admission— he felt idiotic. Mentally cursing himself for not seeing it before. God, he’d wasted so much time.

He couldn’t possibly waste anymore.

And instead of words he knows you won’t listen to, he moves to slide his hands along your jaws, tugging you into him as he presses his lips to your own.

You freeze against him, wanting to fight it. Wanting to push him off and yell at him. But you can’t. After a moment, you kiss him back, melting into him as one last stray tear slides down your cheek and meets the warm plushness of his where your skin meets. When you both pull away, you exhale. Feeling far too many things at once.

“I do.” He says softly. “I do mean it. With everything in me.”

You had done everything right: long nights memorizing lines, endless rehearsals for a part not yet guaranteed, shutting out anything that broke your focus, and starting a rigorous diet. Exhaustion weighs on your bones, hunger grips you, and a sour feeling settles beneath your skin as the casting director, Margaret, looks up from the notes she had been pretending to write, pity on her face.

“I’m sorry, miss y/n, but we’re going to have to look in another direction.” Her tone made your efforts feel futile. A hole tears through your chest, and denial creeps in. It whispers, “She’s just joking. Any minute now, she’ll say you’ve got the part.”

Except, she doesn’t. Margaret folds her lips inward and finds a very interesting spot on the floor. Your brows knit together, and a frustrated sound leaves you. “I– pardon me if I sound aggressive. But why? I don’t mean to be arrogant, but I am quite literally everything you’re looking for. You told me so yourself, three months ago.”

Margaret clears her throat and glances down, trying to avoid angering the aspiring actress any further. “Yes…I did. But unfortunately,” she begins slowly, “you just don’t quite match what we are looking for, um…visually.” Your eyebrows nearly shoot to the back of your head. Was she serious?

“Excuse me? Visua–Visually?!” Margaret flinches, realizing her poor choice of words may be her undoing. “Wait, that’s not how–” You laugh. “I think it is. What’s the problem, Ms. Maggie? Is it my hair? My face, or maybe my teeth? Hm? What’s so wrong visually?”

On days like this, Margaret wishes she had gone into another profession. Three months ago, when she ‘scouted’ you out, she didn’t expect you to take the offer seriously. It was a laid-back comment at a socialite dinner, after a long day of searching for “Mrs. Right,” about how you would be perfect for the role. She didn’t think you would call her assistant two weeks later for an audition, or show your face when the random date came around. Now she realizes her careless comment has boxed her in, and she isn’t eager to admit the part was never meant for you. She just wants to get through this without making a bigger mess of it.

You are a powder keg, and if this director isn’t careful with her next words, she will light the spark. Still, Hollywood is cutthroat, and Margaret can’t spare your feelings. She also can’t afford to let this drag on any longer. “No, it isn’t any of that, y/n.” You wait impatiently for an answer, palms turned up as if to say, “Well, go on then.”

The older woman sighs. A tired look washes over her face, knowing what she’s about to say will surely crush you, but her plate is more than full, and she has other auditions to get through. “It’s your weight, honey. You won’t fit into the costumes required for the role, and unless you can find a way to drop…I’d say twenty more pounds before production starts, which is in three weeks; there’s nothing I can do for you.” She wants the easiest way out of this conversation and wants you gone before it turns into a bigger problem.

The hole in your heart grows. Twenty pounds in three weeks? It took you six weeks to lose ten. Reality hits hard and fast. You’d done your best, and it wasn’t good enough. Anger steps up now. You take a deep breath despite the heat crawling up your neck; one bad outburst with one of the biggest names in the film industry could ruin your image. Margaret looks bored. The tips of your ears feel hot, and your chest rises faster. “Tw-Twenty? Margaret, that’s impossible!”

The older woman’s shoulders rise in indifference. “That’s reality.” A pregnant pause follows as she watches your face morph into despair. “I’m sorry, honey. Really, I am. But you’re just not our girl.” She says it like a final answer, hoping the decision will stick and she can move on.

As you stand there in disbelief, your ears ring, and whatever consolation the older woman is offering falls on deaf ears. You’ve been torn asunder, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. Depression swallows you whole. Bargaining makes quick work of diving in after you. Cradling your body in a tight embrace, she leans into you, whispering, “You can do it. Just work a little harder. When are you ever going to get another chance like this again?”

When you resurface from the depths of your despair, Margaret looks between you and the door, hinting that your time here is over. You don’t want to drag this out any longer than you already have, but you worked so hard, and that little voice in your head was right. When were you going to get another chance like this?

“I can do it!” You blurt out, voice dripping with desperation. “I can drop the weight before production. Just give me until production starts.”

The look Margaret wears conveys nothing but skepticism. “You really think you can drop twenty pounds…in three weeks?” You nod quickly. “Yes, I can. All I’m asking is that you hold the part for me.” Yet again, a tired sigh leaves the older woman’s mouth. She throws her hands up and shakes her head. “Okay. Fine. You get three weeks—” A smile creeps onto your face as hope returns. Before you can thank her, she gives you a pointed look, holding up her hand to stop you. “But if you can’t get it done by then, I’m giving the role to the girl we already have waiting. Do not waste my time, y/n.” Your mouth closes, starting to feel dry as realization dawns on you. They already have someone, and you have to beat out whoever the current ‘Mrs. Perfect’ is.

“I—I won’t. Thank you, Maggie.” Margaret offers you a curt nod and begins packing her things. As she does, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You nod to yourself, spin on your feet, and start toward the door. “Oh, y/n.” You freeze mid-stride and look over your shoulder, hoping she hasn’t suddenly changed her mind. “If you do manage to pull this off, in the future, you should keep in mind that desperation is ugly. Passion is attractive. Do not confuse the two,” she adds, making sure her warning sounds like advice.

Unsure of how to take her comment, you fold your lips inward and nod once before turning to leave. Even though you have undoubtedly backed yourself into a corner, your lips stretch into a small smile on the way down the hall. It can’t be that hard, right? It’s just twenty pounds, and if it doesn’t take that long to gain the weight, it shouldn’t be too hard to lose it. Right?

Yeah, well, your stomach begged to differ. The first day was easier than you thought. Besides a pang in your gut here and there, it wasn’t much trouble. Protein bars and water became your new best friends, and you’d even started working out with your boyfriend. Though he wasn’t complaining, Jaafar couldn’t help but raise a brow. You were going at it harder than him, and when he asked about it, you gave the same response. “I just want to tone up a little bit.” He couldn’t shake the feeling that you weren’t being completely honest, but there wasn’t enough evidence to catch you in a lie…yet.

At the end of week one, your mind had become a true tyrant. The missed meals were starting to get to you, and the number on the scale had only dropped by two. You had fourteen days left, and eighteen pounds holding on to you like glue. You stand in front of the mirror, cursing your body for its imperfections. Instagram shows you endless photos of what you could be; the reflection in the glass shows you everything you aren’t. Model after model, flaunting their effortless beauty, almost in a mockery of your predicament. They don’t look like they eat, they don’t even look like they shit. You want to look like you don’t shit.

So, you take more aggressive measures. At three a.m., during a frantic deep-dive search for a solution to your problem, you read somewhere online that the body can survive for about three weeks without food. Perfect, you only needed two. Diets that can’t possibly be safe also come into play. What even is ‘water fasting’? Doesn’t matter, you’re doing it.

Another seven days pass, and you grow weaker, more irritable than ever before, and incredibly disappointed by the number blinking through the little glass plate. You’d only lost ten more pounds, leaving eight to go. In truth, on day twelve of Mission: Impossible, you were sure more weight than what was necessary had left your body. Why couldn’t you just be perfect? The mirror calls to you again, for the fifth time today, and you answer. It’s cruel, the ritual you’ve begun. Clad in nothing but your underwear, you stand in front of the glass and pick yourself apart.

From head to toe, you itemize every issue you see, and slowly but surely, your psyche begins to crumble. The image no longer reflects the way it should. Instead, it showcases a mess of parts that don’t fit together. Arms that are too flabby, a chest that is too small, a waist that stretches uncomfortably wide, thighs that take up far too much room. No part of you was safe from ridicule. “Babe?” Jaafar called out, worry lacing his tone. “You okay in there? It’s been an hour.” You let out a deep breath and rolled your eyes. “Yes, J. M’fine.” Short and to the point, something you never were before. You refused to tell Jaafar about Margaret's words and how they still haunt your mind, knowing that he’ll only keep you from going through with what you considered to be a solid plan.

Your fury doesn’t stop with the reflection in the glass. No, not at all. In fact, snapping over things that never used to matter, like the position of the couch in the living room, or how the remote was left on the counter instead of the coffee table, has become the new norm. Even the poor dog catches heat. All your fur baby did was jump up to greet you, something you normally love. Unfortunately for Willow, who can’t possibly begin to understand the woes that trouble her owner, the hunger and lack of energy create a volatile mix within your being. “Willow…NO! Get down!” Never has the poor puppy ever heard you take this tone of voice with her. Her ears drop, tail tucks, and a small whimper leaves her mouth before she decides she’s no longer happy to see you. Jaafar can’t help the worry that settles over him. What was happening to his sweet girl? You’d been so far out of character lately that your boyfriend was almost convinced you’d been replaced.

Your boyfriend decides to start watching you more closely. Something isn't right, and he is going to figure it out. On day seventeen, at four in the morning, he pretends to sleep as your body slips out of bed and heads for the bathroom. He doesn’t hear the door click shut. Instead, a frustrated huff graces his ears. Jaafar turns on his side, cracking one eye open. The soft yellow light illuminates the bedroom. He sits up slowly and carefully peels the cover from his legs , not wanting to alert you just yet. His feet touch the hardwood floors of your shared bedroom, offering a muted ‘thud’. Jaafar hears you shuffle a bit and freezes. A moment passes before he is able to move again. The creak of the glass scale placed in the corner of your bathroom is the next thing he hears, and after a few seconds, a defeated whimper. Oh, so that’s what all this has been about. At first, Jaafar thinks that light reassurance would suffice. Reminding you of all the reasons he loves you, and kissing it better, would be enough to ease your mind.

He gently rises out of the bed, planning to make his way into the bathroom and plant featherlight kisses across your body. As he approaches the door, his ears catch something through the crack, whispers that reveal just how bad things have really gotten for you. There you are, trapped in a sad reverie. “Not enough…too fucking fat…too damn ugly.” Jaafar’s heart sank. This is no longer about the number on the scale. You are at war with yourself. He decides right then that enough is enough. A hand comes up to run through his curls. How was he going to pull you from your own mind? He wanted to step in now and stop the barrage of insults you threw at the girl in the mirror, but it would only make things worse. Jaafar has been with you long enough to know how you work. You’ll get defensive and tell him off the moment he questions why you’re being so hard on yourself. He steps away from the bathroom, thinking about how he was going to break your resolve. The sink starts running, letting him know he’s got limited time to return to his post. Jaafar dives back under the covers,

When the day officially begins, Jaafar starts to scheme. He knows that you’ve only been able to get away with this for so long because you’ve been ducking and dodging him. His schedule is rather demanding these days with the filming of his uncle's biopic, which makes it easy for you to slip under his radar. He calls the production team to let them know he’s taking a personal day, then hangs up quickly before anyone can question his sudden absence. Jaafar then puts his plan into motion. First order of business, finding you.

He moves through the house swiftly, staring with the bathroom, your new favorite place. It turns up empty, so he heads down the hall, peaking into the guest room, where you normally work. When the only sign of life he finds in the room is Willow, he moves on to the living room. There, he finds you, perched atop the couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring into the void. An unexplainable discomfort washes over him. He takes a long look at you. Thinner than before, more tired, eyes devoid of a light they’ve always had. Jaafar feels his heart split in two.

He’s never seen you like this before. Jaafar approaches with the caution of a man defusing a bomb. He sinks down into the orange sectional, something you insisted on because it was “Too whimsical not to buy!” And how could he ever deny you? When you don’t acknowledge him, he clears his throat. “Baby?” You blink slowly, eyes shifting toward him. “Hm?”

“You— You doing okay?” Jaafar asks, unsure of whether or not you realize where you even are. He receives a single nod as a response. The silence that settles over the room becomes uncomfortable as the lie hangs in the air between the two of you. He takes in a breath, purses his lips, and lets out a hum. It becomes apparent that he will have to work far harder than he originally thought. “Alright, well, do you want to join me for breakfast? It’s my day off, and I’d like to spend it with you. If you aren’t busy.”

You shake your head and decline with a smile. “No, thank you, honey, I already ate.” Another lie. You aren’t messy, but you do have a tendency to leave things out of place when you’re in a rush to satiate your hunger. Jaafar’s eyes cut to the kitchen, and notice that everything is as it was the night before. The rejection stings, but he knows he can’t call you on it, so he simply nods and heads toward the kitchen. “Okay. Once I finish, we can find something to do then, yeah?” he calls out. You hum in absentmindedly, already back within the confines of your mind. A sheer test of will begins as Jaafar sets to work. Your jaw tingles and your mouth waters as the pleasant aroma of eggs and pancake batter fills the shared living space. You need to get out of here. Now.

The patio is your safest option. You rise from the sofa and make your way to the side door in three quick strides, intent on keeping that godforsaken promise you made to Margaret. As you round the corner of your home, making your way further into the back yard, the sound of a window opening stops you dead in your tracks. That little shit is playing dirty, and he knows it. The furniture on the patio, a dark brown and cream set of two chairs and a table, sits just in front of the kitchen window. With a huff, you walk up to one of the chairs and drag it out into the grass, plopping down firmly with a scowl on your face. You remain there basking in the faint smell of the food you oh so badly wanted to indulge in as you scroll down your Instagram feed, trying to find the strength to resist.

When noon rolls around, Jaafar makes you a sandwich. Something simple, sure, but you’ve always shared one with him, so he expects you to break. When he hands it to you, a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes forms on your face. You stare at it for a moment, and then place the fruits of his labor in the fridge, telling l him you’ll eat it later; Jaafar feels a vein pulse on his forehead. He was going to have to up the ante. He leans over the counter as you close the fridge, taking a bite out of the delicacy he’s prepared. A near pornographic moan floods your ears, and you look over to him, shock evident on your face. His eyes are rolled back as he chews. “Oh my god,” He drags out, “This might be the best sandwich I’ve ever made.”

You go to call him out on his ridiculous attempt to shake your conviction. As you do, Willow trots up the hall, having been alerted by her father’s outburst. “Oh, Willow, want a bite?” The spoiled girl pants, salivating as your boyfriend tears a corner off his sandwich. When he tosses it in the air, Willow catches it, barely chewing before licking her lips and sitting back down, as if to ask for more. They’re plotting against you, you’re convinced. You look back at the fridge, second-guessing whether or not the power to push through is as strong as you thought. Deciding that it is, you turn on your feet and  head toward the back of the house, hoping to get as far away from your conspirators as possible.

By dinner, Jaafar has mapped out an entire game plan in his head. Starting with cooking your favorite dish for dinner. When he sees that you’ve emerged from your sulking session, he calls to you.

“Baby, aren’t you hungry? I haven’t seen you eat a single thing today.”

Yes. You absolutely were fucking hungry, and you knew he knew it. A plate rests in his hands. He smiles at you, love and a dash of concern flash through his eyes. “I thought I’d make you something quick for dinner.”

The tantalizing, juicy steak, accompanied by mixed veggies and mashed potatoes, teases you. You glare at him, then at the plate, genuinely offended. This wasn’t even something remotely quick. This was a terrifyingly effective strategy. One that took work and dedication. You take in a deep, shaky breath. “Can you set it aside, for now? I just haven’t had much of an appetite.” The words come out stung together through clenched teeth, wavering, and full of deceit. “Oh,” He starts, feigning thought, “I wouldn’t want it to get cold, though. Maybe I’ll just feed it to Will—” Before he can finish, and you can think, an exclamation leaves your lips. “NO!”

Bingo. Jaafar resists the urge to smile, knowing he’s got to really sell this before you slip through again. “But you aren’t going to eat it now. Willow absolutely will.” He says, tone serious as can be. Your brows tighten, lips parting in disbelief. “Willow can’t appreciate the art of a good steak.” Your boyfriend knows he’s won now, but for good measure, he makes sure you’ll bite. “Yeah, well, neither can you. Apparently.”

You roll your eyes and walk toward him, reaching for the food. “Just give me the goddamn plate.” He pulls it back, offense washing over his being. “Baby, that isn’t how we ask for things now, is it?” You mutter under your breath, something about how he needs to stop playing, and reach for the plate again. Again, he pulls it back with an expectant look on his face. Oh my god. He’s really going to make you say it. You ponder whether the food was really worth it. As you do, your eyes catch sight of Willow sitting patiently behind Jaafar. Absolutely not. “Can I please have the food?” You grumble out.

A wicked grin spreads across Jaafar’s face, “Can I please have the food…Who?” Your shoulders drop. This nigga can’t be serious. Willow's tongue darts out, and that’s all it takes for you to try again. “Can I please have my food. My loving, handsome, amazing, sexy boyfriend.” Though it comes out dripping with sarcasm, it’s enough for Jaafar to hand over the sustenance you oh so desire. You shuffle over to the dinner table, set the plate down,  and take your place in one of the chairs. Jaafar joins you, wasting very little time digging in.

Just as you reach for the silverware, a small voice in the back of your mind creeps to the forefront. “Is this really what you want? What about that part? You’re almost there, what’s a few more meals?” You’re frozen, tears well in your eyes as you remember the reason you’ve endured the torture this long. Jaafar looks up, getting ready to ask you how your food is. The image in front of him is heartbreaking. His girl with glassy eyes, looking down at the food he prepared, as if it’s going to kill her. He sets his fork down and moves quickly, kneeling near your chair and resting a hand on your thigh. “Hey, hey. What’s going on? Talk to me, mama.” He says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Four days.” You choke out. Jaafar’s eyebrows come together; he doesn’t understand. “What are you talking about, baby?” Biting back a sob, you go to speak again, “I’ve only got four days to get the rest of the weight off.” Jaafar is still confused. What the hell are you trying to lose so much weight for? “Baby…I don’t—”

A whimper leaves your lips, and you shake your head. He closes his mouth, waiting for you to continue. “You remember my audition with Margaret?” He gives a confirmatory nod, still listening intently. “Yes, congratulations again.” Your eyes cut to meet his, “No. Not fucking ‘congratulations’, Jaafar.” You swallow a big gulp of air, trying to maintain composure. “She told me I’d need to lose twenty more pounds than I already had before the part was guaranteed to me.” Jaafar scoffs, and an incredulous look befalls him. “What?” You lean back in your chair and tip your head back to look up toward the ceiling. “I’m scared I won’t be able to do it, and I already told her I would.”

Jaafar sits back on his haunches, face contorting into something between anger and disgust. “You didn’t need to do it.” You snap your head back toward him, scrunching your face in the process. “Yes, I did, Jaafar. Did you not hear—” He shakes his head, cutting you off quickly. “No, y/n. You fucking didn’t. The part was yours before you even walked in there. Margaret’s just a bitch.” Your breath hitches. Never has Jaafar spoken about another huma being like this in front of you. And what did he mean by the part was already yours? “Jaafar, I don’t—” He lets out a long breath and opens his mouth again. “The director, James, had already reached out to me and let me know you were what he needed to make the movie a success. He let you go through the audition process so there would be no questions about whether favoritism was involved.”

You can’t believe it, he has to be lying. “But Margaret, she said—” Your boyfriend takes your hand, and looks you in the eye. “Baby, Margaret is just the casting director. Well-known, yeah, but she doesn’t have the final say. James does.” A shaky breath leaves your body. All this time, she’d been lying to you? And look how far you went for it. As you sit there, dumbfounded, something she said to you before replays in your mind. “Desperation is ugly.” That may have been the one thing she told the truth about. Look at what it did to you, how it made you treat the ones closest to you. The damn breaks, “Oh my god.” Jaafar catches you before you fall apart, wrapping you in a tight embrace. “I’m so sorry, I just— I thought—”

He shushes you and assures you that it’s okay. If Jaafar knows one thing, it’s that he’ll be calling James first thing in the morning. Until then, he’ll settle for bringing you back from hell. “Don’t worry about it, baby, it wasn’t your fault.” He squeezes you tighter and presses a kiss to your temple. “How about…we finish dinner? After that, we put on onsies, watch a cheesy movie, and then…I show you all the reasons I love you as you are. Hm? How’s that sound?”

A smile breaks through the tears, and you pull back to look at your boyfriend. His eyes hold a love you’re more than grateful for; the tears falling from your face are no longer there because of an unattainable goal, but because the man in front of you is loving you through a version of yourself you can barely stand to look at. You can only offer him a fractured “Okay, baby.” He smiles, “Okay.”

He returns to his chair, fully expecting you to take a moment to process. When he looks over, he finds you shoveling down the lukewarm dinner, small grunts escaping as you move. A deep, loud belly-laugh erupts from his chest. He knew you were still in there somewhere. “Do you need anything with that, baby?” He chuckles. You swallow and nod fast, as if it were something critical, “Yes, a soda.” Another cackle rings through the room, and as he moves to fetch your drink. You catch his wrist, “Thank you, love. For everything you are.” He shakes his head at you, bending down to catch your lips. The kiss is soft, almost reverent. When he pulls away, his hand comes up to cup your face, and he kisses your forehead next. “Don’t thank me for loving you. It’s what I’m here for.”

you read simone's first line—something about wedding cake flavors and compromise— and it comes out fine. technically fine. you find the rhythm, deliver it the way you've delivered a thousand lines before. but you're not there. you can feel yourself floating somewhere above your body, watching yourself perform rather than being in it.

it's not nerves— it's something else. something that feels almost protective, almost intentional. almost like self-sabotage. and you weren't stupid; you'd been in enough films and projects to know a bad crew when you met them. you didn't feel that from the many faces in the room. it didn't help that amelie was a younger black woman in an industry full of the exact opposite— it would've been an immediate yes from you in any other circumstance. but deep down you craved your break.

and you knew that showing no chemistry with jaafar was a sure way to keep it.

adding on to the water dispenser and the turning pages, you start to notice the executive who clicks his pen repeatedly. the way the sunlight reflects across the table. the loose thread in the chair that your fingers keep finding.

jaafar responds as theo, his voice affable and easy. you can feel him leaning into the scene in a way you're not quite matching. he's more present and engaged, while you can't even meet his eyes.

you keep them on the script, in fact— tracking the words. when it calls for simone to be frustrated, you add a little edge to your voice. when it calls for simone to speak quietly, you drop your volume and soften your tone. all the right choices, but there's no real heat behind it.

the two of you fall into a back and forth of dialogue. you pretend as if you're speaking to a brick wall, not acknowledging the realness of his presence as a way to stay in your head.

a warmth starts to spread up the back of your neck as jaafar reads his last lines. he tries to catch your eye during a pause, you can feel him looking, but you stay focused on the page. biting your lip, you tap your index and middle finger against your thigh as the scene comes to an end. there's a polite beat of silence before—

"great," amelie says, and you can hear the slight hesitation in her voice. you can't bring yourself to look up from the script. "let's move on to scene forty-two. page fifty-three."

you nod, flipping ahead. your throat feels tight. you know that wasn't your best work. you know you held back. it was of your own volition, but you can't help but feel a little embarrassed. jaafar shifts beside you, adjusting his position to see what scene was up next.

as you turn the final few pages, a small voice in your head is screaming. what the hell were you doing? you could have just done it. the scene was good, the writing was good, jaafar was great—well, as far as you could tell—and you deliberately chose to phone it in. and for what? to protect some imaginary finish line?

and oh god, what would it mean for jaafar if you fucked this up? would his offer be dropped, passed along to a different set of actors?

you take a deep breath, blowing it out as slowly and quietly as possible as you sneak a glance at jaafar. he sits with both elbows on the arm-rest, hands interlocked in front of him. your gaze drifts back up to his face; you're so close to him that you can see the small birthmark above his right eyebrow.

as if he can sense you looking, jaafar's head turns slightly.

your heart absolutely drops, bracing yourself for anger or frustration... though you're only met with a slow, small smile.

you wonder if he knew you'd purposefully given him nothing to work with as you give a hesitant smile in return.

if he did, he wasn't upset about it.

in scene forty-two, simone and theo are in the middle of wedding chaos— dealing with seating charts, floral arrangements, and a timeline that keeps getting more complicated. they're surrounded by the wedding party: bridesmaids and groomsmen who all have strong opinions. this scene is lighter than the first.

"whenever you're ready," amelie says again.

you internally will the self-sabotaging away and start. simone's trying to be diplomatic, trying to navigate too many voices. "okay, so if we put uncle charles at table seven—"

"—he's gonna complain about being too far from the bar." the casting assistant, frank's voice cuts in.

you stop in your tracks, face carefully blank.

frank's voice is deep. unexpectedly deep— and completely deadpan.

"and if we put him at table three," frank continued in his monotone, unnaturally deep baritone. "he's gonna complain about being too close to the cello."

another groomsman, still frank, turns to simone to say, "yeah, uncle charles is going to complain no matter where we put him."

your lips twitch, but you successfully manage your facial expressions as you continue with the scene. jaafar joins in with theo's opinions and you mentally pat yourself on the back for looking at him when the script calls for it; moving with your lines as you grow more comfortable with passing time.

frank shifts in his chair and clears his throat before his voice suddenly pitches up— high and exaggerated. in an emotionless cadence: "girl! at this point we should just put him in the parking lot and call it a damn day."

you try your hardest to hold it in. you really do. but frank delivers the line with the same energy someone would use to read a eulogy. as if that wasn't enough, you peak at jaafar in an attempt to stay in character,

only to find him staring at the wall straight across from him, hand swiping under his nose to hide the beginning of a laugh. he drops his hand and rolls his lips between his teeth, glancing around the room before his eyes land on you. jaafar quickly turns back to the wall as his eyes squint with the effort of holding his laugh back.

but you drop your chin to your chest and the laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it. a real one, the kind that makes your shoulders shake and your hand fly up to cover your mouth.

jaafar breaks immediately after. his laugh is quieter, but just as genuine, and when you finally look at him—actually look at him—his eyes are crinkled at the corners and he's shaking his head.

the whole room is laughing now; even the executive cracks a smile. frank just sits there looking mildly annoyed. amelie is the first to reel in her laughter, beaming at the casting assistant across the table, "frank, you're doing amazing, sweetie. let's restart."

you're still giggling, oblivious to jaafar grinning at you from your left, as you try to get back into character. finally looking up, you catch him and attempt to force the smile off of your face as to not laugh again.

"okay," you say, half to yourself, half to him. "okay, i'm good."

"you sure?" jaafar jokes— and there's a playfulness in his voice that wasn't there before. you feel something in your chest loosen. "no," you admit, "but let's try anyway."

the two of you share a final grin before restarting the scene. this time, it's different.

you let yourself lean into the chaos of it. you play simone's exasperation bigger, letting your voice climb in pitch as the wedding party (again, frank) keeps throwing problems at you. jaafar jumps in at the perfect moments and your rhythm clicks into place. you're not floating in your surroundings anymore. you're fully present, actually listening and reacting in real time instead of just waiting for your next line.

when simone gets flustered trying to explain the difference between orchids and gardenias to a groomsman, theo softens his voice and tells her she's doing great. and jaafar delivers it with so much sincerity that you have to fight to not falter and break character. it's not perfect—you stumble over a line transition, and one pause lasts a few seconds too long as you two lose your place in the script— but it works.

the scene ends and amelie looks like she might start clapping. "yes. that's what i'm talking about. okay, one more. let's do scene sixty-seven."

jaafar begins to search for the page in the script, but you know this scene very well.

it's late at night. simone and theo have been working on wedding planning for hours— the venue issues have been settled, the caterer is confirmed, the timeline is printed and laminated. they're sitting on the floor of simone's apartment surrounded by various binders, sticky notes full of half-written thoughts, and half empty coffee cups. they've spent weeks working together nonstop, and somewhere in the chaos of it, something shifted between them. it's the scene where it all comes to the surface.

once again, you start. "i think we actually did it."

"yeah," jaafar's voice drops lower than it's been all morning. "i think we did."

there's a pause written into the script. a beat where they're both sitting there, exhausted and relieved and maybe a little sad that it's almost over. you use it to look down at the page, but you can feel jaafar shift beside you. his arm moves closer and the space between you feels smaller. you're hyper-aware of the warmth radiating from his body.

"your sister's gonna have the perfect wedding," jaafar says.

"because of you," your voice is softer now. "i couldn't have done this without you."

"you could've. you're—" jaafar stops. the script says [he looks at her. really looks at her]. "you're incredible, simone."

you feel the barrier between the two of you dissolve in real time.

the room doesn't disappear all at once. it's gradual, like someone slowly turning down the volume on everything else until all that's left is you and jaafar.

just simone and theo.

you're mirroring each other now— jaafar with his body angled so that his torso faces yours. you sit with your leg pulled under the other, attention fully on him. both of your forearms lay across the wooden table, ten fingers resting on opposite ends of the script, not touching.

you look down, then look up at jaafar through your eyelashes before replying as simone: "don't."

"don't what?" "don't say things like that." "why not?"

you break eye contact. the script says [she can't meet his eyes]. you don't look away from the page, but you feel the weight of his attention even without seeing it.

"because in two weeks the wedding will be over, and we'll go back to being... whatever we were before this."

jaafar leans towards you, tilting his head until he's in your line of vision. he waits for you to meet his eyes before continuing, "what if i don't want that?"

his eyes are dark and focused, and so intense that you feel like you've been pinned in place. his jaw is tight and there's a small crease between his eyebrows like he's concentrating. you've never seen him look so serious before.

you watch as his chest fall once. twice.

"this is a bad idea."

"probably," his voice is so low that you almost don't catch it. "but i don't care."

your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it.  the script calls for simone to protest, to say that he barely knows her. but for a second you forget your line entirely. you're too busy noticing the way his fingers move over the script, pointer finger rubbing against his thumb. the way that now, a muscle in his jaw twitches. he's still leaning in— close enough that you can smell the sandalwood and vanilla on his skin.

you deliver your line and jaafar's response comes without hesitation. he recites back details theo's noticed about her— how she likes her coffee, the way she organizes when she's stressed; he continues to list off her small habits that he's catalogued. jaafar pauses and you watch his throat as he swallows. "i know you, simone."

"what if this ruins everything?"

"what if it doesn't?"

the script says that theo reaches for simone's hand. jaafar doesn't move— actors don't typically follow physical movements in a chemistry read— but his pinky finger shifts on the script. just barely. just enough that it's now touching yours.

your breath catches as jaafar's eyes flicker down to where your hands are almost, but not quite, holding the script together, then back up to your face. the longer you look, the more you start to wonder— were his pupils dilated or was it the lighting making you see things?

"i'm scared," you admit, voice carefully breaking. raw in a way that makes you feel exposed, even as you play a character. "i am too," jaafar replies, "but i'd rather be scared with you than safe without you."

his words hang in the air between you. you hold his gaze, refusing to look away even as jaafar considers you like you're the only person in the room. 

"okay."

"okay?" he asks, like he needs confirmation, like he can't quite believe what you're saying.

"okay," you repeat, stronger this time. more certain.

jaafar's eyes drop to your mouth for just a fraction of a second as the script says [THEO's fingers thread through her hair as he draws her toward him. their kiss is soft at first, then deeper]. the look is so brief, you think you may have imagined it.

you don't kiss, but jaafar's pinky finger presses more firmly against yours on the script. neither of you move or look away as the scene ends.

around you, the room is completely silent. 

you exhale as you finally break eye contact and risk a glance around for the first time since beginning the scene. the studio executive has leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on the table, expression genuinely invested. the producers show their intrigue in various ways— a hand pressed to a chest, head held in their hands, focus completely on the two potential leads.

the casting director's smirk has grown even bigger as she leans back in her chair, shaking her pen between two fingers. frank's expression still reads as annoyed, though there's a hint of something underneath that just might be respect.

and amelie...

amelie's bright eyes shift between the two of you— jaw slightly dropped and a hand perched in front; a sorry attempt to hide it.

no one speaks for a few beats, before finally, amelie breaks the silence.

"well," she says quietly, and there's something almost reverent in her voice. "i think we got what we needed."

.✦ ݁˖

the chemistry read ends in a blur.

at some point, corinne and jaafar's agent are called in to talk deadlines and legalities with the producers and executives. amelie crosses over to you and jaafar as you both stand together, but separately.

amelie gives her regards to jaafar first and you wait to their right, pretending to look for something in your bag. you look up as they exchange a quick handshake before jaafar moves to his agent's side. amelie's hand finds your shoulder and squeezes gently.

"thank you," she starts, weight in those two words. "it— that was exactly what i hoped it would be."

your conversation with amelie fades into interactions with the producers, casting staff, and finally the studio executive— who shakes your hand with a declaration of 'great work!'. corinne appears at your side seconds later with the green light to leave, and a promise to call you and update you that night.

a glance around the room shows the last person left to say goodbye to is in a seemingly deep conversation with his agent. you go back and forth in your mind on interrupting— would he think you were rude if you pulled an irish goodbye?

you made up your mind quickly, pulling out your phone to check the time and scrolling through missed texts as you walked around the table toward the door.

"hey."

you startle and press a hand to your chest. jaafar is slightly in front of you now, reaching out to open the door and stepping aside with a guilty smile. "sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

"oh, uh— you didn't," you lie, heart still racing underneath your palm. you put your phone away and walk back through the open door with a mumbled thank you. there's a good amount of space between you on your walk down the hall.

the elevator ride is quiet at first. you both stare at the pixelated numbers as they descend, and you can feel him stealing glances at you from his side of the cabin.

jaafar clears his throat, turning and angling his body toward you. "so, that was..."

"kind of intense?"

"yeah," he lets out a smaller version of his laugh earlier, a huff of breath really. "intense."

you risk a glance at him. he's looking down at his hands, turning his phone over and over in his hands. the elevator doors open and he reflexively holds an arm over the opening to prevent it from closing as you step out.

you wait until jaafar matches the slow walking pace you set before speaking again. "you were really good in there."

he looks over, and there's something shy in his expression. it's crazy, the difference between him performing as theo and him as the jaafar in this current moment.

"thank you. i mean—" he stops, shakes his head slightly. "you made it easy. to just... be in it, you know?"

your reply is quiet, a statement about how the feeling was mutual. about how you'd felt the ease of it too. there's a short silence before he speaks again, "what made you say yes? to coming in today? amelie mentioned you've been taking time off."

and because a half truth is better than a lie, you answer with: "mmm, mainly the script. i read it the first time and couldn't stop thinking about it after. about simone and just her life in general."

"she's a good character," jaafar nods slowly, like he's considering that. "she feels real."

"yeah, she does." you pause in the lobby, just a few feet away from the front door, and jaafar mirrors you. "what about you? why a rom-com after—."

you gesture vaguely at him and hope he understands what you're trying to say.

amused, the smile never really leaving his face, he replies, "i wanted something different. something lighter. the biopic will always be important to me, of course, but filming it was terrifying. i just wanted to make him proud and it made everything... heavy, almost."

"jaafar, i'm sure you made the whole fucking world proud. you were amazing," you look up at him, "can i tell you something i'll probably regret and hope you never bring up again?"

"hmm?"

"i wasn't joking when i said i'm half of those ticket sales," you look around the lobby in an exaggerated way before leaning in and whispering, "and i sobbed like a baby each time i watched the 'human nature' performance. my cousin probably has like five pictures of me in her phone with mascara running down my face."

jaafar's smile grows larger, dimple showing high in his cheek. "god, it was emotional for me to film too. it took a hell of a lot of takes." he leaned in slightly before joking, "and hypothetically, if i wanted to see picture proof—"

"over my dead body!" you cut him off, "those pictures will never see the light of day."

you start to walk again as jaafar nearly folds over himself laughing. he still manages to beat you to the door, holding it open for you to step out into the early afternoon heat first.

jaafar pulls his hat lower and throws a pair of sunglasses on as he steps out after you. it reminds you of your own pair and you pull them on as you walk towards your car.

he follows, a few feet to your right.

"how was your time off, though? did you get to rest? outside of reading scripts you weren't supposed to be reading."

you laugh, "honestly? i did a whole lotta nothing for once. reality tv, food, sleeping in, dog-sitting for one too many people, more reality tv, more food..."

"sounds perfect." jaafar agrees, "was it 'harbor' that made you want a break?"

your foot drags on your next step, though you catch yourself before tripping. blinking a few times behind your sunglasses, you look over at jaafar. 'harbor' was the show you were on for years that ended fairly recently.

he seems to realize what he'd admitted to seconds later.

"my uh, my brother— he loves it. he made me watch a few times," jaafar's head whips to face her, "not 'he made me', like it's a bad show! he 'made me', like he asked me to watch and i did and i lo—liked it."

you silently watch him stumble over his words with a small smile, "you're good. and thank you, i think? but yeah kind of. i spent years straight on the same show. barely any time off between seasons. by the end i was just, empty? like i didn't have anything left to give."

jaafar nods slowly, and there's understanding in his expression. "i get that. the press tour was only a few months long but by the end i felt like i'd talked about the same thing so many times that the words didn't even make sense anymore."

"exactly," you say, stretching the word out. "it's like you're performing even when you're not performing."

a silence falls over the two of you as you stand by your car, facing each other. though, it's not awkward. you feel almost a strange sense of camaraderie in the mutual feeling you found. the parking lot is quiet, outside of the distant hum of traffic and an occasional car door slamming from far off.

jaafar opens his mouth to speak, but a repeated buzzing fills the air. he pulls his phone out and glances at the screen, making a face. "my manager. he's probably wondering where i am."

"yeah. i should—" you, again, gesture vaguely at your car.

"right. yeah." jaafar takes a step back, putting even more space between you, but holding eye contact. "it was really, really good to meet you. get home safe."

"you too, jaafar."

you watch as he gives you one last smile and turns, heading in the direction of, you assume, his car. you think about wishing him good luck on getting the role... but who were you kidding?

he'd definitely gotten it.

and your break was definitely over.

at least, until after you finished filming a wedding rom-com.

-

Underneath your materialistic nature, you were the perfect lady for him. Albeit a lot younger than he would’ve usually gone for, not that he cared nowadays, but you were the embodiment of marriage material. You spoilt him with unconditional love and affection, showered him in praise and compliments that left him blushing, tended to his needs and wants whenever he so needed, respected his busy, demanding career, spent every minute at his side, supporting and sticking up for him, and never stopped loving him no matter what.

You were proud to be his woman — no matter what anyone had to say about you.

A week didn’t go by without the tabloids reporting on how you were a horrible girlfriend, irritating you further as it was hard to miss the humongous twenty-four carat gold Cartier engagement ring on your finger that literally blinded everyone who walked past you, and that you were dragging him down by being a spoiled brat.

They also didn’t know that Michael made you this way.

Before him you were a normal girl — you grew up in a traditional household, seemingly classic childhood, and didn’t have things handed to you on a silver platter. You understood you had to work for what you wanted, and that extravagant, expensive things didn’t come without effort.

It was only when you started dating Michael did he remind you that money actually did grow on trees in his eyes — and those paper notes in his wallet were at your fingertip whenever you so desired.

It all started on your twenty-fifth birthday — you had been seeing Michael for a mere few months at this point, and had been slowly integrated into his bustling lifestyle. You saw the money, the clothes, the antiques, the jewels, the cars — everything. It was a sight to see, the wealth that oozed from like it was natural, like how a billion-dollar net-worth was normal.

You had spent the evening at an extremely fancy restaurant, one that required a minimum of two years waiting time to get a table, one that Michael had obtained with a five minute phone call two days beforehand. He was Michael Jackson after all.

He had arranged, in the sweetest way a boyfriend could do, for all your family and friends to join you in the restaurant that had been booked out — leaving you with your loved ones, and very famous boyfriend, to have some much needed privacy. You all indulged in ridiculously overpriced, minuscule portioned food that, much to your dismay, tasted incredible — practically moaning with each bite.

It was only when dessert had been polished off, did the gifts begin to roll in. Your parents had bought you a gorgeous necklace, a locket, with a portrait of their wedding photo and your baby picture on each side — a heart-warming, sentimental present that had tears welling up in your eyes.

Your friends got you personal, hilarious yet fitting gifts that had a smile spread so wide across your face you were certain it was stuck there.

But, when it came to Michael’s gift, it took the cake.

He placed an item in front of you on the table, unable to his smile, as the words ‘Hermés’ embroidered into the cotton covering hit your eyes.

“No way, Michael.” You breathed, eyes practically bulging out of your head at the gift before you.

“Open it, baby.” He pressed, voice soft and calm was he awaited the excitable panic to arise.

Your hands trembled frantically as you tore the covering off, gasping loudly, as well as many others on the table, as a chic, white Birkin bag rest in your hands. The very one you’d mentioned to Michael you’d wanted your whole life, an item you knew you’d never have, but desired more than anything.

The loud scream-like squeal that left your mouth had Michael chuckling softly as you rose to your feet, jumping up and down in undeniable joy, hands flailing as the realisation hit you that the one physical item you had wanted in the whole world had been blessed upon you by your boyfriend of only six months.

You flew into Michael’s embrace, throwing your arms around his neck as you giggled delightfully into his ear, pulling back to litter kisses all over his grinning face.

“Happy Birthday, doll.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your cheek, as you flew back into your seat, gazing lovingly at the bag, feeling wrong to even be able to touch it, let alone carry it around.

It was from that moment Michael knew he had created a monster — watching as the glint in your eye, as you gazed at the present, grew stronger than any reaction you’d given to the previous presents. He could tell, by the look in your blown pupils, that this, this bag, that cost a fortune, that was just a drop in the ocean for him — meant more to you than the any personal, sentimental gift your loved ones had got you.

A bag — a fucking bag, meant more to you than a personalised present that had real meaning.

And when you got home that night, in a loved-up daze of excitement as you rode him into the mattress, all other gifts discarded downstairs, back arched into his touch as his cock slammed into you, did Michael feel the obsession with money begin to start by the way your eye kept catching the bag that rest upon the nightstand in the moonlight — needy whines of pleasure only increasing in octave at the moment you realised you needed more.

More of his cock, more of him, more of his money — you didn’t care. You just knew that Michael was yours, forever and always.

And Michael felt the exact same way. He knew you deserved this, that he wanted to spoil you rotten with this expensive lifestyle, not because he wanted to win over your love and loyalty — but because you already gave it beforehand without needing to be spoiled. You had shown irrevocable love and attention to him, despite his life, career and age, and never once faltered. You had been there, a constant reminder from the day he met you a year ago, to the moment he gifted you that bag, that you were always going to be the one to love him.

That’s when he decided he had to turn you into his little princess. One that was shocked when something was only $3,000, claiming that it was cheap, or refused to buy (let him buy) something that didn’t come from Dior or Chanel, or didn’t understand why you had no more room in your walk-in closet at your shared home after your thousandth shopping trip on his card this week.

You were truly spoiled tooth decayingly rotten.

But, you never let it ruin how you felt towards him.

He could’ve gone broke and you would still love him. Sure, you’d be fucking devastated as you now you were hooked on clearing out every department store every chance you got — but you knew he was the one for you. The one you wanted to marry, have children with, love forever and grow old with.

But, you were too far gone now.

Michael had marked his expensive taste into you forever — branding you into a materialistic diva who always needed his card or his cars. And he loved it — literally dying at any chance to spoil you, shower you in gifts and surprises that cost thousands each time, something he wouldn’t even notice coming out of his bank account, but something that would leave you smiling and squealing, kissing him all over.

He had built the perfect lady to spoil.

And the more you were drenched in expensive clothing, and jewellery, and sunglasses, and nails and a new blow-out each week, did you become just that little bit more ditsy.

Ditsy and unaware of how unbearably stunning you were — and how much of a brat you had become.

Everyone around you, including Michael, knew — they could sense it each time you’d have a conversation with him or talk about things that were such first-world problems, but meant so much to you. They would exchange glances, as Michael would just smile, glistening eyes hidden behind his infamous aviators, as you rambled on, pouting about how Armani didn’t have the $14,000 dress you wanted in stock, even after you told them you were marrying Michael Jackson.

They would see you, pouting and complaining about something totally unnecessary and borderline ridiculous, and then Michael, enabling the behaviour by apologising to you, kissing you with a smile, before getting Giorgio himself on the phone to demand the dress to his home within the next twenty-four hours or else he’d pull his credit card from file and threaten to never spend another cent there again if they upset his lady like that again.

They’d watch, utterly gobsmacked, as you’d purr praises into his ear as you kissed along his jawline, complete oblivious to the fact that other people were in the room and watching you press yourself up against him, whispering ‘Thank you, Mikey, I just need it so bad, ‘Love you so much.’

But, with being a spoiled brat came with its downsides.

The downside being your temper tantrums at your least favourite word.

No.

A downside that he thought was utterly hilarious and adorable each time your eyebrows would furrow in irritation with a pout on your face whenever he’d, once in a blue moon, say the word ‘No’ to you. A reaction he’d only brought upon himself with his incessant spoiling — but he didn’t care, he would just tease you back, tugging on your jutted out bottom lip, pressing a peck there before demanding you to behave or else he’d never spend another dollar on you again.

You both knew he was lying whenever he uttered those words — because you’d soon get your way.

But, these tantrums would make you into a real brat. Often acting up just to further your point or to piss him off deliberately, just so he could feel exactly how you felt right now.

Your latest had been after being told you couldn’t have a $150k Chandelier for a room you never even went into in your twelve bedroom mansion.

So, in retaliation, you’d either not speak to him for a few hours, caving in yourself in the end after you realised your silent treatment didn’t prevail, or refuse to drink the $50 cocktail you ordered when he’d take you out for dinner just to rub it in his face, or blast music throughout the house, a song with deliberate intent to wind him up.

Just like today — you had walked down stairs, rubbing your eyes from the tiredness that plagued you, yawning as you sauntered into the living area, where Michael resided with a few familiar producers, musical engineers, his manager and his close personal friend, Chris Tucker.

“Ah, there she is!” Chris spoke excitedly, “Speak of the devil, huh?”

Michael chuckled, peering behind him to meet your sleepy frame, lip coming between his teeth at the sight of you.

You were dressed, barely, in a Dolce & Gabbana lacy nightgown, one that left little to the imagination due to its short length and thin straps that were loose over your shoulders — a beautiful duck-egg grey that complimented your skin tone, a colour Michael loved on you. His eyes raked over you, a familiar seductive glint present in his pupils at your erect nipples poking through the satin filled his vision.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Christopher?” You sassed, eyebrows furrowing as you stared him down.

Chris laughed, “Damn, someone’s not a morning person, huh?” Michael returned the chuckle at the truth in his question, “We were talkin’ about that Chandelier.”

Michael groaned, rolling his eyes with a playful smile, “Don’t get her started.”

You instantly burst into a smile, “Oh my God, isn’t just such a good idea!” You exclaimed, “It’s so pretty, like the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I need it.”

“Baby, we don’t even go in the room you want it in.” Michael reminded, peering over at you as the room erupted into laughs.

“That’s beside the point.” You huffed, hands settling on your hips, “It’s pretty and I want it.”

You missed the way the room exchanged looks that said ‘Oh, wow’ in shock at your sassed firing back, as Michael just smiled at you.

“Do I not even get a good-morning kiss before you start demanding stuff this early, baby?”

Your face changed dramatically again, a soft grin tugging onto your face as you giggled, walking towards where he sat on the couch.

You bent down, completely unaware to how your nightdress rode up your backside, flashing the curve of your ass and your lacy panties to the men sat behind you, as you pressed a kiss to his lips. The only noise, in the uncomfortable silence only falling upon those not engaging in the lip-locking, was your happy hums into his mouth and the sound of lips connecting.

You rose once again, the room huffing out stabilising breaths as your behind was covered once more, again barely, smiling down at Michael, “So, can I have it now?”

“Still no, baby.”

And it started.

You frowned deeply, an even deeper pout forming on your face as your hands crossed over your chest, not noticing the way Michael licked his lips hungrily as your tits pressed up more into his view, as the tantrum began.

“Why?”

“Because it’s $150,000, angel, for something that will collect dust and never even be seen.” Michael spoke, voice still soft despite your attitude.

“It won’t collect dust, I’ll clean it.” You attempted to convince him, knowing that it was all lies.

Michael snorted, “Baby, I don’t think I’ve seen you clean a single inch of this house, let alone a Chandelier in the guest bedroom.”

You huffed, finding the other men’s laughter behind you taunting, “Fine, I’ll get Martha to clean it.”

Michael chuckled harder as you dragged the maid into your convincing, “I don’t particularly want her breaking her neck trying to get up there, honey.”

“Come on, Mikey, it’ll look so nice in there.” You whined, forcing your pout out further to push him to agree to your ridiculous request, “All the guests who stay in there will agree with me.”

“Baby, no one stays ‘round here. It’ll just go to waste.”

“Chris can stay, I’m sure you’d love waking up to a Chandlier, right, Chris?” You turned around, facing the laughing man who shot his hands into the air in surrender.

“Don’t drag me into this, girl.” He chuckled, shaking his head, “I’m with Mike on this one.”

You groaned, stomping your foot, clad in fluffy slippers, on the floor, “Michael.” You drawled out, voice a whiny beg.

“I said no, honey. Sorry, that’s final.”

You huffed loudly, grumbling under your breath, as Michael just smiled up at you. He was loving this — he absolutely adored riling you up, seeing you pout and get so irritated at him as you sassed him, just making him fall in love with you more.

“Fine, I’ll just go hang out in the kitchen where I’m actually wanted.” You shot back, words completely unreasonable and false as you acted out.

Michael breathed out a laugh, reaching for your hand, “Baby, you are wanted here. I just told you no and you don’t like it. Come on, gimme’ a smile, pretty girl.”

“No.” You fired back, moving backwards to avoid his touch, believing only you were allowed to say the word, “Have fun without me, boys.”

Michael just shook his head, grinning deeply as you moved to storm away, hands still firmly pressed over your chest, “Hey, angel, will you grab me an OJ while you’re in there?”

“No Chandelier, no orange juice, Michael!” You shouted as you moved out of the room, disappearing into the kitchen and out of his view as the room burst into laughter once again.

You were truly a brat — and he adored it.

“Jesus, Mike, that lady of yours sure is something.” One of his engineers chuckled, still in disbelief at your ordeal.

Michael smiled, “She’s perfect.”

And he meant it — even when you were throwing your toys out of your pram like you were so hard done by, he loved you. He was utterly, crazily in love with you. He always treated you with the utmost adoration and respect — caring for and tending to you like you were a real queen, giving up everything to make you happy.

But, when you pushed him too far — you knew about it.

So, when a familiar 90’s tune began blasting from the kitchen, did Michael start to feel his patience wear thin.

His jaw clenched as the lyrics hit his ears, as well as your loud singing, that caused the men sat before him in the room to side-eye one another with cackles at your dig towards him.

No Scrubs by TLC.

A song directly dissing a broke, lazy boy who had the confidence of a King, but couldn’t afford anything for his woman and made himself look a fool.

You say particularly hard when the song sounded, ‘Always talkin’ bout what he wants, and just sits on his broke ass!’, directly aiming it towards your fiancé who twitched in irritation at your insinuation that he was anything but a provider for you.

“Oh shit.” Chris laughed, puffing out his cheeks as Michael kissed his teeth, choosing to let you have your fun.

He didn’t let it affect him too much, knowing that the lyrics were more fitting to you as you were the one who talked about all the things you wanted from him — but it wasn’t the last time you pushed him that day.

He had parted from the house, composing his frustration as you moved your face when he leant down to kiss you before he left for an important meeting, his lips landing on the corner of your mouth instead of where he intended.

He brushed it off, only giving you a pass as you reciprocated his words when he told you he loved you, as most times you’d give him the silent treatment, and went about his day.

But, alas, you didn’t let up.

He had been deep in important business — having a serious conversation about contracts, and expenses, and documents that needed to be signed, when you came storming past the large window that covered the conference room.

The room went silent as the sound of your voice, arguing with the office building receptionist, who trailed behind you, commanding you to stop walking and leave at once, rang through the room, muffled through the glass.

“Ma’am, that is a confidential meeting, you are not permitted to be in there.” The older lady demanded, pointing her finger at you harshly.

You scoffed, “Lady, I’m the wife.” Michael had chuckled at your false words as you wiggled your ring-clad finger, ignoring the way the businessmen in the room looked at him in confusion, “If I wanna talk to my man when he’s in a meeting, I can. Talk to the hand, girl.”

Michael laughed again at your childish response as you shoved a manicured hand in her face, ignoring the way she gasped as you pushed the door open.

“Hi, baby!” You exclaimed, smiling brightly as you shuffled into the room.

You were an oxymoron to the boring professionalism of the meeting where middle-aged men with greying beards in dark-coloured suits watched you in shock as you stood in the doorway — dressed head to toe in a pink D&G mini-dress, kitten heels on your pedicured feet, five large shopping bags in your right hand, and a baby-blue, bedazzled leash in your left, connected to your two-year-old Pomeranian puppy-dog who barked loudly, one he’d got for you on your one-year anniversary.

“Say hi to Daddy, LV!” You let the leash go from your grasp as the tiny dog ran towards Michael at the end of the table, jumping up at his leg as it continued to bark.

Michael, choosing to ignore the way everyone in the room looked utterly bewildered at what was occurring in front of them, picked up the small dog and cuddled it in his lap, letting the pup lick all over his face.

“Ugh, what a day I’ve had already, Mikey.” You started with a huff, setting your bags down in the large table that adorned majority of the room, unaware you’d just placed them on important documents right in front of a random man, before you continued with your rant, “The lady at Louis tried to kick me out ‘cuz I brought LV in there.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes, “Even after I told her I named my baby boy after the store.”

It was true — you had legitimately named your dog after Louis Vuitton. Something that Michael thought was hilarious and adorable all in one each time you’d beckon the pet into the back garden to use the bathroom before bedtime.

“Sounds awful, honey.” Michael spoke softly, hands still pawing at the fluff-ball in his hands, “How much today?”

You peered down at the many bags splayed across the table as he nodded towards them, wondering how much of his net-worth had been drained today.

“Oh, not even that much, like $8k?” You smiled, “Found some self-restraint.”

Someone in the room scoffed, cutting through your conversation, all heads whipping towards the noise as the man scrunched his face up into disgust as he stared at you.

“You do realise we are in the middle of an extremely important meeting, right?” The man spoke, hands waving towards the men crowded round the table.

“Yeah, so?”

Michael couldn’t help but smile at your ignorant response — revelling in how ridiculously rude, yet hilarious, your interrupting prescene was. He thought it was blissful — you visiting him while he was working despite your morning.

But, he knew you had an ulterior motive.

You were deliberately embarrassing him — making an unnecessary scene just to make a fool of him. To piss him off just because he said no to you. That you travelled from the other end of town where the shopping mall was just to bombard his meeting.

He knew it was annoying you that he hadn’t snapped yet — that your hard work to rile him up wasn’t working. Yet. You still had a few tricks up your sleeve — one’s that would have him seething.

“Ma’am, I—“ “Anyways, baby, which one should I wear later?”

Michael’s jaw clenched tightly as you reached into one of your shopping bags and pulled out two sets of extremely promiscuous, laced lingerie sets — leaving nothing to the imagination as you held them up for the whole room to see.

One was red, with a garter belt you could wear around your thigh, with silk and lace decorating the rim of the panties and bra. The other was white, with pretty bows on the front of both items, and the panties were crotchless.

Michael sucked his lip between his teeth, shaking his head as you smirked evilly at him — you both had a silent understanding that you knew exactly what you were doing.

“I’m thinking the white,” You started, peering at it as you held it higher, “Easy access, y’know?”

You didn’t miss the way Michael’s eyes darkened as you giggled, feigning innocence, as the room plastered shocked expression on their faces at your audacity.

“Still a no, baby.”

You raised your eyebrows at his words, tongue rolling over your front teeth as you titled your head to the side, looking at him as if it were just the two of you in the room.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re referring to, Michael.” You fired back, a hand on your hip as you moved your head sassily.

“You do. And it’s still a no.”

Michael couldn’t help but feel a sense of success as you huffed in irritation, stomping that heeled foot once again, shoving the sets back into one of the bags and snatching the rest off the table quickly, letting papers fly to the floor, ignoring the way people groaned out loudly in frustration.

“Come to Mommy, LV,” You ordered, tapping your bare thigh as the little dog jumped from Michael’s lap to sit by your feet as you took the leash in your hand once again, “Daddy clearly doesn’t love Mommy as much as he says.”

Michael laughed, “Baby, c’mon now.”

“Whatever, Michael.” You spat, waving him away as you turned on your heel and stormed out of the room, heels clicking as the door slammed behind you, head held high as you flicked the sunglasses that rest upon your head back over your eyes, disappearing around the corner.

The room fell into awkward silence as the men exchanged disbelieving looks with one another until Michael let out a chuckle, still finding your out-break humorous.

“Let’s continue, shall we?”

Michael had assumed, in his ignorance, that maybe you would let this go soon enough — that you’d find something else, hopefully a little less expensive, to obsess over. Maybe he’d surprise you with new heels you could wear out with your bratty stomping, or a new bag you could smack him with whenever you fell into one of your adorable little moods that he loved.

But, no.

You weren’t giving up that easy — it was no fun getting glamorous things without a little challenge sometimes.

And Michael soon realised you weren’t letting this go when he slipped into the back of the black Mercedes that always transported him around, now late in the evening, sighing as he got comfortable in the seat, eyes hiding behind his aviators as people swarmed the car, raising a hand to wave with a smile to his delighted fans.

It was only when he looked down at the Nokia you had bought him for his birthday, one that he still had no idea how to use, and saw a notification that had him cursing under his breath and grinding his teeth in anger.

-$150,000 — New transaction from ‘R.H CHANDELIERS’ on American Express ending in 3398

Oh, you had really done it now.

When Michael pushed open the door to your home, ignoring the way it slammed against the wall from the sheer strength of his hands against it, you were no-where to be seen. Just a few handy-men who walked down the stairs, carrying empty boxes and bubble wrap, sighing in fatigue as they wiped sweat from their foreheads.

“Who are you?” Michael snapped, not even bothering to be jovial and pleasant as the two worn out men froze.

“I, uh, sorry, Mr Jackson, we just had a call to fit this new Chandelier, your fiancée said it was urgent.” One spoke up, voice cracking nervously at the look of rage in Michael’s face.

“Get out.”

They didn’t wait around — instantly rushing out the door and shutting it gently behind them, with trembling hands. Michael also didn’t skip a beat, striding up the stairs with long, rushed steps as he rushed across the house, straight to the guest bedroom.

However, when he pushed the door open, chest heaving, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

There was no Chandelier.

“Wrong room, jackass.”

Michael’s head snapped to his left, clenching his jaw at the sight of you stood in the doorway of the master bedroom where you and Michael resided the most, clad in the white lingerie set you had once attempted to embarrass him with, the heels you were wearing previously still on your feet as you stared at him, daringly.

“What did you just say to me?” Michael snapped, walking slowly towards you, clear anger spread across his face, only furthering his heightened emotions as you just smiled.

As he reached you, you slipped away from him inside the room, making sure to sway your hips the way you knew he loved, as you disappeared out of view. Michael followed you, cursing the betrayal of his lewd mind as his eyes fell to the curve of your bare ass, before walking straight into the room you had hidden in.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight.

You were now splayed across the bed on all fours, back arched, legs spread to display your glistening pussy through your crotchless panties, a seductive grin still tugged onto your lips. And above you — a breath-taking, bejewelled Chandelier, cladding 3,500 diamonds that twinkled in the sunrise through the large window behind you.

“Which is prettier?” You spoke lowly, never leaving his eyes as he undressed you with his eyes, the burning flame of fury never leaving his gaze.

Michael was scarily quiet as he sauntered slowly towards the edge of the bed — eyes dark and unreadable as he approached you silently. His jaw was still pressed into a tight clench when he reached you, forcing you to swallow thickly in anticipation.

“I told you no.”

The words hit deep in your chest as the insinuation of the concequence of your actions crept up your spine — the smile now dropping from your lips as you shuddered.

“‘M sorry, baby, but,” There it was, your argumentative tone as usual, “You said no to the guest room — not in here.” You sassed, sporting your usual pout

You gasped loudly, half-heartedly mixing with a moan, as Michael’s large palm connected with the bare of your left ass-cheek, sending shockwaves of anticipatory pleasure through your body.

“You never listen.” He started, rubbing soothing circles over the skin he had assaulted, “You’re so ungrateful.”

You whimpered at his harsh words, before squealing as another crack of his hand against your stinging cheek sounded into the room. Even despite the blinding pain with each brutal spank, your body betrayed you as your soaked cunt clenched around nothing, begging to be touched as the sexual tension ignited in the room.

“‘M really sorry, baby.” You mewled, tears springing to your ears as another smack landed on your swollen skin, “Just wanted it so badly.”

“And I wanted you to behave but you decided to be a fucking brat instead.”

You couldn’t suppress the moan that fell past your lips at the word, meant to be an insult, but sent shockwaves of arousal coursing through your veins, landing straight between your legs where you dripped.

Michael’s eyebrow twitched up his face at your reaction, a dangerous smile creeping up onto his face, “Oh? You like being called a brat, huh?” He started, fingers trailing down the skin of your inner thighs, “You like it when I call you out for being my fucking spoiled little princess?”

“Yes.” You cried out, hips jerking backwards as his fingers finally dragged along your clothed pussy lips, avoiding the opening where your cunt revealed itself to him, now drenched from your essence, “Please punish me, Daddy.”

Michael groaned — the sensuality of the nickname hitting him beneath his boxers where he too twitched, now the hardest he ever had been as you lurched back into his touch, whining with your lip tucked under your teeth.

It was only when he slid a finger through your spread folds, collecting your arousal on a singular digit, drowning in the way you whined his name like a prayer, hips now jolting involuntarily as you begged for his touch as his finger swirled around your clenching hole, did he finally smile. He teased you relentlessly, letting you cry out, tears now falling freely from your eyes as he refused to fill you with his fingers, watching as you writhed pathetically from one touch.

“Beg for it.” He commanded, dipping just the tip of his middle finger into your spasming cunt, smirk deepening as you whined loudly.

“Please, God, please, baby, I’ll be good. I’ll be so fucking good f’you—fuck!” You panted, streaming eyes locked on his eyes as you pleaded, “I’ll never disobey you again, Mikey, I promise. ‘Be such a good girl, forever, ‘swear.”

He hummed, satisfied with your response, pushing a singular finger inside you, vision locked on the way your back arched deeper as he curled his finger just the way you liked — a needy, theatrical moan leaving your test-stricken lips as you ground back onto his hand.

His free hand spread across your side, pulling you back down onto his fingers as he slid a second inside, rubbing tight circles into the curve of your hip-dips, as you fucked yourself back onto him. His name fell from your lips in a chant — eyes rolled to the back of your head in pleasure as the pads of his fingers repeatedly abused the sweet spot inside you that had you seeing stars.

“Need your cock!” You exclaimed, eyes now squeezed shut as the arousal thumped deep in your bones, wanting nothing more than to be filled by his manhood.

“Don’t think you’re in a position to be making demands, sweetheart.” Michael reminded, grip tightening on your hip.

“‘M sorry—mmgh—just need to f-feel you!”

He hated the way he felt his resolve wearing thin at your pitiful begging — cock throbbing violently in his briefs as your cunt clenched around him, your wetness dripping down his knuckles.

“Oh, God, don’t stop!” You cried out, head thrown back as your hair splayed across your back, “Fuck, ‘m gonna cum!”

And as soon as your release threatened to spill over — it was snatched away from you as Michael retracted his fingers swiftly. You whined loudly, much like you had done in recent times, more tears splashing down your flushed cheeks as your head hung low as the blissful sensation of an orgasm fizzed away.

“You don’t get to cum.” Michael spoke darkly, the sound of his belt clinking against the floor mixing with his voice as he knelt against the bed, “Not until I say so.”

You nodded meekly, whimpering, “Yes, Michael.”

“Good girl. See? Not that hard, is it?” Michael praised, a hand coming to rub smooth, gentle circles on your ass cheek.

You gasped once more as the head of cock slid between your folds, catching on your aching clit, your muscles tensing as the familiar pleasureful sensation that was ripped away from you climbed back into your body. Your hips pushed back into him at the feeling — whining for more as he just stared down at you menacingly.

“Convince me why I should let you have it, baby.” Michael started, gliding his stiff cock between your folds, collecting your essence over the tip, revelling in the way you whined each time it would nudge your clit, “Why should I let my baby have what she wants all the time?”

“Fuck, please, Michael, please.”

Michael scoffed, “Gotta do better than that, sweetie.”

You cried out, hips jerking back to feel more of him, a desperate noise leaving you, “‘Cuz I love you so much, Mikey—fuck—‘cuz I’m so pretty and sweet and spend all your money on cute clothes that you l-love me wearing. ‘Cuz I wanna marry you and have your babies—oh, fuck me please!”

I mean, you weren’t wrong. If anything, it made Michael chuckle behind you — what you said was so correct yet so you at the same time he couldn’t help but let you have it. You cried out, hand clawing at the bedsheets beneath you as you fell into them, as Michael’s cock dragged to your entrance and slid inside — stuffing you to the hilt as he bottomed out immediately, your cunt twitching aggressively as it struggled to accommodate the fullness.

“So tight f’me, baby, fuck.” Michael groaned, eyes fluttering at the sensation of your convulsing sex wrapped beautifully around his hard cock.

His thrusts were relentless from the get go — the first drag back and push in was harsh and brutal, slamming against your cervix each time. Your eyes were permanently rolled to the back of your head as you drooled, mouth hanging ajar as you jittered around him, the prettiest noises sounding from your lips with each jerk of his hips.

He was unsympathetic — fucking you like he hated you as he set a devilish pace, grunting behind you as pleasure consumed him, too. Your hands frantically flailed behind you, pushing against his flexed abdomen to shove him away, his impressive stamina getting the better of you as he stretched you open — but it did nothing, only spurring him on to fuck you senseless for your teasing and childishness.

“‘Can’t—Can’t take it, ‘S too big!”

Michael landed another harsh slap to your ass cheek, “You can and you will. You owe it to me, baby, for being such a fucking brat.”

His words elicited a pounding throb to your clit — your whines only increasing in octave and decibel as his pace remained unceasing. Michael noticed the way you clenched, begging for more as you sucked him in, and leant over to grab a fistful of your hair — dragging you firmly, albeit still gently, up against his chest.

You panted as your head threw back against his shoulder, eyes still slammed shut, as his thrusts never let up — pleasure surpassing what you had ever felt as his hand slithered down your strained body, and began rolling tight, precise circles onto your clit, slick coating his fingers once more.

“Look at that stupid thing, baby.” Michael ordered, your eyes pouncing open, the ethereal bedroom decoration filling your vision, “Think those diamonds can see how much of a pathetic little princess you are?”

“‘M not—Not pathetic.” You managed to blurt out, whimpers falling past your lips the second sentence left you.

“Quit your bitchin’.”

Michael soon shut you up, shoving his free hand of fingers down your throat — the taste of your essence landing on your tongue as you hummed and swirled the warm muscle around him, now plugged at both ends as his other hand still worked magic against your clit, the familiar sensation of your release creeping up your spine.

“‘M there!” You mumbled against his fingers, spit coating his digits as you slobbered over him.

“Yeah? ‘M there too, pretty, give it to me. Give Daddy what he wants for once.” Michael panted, breath hot against your ear, “Gonna fill this pussy so good you’ll want nothin’ else from me ever again.”

You cried out — loud enough so that everyone in the house could hear exactly how blissfully pleasured you were as your orgasm hit you full force. You writhed in his grasp, the hand stuffed into your mouth now grabbing a handful of your breast, toying with your erect nipple through the lace of your bra as he continued to not only plough deep into your convulsing cunt, but also play with your swollen clit. You chanted his name like a prayer as he soon found his release, groaning as he sunk his teeth gently into the bare of your shoulder to ground himself as his hips finally stuttered, burying himself as deep as he could reach — his warm, spurting cum flooding your spent pussy.

Michael, despite your whines of overstimulation, rolled lazily, deep thrusts inside you — ignoring his own overwhelm as he fucked seed further inside you, before pressing a soft, loving kiss to where his teeth marks con-caved into your skin.

When he pulled out, hissing at the sensation, you fell forward onto the bed, panting as you attempted to retrieve your breath — cheeks now red hot, and body aching from the relentless sex. Michael crashed next to you, sighing loudly, as he pulled you against his chest, until the only sound that filled the room was his thumping heartbeat in your ear, and soft, yet ragged breaths.

“You.”

“What?”

“You’re prettier.” He admitted, eyes meeting your dazed ones, both of your lips tugging into a smile.

You leant up — connecting your lips in a gentle kiss, displaying your deep, irrevocable adoration for your man, mouths moving slowly together. You pulled away, brushing a stand of his silky hair away from his face, cupping his cheek, before pecking the tip of his nose.

“Does that mean it can stay?”

Michael laughed — even after everything, you were still set on that damn Chandelier.

“Fine,” He breathed out a chuckle, kissing to your cheek as you both peered up at the glistening decoration that had caused your playful disagreement,

“It can stay.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

When Michael called and asked to meet up for breakfast, it was nothing out of the ordinary. The two of you usually meet at least three days per week, anytime either of you are available for a brief catch up. Michael, especially, would try his darn hardest to not make the days few and far between.

Having been friends with him for so long, and you still vividly remember the reason why he's so intense about hangouts. It's a few years back, and he was in the middle of creating Off The Wall. By then, you’ve already been friends with each other for almost five years. Despite knowing his bizarrely busy work life, with tours and shows for The Jacksons, you didn't recall him being as busy as he was then for his adult solo album debut.

Yes, you understood the immense pressure and focus it takes for that. Particularly when it meant so much to Michael and how much of a perfectionist he is. But when it had been nearly a month filled with cancelled lunches and zero attempts at rescheduling, you took that as a hint that maybe Michael simply didn't think you're worth his time.

It hurt like hell then, and you know how they say ‘You can look back fondly’ or whatever? Yeah, it still hurts like hell just thinking about it.

It was nearing 2PM on a Wednesday, and after receiving a no-show, no-call, no nothing from Michael since yesterday, which was your mother’s birthday… that’s the last straw for you.

You take a deep breath, staring at the landline. Okay. Okay. You can do this.

Mustering up the courage, you hurriedly reach for the telephone before the opportunity to change your mind presents itself. Dialing the number you know by heart, you already predict that it'll just lead to Michael's home answering machine. And that suits you just fine.

You're absolutely done trying.

The telephone clicks, and surprise surprise, his machine answered. Clearing your throat, you prepare the script you had in mind for a while now.

“Michael, it's me. Listen, whenever you're free, I'm gonna need my things back. I already memorized them, so… Anyway, I left three of my sweaters and one of them, that navy blue one? Yeah, it should still be with Janet. Can you ask her to return it to me please? Also, you can keep my books, I just need my favourite one back. It's Demian by Herman Hesse… if you forget. There's some of my hair products left in the guest bathroom cabinet, if you want it you can keep it. If not, you can throw them out. I would come by myself and pick these up, but I don't even know where you are anymore these days, so it's easier this way. Okay, thanks… Goodbye.”

Almost slamming the telephone down, you take a long and deep breath. There. You've finally done it. Almost a month of nothing from him, and you've finally had enough.

God, it's like you're acting like a fling of his.

Well, you somehow emotionally feel like one when years of friendship come to a stop without any heads up. Quietly pouting to yourself, you plop on the couch and try to hold back your tears. Only Michael could bring your sensitivity out like this. That darn man.

It feels like you've been in your dreams forever when three timid knocks come onto your front door. Blinking your sleep away, seeing the television running and its blaring light, your eyes squint. Noting the tub of melted ice cream and another empty tub of the same flavour placed on the coffee table, you realize you fell into a deep sleep after consuming “post-break-up level ice cream” with M.A.S.H playing in the background.

Yikes. Maybe Michael was right in staying away from you. Downright mess is what you are.

Miserable at the thought, you comb your hair with your hands in an attempt to look presentable and trudge all the way to the front door.

Opening the door with curiosity, your eyes widen at the sight.

There's Michael, looking the most forlorn he's ever looked, holding your Demian novel. He bites his lip nervously, and you will yourself to avoid focusing there, and instead decide to cross your arms.

“Where's the rest of my stuff?”

He averts his gaze briefly, holding out the book more pronouncedly. “I didn’t forget your favourite book, sunshine.”

“Alright. Now where's the rest of my stuff?”

Michael frowns further, and with his soft voice, he says, “They’re back home… May I come in? Please?”

Huffing lightly, you begrudgingly open the door wider to let him in. Michael enters, almost shyly. His eyes wander to the state of the coffee table, and his heartstrings tug. It takes a no brainer to figure out the cause of that.

He fixes his gaze onto you again, and you speak up before he could.

“Don't you have work to do or something?”

“I uh… I took a break for the rest of the night. Figured I could use one.”

You hum in response, arms still crossed in defiance. “You usually take those breaks at 10PM.”

“Sunshine, it's almost 11 o’clock.”

Quietly berating yourself for sleeping the whole day away, you clear your throat in embarrassment. “I knew that.”

“Listen, I uh… I got home for a short minute earlier this afternoon, and I heard your message.” Michael looks at you carefully, placing the novel on the armrest of your couch.

“Apparently you heard but didn't listen. Because where is the rest of my stuff?” You ask him again, almost exasperated this time.

“Please, sunshine… Don’t do that,” he gently says. His eyes gleaming with concern. “I'm sorry.”

“It's forgotten, Michael. Just give me my stuff and it'll be all done.”

The man starts shaking his head adamantly, walking closer to you and firmly gripping your hands. “No, I'm sorry. For cancellin’ on you. A lot of times. For bailing last minute. I'm so sorry, sweetheart, I swear I didn't intend to hurt you.”

You shake your head, pulling away from Michael’s grip. The action stabs right through his heart, pain etched into every corner of his face. Walking around the room and cleaning up your mess, you tell him in a distracted manner. “I mean, Michael, I understand you're busy with everything. Truly. That's why I prefer not to disturb your life anymore, seeing how important it is for you to—”

“Stop,” he pleads as he tracks after you, taking the empty tubs of ice cream from your grip and places them back on the table. Taking your hands in his again, he leans in slightly and briefly bumps your forehead with his. “Please, don't do this. I can't take that. Not you, sunshine,” he whispers.

“Michael,” you sigh out.

“I'll make it up to you. I'll do anything, okay? Anything you ask me, I'll do it. Just, please…” he whispers timidly. Taking your hand and kissing the back of it, Michael continues. “You're not gettin’ your stuff back, alright? Not anytime soon. You have a home there, and I’m askin’ you to come back there tonight.”

Shaking your head stubbornly, you tell him you couldn't.

“Call in sick tomorrow. Please. I'll tell them I have a family emergency, and we'll– we'll spend the day together. Okay? We can go wherever you'd like, you name it. I'll even tell Bill to let you drive, if you want?”

“Michael!” You interrupt him, frowning in disbelief, “What makes you think I'm going to call in sick for you tomorrow when you haven't even had a full conversation with me for longer than a minute in the past three weeks?”

He freezes, lips parting in surprise and his eyes dull by the second. Michael shifts closer and nods, “You're right… I'm sorry.”

“You missed my mother's birthday,” you whisper, your heartbroken eyes tearing right through his soul. “She asked after you.”

“I know,” he whispers in response, letting out a shaky breath. “I already got her somethin’, as an apology. I'll give it to her soon.”

You hiss softly, “Just your presence would have sufficed, Mike.”

“I know, sweetheart, I'm sorry, I promise I'll do better,” he says, desperately cradling the side of your face, “I just need you to be patient, please, I can't– you can't just ask for your things like that, it scares me terribly.”

“Well, how do you think I feel?” you ask him, pain lacing your voice. “I know I'm no musician or artist, so I know time is wasted if you spend it with me—”

“That's not it at all, sunshine,” he argues, stroking your cheek with his thumb, “Don't say things like that. I never meant to hurt you, I just, I got carried away, but that won't happen again. Ever, okay? Please?”

Michael leans in and presses a soft kiss against your temple, “I'll do better, I promise. We'll meet up at least five days per week, or however you want it. I'll schedule and everythin’, okay? Please, baby?”

You almost melt at what he says to you, heart beating faster at the nickname. He's never called you that before.

“Mike…” you trail off.

“Please,” he whispers against your neck, wrapping his arms around the back of your waist. “I'm sorry. Please don't be mad anymore. You’re such a precious friend of mine, I can’t lose that. I'll do better.”

It takes another moment of silence, his grip tightening around you, head buried into your shoulder, before you manage to quietly tell him, “Okay.”

His whole figure melts the tension away, sighing out and pressing a soft kiss against your neck. “Thank you,” Michael whispers.

So, that's how it led to Michael being serious when it comes to planning little brunches or meet-ups in the years following. He never forgets to call you back to do a raincheck if his schedule couldn't allow a spare moment of freedom. If a last minute cancellation happens, he'd apologise the same day by sending flowers or on the rare occasions when he could, Michael sends himself with a rental movie and bags of snacks. Inviting himself in for a late movie night. And you can't complain.

Which is why you're sitting for breakfast with him, though you wonder why he decides to have it with you at the cafe across from Westlake Recording Studios. The cafe you're at is still in the studio premises, and with Michael being here, they've taken extra precautions so there would be no disturbance from the press or fans so early in the morning.

“Mikey,” you nudge your foot against his softly below the table. “Please, for the love of God, drink your OJ.”

Slightly jumping in surprise, Michael looks at you sheepishly before putting down the pencil. His hand finally gets its grip on the glass of orange juice, taking a big gulp before smiling widely at you.

“Sorry, sunshine. I was in too deep again, huh?”

You hum in amusement and shrug, “It's how you always get, Mike. What's gotten you so out of it this time?”

“It's uh, my short film, remember the one I told you about the other day? They're gonna start auditions soon. I'm just writin’ down some ideas I have, y’know… maybe they'd oughta’ put some of it in, I don't know,” Michael shrugs as he flips through the notes.

“Oh, is this the one for that Thriller song?”

“Yes,” he says, smiling at your excitement.

“Mike!” you gasp, clasping your hands under your chin, “Oh, I can't wait for that! You must be dying to start production already!”

He nods, taking a bite of his toast. Tilting his head, Michael murmurs softly, “They're gonna have auditions next week.” Eyes flickering to the side, he bites his lip nervously. As per usual, you will yourself to look away to avoid lingering your gaze on his lips. Clearing your throat, you look at him with a raised brow.

“What's bugging you?”

“The auditions… the main character they're findin’ is supposed to play my love interest. And I knew that going in, but uh, I'm just– I'm just thinkin’ how awkward it would translate on camera. Me with a stranger and all. You know what I mean?”

Nodding along to his words, you give him an emphatic look. You know Michael. He's the furthest thing from shy, but that's when he's on stage. With cheering audiences and dance grooves to help him find his rhythm. Although, Michael is harsh on himself because you personally have never seen him act as awkward as he thinks he is. Nervous, sure, but that happens to everybody. Your hackles slightly rise at the thought of another woman acting intimate and close with him, but you brush that off. There's no time for silly business like that here. You want to tell him it's not going to be a problem, but instead resort to a different method once you spot the genuine gleam of concern in his eyes.

“Mike, you'll be fine. And if you're anxious at all, just…” you think for a moment before snapping your fingers, pointing to him. “Just imagine you're on stage. You'd practically be on stage right? With cameras, crew members, an audience. Just pretend you're on stage dancing with a lovely girl. You'll knock their socks off!”

Michael quietly chuckles at your words, nodding along. “Thank you for your tip, sunshine. But I, uh… already had my own solution, if that's what we're callin’ it.”

“Oh? And what's that?”

It takes a beat of silence. Michael tries giving you a slow, smooth grin. Letting out a nervous laugh.

You look back at him with confusion, your eyes getting narrower with every second that passes. He shrugs and raises his brows, seemingly suggestive.

Then, your brain clicks. Eyes briefly widening before a grimace quickly replaces your look of bafflement.

“No way in hell, mister.”

“Sunshine, please!” Michael scoots his chair annoyingly loudly to be right beside you. The iron stools drag against the hard concrete, making that irritating screeching sound repeatedly enough that it turns some people's heads. You shake your head incessantly but this doesn't deter the man. Instead, he's decided on gripping both your hands on the table. “It'll be so much fun! And I'll feel so much better with someone I know!”

“Then get LaToya to play! She was already with you in that song with Paul!”

“I'm not doin’ that! C’mon, sweetheart! Don't you want to make me happy?” Michael continues to plead, eyes wide and doe-like specifically to torture you. Sometimes, you genuinely think the universe blessed him with those to weaken your resolve. You groan and look away, covering your eyes.

“What's gonna make you happy is a successful short film, and having me on it won't bring anything but unnecessary trouble! I'm not an actor, Mike!”

“You don't need to be a good one with this particular vision,” he says in a sing-song voice, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. Michael rests his chin on top of his other hand, eyes locked into your gaze, never flicking away. “What do you say, sunshine?”

You poke his forehead. “I say no.”

“What if yes?”

“In your head, maybe. But I say no. Next topic.”

“Sunshine…”

“Michael. Don't make me hit you with that toast of yours.”

•

After your toast threat, Michael admits defeat with much grumbling in tow. But he’s left you alone about it… in his own way.

Two days after the Toast threat, he starts… pulling things.

You’re in the middle of doing some work when a knock comes onto the door followed by frantic rustling. Eyes narrowing in suspicion, you get up and open the door just slightly. Michael’s been telling you to get a peephole but you’ve imagined far too many scary things enough to not pursue that idea.

Outside, there’s nobody except… flickering your gaze down on the doorstep, two bouquets of flowers and a box of chocolates set in between. You raise your brow and open the door wider. Of course, it’s Michael but even for him this is a little too much. He cancelled the brunch you were supposed to have earlier but had already apologized by sending you some food the moment he hung up. There’s something else going on here.

Naturally, you reach for the box of chocolates first.

On top of the box was a note. You hold back a shocked gasp once you read the words.

‘Do you wanna be my co-lead? Take blue bouquet if yes! Take pink bouquet if no :(‘

‘I’ve asked the secret messenger to hide and see what you pick, so if there’s a creep in the bushes, that’s him :) so don’t worry.’

‘Love, Mike’

This is when you know Michael is almost desperate to get you into this filming gig because in a normal circumstance, he’d never let anyone, not even any of his brothers, play a trick and have a peeping Tom moment on you.

Scoffing aloud, you only take the box of chocolates and exaggeratingly hold out the pink bouquet, for anyone in the vicinity to see.

“Got it, thanks!” a muffled voice comes out from one of the bushes to your left and you hold back a grimace before immediately going back in.

Two days later, he does it again.

No plans to meet up for today, but he usually calls around 3PM to have a chat. Your landline rings on the dot, and you pick up. Before getting any word in, Michael speaks up, making you jump.

“Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please—”

“Michael! That’s enough!”

“Please, sunshine, I’d do anything!”

“Mike!”

“Oh, you’re so hard-headed!”

Gasping in offense, you murmur poutingly, “You take that back or I’ll hang up.”

“I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean that.” Ignoring the name he calls you again, despite the butterflies in the pits of your stomach, you scold him.

“Mikey, I’m not going to say yes! Lay off, good lord.”

Muffled voices can be heard from his side, and your ears prick at hearing the words ‘audition’, ‘girl’, ‘long queue’.

Oh sure, when someone is talking to you, you have to ask them to repeat it a few times, but background conversations from the other line? No trouble at all. Figures.

You snap out of it once the words heard finally register into your brain.

“Michael?”

“… Yes, sunshine?”

“Are you asking me… the same time they’re having auditions for the role?”

“Listen…” he starts.

Then the line clicks.

Your mouth is left agape, realizing he hung up after not knowing how to excuse himself. The nerve. Laughing to yourself, you continue your day.

•

Days later, despite your underlying suspicions and high alarm, you go against them when Michael invites you to visit the set. He promised you beforehand about leaving you alone in regards to having you in the video, and there’s no ulterior motive behind his offer.

You’re having the time of your life eating from the snacks table as Michael tells you about the filming. He was already in costume, and you have to avoid looking at him again, because God… he looks absolutely wonderful in it. Beyond wonderful.

Discreetly shaking your head out of your thoughts, an absentminded hum leaves your lips. “Did you find an actress?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “Ola. She’s nice.”

“Nice?” you ask, looking at him briefly. “Just nice? How’s the choreography training? Went well?” Biting your lip, you take a gander at all the mini bagels laid neatly on a tray in front of you. Unbeknownst to you, the man beside you almost melts at the adorable view.

Clearing his throat, Michael shrugs. “Well, it’s not like she’s gonna be dancin’ with me. We’re just walkin’… and yeah, it went okay. I just have to cuddle up close to her more and such.”

“Oh,” is all you can say, in fear of exposing the ugly envy rearing its head out of you. “Fun.”

“Yeah, wish it’s you instead, though,” Michael murmurs in response, busily fussing with the lapels of his jacket.

You turn to him with wide eyes, “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, nothing! Nothing, eat your bagel, sunshine.”

•

“John. John, we got a problem!”

“Excuse me, guys,” the man says to you and Michael, grinning before leaving the two of you sitting on folding chairs set behind the cameras. You blow out a breath, giving a look to Michael.

“What is it?” he questions.

Shrugging, you speak to him in a hushed voice, “He’s a little much, isn’t he?”

Michael’s face contorts into confusion before raising his brows in surprise, “Who– John?”

“He’s all up in your face, that’s for sure. And why does he keep lifting–”

“Sunshine!” Michael softly tuts at you, holding back his laughter. “Stop that.”

Raising your hands in surrender, “I’m just telling you the truth!”

The both of you try to keep your laughters at bay, almost to no avail before John appears once again, face stricken. Taking off his glasses, he rubs the bridge of his nose before looking straight at Michael. “Uhm, Mike?”

Michael gets up from his seat, looking at John in concern. “What’s up?”

“Ola’s not coming.”

“I’m sorry?” Michael and you say in unison, his tone more in surprise, yours more in disbelief.

“Yeah, she’s got the flu. Or her aunt’s got the flu. I don’t know, someone got the flu but she can’t make it, I wasn’t really listening after that,” John says, putting his hands on his hips. Michael crosses his arms, tilting his head.

“Well, we can shoot tomorrow?”

John shakes his head, “No dice. She won’t be able to get here within the next few days, and we gotta start shooting today. We have to cut her.”

You exchange a look with Michael, and the latter speaks up, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s a little harsh, ain’t it, John?”

John shrugs, and his unconcerned behaviour leaves a bad taste in your mouth. “That’s how it is, Mike. You know that. No show, no go. We can’t delay filming any longer, either way. So, I’m gonna get that list of runner ups for the girl character, and we’ll start from there, huh?”

“Wait, uh… but I still need to get comfortable with her, is that right?” Michael says, beginnings of anxiety radiating off of him. Giving him a worried look, you take a step closer and reach out to pat his arm comfortingly.

“No time, Mike. Don’t worry, you get the hang of it as we film. You’re a natural,” John waves his hand away.

“Yeah, but John, it might get into my head and I can’t really perform if things get into my head–”

“I’ll do it,” you blurt out before cowardice could get to you.

“Sorry?” the two men say in unison, both in surprise.

“I’ll do it. Mike is comfortable with me. It makes sense,” you repeat, giving a small smile to John. His face quickly brightens, and he grips your shoulders firmly.

“You just made my job a whole lot easier! I could kiss you!”

“Better not, huh?” Michael mutters, pulling you away from John’s grasp, slight frown on his face and his eyes gleaming with something. Unperturbed by this, John rushes away like a man on a mission.

Michael turns to you, hands coming up to rest on your shoulders. He looks at you with concern, “Sunshine, are you sure? I promise, I didn’t plan this or anything. I wouldn’t actually pressure you like this, y’know that right?”

“I know, Mike. Don’t worry.” You gaze up at him softly, brushing imaginary dust off of his shoulder, “I just didn’t want to see you get into your head about that kind of thing.”

“Always lookin’ out for me,” he says quietly, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Promise me you’re okay with this? Because if not, I’ll let John know and it would be no problem.”

“I promise,” you say. Nodding firmly.

Michael looks at you for a few more seconds, gazing into your eyes. He smiles widely after, leaning in to kiss your cheek. Murmuring softly, he pulls you into a tight hug, “You’re a lifesaver, sunshine.”

“I know,” you sigh out, returning the hug. You wanted to curse everything for putting yourself in this position, but everything comes to a stop when you’re in his arms.

You’d do anything for Michael, it seems. It’s only right when he does almost anything for you.

Besides, it’s not a totally bad thing when Michale smiles at you in a way he does. You take that as sort of a reward point, internally storing it in your head. It’s too late to back out now.

Gosh, what did you just get yourself into?

•

The filming is supposed to begin by now, but a grace period was given for you to learn what you’re supposed to do. The crew is still setting up the scene, hustling and bustling around the space. It’s the scene after the movie, where you’re walking out of the theatre and Michael runs after you. John describes the energy you’re supposed to have which is a little flirty, a little teasy, all that junk. He’s pointing on all your T-marks, explaining the lines your character says.

Nodding along, you adjust the denim jacket you’re wearing. The hairstylist is doing some finishing touches when Michael comes up to you with a wide grin. He’s been grinning like a fool ever since you agreed to do this. “Everythin’ okay, sunshine?”

You smiled at him in amusement, “Okay until you appear with that exhausting smile of yours.”

Chuckling softly, he gazes at you up and down, nodding in absolute delight. “You look really good.”

You push down the urge to look away shyly, and instead teasingly throw him a grin. “You really think so? I’ve never worn these types of pants, what do you think?” Giving him a little spin once the hairstylist rushes off, showing him the whole look in a playful manner.

Michael ignores the way the fabric clings to your legs and how the top hugs you in all the right places. He ignores how the makeup somehow enhances the lighthearted gleam in your eyes, and how the vibrant color on your lips make them appear much more kissable, if that’s even possible.

“Absolutely beautiful, sunshine. I’m tellin’ you now, you’re breaking the hearts of people around here.”

Nudging him gently, you let out a shy chuckle. Michael softly grins and grabs your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours and lightly sways them from side to side. John walks up to the both of you, a bright smile on his face. “Are we ready?”

You nod, a nervous twinge blossoming from your stomach. “Mhm.”

“Hey,” Michael whispers as everyone gets ready for their cues. “Just like we practiced, hm?”

You’re aware Michael’s intention was to soothe your nerves, but what he didn’t realize is that the practice is the last thing you want to remember.

A little over an hour ago, you and Michael were inside an empty room, while John and a couple other onlookers discussed the pacing and the actions you’d be doing. You’re not in costume yet, as the wardrobe was still in the middle of handling sizing and whatnot. The scene of you talking outside the theatre was fairly easy. It was quickly practiced in one go before John moved on to the most important sequence for you two.

“And then, I just… slowly guide you, in a way. But we’re just walkin’, alright? Nothing else, just you and me walkin’ down the path,” Michael gestures, telling you how the scene goes.

Nodding and giving him a playful smile, you say, “Well, I’m walking down the path while you’re acting like a goofball?” Michael laughs and nudges your chin, muttering sheepishly. “Yeah, if you put it like that.”

So, the practice begins. You’re walking, walking, walking. Swinging your hips ever so slightly, because John says for you to ‘be alluring, but not too much’. You can’t really decipher what he actually needs, but you leave it be because Michael looks at you in the most reassuring way the whole time. Assuming there’s no qualms with how you’re doing so far due to the silent observation the other crew members are doing, you continue doing the same thing.

Walking down the small space, Michael moves to the rhythm and does his little ministrations. Teasingly grinning, taking steps around you. When the song gets to a point, he goes behind you and places both his hands on your shoulders, making you laugh and look back at him, continuing the walk around the floor. He laughs along too, and pulls you closer before taking a few steps back again. It almost feels like you’re dancing with him, with the way he moves and glides along the beat and having you subconsciously follow his timing.

He steps around you again, walking backwards and mouthing along the words playing, and you bite your lip and softly reach out to stroke his jaw. Michael stills ever so slightly before grinning, ignoring the heat making its way to the apples of his cheeks. He softly ghosts the back of his hand down your arm, making you shiver mildly at the contact. Michael eyes your reaction, and snakes his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as he gazes down at your lips.

Leaning in for just a second, you teasingly look away afterwards, catching him off guard. The arm Michael has around your shoulders slides down to hug your waist, squeezing it once before letting go fully as he proceeds to mouth the words, intensity burning in his eyes.

The walk goes along further, with you having to turn around due to the limited space yet maintaining the energy. A little tug of imaginary rope shared between you and him, entrancing the rest of the room. They all stay quiet during your choreography, scared any movement will somehow break the tension. But as they note the way you lean closer to Miichael’s warmth and how much more comfortable he seems to be with touching you in a carefree way, more so than with Ola, they don’t think anything can break the tension.

You bite back a grin, having your own little staring contest as Michael shakes his head, grinning in a defeated way when he finally blinks. Coming closer, his hand reaches out to slide across your stomach, and he’s slowly walking around you in controlled pacing. You hide your gasp at his soft touch, but Michael only gazes at you with a playful gleam in his eyes. His fingers inch a short hair’s breadth away from your torso before making its way gracefully to the small of your back.

Okay, this might be the no air conditioning in the room, but you don’t think Michael was supposed to be nearly as touchy as he is right now.

He shifts closer again, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into a firm hold as the verse ends. You look at him silently as his dark gaze flickers down to your lips before going back up to softly stare into your eyes.

The sound of clapping breaks the bubble, and you lightly pull away, not going far when Michael’s hold on your hand tightens. “That was great, guys,” John says cheerfully, clearing his throat as the other crew members disperse, some of them exchanging knowing looks and mischievous smiles. John pats you on the shoulder once before squeezing Michael’s arm.

“We’re in luck! I think we’re ready to go, she’s a natural,” he says, walking out the door before rearing his head back for a short second to continue. “Oh, uh, Mike? I know what I said the other day, but maybe tone it down if you want to air it on TV, huh?”

Your eyes widen before looking at Michael who could only clear his throat and look down at your interlocked fingers. Flitting his eyes towards you, he murmurs so quietly. “You were really great.”

“I was?” you ask, smiling sheepishly.

“Yeah,” he nods, grinning wider, reaching to gently stroke your cheek. “You’re perfect, baby.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, you try your hardest to expel the memory of the practice– and how he called you ‘baby’ yet again with no warning– and only remember your dialogue. Nodding to let them know you’re ready, Michael guides you to move behind the fake doors, getting on your marks. He gives you a silent look of assurance, taking your hand and kissing the back of it briefly before pulling away.

“Alright, everyone, quiet on set! Mark. And we’re rolling… 3,2,1, action!”

You take a deep breath, centering yourself before walking out the door. Strutting your way to the front and arms crossing as you land on the mark. Michael’s cue comes in and he runs after you, charmingly laughing as he says his line.

“It’s only a movie!”

Throwing him a tantalizing look, you say your line in a pouting manner, “It’s not funny.”

He looks to the side before giving you a knowing look, smirking roguishly. “You were scared, weren’t you?”

“I wasn’t that scared,” you reply, timid and small before facing to the side in disgruntlement. Although, your eyes are still looking at him, finding it hard to actually turn around at your cue, too lost in the way he holds himself in front of the camera.

“Yeah,” he says quietly tilting his head, smiling that attractive, heartbreaking, arresting knockout smile of his. You’re so bothered by it, you finally turn around and walk away. Michael laughs in a way that makes you think he could read your mind, and he says his line, “You were scared.”

He follows after you, already reaching his arm around your waist before John yells out into the megaphone, “Cut! That was great!”

As if he didn’t hear a thing, Michael wraps his arm around your waist, talking to you quietly. “Hey, sunshine, can we have a movie night after this?”

Raising your brows, you look at him curiously. “Sure, Mikey, but why so sudden?”

Michael shrugs as he tugs your ear affectionately. “No reason, I just miss you.”

“Yeah, of course,” you say in response, giggling when he smiles widely at your agreement. You hear someone clear your throat, and it was the stylist glancing between you and Michael back and forth.

“Sorry, Michael, I’m gonna have to steal your girl for a sec’, hair needs some touch ups.”

Your lips part, about to tell him that no, you’re not his girl before Michael speaks up. “Yeah, sure. I’ll let you do your thing. See you in a bit, sunshine.” Then, he walks away.

Leaving you almost sputtering at his lack of denial, lack of reaction, lack of anything really. Just pure, casual agreement.

Noticing your facial expression, the stylist laughs to himself, “Boy, you two must be a show for your friends.”

What is that supposed to even mean? you think to yourself, pouting in annoyance.

•

It’s the following night where you plop on the couch, sighing and resting your head back. You’ve finally finished filming the necessary parts, having succeeded in bringing life to John’s and Michael’s visions, and now all you want to do is sleep for the next two days straight. Once you arrived home, the only thing on your mind was a long, hot shower. Checking that off the list, you can move on to the sleeping bit.

Three knocks come onto the door. You only groan out, eyes still closed, “It’s open!”

It could only be one person, anyway.

“Sunshine,” Michael’s soft voice calls out as he opens the door, entering while holding a paper bag, presumably filled with snacks and a rental movie. “I told you to never leave your door unlocked.”

“Even when I’m right here?” you ask, squinting one eye open, looking at him.

“Especially when you’re right there,” he shakes his head, placing the paper bag on the coffee table.

Almost whining, you fall and lay on your side, burrowing into the couch. “Oh, c’mon, Mike, I knew you were coming in anyway! I’m too lazy to walk all the way over there, and reach out my hand all the way to the doorknob, and open it for you. I’m beat!”

Chuckling quietly, he looks at you in amusement, “It takes six steps from the couch to the door, sweetheart.”

“Same difference,” you wave your hand away. “Gosh, I’m beat. Remind me to never do this again. I’m fine and dandy doing my own work, thank you very much.”

Michael hums, leaning down to softly stroke your head as he smiles. “Too tired for movie night, I take it?”

“No, no, you wanted a movie night, we’re going to do movie night, okay?” you say, quieting down when he starts shaking his head.

“I just wanted to be with you tonight, sunshine. No movies necessary.”

Oh. Okay.

“Well… what do you wanna do?” you ask, getting up and sitting with criss-cossed legs on the couch.

“Well, I actually, uh… I wanted to talk to you about somethin’,” Michael says, sitting next to you on the couch, making himself comfortable.

“What is it?”

“It’s been runnin’ around my mind since… forever. More than usual, recently.”

Nervously fiddling with his shirt, Michael turns to look at you. The glint of what you see as desperation appears in his eyes, and all you could do is stare back at him with parted lips.

“Y’know I love you, don't you?” he asks in a small voice.

Nodding slowly, you reply in a whisper. “Of course.”

“And I hope you love me… the way that I love you,” he continues, giving you a slow look of nervousness, brows raising expectantly.

You're frozen still, mind whirring violently as you take in his words. Is he being serious? Could it be… Wait. Your happiness halts as what he says registers, and all you could do is let out a weak laugh before you could outwardly pinch yourself from being delusional.

“Mike, are you saying your character lines to me again?”

Michael stares at you in befuddlement, eyes widening, taken aback. “I was?”

“Yes,” you feign a laugh to cover your disappointment, “It's pretty similar.”

The man gets up abruptly from the couch, pacing back and forth in front of you, nervously rubbing the back of his neck as he lets out an ‘Uh’, ‘Um’ and cursing quietly to himself every now and again.

Baffled at his behaviour, you try sporting a teasing laugh. “What, are you trying to tell me you're a creature of the night or something?”

You're joking but secretly, you pray to anything that hears you it's truly, truly not that. You don't think you could handle Michael being a werewolf. Or a werecat, for that matter.

“No, no, no,” he says in a rushed state, going down on his knees and grabbing ahold of your hands. Eyes looking into yours softly. “Baby, I'm being serious.”

Stilling again at the name, trying to push down your feeling of thrill and excitement, you ask him to clarify further. “What's going on, Michael?”

“I meant…” he starts, biting his lip before taking one of your hands and kissing the knuckles, “I love you… in a way a friend shouldn't, sunshine.”

“I… I beg your pardon?” you say, face etching into surprise.

Michael nods and reaches to stroke the side of your face, murmuring quietly. “I’m… in love with you, sunshine. I've been lovin’ you like this for a while now.”

“Michael, stop playing around.”

“I'm not,” he says firmly. Leaning his forehead against yours, Michael continues in a hushed tone. “I've been in love with you for ages, and I didn't say anythin’ cause I didn't know how… how you felt. But yesterday when I… when we were practicin’ and I was holding you, and your eyes, your face…” he trails off as he brushes his lips against your jaw, making you melt with desire.

“Your face said somethin’ to me,” Michael says, gazing at you, his eyes sparkling with want, getting brighter with every second that passes. With a voice almost shaky with trepidation, he asks you, “Didn't it, sunshine?”

“Michael…” you whisper hoarsely, focusing on his lips.

“Hm?” He's now inching closer, lips ghosting against the corner of your mouth. “Tell me I'm not seein’ things?”

Shaking your head dazedly, you could only tell him, “No, you're not.”

Almost heaving a deep sigh, Michael kisses your nose. Smiling sheepishly, he says, “I knew it.”

“Mike!” you laugh, caught off guard.

“I knew I wasn’t trippin’, baby! God, I’m so glad,’ he says with the tone of excitement lacing his words before looking at you in a shy manner again.

Before you could laugh off the remnants of tension brewing between the two of you any further, Michael leans in and whispers against your temple. “You have no idea how happy I am, really. Truly.”

“Then you must know how happy I feel, Mike,” you say softly in response.

Michael hums, and starts to leave small kisses against the side of your face. "That's good to know.”

Silence fills the room save for the sounds of him pressing his lips down to your neck, inching closer to the arch to your shoulder. The both of you melting into each other, relief brewing in his heart as well as yours at the thought of finally escaping the imprisonment of feelings for each other. Michael softly says, “Baby, I’m… dyin’ to kiss you. Can I? Please?”

Biting your lip, you notice his gaze of desire and could only bring yourself to nod. Leaning in closer to him, you both finally meet in the middle.

Your lips make contact in a gentle manner, almost hesitant at first. Michael cradles both sides of your face gently as he leads you into the kiss. Parting your lips every so slightly, he tilts his head and shifts closer. Pressing his lips more firmly against yours, the both of you sigh in relief, as if you’ve both been underwater for so long and now, you finally get the chance of fresh air. The soft brushes drive you crazy, as well his thumb that’s now slowly stroking your neck. Nipping at your bottom lip, you gasp and he chuckles quietly, briefly pulling away.

Before you could whine, he gets up and hushes you warmly, “My knees were hurtin’, baby.”

Taken aback, you laugh shyly and pull him to the couch next to you, leaning in to kiss him deeply this time. Michael sighs into your lips and wraps his arms around your waist. He’s holding back a groan as you reach your fingers to run through his hair, and the man squeezes you more firmly as he parts his lips from yours, trailing to the slope of your neck. Each kiss makes you tilt your head further, carefully cradling the back of his head.

“I've been wantin’ this for so long,” Michael mutters, pressing a final kiss to your shoulder. Pulling his head back completely, Michael looks at you with what you could only call as a wonderment. The both of you are still holding each other as if you're never letting go, and you shyly lean down and press a kiss on his nose.

“I never would have guessed, Mike.”

“I think I was hidin’ it pretty well,” he let out a low chuckle, “Well, that's what I thought until one of the crew members came at me earlier askin’ why we weren't together yet.”

Your lips part in surprise, the warmth of embarrassment filling every inch of your being. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Michael nods, laughing again at your state, “I'm sorry too… because that was kind of the last straw before I gathered the courage to tell you.”

Giggling, you bury your face into his shoulder, leading to Michael softly stroking the back of your head.

“Sunshine?”

“Hm?”

“Are we… Are we okay with where this is goin’?”

Sighing and shifting closer against Michael, you nod happily.

“Good because… I was wonderin’ if… you'd be my girl?” he asks you, lightly lifting your head off to look into your eyes.

Lips tilting upwards, you look at him in amusement, quickly noting the callback of his dialogue from the shooting again. A disapproving shake of your head as you laugh heartily.

“You’re doin’ it again.”

Michael’s voice was soft, close to your ear as you laid on his chest, playing absentmindedly with the fingers on one hand while his other hand combed through your hair.

“Doing what?” You asked, peering up at him. 

“Starin’ at my hands.”

Your cheeks flushed a rosy shade of pink. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it.” One corner of Michael’s mouth curled slightly upward into an amused smirk that made you feel warm all over. 

It was no secret that you had a thing for his hands. They were one of the first things you’d noticed about him—deft and strong and almost twice as big as your own. You found yourself staring at them more often than you’d ever admit, thinking about how his fingers would feel wrapped around your neck (never choking, only holding you), grabbing your chin to make you look at him, teasing between your legs until he finally, finally slipped them inside you… 

You were beginning to daydream again, but Michael’s gentle voice snapped you out of it. 

“Hey. Pretty girl. You still with me?”

He wasn’t laughing at you, not quite, but his eyes were twinkling with amusement. He loved that such a relatively small part of him had such a big effect on you.

And admittedly, he was good with his hands.

“You’re making fun of me.” You pouted, and he let out the laugh he’d been holding in, shaking his head. “I’m not, I swear! Scout’s honor.” He held up the hand that had been in your hair like he was making a pledge, and you rolled your eyes. “Since when were you a Boy Scout?”

“‘s just an expression, pretty girl.” He grinned, his voice as smooth and sweet as honey. 

When you didn’t respond, he pulled away the hand that you’d been holding, wiggling his fingers in front of your face. He was taunting, trying to get a rise out of you, and you were falling for it hook, line, and sinker.

“Show me how much you like ‘em.”

“What?”

“Show me.”

He cupped the side of your face, his thumb brushing lightly back and forth across your bottom lip. Without thinking, your eyes fluttered closed, and Michael stopped, clicking his tongue. “Nuh-uh. Look at me, baby.” 

You opened your eyes to find him staring at you intently, his big, brown eyes full of adoration. 

“Open up.” He pressed the pad of his thumb down on your bottom lip, prompting you to open your mouth. “Now, show me how much you like ‘em.” He repeated his request (that was really a demand). 

With your eyes still on his, you took his thumb in your mouth, and he let out a pleased sigh. “Good girl.” 

It was like his voice was hardwired directly to your clit. As soon as he started to praise you, his voice dropping an octave, you started throbbing. Desperate to show him how good you could be, you swirled your tongue around his thumb, sucking it deeper into your mouth.

“Atta girl. There you go.” It was embarrassing, how worked up he could get you without really touching you at all, but you’d passed the point of shame now. You released his thumb with a quiet pop, pleading with him with your eyes.

“Michael… I need you to touch me, please.”

He smiled, but shook his head. He’d never been one to say no to you, but it was just so much fun to play with you when you got needy like this.

“Not yet, pretty girl. Gotta make sure you’re ready for me first.”

He teased your lips with his pointer and middle finger, silently asking for permission before he slipped them in your mouth. That was Michael—always respectful, always a gentleman, even when he had you doing something as lewd as sucking his fingers.

“There you go.” He lowered his voice impossibly further, his tone reverent. 

You couldn’t have formulated a coherent sentence if you wanted to. Not only was your mouth occupied, but the way he was talking you through it while he pumped two fingers gently in and out of your mouth had made your brain go all fuzzy. The only thing you could think to do was to lick and suck his fingers until they were completely wet, a thin string of saliva connecting them to your lips when he finally pulled them out.

“Look at you.” He all but cooed, sliding his hand down to the waistband of your shorts, unbuttoning them and pulling them off with practiced ease. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” He whispered, feeling you through your underwear. “So wet for me already.”

That was the understatement of the century. You were soaked. Shifting your hips impatiently, you did your best to get some kind of friction against his hand. Anything to give you some relief.

His fingers stilled, and for one brief, horrifying moment, you thought he was going to pull away. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d punished you for your impatience—dragging out your pleasure until you were a begging, pleading mess for him. 

But apparently Michael was in a generous mood today. Instead of stopping, he leaned forward to capture your lips in a sweet, tender kiss, muffling the moan you let out when he finally pushed the fabric aside and touched you properly. 

“Michael. Michael, please—” You mumbled pathetically, wriggling and lifting your hips to try and coax his fingers inside you. He tutted. “Shhh, baby.” He murmured against your lips, hushing you so, so gently. 

“You just lay there and look pretty for me, alright? You don’t gotta do anything. You let me do all the work.”

It took some serious effort to stop your shifting on the bed, but you did your best, wanting nothing more than to please him. You were rewarded with more reverent murmuring as long fingers teased your opening, oh so close but not quite where you needed them.

“There she is.” He slipped one finger inside—just barely—and then pulled back, tearing a frustrated noise from your throat.

“You’re doing so good, baby. ‘m so proud of you. So, so proud.” He kept murmuring, and kept teasing. 

“Michael…” Your eyes were beginning to well with tears, a testament to how easy it was for him to make you come completely undone.

“Hm?” He looked at you innocently, like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. That bastard. “What is it, angel?”

“I need to feel you. Please?” You asked as nicely as you could manage, giving him your very best attempt at puppy dog eyes.

“Where, baby?” You wanted to scream. “Inside me.”

“Like this?”

After what felt like an agonizingly long wait, he finally slipped a finger inside you fully. You let out a cry and covered your face with your hands, but he used his free hand to pull them away.

“None of that. I want to see what I do to you.” Michael always wanted to look at you during sex. It was overwhelming at times—the eye contact while he was unraveling you with his fingers or his mouth or his dick—but you were too desperate to argue, so you just nodded, forcing your eyes to stay open and on him.

He rewarded your obedience with another finger, the pair of them stretching you out so much it was hard to believe it was only two. 

He paused for a second, letting you get used to the full sensation. “You okay, pretty girl?” He asked softly, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, your neck—peppering tiny kisses in all your most sensitive spots. 

“‘m okay. Just want you to move.”

“Whatever my girl wants.” He grinned wickedly, beginning to pump his fingers in and out of you. He was slow at first, gentle, but when he was sure you were comfortable, his pace became relentless. Which was exactly what you wanted.

“Tell me how that feels, baby. Use your words.” He coaxed you, even though your brain had basically turned to mush and the concept of words was becoming exceedingly difficult.

“Feels… so, so good, Michael. Please d-don’t… don’t stop.” You stuttered, and he didn’t. He used his thumb to circle your clit, knowing exactly how to touch you to get the sweetest, most delicious sounds out of your pretty mouth.

Of all the music he’d ever heard, those sounds were his favorite. “Are you getting close, baby?” He asked, but he already knew the answer. You were clenching around his fingers, hips bucking into his hand, totally forgetting his instructions to stay still.

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes.” 

The last two coherent words you could think of were yes and Michael, and they both spilled out of your mouth over and over again as he fingered you through your orgasm, not letting up until you physically had to grab his hand and stop him yourself. 

“Oh, my girl.” He murmured, almost in disbelief as he pulled his fingers out of you, covered in your wetness. “You made such a mess for me.”

You blushed furiously, but Michael could not look more pleased with himself. He lifted his hand to his mouth and licked his fingers clean like he’d just finished the best meal of his life.

When he was done, he flopped back on the bed next to you, while you lay there too overstimulated to move. “That was fun.” He said cheerily, turning his head to look at you. 

1988 neverland ranch

This was bad, really bad.

You knew something was wrong the second you woke up.

Pain pulsed through your entire body immediately, deep and overwhelming. It settled heavily into your back, your shoulders, your arms, and your neck. Every inch of you ached in a way that made your stomach twist uneasily. It wasn't soreness from sleeping wrong. It wasn't the kind of ache that disappeared once you stretched or moved around; it was sharper than that.

A miserable groan left your lips as you shifted beneath the blankets, your body protesting even the smallest movement. Heat clung to your skin uncomfortably, sweat dampening the back of your neck and the collar of your sleep shirt, the feverish warmth that had pulled you awake in the first place. You felt like your body was burning from the inside out.

Your eyes drifted toward the clock sitting on your nightstand: 3:00 a.m. blinked back at you. You were supposed to leave for the airport in three hours. You were supposed to be flying out to meet Michael in Rome.

Michael had already left the States days ago with the crew to begin preparing for the second leg of the Bad World Tour. Even though the Rome shows weren't for another two weeks, rehearsals and preparations had already started overseas.

You had stayed behind because of work obligations, but the plan had always been for you to join him early so the two of you could finally have a little time together before the chaos of touring swallowed him whole again.

He had been so excited.

You could still hear his voice from your last phone call, soft and warm through the line as he rambled about all the places he wanted to take you once you got there. Little cafés tucked away from crowds. Late walks through the city. Quiet mornings together before rehearsals started taking over his schedule again. Michael had been clinging to the idea of having you there with him, especially after the insanity of the American leg of the tour.

Your packed suitcases sat neatly beside the bedroom door, ready to go, but there was absolutely no way you could get on a plane like this.

The nausea rolled through you next, sudden and vicious enough to make your stomach clench painfully. You squeezed your eyes shut as the sensation intensified, bile creeping up the back of your throat. There was nothing in your system to throw up, not at this hour after barely eating the evening before, but you already knew if you got sick, it would just be miserable dry heaving.

Your entire body hurts. Even breathing felt uncomfortable now, every inhale dragging against aching muscles and feverish exhaustion.

You swallowed hard before trying to sit up so you could reach your landline, but the second you lifted yourself from the mattress, dizziness slammed into you violently. Your vision blurred almost instantly, black spots flickering across your eyesight as lightheadedness crashed over you so hard it made your stomach churn.

"Shit," you muttered weakly under your breath before immediately forcing yourself back down against the pillows. Your heart pounded heavily from the effort alone.

Breathing carefully through the dizziness, you slowly scooted yourself closer to the edge of the bed until your fingers could finally reach the phone sitting on the nightstand. Even lifting your arm felt exhausting.

You dialed Bill's pager because you knew he would recognize the number immediately, and you also knew it was already noon in Italy.

Three minutes later, the phone rang.

You grabbed it quickly despite the ache in your arm and answered weakly, your voice barely above a rasp. "Bill?"

"Hey, sweetie, you okay?" Bill's familiar voice filled the line warmly, but concern immediately lingered beneath it.

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to gather enough energy to answer him properly. You had always considered Bill your real future father-in-law in every way that mattered. Michael loved him deeply, trusted him deeply, and over the years, so had you. Bill had become family long before the engagement ring ended up on your finger.

"Bill..." Your voice cracked painfully around his name. "Is Michael available?" On the other end of the line, Bill frowned instantly. Your voice sounded awful. It was hoarse and weak, every word strained like speaking itself was taking energy you didn't have.

"You don't sound good," Bill said immediately, his tone sharpening with concern as he listened closer. Even your breathing sounded shallow through the phone.

You swallowed thickly against the nausea crawling in your throat. "I don't think I'm gonna be able to fly... Michael should hear it from me." The sentence alone drained you. You let your head fall back heavily against the pillows afterward, your body feeling impossibly heavy beneath the blankets.

"Okay, hold on for one moment, I'll go get him," Bill said quickly. You nodded instinctively even though he couldn't see you.

The second the line muffled, you let yourself sink further into the bed, exhaustion swallowing you whole. A shaky breath left your lips, but the inhale immediately made pain flare sharply through your body again, another miserable groan escaping you before you could stop it.

Your body hurt so badly that even breathing was starting to feel like work.

"Baby?" Michael's voice filtered softly through the phone, pulling you out of the haze you had started drifting into. You hadn't even realized how close to sleep you had gotten again until you heard him. Everything felt foggy and heavy, your body sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress with every passing second.

"Bill says you don't sound good... what's wrong?" The concern in his voice immediately twisted painfully in your chest.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment because guilt hit you almost instantly. Both of you had been looking forward to this trip for weeks. Michael had been counting down the days until you got there. Every phone call lately had somehow circled back to Rome, to all the little plans he'd made for the two of you before the tour completely consumed him again.

And now this.

"I'm so sorry, Michael..." Your voice cracked weakly around the apology. "I don't think I'll be able to fly." The words sounded awful even to your own ears.

On the other end of the line, Michael immediately straightened where he was sitting. He could hear how hard it was for you to get the sentence out. Every few words were interrupted by another shaky breath, your breathing uneven and strained in a way he didn't like at all.

"Bill's right, you don't sound good," Michael said quietly, concern sharpening underneath every syllable.

You could practically hear the wheels turning in his head already, and that alone made your stomach twist harder. The last thing you wanted was for him to start spiraling while he was supposed to be preparing for tour rehearsals.

"Michael, I'll be okay... probably just..." You stopped, forcing yourself to breathe through the ache in your chest and the nausea rolling through your stomach. Even speaking was beginning to exhaust you. "Probably just need some more sleep."

Michael shook his head immediately. This was not "just tired." As you spoke, he was already turning toward Bill, panic beginning to settle quietly into his chest as he mouthed: Start looking for flights back to California.

Bill nodded instantly without hesitation.

"Baby... I really don't like the way you sound," Michael admitted softly. "You're straining to breathe just to say words." Your brows pulled together weakly at that because you had been trying so hard to conceal it.

"It's fine," you whispered. Another wave of pain crashed through your body suddenly, sharp enough to make your eyes sting. A soft sniffle escaped you before you could stop it, and the sound cut straight through Michael.

His entire expression changed. The exhaustion from rehearsals, the tour stress, the overseas travel, all of it disappeared beneath immediate fear. "I'm coming home."

Your eyes widened slightly at the firmness in his voice.

Ever since you had moved into Hayvenhurst with Michael back in 1985, the two of you had built a life together there naturally. But after he proposed to you last year, right before the first leg of the Bad Tour began, everything had changed. Michael had wanted something that belonged fully to both of you.

A place that existed outside of cameras and screaming crowds and tour schedules. The second he remembered Sycamore Valley Ranch from filming Say Say Say there years ago, he had known, and now it was Neverland.

Your home.

The home the two of you built together from the ground up, filling it with warmth and life and softness in all the ways Michael had always craved. Exotic animals roamed peacefully across the property under the care of trained staff. Children visited constantly, their laughter filling the grounds alongside carnival music from the amusement rides Michael had built. Every piece of Neverland carried both of your fingerprints on it.

It wasn't just Michael's dream anymore; it was yours, too.

"Michael... you're in the middle of the tour," you said weakly before another strained breath interrupted you.

"And the Italy shows don't start for another two weeks," Michael replied immediately. His voice had taken on that soft but immovable tone you knew well. The one that meant his mind was already made up. "I can't leave you alone in this condition, baby."

Your eyes burned with tears instantly. Of course, he was coming home.

That only made the guilt feel heavier because you knew how many people were depending on him right now. The tour was massive. Rehearsals were massive. Entire crews moved around Michael's schedule constantly, and now, because of you... All of that was getting interrupted.

"Baby, I'm okay..." Your voice trembled as exhaustion dragged at every word. "It'll pass in a few days, and I should be able to... to make it to Rome before the..." You paused again, trying to force enough air into your lungs to finish the sentence. "...before the shows start."

Michael's face tightened painfully as he listened to you struggle through every word. It only solidified the decision already settling deeper into his chest.

He was coming home; there was no discussion anymore.

"Michael, I found a flight that leaves in the next two hours," you heard Bill say somewhere in the background.

"Book it," Michael said with no hesitation in his tone. You closed your eyes with a quiet sigh as you heard movement on the other end of the line, Michael's attention returning fully to you again. "I'm coming home, and that's final, baby." The firmness in his voice told you instantly there was no point trying to argue anymore.

You knew Michael; once he made up his mind about something involving the people he loved, especially you, there was no changing it. Not when he already knew something was wrong. Not when he could hear it for himself every time you spoke.

You hated the idea of derailing the tour. Hated knowing how many people depended on him right now. But you also knew nothing you said was going to reassure him enough to stay in Italy while you sounded like this.

"Okay," you whispered quietly.

Another deep breath followed instinctively, but the uneven strain behind it was impossible to hide now. Michael heard it immediately, and the sound made his chest tighten painfully all over again.

"What are your other symptoms besides your breathing?" Michael asked softly.

You frowned weakly against your pillows; you didn't want to answer that. You could already hear the worry in his voice, could practically feel him spiraling from thousands of miles away, and the last thing you wanted was for him to panic while trapped in another country waiting for a flight home.

"I'm okay," you said automatically. There was a brief pause.

Then, instead of one of his usual endearments, he said your name, softly and gently like he always does, but there was a quiet firmness underneath it that immediately told you he was serious.

Michael rarely used your actual name like that unless he truly needed something from you emotionally. He needed to know. You sighed weakly before forcing yourself to speak again.

"It's 3 a.m., and I woke up this early because I'm really hot..." Your voice rasped painfully around the words. "And my body hurts... everywhere."

You swallowed thickly, squeezing your eyes shut as another wave of aches pulsed through you.

"My back... shoulders... my neck." You paused again to breathe carefully through the nausea twisting in your stomach. "My head is pounding... and my stomach hurts too."

On the other end of the line, Michael's expression tightened with helpless worry. He hated this. He hated being this far away from you while you sounded so miserable. Twelve hours suddenly felt unbearable. Entirely too long to be separated from you when you sounded weak enough that even talking exhausted you.

For one irrational second, he genuinely wished he could somehow teleport home.

"I will be home in twelve hours," Michael said softly but firmly, grounding both himself and you with the certainty in his voice. "And I'm calling my mother to come stay with you until I get there, and then I will call the doctor to come see you."

A small sniffle escaped you instantly for multiple reasons.

Because you loved him so much, it physically hurt sometimes. Because even from another country, Michael was still trying to take care of you in every way he could think of. Because he sounded terrified but was still trying to keep you calm, and because the guilt sitting in your chest felt overwhelming.

He was pausing the tour for you.

"Okay... thank you, Michael," you whispered softly.

"Get some sleep, baby. I love you." Another shaky breath left you automatically, rough and uneven from exhaustion and fever, and when Michael heard how difficult even breathing sounded for you now, his heart clenched so painfully it almost stole his own breath for a moment.

"I love you more," you whispered weakly.

Neither of you hung up. Instead, silence lingered softly between you for a moment before Michael's voice drifted quietly through the receiver again, he was singing.

Gentle and warm and achingly tender despite the exhaustion weighing on him. "You know how I feel, this thing can't go wrong, I'm so proud to say I love you..."

The familiar melody wrapped around you softly in the darkness of your bedroom, Michael's voice soothing something deep inside you, even through the fever and pain. Your body still hurt terribly, every inch aching beneath the blankets, but hearing him sing to you made some of the fear loosen slightly in your chest.

Michael kept singing quietly over the phone, his voice low and intimate, meant only for you, and slowly, your breathing started getting heavier and deeper as exhaustion was finally dragging you back under again.

Michael recognized it immediately. He knew your sleeping patterns too well not to. Sick or not, he could always tell the difference between your awake breathing and your sleeping breathing.

Even now, from thousands of miles away.

He hated knowing it wouldn't be restful sleep. Hated knowing your body was probably burning with fever while you slept alone in your bed.

"I love you," he whispered one more time after he was sure you were asleep. Then finally, reluctantly, he hung up the phone. The second the line disconnected, the exhaustion and fear he'd been trying to suppress settled visibly across his face.

Bill looked up immediately when Michael stepped back into the room. "When do we leave?" Michael asked quietly.

Bill nodded once. "In an hour." Michael nodded, already mentally somewhere else entirely.

"Okay..." He rubbed a tired hand over his face briefly before exhaling shakily. "I have another call to make." Bill understood instantly and stepped out quietly to give him privacy.

The second the door closed behind him, Michael sat down heavily and took a deep breath before dialing a number he had known by heart for years.

Hayvenhurst.

───────────────౨ৎ───────────────

Several hours later, you were pulled out of an uneasy, feverish sleep by the sound of knocking against your bedroom door.

The noise barely registered at first through the heavy haze clouding your head. Your body felt impossibly weighted down, every limb aching worse than it had earlier in the night. Even opening your eyes felt difficult. You blinked slowly toward the clock sitting on your nightstand and saw that it was a little after 10 in the morning.

And somehow, you felt even worse now than you had at 3 a.m. Your fever had clearly climbed while you slept. Everything hurt.

Your head throbbed relentlessly, your body aching so deeply it felt embedded into your bones now, and your stomach still twisted unpleasantly every time you moved even slightly. Your skin felt damp and overheated beneath the blankets, yet chills still trembled through your body hard enough to make your teeth almost chatter.

"It's open," you managed to croak out weakly.

Your voice sounded awful, raw and strained, and barely recognizable even to yourself.

You weren't entirely sure who was on the other side of the door, but you knew Neverland security remained on the property whenever Michael traveled. The guards who didn't accompany him overseas always stayed behind with you when you weren't on tour with him, so whoever was knocking had already been cleared through the gates, so you knew it had to be someone you're familiar with.

The bedroom door opened carefully a moment later, and Katherine Jackson stepped quietly inside, carrying a tray assembled carefully with water, medicine, and a steaming bowl of soup.

The second you realized it was her, your head immediately dropped back against the pillow again because even lifting it had exhausted you.

"Mama Katie, what are you doing here?" you asked weakly through shallow, shaky breaths. The second Katherine got a proper look at you, her expression fell into immediate concern.

The blanket was tangled halfway over your legs and twisted beneath you from how restless you had clearly been while sleeping. Your body trembled faintly beneath the sheets despite the visible sheen of sweat coating your skin. Damp strands of hair clung to the sides of your face and neck, and your cheeks were flushed deeply with fever.

You felt miserable, too hot and too cold at the same time. Your back was damp with sweat, heat radiating off your skin uncomfortably, while chills still crawled underneath it.

"Michael called me and told me what was going on," Katherine said softly as she crossed further into the room. "Since his flight is twelve hours, he didn't want you to be alone, but as soon as he told me your condition, I was going to come over anyway."

A small sound escaped you then, somewhere between relief and a weak cry. You hadn't realized just how alone and miserable you'd felt until someone was finally there with you.

Your family was still back home in New York while you and Michael built your life together in California, and suddenly the distance between those two places felt very real. Normally, Neverland felt warm and alive and comforting even when Michael traveled.

But being this sick inside the massive house without him there had made everything feel strangely empty.

The mattress dipped gently beside you as Katherine sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. She placed the tray on your nightstand before turning all of her attention toward you fully, her expression immediately softening further with concern.

"I'm going to help you sit up so you can take this medicine and try to eat, okay?" she said gently. You wanted to nod, but your body felt so heavy and weak that you couldn't even convince your head to move properly.

Katherine noticed immediately. "Oh, honey," she murmured softly under her breath.

Carefully, she slid one arm behind your shoulders and helped ease you upright. Even that small movement made dizziness ripple through you instantly, your stomach twisting again as your body protested being moved.

Michael's pillows from his side of the bed were gathered gently and tucked behind your back so you could lean against them without straining yourself further. The familiar scent of him lingering faintly on the pillows made your chest ache suddenly because you missed him.

Katherine's hand moved gently to your forehead, then the back of her hand rested carefully against your overheated skin before she checked your flushed cheeks, too. Her face tightened with concern immediately.

"You definitely have a fever, honey..." she sighed softly. "The medicine will help bring it down."

For some reason, that almost made you cry. Maybe because she was taking care of you so naturally. Maybe because you felt so terrible. Maybe because, despite everything, she had still come immediately.

"Thank you," you whispered weakly.

Katherine gave you a soft smile before reaching for the medicine bottle. Knowing you probably wouldn't handle swallowing pills very well in your current condition, she had brought liquid Tylenol instead. The sweetness of it sat unpleasantly against the nausea already twisting in your stomach, but you forced yourself to swallow it down anyway.

The second you finished, Katherine handed you the glass of water. You drank gratefully, your throat painfully dry despite the fever. Then, once she was sure you had gotten enough down, Katherine carefully lifted the tray from the nightstand and settled it gently across your lap.

Although your entire body hurt, you pushed through it and reached for the spoon anyway. Even lifting your arm felt exhausting.

Your hand trembled faintly from weakness as you scooped up a small amount of soup, the steam curling softly against your flushed face. You managed two spoonfuls before your stomach twisted hard enough to make you stop completely.

The nausea hit almost immediately.

You swallowed thickly against it before slowly shaking your head and looking over at Katherine, your eyes glassy with exhaustion and fever.

"I can't," you whispered weakly. Even those two bites felt like they had taken everything out of you.

Your body ached terribly from simply sitting upright this long, your muscles heavy and sore beneath your skin, while dizziness lingered faintly at the edges of your vision. The warmth from the soup should have been comforting, but instead, your stomach rolled harder in protest, making you feel dangerously close to getting sick.

Katherine didn't push, but the concern in her eyes softened immediately instead. "That's alright, sweetheart," she said gently.

Carefully, she lifted the tray from your lap before setting it aside, then moved back toward you to help ease you down against the pillows again. The second your head touched the mattress, you let out a shaky breath of relief. Even sitting upright for those few minutes had exhausted you so badly that it felt like your body was shutting down all over again.

Katherine quietly carried the tray to the bedroom door and handed it off to one of the staff members waiting outside before disappearing briefly into the bathroom.

You could hear soft movement inside through the haze clouding your head: running water, cabinet doors opening and closing quietly. When she returned, she had several cold, damp cloths folded carefully in her hands.

"Let's try to cool you down," she said softly. You nodded weakly. At this point, you didn't have the energy to fight anyone anyway.

Katherine moved around the room with the same gentle calmness she always carried, settling one of the cold cloths carefully across your forehead before placing another lightly against the back of your neck. The coolness against your overheated skin made you exhale shakily, your body instinctively relaxing into the relief despite the chills still trembling through you underneath the blankets.

Your fever made everything feel strange. You felt too hot and too cold simultaneously. You were sweating while shivering. You felt miserable.

Katherine adjusted the blankets carefully around you afterward, making sure you were comfortable before brushing another damp strand of hair away from your forehead.

"Try to get some sleep," she murmured gently. "I'll be downstairs, but I'm going to keep checking on you, alright? You don't need to try to call out for me." The tenderness in her voice almost made your chest ache.

You had spent years around the Jackson family now, long enough that Katherine's warmth toward you no longer felt formal or polite. It felt real. Genuine. Maternal in a way that wrapped around you softly, even now, while you lay feverish and exhausted in bed.

"Thank you, Katie..." you whispered weakly. "You didn't have to do this for me." Katherine's face softened immediately. She reached down instinctively, smoothing your hair back from your damp forehead with the same tenderness she showed any of her children whenever they were sick or hurting.

"Sweetheart..." she said quietly, her voice full of affection. "You've been my daughter-in-law in my heart for years. I was just waiting for Michael to make it official." Something warm bloomed painfully in your chest at her words. Even through the fever and exhaustion and body aches, emotion tightened suddenly in your throat, because she meant it, she genuinely loved you.

Katherine lightly brushed her fingers through your hair one more time before finally standing from the bed, leaving the room quietly so you could rest.

And less than five minutes after the bedroom door closed behind her, exhaustion dragged you back under completely.

───────────────౨ৎ───────────────

When Michael got back to Neverland, the second Bill pulled the car to a stop in front of the house, and Michael was already halfway out the door before the engine had even fully settled. Exhaustion clung heavily to him after the long flight from Italy, his body aching from jet lag, readjusting to the new time, stress, and lack of sleep, but none of it mattered the moment his feet hit the ground.

His entire mind had been consumed by you for the last twelve hours. Every mile between Rome and California had felt unbearable, knowing you were here alone and sick enough that even speaking had exhausted you.

He moved quickly through the front doors of Neverland, his eyes immediately scanning the house as staff members moved quietly throughout the downstairs like normal, though there was an unmistakable tension lingering beneath everything.

Then he saw his mother sitting in the living room. "Mother, how is she?" Michael asked immediately.

Every instinct in him had screamed to run upstairs the second he walked through the door, but he forced himself to stop long enough to ask first because if you were asleep, he didn't want to wake you unnecessarily. Katherine had been here with you the entire time he was in the air, helpless and terrified.

Katherine looked up the moment she heard his voice, and the expression on her face made Michael's stomach drop before she even spoke.

"Not good, Michael," she said softly, and Michael felt something inside his chest tighten painfully at the words. "She has a fever. Her forehead and face are very hot, nearly burning to the touch. I put wet cloths over her forehead and body to try to bring her temperature down. She had medicine, and she drank water. She tried to eat, but I don't think she can keep anything down. She stopped after two bites, but it was taking a lot out of her just to try."

Every word hit Michael like a weight pressing harder and harder against his chest. He pictured you trying to force yourself to eat while barely able to sit upright. Pictured you feverish and trembling in bed while he was trapped on a plane thousands of miles away. Pictured you trying to hide how sick you really were from him over the phone because you didn't want him to worry.

The guilt alone nearly made him sick.

"Thank you for staying with her, Mother... I'll take care of her now," Michael said quietly, leaning down to press a kiss to Katherine's cheek. Katherine smiled softly at him, though concern still lingered heavily in her eyes.

"I know you will, baby... but do call me if you or her need anything, okay?" Michael nodded immediately before escorting her back outside, where Bill waited to take her home to Hayvenhurst. The second Katherine was settled into the car, and Bill pulled away, Michael turned and headed back into the house, his pulse pounding harder with every step he took toward the staircase.

By the time he reached the hallway upstairs, his chest already hurt from anticipation and fear. The bedroom door opened quietly beneath his hand before he carefully shut it behind himself, trying not to disturb you if you were sleeping.

But the second his eyes landed on you, something inside him shattered.

You were asleep, but even from across the room, Michael could immediately tell it wasn't restful. Your blanket was tangled halfway off your body like you had spent hours tossing feverishly beneath it, and your body trembled faintly every few seconds despite the visible sheen of sweat dampening your skin. The cool cloth his mother had placed across your forehead had slid slightly crooked during your sleep, damp strands of hair sticking to your flushed cheeks and neck.

But what broke his heart the most was the position you were curled in.

You had folded completely into yourself beneath the blankets, curled tightly into a fetal position with your arms wrapped around your own body as though you were trying to physically hold yourself together through the pain.

And Michael knew what that meant immediately. You only slept like that when you were hurting badly.

When your cramps were so severe during your monthly cycle that you swore it felt like someone was twisting knives into your stomach. When you had gotten sick before and curled inward because every part of your body hurt too much to stretch out normally. Whenever the pain became overwhelming, your body instinctively folded into itself, as if protecting your stomach and chest might somehow lessen it.

So seeing you like this now, curled so tightly inward, trembling weakly in your sleep while trying to comfort yourself because your body hurt that badly, made something inside Michael ache so violently he could barely breathe through it for a moment.

You looked small, fragile, and miserable. And all Michael could think about was the fact that he hadn't been here.

Slowly, he crossed the room and knelt carefully beside the bed. His movements softened instantly once he was close enough to touch you, all urgency melting into tenderness the second he reached out. Gently, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against the top of your head since the cool cloth still covered most of your forehead.

His hand slid carefully into your hair afterward, fingers combing slowly through the damp strands with heartbreaking gentleness.

The touch made you stir weakly beneath the blankets.

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, unfocused at first from exhaustion and fever, and for a brief moment, you genuinely thought you were dreaming him. Michael had been in Italy twelve hours ago. Your fever-clouded brain couldn't fully process how he could suddenly be kneeling beside you now, looking at you with tears nearly gathering in his eyes.

But then your vision cleared enough for recognition to settle in. "Michael," you croaked weakly, your voice rough and painfully hoarse.

The sound alone made Michael's expression crumple further. "Hi, baby... I'm home," he whispered softly. His hand continued moving gently through your hair as he watched your eyes flutter shut again almost immediately, like even keeping them open for more than a few seconds hurt.

The sight devastated him.

"And I will be home for as long as you need me," he whispered quietly, the promise settling heavily between you as he looked at you curled weakly beneath the blankets, already knowing there was nowhere else in the world he could possibly be right now besides beside you.

"Michael... your tour," you whispered weakly as you tried to shake your head. Or at least, you thought you were shaking it.

Your body was so exhausted and feverish that you barely moved at all, the effort stopping somewhere between your brain and your muscles. Even trying to protest took too much energy now, your voice rough and strained from dehydration and sickness.

Michael's expression softened immediately as he looked at you lying there, and you were still worrying about him, even now.

Even curled into yourself with a fever burning through your body and exhaustion dragging at every breath you took, you were still thinking about his tour before yourself.

"That doesn't matter right now," Michael said quietly, his voice low and unwavering as he gently brushed another damp strand of hair away from your forehead. "Only you do."

Your eyes slowly opened again at his words, glossy and heavy with exhaustion. "Michael—" He cut you off gently before you could continue trying to convince him to leave.

"Hey..." His thumb stroked softly across the back of your hand as he held it carefully in both of his, his voice full of quiet emotion. "You turned down a huge clothing contract after the Pepsi incident because you wanted to stay by my side..."

The memory hit both of you immediately: the burns, the pain, and the terrifying aftermath of nearly losing him.

You had dropped everything without hesitation back then because the only thing that mattered to you was being beside him while he recovered. Michael still remembered the way you refused to leave the hospital for hours at a time, remembered you sleeping in chairs beside his bed because you couldn't bear being away from him while he was hurting, and now here you were trying to apologize for him doing the same thing for you.

"So if I have to postpone the tour to stay by yours," Michael continued softly, "then that's what I'm going to do."

His fingers slowly slid over your hand, finding your engagement ring, then gently turning it against your finger as he stared down at it for a moment. The gold caught softly in the afternoon light filtering through the bedroom windows, and emotion tightened visibly across Michael's face as his thumb traced over it carefully.

"I gave you this ring with the intention of promising you for better or for worse," he whispered.

Your chest tightened painfully at the emotion in his voice.

Michael had never taken commitment lightly, not with you. Everything between the two of you had always been deep and consuming and real in a way that grounded him beneath all the chaos of fame and touring and public scrutiny. Neverland existed because of the life the two of you were building together. The ring on your finger existed because Michael always saw forever when he looked at you.

And right now, forever meant this too: sickness, caretaking, and staying.

"We've been through my worst..." Michael murmured softly as he lifted your hand closer, pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles near your ring. His voice cracked slightly around the next words despite how gently he spoke them. "Now we're gonna get through yours."

Emotion burned behind your eyes instantly.

You managed the smallest nod before exhaustion pulled at you again, your eyelids growing impossibly heavy as another wave of feverish fatigue settled over your body. Michael noticed it immediately, the way your breathing deepened slightly as your body started slipping toward sleep again.

Carefully, he leaned forward and pressed another kiss against the top of your head, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary as his fingers continued smoothing gently through your hair.

"Get some rest, mama..." he whispered tenderly. "I'll be right here."

And for the first time since waking up sick and alone in the middle of the night, some of the tension in your body finally eased, because Michael was here now, his hand still wrapped carefully around yours as sleep slowly pulled you under again.

───────────────౨ৎ───────────────

The next time you woke up, it was because of the overwhelming pressure in your bladder pulling you out of another feverish, restless sleep.

For a moment, you just lay there trying to orient yourself through the heavy fog clouding your head. Your body still ached everywhere, deep and relentless, the kind of ache that settled into your bones and made even breathing feel exhausting. You had no idea how long you'd been asleep this time. The room remained dim, the lamps turned low enough that you couldn't tell whether it was daytime or nighttime outside the windows.

What you noticed first, though, was that Michael wasn't beside you.

He had only stepped out briefly to call his private doctor and return one of Frank's increasingly worried calls about the tour, but in your exhausted state, all you processed was the empty space beside the bed.

You swallowed thickly before slowly forcing your legs over the edge of the mattress. The movement alone made your head pound harder. Your muscles protested immediately, soreness radiating through your back, your shoulders, your stomach, even your legs. You paused there for a moment, sitting hunched slightly forward while you tried to steady your breathing through the dizziness already creeping into your head.

You hated this. You hated how weak you felt; you hated that even something as simple as standing up felt like preparing for something physically demanding.

But you needed the bathroom.

Taking a slow breath, you carefully pushed yourself to your feet, but the second you fully stood upright, the room tilted violently around you. Your vision blurred at the edges as another rush of dizziness hit hard enough that you instinctively grabbed for the wall beside you before your knees could buckle completely beneath you, and a shaky breath escaped you.

The bathroom wasn't far. Under normal circumstances, it would've taken seconds to cross the room. But now, feverish and exhausted, your body trembling from weakness, it felt impossibly distant. You forced yourself to take another step anyway, then another.

Each movement drained you further, your breathing turning shallow from the effort alone. Michael had left the lights low before stepping out, enough that the room glowed softly without the brightness hurting your head, but the shadows around you only made the dizziness feel worse.

Another wave hit suddenly. Your hand slid harder against the wall as your body sagged with it, your forehead nearly brushing the surface while you tried to keep yourself upright. You barely even heard the bedroom door opening. The only thing you could focus on was the terrifying feeling that your body was giving out underneath you.

The second Michael walked back into the room and saw you half collapsing against the wall, his heart pretty much stopped. "Baby—"

He crossed the room so quickly it barely registered before his arms were around you, carefully catching you before you could slide any farther. One arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other steadied your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest as he held your weight for you.

"Baby, what are you doing out of bed?" he asked softly, panic buried beneath the tenderness in his voice. Your head fell weakly against his shoulder almost immediately, too exhausted to even fully hold it up anymore.

"I have to pee..." you whispered hoarsely.

The words alone made humiliation crash over you so hard it almost hurt more than the fever itself, because this was Michael.

Michael, who had seen you dressed beautifully on red carpets, laughing beside him in interviews, dancing around Neverland with him at two in the morning, planning your wedding with stars in his eyes whenever he looked at you.

And now he was carrying you to the bathroom because you were too weak to walk there by yourself.

Michael didn't react to any of that embarrassment, though. He only tightened his hold on you gently and carried you into the bathroom without hesitation, helping lower you carefully onto the toilet before quietly stepping outside to give you privacy.

The second the door clicked shut behind him, the tears started. At first, you tried to stop them.

You pressed your lips together tightly, swallowing hard against the lump forming in your throat, but the humiliation kept building anyway because you felt trapped inside a body that suddenly couldn't do anything right anymore. Everything hurt: standing, walking hurt, and talking too much left you breathless. Even trying to use the bathroom by yourself had nearly ended with you collapsing against the wall.

You felt helpless, weak, and worst of all, you felt ugly in your suffering.

Michael had already seen you sweating through your clothes, feverish and disoriented, curled into yourself in pain, barely able to eat without getting nauseous. Now he was carrying you around the house because your body physically couldn't support itself for long enough to cross a bedroom.

The tears slipped harder down your cheeks, a choked sob coming from your lips before you could stop it and when Michael hears it... when he hears you crying from outside the bathroom door, his heart dropped instantly.

He pushed the door open without hesitation before immediately kneeling in front of you, concern flooding his face the second he saw the tears running down your flushed cheeks.

"Baby, what's wrong?" he asked softly.

You shook your head weakly before squeezing your eyes shut, more tears slipping free.

"This is... so humiliating, Michael..." Your voice cracked apart around the words as another shaky breath left you. "I can't do anything because everything hurts so much."

Talking was already exhausting you again. You had to pause to catch your breath before continuing, your chest tightening painfully as you tried not to cry harder in front of him.

"And you have to see me like this," you whispered brokenly. "It's embarrassing." Michael felt his own eyes sting almost instantly.

The sound of your ragged breathing between every sentence, the way every tear seemed to physically exhaust you further, the humiliation written all over your face while you sat there crying in front of him, it shattered something inside him completely.

Because none of this was embarrassing to him.

It devastated him that you genuinely thought he could ever look at you like this and see anything shameful, when all he saw was the woman he loved hurting so badly she could barely stand on her own, apologizing for needing care when all he wanted was to protect her from every ounce of pain he possibly could.

Without thinking, Michael reached up and cupped your face carefully in both hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears spilling over your cheeks.

"You don't have to be embarrassed, baby," he whispered, his own eyes beginning to water as he looked at you. "Never with me." His voice was impossibly soft, steady in the way he only became when he was trying to hold someone else together emotionally. "I will always take care of you, no matter what."

The sincerity in his voice only made fresh tears fall harder because you knew he meant it completely. There wasn't hesitation or obligation in him. Michael loved with his entire heart, and right now every ounce of that love was wrapped around you so carefully it almost made your chest ache.

Once you had calmed enough to stand again, Michael helped you carefully back to your feet so you could fix your clothes and wash your hands at the sink. He stayed just outside the bathroom doorway the entire time, close enough that if your legs weakened again, he could catch you immediately.

And the second you opened the door afterward, Michael stepped forward without hesitation and lifted you back into his arms again.

"Michael..." you whispered softly as he carried you back toward the bed.

He leaned down instinctively and pressed a gentle kiss against your temple, immediately frowning against your skin when he felt how warm you still were beneath his lips. Your fever hadn't broken at all. If anything, you still felt overheated despite the medicine, and Michael silently made a mental note to wake you for another dose later, even though you could barely keep your eyes open now.

"I'm right here, baby," he murmured as he settled you carefully back beneath the blankets.

"You shouldn't stay... in here too long..." You whispered hoarsely, your eyes already drifting shut again from exhaustion. "You can't get sick."

The words hit him deeply because even now, even feeling as miserable as you feel, you were still worried about him first.

Michael brushed his fingers gently through your hair before answering softly, "If I get sick, then I get sick. I'm not leaving you."

At some point while he sat beside you, your body instinctively shifted closer to him beneath the blankets. Without even realizing it consciously, you wrapped your arms loosely around his forearm, where it rested beside you on the bed, clinging softly to him in your exhausted state like your body recognized him as safety before your mind even fully could.

The sight made Michael's chest ache with love. A small smile finally touched his face for the first time since getting home as he looked down at your arms wrapped around him.

Carefully, he settled closer beside you before softly beginning to hum under his breath, his voice quiet and soothing as he sang gently to you the same way he always did whenever you were upset, hurting, or unable to sleep.

And slowly, curled beside him with his voice wrapping softly around you, your breathing deepened again as sleep finally pulled you back under.

───────────────౨ৎ───────────────

The next few days melted together so completely that eventually you stopped being able to tell where one ended and another began. Everything became centered around the same miserable cycle that your body refused to break out of.

You slept for hours at a time only to wake up feeling just as awful as before. The fever never fully left you, lingering stubbornly beneath your skin, no matter how many cool cloths Michael pressed against your forehead or how carefully he kept track of your medicine schedule. 

Your body ached constantly, deeply enough that even lying still hurt after too long, but moving hurt worse. Every muscle in your back, shoulders, neck, and legs felt exhausted and inflamed, like your body was fighting itself from the inside out.

Most of the time, you drifted in and out of sleep because staying awake required too much energy. Whenever you did wake up, Michael was there.

Sometimes he sat beside you quietly reading while keeping one hand absentmindedly against your leg or arm so he could feel if your fever changed. Sometimes he hummed softly under his breath while changing out the cold cloths on your forehead after they became warm against your skin. Sometimes you woke up to find him simply watching you with exhausted eyes, his expression heavy with worry, he tried desperately not to let you fully see.

You tried to eat because he asked you to, and that alone was usually enough to make you try.

Michael would sit beside you, carefully holding a tray while encouraging you softly through every bite, his voice gentle and patient, even though you could see the concern tightening behind his eyes whenever you managed only a few spoonfuls before your stomach started turning again.

And every single time, guilt hit you immediately afterward, because you could see how badly he wanted you to improve. You could see the hope that flickered briefly across his face every time you attempted to eat something, only for it to quietly disappear again when nausea forced you to stop.

The doctor Michael brought to Neverland, had explained everything gently after examining you. A viral infection. Antibiotics wouldn't work; there was no instant fix. Just hydration, medicine for the fever, and rest while your body slowly fought through it on its own.

You understood, but that didn't make it easier. If anything, hearing there was nothing either of you could do except wait somehow made the whole thing feel worse, and Michael took that helplessness harder than he ever let himself admit aloud, because he hated seeing you in pain.

And not in the casual way people said it when someone they loved got sick for a few days, but in a way that visibly affected him every hour he spent beside you. Michael absorbed the suffering of the people he loved deeply, and there was something quietly devastating about watching someone he adored hurt this badly while being unable to truly fix it.

Every time you stood up and your body immediately swayed from dizziness, his entire face tightened with panic before he moved instinctively to steady you. Every time you curled into yourself beneath the blankets because stretching out fully made your body ache too much, he looked at you with the same wounded expression he'd worn since the moment he came home and saw you lying there trembling in pain. Even hearing you speak hurt him now because your voice remained weak and strained, every sentence clearly costing you energy you didn't have.

And still, he kept himself together for you. He stayed gentle, patient, and soft.

But sometimes, usually late at night after you fell asleep again, Michael would sit quietly at the edge of the bed with his head lowered while exhaustion and helplessness settled visibly across his face, tears slipping from his eyes. Because now he understood exactly what you must have felt after the Pepsi incident.

Back then, when he'd been lying in the burn unit with pain radiating through his scalp every time he moved, you had looked at him the same way he looked at you now. He remembered the way your face used to crumble every time he winced despite trying to hide it. He remembered waking up during the night and finding your head resting on his bed near his thigh because you couldn't bear leaving him alone while he was hurting. He remembered how helpless your eyes looked whenever the doctors explained how bad the burns had been and how extensive the treatment afterward would be.

Now he understood why you used to cry quietly afterward when you thought he couldn't hear you, because loving someone while watching them suffer felt unbearable.

When you woke up this time, your body still felt heavy with fever and exhaustion, but before you even fully opened your eyes, you heard Michael's voice across the room.

He was trying to keep his tone low, trying and failing.

"I don't care, Frank... I told you I'm not coming back until she's better and able to travel with me."

Your eyes slowly fluttered open at the sharpness in his voice.

Michael stood near the windows with the phone pressed tightly against his ear, one hand rubbing frustratedly over his face while tension radiated through his entire posture. His hair looked slightly messy from repeatedly dragging his hands through it over the last few days, and exhaustion sat heavily beneath his eyes from barely sleeping since he'd gotten home.

He was talking to his manager, Frank DiLeo.

Everyone else remained in Italy, preparing for the tour, while Michael stayed here with you. The rehearsals, interviews, photoshoots, and scheduling meetings, all of it was still continuing overseas while Michael delayed everything from California because he refused to leave you in this condition.

Michael went quiet for a moment while Frank responded on the other end, but whatever he said only made Michael's frustration finally snap through completely.

"Then postpone them, Frank!" Michael's voice rose sharply, anger breaking through in a way you had almost never heard before. "I don't care about photoshoots and interviews when my fiancée is so sick she can barely stand."

Your chest tightened painfully listening to him. Michael rarely got truly angry. You'd seen him serious before, firm before, upset before, but genuine anger almost never surfaced because Michael hated confrontation. Usually, when something upset him deeply, he became quieter rather than louder.

But this was different.

Because Frank wasn't just talking about tour dates to Michael right now. In Michael's mind, Frank was asking him to leave you while you still couldn't walk across the room without nearly collapsing.

"You work for me, not the other way around," Michael said sharply, his voice low and controlled in that dangerous way it only became when he was genuinely furious. "I will call you when we make our way back to Italy. Goodbye, Frank."

The line disconnected hard enough that you could hear the sound from across the room. For a moment, Michael just stood there breathing heavily through the frustration, one hand still gripping the phone tightly.

Then he turned around, and the second his eyes landed on you awake in bed, every trace of anger disappeared from his face so quickly it almost felt surreal. His shoulders softened first, then his expression.

The tension left his jaw almost immediately, replaced by concern so gentle and immediate that it made your chest ache as he crossed the room toward you.

"Hey, mama," he said softly the second he reached the bed, his voice completely different now, warm and careful as he sat beside you and immediately brushed the back of his hand against your forehead to check your temperature. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

"No," you whispered as you shook your head weakly before letting out a slow breath.

Your body still felt exhausted, heavy beneath the blankets, but at least the pain wasn't as sharp as it had been a few days ago. The fever still lingered inside you, though. You could feel it every time another chill rolled through your body, despite how warm your skin remained.

"Michael, I don't want you to get in trouble..." you said quietly. "I'm sure your Mom can come back and stay until I'm better."

Another cold shudder passed through you hard enough that your body trembled beneath the blankets, and instinctively you pulled them tighter around yourself as though you couldn't decide whether you were freezing or overheating.

Michael's expression softened immediately, but there was still an unmistakable firmness behind his eyes.

"Baby... I'm not having this discussion again," he said gently as he settled himself more comfortably beside you. "I'm not leaving until you're well enough to come back to Italy with me."

Before you could protest again, he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss against the top of your head, his lips resting there long enough that he could immediately tell the fever wasn't nearly as high as it had been before.

Your forehead was still warm, too warm, but not burning anymore, so that was a good sign. Relief loosened something quietly inside his chest at that realization. It was the first real sign your body might finally be starting to fight through the worst of it.

"I need to shower..." you murmured softly after a moment, your voice rough from days of sickness and sleep. "I've been sweating and sleeping for days."

Michael nodded immediately, understanding the discomfort behind your words. Your hair still felt damp most of the time from the fever, and despite how exhausted you were, he knew you probably felt miserable physically after being stuck in bed for days.

"How about a bath?" he suggested softly. "You're still wobbly when you stand, and with the steam and heat from the shower, I don't want you to pass out."

The protectiveness in his voice made your chest ache softly. Even now, he watched every movement you made carefully, constantly anticipating what might exhaust you too much or make your dizziness worse.

"Okay," you whispered.

Michael stood and disappeared briefly into the bathroom to start the water while you slowly pushed yourself upright in bed. Your body still protested the movement, soreness flaring through your muscles as you sat up, but the pain wasn't nearly as unbearable now as it had been during those first few days. The worst of the body aches had dulled slightly, though every so often, sharp waves of pain still pulsed unexpectedly through your back or shoulders hard enough to make you wince.

Still, this was better.

Weakly, you managed to peel yourself out of the oversized shirt and shorts you had been wearing since the morning you woke up sick. Even that small effort left you breathing a little heavier afterward, exhaustion still clinging stubbornly to your body despite the slight improvement.

When Michael came back out of the bathroom, he already had a towel waiting in his hands. Without saying anything, he wrapped it carefully around you before helping you slowly to your feet, one arm immediately sliding around your waist to steady you.

You noticed the difference instantly.

You still felt weak, but you weren't immediately collapsing into dizziness anymore. You could stand for longer now before the lightheadedness crept in, and although your legs still felt shaky beneath you, at least you could walk the short distance to the bathroom without your vision going black.

Michael noticed the improvement, too.

He didn't say it aloud because he didn't want to overwhelm you or make you push yourself too hard too quickly, but quiet relief settled visibly across his face as he carefully walked beside you into the bathroom.

The warm water was already filling the tub with soft steam by the time he helped you over. "Easy," he murmured gently as he helped lower you down into the bath.

The second the warm water touched your body, a deep breath escaped you automatically.

Relief spread through your aching muscles almost instantly, the warmth soothing places in your body that had felt tense and sore for days. Slowly, you leaned your head back against the tub wall and let yourself sink slightly deeper into the water, your eyes fluttering closed as some of the tension finally eased from your shoulders.

Michael watched you carefully the entire time.

Even now, after days of caring for you almost nonstop, his eyes tracked every little expression crossing your face, every shift in your breathing, every sign that something hurt or exhausted you too much.

When he saw some of the tightness leave your body, his own shoulders softened slightly, too. He lowered himself beside the tub afterward, kneeling near you so he could stay close in case you needed help.

"Do you need help?" he asked quietly.

You shook your head softly. Right now, you just need a moment to sit there in the warmth and let your body breathe for the first time in days before trying to move again.

"Thank you for taking care of me, Michael," you whispered softly, your eyes still closed.

The warmth of the bath felt incredible against muscles that had been aching relentlessly for nearly a week now, and just being clean again already made you feel a little more human.

Michael's expression softened immediately at your words.

"You never have to thank me for that, baby," he said quietly. "I'm going to get you some soup... hopefully you can hold something down."

You nodded faintly. You hadn't properly eaten in days.

Not because you didn't want to, but because every attempt ended the same way: nausea twisting violently through your stomach after only a bite or two until you physically couldn't force yourself to continue. For days now, your body had survived almost entirely on medicine and water because it was the only thing you could consistently keep down.

Michael lingered beside the tub for another moment, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before finally standing and quietly stepping out of the bathroom.

Once he was gone, you slowly started washing yourself, everything still took effort.

You had to pause occasionally to breathe through sudden waves of soreness or dizziness, but eventually you managed to wash your hair and body completely, the warm water easing some of the lingering ache from your muscles with every passing minute.

And once you finished, you simply stayed there soaking quietly in the warmth, your body finally beginning to feel just a little less miserable than it had been the last few days.

When Michael came back upstairs about thirty minutes later after making the soup, he balanced the tray carefully in his hands as he walked back into the bedroom. The house had gone quiet again while he was downstairs, the only sounds coming from the distant hum of Neverland outside and the soft creak of the floor beneath his feet as he crossed the room.

He set the tray down on the nightstand before making his way toward the bathroom, pushing the door open gently. The sight waiting for him immediately softened his entire expression.

You had fallen asleep in the bathtub.

Your head rested against the cool tile behind you, your damp hair clinging slightly to your skin while the rest of your body remained submerged beneath the water. The steam had long since faded from the room, leaving only the lingering warmth of the bathwater around you, and Michael could already tell from how long you'd been asleep that the water was probably cold by now.

A quiet smile tugged softly at his lips despite the lingering worry that had been sitting heavily inside him for days.

You looked exhausted.

Even sleeping, he could still see it written all over you; the fatigue had settled deeply into your face and body after nearly a week of fever, pain, and barely eating. But at least now, for the first time in days, your body looked more relaxed than miserable.

Michael lightly shook his head to himself before grabbing the towel he had wrapped you in earlier and kneeling beside the tub.

"Baby..." His voice came out soft and warm as his fingers carefully slid through your wet hair. "You have to wake up really quick, baby girl."

Your eyes fluttered faintly at the familiar touch before slowly opening. For a moment, your gaze stayed unfocused, heavy with sleep and lingering exhaustion as you blinked through the haze, but then your eyes landed on Michael kneeling beside the tub.

"Did I fall asleep again?" you asked quietly. Michael chuckled softly under his breath as he nodded.

"Yeah," he murmured. "The water must be cold by now, so let's get you back into bed."

You nodded sleepily, and Michael reached over to pull the drain plug, letting the water slowly begin draining from the tub before he helped you carefully to your feet once the water lowered enough. His hands stayed steady against you the entire time, one supporting your waist while the other held your arm gently in case your legs weakened again.

The bath had helped. You still felt weak, but not in the same unbearable way you had a few days ago. Michael dried you off carefully before wrapping the towel around your body again and helping you back into the bedroom. By the time you reached the bed, you felt tired in a different way now, cleaner and more comfortable instead of feverishly miserable.

And for the first time since getting sick, you were able to stand long enough to get dressed on your own.

Michael had already picked clothes out for you and left them on the bed: a pair of soft cotton shorts exactly like the ones you always loved sleeping in, and beside them sat one of his oversized Bad Tour shirts, freshly washed.

A small smile finally pulled at your lips when you saw it.

The shirt swallowed you completely once you pulled it on, the familiar softness and faint scent of fresh laundry making something inside you relax further. It felt comforting in the way Michael always felt comforting, and by the time you climbed back into bed afterward, your body already felt calmer than it had earlier.

Michael immediately handed you the soup once you settled yourself upright against the pillows.

You still couldn't eat much.

Your stomach remained sensitive, and the exhaustion lingering in your body made even holding the spoon feel draining after too long, but this time, you managed more than just two or three bites before the nausea finally started creeping back in again.

When you eventually looked over at Michael and slowly shook your head, silently telling him you couldn't manage anymore, Michael glanced down at the bowl and immediately took note of how much more was gone compared to the last few days.

Relief softened visibly across his face.

"Hey... this is more food than a few days ago," Michael said softly before leaning forward to kiss your forehead gently. "I'm proud of you, mama." The praise made a small smile tug weakly at your lips again, and the second Michael saw it, his entire expression warmed.

"There's my girl," he murmured softly.

The tenderness in his voice made your chest ache.

You had missed this version of yourself. The version that could smile at him instead of only curling inward from pain and exhaustion. You still felt weak, and your body still hurt in waves, but for the first time since waking up sick that morning days ago, you finally felt like maybe you were slowly coming back to yourself again.

"Will you lie down with me, please?" you whispered.

Michael nodded immediately.

He stood long enough to carry the tray to the bedroom door and place it outside so the staff could take it downstairs later, once they saw it, then he came right back to you without hesitation.

"Do you want me to hold you?" he asked softly as he slipped back into bed beside you. "I know you're going back and forth between being hot and being cold."

You nodded. You never minded warmth when it came from Michael. "Yes," you whispered.

Michael's arms wrapped carefully around you from behind, slowly pulling your body back against his chest until you were fully settled against him. The warmth of him immediately surrounded you, steady and comforting in a way that made your entire body slowly unclench. You rested your hands over his, where they lay against your stomach, lacing your fingers through his as your eyes drifted closed again.

Everything about this felt better.

You were finally clean after days of fever and sweat clinging to your skin, dressed in soft, comfortable clothes, wrapped safely in Michael's arms. Even the bed felt different beneath you now because while you had been soaking in the bath, Michael had changed all the bedsheets too, replacing them with fresh, clean ones before going downstairs to make your soup.

The clean sheets, the warmth of Michael behind you, the lingering softness from the bath easing your aching muscles, all of it combined into the first genuine sense of comfort you'd felt since getting sick.

"Your fever is going down, baby... it shouldn't be too much longer now," Michael said softly against the top of your head.

You nodded faintly where you were tucked against his chest, his arms still wrapped securely around you beneath the blankets. The warmth of him had become grounding over the last few days, especially during the moments when chills rolled through your body hard enough to make you shiver despite the lingering fever still heating your skin.

For the first time since getting sick, though, your body didn't feel like it was fighting itself quite as violently anymore. You still felt weak, exhausted, and achy in ways that made every movement slow and careful. But there was relief beginning to settle underneath it now, too.

"Will we still be able to get to see some of Italy before your shows?" you asked quietly. Michael let out a soft little chuckle at that, leaning down to kiss the top of your head again as his fingers absentmindedly traced along your arm beneath the blankets.

"I will make sure we do," he murmured. A small smile tugged at your lips.

Even now, exhausted and half-asleep against him, the thought of finally getting to Italy with Michael still made warmth bloom softly in your chest. The trip had meant so much to both of you before you got sick. It wasn't just about the tour. It was about finally having a little time together away from cameras and schedules and rehearsals before Michael became swallowed by work again.

Very slowly, you turned in his arms so you could look at him properly. The movement alone visibly worried Michael.

His expression shifted immediately as he watched you carefully, noticing how much energy even that small adjustment seemed to take out of you now. Your breathing deepened slightly from the effort by the time you settled facing him, and his hand instinctively slid along your back gently like he could somehow steady the exhaustion still moving through your body.

"Easy, baby," he murmured softly.

You looked up at him quietly for a moment before speaking again. "Can we get married in Italy?" Michael's eyes widened instantly. Of all the things he thought you might say, that wasn't one of them.

For a second, he just stared at you, searching your face to make sure the fever wasn't making you delirious or emotional in a way you'd regret later, but then he saw it clearly in your eyes. You meant it.

"We can get married wherever you want, baby," he said softly. You nodded slightly against the pillow.

"I want to..." You paused briefly, your voice still rough from days of sickness and sleep. "When we're in Italy... I want to get married there, even if it's just legally, and we have an actual ceremony later so our families can come."

The softness that spread across Michael's face at your words was immediate and overwhelming; it wasn't hesitation or uncertainty. It was pure love.

"You know I'd marry you anywhere, mama," he whispered, smiling down at you so warmly it made your chest ache softly. "Let's do it."

Your eyes widened slightly. You had wanted him to say yes, obviously, but part of you still hadn't fully expected him to agree so quickly, especially with everything surrounding the tour right now.

"Really?" you asked quietly.

Michael nodded immediately before leaning down to press another gentle kiss against your forehead. "Really."

Emotion swelled so suddenly in your chest that you instinctively buried your face against him, inhaling deeply against his skin. The breath shuddered all the way through your body in his arms, and Michael felt every bit of it.

He tightened his hold around you immediately, his hand slowly smoothing up and down your back beneath the oversized shirt you wore.

"I'm really glad you came home, Michael..." you whispered softly.

The words settled heavily between you because both of you knew exactly what it had cost him to leave Italy so suddenly. The tour. The rehearsals. Frank is practically losing his mind over postponements, interviews, and schedules.

And still, Michael had gotten on a nonstop twelve-hour flight without hesitation the second he realized how sick you really were. You knew he was frustrated with Frank, but you also knew part of him worried about delaying things.

But sitting here in his arms now, finally feeling some small sense of comfort after days of pain and exhaustion, you couldn't stop yourself from admitting how grateful you were that he had come home anyway.

Michael's arms tightened around you slightly at your words.

"I couldn't stay away after hearing you like that, baby," he admitted quietly. "I just knew I needed to be here." Your eyes fluttered closed briefly because you understood that feeling completely.

You had felt it after the Pepsi accident. You had been working when Jackie called you from the hospital to tell you what happened, and you immediately left, not caring if you got in trouble; the only thing you felt was the overwhelming certainty that there was nowhere else in the world you were supposed to be except beside him while he hurt.

And you would do it again without hesitation.

"I love you, Michael," you whispered softly before another yawn slipped from you, your body instinctively curling closer against him underneath the blankets. Michael smiled faintly against your hair before kissing the top of your head once more.

"I love you more, mama... get some rest," he whispered.

You nodded weakly against him, already feeling sleep beginning to pull at you again, but this time it felt different.

For the first time since waking up sick that morning days ago, you finally felt truly safe enough to rest deeply instead of just collapsing from exhaustion. Michael's arms remained wrapped securely around you, his heartbeat steady against your body while his fingers continued moving slowly through your hair.

And somewhere between the warmth of him, the clean sheets beneath you, and the lingering comfort still relaxing your muscles from the bath, hope finally settled softly inside your chest that maybe you were going to start getting better soon.

───────────────౨ৎ───────────────

Over the course of the next few days, you slowly began to come back to yourself.

The changes were so gradual that neither you nor Michael fully realized how much better you were getting until he caught himself no longer panicking every time you stood up from the bed. Your fever finally disappeared completely, leaving your skin warm instead of burning beneath his touch, and little by little, color started returning to your cheeks again. The dark exhaustion still lingered beneath your eyes, but you no longer looked pale and feverish in a way that made Michael's chest tighten every time he looked at you.

You were finally able to eat more, too.

Not full meals yet, and Michael was careful not to push your body too hard after nearly ten days of barely keeping anything down, but now you could manage soup, toast, crackers, and small portions at a time without your stomach immediately turning violently afterward. 

Every time you finished a little more than the day before, Michael tried not to look too visibly relieved, but you always noticed it anyway. The softening in his shoulders. The little smile he tried to hide. The way he'd kiss your forehead afterward, like he was proud of you for something as simple as eating.

And honestly, after feeling so miserable for so long, it made your chest ache every single time.

The biggest difference, though, was that you could move again.

You could walk across the room without your legs giving out underneath you. You could stand in the bathroom long enough to brush your teeth without gripping the counter for balance. You could hold conversations without needing to pause every few words just to breathe through the exhaustion crushing your chest.

The only thing that still clung stubbornly to you now was the fatigue.

Your body had fought hard against the virus, and now that the worst of it was over, all the exhaustion left behind seemed to settle deep into your bones. You slept heavily every night, sometimes drifting off in the middle of conversations with Michael simply because your body still needed rest so badly.

And throughout all of it, Frank never stopped calling.

Rome was getting closer and closer, and every single day, the pressure mounted more from overseas. Rehearsals had to be rescheduled. Interviews postponed. Photoshoots rearranged. Every time the phone rang, Michael's expression would tense before he answered because he already knew what the conversation would be.

Frank wanted him back in Italy, but every time Michael looked at you, all he could still see was the first night he came home: you curled tightly into yourself in pain, too weak to even properly hold yourself upright.

That image had stayed lodged painfully inside him ever since.

So now, seeing you improve day by day affected him more emotionally than he knew how to explain aloud. Watching you walk into the bathroom on your own for the first time had nearly made him emotional. Seeing you shower by yourself again without nearly collapsing afterward had filled him with such overwhelming relief that he'd had to look away for a second just to compose himself.

For days, Michael had genuinely been scared, and now, finally, he could feel that fear beginning to loosen its grip on him too.

When you woke up that morning, Michael was already awake beside you.

You had fallen asleep tucked against his chest again sometime during the night, your body naturally seeking him out in sleep now after days of him holding you through fevers, chills, pain, and exhaustion. One of his arms remained wrapped securely around your waist beneath the blankets while the other rested lazily across your back, his fingers occasionally tracing soft patterns there absentmindedly while he watched you sleep.

He couldn't help it, you looked peaceful again: not feverish, trembling, or hurting anymore. Just resting. After how terrified he'd been seeing you sick like that, watching you sleep peacefully against him now felt healing for him, too.

"You're staring at me," you mumbled sleepily, your voice rough with sleep as you slowly started waking up. A soft laugh escaped Michael immediately before he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead.

"Because you're so beautiful," he murmured.

A sleepy smile spread across your face almost instantly, and without even opening your eyes fully yet, you tucked yourself closer against him beneath the blankets. Over the last several nights, you had stopped sleeping, curled into yourself in pain. Now you slept curled around Michael instead, your body instinctively seeking comfort from him even while unconscious, and every single time he woke up with you wrapped around him like this, it affected him deeply.

"When's the flight?" you asked softly after a moment. "I know you have to get to Italy... I feel a lot better. I can survive a twelve-hour flight." Michael's expression softened immediately, though concern still flickered behind his eyes.

Of course, he wanted you there with him.

He had missed you terribly before all of this happened, and honestly, after spending the last week terrified and attached to your side almost nonstop, the idea of leaving you behind again sounded unbearable to him. 

But at the same time, he could still see how exhausted you were. Even though the fever was gone and your strength was returning, your body still tired easily, and Michael hated the thought of pushing you too hard, too fast, after how sick you'd been.

"Baby... are you sure?" he asked quietly, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. "I don't want you to push yourself too hard while you're still recovering."

At that, your eyes finally fluttered open fully so you could look at him, and immediately, Michael's breath caught slightly, because you looked so much more like yourself now.

Your eyes weren't clouded with fever anymore. Your cheeks held real warmth and life again, instead of that flushed, sickly heat that had haunted him for days. Even tired, even still recovering, you looked alive in a way that made relief wash through him all over again.

"I want to go," you said softly. "I know we probably won't get to spend as much time together because you have to make up rehearsals, but I want to be there, Michael."

The sincerity in your voice softened him instantly. Michael leaned down and kissed your forehead again before pulling you a little closer against his chest.

"Okay," he murmured softly. "Bill arranged the flight already... We'll leave later tonight." A smile spread slowly across your face at that.

Very carefully, you pushed yourself up onto your elbow so you could look at him better, the oversized Bad Tour shirt shifting against your shoulder as you moved closer toward him in the bed.

"I know I already said it, but thank you for taking care of me, Michael," you said softly, the sincerity in your voice making Michael's expression immediately melt into something warm and affectionate.

He smiled while lightly shaking his head, his fingers still absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against your back beneath the blankets. "In sickness and in health..." he murmured. "It's in the vows."

A quiet laugh escaped you as you rolled your eyes playfully, the sound soft and still slightly sleepy from just waking up. "We're not married yet," you pointed out.

Michael's smile only widened at that. "I know," he said softly, his eyes moving across your face with that same overwhelming tenderness he'd been looking at you with for days now. "But we will be soon."

The warmth in his voice settled deep into your chest.

You smiled before shifting closer to him until your foreheads rested together, your breath mingling softly between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Michael's hand slid gently along your waist while your fingers rested against his chest, and suddenly the thing you had missed most over the last ten days settled heavily between you both at the exact same time.

Kissing him.

Not feverish kisses pressed to your forehead while you drifted in and out of sleep, or exhausted, little touches while he checked your temperature or helped you back into bed.

A real kiss.

You could see Michael wanting it too in the way his eyes softened the closer you got to him, the way his breathing shifted slightly before he leaned in to meet you halfway. He had held himself back for days because you'd been too sick, too weak, too exhausted to even think about something like this while your body fought through the virus.

But now you were here, warm in his arms instead of burning with fever, looking at him with clear eyes again. Your lips met softly, and immediate warmth spread through your body that had absolutely nothing to do with being sick anymore.

Michael kissed you carefully at first, almost reverently, like he was still worried you might break if he touched you too hard after everything your body had just gone through. His hand came up slowly to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your jaw while your lips moved together softly.

And the second the kiss deepened even slightly, you melted into him completely. You had missed this, missed him.

You missed the intimacy of simply being able to kiss your fiancé without exhaustion or fever or pain interrupting it. Michael felt it too in the way he pulled you closer instinctively, his forehead pressing more firmly against yours between kisses like he couldn't stand even the smallest amount of distance between you anymore after the fear of the last week and a half.

You were the one who eventually pulled back first, your breathing growing slightly uneven from lingering exhaustion more than anything else.

Michael noticed immediately. His hand stayed gentle against your cheek as he pressed another soft kiss against your forehead while you steadied your breathing.

"You okay, mama?" he asked quietly.

You nodded almost immediately, smiling at him softly. "I love you."

The words made Michael's entire face light up. His full, wide, and genuine smile that's so full of love, it made your chest ache just looking at him.

"I love you more," he whispered.

And for the rest of the day, the two of you stayed wrapped up in each other like that.

The heaviness that had hung over Neverland for the last ten days finally began lifting now that you were recovering, and for the first time since Michael had flown home from Italy, things started feeling normal again between you. You spent hours lying together, talking quietly about your wedding plans once you reached Italy, both of you getting increasingly more excited the more real it started to sound.

The thought of marrying Michael in Italy made your stomach flutter now in an entirely different way than sickness had.

Since your suitcases had already been packed before you got sick, there wasn't much left to prepare before leaving. Instead, the day became about simply being together again without fear hanging over either of you.

You and Michael made lunch together slowly, Michael still hovering slightly every time you stood too long or moved too quickly, though now it made you smile more than anything else. He still watched you carefully while you ate too, quietly relieved every time you managed to finish food without getting nauseous afterward.

Later, the two of you showered together, not out of desperation this time, but simply because after spending days caring for you so intimately, neither of you wanted distance from each other anymore.

And when it was finally time to leave for the airport that evening, Bill drove both of you there while Michael kept one arm wrapped around you almost the entire ride.

The second you boarded the private plane and settled into your seats for the long flight ahead, exhaustion immediately started creeping back into your body again. Recovery still weighed heavily on you, even though you felt infinitely better now than you had days ago.

Michael noticed instantly.

"Get some sleep, baby," he murmured softly as he pulled you against his chest again beneath the blankets provided on the plane.

You curled into him easily, your head resting against his shoulder while his arms wrapped securely around you, warm and familiar and safe in the quiet cabin.

Even now, with Italy finally ahead of you again and the tour waiting overseas, Michael still remained conscious of your health in every little thing he did. He adjusted the blankets carefully around you, pressed soft kisses against your hair, and kept his hand slowly rubbing along your back until your body relaxed fully against him.

Tucked safely into his arms in the back of the plane, surrounded by his warmth and the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, you finally let yourself drift off to sleep again.