EMNIICHY: 17 Weeks.
SUMMARY: What was supposed to be one gap year after high school has stretched into several, but you’re finally getting closer to the financial goal you have for college tuition. What better way to push yourself over the finish line than being a surrogate in Los Angeles? But when the fertility agency sends Michael Jackson instead of a typical wealthy Beverly Hills couple to your door, you’re not entirely sure what to expect. Spanning almost a year of quiet milestones, public scrutiny, and a hazy LA backdrop, this story follows a regular woman completely upended by the magnetic and elusive world of a celebrity father and his three kids. What starts as a hands-off arrangement slowly transforms into an intricate and painfully complicated entanglement. As you’re woven into the fabric of Michael’s life, the invisible boundaries between surrogate and client begin to dissolve.
CHAPTER WC:
6.1 k
OVERALL TAGS/WARNINGS:
pairing: mature era!michael x f!reader. 18+, MDNI. pregnancy/surrogacy (obviously), slow slow SLOWWW burn, oblivious reader AND oblivious MJ, pregnancy symptoms, long ass phone conversations (yk how mj was running up that phone bill), age gap (reader is mid twenties), mutual pining, timeline inaccuracies/discrepancies (please let’s just pretend bill is 15 years younger than he actually is bc we all know that man would not realistically be working for MJ in the 2000s), the trial never happened in this universe because EYEEE said so, MJs kids being a menace but also lowkey the best wingmen (wingchildren??) ever, graphic depictions of childbirth and labor, a bit of angst but it gets resolved, kissing, eventual smut, FLUFFFFF, and a happy ending because duh!
A/N:
hiii guys! can we believe we (you) are 17 weeks along? time really flies fr (take a shot every time i use this phrase)! this chapter was so fun to write because we finally get to see you and michael interact on his turf... 🙈. also! [] = your name! i didn't like how (name) or y/n looked when reading so hopefully you guys don't mind this instead. toodles!
17 Weeks.
November, Los Angeles, 2003.
If someone had told you your skin would look the best it ever looked in your life when you were seventeen weeks pregnant, you would have called them a bold-faced liar. But here you sat in front of your vanity, mouth slightly agape at how glowy your skin was as you curled your eyelashes. Even your mom had noticed, bringing it up at dinner a few nights ago.
“This is my apology from the universe for my first trimester,” you had told her, wiggling your eyebrows.
Even now as you fussed with your hair, you could hardly believe that it wasn’t thinning or falling out, which was something Dr. Gene warned you could happen at your last appointment. Zofran was no longer part of your daily routine, and you could actually enjoy food now without your stomach throwing a tantrum. Really, the only thing bothering you was your bump. Maybe “bother” wasn’t the right word, but… it was definitely an adjustment. Your abdomen had gotten to the point where strangers could do a 60/40 toss up between newly pregnant or just really bloated, and that was currently the source of your frustrations right now as you tried to find an outfit to wear for your meeting with him.
“Not a meeting; that makes it sound serious,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror. “I’m just… hangin’ out. With my surrogate client. Who happens to be Michael Jackson. Right.”
After fighting with your hair and your arms being on the brink of exhaustion, you finally manage to get it to sit the way you wanted. With your hair checked off your list, you turn your attention back to your closet. You had already tried to plan your outfit days ago, but you were so unsatisfied that you gave up, convincing yourself that you would get it right on the day of.
And yet here you sat, clothes piled up on the bed from your rejected outfits, and less than twenty minutes, according to your bedside clock, to decide on one. It was mid-November in Los Angeles, and the weather was doing that thing where there was a chill breeze, even if the sun would be out and shining. It was a deceptive little trick that you’ve always disliked about the climate in LA ever since you moved there as a child, and it only made your outfit search that much more difficult. You had to find something that could keep you warm, but also wouldn’t make you too hot, that would be dressed up enough to show you took this seriously but not so dressed up that you looked out of place for what was supposed to be a casual afternoon lunch. If you weren’t running so short on time, you would have given yourself five minutes to scream unabashedly into your pillow. You settle on taking a deep breath instead, closing your eyes and mentally cataloguing every item in your closet.
After careful consideration, you decide on a dark brown ribbed tank top with brown beading and sequin detail along the neckline, and pair it with a cream colored chunky knit cardigan and dark-wash jeans. For shoes, you decided you would steal borrow your mom’s calf-high buckle boots that you loved so much. She was at work anyway, so you’re sure she wouldn’t mind.
A touch of mascara and a lip gloss was really all you needed with your skin doing all of the heavy lifting. After a few sprays of perfume and a final check of your mini bag to make sure you had what you needed, you felt ready—well, about as ready as anyone could feel in a situation like this.
You rush downstairs, rummaging in the shoe closet for your mom’s boots. You’re pulling the second one onto your left foot when the doorbell rings, and you glance at your watch.
11:59 a.m..
Damn, he’s good.
Taking a deep breath, you tell yourself that it was just his bodyguard, not Michael—for now, at least. You had a whole car ride’s worth of time to worry about facing him.
You open the door to an older man in a white bucket hat, and you immediately recognize him as the man who was standing outside when you had your first meeting with Michael.
“Hi Bill,” you greet him, hoping your smile doesn't look as nervous as you feel. “Thanks for driving me today.”
“It’s no problem at all,” he says warmly, escorting you to the car. The “car” in question was a sleek, black Escalade ESV with heavily tinted windows, identical to the one Michael showed up in when you two first met almost five months ago. As Bill opens the rear door for you and you slide across the buttery leather seats, you wonder if it’s the exact same one he rode in or if it was just part of many more that he may have had.
“Is the temperature alright for you? Any music you prefer to listen to?” Bill asks, adjusting his rearview mirror.
“It’s perfect,” you reassure him. “And I don’t mind; you can listen to whatever you like.”
Bill nods, and with that, he pulls out of your driveway and out of your neighborhood.
The soft hum of a smooth-jazz radio station fills the quiet cabin of the SUV, the bass low and soothing against the heavy thrum of the engine. You lean your head back against the buttery leather headrest, watching the familiar scenery of your everyday life blur past the dark tint of the window.
As Bill navigates the traffic onto the freeway, heading toward the winding, affluent hills of the city, your mind starts to drift. You glance down at the cream fabric of your cardigan, your fingers lightly grazing the hidden slope of your abdomen.
You wonder what he’s doing right now. Is he pacing the floors of his mansion, feeling that same nervous energy he hinted at on the phone? Maybe he’s completely unbothered and at ease. You even tell yourself there was a good chance he forgot you were even coming today; he was a busy man, after all, and he was probably just doing this to be nice.
Probably.
The transition from the flat, sunny avenues of the valley into the lush, towering greenery of the hills happens gradually. The houses get further back from the road, hidden behind massive stone walls and iron gates, surrounded by sprawling palm trees and manicured ivy. You've lived in LA for years, but this side of the city has always felt like a myth—a playground reserved for old movie money and stadium-selling royalty.
Bill turns the heavy wheel, steering the Escalade onto a private, quiet cul-de-sac that seems to curve upward into the sky.
He looks over his shoulder at you with a smile. "Just a few more minutes. The kids just finished their lunch, so it might be a little lively when we get inside."
"That's fine," you say, swallowed by a sudden wave of nerves that makes your throat dry. You clear it quickly, forcing your best poker face back into position. "I love kids. I'm kind of used to the noise,” you reassure him.
The SUV slows down as it approaches a massive, black wrought-iron gate set into a towering brick wall. There are no address numbers visible, just a discreet security camera mounted on a stone pillar, tracking the vehicle's approach. Bill rolls down his window just an inch, pressing a small clicker attached to his visor.
With a heavy, mechanical groan, the gates begin to swing inward, parting like the doors to another dimension.
The road gives way to an ordered cobblestone path, winding up a small incline before the house finally comes into view.
Except house was an entirely ill-fitting choice of words to describe what you saw in front of you. No, this… this was a palace.
You’re no stranger to extravagant mansions, having passed many of them on your adventures throughout LA. But to be this up close to one and actually get to go inside one was a different ball park entirely. The massive estate looked like an elephantine version of the fancy French chateaus that sat on the glossy pages of the travel magazines your mom received randomly in the mail sometimes. You subtly crane your neck out of the window and see two towering Italian cypress trees bordering either side of the entrance, along with vines growing on the first-story facade of the house. In the middle of the front driveway, a tiered stone fountain sent a steady, glittering cascade of water into the air.
Bill pulled off to the side, and the clanging of his keys snapped you out of your gawking. He unbuckles his seatbelt and exits, making his way around to your side to open the door for you. In the few seconds it takes him to get there, you’re pretty sure you have a mini panic attack. For some reason, it hits you again exactly who you were about to see, and you start to sympathize with the hundreds of women who were passing out at Michael’s concerts back in the day.
“You ready?” Bill says, swinging your door open. You offer him a meek smile, fumbling with the release of your own seatbelt before you step out of the car. It feels like you’re moving with fifty pound weights glued to your ankles as he walks you up to the door. You can’t decide which is worse—the door opening to Michael immediately, or opening to someone else and giving you an extra minute for your cortisol to spike before you meet him.
You quickly realize the latter is worse when Bill easily unlocks the entrance, letting both of you in. The hammering of your heart increases, and then settles for only a few seconds when he isn’t smack dab on the other side of the door.
The first thing you notice is the massive, glittering, champagne-colored chandelier that’s situated at the top of the dark, polished wood stairs, which is visible from the entryway. There’s crown molding everywhere; on the walls, the ceilings, and even the baseboards, making the mansion look like even more of a castle on the inside. Several oil paintings in brushed gold frames cling to the walls, and some are mounted so high you have to fully tilt your head back to see them. The second thing you notice is the unmistakable sound of children playing, and a sudden, sharp ache twists in your chest. It hits you all over again just how much trust he is placing in your hands by letting you cross into the one part of his life that he fights so hard to completely protect from the public eye.
There’s a muffled but unmistakable voice that calls out behind a closed door. “Come on, you two, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Your palms suddenly feel very, very, very sweaty, and you say a quick prayer that Michael is more of a hugger than handshake type of person.
It’s as if an omnipresent power hears and answers your plea, because the dark wood paneling of the door swings wide open and Michael’s right there.
He’s in a simple, oversized red T-shirt, loose dark jeans, and a pair of white socks, his hair a little tousled. The domesticity of the image should calm you, but for some reason it only makes you more nervous.
"Hey!" His face instantly lights up with that legendary, blinding, perfect smile, and he closes the distance between you in three long, effortless strides. Before you can even process the motion, he wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you into a warm, genuine hug.
He smells incredible, same as the first time you met—like clean laundry, expensive sandalwood cologne, but this time with a faint hint of baby powder. You melt against his chest for a fraction of a second, his touch warming you right through your cardigan, before he pulls back just enough to look down at you, his hands resting gently on your upper arms.
"Look at you," he breathes out, his large, expressive eyes scanning your face, a look of pure relief and awe in them. "You’re glowing. You look beautiful."
A sudden, intense wave of heat rushes from your chest straight up to your ears, and your carefully prepared poker face slips a little.
"Thank you," you squeak out, desperately hoping he didn’t feel the erratic thudding of your heart through his shirt.
Before the quiet between you can stretch too far, the soft padding of footsteps on the hardwood draws your attention. Two pairs of eyes are suddenly fixed on you.
"These are my kids; well, two-thirds of them. The youngest is taking a nap," Michael says, his hand naturally coming down to rest on the shoulder of the seven-year-old boy standing at his right. "Prince, Paris, this is my friend.” He tells them your name and you give a little wave to both of them. “She's going to have lunch with us today, alright?"
"Hi," the older boy blurts out. His greeting is perfectly polite, but there’s an undeniable undercurrent of confidence and energy that only a seven-year-old can possess in the way he steps forward to offer a little wave. He isn't shy in the slightest; his posture is bright and energetic, his eyes tracking you with a sharp, intelligent curiosity that tells you he’s used to being the center of attention.
"Hello," the six-year-old girl murmurs from Michael’s other side. Her voice is much quieter, a contrast to her brother's vibrant energy. She stands a little closer to her dad's leg, her gaze steady and deliberate as she takes you in. There's a mature, quiet focus in her eyes, a calculating look that feels less like childhood shyness and more like she's fiercely protecting her dad's space. You get the distinct impression that random visitors do not cross this threshold often, and she's currently deciding what category you fit into.
"It’s so nice to meet you both," you say, offering them a genuine smile. "Your house is so pretty."
"I can show you around if you want!" Prince offers excitedly, his polite restraint already starting to fray as his natural enthusiasm leaks through. He looks up at his dad for approval, practically vibrating on the balls of his feet. "Can I show her the fish tank first, Dad? Please?"
Michael lets out a soft little chuckle, looking down at his son with pure warmth. "Only if she wants to see it, Prince. Don't ambush her right at the door."
"I'd love to see the fish tank," you reassure him.
That’s all the permission the boy needs. He takes off down the hall, his house slippers flapping on the polished floorboards. "Come on! We have a real shark in it! It’s a tiny baby shark, but it’s still a real shark!"
His sister just lets out a tiny, long-suffering sigh at her brother's immediate loss of composure, though she steps away from her dad to follow him at a much more dignified pace.
“Prince! No running,” she huffs, calling out after him.
Michael throws an apologetic, slightly embarrassed grin your way, waving a hand toward the hallway. "These two," he chuckles softly. "After you."
The next hour consisted of you getting a house tour, narrated almost entirely by the two children, with Michael only interjecting when Prince divulged a little too much information.
“This is where we watch movies,” Prince had said cheerfully about halfway through the tour. He gestured grandly at the elaborate home theater setup. You did your best not to let it reflect in your face how astounded you were at the ceiling mural, the huge chandelier, and the luxurious velvet curtains that lined the projection screen.
“One time, Dad had a pillow fight with us and he fell over one of the couches,” he giggled. At this, Michael cleared his throat immediately as he glanced between Prince and you.
“I did not fall, Prince. I tripped,” Michael corrected him quickly with a nervous laugh.
“Sure, Dad,” the boy responded, sounding unconvinced before turning his attention back to you. “Wanna see the pool next?”
“We should show her the library next, Prince,” Paris interjected. Prince paused, looking like he was deep in thought at his little sister's suggestion. After a few seconds of contemplation, he nodded.
“Okay, Paris, let’s go!” he exclaimed, making his way up the tiered stairs to leave the home theater. “We have like a million books in there!”
Paris corrected Prince as she maneuvered around him. “We have two hundred and thirteen. I counted. But just our books, not Daddy’s. He has way more.”
“That’s a lot of books,” you smiled at her. “Which one’s your favorite?”
“Hmm… the Magic Tree House books, I think,” she said decisively, leading all of you around the corner to the library door. “We have all of them.”
“Oh, I love those,” you replied, matching her serious tone. “The one with the dinosaurs is the best.”
Paris’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of genuine excitement breaking through her cool exterior. “The Valley of the Dinosaurs one? That’s my favorite too! Jack and Annie almost get eaten by a Tyrannosaurus Rex.”
She proudly pushed open the double doors, revealing a room that smelled intensely of old paper and expensive leather. The library was breathtaking—two stories of floor-to-ceiling dark oak bookshelves, accessible by a rolling wooden ladder that Prince immediately tried to climb before Michael caught him by the back belt loop of his shorts. A massive marble fireplace dominated one wall, flanked by plush velvet armchairs, and a large wrought-iron spiral staircase in the corner led up to a second-floor wrap-around balcony. It looked less like a private home and more like a sanctuary for centuries of history.
By the time the tour finally started winding down, your brain was actively struggling to process the sheer, enormous scale of the estate. If your mental math was correct, the kids had casually marched you past a sprawling home gym that rivaled a professional private health club, a five-lane bowling alley hidden in the basement, an elevator with polished brass doors, and a wine cellar that looked like an underground cave. Prince had proudly pointed out his favorite hiding spots across thirteen bedrooms and seven bathrooms—a number that made you think of the single, cramped bathroom you and your mom shared back home and laugh hysterically inside your head. Outside the towering windows, you had caught glimpses of a sunken tennis court, sprawling manicured gardens, and a detached guesthouse that was easily triple the size of your entire house. It was an overwhelming, mind-boggling display of wealth, yet the way the kids chased each other through the corridors making lightsaber noises made it feel weirdly... lived-in.
You were just trying to imagine the logistics of cleaning a house with seven bathrooms when the rich, savory aroma of garlic, fresh herbs, and toasted rice began to drift down the grand hallway, interrupting your thoughts.
Right on cue, a kind-faced woman with curly dark hair in a crisp white apron poked her head around the corner. "Lunch is ready, everyone," she announced with a warm smile before vanishing back toward the kitchen.
“Do you like risotto? Kai made it for us,” Paris asks, brushing hair out of her face.
“Y’know what, I’ve actually never had it, but I’m excited to try,” you tell her honestly. “My mom tried to make it from a recipe book once, but she ended up burning the rice… don’t tell her I told you.”
She giggles at your confession, easily leading the three of you to the dining room door. The massive, rectangular table carved from dark wood competes with the beguiling chandelier hanging above it for the center of attention. There are enough chairs to host an entire basketball team and then some, but three mismatched woven placemats and a green high-chair with smears of mystery sauce, both tucked into the end corner of the table, catch your attention. It's a messy, beautifully human anchor right in the middle of all that overwhelming luxury, and it makes something warm soften in your chest.
"Don't worry, your secret is safe with us," Michael murmurs, a playful grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he steps forward to slide out a heavy, cushioned chair for you, right next to his own seat.
Paris and Prince scramble into the chairs directly across from you, their earlier "polite guest" filters entirely gone. Within minutes, Kai reappears from the kitchen, plating a steaming, generous helping of wild mushroom risotto on the delicate china in front of you.
The rich, savory aroma hits your nose, and instead of the usual wave of nausea that defined your entire first trimester, your stomach gives a happy, demanding rumble. Michael takes his seat at the head of the table right between you and his kids. He watches you with hawk-like vigilance, his eyes tracking your hand as you pick up your fork. "What do you think?"
You scoop up a small bite, the creamy, perfectly cooked rice practically melting on your tongue. "Oh my gosh," you breathe out, your eyes widening in pleasant surprise. "Okay, yeah. This is absolutely amazing."
Lunch passes in a blur of easy, chaotic comfort. You spend most of the meal being thoroughly entertained by the kids. Prince enthusiastically explains the entire plot of a cartoon you've never heard of, while Paris calmly eats her side of roasted vegetables and occasionally chimes in to tell you when her brother is exaggerating. Michael spends the whole time effortlessly wearing his Dad hat—cutting up Prince’s food, reminding them to use their napkins, and chiming in with that soft chuckle that makes you feel strangely at home.
Just as Prince is finishing up a dramatic story complete with accompanying hand-gestures, a woman that you can assume is one of the house staff slips into the dining room, offering a gentle smile. "Alright, you two. Lunch is over, which means it's time to head upstairs and check on the baby before your quiet hour. Let's go wash our hands."
"Aw, man!" Prince groans, though he's already sliding out of his chair. He looks over at you, offering a bright, lingering smile. "Bye! Thanks for looking at the shark with me; I’ll show you the pool next time!"
"Bye, []," Paris says softly. She hesitates for a second, her quiet eyes dropping to your cream cardigan before she looks back up. "I hope you come back soon."
Your throat tightens with a sudden wave of affection. "I'd love to. Bye, guys," you say, waving as they make their way through the dining room door.
You watch them trudge down the hall after the lady, their voices fading until a heavy, profound silence drops over the massive dining room.
Suddenly, the protective buffer of the children is gone. The reality of the situation rushes back in, and your palms instantly feel a little damp against your dark wash jeans. You take a slow sip of your water, trying to maintain your poker face as you look right next to you at the man who you’ve finally been left alone with for the first time all day.
He's leaning his elbow on the table, his chin resting in his hand as he looks at you, the warmth of his full attention smothering you like a heavy blanket. The sharp, exhausted edge he had on the phone two weeks ago is completely gone, replaced by a quiet, steady warmth.
“I’m really happy you were able to come over today,” Michael tells you, a smile taking over his face.
“Me too… Prince and Paris are little comedians,” you laugh. “I bet you’re never bored.”
“No, never,” he chuckles. His hand comes up to rub his jaw, and it draws your attention to the slight stubble adorning his chin. You take the opportunity to look at him, like really look at him. He looks handsome like this, relaxed in his own space with the coat of fatherhood softening the edges of the regal pop persona that you thought you knew.
“I miss them, though,” he continues. “Y’know, whenever I’m away at meetings trying to sort things out with my team, or when I’m making music. I try to do as much of it as I can from home, but… it’s hard. I feel like I’m not here enough sometimes.” The tinge of sadness in his voice almost makes you want to reach over and hug him, but the invisible, professional boundary between you two keeps you glued to your seat.
“Well, I know it’s my first time meeting them, but… from what I saw in the way they interacted with you, you’re definitely not a stranger to them. They adore you,” you reassure him. “I mean, I don’t really know anything about being a parent, but I think you’re a great dad.”
Michael’s eyes go wide for a fraction of a second, and he gives you a small smile before looking down at the table, as if the weight of your praise was too much for him to bear.
“Thank you. That really means a lot to me, truly,” he says softly, looking back up at you. “But enough about me. What about you? Is the baby kicking yet?”
“Oh gosh, not yet. I think it's too early for him or her to,” you giggle. “It’s gonna be interesting having a baby kicking my ribs while I’m working.”
“You work?” Michael asks, raising his eyebrows. “What do you do?”
“Well, I work as a waitress, but I switched to doing only part time now,” you explain, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Just a few mornings a week at a little diner six minutes down the street from my house.”
Michael’s eyebrows shoot up even higher, his entire posture shifting as a wave of genuine alarm crosses his face. “A waitress? It’s just—I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be on your feet, carrying heavy trays and running around a restaurant right now. You didn’t quit after the contract?”
“It’s really not that bad, I promise,” you say quickly, waving a hand to dismiss his worry. “My managers and co-workers are super understanding. They don’t even let me lift anything heavier than a coffee pot; I’m treated like I’m made of glass, honestly. My team is mostly old ladies, and they love me. I think they’re just excited to have someone young and expecting working with them.”
A small, reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth at the image of a diner full of grandmas babying you, but the stubborn, protective look in his eyes doesn't budge. He leans across the table, his tone dropping into something incredibly serious and quiet.
“I appreciate that they’re looking out for you, but you shouldn't have to work,” he says softly, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “That’s the whole point of the compensation in the contract. If you need more financial support—if the baseline isn't covering everything—you just have to tell me, and we can re-draft it right away. Whatever you need.”
“No, no, the stipend is more than generous, Michael, seriously. I mean, you’re right—I technically don’t need to work anymore,” you admit. You toy with a bead of condensation on your water glass in an effort to avoid his intense gaze. “But… it keeps me busy, you know? If I just sat in my house all day with my mother, I’d lose my mind. I mean I love her, don’t get me wrong; I just need something that’s for me, not for my mom or my relatives or even the baby. Going to the diner gives me a routine. It keeps me normal.”
Michael stares at you for a long moment, clearly trying to find a loophole in your logic, but the sheer sincerity in your face leaves him without any real argument. He lets out a sigh of quiet surrender, though the apprehension in his gaze dissipates completely.
He relents, just a tiny bit. “Alright,” he murmurs. “But the second it gets too hard, or the second those nice ladies let you lift a tray that’s too heavy, you quit. Deal? Promise me.”
You can’t help the genuine laugh that slips past your lips. “Deal. I promise. And, if it makes you feel better, I swore to myself I’d stop the moment I couldn’t see past my feet.”
“That makes me feel a lot better,” he grins.
God, him smiling at you like that makes you feel like a giddy teenage girl with a secret hallway crush. It’s taking everything in you not to let it show how much he’s affecting you. You rack your brain for something, anything of intelligence to say instead of beaming like an absolute fool.
“How’d, uh, the meetings with your label go?” you finally say, remembering how stressed he sounded on the phone about it. “I know you said they’re on a break for a bit, but I hope they’re not still giving you a hard time or anything.”
The grin fades gradually from his face, replaced by a slow, thoughtful exhale as he settles back into his chair. He doesn't look angry; moreso tired, in a way that seems to go deeper than a lack of sleep.
"They're... getting there," he admits, tracing a pattern on the dark wood grain of the table. "They want a specific sound for the next album. Something radio-friendly, commercial. And I'm just trying to make something honest. It's a constant tug-of-war. You spend years working to get to a point where you have a voice, and then you have to fight twice as hard just to use it."
“That’s wildly unfair. I’m really sorry,” you say softly. The tension in his shoulders is palpable, built-up pressure from decades of being told what to do and having a life that belonged more to the public than to him. And although you can’t possibly begin to imagine what that must feel like, you still wish you had something of substance to say.
“It is what it is,” he shrugs, offering you a small smile. “But I’m very fortunate, all things considered. My ‘problems’ are trivial compared to everything else going on in our world right now.”
You look at him for a moment, watching the subtle tightness around his eyes that he's trying so hard to mask with a polite smile.
“You can be fortunate and still be tired, Michael,” you say gently. “You're allowed to just be frustrated. You don't have to qualify it.”
The words hang in the quiet space between you, heavy and thick. His dark eyes are entirely focused on you, pondering the simple truth in the words you had just spoken.
“I… I guess I’ve never thought about it like that,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that vibrates right through your chest. Surely your imagination is betraying you, because you swear he leans a fraction closer. His gaze drops to your hands, then up to the soft curve of your neck, before finally rising to meet your eyes. The air in the grand dining room feels thick, warm, and entirely too close. Your heart hammers against your ribs, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you wonder if he can hear it. You find yourself leaning in just a millimeter, hypnotized by the quiet warmth radiating off him.
BZZZZZZT—WAAAAAH!
The sharp, sudden burst of static and a loud, high-pitched wail from an electronic baby monitor on the sideboard shatters the atmosphere like a brick through glass.
You both flinch, instantly snapping backward in your chairs as if you've been caught doing something illegal. The spell is broken, and a frantic spike of adrenaline replaces the heavy tension almost immediately.
"Blanket," Michael breathes out, his eyes wide as he quickly pushes his chair back, his white socks sliding on the dark wood floor as he scrambles to his feet. He swipes the monitor off the counter, his fingers fumbling with the volume dial to quiet the baby's sharp cries. "Sorry... usually when he naps this long, he wakes up very fussy."
"Oh, no, I totally get it!" you say quickly, your voice a little higher than usual as you mentally feel yourself go into an absolute lockdown. You’re reeling, your chest heaving as you frantically try to piece together the meaning of whatever the hell that was. You stand up as smoothly as you can, toying with the pearlescent buttons on your cream cardigan over with subtly trembling fingers. "It’s getting late anyway. I’ll leave you to it."
He pauses, the crying baby still crackling through the small speaker in his hand, looking at you with a mix of surprise and disappointment. "Are you sure? It doesn’t take me too long to change him and fix him a bottle."
"Oh, no, it’s okay!" The lie slips past your teeth with practiced ease, a desperate shield to get you out of his house before you do something stupid. "I promised my mom I’d help her out with something today anyway, and she’s almost home from work by now, so... I probably should start heading out."
He looks like he wants to press it, but another sharp cry from the monitor makes him sigh, offering you an apologetic, slightly frazzled smile. "Okay. Let me tell Bill to pull the car around. Come on, I'll walk you to the foyer."
The walk back to the massive front entrance is a blur. You're trying your absolute best to act like your chest isn't entirely on fire while he walks beside you.
Just as Bill opens the heavy, wrought-iron front door, letting in the cool, deceptive November breeze, a voice calls out from the hallway.
"Wait! Wait, I have something for you!"
Kai comes rushing around the corner, slightly out of breath, carrying a massive, heavy-duty insulated catering bag. She offers you a bright, maternal smile, handing the straps over to you.
"I put together some sheet pan meals," Kai explains warmly. "There's roasted chicken, steak fajitas, and roasted veggies. The big pans can be warmed up right in the oven, and the smaller ones are microwave-safe for when you don’t feel like cooking. You need to eat, okay? For the baby and for you."
Your throat seizes at the genuine kindness of her gesture. "Kai... oh my gosh, thank you so much. You really didn't have to do this."
"It’s nothing! Take care of yourself, okay?" she says, giving your arm an affectionate squeeze before turning back toward the kitchen.
You turn back to Michael, the heavy catering bag held tightly against your thudding chest like a shield. He looks at you, his large eyes soft, completely ignoring the baby's quiet fussing on the monitor for one last lingering second.
"Thank you for coming, []," he says softly. "Seriously. It meant a lot to me."
"Thank you for having me. Tell the kids I said goodnight," you reply, offering him a fleeting smile before you practically fly out the front door and down the grand stone steps toward the idling black Escalade.
Bill opens the rear door, and you slide across the buttery leather seats, letting out a massive, trembling breath the second the heavy door clicks shut. Safe.
You hate the way your heart is hammering away in your chest over nothing, over a moment that was probably just all in your head. And instead of maintaining your composure, you decided to run away like a frightened animal. The only thing you can do now is pray that Michael didn’t notice how awkwardly you had acted.
As the SUV slowly rolls down the brick driveway, circling the tiered stone fountain, you can't resist the urge. You glance back out the heavily tinted window, feeling safe in knowing that no one could see you through it.
Through the glass panel next to the massive front door, you see Michael. He's still standing there in his red T-shirt and socks, clutching the baby monitor in his large hand, entirely still. Even from a distance, you can feel the weight of his gaze tracking the black SUV as it moves toward the gates. He stands there, staring out into the driveway long after the car has already cleared the cobblestones until the heavy iron gates finally swing shut, locking him back inside his palace.
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