Part 2 here <3
To Michael, you were dangerous.
You were everything he thought he shouldn’t want.
You were beautiful to him — not only beautiful, but magnetic.
Cute in a way that caught him off guard. You both shared certain things: the love for music, board games, comics, the obsession with perfection…
But to him, you also represented everything he tried to avoid.
You were impulsive, loud, fearless. Too honest. Too sensual. Too young in spirit. The kind of person who walked into a room and immediately changed the atmosphere without even trying.
You had met a couple of months earlier at John Branca’s birthday party. John was both your lawyer and Michael’s manager.
Michael was in the middle of a break from touring, quietly beginning work on his upcoming album — still untitled, with only two songs written so far. The creative block frustrated him more than he admitted to anyone.
And you…
You were becoming impossible to ignore.
A rising pop star still performing in downtown clubs despite your sudden success, your debut album had exploded almost overnight. Critics constantly compared you to Madonna, though you hated it. Your lyrics were darker, more personal — full of desperation, desire, anger, and vulnerability disguised as confidence.
Michael had heard your music before meeting you.
Everyone around him had been talking about you for weeks.
“She’s controversial,” Frank had warned him one afternoon.
“Talented,” Quincy corrected immediately.
Michael remembered laughing softly at that.
Then he saw you for the first time.
You were standing near the bar wearing black leather, silver jewelry glimmering beneath the dim lights, laughing loudly at something someone had said. Completely unaware that half the room kept staring at you.
And then you looked at him.
You didn’t seem nervous. You didn’t freeze or whisper or ask for photographs. Instead, you tilted your head slightly, studying him with amused curiosity before walking over like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hi,” you said casually. “You look bored.”
Michael blinked, almost caught off guard enough to laugh.
“I’m not bored,” he replied politely.
You talked and laughed until the party had almost completely emptied out, the music now low and distant while employees quietly cleaned around you. Michael couldn’t remember the last time speaking to someone had felt that easy.
That was when Frank finally approached the two of you, clearly surprised to still find Michael there.
“There you are,” he sighed dramatically before looking at you. “So you’re the reason he disappeared all evening.”
You grinned. “Was he supposed to be somewhere?”
“Usually avoiding people,” Frank answered.
Michael rolled his eyes softly, embarrassed. “Frank…”
But Frank only smirked knowingly.
Before leaving, you grabbed a napkin from the nearly abandoned bar and scribbled your number across it in messy black ink.
“Call me if you ever get bored again,” you teased.
Michael looked down at the napkin for a second longer than necessary before carefully folding it and slipping it into his jacket pocket.
At first, your friendship existed almost entirely through late-night phone calls. Conversations that were supposed to last ten minutes somehow stretched into three-hour discussions about music, movies, comic books, and childhood memories.
You discovered Michael loved stupid board games with an almost terrifying level of competitiveness. He discovered you collected vintage horror comics and secretly cried listening to old ballads when nobody was around.
Sometimes he would call you at two in the morning after leaving the studio, exhausted and frustrated because nothing sounded right anymore.
“You’re overthinking it,” you would tell him.
And somehow, you always managed to make him laugh again.
Other nights, you would drag him out of isolation completely. Tiny record stores hidden around Los Angeles. Arcades after midnight wearing sunglasses and disguises that never really worked. Cheap diners where Michael could sit in a booth for an hour talking about music theory while absentmindedly stirring untouched coffee.
With you, he could almost pretend he was normal.
The media started noticing quickly.
Your names appearing together at recording studios, bookstores. Tabloids immediately turned it into romance, scandals, secret affairs.
You both denied everything.
Mostly because neither of you fully understood what this was yet.
You called him your best friend during interviews. Michael smiled awkwardly anytime reporters mentioned you, changing the subject almost immediately.
But privately, the connection between you kept growing into something far more dangerous than friendship.
Because Michael Jackson had spent his entire life controlling himself.
And around you, he was beginning to lose that control completely.
And that was really dangerous to him.
Real intimacy terrified him in ways he could never properly explain.
At thirty-three, despite being one of the most famous men on earth, his actual experience with relationships was painfully limited. A few shy romances. A few awkward dates arranged by other people. Brief moments that never lasted long enough for him to feel comfortable.
Fame made everything worse.
Most women approached Michael Jackson the icon, not Michael the person. Some were intimidated before he even spoke. Others became overly flirtatious, performative, almost aggressive in their desire to impress him. And Michael, already naturally reserved, would immediately retreat into politeness and distance.
But you were different in the most confusing possible way.
You talked openly about sex, attraction, desire — casually, fearlessly, like discussing the weather. You danced without shame. Wore clothes that drove him wild without even seeming aware of it. Your interviews scandalized television hosts weekly because you answered questions no other female pop star dared answer honestly.
And Michael never knew where to look around you anymore.
Especially when you touched him so casually.
A hand on his shoulder while laughing. Fingers brushing his wrist when showing him lyrics. Leaning against him comfortably while listening to music together in the studio.
Small things.
Tiny things.
But to Michael, they felt catastrophic.
One night, the two of you were sitting cross-legged on the floor of his home studio surrounded by cassette tapes, empty soda cans, and scattered lyric sheets. Music blasted loudly through the speakers while you flipped through one of Michael’s notebooks.
You suddenly stopped reading and looked up at him with a smirk.
“You write sexual lyrics like someone who’s scared of sex.”
Michael nearly choked on his drink.
“I’m serious.” You laughed. “It’s all tension. Build-up. Fantasy. You circle around it instead of actually saying it.”
Michael stared at you, horrified and embarrassed at the same time.
You raised an eyebrow dramatically before reading aloud from the notebook in an overly theatrical voice:
“For the lips of a strange woman
Drop as a honeycombAnd her mouth was smoother than oilBut her inner spirit as sharp as a two-edged sword ”
Then you lowered the notebook slowly.
“See? You write like you’re afraid the woman’s gonna kill you.”
Michael covered his face, laughing despite himself.
“And you,” you replied, leaning closer with playful amusement sparkling in your eyes, “are ridiculously repressed.”
The room suddenly felt too warm.
Michael looked away immediately, trying to focus on literally anything else — the piano, the tapes, the floor — while your perfume lingered maddeningly close.
You noticed the reaction instantly.
That was another dangerous thing about you.
You noticed everything.
The nervous swallowing. The way his voice softened around you. The blush creeping across his cheeks whenever conversations became too intimate.
And instead of making fun of him for it, you became gentler.
Not softer exactly — you were never soft — but more careful with him.
Which somehow made everything even worse for Michael.
Because for the first time in his life, someone seemed to understand how fragile he really was beneath all the fame, mystery, and performance.
And the more you understood him, the harder he fell.
For some reason, every time you invited Michael to one of your club shows, he declined politely.
Always politely.
Always with an excuse.
“I’m working that night.”
“I have a meeting early tomorrow.”
At first, you didn’t think much of it. Michael was busy constantly — recording, rehearsing, hiding from the world half the time. But after months of friendship, the pattern became impossible to ignore.
He supported you in every other way imaginable.
He listened to unfinished demos over the phone at three in the morning. He gave detailed opinions about arrangements, lyrics, choreography, costumes, interviews. Sometimes he would spend hours helping you rewrite a single verse because one word “didn’t feel honest enough.”
“You’re rushing the bridge,” he told you once while replaying one of your tracks in the studio. “Let the tension breathe first.”
And annoyingly, he was always right.
You started calling him before every important performance.
“What do you think about opening with the slower song?”
“The black outfit or silver?”
“Too much choreography during the second chorus?”
Michael treated every question with absolute seriousness. But he never came to see it himself.
One night after rehearsal, you called him from backstage while removing smudged eyeliner in front of a cracked mirror.
“You know,” you said casually into the phone, “most friends actually come support each other.”
Michael laughed softly on the other end. “I do support you.”
“No. You hide in your house and criticize my lyrics like a little studio phantom.”
“You’ve never seen me perform.”
Not long. Just long enough.
You frowned slightly at your reflection.
“I know,” he said quietly.
“Then why don’t you come?”
But Michael didn’t answer immediately, because the truth was humiliating.
Michael had seen clips of your performances before. Enough to know exactly what happened at those clubs. The tiny stages drenched in red light. Your body moving confidently against dancers and strangers alike. The provocative choreography. The sweat. The eye contact. The way entire crowds practically worshipped you while you performed songs dripping with sexuality and rebellion.
And worst of all — the way you seemed completely comfortable doing it.
You were fearless onstage.
Meanwhile Michael, despite decades of performing, had built his entire persona around control. Suggestion. Mystery. Seduction through illusion.
You were raw in a way he didn’t know how to process.
The idea of standing in a crowd watching you move like that in front of hundreds of people made something sharp twist painfully inside his chest.
Jealousy. Attraction. Desire. Fear.
He couldn’t even separate them anymore.
“Michael?” you repeated softly.
He rubbed a tired hand across his face before finally admitting, barely above a whisper:
“I think it would make me crazy.”
Your expression softened instantly.
“I meant the crowds,” he corrected quickly. “The clubs. People get wild there.”
“When’s your next show?” he asked abruptly, trying to regain control of the conversation.
“You should rest your voice tomorrow.”
“There he is,” you grinned. “Back to producer mode.”
Michael smiled despite himself, relieved by the subject change.
But after hanging up, the uneasy feeling remained. Because the truth was worse than what he had almost admitted.
He did want to see you perform. Too much.
That Friday night, Michael sat restlessly inside the backseat of a black SUV while Frank looked at him with visible amusement.
Michael pulled his baseball cap lower. “We’re not staying long.”
Frank laughed outright at that.
“You sound like a teenager sneaking around to watch his crush.”
Michael turned toward the window immediately, refusing to answer.
The club sat hidden beneath glowing neon signs and vibrating bass powerful enough to shake the sidewalk outside. A line of people wrapped around the block despite the late hour.
Michael already regretted coming.
The second they entered through the back entrance, the atmosphere hit him all at once — heat, smoke, perfume, flashing red lights, bodies moving together beneath deafening music.
It felt completely different from the arenas he knew.
More intimate. More dangerous.
Frank guided him upstairs toward a hidden VIP balcony partially shielded from the crowd below.
“You can see the stage from here,” Frank explained.
Michael nodded distractedly, barely listening.
The club suddenly erupted into screams.
Then the lights dropped and you walked onto the stage.
Michael forgot how to breathe for a moment. The crowd exploded instantly at the sight of you.
Dressed in black, glittering under harsh crimson lights, you moved across the stage with effortless confidence, feeding off the energy around you like it belonged to you naturally.
Michael stared silently as the first song began.
Seeing you live was infinitely worse than he imagined. Because television clips hadn’t captured the intensity of your presence. The way your voice rasped slightly during lower notes. The sweat shining against your skin beneath the lights. The dangerous eye contact you maintained with the audience like you were personally seducing every person in the room.
People worshipped you down there.
And the worst part was realizing you loved it.
“You okay?” Frank asked quietly beside him after noticing Michael hadn’t moved in several minutes.
Michael nodded automatically, though his eyes never left the stage.
Then your second song started. A slower one.
And halfway through it, you glanced absentmindedly toward the balcony.
Not expecting anything.
But for one terrifying second, your eyes almost landed directly on Michael.
He instinctively stepped backward into the shadows.
Frank looked at him incredulously.
Down onstage, smiling beneath the lights, you kept singing completely unaware that the most famous man in the world was hiding in the dark just to watch you.
Your set finally came to an end sometime after midnight, the crowd screaming your name while flashing lights swallowed the stage again. A DJ took over immediately afterward, heavy bass vibrating through the entire building as people rushed back onto the dancefloor.
Only then did Michael relax slightly.
He leaned back into the VIP couch beside Frank, removing his sunglasses for the first time that night while a waitress quietly placed drinks on the table.
Frank smirked knowingly. “So?”
Michael tried to sound casual. “She’s talented.”
Frank stared at him blankly.
“That’s your professional analysis?”
Michael ignored him, taking a sip of his drink instead. But internally, his thoughts were chaos.
Because seeing you perform had affected him far more than he wanted to admit. The confidence, the energy, the way you completely commanded the room without even trying — it stayed burned into his mind even now.
And worse, he kept replaying small details involuntarily.
The way your voice cracked slightly during one song.
The sweat glimmering against your neck beneath the lights.
The way strangers touched your hands while you sang near the crowd.
Michael hated how much that last part bothered him.
“You’re staring into space again,” Frank noted.
“I’m thinking.”
Before he could answer, movement near the entrance caught Frank’s attention first.
You were walking directly toward the VIP area still dressed in your stage outfit, slightly sweaty from performing, laughing with two friends beside you. The second your eyes landed on Michael, you froze mid-step.
For a moment, pure confusion crossed your face.
Frank physically turned away to hide his laughter.
You walked closer carefully, looking between both men suspiciously.
Michael opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
“You said you were home tonight.”
“You said you were tired.”
Frank lost the battle completely and burst out laughing into his drink.
Michael shot him a murderous look.
You, meanwhile, were now smiling in a way that made Michael immediately nervous.
Michael looked genuinely trapped now. You laughed quietly, shaking your head.
For some reason, the sight of him there — hiding upstairs in dark clothes like a guilty teenager sneaking into a concert — felt strangely endearing.
Especially because Michael Jackson clearly had no idea how obvious he was being.
“You’re unbelievable,” you murmured, still smiling.
Michael finally looked up at you then, visibly embarrassed but unable to stop a small smile from appearing too.
“You were good tonight,” he admitted quietly.
Your expression softened instantly, but Michael realized maybe coming had been a terrible idea for entirely different reasons than he originally thought.
The three of you stayed in the VIP section while the club continued exploding around you. Music pounded through the walls and floor, colored lights flashing across the room every few seconds while waitresses moved between crowded tables carrying drinks and cigarettes burned slowly in crystal ashtrays nearby.
You talked about the setlist, the crowd, songs you wanted to record next. Michael became animated whenever music entered the conversation, his hands moving constantly while explaining arrangement ideas or stage concepts.
“You waste moments sometimes,” he told you seriously at one point. “Right before the chorus drops. The audience wants anticipation — make them wait another second.”
You tilted your head thoughtfully. “That’s actually… really smart.”
Michael smirked softly. “I know.”
The alcohol relaxed him slightly. Not enough to make him reckless, but enough that his usual nervous tension softened around the edges. His laugh came easier now. His shoulders less rigid.
And every time you touched his arm while talking, Michael noticed.
About an hour later, Frank checked his watch and stood up with a tired sigh.
“I’m old. I’m leaving you two children here.”
Michael barely looked up. “Goodnight, Frank.”
Then suddenly, it was just the two of you.
The music downstairs shifted into something slower now, bass still vibrating beneath your feet while people danced under dim red lights.
You leaned back against the couch, studying Michael carefully. Without Frank there distracting everything, you noticed how different he looked tonight. More relaxed than usual. Hair slightly messy from repeatedly running his hands through it. Tie loosened. Sleeves pushed up carelessly.
“You really liked the show?” you asked softly after a moment.
Michael looked at you over the rim of his glass.
“Yes. You have a lot of energy.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “That’s your diplomatic answer.”
Michael smiled nervously, gaze dropping for a second.
You noticed again how easy it was to fluster him. It fascinated you.
One of the most famous, desired men in the world — and yet sitting here across from you, he still became shy whenever attention turned toward him personally.
“You know what your problem is?” you asked.
Michael sighed dramatically. “Apparently I have many.”
Michael looked up slowly at that. The flashing lights from downstairs briefly illuminated your face in red and blue shadows while the music echoed around you.
And suddenly the atmosphere between you shifted.
Subtle but unmistakable. Neither of you spoke for a few seconds. Michael’s heartbeat sped up slightly for reasons he desperately tried ignoring.
The way you were looking at him now felt different from before. You were closer.
And that situation screamed danger from every direction.
Michael could not stop looking at your mouth. Which was a problem. A very serious problem. Because once Michael wanted something emotionally, truly wanted it, he loved intensely. Obsessively, even. He knew that about himself already. He hid it well from the world, but it was there underneath everything — all that restraint, all that control.
And you… You made that control weaker every single day.
He tried pulling himself back mentally. Focus on the music. The crowd downstairs. Literally anything else.
But then you leaned closer again while talking, smiling slightly, your perfume wrapping around him so completely it became difficult to think straight, because of the unbearable urge to kiss you.
And what terrified Michael wasn’t just the kiss itself, it was knowing he wouldn’t want to stop afterward.
At thirty-three, Michael carried intimacy differently than most people expected. The world saw him as desired, mysterious, sensual onstage — but privately, emotionally, he was still painfully inexperienced. Careful. Frighteningly vulnerable beneath all the fame.
Physical closeness meant too much to him.
A kiss would not just be a kiss. Not with you.
Because Michael already knew, deep down, that if he crossed that line, he would fall completely. There would be no distance anymore. No pretending this was still harmless friendship.
He couldn’t let this happen accidentally. Not inside a nightclub.
Not while feeling this out of control.
And especially not with you.
Because despite how badly he wanted you in that moment, Michael could not separate physical intimacy from emotion. To him, sex meant vulnerability. Trust. Love. It meant giving someone access to parts of himself he had protected his entire life.
And you mattered too much to reduce it into something reckless, something impulsive.
Something that would feel ugly afterward.
He respected you too deeply for that. Cared about you too much already.
The thought of waking up the next morning wondering if he had used you — or worse, if you thought that was all you meant to him — made his stomach twist painfully.
If Michael ever crossed that line with you, it couldn’t happen like this.
It would have to mean something.
It would have to be careful. Romantic. Intentional. Perfect.
The realization almost scared him more than the attraction itself.
You noticed his breathing change slightly. The way his jaw tightened. The way his fingers flexed nervously against the glass in his hands.
Your expression shifted immediately, confused by the sudden distance.
“It’s late.” His voice sounded strained now. “I have work tomorrow.”
“You were just fine two seconds ago.”
Michael grabbed his jacket almost mechanically, avoiding your eyes now because he knew if he looked at you too long again, all the self-control he had left would disappear.
You stood slowly too, studying him carefully. You understood this wasn’t rejection, it was fear.
“Michael,” you said more gently now.
He finally looked at you.
Because you stepped closer instinctively, concern softening your expression, and for one devastating second Michael genuinely considered kissing you anyway.
He imagined it too vividly. Your hands against him. Your mouth on his. The complete loss of control afterward.
His heart slammed painfully against his ribs.
So instead, he stepped back.
A small movement but it felt enormous.
Your face fell slightly, trying to hide the hurt and Michael hated himself instantly for it.
“No,” he said quickly, almost desperate now. “It’s not you.”
He opened his mouth. Nothing honest could come out.
How could he possibly explain this without sounding insane? That he wanted you too much? That he was terrified of how deeply he could attach himself to someone? That despite everything people assumed about him, he still felt emotionally untouched in ways that embarrassed him deeply?
So instead, Michael just shook his head softly.
You stepped closer again anyway.
Before he could react, your arms slowly wrapped around his neck, pulling him just close enough that he could feel the warmth of your body against his. The hurt was still there in your eyes now — softened by confusion, vulnerability, and something dangerously close to affection.
Michael’s breath caught instantly.
“Kiss me, Mikey” you whispered.
The nickname alone nearly destroyed whatever control he still had left.
Michael just stared at you, at your lips, at your eyes.
At the way you were looking at him like you wanted him as bad as he wanted you.
His hands instinctively moved to your waist, gripping gently, almost unconsciously. And the second he touched you properly, Michael realized how impossible this was becoming. Every part of him wanted to give in.
Years of loneliness. Curiosity. Desire. Emotional restraint held together by sheer discipline — all collapsing at once under your hands.
His forehead lowered briefly against yours as he closed his eyes, visibly struggling. When he finally looked at you again, his expression was almost pleading.
“Come on, baby…” he murmured softly, voice rougher than usual. “You know I can’t.”
You searched his face for a second, trying to understand him.
Michael almost never said no to you, but this felt different.
Your hands slowly slid from around his neck, though you stayed close enough that he could still feel your breath against his skin.
The music downstairs kept shaking the floor beneath you both while people laughed and danced completely unaware of the crisis happening upstairs in the shadows.
You studied him for another moment before gently touching his face.
Michael melted a little at that automatically.
“You know,” you murmured, “most men wouldn’t stop themselves.”
“No,” you smiled faintly. “You really aren’t.”
Silence settled again, quieter this time. Then Michael carefully took your hand in his.
And finally, before he could overthink it, he leaned down and pressed the softest kiss imaginable against your forehead. Your eyes closed briefly.
When he pulled away, Michael was smiling shyly now, almost apologetically.
“If I kiss you,” he admitted softly, “I’m not gonna want to stop.”
Your heartbeat skipped instantly.
Michael looked exhausted suddenly — emotionally exhausted. Like fighting himself every second around you had become tiring.
So you stepped closer one last time, gently fixing the collar of his jacket.
“I’m not gonna force you to do anything,” you said softly. “But someday you’re gonna stop overthinking everything.”
He looked at you for a long second, eyes warm and conflicted all at once.
Then, before he could lose his nerve, he lifted your hand slowly and pressed a soft kiss against your fingers.
The gesture was so unexpectedly tender it almost hurt.
“Goodnight,” he whispered. “Please get home safe.”
You smiled softly. “You too, Mike.”
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then Michael finally let go of your hand and forced himself to turn away before he changed his mind completely.
Security opened doors for him, cold night air replacing the heat and smoke from inside while fans somewhere down the street screamed after noticing him leaving. Michael barely registered any of it.
By the time he slid into the backseat of the black SUV, his heart still hadn’t slowed down.
The door shut quietly behind him. And suddenly, alone in the darkness of the car, Michael exhaled shakily and leaned his head back against the seat.
He could still feel you.
Your arms around his neck.
Your voice whispering kiss me.
The warmth of your body standing impossibly close to his.
Michael closed his eyes tightly.
He had wanted to kiss you so badly.
More than badly. Desperately.
And what scared him most was knowing that if he had kissed you tonight, even once, everything between you would have changed forever.
Because Michael already knew himself well enough to understand one thing: He would not survive loving you casually.
Outside the tinted windows, Los Angeles blurred into streaks of gold and red lights while the city moved on around him. Somewhere behind them, the club was still alive, music still shaking the walls, you probably laughing with friends completely unaware of the crisis you had left inside him.
Michael stared down at his hands silently and a small smile appeared.
Dangerous, you really were. That word kept echoing in his head. Almost instinctively, Michael reached for the small leather notebook he always carried with him. The car hit a red light just as he quickly scribbled the word across an empty page.
He stared at it for a second and smiled slowly to himself.
For months he had been unable to find the soul of the album. The feeling holding everything together. And somehow, after one night with you, the answer suddenly felt obvious.
Michael leaned back against the seat again, still staring at the word written across the page while the car began moving through the sleeping city. All he could think about now was how badly he wanted to see you again.
