“In a world filled with hate, we must still dare to hope. In a world filled with anger, we must still dare to comfort. In a world filled with despair, we must still dare to dream. And in a world filled with distrust, we must still dare to believe.” - Michael Joseph Jackson (August 29, 1959 - June 25, 2009)
୨ৎ synopsis — you and michael have been arguing for weeks, he’s worried he’s losing you but there turns out to be a reason behind you being so hormonal
୨ৎ themes — basically just unprotected sex mixed with a whole load of angst & tension, dom!michael, oral (f!receiving), pregnancy, cr3ampie, secrecy, no use of y/n
୨ৎ word count — 6.6k (i like to deliver)
୨ৎ note — i literally blabbed so much here that there’s no real plot but i locked in and spent 2 days writing something hopefully good. can’t stop won’t stop writing about thriller era michael (i’m obsessed) but you can apply this to any era really. i think i went into a lil too much detail this time because my previous two posts were lowkey shocking, so i hope this makes up for it !!
You and Michael had been locked in a bitter argument for the last few days, constantly at each other’s throats. It didn’t stop you from loving him. It never could. But this paralysing shared stubbornness kept both of your apologies shielded, spinning the conflict into a vicious cycle. Unbeknownst to him, you knew why. You knew why you had been lashing out and angry all at once. A volatile mix of hormones and raw anger consumed you all at once. Oblivious to the truth, all he could do was pour fuel on the fire, turning defensive every single time a minor trigger set you off. Daytimes consisted of you both trading blows whenever he was home, but by night, if he was back before you slept, you found him in between your thighs. Just the way you liked it.
You were pregnant.
A baby. You had only just uncovered the truth, a positive test still fresh in your mind. The timing couldn't have been more inconvenient. Michael was currently buried under the immense pressure of preparing for the Victory Tour, while you were celebrating a hard earned acceptance into a modeling agency upon recently signing a contract. It just went to show how unfair reality could be, it had a habit of tossing unexpected complications your way.
But Michael was entirely oblivious. You simply couldn’t summon the courage to tell him. You had known for nearly three weeks by this point, yet a perfect moment never presented itself, there was never a viable window amidst the endless, bitter standoffs and exhausting late nights. He spent the vast majority of his time buried in grueling tour rehearsals with his brothers, leaving you terrified of how he might react to such monumental news. Would he choose to continue the tour, leaving you abandoned and pregnant by yourself? Or would he deliberately sacrifice his career to stay back and tend to you? Neither of those options sat well with you.
He had missed every single warning sign. The refused drinks, the hormonal storms, the empty calendar where your cycle should have been. Preoccupied by the relentless demands of his career, the thought hadn't even grazed his mind. And honestly? You were grateful for his distraction. It was safer with him not knowing… for now.
You remained wide awake that night, a concoction of anxious thoughts entrapped within your mind while you lay strewn across the bed. Typical. The sheer weight of the situation had hit you all at once. You knew deep down that keeping this secret wasn't doing you any favours, but for the sake of peace, maintaining the lie felt like your only choice. It was almost laughable, the two of you had been at each other's throats earlier over a completely empty milk carton. He thought you were just being dramatic, never realising that milk was the sole anchor keeping your morning sickness at bay. It was the only thing that settled your stomach enough to avoid raising his suspicion if you suddenly hurled in front of him. The atmosphere between you remained thick, but you prayed he’d put the petty argument behind him by now.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally arrived home. You caught the sound of his footsteps almost immediately, tracking them as they made their way up the stairs and into the bedroom. In spite of yourself, a subtle smile touched your lips. He looked so handsome. Ridiculously handsome. The way a few loose curls perfectly framed his face and the unreadable mystery hidden behind those pitch black shades he wore made your chest tight. He was dressed in a crisp white button up shirt and black trousers. It was a simple combination, yet more than enough to make your knees wobble right where you laid.
“You’re home early.” You noted, your gaze unashamedly mapping out his features. Your eyes lingered for much longer than they should have, a weakness you mentally blamed on your newly hyper sensitized awareness of him. Ever since you’d found out you were pregnant with his child, your body simply refused to look away.
“My brothers wanted to finish the session early tonight and I thought it was a good idea.” He spoke softly, offering a quiet reflection of your smile. Behind the dim shield of his shades, his gaze travelled deliberately upward from your ankles, taking in every contour of your body until it finally locked with yours. You couldn’t see his eyes but the heavy, unsaid weight of his gaze felt like a physical touch. “It gives me a chance to... make it up to you,” he admitted. A faint fluster embellished his cheeks. It always amazed you how even after countless nights of absolute passion, he still managed to get shy over the slightest hint of intimacy, even when he was the one initiating it.
“Make it up to me how?” You questioned, rolling over slightly while keeping your gaze locked onto him. The shift in your position caused your breasts to press together, the natural pull of gravity creating a tempting display that instantly hijacked his attention. He stared down at you, captivated by the sight. You lay there, unapologetically beautiful, radiating an ethereal, soft glow that he couldn't quite take his eyes off of.
“Oh… y’know.” He paused momentarily, letting the silence stretch just long enough to shift the dynamic. “By doing my job as a man to please you and make you feel good. As I should.” he whispered, as though your previous argument was nothing but a distant memory. It typically panned out that way. Argue, make love, repeat. A newfound wave of confidence had anchored his tone, the soft rasp of his voice sending a sudden, electric shiver straight down your spine.
Your cheeks burned with heat, an agonising ache pooling between your thighs from nothing more than his whisper. You utterly loathed how easy it was for him. He merely had to say the magic words and the volatile cocktail of your hormones and libido were completely taken over, ensuring you were no longer dry before he had even crossed the room.
“And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” You questioned, your tone laced with a dangerous invitation. You were intentionally coaxing him, hungry for whatever came out of his mouth next. Your body was already on high alert, your pregnancy fuelled senses completely taking over as a rhythmic throb pulsed down there in unison with every beat of your heart.
Michael shuddered slightly, the vivid image of you entirely naked plaguing his already dirty mind. The world knew him for his innocent, quiet persona, but little did anyone guess how perverted he became the moment the two of you were alone. His cock twitched briefly, the fabric of his underwear uncomfortably tightening around him as he hardened with every filthy scenario that flashed through his mind.
Lowering his chin slightly, he peered at you over the rims of his sunglasses, letting you see the dark intensity in his gaze. That familiar, knowing smirk crept onto his lips as he deliberately paced forward, stopping only when his knees pressed against the rim of the bed.
“I’m going to make love to you. Or fuck you... whichever one you’re craving tonight,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. He leaned in closer, the heat radiating off him. “But before that, I think I need a reminder of how good you taste baby. I think I’ve forgotten.” He added a playful, dangerous edge to the end of his sentence, pausing briefly as if trying to reclaim his fading self control. It was the only thing stopping him from pinning you to the mattress and taking you completely senseless until dawn.
Your heart missed a beat, fluttering below your chest as a wave of adrenaline collided with the pit of your stomach. He had such a way with words.
Before you could fully process his words, Michael had already shifted, positioning his body over yours on the mattress. A breathless thrill shot through you at his sheer impatience. He was so single mindedly intent on pleasing you that he didn't even waste a second to take off his clothes or settle in, even after a monotonous day of rehearsal.
He positioned his head between your legs, his hands coming up to rest on either side of them as he dotted a disorganised line of soft kisses up your right thigh, stroking your skin with such delicacy. Naturally, you would go between peeking at him and resting your head against the pillow to fully immerse yourself in the moment. To enjoy every last little sensation, knowing it would guide you to something better. A sigh broke free from your throat the closer his lips became to the jackpot.
Michael brought his left hand inwards, stroking his thumb over the crotch of your panties as he watched the colour darken, your arousal seeping through the material in a protruding circle. You couldn’t help but whimper, every sense heightened now that you were carrying an unspoken secret inside of you. He tucked his index finger within the hem of your panties, ushering you out of them as he intensely pulled them down, tossing them onto the floor.
“God you’re so fucking beautiful I just need to–” he halted himself. No more words. Just action. He buried his face abruptly between your thighs, positioning himself closer this time as he wasted not another second. Michael licked a stripe vertically up your glistening pussy as he groaned, the sweetness of your arousal a sanctuary to his tastebuds.
Your neck formed an arch, your hand instinctively meeting with his head. Your slender fingers enmeshed with his jet black curls, grasp tightening. The friction of his tongue stimulating you was a godsend, something so perfect that not even words could encapsulate it. Only experiencing. “Fuck Michael yes-” You moaned out, eyes rolling to the back of your skull as your hips simultaneously jolted forward, your body naturally craving for more as he fed your addiction. Or perhaps you fed his. Literally.
Michael grunted, his lips forming an ‘o’ as they encased your clit, sucking gently but enough to entice your flow of stimulation as his tongue rolled in calculated figures of eight. “You taste so perfect.” He mumbled without interrupting his motion, the vibration of his voice sending an electric current through your entire body. You could feel your climax arising with every second that passed by.
Your thighs began to quiver beneath his grasp, muscles tense as you almost fed him your pussy. Very subtly bucking your hips up into his face, just the way he liked it. Savouring every last drop of you on his tongue as he ravished you, treating your pussy like a deathrow meal.
“I–I’m gonna cu-” The words broke apart before you could finish them, swallowed whole by the wave that had been coiling at the base of your spine. It hit without warning, a deep, pulse of pleasure that detonated low in your belly. Your walls clenched in tight, helpless contractions, each one dragging a sound from your throat you didn't recognise as your own. Your back arched off the sheets, fingers fisting hard into his hair as your thighs trembled against him. Not a gentle quiver, but a full body shudder you had zero control over. A ragged moan tore past your lips and dissolved into something closer to a sob as the intensity crested and held. Your legs fell wider apart, shaking violently. Every nerve felt raw and lit up like a live wire. But he didn't relent. His rhythm stayed exactly where it was, deliberate and undying as he dragged you through the peak instead of letting you fall gently from it.
“Mmm, that's the perfect sweetheart. Let it all out.” He whispered, his eyes closed so he could savour the moment himself, his tongue continuing with those intense, familiar motions. Your thighs buckled, tensing around the sides of his head. Your body’s way of confirming he was sending you into overstimulation.
“Please, I can’t take it.” You whimpered, a veiled note of desperation bleeding into your voice. He pulled away, a smirk tugging at the edges of his lips, glossy with your slickness.
Both of your chests rose up and down, frantically attempting to draw in oxygen. But Michael wasn’t yet done with you and you both knew that. He crawled upwards menacingly, his crotch landing directly where he’d just overstimulated you. You could feel, even through his pants, how hard he was. How hard he got just from pleasing you. It was somewhat flattering.
“Was that good?” He asked curiously, flashing you a playful smile, his demeanour softening a little, as though he was seeking your approval. He wanted to hear that he’d done good, that his job had sufficed.
“Perfect. A billion times over.” you reassured him, giggling softly as you grabbed a quick glimpse of the imagery between your legs, in which Michael was wedged. You noticed the outline in his pants, practically ready to burst its way through the fabric. “Someone’s incredibly impatient.” You joked, gesturing to his blatant bulge.
Michael laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well… maybe if you didn't look like that, it wouldn't be a problem."
Before he could form another word, your needy fingers were already at work, unbuckling his belt, sliding the leather free from its loops and letting it fall to the floor with a clink. Then came the buttons of his shirt, one by one, each pop of fabric sending a fresh wave of anticipation through the air. Your fingertips grazed his skin with every button undone, deliberate and slow, savouring the way his breath hitched beneath your touch. A few seconds later, his shirt joined the belt in a crumpled heap. In one fluid motion, you were both completely naked, skin against skin.
Michael nibbled gently on his bottom lip, his gaze sweeping over your face and figure with a hungry reverence. One last moment of stillness before he unleashed everything he had been holding back. His eyes traced the curve of your hips, the swell of your breasts, the parted readiness of your lips. A possessive heat flickered in his expression. He intended to ruin you. To leave you trembling, breathless and utterly undone. A complete, beautiful mess beneath him, with no thought left in your head but his name.
“Wait one second.” He whispered, reluctantly pulling back for a brief moment. You watched as he reached toward the nightstand, the sharp crackle of a condom wrapper tearing open cutting through the quiet bedroom. “Just to be safe.” He murmured. The phrase hung heavily in the air, a striking contradiction to the reality he was completely oblivious to.
Oh boy, little did he know.
Without a coherent thought, your fingers closed around the foil packet in his hand and you tore it away, flinging it somewhere into the shadows of the room. The crinkle of plastic against the floor was the only sound before you locked your legs around his waist, thighs clamping tight, sealing him against you with no room for retreat. Your hands slid up the back of his neck, fingers threading through the damp hair at his nape and you pulled him down into a kiss that was less about tenderness and more about possession. A deep, open mouthed distraction that said you didn't want anything between you. Not tonight. Not with the ache pooling hot and heavy between your thighs, demanding nothing but the feel of him. Skin against skin. No barriers. No pretense.
The moment your legs tightened their hold, his body surrendered to gravity, his hips dropping forward in a single, fluid motion. His cock found your entrance as if it had always known the way and he slid into you in one long, unbroken stroke. It was slow at first, then he sunk deep, filling you completely. The sensation drew a trembling whimper from your throat, mirrored by the low, guttural sound that escaped his lips as your bodies fused together, the kiss breaking just long enough for both of you to gasp into the heated space between your mouths.
The thought of the condom evaporated from Michael's mind the instant he sank into you. The scorching grip of your walls pulling him deeper rendered any memory of latex utterly irrelevant. This was a sensation no thin layer of rubber could ever replicate. The raw, silken clutch of your body yielding around him, squeezing him with every flutter of your inner muscles, claiming him in a way no barrier ever could.
He broke the kiss just long enough to drag in a ragged breath, his forehead pressing against yours, his voice a low growl that vibrated against your lips.
"Fuck."
The word was half curse, half prayer, lost immediately as he crashed his mouth back into yours. The kiss turned sloppy, desperate. Tongues tangling in a wet, rhythmic dance as they slid past each other, tasting and exploring. He didn't waste another second. Whatever fragile thread of self control he'd been clinging to snapped entirely as his hips drove forward, plunging into you with a desperate, punishing rhythm. The heat of your body enveloped him completely, each stroke sliding through your wet folds before sinking deep. The raw, velvety clutch of you pulled him in with every frantic thrust. Every fight, every bitter word from the past days was eclipsed by the wet, slapping sound of skin meeting skin, by the way your legs tightened around his waist, heels digging into his lower back as if you were holding him hostage. He set a feverish pace, relentless and hungry, each drive of his hips pushing deeper, burying himself to the hilt until he was seated fully inside you. Your body gripped him like it never wanted to let go. His breath came in ragged, broken grunts against your mouth, the only sounds in the room besides the obscene, wet rhythm of your bodies colliding.
The bedroom was filled with the sound of breathless groans and heavy sighs, your fingers tangling at the nape of his neck as the intense pacing drove you wild. He moved against you with an unyielding heat, his lower body colliding with yours. “We do this every night and it somehow... always feels better than the last.” He managed to mutter, his voice broken by desire. You squeezed your eyes shut against his shoulder. You had always used condoms, yet a split weeks ago must have been the silent catalyst for your pregnancy. Now, the rules were completely thrown out. He drove himself into you without a second thought, entirely unphased by the lack of protection, intoxicated by the raw, barrier free heat of your body.
Michael’s hand pressed flat against the headboard, knuckles taut, while the other curled around your thigh, fingers sinking into the soft skin just enough to hold you steady. He slid his hand between your legs, tracing slow, deliberate lines through your flesh until he found your clit, aching and already desperate beneath his touch. He circled it gently at first, each rotation a little more insistent, building a rhythm that pulled you both closer to the edge. He wanted nothing more than to come undone at the exact moment you did, to feel your release shudder through you as his own broke free, the two of you spilling together in divine timing.
“That feels so good don’t stop-” You whimpered, the words falling out of you in broken, desperate pieces, shredded apart by the ragged gasps tearing from your chest. Your back arched involuntarily, pressing into him as pleasure coiled tight and hot in your core, like a fire spreading through every nerve ending. His cock stretched you open with deliberate strokes while his fingers worked your clit in tight, knowing circles. The dual sensation was almost too much, almost unbearable. Your thighs trembled, slick with arousal and every thrust dragged a helpless sound from your throat. He knew exactly how to move, exactly when to press harder, when to slow down just enough to make you ache for more. The wet, obscene sounds of your bodies meeting filled the room, mixing with your moans and the sheer filth of it only pushed you closer to the edge. You were completely wrecked beneath him and he hadn't even finished with you yet.
You were close again. For the second time that night, pleasure was cresting inside you like a wave about to break and there was nothing you could do but let it take you.
His curls hung loose and wild around his face, damp with sweat, swinging with every powerful snap of his hips. You watched him, really watched him. His jaw clenched tight, lips parted around breathless groans that sounded almost pained. His body moved like something primal, muscles coiling and flexing beneath his skin, completely lost in the wet heat of you. And the sight of him unravelling like that, losing himself inside of you, sent a sharp thrill of satisfaction through your haze. All you had to do was lay there, spread open, flushed, looking up at him with those pretty eyes and he came undone.
"Let me fill you." He rasped, voice dropping into a low, wrecked growl against your throat. "Please, baby."
His restraint was gone. You could feel it in the way his grip tightened on your hips hard enough to bruise, the way his thrusts turned sloppier, chasing something raw and desperate. Inhibitions had dissolved into nothing. Consequences didn't exist. All that mattered was the tight pull of your body around him and the overwhelming need to push as deep as he could go and stay there. To spill himself inside of you and leave something of himself behind. An unspoken claim. A mark no one else could see but you'd carry all the same.
The risks were dangerous. But he was too far gone to consider that, too lost in you to realise that the worst case scenario had already taken root.
After what felt like an eternity of relentless thrusts, broken only by deep groans and the soft, ruined whimpers falling from both your mouths, Michael shattered.
His body seized above you, hips stuttering hard as he buried himself to the hilt and came with a broken groan against your neck. Warm, thick pulses spilled deep inside you, one after another, each one pulling a ragged sound from his throat like the orgasm was being ripped out of him. The sensation was primal, a fiery heat blooming low in your belly and spreading outward.
This wasn't some cheap, performative fuck from an 80s porno. It was deeper than that. Messier. More real. The kind of sex that couldn't be captured or replicated. Only felt.
Your walls clenched around him instinctively, milking every last drop from his cock with each greedy contraction. He groaned, low and broken at the sensation, his forehead pressed against yours. Your nails bit into the skin of his neck, crescent shaped marks blooming red against his flushed skin. But it wasn’t until then you realised that you were falling too. Your orgasm crashed through you like a second wave, pulling a sharp cry from your lips as your back arched off the bed.
Finishing together felt like something sacred. Your bodies locked, trembling and pulsing around each other. Two people reduced to nothing but the aftershocks still rolling through you in devastating waves. Like your souls had been threaded together and pulled tight. Like nothing outside that bed existed.
— — — —
Three days later.
The pharmacy bag crinkled against your hip as you fumbled with your keys at the front door, your mind still reeling from the conversation with the pharmacist.
Prenatal vitamins. Folic acid. Take one daily with food.
It all felt so clinical, so sterile, for something that had turned your entire world upside down. You stepped inside, dropping your bag onto the kitchen counter with a heavier thud than you intended.
That's when you heard the shower shut off.
Your blood ran cold.
You lunged for the bag, fingers scrambling against the paper as you tried to shove the small pharmacy bottle deeper inside, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it from the bathroom. But your hands were shaking and the bottle slipped, rolling across the counter with a hollow plastic clatter that might as well have been a gunshot.
Footsteps. Fast.
Michael appeared in the kitchen doorway, damp curls clinging to his forehead, a towel slung low and loose around his hips, water still dripping down his chest. His eyes found you first, frozen, guilty, one hand still reaching for the bottle, then dropped to the counter.
Silence.
"What's that?" His voice was calm. Too calm.
"Nothing." You denied, as you grabbed the bottle and shoved it behind your back like a child caught stealing. "It's nothing, Michael."
He was already moving toward you. Not fast, not aggressive, but with a deliberate stride that made your stomach drop. He reached you in three steps and before you could react, his hand closed gently but firmly around your wrist, pulling it forward. The orange bottle caught the light.
Prenatal Vitamins. With Folic Acid.
His eyes scanned over the words, over and over again, jaw tightening.
"How long?" His voice was low. Controlled. But his eyes, almost hurt, told a different story.
"Michael–"
"How long?" He cut you off abruptly.
“Three weeks." You admitted, swallowing the achy lump that had manifested in the back of your throat.
The silence that followed was suffocating. He released your wrist and stepped back, running a hand through his wet curls, the muscles in his jaw working like he was physically biting back everything he wanted to say.
"Three weeks." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just disbelief. "You've known for three weeks and you didn't tell me?"
"I was figuring out how to-"
"Figure out how to what?" His voice rose, sharp enough to make you flinch. "How to keep it from me? How long were you going to let me walk around not knowing that you're carrying my-" He stopped himself, pressing both hands flat against the counter, head dropping between his shoulders. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter but rougher. "How? We were careful. I always-" Every sentence he spoke was cut short with an apparent uncertainty.
"The condom broke." You said softly. "That night. You didn't notice, but I did. I thought…it only takes one time, Michael."
He stared at you. Something shifted behind his eyes, recognition perhaps. That night. The second time. When he'd been so lost in you that neither of you had stopped to check. When consequences had been the furthest thing from his mind.
But then something else flickered across his face. A memory surfacing. His brow furrowed and when he spoke, his voice had dropped to something dangerously quiet.
"Wait." He held up a hand. "That night. A few nights ago. I went to grab a condom and you-" He paused, eyes narrowing. "You stopped me. You pulled me back and told me not to bother. I thought…" His jaw clenched so hard you could hear his teeth grind. "You already knew. Didn't you?”
It wasn't a question.
"That was after you found out." He continued, his voice rising with each word. "You already knew you were pregnant and you let me, you encouraged me to…" He broke off, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. "What was the point of that? You were already pregnant. It didn't matter anymore, did it? So why bother with the condom?"
Something inside you snapped.
"Oh, that's rich." Your voice came out sharper than you intended, but you didn't take it back. "You didn't seem too bothered about the condom when I took it from you Michael. You didn't pause. You didn't ask questions. You just-" You gestured at him, frustration burning hot behind your eyes. "You were perfectly fine with it then. But now suddenly you're mad at me for being secretive? You didn't want answers three days ago. You wanted to get laid. So don't stand there and act like I manipulated you when you were very willing. I didn’t see you hesitate."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Michael stared at you. His mouth opened. Closed. For a brief moment, he looked like he'd been physically winded, like you'd reached across the counter and slapped him. His jaw worked, but nothing came out.
Then his expression hardened.
"Don't turn this around on me." His voice was low. Dangerous. "Don't you dare turn this around on me. I didn't know what I was getting into. You did. That's the difference." He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his soap, close enough that the water still clinging to his skin cooled the air between you. "You had all the information and I had none. That's not me being unhesitant sweetheart. That's being kept in the dark."
He turned away from you, pacing toward the window, towel riding dangerously low on his hips as he dragged both hands down his face. Then he stopped, slowly turning back to you. And the look on his face had shifted into something worse than anger, it was a realisation.
"And the last few weeks." He murmured slowly, like he was assembling a puzzle he hadn't known existed. "The snapping, the attitude. Every time I asked you what was wrong, you bit my head off like I'd done something. I really thought-" A bitter laugh escaped him. "I thought I was losing you or that I'd done something wrong. I was lying awake at night replaying every conversation trying to figure out what I'd fucked up and the whole time… the whole time, it was hormones!”
He pointed at you, not accusingly, but like he needed you to acknowledge it. "You let me think it was my fault. You let me believe that."
"I didn't know how to explain it without-"
"Without telling me the truth? Yeah. I'm getting that." He exhaled hard through his nose, turning his back to you again, one hand gripping the back of his neck. "Three weeks. Three weeks of me walking on eggshells. Three weeks of you already knowing and you let me spiral."
He was quiet for a long moment. A moment that felt like years taken off of your life. Your heart ached beneath your chest, a mixture of fear and dread instilling within you. It made you feel sick, nausea nibbling at your gut.
"I leave for tour in two weeks." His voice was low now. Wrecked. "Two weeks. The boys are counting on me. We've been planning this for months and now…" He gestured wildly between you, his expression caught somewhere between fury and something close to disappointment. "Now you're telling me I'm about to be a father?"
"Michael-”
"I'm not finished." He spun to face you, eyes blazing. "Three weeks. You sat across from me at dinner, you slept next to me, you let me talk about the tour like everything was fine and the whole time you knew." His voice dropped, rough and bitter. "That's fucked up. You know that's fucked up, right?"
Tears burned behind your eyes, but you held his gaze. "I was scared." You admitted, hopeful that perhaps he would understand. Maybe if he acknowledged that you were afraid, he would’ve comforted you.
"You were scared?" He let out a hollow breath, bracing one hand on the doorframe. "I'm about to get on a stage in front of thousands of people and pretend like my whole life hasn't just flipped upside down and you were scared."
The kitchen fell quiet except for the drip of water from his curls hitting the tile floor.
He didn't leave.
He should have. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight enough to snap, jaw aching from how hard he'd been clenching it and the way you were standing there. Arms wrapped around yourself, eyes glassy, chin trembling just slightly like you were fighting to hold it together, was doing something dangerous to the part of him that still wanted to fix everything for you.
But he didn't leave. Not yet.
"You know what the worst part is?" His voice had gone quiet. Not calm, simply quiet. The kind of quiet that came after the storm had already torn through everything worth destroying. He wasn't even looking at you anymore. His gaze had drifted to the counter, to the pharmacy bag, to the evidence of something that had detonated both your lives. "The worst part isn't that you kept it from me. It's that I can't even be angry properly without feeling like shit about it."
Your breath caught within your throat.
"Because I know you were scared." He swallowed and his throat worked visibly, his damp curls hanging in his face. "I know that. And I hate that I know that, because it means I can't just- I can't just be mad. I have to sit here and feel guilty for being mad at the woman who's carrying my child and that's…" He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, blinking hard at the ceiling. "That's a really shitty place to be.”
"Michael, I—" you cut in before being sharply interrupted yet again.
"But I'm also.." He held up a hand and his voice wavered for the first time. Just barely. Just enough to notice. "I'm also really fucking angry and I don't know how to be both. I don't know how to hold both of those things at the same time."
The kitchen was thick with everything unsaid. Every sentence that started with I'm sorry or I understand or please that neither of you could bring yourself to say because the words felt too small for what was actually happening.
You watched his hand tighten around the edge of the counter. Watched his knuckles go white. And something inside your chest cracked open, not into tears, not yet, but into something worse. A guilt that was heavy and suffocating, settling into the spaces between your ribs like wet concrete.
Because he was right. Every word. He was right and you'd known he would be. That was exactly why you hadn't told him.
"I should've said something sooner," you whispered, words breaking into pieces through a sorry attempt to choke back your tears. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. "I know that. I knew that. I just… every day it felt like there was a new reason to wait, and then one day turned into a week and then a week turned into-"
“Three.” He exhaled. Long and slow. The kind of breath that sounded like it cost him something. Then he pushed off the counter.
You watched him move toward the doorway, his towel still low, water still dripping, shoulders squared like he was bracing for impact and for one horrible moment, you thought he was going to say something else. Something that would either break this completely or start to mend it and you weren't sure which one you were more afraid of.
He paused in the doorway. One hand on the frame. His back to you.
"I need.." He stopped. His head dropped forward and you could see the tension running down his spine like a wire pulled too tight. "I need to not be in this room right now."
"Michael."
"I'm not leaving you." His voice was rough. Edged with something that might have been an apology if he'd let it be. "I just.. I can't look at you right now without wanting to either hold you or walk out that front door and I don't trust myself to pick the right one."
The words hit you like a knife in the chest.
He disappeared down the hallway. A door closed, not slammed and not the bedroom, but the spare room. The one with the pull out couch and the door that didn't lock because neither of you had ever needed it to.
And then silence.
You stood in the kitchen for a long time. Long enough for the light through the window to shift. Long enough for your tea to go cold… when had you even made tea? Long enough for the tears to finally come, quiet and slow, slipping down your cheeks without your permission.
He was right. All of it. The hormones, the condoms, the three weeks of silence. He was right and you’d known he would be and you'd kept it anyway because some stupid, terrified part of you had convinced yourself that if you just held it long enough, you'd figure out the perfect way to say it. The perfect way to make it okay.
There was no perfect way. There never had been.
You pressed your palms flat against the cool counter and let your head hang forward, hair curtaining your face, breathing shallow.
Down the hallway, Michael sat on the edge of the pull out couch which sat still unmade, still folded into itself with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
The anger was still there, loud and justified. But underneath it, curling up from somewhere deep in his chest, was something that tasted a lot like guilt.
He'd seen your face. Right at the end, when his voice had dropped and the words had come out crueler than he'd meant them, he'd seen it. The way you'd flinched. Not dramatically.
Not like he'd hurt you, but like you'd expected it. Like you'd already been bracing for the worst version of him and had stood there anyway.
That messed him up.
Because you were carrying his child. His baby. And he'd just stood in that kitchen in a towel and torn into you like you were an adversary instead of the woman he'd chosen. The woman who'd chosen him. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. Three weeks. She kept it from me for three weeks.
The thought looped. Over and over, like a broken record stuck on repeat. And every time it surfaced, the anger surged back, but then immediately, like clockwork, it was followed by the image of you standing there, arms wrapped around yourself, saying 'I was scared' in a voice so small it barely reached him.
And then he felt like shit for being angry. And then he felt like shit for feeling like shit. And round and round it went.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that amplified every sound, the hum of the fridge, the tick of the clock in the hallway, the faint, almost imperceptible sound of breathing from the kitchen that he couldn't tell if he was imagining or not.
He should go back in there.
He should go back in there and say what? I'm sorry? He wasn't sorry. Not yet. Maybe not for a while. It's going to be okay? He didn't know that. He didn't know anything right now except that in two weeks he was supposed to be on a stage and in several months he was supposed to be a father and the woman he loved had been carrying both of those truths without him for twenty one full days.
He should go back in there. But he didn't.
Neither of you slept well that night.
You heard him move around the spare room once, the creak of the couch, the soft thud of something hitting the floor, maybe his book, maybe a pillow he'd thrown and you laid in your bed with the sheets pulled up to your chin, staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds between his movements. At some point, close to 2am, you thought you heard him say something muffled. Maybe your name. Maybe nothing.
You didn't go to him and he didn't come to you.
The hallway between the bedroom and the spare room had never felt longer.
Hey, really angsty thriller Michael where he's clearly attachment avoidant and as a result breaks up with the reader because he's terrified and overwhelmed due to his fame sky rocketing so he breaks up out of fear of what will happen to them and also because he doesn't them to share his burden. He breaks up while wearing his aviators because he's using it as a shield and the reader curses at him and demands that he takes his shades off and at least have the decency to look them in the eye as he breaks their heart. It can end in fluff or pure angst, your choice
I gotchu baby, I hope I gave you what you asked for. thank you for requesting xx
michael loved you with all of his being.
and that was a truth that echoed in the quiet corners of his life. he cherished having you as his woman, his confidante, his steady anchor in a world that was constantly shifting. he felt humbled by the mere thought that a woman as radiant and grounded as you could belong to him. when you first walked into his world, you healed parts of him he hadn't even realized were fractured. even with your own life to tend to, you were his shadow in the best way. you were there holding his hand at children’s hospitals, you were the silent silhouette watching him sweat through endless rehearsals, and the first face he looked for behind the curtain after the applause faded. you were his sanctuary at hayvenhurst, and after the world demanded too much, he only wanted to collapse into the safety of the bed with you, his head pressed against your chest, letting the rhythm of your heart lull him into peace while your fingers combed through his hair. you were the steady beat to his erratic life. you were his everything. his purpose.
which is why, he forced himself to let you go.
with the monumental rise of thriller, and the night he walked away with eight grammys held tight in his hands, his fame didn't just grow, it exploded. he was everywhere. the calendar became a suffocating web of rehearsals, high-stakes meetings, press junkets, and late-night studio sessions. it piled up until he could barely breathe. michael didn’t view the work as a chore, it was his dream manifested, the summit he had spent his whole life climbing. but the cost was the time he had once reserved for you. as the headlines screamed about his success and the world labeled him a genius, he began to feel like an impostor in his own life.
a slow, creeping distance settled between you, heavy and thick. he stopped reaching for the telephone just to hear your breath on the other end, he stopped crafting plans for the two of you, and he let his effort slide into an abyss of silence. it wasn't that his love had faded, it was that his fear had taken over. he started to see himself as a weight around your neck, convinced that leaning on you was selfish, that your kindness was something he was actively destroying. he looked at you and saw a woman who deserved the world. a man who could be there every morning to see you wake, someone who could pour as much love into you as you poured into him. michael didn't just feel like he was losing his touch, he felt like he was failing at the most important role of his life. he felt like a hollowed-out version of a lover, and he decided that if he couldn't be your everything, he would rather be nothing at all.
instead of speaking the truth, instead of letting his guard down and telling you how he felt, he chose the slow, agonizing route of silence. he started pulling away with small, sharp cuts, shorter phone calls, muted reactions, a forced indifference, all under the guise of exhaustion. he hoped if he acted distant enough, you would eventually grow tired of reaching for a hand that had gone cold, that you would simply let go of him before he had to be the one to break your heart.
now, the silence in the room was suffocating. michael sat on the edge of the bed, his frame looking smaller than usual, swallowed up by a baggy mickey mouse sweater and matching pajama pants. his signature thick, black aviators sat firmly on the bridge of his nose, acting as a barricade between his raw, panicked eyes and the rest of the world. he sat with his arms folded behind his head, posture stiff, his gaze locked intensely on your back. you were in the bathroom, unaware of the storm brewing in his mind, just brushing your hair with a quiet, domestic rhythm that made his chest ache.
you hadn't really spoken since he’d walked through the door. he had offered the usual excuse, the heavy, practiced lie that he was just run ragged, that the studio had taken every ounce of his energy. you, being the gentle soul you were, didn't press. you just nodded, offering him space and understanding, moving around him with a quiet grace that only made his guilt sharpen. you understood the demands of a global superstar, the weight of a world expecting perfection, and in your eyes, he saw only patience.
but that was the very thing that was tearing him apart. it was the way you knew him without him having to say a word. he hated how easily you offered him grace, how you never questioned his withdrawal, and how you remained steadfastly by his side through the mounting pressure and the late nights. your loyalty wasn't a comfort to him anymore, it was a mirror reflecting his own perceived failures. it terrified him that you were willing to walk through the fire with him when he was already planning his own exit, and the weight of your unwavering love felt like a heavy, golden chain he no longer felt worthy of wearing.
he let out a ragged, trembling sigh that seemed to deflate his entire frame. slowly, he pushed himself up and swung his legs off the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. he didn't look up, instead hunching over, his large palms resting flat against his thighs, his fingers digging into the fabric of his pajama pants as if he were trying to steady his own pulse.
"baby," he whispered, his voice catching slightly, raw and brittle with the secrets he was keeping.
you froze, the brush pausing mid-stroke. at the sound of his voice, so uncharacteristically vulnerable, you turned, your eyebrows knitting together in a mixture of concern and curiosity. michael offered a faint, fleeting smile, but he didn't lift his head, he kept his chin tucked toward his chest, terrified that if he met your gaze, you would see the unraveling he was trying so hard to mask.
"cmere."
the word was a plea, a command, and a surrender all at once. you didn't hesitate, walking toward him with a slow, deliberate grace until you were standing right in the space between his knees. you were well within his reach, and the moment you entered his orbit, michael acted. his arms shot out, wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him as if he were trying to merge your two realities into one. he buried his face into your chest, inhaling the scent of you, desperate to anchor himself in the only thing that still felt real.
he tilted his head back, shifting his weight so he could finally look up at you. the thick, dark lenses of his aviators were still firmly in place, a polished wall that kept his inner turmoil obscured, but his mouth betrayed him, trembling just a fraction.
"missed you," he murmured, his voice sounding thin, like it was being pulled through a straw.
the simplicity of the words made your heart ache. you offered him a soft, understanding smile, your hands moving from his hair to cradle his face. your thumbs traced slow, soothing arcs over his cheeks, trying to smooth away the tension you knew lived beneath his skin. "missed you too," you whispered back, your voice gentle as a lullaby. "you okay?"
he let out a heavy, deflating sigh that rattled in his chest. "yeah," he lied, though his hands drifted down to rest on your hips. his thumbs began to stroke the soft curve of your waist, his grip firming as if he were trying to memorize the feeling of you beneath his palms. the silence stretched, heavy and thick with things left unsaid, until he finally broke it. "i just wanna talk to you ‘bout something."
you gave a small, encouraging hum, nodding slowly. you leaned in, your movements languid and tender, and traced the bridge of his nose with your index finger. you closed the distance between you, pressing your cheek against his. you breathed in deep, capturing the scent of him, vanilla, warmth, and the faint, lingering smell of the studio. it was a grounding, beautiful sensation, but as you held the position, the reality of the last few weeks crashed down on you. you realized this was the first moment of true stillness you’d had with him in an eternity, and the thought made your chest tighten with a sudden, sharp fear that you didn't quite understand.
michael felt the hitch in your breathing, and his own composure fractured. he bit down hard on his bottom lip, the sharp pain helping to ground him, while his eyelids squeezed shut to keep the tears at bay. he took a ragged, shaky breath, fighting to keep his voice steady. when you pulled back, your hands moving to rest on his shoulders, his heart felt like it was breaking in real-time. he couldn't look at you anymore, not when you were looking at him with such open, trusting adoration.
"talk to me," you urged, your voice steady and sweet.
the air in the room seemed to vanish, replaced by a sudden, freezing vacuum. he had been rehearsing these words in the dark of the studio, whispering them into his pillow at night, but hearing them spoken aloud in the soft light of the bedroom made them sound like a death sentence. he felt the ghost of your hands on his shoulders, and it took everything in him not to recoil from your touch, not because he didn't want it, but because he felt like he was burning you just by being near.
"i think we should break up."
the words hung in the air, jagged and heavy. for a heartbeat, you stood perfectly still, your mind scrambling to rewrite the reality you had just heard. it was a sound you couldn't process, a dissonance that didn't fit the man holding your waist. your heart skipped, a sharp, physical jolt, and you leaned in closer, desperate to bridge the gap the glasses had created. you shifted your weight, trying to angle yourself so you could catch a glimpse of his eyes behind the dark lenses, searching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of the michael who loved you.
but the aviators were an impenetrable fortress. they were the perfect mask for a man who had decided he was no longer a person, but a public entity that didn't deserve a private love. his face remained a statue, carefully constructed to show nothing, a poker face that hid the internal bleeding of his heart.
your expression didn't just fall, it shattered. the warmth that had been glowing in your eyes seconds ago was replaced by a hollow, vacant shock. you pulled your hands back from his shoulders as if you’d been burned, the distance between you suddenly feeling like miles rather than inches. the silence that followed was deafening, amplified by the frantic thrumming of your pulse in your ears. he could feel you trembling, and the guilt that flooded him was so intense it almost buckled his knees. he wanted to grab you back, to tell you he was a liar, to tell you that he didn't mean a single word, but he looked at his own hands, calloused and busy, and convinced himself this was the only way to save you from the madness that was currently consuming his life.
“what?”
the word barely left your throat, a fragile, broken sound that seemed to fray at the edges. you couldn't keep your eyes on him, the sight of him sitting there, so calm, so distant behind those dark lenses, was too much to bear. you felt the world tilting, your equilibrium shattered. you stepped back, your movements jerky and uncoordinated, each inch of space you put between you feeling like a chasm opening up beneath your feet. as your hands slid off his shoulders, the loss of his warmth felt like a physical blow, leaving your skin cold and prickling.
michael panicked. the moment your touch left him, he felt a frantic, suffocating need to reach out, his hands reaching into the empty air where you had been just a second before. he scrambled up from the edge of the bed, his movements uncharacteristically clumsy, his heart hammering against his ribs with such force that the rhythmic thump-thump seemed to drown out the quiet of the bedroom.
"it’s for the best," he repeated, the words sounding hollow and rehearsed, a mantra he’d whispered to himself to numb the pain. he sounded desperate, his voice strained as he tried to keep his composure from crumbling.
you shook your head slowly, a single, stinging tear escaping and tracking down your cheek. the room blurred, your vision shimmering with the salt of your distress. "why, michael?" you breathed, the question pulling at the very seams of your spirit.
the doubt hit you like a wave. you searched through the archives of your time together, dissecting every kiss, every quiet night at hayvenhurst, every moment you’d spent waiting for him in the wings. was i not enough? the thought wasn't just a question, it was a poison. was i not beautiful enough to hold his attention? not gentle enough to soothe his exhaustion? did i fail to be the anchor he needed?
every insecurity you had ever suppressed roared to the surface. you felt small, exposed, and deeply unworthy. you weren't ready to let go, you were tethered to him, your life woven into the tapestry of his success and his solitude. to walk away felt like unlearning your own heartbeat. you looked at him, searching for the man who once whispered that you were his purpose, but all you saw was the stranger he had become, the superstar trapped in the cage of his own making, pushing away the only hand that had ever really held him.
it just wasn’t possible for you.
“is—is it me?” you questioned, voice shaky and small. “am i not enough?”
“god no,” michael whispered, shaking his head as his eyebrows furrowed in pure agony. he took cautious steps towards you, moving his large palms to rest on the sides of your cheeks, his thumbs gently brushing at the tears that were now steadily falling from your beautiful eyes.
“it’s me, baby. i can’t—“ he paused, swallowing the thick lump in his throat.
“i can’t be the man you need. i have to do this, to keep you safe—“
“to keep me safe?” you repeated, your voice rising, gaining a sharp edge of disbelief. you ripped his arms from your face, moving away from his touch. grief was quickly morphing into a white-hot anger. you just couldn’t believe the man standing before you, at the fact that he was so quick to disregard you, so quick to make such a heavy, life-altering decision without even asking you what you wanted. it hurt more than anything he could have ever done to you.
“this is how you keep me safe, michael? what are you even talking about? what about me? what about us? i—” your voice fractured, stuttering as the tears flowed freely, hot and endless down your cheeks. your palms clutched tightly at the fabric of your shirt, gripping your chest as if you could physically hold your heart together, trying to soothe the dull, rhythmic ache that was pulsating behind your ribs.
“it is about us,” michael spoke, his voice cracking, thick with a desperation that clawed at the air between you. “it was always about us, about you, baby.” he took a jagged step toward you, his reach extending as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
“i love you—”
“no—” you choked out, refusing to let the words anchor you.
“i love you.” michael repeated, louder this time. he caught your wrist as you made a frantic attempt to shove him away, his grip firm but trembling. you shook your head, your chin wobbling with the effort to hold back a sob. “i love you so much it hurts,” he whispered, the admission sounding like a confession of a crime.
you looked up at him, eyes glassy and searching, but you couldn't sustain the weight of it. you hung your head low, defeated by the contradiction of his touch and his intent.
“i do. baby, i swear i do. so much that i have to let you go.”
“you don’t,” you argued back, your voice a wounded whisper. “you don’t even have the decency to look me in my eyes, michael. i don’t even know who you are.”
michael’s fingers drifted to his aviators, and he clutched the sides of the frames, bringing his glasses down and off his face, letting them drop to the floor. they clattered softly against the carpet, a small, insignificant sound that felt like the shattering of the barrier between you.
and as you looked up, your breathing came to a halt. michael’s beautiful, brown bambi eyes were red-rimmed, glossed over with unshed tears. his chin was slightly trembling, betraying the composure he’d been fighting so hard to maintain. you could see the raw, jagged pain deep inside his irises, a reflection of the exact same heartbreak that was tearing you apart. in that moment, the realization hit you like a physical force. this wasn't about him being cold or indifferent. he was hurting just as deeply as you were, maybe even more, because he was the one actively inflicting this wound on himself.
your tears suddenly stalled, the shock of his vulnerability grounding you. michael looked down, his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor, still unable to meet your eyes, as if acknowledging your gaze would make the finality of his decision too real to bear.
“michael.” you whispered, the name soft and heavy with everything you couldn't find the words to say. your head tilted, mimicking his movements, a desperate attempt to catch the eyes you knew and loved, those soft, brown eyes that used to look at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. but he couldn't hold it, his gaze darting away again.
you reached up, your palms coming to rest at the sides of his cheeks. you held him with such gentleness, tilting his face towards yours, forcing him to acknowledge your presence. your thumbs brushed against his skin, feeling the heat of his face and the fine tremor in his jaw. you were trying to reach the soul that was hiding behind his fear, trying to remind him that he didn't have to carry this burden alone. you wanted him to see you, really see you, so he would realize that the "safety" he was trying to manufacture was actually the very thing destroying you both.
“you’re just worried about me,” you admitted, your voice steadying as the truth finally settled between you. “i know that now. but michael, you don’t have to be afraid with me.”
“i just don’t want anything to happen to you,” michael murmured, his voice sounding small, stripped of the superstar persona that usually shielded him from the world. you nodded, your lips curling up into a faint, bittersweet smile as you felt the tension in his frame begin to loosen
“nothing’s gonna happen to me. when i’m here, with you. when we’re together, that’s where i’m truly safe.”
michael looked at you for a long, heavy moment, his eyes searching yours as if he were trying to memorize the certainty he saw there. he slowly brought his hands up to rest on the sides of your ribs, his touch light, almost reverent, as if he were afraid you might vanish if he held you too tightly. then, he gave in, his forehead falling to rest on your shoulder. he let out a series of shaky, uneven exhales, the sound of a man who had been holding his breath for months finally allowing himself to breathe.
“i’m sorry,” he murmured into the fabric of your shirt, his voice muffled and thick with shame.
you let out a small, nervous laugh. “i’m sorry, i really can’t let you go like how i thought i could,” he whispered, his grip tightening as he pulled you closer, as if he were anchoring himself to your heartbeat. “i thought if i pushed you away, i was doing the right thing, but it just felt like i was dying.”
your arms came up instinctively, wrapping firmly around his shoulders to pull him into you. you leaned down, pressing soft, lingering kisses to his temples, feeling the warmth of his skin against your lips. “i love you, mikey,” you spoke, your voice barely a breath. you let out a soft, long-held sigh as you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of the last few weeks finally begin to lift as you held him close, protecting the man who had been so terrified of protecting you.
“i love you more,” he replied, his voice barely audible against your neck. “so much more.”
UMMM this is my first time uploading on tumblr soo lmk how to really work it and set certain things up!! (there will be a part two) and if you guys dont want to wait everything is on my ao3 @-ohmj !!
-I want you back-
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The soundstage smelled faintly of aerosol hairspray, hot electrical wiring, and the sweet, powdery residue of greasepaint. Overhead, the blistering studio lamps burned with a relentless intensity that made the fabricated cornfield shimmer beneath a veil of artificial heat.
Painted backdrops stretched high into the rafters, their dusky oranges and indigos imitating a prairie sunset that would never truly arrive indoors. Crewmen shuffled across the set carrying cables and coffee cups, voices overlapping in hurried bursts while cameras stood poised like giant mechanical beasts waiting to awaken.
It was 1977, three months into the production, and everything about it felt larger than life.
Y/N stood near the edge of the set with a makeup brush pinched delicately between her fingers, her vanity case open beside her. Tiny compacts, powder puffs, and tubes of cream pigment were scattered in organized disarray across the tabletop. A radio somewhere behind the lighting rigs crackled out muffled soul music between static while assistants hurried back and forth carrying clipboards.
She barely noticed any of it anymore.
After the first weeks on set, the chaos had become background noise.
“Y/N!” one of the production assistants called. “Touch-up!”
She turned automatically, already reaching for translucent powder before she even saw who needed her.
The actor playing the crow slumped dramatically in his chair near the camera dolly, feathers drooping around his shoulders. “I’m melting,” he groaned. “Tell them I can’t die like this.”
“You’re not dying,” she said as she stepped toward him. “You’re sweating.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A very important one.”
He tilted his chin upward while she dabbed carefully beneath his eyes. “You makeup girls have no sympathy.”
“We lose sympathy around hour ten.”
“That explains the cold-heartedness.”
A laugh escaped her despite herself. “Hold still.”
He obeyed with exaggerated suffering while she repaired the cracking black greasepaint around his mouth. Her fingers worked expertly, practiced from long days beneath unforgiving lights.
But her attention drifted elsewhere.
Because only a few feet away stood Michael.
Perched atop the wooden post in full scarecrow costume, he looked almost unfairly beautiful beneath the haze of stage lighting. Straw spilled from the sleeves of his patched shirt and clung to the dark curls dampened by sweat around his forehead. One long leg dangled lazily from the crossbeam while he listened absently to a grip explaining something about camera angles.
Even exhausted, he drew attention without trying.
Always.
The crow actor noticed where her eyes wandered and smirked knowingly. “You gonna fix scarecrow pretty-boy next?”
Y/N tried to keep her expression neutral. “He’s next in line.”
“Mhm.”
She ignored the teasing tone. “Done,” she said, snapping the powder compact shut.
“You’re an angel.”
“No,” she replied dryly, “I’m underpaid.”
That earned another laugh from him as she turned away, makeup brush still in hand.
The closer she got to Michael, the more aware she became of the pounding inside her chest. Which was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. She’d spent months around him. Months listening to him hum softly between takes, months catching his grin from across crowded sets, months staying late beside him while wardrobe fixed costumes and stagehands reset scenes.
Usually, being near him felt easy.
Lately, it didn’t.
“Michael,” she said softly.
He glanced down from the post. “Mm.”
Just a sound.
Barely acknowledgment at all.
Something small and unpleasant twisted in her stomach.
Still, she climbed the little ladder carefully until she stood close enough to reach his face. Up close, she could smell sweat beneath the sharp trace of cologne and tobacco. The makeup around his cheekbones had begun fading beneath the heat, and tiny beads of perspiration shimmered along his hairline.
Usually he smiled when she got this close.
Usually he said something low and playful just to make her blush.
Today, nothing.
Y/N dipped the sponge lightly into cream makeup. “Tilt your head a little.”
He obeyed silently.
The distance between them felt wrong.
“You’re sweating through the prosthetic,” she murmured.
Michael exhaled tiredly. “It’s hot up here.”
“That’s what happens when they stick a man under six studio lights dressed like a scarecrow.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it disappeared almost instantly. “Guess so.”
She carefully blended color near his jawline. “You barely spoke at lunch.”
“Been thinking.”
“About?”
“Stuff.”
That single word landed like a closed door.
Y/N tried not to let it show on her face. “That sounds ominous.”
“It's not ominous.” His voice stayed soft, distracted. “Just tired.”
“You’ve been tired all week.”
“So have you.”
“Yeah, but I’m still charming.”
That usually would’ve made him laugh.
This time, he only hummed quietly.
The silence afterward stretched too long.
Below them, crew members rushed around resetting props while someone argued loudly about lighting cues. Music drifted faintly from somewhere offstage, swallowed by the constant hum of production.
Y/N focused carefully on fixing the paint near his temple. “Did I do something?”
That got his attention. His eyes shifted toward hers at last, dark and unreadable beneath the stage makeup. “What?”
“You’ve been distant.”
“I have not been distant.”
“You kinda are.”
Michael looked away again almost immediately. “We’re working, Y/N.”
The way he said it made her chest tighten. Like she’d crossed into territory she wasn’t supposed to enter.
“I know we’re working,” she said quietly. “I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Then stop talking to me like I’m asking for too much.”
His jaw flexed slightly beneath her fingertips. For a second, she thought he might actually say something real. Instead, he just sighed. “Can we not do this right now?”
There it was.
The thing she’d been dreading all week.
Y/N swallowed hard and looked down at her makeup sponge so he wouldn’t see the hurt flicker across her face. “Do what?”
“This.”
“This what?”
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “You know what I mean.”
No, she wanted to say. I don’t.
Because a few months ago, he’d been sneaking into the makeup trailer just to sit beside her. A few months ago, he’d been brushing his fingers against hers when nobody looked. A few months ago, he’d promised they’d finally go somewhere once filming slowed down.
Now he could barely look at her.
She forced herself to keep working steadily. “Are we…” Her voice softened. “Still going out after filming tonight?”
For the first time all afternoon, Michael looked directly at her. And somehow that hurt worse.
Because the warmth she kept searching for wasn’t there anymore.
Not gone completely.
Just buried somewhere too deep for her to reach.
He hesitated long enough for dread to settle heavily in her stomach. “Maybe sometime later,” he said casually.
Casually.
Like he was talking about rescheduling a meeting. Like she hadn’t spent nearly a year quietly falling in love with him.
Y/N felt her hand falter for the briefest second before she forced herself steady again. “Oh.”
Michael shifted slightly on the post. “Things have been busy.”
“Right.” She nodded once. “Busy.”
“You know how this gets.”
“Mhm.”
Another silence.
Thick. Miserable.
She concentrated on blending the edge of his makeup because if she looked directly at him again, she might embarrass herself. Below them, someone shouted for quiet on set.
Michael cleared his throat softly. “Y/N—”
But before he could finish, the director’s booming voice echoed across the soundstage. “Places everybody! Let’s shoot again!”
The moment shattered instantly. Crew members rushed back into position. Cameras rolled across tracks. Assistants scrambled with clipboards and headset wires tangled around their arms.
Y/N climbed down the ladder carefully, clutching her makeup kit against her chest a little tighter than necessary.
“Thanks, N/N,” one of the grips called distractedly as she stepped aside.
She barely heard him.
Above her, Michael adjusted himself atop the wooden post, slipping effortlessly back into performance mode. The exhaustion vanished the second the cameras pointed his direction. His posture straightened. His smile returned. Charisma poured from him like stage light itself.
Like their conversation had never happened at all.
“Rolling!”
“Speed!”
“And… action!”
Music swelled faintly from offstage while artificial wind machines roared to life, rustling costume fabric and scattering loose pieces of straw across the floor. The actors launched into choreography and dialogue beneath the burning lights.
Michael performed flawlessly.
Animated.
Magnetic.
Beautiful.
And Octavia stood just beyond the cameras holding a powder brush in trembling fingers, trying desperately not to let anyone notice that her heart had cracked open right there on the soundstage.
When the director finally shouted, “Cut!” the entire soundstage seemed to exhale at once.
The artificial wind machines powered down with a low mechanical groan. Crew members loosened shoulders. Someone near the cameras muttered, “Thank God,” while another immediately reached for a cigarette.
“Take five!” the director called, pulling off his headset. “I wanna check playback before we go again!”
The actors dispersed almost instantly.
The actor who played one of the crows disappeared toward wardrobe, complaining loudly about sweat ruining his mane. Diana Ross dropped heavily into a folding chair while two assistants rushed to fan her down.
And Michael...
Michael hopped down from the wooden post with irritating ease, landing lightly despite the heavy scarecrow boots. He tugged off his hat and shook out damp curls, chest rising and falling beneath the patched costume.
Even exhausted, he looked good.
Too good.
Y/N stood frozen beside her makeup station, pretending to reorganize brushes she’d already cleaned twice.
Don’t look at him.
Her eyes drifted anyway.
Michael headed toward craft services, rolling tension from his shoulders while a production runner handed him a towel.
Then she saw the woman approaching him.
Tall. Blonde. Perfect teeth. One of the assistant stage directors.
The kind of woman who somehow still looked polished after twelve-hour shoots beneath melting studio lights. Her blouse was crisp, her lipstick untouched, and her laugh carried brightly across the set before she even reached him. “Well, scarecrow,” the woman teased, offering him a bottle of water, “you looked awfully convincing up there.”
Michael smirked while unscrewing the cap. “Oh yeah?”
“Mhm.” She leaned against the table casually. “Though personally, I think the makeup girl deserves half the credit.”
Michael glanced briefly toward Y/N's station. “Probably more than half.”
The woman laughed louder, touching his arm lightly.
And Michael let her.
Something hot and ugly twisted inside Y/N’s chest.
Her hand tightened around a powder brush.
She looked down quickly, pretending to focus on cleaning palettes. But every few seconds her eyes betrayed her.
The assistant director leaned closer.
Michael said something low enough that Y/N couldn’t hear it. The woman threw her head back laughing, fingertips brushing the sleeve of his costume again like she’d already decided she belonged there.
And Michael smiled at her.
Not the polite smile.
Not the public smile.
That smile. The crooked one that started in his eyes first. The one he used to give her when he leaned against her makeup chair late at night talking about music and dreams and stupid little things nobody else got to hear.
“You’re staring holes through him.”
Y/N nearly jumped.
Diana stepped beside her with graceful ease, already partially changed between takes. She sipped from a paper cup while watching the scene across the set with entirely too much understanding in her eyes.
“I’m not staring,” she muttered.
Diana hummed skeptically. “Mmm.”
“I’m serious.”
“Baby, if looks could kill, that poor woman would be laid out on the floor.”
Y/N snapped her compact shut harder than necessary. The sound cracked sharply through the air.
Diana glanced at her.
Y/N immediately regretted it. “Sorry.”
“No you ain’t.”
That almost made her laugh.
Almost.
Diana leaned lightly against the makeup table. “You wanna tell me what happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Mhmm.”
“I mean it.”
“N/N.”
The softness in Diana’s voice nearly unraveled her. Y/N swallowed hard and kept shoving brushes into the wrong compartments. “He’s acting weird.”
“Weird how?”
“He barely talks to me anymore.” Her voice tightened despite herself. “One minute everything’s fine and then suddenly it’s ‘maybe later’ and ‘we’re working’ and now he’s over there flirting with damn Barbie.”
Diana glanced toward the craft table.
The assistant director was laughing again. Michael smiled down into his water bottle like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Diana sighed quietly. “Men.”
“Oh no,” Y/N scoffed bitterly, “don’t give me the ‘men are stupid’ speech. I don’t wanna hear that.”
“Well unfortunately they are stupid.”
“He wasn’t stupid before.” That slipped out too fast.
Y/N let out a humorless laugh. “I think I might hate him, actually.”
“Mhm.”
“I’m serious.”
“Sure you are.”
Y/N grabbed a towel aggressively and started wiping makeup residue from the table though it was already spotless. “I just don’t understand why men do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like they want you and then suddenly decide you’re inconvenient.” Her movements became harsher. “Like if he didn’t wanna go out anymore he could just say that instead of acting all weird and distant and—” She stopped herself abruptly.
Diana watched her carefully. “And what?”
“And standing over there grinning at Miss Maybelline like I’m stupid.”
Diana snorted into her drink.
Y/N finally looked at her. “It’s not funny.”
“It kinda is.”
“Oh my God.”
“I’m sorry!” Diana laughed softly. “It’s just—you are so mad right now.”
“I am not mad.”
“Baby, your eye is twitching.”
Y/N slammed another brush into her case. “I swear to God if she touches him one more time—”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know yet.” Y/N finally risked another glance across the set.
Big mistake.
The assistant director had moved even closer now, saying something near Michael’s ear while fixing a piece of straw on his shoulder.
And Michael—
Michael looked comfortable.
Comfortable.
Like she wasn’t standing twenty feet away trying not to combust. Something inside her snapped. “Oh, he got me messed up.”
Diana blinked. “Uh-oh.”
“No, seriously.” Y/N shoved past her station. “He got me all the way messed up.”
“Y/N—”
“I’m up here looking stupid over a man dressed like a damn haystack.”
Diana burst out laughing.
“I mean look at him!” she hissed. “You know what? Fine. Fine. Let Miss Blondie powder his face then.”
“Girl—”
“No! Because I’m done.” She pointed dramatically across the set. “He can flirt all he wants. I don’t care.”
Diana gave her a look.
Y/N’s jaw clenched. “…I care a little.”
“A little?”
“Shut up.”
The assistant director laughed again at something Michael said.
That did it.
Michael glanced up suddenly, almost like he’d felt her staring. Their eyes locked across the crowded soundstage. For one suspended second, neither of them moved. Michael’s smile faded slightly.
Y/N rolled her eyes so hard/it bordered on theatrical before turning sharply on her heel.
“Y/N!” Diana called between laughs.
But Y/N was already storming toward the quieter rear section of the soundstage where spare equipment cases and personal belongings were stacked. The further she got from the lights and cameras, the cooler the air became. Dim shadows swallowed the noise of production until only muffled voices echoed faintly from the main set.
Y/N dropped beside her bags with enough force to rattle the metal cases nearby. “Oh, I hate him,” she muttered furiously while yanking open her purse.
Cigarettes clattered inside.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled one free. The lighter sparked twice before catching. She inhaled deeply, smoke scorching down into her lungs while anger and humiliation tangled painfully in her chest.
Behind her, someone moved equipment across concrete floors with a loud scrape.
Y/N ignored it.
Ignored everything.
She shoved makeup brushes violently into cases she’d already organized, rearranged folded clothes she didn’t need, snapped latches harder than necessary.
Anything to keep busy.
Anything to stop the awful sting pressing behind her eyes.
Because if she stopped moving for even one second—She might cry.
And she absolutely refused to cry.
The storage area behind the soundstage was quieter than the main set, but not truly silent. Metal equipment cases lined the walls in crooked stacks. Spare props disappeared into shadows beneath hanging tarps. Somewhere nearby, an industrial fan rattled loudly, pushing cool air through the dim backstage corridor.
Y/N stood beside her bags with one arm wrapped tightly around herself, cigarette balanced between trembling fingers.
Her chest still burned.
Anger.
Humiliation.
Heartbreak.
All tangled together so tightly she could barely separate one from the other. She inhaled deeply again, smoke filling her lungs until it hurt.
Then—Footsteps behind her.
Steady.
Familiar.
“Hey.”
Michael.
She didn’t turn around, didn’t answer.
She just stared ahead at the concrete wall, jaw tight enough to ache.
A beat of silence passed.
Then softer this time—“Baby.” The nickname nearly made her snap the cigarette in half. Michael stepped closer carefully, like approaching something wounded that might bite him if he moved too fast. “C’mon now.”
She ignored him completely.
“Y/N.”
Still nothing.
He sighed quietly before reaching for her arm.
The second his fingers brushed her sleeve, she jerked away violently. “Don’t touch me.”
The sharpness in her voice sliced through the dim corridor instantly. Michael froze.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and dangerous.
Y/N took another drag from the cigarette, eyes fixed stubbornly ahead. Finally, without looking at him, she spoke. “We’re done.”
Michael blinked hard like he genuinely hadn’t heard her right. “…What?”
“We’re done.”
His expression shifted immediately from confusion to disbelief. “Y/N, Baby, stop playing.”
“I’m not playing.”
Michael stepped closer fast now, catching her arm despite her resistance and turning her toward him. “Look at me.”
“No.”
“Look at me.”
She refused stubbornly, eyes locked on the floor. Michael’s grip tightened slightly—not painful, just desperate. “Talk to me.”
That did it.
Y/N’s head snapped upward so fast her hair whipped around her face. Her eyes blazed with fury and hurt so raw it nearly startled him backward. “You think this is fun for me?” she demanded. “You think I enjoy standing out there looking stupid while you flirt with every damn woman that smiles at you?”
Michael frowned immediately. “Jesus Christ, it was just talking.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really.”
“She had her hands all over you!”
“She was joking around!”
“And you loved it!”
His jaw tightened. “You're making this bigger than it is.”
Y/N laughed sharply. A broken, bitter sound. “We’ve been together almost a year, Michael.” Her voice shook harder with every word. “A year. And you expect me to stand there while you grin in some woman’s face like I’m nobody?”
“It was harmless.”
“Harmless to who?”
“To everybody!”
“No,” she snapped, jabbing a finger hard into his chest, “harmless to you.”
Michael grabbed her wrist gently before she could shove him again. “Baby, calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Her voice echoed off the concrete walls.
Somewhere in the distance, muffled crew laughter drifted faintly from the main set, painfully normal compared to the storm unraveling backstage. Y/N yanked her hand free. “You know what’s crazy? I sat there trying not to embarrass you.”
“You did embarrass me.”
That landed wrong immediately.
Michael saw it the second her expression changed.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “So that’s what you worried about.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“No, it is.”
“Y/N—”
“You embarrassed?” she interrupted. “Imagine how I felt.”
Michael exhaled hard through his nose, frustrated now. “You're acting as if I cheated on you.”
“Maybe because you keep acting single!”
“I do not act single.”
“You flirt with everybody!”
“I flirt with people naturally!”
“Oh, my God.” She threw her hands up. “Listen to yourself!”
“What?”
“You saying that like it’s cute!”
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means something to me!”
The force behind her words made Michael fall silent.
Y/N’s chest rose unevenly now, emotions slipping further out of control no matter how hard she tried to hold them in. “I have sat back for months,” she said, voice cracking, “watching girls throw themselves at you while you smile in their faces and then come back to me afterward like I’m supposed to just accept it.”
Michael rubbed both hands over his face. “You know what this life is like.”
“No,” she shot back instantly. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this about fame.”
“I’m not making it about fame!”
“Then what are you making it about?”
He hesitated. And that hesitation told her everything. Frustration finally flashed across Michael’s face. “You can’t blame me completely here.”
Y/N stared at him in disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“You’re the one who wanted us to be secret!”
Her expression hardened instantly. “That does not mean you get to act like you’re not in a relationship.”
“You told me not to say anything!”
“I told you to protect us!” The shout echoed sharply through the storage area.
Michael went quiet.
Y/N shook her head slowly, tears beginning to gloss her eyes despite how furiously she fought them. “You don’t get to use that against me.”
“I’m not using it against you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m saying this whole thing gets confusing sometimes!”
“What’s confusing about loyalty?”
“That it's not fair.”
“No, what’s not fair is me loving you enough to protect your image while you stand out there entertaining every woman that bats her eyelashes at you.”
Michael’s face twisted with frustration. “I never asked you to do that.”
“But I did it anyway.”
That silenced him completely.
Because it was true.
Y/N had protected him constantly. Granted, it'd only been a year, she did. Protected his privacy. Protected his peace. Protected the fragile little world they built behind closed doors while he became bigger and bigger beneath studio lights.
And suddenly she felt stupid for it.
Absolutely stupid.
Michael’s voice softened slightly. “Sweetie…”
She looked away immediately. Because hearing tenderness from him now felt unbearable.
“You know I love you.”
A tear slipped free before she could stop it. Y/N wiped it away angrily. “That ain’t enough sometimes.”
Michael stared at her like she had physically struck him.
She crushed the cigarette hard into a nearby ashtray. “Come by my apartment sometime this week and get your stuff.”
Michael blinked. “…You don’t mean that.”
But she did.
Even though it felt like someone was splitting her open from the inside. “You don’t get to make me feel crazy for being hurt,” she whispered.
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“You don’t get to make me compete for your attention either.”
“I never wanted that.”
“Well, that’s exactly what it feels like.”
Michael stepped toward her again. “Baby, please.”
“No.”
Her voice broke completely that time.
Raw.
Shaky.
Painfully human. And somehow that hurt worse than all the yelling.
Y/N grabbed her bag roughly off the equipment case and shoved past him before he could stop her again.
“Y/N—”
But she kept walking.
Fast.
Past dangling cables and towering set pieces and exhausted crew members who immediately pretended not to notice the tears streaking down her face.
Michael stayed where she left him beneath the dim backstage lighting, shoulders tense, eyes locked helplessly on the woman he loved disappearing further and further away from him for the very first time. “Y/N, please.”
She kept walking.
Fast.
Her boots struck hard against the concrete floor as she pushed through the maze of backstage equipment, gripping her bag so tightly her knuckles ached.
Behind her, Michael hurried to catch up. “Y/N, wait.”
“No.”
“Just listen to me for one second.”
“What makes you think I want to listen to you after you haven't listened to me for three months?”
That made him stop short for half a beat. Just long enough for her to keep moving.
Then he was following again. “You're acting like I've been out here cheating on you.”
She spun around so abruptly that he nearly walked straight into her. “You know what?” she snapped. “I am so tired of you doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Making me sound crazy for reacting to things you actually did.”
Michael spread his hands helplessly. “I ain’t saying you crazy.”
“Yes, you are! Every single time I get upset, suddenly I’m dramatic or overreacting or making things bigger than they are.”
“Because sometimes you do!”
Y/N laughed in disbelief. “Oh, my God.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you know what’s serious?” She stepped closer, voice shaking harder now. “You being cold to me for three damn months while acting sweet to everybody else.”
Michael frowned immediately. “That’s not true.”
“It is true.”
“It ain’t.”
“You barely touch me anymore!”
“That’s because we are at work half the time!”
“And somehow that stops you from flirting with everybody else?”
“I do not flirt with everybody else!”
“You literally called that woman adorable in front of me!”
Michael blinked. “…That’s what this is about?”
“Oh, don’t do that.”
“She made a joke!”
“And you smiled all hard at her and called her adorable while your girlfriend was standing right there!”
Michael rubbed both hands down his face in frustration. “Jesus Christ.”
“No, don’t ‘Jesus Christ’ me!”
His voice sharpened suddenly. “You flirt with your coworkers, too!”
That stopped her cold. Y/N stared at him.
Slowly.
Dangerously.e
“…What?”
“You heard me.”
“No, I wanna hear you say it again.”
Michael exhaled hard, already realizing he had stepped wrong, but too frustrated to back down now. “You laugh with people, joke around, touch folks when you're talking—”
“Talking and laughing is not the same thing as being dry with your girlfriend for three months!” The force in her voice echoed through the corridor.
Michael opened his mouth again, but she cut him off instantly.
“It is not the same as ignoring my calls half the time.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you—”
“It is not the same as acting irritated every time I try to spend time with you!”
“That ain’t true.”
“And it sure as hell is not the same as calling another woman adorable while your girlfriend is standing right there looking stupid!”
Michael’s jaw clenched tightly. Y/N could see the frustration building in him now, too.
Good.
Let him feel something.
“Why are you acting like I don’t love you?” he demanded.
“Because you stopped acting like it!”
“That is not fair.”
“What’s not fair,” she shot back, voice cracking, “is me begging for crumbs from a man who used to make me feel wanted.”
The words hit him hard. She saw it immediately.
Michael looked away briefly, swallowing.
Y/N’s chest tightened painfully. Because part of her still wanted him to fix this.
To say the exact right thing. To suddenly become the man she’d been missing for months.
Instead, he just whispered, “Baby…”
“No.”
“Please don’t do this.”
“I’m already doing it.”
Michael stepped closer carefully, eyes frantic now. “Y/N, listen to me. I know I've been distant sometimes, okay? I know I've been stressed and distracted and probably hard to deal with—”
“Probably?”
“Okay, definitely.” He ran trembling hands through his curls. “But that doesn’t mean I stopped loving you.”
“It feels like it.”
“It's not.”
“Then why do I feel alone every time I’m with you now?”
That silenced him completely. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The distant soundstage noise hummed faintly beyond the storage corridor. Somewhere far away, someone laughed. A lighting rig clanged loudly against metal.
But back here, the world felt painfully still. Michael’s voice came softer this time. “You're really leaving me?”
Y/N looked at him and nearly broke apart right there. Because he looked scared now.
Actually scared.
Not irritated. Not defensive.
Scared.
“I don’t want to,” she admitted quietly.
Hope flashed across his face immediately.
“But I have to.”
The hope disappeared just as fast.
Michael stepped even closer. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“We can fix this.”
“You should’ve fixed it before I got this tired.”
“I’m trying now.”
“Now.”
The single word dripped with exhaustion. Michael reached for her hands again, slower this time, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he moved too quickly.
When she didn’t pull away immediately, he held onto them tightly.
“Please don’t leave me,” he whispered.
The desperation in his voice nearly shattered her resolve.
“Michael—”
“I mean it.” His eyes were glossy now, too. “Please. Don’t do this. I’ll do better.”
Y/N shut her eyes briefly.
God.
Hearing him beg hurt worse than the fighting.
“I love you,” he said shakily. “You know I love you.”
A tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it.
Michael wiped it away instantly with trembling fingers. “Baby, please.”
For one horrible second she almost gave in. Almost melted right back into him.
Then she remembered the loneliness.
The waiting.
The humiliation.
The constant feeling that she cared more than he did.
And slowly, she stepped backward out of his hands.
Michael’s face crumpled immediately. “No…”
“You can’t love me properly right now.”
“I can.”
“You don’t.”
“I do!”
“Then why am I miserable?”
That shut him up again.
Y/N looked away before she lost her nerve completely. “I’m angry right now,” she said quietly.
Michael swallowed hard. “You got every right to be.”
“And if we keep talking, I’m gonna say something cruel just because I’m hurt.”
“N/N—”
“So stop.”
He stared at her helplessly. She wiped her face quickly and adjusted the strap on her bag with shaking hands. “When you come get your stuff…” Her voice wavered slightly before she steadied it again. “Maybe we can talk then.”
Michael latched onto that immediately. “So this isnt over.”
“At my apartment,” she corrected firmly. “Not here.”
“But—”
“At work?” Her eyes hardened again. “Leave me alone.”
The words visibly wounded him. Still, he nodded faintly.
Y/N stepped backward again. Michael looked like he wanted to chase her, argue more, grab her, and hold her there until she changed her mind.
But something in her expression stopped him. Because she meant it.
For the first time since he’d known her, Y/N was actually walking away.
Michael’s voice cracked softly as she turned. “I don’t know what to do without you.”
Her shoulders tensed. But she didn’t look back. “Figure it out,” she whispered.
Then she disappeared back toward the glowing soundstage lights, leaving Michael alone in the dim backstage corridor with tears burning in his eyes and the terrifying realization that begging hadn’t been enough to make her stay.
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