D R A C O W A R S

Keira | 25 | Hufflepuff | navigation | requests: OPEN (closed for all hp characters)

[dracowars]

⊱ N A V I G A T I O N ⊰

entering hyperspace ...

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who i write for

star wars

anakin skywalker

obi-wan kenobi

luke skywalker

han solo

poe dameron

din djarin

harry potter

draco malfoy

tom riddle

harry potter

cedric diggory

fred weasley

george weasley

neville longbottom

pirates of the caribbean

will turner

james norrington

the rings of power

halbrand / annatar / sauron

elrond

isildur

marvel

steve rogers

tony stark

peter parker (mcu & tasm)

dc

bruce wayne (bale)

grishaverse

kaz brekker

outer banks

rafe cameron

jj maybank

stranger things

steve harrington

billy hargrove

game of thrones

jon snow

robb stark

miscellaneous

michael jackson

jaafar jackson

[dracowars]

tender love and care | jaafar jackson

pairing: jaafar x reader

word count: 2,9k

summary: where y/n snaps at jaafar only to realize it’s because of her period

a/n: this is me right now if you even care! 😔 best boyfriend award goes to... 🏆

warnings: a little bit of angst, established relationship, cursing, self-doubt, period/period cramps

“Honestly just leave me the fuck alone right now, Jaafar”, you finally snap at him, feeling way too overwhelmed by everything. You don’t give him time to react. Instead, you storm out of the living room and into your bedroom, where you kick the door shut with a loud bang and plop onto the mattress face-first.

Your thoughts are racing through your mind, too many at once, too loud. Resting your chin on a pillow, you want nothing more than to scream into it, from the top of your lungs until your throat burns, but you don’t even have the energy for that anymore. There is also no energy left to control the tears now trickling down your cheeks, soaking the fabric. A violent sob shakes your body.

You hate arguing with Jaafar. You don’t even remember why you were fighting or what you were fighting about. Only that somewhere along the way everything became too much. All you know is that you are incredibly, uncontrollably angry – angry at him, angry at the world, and, most importantly, angry at yourself. There is no explanation for your current emotional state, but for now, you have absolutely no desire to move from where you are lying on the bed. You’d rather stay like this for days to come, alone with your thoughts.

You want to disappear.

You feel like a coward, a loser, for running away from your problems like that. Jaafar’s shocked and hurt expression after throwing all those words at him appear in your head, repeating itself as a mental image over and over again. He looked so.. sad.

At least he’s not as weak as you, being able to stand his ground while you are in here, an emotional wreck. Another sob rocks through your body and even more tears flow down your cheeks. Burying your head into the pillow, you try to shut the world out.

Muted sounds drift down the hallway from the kitchen, turning your emotions into a spiralling mess even more. What do you mean Jaafar isn’t as miserable as you right now and instead does something in the kitchen? How can he just go about this day? This is not fair. A bitter knot tightens in your chest. Why isn’t he coming after you? Why isn’t he wrapping you in his arms and telling you everything is going to be okay?

The thought sparks another wave of anger. How dare he leave you here to cry? How dare he not comfort you?

Just as quickly, the anger turns inward, your thoughts turning sour. Because how dare you expect him to comfort you after the way you spoke to him? You don’t deserve his condolences right now. He has every right to be angry. Every right to leave you alone. You deserve-

An unpleasant tugging in your lower abdomen abruptly stops your train of thought and you freeze. All of a sudden, something dawns on you, making your heart beat ten times. Abandoning your earlier plans to stay put, you scramble off the bed so quickly you nearly trip over your own feet, rushing into the adjoining bathroom as though your life depends on it.

It doesn’t take long before you finally have an explanation for your emotional rollercoaster: your period. You stare at the evidence in disbelief before letting out a slow, shaky breath. You feel stupid, incredibly stupid. Of course, you aren’t weak or stupid, and life isn’t actually that unfair; it was just your hormones telling you that! However, the relief of realizing you haven’t completely lost your mind doesn’t last long. Along with the severe cramps (which you only really notice now that you have proof it’s your period), an uneasy feeling rises inside you – a sense of shame and utter embarrassment.

Heat rushes to your face as the reality of what just happened crashes down on you. You yelled at Jaafar for absolutely no reason. Well, maybe it wasn’t for no reason, but it certainly wasn’t as bad as you made it out to be. You’d blown everything wildly out of proportion. That’s bad. Very, very bad. You feel absolutely terrible. Another wave of tears threatens to spill over. You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to breathe through it.

It’s just your hormones.

You take a few deep breaths and try to calm yourself down, telling yourself that you can handle this. Slowly, you leave the bathroom and approach the bedroom door, opening it just a crack to listen. The sounds from the kitchen haven’t stopped. Water runs from the faucet, plates clink together, a cupboard closes.

You really really don’t want to face Jaafar, especially not now that you know why it escalated like that. Your fault. If it were up to you, you’d just crawl back into bed and stay there for the next few business days and not speak to anyone. Unfortunately, the heating pad you desperately need to make your cramps somewhat bearable is in the kitchen. Which means you have no other choice but to go there. At least not if you want to survive the day.

You sneak toward the kitchen with quiet steps, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention to yourself, still hoping to somehow escape this whole messy and awkward situation by simply never bringing it up or giving him a chance to mention it. The rational part of your brain tells you that there is, obviously, no way around it, that a confrontation is inevitable. The emotional side, currently in pure survival mode, however, clings to the hope that Jaafar will simply forget about it over the next few hours so that when next time you talk to each other, everything will be back to normal.

It’s wishful thinking. Especially considering it’s Jaafar we’re talking about. Because if there’s one thing you’ve underestimated, it’s just how attentive and impossibly caring he is.

Because when you enter the open-plan kitchen and living area, you are greeted by Jaafar’s broad back.  He’s leaning against the kitchen island, his attention fixed on the stove across from him.

You frown when you notice the kettle sitting on the burner, steaming with hot water. Beside it lies your hot water bottle, uncapped and waiting to be filled. Two ceramic mugs, the ones the two of you painted together a couple of weeks ago, sit side by side on the counter, each already containing a tea bag.

Your heart skips a painful beat and your breath catches. Then, a tiny gasp escapes you before you can stop it. That tiny sound is enough to draw Jaafar’s attention. In an instant, his head snaps in your direction as he straightens. You brace yourself for the hurt that has to be on his face. The disappointment. The frustration. Instead, he’s looking at you with nothing but warmth. Nothing but pure, unconditional love.

The tenderness in his eyes steals the air from your lungs, rendering you speechless. Instinctively, you shrink into yourself, wanting to make yourself as small as possible. After everything you’d said to him, you don’t deserve to be looked at like that. You don’t deserve to be loved like that.

Jaafar, on the other hand, has to physically stop himself from crossing the distance between you and wrap you tightly in his arms, because you certainly look exactly like someone who needs to be held right now: You’re standing half-hidden in the hallway in his hoodie as though you wish you were invisible. His oversized hoodie hangs off your frame, the sleeves swallowing your hands until only the tips of your fingers peek out. Your head is bowed, your gaze fixed firmly on the floor, unable, or unwilling, to meet his eyes. You look like you’re waiting to be scolded for having done something wrong.

Jaafar’s heart aches. God, you’re adorable. You couldn’t look more huggable right now.

“Jaafar..”, you whimper and his name sounds like a question, a prayer, a reprimand and a slap to the face all at once.

You don’t know what to do with all your emotions, feeling too overwhelmed. You were prepared to defend yourself, to tell him you didn’t mean any of what you’ve thrown his way, maybe even get into another fight because he would have said the wrong thing and your hormones would’ve decided to take it personally. What you definitely weren’t prepared for is for your handsome, sweet, impossibly thoughtful, perfect boyfriend to stand there with nothing but love in his eyes, quietly making you a hot water bottle and tea because, for some reason, he’d somehow figured out exactly what was wrong before you had.

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, like a fish on dry land, and you don’t trust your voice not to crack if it did, so you close your mouth again. Jaafar notices this, of course, and immediately takes the lead.

“I’m making you some herbal tea. Chamomile is supposed to help, I think? And a hot water bottle", he explains, even though you’ve already realized that. “I put your painkillers on the coffee table and filled your water bottle. You need to drink a lot, I know you get a headache otherwise. Oh, and I grabbed your favourite pyjamas from the dryer. They’re on the sofa with your cozy blanket in case you want to get more comfortable. I also left one of my hoodies there, just in case you get cold, though you’re already wearing one of mine.. Either way, I’ve also got your favourite snacks!"

While Jaafar rambles about everything he’s done for you in the last half an hour since your fight, you feel your throat tighten, your heart beating out of your chest. While he’d been worrying about you, you’d been lying in bed convincing yourself he hated you.

You’re asking yourself how you ever deserved this man. How did someone as wonderful as him choose you? And all you did was scream at him.

He’s completely oblivious to the emotional turmoil raging inside of you right now. What he does see, however, is the biggest pout forming on your face, making you look seconds away from falling apart. Your lower lip quivers and that’s what finally causes Jaafar to step in front of you with three quick strides.

“No. Please don’t cry, sweetheart", he says sadly, cupping your cheeks with his large hands, coaxing your gaze up to meet his. The moment his skin touches yours, the first tear slips free. And now, as he gazes at you with such concern and speaks to you so softly, the dam breaks entirely. One tear after the other runs down your cheeks, staining your skin. Jaafar hurriedly wipes them away with his thumbs, only for more to replace them immediately. He looks at each tear like it personally offends him.

“Shh.. I promise I’m not angry with you”, he whispers gently, offering you the gentlest smile he can manage.

“B-But you s-should be”, you full on sob, pausing in between words to catch your breath.

“What? Why?”, Jaafar blinks. There is a hint of amusement in his voice, not because he doesn’t take you seriously, but because he genuinely thinks you look and sound so cute right now.

“Because I y-yelled at you for n-no reason”, you cry, the shame washing over you in full force once more, causing even more tears to fall and your voice to crack. “I was so mean to you.”

“Pfft. Whatever”, he snorts, shaking his head, the casualness of his response making you look up at him through tear-filled eyes. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

To be honest, he’s relieved. Because after you stormed away from him, his mind had immediately gone to the worst possible places. He’d wondered if he’d said something wrong. If he’d pushed too far. If this was it, if this was the day you’d finally realize you were better off without him and leave. That fear always crept in whenever the two of you fought.

Finding out there was an explanation for why everything had escalated so suddenly means he knows you still love him.

“H-How do you..”, you swallow, glancing down at your hands that are still clasped over your lower abdomen. “How do y-you know about..?”

He follows your gaze before looking back at you.

“I have an app”, he states matter-of-factly.

“An app? F-For what?”

“For your cycle”, he helps you and the second the words leave his mouth, he practically sees how they land. Your dramatic pout grows even bigger and before he knows it, your hands wrap around his waist, clinging to him like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

“I’m s-sorry”, you sob into his chest. Jaafar immediately softens, wrapping both arms around you and pulling you closer. His chin rests gently on top of your head as he sways you back and forth.

“Don’t apologize for something you can’t control, baby”, he murmurs. You shake your head against him.

“But I-“

“No”, he interrupts, gently but firmly. “You were overwhelmed. You were hurting. We sometimes do things we don’t mean to when we’re in pain.”

Your grip around him tightens, sobs leaving your throat.

“Are you in a lot of pain?”, he asks, running a hand gently over your hair, his touch careful and soothing. You nod against him.

“Do you have everything you need? Or do I need to pick something up from the store?”, he offers, now placing his cheek against your head, hating that you’re in pain and he can’t do anything about it.

“I don’t d-deserve you”, you stutter, squeezing him even tighter. At your words, he suddenly loosens his grip around you, pulling back slightly. His hands find your cheeks again, gently guiding your face upward until you’re forced to meet his eyes.

“Don’t stay that”, he scolds you, not liking the way you tend to talk badly about yourself, especially during that week once a month. “You deserve me just as much as I deserve you.”

Your lip trembles, searching his eyes.

“Okay?”

You nod weakly.

“Now, please lie down and rest, baby. Your body is working really hard”, he brushes his thumbs over your cheeks, wiping away the tears that remain.

You open your mouth to argue, wincing as you feel another cramp in your lower abdomen. All of a sudden, Jaafar jumps into full protective mode. He hooks one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, effortlessly lifting you up bridal style, carrying you to the sofa. Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you.

He wasn’t exaggerating. The moment you reach the sofa, you find everything waiting for you: your pyjamas, favourite snacks (a whole lot of them), water bottle, pain relief medication, his hoodie. The sight alone makes you tear up again.

“While you get comfortable, I’ll finish the tea and grab the hot water bottle”, he says, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before hurrying back to the kitchen, where he slides across the tiles in his socks before coming to a stop. You slip into your pyjamas in no time and pull the hoodie over it, swapping out the one you previously wore. By the time you snuggle under the blanket, Jaafar is back by your side, placing the two mugs on the coffee table, the hot water bottle tucked under his arm. He hands it to you once he’s safely set down the steaming mugs. The moment the warmth settles against your stomach, your entire body relaxes.

Since the tea is still too hot to drink, Jaafar lies down next to you, inviting you to snuggle up to him. You rest your head against his chest and lazily drape an arm across his stomach. His arm wraps snugly around you, fingers tracing patterns along your skin while his other hand keeps the hot water bottle in place.

For a while, neither of you says anything. You just lay there, feeling safe and loved.

“What do you want to watch?”, he asks into your hair eventually, his lips brushing against your hair as he reaches for the remote.

“Mhm... The Princess and the Frog?”, you suggest. A quiet laugh rumbles through Jaafar’s chest. He should have known. But he doesn’t hesitate. He searches for the movie immediately, because he knows exactly how much you love old Disney films, especially when you’re feeling miserable. This one is particularly special because secretly, you love imagining him as the prince.

Lying there with him, surrounded by everything you need, the pain slowly fades into the background. Jaafar makes sure you take your medication, drink your water, that your tea is the perfect temperature before handing it to you.

“What do you want to eat later? I could make your favourite, or I can go grab something. We could order something too. Whatever you want, baby”, Jaafar rambles away until you interrupt him by looking up at him from his chest. He immediately stops when your hand reaches up to cup his jaw, pulling him closer to kiss him softly. The butterflies that flutter through your stomach are enough to distract from the lingering cramps.

“I love you so much”, you whisper against his lips, which brings a smile to his face.

“I love you too”, he replies, pressing a kiss to your forehead before settling back against the sofa. “Now answer my question, sweetheart.”

[humannaturess]

Wait.. maybe some texts with nugget telling her uncles shes talking/dating jamal..? 👀

　　　　　Nugget tells her uncles she's dating a guy.

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[dracowars]

istg this is my favourite series on here LOVE NUGGET!!!

[dracowars]

bro why am i always rooting for the team that loses i'm so sick of this 😭

[dracowars]

i love that my whole fyp only consists of jaafar, michael, bellingham and doué at this point 🥵 and i'm not mad

[dearjaafar]

⌞ Jaafar Jackson for Ralph Lauren ♡ ⌝

[dracowars]

goals | jaafar jackson

pairing: jaafar x reader

word count: 4,3k

summary: where y/n and jaafar have their first public appearance at the world cup opening game

a/n: i LOVE football and when i saw that jaafar was there, i squealed and knew i had to write something about it!! (for the sake of this fic, let’s imagine there are kiss cams lmao)

warnings: established relationship

Is there ever the perfect time to make your first public appearance as a couple? Probably not. But everything inside you tells you that now isn’t the moment. You’re a bundle of nerves, even though you’re already sitting in the car, fully glammed up. You’re just mere minutes away from the stadium where you’ll be stepping out in front of cameras for the very first time after Jaafar soft launched your relationship across his social media for the past few weeks.

As a rising star in the industry, currently in the spotlight thanks to the incredible success of Michael, Jaafar was invited to the 2026 FIFA World Cup opening match between the US and Paraguay in Los Angeles. Allowed to bring guests along, he not only wanted his brothers, Jermajesty and Randy Jr., by his side, but also you, his girlfriend.

A world cup is a big thing, but nothing could have prepared you for the absolute fear surging through your every vein right now. This isn’t just any event, not just a football game. This is your first public appearance as Jaafar Jackson’s girlfriend. You first time walking a carpet. Your first time standing in front of hundreds of photographers who seem to know exactly who you are, having done their thorough research despite never even seeing you before.

A small part of you thinks that once you step out of this car, everything changes. Because before that moment, you were just you. The girl who got to spend lazy mornings and quiet evenings with Jaafar. The girl who knew every version of him but especially the one that existed away from the cameras. The girl who laughed at his absolutely terrible jokes and stole his hoodies. The girl who danced around with him in the kitchen with no worries in the world.

Today the world is going to get a glimpse of you, the girl Jaafar Jackson chose, who he loves with all of his heart. No pressure.

You feel like prey, just waiting to be devoured by the hungry predators surrounding you.

“Hey, everything alright?”, Jaafar’s gentle voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you feel his warm hand on your thigh, giving a gentle squeeze. Slowly, you tear your gaze away from the passing view outside the window and turn toward him. His brown eyes meet yours, warm and steady, carrying that familiar softness you always get lost in.

“Y-Yeah.” Not very convincing.

“You look like you’re about to jump out of the car”, he remarks with a soft smile.

You let out a nervous laugh, glancing down at your hand that you now intertwine with his on your thigh. You avert your gaze again, not being able to stand the pure affection you find in his eyes, meant only for you.

Jaafar has always had a way of seeing through you. It doesn’t matter how carefully you try to hide your emotions, how much effort you put into looking calm and collected. He notices the little things. The way your fingers fidget. The way your breathing changes. The way you stare out the window, letting a storm of thoughts consume you. You really tried to not look overwhelmed and apparently, you terribly failed.

“Sorry”, you shrug with a shy smile, nervously smoothing down your pants with your free hand. Since the dress code isn’t super formal – it is a football match after all – you’re wearing a cream tailored fitted vest and flowing wide-leg trousers. Subtle jewellery adorns your ears, wrists and fingers and black sunglasses tie everything together. Your outfit perfectly complements that of Jaafar, who is wearing a cream button-down shirt with a textured pattern, left slightly open at the collar, paired with matching tailored trousers that give him a relaxed yet polished look. The soft neutral tones compliment his warm complexion, while the dark sunglasses add just enough edge. Jaafar, as always, looks effortlessly put together, which somehow makes it unfair and so much more difficult for you.

He isn’t dressed like he is trying to impress anyone while you, on the other hand, are very much trying to do just that.

His brothers also match the colour scheme, all dressed in cream, white and black. A choice that also subtly signals which team you’re rooting for. That is at least for today, because the three of them are supporting Colombia as well while you are rooting for your country, too.

“Don’t be”, Jaafar says with a slight grin, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’re going to do amazing. They’ll love you.”

Easy for him to say. He’s already accustomed to the spotlight, the cameras, the eyes. Everyone loves him. Of course they do. There is nothing to not love about him. But the idea of millions of strangers having opinions about you and your relationship makes your stomach twist in discomfort.

“I just don’t want to mess this up”, you admit quietly.

Jaafar’s eyebrows pull together like he has a hard time understanding what you just said. “Baby..”, he starts and the nickname makes your heart jump. “You’re not going to mess anything up.”

“Unless you trip”, Jermajesty adds out of nowhere, sitting across from you. He had been playing on his phone just moments ago, but the conversation didn’t go past him. Not that he could have missed it, you’re literally sitting right in front of him.

“Bro.”

Randy next to him snorts but quickly regains his composure and jabs his elbow into Jermajesty’s side, being the older, responsible one and all that. Jaafar, on the other hand, shoots his brothers a death glare.

“What? I’m just preparing her for every eventuality. I didn’t say it would happen!”, Jermajesty immediately defends himself, raising his hands in surrender.

“Not helpful.”

“Maybe keep your tips to yourself next time”, Jaafar suggests with a smile so bittersweet it makes his brother swallow hard. It’s a smile that is somehow both amused and threatening enough to make Jermajesty hesitate.

“Nah. I promise if anyone is going to mess it up, it’s going to be me”, Jermajesty says with such confidence as if he has already planned the entire disaster in his head. “Aaaaand I’ll shut up now”, he quickly adds when he receives another death glare, basically jumping headfirst back into his phone.

Despite yourself, you laugh. Somehow, their banter was exactly what you needed. The nerves that had been twisting your stomach begin to loosen. You know that you are not alone. That when you step out of this car, you won’t just have Jaafar beside you. You’ll have people who genuinely want you to feel comfortable, who will stand beside you and make sure you feel safe.

“I got you, baby”, Jaafar whispers softly, guiding your intertwined hands to his mouth to place a gentle kiss on the back of your hand without breaking eye contact. The warmth radiating from him, his touch, his presence, the certainty in his eyes, slowly melts away the tension you’ve been carrying, your shoulders slumping back into the seat. You can’t help but lean over and give him a quick kiss to the cheek, making him smile brightly.

It takes around two more minutes to reach the venue and you immediately tense up again, your breath catching in your throat. With the stadium towering ahead, your gaze falls on the throngs of photographers lining the blue carpet, eagerly waiting for the next celebrity guest. It isn’t until the car door opens that the sounds from outside truly reach you: distant music from the stadium, the constant clicking and shuttering of thousands of cameras, and people.

Jermajesty and Randy step out of the car first, followed closely by Jaafar though not before he whispers a few more reassuring words into your ear.

“Eyes on me.”

“What?”

“When it gets overwhelming, just look at me.”

Like the true gentleman he is, he waits by the door and extends his hand to help you out of the car. Meanwhile, his brothers are already posing for photos in front of the backdrop, completely comfortable in all the chaos.

You, however, feel like your knees might give way beneath you. You place your hand in Jaafar’s and let him gently pull you out of the car, making sure you don’t trip (even though Jermajesty would have probably loved if you did, proving his prediction). The second you are out of the car and the first photographer spots you, the shouting grows impossibly louder.

“Jaafar!”

“Over here!”

“Jaafar, a picture with your girlfriend!”

“Can we get one together?”

“Look this way!”

To say you are overwhelmed is an understatement, your heart racing, but Jaafar makes sure to tightly secure your hand in his, leading you onto the carpet and in front of the backdrop. Lights flash in an instant, not allowing you to even get into position.

Jaafar’s hand slides to the small of your back naturally, allowing him to pull you against his side without obscuring your matching outfits. You can’t help but grin, his closeness automatically calming your nerves by each second. Both of you smile at the cameras, giving them time to get the perfect shot of you, giving them exactly what they came for.

“One without the sunglasses!”

You both immediately follow the request, taking off your sunglasses to give them unrestricted views of your faces. Jaafar gives you a playful pinch at the waist that catches you off guard, making you look up at him with a giggle, one hand resting on his chest. The cameras keep snapping photos of you, even when you stop paying them any attention and simply gaze at each other. Which is exactly what Jaafar had in mind: making you forget everything around you, focussing solely on him.

Later, this will turn out to be your favourite photo: the two of you looking at each other with unconditional affection, beaming smiles and a look that suggests you’re in a world of your own.

“Can we get a picture of just her?”

The request takes you completely by surprise, but before you can even react, Jaafar smiles proudly and steps aside to leave the spotlight to you without any hesitation. At first, you hold tight onto his hand, your eyes practically pleading with him to stay, but he gives you such an encouraging smile that you can’t help but go along with it.

Suddenly, you feel incredibly shy without him by your side, but the photographers are telling you exactly how they want you to pose and what to do. You give them what they want, and maybe even a little more, and realize you’re actually starting to enjoy it a little. Standing nearby, Jaafar looks incredibly proud as if he were witnessing something beautiful, something he had never seen before in his life and now cannot tear his eyes away from. He truly is your biggest supporter.

It doesn’t take long before Jaafar is back by your side, and the two of you move along the carpet as a unit, heading toward the far end where his brothers are already waiting. Both of them are looking at you with broad, knowing smiles, making you lower your head in embarrassment as you reach them.

“There they are!”

“The celebrities.”

“Don’t even star-”

“How was it, little Miss I’m-so-scared-I’ll-mess-it-up-but-end-up-stealing-everyone’s-spotlight-anyway?”, Randy interrupts, clearly enjoying himself, not letting the opportunity pass to tease you a little. All three of them knew you would do an amazing job. There was never any doubt about it.

“Why’s no one asking me?”, Jaafar says, rolling his eyes dramatically as he slips his hand from yours and flexes his fingers with an exaggerated pout. “Might need a new hand.”

Your eyes drop to his hand immediately. “Oh God. Did I squeeze too hard?”, you ask in alarm, wasting no time in taking his hand between both of yours and cupping it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. In a way, it was – like an anchor keeping you steady. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, baby.”

The concern on your face causes his teasing expression to break.

“I’m just playing with you, baby. It’s all good”, Jaafar laughs, flashing you one of his perfect smiles before he gently frees his hand from yours, placing it against your chin and tilting your face toward him. Then he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your lips.

“So.. are you guys going to pounce on each other, or can we go inside?”, Jermajesty asks in all seriousness, making you burst out laughing. Jaafar gestures for them to go ahead and you follow them. On the way to your seats, Jaafar interlocks your fingers again.

“You okay?”, he asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

As soon as you step out into the stands, it finally hits you where you are and what a special event this is. Who gets to say they attended the opening match of a World Cup and in the very country where they live, no less? The atmosphere is ecstatic, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Thousands upon thousands of people are filling the stadium, flags waving, chants echoing.

Randy leads the way and finds your seats with ease. They are located in the main stand in a separate area reserved for special guests, so-called “Business-Seats”, allowing for a bit of privacy and security. It even has an exclusive lounge offering catering before, during, and after the match. Eventually, you find yourself in a seat between Jaafar and Jermajesty, with Randy on Jermajesty’s other side.

Your body is still overflowing with adrenaline from before, making it nearly impossible for you to sit completely still. You look around constantly, taking everything in: the massive screens, the field, the crowd. Everything feels entirely surreal.

You snap a few photos to look at later and maybe even post. Since your relationship is completely official now, you’re free to post whatever you want without having to worry that people might piece together who you were with, or where and when you were there. You don’t have to hide anymore and even pose for the boys’ selfies.

You notice Jaafar’s camera land on you, making you smile shyly. You lean against his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his phone and thus his snapshot.

“Delete that one”, you say immediately, feeling embarrassed about the way you look in it.

“No”, Jaafar replies, holding his phone out of reach so you can’t make a grab for it.

“Jaafar”, you whine, trying to reach it anyway.

“It’s cute.”

“It’s not!”

“It is! You look so excited.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop smiling nevertheless.

“Any predictions?”, Jermajesty eventually asks, looking between all of you with an amused smile. “Winner gets to choose where we’re eating tonight. Losers are paying.”

“2:0”, Randy replies, sliding his sunglasses back over his eyes as the sun hits his face.

“3:0”, you state with no hesitation, feeling confident in your answer.

“3:1”, Jaafar immediately chimes in, looking at you with a playful sparkle in his eyes that tells you the challenge is on.

“I’m going with 4:1”, Jermajesty claims with an approving look at the line-up on his phone.

“In your dreams maybe”, you giggle. He places a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.

“Wow. No faith in our team?”

“I’m just being realistic”, you respond with a sweet smile. Jermajesty opens his mouth to argue some more but is quickly shut down as music fills the arena and the lights dim. The opening ceremony begins shortly after, and the entire stadium seems to come alive. The field transforms into a celebration of football, culture, and everything that makes the World Cup such a massive event.

You all watch in awe, completely captivated.

At one point, the cameras begin scanning the VIP sections and the giant screens above the field show some of the celebrities attending the match: Tom Cruise, Leonardo DiCaprio, David Beckham. The crowd immediately reacts every time someone familiar appears.

You watch along with everyone else, but deep down, you can feel the nerves slowly creeping back in. Because if the camera is scanning the VIP section, what’s stopping it from landing on Jaafar? And if it lands on Jaafar, it will inevitably land on you.

Your hand unconsciously tightens around his for a moment, but thankfully, the camera moves on before you have to worry about being on the giant screens. A small sigh of relief escapes you.

You are not too keen on a full stadium of seventy thousand people to know you’re here.

“You okay?”, Jaafar asks again.

“Yeah.”

When the match finally begins, the atmosphere becomes even more intense. You quickly realize that all of you are much more invested in the game than you expected, leaning forward, screaming, complaining, cheering.

Even Jaafar, who had seemed so calm earlier, is completely caught up in the excitement. “Come on!”, he shouts, jumping slightly in his seat when the USA nearly scores, making you laugh. His excitement is adorable, warming your heart.

And just like that, the first half goes by faster than you expect. By halftime, the scoreboard shows exactly what you predicted: 3:0. You turn toward Jaafar with the biggest smug smile.

“I would like to remind everyone of my prediction”, you announce proudly. You lean back in your seat, completely satisfied. “I’d actually like to go home now and spend the rest of the evening basking in this victory.”

“Don’t be too confident, baby”, Jaafar winks at you. “It’s not over yet.”

The halftime entertainment begins, giving everyone a chance to relax before the second half, which will undoubtedly be just as exciting. You and Randy decide to make yourselves useful and head toward the lounge to grab food and drinks for everyone. Inside, the atmosphere is completely different from the stadium. Still busy, but much calmer. The lounge is bustling with a mix of guests – influencers, models, actors, athletes, and also people you’ve never seen before. Then again, plenty of them are probably thinking the exact same thing about you.

You gather everything you need and carefully balance the drinks and food as you make your way back to your seats alongside Randy, who’s carrying the other half. The second Jaafar sees you approaching, he’s already standing. Before you can protest, he’s taking half the things from your hands, preventing anything from falling.

He smiles one of his sweet smiles at you, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your cheek once you sit down again. “Thank you for the fries.”

You laugh, knowing they are his favourite. “You’re welcome.”

Down on the field, you can see a few cheerleaders performing, otherwise the stands are relatively empty, which is not at all typical for American halftime shows. However, you realize too late that the camera operators are having some fun, moving through the stands to get people to kiss. You thought kiss cams were strictly an American football thing, but apparently, they’ve adopted the tradition for the World Cup, too. You freeze when you suddenly see your face on the giant screen in front of you, your eyes wide.

Except it’s not Jaafar who’s shown next to you, but Jermajesty. For a moment, nobody reacts. The entire situation is so absurd that your brain can’t even process it. You and Jermajesty simply stare at the screen in utter bewilderment.

Jermajesty immediately starts waving his hands frantically and making an X with his arms, trying to signal to the cameramen that they have made a mistake, but the damage is already done, a flush rising in your cheeks. Randy is doubled over with laughter, completely losing it, and Jaafar isn’t doing much better, struggling to compose himself.

“Unbelievable”, he mumbles through a fit of laughter. But then his eyes soften and he does something you don’t expect: He reaches over, placing one hand gently against your jaw. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he turns your face toward him and kisses you. In front of seventy thousand people.

A wave of cheers rises around you, louder than before. The kiss lasts no more than five seconds, but it’s long enough to make you forget the world around you and the embarrassment you feel. It’s only Jaafar and you in the biggest stadium in the world.

When he pulls away, his forehead almost touches yours and the smug smile on his face makes you laugh. You immediately hide your heated cheeks behind your hands, shaking your head at him as the camera moves on to its next victim.

“You know that’s going to be all over tabloids tomorrow, right?”, you say shyly, pinching the bridge of your nose. Jaafar’s smile only grows while Jermajesty and Randy are having the absolute time of their lives, barely containing their laughter. You try to block them out by scooting forward in your seat, turning your back a little more toward them.

“Probably”, Jaafar shrugs, settling back into his seat while draping one arm casually over the backrest behind you. “Next to all the pictures they took of us on the carpet.”

“Great”, you sigh while sinking into your seat, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips either way. “I can’t believe you actually just kissed me in front of the entire world.”

“Technically”, he says, holding up a finger. “I just wanted to make sure that everyone knows who you’re here with.”

Laughter bubbles out of you as he nods toward his brother, who now has the decency to look slightly offended by the entire situation. “I was an innocent bystander”, Jermajesty defends himself.

Jaafar shoots him a mock glare until you all burst out laughing at the same time, drawing puzzled glances from the people around you. Suddenly, your embarrassment vanishes and your heart returns to its normal rhythm.

Throughout the entire second half, Jaafar’s proximity is palpable, his touch never leaving you: his hand over the back of the seat, on your thigh or interlaced with yours.

The game picks right back up where it left off. The USA continues to dominate and despite Jaafar’s warning not to get too confident, your prediction remains safely intact. That is until Paraguay scores and the scoreboard destroys your prediction, showing a 3:1.

“Told you so”, Jaafar teases, dragging out the words in a sing-song voice, pinching your side which makes you squeal. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking defeated, so you lightly push his shoulder. You try to ignore his further teasing close to your ear, but the smile on your face gives you away.

“I’m still in the game!”, Jermajesty proudly announces. The next moment, he clutches his head in frustration as the USA squanders another chance.

Even though you lost your little competition, you can’t tear your eyes away from the game, it’s just too much fun. Then, when the USA scores to make it 4:1 in the final seconds of overtime, you all leap from your seats and cheer. Jermajesty, of course, the loudest of all. Jaafar laughs beside you before wrapping his arms around you and briefly lifting you off your feet in celebration. You barely have time to react before he sets you back down, both of you laughing.

“Oh, he’s never letting this go”, Jaafar says, shaking his head.

“You’re going to be so sick of me!”, Jermajesty cheers loudly.

When the final whistle blows and the USA ultimately wins, the entire stadium erupts once more. Slowly, the stadium begins to empty, but the excitement remains. Since the traffic leaving the stadium is going to be insane, you decide to wait it out in the lounge. Which also happens to give you a temporary escape from Jermajesty’s endless chatter about how he perfectly predicted the game.

Jaafar introduces you to a few guests you recognize and plenty you don’t, but everyone is surprisingly welcoming. Every time Jaafar introduces you, hearing the word girlfriend leave his lips in a public setting makes your heart skip.

What surprises you most is that everyone is so friendly and warm. You had spent the entire day imagining judgment, whispers, people analysing every little thing about you. But instead, they smile at you or compliment your outfit or ask how you enjoyed the game. They make it feel like you belong.

At some point, while you’re talking with a group of guests on your own, you catch Jaafar watching you from across the room, admiring you. When you catch his eyes, he gives you the sweetest smile ever. One that says: ‘See? You’re okay. I’m so proud of you.’ The second he’s at your side again, he leaves a gentle kiss on your temple.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

About an hour after the final whistle, you’re finally sitting inside the car on your way home. The adrenaline is slowly fading, leaving behind a feeling of exhaustion. Your head rests against Jaafar’s shoulder as you watch the city lights pass by outside the window.

Occasionally, one of his brothers talks about the match or laughs about the kiss cam moment that will probably haunt Jermajesty forever, but other than that, there’s a comfortable silence.

Your mind is spinning, thinking back to everything you’ve experienced today, to every moment that scared you so much beforehand, but that you handled so well. Somewhere along the way, you stopped feeling like you were being introduced to the world, but more like you were being welcomed into it.

And Jaafar played the biggest role in making it such a pleasant experience for you.

You think about how your hand barely left Jaafar’s the entire day. Your hand moves without thinking, sliding down his biceps until your fingers find his. You intertwine them together on his lap.

“You okay?”, Jaafar asks quietly. You feel him press a kiss into your hair after taking in the familiar scent of you. The question makes you smile. Because of course he asks, even now.

“Yeah”, you smile at him, because with him by your side you don’t think you could ever not be okay.

[dearjaafar]

⌞ Jaafar Jackson @ Wimbledon, 07.12.26 ♡ ⌝

[dracowars]

just casually watching the wimbledon final and all of a sudden i see JAAFAR ✨️ looking fine as hell!

[dracowars]

saw bts in concert for the first time a few days ago, i feel so empty and still can't believe it

[dracowars]

heeyy can you do jaafarxreader when they are in secret relationship and he like gets jealous maybe they both are actors i really don't know it's up to you but i really want the jealousy trope and like fluff maybe the reader laughs at jafaar so ends up trying to earn his forgivness by prepping kisses all over his face and stuff or maybe the reader was doing it on purpose and he figure it out so he got mad buut i don't know it's up to you,you are the expert between us please and thank u very much

that’s my girl | jaafar jackson

pairing: jaafar x actress!reader

word count: 6,8k

summary: where jaafar can’t hide his jealousy

a/n: this can be read as a continuation of speculation or completely on its own! please don’t come for me if any of the actors mentioned turn out to be problematic, i’m not into gossip so just let me know and i’ll happily swap them out! thank you so much for requesting and enjoy!! <3

warnings: angst, jealousy, alcohol consumption, suggestive content

The doors of your van are pulled open and shoved aside in one sharp motion. The sound hits you first: an immediate, overwhelming surge of shouting voices, camera shutters and overlapping calls of your name the second they see who is in the car. The flashes come next, strobing across the interior in bursts of white light that make it hard to see anything beyond the pavement and the moving silhouettes at your sides.

A chauffeur steps in close, offering his hand. His grip is steady, guiding you. The heel of your shoe touches down carefully and he keeps hold just long enough to make sure you’re balanced as you straighten up.

The ride from the hotel hadn’t been long, but it had been carefully planned down to the minute. You’d stood for most of it inside the Sprinter van so your dress wouldn’t crease. Earlier, at the hotel suite, your stylists had worked quickly but precisely. Touching up your makeup, resetting your hair, before helping you step out of the elaborate Met Gala gown and into something entirely different for the night ahead.

Now, for the afterparty, you’re in a form-fitting black velvet dress with an off-the-shoulder neckline. The deep black fabric shimmers in the glow of the night, while a diamond necklace adorns your throat, catching sparks of light whenever you move. It’s elegant and timeless. With your choice of dress, you and your team tried to ensure a bit more comfort for the long night ahead while staying true to this year’s theme, “Fashion Is Art”.

The photographers are already calling your name again and again and again. Adrenaline surges through your every vein. It almost feels unreal how quickly you become the focus of the entire street, as if they’ve been waiting for this exact moment. Yet, just a few hours ago, they had ample opportunity to snap countless photos of you at the Met Gala already. Since you’ve changed into a different outfit, however, they are eager to capture just as many new shots of you.

You wave a little shyly at no one in particular and make your way across the red carpet. It’s quite short and makes everything feel less formal, but more immediate. Security lines both sides, creating a narrow corridor toward the entrance of the club. Behind you and in front of you, your own team and bodyguards follow close behind to ensure neither fans nor paparazzi swarm you.

Once inside the club, you take a deep breath. You haven’t been in the business very long, so every public appearance brings a mix of nerves and excitement with it. There’s a certain type of awareness that every step, every glace is being watched, captured, and discussed in real time. After all, the Met Gala is one of the biggest nights in the industry, and even here, at one of the many afterparties scattered across New York, it feels like you’re transported to a different world. One of pure glamour and shine.

Since you are still relatively new to the scene, you don’t know many of the other stars yet, and a part of you hopes tonight will change that. After all, that was half the purpose of these parties: socializing, making connections, seeing and being seen, putting down roots in an industry that still feels exciting and intimidating all at once.

Music greets you as you venture further inside, your team now free of their duty after safely escorting you in. The air is noticeably cooler than outside, scented faintly with perfume and champagne. The volume of the music is just right: loud enough to fill the room and give it life, yet not so overpowering that it drowns everything else out. Across the room, a DJ stands behind illuminated desks, and a stage has already been set up for the performances planned later in the evening. There are plenty of artists among the guests tonight, so someone is bound to end up on that stage.

You stand at the top of a short, sweeping staircase, giving you a perfect view of everything below. The afterparty has taken over what looks like the ballroom of some extravagant palace. Gold detailing adorns the cream-colored walls, curling in elaborate patterns around marble columns. Massive crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling high above. Scattered around the dance floor are circular tables draped in white linens and decorated with small arrangements of white roses and candles. Some celebrities lounge in velvet chairs, chatting in small groups, while others move between tables.

Along one side of the room stretches a magnificent marble bar, illuminated from beneath with a soft golden light. The bartenders work in black suits and with effortless precision, pouring champagne and mixing cocktails. Waiters drift gracefully through the crowd carrying silver trays filled with drinks. Voices mingle into a pleasant hum that rises and falls.

You let your gaze drift over the sea of faces as you stand, anxiety tugging at your nerves.

You keep your expression composed, even as your pulse refuses to settle. This is one of the parts you’re still learning: how to walk into a room full of people who all seem to know each other and act like you naturally belong there too.

What if you spend the entire evening awkwardly standing at the bar, unable to strike up a conversation with anyone? What if no one is even interested in talking to you? These thoughts drift through your mind but are suddenly swept away the moment your eyes land on him.

Jaafar is standing and chatting with two men you can’t identify right now because their backs are turned to you. Or rather, he was chatting until he spotted you.

Because the second Jaafar’s eyes land on you, everything else simply disappears. He doesn’t hear another word being said, forgets whatever he has been saying. Forgets where he even is for a second, every coherent thought leaving his mind at once, only being occupied by you.

And you look –

God.

He knew you would change dresses, obviously. You teased him about it earlier, laughing when he tried to convince you to show him pictures or give him some sneak peek.

“No. It’s a surprise”, you’d insisted. “Besides, if you know exactly what I’m wearing, it’ll ruin the reveal.”

And what a reveal it was.

His gaze drifts over your dress longingly. The black velvet hugs your figure beautifully, elegant and timeless without trying too hard. The off-the-shoulder neckline frames your collarbones where he’d left kisses a thousand times before, the diamonds at your throat catching the light every time you move.

All of a sudden, Jaafar feels sixteen again. Not Jaafar Jackson, celebrity guest at one of the most exclusive parties in New York. Not Jaafar Jackson, part of the Jackson family, son to Jermaine Jackson, nephew to Michael Jackson. Just a man hopelessly in love with his girlfriend.

His eyes soften immediately, the corners of his mouth lifting before he can stop them. There is admiration there, but more than that, there is something helplessly affectionate. Because all he can think is: That’s my girl.

You had already looked like the most beautiful woman in the world in your Met Gala gown and he hadn’t thought you could top that. But, of course, you did. Jaafar feels as though he will be unable to think about anything else for a long time, either about you in this dress or about how he’s going to get you out of it. Depending on where his thoughts take him.

You can feel his heated gaze directly on your skin, even where it’s covered by fabric. Your whole body tingles and suddenly you aren’t nervous about the attention anymore, but about him. Deep down, you had secretly hoped for a reaction like this, but seeing it happen in real time stirs something in you, tightening your chest. You try to ignore the warmth rising from your neck to your face.

You have to control yourself. After all, you and Jaafar are in a secret relationship and the way you’re looking at each other right now doesn’t feel very secretive. It makes it way too obvious that there is so much more going on between the two of you.

On the other side, Jaafar is struggling to keep his very distracting thoughts at bay. No matter what he tries, he simply cannot tear his gaze away from you. But above all these thoughts, above everything, he just wants to hold your hand. Tell you how beautiful you are. He wants to kiss your forehead, make you laugh, hear about every nervous thought running through your head.

He wants to stand beside you openly.

The thought suddenly pains him, imagining what it would’ve been like if none of this had to be hidden. If you had walked the red carpet together earlier, stopping to give everyone the chance to snap photos of you. Not as two separate people who happen to be at the same event, but as a unit. He imagines how it would’ve felt like to have his hand resting against the small of your back while reports called both your names. How you would’ve shared stupid little smiles between interviews.

Jaafar wants to show you off to the world so badly. Instead, he had to spend the entire evening pretending not to know the woman he’d fallen asleep next to the night before. Pretending he didn’t sneak out of your hotel room in the early morning hours to get back to his own. Pretending your arrival times at the gala weren’t purposefully set thirty minutes apart to not raise suspicions. Pretending you didn’t put on a perfect charade during the entire event, even though there were glances that lasted half a second too long.

You entered different conversations, sat on different tables, far apart from each other. There was a careful, almost comical little wave you’d exchanged inside the museum, pretending to be nothing more than friendly colleagues.

Somehow, the two of you had pulled it off. No one knew that he’d slipped out of your room before sunrise. No one knew he’d almost broken his promise when he first spotted you on that carpet. No one knew that every time he’d looked across the museum and caught the tiniest glimpse of you, he’d had to physically stop himself from walking over.

Judging by the way you are looking at each other right now, smiling without meaning to, neither of you is doing a particularly good job of hiding how much more there is beneath the surface.

You’re fortunate that the afterparty has a strict no-professional-photography policy. No paparazzi, photographers or television crews are allowed inside for it is an exclusive event, meant only for the stars of the evening. It makes the atmosphere feel noticeably more relaxed. It doesn’t stop every guest from having a phone tucked away somewhere though, eager to capture memories for Instagram posts and stories before the night is over. A single photo in the wrong place at the wrong time could still spark rumours. So while you and Jaafar can afford to be a little less guarded than you were at the Met Gala itself, you still have to be careful. Lingering too close or disappearing together would be enough for someone to start asking questions. At least you’re no longer performing under the relentless glare of hundreds of professional cameras, and that alone makes it a bit easier to breathe, the pressure feeling not quite as intense.

The Met Gala is your first major Hollywood event and Jaafar can only imagine how overwhelming that has to feel. Which makes all of it so much harder because all he wants is to cross the room, take your hand, and ask if you’re doing okay. To introduce you to people as his girlfriend, make sure you aren’t standing alone. Instead of all this, he has to pretend you are just another guest.

At the same time, it was his first Met Gala too. Yes, he is used to public attention, but that doesn’t change the fact that there is so much you want to ask him. You want to spend the whole night talking about how he’s doing, what he’s experienced, and the new people he’s met. Instead of all this, you find yourself doing the exact opposite of what every instinct is telling you. You force yourself not to walk over. Or smile at him. You try your best not to make it obvious that, to you, he is the only person in the room.

“May I help you?” The warm voice beside you abruptly pulls you from your thoughts, causing you to break the invisible thread that stretched between you and Jaafar. You turn. When you realize who the voice belongs to, it takes your breath away, for standing before you, one hand casually extended toward the staircase, is none other than Michael B. Jordan. He smiles with an effortless warmth that immediately makes you feel more at ease.

“Looks like you got stuck at the top of the stairs.”

Your eyes widen ever so slightly, heat rushing to your cheeks. Has it really been that obvious?

“O-Oh”, you let out a nervous laugh. “Thanks. That’s.. really sweet of you.”

You groan internally, mentally slapping yourself for stammering. Fantastic. You’re talking to Michael B. Jordan and you’ve already forgotten how to form a complete sentence, too starstruck. He just chuckles, apparently finding your reaction more endearing than awkward.

“Don’t worry”, he says as you accept his hand. “First big event?”

You nod sheepishly while he guides you down the last few steps. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

You look at him with an embarrassed smile, letting go of his hand when you reach the bottom.

“I’m trying really hard not to look terrified”, you admit, smoothing down your dress in an attempt to calm your nerves.

His grin only grows, easy and reassuring, as he offers you his arm. “Come on. Nobody should spend a party standing by themselves.”

You hesitate for a brief moment before slipping your arm through his. The gesture is purely gentlemanly, a quiet way of making sure you don’t feel stranded in a room full of strangers. He leads you toward a lively group gathered near one of the cocktail tables, introducing you to his own co-star Hailee Steinfeld.

You immediately exchange introductions and compliments. Since Sinners is one of your – and Jaafar’s – absolute favourite movies, you feel starstruck once again. Hailee, on the other hand, admires you too, which feels incredibly surreal. What do you mean the Hailee Steinfeld thinks your acting is great and can’t wait to see you in more films?

There are a lot more people in the group, faces you recognize from posters, award shows or magazine covers. Michael effortlessly introduces you to everyone, making it sound as though you belong there just as much as everyone else and you are extremely grateful for it. He quickly catches a passing waiter and plucks two champagne flutes from the tray, offering one to you.

“For the nerves”, he says when you thank him, taking a sip and letting the drizzling liquid run down your throat. The conversation flows naturally after that. He has a way of asking questions that immediately puts people at ease, introducing you whenever someone new joins the circle, making sure you don’t feel awkward.

Every now and then someone asks about your latest project. Someone else compliments your dress, another person jokes that the real challenge isn’t the carpet but surviving the shoes. You meet so many different celebrities that you lose count: Zendaya, Pedro Pascal, Zayn Malik, Daisy Edgar-Jones, Simone Ashley and so many more. You never even dared dream you’d be in the same room as these people, let alone talk to them about fashion or your travel plans.

After a while, the group dissolves naturally, some of them already a bit tipsy. They disappear into the crowd with cheers and laughter, deciding to hit the dance floor, leaving you and Michael alone at the bar to treat yourselves to another drink. By now, you’ve completely lost track of time and have no idea whether you’ve been at the afterparty for one hour or four. Oddly enough, that feels like a victory. It means you are enjoying yourself, almost forgetting that something is missing.

Still, every so often, almost without realizing it, your eyes wander across the room, keeping an eye out for Jaafar. You saw him talking to Colman a few hours ago, or at least you think it has been hours ago, but since then, he’s vanished. The room has only grown busier as the night went on and finding one person in a room this crowded is nearly impossible. Unfortunately, you can’t go looking for him, nor can you make it too obvious that you’re scanning the room, as someone would surely ask who you’re looking for. Have you seen my secret boyfriend no one knows about? isn’t exactly a good conversation starter.

Because the music is quite loud near the dance floor, everyone instinctively leans closer whenever someone speaks and Michael is no exception. More than once, his voice brushes against your ear, warm enough that you can feel his breath before he straightens again. You find yourself doing the same, leaning toward him because there’s no other way to hear him over the bass. Every time you respond, he shifts in, closing the gap.

Occasionally, his hand brushes lightly against your elbow as he laughs at something you say. When he gestures toward something across the ballroom, his arm briefly crosses behind your back as he points. It’s not an embrace. It’s not even contact. Still, it lingers a second longer than necessary before he lets it fall away again as if proximity is simply the natural setting between you. Other times his hand rests on the bar near yours, not touching, not nothing either. Just a space that keeps shrinking. He makes you laugh easily, sometimes soft, sometimes full-on laughter.

At one point, he looks at you with something unreadable in his expression. It lingers for half a second too long before he smiles again, like it never happened. But surely, he isn’t flirting with you, right? He’s just like this. Charismatic. Attentive. Effortlessly good at making people feel seen. You’re reading far too much into it; that’s just how things work in this industry. You can’t exactly tell him that you’re taken either, so you simply let it be what it appears to be: friendly, comfortable. The effortless charisma he’s known for.

You don’t think anything of it. You don’t treat it like it means anything unusual.

But Jaafar does. Across the room, he notices every single time. He hates that he notices. He’s trying to stay composed, he really is. One of the producers beside him is telling a story that’s apparently hilarious because everyone around him bursts into laughter. Jaafar laughs too, half a second late. His attention keeps slipping, always back to you.

He can’t hear anything from here, but he doesn’t need to because he can see. He sees the way Michael leans in when you speak. The way you tilt your head slightly toward him in response. The way Michael’s focus doesn’t wander when other people join the circle. The way his eyes are practically glued to you when you laugh.

It hits Jaafar harder than he expects. He tells himself it’s nothing. That Michael is just being social. Warm. Charismatic in the way everyone talks about him. That’s all this is.

It’s perfectly innocent. Michael doesn’t know you’re together. Michael doesn’t see the love marks beneath the fabric of your dress. As far as he knows, you’re simply a beautiful actress attending her first major Hollywood event.

Of course he’s being welcoming. Of course he’s making sure you’re comfortable. Jaafar knows that and he should be grateful.

Instead, his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. This is ridiculous he tells himself, exhaling quietly through his nose as he takes a sip of his drink.

He trusts you. None of this is inappropriate.

So why does every instinct in him scream that he should be standing where Michael is? Why does it bother him so much to watch someone else make you laugh?

Not because Michael is doing anything wrong but because Jaafar wishes he could. He wishes he could lean down and ask if you’re enjoying yourself. Or hand you a drink before someone else has the chance. Or rest his hand against the small of your back as he introduces you around the room, telling everyone you’re his girl.

Instead, he has to watch somebody else make you feel welcome and that stings far more than he wants to admit.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t approach you or do anything at all beside watch.

Jaafar loses track of time as he watches Michael touch you, make you laugh, and ensure you’re having a good time. All he knows is that he’s completely tuned out the party and the conversation around him. Inside, he’s waging a battle with himself, fighting hard against that sickening feeling in his chest, something that feels dangerously close to jealousy and is spreading through his body like poison.

Eventually, he has enough when he sees Michael briefly touch your face. His fingers hover near your cheek for a second longer than necessary as he finishes. Apparently, he’s fixing something, maybe your lipstick. Whatever it is, it pushes Jaafar over the edge. Not the touch itself, but the comfort behind it. He sets his glass down on a table with a bit too much force, excuses himself from the conversation, and walks purposefully toward the two of you at the bar.

Jaafar isn’t the jealous type. That is the problem. He doesn’t know what to do with it when it comes. Doesn’t like it one bit and doesn’t trust it either. And worst of all, he doesn’t think he has the right to even feel it when you are standing there with your life still fully your own.

It doesn’t stop it from happening anyway.

“Hey, hope I’m not interrupting”, Jaafar says, stepping into your conversation. His hand moves toward your lower back almost instinctively, though he manages to control the impulse at the last moment. “I haven’t really seen you properly all evening”, he greets you, a blatant lie, though the alcohol in his system has made him a bit bolder; on any other day, he would have blushed in embarrassment. There’s a slight edge of heat behind his words that he doesn’t quite manage to bury.

You, on the other hand, hadn’t expected Jaafar to approach you so openly at all, but your heart is clearly delighted, practically leaping out of your chest. You can finally study him up close – his beautiful eyes, his skin glowing in the warm light of the chandeliers, his cheeks slightly flushed, likely from the heat and the drinks. His suit fits perfectly, accentuating his torso in all the right places, so much so that you have to fight the urge to tear it right off him and show everyone who he belongs to.

You and Jaafar exchange exactly the kind of greeting two co-stars might. A warm smile. A brief hug. Nothing unusual though both of you are holding back hard.

Michael doesn’t react like he’s been displaced. If anything, he adjusts seamlessly, turning toward Jaafar with the same ease he’s shown everyone all night. “Hey, man”, he says, already smiling. “Good to see you.”

“You too.” Their handshake turns into easy conversation almost immediately. Jaafar positions himself just slightly closer to you than necessary, not blocking or touching but it changes the space immediately. Like a line has been drawn, a wall that cannot be crossed.

“You look incredible”, Jaafar suddenly tells you all politely. You almost choke on your drink.

“So do you.”

“Thank you.” That’s it. Very professional, friendly, not too over the top. No one would ever guess that sixteen hours earlier he’d been kissing you goodbye in a hotel room.

Standing beside each other after being apart all day and evening is torture in the best and worst way. You can smell his cologne again. Feel the warmth radiating from his body. But you’re not allowed to touch him or do anything about the burning feeling in your lower stomach.

Michael continues talking beside you both, smoothly adding Jaafar into the conversation like nothing has changed at all. In fact, he keeps getting extremely close to you, completely ignoring the boundary Jaafar is trying to draw, acting as if it isn’t even there. It’s really starting to get under Jaafar’s skin now, the way Michael’s attention keeps returning to you, the way you don’t seem to notice, or maybe you do and simply don’t read it the way he does.

But how can Michael be so oblivious? Doesn’t he notice the daggers Jaafar is shooting at him? It doesn’t help that you barely interact with Jaafar. Not coldly or anything, just not at all. He isn’t even sure anymore whether you’re ignoring him on purpose because of his behaviour or just putting on an act to keep up the façade that Jaafar almost broke down with his rash act. Jaafar’s jaw clenches; he feels like he’s about to explode if he doesn't remove himself from the conversation.

He doesn’t like how all of this makes him feel.

That’s why he excuses himself from the conversation and slips away, leaving you speechless. Just a casual exit for everyone else, delivered with the kind of calm that makes it unquestionable, nothing wrong with it, just a celebrity moving on to other conversations. But you know him and you realize right away that something is wrong. Your heart, which was already racing because he’d been so close to you, finally, is beating even faster now.

Jaafar is halfway through the crowd, weaving past people without stopping. His shoulders are tense in a way you recognize too well now that you’re looking for it. Something in your chest tightens.

“I’ll be right back”, you say quickly, even though no one is really asking you anything.

Michael glances at you. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah”, you lie automatically, already stepping away from the bar. “Just.. need to freshen up. Sorry.”

You’re already moving and don’t care to finish your sentence, your only goal being to find Jaafar. You weave through the crowd, keeping an eye out for him. Finally, you see him walking up the stairs that lead to the exit and the restrooms. You move quickly, careful not to draw too much attention to yourself. In all honesty, no one cares about you. Everyone is preoccupied with their own problems.

You walk past familiar and unfamiliar faces, and, more or less unsurprisingly, no one stops you. You follow Jaafar up the stairs and watch as he moves away from the main floor, toward the quieter edges of the venue where the noise dulls.

You follow at a distance, stopping when you spot him standing along the side balcony that overlooks the ballroom below, half hidden behind marble columns and heavy velvet curtains. His hands rest across the railing, head slightly bowed as he looks down at the party beneath him. If you didn’t know better, you’d imagine he was talking to himself. The tension in his shoulders gives him away.

You glance around quickly to ensure no one has followed you up here and you are alone before approaching him. His head snaps up immediately once he hears your heels softly click against the marble. For a split second, relief washes over his face, but it is quickly overshadowed by something sharper.

“Why did you follow me?”, he says quickly, voice low but firm. “Someone could see us.”

You both know that that isn’t really the problem right now. Besides, no one can see you up here anyway. The balcony is quiet except for the music bleeding up from the ballroom below. Tall columns and heavy curtains wrap the space in shadow, hiding anyone standing near the railing.

You stop a few steps away from him, heart still racing.

“You left”, you say simply.

A beat. Several more until you realize he won’t answer.

“Jaafar.”

“What?”, he snaps, straightening his posture to retreat even more into the shadows. He apparently did not expect how harsh the words would sound coming from him, which is why he immediately breaks eye contact.

At first, you don’t even know what to say. The alcohol in your system doesn’t make thinking any easier, even though you haven’t had that much and are just slightly tipsy. You hate that you don’t dare step any closer to him, for fear that someone might see you. Right now, it could still be dismissed as a purely private conversation between co-stars. But that could change in the split of a second. You absolutely loathe everything about it.

“Did I do something wrong?”, you ask quietly, unsure. His eyes immediately find yours again, staying on you this time.

“No”, he says way too quickly, too harshly. Then quieter, almost frustrated with himself more than anything else: “No. You didn’t.”

Jaafar hates himself so much for this right now. How did he manage to make you think it’s your fault, when it’s crystal clear that the problem lies with him and his stupid ego, which apparently can’t stand it when another man talks to you?

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

His voice drops even lower. “Like what?”

“Like you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you”, he states, but it doesn’t sound very convincing. You finally bring up the courage to step closer to him, closing the gap between your two bodies that was too much to bear for this long. You can’t stand it when something is obviously wrong and you don’t know what it is.

“Then what are you?”, you inquire and your question makes him look away immediately, down to where the party is still in full power. It’s a question he can’t answer cleanly because the truth is simple and infuriating: He is jealous. And he hates that he is.

Jaafar exhales slowly through his nose as if that would help him reset. “I trust you”, he then starts quietly, like it costs him something to say it out loud. It’s obvious that he would love nothing more than to vanish right now. He feels incredibly uncomfortable with the situation and, above all, with his own feelings. He knows he has no right to these feelings. His gaze lingers somewhere over your shoulder, not being able to meet your eyes. The confidence he’d worn so effortlessly downstairs is gone now, stripped away until only the vulnerable man beneath it remains.

You can practically see the battle he’s fighting with himself. He’s embarrassed. By none other than himself.

Jealousy is foreign to him, an emotion that feels ugly and disgusting the moment he recognized it. For a few fleeting seconds downstairs, it had felt justified. Now, standing here in front of you, all he wants is for it to disappear. He hates that he’d let it get this far. Hates even more that he’d walked away instead of simply trusting what he already knew.

You watch him in silence, trying to understand where he’s going with this.

“But I don’t trust..” He stops, jaw flexing once. “Others.”

His words hang between you for a second. You’re taken back a bit at first until the realization hits you, every piece clicking into its rightful place. Your expression visibly softens. You lower your head for a moment, biting your lower lip in a hopeless attempt to hide the smile threatening to spread across your face. So you weren’t imagining it after all.

You glance back up at him, amusement behind your eyes.

“Are you..”, you ask slowly, drawing the word out just enough to make him squirm, “.. jealous?”

Once the word leaves your mouth, he visibly tenses in front of you, his eyes squeezing shut for a second. His only answer is a defeated groan. A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

“Oh my god. You’re actually jealous”, you chuckle, looking at him as though you’ve just uncovered the sweetest secret imaginable. Jaafar, on the other hand, looks like he’d rather the marble floor swallow him whole.

“I don’t like this feeling”, he finally admits, nervously playing with a ring on his finger. It gives him something to focus on besides the embarrassment creeping across his face. He almost looks like a little boy all of a sudden. A little boy who’s been caught doing something he isn’t proud of, already bracing himself for impact even though you haven’t even said anything yet.

His shoulders lift slightly with a controlled inhale. With his voice even heavier, he then says: “I can’t do it though.”

You blink. “Can’t do what?”

“This”, he replies, gesturing vaguely back toward the room below. “Standing there pretending it doesn’t bother me. Because it does. It really really does.”

He’s met with silence from your side.

“What exactly is bothering you?”, you ask gently. You already know the answer, or part of it, but you want to hear him say it. Want to understand what has him looking so unlike himself. And you would be lying if you said it didn’t make you feel a little good about yourself.

“It’s not about him”, he says immediately, though the words come out faster than intended. He runs a hand through his hair, looking away for a second again. Then back to you.

“It’s just..”, he starts not knowing how to form the sentence to convey what he feels. “I don’t like watching you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m not the person you’re with. Like you’re not my girl”, he states matter-of-factly. You’re actually stunned by this, his words leaving you speechless. A dull ache settles somewhere beneath your ribs. Because that’s never what you wanted him to feel. That he thought he isn’t the only man you care about. That he isn’t the man you desperately want to be with, day and night. Not then, not now, not ever.

Jaafar lets out a small, humourless breath.

“I know it’s stupid”, he adds quickly. “I know. I just- I can’t handle it.”

He stops himself then, shaking his head like he’s so disappointed in himself. The noise of the party feels very far away now. You take a small step closer without thinking.

“It’s not stupid”, you insist, lifting your hand to cup his cheek. Your thumb brushes gently across his skin.

“It is”, he counters immediately, averting his gaze which turns out to be much more difficult now that you are so much closer to him. “I trust you. I know you didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t either.”

You tip his chin lightly, wanting him to look at you and he obeys.

“Watching someone else make you laugh.. Watching someone else get to stand next to you..”, he closes his eyes before forcing himself to continue. “I hated it. I hate that I’ve spent six hours trying not to stare at my own girlfriend. I hated that I wanted to be in his place.”

Your heart aches, not because he’s jealous but because he genuinely believes he’s wrong for feeling it when you clearly felt like Michael B. Jordan was, in fact, flirting with you.

“But it is your place”, you finally encourage him with a gentle smile. “Right here, with me. You know that, don’t you?”

Your other hand comes to rest lightly against his chest, directly over his heart. You glance toward the ballroom below, where music and laughter continue as though your world hasn’t temporarily stopped.

As his only answer, Jaafar gives a small shrug before reaching for your hand resting against his chest, threading his fingers through yours. “I was being pretty ridiculous”, he admits.

“You really weren’t. If anything..”, you say with a teasing grin spreading across your face. “I found it incredibly cute.”

His brows knit together in confusion immediately as if he’s personally offended by the word. He genuinely doesn’t understand it. To him, jealousy feels ugly and irrational. Something he should’ve had better control over. If he could’ve reached inside his chest and ripped the disgusting feeling out altogether, he would’ve done it without hesitation.

“I wish they all knew”, you sigh then, your expression softening as your eyes drift back toward the ballroom below. “If they did, I would’ve stood next to you on the carpet. I would’ve introduced you as my man every chance I got. I met so many amazing people today, but do you know whose face I kept looking for?”

You don’t wait for him to answer because the answer is, in fact, pretty obvious.

“Yours, Jaafar. Only yours”, you say with full certainty in your voice, smiling to yourself. “You’re the man I wake up thinking about and the one I spend an entire evening searching for in a room full of the most famous people in the world.”

From the way he looks at you, eyes only flickering across your face, you can tell that there’s still that tiny flicker of doubt lingering beneath. So you decide to use your last resource, your strongest weapon.

“What are you doing?”, he asks, the words dissolving into a laugh as you pepper his face in featherlight kisses, the sound like music to your ears. You honestly don’t even care anymore if someone sees you right now. Let them see. Let them see how much you love this man.

“Showing you how much I love you”, you giggle, continuing as every kiss gets him smiling so widely he can’t hide it anymore. “And making up for all the kisses I couldn’t give you downstairs.” You place a kiss on his cheek, the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose, his forehead, everywhere you can reach.

His smile is small and shy, but relieved. His cheeks are flushed pink. “You’re making this so difficult”, he murmurs when you finally stop, but you are still standing incredibly close, pushing him further into the shadows with your hands on his suit jacket, smoothing the lapels.

Innocently, you tilt your head. “Making what difficult?”

He studies you for a long moment, completely deadpan. “Not kissing you.”

A grin spreads across your face. “I’ve been kissing you this whole time, so what’s stopping you?”

Before you can tease him any further, he gently hooks a finger beneath your chin and closes the remaining distance. The kiss is slow at first, almost hesitant, as though he’s making up for every time he’d wanted to reach for you that evening but couldn’t. Instantly, you melt into him. What started innocently quickly turns into something more intense. His hand grips your waist firmly, allowing him to pull you even closer until you are pressed flush against his chest.

“You’re my girl”, he breathes against your lips in between kisses, making it sound like a prayer.

“I’m your girl”, you reply breathlessly, a soft giggle escaping you when Jaafar slides both hands around your waist. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, placing gentle kisses there while breathing in your scent, your expensive perfume mingling with the fragrance that’s unmistakably yours.

You arch your back instinctively, a quiet laugh leaving your lips as the sensation tickles. Between the champagne still lingering in your system and the overwhelming relief of finally having him this close again, your head feels wonderfully light.

You’d love nothing more than to stay like this, kissing him until the break of dawn, – or until someone finally catches you in this scandalous position and tells the whole world about it – but reality catches up with you all too quickly. Reluctantly, you place both hands against Jaafar’s chest and gently ease him back, only far enough for his forehead to rest against yours.

“How about you meet your girl in her hotel room in an hour?”, you suggest with a reluctant smile and the tips of his ears immediately turn pink as he nods a little too eagerly. He looks utterly lovestruck right now: His tie sits slightly crooked around his neck, the collar of his shirt is crumpled from your wandering hands, his lips are plush and tinged pink from your kisses, and one stubborn curl has fallen across his forehead.

“Can’t wait”, he says, smiling in a way that makes your heart ache. Leaving him here is far more difficult than you’d expected. Still, the promise of spending the rest of the night and the early hours of the morning with him makes it somewhat bearable.

Just as you turn to leave, he catches your hand once more, gently pulling you back toward him. “One more”, he murmurs with a sheepish smile. He steals one last quick kiss from your lips before reluctantly letting your fingers slip from his. As he watches you disappear, only one thought echoes through his mind: That’s my girl.

[ytrhbz]

ᝰ.ᐟ꩜ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ type : one-shot (requested)

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ genre(s) : fluff

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ pairing : michael x reader

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ tags : offthewall!michael, reader is bill’s daugther and know the jacksons, friends to lovers, mike is so cute and so jealous.

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ a/n : such a cute request that i had to share it with everyone ! i love seeing cheesy fluff with mike.

ᝰ.ᐟ꩜ michael doesn’t seems to enjoy the way his brothers flirt with you, especially when he’s to one who want to be yours…

it started with the long nights at the studio and the quiet afternoons at the jackson estate. being the daughter of someone as loyal as bill meant your life was naturally woven into theirs. while your father was busy ensuring the family’s safety and logistics, you were usually tucked away in a corner of the living room with a book, or more often than not, trailing behind michael.

you two had been inseparable since the move to la. you were the one person who didn’t want anything from him other than his company, and for michael, that was everything. you knew him before the world truly claimed him—before the glitter of the off the wall era really took flight. to you, he was just mike: the boy who loved magic tricks, old movies, and feeding the deer on the property.

the dynamic was always lively, to say the least. living—or at least spending most of your waking hours—around five brothers meant there was never a dull moment. but lately, the air felt different.

jermaine would always find a reason to lean against the doorframe when you walked by, flashing a slow, charming smile that lingered just a bit too long. jackie started making jokes about how "stunning" you were becoming, playfully nudging you whenever you sat down for dinner. marlon was constantly "accidentally" brushing his shoulder against yours or finding excuses to hold your hand while showing you a new dance step.

you, being as oblivious as you were loyal, just brushed it off as them being their usual, boisterous selves. they were like family, right?

michael saw it all. he watched from the shadows of the hallway, his fingers nervously drumming against his thigh. he knew his brothers' "tactics" better than anyone, and seeing them turn that charm on you made his chest tighten in a way he couldn't quite explain yet.

you were sitting on the edge of the fountain out front, waiting for your father to finish up a meeting, when michael finally stepped out. he didn't look like a global superstar in his simple corduroy trousers and a soft sweater, but his eyes held a weight you hadn't seen before.

"they're doing it again, you know," he murmured, sitting down beside you, his voice barely a whisper above the sound of the splashing water.

"doing what, mike?" you asked, tilting your head.

he let out a soft, frustrated huff, looking at his shoes. "flirting with you. my brothers. they think they're being subtle, but they're not. and it's driving me crazy because they don't know you like i do."

you blinked, looking from michael back toward the house where the light was spilling out from the kitchen windows. you could see the shadows of his brothers moving around inside, laughing and jostling each other.

"mike, you’re overthinking it," you said softly, reaching out to pat his knee. "they’re just being playful. you know how they are—always joking, always trying to get a reaction. they don't mean anything by it. i'm just bill's daughter to them, the girl who’s always been around."

michael didn't look convinced. he shifted closer to you on the edge of the stone fountain, the sound of the water filling the silence between you. "it’s not just jokes, and you know it. when jermaine 'happens' to be in the hallway every time you leave the room, or when marlon tries to teach you those dance moves just so he can hold your waist... that’s not just being a family friend."

you laughed, a light sound that usually made him smile, but his expression stayed serious. "well, even if they are being a little extra lately, it doesn't matter. i don't see them that way at all. it’s actually kind of funny that you’re the one getting worked up about it. i’m fine, really. i can handle a few cheesy lines from jackie."

"i just don't like it," he muttered, his voice sounding small. he picked at a loose thread on his sweater, refusing to meet your eyes. "it feels different now. everything is changing so fast. the music, the move to la, the way people look at us... i just wanted one thing to stay the same. i wanted us to stay the same."

you tilted your head, trying to catch his gaze. "nothing is changing between us, mike. i'm still me, and you're still the only one i actually want to spend my afternoons with. who cares if your brothers are being flirty? they’ll get bored and move on to the next girl who actually falls for it."

michael finally looked up, his big brown eyes searching yours. he looked like he wanted to say something else—something much heavier—but he held it back. he just bit his lip and nodded slowly.

"i hope you're right," he whispered, though the way he was looking at you made it clear he didn't think his brothers were the only ones whose feelings were shifting. "just... be careful. they can be pretty persistent when they want something."

"i'll be fine, bodyguard jr.," you joked, trying to lighten the mood. "now come on, your dad is going to wonder where you disappeared to, and my father is probably looking for me to head home."

as you stood up to leave, you didn't notice the way michael lingered for a second, watching you walk away with a look of quiet longing that had absolutely nothing to do with being "just friends."

the next few days at the estate only made things more tense. every time you walked into a room, it felt like a spotlight followed you, and not the kind michael was used to.

you were in the kitchen helping make some tea when jermaine walked in, leaning against the counter much closer than necessary. "you know," he started, his voice smooth like silk, "i was thinking of heading out to that new club later this week. a girl like you shouldn't be stuck in this house all the time. you need to see the city lights."

you gave him a polite smile, moving to the other side of the island to grab some sugar. "thanks, jermaine, but you know i usually stay back with my dad or hang out with mike. i’m not really a club person."

"maybe you just haven't gone with the right person yet," he countered, flashing that practiced grin.

from the doorway, you heard a sharp throat-clear. michael was standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, looking uncharacteristically annoyed. "don't you have a rehearsal to get to, jermaine?"

jermaine just laughed, putting his hands up in mock surrender before strolling out, throwing you one last wink. as soon as he was gone, michael stepped into the kitchen, his energy practically buzzing with frustration.

"see?" he said, his voice low. "that wasn't 'just being friendly.' he’s trying to take you out."

"he was just being nice, mike! he thinks i'm bored," you argued softly, stirring the tea. "why are you so on edge lately? you're usually the calmest person i know."

michael grabbed a glass but didn't fill it with anything. he just held it, his knuckles turning slightly white. "because it’s everywhere. even marlon was asking me yesterday if i thought you had a boyfriend back in gary. they’re circling you like you’re... like you’re something they can just win."

you sighed, setting the spoon down and stepping closer to him. "hey. look at me. i’m not a prize, and i’m not interested. i’ve told you a hundred times, i’m here for my work and for our friendship. why does it bother you so much if they’re being silly?"

he looked down at you, the golden kitchen light catching the curls falling over his forehead. he looked like he wanted to scream it—to tell you exactly why it hurt to see them look at you—but he just tightened his jaw.

"it just bothers me because you deserve better than their games," he managed to say, though his eyes were saying something completely different. "i just want you to be respected."

"i am respected," you insisted, giving his arm a playful squeeze. "now stop being so moody. we’re supposed to listen to those new demos tonight, remember? just you and me. no brothers allowed."

a tiny, reluctant smile finally broke across his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. "just us," he repeated, the words sounding like a promise he was desperately trying to keep to himself. "i like the sound of that."

later that evening, the house had finally quieted down. the brothers had drifted off to different parts of the estate or gone out, leaving the recording room at the back of the house bathed in a dim, blueish light. the air smelled like expensive leather and the faint scent of the incense michael liked to burn when he was feeling creative.

michael was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the sofa with his eyes closed, listening to the raw track of a new song. you were perched right next to him, your shoulder brushing his every time you leaned in to check the lyrics written in his messy scrawl on the notepad between you.

"this part," you whispered, pointing to a line about dancing until the morning light. "it’s magic, mike. people are going to lose their minds when they hear this."

he opened his eyes and looked at you, a genuine, soft smile finally gracing his lips. for a moment, the tension from the kitchen was gone. "you really think so? i want it to feel like... like an escape. like nothing else in the world matters except the rhythm."

"it does," you assured him. "i can feel it."

the moment was perfect until the door swung open, and jackie walked in, still wearing his sunglasses even though it was night. "there she is," he joked, ignoring michael entirely and coming to sit on the other side of you. "i was wondering where you’d disappeared to. you’ve been hiding in here all night."

"we’re working, jackie," michael said, his voice clipped and cold.

jackie just chuckled, reaching over and playfully ruffling your hair. "working hard or hardly working? you know, i’m going for a drive tomorrow morning. thought you might want to come along, see the coast. get some fresh air away from mr. serious over here."

you felt michael stiffen beside you. his entire body went rigid. you quickly tried to smooth things over, giving jackie a small, awkward smile. "that’s sweet, jackie, but i promised mike i'd help him organize these tapes tomorrow. maybe another time?"

jackie shrugged, unfazed. "suit yourself. but the offer stands. you’re way too pretty to spend all your time in a dark room with dusty tapes." he leaned in close, his voice dropping to a theatrical stage whisper. "don't let him bore you to death, okay?"

once jackie finally left, the silence in the room felt heavy. michael didn't move. he just stared at the tape deck, his chest heaving slightly.

"mike?" you said softly, reaching out to touch his hand.

he pulled his hand away quickly, standing up and crossing the room to the window. "i can't do this," he muttered, his back to you. "i can't just sit here and watch them do it over and over again."

"he was just being jackie!" you stood up, feeling frustrated now. "why are you taking it so personally? i said no! i always say no. doesn't that tell you something?"

michael turned around, his face a mask of hurt and hidden anger. "no, it doesn't tell me enough! it tells me you’re nice and you’re loyal, but it doesn't stop them from trying. and it doesn't stop me from..." he choked off the words, shaking his head.

"from what?" you stepped closer, searching his face. "from what, michael?"

he looked like he was vibrating with the effort of holding it in. "from wishing i was the only one who had the right to be in your space. they treat it like a game, but for me... it’s not a game. it’s never been a game."

he looked away, his jaw tight. "forget it. let's just finish the demo."

the rest of the session was quiet—too quiet. michael kept his head down, focusing intensely on the soundboard, his fingers moving over the sliders with a precision that felt almost robotic. you sat back on the sofa, watching him, but for the first time in years, you weren't actually listening to the music.

you were replaying his words in your head. for me... it’s not a game. it’s never been a game.

was he just being protective? or was it something deeper? you started thinking back over the last few months. the way he’d always save the seat next to him for you. the way he’d remember the most random details about your childhood in gary. the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't looking—not with the flashy, confident smirk jermaine gave you, but with a sort of soft, aching vulnerability.

your heart skipped a beat, and you suddenly felt very warm in the air-conditioned room.

"mike?" you whispered, your voice cracking just a little.

"yeah?" he didn't turn around. he was adjusting a dial that didn't really need adjusting.

"do you... do you really think i don't see what's happening? with everyone?" you stood up and walked over to him, stopping just a few feet away. "i mean, i know i act like it’s nothing, but... are you saying you think i should be taking it seriously?"

he finally let his hands drop from the board. he turned slowly, his face half-hidden in the shadows of the studio. "i'm saying that i don't like sharing your time with people who don't value you the way i do. they see a beautiful girl. i see... i see my everything."

he froze as soon as the words left his mouth. his eyes went wide, and he looked like he wanted to pull the air back into his lungs. you felt the world shift on its axis. everything. he didn't say "my friend." he didn't say "my sister."

"michael..." you breathed, taking a step closer.

the confusion that had been clouding your brain for weeks was starting to lift, replaced by a sudden, sharp realization. the reason you hadn't cared about jermaine's flirting or jackie's invitations wasn't because you were oblivious. it was because none of it felt real. none of it felt like this. the heat radiating off michael, the way his breath hitched when you got closer—this was real.

you reached out, your hand trembling slightly, and brushed your fingers against his wrist. his skin was burning.

"is that why you've been so upset?" you asked, your voice barely audible over the hum of the equipment. "not because of them... but because of you?"

michael looked down at your hand on his wrist, then back up at your eyes. the wall he’d built up all evening was crumbling. he didn't pull away this time. instead, he turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with yours, his grip tight and desperate.

"i’ve been trying so hard to be the 'good friend,'" he admitted, his voice trembling. "i didn't want to push you. i didn't want to be another jackson brother trying to move in on you. but watching them... it was killing me. because i’ve waited so long, and i was so scared that if i didn't speak up, one of them would eventually convince you."

you looked at your joined hands, then up at him, a small, realization-filled smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "michael, you're so literal sometimes. you really thought i’d choose a club date with jermaine over a night in the studio with you?"

he let out a shaky, nervous laugh, his eyes never leaving yours. "i don't know. i’m not as smooth as they are. i just have my music... and i have you. and i really, really don't want to lose the second one."

the air in the room felt different now—thicker, sweeter. you realized you were leaning in, and he was too. the distance between you was disappearing, and for the first time, you weren't thinking about bill, or the brothers, or the off the wall release. you were just thinking about the boy who had been your best friend, and how much you wanted him to be so much more.

the silence in the studio was no longer heavy; it was warm, like a soft blanket wrapped around the both of you. you could hear the faint, rhythmic ticking of the tape reels spinning in the background, but everything else had faded away.

michael’s thumb traced small, nervous circles over the back of your hand. he looked down at your joined fingers, a shy smile finally tugging at his lips—the kind of smile he usually reserved for his most private moments.

"you're really serious?" he whispered, his voice sounding breathless. "about them not standing a chance? i mean, jermaine... he’s got that look, and jackie... he’s got the car, and the—"

"michael joseph jackson," you interrupted, stepping into his personal space until your chest was inches from his. you looked up at him, your heart doing a frantic dance of its own. "stop listing your brothers. they aren't you. they don't look at the stars the way you do, and they definitely don't make me feel like... like this."

"like what?" he asked, his voice dropping to a velvety hush. he leaned down just a fraction, his eyes flitting from your eyes to your lips and back again.

"like i'm the only person in the world who matters," you admitted, your own voice trembling now. "you’ve been looking out for me since the day we moved here. you’re the one i want to talk to at 3:00 am, and you’re the only one whose opinion i actually care about. it was always you, mike. i think i was just too scared to admit it because i didn't want to lose my best friend."

michael let out a long, shaky breath, as if he’d been holding it for years. "you could never lose me," he promised. "i'm stuck to you like glue. my brothers are going to be so annoyed when they find out."

you giggled, the tension finally breaking. "oh, they’re going to be unbearable. jermaine is going to try to give you 'advice' and marlon is going to tease us for the next ten years."

"let them," michael said, his confidence suddenly returning now that he knew where you stood. he reached up with his free hand, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your knees weak. his touch was light, but his gaze was intense. "let them talk. they can have the clubs and the cars. as long as i have this."

he didn't kiss you yet—it was michael, after all, and he lived for the quiet, soulful build-up—but he leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours. you could feel the warmth of his skin and the rapid beat of his heart through his sweater.

"just promise me one thing," he murmured, his eyes closing as he breathed in your scent.

"anything," you replied.

"don't tell bill yet," he joked, a hint of his old mischievous self peaking through. "i don't think your dad is ready to see me as anything other than the kid who follows you around."

you laughed softly, leaning into him, feeling more at home than you ever had in the giant mansion. "deal. but you’re going to have to be a better actor, mike. because the way you’re looking at me right now? the whole world is going to know."

he just hummed in response, pulling you into a proper hug, his arms locking around your waist as he pulled you tight against him. for the first time in weeks, the jealousy was gone, replaced by a quiet, steady glow that felt like the beginning of a whole new era.

ughhh i love when michael is a shy cutie patootie who is crazy in love and jealous 🥹 my bbg frr !! xoxo

[ytrhbz]

ᝰ.ᐟ꩜ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ type : one-shot

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ genre(s) : romance, fluff

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ pairing : michael x reader

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ tags : thriller era! michael, singer!reader, reader is famous and hosting the grammys, michael is totally whipped for her and soooo nervouuuus

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ a/n : i just saw blackpink jisoo’s met gala 2026 outfit and couldn’t stop thinking about it, i had to made a fic using her dress as a reference omg…

ᝰ.ᐟ꩜ what happens when the famous michael jackson falls head over heels for the new special guest who will be representing the category in which he is nominated?

1984 — GRAMMY AWARDS

flashing cameras, red carpet, elegant outfits, screaming paparazzi, and a procession of luxury cars on the road. last night, los angeles was the city of stars.

it was the grammy awards, one of the most famous and prestigious music ceremonies in the world, where the biggest artists gathered under dazzling lights to celebrate talent, creativity, and unforgettable performances.

inside the venue, excitement filled the air as nominees waited nervously for their names to be called, while fans around the world watched every emotional speech, surprise victory, and spectacular show. the atmosphere was electric, blending glamour, anticipation, and pure musical passion into a night no one would forget.

the limousine slowed to a graceful stop in front of the red carpet, its polished black exterior gleaming beneath the endless flashes of cameras. the door opened, and all eyes turned instantly toward her. already one of the most famous women in the world, her arrival sent a wave of excitement through the crowd.

paparazzi shouted her name from every direction, their voices nearly drowned out by the deafening screams of fans pressed behind the barriers.

she stepped out with effortless elegance, radiating confidence and beauty so striking that the entire entrance seemed to pause for a moment. every movement she made was poised, deliberate, mesmerizing—like she had stepped straight out of a dream and onto the most glamorous night in hollywood. whispers spread through the crowd, reporters rushed forward, and cameras flashed even faster as she prepared to reveal the breathtaking outfit that would soon have everyone talking.

she stepped onto the red carpet like a vision brought to life, wrapped in a breathtaking strapless gown entirely covered in shimmering pink and silver sequins that caught the light from every angle. the dress hugged her silhouette perfectly before flowing into an elegant floor-length shape, its sparkling fabric creating the illusion that she was glowing with every step. dramatic sculpted draping around the waist added a couture touch, while delicate floral embellishments cascaded softly along the gown, giving the entire look a romantic, ethereal feel.

her hair was styled in the same flawless elegant updo, sleek and polished with soft curled strands framing her face, adorned with delicate floral accessories that added a graceful, feminine finish. her makeup was equally stunning—soft rosy tones on the cheeks, luminous skin, subtly winged eyes, and glossy pink lips that enhanced her natural beauty while keeping the look refined and sophisticated. a sparkling choker around her neck and matching jewelry completed the ensemble, making her appear almost unreal beneath the flashing cameras.

the crowd erupted the moment she appeared, completely captivated by her presence, as if the entire red carpet now belonged to her alone.

the photographers surged forward instantly, nearly stumbling over one another to capture the perfect shot as their cameras flashed in a relentless storm of white light. shouts erupted from every direction—her name being called over and over, louder and more desperate each second, each photographer begging for her attention, for one glance, one pose, one perfect turn of her head. some stood on tiptoe, others leaned over barriers, fingers flying across their cameras as they snapped dozens of photos every second, terrified of missing a single movement.

nearby, journalists clutched microphones and cue cards with barely contained excitement, their voices rushed and breathless as they spoke into cameras broadcasting live across the world. they described her arrival as the highlight of the evening, praising every detail of her appearance with awe in their voices, calling her breathtaking, flawless, unforgettable.

reporters whispered frantically to one another between takes, already predicting that her look would dominate headlines by morning and become the most talked-about moment of the night.

everywhere around her, the energy was electric—pure chaos, admiration, and fascination—as if the entire event had briefly stopped just to watch her shine.

“y/n over here! one quick interview, please!” a journalist called, stepping forward with a bright smile as she gracefully approached the microphone, still glowing beneath the flashes of cameras.

“you’re representing the award for best pop vocal performance tonight—how does it feel to present such an important category at the 1984 grammy awards?”

she smiled softly, her voice warm and gentle.

“it’s truly such an honor. to be part of a night that celebrates so much incredible talent is already very special, and to present an award like this… it means a lot to me. i’m just really grateful to be here and to share this moment with so many artists i admire.”

the journalist beamed.

“and is there anyone you’re especially excited to see tonight?”

a shy laugh escaped her as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“oh… definitely michael jackson. i think everyone is excited to see him tonight,” she said sweetly, smiling. “he’s unbelievably talented, and everything he does is so inspiring. i’m just happy to be in the same room as so many amazing performers.”

“you’re also nominated in several categories this evening—how does that feel?”

her expression softened with genuine emotion.

“honestly… it still doesn’t feel real. just being nominated is already more than i ever dreamed of. to have my work recognized in that way is incredibly touching, and i feel so thankful to everyone who supported me. no matter what happens tonight, i already feel very lucky.”

the journalist smiled at the camera.

“graceful, talented, and humble—she truly is one of the stars of the night.”

inside the grand venue, the atmosphere shimmered with elegance and anticipation as celebrities filled the room in glittering gowns and tailored suits, their voices blending beneath the soft hum of orchestral music and camera shutters.

among them sat michael jackson, already commanding attention without even trying. dressed in a striking, impeccably tailored black sequined military-inspired jacket with ornate detailing, paired with slim black trousers and polished loafers, he looked every bit like the superstar everyone had come to see. every movement he made carried quiet confidence, and though he remained poised and composed, there was determination in his expression—he was honored to be there, proud of the work that had brought him to this moment, and fully aware that tonight could be historic. he had not come intending to leave empty-handed.

then a ripple of whispers swept through the audience. heads turned. compliments murmured from every direction.

she had entered.

glowing beneath the chandeliers in her breathtaking pink shimmering gown, she moved through the aisle with effortless grace, every eye following her as if drawn by instinct. her smile was soft and polite as she thanked those complimenting her, her beauty somehow even more striking indoors beneath the golden lights.

from his seat, michael subtly turned at the sound of the commotion. curiosity flickered across his face as he tried to catch a glimpse of who everyone was talking about. then he saw her.

his gaze lingered for a second too long. he had always admired her as an artist—her voice, her presence, the way she carried herself with such sincerity—but seeing her in person now, radiant and impossibly elegant, was something else entirely.

she made her way down the row and finally took her seat several places to his right, close enough for him to see her clearly, yet far enough that speaking to her would require courage.

michael glanced her way again, trying not to be obvious, but his curiosity had fully taken hold now.

he wanted to know everything—what she was like, if she was as kind as she seemed, if her smile was as genuine up close as it looked from afar. and as the room dimmed for the ceremony to begin, he found himself far more distracted by her presence than he expected.

michael kept stealing subtle glances in her direction, thinking no one would notice—until the quiet laughter beside him gave him away.

one of his sisters leaned closer with a grin.

“michael… you’ve looked over there at least ten times.”

his head snapped toward her.

“i have not.”

janet laughed softly.

“you absolutely have. don’t act like we haven’t seen you trying to look without looking.”

he straightened in his seat, cheeks warming slightly.

“i’m not staring. i was just—looking around.”

“mhm,” one of them, latoya, teased. “looking around specifically at one person.”

he shook his head quickly, trying to hide a smile.

“stop it.”

“you like her,” janet whispered dramatically.

“i do not—” he cut himself off, then lowered his voice, embarrassed. “i just think she’s talented, that’s all.”

his sisters exchanged knowing looks and burst into quiet laughter while he sank slightly into his chair, pretending to focus very hard on the stage.

then the next category was announced—one she was nominated for.

the camera found her instantly.

she sat poised and serene in her seat, hands resting elegantly in her lap, her expression calm and gracious despite the tension in the room. while others around her looked nervous, she seemed peaceful—confident without arrogance, composed without trying. she smiled softly when her name was read among the nominees, as if simply being included was already enough for her.

michael watched the stage intently, silently hoping her name would be called.

the presenter opened the envelope.

“and the grammy goes to…”

a dramatic pause.

“y/n!”

the room erupted.

the audience leapt to their feet in thunderous applause as she covered her mouth in pure surprise, her eyes widening before she laughed softly in disbelief. despite her composure moments before, the reality of the win clearly overwhelmed her. she stood gracefully, visibly emotional yet radiant, and hugged the people beside her before making her way to the stage.

michael was one of the first to stand.

his applause was immediate, genuine, and unwavering—his face lit with pride as he watched her ascend the steps like she had been born for that moment.

beneath the golden lights, trophy in hand, she looked nothing short of iconic: glittering, elegant, and utterly unforgettable. the entire room seemed captivated by her.

she reached the microphone, still smiling in stunned disbelief.

“wow…” she breathed softly, glancing down at the trophy. “i… i honestly don’t know what to say.”

gentle laughter filled the room.

“this means more to me than i could ever explain. to be nominated alongside such incredible artists was already an honor, and i never expected…” she paused, emotion catching in her voice. “i’m just so, so grateful.” her humility only made the audience adore her more.

she thanked everyone with sincerity, her voice warm and graceful, never making the moment about anything but gratitude and love for music. when she left the stage, still glowing with disbelief and elegance, the entire room continued applauding—because somehow, in winning, she had become even more magnetic than before.

and michael couldn’t stop smiling.

“see?” one of his sisters whispered. “you’re in trouble.”

he tried to hide his grin.

“be quiet.”

but his eyes followed her all the way back to her seat.

as michael’s category approached, she rose from her seat with quiet elegance and disappeared backstage, the soft shimmer of her gown trailing behind her. from the audience, michael instinctively followed her with his eyes until she vanished behind the curtains, his curiosity only growing. he wondered what she was like offstage—if she was nervous, if she rehearsed her words, if she smiled to herself before stepping into the spotlight.

backstage, the atmosphere buzzed with urgency. assistants moved quickly around her, fixing microphones and adjusting cues while stage managers whispered timing updates into headsets. her manager stepped beside her with an admiring smile.

“you look absolutely incredible tonight,” he said warmly. “and after that win? they’re going to remember you forever.”

she laughed softly, graceful even under pressure.

“you always know what to say.”

an assistant approached and carefully placed the envelope in her hands.

“you’re on in thirty seconds.”

she inhaled slowly, smiling despite the nerves fluttering in her chest, and nodded. poised, radiant, ready.

the announcer’s voice echoed through the venue.

“please welcome our next presenter…”

the audience erupted as she stepped onto the stage once more, glowing beneath the lights like she belonged nowhere else. she approached the microphone with calm confidence, offering the crowd a dazzling smile before opening the card.

“it is my absolute honor to present this award for best male pop vocal performance.”

she glanced toward the nominees screen behind her.

“the nominees tonight are…”

“michael jackson for thriller…”

“phil collins for you can’t hurry love…”

“david bowie for china girl…”

“lionel richie for truly…”

“and kenny rogers for we’ve got tonight…”

the room applauded as she gently closed the envelope again, then looked up with a smile so luminous the audience quieted instantly.

“every artist nominated in this category has moved the world through music in their own extraordinary way,” she said softly. “but tonight… one performance captured hearts, defined an era, and reminded all of us what true magic on stage and in song can feel like.”

she opened the envelope.

her eyes widened the slightest bit when she saw the name. then her smile deepened, warm and almost fond.

“and the grammy goes to…”

she looked toward him.

“the incomparable…michael jackson.”

the venue exploded. for a second, michael didn’t move. he sat there stunned—completely frozen—not just from winning, but from hearing his name spoken by her, in that soft elegant voice, with that look in her eyes. his sisters beside him were already shrieking and shaking him while he blinked in disbelief.

“michael!” one hissed. “go!”

he stood abruptly, overwhelmed, adjusting his jacket as the audience roared. when he reached the stage, his confidence faltered for the briefest second standing beside her. she smiled at him so sweetly, trophy in hand, and leaned in for the customary cheek kiss. the audience melted.

he stepped to the microphone, visibly trying to collect himself while she stood elegantly off to the side, smiling at him. the room applauded.

he stood there, the weight of the seventh trophy pressing into his palm, the gold glittering under the harsh stage lights. the applause was a physical force, vibrating through the floorboards, but as he leaned toward the mic, he seemed to shrink into that familiar, quiet space of his. he looked over at her, then back to the crowd, a small, nervous smile playing on his lips.

“when something like this happens,” he began, his voice barely a whisper against the roar of the crowd, “you want those who are very dear to you up here with you.”

he turned slightly, gesturing toward the wings. “i’d like to ask for my sister latoya and janet please… and rebbie, i’d like to have you up here too.”

as his sisters joined him, providing a protective circle of family, michael felt a little more grounded. he caught her gaze again—she was watching him with such intensity that he felt his heart skip. he cleared his throat and continued, his words pouring out with genuine warmth.

“first of all i’d like to thank god… i’d like to thank my mother and father who were with us all the way. my mother is very shy, she’s like me, she won’t come up.” he let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “i’d like to thank all my brothers who i love very dearly, including jermaine.”

he paused, realizing he had missed someone in the excitement of the previous wins. “i forgot to thank steven spielberg on the e.t. album, i love him very much. and quincy’s wife, peggy jones, she was a great help.”

then, he looked down at the seventh award, the record-breaking one. he looked at the audience, then back at her, his eyes hidden behind the dark lenses but his hesitation clear.

“i’m ready to deal with myself,” he said softly, a playful edge returning to his tone. “if i win one more award, which is this award, which is seven—which is a record—i would take off my glasses.”

the crowd went wild, the anticipation reaching a fever pitch. he adjusted the frames nervously. “now, i don't want to take them off really, but… katherine hepburn, who is a dear friend of mine, she told me i should. and i’m doing it for her, okay? and the girls in the back.”

with a slow, deliberate motion that felt like it took an eternity, he reached up and pulled the sunglasses away from his face.

the roar that followed was deafening—total, beautiful hysteria. michael stood there, exposed and glowing, his large brown eyes searching for her first. when he found her, and saw her beaming with that special kind of admiration, he bit his lip and looked away quickly, his cheeks flushing a deep red as he hurried to finish, finally truly seen by the world.

the transition music starts playing and the crew begins moving sets, signaling the end of their segment. as they head toward the wings, janet and the sisters immediately corner him, their eyes gleaming with mischief.

"look at him, he’s literally shaking," janet whispers, leaning in with a smirk. "are you really going to let her walk away without saying a single word? don't be such a chicken! you’ve been staring at her like a lost puppy all night."

his sisters join in, giggling and giving him little shoves toward her direction. "seriously," one of them adds, "you’re supposed to be the charming one. go be a man and talk to her before someone else does. don't be a coward!"

he turns bright red, looking back at them with a desperate "please stop" expression. "i'm not a chicken," he mutters under his breath, trying to regain some dignity. "i'm just... waiting for the right moment."

"the moment is now, loser!" janet says, giving him one final, firm push that sends him stumbling right into her path.

he almost trips, but he catches himself just in time. she turns around, surprised, and he feels his heart drop into his stomach. his sisters are watching from the shadows, stifling their laughter and making "clucking" noises under their breath, but he ignores them. he takes a deep breath, smooths out his jacket, and looks at her.

"hey," he starts, his voice a bit breathless from the nerves, but he manages a shy, handsome smile. "i know it's a bit of a madhouse back here, but i just... i really wanted to tell you that you're doing an amazing job. you’re so natural out there."

she stops and turns to him, her eyes lighting up with that genuine sweetness that makes his heart skip. she’s not just the most beautiful girl in the room; she’s the most genuine. "thank you," she replies, her voice like silk. "that’s so kind of you to say. i was actually feeling a little bit nervous."

he lets out a small, relieved laugh, leaning slightly against an equipment crate to try and look casual, even though his heart is racing. "no way. you? you look like you own the place. honestly, i was the one over there trying to remember how to breathe while watching you."

she laughs, and it’s the best sound he’s heard all night. she finds his stuttered compliments and his gentle way of speaking absolutely charming. there’s something so refreshing about how nervous he is, yet how hard he’s trying to be a gentleman for her.

"well, you're doing a pretty good job of it now," she teases gently, stepping a little closer.

he smiles, feeling a bit of his confidence return because of her kindness. "i'm trying. it’s easy to find the words when i'm looking at you, even if they come out a bit messy. you have this way of making everything feel... better."

she blushes, clearly touched by his sincerity. for a moment, the chaos of the awards show disappears. it’s just him, trying his best to be charming, and her, completely captivated by the shy boy who actually took the chance to speak to her.

the air between them feels heavy and sweet, like they’ve managed to carve out a tiny, private universe in the middle of all the backstage noise. he can still hear his sisters muffled giggles a few feet away, but they don't matter anymore. all he sees is the way she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and looks at him with those soft, inviting eyes.

"you're a lot smoother than you think you are," she says softly, a playful glint in her gaze. "for someone who claims he forgot how to breathe, you're doing okay."

he rubs the back of his neck, a bashful grin spreading across his face. "well, i have to be. my sisters are watching from behind that curtain, and if i blow this, i’ll never hear the end of it. janet already called me a chicken once tonight; i can’t let her be right twice."

she laughs, a light and melodic sound that makes him feel like he’s winning an award of his own. "so, i'm a challenge? a way to prove your sisters wrong?"

"no," he says, his tone shifting, becoming more earnest. he steps an inch closer, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. "you're the only part of this night that feels real. everything else is just lights and script. but this? talking to you? it’s the only thing i actually wanted to do."

she goes quiet for a heartbeat, her breath hitching slightly. she’s used to guys being loud and overconfident, but his quiet intensity is far more magnetic. she finds herself leaning in toward him, completely charmed by the way he balances that raw shyness with such genuine, heartfelt words. she’s the most beautiful girl in the building, but in this moment, he makes her feel like she’s the only one there.

"i'm glad you weren't a chicken then," she whispers, her smile softening into something much more personal.

just then, the stage manager’s voice crackles over the intercom, calling for the next presenters. they both jump slightly, the bubble popping, but the connection stays.

"i have to go back to my seat soon," she says, looking a little disappointed.

"wait," he says, reaching out as if to catch the moment before it disappears. "after the show... there's an after-party, but it's going to be loud. would you maybe want to find a quiet corner with me instead? just to finish this conversation?"

she looks at him, seeing the nervous hope in his eyes, and her heart melts. she gives him a small, encouraging nod. "i’d like that. don't let your sisters scare you off before then."

he watches her walk away toward her seat, his heart soaring. he turns back toward the shadows where janet and the others are hiding. he gives them a smug, triumphant thumbs-up, his face glowing with a mix of relief and pure, unadulterated joy. he wasn't a chicken; he was the one who actually got the girl.

⋆˚꩜｡𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚

the after-party is a blur of flashing lights, expensive champagne, and thumping music, but he’s barely noticed any of it. he spent the first twenty minutes scanning the room, his heart doing somersaults every time someone walked through the door. when he finally sees her, his breath hitches. she looks even more stunning in the dim, golden glow of the lounge, her laughter cutting through the bass like a melody.

he finds her near a balcony, away from the thickest part of the crowd. she sees him approaching and her face lights up instantly, a reaction that makes him feel like he’s ten feet tall.

"you actually came," she says, leaning against the railing. the night breeze catches her hair, and he thinks he’s never seen anything so perfect.

"i told you," he replies, stepping beside her. he’s still a little shy, his hands tucked into his pockets, but there’s a new warmth in his eyes. "i wasn't going to let janet call me a chicken twice in one night. plus... i really wanted to see you again."

they start talking, and the conversation flows even better than it did backstage. he’s so attentive, listening to every word she says with a kind of focus that makes her feel like she's the center of the universe. he’s not trying to brag about his career or show off; he’s just being him—funny, a little clumsy with his words, and incredibly sweet.

he’s sitting close to her, his shoulder nearly touching hers. he’s still got that adorable, shy energy, but he’s gained enough confidence to keep the banter going. he’s fidgeting with his drink, looking down at it with a little smirk.

"so," she says, tilting her head and looking at him with a soft, curious smile. "now that the cameras are off and your sisters aren't pushing you... what’s the real version of you like? is he always this charmingly nervous?"

he laughs, a quiet, rich sound that makes her heart flutter. "honestly? i'm usually just the quiet one in the back. but tonight... i don't know. there’s something about you that makes me want to be the version of myself that actually says the things i'm thinking."

"and what are you thinking right now?" she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper, leaning in just a little bit closer.

he looks up, his eyes meeting hers. the shyness is there, but there’s a spark of boldness too. "i'm thinking that everyone in this room is trying to talk to the most important person they can find, and i've already found her. and i'm thinking i never want this conversation to end."

she feels a genuine warmth spread through her chest. she’s spent all night being adored by fans and peers, but the way he says it—so simple and so sincere—hits differently. she realizes she’s spent the last twenty minutes just staring at his mouth and the way his eyes crinkle when he’s embarrassed. she really, really likes him.

the air between them is electric. she looks at him, really taking in his soft features and the way he’s trying so hard to be a gentleman while clearly being head-over-heels for her.

"you know," she whispers, her voice playful but sincere, "for a guy who was so scared to talk to me earlier, you're doing a very good job of making me want to stay right here all night."

he smiles, that gorgeous, genuine smile that reaches his eyes. "well, i figured if i survived the first five minutes, the rest was worth the risk. i’m just glad you’re still here."

she reaches out and rests her hand on his arm, and he feels a spark shoot through him. she’s the most beautiful, kindest girl he’s ever met, and for the first time tonight, he stops feeling like the "shy brother" and starts feeling like the luckiest guy in the world.

second one–shot yipieeee !!! i was biting my finger and tapping my feet on the bed because they look so cute together. if it goes down well, I might be able to do a second part 🥹 xoxo

[michaeldiary]

𓂃 drag that bitc—

⋮ ⌗ ┆ off the wall era michael.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ summary: it’s genuinely on sight if you catch diana by herself.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ no crazy warnings. female reader, public verbal argument (reader and diana), brief emotional stress and anxiety, romantic jealousy, relationship strain, smoking / cigarette use—pls its the 80’s, mikey in the doghouse.

So.. Michael doesn't think he's ever been this fucking scared in his life.

Which feels deeply unfair considering he’s Michael Jackson. He’s performed in front of thousands of people, he’s danced on national television. And yet somehow none of those experiences prepared him for the sight currently waiting across Studio 54.

His girlfriend is sitting alone in a velvet booth with a drink in front of her, looking so spectacularly deadpan that Michael briefly considers leaving the country. The problem is that she isn’t crying, isn't yelling. She isn’t even causing a scene. She’s ignoring him. Which is infinitely worse. When she gets loud, at least he knows where he stands. When she gets quiet? Oh, baby that’s when God himself starts abandoning his people.

The club pulses around him in flashes of gold and red light, cigarette smoke hanging thick in the air while celebrities and socialites laugh their way through another night they’ll be talking about for years. Meanwhile, Michael is standing near the bar wondering if it’s possible to die from being in trouble with a pretty girl. The worst part is that she has a point, enough of a point that every defense he’d come up with has fallen apart the second he’s tried saying it to himself.

The evening had started perfectly fine. Then Diana arrived. And somehow Michael had spent the next two hours getting continuously pulled into her orbit. One conversation became three. One dance became several. Every time he managed to drift back toward his girlfriend, Diana found a way to pull him somewhere else. A joke. A story. A hand on his arm. A request for “one more” dance. Michael hadn’t noticed how bad it looked at first, but his girlfriend had. The first warning came in the form of a look. The second came as a pointed comment. The third involved her physically appearing beside him while Diana stood entirely too close and entirely too comfortable. And Michael, complete idiot that he was, had smiled. Smiled! Like there wasn’t a bomb actively ticking beside him.

The argument afterward had not gone.. well. Mostly because it stopped being about jealousy almost immediately—that would’ve been easier. Instead it became about disrespect. About spending an entire evening standing in a room full of people while another woman monopolized her boyfriend’s attention. About feeling invisible and like a second choice. About Diana acting like she possessed a claim on Michael that nobody else was supposed to fucking question. Then, Diana made the catastrophic mistake of questioning her right back. Michael doesn’t remember every detail because the second the tension started rising, his survival instincts kicked in and his brain effectively left the building. But he remembers (Name) asking if she could maybe have five uninterrupted minutes with her own boyfriend. He remembers Diana not appreciating the tone. He remembers trying to smooth things over then—the drink in (Name)’s hand found itself splashing in Diana’s face before Michael had to physically pick up and pull her away while another nearby did the same with Diana.

Now Diana is on one side of the club pretending none of it happened. His girlfriend is on the other side pretending he doesn’t exist.

And somehow Michael is the common denominator in both disasters.

After spending nearly fifteen minutes pacing around the bar (like a condemned man awaiting execution), Michael finally orders her favorite drink. Then orders another because his hands are shaking badly enough that he drops the first one. By the time he starts walking toward her booth, he’s rehearsed approximately seventeen? different apologies and forgotten every single one of them. His girlfriend notices him immediately but she simply chooses not to acknowledge it. Michael stops beside the table and waits. Nothing.

“Hi.” Silence. “Hi,” he tries again, somehow sounding even more nervous the second time. Still nothing then carefully, he sets the drink down in front of her.

“..I got this for you, baby..” That finally earns him a reaction: she looks at the glass. Then at him and back at the glass. A smile appears and Michael’s stomach immediately drops to the floor. Because it’s not her happy smile. It’s the smile. The one that means she’s about to make him suffer.

“Oh.” One word as she picks up the drink and studies it thoughtfully before slowly lifting her eyes back to his. The smile widens.

“Oh,” She says again. “Finally remembered who your girlfriend is?” And just like that, every apology Michael spent the last fifteen minutes rehearsing evaporates completely.

Michael just stares at her. Which, unfortunately, is probably the worst possible thing he could be doing right now. He just.. stares. Partially because he's terrified and genuinely, sincerely terrified in a way that feels ridiculous considering he’s a rising star, one would think very little scares him. But he’s staring mostly because she’s angry, and he's never actually seen her like this before. Not really—not directed at him. Usually when she’s upset, there’s still something soft underneath it. Its huffy, pouty, there’s some visible crack where he can see his way back in. Tonight there isn’t. Tonight she’s sitting across from him looking completely unimpressed, completely unaffected by his presence, and somehow so damn beautiful. She’s beautiful everyday, yeah. But right now? Whew. Her eyes seem darker, her posture straighter and there’s a confidence that feels like she owns the entire nightclub and everyone inside it. Michael knows he should be apologizing. Knows he should be speaking. Knows he should be doing literally anything other than staring at her. Instead, his brain completely betrays him by noticing how pretty she looks when she’s mad.

The silence stretches longer than it should and her eyebrow slowly lifts. Michael continues staring.

“Hello?” Nothing. “Michael?”

His brain finally restarts with all the grace of a car refusing to turn over. “Pardon?” The second the word leaves his mouth, she lets out a short laugh and leans back against the booth cushions.

“Oh my God,” she mutters. “You're not even listening to me.”

Michael immediately opens his mouth to argue before deciding against it. Bad idea. Very bad idea. Then she gestures casually across the club toward Diana and smiles in a way that makes every survival instinct in his body activate at once.

“Please go back over there before I drag that old bitch.” Michael’s eyes widen and his gaze instinctively flickers toward Diana before snapping right back to his girlfriend. Huge mistake. She catches it immediately.

“Oh, don't worry,” she says sweetly. “I’m sure she’d love to see you.” And suddenly Michael understands that this isn’t really about Diana at all—or at least entirely. It’s about spending an entire evening making his girlfriend feel unwanted while he floated around Studio 54 like he didn’t even have one. The realization settles heavily in his stomach, and for the first time all night, he's no longer scared of her being angry. He’s scared because she has every right to be.

(Name) stares at him for another few seconds before letting out a long sigh and sliding out of the booth. Michael immediately straightens because the fact she's standing up usually means a decision has been made, and Michael has a horrible feeling he isn’t going to like it. She smooths down her outfit, picks up her purse, and points directly at him.

“I’m leaving.” She says and Michael blinks.

“Okay..” He nods.

“You can stay if you want.” His face falls instantly. “But,” She continues holding up a finger, “I’m changing the locks if you do.” The statement confirms he is, in fact, still very much in trouble and (Name) watches the realization happen in real time. His shoulders sink. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Then without a single argument, he simply stands up and follows after her immediately with no hesitation. He’s trailing along a few steps behind like a giant, miserable puppy that knows exactly why it’s being punished.

(Name) makes it approximately ten feet before glancing over her shoulder and finding him still there looking guilty and pathetic. Looking like if she left him alone in Studio 54 for more than twenty minutes he’d probably just stand in the corner thinking about life. The sight nearly breaks her resolve. Nearly.

“That's what I thought,” She says, reaching back and hooking a finger into the collar of his shirt and Michael doesn’t even protest. If anything, he seems relieved to be collected. (Name) rolls her eyes and starts steering him toward the exit while he obediently follows along behind her. They’re halfway across the club when a familiar voice cuts through the crowd.

“Well, look at this.” Quincy appears out of nowhere, drink in hand and a grin already spreading across his face as he takes in the scene before him. (Name) with one hand on Michael’s collar. Michael following behind her with all the dignity of a man being escorted out of kindergarten. Quincy immediately starts laughing.

She brightens instantly. “Hi, Q!” she calls cheerfully, as if she isn’t actively dragging her boyfriend through the middle of Studio 54. “We're leaving!”

Quincy glances at Michael and at the hand attached to his collar. “I can see that, sweetheart.”

She nods enthusiastically. ”Early too!” And behind her, Michael closes his eyes for a brief moment as Quincy nearly doubles over laughing.

“What’d you do, Mike?” Quincy asks.

“I don't wanna talk about it,” Michael mutters.

“He knows what he did,” She answers at the exact same time, giving his collar another tug toward the door and Quincy laughs even harder. Michael wishes the floor would open and swallow him whole.

The walk to the car is painfully embarrassing for Michael but she saves him from the embarrassment of the paparazzi because releases his collar the second they step outside, but somehow that’s worse. At least when she was dragging him around, she was touching him. Now she’s just walking beside him with her purse tucked under her arm and her expression fixed firmly ahead. The night air is cooler than inside the club, carrying away some of the heat and noise of Studio 54, but none of it helps the growing sense of dread sitting in Michael’s stomach. When the car finally pulls up, he nearly lunges for the door handle, rushing ahead to open it for her before she can do it herself. She doesn’t acknowledge the gesture beyond sliding into the seat without a word and Michael follows a moment later, settling beside her as the door shuts and the city begins moving past the windows.

The silence inside the car feels louder than the music had.

(Name) sits with her arms crossed tightly over her chest and one leg thrown over the other, looking out the window because she’s suddenly become fascinated by New York traffic. Michael glances at her once.. then again. Then a third time. Every few seconds his eyes drift back toward her before darting away when she doesn’t react. He lasts maybe five minutes before finally giving up. Slowly and cautiously, he reaches across the seat and rests his hand lightly on her knee.

She just refuses to look at him.

“Lovey..” Michael says quietly. No response.

“I’m sorry.” His thumb moves against her knee. “Will you look at me?” Nothing.

“Please? What can I do?” The worst part is how sincere he sounds. He’s not making excuses or defending himself. He’s just being her Michael. Soft and sweet and looking so genuinely miserable that she can physically feel her resolve beginning to crack down the middle. She hates it. Hates how easy it is when he uses that voice. Hates how his eyes get all sad. Hates that she still wants to forgive him..

So instead she turns her head slowly and narrows her eyes at him. Michael immediately brightens.

Big mistake.

“Don't,” she warns and his smile falters. “You are going to massage my feet until your hands hurt.”

For a moment he stares at her then relief washes across his face so quickly it’s almost embarrassing. “That's it?”

Her eyes narrow further and Michael wisely corrects himself. “I mean.. yes. Absolutely. As long as you want.”

“Good.”

“Okay."

“And I'm still mad at you.”

“I know.”

“Very mad.”

“I know, lovey.”

She turns back toward the window, fighting the smile threatening to appear on her face and a few seconds later, Michael’s hand quietly slips from her knee into her hand.

This time she lets it stay there.

The second she lets his hand stay in hers, Michael immediately gets hopeful in that cutie way he gets when he thinks he might still be forgiven. She doesn’t even have to look at him to feel it. Its the little glances he keeps sneaking at her and the way his thumb moves against her knuckles. She keeps her gaze fixed out the window acting like she hasn’t noticed any of it even though she absolutely has.

The quiet doesn't last long.

“..Can I have a kiss?” Michael asks, voice softer than it already is because he’s testing whether the ground is stable again. (Name) closes her eyes for a second like she’s physically bracing herself, then finally turns her head toward him. The look she gives him is unreadable, but it doesn’t stop her from leaning across the space and pressing a quick kiss to his lips anyway. It’s brief, barely even a second, and the moment it’s over she’s already pulling away and turning back toward the window like nothing happened. Michael goes completely still beside her for a second then lets out a small, disbelieving laugh under his breath.

“I got a kiss,” he says softly, and she immediately groans and hides her face in her hand.

“Don’t start,” she warns, but her voice isn’t nearly as firm as she wants it to be. And Michael, still holding her just leans back in his seat with a smile that makes it very clear he knows exactly what he’s doing to her.

By the time they get back to her apartment (he pays for), the argument has started to lose its intensity. She kicks off her shoes the second she walks in and Michael follows her in without a word, already looking for ways to make things right without overcomplicating it.

A few minutes later she’s settled on the couch with one leg tucked under her, a cigarette resting between her fingers as she leans back into the cushions, watching him move around the room. Michael eventually ends up sitting on the floor in front of her, carefully taking her feet into his hands and he starts massaging slowly, thumbs pressing into her arch. She doesn’t look at him at first, just exhales smoke toward the ceiling, acting like she’s still mad, but her foot relaxes in his grip anyway, betraying her before she can stop it.

Michael glances up at her once, then keeps going when she doesn’t tell him to stop. “Still mad at me?” he asks quietly, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it from her anyway.

(Name) doesn’t look down at him right away. She just takes another slow drag from her cigarette, considering it for a second longer than necessary, then finally tilts her head slightly in his direction with the faintest trace of a smile pulling at her mouth. And Michael, still on the floor with her feet in his hands, keeps massaging like he’s already accepted whatever verdict she decides to give him.

Michael keeps working his thumbs into her feet and she lounges back into the couch like she’s testing how long she can stay annoyed before it dissolves on its own. She finally speaks without looking at him, voice light but still edged with something he knows better than to fully relax around.

“I dunno,” she says, exhaling another thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Do you think I should still be mad?”

Michael pauses for half a second, hands still resting around her ankle. Then he looks up at her properly, curls a little messy, expression soft and painfully earnest.. that look always makes her anger feel less solid than it should. “Yes,” he says immediately, then corrects himself just as fast, “I mean—no. I mean.. I think you were right to be mad.”

That earns him a look.

So he keeps going, “I was stupid,” he admits, thumbs resuming their slow pressure like he needs the movement to stay grounded. “I should’ve been with you more. I didn’t mean to.. make you feel like that.” His eyes flick up again, searching her face carefully, like he’s trying to read whether he’s losing her in real time. “But I.. also really don’t want you to stay mad at me.”

(Name) watches him for a moment, cigarette still between her fingers, expression unreadable in a way that makes his stomach tighten slightly. Then she tilts her head, studying him like she’s deciding something she hasn’t fully committed to yet. Michael doesn’t move, he just waits there on the floor with her foot in his hands.

Finally, she lets out a small breath through her nose, something almost like a laugh buried in it, and leans her head back against the couch.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” she says, not quite forgiving him but not holding on to the anger either. Michael lets out a relieved breath he clearly didn’t realize he was holding and immediately goes back to massaging.

“But you’re definitely putting that mouth to work tonight.”

© 2026 michaeldiary.

[princessrosalia]

the lady in his life ──── michael jackson ♡

otw!michael x 𝒇!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 ✦ w.c. 8.2k

𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 ╱ .✦ ݁˖ childhood best friends to lovers trope. a lil bit of angst to begin with, but most of all, so much fluff that i hope your heart will melt! including a cute makeout in his bed.. p.s. just pretend michael adopted bubbles four years earlier because i altered reality a little here lol.. also pretend michael actually did write she’s out of my life, ok!!

michael hasn’t seen his childhood best friend in seven years, but by no fault of his own, for he was never the type to leave behind anybody who mattered to him. their distance had been initiated by his father, who believed the fourteen year old girl would be nothing but a bad influence on her best friend, therefore her proximity would allegedly pose a disturbance to his promising career. her family left LA for new york not long afterward, and she’d spent the following years experiencing michael only through the medium of music and television. but in 1979, the two now fully grown and michael flourishing with his solo career, they find each other again at a toy store in encino, and michael takes her to hayvenhurst to play twister—just like the old days.

⟡ ۫ . ✉️ — in the winter of '69, eleven year old michael jackson met his darling wife, the mother of his children, on his first day at gardner street elementary school. in the sandbox during recess was where he first laid eyes on the beautiful girl he would go on to call his own.

the girl in question hadn't noticed him at first, partly because michael was always very shy and quiet outside the stage, but also because she—our sweet, ditsy reader—was lost in her own world. as that happy little child, you often didn't notice the people around you when you were busy with something.

then when you did look to the side, you began your very first conversation with the boy who had been observing you. shy little michael thanked the heavens that you'd been the one to say something, because even at first glance he thought you looked really pretty, and while his mother had brought up the sweet boy to be a confident gentleman with the ladies, his shyness often overwhelmed the ability to spark conversation—especially with such an angelic girl as yourself.

you thought he was very cute—but in that boyish, adorable sort of way, not bearing the burden of those fluttery butterflies that michael was dealing with upon first sight. at eleven years old, and without really having had such jittery feelings for anyone before, he wasn't quite sure how to understand said feelings. all he knew was that he had been placed beside a very beautiful girl, and that made him very happy.

once you'd started talking, he was determined to lengthen and drag out whatever it was that you ended up discussing, because he quickly realised that he would happily listen to you talk forever, and because he worried that if your conversation ended, you would walk away and he'd have to restart an instigation of your friendship all over again.

but that first conversation took you both all the way to next period, a class that luckily you shared, and beyond that to lunch, where by the end of the day it became clear that two sweet, doe-eyed children were entering a dear friendship, one that was sure to extend past the four walls of the classroom.

a few months later, michael eventually left in favour of being homeschooled, but you lived close by, and your relationship happily blossomed. you were the only one who saw him for who he really was—not the cute pop star everyone wanted to say that they knew, but the caring little boy, who you were of course so privileged to say that you knew, but who mattered so much more than a claim to fame. while many around you and in the media were beginning to judge michael as he grew into his adolescence through misunderstanding his personality, his best friend knew everything about him, and there was nobody he felt safer with.

however, as you both turned fourteen, the forceful nature of michael's circumstances triggered a turn for the worse. you were growing up in two very different households. where michael's was strict and absent of care, yours was much more relaxed and loving. you could pretty much do whatever you wanted, within generous limits—staying out at night with friends as long as you were back in time for curfew, spending your own allocated hours on studying rather than being forced to do so on your parents' terms.

michael, however, experienced the exact opposite, controlled by his father, joseph jackson, and there had been multiple nights initially where you had gone over to his house with the intention of either inviting him out or asking if he wanted to hang with you in his bedroom, but despite how covert you attempted to be, joseph was constantly on alert, where he always saw and heard everything. especially late at night, when the house was at its quietest. many times he shunned you away, and you knew he wasn't to be messed with, so you never retaliated or protested.

sometimes you were in fact lucky enough to make it inside without anyone other than michael and katherine noticing—katherine who always supported your presence and kept it a secret from her husband—but one night, where you had been so certain that nobody else was aware, joseph found you at the top of the stairs as you headed to the bathroom. sinister and cruel as he always was, he now forced you to leave, and for good this time, making it clear to you that you would never be seeing michael again. you had been at a loss for words, utterly dumbfounded at why on earth his resort to this was supposedly necessary, but joseph only told you that nothing in the world mattered to him more than his son's career, ever-promising now that his voice was beginning to bloom into its youth, and therefore there could be no distraction. you wanted to go out and have fun with your best friend, or if not at least have the same harmless sleepovers you'd always had, but joseph was explicitly certain that you would prove to be nothing but a needless distraction from michael's focus on his craft.

at the time, you hadn't understood exactly how your presence and his career were linked—other than joseph's extreme over-protection of said career, which you eventually had to accept as the sole explanation—but you would find out the depth of it all eventually.

seven dreadfully long years went by without your very best friend. you hadn't even said goodbye to him, and it pained you both equally. joseph had felt no concern when he informed michael of what he'd told you, and if the boy hadn't already been certain of his father's relentless cruelty, this was now a whole other level of evil. joseph had taken away the one person who truly understood him, and at that he cried all night.

from that point on, sometimes you would see each other in the street—like the times where you'd be hanging with your friends directly opposite the entrance to the recording studio, supposedly coincidentally, but more accurately wanting to get a glimpse of the boy you missed dearly. it hurt so much to look at each other, knowing that three years of friendship had been forced to come to an end all because michael had been cursed with such a horrible father. he had influence and control in every part of michael's life, somehow always there in his presence, so it wasn't even like you could be sneaky and meet up in secret. attempted secrecy was what had caused the trouble in the first place.

you each wondered if things might be different in a few years. you were four away from turning eighteen, and while it seemed like a lifetime until adulthood would begin, there was slight hope in that things might be different when that time came. surely michael wouldn't still be under the oppression of joseph's constraints?

but eighteen came and went. two years prior you had moved with your family to new york, so meeting up with michael in los angeles was incredibly unlikely, and because it had been so long since you last saw each other, you began to feel awkward if you even suggested to your mother the opportunity to fly out to see him. what if he no longer cared about you? what if you hadn't even entered his mind in that time? after all, you had only been friends for three, and michael was a busy man in an even busier industry. surely he must have copious amounts of friends by now. you knew he'd struggled to attain them as a child, but the boy had always been incredibly charming, so certainly he must have better friends than you at this stage in his efflorescing career. perhaps he even had a girlfriend. weirdly, you found yourself searching for the answer to that question in the newspapers more often than you'd like to admit.

you were experiencing him only through the medium of music and television, always eagerly waiting for his next live TV appearance, buying each jackson 5 album as soon as they were released. you couldn't believe your horrible luck—that this beautifully talented young man had been your person, for three straight years, only to be stripped from you without warning.

the jacksons visited new york multiple times on tour, and every one of those times you purposely avoided attending, despite how much you craved to see michael in person again. you believed it would hurt too much, and that he might see you and... well, what would he think of you? would he be emotional to see you, as you would be to see him? or would he think you were using the night as a way to creep back into his life, to use him like everyone else wished to? you weren't even sure whether or not joseph had told him the truth. he had, but the possibility that michael had completely misunderstood your departure nagged at you anxiously. there were too many reasons not to be faced with him after all that time.

but your worry couldn’t have been more baseless, because michael missed you painfully. he felt he had never experienced such a loss as great as the day you disappeared, and while you may have guessed that he'd forgotten about your mere existence, the exact opposite was true. michael loved deeply and thoroughly, so not a day had passed where he hadn't thought of your name and your face. he owed great thanks to the existence of photography, because without it he wouldn't have the three pictures of you that always rested safely in his bedroom, those pictures that kept you with him no matter how far you were in reality. he often sat and wondered if you still looked the same, if you wore a different hairstyle now or sported a different fashion. he always wondered about you, and whenever he was in new york, he looked for you in every crowd. you never appeared, but he held strong hope that one day you would. he considered if perhaps he hadn't scanned the crowd with enough focus, and you'd been there all along.

in your desolate little bubbles, so stuck in melancholy over a friendship lost, neither of you could have predicted that soon enough—after some more painfully patient waiting—time would bring you back together, and elevate your once platonic love to define the two of you as forever sweethearts.

september, 1979 ♡

it was late afternoon in encino—the sweet sunlight of early autumn painting the greenery, its familiar warmth coating the air—when you stepped out into your hometown for the first time in five years. everything still looked the same, for it hadn't really been that long in the grand scheme of things. but for a girl who'd left at sixteen, those years had been experienced as akin to a lifetime. this place was where you were born, where you'd done everything for the first time, and now as an adult you were reentering what had birthed you.

your reason for returning was that your aunt was gravely ill, and you had been instructed to take care of her children while she was in hospital. initially, you had been so panicked for her that you hadn't felt the rush of second-thought that you usually had whenever the suggestion of returning to encino was brought up. you'd wanted to visit for so long—of course you had—but that uncertainty over michael and over joseph had consistently deterred you. you had essentially resorted to hoping that fate would bring you and michael together again, because you wished to absolve yourself of any responsibility in the matter. there had been opportunities, and you had chosen not to take any of them.

and still you wondered—if he was merely your best friend, why did it matter so much what he might say if you were to visit him? why did the thought of him rejecting your visit or misjudging your departure hurt you so badly you felt like you might throw up?

ironically, it seemed fate had now in fact intervened. through negative familial circumstances, you now had a reason to return to your hometown, the neighbourhood in which michael still inhabited—albeit with the same man who had forced you away. it deeply confused you how michael had now reached twenty one without yet escaping from joseph's control, but then again that family were always the most tight-knit group there ever was, and you knew michael was likely very afraid to get up and leave.

you also knew that he had released his debut solo album one month ago, and you'd bought it instantly—listened to it close to a hundred times, in complete awe of his talent. off the wall was so different to the sound produced of the jackson 5, and you'd hoped that with this venture into a solo career, he wouldn't be far off from separating himself from his father entirely. you always kept up to date on the latest news surrounding the family, hoping tirelessly that such separation would be soon, but still it seemed michael was trapped under joseph's power.

from the moment you stepped foot into encino, you couldn't stop thinking about him. the thought of his existence consumed you even more than it had done all these years, because now there was a very likely chance the two of you might run into each other. perhaps you wouldn't, but you couldn't be so pessimistic.

you needed to buy some new toys for your cousins who you were taking care of, and so you ventured off into the nearest toy store. it was big enough to have a worthy selection.

you scanned the aisles, walking up and down with a basket and dropping various teddybears and games into it as you went. you hummed in content, for the store was mostly empty at this time on a weekday, and you appreciated the calm.

and then all of a sudden, something mildly hard hit your shoulder, seemingly from out of nowhere. immediately you furrowed your eyebrows and whipped your head around to see who the culprit was. something had been shot at you from the barrel of a toy gun, and you chuckled to yourself, assuming it must have been a kid messing around.

as you turned back, you noticed a man beside you, smiling apologetically. the man was bald, in his fifties—incredibly familiar, although you couldn't pinpoint a name. "excuse me, ma'am. he was aiming at me."

you laughed again. growing up in a big, boisterous family, you knew how kids were. "oh, don't worry about it. at least he's having fun."

and then a head poked around the corner of the aisle, shooting a teasing smile at the man beside you, and what you saw certainly wasn't the face of any kid.

it was michael.

michael joseph jackson, the boy you'd been estranged from for the better part of the 1970s, was standing right at the corner of a random toy store in encino. your mouth widened in shock, but then you realised—of course michael was in a random toy store in encino. dressed in a plaid long sleeve and jeans, he still wore the same essence of the boy you knew, now enhanced by a visible maturity. and you’d seen him a lot over your years of distance, even if only on a screen or in pictures, but to see him now in person only affirmed just how handsome he was. you had always told him so, even before you were both teenagers, but he'd always shrugged off each compliment. now girls were desperate for his attention, and you always wondered how he was handling it.

he was still smiling at the bald man, toy gun held in his hands, and in an instant you recalled who that man was. bill bray—michael's bodyguard. joseph had assigned him to be of michael's assistance when he was thirteen, and you had to admit he was a great choice. how heartwarming that eight years on, here he was, still shopping for toys with that young boy, now a man.

bill didn't recognise you. it had been too long, and if you hadn't instantly recognised someone as distinctive as bill, it would've been a miracle for him to have done so of you.

you both stood together as michael's glance flicked from his bodyguard to the girl standing opposite him. it was a natural subtle movement of his eyeballs, but immediately upon the alteration he took a fast double-take, mouth opening as if to say something, but his vocal cords found no words.

"mikey..." you whispered, that long-lost nickname falling so instinctively from your lips.

michael’s eyes had lit up, but his expression still held a reflection of shock. you were really here—right in front of him.

"wh…” he started to speak, slowly as if trying to work out whether he was hallucinating or not. had he entered the stage of grief where he was seeing things that weren’t really there?

but his countenance only grew happier as he took in your appearance. you really were right in front of him—finally, after all these years.

“applehead…” he grinned, but still standing at the corner of the aisle in disbelief.

you chuckled at the familiar nickname, it sounding so silly after so long, but your heart warmed incredibly so. he still saw you in that way. he still saw you as his childhood best friend. as silly as it sounded to bill, to michael you were still his applehead, even at twenty one years old, seven years distanced.

smiles spread across both of your faces, and bill watched with fondness as he remembered exactly who you were. michael had never possessed many friends, and as his closest, you were the most memorable. it also helped that he had continuously mentioned you over the years. so much reminded him of you—things he saw, media he consumed, things that made him wonder if you might have liked them too, or perhaps you were watching the same thing as him at the same time…

michael often spoke his thoughts out loud with people he was comfortable with, so indeed bill had heard a lot about you.

now, the heart of the man opposite you was quite literally jumping up and down in his chest. this moment was what he’d wanted for so long, and by the look on your face, it relieved him to realise just how much you’d clearly missed him too.

he took a few steps forward, passing the toy to bill, a wide smile decorating his handsome face.

your smile mirrored his, and without another word, the two of you still unsure exactly what to say after all this time, michael initiated what you always used to greet each other with.

“c’mere, honey…” he sighed happily, enveloping you into a hug, his arms wrapping tight around your waist. honey? he’d never called you that before, and you felt something strange in your chest at the sound of the word from his lips.

with no hesitation, your arms threw themselves around his neck as you smiled against his warm chest, and the two of you giggled in pure glee. you each had missed this just as much, and michael’s hugs were truly special. how had you survived seven years without them?

“i missed you,” you both said in unison, chuckling again at the synchronicity. your words muffled against his chest as he spoke his into the crown of your head, taking in the scent of your hair.

“god, you have no idea…” he sighed, before pressing a warm kiss to your forehead and pulling away to look at you. bill was of course still standing there, but michael seemed to have forgotten about him altogether.

you both looked at each other in silence for a few moments, bright smiles on your faces that said everything without the need for words. your smiles somehow equally spoke of the sadness of years past, and the happiness of such a long time ago, with the beautiful relief of the current moment.

"so what are you doin’ here?” he asked in delighted disbelief. “i thought i might never see you again…”

"oh, i'm here to take care of my cousins for a little while," you explained, still beaming with joy. "just shopping for some toys. i really think fate brought us here. i can’t believe i’m looking at you right now."

the pretty smile ahead of you grew evermore. michael tugged you back into his embrace with playful aggression, and you squealed as you fell forward into his warmth again.

“mikey—” you laughed, but it wasn’t a real protest. you felt so safe in his arms, how he now held you to his chest. “you have somebody waiting, remember?”

“i have somebody right here, i know,” he said softly, still smiling and still holding you so tight, rocking you in his arms. his voice had always been so soft and gentle, but in this moment you realised it now seemed even more so.

you allowed him to hold onto you for a little longer, and despite michael being the one to initiate the hug, you really had no issues with being held in the warmth you’d missed so much. you’d be glad to live in this one moment forever.

“would’ya come to my place?” he whispered, still not letting go of you. “like old times?"

“to hayvenhurst?” you asked anxiously, hiding your face in his neck. you knew joseph still lived there.

“yeah, i wanna show you my room,” he smiled, and you could hear the smile in his tone, as you always could. he had always been such a happy, curious boy, but who simultaneously carried so much sadness. you hoped life had been better to him in recent years.

“it’s a lil different now. i have a pet monkey. his name’s bubbles.”

at that you pulled back in surprise, laughing as you did. “a pet monkey? and he stays in your room?”

he nodded as if it was a given that he’d share his living space with a monkey. but truthfully, when it came to him you should’ve predicted nothing less.

“michael…” you shook your head in amusement.

“so, d’you wanna come?” he raised a brow, a little shyly.

you almost visibly hesitated, but didn’t want to give him any impression that you weren’t interested in spending time with him. your reaction to seeing him had made that clear enough, but michael had seemed slightly shy to ask twice, as if he’d read your anxieties.

"yeah, of course—i'd love to mikey." you smiled to mask your worry.

but he could see through you well enough, the same way he always had. he furrowed his brows, and then almost immediately understood what was wrong.

"are you nervous about joseph?" he asked, weaving his long fingers between yours seamlessly.

you took a deep breath, looking at where you were interlocked, then looking back up again. "mhm. i know we're adults now but... it's his home, and—y'know... he did kick me out and tell me to never come back again."

"repeat that first part," michael said with that beautiful, reassuring smile. "you said it yourself: we're adults now. he can't hurt you."

you smiled sadly. "so does that mean he's stopped hurting you?"

michael squinted and squeezed your hand. "i fired him. as my manager."

your eyes widened. "for real?"

"yeah..." he chuckled under his breath. "i couldn't say it to his face, but we got it done in the end. yeah, he still lives with us an' all, but he's not in control anymore."

"are you sure?" you asked, still a little nervous at the prospect of a supposedly dismissed joseph still living in the same space as michael, that same space he would be taking you.

michael nodded again, opening his mouth to respond, but all of a sudden there was the happy shout of a child nearby.

"michael jackson?" the voice of a young girl called out.

you laughed happily and tapped his chest. "i'll let you deal with that."

michael turned back to wave at the fan, then gestured to her that he'd be one moment, before turning back to you.

"and yes," you added sincerely, "i'll come back to your place. you can give me a room tour."

your best friend's face lit up again, and you felt a strange twinge of emotion for the second time in two minutes.

"d'you wanna play twister? i'm just buyin' it here. my brothers don’t play w’me no more." he chuckled under his breath, but he held up the game in bill's cart with so much light in his eyes it strangely made you want to cry. and oh, poor bill was still standing there, waiting patiently for this standstill to end.

"i'd love to, mikey," you grinned, squeezing his hand that you noticed you were still holding.

after the little girl wanting his attention, there were several others—children, teens, adults—and the toy store quickly turned into a meet and greet with the one and only michael jackson. in the meantime, you paid for the toys in your cart, then stood and watched michael interact with the kids, and the smile on your face didn't falter the entire time. he was so lovely and gentle with them, even the ones that were a little boisterous. it was in that moment you knew that fame would never change the sweet boy he was within.

once he was finally done with signing autographs for everybody who had lined up, bill took the two of you home to hayvenhurst. michael sat in the back of the car with you, holding your hand the whole way. it reminded you of how you'd always hold his whenever as kids you'd walk back together anxiously, knowing that joseph's patience threshold was particularly low that day. you'd squeeze his hand as you walked, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles to soothe his nerves much like the way a gentleman might do for his girl—ironically, the very thing michael was doing for you right now. certainly a gentleman, but not yet in possession of a girl to call his.

michael definitely succeeded in soothing you now. neither of you talked much during the ride, mostly because you were too busy taking in the scenery around you, so immersed in the reality that you really were back home again.

and as you entered the all too familiar home, you couldn't have been luckier. joseph was out, and you discovered that he would continue to be until late at night, so you had nothing more to worry about. there was still that underlying concern you had for michael's wellbeing in general, but you had gratitude for the fact that his father at least wouldn't be ruining your reunion. you could have this one day together.

you greeted michael's brothers and sisters, talking with them for a while where michael impatiently waited for you to devote your attention to only him. then you spoke with katherine, his mother, who felt deeply sorry for what had happened, and quite guilty that she didn't attempt to sway joseph in another direction at the time. but you had to forgive her, because you knew that if you had been in her position, you wouldn't have had the courage to stand up for anything against that man.

michael was struggling to hide his frustration by the time you both finally reached his bedroom.

"what is it?" you laughed, nudging his arm. "you've been scowling at everybody for the last thirty minutes."

"it's nothin'," he shrugged, pushing open the door while trying to conceal the smile you always brought to his face. "i want you to myself, silly," he added, now certainly smiling again.

you rolled your eyes playfully. "i haven't seen them in seven years. i think a short conversation per person can be justified."

"whatever, honey," michael sighed.

again, that unfamiliar feeling pressed inside your chest, and now you were certain it was literal butterflies. what the fuck?

but before you had a chance to process what on earth was going on with your emotions, you blinked once and michael had a monkey in his arms. a real life pet monkey. you blinked a few more times to ground yourself in the chaos of the sight before you, and started to giggle.

"this is bubbles," he smiled, and his friend stared up at you with curiosity and intrigue.

you raised a brow, crossing your arms to your chest. "am i seeing things?"

"no," michael laughed softly.

"and what happened to rosie the crusher? she still here somewhere?" you asked in amusement, referring to michael's pet snake from when he was thirteen.

michael set bubbles down, and the latter skipped off into a corner to settle himself again. "well, joseph made me get rid of her a couple years back. i don't know where she is now."

you sighed in dismay, but you were also quite glad that this time you wouldn't be hanging out in a room where a snake was slithering around in the corner. yes, you understood michael more than anybody, but you were never quite sure what had possessed him to want a snake of all things.

over the next hour, you caught up on everything you'd missed of each other's lives over the time you'd been apart. you congratulated michael on his recent album, which really was an incredible work of art, especially considering it was his solo debut. you made sure he understood just how talented he was, and he kept blushing every time you did so—just as he had done those years ago.

then, after a lot of talking, you played twister together—beside bubbles, who kept eagerly trying to join in, so eventually michael had to let him join, and that made for a very humorous afternoon. you played for a long time, because you knew how much michael loved that silly game, and it made you so happy to see him having so much fun—for there was an underlying anxiety surrounding your best friend in the back of your mind.

being a famous musician could often bring more horror than happiness, and even though michael was flourishing now, you saw the innocence in him, the sweet angel desperate to experience a childhood that you lived and he didn't. the world could hurt this caring angel, and if that did happen, there was nothing you could do to stop it. so, as you played together you couldn't help but feel quite sad—despite the genuine smiles and laughter—because michael wanted to live in true freedom and a complete, child-like paradise, but you seriously feared that the world wouldn't understand that. the media already nitpicked at him, and you knew how deeply insecure he was as a result of his father's comments and abuse—no matter what you said to try to console his thoughts about himself—so your anxiety about what the future might hold made you want to freeze time.

perhaps you'd be wrong. perhaps the whole world would see him as you do, and therefore show him nothing but love and care. you would never infantilise michael, but he was a sensitive soul, and even as teenagers you knew that he had a gift, but with such gifts often came sacrifice and pain.

now, you shook your head of the thoughts, but something else tugged at you—something physical now, a pain building in your lower abdomen.

your period. fuck.

you grimaced with the pain, and despite how much fun michael was having, he quickly noticed the change in you.

"y'okay?" he asked, concern written in his eyes.

"um, yeah," you murmured, but the look on your face said otherwise. "cramps coming on, y'know..."

his brows raised automatically in response. "oh, is it—?"

"yeah, and i'm... not exactly prepared either."

god, this was fucking embarrassing. but you'd known michael for years, and he'd always cuddled you and done anything he could to soothe you whenever it was that time of the month—as opposed to how much of a taboo subject everyone else treated it. it had been the early '70s, and those things just weren't talked about, but michael never understood the need for anybody to suffer in silence.

"hey, don't worry," he said in that beautifully soft tone of his. "i'll go to latoya's room."

you smiled to yourself despite the pain, so in awe of how gentle he had always been (while busying yourself with watching bubbles mess around in his designated corner) but your smile quickly shifted into an expression of cringe when you looked down and saw a splotch of blood seeping through your jeans. thankfully, they were a dark blue denim, although the stain was still visible despite that.

you cursed to yourself, but then michael was back in the room, holding a pair of lounge pants, with panties and a sanitary pad underneath.

"here," he smiled, handing them to you.

"are these latoya's?" you smiled back, but you still felt very embarrassed. "thank you so much, michael... and remind me to thank her later before i leave."

michael nodded, then got settled under the comforter, while you went into the bathroom and changed. then quietly you got under the comforter too, turning on your side facing away from him, already knowing that he would spoon you, because this position had been custom whenever you were suffering with cramps in his presence.

"i'm sorry for ruining the afternoon," you sighed. sure, you'd had a great time so far, but you knew michael would have had all sorts of games planned, especially for the friend he hadn't seen in years, and now you were both instead confined to his bed.

"shh," he whispered, weaving his arms around your waist as you got settled, your head cosy against the pillows. "you've ruined nothin'. get some rest, and if you fall asleep, i'll be here when you wake up."

content in his embrace, you did fall asleep pretty quickly, and the ache miraculously subsided in order for you to do so. michael stayed resting against your back the entire time, and when you woke, you had almost forgotten where you were.

it took you a moment, but you remembered as soon as you opened your eyes. "michael?" you muttered sleepily, turning around to face him.

"hey, sleepyhead," he grinned, stroking your hair.

"how long was i asleep?"

"uh, like an hour? i don't know, i fell asleep too at one point."

you yawned, still so tired, and still feeling a little guilty about what your afternoon had turned into. you remembered your cousins, and how you needed to have arrived by tonight, but it was a relief that there were still a few hours left of the afternoon.

"i need to tell you somethin'..." michael said all of a sudden.

"yeah?"

there was more quiet, as he seemingly hesitated to say what he'd intended to, and then the words fell out.

"i wrote she's out of my life about you," he said all of a sudden, breaking the silence.

you whipped your head up to look at him. “what? seriously?”

“yeah…” he turned away shyly, but you held his jaw to guide his face back to you.

“michael… i know you write some of your own songs but i never…” you paused, running a hand over your face. “i love that song but i never even thought for a second that you would write something about me. let alone something so beautiful.”

there was more silence, where michael was glad he’d told you but he was so shy now that his cheeks were burning up.

“mikey, stop looking away from me,” you gently urged, cupping his jaw again.

his beautiful brown eyes looked into yours, the orbs shining under the filter of sunlight through the window, and suddenly, crazily, you understood everything you were feeling.

you were beginning to fall for your best friend. hell, perhaps you’d already fallen.

“how long have you felt this way?” you asked quietly, fingers still delicately playing with his soft hair as he now shuffled downward to lay his head on your chest. it felt so intimate, as though it was your very first cuddle in this position despite having laid this way together many times in the old days. but the intimacy arose from how different everything was now. the subtext of romance had emerged out of nowhere, and neither of you knew how to feel. in fact, the very purpose of michael sliding down to meet your chest was so that you couldn’t see his expressions of pure embarrassment.

but you didn’t care one bit. he was opening his heart to you about something he’d clearly spent so long harbouring inside himself, and even though he’d had to wait so long, now was the perfect time—because you were beginning to realise that you felt the same.

strangely, it didn’t feel to you like the beginning of falling. more accurately it was the start of an understanding of what you’d been experiencing for much longer than you realised. michael’s brothers would always tease the two of you because they claimed to be certain that you were both in love, and the comments had always made you feel a certain way. not genuine irritation at everybody being so wrong in what they said, but rather a jittery sensation that wondered if there was some truth in their remarks. it was always difficult for one to analyse those sort of feelings as a young child, especially if the feelings surrounded somebody who they were sure they only attached platonic love to. for example, sometimes you would play fight, and you’d feel all giddy and notice the butterflies jumping in your stomach, but that had been the product of adrenaline from the playfight itself, you’d assumed.

you had always brushed off all those little things, and only now was all of it catching up to you, as you looked down at that boy’s pretty head resting on your chest. he still hadn’t answered your question.

“michael,” you whispered.

“yeah?” he still wouldn’t look up.

“please answer me.”

“sorry, what was the question again?”

“i said how long have you felt this way about me? in the song you write that you kept your love for the girl locked deep inside. that’s really about me?” your voice faded a little, cracking with emotion.

“honey, i’ve always felt this way,” michael murmured against your skin, toying with the strap of your shirt.

your eyes widened in shock. “always?”

he nodded. “since the day we met. i just remember noticin’ the pretty girl beside me and thinkin’… i hope she talks to me.”

and joseph jackson had been very aware of those feelings, so he hadn't exactly been wrong in what he assumed. incredibly wrong in his response, but correct in believing that michael would become distracted by you. he had always been distracted by you, but what a beautiful distraction to have. you inspired his writing, so that could only be a positive.

“mikey…” you began, completely stunned at this revelation. “why didn’t you tell me? it’s been so long…”

“well, i had a lot to lose. i could see y’ just wanted to be my friend and nothin’ more, so i didn’t wanna ruin what we had. it’s really difficult, y’know, to feel so in love with your best friend. and—like i said in the song, it really did cut like a knife. i thought you were never comin’ back to me.”

“so your brothers were right…” you shook your head in disbelief, still coming to terms with everything.

“well, not entirely. half right. they always said you felt the same.”

you froze at that, and michael felt the restraint where he was attached to your body. he looked up a little as you tried to maintain a neutral demeanour, then he looked back down again. you had to tell him now.

“i do,” you blurted out. your hands were fiddling with his hair like a stim toy, trying desperately to act normal despite your anxiety. but really, there was nothing to be anxious about, because now you knew for certain that he felt the same way.

“you—?” michael looked up again in confusion, brows furrowed as he moved to sit up against the headboard beside you.

“feel the same way. yeah," you said slowly, shuffling a little where you laid. “but i didn’t even realise that’s what i’d been feeling until today, actually. and i don’t know when it first started but… i do remember getting butterflies around you sometimes… when we were younger. i just didn’t know what they meant, so i ignored them.”

michael started to smile, and so did you. this was the best possible conclusion to the separation you’d both had to endure. here you’d been, each assuming that the other might have lost interest, but the exact opposite was true. that morning you would’ve never predicted that by afternoon you’d reunite with the man you’d wanted to see for seven years, let alone that you’d be confessing your love to each other in the bed you used to playfight in as kids.

“c’mere, baby," he said to break the short silence.

“baby?” you raised a brow.

“yeah, that’s what guys call their girls.”

“have you had a girl before?”

“no, uh,” he laughed shyly. “you’d be my first.”

“and who says i want to be your girl, michael jackson?” you teased.

“oh i think you wanna,” he smirked. “you’re blushin’ right now, sweetheart.”

"no, i'm not," you protested, but weakly, and you hid your face in embarrassment.

"shh," michael whispered, dragging your hand away before pulling you down so that you both lay on your sides facing each other.

you squealed softly as he pulled you to him, and his eye contact was so strong that you grew impossibly shyer. "mikey, stop it..."

"stop what?" he grinned even more, running his hand up and down your waist. since when did he get so confident? perhaps it was because it was you he was with, but you were experiencing the opposite, where because it was michael, this all made you so ridiculously anxious.

you shut your eyes tight, a playful smile on your lips, and gently he tapped one of your eyelids. "hey," he whispered. "look at me, 'm serious."

you opened your eyes again—sort of reluctantly because the way he was looking at you was still too much to handle, especially because all of this had suddenly happened so soon, with no room for preparation.

"y'gonna kiss me?" you asked sweetly, noticing the way his brown eyes kept shifting their attention from your eyes to your lips.

he nodded quickly, and you giggled, turning your own attention to one of the teddybears beside you.

"c'mon, don't try tellin' me you never kissed anybody before," michael said, the happiness on his face impossible to wipe away. "i know you have."

you looked at him properly. "no, i've never kissed my best friend before. that's what's happening here."

michael bit his lip, chuckling at you. "don't think about it too much, sweetheart."

your heart fluttered like crazy. "you're really enjoying these pet names, huh?"

he only nodded again, this time so enamoured of the thought of kissing you that he had no need to say anything else. and his heart was aching at how beautiful you looked, so cosy and shy in his bed, beaming because of him. so much time had passed since you were teens, but to you both it felt like no time at all as you laid there together.

and then finally, he cupped your cheek and leaned in. your warm smiles collapsed into each other as his lips touched yours, and you couldn't believe this was really happening. you kissed softly and sweetly, mouths moving in a slow rhythm, and instinctively you interlocked his fingers with yours. it had just felt right to do so.

you kissed for about fifteen seconds, before you were the one to pull away. you needed to take a minute to process what had just happened. "that was weird," you giggled.

michael furrowed his brows.

"no," you squeezed his hand, "not a bad kind of weird. very good, actually..." you smiled wide, still blushing. "it's just... we're best friends, y'know?"

"but can't we be both lovers and friends, baby?" he asked, a teasing smile on his lips each time he called you one of those names.

you pulled a playful scowl. "you're doing that on purpose."

"doing what?" he tugged you even closer, and started to play with your hair while his other hand still held yours.

"calling me baby, honey, sweetheart..."

"course i'm doin' it on purpose, applehead." he messed with your hair, and you ruffled his in turn. he always hated anyone else touching his hair but you, and even with you he squinted at the touch. "now here's another one..." he kissed your nose. "my pretty dove."

it was almost as if everything he'd ever wished to intimately address you as was now coming into fruition.

"okay," you spoke against his lips—to disguise how that new pet name sent shockwaves of butterflies through your body—the softness of his lips touching your own now as you prepared to initiate another kiss. you pecked his lips once and spoke again. "i like how the words sound coming from you."

you both fell into another slow kiss, this time with slightly more passion, but mostly just gentle and a little messy, while you both practiced trying to make this feel normal. but as soon as your lips had met the first time, you both knew that this was what home felt like. what a waste all those years had been without this very feeling.

"you're a good kisser, michael," you giggled, playing with his fingers.

"yeah?" he smiled brightly.

you responded with more kisses, soft ones to his waiting mouth.

"and such a sweet talker..." you added.

"well, i'm not tryin' to be."

"oh i know," you said quietly. "but you do have such a pretty voice. not just when you're singing."

"yeah?" his face lit up even more, apparently not expecting you to think that of him. "how come y'never told me?"

"i thought it might get you all flustered. like right now," you laughed, squeezing his cheek before he playfully smacked your hand away.

"i mean, i'm a little flustered already, honey," he admitted.

now you decided you'd contribute to your side of the intimacy too, aside the handholding you'd initiated. "i can see that, baby."

"baby," michael repeated with a smirk. "are you tryna tease me?"

"maybe," you giggled. so did he, and again you resumed your kisses that soon spiralled into a gentle makeout.

"i love kissin' you, sweetheart. i've been wantin' this for so long, you really have no idea..." michael whispered against your cheek as he peppered kisses up and down your face.

"i love kissing you too, mikey... so much..."

it must have been at least an hour that the two of you continued to make out, so peaceful in the quiet of michael's bedroom, aside from those two minutes where marlon and jackie came in and teased the hell out of you both. they begged for confirmation that you were finally in a relationship, and without hesitation, michael declared that you were, while you covered your face again in shyness.

your time in encino was supposed to last for only a few weeks, but soon those initial weeks turned into months, which then turned into a whole year. michael had been right—joseph no longer had control over what he did in his personal life, therefore as much as he resented you, he surprisingly left you alone.

after your aunt recovered and could be back with her children, to her it seemed there was no longer a reason for you to stay in the area, but you told her that you'd actually be moving back into your childhood home, just a few miles from the jackson compound. she was pleasantly surprised to find that you had fallen in love with the boy she'd been so certain you'd marry while she watched you play as children. your mother had always agreed too, and you later found out that so had katherine.

michael won his first grammy in the year that followed, and he thanked you in his speech—his 'beautiful lady'—despite how you hadn't even been in contact with him when he'd made the song he won the award for. to him that didn't matter, because you'd been in his mind the entire time, and you meant more to him than anybody else, therefore you must share the achievement.

your love only continued to blossom as you grew into adulthood together, and by the mid eighties, you were a married couple, away from hayvenhurst and in your own little bubble elsewhere in california, eventually with three sweet children of your own. you might have suffered for seven years of adolescence, but perhaps that suffering had been a blessing in disguise, because everything panned out how it needed to, and you would forever be grateful that michael jackson, your sweetest friend, was the man you were indebted to for the rest of your life.

i’m sleepy as hell posting this so i hope there were no typos! :3 it also took me almost a whole week to write because i’ve been so busy but god i adore childhood friends to lovers so much…

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[dracowars]

absolutely breathtaking ❤️‍🩹

[humannaturess]

JAAFAR GYATTSON — JAAFAR JACKSON

featuring: jaafar jackson x gf!reader synopsis: reader is once again terrorizing her boyfriend. warnings: suggestive themes. reader being a menace.

💌: i might (might) not be able to post tomorrow, so in case i can’t, i’m posting this right now.

taglist: @ruesredjacket @4ppl3h34d @tinydreamerpillar @delictezz @heartsforamari19 @sugarrushbell @bangchanunofficial @swavydadon @nayykura @plan3tch1ld @unseenleylinesecret @niyahctrl @animegamerfox @raefoxiegirl @applehead-luvr @a-motherfcking-fish @michaelsgirlie @sebbysbaby @helalokithor @poetsprey @60fspp @kryka83 @ilov3tosle3p @bladeeisjesus @umibug @erynnnn @lauren7050 @onegoodperson @trvpstarxvl @futilenaner @alexablanc @superlegend216 @gravenoirr @heyitsm4di @heartstofiiveunknownn @soimightlikeoldmen69 @cherrishkissed @bambijackson @kisscoqueen @ghazalbambi

if you want to be added or removed, let me know <3

[kaiwithlove]

۶ৎ paper rings, picture frames & dirty dreams. | j. logan

welcome to the dollhouse, dear reader!

short summary: where john logan wants to propose. unfortunately, the engagement ring is expensive, your future apartment is expensive, life is expensive, and he's slowly losing his mind. pairing: boyfriend!john logan x fem!reader word count: 6.2k warnings: angst with a happy ending, misunderstandings, emotional hurt/comfort, secret engagement planning, financial insecurity, discussions of money, reader thinking logan is cheating, emotional repression, crying, proposal anxiety, mild swearing, mentions of grief/loss of a parent, lots of kissing, dean di laurentis being aggressively unhelpful, garrett and tucker being the voices of reason for once, paper ring proposal, excessive use of "babe", tooth-rotting fluff at the end, reader is referred to as a she & as a woman, let me know if i missed any! all characters in this story are adults. english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors. a/n: full disclosure, i was bawling my eyes out writing this. i love logan so much. also, dean deserved at least three separate concussions for his behavior in this fic. also, i was very inspired by this. what's kai listening to: paper rings by taylor swift.

18+; mdni. likes, comments and reblogs are always and forever appreciated <3

The place was perfect.

You stood in the middle of the empty apartment, taking in the floor to ceiling windows, the marble of the breakfast bar, the pretty little notch in the kitchen island you couldn't wait to turn into a coffee bar. You could almost see it, almost smell the coffee brewing as the early morning sunlight filtered into room, caressing Logan's face with its golden fingers as he made breakfast. You could almost feel the way his mouth would curl against yours in a soft smile as you kissed him good morning, could almost hear his voice—

"Babe?" Logan's footsteps were soft against the hardwood floors as he rounded the corner with the realtor who was showing you the apartment. His dark hair was falling onto his forehead, blue eyes immediately finding you standing in the middle of the empty room. "What do you think?"

You meet his gaze, melting into him as he wraps an arm around your waist—casual, sweet. You loved that about him, loved that he wasn't a grand gestures, in-your-face romantic. He was steady, calm, the harbor in a storm. "I love it, Logan. It's beautiful."

He smiles at you, squeezing your waist before turning back to the realtor, Anna, taking off to follow her as she continued with the tour of the house. The property was honestly lovely—the kind of apartment you could see yourself living in after the two of you graduated college in a few months.

Senior year had been blissful, to say the least. After you and John finally—finally—began dating toward the end of your freshman year, life at Briar had transformed into something you never would've pictured for yourself. Weekends spent with the boys at the Hawks House, hanging out with Hannah and Allie on game days, parties that somehow always ended with you and Logan sneaking off to the firepit to sip beer and look at the stars. It was honestly hard to believe that you had been dating for only a couple of years—it felt like a lifetime.

And now, with finals, and graduation, and Logan being a shoo-in for the Bruins alongside Garret, you were excited to start the rest of your lives together. Most conversations these days between you and Logan were about apartments, where you guys would live after graduation. You were excited to move out of New Hastings and into Boston, where you'd been offered a job that was honestly, your dream since the day you walked into Briar U.

As Anna wrapped up the tour, you slipped your hand into Logan's, his palm rough, calloused against yours. Anna smiled as she handed you one of the brochures for the apartment. "So, the apartment would be around $3,900 a month. Utilities are not included, of course. I'll need the first and last month's rent if you decide to take the unit. The amount for the security deposit, as well as my fee is at the back of the brochure. If you have a few minutes, I'd recommend taking a walk around the block, familiarizing yourself with the neighborhood. I think you'd really like it."

You felt Logan's arm tense. Not too much—slight enough that you were sure you'd imagined it at first. But then, as you slipped the brochure into your purse, walking down the stairs, you noticed the slight crease in his brow, looking down at his phone. "Is everything okay?"

His gaze snapped up to yours instantly, his face softening the way it always did when he looked at you. "Of course it is, babe. Wanna take a walk around the block, see what's around?"

The two of you stepped out into the evening sun, hand in hand. The apartment was located in Beacon Hill, in a charming old brownstone. The cobblestone streets were lined with little luxury boutiques, antique stores, and gorgeous art galleries.

You passed several such stores in blissful silence, glancing idly at the displays in the windows, until—

"Oh, my God."

Logan was nearly yanked off-balance as you stopped short in front of the window of a jewelry store, mouth agape, staring at a pair of gorgeous diamond earrings. You turned to Logan. "These are exactly like the ones my mom had when I was a kid!"

Logan's face softened immediately. "Yeah?"

You turned back to the window display, pressing closer to the glass, close enough that your breath began to fog up the pane. The earrings were beautiful—simple diamond studs surrounded by a delicate halo of smaller stones. They were elegant, timeless.

"When I was little, my mom had a pair exactly like these. She wore them everywhere. To work, to date nights with my dad, even grocery shopping." A laugh escaped you, your gaze still fixed on the display, unable to tear your eyes away. "I used to sneak into her room and try them on when she wasn't looking."

Logan smiled faintly. You missed the way it didn't quite reach his eyes. "They're nice."

"Nice?" you repeated in mock offense. "John Logan, these are stunning."

"Right." Logan cleared his throat. "Stunning."

You finally dragged your attention away from the display to look at him properly. You couldn't seem to shake the feeling that something was off. You couldn't quite put your finger on it, but he hadn't been himself lately.

It had been happening more and more often—little moments where he seemed to disappear into his own head, where his smile seemed forced, where his eyes got this distant, faraway look in them, like he wasn't quite in the moment with you.

The crease between his brows was back.

Before you could even open your mouth to ask him about it, his phone buzzed, startling him. His hand immediately to his pocket, pulling out the lit up screen. Logan angled it away from you before you could even catch a glimpse of the caller ID, but you could see the look on his face—something between panic and relief.

Logan cleared his throat. "Sorry babe, I gotta take this."

"Everything okay?" you asked, trying to ignore the sickening sinking feeling blooming in the pit of your stomach.

"Yeah." The words spilled out of his mouth a little too quickly. Almost as if he could see the wheels in your head turning, Logan curled the corner of his lips into a smile—that familiar smile that usually settled every worry in your chest.

This time, it didn't.

Logan didn't seem to notice. "I'll be right back," he said, stepping away before you could say anything else, already lifting the phone to his ear.

You watched him retreat down the sidewalk, broad shoulders tensing underneath his jacket. You watched as his free hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing the spot at the top of spine like he always did when he was stressed.

Your stomach knotted itself further. Maybe it was hockey, maybe graduation, maybe apartment hunting. God knew the two of you had enough going on lately to make anyone lose their mind.

But somehow, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else.

You forced yourself to let it go, instead you turned back toward the jewelry store window. The earrings sparkled underneath the warm display lights—and before you could talk yourself out of it, you were reaching for the door handle.

A small bell jingled overhead as you stepped inside. The store was lovely. Crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, casting soft light over glass display cases. You felt like a kid in a candy store.

A saleswoman was by your side almost immediately. She looked to be in her fifties, dressed impeccably in black. "Welcome, dear. Can I help you with anything?"

You smiled, pointing toward the window. "Could I see those diamond earrings, please?"

"Excellent choice," the woman said, her face brightening.

A few moments later, she was placing them carefully on a velvet tray. Up close, they were even more beautiful. Gently, delicately, you lifted one. The diamond caught the light, scattering a million tiny rainbows across the glass.

Your mother's face flashed through your memory—helping you zip up your prom dress, teaching you how to curl your hair, laughing so hard tears rolled down her cheeks at Thanksgiving dinner. A sudden warmth bloomed in your chest, but it had nothing to do with the earrings and everything to do with the woman who raised you.

"Would you like to try them on?" the saleswoman asked.

You swallowed the lump of emotions in your throat as you nodded, lifting the stud to your ear. The woman stepped forward, helping you fasten them.

Slowly, you turned your head to the side, glancing in the mirror. Your face immediately cracked into a smile. "Oh."

"I take it that's a yes?" the saleswoman laughed.

You turned your head to the other side, watching them sparkle. They really were almost identical—close enough that your mom would've loved them. Without thinking too hard about it, you asked, "How much are they?"

The saleswoman named the price.

They were expensive—definitely expensive. But not impossible.

You'd been saving aggressively ever since accepting your job offer in Boston. Between that and the graduation gifts from family, you could afford them quite easily.

You looked at yourself one more time, thinking about your mother, about all the milestones waiting just around the corner—graduation, moving to a new city, a new life. "Can I give them gift wrapped?"

The saleswoman smiled knowingly. "Of course."

Twenty minutes later, you stepped back onto the sidewalk carrying a small, cream-colored shopping bag tied with a pink satin ribbon.

The evening sun was beginning to dip lower between the brownstone buildings. Down the block, you could see Logan, still on the phone. His back was turned you, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans, the other pressed tightly to his forehead.

Your smile faded. The call had clearly lasted longer than expected.

As if sensing your gaze, Logan looked up, his entire expression changing the moment he saw you. The tension vanished, the crease on his forehead smoothening out. His smile returned, easy, warm, and familiar.

But this time, you were almost certain it wasn't real.

His gaze dropped to the shopping bag in your hand. Something flashed across this face so quickly you nearly missed it. It wasn't annoyance, wasn't surprise—it was something heavier.

Before you could figure out what it was, it was gone, and Logan was walking toward you. "Ready to keep walking?"

You slipped your hand into his, the shopping back swinging lightly from your wrist. "Yep."

Logan squeezed your hand—one, two, three times.

Together, you continued down the cobblestone street, neither of you noticing that the things you weren't saying were beginning to pile up between you.

At first, you told yourself you were imagining things.

Logan had a lot on his plate—he really did. Graduation was only a few months away now, and the Bruins had practically been circling him for over a year now. Between practice, games, classes, apartment hunting, and preparing for an entirely new chapter of your lives, it would've been strange if he wasn't stressed.

That was what you told yourself, anyway.

It was becoming a lot harder to believe, now that three weeks had passed and nothing had changed. In fact, if anything, you were afraid they'd gotten worse.

The first thing you noticed were the late nights. Logan had always been the kind of person who could fall asleep practically anywhere—on the couch, during movies, in the passenger seat of your of your car on the trips home for Thanksgiving.

But now? You woke up at two in the morning to find his bed empty.

The first time it happened, you found him sitting at the table in the Hawks House' kitchen, his tired face bathed in the blue light of his open laptop.

When he noticed you, he slammed it shut so quickly that you jumped. "Jesus, Logan."

"What're you doing awake at this hour?" he asked, his eyes widening.

"I could ask you the same thing."

You could've sworn he looked almost guilty as he looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just couldn't sleep."

At the time, you'd accepted the explanation... until it happened again. The second time, he was sitting on the balcony, the third time, in the living room. The fourth time he was on the living room couch, claiming he was reviewing paperwork for the Bruins.

Every answer felt reasonable, but every answer somehow made you feel worse—because none of them explained why he looked so nervous, so guilty every time you caught him, or why he hid whatever was on his laptop, or why his phone suddenly never left his side.

You noticed the last part one Thursday afternoon, when the two of you were sprawled across the couch, your head in his lap, his fingers twisted in the ends of your hair as he watched a hockey game.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table, and Logan lunged for it so quickly you were nearly thrown off his lap. The movement was so abrupt that both of you froze.

A tense silence settled over the room. You had that feeling again—that strange, sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach like the day he got that phone call outside the jewelry store. It was stronger now, more potent, almost tangible.

Logan stared at you, forcing a laugh. "Sorry, babe."

Nothing—no explanation. You tried not to think about it, but once the thought entered your head, it became impossible to ignore, because there other things, too. Tiny, insignificant things that probably meant nothing... except they didn't feel like nothing.

You started noticing how often he stepped away to answer incoming calls, how frequently he angled his phone away from you. How many texts arrived late at night. How distracted he became whenever you asked him if everything was okay.

One evening, you were brushing your teeth in his bathroom when his phone lit up on the counter.

You weren't trying to snoop—genuinely. Your eyes simply caught the notification as his phone screen lip up with an incoming text. Your chest tightened—no name, just an unsaved phone number.

The screen darkened before you could read the message. Your fingers itched to reach out and hit the power button, to see what the text was, but no. You trusted Logan—you trusted him with your life.

A moment later, Logan entered the bathroom, almost as if he heard the distinct ding of the incoming text from where he lay on his bed. His gaze immediately found the phone, then you.

The tension in his shoulders materialized instantly. "What?"

You flinched at how sharp the word came out. "Nothing."

His face softened immediately. He stepped inside, reaching around you to pick up the phone, planting a soft, gentle kiss on your temple. "I'm sorry, babe."

You gave him a tight-lipped smile, but the damage was already done. That night you lay in bed next to him, staring at the ceiling. Try as you might, you couldn't fall asleep.

It was ridiculous. Logan loved you, you knew that. You'd never doubted it for a second, not once in almost three years.

John Logan wasn't a cheater. He wasn't.

So why did it suddenly feel like he was hiding something? The question followed you everywhere—to class, to work, to lunch with Hannah and Allie.

Which, unfortunately, spending time with Hannah and Allie only made things worse, because apparently, you were terrible at hiding your emotions.

"You okay?" Hannah asked, setting her coffee down.

You looked up from the drink you'd absentmindedly been stirring. "What?"

"You haven't heard a single thing we've said for the last ten minutes," Allie frowned. "Is everything okay with you and Logan?"

You immediately forced a smile, even as the concern in her voice made your stomach twist. "Yeah. Yeah, everything's okay."

The silence stretched as neither of them looked convinced. Then, Hannah's eyes narrowed. "Oh, my God."

"Hannah, no—"

"You think Logan's cheating on you."

The words came too fast out of your mouth. 'I do not."

Allie and Hannah exchanged a look that you could read all too well. It was a look you knew meant they didn't believe you.

"Oh, my God," Allie echoed.

You groaned. "I don't think he's cheating."

"Okay," Hannah said slowly. "Then why do you look like you're about to throw up every time somebody says his name?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Nothing came out—because saying it out loud would somehow make it real. It would make the the late nights, the secretive phone calls, the hidden laptop screens, the weird tension, the distance, the uncertainty—all of it would become far too real.

Suddenly, your coffee tasted like battery acid. Allie's face softened. "Oh, honey."

"I know how this sounds," you whispered, wrapping both hands around your cup. "I know Logan would never—"

The words caught in your throat. Would he?

The awful little voice in your head whispered something ugly—you'd trusted people before, you'd been wrong before. And lately, every time you looked at Logan, it felt like he was standing just a little bit farther away than he used to. Not physically, but emotionally, like there was an entire conversation happening inside his head that you weren't allowed to hear.

The thought made your chest ache, because the worst part wasn't the possibility that he was cheating.

The worst part was that for the first time since you'd fallen in love with John Logan, you weren't completely sure what was going on inside his heart.

John Logan had never thought buying an engagement ring would make him feel like he was losing his mind.

And yet, somehow, here he was—three P.M. on a Saturday afternoon, surrounded by his teammates, staring at a spreadsheet. A fucking spreadsheet. He stared at the screen, already able to feel a headache building as he fiddled with an old receipt from Malone's.

"You know," Dean said from where he was sprawled across the couch, "most people use computers for porn."

Logan didn't even look up. "Shut up."

"No, seriously. Every time I see you lately, you're glaring at that thing like it personally offended your family."

Across the room, Tucker glanced over from his phone. "What's on it?"

"Nothing."

"That's a lie," Garrett said immediately.

Logan finally looked up only to see that all three of them were staring at him, judging him. And honestly, fair. He'd been acting like an asshole for weeks. He knew that, but the worst part, he couldn't seem to stop.

Every time he thought he had things under control, something happened that sent him spiraling all over again—like the earrings.

Jesus Christ, the earrings.

He'd watched you walk into that jewelry store and nearly had a heart attack—not because you'd bought something, but because you'd looked so happy, so excited. He couldn't forget the way your entire face had lit up, and

all he'd been able to think was that the earrings probably cost more than the ring he could currently afford. The thought had followed him home, into bed, into practice the next day, into every waking moment since then.

Logan rubbed a hand across his face. "I need a drink."

"It's three o'clock," Tucker pointed out.

"I need several drinks."

Dean sat up. "Okay, that's it."

Logan frowned, his fingers folding and unfolding the scrap of paper he was still holding on to. "What?"

Dean pointed at him. "You've been weird for a month. Like, you look like you're about to be executed."

"Pretty fucking accurate," Garrett snorted.

Logan glared at both of them in vain—neither of them seemed even remotely intimidated.

Eventually, Garrett sighed. "Dude."

The single word carried enough weight that Logan meet his watchful eyes, studying him carefully. "You gonna tell us what's going on?"

The silence stretched out between them. Logan looked away first, and that, unfortunately, that answered the question.

Three seconds later, Dean practically launched himself off the couch. "Holy shit."

Tucker sat up straighter, meeting Dean's widened eyes. "Holy shit."

Garrett groaned. "Oh, for fuck's sake., what?"

Dean pointed toward Logan. "He's proposing."

Logan froze as the room fell silent, Garret's jaw dropping, Tucker's eyes widening. Then—

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT."

"Keep your voice down, Di Laurentis!" Logan snapped, rubbing an exasperated hand over his face.

Dean looked personally offended. "No."

"Tucker?"

"Nah, dude."

Logan looked over at Garret, who was already laughing. "Come on man, you too?" he groaned, dropping his head into his hands. This was a mistake—a massive mistake.

"I don't even have a ring yet." The words slipped out before he could stop them. Immediately, all three guys went quiet.

Garret frowned. "What do you mean?"

Logan let out a slow breath. If he was already talking, he might as well finish. "The ring I want is too expensive, and every cheaper option feels wrong." Neither of them seemed particularly impressed, but Logan pushed forward anyway. "She deserves something nice."

"She deserves you," Tucker said.

Logan ignored him. "She loves jewelry." The memory of the earrings flashed through his head again—the way your eyes had lit up, the excitement in your voice, the sheer joy.

Dean groaned. "Oh my God." He was looking at Logan like he was an idiot—all three of them were. That annoyed him, because he was already very well aware of the fact that he was being an irrational idiot. "You think she cares about how much the ring costs?"

Logan opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Before he could force his brain to string the words together, Garret beat him to it, staring pointedly at the piece of paper Logan was still messing around with. "She'd say yes if you propose with a Ring Pop."

"That's not the point," Logan sighed.

"That's exactly the point."

The front door opened before Logan could argue, the sound instantly drawing everyone's attention. A second later, a lilting, beautiful laugh floated into the house—a sound Logan would recognize anywhere. Your laugh.

His stomach tightened, eyes immediately looking for you as Hannah and Allie entered the house. You followed close behind, and immediately, every ounce of progress he'd made disappeared. Because there—shopping bags. Everywhere.

Bright little logos, gold embossing of luxury brands, of little boutiques, of department stores. Logan could feel his pulse spike. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean tensing, muttering under his breath, "Oh, for the love of God."

Logan shot him a warning look. Dean rolled his eyes so hard Logan was almost genuinely impressed.

He saw your sift through the room, landing on Logan, and for a moment, a flash of emotions flickered across your face—relief, followed by uncertainty, then settling into something colder, emptier, something that made his stomach drop.

"Hey." Your voice was soft, polite and distant.

Logan hated it with every ounce of his being. "Hey, babe."

You smiled, the look never reaching your eyes. A moment of tense silence enveloped the living room. Logan could feel every single pair of eyes zeroed in on the two of you, and apparently, you could too, because you shifted uncomfortably. "I think I'm gonna put my stuff away."

Before Logan could respond, you disappeared up the stairs. The silence that followed was deafening, everyone's eyes trained on Logan until Dean let out an exasperated sigh, smacking the back of his head.

"Ow!" Logan groaned. "What the fuck?"

"Go."

Logan was up on his feet immediately, slipping the folded paper object into his back pocket before Hannah and Allie could get a good look at it.

And for once, nobody argued. Nobody joked about him being whipped, nobody teased him for being wrapped around your finger—because even they could feel the tension, the distance, the way something had shifted between the two of you.

Logan found you in your bedroom, the shopping bags sitting on the floor next to the bed. You stood on the far end, unpacking them carefully, methodically, like you were trying really hard not to think about something.

The look on your face made his chest hurt. "Babe?"

You glanced up, eyes sliding over his face before going right back to what you were doing. "Hi."

The polite distance in your voice was killing him. Logan stepped closer, words tangling in his throat. He needed to explain, needed to tell you. Except, as it always did in any important moment, his words failed him.

You stared at him expectantly for a moment, then sighed. "I got you something."

"What?" Logan blinked, confusion clear on his face as he accepted the small box you were holding out to him. His emotions knotted tight in his throat as he opened it, because something made you think of him.

Inside, on a delicate velvet cushion, sat a Bruins keychain—a simple, unremarkable trinket that brought him to the forefront of your mind while shopping. Undeniable proof that you were thinking of him, even when you were out with Hannah and Allie, even when you were clearly vexed with him.

His throat tightened. "Babe—"

"I thought you'd like it," you said softly. The smile that accompanied the words was small, sad.

Logan hated it, but more than that, he hated the realization that he'd brought that expression on your face. Because the weeks of stress, of secrecy, of acting like a complete asshole had clearly taken a toll on your relationship, and now—now you were looking at him like you weren't sure what to do with him anymore.

Logan cleared his throat. "I think I owe you an explanation."

You met his eyes, and for the first time all day, he saw something other than distance—hope. It was tiny, fragile, almost undetectable, but it was there.

"Okay," you whispered. The word had barely left your mouth when his phone rang. Logan froze. No. No, no, no.

He glanced down at the caller ID, his heart sinking, and sure enough, it was the jeweler—the custom jeweler he'd been working with for weeks, the one he'd been desperately waiting to hear from.

Before his very eyes, your expression changed. The hope vanished, replaced by the same cold indifference as before. Logan's pulse quickened. "Babe—"

"It's fine."

"I just need a minute."

You waved your hand dismissively, stepping back to create physical space between the two of you. "It's fine, Logan."

His phone continued to ring as he realized this was all his doing. All this distance between the two of you was his creation. The realization hit him like a punch in the ribs, gutting him almost as thoroughly as you brushing past him with the words, "I'll see you downstairs."

And just like that, the conversation was over.

His phone rang again, demanding his attention once more. Logan stared at the screen, then out the bedroom room at the empty hallway you'd disappeared into, and for the first time in weeks, a terrifying thought entered his mind: maybe the ring wasn't the thing he should've been worried about losing.

The call lasted several minutes—several long, agonizing minutes.

Logan barely heard half of what the jeweler was saying, his mind barely registering the words. Custom setting. Center stone.

Any other day, it would've been exactly the conversation he'd been waiting for, but instead, all he could think about was the look on your face when you walked out of the room.

By the time he hung up and headed downstairs, he felt sick.

The house was louder downstairs, Dean arguing with Garrett about something while Hannah laughed. A hockey game was playing on the television like background noise.

Life was continuing exactly as normal, which somehow made everything worse—because nothing felt normal.

Logan found you sitting alone in the lawn chairs by the firepit in the backyard. The sun was beginning to set, painting the yard pink and gold.

You were curled up on the chair, knees tucked against your chest. For a minute, he stood there, just outside your line of sight, wondering how he'd managed to screw up so fucking royally.

The floorboard of the back stoop creaked beneath his weight as he took a step toward you. You lifted your head, your face closing off the second you saw him—and that was the moment Logan truly knew that whatever was happening between the two of you wasn't something he could smooth over with a kiss and an apology. "Can we talk?"

You stared at him for several seconds, then nodded slowly. "Sure."

He lowered himself into the chair next to you, a heavy, uncomfortable silence settling between the two of you—the kind that hadn't ever existed before.

Finally, you spoke. "Are you cheating on me?"

The question hit him so hard he physically recoiled. "What?"

Your laugh was humorless, boken. "I asked if you're cheating on me."

"Babe—"

"Because I don't know what else I'm supposed to think anymore." The words were spilling out faster now, like they'd been trapped inside you for weeks. "You won't talk to me. You leave the room to answer phone calls. You hide your laptop every time I walk in."

Logan's stomach dropped. He opened his mouth to speak, but you kept going.

"You barely look at me lately." Your voice cracked—just slightly, just enough that the sound tore straight through him. "And every time I ask what's wrong, you tell me you're fine."

And suddenly, Logan could see it, could see the weeks of secrecy, of distance, of unexplained behavior through your eyes. God.

Of course you'd think that.

Your eyes were shining now. "You know the worst part?" you whispered, looking away. "I would've rather had you tell me the truth."

The sentence shattered something inside him, because you genuinely believed it. You genuinely thought there was another woman. That after everything—after three years, after every promise, every late night conversation making plans for your future together, you thought he was capable of hurting you like that.

And it wasn't because you didn't trust him, but because he'd given you every reason to question him, to harbor these thoughts.

The realization hit him like a freight train.

"Baby, no," he whispered, his voice cracking. "No."

You blinked. "What?"

"No." The words stumbled out of his mouth broken, desperate. "I'm not cheating on you. God, no."

You stared at him, hurt and uncertainty written all over your tear stained face. He'd done that. He'd put that doubt there. The realization made Logan drop his head into his hands.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then everything he'd been carrying for months finally spilled out, summed up in eight simple words. "I was trying to buy you a ring."

Complete silence. Logan turned his head toward you to see your brows furrowed. "What're you talking about?"

Logan laughed, a miserable, exhausted sound. "The phone calls, the laptop, all of it. I wanted it to be perfect. The proposal, the dream, everything."

He could see your mouth parting slightly in surprise, but he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out anymore, couldn't stop the tears blurring his vision as he continued in messy, unfiltered sentences. "You love beautiful things,"

"Logan—"

"No, listen. You do." A helpless smile tugged at his mouth. "You stop at every jewelry store window."

You laughed softly despite yourself. "I do not."

"You absolutely do."

A tiny ember of warmth flickered between the two of you, then disappeared. Logan swallowed hard. "The earrings."

Your smile vanished. "The earrings?"

"That day in Boston. Babe, you were so happy."

You stared at him, completely lost, and suddenly Logan felt absolutely ridiculous, but he continued anyway, pushing through the discomfort of laying his heart bare, because where else would he be safe if not with you? "I couldn't stop thinking about how much you loved them."

"Because they reminded me of my mom."

"I know," Logan's voice dropped. "I know, babe. That's what made it worse. Because all I could think about was that if those earring made you so happy, your engagement ring should make you even happier."

He laughed shakily. "And every ring I could afford felt wrong. I kept looking at our apartment options, at budgets, at our future."

His eyes met yours, voice choking as a single tear finally escaped the confines of his long lashes. "I want to give you everything, my love. I want you to have the life you deserve."

"John."

"And it's—it's killing me that I can't do it. It was killing me that I couldn't afford the ring I wanted for you."

You hand flew to your mouth, the tears in your eyes mirroring his.

"And then I started thinking maybe I should wait." Logan shook his head. "But I don't want to wait."

A tear slid down your cheek. "John."

He barely noticed. "I want to marry you."

The words landed heavily between you—simple, honest, terrified.

Logan looked away, unable to hold your gaze anymore. "I know its stupid. I know how insane I sound." Silence, for a moment. Then, quietly: "But you deserve so much better than what I can give you right now."

The sound of your chair scraping as you stood up made Logan finally lift his eyes up off the floor. You crossed the space between the two of you without hesitation. Your hands found his face—warm and familiar and feeling like coming home.

"So let me get this straight." Your thumbs brushed beneath his eyes. "You thought I cared more about a ring than I care about you?"

Logan winced. "When you put it that way—"

"John Logan." The fondness in your voice made his heart stutter. "I like jewelry. I like sparkly necklaces and expensive dress. I like shiny things—but none of those things are you."

His breath caught in his throat as you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. "I don't care about a large sparkly diamond."

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

'You d—"

"I'd marry you with paper rings, John Logan," you whispered, as his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you to him like you'd disappear if he let go. "I'd marry you with a twist tie. I'd marry you with nothing at all. You're the one I want, and nothing's ever gonna change that."

Logan's vision blurred again, because suddenly, all those nights, all those spreadsheets, all the fears—they all felt so small compared to this, compared to what he had with you. Compared to the certainty in your eyes—the certainty he'd been too stupid to trust.

Something in Logan's chest stuttered, because suddenly, he remembered the folded receipt, still sitting in his pocket. He'd been folding and refolding it between his fingers while Garrett and Dean gave him hell earlier, creasing the paper absentmindedly, and before he could think, his hand was moving.

You frowned as he dug into his back pocket. "What're you doing?"

Logan looked down, letting out a watery laugh.

"Jesus." Carefully, he pulled out the crumpled strip of paper. The receipt had been folded and twisted so many times that it barely resembled what it once was.

Except somehow, he'd managed to fold it into a ring.

A crooked, terrible ring—the saddest excuse for jewelry in human history.

You stared. "Oh my God."

Heat flooded Logan's face. "I was nervous."

A laugh escaped you. "What does that have to do with—"

"I don't know." He was laughing now, too, half-hysterical, half-relieved. "I just kept folding the damn thing."

The ring sat trapped between his fingers, somehow more important than any diamond he'd spent months obsessing over. There was no diamond, no grand romantic gesture. Just you—just the love of his life.

Logan knelt, and despite all the words spilling out of him only moments before, the only word that parted his lips was, "Please."

"Are you serious?"

Logan's voice shook. "I don't have the ring yet. I don't have the proposal I wanted to give you. I don't have it all figured out right now. But I know I want forever, and I don't want it with anyone but you."

A tear tracked it's way down your cheek. "John."

"I know it's not much, but—"

"It's perfect."

"It's literally made out of a receipt."

You laughed through your tears. "So?" The sound nearly stopped his heart. "So was our first grocery list."

Logan laughed—a real laugh this time, the first one in weeks. "Please, babe? Will you marry me?"

"Yes. Yes, you big idiot, of course I'll marry you."

You stared the paper ring from his hand as though it were made of diamonds, holding out your hand for him to slide the ring onto your finger.

It fit terribly. You loved it.

And just like that, every spreadsheet, every budget, every sleepless night, every fear he'd carried for months disappeared.

Because standing in front of him was the woman he'd been trying so desperately to impress, the woman who loved sparkly things, who deserved the world.

The woman wearing a paper ring like it was the most beautiful piece of jewelry she'd ever owned.

💌: from kai, with love <3