pairing — mature!michael jackson x black fem!reader
rating — explicit (18+)
word count — around 6.2k (i think probably more)
summary — what starts as hurt and neglect becomes a raw reminder of how deeply he needs you.
warnings — smut, profanity, implied relationship neglect, slight angst, make up sex, oral (reader receiving), p in v, pet names ( baby, sweetheart, good girl, princess, angelface, babygirl, sweet thing), praise kink, soft dom!michael, sub!reader, reader is a bit bratty, emotional vulnerability, yearning + his vitiligo is briefly mentioned (LOTS OF I LOVE YOU’S!)
a/n — whew im so obsessed with michael i just had to whip something up im down bad also feedback is appreciated thank you and pls drop ideas in my ask box my requests are open i def wanna write more of him :)
You were sprawled across the bed irritated. You had known his concert would run late this life came with waiting.
Your phone was in your hand as you scrolled with sharp, restless movements, the kind that said everything your silence didn’t.
You heard the keycard slide into the lock. The door opened. Closed. The soft pad of his expensive loafers tapped against the floor.
“Baby?” came his voice, softer than the stage version of him you knew the world worshipped. Tired. Careful. Almost searching.
"I know I'm late. The concert ran over, and then there was the afterparty, and i couldn't get away.”
You looked up from your phone. He was at the edge of the bed already, just standing there like he wasn’t sure if you were going to talk to him or ignore him.
“I don’t care about the afterparty, Michael,” you said, meeting him at the edge of the bed.
He sighed, long and deep. "Don't do this. Not tonight. I've had a long day. The crowd was insane, and I gave everything I had on that stage, and all I could think about was getting back to you."
You looked up at him, letting him see the frustration in your eyes.
“I’ve been in this suite for hours. I chose not to go to the show tonight. I watched you perform live from here, and then I just… waited. I’ve reorganized the minibar, counted bathroom tiles, watched like three soap operas I don’t even understand.”
He stood there in a all black tailored jacket, fitted shirt underneath slim trousers that clung to him so well.
He looked so good in black too good, honestly.
"I'm here now," he said softly.
"Are you?" You sat up, tossing your phone aside. "Because it feels like I'm dating a ghost. A very busy ghost who forgets I exist”
His jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration in his face before it softened. “You know that’s not true. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I wasn’t here.”
“Then why does it feel like that every time?” Your voice came out quieter now, less angry and more tired. “I know you don’t mean it, Michael… but I’m still the one sitting here feeling it.”
His eyes met yours again, softer now. “It gets chaotic out there and I come off stage and it’s just… people pulling me in every direction. Interviews, crew, everyone needing something from me.” He shook his head slightly. “And then I get back here and I realize I didn’t even check in with you properly.”
He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “I’m not trying to make you feel like that.” A pause. “I swear I’m not.”
"Then prove it." You said smirking.
He took a step closer then another, not breaking eye contact.
"You want me to prove it?" His voice dropped, losing that soft edge and gaining something darker. "Is that what this is about?."
That was exactly what you wanted. You were angry with him, but underneath it all, the need was there.
It had been a while since you two had sex his busy schedule had kept him away from you.
“Well-”
"Don't." He held up a hand, and your mouth snapped shut. "Don't lie to me sweetheart . I know you. I know that look in your eyes. That challenge. Like you're daring me to do something about it."
You met his gaze, refusing to back down. "Well maybe i do want you to do something about it."
He was standing too close. Looking too good. Smelling like that familiar cologne that made your focus slip.
“Mm.”
“Talk to me. Tell me what you need right now.”
A small breath left you. “You,” you said quietly. “I need you. Right now.”
A long pause and then, slowly, he reached up and unbuttoned his jacket.
He shrugged it off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor without looking at it.
Then he tugged his shirt over his head.
You couldn't help but let your eyes trail over his lean torso, the smooth skin, the subtle definition of muscles built by years of dancing.
He took your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.
"Baby," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Look at me please."
You did. Oh, you always did. Those eyes of his pulled you in like gravity.
"I know I'm gone too much. I know it's hard. Harder than you thought it would be when you signed up for this." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "But I need you to understand something. When I'm out there, in those lights... a part of me is always here. With you. You're the only real thing in my life, do you understand?"
"Yes but why do I feel so invisible?" The words came out cracked, vulnerable.
"Because I'm an idiot." He smiled his smile was so pretty. "Because I get so caught up in trying to be perfect for everyone else that I forget to be perfect for the one person who actually matters."
He leaned in and kissed you your hands came up to grip his shoulders, as the kiss deepened instantly, turning messy and heated. His mouth moving against yours with desperation.
“Fuck…” he muttered when he finally pulled back for air, eyes dropping to your lips he was addicted to your lips.
“Your mouth is so sweet.”
He kissed you again his tongue sliding against yours, slower this time, savoring it, and the soft sound that escaped your throat only seemed to make him melt further into you. One of his hands tightened at your waist while the other moved up your neck, holding you close like he couldn’t get enough.
“I’m gonna take care of you,” he whispered against your mouth.
“How?” you asked softly, tilting your head just enough to look up at him through your lashes like you didn’t already know exactly what that tone in his voice meant.
His fingers slid slowly along your waist beneath the thin fabric of your nightgown. "I’m about to show you."
He undressed you slowly each piece like he was unwrapping a gift he'd been waiting years to open. When you were bare beneath him, your skin prickling in the cool hotel air, he just looked at you. His gaze traveled over every curve, every dip, every shadow.
"God, you're beautiful," he breathed. "Do you know that? Do you know how many nights I've thought about this? About you? When I'm out there, dancing, singing, giving myself to thousands of people... all I can think about is coming back here and being inside you."
He pressed you back against the pillows, his body covering yours. He kissed down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. His tongue circled your nipple, and you arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair.
"You like that?" he murmured against your skin.
"You know I do."
"I want to hear you say it."
His mouth moved lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, your hips. Your breath hitched as he headed further down your body.
"Baby?"
"Hmm?" He looked up at you, his lips inches from where you wanted him most. His nose traced along your inner thigh, and you felt his breath hot against your core. "Something you want to say?"
"Stop teasing."
He laughed, low and dark. "Always demanding." His hands pressed your thighs apart, spreading you open to his gaze you were so wet.
"But I know how to shut you up, don't I?"
He lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue against your clit was electric. You gasped, your hips bucking, but his big hands held you in place. He licked you slowly like he was savoring you. Like you were a delicacy he'd been denied for too long.
"Oh, fuck..."
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Your fingers grabbed the sheets your thoughts scattered as heat blurred everything you were trying to stay mad about.
He hummed against you, the vibration alone sending a ripple straight through your whole body.
His tongue circled your clit dipping lower against your entrance. He fucked you with his tongue, and you clutched the sheets even tighter, your mind going blank.
“That’s it,” he said, pulling back just enough to speak. “There she is.”
“Couldn’t wait to get back here and put my mouth on you."
"Oh, please"
“Please, what?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.
“Please don’t stop,” you said, barely above a whisper.
He didn't his tongue worked you with skill that made your toes curl and your eyes roll. He found every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and moan. His fingers joined the party, sliding inside you, curling in that perfect come here motion that hit your g-spot dead on.
"You're so wet for me," he said, his voice muffled against your flesh. "So perfect. All mine. I can just taste how much you need me."
"Yes, yes, all yours-"
"Who do you belong to?" He looked up at you, his chin glistening, his eyes dark with hunger.
"You. Only you, Michael. I promise."
"That's right." He went back to work, his tongue lapping at your clit while his fingers pumped inside you.
The pressure was building, coiling in your belly like a spring being wound tighter and tighter. Your hips moved against his face, chasing the pleasure, and he let you. He let you ride his mouth, his tongue, his fingers.
"Come for me sweet girl," he coaxed. "Please, baby, wanna taste it." He begged.
That was all it took. The wave crashed over you, and you screamed his name, your body convulsing as pleasure ripped through you. He didn't stop, lapping up every drop, drawing out your orgasm until you were a trembling, gasping mess. He groaned against you as you came, like he was drinking in your pleasure, needing it as much as you needed to give it.
He crawled up your body, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your neck, until he was hovering above you. You could taste yourself on his lips when he kissed you.
"See?" he whispered. “That's what you've been missing. I'm going to remind you, over and over, just how much you mean to me.”
He reached down, and you heard the sexy rustle of his belt, the zip of his pants.
"I've been thinking about being inside you all night. Every dance move. Every moment I was on that stage, I was imagining this."
He kicked his pants off, and you felt his cock, hard and thick, pressing against your thigh.
"And now I'm going to fuck you until there's nothing in your head but me."
"Promises, promises." You teased.
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just a raw, predatory intent. "Still smart-mouthing? Don't worry. I know exactly how to fix that."
He lined himself up at your entrance, the tip pressing against you, but he didn’t move. He just held there, teasing you with what was coming next.
"Keep your eyes on me."
You did.
"I love you," he said. "I know I don't say it enough. I know I don't show it enough. But I love you. And I'm going to spend the rest of this night proving it. I need you to understand that every time I'm out there you're all I can think about."
He pushed in slowly inch by inch. You felt yourself stretching around him, accommodating to his size. He filled you completely, deeper than you thought possible, and when he was fully sheathed inside you, he paused.
His gaze dropped to where your bodies were joined a low breath leaving him.
“Oh, what a sight…” he said his hands tightening against your waist.
“Nothing between us. I need this. I need you.”
"Oh fuck..it feels so good."
"Tell me you love me."
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you, Michael. I love you."
He began to move. Slow, deep strokes that hit places you didn't know existed. His hips rolled against yours, and the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. He wasn't fucking you fast or hard. Not yet. He was making love to you, taking his time, worshipping you with every thrust.
"You feel so good," he breathed against your ear. "Taking me so well. So perfect. This pussy was made for me, wasn't it? Tell me it's mine."
"All mine. Come on say it."
"Yes, yes, it's yours-"
"It's all yours. Every part of me."
He kissed you, deep and demanding, his tongue fucking your mouth in time with his cock fucking your cunt. His hand found your clit, rubbing in circles, and you felt that coil tightening again.
"Already?" He smiled against your lips. "You're so sensitive tonight. Or did you miss me that much?"
"Shut up and fuck me."
"There she is." He laughed, but it turned into a groan as he picked up the pace. "There's my bratty girl. Always gotta have the last word, don't you?"
"Make me shut up then if you don’t like it.”
His eyes flashed. He pulled out, and before you could protest, he grabbed your legs and pushed them up, hooking your ankles over his shoulders. The position opened you up completely, and when he slammed back into you, he went deeper than ever before.
“I.. you’re so deep.” you mumbled not even able to finished what you were going to say fully.
"That's what I thought." He braced his hands on either side of your head, caging you in with his body. His face was inches from yours, his breath hot on your lips. "You wanted my attention? You've got it. All of it every drop i'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere.
The new angle was hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. Your fingers clawed at his back, your moans turning into incoherent babbles. His skin was slick with sweat, the vitiligo patterns on his back glistened under the light.
“You drive me insane,” he grunted.
“Being so good for me now, after how angry you were minutes ago.”
“I was-I am-“
"I know." He leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. "And I deserve it. I deserve every bit of your anger. But right now, I just want to make you feel good i need to feel your body come apart around me."
"Michael..." you babbled that was all you could say.
"Give in to me. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere. I love you so much it scares me sometimes."
He kissed you, sloppy and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours. His hand found yours, interlocking your fingers, pressing your palm into the mattress beside your head. He held your hand tight, like he was afraid you might disappear.
"I need you," he whispered against your lips. "I need you so bad sweet thing. You don't even know. When I'm out there, when the lights are blinding me and the crowd is screaming, I close my eyes and I see your face. That's what gets me through. That's what keeps me going."
His thrusts grew more urgent, even more desperate. "I can't do this without you. I don't want to do this without you. You're everything to me."
His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed you in frantic circles, matching the pace of his hips.
"Come for me," he commanded, but his voice was raw, pleading. "Please, baby."
Your orgasm ripped through you, so intense that you saw white. You screamed his name, your body convulsing, your inner walls clenching around him like a fist. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes locked on yours, watching you fall apart.
"That's it," he breathed. "That's my princess. I love you. I love you so much."
He didn't stop though. He kept fucking you through it, riding out every wave, every pulse. And then you felt him stiffen, heard his guttural groan as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you up completely. His body shuddered above you, his grip on your hand tightening almost painfully as he rode out his orgasm.
"I love you," he gasped, the words falling from his lips like a prayer. "I love you, I love you, I love you." He didn’t care how many times he had to say it.
He collapsed on top of you his cock twitching inside you as he rode out the last of his orgasm. For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Finally, he shifted, pulling out slowly. But he didn't move away. He stayed close, his body still covering yours, his face buried in your neck.
"I'm sorry," he whispered against your skin. "I'm sorry I make you feel like you don't matter. I'm sorry I'm always gone. I'm sorry I'm not here when you need me."
“Michael, you-” your voice caught, breath uneven. “I’m sorry… I should’ve just-”
You looked away for half a second, guilt finally breaking through the frustration you’d been holding onto all night.
"No, let me say this." He lifted his head, and his eyes were wet. "I know I'm not easy to love. I know I'm complicated. I know I have all these walls and all these fears. But you... you break through all of them. You make me feel like I can be normal. Like I can just be a man in love with a woman."
“I know you’re tired,” you whispered. “I know you’ve been working nonstop and I just… I miss you so much sometimes it makes me angry.”
“Babygirl…” he breathed, forehead resting against yours. “You never have to apologize for wanting me.”
"Angelface." You said reaching up, cupping his face in your hands. "I'm not going anywhere. I love you. All of you. Every part of you."
"You mean that?"
"I mean it."
He kissed you, soft and sweet this time. Gentle. A promise.
"Let me show you again," he whispered.
"Ride me," he breathed. "I want to watch you.“
He shifted, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him until you were straddling his hips. His hands found your waist, guiding you as you sank down onto him, taking him deep inside you.
You moved on top of him, finding your rhythm. His hands slid up your thighs, your hips, your stomach, finally cupping your breasts. His thumbs circled your nipples, and you moaned, throwing your head back.
"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice full of awe. "How did I get so lucky? How did I find someone like you?"
“You’re so sweet” you muttered softly, almost shy now as if you weren’t currently riding him.
"I mean it." His hips bucked up into you, meeting your movements. "I don't deserve you. But I'm too selfish to let you go."
“You’re not selfish,” you murmured weakly, the words breaking apart as moans slipped from the both of you.
"I am. When it comes to you.”
He sat up, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. The position changed the angle, and you gasped as he hit that spot again. He held you tight, his face buried in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.
"I need you so much it hurts.“
"Tell me you're mine again."
"I'm yours. All yours Michael."
He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. His hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements, setting the pace.
"Come for me again," he begged. "Please.”
You were close. So close. The pressure was building, coiling tight in your belly. He reached between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles.
"That's it," he coaxed. "I've got you. I'll always have you."
You came with a cry, your body shuddering against his. He held you through it, his arms wrapped tight around you, his lips pressed to your skin.
He came too, his body tensing beneath you, his groan muffled against your neck. You felt him spill inside you again the sensation sent another wave of pleasure through your oversensitive body.
You stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together, breathing together. Finally, he pulled back, looking at you with those, beautiful eyes.
"You tired yet," he said.
"Never."
"Good."
He kissed the tip of your nose. "I'm going to spend the whole night showing you how much I love you. Every hour. Every minute.”
When you woke up the suite was quiet sunlight spilled through the curtains in soft streaks, warming the sheets tangled around your legs.
At some point during the night, you must’ve drifted off completely. You didn’t even remember when.
“Morning,” Michael murmured against your skin, his voice rough with sleep.
One of his arms tightened around your waist instinctively, pulling you a little closer against him beneath the sheets.
His hand slid down your side, over your hip, settling on your thigh.
"I love you," he said again, like he couldn't say it enough. Like he needed to fill every silence with those three words.
“And i love you more.”
"I don't deserve you," he whispered.
"Stop saying that."
"It's true."
“That’s not true.”
He kissed you softly. "I'm just not used to it. Not used to someone wanting me for me."
"I want you for you. Just you."
He held you close, his body pressed against yours, his heart beating against your chest.
And in that moment, you knew that everything was going to be okay.
i never understood dumbass bitches that use ai pictures of michael, and yes, i’m saying dumbass bitches cause the amount of PHOTOS this man has, all eras. it’s a fuck ton out there and instead of using the REAL pictures you decided to use one that’s probably generated by chatgpt or google gemini, make that shit make sense. then the pictures barely look like him or make him look soulless, BECAUSE IT IS. i question if people who do this are even michael fans for real cause ain’t no fucking way. ain’t no way.
also, block me if you use ai, you already pissing me off.
Tears stinging your eyes, glossing your vision, it wasn’t a sight anymore that makes Michael flinch.
Only the very first time. How after a month of seeing each other, he saw no reason to keep waiting to call you his. Going home thinking when’s the next time he’ll see you, doing activities with his brothers that he believes would be more fun if you were here to join, he knew it was time to make it official.
Bless him for beginning to freak out that it might’ve been too soon when he surprised you in a song he made, detailing how he believes the angels above sent you to him and he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you slip from his grasp. You reassured him the tears stinging your waterline was because you felt the same, voice cracking when you said ‘of course I’ll be your girlfriend’.
Now? Your tears became the norm for him to see practically every day you two shared. Movies with tragic endings has become banned to watch in your guys’ relationship, losing count how many times he’ll have to pause the movie because you’re sobbing too hard into your palm, missing half the scene playing in front of you.
How he once started to grow out your favorite flowers in his backyard, surprising you a few weeks later with a heavy bouquet of them. Your bottom lip began to quiver as you took them, failing to remember the last time a man has given you such a thoughtful gift.
How your presence at the studio became expected to see, because it meant Michael has yet again lost the battle of your teary pleas to not leave you all alone as he heads into the long hours of work.
Or he’ll feel your eyes observe every feature on his face while he’s busy doing something, only then turning to you at the first sniffle of your nose. He couldn’t help but let out an airy laugh, immediately scooting close to your side. “Oh baby, why the tears this time?”
You shake your head with a giggle, planting a reassuring kiss on his soft lips. “Nothing, I just love you is all.”
One memory he often looks back on for a laugh is how you happily went to go fetch him a cold glass of OJ, wanting him to stay put at the table so he can continue jotting notes down for his upcoming album. The ideas for it was flowing through his mind at a perfect rate, up until your gasp tore his focus and the sound of a glass being tipped over.
Spilled orange juice covers the counter, you staring at the mess in disbelief. Michael reaches for napkins, looming over you from behind to clean. “Hmm, what was that about me being the clumsy one— woah, hey hey, what’s wrong?” He stops cleaning after seeing your face, miserably failing to fight back your tears that is already falling halfway down your cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, baby. There’s no more left, that was it. I completely wasted it.”
Michael blinks. He sets aside the napkins, fully facing you to swipe his thumbs against your tear-stained cheeks. “Mama, I can just go buy another one. It’s no big deal, I promise.” He leans down to kiss away the tears, warmth seeping through his chest at your giggles and attempts to turn your head free, but he doesn’t let you go anywhere until they are all pecked away.
He’ll always be there to kiss your tears away, right after validating the reason behind them.
Thank you so much for the tag 🥹 some of my faves are @1andonlytashae @multifandomposts-blog @blkkbratt @curlypytclubx @naturallykae @narratedillusions @plan3tch1ld (I love all of y’all though)
summary: you're supposed to fly out to michael while he's on the bad tour, but you get sick... really sick, and as soon as michael hears how sick you are, he flies back to the states and refuses to leave your side and resume the tour until you're better
themes: fluff, caretaker!michael, hopelessly in love michael, hurt/comfort, protective!michael, severe illness
author's note: reposted from my wattpad & ao3. and I lowkey went crazy with the word count because this is one of my favorites tropes and tbh had to stop myself from making it even longer hahahaha. hope you enjoy.
1988
neverland ranch
This was bad, really bad.
You knew something was wrong the second you woke up.
Pain pulsed through your entire body immediately, deep and overwhelming. It settled heavily into your back, your shoulders, your arms, and your neck. Every inch of you ached in a way that made your stomach twist uneasily. It wasn't soreness from sleeping wrong. It wasn't the kind of ache that disappeared once you stretched or moved around; it was sharper than that.
A miserable groan left your lips as you shifted beneath the blankets, your body protesting even the smallest movement. Heat clung to your skin uncomfortably, sweat dampening the back of your neck and the collar of your sleep shirt, the feverish warmth that had pulled you awake in the first place. You felt like your body was burning from the inside out.
Your eyes drifted toward the clock sitting on your nightstand: 3:00 a.m. blinked back at you. You were supposed to leave for the airport in three hours. You were supposed to be flying out to meet Michael in Rome.
Michael had already left the States days ago with the crew to begin preparing for the second leg of the Bad World Tour. Even though the Rome shows weren't for another two weeks, rehearsals and preparations had already started overseas.
You had stayed behind because of work obligations, but the plan had always been for you to join him early so the two of you could finally have a little time together before the chaos of touring swallowed him whole again.
He had been so excited.
You could still hear his voice from your last phone call, soft and warm through the line as he rambled about all the places he wanted to take you once you got there. Little cafés tucked away from crowds. Late walks through the city. Quiet mornings together before rehearsals started taking over his schedule again. Michael had been clinging to the idea of having you there with him, especially after the insanity of the American leg of the tour.
Your packed suitcases sat neatly beside the bedroom door, ready to go, but there was absolutely no way you could get on a plane like this.
The nausea rolled through you next, sudden and vicious enough to make your stomach clench painfully. You squeezed your eyes shut as the sensation intensified, bile creeping up the back of your throat. There was nothing in your system to throw up, not at this hour after barely eating the evening before, but you already knew if you got sick, it would just be miserable dry heaving.
Your entire body hurts. Even breathing felt uncomfortable now, every inhale dragging against aching muscles and feverish exhaustion.
You swallowed hard before trying to sit up so you could reach your landline, but the second you lifted yourself from the mattress, dizziness slammed into you violently. Your vision blurred almost instantly, black spots flickering across your eyesight as lightheadedness crashed over you so hard it made your stomach churn.
"Shit," you muttered weakly under your breath before immediately forcing yourself back down against the pillows. Your heart pounded heavily from the effort alone.
Breathing carefully through the dizziness, you slowly scooted yourself closer to the edge of the bed until your fingers could finally reach the phone sitting on the nightstand. Even lifting your arm felt exhausting.
You dialed Bill's pager because you knew he would recognize the number immediately, and you also knew it was already noon in Italy.
Three minutes later, the phone rang.
You grabbed it quickly despite the ache in your arm and answered weakly, your voice barely above a rasp. "Bill?"
"Hey, sweetie, you okay?" Bill's familiar voice filled the line warmly, but concern immediately lingered beneath it.
You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to gather enough energy to answer him properly. You had always considered Bill your real future father-in-law in every way that mattered. Michael loved him deeply, trusted him deeply, and over the years, so had you. Bill had become family long before the engagement ring ended up on your finger.
"Bill..." Your voice cracked painfully around his name. "Is Michael available?" On the other end of the line, Bill frowned instantly. Your voice sounded awful. It was hoarse and weak, every word strained like speaking itself was taking energy you didn't have.
"You don't sound good," Bill said immediately, his tone sharpening with concern as he listened closer. Even your breathing sounded shallow through the phone.
You swallowed thickly against the nausea crawling in your throat. "I don't think I'm gonna be able to fly... Michael should hear it from me." The sentence alone drained you. You let your head fall back heavily against the pillows afterward, your body feeling impossibly heavy beneath the blankets.
"Okay, hold on for one moment, I'll go get him," Bill said quickly. You nodded instinctively even though he couldn't see you.
The second the line muffled, you let yourself sink further into the bed, exhaustion swallowing you whole. A shaky breath left your lips, but the inhale immediately made pain flare sharply through your body again, another miserable groan escaping you before you could stop it.
Your body hurt so badly that even breathing was starting to feel like work.
"Baby?" Michael's voice filtered softly through the phone, pulling you out of the haze you had started drifting into. You hadn't even realized how close to sleep you had gotten again until you heard him. Everything felt foggy and heavy, your body sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress with every passing second.
"Bill says you don't sound good... what's wrong?" The concern in his voice immediately twisted painfully in your chest.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment because guilt hit you almost instantly. Both of you had been looking forward to this trip for weeks. Michael had been counting down the days until you got there. Every phone call lately had somehow circled back to Rome, to all the little plans he'd made for the two of you before the tour completely consumed him again.
And now this.
"I'm so sorry, Michael..." Your voice cracked weakly around the apology. "I don't think I'll be able to fly." The words sounded awful even to your own ears.
On the other end of the line, Michael immediately straightened where he was sitting. He could hear how hard it was for you to get the sentence out. Every few words were interrupted by another shaky breath, your breathing uneven and strained in a way he didn't like at all.
"Bill's right, you don't sound good," Michael said quietly, concern sharpening underneath every syllable.
You could practically hear the wheels turning in his head already, and that alone made your stomach twist harder. The last thing you wanted was for him to start spiraling while he was supposed to be preparing for tour rehearsals.
"Michael, I'll be okay... probably just..." You stopped, forcing yourself to breathe through the ache in your chest and the nausea rolling through your stomach. Even speaking was beginning to exhaust you. "Probably just need some more sleep."
Michael shook his head immediately. This was not "just tired." As you spoke, he was already turning toward Bill, panic beginning to settle quietly into his chest as he mouthed: Start looking for flights back to California.
Bill nodded instantly without hesitation.
"Baby... I really don't like the way you sound," Michael admitted softly. "You're straining to breathe just to say words." Your brows pulled together weakly at that because you had been trying so hard to conceal it.
"It's fine," you whispered. Another wave of pain crashed through your body suddenly, sharp enough to make your eyes sting. A soft sniffle escaped you before you could stop it, and the sound cut straight through Michael.
His entire expression changed. The exhaustion from rehearsals, the tour stress, the overseas travel, all of it disappeared beneath immediate fear. "I'm coming home."
Your eyes widened slightly at the firmness in his voice.
Ever since you had moved into Hayvenhurst with Michael back in 1985, the two of you had built a life together there naturally. But after he proposed to you last year, right before the first leg of the Bad Tour began, everything had changed. Michael had wanted something that belonged fully to both of you.
A place that existed outside of cameras and screaming crowds and tour schedules. The second he remembered Sycamore Valley Ranch from filming Say Say Say there years ago, he had known, and now it was Neverland.
Your home.
The home the two of you built together from the ground up, filling it with warmth and life and softness in all the ways Michael had always craved. Exotic animals roamed peacefully across the property under the care of trained staff. Children visited constantly, their laughter filling the grounds alongside carnival music from the amusement rides Michael had built. Every piece of Neverland carried both of your fingerprints on it.
It wasn't just Michael's dream anymore; it was yours, too.
"Michael... you're in the middle of the tour," you said weakly before another strained breath interrupted you.
"And the Italy shows don't start for another two weeks," Michael replied immediately. His voice had taken on that soft but immovable tone you knew well. The one that meant his mind was already made up. "I can't leave you alone in this condition, baby."
Your eyes burned with tears instantly. Of course, he was coming home.
That only made the guilt feel heavier because you knew how many people were depending on him right now. The tour was massive. Rehearsals were massive. Entire crews moved around Michael's schedule constantly, and now, because of you... All of that was getting interrupted.
"Baby, I'm okay..." Your voice trembled as exhaustion dragged at every word. "It'll pass in a few days, and I should be able to... to make it to Rome before the..." You paused again, trying to force enough air into your lungs to finish the sentence. "...before the shows start."
Michael's face tightened painfully as he listened to you struggle through every word. It only solidified the decision already settling deeper into his chest.
He was coming home; there was no discussion anymore.
"Michael, I found a flight that leaves in the next two hours," you heard Bill say somewhere in the background.
"Book it," Michael said with no hesitation in his tone. You closed your eyes with a quiet sigh as you heard movement on the other end of the line, Michael's attention returning fully to you again. "I'm coming home, and that's final, baby." The firmness in his voice told you instantly there was no point trying to argue anymore.
You knew Michael; once he made up his mind about something involving the people he loved, especially you, there was no changing it. Not when he already knew something was wrong. Not when he could hear it for himself every time you spoke.
You hated the idea of derailing the tour. Hated knowing how many people depended on him right now. But you also knew nothing you said was going to reassure him enough to stay in Italy while you sounded like this.
"Okay," you whispered quietly.
Another deep breath followed instinctively, but the uneven strain behind it was impossible to hide now. Michael heard it immediately, and the sound made his chest tighten painfully all over again.
"What are your other symptoms besides your breathing?" Michael asked softly.
You frowned weakly against your pillows; you didn't want to answer that. You could already hear the worry in his voice, could practically feel him spiraling from thousands of miles away, and the last thing you wanted was for him to panic while trapped in another country waiting for a flight home.
"I'm okay," you said automatically. There was a brief pause.
Then, instead of one of his usual endearments, he said your name, softly and gently like he always does, but there was a quiet firmness underneath it that immediately told you he was serious.
Michael rarely used your actual name like that unless he truly needed something from you emotionally. He needed to know. You sighed weakly before forcing yourself to speak again.
"It's 3 a.m., and I woke up this early because I'm really hot..." Your voice rasped painfully around the words. "And my body hurts... everywhere."
You swallowed thickly, squeezing your eyes shut as another wave of aches pulsed through you.
"My back... shoulders... my neck." You paused again to breathe carefully through the nausea twisting in your stomach. "My head is pounding... and my stomach hurts too."
On the other end of the line, Michael's expression tightened with helpless worry. He hated this. He hated being this far away from you while you sounded so miserable. Twelve hours suddenly felt unbearable. Entirely too long to be separated from you when you sounded weak enough that even talking exhausted you.
For one irrational second, he genuinely wished he could somehow teleport home.
"I will be home in twelve hours," Michael said softly but firmly, grounding both himself and you with the certainty in his voice. "And I'm calling my mother to come stay with you until I get there, and then I will call the doctor to come see you."
A small sniffle escaped you instantly for multiple reasons.
Because you loved him so much, it physically hurt sometimes. Because even from another country, Michael was still trying to take care of you in every way he could think of. Because he sounded terrified but was still trying to keep you calm, and because the guilt sitting in your chest felt overwhelming.
He was pausing the tour for you.
"Okay... thank you, Michael," you whispered softly.
"Get some sleep, baby. I love you." Another shaky breath left you automatically, rough and uneven from exhaustion and fever, and when Michael heard how difficult even breathing sounded for you now, his heart clenched so painfully it almost stole his own breath for a moment.
"I love you more," you whispered weakly.
Neither of you hung up. Instead, silence lingered softly between you for a moment before Michael's voice drifted quietly through the receiver again, he was singing.
Gentle and warm and achingly tender despite the exhaustion weighing on him. "You know how I feel, this thing can't go wrong, I'm so proud to say I love you..."
The familiar melody wrapped around you softly in the darkness of your bedroom, Michael's voice soothing something deep inside you, even through the fever and pain. Your body still hurt terribly, every inch aching beneath the blankets, but hearing him sing to you made some of the fear loosen slightly in your chest.
Michael kept singing quietly over the phone, his voice low and intimate, meant only for you, and slowly, your breathing started getting heavier and deeper as exhaustion was finally dragging you back under again.
Michael recognized it immediately. He knew your sleeping patterns too well not to. Sick or not, he could always tell the difference between your awake breathing and your sleeping breathing.
Even now, from thousands of miles away.
He hated knowing it wouldn't be restful sleep. Hated knowing your body was probably burning with fever while you slept alone in your bed.
"I love you," he whispered one more time after he was sure you were asleep. Then finally, reluctantly, he hung up the phone. The second the line disconnected, the exhaustion and fear he'd been trying to suppress settled visibly across his face.
Bill looked up immediately when Michael stepped back into the room. "When do we leave?" Michael asked quietly.
Bill nodded once. "In an hour." Michael nodded, already mentally somewhere else entirely.
"Okay..." He rubbed a tired hand over his face briefly before exhaling shakily. "I have another call to make." Bill understood instantly and stepped out quietly to give him privacy.
The second the door closed behind him, Michael sat down heavily and took a deep breath before dialing a number he had known by heart for years.
Hayvenhurst.
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Several hours later, you were pulled out of an uneasy, feverish sleep by the sound of knocking against your bedroom door.
The noise barely registered at first through the heavy haze clouding your head. Your body felt impossibly weighted down, every limb aching worse than it had earlier in the night. Even opening your eyes felt difficult. You blinked slowly toward the clock sitting on your nightstand and saw that it was a little after 10 in the morning.
And somehow, you felt even worse now than you had at 3 a.m. Your fever had clearly climbed while you slept. Everything hurt.
Your head throbbed relentlessly, your body aching so deeply it felt embedded into your bones now, and your stomach still twisted unpleasantly every time you moved even slightly. Your skin felt damp and overheated beneath the blankets, yet chills still trembled through your body hard enough to make your teeth almost chatter.
"It's open," you managed to croak out weakly.
Your voice sounded awful, raw and strained, and barely recognizable even to yourself.
You weren't entirely sure who was on the other side of the door, but you knew Neverland security remained on the property whenever Michael traveled. The guards who didn't accompany him overseas always stayed behind with you when you weren't on tour with him, so whoever was knocking had already been cleared through the gates, so you knew it had to be someone you're familiar with.
The bedroom door opened carefully a moment later, and Katherine Jackson stepped quietly inside, carrying a tray assembled carefully with water, medicine, and a steaming bowl of soup.
The second you realized it was her, your head immediately dropped back against the pillow again because even lifting it had exhausted you.
"Mama Katie, what are you doing here?" you asked weakly through shallow, shaky breaths. The second Katherine got a proper look at you, her expression fell into immediate concern.
The blanket was tangled halfway over your legs and twisted beneath you from how restless you had clearly been while sleeping. Your body trembled faintly beneath the sheets despite the visible sheen of sweat coating your skin. Damp strands of hair clung to the sides of your face and neck, and your cheeks were flushed deeply with fever.
You felt miserable, too hot and too cold at the same time. Your back was damp with sweat, heat radiating off your skin uncomfortably, while chills still crawled underneath it.
"Michael called me and told me what was going on," Katherine said softly as she crossed further into the room. "Since his flight is twelve hours, he didn't want you to be alone, but as soon as he told me your condition, I was going to come over anyway."
A small sound escaped you then, somewhere between relief and a weak cry. You hadn't realized just how alone and miserable you'd felt until someone was finally there with you.
Your family was still back home in New York while you and Michael built your life together in California, and suddenly the distance between those two places felt very real. Normally, Neverland felt warm and alive and comforting even when Michael traveled.
But being this sick inside the massive house without him there had made everything feel strangely empty.
The mattress dipped gently beside you as Katherine sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. She placed the tray on your nightstand before turning all of her attention toward you fully, her expression immediately softening further with concern.
"I'm going to help you sit up so you can take this medicine and try to eat, okay?" she said gently. You wanted to nod, but your body felt so heavy and weak that you couldn't even convince your head to move properly.
Katherine noticed immediately. "Oh, honey," she murmured softly under her breath.
Carefully, she slid one arm behind your shoulders and helped ease you upright. Even that small movement made dizziness ripple through you instantly, your stomach twisting again as your body protested being moved.
Michael's pillows from his side of the bed were gathered gently and tucked behind your back so you could lean against them without straining yourself further. The familiar scent of him lingering faintly on the pillows made your chest ache suddenly because you missed him.
Katherine's hand moved gently to your forehead, then the back of her hand rested carefully against your overheated skin before she checked your flushed cheeks, too. Her face tightened with concern immediately.
"You definitely have a fever, honey..." she sighed softly. "The medicine will help bring it down."
For some reason, that almost made you cry. Maybe because she was taking care of you so naturally. Maybe because you felt so terrible. Maybe because, despite everything, she had still come immediately.
"Thank you," you whispered weakly.
Katherine gave you a soft smile before reaching for the medicine bottle. Knowing you probably wouldn't handle swallowing pills very well in your current condition, she had brought liquid Tylenol instead. The sweetness of it sat unpleasantly against the nausea already twisting in your stomach, but you forced yourself to swallow it down anyway.
The second you finished, Katherine handed you the glass of water. You drank gratefully, your throat painfully dry despite the fever. Then, once she was sure you had gotten enough down, Katherine carefully lifted the tray from the nightstand and settled it gently across your lap.
Although your entire body hurt, you pushed through it and reached for the spoon anyway. Even lifting your arm felt exhausting.
Your hand trembled faintly from weakness as you scooped up a small amount of soup, the steam curling softly against your flushed face. You managed two spoonfuls before your stomach twisted hard enough to make you stop completely.
The nausea hit almost immediately.
You swallowed thickly against it before slowly shaking your head and looking over at Katherine, your eyes glassy with exhaustion and fever.
"I can't," you whispered weakly. Even those two bites felt like they had taken everything out of you.
Your body ached terribly from simply sitting upright this long, your muscles heavy and sore beneath your skin, while dizziness lingered faintly at the edges of your vision. The warmth from the soup should have been comforting, but instead, your stomach rolled harder in protest, making you feel dangerously close to getting sick.
Katherine didn't push, but the concern in her eyes softened immediately instead. "That's alright, sweetheart," she said gently.
Carefully, she lifted the tray from your lap before setting it aside, then moved back toward you to help ease you down against the pillows again. The second your head touched the mattress, you let out a shaky breath of relief. Even sitting upright for those few minutes had exhausted you so badly that it felt like your body was shutting down all over again.
Katherine quietly carried the tray to the bedroom door and handed it off to one of the staff members waiting outside before disappearing briefly into the bathroom.
You could hear soft movement inside through the haze clouding your head: running water, cabinet doors opening and closing quietly. When she returned, she had several cold, damp cloths folded carefully in her hands.
"Let's try to cool you down," she said softly. You nodded weakly. At this point, you didn't have the energy to fight anyone anyway.
Katherine moved around the room with the same gentle calmness she always carried, settling one of the cold cloths carefully across your forehead before placing another lightly against the back of your neck. The coolness against your overheated skin made you exhale shakily, your body instinctively relaxing into the relief despite the chills still trembling through you underneath the blankets.
Your fever made everything feel strange. You felt too hot and too cold simultaneously. You were sweating while shivering. You felt miserable.
Katherine adjusted the blankets carefully around you afterward, making sure you were comfortable before brushing another damp strand of hair away from your forehead.
"Try to get some sleep," she murmured gently. "I'll be downstairs, but I'm going to keep checking on you, alright? You don't need to try to call out for me." The tenderness in her voice almost made your chest ache.
You had spent years around the Jackson family now, long enough that Katherine's warmth toward you no longer felt formal or polite. It felt real. Genuine. Maternal in a way that wrapped around you softly, even now, while you lay feverish and exhausted in bed.
"Thank you, Katie..." you whispered weakly. "You didn't have to do this for me." Katherine's face softened immediately. She reached down instinctively, smoothing your hair back from your damp forehead with the same tenderness she showed any of her children whenever they were sick or hurting.
"Sweetheart..." she said quietly, her voice full of affection. "You've been my daughter-in-law in my heart for years. I was just waiting for Michael to make it official." Something warm bloomed painfully in your chest at her words. Even through the fever and exhaustion and body aches, emotion tightened suddenly in your throat, because she meant it, she genuinely loved you.
Katherine lightly brushed her fingers through your hair one more time before finally standing from the bed, leaving the room quietly so you could rest.
And less than five minutes after the bedroom door closed behind her, exhaustion dragged you back under completely.
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When Michael got back to Neverland, the second Bill pulled the car to a stop in front of the house, and Michael was already halfway out the door before the engine had even fully settled. Exhaustion clung heavily to him after the long flight from Italy, his body aching from jet lag, readjusting to the new time, stress, and lack of sleep, but none of it mattered the moment his feet hit the ground.
His entire mind had been consumed by you for the last twelve hours. Every mile between Rome and California had felt unbearable, knowing you were here alone and sick enough that even speaking had exhausted you.
He moved quickly through the front doors of Neverland, his eyes immediately scanning the house as staff members moved quietly throughout the downstairs like normal, though there was an unmistakable tension lingering beneath everything.
Then he saw his mother sitting in the living room. "Mother, how is she?" Michael asked immediately.
Every instinct in him had screamed to run upstairs the second he walked through the door, but he forced himself to stop long enough to ask first because if you were asleep, he didn't want to wake you unnecessarily. Katherine had been here with you the entire time he was in the air, helpless and terrified.
Katherine looked up the moment she heard his voice, and the expression on her face made Michael's stomach drop before she even spoke.
"Not good, Michael," she said softly, and Michael felt something inside his chest tighten painfully at the words. "She has a fever. Her forehead and face are very hot, nearly burning to the touch. I put wet cloths over her forehead and body to try to bring her temperature down. She had medicine, and she drank water. She tried to eat, but I don't think she can keep anything down. She stopped after two bites, but it was taking a lot out of her just to try."
Every word hit Michael like a weight pressing harder and harder against his chest. He pictured you trying to force yourself to eat while barely able to sit upright. Pictured you feverish and trembling in bed while he was trapped on a plane thousands of miles away. Pictured you trying to hide how sick you really were from him over the phone because you didn't want him to worry.
The guilt alone nearly made him sick.
"Thank you for staying with her, Mother... I'll take care of her now," Michael said quietly, leaning down to press a kiss to Katherine's cheek. Katherine smiled softly at him, though concern still lingered heavily in her eyes.
"I know you will, baby... but do call me if you or her need anything, okay?" Michael nodded immediately before escorting her back outside, where Bill waited to take her home to Hayvenhurst. The second Katherine was settled into the car, and Bill pulled away, Michael turned and headed back into the house, his pulse pounding harder with every step he took toward the staircase.
By the time he reached the hallway upstairs, his chest already hurt from anticipation and fear. The bedroom door opened quietly beneath his hand before he carefully shut it behind himself, trying not to disturb you if you were sleeping.
But the second his eyes landed on you, something inside him shattered.
You were asleep, but even from across the room, Michael could immediately tell it wasn't restful. Your blanket was tangled halfway off your body like you had spent hours tossing feverishly beneath it, and your body trembled faintly every few seconds despite the visible sheen of sweat dampening your skin. The cool cloth his mother had placed across your forehead had slid slightly crooked during your sleep, damp strands of hair sticking to your flushed cheeks and neck.
But what broke his heart the most was the position you were curled in.
You had folded completely into yourself beneath the blankets, curled tightly into a fetal position with your arms wrapped around your own body as though you were trying to physically hold yourself together through the pain.
And Michael knew what that meant immediately. You only slept like that when you were hurting badly.
When your cramps were so severe during your monthly cycle that you swore it felt like someone was twisting knives into your stomach. When you had gotten sick before and curled inward because every part of your body hurt too much to stretch out normally. Whenever the pain became overwhelming, your body instinctively folded into itself, as if protecting your stomach and chest might somehow lessen it.
So seeing you like this now, curled so tightly inward, trembling weakly in your sleep while trying to comfort yourself because your body hurt that badly, made something inside Michael ache so violently he could barely breathe through it for a moment.
You looked small, fragile, and miserable. And all Michael could think about was the fact that he hadn't been here.
Slowly, he crossed the room and knelt carefully beside the bed. His movements softened instantly once he was close enough to touch you, all urgency melting into tenderness the second he reached out. Gently, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against the top of your head since the cool cloth still covered most of your forehead.
His hand slid carefully into your hair afterward, fingers combing slowly through the damp strands with heartbreaking gentleness.
The touch made you stir weakly beneath the blankets.
Your eyes fluttered open slowly, unfocused at first from exhaustion and fever, and for a brief moment, you genuinely thought you were dreaming him. Michael had been in Italy twelve hours ago. Your fever-clouded brain couldn't fully process how he could suddenly be kneeling beside you now, looking at you with tears nearly gathering in his eyes.
But then your vision cleared enough for recognition to settle in. "Michael," you croaked weakly, your voice rough and painfully hoarse.
The sound alone made Michael's expression crumple further. "Hi, baby... I'm home," he whispered softly. His hand continued moving gently through your hair as he watched your eyes flutter shut again almost immediately, like even keeping them open for more than a few seconds hurt.
The sight devastated him.
"And I will be home for as long as you need me," he whispered quietly, the promise settling heavily between you as he looked at you curled weakly beneath the blankets, already knowing there was nowhere else in the world he could possibly be right now besides beside you.
"Michael... your tour," you whispered weakly as you tried to shake your head. Or at least, you thought you were shaking it.
Your body was so exhausted and feverish that you barely moved at all, the effort stopping somewhere between your brain and your muscles. Even trying to protest took too much energy now, your voice rough and strained from dehydration and sickness.
Michael's expression softened immediately as he looked at you lying there, and you were still worrying about him, even now.
Even curled into yourself with a fever burning through your body and exhaustion dragging at every breath you took, you were still thinking about his tour before yourself.
"That doesn't matter right now," Michael said quietly, his voice low and unwavering as he gently brushed another damp strand of hair away from your forehead. "Only you do."
Your eyes slowly opened again at his words, glossy and heavy with exhaustion. "Michael—" He cut you off gently before you could continue trying to convince him to leave.
"Hey..." His thumb stroked softly across the back of your hand as he held it carefully in both of his, his voice full of quiet emotion. "You turned down a huge clothing contract after the Pepsi incident because you wanted to stay by my side..."
The memory hit both of you immediately: the burns, the pain, and the terrifying aftermath of nearly losing him.
You had dropped everything without hesitation back then because the only thing that mattered to you was being beside him while he recovered. Michael still remembered the way you refused to leave the hospital for hours at a time, remembered you sleeping in chairs beside his bed because you couldn't bear being away from him while he was hurting, and now here you were trying to apologize for him doing the same thing for you.
"So if I have to postpone the tour to stay by yours," Michael continued softly, "then that's what I'm going to do."
His fingers slowly slid over your hand, finding your engagement ring, then gently turning it against your finger as he stared down at it for a moment. The gold caught softly in the afternoon light filtering through the bedroom windows, and emotion tightened visibly across Michael's face as his thumb traced over it carefully.
"I gave you this ring with the intention of promising you for better or for worse," he whispered.
Your chest tightened painfully at the emotion in his voice.
Michael had never taken commitment lightly, not with you. Everything between the two of you had always been deep and consuming and real in a way that grounded him beneath all the chaos of fame and touring and public scrutiny. Neverland existed because of the life the two of you were building together. The ring on your finger existed because Michael always saw forever when he looked at you.
And right now, forever meant this too: sickness, caretaking, and staying.
"We've been through my worst..." Michael murmured softly as he lifted your hand closer, pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles near your ring. His voice cracked slightly around the next words despite how gently he spoke them. "Now we're gonna get through yours."
Emotion burned behind your eyes instantly.
You managed the smallest nod before exhaustion pulled at you again, your eyelids growing impossibly heavy as another wave of feverish fatigue settled over your body. Michael noticed it immediately, the way your breathing deepened slightly as your body started slipping toward sleep again.
Carefully, he leaned forward and pressed another kiss against the top of your head, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary as his fingers continued smoothing gently through your hair.
"Get some rest, mama..." he whispered tenderly. "I'll be right here."
And for the first time since waking up sick and alone in the middle of the night, some of the tension in your body finally eased, because Michael was here now, his hand still wrapped carefully around yours as sleep slowly pulled you under again.
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The next time you woke up, it was because of the overwhelming pressure in your bladder pulling you out of another feverish, restless sleep.
For a moment, you just lay there trying to orient yourself through the heavy fog clouding your head. Your body still ached everywhere, deep and relentless, the kind of ache that settled into your bones and made even breathing feel exhausting. You had no idea how long you'd been asleep this time. The room remained dim, the lamps turned low enough that you couldn't tell whether it was daytime or nighttime outside the windows.
What you noticed first, though, was that Michael wasn't beside you.
He had only stepped out briefly to call his private doctor and return one of Frank's increasingly worried calls about the tour, but in your exhausted state, all you processed was the empty space beside the bed.
You swallowed thickly before slowly forcing your legs over the edge of the mattress. The movement alone made your head pound harder. Your muscles protested immediately, soreness radiating through your back, your shoulders, your stomach, even your legs. You paused there for a moment, sitting hunched slightly forward while you tried to steady your breathing through the dizziness already creeping into your head.
You hated this. You hated how weak you felt; you hated that even something as simple as standing up felt like preparing for something physically demanding.
But you needed the bathroom.
Taking a slow breath, you carefully pushed yourself to your feet, but the second you fully stood upright, the room tilted violently around you. Your vision blurred at the edges as another rush of dizziness hit hard enough that you instinctively grabbed for the wall beside you before your knees could buckle completely beneath you, and a shaky breath escaped you.
The bathroom wasn't far. Under normal circumstances, it would've taken seconds to cross the room. But now, feverish and exhausted, your body trembling from weakness, it felt impossibly distant. You forced yourself to take another step anyway, then another.
Each movement drained you further, your breathing turning shallow from the effort alone. Michael had left the lights low before stepping out, enough that the room glowed softly without the brightness hurting your head, but the shadows around you only made the dizziness feel worse.
Another wave hit suddenly. Your hand slid harder against the wall as your body sagged with it, your forehead nearly brushing the surface while you tried to keep yourself upright. You barely even heard the bedroom door opening. The only thing you could focus on was the terrifying feeling that your body was giving out underneath you.
The second Michael walked back into the room and saw you half collapsing against the wall, his heart pretty much stopped. "Baby—"
He crossed the room so quickly it barely registered before his arms were around you, carefully catching you before you could slide any farther. One arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other steadied your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest as he held your weight for you.
"Baby, what are you doing out of bed?" he asked softly, panic buried beneath the tenderness in his voice. Your head fell weakly against his shoulder almost immediately, too exhausted to even fully hold it up anymore.
"I have to pee..." you whispered hoarsely.
The words alone made humiliation crash over you so hard it almost hurt more than the fever itself, because this was Michael.
Michael, who had seen you dressed beautifully on red carpets, laughing beside him in interviews, dancing around Neverland with him at two in the morning, planning your wedding with stars in his eyes whenever he looked at you.
And now he was carrying you to the bathroom because you were too weak to walk there by yourself.
Michael didn't react to any of that embarrassment, though. He only tightened his hold on you gently and carried you into the bathroom without hesitation, helping lower you carefully onto the toilet before quietly stepping outside to give you privacy.
The second the door clicked shut behind him, the tears started. At first, you tried to stop them.
You pressed your lips together tightly, swallowing hard against the lump forming in your throat, but the humiliation kept building anyway because you felt trapped inside a body that suddenly couldn't do anything right anymore. Everything hurt: standing, walking hurt, and talking too much left you breathless. Even trying to use the bathroom by yourself had nearly ended with you collapsing against the wall.
You felt helpless, weak, and worst of all, you felt ugly in your suffering.
Michael had already seen you sweating through your clothes, feverish and disoriented, curled into yourself in pain, barely able to eat without getting nauseous. Now he was carrying you around the house because your body physically couldn't support itself for long enough to cross a bedroom.
The tears slipped harder down your cheeks, a choked sob coming from your lips before you could stop it and when Michael hears it... when he hears you crying from outside the bathroom door, his heart dropped instantly.
He pushed the door open without hesitation before immediately kneeling in front of you, concern flooding his face the second he saw the tears running down your flushed cheeks.
"Baby, what's wrong?" he asked softly.
You shook your head weakly before squeezing your eyes shut, more tears slipping free.
"This is... so humiliating, Michael..." Your voice cracked apart around the words as another shaky breath left you. "I can't do anything because everything hurts so much."
Talking was already exhausting you again. You had to pause to catch your breath before continuing, your chest tightening painfully as you tried not to cry harder in front of him.
"And you have to see me like this," you whispered brokenly. "It's embarrassing." Michael felt his own eyes sting almost instantly.
The sound of your ragged breathing between every sentence, the way every tear seemed to physically exhaust you further, the humiliation written all over your face while you sat there crying in front of him, it shattered something inside him completely.
Because none of this was embarrassing to him.
It devastated him that you genuinely thought he could ever look at you like this and see anything shameful, when all he saw was the woman he loved hurting so badly she could barely stand on her own, apologizing for needing care when all he wanted was to protect her from every ounce of pain he possibly could.
Without thinking, Michael reached up and cupped your face carefully in both hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears spilling over your cheeks.
"You don't have to be embarrassed, baby," he whispered, his own eyes beginning to water as he looked at you. "Never with me." His voice was impossibly soft, steady in the way he only became when he was trying to hold someone else together emotionally. "I will always take care of you, no matter what."
The sincerity in his voice only made fresh tears fall harder because you knew he meant it completely. There wasn't hesitation or obligation in him. Michael loved with his entire heart, and right now every ounce of that love was wrapped around you so carefully it almost made your chest ache.
Once you had calmed enough to stand again, Michael helped you carefully back to your feet so you could fix your clothes and wash your hands at the sink. He stayed just outside the bathroom doorway the entire time, close enough that if your legs weakened again, he could catch you immediately.
And the second you opened the door afterward, Michael stepped forward without hesitation and lifted you back into his arms again.
"Michael..." you whispered softly as he carried you back toward the bed.
He leaned down instinctively and pressed a gentle kiss against your temple, immediately frowning against your skin when he felt how warm you still were beneath his lips. Your fever hadn't broken at all. If anything, you still felt overheated despite the medicine, and Michael silently made a mental note to wake you for another dose later, even though you could barely keep your eyes open now.
"I'm right here, baby," he murmured as he settled you carefully back beneath the blankets.
"You shouldn't stay... in here too long..." You whispered hoarsely, your eyes already drifting shut again from exhaustion. "You can't get sick."
The words hit him deeply because even now, even feeling as miserable as you feel, you were still worried about him first.
Michael brushed his fingers gently through your hair before answering softly, "If I get sick, then I get sick. I'm not leaving you."
At some point while he sat beside you, your body instinctively shifted closer to him beneath the blankets. Without even realizing it consciously, you wrapped your arms loosely around his forearm, where it rested beside you on the bed, clinging softly to him in your exhausted state like your body recognized him as safety before your mind even fully could.
The sight made Michael's chest ache with love. A small smile finally touched his face for the first time since getting home as he looked down at your arms wrapped around him.
Carefully, he settled closer beside you before softly beginning to hum under his breath, his voice quiet and soothing as he sang gently to you the same way he always did whenever you were upset, hurting, or unable to sleep.
And slowly, curled beside him with his voice wrapping softly around you, your breathing deepened again as sleep finally pulled you back under.
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The next few days melted together so completely that eventually you stopped being able to tell where one ended and another began. Everything became centered around the same miserable cycle that your body refused to break out of.
You slept for hours at a time only to wake up feeling just as awful as before. The fever never fully left you, lingering stubbornly beneath your skin, no matter how many cool cloths Michael pressed against your forehead or how carefully he kept track of your medicine schedule.
Your body ached constantly, deeply enough that even lying still hurt after too long, but moving hurt worse. Every muscle in your back, shoulders, neck, and legs felt exhausted and inflamed, like your body was fighting itself from the inside out.
Most of the time, you drifted in and out of sleep because staying awake required too much energy. Whenever you did wake up, Michael was there.
Sometimes he sat beside you quietly reading while keeping one hand absentmindedly against your leg or arm so he could feel if your fever changed. Sometimes he hummed softly under his breath while changing out the cold cloths on your forehead after they became warm against your skin. Sometimes you woke up to find him simply watching you with exhausted eyes, his expression heavy with worry, he tried desperately not to let you fully see.
You tried to eat because he asked you to, and that alone was usually enough to make you try.
Michael would sit beside you, carefully holding a tray while encouraging you softly through every bite, his voice gentle and patient, even though you could see the concern tightening behind his eyes whenever you managed only a few spoonfuls before your stomach started turning again.
And every single time, guilt hit you immediately afterward, because you could see how badly he wanted you to improve. You could see the hope that flickered briefly across his face every time you attempted to eat something, only for it to quietly disappear again when nausea forced you to stop.
The doctor Michael brought to Neverland, had explained everything gently after examining you. A viral infection. Antibiotics wouldn't work; there was no instant fix. Just hydration, medicine for the fever, and rest while your body slowly fought through it on its own.
You understood, but that didn't make it easier. If anything, hearing there was nothing either of you could do except wait somehow made the whole thing feel worse, and Michael took that helplessness harder than he ever let himself admit aloud, because he hated seeing you in pain.
And not in the casual way people said it when someone they loved got sick for a few days, but in a way that visibly affected him every hour he spent beside you. Michael absorbed the suffering of the people he loved deeply, and there was something quietly devastating about watching someone he adored hurt this badly while being unable to truly fix it.
Every time you stood up and your body immediately swayed from dizziness, his entire face tightened with panic before he moved instinctively to steady you. Every time you curled into yourself beneath the blankets because stretching out fully made your body ache too much, he looked at you with the same wounded expression he'd worn since the moment he came home and saw you lying there trembling in pain. Even hearing you speak hurt him now because your voice remained weak and strained, every sentence clearly costing you energy you didn't have.
And still, he kept himself together for you. He stayed gentle, patient, and soft.
But sometimes, usually late at night after you fell asleep again, Michael would sit quietly at the edge of the bed with his head lowered while exhaustion and helplessness settled visibly across his face, tears slipping from his eyes. Because now he understood exactly what you must have felt after the Pepsi incident.
Back then, when he'd been lying in the burn unit with pain radiating through his scalp every time he moved, you had looked at him the same way he looked at you now. He remembered the way your face used to crumble every time he winced despite trying to hide it. He remembered waking up during the night and finding your head resting on his bed near his thigh because you couldn't bear leaving him alone while he was hurting. He remembered how helpless your eyes looked whenever the doctors explained how bad the burns had been and how extensive the treatment afterward would be.
Now he understood why you used to cry quietly afterward when you thought he couldn't hear you, because loving someone while watching them suffer felt unbearable.
When you woke up this time, your body still felt heavy with fever and exhaustion, but before you even fully opened your eyes, you heard Michael's voice across the room.
He was trying to keep his tone low, trying and failing.
"I don't care, Frank... I told you I'm not coming back until she's better and able to travel with me."
Your eyes slowly fluttered open at the sharpness in his voice.
Michael stood near the windows with the phone pressed tightly against his ear, one hand rubbing frustratedly over his face while tension radiated through his entire posture. His hair looked slightly messy from repeatedly dragging his hands through it over the last few days, and exhaustion sat heavily beneath his eyes from barely sleeping since he'd gotten home.
He was talking to his manager, Frank DiLeo.
Everyone else remained in Italy, preparing for the tour, while Michael stayed here with you. The rehearsals, interviews, photoshoots, and scheduling meetings, all of it was still continuing overseas while Michael delayed everything from California because he refused to leave you in this condition.
Michael went quiet for a moment while Frank responded on the other end, but whatever he said only made Michael's frustration finally snap through completely.
"Then postpone them, Frank!" Michael's voice rose sharply, anger breaking through in a way you had almost never heard before. "I don't care about photoshoots and interviews when my fiancée is so sick she can barely stand."
Your chest tightened painfully listening to him. Michael rarely got truly angry. You'd seen him serious before, firm before, upset before, but genuine anger almost never surfaced because Michael hated confrontation. Usually, when something upset him deeply, he became quieter rather than louder.
But this was different.
Because Frank wasn't just talking about tour dates to Michael right now. In Michael's mind, Frank was asking him to leave you while you still couldn't walk across the room without nearly collapsing.
"You work for me, not the other way around," Michael said sharply, his voice low and controlled in that dangerous way it only became when he was genuinely furious. "I will call you when we make our way back to Italy. Goodbye, Frank."
The line disconnected hard enough that you could hear the sound from across the room. For a moment, Michael just stood there breathing heavily through the frustration, one hand still gripping the phone tightly.
Then he turned around, and the second his eyes landed on you awake in bed, every trace of anger disappeared from his face so quickly it almost felt surreal. His shoulders softened first, then his expression.
The tension left his jaw almost immediately, replaced by concern so gentle and immediate that it made your chest ache as he crossed the room toward you.
"Hey, mama," he said softly the second he reached the bed, his voice completely different now, warm and careful as he sat beside you and immediately brushed the back of his hand against your forehead to check your temperature. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry."
"No," you whispered as you shook your head weakly before letting out a slow breath.
Your body still felt exhausted, heavy beneath the blankets, but at least the pain wasn't as sharp as it had been a few days ago. The fever still lingered inside you, though. You could feel it every time another chill rolled through your body, despite how warm your skin remained.
"Michael, I don't want you to get in trouble..." you said quietly. "I'm sure your Mom can come back and stay until I'm better."
Another cold shudder passed through you hard enough that your body trembled beneath the blankets, and instinctively you pulled them tighter around yourself as though you couldn't decide whether you were freezing or overheating.
Michael's expression softened immediately, but there was still an unmistakable firmness behind his eyes.
"Baby... I'm not having this discussion again," he said gently as he settled himself more comfortably beside you. "I'm not leaving until you're well enough to come back to Italy with me."
Before you could protest again, he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss against the top of your head, his lips resting there long enough that he could immediately tell the fever wasn't nearly as high as it had been before.
Your forehead was still warm, too warm, but not burning anymore, so that was a good sign. Relief loosened something quietly inside his chest at that realization. It was the first real sign your body might finally be starting to fight through the worst of it.
"I need to shower..." you murmured softly after a moment, your voice rough from days of sickness and sleep. "I've been sweating and sleeping for days."
Michael nodded immediately, understanding the discomfort behind your words. Your hair still felt damp most of the time from the fever, and despite how exhausted you were, he knew you probably felt miserable physically after being stuck in bed for days.
"How about a bath?" he suggested softly. "You're still wobbly when you stand, and with the steam and heat from the shower, I don't want you to pass out."
The protectiveness in his voice made your chest ache softly. Even now, he watched every movement you made carefully, constantly anticipating what might exhaust you too much or make your dizziness worse.
"Okay," you whispered.
Michael stood and disappeared briefly into the bathroom to start the water while you slowly pushed yourself upright in bed. Your body still protested the movement, soreness flaring through your muscles as you sat up, but the pain wasn't nearly as unbearable now as it had been during those first few days. The worst of the body aches had dulled slightly, though every so often, sharp waves of pain still pulsed unexpectedly through your back or shoulders hard enough to make you wince.
Still, this was better.
Weakly, you managed to peel yourself out of the oversized shirt and shorts you had been wearing since the morning you woke up sick. Even that small effort left you breathing a little heavier afterward, exhaustion still clinging stubbornly to your body despite the slight improvement.
When Michael came back out of the bathroom, he already had a towel waiting in his hands. Without saying anything, he wrapped it carefully around you before helping you slowly to your feet, one arm immediately sliding around your waist to steady you.
You noticed the difference instantly.
You still felt weak, but you weren't immediately collapsing into dizziness anymore. You could stand for longer now before the lightheadedness crept in, and although your legs still felt shaky beneath you, at least you could walk the short distance to the bathroom without your vision going black.
Michael noticed the improvement, too.
He didn't say it aloud because he didn't want to overwhelm you or make you push yourself too hard too quickly, but quiet relief settled visibly across his face as he carefully walked beside you into the bathroom.
The warm water was already filling the tub with soft steam by the time he helped you over. "Easy," he murmured gently as he helped lower you down into the bath.
The second the warm water touched your body, a deep breath escaped you automatically.
Relief spread through your aching muscles almost instantly, the warmth soothing places in your body that had felt tense and sore for days. Slowly, you leaned your head back against the tub wall and let yourself sink slightly deeper into the water, your eyes fluttering closed as some of the tension finally eased from your shoulders.
Michael watched you carefully the entire time.
Even now, after days of caring for you almost nonstop, his eyes tracked every little expression crossing your face, every shift in your breathing, every sign that something hurt or exhausted you too much.
When he saw some of the tightness leave your body, his own shoulders softened slightly, too. He lowered himself beside the tub afterward, kneeling near you so he could stay close in case you needed help.
"Do you need help?" he asked quietly.
You shook your head softly. Right now, you just need a moment to sit there in the warmth and let your body breathe for the first time in days before trying to move again.
"Thank you for taking care of me, Michael," you whispered softly, your eyes still closed.
The warmth of the bath felt incredible against muscles that had been aching relentlessly for nearly a week now, and just being clean again already made you feel a little more human.
Michael's expression softened immediately at your words.
"You never have to thank me for that, baby," he said quietly. "I'm going to get you some soup... hopefully you can hold something down."
You nodded faintly. You hadn't properly eaten in days.
Not because you didn't want to, but because every attempt ended the same way: nausea twisting violently through your stomach after only a bite or two until you physically couldn't force yourself to continue. For days now, your body had survived almost entirely on medicine and water because it was the only thing you could consistently keep down.
Michael lingered beside the tub for another moment, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before finally standing and quietly stepping out of the bathroom.
Once he was gone, you slowly started washing yourself, everything still took effort.
You had to pause occasionally to breathe through sudden waves of soreness or dizziness, but eventually you managed to wash your hair and body completely, the warm water easing some of the lingering ache from your muscles with every passing minute.
And once you finished, you simply stayed there soaking quietly in the warmth, your body finally beginning to feel just a little less miserable than it had been the last few days.
When Michael came back upstairs about thirty minutes later after making the soup, he balanced the tray carefully in his hands as he walked back into the bedroom. The house had gone quiet again while he was downstairs, the only sounds coming from the distant hum of Neverland outside and the soft creak of the floor beneath his feet as he crossed the room.
He set the tray down on the nightstand before making his way toward the bathroom, pushing the door open gently. The sight waiting for him immediately softened his entire expression.
You had fallen asleep in the bathtub.
Your head rested against the cool tile behind you, your damp hair clinging slightly to your skin while the rest of your body remained submerged beneath the water. The steam had long since faded from the room, leaving only the lingering warmth of the bathwater around you, and Michael could already tell from how long you'd been asleep that the water was probably cold by now.
A quiet smile tugged softly at his lips despite the lingering worry that had been sitting heavily inside him for days.
You looked exhausted.
Even sleeping, he could still see it written all over you; the fatigue had settled deeply into your face and body after nearly a week of fever, pain, and barely eating. But at least now, for the first time in days, your body looked more relaxed than miserable.
Michael lightly shook his head to himself before grabbing the towel he had wrapped you in earlier and kneeling beside the tub.
"Baby..." His voice came out soft and warm as his fingers carefully slid through your wet hair. "You have to wake up really quick, baby girl."
Your eyes fluttered faintly at the familiar touch before slowly opening. For a moment, your gaze stayed unfocused, heavy with sleep and lingering exhaustion as you blinked through the haze, but then your eyes landed on Michael kneeling beside the tub.
"Did I fall asleep again?" you asked quietly. Michael chuckled softly under his breath as he nodded.
"Yeah," he murmured. "The water must be cold by now, so let's get you back into bed."
You nodded sleepily, and Michael reached over to pull the drain plug, letting the water slowly begin draining from the tub before he helped you carefully to your feet once the water lowered enough. His hands stayed steady against you the entire time, one supporting your waist while the other held your arm gently in case your legs weakened again.
The bath had helped. You still felt weak, but not in the same unbearable way you had a few days ago. Michael dried you off carefully before wrapping the towel around your body again and helping you back into the bedroom. By the time you reached the bed, you felt tired in a different way now, cleaner and more comfortable instead of feverishly miserable.
And for the first time since getting sick, you were able to stand long enough to get dressed on your own.
Michael had already picked clothes out for you and left them on the bed: a pair of soft cotton shorts exactly like the ones you always loved sleeping in, and beside them sat one of his oversized Bad Tour shirts, freshly washed.
A small smile finally pulled at your lips when you saw it.
The shirt swallowed you completely once you pulled it on, the familiar softness and faint scent of fresh laundry making something inside you relax further. It felt comforting in the way Michael always felt comforting, and by the time you climbed back into bed afterward, your body already felt calmer than it had earlier.
Michael immediately handed you the soup once you settled yourself upright against the pillows.
You still couldn't eat much.
Your stomach remained sensitive, and the exhaustion lingering in your body made even holding the spoon feel draining after too long, but this time, you managed more than just two or three bites before the nausea finally started creeping back in again.
When you eventually looked over at Michael and slowly shook your head, silently telling him you couldn't manage anymore, Michael glanced down at the bowl and immediately took note of how much more was gone compared to the last few days.
Relief softened visibly across his face.
"Hey... this is more food than a few days ago," Michael said softly before leaning forward to kiss your forehead gently. "I'm proud of you, mama." The praise made a small smile tug weakly at your lips again, and the second Michael saw it, his entire expression warmed.
"There's my girl," he murmured softly.
The tenderness in his voice made your chest ache.
You had missed this version of yourself. The version that could smile at him instead of only curling inward from pain and exhaustion. You still felt weak, and your body still hurt in waves, but for the first time since waking up sick that morning days ago, you finally felt like maybe you were slowly coming back to yourself again.
"Will you lie down with me, please?" you whispered.
Michael nodded immediately.
He stood long enough to carry the tray to the bedroom door and place it outside so the staff could take it downstairs later, once they saw it, then he came right back to you without hesitation.
"Do you want me to hold you?" he asked softly as he slipped back into bed beside you. "I know you're going back and forth between being hot and being cold."
You nodded. You never minded warmth when it came from Michael. "Yes," you whispered.
Michael's arms wrapped carefully around you from behind, slowly pulling your body back against his chest until you were fully settled against him. The warmth of him immediately surrounded you, steady and comforting in a way that made your entire body slowly unclench. You rested your hands over his, where they lay against your stomach, lacing your fingers through his as your eyes drifted closed again.
Everything about this felt better.
You were finally clean after days of fever and sweat clinging to your skin, dressed in soft, comfortable clothes, wrapped safely in Michael's arms. Even the bed felt different beneath you now because while you had been soaking in the bath, Michael had changed all the bedsheets too, replacing them with fresh, clean ones before going downstairs to make your soup.
The clean sheets, the warmth of Michael behind you, the lingering softness from the bath easing your aching muscles, all of it combined into the first genuine sense of comfort you'd felt since getting sick.
"Your fever is going down, baby... it shouldn't be too much longer now," Michael said softly against the top of your head.
You nodded faintly where you were tucked against his chest, his arms still wrapped securely around you beneath the blankets. The warmth of him had become grounding over the last few days, especially during the moments when chills rolled through your body hard enough to make you shiver despite the lingering fever still heating your skin.
For the first time since getting sick, though, your body didn't feel like it was fighting itself quite as violently anymore. You still felt weak, exhausted, and achy in ways that made every movement slow and careful. But there was relief beginning to settle underneath it now, too.
"Will we still be able to get to see some of Italy before your shows?" you asked quietly. Michael let out a soft little chuckle at that, leaning down to kiss the top of your head again as his fingers absentmindedly traced along your arm beneath the blankets.
"I will make sure we do," he murmured. A small smile tugged at your lips.
Even now, exhausted and half-asleep against him, the thought of finally getting to Italy with Michael still made warmth bloom softly in your chest. The trip had meant so much to both of you before you got sick. It wasn't just about the tour. It was about finally having a little time together away from cameras and schedules and rehearsals before Michael became swallowed by work again.
Very slowly, you turned in his arms so you could look at him properly. The movement alone visibly worried Michael.
His expression shifted immediately as he watched you carefully, noticing how much energy even that small adjustment seemed to take out of you now. Your breathing deepened slightly from the effort by the time you settled facing him, and his hand instinctively slid along your back gently like he could somehow steady the exhaustion still moving through your body.
"Easy, baby," he murmured softly.
You looked up at him quietly for a moment before speaking again. "Can we get married in Italy?" Michael's eyes widened instantly. Of all the things he thought you might say, that wasn't one of them.
For a second, he just stared at you, searching your face to make sure the fever wasn't making you delirious or emotional in a way you'd regret later, but then he saw it clearly in your eyes. You meant it.
"We can get married wherever you want, baby," he said softly. You nodded slightly against the pillow.
"I want to..." You paused briefly, your voice still rough from days of sickness and sleep. "When we're in Italy... I want to get married there, even if it's just legally, and we have an actual ceremony later so our families can come."
The softness that spread across Michael's face at your words was immediate and overwhelming; it wasn't hesitation or uncertainty. It was pure love.
"You know I'd marry you anywhere, mama," he whispered, smiling down at you so warmly it made your chest ache softly. "Let's do it."
Your eyes widened slightly. You had wanted him to say yes, obviously, but part of you still hadn't fully expected him to agree so quickly, especially with everything surrounding the tour right now.
"Really?" you asked quietly.
Michael nodded immediately before leaning down to press another gentle kiss against your forehead. "Really."
Emotion swelled so suddenly in your chest that you instinctively buried your face against him, inhaling deeply against his skin. The breath shuddered all the way through your body in his arms, and Michael felt every bit of it.
He tightened his hold around you immediately, his hand slowly smoothing up and down your back beneath the oversized shirt you wore.
"I'm really glad you came home, Michael..." you whispered softly.
The words settled heavily between you because both of you knew exactly what it had cost him to leave Italy so suddenly. The tour. The rehearsals. Frank is practically losing his mind over postponements, interviews, and schedules.
And still, Michael had gotten on a nonstop twelve-hour flight without hesitation the second he realized how sick you really were. You knew he was frustrated with Frank, but you also knew part of him worried about delaying things.
But sitting here in his arms now, finally feeling some small sense of comfort after days of pain and exhaustion, you couldn't stop yourself from admitting how grateful you were that he had come home anyway.
Michael's arms tightened around you slightly at your words.
"I couldn't stay away after hearing you like that, baby," he admitted quietly. "I just knew I needed to be here." Your eyes fluttered closed briefly because you understood that feeling completely.
You had felt it after the Pepsi accident. You had been working when Jackie called you from the hospital to tell you what happened, and you immediately left, not caring if you got in trouble; the only thing you felt was the overwhelming certainty that there was nowhere else in the world you were supposed to be except beside him while he hurt.
And you would do it again without hesitation.
"I love you, Michael," you whispered softly before another yawn slipped from you, your body instinctively curling closer against him underneath the blankets. Michael smiled faintly against your hair before kissing the top of your head once more.
"I love you more, mama... get some rest," he whispered.
You nodded weakly against him, already feeling sleep beginning to pull at you again, but this time it felt different.
For the first time since waking up sick that morning days ago, you finally felt truly safe enough to rest deeply instead of just collapsing from exhaustion. Michael's arms remained wrapped securely around you, his heartbeat steady against your body while his fingers continued moving slowly through your hair.
And somewhere between the warmth of him, the clean sheets beneath you, and the lingering comfort still relaxing your muscles from the bath, hope finally settled softly inside your chest that maybe you were going to start getting better soon.
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Over the course of the next few days, you slowly began to come back to yourself.
The changes were so gradual that neither you nor Michael fully realized how much better you were getting until he caught himself no longer panicking every time you stood up from the bed. Your fever finally disappeared completely, leaving your skin warm instead of burning beneath his touch, and little by little, color started returning to your cheeks again. The dark exhaustion still lingered beneath your eyes, but you no longer looked pale and feverish in a way that made Michael's chest tighten every time he looked at you.
You were finally able to eat more, too.
Not full meals yet, and Michael was careful not to push your body too hard after nearly ten days of barely keeping anything down, but now you could manage soup, toast, crackers, and small portions at a time without your stomach immediately turning violently afterward.
Every time you finished a little more than the day before, Michael tried not to look too visibly relieved, but you always noticed it anyway. The softening in his shoulders. The little smile he tried to hide. The way he'd kiss your forehead afterward, like he was proud of you for something as simple as eating.
And honestly, after feeling so miserable for so long, it made your chest ache every single time.
The biggest difference, though, was that you could move again.
You could walk across the room without your legs giving out underneath you. You could stand in the bathroom long enough to brush your teeth without gripping the counter for balance. You could hold conversations without needing to pause every few words just to breathe through the exhaustion crushing your chest.
The only thing that still clung stubbornly to you now was the fatigue.
Your body had fought hard against the virus, and now that the worst of it was over, all the exhaustion left behind seemed to settle deep into your bones. You slept heavily every night, sometimes drifting off in the middle of conversations with Michael simply because your body still needed rest so badly.
And throughout all of it, Frank never stopped calling.
Rome was getting closer and closer, and every single day, the pressure mounted more from overseas. Rehearsals had to be rescheduled. Interviews postponed. Photoshoots rearranged. Every time the phone rang, Michael's expression would tense before he answered because he already knew what the conversation would be.
Frank wanted him back in Italy, but every time Michael looked at you, all he could still see was the first night he came home: you curled tightly into yourself in pain, too weak to even properly hold yourself upright.
That image had stayed lodged painfully inside him ever since.
So now, seeing you improve day by day affected him more emotionally than he knew how to explain aloud. Watching you walk into the bathroom on your own for the first time had nearly made him emotional. Seeing you shower by yourself again without nearly collapsing afterward had filled him with such overwhelming relief that he'd had to look away for a second just to compose himself.
For days, Michael had genuinely been scared, and now, finally, he could feel that fear beginning to loosen its grip on him too.
When you woke up that morning, Michael was already awake beside you.
You had fallen asleep tucked against his chest again sometime during the night, your body naturally seeking him out in sleep now after days of him holding you through fevers, chills, pain, and exhaustion. One of his arms remained wrapped securely around your waist beneath the blankets while the other rested lazily across your back, his fingers occasionally tracing soft patterns there absentmindedly while he watched you sleep.
He couldn't help it, you looked peaceful again: not feverish, trembling, or hurting anymore. Just resting. After how terrified he'd been seeing you sick like that, watching you sleep peacefully against him now felt healing for him, too.
"You're staring at me," you mumbled sleepily, your voice rough with sleep as you slowly started waking up. A soft laugh escaped Michael immediately before he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead.
"Because you're so beautiful," he murmured.
A sleepy smile spread across your face almost instantly, and without even opening your eyes fully yet, you tucked yourself closer against him beneath the blankets. Over the last several nights, you had stopped sleeping, curled into yourself in pain. Now you slept curled around Michael instead, your body instinctively seeking comfort from him even while unconscious, and every single time he woke up with you wrapped around him like this, it affected him deeply.
"When's the flight?" you asked softly after a moment. "I know you have to get to Italy... I feel a lot better. I can survive a twelve-hour flight." Michael's expression softened immediately, though concern still flickered behind his eyes.
Of course, he wanted you there with him.
He had missed you terribly before all of this happened, and honestly, after spending the last week terrified and attached to your side almost nonstop, the idea of leaving you behind again sounded unbearable to him.
But at the same time, he could still see how exhausted you were. Even though the fever was gone and your strength was returning, your body still tired easily, and Michael hated the thought of pushing you too hard, too fast, after how sick you'd been.
"Baby... are you sure?" he asked quietly, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. "I don't want you to push yourself too hard while you're still recovering."
At that, your eyes finally fluttered open fully so you could look at him, and immediately, Michael's breath caught slightly, because you looked so much more like yourself now.
Your eyes weren't clouded with fever anymore. Your cheeks held real warmth and life again, instead of that flushed, sickly heat that had haunted him for days. Even tired, even still recovering, you looked alive in a way that made relief wash through him all over again.
"I want to go," you said softly. "I know we probably won't get to spend as much time together because you have to make up rehearsals, but I want to be there, Michael."
The sincerity in your voice softened him instantly. Michael leaned down and kissed your forehead again before pulling you a little closer against his chest.
"Okay," he murmured softly. "Bill arranged the flight already... We'll leave later tonight." A smile spread slowly across your face at that.
Very carefully, you pushed yourself up onto your elbow so you could look at him better, the oversized Bad Tour shirt shifting against your shoulder as you moved closer toward him in the bed.
"I know I already said it, but thank you for taking care of me, Michael," you said softly, the sincerity in your voice making Michael's expression immediately melt into something warm and affectionate.
He smiled while lightly shaking his head, his fingers still absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against your back beneath the blankets. "In sickness and in health..." he murmured. "It's in the vows."
A quiet laugh escaped you as you rolled your eyes playfully, the sound soft and still slightly sleepy from just waking up. "We're not married yet," you pointed out.
Michael's smile only widened at that. "I know," he said softly, his eyes moving across your face with that same overwhelming tenderness he'd been looking at you with for days now. "But we will be soon."
The warmth in his voice settled deep into your chest.
You smiled before shifting closer to him until your foreheads rested together, your breath mingling softly between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Michael's hand slid gently along your waist while your fingers rested against his chest, and suddenly the thing you had missed most over the last ten days settled heavily between you both at the exact same time.
Kissing him.
Not feverish kisses pressed to your forehead while you drifted in and out of sleep, or exhausted, little touches while he checked your temperature or helped you back into bed.
A real kiss.
You could see Michael wanting it too in the way his eyes softened the closer you got to him, the way his breathing shifted slightly before he leaned in to meet you halfway. He had held himself back for days because you'd been too sick, too weak, too exhausted to even think about something like this while your body fought through the virus.
But now you were here, warm in his arms instead of burning with fever, looking at him with clear eyes again. Your lips met softly, and immediate warmth spread through your body that had absolutely nothing to do with being sick anymore.
Michael kissed you carefully at first, almost reverently, like he was still worried you might break if he touched you too hard after everything your body had just gone through. His hand came up slowly to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your jaw while your lips moved together softly.
And the second the kiss deepened even slightly, you melted into him completely. You had missed this, missed him.
You missed the intimacy of simply being able to kiss your fiancé without exhaustion or fever or pain interrupting it. Michael felt it too in the way he pulled you closer instinctively, his forehead pressing more firmly against yours between kisses like he couldn't stand even the smallest amount of distance between you anymore after the fear of the last week and a half.
You were the one who eventually pulled back first, your breathing growing slightly uneven from lingering exhaustion more than anything else.
Michael noticed immediately. His hand stayed gentle against your cheek as he pressed another soft kiss against your forehead while you steadied your breathing.
"You okay, mama?" he asked quietly.
You nodded almost immediately, smiling at him softly. "I love you."
The words made Michael's entire face light up. His full, wide, and genuine smile that's so full of love, it made your chest ache just looking at him.
"I love you more," he whispered.
And for the rest of the day, the two of you stayed wrapped up in each other like that.
The heaviness that had hung over Neverland for the last ten days finally began lifting now that you were recovering, and for the first time since Michael had flown home from Italy, things started feeling normal again between you. You spent hours lying together, talking quietly about your wedding plans once you reached Italy, both of you getting increasingly more excited the more real it started to sound.
The thought of marrying Michael in Italy made your stomach flutter now in an entirely different way than sickness had.
Since your suitcases had already been packed before you got sick, there wasn't much left to prepare before leaving. Instead, the day became about simply being together again without fear hanging over either of you.
You and Michael made lunch together slowly, Michael still hovering slightly every time you stood too long or moved too quickly, though now it made you smile more than anything else. He still watched you carefully while you ate too, quietly relieved every time you managed to finish food without getting nauseous afterward.
Later, the two of you showered together, not out of desperation this time, but simply because after spending days caring for you so intimately, neither of you wanted distance from each other anymore.
And when it was finally time to leave for the airport that evening, Bill drove both of you there while Michael kept one arm wrapped around you almost the entire ride.
The second you boarded the private plane and settled into your seats for the long flight ahead, exhaustion immediately started creeping back into your body again. Recovery still weighed heavily on you, even though you felt infinitely better now than you had days ago.
Michael noticed instantly.
"Get some sleep, baby," he murmured softly as he pulled you against his chest again beneath the blankets provided on the plane.
You curled into him easily, your head resting against his shoulder while his arms wrapped securely around you, warm and familiar and safe in the quiet cabin.
Even now, with Italy finally ahead of you again and the tour waiting overseas, Michael still remained conscious of your health in every little thing he did. He adjusted the blankets carefully around you, pressed soft kisses against your hair, and kept his hand slowly rubbing along your back until your body relaxed fully against him.
Tucked safely into his arms in the back of the plane, surrounded by his warmth and the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, you finally let yourself drift off to sleep again.
This time, though, you slept smiling, excited that you were finally joining your fiancé on tour again.
notes 𝄒 bliss ╱ prologue is here! this is basically what sets the stage for this series. everything else i write moving forward will take place before the events of the prologue. eventually the story will progress after their marriage as well. warning you now, michael is kind of an asshole in this series and sometimes you won’t like him. other times you may not like the reader either but that’s the whole point, nobody is perfect! let me know your thoughts, my inbox is always open <3 do not feed my writing into ai generators, llms, or any datasets. my work is written by a human, for humans.
word count: approx. 1,940 !!
February 1994
The White House, Washington D.C.
11:47 PM
The phone hasn't even rung yet, and you feel like you’re about to crawl out of your skin.
You're sitting on the edge of your bed with your knees pulled to your chest and your eyes locked on the cream colored rotary phone sitting on your nightstand. You've been staring at it for almost twenty minutes now, willing it to ring.
You're wearing a beige silk slip, your legs bare.
Outside your window, night is frozen, seeping through the glass and settling in your bones no matter how high they crank the heat. The lamp on your desk casts everything in amber, but it doesn't make the room feel warmer.
Nothing about the White House ever feels warm.
Your father is three floors down, probably nursing a scotch and on the phone with one of his many mistresses while his wife—your stepmother—is sleeping peacefully in their grand suite.
The Secret Service is stationed outside your door—Davidson tonight, you think, the one you favor the most because he pretends not to notice whenever you come back to your room later than usual. He definitely has a soft spot for you.
The air conditioning continues to hum lowly. You can hear your own breathing.
Five seconds.
Ten seconds.
Fifteen seconds.
Twenty seconds.
The phone finally rings.
Your stomach drops so fast you grimace a little. You lunge for the phone, nearly knocking the whole thing off the nightstand, but you catch it on the second ring. Your hands are shaking as you press the receiver to your ear, and for a second you can't speak, can't do anything but listen to the static on the line, the faint crackle of distance.
"Baby?"
Michael.
His voice pours through the phone like honey, low and smooth and familiar enough to make your chest ache. You close your eyes and take a deep breath.
"I'm here," you whisper.
"You sound scared." There's a smile in his voice. You can hear it, the way his mouth curves, slightly teasing. "You scared of me now?"
"No." You're gripping the phone so tight your knuckles hurt. "I just—I didn't know if you'd call."
"I told you I would."
"I know, but—"
"But you didn't believe me."
You don't answer. You never quite believe him, not fully, because men like Michael Jackson don't call girls like you at midnight unless they want something. He does. He has been wanting, for the last two years. And every time, you're surprised, convinced it'll be the last.
"You still there?" His voice dips, quieter now, intimate.
"Yeah… I'm here."
"Good." A pause. You hear him shift, there’s fabric rustling in the background. You imagine him sprawled across some enormous bed wherever he's calling from. Neverland, maybe, or a hotel. You don't even know where he is right now. You’ve never been able to keep up with his location due to the way he likes to move around so quickly, never staying in one place too long. He’s always so damn busy.
"I've been thinkin’ ‘bout you all day."
Your throat tightens. "Yeah?"
"Mmhm. Couldn't focus on a damn thing. Bill kept asking me what was wrong." He laughs, soft and self-deprecating. "I told him I was just tired but he didn't believe me."
"You do sound tired," you say. You can hear it in his voice, the exhaustion that lives underneath everything else. He works himself to the bone, always has. It’s very concerning at times.
"You should be sleeping Michael."
"Can't sleep without hearing your voice first."
God. Your face goes hot, and you're grateful he can't see you right now, can't see the way you're biting your lip to keep from smiling like an idiot.
"You're full of it," you murmur.
"I'm serious girl." His voice drops lower, there's an edge to it now. "You think I'm playing with you?"
"I don't know what you're doing."
"Yes, you do."
You've known since the first time Michael kissed you until you couldn’t breathe in the back of his limousine, your lipstick smeared and his hands on the back of your neck, the partition rolled up and his driver pretending not to notice. You've known since the first time you woke up in his bed, tangled in sheets and realized you'd do anything—anything—to stay there.
"I miss you," he says, and it sounds like a confession.
Your heart beats a little faster. "I miss you too."
"When you comin’ to see me?"
"I don't know. It's hard to get away right now. Daddy’s got me doing these appearances, and the press is—"
"Fuck the press."
You blink.
"Michael—"
"I'm serious, fuck them. They don't own you baby."
"They kind of do," you speak quietly.
Silence.
You can hear him breathing, slow and deliberate, like he's trying to calm himself from saying anything he shouldn’t.
You never know who’s listening.
"No," he says finally. "they don't and I'm tired of you actin’ like they do."
He’s got some damn nerve, you think to yourself. The last time you two were together he threw a whole tantrum because of some junk a tabloid spouted about him.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talkin’ ‘bout us," he pauses, "‘bout stopping this bullshit, us hiding."
Your mouth goes dry.
"I want you here with me. Not just for a weekend or a night or whenever you can sneak away. I want you here."
"Michael… you know I can't—"
"Why not?"
"Because—" You stand up and start pacing. The phone cord stretches taut, and you have to stop, turning back to the nightstand. "Because daddy’ll lose his mind and the tabloids would crucify us."
"You’re scared."
"Of course I'm scared!" Your voice rises but you stop yourself. You press your free hand to your mouth, listening for footsteps in the hall. Nothing. You lower your voice. "Do you have any idea what would happen if people found out about us?"
"Yeah," he says simply. "I do."
"Then why—"
"Because I don't care anymore."
You sink back down onto the bed, your legs suddenly unsteady.
"You don't mean that," you whisper.
"I do." His voice is calm and steady now. "I'm done hiding you. I'm done pretending like you're not the only thing that makes sense in my life right now. I'm done letting them dictate what I can and can't have… marry me.”
The world stops.
You can't breathe. Can't think. The room tilts, and you have to close your eyes, pressing your palm flat against the mattress to ground yourself.
"What?"
"You heard me." His voice is soft now, almost gentle. "Marry me."
"You're—you're not serious."
"I've never been more serious about anything in my life."
Your heart is trying to break through your ribs. You can feel it, violent and desperate, and your hands are shaking so badly you almost drop the phone.
"Michael, we can't—"
"Why not?"
"It’s insane, daddy—"
"Baby, your father doesn't care for you the way he should. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty anymore."
You open your mouth and close it. He's not wrong. Your father loves his career, his legacy, his carefully constructed image. You're merely just a prop in his photo ops and a liability he has to manage. You’re not a daughter to him, you truly don’t think you ever were, though you want to be so bad.
"That's not fair," you spit out weakly.
"Y’know it's true."
You do. God help you, you do.
"This will ruin him," you say. "If we—if I leave, if we get married, it'll destroy everything he's built."
"Good."
The word is cold and final.
You shiver. "You don't mean that."
"Don't I?" He exhales, slow and measured. "Baby, listen to me. I know what I'm askin’ and I know what this costs. But I also know that I can't keep doing this, I can't keep callin’ you in the middle of the night and pretending like it's enough. It's not. I want to wake up next to you, I want to take you out without hiding, I want the whole world to know you're mine."
"They'll tear us apart," you whisper.
"Let them try."
There's a confidence in his voice that terrifies you. He sounds so sure, so certain, like he's already made peace with whatever hell is coming. You wish you had that, wish you could be that brave.
"I don't know if I can do this," you admit.
"Yes, you can."
"How do you know?"
"Because you love me… don't you?"
It's not a fair question because he already knows the answer.
"I do," you breathe.
"Then say yes."
Your throat closes as you think about your father's face when he finds out. You think about the tabloids, the headlines, the way they'll eviscerate you both. Then you think about Michael. The way he holds you in the dark, how he listens when you talk, really listens, like your words matter. He’s the only person that makes you feel like you’re worth something.
You just know you’re going to hell for this.
Forgive me father for I have sinned.
"Okay," you whisper.
"Okay?" He repeats carefully, like he's afraid he misheard.
"Yes." Your eyes are burning. "Yes, I'll marry you."
He exhales, and it sounds like relief, like he's been holding his breath this entire time.
"Say it again."
"Yes." You're crying now, tears streaking down your face. "Yes, Michael. I'll marry you."
"Oh baby." He laughs, and it's shaky, disbelieving. "You mean it?"
You nod as if he’s in the room with you right now. “I mean it.”
"You're not gonna change your mind?"
"No."
"Even when it gets bad?"
"Even then."
You can hear him breathing, unsteady now.
"I love you," he says quietly. "You know that, right?"
"I know." You press your empty palm to your forehead.
"I'm gonna take care of you, I promise. Once you're here with me, everything's gonna be different, I swear."
You want to believe him. You really want to believe that love is enough, that you can build something real in the wreckage of what's coming.
Are you stupid for wanting to try at least? Do you know what this means, what you’re walking into?
"When are we doing this Michael?"
"Soon." His voice is firmer now, more certain. "I'll send someone for you and we'll figure out the details, but soon. I don't want to wait."
"Right."
"You trust me baby?"
You really should say no, hang up, and crawl into bed, pretending this conversation never happened. You should protect yourself, protect your father, protect the fragile illusion of control you've spent so long maintaining.
But you don't.
"Yes, I trust you."
"Good." You can hear the smile in his voice again. "Get some sleep, now. I'll call you tomorrow."
“Okay.” Your lips curl into a pitiful grin.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
The line goes dead.
You sit there for a long time, the receiver still pressed to your ear, listening to the dial tone. Your face is wet, your hands are still shaking and your heart is racing so fast you feel lightheaded.
You just agreed to marry Michael Jackson.
And the worst part—the part that makes you want to laugh and scream and sob all at once—is that you don't regret it. Not even a little.
You hang up the phone and stand, walking to the window.
Outside, the city is still asleep, oblivious. The monuments glow white in the distance. You press your forehead against the cold glass and close your eyes.
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